SENSORIVM: The Senses in Roman Polytheism (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World) 9004459731, 9789004459731

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SENSORIVM

Religions in the Graeco-Roman World Series Editors David Frankfurter (Boston University) Johannes Hahn (Universität Münster) Frits G. Naerebout (University of Leiden) Miguel John Versluys (University of Leiden)

volume 195

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/rgrw

SENSORI V M The Senses in Roman Polytheism Edited by

Antón Alvar Nuño Jaime Alvar Ezquerra Greg Woolf

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Nydia, the Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii. Randolph Rogers (1859). Picture by Zack Jarosz on Pexels.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Alvar Nuño, Antón, editor. | Alvar Ezquerra, Jaime, editor. | Woolf, Greg, editor. Title: SENSORIVM : the senses in Roman polytheism / edited by Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, Greg Woolf. Other titles: Sensorium Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2021] | Series: Religions in the Graeco-Roman world, 0927-7633 ; volume 195 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021008122 (print) | LCCN 2021008123 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004459731 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004459748 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Senses and sensation—Religious aspects. | Rome—Religion. | Ritual—Rome. | Cults—Rome. Classification: LCC BL815.S46 S46 2021 (print) | LCC BL815.S46 (ebook) | DDC 292.1/61521—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008122 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008123

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 0927-7633 ISBN 978-90-04-45973-1 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-45974-8 (e-book) Copyright 2021 by Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra and Greg Woolf. Published by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau Verlag and V&R Unipress.. Koninklijke Brill NV reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Acknowledgements vii List of Illustrations viii Notes on Editors x Notes on Contributors xi Introduction 1 Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, and Greg Woolf 1

Faces of Death: Lucretius, Religio, and Vision at Rome 35 Martin Devecka

2

Lucretius and the Body-Environment Approach 52 Visa Helenius

3

Hirpi Sorani and Modern Fire-Walkers: Rejoicing through Pain in Extreme Rituals 71 Yulia Ustinova

4

Empowered Tongues 90 Attilio Mastrocinque

5

Favete linguis and the Experience of the Divine: A Cognitively Grounded Approach to Sensory Perception in Roman Religion 103 Maik Patzelt

6

The Triumph of the Senses: Sensory Awareness and the Divine in Roman Public Celebrations 125 Mark Bradley

7

Sensorium, Sensescapes, Synaesthesia, Multisensoriality: A New Way of Approaching Religious Experience in Antiquity? 141 Adeline Grand-Clément

8

Day and Night in the Agones of the Roman Isthmian Games 160 Rocío Gordillo Hervás

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9

Multisensory Experiences in Mithraic Initiation 177 Rebeca Rubio

10

Imperial Mysteries and Religious Experience 192 Elena Muñiz Grijalvo

11

Pro consensu et concordia civium: Sensoriality, Imperial Cult, and Social Control in Augustan Urban Orientations 207 David Espinosa-Espinosa, A. César González-García, and Marco V. García-Quintela

12

Finding Religion in Reported Sensorial Experiences: A Case Study of Propertius 4.6 236 Jörg Rüpke

13

Sensory Experiences in the Cybelic Cult: Sound Stimulation through Musical Instruments 257 Rosa Sierra del Molino and Israel Campos Méndez

14

Isis’ Footprints: The Petrosomatoglyphs as Spatial Indicators of Human-Divine Encounters 272 Valentino Gasparini

15

Assiduo sono and furiosa tibia in Ovid’s Fasti: Music and Religious Identity in Narratives of Processions in the Roman World 366 Nicole Belayche

16

Total Sensory Experience in Isiac Cults: Mimesis, Alterity, and Identity 389 Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, and Clelia Martínez Maza



Index of Literary Sources (Beatriz Pañeda Murcia) 427 Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources (Beatriz Pañeda Murcia) 438 General Index (Beatriz Pañeda Murcia) 443



Acknowledgements The editors would like to express their gratitude to all the institutions and people who have made this book possible. The idea for this volume was first raised by Jaime Alvar during a discussion of the research group “Historiography and History of Religions” at the Institute of Historiography “Julio Caro Baroja” at the Carlos III University of Madrid. Antón Alvar enthusiastically took the project on, despite his postdoctoral contract at the Institute having already come to an end. A happy coincidence provided additional inspiration for the work. While the members of the Institute were beginning to make their arrangements for the SENSORIVM Workshop, Prof. Greg Woolf was awarded a Reciprocal Chair of Excellence from the Banco Santander-Carlos III University program. This enabled Greg to spend three months in Madrid during the 2017–2018 academic year, and Prof. Jaime Alvar to spend three months at the Institute of Classical Studies at the University of London. The Congress was held in November 2017 and formed part of the programme of activities of the Chair of Excellence. The Project “Sanctuaries and Experience”, directed by Prof. Woolf at the University of London and financed through an Anneliese Maier Research Prize awarded by the Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung, generously contributed to the financing of the Congress. Other participants included the Vice-Rectorate of Research of uc3m; the Institute of Historiography; the Research Project HAR2017-84789-C2-1-P, “Vías de acceso a lo divino”, funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science, Innovation and Universities; and the ARYS Association, co-organiser of the event. Brill showed an early interest in publishing the results of the workshop and made contact with the organisers. This opportunity provided an extraordinary incentive in the process of completing this volume, as well as an additional intellectual challenge. The sessions of the workshop took place in high spirits and we were fortunate to benefit from the presence of Prof. H. S. Versnel, whose contributions to the debates were of great interest. An acknowledgement of his personal efforts in sharing his expertise with us during those intense days cannot be omitted. Of course, this book would not have been possible without the generous participation of all the researchers who responded to our call. For various reasons, not all the communications presented at the time have completed the publication process. We nevertheless wish to thank all the participants for their attendance and for having submitted such thought-provoking proposals. We would also like to express our gratitude to the students who followed the workshop with interest and to all the members of the Institute who cooperated in its successful development.

Illustrations 11.1 14.1 14.2 14.3A-B

14.4A-B 14.5A-C

14.6 14.7A-C

16.1

16.2 16.3

16.4

16.5

Histogram showing the clustering of orientations for 64 towns built or rebuilt in the time of Augustus 211 Industria. Plan of the sanctuary after the first excavations in 1811 [after Morra di Lauriano 1843, pl. I] 281 Dion. a) Plan of the temple of Isis Lochia; b) Axonometry of the temple [after Christodoulou 2011, 12, Fig. 2, and 17, Fig. 7] 283 Dion. The vestigia Cat. 21 and 22 with their bases as exhibited at the Archaeological Museum of Dion [after Christodoulou 2011, 19, Figs. 10 and 12] 284–285 Baelo Claudia. a) Plan of the sanctuary of Isis; b) Axonometry of the pronaos [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 6, Figs. 6 and 103, Fig. 50a] 288–289 Baelo Claudia. a) Frontal view of the temple; b) The area between the staircase and the altar; c) The two vestigia [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 59, Fig. 25a] 290–291 Italica. Aerial photography of the sanctuary of Isis [after Jiménez Sancho, Rodríguez and Izquierdo 2013, 290, Fig. 9] 292 Italica. a) Location of the vestigia in front of the cella, later identified as the pronaos of the temple; b) The pronaos of the temple after the first excavations in 1989; c) The vestigia and their marble frame [after Corzo Sánchez 1991, 126, Fig. 1; 128, Fig. 2; 134, Fig. 7] 294–295 Isiac ritual in an egyptianising atmosphere. Source: What Life Was Like When Rome Ruled the World, Time-Life Books, 1997. Unknown author / Public domain {{PD-anon-70-EU}} 401 Nilotic landscape (c. 70 CE), fresco, 45.7 × 38 cm, Getty Villa, Los Angeles. Getty Villa / Public domain {{PD-anon-70-EU}} 402 Mosaic of the House of Neptune, Italica, with nilotic scene in the border. The image shows various hunting activities and the escape of a pygmy who climbs a palm tree while defecating in fear. 2nd century CE. Archaeological site of Italica. © 2018 Junta de Andalucía http://www.museosdeandalucia.es/ web/conjuntoarqueologicodeitalica/elementos-muebles 403 Nilotic mosaic with men and women on river boats fighting animals, making music, and having sex. Museo Nazionale Romano – Palazzo Massimo alle Terme. Amphipolis / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by-sa/2.0) 404 Detail of the Nile mosaic at the National Archaeological Museum of Palestrina. Photo: Camelia.boban / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by-sa/3.0) 405

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16.6 “Campana” relief with Roman Nilotic landscape. 1st Century CE. H. 48.3 cm; W. 51.3 cm; Th. 4.1 cm. Gift of Edward Sampson, Class of 1914, for the Alden Sampson Collection (y1962-143) Princeton University Art Museum. https:// artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections/objects/28899 406 16.7 “Campana” relief with Roman Nilotic landscape. Altes Museum Berlin. Photo: Angoria. Altes Museum / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by/3.0) 407

Notes on Editors Antón Alvar Nuño is Senior Lecturer of Ancient History at the University of Málaga. He has held postdoctoral Fellowships at the Universities of Franche-Comté, France, and Carlos III University of Madrid, Spain. His research is focused on Roman religion, with a special interest in Roman magic, on which he has published two monographs, Envidia y fascinación. El mal de ojo en el Occidente romano, Madrid, 2012, and Cadenas invisibles. Los usos de la magia entre los esclavos en el Imperio romano, Besançon, 2017. Jaime Alvar Ezquerra is Professor of Ancient History at the Carlos III University of Madrid. In 2019 he was appointed Directeur d’Études invité at the École Pratique d’Hautes Études. Previously, he has taught at the University of Franche-Comté (Besançon) and has been visiting scholar at Oxford, Cambridge, London, Johns Hopkins, Princeton among other universities. He is the founder and director of the scientific journals ARYS and Revista de Historiografía. His research areas include the Protohistory of the Iberian Peninsula (specially Tartessos), and Roman Religion with a special interest in the cults of Mithras, the gens isiaca and Mater Magna. He is corresponding member of the Real Academia de la Historia, and Korrespondierendes Mitglied at the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut. Greg Woolf is Professor of Classics and Director of the Institute of Classical Studies in London, and is also Honorary Professor of Archaeology at University College London. During 2018 he held a Chair of Excellence at Carlos III University of Madrid, Spain. His latest book is The Life and Death of Ancient Cities. A Natural History, New York, 2020.

Notes on Contributors Nicole Belayche is Directeure des Études (Professor) emerita in the department of Sciences religieuses at the École Pratique des Hautes Études, PSL (Paris). Her research interests include pagan cults and their transformation in the Eastern Roman provinces, especially in relation to Anatolia and the Near East. She is particularly interested in religious cohabitations and interactions, and the analysis of rituals and their dynamics as a field shared by theological discourse within classic polytheisms and their social expression. From 2014 to 2018, she co-directed a research program on mystery cults and is now editing Mystery Cults in Visual Representation in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, RGRW 194, Leiden, 2021 and Les mystères au IIe siècle de notre ère: un ‘tournant’?, Turnhout, 2021. Mark Bradley is Professor of Classics and Associate Pro-Vice-Chancellor at the University of Nottingham. He is author of Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome, Cambridge, 2009 and was Editor of Papers of the British School at Rome (2011–2017). Together with Shane Butler (Johns Hopkins University), he is editor of a series of volumes on ‘The Senses in Antiquity’ for Routledge, for which he has contributed a volume on Smell and the Ancient Senses, London-New York, 2015). He has also edited a volume for Oxford University Press on classics and the British Empire (2010) and a volume for Cambridge University Press on ideas about dirt, pollution and corporeality in the ancient and modern city of Rome. Israel Campos Méndez holds a Ph.D. in Ancient History and is Senior Lecturer in Ancient History at the Faculty of Geography and History of the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (Spain). He is a specialist in the History of Religions, and has worked principally on the cult of the god Mithra in Rome and Ancient Persia and Zoroastrian religion. He has published three books on Mithraism and several articles in scientific journals. He is a founding member of the Spanish Society of Iranology, advisor to the Museum of London and member of the Association for Iranian Studies, the Spanish Society of Religious Science and the Association Antiquity: Religions y Societies.

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Martin Devecka is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of California, Santa Cruz. He is the author of Broken Cities: A Historical Sociology of Ruins, Baltimore 2020. David Espinosa-Espinosa was awarded his PhD in Ancient History by the Complutense University of Madrid. He has held postdoctoral fellowships at the University of Santiago de Compostela and the University of Vienna, before being appointed Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Oviedo. David Espinosa Espinosa’s work focuses on the granting of Latin rights in the western Roman provinces, the Roman civil wars during the Republic, and the Roman epigraphy. He is director of the digital epigraphic corpus Epigraphica 3.0, and his publications include the book Plinio y los ‘oppida de antiguo Lacio’. El proceso de difusión del Latium en Hispania Citerior, Oxford, 2014. Marco V. García-Quintela is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Santiago de Compostela. His work takes an interdisciplinary perspective on relationships between places and thought (topologies), such as the form of rituals that are developed on concrete spaces, the means by which mythologies build landscapes and the uses of astronomy in creating cultural identity markers. He is currently leading a research project on “The Places of Knowledge in Democratic Athens”. He has published books and articles on these topics in different languages, many of them collaborations with specialists from other disciplines. Valentino Gasparini After spending seven years (2010–2017) at the Max Weber Centre for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies of the University of Erfurt as post-doctoral Research Fellow and member of the ERC-funded research group “Lived Ancient Religion. Questioning ‘Cults’ and ‘Polis-Religion’ ” (FP7/ 2013, no. 295555), Valentino Gasparini is currently leading a project at the Carlos III University of Madrid on “Lived Ancient Religion in North Africa” (2018–2022), funded by the Autonomous Community of Madrid (Aids for the Attraction of Research Talent, 2017-T1/HUM-5709). His research interests include archaeology, history and the history of religions, in particular in the Vesuvian area (Pompeii and Herculaneum) and Roman Africa. He is also an expert on the ancient cult of the so-called “gens isiaca”.

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Antonio César González-García is a Researcher at the Institute of Heritage Sciences – Incipit, of the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC, Santiago de Compostela Spain). He has a PhD in Astronomy from the Rijkuniversiteit Groningen (The Netherlands) and his research focuses on Cultural Astronomy and the social impact of the sky in prehistoric and ancient societies. He is currently President of the European Society for Astronomy in Culture. Rocío Gordillo Hervás is a Lecturer at the Universidad Pablo de Olavide, Seville (Spain). She completed her doctorate at the University of Florence (Italy), and was the beneficiary of a Postdoctoral Grant at the University Pablo de Olavide, Seville in 2013. Her research focuses on the impact of Roman rule on Greek territories during reign of the emperor Hadrian. Adeline Grand-Clément is Associate Professor/Lecturer in Ancient Greek History at the University of Toulouse 2 Jean Jaurès (France) and Junior member of the IUF (2016–2021). Her main field of research deals with the anthropology of colours and the cultural history of the Greek world. She is the author of La fabrique des couleurs. Histoire du paysage sensible des Grecs anciens, Paris, 2011. She directs the Idex interdisciplinary program Synaesthesia (https://synaesthes.hypotheses.org), and is currently broadening her research to take into account the whole sensorium, so as to grasp the specificities of the religious experience of the Ancient Greeks. Her work draws on interdisciplinary discussions with anthropologists. Visa Juhana Helenius is a doctoral candidate in Philosophy at the University of Turku. His research interests lie in Lucretius’ philosophy and the principle of sufficient reason. Helenius completed his Lic.Soc.Sc. in Philosophy and MA in Latin Philology at the University of Turku. Clelia Martínez Maza is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Málaga. Her research focuses on different aspects of the process of religious transformation in Late Antiquity with a particular interest in the relationship between Christianity and pre-Christian religions, and the survival of Classical customs and symbols in the Early Christian world. Her publications include Hipatia (Madrid 2009) and El espejo griego. Atenas, Esparta y las ligas griegas en la América del periodo constituyente (Barcelona 2013).

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Attilio Mastrocinque graduated from the University of Venice, and was a researcher there before being appointed firs as Professor of Greek History in Trento and then Professor of Roman History in the University of Verona. He conducted archaeological research in Grumentum for ten years, and has run excavations and surveys in Tarquinia since 2016. He is Humboldt-Foundation’s fellow and coordinator of a doctoral programme in Verona. Elena Muñiz Grijalvo is Senior Lecturer of Ancient History at the University Pablo de Olavide, Seville. She works on different aspects of ancient Mediterranean religions, with special interest in Greek religion in Roman times, and in Oriental religions which made a success in the Roman world (particularly the cults of Isis and Sarapis). Her publications include Himnos a Isis, Madrid, 2006, Ruling the Greek World, Stuttgart, 2015 and Empire and Religion. Religious Change in Greek Cities under Roman Rule, Leiden, 2017. Maik Patzelt is Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Osnabrück. During his PhD studies he specialised in the religious history of the early Roman Empire, which concluded in his book Über das Beten der Römer, Berlin, 2018 as well as a number of articles that investigate Roman prayers through the lens of emotion theory, cognitive science and the theory of practice. He was a Research Fellow (2019/20) at the History Department of the University of Sheffield, where he started his new project on inheritance hunting, flattery and gossip in Late Antiquity. He is also interested in questions of corruption, mobility and gender. Rebeca Rubio was awarded her PhD in Ancient History at the Complutense University of Madrid in 1991. She is Senior Lecturer of Ancient History at the University of Castilla-La Mancha in Toledo. She has published mainly on religions in the Roman Empire and Roman urban planning and architecture. She is director of the research group ARCYT (Roman Archeology of the City and the Territory) and of the archaeological research and excavations of the Hispano-Roman city of Ercavica. Jörg Rüpke is Fellow in Religious Studies and Vice-director of the Max Weber Centre at Erfurt, Germany. He has led projects on Lived Ancient Religion, Religious Individualisation in Historical Perspectives and is now Co-director of the

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Kolleg-Forschergruppe “Urbanity and Religion” (with Susanne Rau). He has published widely on Roman religion and on ritual. Rosa Sierra del Molino holds a PhD in Ancient History and is Senior Lecturer in Ancient History at the Faculty of Geography and History of the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (Spain). She has worked on the mystery cults of Isis, Cybele and Mithra in the Roman Empire, especially in Gallia Narbonensis; she is also a specialist in Gender studies and mystery cults, and Nordic Mythology. She has been Classroom Director for Women (ULPGC) and is member of the Association Antiquity: Religions y Societies; of the Spanish Society of Religious Science and of the Spanish Society of Classical Studies. Yulia Ustinova is the Anna and Sam Lopin Professor of History at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. Her current research is focused on the cognitive study of ancient religion and culture. Among her publications are The Supreme Gods of the Bosporan Kingdom: Celestial Aphrodite and the Most High God, Boston-Leiden, 1999, Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind. Descending Underground in the Search for Ultimate Truth, Oxford, 2009, and Divine Mania. Alteration of Consciousness in Ancient Greece, London-New York, 2018.

Introduction Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, and Greg Woolf This book is primarily intended as a contribution to the recent growing interest in exploring the senses in the Greco-Roman world. The “sensory turn” in classical studies parallels similar trends in other social sciences and humanities disciplines, especially anthropology and sociology.1 Our focus in this volume on the role of the senses in religion might seem at first sight to be just another means of prioritising orthopraxy and ritual over the development of belief systems.2 In fact, as the papers gathered together in this volume demonstrate, recent research on sensory perceptions and the body provide additional grounds for doubting the utility of a sharp dichotomy between action and reflection, between doing religion and thinking and experiencing religion. This dichotomy turns out to be invalid not only from an epistemological point of view but also on the basis of a reading of the sources, which contain myriad reflections on the importance of the senses in the structure, validation, experience, and reproduction of belief systems. Considered in these terms, the sense organs, and the body in general, are not just a canvas that symbolically reproduce society and its culture, becoming what anthropologists have termed the topical/multiple body.3 Instead, they are a necessary condition to culture itself, for they are the means to engage with the world; they construct meaning, knowledge, experience and action. The choice of the term “sensorium” in the title is not casual. The Oxford Dictionary of Psychology defines a sensorium as “any area of the brain responsible for receiving and analysing information from the sense organs; also the apparatus of perception considered as a whole”.4 This definition limits the extension of the language to the biological body. However, recent years have witnessed an increasing awareness of the social, cultural, and environmental influences on human perception, to the extent that some scholars prefer to use the phrases “extended sensorium” or “sensory order”.5 In this regard, Kathryn L. Geurts defines “sensorium” as 1 For just a few examples, see Merleau-Ponty 1945; Serres 1985; Corbin 1982; Classen 1993; Howes 2003; Laplantine 2005; Hatt and Dee 2009; Howes and Classen 2014. 2 Keane 2008, 110–127. 3 Cf. Csordas 1994, 1–25. In the domain of Ancient History, Brown 2008 (1988) lead the track of analysing the body as an agent and not just as a mere object. 4 Colman 2015, s.v. “sensorium”. 5 Howes 2015a, xii–xiv.

© Antón Alvar Nuño et al., 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_002

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a pattern of relative importance and differential elaboration of the various senses, through which children learn to perceive and to experience the world and in which pattern they develop their abilities. I argue that the sensory order – or multiple, sometimes competing sensory orders – of a cultural group forms the basis of the sensibilities that are exhibited by people who have grown up within that tradition […]. Those moods and dispositions in turn become fundamental to an expectation of what it is to be a person in a given time and place.6 The sensorium is not just limited to the organs that connect the human body to the external world and that allow a self-monitoring of the body (i.e. the so-called interoceptors, which provide the body with information about balance, feeling cold or warm inside the body, pain, etc.). The term “sensorium” is also employed to denote a cultural construct that can be learned, that emphasises the importance given in a community to some senses over the others, that establishes relations between the senses at different levels (either by synaesthetic processes or multi-sensory engagements), or that establishes distinctions in the ways different communities perceive the world.7 The archaeologist Chris Gosden employs the notion of sensorium as part of an account of how objects and humans interact in the world: We all live in a sensorium which is socially and culturally created; which depends on subtle interactions between people and things. An object with new or subversive sensory qualities will send social relations off down a new path, not through any intention on the part of the object, but through its effects on the sets of social relations attached to various forms of sensory activity.8 Archaeologists, argues Gosden, need to unlearn the ways in which they are accustomed to approach objects if they are to appreciate the sensory worlds of others. A similar challenge faces students of Roman ritual. Sensorium, depending on context, can thus be used to describe the totality of the physiological-cum-cognitive means by which the world is perceived by an individual and also the totality of impressions through which any given community understands the world. As we unfold the concept of the sensorium, its validity as a category of analysis becomes evident. As we will show in the 6 Geurts 2002, 5. 7 A complete state-of-the-question on sensory studies in Porcello, Meintjes, et al. 2010, 51–66. 8 Gosden 2001, 163–167 at 165.

Introduction

3

following pages, focusing on the sensorium of Greco-Roman polytheism allows us to underline the importance of the body and of the senses in the areas of communication, power, identity, and (religious) knowledge acquisition processes, to give just a few examples. 1

The Study of the Senses

Research on the senses in the classical world is not something new. For example, William Gladstone wrote a famous study in 1858 in which he suggested that the ancient Greeks had defective colour vision and that their chromatic system was limited to light and dark.9 Gladstone’s hypothesis formed part of an intense debate which was taking place almost simultaneously in physiology, medicine, psychology, anthropology, and art history concerning colour perception and the senses in general.10 Although reports of polychromatic remains in some Greek temples had begun to appear in the mid-18th century, Antoine Chrysostôme Quatremère de Quincy was the first to challenge the widespread notion that ancient sculpture was white and to argue instead that Greek art was polychrome.11 In his study Jupiter Olympien, Quatremère claimed that, according to literary testimonies, Greek sculpture was polychrome and its contemplation was common practice. A number of studies by other scholars followed, supported by important discoveries of architectural sculptures and reliefs showing traces of polychromy. These included the famous “Augustus of Prima Porta”, found in 1863, and the polychrome sculptures on the Acropolis of Athens, discovered in the late 19th century.12 At the same time, studies of the areas of the brain and their functions were also examining colour perception and the hierarchical organisation of the senses.13 Gladstone’s ideas about the Ancient World’s limitations as regards colour perception dovetailed neatly with theories then being formulated about the role in sensory perception of the frontal, temporal, parietal, and occipital lobes. As is well known, Broca located intelligence in the frontal lobe and argued that the other lobes governed the passions, feelings, and instincts. Within this map of the brain, the association of the senses with one lobe or 9 Gladstone 1858, 488. On this question, cf. Irwin 1974, 6–7, Bradley 2009, and GrandClément 2011. 10 Dias 2004, with reference to Gladstone’s study at 90–97. 11 Cf. Grand-Clément 2005, 139–160. 12 Essential studies in this respect include Kugler 1835; Walz 1853, 3–23; and Stahr 1854, 537–546. 13 On this question, compare Dias 2004, 35–74.

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another constituted a sensorial hierarchy which, as we explain below, also influenced studies in anthropology and psychology. According to Broca, the sense of smell was associated with the limbic lobe, and was thus developed to an especially high degree in animals, whereas the olfactory capacities of the higher primates and humans were diminished due to enlargement of the frontal lobe. Meanwhile, taste was associated with smell, and both senses were thus considered “inferior” to the others, touch and hearing but above all sight, which latter was defined as “le plus intellectuel des sens”.14 As intelligence was located in the frontal lobe, sight was directly associated with development of the intellect, learning, analysis, and interpretation. This premise, which was also supported by researchers such as Gerdy and Letourneau, diverged from the theories prevailing in the 18th century, which viewed touch as the most important sense.15 Once a hierarchical organisation of the senses had been established based on the development of various parts of the brain, sensory perception began to be used as an “empirical” indicator of the degree of evolution of different human societies. It is not surprising, therefore, that the first attempts to systematise ethnographic reports – such as the Instruzioni per lo studio della Psicologia comparata delle razze umane (1873) compiled by the Society of Anthropology and Ethnology of Florence, the Questionnaire de sociologie et d’ethnographie (1883) written by the Société d’Anthropologie of Paris, or the Notes and Queries in Anthropology (1874) published under the auspices of the British Association for the Advancement of Science and the Royal Anthropological Institute – all included sections on differences in sensory stimulation and perception between the different human races. These reports were not aimed at revealing possible conceptualisations of the senses derived from specific socio-cultural constructs, but at collecting “objective” data to demonstrate that differences in sensory perception were due to evolutionary differences in the areas of the brain that governed the five senses. Anthropometric results were used to create a hierarchical racial and social classification in which peasants, hysterical women, and “primitive” peoples were considered to present inferior intellectual development due to their sensory deficiencies: these ideas were consistent with the evolutionary postulates of history, according to which ancient societies were only capable of generically distinguishing between light and dark colours.16 14 15 16

Broca 1878, 393. Such as Diderot, Buffon, or Condillac. Cf. Dias 2004, 57–62. Cf. Dias 2004, 189–228.

Introduction

5

These ideas changed abruptly during the inter-war period (1918–1939) following the emergence of new methodological approaches that rejected many of the postulates of the academic history of the previous century. The new approach to history, based on a histoire des mentalités, which began to germinate during the first generation of the School of the Annales, proved especially propitious. Not without reason, one of its founders, Lucien Febvre, encouraged historians to explore the virgin territory of l’histoire des sensibilités to analyse different modes of perception and identify a possible hierarchy of the senses as a source of the “outillage mental” of a given culture and period.17 During the second half of the twentieth century the growing interest among historians in the experience of subaltern groups also contributed to establish the basis that facilitated the sensory turn. Among them, the development of gender studies fostered by the second feminist wave is worth mentioning.18 Debates over the difference between sex and gender encouraged a growing interest in the psychological, social, and cultural dimensions of the body, through which not just women but also the LGBTQ+ communities built their identities.19 This interest also had implications for the sensory order. Similarly, the poststructuralist movement and, in particular, the work of Pierre Bourdieu related the choice of sensory preferences to membership of particular social groups: this has been central in the consolidation of the scholarly interest on the cultural study of the senses.20 Apart from the growing interest in the subordinate and the identity-markers of whole social groups that characterised the post-war twentieth century, the last decades have witnessed a shift in the spotlight towards the individual. In the case of the study of Roman Religion, this shift has favoured the popularisation of well-established concepts in anthropology and sociology such as embodiment, agency and religious individualisation.21 To a large extent, present day proponents of the new “sensory turn” are researchers who have taken up the gauntlet thrown down by Febvre almost 80 years ago.22

17 18 19 20 21 22

Febvre 1941, 5–20. The works of, e.g., de Beauvoir 1949, Friedan 1963 or Scott 1986 were especially relevant. For Classical Studies see the pioneering studies of Pomeroy 1975 or Cantarella 1985. Bourdieu 1987 (1979); Brown 2008 (1988). Cf. e.g. Gasparini et al. 2020; Albrecht et al. 2018; Rüpke 2016; Raja and Rüpke 2015. Cf. Corbin 1990, 13.

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Defining the Senses

One of the achievements of the “sensory turn” has been to show that the senses are not limited to the Aristotelian taxonomy comprising sight, hearing, smell, touch, and taste. Another has been to refute the Cartesian dichotomy between body and mind, given the importance of the body in knowledge acquisition processes.23 In reality, Aristotle’s demarcation of the five senses is more complex than a mere identification of five channels of communication between humans and the outside world.24 Aristotle examines the senses primarily in his treatise De Anima,25 in which he explains that the soul is the part of the living being that enables a series of specific vital functions (thinking, perceiving, eating, moving, feeling, etc.). In his definition of the senses, he focuses not so much on the sensory organs as on the objects that each organ perceives. Deploying a protracted discussion method, he explains sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell, defining each of the senses based on its object: sight in relation to the visible, hearing in relation to sound, taste in relation to flavour, and so on. The sense of touch merits special attention, since the objects of touch are extremely varied. The criterion of contact is essential in defining touch; however, this criterion can, by itself, be problematic. For example, the sense of taste is also a form a touch, since it occurs through contact, and there are other faculties that can prove elusive to a definition that rests solely on the notion of contact, such as the ability to feel things as hot or cold, dry or wet, hard or soft, or to distinguish weight. Given the variety of objects associated with touch, Aristotle wondered which organ was involved: whether the entire body or something internal. This question is important because, on the one hand, it represents an attempt to find an explanation for sensory perceptions that have now transcended the traditional five senses (thermoception, proprioception, nociception, equilibrioception) and, on the other, it is central to the formulation of plausible physiological explanations for the existence of supernatural entities. After all, most of Aristotle’s attempts to define the senses appear in his treatise on the soul. 23 On the process by which the notion of the five senses became established in Western culture, see Vinge 1975 and 2009, 107–118; Hamilakis 2014, 24–34. 24 The philosopher does not limit himself to establishing a taxonomy of the sensory organs, but also attempts to explain cases in which several senses act simultaneously. In De Sensu and De Somno, he suggests that there is a central sensory capacity responsible for interaction between the senses, which he locates in a specific organ in the body, the heart. Cf. Arist. Sens. 449a16–20; Som. 455a21–22. 25 Arist. De an. 2.6–11. On the conceptualisation of the senses in Aristotle, compare Sorabji 1971, 55–79; Lloyd and Owen (eds.) 1978; Johansen 1997.

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Although the traditional hierarchical organisation of the senses endows particular importance to sight, in reality it was the controversial description of touch that contributed most not only to explaining the existence of supernatural apparitions such as epiphanies or spirits,26 but also to the development of forms of internalising religious experience, such as meditation or prayer.27 In contrast to attempts to identify touch with an organ, which resulted in distinguishing between one form of perception associated with the tongue and another associated with the rest of the body,28 some philosophers preferred the criterion of non-locality. According to Democritus, for example, all the senses operated by means of direct contact between the body and the atoms that emanated from the perceived object.29 Hence, sensory experiences always functioned through contact and the recipient organ was the entire body. Meanwhile, the Hippocratic tradition posited a special sense, the ψαῦσις, the organ of which was once again the entire body.30 The importance of philosophical reflections on the senses and their influence on religious thinking is the subject of two chapters in this volume, “Faces of Death: Lucretius, Religio, and Vision in Rome”, by Martin Devecka, and “Lucretius and the Body-Environment Approach”, by Visa Helenius. Martin Devecka shows how Lucretius’ romanised version of Epicurean theories of the senses became essential to theological speculation on the morphology of ghosts. For Lucretius, sight has no superiority over other senses – an idea at odds with traditional Roman visualism – as it is just another way of touching. This particular conception of the senses makes him understand ghosts and, most importantly, the relationship between the living and the dead in a manner that departs significantly from traditional Roman thought. In the Roman world, there was a general belief that human souls could survive after death and intervene in the affairs of the living. By contrast, Lucretius held that death caused the separation of self and body and, consequently, the disappearance of the self. How, then, did he explain why people see ghosts? Visa Helenius takes a different approach to his analysis of the senses in Lucretius. His chapter shows how the Roman philosopher developed a theory of the senses that is close to the recent Body-Environment Approach. This modern approach suggests that not all cognitive action takes place in the mind; instead, external factors and the surrounding environment directly affect 26 27 28 29 30

Burkert 1977, 97–109. Especially during the Christian era. Cf. Miles 1983, 125–142; Williamson 2013, 1–43. Theophr. Sens. 38. Arist. Sens. 442a29–b3. Hippoc. Acut. 1.23.

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cognition, so the physical body is a conditio sine qua non for cognitive processing. A similar idea can be found in Lucretius’ theory of the senses, which, in turn, becomes problematic for his explanation of the existence of gods. Another field in which the demarcation of the five senses, and the organs that mediate between the body and the outside world, is evidently restrictive, and dismisses the importance given in antiquity to internal sensations, is the study of corporeal physicality and movement. Recognition of somatic and kinaesthetic experience as an integral part of the sensorium paves the way for understanding how the rhythm, pulsation, or modulation of the body also influenced identification of the senses.31 One example of this is the semantic wealth of certain Latin terms that refer to movement and dance. The word exsulto, often used in the sources to refer to the Salian dances, is formed from the word salto, dance, but means “exultant with joy” and also alludes to the songs the Salii sang.32 It refers simultaneously to the leaps involved in Salian dance and to the emotional experience of the participants, who also “dance inside”. The word that perhaps more clearly combines the physical experience of the body with an “inner rhythm” and a festive attitude is ludo and its derivatives (ludus, ludius, lusus):33 “But Varro says that they are called ludos from lusus, because young men used to amuse the public during the days of festivals with the exultation of their game”.34 A case study of the importance of internal sensations and their description in the Roman world is provided by Yulia Ustinova’s contribution, “Hirpi Sorani and Modern Fire-Walkers: Rejoicing Through Pain in Extreme Rituals”. By resorting to current research on modern fire-walking and the way in which this painful experience alters the participants’ consciousness – causing states of euphoria – Ustinova explores the psychological implications that ritual fire-walking might have had in the ancient Mediterranean from two points of view, that of the participants and that of the audience. These associations between movement, dance, and the exaltation of certain emotional states cohere with the views of those ancient thinkers who regarded 31 On kinaesthesia, compare Mauss 1936, 271–293; Laplantine 2005; Sklar 2008, 85–111; Foster 2010; Kwan 2013. For its use in classical studies, Olsen 2017, 153–174; Alonso Fernández 2016a, 9–30. 32 See, for example, Verg. Aen. 8.665; Fest. 334.19L with OLD s.v. “ex(s)ulto”. For a thorough analysis of this term, see Habinek 2005, 28–33 and Alonso Fernández 2016b, 317–318. 33 For the description of ludo as an interior rhythm, Piganiol 1923, 106. For the link between the mind and the body in other Latin terms, such as moveo or tripudio, see Alonso Fernández 2016, 318. 34 Isid. Etym. 18.16.2: Varro autem dicit ludos a luso uocatos, quod iuvenes per dies festos solebant ludi exultatione populum delectare.

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corporeal and sensory experience as a necessary component of the means for understanding the world. The materialism of the Atomists and Epicureans fed into much later debates about the importance of the body and the senses in the acquisition of knowledge. Modern notions of extended cognition mind and distributed mind take us even further from a Cartesian mind-body dualism35 and arguably provide a better basis for understanding the experience of ancient religion than do paradigms that privilege either the physicality of ritual or the interior mental worlds of belief. These are compelling reasons for approaching religion via the senses. 3

Knowledge

In addition to identifying the sensory organs and how they work, another question that arises is how they process the information they receive. Aristotle’s idea of a sixth sense, the αἴσθησις κοινὴ / sensus communis that governs all the others and is located in the heart, was far from being the sole hypothesis. Other philosophical schools denied the existence of the soul and argued that all knowledge was limited to the information received from the senses,36 although most philosophers thought that the guiding part of the soul resided in the brain, the forehead, or the supraorbital torus.37 Identification of the guiding principle of the senses in one or another part of the body (or throughout the body) was not limited to philosophical debate but was also crucial in the acquisition of religious knowledge. Fredouille has stressed that, in locating the ἡγεμονική of the soul in the heart as Aristotle had done, Christian thought long denied the individual’s capacity to attain divine experience per aestimationem, limiting this instead to a revelation.38 In fact, Christian doctrine developed the idea of the inner senses to describe an individual’s intimate (and multisensory) experience of God. Mediaeval cognitive theories about the inner senses were based on certain of Galen’s anatomical theories and, above all, on Aristotle’s psychology as described in his De

35 For a guide to these concepts, see Dunbar, Gamble, and Gowlett (eds.) 2010. 36 This was the opinion held by Dicaearchus or Asclepiades, for example. Cf. Tert. De anim., 15.1–2. On Aristotle’s sensus communis, cf. Modrak 1987, 56–62; Gregoric 2007; Heller-Roazen 2008, 30–50. 37 Cf. This idea was also adopted in Roman thought, see, for example, Cic. Nat. D. 1.31.87; Cic. Verr. 2.5.53. 38 Tert. De anim. 9.3. Cf. Fredouille 1972, 349–351.

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Anima.39 These theories suggested that the sensory information received via the exteroceptors of sight, hearing, smell, touch, and taste was processed in a series of ventricles in the brain (and not in the heart as Aristotle had claimed) and synthesised by a general perceptor called the sensus communis. In parallel, another meaning for the inner senses emerged, which established a difference between the physical senses that connect the individual to the outside world and non-corporeal senses – what today we would call interoceptors or proprioceptors – that explained the sensation experienced by an individual during prayer, meditation, or any other behaviour of a devotional nature.40 The structure of the soul, its parts and various faculties, remained a central concern of post-Aristotelian philosophy: Porphyry’s brief On the Faculties of the Soul gives some idea of the variety of views suggested. Augustine of Hippo writes of an interior sensus and an interior uis, concepts similar to Aristotle’s sensus communis. In Confessions 7.17, he describes a sequential process of divine understanding that is transmitted from the body and external senses to the soul, inner understanding, and reason.41 Meanwhile, Pope Gregory I identified the sensus communis with a sensus cerebri that presided over sensory experiences, and Eriugena subsequently established a hierarchical organisation beginning with an inner sense that he called the διάνοια, another above this, the λόγος, and finally the νοῦς.42 Although the intellectualisation of religious experience as an internal process that occurs in the head was not systematised until Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, the fact that this idea is founded on Greco-Roman epistemological models and that this explanatory model became and remains hegemonic in Western thought prompts reflection on the role of the senses in the acquisition of religious knowledge in Greco-Roman polytheism. It also paves the way for exploring the existence of other models that do not locate religious experience in a sensus communis sited in the heart or the head. The modern notion of Roman religion as eminently a matter of action, as epitomised in Scheid’s catch-phrase “quand faire c’est croire”,43 gives 39

Galen refers to three different internal sensory faculties other than the five senses: imagination (φανταστικόν), reasoning (διανοητικόν), and memory (μνημονευτικόν). Although theories about the inner senses were subsequently developed in Arabic and Hebrew literature based on their use in Galen, these three internal senses did not in fact differ from those described by Aristotle in De Anima 3 and De Memoria et Reminiscentia. See Wolfson 1935, 69–133. The proposed existence of a sixth sense suggested by Serres 1985 is no more than a continuation of this tradition. 40 See Wolfson 1935, 69–133; Steneck 1970; Harvey 1975; Kemp and Fletcher 1993, 559–576. 41 Cf. also August. Conf. 1.20 and De lib. arb. 2.3–5. 42 De Divisione Naturae 2.23 (Migne CXXII, col. 577D). 43 Scheid 2005, 295–299. Cf. contra Smith 1990.

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special prominence to the learned nature of religion. Learning encompassed an apprenticeship in the practice of ritual, as well as learning by rote and reflection. Clifford Ando has argued compellingly that, for the Romans, religious knowledge was precisely knowledge of how to perform ritual.44 This savoir-faire co-existed with the transmission of myths and speculative philosophical views about the nature of the gods, both of which were largely acquired through attending performances and listening to literature. Any account of the transmission of these various kinds of knowledge that omits the social contexts of learning will be incomplete. The double barrier presented by our dependence on literary sources and the interpretative models in which modern researchers have been educated – with a long tradition of defining the mind as the guiding principle for knowledge acquisition – has been overcome in recent decades thanks to the study of the ritualised body as an entity that transcends its biological nature and can store knowledge that is not necessarily intellectualised or held in the head. Entire families in the Greco-Roman world were attributed with innate, inherited supernatural, often prophetic, abilities that did not require any learning. A notable example was the clan of the Iamidae of Olympia, whose ancestor was the legendary prophet Iamus and for whom records exist up until the 3rd century CE.45 But there were others as well, such as the Melampodidae, Clytidae, Telliadae, Galeotae, and Brancidae. These families were usually thought to be descendants of mythical seers who, after becoming blind, had received the gift of prophecy as divine compensation and had subsequently transmitted this ability to their descendants.46 In other cases, these innate supernatural abilities were evidenced in the capacity to perform miraculous cures, as in the case of the Ophiogenes, who could cure snakebites simply by touching the wound; the Marsi, whose saliva and sweat had similar powers; or the Pharmaces, whose sweat cured any disease. This ethnography of marvels reveals the existence of religious traditions in which the mythical memory or religious experience of a given people resides in the body itself. Ethnography also provides cases that demonstrate how religious knowledge can be articulated in ways other than the rationalisation of external or internal stimuli interpreted by a central organ located in the head or heart. In the Republic of Niger, Songhay sorcerers believe that their power resides in their stomachs. This power, therefore, is ingested (the word for food that gives power is kusu). Similarly, griots or djelis (African storytellers) “eat” history and, as a 44 45 46

Ando 2008. Flower 2008a, 187–206. Flower 2008b, 37–50.

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result, are possessed by the “ancient words” they have ingested.47 These examples invite the exploration of other forms of religious knowledge acquisition in Greco-Roman polytheism, forms which apparently gave precedence to visualism and reason. Attilio Mastrocinque’s chapter on “Empowered Tongues” investigates along these lines, analysing an aspect of Greco-Roman religion that has been neglected when describing the different alternatives for acquiring knowledge in the ancient world. Mastrocinque explores a whole set of rituals that had the goal of imbuing the practitioner’s tongue with the power of persuasion, the ability to utter prophecies, or the creation of other prodigies. These special abilities were activated through different devices that could be placed directly into the mouth, suggesting that knowledge could be acquired by external means, without the mediation of the mind. It thus seems sensible to analyse the importance of the body and the senses in the acquisition of knowledge by applying to our Greco-Roman sources the theories of embodied knowledge that have been developed in cognitive psychology, social psychology, and neuroscience. Maik Patzelt’s contribution, “favete linguis and the Experience of the Divine”, is a fine example of the advantages of going beyond the idea that experience is engraved in memory in the shape of symbolic descriptions. An approach that recognises that knowledge consists of mental representations in which the body and the surrounding environment are actively involved allows us to reconsider the famous Latin sentence linguis animisque favete (Ov. Fast. 1.71) as something more than a mere imperative command to be quiet during a ritual.48 Instead, the sentence has to be read in relation to the cognitive processes that organised specific mental systems through ritual, something that directly affected religious knowledge.49 Similarly, Mark Bradley explains Roman triumphal celebrations not just as feasts of sensory stimuli that aimed to impress the crowds of spectators. In his chapter “The Triumph of the Senses: Sensory Awareness and the Divine in 47 Stoller 1997. 48 For the general approach, see Barsalou et al. 2005, 14–57. It should be noted that these theories have given rise to extreme postulates whereby cognitive activity occurs not solely within the cranium, but also between the individual and the surroundings with which that individual interacts. For a critique, cf. Wilson 2002, 625–636; Adams and Aizawa 2009, 78–95. 49 In relation to this question, it is worth mentioning Connerton’s classic 1989 monograph, How Societies Remember. In it, the author argues that societies passed on collective knowledge not just verbally or through formal teaching but also through collective ritual, in which dance and ritual performance were key ways of involving each new generation in shared knowledge and knowledge of practice.

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Roman Public Celebrations”, he shows how the senses were tools for the transmission of knowledge and understanding in ancient thought. These three contributions exemplify the different paths that the transmission of knowledge can take: from the use of material media such as writing, through which we can track the reproduction of theoretical models related to, e.g., the limits of human perception from Homer to Early Christianity (Bradley); to the coding of religious experience in mental images that actualise themselves every time they activate in a new situation (Patzelt); or the questioning of the location of thought/memory in the head and their inclusion in other bodily organs or outside it (Mastrocinque). 4

Perception

The existence of schools of thought that classified the senses differently or attached more value to some parts of the body than to others in the acquisition of religious knowledge raises another central issue for an analysis of the senses, that of the nature of perception. For example, one of the leading questions in contemporary sensory studies is that concerning synaesthesia.50 As Adeline Grand-Clément explains in her contribution, “Sensorium, Sensescapes, Synaesthesia, Multisensoriality: A New Way of Approaching Religious Experience in Antiquity?”, the concept of synaesthesia was first used to describe a recurrent metaphorical resource in classical literature combining descriptors from different sensory fields. Its semantic field has expanded in line with the influence of neuroscience on classical studies. For neurologists, synaesthesia is a type of interference in reception whereby sensory stimulation of one area of the brain leads to sensory experiences associated with a second area, giving rise, for example, to activation of the primary visual cortex (Brodmann area 17) when a sound is heard. Hence, some synaesthetes will see a colour when they hear a sound. Instead of considering synaesthesia as a literary trope or a brain anomaly, David Howes has proposed a third interpretation, “cultural synaesthesia”, to explain some of the ethnographic reports in which interference between the senses was not an individual trait but formed part of a collective construction for perceiving the world.51 This is precisely the concept that Grand-Clément employs to analyse the use of the senses in two different contexts: the temple to the goddess Aphrodite on Lesbos, according 50 Cf. the inaugural volume in the Routledge series, “The Senses in Antiquity”: Butler and Purves (eds.) 2014. 51 Benchmark studies include Howes 2006, 161–172; 2011, 161–182; and 2015b, 139–158.

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to Sappho’s description, and the ritual prescriptions written in Hellenistic and Roman times for certain temples in Greece and Asia Minor. The debate has not been circumscribed exclusively by contemporary theories. Indeed, the influence that the senses have on an individual’s understanding of the world and on their relationship with the invisible was also the subject of speculation by authors across the Roman world. Besides the past (and present) debate concerning which receptors should be regarded as senses, opinions were also divided with regard to their importance for communication between the soul and the external world.52 For a Stoic philosopher such as Seneca, the senses enabled humans to engage with the external world, but not to distinguish between good and bad, which was the task of the soul and reason. It was precisely the capacity not to get carried away by sensory stimuli that differentiated adults and gods from children and animals.53 Others, such as the Hedonists, held that sensory experience should govern morality. This approach influenced Epicureanism, which argued that the senses constituted the most reliable channel of information and that the mind could misinterpret even the most evident sensory experiences.54 Philosophical disquisitions on whether moral principles should be governed by reason or sensory experiences prompt reflection on the possible use of the senses as indexicalities of moral conduct.55 For some Roman observers, sensory overstimulation in temple rituals was a sign of moral laxity and the degradation of traditional customs. After all, excessive pomp and circumstance was not really necessary to please the gods; an austere offering of a few cereal grains or the burning of a humble wisp of local herbs was quite sufficient.56 Evidently, this notion of the simplicity and authenticity of primitive sacrifice was no more than a nostalgic reconstruction of an imagined past. At the same time, the authenticity of the simple is exploited in religious innovation. For example, Plutarch notes that it is not outward appearance that makes a good 52 For ancient philosophical theories of the senses, cf. Beare 1906; Laks 1999, 250–270; Clements 2014, 115–137. On the mind-body dichotomy, compare, for example, Rorty 1979; Lakoff 1987; Johnson 1987; and a comprehensive state of the art in Bell 1992, 94–117. On the cultural construction of the senses, Classen 1993; Geurts 2002; Howes (ed.) 2004; Breton 2006. 53 Sen. Ep. 20.124. Plut. Mor. 98C also indicates that the senses serve reason, which is what differentiates humans from animals. On the importance of introspection in Seneca, cf. Dross 2013, 225–235. 54 Lucr. 4.478–484; 4.462–466. 55 For transcultural parallels, see Corbin 1982; Howes 1990, 5–12; Classen 1997, 1–19. 56 Compare, for example, Cic. Nat. D. 2.146; Verg. Buc. 404; Ov. Fast. 1.337–347; Arn. Adv. nat. 7.26; Pers. Sat. 2.

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Isiac, but the devotee’s attempts to reveal the divine truth.57 The philosophical reactions expressed in texts circulated among some of the empire’s elites were reactions to conventional views and practices of Roman cult, not reflections of any social consensus. For most of the inhabitants of the empire, of all social classes, it seems to have been accepted that offerings or sacrifices had to be impressive enough to attract the gods’ attention. The bigger the sacrifice (and the greater the sensory outputs) the more the gods would respond in accordance with the spirit of reciprocity.58 Likewise, in the narrative imaginaire of magic, the use of sensory descriptors to draw up an antithetic profile of the pious devotee was a habitual practice.59 The old, evil, and impious witches of Latin literature are pestilent, have horrible voices, and devour rotten food.60 Lucan’s famous description of the terrible witch Erichtho is an obvious example: her face is squalid, repugnant, and putrid (vv. 510–520); her voice emits dissonant noises that differ from human language, sounding like the bark of a dog, the howl of a wolf, the screech of an owl, the crack of thunder, the hiss of a snake, or producing a wailing noise (vv. 680–695). She mutilates dead bodies and uses the blood of the innocent for her sacrificial offerings (vv. 530–560).61 The literary witch is almost always a creature of the night. Nocturnal activities were often portrayed as the antithesis of the social, political, and economic business that took place during daylight. These associations were transferred to lucifugi, the individuals who made their living during the night and slept during the day. The inversion of social habits was held to be reflected on their bodies, which were said to be fragile, gloomy, cadaverous, etc.62 Leaving aside the literary stereotypes, we can ask to what extent the night was perceived as 57 Plut. De Is. et Os. 3 = 352 C. 58 Cf. Gordon 1990, 201–231. 59 The concept of magic in the Greco-roman world has experience a deep critical revision in the last thirty years, to the extent of questioning its validity as a heuristic category. On the recent debate, see Otto 2017 and Sanzo 2020. Following the trend of e.g. Frankfurter (ed.) 2019; Kindt 2012, 113–121; Stratton 2007, Carastro 2006; or Gordon 1987a we consider it a form of instrumental religion in which certain practices or practitioners tend to be negatively described in Greco-roman literature since the second half of the Vth Century BCE. 60 Cf. Horace’s Canidia (Epod. 5; Sat. 1.8.23–26); Ovid’s Dipsas (Am. 1.8), or Petronius’s Oenothea (Sat. 134). For a comparison between the young and beautiful witch of Greek literature and the old, ugly, and frightening Roman witch, see Spaeth 2014, 41–70. 61 For a discussion of this passage in Lucan’s Bellum Civile, see Gordon 1987b, 231–241. 62 Sen. Ep. 122: At istorum corpora qui se tenebris dicaverunt foeda visuntur, quippe suspectior illis quam morbo pallentibus color est: languidi et evanidi albent, et in vivis caro morticina est. Cf. Ker 2004, 209–242 and Chaniotis and Derron (eds.) 2018.

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different to daylight in religious celebrations? This is the question posed in the chapter “Day and Night in the Agones of the Roman Isthmian Games”, by Rocío Gordillo Hervás. In her contribution, Gordillo compares the two types of rituals that took place in the Panhellenic agones at the Isthmian sanctuary of Corinth. During the day, festivities were held in honour of Poseidon and the athletes competed for the crown. The night, by contrast, was the moment chosen to honour the mythical founder of the games, Melikertes/Palaimon. The cults of Melikertes/Palaimon were linked to the cult of the dead, and the night was, thus, a preferred choice for the creation of the appropriate sensory atmosphere for the participants. Something similar can be seen in the alternation of nocturnal and diurnal rituals performed during Augustus’ Saecular Games in 17 BCE. There were of course other means by which the devotees’ sensory perceptions could be altered in order to achieve specific goals. One such case was the Mithraic initiation, according to Rebeca Rubio in her “Multisensory Experiences in Mithraic Initiation”. Following Christian apologetic literature, Rubio reconstructs in sensory terms the alleged initiation experienced by neophytes during the different stages of their ascent through the levels of Mithraism. The process involved a saturation of the senses in order to generate an unforgettable religious experience. Unfortunately, even if initiations were an unchanged constant in Mithraism through time and across space, we lack sources in which individuals describe their personal feelings about them (i.e. sources similar to Apuleius’ account of his initiatory experience with Isis in Met. 11.19–30, even if this is also a literary narrative). By the same token, the heterogeneity of Mithrea all around the Roman Empire raises doubts about the uniformity of rituals. So, we might reasonably ask exactly what initiations are being depicted by Gregory of Nazianzus, Nonnus, or Tertullian? Regardless of the objective historicity of these accounts, they nevertheless unfold a whole set of sensory references aimed at emphasising the intensity of the initiation. The arguments set out in these chapters suggest that sensory perception not only depends on the biological channels of transmission but also, and primarily, on the social construction of the sensorium. The perception of given stimuli is conditioned by cultural constructs which establish hierarchical taxonomies that in turn create veritable “sensorial structures”, as will be discussed in the following section. This process can lead to the annulment of some senses, as in the famous example of the primacy of visualism over the rest of the senses in contemporary societies, to the extent that American adolescents would far rather forgo their sense of smell than relinquish their mobile phones or computers.63 63

McCann Worldgroup 2011.

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17

Power

Whether analysed as a whole or individually, the senses constitute a fertile field for exploring the strategies employed by power structures in reproducing their underlying ideologies. For instance, it has been shown that sound helps to construct political leanings and can contribute to the evocation of emotional memories of nationalism, gender, kinship, or socio-political protest;64 smell is a kind of collective recognition or a source of alienation or marginalisation, depending on the situation.65 Furthermore, dietary practices and values associated with taste have been shown to contribute to the differentiation of social collectives, religious minorities, or ethnic groups. Stress has been placed on the special emphasis given to the sense of sight in Western societies, with an analysis of visualism in power structures that use mechanisms such as surveillance, a theory of aesthetics, or the creation of the panopticon as the ultimate form of disciplinary power.66 From the moment that Broca defined sight as “le plus intellectuel des sens”,67 the idea took hold that knowledge acquisition was analogous to visual activity. Based on this widely accepted thesis, Marshall McLuhan proposed a sensory paradigm for oral societies: in contrast to visual/literary societies, oral societies gave greater weight to sound and the spoken word.68 Obviously, this approach did no more than reinforce the dichotomy between a civilised Western world dominated by the sense of sight and a distinct world of oral cultures dominated by the sense of hearing.69 Dogmatic categories of this type are avoided these days. Instead, emphasis is placed on the capacity of power structures to mould sensory stimulation according to a variety of interests. The consumer society of contemporary capitalism is the product of a consummate ideology in this respect, given its capacity to stimulate the senses to the point of “hyperaesthesia”, in which “our sense of emplacement is increasingly dependent on sensory values produced and promoted by consumer capitalism”.70 Similarly, although some intellectual schools in the Roman world championed the notion of disembodiment by means of frugalitas and severitas as examples of virtue, Rome participated in a global economy that nurtured an increasingly demanding 64 65

Bull and Back 2015; Booth 2013, 136–158; Lynskey 2010; Bettini 2008. Compare, for example, Mart. 10.3; 11.30 or 12.85; Almagor 1987, 106–121; Classen 1992, 133– 166; Ben Ze’ev 2004, 141–160; Drobnick (ed.) 2006; Classen, Howes, and Synnott 1994. 66 Foucault 1975; Jonas 1970, 312–333; Edwards (ed.) 2006. 67 Cf. n. 8 above. 68 McLuhan 1962. McLuhan’s thesis had some success among anthropologists. See, for example, Basso 1985. 69 For a critique of this approach, see Classen 2004, 147–163. 70 Howes 2004, 281–303.

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market for exotic luxury products, a fact that was reflected in its temples. Not only were these adorned with the Empire’s finest marble, but the divine senses themselves were stimulated with costly spices and aromata brought from the far corners of the world.71 As in any highly stratified, complex society, the Roman world was aware of the power of the senses with regard to the principles regulating political life, hence their instrumentalisation as tools of influence.72 A paradigmatic case is that of the tibicines, flute players who performed while the priests conducted the sacrifice. One rationale for their playing was that their music drowned out inauspicious sounds which might otherwise have invalidated the ritual, but music also functioned in ancient rituals as a means by which to draw the attention of the audience to the sacrifice and signal its importance among the many ritual performances of the day. Once alerted to the sacrifice by the auditory input, other senses including sight and (for those close to the sacrifice) smell might be engaged. In recognition of their contribution to these public rituals, the tibicines conventionally had the right to organise a yearly banquet in the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, but in 312 BCE the censors decided to suppress this privilege. Incensed, the musicians went into exile to the town of Tibur. The Senate, concerned about the religious consequences of celebrating religious ceremonies without musicians, sent a delegation to Tibur to convince them to reconsider their stance.73 According to Livy’s account, the delegation managed to get the musicians to return to Rome by plying them with drink and, once they had passed out, piling them into the waiting carts unopposed. To avoid future situations that might have jeopardised the relationship between the Vrbs and the gods, the right of the musicians to eat in the temple was restored, along with their other privileges.74 The greatest representation of political power and religion in the Roman Empire was the worship of the emperor and the Imperial family. Among the various forms that his cult might take, there are some particular cases in which mystery traditions merged with Imperial worship. As Elena Muñiz Grijalvo 71

See, for example, Ath. 6.274F; Pers. Sat. 2 with Peacock and Williams (eds.) 2006; Avanzini (ed.) 1997; Alvar Nuño 2011, 191–203; Clements 2015, 46–59. 72 See, for example, Bradley 2009, 189–211; Hekster 2005, 157–176; Dalby 2000; Zanker 1988. 73 On the function of music in Roman religious ceremonies, see the famous passage in Plin. HN 28.3.11, in which it is explained that the intention is to muffle any other noise that might interrupt the prayers and propitiatory formulae recited by the priest. 74 Liv. 9.30.5. Val Max. 2.5.4 and Plut. Quaest. Rom. 55 both echo this story. Ov. Fast. 6.650–700 relates that the reason behind the disagreement was that the aedile of Rome decided to reduce the number of tibicines who could participate in funerary rites to ten. Concerning the collegium tibicinum, cf. Vincent 2008, 427–446.

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explains in her contribution, “Imperial Mysteries and Religious Experience”, there was a sensory awareness in the identification of Imperial cult with mysteria. Visualism was a key-factor in some areas of Asia Minor and Achaia: in order to strengthen the importance of the new cult, some characteristics of local mystery cults with a longer tradition were transfused, especially those that had a considerable visual impact for the worshippers. The exploitation of traditional visual devices in mystery cults during the Imperial rites were not limited to the search for long-lasting religious experiences among the worshippers; they were also signifiers of Imperial power. The establishment of visual equivalences between local and popular mysteria and Imperial worship aimed at equating the emperor with other traditional, popular, and powerful gods. Other means were also employed to endow Imperial cult with strong visual effects. According to David Espinosa-Espinosa, A. César González-García, and Marco V. García-Quintela in their chapter “pro consensu et concordia civium: Sensoriality, Imperial Cult, and Social Control in Augustan Urban Orientations”, the most stunning of these techniques was the accommodation of whole urban planimetries to align relevant public buildings to astronomical events such as solstices and equinoxes. Broadly in line with M. Müller’s emotionalist thesis of the origins of religion as a Bewusstwerdung natürlicher Phänomene, the authors consider that staring at the stars fuelled religious beliefs, and these beliefs were modelled in order to spread the religious agenda of the princeps in the new era.75 For the senses and sensory stimulation to be efficient in strategies that aimed at the implementation of a system of collective values, and for their socio-political manipulation to obtain the desired results, there must have been a collectively shared and socio-culturally determined framework of intersubjective meanings. This is known in psychological anthropology as “the public aspects of cultural models”. The sensory network establishes the semantic value that is collectively given to different stimuli perceived by the body through one or more of its channels. Individuals who have mastered this framework can then extrapolate the pre-established semantic value of the sensory experience to different contexts, thus creatively contributing to the re-semanticisation and constant updating of the value attributed to the sensory experience. A well-studied example of these processes is the case of the 75

It is worth noting that not all societies built their religious systems to give an answer to the Angst caused by natural phenomena. Referring to the Fiji islands, Hocart mentions in his paper “Mana” (1914, 99) that, “Hurricanes are a yearly topic of conversation from November till April, but I have never noticed the least suggestion of a native theory about them or the slightest tinge of religious awe”.

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aromata: certain fragrances, such as incense, which intuitively place an individual in a religious context, could also be associated with well-being through their identification with sanitised spaces and efficient medicaments.76 6

Communication

The consolidation of the so-called “linguistic turn” in the 1990s and the impact of Rorty’s thesis77 concerning the history of religions in the Ancient World has meant that practically all aspects of Roman religion are now considered to be suitable objects of analysis as communication systems. This applies to the way in which individual explanatory narratives enable us to integrate religious experiences into institutionally or socially recognised collective models, or, in other words, to the creation of religious discourses. It also applies to the conceptualisation of a religious phenomenon in linguistic structures (the analysis of religious symbolism in semantic terms, the quest for a “syntax” of ritual, etc.). It also applies to the analysis of ritual based on the theories of speech acts advanced by Austin and Searle.78 Analysing Roman religion as a communication system offers insights into the way the body acts within it. The phenomenological philosophy proposed by Merleau-Ponty and the sociological studies of the School of Paris offer one productive means for investigating this dimension of religion.79 The issue goes beyond a mere analysis of the biological body and its consideration as an image that symbolically reproduces a specific society’s worldview or systems of social organisation.80 The body and the receptors that intervene between it and the external world are, on this view, prerequisites for the existence of culture.81 In the particular case of the conceptualisation of the supernatural, 76 77

Cf. Caseau 2001; Harvey 2006; Harvey 2014, 95. Rorty (ed.) 1992 [1967]. Rorty defends the study of common language and the idea that the meaning of a word is not an immediate referent, but depends, rather, on the situations in which the word is used. Another major contribution was the view that the morphology of language was a necessary tool for understanding and describing the world. 78 See, for example, Rüpke 2015, 344–366; Rosenberger 2008, 91–106; Stavrianopoulou (ed.) 2006; Bendlin 1997. 79 See, for example, Mauss 1936; Merleau-Ponty 1945. It is worth stressing here the importance of the senses in the creation of concepts at a cognitive level, on which see Gallese and Lakoff 2005, 455–479. 80 For the state of the question, see Bell 1992, 94–117; Csordas (ed.) 1994, 1–25. 81 This matter has not gone unnoticed in the emerging field of sensory studies in the Classical World. Besides the seminal work of Detienne 1972, see also, for example, the references to Greek religion in Carastro (ed.) 2009 and Grand-Clément 2011, 368–396; the synaesthetic

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Merleau-Ponty proposes in his Le visible et l’invisible that the perception of visible phenomena through the senses is fundamental to understanding the invisible. This perspective has, moreover, recently been endorsed by several studies that have analysed how the brain reacts in people who believe that they are in the presence of God.82 According to these studies, the same neurotransmitters are activated during the religious experience as when in the presence of a real person. In other words, contact with the divine manifests itself as a physical interpersonal relationship. Since there is no separation between mind and body, the body feels this divine presence, while also intellectualising it. Here, the senses are presented as central to the structuring of religious belief.83 Jörg Rüpke’s chapter, “Finding Religion in Reported Sensorial Experiences: A Case Study of Propertius 4.6”, explores a fine example of how ancient sources resort to descriptions of the senses to differentiate day-to-day human communication from the special event of talking to the gods. Pragmatics has taught in relation to communication – where speech acts vary infinitely depending on factors such as the speaker’s communicative goal, the situation, the degree of familiarity among speakers, the social distance between the sender and the receiver of the message, the means chosen to send the message, the linguistic skills of sender and receiver, and so on – that a methodological approach centred on the individual reveals an enormous variety of communication strategies aimed at successfully making contact with the gods. If the different efforts to communicate with the gods have something in common, it is the search for an extraordinary sensorial atmosphere that leaves little doubt about the sacred nature of the speech act. Rosa Sierra del Molino and Israel Campos Méndez also explore the importance of sensory outputs in human-divine communication in their chapter “Sensory Experiences in the Cybelic Cult: Sound Stimulation through Musical Instruments”. In particular, they focus on sound and music as a tool used to enhance mystical encounters with Mater Magna on both the individual and collective levels. Moreover, as they explain, sound serves another purpose beyond the creation of a special communication channel exclusive to divine

82 83

expressions in Lucretius, Virgil, and Ovid analysed in Catrein 2003, 43–199, some of which are related to religious practices; Betts 2017a; or the chapters devoted to religion in the series edited by M. Bradley and S. Butler, The Senses in Antiquity, London-New York, 2014– 2018, of which five volumes have been published to the date: Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses (2014), Smell and the Ancient Senses (2015), Sight and the Ancient Senses (2016), Taste and the Ancient Senses (2018), and Touch and the Ancient Senses (2018). Schjoedt 2009, 310–339. For this perspective, see Mehl 2018, 85–103, who stresses the importance of smell in the creation of a communicative atmosphere between the worshipper and the gods.

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encounters. Its distinctive music was also a fundamental element that served to distinguish the metroac cult from any other. It seems, then, that the senses also play an important role as identity markers. Finally, Valentino Gasparini also dips into the participation of the senses in the establishment of human-divine communication. In his chapter “Isis’ Footprints. The Petrosomatoglyphs as Spatial Indicators of Human-Divine Encounters”, Gasparini gathers all the evidence related to a group of dedications with representations of footprints of bare or sandaled feet popularly known as plantae pedum, vestigia, or pedum imagines and offers a new, challenging interpretation. Instead of following the traditional interpretation that considers the vestigia to be “fingerprints” of the dedicator, Gasparini offers a sophisticated new thesis that takes into consideration a whole range of factors, including the polysemic value of these objects, the potential capacity of any worshipper to interact with them in the temple in his/her process of communicating with the gods, and their intrinsic synaesthetic properties. 7

Identity

Recognising the existence of a culturally determined, common “sensory network”, to which is attributed a number of meanings that can be reformulated creatively at an individual level, enables us to speak of “sensory identities”. Contemporary ethnography has extensively documented how sensory stereotypes for describing alterity are constructed. Likewise, sensory differentiation can be employed to foster group unity thanks to the capacity of the senses to fix memories and trigger intense emotions. The exotic sensory inputs and deprivations involved in the nocturnal rituals of initiation at Eleusis served not only to fix that moment of initiation in the mind of the individuals forever but also provided a sensory experience that was shared with all other initiates. The same might be said of the sensations of pain experienced by those coming of age in the rituals at the sanctuaries of Artemis Orthia in Laconia. Collective fasting as well as feasting together built group identity in numerous settings. The development of collective rituals has long been recognised as a precursor and accompaniment to state-formation in the ancient Mediterranean world. What is less often stressed is that as communities grew entire architectures were created to increase the number that could see, hear and respond together to ritual action.84 Synchronisation of visual and 84 De Polignac 1984. Morgan 1990. For the development of architectures of participation: Burkert 1987, 25–44.

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auditory stimuli played a large part in generating the crowd psychology associated with the arena, the circus, and other ritual locales.85 The sensory stimulation that generates a sense of belonging to a group is in turn exclusive in its effect, since it seeks to establish limits of a social or cultural nature.86 Moreover, if we bear in mind the semantic and contextual dynamism of the senses, it is possible to appreciate their value in the development of identity discourses that can equally be mobile and variable, depending on the position that the same individual occupies in different social contexts. A valuable discussion of the importance of the senses as identity markers in the Roman world is provided by Nicole Belayche’s chapter “Assiduo sono and furiosa tibia in Ovid’s Fasti. Music and Religious Identity in Narratives of Processions in the Roman World”. By analysing three different religious processions, Belayche shows how the literary description of the musical ambiance of the pompa circensis, the Navigium Isidis, and the procession of Mater Magna at Rome, aimed in each case at delineating a particular religious identity that underlay the religious specificities of each cult. Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, and Clelia Martínez Maza also explore the importance of the senses in the configuration of religious identities, focusing on the integration of Egyptian cults in the Roman world. In their chapter, “Total Sensory Experience in Isiac Cults: Mimesis, Alterity, and Identity”, the authors explore the fluidity of the activation of different sensory stimuli in order to either stress the alienness of the cults of the gens isiaca or, by contrast, their integration into Roman religion. The construction of religious identities depends on the relational position of the different religious choices and the interests of social agents at different levels. In the end, the study of the senses in the processes of identity construction reveals the same contradictions and tensions that we find in other aspects of socio-religious relations. Lastly, if the senses are a prerequisite for the phenomenological notion of “being in the world”, a status that has led to the coining of the term “socio-sensory order”, it should also be recalled that their stimulation is produced on many occasions through the wealth of devices that comprise material culture. Musical instruments, including rattles, drums, and flutes, helped focus the attention on particular spaces and punctuated extended rituals. Soundscapes were carefully engineered, whether to exclude distraction (for example in Mithraea and the Telesterion at Eleusis) or to amplify the auditory stimuli produced by key participants. Devices were designed for the burning

85 86

Fagan 2011, 80–154. Trnka, Dureau, and Park 2013, 4–5.

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of incense and the production of lighting “effects”. Occasionally, these devices seem to have approached the complexity of stage effects. In social science studies, the “material turn” has demonstrated that objects are not mere cultural products but are integrated into the value and belief systems of a given society to such an extent that they have a recognised capacity to influence the memories, behaviours, and emotions of the observer-user and to fix the cultural memory of a specific society, even acting as “object-agents”.87 Careful arrangement of these artefacts and forms created the various sensoria through which ancient religion was reproduced and experienced. From this perspective, it is no wonder that there has in the last few years been a growing interest in the study of material culture’s capacity for multisensory stimulation, from the effects of the simplest objects to those generated by entire landscapes.88 It is from this perspective that the notion of “sensorial ­emplacement” – in which sensory experiences are located in a given space and time – is best appreciated.89 Such sensorial experiences may also transcend individual limits and extend throughout the social body, as is suggested by the concept of “kinaesthetic empathy” that has been developed in dance studies in particular. This notion recognises the capacity of the spectators of a performance to identify somatically with the actor’s movements.90 In contrast, a sense of displacement, disconnection, or distance from the body or social environment may also occur in a community, which can lead to voluntary or involuntary marginalisation, as in the case of different forms of asceticism that seek extreme social isolation. As the organisers of this volume, we consider that the strong progress of “sensory studies” in the social sciences is making a significant contribution to the study of Roman polytheism, especially with regard to the main thematic strands outlined here: the historical-cultural definition and identification of the senses; their political and moral dimensions; their influence on the construction of collective and individual identities; and the relationship between the senses, the mind, cultural material, and belief systems. All the contributions to the present volume examine these topics in one way or another.

87 Cf. for example Malafouris 2013; Seremetakis (ed.) 1994; Warnier 1999; Howes and Marcoux 2006, 7–17; Dant 1999. 88 Zardini (ed.) 2005; Hamilakis 2013, 409–419, and 2014; Betts 2017b, 23–38; Derrci 2017, 71–85. 89 Hamilakis 2013, 168–170. 90 Cf. especially Reynolds 2013, 213–214.

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25

Roman Religion in the Realm of the Senses

Classical testimony, assembled in these essays and elsewhere, evokes a world of rich sensory experience. The flicker of torches in a Mithraic ‘cavern’, the sounds of flutes drowning out the cries of slaughtered beasts, the pageantry of triumphal processions through the streets of Rome, the roar of the crowd at the ludi circeneses or the games, the distant sight of pontiff and vestal climbing up the Capitol, the immersive experience of entering the courtyard of the Forum Iulium or the Forum Augustum. Conventional histories of Roman religion since the eighteenth century have not denied these experiences, but they have put them on one side to focus instead first on institutions and buildings, then on normative ritual practices and the belief. The last few decades have seen an emancipation of Roman religion. As we have pointed out, the dichotomy between ritual and belief has been broken down, through the idea of performance, through a new sense of what religious knowledge constituted, through explorations of lived ancient religion and the spatial dimensions of ritual action. This volume contributes to this emancipation by directing attention to the vivid qualia of experience, away from the normative towards the immediate, from structural and institutional religion to religion in the moment. This has been made possible by the strong progress of “sensory studies” in the social sciences, which here make a significant contribution to the study of Roman polytheism, especially with regard to the main thematic strands outlined here. Specifically, we wish to underline the historical-cultural definition and identification of the senses; their political and moral dimensions; their influence on the construction of collective and individual identities; and the relationship between the senses, the mind, cultural material, and belief systems. All the contributions to the present volume examine these topics in one way or another. We hope readers will enjoy exploring the ritual performances described in them, both familiar and exotic, with new eyes, ears, noses … It will never be possible to replicate completely the religious experiences of ancient Romans, but with the aid of sensory studies there is the chance, we suggest, of coming a little nearer to them. Bibliography Adams, Fred, and Kenneth Aizawa. 2009. “Why the Mind is Still in the Head.” In The Cambridge Handbook of Situated Cognition, edited by Murat Aydede and Philip Robbins, 78–95. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Albrecht, Janico, Christoph Degelmann, Valentino Gasparini, Richard Gordon, Georgia Petridou, Rubina Raja, Jörg Rüpke, Benjamin Sippel, Emiliano Urciuoli, and Lara Weiss. 2018. “Religion in the Making: The Lived Ancient Religion Approach.” Religion 48(4): 568–593. Almagor, Uri. 1987. “The Cycle and Stagnation of Smells: Pastoralists-Fishermen Relationships in an East African Society.” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 13: 106–121. Alonso Fernández, Zoa. 2016a. “Redantruare: Cuerpo y cinestesia en la ceremonia saliar.” Ilu 21: 9–30. Alonso Fernández, Zoa. 2016b. “Choreography of Lupercalia. Corporeality in Roman Public Religion.” Greek and Roman Musical Studies 4: 311–332. Alvar Nuño, Antón. 2011. “Ofrendas vegetales exóticas en el sacrificio romano.” ARYS 9: 191–203. Ando, Clifford. 2008. The Matter of the Gods. Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Avanzini, Alessandra, ed. 1997. Profumi d’Arabia. Rome: L’Erma Di Bretschneider. Barsalou, Lawrence, Aron Barbey, W. Kyle Simmons, and Ava Santos. 2005. “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge.” Journal of Cognition and Culture 5: 14–57. Basso, Ellen B. 1985. A Musical View of the Universe: Kalapalo Myth and Ritual Performances. Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press. Beare, John I. 1906. Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition from Alcmaeon to Aristotle. Oxford: The Clarendon Press. De Beauvoir, Simone. 1949. Le deuxième sexe. Paris: Gallimard. Bell, Catherine. 1992. Ritual Theory. Ritual Practice. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ben Ze’ev, Efrat. 2004. “The Politics of Taste and Smell: Palestinian Rites of Return.” In The Politics of Food, edited by Marianne Lien and Brigitte Nerlich, 141–160. Oxford: Berg. Bendlin, Andreas. 1997. “Peripheral Centres, Central Peripheries: Religious Communication in the Roman Empire.” In Römische Reichsreligion und Provinzialreligion, edited by Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke, 35–68. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bettini, Maurizio. 2008. Voci. Antropologia sonora del mondo antico. Turin: Einaudi. Betts, Eleanor. 2017a. Senses of the Empire. Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture. London/New York: Routledge. Betts, Eleanor. 2017b. “The Multivalency of Sensory Artefacts in the City of Rome.” In Senses of the Empire. Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, edited by Eleanor Betts, 23–38. London/New York: Routledge. Booth, Gregory D. 2013. “Gender, Nationalism, and Sound: Outgrowing ‘Mother India’.” In Senses and Citizenships. Embodying Political Life, edited by Susanna Trnka, Christine Dureau, and Julie Park, 136–158. London: Routledge. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1987 (1979). Distinction. A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University Press.

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Bradley, Mark. 2009. Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2014. Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses. London/New York: Routledge. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2015. Smell and the Ancient Senses. London/New York: Routledge. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2016. Sight and the Ancient Senses. London/New York: Routledge. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2018. Taste and the Ancient Senses. London/New York: Routledge. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2018. Touch and the Ancient Senses. London/New York: Routledge. Broca, Paul. 1878. “Anatomie comparée des circonvolutions cérébrales. Le grand lobe limbique et la scissure limbique dans la série des mammifères.” Revue d’anthropologie: 393. Brown, Peter. 2008 (1988). The Body and Society. Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. Twentieth-anniversary Edition with a new Introduction. New York: Columbia University Press. Bull, Michael, and Les Back, eds. 2015. The Auditory Culture Reader. Oxford: Berg. Burkert, Walter. 1977. “Air-Imprints or eidola: Democritus’ Aetiology of Vision.” Illinois Classical Studies 11: 97–109. Burkert, Walter. 1987. “Die antike Stadte als Festgemeinschaft.” In Stadt und Fest. Zu Geschichte und Gegenwart europäischer Festkultur, edited by Paul Hugger, Walter Burkert, and Ernst Lichtenhahn, 25–44. Stuttgart: Unträgeri. Butler, Shane, and Alex Purves, eds. 2014. Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses. London/ New York: Routledge. Cantarella, Eva. 1985. Tacita Muta: la donna nella città antica. Roma: Editori Riuniti. Carastro, Marcello. 2006. La cité des mages. Penser la magie en Grèce ancienne. Grenoble: Millon. Carastro, Marcello, ed. 2009. L’antiquité en couleurs. Catégories, pratiques, représentations. Grenoble: Million. Caseau, Béatrice. 2001. “Les usages médicaux de l’encens et des parfums: un aspect de la médecine populaire antique et de sa christianisation.” In Air, Miasmes, et contagion: les épidémies dans l’Antiquité au Moyen Age, edited by Sylvie Bazin-Tacchella, Danielle Quéruel, and Evelyne Samama, 75–85. Langres: D. Guéniot. Catrein, Christoph. 2003. Vertauschte Sinne. Untersuchungen zur Synästhesie in der römischen Dichtung. München/Leipzig: De Gruyter. Chaniotis, Angelos, and Pascale Derron, eds. 2018. La nuit: imaginaire et réalités nocturnes dans le monde gréco-romain. Geneva: Fondation Hardt. Classen, Constance. 1992. “The Odor of the Other: Olfactory Symbolism and Cultural Categories.” Ethos 20: 133–166.

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Classen, Constance. 1993. Worlds of Sense: Exploring the Senses in History and Across Cultures. London: Routledge. Classen, Constance. 1997. “Engendering Perception: Gender Ideologies and Sensory Hierarchies in Western History.” Body and Society 3: 1–19. Classen, Constance. 2004. “McLuhan in the Rainforest. The Sensory Worlds of Oral Cultures.” In Empire of the Senses. The Sensual Culture Reader, edited by David Howes, 147–163. London: Berg. Classen, Constance, David Howes, and Anthony Synnott. 1994. Aroma: The Cultural History of Smell. London: Routledge. Clements, Ashley. 2014. “The Senses in Philosophy and Science: Five Conceptions from Heraclitus to Plato.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 115–137. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Clements, Ashley. 2015. “Divine Scents and Presence.” In Smell and the Ancient Senses, edited by Mark Bradley, 46–59. London/New York: Routledge. Colman, Andrew. M. 2015. A Dictionary of Psychology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Connerton, Paul. 1989. How Societies Remember. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Corbin, Alain. 1982. Le miasme et la jonquille. L’odorat et l’imaginaire social, XVIIIe–XIXe siècles. Paris: Flammarion. Corbin, Alain. 1990. “Histoire et anthropologie sensorielle.” Anthropologie et Sociétés 14: 13. Csordas, Thomas J., ed. 1994. Embodiment and Experience. The Existential Ground of Culture and Self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dalby, Andrew. Empire of Pleasures: Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World. London: Routledge. Dant, Tim. Material Culture in the Social World: Values, Activities, Lifestyles. Buckingham: Open University Press. De Polignac, François. 1984. La naissance de la cité greque. Cultes, espaces et société VIII– VI siècle av. J. C. Paris: Editions de la Découverte. Derrci, Thomas J. “Sensory Archaeologies: A Vindolanda Smellscape.” In Senses of the Empire. Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, edited by Eleanor Betts, 71–85. London/New York: Routledge. Detienne, Marcel. 1972. Les jardins d’Adonis. La mythologie des aromates en Grèce. Paris: Gallimard. Dias, Nélia. 2004. La mesure des sens. Les anthropologues et le corps humain au XIXe siècle. Paris: Editions Aubier. Drobnick, Jim, ed. 2006. The Smell Culture Reader. London: Berg. Dross, Juliette. 2013. “Du bon usage de l’imagination: l’importance du regard intérieur dans l’oeuvre philosophique de Sénèque.” Pallas 92: 225–235.

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Dunbar, Robin, Clive Gamble, and John Gowlett, eds. 2010. Social Brain, Distributed Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Edwards, Elizabeth, ed. 2006. Visual Sense. A Cultural Reader. London: Berg. Fagan, Garrett G. 2011. The Lure of the Arena. Social Psychology and the Crowd at the Roman Games. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. Febvre, Lucian. 1941. “Comment reconstituer la vie affective d’autrefois? La sensibilité et l’histoire.” Annales d’histoire sociale 3: 5–20. Flower, Michael A. 2008a. “The Iamidae: A Mantic Family and its Public Image.” In Practitioners of the Divine: Greek Priests and Religious Figures from Homer to Heliodorus, edited by Beate Dignas and Kai Trampedach, 187–206. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Flower, Michael. 2008b. The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press. Foster, Susan L. 2010. Choreographing Empathy: Kinesthesia in Performance. London/ New York: Routledge. Foucault, Michel. 1975. Surveiller et punir. Paris: Gallimard. Frankfurter, David, ed. 2019. Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic. RGRW 189. Leiden/ Boston: Brill. Fredouille, Jean-Claude. 1972. Tertullien et la conversion de la culture antique. Paris: Études Augustiniennes. Friedan, Betty. 1963. The Feminine Mystique. New York: Norton & Co. Gallese, Vittorio, and George Lakoff. 2005. “The Brain’s Concepts: The Role of the Sensory-Motor System in Conceptual Knowledge.” Cognitive Neuropsychology 22: 455–479. Gasparini, Valentino, Mark Patzelt, Rubina Raja, Anna-Katharina Rieger, Jörg Rüpke, and Emiliano R. Urciuoli, eds. 2020. Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Approaching Religious Transformations from Archaeology, History and Classics. Berlin-Boston: De Gruyter. Geurts, Kathryn L. 2002. Culture and the Senses. Bodily Ways of Knowing in an African Community. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press. Gladstone, William E. 1858. Studies on Homer and the Heroic Age. Vol. 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gordon, Richard L. 1987a. “Aelian’s Peony: The Location of Magic in Graeco-Roman Tradition”. Comparative Criticism 9: 59–95. Gordon, Richard L. 1987b. “Lucan’s Erichto.” In Homo Viator. Classical Essays for John Bramble, edited by Michael Whitby, Philip R. Hardie, and Mary Whitby, 231–241. Bristol/Oak Park, IL: Bristol Classical Press/Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers. Gordon, Richard L. 1990. “The Veil of Power: Emperors, Sacrificers and Benefactors.” In Pagan Priests. Religion and Power in the Ancient World, edited by Mary Beard and John North, 201–231. London: Gerald Duckworth.

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Gosden, Chris. 2001. “Making Sense: Archaeology and Aesthetics.” World Archaeology 33.2: 163–167. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2005. “Couleur et esthétique classique au XIXème siècle: l’art grec antique pouvait-il être polychrome?” Ítaca. Quaderns Catalans de Cultura Clàssica 21: 139–160. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2011. La fabrique des couleurs. Histoire du paysage sensible des Grecs anciens (VIIIe – début du Ve siècle av.n.è). Paris: De Boccard. Gregoric, Pavel. 2007. Aristotle on the Common Sense. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Habinek, Thomas. 2005. The World of Roman Song: From Ritualized Speech to Social Order. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Hamilakis, Yannis. 2013. “Eleven Theses on the Archaeology of the Senses.” In Making Senses of the Past: Toward a Sensory Archaeology, edited by Jo Day, 409–419. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press. Hamilakis, Yannis. 2014. Archaeology of the Senses: Human Experience, Memory, and Affect. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harvey, E. Ruth. 1975. The Inner Wits: Psychological Theory in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. London: Warburg Institute. Harvey, Susan A. 2006. Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press. Harvey, Susan A. 2014. “The Senses in Religion: Piety, Critique, Competition.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 91–114. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Hatt, Hans, and Regine Dee. 2009. La chimie de l’amour. Quand les sentiments ont une odeur. Paris: CNRS Editions. Hekster, Olivier. 2005. “Captured in the Gaze of Power: Visibility, Games and Roman Imperial Representation.” In Imaginary Kings: Royal Images in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome, edited by Olivier Hekster and Richard Fowler, 157–176. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Heller-Roazen, Daniel. 2008. “Common Sense: Greek, Arabic, Latin.” In Rethinking the Medieval Senses, edited by Stephen G. Nichols, Andreas Kablitz, and Alison Calhoun, 30–50. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Hocart, A. M. 1914. “Mana.” Man 14: 97–101. Howes, David. 1990. “Présentation: Les sensations discrètes de la bourgeoisie.” Anthropologie et Sociétés 14.2: 5–12. Howes, David. 2003. Sensual Relations: Engaging the Senses in Culture and Social Theory. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Howes, David, ed. 2004. Empire of the Senses. The Sensual Culture Reader. London: Berg. Howes, David. 2004. “Hyperesthesia, or, the Sensual Logic of Late Capitalism.” In Empire of the Senses. The Sensual Culture Reader, edited by David Howes, 281–303. London: Berg.

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Howes, David. 2006. “Scent, Sound and Synesthesia: Intersensoriality and Material Culture Theory.” In Handbook of Material Culture, edited by Christopher Tilley, Webb Keane, Susanne Kuechler-Fogden, Mike Rowlands, and Patricia Spyer, 161– 172. London: Sage. Howes, David. 2011. “Hearing Scents, Tasting Sights: Toward a Cross-Cultural Multimodal Theory of Aesthetics.” In Art and the Senses, edited by Francesca Bacci and David Melcher, 161–182. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howes, David. 2015a. “The Extended Sensorium: Introduction to the Sensory and Social Thought of François Laplantine.” In François Laplantine, The Life of the Senses. Introduction to Modal Anthropology, xii–xiv. London: Bloomsbury. Howes, David. 2015b. “Cultural Synaesthesia: Neuropsychological versus Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Intersensoriality.” In Synesthesia and Intermodality, edited by Victor Rosenthal, Intellectica 55: 139–158. Howes, David, and Constance Classen. 2014. Ways of Sensing: Understanding the Senses in Society. London: Routledge. Howes, David, and Jean-Sebastien Marcoux 2006. “Introduction à la culture sensible.” Anthropologie et Sociétés 303: 7–17. Irwin, Eleanor. 1974. Colour Terms in Greek Poetry. Toronto: Dundurn. Johansen, T. K. 1997. Aristotle on the Sense Organs. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Johnson, Mark. 1987. The Body in the Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Jonas, Hans. 1970. “The Nobility of Sight: A Study in the Phenomenology of the Senses.” In The Philosophy of the Body, edited by Stuart F. Spicker, 312–333. Chicago: Quadrangle Books. Keane, Webb. 2008. “The Evidence of the Senses and the Materiality of Religion.” The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14: 110–127. Kemp, Simon, and Garth J. O. Fletcher. 1993. “The Medieval Theory of the Inner Senses.” The American Journal of Psychology 106: 559–576. Ker, James. 2004. “Nocturnal Writers in Imperial Rome: The Culture of Lucubratio.” Classical Philology 99: 209–242. Kindt, Julia. 2012. Rethinking Greek Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kugler, Franz. 1835. Über die Polychromie der griechischen Architektur und Sculptur und ihre grenzen. Berlin: Verlag von George Gropius. Kwan, SanSan. 2013. Kinesthetic City: Dance and Movement in Chinese Urban Spaces. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, Fire and Other Dangerous Things. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Laks, André. 1999. “Soul, Sensation, and Thought.” In The Cambridge Companion to Early Greek Philosophy, edited by Anthony A. Long, 250–270. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Laplantine, François. 2005. Le social et le sensible: introduction à une anthropologie modale. Paris: Téraèdre. Le Breton, David. 2006. La saveur du monde: Une anthropologie des sens. Paris: Editions Métailié. Lloyd, Geoffrey E. R., and Gwilym E. L. Owen, eds. 1978. Aristotle on Mind and the Senses. Proceedings of the Seventh Symposium Aristotelicum. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lynskey, Dorian. 2010. 33 Revolutions per minute: A History of Protest Songs. New York: Faber and Faber. Malafouris, Lambros. 2013. How Things Shape the Mind. A Theory of Material Engagement. Cambridge MA/London: MIT Press. Mauss, Marcel. 1936. “Les techniques du corps.” Journal de Psychologie 32: 271–293. McCann Worldgroup. 2011. The Truth about Youth. (Available at: https://es.scribd.com/ doc/56263899/McCann-Worldgroup-Truth-About-Youth). McLuhan, Marshall. 1962. The Gutenberg Galaxy: The Making of the Typographic Man. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Mehl, Véronique. 2018. “Atmosphère olfactive et festive du sanctuaire grec: l’odeur du divin.” Pallas. Revue d’Études Antiques 106: 85–103. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. 1945. La phénoménologie de la perception. Paris: Gallimard. Miles, Margaret. 1983. “Vision: The eye of the Body and the Eye of the Mind in Saint Augustine’s De Trinitate and Confessions.” The Journal of Religion 63: 125–142. Modrak, Deborah K. W. 1987. Aristotle: The Power of Perception. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Morgan, Catherine. 1990. Athletes and Oracles. The Transformation of Olympia and Delphi in the Eighth Century BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Olsen, Sarah. 2017. “Kinesthetic choreia: Empathy, Memory, and Dance in Ancient Greece.” Classical Philology 112: 153–174. Otto, Bernd-Christian. 2017. “Magic and Religious Individualization: On the Construction and Deconstruction of Analytical Categories in the Study of Religion.” Historia Religionum: An International Journal 9: 29–52. Peacock, David P. S., and David F. Williams, eds. 2006. Food for the Gods: New Light on the Ancient Incense Trade. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Piganiol, André. 1923. Recherches sur les jeux romains. Notes d’archéologie et d’hitoire religieuse. Strasbourg: Istra. Pomeroy, Sarah B. 1975. Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity. New York: Schocken Books. Porcello, Thomas, Louise Meintjes, Ana Maria Ochoa, and David W. Samuels. 2010. “The Reorganization of the Sensory World.” Annual Review of Anthropology 39: 51–66. Raja, Rubina, and Rüpke, Jörg. 2015. “Appropriating Religion: Methodological Issues in Testing the ‘Lived Ancient Religion’ Approach.” Religion in the Roman Empire 1: 11–19.

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Reynolds, Dee. “Empathy, Contagion, and Affect. The Role of Kinesthesia in Watching Dance.” In Touching and Being Touched: Kinesthesia and Empathy in Dance and Movement, edited by Gabriele Brandstetter, Gerko Egert, and Sabine Zubarik, 213– 214. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. Rorty, Richard M., ed. 1992 [1967]. The Linguistic Turn. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rorty, Richard M. 1979. Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rosenberger, V. “Gifts and Oracles: Aspects of Religious Communication.” In Religion and Society: Rituals, Resources and Identity in the Ancient Graeco-Roman World. The Bomos-Conferences 2002–2005, edited by Anders Holm Rasmussen and Susanne W. Rasmussen, 91–106. Rome: Quasar. Rüpke, Jörg. 2016. On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2015. “Religious Agency, Identity, and Communication: Reflections on History and Theory of Religion.” Religion 45: 344–366. Sanzo, Joseph. E. 2020. “Deconstructing the Deconstructionists: A Response to Recent Criticisms of the Rubric ‘Ancient Magic’.” In Ancient Magic: Then and Now, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, Joseph E. Sanzo and Marianna Scapini, forthcoming. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Scheid, John. 2005. “Quand faire c’est croire. Les rites sacrificiels des romains.” L’Homme 182: 295–299. Schjoedt, Uffe. 2009. “The Religious Brain: A General Introduction to Experimental Neuroscience of Religion.” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 21: 310–339. Scott, Joan W. 1986. “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis.” American Historical Review 91: 1053–1075. Seremetakis, C. Nadia, ed. 1994. The Senses Still: Memory and Perception as Material Culture in Modernity. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Serres, Michel. 1985. Les Cinq Sens. Paris: Grasset. Sklar, Deidre. 2008. “Remembering Kinesthesia: An Inquiry into Embodied Cultural Knowledge.” In Migrations of Gesture, edited by Carrie Noland and Sally Ann Ness, 85–111. Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1990. Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Sorabji, Richard. “Aristotle on Demarcating the Five Senses.” The Philosophical Review 80: 55–79. Spaeth, Barbette S. 2014. “From Goddess to Hag: The Greek and the Roman Witch in Classical Literature.” In Daughters of Hecate. Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by Kimberly B. Stratton and Dayna S. Kalleres, 41–70. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Stahr, Adolf. 1854. Torso. Kunst, Künstler und Kunstwerke der Alten. Braunschweig: Friedrich Bieweg und Sohn. Stavrianopoulou, Eftychia, ed. 2006. Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World. Kernos Sup. 16. Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège. Steneck, Nicholas H. 1970. “The Problem of the Internal Senses in the Fourteenth Century.” PhD dissertation, University of Wisconsin. Stoller, Paul. 1997. Sensuous Scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Stratton, Kimberly B. 2007. Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World. Nueva York: Columbia University Press. Trnka, Susanna, Christine Dureau, and Julie Park. 2013. “Introduction.” In Senses and Citizenships. Embodying Political Life, edited by Susanna Trnka, Christine Dureau, and Julie Park, 136–158. London: Routledge. Vincent, Alexandre. 2008. “Auguste et les tibicines.” MEFRA 120: 427–446. Vinge, Louise. 2009. “The Five Senses in Classical Science and Ethics.” In The Sixth Sense Reader, edited by David Howes, 107–118. Oxford: Berg. Vinge, Louise. 1975. The Five Senses: Studies in a Literary Tradition. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup. Walz, Christian. 1853. “Über die Polychromie der antiken Sculptur.” In Einladung zu der Feier des fünfzigjährigen Doctor-Jubiläums des Herrn D. Eduard v. Schrader. Tübingen. Warnier, Jean-Pierre. 1999. Construire la culture matérielle: l’homme qui pensait avec ses doigts. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Williamson, Beth. 2013. “Sensory Experience in Medieval Devotion: Sound and Vision, Invisibility and Silence.” Speculum 88: 1–43. Wilson, Margaret. 2002. “Six views of Embodied Cognition.” Psychonomic Bulletin & Review 9: 625–636. Wolfson, Harry A. 1935. “The Internal Senses in Latin, Arabic and Hebrew Philosophic Texts.” Harvard Theological Review 28: 69–133. Zanker, Paul. 1988. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Zardini, Mirko, ed. 2005. Sensations urbaines. Une approche différente à l’urbanisme. Montréal: Lars Müller Publishers.

Chapter 1

Faces of Death: Lucretius, Religio, and Vision at Rome Martin Devecka De rerum natura (hereafter DRN) is, among other things, Lucretius’ attempt to produce a manual for turning a Roman into an Epicurean. That means trying to “cure” the reader of any Roman habits that happen to be incompatible with Epicurean ataraxia. Among these habits, Lucretius seems to treat religio as a special problem. Often, however, he attacks religio in terms that borrow from Greek epic or tragedy rather than the sitz im leben of Roman ritual. Recent scholarship has, quite reasonably, interpreted these attacks as critiques of myth or epic poetry rather than of what we would call Roman Religion. The present essay, by contrast, aims to show how contextualising at least one element of the DRN – its approach to ghosts – in a world of Roman ritual practice can help us make better sense, not only of the poem, but also of that most vexed historical category, Roman religious belief.1 1 On the Romanising character of Lucretius’ writing, see Long 2003. There are persistently and self-consciously Greek elements in the poem’s language, but Sedley 1999 offers an explanation of these that is consistent with a “transformative” account of the DRN’s overall project. That the text might also exercise a transformative torsion on Roman subjects has been pointed out by, for example, Minyard 1985, 36–40; the point is made most forcefully by Strauss 1968, 77–85. Lucretius’ hostility toward religio has been evident to all readers of the poem (e.g. Howe 1957), although, as Baker 2007 points out, critics have tended to over-interpret this hostility in line with the religious polemics of their own day. This raises the question, mooted recently and at length by Nongbri 2012 and Boyarin and Barton 2016, of the semantic correspondence between Roman religio and its etymological descendants in modern European languages. In order to avoid entering into an argument tangential to that of this chapter, I have left religio untranslated throughout. Suffice it to say on this point that, while Lucretius’ religio is certainly not just an orthopraxy, there are also many points in the DRN where rendering it into English as “religion” would produce nonsense: e.g. 1.109 and 1.932, inter alia. Incidentally to my main argument, I will be making the case in this chapter that religio should be understood as referring to a socially determined way of engaging with the world and not, thus, as a set of beliefs or even a discrete “sphere” of activity. Lucretius’ “translation” of Greek Epicurean arguments into Latin raises a parallel problem: given the prevalence in the DRN of Epicurean concerns that need not bear any relation to a specifically Roman context, how can we tell that the poem’s attacks on religio belong to Lucretius’ layer of authorship rather than to the Epicurean ur-text? Given that so much of that ur-text has disappeared, this possibility cannot be entirely dismissed, although elements internal to the

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I will argue that ghosts – and by “ghosts” I mean nothing more than “dead people who reappear after they die” – are neither marginal to the main lines of Lucretius’ argument in the DRN nor simply a matter of literary reference to Greek precedents. For Lucretius, ghosts pose a serious and difficult objection to Epicurean natural philosophy. He addresses this objection by developing the explanatory potential of Epicurus’ theory of vision, a theory that ran counter to much ancient thought on the topic by assimilating sight to touch. Since – as I shall also demonstrate – Lucretius files ghosts under the heading of religio, his treatment of these entities may be the place to look for a serious engagement between his De rerum natura and Roman religion, mediated by a novel theory of sense perception.2 I shall begin by offering evidence of the central importance Lucretius ascribes to sightings of ghosts, and shall then offer a reconstruction of his argument against their existence. Since this argument ends by resting on a redefinition of how sight works, I will then unpack what Lucretius can tell us about how sight functioned in Roman religion and, in particular, about the way it structured relations between the living and the dead. By taking a phenomenological approach to these questions, I hope to be able to give reasons why later Roman writers found Lucretius’ theory of vision particularly repugnant. That they did so receive it should, I think, count as prima facie evidence that this element of his critique hit home. That ghosts have a central place in the argument of the De rerum natura is best demonstrated by reference to the poet’s own programmatic statements. Near the beginning of the poem, at 1.127–135, Lucretius gives an outline of what is to come. Four lines of this nine-line-long prospectus are devoted to ghosts. Lucretius seems to think that it is no more important that we know the laws of nature that govern earthly physics and the celestial revolutions than that we should understand,

DRN may lead us to disregard it. For instance, as Sedley 1998, 24–33 demonstrates, the proem of the DRN is practically a calque of the opening lines of Empedocles’ Peri phuseos. Frag. 4, the longest surviving passage from Empedocles’ poem, contains expression of anxiety that anthea times will distract his addressee from the pursuit of wisdom; Lucretius replaces these “garlands of honor” with religionibus atque minis […] vatum (1.109). By this “learned” intertextual gesture, Lucretius means, I think, to flag the originality of his critique of religio. Whether that religio is itself a “learned” intertextual gesture will be one of the questions at stake in this chapter. For Lucretius as a playful and allusive Alexandrian, see fundamentally Kenney 1986. For the complexly literary character of the Iphianassa narrative (1.80–101), see Taylor 2016, 45–50. On DRN 3’s katabasis, see Reinhardt 2004. 2 Sedley 1998, 148–150.

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What thing it is that, apparent to our minds (nobis […] obvia mentes), terrifies us, when we are awake or buried in slumber or sick with disease, so that we seem to see and hear face to face (cernere […] audireque coram) those whose dead bones the earth embraces. DRN 1.132–135

If we are to judge by the weight given to them in this opening sketch of his programme, we should expect Lucretius’ treatment of ghosts to take up nearly half the volume of his poem. This expectation is hard to square with the fact that the lines dealing explicitly with ghosts number fewer than a hundred out of the more than seven thousand lines of the DRN as a whole. Following David Sedley’s argument that book 4 of the poem shows signs of incomplete revision, one explanation for these divergent figures might be that Lucretius intended to add more material about ghosts but died before he was able to do so. A more satisfying response to the problem would, in my view, be to point out that all of books 3 and 4 can be seen as contributing to Lucretius’ demonstration, adumbrated in the passage cited above, that the fact that we see ghosts tells us nothing about whether the dead can come back to life. I shall now show how this claim follows from a careful reconstruction of Lucretius’ argument.3 As I have said, Lucretius sets himself up from the outset as a critic of religio. In practice, what this means is that he tries to undermine the power religio has over the way we live our lives. One of the sturdiest supports for this power is our belief, explicit or implicit, in the soul’s survival after death and in the possibility of reward or punishment in this afterlife. “If”, as Lucretius says, “people could see a fixed term to the troubles of men, then they would be able to stand against the threats and religiones of the priests with some reason”; so long as people fear eternal punishments, they have no grounds for resisting (1.107–111; cf. 3.59–86). Lucretius thus attacks religio on this point with particular intensity. His line of attack, which takes up the bulk of DRN 3, is to claim that the self disappears with death and cannot meaningfully experience anything – reward or punishment alike – once separated from the body. If people really do see ghosts, this obviously strengthens the claims of religio and may fatally weaken Lucretius’ own argument. Lucretius admits that people (the inclusive didactic “we” rather than second- or third-person pronouns, which tend to be more critical and dismissive in the DRN) do see ghosts: videmus […] simulacra […] eorum quorum […] tellus amplectitur ossa (4.755–757). One might, then, raise 3 Ibid. 155.

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the experience of having seen a ghost as a reason for rejecting the comforts of Epicurean philosophy.4 Lucretius is in no position to dismiss the objection to his argument as we might do today, by claiming that visions of ghosts result from a mind-internal process like dreaming or hallucination. The reason he cannot do so is because he does not believe that sensory experience can originate in such mind-internal processes. For Lucretius, all sense impressions are necessarily true representations of things that exist outside of us. As a good Epicurean, he is strongly committed to the position that the senses are the only source and measure of truth. All knowledge is primis ab sensibus creatam (4.480) and, as such, cannot refute the testimony of the senses. Accordingly, we never have grounds for disclaiming the representational truth of a sense perception – not with reference to another sense perception, and certainly not with reference to an argument that is “merely” logical.5 Lucretius builds the whole edifice of his philosophy on sensory foundations. It is on this basis that Epicureanism can assert its superiority over rival schools of thought. He cannot, then, simply deny, in a special case, the truth of the senses: he has to concede that our visual impressions of ghosts are as valid as any other visual impressions. But this would seem to entail the consequences that ghosts are real and, further, that the soul survives death. Lucretius’ solution to the conundrum depends on a characteristically Epicurean theory of sight, one that seems to have cut against the grain of ancient intuition. Most Greek and Roman theorists held that the eye sees objects by emitting rays which intersect these objects, or else by receiving rays, emitted from a light source, which bounce off of these objects. These theories treat sight as a quintessentially mediated sense which, unlike touch or taste, delivers impressions at some distance from the object seen.6 Lucretius, by contrast, claims that we see because of a direct physical interaction between images and our bodies. Objects are constantly casting off membranae which emerge from their summo cortice (4.59) and which preserve their shape. When these exceedingly fine skins (which move at enormous speeds) impact our eyes, we acquire a sense perception of the object from which the

4 For a reading of DRN 3 that elucidates Lucretius’ therapeutic interest throughout that book in calming the fear of death, see Nussbaum 1989, 309–318. On the special significance of first-person plurals in Lucretius, see Lehoux 2013, 136–138. 5 Asmis 2009 gives a review of this epistemology within the framework of Epicureanism as a whole. For Lucretius’ deployment of it, see Lehous 2013, 132ff. 6 On mainstream emissive theories of vision in antiquity, see Netz and Squire 2015.

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skins originated. It is in this sense that vision is infallible: every visual sense impression records the real contact of a simulacrum with our body.7 As Lucretius may or may not have known, this theory is likely to have been adumbrated by Democritus precisely in order to argue for the reality of “supernatural” phenomena like ghosts. Epicurus generalised the Democritean explanatory model, at the same time revising it so as to make it undermine rather than support the testimony of our eyes that ghosts are real. What Epicurus preserved from Democritus, and what Lucretius inherited from both, was the notion that simulacra transmit visual images, reducing sight to a distinctive form of touch.8 The simulacra that mediate vision are of a certain given thickness – very thin, but still thicker than others, specially characterised by Lucretius, which can bypass our eyes and may, via pores in our flesh, reach our minds directly. These are, Of a much thinner (magis […] tenuia) weaving than those which the eyes perceive, which strike our sight, since they penetrate the empty parts of bodies and strike the fine (tenuem) sense and nature of the mind (animus) within. DRN 4.728–731

Such especially fine simulacra are particularly prone to being blown about and misdirected, and therefore also particularly likely to mislead. But these images also constitute the basic material of human thought, and, most of the time, our anima regulates their passage into our minds very closely. Thus we can visualise a horse, for instance, without also having to visualise its rider. When we are sick or asleep, however, the anima loses its vigor and these simulacra gain unrestricted access to our mens.9 At this point, the thread of Lucretius’ argument breaks – probably, again to follow Sedley, because Lucretius meant to complete it but died before he was able to do so. However, we can infer that some simulacra must suffer a kind of time delay that leads them to arrive long after the bodies that generated them 7 For an exposition of Lucretius own (sometimes befuddling and possibly incomplete) theory, see Holmes 2012, 20–26; Holmes aptly remarks that “it is hard to believe that the simulacrum functions as an instrument of ‘demystification’ ”. I hope that the present chapter will help operationalise this skepticism. 8 For this specialised application of eidolon-theory by Democritus, see Burkert 1997, 107–108. 9 For the other qualities of simulacra that I enumerate here, see DRN 4.756–757 with Fratantuono 2015, ad loc. Small 2015, 67–70 gives a reconstruction of the theory of cognition that corresponds to this account; see also Holowchak 2004, 359.

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have been destroyed, an inference that Plutarch seems to confirm when he writes that the Epicurioi believe in images that wander about for ἀπλέτους ἐτῶν περιόδους, “uncountable lengths of years” (De def. or. 420b). On this reconstruction, what causes us to see ghosts is a delayed influx of simulacra stemming from those long since dead.10 Like all simulacra, these images resemble but are not identical to the body that generated them. They copy only that body’s skin or outermost layer; they do not reproduce its organs and, in particular, they do not contain an animus. The calor ac ventus vitalis that counts as a human soul for Lucretius is inside the body, not on its surface. But Lucretius holds that we need both the corpus and the animus to have experiences: if the mens animi is what registers experience, only the body allows that subtle spirit to cohere. This is the point at which Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of vision diverges significantly from its Democritean prototype. Plutarch tells us that Democritus believed that simulacra could have souls; from this it follows that supernatural phenomena such as ghosts and daimones are real, a conclusion apparently also endorsed by Democritus. Epicurus, by contrast (and more consistently?), denies that a simulacrum can transmit anything other than the surface of the object from which it originates. According to this criterion, the simulacra of the dead cannot have experiences. At best they are containers without the appropriate content. Lucretius thus preserves his original claim as to the cessation of experience at death while at the same time granting that visions of ghosts are, like all other sense impressions, reliable.11 It will be seen that the “reliability” of sense impressions, in Lucretius’ hands, turns out to be a very minimal claim. This is because Lucretius’ concern is to “save the phenomena” while stripping away from the phenomena as much interpretive baggage as he can. For him, a sense impression is a dependable index of physical contact between body and image – and no more than this. Everything else is only interpretation, subject to careful testing against the remainder of our sense impressions, with which it must agree. The commonsense view, that ghosts give evidence for our survival after death, is one such interpretation. Since it is also incompatible with the vast array of sense 10

11

For analysis of this Plutarch passage, see Sedley 1998, 147. His reconstruction of Lucretius’ argument here seems to me the most plausible and best-attested, but it is hardly the only one. Other possible sources for simulacra of the dead include statues, death masks or other visual representations of the deceased; these images might also arise, like those of centaurs, from the collision and combination of especially fine simulacra. On Lucretius’ treatment of body and soul as conjoined necessary conditions for experience, see Segal 1990, 62–71. For a critical discussion of the same, see Small 2015. On this Epicurean modification of Democritus’ eidolon theory, see Bicknell 1969, 324.

