The Genesis of Roman Architecture 9780300214369

Citation preview

The Genesis of Roman Architecture

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The Genesis of Roman Architecture

John North Hopkins

Yale University Press

New Haven and London

Copyright © 2016 by John North Hopkins. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. yalebooks.com/art Designed by Leslie Fitch and Lindsey Voskowsky Set in type Crimson and Source Sans Pro type by Lindsey Voskowsky Printed in China through Oceanic Graphic International, Inc. Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957112 isbn 978-0-300-21181-8 eISBN 978-0-300-21436-9

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Jacket illustrations: (front, from left) figs. 25, 104, 105 [detail], 16, 5; (back, from left) figs. 62, 82, 64, 29 [detail], 5; (spine) fig. 110; (background) fig. 86 Frontispiece: Statue of Hercules and Minerva from the site of S. Omobono (fig. 47)

To Ted and Katherine

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contents

Acknowledgments ix A Note on the Images xiii

Introduction 1 1

The Makings of a City 20

2

Coherence and Distinction (ca. 650–550) 39

3 On a New Scale (ca. 550–500) 66 4 The Continuity of Splendor (ca. 500–450) 126 5 The Great Rome of the Romans 153 6

Integration 172

Notes 181 Bibliography 218 Illustration Credits 247 Index 249

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acknowledgments

While writing this book I have had the privilege of reading studies by some of the greatest art historians, archaeologists, classicists, and humanists—young, advanced, and long departed. Their work has been a steady source of inspiration, and their names and contributions can be found in the bibliography. It is a pleasure to mention here those whom I have had the benefit of working with and learning from personally. I have been fortunate to study with John Clarke and Penelope Davies, whose guidance set the foundation for this book. My research and my conception of these monuments, this art, and this wondrous Roman culture have been fundamentally shaped by conversations over fragments of stone and terracotta— and over many meals, drinks, and teas—with them and with Nancy Winter, Jim Packer, Nicola Terrenato, Christopher Smith, Albert Ammerman, Patricia Lulof, Nassos Papalexandrou, Ingrid Edlund-Berry, Ili Nagy, Elizabeth Bartman, Anna Mura Sommella, Gabriele Cifani, Seth Bernard, Rachel Kousser, Barbara Borg, Ken Lapatin, Claire Lyons, Lynne Lancaster, Rabun Taylor, Charlotte Potts, Liz Colantoni, Gretchen Meyers, Michael Thomas, Jeffrey Collins, Christina Ferando, Dan McReynolds, Erik Gustafson, Gregory Waldrop, Eleanor Rust, Gregory Bucher, and Andrew Riggsby. I owe these generous scholars a profound debt of thanks. I am also grateful to scholars who have kindly provided me with as-yet-unpublished research or with their personal insights; they have allowed me to refer to them in these pages, and I cite them when I discuss their important finds and conclusions. John Clarke, Michael Maas, Lucy Bradnock, Nicola Terrenato, and Liz Colantoni read drafts either of chapters or the full manuscript, and I am grateful for their feedback, as well as that of the anonymous peer reviewers, whose suggestions truly shaped the final outcome. Of course, any shortcomings in this study rest squarely on my shoulders. This kind of work would not be possible without the support of several institutions and organizations, which have offered not only great financial help in a parsimonious academic climate, but also heartwarming and mind-opening personal support that has had a real impact on the scholarship here. At the University of Texas at Austin I would like to thank the Department of Art History for their support

toward my PhD and toward a Cullen Trust Endowment Fund Continuing Fellowship, which made a year’s research in Rome possible. A two-year predoctoral fellowship at the American Academy in Rome provided funding and housing for the bulk of my doctoral research, and I must thank Carmela Franklin, Pina Pasquantonio, Anne Coulson, Giulia Barra, and Lexi Eberspacher for all that they did while I was there. Of course the Rome Prize is much more than that, and I am deeply grateful for the many friends, colleagues, and experiences I have gained through such an exceptional institution. The American Council of Learned Societies (acls) funded the last year I worked on my dissertation, and I am grateful for the freedom this gave me to work on my conclusions back in Austin. The Getty Research Institute was my home for a year, and I was supported there very generously, not just with funding but also with an incomparable staff, especially Katja Zelljadt, Alexa Sekyra, Sabine Schlosser, Peter Bonfitto, and Rebecca Zamora, who always make a return to Los Angeles a new kind of delight. The acls again supported my research and teaching for two years with a New Faculty Fellowship at Rice University, where I was able to discuss the ideas in this volume with new colleagues in the departments of Art History, Classical Studies, and Anthropology. I am truly thankful for this opportunity. I also wish to thank Nancy and Bob Carney for their generosity of spirit and intellectualism. At Rice, I have also had support from the Department of Art History’s Segal Fund and from the office of the Dean of Humanities, Nick Shumway, for travel to Rome and Los Angeles while finishing work on this book. Dean Shumway also provided a generous subvention that allowed for the inclusion of so many images in this volume, and especially so many in color; I will not forget that generosity. None of this would have come to fruition, though, without the help of my editor at Yale University Press, Katherine Boller, who has been an absolute saint throughout the process of bringing this book to press, as have Tamara Schechter, Laura Hensley, and the whole staff. I would also like to thank the often-unsung heroes of research, the librarians, particularly Shiela Winchester and Laura Schwartz at the University of Texas at Austin; Denise Gavio, Christina Huemer, Rebecka Lindau, Paolo Imperatori, and the staff at the American Academy in Rome; the librarians and staff at the Getty Research Institute, particularly those in Special Collections; and Jet Prendeville and the staff at Fondren Library at Rice University. Special thanks go to two more librarians, Emily Luken and Katherine Hopkins, for their investigations quite outside the line of duty. I am deeply grateful to Richard Beacham for his generosity in helping me to reconstruct some of the temples discussed in these pages through virtual technology. I also offer my sincere thanks to Janis Atelbauers and Will Wang for their steadfastness in working to rebuild such troublesome works of architecture. Throughout the process of virtual reconstruction—which some might see as supplementary, but which is in fact absolutely crucial to a research project based in the reimagining of lost monuments—Chris

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Johanson, Diane Favro, Jim Packer, Richard Beacham, Jeff Fleisher, Linda Neagley, Farès el-Dahdah, and Patricia Lulof have been constant companions in the search for a means and a meaning to virtual reconstruction. The goodwill of many museums and archaeological superintendencies in Italy were essential for this project, both at the research stage and when collecting images of objects in their possession. I would like to thank at the Capitoline Museums and the Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali: Claudio Parisi-Presicce, Angela Carbonaro, Margherita Albertoni, and Alberto Danti; at the Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia and the Soprintendenza per I beni archeologici dell’Etruria Meridionale: Alfonsina Russo, Maria Laura Falsini, and Rita Cosentino; at the Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Roma: among others, Maria Daniela Donninelli, Rosanna Friggeri, Roberto Meneghini, Elisabetta Bianchi, and Irene Iacopi; at the Soprintendenza Archeologica di Lazio, Giovanni Caruso; at the Museo di Velletri, dott.ssa Germano; at the Comune di Lanuvio: Luca Attenni and Francesco Graziani; at the Museo di Cerveteri, dott. Fabrizio Paganelli; at the Museo di Tarquinia, Massimo Magrini, who was so patient and helpful; and at Roma Sotterranea, Luca Antognoli. In addition I would like to thank Andrea Giovagnoli, Carla Antonaccio, Erik Gustafson, Bud Skibitzke, Hans Ollermann, Peter Wiseman, and Patricia Lulof for allowing me to reproduce their photographs and drawings here. I owe the greatest debt of thanks to my parents, Ted and Katherine Hopkins, and to all of my keenly inquisitive family, who taught me from my earliest days what it means to explore, investigate, and question my place in history and humanity. All that is good in these pages comes from the intellectual curiosity you have espoused and the unending support you have given me. You have made this work truly joyous.

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a note on the images

Some of the images in this book present fully rendered reconstructions of buildings and sculptures that remain in only a fragmentary state. Although the process of creating them helped answer some important research questions, these images are presented here as illustrations. They are not included as evidence, and they should not be used as stand-alone arguments or evidence for these buildings. Alongside these images are detailed textual analyses of the fragments (and the potential knowledge they provide for buildings and sculpture) as well as images of the fragments themselves. This information provides the reader with a clear understanding of the state of the remains and of the degree to which extrapolation played a role in each reconstruction. Many elements in the reconstructions are open to substantially different interpretation, and the scholarly community should welcome other visual interpretations based on the evidence and on sound scholarship. Like any reconstructions, these images will undoubtedly create an impression that will affect the study of the objects. A body of literature on such effects has grown impressively since the advent of 3-D computer modeling and carries with it a debate about the choices one can make in reconstructions of such fragmentary evidence. I have used this literature to make determinations about how much detail to provide and when, in a way that I believe is both beneficial and clear to the reader. Where elements are completely unknown, they have been left in muted colors and without extraneous elaboration. Although it has garnered extraordinary attention, in some ways, the use of 3-D technology in the creation of two-dimensional images (as is the case in this book) presents the reader with an illustration that is no different in its character than a sophisticated watercolor of Roman baths from the eighteenth century or a detailed drawing or pastel from the nineteenth or twentieth. All of these—drawings, watercolors, physical models, and virtual models of varying degrees of elaboration—present more of a building than exists and more of its reconstruction than can be conclusively determined from remaining evidence. I am aware that such images stick in the mind’s eye and influence scholarship, but so too does the absence of such an image lead to misinformation and misunderstanding. The other extreme would be to illustrate only the fragmentary remains of the period and present no reconstructions or plans beyond the remains themselves and the words in this book.

Yet by its fragmentation this presents an equally false picture of what the objects looked like when they were built. Furthermore, such piecemeal illustration has led many scholars to ignore the material and the period because its impressiveness and sophistication are muted by omission. I have chosen to use full illustrations to allow these great works of art and architecture a wider appreciation, and I have done so with a conscious effort to express the limitations of our knowledge. Because the images do not stand alone and because they are printed next to a textual resource, which explains in detail the limits of the state of the evidence, the reader is able to read this text and examine the endnotes to gauge how much of the reconstruction she or he wishes to credit.

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a note on the images

introduction

As a riposte to Mark Antony’s preference for Alexandria, Augustus is said to have highlighted his own favor for Rome, acclaiming it as home of the Empire and re-creating it through the most lavish overhaul the city had yet seen. It took little time for chroniclers to commend his architectural transformation, and from antiquity to the present, students of history, art, and architecture have learned that it was Augustus who crafted an urban image befitting the capital of the Empire.1 With his family and associates, he enlarged the Campus Martius and broadened its purpose with lavish leisure grounds and civic spaces to the north; he remade the riverside area with temples and porticos around a new theater dedicated to his nephew, Marcellus; following Caesar’s lead, he refashioned the image of the Forum and adjacent areas with over twenty new construction projects; and he famously converted a city of concrete into one revetted in marble. Monuments throughout the city and in its suburbs attest to the transformation that Augustus made possible, and few would argue that his vision did not fundamentally change Rome. Yet beneath this marble veneer, before Augustus’s rule, the city was already a bustling metropolis, and the changes he engendered were steeped in centuries of artistic, architectural, and topographical shift. Over the past fifty years, exploration of the longue durée and the diffuse sources of changing visual and material culture in Rome have seen increased study; more and more, scholars highlight a deep history of Roman art and architecture in studies of Republican monuments from before the start of the Empire. Such scholarship reveals an ever more complex Roman architectural history, one that witnessed centuries of early urban change and spatial reconfiguration and maintained long-standing artistic, political, religious, and social connections that reached from Republic through to Empire.2 Still, the majority of research on Roman visual culture begins only with the middle Republic, and especially with the use of concrete and Hellenistic styles in the third century bce, some five hundred years after the traditional founding of the city. In the larger, longer history of Roman art and architecture, most historians either intentionally or innocently brush by Romans’ first major architectural achievements.3 The earliest monuments and urban shifts remain largely out of sight, and consequently the city and its visual culture have been given only half of a history, one that begins when the action is already nearing climax, during the Punic and Macedonian wars of the third and second centuries bce.

My aim with this book is to reach back, past that traditional temporal barrier in the study of Roman art and architecture, to investigate the earliest monuments and urban shifts in the city and to assess their impact on the history of Rome, its art, and its architecture. To that end, I assemble material evidence for Rome’s topography up to the mid-fifth century bce in a diachronic exploration of the artistic culture of the city.4 The study has a threefold purpose. First, I seek to reveal the extent of architectural change in Rome during the archaic period and to uncover the visual experience of the urban image that had emerged by the mid-fifth century. Folded into this assessment are two principal concerns: one is an interest in how close analysis of architecture and its component parts—especially sculpture—might explain the poorly understood relationship between the shifting artistic culture of archaic Rome and the contemporaneous artistic and cultural trends swirling around the Mediterranean; the other stems from a need to investigate the formation of the city and state of Rome, the initial cohesion of settlements there, and the gradual pace by which connections between hilltop communities generated a distinct and unified culture with a unique and enduring social, artistic, and urban fabric. Second, I assess what the changing physical environment of the early city may reveal about social and political shifts. I question how diachronic architectural and artistic connectivity might affect the study of social-historical issues linked to the formation of the Republic, the so-called social struggles, and especially the ties that bind the art and architecture of early Rome with the Republic and the continuous thread of Roman cultural history thereafter. The third aim is to promote a conversation about the long-overlooked role that archaic Rome played in the greater history of Roman art, architecture, and urban design. The structure of the book follows this order of inquiry. In the first four chapters, I present Rome’s diachronic topographical, architectural, and artistic shift. In chronological order, each chapter considers major monuments, artistic innovations, and urban changes and the place of each new work in the wider contemporaneous Roman, Central Italic, and Mediterranean context. At the end of each chapter, I assess how these changes affected the overall topographical and artistic environment of the city as well as the effects of these changes on questions of community and urban cohesion. The theorization of Rome’s architectural and artistic genesis and of its gradual urban and societal union is found in the final pages of each chapter, building as the study progresses. Next, in Chapter 5, I incorporate this study of architecture and sculpture; form, style, and function; and social space and community into the existing debate on the textual history of the period, the shift in politics, and the story of the fall of monarchy and rise of the Republic. Last, with a view forward, in the final chapter I suggest how a geographically and diachronically connective study might reframe the position of early Roman art in the contemporaneous Mediterranean world and in the longer history of Roman art and culture. Throughout the manuscript, there is a thread that should be made clear from the outset, and that in part I develop further in a section of this introduction on “connectivity”: these monuments

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introduction

had a long and complex life, and their study should not be restricted to the geographic or temporal confines of early Rome or to the field of art history. Their creation in the archaic period was itself made possible by extensive cultural interaction that reached far beyond the city, and their existence as part of the Roman cityscape for centuries to come had a profound impact on the art and life of Romans throughout antiquity and thereafter. These issues are but a few of the concerns that might have featured in this study. It is both exciting and problematic that remains from early Rome have seen so little genuine art-historical scrutiny and such unwarranted division from contemporaneous and later Mediterranean art.5 Were early Rome studied with the same vigor as the later Roman Republic and Empire or classical and Hellenistic Greece, one might find the same depth and breadth of scholarship, weaving art, archaeology, literature, religion, craftsmanship, urbanism, trade, war, and so many other topics together. Unfortunately, for early Rome, much of this foundational research is still in the making. Certainly scholars—largely Italian—have done remarkable work, but not in the same quantities, and only recently with the same desire for interdisciplinarity.6 In some cases, such as the study of craftsmanship and the community of craftspeople working in Central Italic architecture and sculpture, the field is still relatively new, or at least it has only recently begun to see anything like the attention that craftsmanship in contemporaneous Greek sculpture and architecture has long seen. Other topics, including urbanism, state formation, society, and community development, have been a mainstay of the period, with decades of rich scholarship, but this has been almost exclusively the domain of archaeologists and textual scholars; art- and architectural-historical study have only rarely been a part of these discussions. That is in contrast to the study of the late Republic and Empire, for which art- and architectural-historical study has been woven into investigations of state administration, urbanism, and cultural and community shifts, with a long-standing opportunity for scholarly critique and revision. Religion, politics, and social struggles in early Rome are even more thorny topics, especially because of problematic textual sources, and rarely have art historians waded into these waters. By comparison with the later Republic and Empire, such topics in early Rome have seen only a fraction of their potential study, and they are in serious need of further investigation. One work cannot sufficiently address all of these areas, and I do not pretend that this book will manage such an exceptional feat. I have carefully chosen to work closely on only a few of the debates that might be addressed. This will undoubtedly frustrate some readers, as early Roman architecture stands at the center of so many fields of research, especially Central Italic societal structures and urbanism, religion, craftsmanship, and politics. Of course, these related fields are part of the discussion in this book, and I hope that my study might be useful to scholars who work on these subjects; I have certainly done my utmost to keep my research and bibliography in these areas up-to-date.7 Still, as the title and introduction indicate, this is a book about architecture, art, and its genesis in Rome.

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introduction

LACUNAE AND QUANDARIES These questions have been piling up for decades. Historians and archaeologists began to identify remains of archaic art and architecture in Rome already in the nineteenth century, and with major excavation in central Rome in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, research took off. On these foundations, from the 1950s to the 1970s, Einar Gjerstad examined thousands of fragmentary remains from early Rome, and in a groundbreaking, six-volume tome, he made claims of grand temples and civic buildings dotting the archaic landscape.8 Although his work has endured criticism for its problematic dating mechanism, it laid the foundation for any study of the period and has become a crucial starting point for any research on early Rome. In the years since, archaeologists have uncovered still more ruins that attest to an early Roman city unlike the humble township many had imagined, and in the wake of these excavations, a substantial group of Italian archaeologists (and a few scholars from outside of Italy) have highlighted and extrapolated from the new finds. Overall, the extraordinary depth of their work on the period has fundamentally changed the body of evidence and the bounds of interpretive scholarship.9 Without their research, no synthetic or analytical work with a broad purview could even be contemplated. Yet most of the studies either focus on single monuments or assemble them in sequence rather than in dialogue. There is little discussion of the visual experience of the cityscape, of the shifts at each site over time in relation to others nearby, or of the relationship between these monuments as a whole and their contemporaries in the Mediterranean or their successors in Rome. Despite the critical material in these studies, their focus on individual monuments and very specific questions—alongside the frequent segregation of early Rome from the wider Mediterranean world and from later Rome, by those scholars who suggest a third-century origin of Roman art—has meant that much of this work finds its way only into studies of early Italic culture, not into scholarship on the longer (and later) history of Roman art and architecture.10 Sadly, these crucial works are not the go-to scholarship on early Rome for many historians of visual and material culture; instead, most scholars look to a few works with a broader view, which have been assembled by classical historians writing on the social and political history of early Rome. In most of their studies, material/visual remains understandably serve debates over literary evidence. Art and architecture are left without interpretation per se.11 The history of the art and architecture of Rome therefore lingers without a real introduction, and the history of early Rome, often distrusted for its dependence on biased sources written nearly a half millennium after the fact, merits a fresh perspective. There are many reasons scholars have avoided this material; among the most substantial is the challenge of working with a lacunose and problematic body of material evidence. So much of the archaic city remains buried or was destroyed by Republican, Imperial, medieval, Renaissance, and modern construction that only a small fraction of the urban

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landscape is available for examination (fig. 1). What is more, ongoing excavation of some key sites—the north Palatine, Meta Sudans, and S. Omobono areas, especially—renders a full assessment of the available material impossible. Yet any period of Roman art and architectural history will have similar limitations. Just as certain areas of Rome may never see excavation, there will also always be ongoing excavations that unearth field-altering remains. I have tried to stay abreast of the most recent finds and have made every effort to incorporate them into this study, where their inclusion was practicable and constructive. Given the disjointed nature of excavations and their various conditions of study, it is worthwhile to begin with a synoptic picture of excavated areas, their state of publication, and a few important issues concerning interpretation.

FIGURE 1 Schematic map of Rome with various states of excavation highlighted.