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impressions proffered by Lucretius to show that experience ends at death, it should, thus, be rejected. Ghosts tell us something about how simulacra work but nothing at all about what happens when we die.12 From this reconstruction, it should be apparent that the substance of DRN book 4, on Epicurean perceptual theory, serves to make good an argument as to the non-reality of ghosts that allows DRN book 3’s argument against the immortality of the soul to stand against what Lucretius has to admit is a serious objection. If we accept the conventional structural division of Lucretius’ poem into three two-book sections that treat first micro-phenomena, then man, and then the macro-phenomena of nature, then we should consider the possibility that the section embracing books 3 and 4 culminates in Lucretius’ disproof of ghosts.13 In these books, Lucretius is trying to cut the legs out from beneath religio by challenging what he takes to be a commonsense view about how sight works and signifies. He writes as though his audience will take it for granted that seeing a person after their death means that the person has, in some sense, survived death. Since this interpretive habit only makes trouble for Lucretius’ argument, the best explanation for his attacking it in the DRN is that it was widely shared in his milieu. Proceeding under this assumption, I will give a sense of what this might have meant for the role of vision in the Roman cult of the dead.14 12 On the consequences (not only epistemic but ontological) of these propositions, see Deleuze 1990, 274–275 with Holmes 2012, 329–338. I will argue below that Deleuze’s materialist position actually understates the messiness of a simulacra-laden world. 13 See Sedley 1998, 144 for this commonplace. 14 The alternative hypothesis mooted at the beginning of this chapter – that Lucretius’ engagement with religio is entirely literary – might be introduced again here. Most Roman authors who engage with ghosts do so, after all, either by way of Homeric traditions (e.g. Verg. Aen. 2 and Prop. El. 4.7) or in dialogue with a Platonic one (e.g. Cic. Rep. 6). Why not take Lucretius’ ghost stories in the same way, especially since the DRN’s longest explicit staging of a phantasm, Ennius’ encounter with Homer (1.112–126) explicitly engages with Greek and Roman antecedents (Gale 2007, 74ff.)? Moreover, the formula that Lucretius uses to treat perceptions of ghosts – videor+infinitive verb of seeing – is a well-attested literary device that serves this function in Vergil and elsewhere. In the DRN, therefore, it might be expected to signal an intertextual engagement. I would answer these arguments by conceding that Lucretius does write about ghosts in a self-consciously literary way but denying that this descriptive intertextuality also implies a literary origin for the content of Lucretius’ account. There are elements of this account that are far from the literary mainstream and in fact do not seem to be derivable from any earlier “literary” text: for instance, Lucretius’ claim that we see ghosts not only when we are asleep (as in Virgil, Homer, and Propertius) but also when we are ill (DRN 1.133). If it would be going too far to assign this addition to Roman “lived experience”, it at least demonstrates that the DRN’s ghost-visions

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In one way, at least, this cult was profoundly visual: funeral masks that imitated the faces of the dead played a central part in aristocratic funerals and in aristocratic culture more broadly. Book 6 of Polybius’ Roman Histories, to name but one source among many, gives us every reason to think that Republican Rome was a city in which images of the dead circulated rather widely. The Romans, writes Polybius, have a custom of making masks resembling the dead, which the family of the deceased carefully stores and then brings out for display on public occasions. The masks are said to be εἰς ὁμοιότητα διαφερόντως ἐξειργασμένον (Hist. 6.53.5), worked up to a high degree of likeness. In funeral processions, the full mimetic potential of these masks is exploited by living family members who wear the face, and enact the personage, of their noble ancestors. Other sources lead us to think that paid actors were sometimes employed to bring about an even more complete imitation. Such performances might well be thought to blur the line between the living and the dead. A viewer saw the dead arrayed οἷον εἰ ζώσας καὶ πεπνυμένας (6.53.10), as though living and breathing.15 Scholars have generally been reluctant to draw a direct connection between these icons and the Roman notions of the afterlife. As Charles King has pointed out, the Romans themselves were less reserved. Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis has Scipio recognise the ghost of his adoptive grandfather ex imagine eius – in context, a clear reference to a funeral mask (Cic. Rep. 6.10). In a consolation poem by Statius, the son of the deceased addresses his dead father. The speaker contemplates his father’s imago and thinks at once of a monitory apparition of the di manes. When Statius’ pious son invites the deceased to visit him in his dreams, we can hardly avoid thinking that his father will appear according to the linea of the doctae cerae, the outline of a funeral mask (Stat. Silv. 3.3.201).16 Statius’ grieving son is abundantly supplied with images of his ancestors and alive to the possibility that these ancestors might return from the dead to confront him in his dreams. Like Scipio in the Somnium Scipionis, he is prepared to recognise such a revenant according to his experience with the do not fit neatly into the literary rubric. Robinne 2003 gives extensive extra-literary comparanda for Lucretius’ dream-ghosts. 15 Flower 1996 is the fundamental source on this topic, and I will engage with it in more detail below. On mime performances with death masks at Roman funerals, see Sumi 2002. For the blurring of lines between living and dead in such performances, see Squire 2015, 148. Polybius explicitly characterises this performance as a visual spectacle or θέαμα at 6.53.9. 16 For this revisionist account, see King 2009. The Statius passage is complicated, as is usual for this poet, by its place in a larger art-critical discussion, the complexities of which need not be pursued here since they do not impinge on its utility for my own argument, but see, for example, Pillinger 2013.

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ancestral imagines. Roman ritual practice provided an education in identifying the dead by their visual images: it produced these images in abundance, individualised them, and brought them to life on certain occasions. Audiences were encouraged to recognise the dead, not only as images but as individuals with biographies and personalities. In all these ways, the Roman culture of death produced a habit of recognition, one in which perception carries its own interpretation behind it.17 Within this culture, the sense of sight was privileged. When one saw a death mask, one immediately knew (or was meant to know) the name of its referent and his history of accomplishments. The Roman funeral procession encoded the legacies of the noble dead precisely in visual signs. Even when actors were employed to wear these masks and personate the dead, they played their imitation almost exclusively in a visual register: they learned to imitate the gestures and gait of the deceased, but not necessarily his voice. Evidence of vocal imitation of the dead is scant by comparison.18 Perhaps that is only to be expected, given the acoustic ecosystem of Roman public space, where sound carried for a much shorter distance than did sight. Nevertheless, plenty of Roman public festivals proceeded according to richly synaesthetic scripts. Not even funeral processions were silent affairs: far from it, they were accompanied by music and the oral performance of eulogies. Only the dead themselves were quiet – silentes, as Roman poets often called them. One function of funeral masks, then, was to mediate a connection between the living and the dead that took place almost exclusively along a visual axis.19 Phenomenologically, vision is, for us, a distancing sense. Through it, we relate to things as standing some distance away from us in space. Indeed, it 17 Flower 1996, 60ff. treats the social and political pressures that shaped the individualisation of death masks in Republican Rome. Unlike King 2009, she is disinclined to see any cult connection between the imagines and the di manes: “there is, therefore, no evidence, either literary of archaeological, for a cult of ancestors in the home, let alone one specifically connected with the manes in the atrium” (Flower 1996, 210–211). Barring dramatic new discoveries, it will be difficult to contest this point. However, one might still reasonably maintain that the Romans drew connections between imagines and the dead which were not concretised in any ritual practice. The evidence adduced by King in favor of a straightforward identification of imagines and di manes does, at least, go to prove the more limited claim. 18 Dominance of the visual in Roman death culture: Turner 2015, 60. The situational pressures that lead to predominantly visual representations of the dead in Greco-Roman culture have been explored by Bassi 2018. 19 On the sensual ecology of the Roman city, see e.g. Aldrete 2016, 63–65. For the non-visual apparatus of the Roman funeral, see Potter 2016, 36–42. Dead as silentes: Verg. Aen. 6. 264 and Ov. Fast. 2.609 inter alia.

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might even be said that vision is what creates space. On this point, ancient writers generally agree. Hearing and touch and all the rest, they say, involve the physical imposition of an external medium upon us in a way that makes the direct calculation of distance impossible. Only vision is emissive, sending out rays that allow us to see, and measure our distance from, a physical form that may never have come into direct contact with us. Unsurprisingly, the same writers treat vision as the sense over which we have the most control: we can look, but not hear or smell, in a particular direction.20 In antiquity, vision thus carried epistemological bona fides that make it the gold standard for knowledge. When we see, according to ancient theories, we are affecting rather than affected, agent rather than patient. We are in a position to get a good idea of what we see. Idea itself, of course, is a word that begins as a visual metaphor with Plato, who, however he may have conceived it, at least described the world of Forms in visual terms. The imagination, where knowledge plays, is itself visual: imaginatio from imago, translating Greek phantasia from phaino. Greco-Roman mnemotechnics encodes a spoken discourse in an imagined visual space, thus employing sight even when the matter to be recorded, in the end, is sound. At the end of antiquity, Augustine will make a revolutionary break with this tradition by privileging the heard over the seen. At the end of the Roman Republic, however, and for some time after, the eye remains the dominant producer of knowledge.21 According to all these rubrics, we might characterise the relationship that the Roman imagines between the living and the dead as one that fully empowered those still alive. Since they saw but were not seen, they exercised control over the sensory connection itself; the act of looking at a death mask might even be said to have established a “safe” distance between the living and their ancestors. The scary dead in Roman religion, after all, had no fixed visual form. These were the lemures, a vague but pervasive threat. Since they were invisible, and thus invulnerable, to the living gaze, they could only be warded off with noise and thrown objects.22 20 Emissivist theories of vision and the measurement of distance: Thibodeau 2016, 131ff. Epicurus’ idiosyncratic visual theory may have occasioned Lucretius’ elaboration of an explicitly non-sensual space, an innovation that Cicero (unsurprisingly given what I will argue below) rejected or perhaps found incomprehensible: Levy 2014, 135–138. 21 For the voluntary, directed character of vision in ancient philosophy, see Nightingale 2015. For the pre-Platonic visual sense of idea, see Hdn. 1.80 inter alia. The transference from vision to cognition is an easy one since PIE *uid gives verbs in Greek for both knowing and seeing. Augustine’s aural turn: Vaught 2012, 17–18. 22 For lemures, see fundamentally Ov. Fast. 5.420ff., a passage that has given rise to much confusion. However, this and the other early evidence leave no room to doubt that the lemures are the hostile dead: Thaniel 1973, 186. The lemur may be distinguished from the

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The converse of the visual dominance exercised by the living would be, I suppose, the mnemonic domination exercised over the living by the dead. As Polybius and other authors testify, the masks of deceased ancestors carry an exemplary value for the present: the survival of their faces across the generations testifies to the truth of the stories told about them and imposes on those still living an obligation to imitate their ancestors’ glory. Whatever else they may be, imagines are also a memorial device. Their display, especially on ritual occasions, forces those who see them to recall those elements of the Roman collective memory that have come to be associated with each of these waxen images.23 Death masks structure an exchange between past and present, living and dead: the former, by looking, protect themselves from the dead, while the latter, by being seen, continue to exert their power over the present. The extent to which Lucretius’ theory of vision perverts this relationship would be hard to overstate. To put things simply, Lucretius denies any special status to vision. Whereas other sensory theories declare vision to be unique among the senses in exercising a certain causal dominance over what it perceives, Lucretius makes it out to be touch continued by other means. Macrobius, like all Roman writers a harsh critic of the Epicureans, identifies this as the source of their mistake. They have missed the truth, he says, following the precedent of the other four senses – quattuor sensuum secutus exemplum (Sat. 7.14.6) – since, in the case of these senses, we do not send anything out from ourselves but rather receive stimuli from outside. Lucretius’ visual simulacra are fluxes of atomic matter, just like what we taste, smell, touch, or hear. They force themselves upon us. Only careful comparison and sifting of evidence can distinguish the true from the false ones, and we do not even have that recourse when we are sick or asleep.24 Given all this, it is not surprising that Lucretius, like other Epicureans, processes visual distance according to a rubric that is deeply counterintuitive both to ancient and to modern readers. In De finibus, to cite the best-known example, Cicero mocks Epicurus for claiming that the sun and the moon are no bigger than they appear, which is to say somewhere between the size of a two-euro coin and an American quarter. Most ancient readers thought it otherwise similar larva by the fact that the former lacked a visual identity which the latter certainly had: Hor. Sat. 1.5.64. 23 For the mnemonic and exemplary function of the imagines, see Flower 2006, 31–40; for the ritualisation of these memory practices, ibid. 159ff. Tac. Agr. 46 gives a perspicuous emic account. 24 More broadly, see Sat. 7.14; for Lucretius’ claim that sleep and sickness open wider the doors of perception, see DRN 4.756–767 with Small 2015, 66–67 and Cancik 1999, 175.

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obvious that the great distance at which these bodies stand from us – a fact also admitted by Lucretius – indicated that their actual magnitude must be far greater than their apparent size. There are good geometrical reasons for thinking so, as long as you accept one of the standard theories of vision. For Lucretius, though, vision and distance have nothing to do with one another. A stream of simulacra loses no size at all between source and eye, no matter how far apart the two happen to be.25 It follows that a Lucretian theory of vision leaves little room for distance effects and the visual creation of space. Accordingly, it can’t help but eliminate the distancing effects involved in Roman death-mask culture; under this regime, the gaze no longer guarantees a “safe distance” between the viewer and an image of the dead. There is reason to think that Lucretius understood and even emphasised this consequence. His favorite synonym for a simulacrum, the atomic skin whose impact we register as vision, is imago, the Latin word for a death mask. Imagine a death mask right up against your eye.26 Worse still, Lucretius denies us effective control over what we see. Wherever you turn your head, there are images flooding in: your eyeball is a sort of gatekeeper, but some images are sufficiently fine to slip past it. Of such a sort, as I have said, are images of the dead, which can attack your mind from any direction. This too, as we shall see, is a point on which Roman authors who discuss the senses find it obligatory to attack the atomists – usually in terms that show the mediation of a Lucretian vocabulary. That vocabulary itself may have been meant by Lucretius to shock. Bad enough as it may have been to imagine the air being full of imagines, or death masks, a sky full of simulacra might have been worse. As modern readers of Lucretius, we have only an etiolated idea of what simulacra are: we picture them as something like radiation, waves emerging from objects and flowing through us without our necessarily taking much notice. The first Romans to read DRN would, by contrast, most likely have found this part of the Epicurean theoretical apparatus baffling.27 25 Lucretius gives his view on the size of the sun at DRN 5.592–613. Cicero attacks the Epicurean position at Fin. 1.6.20. 26 On Lucretius’ account, we can of course still measure distance visually, but by indirect means only rather than through the mechanism of vision itself. For example, we can observe that one object is behind another – but this is still liable to deceive us (4.400– 413) – or that some objects appear to blur because of the amount of air that intervenes between us and them (4.353–359). 27 The concept rendered by Lucretius as simulacrum was a notoriously difficult one to translate into Latin. Catius, an earlier writer in the Epicurean tradition, had translated Epicurus’ eidolon as spectrum, a usage that not only failed to catch on but drew Cicero’s

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They would have known the word “simulacrum” from Plautus, at least, but not in anything like the sense in which Lucretius uses it. In Plautus, a simulacrum is just the vehicle of a metaphor; thus, for instance, Plautus can say that a house is a simulacrum of a man. Lucretius uses the word in a radically material way and redefines it accordingly: not as the subject of a simile, but as a membrana vel cortex. In pre-Lucretian Latin, membrana primarily means a biological film; Lucretius himself uses it in the sense of “placenta”. Cortex usually refers to the bark of trees but can be dragged into use for the flayed skin of an animal as well. Imagine a poet telling you that the air around you is full of placentas and flayed skins. See how you like it.28 The sense of discomfort and strangeness thus actuated could be mobilised against Epicureanism by its enemies. Cicero again provides a germane example. In De divinatione, a dream of Cicero’s in which he is visited by Marius – then long deceased – becomes a point of controversy. Quintus, Cicero’s brother, takes it to be an omen featuring the real Marius. Cicero himself, by contrast, denies that dreams come from any external source and especially from Lucretius’ flux of simulacra. This develops into a more general assault on Epicurean perceptual theory as incompatible with the control we exercise over our own thoughts: Did that image (imago) of Marius chase me to Atinas? [says the Epicurean:] ‘All things are full of images (imaginum); no picture (species) can be thought unless by the impact of images (pulsu imaginum).’ What, then? Are these images (imagines) of yours so obedient to us that, as soon as we want them, they come running? De div. 2.138–139

Cicero doesn’t believe that the particular imago of Marius would have been able to pursue him from Rome to Atinas, where he had the dream. Instead, he assigns a mind-internal origin to dream images of the dead: he dreams of Marius because he has been thinking about Marius all day. On these grounds, he claims to critique Epicurean superstitio from a rationalist standpoint. However, another way of reading the same set of arguments would be to see learned disdain (Cic. Fam. 15.19.1). Lucretius’ simulacrum had the advantage of being a word that already existed in Latin, but this, as I suggest, entailed difficulties of its own. 28 The Plautus passage discussed here is Mostell. 84–133. Festus records “placenta” as an ancient definition for membrana, one that Lucretius himself invokes in defining simulacra at DRN 4.59. Cicero uses it to mean “biological membrane” in his discussion of the eye at Nat. D. 2.142. Cortex as animal skin: Plin. HN 7.2 inter alia.

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Cicero as uncomfortable with a theory that allows Marius’ death mask to chase him over a distance of kilometres.29 Romans may have had good reasons to think that Lucretius’ theory of vision undermined a sensory regime that set them in a comfortable relationship with the dead. Since Lucretius describes his own project as emancipatory, and since the balance of modern interpretation suggests that it is sincerely so, we may want to ask whether his attack on death-mask culture amounts to more than this. Lucretius’ deflationary approach to history offers us an answer. Notoriously, he adopts what modern philosophers call an A-theory of time, one that ontologically privileges the present. Lucretius goes so far in this direction as to deny that the past exists. The Trojan war, he says, is only a story: the conjuncta that were Achilles and Priam have long since devolved into their component atoms. The same is true of the Punic Wars. It should follow, Lucretius suggests, that the past is of no relevance to us.30 Taken to its conclusion, this anti-historical attitude would also work to undermine Roman exemplary culture as a whole, and consequently the mnemotechnic power of funeral masks in particular. By undoing the grounds for the dominance of collective memory over the present, Lucretius offers an emancipation from the obligations imposed by funeral masks. That Roman writers after Lucretius preferred to preserve their visual regime of control over the dead at the cost of accepting such obligations speaks volumes, I think, about the strength of Roman religion – not only as a sensory regime but as a way of getting along in the world. I did not initially set out to offer a defense of Roman religio against Lucretius’ critique, but I see that this is what I have done – if only by showing that there is, after all, a certain logic of sense underlying conventional Roman attitudes toward images of the dead. Vision works in one way to control the dead, at the cost of giving the dead a permanent place in the memory of the living. The alternative, as Lucretius conceives it, is to erase the burdensome memory of the dead at the cost of filling the air with the flayed skins of the deceased. Between these positions there is perhaps not much to choose. When I commented at the outset about Lucretius’ interest in erasing those aspects of Roman identity that conflicted with Epicureanism, this was, however, precisely the kind of choice to which I was referring. In a post-scriptural age, we might be inclined to read such conversions as a matter of changing 29 For a summary of this discussion in De div. and its Lucretian engagements, see Cancik 1999, 174–175. Cic. Fam. 15.6 gives a sense of the thrust of Cicero’s argument. 30 Epicureanism and A-theories of time: Deng 2015. Lucretius argues for the non-existence of these major subjects of Latin historiography and epic at 1.464–482 and 3.1029–1035 respectively.

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one’s beliefs. Lucretius, as I hope to have shown, was under no such illusion. He understood that to ask a Roman to break free of religio was tantamount to asking him to trade in one sensory apparatus for another. Bibliography Aldrete, Gregory. 2016. “Urban Sensations: Opulence and Ordure.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 45–68. London: Bloomsbury. Asmis, Elizabeth. 2009. “Epicurean Empiricism.” In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, edited by James Warren, 84–104. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Babbit, Frank. 1936. Plutarch: Moralia, vol. V. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bicknell, Peter. 1969. “Democritus’ Theory of Precognition.” Revue des Etudes grecques 82, no. 391: 318–326. Burkert, Walter. 1977. “Air-Imprints or Eidola: Democritus' Aetiology of Vision.” Illinois Classical Studies 2: 97–109. Cancik, Hubert. 1999. “Idolum and Imago: Roman Dreams and Dream Theories.” In Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming, edited by David Shulman and Guy Stroumsa, 169–188. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Deleuze, Gilles. 1990. The Logic of Sense. Translated by Mark Lester. New York: Columbia University Press. Deng, Natalja. 2015. “How A-Theoretic Deprivationists Should Respond to Lucretius.” Journal of the American Philosophical Association 1 (3) (Fall 2015): 417–432. Flower, Harriet. 1996. Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fratantuono, Lee. 2015. A Reading of Lucretius’ ‘De rerum natura’. London: Lexington Books. Gale, Monica. 2002. Myth and Poetry in Lucretius. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gale, Monica. 2007. “Lucretius and Previous Poetic Traditions.” In The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, edited by Stuart Gillespie and Philip Hardie. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Holmes, Brooke. 2012. “Deleuze, Lucretius, and the Simulacrum of Naturalism.” In Dynamic Reading: Studies in the Reception of Epicureanism, edited by Brooke Holmes and Wilson Shearin, 316–342. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Holowchak, Mark. 2004. “Lucretius on the Gates of Horn and Ivory: A Psychophysical Challenge to Prophecy by Dreams.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 42 (4) (October 2004): 355–368.

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Howe, Herbert. 1957. “The Religio of Lucretius.” The Classical Journal 52 (7) (April 1957): 329–333. Johnstone, Henry W. 1985. Empedocles: Fragments. Indianapolis: Hackett. Kaster, Robert A. 2012. Macrobius. Saturnalia. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kenney, E. J. 1986. “Doctus Lucretius.” Mnemosyne 23: 366–392. Lehoux, Daryn. 2013. “Seeing and Unseeing, Seen and Unseen.” In Lucretius: Poetry, Philosophy, Science, edited by Daryn Lehoux, Andrew Morrison, and Alison Sharrock, 131–152. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Leonard, William Ellery. 1942. Lucretius. De Rerum Natura Libri Sex. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Lévy, Carlos. 2014. “Roman Philosophy under Construction: The Concept of Spatium from Lucretius to Cicero.” In Space in Hellenistic Philosophy: Critical Studies in Ancient Physics, edited by Christoph Horn, Christoph Helmig, and Graziano Ranocchia, 125–140. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. Long, Anthony A. 2003. “Roman Philosophy.” In The Cambridge Companion to Greek and Roman Philosophy, edited by David N. Sedley, 184–210. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Minyard, John Douglas. 1985. Lucretius and the Late Republic: An Essay in Roman Intellectual History. Leiden: Brill. Netz, Reviel, and Michael Squire. 2015. “Sight and the Perspectives of Mathematics: The Limits of Ancient Optics.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 68–84. Oxford/New York: Routledge. Nightingale, Andrea. 2007. “Night-Vision: Epicurean Eschatology.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 14 (3): 61–98. Nightingale, Andrea. 2015. “Sight and the Philosophy of Vision in Classical Greece: Democritus, Plato, Aristotle.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 54–67. Oxford/New York: Routledge. Nussbaum, Martha C. 1989. “Mortal Immortals: Lucretius on Death and the Voice of Nature.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 50 (2): 303–51. Pillinger, Emily. 2013. “Inuenta est blandae rationis imago: Visualizing the Mausoleum of the Flavii.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 143 (1): 171–211. Potter, David. 2014. “The Social Life of the Senses: Feasts and Funerals.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 23–44. London: Bloomsbury. Reinhardt, Tobias. 2004. “Readers in the Underworld: Lucretius, de Rerum Natura 3.912– 1075.” The Journal of Roman Studies 94: 27–46. Robinne, Grégoire. 2003. “Lucrèce: Une poétique du rêve.” Latomus 62 (3): 560–73. Sedley, David. 2003. Lucretius and the Transformation of Greek Wisdom. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Sedley, David. 1999. “Lucretius’ Use and Avoidance of Greek.” In Aspects of the Language of Latin Poetry, edited by Roland Mayer and James Adams. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Segal, Charles. 2014. Lucretius on Death and Anxiety: Poetry and Philosophy in De Rerum Natura. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Small, Matthew. 2015. “Lucretius on the Finality of Death: The Problem of SelfRecollection.” Gnosis 14 (1): 60–72. Strauss, Leo. 2007. “Notes on Lucretius.” In Liberalism Ancient and Modern, 77–140. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sumi, Geoffrey S. 2002. “Impersonating the Dead: Mimes at Roman Funerals.” American Journal of Philology 123 (4): 559–85. Taylor, Barnaby. 2016. “Rationalism and the Theatre in Lucretius.” The Classical Quarterly 66 (1): 140–154. Thaniel, George. 1973. “Lemures and Larvae.” The American Journal of Philology 94 (2): 182–87. Thibodeau, Philip. 2016. “Ancient Optics: Theories and Problems of Vision.” In A Companion to Science, Technology, and Medicine in Ancient Greece and Rome, edited by Georgia L. Irby, 130–144. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Turner, Susanne. 2015. “Sight and Death: Seeing the Dead through Ancient Eyes.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 143–60. Oxford/New York: Routledge. Vaught, Carl G. 2005. Access to God in Augustine’s Confessions: Books X–XIII. New York: SUNY Press. Walbank, Frank W., Christian Habicht, and S. Douglas Olson. 2011. Polybius. The Histories: Books 5–8. Loeb Classical Library. Translated by W. R. Paton. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Chapter 2

Lucretius and the Body-Environment Approach Visa Helenius 1

Introduction

Lucretius’ philosophical mission was to spread his Epicurean views amongst the Romans of the 1st century BCE.1 His philosophical manifesto, De rerum natura, hereafter DRN,2 has survived almost entirely intact.3 Lucretius’ materialistic ontology declares that the whole of existence is composed of atoms and void. It follows that humans, animals, rocks, and possibly even gods,4 are all material things. Indeed, even thinking is a thoroughly materialistic process. Consequently, the physical human body with its sense organs is a conveyor of the knowledge that derives from the extra-mental physical world, and this transmission happens by means of atomic effluences. Lucretius’ views can be connected in interesting ways to certain trajectories in contemporary philosophy. A number of recent theories in the area of philosophy of mind – such as embodied cognition, the extended mind thesis, situated cognition, and enactivism5 – require there to be a physical human body

1 See, for example, Boyancé 1963; Long 2013; Schrijvers 1970; Sedley 2013. 2 Additionally, the following abbreviations (with page numbers) are used to refer to the two editions of the DRN: (i) DRNB = Cyril Bailey, ed. and transl. 1947. Lucretius. De Rerum Natura. Oxford: Clarendon Press; (ii) DRNRS = William H. D. Rouse, transl., Martin F. Smith, rev. 1992. Lucretius. On the Nature of Things. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. 3 Sedley 2013. 4 Lucretius’ theological views are problematic and ambiguous. The third section of this chapter discusses these issues in greater depth. 5 (i) The notion of embodied cognition appeals to the idea that “[c]ognition is embodied when it is deeply dependent upon features of the physical body of an agent, that is, when aspects of the agent’s body beyond the brain play a significant causal or physically constitutive role in cognitive processing” (Wilson and Foglia 2017). (ii) The central idea of the extended mind thesis is that “an agent’s mind and associated cognitive processing are neither skull-bound nor even body-bound, but extend into the agent’s world” (Wilson and Foglia 2017). (iii) Situated cognition emphasises the role of the situation in the knowledge formation (see Wilson and Foglia 2017). (iv) Enactivism suggests (according to the theory of Varela, Thompson, and Rosch) that “the experienced world is portrayed and determined by mutual interactions between the physiology of the organism, its sensorimotor circuit and the environment” (Wilson and Foglia 2017).

© Visa Helenius, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_004

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in order for a cognitive action to take place.6 In addition, some theories require that there also be some kind of external environment for the cognitive action to take place within.7 The central idea is that the cognitive action is not completely intra-mental and free from situational factors. In what follows, I will refer to the general approach taken by these theories as the Body-Environment Approach (the BEA).8 According to the BEA, the necessary conditions for conscious human cognition are: (i) being in a conscious mental state;9 (ii) possession of a body, including sense organs and brain; and (iii) some kind of environment or situation within which the cognition takes place.10 The BEA overlaps in interesting ways with the theories laid out in the DRN. On the one hand, Lucretius’ philosophy can be seen as a prototype of the BEA, because, like the BEA, he claims that the human body and its environment are essential for knowledge acquisition. On the other hand, the complex socio-political context that provides the background to the DRN also gives us further good reasons for interpreting Lucretius’ theorising in terms that align it with the BEA. This chapter seeks to do two things: first, it explains how Lucretius’ philosophy expresses a position akin to the BEA through its metaphysics and its theory of perception; and second, it explains how the BEA can be applied in a useful way to the study of Lucretius. Section 2 below explains Lucretius’ views on atomism, mind, the senses, and perception. Section 3 then discusses Lucretius’ problematic view of the gods and, especially, how this relates to senses and perception. Section 4 considers the background to the DRN, that is, Lucretius’ own 6 7 8

9 10

Wilson and Foglia 2017. See, for example, Clark and Chalmers 1998, 7: “We advocate a very different sort of externalism: an active externalism, based on the active role of the environment in driving cognitive processes”. First, the BEA-oriented theories are theoretically heterogeneous. On the similarities and differences between them, see Varela, Thompson, and Rosch 1991; Wilson 2002; Wilson and Foglia 2017. Second, the arguments advanced in the present chapter are not grounded on any specific BEA-oriented theory. This means that mind is not an immaterial substance. Interestingly, the BEA seems to come rather close to an enactivist conception of cognition and mind as originally presented by Varela, Thompson, and Rosch: “By using the term embodied we mean to highlight two points: first that cognition depends upon the kinds of experience that come from having a body with various sensorimotor capacities, and second, that these individual sensorimotor capacities are themselves embedded in a more encompassing biological, psychological and cultural context” (1991, 172 and 173). However, how exactly enactivism should be interpreted is still a matter of debate. For the purposes of this paper, it is not necessary to analyse the possible connections between the BEA and enactivism in a deeper way, although these connections may be of interest for future studies. I would like to thank Heidi Haanila for many clarifications, ideas, and suggestions concerning this topic.

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world of experience and perception, including his negative attitude towards Roman religion. Section 5 then identifies the way in which the DRN and the BEA are related to one another. 2

Lucretius on Senses, Perception, and Mind

Lucretius’ atomism is based on the following principles: (i) nothing comes into existence from nothing;11 (ii) nothing perishes into nothing;12 (iii) there is nothing other than atoms and void;13 (iv) the number of atoms is infinite;14 (v) the number of the shapes of atoms is finite,15 from which it follows that only certain combinations of atoms are possible;16 and (vi) the natural direction in which atoms move, when they are not constrained in their motion by earlier interactions with other atoms,17 is downward.18 So, for Lucretius, all substances are composed of atoms, but the void, an important entity, makes possible the movement of atoms and the flow of tenuous materials such as air and water. The main properties of atoms are solidity, perpetuity, indivisibility,19 and constancy,20 but they are not completely homogenous because they have different sizes and shapes. A necessary consequence of this atomistic physics is that Lucretius’ view of mind is thoroughly materialistic. For Lucretius, the material soul consists of two elements: (i) “mind” or “intellect”, and (ii) “spirit”.21 The former is a principle that enables both cognition and the feeling of emotions. The latter is a principle of organicity, which forms living human bodies with its physical and biological properties. Both constituent 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Lucr. 1.146–216. Lucr. 1.215–264. Lucr. 1.265–397; 418–482. Lucr. 2.522–568. Lucr. 2.478–521. Lucr. 2.700–729. Lucr. 2.216–293. This leads to the clinamen atomorum theory. Lucr. 2.184–215. Atoms consist of smallest parts, “extreme points” (DRNRS, 49; extremum […] cacumen, Lucr. 1.599) that are inseparable: “The first-beginnings, therefore, are of solid singleness, made of these smallest parts closely packed and cohering together, not compounded by the gathering of these parts, but strong rather by their eternal singleness, and from these nature allows nothing to be torn away or diminished any longer, but keeps them as seeds for things” (DRNRS, 51 (Lucr. 1.609–614)). 20 Lucr. 1.483–583 and 599–634. 21 DRNRS, 195 and 197 (Lucr. 3.94–135). Bailey translates these concepts as follows: “mind” or “understanding” and “soul” (DRNB, 307 and 309). The original words are animus and anima (Lucr. 3.94; 3.117). For more on the distinction, see DRNB, 1003–1006.

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elements of the human soul are, then, material parts of the body. In addition, there are four atomic ingredients of the material soul: breath, heat, air, and a nameless substance.22 The latter, which comes closer to the idea of immateriality, can be understood as the ultimate cause of bodily actions, because it generates volitional and non-volitional motions, sensations, and thoughts.23 Lucretius adduces that all senses are varying forms of the fundamental tactile sense on the grounds that the collision of the atoms is the only basic form of interaction.24 Hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, and touching are all, thus, without exception, based on the impact of atoms. Lucretius begins his description of the theory of simulacra, that is, his theory of vision, as follows: Now, since I have explained what is the nature of the mind, from what elements it takes its strength when combined with the body, and how when torn away from the body it returns to its first elements, you shall now see me begin to deal with what is of high importance for this subject, and to show that there exist what we call images25 of things; which, like films26 drawn from the outermost surface of things, flit about hither and thither through the air […]27 All beings continuously emit images, or better, series of images. The images consist of atoms and the surface of a being emits them in all directions. A visual perception occurs when an organ of sight belonging to a percipient receives this series in a propitious situation.28 Three important points must be noted. First, some images are so thin that they can transfer directly to the mind without the mediation of an organ of sight. In other words, an image of this thinnest type moves straight to the mind and there activates thinking. Images of this sort include, and account for our 22 Lucr. 3.232–236 and 242. The original words and the phrase are aura, vapor, aer, and east omnino nominis expers. 23 I think that Lucretius’ idea of nameless substances could be an early description of the operation of the nervous system. 24 Lucr. 2.422–444. 25 Simulacra (Lucr. 4.50). Meanings of the word: a likeness; image; figure; portrait. Lucretius also uses the words imago, effigies, and figura. 26 Quasi membranae (Lucr. 4.31). 27 DRNRS, 279 (Lucr. 4.26–32). 28 For Lucretius, the necessary conditions of visual experience are (i) a series of images, (ii) a certain amount of (material) light, which allows the procession of the images, and (iii) a percipient with an organ of sight, that is, an eye, and an organ of thinking, that is, the animus.

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conceptions of, entities such as the creatures of Roman mythology – Centaurs, Cerberus, Scylla, and the like – and the things that appear in dreams.29 Images of the gods also belong to this category, as will be explained in more detail below. It is important to note that these thinnest of images are not born spontaneously in the mind but must still have external sources from which they are emitted. For example, an image of a Centaur is a combination of two different images, that of a man combined with that of a horse. A second important point is that Lucretius acknowledges that errors of visual perception, such as the bending of oars in water, the apparently unmoving stars in the sky, and the rising of the Sun from the ocean, are all true phenomena.30 At the same time, he denies the possibility of skepticism on the grounds that the errors of visual perception are not due to senses. Rather, they arise from the operation of mind, that is, from the ability of the mind to make false inferences and interpretations. The mind might, for example, falsely infer that an oar bends in water, when, in fact, the water actually bends the series of images of the oar. It follows that we can reliably trust the senses, but we cannot always trust to the reasoning of the mind. Lucretius also holds that a skeptic who denies all truths about world must, as a matter of fact, know at least the concept of truth, because the skeptic uses this concept in delineating their skepticism.31 The third point we need to bear in mind is that two principal properties of mind are involved in visual perception: mind has the ability to direct its attention with respect to which series of images it focuses on and it has the ability to make true or false assertions about the objects of perception. I have argued elsewhere that Lucretius’ theory of vision consists of the following features: (i) the metaphysical form of Lucretius’ materialism is indeterministic atomism; (ii) the percipient’s role is passive, with the exception of the direction of their mental attention towards or away from the series of images and the mind’s ability to make true or false assertions about the objects of perception; (iii) the theory can be understood as either an indirect or a direct form of realism depending on where we lay our theoretical emphases and interpretations; (iv) the theory includes many problems, such as those related to its dogmatism and to the question of its theoretical coherence.32 What about the other senses? The answer is quite unambiguous: hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching are functionally equivalent with vision, because there are, again, atomic effluences of varying kinds and specific sense organs 29 30 31 32

Lucr. 4.722–776. Lucr. 4.379–468. Lucr. 4.469–521. Helenius 2018.

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suited to receiving the different kinds of effluence.33 So, the sense of hearing hears the objects, the sense of smell smells the objects, and so on. Perception in each case depends on the interaction of the receptive sense organs with the different atomic compositions that beings emit or possess internally due to their structure, such as the solidity of a rock. In addition, the different atomic compositions act differently. For example, the compositions of the atoms of smell move at a speed that is significantly slower than the compositions of the atoms that make up images.34 To sum up, Lucretius’ theory of thinking and perception is fundamentally based on the human body, because there must be a percipient with sense organs and brain in order for the actualising of perception to occur. Sense organs transmit information from the external world and bring this information to consciousness, while the brain stores this information in the memory. Additionally, the situation in which perception takes place is always unique. The situation in each case involves both external sources of perception – such as oars, odours, and stars – which the percipient perceives, and also circumstantial factors – for example, the location of the percipient and the properties of the environment, such as the specific amount of material light or darkness present at the time.35 It follows that each percipient has a personal point of view and thus each percipient experiences the world individually. The result is a percipient with personal history, memories, and an individual concept formation habit.36 So, the human body together with certain environments enables sensing, perception, and thinking. The human body and the environment are, therefore, necessary conditions for thinking. 3

Lucretius on Gods

Lucretius’ theory of perception includes a number of problems and ambiguities.37 One problem concerns the relationship between the images of the gods and the origin of these images. The big question here is whether Lucretius’ philosophy accepts or denies the existence of the gods. The analysis I offer will reveal a hidden but inevitable dilemma. 33 Lucr. 4.522–686. 34 Lucr. 4.687–705. 35 Light and darkness are materials for Lucretius. The former, which is of looser atomic composition, allows penetration and the movement of images. The latter prevents this, because it has a thicker composition (Lucr. 4.337–352). 36 On concept formation and anticipation in Lucretius’ philosophy, see DRNB, 53 and 54. 37 See, for example, DRNB, commentary, book 4.

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We can begin by considering two sections in the DRN in which the existence of the gods is accepted. The first reads as follows: Another thing it is impossible that you should believe is that any holy abode38 of the gods exists in any part of the world. For the nature of the gods, being thin and far removed from our senses, is hardly seen by the mind’s intelligence; and since it eludes the touch and impact of the hands, it cannot possibly touch anything that we can touch; for that cannot touch which may not be touched itself. Therefore their abodes also must be different from our abodes, being thin in accord with their bodies.39 This section includes an explicit statement concerning the existence of the gods. Lucretius’ idea is that we are aware of the gods by means of images of the thinnest sort. Because, as we saw, there must be some external source for all images, it follows that the images of the gods must also have some external source. Hence, Lucretius explains our thoughts about the gods by reference to the thinnest images and the theory of perception. In addition, the previous section of the DRN claims that the gods exist in a transcendent environment. The proposition concerning the environment of the gods is negative: the gods do not live in our world but elsewhere. In consequence, we cannot know what kind of beings they are or what kind of environment they inhabit. In the second section in which the existence of gods is affirmed, Lucretius specifies his view by characterising the lives and properties of the gods as follows: [T]he very nature of divinity must necessarily enjoy immortal life in the deepest peace, far removed and separated from our affairs; for without any pain, without danger, itself mighty by its own resources, needing us not at all, it is neither propitiated with services nor touched by wrath.40 Here Lucretius tells his reader that the gods do not resemble either humans or the gods that appear in ancient mythology. In other words, there is no divine vengeance and no divine rage, nor any other of the troubling consequences that are traditionally associated with the anthropomorphic gods of Greece and Rome. On the basis of these passages, it seems relatively simple to conclude 38 Sedes (Lucr. 5.146). 39 DRNRS, 389 and 391 (Lucr. 5.146–154). 40 DRNRS, 7 (Lucr. 1.44–49).

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that gods are existing beings for Lucretius, even if they do not conform to traditional depictions. However, the issue is not so straightforward, as we will see. The second point to consider is that Lucretius elsewhere gives, somewhat paradoxically, a naturalistic argument concerning the origin of our world. According to this argument, our world exists completely on its own, which is to say that it does not depend on any external cause or model. It has, then, no divine origin. The passage reads: Again, whence was a pattern for making things first implanted in the gods, or even a conception of mankind, so as to know what they wished to make and to see it in the mind’s eye? Or in what manner was the power of the first-beginnings ever known, and what they could do together by change of order, if nature herself did not provide a model for creation?41 So, it must be admitted that Lucretius’ gods do not have any causal role with regard to the existence of our world and the beings in it, excluding only the thinnest images of the gods, which transfer directly to our minds without the mediating activity of the senses. This claim leads to a critical question: why believe in the existence of transcendent and vague gods that have no effect on the world beyond the images that flow from them? This might still leave open an ethical role for the gods, but the view is nevertheless extremely problematic for a number of reasons. First, the notion of non-causal and non-functional gods seems to be quite odd.42 Second, introducing gods of this sort seems to involve the introduction of an unnecessary postulate: why postulate existent gods if they have no immanent or important physical effects at all? Third, it is deeply problematic to think that the existence of the gods follows from thoughts about them. With regard to this last point, it is clear that Lucretius’ philosophy must provide some sort of response if it is to lay any reasonable claim to coherence. Fourth, Lucretius claims that there must be external sources for all images, but some of these images, such as those of Giants,43 are false, because they result from the combination of other images.44 This raises two questions. Could the ideas of the gods themselves result from the combination of other images, the origin of which lies in substantial things? And if not, why not? 41 DRNRS, 393 (Lucr. 5.181–186). The original last line is as follows: si non ipsa dedit speciem natura creandi? (Lucr. 5.186). 42 I think that this is not an anachronistic claim. 43 Lucr. 4.136–139. 44 On the combinations of images, see DRNB, 1195 and 1196.

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Putting together the evidence of the passages considered above reveals an inevitable dilemma: while it must be true either that Lucretius accepts the existence of gods or that he denies them implicitly, it is also the case that credible arguments can be advanced in favour of each possibility. I call this the hidden dilemma. The result of this is that two kinds of interpretative views are possible: approbative views and prohibitive views. Those scholars who support the former type of view hold that Lucretius accepts the existence of the gods,45 despite the fact that these gods have a rather peculiar philosophical function and their ontological status is grounded in their otherworldliness. It follows from this kind of account that the gods are transcendent beings. Those who support the latter type of view hold that Lucretius implicitly denies the existence of the gods.46 His reasons for advancing a set of strange and possibly incoherent claims concerning their existence may, on this account, be grounded in the need to conform to social norms or pressures. I will suggest that giving a negative answer to the question about the existence of the gods can provide a satisfying reading of Lucretius,47 despite the fact that Epicurus himself does seem to accept the existence of such entities.48 It is possible to read the DRN in a way that allows for an atheistic interpretation that would be both reasonable and coherent. Such a reading would, first, note that atheistic thoughts are both universally plausible and common. Children, to give an example that is not present in the text, often make negative assertions, such as “there is no Sun” and “I do not exist”, that can be contradicted through evidential or logical means. By contrast, when a negative claim is made about the non-existence of a god or gods, it is not inherently contradictory from a logical perspective and, indeed, might actually be true, since we have no method that is able to demonstrate the existence of such entities. Second, if the argument above, which asserts that atheistic thoughts are universally plausible and that commitment to them is common, is acceptable, then it follows that there will almost certainly have been atheists among the Romans too. Although strict atheism was rare in antiquity,49 it was not nonexistent and 45 46

See, for example, Benfield and Reeves 1967, 42 and 43; DRNB, 66–69; DRNRS, xxxvi–xxxviii. See, for example, Colman 2009; Minyard 1985, 55–57 and 71; see also Bacon 1613, 53 and 54 (Essays, xiv); DRNB, 68 and 69; Sedley 2013. 47 I do not offer an argument for the atheistic interpretation here. Rather, I want to emphasise merely that atheism remains a reasonable possibility in this context. 48 See, for example, DRNB, 66–69; DRNRS, xxxvii; Most 2003, 314; Sedley 2013. 49 Most gives the following clarification concerning atheism in Antiquity: “[A]theism was virtually unknown: ancient lists of those philosophers who denied altogether the very existence of gods never manage to come up with more than a handful of names […] But what is usually meant in such cases is not a radical denial of the very existence of divinity, but instead a more or less sceptical attitude towards one or more of the traditional

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the possibility of holding views that tended towards atheism was a live topic in the philosophical literature – one need only think of the charges famously levelled against Socrates. There is, then, no historical reason to reject the possibility that Lucretius could have been an atheist. We may sum up Lucretius’ view of the gods as follows. His view is problematic because, while the gods are mentioned and described at a number of places in the DRN, their true nature and their existential status is left unclear. The gods are non-functional from the human perspective for Lucretius, because they do not causally affect our world. Moreover, it is possible that Lucretius also implicitly denies the existence of gods in the DRN. It follows that the DRN seems to allow both polytheistic and atheistic interpretations, a fact that makes the hidden dilemma inevitable and has led to the development of two distinct lines of interpretation by modern scholars. Since the DRN does not, itself, give us the tools we need to resolve these issues, a fuller understanding of Lucretius’ theological views requires that we look beyond the text and search for clues in the social and historical background of the work. 4

Lucretius and the Late Roman Republic

My goal in this section is to clarify a number of important issues related to Lucretius’ theological views that can be found in the contextual background to the DRN. In discussing this background, I will consider the topics of Rome during Lucretius’ time, Lucretius and his relation to earlier philosophical traditions, and the socio-religious criticism of the DRN. Reflection on these topics will then lead to a number of methodological conclusions. To begin with, it is important to remember that Rome in the 2nd and 1st centuries BCE was in the grip of a lengthy period of societal and political ferment. The ancient regime, the traditional Republican form of government, was undergoing a slow collapse while its replacement, the new Imperial regime, was being born.50 As a result, the end of the late Roman Republic was “a genuine crisis”,51 which manifested itself, inter alia, through political violence.52 Many of the negative effects of this crisis fell with particular force on Rome’s features of the gods as these were worshipped in the established myths and cults” (Most 2003, 304). 50 There are many reasons for this change, see, for example, Beard and Crawford 1985; Minyard 1985; von Ungern-Sternberg 2004. 51 Von Ungern-Sternberg 2004, 106. 52 Beard and Crawford 1985, 1–3.

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poor and its rural population.53 Overall, the scope of the crisis embraced “at least, political, military, cultural, and intellectual” dimensions.54 However, it has been difficult for historians to explain the process in detail and several different interpretations have thus been offered.55 Regardless of nuances of particular scholarly interpretations of the crisis, we can say with some certainty that the turbulent age of the late Roman Republic had a significant effect on Lucretius’ writing.56 Second, we should note that Lucretius’ thought continues in the footsteps of the ancient tradition of atomistic philosophy. The philosophies of Empedocles, Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus all explained the mechanisms of the world from a materialist perspective and by reference to atomic units of matter.57 However, while the physical views of these thinkers were similar in broad terms, there were, nevertheless, many differences between them. For instance, there were a range of different views concerning specific properties of atoms, such as their size.58 Alongside his sympathy with the atomist views of earlier thinkers, we should also note that Lucretius explicitly opposes himself to certain philosophical schools of thoughts, arguing in the first book of the DRN against Heraclitean, Empedoclean, and Anaxagorean thought.59 The main reason for this critique is that Lucretius strives to show the superiority of his Epicurean-based doctrine in contrast to the limitations of his philosophical ‘competitors’. What about Lucretius’ relationship with Epicureanism itself? Given his explicit references, and evident devotion to the founding father of the Epicurean school, should we expect his philosophy to be an invariable copy of that of Epicurus? The answer is no. First of all, it is not clear whether Lucretius was actually in touch with Epicurean circles in Rome.60 This leaves open the possibility that some of the sources on which he drew for his information on Epicureanism may not have been precise or may have conveyed inaccurate or inadequate views. Secondly, the Roman environment differed significantly from that of Epicurus’ Greece, making a direct transposition of all of the latter’s ideas implausible. Beard and Crawford summarise this point well: 53 54 55 56

Von Ungern-Sternberg 2004, 106. Minyard 1985, 1. Von Ungern-Sternberg 2004, 105 and 106. See, for example, Beard and Crawford 1985, 23; Minyard 1985, 2; Rawson 1985, 3; Schiesaro 2007, 41. 57 On atomistic perception before Lucretius, see Tuominen 2014. 58 See, for example, DRNB, 701–703. 59 Lucr. 1.635–920. 60 Rawson 1985, 285.

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A different use of Greek philosophy is shown by the philosophical poem of Lucretius […] De rerum natura. Rather than integrating the Roman with the Greek, this Epicurean poem implicitly and explicitly attacks some of the most traditional Roman religious and cultural attitudes. This raises the problem of what we may call counter-culture.61 Given this context, it would be very surprising if the DRN should turn out to be a work of orthodox Epicureanism rather than a situation-specific modification of Epicurus’ thought. The motives underlying Lucretius’ decision to practice and write about philosophy were also societal and political.62 This motivation binds his thinking to the particular circumstances in which he wrote, that is, the late Roman Republic with its specific religious customs and societal problems. So, we can conclude that Lucretius’ philosophy is grounded in earlier philosophical traditions but also exhibits independence and originality, which are related to Lucretius’ personal experiences. The third point to consider is the presence of socio-religious criticism in the DRN. At the beginning of the work, Lucretius gives an explicit warning about the dangers of false religious and mythological beliefs, which, according to him, Epicurus successfully vanquished. The warning goes as follows: When man’s life lay for all to see foully grovelling upon the ground, crushed beneath the weight of Superstition which displayed her head from the regions of heaven, lowering over mortals with horrible aspect, a man of Greece was the first that dared to uplift mortal eyes against her, the first to make stand against her […]63 Here we can see a starting point for Lucretius’ philosophical mission: he wants to reject false myths and false beliefs about gods.64 But what does Lucretius mean by superstition and why does he seem to set himself up against Roman religious traditions?65 61 Beard and Crawford 1985, 23. 62 Compare, for example, Lucr. 1.62–79; 2.1150–1179; 5.1136–1150; 5.1423–1429; 6.50–55. For more on the topic in question, see Beard and Crawford 1985, 20–24; Farrington 1965; Schiesaro 2007. 63 DRNRS, 7 and 9. The original lines are: Humana ante oculos foede cum vita iaceret [/] in terris oppressa gravi sub religione, [/] quae caput a caeli regionibus ostendebat [/] horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans […] (Lucr. 1.62–65). 64 The DRN includes several sections in which Lucretius criticises false religious and mythological beliefs. See, for example, Lucr. 2.1091–1104; 3.978–1023; 5.110–125; 5.1161–1240. 65 Religione (Lucr 1.63). Rouse and Smith, for example, explain “superstition” as follows: “This or ‘false religion,’ not ‘religion,’ is the meaning of religio. The Epicureans were opposed not

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In order to understand Lucretius’ motivations here, a number of points concerning Roman religion must be taken into account. First, our own, modern, understanding of Roman religion is problematised by our distance from it and the lack of shared preconceptions about what constitutes religion and religious activities.66 Second, there are two essential but ambiguous key concepts in our passage: religio and superstitio. Religio usually refers to “links between men and gods”, with a more practical additional demand for “scrupulous observance of religious obligations”.67 Religio was, thus, used in both theoretical and practical senses,68 with the latter sense being more familiar in daily life.69 However, it must be noted that religio is an essentially equivocal word.70 Superstitio refers to an irrational submission to the gods,71 which shows us that uncritical and superstitious submission to gods was a known form of religious behaviour at the time. It follows that superstitio normally carries negative connotations.72 Third, Roman religion was politically and publicly oriented, societally pervasive, and a complex system in its totality.73 The public and social dimensions of religious activity thus had great meaning for Romans. Fourth, although Roman theology was based on a polytheistic mythology, the religion itself was more or less flexible and tolerant, heterogeneous, locally varied, cult-based, lacking in dogma or orthodoxy, and possessed of synthesising tendencies due to its cultural diffusion and syncretism.74 It can be concluded that Roman religion was

to religion […] but to the traditional religion which taught that the gods govern the world. That Lucr. regarded religio as synonymous with superstitio is implied by super […] instans in 65. The connexion of superstition with the celestial regions, stated in 64, is emphasized by the fact that the letters of RELIGIONE are contained in caELI REGIONibus (for further examples of this kind of play upon words in Lucr., see P. Friedländer in AJPhil. 62 [1941] 16–34)” (DRNRS, 9, footnote a). 66 See, for example, Beard and Crawford 1985, 26. 67 Scheid 2003, 22. According the Scheid, the first meaning is etymologically related to reli­ gare and the second to relegere. 68 North 2000, 31, 32 and 44; Scheid 2003, 173 and 174. 69 Rüpke 2004, 193 and 194. 70 The meanings of religio include: reverence for the gods; the fear of gods; religion; religious custom; religious fear; holiness; piety; a sacred place or thing. 71 Scheid 2003, 23. 72 For more on the concept of superstitio, see, for example, Gordon 2008. Scheid offers the following clarification: “In the Christian period, superstitio acquired a complementary meaning. The term now designated the religion of a false god, that is to say of pagan gods, who were regarded as demons” (Scheid 2003, 23). 73 Beard and Crawford 1985, 30–36; North 2000, 22–26; Rüpke 2004, 193; Scheid 2003, 18–20. 74 Most 2003, 301–304; Rüpke 2004, 179, 188, 189, and 193; Scheid 2003, 18–20, 174, 186, and 187.

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a diverse and culturally complex phenomenon, which played an essential role in defining and regulating Roman political, social, and private life. At this point, it becomes possible to see why Lucretius criticises Roman religious traditions and myths. First, Roman religion and Roman religious traditions are built on a foundation of error, that is on false beliefs, superstition, and fear.75 Second, Roman religion and its associated religious traditions maintained the power structures that were responsible for the ongoing crisis.76 This gives us good reason to think that Lucretius would have considered Rome’s politico-religious institutions and traditions to have been deleterious to a stable society. Furthermore, this view of Roman religion might explain Lucretius’ tendencies towards atheism. He would have good reasons to reject the gods if he thought that a dedication to divinities, to religion itself, and to religious customs were useful tools by which the ruling power could exert control over the people of Rome. Ultimately, it must be admitted that an analysis of the background to the DRN is a crucial tool for studying Lucretius. It is only by drawing on these kinds of methods that we can supplement the text itself by providing social, religious, and political contexts within which to set Lucretius’ words. 5

Lucretius and the Body-Environment Approach

Why should Lucretius’ philosophy be seen as an early prototype of the BEA? After defining the BEA in Section 1 above,77 I turned to examine how the DRN expresses Lucretius’ views concerning senses, perception, and mind. We saw that Lucretius’ theory is based on a strict atomism according to which the human body is made up of atoms and includes material sense organs and a material mind, which latter serves as the centre of consciousness and memory. In addition, we saw that the situation in which a given perception happens is always unique for Lucretius, because each percipient perceives and experiences the environment differently. So, the human body and the environment enable sensing, perception, and thinking. The body and environment are, thus, necessary conditions for thought. It follows that the connection between the DRN and the BEA is explicable: the fundamental ideas underlying the necessary conditions of the BEA can all be found in the DRN, albeit in a rough and 75 76 77

Howe 1957, 330. Gordon 2008, 73 and 74. The necessary conditions are (i) being in a conscious mental state, (ii) a body, including sense organs and brain, and (iii) any kind of external environment.

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obscure form. This is to say that Lucretius explains human perception by reference to the conscious percipient’s receptiveness, to the percipient’s body with its attributes, and to an external environment, three factors that overlap with the necessary conditions of the BEA (the requirements for a conscious mental state, a body, and an external environment for the cognition). How can studies of Lucretius benefit from applying the BEA? We have seen that Lucretius’ problematic view of the gods leads to the hidden dilemma identified in Section 3 above. This dilemma appears because it is possible to find evidence in the DRN to support either the claim that Lucretius accepts the existence of the gods or to support the claim that he rejects their existence. Moreover, I have proposed that these interpretations can be understood as belonging either to the category of approbative views or to the category of prohibitive views. At the same time, it was noted that Lucretius’ view of the gods is inextricably related to the historical background of the DRN. I explained how three elements in particular from this background can be seen to shape the contents of the DRN: the crisis of the late Roman Republic, earlier philosophical traditions, and Lucretius’ socio-religious criticism. These three elements provide the context for the DRN’s treatment of philosophical, theological, political, and religious issues. Generally speaking, the DRN, like most if not all texts, includes within it traces of its author’s life and times.78 What is needed are methods or approaches that can provide novel tools for identifying and tracking these traces and their impact on the text. The BEA is one such tool, since it allows for new ideas, observations, and theories concerning the way in which Lucretius arranges his experiences and perceptions. For example, the BEA is not only closely related to Lucretius’ own position but also, when used as an interpretative tool, has the potential to generate fresh perspectives concerning Lucretius’ view of perception with regard to Roman religion.79 Because the approach underlines the role of individual perception (which includes the unique thoughts and sensory perceptions that arise in particular environments) and the role of sensing (which includes specific sense organs), it helps us see that Lucretius himself was a particular individual with senses and an ability to think that were conditioned by his particular environmental context – the late Roman Republic – with its particular religious traditions. Another author from another time and place would be present in the text in a quite different way, bringing distinct experiences, thoughts, and sense perceptions with them, leading to a very different text with very different views concerning religion (even if both authors started from the same 78 79

See Minyard 1985, 69 and 70. Compare, for example, Lucr. 5.1136–1240; 6.68–79.

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‘Epicurean’ starting point). An approach to this issue via BEA-oriented cognitive linguistics,80 for example,81 has the potential to elucidate Lucretius’ negative views concerning religion and customary gods by explaining how these views arose from Lucretius’ repeated situation-specific perceptions and experiences, like his observations on Roman ceremonies and how people explain the world and natural phenomena by myths and superstition,82 and how they grew into his personal critique of Rome’s religious traditions and their related power structures. In this case, the linguistic features of the DRN provide a key for the better understanding of one particular body-environment relationship, that is, the relationship between the religious traditions and customs of the late Roman Republic and Lucretius as a particular perceiver of these traditions and customs. 6

Conclusion

This chapter has argued that Lucretius’ philosophy is related to the BodyEnvironment Approach (BEA), in that the necessary conditions for conscious human cognition are (i) being in a conscious mental state; (ii) a body, including sense organs and brain; and (iii) any kind of external environment, which provides a source for both the body and the non-bodily external world. In considering this relationship, I have concluded, first, that Lucretius’ philosophy should be seen as an early prototype of the BEA, because the theoretical relationship between Lucretius’ materialistic philosophy and the BEA is clear and 80 Schaps describes cognitive linguistics in general as follows: “Understanding a language, by this approach, involves understanding the cognitive mechanisms by which people make sense of their environment, and by which they encode that understanding in language: the structure of a language is not imposed independently on the world, but arises out of our perception of the world” (Schaps 2011, 96). 81 A recent example of BEA-oriented studies is Shearin 2014. 82 Compare Lucr. 5.1198–1202 (“It is no piety to show oneself often with covered head, turning towards a stone and approaching every altar, none to fall prostrate upon the ground and to spread open the palms before shrines of the gods, none to sprinkle altars with the blood of beasts in showers and to link vow to vow” DRNRS, 471 and 473), Lucr. 2.655–659 and 680 (“Here if anyone decides to call the sea Neptune, and corn Ceres, and to misapply the name of Bacchus rather than to use the title that is proper to that liquor, let us grant him to dub the round world Mother of the Gods, provided that he forbears in reality himself to infect his mind with base superstition” DRNRS, 147), and Lucr. 5.1236–1240 (“Then when the whole earth trembles beneath our feet, when cities are shaken and fall or threaten to fall, what wonder if the sons of men feel contempt for themselves, and acknowledge the great potency and wondrous might of gods in the world, to govern all things?” DRNRS, 475).

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obvious. The key connection is that both share the same starting point: the human body and environment are required for perception to be possible in the first place. Lucretius’ philosophy is, therefore, a prototype of the BEA, albeit one that is, in parts, rough, obscure, and ambiguous. My second conclusion is that studies of Lucretius can benefit from the application of the BEA to their understanding of Lucretius’ relationship to his specific historical context. It can offer new ideas, observations, and theories regarding the shaping of Lucretius’ perceptions by his environment, that is, the late Roman Republic with all its problems, religious views, customs, and attitudes towards the transcendental. In this case, the linguistic features of the DRN and its content provide a key for a better understanding of the context of the work, that is, the body-environment relationship between Lucretius the perceiver and the late Roman Republic in which he lived.83 Bibliography Bacon, Francis. 1613. The Essaies. London: John Jaggard. Bailey, Cyril. 1947. Lucretius. De Rerum Natura. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Beard, Mary, and Michael Crawford. 1985. Rome in the Late Republic: Problems and Interpretations. London: Duckworth. Benfield, G. E., and R. C. Reeves. 1967. Selections from Lucretius. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boyancé, Pierre. 1963. Lucrèce et l’épicurisme. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Clark, Andy and David Chalmers. 1998. “The Extended Mind.” Analysis, 58 (1): 7–19. Colman, John. 2009. “Lucretius on Religion.” Perspectives on Political Science, 38 (4): 228–239. Farrington, Benjamin. 1965. “Form and Purpose in the De Rerum Natura”. In Lucretius, edited by Donald R. Dudley, 19–34. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. 83 This chapter is based on the presentation “Lucretius on Senses, Perception, and Gods” given at the SENSORIUM: Sensory Perceptions in Roman Polytheism conference on the 16th of November 2017. I would like to thank the participants for the useful discussions and suggestions given, as well as the organisers for the informative and enjoyable conference. I am especially grateful to Greg Woolf and Martin Devecka for their suggestions and, more generally, for their stimulating discussion. I am also grateful to Jyri Vaahtera for valuable suggestions and to Heidi Haanila for discussions, comments, and suggestions concerning contemporary theories of philosophy of mind. In addition, I would like to thank Paul Scade for the comprehensive, fruitful, and valuable feedback. Finally, I would like to thank Turku Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies (TUCEMEMS) research network for the travel grant.

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Gordon, Richard. 2008. “Superstitio, Superstition and Religious Repression in the Late Roman Republic and Principate (100 BCE–300 CE).” Past and Present (2008), Supplement 3: 72–94. Helenius, Visa. 2018. “Lentävät kuvakalvot ‘läpi aavojen ilmain’: Lucretiuksen kuvaoppi ja varhaista havainnon filosofiaa.” In Havainto, edited by Hemmo Laiho and Miira Tuominen, 28–35. Turku: University of Turku. Howe, Herbert M. 1957. “The Religio of Lucretius.” The Classical Journal 52 (7): 329–333. Long, Anthony A. 2003. “Roman philosophy.” In The Cambridge Companion to Greek and Roman Philosophy, edited by David Sedley, 184–210. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin, Joseph. 1969. T. Lucreti Cari. De Rerum Natura. Leipzig: Teubner. Minyard, John D. 1985. Lucretius and the Late Republic. Leiden: Brill. Most, Glenn. 2003. “Philosophy and Religion.” In The Cambridge Companion to Greek and Roman Philosophy, edited by David Sedley, 300–322. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. North, John. 2000. Roman Religion. New Surveys in the Classics. Vol. 30. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rawson, Elizabeth. 1985. Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic. London: Duckworth. Rouse, William. H. D., and Martin Ferguson Smith. 1992. De Rerum Natura. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2004. “Roman Religion.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Republic, edited by Harriet Flower, 179–195. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schaps, David M. 2011. Handbook for Classical Research. London and New York: Routledge. Scheid, John. 2003. An Introduction to Roman Religion. Translated by Janet Lloyd. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Schiesaro, Alessandro. 2007. “Lucretius and Roman politics and history.” In The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, edited by Stuart Gillespie and Philip Hardie, 41–58. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schrijvers, Petrus Hermanus. 1970. Lucrèce. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert. Sedley, David. 2013. “Lucretius.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2013 Edition), edited by Edward N. Zalta. Available online at http://plato.stanford.edu/ archives/fall2013/entries/lucretius/. Accessed 2 October 2017. Shearin, Wilson H. 2014. The Language of Atoms: Performativity and Politics in Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tuominen, Miira. 2014. “Chapter 4. Ancient Theories.” In Sourcebook for the History of the Philosophy of Mind: Philosophical Psychology From Plato to Kant, edited by Simo Knuuttila and Juha Sihvola, 39–59. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/New York/London: Springer.

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Varela, Francisco J., Evan Thompson, and Eleanor Rosch. 1991. The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science and Human Experience. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Von Ungern-Sternberg, Jürgen. 2004. “The Crisis of the Republic.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Republic, edited by Harriet Flower, 31–65. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilson, Margaret. 2002. “Six Views of Embodied Cognition.” Psychonomic Bulletin and Review 9: 625–636. Wilson, Robert A., and Lucia Foglia. 2017. “Embodied Cognition.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2017 Edition), edited by Zalta, Edward N. Available online at https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2017/entries/embodied -cognition/. Accessed 5 October 2017.

Chapter 3

Hirpi Sorani and Modern Fire-Walkers: Rejoicing through Pain in Extreme Rituals Yulia Ustinova 1

Introduction

During a community festival celebrated on Mount Soracte (45 km north of Rome), Hirpi Sorani, “the wolves of Soranus”, walked barefoot on blazing embers, feeling no pain.1 Fire-walking is attested elsewhere in the ancient Mediterranean and is a well-known phenomenon in the modern world. Since antiquity, these practices have been regarded as either enigmatic or based on trickery, and their tenacity and social impact have been underestimated. A study of the experience of pain and the capacity to endure it in a cultic context has to take into account neurobiological aspects of the somatosensory system, in particular the impact of emotions and the social environment on the individuals participating in the cultic event.2 Examination of extreme rituals that consist of ordeals viewed by numerous spectators requires that we engage with problems concerning the somatosensory reactions and cognition of different categories of participants: those who experienced pain and those who witnessed it. Comparative research is also important for the appreciation of the religious and social aesthetics of such extreme rituals and the accompanying ceremonies, and of their impact on the “socio-political proprioception” of all the participants.3 Therefore, an attempt at understanding the rites of ancient fire-walkers will benefit from combining traditional historical analysis with the results of neurocognitive and anthropological research.4

1 See Rissanen 2012 for a recent reassessment of the evidence. 2 Rigato et al. 2017. 3 F. Heidemann uses this term in his account of a pilgrimage to a temple in South India where fire-walking rituals are conducted (Heidemann 2017, 459). For social aesthetics as sensory perception, including proprioception, that is structured by the social environment and, in turn, structures it, see Grieser and Johnston 2017. 4 Allowing “understanding [of] the interplay between sensory, cognitive and socio-cultural aspects of world-construction, and the role of religion within this dynamic” (Grieser and Johnston 2017, 2).

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In this paper, I will first briefly survey the main sources on the Hirpi Sorani and other ancient fire-walkers. I will then go on to present some evidence concerning contemporary fire-walking and the neuropsychological investigation of pain, before finally attempting to construe ancient fire-walking in the light of modern research on extreme rituals. 2

Ancient Fire-Walkers

The most ancient sources on the Hirpi Sorani and fire-walking on Mount Soracte date back to the 1st century BCE. Virgil mentions them in the Aeneid: Apollo, most high of gods, guardian of holy Soracte, whose chief worshippers are we, for whom is fed the blaze of the pine-wood heap, while we thy votaries, passing in strength of faith amid the fire, plant our steps in deep embers.5 A few decades later, Pliny offered additional details, indicating that the tradition of fire-walking was preserved in several families and that they were singled out, enjoying extensive privileges: There are a few families in the Faliscan territory, not far from the city of Rome, named the Hirpi, which at the yearly sacrifice to Apollo performed on Mount Soracte walk over a charred pile of logs without being scorched, and who consequently enjoy under a perpetual decree of the senate exemption from military service and all other burdens.6 The Faliscan word hirpi means “wolves”, and the god worshipped on Mount Soracte was identified with Apollo by the 1st century BCE and named Apollo Soranus.7

5 Verg. Aen. 11.784–788, transl. Fairclough 1934: summe deum, sancti custos Soractis Apollo, | quem primi colimus, cui pineus ardour acervo | pascitur, et medium freti pietate per ignem | cultores multa premimus vestigia pruna. 6 Plin. HN 7.19, transl. Rackham 1989: Haud procul urbe Roma in Faliscorum agro familiae sunt paucae quae vocantur Hirpi. Hae sacrificio annuo, quod fit ad montem Soractem Apollini, super ambustam ligni struem ambulantes non aduruntur at ob id perpetuo senatus consulto militia omniumque aliorum munerum vacationem habent. 7 Otto 1913; Gagé 1955, 84–86. For two 1st-century BCE dedications to Apollo Soranus discovered in the area, see Rissanen 2012, 118–119. For the cult of Apollo Soranus, see below.

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Other deities were probably involved in the cult as well. In his account of the rites on Mount Soracte, Strabo refers to Feronia:8 Below Mount Soracte is the city of Feronia, having the same name as a certain goddess of the country, highly reverenced by the surrounding people. Her sacred precinct is in the place; and it has remarkable ceremonies, for those who are possessed by this goddess walk with bare feet through a great heap of embers and ashes without suffering; as a multitude of people come together at the same time, for the sake not only of attending the festal assembly, which is held every year, but also of seeing the aforesaid sight.9 Here we learn that the festival on Mount Soracte was not limited to active participants but also attracted crowds of worshippers. Strabo attributes the extraordinary abilities of the Hirpi to possession by the goddess, a condition that was probably expressed not only in fire-walking but also in other manifestations of ecstatic behaviour during the ceremonies.10 Silius Italicus, writing in the late 1st century CE, mentions the state of mind of the Hirpi: Next he recognized Aequanus, a son of Mount Soracte, a splendid figure in splendid armour: in his native land it was his task to carry the offerings thrice in triumph over harmless fires, at the time when Archer, the loving son, takes pleasure in the blazing piles. ‘Aequanus,’ cried the general, ‘fill your heart with wrath that suits your prowess and your wounds; and then may you ever tread unhurt over Apollo’s fire, and conquer the flame, and carry the customary offerings to the altar, while Phoebus smiles.’11

8 For this goddess, see Gagé 1955, 85; Dumézil 1970, 414–421; Frateantonio 2004. 9 Strabo 5.2.9, transl. Jones 1923: ὑπὸ δὲ τῷ Σωράκτῳ ὄρει Φερωνία πόλις ἐστίν, ὁμώνυμος ἐπιχωρίᾳ τινὶ δαίμονι τιμωμένῃ σφόδρα ὑπὸ τῶν περιοίκων, ἧς τέμενός ἐστιν ἐν τῷ τόπῳ θαυμαστὴν ἱεροποιίαν ἔχον· γυμνοῖς γὰρ ποσὶ διεξίασιν ἀνθρακιὰν καὶ σποδιὰν μεγάλην οἱ κατεχόμενοι ὑπὸ τῆς δαίμονος ταύτης ἀπαθεῖς, καὶ συνέρχεται πλῆθος ἀνθρώπων ἅμα τῆς τε πανηγύρεως χάριν, ἣ συντελεῖται κατ’ ἔτος, καὶ τῆς λεχθείσης θέας. 10 Strabo (4.4.6) uses the same term, κατεχόμενος, in his description of the Samnite bacchants: τῶν Σαμνιτῶν γυναῖκας, Διονύσῳ κατεχoμένας καὶ ἱλασκομένας τὸν θεὸν τοῦτον τελεταῖς (“The Samnite women, possessed by Dionysus and worshiping this god in mystery rites”). 11 Sil. Pun. 5.175–183, transl. Duff 1923: Tum Soracte satum, praestantem corpore et armis, / Aequanum noscens, patrio cui ritus in arvo, / cum pius Arcitenens accensis gaudet acervis, / exta ter innocuous laetum portare per ignes, / ‘Sic in Apollinea semper vestigia pruna /

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This scene is immediately preceded by a description of a warrior who is frenzied ( furens) in his slaughter of the foes. As the battle continues, the general now calls out to one Aequanus, a man from Mount Soracte, to fill himself with a similar wrath. The Romans were aware of the phenomenon of battlefield rage, the heroic furor that transported the warrior beyond himself and thus allowed exploits of which he would not be capable in his regular state of mind.12 In several Indo-European cultures, the mad fearlessness and inhuman force of berserk warriors was believed to result from possession by a warlike deity and was associated with animal, particularly canine, rage.13 Thus, Silius describes, one after another, two warriors who display non-human furor in the grip of a deity, and the “son of Mount Soracte” is urged to fight with the same furor that comes over him while fire-walking. Silius probably refers to a condition designated by Strabo as possession (κατεχόμενοι ὑπὸ τῆς δαίμονος ταύτης). The two authors regarded the Hirpi as acting in a clearly abnormal state of consciousness when performing their rituals, a state that they attributed to seizure by a deity. Later authors reiterate the same basic information concerning fire-walking on Mount Soracte.14 This rather rich corpus of evidence attests to a tradition that was current in the Faliscan region, where the entire community gathered annually on Mount Soracte in order to participate in the festival conducted by the Hirpi. This group, probably members of several priestly families,15 sacrificed, burned wood to embers, and then walked upon these embers while carrying offerings, feeling no pain as they did so. Their mood is hinted at by Solinus who, writing some time in the 3rd–4th centuries CE, states that the Hirpi, “performing religious rites, rejoiced unharmed on heaps of burning wood”.16 As to the immunity of the Hirpi Sorani to heat and pain, some authors inviolata teras victorque vaporis ad aras / dona serenato referas sollemnia Phoebo: / concipe’ ait ‘dignum factis, Aequane, furorem / vulneribusque tuis’. 12 Dumézil 1942, 16–26; Dumézil 1985, 23; 207–211. For the word furor and its use by Silius Italicus as a term denoting martial frenzy, see Woodard 2013, 133; for the bestial rage of paradigmatic Roman warriors, see Woodard 2013, 181–182. 13 McCone 1987; Speidel 2002; Liberman 2005; West 2007, 449–451. I discuss this subject in detail in Ustinova 2002 and Ustinova 2018, 217–225. 14 Solin. 2.26; Serv. Aen. 11.785. 15 Rissanen 2012, 117, 123–124. Servius is the only authority who claims that the fire-walkers were from the area of the Hirpini (Serv. Aen. 11.785; 787). Bakkum (2009, 1: 33, 37, 98, 211) tends to regard the Hirpi as a Sabellic tribal group that migrated to the area around Mount Soracte. 16 Solin. 2.26: operantes gesticulationibus religiosis impune exultant ardentibus lignorum struibus. Rissanen (2012, 116) understands exultant as “leapt” but a number of considerations tell against such a reading: all other ancient authors refer to walking rather than leaping;

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(Vergil, Strabo, Silius Italicus) regarded this as a god-given ability, while others (Varro) attributed it to the application of an ointment.17 The abnormal status of the Hirpi was recognised by the Roman senate, which granted them exemption from military service.18 Servius offers an explanation of the connection between the Hirpi and wolves: Mount Soracte, belonging to the Hirpini, is located near the Via Flaminia. When once a sacrifice to Dis Pater was performed in this place, which is consecrated to the gods of the Netherworld, wolves who came suddenly and seized the entrails from the fire and were pursued by shepherds for a long time, found a refuge in a cave, which emitted mephitic vapours, killing those standing nearby. The reason for the disaster was that they pursued the wolves. On this subject an [oracular] response arrived, that it would be mitigated if they imitated wolves, and lived by rapine. After they did that, these people were called Hirpi Sorani.19 Servius, writing in the late 4th to the early 5th century CE, may refer here to a myth that had been represented a thousand years earlier on an Etruscan vessel featuring wolves stealing meat from an altar, or taking meat offered to them.20 The mephitic caves have probably been identified, and a deposit on their walls, indicating the existence of sulphuric gases in the past, hints at the origin of the legend.21 In contrast to other sources, Servius attributes the sacrifice by

17 18 19

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walking requires less pressure on the soles, leading some modern fire-walkers to prefer walking over running (Sayampanathan 2011, 506); and, most significantly, as observation of contemporary fire-walkers has demonstrated, rejoicing is a characteristic feature of the reaction to the ordeal (see below). Verg. Aen. 11.784–788; Str. 5.2.9; Sil. Pun. 5.175–183; Varro in Serv. Aen. 11.785. Varro’s idea that the Hirpi used alum is reiterated by Jones (1963, 126). Plin. HN 7.19; Solin. 2.26. Piccaluga (1976, 211–213) argues that the exemption was not an honour, as Pliny and Solinus thought, but was due to fear and suspicion. Serv. Ad Aen. 11.785: Soractis mons est Hirpinorium in Flaminia conlocatus. In hoc autem monte cum aliquando Diti patri sacrum persolveretur – nam diis manibus consecratus est – subito venientes lupi exta de igni rapuerunt, quos cum diu pastores sequerentur, delati sunt ad quandam speluncam, halitum ex se pestiferum emittentem, adeo ut iuxta stantes necaret: et exinde est orta pestilentia, quia fuerant lupos secuti. De qua responsum est, posse eam sedari, si lupos imitarentur, id est rapto viverent. Quod postquam factum est, dicti sunt ipsi populi Hirpi Sorani. For the dating of this Etruscan black-figure amphora to ca. 500 BCE, see Rissanen 2012, 121, Figs. 1 and 2. Jones 1963, 126; Mastrocinque 2006. For cults elsewhere in the Mediterranean based in caves that emitted mephitic gases, see Ustinova 2009, 84–87, 120–121.

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the Hirpi Sorani to Dis Pater.22 This story was probably an aetiological myth, explicating two peculiar phenomena – the wolfish rituals of the Hirpi and the emissions of poisonous gases in certain local caves – by joining them together in the tale of an ancient transgression and its atonement. The image of the Hirpi as wolfish, indeed almost werewolves, is congruent with the characteristics of all three of the deities associated by ancient authors with the cult on Mount Soracte, namely Apollo Soranus, Feronia, and Dis Pater. Feronia was, as her name indicates, the goddess of wildlife: the root fer is cognate to the Greek θήρ, θήριον, and corresponding words in other Indo-European languages.23 This goddess of unbounded wild vitality was an appropriate recipient for a semi-bestial cult. Lycanthropic daemons are depicted on a number of Etruscan funerary monuments.24 In the cultural context of the Faliscan country, with its pronounced Etruscan connections, the association of a wolfish cult with a god of the Netherworld and with a cave is only to be expected. In Apollo’s case, the god’s connections to wolves were so conspicuous that the attribution to him of a wolfish cult is hardly surprising.25 Apollo’s cult in the Faliscan country is attested as far back as the 5th century BCE and this deity appears to have been identified with the chthonic Pater Soranus, who was in turn associated with the sinister Etruscan Suri. These connections explain Servius’ identification of the patron deity of the Hirpi Sorani as the chthonic Dis Pater.26 The relationship between Feronia and the male deity of the Hirpi remains undefined. Wolfish figures also appear in Etruscan art in non-funerary contexts. Indeed, it is hard to overemphasise the importance of wolves and their wards in the mythology and cult of Italy, and of Rome is particular.27 It is especially noteworthy that Caeculus and his men – followers of a hero who was both the son of Vulcan, the wolfish god, and immune to fire – were depicted in the Aeneid as wearing the hides of wolves,28 while the band of the Hirpi is described by Servius as a gang of robbers. Indo-European lycanthropy was consistently associated with men’s societies, transition rites, misdemeanour, and sorcery.29 22 23 24 25 26

Serv. Aen. 11.785. On Feronia’s cult, see Dumézil 1970, 414–421. Mastrocinque 2006; Rissanen 2012, 129–132. For the evidence, see Gershenson 1991; Gagé 1955, 84–87. On Apollo Soranus, see Gagé 1955, 87; Colonna 1984, 572; Mastrocinque 2006; Rissanen 2012, 123, 125–127. For the name Soranus, see Cherici 1994. 27 Wiseman 1995b; Wiseman 1995a; Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, 30–32; Rissanen 2012, 129–134. 28 Verg. Aen. 7.688; Serv. Aen. 7.688; Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, 49–62; Lincoln 1991, 134. 29 Ustinova 2002. For a modern psychologist’s view of lycanthropy, see Noll 1992, 83–99.

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Most significantly, fearless warriors were often depicted as packs of wolves or dogs, and as possessed by a divinely inspired wolfish rage, such as the Greek lyssa. Temporary bestiality endowed those in the grip of the god with extraordinary stamina and insensitivity to pain.30 Whatever the identity of the divine patron or patrons of the Hirpi Sorani, the cult on Mount Soracte was probably a remnant of a very remote past, associated at an unknown stage with this locality and its deity or deities. Immunity to pain, attained by “those who are possessed by this goddess”, to cite Strabo, was an ability beyond the normal human range.31 This non-human power could be construed as both divine and bestial – one had to be possessed by a god in order to perform as a wolf – and was equally admired and feared.32 The fire-walkers of the Faliscan country were not alone in the ancient Mediterranean. In Cilicia, as Strabo informs us, “at Castabala is the temple of the Perasian Artemis, where the priestesses, it is said, walk with naked feet over hot embers without pain”.33 The goddess of Castabala-Hierapolis was an indigenous deity whose identity was transformed during the course of the ages. The epithet of Artemis Perasia has been interpreted as indicating a connection to Hittite-Luwian Ishtar parassi, “of the promise”.34 In a 5th- or 4th-century BCE Aramaic inscription, the mistress of Castabala is named Kubaba; she was later equated with Artemis, retaining her ancient cognomen in a Hellenised form

30 31

Ustinova 2018, 219. It was perhaps because of the awe inspired by such super-human abilities that the Hirpi were exempted from military service. Another reason for keeping a distance between the Hirpi and the rest of the community might have been their foreign origin, if Servius was, in fact, correct about this (see n. 13 above). Cf. Piccaluga 1976, 211–213 and n. 16 above. 32 The Hirpi Sorani are often associated with the Luperci (for the origin and cult of the Luperci, see Wiseman 1995b, 77–88; Wiseman 1995a; their parallelism with the Hirpi: Otto 1913; Wissowa 1971, 559; Gagé 1955, 85; Bayet 1969, 79; Rissanen 2012, 125–128, esp. 135). Piccaluga (1976, 222) rejects this connection. In fact, the similarity between the two cults is limited to their canine connections, symbolic use of caves, and the presence of ecstatic elements in the festivals. However, wolves were ubiquitous in the mythology of ancient Italy, and the association with wolves is insufficient in itself to support the assumption of a proximity of cults, given that the role of the caves, as well as the nature and function of ecstatic behaviour, were quite different. The Luperci were youths, while the age of the Hirpi had no specific limit. The two groups not only worshipped different gods and performed their rites for different purposes (the Hirpi have never been linked with fertility concerns) but were also involved in divergent activities: the Luperci pursued women and inflicted pain, while the Hirpi underwent the ordeal themselves. 33 Str. 12.2.7, transl. Jones 1925: ὧν ἐν τοῖς Κασταβάλοις ἐστὶ τὸ τῆς Περασίας Ἀρτέμιδος ἱερόν, ὅπου φασὶ τὰς ἱερείας γυμνοῖς τοῖς ποσὶ δι’ ἀνθρακιᾶς βαδίζειν ἀπαθεῖς. 34 Lebrun 1989.

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as Perasia.35 In contrast to the male Hirpi, the fire-walkers of Castabala were women. In the Imperial period, fire-walking in Hierapolis was performed during sacred games,36 which doubtless attracted sizable audiences. The ordeal was a part of a great festival, in the course of which fire-walking priestesses were presumably admired by crowds of enthusiastic spectators. The evidence concerning fire-walking in Mysia is more equivocal. Posidonius’ account is cited by Strabo: The Mysians […] in accordance with their religion […] abstain from eating any living thing, and therefore from their flocks as well; and that they use as food honey and milk and cheese, living a peaceable life, and for this reason are called both ‘god-fearing’ and ‘smoke-treaders’.37 The word kapnobatai appears in all the manuscripts but has perplexed scholars to such an extent that some have suggested emending the text.38 If we look beyond the Greek world, an exact parallel to kapnobatai appears in the ancient Indian designation of Brahmans as dhūma-gati, a term that is current already in the Mahābhārata.39 The kapnobatai probably belonged to a caste that practiced walking on “smoking” embers and was separated from the rest of the population by requirements of ritual purity.40 The fact that the Hirpi were supposed to follow a special lifestyle (including living by rapine and avoiding normal occupations, as well as being exempt from military service) appears to hint at a similar social attitude: both the Hirpi and the kapnopatai were perceived 35 Dupont-Sommer 1961; Dupont-Sommer and Robert 1964, 53–64; Roller 1999, 47. In another inscription, this goddess is also equated with Hecate and Selene: Dupont-Sommer and Robert 1964, 51–53. The etymology connecting Perasia to πέραθην, “from beyond”, suggested by Strabo, is false (Lebrun 1989, 88). 36 As attested by coins featuring prize crowns between two torches (Mitchell 1995, 1: 22, Fig. 39a). 37 Str. 7.3.3 (Posidonius: Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 87 Fr. 104) transl. Jones 1924, modified: Λέγει δὲ τοὺς Μυσοὺς ὁ Ποσειδώνιος καὶ ἐμψύχων ἀπέχεσθαι κατ’ εὐσέβειαν, διὰ δὲ τοῦτο καὶ θρεμμάτων· μέλιτι δὲ χρῆσθαι καὶ γάλακτι καὶ τυρῷ ζῶντας καθ’ ἡσυχίαν, διὰ δὲ τοῦτο καλεῖσθαι θεοσεβεῖς τε καὶ καπνοβάτας. 38 See the commentary in Jones 1924. The suggestion that the kapnobatai, like the Scythians described by Herodotus (4.73–75), inhaled cannabis vapours is not persuasive: it is hard to imagine how intake of cannabis could be visualised as “walking” on its fumes (for the Scythian practice, see Ustinova 2011, 51). Burkert 1972, 162 compares the kapnobatai with the aithrobatês Abaris. 39 Poghirc 1987. 40 Popov 1982. Strabo (7.3.5) records the strange customs, among them abstinence, of the Getae, another Thracian tribe; Dacian asceticism was known to Josephus Flavius (AJ 18.22). For these practices, see Ustinova 2009, 102–103.

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as sufficiently different from the rest of the society to be isolated into a visibly distinct social group. 3

Modern Fire-Walkers

Fire-walking is well-known in the modern world: it is attested in Greece, Bulgaria, Spain, Paraguay, Mauritius, India, Japan, Brazil, and elsewhere. Contemporary anthropological research, employing interviews with the fire-walkers as well as quantitative criteria of arousal, fatigue, and other characteristics of their physical and mental state, sheds light on the experiences of ancient fire-walkers. I will focus here on four modern fire-walking cults that have recently been comprehensively explored. During the May festival of Anastenaria (“sighers”), celebrated in Northern Greece and Bulgaria, people gather in their villages and then rush in a state of trance to the mountains carrying icons of St. Constantine, who they feel commands them to follow him. Nowadays, as in the past, the Orthodox Church opposes the tradition of Anastenaria on the grounds that it is a pagan superstition. Nevertheless, many people feel a strong drive, interpreted as a divine call, to participate in the fire-walking rituals. During the several days of the festival, the participants have very little food and sleep, and hear monotonous music almost continuously. They cross mountain gorges and return home unscathed; after hours of ecstatic dancing, they are able to walk barefoot on glowing red coals.41 Untrained people thus survive the perils of roaming about the mountains, perform extraordinary deeds while in a trance-like state, and as a whole, behave in a way they would never dream of when in a regular state of mind.42 Across the Mediterranean, about 200 km northeast of Madrid in the village of San Pedro Manrique, villagers perform fire-walking on June 23 every year, during the festival of St. Juan, with about three thousand people watching them. After a short procession, barefooted fire-walkers, mostly young to middle-aged men, form a circle and dance on red coals. They then walk on the coals individually, usually carrying a beloved person on their back. It is noteworthy that the ritual is of a great personal and social salience for the people of San Pedro. For some of the participants, as they claim in interviews with 41 42

Jeanmaire 1970, 183–185; Danforth 1989; Karanika 2005, 32–35; Xygalatas 2008; Xygalatas 2011; Xygalatas 2014. The controversy concerning the origins of the Anastenaria is irrelevant to the present discussion. Xygalatas 2014, 168.

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researchers, it is the most important event of the year.43 However, a very interesting transformation occurs in the highly emotional recollections of the event by the participants. After some time, the perception of the ritual by the participants matches not their personal memories, as attested in self-reports and video recordings made by the researchers, but rather the ideal image based on social expectations. This observation is particularly interesting because it runs contrary to H. Whitehouse’s hypothesis that participation in high-arousal rituals is bound to result in vivid memories.44 In fact, the recollections of the fire-walkers from San Pedro are framed by their cultural expectations, and the researchers report having witnessed “the construction of a canonical memory of collective rituals”.45 It is important to keep this observation in mind when we assess the value of written information on ancient high-arousal cults as testimonies of individual feelings. Fascinating results concerning extreme rituals involving fire-walking, self-flagellation, and body-piercing have recently been obtained by a group of researchers who studied a Hindu festival in honour of Kali on the island of Mauritius. Several days before the festival, the participants dance and chant together. On the day of the ordeal, participants walk for several hours under burning sun, barefoot and fasting. A group of them engage in body piercing with objects of varying size. Then, on their arrival at the temple of the goddess, when many of them are in a trance-like state, they walk first on swords and then on glowing charcoal. These are categorised as high-ordeal participants. Low-ordeal participants are relatives of the active participants. They take part in the procession, observe sword- and fire-walking, and support their kinsmen throughout the ritual. A third group, consisting of the spectators, merely observes the action.46 The research carried out on this festival demonstrates that the high-ordeal participants experienced the highest level of arousal during the ritual and the highest level of happiness after it, while fatigue was most pronounced in low-ordeal participants. Both unrelated observers and low-ordeal participants, that is, empathetic relatives of the fire-walkers, reported happiness and fatigue after the festival. The measured affective responses of observers are particularly important in terms of the social role of extreme rituals. In the San Pedro festival, quantification analysis of the data on fire-walkers and related spectators indicates that the collective ritual evokes across its time-span synchronised 43 44 45 46

Xygalatas, Schjoedt et al. 2013. Whitehouse 2004, 70. Xygalatas, Schjoedt et al. 2013, 14. Fischer et al. 2014.

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arousal between the two categories of participants.47 Thus, low-ordeal witnesses of fire-walking are passionately involved and experience emotional highs during the ordeal and tremendous relief at its end.48 While the nature of the experience conditions the effects on different groups of participants, the entire community is bound by “collective effervescence”.49 The social impact of a fire-walking ritual is enhanced when it involves extensive preparation, such as pilgrimage, as happens in South India when the members of an agricultural community of Badaga travel to the Mariammam temples. F. Heidemann has analysed the social aesthetics of the several-days-long multisensory experience, demonstrating how its components build up to result in the joyful feeling that the worshipped goddess has already been present in the body of each participant before the day of fire-walking, which then concludes the collective experience and forges a renewed feeling of belonging to the community.50 4

The Experience of Fire-Walking: Insights into Ancient Evidence Provided by Modern Anthropology and Neuropsychology

These findings offer a perspective on the role of fire-walking rituals in the community. The fact that not only the high-level but also the low-level participants experience alteration of consciousness, elation, and bliss during extreme rituals explains the survival of these rituals through the ages. These facts also help to explain, in particular, the role of such rituals in ancient societies: the rites were actively performed by only a few, but the entire community felt 47 Konvalinka et al. 2011. A study of the alteration of consciousness during the Thaipusam Kavadi ritual has demonstrated that, although the physiological reactions of high- and low-ordeal participants differed, their psychological reactions (assuaging of stress and increase in intimacy) were similar (Lee et al. 2016). 48 The evidence on the neural mechanisms involved in representing the pain of other people as one’s own has been the subject of investigation for several decades (Boyer 2001, 195). This phenomenon may be explained by the human ability to imitate the behaviour of others unintentionally, known as mirroring, often with the individual being unaware of this simulation (Xygalatas 2014, 173). This ability developed, to a considerable extent, due to mirror neurons, which make us empathise with the emotions and sensations of others: in a word, these neurons blur the border between the self and others (Ramachandran 2011, 117–125), producing “synaesthesia for pain” (Fitzgibbon et al. 2009). In a state of intense arousal, when control and inhibition are low, one’s consciousness merges with that of the group (Ustinova 2018, 195). 49 Fischer et al. 2014; Xygalatas 2014, 182. 50 Heidemann 2017.

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passionately involved. Furthermore, extreme rituals encourage contributions for the benefit of the community and are potent in binding groups together, working as “effective social technologies”.51 Modern research on extreme rituals demonstrates that self-inflicted mortification, including fatigue, fasting, and pain, can shift consciousness from its baseline state. From the neurobiological point of view, this effect is due to the endogenous release of opioids, such as endorphins, and of monoamines, such as dopamine and serotonin, which occurs during intensive motor activity and under stress.52 Sensory stimulation by means of dancing, whirling, and other strenuous physical activities is a widespread traditional method of altering consciousness. These techniques are often used in combinations which significantly amplify their effects, and are intensified when a person is culturally and cognitively prepared for the alteration of consciousness.53 Sensory stimulation can bring about sensations of ecstatic joy, which may develop into a feeling of being in the grip of a deity, accompanied by an orgasm-like sense of catharsis.54 After the ordeal of extreme rituals, modern participants report a feeling of being cleansed, which may have given rise to the conceptualisation of extreme rituals as purifications. Most significantly, high-arousal rituals can induce hallucinations and bring about sensations of tremendous salience and awareness of ultimate reality, leaving the participants with a feeling that they have performed supernatural feats following divine commands.55 High-ordeal participants often report a sensation of being strongly compelled to perform the ritual,56 and in antiquity this urge could be attributed to possession by a god. The subjective feeling of an extreme rite as a purification must have been very significant for the ancient participants in fire-walking rites. The combined effect of this feeling and arousal during the ritual, experienced by all the participants, albeit to varying degrees, enhanced their feeling of belonging to a community of believers. These rituals were not antiquarian enactments but full-blooded cultic events: such rites could not be staged by indifferent performers. The endurance of pain has attracted extensive study in recent years. Since an extremely high level of pain can lead to the alteration of consciousness 51 52 53

Fischer and Xygalatas 2014; Xygalatas, Mitkidis et al. 2013; Heidemann 2017. Lewis 1989, 34; Winkelman 2011; Fischer and Xygalatas 2014. La Barre 1980, 39; Wulff 1997, 76; Siikala 1982, 105; Austin 1998, 102, 494; Joseph 2003, 9; for a detailed discussion, see Ustinova 2018, 25–26. 54 Atran 2002, 181–182, with a discussion of the neurophysiological mechanism of this phenomenon. 55 Danforth 1989, 75–83, 95; Xygalatas 2014, 169–173. 56 Xygalatas 2008, 199.

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and is associated with the release of endogenous substances, it also renders high-ordeal participants immune to pain and results in a state of euphoria and blessedness.57 These observations are confirmed by quantitative research into physiological aspects of consciousness alteration during extreme rituals.58 It has also been demonstrated that the feeling of pain is processed in the brain in parallel with other kinds of sensory and cognitive information. Consequently, during collective extreme rituals, the experience of pain is not linked directly to damage to tissue but is, rather, shaped by the overall sensory and emotional input experienced by the individuals.59 Excessive strain down-regulates emotional processing. Individuals in such situations are, therefore, able to continue their strenuous activity without experiencing the same emotional or intellectual reactions as they would in baseline conditions.60 In addition, contemporary individuals who are more religious endure pain with greater ease.61 To turn now to the most thrilling question: even if modern fire-walkers are able to tolerate the pain of walking on coals, are their feet actually burned in the process? The answer is that they are not. The main reason for this outcome is the low thermo-conductivity of wood and coal.62 Most people are aware of the contrast between the results of touching a metal pan heated in the oven or the bread that is baking on the pan: the temperature is the same but contact with the metal will leave blisters while touching the bread will not.63 For the same reason, walking on embers does not damage the feet of the walkers. However, it is still painful and only people who are insensitive to pain due to the effects of the ritual can endure the long minutes of fire-walking.64 Silius Italicus and Strabo were correct, while Varro’s positivism misled him. The Hirpi Sorani did not need any ointment. Rather, their state of engoddedness, attributed to supernatural intervention, made them indifferent to pain; freti pietate, they were able to perform their service to the god. Returning to the sensations experienced by ancient and modern fire-walkers as a result of their participation in extreme rituals, our contemporaries report a 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

Danforth 1989, 20; Xygalatas 2014, 169–173. See, for example, the recent research on the Thaipusam Kavadi ritual known as “Dance of Souls”, which involves piercing and dancing: Lee et al. 2016. Weisenberger 2005, 558. Fischer and Xygalatas 2014, 347. Fischer and Xygalatas 2014, 350. Sayampanathan (2011, 504) cites exciting statistics: out of 3794 men and several hundred women who participated in a fire-walking ritual in Singapore on one day in 2009, only 18 individuals suffered from burns sustained in the course of the ritual. Sayampanathan 2011, 506. Xygalatas 2014, 171–172.

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feeling of becoming a spiritually clean person. Equally noteworthy is the feeling of blessedness, with its momentous personal, religious, and social charge. This multi-dimensional transformation implies that the complex sensory input, including physical proprioception, during the fire-walking festival causes a change in social proprioception. Sensory perception by the participants in the rites is, of course, modulated by their cultural and cultic background, but since the emphasis in the modern reports is on the individual’s sense of their bodily and social positioning, there is no reason to assume that sensory knowledge was less significant in antiquity from the personal and social perspectives. These findings explain why people sought out extreme rituals in Rome, Cappadocia, and Mysia: they were drawn by the feeling of self-importance and, most of all, the awesome sense of engoddedness, rapture, and seemingly non-human immunity to pain, which could be construed as both bestial and super-human, and in any case as purifying. This rapture was contagious – all those present had a share in it, as well as in the ensuing enhanced feeling of meaningfulness and purity. The involvement of the entire community, active participants and observers alike, was the reason for the formidable vitality and fame of fire-walking rituals. Natural proneness to and acquired readiness for alteration of consciousness were equally significant for the successful performance of fire-walking rites. The fact that fire-walkers of the ancient world were considered to be particularly devoted (kapnobatai), served in a temple (priestesses of Artemis), or came from families cultivating piety and belonging to a were-wolfish tradition (the Hirpi), is hardly accidental. A person who experiences altered states of consciousness more frequently, in a culturally patterned institutionalised framework, will have greater control over the process.65 Learning can render consciousness manipulation relatively accessible, and belonging to a distinct group allowed the efficient learning and practicing of the techniques necessary for performing extreme rituals such as fire-walking. Finally, modern parallels demonstrate the crucial importance of thorough preparation for the extreme rituals, including knowledge of lore, sincere faith, anticipation, and a unique environment. Social aesthetics, that is the combined input of all the senses, structure the experiences of pilgrimage, apprehension, and participation in the extreme ritual, and affect the social proprioception of the participants. The impact of cultural expectations on individual fire-walkers could be more profound than the impressions left by personal experience. Although ancient accounts concentrate on fire-walking as the highest point 65

Bourguignon 1976, 55; Winkelman 2000, 124; Rouget 1990, 89; Shanon 2002, 302–303.

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of the rituals, the focus on the “core” procedure of alteration of consciousness, while ignoring its cultural background and induction process, is misleading.66 5

Conclusions

In this chapter we have looked at fire-walking from two perspectives: that of the fire-walkers themselves (high-ordeal participants) and that of the audience who witnessed this ritual (low-ordeal participants). These observations elucidate the cognitive and social roles of fire-walking in the ancient Mediterranean: these rituals bestowed the high-ordeal participants with feelings of euphoria and of the extreme salience of their experience, which compelled them to participate in the ritual time and again, while the empathy of the low-ordeal participants brought about feelings of elation and purification, as well as enhanced social cohesion. Thus, perceived suffering and the alteration of the consciousness of limited numbers of people endowed entire communities with a transformative experience which could be construed in terms of redemption and purification.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the organisers of the conference and its participants for the stimulating discussion of the paper on which this chapter is based. In particular, I am very grateful to Attilio Mastrocinque for a conversation on the Hirpi and for bringing to my attention several relevant publications. Bibliography Atran, Scott. 2002. In God We Trust. The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Austin, James H. 1998. Zen and the Brain: Toward an Understanding of Meditation and Consciousness. Cambridge, MA/London: MIT Press. Bakkum, Gabriël C. L. M. 2009. The Latin Dialect of the Ager Faliscus. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Bayet, Jean. 1969. Histoire politique et psychologique de la religion romaine. Paris: Payot. Bourguignon, Erica. 1976. Possession. San Francisco: Chandler & Sharp. 66

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West, Martin L. 2007. Indo-European Poetry and Myth. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitehouse, Harvey. 2004. Modes of Religiosity. A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press. Winkelman, Michael. 2000. Shamanism: The Neural Ecology of Consciousness and Healing. Westport: Bergin & Garvey. Winkelman, Michael. 2011. “Shamanism and the Alteration of Consciousness.” In Altering Consciousness. Multidisciplinary Perspectives. Vol. 1. History, Culture, and the Humanities, edited by Etzel Cardeña and Michael Winkelman, 159–180. Santa Barbara: Praeger. Wiseman, Timothy Peter. 1995a. “The God of the Lupercal.” Journal of Roman Studies 85: 1–22. Wiseman, Timothy Peter. 1995b. Remus. A Roman Myth. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wissowa, Georg. 1971. Religion und Kultus der Römer. Munich: C. H. Beck. Woodard, Roger D. 2013. Myth, Ritual, and the Warrior in Roman and Indo-European Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wulff, David M. 1997. Psychology of Religion. New York: Wiley. Xygalatas, Dimitris. 2008. “Fire-walking and the Brain: The Physiology of High-Arousal Rituals.” In Evolution of Religion: Studies, Theories, and Critiques, edited by Joseph Bulbulia, Richard Sosis, Erica Harris, Russel Genet, Cheryl Genet, and Karen Wyman, 189–195. Santa Margarita, CA: Collins Foundation Press. Xygalatas, Dimitris. 2011. “Ethnography, Historiography, and the Making of History in the Tradition of the Anastenaria.” History and Anthropology 22 (1): 57–74. Xygalatas, Dimitris. 2014. The Burning Saints: Cognition and Culture in the Fire-Walking Rituals of the Anastenaria. London: Routledge. Xygalatas, Dimitris, Uffe Schjoedt, Joseph Bulbilia, Ivana Konvalinka, Else-Marie Jegindø, Paul Reddish, Armin W. Geertz, and Andreas Roepstorff. 2013. “Autobiographical Memory in a Fire-Walking Ritual.” Journal of Cognition and Culture 13: 1–16. Xygalatas, Dimitris, Panagiotis Mitkidis, Ronald Fischer, Paul Reddish, Joshua Skewes, Armin W. Geertz, Andreas Roepstorff, and Joseph Bulbulia. 2013. “Extreme Rituals Promote Prosociality.” Psychological Science 24: 1602.

Chapter 4

Empowered Tongues Attilio Mastrocinque It is known that some defixiones were aimed at blocking or freezing a person’s tongue in order to prevent him from speaking against the practitioner. The opposite phenomenon is less well known, that is rituals which were supposed to give to a human tongue the power of persuading, uttering prophecies, telling the truth, or making other prodigies. In several cases, the tongue itself was magically enabled to utter certain wondrous words, in other cases the whole head or the entire body was supposed to be empowered to perform exceptional deeds, while in yet other cases the magical objects gave power to the soul of a deceased person or even to a sacrificed animal. The mouth and the tongue were objects of different kinds of magic and one cannot simply suppose that they were always manipulated in the same way and for the same purpose. On the contrary, magical enactments concerning these parts of the body were many and various, depending for their goals and means on the different purposes of the practitioners. 1

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Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Plutarch both report that the famous orator Demosthenes was unable to speak clearly until he corrected his defect by giving lectures while holding pebbles in his mouth.1 The power of pebbles to rectify speech impediments of this sort is rather doubtful and one can, therefore, suppose that these pebbles had some alleged power, like those mentioned in recipes of magic. In fact, Apuleius was accused of practicing magic arts because he was proficient in speaking eloquently.2 We also know that certain stones with magical powers were supposed by some to enable an individual to speak in a wondrous way. Pliny the Elder quotes a book by Zoroaster and Osthanes,

1 See Dion. Hal. Dem. 54 and Plut. Dem. 11 (= Demetrios von Phaleron, Fr. 166, in Fritz Wehrli, ed. 1968. Die Schule des Aristoteles, vol. 4 (2nd ed.). Basel: Schwabe). Cf. Quint. Inst. 11.3.54. Pebbles were also used to perform tricks and to deceive spectators; see Dickie 2001. 2 Apul. Apol. 5.

© Attilio Mastrocinque, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_006

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the two most famous of the Persian Magi, who described the secret properties of the stone chelonia. The Magi, Pliny tells us, held that purifying the mouth of a man with honey and putting a pebble of chelonia onto his tongue would enable him to know the future (and probably to tell it):3 Chelonia is the eye of the Indian tortoise, and is the most marvelous of all the stones, if we believe the lying stories told by the Magi. For, according to them, this stone, placed upon the tongue after rinsing the mouth with honey, will ensure the power of divination, if this is done at the full moon or new moon for one whole day. If, however, this plan is adopted while the moon is on the increase, the power of divination will be acquired before sunrise only, and if upon other days, from the first hour to the sixth. The placing of an object on the tongue also features in an exorcism reported in the IV magical papyrus (IV, 3003ff.), which gives directions concerning how to force a spirit to utter words from the mouth of a possessed person. The spirit is to be summoned by saying, “I adjure you by the Seal of Solomon laid upon the tongue of Jeremiah, and he spoke” (ὁρκίζω σε κατὰ τῆς σφραγῖδος, ἧς ἔθετο Σολομὼν ἐπὶ τὴν γλῶσσαν τοῦ Ἰηρεμίου, καὶ ἐλάλησεν).4 The Seal of Solomon was a famously efficacious item that was supposed to conceal the name of God and to be a formidable means by which to perform magical deeds, especially those that involved subduing and controlling demons. The spell known as the “Sword of Dardanos” (PGM IV 1716ff.) required that a magnetite gem be engraved and placed onto the tongue of the practitioner in order to recite an erotic spell successfully. This magical enactment was achieved by virtue of the combination of a wondrous stone, the magnetite, and a sophisticated iconography and text engraved on the stone. Gems of this kind have been identified in several museums. The best example that corresponds to the requirements of the spell is kept in the National Archaeological Museum at Perugia.5 Julius Africanus (F 12, 3.1–4 Wallraff-Mecella), a Christian author of the late Severan Age, suggests the use of certain stones found in the gizzards of cockerels, which he holds should be kept under the tongue: 3 Plin. HN 37.155: Chelonia oculus est Indicae testudinis, vel portentosissima Magorum mendaciis. melle enim colluto ore inpositam linguae futurorum divinationem praestare promittunt XV luna et silente toto die, decrescente vero ante ortum solis, ceteris diebus a prima in sextam horam. See Gordon 2001, 298. 4 PGM IV, 3036. 5 SGG II, Pe1 6 = Vitellozzi 2010, 419–420, no. 518, on magnetite; Mouterde 1930–1931, 53–64, on “black jasper”; Mastrocinque 2014, no. 351.

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Those knowledgeable about such things universally praise the stones found in the gizzards of well-bred cocks in the belief that they contribute to military prowess and triumph. They say that if worn in leather or borne under the tongue they keep soldiers, athletes and gladiators in good shape, unfatigued and free from thirst […] Because the stone, when borne either in the mouth or around the arm, either falls out or is clipped off by an adversary, it must be used with a very sturdy covering that does not excite suspicion.6 These examples of the magical use of stones in connection with the tongue give grounds for suspecting that the story of Demosthenes’ pebbles conceals a belief that is similar to those found in these magical recipes. 2

Magical Objects in the Mouth of a Dead Person

In addition to the sources that attest the power of stones placed on the tongue, an even larger body of evidence describes the use of magical lamellae that are supposed to be placed into the mouth of a dead person in order to make him prophesy or send forth prophetic dreams. In this case, we have at our disposal both written recipes and archaeological evidence from tombs. The insertion of magical objects into the mouth was not a simple means by which to make them enter a body or a corpse but was, more specifically, aimed at interfering with the organs which allow speech and the sending of words, prophecies, messages, and other communications. In some cases, the entire head was involved in a magical performance, as several findings of manipulated skulls demonstrate. In Vinkovci, the ancient Cibalae, a gold lamella was discovered in the mouth of a dead man who has been dated to the late 3rd century CE.7 The Greek text on the lamella is of Jewish origin and contains an appeal to the Lord, as well as mentioning the “wise pharaoh”, probably a reference to the biblical story of Joseph, who interpreted the pharaoh’s dream of the seven fat and thin cows. A more well-known example of a lamella that was apparently placed inside the mouth of a dead person is that from the colombarium of Vigna Codini. This lamella was discovered in a skull which had been kept in a pot, and bears an invocation to Serapis, the king of the dead.8 6 Afric., F12, 3.1–4, transl. Adler 2012, 54–55. 7 Dimitrijević 1979 and Mastrocinque, 2020. 8 According to Seyrig 1955; Kotansky 1994, no. 28; Faraone 2005.

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A silver lamella, cut into four pieces, has been found in the late 3rd or 4th century CE burial of a young woman at Pécs. The archaeologists state that, [B]ased on the position of the object and the skeleton, as well as the meaning of the text, it seems likely that the plate got into the mouth of the corpse as a part of a magic necromancer ceremony (nekromanteia), since the grave was disturbed shortly after the burial. The tiles covering the grave were smashed so as to gain access to the head of the corpse, and a bone pin was also placed on the mouth.9 In cases such as these, the lamellae were probably inserted into the mouth shortly after the death of the buried person. In 556 CE, the emperor Justinian ordered the destruction of the revered sanctuary of Montanism at Pepouza. Michael the Syrian (Chron. 9.33) reports that the tombs of Montanus and his female assistants, Priscilla and Maximilla, were discovered there, their mouths covered with gold lamellae. Michel Tardieu10 connects these lamellae with prophecy and with the belief that Montanus represented the Spirit (pneuma) and the Paraclete. Montanus, Priscilla, and Maximilla were all prophets and are reported to have sometimes uttered unintelligible prophetic words.11 Tardieu compares this use of corpses for prophecy with the Orphic prophetic tradition and with the papyrus known as “Empedocles of Strasbourg” – a document that was found wrapped around the head of a buried man. The idea underlying this usage was that the deceased individual could be activated by means of magical spells placed onto or into his or her mouth. The lamella or magical gem placed in the mouth of the dead person was supposed to give to head the gift of prophecy, as in the illustrious case of Orpheus, whose head was kept in a sacred place and, when inquired of, answered from below the soil.12 Magical lamellae were sometimes put into the mouth of a deceased person in order to activate their soul and subject them to the will of the practitioner. A recipe for love magic in the XIX magical papyrus explains how to force a ghost to persuade a woman to have sexual intercourse with the practitioner, with 9 This inscription was exhibited at the On Secret Paths exhibition in Aquincum (near Budapest) in 2016 and 2017 and can be found in the exhibition catalogue. Németh and Szabó 2016; On Secret Paths 2017. The inscription ends with the words: Ἀκελλίνα ἐμι (“I am Aquilina”). 10 Tardieu 2014. 11 Euseb. Hist. eccl. 5.14–15. 12 This is documented by images on Greek ceramics; see Faraone 2004; Burges Watson 2013. For the Etruscan world, see Thomson De Grummond 2011.

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the ritual consisting in the placing of a written text into the mouth of a dead person.13 The papyrus on which this recipe is found was, itself, discovered in the mouth of a mummy. The ghost that was expected to do the match-making work was probably the soul of the dead person, still living in, or near to, the corpse. Among Jewish necromantic practices, at least two resorted to the placing of magical objects in a mouth in order to make it speak automatically. The first is mentioned in a passage of the Babylonian Talmud: “A yidde‘oni is one who places the bone of a yidoa’14 in his mouth and it speaks of itself”.15 Another example is found in a medieval collection of Midrashim, the Midrash Tanhuma,16 which deals at length with prophetic dreams in the Bible, and, particularly, in Genesis. A section of this work, entitled Va-yeze, deals with pagan idols known as teraphim (Genesis 31.19). It reads: And how did they make [them]? They would bring a first-born man, slaughter him, and salt him with salt and oils. Then they wrote on a golden plate the name of an unclean spirit, and placed the plate with magic under his tongue. Then they placed him in (a niche in?) a wall, and lit before him candles, and prostrated themselves before him, and he would speak with them in oracles. The mouth was considered to be the most important gateway by which something could enter a body or through which something could issue forth, and it was for this reason that it was used as a means by which to manipulate a body through the use of magical arts. Solid or liquid things or substances that had been imbued with magical power could be swallowed in order to achieve a wondrous result, with the mouth serving in this case simply as a gateway. In other cases, the mouth itself, and specifically the tongue, were activated. This kind of magic could be used to empower the mouth of either a living or a dead man, and it is likely that many of the lamellae found in mouths or heads were placed in the mouth of the deceased shortly after his death, when it was still possible to open the mouth and put the lamella into direct contact with the tongue. The mouth was the most common source of prophecy, as we should expect given that the tongue is the organ naturally associated with speech. However, 13 14 15 16

PGM XIXa, 1–54. An unknown animal. Bab. Talmud, Sanhedrin 445 (65a Engl. transl.). See Trachtenberg 1939, 223–224. Published by Buber 1885; see also Midrash Tanhuma 1989. Sperber 1985, 96–97.

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this faculty was not exclusive. Some Jewish necromancers are reported as having prophesied through their bellies (ἐγγαστριμύθοι, Septuaginta Lev. 19.31; 20.27), for example, while others made their armpits speak.17 It is clear, then, that other parts of the body could be activated for prophecy and other utterances as well, and this could even happen in dreams. Nevertheless, the priority accorded to the mouth remains plain in both the attention paid to it in our literary sources and in the volume of associated archeological finds. 3

Activated Animal Mouths

Several magical recipes provide instructions on how to kill animals and use their heads for specific purposes by putting spells into their mouths. In these cases, the goal was not always to forge a prophetic instrument of some sort, but to create an animal ghost that could be sent by the practitioner to perform certain harmful tasks. Roman law strictly forbade the violation of tombs, so using animal corpses for this purpose was considerably less dangerous. In order to obtain a corpse, the practitioner could simply sacrifice the required animal. Some form of text would then be inserted into the mouth of the dead beast in order to activate its soul and create a sort of ghost. One magical papyrus records a love spell designed to attract a desired individual by placing an inscribed piece of the skin of an ass in the mouth of a dead dog,18 while, in another, a magical performance aimed at securing love is enacted over the corpse of a dog, which was presumably killed for this purpose.19 In some contexts at least, then, it seems that animals could serve as substitutes for humans. One use that aligns more closely with the activation of human mouths for the purpose of prophecy were those practices that involved the placing of a magical text or object in the dead animal’s mouth to empower the ghost to send dreams to the targeted person. Because the animal had been killed rather than dying naturally, its soul was considered to be an aoros, “one who had untimely passed away”. The XII papyrus, starting from verse 107, reports a series of recipes for sending dreams. The first of these prescribes the placing of a written papyrus strip into the mouth of a black cat that had died a violent death:

17 Sifre Deut. 18.10, which specifies that this kind of necromancer was called pitom. 18 PGM XXXVI, 361–371. 19 PGM XIXb, 4–18.

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Charm of Agathokles for sending dreams: Take a completely black cat that died a violent death, make a strip of papyrus and write with myrrh the following, together with the [dream] you want sent, and place it into the mouth of the cat. ‘I am lying, I am lying, I am the great one, the one lying in (the mouth: ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ μέγας, ὁ ἐν [στόμα]τι κείμενος) […] (magical words) […] Reveal to him, NN, concerning this’.20 In this case, the lamella is described as acting autonomously and representing the god himself, who commands the mouth to reveal something in a dream. Many Jewish or Judaising recipes explained how to make a tongue utter prophetic words. A Judaising book, the Sepher Ha-Razim (the Book of Mysteries),21 written in Late Antiquity, reports a recipe for sending disturbing dreams by means of a dog’s skull: If you want to make your enemy’s sleep disturbed, take the head of a black dog that never saw light and take a lamella of PSWKWTRWN,22 and write on it (the names of) these angels and say this: I consign to you, O Angels of Wrath who stand in the fourth encampment, the life, the soul, and the spirit of N son of N, so that you bind him in iron chains and tie him in bronze rods. And do not give sleep, neither light sleep nor deep sleep, to his eyelids. And he will cry and scream like a parturient woman. And do not give any man permission to release him (from the spell). And write this and put (it) in the mouth of the dog and put wax on the mouth and seal (it) with a ring, which has a lion engraved upon it. And go and hide it (the dog’s head) behind his house or in a place in which he goes out and enters. If you want to release him (from the spell), take it (the dog’s head) from the place where it is hidden and remove its seal and take out the (lamella with the) text and throw it in the fire and he will immediately fall asleep. Do this with humility and you will succeed.23

20 PGM XII, 107–113, transl. Grese 1986. 21 Morgan 1983; Rebiger and Schäfer 2009. 22 Probably from the Greek word ψυχροφόρον, i.e. cooler, referring to a lead waterpipe; see Bellusci 2015. 23 Sepher Ha-Razim §§ 137–140.

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These examples allow us to see the mouth as playing two distinct roles in different situations. In the case of animals who were to become ghosts, the mouth was simply a gateway by which to enter the corpse. In the case of an animal being used to send dreams and interfere with sleep, the desired effect was a matter of communication, and the mouth, therefore, conceived of as the seat of voice and breath, was itself activated to perform the task. Animals used in this way were supposed to appear in the dreams of the human being targeted by magical performances, where they would speak, bark, meow, or hiss. In a word, their role was to communicate. 4

The Tongues of Frogs and Other Animals

I turn now to a different kind of magic that makes use of tongues in a way that is quite distinct from those discussed above. This, rather less sophisticated, practice involved using the tongues of frogs to force a person to speak freely and tell the truth. The roots of this practice go back at least as far as the late Republican period, when the works of Pseudo-Democritus were written, probably by Bolos of Mendes, an Egyptian of the 2nd or 1st century BCE.24 A Democritean work was known by Pliny the Elder, as were certain books of the Magi that dealt with the same topic. Pliny writes: Democritus assures us that if the tongue is extracted from a live frog, with no other part of the body adhering to it, and is then applied – the frog being first replaced in the water – to a woman while asleep, just at the spot where the heart is felt to palpitate, she will be sure to give a truthful answer to any question that may be put to her. To this the Magi add some other particulars, which, if there is any truth in them, would lead us to believe that frogs ought to be considered much more useful to society than laws.25 A manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale de France preserves a recipe for making a woman speak during her sleep and reveal whether she is a virgin or 24 See Wellmann 1928. 25 Plin. HN 32.49.1, transl. Bostock and Riley 1855: Democritus quidem tradit, si quis extrahat ranae viventi linguam, nulla alia corporis parte adhaerente, ipsaque dimissa in aquam inponat supra cordis palpitationem mulieri dormienti, quaecumque interrogaverit, vera responsuram. Addunt etiamnum alia Magi, quae si vera sint, multo utiliores vitae existumentur ranae quam leges.

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has committed adultery. The means by which this magic is set into motion is the tongue of a frog, to be placed, along with the text Χουνέχω δημινοόφ, on the chest of the woman.26 Julius Africanus records another use of the frog’s tongue:27 He devises a way to expose thefts committed in secret, by cutting out the tongue of tadpoles, pickling them, and then mixing them with meal at the time of their use, and giving the mixture to those under suspicion of stealing the missing item. The one who has purloined the stolen object, he says, plainly and openly gives it away, behaving as if he fell into a trance. He calls this dish ‘thief detector’. The same recipe recurs in the Cyranides:28 If someone cuts the tongue of a frog and releases the animal alive and writes on the tongue the following words: choucho damenoph, and puts it secretly on the breast of a sleeping woman, she will tell you everything she did in her life. Frogs’ tongues were also used in rituals aimed at discovering a thief, as the V, 172–212 magical papyrus (4th century CE) testifies. Here, Hermes and Helios are invoked and the ritual to be performed includes the use of many substances, among which is the tongue of a frog.29 The Cyranides also explain how to make an amulet that can be used to learn which kinds of sacrifices were to be performed in a certain spot, and this amulet was made with many substances, including the tongue of a frog.30 Frogs’ tongues could also be used to make a powerful amulet which allowed the practitioner to know the future. For this purpose, the Cyranides require the sacrifice of a falcon and the combination of its eyes, tongue, and heart with the tongue of a frog, a magnet, a hierakites stone (“the hawk’s stone”) and iron filings.31

26 See Vieillefond 1970, 363, no. 262; Walraff, Scardino, Mecella, and Guignard 2009, 23, n. 37. 27 Afric., F 13, T 7 Walraff-Mecella. 28 Cyranides 2.5.2–3: Τούτου τὴν γλῶσσαν ἐάν τις κόψῃ, αὐτὸν δὲ ἀπολύσῃ ζῶντα, καὶ ἐπιγράψῃ ἐν τῇ γλώσσῃ οὕτως: “χουοχ οδαμενοφ” καὶ λαθραίως καθευδούσης γυναικὸς ἐπιθῇ τῷ στήθει, ἐξείπει σοι πάντα ὅσα ἔπραξεν ἐν βίῳ. A similar recipe can be found in 3.51.3. Cf. Wellmann 1934, 31. 29 Cf. also Psellus, Opuscula, ed. Duffy, 32. 30 Cyranides 2.38. 31 Cyranides 1.21.

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Another use is found in the Hippiatrica Cantabrigiensia. Here it is suggested that one should cut a frog’s tongue and put it into the mouth of a horse if it sweats, brays, stumbles, and falls without any obvious reason. The logic behind this practice is obscure but it is clear that the frog’s tongue is supposed to have some magical power in this case.32 The use of tongues to make a person speak freely appears to be an induced imitation of the seemingly ceaseless noise made by frogs, with the effect turning on an underlying sympatheia between the intended outcome and the animal being unable, so to speak, to hold its tongue. Another detail of this usage offers up an interesting clue as to how the effect was supposed to be achieved: the frogs were not killed but set free alive. We might suppose from this that the tongue of the animal was “borrowed” by the human being targeted by the ritual, and that the animal continuing to live was a precondition for its tongue continuing to do its work. The contact of the human with such a tongue enacted a sort of contagion and produced an irresistible need to speak freely. Frogs were not the only animals to have their tongues removed for ritual uses. Nightingale tongues were also used in attempts to interfere with the voices of those targeted by practitioners. The Cyranides33 require the engraving of a euanthes panchrysos lithos (flourished jasper) with the image of Aphrodite and the joining of the stone to a root of rocket (Erica sativa) and the tongue of a nightingale. Together, this assemblage could be used as an amulet with the power to make one’s voice sweet to the ears of men, gods, and demons, and to be able to repel dangerous beasts as well. The tongues of other animals were also used to achieve the contrasting effect of keeping men and dogs silent. The Cyranides say that the tongue of either a weasel,34 a hyena,35 a seal,36 a dog,37 or a chameleon38 should be put under one’s shoes to produce such an effect. In this case, the power to quiet men or animals probably stems from the fact that the animals in question are, with the exception of the dog, either typically silent or produce only a feeble or constrained sound. Following a similar logic, the cutting of a frog’s tongue served as a means by which to prevent someone from speaking, as we can read in a defixio from Peñaflor, the ancient Celti (Seville). Here, the author of the

32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Hippiatr. Cantabr. 85. Cyranides 1.5 and 3.4. Cyranides 2.7. Cyranides 2.40. Cyranides 2.41. Cyranides 2.20. Cyranides 2.43.

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text wants to make Valerius Marcellus mutus tacitus “as a frog without a tongue is mute and silent”.39 This overview, which is probably not exhaustive, shows that the tongue was an organ that was frequently supposed to enact magical effects, at least if treated properly. Prophecy and foreknowledge were the most important goals of the magical manipulation of human tongues. The tongue of a man was supposedly influenced by magical objects placed under or over it. The same sort of magic was enacted on corpses in a form that can be labelled necromancy. Animal tongues were supposed to produce minor effects when their power was directed towards human beings, such as making them speak freely, tell the truth, or identify a thief. Such tongues were also used to treat horse diseases, and to make men and animals silent. In some cases, animals served as substitutes for humans and their corpses were supposed to produce effects that were similar to those achieved through the magical manipulation of human corpses. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the most important and recurring goal aimed at by tongue magic concerned communication in one form or another. Bibliography Bellusci, Alessia. 2015. “Oneiric Aggressive Magic: Sleep Disorders in Late Antique Jewish Tradition.” In Demons and Illness from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period, edited by Siam Bhayro and Catherine Rider, 134–174. Brill: Leiden. Buber, Salomon. 1885. Midrash Tanhuma. Vilnius: Romm. Burges Watson, Sarah. 2013. “Muses of Lesbos and (Aeschylean) Muses of Pieria? Orpheus’ Head on a Fifth-century Hydria.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 53: 441–460. Dickie, Matthew W. 2001. “Mimes, Thaumaturgy, and the Theatre.” Classical Quarterly 51: 599–603. Dimitrijević, S. Stojan. 1979. “Arheološka topografija i izbor arheoloških nalaza s vinkovačkog tla.” In Corolla memoriae Iosepho Brunšmid dicata, 133–282. VinkovciSplit: Hrvatsko Arheološko Društvo. Faraone, Christopher A. 2004. “Orpheus’ final Performance: Necromancy and a singing Head on Lesbos.” Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica 97: 5–27. Faraone, Christopher A. 2005. “A Skull, a Gold Amulet and a Ceramic Pot: Evidence for Necromancy in the Vigna Codini?” MHNH 5: 27–44.

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Gordon, Richard. 2001. “Persei sub rupibus antri: Überlegungen zur Entstehung der Mithrasmysterien.” In Archaeologia Poetovionensis II, 289–301. Ptuj: Pokrajinski Muzej. Kotansky, Roy. 1994. Greek Magical Amulets. Wiesbaden: Springer Fachmedien. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2014. Les intailles magiques du Département des monnaies médailles et antiques. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2020. “A Magical Lamella from Vincovci (Croatia) and the Jewish Necromancy.” In Ancient Magic: Then and Now, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, Joseph Sanzo, and Marianna Scapini, 97–112. Stuttgart: Steiner. Morgan, Michael A. 1983. Sepher Ha-Razim (The Book of Mysteries). Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Mouterde, René. 1930–1931. “Le glaive de Dardanos: objets et inscriptions magiques de Syrie.” Mélanges de l’Université St. Joseph 15 (3): 53–87. Németh, György, and András Szabó. 2016. “A Lady with a Bone Hairpin in her Mouth. A Silver Magical Lamella from the Northern Necropolis of Sopianae (Pécs, Hungary).” In Die Barbaren Roms. Inklusion, Exklusion und Identität im Römischen Reich und in Barbaricum (1.–3. Jahrhundert n. Chr.), edited by Alexander Rubel, 239–252. Konstanz: Hartung-Gorre Verlag. On Secret Paths. 2017. On Secret Paths. Dark Spells in Aquincum. Temporary Exhibition 3rd December 2016–5th November 2017. Catalogue of the objects exhibited. Aquincum: Aquincum Museum. Also online at: http://www.aquincum.hu/wp -content/uploads/2016/10/M%C3%A1gia-katal%C3%B3gus_eng.pdf. Rebiger, Bill, and Peter Schäfer. 2009. Sefer ha-Razim I und II: Das Buch der Geheimnisse I und II, 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Seyrig, Henry. 1955. “Deux notes d’épigraphie relatives aux cults alexandrins.” Mélanges Isidore Lévy. Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 13: 610–612. Sperber, Daniel. 1985. “Some Rabbinic Themes in Magical Papyri.” Journal for the Study of Judaism 16: 93–103. Stylow, Armin U. 2012. “Stumm wie ein Frosch ohne Zunge! Eine neue Fluchtafel aus Celti (Peñaflor), prov. Sevilla.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 181: 149–155. Tardieu, Michel. 2014. “Les lamelles d’or montanistes et orphiques.” In Noms barbares I. Formes et contextes d’une pratique magique, edited by Michel Tardieu, Anna Van den Kerchove, and Michela Zago, 67–76. Turnhout: Brepols. Thomson De Grummond, Nancy. 2011. “A Barbarian Myth? The Case of the Talking Head.” In The Barbarians of Ancient Europe, edited by Larissa Bonfante, 313–346. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Trachtenberg, Joshua. 1939. Jewish Magic and Superstition. New York: Behrman. Vieillefond, Jean-René. 1970. Les “Cestes” de Julius Africanus. Étude sur l’ensemble des fragments avec édition, traduction et commentaires. Florence: Sansoni.

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Vitellozzi, Paolo. 2001. Gemme e cammei della collezione Guardabassi. Perugia: Volumnia. Wallraff, Martin, Carlo Scardino, Laura Mecella, and Christophe Jean-Daniel Guignard. 2009. Die Kestoi des Julius Africanus und ihre Überlieferung. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Wellmann, Max. 1928. Die ΦΥΣΙΚΑ des Bolos und der Magier Anaxilaos aus Larissa, I. Berlin: Abhandlungen der Preussischen Akademie. Wellmann, Max. 1934. Marcellus von Side als Arzt und die Koiranides des Hermes Trismegistos, Philologus. Suppl. XXVII.2. Leipzig: Dieterich.

Chapter 5

Favete linguis and the Experience of the Divine: A Cognitively Grounded Approach to Sensory Perception in Roman Religion Maik Patzelt 1

Introductory Remarks

The imperative favete linguis is typically taken in the scholarship to be an essential element of public prayer and sacrificial performances in Roman antiquity.1 Based on comments made by, in particular, Cicero,2 Festus,3 Seneca,4 and the fourth-century grammarian Servius,5 modern scholars have tended to identify this phrase as a command for silence that enables the ritual agent – often a magistrate or general – to perform the ritual properly without the interruption of any ill-omened word.6 Philologists have broadened the spectrum of possible interpretations by offering up the idea that the phrase serves either as a means of misleading the sacrificial animal (Tiertäuschung) or as an example of secret priestly or magical language.7 A theologically inspired interpretation of the phrase is that it instigates a sacred silence (heiliges Schweigen) which facilitates a mystical experience of a divine aura.8 All these results, entirely different as they are, share a common framework. They all rely on a legalistic, functionalistic, and systemic notion of Roman religion and, as a

1 I would like to thank the organisers of the conference on sensorium and ancient religions and the editors of this volume for accepting my paper. I also would like to thank them, as well as all the other participants and contributors, for the comments, remarks, and questions that have improved this chapter considerably. I would especially like to thank Paul Scade, who professionally edited this paper and made my German thoughts comprehensible for English readers. 2 Cic. Div. 1.102. 3 Fest. 78L. 4 Sen. Vit. Beat. 26.7–8. 5 Serv. Aen. 5.71. 6 E.g. Gonda 1940; Latte 1960, 386–387; Matthey 2011. 7 Havers 1952. 8 Mensching 1926.

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consequence, they only approach the phrase in terms of it being some kind of authoritative command.9 A number of questions can be asked. To begin with, given that this technical language was an essential part of almost every public sacrifice and prayer ritual, why do the ancient sources seek to explain the meaning of the expression to their readers, who should already know it? Do our sources, then, actually report the meaning of the phrase or are they merely speculating about it, trying to understand what this phrase could be about? As the main sources for the meaning of the phrase were engaged in a variety of different philosophical endeavours, it is in fact very likely that they frame their treatment of this phrase in the context of their systemic and rationalised approach to religion, thereby adapting their explanations to suit the philosophical doctrines to which the authors are committed.10 Drawing on this observation, I suggest that there was, in fact, no generalised understanding or universally accepted authoritative meaning of favete linguis. Instead, what have come down to us are merely the interpretations of ancient writers. Given this background, the present contribution does not attempt to deliver a new, concise, or even a “correct” translation of this phrase. In fact, the present approach sets aside any attempt to translate the expression as it appears in the quoted source texts and aims, rather, at shifting perspectives on how we should approach such phrases. Rather than reducing this phrase to nothing more than a functionalist act, which has hitherto appeared as an integral and obligatory part of a coherent ritual system, I attempt to uncover the phrase’s relation to individual practice and cognition. In Émile Durkheim’s words, I look for the motivation of agents and audiences in relation to this phrase and not for any disciplinary action. The motivation, according to Durkheim, may be to find, within an experience of something overwhelming, an experience of collective effervescence or a state of exaltation that could be deemed religious or divine.11 A sensorium approach serves as a good starting perspective from which to pursue this aspect of experience. To this end, my investigation focusses on the ritual process12 within which this phrase is ‘orchestrated’. The discussion does not, therefore, primarily

9

Here I refer to the concepts of civic and embedded religion. For a critical discussion, see Woolf 1997; Bendlin 2000, 120–125; Rüpke 2011. 10 Rüpke 2012; Liebeschütz 1979, 29–39. 11 Durkheim [1912] 1995, 212–220. 12 Even though this phrase recalls Turner 1974, this study does not attempt to differentiate and then investigate all the stages of ritual.

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concentrate on the supposedly authoritative interpretations of the ancient writers but, rather, on selected poetic scenes which make use of the phrase favete linguis (animisque) as an indicator of an overwhelming sensory experience, as recently suggested for its Greek equivalent euphêmeite. According to recent studies, euphêmein is to be understood as an acclamation, a ‘loud oral performances addressed in theory to the god, but primarily intended to impress an audience of mortals assembled’.13 It is an outcry that serves as a performative device to both put the setting and overwhelm the audience. Drawing on these insights, a close reading of Seneca’s interpretation sheds light on the individual’s cognitive processes, which grasp extraordinary experiences as divine and, thus, shape the individual’s ‘belief’. 2

Methodological Remarks

My starting point is the question of how we, as humans, experience the divine in our rather limited sensory perception and then make that experience real. All kinds of rhythms, sounds, lights, fragrances, and so on create a complete aesthetic environment that produces a specific sensory affection,14 and ritualised practices of all sorts can be constructed to serve the same ends as well. For instance, repetitions, archaic elements, or the acceleration of movements and language are vocal and corporeal elements that serve this end.15 Most famously, we have the examples of glossolalia, self-mutilation, and outrageous yet still rhythmic dances,16 as illustrated by Y. Ustinova in this volume. In contrast, strategies that aim at sensory deprivation can also play an important role,17 such as those involving the intake of large quantities of drugs.18 This

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Chaniotis 2009, 204. See also Gödde 2011; Montiglio 2000, 13–17. Cf. Sullivan 1986; Cancik and Mohr 1988; Münster 2001. Conceptualised as ‘aesthetic formations’ by Meyer 2010. 15 The fundamental approach appears in Tambiah 1968, 191–203. Cf. Atran 2002, 170–172; Rouget 1985, 11–62; Roseman 1986, e.g. 215–220. 16 Rouget 1985, 111–119; Sullivan 1986, 6–7; Kealiinohomoku 1981; Schnepel 2000; Friedson 2005; McNamara 2009, 2–5; 55–56. Referred to as “ecstatic practices” by Wulff 1991, 76–77. On extreme (pain) rituals, Xygalatas et al. 2013. 17 Differentiation between an outraging trance and ecstasy as an experience of deprivation: Rouget 1985, 9–17. On deprivation strategies: Taves 2009, 74–86; McNamara 2009, 44–58. These are conceptualised as ‘mystic’ experiences by D’Aquili and Newberg 1999, 25–42; Forman 1999. 18 McNamara 2009, 132–137; Hick [2006] 2010, 76–78; Jungaberle 2006; Wulff 1991, 82–88.

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notion recalls A. Chaniotis’ concept of emotional communities or S. A. Harvey’s elaborations on early Christian sensoria, both of which explain that rituals provided a vast range of sensory stimuli which evoked emotions in the audience and maintained an experience of communitas or liminality.19 With reference to the ritual theorists Robert McCauley and Thomas Lawson, one may speak of rituals as aiming to provide a sensory pageantry in this respect, or a ‘sensory bombardment’20 as they call it. However, sensory experiences in religious environments go far beyond mere emotive pageantry. Such sensory affections clearly do not automatically indicate a religious experience of divine presence. Similarly, not every sensory stimulus automatically produces one certain emotion or feeling. As the introductory chapter of this volume illustrates, feelings, sensory experiences, and, similarly, religious experiences are ‘culturally learned, identified, and recognised’, constituting a sensory-related symbolism in the sense outlined by J. Toner.21 This means that our sensual perceptions are encultured and, thus, embodied. Leading cognitive scientists describe this process of embodiment in terms of modality-specific systems.22 What this means is that once individual experiences are encoded as mental images and the consequent mental maps, humans cultivate an (un) conscious mental reference system that they project onto the situation in which they act.23 Experiencing something ‘religious’ or ‘divine’ is, thus, similar to a process of mental ascription that is intrinsically tied to the sensory faculties of the body, as well as to the actual situation in which practice and cognition are embedded.24 Sensory experiences are thus interpreted in terms of the mental reference system and, in accordance with that system, deemed religious, deemed divine, deemed mystical, and so forth. At the same time, such

19 Chaniotis 2006; 2013; 2016; Harvey 2014; 2006. On communitas, collective effervescence, and liminality, see Tambiah 1979, 138–142; Durkheim [1912] 1995, 208–231; Turner 1974, 80–154. On the ‘enliving’ function of sensory arousals for cult statues, see also Gladigow 1986; 1990. 20 McCauley and Lawson 2002, 199. Cf. McCauley and Lawson 1996. 21 Toner 2016, 2. 22 Barsalou et al. 2005. 23 Andersen 2019; Andersen et al. 2019; Kundtová Klocová and Geertz 2019, 76–80; Geertz 2010, 306–308. 24 Taves 2009, 78–119; McNamara 2009, 13–16; ‘experiencing as interpreting’ (Hick [2006] 2010, 137–140). With regard to feelings and emotions in general see Damasio 2010, 108– 129; Goldie 2000, 50–83.

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embodied and thus ‘cultivated’ experiences can be ‘activated’ by certain movements, articulations or sounds.25 Since experiences inherently depend on the interrelation between the brain, the body, and the environmental situation in which the experience takes place, the modality-specific systems are not stable. They are re-shaped by every situation in which they are activated. The current situation ‘updates’ the mental map, so to speak. The mental maps and, thus, the religious knowledge, or what we might call beliefs, are under permanent construction due to the re-use of these maps in differing situations. This implies a continuous actualisation of ascriptions due to ritual practice. The mental map, which is constructed throughout a lifetime, thus continuously regulates our sensual perceptions in slightly different and new ways. A major role in this current situation and thus belief making is the communication that takes place. Being encultured and, thus, incorporated ascriptions means that sensory experiences and, similarly, religious experiences are also socially evoked.26 Perception and experience are permanently communicated and therefore permanently negotiated within the social space.27 This negotiation can happen within communication that is, more or less, indirect, commonly conceptualised in terms of intercorporeality or intersubjectivity.28 Alternatively, it can also happen in direct communication, that is, in the authoritative interpretations of religious specialists.29 Strictly speaking, while people act with a more or less clear range of expectations concerning the overwhelming experience of a divine presence, these people continuously communicate, and thus negotiate, what they are actually experiencing at a given moment. The current communication, whether direct or indirect, negotiates the modality-specific systems of each participant and thereby actualises or ‘updates’ the mental maps that finally determine the individual’s situational, as well as prospective, 25 26 27

28 29

Luhrmann and Morgain 2012. Knoblauch 1998; Schnabel 2012, 10–11. This aspect furthermore entails the problem of the communicability of experience, such that language, or rather the limits of language, frames the mental map. An exemplary discussion of this subject can be found in Knoblauch 1998. The concept of negotiation – as already problematised in performance studies by Hüsken 2007, Schieffelin 1996, and Bell 1992 – was recently introduced as a model for the study of antiquity by Hölkseskamp 2017, 9–12. Csordas 2008; Joas 1996, 245–269. Here one inevitably thinks of the pontifical college. A good example for modern contexts is provided by Wulff 1998.

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experience and, thus, his or her personal ‘belief’ in the power, or at least in the perceptible presence, of a superhuman agent.30 3

Favete Linguis and the Senses

In this section, I seek to uncover the relation between the call favete linguis and the embodied and embedded sensory stimuli. Ovid presents an interesting case to start with. In describing the New Year’s festival, dedicated to Germanicus’ bright future, Ovid illustrates a ritual process within in which the outcry favete linguis activates the experience of something overwhelming: Linguis animisque favete! Now good words on a good day must be spoken. Let ears be free from lawsuits, let mad disputes forthwith be absent. Malicious tongue, put off your business! Do you see how the sky is bright with fragrant fires, how the Cilician spike crackles on the lighted braziers? The flame strikes the gold of the temples with its own brightness, and scatters a flickering glow on the height of the building. In spotless garments the procession goes to the Tarpeian heights, and the People itself is coloured to match its festal day. And now new fasces go in front, new purple gleams, new weight is felt on the bright ivory.31 Ovid lays a great deal of emphasis on his description of the appearances and the impressions of fragrances, sounds and lights. Everything is lit splendidly in a glimmering display, as he states repeatedly. The whole environment smells wonderful and the sound of burning is no less impressive. Later on, Ovid emphasises that the whole sense-scape is dominated by myrrh.32 Myrrh is a particularly intense and expensive fragrance and was, thus, perceived as something special.33 Strictly speaking, Ovid illustrates a sensory pageant, an 30 van Leeuwen and van Elk 2018; Barret and Lanman 2008. 31 Ov. Fast. 1.71–82: linguis animisque fa vete;/ nunc dicenda bona sunt bona verba die./ lite vacent aures, insanaque protinus absint/ iurgia : differ opus, livida turba, tuum./ cernis odoratis ut luceat ignibus aether,/ et sonet accensis spica Cilissa focis?/ fiamma nitore suo templorum ver berat aurum,/ et tremulum summa spargit in aede iubar./ vestibus intactis Tarpeias itur in arces,/ et populus festo concolor ipse suo est,/ iamque novi praeeunt fasces, nova purpura fulget,/ et nova conspicuum pondera sentit ebur. Unless otherwise indicated, the translations follow those of the Loeb Classical Library editions. 32 Ov. Fast. 1.335–342. 33 A special experience, ranging from smells, on the one hand, to the whole occasion taken as a collective experience, on the other, tends to deem an experience somewhat extraordinary, indeed divine (Taves 2009, 35–48; Jensen 2014, 61–131; Rüpke 2016, 24; 35–39). Ovid

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impressive orchestration of various sensory stimuli and movements which explicitly lead to the arousal of specific sensations and, potentially, as Lucian has it in his treatise on Sacrifice 13, to an experience deemed “divine and holy” by the spectator. The preceding advice concerning lawsuits and malicious tongues and, most particularly, the subsequent rhetorical question, confirm this hypothesis. Whilst the advice clearly arranges the reader’s expectations by orienting the attention toward a good temper, the rhetorical question serves to illustrate how this good temper is achieved. The rhetorical question relates the good temper to the experience of the sensory pageantry. It operates as a hinge, so to speak, between the temper aspired to and the procedure by which it is acquired. By asking: “Do you see how the sky is bright […]?”, Ovid shows that it is impossible to resist being aroused and moved to a good temper while situated in such an impressive environment. What, then, does the call favete linguis animisque accomplish as part of Ovid’s orchestration of sensory stimuli? As Ovid’s introductory use of this call illustrates clearly, the call serves as a signal that indicates, indeed prepares the audience for, what follows, which is a good temper that is caused by the sensory environment. It is worth mentioning here that it is Ovid, rather than a ritual functionary or magistrate, who makes the call. Moreover, Ovid makes the call right at the beginning of the procession and not at the beginning of a sacrifice or prayer, as grammarians and antiquarians seem to suggest was the norm. Ovid apparently links the entire sensory environment directly to the call of favete linguis animisque. The call favete linguis animisque adjusts the mode of perception to an overwhelming experience and thus activates expectations in the mind of the reader as well as in the minds of the fictitious audience. This call, this signal, strictly speaking, attunes the listener to a ‘religious feeling’ or, in Durkheim’s words, to a “takeover by otherness”.34 The call, in other words, ‘activates’ the attendant’s cultivated experience or, at least, the expectation of such experience.

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emphasises the expensive and extraordinary character of such spectacles, and of myrrh in particular, when he opposes such extravagant sorts of festivals – and therefore extravagant smells – to those of the past. These past festivals only had access to local perfumes and instead of impressive sacrifices they used salt and wheat (Ov. Fast. 1.337–353). As Ovid is also celebrating and honouring the emperor and the Empire, he evidently uses this depiction as a chance to praise Rome’s growth by emphasising the advantages (e.g. rare perfumes in large quantity) that derive from a more ‘interconnected’ world. On the perfume import trade, see Peacock and Williams 2006; Avanzini 1997. On interconnectivity, see Horden and Purcell 2000. Durkheim [1912] 1995, 212–220.

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Why, however, should we possibly expect one to ‘favourably incline’ one’s attention toward one’s tongue and soul? The answer is because that is what happens in cognitive terms. As illustrated above, body, mind, and sensorial environment are interlinked. Drawing attention to the tongue may, thus, complement the adjustment of the mind by focusing the attention towards one’s own ritual actions and, thus, towards one’s own body, as the body is the perceiving instrument for all stimuli, ritual actions included. Paying attention to one’s tongue may, on this account, not merely refer to keeping silent. As we know, and as Apuleius Madaurensis illustrates most impressively for the isiac procession, a co-praying or even a co-acting audience was not particularly uncommon in ancient processions and public sacrifices.35 Favete linguis may, thus, also refer to the practice of praying and singing, not only by some ritual agent but by all the other ritual attendants as well. If my hypothesis is correct, then the call favete linguis animisque invites ritual participants to concentrate on their rhythmic and melodic voices, supporting that ecstatic or decentring mode of the mind that has already been brought about by focusing on the sensory stimuli affecting the body. Another scene validates this observation. At one point in his amores, Ovid is – in our modern terms – harassing a young woman during a chariot race. He thinks that he increases his chances by increasing his physical proximity to his female neighbour and by cheering for the same chariot driver. But then the following happens: But now the procession is coming – linguis animisque favete! The time for applause is here – the golden procession is coming. First in the train is Victory, born with wings outspread – come hither, goddess, and help my love win!36 Who is Ovid addressing in the second person plural? The audience of the race? I suspect that, rather, he once again addresses his own audience, his readership. Several elements in the text point in this direction. Once again, but more explicitly now, the phrase introduces noise, the clapping of hands in an enthusiastic manner. Once again, the narrator, and thus a person in the audience, makes the call, rather than a functionary as Pliny and Festus report.37 And, 35 Apul. Met. 11.8–17. 36 Ov. Am. 3.2.43: sed iam pompa venit: linguis animisque favete!/ tempus adest plausus: aurea pompa venit./ prima loco fertur passis Victoria pinnis:/ hue ades et meus hic fac, dea, vincat amor. 37 Plin. HN 28.11; Fest. 78L.

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once again, the imperative linguis animisque favete does not signify the beginning of a sacrifice or a prayer of the kind that scholars have supposed to require this special call. With this call, the narrator reacts to the arrival of the statue of Victoria, which is surrounded by the sensory pageantry of a procession. As we know from Dionysius of Halicarnassus,38 such a pompa circensis was quite a spectacle even in Republican times and that spectacle increased further under the emperors.39 The audience’s cheering itself fulfils the function of the call favete linguis. According to Ovid’s illustration, the arrival of the procession tempts the audience towards rejoicing. Given that the scene is set in a crowded theatre, Ovid must refer to a thunderous applause, although, strictly speaking, he writes of an exultation which is inspired by an amazing orchestration of sounds, lights, and the movements of the procession. The call favete linguis animisque, once again announces, indeed attunes the hearer to, precisely that ecstatic experience which is then heightened further by enthusiastic behaviour. The call, being itself part of this impressive soundscape in this case, prepares, activates, indeed frames the reader’s perception, readying it for something overwhelming. Since the goddess arrives in person and is welcomed in Ovid’s account, I think it likely that the sensory stimuli of the procession and the exultation that follows were ascribed by the participants to the presence of the statue. Juvenal addresses this relation between favete linguis animisque and the overwhelming experience in a brief and precise manner. Ridiculing egoistic prayers, Juvenal introduces the situation with the instructions of just such an egoist: Off you go, then, boys! Linguis animisque faventes, put garlands on the shrines and grain on the knives, and decorate the soft hearths and green turf.40 Besides the subsequent satirical note that the person who is supposed to preside over these rites runs off to pray to his personal gods at home,41 it is striking that these boys are advised to “mind their tongues and spirits”, although they do not execute the ritual and are merely preparing it. Furthermore, the depiction indicates that they are in a constant mood of minding their tongues 38 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.1–13 = Q. Fabius Pictor, FRH2 1 frg. 20. 39 A general insight is offered by Arena 2009. 40 Juv. 12.83–85: Ite igitur, pueri, linguis animisque faventes/ sertaque delubris et farra inponite cultris/ ac mollis ornate focos glebamque virentem. 41 Juv. 12.86–90.

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and spirits. Juvenal describes no imperative that commands silence. He rather points to a mental state that correlates with the particular physical state of attention and concentration towards the actual practice. The boys constantly mind their bodies and thus realise the experience these practices evoke. In accordance with the argument advanced by Meredith McGuire in her study on ‘lived religion’, it seems obvious that these states do not necessitate a sensory overload. Even the focus on and, thus, the adjusted consciousness concerning the preparation of food, the handling of incense, and so on, already evokes a special experience with a divine quality as soon as the modality-specific system activates a divine agency as its reference for the course of action perceived by the senses.42 As this chapter has sought to make clear, and as Juvenal emphasises, the phrase favere linguis (animisque) does not represent a command for silence that keeps the audience quiet so that the ritual agent can proceed with his prayer in a mechanical manner, and nor does it demand silence in order to avoid omina.43 This brief survey has illustrated that the phrase activates a certain state of mind instead. Deployed as an imperative, as it commonly is, the phrase favete linguis (animisque) aligns the audience toward that particular state of mind, which is, then, commonly realised through the orchestration of sensory perceptions. Fulfilling the function of a starting signal or activator, the call turns out to be a prerequisite not only of ritual action, but above all of the experience elicited by such action. If we recall less poetic and rather normative illustrations about its use, it is fair to say that the call itself, being a loud call, an acclamation indeed, just as its Greek pendant euphêmein, is part of the soundscape and thus of the sensory orchestration fulfilling the promise of an extraordinary experience. 4

Seneca’s Attempt at an Authoritative Interpretation

Seneca’s attempt to claim authority for his version of the meaning of the call favete linguis highlights the phrase’s relation to the ascription of a sensory experience of divine presence as well as to the correlating negotiation of this ascription in social space. The following quote deserves special attention in this regard:

42 McGuire 2008, 104–112. 43 Cic. Div. 1.102; 2.71; 83.

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Have respect for virtue, give credence to those who, having long pursued her, proclaim that they themselves are pursuing something that is great and that every day seems greater, and do you reverence her as you do the gods, and her exponents (professores) as the priests of the gods, and whenever any mention is made of sacred writings, ‘favete linguis’. This expression is not derived, as very many imagine, from ‘favour’ but enjoins silence in order that sacrifice may be performed according to ritual without the interruption of an ill-omened word. But it is far more necessary that you lay this command upon yourself, in order that, whenever utterance is delivered from that oracle, you may listen with attentive ear and hushed voice.44 Seneca’s main point here is quite ambitious. He opposes, indeed replaces, Roman religion with his philosophy. Since we know that Seneca dislikes all forms of contemporary religions,45 we may wonder why his last sentence gives advice to those whose beliefs and practices he neglects. Seneca introduces what he claims is the correct meaning of the call in order to remind the believers in oracles and pontifical knowledge that they should obey this meaning. In opposition to their normal behaviour of expressing what Seneca describes as their ‘favour’ towards contemporary religious practices, they should, instead, keep calm and ‘listen with attentive ear and hushed voice’. In his attempt to replace the various forms of Roman religion with his philosophy, Seneca tries to replace the modes of expressing favour as well. He thus introduces and maintains an opposition between the majority expressing their favour and his own advice to be silent, which originates from his philosophical background. The following passage illustrates this opposition in the most colourful way: Whenever someone, shaking the rattle, pretends to speak with authority, whenever someone dexterous in slashing his muscles makes bloody his arms and his shoulders with light hand, whenever some woman howls as she creeps along the street on her knees, and an old man, clad in linen and carrying a lamp in broad daylight and a branch of laurel, cries out that some one of the gods is angry, you gather in a crowd and give ear 44 Sen. Vit. Beat. 26.7: Suspicite virtutem, credite iis, qui illam diu secuti magnum quiddam ipsos et quod in dies maius appareat sequi clamant, et ipsam ut deos ae professores eius ut antistites colite et, quotiens mentio sacrarum litterarum intervenerit, favete linguis. Hoc verbum non, ut plerique existimant, a favore trahitur, sed imperat silentium, ut rite peragi possit sacrum nulla voce mala obstrepente. Quod multo magis necessarium est imperari vobis, ut, quotiens aliquid ex illo proferetur oraculo, intenti et compressa voce audiatis. 45 Cf. Merckel 2012, 67–96.

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and, fostering each other’s dumb amazement (stupor), affirm that he is divine!46 The common understanding of the call favete linguis is, according to Seneca, intrinsically tied to stupor, which is to say being too ‘favourably inclined’ towards mind and tongue due to a person’s performance. Those who are struck dumb with amazement are addressed in the second person plural, which refers to those who Seneca suggests should remain silent during the ritual. The ritual audience and, thus, the majority of Rome tends towards a mental state that Seneca prefers to describe as stupor. In order to illustrate best the intensity of the stupor-evoking sensory stimuli, Seneca provides a brief overview of Rome’s apparently most sensorially affective – since most painful – rites, such as the cutting of arms, the uttering of an ululation, and so forth.47 A common ritual drunkenness, impressive performances, ecstatic howling (as expressed by ululare),48 and all the other activities described by Seneca cause an aroused and overwhelmed mental state that is very likely to be referred to a supernatural presence.49 And, indeed, even though the old man does not introduce himself as divine, the amazed crowd nevertheless ascribes a divine quality to him due to a process of situational negotiation, to which I will return below. In so doing, the crowd actualises or ‘updates’ their mental maps. Their cognition and communication confirm or even cause the old man to be a new divine being. As these scenes illustrate, and as his ambitious aim indicates, Seneca does not consider favete linguis to be an imperative that merely seeks silence for a technical reason, neither for the commonly understood reason of allowing the ritual actor to proceed, nor for the more personal goal of allowing Seneca to articulate his own philosophy. Since Seneca’s main interest is the subsequent process of perception within an audience, he reflects on how the imperative activates the audience’s mode of perception, and thus their expectations, which are confirmed and shaped by these amazing performances. The call favete linguis, thus, encodes expectations that Seneca evidently seeks to 46 Sen. Vit. Beat. 26.8: Cum sistrum aliquis concutiens ex imperio mentitur, cum aliquis secandi lacertos suos artifex brachia atque umeros suspensa manu cruentat, cum aliqua genibus per viam repens ululat laurumque linteatus senex et medio lucernam die praeferens conclamat iratum aliquem deorum, concurritis et auditis ac divinum esse eum, invicem mutum alentes stuporem, adfirmatis. 47 As so often, Seneca employs the cultic practices of Isis, Ma Bellona, and Kybele (Mater Magna) in a derogatory narrative against all kinds of religious practices, including those of the pontifices. This becomes most clear in his fragmentary treatise de superstitione (Frg. 34–37= apud August. De civ. D. 6.10). 48 Šterbenc Erker 2011. 49 Schjoedt and Andersen 2017; Barret and Lanman 2008, 122.

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change. This means that Seneca seeks to re-map in favour of his philosophy his readers’ cognition – the brain’s modality-specific system – and, thus, the perception that is activated by this call and evoked by the illustrated sensory stimuli. It is not cut arms but, rather, his Stoic aphorisms that shall deserve attention, favour and thus awe; not enthusiastic applause but silent mindfulness that shall express the audience’s state of mind.50 And it is not priests but Stoic philosophers who are deserving of reverence. The animus is evidently of the highest interest, even without being mentioned explicitly. 5

Favete Linguis and the Encounter with the Divine

The use of stupor as a chiffre for an experience of divine presence appears elsewhere as well. In his 115th letter, Seneca illustrates the epiphany of the incarnated virtus. Rather than a deranged old man, it is a Stoic philosopher who transcends the mortal realm and achieves the status of a divine being through reaching ethical perfection. Although the endeavours of the old man and the sage that make them appear divine differ profoundly from one another, the way of describing the sage follows common patterns found in the description of epiphanies: If one might behold such a face, more exalted and more radiant than the mortal eye is wont to behold, would not one pause as if struck dumb by a visitation (obstupefactus resistat) from above, and utter a silent prayer, saying: ‘May it be lawful to have looked upon it’?51 The means of becoming silent here is pure astonishment caused by the divine appearance, which is described in terms of visual effects. Seneca describes the same reaction as a response to unexpected natural phenomena, which most people tend to perceive as epiphanies.52 Seneca clearly refers the cause of falling into dumb amazement and silence to being disposed in a certain way towards sensory affections. That Seneca employs a sensorial scheme of divine experience for the sake of promoting his own a-sensory philosophical and religious ideas clearly indicates that such a scheme was universal among 50 On Seneca’s attempt to remap his readers’ minds towards silent prayers and states of mindfulness, see Patzelt 2018. 51 Sen. Ep. 115.4: Si quis viderit hanc faciem altiorem fulgentioremque quam cerni inter humana consuevit, none velut numinis occursu obstupefactus resistat et ut fas sit vidisse tacitus precetur, tum evocante ipsa vultus benignitate productus adoret ac supplicet. 52 Sen. QNat. 6.3; Sen. Ep. 64.6.

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his contemporary readers. That is to say, extraordinary sensory stimuli tend to be ascribed to divine agency as soon as context and communication activate the respective modality-specific systems. Seneca adapts a ubiquitously shared perceptual scheme in order to capture and, most importantly, persuade his audience.53 He thereby adjusts the reader’s mental map from the perception of a Jupiter or Juno to the perception of a sage. Just as in his vita beata, Seneca aims to remap his readers’ expectations and, thus, their perceptions. Another passage of Ovid confirms the observation of a perceived divine presence due to the attuning call and the sensory stimuli that fulfil the attunement. After a long description of sensory stimuli, a sacerdos in Ovid’s Metamorphoses cries: ‘Behold the god!’ he cried, ‘It is the god. Animis linguisque favete! All who are present. Oh, most Beautiful, let us behold you to our benefit, and give aid to these people that performs your sacred rites.’ All present then adored the deity as bidden by the priest. The multitude repeated his good words, and the descendants of Aeneas et mente et voce favorem.54 The experience of the aspired epiphany is reacted to, indeed expressed with the formulation animis linguisque favete, which cannot seek silence, since everybody is considered to be in prayer. Nor is it a pious salute to the deity. As the last quoted sentence indicates, this phrase is a reaction. It seeks to attune the individual modes of perception – already heightened by various sensory stimuli – to the epiphany. Mind and voice seek to express favour through the act of conscious prayer. In other words, the audience turns into an acting ritual community that directs its consciousness to the divine presence as evoked – or in this narrative maintained – by prayer. Even though the line of the story sets the divine presence to the fore, the call animis linguisque favete clearly refers to an act of attuning the perception of the ritual community toward that presence. Ovid even emphasises the relevance of a sensed experience by placing animus prior to lingua.

53

Seneca’s strategy of tying in the expectations of his readers in order to change the readers’ comprehension of moral concepts and key moral words, such as bonum, is well attested in the scholarship. See, e.g., Habinek 2000; Dietsche 2014, 255–263. 54 Ov. Met. 15.670–680: et ‘deus en! deus est; animis linguisque favete./ quisquís ades!’ dixit ‘sis, o pulcherrime, visus/ utiliter populosque iuves tua sacra colentes!’/ quisquís adest, iussum veneratur numen, et omnes/ verba sacerdotis referunt geminata piumque/ Aeneadae praestant et mente et voce favorem.

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Similarly, Tibullus announces the advent of Natalis with the words: quisquis ades, lingua, vir mulierque, fave. What follows is a sensory pageant intrinsically tied with the active presence of the god: Burn upon the brazier holy incense, burn the perfumes which the supple Arab sends from his rich land. Let the Genius be present to behold the honours paid to him and let soft woollen fillets adorn his hallowed hair. With oil of spikenard dripping from his temples let him eat his fill of cake and drink deep of the unmixed wine. And may he nod assent, Cornutus, to all your requests. Don’t wait but make them now. Look, he nods assent.55 Another incident in Ovid’s oeuvre provides a similar scene: Then he (the old man) kindles the first flames with dry bark; his boy stands by and holds broad baskets in his hands. Then, when three times he has thrown grain from these into the midst of the fire, his daughter holds out sliced honeycombs. Others hold cups of wine; a libation from each is poured on the flames. Spectant, et linguis candida turba favet.56 The non-imperative expression favere linguis does not command anything here and nor does it introduce an expectation. Favere linguis expresses a consequence of being aroused due to various sensory stimuli; a state of mind evoked by the fragrance of the incense and the spectacle of the lightning. In accordance with Seneca’s remarks, it is the fulfilment of an expectation. The expectation is marked by calling on the divine power of Terminus, who is invited to share this small festival with the ritual agents. The ritual group aspires to experience the divine presence of the god and so they do while they are aroused. The imperative favete linguis on the other hand is, as unfolded above, to understand as an outcry, a sensory performance in itself, that not only provides sensory stimuli, but activates and attunes the audience’s experience of something overwhelming, something divine.

55 Tib. 2.2.2–10: urantur pia tura focis, urantur odores/ quos tener e terra divite mittit Arabs./ ipse suos Genius adsit visurus honores,/ cui decorent sanctas mollia serta comas./ illius puro destillent tempora nardo,/ atque satur libo sit madeatque mero./ adnuat et, Cornute, tibi, quodcumque rogabis./ en age, quid cessas? adnuit ille: roga. 56 Ov. Fast. 2.649–655: tum sicco primas inritat cortice flammas;/ stat puer et manibus lata canistra tenet./ inde ubi ter fruges medios immisit in ignes,/ porrigit incisos filia parva favos,/ vina tenent alii: libantur singula flammis;/ spectant, et linguis candida turba favet.

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Conclusion

What does all of this ultimately tell us about ‘real’ belief making? Most obviously, these authors illustrate that divine presences and powers (puissances) are comprehensively felt with the whole human sensorium rather than merely seen in the form of statues, stones, and the like.57 As the discussion above shows, the call favete linguis animisque was not a merely technical outcry commanding silence. The call rather expresses a culturally encoded chiffre that activates particular modes of perception according to a particular culturally shared set of expectations. These expectations both encapsulate and lead to an overwhelming, most likely religious, experience of divine presence. As I stated at the beginning, belief – as a pre-reflexive condition of embodied experience58 – is under permanent construction through ritual practice. This means that the course of practice reassures and confirms, as well as slightly reframes a personal belief in divine presence. This confirmation necessitates, in the first instance, sensory stimuli and a correlated mode of perception to which the chiffre favete linguis animisque attunes the listener. Moreover, that chiffre, or particularly its part favete linguis, may serve as a device that supports sensory stimulation through prayer, song, exultation, and so forth. This call itself delivers such initiating sensory stimuli, already providing the embodied experience by the very beginning of this outcry. A second point is less obvious. This is that there is a process of negotiating and, thus, actualising expected experiences. Although I must remain tentative here, the narratological strategy of the authors sheds light on this problem. As we have seen, Seneca, while trying to shift the cognition of his readers, does so in accord with their mental processes. His writing ties in with a common process of negotiated cognition in order to change this cognition. Ovid, I think, is no less responsive to the expectations and cognitions of his readers. His description perfectly reflects the mental map of somebody hearing the command favete linguis (animisque). Even if the reader does not literally participate, he or she is, nonetheless, personally addressed and thus integrated into the vivid illustration of the scene. Ovid’s vibrant description triggers a mental re-enactment, so to speak, which in turn reflects the audience’s expectations. Adjusting Jörg Rüpke’s concept of ‘the connected reader’ to the model of perception introduced here, we can understand Ovid as not merely reflecting 57

For the debate on the individual perception of statues, see: Eich 2011, 400–455; Weddle 2010; Stewart 2003, 184–222; Steiner 2003, 5–11; 79–89. 58 Joas 1996, 256–269. Cf. Conceptualised as ‘prior intentions’ by Humphrey and Laidlaw 1994, 93.

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a commonly shared meaning but as also negotiating this meaning of religious practice with his actual, as well as his fictitious, readers.59 Ovid’s affective description has the potential to shape the mental maps – the brain’s modality-specific system – of the readers. Just as with Seneca, Ovid does not aim to reshape the cognition of this call as such. Rather, he seeks to reshape the expectations that the call activates. This goal is most particularly relevant to his attempt to introduce Germanicus as the main addressee of his new year’s description. Ovid does not merely express the power of Rome and Germanicus with his affecting, that is to say stimulating, description of the procession. He rather provides a new ascription ground for this sensory pageantry. Strictly speaking, Ovid seeks to re-map the reader’s perception, and thus expectations, from an overwhelmingly divine presence to an experience of the abstract idea of Roman imperial power as encoded in the figure of Germanicus.60 If we unpack this process, we can consider, tentatively at least, how the call favete linguis may have evoked new expectations and, thus, new personal beliefs in the course of ritual practice. Bibliography Andersen, Marc. 2019. “Predictive Coding in Agency Detection.” Religion, Brain & Behavior 9: 65–84. Andersen, Marc, Thies Pfeiffer, Sebastian Müller and Uffe Schjoedt. 2019. “Agency Detection in Predictive Minds: A Virtual Reality Study.” Religion, Brain, and Behavior 9: 52–64. Arena, Patrizia. 2009. “The pompa circensis and the domus Augusta (1st–2nd c. A.D.).” In Ritual Dynamics and Religious Change in the Roman Empire. Proceedings of the Eighth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007), edited by Olivier Hekster, 77–94. Leiden: Brill. Atran, Scott. 2002. In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Avanzini, Allessandra, ed. 1997. Profumi d’Arabia: Atti del convegno. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Barret, Justin L. and Jonathan A. Lanman. 2008. “The Science of Religious Beliefs.” Religion 38: 109–124. Barsalou, Lawrence W., Aron K. Barbey, W. Kyle Simmons and Ava Santos. 2005. “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge.” Journal of Cognition and Culture 5: 14–57. 59 Rüpke 2015. 60 Cf. Ov. Fast. 1.85–88.

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Chapter 6

The Triumph of the Senses: Sensory Awareness and the Divine in Roman Public Celebrations Mark Bradley 1

Introduction

This chapter examines the role of sensation and sensory perception in ancient public spectacle, concentrating particularly on material from ancient Rome. It is primarily concerned with how the senses were used to signal and understand activities that we might describe as religious, and (as others in this volume have emphasised) to facilitate communication between – and among – mortals and gods. It will begin by surveying the diverse ways in which sensory experience underpinned religious events and activities (as well as the sensationalism that characterises modern attempts to reconstruct those activities), and will then connect this sensorium to two key themes: (1) the use of common sensory experience to galvanise the community at key moments in the religious calendar; (2) the deployment of a heightened sensory experience to represent communication and communion with the divine. This volume, and the conference out of which it emerged, epitomises the principle – widely acknowledged by classical scholars in a range of fields – that ancient sensory engagement and experience were highly sophisticated, and not only in religious contexts. In the past, scholars doubted that the ancient senses were so finely tuned: in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in particular, Winckelmann, Goethe, and Gladstone argued, often very persuasively, that classical senses were dull, deficient, and primitive. Gladstone famously compared the colour vision of the early Greeks to the superior chromatic sensitivity of the contemporary Victorian infant, while other thinkers drew attention to the perceived colourlessness of ancient art. These arguments were extremely influential, and still surface occasionally in the 21st century. However, recent studies of ancient colour, and the senses in general, have been dominated by attempts to demonstrate the subtlety and sophistication of the ancient sensorium, and to show how that sensorium fitted into ancient culture, society, and religion.1 As other contributors in this volume demonstrate, 1 On ancient colour, see Bradley 2009a and Grand-Clément 2011. On the senses, see especially the series by Classen 2014 and Bradley and Butler 2014–18. © Mark Bradley, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_008

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sensory perception has become a key theme in classics, and the scholarly community is committed to showing that sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste performed a highly significant function in ancient life. 2

Reconstructing Ancient Spectacle

Public religious ceremony is a good place to start for thinking about the role of the senses in ancient life. Whether we consider the Great Dionysia or Panathenaia in Athens, the Ptolemaia in Alexandria, or the Lupercalia, the Saturnalia, or the triumph in Rome – these were events that brought together the people en masse to celebrate civic identity by exposing them to a cornucopia of sights, colours, music, aromas, and feasts that they shared as a community, to celebrate prosperity or success, mark a transition, or establish some form of communication with the gods. The Roman triumph is a useful starting point for exploring these ideas, partly because it is one of the best known and most richly documented ceremonies in the ancient world, and partly because its celebration of Rome’s achievements and the close connection between its citizens and the gods was marked by an increasingly elaborate and sophisticated exploitation of the Roman sensorium. Introduced to Rome, the argument normally goes, by the Etruscans in the 7th or 6th century BCE, the triumph represented a grander and more lavish version of the earlier Roman ovatio, and was voted to a military leader who had completed a major successful campaign against an enemy (and traditionally had vanquished a certain number of them). The general was permitted (for the duration of the triumph only) to wear the purple-and-gold toga picta and to process up to the Capitoline Hill amid grand public celebration with his army and spoils to make a sacrifice to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. As military victories became bigger, and generals competed to outdo each other in scale and extravagance, so the triumph became more and more sensational.2 It is no difficult task to reconstruct the multi-sensory appearance of Roman public celebrations like the Roman triumph. Eyes would be able to pick out a rich array of sights: colour-coded outfits where the red saga of the processing soldiery contrasted with the white togas and stolas of the civic population and the purple-gold toga of the triumphator; the glint of weapons and riches 2 The format of the Roman triumph, and particularly its origins, have been the subject of intense scholarly discussion. See, in particular, Versnel 1970; Künzl 1988; for a recent revisionist view, see Beard 2007. More recently on the relationship between movement and memory in the triumph, with some emphasis on its multisensoriality, see Favro 2014.

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displayed in the ceremony; the spectacles of war depicted on placards carried in the procession as it passed through the streets. Ears would be assaulted by the blast of trumpets, the rhythm of music, the chanting of the soldiers, the roaring crowd, and bellowing animals. Noses would pick up the scent of incense and sacrificial meats, as well as the stench from thousands of bodies (animal as well as human) and their effluences; mouths might savour feasts and libations; and touch would be activated by the contact of jostling crowds and rituals such as the touching of cult statues. Perhaps the most important element of this sensationalism is the idea that all these sensory experiences worked together in tandem: the Roman sensorium was fully engaged and activated. Modern artistic renderings of the triumph have certainly made a play for the bold colours and rich visual components of the triumphal procession.3 Ancient depictions of the triumph, of which a reasonably large number survive, also emphasise the sensational aspects of this ceremony: the representation of the Triumph of Titus and Vespasian on the Arch of Titus and the triumph of Marcus Aurelius in the Capitoline Museums (inv. MC0808) are cases-in-point. Ancient literary accounts also draw attention to some of these same patterns. We have a number of extended descriptions of Roman triumphs from across several hundred years of Roman history. None of them are the same:4 triumphal processions competed with each other to be the most memorable, the most triumphant, the most sensational – both for the glory of the triumphing general and for the honour of the gods – and sights, sounds, smells, and other sensory cues provided the aesthetic measure of that success. At the same time, each triumph is presented as if it was the first one ever, reliving the original mythical moment when Romulus celebrated his first triumph over the neighbouring Italian tribes. In his 1st-century CE biography of the mid-Republican statesman and general Aemilius Paulus, Plutarch offers an extended description of Aemilius’ triumph over Perseus, King of Macedon, in 167 BCE (Plut. Vit. Aem. 32–4). Plutarch describes a magnificent spectacle, promoted by means of scaffolded viewing platforms around the city to afford the best view of the procession, so that the city became a giant theatre. The people (dēmos) are pictured all arrayed in white garments, simultaneously spectators and spectacle. Garlands and incense from open temples evoke the olfactory experience shared around 3 Paintings representing the triumph include Giulio Pippi, “Triunfo di Tito y Vespasiano” (1538); Peter Paul Rubens, “A Roman triumph” (c. 1630); Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, “Trionfo di Aureliano” (1718); “Trionfo di Mario” (1729); Carl Theodor von Piloty, “Thusnelda im Triumphzug des Germanicus” (1873). On these representations, see Beard 2007, Chapter 5, esp. 153–8. 4 A point that is emphasised by Beard 2007, esp. Chapter 3.

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the city, and thronging and scurrying crowds are said to have been physically restrained by attendants and lictors, drawing attention to some of the more tactile elements of the proceedings. This particular triumph was an impressive three days in length, just enough time (Plutarch tells us) to exhibit the impressive number of statues, paintings, and colossal figures captured from Macedon and carried through the city on 250 chariots, and – on day two – the organised chaos of glinting heaps of steel and bronze weapons, which evoked the memory of battle as they “emitted a harsh and dreadful sound, and the sight of them, even though they were spoils of a conquered foe, was not without its terrors”. Behind these came 3,000 men carrying vessels of coined silver, and then – evoking the imagery of feasting and drinking – more men carrying mixing bowls, drinking horns, cups, and bowls. Plutarch then describes the third day, announced by trumpeters, who were “not producing the sound of procession or ceremony, but the sort of tone that the Romans use to prepare themselves for battle”, so that the Roman people en masse could relive the occasion through the shared experience of sound. Another procession followed, with 120 plump oxen with gilded horns and fillets and garlands around their necks led along by smartly dressed youths and boys carrying vessels of libation. These were joined by a further set of lavish gold riches, and the prized possessions of Perseus, including the king’s enslaved children who stirred up in the crowd a range of contradictory emotions. Plutarch then describes Perseus himself, walking behind in a dark robe, accompanied by his closest friends, all “heavy with grief” in a silent procession. Finally, 400 wreaths of gold followed that had been donated by the cities as prizes for Aemilius’ victory, and then Aemilius himself, “wearing a gold-encrusted purple robe, and holding forth a spray of laurel in his right hand”. These fragrant sprays were likewise carried by all the soldiers behind Perseus; comprising thousands and thousands of bay leaves, they will have filled the air with a pervasive odour – the scent of victory. Plutarch describes the army singing and jesting, with victory paeans and hymns in praise of the general. Plutarch closes his account of the triumph proper by observing that Aemilius “was watched and admired by all, but envied by nobody that was good”, alluding to the admonition, which lurked behind the tradition of the triumph, that this much visibility was dangerous, and pointing towards the tragedy Aemilius faced when two of his own sons died in the days immediately before and after this triumph.5

5 On the nuances and dynamics of triumphal processions, see Ostenberg 2009. More generally on Roman processions, see Ostenberg, Malmberg and Bjørnebye 2015. Most recently on Roman triumphalism, see Loar, MacDonald and Padilla Peralta 2018. On Aemilius Paulus’

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I have argued elsewhere that ancient descriptions of the triumph do not normally concentrate on sensational aesthetics – the gaudy colours, for example, that characterised modern paintings of triumphs – but on the precise and accurate identification of the different elements and components of the ceremony.6 Plutarch’s description of the triumph of Aemilius Paulus is specific and materialistic: a catalogue of gold and silver acquisitions, attendants decked out in ceremonial costume, Macedonian captives in mourning dress, and the triumphator himself wearing the customary purple robe interwoven with gold and carrying a spray of laurel. Out of this picture, it is not difficult to develop a narrative about the synaesthetic experiences that underpinned these celebrations, during the course of which the senses worked together in unison to activate and animate the Roman sensorium.7 This also comes out well in Josephus’ description of the triumph of Titus and Vespasian over Jerusalem in 70 CE. Here, the triumph is “spectacle”, “theatre”, “thea” in Greek, and it was the possessions (ta ktēmata) that really mattered. It is impossible to give a worthy description of the entire range of the spectacles and the magnificence in every conceivable aspect, either works of skill or diverse riches or natural rarities; for virtually all the possessions ever acquired one-by-one by men blessed by fortune – a marvellous collection of resources – displayed, heaped up as they were on that day, the greatness (to megethos) of the Roman empire. Joseph., BJ 7.132–38

Like all Roman public ceremonies, the triumph was as much a political, social, and military event as it was religious. It was also in a very important sense theatre, tapping into a set of classical traditions about ancient drama which also brought the community together in a religious context and engaged their eyes and ears, and even their noses and tastebuds.9 Theatre engaged its audience’s auditory experience through words, which playwrights wrote and actors spoke, but there was also a rich and sophisticated standard tradition of metrical rhythm, choral song, and musical instruments, all of which were components of triumphal processions, along with clapping and cheering from the audience, and carefully orchestrated sound effects. Within this

6 7 8 9

personal ambition and tragic misfortune in Plutarch, and comparisons with Timoleon, see Swain 1989. See Bradley 2009a, 212–19. On ancient approaches to synaesthesia, see Butler and Purves 2013. All translations are my own unless otherwise stated. On triumphs and theatre, see Östenberg 2009, 253–6.

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context, human voices evoked and communicated a system of characters and emotions, and architectural spaces were designed to optimise the acoustics. Theatre was also, like public ceremonies, fundamentally about looking and seeing (the Greek word theatron derives from a verb of “seeing”): masks, costumes, stage paintings, and wooden machinery were not unusual features of triumphs, and – as with the Roman triumph – competitive politicians staged increasingly extravagant theatre sets and displays.10 As with the tactile elements of the triumph that we have seen in both literary descriptions and in visual representations such as that on the Arch of Titus, interaction between characters on stage could be signaled not only through words but also through touch, embrace, and physical violence: vase-paintings show actors sitting in each other’s laps, holding the hair of another in preparation for a slaughter scene, oiling their hands in preparation for wrestling, and so on. And like the Roman triumph, the religious context of a great deal of ancient drama meant that the smells of sacrifice and burning incense were never far away from the dramatic stage, and feasting, drinking, and snacking was an integral part of both performances. Ancient drama, then, presents an illuminating model of ancient performance, which exploited various sensory qualities of sight and sound, and even smell, touch, and taste – a model about which we know a great deal. These senses heightened the dramatic experience, and – like the triumph and other religious ceremonies – helped people to clarify, evaluate, and understand the performances that unfolded in front of them. The same could be said of other iconic Roman public celebrations: the Secular Games held by Augustus in 17 BCE and vividly recounted in Horace’s Carmen Saeculare as a celebration of light, golden prosperity, and a community at one with the gods;11 the consecratio of a deceased Roman emperor marked by a vivid collective experience by the community of the emperor’s deification;12 or the inauguration of the Flavian amphitheatre, which was the subject of a sensational collection of poems by Martial, On Spectacles.13 These same features characterized spectacles in other ancient contexts: the Ptolemaia for example, a celebration established in Alexandria in the early third century BCE and held every four years to honour the ruler cult of the Ptolemies, is described in vivid detail

10 11 12 13

On the senses and theatre, see Bradley 2014, 197–205. On the Carmen Saeculare, its imagery and symbolism, see Barker 1996 and Putnam 2000. On consecrationes, see esp. Price 1987. On Martial’s Liber Spectaculorum, see the commentary by Coleman 2006. On ceremony and imperial cult in the Colosseum, see Elkins 2014. On Martial’s use of ekphrasis in his representation of Rome, see Roman 2010.

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by Callixenes of Rhodes as a rich festival of colours, musical performance, and aromatic scents that was no less spectacular than the Roman triumph.14 Some scholars have tried to calculate the range and volume of noise and music produced within these spectacles.15 Others have explored fluctuations in sensory stimuli as people moved around the city, from the pungent smells of fish-markets and tanneries to the fragrant aromas of temple districts – so that we can start creating maps showing “soundscapes” or “smellscapes” in the ancient city.16 But it is important to think beyond sensory studies as a sort of reconstruction exercise in which we imagine what it would be like to experience the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of the ancient world. We need to question why sense and sensation matter in these contexts. Is this (just) about sensationalism – the principle of animating the scene in a way that entertains onlookers and titillates their senses? What is the social effect of a community experiencing the same sensations at the same time and in the same place? And does collective multisensoriality perform a particular function in the context of public spectacles and rituals? Some ancient writers and thinkers argued that the aesthetics of public spectacle were trivial and decadent, particularly in the context of ancient theatre, so it would be wrong to assume that “sensationalism” was not on the Greco-Roman radar.17 And, as we have seen, observer participation and theatricality were both inherently embedded in the experience of spectacles like the triumph. But what did sensory perception in these contexts do to enrich and transform the community’s experience? The final sections of this chapter will suggest two directions in which we can take this question. 3

Perception, Knowledge, and Community

Above all, the senses functioned as a channel for the communication of knowledge and understanding. This was the approach to sensory perception that was foregrounded by ancient writers when they addressed how the sense organs worked. In his Tusculan Disputations, for example, Cicero talks about the senses as the five messengers that service the soul:

14 15 16 17

Callixenes’ account is preserved in Ath. 5.196–203. Vincent 2016; Veitch 2017. See the essays in Betts 2017 for a representative sample. See, for example, Arist. Poet. 6.28; Hor. Epist. 2.182–207; for discussion, see Bradley 2014, 99.

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There is no perception in the body […] but there are, as it were, passages bored from the seat of the soul (animus) to the eye and ear and nose […] It can be readily understood that it is the soul which both sees and hears, and not those parts of us that serve as windows to the soul, and yet the mind can perceive nothing through them, unless it is active and attentive. What of the fact that by using the same mind we have perception of things so utterly unlike as colour, taste, heat, smell, sound? These the soul would never have ascertained by its five messengers, unless it had been sole court of appeal and only judge of everything. Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.46

And a fragment of one of Varro’s Menippean Satires, comparing the city of Rome to the human body, describes the senses as the city gates, portals that monitored the relationship between the inside and the outside, that kept an eye, ear, and nose on the outside world: sensus portae; uenae hydragogiae; clovaca intestini The senses are the gates, the veins are the aqueducts, the sewer is the intestines. Varro, Saturarum Menippearum Fragmenta 290

In other genres, such as elegy and epigram, the world perceived by the senses was the subject of a great deal of social and intellectual enquiry. This line of enquiry was dedicated to breaking down the ancient world into the most basic units of the human environment (the sights, sounds, odours, tastes, and touches), and scrutinising the relationship between ancient perceivers and the world around them.18 It is no accident, then, that narratives of triumphs and other spectacles prioritise the description (sometimes in painstaking detail) of the sights, sounds, and other sensations of the ceremonial activities that were underway; these were the ritual components that communicated the significance of the events that were unfolding – the battles, the spoils, the mortal protagonists, the presiding deities, and so on. As we have seen, Plutarch’s account of Aemilius Paulus’ triumph and Josephus’ account of the triumph of Titus and Vespasian both employ rich ekphrasis to emphasise the use of the senses to identify and understand the various components of the spectacle: the territories that had been conquered, the battles that had been waged, 18

On the epistemological emphasis of colour perception, see Bradley 2009a, esp. Chapter 2; Sassi 2015. More generally on ancient senses and epistemology, see Manetti 1996.

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the riches that had been brought to Rome, and so on. These narratives stake a claim to representing a community perspective on these spectacles, a shared experience common to all present, and one that normally submerged any individual, deviant reading. This common sensory experience, then, galvanised the community at key moments in the religious calendar by achieving a common, collective understanding of what was unfolding before them. 4

Sensing the Divine

Although the primary function of the senses was to derive information, knowledge, and understanding of the world through colours, sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and so on, there was an influential train of thought in the ancient world that viewed human perception as limited, incomplete, and imperfect, holding that only the gods perceived everything clearly.19 These ideas were embedded in some of the earliest classical literature, which influenced and shaped Greco-Roman religious and literary world-views. When Homer appeals to the Muses for poetic inspiration in Iliad 2, he observes that they know everything because they have been present at everything: divine knowledge was derived through empirical experience, and the gods sense everything. Tell me now, O Muses that live on Olympus – for you are goddesses, and are present for everything, and know everything, whereas we hear just a rumour and know nothing – who were the captains of the Danaans and their lords. Homer, Iliad 2.484–6

Similarly, in the Homeric hymn to Demeter, Helios is evoked as the one who sees all things and hears all things, the ‘seeing-eye of gods and men’ (line 62). In the first book of Herodotus, King Croesus tests the divine knowledge of the Pythian priestess at Delphi, who replies: I know the quantity of grains of sand and the extent of the ocean, And understand the mute and hear those without voices. The smell has come to my senses of a strong-shelled tortoise boiling in a bronze vessel alongside the flesh of a lamb, under which is bronze and over which is bronze. Herodotus, Histories 1.47–8

19

I thank Ashley Clements for drawing my attention to the relevant material.

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The priestess uses sight and sound and smell to demonstrate that she senses everything and has complete understanding of everybody who seeks her oracle: she knows exactly what Croesus has been doing. The early philosopher Xenophanes argued that mortals can never achieve knowledge, only opinion (dokos). The reason they can never achieve knowledge is because they are stuck with limited perspectives, which reflect only the sum of a human’s life experience, which is limited: “if god had not made brown honey, men would think figs far sweeter than they do” (B38 DK). Because mortal senses are normally segregated, they are also subject to limits, unlike divinity, which is all-knowing and correspondingly has a perspective which has no limits, and so sees, hears, and thinks whole and as a whole. Accordingly, Xenophanes’ non-anthropomorphic god is “one god, the greatest among gods and men, neither in form nor in thought equivalent to mortals” (B23K), and this god is marked by its capacity for holistic perception and cognition: “whole (oulos) he sees, whole he thinks (noei), whole he hears” (B24 DK).20 These ideas tallied with Plato’s theory that the human body provides barriers to lucid perception, and that only after death can the mind perceive without any obstruction, like the gods. This theory is developed in several of Plato’s works, perhaps most memorably in the Timaeus, but also in the allegory of the cave in the Republic, where humans are chained so that they can only look at the flickering shadows at the back of the cave, the phenomenal world of appearance rather than the immaterial Forms that the true philosopher can perceive with the “eye of his soul”.21 Similarly, Socrates stresses in the Phaedo that sight and the other senses do not offer “accurate” or “clear” perceptions, but what they perceive is always in flux, so that: Whenever the soul makes use of the body for enquiry, either through sight or hearing or any other of the senses […] it is dragged by the body towards things that are in constant flux, and it wanders about and is confused and dizzy, like a drunken man. Plato, Phaedo 79c

These early ideas about the limits of human perception and the omniscient perspicuity of the divine were influential and far-reaching, and were reproduced and refined in later Neo-Academic, Stoic and early Christian doctrine.22 The world inhabited by the gods was lucid and sensational. For this reason, 20 21 22

For a discussion of these fragments, see Byran 2012, esp. 48–55. For a discussion of Platonic approaches to human and divine perception, see Nightingale 2016, esp. 57–62. See Bradley 2009a, esp. 59–62, 66–8, 112–15.

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public religious experience in the ancient world was transformative: by engaging the senses as fully as possible, it elevated mortals to the level of awareness experienced by the gods. The use of incense signals this idea well: incense performed an important function in covering up the stenches of sacrifice and blood, but (more significantly) it also recreated the atmosphere that the gods were supposed to experience. As Ashley Clements has demonstrated, the gods were not thought to eat real food but to feed off the scents and aromas that were present in the air (knisē, as the Greeks called it – as well as nectar and ambrosia).23 By sharing this experience, the people experienced the world like the gods did. However, this experience involved more than just smell: it also meant bright, bold colours, music and song, the smells of sacrifice and incense, the tastes of feasts and banquets, and the tactile elements of community. This was a temporary, transitional state: religious ceremonies marked rites of passage from one state to another (from war to peace, for example, as with the triumph, or from one year to the next): there has been plenty written about how smell in particular is a transitional experience.24 At the same time, these experiences were synaesthetic, breaking down the limits and barriers of human awareness and the individual senses, offering a holistic awareness of the world that was shared by the gods. This transformation was of course, like the elevation of the triumphator in the Roman triumph, a temporary one, an alternative cognitive state at the end of which the world returned to normal. 5

Conclusion

Early in his verse account of the Roman calendar, the Fasti, Ovid provides a brilliant description of the procession of new magistrates, senators, and people on the first day of the new year to the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus – reminiscent perhaps of the Roman triumphal procession. Here the full range of senses – sight, hearing, and smell – evokes the annual renewal of Roman authority and the reassertion of Roman imperial superiority: prospera lux oritur: linguis animisque favete! nunc dicenda bona sunt bona verba die. lite vacent aures, insanaque protinus absint iurgia; differ opus, livida lingua, tuum! 23 24

Clements 2015. Generally on this theme, see Howes 1987. On transitoriness and smell in ancient philosophy, see Baltussen 2015; on spatial scents and transitoriness, see Day 2017, esp. 184.

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cernis, odoratis ut luceat ignibus aether, et sonet accensis spica Cilissa focis? flamma nitore suo templorum verberat aurum et tremulum summa spargit in aede iubar. vestibus intactis Tarpeias itur in arces, et populus festo concolor ipse suo est, iamque novi praeeunt fasces, nova purpura fulget, et nova conspicuum pondera sentit ebur. colla rudes operum praebent ferienda iuvenci, quos aluit campis herba Falisca suis. Iuppiter arce suo totum cum spectat in orbem, nil nisi Romanum, quod tueatur, habet. salve, laeta dies, meliorque revertere semper, a populo rerum digna potente coli. A happy dawn arises: favour our thoughts and our hearts! Now must good words be spoken on a good day. Let our ears be free of lawsuits, and let mad disputes be banished forthwith; you malicious tongues, cease wagging! Do you see how the air shines with fragrant fires and how Cilician corn crackles on the kindled hearths? The flame with its own gleam beats on the gold of the temples and spreads a flickering light on the shrine’s roof. In untouched garments there is a procession to the Tarpeian citadel, and the people themselves are the same colour as the festival. And now the new rods of office lead the way, fresh purple gleams, and the far-seen ivory chair feels new weights. Heifers, unbroken to the yoke, offer their necks to the axe, heifers that the Faliscan grass nourished on their plains. When from his citadel Jupiter looks down on the whole world, nothing that isn’t Roman meets his eye. Hail, day of joy, and return forever happier still, day worthy to be cultivated by a people the masters of the world. Ovid, Fasti 1.71–88

At the start of his poetic celebration of Roman time in the cosmic context of Augustan Rome, Ovid presents to his readers a giant synaesthetic experience mobilising sight, sounds, smells, and touch in order to gain a full and complete appreciation of the spectacle – a rich and varied appreciation of the world Ovid is describing. The spectacle is characterised by gleaming light and colours (lux; lucet; tremulum iubar; purpura fulget), the prevalence of festival sounds (dicenda bona; sonet) and the silence of ill-omened noise (vacent aures), ceremonial fragrance (odoratis […] ignibus), sacrificial cows nourished (aluit) by

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local Italic grass, garments that are gleaming white because they are untouched (intactis), flame-light lashing (verberat) against the gleaming temples, and the ivory chair feeling (sentit) the weight of its new incumbent. It is highly significant that the Roman people are “the same colour” as the festival (populus festo concolor ipse suo): they are dressed in white that is as bright as the light around them, but they are also all one with the festival in all its senses and sensations – a community that shares experience collectively with itself and its gods. This poetic ekphrasis captures effectively a number of the themes we have been exploring in this chapter. The poet, his reader, the whole Roman people, and Jupiter himself are imagined looking over (spectat) the spectacle and identifying the precise sights, sounds, and smells that reaffirm the Roman people as master of the world (populus potens rerum, 88). As Ovid tells us, “nothing that isn’t Roman meets Jupiter’s eye”, and the cosmos is imagined to be in a state of complete unity on this day. But we must be careful not to imagine that everybody in the ancient world bought into this way of thinking about the senses and religious experience. The playful treatise On Sacrifices by the Greek polymath Lucian, writing in the 2nd century CE under the Roman Empire, sets out to rationalise why the people of his time perform religious ritual in the way they do, and to explain what he thinks the gods make of it.25 After a satirical summary of contemporary ritual behaviour, Lucian takes us on a tour de force of the divine world as it is set out by poets, imagining a scene where “the light is brighter, the sun is clearer, the stars are shinier, it is day everywhere, and the ground is of gold”. In doing so, he mimics high poetic diction (“The gods, assembled in the house of Zeus”), as if that is how the gods communicate. Lucian then pictures the gods squinting and surveying the earth to see if they can spot a fire being lit, or sacrificial smoke drifting upwards: “If anybody sacrifices, they all have a feast, opening their mouths for the smoke and drinking the blood that is spilt at the altars, just like flies; but if they dine at home, their meal is nectar and ambrosia”. This, Lucian says, is how the gods are thought to live, and why men practice divine worship in the way that they do. He then returns to a description of diverse sacrificial rituals, ranging from paupers to farmers, shepherds and goatherds, all the way up to those who can afford to sacrifice pristine animals, decked with garlands, which are slaughtered to the low sound of flutes as they bellow supposedly auspicious sounds. “Who”, Lucian asks, “would not suppose that the gods like to see all this?” He finishes with an ironic question about the theoretical purity of sacrificial sites, when the priest stands there covered in blood 25 Lucian. De sacr., esp. 1, 8–10, 12–13 (I have used the Loeb edition and translation by A. M. Harmon). On this treatise and its provocations, see the discussion by Graf 2012.

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and pulling out entrails, before “lighting a fire and putting it upon the goat, skin and all, and the sheep, wool and all”, so that “the smoke, divine and holy, mounts upward and gradually dissipates into Heaven itself”. Lucian provides a vivid illustration of the aesthetic experiences involved in a sacrificial ritual and contemporary preconceptions about divine perception that tally with some of the ideas explored earlier in this chapter. However, it is clear that his satire sets out to undermine the very logic and principles of public religious experience that were deeply embedded in ancient traditions. Lucian’s account of the sham vestiges of traditional ritual is not dissimilar from the well-known discussion in Seneca’s lost work On Superstition, which is preserved as an extended quotation in Augustine’s City of God (and so translated into a diatribe on pagan ritual). Like the content of Prudentius’ Christian poetry attacking paganism, Seneca’s Stoic attack on flamboyant pagan superstition draws attention to the sham sensationalism of it all – fake cries of grief and rejoicing, mimicked oiling, washing, and even pretend hairdressing of cult statues, pantomime shows for the delectation of the gods, and so on.26 In sum, mega-rituals like the triumph evidently orchestrated the full sensorium – sight and sound, as well as smell, taste, and touch – to activate a shared common experience among participants and spectators alike, much like spectacles both religious and secular do in the modern west. This experience promoted communal sensation (in general terms) on a sometimes giant scale, but it was also fundamentally an enlightenment: the engaged sensorium carefully discriminated the sensory components of the spectacle unfolding before those taking part and watching, empowering participants through their shared knowledge and understanding of the world and their place in it. In Greco-Roman religious ritual, this was an experience that they shared with the gods, with whom they existed as one for the duration of the spectacle. But, as Lucian, Seneca, and others demonstrate, careful discriminating perception – the keen educated eye, ear, and nose – could effectively and critically deconstruct this performance and expose it for what it really was. Bibliography Baltussen, Hans. 2015. “Ancient Philosophers on the Sense of Smell.” In Smell and the Ancient Senses, edited by Mark Bradley, 30–45. London: Routledge. 26 This section of Seneca’s On Superstition is cited in August. De civ. D. 6.10, quoted in full and discussed in Beard, North and Price 1997, II.232–4. On Prudentius’ poetic engagement with the physical environment, see O’Hogan 2016 and Hershkowitz 2017.

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Barker, Duncan. 1996. “ ‘The Golden Age is proclaimed’? The Carmen Saeculare and the Renascence of the Golden Race.” Classical Quarterly 46(2): 434–46. Beard, Mary. 2007. The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Betts, Eleanor, ed. 2017. Senses of the Empire. Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture. London: Routledge. Bradley, Mark. 2009a. Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bradley, Mark. 2009b. “The Importance of Colour on Ancient Marble Sculpture.” Art History 32: 427–57. Bradley, Mark. 2014. “Art and the Senses: the Artistry of Bodies, Stages and Cities in the Greco-Roman world.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity vol. I, edited by Jerry Toner, 183–208. London: Bloomsbury. Bradley, Mark, and Shane Butler, eds. 2014–2018. The Senses in Antiquity (6 volumes). London: Routledge. Bryan, Jenny. 2012. Likeness and Likelihood in the Presocratics and Plato. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Butler, Shane and Alex Purves, eds. 2013. Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses. Durham: Acumen. Classen, Constance, ed. 2014. A Cultural History of the Senses (6 volumes). London: Bloomsbury. Clements, Ashley. 2015. “Divine Scents and Presence.” In Smell and the Ancient Senses, edited by Mark Bradley, 46–59. London: Routledge. Coleman, Kathleen, ed. 2006. Martial, Liber Spectaculorum. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Costantini, Michel, Françoise Graziani, and Stéphanie Rolet. 2006. Le défi de l’art: Philostrate, Callistrate et l’image sophistique. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Day, Joanna. 2017. “Scents of Place and Colours of Smell: Fragranced Entertainment in Ancient Rome.” In Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, edited by Eleanor Betts, 176–92. London: Routledge. Elkins, Nathan. 2014. “The Profession and Placement of Imperial Cult Images in the Colosseum.” Papers of the British School at Rome 82: 73–107. Favro, Diane. 2014. “Curating the Memory of the Roman Triumph.” In Memoria Romana: Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory, edited by Karl Galinsky, 85–101. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Graf, Fritz. 2012. “A Satirist’s Sacrifices: Lucian’s On Sacrifices and the Contestation of Religious Traditions.” In Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice, edited by Jennifer Wright Knust and Zsuzsanna Varhelyi, 289–305. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2010. La fabrique des couleurs: histoire du paysage sensible des grecs anciens. Paris: De Boccard.

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Hershkowitz, Paula. 2017. Prudentius, Spain, and Late Antique Christianity: Visual Culture and the Cult of Martyrs. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Howes, David. 1987. “Olfaction and Transition: An Essay on the Ritual Uses of Smell.” Canadian Review of Sociology and Anthropology 24: 398–416. Künzl, Ernst. 1988. Der römische Triumph: Siegesfeiern im antiken Rom. Munich: Beck. Loar, Matthew, Carolyn MacDonald, and Dan-el Padilla Peralta, eds. 2018. Rome, Empire of Plunder. The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Manetti, Giovanni, ed. 1996. Knowledge through Signs: Ancient Semiotic Theories and Practices. Turhout: Brepols. Nightingale, Andrea. 2016. “Sight and the Philosophy of Vision: Democritus, Plato and Aristotle.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 54–67. London: Routledge. O’Hogan, Cillian. 2016. Prudentius and the Landscapes of Late Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Östenberg, Ida. 2009. Staging the World. Spoils, Captives and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Östenberg, Ida, Simon Malmberg, and Jonas Bjørnebye, eds. 2015. The Moving City. Processions, passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome. London: Bloomsbury. Price, Simon. 1987. “From Noble Funerals to Divine Cult: the Consecration of Roman Emperors.” In Rituals of Royalty. Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies, edited by David Cannadine and Simon Price, 56–105. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Putnam, Michael. 2000. Horace’s Carmen Saeculare, Ritual Magic and the Poet’s Art. New Haven: Yale University Press. Roman, Luke. 2010. “Martial and the City of Rome.” Journal of Roman Studies 100: 88–117. Sassi, Maria. 2015. “Perceiving Colors.” In A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, edited by Pierre Destrée and Penelope Murray, 262–73. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Swain, Simon. 1989. “Plutarch’s Aemilius and Timoleon.” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 38(3): 314–334. Veitch, Jeffrey. 2017. “Soundscape of the Street: Architectural Acoustics at Ostia.” In Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, edited by Eleanor Betts, 54–70. London: Routledge. Versnel, Henk. 1970. Triumphus: An Enquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph. Leiden: Brill. Vincent, Alexandre. 2016. Jouer pour la cité: Une histoire sociale et politique des musiciens professionnels de l’Occident romain. Rome: École française de Rome.

Chapter 7

Sensorium, Sensescapes, Synaesthesia, Multisensoriality: A New Way of Approaching Religious Experience in Antiquity? Adeline Grand-Clément Classicists are now fully aware that sensory perceptions played an important role in the shaping of the religious experience of worshippers in the ancient world, by contributing to the establishment and strengthening of communication with the gods. Sensory effects were an essential component of ritual performance and contributed to its efficacy, building a bridge between the tangible world of human beings and the invisible sphere of the divine. Moreover, sensorial stimuli also operated horizontally, creating an “affective community” among the group of worshippers who shared a common experience – although the experience may, in fact, have differed somewhat depending on the gender, age, social status, and religious function of each individual.1 If we want to understand better the meaning of ancient rituals, we should, thus, pay attention to the sensory models of ancient societies, that is, to the ways in which the senses were organised and to the values and meanings that were attributed to sensory perceptions.2 Indeed, each culture has its own “sensorium”, its own “way of sensing” the world. In order to make sense of the world, the sensations perceived by the body must be cognitively assembled in terms of received cultural categories. The “sensorium” is, therefore, a historical and cultural construction based upon specific hierarchies and combinations of the senses, as David Howes and Constance Classen, among others, have clearly demonstrated.3 1 Many studies have focussed on the multisensorial dimension of ancient rituals: see, for instance, Pentcheva 2011; Brulé 2012; Rendu-Loisel 2013; Ashbrook Harvey 2014; Mehl 2015; Grand-Clément and Rendu-Loisel 2017; Grand-Clément and Ugaglia 2017. 2 Many anthropologists have already acknowledged such a necessity, as Zoila Mendoza points out: “the study of public performance, ritual, and the religious experience in any society, needs to start from a careful understanding of how the senses are organized in such society” (Mendoza 2015, 137). On the study of the sensorium as a necessity for the study of religious practices, see also Meyer 2006 and Promey 2014. For an attempt at bringing together neurological, cognitive, and anthropological approaches, see Bull and Mitchell 2015. 3 See, for instance, Classen 1997, Howes 2003, Classen and Howes 2014. See also the information provided on the website of the Center for Sensory Studies at Concordia University:

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However, historians of ancient religions face more problems in their attempts to explore the sensoria of Greek or Roman people than do anthropologists or historians of certain other eras.4 A particular difficulty is the question of how we can access the ways in which ancient people felt in order to reconstruct the sensory dimension of their religious experience. Unlike anthropologists and ethnographers, we classicists do not have access to the direct experiences of the people we study. We have to grapple with a scarcity of documentation and the difficulty of interpreting what documents we do have in terms of the sensations they communicate; texts and images provide only a representation, an interpretation, a reconstruction of what people actually felt. The evidence cannot, therefore, give a precise description of the actual sensorial environment of the time but only a glimpse at the religious “sensescape”.5 Moreover, documents are too few and too allusive to allow us to grasp the whole setting and dynamics of the rituals they describe. This fact is important because it implies that we cannot follow the path paved by the anthropologist Tim Ingold, in his promotion of a new “sensory anthropology” – that is a ‘re-thought’ anthropology, with an interdisciplinary approach, informed by theories of sensory perception (M. Merleau-Ponty) and ecological psychology (J. Gibson) – over the more traditional “anthropology of the senses” – which is rather a trend in anthropology, focusing on sensory variations across cultures.6 Consequently, it is difficult to know exactly how rituals interacted with the sensorium in order to create an atmosphere that was completely distinct from the sensorial environment of everyday life. This paper aims to show that, despite the significant differences between the research approaches available to classicists and anthropologists, some notions, methods, and case studies from the field of anthropology may well prove useful and inspiring for classicists interested in the relationship between sensoria and religious experiences. These tools have the potential to help historians of ancient religions to clarify their own terminology and methodology, and to shed new light upon the documentary sources on which they rely. The first part of this chapter thus considers one particular notion that

http://www.sensorystudies.org/. On the birth and rise of the anthropology of the senses as a field, see Colon 2013, 7–18 and Gélard 2017. 4 On the methodology and the problems, see Corbin 1990. 5 The notion of “paysage sensible” was promoted in French scholarship by the historian Alain Corbin. According to him, a landscape is a “reading” of the surrounding environment, a way to look at/ to listen to/ to sense it (see Gélard 2017, 39–50). See also Candau and Wathelet 2013. 6 Ingold 2000. For a sense of the differences and the debate still going on between “sensory anthropology” and “anthropology of the senses”, see Pink 2010 and Howes 2010.

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arises frequently in sensory studies: “synaesthesia”, the interplay of the senses. To what extent might this concept be relevant to the study of the religious experiences of ancient societies? And which kinds of evidence can we use to reflect upon it? The second part of the chapter will consider two (Greek) case studies in which the creation of a specific sensescape might affect the body and feelings of the worshippers. Hopefully, they will be worth reflecting on for the study of Roman religion. 1

What Are We Talking about When We Talk about Synaesthesia?

1.1 The Merging of the Senses First of all, let me stress the profound gulf between our contemporary ways of perceiving and sensing the world and those of ancient peoples. In the Greek way of thinking, light, smells, and sounds were conceived of as concrete fluids emanating from things and coming into contact with the human body. Studies examining the ancient perception of colour have revealed the great permeability of sensorial data.7 For instance, the Greeks highly prized what they called poikilia, that is to say an elaborated combination of colours, forms, and materials that provided pleasure by stimulating all the senses.8 The ancient experience of colour had, therefore, a very close relationship with the other senses: touch, smell, taste, and hearing. If philosophers such as Aristotle drew a distinction between the five senses and identified a hierarchy among them,9 other literary texts, especially examples of archaic Greek poetry, insisted on their merging. The interconnection between the senses is also clear from the lexicon. Take, for example, the semantics of certain colour words, which extend beyond the chromatic field. Chlôros, for example, signifies yellow-green but also fresh, moist. Argos, meanwhile, means white, light, and swift. In Homeric poems, the dazzling light reflected from bronze armour is closely linked to the sound it produces on the battlefield. We also find puzzling expressions in some Greek literary works, such as references to the lily-like (leirioeis) voice of the cicadas, the pale-green (chlôros) song of the nightingale, the sweet-honey-like (meligèrus) voice of the Sirens, or the many-coloured (poikilos) hymn. All these images, which are also to be found later on in Latin poetry,10 were seen in the 19th century as a manifestation of the deficiency of visual perception on the part of Homer and Archaic Greek people. Once this idea had been abandoned, 7 Grand-Clément 2011 and Bradley 2009. 8 Grand-Clément 201510 9 On the subtlety of the Aristotelian view of the senses, see the Introduction of this volume, p. 6. 10 De Felice 2014.

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such images were instead interpreted as being mere poetic metaphors, based on the transfer of sensory input from one sensory field to another. Sensory overlaps of this sort were described by philologists as examples of “synaesthesia”.11 The degree of attention paid to the notion of synaesthesia has increased notably in recent classical scholarship, due to the rise of sensory studies.12 Significantly, the first volume of the new collection “The Senses in Antiquity” was entitled Synaesthesia.13 In their helpful introduction, the editors (Shane Butler and Alex Purves) consider the various meanings – both modern and ancient – that have been assigned to the term “synaesthesia”,14 to which we shall return below. However, such reflection on the meaning of the term is, unfortunately, rare in other studies, with the word frequently being used as a label without any clear definition of its meaning. Classicists should, thus, ask themselves: What exactly do we mean by “synaesthesia”? And might this notion be of real value for a historian of ancient religions? 1.2 Two Current Definitions of Synaesthesia: Neurosciences / Literature The problem is that “synaesthesia” has taken on different meanings over time. The word first appeared in modern European languages during the 19th century and has so far been used principally to designate two different types of phenomena.15 First, neuroscientists describe as “synaesthesia” a neurological condition that affects individuals who regularly perceive one kind of sensory stimulus simultaneously as another. That is to say that the stimulation of one sensory modality is accompanied immediately by a perception in one or more other modalities: for instance, when hearing a sound, a synaesthete might immediately see a colour. Neuroscientists are still trying to track the origin of this atypical mode of perception in the brain, and some have recently advocated for a deeper analysis of the role played by education and memory.16

11

The first scholar who used this notion in order to interpret Greek poetry was W. B. Stanford (Greek Metaphors) in 1936, followed by E. Irwin in her stimulating study of the colour lexicon in Greek poetry: Irwin 19742 12 The rise of sensory studies in current classical scholarship can be seen on the academic blog created in 2013 by E. Betts and J. Veitch: https://sensorystudiesinantiquity.com/3 13 Butler and Purves 2013. The editors explain in their introduction that their aim is to move beyond the visual paradigm and to offer a synaesthesic reading of the ancient world, but there is, unfortunately, nothing on the topic of religion in this volume. However, the subsequent volumes of the collection “The Senses in Antiquity” offer some papers dealing with religious matter: Bradley 2015; Squire 2016, Rudolph 2018, and Purves 20184 14 Butler and Purves 2013, 1–25 15 For a history of the word, see Tempesti 19916 16 Hupé and Dojat 2015.

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Second, the word “synaesthesia” is used in the fields of philology and literature to designate an “intersensory metaphor”, that is a metaphor in which a term relating to one kind of sense-impression is used to describe sense-impressions of another kind. In this case, synaesthesia refers to a way of describing the world, rather than to a way of experiencing the world. We find many synaesthesic images in the work of the French poet Baudelaire – who was, it is worth noting, greatly influenced by Archaic Greek poetry. One of his most famous poems, Correspondances (1857), deals with the interplay between the senses. It is only necessary to quote a few lines to gain a sense of his use of such images: There are odours succulent as young flesh, Sweet as flutes, and green as any grass […]17 Baudelaire evokes through metaphors a state of intense pleasure and full enjoyment of life, in which fragrances are perceived as a skin that can be touched, as a sound that can be heard, or as a colour that can be seen. Let us return to our ancient texts and to the merging of sensations that can be found within them. Are either of these two meanings of “synaesthesia” relevant for us? My answer will be negative. Not all Greek poets and writers were synaesthetes, in the neuroscientific meaning of the term. Nor do I think that they typically wrote like Baudelaire, for the sensory overlaps that we find in Greek literature were not mere literary metaphors. Indeed, there is a significant difference between ancient and modern poetry. Despite being transmitted to us as written texts, the Greek poems were originally part of the setting of a performance: they were sung and heard during collective gatherings, not read silently by isolated individuals.18 The meetings were themselves parts of social rituals and were characterised by a specific sensory atmosphere (think, for instance, of the banquets, or of the festivals at which hymns were performed and accompanied by dances). Greek poets, “the masters of truth” as Marcel Detienne called them,19 were supposed to be inspired by the Muses and played an active role in the communication with the divine. The words that they used to express ideas, to convey values, or to arouse feelings, were not chosen at random. The poetic formulae deeply influenced the shaping of a collective memory within Greek societies. The intersensory expressions and 17 18 19

Baudelaire, “Correspondances”, Les fleurs du Mal, 1857 (transl. R. Howard). In French : “Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants, Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies”. Calame 2005. Detienne 1967.

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terms used by the poets should, therefore, be read as the testimony of a specific organisation of the sensory experience: they both reflected and shaped a common way of sensing the world.20 Consequently, I think that the Greek documentary evidence involves a third kind of synaesthesia, similar to that which David Howes calls “cultural synaesthesia”. 1.3 “Cultural Synaesthesia”: A Tool for the Historian The anthropologist David Howes uses the notion of “cultural synaesthesia” to refer to certain idiomatic intersensory crossings and overlaps identified by ethnographers in their fieldwork, crossings and overlaps which are not individual-specific phenomena but, rather, convey a common way of sensing the world. Howes gives some significant examples of “cultural synaesthesia”.21 In Melanesia, especially in the Trobriand Islands, people speak of “hearing a smell”. This does not signify that they are all poets like Baudelaire and nor is the expression a rhetorical device. Rather, this language refers to a prominent feature of communication and social interaction in Melanesian society. Indeed, Melanesian people conceive of a conversation between two individuals as a face-to-face involving two bodies characterised by their own olfactory ranges. Both speakers, seeking to strengthen the power of their bodily presence and of their words, may use odoriferous substances (oil, for example). Smell is, therefore, strongly connected with the flow of the speech. The research led by David Howes stresses the great variability of cultural configurations and the necessity of connecting verbal expressions involving the senses with social practices. This is, I think, an interesting point for those of us working on ancient religion. I also want to show that this third meaning of synaesthesia might be related to the etymology of the word. Indeed, the noun synaesthesis and the verb synaisthanomai existed in Greek, although they are very rarely used in our surviving texts. These terms referred both to the shared experience of a group in certain collective gatherings,22 and to the whole range of simultaneous perceptions that constitute an individual’s encounter with the world and that might lead to a state of full consciousness.23 The second part of the meaning therefore has much to do with “poly-sensoriality” and “multi-sensoriality”,

20 21 22 23

This sensorial community also included the divinities themselves, whose invisible presence could be felt by the mortals thanks to the skill of the poets. See, for instance, Howes 2006, 2011, and 2015a. For instance, Arist. Eth. Eud. 1245b22–24, and Plut. Vit. Sol. 18.6 (who uses the verb synaisthanomai for what we would call “empathy”). For instance, Arist. Hist. nat. 534b18, Arist. Eth. Nic. 1170b4; Plut. Mor. 2.75b–75c.

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which refer to the effective combination of different sensorial effects.24 But there is a subtle difference: synaesthesis alludes to such a combination as it is consciously perceived and interpreted by an individual or a group, against a specific cultural background. Actually, the same combination of sensory stimuli (polysensoriality) does not necessarily affect people in the same ways: their response (synaesthesis) is conditioned by their social and cultural background. Synaesthesis therefore implies an arrangement of the multisensorial information that produces meaning: this is precisely what David Howes had in mind when he shaped the notion of “cultural synaesthesia”. Another interesting part of his research lies in the focus placed upon the means of transmission of the “techniques of the senses used by people to apprehend and make sense of the world around them”.25 In that respect, ritual performances played a significant role, since they were part of this educational process of training the senses. Keeping this in mind, we should track the “synaesthesic” expressions that we find in ancient texts in order to determine whether they reflect the specificity of some ritual setting in terms of a sensory arrangement. This is one possible way in which we might enter and explore the ancient sensorium. But what others are available? This leads us back to the question I raised in the introduction: How did Ancient rituals deal with the senses? What kind of evidence shall we consider? 2

The Shaping of the Religious Sensescape: Playing with Sensitivity

2.1 Rituals and Sensory Regimes The analysis of case studies by anthropologists has revealed that the efficacy of rituals rests on various sensory configurations that are particularly well-suited to rendering the transcendental sensible.26 As a starting point, I suggest distinguishing three main sensory regimes: multisensoriality (a specific combination of different sensory effects that differs from the everyday context), hypersensoriality (a profusion that overstimulates the body of the worshippers), and hyposensoriality (the deprivation of one or many senses, for instance if the ritual is performed by night or in a cave). The alteration of the ordinary sensory regime might be achieved by making changes to one or more of a number of 24 25 26

As psychologists have shown, “each relative appraisal of a situation, of a place, or of an object, rests on the multi-sensory reading of information” (Candau and Wathelet 2013, 216). Howes 2015b, 154. Colon 2013.

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different parameters. First, the space and the time chosen for the performance of the ritual: archaeologists are becoming more and more interested in the way in which places, especially sanctuaries, were sensed by people.27 In some cases, as in rituals performed in caves or at night, the dark atmosphere would have been propitious for altering the worshippers’ states of consciousness, making them more receptive for an encounter with the divine.28 Second, the objects and substances that were used had specific sensory properties that gave them a kind of agency.29 Third, the gestures and movements performed by the worshippers were meaningful. It is far less easy to reconstruct this parameter, but we can use iconography to help us: painted and sculptural images conveyed strong messages and values among the audiences for whom they were intended (some of them being illiterate) and thus provide important information about ritual practices and gestures. Ancient sculptors and painters found that certain iconographical tools could be used in order to enable the viewer to feel/imagine the sensorium associated with the worship of the gods.30 Let me take two examples of the ways in which a new “sensescape” might be created in religious contexts, in order to analyse the effect that the new configuration might have on the worshippers. The first example is linked to the holy shrine of Aphrodite as it is described in a poem by Sappho. In this case, hypersensoriality and sensory fullness are taken as characteristics of the sanctuary as it is imagined – a kind of paradise. The second example will show us another means of constructing the religious sensescape, this time through cultic regulations which aimed at establishing a regime of sensory restraint – that is to say, at first sight at least, a regime of hyposensoriality. 2.2 The Wonderful Shrine of Aphrodite Sappho was a poetess on the island of Lesbos who composed poems during the late 7th and early 6th centuries BCE that were to be sung during weddings, funerals, and religious festivals to the gods. In one of her best-preserved fragments, she describes the shrine of Aphrodite (Sappho, fr. 2 Lobel-Page 2): 27

See, for example, the inspiring book by Hamilakis, which stresses the memorial dimension of Minoan architecture and decoration: Hamilakis 2013. 28 Dark places may exacerbate the sensory abilities and lead to a state of trance: Ustinova 2009. For a challenging approach to altered states of consciousness that associates anthropology and the neurosciences, see Dumas, Fortier and González 2017. 29 I do think that the multisensorial affordances of materials such as wool, blood, oil, or water must be considered if one wishes to understand the efficacy of rituals. For some case studies, see Grand-Clément 2016. 30 For instance, the gesture of sprinkling incense on the altar suggests both haptic and olfactory sensations (Huet 2008).