1 Area of figure 3.1 2 Area of Comitium and Curia 3 SW Palatine slope with huts and later sanctuary 4 Excavations at Colosseum valley 5 Area of temples at S. Omobono 6 Area of Temple of Jupiter 7 Area of Palatine North Slope houses 8 Temple of Castor 9 Temple of Saturn

Quirinal

Campus Martius

Esquiline necropolis

2

Capitoline

9 Forum basin

6

Esquiline

1

8 7

Velia

Velabrum 4

5 Tiber

Colosseum valley 3

Palatine

Circus Maximus valley

Caelian

Areas of the hills without widespread excavation to ancient levels Major excavations of archaic sites Large excavations with sporadic archaic finds

Aventine

Ongoing/unpublished excavations of archaic sites 0m

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100m

200m

N

Over the past century and a half, archaeologists have uncovered abundant remains of ancient architecture from the hills and valleys of Rome. To this day, however, only four areas have seen extensive scientific excavation down to archaic levels: a few pockets of the Forum, one area of the Capitoline, a sanctuary by the Tiber River, and three sections of the Palatine. The limitation of serious study to these sites distorts the examination of the urban image of early Rome from the start. Any map—and any reconstruction or discussion of finds—shines a spotlight on these areas because of their wealth of information, and it shrouds most of the city in darkness. This is chiefly due to historical chance, and there should be no misunderstanding that Rome was confined to these areas in the archaic period. It was not. The Forum and Palatine were opened up as archaeological parks following systematic excavation in the late nineteenth century, and most post-antique architecture was removed, laying bare the ancient city. The same is true for the Capitoline in the area of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the remains of which were incorporated into the Palazzo Caffarelli and have recently undergone excavation. Meanwhile, most of the riverside valley (also called the Velabrum and Forum Boarium) as well as the Velia, Esquiline, Oppian, Fagutal, Quirinal, Pincian, Caelian, and Aventine hills are coated in medieval and modern (re)construction; the Quirinal, Aventine, Caelian, and Esquiline were heavily rebuilt in the late nineteenth century, when Rome became the new capital of a unified Italy, and Mussolini demolished the Velia for his Via Triumphale (now the Via dei Fori Imperiali). This has reduced excavation in those areas to small soundings.12 In the valleys, especially the Circus Maximus and riverside, the water table has risen so much that excavation down to archaic levels is unfeasible. Current work at the site of S. Omobono—on the edge of the Capitoline slopes, not even at the center of a valley—has required extraordinary effort, with enormous reinforcing armature for each trench and two water pumps running constantly during excavations. Thus, while some areas of the city—the Forum and Palatine, especially—have produced bountiful food for thought, much of early Rome remains hidden. One must therefore consider that any study of the early city cannot be comprehensive of the entire topography. What is more, whenever doubts arise from the sporadic or seemingly exceptional—even unlikely—nature of finds, it must go without saying that similar materials may be hidden just meters away beneath a palazzo or government building. As a result of the fragmented excavation history, the bulk of this study focuses on finds from the Capitoline, Forum, Palatine, and one area of the riverside, near the Church of S. Omobono. It also incorporates materials and geological study from the Colosseum valley, Circus Maximus valley, and on the Esquiline and Quirinal, where possible. A word should be said about dating and reconstruction. Absolute dates are inextricably linked to the textual history of early Rome, itself prone to serious criticism, which I discuss later in this introduction. That said, the past few decades have seen an open debate about relative dating, and I therefore use broad dates that fit the scheme

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upheld by scholars working on Iron Age chronology; this becomes more precise with the late Orientalizing and archaic periods, when dates are based largely on the chronology of bucchero, Corinthian, and Attic ceramics as well as stylistic changes in architectural sculpture.13 For most of the late seventh to fifth centuries, the rough dates of excavated monuments have been well established and vetted in archaeological reports, their reviews, and their incorporation into broader study, but one area of excavation presents a problem. The ongoing Palatine “North Slope” excavations have seen partial publication, and some scholars are skeptical of the dating mechanism used in the project. This is largely because, even in completed volumes on the 1985–88 seasons, ceramics and architectural terracottas from the excavations are not always given a full evaluation of their own; authors occasionally refer to a mass of materials that purportedly supply a precise date for a structure, but then they do not publish or assess those materials. In other cases, ceramics are described vaguely as “dating to the reign of Servius Tullius.”14 This presents its own array of problems, because the regnal dates of Tullius (and, for some, his very existence) are in question. Consequently, those who study the material but were not part of the excavations are unable to assess the dates independently, a crucial duty for scholarly research. I have therefore chosen to keep a very wide chronology for these sites, except in situations where there are securely datable, published finds, in which case I note them. The same general caution is given to reconstructions and interpretations of buildings at these and a few other sites. Several scholars have provided good reasons for concern, largely stemming from the assignation of patrons to certain buildings, and from the reconstruction of entire floor plans and the purposes of specific rooms, based on fragmentary and unclear remains.15 In general, because of a broad scholarly skepticism of these interpretations, and of the textual record that is foregrounded in them, I am conservative in both my plans and dating for these sites. Yet I am not uncompromising. These structures and their meticulous excavation have transformed the state of research on the period. While far-reaching conclusions based on the combination of problematic textual traditions with scanty remains can create a misleadingly secure picture of the cityscape and its inhabitants, so too can an overabundance of caution needlessly encumber research. If insufficient merit is given to an excavation and the correlation of its finds with sound textual or material evidence, one can miss a potentially vital moment in history and art history. In hopes of maintaining transparency in such situations, I have done my best to lay bare the basis of any claims (or counterclaims) I make; to tread lightly with any sweeping assertions, but to keep an open mind; and, in cases where evidence is problematic, to assess in detail the prevailing interpretations and, where necessary, their pitfalls. To this synopsis of the limited state of excavation and the cautions regarding interpretation, there is one more notice to add. This last one, however, presents an instance of greater (rather than constrained) potential. In several cases, evidence for architecture and urban change is considerable; substantial foundations and terracotta sculpture appear together and reveal a somewhat comprehensive image of a lost archaic building.

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Of course, this cannot always be the case, and sometimes buildings are only attested by a few fragments of foundation wall or by terracotta revetments. In many cases, even in the well-studied areas of the Forum and Palatine, only small soundings have been possible, and while they have turned up important terracotta evidence of more and more impressive architecture throughout the city, the limited size of trenches has hindered the discovery of walls or other architectural elements that would fill in the broader image of architectural designs. In many cases, the terracottas exist either alone or alongside a small stash of votives that record the general function of a building and little more. For decades now, these terracotta decorations and roof tiles have seen focused study in works on sculpture, archaeology, and ceramic production, as objects to be studied in their own right and in comparison with others like them. In many cases, this work has transformed the study of early Italic and western Mediterranean art and craftsmanship.16 At the same time, because these objects are typically studied apart from architecture, this has also meant that the terracottas are not often examined as evidence for the buildings they adorned or, especially, as a sign of changes in urban landscapes.17 Yet they are extraordinarily important for the study of architecture and urbanization. In the proper archaeological context, the discovery of such terracottas is not just a suggestion that some kind of structure may have existed; it is proof that a building stood nearby. At sites such as Corinth and Athens, eaves tiles, geison blocks, triglyphs, and pedimental sculpture have long seen study as sculptural elements, but they have also been underscored as undeniable evidence of otherwise unattested (but nonetheless impressive) architecture. The bluebeard and lioness pediments of the early Temple of Athena Polias in Athens are a good example.18 For Rome, the decorative material should be treated no differently. Like buildings in Athens and elsewhere, at Rome the detailed plans of these buildings may be somewhat (or entirely) unclear, but that does not render their existence any less real or important, and in some cases, the size and content of terracottas can speak volumes about the nature of the building and the community that created it. Until the late sixth century, these terracottas provide substantial information by means of their style, iconography, and composition, and they will appear throughout the following chapters as constructive tools for understanding the connections and interests of people in early Rome. Beginning ca. 550/540, they gain even more meaning. From the middle of the sixth century in Central Italy, builders began employing substantial stone foundations (and eventually full-scale walls and columns) for temple construction with increasing frequency. The simultaneous and widespread discovery of terracottas alongside the new stone architecture allows for a comparative study of their dimensions and, in some cases, allows for a loose correlative analysis of roofing elements and the sizes of the temples they adorned.19 In other words, in the proper archaeological context, terracottas with close comparanda can—by themselves—give a sense of the size of a building that once stood nearby. Of course, no precise ratio holds true, and there should be no illusions that

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one can determine anything like an exact measurement for a temple from analysis of the terracottas. Still, with this kind of analysis in hand, one can begin to see that the discovery of a revetment from a proper archaeological context can be telling of the character of a building that stood in the vicinity. Thus, even when remains of a building are only fragmentary terracottas, they must be included in a survey of architecture—even if only in passing—as evidence of yet another building and a shift in urban image; in what follows, that is how I use them. As this brief look at material remains, dating, and reconstruction exposes, early Rome is a tricky place to investigate. So much of the material evidence is buried and fragmentary that it is itself an unruly source of information. Add to that a general historical obscurity and things get truly interesting. At best, the years in question (ca. 800–450) stand on the threshold of protohistory for Central Italy. According to ancient literary sources, this is the era of Roman kings and the beginnings of a Republic.20 It is the era when Romulus, Numa, and the Tarquins purportedly ruled the city and brought it to the brink of both greatness and disaster, only for Brutus and the first consuls to rescue it and, together with their comrades, write a first set of laws, including the Twelve Tables. It is a time when some have suggested that an Etruscan coup—covered up by ancient authors—brought culture to Rome during a period of Tarquin kingship, and that others have countered was a time when Romans, under an open, accepting government independent of Etruscan dominance, first stepped onto the world stage.21 All of these tales are based on the interpretation and revision of textual sources from centuries later. No contemporaneous textual histories, annals, or even governmental lists (like those found in the Iron Age Near East or Minoan and Mycenaean Greece) exist, and, in fact, the earliest surviving sources to mention Rome for more than a line or two date nearly two hundred years after the period. Even these are extremely brief, and it is not until Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, both writing four hundred years later, in the first century bce, that one gets anything like a full narrative. The temporal and cultural distance between these substantial histories and the period of study means that even the most basic information—the very names of these monuments, their patrons, the culture of craftspeople, their political situation, and so on— can be called into question. There are some impediments to writing on such a disorderly period, and they should be addressed. Despite questions of political and cultural bias and concerns about serious gaps in ancient historical knowledge, for centuries, scholars have mined the books of Livy and Dionysius and passages and fragments of Varro, Strabo, Cicero, Polybius, and others to better understand the early city. Over the last hundred years, heated debate has created divisions in scholarship on the reliability of these texts. Some scholars employ textual criticism to scrutinize ancient sources, but still use these sources liberally (even exclusively) to reconstruct a narrative for early Rome; others use texts to fill in the fragmentary

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picture that archaeological remains provide; still others have looked only to material remains, using text rarely—if at all—and with extreme caution. Their studies exist in conversation (sometimes fierce contention) with one another, and despite their differences, the resulting, rich dialogue among specialists has helped refine scholarship on the period, and it has given historical study of the era some real legitimacy.22 At the same time, though, it leaves nonspecialists (historians of later Rome and of other places and cultures in the Mediterranean) uncertain of how to contend with the art, architecture, archaeology, social history, and, in fact, almost any issue relating to the early city. Unsure of whom to trust, unclear on where the debate stands, and therefore skeptical of a textual history that has seen so much criticism, most scholars and students see early Rome as a semi-legendary place, and because so many want to purge history of the soiled texts, often the material remains get thrown out with the literature. This is disastrous for the history of ancient Rome. It means that studies of the Empire and late Republic are based on the shakiest of foundations, which is especially tragic because they need not be. There is an enormous material record from the early period that is decidedly real, and it is revelatory of a culturally, economically, and politically vibrant city. This book focuses on that material record, and it serves as an effort to highlight the period in such a way that it might gain a more solid footing, particularly among scholars from outside Italy. I have therefore put the textual record largely to one side in the chapters that assess Rome’s diachronic urban shift. This is not done in an attempt to say that the textual history of early Rome is without value, but rather, that it comes with limitations, and when one attempts to pair text with archaeology before discretely scrutinizing each body of evidence, many problems arise.23 As I present evidence for the changing cityscape, I therefore do not explain how architectural, artistic, spatial, and visual changes fit with the broad, traditional historical narrative of Rome, the purported politics and ambitions of kings, or the ancient tales of war and social disruption. That is left for a distinct chapter (5), where I discuss how archaeological evidence for architectural and sculptural production may fit with this broader textual narrative and with interpretations of it. This does not mean that ancient texts or references to them will not crop up in the chapters devoted to urban change.24 In many cases, scholars have so routinely linked the creation, form, material, style, or function of a building or its sculpture to ancient texts and their historical narratives that it is necessary to address that connection (and its potential problems) head-on. Thus, sometimes a brief account of the historiography of a building such as the Temple of Castor, the Regia, or the temples at S. Omobono is crucial. In such cases, I mention the texts and their interpretation chiefly as an introduction to the monument, and I immediately clarify their applicability to analysis of the building in question. In rare cases, chiefly with regard to the reconstruction of the Capitoline Temple, I do use literary sources as evidence for buildings; in these situations, it is only as evidence

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for their date and design, not for their socio-cultural story, and in each case, I explain at length why I feel such usage is reasonable. To write on archaic Rome with limited use of ancient textual evidence is to write on monuments and urban design without presupposing rulers or even inhabitants (that is, patrons, makers, designers, and users). This presents a problem. One can hardly write about architectural and artistic production as an active process without a subject, and while this may seem only a problem of logistics, it is one not without semiotic significance. Without the literary record, one is left with an archaeology that reveals no names for any of archaic Rome’s inhabitants; a mixed ceramic and inscriptional record that indicates Latin, Etruscan, and Greek (and, to a lesser extent, Sabine, Faliscan, and other Italic) elements at Rome; and no names for the hills, streets, landmarks, or areas of town. In part, this can be overcome. Referring to a street that existed in the archaic period as “what would become the Vicus Tuscus” is manageable. Yet it is not always so simple. When referring to inhabitants and builders of monuments, diction has considerable connotations. I have chosen to refer to the creators of Rome’s archaic topography as “Romans” when I believe such a coherent community existed. I do not intend this as a covert suggestion that Rome was necessarily an independent polity during the archaic period; that those who ruled the city were necessarily born in Rome; that their culture was tied only to the city of Rome; or even that they self-identified as being part of a “Roman culture,” to the exclusion of any other culture. I use the term only as a means of stating that those who made the decisions were people living in the city of Rome. I realize that the word “Roman” carries implications, but any other word (“kings,” “Tarquins,” “Etruscans,” “Latins”) would do the same. “Roman” is the most appropriate and least tendentious, because if one can be comfortable in any supposition, it is that the people commissioning these monuments were, for some time, living in the city of Rome.25 In setting aside the texts and the ascription of buildings to specific rulers for the first part of this book, I am also relinquishing the search for an author for each of these buildings. I look to peoples and cultures that might influence design and construction, but I do not seek a patron, nor do I use an author to define an object. This is in keeping with a fundamental premise of the study of objects: that is, the object rendered by a creator does not re-present that creator. It may be part of a context related to that creator, but the object itself is inherently different from its author and must be contemplated for itself before a relationship with its creator is investigated.26 This is especially true for a period when it is unclear what role a government had in the conception, patronage, design, and execution of a monument. In a period when it is often impossible to identify individuals, it is more feasible to trace the aspects of an object to broad cultural, ideological, or stylistic roots than to the very hand that wrought it. In other words, while an object may not reveal its creator, it does betray aspects of its creation; it is an index of its roots, and it is this relationship that I seek to identify, not by looking at the rulers of Rome, as most studies have

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done, but by looking at the object.27 Thus, I do not omit literary evidence or a discussion of rulers because of any agenda for a processualist archaeology, a comprehensive division of material from literary evidence, or a resolute distrust of the sources, but instead because it is the precise aim of this project to interpret objects for themselves rather than as extensions of individual creators in the historical tradition. It is my hope that, in doing so, the material and the period will gain greater prominence in the history of Roman art, of which early Rome is unquestionably a part.

CONNECTIVITY The quandaries facing any study of early Rome reach beyond the circumstances of the city, its textual history, and its archaeology. In fact, perhaps the greatest complication is found outside of Rome, or at least in the way early Rome has been studied in relation to communities outside of it. Since the late seventeenth century, when scholars first began to partition antiquity into subfields, the study of Rome has been segregated from that of other civilizations in the archaic and classical Mediterranean. Scholars have isolated it by means of nearly every disciplinary tool and every prejudice, from linguistics to geography to art history, and from sheer disbelief of early Roman sophistication to nationalist promotion of autochthonous Roman majesty. At first, the divisions were part of a reasoned desire to organize history; over time, these divisions have persisted: sometimes deliberately, other times unintentionally. Nevertheless, to this day, the place of archaic and classical Rome in the scholarly framework has been largely in isolation, occasionally subsumed within a regional (Etruscan, Italic) conglomerate, but mostly deep in the shadow of a far more expansive and better-studied contemporary culture: Greek. Despite methodological and disciplinary shifts, despite the rise of social histories of art, and despite the trend away from cultural criticism, the (art-) historical narrative that grew out of Renaissance humanism persists insidiously and pervasively in scholarship.28 In some ways, the division and marginalization seems understandable. Rome in this early time had nothing like the cultural reach or prolific artistic output of the entirety of Greek culture; it can hardly stand up as a creative, innovative, productive, or effective equal until the late Hellenistic period. As a single polity in Central Italy, it is also far less impressive than the whole of the conglomerate Etruscan or Italic cultures, and what is more, it is also a poor cousin to the gargantuan cultural manufacturers of its late Republican and Imperial self. Precisely for this reason, the history of classical culture has been written with Greeks—sometimes accompanied by Etruscans or Italic peoples— dominating the field until the third century, when Romans emerge out of Italy. But that paradigm, steeped in seventeenth-century scholarship, and in turn through the work especially of J. J. Winckelmann and J. G. Droysen, may be losing ground.29 More and more, theories and methodologies of the early Mediterranean world have moved in a direction

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that suggests that Greek, Etruscan, Italic, and Roman cultures are not opposing entities, or even parallel categories that should suffer division and juxtaposition. This has substantial implications for the place of early Rome in the archaic and classical worlds and for the way I treat the material of early Rome in this book. In the 1980s, an emerging school looked to deconstructionist philosophy to investigate the infinity of parts and wholes, generators and the generated, and their inescapable interconnectivity and convergence. From their inquiries during the period of globalization and Internet connectivity came a realization and an idea: after decades of research into the remarkable exchange that existed between Mediterranean cultures, scholars began to see a far subtler ancient world, both more fragmented and more connected across traditional linguistic, geographic, and cultural boundaries.30 The effects of the new scholarship have touched the whole of the ancient Mediterranean, especially in the period between the ninth and fourth centuries. They have had a profound impact on study of the Greek world, which has so dominated that period, and this, in turn, has shifted study of cultures that have so long been in its shadow. For Rome, the effect is doubly powerful, as it disturbs the traditional view of the place of that polity both in the wider Mediterranean and in relation to the neighboring cultures of Etruria and Central Italy, which it has long been subsumed within. Furthermore, the theoretical and methodological shift hit the study of Central Italy just as a dramatic change to the state of archaeology also began to transform the picture of the region’s cultural landscape. Together, the change in empirical and theoretical suppositions has reshaped the place of Rome in early Central Italy, just as the new Greek and Mediterranean paradigm has created a whole new milieu for the changed Roman and Central Italic situation. This warrants further explanation. Throughout the early and mid-twentieth century, most scholars saw Etruscans as the purveyors of artistic, architectural, and technological innovation in Central Italy, spreading their knowledge either by military supremacy or a more hazy “cultural influence” to polities in Latium, including Rome, and elsewhere.31 The line between the two modes of influence was often blurry, with scholars suggesting military dominance in one article and proposing a more measured cultural prowess in another. For example, H. H. Scullard saw the Etruscan cultural domination this way: “On entering Latium in the seventh century, the Etruscans found the Latins at various stages of development. . . . It was the gift of the Etruscans to encourage agriculture . . . fostering industry and commerce, promoting synoecisms, founding cities, and thus sweeping the whole area into a wider world.”32 Thus, as a conglomerate, Etruscans were seen as the primary culture of the region until the third century, when Romans rose up and conquered them and the Greeks to the south, and finally gained a place in the history books for their own art and culture. Since the 1970s, much of this has changed. Alongside heavy excavation in Etruria, which has continued to reveal rich, innovative, and powerful polities, striking finds from Rome and all of Latium have revealed polities that had seen little light for centuries, and

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FIGURE 2 Map of Central Italy with key sites labeled.

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archaeological evidence for major shifts in many distinct enclaves of the region now suggests relatively consistent changes to material and visual culture, especially up and down the coast.33 At Fidene, Ficana, Crustumerium, and elsewhere on the Latin side of the Tiber; at the Latin coastal cities of Ardea, Lavinium, and Satricum; at inland sites such as Gabii, Tivoli, Praeneste, and the towns of the Alban Hills; and down to the border of Campania at Minturnae, scholars have discovered not only more extensive material remains, but also, in some cases, entire settlements that were previously unknown (or only know, in questionable ancient texts) and that reveal a far richer history than previously imagined (fig. 2). The evidence now presents a region from the Campanian border to the Po River, where rich warrior graves, princely tombs, the adoption of writing and inscription, temple construction, urban systemization, and other changes took hold more or less contemporaneously.34 Some new trends and innovations appear first in Etruscan polities, while others crop up first in Latin, Faliscan, or other territories. For example, the earliest and most pervasive evidence for terracotta manufacture is found in Etruria at Murlo and Acquarossa; meanwhile, the earliest and most widespread evidence for the influential recessed gable appears first in northern Campania and Latium, as does evidence for temples raised on podia with frontal access by stair.35 Overall, the current archaeological record reveals rich communities deeply connected with each other and with the Mediterranean already by the eighth century, producing technological and artistic innovations in an open cultural environment. Meanwhile, in studies of prehistory and protohistory, the colonialist ideas that implied a nebulous Etruscan cultural domination of Rome and Latium have largely given way to peer-polity and interaction theories.36 Scholars now see that if one culture receives goods from another, it does not necessarily make it passive or inferior, and that even if people in Etruria may have developed certain technologies and artistic practices such as terracotta roofs first (or, conversely, if people in Latium may have worshipped widely in temple buildings raised on podia or with recessed gables first), that does not necessarily mean one culture was superior to the other, or that it held some kind of cultural dominion over those who subsequently adopted and adapted its innovations. Furthermore, this kind of group binary is itself problematic. It is unlikely that cultural shifts passed uniformly from one conglomerate culture (Etruscan, Latin, and so on) to another, but rather from one polity (Caere, Tarquinii, Rome, Gabii) to another, or, in many cases, even by way of individual craftspeople, workshops, or elite networks of exchange working across linguistic and cultural boundaries. The idea that a superior conglomerate culture “gifted” its sophistication to an inferior one is out-of-date, and the reception of materials from another culture is not seen as intrinsic evidence of cultural domination.37 In fact, the producer of the goods—the artisans and merchants—might in some contexts be seen as less powerful when compared to the group of people who were wealthy enough and had the wherewithal to solicit and purchase luxury goods and services.