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[…] Here to me from Krete to this holy temple Where is your graceful grove Of apple trees and altars smoking with frankincense. And in it cold water makes a clear sound through Apple branches and with roses the whole place Is shadowed and down from radiant-shaking leaves Sleep comes dropping. And in it a horse meadow has come into bloom With spring flowers and breezes Like honey are blowing […] In this place you Kypris taking up In gold cups delicately Nectar mingled with festivities pour.31 Sappho describes the shrine of Aphrodite as a marvelous and peaceful place where all the senses merge, a harmonious conjunction that leads to a feeling of perfection and full pleasure. We have the awesome garden with the fruits and the flowers, the fragrance of incense, the clear sound of pure water, the shine of gold, the taste of nectar, the honey-sweetness of the breeze, and so on. Obviously, the description of this ideal sensescape falls into the category of “hypersensoriality”, since the sensory stimulations are so powerful that they go far beyond human perception. One might conclude that this religious sensescape is pure fiction and that Sappho plays with the imagination of her audience. But I think the point of the image that is conjured is rather more subtle and complex than that. In order to see this, we need to look at it from a different perspective, adopting the viewpoint of the worshippers. The poem is a prayer addressed to Aphrodite and the description sounds like an appealing invitation to the goddess of desire. Sappho wants the goddess to come and to fill the shrine with her divine and radiant presence, with her benevolent charis. The poem was composed to be sung during religious festivals dedicated to the goddess, perhaps by the choirs of young girls whom Sappho was training in Lesbos. The multi-sensorial sacred landscape evoked in the poem probably refers to the shrine where the festivals were performed. Each element cast into relief by Sappho in her description played an important role in performing a ritual. The wood was necessary for the lighting of the 31

Translation Carson 2002, 6–7.

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fire on the altar. Flowers were used to make scented and colourful garlands to adorn the shrine or to be worn by the devotees. Fruits might be non-bloody offerings dedicated to the goddess, which might also have been eaten by the participants or the ministers of the cult. Incense was burnt on the altar both to call for the divinity to come and to purify the atmosphere. Golden cups were used for the libations poured on the altars and accompanied by prayers. Water was required for the purification before the performance of the ritual. Even honey, alluded to briefly, might have been mixed with liquids for the libations.32 Nothing in the description is chosen at random; the multisensorial setting is carefully arranged. It is part of the offering to Aphrodite, part of the ritual performance (with the musicality contributing to the sensoriality). The hymn, which is addressed to the goddess who is invited to come, thus creates the soundscape for the epiphany, but also for the shared experience of the worshippers. Indeed, for the Greek devotees of Aphrodite attending the ritual, the poem expressed through words, and therefore intensified, what they could actually feel through their body at that moment. The hymn thus helped the participants to embody more deeply the memory of the ritual, and to do so collectively. But there is more: the poem could maintain its efficacy even after the ritual had already ended. Each time it was sung, the poem would have sounded to the audience’s ears as a powerful reminder of the very specific sensorial atmosphere created during the festivals performed for the goddess. The audience was thus directly involved in the evocation of the shrine, and could experience through words the sensorial realm of the ritual as if they were performing it and thus communicating with the goddess hic et nunc. This is what the Greeks might have called synaesthesis: a multi-sensorial individual experience to be felt and incorporated by the members of an audience (and re-enacted at each performance), and a collective and shared experience that was transmitted through time. 2.3 Re-ordering the Sensorium My second case study will deal with another sensory regime: that of hyposensoriality. We know that the Greek rituals had to be fulfilled according to certain specific norms. Some of these norms, which were set up at the entrance of the shrine or communicated by the officials, aimed at controlling the sensory background in order to establish harmony and order (cosmos, eucosmia). Our main source on this topic comes from epigraphy. A series of Greek inscriptions, previously called “sacred laws” by modern scholars, provides us with a great deal 32

Mehl 2017.

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of information about the various rules applied in sanctuaries.33 Interestingly for our purposes, many of these regulations were engraved during the Roman period. Unfortunately, they are often quite short, as in the case of this 2nd or 1st century BCE regulation from Sarapieion C in Delos, which may belong to the cult of an Egyptian deity, possibly Isis: “Do not come after drinking or in bright-coloured clothes” (ἀπ’ οἴνου μὴ προσιέναι μηδὲ ἐν ἀνθινοῖς).34 One of the best preserved and lengthiest inscriptions (194 lines) is the law regulating the Mysteries in Andania (in the Peloponnese) and the organisation of the big procession that took place each year in honour of the Megaloi theoi, Demeter and other gods. The inscription, engraved circa 23 BCE, has been well studied.35 It contains many restrictions, mainly regarding the attire and dress of the participants (especially the female participants, who are particularly controlled by the gunaikonomos).36 I quote here only a short passage (l.15–16): “Those being initiated in the Mysteries must be barefoot and wear white clothes” (οἱ τελούμενοι τὰ μυστήρια ἀνυπόδετοι ἔστωσαν καὶ ἐχόντω τὸν εἱματισμὸν λευκόν). Significantly, this is the only clothing regulation that is valid for both male and female devotees, whereas the end of the sentence refers exclusively to women: “the women wearing neither transparent clothes nor borders on their mantels more than half a finger wide”. Indeed, many of the Greek ritual norms deal with the attire of the worshippers. Scholars have tried to identify the reasons lying behind these cultic clothing regulations and have proposed some valuable interpretations: old religious taboos linked to ritual purity (hence the necessity of purifying the sanctuary in case of transgression);37 pragmatic considerations about factors that might distract attention from the solemnity of the rites;38 and attempts at restricting the aristocratic display of power and wealth.39 It is clear from our documentary evidence that clothing regulations were particularly concerned with women. In a significant number of inscriptions, colourful dress, make-up, elaborate 33

A very useful online edition is currently being completed by a Belgian team (J. M. Carbon, S. Peels and V. Pirenne-Delforge): http://cgrn.ulg.ac.be. This is more helpful than the previous edition provided by F. Sokolowski (LSAM, LSCG, LSS). See Carbon and Pirenne-Delforge 2012. 34 CGRN 173, transl. J.-M. Carbon and S. Peels. 35 CGRN 222. See Deshours 2006 (her volume provides a useful discussion of the historical context of the cults in the region: 145–222) and Gawlinski 2012. 36 Gawlinski 2012, 107–134. 37 Parker 1996, 83. 38 As Robert Parker argues, the prohibition of bright-coloured clothing or jewellery might be a means by which to exclude prostitutes (Parker 1996, 83 n. 36). For purity rules as an attempt at avoiding potential disturbance during rituals, see Chaniotis 2006, 234–238. 39 On Greek cultic clothing regulations, see Mills 1984; Culham 1986; Jones 1999.

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hair-adornment, and jewels were prohibited or were confiscated by the cultic officials in order to be offered to the divinity. This was often the case for shrines or festivals dedicated to Demeter, in particular in the Peloponnese.40 In this case, the cultic norms have been more specifically interpreted as a means by which the male authorities could control the behaviour of women by restricting their attire.41 However, another purpose of all these clothing regulations was to reinforce, among the participants of the cult, the feeling of being part of the same community by the blurring of the differences of social status. All had to share the same emotional experience when entering the shrine or during the festivals.42 That is also why, inside the sanctuary, some kinds of sensorial restrictions prevailed. All the worshippers were expected to see, hear, feel, and smell the presence of the divine. Nothing was to interfere with their common experience. We can consider the example of the prohibition of shoes. Half a dozen inscriptions, ranging from the Hellenistic to the Roman period and coming from different parts of the Greek world, claim that, on certain occasions, it was necessary to be barefoot in order to take part in a festival or to enter a sacred precinct. Very often, the concern is with ritual purity.43 For instance, at the entrance to the shrine of Despoina and Demeter in Lykosoura, a 3rd century BCE inscription advertised to the (female) worshippers that shoes (hupodèmata) were prohibited, along with golden objects, rings, and purple, bright-coloured, or black clothes.44 We find a similar rule in Delos, from the 2nd century BCE, for those entering the sanctuary of Zeus Kynthios and Athena Kynthia, who, we learn from the inscription, should be dressed in white.45 On the island of Chios, during the 1st century CE, female participants at the festival of the goddess (presumably Demeter) were expected to be barefoot (anèlipodes) and to wear a clean dress.46 In Lindos, during the 3rd century CE, the devotee had to enter the shrine barefoot (anupodetous).47 At the same period in Pergamon, the one who wanted to spend the night in the sanctuary of Asclepios had to be dressed in white, to bear an olive wreath, to leave his hair 40 Grand-Clément 2017. 41 Ogden 2002. 42 On rituals as “emotionally loaded activities”, see Chaniotis 2006 (esp. 211). In the case of the festivals honouring Demeter, such as the Thesmophoria, the female worshippers were invited to share the feelings that the goddess experienced when looking for her daughter, who had been abducted by Hades. 43 Parker 1996, 177. 44 CGRN 126, lines 6–7. 45 LSS 59, line 15. 46 LSAM 9, lines 3–5. 47 Lindos II, 487, line 8.

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unbound, to wear no ring, no belt, no gold, and to be barefoot (anupodètos).48 I have already mentioned the case of the Andanian procession, which was led over more than ten kilometers through the countryside from Messene (perhaps from the sanctuary to Demeter and the Dioskuroi) to Andania: the diagramma prescribed that all the initiates be barefoot (anupodetos).49 This prescription might have affected their sensorial experience of the ritual. Finally, we find other cultic rules prohibiting sandals or footwear (hupodèsi), because they were made of leather. The prohibition went with another concerning the introduction of animal skins to the shrine. This was the case for the shrine of the goddess Alektrôna (around 300 BCE) at Ialysos on Rhodes, where it was explicitly said that it might be displeasing for the gods,50 and also at Eresos (2nd century BCE).51 Whatever the precise purpose of the ruling authority might have been, the prohibition of shoes directly affected the worshippers. The taking off of shoes not only contributed to the drawing of a clear distinction between the outside and the inside but also made the worshipper feel like a guest entering a space pertaining to the gods. Moreover, the prohibition of footwear avoided the noise of the shoes beating the ground and thus induced silence. It therefore helped to guarantee what the Greeks called euphêmia, i.e. the appropriate ritual soundscape, which might be produced by total silence, prayers, acclamations, or hymns.52 Further, worshippers had not only to comply with the ritual prescription but were themselves wholly involved, through their body, in the production of euphêmia. Through their actions they became part of the whole ritual setting. Besides, when walking barefoot they could also feel more clearly and directly the contact with the ground, the path, the temperature and texture of the grass, earth, or stone pavement. The worshippers had to adapt their gait, paying more attention to the position of their body and the movement of their feet. They became more fully conscious of what they were doing, and their sensory abilities were increased in an unusual way during the walk. Of course, this unusual experience might have had a greater effect on rich people, who were more used to wearing shoes in the context of everyday life, than on the poor, who might have been more familiar with the exposure of their feet to their surroundings. 48 49 50 51 52

LSAM 14, lines 9–11. For an attempt at reconstructing the processional route, see Gawlinski 2012, 33–59. CGRN 90, lines 25–26. LSCG 124, line 17. Gödde 2003. On acclamations, as a very important aspect of ancient rituals, see Chaniotis 2009.

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When we study ritual norms, we should, thus, ask ourselves what kind of effect the sensory regulation might produce on the body of the worshippers.53 In the case of the prohibition of shoes, the effect induced depended on the context: a worshipper did not undergo the same experience entering the sanctuary (Delos), taking part in a long procession through the countryside (Andania), or dancing in a choral performance. Each regulation needs to be considered carefully in the light of its local contexts. Moreover, we have to be cautious when interpreting the ritual regulation and the kind of sensory regime it generated. Indeed, to be barefoot might appear as a form of constraint at first sight, but I have argued elsewhere that taking off one’s shoes should also be considered as a means of freeing the body. The same can be said of the prohibition of headbands, veils, jewels, or belts: on certain occasions, the female body was released from its ordinary bonds and women could move and feel more freely than they were used to doing in other public spaces.54 A good testimony for the freeing effects of such prohibitions can be found in Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter (3rd century BCE). The end of the poem evokes women taking part in a procession honouring the goddess. Callimachus stresses that all the female participants, whether they are initiates or not, are walking without sandals (apedilôtoi) and without hairbands (anampukes).55 Such attire was clearly meant to facilitate the communication with Demeter, helping women to benefit from her protection: “And as unsandalled and with hair unbound we walk the city, so shall we have foot and head unharmed forever”. The general atmosphere of the procession sounds joyful and the festival is performed to guarantee prosperity: it points rather to sensory fullness than to sensory deprivation. This brief glimpse at Greek ritual norms suggests that it is sometimes hard to distinguish between the three categories of sensory regime that I roughly sketched out at the beginning of the section. Indeed, what might have appeared on a first appraisal to be a regime of sensory restraint can also be interpreted as a reconfiguration or a distortion of the ordinary sensorium, a practice that aims to exacerbate (rather than deprive) the sensitivity of the worshippers. Our documentation will never permit a full comprehension “from the inside” of the sensorial universe of ancient worshippers. We will never have direct access to the actual religious experience felt by Greek or Roman devotees. Nevertheless, entering into discussions and collaborations with ethnologists and anthropologists who perform fieldwork may open up interesting

53 LSAM 6. 54 Grand-Clément 2017. 55 Callim. Hymn 6, 124.

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comparative approaches and new perspectives.56 In this chapter, I have presented three different definitions of the term synaesthesia and have tried to show that it is only the third, the “cultural synaesthesia” originally conceptualised in the field of anthropology, that can be of any real use in the study of ancient rituals. Indeed, “cultural synaesthesia” is linked to social practices and, thus, among them, to the performance of rituals and to the transmission of a specific way of sensing. But in order to track particular forms of “cultural synaesthesia”, we have to adopt the point of view of the worshippers, which is to say that we have to read beyond what the sources explicitly tell us. We considered two kinds of documents which brought to the fore the ways in which the religious experience of the worshippers could be shaped: a hymnic poem by Sappho and a series of cultic inscriptions. In the first case, it appeared that the poem that was heard and sung during festivals for Aphrodite had a strong influence on the sensorial and emotional state of the devotees, and on their comprehension and memory of rituals. From the second case we learned that the worshippers had to cope with cultic norms that tended to regulate their behaviour within the sacred space. The rules had an impact on their way of sensing, but this effect was not necessarily perceived as a constraint. Rather, the function it performed was to help the devotees become more receptive to communication with the divine. I would like to add that, in both cases, the sensorial (re)configuration was constructed in accordance with the local traditions and with the identity of the god or the goddess involved (Aphrodite, Demeter, Isis, Asclepios …). Indeed, many shrines and cults had their own “colouring”, their own “flavour”, a distinctive hallmark that helped to identify them within the broad Greek religious landscape. Taking the sensorium into account in religious studies could, therefore, help us also to understand better the construction of the divine in ancient societies.

Abbreviations

Lindos II Blinkenberg, Christian. 1941. Lindos. Fouilles de l’Acropole 1902–1914. Vol. II. Inscriptions, publiées en grande partie d’après les copies de K. F. Kinch, avec un appendice contenant diverses autres inscriptions rhodiennes. Berlin: De Gruyter. 56

This was the aim of the interdisciplinary research program funded by the Idex of Toulouse: “Synaesthesia. Experimenting the divine and polysensoriality in the Ancient worlds. A comparative and interdisciplinary Approach” (2015–2017). The team was composed of ancient historians and anthropologists. An academic blog was created in order to report on progress made by the team: http://synaesthes.hypotheses.org/.

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LSAM

Sokolowski, Franciszek. 1955. Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure. Paris: De Boccard. LSCG Sokolowski, Franciszek. 1969. Lois sacrées des cités grecques. Paris: De Boccard. LSS Sokolowski, Franciszek. 1962. Lois sacrées des cités grecques. Supplément. Paris: De Boccard. CGRN Carbon, Jan-Mathieu, Peels, Saskia and Pirenne-Delforge, Vinciane, A Collection of Greek Ritual Norms (CGRN), Liège 2016– (http://cgrn.ulg .ac.be, consulted in 2018).

Bibliography Ashbrook Harvey, Susan. 2014. “The Senses in Religion: Piety, Critique, Competition.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 91–113. London: Bloomsbury. Bradley, Mark. 2009. Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bradley, Mark, ed. 2015. Smell and the Ancient Senses. London: Routledge. Brulé, Pierre. 2012. Comment percevoir le sanctuaire grec? Une analyse sensorielle du paysage sacré. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Bull, Michael, and John P. Mitchell, eds. 2015. Ritual, Performance and the Senses. London: Bloomsbury. Butler, Shane, and Alex Purves, eds. 2013. Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses. Durham: Acumen. Calame, Claude. 2005. Masques d’autorité. Fiction et pragmatique dans la poétique grecque antique. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Candau, Joël, and Olivier Wathelet. 2013. “Considérations méthodologiques en anthropologie sensorielle: pour une ethnographie cognitive des perceptions.” In Paysages sensoriels, edited by Joël Candau and Marie-Barbara Le Gonidec, 213–239. Paris: Editions du CTHS. Carbon, Jan-Mathieu, and Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge. 2012. “Beyond Greek ‘Sacred Laws’.” Kernos 25: 163–182. Carson, Anne. 2002. If Not, Winter Fragments of Sappho. New York: Vintage Books. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2006. “Rituals between Norms and Emotions: Rituals as Shared Experience and Memory.” Kernos suppl. 16: 211–237. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2009. “Acclamations as a Form of Religious Communication.” In Die Religion des Imperium Romanum. Koine und Konfrontationen, edited by Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke, 199–218. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Classen, Constance. 1997. “Foundations for an Anthropology of the Senses.” International Social Science Journal 49/153: 401–412. Classen, Constance, and David Howes. 2014. Ways of sensing. Understanding the Senses in Society. London: Routledge. Colon, Paul-Louis, ed. 2013. Ethnographier les sens. Paris: Pétra. Corbin, Alain. 1990. “Histoire et anthropologie sensorielle.” Anthropologie et Sociétés 14/2: 13–24. Culham, Patrick. 1986. “Again, What Meaning Lies in Colour!” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 64: 235–245. De Felice, Irene. 2014. “Synaesthesia in Latin Poetry.” Studi e Saggi Linguistici 52/1: 61–107. Deshours, Nadine. 2006. Les mystères d’Andania: Étude d’épigraphie et d’histoire religieuse. Bordeaux: Ausonius. Detienne, Marcel. 1967. Les maîtres de vérité dans la Grèce archaïque. Paris: Maspéro. Dumas, Guillaume, Martin Fortier, and Juan C. González. 2017. “Les états modifiés de conscience en question, anciennes limites et nouvelles approches.” Intellectica 67. http://intellectica.org. Gélard, Marie-Luce. 2016. “L’anthropologie sensorielle en France. Un champ en devenir?” L’Homme 217/1: 91–107. Gélard, Marie Luce. 2017. Les sens en mots. Entretiens avec Joël Candau, Alain Corbin, David Howes, François Laplantine, David Le Breton et Georges Vigarello. Paris: Pétra. Gödde, Susanne. 2003. “Emotionale Verschiebungen. Zur Bedeutung der euphemia im griechischen Ritual.” In Die emotionale Dimension antiker Religiosität, edited by Alfred Kneppe and Dieter Metzler, 21–46. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2011. La fabrique des couleurs. Histoire du paysage sensible des Grecs anciens (VIIIe–début du Ve s. av. n. è.). Paris: De Boccard. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2015. “Poikilia.” In A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, edited by Pierre Destrée and Penny Murray, 406–421. London: Blackwell. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2016. “Couleurs, rituels et normes religieuses en Grèce an­cienne.” Archives de Sciences sociales des religions 174: 127–147. Grand-Clément, Adeline. 2017. “ ‘Il est interdit de …’. Rituels et procédures de régulation sensorielle dans le monde grec ancien: quelques pistes de reflexion.” Mythos 11: 49–68. Grand-Clément, Adeline, and Anne-Caroline Rendu-Loisel. 2017. “Normes rituelles et expériences sensorielles dans les mondes anciens.” Mythos 11: 9–20. Grand-Clément, Adeline, and Evelyne Ugaglia, eds. 2017. Rituels grecs. Une expérience sensible. Toulouse: Musée Saint-Raymond. Hamilakis, Yannis. 2013. Archaeology and the Senses: Human Experience, Memory, and Affect. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Howes, David. 2003. Sensual Relations. Engaging the Senses in Culture and Social Theory. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Howes, David. 2006. “Scent, Sound and Synesthesia: Intersensoriality and Material Culture Theory.” In Handbook of Material Culture, edited by Christopher Tilley, Webb Keane, Susanne Kuchler, Mike Rowlands, and Patricia Spyer, 161–172. London: Sage. Howes, David. 2010. “Response to Sarah Pink.” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie sociale 18/3: 338–340. Howes, David. 2011. “Hearing Scents, Tasting Sights: Toward a Cross-Cultural Multimodal Theory of Aesthetics.” In Art and the Senses, edited by Francesca Bacci and David Mellon, 161–182. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howes, David. 2015a. “Cultural Synaesthesia: Neuropsychological versus Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Intersensoriality.” In Synesthesia and Intermodality, edited by Victor Rosenthal, Intellectica 55: 139–158. Howes, David. 2015b. “Sensation and Transmission.” In Ritual, Performance and the Senses, edited by Michael Bull and Jon P. Mitchell, 153–166. London: Bloomsbury. Huet, Valérie. 2008. “L’encens sur les reliefs sacrificiels romains.” In Parfums et odeurs dans l’Antiquité, edited by Lydie Bodiou, Dominique Frère and Véronique Mehl, 105–116. Rennes: PUR. Hupé, Jean-Michel, and Michel Dojat. 2015. “A Critical Review of the Neuroimaging Literature on Synaesthesia.” Frontiers in Human Neuroscience 9: 1–37. Ingold, Tim. 2000. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London: Routledge. Irwin, Eleanor. 1974. Colour Terms in Greek Poetry. Toronto: Hakkert. Jones, Christopher. 1999. “Processional Colors.” Studies in the History of Art 56: 246–257. Mehl, Véronique. 2015. “Le sacrifice en Grèce ancienne ou quand les sens s’invitent à la fête.” Traverse 2015/2: 44–55. Mehl, Véronique, 2017. “Sacrifier pour le Plaisir des dieux et des hommes.” In Rituels grecs. Une expérience sensible, edited by Adeline Grand-Clément and Evelyne Ugaglia, 52–69. Toulouse: Musée Saint-Raymond. Mendoza, Zoila. 2015. “Exploring the Andean Sensory Model: Knowledge, Memory, and the Experience of Pilgrimage.” In Ritual, Performance and the Senses, edited by Michael Bull and Jon P. Mitchell, 137–152. London: Bloomsbury. Meyer, Birgit. 2006. Religious Sensations: Why Media, Aesthetics and Power Matter in the Study of Contemporary Religion. Amsterdam: Vrije Universiteit. Mills, Harriane. 1984. “Greek Clothing Regulation: Sacred and Profane.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 55: 255–265. Ogden, Daniel. 2001. “Controlling women’s dress: gynaikonomoi.” In Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, edited by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones. Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales.

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Parker, Robert. 1996. Miasma. Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press (1st ed. 1983). Pentcheva, Bissera. 2011. “Hagia Sophia and Multisensory Aesthetics.” Gesta, 50/2: 93–111. Pink, Sarah. 2010. “The Future of Sensory Anthropology/the Anthropology of the Senses.” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie sociale 18/3: 331–333. Promey, Sally, ed. 2014. Sensational Religion. Sensory Cultures in Material Practice. Yale: Yale University Press. Purves, Alex, ed. 2018. Touch and the Ancient Senses. London: Routledge. Rendu-Loisel, Anne-Caroline. 2013. “Noise, Light and Smoke, the Sensory Dimension in Akkadian Ritual. A General Overview.” In Approaching Rituals in Ancient Cultures, edited by Claus Ambos and Lorenzo Verderame, 245–259. Roma: F. Serra. Rudolph, Kelli, ed. 2018. Taste and the Ancient Senses. London: Routledge. Squire, Michael, ed. 2016. Sight and the Ancient Senses. London: Routledge. Tempesti, Anna Maria. 1991. “Sinestesia: storia del termine: lessema, semantema e dintorni.” Studi e ricerche – Istituto di Civiltà Classica, Cristiana, Medievale VIII: 131–176.

Chapter 8

Day and Night in the Agones of the Roman Isthmian Games Rocío Gordillo Hervás The agonistic celebrations of the archaia periodos can be considered as having a dual nature, with the alternating aspects revealed according to the time – day or night – at which they were held. Typically, those agonistic contests that were associated with deities were carried out under the light of the sun, with the sacred precinct filled with spectators watching the contests and cheering on their heroes. Daylight was a necessity for witnessing the distance covered by a thrown disk or javelin, or the finishing order in foot and chariot races. Judges and referees were responsible for the good conduct of the athletes, and had to monitor, give warnings, and punish in cases of malpractice. Along with athletic challenges, the daytime environment was also conducive to secondary activities, such as those of magicians, lawyers, or doomsayers, as can be seen in a passage of Dio Chrysosthom: So, when the time for the Isthmian games arrived, and everybody was at the Isthmus, he (Diogenes) went down also. For it was his custom at the great assemblies to make a study of the pursuits and ambitions of men, of their reasons for being abroad, and of the things on which they prided themselves […] That was the time, too, when one could hear crowds of wretched sophists around Poseidon’s temple shouting and reviling one another, and their disciples, as they were called, fighting with one another, many writers reading aloud their stupid works, many poets reciting their poems while others applauded them, many jugglers showing their tricks, many fortune-tellers interpreting fortunes, lawyers innumerable perverting judgment, and peddlers not a few peddling whatever they happened to have.1 In contrast to these sun-lit events, the absence or scarcity of light during the night was a central element for the rituals that commemorated the deceased 1 Dio Chrys. Or. 8.6–9, transl. Cohoon 1971.

© Rocío Gordillo Hervás, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_010

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mythical heroes who had founded the agones.2 In the sanctuary at Olympia, during the night of the second day of the festival, a unique nocturnal rite was celebrated in honour of Pelops, in which the victors made a ritual stop in the wooded area called the Altis and sang choral hymns celebrating their victories. The Pythian games also included nocturnal rituals in honour of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, who had been killed in that same area by Orestes. Similarly, the death of Opheltes/Archemorus, which had been prophesied by the oracle of Delphi, was celebrated in the dark of night during the Nemean games. The standard definitions of night are “the time from dusk to dawn when no sunlight is visible” or “the part of every 24-hour period when it is dark because there is little light from the sun”.3 However, this straightforward conceptualisation of a period of natural darkness needs to be integrated with the rather more complex notion of cultural conceptions of night, according to which the ideas, customs, and beliefs of the individual shape their perception of the night itself. The recognition of such cultural conceptions has been a central point of agreement for scholars working on the “history of the night”. The first works devoted to this subject focused on conceptions of the night in the modern world. Among these studies, Ekirch’s At Day’s Close stands out for its analysis of western society’s perception of night prior to the industrial revolution, as does Koslofsky’s Evening’s Empire, which focuses on the 17th and 18th centuries.4 In recent years, there has been a renaissance of sorts when it comes to studies of the night in ancient times. In 2008, the Spanish association ARYS (Antigüedad, Religiones y Sociedades) held an international conference on “Criaturas de la Noche”, the acts of which were published as a collected volume.5 One of the most prolific scholars working on the topic of the night in the ancient world has been Angelos Chaniotis. In 2018, Chaniotis and Derron edited the volume La Nuit: imaginaire et réalités nocturnes dans le monde gréco-romain, bringing together discussions by nine scholars which collectively analyse the ancient night-time from historical, literary, and artistic perspectives. The volume considers topics such as the production of lamps, the 2 On other Greek nocturnal rituals, see Verplanke 2017. 3 The former definition is taken from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary (“Night.” https://www .merriam-webster.com/dictionary/night, accessed September 3, 2019) while the latter comes from the Cambridge Dictionary (“Night.” https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/eng lish/night, accessed September 3, 2019). 4 Other works: Melbin 1987; Cabantous 2009; Wishnitzer 2014. 5 The volume includes studies on the relationship between night and religion, covering topics such as night rituals, the Imperial cult, and the construction of the Greco-Roman imaginarium: ARYS 8 (2009–2010). https://dialnet.unirioja.es/ejemplar/288577, accessed September 3, 2019.

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association of brutality with darkness, the connection between night and military ambushes, and the night as a background for religious rituals. Other notable examples of Chaniotis’ work on this subject include a series of recent book chapters: “Nessun dorma! Changing nightlife in the Hellenistic and Roman East” (2018), “The Polis after Sunset: What is Hellenistic in Hellenistic Nights?” (2018), and “Epigraphy of the Night” (2019). In the present paper, I will focus on a single case study: the nocturnal rituals that were carried out during the Isthmian games of Corinth in honour of Melikertes/Palaimon, the founding hero of the games.6 These rituals have been selected due to the relatively abundant wealth of extant information, which includes literary, epigraphic, numismatic, and archaeological evidence. Another motive for studying the night-time ritual associated with the Isthmian games in particular lies in the main issues surrounding the rehabilitation of the cult by the citizens of the new colony of Corinth during the Roman period. The Isthmian sanctuary was one of the most important Panhellenic centres in Greece. The games in honour of Poseidon there, one of the four agones that constituted the archaia periodos, were held during the day.7 These games provided the background to two temporary concessions of freedom granted to the Greeks, the first given by General Titus Quinctius Flamininus in 196 BCE and the second by the Emperor Nero in 67 CE.8 The organisation of the games was entirely in the hands of the city of Corinth, both due to the proximity of the games and because they were deeply connected to the city’s history. In 146 BCE, Corinth and the sanctuary both suffered destruction at the hands of Roman troops under the command of the consul Lucius Mummius.9 It was not until a century later that Julius Caesar rebuilt the city as the new colony Laus Julia Corinthiensis, populating it with descendants of those Corinthians who had survived the earlier destruction, as well as with other Greeks and Roman citizens.10 From this point onwards, the elite of the city was constituted of citizens of Roman origin, while the other social strata were mainly composed of 6 Plut. Thes. 25.4. 7 On the date of the introduction of the Isthmian games to the archaia periodos, see Thuc. 8.10, who states that they were introduced in 412 BCE; cf. Polyb. 18.46 = Liv. 33.32, where the date given is 196 BCE. See also Morgan 2002. 8 On Flamininus, see Broneer 1962. On Nero, see IG VII, 2713 = SIG 814; Holleaux 1988; Oliver 1989, nº 296; Cortés Copete 1999, 381–387. 9 Paus. 2.1.2; Str. 8.6.23; Cic. Tusc. 3.22.53; Wiseman 1979, 491–496; Engels 1990; Romano 1994. 10 Kent 1966, nº 130; Hoskins Walbank 1997, 107. The colony’s name was changed in 77 CE to Colonia Julia Flavia Augusta Corinthiensis as a consequence of the help provided by Emperor Vespasian in restoring the part of the city that had been destroyed by an earthquake: Kent 1966, nº 82; Suet. Vesp. 17; Oros. 7.9.11.

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Greeks. After the destruction of 146 BCE, the sanctuary was controlled by the neighbouring city of Sicyon, who organised and managed the religious rituals for nearly a hundred years. When Corinth was reconstructed by the Romans, it was once again granted control over the Isthmian sanctuary and, thus, responsibility for the organisation of the Isthmian agones. The twofold nature of the Greco-Roman population of Corinth had an impact on the restoration of the Isthmian sanctuary, since the agonothesia of the agones seems to have come under the control of Corinth’s new Italic elites, who were also responsible by means of the evergesiai for the architectural restoration of the sanctuary. One of their motivations for taking on these roles was probably to try to ingratiate themselves with the Greek population, although they cannot have been immune to the attractions of the economic benefits that the games brought to the city (commerce, accommodation for athletes and other visitors, and so on). For the Greek population, the restoration of the buildings and rituals would have had a more distinctively cultural and identitarian meaning. The return of the games to the Isthmian sanctuary, and the return of their administration to the city of Corinth, would have reconnected the population to their Hellenic cultural substrate. Overall, the athletic contests,11 which were carried out during the day, continued to be of paramount importance within the agones. Various inscriptions from Roman times mention athletic contests (such as stadion,12 diaulos, pentathlon, boxing,13 pankration, and the hopliton race), musical and literary contests (such as those for trumpeters, auletes, and citharodos),14 and horse racing contests.15 Evidence from Roman times shows the inclusion of the torchbearer race (ἱερἁν λαμπάδα).16 The coins depict an athlete holding a torch together with a palm-leaf, symbol of victory in the competition, and a dolphin, symbolising the connection between the contest and the rituals dedicated to the hero Melikertes/Palaimon, the mythical founder of the Isthmian agones.17 A number 11 The agones were divided into three categories: παῖδες (children), ἀγένειοι (youths), and ἄνδρες (adults). 12 Paus. 6.13.10. 13 SEG I, 380d. 14 Painting contests were occasionally held during the Roman period. See Scalon 2002. 15 Although the remains of the sanctuary show no trace of a hippodromos, several inscriptions mention that horse races took place. See Biers and Geagan 1970, 84 nº 10, where it is noted that this inscription also points out the agones of equestrian character that were performed in Caesarean games or large Isthmian games. Paus. 6.20.19; 2.1.7; 2.1.22. 16 Biers and Geagan 1970, 91–93. 17 The traditional crown awarded to the victors in the Isthmian games was made of pine branches. However, during the 4th and 3rd centuries BCE, due to the rivalry with the Nemean agones, the crown was made with branches of dried celery, symbol of the games

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of classical literary sources inform us that Melikertes was the mortal name of the son of Ino and the Boeotian prince Athamas.18 The principal account of the hero’s life states that the goddess Hera drove Athamas mad as a punishment for having assisted in the bringing up of Dionysus against Hera’s will.19 Athamas then killed his eldest son, Learchus, while mistaking him for a deer and, according to some sources, tried to assassinate his other son, Melikertes, by throwing him into a boiling cauldron. Thanks to Ino, Melikertes was saved and mother and son fled together to the Molourian Rocks where she threw herself into the sea with her son.20 Ino was welcomed there by the Nereids and became the sea-goddess Leukothea.21 The body of Melikertes, on the other hand, was transported to the coast of the Corinthian Isthmus on the back of a dolphin,22 where it was found by Sisyphos, king of Corinth and brother of Athamas. In the place where he discovered the body, Sisyphos founded the funeral games dedicated to the hero, who, by a decree of the Nereids, became known in Corinth as Palaimon.23 The numismatic iconography also shows a pine tree that commemorates the death of the hero and the pine-branches which made up the victory crowns for the athletes of the Isthmian games.24 The race of the torchbearers highlighted the nocturnal character of the rituals dedicated to Melikertes/Palaimon that were celebrated as part of the Isthmian games. The main agones associated with the primary divinity of the sanctuary, in this case Poseidon, took place in broad daylight. In stark contrast to the festive atmosphere of the agones, the nocturnal rituals commemorating the founding hero followed the normal pattern of the heroic cult. This kind of contrast is typical of the Panhellenic cults, as is pointed out by Efrosyni Boutsikas:

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

of Nemean Zeus. The 2nd century CE witnessed a return to the traditional pine crown, since it was an element distinctive of the athletic competitions from this area. On the utilisation of celery crowns in the 1st century CE, see Dio Chrys. Or. 9.10–16; Plut. Mor. 676F. See also Broneer 1962b. Ov. Met. 4.542; Hyg. Fab. 1, 2, and 4; Apollod. Bibl. 3.28; Stat. Theb. 1.12; id. Silv. 2.1.180; Nonnus, Dion. 10.67; Philostr. Imag. 2.16. In other accounts, Ino kills her son Melikertes by drowning him in a cauldron of boiling water and then throws herself into the sea. See Farnell 1921, 39–42. Molourian rocks: Paus. 1.44.7. Hyg. Fab. 2; Ov. Met. 4.542; Stat. Theb. 9.401, 1.120; Nonnus, Dion. 10.67, 9.59, 20.350; Apollod. Bibl. 3.28; Philostr. Imag. 2.16. Paus. 1.44.7; Philostr. Imag. 1.19, 2.16; Stat. Theb. 1.120. Paus. 1.44.7; Hyg. Fab. 2; Ov. Met. 4.542; Stat. Silv. 2.1.180; Nonnus, Dion. 5.556, 9.59; Apollod. Bibl. 3.28; Philostr. Imag. 2.16. The pine tree alludes to the location of Sisifo’s altar in honour of Melikertes: Paus. 2.1.2.

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Double polarities such as Night/Day, Death/Life, ‘Chthonic’/‘Ouranic’ are basic dualistic conceptions that become recurrent themes in ancient Greek cult, attested in cults that involve pairs of opposites, such as Pelops and Zeus in Olympia, and Opheltes and Zeus at Nemea.25 In the case of the Isthmian games, this polarity is highlighted by the pair Poseidon – Melikertes/Palaimon, as we see in a passage of Plutarch: He (Theseus) also instituted the games here (Corinth), in emulation of Heracles, being ambitious that as the Hellenes, by that hero’s appointment, celebrated Olympian games in honour of Zeus, so by his own appointment they should celebrate Isthmian games in honour of Poseidon. For the games already instituted there in honour of Melicertes were celebrated in the night, and had the form of religious rite rather than of a spectacle and public assembly.26 The daylight that was intrinsically associated with the diurnal rites also contributed to their religious connotations, as has been pointed out by Ioan Patera: “light is commonly associated with the gods and with divine epiphanies without any mystic connotation”.27 As noted above, in the case of the Isthmian agones, the daylight rituals were directly associated with the divinity of the sanctuary, Poseidon, while night and darkness provided the setting for the mysticism of the rites in honour of the death of the hero Melikertes/ Palaimon. The darkness in which these rites took place contributed strongly to their thematic and atmospheric connection with the kingdom of the dead. In ancient sources, nocturnal rites are typically characterised using adjectives (mysterious, dark, hidden, dark, esoteric, etc.) that are connected to the absence of light and to the way in which this absence conditions the sensorial perception of the participants. As related by Nina J. Morris, the award-winning British travel writer Robert MacFarlane reflects on his own experience of the effects of night on sensory perception in his book The Wild Places: At night new orders of connection assert themselves: sonic, olfactory, tactile. The sensorium is transformed. Associations swarm out of the darkness. You become even more aware of the landscape as a medley of effects, a mingling of geology, memory, movement, life. The landforms 25 Boutsikas 2017. 26 Plut. Thes. 25.4, transl. Perrin 1998. 27 Patera 2010, 262.

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remain, but they exist as presences: inferred, less substantial, more powerful.28 The transformation of the sensorium, as MacFarlane indicates, is nothing more than the adaptation of our mind to the external conditions to which it is exposed through the filter of our senses. If the capacity of one of these senses decreases, as that of eyesight does in this case, then the other senses typically become more acute in order to compensate for the impaired sense, although this does not always occur. At night, not all of our senses operate at the same level, so of course what we perceive about the environment differs from what we would have perceived in daylight: “Our vision is not completely obliterated, nor do we see different things; we see the same things differently”.29 In his study of “The Role of Darkness”, Boutsikas presents darkness as a “medium that triggered emotions and symbolic referents in the minds of the participants”.30 This concept also appears in Tim Edensor’s discussion of the effect of darkness in Miroskaw Balka’s installation How it is, exhibited in 2009 at the Tate Modern Gallery in London. He writes that, “in the absence of light, other sensations of tactility, sound, and smell were foregrounded, provoking an enhanced awareness of the velvety textures of the wall lining, the footsteps and breathing of other visitors, and the scents of perfume and body odour”.31 In the case of the nocturnal rituals dedicated to Melikertes/Palaimon, the dark environment and the design of the rituals steered the participants’ perception towards a filtering of the sensed environment so as to have them feel the hero’s presence among them. As we have seen, Plutarch explicitly refers to the nocturnal character of the rituals and provides a brief description of them. He mentions a religious rite with a large number of participants, and he takes pains to ensure that his reader does not confuse this with a public assembly. A more exhaustive description of the rituals is found in a text from the 3rd century CE by Philostratus the Elder: The people sacrificing at the Isthmus, they would be the people of Corinth; and yonder king of the people, let us consider him to be Sisyphus; and this precinct of Poseidon gently resounding to the murmur of the sea – for the foliage of the pines makes this music – all this, my boy, indicates the following: Ino throwing herself from the land for her part becomes 28 29 30 31

MacFarlane 2007, 193. The text is being quoted by Morris 2011, 315. Morris 2011, 316. Boutsikas 2017. Edensor 2013, 446–447.

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Leucothea and one of the band of the Nereids, while as for the child, the earth will claim the infant Palaemon. Already the child is putting in towards shore on a dolphin obedient to his will, and the dolphin making its back level bears the sleeping child, slipping noiselessly through the calm water so as not to disturb his sleep. And as he approaches, a sanctuary opens in the Isthmus as the earth is split apart by Poseidon, who, I fancy, announces to Sisyphus here the advent of the child and bids him offer sacrifice to him. Sisyphus is sacrificing yonder black bull which he has no doubt taken from the herd of Poseidon. The meaning of the sacrifice, the garb worn by those who conducted it, the offerings, my boy, and the use of the knife must be reserved for the mysterious rites of Palaemon – for the doctrine is holy and altogether secret, inasmuch as Sisyphus the wise first hallowed it; for that he is a wise man is shown at once, methinks, by the intent look on his face. And as for the face of Poseidon, if he were about to shatter the Gyrean rocks or the Thessalian mountains, he would doubtless have been painted as terrible and like one dealing a blow; but since he is receiving Melicertes as his guest in order that he may keep him on land, he smiles as the child makes harbour, and bids the Isthmus spread out its bosom and become the home of Melicertes. The Isthmus, my boy, is painted in the form of a divinity reclining at full length upon the ground, and it has been appointed by nature to lie between the Aegean and the Adriatic as though it were a yoke laid upon the two seas. On the right it has a youth, surely the town Lechaeum, and on the left are girls; these are the two seas, fair and quite calm, which lie alongside the land that represents the Isthmus.32 Philostratus states that the audience within the Isthmian sanctuary was able to feel the presence of the hero Melikertes/Palaimon himself. The proximity of the sacred precinct to the coast allowed the congregants to hear the murmur of the sea, which was an important factor since, as discussed above, the myth of Melikertes/Palaimon tells us that the hero’s body was brought to the Isthmus on the back of a dolphin. Another evocative element is the sound made by the foliage of the pines, which again had a direct connection to the games since the crowns for the victors were made of pine-branches. Thus, according to Philostratus, natural elements were exploited in order to create an atmosphere conducive to the idea of the presence of the hero in the sanctuary itself. In the Greek rituals mentioned above, we have seen that context and environment were consciously manipulated in order to lead the participants towards 32 Philostr. Imag. 2.16, transl. Fairbanks 1979.

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a shared sensory and emotional experience, an experience that was interpreted as the presence of the “entity” that was the object of worship. We can now differentiate between the two main methods of manipulation that were employed to this end: spatial alteration and altered states of consciousness. The method of spatial alteration involved making changes to the pre-existing landscape (statues, temples, altars, etc.) in order to create a suitable environment within which the religious experience could take place. Our literary sources mention a temenos in the sanctuary of Poseidon in Isthmia that was dedicated entirely to the cult of Melikertes/Palaimon:33 On the temple, which is not very large, stand bronze Tritons. In the fore-temple are images, two of Poseidon, a third of Amphitrite, and a Sea, which also is of bronze […] On the car stand Amphitrite and Poseidon, and there is the boy Palaemon upright upon a dolphin. These too are made of ivory and gold. On the middle of the base on which the car is has been wrought a Sea holding up the young Aphrodite, and on either side are the nymphs called Nereids […] Within the enclosure is on the left a temple of Palaemon, with images in it of Poseidon, Leucothea and Palaemon himself. There is also what is called his Holy of Holies, and an underground descent to it, where they say that Palaemon is concealed. Whosoever, whether Corinthian or stranger, swears falsely here, can by no means escape from his oath.34 The temenos dedicated to the cult of Palaimon was located in the south-east area of the temple of Poseidon in Isthmia. This area does not seem to have been used for religious purposes during earlier times, and Pièrard hypothesises that the choice of the location may have been due to the discovery, in Roman times, of an underground channel that was identified with the descent tunnel in which, according to Pausanias, Palaimon was hidden.35 Archaeological studies have established that the canal has waterproofed walls with a layer of cement and a vaulted ceiling, implying that it was probably an old aqueduct, used to channel water to the area of the stadium before being buried after the destruction of the sanctuary by Mummius.

33

On the adyton as a structure separate from the Palaimonion, see Gebhard 2002. The coins that depict a priest and a bull might point to the rituals carried out in the adyton. See also Hoskins Walbank 2010. 34 Paus. 2.1.7–2.2.1, transl. Jones 1998. 35 Piérard 1998, 103–105.

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The temenos shows several phases of construction: 1) the pit (A), where sacrifices to the hero were carried out, is from the first half of the 1st century CE; 2) sometime around 80–90 CE, the site was expanded and a new pit (B) was built, likely due to a boom in the popularity of the cult; 3) in the Hadrianic period (120–138 CE), the temenos was expanded to the east of the temple of Poseidon, with the addition of a precinct, in which the first Isthmian temple dedicated to Palaimon was built, and the further addition of a new pit (C), larger than the previous ones; 4) finally, in the Antonine period (161–169 CE), the temple of Palaimon was relocated to the south-east of the temenos after the discovery of the old water channel.36 A number of Antonine coins show the design and structure of the Isthmian Palaimonion on the reverse.37 The temple had a circular structure with a statue of Palaimon on a dolphin in its centre. Dolphins also decorate the cornice of the roof of the building.38 The coins depict the Palaimonion on a terraced podium with an arched door set into it.39 It is possible that, as Pache has suggested, this entrance provided access to the adyton in which Palaimon was hidden. Pausanias states that the adyton had to be accessed through an underground tunnel. The change in the location of the Palaimonion during the Antonine period can be explained if the old water channel was identified as the adyton, the entrance to which was supposed to be under the hero’s own temple. Statius mentions some features of the Melikertes/Palaimon ritual which imply spatial alterations to the sanctuary of Poseidon: Then the dark cult of Palaemon is solemnized about the gloomy altars, so oft as undaunted Leucothea renews her grief, and in the time of festival comes to the welcoming shores: from end to end Isthmos resounds with lamentation and Echionian Thebes makes answering wail.40 In the temenos dedicated to Palaimon there are three pits (A, B, and C) in which the ritual of enagizein, or sacrifice to the dead, was performed. This ritual was probably instituted on the occasion of the restoration of the sanctuary in the first half of the 1st century CE, and coincided with the reversion to celebrating

36

Gebhard 2005, 189–203. On the Palaimonion, see Papahatzis 1978; Gebhard, Hemans, and Hayes 1998, 428–433 and 436–444; König 2001, 150; Gebhard 2013. 37 Coins with Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus: RPC IV, 4669, 7595, 8383, 9783. Coins with Marcus Aurelius: RPC IV, 4660, 7888, 7892, 9416, 10084. Priest: RPC IV, 7888. 38 RPC IV, 4660, 4669, 9416, 9783, 10084. 39 Pache 2004, 172; Hoskins Walbank 2010, 178. 40 Stat. Theb. 6.10, transl. Mozley 1989.

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the Isthmian games in the sanctuary.41 The ceremony consisted of the burning of a sacrificial victim on a sacred altar to commemorate the dead. In the case of Melikertes/Palaimon, the ceremony can be reconstructed approximately as follows. A pyre made of branches would be erected on the pit, the sacrificial victim, typically black bulls in the case of Palaimon, would be placed on top, and the pyre would be lit. The pits functioned mainly as containers for the remains of the ritual, both animal and vegetable. Around 55 kg of bones belonging to burned animals, primarily cattle, have been found around and inside the pits,42 along with smaller quantities of remains of other foodstuffs: “carbonized remains of bread/hard wheat, fig seeds, and pomegranate seeds make up the bulk of the botanical remains, with the addition of a few pinecone bracts and one date pit fragment (together with wild plant seeds that have only tentatively been identified), retrieved by water-sieving”.43 Numerous ceramic remains have also been found, which are likely to be what is left of the votive vessels used during the ritual, such as phialai, cups, and jars.44 In the 2nd century CE, the enagizein dedicated to Palaimon acquired a great prominence in the sanctuary of Isthmia. Around the middle of the 2nd century CE, the sanctuary was devastated by an earthquake that partially destroyed the sacred buildings. According to an inscription dated to the end of the same century, Licinius Priscus Juventianus, an agoranomos of the Isthmian games, carried out a series of evergesiai, which included: furnishing the quarters for the athletes from the oikoumene who were present for the Isthmia; the construction of the examining chambers; the construction of the altars of the ancestral gods, with the peribolos and the pronaos; the construction of the naos of Helios together with the statue and the peribolos; the construction of the peribolos of the sacred grove, together with the temples of Demeter, Kore, Dionysos, Artemis, and the statues in them; and the restoration of the Plutoneion.45 Priscus funded the construction of the Palaimonion and built the enagisterion and the sacred portal (τὸ Παλαιμόνιον σὺν τοῖς | προσκοσμήμασιν καὶ τὸ 41 Piérart 1998, 106–109; Ekroth 2002, 81. On the pre-Roman cult of Palaimon in Isthmia, see Gebhard and Dickie 1999. Gebhard and Reese 2005, 132: “For Melikertes-Palaimon, the child-hero whose funeral was the occasion for the first Isthmian Games, only sacrifices from the Roman period have been uncovered”. On the return of the games in the first half of the first century CE, see Gebhard 1993, 79–88; Kajava 2002; Gebhard 2005, 182–189. 42 Gebhard and Reese 2005, 125. 43 See Gebhard, Hemans, and Hayes 1998, 431 on the deposit found in pit A. Broneer 1959, 312–320; Gebhard 1993. 44 Gebhard, Hemans, and Hayes 1998, 444–454. 45 Kent 1966, nº 306 = SEG 39, 340. Dated to the end of the second century CE: Kent 1966, nº 306; Geagan 1989, 358–60.

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ἐναγιστήριον | καὶ τὴν ἱερὰν εἴσοδον).46 As a number of scholars have pointed out, Priscus’ enagisterion must have been the place where the enagizein was performed, that is, near one of the pits that have been found in the sacred precinct of the Isthmian sanctuary. It can thus be argued that at least one of the ritual ceremonies that commemorated the death of the hero Palaimon took place inside the Isthmian temenos.47 The manipulation of artificial lights also falls into the category of spatial modifications. In the course of a nocturnal ritual, using a certain type of lighting to highlight a specific space would help the audience to focus their attention on the specified location. A large number of lamps have been found in the area around the three pits (A, B, and C) where part of the ritual was carried out. In his analysis of the lights found in the temenos of the sanctuary of Poseidon in Isthmia, Bronner lists two different types of lamps related to the cult of Palaimon, the Corinth type XVI and the Palaimonion type, which were used from the middle of the 1st century CE through to the 3rd century CE.48 Both types were produced locally and both are characterised by their central tubular wick-holder, in which both wick and oil would be placed. It seems that these lamps were made only for the cult of Palaimon in Isthmia, since the Palaimonion type has only been found in the Isthmian sanctuary, with no equivalent in other public or private areas anywhere in Greece. Thus, we can conclude that the worshipper who wanted to participate in the ceremonies dedicated to the hero had to buy one of the “official” cult lamps in the vicinity of the sanctuary. While the physical remains allow some degree of certainty about the material context of the rituals, it is much more difficult to reach secure conclusions about the occurrence of an altered state of consciousness in the rituals themselves. The literary sources provide no exhaustive descriptions of the mysteric rituals, although there are some interesting details in the accounts of the Melikertes/Palaimon cult. An altered state of consciousness can be defined as “any of various states of awareness (as dreaming sleep, a drug-induced hallucinogenic state or a trance) that deviate from and are usually clearly demarcated from ordinary waking consciousness”.49 The late psychiatrist Arthur 46 IG IV, 203, lns. 8–10; Geagan 1989, 350; Ritti 1981, nº 6; Dixon 2000, 339–340. 47 Ekroth 2002, 80. For the opposing position, see Robert 1939, 178–179, who thinks that the enagisterion was a cave underneath the temple in which the victim was sacrificed. 48 Broneer 1977. A more recent analysis of the Isthmian lamps can be found in Wohl 2017. About the artificial light in ancient times see Dossie 2018. 49 “Altered state of consciousness.” Merriam-Webster Dictionary. https://www.merriam -webster.com/medical/altered%20state%20of%20consciousness, accessed September 3 2019.

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Deikman conducted a study on the methods by which an altered state of consciousness could be obtained. In his The Wrong Way Home: Uncovering the Patterns of Cult Behavior in American Society, Deikman lists a series of procedures that may lead to the desired result, including chanting, singing, dancing, meditating, or sleep deprivation.50 In the case of the Melikertes/Palaimon cult, we know that one of the activities undertaken by the worshippers was the chanting of funeral songs during the rituals: The rites of the Corinthians for Melikertes (for these are the ones I called the descendants of Sisyphos) and what the same people do in honour of Medea’s children, whom they killed for the sake of Glauke, resemble a lament that is both initiatory and inspired for they propitiate the children and sing hymns to Melikertes.51 There may be some direct evidence for this kind of song. Gebhard has suggested that Euphorion quotes one of the songs dedicated to the hero: Weeping they laid the youth by [the shore] on boughs of pine, When still they bore them as the victor’s crown. Not yet had savage grip of hands brought down Mene’s fierce-eyed son by Asopus’ daughter’s side. But ever since they’ve put full wreaths of celery on their brows.52 Until recently, this undoubtedly fascinating topic has received very little scholarly attention. While important steps are now being taken to explore the issue, the possibility that altered states of consciousness occurred in this kind of ritual must, for the moment, remain in the realm of speculation. As we have seen, there was a marked duality in the celebration of the agonistic ceremonies at the Isthmian games correlating with the time at which they took place. The Panhellenic agones in honour of the divinity of the Isthmian sanctuary, Poseidon, were held during the day, and saw the athletes competing for the crown of victory. On the other hand, the rites in honour of the mythical hero and founder of the games, Melikertes/Palaimon, were celebrated at night. The darkness that permeated the ceremonies, and its associations with the cult of the dead, provided the worshippers with an appropriate sensory context for perceiving the presence of the hero in their midst. Furthermore, 50 Deikman 1990, 58. 51 Philostr. Her. 2017. The translation is from Pache 2004, 156. 52 Euphorion, Frag. 84. The translation is from Gebhard 2005, 175.

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the sensory perception of the audience would arguably have been manipulated by means of the spatial alteration of the environment, although this does not mean we should discount the possibility of the audience achieving an altered state of consciousness by means of ritual chanting or through other similar techniques.

Acknowledgements

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Gebhard, Elizabeth. 2005. “Rites for Melikertes-Palaimon in the Early Roman Corinthia.” In Urban Religion in Roman Corinth: Interdisciplinary Approaches, edited by Daniel N. Schowalter and Steven Friesen, 165–204. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Theological Studies, Harvard Divinity School. Gebhard, Elizabeth. 2013. “Pausanias at the Isthmian Sanctuary. The principles governing his narrative”. In The Corinthia and the Northeast Peloponnese: Topography and History from Prehistoric Times until the End of antiquity, edited by Konstantin Kissas, Wolf – Dietrich Niemeier, 263–274. Munich: Hirmer. Holleaux, Maurice. 1988. “Discours de Neron prononcè à Corinthe pour rendre aux grecs la liberté.” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 12: 510–528. Hoskins Walbank, Mary E. 1997. “The Foundation and Planning of Early Roman Corinth.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 10: 95–130. Hoskins Walbank, Mary E. 2010. “Image and Cult: The Coinage of Roman Corinth.” In Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society, edited by Steven J. Friesen, Daniel N. Schowalter, and James Christopher Walters, 151–198. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Jones, William Henry Samuel. 1998. Pausanias: Description of Greece, Books I–II. London/Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kajava, Mika. 2002. “When did the Isthmian Games Return to the Isthmus? (Rereading “Corinth” 8.3.153).” Classical Philology 97: 168–178. Kent, John H. 1966. The Inscriptions, 1926–1950. Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. König, Jason. 2001. “Favorinus’ Corinthian Oration in its Corinthian Context.” The Cambridge Classical Journal 47: 141–171. Koslofsky, Craig. 2011. Evening’s Empire: A History of the Night in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacFarlane, Robert. 2007. The Wild Places. London: Granta. Melbin, Murray. 1987. Night as Frontier: Colonizing the World after Dark. New York: The Free Press. Morgan, Catherine. 2002. “The Origins of the Isthmian Festival: Points of Comparison and Contrast.” In Olympia 1875–2000. 125 Jahre Deutsche Ausgrabungen, edited by Helmut Kyerielis, 251–271. Mainz: von Zabern. Morris, Nina J. 2001. “Night Walking: Darkness and Sensory Perception in a Night-Time Landscape Installation.” Cultural Geographies 18.3: 315–342. Mozley, John Henry. 1989. Statius II. London/Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Oliver, James H. 1989. Greek Constitutions of Early Roman Emperors from Inscriptions and Papyri. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Pache, Corinne O. 2004. Baby and Child Heroes in Ancient Greece. Illinois: University of Illinois Press.

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Papahatzis, Nik D. 1978. Ancient Corinth. The Museums of Corinth, Isthmia and Sicyon. Athens: Ekdotike Athenon. Patera, Ioanna. 2010. “Light and Lighting Equipment in the Eleusinian Mysteries: Symbolism and Ritual Use.” In Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion, edited by Menelaos Christopoulos, Euphemia D. Karakantza, and Olga Levaniouk, 261–275. Plymouth: Lexington Books. Perrin, Bernadotte. 1998. Plutarch. Lives: Theseus and Romulus, Lycurgus and Numa, Solon and Publicola. London/Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Piérart, Marcel. 1998. “Panthéon et hellénisation dans la colonie romaine de Corinthe: La ‘redécouverte’ du culte de Palaimon à l’Isthme.” Kernos 11: 85–109. Ritti, Tullia. 1981. Iscrizioni e rilievi greci nel Museo Maffeiano di Verona. Rome: G. Bretschneider. Robert, Fernand. 1939. Thymélè: Recherches sur la signification et la destination des monuments circulaires dans l’architecture religieuse de la Grèce. Paris: E. de Boccard. Romano, Irene B. 1994. “A Hellenistic Deposit from Corinth.” Hesperia 63: 57–104. Scalon, Thomas F. 2002. Eros and Greek Athletics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Verplanke, Jasper. 2017. “The Function of the Night in Ancient Greek Religion: An Exploration of the Ancient World between Dusk and Dawn.” MA diss., Leiden University. Wiseman, James R. 1979. “Corinth and Rome I: 228 B.C.–A.D. 267.” Aufstief und Niedergang der römischen Welt II 7.1: 438–548. Wishnitzer, Avner. 2014. “Into the Dark: Power, Light, and Nocturnal Life in 18th-Century Istanbul.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 46: 513–531. Wohl, Birgitta L. 2017. Isthmia X: Terracotta Lamps II: 1967–2004. Athens: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

Chapter 9

Multisensory Experiences in Mithraic Initiation Rebeca Rubio Ancient mystery cults embraced a complex and varied ritual structure, integrating multiple sensory experiences.1 The inherently secret nature of these mysteries constitutes a barrier to learning more about, and verifying the details of, the rites in which initiation was the main point of focus. Even so, relatively explicit literary sources make it possible to confirm that one of the frequent elements of religious mysteries was the simulated death and resurrection of the neophytes, a passage that transformed them from simple followers into mystai. Thus, through transcendent experiences, the devotee attained the revelation of the mysteries, achieved an ineffable proximity to the divine, and won the promise of immortality. We know very little about the practices that were performed in the Mithraic initiation rituals. Nevertheless, the complex hierarchy of the seven grades that followers of Mithras could progressively undertake provides some evidence for a differentiated set of initiatory efforts that needed to be overcome in turn as the devotee ascended from one grade to the next. As we will see, it is likely that this process encompassed a varied series of multisensory experiences for each stage of the initiate’s transitus. It is possible to gain some insight into the intermingled elements practiced in the various ceremonies of the Mithraic mysteries by reflecting on the occasional reference to Mithraic rituals in literary sources and on information gathered from material remains – principally depictions of figures. An analysis of the components of these religious experiences reveals the ways in which the stimulation and exacerbation of the senses was provoked. There is no surviving literary testimony related to Mithraism that is comparable in its explicitness to the detailed descriptions concerning initiation

1 The cognitive foundations and the psychological effects of sensory stimulation in initiation rituals have been explored from the perspective of Cultural Anthropology by, among others, Morinis 1985; McCauley and Lawson 2002 (especially 131 and 190); Whitehouse and McCauley 2005. Several volumes on the topic of the senses in Greco-Roman culture have recently been published. Especially noteworthy are those belonging to the series, The Senses in Antiquity, edited by Mark Bradley and Shane Butler, which provide an up-to-date treatment of the role of the senses in various aspects of classical antiquity, including religion.

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into the cult of Isis that are provided by Apuleius.2 Nevertheless, some of the Christian apologists, despite their tendency to exaggerate and disqualify “rival” pagan cults such as that of Mithras, supply us with certain details that match closely enough with surviving material depictions to suggest that they do not depart too far from reality. In this vein, Gregory of Nazianzus qualified the trials undertaken by the Mithraists as “torture”,3 while a later scholiast provided further details about the nature of the “punishments” to which the initiates were subjected.4 According to Pseudo-Nonnus:5 No one can therefore be initiated in his mysteries without first passing through the stages of the torments. There are stages in the torments, there being eighty of them, having a lower grade and an ascent. For first they suffer the lighter torments, then the more drastic, and then the even more drastic. Then, after going through all the torments in this way, the initiand is initiated. The torments consist of passing through fire, through cold, through hunger and thirst, through much journeying by land, through travel by sea and, in a word, through all such matters as these.6 Transl. Smith 2001

Tertullian also refers to certain Mithraic rituals, providing details that seem to be specifically related to the initiation ceremony for the grade of miles: Blush, ye fellow-soldiers of his, henceforth not to be judged even by him, but by some soldier of Mithras, who, at his initiation in the spelaeum, in the true camp of darkness, when at the sword’s point a crown is presented to him, as though in mimicry of martyrdom, and thereupon put 2 Apuleius’ Metamorphoses preserves an exceptionally detailed description of a devotee’s initiation into the worship of the Egyptian gods (Met. 11.19–30). 3 Gr. Naz. Or. 39 (Contra Julianum imperatorem I), 70: τὰς ἐν Μίθρου βασάνους; cf. Or. 39 (In sancta lumina), 5: Μίθρου κόλασις ἔνδικος. 4 Cosmas Hierosolymitanus, Scholia in Greg. Naz. Carm. Migne, PG, 38: 506 provides details concerning the difficulty of the eighty efforts the initiates of Mithras had to overcome. Ambrosiaster (Quaest. vet. nov. test. 113.11) gives additional information regarding Mithraic rituals. 5 Ps. Nonn. Comm. in Greg. Nazian. Or. 4.70. 6 Migne, PG 36, 989: […] Οὐ δύναται οὖν τις εἰς αὐτὸν τελεσθῆναι εἰ μὴ πρότερον διὰ τῶν βαθμῶν τῶν κολάσεων παρέλθοι. Βαθμοὶ δέ εἰσι κολάσεων, τὸν μὲν ἀριθμὸν ὀγδοήκοντα, ἔχοντες δε ὑπόβασιν καὶ ἀνάβασιν. Κολάζονται γὰρ πρῶτον τὰς ἐλαφροτέρας, εἶτα τὰς δραστικωτέρας· καὶ εἶθ’ οὕτω μετὰ τὸ παρελθεῖ διὰ παςῶν τῶν κολάσεων, τότε τελεῖται ὁ τελούμενος. Αἱ δὲ κολάσεις εἰσὶ τὸ διὰ πυρὸς παρελθεῖν, τὸ διὰ κρύους, διὰ πείνης καὶ δίψης, διὰ ὀδοιπορίας πολλῆς, καῖ ἀπλῶς διὰ πασῶν τῶν τοιούτων.

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upon his head, is admonished to resist and cast it off, and, if you like, transfer it to his shoulder, saying that Mithras is his crown.7 Transl. S. Thelwall, with slight modifications

Tertullian returns to the scene in another passage to observe that the initiates to this grade – or, generally, to the mithraic militia8 – were marked on the forehead (signat illic in frontibus milites suos),9 although this mark was in all likelihood not permanent.10 The Eucharist is mentioned by the apologists as being among the Christian sacraments that they considered to be defiled by the offensive imitations of the pagan rites.11 Their objections centred not so much on the banquet in and of itself but, rather, on specific details that they claimed had been copied from the Christians, such as the offering of bread and water to the initiate, as testified by Justin Martyr.12 In this case, it is worth speculating about whether this action might have represented a trial based on fasting, in which the mystes had to overcome the temptation presented by the sight of food and fulfil their duty to reject it in accordance with the rules of the fasting period.13 In any case, the passage of Pseudo-Nonnus cited above is explicit in its reference to the hunger and thirst suffered by the initiates.14 Among non-Christian authors, Porphyry mentions how the initiates to the grade of Leo had to purify their hands and 7 De cor. 15.3–4: Erubescite commilitones eius (scil. Christi) iam non ab ipso iudicandi sed ab aliquot Mithrae milite. Qui cum initiatur in spelaeo, in castris vere tenebrarum, coronam interposito gladio sibi oblatam quasi mimum martyrii, dehinc capiti suo accommodatam, monetur obvia manu a capite pellere et in humerum, si forte, transferre, dicens Mithran esse coronam suam. [4] Atque exinde numquam coronatur, idque in signum habet ad probationem sui, sicubi temptatus fuerit de sacramento, statimque creditur Mithrae miles, si deiecerit coronam, si eam in deo suo esse dixerit. 8 Renaut 2008, 190. 9 De praescr. haer. 40. 10 For a review of the question, with a discussion of the different interpretations, see Renaut 2008, although his proposal to correct the text of Tertullian ( fontibus instead of frontibus) is as suggestive as it is daring. 11 Harvey (2014, 105–6) alludes to the role of the senses in religious competition by reference to similar ritual practices in the Late Roman Empire, for example, those of Mithraism and Christianity. 12 Apol. 1.66. 13 Fasting prior to initiation was essential in the mysteries of Isis. For example, Lucius has to abstain from meat and wine for a ten-day period (Apul. Met. 11.23.2–3). 14 The scholium of Cosmas, quoted above (n. 4), also alludes to the hunger, stating that during the initiation process they had to starve for fifty days. Nevertheless, this claim is often considered an exaggeration by scholars: […] πρότερον ἐλίμωττον αὐτοὺς τοὺς τελούμενους ἐπὶ πεντήκοντα τυχὸν ἡμέρας.

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tongues with honey and avoid water, considered to be the enemy of fire.15 With this in mind, it can be assumed that fire would have been present at the trials faced by the initiates and that they probably endured a period of thirst as well. Fasting was a common feature in ancient religions and served a number of roles. While there is an implicit dimension of self-sacrifice involved in denying oneself food, fasting was also considered to be a form of purification.16 Moreover, engaging in a fast also led to the alteration of the faster’s physical and mental faculties in a way that heightened the experience of sensory perceptions and predisposed the mystai to greater sensitivity and impressionability during religious praxis. The importance of the senses is clearly evidenced in all these practices and rites of initiation. The devotee would have been exposed to experiences involving an intense stimulation of the faculties of sensory perception, particularly those of sight and touch, but also smell, taste, and hearing. To these would be added the interoceptive sensations that detect hunger and thirst, which would have been exacerbated by prolonged periods of abstinence. This mixture of sensations would serve to stimulate unforgettable religious experiences shared by the group, contributing to the strengthening of the community’s cohesion.17 In turn, the initiate’s personal sensory experience of these rites, coded in the Mithraic key, would provide an understanding of the characteristics and identity components of the cult, of each degree of initiation, or of certain episodes in the myth of Mithras. Likewise, through multisensory perceptions, effort or suffering was sublimated into the devotee’s rise in degree, which would involve them moving to a higher level on the initiatory scale and progressively increasing their proximity to the god. We are fortunate to have an exceptionally valuable text that casts considerable light on the experience of initiation, a papyrus fragment thought to be part of a “Mithraic catechism” (dated from the fourth century CE).18 The reason it has been considered as such is because it includes a question-and-answer dialogue that must have been repeated by the initiate and the officiant of the 15 De antr. nymph. 15. 16 On fasting in initiation rituals, see Bremmer 2014, 29, 116–117; in the Christian context, see Shaw 1998. 17 Martin 2015, 34. On the other hand, in the transition between degrees of initiation, collective acclamations would take place through the Persian word “nama”, linked to the name of the devotee, as it appears in the graffiti of the Mithraea of Santa Prica and Dura-Europos. With these ritual sound formulas, integration into the community was reaffirmed, while providing an atmosphere in which the Persian components of the cult were emphasized, see Gordon 2001, 253–254; Chaniotis 2009, 208–209; Gordon 2017, 308–309. 18 Brashear 1992.

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liturgical act. The version that appears in this text seems to form part of the initiation ritual for the grade of Leo.19 On the side with horizontal fibres: ………]υ̣οημις. ἐ�ρ̣ ε̣ ῖ̣ ·̣ π̣ ο̣[ῦ …..ἐντ]αῦθ’ ἀπορεῖ; λέγε· α[+/− 7] ……]λέγε· νύξ. ἐρεῖ· ποῦ αν.[+/− 5] ….].σε; λέγε· π̣ άντ̣α̣ τι ὑπερ̣…[..] ..]κέκλησαι; λέγε· διὰ τὴν θερινὴν̣ ..].ι γενόμενος πυρώδεις ἔχει τὰς ..]α̣βες; λέγε· ἐν̣ βόθρῳ. ἐρεῖ· ποῦ σ̣ ου ..]ά�̣τῳ λεοντίῳ. ἐρεῖ· ζώσεις ὁ ου ]ν̣ θάνατον. ἐρεῖ· διὰ τί ζωσάμεν̣[ος] .τ]οῦτο τ̣έσσαρα κράσπετα ε.[…]20 … He will say: ‘Where …?’ / ‘… he is / (you are?) there (then/thereupon?) at a loss?’ Say: … / Say: ‘Night’. He will say: ‘Where …?’ … / Say: ‘All things …’ / (He will say): ‘… you are called …?’ Say: ‘Because of the summery …’ / … having become … he/it has the fiery … / (He will say): ‘… did you receive/ inherit?’ Say: ‘In a pit’. He will say: ‘Where is your …?’ … / (Say): ‘… (in the …) Leonteion’. He will say: ‘Will you gird?’ The (heavenly?) / … (Say): ‘… death’. He will say: ‘Why, having girded yourself, …?’ / ‘… this (has?) four tassels’ …] Transl. Brashear 1992

The allusion to death and the expression “in a pit” (ἐν̣ βόθρῳ) here might refer to the dramatisation of the ritual simulation of death and rebirth that occurred when placing a neophyte into the pit.21 This may also be what is meant by τὰ τοῦ σω[τῆρος ?].22 It is possible that some of the chambers that have been discovered in mithraea were used for this purpose. One interpretation of the pit in

19 Turcan (1993, 153–156) has expressed doubts about the mithraic nature of this text. However, the sum of all the allusions that coincide with what we would expect in a Mithraic context, and especially the reference to Leonteion, provides strong support for interpreting the text as a fragment of the formulae that the initiate and officiant had to chant during the ceremony (cf. Rubio 1993 and Rubio 2018). 20 Brashear 1992, 15–16, 27–28. 21 On the use of the words natus et renatus, see, for example, Vermaseren and Van Essen 1965, 118, 121–125, 208–209. 22 Brashear 1992, l.7 on the side with vertical fibres.

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the interior of the Mithraeum in Carrawburgh,23 which bears a certain resemblance to a narrow tomb, is that it served this function. The pits discovered in other mithraea, such as the one in the central corridor of the mithraeum at the Baths of Caracalla, may have served identical functions.24 Another essential source for gaining a better understanding of the multisensory experiences of the Mithraic rituals are the surviving figurative depictions of these events. While sculptures and reliefs – the tauroctony and events related to the myth of Mithras – tended to be reserved for the cultic images, the wall paintings in some of the spelaea, by contrast, illustrate scenes from the rituals themselves. Before considering specific examples, it will be worth reflecting on the fact that the impressive narrative and iconographic wealth of the paintings that have come down to us are preserved on the interior walls of just a small number of mithraea. This strongly suggests that the destruction or deterioration of the walls, or the decorations on them, that have not survived in the majority of cases represents an incalculable loss of diverse, specific, and extraordinarily valuable information.25 In the exceptional paintings of the Santa Prisca Mithraeum, the Mithraic banquet celebration is displayed in lively colour. This essential collective ritual in Mithraism provided rich and comforting sensory experiences,26 while reinforcing the cohesion that bound together members of each Mithraic community. However, the significance of the banquet lies beyond the scope and objectives of the present chapter, not being an initiatory rite itself. Other valuable frescoes include those in the Mithraeum at Capua Vetere, which, in the form of simplified representations, eloquently and expressively illustrate what were undoubtedly scenes from different initiation rites.27 In 23 Vermaseren, CIMRM 844. 24 Vermaseren, CIMRM 457. In this example, the pit is connected to a gallery from which there is access to other adjoining rooms, which could have served different “dramatic purposes” during the ceremonies, with specific apparitions called up from the shadows of the spelaeum. Cosi 1979, while rejecting the pit’s function as fossa sanguinis, accepts other possible ritual uses. 25 To the mithraea with painted wall figures of Santa Prisca and Capua Vetere, which I mention later, and to that at Marino, with its exceptionally preserved tauroctony (Vermaseren 1982), further cases can be added in which paintings are partially preserved, such as the Italian spelaea in Ostia (Becatti 1954) and Spoleto (Vermaseren, CIMRM 673; Rubio 2016), those at Dura Europos (Gnoli 2016) and Hawarte, with their impressive frescoes (Gawlikowski 2007), or the Mithraeum at Emerita Augusta, in Hispania, with its pictorial covering of the central altar (Barrientos 2001). 26 Similar to the banquets of the public sacrifices. See Weddle 2017. 27 Gordon 2009. On the role of the body in these mithraic rituals and the “ritualised body” see: Gordon 2001, 264–265.

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these five panel paintings, initiates are depicted in a number of poses, such as in a posture of submission, or exposed to fire, or naked and with their hands bound or eyes covered.28 In one of the paintings, an initiate is shown kneeling upon his right knee with his hands apparently tied behind his back while two figures stand on either side. One of these figures, wearing a helmet and therefore thought to be of the grade miles, brings a lit torch close the neophyte’s head. In two other scenes the mystes is again depicted on his knees while in another he is stretched out on the ground in what seems like a simulacrum of death.29 These trials involving the obstruction of the sense of sight made the initiand even more vulnerable to the suggestion and fear caused by a lack of visibility, whilst simultaneously sharpening the other senses. This multisensory perceptual experience was exacerbated by the alternation of contrasting sensations: cold and heat,30 darkness and light.31 The experience was further intensified by the vulnerability and bodily exposure of the mystes, who was naked and bound during the initiation ceremonies. Another initiation scene – and a processional Mithraic ritual – has been identified on the Mainz vessel. Here, a figure interpreted as the mystes appears naked and smaller in size than the officiants of the ritual.32 Again we find the initiand in a position of inferiority and submission. Both here and in the paintings from Capua, we see how the nudity of the initiand is a common element in the rituals. This doubtless served as a means by which to accentuate the sense of touch through the skin of the whole body, while also underlining the exposure and submission of the mystes. These pictorial scenes, which recall some of the passages of the Christian apologists discussed above, demonstrate the skilled “instrumentalisation” of defined doses of anxiety, fear, and suffering before and during the initiation. These feelings were used to enhance the transcendent experience and to 28

Ambrosiaster (Quaest. vet. nov. test. 113.11) specifies that their hands were bound together by the entrails of fowls: “[…] ligatis manibus intestinis pullinis […]”. The deposition of chicken bones was frequent in the mithraea (Alvar 2008, 351 and n 585). 29 This scene has been interpreted as a “symbolic execution”: Clauss 2000, 103. On the question of the ritual simulation of death, see the discussion above. 30 In addition to the comments of Pseudo-Nonnus and Cosmas, quoted above (n. 4 and 5), concerning the tests of cold and heat undergone by the initiates, the papyrus fragment with the Mithraic catechism also alludes to this in verse l.4 on the side with vertical fibres: “… θ]ερμοῦ καὶ ψυχρο̣ῦ. ἐρε̣ῖ·̣ […” (Brashear 1992, 27). 31 On the contrast between darkness and light in the initiation ritual to the grade of Nymphus, see Gordon 1980, 50. 32 See, among others, Beck 2000; Gordon 2009; Alvar 2008, 347–349; Martin 2015, 51–53.

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intensify the consequent pleasure at concluding the passage to a higher grade.33 Many of these experiences involved various levels of submission, compliance, and obedience, at the same time requiring the initiand to overcome trials by humiliation and mortification, which in some cases could reach extremes.34 The multisensoriality felt in these ritual performances would have been a key contributing element in the achieving of transcendent religious experiences, causing, in turn, synaesthetic perceptions,35 both in the individual being initiated and, ultimately, in the assistants and officiants as well. The effort involved in overcoming such hardships, and in following the path of the vicissitudes of the God Invictus in his fight against evil,36 led to the devotee achieving improved levels of discipline and undergoing a progressive moral instruction.37 The promise of salvation and a greater proximity with the divine encouraged neophytes to submit to these progressive trials in order to advance through the hierarchy of the initiate grades. Other archaeological materials, such as small receptacles of various kinds found in mithraea, cast light on ritualistic functions and identify other areas in which the senses came into play. Likewise, excavations have identified a variety of cavities for holding offerings or for ritual uses, altars with foculi to burn substances such as incense, containers of different sizes for holding liquids (such as the Mainz vessel discussed above, which is atypical only in its exceptional figurative decoration), lamps, and so on. Many of these items or locations would have been designed to provide olfactory and gustatory sensations to the worshippers.38 However, they may also have encapsulated specific symbolic meanings, assuming a religious connotation in order to transcend their materiality. As mentioned above, honey was attributed with purifying properties and associated in this regard with the leontica initiation.39 Incense, so closely tied

33 34 35 36 37 38 39

See Panagiotidou 2010 on the way in which the experiences undergone by the initiates of Mithras could transform their lives and their identity. Clauss 2000, 103–105; Martin 2015, 32–34, 46. Butler and Purves 2013; Bradley 2014 and Bradley’s article in this volume. Meslin 1985, 179ff.; Turcan 1993, 113; Alvar 2008, 199–200 and 374. Alvar 2008, 200–202. On the significance of aromatic sensations in religious contexts, see Classen, Howes and Synnott 1994, 45–47; Harvey 2014, 92–100; concerning Christianism: Harvey 2006; Toner 2015; and in Classical Greece: Clements 2015. Among others, Alvar 2008, 79, 90–91; Mastrocinque 2017, 18. Honey is also linked to the degree of Perses; according to Porphyry (De antr. nymph. 15), initiates purified their hands with it at this grade.

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to the religious sphere with its aromatic properties,40 was also important in mithraic contexts.41 This can be seen in the expressive verse that appears on one of the walls in the Mithraeum of Santa Prisca: Accept, O holy Father, accept the incense-burning Lions / Through whom we offer the incense, through whom we ourselves are purified. Transl. Vermaseren 1965

Accipe thuricremos Pater, accipe Sancte Leones Per quos thuradam[u]s, per quos consumimur ipsi42 Incense clearly also had a function with specific ritual connotations, linked to the igneous character of the Leones.43 The strong evocative power of olfactory sensations played an important role in creating environments that were perceived as religious,44 modulating the sensory and synaesthetic experiences of the worshippers by helping create the most appropriate atmosphere for each occasion. Indeed, the divine presence itself could be evoked by the smell of certain aromas that were associated with the cult image or the sacred space. Similarly, each aroma could contain specific meanings encoded in the context of Mithraism itself, and their use contributed to the establishing of mental associations linked to worship, myth, or other learned religious knowledge. Among the liquids, blood would, in all likelihood, have played a particularly prominent role in the Mithraic ceremonies, due to its association with and evocation of the blood of the bull killed by Mitra. It would, therefore, have been a ritual substance with extraordinary powers,45 including the power to dispense eternity, whether as a libation or an aspersion. This status and role may also be expressed in another of the verses from Santa Prisca: et nos servasti aeternali(?) sanguine fuso.46 Material elements associated with the ritual use of blood include representations of the tauroctonies in which blood flows 40

Classen, Howes and Synnott 1994, 46; Clements 2015, 54; Toner 2015, 159 and 166. Regarding its hygienic and medicinal properties in relation to the religious context, see Classen, Howes and Synnott 1994, 19; Caseau 2001; Harvey 2006. 41 Gordon 1980, 36–37; Turcan 1993, 138; Bird 2004. 42 Vermaseren and Van Essen 1965, 224 and pl. LXIX; CIMRM 485. 43 Porph. De antr. nymph. 15; Tert. Adv. Marc. 1.13. Gordon 1980, 33–37; Rubio 1996, 327 and note 42; Turcan 1993, 135–137; Chalupa 2008, 186. 44 Classen, Howes, and Synnott 1994, 45–47; Clements 2015. 45 In addition, other parts of the sacrificed bull would also have powers of their own: Clauss 2000, 80–81, 99–100. 46 Vermaseren and Van Essen 1965, 217, fig. 204 and pl. XCIX, 1–3. However, the reading of the central part of the inscription, especially “aeternali”, is uncertain.

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from the wound of the sacrificed bull and, most importantly, the krater which contains the sacred fluid.47 The krater is a common ritual object48 in the material Mithraic context, but primarily appears in the representations of tauroctonies due to its symbolic significance as a sacred vessel. While this issue is controversial, my own view is that the examples of tauroctonies in which the krater receiving the blood is depicted under the bull,49 as well as its frequent link with the snake that either drinks the blood from the flank of the bull or from the krater,50 allow us to conjecturally interpret the krater as a container for the sacred blood or a substitute for it.51 Aside from the question concerning its contents, the most important feature of the krater is the symbolic power that the initiates attributed to it and the capacity of the vessel to evoke individual and collective transcendent sensations among the attendees of the liturgies where its use was ritualised. Blood was not the only liquid to play an important role in Mithraism. Water would also undoubtedly have had a ritual function in the mithraea, especially in relation to the mythical episode of the miracle of water, in which Mithras 47 Saxl (1931, 65) argued some 90 years ago that the krater contains the blood of the bull. Turcan (1993, 62) also holds that the krater collects the blood of the bull, but he believes that the blood was substituted with wine, taking into account the usual use of the krater as a wine container. Gordon (2001, 253–257) thinks that, depending of the context, the krater could contain wine or water. Alvar (2008, 89), as Merkelbach (1984, 321) had previously proposed, suggests that it could contain the blood or semen of the bull. By contrast, Clauss (2000, 74) associates the krater with water, while Beck (2006, 195–197; 201–203) considers it to be a reference to the Krater constellation. 48 There may have been other secondary containers associated with the blood. For example, Vermaseren (Vermaseren and Van Essen 1965, 220) considers a vase bearing the word “fuso” painted in red, discovered inside an annex room of the Mithraeum of Santa Prisca, to have been destined for holding the blood that “becomes sacred blood” as a result of a ritual action. Furthermore, in the Mithraeum of Emerita Augusta, a sort of triangular-based stone prism was found attached to the central altar, topped with a schematic bull head and with a triangular cavity in its centre (Barrientos 2001, 363, pl. 6). In my opinion, this would have been used as a receptacle for the blood – or a substitute liquid – of the bull that it represents. 49 E.g. the bronze plaque with tauroctony in the Budapest National Museum (Clauss 2000, Fig. 51), the Stuttgart tauroctony relief (Vermaseren, CIMRM 1306), as well as the Osterburken relief (Vermaseren, CIMRM 1292). Of particular interest is the Mithraic relief from Troi (Setubal, Portugal) (Alvar 2019, 49, 124–126), featuring a banquet scene of Mithras and the Sun in which the krater appears surrounded by the snake, which drinks from within. Cautopates is meanwhile represented holding a jug nearby, in order to fill it with the contents of the krater and to serve the participants in the banquet, Mithras and Helios, who drink from bull horns. Ceramic vessels decorated with snakes, linked to Mithraism, are also well known. See Amand 1975; Clauss 2000, 118–119. 50 Clauss 2000, 93, 116–117, 119, 122; Alvar 2008, 89 n. 208. 51 On the use of wine as a substitute, see above n. 50.

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made water spout from a rock with his bow.52 To this function, we can almost certainly add the use of water in lustrations and ablutions as well. The containers and receptacles inserted in the pavement or in the lateral podia of the mi­thraea may well have been used for this purpose, along with ceramic vessels of various forms.53 Through taste, smell, and sight the ritual significance of these liquids would have been perceived by the Mithraists in a way that transcended the materiality of blood and water, and communicated the religious meanings of these substances. In considering the ways in which meaning was communicated through the senses to the devotees, we can note that the interior of the spelaeum – closed off, dark, and containing numerous and complex symbolic components – already possessed a special atmosphere, appropriate for the staging of the initiation rituals to be faced by the devotees.54 The mixture of atonement and growth experienced by the worshipper as they ascended through the grade scale towards salvation, a journey that involved a range of physical and mental trials and forms of mortification, involved the accumulation of varied and highly sensory experiences.55 By stimulating the senses, the religious sentiment was exacerbated and indelibly inscribed on the memory. This is how the creation of unique experiences would have aroused the devotees, acting as an additional differentiator compared to other religions and enlarging the options of the Mithraic Mysteries in the process of the recruitment of new proselytes. In conclusion, Mithraism would have accumulated empirical knowledge concerning the most effective ways of bringing about meaningful experiences among its members. This knowledge would have been gained through experimentation with the initiation rituals, learning how best to take advantage of the psychological predisposition and impressionability of the neophyte by using sensation-based performances conducted in the dark interiors of the spelaeum. The neophyte’s state of anxious anticipation and the alteration of his emotional state caused by prolonged fasting, leading to his fear at facing the requirement of making strenuous efforts, would result in an intensified 52 See, among others, Alvar 2008, 88–91; Renaut 2008, 186–190. 53 Illustrative of these are the three ceramic containers of the Mithraeum of Santa Prisca (two of them inserted into the floor, the third into a bench), the small basin located next to the entrance of the Mithraeum of the Baths of Caracalla, and the devices in the Mithraeum of Capua Vetere, disposed in the left and the right benches and consisting of a rectangular concrete basin and a small semi-circular “well”, the latter connected to a pipe conduit that runs towards the end wall of the spelaeum (and which could also be used for some kind of performance with the sacralised blood). See also Clauss 2000, 72–73. 54 See, among others, Gordon 1976; Beck 2006, 102ff.; Alvar 2008, 349ff.; Panagiotidou 2012. 55 Beck 2006, 151–152; Harvey 2014, 100 and 113.

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sensitivity that would have engendered extraordinary experiences during the initiation. The drastic alternating of sensory contrasts and the feeling of fulfilment upon completing the trial were guarantees of multi-sensory religious experiences for the mystai. This way of feeling and living the religion, coupled with an ever-increasing proximity to the divine and the promise of salvation,56 proved fundamental to the success of Mithraism. Bibliography Alvar, Jaime. 2008. Romanising Oriental Gods: Myth, Salvation, and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis, and Mithras. Leiden: Brill. Alvar, Jaime. 2019. El culto de Mitra en Hispania. Madrid: Dykinson. Amand, Marcel. 1975. “Les vases mithriaques aux serpents dans l’Empire romain.” In Actes du Colloque International d’Archéologie, 165–169. Rouen: Ed. Musée Départemental des Antiquités de la Seine-Maritime. Barrientos, Teresa. 2001. “Nuevos datos para el estudio de las religiones orientales en Occidente: un espacio de culto mitraico en la zona sur de Mérida.” Excavaciones Arqueológicas en Mérida. 1999, Memoria 5: 357–381. Beccati, Giovanni. 1954. Scavi di Ostia II. I Mitrei. Rome: Libreria dello Stato. Beck, Roger. 2000. “Ritual, Myth, Doctrine, and Initiation in the Mysteries of Mithras: New Evidence from a Cult Vessel.” Journal of Roman Studies 90: 144–179. Beck, Roger. 2006. The Religion of the Mithras Cult in the Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bird, Joanna. 2004. “Incense in Mithraic Ritual: the Evidence of the Finds.” In Roman Mithraism: The Evidence of the Small Finds, edited by Marleen Martens and Guy De Boe, 191–199. Brussels: Instituut voor het Archeologisch Patrimonium. Bradley, Mark. 2014. “Colour as synaesthetic experience in Antiquity.” In Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses, edited by Shane Butler and Alex Purves, 127–140. London: Routledge. Bradley, Mark and Shane Butler, eds. 2014–2019. The Senses in Antiquity. London: Routledge. Brashear, William M. 1992. A Mithraic Catechism from Egypt (P. Berol. 21196). Tyche Supplementband I. Vienna: Holzhausen. Bremmer, Jan N. 2014. Initiation into the Mysteries of the Ancient World. Berlin: De Gruyter.

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The more elaborate cosmological elements of the cult would also have been relevant in spreading Mithraism, but only among the more learned of Mithras’ worshippers.

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Butler, Shane and Alex Purves, eds. 2013. “Introduction: Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses.” In Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses, edited by Shane Butler and Alex Purves, 1–7. Durham: Acumen. Caseau, Béatrice. 2001. “Les usages médicaux de l’encens et des parfums: un aspect de la medicine populaire antique et de sa christianisation.” In Air, Miasmes, et contagion: les épidémies dans l’Antiquité au Moyen Age, edited by Sylvie Bazin-Tacchella, Danielle Quéruel, and Évelyne Samama, 74–85. Langres: D. Guéniot. Chalupa, Ales. 2008. “Seven Mithraic Grades: An Initiatory or Priestly Hierarchy?” Religio 16 (2): 177–201. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2009. “Acclamations as a Form of Religious Communication,” In Die Religion des Imperium Romanum. Koine und Konfrontationen, edited by Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke, 199–218. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Classen, Constance, David Howes, and Anthony Synnott. 1994. Aroma: The Cultural History of Smell. London: Routledge. Clauss, Manfred. 2000. The Roman Cult of Mithras: The God and his Mysteries. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Clements, Ashley. 2015. “Divine Scents and Presence.” In Smell and the Ancient Senses, edited by Mark Bradley, 46–59. London: Routledge. Cosi, Dario M. 1979. “Il mitreo nelle Terme di Caracalla: riflessioni sulla presunta fossa sanguinis del mitreo delle Terme di Caracalla.” In Mysteria Mithra (EPRO 80), edited by Ugo Bianchi, 933–951. Leiden: Brill. Gawlikowski, Michal, 2007. “The Mithraeum at Hawarte and its paintings.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 20: 337–361. Gnoli, Tommaso. 2016. “The Mithraeum of Dura-Europos.” In Religion, Society and Culture at Dura-Europos (Yale Classical Studies 38), edited by Ted Kaizer, 126–143. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gordon, Richard L. 1976. “The Sacred Geography of a Mithraeum; the Example of Sette Sfere.” Journal of Mithraic Studies ½: 119–165. Gordon, Richard L. 1980. “Reality, Evocation and Boundary in the Mysteries of Mithras.” Journal of Mithraic Studies 3: 19–99. Gordon, Richard L. 2001. “Ritual and Hierarchy in the Mysteries of Mithras.” ARYS 4: 245–274. Gordon, Richard L. 2009. “The Mithraic Body: The Example of the Capua Mithraeum.” In Mystic Cults in Magna Graecia, edited by Giovanni Casadio and Patricia Johnston, 290–313. Austin: University of Texas Press. Gordon, Richard L. 2017. “Persae in spelaeis solem colunt: Mithra(s) Between Persia and Rome.” In Persianism in Antiquity, edited by Rolf Strootman and Miguel John Versluys, 289–325. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Harvey, Susan A. 2006. Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Harvey, Susan A. 2014. “The Senses in Religion: Piety, Critique, Competition.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, 500 BCE–500 CE, edited by Jerry P. Toner, 91–113. London: Bloomsbury. Martin, Luther M. 2015. The Mind of Mithraists: Historical and Cognitive Studies in the Roman Cult. London: Bloomsbury. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2017. The Mysteries of Mithras: A Different Account. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. McCauley, Robert N. and Thomas Lawson. 2002. Bringing Ritual to Mind: Psychological Foundations of Cultural Forms. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Merkelbach, Reinhold. 1984. Mithras. Meisenheim: Hain. Meslin, Michel. 1985. “La symbolique des cultes de Cybèle et Mithra.” In Le symbolisme dans le culte des grandes religiones, edited by Julien Ries, 173–185. Lovain-la-Neuve: Centre d’histoire des religions. Morinis, Alan. 1985. “The Ritual Experience: Pain and the Transformation of Consciousness in Ordeals of Initiation.” Ethos 13 (2): 150–174. Panagiotidou, Olympia. 2010. “Transformation of the Initiates’ Identities after Their Initiation into the Mysteries of Mithras.” Bulletin for the Study of Religion 40: 52–61. Panagiotidou, Olympia. 2012. “From Body to Space and Time: Perceiving space and time in the Mithras Cult.” Sacra 1: 33–47. Renaut, Luc. 2008. “Les initiés aux mystères de Mithra étaient-ils marqués au front? Pour une relecture de Tertullien, De praescr. 40, 4.” In Religioni in contatto nel Medi­ terraneo antico. Modalità di diffusione e processi di interferenza, edited by Corinne Bonnet, Sergio Ribichini, and Dirk Steuernagel, 171–190. Rome: Fabrizio Serra Editore. Rubio, Rebeca 1993. “El leonteum de la inscripción de San Gemini: sede de los leones mitraicos.” In Homenaje a J.Mª. Blázquez, III, edited by Julio Mangas and Jaime Alvar, 319–329. Madrid: ARYS. Rubio, Rebeca. 2016. “Consideraciones en torno al mitraísmo en Umbría.” In Vestigia. Miscellanea di studi storico-religiosi in onore di F. Coarelli (PAwB 55), edited by Valentino Gasparini, 407–419. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rubio, Rebeca. 2018. “Specific Aspects of Mithraism in Etruria and Umbria.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 58 (1–4): 57–67. Saxl, Fritz. 1931. Mithras. Berlin: Verlag Heinrich Keller. Shaw, Teresa M. 1998. The Burden of the Flesh: Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Smith, Jennifer N. 2001. A Christian’s Guide to Greek Culture: The Pseudo-Nonnus Commentaries on Sermons 4, 5, 39 and 43. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Toner, Jerry. 2015. “Smell and Christianity.” In Smell and the Ancient Senses, edited by Mark Bradley, 158–170. London: Routledge.

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Turcan, Robert. 1993. Mithra et le mithriacisme. Paris: Belles Lettres. Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1956 (1960). Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae. Hague: M. Nijhoff. Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1982. Mithriaca III: The Mithraeum at Marino (EPRO 16). Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Maarten J., and Carolus C. Van Essen. 1965. The Excavations in the Mithraeum of the Church of Santa Prisca in Rome. Leiden: Brill. Weddle, Candace. 2017. “Blood, Fire and Feasting: The Role of Touch and Taste in Graeco-Roman Animal Sacrifice.” In Senses of the Empire, edited by E. Betts, 104–119. London: Routledge. Whitehouse, Harvey, and Robert N. McCauley, eds. 2005. Mind and Religion: Psychological and Cognitive Foundations of Religiosity. Walnut Creek: Rowman Altamira.

Chapter 10

Imperial Mysteries and Religious Experience Elena Muñiz Grijalvo A number of epigraphical sources inform us about the celebration of mysteria in the context of Imperial cult. In addition to the generic mention of mysteria,1 some inscriptions also include other quite eloquent mysteric terms and allusions, such as sebastophantes, hierophantes, mistagogos, and agon mystikon. However, the sources are so fragmentary and lacking in specificity that it is impossible to speak with any certainty about the actual content of the rites. Notwithstanding this lack of information, scholars have attributed very different meanings to the Imperial mysteries and their related vocabulary.2 The two main divergent points of view are probably best represented by, on the one hand, Martin Nilsson, who interpreted the use of mysteric vocabulary as a mere “Redensart” and included Imperial mysteries among the “Pseudomysterien”,3 and, on the other hand, Harry Pleket, who found what he believed to be real mysteric experiences in the laconic epigraphical expressions.4 As is often the case, part of the problem has to do with our modern need to define and qualify religious phenomena according to specified standards, in this case with reference to what, exactly, we take mysteria to mean.5 A number of scholars, with Richard Gordon as the most notable recent advocate, have tried to defuse such difficulties by denying the existence of a unique and ideal type of mystery, while many others have also recently spoken out against any univocal definition that equates “mystery” with “personal initiation in the hope of a blissful afterlife”.6 Taking into account the wide variety of mystery cults and their remarkable apogee in late Hellenistic and Imperial times, this paper will argue that 1 “Mysteries of the Augusti” (Mytilene, 125–175 CE: IG XII, 2 484 = IGR IV 116); “mysteria and thysiai for the theoi sebastoi” (Ephesos, 83–84 CE: SIG3 820 = I.Ephesos 213); “mysteria” related to the emperor’s birthday (Pergamon, 129–138 CE: I.Pergamon II, 374 = IGR IV, 353); “hierophantis of the mysteria of the temple of the koinon of Bithynia” (Prusias ad Hypium, 2nd cent. CE: I.Prusias 47). 2 For a short history of research on Imperial mysteries, see Bremmer 2016, 21–23. 3 Nilsson 1950. 4 Pleket 1965, followed by Price 1984, 189–191. 5 Different definitions and approaches to mysteria may be found in, for instance, Burkert 1987; Cosmopoulos 2003; Bowden 2010; Gordon 2012; Belayche-Massa 2016. 6 Belayche 2013; Gordon 2012; Gordon 2016.

© Elena Muñiz Grijalvo, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_012

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Imperial cult practices – at least in some places, according to our sources – probably included certain stimuli that were implemented in order to elicit specific emotions in worshippers. However, my interest here will not be in speculating about the content of these rites, nor about what people actually experienced. Instead, I will try to show that the use of mysteric jargon and certain ritual elements in Imperial cult was devised and adopted in order to suggest a specific understanding and experience of Imperial power. The world of mysteries provided the collective framework of meaning within which those stimuli made complete sense. To this end, I will explore one of the main lines of inquiry that runs through the present volume: how and why Imperial cult made use of the collective semantic value of the mysteries.7 In pursuing this question, I will focus on what is, in my opinion, one of the most promising lines of thought in the recent development of sensory studies, that is, the actual shaping of experience by cultural constructs.8 In his seminal analysis of Imperial cult, Keith Hopkins underlines an apparently obvious feature which has proved to be crucial for our understanding of the cult, namely that one of the aims of Imperial cult was to suggest the association of the emperor with the divine.9 Obviously, in order to successfully create this association in the minds of participants, it was necessary to draw upon already existing ritual expressions. As Susan Harvey has recently pointed out, what makes perceptions efficient are the meanings drawn from other contexts.10 In this case, the inclusion of mysteric essences in Imperial cult probably sought to build on the association of the emperors with the divine, making use of a well-known world of meaning (the world of mysteries) that had already been in use for centuries, and which actually shaped – this is my central point here – the perception of the rulers as dei praesentes. In a way, the same processes were at work in other cults as well, at least in some areas of the empire. New mysteries, or new mysteric meanings for already existing cults, proliferated throughout Achaia and Asia Minor in particular.11 Judging from Lucian’s well-known satire on the creation of the cult of Glycon, new cults of a certain kind seem to have adopted a convenient mysteric aspect, which in this case involved torchlit ceremonies and priestly offices,

7 8 9 10 11

See the introduction, p. 19. See, for instance, the approaches of Toner 2014; Howes-Classen 2014; Platt 2018. Hopkins 1978, 198. Harvey 2014. Lo Monaco 2009, 33–62.

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the manifestation of Glycon, a torch-bearer and a hierophant, and other familiar features.12 Mysteric valences probably helped make the emperors resemble the high and almighty but still very present gods that were typical of the traditional mysteries. Above all, the inclusion of mysteric features opened the door to new forms of communication between the gods and men. It is, thus, only natural that Imperial cult, which may be considered a “cult in the making” involving all kinds of strategies to enhance the emperor’s divinity, also turned to mysteries as a valuable seam of possibilities for the making of meaning.13 In what follows, I will argue that mysteric terminology and ritual features were included in the Imperial cult in an attempt to inspire a specific sensory experience of the power of emperors. This experience suggested to participants that the emperors belonged to the category of dei praesentes, that is to the category of gods who were present and who acted in favour of their worshippers. Mystery cults in all their varieties emphasised, as a rule, the moment of the individual’s encounter with the god.14 The experience of meeting the gods, either directly (in divine epiphanies) or indirectly (as statues, for instance),15 was one of the most longed for in any cult.16 For obvious reasons, the possibility of seeing the gods and being able to interact with them directly was extremely appealing to their worshippers. Many people in the ancient world were convinced that seeing or being seen by a god “brought blessings in its train”.17 The divine status of emperors was closely related to this idea: no other god than the emperor could better guarantee the prosperity of his subjects. Of course, some people were fortunate enough to have actually seen the emperor in the flesh, but most of 12 Lucian, Alex. 38–40 (transl. Harmon 1925): “He established a celebration of mysteries, with torchlight ceremonies and priestly offices, which was to be held annually, for three days in succession, in perpetuity. On the first day, as at Athens, there was a proclamation […] On the second day came the manifestation of Glycon, including the birth of the god. 39. On the third day there was the union of Podaleirius and the mother of Alexander – it was called the Day of Torches, and torches were burned […] The torch-bearer and hierophant was our Endymion, Alexander. 40. Often in the course of the torchlight ceremonies and the gambols of the mysteries his thigh was bared purposely and showed golden. No doubt gilded leather had been put about it, which gleamed in the light of the cressets”. On the creation of Glycon’s cult by Alexander, see Sfameni Gasparro 1999. 13 An inspiring example of what is meant by “making meaning” can be found in Versluys 2014. 14 Bowden 2010, 213; Borgeaud 2007, 193–4; Petridou 2013, 316–317. 15 Artem. Oneir. 2.35 (transl. White 1980): “Whether gods appear in their flesh or as statues […] they have the same meaning”. 16 Divine epiphanies have been the subject of several well-known works, including those by Lane Fox 1987, Dickie 2004, and especially Petridou 2013 and 2015. 17 Dickie 2004, 175; see also Gordon 2011.

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Rome’s subjects had to be content with seeing him through the medium of the plastic arts. The longing for a deus praesens, which was directed with particular intensity towards the emperor, might have found an interesting response in mystery cults. Literary sources insist on the idea that the purpose of mystery cults was precisely to allow humans to enjoy direct contact with some specific god or gods.18 Although this idea is probably overemphasised by the Neoplatonic context of some of our sources, it helps to explain the introduction of mysteric overtones into Imperial cult. Whatever their actual content, mysteries might have opened up new types of intimacy and new means of interaction with the emperors, thus making them more present. As we will see, not everybody had access to these new possibilities. As was the case with actual proximity to living emperors, mysteric Imperial cult was probably reserved for a “happy few”.19 In fact, exclusiveness was probably one of the cult’s raisons d’être, as has been suggested by Nicole Belayche who underlines the metaphoric use of mysteric terminology as a way of stressing aristocratisation in elite circles.20 Nevertheless, the very existence of a mysteric side to Imperial cult – regardless of whether or not one belonged to the “happy few” – powerfully suggested that the emperors belonged to a certain category of gods who might choose to make themselves present and available through mysteric rites. Direct interaction between men and gods in the mysteries was specifically supported by the senses.21 There is no need to insist on this very well-known feature of mystery cults: tactile, gustative, olfactory, auditory, and, above all, visual experiences were central to evoking the presence of the gods. The contrast between darkness and light, for instance, created the perfect atmosphere to suggest disorientation and discovery.22 Visual experiences were an essential component in alluding to the encounter with the divine.23 Even though the senses are rarely mentioned, our sources for the Imperial mysteries do indicate the special importance of visual perceptions in particular. Before going any further, it will be useful to reflect on some ideas that have been drawn on in recent visual cultural studies. The emphasis placed on 18 19 20 21 22 23

Iambl. Myst. 6.5–7. Belayche 2013, 39; Potter 2014, 24; Bremmer 2016, 27, 29. Belayche 2013. Hardie 2004. Bowden 2010, 213. Among the senses, the importance of sight was not only outstanding but was also accepted as such from ancient times: for a history of sight and sensory studies, see the very useful introduction in Squire 2018.

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sight and visual effects in Imperial mysteries may have been connected to the ancient idea that sight was the “noblest” of the senses, and, specifically, to one of the reasons for this supposed superiority.24 While other “lower” senses, such as touch, have “boundary-blurring properties”, sight, by contrast, “operates at a distance, requires no physical interaction”, and “emphasizes detachment”.25 All of these features specifically associated with sight were highly valued in a cult whose aim was precisely to stress the distance between the emperor and his subjects. In what follows, I will, therefore, concentrate on three specific examples of the way in which the importance of sight might have been underlined in the Imperial mysteries: the mention of an agon mystikos in several places in Asia Minor; the presence of the sebastophantes as one of the priesthoods in Imperial cult, also in Asia Minor; and the special importance of torches in the Kaisarea of Messene, in Achaia. 1. Several inscriptions in Ancyra (Galatia) and Side (Pamphylia) mention the celebration of an agon mystikos in the context of Imperial cult. As seems to be the rule with the sources for Imperial mysteries, there are no hints about the content of those agones, which seem to have been an innovation. For our purposes, the most interesting inscription is that bearing the decree of a synod of technitai in Ancyra, whose patrons were Dionysos and Neos Dionysos (i.e. the emperor Hadrian).26 The synod honoured a certain Ulpius Aelius Pompeianus, a helladarch and high priest of the Imperial cult, who had paid for and organised in a speedy manner a new mystical contest “granted to the city by the emperor” (ll. 11–12):27 ἀγαθῆι τύχηι. ψήφισμα τῶν ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκουμένης πε ρὶ τὸν Διόνυσον καὶ Αὐτοκράτορα Τρα ιανὸν Ἁδριανὸν Σεβαστὸν Καίσαρα 5 νέον Διόνυσον τεχνειτῶν ἱερο[νει] κῶν στεφανειτῶν καὶ τῶν τούτων συ[ν] αγωνιστῶν καὶ τῶν νεμόντων τὴν ἱερὰν θυμελικὴν σύνοδον. ἐπειδὴ προτα θεὶς ὑπὸ τῆς ἱερωτάτης βουλῆς Οὔλπιος 24 Squire 2018, 10–16. 25 Howes-Classen 2014, 11. 26 I.Ancyra 141 = Bosch, Ankara 128 = SEG VI.59 (128–129 CE) (transl. Mitchell and French 2012). 27 Probably during his visit to Ancyra in 117, as suggested by Birley 1997, 83.

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Αἴλιος Πομπειανὸς(!) ἀγωνοθετῆσαι τὸν ἀ γῶνα τὸν μυστικὸν δοθέντα ὑπὸ τοῦ Αὐ τοκράτορος ἐν ὀλίγαις τῇ πόλει, τῇ τε χει ροτονίᾳ ταχέως ὑπήκουσεν καὶ τὸν ἀγῶ να διαφανῶς ἐπετέλεσεν ἐκ τῶν ἑαυτοῦ μη15 δεμιᾶς ἀπολειφθεὶς λαμπρότητος καὶ μεγα λοψυχίας ἀλλὰ τήν τε εὐσέβειαν τῆς πατρίδος εἰς ἀμφοτέρους τοῦς θεοὺς ἐπεψήφισεν καὶ τὰς ἐπιδόσεις πάσας δὲ ἀφειδῶς ἐποιήσα το, πρὸς μηδεμίαν δαπάνην ἀναδύς, καὶ τῷ τε 20 τάχει τῆς σπουδῆς ὁδεύοντας ἤδη τοὺς ἀγωνι στὰς ἀνεκαλέσατο καὶ παντὶ μέρει τοῦ μυστηρί ο̣υ̣ [ἐπή]ρ̣κ̣εσ̣ εν, τῇ μὲν συνόδῳ τὰ ἆθλα προθεὶς [τὸν δὲ μυστι]κὸν ἀγῶνα κατασχὼν ὡς προκεκρ[ι] [μένος μόνος] εὖ ποιεῖν τὴν πόλιν. {2vac.}2 25 [δεδόχθαι οὖν] ἡ⟨μ⟩εῖν, ὑπὲρ τοῦ τετηρῆσθαι μὲν [τὰς τειμὰς τῷ τε] Αὐτοκράτορι καὶ τῷ Διονύσῳ διασε [σῶσθαι δὲ εἰς τὸν] ἀγῶνα τῇ πόλει, τὸν ἄνδρα τετιμῆ [σθαι ἀνδριάντ]ι, ὃς ἀναστήσεται ἐν ἐπιφανεστά [τῳ μὲν τόπῳ τ]ῆς μητροπόλεως, ἰδίῳ δὲ τῶν ἀγω30 [νιζομένων ἐ]ν τῷ θεάτρῳ, παράδιγμα κάλλιστον [ἀρετῆς τοῖς θε]ω̣ μένοις, ᾧ καὶ τὸν εἰσιόντα ἀγωνι [στὴν εἰς μυστικ]ὸν ἀγῶνα ἐψηφίσθαι στεφάνους With Good Fortune! Decree of the world-wide association of artists around Dionysus and emperor Traianus Hadrianus Augustus Caesar, the new Dionysus, victors in sacred games and crown-wearers, and their fellow-competitors, and those administering the sacred gathering of actors. Since (10) Ulpius Aelius Pompeianus, having been put forward by the most sacred council to preside over the mystic games donated by the emperor at very short notice for the city, both accepted the vote swiftly and accomplished the contest in an outstanding manner, falling not at all (15) short in splendour and generosity, but decreed in addition the piety of his native city to both the gods, and made all the donations unsparingly, without failing in any expenditure, (20) and by the speed of his zealous enthusiasm he summoned the competitors when they were already on the road, and proved equal to every part of the mysteries having put up the prizes for the gathering, and organising the mystic contest, conducting himself as though uniquely elected to benefit his city – (25) we have resolved, in order to guarantee these honours to the emperor and

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to Dionysus, and to preserve them in relation to the contest for the city, to honour this man with a statue which will stand in the most conspicuous location of the metropolis privately (30) among the competitors in the theatre as a most excellent example of his virtue to the spectators, on which it has been decreed that the competitors entering the mystic games should place wreaths […] The inscription is badly damaged, so it is impossible to guess the exact relationship between this agon mystikos and the broader “mysteries” that are mentioned, the cost of which was also defrayed by Pompeianus (ll. 21–22). Pleket believed that two different rituals might have been involved here: a public contest which, in Pleket’s opinion, was qualified as “mystical” because it probably consisted of a religious drama in which the leading actors impersonated Dionysos and Hadrian; and other rites “of a more secret character”, about which we have no further clues.28 The other inscriptions that mention an agon mystikos provide little more in the way of conclusive information about the contents of the agon. One of them, referring to the city of Claudiopolis but found in Ancyra, is also connected to Pompeianus’ evergetic activity.29 This inscription provides information about the correct celebration of the contest but tells us nothing about the character of the rites or the reason why the agon was considered mystikos at all. The same may be said about the last two inscriptions, both of which are related to the city of Side and are of a much later date:30 in both cases the agon mystikos is just one more in a series of public contests. These inscriptions suggest that Pompeianus may also have had something to do with the original foundation of the mystical contest in Side.31 Although the contents of the agon mystikos remain uncertain, the decree of the technitai is quite clear about one thing at least: the contest was a complete innovation promoted by the emperor and his high priest Pompeianus. For some reason, at a certain point it was thought to be urgently necessary to laud the power of the emperor with the celebration of this new agon. Pompeianus, we read, had been “put forward by the most sacred Council as the director of the mystical contest, which was granted to the city by the emperor in a speedy manner”, and “he promptly accepted the appointment” (ll. 10–12). As a result, 28 Pleket 1965, 336. 29 I.Ancyra 143 = Bosch, Ankara 166.130 = SEG VI.58 (128–129 CE): “[…] when the mystic competition had been completed in the city of the Claudiopolitans (?) […]” (transl. Mitchell and French 2012). 30 I.Tralleis 135 (180–190 CE); I. Side 149 (2nd–3rd century CE). 31 Fein 1994, 118–126; Mitchell-French 2012, 308.

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ceremonies which were defined as mystikoi, that is, as “connected with the mysteries”32 – of Dionysos, in this case – were celebrated in honour of both this god and the Neos Dionysos, the emperor Hadrian. Whatever Dionysos’ relationship with his followers,33 the new contest placed Hadrian on an equal footing with the mysteric god. The agon also seems to have been assigned a priority status in the ritual agenda of at least Ancyra and the other cities that had been blessed by Pompeianus’ evergetism.

…

2. My second example is concerned with a new priesthood that emerged in the context of Imperial cult, the so-called sebastophantes. Some forty honorary inscriptions, all of them from Asia Minor and dating from the end of the 1st century CE to the 3rd century CE, mention a sebastophantes among the priesthoods related to the emperors.34 It is quite clear that both the semantic field of the term (phaino = “bring to light, reveal, disclose”) and, above all, its undeniable relationship with a well-known mysteric priesthood, the Eleusinian hierophantes, suggest the existence of some kind of visual experience. In some cases, the same person was even sebastophantes and “hierophantes of the mysteries”, although it is questionable whether those “mysteries” should be interpreted as being related to the Imperial cult. For instance, in Prusias ad Hypium the sebastophantes was also “hierophantes of the mysteries of the great common temple of Bithynia” (τοῦ μεγάλου καὶ κοινοῦ τῆς Βειθυ[νίας] / [νά] ου τῶν μυστηρίων ἱεροφάντ[ην]).35 Pleket suggested that those mysteries could only have been the Imperial mysteries, and Ameling, one of the modern editors of the inscription, concurs.36 To my knowledge, there is no way of confirming that these mysteries were actually related to the emperor, although it

32 Similarly, the exact meaning of mystikos remains uncertain since it probably differed depending on the cult, and most likely also developed over time. However, it alluded unequivocally to mysteric semantic fields. 33 Bowden 2010; Jaccottet 2003. 34 I.Prusias 5, 17, 19, 46, 47; McCabe, Aphrodisias 296; I.Smyrna 1; I.Ephesos 286, 1455, 1456, 1457, 2037; IG Bulg 3.1.1517; I.Sardis I,1, 62; I.Kios 4; I.Mus. Iznik 116; I.Prusa 16; AS 27 (1977) 75,7; IGR 3.162; Bosch, Ankara 94.98, 115.100, 122.105, 123.106, 141.117, 178.139, 310.249, 310.250, 311.251, 312.252, 312.253; I.Pessinous 12, 14, 17, 18; MAMA V, 182, 82 (Dorylaion); MAMA VI, 149, 164 (Akmonia); SEG 57.1220; Marek, Cat. Pompeiopolis 3. 35 I.Prusias 17 (2nd cent. CE; see also ibid. 47); I.Sardis I,1, 62 (2nd cent. CE): σε[βαστοφάντην καὶ] [τῶν] μυστη[ρίων ἱεροφάντην]. 36 Ibid. 77; Pleket 1965, 338–9.

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seems quite likely that they were.37 However, even if this was the case, there are no clues concerning their content. Our only certainty is that there was a close relationship between the sebastophantes and the hierophantes. If we wish to go a step further and try to determine exactly what functions the sebastophantes actually performed, we have to return to the unresolved disagreement between Pleket and Nilsson. Pleket thought that, on the analogy of the Eleusinian hierophantes, the sebastophantes probably participated in the liturgical dramas performed as a part of the mystery celebrations, and that he showed sacred objects to the worshippers or even “appeared in the role of the god and announced something to the mystai”, as was the case with the theophantes in a Dionysiac thiasos in Smyrna.38 Conversely, Nilsson preferred to interpret the sebastophantes as the sebastologos, someone whose function was to praise the virtues of the emperor in a sermon.39 The inscriptions discussed above deliberately associated the sebastophantes with the hierophantes. This might be considered an argument in support of Pleket’s thesis, although it does not mean that the two roles necessarily performed the same functions. Following Pleket, Price thought that the sebastophantes might have displayed a bust or some symbol of the emperor,40 proposing that coins depicting people “gazing in rapture” at Imperial busts and images might be interpreted as snapshots of the rites performed by the sebastophantes. Going even further, Price suggests that “comparable attitudes of adoration are found most easily in the cult of Isis”. In my opinion, all these arguments take the comparative method rather too far. It is likely that an important part of the experience of the Isiac mystai had to do with the enraptured contemplation of Isiac images. However, the cult of Isis rested heavily on its logos, that is, on the myth that informed the ritual actions. Lacking a recognised body of myths,41 the relationship between rites and their meaning in Imperial cult was necessarily different, and the same must be true of the experiences and attitudes of the worshippers. Another issue is the question of what was intended by the deliberate choice of specifically mysteric terminology. The word sebastophantes was unmistakably associated with hierophantes: key Eleusinian and mysteric associations were thus taken for granted, as was the possibility of a visual experience of divinity, similar to that which took place at Eleusis. Whatever the sebastophantes 37 Only in one instance was the sebastophantes also the hierophantes “of the emperors”: Bosch, Ankara, 178.139 (117–138 CE) = I.Ancyra 88. 38 Pleket 1965, 339–340; Bremmer 2016, 27–28. 39 Nilsson 1975 [1957], 138ff. 40 Price 1984, 190–1. 41 Bremmer 2016, 25.

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actually did, it probably involved some visual symbol of Imperial power. Either individually or in a group, the worshippers saw something that they associated with the world of the mysteries and, above all, with a god who made himself accessible through this and other rites. It is quite probable that the mysteric context influenced the perceptions of the audience. It most likely prepared the viewers’ perceptual cognition in such a way that everything they saw was interpreted in mysteric terms. Beyond creating a certain kind of visual experience, the introduction of such a specific mysteric vocabulary aimed to provide the viewers with a particular cognitive frame. More than “vision”, what was at stake here was “visuality”, i.e. a discursive determination of vision which altered the quality of those Imperial images or symbols that the sebastophantes might display.42 Regardless of what the viewers actually saw and experienced, the centrality of visual perception in Imperial mysteries is, in itself, quite remarkable. The Roman period was full of what Lane Fox describes as instances of “seeing the gods”, that is, direct visual contact with divinities who were extremely powerful and, at the same time, extremely close to humans. Gods such as Isis or Asklepios, to mention just two, were constantly making themselves visible to men in one way or another.43 It was only to be expected, then, that the Imperial cult would also include the possibility of “seeing the god”, with the aim of presenting the emperor as an equally powerful but also accessible divinity.

…

3. My last example speaks further to the centrality of visual experiences in the Imperial mysteries. As was the case in Asia Minor, mysteries flourished in Achaia in late Hellenistic and Roman times. Already existing cults, sometimes very ancient ones, adopted Eleusinian features during this period.44 The result was a rather diverse combination of mysteric rites that apparently shared little more than their nocturnal character: both literary sources and archaeological finds allude to dances and processions by torchlight. Torches and lamps were typical of the Eleusinian staging and progressively became an essential part of the “mystery pack” that colonised many Mediterranean cults, including Christianity: “O truly sacred mysteries! O 42 43 44

For the concept of “visuality”, see Gordon 1979; Foster 1988; Nelson 2000; Elsner 1995 and 2007; Pink 2006. I owe several of these references to Anton Alvar, to whom I express here my gratitude. Petridou 2015. Jost 1985; Tsiolis 2002; Lo Monaco 2009; Bremmer 2016, 24.

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stainless light! My way is lit with torches”, sang Clement of Alexandria.45 As we saw above, the encounter with the gods was symbolised above all through dichotomies such as darkness/light and blindness/vision. The introduction of light effects was, therefore, a common device that also found its place in Imperial cult.46 An outstanding instance of the importance of torches, lights, and visual effects can be found in the Caesarea of Messene, which were reformed upon Tiberius’ ascension to the throne.47 Significantly, the Caesarea were associated with the old Asklepieia, and the Sebasteion was part of the pre-existing temple of Asklepios. The members of the Imperial house were honoured in a three-day festival that included athletic competitions, an oath of loyalty to the Imperial family, and a sacrificial procession to the Sebasteion. There is no mention of mysteries here. However, the priest of the divine Augustus presided over the procession and was the first to enter the sacred space with a torch that shed light upon the Imperial statues (ll. 23–25): θεῶι Σεβαστῶι [Καίσαρι κ]αὶ Τιβερίωι Καίσ̣ [αρι] Σεβαστῶι, τ[οῦ γραμμ]ατέος συνέ[δρων] καὶ ἱερέος [θεοῦ Σεβαστοῦ] Καίσαρος [.c.5.] [.c.4.] Ἀ̣ ρ̣ι ̣σ̣ [– – – – – – – – – – – –] 5 [– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] ἐνφάνισον δ[ὲ – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] Διομέα ἱερέ[α – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] οτεία τὰν θ[– – – – – – – – – – – ἁμεῖν καὶ πᾶ] [ς]ιν ἀνθρώ[ποις – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] 10 [– – –]εις θε[– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] [– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] lacuna δυν[– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] φυλάσσοντ[– – – – – – – – – πᾶσι τοῖς τὰν πόλιν κα] τοικοῦντοις καὶ [– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –] 15 ετι τελειότατα ἐκχο̣[– – – – – – – – – – – – – – ἔμ] πεδα πάντα τὰ προτει[νόμενα – – – – – – – – – – – –] ὅταν ὁ μάντις κατεύχη[ται – – – – – – – – – – – – –] καὶ Καίσαρα Σεβαστὸν ἐξισ̣ [– – – – – – – – – – – – –] εἰσφέρῃ τοὺς ἄρχοντας, ὀμν[ύειν δὲ – – – – – – – – –] 45 Protr. 12: Ὢ τῶν ἁγίων ὡς ἀληθῶς μυστηρίων, ὢ φωτὸς ἀκηράτου. δᾳδουχοῦμαι τοὺς οὐρανοὺς καὶ τὸν θεὸν ἐποπτεῦσαι. The “mystery pack” was also adopted in mysteries created ex novo, such as those of Glycon: torchlight processions (Lucian, Alex. 38, see above n. 12). 46 Kantiréa 2007, 70; Bremmer 2016, 26. 47 SEG XLI.328 (14 CE).

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20

ἐν ταῖς εἰσόδοις ἕκαστος ν̣[– – – – – – – – – θεοῦ Σε] βαστοῦ Καίσαρος καὶ Τιβερίου Καίσαρο[ς Σεβαστοῦ καὶ τοῖς ἐκγόν] οις αὐτῶν· ἀμ[νοῖ]ς εὐωχείσθω ἐν τ[ῷ Σεβαστείῳ – – – ἱερεὺς] ὁ κατ’ ἔτος τοῦ Σεβαστοῦ δαδουχείτω [– – – – – – – – – – – –] εἰς τὸ ἱερὸν παρέρπων καὶ πρῶτος ἐκ δεξιῶν σ[– – – – – – – –] 25 μονον ἁμεῖν καὶ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις φωτίσαι [– – – – – – – – – – –] ναν τὸν Σεβαστόν, Τιβερίου δὲ Καίσαρος ἀπ̣ [– – – καὶ τοὺς γεννήσαν] τας αὐτὸν καὶ ἀνιέντας αὐτῷ, τὸν αὐτὸν ν̣[– – – – – – – – – – –] δὲ καὶ θεὰν Λειβίαν τὰν ματέρα αὐτοῦ καὶ γ[υναίκα θεοῦ Σεβαστοῦ Καίσαρος] Three details indicate just how deliberately visuality and a visual encounter with the god were placed at the core of this rite. The first is that the Sebasteion had a door that probably remained closed and was only opened on solemn occasions such as this, thus emphasising the presence of the emperor within and allowing potential participants to play with the idea of an encounter with the emperor during the rites.48 The second is the importance of the torch, which was carried by the priest himself. The third is the use of the verb παρέρπω, “creep secretly up to”, which suggests a gradual and reverent approach to the image of the god. We can have no certainty about the existence of Imperial mysteries in Messene. Nor is it possible to get a glimpse of what exactly happened in those mysteria that are mentioned in many inscriptions, primarily from Asia Minor. There were probably no “Imperial mysteries” per se, that is as an invariable category or as a common kind of rite introduced at the same time in all the temples of Imperial cult throughout the empire. Our sources speak more of certain mysteric features that were devised in specific sanctuaries to adorn Imperial cult, probably in line with what was being done in the vicinity of every other sanctuary. This was probably the case with the agon mystikon in Ancyra and other places, with the introduction of a sebastophantes, and, as we have seen, with the importance of torches in the Peloponnese. These three cases illustrate how visual experience was thought to be crucial in Imperial cult. On the one hand, the importance of sight as the highest of senses and the use of visual effects to underline the distance between the ruler and his subjects both gave visual devices a key position within Imperial mysteries.49 On the other hand, those mysteric connotations helped to construct a framework of meaning that actually shaped the sensory perception of Imperial rites. The very way of seeing 48 49

Lo Monaco 2009, 199. On the importance of sight, see above pp. 195–196.

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the representations and symbols of the emperors was powerfully conditioned by the mysteric discourse, as this discourse provided a taxonomical reference structure within which the experience could be classified and understood.50 Visually equating the ways of displaying the emperors with those used in the cases of other mysteric gods and allowing access to symbols or plastic representations of Imperial power with unmistakable mysteric connotations were both means for acting on the perception of Imperial power. The introduction of a mysteric approach to the emperor placed him on a par with other popular and powerful gods, and helped to build his image as a deus praesens.

Acknowledgements

This paper was written with the support of the research project “Hadrian and the integration of regional diversity” (HAR2015-65451-C2-1-P MINECO/FEDER). I would like to thank Jaime Alvar, Greg Woolf, and Antón Alvar for inviting me to the workshop that gave rise to this volume, for their warm hospitality and for a highly stimulating time in Madrid. Bibliography Belayche, Nicole. 2013. “L’évolution des formes rituelles: hymnes et mystèria.” In Panthée: Religious Transformations in the Graeco-Roman Empire, edited by Laurent Bricault and Corinne Bonnet, 17–40. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Belayche, Nicole and Francesco Massa. 2016. “Quelques balises introductives: lexique et historiographie.” Métis, n.s. 14: 7–19. Birley, Anthony R. 1997. Hadrian, the Restless Emperor. London/New York: Routledge. Borgeaud, Philippe. 2007. “Rites et émotions. Considérations sur les mystères.” In Rites et croyances dans les religions du monde romain, edited by John Scheid, 189–229. Vandoeuvres-Genève: Fondation Hardt. Bowden, Hugh. 2010. Mystery Cults of the Ancient World. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bremmer, Jan. 2016. “Imperial Mysteries.” Métis, n.s. 14: 21–34. Burkert, Walter. 1987. Ancient Mystery Cults. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cosmopoulos, Michael, ed. 2003. Greek Mysteries: The Archaeology and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults. London/New York: Routledge.

50

See Introduction, p. 16.

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Dickie, Matthew. 2004. “Divine Epiphany in Lucian’s Account of the Oracle of Alexander of Abonuteichos.” Illinois Classical Studies 29: 159–182. Elsner, Jas. 1995. Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Elsner, Jas. 2007. Roman Eyes: Visuality and Subjectivity in Art and Text. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Fein, Sylvia. 1994. Die Beziehungen der Kaiser Trajan und Hadrian zu den Literati. Stuttgart/Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Foster, Hal. 1988. Vision and Visuality. Seattle: Bay Press. Gordon, Richard L. 1979. “The Real and the Imaginary: Production and Religion in the Graeco-Roman World.” Art History 2: 5–34. Gordon, Richard L. 2011. “The Roman Imperial Cult and the Question of Power.” In The Religious History of the Roman Empire, edited by John North and Simon R. F. Price, 37–70. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Gordon, Richard L. 2012. “Mysteries.” In The Oxford Classical Dictionary, edited by Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth, 990–991. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gordon, Richard L. 2016. “Den Jungstier auf den goldenen Schultern Tragen: Mythos, Ritual und Jenseits Vorstellungen im Mithraskult.” In Burial Rituals, Ideas of the Afterlife, and the Individual in the Hellenistic World and the Roman Empire, edited by Katherine Waldner, Richard Gordon, and Wolfgang Spickermann, 207–240. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Hardie, Alex. 2004. “Muses and Mysteries.” In Music and the Muses, edited by Penelope Murray and Peter Wilson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harvey, Susan A. 2014. “The Senses in Religion: Piety, Critique, Competition.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Torner, 91–113. London/New York: Bloomsbury. Hopkins, Keith. 1978. Conquerors and Slaves. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. Howes, David and Constance Classen. 2014. Ways of Sensing: Understanding the Senses in Society. New York: Routledge. Jaccottet, Anne-Françoise. 2003. Choisir Dionysos. Les associations dionysiaques ou la face cachée du dionysisme. Zürich: Akanthus. Jost, Madeleine. 1985. Sanctuaires et cultes d’Arcadie. Paris: J. Vrin. Kantiréa, Maria. 2007. Les dieux et les dieux augustes. Le culte imperial en Grèce sous les Julio-claudiens et les Flaviens. Athens: De Boccard. Lo Monaco, Annalisa. 2009. Il crepuscolo degli dei d’Achaia. Roma: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Mitchell, Stephen and David French. 2012. The Greek and Latin Inscriptions of Ankara (Ancyra). Vol. 1: From Augustus to the End of the Third Century AD. Munich: C. H. Beck.

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Nelson, Robert S. 2000. “Descartes’ Cow and Other Domestications of the Visual.” In Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance, edited by Robert S. Nelson, 1–21. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. Nilsson, Martin P. 1950. “Kleinasiatische Pseudomysterien.” Bulletin de l’Institut Archéologique Bulgare 16: 17–20. Nilsson, Martin P. 1975 [1957]. The Dionysiac Mysteries of the Hellenistic and Roman Age. New York: Arno Press. Nilsson, Martin P. 1961. Geschichte der griechischen Religion II. München: Beck. Petridou, Georgia. 2013. “ ‘Blessed is He Who Has Seen’: The Power of Ritual Viewing and Ritual Framing in Eleusis.” Helios 40: 309–341. Petridou, Georgia. 2015. Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature and Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pink, Sarah. 2006. The Future of Visual Anthropology. Engaging the Senses. London/ New York: Routledge. Platt, Verity. 2018. “Sight and the Gods: On the Desire to See Naked Nymphs.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 161–179. Abingdon: Routledge. Pleket, Harry P. 1965. “An Aspect of the Emperor Cult: Imperial Mysteries.” Harvard Theological Review 58: 331–347. Potter, David. 2014. “The Social Life of the Senses: Feasts and Funerals.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Torner, 23–44. London/New York: Bloomsbury. Price, Simon R. F. 1984. Rituals and Power. The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press. Robert, Louis. 1989. Opera minora selecta II. Amsterdam. Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia. 1999. “Alessandro di Abonutico, lo “pseudo-profeta” ovvero come construirsi un’identità religiosa. II. L’oracolo e i misteri.” In Les syncrétismes religieux dans le monde méditérranéen antique. Actes du colloque international en l h́ onneur de Franz Cumont, edited by C. Bonnet and A. Motte, 275–305. Bruxelles-Rome: Brepols. Squire, Michael, ed. 2018. Sight and the Ancient Senses. Abingdon: Routledge. Torner, Jerry, ed. 2014. A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity. London/New York: Bloomsbury. Tsiolis, Vassilis. 2002. “Damofón, Sosígenes y la introducción de los misterios eleusinos en Megalópolis.” Eutopia n.s. 2.1: 7–32. Versluys, Miguel John. 2014. “Making Meaning with Egypt: Hadrian, Antinous and Rome’s Cultural Renaissance.” Mythos 3: 25–39.

Chapter 11

Pro consensu et concordia civium: Sensoriality, Imperial Cult, and Social Control in Augustan Urban Orientations David Espinosa-Espinosa, A. César González-García, and Marco V. García-Quintela 1

Introduction

One of the most stunning sights available to people in the Roman Empire would have been the alignment of the sun with certain public structures in Roman towns at particular moments of the religious calendar. Some of these dates were related to astronomical events, such as solstices and equinoxes, which were, during the reign of Augustus, connected in turn with certain political and religious principles. The application of cosmological criteria of this sort in the orientation and planning of Roman towns has been identified in a number of cases, as, for example, at Augusta Praetoria Salassorum (Aosta) in Italia, Colonia Urbs Iulia Nova Carthago (Cartagena) in Hispania Citerior Tarraconensis, Colonia Copia Claudia Augusta Lugdunum (previously Colonia Copia Felix Munatia, Lyon) in Gallia Lugdunensis, Colonia Augusta Treverorum (Trier) in Gallia Belgica, and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (previously Ara Ubiorum, Cologne) in Germania Inferior.1 In all of these places, the apparent movement of the sun across the sky throughout the year would have been used calendrically to mark out (mostly at sunrise) important public festivals that were linked to the human and agricultural cycles, as well as festivals connected with several deities from the Roman pantheon, including the Emperor. The intention behind this practice was, on the face of it, the commemoration of specific public events that were deeply significant for the population’s memory. However, this practice also served to foster peaceable internal relationships and the town’s prosperity, ultimately providing a means by which to maintain the political and religious cohesion of the local communities.

1 On the astronomical orientation of these towns, see Bertarione and Magli 2015; GarcíaQuintela and González-García 2014; Espinosa-Espinosa et al. 2016; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017; Rodríguez Antón et al. 2018.

© David Espinosa-Espinosa et al., 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_013

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In order to achieve this latter purpose, sensory perception, emotional impact, and ritual action had to play a decisive role in these festivals. One of the key elements taken into account would have been the heavenly landscape, during both day and night. The sky in ancient times, unlike that with which most of us are familiar today, was, in the absence of moonlight and artificial lighting, filled throughout with stars.2 In addition, the motion of celestial bodies (mainly the sun and the moon), and their appearance and disappearance over the horizon, were used as astronomical markers for measuring the course of time in relation to important periods in natural and human cycles, such as those of procreation, birth, plant and animal growth, sailing, and warfare, among others.3 For these reasons, as Efrosyni Boutsikas has noted regarding Ancient Greece, it is clear that astronomy did play a crucial role in Greek religion and cult practices. The nocturnal character of some Greek religious festivals (e.g. the Arrephoria, the Eleusian Mysteries, the Thesmophoria) performed in open space, with little artificial light, suggests the importance of the celestial dome that encircled these performances, integrating the sky in the cult experience.4 For the Roman world, the same idea is clearly stated in Manilius’ Astronomica.5 With this in mind, it is perfectly understandable that the sight of the first rays of sun aligning with the urban layout of Ara Ubiorum and Augusta Praetoria Salassorum, in coincidence with the autumn equinox and winter solstice respectively, would have generated a significant sensory impact on 2 In this respect, see Ruggles 2005, 224; Boutsikas and Ruggles 2011, 55. In an environment without light pollution and a mild atmospheric extinction, the night sky was full of stars, the patterns among which gave rise to mythical thought and religious beliefs, as well as encouraging the emergence of philosophy, astronomy, and cosmology. There is no doubt that ancient peoples had a closer relationship with the heavenly landscape than do members of post-industrial societies. 3 Skywatching in ancient cultures was critical to daily life, since the sun, the moon, the planets, and the motion of the constellations served as calendar, timekeeper, almanac, and compass and were, thus, vital to ensuring success in many important tasks. Indeed, farming communities in the modern world still have a strong dependency on astronomical cycles and meteorological observations. Aratus’ Phenomena (286–298 and 407–434) explains how the observation of certain constellations, such as Capricorn and Ara, were linked to rough weather at sea in the ancient world, and provides an exhaustive account of atmospheric conditions to assist in performing a reliable forecast (Aratus, Phaen. 757–891). 4 Boutsikas and Ruggles 2011, 56. 5 See, for instance, Manil. Astr. 2.105–130.

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the individual perceivers. The autumn equinox (taking place on September 23 according to the modern Western calendar) and winter solstice (December 21), with their range of cultural and religious implications in the Roman world, were associated by Augustus with his dies natalis and with Capricorn (Augustus’ personal zodiacal sign). A third date is the kalends of Sextilis, which had, since 12 BCE, chaired the concilium of the Three Gauls in Colonia Copia Claudia Augusta Lugdunum every August 1. These are two sides of the same political and religious phenomenon (the Imperial cult), the cosmological roots of which were instrumentalised by Augustus by means of multi-sensory performances carried out on specific dates that were marked by the urban orientation towards the heavens. On these days, astronomical observations and ritual action would have played a key role in the strengthening of Augustus’ position at the head of the Empire, as well as in promoting the conservation of the new political order and the consensus et concordia civium.6 2

Urban Orientation and Cosmology under Augustus

Despite what has traditionally been argued by scholars such as Joëll Le Gall,7 Roman towns, at least under Augustus, seem to have been planned and oriented on the basis of solar criteria. In fact, ancient authors such as Frontinus and Hyginus Gromaticus indicate the clear necessity of orienting the limites according to the path of the sun.8 This practice appears to have had Greek predecessors, as is implied in Callimachus’ hymn to Apollo:9 And Phoebus it is that men follow when they map out towns. For Phoebus evermore delights in the founding of cities, and Phoebus himself doth weave their foundations. 6 This phrase first appears in Cicero’s Philippics (4.6.14) in the context of the civil wars in Rome. For more details, see below. 7 Le Gall 1975. For a contrasting view, see Rodríguez-Antón et al. 2018. These scholars highlight the inaccuracies and the lack of methodological rigour in Le Gall’s indirect analysis of fourteen Roman settlements. These towns were located in a broad range of latitudes, leading to important deviations in the height of the sun above the horizon and in the true orientation of the urban layouts. 8 Frontin. De limit. 10.20–11.6 ed. Thulin; 11.9–14 ed. Thulin; Hyg. Gr. Const. lim. 131.8–132.12; 135.1–14; 146.9–147.16 ed. Thulin. In addition, Hyginus Gromaticus (Const. lim., 131.8–10 ed. Thulin) holds that the knowledge used in establishing the limites drew on a long and well-established cosmological tradition. 9 Call. Hymn 2, 55–57.

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While the design of towns in the Roman world was subject to a series of empirical guidelines in order to provide the healthiest conditions of life for the people who lived in them,10 an additional conditioning factor which determined urban orientations seems to have been cosmology. This scientific field included the integrated study of the cosmos and its governing laws, drawing on physics, astronomy, mathematics, geometry, and philosophy. This knowledge was included by Vitruvius in the training that architects had to undergo. The aim of this formative programme was to ensure that they would know “the points of the heavens, the laws of the celestial bodies, the equinoxes, the solstices, and courses of the stars”,11 a body of knowledge that, from our point of view, establishes a series of ideas and beliefs that are expressed in different ways in the spheres of culture and religion. Human beings view and sense the world in specific ways that depend on and are shaped by such ideas and beliefs, a situation that affects the manner in which the space and the way of life in a society (i.e. the city) are understood and organised.12 Consequently, cosmological criteria and urban planning were interrelated and played an important role in the political, social, and religious architecture of towns. An increasing number of studies are being published with the aim of establishing a solid empirical basis for confirming the information provided by our literary evidence. In addition to this chapter, the current authors are working on another study of the urban orientation of 60 Roman towns from Gallia Narbonensis, Tres Galliae, Germania Inferior, Germania Superior, Alpes Graiae et Poeninae, Alpes Cottiae, and Alpes Maritimae in order to gather evidence for the use of different orientation patterns. As can be seen in Figure 11.1, which displays the urban orientation of Augustan towns considered in a recently published study, there is an important clustering of orientations toward specific dates, including the winter solstice and the autumn equinox.13 Regarding cosmology in the Roman Empire, Augustus’ own interest in astrology is well established, attested, for instance, by the publication of his horoscope and the minting of coins with the image of Capricorn on one side.14 10

Ancient authors such as Vitruvius (De arch. 1.4–6) and Cicero (Rep. 2.5–11) inform us of these criteria. 11 Vitr. De arch. 1.1.10. 12 On this topic, see Rykwert 1985; Carandini 2003; Humm 2004; Volk 2009; De Sanctis 2012; Magli 2016; Gargola 2017. 13 González-García et al. 2019. 14 Suet. Aug. 94.12; Cass. Dio 56.25.5; Manil. Astr. 2.507–509. Capricorn is also depicted on the Gemma Augustea and on a series of antefixes from the forum and the Augusteum of Carthago Nova (Cartagena, Spain). On this matter, see Zanker 1988; Barton 1994 and 1995; Hannah 2005; Schmid 2005; Santangelo 2013; Green 2014; Bertarione and Magli 2015; Rodríguez-Antón et al. 2018.

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Figure 11.1

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Histogram showing the clustering of orientations for 64 towns built or rebuilt in the time of Augustus. The orientation is provided in degrees of declination. Declination is an astronomical coordinate that relates a particular direction (azimuth and altitude of the horizon in that direction) with a fixed path on the heavenly sphere. The concentrations found can thus be compared directly with the fixed declinations of the extreme positions of the sun and the moon: solstices (solid vertical lines), equinoxes (vertical dotted line), and lunastices (dashed vertical lines). The largest clustering is found close to the winter solstice (−24º), while a significant concentration is also found close to the equinox. For further details, see González-García et al. 2019.

In addition, works showing an interest in astronomy, cosmology, and astrology proliferated in the 1st century BCE and the 1st century CE. In fact, the interest of the Romans in these subjects was sustained throughout the Imperial period, as Macrobius’ Saturnalia and Censorinus’ De die natale show. To these works we should add treatises on land surveying that, in the opinion of Brice Gruet, Heinrich Nissen, and Anna Pikulska, are the result of a secularisation process that rewarded rigorous technical principles of land surveying over those of a cosmological nature.15 In all of these treatises, the observation of the sky and the sun’s movement through the celestial sphere are relevant for the setting of

15

Gruet 2006, 78–89 and 120–121; Nissen 1906, 79–89; Pikulska 2004, 207–208. Some traces of the latter can be found in Hyg. Gr. Const. lim. 147.17–152.3 ed. Thulin.

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time-based divisions and spatial dimensions,16 as can be seen in three important monuments of the Augustan building programme that have a clear cosmological meaning: the Pantheum, the Ara Pacis Augustae, and the Horologium Augusti.17 We thus agree with Federico Santangelo, for whom there is no doubt that Augustus played a crucial role in promoting astrology as a practice of great significance and deep intellectual value. According to Santangelo, “Augustus’ innovation was to understand the potential of astrology for building the grand narrative underpinning his political agenda”.18 Furthermore, as we show below, sensoriality and ritual action would also have had a prominent role as persuasion mechanisms in promoting political and social aims, such as civic concord and the acceptance of Augustus’ status. 3

Case Studies

The application of cosmological criteria to urban orientation has been detected in a series of Roman towns that were built or rebuilt under Augustus or Tiberius.19 Analysis of the sample used in this study has revealed a consistent pattern according to which the decumanus maximus (defined by Festus as the road which runs from the rising to the setting of the sun) is aligned to the position of the sun at dawn or sunset on dates that coincide with certain significant astronomical events (solstices and equinoxes).20 The intention behind this practice would have included the commemoration of specific public feasts connected with the ideological and religious rhetoric developed by Augustus in order to legitimise his political and military power (auctoritas and potestas) 16 Iwaniszewski 2015. In this respect, Virgil (G. 1.5–7) and Macrobius (Sat. 1.16.44; 1.18.23) state that the Romans calculated the duration of the year according to the motion of the sun and the moon. 17 On the Pantheum, see Cass. Dio 53.27.2–3; Plin. HN 36.38; Hannah 2009; Hannah and Magli 2011; Nicoletta and Virgili 2016. On the Ara Pacis Augustae, see Mon. Anc. 12; Rehak 2001; 2006, 96–137; Ionescu 2014; Tiede 2016; Delgado 2016. On the Horologium Augusti, see Plin. HN 36.72–73; Buchner 1982; Rehak 2006: 62–95; Heslin 2007; Hannah 2011; Frischer 2017. 18 Santangelo 2013, 255–256. Also, in general terms, see Schmid 2005; Steele 2015. 19 For instance, see González-García et al. 2019. 20 Fest. s. v. Decumanus. Similarly, see Plin. HN 18.331; Front. De limit. 11.9–14 ed. Thulin; Hyg. Gr. Const. lim. 131.3–132.12; 146.9–147.16 ed. Thulin; Sic. Flacc. De cond. agr. 117.5–21 ed. Thulin; Isid. Etym. 15.14. According to these sources, cardo and decumanus are both concepts of a cosmological nature that were applied in the surveying of land. In the opinion of Joseph Rykwert (1985, 257), “the Roman who walked along the cardo knew that this walk was the axis round which the sun turned, and that if he followed the decumanus, he was following the sun’s course”.

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as Princeps, and to portray himself as the founder of a new and golden era, i.e. the pax Augusta.21 Three case studies have been chosen to illustrate this intention: Augusta Praetoria Salassorum (Aosta) in Italia, Colonia Copia Claudia Augusta Lugdunum (previously Colonia Copia Felix Munatia, Lyon) in Gallia Lugdunensis, and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (previous Ara Ubiorum, Cologne) in Germania Inferior. These Roman towns show significant similarities with regard to the choice of values and principles related to Augustus’ political role and to the Imperial cult.22 Augusta Praetoria Salassorum was founded by Augustus in 25 BCE to celebrate his victory over the Salassi. The settlement lies some 600 metres above sea level, nestled like a jewel in the Aosta Valley.23 The orthogonal grid of Augusta Praetoria Salassorum roughly follows the topography of the valley, but there was no special compelling topographical constraint on the specific orientation of the axes. Taking into account the height of the horizon, it can readily be seen that the sun rises in line with the decumanus maximus on the days around June 3 and sets in line with this road during the period around February 19.24 At first glance, these dates do not seem to be significant from either a religious or a political point of view. However, the orientation of modern Aosta might not have been established, as was usual in the majority of Roman towns, by the decumanus. This might be because a very high horizon “delays” the effective appearance of the sun until it reaches a suitable altitude. For this reason, the urban axis that determines the orientation of the town seems to be the cardo, 21 Schmid 2005, 305–334. On astronomy, power, and landscapes of power, see Magli 2016, 75–99. 22 As far as the methodology is concerned, it involves the measurement of those archaeological remains in these towns that may give us a handle on the urban orientation. For a comprehensive view, see Magli 2016, 29–50. After determining the direction from which the orientation is set, the azimuth and the horizon altitude are taken for this direction using tandems including a precision compass and a clinometer. These instruments provide an accuracy of 30 arc minutes, which is sufficient for the objectives of the work. Since these instruments are magnetic, magnetic declination readings are corrected. Where these readings are not possible, the magnetic declination is estimated for the fieldwork dates from the models available on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration website (http://www.ngdc.noaa.gov/geomag-web/). The data can then be compared with estimates for the celestial objects visible in that section of the horizon. In order to perform this comparison, our measurements are translated into astronomical declination, resulting in an error estimate of around one day in the case of sunrise/sunset. When the horizon is blocked due to the presence of modern buildings, a digital terrain model is used to reconstruct the horizon (http://www.heywhatsthat.com/). 23 On the topography of the territory nearest to Aosta, see Bertarione and Magli 2015, 8; Magli 2016, 232–233. 24 For the astronomical measurements and results, see Bertarione and Magli 2015, 7–12.

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which is perfectly aligned towards the winter solstice sun (hosted in the sign of Capricornius at that time) rising over the Alps.25 The phenomenon is still fully enjoyable today. Colonia Copia Claudia Augusta Lugdunum was established by Lucius Munatius Plancus in 43 BCE.26 Some years later, in 12 BCE, an altar consecrated to Roma et Augustus was built near the confluence of the rivers Rhône and Saône. A major feast was celebrated there on August 1 throughout the whole Roman period. Known as the concilium Galliarum, it consisted of a great assembly at which the representatives of 60 civitates from the three provinces in Gaul gathered to worship the emperor.27 The precise location of this altar is unknown, but it was situated somewhere on the slopes of a hill in the area of the present neighbourhood of Croix-Rousse, near the remains of the Roman amphitheatre.28 The Roman colony itself was, by contrast, on the west bank of the river Saône, overlooking the confluence of the two rivers from the top of a plateau (Verbe Incarné in Fourvière). The public buildings included a theatre, an odeon, and a Tiberian sanctuary likely devoted to the Imperial cult at the municipal level.29 Based on these public monuments, it is possible to propose a programme of astronomical orientations as in Augusta Praetoria Salassorum. Both the decumani and the Tiberian sanctuary were aligned with the sunrise on dates at the beginning of August, the time set for the holding of the concilium Galliarum at the ara Romae et Augusti.30 In the vicinity of the altar, in the area of the Croix-Rousse, the minor axis of the amphitheatre was oriented towards the winter solstice sunset. In addition, the orientation of this axis (i.e. the general view from the altar of the Three Gauls towards the town) also allows the sighting of Capricorn’s setting over the Roman colony at the beginning of August.31 In other words, someone standing near the location of the federal Imperial cult sanctuary at the time of the concillium Galliarum would see Augustus’ sign setting on top of the municipal sanctuary (dedicated to the 25 On this matter, see Bertarione and Magli 2015, 8–9; Magli 2016, 232–234. 26 Cass. Dio 46.50.4–5. 27 Liv. Per. 139; Suet. Claud. 2.1; Str. 4.3.2; Cass. Dio 54.32.1; Fishwick 1987, 97–137; García-Quintela and González-García 2014, 158; González-García and García-Quintela 2014, 85. 28 García-Quintela and González-García 2014, 164–165. The most recent publication on the site of the altar is Desbat 2016. 29 On this issue, see Poux 2003; García-Quintela and González-García 2014, 164; GonzálezGarcía and García-Quintela 2014, 86. 30 Armand Desbat (2007) suggests that the decumanus maximus is likely under the present day Rue Roger Radisson, next to the Roman Museum. 31 For the astronomical measurements and results, see García-Quintela and González-García 2014, 165–169; González-García and García-Quintela 2014, 87–89.

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Imperial cult) at the same time as the sun rose to illuminate the front of this temple. The picture thus constructed would have been both visually stunning and highly evocative. Finally, Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (named Ara Ubiorum from the time of its foundation to 50 CE) was probably built by Augustus at the end of the military campaigns of Tiberius in 9/8–7 BCE. As in the case of Lugdunum, this town is characterized by the presence of an ara.32 The literary evidence refers to the presence of an altar where the delegates of the Germanic po­puli from the Augustan province of Germania met, possibly until Varus’ disastrous defeat in 9 CE.33 Due to its similarity with the ara ad confluentes Araris et Rhodani in Lyon, there is general agreement that this ara was dedicated to Rome and Augustus, especially if we consider a passage from Tacitus in which Arminius refers to the “human” nature of the Roman divinities worshipped there.34 There are two opposing schools of thought concerning the likely position of this ara. The first holds that it stood on the western side of the forum, in the very heart of the Roman town. The second, based on archaeological remains, locates it on the eastern edge of the town, at a high point overlooking the Rhine, between the Praetorium and the Capitolium and on the straight line marked by the decumanus maximus.35 Regardless of which view is right this altar seems to have had the same orientation as that of the orthogonal urban layout. In connection with this, the orientation of the decumanus maximus towards both the east and west can be associated with the astronomical equinox and, more specifically, with September 23.36 This date (a. d. VIIII Kalendas Octobres) is the dies natalis Augusti and was the subject of lively celebration in every corner of the empire as fasti publici, ferialia, and inscriptions attest.37

32 On this matter, see Eck 2004, 81–84, 89 and 96–97; Espinosa-Espinosa et al. 2016, 235; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017, 550–551. 33 Tac. Ann. 1.57.1. 34 Tac. Ann. 1.59.1; Fishwick 1987, 137–139; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017, 551. 35 On this issue, see Bechert 2013, 14–15; Eck 2004, 88–89; Espinosa-Espinosa et al. 2016, 235; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017, 552–553. 36 For the astronomical measurements and results, see Espinosa-Espinosa et al. 2016, 236 and 239; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017, 553–554. 37 Suet. Aug. 5.1; Vell. Pat. 2.65.2; Aul. Gell. 15.7.3; Cass. Dio 56.30.5. For a comprehensive view of this evidence, see Espinosa-Espinosa et al. 2016, 239; Espinosa-Espinosa and González-García 2017, 554–558.

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The Solar Nature of Augustus’ Power

One feature common to all three of these case studies is the certain and strong relationship between the orientation of Augustan towns according to astronomical criteria, and the solar nature of the celestial phenomena to which this orientation relates: the winter solstice, the autumn equinox, and the sun’s path through Capricorn. As mentioned earlier, these events were highly significant for the inhabitants of the Roman world. Augustus, drawing on his knowledge of the meaning of these events as understood in the context of the cosmological framework outlined above, developed an ideological and religious rhetoric in which he bound together his status as Princeps with the religious and political values of Apollo-Sol and Capricorn.38 His aim in doing so would have been to persuade and convince the people that accepting his auctoritas and potestas was the best way of achieving and maintaining the consensus, concordia, and pax that the people of the empire craved, and to avoid the discord and civil war that had blighted the final years of the Republic.39 Sensoriality and suggestion played a crucial role in achieving this goal, bound up as it was with the field of religion and ritual action. Augustus, thus, identified his person with that of the sun god, revealing his power in Roman towns by engineering the coincidence of astronomical (and religious) events with civic infrastructure to give these events the appearances of epiphanies. These events were, according to the literary evidence, powerful sensory experiences with a strong psychological effect. As regards the identification between Augustus and Apollo-Sol,40 there are a number of explicit statements in our sources which describe the Princeps as the sun. First, Suetonius, referring to the omens that appeared before Augustus’ birth, underlines the signs of divinity that Atia and Octavius saw in their dreams: Atia dreamed that her innards were transported to the stars and 38 39 40

On the solar ideology fostered by Augustus, see Mastrocinque 2017, 73–77. As John Alexander Lobur (2008, 39) has highlighted, the elevation of a single individual prevented the competition that had made concordia impossible in the Late Republic and under the triumvirate. Rehak 2006, 93–94; Lange 2009, 39 and 46; Mastrocinque 2017, 73–77. As has been argued by Tomislav Bilić (2012), Apollo’s relationship with the annual solar movement seems clear based on ancient Greek narratives, which place an emphasis on the solstices. This identification appears to have continued in Roman times, as illustrated by Cicero (Nat. D. 3.57) and Claud. (IV Cons. Hon. 26–27). In fact, Herodianus (5.6.6–8) describes a summer festival performed by Elagabalus in Rome, in which the Emperor ran backwards in front of a solar chariot driven by the deity. His running backwards, in the opinion of Tomislav Bilić (2012, 516), must have symbolised the start of the sun’s retrograde movement towards the south following the summer solstice.

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scattered over the surface of the land and sea, and Octavius that the glowing sun emerged from Atia’s womb.41 In the same context, Suetonius also notes that, after Augustus’ birth, Octavius dreamt that his son appeared to him in a guise more majestic than that of mortal man, with the thunderbolt, sceptre, and insignia of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, wearing a crown begirt with rays and mounted upon a laurel-wreathed chariot drawn by twelve horses of surpassing whiteness.42 As we know from the iconography and literary evidence, the radiate crown, the laurel, and a horse-drawn chariot are the relevant divine attributes of Apollo-Sol.43 In addition, Augustus is identified with Jupiter, probably as lord of the cosmos. In this respect, Manilius’ Astronomica evokes the civil wars in referring to Augustus as ruler of Olympus, i.e. the heaven,44 which will be governed by Augustus in partnership with Jupiter from a higher place than the shining circle of ethereal heaven.45 Augustus is, therefore, assigned the same tasks as the sun, which was, according to Macrobius, the master, princeps, and ruler of the cosmos.46 In taking a closer look at Augustus’ identification with Apollo, of particular interest is the mythical tale that attributes his conception to Atia’s insemination by Apollo (transformed into a snake) while Atia slept inside the god’s temple on the campus Martius.47 Augustus did not hesitate to take political 41 Suet. Aug. 94.4. Similarly, see Cass. Dio 45.1.3; Epigr. Bob. 39. 42 Suet. Aug. 94.6; Gradel 2002, 318–319. According to Ovid (Met. 2.150–154) and Tertullian (De Spect. 9.3), Apollo-Sol drove a quadriga, likely a reference to the four seasons. Suetonius mentions a chariot drawn by twelve horses, which invites interpretation in terms of the numerical symbolism connected with the sun’s path through the zodiac. 43 Zanker 1988; Hijmans 2009. According to Steve E. Hijmans (2009, 527), the first Roman to be depicted with an imperial radiate crown was Augustus. On coins, Augustus was first depicted radiate posthumously, but whether these were actually the first depictions of Augustus with a radiate crown can no longer be ascertained. Other radiate portraits of Augustus exist (on gems and reliefs, almost certainly in sculpture) but these cannot always be dated with sufficient accuracy for it to be certain that none predated his death. In any case, coins depicting the radiate Augustus were minted under all Julio-Claudian emperors, and Augustus was the only one to be depicted radiate on the official coinage of the Empire prior to 64 CE, when radiate portraits of Nero appeared on his reformed bronze coinage. For Steve E. Hijmans (2009, 528), the fact that in the first fifty years the radiate crown was restricted to Augustus alone suggests that it was primarily an Augustan attribute. 44 Manil. Astr. 1.914–917. 45 Manil. Astr. 1.800–803. 46 Macrob. In Somn. 1.17.1–5 (Cic. Rep. 6.17); 1.20.3–4. See also Mastrocinque 2017, 77. In this connection, taking into consideration a possible etymological meaning for Apollo-Sol according to Macrobius (Sat. 1.17.7–8: a-polloí, solis, i.e. “one of a kind”), this god and Augustus would have higher status and power than their peers. 47 Suet. Aug. 94.4; also, see Cass. Dio 45.1.2.

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advantage of this presumed divine filiation with Apollo from a very early stage. As Suetonius reports, at some point between 40 and 37 BCE, Octavian attended what was known as the “dinner of the twelve gods” dressed as Apollo.48 At about this time, while campaigning against Sextus Pompey, Octavian also promised to build a temple dedicated to Apollo.49 The building work, which was not completed until 28 BCE, began immediately on land that Augustus owned on the Palatine Hill alongside his house, which, so Suetonius tell us, had been chosen by Apollo with a lightning strike directed at the spot.50 According to the literary evidence, a statue of Augustus stood in this area in the guise of Apollo.51 Moreover, Augustus’ house had been honoured through the planting of laurel trees (the sacred tree to Apollo) on both sides of the door, as well as by the placing of the corona civica upon it.52 Indeed, Augustus was honoured in a number of Eastern towns, such as Athens, by the dedication of sculptures depicting him as Neo-Apollo (allegedly dressed as the god).53 Furthermore, the dies natalis Augusti was celebrated in Athens with the typical offerings that were given to Apollo during his feast day.54 Finally, a passage from Virgil shows Augustus (after his victory at Actium) as ruler of the oecumene, enthroned at the blazing threshold of the Temple of Apollo, settling the matters of all countries and receiving dona.55 This association with the sun is also documented for the West, with Horace describing Augustus’ return to Rome after his stays in Hispania, Gallia, and Germania between 16 and 13 BCE as the sun returning to the homeland.56 Turning now to Capricorn, this sign of the Zodiac is closely associated with the winter solstice, which occurs on December 21. This is the date on which, according to Manilius, the rebirth of the sun takes place: the longest nights come to an end and a new year starts with the gradual lengthening of the daylight hours,57 as was understood in both Greece and Rome.58 In addition, 48 Suet. Aug. 70.1–2; Kleiner 1988, 356; Lange 2009, 45–46; Del Hoyo 2011, 47. 49 Suet. Aug. 29.1; 29.3; Mon. Anc. 19.1; Plin. HN 36.13; Vell. Pat. 2.81.3; Cass. Dio 49.15.5; Prop. El. 2.31. 50 Suet. Aug. 29.3. 51 Scholiast on Hor. Epist. 1.3.17; Serv. Ecl. 4.10; Kleiner 1988, 356–357; Rehak 2006, 93; Lange 2009, 41. 52 Mon. Anc. 34; Ov. Fast. 4.951–954; Met. 1.557–566. 53 On this matter, see Peppas-Delmousou 1979; Hoff 1992, 229–232; Schmalz 2009, 17–18 and 99. 54 SEG XVII, 34. 55 Verg. Aen. 8.720–723. 56 Hor. Carm. saec. 4.5.5–8. 57 Man. Astr. 4.254–256. Also, see Macrob. Sat. 1.21.15–16. 58 Barton 1995, 46.

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Tamsyn Barton reflects on Eugene Dwyer’s identification of an association between Capricorn and Pan based on P. Nigidius Figulus, noting Pan’s role in restoring the rule of the gods and saving the world from the tyranny of Typhon, a story that would clearly have been subject to highly politicised interpretations in the era after Actium.59 Dwyer himself goes further, suggesting that this was a Hellenised version of the myth of the murder of Osiris by Seth and the revenge taken by Horus, an association that would have called to mind the righteous revenge of the son-figure.60 Capricorn may, thus, have primarily served as a symbol of Octavian’s just revenge on the killers of his adoptive father. But Capricorn has also been linked to the dawn of the new and golden era of peace and prosperity brought about by Augustus after a century of civil war. In fact, Capricorn was frequently depicted together with the cornucopia in Augustan iconography.61 We may be able to detect the origin of this relation in a passage of Macrobius in which he states that Saturn was moving across Capricorn during the birth of the world.62 According to Macrobius, there were no wars under the reign of Saturn,63 a situation that is celebrated by the Saturnalia sometime around the winter solstice, i.e. when the sun is in Capricorn.64 The autumn equinox, i.e. the dies natalis Augusti on September 23, was also perceived as marking the beginning of a new era. According to the calendar established in 9 BCE by Paullus Fabius Maximus (the proconsul of the Asian province), this date was chosen as the start of the new year and the day when civil magistrates took up their posts in the towns of Asia. This measure was adopted by the vast majority of the poleis in this province in response to an edict addressed by the governor to the provincial assembly.65 It is important to highlight the reasons proposed by Fabius Maximus in this edict for making September 23 coincide with the start of the new year:66 Augustus was a source of joy and salvation for mankind, and a benefactor and founder of a new era characterised by peace and prosperity.67 The laus Augusti made by 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

On this issue, see Barton 1995, 47. Also, see Green 2014, 98. Dwyer 1973, 61–66. On this relationship, see Hannah 2005, 126–130; Santangelo 2013, 251–253; Green 2014, 99; Bertarione and Magli 2015, 11; Magli 2016, 232. In this respect, for authors such as Tamsyn Barton (1995, 48), Capricorn would have been the ‘logo’ of the monarchy. Macrob. In Somn. 1.21.24–26; Porph. De antr. nymph. 22–23. Macrob. Sat. 1.16.17. Macrob. Sat. 1.2.9; Porph. De antr. nymph. 23. On the feast period, see Macrob. Sat. 1.10.23– 24. On the poetic recreation of this myth under Augustus, see Brisson 1992. OGIS 458, ll. 1–30. For the details of this calendar and the towns where it was introduced, see Laffi 1967; Samuel 1972, 174–178 and 181–182; Stern 2012, 274–288. OGIS 458, ll. 1–20. Laffi 1967, 51; see also Schmid 2005, 305–334.

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Fabius Maximus in this edict continued in the text of the first decree that was drafted and approved by the assembly of Asia at the governor’s request.68 In this decree, the Princeps is referred to as a deity sent by providence for the benefit of humanity, with the aim of re-establishing the order of the cosmos.69 According to this text, the dies natalis Augusti acquired an extraordinary value, as it not only represented the date from which a series of “good tidings” associated with the name of Augustus began,70 but also marked the start of life and of all of the “useful things”.71 5

Epiphany, Sensoriality, and Ritual Action

Augustus’ identification with Apollo-Sol and his relationship with the urban orientation of towns towards the sunrise on the winter solstice and autumn equinox, as well as his relationship with Capricorn, may be connected with the concept of epiphany and, therefore, have important sensory and emotional dimensions. According to Verity Platt, epiphaneia is used from the Hellenistic period onwards to refer to “divine manifestation as a form of active presence”, a “coming into appearance” that mainly occurs at the initiative of a god,72 and that can be felt as either a private or a collective phenomenon.73 In this respect, divine presence is often expressed in literary sources using the language of motion, arrival, and visual appearance, as with Apollo’s seasonal return to Delphi from the land of the Hyperboreans.74 Among the diverse forms of epiphanic sense-perception, vision is the one most commonly associated with the experience of a divine manifestation, suggesting a process of active viewing. Accounts of epiphanic events refer to the notions of enargeia (i.e. “vividness”), epiphainein (i.e. “to show”, “cause to appear”) and phaō (i.e. “to shine”, “to give light”).75 This emphasis on “appearing” and “bringing to light” creates a strong

68 69 70 71 72

OGIS 458, ll. 30–77. OGIS 458, ll. 32–41. OGIS 458, ll. 40–41. OGIS 458, ll. 1–11. According to Verity Platt (2011, 13), divine presence might be intentionally invoked through acts of worship. Hymns, for instance, are designed to make epiphany happen (Platt 2011, 62). 73 On this matter, see Versnel 1987, 42–43 and 52; Platt 2016, 170. 74 Boutsikas 2015; Platt 2016, 169. On the different forms of divine manifestation, see Platt 2011. 75 In general, see Petridou (2015, 3–4) on epiphanic language.

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association between sight and the sensory perception of the divine.76 There is, thus, a close relationship between vision and light in epiphanic terminology: as the phenomenon that enables vision, light is also characteristic of divine epiphany, as Platt suggests, whether gods are perceived in the form of the heavenly bodies or in narrative accounts of corporeal manifestations.77 Gods and heroes, on this view, needed to be visible to their worshippers because “the acts of visualizing, categorizing and representing their bodies, costumes and attributes were necessary components in the celebration of their respective spheres of influence”.78 Thus, the sensorial dimension provides cognitive reliability to the epiphany by making it experientially real.79 Taking these points into consideration, Apollo-Sol can be understood as the god who, by his very nature, illustrates better than any other the concept of epiphany through his association with sight, but also with touch.80 In this regard, Macrobius brings together a series of etymological speculations about Apollo’s epithets that,81 regardless of their linguistic reliability, reflect the strength of the thoughts which have as goal to highlight the unequivocal identity of the god with the sun and, in this way, with the sensory character of epiphany. First, Apollo is often given the name of Loxias (derived from loxós, i.e. “bent”, “crooked”, or “oblique”) because of its connection to the sun’s path through the sky from east to west.82 Second, Apollo was appropriately named Delios and Delphios because he provides clarity and brightness by means of his light, revealing things unseen.83 The appellation of Phoebus is 76

77 78

79 80 81 82 83

Platt 2016, 170. Although in some cases phainein can be used of sonic phenomena (i.e. “to make clear to the ear”, “make ring clearly”), it is commonly used of visible appearances (Platt 2016, 171 n. 41). In this regard, it is the eyes, rather than the ears, that give access to truth according to Aristotle (Metaph. 980a): “we prefer sight, generally speaking, to all the other senses. The reason for this is that of all the senses, sight best helps us to know things, and reveals many distinctions”. Platt 2016, 171. Petridou (2015, 32–33) points out several epiphanies in which Apollo and Athena appear as stars (Hymn. Hom. Ap. 440–445; Hom. Il. 4.74–84). Platt 2011, 12. Some examples of epiphanies without necessarily visual elements can be found in Petridou (2015): on phasma epiphanies, including solar and lunar eclipses, see 64–71; on pars pro toto epiphanies, where a number of different ordinary natural events, or the divine paraphernalia used in ritual, can be understood as signs of divine presence, see 72–87; on extreme weather phenomena understood as divine events, see 98–105. This idea is present in ancient authors such as Homer (Od. 16, 161) and Cicero (Nat. D. 2.6; cf. 2.166). Some of Apollo’s epithets might allude to the sun as a source of heat in connection with touch, thereby justifying his own name (Macrob. Sat. 1.17.9–17 and 57). Macrob. Sat. 1.17.30. Macrob. Sat. 1.17.31. Macrob. Sat. 1.17.32 and 65.

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given because he is pure and shining,84 while Apollo would have been named phanès from phainein (i.e. “to shine”).85 Finally, he would have received the epithets of Lyceus and Lykegenes from leukos (i.e. “white”), leukainesthai (i.e. “to became white”), and lykê (i.e. “the first light that precedes the dawn”), being named Apollo Lykegenes according to the latter because “he creates and brings the light.”86 Augustus, in identifying with Apollo-Sol, would have benefitted from this association of religious ideas, with his appearance as the rising sun at the winter solstice and the autumn equinox (in the case of Augusta Praetoria Salassorum and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium) being perceived as an epiphanic event.87 In appearing in this way, Augustus would have made visible his auctoritas and potestas as belonging to the only one who was capable of achieving the consensus et concordia civium, bringing a new day of peace and prosperity (i.e. aurea aetas) after the long night of civil wars.88 The visual and tactile impact provided by the sun’s first rays at the winter solstice and the autumn equinox as they fell in line with the urban layout of Augusta Praetoria Salassorum and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (perhaps on the occasion of the concilium Germanorum at the so-called ara Ubiorum), as well as by the setting of Capricorn over the Imperial cult municipal temple in Lugdunum and the subsequent illuminating sunrise, which took place during the concilium Galliarum at the ara Romae et Augusti on August 1, would have been strengthened by the effects of ritual action and religious performances.89 Priests, magistrates, and worshippers would have taken part in these religious events as if in a citizens’ assembly. Although his meaning is not entirely clear, Macrobius explains that, according to Plato, Apollo was named Eleleýs because the sun god groups together (synalízein) and gathers citizens in 84 85 86 87

Macrob. Sat. 1.17.33. Macrob. Sat. 1.17.34. Macrob. Sat. 1.17.36–41. A similar idea, based on literary and epigraphic evidence, was supported by Ernst H. Kantorowicz (1963) for oriens Augusti. 88 According to Philippe Akar (2013, 29), consensus and concordia were the condition of the continuity and prosperity of a city-state. In the opinion of John Alexander Lobur (2008, 5), “the Principate succeeded precisely because it responded to and solved the turmoil experienced during the civil wars that preceded it”. 89 Ritual was the core of traditional religion; theological and dogmatical speculation, according to Ittai Gradel (2002, 267), belonged to the schools of philosophy. Activities in Greek and Roman religion were generally based on ritual action (Gradel 2002, 268). Thus, ritual constituted the natural, eternal, and traditional way of communicating with the divine powers whose assistance the worshippers required (Gradel 2002, 23). On ritual in Rome, see Scheid 2005 and 2012.

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assemblies (as, possibly, in the cases of Lugdunum and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium).90 This may have been because dawn was a time what was commonly chosen for offering a sacrifice.91 In this respect, we have literary evidence from the Roman world attesting to the choice of sunrise and the orientation eastward as important elements in accomplishing the rite and sacrifice. On the one hand, Suetonius tells us that Augustus had to wake up early in the morning to handle civic duties and sacrifices.92 On the other hand, the so-called intercisi dies prescribed that the time of day considered as fas was between the killing of the victim (in the morning) and the presentation of the internal organs (in the evening).93 Seneca the Younger’s Oedipus also relates that a bull facing east (during the sacrifice) would be scared by the first light of day and would turn his face away to hide it from the sunbeams.94 Finally, Vitruvius notes that, the temples of the immortal gods should have such an aspect that the statue in the cell may have its face towards the west, so that those who enter to sacrifice, or to make offerings, may have their faces to the east as well as to the statue in the temple. Thus suppliants, and those performing their vows, seem to have the temple, the east, and the deity, as it were, looking on them at the same moment. Hence all altars of the gods should be placed towards the east.95 Among the celebrations in honour of Augustus in his various guises (genius Augusti, numen Augusti, and divus Augustus) on September 23 and 24 were 90 Macrob. Sat. 1.17.46; Pl. Cra. 409a. 91 According to Gradel 2002, 15–16, there were two types of sacrifice: bloody (immolatio) and bloodless (supplicatio). The bloodless variant included offerings of wine, incense, and sometimes cakes or loaves of bread. All sacrifice took place by an altar where the offerings were burnt. The bloodless rites also formed part of a bloody sacrifice, which always included at least a preliminary libation of wine in invoking the deity before the slaughter of the victim. On sacrifice in Greece and Rome in general, see Burkert 1983; Détienne and Vernant 1979; Scheid 2005; Prescendi 2007; Faraone and Naiden 2012; Naiden 2013. 92 Suet. Aug. 78.2. 93 Varro, Ling. 6.31; Ov. Fast. 1.45–54; Macrob. Sat. 1.16.3. Also, see Liv. 41.15.1–3. On the Etruscan sacrifice and the relationship between the liver morphology and the heavenly landscape, see Briquel 2000. 94 Sen. Oed. 337–339. 95 Vitr. De arch. 4.5.1. In addition, from the Greek world, Hesiod (Op. 724–726) advised that one should not pour any “libation of sparkling wine to Zeus after dawn with unwashed hands, nor to others of the deathless gods; otherwise they do not hear your prayers but spit them back”.

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immolationes and supplicationes.96 This practice is attested in Narbo Martius, the source of an inscription that commemorated the consecration of the ara numinis Augusti in 11 CE. As well as referring to this particular ceremony, the inscription prescribed that three equites Romani and three freedmen should each sacrifice a victim on September 23, also paying for the wine and incense required for the supplications that the coloni et incolae of the town had to make to the numen Augusti on September 24.97 A similar procedure is documented in Forum Clodii for 18 CE, where an inscription refers to the sacrifice of two victims on the ara numinis Augusti on September 23 and 24.98 The interplay between darkness and light (both natural and artificial) during ritual activities at dawn would have caused a series of sensory perceptions and emotions in both the slaughtered animals (as attested by Seneca the Younger’s Oedipus) and the people in attendance. As Boutsikas has shown, the initial lack of light would have made these astronomical and religious events an impressive spectacle, with the darkness of the starry night punctuated by the light of lamps, torches, and the flaming altar.99 In Greece, dawn rites, such as the Panathenaic procession, commenced with the appearance of the first rays of the rising sun. Several rites sought the interplay between night and dawn, as did, for example, those of the Eleusinian Mysteries.100 Darkness and lighting would, thus, have been vital elements in the religious experience, serving to intensify the emotional states of the participants (perhaps excitement, fear, and hope for light), whilst shaping both the ritual action and the subsequent memory of the event. The combination of the performance of such rites with an intense sensory state will have converted the immediate experiences into strong and lasting memories of the event.101 Thus, darkness would have been a necessary prerequisite for the acquisition of knowledge of the divine presence experienced throughout the light phenomenon (i.e. the epiphany). In addition to darkness and lighting, architecture, silence, prayers and hymns, dance, sacral clothes, ritual objects (such as musical instruments), 96 Feriale Duranum III, 8; CIL I2, p. 229 (Feriale Cumanum). Also, see Ov. Pont. 3.1.161–164; Verg. Ecl. 1.42–44. On the Imperial cult in general, see Fishwick 1987 and 1991; Gradel 2002; Koortbojian 2013; Lozano 2002. 97 CIL XII, 4333; Gradel 2002, 239–250. On the nature of the personal Genius and the offering of pure wine and incense that was carried out during the dies natalis, see Censorinus, DN 2.1–3 and 5. 98 CIL XI, 3303; Gradel 2002, 239–250. 99 Boutsikas 2017. Also, see Christopoulos et al. 2010. 100 Boutsikas 2017. 101 For this matter, see Boutsikas 2017.

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aromatic substances (as in the case of incense and mola salsa), animal waste (blood, viscera, and meat), and the smoke of the sacrifice would all have played leading roles in the sensory stimulation of the participants present at these events.102 In this regard, literary and epigraphic evidence shows that ritual action was accompanied in most cases by religious performances along with processions and banquets.103 To this end, urban orientation, ritual action, and religious performances were complemented by the installation of temporary structures such as stages, awnings, and gadgets in order to tailor the urban environment, create a dramatic atmosphere, and add special effects.104 As Candace Weddle has masterfully highlighted, when the ancient Romans sacrificed to their gods, the sights, sounds, and smells of the rites permeated the city. The smoke from altars filled the air with incense, the voices of choirs were raised in song to the accompaniment of flutes and drums, and prayers were intoned by priests. If the offering included live victims, the smells of slaughtering and butchering the beasts and roasting flesh and hides on wood fires were notable.105 Thus, the visual, auditory, olfactory, gustatory, and tactile signs of sacrifice and the religious events in which they played a fundamental role would have increased the number of senses involved concerning the sunrise at the winter solstice and the autumn equinox from two (sight and touch) to five (sight, touch, smell, hearing, and taste), making the urban orientation according to astronomical criteria a multi-sensory experience. At the same time, these signs would have been sources of sensations and emotions that could be used to serve the ends of political power and social control.

102 For David L. Weddle (2017, 104), the sacrificial rite was a visceral, aggressively multisensory aspect of ancient life. On these issues and the senses involved in the sacrifice, see Détienne and Vernant 1979; Gradel 2002; Hamilakis 2002; Prescendi 2007; Weddle 2013 and 2017; Platt 2011; Faraone and Naiden 2012; Naiden 2013; Squire 2016. 103 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72; Sen. Oed. 300–350; Gradel 2002, 16–18; Prescendi 2007; Scheid 2012, 86; Weddle 2017. 104 On this type of structure in the Roman world, see D’Ambra 2010, 289–290. As Sallust (Hist. 2.28 M; 2.70) and Plutarch (Vit. Sert. 22.2–3) describe, such structures and gadgets were used in Roman towns in Hispania on the occasion of Metellus Pius’ victory over Sertorius. 105 Weddle 2013, 138. Similarly, see Graf 2012, 47.

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Persuasion and Social Control: in Search of consensus et concordia civium

Like other monuments and Augustan public buildings, such as the Forum Augusti, the Pantheum, the Ara Pacis Augustae, the Horologium Augusti, and the Mausoleum Augusti, as well as artworks such as the Augustus of Prima Porta, the Gemma Augustea, and the Cameo of The Metropolitan Museum of Art with a double Capricorn and portrait of Augustus (all of them permeated with a combination of cosmological ideology and political propaganda), urban orientation according to astronomical criteria in the Augustan period was a decisive part of the ideological, political, religious, and “sensory” rhetoric of the Early Principate. The aim of this urban orientation would have been twofold: first, to disseminate a series of social values and political principles related to the new era opened by Augustus’ triumph at Actium, and second, to persuade the people to accept his auctoritas and potestas as the preferred means by which to achieve and maintain the consensus, the concordia, and the pax, while avoiding discord and civil war.106 Participation in public events with a strong sensory and emotional power most likely made a significant contribution to a civic egalitarian solidarity constructed through ritual action (the sacrifice, for example).107 This view is in line with Georg Simmel’s approach to life as it was lived in small towns in antiquity, in which barriers against movement and the relations that an individual had with those outside the town were informally set by the sociopolitical bonds of local affinity. In this respect, “the constant threat to its existence at the hands of enemies from near and afar effected strict coherence in political and military respects, a supervision of the citizen by the citizen”.108 This would have been so because the sensory foundations of life in small towns and rural life “rest more upon deeply felt and emotional relationships”. These relationships are rooted “in the more unconscious layers of the psyche and grow readily in the steady rhythm of uninterrupted habituations”,109 such as those provided by periodic civic ceremonies and religious festivals. However, as John Scheid has noted, certain rites, such as the sacrificial banquet, would have been used not only to foster cohesion but also as means of social control, establishing an unwavering social hierarchy in the human 106 On the consensus universorum gathered by Augustus among all the social and political groups in Rome, see Mon. Anc. 34; Suet. Aug. 58.1; Vell. Pat. 2.91.1; Cass. Dio 53.16.6–8; Lobur 2008, 23–29. 107 Naiden 2012, 56. 108 Simmel 1969, 54. 109 Simmel 1969, 48.

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world, as well as reinforcing the hierarchy between humans and gods (including Augustus).110 This social control and hierarchy would have contributed to the maintainence of a specific political order with the aim of ensuring the stability of power structures. In order to achieve this objective, it was necessary to disseminate messages supportive of a specific system of government, a task in which propaganda and powerful rhetoric would have played a crucial role. Both are strategies of persuasion which build scenarios that are favourable to the influencing of people’s beliefs.111 By these means, people can be brought to assume a personal ownership of and commitment to specific political systems and social behaviours. Sensory and emotional stimulation, as well as the manipulation of public opinion, played an extremely important role in this process, and the orientation of the urban landscape according to astronomical events and ritual action will have been powerful tools for achieving these ends.112 As has been mentioned above, the pax Augusta and the consensus et concordia civium played a key role in Augustan rhetoric.113 According to Manilius, these were two highly desirable outcomes after almost a century of civil wars.114 However, beyond the simple absence of conflict and discord, the desired circumstances of peace and concordant relationships required that people accept their role in the world (their rights and duties), and through this acceptance contribute to security and prosperity. And this meant obeying political and

110 Scheid 2012, 84–88 and 93. Similarly, see Weddle 2017, 116; Lobur 2008, 44. 111 Lobur 2008, 7 suggests that “ideologies grow out of uncertainty and turmoil, whereas propaganda needs a widely recognized problematic situation (e.g. the possible return of political chaos, the need for competent military leadership, etc.) to which it can offer a solution. The average citizen, otherwise facing a world of confusion and insecurity, willingly accepts the comforting certainties”. 112 According to Lobur 2008, 25, Augustus’ status would have required the periodic repetition of ceremonies in which the structure of the political and social system was recreated and its legitimacy reconfirmed. 113 In fact, Tiberius would rededicate the temple of Concordia in Rome as that of Concordia Augusta, and Augustus would give his name to the eighth month, a month full of events and successes significant to this career and also that in which he put an end to the civil wars (eight was the number that the Pythagoreans ascribed to the concept of iustitia: Macrob. In Somn. 1.5.17). For a list of dates consecrated to Augustus’ achievements, five in the month of August, see Herz 1978, 1148–1149. In addition, Augustus set up a statue of Concordia, along with those of Salus, Janus, and Pax, in an unspecified temple in 11 BCE; the Ara Pacis Augustae was dedicated in 9 BCE with an iconographic programme that proclaimed the epiphany of Pax, Felicitas, Concordia, and Pietas in the person of Augustus. On these issues, see Lobur 2008, 91–92. 114 Manil. Astr. 1.922–926.

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religious authorities.115 Once again, cosmology was at the heart of this matter. The notions of consensus and concordia as they developed at Rome were strongly influenced by Stoic cosmological concepts which framed the proper functioning of the universe in terms of the harmonious relationship between the cosmic macrocosm and an (ideally) orderly microcosm. Taken as a whole, this cosmic order was understood to consist of a system of sympathetically related parts, including the harmonious arrangement of celestial bodies, the movements of and relationships between which were able to affect the microcosmic world.116 The role of the ruler, as the divine recta ratio, was to order this microcosm in such a way as to enable each constituent element to find its appropriate place and fulfil its proper end, a result that was achieved by establishing consensus and concordia among them.117 And here the etymology of concordia demonstrates the decisive role played by emotions and beliefs, since this term means “the agreement of souls and feelings”.118 Following the reasoning of Lobur,119 consensus and concordia did not, thus, belong to a mental sphere but, rather, to a sentimental category connected to friendship, which could be stimulated by the sensorial dimension of experiences.120 In conclusion, the application of cosmological criteria in the orientation and planning of Roman towns under Augustus, as well as the ritual action and religious performances involving multi-sensory experiences that were carried out on specific dates (e.g. the winter solstice and the autumn equinox), would have contributed to the materialisation and fossilisation of a series of political and religious principles promoted by the Princeps and associated with a new and golden era of peace and prosperity after the civil wars. The preservation of this era, reflected in the cyclical repetition of the astronomical events chosen, necessarily involved the consensus et concordia civium as a means of social control. It is precisely here, as has been shown, that astronomical orientations (striking 115 On consensus and concordia and their meaning in ancient authors, see Lobur 2008; Akar 2013, 28–48. 116 Akar 2013, 35. 117 Lobur 2008, 57–58. In this respect, the etymology of harmonia (ἁρμονία) is related to a technical term connected to carpentry (Chantraine 2000, 110–111), likely a way of fastening together planks when building a boat. 118 On the precise etymology of concordia, see Varro, Ling. 5.73; Aykar 2013, 37–38. 119 Lobur 2008, 40. In real terms, concordia was reduced to a commitment to stability, and consensus to nothing more concrete than mass demonstration in favor of autocracy (Lobur 2008, 208). 120 Consensus and corcordia, like music, could have a dual and seemingly contradictory nature from a Stoic point of view: they were rational phenomena but, at the same time, were also linked to the sensorial sphere and to the generation of ‘emotional’ responses. For a general approach to this, see Scade 2017.

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sensory events with strong psychological effects) could have played a key role in virtue of their power of fascination, suggestion, and persuasion, which would have required shared emotional experiences based on multi-sensory stimuli. In this respect, architecture, urban landscape, and heavenly landscape would have been understood as a unified perceptual environment at the service of Augustan rhetoric (as in the case of the Forum Augusti, or the cosmological landscape developed at the Campus Martius in Rome through the integration of the Pantheum, the Ara Pacis Augustae, the Horologium Augusti, and the Mausoleum Augusti),121 which would have contributed to the creation of real sites of collective memory (mnemotopoi or places of ritual memorialisation) according to an astronomical calendar, such as the arae Romae et Augusti in Lugdunum and Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium.122

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to thank the referees for their thoughtful comments and Paul Scade, the volume’s copy editor, for his careful reading and for making insightful suggestions with the sympathetic view of a true colleague. Bibliography Akar, Philippe. 2013. Concordia. Un ideal de la classe dirigeante romaine à la fin de la République. Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne. Barton, Tamsyn. 1994. Ancient Astrology. New York: Routledge. Barton, Tamsyn. 1995. “Augustus and Capricorn: Astrological Polyvalency and Imperial Rhetoric.” The Journal of Roman Studies 85: 33–51. Bechert, Tilmann. 2013. “ARA VBIORUM. Zum Namen des frühkaiserzeitlichen Köln und zum Standort des Kaiseraltars.” Carnuntum Jahrbuch 2012: 9–16. Bertarione, Stella Vittoria, and Giulio Magli. 2015. “Augustus’ Power from the Stars and the Foundation of Augusta Praetoria Salassorum.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 25(1): 1–15.

121 Hannah and Magli 2011; Frischer 2017. 122 On ritual practices and sensoriality as a driver for memory and social cohesion, see Hamilakis 2002; D’Ambra 2010; Platt 2011; Elsner and Squire 2016; Boutsikas 2017. On ritual, place, and memory in ancient Rome, see Mayorgas 2019.

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Bilić, Tomislav. 2012. “Apollo, Helios, and the Solstices in the Athenian, Delphian, and Delian Calendars.” Numen. International Review for the History of Religions 59(5–6): 509–532. Boutsikas, Efrosyni. 2015. “Landscape and the Cosmos in the Apolline Rites of Delphi, Delos and Dreros.” In Human Development in Sacred Landscapes. Between Ritual Tradition, Creativity and Emotionality, edited by Lutz Käppel and Vassiliki Pothou, 77–102. Goettingen: V&R unipress. Boutsikas, Efrosyni. 2017. “The Role of Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice.” In The Oxford Handbook of Light in Archaeology, edited by Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boutsikas, Efrosyni, and Clive L. N. Ruggles. 2011. “Temples, Stars, and Ritual Landscapes: The Potential for Archaeoastronomy in Ancient Greece.” American Journal of Archaeology 115(1): 55–68. Briquel, Dominique. 2004. “Remarques sur le sacrifice étrusque.” In La Fête. La rencontre des dieux et des hommes, edited by Michel Mazoyer, Jorge Pérez Rey, Florence Malbran-Labat, and René Lebrun, 132–156. Paris: L’Harmattan. Brisson, Jean-Paul. 1992. Rome et l’Age d’Or: de Catulle à Ovide, vie et mort d’un mythe. Paris: La Découverte. Buchner, Edmund. 1982. Die Sonnenuhr des Augustus. Mainz am Rhein: Phillip von Zabern. Burkert, Walter. 1983. Homo Necans. The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Carandini, Andrea. 2003. La nascita di Roma. Dèi, lari, eroi e uomini all’alba di una civiltà. Turin: Einaudi. Chantraine, Pierre. 1999 [1968]. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots. Paris: Klincksieck. Christopoulos, Menelaos, Efimia D. Karakantza, and Olga Levaniouk. 2010. Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. D’Ambra, Eve. 2010. “The Imperial Funerary Pyre as a Work of Ephemeral Architecture.” In The Emperor and Rome. Space, Representation, and Ritual, edited by Björn C. Ewals and Carlos F. Noreña, 289–308. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Del Hoyo, Javier. 2011. “Aprovechamiento político de los dioses por Augusto y su tiempo.” In Mites, ofrenes funeràries i monedes. XV Curs d’història monetària d’Hispània. Barcelona, 24 i 25 de Novembre de 2011, edited by Marta Campo, 45–53. Barcelona: Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya. Delgado Delgado, José A. 2016. “Religión y culto en el ara Pacis Augustae.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 89: 71–94. De Sanctis, Gianluca. 2012. “ ‘Urbigonia’. Sulle tracce di Romolo e del suo aratro.” I Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro on-line, Numero Speciale (Per un atlante antropologico della mitologia greca e romana): 105–135.

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Desbat, Armand. 2007. “Topographie historique de Lugdunum.” In Carte Archéologique de la Gaule 69/2. Lyon, edited by Anne-Catherine Le Mer, and Claire Chomer, 179– 191. Paris: Académie des inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Desbat, Armand. 2016. “Le sanctuaire des trois Gaules et la question du forum provincial.” Revue Archéologique de l’Est 65: 303–323. Détienne, Marcel, and Jean-Pierre Vernant. 1979. La cuisine du sacrifice en pays grecs. Paris: Gallimard. Dwyer, E. J. 1973. “Augustus and the Capricorn.” Römische Mitteilungen 80: 59–67. Eck, Werner. 2004. Geschichte der Stadt Köln. Band 1 – Köln in römischer Zeit. Geschichte einer Städt im Rahmen des Imperium Romanum. Mit einer Einführung in das Gesamtwerk von Hugo Stehkämper. Cologne: Greven Verlag Köln. Elsner, Jas and Michael Squire. 2016. “Sight and Memory. The Visual art of Roman mnemonics.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 180–204. Princeton/Oxford: Routledge. Espinosa-Espinosa, David, A. César González-García, and Marco V. García-Quintela. 2016. “On the Orientation of Two Roman Towns in the Rhine Area.” Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 16(4): 233–240. Espinosa-Espinosa, David, and A. César González-García. 2017. “a. d. VIIII Kalendas Octobres, dies natalis Augusti. Some Considerations on the Astronomical Orientation of Roman Cologne and the Imperial Cult.” Numen. International Review for the History of Religions 64(5–6): 545–567. Faraone, Christopher A., and Fred S. Naiden. 2012. Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice. Ancient Victims, Modern Observers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fishwick, Duncan. 1987. The Imperial Cult in the Latin West. Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, Vol. I, 1. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Fishwick, Duncan. 1991. The Imperial Cult in the Latin West. Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, Vol. II, 1. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Frischer, Bernard. 2017. “New Light on the Relationship between the Montecitorio Obelisk and Ara Pacis of Augustus.” Studies in Digital Heritage 1(1): 18–119. García-Quintela, Marco V., and A. César González-García. 2014. “Le 1er août à Lugdunum sous l’empire romain: bilans et nouvelles perspectives.” Revue Archéologique de l’Est 63: 157–177. Gargola, Daniel J. 2017. The Shape of the Roman Order: The Republic and its Spaces. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. González-García, A. César, and Marco V. García-Quintela. 2014. “The 1st of August at Lugdunum: Astronomy and Imperial Cult in Gallia.” Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 14(3): 83–91. González-García, A. César, Andrea Rodríguez-Antón, David Espinosa-Espinosa, Marco V. García Quintela, and Juan Antonio Belmonte. 2019. “Establishing a New Order: The Orientation of Roman Towns Built in the Age of Augustus.” In The

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Archaeoastronomy of the Roman World, edited by Giulio Magli, Elio Antonello, Juan Antonio Belmonte, and A. César González-García, 85–102. Cham: Springer. González-García, A. César, José Miguel Noguera Celdrán, Juan Antonio Belmonte, Andrea Rodríguez-Antón, Elena Ruiz Valderas, María José Madrid Balanza, Encar­nación Zamora, and José Bonnet Casciaro. 2015. “Orientatio ad sidera: astronomía y paisaje urbano en Qart Hadašt/Carthago Nova.” Zephyrus. Revista de Prehistoria y Arqueología 75: 141–162. Gradel, Ittai. 2002. Emperor Worship and Roman Religion. Oxford: Oxford Classical Monographs. Graf, Fritz. 2012. “One Generation after Burkert and Girard. Where are the Great Theories?” In Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice. Ancient Victims, Modern Observers, edited by Christopher Faraone, and Fred S. Naiden, 32–51. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Green, Steven J. 2014. Disclosure and Discretion in Roman Astrology. Manilius and his Augustan Contemporaries. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gruet, Brice. 2006. La rue à Rome, miroir de la ville. Entre l’émotion et la norme. Paris: Presses de l’ Universitaires Paris-Sorbonne. Hamilakis, Yannis. 2002. Archaeology of the Senses. Human Experience, Memory, and Affect. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hannah, Robert. 2005. Greek and Roman Calendars: Constructions of Time in the Classical World. London: Duckworth. Hannah, Robert. 2009. “The Pantheon as a Timekeeper.” The British Sundial Society Bulletin 21(4): 2–5. Hannah, Robert. 2011. “The Horologium of Augustus as a sundial.” The Journal of Roman Archaeology 24: 87–95. Hannah, Robert, and Giulio Magli. 2011. “The Role of the Sun in the Pantheon’s Design and Meaning.” Numen. International Review for the History of Religions 58(4): 486–513. Heslin, Peter. 2007. “Augustus, Domitian and the So-called Horologium Augusti.” The Journal of Roman Studies 97: 1–20. Herz, Peter. 1978. “Kaiserfeste der Prinzipatszeit.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.16.2, 1135–1200. Hijmans, Steven Ernst. 2009. Sol: The Sun in the Art and Religions of Rome, 2 Vols. Groningen: University Library Groningen. Hoff, Michael. 1992. “Augustus, Apollo and Athens.” Museum Helveticum. Schweizerische Zeitschrift für klassische Altertumswissenschaft 49: 223–233. Humm, M. 2004. “Le mundus et le Comitium: représentations symboliques de l’espace de la cite.” Histoire urbaine 2004/2 (nº 10): 43–61. Ionescu, Dan-Tador. 2014. “The Ara Pacis Augustae: a Symbol of the Augustan Age in the Campus Martius.” Chaos e Kosmos 15: 1–26.

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Iwaniszewski, Stanislaw. 2015. “Concepts of Space, Time and the Cosmos.” In Handbook of Archaeoastronomy and Ethnoastronomy, edited by Clive L. N. Ruggles, 3–14. New York: Springer. Kantorowicz, Ernst Hartwig. 1963. “Oriens Augusti. Lever du Roi.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 17: 117–177. Kleiner, Fred S. 1988. “The Arch in Honour of C. Octavius and the Fathers of Augustus.” Historia. Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 37(3): 347–357. Koortbojian, Michael. 2013. The Divinization of Caesar and Augustus. Precedents, Consequences, Implications. New York: Cambridge University Press. Laffi, Umberto. 1967. “Le iscrizioni relative all’introduzione nel 9 a.C. del nuovo calendario della provincia Asia.” Studi classici e orientali 16: 5–98. Lange, C. Hjort. 2009. Res Publica Constituta. Actium, Apollo and the Accomplishment of the Triumviral Assignment. Leiden: Brill. Le Gall, Joëll. 1975. “Les Romains et l’Orientation Solaire.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Antiquité 87(1): 287–320. Lobur, John Alexander. 2008. Consensus, Concordia, and the Formation of Roman Imperial Ideology. New York: Routledge. Lozano, Fernando. 2002. La religión del poder. El culto imperial en Atenas en época de Augusto y los emperadores Julio-Claudios. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series 1087. Magli, Giulio. 2016. Archaeoastronomy. Introduction to the Sciences of Stars and Stones. New York: Springer. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2017. The Mysteries of Mithras: A Different Account. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Mayorgas, Ana. 2019. “Ritual, Place and Memory in Ancient Rome.” In The Routledge Handbook of Memory and Place, edited by Sarah de Nardi, Hilary Orange, Steven High, and Eerika Koskinen-Koivisto, 384–391. London: Routledge. Naiden, Fred S. 2012. “Blessed Are the Parasites.” In Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice. Ancient Victims, Modern Observers, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Fred S. Naiden, 55–83. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Naiden, Fred S. 2013. Smoke Signals for the Gods. Ancient Greek Sacrifice from the Archaic through Roman Periods. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nicoletta, Lanciano, and Paola Virgili. 2016. “The Urban Set of the Pantheon and the Mausoleum of Augustus in Rome, between Architectural and Astronomical Symbolism.” Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 16(4): 249–255. Nissen, Heinrich. 1906. Orientation. Studien zur Geschichte der Religion. 1. Heft. Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlug. Peppas-Delmousou, Dina. 1979. “A Statue Base for Augustus IG II2 3262 + IG II2 4725.” American Journal of Philology 100: 125–132.

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Petridou, Georgia. 2015. Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature and Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pikulska, Anna. 2004. “Les arpenteurs romains et leur formation intellectuelle.” Revue Internationale des Droits de l’Antiquité 51: 205–216. Platt, Verity. 2011. Facing the Gods. Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art. Literature and Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Platt, Verity. 2016. “Sight and the Gods. On the Desire to See Naked Nymphs.” In Sight and the Ancient Senses, edited by Michael Squire, 161–179. Princeton and Oxford: Routledge. Poux, Matthieu. 2003. “Lougoudounon à l’aube de la conquête (450–50 avant J.-C.).” In Lyon avant Lugdunum, edited by Matthieu Poux and Hugues Savay-Guerraz, 88–101. Lyon: Infolio. Prescendi, Francesca. 2007. Décrire et comprendre le sacrifice. Les réflexions des Romains sur leur propre religion à partir de la littérature antiquaire. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rehak, Paul. 2001. “Aeneas or Numa? Rethinking the Meaning of the Ara Pacis Augustae?” The Art Bulletin 83(2): 190–208. Rehak, Paul. 2006. Imperium and Cosmos. Augustus and the Northern Campus Martius. Edited by John G. Younger. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Rodríguez-Antón, Andrea, A. César González-García and Juan A. Belmonte. 2018. “Astronomy in Roman Urbanism: A Statistical Analysis of the Orientation of Roman Towns in the Iberian Peninsula.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 49(3): 363–387. Ruggles, Clive L. N. 2005. Ancient Astronomy: An Encyclopedia of Cosmologies and Myth. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Rykwert, Joseph. 1985. La idea de ciudad. Antropología de la forma urbana en el Mundo Antiguo. Biblioteca Básica de Arquitectura. Madrid: Blume. Samuel, Alan E. 1972. Greek and Roman Chronology. Calendars and Years in Classical Antiquity. Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck. Santangelo, Federico. 2013. Divination, Prediction and the End of the Roman Republic. New York: Cambridge University Press. Scade, Paul. 2017. “Music and the Soul in Stoicism”. In Selfhood and the Soul: Essays on Ancient Thought and Literature in Honour of Christopher Gill, edited by Richard­ Seaford, John Wilkins, and Matthew Wright, 197–218. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scheid, John. 2005. Quand faire, c’est croire. Les rites sacrificiels des Romains. Paris: Aubier. Scheid, John. 2012. “Roman Animal Sacrifice and the System of Being.” In Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice. Ancient Victims, Modern Observers, edited by Christopher A.­ Faraone and Fred S. Naiden, 84–95. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Chapter 12

Finding Religion in Reported Sensorial Experiences: A Case Study of Propertius 4.6 Jörg Rüpke 1

Introduction

Why talk about the senses when discussing ancient religion? Is such discussion just an unimportant and peripheral appendage to our otherwise fixed image of past practices? Or does consideration of the senses rather have a central importance for our understanding of the religions of the ancient world? From a point of view that treats religions as constituted and defined by the names of the gods venerated and by their organisation within a pantheon, an analysis in terms of the senses is an opus supererogatorium, surely going beyond what is necessary. The same holds true for perspectives that regard religions as rule-based ritual systems, always imperfectly reproduced by individual actors and performances. An analysis in terms of the senses might be more important for a conception of religion as specifically civic religion, i.e. as expressing and bolstering the political identity of those defined as belonging to the same body politic, but from such a perspective the issues surrounding the stimulation of emotion might easily be reduced to questions of motivation and mobilisation. In this chapter I propose to take a rather different approach, attributing a central place to sensorial experiences in a consideration of specifically Roman religion from the perspective of “lived ancient religion”. In section 2 below, I will briefly explain what I mean by “lived ancient religion”. I then go on, in section 3, to introduce my evidential base and to discuss the question of how to avoid a positivist interpretation of certain ancient sources that provide us with reports of what people have seen, heard, or smelled, along with speculation about these peoples’ related feelings. I then use this discussion as a basis for a summary treatment of the long poem found at Propertius 4.6 (section 4), before finally arriving at my conclusion (section 5).

© Jörg Rüpke, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_014

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Lived Ancient Religion1

I first proposed some years ago that the concept of “lived religion” could usefully be applied to the analysis of ancient religion. In the time since, I have sought to develop, test, and refine this idea in numerous studies and in cooperation with many other scholars.2 The notion of “lived ancient religion” has been developed against the background of discussions concerning lived religion in contemporary societies. According to this view, religion is not to be thought of as existing independently of individual practice. “Lived religion” does not ask how, over the course of their lives, individuals replicate a set of religious practices and beliefs preconfigured by an institutionalised official religion, or, conversely, how they opt out of adhering to a predefined tradition. Instead, “lived religion” focuses on actual everyday experiences: on practices, expressions, and interactions which are related to and, according to this approach, actually constitute “religion”. “Religion” in this sense is understood as a spectrum of experiences, actions, and beliefs and communications hinging on human communication with super-human or even transcendent agents, agents whom the peoples of the ancient Mediterranean usually conceptualised as “gods”. Material symbols, ritualization, and elaborate forms of representation were called upon to increase the chances of success in communicating with these addressees.3 Accordingly, the main thrust of the “lived ancient religion” approach is not to revive or expand notions of popular religions.4 Rather, with a view to the dynamics of “religion in the making”, research based on this new concept engages critically with the notions of “civic religion” and (elective) “cults” as being clearly defined, bordered, and rule- or belief-based “systems”. With regard to such “cults”, members of the elites of ancient circum-Mediterranean cities certainly used, for a range of purposes, the possibilities offered by religious communication. For political actors, reference to divine agents was ideally suited to the creation of a communicative space that extended beyond the confines of families and clans. By engaging in religious activities – that is, by seeking to communicate with such agents – political actors could emphasise shared interests while at the same time competing for and obtaining 1 For the following I draw on Rüpke 2019. 2 Rüpke 2012; Albrecht, Degelmann, Gasparini, Gordon, Petridou, Raja, Rüpke, Sippel, Urciuoli and Weiss 2018; Gasparini, Patzelt, Raja, Rieger, Rüpke and Urciuoli 2020. 3 Bell 1992; Rüpke 2010. 4 See, for example, Hezser 2013; Mikalson 1983; Mikalson 2010; Nilsson 1940; Teixidor 1977.

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distinction. This flexibility helped ritual activity and religious architecture achieve a high degree of dynamism: existing traditions were appropriated and altered, and ever-new possibilities for religious communication were invented in order to deal with the problems thrown up by the expansion of the geographical extent of ancient empires, by urban growth, or by increasing social differentiation and competition. “Civic religion” – religious practices organised by the political elite for themselves and the wider populace, and employed to bolster a city-focused political identity in processes of slow and ongoing state formation – has played an important role in recent discussions of ancient religion. However, from a lived religion perspective, “civic religion” needs to be radically reconceptualised. Rather than providing overarching frameworks which allow for the understanding of comparatively inconsequential acts of popular religion and its irrelevant variations and innovations, or for the likewise politically unimportant development of elective cults,5 analyses based on lived ancient religion start from the idea that socially embedded individual actors and their agency are what underlie our available evidence. This idea has two corollaries, one theoretical and one methodological. The first corollary is that religion is theorised from the point of view of religious agency.6 Involving “divine” actors or authorities (“demons” or “ancestors” as much as “gods”) enlarges the field of agency of the human actor. Religious agency offers extended possibilities for imagination and intervention, that is for support imagined, invoked, and even experienced in many situations. In this way, religious agency – the attribution of agency to “divine actors” – allows the human actor fantasies that transcend the situation in question, which, in turn, allows for the employment of a range of appropriately creative strategies. The human actor might present himself or herself as the lead figure in the implementation of a ritual, that is to say in roles of initiative and activity. Alternatively, the initiator might act in the passive role of a person possessed, whose claims and behaviour are presented as being entirely caused by divine powers, thus freeing the actor of all individual responsibility.7 The effects wrought by individuals and groups of humans in their attempts to communicate with the divine could be far-reaching. Even the character of space and time could be changed by acts of sacralisation. Even distant actors – enemies behind city walls, fugitive thieves, travellers – could be reached remotely by the 5 Rüpke 2018, 156–7. 6 Rüpke 2015b. 7 However, we should not neglect the opposite effect, which can also be triggered by the same mechanism. This is an abjuration of personal agency, resulting in impotence and passivity, with agency being reserved for the “special” actors.

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use of rituals, oaths, and curses, or by inserting pins into dolls.8 By the transfer of religious competencies or the invocation of oracles, new directions could be given to political decision-making processes.9 It is, however, important to keep in mind that such invocations and attributions of agency to powers that lay beyond the immediate social constellation and beyond human hierarchies were inherently risky. This risk is a consequence of the peculiar character of divine agents, who always need medial representation, are always different, and are often distant as well. Individuals could and did base far-reaching claims on the support of agents that were far from commonly accepted, even in principle. In doing so, individuals might, if successful, thereby establish their own agency as visionaries or prophets, and thus arrogate an authority that could grant them power in the future. More frequently, however, agents based their situational claims on more commonly shared concepts, operating within collective religious identities that they could reasonably presume were shared by the other participants. Working in this way, they could thus have agency without establishing permanent religious roles, conforming to, rather than questioning, existing human power relations. Methodologically, acknowledging the individual appropriation and production of meaning in situations excludes the possibility that the academic observers simply employ culturalist interpretations, that is to say, that they draw entirely on meaning established in other parts of a dense and coherent web of meaning. Individual evidence can, thus, no longer be regarded as part of a culture that can be read as a text in the Geertzian sense.10 As Talal Asad has pointed out, Geertz presupposes the coherence of a cognitive system of beliefs and a preference for order as underlying the non-verbal discourse by symbols and practices.11 By consequence, perspectives and methods that are heuristically more specific need to be deployed, addressing the agency of the ritual actors, the situational constellation, and the individual and local perception and modification of the fragments of others’ knowledge available. Focusing on sensorial experiences, for instance, thus plays an important part in any attempt to grasp lived practice and the experiences that form long-standing habits and dispositions (if I may switch to a different terminology here).

8 9 10 11

Gordon 2013. Belayche, Rosenberger, Rüpke, Bendlin and Vigourt 2005; Santangelo 2013. Cf. Geertz 1973 and 1984. Asad 1993, 43–47.

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Propertian Elegy

In the last of his four books of elegiac poetry, the Augustan poet Propertius frequently leaves his audience and readership puzzled. What seems to be serious on the surface is undercut in crucial passages of his eleven poems. What seems at first sight to be funny might in fact have serious implications. The ambiguity in the central poem, praising Augustus’ victory at Actium but ending in drunkenness, has been discussed repeatedly and with considerable controversy. It is the centre-piece of the poem, with its narration of Apollo’s decisive military action during the battle, that sits at the heart of this debate.12 The frame of the poem has repeatedly been analysed by scholars in search of hints as to whether or not Propertius maintains his earlier promise to recuse himself from engaging with political themes. This debate will provide the background to my discussion in this chapter. However, my focus will be on an aspect of these poems that has, thus far, been subject to considerably less study: the sensorial dimension of the description of the ritual that serves as a framework for the Actium narrative and, correspondingly, the religious dimension not only of the beginning but also of the end of the text. A positivist reading of this frame offers nothing new that we do not already know from other sources: Roman ritual employed materials that had tactile properties and colours;13 sound and avoidance of noise were important.14 There is then simply no need to take the poetic description of a fictitious ritual at face value, even if I believe that Propertius’ knowledge of contemporary religious practices and his readers’ expectations of plausible descriptions would offer sufficient grounds for such a hermeneutic enterprise.15 Religious knowledge is an important part of religious agency in dealing with divine addressees. We do not know much about the readership of the elegies, although it was certainly to be found among the small literate echelon of Italian, and above all Roman, society. Nevertheless, the very preservation of such texts, and their transmission from a scriptographic culture by repeated copying and quoting (and perhaps also via interesting processes of modification),16 encourages us to take into account how discourses about norms and interpretations could reflect and also influence the individual appropriation of ritual practices or religiously relevant narratives.17 12 13 14

Gurval 1995; see also Baker 1983; Cairns 1984; Cristofoli 2005; Petrovic 2008. See already Wunderlich 1925; Radke 1936. See also Rüpke 1993; Bradley 2009. Wille 1967; Köves-Zulauf 1972; Fless 1995; Siebert 1999, 103–7; Péché 2001; Vendries 2004; Fless and Moede 2007. 15 Cf. Rüpke 2015a. 16 E.g. Haines-Eitzen 2012. 17 E.g. Kindt 2016; Rüpke and Degelmann 2015.

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Fascinating as this issue is, I am much more interested in the parallels, and even the entanglement, between what one might call religious and poetic rituals as they appear at the beginning and end of the poem. These connections demonstrate the enormous importance of the sensorial, and hence affective, dimension of those cultural practices that mediate relations between the individual and the closer social and wider political and religious “worlds”.18 Here, the importance of genre comes into play. Elegy was a genre that allowed for hymns, that is, literary documentation of or suggestions concerning how to communicate with the “gods”.19 At the same time, it also allowed for very personal statements of a poetic “I”.20 Performative authenticity and the implicit indication of the fictional character of such religious communication by its de-contextualization when diffused in written form could go hand in hand. It has rightly been claimed that book 4 is probably the first deliberately composed book of smaller poems in ancient Latin poetry.21 It is within this literary space that divinely inspired seers ruthlessly interrupt the authorial persona (4.1a/b) or gods engage in autobiographical narrative (4.2). The literary book is, thus, also a space for religious communication.22 In a very nuanced form, a human speaker can occasionally claim a specifically religious agency or perform the limits of his or her poetic agency in the face of divine agents. The old Greek model of a divinely inspired poetic voice is not simply taken over in this genre but is again and again remodeled in the context of specific social and political situations. Not uniquely, but more clearly than in other instances, the elegy at 4.6 indicates the sensorial dimensions of this business. 4

Propertius 4.6

If book 4 is not a composition constructed from individual poems but, rather, a composition that is organised in the form of individual poems, then our reading of 4.6 has to start with the poem that precedes it. Where the last line of 4.5, following a curse over a bawd’s tomb ending in an address to Venus (4.5.65), urges 18 Rüpke 2016, based on the concept of self-world relationships in Rosa 2016. 19 Miller 1979; Lattke 1991; Miller 1991; Mader 1994; Hickson Hahn 2007; Leonhard and Löhr 2014. 20 Warden 1980, Hose 1994, Kuhlmann 2006, Holzberg 2011, Sullivan 1993, Debrohun 2003, Gold 2012. 21 See, with different interpretations, Grimal 1953, Ustrnul 1959, Suerbaum 1964, Camps 1965, Burck 1966, Lefèvre ibid., MacLeod 1977, Weeber 1977, Hutchinson 1984, Fedeli 1984, Stahl 1985, D’Anna 1986, Murgia 1989, Janan 2001, Cairns 2006, Hutchinson 2006, Fedeli, Dimundo and Ciccarelli 2015. 22 Rüpke 2009.

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the listener or reader to add further curses (4.5.78), the first line of 4.6 urges the readers (who are likewise treated as present in the narrated scene) to beware of any sound that might have a negative effect on the ritual.23 The poem is a next step in a continuous discourse, but it is also the central poem of book 4, taking up motifs from 4.1 more directly than does any other text. The persona of the poet has changed from the Roman narrator of 4.4 and the lover of 4.5 to that of a real priest: vates is not used as a solemn synonym of poet but in its technical sense of a priest handling sacrifices: Sacra facit vates: sint ora faventia sacris, et cadat ante meos icta iuvenca focos. A ritual the seer is performing: closed mouths should be favourable for the ritual, and the heifer should fall, struck down, before my portable altars.24 The central position of the poem within book 4 links it strongly to the opening poem. Obviously, as is substantiated by the preceding poem in the voice of a lover, Propertius has learned of Horos, who has urged him to focus on love poetry. At the same time, here, if anywhere, we meet the speaker as that selfstyled Roman Callimachus of poem 4.1 who had been interrupted by the same figure of the seer Horos: Sacra diesque canam was his programme at the beginning of the book (4.1.69); sacra is the first word of 4.6 and dies the last (86). This poem has been analysed so frequently that it should be enough to point out some details of the general movement. First, right at the beginning, important poetological metaphors are deployed in a rather blunt fashion: Cera25 Philitaeis26 certet Romana corymbis, et Cyrenaeas urna ministret aquas. 3f.

23 Barchiesi 1994, 92. 24 The translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 25 Any correction of the unanimously transmitted text, e.g. serta, is unacceptable (rightly Shackleton Bailey 1956, 244). Of course, serta “fits” better, but “fitting” is not what is demanded by the text and the word certare. 26 This is a humanists’ correction (according to Butrica 1984, 81 perhaps a reading of X) for Philippeis of the older manuscripts. Any reference to the battle of Philippi seems unintelligible within the poetological context; a scribe’s misreading of PP to T is a plausible hypothesis.

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The Roman writing tablet should fight with Philetan ivy-clusters and the urn should provide the waters of Cyrene. The general reference of the distich is not a matter of any doubt. Within the context of sacrificial preparations, the geographical and personal adjectives point to a poetological statement. Whereas cera Romana must, then, refer to Propertius’ Latin text and subject,27 the Greek adjectives refer to the elegiac poetry of Philitas of Cos28 and Callimachus (of Cyrene). These Greek poets are combined in other Propertian passages as well: Tu satius Musis memorem29 imitere Philitan et non inflati somnia Callimachi. 2.34.31f.

You better satisfy the Muses imitating mindful Philitas and not the dreams of turgid Callimachus. This passage, coming from the final poem of book 2, is as programmatic as are the next two I cite, both of which come from the programmatic poems at the beginning of book 3: Callimachi manes et Coi sacra Philitae, in vestrum, quaeso, me sinite ire nemus. primus ego ingredior puro de fonte sacerdos Itala per Graios orgia ferre choros. 3.1.1–4

Spirits of Callimachus and rituals of Coian Philitas, please, let me enter your grove. As the very first priest I will enter from a pure fountain in order to perform Italian rites by way of Greek dances.

27 28 29

Text: Richardson 1977, 447 ad locum. Subject: Eisenhut 1975, 309. For additional associations of Coan (soft textiles), see Mitchell 1985, 55–6. Cf. Camps 1967, 225. Meropen is a Humanistic conjecture from an Italian manuscript of 1469, replacing the difficult memorem, which should mean something like “learned”, by an old toponym for Cos.

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And now without the name of Callimachus: Talia Calliope lymphisque a fonte petitis ora Philitaea nostra rigauit aqua. 3.3.51f.

Thus spoke Calliope and with water from a fountain soaked my face with Philitan water. As these passages show, “Callimachus” and “Philitas” are synonyms for learned and artistic Hellenistic poetry of a shorter length rather than indications of precise generic options. They are interchangeable: where Philitas is named without Callimachus, his name is inserted into the Callimachean contrasting images, quoted from the mouth of Apollo, of the mighty (and dirty) stream of epic poetry and of the pure fountain: Ἀσσυρίου ποταμοῖο μέγας ῥόος, ἀλλὰ τὰ πολλὰ λύματα γῆς καὶ πολλὸν ἐφ᾽ ὕδατι συρφετὸν ἕλκει. Δηοῖ δ᾽ οὐκ ἀπὸ παντὸς ὕδωρ φορέουσι Μέλισσαι, ἀλλ᾽ ἥτις καθαρή τε καὶ ἀχράαντος ἀνέρπει πίδακος ἐξ ἱερῆς ὀλίγη λιβὰς ἄκρον ἄωτον. Callim., Hymn 2 [to Apollo], 108–112

Great is the stream of the Assyrian river, but much filth of earth and much refuse it carries on its waters. And not of every water do the Melissae carry to Deo, but of the trickling stream that springs from a holy fountain, pure and undefiled, the very crown of waters. Transl. Mair and Mair 1921

When set against the background of these passages, the imagery in 4.6 can be seen to have changed remarkably. Philitaeus has become an epithet of an attribute of Bacchus, as used in the Propertian hymn to Bacchus (3.17.29). The relationship with the Roman wax tablet is not a happy one: certare is “fighting”. Even if this only denotes a peaceful competition, it differs from imitare, sinere ire, or rigare. The pentameter does not solve this problem or “conflict”: if the Dionysian imagery had to be continued, one would have expected wine to be mentioned, something that would have been absolutely appropriate for the

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sacrificial ceremony.30 “Water” thus points even more strongly to the metaphorical level, to the imagery of poetical inspiration. But it is not de puro fonte that the water comes from. Without reference to the source, the water is carried in an urn, it is a limited amount, and urna always has a negative connotation in Propertius, with Tarpeia’s water-carrying urn (4.4.16) being the best example. Ministret continues the ambivalence: who is served and how is not stated. The apparent parallel in the final poem of the first book of Ovid’s Amores does not mitigate the uneasy combination in Propertius. On the contrary, it is precisely the Ovidian modification that helps to corroborate the problematic character of the Propertian imagery: Vilia miretur uulgus; mihi flauus Apollo pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua. Ov. Am. 1.15.35f.