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Unless one can prove that a polity was subjugated by force, and that artistic or material culture was imposed, it is difficult to suggest that the incorporation of foreign objects into daily life reveals a position of inferiority or passivity. In the case of Rome, if it was not subject to Etruscan military domination, an idea that is now passé, any Etruscans who traveled to the city to push their goods or who were commissioned by Romans to produce art would have expected something in return, and this means an interaction, or exchange.38 In the end, the question itself is largely untenable. There is such widespread overlap in artistic and material evidence for innovation and change between Central Italic polities that one can hardly justify a claim that any conglomerate subculture (Etruscan, Latin, Faliscan) was “superior” to its neighbors in this period. By all rights, they were experiencing the same momentous cultural changes that all other Mediterranean cultures of the eighth to sixth centuries were undergoing, and although some distinct polities may have become larger and more powerful, that does not necessarily indicate cultural or military domination of others nearby. Scholars who work on the region have therefore moved away from such a perspective, and in studies of Central Italy, there is a nuanced assessment that looks to interaction both with neighboring states and those overseas. One can see each of these city-states as part of a broader culture (one might argue, infinitely expandable: for example, from Veientine or Roman to Tiberine, Etruscan, or Latin, then Central Italic, Italic, Mediterranean, and so forth), but each is also well known by archaeologists and art historians to have a visual and material culture that neither duplicates nor is subsumed within another polity’s culture.39 Veientine culture is not the same as Vulcentian. They both may be part of a larger Etruscan or Central Italic culture, but Veii is part of a Tiberine culture that Vulci is not, and Vulci is part of a coastal central Etruscan culture that Arretium (Arezzo) is not, and so on. Each polity had its own culture and its own distinct connections to the world around it, by land, river, and sea. At the same time that the micro-worlds within Central Italic culture have seen clearer definition, closer connection across traditional boundaries, and less artificially proscribed cultural hierarchy, so too have the cultures within the Greek world. Greek culture, it seems, is not so easily defined as it might once have appeared. “Hellenicity,” as one scholar has called it, is remarkably complex, and as others have suggested, despite a shared language, despite shared religious tenets and even some shared worldviews, subtle variations in far-flung communities present no monolithic Greek culture from Chersonesus to Cyrene to Marseille (fig. 3).40 There is no object, philosophy, or god that is the same in form, function, and meaning in all these places. That singular culture did not exist. Nor can one see any longer the variations and divergences within Greek culture as the degradations of a “pure” Greekness that reaches out from an Aegean motherland. That neocolonialist paradigm has been thoroughly debunked.41 Rather, each area of the Greek-speaking Mediterranean is seen for its idiosyncrasies, its own cultural significance,

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FIGURE 3

and its distinct connections to neighboring cultures both within and outside the Greekspeaking world. What has risen is a discipline that sees a far more level study of regions, even city-states, within Greek culture, the “cultures within Greek culture,” and the decentralized, distributed network that linked them with each other and to the civilizations all around them.42 Meanwhile, the same theories of peer-polity interaction and network connectivity that have allowed scholars to highlight discrete cultures within traditional conglomerate cultures (Greek, Etruscan, Italic) have also led them to see and study interactions across traditional boundaries and between polities all across the Mediterranean, including those once isolated from one another based on geographic, linguistic, or other divisions.43 Historians have especially seen boundaries at the edges of a discernibly Greek-speaking world as artificial, and the scholarship—especially on Greek art, philosophy, literature, politics, and overall Greek civilization—that once dominated the archaic and classical period is now accompanied by a sub- and adjacent field of Mediterranean studies. Many works on the era no longer look exclusively (for example) at Greek, Etruscan, or Phoenician material, but instead consider subjects that transcend such boundaries and highlight religious syncretism, networks of craftspeople, and urbanization across

Map of the Mediterranean area with key sites labeled.

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Bronze Age cultures, and, in general, an entangled archaic and classical cultural milieu.44 Although Greek-speaking centers certainly retain a large piece of the scholarly pie—and not only because of historiographical favoritism, but also for their real pervasiveness at the time—they are neither the exclusive nor the model cultures against which others are to be measured. Instead, more and more, each site in the broadly defined classical world sees investigation that underscores its connections with others across land and sea and in diachronic study. Certainly within this wider world there were elements of divisions. Linguistic difference would create substantial barriers; seafaring could hinder contact as much as it promoted it; and mountains and gorges could present no small obstruction to communication. Yet in connective study, those divisions do not occupy an unjustifiable portion of investigation, such that they subvert evidence for communication, interaction, cultural symbiosis, mixing, and exchange. In such study, material evidence can be examined with subtlety as evidence of varying degrees of contact, influence, and shift; art and architecture can stand as testimony in a field of nuanced interpretation with a sophisticated bibliography that questions the extent of contact and the indexicality of objects, culture, and exchange.45 In general, the investigation of material culture and evidence for cultural interaction has opened up the study of cultures in the Mediterranean to transformative effect. In the wake of studies that highlight this kind of connectivity, scholars have folded evidence of interaction into studies that wrestle with the mechanisms of contact.46 They have highlighted how trade, travel, warfare, and artistic production connected the communities of the ancient world in linked exchanges, sometimes beneficial and other times hostile, sometimes deeply effective and other times imperceptibly so, but still connected through interaction that reached across barriers of geography or language. Each polity—and its unique connections to the world around it—is consequently seen for what it is: a distinct site, joined to others through religious, linguistic, artistic, commercial, political, and many other ties. It is the open study of the ancient Mediterranean—of the ancient world—unrestrained by artificial modern division. It is with this perspective that I look to early Rome and integrate its art and architecture into the archaic and classical world. In this period, Roman culture does not exist apart from or as a foil to Greek culture as a whole, nor is it wholly subsumed within Etruscan or Italic culture; such comparisons and subversions are both outmoded and anachronistic. Rather, it exists alongside Samos, Athens, Syracuse, Paestum, Caere, Cumae, Satricum, and other polities as a node connected to the wider world. To be clear, this is not to say that Rome was as connected as Athens, Syracuse, Caere, or others; it is in part the job of this study to determine who Romans might have been connected to and how widely they participated in that world. But it is to say that if comparison is to be made, if one is to determine the place of Roman art and culture in the archaic and classical period, it should not be in strict contrast to vast, multifaceted, multicultured conglomerates such

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as “Greeks” or “Etruscans,” which themselves are slippery categories; instead, it should be to comparable foils, the other polities of the time. Thus, in the ensuing pages, I do not speak of works of art or architecture as dependent on a broad trend, prototype, or koine that emerges from Greek culture or, for that matter, Etruscan, Persian, Western, Eastern, North African, or any other conglomerate culture. Rather, I see them in connection with other entities defined as specifically as possible: Attic, Corinthian, Selinuntine, Samian, Rhodian, Vulcentian, Caeretan, or, when necessary, Ionian, Aegean, Sicilian, South Italian, or Maremman. With this outlook, I examine the artistic and architectural remains of a community that sat along the Tiber River—the largest inland trade route in Central Italy—as the first substantial community any traveler would encounter. Rome was not just a site in this Mediterranean world; it was a settlement that had a rare potential for tremendous benefit, and it had that potential as soon as traders and craftspeople began traveling heavily to Central Italy in the eighth century.

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1

The Makings of a City

During rapid excavation for a new thoroughfare near the Tiber in the 1930s, archaeologists uncovered a large ancient Roman sanctuary around the medieval church of S. Omobono (fig. 4). The Republican-Era twin temples there have become a highlight of Roman architecture and are particularly famous for being raised together on a platform high above the surrounding valley. Of course, they are not the only significant finds from the site, or the oldest. As archaeologists began to investigate ancient remains more extensively, they pulled slabs from the pavement of the platform and found a deep earthen fill inside. The fill had been deposited as part of the foundation material for the flagged plaza in front of the temples, a standard means to save on stone and support non-load-bearing pavement in a raised complex.1 As the perimeter walls of the platform went up in antiquity, workers would have deposited load after load of earth within and then capped the mass with stone pavers. About twenty-five hundred years later, when excavators began to look through debris in the fill, they uncovered striking finds. Buried within were fragments of pottery from as far back as the fourteenth century bce, including numerous examples of Apennine ware from the twelfth century.2 Rome, it seems, is far older even than the tales of Aeneas coming ashore after the Trojan Wars. The ceramics from the S. Omobono fill were an extraordinary find, but, sadly, with their removal in antiquity from an original context and their highly fragmented state of preservation, they provide scant information about the character of habitation. Still, more evidence for early communities at Rome has appeared in subsequent excavations, and these new finds indicate that early settlers on the Capitoline and by the riverside stayed on past the Bronze Age as part of an ongoing habitation.3 They reveal the existence of distinct communities scattered atop the hills and a burial culture that fits well in a broadly defined Central Italic, proto-Villanovan culture that slowly shifted to a fossa burial culture.4 In the mid-tenth century, things begin to change, and evidence of these ongoing burials begins to appear on and around the Palatine, Capitoline, Quirinal, and Esquiline hills in a broader context with small huts and land cultivation. In addition to the telltale postholes and fragments of daub from Iron Age huts, as well as seeds and furrows from early farmsteads on the Palatine and Capitoline, the ground along the slopes of these hills has given up graves that attest to a people ceremoniously burying their dead through both cremation and inhumation.5 Widespread nucleation of these settlements on the hills was slow, but by the

FIGURE 4 Site of S. Omobono, view from the southwest.

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late ninth and early eighth centuries, wells containing domestic debris on the Velia reveal a clustered settlement there, and graves on the far eastern Esquiline and Quirinal plateaus indicate communities on those hills with nearby necropoleis, just like those at the bases of the Velia, Palatine, and Capitoline.6 The early image is hazy, but by the start of the eighth century, the famous hills of Rome seem to have supported substantial settlements. Beginning in the early to mid-eighth century, a picture of these settlements becomes clearer. On the Palatine especially, periodic excavations from 1907 to 1954 revealed postholes, infant burials, domestic ceramics, and fragments of daub that attest to clusters of homes. The most famous group is on the Germalos, where archaeologists discerned several huts—including the so-called hut of Romulus—from the arrangement of postholes and furrows for wattle-and-daub walls. A mass of broken ceramics, now embedded in two plaster cases mounted on the walls of the Palatine Antiquarium, helps date occupation of the huts from the late ninth to mid-seventh century (figs. 5, 6).7 Beneath the Aula Regia and Lararium of the later Domus Augustana, archaeologists found more postholes and materials dating to the eighth century as well as evidence of infant burials—typically associated with domestic structures—beneath a packed earth floor, upon which burned fragments of daub revealed the presence of more huts.8 These are closer to the center of the Palatine, suggesting that habitation existed all across the hilltop. Similar remains dating through the mid-seventh century have been found beneath archaic houses in the

the makings of a city

FIGURE 5 Palatine. View of the area of huts on the southwest slope of the Germalos, including postholes and wall trenches.

Palatine “North Slope” excavations, below the later Regia and Atrium Vestae, and atop the nearby necropolis known as the Sepulcretum on the Velia slope (see fig. 1, box 1).9 Overall, curvilinear wattle-and-daub huts of small to modest sizes and various levels of elaboration can be reconstructed atop the Palatine and reaching the edge of the Forum basin by the early to mid-seventh century. Recent excavation has uncovered daub fragments and agricultural plots on the Capitoline, indicating that similar structures existed atop that hill in the eighth and seventh centuries, and scholars have long since identified habitation atop the Velia, near wells with detritus from the same period, and on the Quirinal and Esquiline, at the communities that are represented by early burials on those hills. At the same time, sacrificial and votive remains from the northwest Quirinal, the south Capitoline at S. Omobono, and the northwest and northeast Palatine slopes reveal religious spaces scattered across the hills.10 Some kind of architecture may have adorned the sites already in the eighth century, but no absolute indication of a temple building has yet been found. A few plain tiles discovered in the lower strata at the sanctuary by S. Omobono may indicate a pisé building that predates the famous first temple of ca. 580, but the early stratigraphy of that site is problematic and the tiles could date any time before ca. 590, even just a few decades prior.11 On the eastern slope of the Palatine Hill, by the Colosseum valley, excavations continue to reveal evidence of early cult activity and perhaps even a venue for civic congregation at a heavily trafficked crossroads.12 The settlements on the hills certainly hosted religious activity, but it remained dispersed, and there is no certain evidence of architectural elaboration quite this early.

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FIGURE 6 Model of wattle-and-daub huts from the Germalos. Palatine Antiquarium.

Just as these spaces took shape and as people built more and more huts on the hills, they may also have built some of the earliest boundary walls for the settlements. On the north slope of the Palatine, archaeologists have uncovered two thick walls built successively that date sometime in the mid-eighth to early seventh century and to the late seventh century, respectively, but varying interpretations of the scarce finds leave their precise function open to debate.13 At 1.4 to 2.4 meters wide, they are far thicker than the hut walls from this period, which are just 0.4 to 0.5 meters thick, but their size alone cannot necessarily indicate that they are urban boundaries. Although some have tied them to literary testimony of an early ritual wall, one scholar has suggested they could be drainage canals or a terracing foundation, and there are simply not enough clues to settle on one interpretation.14 Even if the thick mural segments do correspond to the ritual boundary that ancient sources say surrounded the Palatine Hill, it still remains unclear whether they were meant to segregate the Palatine from neighboring hilltop communities or if instead there was a unified effort underway to fortify each of the hills against aggressors from other cities. Evidence from the Capitoline of a wall built in the eighth to seventh centuries along the southeast side, by the later Carcer, would seem to suggest distinct walls cordoning off each of the hills. Of course, they could have been part of a unified effort, but this is hardly discernable from the current state of the evidence.15 What is clear is that by the middle of the seventh century, there is direct evidence of substantial communities on the hills of Rome. Large and small huts, floral and faunal materials, and burials distributed all across the hilltops reveal clusters of collective

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habitation, with a few distinct civic and religious spaces spreading over the Palatine to the Velia and Esquiline, and from the Capitoline to the Quirinal. It should be said that such communities may also have existed on the Caelian and Aventine, but no excavation down to these levels has as yet been carried out there.

THE HILLTOPS: COMMUNITY DIVISION AND COMMUNITY COHESION As excavation and research have uncovered more and more evidence for domestic and religious spaces on the hills, this material has been woven increasingly into a complex debate over the chronology of Rome’s genesis as a city and a state. Over the twentieth century and even before, the broad conceptual parameters for defining what exactly constitutes a city or a state have seen heavy debate, and as scholars have determined different systems for defining each, one thing has become clear: their identification by way of archaeological remains is a particularly thorny problem in early Central Italy.16 The genesis of a unified Roman city-state has itself seen a wealth of scholarship, especially since the middle of the twentieth century. Already in 1905, Giovanni Pinza had questioned how archaeological evidence, especially from graves, might uphold the textual tradition of monarchy and state formation.17 His study laid a foundation for those who wished to juxtapose archaeology and text in the formative days of Roman history. As part of his research into material evidence for early Rome, Einar Gjerstad revisited the question and proposed a radical reappraisal of the traditional narrative. He suggested that state formation did not truly occur until the late seventh or early sixth century, well into the traditional years of the Roman monarchy.18 For Gjerstad, whatever happened in the decades after the putative foundation of Rome in ca. 753, a unified city across the hills and valleys began to appear only ca. 600–580, with the first Forum pavement and the creation of civic spaces there, on the Capitoline, and at the port, by S. Omobono. His assessment put the genesis of a Roman city-state later than most, well after the escalation in hut construction and religious spaces mentioned thus far. As with most of his study, Gjerstad’s argument for a late unification prompted debate, and Hermann Müller-Karpe responded to the contrary. He argued that such a buildup of civic construction in the late seventh and early sixth centuries, alongside evidence for the communal transposition of graves in the eighth and seventh centuries and an increase in local craftsmanship at that time, suggested a converging community at Rome already in the eighth century, just as ancient sources say.19 For Müller-Karpe, heavy construction in the Forum and elsewhere in the late seventh and early sixth centuries was evidence of a mature polity that must have existed in unification for some time before the creation of its first monuments. These two camps have largely defined the field, with scholarly consensus vacillating between the two over the years since.20 Evidence discovered since the years of Gjerstad and Müller-Karpe’s debate does not bring absolute clarity to the situation. In part, it has confirmed what Müller-Karpe

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stressed. From the tenth to the eighth centuries at Rome, an increase in burial wealth, a social hierarchy witnessed within those burials, hut construction on many of the hills, and costly imports throughout the necropoleis suggest there was a rise in the scale of settlements and of social stratification.21 The evidence fits comfortably alongside remains at Etruscan, Latin, Sabine, Faliscan, and other settlements, all of which reveal a long gestation beginning as early as the late Bronze Age and continuing into the early Iron Age. As Renato Peroni defines them, these “proto-urban” centers were at first nothing more than giant villages.22 Early on, they show no signs of the monumental architecture or developed legal and religious systemization that city-states would have, but they were notionally coherent (if physically discontinuous), sprawling communities where huts, pasture, and necropoleis hosted perhaps thousands of people. Over the tenth to eighth centuries, some of these sites show evidence of increasingly impressive mercantilism and a few cult spaces, revealed by votive and ceremonial deposits; what is more, they were generally large enough that some kind of corporate social structure would have been necessary.23 At many settlements, state, city, and cohesive community appear in gossamer forms of their later instantiations. Although potentially teleological in application (and especially in the name “proto-urban”), the existence of this phenomenon in Central Italy is hard to dispute. Most of these “proto-urban” centers emerged in the tenth to ninth centuries on plateaus and hilltops. As these communities grew, nearby smaller villages dwindled, apparently the result of migration to the larger centers. This was the case throughout Central Italy and has been identified widely in Etruscan, Sabine, Latin, and other territories, but there were substantial differences in the sizes of these centers.24 Most were settled on single hilltops with inhabited areas of some thirty to fifty hectares. Exceptions are found only at Veii, Vulci, Caere, and Tarquinii in southern coastal Etruria, where vast plateaus allowed settlements as large as one hundred to two hundred hectares.25 This appears largely to be the result of the geographic availability of such large raised areas near rivers and coastlines. Overall, the communities began to take shape by the end of the second millennium, and here and there, they dotted the landscape with more frequency as the centuries passed. Though the trend was neither universal of the whole of Central Italy nor simultaneous, it did characterize the region during the late Bronze Age and early Iron Age, and where it did occur, it appears to have happened in a relatively uniform manner. Rome, though, is a special case. Each of the hilltops at Rome fits the most common size paradigm for the region; they were not the massive plateaus of the four southern Etruscan centers. Rather, the Palatine, Capitoline, and other hills that were first settled comprise spaces of just thirty to fifty hectares each.26 What makes Rome unique is that, in contrast to nearly every other settlement in Central Italy, the small hills at Rome were not settled in isolation. Rather, there were several of these thirty-to-fifty-hectare spaces clustered so tightly together that, eventually, their size and proximity would require them either to exist in constant conflict or to join together. By the end of the archaic period, they would follow the latter course