The crowd admires cheap things; to me golden Apollo serves cups full of water from the Castalian fountain. Clearly, this is a helpful ministerium: supplying water from a dignified fountain in a noble (and filled) vessel – not one to be used to dispose of the mortal remains of humans, like the urn in 4.6. The Propertian persona of the vates seems not to notice these problems. In a more and more elevated mood, he pursues further sacrificial preparations. Yet, but two distichs later, he himself offers an alternative: water from fresh sources for the vates and a vocal libation from Trojan vessels (7–8). Origin and addressee of this ministerium are both clearly stated, with the Roman-Trojan elements coordinated with the sacral scenery. I will set aside any further thoughts on the strange combinations of traditions and objects, and turn instead to the sensorial side of the poem. The full text is (4.6.5–12): costum molle date et blandi mihi turis honores, terque focum circa laneus orbis eat. Spargite me lymphis, carmenque recentibus aris 30

The unhappy coordination of the distich with the ongoing ritual is, itself, an important statement that could not be negated by simply stating a permanent change between sacrificial and poetological imagery (thus Weeber 1977, 129).

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tibia Mygdoniis libet eburna cadis. ite procul fraudes, alio sint aere noxae: pura novum vati laurea mollit iter. Musa, Palatini referemus Apollinis aedem: res est, Calliope, digna favore tuo. Hand me over gentle costus (powder of the aromatic Saussurea lappa) and honouring portions of charming incense, and thrice about the hearth be the woollen band twined. Sprinkle me with water, and by the new-built altar let the ivory pipe make libation of song from Phrygian vessels. Fly hence all dangers, under another sky should all mischiefs be: pure laurel makes the new path gentle for the seer. Muse, let us report on the temple of Palatine Apollo: this is a subject, Calliope, worthy of your favour. The framing sacra … sacris of the first line is a powerful header: traditional sacrifice is evoked in a condensed phrase here, clearly defining the seer’s role as leading an animal sacrifice. But the auditive element, negatively hinted at by the reference to silence (and the absence of the mala verba, the curses, of the last line of the previous poem), is hinted at positively by the prominent position of cera, wax-tablet and hence text, in the third line. If acoustics are prominent in the first pair of verses, the visual is prominent in the second: the alliteration of cera certet corymbis also points to colour contrasts. The prosaic Roman wax-tablet and urn fight with the excess indicated by the Greek adjectives. The continuation of the alliteration with Cy-re-nae-as and its four long syllables renders this contrast stark. By the end of the couple, the fight is decided, the pentameter resolved in its fluid second half of two and a half dactyls. After sound and sight, smell is the subject of the next couplet, freely drawing on rare and exotic spices – costus and incense, associated with India and Euphrates in Ov. Fast. 1.341. Smell is supplemented here by touch, certainly, and perhaps also by colour contrast, if we imagine white or dyed wool wound around a bronze portable altar – this improvised scene is referred to by focos as well as recentibus aris (ll. 2 and 7). The scene is thus set for ritual gestures involving the sprinkling of liquids and song, accompanied by instruments, which together create an improvised ritual space. This is not clearly delimited but is of determinate character on, or even in, the ground, as well as above it, in the air. From line 5 onwards, the semantics of “charming” and “softness”

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have also prepared the way for an emotional space free of falling, striking, and clashing. I will not paraphrase the long middle part of the poem. After the speaker has stated his theme, the Palatine temple of Apollo (11), and classified the subject as one worthy of the epic muse, Calliope (12), he reveals that the whole poem, in fact, refers to Caesar; Jupiter is only apologetically addressed (13f.). The speaker then leads off with the epic formula of digression: Est Phoebi fugiens […] (15). The description of the battle of Actium ends with the fictitious scene of a Cleopatra carried in a Roman triumph (65f.), fictitious because she had died of her own will in Egypt. Lines 64–66 again vary the motif of una puella that is so important and so variable throughout the fourth book in its dealings with prostitutes and noblewomen: […] hoc unum iusso non moritura die. di melius! quantus mulier foret una triumphus, ductus erat per quas ante Iugurtha vias! […] only that not to die on a day fixed by others. O gods, it was better thus! How much of a triumph a single woman would offer on streets through which a Jugurtha has been led before. These lines cannot be interpreted without recalling the relevant passage in the Tarpeia poem (4.4.15–18): Hinc Tarpeia deae fontem libauit: at illi urgebat medium fictilis urna caput. et satis una malae potuit mors esse puellae, quae uoluit flammas fallere, Vesta, tuas? From this spring Tarpeia drew water, and the urn of earthenware bowed down her head whereon ‘twas poised. Ah! could one death alone suffice for doom of that accursed maid that had the heart to betray thy sacred fire, O Vesta? Transl. Butler 1912

In addition to the use of identical or similar words, the sudden invocation of gods is also common to both passages. Again, the common structure underlines

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the associative contents of urna, being paralleled by moritura as the point of departure for the invocation. The report is finally stopped by the speaker interrupting himself, thereby following the demands of Apollo, who has become “fed up” by the epic topic and the sounds of Trojan tibia:31 Bella satis cecini: citharam iam poscit Apollo victor et ad placidos exuit arma choros. 69f.

I have sung enough of war: victorious Apollo now demands the cithara and puts down his armour in favour of charming dances. At this point, we need to return to the poetological issue. Is Propertius referring to the actual battle and the ensuing (soon “Augustan”) peace?32 The nearest point of reference is not one and a half decennia, but just five poems ago. It is Horos, who it will be worth citing again: Accersis lacrimas cantans; auersus Apollo; poscis ab inuita uerba pigenda lyra. 4.1.73–4

Singing in such a manner, you ask for tears. Apollo has turned away. You ask from an unwilling lyre words that will irk. Even if we think Horos remains the untrustworthy astrologer whose words carry little weight,33 Propertius certainly does not view him in this way. Whereas the first instance of sustained Roman historical narrative had been stopped by an outsider, the second has now been stopped by Propertius himself, interpreting the same Apollonian stand as the former. Again, a vates and a sort of Romanus Callimachus – see verses 1 and 3/4 – is going to be replaced by a mere poeta (see 75). What is particularly interesting for us is the taking up of the ritual scene at the very beginning. The complex sacrificial apparatus of the beginning of the poem is replaced by a convivial scenery: 31 32 33

Camps 1965, 112 ad locum. Thus Weeber 1977, 146–7. Thus Becker 1971, 460, but see also Rüpke 2009.

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Candida nunc molli subeant conuiuia luco; blanditiaeque fluant per mea colla rosae, uinaque fundantur prelis elisa Falernis, terque34 lauet nostras spica Cilissa comas. 71–74

A white-clad dinner party should enter the gentle grove, charming roses should stream around my neck, and wine should be poured, produced from Falernian presses, and three times should Cilician saffron bath my hair. After the emotive words of the first line (71), Propertius offers up a scene that contrasts with the opening sacrifice,35 yet, at the same time, takes up its emotional tone and sensorial experiences in detail. The central notion is the replacement of water by wine (Italian wine, it should be noted) and the reception of inspiration by Bacchus (Bacchus’ medium of inspiration is wine, as the Propertian hymn to Bacchus at 3.17 also demonstrates). The uncomplicated mechanism of inspiration is now explicitly stated: Ingenium potis36 irritet Musa poetis: Bacche, soles Phoebo fertilis esse tuo. 75f.

The Muse should drive the inventiveness of drunken poets, Bacchus, you are fruit-bearing for your Apollo.

34

The archetype reads perque, but neither is tmesis (splitting of word) used in Propertius nor perlavare in Classical Latin. The parallels between the whole passage and the beginning makes a repetition of ter very plausible; a change from T to P would have been easy; cf. Richardson 1977, 453 ad locum. Morgan 1986, 197–8 suggests perluat. My argument does not depend on this conjecture. 35 The careful construction of verbal contrasts cannot be interpreted as a mere continuation of the formal sacrifice, as it is by Weeber 1977, 148: “Das Opfer ist vollzogen, auch der vates darf sich an den Annehmlichkeiten des Lebens erfreuen”. 36 Potis is given by D, V, and e (and some later manuscripts) and could go back to the (lost) hyparchetype A. All the other codices seem to have corrected the stark potis to a pointless positis under the influence of the hyparchetype N. As 3.17 illustrates, Propertius does not refrain from identifying Bacchic inspiration with a massive alcoholic intoxication. In 4.6, luxury and wine are the ingredients; the location is not indicated before the first line of the new scene.

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It is the drunken poet whose genius is incited by the Muse. The double alliteration, the clear poetological reference of the starting ingenium, and the exact description of the interplay between three inspirational agencies lead me to the hypothesis that this distich is meant as a contrast to the wax, water, and ivy of lines 3/4. If this is granted, then it is easy to reject the interpretation that this is official poetry of praise (represented by the first part of the poem) being transferred into the private realm of the poet.37 The topics of the poems, reported in one line each (77–79), are as hyperbolic as they are exotic: Germany, Upper Egypt, Parthia. The last of these, given in direct speech (80–84), finishes by another sepulcrum in the fourth book: Gaude, Crasse … ire … ad tua busta licet (83f.). Now, it is not the carmen that is to be spun – Caesaris in nomen ducuntur carmina (13) – but the night: Sic noctem patera, sic ducam carmine, donec iniciat radios in mea uina dies. 85f.

Thus should I perform the night by (libating/drinking) from a bowl, thus by song, until beams are thrown into my wine by the day. Carmine fills the same position in this verse as did carmina in the earlier lines. But what will be the contents of this song? As we learn in the pentameter, the patera of the preceding line is not used in a proper cultic sense but, rather, holds the speaker’s wine. What, then, do we suppose to be the contents of the carmen? As I have noted before, 4.6 is framed by the terms sacra and dies, which Propertius has promised to sing in 4.1. Has the promise now been fulfilled? Sacra facit vates are the words that start 4.6 and the singing sanctioned by Apollo does not begin until the poet has left the scene of the sacrifice. And dies, in the end, is neither the time nor the theme of the song. In fact, daylight, dies, brings the singing to an end.

37

This interpretation has been defended by Stahl 1985, 250–5.

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Conclusion

From a poetological perspective, poem 4.6 cannot be the fulfilment of the former promise to keep away from politics. The central poem of book 4 does not solve the conflict of the introductory elegy, which starts as an aitiological poem and ends with the interruption by Apollo and the warning of the eight-footed Cancer. Rather, the ambiguity is repeated once more. With regard to religion, poem 4.6 is not concerned with the question of religious versus poetic agency. Formal and informal rituals are shown to be situated on a continuum, their intensity being related to the intensity of sensory experiences. It is the stimulating effect of these sensory experiences that makes religious communication fruitful and different, different from ordinary speech as much as it is diverse in and of itself. Opting to take advantage of the full range of sensory elements available to him in composing the centre-piece of the first, elaborately organised, book of poems in the Latin language, Propertius demonstrates the importance and richness of the sensorial dimension of religious communication. But this is not all. The results of our analysis also have important consequences for the view of rituals outlined in the introduction to this chapter. Why is the sensorial important? If we start from the sketch of religious communication presented at the beginning of the chapter, ritual elements that provide sensorial experiences are not just tools for successfully communicating with the divine, even if they certainly help to attract the attention of divine beings and mark out the relevance of the intention of the human. Beyond that, such ritual elements isolate this type of communication and its situation from its surroundings: spatially, acoustically, in terms of smell (of blood or perfumes) and sight, in short, in all sensorial dimensions. If we consider the details again, the unusual serves to focus attention as much as does intoxication. At the same time, the manifold presence of such extra-ordinary ingredients from a world of luxury – this is not religion on the cheap – opens up a number of self-world relations that transcend the ritual space. Architecture, that is the visual and spatial, is important, but flowers, colours, smells, and liquids, all serve the same purpose, evoking a world beyond that which is normally given in the usual situation of communicative exchange. The adjectives employed by Propertius (or associated by a participant whom we can imagine) relate the ritual action to a world far beyond, both geographically and temporally. In the textual form of the ritual, the author is able to control these associations. In lived ritual action, this effort at control might be paralleled by words, prayer texts, or hymns, although these tools can do no more than make an attempt. Economic means and fashions

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would inform the choice of the setting up of the sensorial; any explicit justification, however, would be formulated in terms of success in communication with the divine rather than with fellow humans. In this sense, ‘Roman religion’ is as much a tradition as a lived experience, as much bound to the urban space as related to a world beyond. The same holds true for the poem: it is a text of its own, an elegy. Yet, at the same time, it is the centre-piece of a book, related to a larger poetic world.

Acknowledgements

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Mader, Gottfried. 1994. “Propertius’ Hymn to Bacchus (3,17) and the Poetic Design of the Third Book.” In Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History, edited by Carl Deroux, 369–385. Bruxelles: Latomus. Mikalson, Jon D. 1983. Athenian Popular Religion. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Mikalson, Jon D. 2010. Greek Popular Religion in Greek Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller, John F. 1979. “Ritual Directions in Ovid’s Fasti: Dramatic Hymns and Didactic Poetry.” Classical Journal 75: 204–214. Miller, John F. 1991. “Propertius’ Hymn to Bacchus and Contemporary Poetry.” American Journal of Philology 112: 77–86. Mitchell, Robbin N. 1985. “Propertius on Poetry and Poets: Tradition and the Individual Erotic Talent.” Ramus 14: 46–58. Morgan, J. D. 1986. “Cruces Propertianae.” Classical Quarterly 36: 182–198. Murgia, Charles E. 1989. “Propertius 4.1.87–88 and the Division of 4.1.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 92: 257–272. Nilsson, Martin P. 1940. Greek Popular Religion, Lectures on the History of Religions NS 1. New York: Columbia University Press. Péché, Valérie. 2001. “Collegium tibicinum romanorum, une association de musiciens au service de la religion romaine.” In Chanter les dieux: Musique et religion dans l’Antiquité grecque et romaine, edited by Pierre Brulé and Christophe Vendries, 307–338. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Petrovic, Ivana. 2008. “Aitiologie des Triumphes – Triumph als Motiv in Properz 4,6.” In Triplici invectus triumpho: der römische Triumph in augusteischer Zeit, edited by Helmut Krasser, Dennis Pausch, and Ivana Petrovic, 191–208. Stuttgart: Steiner. Radke, Gerhard. 1936. “Die Bedeutung der weißen und der schwarzen Farbe in Kult und Brauch der Griechen und Römer.” PhD Diss., Berlin. Richardson, L., Jr. 1977. Propertius: Elegies I–IV. Edited, with introduction and commentary. American Philological Association series of classical texts. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Rosa, Hartmut. 2016. Resonanz: Eine Soziologie der Weltbeziehung. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp. Rüpke, Jörg. 1993. “Vexillum caeruleum.” Rheinisches Museum 136: 374–6. Rüpke, Jörg. 2009. “Properz: Aitiologische Elegie in Augusteischer Zeit.” In Römische Religion im historischen Wandel. Diskursentwicklung von Plautus bis Ovid, edited by Andreas Bendlin and Jörg Rüpke, 115–142. Stuttgart: Steiner. Rüpke, Jörg. 2010. “Representation or Presence? Picturing the Divine in Ancient Rome.” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 12: 183–196. Rüpke, Jörg. 2012. “Lived Ancient Religion: Questioning ‘Cults’ and ‘Polis Religion’.” Mythos ns 5(2011): 191–204.

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Rüpke, Jörg. 2015a. “The ‘Connected Reader’ as a Window into Lived Ancient Religion: A Case Study of Ovid’s Libri fastorum.” Religion in the Roman Empire 1(1): 95–113. Rüpke, Jörg. 2015b. “Religious Agency, Identity, and Communication: Reflecting on History and Theory of Religion.” Religion 45(3): 344–366. Rüpke, Jörg. 2016. “Ein neuer Religionsbegriff für die Analyse antiker Religion unter der Perspektive von Weltbeziehungen.” Keryx 4: 21–35. Rüpke, Jörg. 2018. Pantheon: A New History of Roman Religion. Translated by David M. B. Richardson. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2019. “Lived Ancient Religion.” Oxford Research Encyclopedia, Religion: 22 S. Rüpke, Jörg, and Christopher Degelmann. 2015. “Narratives as a lens into lived ancient religion, individual agency and collective identity.” Religion in the Roman Empire 1(3): 289–296. Santangelo, Federico. 2013. Divination, Prediction and the End of the Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1956. Propertiana. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Siebert, Anne Viola. 1999. Instrumenta sacra: Untersuchungen zu römischen Opfer-, Kult- und Priestergeräten, Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 44. Berlin: De Gruyter. Stahl, Hans-Peter. 1985. Propertius: ‘Love’ and ‘war’: Individual and State under Augustus. Berkeley: University of California Press. Suerbaum, Werner. 1964. “Der Schluß der Einleitungselegie zum 4. Properzbuch (Zum Motiv der Lebenswahl bei Properz).” Rheinisches Museum 107: 340–361. Sullivan, J. P. 1993. “Form Opposed: Elegy, Epigram, Satire.” In Roman Epic, edited by A. J. Boyle, 143–161. London: Routledge. Teixidor, Javier. 1977. The Pagan God: Popular Religion in the Greco-Roman Near East. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ustrnul, Geralt. 1959. Studien zur Komposition und Einheit der Elegien des Properz. Wien. Vendries, Christophe. 2004. “Musique romain.” Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum 2: 397–415. Warden, John. 1980. Fallax opus: Poet and Reader in the Elegies of Propertius. Phoenix Suppl. 14. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Weeber, Karl-Wilhelm. 1977. “Das 4. Properz-Buch: Interpretationen zu seiner Eigenart und seiner Stellung im Gesamtwerk.” PhD Diss., Ruhr-Universität Bochum. Wille, Günther. 1967. Musica Romana: Die Bedeutung der Musik im Leben der Römer. Amsterdam: Schippers. Wunderlich, Eva. 1925. Die Bedeutung der roten Farbe im Kultus der Griechen und Römer: Erläutert mit Berücksichtigung entsprechender Bräuche bei anderen Völkern, RVV 20,1. Gießen: Töpelmann.

Chapter 13

Sensory Experiences in the Cybelic Cult: Sound Stimulation through Musical Instruments Rosa Sierra del Molino and Israel Campos Méndez 1

Introduction

The traditional method by which historians have studied the so-called “mystery cults” that developed in the framework of the Roman Empire between the 3rd century BCE and the definitive victory of Christianity in the 4th century CE has been shaped by a number of different priorities.1 First, the need to define what “mystery” amounts to in this cultic context, as well as to distinguish other possible descriptive categories (Eastern religions, sacra peregrina, externae religiones, superstitio), has, in important ways, demarcated the subject matter at issue and pre-determined the approach to it that has been taken by scholars. Second, and more specifically, this analytical approach has been defined primarily by an interpretative effort aimed at describing and understanding the systemic framework within which these religious forms developed and became attractive offerings for Roman populations. A wide range of scholarship has been dedicated to reconstructing and understanding the diffusion mechanisms of these cults, the contents of their belief systems, and how specific cults manifested ad intra and ad extra. A fundamental premise of this scholarship is that these “mystery cults” never, either individually or collectively, constituted a distinct religious reality beyond the general structure of “Roman religion”. The grounds for this view lie in the supposition that these cults not only shared a common symbolic-ritual language with the broader Roman religion but were also supervised, and gradually translated into socially acceptable forms, primarily through the action of political powers.2 In recent years, researchers working on the religions of the ancient world have turned their interest towards a subject that had previously received little attention. The sphere of human sensory experiences offers an extremely promising research path for arriving at a more complete understanding of the 1 On this category, see Bendlin 2006, 151–272; Bonnet 2006; Kaizer 2006, 26–47; Bonnet 2009; Sfameni Gasparro 2011, 276–324; Gordon 2014, 657–672; Alvar 2017, 23–46. 2 Sierra and Campos 2010, 55–66.

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features that were integral to a successful religious offer in the ancient world. The methodologies and categories that are being developed to explore the role of sensory experience have particular relevance for our understanding of mystery cults, as they allow us to better comprehend the interaction between believer and divinity. A number of suggestions have been advanced in the attempt to establish a categorical and analytical framework for this new type of work. These have ranged from the redefinition of the concept of “synaesthesia”,3 drawing on the complex layers of the inter-related meanings of the ancient and modern senses of the term, to the construction of a more specific conceptual vocabulary, using terms such as “polysensory” or “multisensory”,4 which allow the identification and discussion of the nuances of religious experience with greater flexibility. Such constructions derive from a burgeoning interest in the stimulation of the senses in religious experiences more broadly, since these senses form part of the religious languages in which they appeared. The sensory paradigm on which this approach is founded is based on the conviction that the stimulation of the senses was a fundamental part of the elaboration process in the religious systems of the past (and, indeed, of the present). The introduction, without deliberate intention, of a series of elements that contributed to the sensory participation of believers needs to be taken into consideration if we are to be able to understand the processes by which religious systems were (and are) created. In terms of the specific case investigated in this chapter, mystery cults provide a field of study that is extraordinarily rich in details relevant to the sensory experiences of participants. The textual, epigraphic, archaeological, and iconographic sources are replete with sensory references. Despite this rich evidential base, this category has not been a historiographical priority in the past. Our intention in the present study is to carry out a first approach to the way in which it is possible to identify the base of this sensory, or rather multi-sensory, experience. In pursuing this goal, we focus on the cult of the goddess Cybele, the mystery cult that was most popular not only throughout the Roman Empire but also in the capital city of Rome itself. The epigraphic and iconographic expressions of the cult of Cybele, as well as ancient testimonies describing both its ritual and liturgical manifestations, allow us to reconstruct a context in which we can identify the specific purpose at work in the 3 For discussion of this term, see Butler 2013, 1–7; for a more general perspective on this concept, see Campen 2008. 4 On the research into sensory perception from an anthropological perspective, see Howes 2006, 40–54. It is important to consider Betts’ views on the current state of the methodology of sensory studies in relation to Roman culture (see Betts 2017, 193–199).

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sensory stimulation of the devotees: making the experience of encountering the deity possible through corporal transcendence. In Harvey’s words, this purpose can be summarised as follows:5 Here is where the senses did their work, for these made every encounter tangible, and every practice greater than its appearance. One could sense more than one could see, hear, or smell. Religious practices moulded sensory awareness by cultivating a basic religious epistemology: the divine could be perceived. Something could thereby be known. 2

Expressions of Multi-Sensory Experiences in the Cult of Cybele: Sound Stimuli

The written sources of the time make a number of references to various aspects of the way in which the cult of Cybele was introduced to the Roman Empire, as well as to how it then developed within this context. This evidence provides us with a starting point from which to explore the roles played by the stimulation of the senses in these religious practices. Many classical authors include direct or indirect descriptions of or references to the cult of Cybele in their writings. Interpreting these in the context of our theoretical framework opens up a window onto a variety of situations in which we can detect, describe, and analyse the ways in which the different corporal senses were voluntarily or involuntarily stimulated as part of a more sophisticated experience, in order to create the ideal encounter with the deity. For this reason, we focus our study on identifying, analysing, and describing the elements of the metroac cult that served to stimulate the sense of hearing in a predefined and clearly regulated religious context. The way in which the cult of Cybele arrived in Rome was defined by particularities stemming from its Anatolian origin. However, in the process of the acceptance and full integration of the cult into the Roman religious calendar, a balance was established between Roman norms and what were seen as eccentric Eastern elements of cultic practice. This balancing act eventually led to the cult’s religious offer achieving a significant level of acceptance and recognition within the broader Roman culture. Among the elements that initially caught the attention of the authors who describe the arrival of Cybele at Rome

5 Harvey 2014, 96.

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(Ov. Fast. 4.180–390; Liv. 29.10; Sil. Pun. 17.1–59),6 we find the importance given to the presence of musical instruments in the retinue that accompanied the goddess as she ceremonially entered the Roman capital and then processed through the streets. When we read that processions in honour of the goddess took place during the Megalesia7 festival (Varro, Ling. 6.15), it is impossible to ignore the way in which the sources consistently evoke the presence of a “specific soundtrack” as an inseparable part of the ceremonies: […] and the Berecyntian flute will begin sounding its curved horn, it will be the Idaean Mother’s feast. Eunuchs will march, and sound the hollow drums, and cymbal will clash with cymbal, in ringing tones […], but I’m made fearful by shrill clash of bronze, and curved flute’s dreadful drone […] why the Great Goddess delights in continual din […] Ov. Fast. 4.1808

The association of the cult of Cybele with a particular type of music that comes from instruments identified as being specific to these ceremonies is a repeated motif in our Roman sources: “Roused by the cymbals tinkling, the drums beating and the plaintive music of the Phrygian flute” (Apul. Met. 8.30.5).9 Specific sounds were woven together into a particular type of melody, as Lucretius attests: “And hollow cymbals, tight-skinned tambourines resound around to banging of their hands; the fierce horns threaten with a raucous bray; the tubed pipe excites their maddened minds in Phrygian measures” (2.618).10 In building up a picture of the soundscape thus created, we also have to add in the noises produced by those participating in the processions and rituals, who, we are told, would shout and cry out as they performed their devotions: The cymbals made a noise all round with their hollow tinkling, and the hoarse note of the drums vied with the cymbals, and her troop of unsexed votaries were there – those who haunt the twin peaks of chaste Mount 6 On the social-political context of this arrival, see Alvar 1994, 149–169; Rolle 1999, 263ff.; Borgeaud 1996, 55ff. 7 Beard 2012, 323–362. 8 Transl. Boyle and Woodard 2014: protinus inflexo Berecyntia tibia cornu flabit, et Idaeae festa parentis erunt. ibunt semimares et inania tympana tundent, aeraque tinnitus aere repulsa dabunt […] sed me sonus aeris acuti terret et horrendo lotos adunca sono […] gaudeat assiduo cur dea Magna sono […]. 9 Transl. Hanson 1996: tinnitu cymbalorum et sonu tympanorum cantusque Phrygii mulcentibus modulis excites. 10 Transl. Rouse 2014: tympana tenta tonant palmis et cymbala circum concava, raucisonoque minantur cornua cantu, et Phrygio stimulat numero cava tibia mentis.

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Dindyma, and who hold revel in the cave of Dicte, and those who know the heights of Ida and its silent sacred groves. Amid their wild cries and the prayers of the rejoicing multitude. Sil. Pun. 17.1711

Our iconographic sources12 confirm the close relationship established between Cybele and the instrument translated into English as “drum” or “tambourine” (Latin tympanum: Juv. 6.510; Catull. 63.19; Dion. Ha. Ant. Rom. 2.19.5).13 In the earliest iconographic representations related to Cybele in Asia Minor,14 there is already a close relationship between the goddess and these musical instruments.15 In this context, we should particularly note the depictions of Kubaba made in Carchemish between 1050 and 850 BCE, in which the goddess is depicted wearing the polos and holding a pomegranate in her hands, and those made in Bogazkoy between the end of the 7th century and the beginning of the 8th century BCE,16 in which the goddess appears standing and wearing the polos on her head while holding an apple with both hands. In all these representations, a flautist and a musician playing what could be a lyre or a drum appear on each side of the goddess.17 Another early representation that has been identified as Cybelic – a bas-relief carved on rock, discovered at Asi Yozgat, some 60 kilometres from Ankara18 – depicts a procession of nine priestesses whose leader is playing the tympanum. The representations of the goddess in the Greek context provide further support for the enduring presence of this musical component. By 500 BCE, the iconography of the goddess had been firmly established:19 Cybele appears seated and holding the drum in her hands, typically accompanied by one or two lions. This depiction was disseminated all across Greece, as can be seen in 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Transl. Duff 2004: Simulque certabant rauco resonantia tympana pulsu, semiuirique chori, gemino qui Dindyma monte casta colunt, qui Dictaeo bacchantur in antro, quique Idaea iuga et lucos nouere silentis. hos inter fremitus ac laeto uota tumultu. A general overview of the presence of musical instruments in Roman written and iconographic sources can be found in Fless 2007, 251–262. On the implications of this instrument and its relation to the Cybelic cult, see Molina 2014, 51–69. Rein 1996, 223–237. Güler 2018, 297. Vermaseren 1977, 18–20 and Sierra 1993, 47–54; against the suggestion that this image depicts Cybele, see Sfameni-Gasparro 1985, 5. González 1995, 113. Vermaseren, CCCA I, n. 34; the priestesses are in the lower part of the bas-relief, while in the upper part we can see Cybele on her lion, together with other deities and characters. Bowden 2010, 84.

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a wide array of iconic representations of the goddess. She appears thus on, for example, a white marble relief from the 5th century BCE;20 on a relief inside a naiskos of the same period;21 on a gold and silver plaque from Mesembria (Thrace) from the 4th century BCE, with Cybele in a naiskos next to Hecate with a drum in the middle of two characters;22 on a relief from Samos dated to the 3rd century BCE;23 in a terracotta image dated around the year 350 BCE.24 All of these are examples of the wide spread of this iconic representation of the goddess. The incorporation of the Cybelic cult into Roman culture did not involve any modification of the key elements discussed above in the context of earlier periods. The drum remains a focal point of reference when it comes to identifying the telluric nature of the goddess, and also serves as a constant reminder of the importance of music to the cult of Cybele. Numerous iconographic examples attest to the continuity of these features in the Roman representations of the goddess: a marble statue from the 1st century CE;25 a marble statue from Rome from the 2nd century BCE;26 a relief on an aedicula in Rome from the 4th century CE;27 or a votive relief of Cybele and Attis preserved in the National Archaeological Museum of Venice,28 which shows the goddess carrying what is, without any doubt, a drum in her left hand. The depiction of musical instruments is not confined to the iconography that represents Cybele herself, but also appears as a recurring decorative motif in funerary reliefs of Cybelic priests. One such example can be seen on the stela of an archigallus found in Lazio from the second half of the 2nd century BCE,29 on which appears not only the drum but also the other instruments related to the goddess: two flutes (tibia and cornu) and two cymbals. In our textual sources, we repeatedly find the authors focusing on three instruments that play a fundamental role in the generation of the sonic background to the rituals and ceremonies addressed to the Mother of the Gods. Close attention to the preserved stories confirms that the association of these 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Vermaseren, CCCA II, n. 540. Vermaseren, CCCA II, n. 513. Vermaseren, CCCA vI, n. 335. Vermaseren, CCCA II, n. 570. Vermaseren, CCCA II, n. 363. Vermaseren, CCCA IiI, n. 311. Vermaseren, CCCA IiI, n. 314. Vermaseren, CCCA IiI, n. 259. Venice, National Archaeological Museum, Inv. N. 118. Graillot 1912, 236ff.; Vermasern 1977b, n. 466.

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instruments with the goddess goes back to the rituals dedicated to Cybele in her place of origin. Ovid (Fast. 4.205–210) relates the percussion of the drum originally played by the curetes to the story of Jupiter’s childhood on Mount Ida.30 However, the sound effect produced by the drums used in the Cybelic cult can also be interpreted as an evocation of sounds that come from inside the earth, which Ovid compares to the words spoken by the goddess herself: longo tremuit cum murmure tellus (Fast. 4.267).31 We can even detect certain connections between the music of the tympanum and the sounds made by specific words when they are pronounced. If we look closely at the work of some of our authors, we can see that these words produce a cacophonous sound effect, which, rather than being unpleasant, instead reproduces in the reader’s mind and in the listener’s ear the noises made by the instrument described.32 There is a clear repetition of the consonants “t” and “c” in our sources, with Lucretius (2.618) using them in relation to the drum (tympana tenta tonant) and the cymbal (cymbala circum concava) respectively, while Ovid (Fast. 4.180) similarly uses “t” sounds to emulate the sound of the drum (tympana tundent). The choice of the adjectives used to describe the instruments are also clearly not coincidental. Our authors take considerable care in selecting the words they use for descriptive purposes, opting for those that clearly evoke not only the sound of the instruments but also the vital experience of those who saw and heard the procession. Ovid (Ars Am. 1.508) describes the chants of the followers as “cries” (concinitur Phrygiis exululata modis), while Silius Italicus (Pun. 17.19) evokes the hoarse sounds emanating from the drums (rauco resonantia tympana pulsu). This image of the drum as an instrument that produces a hoarse note (tympana reboant) or a ring (tympanum remugit) is repeated in Catullus (63), helping to create a more complete sense of the atmosphere generated by the tune of the instrument in its Cybelic context. Alongside the drum, other instruments that frequently appear in Cybelic contexts include the Berecyntian flute33 (Berecyntia tibia, Ov. Fast. 4.181; Lucr. 30 31 32

References to these curetes in the Cybelic context and in Ovid’s work: Talavera 2004, 140ff. “[T]he earth shook with long murmurs”. Transl. Boyle and Woodard 2014. Harvey (2014, 97–106) has drawn attention to the way in which the choice of words contributes to the building of the sensory experience that takes place in the context of a religious ceremony. The connection between sound and reality thus evoked has long been a subject of analysis in ethnomusicology, as Bowes points out, following the fieldwork conducted by Felds (see Bowes 2006, 36–39). 33 “Berecyntian” refers to Mount Berecynthus in Phrygia, a place associated with the goddess Cybele: Berecynthia mater (Verg. Aen. 6.784). The Berecyntian flute consists of two pipes, the left pipe curved at the end and the right pipe straight. This instrument was originally associated with rites connected to Attis and Cybele, and was later incorporated

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2.620; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.19.5) and the cymbals mentioned above (cymbalum, Catull. 63; Lucr. 2.620). The presence of these instruments recurs in the scenes depicted by our textual sources, and an understanding of their role is necessary for interpreting the “Phrygian mode” (Phrygios modos, cf. Ov. Fast. 4.214; Lucr. 2.620) that is associated with the rites in honour of the goddess. The presence of the flute is particularly relevant, since this instrument was, as Aristotle notes (Pol. 8.7.1341),34 so closely associated with the Phrygian mode that he finds it incomprehensible that Plato could have both banned the flute from his ideal city and yet still retained a role for this mode. Aristotle also offers some enlightening comments about the effects this mode could produce in those who played and listened to it:35 Socrates in the Republic does not do well in allowing only the Phrygian mode along with the Dorian, and that when he has rejected the flute among instruments; for the Phrygian mode has the same effect among harmonies as the flute among instruments – both are violently exciting and emotional. This is shown by poetry; for all Bacchiac versification and all movement of that sort belongs particularly to the flute among the instruments, and these meters find their suitable accompaniment in tunes in the Phrygian mode among the harmonies.36 The presence of drum, flute, and cymbal in written descriptions of celebrations in honour of Cybele is mirrored in the surviving iconographical representations of such events from the Roman period. A fresco preserved in Pompei, on the Via dell’Abbondanza,37 provides particularly eloquent testimony, showing clearly not just the presence of these instruments but also

into the cult of Dionysus. The sound produced by the flute was deep and mournful. See Albrecht 1993, 12. On the presence of the flute in the Cybelic cult, see Graillot 1912, 255ff. 34 On Aristotle’s discussion, see Montero 1989, 45–72. 35 Galen (PHP 5.6.21–22) also cites the wild behaviour associated with playing the flute in the Phrygian mode when he criticises the Stoics for the inability of their psychological theory to account for such “irrational” effects. For a discussion of this passage in the context of Stoic thought on music, see Scade 2017. 36 Transl. Rackham 2005: ὁ δ᾽ ἐν τῇ Πολιτείᾳ Σωκράτης οὐ καλῶς τὴν φρυγιστὶ μόνην καταλείπει μετὰ τῆς δωριστί, καὶ ταῦτα ἀποδοκιμάσας τῶν ὀργάνων τὸν αὐλόν. ἔχει γὰρ τὴν αὐτὴν δύναμιν ἡ φρυγιστὶ τῶν ἁρμονιῶν ἥνπερ αὐλὸς ἐν τοῖς ὀργάνοις: ἄμφω γὰρ ὀργιαστικὰ καὶ παθητικά: δηλοῖ δ᾽ ἡ ποίησις. πᾶσα γὰρ βακχεία καὶ πᾶσα ἡ τοιαύτη κίνησις μάλιστα τῶν ὀργάνων ἐστὶν ἐν τοῖς αὐλοῖς, τῶν δ᾽ ἁρμονιῶν ἐν τοῖς φρυγιστὶ μέλεσι λαμβάνει ταῦτα τὸ πρέπον. 37 Vermaseren, CCCA Iv, n. 42. For a description of this scene, see Alvar 2001, 214–215.

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how the participants in a metroac procession would have held them: Cybele appears again with the drum in her left hand, while some among her followers carry the double flute, the cymbals, and additional drums. The central role of these musical instruments in ceremonies related to the goddess can also be seen in the existence of specific confraternities within the cult,38 with the musical roles assigned to a group of freedmen and a group of women being particularly noteworthy. We have epigraphic evidence that the cult was structured in part around sub-groups described as tympanistriae,39 cymbalistriae,40 and tibicines,41 appearing to show that the playing of specific types of music on specific instruments was seen as a necessary part of at least some cult members’ service to Cybele. Another key feature of the Cybelic rites is, without any doubt, that represented by the Taurobolium,42 the interpretation of which as a substitute sacrifice or baptism of blood through the oblation of a bull is still controversial. Our iconographic and epigraphic sources make it clear that, together with the instruments that were necessary for the execution of the sacrifice (the instrumenta taurobolica: knives (secespita, culter), patera, kernus), our three types of musical instrument were also central to the correct celebration of this event.43 Several bas-reliefs show drums, cymbals, and flutes together with instrumenta symphoniaca (crotalum, syrinx, fistula, cornu, lituus). In Gallia, near Dea Vocontiorum (Die), a taurobolic altar dated to the first half of the 2nd century CE shows a drum and two cymbals on one of its sides, together with a tibia and a cornu.44 Three other altars in the same city carry depictions of the drum, the flute, the cornu, and the cymbals.45 An altar from Rome, dated to 370 CE, shows Cybele with a drum on its left side, Attis with fistulas and crotales on its right, another drum on the upper part of the altar, and a lituus on the lower part. Another taurobolic altar found in Rome, possibly from the 4th century CE, shows a syrinx, a drum, and a flute on one side, with cymbals and another syrinx on the other.46 In our epigraphic evidence for the practice of this sacrifice, we 38 Graillot 1912, 255–258. 39 Vermaseren, CCCA Iv, n. 102; CIL IX, 1542. On this last inscription, see Duthoy 1966, 548–561. 40 Vermaseren, CCCA Iv, n. 98; 243. On the differences in gender roles in the priesthood of Cybele, see Sierra 2011, 1862–1873. 41 CIL XIV, 408; XIII, 1752–54; XII, 1745; 1782. In this case, testimonies only mention men. 42 Graillot 1912, 150ff.; Duthoy 1969, nn. 1500–1533; Borgeaud 1996, 156–168; McLynn 1996, 312–330; Alvar 2001, 197–205. 43 For a study on the iconography of these instruments on the Taurobolic altars, see Vendries 2001, 197–217. 44 Vermaseren, CCCA v, n. 364. 45 Duthoy 1969, n. 85 = Vermaseren, CCCA Iv n. 359, 360, 362. 46 Duthoy 1969, n. 22 = Vermaseren, CCCA Iii, n. 236.

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find references that bear out the connection between musical instruments and the ritual. In Tigna (Tain, France) an inscription on a taurobolic altar mentions the presence of a flautist (tibicine Albio Verino) participating in the sacrifice.47 A similar reference appears in an inscription from Lyon, in which a freedman participated in several taurobolia (tibicine Flavio Restituto).48 A tympanistria (Trebulana Iustina) appears in an inscription from Beneventum dated to 228 CE.49 Similarly, another inscription from Beneventum dated to the same year mentions the presence of a cymbalistria (Ianuria) at a criobolium.50 The ancient idea that this type of music could bring about a state of enthusiasm is reconfirmed when we examine the arguments deployed by certain Christian authors who conducted a campaign against the use of, or even the presence of, musical instruments inside churches. Clement of Alexandria (Paed. 2.4.40–41) directly attacked the negative effects, such as agitations, that these instruments could cause, which were seen as completely inappropriate in relation to the development of the new Christian cult: For if people occupy their time with pipes, and psalteries, and choirs, and dances, and Egyptian clapping of hands, and such disorderly frivolities, they become quite immodest and intractable, beat on cymbals and drums, and make a noise on instruments of delusion; for plainly such a banquet, as seems to me, is a theatre of drunkenness.51 Philodemus of Gadara (Mus. 18.24) and Philo of Alexandria (Spec. leg., 2.193) similarly disapproved, directly associating the stimulation caused by hearing these melodies with the generation of lust and other uncontrollable excesses. As Philo remarks: “[T]o the sound of flute and harp, and timbrels and cymbals, and the other instruments of music which awaken the unruly lusts through the channel of the ears”.52 The use of certain specific instruments as an integral part of the Cybelic rituals had a purpose lying beyond the mere provision of a musical accompaniment. 47 48 49 50 51

52

Duthoy 1969, n. 93 = Vermaseren, CCCA v, n. 369. Duthoy 1969, nn. 127–129 = Vermaseren, CCCA v, n. 385, 392, 395. Duthoy 1969, n. 58 = Vermaseren, CCCA iv, n. 102. Duthoy 1969, n. 54 = Vermaseren, CCCA iv, n. 98. Transl. Markovich 2015: οἱ δὲ ἐν αὐλοῖς καὶ ψαλτηρίοις καὶ χοροῖς καὶ ὀρχήμασιν καὶ κροτάλοις Αἰγυπτίων καὶ τοιαύταις ῥᾳθυμίαις σάλοι ἄτακτοι καὶ ἀπρεπεῖς καὶ ἀπαίδευτοι κομιδῇ γίγνοιντο ἄν κυμβάλοις καὶ τυμπάνοις ἐξηχούμενοι καὶ τοῖς τῆς ἀπάτης ὀργάνοις περιψοφούμενοι· ἀτεχνῶς γὰρ, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, θέατρον […]. Transl. Colson 1998: […] καὶ κιθάρας καὶ τυμπάνων τε καὶ κυμβάλων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὅσα ⟨κατὰ⟩ τὸ μένον καὶ ἐκτεθηλυμμένον εἶδος μουσικῆς δι’ ὤτων ἐγείρει τὰς ἀκαθέκτους ἐπιθυμίας.

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The choice of these particular instruments likely refers to the mythological episode that was probably associated with the foundation of the cult or to the decorative attributes of the goddess or her companion Attis. These instruments (drum, flute, and cymbals, for the most part) are fundamental to the playing of the Phrygian mode which, through their sense of hearing, stimulates participants in the rites to reach an altered state of consciousness, a state that was a necessary element in intensifying the experience undergone in a ritual, ceremonial, or processional context. The references to these instruments found in Firmicus Maternus (Err. prof. rel. 18.1) and Clement of Alexandria (Protr. 2.15.3) seem to indicate that they were equally fundamental to the metroac initiation process: “I ate from the drum; I drank from the cymbal; I carried the sacred dish; I stole into the bridal chamber”.53 3

Conclusions

As is shown by the testimonies considered above, musical instruments were associated with the cult of Cybele from its beginning in Asia Minor and remained a constant presence as the cult spread to, and was accepted within, other geographical-religious frameworks. While other primitive attributes of the cult suffered isolated alterations, the importance of the three musical instruments discussed in our study remained a fundamental element of Cybelic practice and iconography. The prominence of sound in rituals and processions dedicated to Cybele was frequently remarked upon by those who came into contact with the cult of the Phrygian goddess, and this primitive aspect of her worship can even be detected in the earliest Greek depictions in the Homeric Hymns (XIV).54 From the perspective of the theoretical framework we have adopted for this investigation, the presence of the drum, the cymbal, and the flute should be understood not merely as a festive accompaniment for religious events but, rather, as a direct vehicle by which to transmit certain emotions. The stimulation of the sense of hearing through music was established from the very beginning of the cult as a means for generating an encounter between the believer 53

54

Transl. Butterworth 2012: Έκ τύμπανου έφαγον, έκ κυμβάλου έ’πιον. έκερνοφόρησα, ύπο τον παστον ύπέδυον. Boyancé 1972, 201–204 offers a symbolic interpretation of this passage as referring to a musical purification with imaginary food. Alvar 2001, 207 has more recently approached the text from the perspective of an initiation. Although there has been considerable discussion about the date of these hymns, there is general agreement that Hymn XIV has an ancient story (8th–6th centuries BC) at its root which refers to the Mother of Gods.

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and the goddess. On the one hand, the sound produced by the drum can be interpreted as an imitation of the speech of Magna Mater, since it reminds the listener of the sounds produced by the earth (“with echoing hills and wooded coombes”, Hymn. Hom. XIV, 4),55 while the cymbals and flutes were useful for interpreting the Phrygian mode that made possible the ecstatic experience of those who came to praise the goddess. If we observe the specific context of a religious experience, such as that of the incorporation of the cult of Cybele within Roman culture, we can prove that the musical element was not only not altered but was also reasserted as a fundamental element for the recognition of the metroac type in distinction to other mystery cults. Music played a fundamental role in processions and rituals in honour of Magna Mater, since it provided a sonic framework for the event and generated a bond of identity among the participants through the reproduction of certain known chords. This sonic stimulation seems to be one of the fundamental perceptual mechanisms used to make possible the individual and collective experience of a mystical encounter with the goddess. As contemporary sources tell us, the stimulation of hearing caused by this Phrygian mode took place in the broader context of a multi-sensory experience, in which the participant was invited to use the other senses as well: smell (incense, oils, perfumes), sight (colours, flowers, clothes, candles), taste (drink, food), and touch (instruments, images). The result of this “full spectrum” corporeal experience was to create an appropriate climate in which a close encounter with the deity became possible.

Acknowledgements

Departamento de Ciencias Históricas, Universidad de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (Spain). Bibliography Albrecht, Michael. 1993. “Ovidio y la Música.” Myrtia 8: 7–22. Alvar, Jaime. 1994. “Escenografía para una recepción divina: la introducción de Cibeles en Roma.” Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 20 (1): 149–169. Alvar, Jaime. 2001. Los Misterios, Religiones “orientales” en el Imperio Romano. Barcelona: Crítica. 55

Transl. West 2007.

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Alvar, Jaime. 2017. “The ‘Romanization’ of Oriental Cults.” In Entangled Worlds: Religious Confluences between East and West in the Roman Empire. The Cults of Isis, Mithras, and Jupiter Dolichenus, edited by Svenja Nage, Joachin Quack, and Christian Witschel, 23–46. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Beard, Mary. 2012. “The Roman and the Foreign: The Cult of the Great Mother in Rome.” In Greek and Roman Festivals: Content, Meaning and Practice, edited by Rasmus Brand and Jon Iddeng, 323–362. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Belayche, Nichole. 2016. “La Mater Magna, Megalè Mètèr?” In Dieux des Grecs, dieux des Romains : panthéons en dialogue à travers l’histoire et l’historiographie, edited by Caroline Bonnet, Vincienne Pirenne, and Gabrielle Pironti, 39–53. Rome: Institut Historique Belge de Rome. Bendlin, Albert, and Corinne Bonnet. 2006. “Les ‘religions orientales’: aproches historiographiques.” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 8: 151–272. Betts, Eleanor. 2017. “Afterword: Towards a Methodology for Roman Sensory Studies.” In Senses of the Empire: Multisensory Approaches to Roman Culture, edited by Eleanor Betts, 193–199. London: Routledge. Bonnet, Corinne, Vincianne Pirenne-Delforgue, and Daniel Praet, eds. 2009. Les religions orientales dans le monde grec et romain. Cent ans après Cumont (1906–2006). Rome: Institut Historique Belge de Rome. Bonnet, Corinne, Jörg Rüpke, and Paolo Scarpi, eds. 2006. Religions orientales – Culti misterici: Neve Perspektiven – nouvelles perspectives – prospettive nuove. Stuttgart: Steiner. Borgeaud, Philippe. 1996. La Mère des Dieux. De Cybèle à la Vierge Marie. Paris: La Librairie du XXe siècle. Bowes, David. 2006. Sensual Relations Engaging the Senses in Culture and Social Theory. Michigan: University of Michigan Press. Bowden, Hugh. 2010. Mystery Cults in the Ancient World. London: Thames & Hudson. Boyancé, Pierre. 1972. “Sur les mystères Prhygiens. ‘J’ai mangé dans le tympanon, j’ai bu dans la cymbale’.” In Etudes sur la religion romaine, 201–204. Rome: École Française de Rome. Boyle, Anthony, and Robert Woodard, eds and transl. 2014. Ovid. Fasti. London: Penguin. Butler, Shane, and Alex Purves. 2013. Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses. Durham: Acumen Publishing. Butterworth, G. W., transl. 2012. Clement of Alexandria. Exhortation to the Greeks. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Campen, Cretien. 2008. The Hidden Sense: Synesthesia in Art and Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Colson, F. H., transl. 1998. Philo of Alexandria. Philo vol. VII. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Duff, J. D., transl. 2004. Silius Italicus. Punica. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Duthoy, Robert. 1966. “La Minerva Berecyntia des inscriptions tauroboliques de Bénévent (CIL IX. 1538–1542).” L’Antiquité Classique Année 35 (2): 548–561. Duthoy, Robert. 1969. The Taurobolium. Its Evolution and Terminology. Leiden: Brill. Fless, Friederiche, and Kadja Moede. 2007. “Music and Dance: Forms of Representation in Pictorial and Written Sources.” In A Companion to Roman Religion, edited by Jörg Rupke, 251–262. Oxford: Oxford University Press. González Serrano, Pilar. 1995. “La génesis de los dioses frigios: Cibeles y Atis.” Ilu 0: 105–116. Gordon, Richard. 2014. “Coming to Terms with the ‘Oriental Religions’ of the Roman Empire.” Numen 61 (5–6): 657–672. Graillot, Henri. 1912. Le culte de Cybèle, mère des dieux, à Rome et dans l’Empire romain. Paris: Fontemoig. Güler, Ates. 2018. “Kybele İkonografisinde Tympanon.” Manisa Celal Bayar Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi 16 (1): 291–318. Hanson, J. A., transl. 1996. Apuleius. Metamorphoses (The Golden Ass). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Harvey, Susan. 2013. “Sensing More in Ancient Religion.” Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift 89: 97–107. Harvey, Susan. 2014. “The Senses in Religion: Piety, Critique, Competition.” In A Cultural History of the Senses in Antiquity, edited by Jerry Toner, 91–113. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Howes, David. 2006. Sensual Relations. Engaging the Senses in Culture and Social Theory. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Kaizer, Ted. 2006. “In Search of Oriental Cults. Methodological Problems concerning ‘the Particular’ and ‘the General’ in near Eastern Religion in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods.” Historia 55 (1): 26–47. Marcovich, J., ed. 2015. Clementis Alexandrini. Paedagogus. Leiden: Brill. McLynn, Neil. 1996. “The Fourth-Century Taurobolium.” Phoenix 50: 312–330. Molina, Mauricio. 2014. “Tympanum tuum Cybele: Pagan Use and Christian Transformation of a Cultic Greco-Roman Percussion Instrument.” In Moysiké = Musica en el món antic i el món antic en la música, edited by Joan Almirall, 51–69. Barcelona: Societat catalana d’Estudis Clàssics. Montero, María. 1989. “Armonías y ritmos musicales en Aristóteles.” Memorias de Historia Antigua 10: 45–72. Rackham, H., transl. 2005. Aristotle. Politics. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rein, Mary J. 1996. “Phrygian Matar: Emergence of an Iconographic Type.” In Cybele, Attis and Related Cults, edited by Eugene N. Lane, 223–237. Leiden: Brill. Roller, Lynn. 1999. In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of Anatolian Cybele. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Rouse, W. H., transl. 2014. Lucretius. On the Nature of Things. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Scade, Paul. 2017. “Music and the Soul in Stoicism.” In Selfhood and the Soul: Essays on Ancient Thought and Literature in Honour of Christopher Gill, edited by Richard Seaford, John Wilkins, and Matthew Wright, 197–218. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sfameni-Gasparro, Giulia. 2011. “Mysteries and Oriental Cults: A Problem in the History of Religions.” Religious History: 276–324. Sfameni-Gasparro, Giulia. 1985. Soteriology and the Mystic Aspects of the Cult of Cybele. Leiden: Brill. Sierra del Molino, Rosa. 1993. “Las estelas arcaicas de Marsella: Diosa madre focea o Cibeles mistérica. Problemática en torno a su identificación.” Vegueta 1: 47–54. Sierra del Molino, Rosa, and Israel Campos Méndez. 2010. “Actuación de los Magistrados en la introducción de cultos orientales en la Roma Antigua.” in Lex Sacra, Religión y Derecho a lo largo de la Historia, edited by Francisco De la Torre, 57–67. Valladolid: Servicio de Publicaciones Universidad de Valladolid. Sierra del Molino, Rosa. 2011. “Conflictividad genérica en los misterios orientales: la ‘dualidad del espacio’ en el sacerdocio de Cibeles.” Investigación y género, logros y retos: III Congreso Universitario Nacional Investigación y Género, edited by Isabel Vázquez, 1862–1873. Seville: Unidad de Igualdad Universidad de Sevilla. Talavera, Francisco. 2004. “La figura de Cibeles en la mitografía latina: de Varrón a Isidoro de Sevilla.” Revista de Estudios Latinos 4: 125–152. Thomas, Garth. 1984. “Magna Mater and Attis.” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II 17.3: 1500–1533. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Vendries, Cristophe. 2001. “Pour les oreilles de Cybèle : images plurielles de la musique sur les autels tauroboliques de la Gaule romaine.” In Chanter les dieux. Musique et religion dans l’Antiquité grecque et romaine, edited by Pierre Brulé and Cristophe Vendries, 197–217. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1977. Cybeles and Attis. The Myth and the Cult. London: Thames and Hudson. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1977. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque III. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1978. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque IV. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1982. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque II. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1986. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque V. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1987. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque I. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, Martin J. 1989. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque VI. Leiden: Brill. West, Martin L., transl. 2007. Homeric Hymns. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Chapter 14

Isis’ Footprints: The Petrosomatoglyphs as Spatial Indicators of Human-Divine Encounters Valentino Gasparini The print does not always have the same shape as the body that impressed it, and it doesn’t always derive from the pressure of a body. At times it reproduces the impression a body has left in our mind: it is the print of an idea. The idea is sign of things, and the image is sign of the idea, sign of a sign. But from the image I reconstruct, if not the body, the idea that others had of it. And this is enough for you? No, because true learning must not be content with ideas, which are, in fact, signs, but must discover things in their individual truth. Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

∵ How do individuals experience a given phenomenon as “religious”? What stimuli and sense-scapes generate and communicate religious experiences? Religious knowledge and experience are constantly performed and legitimised by engaging in rituals which encompass the human body as well as the material environment. Accordingly, a study of religious practices requires an analysis of the agentic entanglement with corporeal sensations and materiality, that is, with embodiment. And such an analysis requires that we ask how rituals shape the body and how they are, in their turn, shaped by the body. A complete answer to this question requires that one reflect upon all examples in the long series of different ways in which bodies and body-parts have been understood, deployed, modified, and placed in specific spaces. The goal of this article is less ambitious: I consider here just one of these ways. The ancient custom of dedicating representations of the footprints of bare or sandalled feet, or representations of bare feet as seen from above, began to attract the sporadic attention of a few anthropologists and archaeologists (namely Klemens Koehler and Félix Voulot) as early as the second half

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of the 19th century.1 Soon after, on the eve of World War I, the pioneering reflections of Waldemar Deonna and Marcel Baudouin gave a crucial impetus to systematic research in this field.2 These reflections inspired wider investigations by Margherita Guarducci, immediately before World War II, then Giacomo Manganaro, László Castiglione, and, by the end of the century, Katherine M. D. Dunbabin.3 Recently, this topic has begun to fascinate scholars again. While this custom is testified in connection with the cults of a number of deities in the Greco-Roman world,4 scholars such as Sarolta A. Takács, Laetizia Puccio, Louise Revell, and Ralf Krumeich5 have focused in particular on its practice in the cult of the so-called gens isiaca (i.e. Isis, Serapis, and other minor “Egyptian” deities linked to them),6 in which context the bulk of these dedications have been found. The following contribution aims to build on the existing scholarship in this area, while at the same time seeking to revolutionise the approach to the custom of dedicating footprints to these gods. My goal is to review the whole body of evidence related to these Isiac examples and to give a new interpretation of it.7 The interpretative approach followed in recent studies has been exclusively limited to a highly positivistic iconographical attempt to use footprints as a 1 Voulot 1875, 35–37; Koehler 1896; Voulot 1896–1897. 2 Deonna 1913; Baudouin 1914. 3 Guarducci 1942–1943 and 1946–1948; Manganaro 1961 and 1964; Castiglione 1966, 1967, 1968a, 1968b, 1970, 1971a, and 1971b; Dunbabin 1990. For a good status quaestionis, see also Malaise 1986. 4 Namely Aesculapius, Artemis and Men, Bona Dea, Caelestis, Cybele, Iuppiter Dolichenus, Liber/Libera, Ma-Bellona, Mithras, Nemesis, Numen Sanctum Victoria Victrix, Saturnus, Silvanus, Zeus Hypsistos, and Zeus Panamaros. Many of these exemplars were found in North Africa and are now analysed in Gasparini forthcoming. 5 Takács 2005; Puccio 2010; Revell 2016; Krumeich 2020. 6 Bricault 2000, 91; Malaise 2005, 29–31; Bricault and Veymiers 2012, 5–6. On the degree of “Egyptianness” of these deities, see now Gasparini and Gordon 2018. 7 The catalogue which follows this contribution – collecting the edited material listed according to a chronological and geographical order – does not pretend to be exhaustive. A huge number of (in particular anepigraphic) dedications of footprints may remain unpublished, dispersed in “minor” contributions or of difficult interpretation (it is sometimes hard to distinguish these footprints from the marks left on bases by the presence of a standing statue). Further material has been excluded from the catalogue. For example, an inscription preserved at the Archaeological Museum of Urbino (Palazzo Ducale, Collezione Fabretti, inv. no. 40945), but coming from Rome (CIL VI 15782; SIRIS 449; Malaise 1972, 127, Roma no. 50; Mora 1990, 403, no. 103 and 413, no. 182; RICIS 501/0167; Takács 2005, 365–366), was supposed to be decorated with a pair of footprints. However, these were revealed to be two sistra and two situlae (cf. Luni and Gori 1986, 144–146, no. 37). I would like to thank Luigi Malnati and Marusca Pasqualini (Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici delle Marche) for providing me with the iconographic material concerning this inscription.

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semiological tool in order to identify – as if they were actual fingerprints – their “owners”, interpreting them as traces either of the epiphany of the god or of a devotee’s visit to a temple (possibly within the frame of a pro itu et reditu vow). By contrast, the methodological approach I develop here, which combines my archaeological expertise on the Isiac cults with reflections inspired primarily by the work of Georges Didi-Huberman on the art of Marcel Duchamp,8 considers these footprints as an open process of deeply operational value and heuristic fecundity, namely as a polysemic (spatial and morphological) visual operator of human-divine communication.9 Careful analysis of the situational contexts in which some of these dedications were brought to light allows us to go far beyond the previous narrow perspective and to gain a deeper understanding of a) the semantic polyvalence of these objects; b) their potential performativity in the process of the activation of human-divine communication; and, finally, c) their intrinsic synaesthetic properties, which stimulated sensory identities, producing affective communities and binding them to the temples. 1

Initial Clarifications – Typologies and Terminology

Before setting off to consider the evidence itself, two initial clarifications of the goal of this article are required. To begin with, it has been widely recognised that the (more or less realistic) representation of the footprint conveys a polyvalent symbolism that is primarily channelled by the near absence of intermediation between impression and imprint.10 This absence of intermediation made the footprint suitable for being appropriated by human religious thought as an early and universal form,11 as a “dawn of images”.12 Consequently, it is unsurprising that we find many traces in the ancient world of divine feet and footprints being used also as objects of veneration13 or of their broad

8 Didi-Huberman 2009. The French philosopher and art historian chose the capital work of Duchamp as a starting point for tracing a sort of conceptual history of the imprint, thus exploring the singularity and the dialectic of its representation, as well as the ambiguity of its artistic experience. 9 Cf. Didi-Huberman 2009, passim and, in particular, 11, 31, and 47. 10 Didi-Huberman 2009, 45. 11 See e.g. Deonna 1913, 241; Castiglione 1971a, 25; Didi-Huberman 2009, passim. 12 Leroi-Gourhan 1965, 212–216. Cf. Monaci Castagno 2011, 6. 13 On the ancient worship of hands and feet in Jewish and Christian contexts, see e.g. Mishnah, Avodah Zarah 3.2; Athan. Alex. Gent. 9; Lactant. Div. inst. 19.

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employment in a range of other religious practices14 – despite significant differences depending on the local, culturally specific context in which these practices are found15 – from the Upper Palaeolithic era through to the Middle Ages, in the Mediterranean area as well as far away from it.16 As far as the Isiac cults (and consequently the Greco-Roman world) are concerned, we need, in any case, to distinguish the dedication of footprints from other closely related categories of material evidence, namely the so-called “Serapis’ feet” and the healing ex-votos.17 These we can exclude from the following analysis without the risk of jeopardising its end results, since they served quite different purposes. I will, thus, concentrate here only on those dedications that belong to the archaeological category of the so-called “petrosomatoglyphs”, that is, supposed images of parts of a human (or animal) body carved into stone. Secondly, from a linguistic perspective, the Latin epigraphic record testifies the dedication of footprints with the formula vestigium facere.18 Servius defines vestigia as pedum signa (“footprints”) or pedum imagines (“images of feet”), and Ovid similarly seems to put vestigia together with signa notaeque pedum (“prints and marks of feet”).19 Vestigium means “footstep”, “step”, “footprint”, “foot-track”, “track”, and, by extension, “foot” and “sole of the foot”, i.e. planta pedis. It can also mean “trace”, “mark”, “sign”, “token”, and “vestige”, from which come the cognates vestigare (“to track”, “to trace out”, “to seek out”, “to inquire into”), vestigatio (“tracing”), vestigator or vestigiator (“tracker”, “spy”), and vestigabilis (“that which can be investigated”). It is interesting for the purposes of this chapter to note that the word vestigium seems to be used to hint at both the remains and ruins of ancient objects and buildings, and at a very specific 14

I am not interested here in the “secular” use of representations of feet and footprints in ancient baths and private houses. 15 Meynersen 2012, 68 and 82. 16 Short overviews in Guarducci 1942–1943, 307–308, and Verner 1973. Further bibliographical references concerning very different chronological and geographical contexts are listed in, for instance, Castiglione 1968a, 121, n. 1 and 128, n. 32; Castiglione 1971a, 32, n. 1; Maraval 1985, 266; Schimmel 1985, 42; Dunbabin 1990, 90, n. 25; Hasan 1993; Forsén 1996; Thomas 2008, 304, n. 1; Krumeich 2020. 17 See Puccio 2010, 137; Krumeich 2020, 196–199. It remains unclear what were the true nature of the “feet” (πόδας) and “small feet” (ποδάρια) stocked in the naos of Isis at Delos and testified to by the inventories: RICIS 202/0423, A, I, l. 10 and 69 (157–156 BCE) = 202/0424, B, I, l. 5 (156–155 BCE) = 202/0428, l. 30 = 202/0433, A, l. 48. Cf. Vidman 1971, 96–97. The dedication of footprints and the votive feet have often been treated as components of a unique phenomenon: see already Stieda 1901, 75–76 and, more recently, the pertinent criticism in Cazanove 2013, 24, n. 4. On anatomical votives, refer now to Draycott and Graham 2017 (specifically on feet: Chiarini 2017) and Hughes 2017. 18 See e.g. CIL VIII 12400 and 24037. 19 Serv. Aen. 3.244 and 11.573–574; Ov. Fast. 3.650.

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moment and space, at a hic et nunc situation, both in spatial and temporal terms (see the expressions eodem remanere vestigio, “to stay in the same place”, or eodem et loci vestigio et temporis, “at that very same time and in the very same place”). In Greek, vestigium seems to have been translated with the terms βῆμα and ἴχνος. βῆμα is “step” (also as a measure of length), “pace”, “footfall”, and so, metaphorically, also “moment”, from which come βηματίζω (“to measure by paces”, “to step”, “to walk”) and βηματιστής (“one who measures by paces”, “quartermaster”). ἴχνος means “footstep”, “track”, and, by extension, “sole of the foot”, “foot”, “sole of a shoe”, and “sandal”. From it come the diminutives ἴχνιον (“track” and “footprint”) and ἐνίχνιον (“footprint”?), and the related verbs οἰχνέω and οἰχνεύω (“go”, “come”, “approach”), ἀνιχνεύω, (“track”, “trace out”, “search out”), ἐποιχνέω (“visit”) and ἐξιχνεύω (“track out”), and, consequently, ἀνίχνευσις (“tracing out”, “investigation”) and ἐξίχνευσις (“tracking out”), and ἀνίχνευτος (“not tracked”) and ἀνεξιχνίαστος (“unsearchable”, “inscrutable”). 2

The Archaeological Evidence – An Overview

The many exemplars that date back at least as far as the 19th Dynasty (13th century BCE) have sometimes led scholars to consider Pharaonic Egypt and Nubia to be the Mediterranean cradle of the custom of dedicating footprints to gods.20 While we can be certain that Pharaonic Egypt was not the cradle of the whole historical phenomenon of the dedication of footprints, it is more than plausible that this custom was closely associated there with the religious praxis of the Isiac cults.21 Despite the difficulties involved in determining the chronology (and even the involvement itself in the Isiac cults) of certain an­epigraphic slabs,22 at least six exemplars seem to date back to the Ptolemaic and Roman period [Cat. 1–6], and a more detailed study of the evidence will doubtless be able to add considerably to this number. Unfortunately, the only vague information we have concerning the architectural context in which these exemplars were found is that one dedication (probably from the 1st

20 Castiglione 1967, 1970, 102 and 1971a, 29–30. Contra Verner 1973, 45–46. See also Yoyotte 1960, 59–60 and Meynersen 2012, 68–71. 21 See Meynersen 2012, 81. 22 The Egyptian dedications seem to prefer the representation of a single footprint of a left or right bare foot and to leave to a few iconographic symbols (instead of inscriptions) the duty of narrowing the semantic function of the offering, using palm branches, uraei, and situlae to mark them as Isiac.

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century BCE)23 to Hermanubis [Cat. 3] was brought to light on the 17th of April 1898 at Alexandria, 4.5 meters north-east of the entrance to the underground complex (belonging to the sanctuary of Anubis, inside the témenos of the local Sarapieion) where a marble torso of Hermanubis himself had been found three years earlier.24 Outside Egypt, it is not surprising that the earliest dedications of footprints (explicitly mentioned as βῆμα/βήματα) are found in Delos.25 These are housed in the Sarapieion C26 and can be dated to the first third of the 2nd century BCE [Cat. 7] and to 114–113 BCE [Cat. 8]. Unfortunately, their original context is unknown. Apart from those found in Egypt, Delos, and Macedonia (for which see below), we are not able to detect any trace of such petrosomatoglyphs before the Imperial period. In order to find an appropriation of this custom in the Western Mediterranean (albeit much more sporadic), we have to wait until the 1st and, in particular, the 2nd centuries CE. No testimonies later than the end of the 2nd century / the first half of the 3rd century CE have yet been discovered. From what we can infer on the basis of the available material, the Isiac reception of the dedication of vestigia seems to have been based on processes of very local selectivity. On the one hand, this custom seems to have reached only the main harbours of the Greco-Roman world (Delos, Athens [*Cat. 25], Thessaloniki, and then Catana [*Cat. 27], Rome-Ostia [Cat. 28–30], and Baelo Claudia) and their immediate neighbourhoods (Chaironeia, Lavinium [Cat. 31], Italica) or settlements specifically linked to them. Industria [Cat. 32] may provide an example of the latter case, since the donor, Avilia Ambilis, belonged to the family of the Avil(l)ii, which (together with the Lollii) represented one of the main Italic families involved – already during the 2nd century BCE – in

23 The inscription dates to the 12th year of the reign of an unspecified ruler (a Ptolemaic king more likely than an emperor). 24 Botti 1899, 64 and 1900, 580–581, no. 454; Rowe 1946, 35. 25 At Delos as well as in Macedonia, these dedications always consist of a pair of footprints of bare feet, with different possible combinations: left-right feet of same or different dimensions (one single pair or two) or right-right feet of different dimensions (the bigger sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left), toes up or down. The footprints are never surrounded by symbols (but are often accompanied by the inscription), with the exception of Neine. 26 For a general introduction to this sanctuary, see Roussel 1915–1916, 47–69; Bruneau 1970, 462–463; Dunand 1973, 90–115; Bruneau 1980; Wild 1981, 38–39; Bricault 2001, 38–40; Siard 2002, 2003, and 2007; Kleibl 2009, 221–227; Martzavou 2010, 181–184. Specifically on the dedication of footprints, see Baslez 1977, 301–302.

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trade businesses (and Isiac cults) in Delos.27 The case of Augusta Vindelicorum28 (Augsburg) in Raetia [Cat. 33] seems to be an exception, being placed far from the main vectors of trade and communication. On the other hand, the success of the practice in Macedonia (with examples found at Beroia-Veria29 [*Cat. 9–10], Serrai-Serres30 [*Cat. 11], Neine-Gorna Gradeshnitsa31 [Cat. 12–13], Maroneia32 [Cat. 14], and, in particular, at Thessaloniki and Dion)33 and, later, in Baetica (Baelo Claudia and Italica) suggests an interest in these practices at the regional scale. The surprising absolute absence of similar Isiac testimonies (at least for the moment) in the Near East, North Africa,34 Spain (apart from Baetica),35 France, Britannia, the north-eastern provinces, and, in particular, Asia Minor, confirms this impression of a highly patchy reception. 3

The Architectural Context

In the very few cases in which it is possible to glean some information concerning the architectural context in which the dedications were placed (those of Baelo Claudia, Dion, Industria, and Italica), the Isiac vestigia seem to be placed 27

See Cresci Marrone 1993 and 1994. More generally, on the Italic families testified at Delos and in the Greek world, see Müller-Hasenohr 2002. 28 Gschaid 1993, 262–263; Bricault 2001, 117. According to Takács 2005, 368, “despite the lack of further archaeological detail of the area where the inscription had been found, the proximity of a hypocausteum, a bath, and a cistern implies that Eudiapractus found a cure through water treatment”. 29 Bricault 2001, 24; Christodoulou 2009, 345–347. 30 Personal communication by Laurent Bricault. 31 Bricault 2001, 25. 32 Bricault 2001, 33. 33 The pair of footprints, which is supposed to be carved on the upper side of the 2nd century BCE dedication by the koinon of Azoros to Serapis, Isis, Horus, and Anubis, found at Larisa (Larissa) – Thessalia (see IG IX 2, 589; SIRIS 94; Dunand 1973, 51; Mora 1990, 324, no. 1284; RICIS 112/0501; Bricault 2008, 79), has to be considered instead as the traces left by the standing statue of the anonymous benefactor (son of Aristokles), honoured through the dedication. See Lucas 1997, 85–86, no. 38. 34 Where, surprisingly, the popularity of these dedications is testified by the involvement of a large number of other deities. See e.g. Meynersen 2012, 76 and, in particular, Gasparini forthcoming. 35 The three footprints noted by Jeronymo Contador de Argote (1732) and William H. G. Kingston (1845) on a rock of the sanctuary at Panóias (Vila Real, Portugal) should not, in my opinion, be understood as Roman vestigia, but rather as Neolithic or Bronze-Age “pierres aux pieds”: see Gasparini 2020b, 339–341.

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exclusively in front of the pronaos of the temple, focused in the area immediately in front of or along the very first steps of the staircase.36 3.1 Industria The case of Industria37 (Monteu da Po, 25 km from Turin) deviates slightly from the norm. During the 2nd century CE (possibly under the reign of Hadrian), a monumental semi-circular ambulacrum (the “Serapaeum”) was constructed. This was accessed through a wide portico and crowned by an exedra, which was flanked by two small temples with their respective altars and zones destined to receive the offerings of devotees.38 When Count Bernardino Morra di Lauriano led some excavations in the area of the eastern temple in 1811,39 he brought to light the dedication of Avilia Ambilis40 (a dancer, according to

36

At least in North Africa, similar petrosomatoglyphs were also placed on the threshold of the cella of the temple of Liber and Libera at Cuicul (Djemila), of Bona Dea at Mactar, and of Dea Africa at Thamugadi (Timgad). Cf. Le Glay 1961, 85, n. 4 and 1978, 582–584; Dunbabin 1990, 91; Krumeich 2020, 189–192; Gasparini forthcoming. It is also worth remembering the presence of a footprint at the top of a staircase represented on a block of stone from the temple of Min at Koptos (Castiglione 1967, 240 and Fig. 1; Krumeich 2020, 160, fig. 3.8). The cella of the Ionic tetrastyle temple presumably dedicated to Isis right at the top of the “Upper Terrace” of the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Acrocorinth, in the Peloponnese, was embellished (probably during the 2nd century CE) by a mosaic decorated, immediately next to the threshold, with a panel showing signs of the ancient presence of two (probably metallic, golden or silver) feet or footprints. The original probable presence of a perirrhanterion close by would suggest possible rituals involving both of these objects. The footprints were flanked by two snake-entwined cistae mysticae. Next to the panel, a tabula ansata contained the dedication of the donor (the neokoros Octavius Agathopous), the name of which possibly entails a direct reference to the footprints he dedicated: Ὀκτάβιος Ἀγαθόπους / νεωκόρος ἐψηφοθέτησε / ἐπὶ Χαρᾶς ἱερείας Νεωτέρας. On the sanctuary, see Bricault 2001, 8; Kleibl 2009, 361–362. Contra Bookidis and Stroud 1997, 338–353 and 362–370. On the footprints, see Dunbabin 1990, 85–86 and 95–96; Bookidis and Stroud 1997, 343–344, 363 and pl. 54; Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2000, 172–173; Krumeich 2020, 186–188. On the meaning of names such as Kalopous, Agathopous, Namphamo, etc., see Manganaro 1964, 291; Dunbabin 1990, 96 and 106. See also the name Chenopous in IG XII 3, 388, bearing the dedication of similar footprints at the temple of Apollo Karneios in Thera. Cf. Guarducci 1942–1943, 312, n. 24 and 341. 37 See passim Zanda 2011, where Industria is described as a “holy Roman city devoted to Isis”. Much more cautious is Saragoza 2012. I propose a third approach in Gasparini 2012. 38 Wild 1984, 1783–1785; Bricault 2001, 135; Kleibl 2009, 290–291; Zanda 2011, 121–161; Saragoza 2012. 39 Morra di Lauriano 1843. 40 The reading Amabilis, suggested already in Morra di Lauriano (1843), is not reliable since the horizontal line of the A in the possible nexus MA is not evident at all. See Manganaro 1961, 189, n. 76; Bongioanni and Grazzi 1988, 10.

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Ladislav Vidman),41 who dedicated in accomplishment of a votum a slab with the representation of a pair of bare feet seen from above and separated by a sistrum flanked by two hederae [Cat. 32]. According to the description given by the Count, the slab was found re-used in one of the several incineration burials detected in the area.42 This interpretation has been widely accepted,43 but recent research – mainly the work of Emanuela Zanda and Federico Barello – has revealed the mistake.44 What seemed to the discoverer to be a late incineration burial was actually a small pit filled with the remains of a sacrifice. Similar depositions have been found throughout the whole area of the sanctuary.45 Moreover, Avilia’s slab was located precisely in the plan drawn by Morra [Fig. 14.1].46 The ritual deposition (“ya”) was found immediately north of the staircase of the oriental temple of the exedra complex, likely an Isiac sanctuary.47 A second pit was placed symmetrically near the staircase of the western temple. A palaeographic analysis of Avilia Ambilis’ inscription does not exclude the possibility that these twin pits might be contemporaneous with the building of the temples themselves, perhaps as foundational sacrifices,48 and, consequently, that the slab may have stood there in situ. Despite the positioning outside the line of axis of the temple and the unusual presence of a sacrificial pit underneath, it is important to emphasise once again the prominence of the position of the slab.49 This was placed immediately to the right of the staircase that gave access to the temple, presumably employed as a covering 41 42

Cf. Bongioianni and Grazzi 1988, 10. Morra di Lauriano 1843, pl. I, translated apud Fabretti 1880, 55: “Y. Sepolcri: y formati da urne ordinarie o da due coppe riunite all’apertura, y di muricciuoli, ya con l’iscrizione AVILIA AMABILIS, yb con una moneta di Adriano. In tutti questi sepolcri erano ceneri, carboni e lumi di terra, e in alcuni casi le ossa carbonizzate e non interamente combuste”. Cf. Zanda 2011, 129. 43 E.g. RICIS 513/0102; Saragoza 2012, 325. Following the latter, I was also taken in: see Gasparini 2012, 139. 44 Zanda 2011, 129; F. Barello in Barello 2012, 9–10. I am very grateful to Federico Barello (ex Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici del Piemonte e del Museo Antichità Egizie) for bringing this detail to my attention. 45 The contents of the pit are not preserved anymore, but the description of ashes, coals, bones, and lamps assure us of the sacrificial function of the pit. On the lamps found in these pits, see the contribution by Elisa Panero in Barello 2012. The iconographic decoration of these lamps shows no links with their cultic involvement in Isiac rites. 46 Morra di Lauriano 1843, pl. I. Cf. Fabretti 1880, tav. II, no. ya. 47 Contra Saragoza 2012, 325–329 and 332, who seems to prefer an interpretation of the sanctuary as the seat of the local Imperial cult. 48 A coin minted under Hadrian (and so possibly contemporaneous with the sanctuary) has been found in another pit (“yb”) not far from there. 49 Cf. Zanda 2011, 129 and 143, who suggests that the area could be accessed only by priests and initiates.

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Figure 14.1

281

Industria. Plan of the sanctuary after the first excavations in 1811 [after Morra di Lauriano 1843, pl. I]

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directly over the pit, placed horizontally, so that the titulus could easily be read by whoever approached the staircase. 3.2 Dion There is not a single testimony of similar dedications dispersed elsewhere within the sanctuaries or in their neighbourhood. When their original location is known, they are all found concentrated in front of the staircase of the temple. This is particularly evident in the case of Dion,50 where the temple of Isis Lochia was equipped with at least four similar slabs [Fig. 14.2a]. The first (anepigraphic) slab [Cat. 21] stood on an inscribed base dedicated to Isis Lochia as a gift (δῶρον) of Caius Iulius Quartus,51 and was placed at the centre of the staircase upon its first step, together with the footprints dedicated by the priest Gaios Ostios Philon [Cat. 22], similarly standing on a base previously inscribed.52 In contrast, the dedication to Hermanubis κατ’ἐπιταγήν53 by Ignatia Herennia54 [Cat. 23] lay directly on the floor of the courtyard, immediately in front of the first base. It is worth noting that, while the inscriptions of the two bases could be read by any hypothetical visitor approaching the temple from the portico, the dedication by Gaios Ostios Philon could be read only from the perspective of a person standing on the staircase facing the courtyard [Fig. 14.2b, in contrast with what is exhibited now at the Museum: see Fig. 14.3a–b]. The fourth pair of footprints, dedicated by Getianos Pasifilos55 during his priesthood [Cat. 24], was found not in situ but next to the columns of the portico. Similarly, as already proposed by Manganaro,56 the pair of “footprints” carved on a white marble slab of the Imperial period at Chaironeia57 in Boiotia [Cat. 26] was the seat upon which were fixed metallic soles or feet (as suggested

50 See Pandermalis 1982; Pandermalis 1989, 6–53; Giuman 1999; Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2000, 154–167; Bricault 2001, 24–25; Bommas 2002, 135–136; Christodoulou 2009, 344–345; Kleibl 2009, 201–203; Christodoulou 2011; Revell 2016, 214–216; Maikidou-Poutrino 2018, 449–455. 51 RICIS 113/0201: Εἴσιδι Λοχίᾳ Γ(άιος) / Ἰούλιος Κούα/ρτος δῶρον. See Tataki 2006, 270, no. 281.181 and Cat. 21 for further bibliographical references. At Dion, the same person also dedicated to Isis Lochia the inscription RICIS 113/0218 in the later temple of Isis-Tyche. 52 SEG XXXIV [1984] 623; Bull.Ép. 1987, 675; AE 1998, 1202; RICIS 113/0204: Pro meritis parentium, / dec(urionum) dec(reto), ex p(ecunia) p(ublica), / Herenniae M(arci) filiae Pagillae. Cf. Pandermalis 1984, 273–274; Christodoulou 2011, 18, n. 61. 53 Cf. Gounaropoulou and Hatzopoulos 1998, 126, no. 20. 54 Cf. Tataki 2006, 247, no. 264.11 and 253, no. 274.2. 55 See Tataki 2006, 242, no. 250.1; Christodoulou 2011, 21, n. 76. 56 Manganaro 1961, 187. 57 Cf. Bricault 2001, 12.

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a

Figure 14.2

Dion. a) Plan of the temple of Isis Lochia; b) Axonometry of the temple [after Christodoulou 2011, 12, Fig. 2, and 17, Fig. 7]

b

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Figure 14.3a Dion. The vestigia Cat. 21 with its base as exhibited at the Archaeological Museum of Dion [after Christodoulou 2011, 19, Fig. 10]

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Figure 14.3b Dion. The vestigia Cat. 22 with its base as exhibited at the Archaeological Museum of Dion [after Christodoulou 2011, 19, Fig. 12]

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by two small cavities behind the heels).58 The presence beneath the slab of a deep round hole should probably be interpreted as due to the placing of the slab itself over a base, as in the other mentioned cases at Dion. The horizontal positioning of the slabs explains, on the one hand, the thinness of the plaques (usually 0.03–0.10 m thick, not enough to suppose a vertical position)59 and, on the other, why the footprints were sometimes carved on the upper side of thicker blocks and the inscription on the frontal side (apart from Dion, see also the dedications Cat. 8, 14, and 26). 3.3 Baelo Claudia At Baelo Claudia two slabs of white marble were found in 1983 inside the local Isaeum [Fig. 14.4a–b].60 They are both fulfilments of a vow – votum – promised to Isis, under the epithet of domina, by two otherwise unknown men, Marcus (Semp?)ronius Maxumus [Cat. 34] and Lucius Vecil(ius?) [Cat. 35]. Below the tituli, the light silhouettes of two pairs of naked feet as seen from above are shallowly carved, orientated towards the reader and with one of the two feet ahead of the other. Just like the dedication by Ignatia Herennia at Dion, the two slabs were placed immediately in front of the staircase so that the viewer accessing the temple could properly read the related inscriptions. The temple, in a very prominent sector of the town, next to the Capitol, was presumably built during the Flavian period and remained active until the mid-3rd century CE.61 It is difficult to say whether the two slabs (which from a palaeographic point of view can be dated between the late 1st and the 2nd centuries CE) were dedicated already at the moment of the foundation of the sanctuary62 or during a later phase. Despite evident differences in dimension, iconographic style, 58 59

See similar examples in North Africa: Gasparini forthcoming, with discussion. It is difficult to follow Alvar 2012, 83 in imagining that the slabs could be vertically fixed with metal fastenings to cavities carved within the pedestals (which, moreover, are not testified at all in the context of these dedications). 60 Cf. Bricault 2001, 93; Alvar and Muñiz 2004, 74–76; Dardaine et al. 2008; Kleibl 2009, 294–295; Bricault 2010; Puccio 2010; Alvar 2012, 79–80, with bibliography; Revell 2016; Krumeich 2020, 179. 61 The hypothesis of a Neronian foundation proposed by Dardaine et al. 2008 has been rightly questioned by Bricault 2010, 682. Dardaine et al. 1988, 26–27 had formerly suggested a more plausible chronology during the reign of Domitian (80s CE). Cf. Alvar and Muñiz 2004, 74; Kleibl 2009, 295. 62 Pro Bonneville, Dardaine, and Le Roux 1988, 25 and 133. Contra Alvar and Muñiz 2004, 75 (who even suggest – against the palaeographic evidence, as then stressed by Alvar 2012, 82 – the possibility that the two inscriptions were carved already before the construction of the sanctuary and then put there in order to preserve such venerable relics); Bricault 2010, 686.

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and ductus, it cannot be excluded that the slabs might have been offered at the same time. They were found immediately next to the lower step of the staircase, “encastrées dans le sol de tuileau qui les recouvrait et les cachait à la vue des fidèles”,63 that is “une couche de mortier de tuileau, épaisse de 3 cm, qui, au moment de la fouille, recouvrait encore partiellement les inscriptions, en particulier presque toute leur moitié inférieure”.64 This was probably not due to an attempt to give the tituli an inaugural dimension.65 Rather, it was most likely the result of a later restoration aimed at protecting the deteriorated inscriptions, which were, indeed, found, under that layer, broken into 36 and 26 fragments respectively.66 Instead of identifying the cause of this deterioration as one of the two earthquakes which hit the town in the mid-1st century CE (that is, before the construction of the building)67 and in the mid-3rd century CE (which latter event apparently caused the abandonment of the temple),68 I would rather explain it simply by the gradual, but irregular, subsidence of the ground level next to the temple’s staircase, which caused the final characteristic obliqueness of the two slabs [Fig. 14.5a–c]. The layer of mortar made from broken tiles lying upon the inscriptions was probably an attempt (presumably between the second half of the 2nd and the first half of the 3rd century CE) to regularise the level of the soil between the temple and the altar. In this respect, we should note that, while the altar is perfectly aligned with the axis of the temple,69 the two slabs do not respect this alignment, but have been placed in correspondence to the western half of the altar, shifted towards the side, where a step presumably allowed the priest to perform the sacrifices.70 This detail might entail a kind of involvement of the footprints in the rituals performed at the altar. I should also mention that the representation in a slight relief of the pairs of bare feet as seen from above was originally obtained through positioning the external feet a little ahead of the internal ones, which recalls the typical hieratic stance of the Egyptian Pharaonic statues.71 63 Bonneville et al. 1984, 441. 64 Dardaine et al. 2008, 58. 65 As suggested by Bonneville, Dardaine, and Le Roux 1988, 25 and 133, and accepted by Revell 2016, 210. 66 Alvar and Muñiz 2004, 75; Dardaine et al. 2008, 58. According to Alvar 2012, 82–83, instead, the plates might have been fixed, in a first phase, along the vertical face of a pedestal, and then removed and covered with the mortar in the moment itself that they were placed at the foot of the temple’s staircase, since they would not show any sign of wear. 67 Dardaine et al. 2008, 58. Contra Alvar 2012, 82. 68 Dardaine et al. 2008, 58–60. 69 Dardaine et al. 2008, 121; Bricault 2010, 684. 70 Dardaine et al. 2008, 125. 71 See, in this regard, the example of Marathon in Dekoulakou 2011, and Siskou 2011.

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Figure 14.4a Baelo Claudia. Plan of the sanctuary of Isis [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 6, Fig. 6]

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Figure 14.4b Baelo Claudia. Axonometry of the pronaos [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 103, Fig. 50a]

3.4 Italica Finally, at Italica72 (Santiponce, Sevilla) the local theatre – probably built under the reign of Augustus – was equipped during the Flavian period with a porticus pone scaenam, where recent excavations (2009–2010) have finally brought to light the whole Isaeum73 (probably introduced under the reign of 72 73

Cf. Corzo Sánchez 1991; Bricault 2001, 93; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218; Alvar and Gasparini 2020. Cf. Jiménez Sancho and Pecero Espín 2011; Alvar 2012, 60–61; Jiménez Sancho, Rodríguez, and Izquierdo 2013. On the relationship between theatres and Isiac cults, see now Gasparini 2018.

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a

b Figure 14.5a-b Baelo Claudia. a) Frontal view of the temple; b) The area between the staircase and the altar [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 59, Fig. 25a]

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c Figure 14.5c Baelo Claudia. c) The two vestigia [after Dardaine et al. 2008, 59, Fig. 25a]

Hadrian), including the tetrastyle temple along the northern side and, at the centre of the courtyard, a basin, a crypt, a focus, and an altar [Fig. 14.6]. The access to the pronaos of the temple, introduced by four pillars with bases for statues, was equipped with a staircase integrated within the podium, in front of which the previous excavations carried out in 1989 had uncovered the four light marble slabs [Cat. 36–39], which – as in the case of Baelo Claudia – can be dated between the late 1st and the 2nd centuries CE. We can add to these first four inscriptions another five slabs which, although found in later layers, can possibly be related to the same sanctuary.74 They all are fragmentary (and anepigraphic) and show the rear part of a pair of (sandalled?) feet [*Cat. 40–41], a reversed pair of bare feet seen from above [*Cat. 42], the toes of another bare 74

A second concentration of vestigia dedicated to Caelestis and Nemesis was found between 1920 and 1925 inside and along the southern limit of the sacellum built within the structures of the eastern gate of the amphitheatre at Italica. Cf. Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004.

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Figure 14.6

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Italica. Aerial photography of the sanctuary of Isis [after Jiménez Sancho, Rodríguez and Izquierdo 2013, 290, Fig. 9]

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foot seen from above [*Cat. 43], and the front part of a pair of bare feet roughly carved as seen from above [*Cat. 44]. Finally, a 2nd century CE dedication to an unspecified Domina Regina by the priest Publius B(---) Fortunatus, displaying a pair of footprints of bare feet, the toes pointing towards the temple, was not found in the area of the sanctuary, but the epiclesis nevertheless suggests a plausible involvement with the Isiac cults [*Cat. 45]. If such a high number of dedications is not unique (at Thessaloniki, the local Sarapieion – “temple A”75 – has delivered as many as six inscribed slabs with footprints [Cat. 15–20], mainly dated to the 2nd–3rd centuries CE),76 what is particularly exceptional in this case is that, according to the reconstruction of Corzo Sánchez [Fig. 14.7a–c],77 the footprints were originally placed in two rows, framed by marble slabs holding a metallic gate.78 The first row – the row closer to the temple – was constituted by the dedication of Iunia Cerasa [Cat. 38] on the left, that of Soter [Cat. 37] on the right, and that of Privata [Cat. 39] originally in the centre, although not found in situ but broken just in front of the staircase. The second row was constituted by the dedication of Marcia Voluptas [Cat. 36] in the centre, originally flanked by two of the other five fragmentary inscriptions [Cat. 40–44]. It is worth noting that a) the first row was constituted exclusively by representations of sandalled feet, while the feet in the second row were, without exception, bare; b) that the central dedications of the two rows were given under divine mandate (ex iussu and imperio Iunonis);79 c) that all of the inscriptions were readable for a viewer approaching the temple from the courtyard, while the sandalled footprints of the first row were pointed in various different directions (with the footprints in the centre pointed in both directions, those on the right pointing towards the staircase, and those on the left towards the courtyard); and d) finally, and most importantly, that the presence of a metallic gate framing the dedications was intended to protect them (and to restrict access to the pronaos of the temple to 75

On this temple, see Salditt-Trappmann 1970, 47–52; Dunand 1973, 53–60 and 181–191; Wild 1981, 39–40, 190–194; Wild 1984, 1824–1825; Bricault 2001, 26–27; Bommas 2002, 129–134; Steimle 2002; Egelhaaf-Gaiser, Steimle, and Tsochos 2003, 155–157; Tzanavari 2003, 237– 252; Voutiras 2005; Steimle 2008, 79–132; Christodoulou 2009, 335–344; Kleibl 2009, 204– 208; Martzavou 2010, 184–190. 76 I was not able to find a seventh anepigraphic slab with footprints recorded by Bricault 2001, 27 as stored at the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, inv. no. ΜΘ 873. 77 Corzo Sánchez 1991, 136. 78 Alvar 2012, 61. Cf. Corzo Sánchez 1991, 128. 79 According to Alvar 2012, 64, the central position and the stylistic quality of the dedication by Marcia Voluptas imply that she was the primary individual responsible for the dedications.

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a

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Figure 14.7a Italica. a) Location of the vestigia in front of the cella, later identified as the pronaos of the temple [after Corzo Sánchez 1991, 126, Fig. 1]

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b

c

Figure 14.7b-c

Italica. b) The pronaos of the temple after the first excavations in 1989; c) The vestigia and their marble frame [after Corzo Sánchez 1991, 128, Fig. 2; 134, Fig. 7]

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a small number of persons), without limiting the possibility of being seen on a daily basis – and periodically touched – by the devotees. It is crucial to stress how the footprints both placed and orientated their viewers. From what it is possible to draw from the analysis of the architectural context of the preserved vestigia, the function of these footprints appears to have been deeply linked to the direct access of the devotees to the temple and mostly focused within the very area of “liminality” (the staircase) between the house of the god (aedes) and the area used by the devotees (the courtyard), where the communication between humans and the divine took place. It seems that the visual presence of footprints marked, or even created, a specific “space” which enabled contact between the two spheres. When standing in front of the slab, looking at the footprints and reading their dedication, the donors, as well as other devotees, could at the same time gaze – beyond the staircase and through the door of the temple – at the statue of the deity to whom they were directing a prayer (εὐχήν) or a vow (votum), often in response to a divine mandate of the god in person (κατὰ πρόσταγμα, κατ’ἐπιταγήν, iussu, imperio), thus activating an intimate communication. The exclusive location in which these dedications were allowed to be placed probably implies a strong competitive element, since only a small number of donors would have been able to obtain the necessary authorisation to set up their dedications in these places. None of the dedications specifies the possible role of the civic authorities. Consequently, it seems likely that control over this placement was fully in the hands of the local priests. They decided, perhaps having been generously rewarded for their willingness, who deserved this honour and who did not. 4

Towards a New Interpretation of Vestigia

As mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, the scholarship on this topic has typically attempted to interpret such footprints by looking for the identity of their “owners”, and so attributing them either to the god or to the god’s devotees. It was first suggested that these dedications should be interpreted either as offerings by sick devotees – as a request, prayer, or blessing for good health and healing – or by pilgrims seeking to perpetuate the memory of the (real or even initiatic) journey they had undertaken in order to reach the sanctuary.80 In particular, the reversed footprints would have represented an ex-voto pro itu 80 Guarducci 1942–1943, 308–310; Manganaro 1961; Chiarini 2017, 148; Dunand 2018, 636. See further bibliography in Castiglione 1968a, 127, n. 27 and Krumeich 2020, 145–146, nn. 16–18, with further references to similar interpretations proposed already during

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et reditu, through which the god was thanked for the safe journey to the sanctuary and their divine protection was invoked for the return trip. However, both Yoyotte81 and Castiglione82 have clearly shown the limits of this approach, on the grounds that, there is not a single material proof in favor of the pilgrimage theory […], no reference to their donor having been a pilgrim or to any journey having called forth the dedication. There are many more epigraphs which make it clear that the person who erected the sacrificial stele or made the graffito, was an inhabitant of the city where the sanctuary stood, or was even a priest of that particular temple. On the other hand, real “pro itu et reditu” inscriptions are never accompanied by representations of footprints.83 Castiglione preferred to focus on the magic-apotropaic value of the reversed footprints, consequently considering the turning of the shoes or footprints (a change in the normal order of things) as a protective measure against evil and harmful influences and as a symbol of death that was linked to the concept of rebirth associated with the “mystery religions”.84 The dedication of footprints, or pairs of footprints, the position of which was turned 90 degrees, was also considered to be a result of the Roman ritual according to which, after finishing the adoration, the worshipper made a full turn to the right.85 Although still sporadically supported, these interpretations have been replaced, for the most part, by the hypothesis that the footprints might not relate to the devotees at all, but should, rather, be understood as representing a manifestation (epiphany) of the god.86 This perspective seems to be strengthened by the dedication

the mid-19th century by Alexander Conze, Maxime Du Camp, Ernst Curtius, Otto Jahn, Antoine J. Letronne, and Karl Otfried Müller. 81 Yoyotte 1960, 59: “Bien que l’adjonction d’une palme et d’une situle atteste parfois que l’auteur du dessin est venu faire une libation, tous ces ‘pieds’ ne commémorent pas des pèlerinages […]. Il ne s’agissait pas, en imprimant l’empreint de ses pieds, de dire ‘je suis venu’, mais d’affirmer ‘j’y suis, j’y reste’ ”. 82 Castiglione 1968a. 83 Castiglione 1968a, 128. 84 Castiglione 1968a, 129–137. For the magic virtues of feet and on feet as symbols of good fortune, see Guarducci 1942–1943, 341–343; Till 1971, passim; Quillard 1987, 222; Dunbabin 1990, 105–106; Olianas 2010, 253; Caseau 2012, 121–123. 85 Castiglione 1968b. 86 Deonna 1913; Baudouin 1914; Dunbabin 1990, 93; Maikidou-Poutrino 2018, 450; Krumeich 2020, passim.

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of a single footprint of a bare right foot from Alexandria [Cat. 4] which mentions the Ἴσιδος πόδας.87 Dunbabin’s words are explicit in showing the confusion that still reigns concerning the interpretation of this complex phenomenon: In the Graeco-Roman world, the two customs appear to have merged, and the distinction between divine and human footprints is frequently not made clear […] When the slabs were set horizontally in the pavement, the direction of the feet vis-à-vis the inscription may be indicative: one would assume that [when/if?] the feet face towards the reader, they are those of the deity; when they point in the same direction as the inscription, those of the worshipper. However, the thinner slabs may have been designed to be set vertically against a wall, in which case the direction of the feet may be arbitrary. Sometimes several dedicants are associated with a single pair of footprints, presumably those of the deity; sometimes one foot (or one pair) is dedicated to several deities, or more than one pair (or, for example, 2 right feet) to a single deity, when it is reasonable to suppose that they are those of the worshippers.88 More recently Takács writes in a similar way: Besides a written record (a name or a more detailed inscription), some of these pilgrims had also (their) feet depicted. Some of them came in sandals, some of them barefoot. Those who came with shod feet might have taken off their shoes at the threshold of the sanctuary. They stood in front of the sanctuary (two planted feet), they walked towards and into it (single feet away from the viewer of the inscription), and on occasion, 87

88

Dunbabin 1990, 86–88. This raises two main problems: the possible identification of these feet with those of the goddess and the contradiction between the representation of a single footprint and the inscription mentioning plural feet. The (usually rejected) suggestion by Guarducci 1942–1943, 315, interpreting this Isis as a devotee, cannot be excluded a priori, since “the evidence for Isis as a personal name is beyond doubt, with more than one hundred examples spread over more than a millennium: the earliest instances go back to the pre-Ptolemaic period, and the name survives in Coptic until the Arab period. It is even found in the wealthy Christian family of the Apiones in the 6th century CE” (Clarysse 2018, 217). As a non-Isiac comparison, see the altar TAM III.1, 32 from Termessos in Pisidia that was to be erected to Theos Hypsistos “with an accompanying footprint of the god” in compliance with the god’s command: Θεῷ ἐπηκόῳ Ὑ/⟨ψ⟩ίστῳ, Τύχ[ι(?)]/ος ὁ καὶ Ἀττα/ λιανός, Ἑρ(μαίου) βʹ /5 Σύρου, πά(ροικος), κα/τὰ κέλευσιν / αὐτοῦ ἔστη/σεν / σὺν τῷ ἐπόν[τι] /10 ἴχνει θεοῦ. Dunbabin 1990, 90.

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they stepped into pre-made footprints, and then they returned (single feet towards the viewer of the inscription). They completed their journey (two planted feet towards the viewer of the inscription).89 The attempt at distinguishing between those footprints that belonged to the gods and those belonging to the devotees becomes a real obsession in the work of Manganaro,90 as well as that of Puccio.91 The latter suggests identifying the footprints that are directed towards the exterior of the temple as divine, and those directed towards the interior as human.92 Revell goes so far as to accept the possibility that the difference in size of some footprints could reflect the pairing of mother and child, either in a divine (i.e. Isis and Harpocrates) or human form.93 Facing such problems, other scholars have tried to approach the phenomenon from a different perspective, choosing to focus instead on the ritual function of these dedications. Marcel Le Glay has suggested that the careful placing of several of these footprints in front of the cult statue might represent the spot on which the initiate had to stand when being presented to the god,94 while Gilbert-Charles Picard preferred to interpret it as the spot on which ritual sandals had to be worn.95 Unfortunately, these promising intuitions, privileging not the identity of the owners of the footprints but the operational value of the footprints for devotees, have been hamstrung by extremely weak argumentation and have, thus, largely been left out of consideration. Taking my cue from these views, I now want to suggest a new approach in order to overcome the interpretive problems mentioned above. As already stressed, despite the stylistic changes that accord with different times and different geographical contexts, the dedication of Isiac footprints apparently maintained a common denominator wherever and whenever it took place. This was the consistent placing of the carved slabs next to the staircase which provided access to the pronaos of the temple, thus marking a specific space of contact and communication between the god hosted in the cella and the

89 90 91 92 93 94 95

Takács 2005, 369. E.g. Manganaro 1961, 188. Puccio 2010. Cf. Bricault 2010, 686. Revell 2016, 215–216. Dunbabin 1990, 93. Cf. Dunbabin 1990, 93, n. 40. For the interdiction against leaving real footprints in holy spots, see Castiglione 1968a, 134 and 136, and Manganaro 1961. Aelian (NA 10.23) testifies to the custom of women engaged in the worship of Isis walking barefoot inside the temples.

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devotee visiting the sanctuary. These footprints seem to participate at the same time in the different realms of the human and the divine worlds, creating a sort of bridge between them. This communication neither excludes the possibility that the devotee could be visiting the temple in order to pray to the god for healing or for some other boon, nor that the visit was the target of a pilgrimage, perhaps prompted by a deity’s epiphany. However, the actual reason for the visit and the identity of the owner of the footprints are, in my opinion, of only secondary importance so far as the real function of this tool of communication is concerned, or, better, as the real functions are concerned given the polysemic nature of these objects and their natural predisposition to complexity.96 Below I summarise three main features with which the footprints are symbolically charged.97 a) Footprints are first of all an expression of presence: the presence of gods and of devotees near gods, in particular.98 Feet, footprints, sole-prints, and shoes represent a sort of individual signature (sphragis).99 In this respect, it is worth noting that the dedications of footprints, when accompanied by an inscription, usually mention just the name of the donor accompanied by very laconic and standardised formulae, as if the message conveyed by the dedication is already fully implicit in the image of the footprints themselves. At the same time, the footprints contain a sort of “delay” of this presence.100 In order to produce a footprint, it is necessary that the foot is no longer there.101 The footprint thus represents a collision between presence and absence, a survival, a “fossilisation of the path”,102 a sort of lieu de mémoire. b) Footprints are also an expression of ownership.103 According to the principle that quidquid tuus pes calcaverit, tuus erit (“every thing upon which the sole of your foot shall tread shall be yours”),104 this is probably the meaning

96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

Verner 1973, 17; Didi-Huberman 2009, 30. For a good general introduction to the symbolism of feet and footprints, see Kötting 1972; Daxelmüller 1987; Pickup and Waite 2018, passim, with further bibliography. Verner 1973, 45; Chiarini 2017. See at Medinet Habu a demotic graffito carved between two pairs of stylised inverted footprints, which reads “remain here in the presence of Min”: Verner 1973, 23. Van Driel-Murray 1999, 136–137. See, in a Samnite votive plaque from Pietrabboddante, a vow signed by both name and shoe prints: cf. Van Driel-Murray 1999, 136. Didi-Huberman 2009, 302. Didi-Huberman 2009, 309. Didi-Huberman 2009, 47, 76, and 325. Castiglione 1968a, 131, with bibliography. Guarducci 1942–1943, 342.

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not only of such iconography on jewels, seals, and amulets,105 but even of the well-known marks in planta pedis (so common on Roman pottery of vernice nera and sigillata italica).106 Feet are a frequent symbol of power, possession, and domination, a means to conquer (and even to humiliate) someone, but they can also be a sign of divine benevolence and protection:107 touching someone’s feet with the hands or hair, or kissing their feet, symbolises deference and submission.108 c) The symbolism of feet and footprints expresses not just presence, but even motion. This includes not only the movement of the god (the moment of whose transitory appearance is captured by the footprints), but also the movement of the devotee (who detects “a god by his trace, just as a hunter recognizes the marks of the game he pursues”).109 Consequently, at least in some cultures (such as those of Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism), footprints symbolise the spiritual and religious path.110 5

Conclusions

Having these three main (and very general) features of the symbolism conveyed by footprints in mind, and being aware of the dangers implicit in attempts at reconstructing (through a modern interpretation) ancient emic ways of perception, it is now possible to conclude my reflections by suggesting a new interpretation of such petrosomatoglyphs by reference to the three different issues that I promised to tackle in the introduction to this chapter. a) My first observation concerns the semantic polyvalence of footprints. The world of imprints seems to be constituted by a world of particularities, of singularities, of “circumstances of prints”,111 where there is a paradoxical coexistence of, on the one hand, such features as a print’s versatility, reversibility, polymorphism, and paradigmatic character, and, on the other, its being a procedural device, a metaphor, and a metonymy at the same time.112 The 105 Castiglione 1968a, 130, with bibliography on some case-studies concerning Arab tribes and Australian aborigines. 106 See Castiglione 1968a, 131; Olianas 2010, 252. 107 Speyer 1973. 108 See Lucius repeatedly kissing the feet (vestigia) of Isis in Apul. Met. 11.17, 23–24: Cf. Castiglione 1971a, 27; Dunbabin 1990, 96, nn. 55–56; Corzo Sánchez 1991, 142; Elsner 2007, 296. On the erotic component of feet, see Aigremont 1909; Levine 2005; Thomas 2008. 109 Verner 1973. 110 See e.g. Patrizi 2011, 89; and, supra, note no. 16. 111 Didi-Huberman 2009, 11. 112 Canetti 2011, 155.

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ressemblance par contact of the footprint does not allow us to identify its pe­remptory referent in reality (see Plotinus’ τὸ γὰρ ἴχνος τοῦ ἀμόρφου μορφή),113 but makes of the absence a sort of puissance de forme.114 Le processus d’empreinte est-il contact de l’origine ou bien perte de l’origine ? Manifeste-t-il l’authenticité de la présence (comme processus de contact) ou bien, au contraire, la perte d’unicité qu’entraîne sa possibilité de reproduction ? Produit-il l’unique ou le disséminé ? L’auratique ou le sériel ? Le ressemblant ou bien le dissemblable ? L’identité ou bien l’inidentifiable ? La décision ou le hasard ? Le désir ou bien le deuil ? La forme ou bien l’informe ? Le même ou l’altéré ? Le familier ou bien l’étrange ? Le contact ou bien l’écart […] Je dirai que l’empreinte est l’« image dialectique », la conflagration de tout cela.115 As an empty mark left by the foot, the footprint represented a “floating signifier”, the interpretation of which was left open for each individual, enabling them to choose precisely what type of invitation the footprint suggested to them.116 As a kind of fluid, ambiguous, and open symbol, the meaning of footprints had to be filled in by the individual within the spatial context in which the related slab was ritually located.117 The footprint did not act as an object that projected a specific identity, but as one into which identity and specific significance were placed by the practitioner.118 b) The second observation focuses upon the potential performativity of footprints in activating human-divine communication. Just as the so-called ἀχειροποίητα (that is the images which are supposed not to have been produced by human hand), footprints – or at least these imitations of footprints119 – represented an interface between human and divine worlds, the contact between which was activated through the anthropomorphism of the representation, which elided the gap between gods and men. Positioning themselves between “relics of use” and “relics of commemoration”,120 footprints recalled the accessibility and approachability of the divine body and, at the same time, its 113 Plotinus, Enn. 7.7.33.30. 114 Didi-Huberman 2009, 55 and 309. 115 Didi-Huberman 2009, 18. 116 Thomas 2008, 318. 117 Kinnard 2000, 36. 118 Cf. Kinnard 2000, 56. 119 A sort of mortification of the statuary art, according to Didi-Huberman 2009, 129. 120 Kinnard 2000, 42.

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impermanence. Slabs with footprints created the possibility of an intimate relationship between god and devotees (the donor, of course, but the other worshippers as well), without intermediaries, by ensuring the divine presence and the manifestation of divine power (energeia),121 which the Isiac deities were evidently perceived to be accustomed to given the epithets of Isis and Serapis as numen praesentissimum122 and epiphanes.123 These footprints were not important for their mimetic dimension,124 for their visibility or artistic quality, but rather for their operational power.125 As negatives, footprints ontologise the human/divine contact by looking for presence through absence, and by phenomenologically condensing a channel of communication. At the same time, they underline the alterity of the human and divine worlds, and the impossibility for humans of describing the divine world in terms of the ordinary perception of reality, or even of obtaining a full understanding of the gods.126 c) The third and final observation is by far the most important in the context of the present volume. I have argued that footprints could be considered as an apparatus or dispositif to create an open channel of communication with the divine, which was made effective by the reciprocal gaze of visuality, “a kind of epiphanic fulfilment both of the viewer-pilgrim, who discovers his or her deepest identity in the presence of the god, and of the god himself”.127 This 121 Stavrianopoulou 2016. See also the inspiring words of Vasiliu 2011, 142: “L’empreinte nécessite donc la présence, mais elle lui survit ; d’où son rôle de « témoin ». Toutefois, dans la rencontre elle-même et dans la collaboration entre une présence de passage et le réceptacle de sa trace se passe quelque chose d’essentiel qui transgresse les limites de la simple conservation fortuite d’une empreinte. A lieu en effet, comme dans le secret de toute rencontre, un transfert, un échange, un infléchissement réciproque qui est perçu par les Anciens comme un processus de révélation de la sphère privée de l’être et de son caractère singulier. Quelque chose comme une puissance provenant de la nature intime de l’être vivant survit dans sa trace et vient à l’entendement à partir de la rencontre nécessaire entre le toucher et la vue. Quelque chose de particulier, non de l’ordre d’une forme (eidos ou morphê) mais de l’ordre d’une dynamis”. 122 Apul. Met. 11.12; RICIS 403/0201. 123 Ach. Tat. 5.14.2; Origen., C. Cels. 5.38; PGM LIX 13–14; PSI IX 1036, 3; RICIS 202/0263 and 515/0115. 124 Cf. Didi-Huberman 2009, 309: “Tel est bien, pour finir, le paradoxe des objets produits par empreinte : le contact, dont ils demeurent les dépositaires légitime, ce contact souvent poignant, irréfutable, ne nous autorise pourtant pas à l’identification péremptoire de son référent dans la réalité”. 125 Lingua 2011, 128. 126 Bussels 2012, 147–148. 127 Elsner 2007, 23.

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more intimate communication with the divine that was achieved by means of the dedication of footprints was, in fact, activated by the synaesthetic condensation of different sensorial stimuli. Above all, the vestigia visually marked the location where devotees had to pray, in front of the divine cult statue, in front of the god who was there and who listened to the prayers. This optical component must have been particularly significant in an ocularcentric culture like that of Rome. The footprints carved in the marble slabs represented a visual “reminiscent present” of the human/ divine encounter, both acting in the instant and over the longue durée.128 They captured that moment and palpably perpetuated it through the most basic sense of sight, thus representing a testimony of its human or divine, immanent or transcendent, uniqueness, that is to say, its singularity.129 If, following the founder of ecological psychology, James J. Gibson, we accept the assumption that visual perception is always a function of observation on the move,130 the vestigia might represent a spatial indicator inviting the observer moving in the courtyard of the sanctuary to stop right there, to stand and look at the god, personified by the cult statue visible through the door of the temple. The vestigia must have been distinguishable from a distance of at least 10 metres. By getting closer, the devotee could better explore their precise location within the sanctuary, their morphological details and, once positioned in front of them, eventually their inscriptions. At that point, the close-up gaze became almost tactile, a palpation of the eyes entering the thickness of the slabs. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s words may express well that feeling: “only then do I understand the marble correctly; I ponder and compare, / see with a feeling eye, feel with a seeing hand” (Roman Elegies 5.9–10).131 The touching, the contact with these footprints, integrated the exploration of their tactile qualities. At Italica, a metallic gate, although framing the slabs in order to protect them and to restrict access to the temple, allowed the devotees to see and touch the prints on a daily basis, to haptically test their coolness and their texture.132 This tactile contact was probably 128 Fédida 1985, 23–45 apud Didi-Huberman 2009, 13 and 36. 129 Vasiliu 2011, 129–131. 130 Gibson 1979; Ingold 2004, 331. 131 These reflections and Goethe’s quotation itself are included in Le Breton 2006, 65–66. 132 Cf. Meynersen 2012, 75–76: “Im Vergleich zu den Beispielen, die im ägyptischen Mutterland gearbeitet und gestiftet wurden, richten sich die von griechischen Handwerkern produzierten Exemplare nicht allein an das Auge. Sie sind in einer subtilen Plastizität in den Stein eingetieft. Sie argumentieren demnach auch mit Taktilität. Diese mag mit der deutlich auf Plastizität ausgerichteten Tradition der griechischen Bildhauerkunst zusammenhängen,

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expected to give authenticity to the visual perception of the vestigia, to tangibly place the location of human-divine communication, and even to compensate for the absence of a visual or auditory intercourse with the supernatural. Vestigia thus not only described the desire for proximity to the gods, but the wish for a divine answer as well, as did the epithet epekoos and as was manifested by the formulae κατ’ἐνύπνιον, κατ’ὄναρ, κατ’ὄνειρον, καθ’ὅραμα, κατ’ἐπιταγήν, κατὰ κέλευσιν, κατὰ πρόσταγμα, κατὰ χρηματισμόν, ex viso/visu, ex imperio, ex iusso/iussu, ex praecepto, ex monitu.133 It is not by chance that these footprints were often integrated alongside similar dedications of other body-parts, especially ears. In the sanctuary of Isis Lochia at Dion (as well as in the Sarapieion “C” of Delos, in the temple “A” – likely a Sarapieion – of Thessaloniki, and at Serrai), an exemplar of these Ohrenweihungen was found right on the staircase of the temple, representing a sort of “door phone” that could be expected to activate the divine willingness to listen to the suppliants’ prayers and make them resonate within the sanctuary and its “sensorial community”.134 The recreation of this divine auditory listening likely represented a further step in the attempt to establish a social link with the gods via a verbal communication, that is, making the human-divine communication actually understandable: l’ouïe […] traduit l’épaisseur sensible du monde là où le regard se contentait des surfaces et passait outre, sans soupçonner les vibrantes coulisses que dissimulait le décors. Le son révèle, comme l’odeur, l’au-delà des apparences, il force les choses à témoigner de leurs présences inaccessibles au regard. Il retourne l’invisible en le prêtant un instant à l’oreille.135 This use of vestigia and Ohrenweihungen was extremely different from the way in which the dedication of footprints and ear-stelae was originally conceptualised in Pharaonic Egypt, where the devotees had no access to the temple. And this shows how easily a shift in religious mediation could take place in the Greco-Roman world, by accessing new media or embracing, incorporating and adapting old ones.136

133 134 135 136

kann aber auch ein verändertes Interesse an der Authentifizierung der Epiphanie der Gottheit anzeigen”. Weinreich 1912; Stavrianopoulou 2016; Renberg 2018. Gasparini 2016, esp. 562. Le Breton 2006, 116. Cf. Meyer 2009, 18 and, specifically on the Isiac cults, Gasparini and Gordon 2018, esp. 587–603.

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Thanks to the proximity of the pyriform cortex (the main olfactory area in the brain) and the hippocampus (the memory area), smell and memory are closely intertwined.137 The peculiar position of the vestigia of Baelo Claudia, as I suggested, can likely be explained by reference to the sacrifices performed on the altar next to them, which involved the activation of a further sense of smell, thus enriching the multi-sensorial experience of the divine, making the smeller desire and look for the immaterial (here divine) source of the smell, at once inhaling (that is embodying) and effectively evoking the memory of it.138 The smell of incense, garlands, and fragrances, the smoke flowing up to the sky from the altar, and even the stink of the excrement of the tense animals brought into the courtyard to be sacrificed, all participated in the mise-en-scents139 of “aromatopias” (or smellscapes) demarcated as “other” by smells which consequently “heighten[ed] the ‘realism’ of the viewing experience, affirm[ed] the ‘authenticity’ of objects, and secure[d] the ‘legitimacy’ of the representations”.140 By means of smells, atmospheres activating the religious engagement of the devotees were established: the “ ‘olfactory affect’ is a key means by which identifications with place are enacted. Smell, an integral component of emotional investment, works implicitly to convey a structure of ­feeling’ – that unrepresentable, inarticulable sense of lived experience”.141 Similarly, by ingesting food during the communal festive meals that followed the sacrifices, people could “articulate and recognize their distinctiveness”,142 reaffirm and consolidate their belonging to a social group, and also consolidate and express their religious feelings by talking about them. Food (or better the remains shared by humans of the food already offered to the gods) could activate a further sensory constellation, and the related feeling of fullness, at the end of the sacred banquet, was able to seal the experience of such synaesthetic rejoicing. In conclusion, memory is, a culturally mediated material practice that is activated by embodied acts and semantically dense objects […]. Memory is the horizon of sensory experiences, storing and restoring the experience of each sensory 137 138 139 140 141 142

Jacob 2011, 199–200. Cf. Classen, Howes, and Synnott 1994. Drobnick 2005, 272. Drobnick 2005, 270. Drobnick 2005, 276. Counihan 1999, 7.

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dimension in another, as well as dispersing and finding sensory records outside the body in a surround of entangling objects and places.143 As projections of the “lived” body, the vestigia functioned in the Greco-Roman world as an instrument of the self’s experience of both the social (human) and the divine world,144 as a sort of meta-narrative on sensory experience, a kind of “surrealist” cultural artefact invested with sensory memory. The short description provided above of the sensory stimuli simultaneously involved in the experience of the vestigia neatly shows how the human actors of the Greco-Roman world could acknowledge the divine presence and build dynamic relationships with the transcendental by stimulating synaesthetically (i.e. by a range of different exploratory procedures) the senses via material artefacts. By reproducing the shape of the feet, the technological medium of vestigia was able to activate a sensory and cognitive process of social recognition of the cultural space as specifically devoted to human-divine communication. Thus, the economic investment involved in the dedication of such objects could result very effectively in attributing agency to the gods, invoking and materialising their epiphanies, bridging between physical human beings and “not unquestionably plausible supernatural agents”,145 and linking affective communities (or “aesthetic formations”, as some might say)146 around these tangibly visualised “encounters” (that is, creating human-human affiliations). The polysensoriality implicit in the dedication of footprints, the formation of “sensory identities” attributing specific cultural meanings to such objects, and their resonance within the peculiar sacred landscape of the Greco-Roman sanctuaries participated in a process of emotional arousal which bound people to the temples themselves. The invisible was made visible, “manifest in public space, generating sensorial sensibilities and aptitudes that vest these imaginations with a sense of truth”.147 Placing such mediating objects along the staircase of the aedes represented a very compelling micro-strategy of grounding the sacred space “in existential or lived consciousness”,148 of making it a “lived place”.149

143 Seremetakis 1994, 9. 144 Cf. McGuire 1990, esp. 285. 145 Rüpke 2015. 146 Meyer 2009, 6–11. 147 Meyer 2009, 6. 148 Tilley 1994, 15. 149 Gasparini 2020a.

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Catalogue

(* marks objects of uncertain Isiac attribution)

Cat. 1: Thmouis (Tell el-Timai) – Aegyptus Egyptian Museum of Cairo, inv. no. 27071? (quaesivi sed non inveni) Ptolemaic epoch Dim.: 0.43 × 0.23 × ? Anepigraphic Bibl.: Edgar 1915, 12, no. 61; Castiglione 1967, 239–240 Photo: Castiglione 1967, 243, Fig. 7

Cat. 2: Unknown provenance – Aegyptus Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria, inv. no. 17577? (quaesivi sed non inveni) Ptolemaic epoch? Dim.: 0.56 × 0.26 × 0.21 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Castiglione 1967, 246 Photo: Castiglione 1967, 241, Fig. 4

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cat. 1

cat. 2

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310

Gasparini

Cat. 3: Alexandria (Alexandria), Sarapieion – Aegyptus Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria, inv. no. 65 1st cent. BCE Dim.: 0.28 × 0.32 × 0.04 Ἑρμανούβιδι θεῶι μεγάλωι / ἐπηκόωι καὶ εὐχαρίστωι Σα̣ραπί/ων Διονυσίου Σαραπίδειο[ς] καὶ / Εὐκλεία ἡ τούτου ἀδελφὴ�̣ κ̣ α[ὶ] /5 γυνὴ ὑπὲρ Διονυσίου τοῦ υἱ[οῦ] / ιβʹ (ἔτους), Ἁθὺρ ηʹ Bibl.: Botti 1899, 63–64, no. 5; Botti 1900, 580–581, no. 454; Breccia 1911, 74, no. 120, tav. XXXI.75; SB I [1915] 3482; Guarducci 1942–1943, 314–315; Rowe 1946, 35; Castiglione 1967, 239 and Fig. 12; Grenier 1977, 23; Kayser 1994, 211–214, no. 66 and pl. XXXV–XXXVI Photo: A. Lecler (© Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria), 1992. Courtesy of L. Bricault

Cat. 4: Alexandria (Alexandria) – Aegyptus Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria, inv. no. 3433 Ptolemaic epoch? Dim.: 0.17 × 0.10 × ? Ἴσιδος πόδας Bibl.: Botti 1900, 561, no. 296; Breccia 1911, 68, no. 104a; SB I [1915] 3478; Guarducci 1942– 1943, 314–315; Manganaro 1961, 188, n. 74; Castiglione 1967, 244 and 249; Dunbabin 1990, 86, n. 16; Bricault 1999, 187 Photo: A. Lecler (© Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria), 1992. Courtesy of L. Bricault

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 3

cat. 4

311

312

Gasparini

Cat. 5: Hawara, funerary temple of Amenemhet III – Aegyptus Egyptian Museum of Cairo, inv. no. 23219? (quaesivi sed non inveni) Imperial epoch Dim.: ? Anepigraphic Bibl.: Castiglione 1967, 240 Photo: Castiglione 1967, 241, Fig. 5

Cat. 6: Fayoum? – Aegyptus Museum of Art and History of Geneve, Collection Forcart, inv. no. 9461 Imperial epoch Dim.: 0.30 × 0.18 × 0.10 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Castiglione 1967, 247 Photo: Ariane Arlotti (© Musée d’art et d’histoire, Ville de Genève), 2015 and Castiglione 1967, 243, Fig. 8

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 5

cat. 6

313

314

Gasparini

Cat. 7: Delos (Delos), Sarapieion C – Achaia Archaeological Museum of Delos, inv. no. A 585 Before 166 BCE Dim.: 0.32 × 0.32 × 0.09 Πυργίας ἀρεταλόγος / κατὰ π[ρ]όσταγ[μα Σαράπι(?)]ος τὸ βῆμα. /[---]μυρίς, Μαιανδρία, Σησάμη / Ἴσι, Ἀνούβι Bibl.: Hauvette-Besnault 1882, 327–328, no. 21; Roussel 1915–1916, 115–116, no. 60; IG XI 4, 1263; Guarducci 1942–1943, 313; Manganaro 1961, 188, n. 73; Baslez 1977, 302, n. 24; Mora 1990, 84, no. 641; 106, no. 823; 111, no. 867; and 132, no. 1069; RICIS 202/0186; Takács 2005, 363; Krumeich 2020, 164 Photo: RICIS 202/0186, pl. XLVII and Roussel 1915–1916, 115, Fig. 15

Cat. 8: Delos (Delos), Sarapieion C – Achaia Archaeological Museum of Delos, inv. no. A 586 114–113 BCE Dim.: 0.22 × 0.41 × 0.50 Ἀπατούριος Διοδώρου / Μιλήσιος τὰ βήματα / ἀνέθηκεν Ἴσιδι / Δικαιοσύνηι /5 κατὰ πρόσταγμα, / ἐπὶ ἱερέως Ἀριστίωνος τοῦ / Εὐδόξου Μελιτέως Bibl.: Hauvette-Besnault 1882, 336, no. 37; Roussel 1915–1916, 149, no. 122; I.Délos 2103; Guarducci 1942–1943, 313; Manganaro 1961, 188, n. 73; Mora 1990, 14, no. 77 and 23, no. 152; RICIS 202/0288; Takács 2005, 363; Krumeich 2020, 164 Photo: Panagiotis Chatzidakis (Ephorate of Antiquities of Cyclades)

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 7

cat. 8

315

316

Gasparini

*Cat. 9: Beroia (Veria) – Macedonia Lost 1st cent. BCE Dim.: 0.40 × 0.30 × 0.08 [---] / [---] ἀνέθ[η]κ[ε]ν / [ἐ]πὶ [σ]ωτηρίαι κα/[τ’]ἐπιταγήν Bibl.: Woodward 1911, 150–151, no. 9; Roussel 1914, 455; Tzavanari 1993, 1673; Gounaropoulou and Hatzopoulos 1998, 136, no. 34; RICIS *113/0303; Krumeich 2020, 170 and 172, Fig. 3.19 Photo: Woodward 1911

*Cat. 10: Beroia (Veria) – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Beroia, inv. no. Λ 695 End of the 1st–beginning of the 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.26 × 0.32 × 0.08 Κόρραγος Ἱέρακος εὐχήν· ἐπὶ / ἱερέως Γ(αΐου) Κανουληίου Ἄπερος Bibl.: Allamani 1980, 406 and pl. 237a; SEG XXXVIII [1988] 585; BE 1990, 458; Tzavanari 1993, 1672–1673 and Fig. 1; Gounaropoulou and Hatzopoulos 1998, 136–137, no. 35; RICIS *113/0302; Christodoulou 2009, 345–346 and Taf. 46.4 Photo: Gounaropoulou and Hatzopoulos 1998, 544, no. 35

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 9

cat. 10

317

318

Gasparini

*Cat. 11: Serrai (Serres) – Macedonia Anepigraphic Unpublished no image available

Cat. 12: Neine (Gorna Gradeshnitsa) – Macedonia Kresna School? 150–250 CE Dim.: 0.40 × 0.78 × 0.15 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Gerassimova-Tomova 1980, 96, Fig. 5; Tacheva-Hitova 1983, 20–22, no. 35 and pl. IX; Dunbabin 1990, 86 and Fig. 3 Photo: Tacheva-Hitova 1983, pl. IX, Fig. I.35

Cat. 13: Neine (Gorna Gradeshnitsa) – Macedonia Location unknown 150–250 CE Dim.: 0.30 × 0.35 × ? Anepigraphic Bibl.: Tacheva-Hitova 1983, 22–23, no. 36 and pl. IX Photo: Tacheva-Hitova 1983, pl. IX, Fig. I.36

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 12

cat. 13

319

320

Gasparini

Cat. 14: Maroneia (Maroneia) – Tracia Archaeological Museum of Komotini End of 2nd – beginning of 3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.15 × 0.82 × 0.48 Ἀγωνοθέτης Ἀπολλώνιος Ἀπολλωνίου Σεράπιδι, / Ἴσιδι, Ἀνούβιδι, Ἁρφοχράτῃ κατὰ πρόσταγμα Bibl.: Grandjean 1975, 119–120 and pl. V; Be 1977, 288; Tacheva-Hitova 1983, 31–32, no. 52; Dunbabin 1990, 86 and 87, Fig. 2; Triantaphyllos 1995, 363; SEG XLVIII [1998] 903; Loukoupoulou et al. 2005, 381–382, no. E203; Mora 1990, 193, no. 129; Takács 2005, 365; RICIS 114/0204; Krumeich 2020, 172–173 and 175, fig. 3.22 Photo: Grandjean 1975, pl. V

Cat. 15: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 981 1st–2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.22 × 0.10 × 0.03 Ἱερητεύοντος Νεικίου τοῦ Ἇντ/[έρ]ωτος, ἀρχινεωκοροῦντος Ἇμ/[---]ου τοῦ Δημοκράτους Bibl.: Walter 1940, 263; Manganaro 1964, 292; SEG XXIV [1969] 563; SIRIS 111c; IG X 2, 1, 115; Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 254–255, no. 334 and 516, Fig. 1022; RICIS 113/0547; Takács 2005, 364; Christodoulou 2009, 341 Photo: Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 516, Fig. 1022, no. 334

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 14

cat. 15

321

322

Gasparini

Cat. 16: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion? – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 841 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.50 × 0.41 × 0.11 Καικιλίαι Πῶλλαι Σαράπιδι / Εἴσιδι κατ’ἐπιταγήν Bibl.: Manganaro 1964, 292; SEG XXIV [1969] 560; SIRIS 111a; IG X 2, 1, 89; Dunand 1973, pl. XVII.1; Daux & Edson 1974, 538, Fig. 6; Mora 1990, 246, no. 599; Despinis, Stefanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 1997, 67–69, no. 48 and 276, Fig. 130; RICIS 113/0555; Takács 2005, 364; Steimle 2008, 120–121, no. 187, 192, 194; Tzanavari 2011, 607, no. 380; Chiarini 2017, 159; Krumeich 2020, 171 and 174, fig. 3.21 Photo: Tzanavari 2011, 607, no. 380

Cat. 17: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 973 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.35 × 0.41 × 0.06 [Εἴσιδι κ]αὶ Σαράπιδι θεοῖς εὐεργέ/ταις· Στράτων Ξαν/[---ο]υ Πρειμιγένους / [---]ίου Πρει/5 [μιγένους(?) ---]ς Bibl.: Walter 1940, 263; IG X 2, 1 90; Manganaro 1964, 292; Mora 1990, 302, no. 1090 and 328, nos. 1324–1325; Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 254, no. 333; RICIS 113/0565 Photo: Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 515, Fig. 1021, no. 333

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 16

cat. 17

323

324

Gasparini

Cat. 18: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 1955 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.20 × 0.33 × 0.07 [Κε]ρρηνία Φ[ι]λημά/[τιον κατ’ἐ]πιτα/[γὴν Εἴσιδι] Τύχῃ Bibl.: Daux 1958, 756; IG X 2, 1, 104; Mora 1990, 251, no. 647; Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 253–254, no. 332; RICIS 113/0566; Krumeich 2020, 171 and 173, Fig. 3.20 Photo: Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 515, Fig. 1020, no. 332

Cat. 19: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 976 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.23 × 0.27 × 0.07 [---] / Βενετία Πρεῖμα / κατ’ἐπιταγήν Cf. Walter 1940, 263; Manganaro 1964, 292; SIRIS 111b; SEG XXIV [1969] 562; IG X 2, 1, 120; Mora 1990, 206, no. 232; Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 255, no. 335; RICIS 113/0567; Takács 2005, 363; Koester 2010, 145 and 146, Fig. 5 Photo: Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 516, Fig. 1023, no. 335

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 18

cat. 19

325

326

Gasparini

Cat. 20: Thessaloniki (Thessalonike), Sarapieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, inv. no. ΜΘ 842 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.20 × 0.40 × 0.13 Ἴσιδι Νύμφῃ Αἰμίλιος Εὔτυ/χος Bibl.: Manganaro 1964, 292–293; SIRIS 111d; SEG XXIV [1969] 561; IG X 2, 1, 105; Dunand 1973, Pl. XVII.2; Düll 1977, 137; Mora 1990, 184, no. 48; Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 255–256, no. 336; RICIS 113/0568; Takács 2005, 364 Photo: Despinis, Stephanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 2003, 517, Fig. 1024, no. 336

Cat. 21: Dion (Dion), Isieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Dion, inv. no. 422 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.39 × 0.30 × 0.16 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Pandermalis 1984, 273; SEG XXXIV [1984] 622; BE 1987, 675; AE 1998, 1201; Mora 1990, 526, no. 576.1; RICIS 113/0201 and RICIS Suppl. I in Bricault 2008, 82; Christodoulou 2011, 18, no. 4; Revell 2016, 214–216; Krumeich 2020, 169–170, Fig. 3.17 Photo: Christodoulou 2011, 19, Fig. 9

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 20

cat. 21

327

328

Gasparini

Cat. 22: Dion (Dion), Isieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Dion, inv. no. 423 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.39 × 0.28 × 0.06 Γ(άιος) Ὅστιος Φίλ[ω]ν / ἱερεὺς κατ’ἐπιταγήν Bibl.: Pandermalis 1984, 273–274; SEG XXXIV [1984] 623a; BE 1987, 675; Mora 1990, 526, no. 897.1; AE 1998, 1203; RICIS 113/0203; Christodoulou 2011, 18, no. 5; Tsochos 2012, 21, n. 30 and 209; Revell 2016, 214–216; Krumeich 2020, 169 Photo: Christodoulou 2011, 19, Fig. 14

Cat. 23: Dion (Dion), Isieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Dion, inv. no. 420 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.42 × 0.20 × 0.04 Γετιανὸς / Πασίφιλος / ἱερώμενος Bibl.: Pandermalis 1984, 274; SEG XXXIV [1984] 624; BE 1987, 675; Mora 1990, 525, no. 251.1; AE 1998, 1204; RICIS 113/0205; Christodoulou 2011, 20–21, no. 67; Revell 2016, 214– 216; Krumeich 2020, 169 Photo: Christodoulou 2011, 21, Fig. 18

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 22

cat. 23

329

330

Gasparini

Cat. 24: Dion (Dion), Isieion – Macedonia Archaeological Museum of Dion, inv. no. 419 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.49 × 0.38 × 0.03 Ἷγνατία Ἑρεννία / Ἑρμανούβει / κατ’ἐπιταγήν Bibl.: Pandermalis 1984, 274; SEG XXXIV [1984] 625; BE 1987, 675; Mora 1990, 526, no. 559.1; AE 1998, 1205; RICIS 113/0206; Christodoulou 2011, 18–20, no. 6; Revell 2016, 214– 216; Krumeich 2020, 169, Fig. 3.16 Photo: Christodoulou 2011, 20, Fig. 15

*Cat. 25: Athenai (Athens) – Attica Acropolis Museum of Athens, inv. no. 281 2nd–3rd cent. CE? Dim.: 0.29 × 0.60 × ? Anepigraphic Bibl.: Trianti 2008, 402 and Fig. 18; Krumeich 2020, 165 and 167, Fig. 3.14 Photo: Trianti 2008, Fig. 18

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 24

cat. 25

331

332

Gasparini

Cat. 26: Chaironeia (Chaeronea) – Boeotia Archaeological Museum of Chaironeia, inv. no. X 222 Imperial epoch Dim.: 0.33 × 0.27 × 0.13 Φῦρος Σωτέου / ἐπιταγῇ Εἴσιδος Bibl.: Manganaro 1961, 187; IG VII 3414; SIRIS 61; Roesch 1989, 628; Mora 1990, 320, no. 1255; RICIS 105/0894; Takács 2005, 363 Photo: Garyfallia Kitsou (Ephorate of Antiquities of Boiotia)

*Cat. 27: Catana (Catania) – Sicilia Museum of Castello Ursino, inv. no. MB 571? (quaesivi sed non inveni) 1st–2nd cent. CE? Dim.: 0.43 × 0.35 × ? M(arcus) Antonius Cal[l]istus Bibl.: Manganaro 1961, 184; SIRIS 515; Malaise 1972, 316, Catana no. 1; Sfameni Gasparro 1973, 209, no. 139; Mora 1990, 392, no. 29; RICIS *518/0501; Takács 2005, 366 Photo: Manganaro 1961, Fig. 7

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 26

cat. 27

333

334

Gasparini

Cat. 28: Roma (Roma) – regio VIII Museo Capitolino, Sala delle Colombe, inv. no. 331 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: diam. 0.40 × ? Isidi / frugifer(ae) et Genio / uenali[ci] Bibl.: CIL VI 351; Stuart Jones 1912, 139, no. 1; Guarducci 1942, 315; SIRIS 379; Malaise 1972, 115, Roma no. 11; ILS 4354; Heidemann 1990; Mora 1990, 441, no. 394; Arslan 1997, 310; Suppl.It. I [1999] no. 2221; RICIS 501/0111; Takács 2005, 365; AE 2010, 90; Chioffi 2010, 523; Bricault and Veymiers 2014, 153 Photo: Arslan 1997, 310

*Cat. 29: Roma (Roma) – via Nomentana Villa Albani? (quaesivi sed non inveni) ? Dim.: ? Licinia Philete / pro salute sua et suor(um) / d(e) s(uo) p(osuit) Bibl.: Morcelli, Fea & Visconti 1869, 4, no. IX and 223, no. 110; CIL VI 31107; EphEp IV [1881] 272, no. 772; SIRIS 416; Manganaro 1961, 188; Castiglione 1968a, 124; Malaise 1972, 131, Roma no. 64; Mora 1990, 417, no. 210; RICIS *501/0156; Takács 2005, 365 no image available

Cat. 30: Ostia (Ostia) – regio I Latium et Campania Lost? (quaesivi sed non inveni) 100–150 CE Dim.: ? Α(ἰλία) Ἰουλιανὴ Διὶ Ἡλιῳ / Σαράπιδι εὐχήν Bibl.: SIRIS 533f; Malaise 1972, 73, Ostia no. 24; SEG XXXI [1981] 860; Moretti 1981, 381, n. 3; RICIS 503/1109 no image available

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 28

335

336

Gasparini

Cat. 31: Lavinium (Pratica di Mare) – regio I Latium et Campania Palazzo Borghese 1st–2nd cent. CE Dim.: ? Isidi reginae / C(aius) Sempronius Crhyse/ros (sic) votum solbuit Bibl.: Tomassetti 1895a, 147 and 1895b, 349, no. c; EphEp IX 586; Manganaro 1961, 189; SIRIS 523; Castiglione 1968a, 124; Malaise 1972, 62, Lavinium no. 1; ILS 4355; Dunbabin 1990, 90–91; Mora 1990, 429, no. 301; RICIS 503/0201; Takács 2005, 366 Photo: Tomassetti 1895a, 147, and Bricault and Veymiers 2014, 157

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 31

cat. 32

337

338

Gasparini

Cat. 32: Industria (Monteu da Po), “Serapaeum” – regio IX Liguria Biblioteca Reale di Torino 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.35 × 0.16 × 0.03 Avilia Ambilis / v(otum) s(olvit) Bibl.: Morra di Lauriano 1843, Pl. I; Fabretti 1880, 55 and Pl. IX; CIL V 7488; Manganaro 1961, 189; SIRIS 645; Malaise 1972, 37, Industria no. 2; Bongioanni and Grazzi 1988, 10; Mora 1990, 398, no. 68; Suppl.It. XII [1993] 45; Emanuela Zanda in Arslan 1997, 452, no. V.85; RICIS 513/0102; Takács 2005, 366; F. Barello in Fontanella 2009, 127 and 471–472; Zanda 2011, 142–143, 201–202; F. Barello in Barello 2012, 9–10; Saragoza 2012, 325 Photo: Zanda 2011, 202, Fig. 1

Cat. 33: Augusta Vindelicorum (Augsburg) – Raetia Roman Museum of Augsburg, inv. no. Lap. 248 End of 2nd – beginning of 3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.16 × 0.26 × 0.06 Fl(avius) / Eudia/prac/tus // Isi/di / reg(inae) // ex / vo/to //5 s(olvit) // l(ibens) // m(erito) Bibl.: Ohlenroth and Wagner 1951–1952, 278; SIRIS 646; Grimm 1969, 220, no. 136 and Pl. 16.2; Gottlieb, Grabert and Kern 1979, 91–95; AE 1982, 726; Bakker 1985, 109–110; Gschaid 1993, 262–263; G. Clerc in Arslan 1997, 556, no. VI.10; RICIS 611/0101; Takács 2005, 367–368 Photo: Arslan 1997, 556, no. VI.10

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 33

cat. 34

339

340

Gasparini

Cat. 34: Baelo Claudia (Belo), Isaeum – Baetica Museum of Bolonia, inv. no. 83/290 2nd–3rd cent. CE Dim.: 0.45 × 0.21 × 0.02 [Isidi D]ominae / M(arcus) [Semp(?)]ronius / Maxumus v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) Bibl.: Bonneville et al. 1984, 484–485, no. 29b; Bonneville, Dardaine and Le Roux 1988, 24–25, no. 2; AE 1984, 531; HEp II [1990)] 228; Mora 1990, 500, no. 57; Olavarría Choin 2004, 157, no. 2; RICIS 602/0102; Dardaine et al. 2008, 157; Puccio 2010, 149; Alvar 2012, 81–83, no. 102; Revell 2016, 206, 208–211; Krumeich 2020, 182, Fig. 3.28 Photo: Dardaine et al. 2008, 59, Fig. 25b

Cat. 35: Baelo Claudia (Belo), Isaeum – Baetica Museum of Bolonia, inv. no. 83/291 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.43 × 0.32 × 0.02 Isidi Do[minae] / L(ucius) Vecili[us] [---] / l(ibens) a(nimo) v(otum) [s(olvit)] Cf. Bonneville et al. 1984, 484, no. 29a; AE 1984, 530; Bonneville, Dardaine and Le Roux 1988, 25–26, no. 3; Mora 1990, 501, no. 68; Olavarría Choin 2004, 157, no. 3; RICIS 602/0103; Dardaine et al. 2008, 157; Puccio 2010, 149; Alvar 2012, 83, no. 103; Revell 2016, 206, 208–211; Krumeich 2020, 181, Fig. 3.27 Photo: Dardaine et al. 2008, 59, Fig. 25b

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 35

cat. 36

341

342

Gasparini

Cat. 36: Italica (Santiponce), Isaeum – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP2007/06 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.28 × 0.27 × 0.02 Isidi Dominae / Marcia Voluptas ex voto / et iussu libens animo sol(vit) Bibl.: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 128–133, no. 1; HEp V [1995] 714; F. Fernádez Gomez in Arslan 1997, 553, no. VI.3; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 124, no. 1; Olavarría Choin 2004, 158, no. 1; RICIS 602/0202; Puccio 2010, 147–148; Alvar 2012, 62, no. 70; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218; Krumeich 2020, 184, Fig. 3.30 Photo: Alvar 2012, 62, Fig. 70

Cat. 37: Italica (Santiponce), Isaeum – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP2007/08 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.30 × 0.26 × ? Isidi / Regin(ae) / Soter / votum /5 s(olvit) l(ibens) a(nimo) Cf. Corzo Sánchez 1991, 133, no. 2; HEp V [1995] 715; Olavarría Choin 2004, 158, no. 3; RICIS 602/0203; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 124, no. 2; Puccio 2010, 147–148; Alvar 2012, 63, no. 71; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 63, Fig. 71

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 37

cat. 38

343

344

Gasparini

Cat. 38: Italica (Santiponce), Isaeum – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP2007/05 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.21 × 0.23 × ? Domnulae Bubasti / Iunia Cerasa / v(otum) / s(olvit) l(ibens) a(nimo) Bibl.: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 134, no. 3; HEp V [1995] 716; Olavarría Choin 2004, 158, no. 2; RICIS 602/0204; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 124–125, no. 3; Puccio 2010, 147–148; Alvar 2012, 63, no. 72; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 63, Fig. 72

Cat. 39: Italica (Santiponce), Isaeum – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP2007/10 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.21 × 0.30 × ? [Isi]di Vi(ctrici) Privata imperio Iunonis / d(ono) d(edit) Bibl.: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 134–136, no. 4; HEp V [1995] 717; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 125, no. 4; Olavarría Choin 2004, 158, no. 4; RICIS 602/0205; Puccio 2010, 147–148; Alvar 2012, 63–64, no. 73; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 64, Fig. 73

ISIS ’ FOOTPRINTS: PETROSOMATOGLYPHS & HUMAN-DIVINE ENCOUNTERS

cat. 39

cat. 40

345

346

Gasparini

*Cat. 40: Italica (Santiponce) – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP2007/07 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.18 × 0.18 × 0.04 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 136–137; Puccio 2010, 147, n. 93; Alvar 2012, 65, no. 74; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 65, Fig. 74

*Cat. 41: Italica (Santiponce) – Baetica Warehouse of the theatre 2nd cent. CE Dim.: ? Anepigraphic Bibl.: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 136–137 Photo: Corzo Sánchez 1991, 136, Fig. 9

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*Cat. 42: Italica (Santiponce) – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP0162 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.20 × 0.15 × 0.03 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Fernández Chicarro de Dios 1950, 630–631, no. 13; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 102, no. 12; Puccio 2010, 147, n. 93; Alvar 2012, 65, no. 74; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 65, Fig. 74

*Cat. 43: Italica (Santiponce) – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. 1986/195 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.18 × 0.12 × 0.03 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Fernández Chicarro de Dios 1950, 626–627, no. 10; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 101, no. 10; Puccio 2010, 147, n. 93; Alvar 2012, 65, no. 74; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 65, Fig. 74

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*Cat. 44: Italica (Santiponce) – Baetica Archaeological Museum of Sevilla, inv. no. REP1986/996 2nd cent. CE Dim.: 0.21 × 0.14 × 0.05 Anepigraphic Bibl.: Fernández Chicarro de Dios 1950, 626, no. 9; Canto 1984, 185, no. 12; Beltrán Fortes and Rodríguez Hidalgo 2004, 102, no. 11; Puccio 2010, 147, n. 93; Alvar 2012, 65, no. 74; Revell 2016, 206, 216–218 Photo: Alvar 2012, 65, Fig. 74

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Acknowledgements

This article was initially conceived at the Max Weber Centre for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt within the research project The Breath of Gods. Embodiment, Experience and Communication in Everyday Isiac Cultic Practice, which belonged to the wider project Lived Ancient Religion. Questioning “Cults” and “Polis Religion”, supervised by Jörg Rüpke and funded by the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2013, no. 295555). The final version of the text was developed and completed at the Universidad Carlos III de Madrid, within a new project (2018–2022) entitled Lived Ancient Religion in North Africa, funded by the Autonomous Community of Madrid (Aids for the Attraction of Research Talent, 2017-T1/HUM-5709). For their valu­able help either in collecting or discussing with me the material dealt with in this article, I am very grateful to Elvira Angeloni (Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici di Ostia), Laurent Bricault (Université de Toulouse Jean Jaurès), Gabriella Caramanica and Carlotta Caruso (Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Roma / Museo Nazionale Romano alle Terme di Diocleziano), Panagiotis Chatzidakis (Ephorate of Antiquities of Cyclades), Perikles Christodoulou (Université Libre de Bruxelles), Garyfallia Kitsou (Ephorate of Antiquities of Boiotia), Ralf Krumeich (Universität Bonn), Michel Malaise † (Université de Liège / Académie Royale de Belgique), Georgia Petridou (University of Liverpool), Gil H. Renberg (University of Nebraska Lincoln), Jörg Rüpke (Universität Erfurt), Eftychia Stavrianopoulou (Universität Heidelberg), and – of course – the editors of this volume, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, Antón Alvar Nuño and Greg Woolf. During the various stages of writing, Linda Finnigan, Stephanie Pearson, and Paul Scade did their best to correct my English. Bibliography Aigremont, Dr. (pseud. Schultze-Galléra, Siegmar von). 1909. Fuß- und Schuhsymbolik und Erotik. Folkloristische und sexualwissenschaftliche Untersuchungen. Leipzig: Deutsche Verlag-Aktien-Gesellschaft. Allamani, Victoria. 1980. “ΙΖ’ Εφορεία Προϊστορικών και Κλασικών Αρχαιοτήτων. Βέροια.” Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον 35, B2 Χρονικά: 399–408. Alvar, Jaime. 2012. Los cultos egipcios en Hispania. Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté. Alvar, Jaime, and Valentino Gasparini. 2020. “The gens isiaca in Hispania. Contextual­ ising the Iseum at Italica.” In Bibliotheca Isiaca, IV, edited by Laurent Bricault, and Richard Veymiers. 15–44. Bordeaux: Ausonius.

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Chapter 15

Assiduo sono and furiosa tibia in Ovid’s Fasti: Music and Religious Identity in Narratives of Processions in the Roman World Nicole Belayche Τελευταῖα δὲ πάντων αἱ τῶν θεῶν εἰκόνες ἐπόμπευον ὤμοις ὑπ´ ἀνδρῶν φερόμεναι1

∵ 1

Introduction

Religious processions are not simple moving ceremonies, or, to use the more precise definition given by Didier Viviers, “un déplacement groupé, d’un point précis à un autre, en vue du transport d’un objet ou de l’accompagnement d’une personne ou d’un animal”.2 They are also moments of public demonstration, with the walking ritual forming part of a larger festival, opened and closed by other ceremonies (sacrifices, games, etc.), and interacting with the civic space.3 Their large visibility and lavishness make them appropriate moments for displaying identities of various kinds, social and religious. For that reason, these ancestral forms of ceremonies4 became highlights in the civic life of the Roman Empire.5 The walking itself would be paused at certain 1 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.13: “Last of all in the procession came the images of the gods, borne on men’s shoulders”. A visual representation of this moment on a sarcophagus lid (second half of the fourth century) in the cloister of S. Lorenzo fuori le mura, Roma; see Walker 1990, II 2, n° 8 and pl. 3 (3rd–4th centuries CE). 2 Viviers 2004–2005, 219. 3 X. Eph. 2.2–9. For Rome, see for instance Benoist 2008 and Gruet 2006, 233–285 (Antiquity and the Middle Ages). 4 Viviers 2004–2005 traces their existence back to Archaic Greece and relates their importance and magnificence to a military “modèle athénien” (221). 5 Cf. in Carian Stratonicea the ἀνάβασις / ἄνοδος τοῦ θεοῦ (Zeus Panamareus) or the “entrance of the horse” (εἴσοδος τοῦ ἵππου), and the kleidophoria of Hekate; in Ephesus, the donation of C. Vibius Salutaris (I.Ephesos 27), Rogers 1991, with a perspective of local identity, and Graf

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stations, where the participants would perform specific rituals, such as the singing of hymns. To take just one example, we can consider the procession of the Molpoi – a guild with both public and private aspects serving Apollo Delphinios, the civic god – which made its way from Miletus to Didyma.6 At each station reached by the cortege, the Molpoi, who Stella Georgoudi calls “prêtres chanteurs-danseurs”,7 stopped to sing paeans8 that glorified the deity, thus the qualification of hymns as πομπικώτεραι καὶ πανηγυρικώτεραι (“better suited to processions and festivals”) by the rhetor Valerius Apsines.9 Yet processions were such a regular part of religious festivals in the ancient world that epigraphic records do not systematically mention them, as is the case at Antioch on the Pyramus for instance.10 When testimonies do attest to them, they offer both a broad panorama of the ritual panoply at work during feasts and a good stage for addressing the topic of music.11 During the last fifteen years, these moving performances have received close attention from two perspectives. On the one hand, a socio-political and urbanistic perspective has placed emphasis on their role in the creation of shared local identities, on the impact the performance of these rituals had on both the urban landscape and topography of the sacred, and on changes stemming from the introduction of the ruler cult into lavish local panegyries from the Hellenistic period onwards.12 Secondly, another trend put emphasis on spatiality of rituals, getting profit from results of urban archaeology. On the other hand, a psychological, and more recently cognitivist, perspective has focused on investigating the emotions elicited during processions.13 However, the function of sensoriality or synaesthesia in narratives of processions has not yet received a great deal of

2015, 41–50 with a socio-political enquiry in the context of the new balance of powers between Rome and the Greek cities. 6 The ritual norm is attested in an inscription that was probably engraved in the first century BCE and reports mid-fifth century BCE norms, with evolutions. An up-to-date discussion on the dating can be found in Deshours 2011, 282–283. 7 Georgoudi 2001. For a full commentary of the procession, Herda 2006. 8 Rehm 1914, n° 123, ll. 25–31 (= LSAM 50); transl. Deshours 2011, 279. 9 Valerius Apsines, Ars rhetorica, ed. Spengel, Rhetores Graeci I, 358, 9–10 (French ed. M. Patillon). 10 LSAM 81, in 160 BCE (partial transl., Chaniotis 2006, 213). 11 For music in processions, Clavel-Lévèque 1981. For a synaesthesic perspective in a city like Ephesus, especially during processions, see Quatember 2017 and Lind 2008. 12 E.g. Cavalier and des Courtils 2008, and Hölkeskamp 2015, esp. 33–40; Panagiotis 2010 and Chaniotis 2013. 13 For the display of emotions in Greek and Roman cultures, see Chaniotis and Ducrey 2013.

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attention, although there has been a booming development in sound studies from an anthropological perspective.14 The present study focuses on three religious processions, in each of which (images of) deities participate in the cortege: the pompa circensis at Rome and processions of the cults of both Mater Magna and Isis. It is not a new study (after many) of these processions as religious facts. I propose to investigate only the role music plays in the Latin and Greek narratives that inform us, since we have hardly any other evidence, besides a few images on reliefs mainly. My argument is that the musical ambiance depicted in these narratives, each of which stages a different divine figure that has been granted an officially recognised Roman public status, is first and foremost a device for drawing out a particular religious identity through the use of musical signs;15 thus it has only a tangential concern with the religious specificities of these cults. Music stands as a benchmark, the more so in such subtly rhetorical constructions. Reflecting on the textual representations of three processions (Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ chapters on the pompa circensis, the procession of the Navigium Isidis in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses XI, and the procession of Mater Magna in Ovid and Lucretius), I shall argue that the effect produced by their narratives and by their (albeit small) differences does not rest on particular religious conceptions or on the behaviour of worshippers, but on a sensorial ambiance – colour, music, smell – that is deliberately designed by the authors to construct a specific religious identity for each cult – generally classified as “Roman”, “Isiac”, and “Metroac”. Once a critical reading has identified both xenophobic biases (in poets such as Juvenal and Martial, and in the Roman aristocratic historiography) and a deliberate focus on exotic effects (in novelists such as Apuleius and certain Greek authors), it seems clear that sensorial labels are called for in displaying identity or alterity within a shared Greco-Roman ritual form. However, modern readings are still often tainted by a Cumontian approach to the so-called oriental cults, which considers their processions to be typical of a certain form of “religiosity” – whatever the results of a recent re-examination of the category of “oriental cults”,16 and despite the fact that Franz Cumont himself stressed only “le faste somptueux et bizarre”.17 According to this long-established historiographical model, processions of 14

E.g. Fernando and Nattiez 2014, and Emerit, Perrot, and Vincent 2015. Bettini 2008 offers a large study of what he calls the “fonosfera” of antiquity, focused on the voices of animals related to their human use or imitation. 15 Grand-Clément 2017, 58–59, speaks of “signature sonore”. 16 See Bonnet, Rüpke, and Scarpi 2006, and Bonnet, Pirenne-Delforge, and Praet 2009. 17 Cumont 19284, 90 (for Isis), see 55 for Mater Magna (“ce spectacle ne produisait encore qu’une sensation toute fugitive et extérieure”).

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these cults would have spread from the East. Narratives like that of Apuleius would, on this interpretation, demonstrate new religious features, including the emphatic display of the fervent individual commitments of the participants (which might be said to rise to the level of the “ecstatic” or “mystical”), and would, thus, reveal new religious interests or needs or behaviours. Reading closely these narratives drives towards more “Roman” realities. 2

Music as a Benchmark for Identity

Narratives of processions – and particularly that of the Navigium Isidis in Apuleius’ novel, which so many scholars have used as if it were a “live ­broadcast” – are literary constructs that play intentionally on the device of music, precisely because their authors knew the extent to which music could stand as a hallmark for cultural and ethnic identity. Strabo makes this point in his famous digression on the Curetes, whose armed dances served already in Antiquity as one of the paradigms for orgiastic and mystic behaviour, the other being provided by the images of the Bacchants: From its melody and rhythm and instruments, all music has been considered to be Thracian and Asiatic […] [T]hose who devoted their attention to the music of early times are called Thracians […] And one writer says, ‘striking the Asiatic cithara’; another calls flutes ‘Berecyntian’ and ‘Phrygian’; and some of the instruments have been called by barbarian names, ‘nablas’, ‘sambyce’, ‘barbitos’, ‘magadis’, and several others.18 In both Greco-Roman culture and Christian authors, a soundscape such as this, overloaded with shrill sounds, must either be related to barbarian19 or orgiastic behaviours (as, for instance, when Firmicus Maternus stigmatises the worshippers of the Dea Syria),20 or be intended to conceal criminal practices (as in

18 Str. 10.3.17, passim: Ἀπὸ δὲ τοῦ μέλους καὶ τοῦ ῥυθμοῦ καὶ τῶν ὀργάνων καὶ ἡ μουσικὴ πᾶσα Θρᾳκία καὶ Ἀσιᾶτις νενόμισται […] Οἵ τ’ ἐπιμεληθέντες τῆς ἀρχαίας μουσικῆς Θρᾷκες λέγονται […] καὶ ὁ μέν τίς φησιν “κιθάραν Ἀσιᾶτιν ῥάσσων”, ὁ δὲ τοὺς αὐλοὺς Βερεκυντίους καλεῖ καὶ Φρυγίους· καὶ τῶν ὀργάνων ἔνια βαρβάρως ὠνόμασται νάβλας καὶ σαμβύκη καὶ βάρβιτος καὶ μαγάδις καὶ ἄλλα πλείω. 19 Cf. Tardieu 2017, 19–28 (“barbarian” music is fond of wind instruments because of their peculiar resonance). 20 Firm. Mat. Err. prof. rel. 4.2, and 6.5 for Dionysus on the model of Titus Livius (see following note).

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Livy’s narrative of the groups of Campanian Bacchants in 188 BCE).21 Among instruments that are painted as having a barbarian colour, textual descriptions often focus on the hoarse tint of the Phrygian flute,22 for this was an organon that had crossed cultural and ethnic borders after Rome’s welcoming of the Mother as a divine protector in 204 BCE – a preordained move that had merely been delayed, according to the legend, when Aeneas fled from Troy. In the fourth book of the Fasti, Ovid begins his story of the arrival of the Mater Magna by using cymbals, drums, and the Phrygian flute to emphasise the direct legacy transmitted down from the Curetes’ mythological model to the banks of the Tiber: Now steep Ida resounds with tinklings, So the child might cry from its infant mouth, in safety. Some beat shields with sticks, others empty helmets: That was the Curetes’ and the Corybantes’ task. The thing was hidden, and imitations of the ancient deed remain: The goddess’ servants strike the bronze and sounding skins. They beat cymbals for helmets, drums instead of shields: The flute plays, as long ago, in the Phrygian mode.23 In fact, the playing of a number of different instruments of a given single type, with each instrument putting out its own sound, does not automatically entail that the soundscapes will be similar. Sound and its reception are clearly dependent not just on the type of instrument but also on how it is played and both the context of the playing and the intentions of the player. This point is usefully analysed by Anne-Françoise Jaccottet in her discussion of various examples of “Dionysiac music” (… if it does exist): when depicted on images, music instruments can be but “des signes”.24 As far as “Roman” instruments are concerned, the tibiae pares (a double-reed wind instrument) served as

21 Liv. 39.15.6. Cf. Turcan 2003. 22 Vendries 2001. Fless 1995 is focused on cultural agents and not on instruments. 23 Ov. Fast. 4.207–214: ardua iamdudum resonat tinnitibus Ide, / tutus ut infanti vagiat ore puer. / pars clipeos sudibus, galeas pars tundit inanes: / hoc Curetes habent, hoc Corybantes opus. / res latuit, priscique manent imitamina facti: / aera deae comites raucaque terga movent. / cymbala pro galeis, pro scutis tympana pulsant: / tibia dat Phrygios, ut dedit ante, modos. 24 Jaccottet 2021, esp. : “ce n’est ainsi pas l’instrument en lui-même et de lui-même qui fait la musique dionysiaque […] la distinction entre l’instrument représenté et l’ambiance sonore induite”. I thank A.-F. Jaccottet for sharing her paper with me prior to publication.

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a marker of identity and gravitas in Roman sacrifice and processions,25 yet they turn out to be furiosae when they are mentioned in the processions of Mater Magna.26 It is, therefore, important to look beyond the simple presence of one or another instrument27 when examining the three narratives of processions considered in this chapter if we are to grasp the sensory perceptions their authors intended to create in constructing the religious identity of each ceremony. 3

The Pompa Circensis in Dionysius of Halicarnassus

Dionysius’ narrative of the procession held before the ludi circenses provides a helpful starting pattern, for it combines all kinds of possible corteges into one long event and mentions various different instruments used in the successive steps of the festival. Whatever the quality of his information, supported either by archival records (such as the late-third century BCE Fabius Pictor, for instance)28 or by his personal attendance at the feast in Augustan Rome,29 the narrative remains a reconstruction – an ideal-type for J. Latham30 – because of the explicit ideological purpose of Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities.31 In his work, Dionysius uses the structuring cultural image developed by Herodotus32 for distinguishing between Greeks and Barbarians. And he claims that Rome falls on the Greek side of the dividing line: “the peoples which joined in founding the city of Rome were Greek colonies sent out from the most famous places, and not, as some believe, barbarians and vagabonds” (ὅτι τὰ συνοικίσαντα ἔθνη τὴν Ῥωμαίων πόλιν Ἑλληνικὰ ἦν ἐκ τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων ἀποικισθέντα τόπων, ἀλλ´ οὐχ ὥσπερ ἔνιοι νομίζουσι βάρβαρα καὶ ἀνέστια).33 It is not coincidental that he

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

On the necessity of tibicines in Roman sacrifice, Pailler 2001. Cf. ThesCRA II, 4.C “Musique romaine” (Chr. Vendries), 398 and Wille 1967, 26–73 and 53–65 for oriental cults. Ov. Fast. 4.341. Le Bihan 2016 lists musical instruments and players only. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.71. For changes in the pompa circensis in the two first centuries of the Principate, yet with no mention of music, see Arena 2009. Latham 2016, p. 21–42, stresses neither on music or issues of identity. Latham 2016, p. 21–101. Cf. Latham 2016, 21: “a procession that was never actually performed”, “a ritual in ink”. See Hartog 1980. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.70.1. Contra, the musician Aristoxenus of Tarentum, ap. Ath. Deipnosophistae 14.32 [632A], considered the coming of Etruscans and Romans in Southern Italy as a “barbarisation” (ἐκβεβαρβαρῶσθαι) of Greek cities, and he lays stress

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sets this argument right before his description of the pompa circensis, which is called upon as a proof of his claim. In the subsequent chapter (72), the description of the procession of the ludi displays the various stages involved but without any systematic mention of musical ambiance. My discussion here will be limited to a review of the elements that do involve some kind of focus on music. At the opening of the ceremony, no musical background is reported in the narrative of the military cortege that is organised around the units of the army.34 The author has no need to make an explicit musical point in his narrative, for ancient evidence indicates that trumpets (Lat. tuba, Gr. σάλπιγξ) will have always accompanied the army in all circumstances. Plutarch, for instance, reports their sound on the third day of the triumph of Aemilius Paulus, linking them explicitly to the context of battle (μέλος οὐ […] πομπικόν): “On the third day, as soon as it was morning, trumpeters led the way, sounding out no marching or processional strain, but such a one as the Romans use to rouse themselves to battle” (Τῆς δὲ τρίτης ἡμέρας ἕωθεν μὲν εὐθὺς ἐπορεύοντο σαλπιγκταί, μέλος οὐ προσόδιον καὶ πομπικόν, ἀλλ’ οἵῳ μαχομένους ἐποτρύνουσιν αὑτοὺς Ῥωμαῖοι, προσεγκελευόμενοι).35 Trumpets were not markers of ethnic cultures. They have a universal significance in designating or accompanying military or ritual activities. When Plutarch records the institution of the Eleutheria at Plataea in order to honour the dead of the battle in 479 BCE, he writes that “they celebrate a procession (πέμπουσι πομπήν). This is led forth at break of day by a trumpeter (ἧς προηγεῖται μὲν ἅμ’ ἡμέρᾳ σαλπιγκτής) sounding the signal for battle (ἐγκελευόμενος τὸ πολεμικόν)”. The Plataean archon who leads the ceremony is usually dressed in a white garment (οὔθ’ ἑτέραν ἐσθῆτα πλὴν λευκῆς), but is now, exceptionally, vested with a purple tunic (τότε χιτῶνα φοινικοῦν ἐνδεδυκώς),36 like the Metroac priest we shall meet in our next procession. The tuba, the sound of war, also sang out during sacrifices all over the Mediterranean, accompanying the rites of the Egyptians, Greeks, Etruscans, and Romans according to both the lexicon of Pollux and many images depicting sacrifices.37 The military cortege in Dionysius’ account is followed by the athletes of the ludi, still with no accompanying soundscape. Music begins to be mentioned

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precisely on music in the theatre, see Humm 2018, 353–360. For the educational and social function of music in Greek thinking, see Rocconi 2012. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.1–2. Plut. Vit. Aem. 33.1. Plut. Vit. Arist. 21.3–4. Poll. Onom. 4.86.6–87.1: ἔστι δέ τι καὶ πομπικὸν ἐπὶ πομπαῖς καὶ ἱερουργικὸν ἐπὶ θυσίαις Αἰγυπτίοις τε καὶ Ἀργείοις καὶ Τυρρηνοῖς καὶ Ῥωμαίοις. καὶ ὁ μὲν τῇ σάλπιγγι χρώμενος καλεῖται σαλπιγκτής, τὸ δὲ ῥῆμα σαλπίζειν, ὁ δ’ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἱεροῖς ἱεροσαλπιγκτής·.

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only with the arrival of the choral cortege in the Greek tradition, with its dancers and musicians.38 The contestants were followed by numerous bands of dancers arranged in three divisions […] These were accompanied by flute-players, who used ancient flutes that were small and short, as is done even to this day, and by lyre-players, who plucked ivory lyres of seven strings and the instruments called barbita. The use of these has ceased in my time among the Greeks, though traditional with them, but is preserved by the Romans in all their ancient sacrificial ceremonies.39 The ideological device here is obvious: Rome is more Greek than the Greeks themselves, insofar as she is more respectful of traditions and keeps instruments of the old past, whatever their barbarian origin, as Strabo also notes. Dances and music are entangled,40 with armed dances played out by the choirs. Dionysius envisions two possible origins for these traditions, considering, whether it was Athena who first began to lead bands of dancers (χορεύειν) and to dance in arms (ὀρχεῖσθαι σὺν τοῖς ὅπλοις) over the destruction of the Titans (ἐπὶ Τιτάνων ἀφανισμῷ) in order to celebrate the victory by this manifestation of her joy, or whether it was the Curetes (Κουρήτων) who introduced it still earlier (παλαίτερον) when, acting as nurses to Zeus (τὸν Δία τιθηνούμενοι), they strove to amuse him by the clashing of arms and the rhythmic movements of their limbs (κτύπῳ τε ὅπλων καὶ κινήσει μελῶν ἐνρύθμῳ), as the legend has it (καθάπερ ὁ μῦθος ἔχει). The antiquity of this dance (τὴν ἀρχαιότητα) also, as one native to the Greeks (ἐπιχωρίου τοῖς Ἕλλησιν), is made clear by Homer […].41

38 On the interweaving of dance and music, see Calame 1977; MacMullen 1987, 42–49; K. Giannotta in ThesCRA, II, 337–341. On dances in Isiac ceremonies, see Beaurin 2013, 87–96. 39 Dion. Hal Ant. Rom. 7.72.5: Ἠκολούθουν δὲ τοῖς ἀγωνισταῖς ὀρχηστῶν χοροὶ πολλοὶ τριχῇ νενεμημένοι […] οἷς παρηκολούθουν αὐληταί τ´ ἀρχαϊκοῖς ἐμφυσῶντες αὐλίσκοις βραχέσιν, ὡς καὶ εἰς τόδε χρόνου γίνεται, καὶ κιθαρισταὶ λύρας ἑπταχόρδους ἐλεφαντίνας καὶ τὰ καλούμενα βάρβιτα κρέκοντες. Ἧν παρὰ μὲν Ἕλλησιν ἐκλέλοιπεν ἡ χρῆσις ἐπ´ ἐμοῦ πάτριος οὖσα· παρὰ δὲ Ῥωμαίοις ἐν ἁπάσαις φυλάττεται ταῖς ἀρχαίαις θυηπολίαις. 40 A focus on the forms of dancing would also be valuable, insofar as they display a similar language of cultural identity. See Alonso Fernández 2016, 312: “this ideal form of dance and the bodies that perform it: the manly, soldierly, and triumphal bodies of the Roman uiri”, and Ead. 2017, for a further reflection on Roman identities built by dances. 41 Dion. Hal Ant. Rom. 7.72.7–8.

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While both options belong to pre-Olympian times, that involving Athena appears more recent to the author’s eyes when compared to the pre-Titanic Curetic practice full of the sounds narrated by Strabo, and which constitutes the bedrock of the mythological matrix of ecstatic behaviours. Admittedly, the latter is privileged by the cultural model exemplified by four quotations of Homer singing of Achilles’ shield. The rhetorical construct is complete and connects the athletes’ stage of the cortege with the sounds of the origins and instruments of natives. After the ludiones, grotesque groups mimicking the dancers and triggering laughter,42 a break occurs in the sequence of the cortege. This is manifested by the setting of a distinct space appropriate for the welcoming of divine entities and the announcing of them to the spectators.43 A throng of kitharistai, many aulètai, the spread of scents and incense, that is a different form of music combined with charming smells, create the ritual space-time for the coming of divine powers carried on men’s shoulders.44 Limitations of space mean we cannot linger much longer on Dionysius’ narrative, the more so because my target, the cultural construction at work in the text, is plain: the author manages cautiously to ἑλληνίζειν (if I may say so) the sensorial ambiance to its upmost. The music has no natural connotation that originates in the instruments themselves. In the narrative process, it serves to build a background against which instruments (whatever they are) are given a specific “cultural” colour. In another context, the same noisy, Curetic ambiance depicted by Dionysius might recall the barbarian image read in Strabo above; yet here the narrative’s purpose differs. The best example in the textual tradition is provided by the portrait of the emperor Elagabal, presented as the paradigm of the bad emperor by the whole of subsequent Roman historiography, from Herodianus and Cassius Dio down to the Historia Augusta.45 When Bassianus [Elagabal] was performing his priestly duties (ἱερουργοῦντα δὴ τοῦτον), dancing about the altars in barbarian fashion (περί 42 Dion. Hal Ant. Rom. 7.72.10: μετὰ γὰρ τοὺς ἐνοπλίους χοροὺς οἱ τῶν σατυριστῶν ἐπόμπευον χοροὶ τὴν Ἑλληνικὴν εἰδοφοροῦντες σίκιννιν […] οὗτοι κατέσκωπτόν τε καὶ κατεμιμοῦντο τὰς σπουδαίας κινήσεις ἐπὶ τὰ γελοιότερα μεταφέροντες (“For after the armed dancers, others marched in procession impersonating satyrs and portraying the Greek dance called sicinnis […] These mocked and mimicked the serious movements of the others, turning them into laughter-provoking performances”); cf. Thuillier 1989. For an image, see Dioskourides of Samos, “Street musicians” or actors, Pompeii (the so-called Villa of Cicero), Naples National Archaeological Museum, 14817365351. 43 Cf. Estienne 2014 and 2015. 44 Dion. Hal Ant. Rom. 7.72.13. See also Apul. Met. 11.11; Ov. Am. 3. 2.43–62. As a comparison with Greek evidence, Power 2018, 22 speaks of a “signature soundmark”. 45 See Belayche 2020 (with previous bibliography), esp. 357–362.

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τε τοῖς βωμοῖς χορεύοντα νόμῳ βαρβάρων) to the music of flutes, pipes, and every kind of instrument (ὑπό τε αὐλοῖς καὶ σύριγξι παντοδαπῶν τε ὀργάνων ἤχῳ).46 The musical setting to this barbarous display is provided by the very same instruments that elsewhere mark out Roman practices as falling on the non-barbarous side of the line. 4

The Procession of the Navigium Isidis

A more decisive route to appreciating the role played by auditory perceptions in literary depictions of religious contexts can be taken by comparing Dionysius’ chapters with processions of the so-called oriental cults. In the depictions of these processions, a similar endeavour of cultural construction is undertaken, albeit this time in order to mint exotic, “other”, even opposite (?), cultural identities. On the basis of the instruments played in the processions of these cults, Christophe Vendries concludes that their processions display “une couleur musicale particulière certes, mais pas radicalement différente de celle des cultes publics”.47 In fact, the organisation of these corteges is so similar to that of the Greek and Roman ones that authors who narrate them call on soundscapes to construct and express the cultural differences or gaps. This is particularly striking in the case of the Navigium Isidis (Ploiaphesia in Greek) on March 5th, as narrated by Apuleius in the last book of his Metamorphoses, inasmuch as the Spring Isiac procession that “opened” the sea was a mix between a Hellenistic ritual of the Isiac religion and a Roman ritual intended to ensure the good future of the annona.48 Book XI has prompted numerous studies,49 and yet this point has not been stated, even in a recent study that pays attention to the sensoriality of the procession.50 As in Dionysius’ narrative, there are two parts 46 Hdn. 5.3.8; see also 5.5.9 “Heliogabalus danced around the altars to music played on every kind of instrument (ὑπὸ παντοδαποῖς ἤχοις ὀργάνων); women from his own country accompanied him in these dances, carrying cymbals and drums as they circled the altars (περιθέοντα τοῖς βωμοῖς, κύμβαλα ἢ τύμπανα μετὰ χεῖρας φέροντα)”. 47 ThesCRA II, 4.C (Chr. Vendries), 410. 48 See Bricault 2006, 43–80 and 134–150. For the annona, Pavis d’Escurac 1976. 49 I deliberately limit references to Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses book XI, The Isis book, Leiden/Boston (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius), 2015, with previous bibliography. Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2000, addresses the “exotisierung” of the narrative, yet with no interest on music, 125–136. 50 Beaurain 2013, 54–64, for the cortege as an “expérience sensorielle”. Fick-Michel 1991, 557–560, esp. 559, interprets the music during the procession as displaying the divine

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to the procession: the anteludia first,51 followed by the pompa magna in which the gods are paraded. In depicting the first part, Apuleius plays with a parody of civic processions,52 which gathers together all the components of society – men and women, soldiers, magistrates, and members of diverse professions. One wore a soldier’s belt; another’s boots, spear and cloak proclaimed him a huntsman […] yet another looked like a gladiator in helmet and greaves with shield and sword. There was a magistrate it seemed with the purple toga and rods of office; and there a philosopher with a goatee beard, in a cloak with a staff and woven sandals […] And lastly an ass, wings glued to its shoulders, with a decrepit old man on its back, a Bellerophon and his Pegasus, enough to split your sides.53 Although the ceremony takes place at Cenchrai (close to Corinth), Apuleius intermingles elements of the pompa circensis (soldiers, civic bodies, athletes) with theatrical scenes mimicking mythological events. Such demonstrations occur in various contexts, such as the Roman ludiones, the charades in the circus, and Greek practices in certain memorable processions, such as that of Ptolemaeus Philometor at Alexandria in 271/270 BCE as reported by Kallixeinos of Rhodes.54 Due to the combination of these common features, Apuleius does not present the first part of the procession as accompanied by a specific auditory ambiance. Rather, he treats these scenes as entertainments that take place alongside the real procession (oblectationes ludicras popularium quae passim vagabantur) and have no specific Isiac identity or accompanying music. The depiction of the pompa peculiaris, devoted to and centred on the goddess herself, begins in chapter 9. At its head went women in gleaming white, garlanded with the flowers of spring, rejoicing in their varied burdens, scattering blossoms along the path where the sacred gathering would pass; others had shining mirrors fastened to their backs to show their obedience to the goddess who harmony. More generally on music and musicians in the iconography of Isiac ceremonies, Bricault and Veymiers 2018. 51 Cf. Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 171–180. 52 For a literary and philosophical analysis, Fick-Michel 1991, 420–427, who notes the absence of Egyptian tradition in this “mascarade” and interprets it as a “double parodie socratique” and a “révélation esthétique”. 53 Apul. Met. 11.8. The choice of the motif of Bellerophon as an ass might be a comic reminiscence of Lucius formerly in the form of an ass. 54 Kallixeinos of Rhodes, Peri Alexandreias 4, Jacoby, FGrHist III C, n° 627, p. 165–177, ap. Ath. V, 196–201d. Cf. Dunand 1981.

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would follow; or they bore ivory combs and feigned to shape and dress the Goddess’s royal hair; while others sprinkled the streets with pleasant balsam and fragrances. There followed a throng of men and women, carrying every means of shedding light, such as torches, lamps, and wax candles to honour the source of the celestial stars.55 As in Dionysius’ narrative, and using the same ritual means, the space is appropriately set for the welcoming of the divine otherness. Flowers are spread on the path, fragrance dispensed all around, while clothing and items coloured a gleaming white combine with various sources of light to build a symbolically celestial space, that of the god(desse)s. The gestures made by the women, presenting a mirror to Isis or moving brushes as if styling her hair, will have necessarily reminded ancient readers of Seneca’s similar description of the worshippers of Juno in the Capitoline temple.56 Then musicians arrive, once the setting has been prepared by the author. Now, musicians with pipes and flutes ( fistulae tibiaeque) appeared, playing pure melodies, pursued by a fine choir of chosen youths, gleaming in their snow-white holiday robes and singing a delightful hymn (carmen venustum), composed by a talented poet aided by the Muses […] Here were the temple pipers of the great god Serapis too (magno Sarapi tibi­ cines), playing their traditional anthem on slanting flutes extending close to the right ear.57 The music is part of the construction of this divine space and its special tone contributes further to it, summed up by the syntagma carmen venustum, a very “Roman” expression. Neither the Pan flute ( fistula) nor the tibia have a specifically Egyptian identity. Spectators must wait for the tibicines of Serapis in order to hear a sound that is more characteristic of non-Roman culture: these pipers play an obliquus calamus, a transverse aulos that had both Greek and Egyptian roots.58 It is surprising that Apuleius does not mention the harp called cordae obliquae by Juvenal, “un instrument foncièrement oriental” for Christophe Vendries.59 As a regular participant in Egyptian processions, this harp appears in numerous reliefs from Egyptian temples of the Hellenistic and Roman 55 56 57 58 59

Apul. Met. 11.9. Sen. De superst. fr. 36 (ed. F. Haase), ap. August. De civ. D. 6.10. Apul. Met. 11.9. Apul. Met. 11.9.6. See Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 188–189. ThesCRA II, 4.C “Musique romaine”, 401, who considers it as ill suited for processions. Cf. Vendries 1999. Curiously Bricault and Veymiers 2018, 698–699, do not notice the absence while they note the harp in other evidence.

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period. But Apuleius does not yet pursue an Egyptian image at this stage of the narrative. The delightful music he emphasises does not have cultural identity as its target. It seeks rather to frame the identity of the gods as that of divine powers: the symphonia suavis. It is the sound of the sistra which follows that begins to build up the Isiac/ Egyptian ambiance: “Nile’s banks resound to the holy rattles, and Egypt’s pipe drones Pharos’ measure”.60 Sistrae are carried in the parade of servants, initiates, and priests who bear the emblems of the gods and other ritual objects: the sacred boat, an altar, a palm, a hand, a vase, and so on.61 A mighty throng of men and women of every age and rank, initiates (ini­ tiatae) of the sacred mysteries, poured on behind, their linen robes shining radiantly, the women’s hair in glossy coils under transparent veils, the men’s heads closely shaved and glistening, the earthly stars of the great rite. And each one shook a sistrum of bronze or silver or sometimes gold, giving out a shrill tinkling sound (aereis et argenteis immo vero aureis etiam sistris argutum tinnitum constrepentes). The foremost priests of the cult came next, in white linen, drawn tight across their chests and hanging to their feet, carrying the distinctive emblems of the powerful gods (potentissimorum deum proferebant insignis exuvias).62 All the sensorial features drive the reader towards an image of alterity, from the material and colour of the garments, through the hair-styles and music, to the inversion of gestures, such as the use of the left hand to express the aequitas in place of the right hand as would normally be expected in a Roman-type ritual. By the time the gods come, “deigning to walk on human feet”,63 the music has passed already, fading away with the progress of the procession. Once again, this phase of the procession is depicted in a way that is very similar to the description of the pompa circensis by Ovid: Linguis animisque favete! Tempus adest plausus – aurea pompa venit.64 Music announces the gods as a sign of 60 Claud. IV Cons. Hon. 574–576: Nilotica sistris / ripa sonat Phariosque modos Aegyptia ducit / tibia. See Saura-Ziegelmeyer 2015. 61 Pfeiffer 2018 focuses on this cult personnel and search for their eventual Egyptian origins. He concludes to a “pseudo-Egyptian origin of the procession”: “this Greco-Egyptian procession, which for the observer in the Greco-Roman world looked purely Egyptian and only for Egyptians might have looked curious – at least in terms of traditional temple religion” (687). 62 Apul. Met. 11.10. 63 Apul. Met. 11.11. 64 Ov. Am. 3.2.43–62.

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their divine identity; it separates the presence of the gods from the rest of the cortege, as in Greek processions. Yet when the gods themselves are present, there is no more music. In her valuable paper on the Ptolemaia of Ptolemaeus Philopator, Françoise Dunand notes this difference between Greek- and Egyptian-style rituals: Dans cette fête-spectacle, […] la musique et le chant, éléments caractéristiques des fêtes égyptiennes, n’interviennent qu’assez peu […] dans le cortège figure un choeur de 600 hommes, dont 300 jouent de la cithare ; il est probable qu’ils exécutent des hymnes cultuels. Mais c’est d’une sorte de concert qu’il s’agit ; le public ne prend aucune part aux chants, ce qui semble contraire à la pratique traditionnelle en milieu égyptien, mais correspond probablement à la pratique grecque, selon laquelle les hymnes cultuels sont chantés par un nombre limité de choristes.65 When it is read attentively, Apuleius’ narrative of the Navigium Isidis displays only two musical moments. These serve to announce the presence of the gods, first as superior powers and secondly as Egyptian deities. Yet scholars have typically only noticed the second signal, because it stands out as creating and framing the cultural otherness through a process of appropriation within a procession that is otherwise quite typically Roman.66 5

The Procession of Mater Magna at Her Arrival in Rome

There are indeed a few episodes of the procession of Mater Magna that provide similar conclusions. Since the narrative of the procession is widely known, I shall focus again only on the related soundscapes. The first stage in the procession is the arrival of the boat at Ostia – “at the mouth (ostia) where the Tiber divides, to meet the deep, and flows with a wider sweep” (293–4). This stage is generally overlooked by commentators and is wholly “Roman”, gathering together the two main ordines (certainly wearing the white toga) and the populus (SPQR) of both genders. The soundscape is overloaded with the shouts arising from the collective effort, appropriate to the res publica, to pull the boat against the current of the river:

65 Dunand 1981, 17. For Egyptian musical instruments, Ziegler 1979. 66 For “Egyptianess” and “Egyptianism” as a device of appropriation in Isiac cults, see Versluys 2013, 250–257, and Gasparini and Gordon 2018.

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All the Knights, grave Senators, and commoners, Came to meet her at the mouth of the Tuscan river. With them walked mothers, daughters, and brides, And all those virgins who tend the sacred fires. The men wearied their arms hauling hard on the ropes: The foreign vessel barely made way against the stream.67 Yet the collective and loud effort is vane and replaced by Claudia Quinta’s ordeal.68 Following immediately, the narrative replicates the same pattern, but this time with new ethnic protagonists, the Phrygians. It is at this moment and at the very same spot (“at the mouth where the Tiber divides”, 293) that the soundscape changes when the deity leaves the boat: There’s a place where smooth-flowing Almo joins the Tiber, And the lesser flow loses its name in the greater: There, a white-headed priest in purple robes Washed the Lady, and sacred relics, in Almo’s water. The attendants howled, and the mad flutes blew, And soft hands beat at the bull’s-hide drums. Claudia walked in front with a joyful face.69 The sound is the sign that objectivises the slip from one culture to another: from the brave Roman citizens in the first stage (the “ancestrale”) to the Phrygian servants in the second (the “étrangère”).70 And as soon as Scipio receives the Mother, that is as soon as she is joined to the Roman community,71 the music ends. Livy’s narrative reflects the same atmosphere, although it is less romanticized. He focuses on Scipio and the matrons, and adds no soundscape at all, only incense, the common Roman material used for communication with 67 Ov. Fast. 4.293–8: omnis eques mixtaque gravis cum plebe senatus / obvius ad Tusci fluminis ora venit. / procedunt pariter matres nataeque nurusque / quaeque colunt sanctos virginitate focos. / sedula fune viri contento bracchia lassant: / vix subit adversas hospita navis aquas. 68 Cf. ILS 4096, with relief. 69 Ov. Fast. 4.337–343: est locus, in Tiberim qua lubricus influit Almo / et nomen magno perdit in amne minor / illic purpurea canus cum veste sacerdos / Almonis dominam sacraque lavit aquis. / exululant comites, furiosaque tibia flatur, / et feriunt molles taurea terga manus. / Claudia praecedit laeto celeberrima voltu. 70 For the double identity of the Roman Mother as “étrangère et ancestrale”, see Borgeaud 1996, 89–106 and Van Haeperen 2019. 71 Cf. Fasti Prenestini (Augustan period), April 4th, CIL I2, p. 231–239 = ILS 8844.

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gods.72 This atmosphere reminds the reader of the calm and silent picture at the Via dell’ Abbondanza in Pompei, in which the procession of the Mater has a station at a shrine of Dionysus. Participants in the procession are shown holding musical instruments, but their attitude is closer to the Roman pudor and gravitas than to any kind of foreign wildness. The Ovidian narrative in the Fasti, by contrast, is built a posteriori, out of elements used in the typical poetic portrayals of the regular processions of Mater Magna. And when the poet asks the Muse: gaudeat assiduo cur dea Magna sono?,73 he is told the story of the Curetes, the same story that provides the guidelines of Lucretius’ evocation as well. The Epicurean poet starts with sounds appropriate for the setting of a mythological stage: Taut timbrels in their hands and hollow cymbals all around, and horns menace with harsh-sounding bray, and the hollow pipe goads their minds in the Phrygian mode; and they carry weapons before them, the symbols of their dangerous frenzy. tympana tenta tonant palmis et cymbala circum / concava, raucisonoque minantur cornua cantu, / et Phrygio stimulat numero cava tibia mentis, / telaque praeportant, violenti signa furoris […]74 Lucretius’ narrative of the cortege primarily stresses the “armed band” called for by the mythological model, re-enacting a “mock conflict of arms”: Then comes an armed band, whom the Greeks call by name the Curetes of Phrygia, and because now and again they join in mock conflict of arms and leap in rhythmic movement, gladdened at the sight of blood and shaking as they nod the awesome crests upon their heads, they recall the Curetes of Dicte, who are said once in Crete to have drowned the wailing of the infant Jove.75

72 Liv. 29.14.10–14. 73 Ov. Fast. 4.194. 74 Lucr. 2.618–21. Cymbala, tympana, and Phrygian flutes are benchmarks in the iconography of the Mother in Anatolia from the Archaic period onwards, see Roller 1999, 41–186. 75 Lucr. 2.629–34: hic armata manus, Curetas nomine Grai / quos memorant, Phrygias inter si forte catervas / ludunt in numerumque exultant sanguine laeti / terrificas capitum quatientes numine cristas / Dictaeos referunt Curetas, qui Iovis illum / vagitum in Creta quondam occultasse feruntur […].

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Being a philosopher, he explains the various elements in the narrative by reference to ethical views that accord with Roman virtues: arms frighten the impious and prompt courage erga patriam and parentes, which is the definition of the Roman pietas as well: “Or because they indicate that they should resolve with arms and valour to defend their native land and prepare to be a guard and ornament to their parents” (ut armis / ac virtute velint patriam defendere terram / praesidioque parent decorique parentibus esse).76 The exotic soundscape that opened the episode is turned into a pillar of support for a Roman “patriotic” discourse. Lucretius’ description is usually taken to be quite similar to that of Ovid. And yet there is a great difference in emphasis between the two, with Lucretius’ stress on the evocation of features related to fighting (the military?). The philosopher recalls the Curetic model both in order to make a link with mythology and to evoke the presence of armed participants. This aspect is original, the more so because it is a mix between acting Curetes and bloody Galli (sanguine laeti, 631); and it is explained (quia significant, 641) using the politically correct Roman argument of pietas. 6

Conclusion

A close reading of these narratives of processions helps us to measure the extent to which they variegate imaginaries and cultural codes in order to figure out (religious and) cultural identities – Romanness vs oriental exoticism, Greekness vs Barbarity … combined with orthodoxy vs heresy in Christian times77 – in the context of the successive needs of their own scenario. For this purpose, music provides a box full of auditory signals with which the authors can play when evoking a typified ambiance, just as painters and sculptors had their own visual signs for evoking specific religious practices (for instance, the cista as a symbol for mystery cults).78 The soundscape, symbolised by specific instruments, serves as a hallmark for the setting of a religious identity. Roman tibiae reply to Isiac sistra and to Metroac cymbala, tympana, and Phrygian flutes,79 even when the narrative itself sings of Greek mythology (the wails of the infant Zeus covered by the smashing arms of the Curetes), and when the adventus of the Pessinontian Mother exonerates a virgo Vestalis, in other words the core of Roman identity. As a historian, it is thus risky to jump from 76 77 78 79

Lucr. 2.641–3. For the permanence of public expression of identity in processions in Late Constantinople, with competition of processions between different Christian communities, see Stanfill 2019, 676–690. Cf. Belayche and Massa 2021. For “Cybele’s ecstatic music” in epigrams, Fantuzzi 2019.

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these narratives to a religious characterisation of these cults that would be rooted on these noisy, thus “oriental”, pictures. On the model of narratives of divine epiphany that use sensorial terms like fragrances and “corps éclatant” (J.-P. Vernant) for alluding to the presence of a divine power, one can, however, be more certain in asserting that senses and sensoriality play a key-role among the literary devices for publicising a specific cultural identity, and this was the more so necessary when the ritual form, such as that of the procession, is so much modelled on Greco-Roman patterns.

Acknowledgements

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Chapter 16

Total Sensory Experience in Isiac Cults: Mimesis, Alterity, and Identity Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, and Clelia Martínez Maza 1

Introduction

Since becoming a central topic of research in the humanities, the role of sensory perceptions as identity markers has proven to be an especially productive field of analysis. As Trnka, Dureau, and Park stress, […] the work of differentiation is not only expressed through discursive and juridical demarcations of rights, boundaries, and conflicting personhoods: indeed, the viscerality of feelings of cultural distance conjoins corporeality, sentiment, practice, and the senses, intensifying deeply embodied ideas. This, in turn, lends a sense of moral weight to claims of right and inclusion.1 It is indisputable that the activation of the senses in specific contexts enhances the fixing of memories which, in turn, promote the configuration of collective identities of belonging or social exclusion, whether through the collective recognition of a social status differentiated on the basis of established sensory stimuli,2 or through the association of certain sensory stimuli with particular religious or ethnic values.3 Yet the participation of the senses in identity building is not restricted to noting general binary oppositions like “the poor smell badly and the rich good”. With this in mind, our intention here is to analyse how the senses participated in the identity-configuration processes of the Isiac cult at the end of the Republic and during the Principate. The post-Said paradigm has cast doubt on the suitability of the category of “oriental religions” for identifying a 1 Trnka, Dureau, and Park 2013, 4–5. 2 See, for example, Classen 1992, 133–166; 2005, 70–84; Classen, Howes, and Synnott 1994. 3 See, for example, the contributions in Harvey and Hughes (eds.) 2018; McGuire 2016, 152–162; Taussig 2009; the compilation of papers in Religion through the Senses, Numen 54.4 (2007); Stoller 1997; Sullivan 1986, 1–33.

© Antón Alvar Nuño et al., 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004459748_018

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range of cults, including that of Isis, so we do not intend to use this aspect of identity formation to confront or interrogate the vague notions of “Western” and “Oriental” in their sensory dimensions.4 In other words, it does not seem appropriate to try to establish and systematise the sensory markers proper to the generic category of “oriental cults” as opposed to those pertaining to an alleged Roman tradition. In other chapters in this volume, the authors suggest that each one of the new cults for which a roughly oriental background can be detected has a distinct sensory output.5 Our approach here is different. The archaeological evidence does not reveal radical differences between the aromata or food offerings in the temples of the gens isiaca compared to those of any other cult. Of course, visualism is a clear differentiating marker, but even the architecture of temples and the aesthetics of statues generally undergo modifications that strip off the pre-Hellenistic Egyptian character of the cult, due to different artistical, technical or infrastructural reasons. On the other hand, there are sensory outputs that are without doubt exclusive to the cult of the gens isiaca. First, the priests are systematically described as being dressed in exotic clothing, even if we have to consider that such descriptions seem to be a topos.6 In addition, the sonority of the cult leaves no room for doubt about its character: the chants and the use of the sistrum were recognisable as exclusive of the cult of the gens isiaca.7 It is the double game of, on the one hand, mimesis – the adaptation of the cult to the political, social, and cultural variations of Roman imperialism – and, on the other, alterity – the preservation of a “genuine” exotic identity – engaged in by the cult of Isis and her paredroi that will be the subject of our analysis here.8 Although, as will be seen, there was a dialectical determination among some intellectual sectors of Roman society to highlight the religious alterity of the cults devoted to the gens isiaca, there was also an effort to stress the formal opposition – part of which was manifested in sensory terms – between foreign cults and Roman cults. The discourse aimed at exacerbating the differences 4 It is not for us to enter the discussion on the deconstruction of Franz Cumont’s category of “Oriental Religions”. Today, the notions of Oriental Religions or “Mysteric Cults” are untenable in the way they were conceived (See Bonnet, Rüpke, Scarpi 2006, and Bonnet, Pirenne-Delforge, Praet 2009). Nevertheless, the presence of deities coming from “Orient” in the Roman Empire has given rise to a new perspective based on the swinging between exoticism and cultural adaptation in a process of “romanisation” (Alvar, 2008 and 2017), as well as the “orientalisation” of Roman gods (Versluys 2013). 5 Cf. the contributions of Rebeca Rubio and Rosa Sierra-Israel Campos in this volume. 6 Beaurin 2018; Bricault 2018, conclusion nº 8. 7 Bricault and Veymiers 2018. 8 This is what Alvar (2008) and Versluys (2013) have confronted from the different perspectives of Romanising Oriental Gods and Orientalising Roman Gods.

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between the one and the other was not entirely successful. It did affect some socio-cultural milieus, especially the conservative circles represented in the literary tradition, but most of the population nevertheless accepted without complaint the cohabitation of the new gods with the old. At the same time, the progressive acceptance of “Egyptian” cults incited a clear intentionality of control by the authorities. Their followers or, more precisely, the officials of their cults, promoted an insertion of their rituals into actions and behaviours that were considered positively in cultural terms. It is here that we find the cults attempting to manage a difficult balancing act between keeping their attractively foreign image and successfully integrating into the established order. The central location of the temples of the gens isiaca in the cities of the Empire are proof of their integration into the urban structures. By the same token, their gods were also integrated within the religious pantheons of the cities. But there seems to have been no consistent approach: some temples stress their exoticism by investing heavily in Egyptianising aesthetics while others seem to be more discreet.9 We are, then, able to recognise and take note of cases in which worshippers clearly chose to identify their cult as something different from the other cults of the city, as well as, by contrast, other cases in which this does not seem to have been a goal that was pursued. It might well be the case that local variants respond to local circumstances, and we may, thus, be able to historicise them in the way expressed by Versluys as “making meaning with Egypt”.10 The reception of the cult of the gens isiaca in the Roman world gave rise to a myriad of interpretations that depended on the social condition of the devotees, the place of the cult praxis, and/or the historical contexts within which the cult was introduced.11 But there are also cases for which we simply do not have sufficient information to allow us to know whether a stress on the Egyptian character of the cult was voluntary or not; the elements of religious identity differentiation may have been clear enough for the worshippers and their urban community, even if we can no longer recognise them from our historically constrained vantage point.

9 10 11

Mol and Versluys 2015. Versluys 2012. Cf. the recent publication, both monumental and uneven, of Nagel 2019. The reception processes during the Roman Empire are only partially dealt with in this volume, despite the title of the book. In relation to the Iberian Peninsula, the author only pays attention to pre-Roman sources, the validity of which as religious testimonies has been questioned. There is not a single word in the whole book related to the interesting introductory action to the cult of Isis in Emporion or Carthago Nova during the Republican period. On this latter topic, see Alvar 2012 and https://www.uc3m.es › gens-isiaca.

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Focusing on the Cult of Isis

The different forms of appropriation of the cult nurtured diverse cultural memories to the extent of creating varied sets of information in which their exotic and distant character could coexist with another character that was more familiar and closer to home. This process depended on two essential factors, the first relating to the foundational agenda that established an architectural and decorative programme prone to transformation over time, and the second pertaining to the attitude of the cult followers, namely their willingness to evoke some or other aspect of the cult at a given time. The senses evidently formed part of the complex of elements that shaped the cultural memory of the cult and were, therefore, resorted to in a range of different ways. Before moving on to consider the details of the ways in which the senses were used, it will be useful first to clarify a number of issues concerning the concepts of identity and cultural memory on which we draw in this chapter. One of the most important aspects of both personal and collective or institutional identity-building processes is the way in which these processes are reformulated whenever they are activated in a new context or come into contact with other identities.12 By means of an analogy with language functions, it has been acknowledged in the scholarly literature that the building of a specific identity is grounded in the relationships that the relevant individual or collective establishes with others, on the basis of which meanings are defined and attributed. In this connection, identity emerges in fields of action that require the creation of narratives, of explanations, in order to give meaning to the social context in which it develops. Insofar as each identity is defined in accordance with, or by reference to, others in each one of the social spheres in which it intervenes, the relational position occupied by each identity involves establishing a number of boundaries between other identities on the line. This implies the influence of regimes of control in the set of interactions between some identities and others, or the production and distribution of cultural devices the combination of which establishes the semantic codes that define each identity in each context.13

12 Baumann and Gingrich 2004; White 2008, 1–19. In this aspect it is very interesting the approach by Florence Dupont and her concept of “alterité incluse”: phénomène d’appropriation de l’autre en conservant ou exaspérant son altérité afin de construire sa propre identité (Dupont 2005, 257). 13 As shown by Woolf (1998) and more recently in the collective volume edited by Hales and Hodos (2009), specifically the theoretical frameworks of part I and the afterword by David Mattingly.

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The creation of narratives that define identity, together with the cultural devices employed to sustain it, fosters a cultural memory that forms part of the encyclopaedia of collective knowledge. No individual is capable of embracing all the cultural knowledge generated by the infinite casuistry that provokes social interaction, so recourse is made to mental models or patterns that organise action and thought in stereotyped sequences.14 The reliance on such models leads to the creation of identity descriptors which, while appearing to be functionally homogeneous and coherent, are, in reality, so complex and ambiguous15 that, depending on the social context, some anthropologists have preferred to redefine the whole concept of culture as a repertoire of representations linked together in an imprecise manner.16 By the same token, the asymmetric capacity of the actors to access and manage cultural memory in order to establish differentiated identities means that the same signifier may have different meanings at the same time, or that these may be manipulated to settle circumstantial or local concerns, or to satisfy specific ideological interests.17 Cultural historians and anthropologists have assumed that the senses are not exclusively physiological. They are an active part of communication processes to the extent that they themselves become fields of action through which individuals position themselves as subjects in the world. Given their position as part of the communication system, it is justifiable to include the senses in the analysis of the narratives created in the construction of identity discourses.18 In this regard, the sensorium of the Isiac cults in the Roman Empire was an integral system of communication. Part of this system was constituted by the different identity-building processes that allowed a variety of levels of perception of the cult depending, for instance, on the degree of the spatial involvement of the individual who entered a temple.19 In this chapter, we have opted to employ the concept of “total sensory experience” because we take it that, in line with the claims of Renaud Barbaras and 14 Cf. Bartlett 1995 (1932), who analysed how Westerners reconstructed traditional Native American tales by adapting the structures and attributions in contrast to the expectations of their Western worldview. 15 Castells 1997; Tilly 1998. 16 Swidler 1986, 273–86; Hannerz 1996. 17 In the way of the debate concerning the ‘collective/communicative memory’ and ‘cultural identity’ (Assmann 1995, 125–133; Assmann 2011) and its development (i.e. Donald, 2017). 18 On the semiotics of the body in general, see Landowski 2005; Fusaroli, Demuru, and Borghi (eds.) 2009. Regarding the study of the body and the senses in cognitive linguistics, see Rohrer 2007, 25–47. In relation to the “mindful body”, see Çsordas 1994 and 2008, 110–121. 19 We follow here the definition of sensorium offered in the introduction to this volume, cf. pp. 1–3.

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others, there is a “principle of association” of the senses, which is to say that the senses are activated in conjunction with others and interact with each other.20 By choosing to engage in an inclusive analysis here, we avoid having to enter into the debates surrounding the taxonomic consideration of the senses. The discussion revolving around what can be regarded as senses, in addition to the establishment of hierarchies between some senses and others, are issues that have no bearing on our object of study. By the same token, we are aware of the significance of the study of interoceptors and proprioceptors – the channels through which individuals become aware of their own bodies – for such topics as the perception of pain in relation to the healing aspect of Isiac cult. However, in the present chapter we have focused on the study of the receptors that connect the body with the outside world, i.e. the so-called “exteroceptors”, which term groups together the five classical senses of sight, touch, taste, smell, and hearing.21 As will be seen, the elements of the Isiac cults devoted to stimulating the senses are, to a significant extent, identifiable. They have also been the subject of interpretive speculation by observers, both ancient commentators and modern scholars, who have included them in discussions of particular approaches to the cult, mediated by a whole series of ideological, identity, experiential, and phenomenological components. The attention paid to the description of the colours of the goddess’ vestments provides a fine example of the variety of different attitudes that ancient observers might have towards the same sensory output.22 In contrast to the defining element of the cosmic nature of Isis, who is all light,23 the chromatic formalisation of her divine radiance varies. Plutarch, for example, merely points rather laconically to the fact that the inclusive nature of the goddess, who embodies both light and darkness, day and night, fire and water, life and death, alpha and omega, is represented by her wearing different coloured vestments,24 without going into further detail regarding the colours. Apuleius, by contrast, specifies how the colours of her tunic range from white through saffron to a vivid crimson, encompassed by 20 Barbaras 2009; Le Breton 2006, 19–28. A helpful state-of-the-art in Porcello, Meintjes, Ochoa, and Samuels 2010, 51–66 at 56–59. 21 In a way, we understand that references to the interoceptors are more closely related to the individual experience, even though its forms of expression are subject to collective sanctioning, while the exteroceptors contribute more to the construction and formalisation of a shared reality of the cult through its dynamic processes of alterity and mimesis. 22 Apul. Met. 11.3.4; cf. Alvar and de la Vega 2000, 49–60, on the Isis garment colours specifically 54; on the Isiac palette, see Grand-Clément 2018, 340–365. 23 Apul. Met. 11.1.2; see Philae Hymns V and VI; cf. Žabkar 1983, 115–126, and 1988. 24 Plut. De Is. et Os. 382C.

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the black of the cloak covering the tunic.25 The fact that the external cloak is specifically black has an inherent logic in the hierarchy of chromatism; the colour black, as the accumulation or combination of all other colours, serves as an ideal signifier for the epithet myrionyma, which qualifies the henotheistic character of the goddess. For the informed observer, the chromatic palette that makes it possible to identify the goddess also evokes accounts that describe the cult’s belief system. In this respect, the palette constitutes a differential marker in comparison to the mythical tenets of other deities. That said, the highlighting of some colours to the detriment of others implies the existence of connotations that enable their comparison with the symbolic meaning of those same colours in the hegemonic cultural system.26 So, then, and as will be stressed below, the identification and description of the Isiac sensorium simultaneously combines different interpretive levels that engender the dynamic, variable, and situational condition of its identity, bringing together apparently contradictory opposites. In the present chapter, our goal is to highlight two of these levels: the alterity and mimetic capacity of the sensorium. Depending on the intentionality of the observer-participant in the rituals devoted to the gens isiaca, the perception of sensory stimuli makes it possible to stress the foreign, exotic, and oriental character of the sensations or, alternatively, to emphasise that this sensory ecosystem is adapted to the religious realities of the Empire. A number of descriptors form part of what might be called the “cultural memory” of the Isiac cults, or, following Versluys’ view, its ‘mnemohistory’.27 The selective recourse to some aspects of the poly-sensoriality of the cult as opposed to others can be explained by reference to the socio-cultural context in which they are highlighted. At the same time, just as the recipients of stimuli make a biased selection among these aspects, which they then reinterpret in accordance with their own existential experience, so too are the messages conveyed by the regimes of control reinterpreted by cult followers who are educated in the framework of their local environments, into which Isiac sensoriality was integrated. These modes of interpretation and reinterpretation all form part of the complex process of the marginalisation and integration of the cult at Rome and elsewhere in its 25 Apul. Met. 11.3.20–4.7: Tunica multicolor, bysso tenui pertexta, nunc albo candore lucida, nunc croceo flore lutea, nunc roseo rubore flammida et, quae longe longeque etiam meum confutabat optutum, palla nigerrima splendescens atro nitore […]. 26 Alvar and de la Vega 2000, 49–60. 27 Versluys 2017, 274–293.

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empire. This dialectical and non-linear process is affected by a multiplicity of factors, such as individual action, gender and dependency relations, social pressure, social networks, political power, and the historical contingencies of different cities and territories.28 As a consequence, the intentionality of the religious agent is determined by the relational action of their context, which has an impact on the individual’s preferred choices or their perception of reality.29 There is no incongruity in the variability; the phenomenon of localisms has to be analysed in a way that goes beyond the limits of their specific geographical situations. What is required is a more totalising perspective.30 3

Sensory Experience and Alterity

One of the defining elements of Roman morality, deeply rooted in the collective memory since the Republican era, was the virtue of austerity ( frugalitas). For Roman historiography, moral decline with regard to frugalitas began with the expansion of Roman political control in the Mediterranean and, above all, in the East. For Livy, “the seed of foreign luxury was introduced into Rome by the Asian army”31 on the occasion of the celebration of Gnaeus Manlius Vulso’s triumph on March 5 186 BCE. However, he goes on to add that “those details that began to stand out at the time were merely the seeds of the luxury to come”.32 The Roman propaganda campaign against fatuous and dissolute Hellenistic luxury stretched out from the capital to reach Egypt. This took place with particular force from the moment the land of the Nile became embroiled in the confrontation between Mark Anthony and Octavian in 41 BCE, but the process may have begun as early as the time of Pompey the Great.33 With the goal of shaping public opinion at Rome so as to undermine support for his political rival, Octavian famously launched a campaign aimed at the exaltation of traditional Roman values while simultaneously decrying the seduction of Mark Anthony by the charms of an “Egyptian” queen who had driven him to vice and perversion. Ovid’s sentence linking illicit sex with Isis is paradigmatic of 28 29 30

Alvar 1991, 71–90; 1994a, pp. 73–84; Alvar 1994b, 275–293. Alvar 2018, 221–247. This has been the aim of the Isis conferences organised by Bricault and Versluys (Bricault, Versluys, Meyboom 2007; Bricault and Versluys 2010 and 2014) and, more rencetly, by Gasparini and Veymiers (2019). 31 Liv. 39.6.7: luxuriae enim peregrinae origo ab exercitu Asiatico invecta in urbem est. 32 Liv. 39.6.9: Vix tamen illa quae tum conspiciebantur, semina erant futurae luxuriae. 33 As suggested by Gasparini 2018, 79–98.

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Octavian’s programme: nec fuge linigerae Memphitica templa iuvencae: multa illa facit, quod fuit ipsa Iovi (Ars am. 1.78).34 Anti-Egyptian propaganda takes shape in the image of the gluttony of the priests of Isis and her followers, the exact opposite of Roman frugalitas, an image that becomes a repeated object of mockery.35 The insatiability of Isis’ followers is still present nearly 400 years later in the writings of Jerome (CVII, 10), who depicts them as devouring pheasants and doves while avoiding the pollution of Ceres’ fruit.36 During the military clash between Rome and the Hellenistic monarchies, and the parallel identification of a romanitas that was contrasted with oriental values, the senses played a role in shaping the differentiation between religio romana and aliena superstitio. Despite the fact that there is no precise doctrinal apparatus of Roman religion, its most conservative representatives presented a polarised picture of the cultural complexity of the Roman world in order to stress values such as austerity, discipline, self-control, and gravitas.37 The ideal Roman citizen was supposed to be sparing in “the use of ointments, the dressing of food, and the refinement of the body”,38 and had to conduct his interactions with the gods in a like manner. The heavy aromata coming from overseas, the excess of wine in rituals, noise, dancing and shouting at night, showy and exuberant offerings, or excessive physical contact with the divine images – which could lead to incestuous or promiscuous relationships in the form of an epiphany – were also the archetypical sensory descriptors of foreign religions and moral exempla of what lay beyond the bounds of acceptable religious behaviour.39 Ultimately, the overburdened apparatus of sensory stimulation that foreign cults were said to exploit could be held up as representative 34 Hekster 2017, 47–60 against the term ‘propaganda’. 35 Alvar 1993, 129–140. 36 By Jerome’s time, this image was just a topos. We do not have contemporary self-representations of Isis followers, who certainly would not depict themselves in such terms. In relation to the Isiac ethic and its perception by Roman intellectuals, see Alvar 2008, 177–192; Orlin 2008, 231–253; Malaise 2011, 185–199. Malaise established the foundations of the relationship between the cult of Isis and political power during the Principate of Augustus. 37 Skidmore 1996, 53–84. 38 Cic. Nat. D. 2.146: ad quos sensus capiendos et perfruendos plures etiam quam vellem artes repertae sunt; perspicuum est enim quo conpositiones unguentorum, quo ciborum conditiones, quo corporum lenocinia processerint. An overview of the Roman system of values can be found in Alvar 2008, 149–154. 39 Verg. Buc. 404; Ov. Fast. 1.337–347 and Arn. Adv. nat. 7.26 recreate an ancient Roman religion in which only local herbs are burned. De Romanis 1997, 221–230 shows through a semantic study of the term tus how the use of incense coming from the Arabian Peninsula was already commonplace in archaic Rome. Pers. Sat. 2 is a clear example of what was to be expected of an upright Roman citizen.

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of the moral laxity that had spread through the Vrbs.40 For the advocates of the mos maiorum, it was embarrassing that a magistrate of the Roman people donned the vestments of the gens isiaca,41 or that a Roman matron broke her marital vows of chastity and obedience because of the fraud of an alleged epiphany of the god Anubis,42 or that she might bring her husband to financial ruin in order to travel to Egypt, collect water from the Nile, and carry it back to Rome.43 Nonetheless, the accounts that make an effort to present an austere, clean image of a Roman religion with a distinct and differentiated sensory ecosystem of its own constitute only one of multiple competing and overlapping identity narratives based on religious alterity. Thus, at the same time as a canonical discourse of religio romana was being created, an attraction to the so-called “foreign cults” spread its way throughout society. In the specific case of the cult of Isis at Rome, there may have been private chapels in the city from the middle of the 2nd century BCE, although the first archaeological record of Isis worship in a temple is dated around 71–64 BCE.44 However, the real proof of the Roman attraction to the cult of Egyptian deities was the foundation of the Temple of Isis and Serapis, built on the Capitoline Hill in the time of Sulla. This temple was not granted the status of a public sanctuary but it already had a formally constituted collegium of priests as far back as the time of its foundation.45 The Iseum Capitolinum and, more generally, the Egyptian cults at Rome, suffered several episodes of repression before the definite destruction of the Capitoline Temple of Isis in 48 BCE.46 Nevertheless, the popularity of the cults made them resilient to every attempt at eradication and, ultimately, a new public Iseum was founded in the Field of Mars, outside the bounds of the city, five years later

40 41

42 43 44

45 46

Ovid’s (Ars Am. 1.78) invectives against Isis and her followers are overwhelming. See Alvar 2008, 183–184. Val. Max. 7.3.8. The story is also included in App. B.C. 4.47. For an analysis of this episode, see: Bricault and Gasparini 2018, 39–50. Another analogous episode is related to Domitian disguised as an Isiac priest, as attested by Tac. Hist. III 74 and Suet. Dom. I 2. Cf. Bricault and Gasparini 2018, 46–48. Joseph. AJ 18.65–80. Cf. Gasparini 2016, 385–416. Juv. Sat. 6.513–541. This was the Iseum Metellinum, probably built by Quintus Caecilius Metellus. Its Republican chronology was established by Coarelli 1982, 33–66. His proposal has been largely accepted, see Kleibl 2009, 265–266. On the propagation of the cult of Isis in Italy, cf. Gasparini 2007, 65–87. RICIS 501/0109–0110. Tert. Ad nat. 1.10.17; Tert. Apol. 6.8; Dio Cass. 40.47-3-4; Val. Max. 1.3.4.

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in 43 BCE. This is the moment at which Isis truly becomes part of the Roman pantheon.47 The desire among a part of the Roman oligarchies to create a conservative image of religio romana was accompanied by a full-blown campaign of “Egyptomania”, especially during the time of the Flavian dynasty.48 This not only involved the adoption of Egyptian cults in the Vrbs but also a change in the cityscape as Rome was adorned with obelisks and the use of Egyptianising elements in the decorative arts became fashionable.49 The spectator had recourse to a comprehensive panoply of visual, olfactory, and sonorous devices linked to the circulation of Egyptian news, which gave him an informed idea about the country of the Nile. These developments also enabled spectators to construct their own images of Egypt by contrasting what they knew of this foreign land with their own personal worldview, influenced in one way or another by the narrative elements deployed by other regimes of power, such as that which exalted traditional Roman religion over and in contrast to the so called “oriental cults”.50 We can imagine the visual impact that the Egyptian cults might have caused out of the Nile valley. The material culture produced for the temples dedicated to Isis in the Late Republic and High Imperial era have survived to enable us to recognise in them a programme that aimed to synthesise in the cramped space of the sanctuary the most iconic elements of what the Roman mind identified with Egypt. Sculptures of Isis, Osiris, Anubis, Apis, Horus, or Harpocrates, just as any other aegyptiaca, doubtless summoned up an idea of Egypt in those who saw them, despite their reinterpretation in accordance with the canons of Hellenistic art. But the infiltration of this foreign land extended beyond immobile images. In some extreme cases, Ethiopian dancers were also included in 47 Dio Cass. 47.16.1.1; Arn. Adv. nat. 11.73. There is an on-going debate on this issue. The date we follow is Coarelli’s proposal, based on the literary data. Even so, a majority of researchers prefer the flavian chronology (Scheid 2004, 308–311; Scheid 2009, 173–186; Versluys 2004, 421–448; Versluys 2018, 15–28). It is an interesting matter, but only secondary regarding our argument. 48 On the specificities of the Flavian appropriation, cf. Versluys, Bülow-Clausen, and Capriotti Vittozzi 2018. 49 Curl 1994. On the Egyptianising monuments of Rome, see the still-classic work of Roullet 1972 and the renewed vision by Capriotti Vittozzi 2013; see also Gasparini and Gordon 2018, 571–606, especially point number 5, 584–586. Needless to say, the Egyptianising fashion extended beyond the limits of Rome. Cf., for example, MacDonald and Pinto 1995, 109–111, and Barrett 2019. We recognise that the term ‘fashion’ is not the most appropriate term to refer to a more complex process of identity marks. Cf. Swetnam-Burland 2015 and Versluys 2015, 127–158. 50 See now Barrett 2019.

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the cult personnel, as represented in the famous fresco from Herculaneum.51 More specifically, the ceremonies known as Isia, which took place between October 26 and November 3,52 consisted of dramatic representations of the Isiac myth, and were sufficiently familiar to be referred to in Suetonius’ account of Caligula’s murder. According to this source, the night before Caligula’s assassination, the city was preparing a performance “in which issues of the netherworld were to be represented by Egyptians and Ethiopians”.53 More often than not, a conventional architectural space was altered by including Egyptian or Egyptianising decoration. Some sacred spaces related to Isiac cults have revealed pollen residues from tropical plants, such as the palm tree, lotus, or papyrus, which can be interpreted as the result of Egyptianising gardening.54 The presence of ponds and nilometers contributed to a sensation of displacement in the devotee, who was symbolically transported to the birthplace of the goddess. The same effect was also obtained through depictions of Nilotic landscapes, even if they may not be directly related to the cult of Egyptian gods. Surviving examples include the telling paintings of Herculaneum (e.g. Fig. 16.1); a frequent range of pictorial works, such as the small painting fragment of unknown provenance (although a Campanian origin is plausible) preserved at the J. Paul Getty Museum (Fig. 16.2);55 and mosaics depicting extravagant Nilotic scenes, with plenty of dwarfs, crocodiles, ibis, palm trees, and so on (e.g. Figs. 16.3, 16.4, and 16.5).56 Reliefs such as the so-called “Nilotic Campana Reliefs” (Fig. 16.6), in fashion in central Italy between the mid-1st century BCE and the 2nd century CE, also provide clear examples of visual forms that sought to evoke Egypt.57 A good example of this kind of relief in the Altes Museum, Berlin, shows a genuinely Roman arcade opening up onto a Nilotic scene as a meta-representation of the experience of cult followers entering the Egyptianising sacred space

51 52

Tran tam Tinh 1971, 39–49, Fig. 41; Moormann 2018. There are doubts about the establishment of these celebrations. Luc. 8.831–3 is the oldest literary document related to the Isaeum Campensis. On the creation process of Isiac festivals, cf. Wissowa 1902, 292 ff. (351 ff. in the 2nd ed. 1912, with slight modifications). See also Lembke 1994, 67. This sanctuary would have been the remodelled version of the one demolished under Tiberius. It seems to have been destroyed by a fire in the year 80 (Dio Cass. 56.24.1), hence Lembke’s study focuses on this phase (69). Cf. Takács 1995, 90. 53 Suet. Calig. 57.10. Joseph. AJ 19.24 and 106 seem to insist on the same idea. As for Isia and dramatic performances, see now Gasparini 2018, 714–746. 54 Cf. Barrett 2019. 55 Delson 1999. 56 The famous Palestrina mosaic merits a special mention. Cf. Meyboom 1995. 57 Borbein 1968; Perry 1997; Rauch 1999.