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and cohere in a sprawling two-hundred-plus-hectare polity, the only one in Latium to rival the size of four large southern coastal Etruscan polities.27 The question is when this consolidation happened; at what point did the settlements on the Tiber cohere to create a single center? Although the proximity of the hills allowed for eventual cohesion, archaeologists agree that they were geographically distinct enough to create substantial division early on. The small communities on the Capitoline, Quirinal, Palatine, and Velia had their own necropoleis; the low valleys between them kept settlements from connecting easily, especially because of seasonal floods; and all evidence points to discrete communities in the formative years.28 As these hilltop centers grew, as burial wealth begins to indicate social stratification, and as nearby smaller villages collapsed, discrete proto-urban centers on the Capitoline and Palatine would have emerged. Almost as quickly, they would have distinguished themselves and the potential for conflict would have arisen, and soon—perhaps as the result of conflict or perhaps to stave it off—they would have begun to communicate. Two large, powerful centers so close could not have coexisted as separate, competing settlements for long, and, increasingly, scholars see evidence of heightened communication and cooperation among the hilltops already in the ninth and early eighth centuries. That is when distinct necropoleis for separate Palatine, Velia, Quirinal, and Capitoline communities go into disuse, and a larger communal necropolis on the far eastern Esquiline and Quirinal appears.29 Some still see this as evidence of two distinct CapitolineQuirinal and Palatine-Velia-Esquiline settlements, but more and more, scholarship on proto-urban development and the sprawling, connected necropoleis on their peripheries suggests this would have been a unified enterprise. Thus, by the mid-eighth century, the Palatine, Capitoline, Velia, Esquiline, and Quirinal appear to have begun cooperating as an impressive center, where a socially stratified population communicated at least about burial practices. These indications of communal activity are widely acknowledged, but they should not be mistaken for an indication that Rome had become a fully unified urban polity by the late eighth century: there is no real indication that the city and state of Rome had formed by then, or even by the mid-seventh century. Some scholars have challenged this, and they push for a comprehensive interpretation of a Roman city-state already in the mid-eighth century based on a smattering of clues.30 The alleged evidence for this lies principally in the wall on the northern Palatine, which in its most far-reaching interpretation has been construed as a religious boundary and linked with the ritual plowing of an urban circuit. Additionally, scholars have highlighted a few earthen pathways near this wall and by the later Regia and Atrium Vestae as well as remains from the votive/ceremonial deposits on the Capitoline and Quirinal.31 The pathway at the later area of the Regia certainly exists, but it is small and patchy, and the functions of the areas around it are unclear; any connection with textual traditions of Vestals or kings requires a trusting reading of unreliable (and contradictory) literary

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sources.32 The rest of the material is hardly evidence of urbanization. The votive deposits that date before the mid-seventh century are all on the Quirinal, Capitoline, and Palatine; they are isolated and small. They are either high atop the distinct hills, or they are minor deposits like those on the northwest and northeast Palatine slopes, at the later Atrium Vestae, and in the Colosseum valley excavation. There is no evidence that such cult spaces were used by all the hills, or as a socio-religious focus that connected the settlement. In fact, they seem more an indication of distinct cult sites for separate communities. There certainly is not enough evidence to suggest that they were unifying socio-religious centers, the kind that might indicate urban and state development under some theories.33 The walls on the north slope of the Palatine and east Capitoline are equally ambiguous, since they could have had many uses, as religious or political boundaries or even as terracing walls. Even if they were religious boundaries for established communities, such barriers are hardly an indication of cohesion or urbanism across the hills; if anything, they would suggest division, boundaries that cordoned off the Palatine and Capitoline communities from each other and from the other hills. With so little evidence for clear communal sites, and without the kind of connected geography that one finds at other places in Central Italy, the picture is somewhat hazy for Rome, especially from the ninth to seventh centuries. Settlements appear to have cohered in some ways by the early Iron Age, but it is difficult to say just how far-reaching the process was by the eighth and seventh centuries. There is evidence for shared decisions regarding burial and of rich and distributed grave goods, and there is a slow expansion of settlements on each of the hilltops. These changes certainly indicate an increasingly dense and socially stratified population, but there remains no real evidence for an urban architectural fabric creating a city across the hills or of civic organizations to bind the communities as a fully cohesive and interdependent state. These cautions notwithstanding, the shift toward a more connected settlement at Rome is critical. The extent to which these communities had grown, stratified socially, and begun to communicate indicates at least the first vestiges of a cohering Rome, a rambling group of communities on the hills that was communicating already in the eighth century and that saw increased connectivity in the early seventh. Without subscribing to a teleological perspective,34 this is as far as one can go with the evidence until the mid-seventh century.

THE RECLAMATION OF THE FORUM BASIN Despite any efforts at communication and cohesion, those living in this proto-urban environment on the hills would have experienced routine, visible, and tangible proof of their division. Their settlements overlooked vast floodplains that stretched through the Campus Martius; between the Capitoline and Palatine to the feet of the Quirinal and Esquiline spurs; and up through the Circus Maximus valley, between the Palatine and Caelian to the

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Colosseum valley (fig. 7 and see fig. 1). 35 In a groundbreaking program of research, Albert Ammerman and several collaborators took deep cores from the slopes of Rome’s hills and valleys in an attempt to assess geography and urban expansion during the eighth and seventh centuries. Based on several criteria, they determined that in these basins, annual floods would have prevented permanent construction. In antiquity, the Tiber—Rome’s outlet to the Mediterranean—rose to between nine and ten meters above sea level in winter and spring months, inundating low-lying areas. At the same time, streams in the center of the valleys would have collected heavy runoff from the hills, while excess waters that bubbled up in springs in the gravel beds, such as the Lacus Iuturnae, further contributed to inundation. As the streams expanded with rainwater in wetter months, the lower elevations close to the Tiber would also become inundated with its rising waters, and eventually the entire lowland of Rome would flood.36 For some time each year, the Palatine, Capitoline, and Aventine would be isolated from one another. The only piece of land connecting the Palatine to the surrounding hills for that period of flood would be the strip of the Velia between the later Regia and Arch of Constantine.37 The same would be true of the Capitoline, surrounded by the low Campus Martius, riverside, and Forum basin and connected only by a thin saddle to the Quirinal Hill. The Aventine would be even more removed, with the flooded Circus Maximus valley and river isolating it. What is more, the floods would not only confine the hills, but they would also destroy any building made in water-soluble material that was in their path; since wattle and daub, pisé, and mud brick—all subject to ruin even when partially inundated—remained the only building blocks of architecture in Rome and Central Italy until the late seventh century, the valleys would have been off-limits for long-term construction and ongoing habitation.38 Thus, the studies suggest that any “proto-urban” communities that developed in Rome would have been restricted to the hilltops until the end of the seventh century. On further investigation, this is precisely what the wider archaeological record has borne out. Remains of early cults, areas of habitation, and civic structures have only been found atop the hills and on their upper slopes. Excavations and cores down to virgin soil in the Forum, Colosseum valley, and Velabrum and along the riverside have not revealed any substantial attempts at architecture in the low basins, and textual sources do not mention active cults or habitation dating before the middle Republic (ca. 350) in the area of the Velabrum and lower Forum Boarium, or before the sixth century in the middle of the Forum Romanum.39 These are precisely the dates when (by gradual accretion or purposeful intervention) ground level in these areas rose above the annual flood level. Thus, while the valleys were below the Tiber’s flood level, they would hold only a few temporary structures, if anything at all; more than this—homes and permanent civic structures especially—would have proven prohibitively burdensome to rebuild every nine months. As long as Romans built in these materials, topographical change was confined to the hills, and therefore, until the late seventh century, the urban image of Rome resembled other Mediterranean communities: hilltop settlements overlooking low valleys.

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Quirinal

Campus Martius

Esquiline necropolis

Capitoline

Esquiline Forum basin Velia Velabrum

Tiber

Colosseum valley

Palatine

Circus Maximus valley

Caelian

Areas of the hills without widespread excavation to ancient levels Area prone to flood (below 9 m asl) Burial

Aventine

Habitation Core not exhibiting fill Core exhibiting fill 0m

FIGURE 7

100m

200m

N

Between 650 and 600, Romans conceived and effected a vast geographical transformation in the Forum basin: a reclamation that would overcome this limitation.40 Study of the geography of the area has not only revealed the environmental restrictions on construction, but it has also introduced a new way of understanding remains of the earliest human activity there. Based on evidence Gjerstad found of wattle-and-daub huts, most archaeologists had understood the layers of activity just above the natural floor of the basin as evidence of habitation that dated from the eighth to seventh centuries. The new understanding of hydrology renders this impossible, and what is more, the study reveals that there were only a few tiny fragments of daub to attest the habitation Gjerstad had described. Such few traces could have ended up in the basin by many means, and in other excavations, such meager finds would not have stood up as proof of a community of huts.

Schematic map of Rome with the Tiber in flood. Colored areas indicate known substantial activity dating before ca. 650 as well as cores exhibiting natural geography.

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The evidence for habitation is therefore unconvincing, and with the existing hydrology, earth-based construction simply would not have been feasible. The lowest layers of human activity in the Forum basin also present a conundrum, which Gjerstad overlooked: remains of ceramics from these levels reveal an unnaturally rapid accumulation of material. Where typically it takes decades—sometimes centuries—for vast amounts of dirt and debris to form thick archaeological strata, in the Forum valley, the lowest levels of human activity on the site were represented in thick bands that appeared on average to take just years—or even less—to accumulate. Moreover, little (if any) time seems to have passed between the formation of each layer. In short, either Romans were building and destroying their community in the valley with unusual speed and an implausible amount of debris and earth, or something else was going on. Ammerman suggests a landfill, purposefully deposited to raise the floor of the basin above the Tiber’s annual flood level.41 He has further argued that the fill material was probably excavated from the adjacent Velabrum and deposited in the Forum in a conscious effort both to access clay beds beneath the soil in the Velabrum and to manufacture more usable urban space in the Forum area. Wherever it came from, the accumulation of soil and debris in the Forum basin raised its floor to 8.6 meters above sea level. On top of the last layer of fill, workmen spread a compact level of earth and finally a thick layer of gravel with a surface at nine meters above sea level, creating the first pavement of the Forum plain and a space elevated above annual floods. The proposed landfill has gained broad acceptance, and it is now the standard interpretation of the earliest activity in the Forum basin, repeated in most studies and excavation reports.42 The project fits within a broad trend throughout the Mediterranean during the seventh and sixth centuries for geographical transformations, including vast underground waterways and canalization projects from the Near East to Italy as well as terracing and fill work in nearly every region of the Mediterranean.43 Furthermore, immediately after the landfill was created in Rome, other, smaller projects of fill and reclamation were enacted, suggesting a comfort with the principle of topographical transformation; by 500, a second fill of ten to twenty thousand cubic meters was carved—this time from the Capitoline and Tiber riverbank—and dumped within the enormous twin temple platform at S. Omobono. Imagining the Reclamation: Possibilities and Comparisons

The reclamation would have transformed the image of the space. In the early seventh century, the land between the Palatine, Velia, and Capitoline was a concave, seasonally inundated basin with streams running through it, unfit for habitation; after the landfill, a flat space paved with a thick, dense layer of light-gray gravel lay at the base of the hills and was largely free of flooding (fig. 8). As Ammerman describes it, though, the project is still somewhat unclear, and its function, image, and historical significance could use some context.44 Moreover, two essential questions remain unanswered. First, at what location

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between the Forum area and Tiber did the fill end? Second, if runoff from hills and natural springs coursed through the valley before the landfill, how did builders manage the resulting stream during and after the project? Cores in the Forum and the adjacent Velabrum valley reveal a sharp disparity between elevations in the two areas during the archaic period. Seven distinct layers of landfill elevated the Forum plain to nine meters above sea level, but a core immediately southwest of the later Basilica Julia and several others in the Velabrum exhibit no such archaic fill; rather, the Velabrum experienced a centuries-long natural accretion that only reached nine meters above sea level in the early to middle Republic.45 This is in contrast to the Forum’s sudden rise in elevation in the archaic period. Thus, after ca. 650–600, when Romans raised and paved the Forum area, the elevation of the valley between the later Basilica Julia and Tiber remained more than two meters below it. Although this clarifies the extent of the fill, the drop beneath the Basilica Julia also presents a conundrum: the earthen deposit would not hold itself back. Not only would its edge have been subject to collapse beneath its own weight, but runoff from the hills and annual Tiber floods also would have inundated the freshly laid fill and unsettled it; when the Tiber receded, it would have pulled the loose earth out toward the river, eroding the fill. The destruction would have started almost immediately, and since the project would have taken several years (and the lowest levels of fill were far below the annual flood level), inundation during initial phases would have wiped away the buildup almost as soon as it was laid. To keep the newly deposited earth from eroding, the project’s planners must have constructed some kind of barrier from the start. Imagining what this embankment looked like is a true exercise in hypothetical reconstruction, but with due caution, it is worth considering some possibilities. The only excavation carried out beneath the Basilica Julia was extremely small—at the lowest elevations, just a meter wide—and recovered very little.46 At about 9.5 meters above sea level, just level with the surface of the fill, archaeologists found three blocks of cappellaccio, which could belong to a retaining wall, but further investigation is necessary to confirm such scanty finds. Even if these blocks do pertain to an embankment, they reveal little of its overall design.

FIGURE 8 Schematic elevation of the Forum plain after ca. 625, as seen from the Palatine west slope, looking toward the fill.

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To make any sense of the barrier’s potential design, one must look to the technologies employed for similar projects in the Mediterranean. All across the region, from contemporaneous cities in Assyria, Egypt, North Africa, Anatolia, Greece, and South Italy, there are examples of substantial landfill projects. Three examples may give a sense of the scale and similarities of projects dating to the seventh and sixth centuries. One is found at Selinunte, where city planners decided to expand their acropolis in the early sixth century. The site did not allow for this naturally, as there was a steep eastward slope to the acropolis, and so workers built a retaining wall to hold in earth and terrace a large portion of land for further construction.47 Another comparison lies at archaic Carthage, where it is possible that the byrsa (city citadel) was raised and terraced by human intervention; given the state of the site, however, the scale of the project is unknown.48 Perhaps the best comparanda are the massive land works and retaining structures near Argos. A late Geometric fill and retaining wall composed of large conglomerate limestone was found on the road from the Argive Heraion to Mycenae, and a second, much better-known monumental retaining wall at the Heraion itself was probably installed in the mid- to late seventh century, contemporaneously with the Roman endeavor, to hold back an earthen deposit for a massive terrace at the Old Sanctuary.49 The geographical circumstances at Argos are remarkably similar to the Roman situation and may give a sense of how Romans would have addressed the need to hold back a massive earthen plain (fig. 9). Similar polygonal and rubble masonry is known in communities throughout Central Italy by this time, so the technology certainly existed around Rome. Alternatively, if the cut stone in the Basilica Julia excavation pertains to the embankment, the wall may have been composed of ashlars. The evidence is indeed scanty, but the comparanda are numerous. In the end, what is most important is that such an embankment would have been necessary if the landfill were to work. The discrepancy in elevation between the Forum and Velabrum also highlights drainage concerns during and after the project. A natural stream existed at the bottom of the Forum valley, and it would have been augmented by other streambeds (continuously or seasonally inundated) in the gullies between the Velia and Palatine and between the Arx and Capitolium.50 A canal would have been crucial to keep these from washing away the new fill. A free-flowing stream left to run through the newly raised space would have destabilized the fill, and, over time, it would have carved out a bed; as the waters descended to the river, they would meet with the edge of the fill, eventually spilling over, undermining its stability. At some point during or after the project’s completion, designers must have noticed this problem and built a canal. The most likely candidate for such a project is the Cloaca Maxima, which eventually became a sewer but probably began as a means to corral these streams. As it exists now between the Argiletum and the Temple of Castor, the Maxima is a mix of various reconstructions, the earliest of which appear to date to the mid- or late fifth century.51 Between the conclusion of the landfill ca. 600 and the construction of this stone canal, however, workmen must have put in another conduit.

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FIGURE 9 Argive Heraion, Old Temple terrace, late 7th century.

Like the embankment wall, its design is uncertain, and equal caution should be taken with any reconstruction based exclusively on comparanda; still, many canals exist in the Italic Peninsula from the period, and they may give some idea of what technology was available. In the seventh and sixth centuries, canals as large as 3.1 meters wide and 2.5 meters deep existed in Bologna, Casalecchio di Reno, Magreta, rural Modena, and Metaponto. These V- and U-shaped channels were dug into the ground and lined with clay and gravel.52 The clay acted as an impermeable barrier to keep water from seeping into the ground, and once dry, the clay and gravel acted together to hold back the earth on either side. The precise image of the Roman canal is presently unclear, but there is abundant and well-studied evidence that such projects were common throughout the peninsula; less certain is the path of the early watercourse in the Forum plain. The locations of the later stone Cloaca and the edge of the fill may provide some clues. It is unlikely that workers would position the canal through the center of the Forum fill, terminating it at the middle of the embankment; this would have left waters spilling down the wall and pooling at its base, unsettling its foundations. It is more likely that they directed waters to a corner of the wall, by the natural shoulders of the hills, and then channeled water down to the Tiber. Corresponding precisely to such a plan, the Cloaca Maxima runs in a seemingly circuitous path down the middle of the Argiletum, then diagonally across the Forum plain to the area beside the later Temple of Castor (just where the retaining wall would end), and then quickly down to the center of the Velabrum valley.

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Even in its most basic reconstruction, for seventh-century Italy, the scope of the reclamation project is enormous. The fill covered a hundred-meter area between the Palatine and Capitoline and perhaps as much as 225 meters from the embankment wall to the Argiletum. The dimensions indicate over twenty-three thousand cubic meters of fill that workers had to harvest and transport to the Forum.53 Add to that a proposed two-meter-thick retaining wall and drainage system, and the undertaking becomes even more impressive. As remarkable as the execution was, the outcome would have been just as astonishing. On approach to the city from the Tiber, a visitor or resident was greeted with the two-meter-high fill stretching between the Palatine and Capitoline. To ascend to the level of the new Forum plain, Romans appear to have flanked the fill with two roads, connecting the Forum area to the riverside. Archaeologists digging in the area of the Temple of Castor have found evidence that a roadway, later known as the Vicus Tuscus, already existed by the sixth century, just after the fill.54 A natural ramp also exists from the Tiber to the Capitoline. It led up to a gravel shoulder that connected the area behind S. Omobono to the later Temple of Saturn.55 This would become known as the Vicus Iugarius and seems to have already served as a roadway in the sixth century, complementing the Vicus Tuscus at the opposite end of the retaining wall. Both pathways had a natural inclination from the Tiber up the slopes of the Capitoline and Palatine hills and onto gravel shoulders that led to the edge of the Forum fill, providing access to the newly raised plain.56 Walking these pathways, a viewer met an artificial, paved, flat expanse stretching in front, with a freshwater stream running through it.

A COMMUNITY OF ROMANS The project was vast. What is more, it had a profound impact on the composition of the hilltop communities. Even in its simplest image, the earthen fill created a new, artificial plain positioned in such a way that it connected the slopes of the Palatine, Capitoline, Velia, Esquiline, and Quirinal. This shifted topography may be a key to investigating the age-old questions of the chronology of settlement cohesion at Rome and the creation of a single urban landscape for a consolidated polity. The “proto-urban” movement had already created a sprawling, socially stratified community on the hilltops, but these communities could not fully cohere in a practical way until geographical separation was addressed. The landfill is the first archaeologically attested sign of a community that attended to these issues and sought to promote a single topographically connected polity. It is hard to imagine a solitary settlement on just one of the hills as being responsible for the reclamation of the Forum basin. Because its edge touched and changed the geography of each of the hills, the project would have affected them all, and at the very least, consent to enact it would have been crucial. And the scale of the project—the heavy labor and

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vast amounts of earth to be moved—suggests more than just consent; the need for a substantial workforce to create it would almost surely have required a unified effort.57 Of course, a joint effort does not necessarily signify the unmitigated cohesion of settlements into a complex city-state. It is possible that a communal endeavor by distinct groups might build collaboration for the common good, while stopping short of absolute unification. Still, in order to come together in such a way as to collaborate on a large, sustained project that would fundamentally change all of their topographies, the settlements could not have been too isolated in the previous years; distinct groups without a sense of their partners would hardly undertake the effort of such a huge, transformative venture.58 At any rate, whatever it might say about the unity of Rome prior to its inception, one should see the reclamation as an action that had a crucial effect on the eventual urbanization and unification of Rome. Once it was in place, it was unlikely that the hilltop communities would retreat to isolation. As a site extending between them, the Forum plain was by definition an intermediary space, a new geography that linked the hills. It extended to the edges of each settlement, and by virtue of its position, it engendered community.59 Thus, whatever its intended function, and whatever the circumstances of construction, the reclamation would shift the narrative of the formation of the city. As I discuss in the next chapter, in the wake of the reclamation, the manufacture of new civic monuments all around the plain suggests an almost immediate acceptance of its function as a unifying social space. To be clear, this is not to say that the Forum reclamation defines the moment of urbanization—a single act that marked total change—but it does appear to be the first archaeological evidence of an unequivocal social and topographical change meant to promote unification of the hills around a central space. The shift would continue in the next century, and the next chapter will in part highlight how the slow move from proto-urban center to urban polity continued in a long and delicate gestation. A Reason to Act

The newly raised Forum plain and its effect on the hilltop communities would transform the urban and architectural history of Rome to great benefit, but a question still remains: Why would Romans—or individual communities—come together to attempt such a burdensome endeavor? Economic growth in the late eighth and seventh centuries and the accompanying spread of settlements on the hills in the years preceding the project expose an expanding community and its need for more room to build; it may even indicate a desire to cohere as a city. Yet the need was for space to expand and perhaps space to assemble, not necessarily space in the Forum basin. There is no substantial evidence for a preexisting interest in civic cohesion around that particular area. In the early seventh century, a communal space at the later Comitium—on the Forum side of the Capitoline— may have been cleared for use, but the date of this activity is uncertain, and the first real