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Figure 16.1

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Isiac ritual in an egyptianising atmosphere Source: What Life Was Like When Rome Ruled the World, Time-Life Books, 1997. Unknown author / Public domain {{PD-anon-70-EU}}

from their strictly Roman reality (Fig. 16.7). Another procedure that aimed at stimulating the observer’s visual translation involved the use of objects, such as canopic jars adorned with the head of Osiris, Anubis, or Isis; lamps decorated with deities belonging to the gens isiaca;58 or antiquarian items imported 58

Podvin 2018, 609–627, who, nevertheless, does not analyse the extraordinary document of Pratum Novum (Igabrum, Córdoba, Baetica) preserved at the Museo Arqueológico de Córdoba (nº inv 7170). This is a representation of a reclining water deity with an

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Figure 16.2

Nilotic landscape (c. 70 CE), fresco, 45.7 × 38 cm, Getty Villa, Los Angeles Getty Villa / Public domain {{PD-anon-70-EU}}

from Egypt, such as ancient pharaonic relics, which were deemed to confer prestige, authenticity, and legitimacy on the sanctuaries that housed them.59 A modern viewer of a “Campana” relief has an experience not unlike that of an inhabitant of the Empire as he or she entered a temple of the gens isiaca. It does not matter how accurate the representations of Egypt were in each Isiac sanctuary; what was at stake was the association of the temple’s cult with

59

inscription on its base: T(itus) Flauius Victor colleg[io] / illychiniariorum Patri Novi d(ono) d(at). See Alvar 2012, nº 117. Cf. Versluys 2002.

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Figure 16.3

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Mosaic of the House of Neptune, Italica, with nilotic scene in the border. The image shows various hunting activities and the escape of a pygmy who climbs a palm tree while defecating in fear. 2nd century CE. Archaeological site of Italica © 2018 Junta de Andalucía http://www.museosdeandalucia.es/web/ conjuntoarqueologicodeitalica/elementos-muebles

an appropriate, exotic, imagined space that differed from the ordinary urban landscape of any Roman city. The sensory transition from street to temple was not limited to a purely visual impact. On the contrary, it affected religious experience, the perception of the gods and their apparent alterity, and, consequently, the way in which individuals communicated with the gens isiaca. The Nilotic scene of the “Campana” reliefs attests a dialogue between romanitas and exoticism, a dialogue that is only evident from the standpoint of the observer, for whom both registers were part of a coherent language in its process of invention, appropriation and integration, up to the point of becoming par of the observer’s discourse of cultural identity.60 The audience would have 60

Mol 2013, 117–132.

404

Figure 16.4

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Nilotic mosaic with men and women on river boats fighting animals, making music, and having sex. Museo Nazionale Romano – Palazzo Massimo alle Terme. Amphipolis / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)

found itself undergoing not so much a physical change but, rather, a mental dislocation directed towards the achieving of a total, all-encompassing, religious experience. The body, via the senses and cognitive processes, stands as the intermediary in the dialogue between reality and religious experience.61 To put the experience in more analytical terms, these types of visual representations could manage to transport worshippers to a heterotopia embodied by the original setting of the goddess Isis.62 The places of worship that were decorated in this way achieved a dual displacement. First, when worshippers physically entered the sanctuary, a real transition from the Roman world to an Egyptianising simulacrum took place, a spatial journey completed in a few 61 It is not necessary to assume that the “Campana” reliefs were originally located in an Iseum, but they do allow us to imagine what kind of decoration might have been found in these sacred spaces, as is the case with the paintings and mosaics. 62 Of course we do not think that this kind of religious experience was systematically achieved by all the cultores approaching the goddess. See: Versluys 2016, 57–61.

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Figure 16.5

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Detail of the Nile mosaic at the National Archaeological Museum of Palestrina Photo: Camelia.boban / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)

steps. Then, once inside the sanctuary, the decorative motifs made them experience a new mental journey from their local sensory ecosystem to another environment that reproduced the goddess’ dwelling place in an idealised fashion. The play on sensory representations with which the spectator was confronted included olfactory and aural devices that also greatly contributed to the development of the identity markers that comprised the Isiac cult.63 While the sistrum was the object most frequently used by initiates, and was the most ubiquitous instrument in the Iseums of the Late Republic and High Imperial era, sound language could vary enormously. The column from the Iseum of the Field of Mars represents several musicians whose instruments are indicative of the goal of creating an acoustic setting that differed from that of the rituals performed in other temples. The imaginary reference to Egypt is illustrated by some of the instruments represented, like the harpist playing an angular harp – typically Egyptian and depicted in the Italic territory on this column and in the Nile mosaic of Palestrina. Other instruments, like drums

63

Cf. Vendries 2005, 383–398; Bricault and Veymiers 2018, 690–713.

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Figure 16.6

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“Campana” relief with Roman Nilotic landscape. 1st Century CE. H. 48.3 cm; W. 51.3 cm; Th. 4.1 cm. Gift of Edward Sampson, Class of 1914, for the Alden Sampson Collection (y1962-143). Princeton University Art Museum. https://artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections/objects/28899

or flutes, frequent in Isiac representations, were also common in other cults.64 Nevertheless, the kind of music played with them created a soundscape that was clearly identifiable and different from that of other cults.65 Moreover, the sources distinguish types of personnel that were exclusive to Egyptian cults, such as the tibicines magno Serapi mentioned by Apuleius,66 or the chorus that might be identified with the college of Peanistae Serapidis.67 Of course, the abundance of musicians depicted on the columns of the Iseum of the Field of Mars and in the detailed description of Apuleius are an idealisation – not 64

For drummers represented on Egyptian terracottas, see, for example, Museo Egizio, Turin, Inv. Number 7246. Cf. Gasparini and Veymiers (eds.) 2018, vol. II, 1126, Fig. 25.6. 65 Concerning the sound of the sistrum, see Saura-Ziegelmeyer 2015, 215–235. 66 Apul. Met. 11.9. See Alvar 2008, 295, n. 350. 67 Cf. Apul. Met. 11.9 and Bricault and Veymiers 2018, 710–712.

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Figure 16.7

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“Campana” relief with Roman Nilotic landscape. Altes Museum Berlin Photo: Angoria. Altes Museum / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by/3.0)

all Iseums could afford the same personnel as the grand temple at Rome. Yet that idealised acoustic image nurtured and, at the same time, contributed to the establishment of the perceptual referents that distinguished Isiac performances from those of other cults in the Roman cultural memory. A good example of this distinct character can be found on a cameo that has recently been studied by Bricault and Veymiers. Here we find a hybrid scene of musicians and dancers depicted in a typical Roman iconographic language but complemented by the addition of instruments and people with physical traits that are authentically Egyptian.68

68

Bricault and Veymiers 2018, 690–691, Fig. 25.1.

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A related issue is the question of how the sense of smell was articulated in the Isiac sensorium. We lack archaeological evidence that proves that the ingredients used to prepare perfumes for Isis were specific to her worship and different to those used in any other cult. Far from there having been a homogeneous smell, defined and ubiquitous throughout the cult, it is sensible to assume that the Isiac aromata depended on the local perfume supply. The mixture of different ingredients might create specific perfumes, as is the case with the kŷphi,69 a compound of fragrant resins, spices, and aromatic herbs, but we cannot be certain how generalised its use was or to what degree it made for a unique and recognisable olfactory atmosphere. However, literary sources tended to stress the existence of olfactory experiences specific to Egyptian cults. In his Metamorphoses, Apuleius narrates the encounter between Isis and his protagonist. As the goddess is about to address Lucius, she exhales aromas of Arabia Felix,70 creating associations which mentally place her in an imprecisely drawn Orient by creating a contrast with the supposedly more local fragrances of the Roman pantheon as described by traditionalist authors such as Virgil, Ovid, and Perseus.71 The stimulation of the spectator’s sense of smell in Isiac rituals, to the extent of saturating and overwhelming the olfactory capacity, does indeed appear to have been a literary topos. In Apuleius’ description of the Navigium Isidis, he depicts the way in which certain women perfumed the goddess drop by drop with balm and other fragrant products that ended up impregnating the surrounding streets.72 Similarly, in the Third Hymn to Isis of Philae, an allusion is made to an Isis who is the “fragrance of the palace” and “whose face enjoys the trickling of fresh myrrh”.73 It is not, then, difficult to imagine the effigies of Isis being permeated with penetrating perfumes, a procedure that seems to be reflected in a text of Plutarch in which he describes the image of the Egyptian goddess drenching her servants with the fragrance emanating from her body.74 69 70 71 72 73 74

Cf. infra n. 64. Apul. Met. 11.4.3. E.g. Ov. Fast. 1.337–53; Pers. Sat. 2; Ath. 6.274F. Apul. Met. 11.9.3. Žabkar 1983, 115–137, and 1988, 42. Isis’ skin breathed ambrosia and wonderful fragrance emanated from her, says Plut. De Is. et Os. 357 a–b. It is interesting to note that recent studies have assumed that divine statues and reliefs in Pharaonic Egypt were painted with scented varnish in order to give off fragrances that would allow for the identification of individual deities, cf. A. Den Doncker and H. Tavier, “Peindre l’odeur, purifier l’image. Usages des vernis picturaux dans les chapelles privées de la nécropole thébaine”, presentation at the Journée d’Étude organised by D. Elwart & N. Belayche at the EPHE (Paris) 5 June 2019, text unpublished (https:// calenda.org/622637).

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This brief look at the sensory inventory of the Isiac cults enables us to appreciate how the senses, together with other types of descriptors that have already received greater scholarly attention – such as literature, epigraphy, or material culture – also participated in the clash between representations of cultural practices devoted to the gens isiaca and those of other Roman religious cults. The success of the poly-sensory stimulation of Isiac cult resided in its capacity to evoke, in the confined space of the sanctuary, the allure of what Roman cultural memory regarded as Egyptian.75 And this regardless of whether the visual scenes, sounds, and aromas inhaled in Roman sacred spaces were genuine Egyptian imports or, on the contrary, constituted an imaginary reconstruction, an Egyptianising miniaturisation of what the country of the Nile signified for the average Roman mind.76 Since the emulation of Egypt could be achieved through a variety of means, ranging from the more basic and simple to the sophisticated and extravagant, the difference and variety in the sacred spaces of the gens isiaca throughout the Empire must have been great. The economic capacity of each community was a critical determining factor in resolving potential conflicts concerning the degree of “Egyptianisation” of the Isiac space. As a result, on some occasions and in some spaces there was a necessary recourse to more metaphoric representations, which could seem rather odd or feeble to observers who were used to spaces with ornamental resources that were more genuinely Egyptian. Nevertheless, we have to recognise that a mimetic emulation was not always needed. Examples of sacred spaces devoted to the gens isiaca but without an Egyptian or Egyptianising character are so frequent that we have to admit that on many occasions there was no mimetic action at all.77 There are a number of different reasons that might explain the absence of mimesis, including simple matters of economics. There were, no doubt, sanctuaries with economic resources available to invest in the creation of an Egyptian atmosphere (furniture, Egyptian sculptures, architecture, etc.), but this mimetic process did not necessarily have to do with the search for the reproduction of a real Egypt. Rather, what was at stake was the reproduction

75 76 77

Concerning the concept ‘cultural memory’ see above note 18. For the construction of the ‘cultural memory’ around Egypt in Rome, see in addition to the already quoted literature: Leemreize 2016; Merrills 2017; van Aerde 2020. See Müskens 2017. In this regard, it seems odd that a recently published infographic recreation of the sanctuary of “el Molinete” at Carthago Nova proposes a group of pillars in the façade of the entrance, despite the lack of any archaeological evidence at all for such features. None of the material findings suggests any Egyptianising intention in either the iconographical or the architectural lay-out. Cf. Noguera et al. 2019, 89, Fig. 32.

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of the cultural concept of Egypt produced in the Roman Empire.78 Another reason that might explain the absence of mimesis, regardless of economic limitations, was the desire to create an inverse mimesis, that is, a desire to integrate the cult of Egyptian deities into the Roman cultural ecosystem, with the purpose of facilitating its acceptance in its new cultural environments. As a consequence, direct references to Egypt were avoided for the sake of prioritising a sort of alterité incluse in a new Roman identity. In what follows, we will delve into this kind of inverted mimesis. In a way, it would be appealing to follow the path indicated by Taussig in his famous work Mimesis and Alterity, and to elaborate an explanatory discourse that underscores the Roman capacity “to create second nature, the faculty to copy, imitate, make models, explore difference, yield into and become other”.79 This would involve developing an account according to which, as has been proposed by a number of scholars in the last decades, the cult of Isis, after leaving its original ecosystem, underwent a variety of transformations in order to adapt to the preconceived idea of Egypt that existed in the Roman world.80 However, as with the concepts of identity and alterity, the notion of mimesis is situational and dependent on its formulation of the stance that the observer decides to take, which is to say that it is fundamentally relational.81 For this reason, we have chosen to use the concept of mimesis to refer instead to the capacity of the Isiac cults to reshape and adapt themselves not only in relation to the cultural memory of the Roman world, but also to its micro-structural, locative dimension. 4

Sensory Experience and Mimesis

There is no doubt that the followers of the gens isiaca were capable of creating an identity of their own that contrasted with the identities of other cults.82 Moreover, the self-proclaimed alterity of the gens isiaca served in some cases 78 The presence of nilometers in the sanctuaries of the gens isiaca in the Roman West is proof of the construction of an imaginary Egyptian space (Wild 1981, 25–40; Meyboom 1995, 51–53). Nonetheless, there were occasions on which the sacred water was purposely brought over from Egypt (Juv. Sat. 6. 512–41), showing a desire for authenticity in the connection of the cult to the country of the Nile (cf. Alvar 2008, 314). 79 Taussig 1993, xiii. 80 See Alvar, 2008; Versluys 2010, 7–36. 81 Hollway 2010, 216–232. This is an appropriate way to understand local or regional peculiarities or their absence. See Alvar 2012; Bricault, Müskens, and Versluys 2015, 427–435. 82 See now, Sfameni Gasparro 2018, 74–107.

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to establish the limits of a religio romana that was becoming increasingly diffuse in an imperialist political space that required the integration of the huge cultural diversity existing within its frontiers. Yet the reception process of the cults of the gens isiaca, and their redefinition based on the expectations raised by the idealised image of “the Egyptian” in Roman cultural memory, also produced a process of mimesis, of imitation and adaptation to local sensory ecosystems, as a result of the daily praxis of their followers. The adaptation of the institutional structure of the cult, which offered a number of different sensory stimulation devices for the creation of a self-identity in the cramped religious marketplace, to individual experience, which was shaped in turn by local material and cultural resources, evinces the multidimensional and kaleidoscopic character of religious identities. Despite the universalistic characteristics of the goddess, the nature of the Isiac cults was exotic and foreign yet, in turn, familiar and local. The sensory perception of the goddess was also multiple: she was Egyptian but Roman; she was Roman but Egyptian. We have already mentioned how the heady aroma of oriental perfumes enveloped her in Apuleius’ account of the procession of Isis in Cenchrea. The aroma that Plutarch, for his part, associated with the Egyptian goddess and her servants on their arrival at Byblos was not a marker that identified her Alexandrian origin but, rather, a product that stressed her adscription to the Greek pantheon: ambrosia.83 However, when describing the use of aromatic products in the Egyptian temples of Isis and Osiris, he specifies precisely which types of incense were burned at different times during the day and explains why each was used at that particular time: in the morning, a stimulating resin is burned which cleans and purifies the air, and revitalises the body that has been dulled by slumber; at midday, they burn myrrh in order to dissipate pestilent diseases that might be caused by the strength of the sun; and at sunset, they burn a mixture of sixteen ingredients called kŷphi, which has a calming effect and helps the body to release the tensions of the day.84 Therewith, in addition to underscoring the local specificity of the cult of Isis, Plutarch intended to confirm the old topos that held that the Egyptians were

83 Plut. De Is. et Os. 357B. In this passage, Plutarch probably intended to emphasise its divine nature, since ambrosios can also mean “divine”. Cf. Levin 1971, 31–50. 84 Plut. De Is. et Os. 372D and 383A–384B. In all likelihood, Plutarch witnessed this custom when visiting Alexandria. Cf. Mor. 678C, although he took the recipe for kŷphi from Manetho (Jacoby, FGH, 609 F 16).

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the healthiest people on earth.85 This is just one of the multiple examples that allows us understand the tension between local and global.86 Beyond the desire of certain authors to indexicalise the Egyptian or Greek or even Roman character of the goddess through her association with specific smells, her identification with particular aromas depended on other factors. These included the access that both the temple and the individual had to the transoceanic market in aromatic resins and other types of offerings relating to the senses of taste, sight, and smell. In the absence of individual experiences like those of Apuleius and Plutarch, archaeobotanical analyses have been able to provide revealing insights into the sensescape of Isiac cult practice. The charred remains of seeds and fruit recovered from the Temples of Isis in Mainz, Baelo Claudia, and Pompeii include offerings that can be linked to the landscape of the Nile Valley – dates (phoenix dactylifera) – alongside other types of products. Depending on their place of discovery, these other products can be considered autochthonous or as coming from exotic areas of production like Egypt. Prominent among them are cereals cultivated in many geographical areas, such as different types of wheat (triticum aestivum, durum, and turgidum); fruit of a markedly local character, including cherries (prunus avium) found at the Temple of Isis at Mainz; hazelnuts (corylus avellana), as discovered at Mainz and Pompeii; or products supplied through long-distance trade networks, such as the pine nuts (pinus pinea) and olive oil (olea europaea) at Mainz.87 Based on these results, the question has been raised as to whether or not there were institutionalised preferences guiding the type of offerings made to the deities of the “oriental” cults during the Principate.88 What can be seen is a transfer of sophisticated human tastes, owing to the consumption of a large variety of imported products, to temple altars, regardless of whether these were dedicated to Isis or to another divinity. In this context, we can note that while the remains of dates may have been discovered in the Temples of Isis at Mainz, Baelo, and Pompeii, they have also been documented in the Temple of Fortune 85

86 87 88

This appreciation is already to be found in Hdt. 2.77, who claims that, after the Libyans, the people most concerned with their health are the Egyptians. For his part, Diod. Sic. 1.21.2 and 1.82.1 stresses the medical character of the cult of Isis, something well attested elsewhere. See Bricault and Versluys 2012. Zach 2002, 101–106. Note, for instance, that some of the offerings that could be considered “exotic”, such as the phoenix dactylifera, are also relatively common in other contexts, such as funerary offerings. Cf. Preiss, Matterne, and Latron 2005, 362–372 at 365–366; Bouby, Marinval 2004, 77–86 at 81–84.

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and Mercury at Nijmegen (Holland). Examining the issue from the other direction, we can note that despite the stress in the literary testimonies on Isis’ unusual preference for the sacrifice of geese,89 the west roman archaeological record nevertheless stubbornly insists on the fact that the most frequent offering was chicken, readily available anywhere and relatively cheap.90 Local supply predominated, making some products more accessible than others, as did the desire of individuals to flaunt their status by offering exotic products that called for a deep purse, regardless of which god was receiving the sacrifice. The same is true of the visual markers that tend to stand out in the identification of the worshippers of Isis. According to Apuleius’ account of the Isiac procession, the physical appearance of the initiates made them easily recognisable: the women wear veils and perfume their hair, while the men parade in white linen tunics and with shaved heads.91 This depiction coincides with Juvenal’s captious critique of oriental cults, which includes the description of a linigero et caluo herd of worshippers of Anubis.92 However, it is quite unlikely that all the worshippers of the gens isiaca adopted such a striking change in apparel in their day-to-day lives. As with the adoption of certain Southeast Asian religions in contemporary Europe (such as Buddhism, in any of its forms, or the Krishna movements), only the most fervent believers would have opted to express their commitment in such an openly unconventional way as changing their dress so as to stand out against local uses and customs. Such ostentatious displays were not a necessity; as Plutarch states, an individual is no more Isiac for dressing in linen and shaving his head.93 Tolerance directed at the integration of traditional, local aesthetics within a cult is a mechanism of cultural adaptation the purpose of which is to facilitate the recruitment of new blood. The words of Plutarch, beyond their paramount religious dimension, have the didactic value of reducing the relevance of the identity marker of clothing for those of the faithful who prefer to maintain a more comfortable appearance in their social space.

89 90

Cf. e.g. Ov. Fast. 1.453–454. Juv. Sat. 6.539–541; Anth. Pal. 6.231. In the Iseum of Baelo Claudia (Baetica), only four of the three hundred bones discovered came from geese. The rest came, for the most part, from chickens. Cf. Lignereux, Peters 2008, 231–234. Similarly, in Mainz most of the bones were also from chickens (up to 90%). Cf. Hochmuth, Benecke, and Witteyer 2005, 319–327. 91 Apul. Met. 11.10. Tib. 1.3.27–30 also mentions how his beloved Delia dresses in linen as a sign of sexual abstinence in order to venerate Isis on special occasions. On this question, see Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012, 149–162. 92 Juv. Sat. 6.533. 93 Plut. De Is. et Os. 352C.

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Lastly, stress should be placed on a still unexplored but highly significant point concerning the sensory mimesis in the context of its local deployment, i.e. its integration into both family and civic pantheons associated with other divinities that are easily identifiable with traditional Roman religion.94 The unification of the Isiac cults with the civic religious panorama can be seen in devotional acts in which adepts manifested their willingness to include several divinities in the same offering. The case of the anonymous dedication of Nîmes illustrates this point. In it, the evergetist simultaneously offers statues of Isis, Serapis, Vesta, Diana, and Somnus, although the inclusion of a temple for Isis and Serapis shows his preference for the gens isiaca.95 Just as significant is the inscription in which a worshipper named Privata, in the Baetic colony of Italica, offers Isis a marble plaque of the plantae pedis type by order of Juno (imperio Iunonis).96 Another equally illustrative Italican example is that of the flaminica Vibia Modesta, who makes an offering in the city’s ‘Trajaneum’, an Imperial cult temple, of a silver image of Victoria Augusta and three small golden busts of Isis, Ceres, and Juno Regina.97 It can be presumed that, as the archaeological record suggests, if, in these examples, devotion took the shape of rich material offerings through which a visual landscape of the city could be configured, then the gods of the local pantheons also shared in other sensory indicators of religious veneration, such as sacrifices and aromatic offerings, especially in those cases in which Isis shared her temple with other divinities (synnaoi theoi). These examples not only demonstrate the mimetic capacity of the cult of Isis to adapt to local pantheons, in order to become as familiar and local as any other god, but also the capacity of the devotee to navigate through different structures of meaning – consisting of the idiosyncrasies of each one of the city’s cults – and to interconnect them according to their personal interests. It is here that we can see how the concept of identity is relational98 and how it depends on the way in which the information packets comprising the cultural memory of the cults of the gens Isiaca are employed. The type of analysis undertaken here is useful that it can help us to understand not only that the milieu constitutes a founding element in the cultural complex or that the social agency is decisive in the construction of the ecocultural niche in which the life of the individual unfolds, but also that the codes 94 See Gasparini 2014. 95 CIL XII, 3058 = SIRIS 728 = RICIS 605/0101. 96 RICIS 602/0205 = HEp 5, 1995, 717 = Alvar 2012, nº73. For a state of the art and a new interpretation of the plantae pedis offerings, cf. Gasparini’s chapter in this volume. 97 AE 1982, 521 = AE 1984, 530 = HEp 4, 1994, 724 = RICIS 602/0201 = Alvar 2012, nº 83. 98 Hollway 2010.

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of recognition, belonging, or alienity are mutable. This mutability finds expression both in social transformation, which provokes new discourses and references, and also in individual action.99 Ultimately, the phagocytising of the methodology of the linguistic turn by corpus studies has led to the acknowledgement that the formulation of cultural meanings is not only discursive or reflexive, but also experiential and perceptive. Sensory stimuli suffer the mediation of the provenance of the cult and its reception in a new community. In this regard, it is essential to understand the mechanisms of mimesis/anti-mimesis (Egyptianism/Romanism) from an inclusive viewpoint in which a series of elements intervene: on the one hand, the elements of representation of the cult of the gens isiaca – including sensory stimuli – which generate variations caused by the interests of the agents of the cult in the different processes of its transmission; on the other hand, the expectations of every new community that receives the cult also have to be considered. The interaction of all these elements causes a tension between homogeneity and particularity in the perception of the cult, and this tension is also present in its sensory order. If we, as modern scholars, tend to stress the particularities of the cult, in doing so we neglect the other half of the picture, its homogeneity. We should not forget that any inhabitant of the Roman Empire could identify (also, or especially, in sensory terms) the cult of the gens isiaca anywhere in the Empire. Our purpose here has been to show how a Total Sensory Experience approach can open up the different manifestations of the tension produced by the transmission, reception, and observation of religious phenomena generally and, as we have seen here, the cults of the gens isiaca in particular. A noteworthy difference of the sensorium of the cult of the gens isiaca in relation to other cults of the Roman pantheon is the dialectic between mimesis and alterity that we have emphasised in these pages, which is not essential in all the other cults that base their authority and legitimacy in the Graeco-Roman cultural tradition. We do not have the wherewithal to quantify the importance that sensory stimuli had in fixing the multi-faceted image of Isis, and the gens isiaca, in Roman society, but we can state that they played an active and unique role, and that there was an awareness among devotees that sensory stimuli formed part of the set of communication devices that contributed to the goddess’ identity in each context.

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Acknowledgements

This article has experienced a long journey. A first draft entitled “The Empire of the Senses” was presented in the workshop Roman Religion. Questions, Tendencies, New Perspectives, organised by Carlos III University of Madrid and Potsdam Universität in Madrid, during March 7–8, 2013. The final version has been written in the frame of the coordinated research projet “Vías de acceso a lo divino. Apelar a los dioses, ofrecer los cuerpos, entregar la vida” (HAR201784789-C2-1-P and 2-P). We wish express our gratitude to Prof. M. J. Versluys, whose commentaries and criticism have improved the consistency of our arguments. The remaining errors are of our responsibility. Bibliography Aerde, Marike E. J. J. van. 2015. Egypt and the Augustan Cultural Revolution: an Interpretative Archaeological Overview. Doctoral Thesis. Leiden. http://hdl.handle .net/1887/32818. Albrecht, Janico, Christopher Degelmann, Valentino Gasparini, Richard Gordon, Maik Patzelt, Georgia Petridou, Rubina Raja, Anna-Katharina Rieger, Jörg Rüpke, Benjamin Sippel, Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli, and Lara Weiss. 2018. “Religion in the Making: The Lived Ancient Religion Approach.” Religion 48: 568–593. Alvar, Jaime. 1991. “Marginalidad e integración en los cultos mistéricos.” In Heterodoxos, reformadores y marginados en la Antigüedad Clásica, edited by Fernando Gascó and Jaime Alvar, 71–90. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla. Alvar, Jaime. 1993. “De la ensoñación iniciática a la vida cotidiana.” In Modelos ideales y prácticas de vida, edited by Emma Falque and Fernando Gascó, 129–140. Sevilla: Universidad Internacional Menéndez Pelayo. Alvar, Jaime. 1994a. “La mujer y los cultos mistéricos: marginación e integración.” In Jornadas sobre roles sexuales: La mujer en la historia y la cultura, Madrid, 16–22 mayo 1990, edited by María José Rodríguez, Esther Hidalgo, and Carlos G. W ­ agner, 73–84. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas. Alvar, Jaime. 1994b. “Integración social de esclavos y dependientes en la Península Ibérica a través de los cultos mistéricos.” Religion et anthropologie de l’esclavage et des formes de dépendence. Actes du XXème Colloque du GIREA. Besançon, 4–6 nov. 1993, 275–293. Paris: Belles Lettres. Alvar, Jaime. 2008. Romanising Oriental Gods. Myth, Salvation and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras, RGRW 165. Leiden-Boston: Brill. Alvar, Jaime. 2012. Los cultos egipcios en Hispania. Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté.

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Index of Literary Sources All three indexes have been elaborated by Beatriz Pañeda Murcia, doctoral candidate at the Universidad Carlos III de Madrid and the École Pratique des Hautes Études–PSL Abbreviations of ancient authors and works follow those listed in the Oxford Classical Dictionary and the Diccionario Griego-Español (DGE) of the Centre of Humanities and Social Sciences of the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC). Ach. Tat. (Achilles Tatius) (Leucippe et Clitophon) 5.14.2 303 n123 Ael. (Aelianus) NA (De natura animalium) 10.23 299 n95 Afric. (S. Iulius Africanus) Fr. 12, 3.1–4 Walraff-Mecella 91, 92 n6 Fr. 13, T 7 Walraff-Mecella 98 n27 Ambst. (Ambriosaster) Quaest. vet. nov. test. (Quaestiones Veteris et Novi Testamenti) 113.11 178 n4, 183 n28 Anth. Pal. (Anthologia Palatina) 6.231 413 n89 Apollod. (Apollodorus mythographus) Bibl. (Bibliotheca) 3.28 164 n18, n21 and n23 Apul. (Apuleius) Apol. (Apologia) 5 Met. (Metamorphoses) 8.30.5 11.1.2 11.3.4 11.3.20–4.7 11.4.3 11.8 11.8–17

90 n2 260 with n9 394 n23 394 n22 395 n25 408 n70 376 n53 110 n35

11.9 11.9.3 11.9.6 11.10 11.11 11.12 11.17.23–24 11.19–30 11.23.2–3 Aratus Phaen. (Phaenomena) 286–298 407–434 757–891

377 n55 and n57, 406 n66 and n67 408 n72 377 n58 378 n62, 413 n91 374 n44, 378 n63 303 n122 301 n108 16, 178 n2 179 n13

208 n3 208 n3 208 n3

Arist. (Aristoteles) De an. (De anima) 2.6–11 6 n25 3 10 n39 Eth. Eud. (Ethica Eudemia) 1245b22–24 146 n21 Eth. Nic. (Ethica Nicomedia) 1170b4 146 n22 Hist. nat. (Historia animalium) 534b18 146 n22 Mem. (De memoria et reminiscentia) 10 n39 Metaph. (Metaphysica) 980 A 221 n76 Poet. (Poetica) 6.28 131 n17 Pol. (Politica) 8.7.1341 264 with n36 Sens. (De sensu) 449a16–20 6 n24 442a29–b3 7 n29

428 Arist. (cont.) Som. (De somno) 455a21–22

Index of Literary Sources

6 n24

Arn. (Arnobius) Adv. nat. (Adversus nationes) 7.26 14 n56, 397 n39 11.73 399 n47 Artem. (Artemidorus Daldianus) Oneir. (Oneirocriticus) 2.35 194 n15 Ath. (Athenaeus) (Deipnosophistae) 6.274 F 5.196–201 D 5.196–203 6.274 F 14.32 [632 A]

18 n71 376 n54 131 n14 408 n71 371 n33

Athan. Alex. (Athanasius Alexandrianus) Gent. (Oratio contra gentes) 9 274 n13 August. (Augustinus) Conf. (Confessiones) 1.20 10 n41 7.17 10 De civ. D. (De civitate Dei) 6.10 114 n47, 138 n26, 377 n56 De lib. arb. (De Libero Arbitrio) 2.3–5 10 n41 Aul. Gell. (Aulus Gellius) (Noctes Atticae) 15.7.3 215 n37 Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 445 (65a Engl. transl.)

94 n15

Bible (O.T.) Genesis 31.19

94

Callim. (Callimachus) Hymn 2 (Hymnus in Apollinem) 55–57 209 n9 108–112 244 Hymn 6 (Hymnus in Demetrem) 124 154 n54 Catull. (Catullus) 63 263–264 63.19 261 Censorinus DN (De die natali) 2.1–3 2.5

224 n97 224 n97

Cic. (Cicero) Div. (De divinatione) 1.102 103 n2, 112 n43 2.71 112 n43 2.83 112 n43 2.138–139 47 Fam. (Epistulae ad familiares) 15.19.1 47 n27 15.6 48 n29 Fin. (De finibus) 1.6.20 46 n25 Nat. D. (De natura deorum) 1.31.87 9 n37 2.6 221 n79 2.142 47 n28 2.146 14 n56, 397 n38 2.166 221 n79 3.57 216 n40 Phil. (Orationes Philippicae) 4.6.14 209 n6 Rep. (De republica) 2.5–11 210 n10 6 41 n14 6.10 42 6.17 217 n46 Tusc. (Tusculanae disputationes) 1.46 132 3.22.53 162 n9 Verr. (In Verrem) 2.5.53 9 n37

429

Index of Literary Sources Claud. (Claudianus) IV Cons. Hon. (De quarto consulatu Honorii) 26–27 216 n40 574–576 378 n60 Clem. Al. (Clemens Alexandrinus) Paed. (Paedagogus) 2.4.40–41 266 with n51 Protr. (Protrepticus) 2.15.3 267 with n53 12 202 n45 Cosmas Hierosolymitanus Scholia in Greg. Naz. Carm. 178 n4 Cyranides 1.5 2.20 1.21 2.38 2.5.2–3 2.7 2.40 2.41 2.43 3.4

99 n33 99 n37 98 n31 98 n30 98 n28 99 n34 99 n35 99 n36 99 n38 99 n33

Dio Cass. (Dio Cassius) (Historia Romana) 40.47–3–4 45.1.2 45.1.3 46.50.4–5 47.16.1.1 49.15.5 53.16.6–8 53.27.2–3 54.32.1 56.24.1 56.25.5 56.30.5

398 n46 217 n47 217 n41 214 n26 399 n47 218 n49 226 n106 212 n17 214 n27 400 n52 210 n14 215 n37

Dio Chrys. (Dio Chrysostomus) Or. (Orationes) 8.6–9 160 n1 9.20–16 164 n17

Diod. Sic. (Diodorus Siculus) (Bibliotheca historica) 1.21.2 410 n85 1.81.2 410 n85 Dion. Hal. (Dionysius Halicarnassensis) Ant. Rom. (Antiquitates Romanae) 2.19.5 261, 264 7.70.1 371 n33 7.71 371 n28 7.72 225 n103 7.72.1–2 372 n34 7.72.1–13 111 n38 7.72.5 373 n39 7.72.7–8 373 n41 7.72.10 374 n42 7.72.13 366 n1, 374 n44 Dem. (De Demosthene) 54 90 n1 Empedocles Peri phuseos Frag. 4

36 n1

Epigr. Bob. (Epigrammata Bobiensia) 39 217 n41 Eriugena De Divisione Naturae 2.23

10 n42

Euphorion Frag. 84

172 n52

Euseb. (Eusebius) Hist. eccl. (Historia ecclesiastica) 5.14–15 93 n11 Fabius Pictor FRH2 1 Frg. 20

111 n38

Fest. (Festus) (De significatione verborum) s. v. Decumanus 212 n20 334.19 L 8 n32 78 L 103 n3, 110 n37

430

Index of Literary Sources

Firm. Mat. (Firmicus Maternus) Err. prof. rel. (De errore profanarum religionum) 4.2 369 n20 6.5 369 n20 18.1 267 with n53

Hom. (Homerus) Il. (Ilias) 2.484–6 133 4.74–84 221 n77 Od. (Odyssea) 16.161 221 n79

Frontin. (Frontinus) De limit. (De limitibus) 10.20–11.6 11.9–14

Hymn. Hom. Ap. (Hymnus Homericus ad Apollinem) 440–445 221 n77

209 n8 209 n8, 212 n20

Gal. (Galenus) PHP (De placitis Hippocratis et Platonis) 5.6.21–22 264 n35

Hymn. Hom. XIV (Hymnus Homericus ad Matri deum) XIV 267 with n54 XIV, 4 268

Hdn. (Herodianus) (Historia de imperio post Marcum) 1.80 44 n21 5.3.8 375 n46 5.5.9 375 n46 5.6.6–8 216 n40

Hor. (Horacius) Carm. Saec. (Carmen saeculare) 130 4.5.5–8 218 n56 Epist. (Epistulae) 1.3.17 218 n51 2.182–207 131 n17 Epod. (Epodi) 5 15 n60 Sat. (Satirae) 1.5.64 45 n22 1.8.23–26 15 n60

Hdt. (Herodotus) (Historiae) 1.47–8 133 2.77 412 n85 4.73–75 78 n38

Hyg. (Hyginus) Fab. (Fabulae) 1 2 4

Hes. (Hesiod) Op. (Opera et dies) 724–726

Hyg. Gr. (Hyginus Gromaticus) Const. lim. (Constitutio limitum) 131.3–132.12 212 n20 131.8–10 209 n8 131.8–132.12 209 n8 135.1–14 209 n8 147.17–152.3 211 n15 146.9–147.16 209 n8, 212 n20

Gr. Naz. (Gregorius Nazianzenus) Or. (Orationes) 39.5 178 n3 39.70 178 n3

223 n95

Hippiatr. Cantagr. (Hippiatrica Cantabrigiensia) 85 99 n32 Hippoc. (Hippocrates) Acut. (De diaeta in morbis acutis) 1.23 7 n30

Iambl. (Iamblichus) Myst. (De mysteriis) 6.5–7

164 n18 164 n18, n21 and n23 164 n18

195 n18

431

Index of Literary Sources Isid. (Isidorus Hispalensis) Etym. (Etymologiae) 15.14 212 n20 18.16.2 8 n34 Joseph. (Josephus) AJ (Antiquitates Judaicae) 18.22 78n40 18.65–80 398 n42 19.24 400 n53 19.106 400 n53 BJ (Bellum Judaicum) 7.132–3 129 Justin. (Justinus Martyr) Apol. (Apologia) 1.66 179 n12 Juv. (Juvenalis) Sat. (Saturae) 6.510 261 6.512–541 410 n78 6.513–541 398 n43 6.533 413 n92 6.539–541 413 n89 12.83–85 111 n40 12.86–90 111 n41 Kallixeinos of Rhodes, Peri Alexandreias 4, Jacoby, FGrHist III C, n° 627, p. 165–177 376 n54 Lactant. (Lactantius) Div. inst. (Divinae institutiones) 19 274 n13 Liv. (Titus Livius) (Ab urbe condita) 9.30.5 18 n74 29.10 260 29.14.10–14 281 n72 33.32 162 n7 39.6.7 396 n31 39.6.9 396 n32 39.15.6 370 41.15.1–3 223 n93

Per. (Periochae) 139

214 n27

Luc. (Lucanus) (Bellum civile) 510–520 15 530–560 15 680–695 15 8.831–3 400 n52 Lucian. (Lucianus) Alex. (Alexander) 38 202 n45 38–40 194 n12 De sacr. (De sacrificiis) 1.8–10 137 1.12–13 137 13 109 Lucr. (Lucretius) (De rerum natura) 1.44–49 58 n40 1.62–65 63 n63 1.62–79 63 n62 1.63 63 n65 1.80–101 36 n1 1.107–111 37 1.109 35–36 n1 1.112–126 41 n14 1.127–135 36 1.132–135 37 1.146–216 54 n11 1.215–264 54 n12 1.265–397 54 n13 1.418–482 54 n13 1.464–482 48 n30 1.478–521 54 n15 1.483–583 54 n20 1.599 54 n19 1.599–634 54 n20 1.609–614 54 n19 1.635–920 62 n59 1.932 35 n1 2.184–215 54 n18 2.216–293 54 n17 2.422–444 55 n24 2.522–568 54 n14

432 Lucr. (cont.) 2.618 260 with n10, 263 2.618–21 381 n74 2.620 263–264 2.629–34 381 n75 2.631 382 2.641 382 2.641–3 382 n76 2.655–659 67 n82 2.680 67 n82 2.700–729 54 n16 2.1091–1104 63 n64 2.1150–1179 63 n62 3.59–86 37 3.94 54 n21 3.94–135 54 n21 3.117 54 n21 3.232–236 55 n22 3.242 55 n22 3.978–1023 63 n64 3.1029–1035 48 n30 4.26–32 55 n27 4.31 55 n26 4.50 55 n25 4.59 38, 47 n28 4.136–139 59 n43 4.337–352 57 n35 4.353–359 46 n26 4.379–468 56 n30 4.400– 413 46 n26 4.462–466 14 n54 4.469–521 56 n31 4.478–484 14 n54 4.480 38 4.522–686 57 n33 4.687–705 57 n34 4.722–776 56 n29 4.728–731 39 4.755–757 37 4.756–757 39 n9 4.756–767 45 n24 5.110–125 63 n64 5.146 58 n38 5.146–154 58 n39 5.181–186 59 n41 5.592–613 46 n25 5.1136–1150 63 n62 5.1136–1240 66 n79 5.1161–1240 63 n64 5.1198–1202 67 n82

Index of Literary Sources 5.1236–1240 5.1423–1429 6.50–55 6.68–69

67 n82 63 n62 63 n62 66 n79

Macrob. (Macrobius) In Somn. (Commentarius ex Cicerone in somnium Scipionis) 1.5.17 227 n113 1.17.1–5 217 n46 1.20.3–4 217 n46 1.21.24–26 219 n62 Sat. (Saturnalia) 1.2.9 219 n64 1.10.23–24 219 n64 1.16.3 223 n93 1.16.17 219 n63 1.16.44 212 n16 1.17.7–8 217 n46 1.17.9–17 221 n80 1.17.30 221 n81 1.17.31 221 n82 1.17.32 221 n83 1.17.33 222 n84 1.17.34 222 n85 1.17.36–41 222 n86 1.17.46 223 n90 1.17.57 221 n80 1.17.65 221 n83 1.18.23 212 n16 1.21.15–16 218 n57 7.14 45 n24 7.14.6 45 Man. Hist. (Manetho historicus) Jacoby, FGH, 609 F 16 411 n84 Manil. (Manilius) Astr. (Astronomica) 1.800–803 1.914–917 1.922–926 2.105–130 2.507–509 4.254–256

217 n45 217 n44 227 n114 208 n5 210 n14 218 n57

Mart. (Martialis) (Epigrammata) 10.3

17 n65

433

Index of Literary Sources 11.30 17 n65 12.85 17 n65 Spect. (Liber Spectaculorum) 130 Mich. Syr. (Michaelis Syrus) Chron. (Chronicon) 9.33 93 Migne PG (Patrologiae Cursus, series Graeca) 36, 989 178 n6 38, 506 178 n4 Mishnah, Avodah Zarah III 2 274 n13 Mon. Anc. (Monumentum Ancynarum) 12 212 n17 19.1 218 n49 34 218 n52, 226 n106 Nonnus Dion. (Dionysiaca) 5.556 9.59 10.67 20.350

164 n23 164 n22 and n23 164 n18 and n21 164 n21

Origen. (Origenes) C. Cels. (Contra Celsum) 5.38

303 n123

Oros. (Orosius) 7.9.11

162 n10

Ov. (Ovidius) Am. (Amores) 1.15.35f 245 1.8 15 n60 3.2.43 110 n36 3.2.43–62 374 n44, 378 n64 Ars am. (Ars amatoria) 1.508 263 1.78 398 n40 Fast. (Fasti) 1.45–54 223 n93 1.71 12 1.71–1.82 108 n31

1.71–88 135–136 1.85–88 119 n60 1.335–1.342 108 n32 1.337–347 14 n56, 397 n39 1.337–1.353 109 n33, 408 n71 1.341 246 1.453–454 413 n89 2.609 43 n19 2.649–655 117 n56 3.650 275 n19 4.180 260 with n8, 263 4.180–390 260 4.181 263 4.194 381 n73 4.205–210 263 4.207–214 370 n23 4.214 264 4.267 263 4.293 380 4.293–4 379, 380 n67 4.337–343 380 n69 4.341 371 n26 4.951–954 218 n52 5.420ff 44 22 6.650–700 18 n74 Met. (Metamorphoses) 1.557–566 218 n52 2.150–154 217 n42 4.542 164 n18, n21 and n23 15.670–680 116 n54 Pont. (Epistulae ex Ponto) 3.1.161–164 224 n96 Paus. (Pausanias) (Graeciae descriptio) 1.44.7 2.1.2 2.1.7 2.1.7–2.2.1 2.1.22 6.13.10 6.20.19

164 n20, n22 and n23 162 n9, 164 n24 163 n15 164 n34 163 n15 163 n12 163 n15

Pers. (Persius) Sat. (Saturae) 2

56 n14, 18 n71, 397 n39, 408 n71

434 Petron. (Petronius) Sat. (Satyrica) 134

Index of Literary Sources

15 n60

Philo (Philo Judaeus) Spec. leg. (De specialibus legibus) 2.193 266 with n52 Phld. (Philodemus Gadarensis) Mus. (De Musica) 18.24 266 Philostr. (Philostratus) Her. (Heroicus) 2017 Imag. (Imagines) 1.19 2.16 Pl. (Plato) Cra. (Cratylus) 409 A Phd. (Phaedo) 79 C

172 n51 164 n22 164 n18, n21, n22 and n23, 167 n32

223 n90 134

Plaut. (Plautus) Mostell. (Mostellaria) 84–133

47 n28

Plin. (Plinius) HN (Naturalis historia) 28.3.11 28.11 7.2 7.19 18.331 32.49.1 36.13 36.38 36.72–73 37.155

18 n74 110 n37 47 n28 72 n6, 75 n18 212 n20 97 n25 218 n49 212 n17 212 n17 91 n3

Plotinus (Plotinus) Enn. (Enneades) 7.7.33.30

302 n113

Plut. (Plutarchus) De def. or. (De defectu oraculorum) 420 B 40 De Is. et Os. (De Iside et Osiride) 3 = 352 C 15 n57, 413 n93 357 A–B 408 n74 357 B 411 n83 372 D 411 n84 382 C 394 n24 383 A–384 B 411 n84 Mor. (Moralia) 2.75 B–75 C 146 n22 98 C 14 n53 676 F 164 n17 678 C 411 n84 Quaest. Rom. (Quaestiones Romanae) 55 18 n74 Vit. Aem. (Vitae Parallelae: Aemilius Paulus) 32–4 127 33.1 372 n35 Vit. Arist. (Vitae Parallelae: Aristides) 21.3–4 372 n36 Vit. Dem. (Vitae Parallelae: Demosthenes) 11 90 n1 Vit. Sert. (Vitae Parallelae: Sertorius) 22.2–3 225 n104 Vit. Sol. (Vitae Parallelae: Solon) 18.6 146 n21 Vit. Thes. (Vitae Parallelae: Theseus) 25.4 162 n6, 165 n26 Poll. (Pollux) Onom. (Onomasticon) 4.86.6–87.1

372 n37

Polyb. (Polybius) (Historiae) 6.53.5 42 6.53.9 42 n15 6.53.10 42 18.46 162 n7

435

Index of Literary Sources Posidonius FGH 87 Fr. 104

78 n37

Porph. (Porphyrius) De antr. nymph. (De antro nympharum) 15 180 n15 , 184 n39, 185 n43 22–23 219 n62 23 219 n64 Prop. (Propertius) El. (Elegiae) 2.31 218 n49 2.34.31–32 243 3.1.1–4 243 3.17 249 with n36 3.17.29 244 3.3.51 244 4.1 242, 250 4.1.69 242 4.1.73–4 248 4.4 242 4.4.15–18 247 4.4.16 245 4.5 241–242 4.5.65 241 4.5.78 242 4.6 236, 241–242, 245, 249 n36, 250–251 4.6.3–4 242 4.6.5–12 245 4.6.11–15 247 4.6.13 250 4.6.64–66 247 4.6.69–70 248 4.6.71–74 249 4.6.75–76 249 4.6.77–85f 250 4.6.86 242 4.7 41 n14 4.7–8 245 Ps. Nonn. (Pseudo-Nonnus) Comm. in Greg. Nazian. Or. (In IV orationes Gregorii Nazianzeni commentarii) 4.70 178 n5

Quint. (Quintilianus) Inst. (Institutio oratoria) 11.3.54 90 n1 Sall. (Sallustius) Hist. (Historiae) 2.28 M 2.70

225 n104 225 n104

Sappho Fr. 2. Lobel-Page 2 148–149 Sen. (Seneca) Fr. 34–37 (= August. De civ. D. 6.10) 114 n47 De superst. (De Superstitione, ed. F. Haase) Fr. 36 138, 377 n56 Ep. (Epistulae) 20.124 14 n53 64.6 115 n52 115.4 115 n51 122 15 n62 QNat. (Quaestiones naturales) 6.3 115 n52 Oed. (Oedipus) 300–350 225 n103 337–339 223 n94 Vit. Beat. (De vita beata) 26.7–8 103 n44 26.8 114 n46 Sepher Ha-Razim §§ 137–140

96 n23

Septuaginta Lev. 19.31 95 Lev. 20.27 95 Serv. (Servius) Aen. (Commentarii in Aeneidem) 3.244 275 n19 5.71 103 n5 6. 264 43 n19 7.688 76 n28 11.573–574 275 n19 11.785 74 n14–15, 75 n17, 75 n19, 76 n22 11.787 74 n15

436

Index of Literary Sources

Serv. (cont.) Ecl. (Commentarii in Eclogues) 4.10 218 n51 Sic. Flacc. (Siculus Flaccus) De cond. agr. (De condicionibus agrorum) 117.5–21 212 n20 Sil. (Silius Italicus) Pun. (Punica) 5.175–183 73 n11, 75 n17 17.1–59 260 17.17 261 with n11 17.19 263 Solin. (Solinus) 2.26

74 n14, n16

Stat. (Statius) Silv. (Silvae) 2.1.180 164 n18 and n23 3.3.201 42 Theb. (Thebais) 1.12 164 n18 1.120 164 n21 and n22 6.10 169 n40 9.401 164 n21 Str. (Strabo) (Geographica) 4.3.2 4.4.6 5.2.9 7.3.3 7.3.5 8.6.23 10.3.17 12.2.7 Suet. (Suetonius) Aug. (Divus Augustus) 5.1 29.1 29.3 58.1 70.1–2 78.2

214 n27 73 n10 73 n9, 75 n17 78 n37 78 n 40 162 n9 369 n18 77 n33

215 n31 218 n49 218 n49 and n50 226 n106 218 n48 223 n92

94.4 94.6 94.12 Calig. (Gaius Caligula) 57.10 Claud. (Divus Claudius) 2.1 Dom. (Domitianus) 1.2 Vesp. (Vespasianus) 17

217 n41, 217 n47 217 n42 210 n14 400 n53 214 n27 398 n41 162 n10

Tac. (Tacitus) Agr. (De vita et moribus Iulii Agricolae) 46 45 n23 Ann. (Annales) 1.57.1 215 n33 1.59.1 215 n34 Hist. (Historiae) 3.74 398 n41 Tert. (Tertullianus) Ad nat. (Ad nationes) 1.10.17 398 n46 Adv. Marc. (Adversus Marcionem) 1.13 185 n43 Apol. (Apologeticus) 6.8 398 n46 De anim. (De testimonio animae) 9.3 9 n36 15.1–2 9 n38 De cor. (De corona) 15.3–4 179 n7 De praescr. haer. (De praescriptione haereticorum) 40 179 n9 De spect. (De spectaculis) 9.3 217 n42 Theophr. (Theophrastus) Sens. (De sensibus) 38 7 n28 Thuc. (Thucydides) (Historiae) 8.10

162 n7

437

Index of Literary Sources Tib. (Tibullus) (Elegiae) 1.3.27.30 2.2.2–10

413 n91 117 n55

Valerius Apsines Ars rhetorica, ed. Spengel, Rhetores Graeci I p. 358, 9–10 367 n9 Val. Max. (Valerius Maximus) (Facta et dicta memorabilia) 1.3.4 398 n46 2.5.4 18 n74 7.3.8 398 n41 Varro (Varro) Ling. (De lingua Latina) 6.15 260 6.31 223 n63 Sat. Men. (Saturae Menippeae) Frg. 290 132 Vell. Pat. (Velleius Paterculus) (Historia romana) 2.65.2 215 n37 2.81.3 218 n49 2.91.1 226 n106 Verg. (Vergilius) Aen. (Aeneis) 2 6.784

41 n14 263 n33

7.688 8.665 8.720–723 11.784–788 Buc. (Bucolica) 404 Ecl. (Eclogues) 1.42–44 G. (Georgica) 1.5–7

76 n28 8 n32 218 n55 72 n5, 75 n17 14 n56, 397 n9 224 n96 212 n16

Vitr. (Vitrubius) De arch. (De architectura) 1.1.10 210 n11 1.4–6 210 n10 4.5.1 223 n95 Xenoph. (Xenophanes) (Fragmenta elegiaca) B24 DK 134 B38 DK 134 B23 K 134 X. Eph. (Xenopho Ephesius) (Ephesiaca) 2.2–9 366 n3

Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources The epigraphical sources are cited following the List of Abbreviations of Editions and Works of Reference for Alphabetic Greek Epigraphy (GrEpiAbbr) of the Association Internationale d’Épigraphie Grecque et Latine (AIEGL) and the list of the Guide de l’épigraphiste (2010). The papyrological sources follow the online edition of Oates, John F. & William H. Willis, Checklist of Editions of Greek, Latin, Demotic, and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca, and Tablets (http://papyri.info/ docs/checklist). 1 Epigraphical Sources AE

AS

1908, 150 1952, 121 1982 1984, 504 1984, 530 1984, 531 1998, 1201 1998, 1202 1998, 1203 1998, 1204 1998, 1205 2010, 90

350 350 414 n97 350 340, 414 n97 338 326 282 n52 328 328 330 334

27 (1977), 75,7

199 n34

Bosch, Ankara 128 94.98 115.100 122.105 123.106 141.117 166.130 178.139 310.249 310.250 311.251 312.252 312.253 BE

1977, 288 1987, 675

196 n26 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 198 n29 199 n34, 200 n37 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 320 282 n52, 326, 328, 330

BE

1990, 458

316

Brashear 1992

180–181, 183 n30

CGRN 90 126 173 222

153 n49 152 n43 151 n33 151 n34

CIL I2 p. 229 p. 231–239

224 n96 380 n71

CIL II2 351 350 CIL V 7488 336 CIL VI 351 334 15782 273 n7 31107 334 CIL VIII 12400 24037

275 n18 275 n18

CIL IX 1542

265 n39

CIL XI 3303

224 n98

CIL XII 1745

265 n41

439

Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources 1782 3058 4333

265 n41 414 n95 224 n97

CIL XIII 1752–54

265 n41

CIL XIV 408

265 n41

Duthoy, 1969 22 54 58 85 93 127–129 150–153 pp. 548–561

265 n46 266 n50 266 n49 265 n45 266 n47 266 n48 265 n42 265 n39

EphEp IV 772 334 EphEp IX 586 336 HEp 2 (1990), 228 4 (1994), 724 5 (1995), 714 5 (1995), 715 5 (1995), 716 5 (1995), 717

338 414 n97 340 342 342 344, 414 n96

I.Alexandrie imp. 66 310 I.Ancyra 88 141 143

199 n34, 200 n37 196 n26 198 n29

I.Délos 2103 314 I.Ephesos 27 213 = SIG3 820

366 n5 192 n1

286 1455 1456 1457 2037 IG IV 203

199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 171 n46

IG VII 2713 162 n8 3414 332 IG IX.2 589

278 n33

IG X.2, 1 89 322 90 322 104 324 105 326 115 320 120 324 IG XI.4 1263 314 IG XII.2 484

192 n1

IG XII.3 388

279 n36

IGR III 162

199 n34

IGR IV 116 353

192 n1 192 n1

IG Bulg 3.1.1517

199 n34

I.Kios 4

199 n34

I.Lindos 487

152 n46

440 ILS

Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources

4096 380 n68 4354 334 4355 336 8844 380 n71

I.Mus. Iznik 116

199 n34

I.Pergamon 374

192 n1

I.Pessinous 12 14 17 18

199 n34 199 n34 199 n34 199 n34

I.Prusa 16

199 n34

I.Prusias 5 17 19 46 47

199 n34 199 n34 and n35 199 n34 199 n34 192 n1, 199 n34

I.Sardis I, 1 62

199 n34, 199 n35

I.Side 149

198 n30

I.Smyrna 1

199 n34

I.Tralleis 135

198 n30

LSAM 6 9 14 50 81

154 n52 152 n45 153 n47 367 n8 367 n10

LSCG 124

153 n50

LSS 59

152 n44

MAMA V 182 82

199 n34 199 n34

MAMA VI 149 164

199 n34 199 n34

Marek, Cat. Pompeiopolis 3 199 n34 McCabe, Aphrodisias (PHI CD-ROM) 296

199 n34

OGIS 458 219 n65 and n66, 220 n68–71 RICIS 105/0894 332 112/0501 278 n33 113/0201 282 n 51, 326 113/0203 328 113/0204 282 n52 113/0205 328 113/0206 330 113/0218 282 n51 *113/0302 316 *113/0303 316 113/0547 320 113/0555 322 113/0565 322 113/0566 324 113/0567 324 113/0568 326 114/0204 320 202/0186 314 202/0263 303 n123 202/0288 314 202/0423, A, I 275 n17

441

Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources 202/0424, B, I 275 n17 202/0428 275 n17 202/0433, A 275 n17 403/0201 303 n122 501/0109–0110 398 n45 501/0111 334 *501/0156 334 501/0167 273 503/0201 336 503/1109 334 513/0102 280 n43, 336 515/0115 303 n123 *518/0501 332 602/0102 338 602/0103 340 602/0201 414 n97 602/0202 340 602/0203 342 602/0204 342 602/0205 344, 414 n96 605/0101 414 n95 611/0101 338 RICIS Suppl. I (compl). 113/0201 326 SB I 3478 310 3482 310 SEG I 380d

163 n13

SEG VI 58 59

198 n29 196 n26

SEG XVII 34

218 n54

SEG XXIV 560 322 561 326 562 324 563 320 SEG XXXI 860 334

SEG XXXIV 622 326 623 282 n52 623a 328 624 328 625 330 SEG XXXVIII 585 316 SEG XXXIX 340

170 n45

SEG XLI 328

202 n47

SEG XLVIII 903 320 SEG LVII 1220

199 n34

SGG II Pe1 6

91 n5

SIG 814

162 n8

SIG3 820

192 n1

SIRIS 61 332 94 278 n33 111a 322 111b 324 111c 320 111d 326 379 334 416 334 449 273 n7 515 332 523 336 533f 334 645 336 646 338 728 414 n95

442

Index of Epigraphic and Papyrological Sources

Suppl.It. I 2221 334 Suppl.It. XII 45 336 TAM III.1 32

298 n87

Vermaseren, CCCA II 363 513 540 570

262 n24 262 n21 262 n20 262 n23

Vermaseren, CCCA III 236 259 311 314 466

265 n46 262 n27 262 n25 262 n26 262 n29

Vermaseren, CCCA IV 42 98 102 243 359 360 362

264 n37 264 n40, 266 n50 265 n39, 266 n49 265 n40 265 n45 265 n45 265 n45

Vermaseren, CCCA V 364 369 385 392 395

265 n44 266 n47 266 n48 266 n48 266 n48

Vermaseren, CCCA VI 335

262 n22

Vermaseren, CIMRM 457 485

182 n24 185 n42

673 844 1292 1306

182 n25 182 n23 186 n49 186 n49

Vermaseren and Van Essen 1965 217, fig. 204 and pl. XCIX, 1–3 185 n46 224 and pl. LXIX 185 n42 Žabkar, Philae (1988) Hymn V Hymn VI

394 n23 394 n23

2 Papyrological Sources Feriale Duranum III 8

224 n96

PGM IV 1716ff 91 3003ff 91 3036 91 n4 PGM XII 107–113

96 n20

PGM XIXa 1–54

93 n13

PGM XIXb 4–18

95 n19

PGM XXXVI 361–371

95 n18

PGM LIX 13–14

303 n123

PSI IX 1036, 3

303 n123

General Index Achaia 19, 193, 196, 201 Achilles 48, 161, 374 Acrocorinth 279 n36 Actium 218–219, 226, 240, 247 Adyton 168 n33, 169 Aemilius Paulus 127–129, 128 n5, 132, 372 Aeneas 116, 370 Aesthetics 17, 390, 413 Aesthetic formations 307 Egyptianising aesthetics 391. See also Egyptianism/Egyptianising Sensational aesthetics 105, 127, 129, 131, 138 Social aesthetics 71 with n3, 81, 84 Agency 5, 238–241, 238 n7, 272, 414 Of gods 112, 116, 237–239, 241, 307 Of objects 24, 148 Poetic 241, 250–251 Religious 238–241, 251 Agones 16, 160–163, 172 Isthmian 160, 162–163, 163 n15 and n17, 164–165, 170, 172 Nemean 161, 163 n17 Olympian 165 Pythian 161 Agon mystikos 192, 196–199, 203 Alektrôna 153 Alexander 194 n12 Alexandria 126, 130, 277, 298, 308, 310, 376, 411 n84 Almo 380 Alteration of consciousness 8, 74, 81–85, 81 n47, 148 with n27, 167–168, 171–173, 267 Alterity 22–23, 303, 368, 378–379, 390, 392 n12, 394 n22, 395, 398, 403, 410, 415. See also identity Amphitrite 168 Anastenaria (festival) 79 Anaxagoras 62 Ancyra 196, 198–199, 203 Andania, mysteries 151, 153, 154 Ando, Clifford 11 Anima See soul Animals Animal-human behavior 14 with n53, 74, 224

In magic 90, 95–100 Odour of 127, 225, 306. See also smell Olfactory capacities of 4 Sacrifice of 95, 103, 137, 170, 246. See also sacrifice Sound of 127, 368 n14 Animus 115, 116, 132 In Lucretius’s Epicurean theory of sight 39–40, 54 n21, 55 n28. See also Lucretius Anthropology of the senses 142 with n3 and n6. See also sensory anthropology Antioch on the Pyramus 367 Antoine Chrysostôme Quatremère de Quincy 3 Anubis 277, 278 n33, 314, 320, 398–399, 401, 413 Aphrodite 13, 99, 148–150, 155, 168 Apis 399 Apollo 72–73, 209, 216 n40, 217–218, 220–222, 221 n77 and n80, 240, 244–251 Apollo Delios 221 Apollo Delphinios 367 Apollo Delphios 221 Apollo Karneios 279 n36 Apollo Loxias 221 Apollo Lyceus 222 Apollo Lykegenes 222 Apollo-Sol 216–217, 217 n46, 220–222 Apollo Soranus 72, 76 Phoebus 73, 209, 221, 247–249 Apuleius 90 Metamorphoses 16, 110, 178, 368–369, 376–379, 394, 406, 408, 41–413 Ara Pacis Augustae 212, 226, 227 n113, 229 Arabia 397 n39, 408 Aristotle  Conceptualisation of the five senses 6, 8, 143, 221 n76 De Anima 6, 9–10 with n39 Metaphysica 221 n76 Politica 264 Sixth sense (αἴσθησις κοινὴ/sensus communis) 9–10 Aristoxenus of Tarentum 371 n33 Aromata See smell

444 Artemis 170, 273 n4 Artemis Orthia 22 Artemis Perasia 77–78, 84 Asi Yozgat (Turkey) 261 Asia (Roman province) 219–220 Asia Minor 14, 19, 193, 196, 199, 201, 203, 261, 267, 278 Asklepieia 202 Asklepios/Aesculapius 152, 201–202, 273 n4 Astronomical urban orientation 19, 207–216, 220, 225–229 Athamas 164 Atheism 60–61, 60 n 49, 65 Athena 221 n77, 373–374 Athena Kynthia 152 Athens 3, 126, 194 n12, 218, 277, 330 Atia (mother of Augustus) 216–217 Atomism 7, 9, 45–46, 52–57, 62, 65. See also Democritus; Lucretius Attis 262, 264 n33, 265, 267 Augusta Praetoria Salassorum/Aosta  207–208, 213–214, 222 Augusta Vindelicorum/Augsburg 278, 338 Augustine of Hippo 44 Confessions 10 De civitate Dei 138 Augustus 16, 130, 202, 207, 209–210, 212–220, 222–229, 240 Avilia Ambilis 277, 279–280, 336 Bacchants 369–370 Bacchus 67 n82, 244, 249 Badaga, India 8 Baelo Claudia 277–278, 286–291, 306, 338, 340, 412, 413 n90 Balka, Miroskaw 166 Barbaras, Renaud 393 Barbarian/Barbarity 369–371, 373–375, 382 Barello, Federico 280 Barton, Tamsyn 219 Baudelaire, Charles 145–146 Baudouin, Marcel 273 Beard, Mary 62–63 Belief systems 1, 24–25, 237, 239, 257, 395 Bellerophon 376 with n53 Βῆμα 276–277 Beneventum 266 Berecynthus, mount 263

General Index Beroia/Veria 278, 316 Bible Genesis 94 Bithynia 192 n1, 199 Body (human) 1–3, 5, 7–8, 24, 106–107, 132, 141, 143, 150, 153–154, 182 n27, 221, 272, 307, 393 n18, 394 And knowledge acquisition/cognition 1, 6, 8–13, 19–21, 52–55, 57, 65–68, 272, 404. See also knowledge And memory 11, 150, 306–307. See also memory And mind/soul 6, 9, 14 n52, 21, 107, 110, 112, 132, 134, 272. See also mind; soul Body-Environment approach (BEA) 7, 52–53 with n10, 65–68 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 7, 37–40, 40 n11, 52–55, 57, 65–68. See also Lucretius In magic 90, 92, 94–95. See also magic; mouth; tongue Topical/multiple body 1 See also brain; embodiment; mind; perception; senses; sensory experience; soul Bogazkoy (Turkey) 261 Bolos of Mendes 97 Bona Dea 273 n4, 279 n36 Bourdieu, Pierre 5 Boutsikas, Efrosyni 164–166, 208, 224 Brain 1, 3–4, 9–10, 13, 21, 53, 57, 65 n77, 67, 83, 107, 115, 119, 144, 306. See also mind; neuroscience Broca, Paul 3–4, 17 Bubastis 342 Buddhism 301, 413 Byblos 411 Caelestis 291 n74 Caesar 247 Caesareion See Sebasteion Caius Iulius Quartus 282 Caius Vibius Salutaris 366 n5 Caligula 400 Callimachus 242–244, 248 Hymn to Apollo 209, 244 Hymn to Demeter 154 Calliope 244, 246–247

General Index Callixenes of Rhodes 131 Campus Martius 217, 229, 398, 405–406 Capitoline hill 126, 377, 398 Cappadocia 84 Carchemish 261 Cassius Dio 374 Castabala-Hierapolis, Cilicia 77–78 Castiglione, László 273, 297 Catana/Catania 277, 332 Catius 46 n27 Catullus 263 Cautopates 186 n49 Cenchrai 376, 411 Censorinus 211 Ceres 67 n82, 397, 414 Chaironeia 277, 282, 332 Chaniotis, Angelos 106, 161–162 Chios 152 Cibalae/Vinkovci 92 Cicero 44 n20, 46 n27, 47 n28, 103 De divinatione 47–48 De finibus 45, 46 n25 Somnium Scipionis 42 Tusculanae disputationes 131–132 Claudia Quinta 380 Claudiopolis 198 Clement of Alexandria  Paedagogus 266 Protrepticus 202, 267 Cleopatra 247 Clothes, ritual 108, 127, 136–137, 151–152, 224, 372, 377–378, 390, 394, 398, 413 Cognition 12, 39 n9, 52 n5, 54, 71 with n4, 83–84, 104, 114–115, 118–119, 201, 307 And the body/senses 7–8, 20 n79, 44 n21, 52–53, 66–67, 106, 404 Embodied cognition 52 with n5 Of the gods 134 Situated cognition 52 with n5 See also body; knowledge; mind; modality-specific systems; perception; senses; sensory experience Cognitive linguistics 67 with n80, 393 n18 Colonia Augusta Treverorum/Trier 207 Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium/ Cologne 207, 213, 215, 222–223, 229 Colonia Copia Claudia Augusta Lugdunum/ Lyon 207, 209, 213–215, 222–223, 229, 266

445 Colonia Urbs Iulia Nova Carthago/Cartagena/ Carthago Nova 207, 391 n11 Colour 3, 125–127, 129, 131–133, 132 n18, 135–137, 143, 151–152, 246, 251, 394–395 Communication And sensory perception 107, 114, 116, 131, 187, 393, 415. See also perception; senses; sensory experience Human-divine/religious 3, 20–22, 125–126, 141, 145, 150, 154–155, 194–195, 222 n89, 237–238, 241, 251–252, 258, 274, 296, 299–300, 302–305, 307, 397, 403. See also gods; perception; sensory experience In magic 97, 100 Concordia Augusta 227 n113 Consecratio 130 Constantinople 382 n77 Corinth 16, 162–166 Corybantes 370 Cosmas 178 n4, 183 n30 Cosmology 207, 208 n2, 209–215, 228 Crawford, Michael 62–63 Crete 381 Croesus, king 133–134 Cuicul/Djemila 279 n36 Cult of the dead, Roman 41–42 Cumont, Franz 368, 390 n4 Curetes 263 n30, 369–370, 373–374, 381–382 Cybele See Mater Magna. See also Kubaba Cyranides 97–99 Cyrene 243 Daimon 40 Dance 8, 12 n49, 79–80, 82, 83 n58, 154, 201, 224, 373 with n38 and n40, 374, 407 Darkness  Cultural conceptions of 161–162. See also night Effects on sensory perception and emotions 148, 165–166, 183, 187, 224 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 57 with n35. See also Lucretius Ritual 148, 161, 165, 172, 178, 183, 187, 195, 202, 224, 394 See also light; night; nocturnal rituals  Dea Africa 279 n36 Dea Syria 369

446 Dea Vocontiorum/Die 265 Defixiones 90, 99 Deikman, Arthur 171–172 Delos 151–152, 154, 275 n17, 277 with n25, 278, 305, 314 Delphi 133, 161, 220 Demeter 151–153, 152 n41, 154, 170, 279 n36 Democritus 7, 39–40, 62, 97 Demosthenes 90, 92 Deonna, Waldemar 273 Despoina 152 Diana 414 Dicte 261, 381 Didi-Huberman, Georges 274 Didyma 367 Di Manes 42, 43 n17 Dindyma 261 Dio Chrysostom 160 Dion 278, 282–286, 305, 326, 328, 330 Dionysiac thiasos 200 Dionysius of Harlicarnassus Antiquitates Romanae 111, 368, 371–375, 377 De Demosthene 90 Dionysos 164, 170, 196–199, 264 n33, 369 n20, 370, 381. See also Bacchus Dioskuroi 153 Disembodiment 17. See also embodiment Dis Pater 75–76 Diurnal rituals 160, 163–165, 172. See also nocturnal rituals Dream 42, 47, 56, 92, 94–97 Duchamp, Marcel 274 with n8 Dunand, Françoise 379 Dunbabin, Katherine M. D. 273, 298 Dureau, Christine 389 Durkheim, Émile 104, 109 Dwyer, Eugene 219 Ecological psychology 142 Edensor, Tim 166 Egypt 247, 250, 276–277, 305, 312, 378, 391, 396, 398–400, 402. See also Egyptianess/Egyptian; Egyptianism/ Egyptianising; Isiac cults Egyptian cults See Isiac cults Egyptian gods See gens Isiaca

General Index Egyptianess/Egyptian 273 n6, 377–378, 390–391, 396–415 Egyptianism/Egyptianising 379 n66, 391, 399–415 Ekirch, A. Roger, At Day’s Close 161 Elagabal 216 n40, 374, 375 n46 Eleusis 22–23, 199–201, 208, 224 Eleutheria (Plataean festival) 372 Embodiment 5, 12, 52 with n5, 53 n10, 106–108, 118, 150, 272, 306, 389. See also body; cognition; disembodiment; knowledge; perception; senses; sensory experience Emotion 22, 24, 54, 71, 106, 130, 152, 155, 166, 168, 187, 193, 208, 220, 224–229, 236, 247, 249, 307, 367. See also memory; mind And dance 8 And music 267–264 In extreme rituals 80–81, 81 n48, 83 Fear 74, 77, 183, 187, 224 Happiness or joy 8, 80, 82 Rage 74, 77 Emotional communities 106 Empedocles 36 n1, 62 Emporion 391 n11 Enactivism 52 with n5, 53 n10 Enagizein 169–171 Ephesos 192 n1, 366 n5 Epicureanism 9, 14, 35–36 with n1, 38 with n5, 45–48, 52, 62–63, 67 Theories of sight 7, 36, 38–41, 44 n20, 47. See also Lucretius; sight See also Epicurus; Lucretius  Epicurus 36, 39–40, 44 n20, 45, 60, 62–63 Epiphany 7, 115–116, 150, 165, 194, 216, 220–221 with n72 and n78, 222, 224, 227 n113, 274, 297, 300, 303, 305 n132, 307, 383, 397–398. See also gods; ghost; perception; sensory experience Equinox 19, 207–208, 210–212, 215–216, 219–220, 222, 225, 228 Eresos 153 Erichtho 15 Eriugena 10 Ethiopians 399–400 Euphêmia/Euphêmein 105, 112, 153

447

General Index Euphorion 172 Exsulto 8 Exteroceptors 10, 394 with n21. See also interoceptors; proprioceptors; senses Extreme rituals 8, 71–72, 80–84, 105 n16. See also alteration of consciousness; firewalking; pain Fabius Pictor 371 Faliscan region 72, 74, 76–77, 136 Fasting 22, 80, 82, 179 with n13, 180, 187 Fayoum 312 Favete linguis (animisque) 12, 103–105, 108–119, 135, 378 Febvre, Lucien 5 Felicitas 227 n113 Feronia 73, 76 Festus 47 n28, 103, 110, 212 Fire-walkers 8, 71–72, 75 n16, 78–80, 83–85 Fire-walking 8, 71, 72–74, 78–82, 83 with n62, 84–85 Firmicus Maternus 267, 369 Footprints 22, 272–350. See also Isiac cults Foreign cults See “oriental” cults Fortune 413 Forum Augusti 226, 229 Forum Clodii 224 Fredouille, Jean-Claude 9 Frontinus 209 Frugalitas 17, 396–397 Gaios Ostios Philon 282 Galen 9, 10 n39, 164 n35 Galli 382 Geertz, Clifford 239 Gender studies 5 Genius 334 Gens isiaca 23, 273, 303, 390–391, 398, 401–403, 409–411, 413–415. See also Anubis; Harpocrates; Horus; Isiac cults; Isis; Serapis Germanicus 108, 119 Georgoudi, Stella 367 Getae 78 n40 Getianos Pasifilos 282 Geurts, Kathryn L. 1–2 Ghost 7, 35–42, 93–95, 97

Gibson, James J. 142, 304 Gladstone, William 3, 125 Glauke 172 Glycon 193–194 with n12, 202 n45 Gnaeus Manlius Vulso 396 Gods 11, 18–19, 64, 127, 130, 132, 148, 160, 223, 227, 237–238, 240, 247, 303, 305, 414 As receptors of sensory stimuli 14–15, 18, 150 Body of 221, 302 Christian 9, 21 Communication with See communication, human-divine/ religious.  Divine command 79, 82, 293, 296, 305 Hindu 80–81 In Lucian, De sacrificiis 137 In Lucretius 8, 52–53, 56–61, 63, 65–67. See also Lucretius Jewish 91 Of the Netherworld 75–76 Sensory capacities of 133–135, 138 Sensory experience of 9–10, 20–21, 106–109, 111–112, 114–119, 146 n19, 152, 155, 185, 195, 200–203, 220–221, 259, 268, 306–307, 403 See also agency; epiphany; favete linguis (animisque); footprints; imperial cult; magic; music; mysteria; “oriental cults”; perception; possession; procession; religio; sacrifice; senses; sensory experience; superstitio Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 125, 304 Gordon, Richard 192 Gosden, Chris 2 Greece 14, 58, 62–63, 162, 171, 79, 208, 218, 224, 261, 366 n4 Greekness 371, 373, 382, 412 Gregory of Nazianzus 16, 178 Guarducci, Margherita 273 Hadrian (emperor) 196–199 Harpocrates 299, 320, 399 Harvey, Susan Ashbrook 106, 193, 259 Hawara, funerary temple of Amenemhet 312

448 Hearing 4, 6, 10, 17, 44, 126, 134–135, 180, 225, 305, 394 And synaesthesia 13, 143–146. See also synaesthesia In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of the senses 44–45, 55–57. See also Lucretius; senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of In the metroac cult 259, 267–268. See also sound in the metroac cult; Phrygian mode Of gods 133–134 See also exteroceptors; multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; music; senses; sensory experience; sound Hecate/Hekate 78 n35, 262, 366 n5 Hedonists 14 Helios 98, 133, 170, 186 n49 Hera 164 Heracles 165 Heraclitean thought 62 Herculaneum 400 Hermanubis 277, 282, 310, 330 Hermes 98 Herodianus 374 Herodotus 133, 371 Hierophantes 192, 194, 199–200, 200 n37 Hippiatrica Cantabrigiensia 99 Hirpi Sorani 8, 71–73, 74 with n15, 75–77, 77 n31 and n32, 78, 83–84 Histoire des mentalités 5 Histoire des sensibilités 5 Historia Augusta 374 Homer 41 n14, 143, 373–374 Iliad 133 Homeric hymns 267 Homeric hymn to Demeter 133 Hopkins, Keith 193 Horace, Carmen saeculare 130, 218 Horologium Augusti 212, 226, 229 Horus 219, 278 n33, 399 Howes, David 13, 141, 146–147 Hyginus Gromaticus 209 Hyperaesthesia 17 Hypersensoriality See senses, saturation/ overstimulation of Hyposensoriality See senses, deprivation of

General Index Ialysos, Rhodes 153 Iamidae of Olympia 11 Iberian Peninsula 391 n11 Ida, mount 261, 263 Identity 3, 22–23, 302–303, 382 n77, 392–393, 414 And footprints 286, 299, 300, 302–303 Collective 22, 24–25, 268, 366–367, 389 Civic 126, 238 Cultural 369, 373 n40, 378, 382–383, 393 n17, 403, 410 Ethnic 269 Religious 23, 239, 366, 368, 371, 382, 391, 411 Divine 378–379 Individual 24–25, 184 n33 Isiac 376–377, 389–415. See also alterity; Isiac cults; oriental cults; “oriental” exoticism Music as identity-marker 369–371, 376–379, 382 Of Mater Magna 380 n70 Sensory 22, 274, 307 Senses as identity-markers 22–23, 389 See also alterity; senses Ignatia Herennia 282, 286 Ἴχνος 276 Imagines (Roman funeral masks) 42–43, 43 n17, 44–47. See also masks Imperial cult 18–19, 192–204, 209, 213–215, 222. See also mysteria/mystery cults, imperial Incense 20, 24, 112, 117, 127, 130, 135, 148 n29, 149–150, 184–185, 223 n91, 224–225, 246, 306, 374, 380, 397 n39, 411 India 81 Individual 5, 21, 104–105, 237–239, 302, 411, 412 Religious individualisation 5 Industria 277–281, 279 n37, 336 Ingold, Tim 142 Initiation 16, 177 with n1, 179 n13, 192, 296 Initiation at Eleusis 22 Metroac initiation 267 Mithraic initiation 16, 177–188 See also mysteria/mystery cults Inner senses (Christian theory) 9–10 Ino 164, 166–169

449

General Index Interoceptors 2, 10, 394 with n21. See also exteroceptors; proprioceptors Iseums 405, 407 Iseum, Baelo Claudia 277–278, 286–291, 306, 338, 340, 412, 413 n90 Iseum Campensis 398, 400 n52, 405–406 Iseum Capitolinum 398 Iseum, Italica 277–278, 289–296, 304, 340, 342, 344 Iseum Metellinum 398 n44 Iseum, Pompeii 412 See also Isiac cults; Isis Isia (festival) 400 Isiac cults 15–16, 23, 110, 200, 273–307, 375–379, 389–415. See also Egyptian/ Egyptianess; Egyptianism/ Egyptianising; gens isiaca; identity, isiac Isis 114 n47, 151, 178, 179 n13, 200–201, 273, 275 n17, 278 n33, 279 n36 and n37, 286, 288, 292, 298 with n87, 299 with n95, 301 n108, 303, 310, 314, 320, 322–324, 332, 368, 377, 390, 391 n11, 392, 394, 396–399, 401, 404, 408, 410–415 Isis Dikaiosyne 314 Isis Domina 338, 340 Isis Frugifera 334 Isis Lochia 282–283, 282 n51, 305 Temple at Dion 278, 282–286, 305 Isis Nymphe 326 Isis Regina 336, 338, 342 Isis Tyche 282 n51 Isis Victrix 344 Temple of Isis and Mater Magna at Mainz 412 Temple of Isis and Serapis at Industria 277–281, 279 n37, 336 Temple of Isis and Serapis at Nîmes 414 See also Egyptian/Egyptianess; Egyptianism/Egyptianising; gens isiaca; iseums; Isiac cults; Navigium Isidis; Serapis Isthmia 168–172 Isthmus 160, 166–167, 169 Italica/Santiponce 277–278, 289–296, 304, 340, 342, 344, 346, 348, 350, 414 Iunia Cerasa 293

Jaccottet, Anne-Françoise 370 Janus 227 n113 Jerome 397 with n36 Josephus, Bellum Judaicum 129, 132 Julius Africanus 91, 98 Julius Caesar 162 Juno 116, 293, 344, 377, 414 Juno Regina 414 Jupiter 116, 136–137, 217, 247, 263 Jupiter Capitolinus 18, 135 Jupiter Dolichenus 273 n4 Jupiter Optimus Maximus 126, 217 Justin Martyr 179 Juvenal 111–112, 368, 377, 413 Kaisarea (festival) 196 Kali (Hindu goddess) 80 Kallixeinos of Rhodes 376 Kapnobatai 78, 84 Kinaesthesia 8 n31 Kinaesthetic empathy 24 Knowledge 1, 9, 84, 138, 187, 393 Acquisition of (religious) knowledge  3, 6, 9–13, 17, 38, 44, 52 with n5, 53, 131, 133–134, 224 Divine knowledge 133–134 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 38– 44, 52–53. See also Lucretius Religious knowledge 11, 25, 107, 185, 240, 272. See also acquisition of (religious) knowledge See also body; cognition; embodiment; perception; senses; sensory experience Koehler, Klemens 272 Koptos 279 n36 Kore 170, 279 n36 Koslofsky, Craig, Evening’s Empire 161 Krishna mouvements 413 Krumeich, Ralf 273 Kubaba 77, 261 Laconia 22 Larisa/Larissa 278 n33 Latham, Jacob 371 Lazio 262

450 Lavinium 277, 336 Lawson, Thomas 106 Learchus 164 Le Glay, Marcel 299 Lechaeum 167 Lemures 44 with n22 Lesbos 13, 148–149 Leucippus 62 Leucothea See Ino Liber 273 n4, 279 n36 Libera 273 n4, 279 n36 Libyans 412 n85 Licinius Priscus Juventanus 170–171 Light 111, 117, 136–137, 143, 160, 165–166, 171, 183, 194 n12, 195, 202, 208, 224, 377 Divine light 220–222, 377, 394 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 55 n28, 57 with n35. See also Lucretius Lamps/torches 25, 113, 161, 163–164, 171, 183–184, 193–194, 196, 201–203, 224, 280, 377, 401 See also darkness; diurnal rituals; night; nocturnal rituals Lindos 152 Linguistic turn 20, 415 Lived (ancient) religion 25, 112, 236–239, 251–252 Livy 18, 370, 380, 396 Lucan 15 Lucian  Alexander 193–194 De sacrificiis 109, 137–138 Lucifugi 15 Lucius Mummius 162, 168 Lucius Munatius Plancus 214 Lucius Vecil(ius?) 286 Lucretius 7–8, 35–36 n1, 35–39, 44 n20, 45, 45 n24, 46–48, 52–53, 57–68, 260, 263, 368, 381–382 De rerum natura (DNR) 35–37, 35–36 n1, 41, 46, 52–53, 58, 60–63, 65–68 Epicurean theory of sight 36, 45–46, 48, 55–56, 58 Ludo 8 Luperci 77 n32

General Index Ma Bellona 114 n47, 273 n4 Macedonia 277 with n25, 278 MacFarlane, Robert 165–166 Macrobius 217 with n46, 219, 221–223 Saturnalia 45, 211 Mactar 279 n36 Madrid 79 Magi, Persian 91, 97 Magic 15, 15 n59, 90–100, 297 with n84 Jewish magical practices 92, 94–96 Magical lamellae 92–94, 96 Magical stones or gems 90–93 Mainz 183–184, 412, 413 n90 Manganaro, Giacomo 273, 282, 299 Manilius, Astronomica 208, 217–218, 227 Marathon 287 n71 Marcia Voluptas 293 with n79, 340 Marcus Aurelius 127 Marcus (Semp?)ronius Maxumus 286 Marius 47–48 Mark Anthony 396 Maroneia 278, 320 Marsi 11 Martial 368 Spectacula 130 Masks Funeral masks 40 n10, 42–46, 48. See also imagines Mater Magna 21, 23, 67 n82, 114 n47, 257–268, 263 n33, 264 n33, 273 n4, 368, 370–371, 379–382. See also hearing in the metroac cult; Phrygian mode; sound in the metroac cult Material culture 24–25 Material turn 24 Mauritius, island 79–80 Mausoleum Augusti 226, 229 Maximilla (montanism) 93 McCauley, Robert 106 McLuhan, Marshall 17 Medea 172 Medinet Habu 300 n98 Megalesia 260 Megaloi theoi 151 Melanesia 146 Melikertes/Palaimon 16, 162–172, 170 n41 Memory 10 n39, 17, 22, 24, 57, 65, 126 n2, 155, 187, 224, 306–307, 389

General Index And body 11–13, 150. See also body An smell 306. See also smell (sense of) And synesthesia 144. See also synaesthesia Collective memory 45, 48, 80, 145, 207, 229. See also memory Cultural memory 24, 392–393, 395–396, 407, 409–411, 414. See also memory Of the dead 45, 48 Sensory memory 307. See also memory See also identity; senses  Men 273 n4 Mercury 413 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 20–21, 142 Mesembria 262 Messene 153, 196, 202–203 Michael the Syrian 93 Midrash Tanhuma 94 Miletus 367 Mimesis 23, 390, 394 n21, 409–411, 414–415. See also alterity; identity Min 279 n36, 300 n98 Mind 7, 8 n33, 24–25, 38, 47, 166 And body See body And knowledge acquisition 7, 9, 11–12, 14, 52, 53 n9 and n10, 132, 134. See also mind in Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight And the favete linguis (animisque) 109– 110, 112, 114–117, 115 n50. See also favete linguis (animisque) Cartesian mind-body dichotomy 6, 9 Extended mind thesis 52 with n5 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 38–39, 46–47, 54–56, 58–59, 65. See also animus; Lucretius See also body; brain; knowledge; soul Mithraea 16, 23, 181–182, 183 n28, 184, 186–187 Mithraeum at Capua Vetere 182 with n25, 183, 187 n53 Mithraeum at Dura Europos 180 n17, 182 n25 Mithraeum at Emerita Augusta 182 n25, 186 n48 Mithraeum at Hawarte 182 n25 Mithraeum at Marino 182 n25

451 Mithraeum at the Baths of Caracalla 182, 187 n53 Mithraeum in Carrawburgh 182 Mithraeum in Ostia 182 n25 Mithraeum at Santa Prisca 180 n17, 182 with 25, 185, 186 n48, 187 n53 Mithraeum in Spoleto 182 n25 Mithraic catechism 180–181, 183 n30 Mithraism 16, 177–188 Mithras 177–180, 182, 184–186, 186 n49, 273 n4 Modality-specific systems 106–107, 112, 115–116, 119 Molpoi 367 Montanus/Montanism 93 Morra di Lauriano, Bernardino, Count  279–280 Morris, Nina J. 165 Mount Soracte 71–77 Mouth, in magic rituals 12, 90–97, 99 Müller, Max 19 Multisensoriality/polysensoriality 2, 9, 13, 16, 24, 126 with n2, 131, 141 n1, 146–147, 149–150, 155 n55, 177, 180, 182–184, 188, 209, 225, 228–229, 258, 268, 306–307, 395, 409 See also perception; senses; sensory experience; synaesthesia Muses 133, 145, 243, 249–250, 377, 381 Music 18 with n73, 21–23, 43, 79, 126–127, 129, 131, 135, 150, 163, 228 n120, 246, 248, 260–268, 366–383, 404–407 Musical instruments 21, 23, 129, 224, 246, 257, 369–371, 373–375, 377, 379 n65, 381–382, 405, 407 Cithara 163, 248, 369, 374, 379 Cymbal 260, 262–268, 370, 375, 381–382 Drums/tympanum 23, 225, 260–268, 370, 375, 380–382, 405 Flute/aulos/tibia 18, 23, 25, 137, 163, 225, 246, 248, 370, 373–375, 377–378, 380, 382, 406 Phrygian flute 260, 262–268, 369–370, 381 with n74, 382 In the metroac cult 260–268 Lyre 248, 261, 373 Sistrum/Rattle 23, 113, 273 n7, 280, 378, 382, 390, 405, 406 n65 Trumpets 127–128, 163, 372

452 Mysia 78, 84 Mytilene 192 n1 Mysteria/mystery cults 18–19, 167, 177, 192–195, 199–200, 202 n45, 257–258, 268, 297, 382, 390 n4 Andania 151 Eleusis 208, 224 Imperial mysteries 18–19, 192–204. See also imperial cult Isiac mysteries 179 n13, 378. See also Isiac cult Mithraic mysteries 177–188 Of Dionysos 198–199 Of Palaimon at Isthmia 167, 171 See also initiation Narbo Martius 224 Navigium Isidis/Ploiaphesia 23, 368–369, 375–379, 408 Neine/Gorna Gradeshnista 277 n25, 278, 318 Nemesis 273 n4, 291 n74 Neoptolemus 161 Nereids 164, 167–168 Nero 162, 217 n43 Neurocognitive/neuropsychological research 71–72, 81, 141 n2 Neuroscience 12–13, 141 n2, 144–145, 148 n27 Night 15–16, 147–148, 160–162, 165–166, 172, 208 n2, 224, 250, 294. See also darkness; nocturnal rituals Nijmegen, Holland 413 Nile 378, 398, 405, 412 Nilsson, Martin 192, 200 Nîmes 414 Nocturnal rituals 16, 22, 160–162, 164–166, 171–172, 201, 208. See also diurnal rituals; night Nubia 276 Numen Augusti 223–224 Numen Sanctum 273 n4 Octavius (father of Augustus) 216–217 Octavius Agathopous 279 n36 Olympia 11, 165 Opheltes/Archemorus 161, 165 Ophiogenes 11

General Index “Oriental cults” 368, 375, 389–390, 399, 412–413 “Oriental” exoticism 368, 375, 382–383, 390–392, 395, 403, 408, 411 Orpheus 93 Osiris 219, 399, 401, 411 Ostia 182 n25, 277, 334, 379 Ovid 21 n81, 118–119, 263 n30, 275, 368, 382, 408 Amores 110–116, 245, 263, 378 Ars amatoria 396–397 Fasti 23, 108–109 with n33, 117, 135–137, 260, 263, 370, 380–381 Metamorphoses 116 Pain 2, 8, 22, 71–72, 74, 77 with n32, 81 n48, 82–84, 105 n16, 114, 394 Palaimon See Melikertes/Palaimon Palaimonion 168 n33, 169–171 Palatine Hill 218, 246–247 Palestrina 400 n56, 405 Pan 219 Panóias/Vila Real 278 n35 Pantheum (Rome) 212, 226, 229 Park, Julie 389 Pater Soranus 76. See also Apollo Soranus Patera, Ioanna 165 Paullus Fabius Maximus 219–220 Pausanias 168–169 Pax 227 n113 Pécs 93 Pegasus 376 Pelops 161, 165 Peñaflor, ancient Celti 99 Pepouza 93 Perception 1, 5, 13, 132–134, 144, 146, 193, 201, 301, 303 Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of perception/the senses 36, 38–41, 53–58, 65–66, 68. See also BodyEnvironment Approach; Lucretius; senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of Sensory perception 1, 6, 16, 36, 38, 66, 84, 103, 112, 126, 131, 141–142, 165–166, 173, 208, 224, 258 n4, 371 And brain 3–4 And hierarchy of the senses 4, 141

General Index And identity/alterity 22–25, 368, 371, 383, 389–390, 392–393, 395, 397, 405, 409, 411. See also alterity; identity; mimesis; music; “oriental” exoticism Cultural ascription/semantic value of 14 n52, 106–107, 111, 114–116, 118, 141. See also modality–specific systems Of the divine presence/in humandivine communication 21–22, 105, 111, 112, 114–119, 125, 135, 137–138, 147–150, 172–173, 177, 180, 184, 195, 203, 220–221, 241, 251–252, 259, 272, 367–368, 403, 411. See also communication, human-divine/ religious; epiphany; favete linguis (animisque); sensory experience See also body; colour; communication, human-divine/religious; embodiment; interoceptors; proprioceptors; senses; sensory experience; sensorium Pergamon 152, 192 n1 Perseus 408 Perseus, king of Macedon 127–128 Petrosomatoglyphs 275, 277, 279 n36, 301 Pharmaces 11 Philae 408 Philitas of Cos 243–244 Philo of Alexandria 266 Philodemus of Gadara 266 Philostratus the Elder 166–167 Phrygia 263 n33, 381 Phrygian mode 264, 267–268, 370, 381 Phrygians 380 Picard, Gilbert-Charles 299 Pietas 227 n113 Pietrabboddante 300 n99 Plantae pedum See footprints Plataea 372 Plato 44, 222, 264 Phaedo 134 Republica 134 Timaeus 134 Platt, Verity 220–221 Pleket, Harry 192, 198–200

453 Pliny the Elder, Naturalis historia 72, 75 n18, 90–91, 97, 110 Plotinus 302 Plutarch  Aemilius Paulus 127–129, 129 n5, 132, 372 Aristides 372 De defectu oraculorum 40 De Iside et Osiride 14, 394, 408, 411–413 Demosthenes 90 Theseus 165–166 Plutoneion 170 Podaleirus 194 n12 Poikilia 143 Pollux 372 Polybius 42 Polychromy See colour Polytheism/religion, Greco-Roman 3, 10, 12, 18, 222 n89 Pompa circensis 23, 111, 368, 371 n29, 372, 376, 378 Pompeii 264, 374 n42, 381, 412 Pope Gregory I 10 Porphyry 179–180, 184 n39 On the faculties of the soul 10 Poseidon 16, 160, 162, 164–169, 171–172 Posidonius 78 Possession 12, 73–74, 77, 82, 91, 238 Poststructuralism 5 Power structures 3, 17–19, 65, 67, 396 Imperial power 19, 119, 193–194, 198, 201, 204, 207, 209, 212–213, 216–220, 225–229, 397 n36 Priam 48 Price, Simon 200 Priscilla (Montanism) 93 Privata 293, 344, 414 Procession 23, 108–111, 119, 126–129, 128 n5, 135–136, 151, 153–154, 183, 201, 202 with n45, 224–225, 260–261, 263, 265, 267–268 Funeral processions, Roman 42–43 Propertius 41 n14, 236, 240–252 Prophecy 11–12, 90, 92–96, 100 Proprioception 6, 71, 84 Proprioceptors 2, 10, 394. See also exteroceptors; interoceptors

454 Prudentius 138 with n26 Prusias ad Hypium 192 n1, 199 Pseudo-Nonnus 178–179, 183 n30 Ptolemaeus Philometor 376 Ptolemaeus Philopator 379 Ptolemaia 126, 130, 379 Publius B(- - -) Fortunatus 293 Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica 380 Publius Nigidius Figulus 219 Puccio, Laetizia 273, 299 Purification 82, 84–85, 150, 179–180 Purity 151 with n37, 179 Quintus Caecilius Metellus 398 n44 Religio 35–36 with n1, 37, 41 with n14, 48–49, 63 n65, 64 with n65 and 72, 399 Republic of Niger 11 Revell, Louise 273, 299 Ritual norms 148, 150–155, 367 n6 Roma and Augustus, altar 214–215, 222, 229 Roman religion/polytheism 5, 10, 18 n73, 20, 23–25, 35–36, 44, 48, 54, 64–67, 103–104, 113, 143, 222 n89, 236, 252, 257, 397–399, 409, 411, 414 Roman Republic 44, 61–63, 66–68 Rome 7, 17–18, 23, 25, 42, 47, 58, 61–62, 65, 67, 71–72, 76, 84, 109 n33, 114, 119, 125– 126, 130 n13, 132–133, 136, 216 n40, 218, 226 n106, 227 n113, 228–229, 258–260, 262, 265, 273 n7, 277, 304, 334, 367 n5, 368, 370–371, 373, 395–396, 398–399, 407, 409 n75 Romanitas 382, 397, 403, 415 Rorty, Richard 20 with n77 Rüpke, Jörg 118 “Sacred laws” See ritual norms Sacrifice 14–15, 18, 109 n33, 110, 135, 137–138, 223–226, 223 n91, 225 n102, 371 with n25, 372–373, 413–414 And magic 98 And the call favete linguis (animisque) 103–104, 109–111, 113. See also favete linguis (animisque) By the Hirpi Sorani 72, 75–76 In Propertius, El. 4.6 242–246, 248–250

General Index In the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmus 166–167, 169–170 Isiac 280, 287, 306, 413–414. See also footprints Taurobolic/criobolic 265–266 See also mithraism; procession; smell; triumph (Roman ceremony)  Saecular Games 16, 130 Salii 8 Salto 8 Salus 227 n113 Samos 262 San Lorenzo fuori le mura, Rome 366n1 San Pedro Manrique, Madrid 79–80 Santangelo, Federico 212 Sappho 14, 148–149, 155 Sarapieia/Serapea Sarapieion of Alexandria 277, 310 Sarapieion C of Delos 151, 277, 305, 314 Sarapieion of Thessaloniki 293, 305, 320, 322, 324, 326 “Serapeum” of Industria 279, 336 Saturn 219 Saturnalia 219 Saturnus 273 n4 Scheid, John 10, 226 School of Paris 20 School of the Annales 5 Scythians 78 n38 Sea (god) 168 Sebasteion 202–203 Sebastophantes 192, 196, 199–201, 200 n37, 203 Selene 78 n35 Seneca the Younger 14, 103, 105, 112–119, 116 n53, 138, 377 De Superstitione 138 De vita beata 113–114 Epistulae 115 Oedipus 223–224 Senses 1–9, 14, 125–126, 130–132, 166, 225, 236, 240–241, 389, 393–394, 404 And emotions 22, 106, 224, 228, 258. See also emotions And knowledge 9–10, 12–14, 20 n79, 38, 84, 133–135, 187, 224, 409. See

General Index also knowledge; senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of And memory 22, 187, 389, 392, 395, 397 See also memory And morality 14, 24–25 And power structures 17–19, 24–25, 212, 216, 225–229 And mind/soul 14, 24–25, 131–132, 134. See also senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of As identity markers See perception, sensory  Deprivation of 22, 105, 106 n17, 147–148, 150–152, 154, 183 Divine 18, 133–134 Five 6, 8–9, 143. See also exteroceptors; interoceptors Hierarchy of 2–5, 7, 10, 16–17, 45, 141 with n2, 143, 196, 203, 394 In atomistic theories 7, 9. See also senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of In human-divine communication See perception, sensory; sensory experience Inner senses 9–10, 10 n39. See also interoceptors Interplay of See synaesthesia  Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of the senses 7–9, 38–41, 45–46, 48, 53–59, 65–66. See also Lucretius Saturation/overstimulation of 16, 147–149, 154, 177 Sixth sense/sensus communis 9–10 See also aesthetics; body; hearing; multisensoriality/polysensoriality; pain; perception; sensescape/paysage sensible; sensorium; sight; sensory experience; smell; synaeshtesia; taste; touch  Sensescape/paysage sensible 13, 21, 108, 141–143, 142 n5, 147–149, 272, 412 Sensorial emplacement 24 Sensorium/sensory order 1–3, 5, 8, 13, 16, 24, 104, 106, 118, 125–127, 129, 138, 141 with n2, 142, 147–148, 150, 154–155, 165–166 Of the Isiac cults 393, 395, 408. See also Isiac cults; sensory experience, total

455 Socio-sensory order 23, 415 See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; perception; senses; sensory experience; synaesthesia Sensory anthropology 142 with n6. See also anthropology of the senses Sensory experience 7, 9, 10, 13–14, 19, 21–22, 24–25, 38, 127, 133, 194, 216, 236, 239, 257, 415 And knowledge See knowledge; perception, sensory.  Cultural ascription/semantic value of  19, 106–107, 146, 396–415. See also alterity; identity; modality–specific systems Of the divine/religious 9–10, 105–107, 109, 112, 115, 118, 125, 137, 141–142, 150, 152, 153, 168, 180, 177, 182–183, 185, 187–188, 199, 228, 249, 251, 258–259, 263 n32, 268, 306–307. See also communication, human-divine/ religious; epiphany; perception, sensory Total sensory experience 389, 393–394, 415 See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; perception; senses; sensorium; synaesthesia.  Sensory network 19, 22 Sensory studies 3, 5, 13, 20 n81, 24–25, 131, 143–144, 144 n11, 193, 195 n23, 258 n4 Sensory turn 1, 5–6 Sensual ecology 43 n17 Sensus communis See senses Sepher ha-Razim (the Book of Mysteries)  96 Serapis 92, 273, 275, 278 n33, 303, 314, 320, 322, 377, 398, 406, 414 Zeus Helios Serapis 334 Serrai/Serres 278, 305, 318 Servius 74 n15, 75–76, 77 n31, 103, 275 Seth 219 Severitas 17 Shoes, ritual prohibition 152–154, 298 Sicyon 163 Side, Pamphylia 196, 198

456 Sight/vision/visual perception 4, 6, 10, 18, 22, 43–44, 126–127, 130–138, 143, 166, 180, 183, 187, 225, 251, 268, 394, 412 And knowledge 4, 17, 44, 221 n76. See also knowledge As supreme sense in contemporary theories and societies 4, 16–17 As supreme sense in the ancient sensorium 7, 43–44, 195 n23, 195–196, 203, 221 n76 In human-divine encounters 195, 200–204, 220–222, 274, 296, 303–305, 307. See also epiphany; footprints; light In imperial mysteries 19, 195–196, 199–204. See also mysteries, imperial In sacrifice 18, 225, 246. See also sacrifice In the Roman cult of the death 41–45, 48. See also imagines; masks Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 7, 36, 38–41, 44 n20, 45–46, 48, 55 with n28, 56. See also Lucretius Visual stimuli 390, 399–401, 403, 404, 409, 413–414 See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; perception, sensory; senses; sensory experience; synaesthesia  Silence 99–100, 103, 110, 112–116, 118, 136, 153, 224, 246 Silius Italicus 73–74, 74 n12, 75, 83, 261, 263 Silvanus 273 n4 Simmel, Georges 226 Simulacra  In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 37, 39–41, 40 n10, 41 n12, 45–47, 55. See also ghosts; Lucretius; sight Sisyphos 164, 166–167, 172 Smell, sense of 6, 10, 17, 21 n83, 126, 130, 135, 138, 143, 166, 180, 187, 268, 306, 394, 408, 412 And epiphany/presence of the divine 152, 185. See also epiphany And memory 306. See also memory As a low sense in contemporary theories and societies 4, 16 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of the senses 44–45, 55–57. See also Lucretius

General Index In sacrifice 18, 306. See also sacrifice See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; perception, sensory; senses; sensory experience; synaesthesia Smell (odour/scent) 108, 109 n33, 130–132, 136–137, 143, 166, 184, 389 And knowledge 133–134. See also knowledge And synaesthesia 145–146. See also synaesthesia As ritual fragrance 18, 20, 105, 108, 126–128, 131, 136, 150, 185, 225, 251, 306, 368, 374, 377, 414 And epiphany/presence of the divine 117, 185, 195, 305, 374, 383, 408 with n74. See also epiphany As food for divinities 135 Exotic/“oriental” 109 n33, 246, 397, 399, 408–409, 411–412. See also “oriental” exoticism Of incense 117, 127–128, 135, 149, 306, 374. See also incense Of myrrh 108, 109 n33, 408, 411 As malodour 131, 251 Of animals 127, 225, 306 Of bodies 127, 166 Of sacrifice 127–128, 135, 225, 246, 306 See also incense; smellscape; sensorium; synaesthesia  Smellscape 131, 306 Smyrna 200 Solinus 74, 75 n18 Solstice 19, 207–212, 214, 216 with n40, 218–220, 222, 225, 228 Somatic experience 8 Somatosensory system 71 Somnus 414 Songhay sorcerers 11 Soter (Isiac devotee) 293, 342 Soul  Aristotle on 6, 9–10. See also Aristotle In post-Aristotelian philosophy 9–10, 14, 131–132 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 37–41, 40 n11, 54–55, 54 n21. See also Lucretius In magic 90, 93–96. See also magic

General Index Plato on 134 Soul’s survival after death 7, 37–38, 41 See also anima; body; brain; favete linguis (animisque); mind; perception Sound 6, 13, 17, 23, 43–44, 105, 107–108, 111, 130–134, 136–137, 149, 166, 240, 242, 251, 368, 370 As an identity marker 21–22, 369, 377–378, 382, 405, 407, 409. See also music; musical instruments; sound in the metroac cult As divine presence 167, 195, 263, 268 And synaesthesia 143–144. See also synaesthesia In the metroac cult 21, 259–260, 263, 266–268, 370, 379–382. See also music; musical instruments; Phrygian mode In processions 127–129, 132, 138, 154, 260, 263, 267, 372, 374–382. See also music; musical instruments Of animals 99 Of sacrifice 18, 225, 246, 372. See also musical instruments; sacrifice; silence See also hearing; multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; silence; soundscape Soundscape 23, 111–112, 131, 150, 153, 260, 369–370, 372, 375, 379–380, 382, 406 Spatial alteration 168–169, 171, 173 Spoleto 182 n25 St. Constantine 79 St. Juan (festival) 79 Statius 42, 169 Stoicism 14, 115, 134, 138, 228 with n120, 264 n35 Strabo 73–75, 77–78, 83, 369, 373–374 Stratonicea, Caria 366 n5 Suetonius  Divus Augustus 216–218, 223 Gaius Caligula 400 Superstitio 138, 257, 397 In Lucretius’ Epicureanism 47, 63–65, 63 n65, 64 n65 and n72, 67. See also Lucretius Suri 76. See also Pater Soranus; Apollo Soranus Synaesthesia 2, 13, 20–22, 21 n81, 43, 81 n48, 129 with n7, 135–136, 141, 143–146,

457 155 with n55, 184–185, 258, 274, 304, 306–307, 367 Cultural synaesthesia 13, 146–147, 155 Synaesthesis 146–147, 150 See also hearing; multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; perception; senses; sensory experience; sight; smell; taste; touch Synnaoi theoi 414 Tacitus 215 Takács, Sarolta A. 273, 298–299 Talmud, Babylonian 94 Tarpeia 108, 136, 245, 247 Taste, sense of 6, 10, 17, 126–127, 130–131, 138, 143, 180, 187, 225, 268, 394, 412 As an inferior sense in modern theories 4 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of the senses 38, 45, 55–56. See also Lucretius; senses, Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; senses; sensory experience; synaesthesia Taste (flavour) 132–133, 135, 149, 412 Taurobolium 265–266 Taussig, Michael 410 Tertullian 16, 178–179 Tibicines 18 with n74, 265–266, 371 n25, 377, 406. See also music; musical instruments Termessos, Pisidia 298 n87 Terminus 117 Thamugadi/Timgad 279 n36 Theatre 111, 127, 129–131, 198, 289, 372 n33 Theos Hypsistos 298 n87 Thera 279 n36 Theseus 165 Thessaloniki 277–278, 293, 305, 320, 322, 324, 326 Thmouis/Tell el-Timai 308 Tiber 370, 379–380 Tiberius 227 n113 Tibullus 117 Tibur 18 Tigna/Tain 266 Titans 373

458 Titus 127, 129, 132 Titus Quintus Flaminius 162 Tongue 7, 179 In magic rituals 12, 90–92, 94, 96–100, 114. See also magic Regarding the imperative favete linguis (animisque) 108–111, 114, 136. See also favete linguis (animisque) Touch 6, 10, 44, 126–127, 130, 132, 135–136, 138, 180, 183, 221 with n80, 225, 246, 268, 303 n121, 304, 394 And synaesthesia 143, 145. See also synaesthesia Aristotle on 6. See also Aristotle As superior or inferior to other senses 4, 7, 196 In Lucretius’ Epicurean theory of sight 7, 36, 38–39, 45, 55–56, 58. See also Lucretius See also multisensoriality/ polysensoriality; senses; sensory experience; sight; synaesthesia Tritons 168 Triumph (Roman ceremony) 12, 25, 126–132, 135, 138, 247 Trnka, Susanna 389 Troy 370 Typhon 219 Ulpius Aelius Pompeianus (high priest of the imperial cult in Ancyra) 196–199 Valerius Apsines 367 Varro 8, 75, 83, 132 Vendries, Cristophe 375, 377 Venus 241

General Index Versluys, Miguel John 391, 395 Vespasian 127, 129, 132, 162 n10 Vesta 247, 414 Vestigium 275–276. See also footprints Via dell’Abbondanza, Pompei 264, 381 Vibia Modesta 414 Victoria (goddess) 110–111 Victoria Augusta 414 Victoria Victrix 273 n4 Vidman, Ladislav 280 Vigna Codini 92 Virgil 21 n81, 41 n14, 75, 218, 408 Aeneid 72, 76 Visuality 201, 203 Vitruvius 210, 223 Viviers, Didier 366 Voulot, Felix 272 Vulcan 76 Weddle, Candace 225 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 125 Wolves 71–72, 75–77, 77n32, 84. See also Hirpi Sorani Xenophanes 134 Yoyotte, Yean 297 Zanda, Emanuela 280 Zeus 137, 223 n95, 373, 382 Zeus at Nemea 164 n17, 165 Zeus Hypsistos 273 n4 Zeus in Olympia 165 Zeus Kynthios 152 Zeus Panamaros 273 n4, 366 n5