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the makings of a city

construction there does not begin until after the reclamation project.60 The only site in the Forum basin that saw real use before the reclamation was the area of the later Atrium Vestae and Regia, on the Forum side of the Palatine. Yet another area at the opposite end of the Palatine, on the edge of the Colosseum valley, shows similar activity that continued after the fill, suggesting a broad expansion in all directions. The same is true of the Capitoline, where cult development at the site of S. Omobono demonstrates expansion down the western slope toward the Tiber, away from the Forum basin. Graves on the far northern plain of the Esquiline suggest expansion away from the Forum basin, and cult activity on the western Quirinal, overlooking the Campus Martius, is clear from ceremonial deposits dating to the early seventh century as well. The settlements on the hills were certainly growing, but evidence for expansion extends in many directions. Additionally, one must remember that without excavation down to the early levels of the Caelian, Aventine, and other hills, the perspective is somewhat skewed. Until just fifteen years ago, activity was unknown in the Colosseum valley and atop the Capitoline Hill in this early period. It would be unwise to presume that there were not even more civic spaces around the Colosseum valley by the Caelian, in the valley of the Circus Maximus, back in the basin between the Esquiline and Quirinal, or on the northern slopes of the Capitoline and Quirinal. In short, the evidence that exists simply does not indicate that the Forum basin was a city center: certainly not the city center. In this early period, with such diffusion and fragmentary evidence, one must un-see the standard map of Rome, with the basin between the Forum and Tiber as the urban focus and the city situated all around that space. That map is anachronistic for this period. One must instead see many possible plans of the amorphous, unknown early city, and with these perspectives, the teleological view of the inevitable Forum cohesion becomes clear; there were many places to expand and cohere. The insalubrious valley was by no means the most environmentally or economically practicable place to grow a community. In fact, there were other, potentially better options. The existence of settlements and burials on many of the larger hills suggests the suitability of the eastern plateaus: the spurs and tops of the Esquiline, Viminal, Oppian, and Quirinal to the east. The Esquiline is vast and would have provided outstanding space for new construction, as would the Quirinal. Their geologies and hydraulic situations are superior to the cavity between the Capitoline and Palatine or any of the valleys, and expansion onto the Esquiline would have maintained a centralized settlement between all the hills, if that were desired (see fig. 7). What is more, had those on the hills expanded into these areas, they would not have had to diverge from the pan-Mediterranean cultural norm of settlements focused on hilltops, and they would have saved enormous efforts that were exerted in the Forum reclamation.61 They also would have been free of floods and had wide spaces to build a growing community. The city could have grown more easily and with good reason in many directions. In fact, it may have done so, given evidence from the Quirinal and Esquiline hills and from

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the makings of a city

the Colosseum valley. Still, at this crucial moment, Romans did choose to fill the Forum basin. As a means for new space, perhaps in tandem with expansion to other areas of the city, they chose to add to their landscape with massive land reclamation. This was not a slow expansion into the dale; they did not wind up in the Forum, as the standard narrative suggests.62 They would have to fill the basin first. Given that it required such a drastic change to the geography of the city—a change that was incongruous with ubiquitous hilltop settlement patterns—and required such effort, this must have been a substantial and conscious decision.63 What, then, was their motivation? It must have been the Tiber. Rome was the first major inland community along its banks, and scholars have long seen this position as a fundamental reason for the city’s prominence. It is in the seventh century, just prior to the Forum reclamation, that foreign imports begin to increase in Rome and the city’s economy began to grow.64 Scholars see Tiber Island as a rare link between the east and west banks of the river and communities on either side; along with it, the purported construction of the Pons Sublicius in the seventh century and evidence at S. Omobono for subsequent trade in expensive and avant-garde foreign objects indicate Rome’s increasing connection to the river and exploitation of the riches and contacts that it brought past the city.65 To center the community on the eastern hills with no concern for the Tiber would have been to turn its back on a crucial and rapidly developing artery to Mediterranean trade and inland markets. The only way to allow for expansion and maintain a command of the river was to create an environment for continued construction that anchored the city to its banks. It was for this reason that Romans chose to reclaim the Forum basin, and in doing so, to generate a new geography and a purpose-built, unified landscape. A New Stage

The calculated geographical transformation reveals a momentous shift in Roman civilization, not only because it was a vast communal effort, but also because it indicates a radical shift in resources. The project was perhaps the first truly monumental architectonic undertaking in Rome, and it is certainly the first for which archaeological evidence exists. As an act of human intervention in the natural world, the project reveals a deliberate transformation of the inherent landscape. Had it blended into the surrounding environment, it might have been forgotten, unimpressive, and utilitarian, but the distinction between the elevation of the Forum and the Velabrum would have been apparent. Furthermore, the next three chapters will reveal that Romans soon marked the space with monumental architecture and a stone pavement. It would have stood out to contemporary viewers, and these signifiers recorded that Romans had effected a change in their surroundings. The change and its scale mark a critical shift in Roman civilization. Had people in Rome preferred, they could have expanded their community to the other hilltops without such effort, though they may not have been as connected to the Tiber. Strictly speaking,

37

the makings of a city

the reclamation and all the necessary labor were not essential to Rome’s survival; the project was undoubtedly desired and clearly advantageous, but not required for continued existence. This therefore reveals a critical moment in Roman history, when people were able to exert new efforts in creating monumental projects that transformed the image of their city in ways that were unnecessary, but functional and beneficial. Two theories of monumental initiatives address the significance of this kind of excess, and they both suggest that projects like the Forum reclamation indicate a considerable cultural shift. Janet DeLaine argues that monumental structures have the power “to reshape the face of the earth, and thus to create a new landmark to rival those of nature.”66 Romans undoubtedly put a monumental stamp on their city with the landfill, rivaling the natural environment with an intervention into the inherent geography of their site. Bruce Trigger has argued that monumentality indicates a general human interest to assert power: If economy of effort is the basic principle governing the production and distribution of those goods which are necessary to sustain human life, the ability to expend energy, especially in the form of other people’s labour, in non-utilitarian ways is the most basic and universally understood symbol of power. Monumental architecture and personal luxury goods become symbols of power because they are seen as embodiments of large amounts of human energy and hence symbolize the ability of those for whom they were made to control such energy to an unusual degree.67

Romans could have expanded their city elsewhere, but they chose to include a reclamation of the Forum basin in their efforts. The act signifies excess human labor and assets that are only available to communities with a certain amount of resources.68 What is perhaps more startling is that this was not the only such project. Similar, though smaller, fills were carried out along the north slope of the Palatine, around the area of the Vestal Virgins, and perhaps in the Colosseum valley just after the Forum reclamation.69 Thus, in its wake, it seems that land reclamation for the environmental improvement of the city’s topography was understood as an acceptable practice. Romans were beyond building for utility. As they opened up to trade and interaction along the Tiber, they saw the benefit in building on the potential that mercantilism allowed. With the advent of the Forum landfill, one can identify Romans breaking the barrier wherein necessity defines action, and in its wake, they began monumental projects around the plain and throughout the city that effectively proclaimed their new interests and wherewithal.

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the makings of a city

2 Coherence and Distinction (ca. 650–550)

Just as Romans raised the level of the Forum basin to a position suitable for permanent construction, another change was coming to the city: the use of stone and terracotta in architecture. By the late seventh century, builders at Acquarossa, San Giovenale, and a few other sites in Central Italy had begun to use stone for foundations and socles, and around the same time at Murlo and Acquarossa, craftspeople began manufacturing terracotta roof tiles.1 Rome seems to have participated in this trend, and by ca. 590, several sites incorporated stone foundations and socles as well as decorated terracotta roofs. The use of these enduring materials marks a crucial shift for the study of Roman architecture; the stone foundations allow closer scrutiny of ground plans, and terracottas reveal the presence of buildings where the walls have long since disappeared. Thus, their appearance in the archaeological record is more than just a sign of more elaborate buildings and art. It also marks the first real opportunity to examine complex architectural and sculptural change in detail. These new traces of occupation at several enduring social spaces appear already in the late seventh century. Then, from the early to middle sixth century, many sites saw substantial reconstruction and an emergent, lasting statement of function. In the Forum basin and along the adjacent Palatine slope, this is especially true, as reconstructions and further embellishment at some sites attest to ever more entrenched social spaces. Meanwhile, a sacred area by the riverside saw profound change, and a monumental temple that went up there speaks to more and more international contact, while its design heralded a lasting shift in religious architecture not just for Rome, but for all of Central Italy.

A NEW SPACE FOR COMMUNITY Before the reclamation, the northwest corner of the Palatine and southwest corner of the Velia had begun to see the effects of the hilltop settlements outgrowing their space. The southwest Velia had ceased to be a burial ground and became home to a small cluster of hut houses, which stood directly on top of the earlier necropolis, the Sepulcretum, itself in disuse from the end of the eighth century (fig. 10 and see fig. 1, box 1).2 To their south was a deep ravine that separated the Velia from the Palatine, and across the ravine, several simple huts, too small for human habitation and more likely used as stables or storerooms,

FIGURE 10 Schematic map of the southeast edge of the Forum basin, ca. 650. FIGURE 11 Plan of the remains of the first house above the Sepulcretum: following Gjerstad 1953–73, I, figs. 129–30.

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stood on the site of the later Regia.3 To the south of these, a pebble pathway led from the edge of the Forum basin up along the north Palatine slope, and across it to the south, postholes, daub fragments, and abundant remains of burned thatch, fruits, and cereals attest to a newly active site at the area later known as the Atrium Vestae.4 Just east of these remains, a hut had existed from the mid-eighth century; in the second half of that century, a new building went up with interconnected rooms on a rectilinear plan.5 The precise intended use of any of the structures on either side of the pebble street is unclear; there is just so little material.6 A few hearths and some discarded ceramics are all that remain to suggest a function for the rectilinear building, but its rooms are significant, as they indicate an early shift in Rome from the open-plan, curvilinear huts that had existed for centuries to more complex rectilinear buildings. Around 650, a massive flood destroyed the small huts at the Regia and inundated the area for an extended period.7 In the half-century after this, Romans reclaimed the Forum valley, and in the wake of that project, they restructured much of the area around the ravine and pebble street. The habitation atop the Sepulcretum saw reconstruction in the form of a single, more monumental house that featured one of Rome’s first known terracotta roofs (fig. 11).8 Its plan is rectilinear, with two small rooms flanking a central vestibule. Filippo Coarelli has identified the building and its reconstruction in the early sixth century as the house of the Valerii.9 This is questionable, given the problematic sources and the disputed historicity of the Valerii in this early period. Still, the house is noteworthy. In the late seventh and early sixth centuries, Romans were still primarily building oval wattle-and-daub huts without many dividing walls or substantial decoration; in contrast, this rectilinear home with distinct rooms, doorways, and a terracotta roof would be an exceptional domicile for the time.10 The refinements are indicative of a somewhat elite house at the edge of the Forum plain already in the late seventh and early sixth century, and for the future of the

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

site, this is truly significant. The Roman Forum and the paths leading to it became a place not only of civic cohesion in later times, but also of some of the most elite residences.11 As an example of still-uncommon domestic refinement, this house appears to be an early example of a trend that would persist and characterize the site for centuries to come. Although such a suggestion remains hypothetical, it will be clear in the next chapter that even greater domestic splendor characterized the space within half a century, and those houses would remain in use throughout the Republic. Just south of the house, across the ravine that separated the Velia and Palatine through the mid-sixth century, similar changes were at work on the site of the Regia. Archaeologists have dated the first building there to the late seventh century, with a slight enlargement in the early sixth century, and although its precise plan is uncertain, remains of stone (cappellaccio) wall socles and doorways indicate a building with two rooms at the west end opening onto a large walled courtyard, with a gravel street bordering its southern perimeter (figs. 12–14).12 During the Republic and Empire, the building on this site was called the Regia. The linguistic origins of the word, which associate it with a rex, or king, alongside the discovery of an inscription bearing the word “rex” and the date of these first buildings during a period when kings are said to have ruled Rome, have led some scholars

FIGURE 12 Plan of the Regia, first building. The conjectured plan is shown in dashed lines, with the excavated walls in dark gray and the pavement in light gray. The area of figs. 13 and 14 is marked by solid line. American Academy in Rome, Photographic Archive, inv. Regia. R74.6, with additions.

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 13 Plan of the Regia, first building, detail of area E (outlined in fig. 12), with a break in the stone for a door to the southern room. Area E, with finds in the stratum of building 1. American Academy in Rome, Photographic Archive, inv. Regia. R75.37. FIGURE 14 Plan of the Regia, first building, detail of area E (outlined in fig. 12), with a break in the stone for a door to the southern room. Composite of area E. American Academy in Rome, Photographic Archive, inv. Regia.R75.33.

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to suggest that this was the house of a king.13 That is far from certain, and there are other cases where “rex” can be part of a priestly title. In fact, in later years, the Regia itself was a place of official duties for several of Rome’s chief sacred orders, including the Vestal Virgins, pontifex maximus, and rex sacrificulus.14 Without literary or epigraphic records from the archaic period or even the immediately subsequent centuries, it is difficult to say what orders would have existed here early on, or if they were associated with a king, with Vestal Virgins across the pebble street to the south, or with a distinct religious leader whose offices (or domicile) were maintained within this new structure. Still, it is clear that the first building had several rooms that fronted a large courtyard. This arrangement would persist in every subsequent building on the site, and just a century later, Romans rebuilt the structure on a plan that would endure for a millennium. The continuity of form may suggest continuity of function and a religious building from the start; sacrificial remains on the site date as early as the middle of the sixth century, just fifty years after the first building went up.15 Of course, the remains do not preclude a simultaneous domestic and religious function. In this period in Central Italy, and in the Mediterranean in general, religious sites seem sometimes to have served also as living quarters for elite priests, and what is more, the duties of kings and rulers sometimes coincided with those of elite priests.16 Thus, the lines between home and shrine, king and religious official are not clear-cut, and it is possible that the Regia was both the site of religious activities and the residence of a priestly king. All of this is in play for such an early period, and the different roles should not be seen as mutually exclusive, but rather as fluid and perhaps overlapping characteristics of the people using the building. Just a few decades later, ca. 590–570, a reconstruction brought substantial changes to the site. The full plan of the new building is hard to define with precision from the

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

remains, but again, a trapezoidal courtyard and rooms to the west are discernable.17 From this phase, though, it is the terracottas that are worth close inspection. They consist of roof tiles, a disk acroterion, Gorgon antefixes, a foot belonging to a figural acroterion, and reliefs with processing felines, bull-headed men, and birds or sirens all belonging to roofs of at least two distinct rooms (or buildings) attached to the courtyard. In a study of the disk acroterion, Nancy Winter has identified its form as part of a Campanian roofing system found especially at Cumae, in the Bay of Naples (fig. 15).18 She points out that for this period in Etruria and Latium, the disk is unique, and it may suggest that designers were looking outside of the region (and away from places scholars traditionally associate with early Rome) for architectural inspiration. The Gorgon antefixes support this theory; their style differs strikingly from the few comparanda at polities in early sixth-century Etruria and Latium, and they find their only parallels in identical antefixes from Rome at the site of the Comitium (discussed later in this chapter) and in nearly identical antefixes from Cumae and Pithecusae, also in the Bay of Naples (figs. 16, 17).19 For the history of the Roman cityscape, this comparison is significant in itself. Until this comparandum was recognized, textual and archaeological evidence for Rome during the early sixth century suggested a largely insular polity in contact with Latin and a few Etruscan cities. Scholars did not—and for the most part still do not—see early archaic Rome as a polity connected to cultures outside the region.20 This roofing system suggests substantial enough contact for either a trade in ideas, a wholesale shipment of roofs, or a common set of craftspeople working in both Rome and Campania—that is, between Rome and a part of the peninsula with deep connections to the wider Mediterranean world. Meanwhile, in a recent summary of discussions on the frieze from the building’s entablature, Susan Downey concludes that the felines, birds with outstretched wings, and bull-headed man are all uncommon in Central Italic architectural decoration, and she

FIGURE 15 Drawing of the disk acroterion and roofing system of the Regia, second building.

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 16 Gorgon antefix from the Lapis Niger deposit, identical to the Regia Gorgon (frontal view), ca. 590–575. Painted terracotta, reconstructed dimensions 19 × 17.2 cm. Antiquarium Forense, Rome, Inv. 803. FIGURE 17 Gorgon antefix from the Lapis Niger deposit, identical to the Regia Gorgon (three-quarter view), ca. 590–575. Painted terracotta, reconstructed dimensions 19 × 17.2 cm. Antiquarium Forense, Rome, Inv. 803.

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 18 Relief with processing animals and bull-headed man from the Regia, second building, ca. 590–575. Painted terracotta, 26.5 × 38 cm. Lapidario del Foro Romano, inv. 1918. FIGURE 19 Detail of processing feline on a Corinthian aryballos, ca. 620–570. Painted ceramic, height 9 cm. American Academy in Rome, Norton-Van Buren Archaeological Study Collection. Inv. 00544.

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suggests that their best comparanda are on Corinthian vases, hundreds of which had been traded throughout the Mediterranean, with several examples in and around Rome (figs. 18, 19). The Roman roof (alongside a nearly identical plaque found at Gabii) appears to be among the first to transcribe the contents of friezes from these vases onto terracottas for architectural decoration.21 Although extant evidence does not reveal the motivation for their adaptation, what is clear is that this did not fit standard Central Italic (or other Mediterranean) architectural frieze iconographies. Elsewhere in the region, sculpted friezes showed human processions, riders, and banqueting scenes; the content of the Regia frieze—along with a few slightly later revetments from S. Omobono in Rome as well as at Gabii, Poggio Buco, and Lavinium, which also have scenes of processing animals and mythological figures—moved in a different direction.22 What is more, the Regia frieze seems to have appeared first, before similar iconography was used at Poggio Bucco and elsewhere, suggesting that already by ca. 590–580, Rome was a place of artistic experimentation that exported iconographic trends to nearby cities.23 The rest of the roof—the disk acroterion and Gorgon antefixes—would seem to verify that artists in Rome were experimenting with and promoting new trends in sculptural production. In fact, overall, the terracottas from this phase of the Regia stand outside of the standard styles and iconographies of the contemporaneous Central Italic canon; the roof would create a distinct architectural image in Rome (fig. 20). Traditional views of Mediterranean interaction would pit the historically prominent Campanian cultures as purveyors of such roofs to Rome and suggest that the transposed Corinthian vase iconography, along with Gorgon antefixes and disk acroterion, were part of a roofing system commissioned by Romans from artists of the Bay of Naples. But Winter suggests otherwise. She notes that elements of the same roof have been found at the site of the

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 20 3-D reconstruction of the Regia, second building, view of the south room from the center of the courtyard. The revetments, antefixes, and architecture are rendered with schematic coloring.

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Comitium—discussed later in this chapter—and on the Capitoline in Rome, and, more importantly, roof tiles from these sites were made of local clay.24 Although the context of the Comitium roof is problematic, the local clay source for tiles and the repetition of the roof system on several buildings at Rome is enough to suggest to her that they came not from Campania, but from Rome, and that either the workshop or the roofs as a whole went from Rome to Cumae and Pithecusae. Thus, Rome would be the source for a new style of architectural decoration that influenced Campanian architecture. If she is correct, already by ca. 580, Rome was an important enough cultural (and sculptural) center not only to promote new styles like the procession friezes, but also to produce and export a whole new roofing system—fully constructed or by means of craftspeople who would have carried the knowledge with them—down to Campania. Such a suggestion is a striking shift in the paradigm for Rome in the wider archaic world. If instead the influence came from craftspeople working in the Campanian cities to Rome or from a third-party workshop working in both areas, the roofs are hardly less revelatory. In that case, they indicate that Rome was participating heavily—commissioning more roofs in this style than any other city yet known—in the same kind of cultural

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

interaction that has been heralded elsewhere in the Mediterranean as part of a buzzing, innovative, transcultural connectivity that broke geographic and linguistic barriers in the early sixth century.25 Of course, the transmission of roofing systems would not necessarily mean a transmission of the deeper cultural apparatus of religious or social production, but it does indicate that Romans were open to communication either directly or by proxy with communities far afield. The roof of the early sixth-century Regia is therefore a crucial sign of a new phase of open cultural interaction in Rome and, as will become clear, it was not alone. It is just the first example of a more and more connected Roman world. Toward the end of the seventh century, construction also began on a larger scale at the site of the Atrium Vestae and along the pebble street up the north slope of the Palatine. Archaeologists working at the Atrium Vestae recently uncovered terracotta tiles and several blocks of the same cappellaccio used at the Regia, and they date them to the late seventh or early sixth century.26 The terracottas have not seen full publication, so the dates must remain broadly defined for now; still, the exceptional quality of the objects is undeniable, and they attest to either elite habitation—including still rare terracotta domestic roofs—or perhaps the beginnings of a sacred precinct for Vesta. A well at the site would seem to indicate the latter. Its use dates to ca. 575–520, which is contemporaneous with traces of new walls (in mud brick, rubble, and tuff) and foundation trenches, all of which is sadly very fragmentary. Still, evidence from the well may provide a new clarity for the site’s function. In it, archaeologists found bountiful debris, including terracottas, daub, and some domestic pottery (not uncommon for sanctuaries of Vesta), and a bucchero plate inscribed with VIS—and interpreted as a dedication to Ves(ta)—was deposited just south of a later temple to the goddess.27 Given the increasing evidence that hints at sacrifice and potentially ritual dedicated to Vesta, some experts working on the site are confident in suggesting that the goddess saw a clearer and sustained worship beginning by the middle of the century. That must remain provisional; still, a new building erected immediately subsequent to this, assessed in Chapter 3, persisted through the Republic, when worship of Vesta is attested in more trustworthy literature, and it may confirm an established cult. On either side of the putative Area of Vesta, excavations have uncovered remains of wattle and daub, mud brick, foundation trenches, and a few masses of tuff and terracotta that pertain to a cluster of buildings. Even more than in the cases of the Regia and the Area of Vesta, evidence for the functions of these spaces is frustratingly patchy. Atop the earlier rectilinear building to the east, a few trenches, wall fragments, and charred remains date new construction and occupation of a large rectilinear building somewhere between 650 and 550 (fig. 21).28 To the west, on the other side of the Area of Vesta, sporadic excavations between the later Temple of Castor and the Regia have uncovered traces of walls and a few terracottas that indicate more buildings further down the Palatine slopes toward the Forum plain.29 The terracotta decoration around the Temple of Castor shares the same feline iconography found on the Regia plaques. To some, this suggests that the whole southeast corner of the Forum, from the Regia to the Atrium Vestae and surrounding

47

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

N

0

5m

FIGURE 21 Plan of a building east of the Atrium Vestae. The conjectured plan is in dashed lines, with possible walls in gray and remaining walls in black: following Filippi 2004a, fig. 6, with modifications.

buildings, was a religious complex that shared a unified image. Yet the iconography of felines and Gorgons and even some copies of the very same plaques have been found in distant parts of the city, including across the Forum and on the Capitoline and even as far away as Gabii.30 In the end, there is no textual or archeological reason outside of the broad synchronicity of construction to suggest a cohesive purpose, and the idea of a unified sacred complex is only one possibility, and an unsettled one at that. In regard to the rectilinear building east of the Area of Vesta, some have suggested that it was the house of the rex sacrorum, but even ancient textual sources are unclear about where that building was or when it came into existence, so that is highly problematic.31 While the finds from these buildings are too scanty to substantiate a precise function, the increasing complexity and lavishness (for the period) of construction in the whole of the area, from the rectilinear building down to the later site of the Temple of Castor, is unmistakable. The northwestern corner of the Palatine was a place of rare luxury, and, at the very least, the pervasiveness of exceptional architecture here in the sixth century and beyond would seem to indicate that from this point, these buildings carried an enduring elite purpose. Even if their functions might shift, the elevated status of the social space and the civic sanctity of the sites would persist throughout antiquity. Across the new Forum plain at the site later known as the Comitium, there is evidence that Romans began to outfit yet another enduring civic space in the wake of the Forum reclamation. Sometime before or very soon after the reclamation, they had cleared the area in an attempt to exploit a natural stone platform, and in the late seventh century, they paved the area in gravel and erected a substantial building with a terracotta roof. The structure is attested only by a large group of plain roof tiles (figs. 22, 23).32 A few decorated plaques found at the site may pertain to the building, but their association is not

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 22 Drawing of the roof tiles from the Comitium area, pavement 1: following Boni 1900, fig. 31. FIGURE 23 Roof tiles from the Comitium, pavement 1: a view of the trench and stratum with tiles.

FIGURE 24 Revetment plaque with a rider from the votive deposit at the Lapis Niger, ca. 590. Painted terracotta, 23.8 × 21.7 cm. Museo Nazionale Romano, Baths of Diocletian, Rome, Inv. 118. 3-D reconstruction in light gray following Gjerstad 1953–73, IV, fig. 140.2.

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certain. A Gorgon antefix, a revetment with a walking feline, and another with a man on horseback were found in a votive deposit on the site, and they are nearly identical to the contemporaneous terracottas from the Regia and the Capitoline, and from Cumae, Pithecusae, and Gabii (fig. 24 and see figs. 17, 18). Some see them as architectural ornamentation that went with the roof tiles. Their style would lend a precise date ca. 590. Yet the association cannot be certain, as they were found not in the same context as the tiles but rather as part of a deposit containing hundreds of years of mixed materials with unknown origins.33 Still, whatever building those decorative terracottas belong to, the roof tiles indicate a substantial and still rare use of tiles on an impressive structure. A recent analysis of the tiles indicates something else of significance: as with tiles from around the Regia, their fabric comes from clay beds in the Velabrum. The roof was crafted locally, with material from within the city.34 This is a substantial shift from established scholarship, as it suggests that from the very start, Romans manufactured roof tiles for monumental structures on-site. Many scholars had long assumed that the earlier date of terracotta manufacture at Murlo and Acquarossa, in Etruria, and the fame of ceramic manufacture at Veii meant that Romans would have been dependent on Etruscan centers when they began roofing their buildings.35 Instead, it now seems that from the outset— for their very first buildings using stone foundations and terracotta roofs—Romans had materials manufactured on-site from local clays. Whether they were made by local craftspeople or artisans from outside the city remains unclear, but quickly the craft became an in-house industry, and the production of tiles for Rome in Rome would persist. How Romans used this terracotta-roofed building and the adjacent paved area at this early time is not entirely clear. Later on, the site would become known as the Comitium. Textual sources say it was inaugurated either by Titus Tatius, in a gesture of reconciliation and for communal gathering after the Sabine War, or by Tullus Hostilius along with the Curia—the Senate house—as a meeting place for senators and magistrates.36 Archaeological evidence does not date the site’s first use anywhere near the time of Titus Tatius, and although some see the terracotta-roofed building as evidence of a Curia and confirmation of Hostilius’s inauguration, the association is not certain; the broad date

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 25 3-D reconstruction of the cippus at the Comitium, with inscription. FIGURE 26 Transcription of the cippus at the Comitium, redrawn following Cristofani et al. 1990b, fig. 3.1.29.

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

allows for construction long after Hostilius’s traditional regnal dates.37 What is more, scholars dispute whether the role and characterization of senators and magistrates in this period can be so closely tied with their duties at the Comitium in the Republic.38 That notwithstanding, Romans did erect a substantial building here very early on, and almost immediately they would mark the space with a signal monument to civic cohesion: an inscribed cippus that has become famous for its potential social meanings. Sometime after ca. 560, just as the Regia saw a more entrenched architecture with more complex sculptural decoration; just as more buildings across the pebble pathway incorporated stone and terracotta; and just as a ritual association with Vesta may have emerged, Romans laid a new pavement in gravel at the Comitium, and atop it they placed a stone base for the new cippus (figs. 25, 26). The simple, upright stone marker bears the first known public inscription in Rome and has therefore garnered much attention. The text itself is fragmentary and currently impossible to decipher in full, but many scholars have used the few discernable words and phrases, alongside its location and use amidst later surrounding monuments, to suggest that the Comitium gained a secure function with its installation in the mid-sixth century. Coarelli claims that the cippus marks the site of the Volcanal, a place sacred to Vulcan and sometimes used to call civic assembly.39 He argues that proof of this exists in a votive deposit found next to the stone marker, which included a fragment of an Attic krater probably showing Hephaestus (in many ways the Greek equivalent of Vulcan) on his return to Mount Olympus. The reference to the deity at a site within the Comitium suggests to Coarelli that the space around the cippus was the Volcanal. He argues further that the fragment proves syncretization between Greek and Roman gods already in the early to mid-sixth century. What is more, he suggests that the inscription on the cippus—including the word “recei,” potentially a dative form of the archaic Latin word for “king”—must refer to Servius Tullius, the purported ruler of Rome when the cippus was inscribed and erected. He wraps all of this together in a sweeping assessment: the cippus marks Tullius’s purported invocation of the Volcanal along with the Comitium and Curia. There are several reasons to caution against such a definitive conclusion. While the style of the krater dates more or less contemporaneously with the cippus inscription, ca. 570–560, it is part of a much later first-century-bce ceremonial deposit, and therefore at present cannot be conclusively connected to the cippus, the Comitium, or the Curia in the sixth century.40 It may have been original to the site, but it also may have been acquired and added centuries later, its date a mere coincidence. Moreover, Gellius (quoting Verrius Flaccus) plainly states that during the middle Republic, a statue in the Comitium was removed to the Volcanal, suggesting that the Volcanal is outside of the Comitium.41 In fact, literary sources do not mention the Volcanal as being inside or part of the Comitium at all; instead, they often refer to it as being above (supra) the Comitium.42 Archaeology and text are therefore decidedly ambiguous about whether or not the cippus and surrounding area should be associated with the Volcanal.

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Other scholars have suggested that the cippus is part of the purported tomb of Romulus. Timothy Gantz has argued convincingly that, in the late Republic, Romans believed that the cippus and other objects below the Lapis Niger—a late Republican black stone pavement at the western rim of the Comitium—were part of a tomb planned for Rome’s first king.43 Yet Gantz demonstrates that textual sources indicate the association began only in the late Republic. Excavation has found no burial around or below the monuments and no indication that they were associated with any grave or votive goods until well into the Republic, long after the cippus was first set up.44 Thus, whatever associations it may have gained later, the cippus would not originally have been seen as a tombstone. At present, there is just no tidy way to link the cippus or its inscription to an event or named monument from the historical tradition with any real certainty. That does not mean its significance is entirely opaque. In trying to understand the function of the space during this time, problems only arise when scholars attempt to link it with monuments or institutions as they appear in the literary history. When the search for an historical reference is not the goal—that is, when the inscription and space are considered on their own—a broad and informative purpose is readily apparent. Scholars debate the precise meaning of the archaic Latin inscription; most of it is currently difficult or impossible to translate, and large portions are missing. A few words do, however, lend some meaning to the text. The words “sakros es/ed”—probably equivalent to “sacros esto,” a legal condemnation—would seem to indicate a text with religious guidelines prescribing consequences for those who violate them.45 The interconnectivity of law and religion in the phrase would render this both a legal and a religious marker. Meanwhile, the word “recei,” probably a dative for “king,” refers to either the kings of Rome or a rex sacrorum. Other phrases on the cippus (for example, “iouxmen/ta capia duo tau[r-] . . . kalato/rem”) indicate the presence of sacrificial victims and a herald of the rex. Again, this points either to the official presence of the king of Rome or the rex sacrorum/sacrificulus and his herald at sacrifice around the cippus. Given this information, one might cautiously suggest that the inscription indicates that the cippus either was part of or marked the location of rituals undertaken in the area, be they associated with a king, or with sacrifice, or both.46 What is more, the opprobrium indicated in the words “sakros esed” also reveals that those sacrificial rituals were part of a civic code in place at this site by the mid-sixth century, a formal determination of commonly held sacred legal procedures. The location of the cippus reinforces such an interpretation. It is in a slightly raised position in relation to the rest of the Comitium pavement, and in subsequent phases of construction, new architecture distinguished it and the space around it further. As discussed in Chapter 3, soon after erecting the cippus, builders created two platforms flanking it; three steps provided access from the floor of the Comitium to these platforms, and two steps mediated between the floor and the elevated space surrounding the cippus (see fig. 68). Immediately west of the marker, a wall connected the back of the two platforms and

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closed the cippus within the space of the Comitium. The architecture indicates that the marker was part of (within) the Comitium, closed off from the area outside the meeting place, but also that it was distinguished within the Comitium by its elevation, accessible by the short stair. The area of the cippus would remain a venerated space throughout the Republic, gaining an altar by the fourth century and other sacred monuments and votives through the first century bce, when it was covered over by the Lapis Niger. Overall, then, from the moment the cippus went up, the space was civically and religiously hallowed, with a clear and ongoing set of rules accompanying its use. In this sense, the exact function of the cippus and the area left bare around it may be unclear, but the inscription and isolation evokes a strong sense of sanctity that brings to mind literary references to the Comitium as a sacred place. Livy states that it was a templum from the beginning, and among other rituals, the auspices had to be taken before an assembly of senators could have a formal meeting there.47 The inscribed stone marker may be evidence that the duties of officials and the rituals linked with these meetings were already in formation in the mid-sixth century. If read more cautiously, at the very least, the inscription and later monuments around it reveal the site as a space between the hills, at the edge of the new Forum plain, where officials expected all users to adhere to a common code of conduct in an official setting. As will become clear, this in itself is significant. A similar shift toward more substantial architecture and enduring purpose in the years following the reclamation is also evident on the southwest slope of the Capitoline Hill by the medieval church of S. Omobono. The lowest strata of excavation there are far below the modern water table. Inundated and decomposed, they have proven difficult to examine, but they do reveal that below the level of the earliest temples—that is, in the layers dating before ca. 580—there was already substantial site use for religious purposes.48 Beneath a later altar, excavators found ashes and copious remnants of goats, pigs, sheep, and cows, which suggest the area had long been used as a stage for sacrifice, and, furthermore, atop an early beaten earth layer, they discovered ceramic roof tiles that date to the late seventh or the first decade of the sixth century.49 No contemporaneous stone foundations have come to light, but given the presence of the tiles, it seems likely that some kind of building stood nearby. In any case, the sacrificial remains are enough for scholars to agree that the sacred area was already functioning sometime in the mid- to late seventh century. In the decades around the year 580, the image of the sanctuary underwent a transformation that would fundamentally change the history of Roman and Italic temple architecture.50 The building that went up became the first securely identifiable temple building in Rome, and it would inaugurate several fundamental features of Central Italic temple design, with decorative sculpture that harnessed an innovative and strikingly international style and iconography. The extant substructure consists of a single course of stone sunk into a shallow foundation trench and capped with five courses of tuff ashlars, which create a

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FIGURE 27 Plan of Temple 1 at S. Omobono, with the conjectured plan in dashed lines, probable walls in gray, and excavated walls in black: following Colonna 1991, fig. 2a, with modifications.

N 0

4m

1.7-meter-tall podium. The uppermost (fifth) course of the podium has a torus molding, and on top of it, excavators found another single course of stone set 0.25 meters back from the podium edge, a footing for the temple’s wall.51 Remains of the foundation and podium have only been found along the west side and rear. At the front of the temple, excavation uncovered a staircase and altar on axis with the middle of the temple facade.52 Based on the remains, Giovanni Ioppolo and Giovanni Colonna reconstruct a 10.6-square-meter temple with a single cella and two columns in antis flanked by alae walls, all raised on a high podium and accessed by a frontal staircase (fig. 27).53 The remains of the podium, stair, altar, and outside (alae) walls have been isolated in enough places to render their reconstruction credible, but there is some doubt about evidence for the cella and columns. In regard to the cella walls, evidence comes from four courses of stone that Gjerstad uncovered in his excavations of the northwest corner of the building. He only mentions the wall in passing, but it is clear at the eastern (left) edge of his section; it is parallel with the western podium wall and 1.9 meters east of it.54 In a subsequent excavation, archaeologists found a clean break in the rear of the podium precisely 1.9 meters from the

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FIGURE 28 Column capital casing from the site of S. Omobono. Painted terracotta, 27.5 × 32.5 cm. Capitoline Museums, Rome, Inv. 16154.

eastern side of the temple, and all evidence points to a second cella wall there, mirroring the one that Gjerstad uncovered.55 Evidence for a set of interior walls, parallel to the alae walls and abutting the rear wall of the building, is therefore strong, and their reconstruction as cella walls should stand. Because evidence for the cella has only been found at the rear of the temple, it remains unclear how far toward the front it extended. The columns in antis present a tougher problem. Arguments for the columns combine an architectonic need and a terracotta column casing found on the site. It is uncertain which iteration of the temple the terracotta capital casing belongs to: this one or a reconstruction of ca. 540–520 (fig. 28). Despite stylistic similarities with column capitals from the early sixth century, nearly every scholar who has written on the capital concludes that it belongs to the later reconstruction.56 Ioppolo and Colonna’s argument for columns in the first temple, therefore, is based on tectonic principle. The width between the two antae in the first temple was roughly nine meters, and Ioppolo concludes that in the early sixth century, architects would not be able to bridge that width with wooden trabeation; thus, columns must have supported the span.57 Indeed, nine meters is not a short distance and would be too wide for a post-and-lintel roof, but evidence throughout the western Mediterranean indicates that architects were using trusses to span much wider gaps covered with much heavier roofs in the same period.58 Columns were therefore not strictly necessary, and since archaeologists have not found evidence for foundations supporting columns in the front area of the temples, their inclusion in plans should remain tentative. Nonetheless, as I discuss later in this chapter, the gable held heavy terracotta decoration, and this would make a trussed roof over the unsupported span very heavy. Columns may have been necessary. For now, this remains an open question.

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The elevation of the temple from the podium to the roof is only partially discernable. One can only surmise the height of the walls and putative columns based on Vitruvian analysis, a thorny practice that is particularly anachronistic for the archaic period. A few fundamental aspects of the elevation are, however, evident: given the mass of muddy clay found on the site and the roof terracottas, one can assume that above the stone footing, the walls were built in mud brick or pisé, and that the trabeation for the roof was in wood. Affixed to this wooden armature was a wealth of exceptional terracotta decoration. The full program is unknown, but some important aspects of its design remain.59 Along the raking geisa were revetments with felines in profile, either processing or heraldically flanking a vegetal motif. Both remaining pieces of the frieze preserve a finished edge on an angle, which indicates that they belonged at the lower corners of the roof, and their preserved angle indicates a pitch of twenty-one degrees.60 In the triangular space between the raking geisa and frontal horizontal geison, designers affixed flat terracotta plaques in the corners and, at the center, two large, heraldic terracotta felines that appear to have flanked a running Gorgon (figs. 29–31). The angle of the corner pieces of the pedimental revetments confirms the slope of twenty-one degrees. As to the felines, the angle of their posture from haunches to head indicates they occupied most of the middle of the pediment, but they were not the central figures. Pride of place was reserved for a running Gorgon; parts of its wing and tunic skirt were discovered in a small group of terracottas. Based on the size of the fragments, and in comparison with other examples, Madeleine Mertens-Horn reconstructs the figure as 1.5 to 1.6 meters tall, slightly larger than the 1.4-meter felines.61 Painted figures (now lost) adorned the unsculpted flat panels at the corners.62 Despite uncertainty about a few elements of its design, the basic image of the temple presents a radical shift for Rome and all of Central Italy (fig. 32). It is the first known temple with remains of both a cella and flanking alae walls, the first temple raised high atop a podium, one of the first to use a torus molding, the first with a frontal staircase, and the first with a closed, sculpted pediment.63 It heralds a change in religious architecture, wherein a frontal structure with a porch was raised high above the surrounding area, monumentalized in stone, and roofed with elaborate decorative revetments. Together, these elements became the hallmarks for Central Italic temples. The trend appears to have become quickly popular, with a temple at Tarquinii on a high platform or podium dating to ca. 570.64 In the coming decades in Rome, the incorporation of these elements into more and more sanctuaries would transform the cityscape. Although these and a few other characteristics of the temple’s design are decidedly Central Italic, the closed pediment, the iconography of heraldic felines flanking a Gorgon, and their rigid archaic style are without parallel in the region; yet they do have parallels— remarkably close ones—elsewhere in the Mediterranean. The form of a closed pediment is conspicuously inconsistent with Central Italic temples.65 Raking or open gables were the norm for the region, and no other surviving sanctuary in Latium or Etruria bears evidence of a closed pediment until the third century, over three hundred years after Temple I at

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FIGURE 29 Reconstructed felines from a pediment at the site of S. Omobono, Temple I. Painted terracotta, reconstructed height 1.4 m. Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. 16116, 16101.

FIGURE 30 Drawing of corner plaques from the pediment at the site of S. Omobono, Temple I. Based on remains in the Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. 15884, 15906, 15908.

FIGURE 31 3-D reconstruction of the pediment and roof of S. Omobono, Temple I, frontal view.

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FIGURE 32 3-D reconstruction of S. Omobono, Temple I, view from the south.

58

S. Omobono.66 And the sculpture that filled the pediment is equally foreign. As one scholar has been quick to suggest, the iconography of felines flanking a Gorgon in a pediment is notably absent in both architectural and non-architectural sculpture throughout Central Italy in the early sixth century. The only examples of heraldic felines in Central Italy dating to the late seventh or early sixth century are those in tomb paintings at Tarquinii, notably the Tomb of the Panthers (fig. 33).67 Yet in the early Tarquinian tombs, the felines are standing or striding, with front paws reaching up, atop a base or figure of some kind, as in the Tomb of the Panthers, where they reach over the frontal protoma of another feline. The iconography of heraldic felines certainly was pervasive, but the circumstances at Rome do not precisely match those of the tombs at Tarquinii or elsewhere. At Rome, the felines’ haunches are firmly on the ground, their rear legs folded in a seated or crouched position; the curve of the upper body indicates they do not stand, stride, or climb. Moreover, Mertens-Horn’s argument for a central Gorgon has gained acceptance, and this only further undermines attempts to liken the sculpture to Central Italic

coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

FIGURE 33 Rear wall of the Tomb of the Panthers, featuring a painting of heraldic felines over a feline protome, ca. 600. From Tarquinii, Monterozzi Necropolis. FIGURE 34 Pediment of the Gorgon from the Temple of Artemis at Corcyra, Corfu, 6th century. Limestone. Archaeological Museum of Corfu.

comparanda, where Gorgons do not feature between heraldic felines.68 Faced with the distinct style and form of the pediment, the iconography of the central Gorgon, and the overall sculptural composition, scholars return repeatedly to the only known comparandum that combines all aspects of the style and content of the S. Omobono pediment: the Temple of Artemis at Corfu (fig. 34).69 There, felines with similarly styled feet crouch in the temple’s pediment, flanking a running Gorgon, and the corners of the pediment included smaller decoration, much like the lost painted scenes from S. Omobono. Other temples at Syracuse (Temple of Athena) and Athens (Ur Parthenon pediment/Temple of Athena Polias) exhibit similar sculpture, and the comparanda have drawn a string of arguments about Rome’s connection to distant cities.70 Mertens-Horn emphasizes that Corfu and Syracuse were both havens for members of the Bacchiad dynasty, who fled the Cypselid tyranny in mid-seventh-century Corinth. She draws a connection to Tarquinius Priscus (purported son of a Bacchiad, Demaratus) and a possible patron of the S. Omobono temple, and she concludes that the Bacchiads built

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temples at all three sites (Corfu, Syracuse, and Rome) as thank offerings after the overthrow of the Cypselids around 580. The argument is tempting, but speculative; scholars repeatedly question both the chronology and historicity of the Bacchiads and Demaratus, and many have broad concerns about layering the problematic literary tradition of early Rome on art and architecture.71 Two similar pediments at Athens and elsewhere would also present a problem for the argument, as they are not so easily styled as Bacchiad strongholds in the way that Rome, Syracuse, and Corfu are. Nevertheless, Mertens-Horn’s basic suggestion is hard to dispute: the composition, iconography, and style of the 580 temple pediment at S. Omobono is unique in Central Italy and has close comparanda in these distant temples. What is more, in contrast to Central Italy, where the closed pediment itself is anomalous, builders at polities on the Greek mainland and in the western Mediterranean in the early sixth century were beginning to employ closed pediments to address the space between architrave and raking geisa in their temples.72 The temple at S. Omobono appears not only to participate in the new trend of sculptured, closed pediments, but even to be harnessing the same style and iconography that featured in some of the first examples of this newly popular architectural element. It remains unclear how Romans’ participation occurred precisely. There are insufficient local comparanda to determine if craftspeople were working in a Roman or Central Italic coroplastic method, which might indicate local craftspeople. Moreover, in the early sixth century, terracotta was a common material for architectural sculpture throughout the Mediterranean, with the exception of a few pediments on the Greek mainland. Thus, it is unclear whether the roof was the product of foreign sculptors working in Rome or of local Roman sculptors harnessing international artistic trends and manufacturing the roof themselves. The source of the foreign inspiration is vexing. Yet one thing is clear: as a whole, the closed sculpted pediment at S. Omobono and its iconography, composition, and style are alien to contemporaneous Central Italy. Meanwhile, it fits seamlessly into the artistic sphere at Syracuse, Corfu, and Attica. The creation of such analogous sculpture used in precisely the same place, on the same genre of art (architecture), and even the same type of building (a temple) at Rome just as it became popular elsewhere in the Mediterranean is hard to put down to chance. Although it may remain unclear how deep the contact and cultural influence were, it is doubtful that those who commissioned the pediment and those who sculpted it were unaware of such trends, or that they happened to choose this iconography and produced it in this style and composition by chance. The consonance and simultaneity of the trend suggests that craftspeople familiar with or even themselves helping to create the roofs in other polities were involved closely with the Roman work. As the most visible, iconic sculpture for this sacred temple, the image would have been neither a random nor an unimportant choice, and the decision to include the motif on one of the first buildings to be encountered in Rome makes the international character an even more powerful statement.73 The sculpture and the closed pediment broke step with the

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region and harnessed an iconography noticeably similar to others, far afield. The decision suggests an exogenous shift to Roman culture, a connection of some kind between Rome and the wider Mediterranean world, and a willingness—or even a desire—to make that connection quickly visible to those arriving in Rome. Evidence from the surrounding area suggests that such international contact should only be expected in this area of Rome by the early sixth century. Small excavations and cores throughout the Velabrum and along the riverside have revealed that, beginning in the middle to late seventh century, the area was home to growing manufacturing and trade industries. At the same time that they were filling the Forum—and perhaps as a symbiotic project—Romans appear to have been extracting clay from the lowest levels of the Velabrum, and recent analysis of early terracottas from the Comitium, Regia, and elsewhere reveals that this material was being used to manufacture roof tiles throughout the city.74 Soon after the reclamation, or perhaps even preceding it, it seems that a cottage industry was growing in the valley, and just as an increase in refined construction around the Forum suggests an elevated civic character for spaces there, so too does the evidence for clay extraction and terracotta manufacture speak to the environment of the Velabrum. The process of ceramic production is decidedly industrial. To access the clay, the Velabrum would have been populated with workers pulling it from deep, mucky pits left behind from the removal of topsoil.75 Next to these, one can imagine temporary workshops like that found contemporaneously at Murlo, with designers molding and cutting the clay, then firing the tiles in nearby kilns, which would spew smoke into the surrounding valley (figs. 35, 36).76 In fact, the Velabrum would have been an ideal production site for

FIGURE 35 Worker collecting clay in a traditional ceramic production work site, Nicaragua. FIGURE 36 Roof tile kiln in operation at a traditional ceramic production work site, Nicaragua.

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several reasons: it was close to the clay beds, necessitating little transportation; it was central to most of the hills, and therefore easily accessible for local construction projects; and it was adjacent to the river, where tiles could be shipped to neighboring towns, a practice that apparently became common in the late sixth century. Furthermore, by the mid-seventh century, when this began, the river was swarming with traders traveling from the Mediterranean straight to Rome and onward to the bustling inland polities of Central Italy along the Anio and Tiber rivers. More and more scholars have come to see this part of Rome as a critical stopping point on interior Italic trade routes from the seventh and sixth centuries onward. Evidence for extensive trade at Rome begins to appear in the mid- to late seventh century, just as the city took shape and terracotta production took off, and by the early to mid-sixth century, examples of ceramics and luxury goods from across the Mediterranean increased sharply in tombs across the city.77 It is here, at the sanctuary by S. Omobono, just beside the clay beds, that some of the most luxurious examples of foreign objects have been found, revealing a critical point of entry for foreign material culture into Rome.78 In fact, this part of Rome is particularly well positioned to control commerce traveling up and down the river, as it is an easy stopping point for merchants; situated just south of a troublesome convergence with the Anio River, it lies on the northeast bank of a natural bend that would provide a comfortable site for docking ships. At that bend, just east of Tiber Island, merchants and travelers would find a slower current, eddying into the curve of the widened river, and the east bank at this convenient bend was just forty meters from the sanctuary.79 Merchants mooring boats along the banks would comfortably be able to off-load goods and passengers here, below Tiber Island. This is not to say that the site west of the temple was the only port of the city, or even that it was a formal port. But given the evidence for an uncommonly high number of foreign materials at the sanctuary by S. Omobono from the early sixth century through the late archaic period, as well as its proximity to the Tiber, the site is best characterized as a port sanctuary. Its early development just as trade was booming along the Tiber suggests that its use and enrichment were closely tied to the nearby commerce, and, in fact, a new study of early temple buildings in Latium and Etruria ties the popularity of this temple and others directly to the burgeoning trade industry; it even goes so far as to suggest that such sanctuaries were first built specifically to act as points of safe cultural contact. The sacred character allowed for a space of social interaction between host cities and the many cultures that came to their shores, and, furthermore, the very nature of the earliest buildings—often with unclear dedicatees and even less comprehensible sculptural decoration—may have been commissioned specifically as an open, unrestricted means to allow for worship in an international communal setting that fostered cultural contact.80 The idea makes sense for Central Italy and for the many sanctuaries that often have votive records with mixed dedications to multiple deities. This all appears to change in the very late sixth and early fifth centuries, when more and more sanctuaries dedicated to specific gods went

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up. But for this early period, with mixed votive and ceremonial records, unknown deities, and unclear sculptural decoration on so many temples positioned in liminal spaces of intense cultural interaction (trade especially), the argument is compelling. The temple at S. Omobono is among the first of such sanctuaries, and it would have served well with its international sculpture as a facade for the burgeoning city of Rome. By 550, evidence throughout the hills and valleys indicates a city undergoing tremendous change. In the wake of the Forum reclamation, Romans initiated a shift around a new central space, and they established some of their earliest structures using stone and terracotta in spaces that would remain quintessential to the city’s elite civic and domestic life for over a millennium. The precise functions and longevity of these sites will see clearer definition in the next chapters, but it is worth pointing out a major element of civic cohesion evident already in the manufacture of such sites at this time. Already by the mid-sixth century, Romans were installing more permanent buildings with stone foundations and terracotta roofs around this new area. The very use of refined materials—still luxurious for the period in Central Italy—that were meant to last is significant, and the application of such new and permanent architecture not at the center of the Palatine, Capitoline, or Esquiline, but rather in the interstitium that connected them, is a strong suggestion of real cohesion.81 These were not isolated or isolating civic structures at the heart of distinct hilltop settlements; they were physical statements of community at their edges, or rather at the heart of all the hills, and they were meant to endure. The inscription on the cippus at the Comitium is an especially clear statement of this. The reference to sacrifice alongside the words “sakros esed” indicates a religious condemnation that signals a common, religiously bound set of expectations. The space came with an anticipated behavior and apparent, real consequences for those who did not adhere to it. Were it in the middle of a hill, as with earlier sacred spaces, it might be understood only as a civic marker for one of the hilltop communities. But it was not. It existed at the edge of the new Forum plain, in an area between the hills, and it remained in place and in use for centuries to come. If one is reluctant to see a truly unified community with the landfill project, the central, sacred marker binding communities with a common sacred trust is surely a sign that cohesion was now increasing. And perhaps this is a more reasonable way to see the urbanization of Rome than to identify one moment of union. Throughout the relentless investigation of the chronology of Rome’s formation, scholars have used material remains such as the cippus and its inscription as markers of achieved civic change—of something that occurred—in order to determine when one can begin to call Rome a city and state. By the middle of the sixth century, the social spaces stationed around the Forum plain can easily be seen in this way and, to a certain extent, they must be recognized as reflections of social shift, urbanization, and state formation. Yet in isolation, this perspective is problematic. Such a reading of physical remains assumes that once they were created, these spaces had a well-conceived

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purpose that did not change substantially in the future: that the cippus, Regia, and Atrium Vestae mark a change made, not a change in the making. There is little proof that these spaces were so clearly and inexorably defined or even that the city would be fully unified by their definition. It is precisely the problem of a search for the moment of Rome’s unification that creates such a simplistic reading. Recently, some scholars have turned from a search for these kinds of universal, required milestones in urbanization and state formation—markers of things achieved and great topographical/socio-political leaps that distinguish a “real” urban state from pre-urban communities—to a more fluid assessment of the generation of social structures, community cohesion, and topographical identifiers of culture, city, and state. This fluid vision of the process of urbanization, particularly in Central Italy, has gained substantial approval, especially in the wake of scholarship on proto-urbanism. As scholars have begun to recognize the centuries-long shifts necessary for urban and social cohesion, others working on the period of more unified polities have begun to couch advanced urban and state development in more macro-historical terms than before, suggesting a prolonged transition reaching from the Bronze Age all the way into the Roman Republic.82 This would seem to be the best lens through which to view early Rome, especially given the current state of evidence. The rapid and continued reconstruction of many sites in Rome—especially in the decades covered in this chapter and the next, when, for example, the Regia saw four complete overhauls—would seem to suggest that Romans were still determining the functions of these spaces, and that urbanization and state formation were a drawn-out, ongoing process. It is unlikely that all the formal aspects of political and sacred life came into being without some kind of gestation, and the creation and constant shift of these sites suggests that gestation was still ongoing in the sixth century. With this in mind, these newly established spaces at the Comitium, Regia, and around the Atrium Vestae should not be seen merely as spaces that reflect a current state of things; their initial construction does not signify a terminal moment of total urbanization or state formation. Rather, as social environments that were part of a dynamic civic climate, the buildings themselves—by virtue of their location, design, lavishness, and so on—would have a substantial effect on the future of institutions they housed and on the civic structure of Rome.83 The architecture around the Forum plain would not only host and reflect civic engagement, but also its physical presence would have helped maintain and promote a communal sensibility. The emerging urban fabric, which one could feel, see, and experience bodily in a new way only after construction, during its use, would therefore not just re-present or mirror achieved civic change; its place would actively promote it. The process would be reflexive and continuous. Just as the reclamation of the Forum would make retreat to isolated hilltop communities difficult by way of its geographic connectivity to those previously distinct spaces, so too would the establishment of social spaces around the new interstitial plain draw the communities together in a way that would be still harder to dismiss or revert from. In this sense, the altered architectural

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environment—with increasingly defined, elaborated, decorated, and religiously powerful sites at centers that bound the hilltops together—would have been one that prompted unity rather than the division that the distinct hilltop communities engendered, and through its physicality, a nascent unified landscape would have effected a unified citizenry as much as it reflected it. Thus, the construction that went on in the late seventh and early sixth centuries may represent greater unity and increased civic construction, but one must keep in mind that in such a fluid, rapidly changing society, it would also have fostered that unity. At the same time, and in a way that also reveals ongoing culture cohesion, it appears that Romans were gaining enough comfort with international artistic styles (popular as far away as Cumae, Corfu, and Syracuse) that they employed them in some of their most impressive and prominent civic and religious structures. In this sense, the urban landscape was not only becoming more unified, collective, and rooted in the permanence of stone foundations, terracotta roofs, and topographical cohesion around the artificial Forum plain, but it was doing so in ways that stylistically, iconographically, and tectonically reached beyond a confined regional custom, with great consequence for the future of Roman art and architecture. What is striking, though, is not merely that the manufacture of these pedimental sculptures, revetments, and antefixes—these roofing systems—linked buildings in Rome to a unique network of polities both within and beyond Central Italy, but especially that these ties are not restricted to one part of Rome. They are pervasive, found throughout the hills and valleys. The interest and connection was not unique to the Palatine or the Comitium or S. Omobono; it was evident at all of them, and in some cases (for example, the Regia-Comitium-Capitoline feline revetments), the very same decorative elements were copied in multiple places within the city. The specific assemblage of international elements was a shared phenomenon that indicates a visual culture both distinct to and present across the hills of Rome. Other Central Italic polities were similarly connected to the Mediterranean through unique artistic cultures. Tarquinii, for example, is famous for historical and long-lived connections to Carthage and Punic architecture; Satricum appears to have had unusually close ties to Greeks in Campania; and Caere famously had a treasury at Delphi. Such distinctive ties are evident in the art and architecture of each city, but none was the same. Each was beginning to generate its own image and its own cultural network. Alongside them, Rome began to exhibit its own mixture of local, regional, and international artistic trends, which together created a cityscape that copied no other. Already by ca. 550, there was a burgeoning, distinct artistic culture at Rome; it was nascent and it would see clearer definition in the coming century, but already in the early sixth century, a unique thread had emerged throughout the city.

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coherence and distinction (ca. 650–550)

3 On a New Scale (ca. 550–500)

By the mid-sixth century, the first flourish of architecture founded on stone walls and capped in terracotta decoration was spreading. This set the stage for a transformation in the scale and sumptuousness of Roman architectural construction in the subsequent fifty years. Between 550 and 500, not only did Romans build more and more impressive monuments, they also began to use stone throughout construction, even for the full heights of walls and columns. At the same time, early sculptural ornamentation, seen at S. Omobono and the Regia, increased on new and rebuilt monuments in the Forum, at the riverside, and on the hills. The shift was swift, and, especially beginning ca. 540/530, the city saw a substantial change in building practice that included larger and more complex designs and more international sculpture on the rooftops. By far the most sweeping change during these years came to the hilltops, where far larger and more sophisticated temples and houses appeared quickly and in relative abundance. As much as any other changes, it was this shift in scale and size that reveals the rapidly increasing wealth and power of the city, made possible in part through a new facility with stone construction and the concomitant, complex process of cutting, transporting, and laying vast quantities of tuff.

AT THE RIVERSIDE Sometime between 540 and 520, a fresh phase of construction at S. Omobono brought novel additions to the sanctuary (figs. 37, 38). New work seems to have incorporated the rear of the podium, the cella foundation walls from the first temple, and may even have retained the original side and rear walls of the superstructure.1 A new molding was constructed along the sides of the podium. The front of the temple was extended some two meters further forward, and instead of a central staircase, steps now ran across the entire facade, leading up to a building with projecting antae and probably columns in antis.2 The altar stayed in place, and because the temple was so much longer, it was incorporated into the staircase, with the first two steps flanking it. Overall, the image of the building remained similar, but there was one striking change: the roof decoration. Although fragmentary, the remains of terracotta sculpture from this phase reveal a rich and complex decoration. The raking revetments preserve a slanted edge with a slope

N 0

4m

FIGURE 37 Plan of a rebuilt temple at the site of S. Omobono, with the conjectured plan in dashed lines, probable walls in gray, and excavated walls in black: following Colonna 1991, fig. 2b, with modifications. FIGURE 38 3-D reconstruction of S. Omobono, second phase, viewed from the south.

of eighteen degrees (figs. 39, 40). The plaques have diverse upper moldings, some with a thick torus over a short band of tongues, others with a strigil course above a relief meander or flat torus, and all contain a frieze showing bigae and trigae processing either to the left or to the right.3 In the frieze scene with a leftward procession, a male figure holding a staff walks in front of three horses pulling a chariot. A tall man walks on the right flank of the horses, and a male and female figure drive the chariot behind. At their rear, two winged horses lead another chariot, again holding a man who drives the car and stands in front of a woman. A tall male figure behind the second chariot closes the plaque. The friezes with a rightward procession show the same arrangement of male and female figures and horses, but each has different clothing, postures, and paraphernalia. The reliefs belong to a well-known series of revetments identified at numerous sites in Central Italy.4 For example, at a temple in Velletri, six scenes are present, including a seated assembly, a banquet, horse-and-chariot races, and two types of procession.5 At present, it is impossible to say if the same plaques would have adorned the S. Omobono temple. The top of the roof was covered in terracotta tiles following a hybrid system with semicylindrical cover

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 39 Drawing of revetments from the raking geison from S. Omobono, second phase. FIGURE 40 Revetments from the raking geison from S. Omobono, second phase, ca. 540–520. Reconstructed plaque of painted terracotta, height 37.5 cm. Capitoline Museums, Rome. Inv. 15800, 15883.

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tiles and “Corinthian” flat, painted pan tiles, and along the lateral edges of the roof, a sima with female heads and lion-headed spouts closed the edge (fig. 41). The sima is part of the same system found elsewhere in connection with the procession frieze.6 At the corners, statues of sphinxes served as acroteria; they too closely resemble acroteria from the temple at Velletri. On the ridge of the roof, several acroterial sculptures completed the program of decoration (figs. 42, 43).7 The revetments, simas, sphinxes, and even the acroteria have all recently been identified as part of a roofing system used with only minor changes on some twenty to twenty-five temples found at Rome, Veii, Velletri, Ardea, Ficana, Caprifico, Tarquinii, Vetulonia, and Praeneste.8 The system is characterized by revetments and simas showing the iconography of procession and racing, lateral simas with female-head antefixes, and acroteria including volutes, standing figures, and sphinxes.9 Each roof is slightly different, and none appears to be an exact copy of another. For example, the procession friezes in the revetment plaques are often topped by different decorative elements: concave tongues over a flat torus with painted scale pattern at Velletri, or the same tongues over a cross meander, sometimes stamped with further designs, at Caprifico. Meanwhile, the style of the revetments from the slightly later roofs in the system (ca. 520), found at Palestrina, Rome, Caprifico, and Tarquinii, includes more delicate detail, especially for the winged horses, that is absent on the roofs of ca. 540 (fig. 44). Still, the iconography, components, and composition of each element and of the roofs as a whole indicate a single workshop reproducing a system with only subtle shifts, particularly ca. 520, throughout an area with Rome at its center.10 It appears that Rome’s geographically central location in the distribution of the roof is no coincidence. Each of the styles appears in Rome, and mounting evidence for a major terracotta industry there producing roof tiles as early as the late seventh century indicates that manufacture was already well practiced. The incorporation of revetments on buildings at the Regia, Comitium, and Capitoline ca. 580, which may have influenced other buildings in Latium and Campania, would seem to be further indication that Romans were in the practice of commissioning such roofs. Furthermore, analysis of tiles from roofs of the ca. 540–520 system found at Rome, Caprifico, Veii, and Velletri indicate that the

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 41 3-D reconstruction of a corner of roof with sphinx and lateral sima from S. Omobono, second phase. FIGURE 42 3-D reconstruction of roof decoration from S. Omobono, second phase, viewed from the south. FIGURE 43 3-D reconstruction of roof decoration from S. Omobono, second phase, viewed from above. FIGURE 44 Drawing of a revetment from Caprifico.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

workshop responsible for those roofs used the same formula for the clay matrix, probably transporting the molds and mixing the matrix on-site. Further still, the roofs at Caprifico and Velletri incorporate aplastic inclusions found in the clay beds of Rome and used in the roof tiles in Rome.11 In the end, short of petrographic analysis to confirm a clay source for every roof, it is difficult to say definitively where the workshop had its origins. Yet, of the twenty-plus temples in the region, between seven and ten—nearly half of them—stood in Rome, with revetments found on the Capitoline in two places, at the edges of the Forum near the Comitium and the Regia, on the Palatine in three places, on the Esquiline, and in two iterations at S. Omobono (the temple of ca. 540 and probably a roof refurbishment of ca. 520).12 Rome was either the home of the workshop—certainly it seems to have been a base for the production of the roofs in Rome—or it was the most prolific patron of it, or both. The vast reproduction by one workshop of so complex a roofing system—including tiles, antefixes, acroteria, simas, and sculpted revetments—over such a wide territory is unmatched in the whole of the Mediterranean. On the Greek mainland, there is some evidence that portions of roofs were copied. The most famous is the Corinthian system, which had an extraordinary distribution far beyond Greek polities. These roofs, though, were not produced by a single workshop, and, furthermore, their widespread imitation was restricted largely to roof tiles and did not include widespread iconographic, stylistic, and compositional details in revetments and acroteria. Where there are examples of close emulation in roof decoration, it is scanty compared to the prodigious workshop that molded and sculpted each part of this system, from Caprifico to Rome to Tarquinii, in so many buildings.13 The profusion and adaptation seems to be a unique feature of these polities. At the same time, the terracottas hardly suggest insularism. Indeed, the style and iconography of the reliefs suggest the contrary. The use of procession iconography and banquet scenes in architectural sculpture was not new with this temple or this roofing system: similar scenes can be documented throughout the Mediterranean.14 Yet on the Greek mainland and in the Greek west, artists ceased to use processions in the iconography of their revetments by the middle of the sixth century. Beginning at that time, they began employing Doric triglyphs and metopes, undecorated friezes, and geometric and floral patterns instead.15 The processions, hunts, and banquets that artists once depicted on temples at places such as Metaponto were largely abandoned in the new architecture. Meanwhile, artists in Ionia and Central Italy continued to incorporate such scenes long past the mid-sixth century.16 They even added to the toolbox ca. 550/540 by incorporating new scenes of chariot racing into many of their friezes in Ionia, at sites such as Larisa on the Hermos River and Sardis, and all throughout Central Italy. Overall, as several scholars have noted, the iconography and composition of continuous figural relief remained popular and continued to pervade temple architecture in those two regions through the late sixth century.17

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

The S. Omobono revetments and others from the S. Omobono system fit within this shared tradition, and their relationship goes beyond strictly iconographic and compositional similarity. In Ionia and Central Italy, alongside the incorporation of new motifs (such as chariot racing) into architectural sculpture, the styles were shifting, too. In fact, the reliefs from the S. Omobono system are especially good examples of the resurgence in both Central Italic and Ionic art of elongated, delicate styles during the middle and later part of the sixth century and of their incorporation into scenes of chariots racing across friezes with animals leaping below horses (figs. 45, 46).18 As part of this close synchronization of sculptural shift, a few decades later, almost simultaneously in Ionia and Central Italy, there would be yet another change restricted to these regions; this time, it was not FIGURE 45 Drawing of revetments of racing charioteers from Larisa on the Hermos.

FIGURE 46 Drawing of a pediment from Caprifico.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

just a shift in style or iconography, but rather in the entire composition of roofs and the manner of decoration, which became focused on floral elements. The change was not immediate. At first, floral decoration was mixed with figural: for example, at Larisa on the Hermos ca. 550–540 and at Veii soon thereafter. Eventually, floral decoration would supersede figural at several sites in Ionia, and almost simultaneously in Central Italy and on Sicily, floral motifs, especially in the use of sculpted anthemion friezes, would take over the decoration of horizontal and raking cornices.19 This will be discussed later in this chapter in relation to the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, but it is worth mentioning here as an indication of the longevity, constancy, and tight synchronicity of the shift in architectural sculpture in these two regions. The fact that stylistic and iconographic similarities in figural reliefs of the mid- to late sixth century (and floral reliefs thereafter) were isolated in Ionia and Central Italy, largely skipping over the rest of the Mediterranean, has led scholars to see a continuous, direct link between craftspeople from the two regions. In part the suggestion is bolstered by pervasive evidence for a trade in goods between the two regions, visible in graves throughout Central Italy, and even in the presence of a Samian merchant ship wrecked off the coast of Italy near the island of Giglio. The close and sometimes manifestly direct contact between the two regions appears steadfast throughout the sixth century and beyond.20 Seeking to explain the continuity of both mercantile contact and artistic trends, some scholars have suggested that workshops of Ionian craftspeople (or second-generation terracotta sculptors from Ionia) may have been responsible for the creation of the roofs in Central Italy.21 Following this reasoning, one might suggest that the system used at S. Omobono was generated at the hands of Ionian sculptors and/or their descendants, who continued a tradition from the eastern Mediterranean. While this is certainly possible, and the longevity of close artistic continuity and commercial activity appear strong, it is, nonetheless, equally possible that the styles and iconographies were adapted by Italic craftspeople who were themselves in contact with Ionian artisans. In either case, the terracottas certainly reveal a transformational interaction: a workshop—made up either of Ionians or of people remarkably familiar with and expertly skilled at the craft of architectural sculpture, and working in current Ionian styles for as long as a century—came to Rome (or were themselves Romans) and produced as many as ten roofs, putting a widespread stamp on the image of a city, with visible connections to the art of the eastern Mediterranean. And the revetments are by no means the only instructional sculptures to decorate the temple, nor are they the most famous. Pride of place belongs to the acroterial statue group of Hercules and Minerva, one of several that stood on the peak of the roof (fig. 47). In the work, Hercules’s identity is made clear by the cinched skin of the Nemean lion fastened at his neck and waist, and Minerva is identifiable both because of her helmet, suggestive of military garb, and because of her association with Hercules in the group; she is the primary (perhaps only) goddess to find such association with him in the traditional canon, and certainly in such an iconic fashion.22 At least one other group stood on the

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 47 Statue of Hercules and Minerva from S. Omobono, second phase (frontal view), ca. 540–520. Painted terracotta, height of preserved torso 78 cm; preserved width of shoulders 44 cm (three-quarters life-size). Capitoline Museums, Rome. FIGURE 48 Hypothetical 3-D reconstruction of the second sculpture group from S. Omobono, second phase, as Dionysus and Ariadne/ Leukothea (frontal view), with remains shaded darker: following Mura Sommella 2009a, fig. 16.

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ridge with them and may have depicted Dionysus and Ariadne/Leukothea, though this remains in some doubt (fig. 48). This second group is extremely fragmentary, with only the head and upper back of a female figure, the left hand of a second figure resting on her left shoulder, and other potentially related fragments. Scholars have suggested the group represented Eos and Kephalos, Ino and Leukothea, or Hermes holding the infant Dionysus, but problems have arisen for each of these reconstructions.23 Recently, Anna Mura Sommella has presented a new and plausible interpretation. She suggests that an acroterial base from the temple with an attached feline hind paw was part of the sculpture, as were a braided staff and a few other fragments of a second figure.24 She concludes that the group is a standing male and female—the male with his arm around the female’s shoulder—and that the braided staff and lion paw reveal the pair is Dionysus and Ariadne/ Leukothea. While this is possible, the association of all the finds with one statue group requires that the temple had just two sculptures; otherwise, the fragments could belong to two (or more) distinct works and could be reconstructed differently. The suggestion is entirely possible, though, and if it were the coupled Dionysus and Ariadne in a state

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 49 “Herakles,” ca. 530–520. Limestone, 2.16 m. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. The Cesnola Collection, Purchased by subscription, 1874–1876. AN 74.51.2455. FIGURE 50 Statue of Hercules and Minerva from the site of S. Omobono (rear, three-quarter view), ca. 540–520. Painted terracotta, height of preserved torso 78 cm; preserved width of shoulders 44 cm. Capitoline Museums, Rome.

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of apotheosis, this would fit well with the statue group of Hercules and Minerva, which scholars agree depicts Hercules’s apotheosis after aiding in the Gigantomachy. The fragmentary state of the putative Dionysus and Ariadne/Leukothea and the uncertainty of their identification as such allows for little in the way of stylistic, formal, or iconographical analysis, but there is enough of the Hercules and Minerva to make them ripe subjects for such investigation (see fig. 47). Hercules’s image and cult had long been popular in Italy when Romans erected a sculpture to the demigod on the roof at S. Omobono; yet large sculptures of Hercules are not common in Central Italy earlier in the sixth century, and what is more, although the pair was certainly seen in imported Attic pottery, Hercules’s association with Minerva is not known in sculpture created in the region until this statue group.25 In the absence of comparanda predating the group at Rome, scholars have highlighted the work’s foreign style—with Hercules’s cinched lion skin similar to Cypriot figures and with Minerva’s Ionic helmet—and they have branded the two as an allegorical symbol that links Rome to Athens and the east.26 A close investigation suggests a more nuanced sculpture. Among the first eastern comparisons scholars make is Hercules’s so-called Cypriot dress. Almost from its discovery, the figure was tied to the eastern Mediterranean island by Gjerstad, who had been excavating there and saw multiple examples of a Herakles-like

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURES 51–53 Kroisos Kouros found in Anavysos, Attica (rear, three-quarter view; frontal view; and left-near profile), ca. 530. Parian marble, 183 cm. National Archaeological Museum, Athens, Greece, inv. 3851.

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figure brandishing a club and wearing a lion’s skin knotted at the chest and cinched around the waist by a belt (fig. 49).27 Yet the Cypriot statues do not appear to have a buckle fastening the lion skin at the waist, and Nancy Winter has demonstrated that, in Rome, the lion skin acts as a vestment atop the tunic, with a belted extension of the skin fastened at the waist.28 Although this may seem a minor discrepancy, it underscores a broader inconsistency. Scholars have long been puzzled by the isolated Cypriot sculptural reference and the fact that the Hercules at Rome resembles those sculptures in no other way. It has a lithe voluptuousness, fine modeling, a strong musculature, and a slight torsion, all of which are absent in the Cypriot statues (fig. 50 and see fig. 47). In this regard, the Roman sculpture is closer to male figures produced around the Aegean, falling in line with the volumetric, fleshy forms popular in late sixth-century Ionia and especially the fine line and modeling of musculature present in late sixth-century Attic kouroi, particularly the Anavysos Kouros (figs. 51–53). One could equally apply Gisela Richter’s description of that figure to the Roman Hercules: “the forms are now more developed, more depth is given to the chest and back, the vertebral column has assumed its characteristic S-shaped curve, and the flanks bulge from the waist.”29 The movement of the legs, the tilt in the hips—juxtaposed with an absence of chiasmus in the torso—are present in both figures, with the Anavysos Kouros typically dated ca. 540–520. In fact, it is in Attica and the northern Peloponnese

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 54 Herakles battling Geryon, detail on an Attic black-figure amphora attributed to Exekias. Ceramic, vessel height 44.5 cm. Found at Vulci. Louvre Museum, Paris, F53.

55

that one finds exact parallels for the peculiar cinched lion skin of the Roman sculpture. Many Athenian vases show figures dressed identically to the Roman statue, and a remarkable parallel is also clear in a shield band from Olympia (fig. 54).30 None of the parallels from the Greek mainland offer an exact match, but, still, the style of sculpture from the region at this time is uniquely comparable to the Roman figure. Scholars have also worked hard to find a match for the style of the Minerva. Mura Sommella states that the figure’s “curved lips, which are not closed at the angles; stretched, almond-shaped eyes; accentuated chin, nose and cheekbones alongside the rounded helmet . . . the hair falling down her back” suggest a style close to archaic Attic and Aegean korai (fig. 55).31 One close comparandum can be found in the Peplos Kore from the Acropolis in Athens, which shares the rounded face, prominent, soft, and full cheekbones, delicately (not sharply) lined brow and nose bridge, lightly lined eyelids with painted (unrecessed) cornea, and soft, bulbous nose (fig. 56). Her mouth too is composed of two curved lips that are not entirely closed at the angles. Perhaps an even closer comparandum is visible in the faces of some male figures, including the Merenda Kouros and Anavysos Kouros, which have less fleshy jawlines than the Peplos Kore and a soft nose and brow composition that is especially close to the Roman Minerva (fig. 57 and see fig. 52). Although the korai and kouroi are very close, for some, the Minerva’s smooth, wide nose and slightly sharper chin might recall a style visible in several sculptures from southern costal Etruria. One can certainly see some similarities in a few well-known sculptures that postdate the Minerva and Hercules, including two Caeretan marriage sarcophagi now in the Louvre and Villa Giulia museums, and both the Latona and Apollo from the Temple of Apollo at Veii (figs. 58–61). The similarity with the Caeretan and Veientine figures seems especially apparent when viewed in color images, where the material distinction between marble and terracotta is highlighted, but material cannot stand alone as an indication of

56

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

57

FIGURE 55 Statue of Hercules and Minerva at the site of S. Omobono, detail of the head of Minerva, ca. 540–520. Painted terracotta, preserved head and shoulders 66 cm. Capitoline Museums, Rome. FIGURE 56 Peplos Kore, detail of head, ca. 530. Painted marble. Acropolis Museum, Athens, inv. 679. FIGURE 57 Kouros found at Merenda, Attica, detail of head, ca. 540–530. Parian marble. National Archaeological Museum, Athens, Greece, inv. 4489. 58 FIGURE 58 Marriage sarcophagus from Caere, detail of a frontal view of heads, ca. 530–500. Painted terracotta. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia. FIGURE 59 Marriage sarcophagus from Caere, detail of a profile view of heads, ca. 530–500. Painted terracotta. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia. FIGURE 60

59

Apollo from the Portonaccio Temple at Veii, detail of head, ca. 510–500. Painted terracotta. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia. FIGURE 61 “Latona” from the Portonaccio Temple at Veii, detail of head, ca. 510–500. Painted terracotta. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia.

60

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

61

cultural agency, especially since all of these sculptures were painted, masking materiality. When viewed in this light, that is, when style and form are highlighted as much as material, the Minerva does not fit as closely with the Caeretan and Veientine sculptures as with the Attic sculptures. She lacks the stronger brow and intent gaze of these works, and, most importantly, she lacks the severely pointed nose of the Latona and marriage sarcophagus figures, as well as the recessed iris of the eye and the decidedly elongated heads—which appear almost unnaturally squished on the sides and long front to back—from the Caeretan sarcophagi.32 Of these famous figures and others from Central Italy, the closest comparandum is the Apollo from Veii, a sculpture that is justly famous for the superiority of its craftsmanship, even over its siblings on the rooftop at Veii. Still, even that figure’s facial structure is slightly different, with differently molded eyes, much thicker, more prominent, and pursed, protruding lips—a unique feature on all of the Veii sculptures— and a stronger and more distinctive chin than the Minerva. In the end, it must also be remembered that, in contrast to the contemporaneous Attic sculptures, all of these Central Italic works were produced as much as twenty or more years after the Hercules and Minerva, so they are by no means evidence of a preexisting or contemporary style in the region.33 When the face of Minerva is compared to contemporaneous works from Central Italy, there are even fewer similarities. She does not match the style even of iconographically identical and concurrently (or immediately subsequently) produced figures at Caere, Veii, and elsewhere; each is manufactured in a style that was distinct to the polity where it was erected.34 There is just one exception. At Veii, a contemporaneous head of a Minerva shares many of the features of the Roman sculpture, including the soft brow, long eyes, curved mouth, full cheeks, and chin (fig. 62). Both figures share the stylistic and compositional qualities of the faces of Attic korai and kouroi. Unfortunately, since it cannot be determined which of the two heads came first FIGURE 62 Head of Minerva from the Portonaccio Temple at Veii, ca. 540–520. Painted terracotta. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

(and therefore, which polity the style shows up in first), a stylistic genealogy is too shaky to propose for the two heads. If anything, the prodigious production of roofs with similar revetments in Rome would suggest that city as the premier patron, but that cannot definitively address the place of origin for the sculptural style. What is clear is that there are just two figures in Central Italic sculpture that share this style and iconography, and their closest comparanda are found not in contemporaneous (or later) figures in the region, but rather in contemporaries from Attica. In addition to the dress and style of the Hercules and the visage of the Minerva, their association with one another finds a marked parallel in ceramics manufactured outside of Central Italy. At Rome, a lithe Minerva stands just behind and alongside a strong Hercules, moving forward through space, an iconography that is tied to the divinization of the demigod. Depictions of the pair were popular in archaic Athenian pottery in the years before Romans erected the second temple at S. Omobono. The most typical scenes are of Herakles’s journey with Athena to Olympus and his triumphal procession after victoriously intervening in the Gigantomachy.35 In most of these images, the primary, if not only, figures are the demigod and his patron, occasionally accompanied by Zeus. The vast majority of vases with such scenes were made and displayed in Athens, and Herakles’s association with Athena there was chiefly an Athenian propagandistic iconography relating to the city’s patron goddess.36 Given that the statue of Minerva and Hercules at S. Omobono appears to be among the first of its kind in Central Italy, and given the stylistic similarities in both the Minerva and Hercules sculptures to similar sculptures and iconographies in Attica, it is tempting to suggest a direct link with Athens, but this is a thorny, genealogical perspective and should be considered with delicacy. Many Attic vases that include images of the pair were circulating in the Mediterranean before the Roman sculpture was commissioned, a number of them found in Central Italy.37 Thus, while the group does not appear to have been popular in Central Italic production before the S. Omobono group, the iconography was not entirely new to the region, and it is possible that the iconography was lifted from such vases and rendered in a sculptural style that was concurrently becoming popular in both Attica and a few pockets of Latium, Rome included. Still, it would be a remarkable, even unique, example of iconography lifted from one type of art (two-dimensional vase painting) and married with innovative styles and compositions from another (freestanding sculpture).38 Furthermore, before the Roman sculpture, all known examples of the apotheosis scene do come from the Greek world—none appears to originate in Central Italy— and there is an undeniable popularity in Athens. The absence of the iconography and iconology in art created in Central Italy prior to this sculpture suggests some knowledge of trends swirling around Attica, but what knowledge, and what connection precisely? A major obstacle to understanding the significance of the rare combination of material, function, image, and style is the relationship of the sculpture to the temple’s dedicatee. Based on a reference in Livy, scholars agree that the subsequent, twin temples

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

at S. Omobono were dedicated to Fortuna and Mater Matuta, and most concur that the small temple below the platform would logically also be dedicated to one of those two deities.39 Which of the two is unclear. Some argue that another temple, twin to the extant small buildings, remains buried under the platform; others are reluctant to make such a leap without definitive material evidence for a twin.40 To make matters worse, evidence for the dedicatee of the excavated small temple is ambiguous. Livy states that Servius Tullius dedicated temples to Fortuna in Rome during the early sixth century, and many believe his reference fits the first small temple at S. Omobono.41 Yet a date for that temple of ca. 580 does not match Tullius’s traditional regnal dates, and there is equally strong evidence, in the form of sacrificial remains and votives more typical of Mater Matuta, that the extant temple would belong to her (should it be the home of either deity). Moreover, neither deity has close ties to Hercules or the myth of his apotheosis.42 Overall, the link between the sculptural group and the temple dedicatee remains unresolved and deeply contentious, and the problem is not isolated to S. Omobono. The enigma pervades the study of acroterial and ridgepole sculpture in Central Italy, works that do not have as straightforward an iconographic relationship with temple dedicatees as do pedimental sculptures (particularly from the severe and classical periods) in places such as Olympia, Delphi, and Athens.43 The best examples of the sculpture type in Central Italy come from Murlo, Satricum, and Veii, and each site presents trouble for interpretation. At Murlo, scholars reconstruct the sculptures atop an open courtyard building of unknown function. Ingrid Edlund-Berry highlights the similarity between the Murlo seated and standing ridgepole sculptures and figures depicted on that building’s revetments; she concludes that both may represent divine figures. The analysis is tied to her (and the excavators’) interpretation of the complex as a “templum, used as a political sanctuary.”44 Beyond that, all is speculation. A precise identification of the figures, their exact relationship with the building, and a full comprehension of the way an ancient viewer might read their iconography against the building remain unclear. At Veii, the fragmentary sculptural program was not found entirely in situ, and it is unclear whom the temple was dedicated to; the adjacent sacellum appears to have been dedicated to Minerva, but the larger temple has votives and monumental sculptural decoration that could point equally to Apollo and/or Minerva.45 Most scholars expect that the temple was important for both deities, and they feel comfortable interpreting most of the remaining ridgepole sculptures. One group, a Hercules and Apollo possibly fighting for the Delphic tripod, seems appropriate for at least one of the dedicatees, and a Latona holding Apollo would also be easily explained.46 But the rest of the sculpture is fragmentary or absent, leading some to question how Minerva fit into the iconography.47 If at Veii the extant sculptures seem at least to fit with one dedicatee, at Satricum, the picture is radically different; there, a trove of votive offerings indicates the temple was built for Mater Matuta, but scholars have trouble linking any of the ridgepole sculptures to her cult or the site around it.48 Thus, it seems that sometimes there was a clear dialogue between acroterial/

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ridgepole sculpture and the temple dedicatee, as with Apollo at Veii, but in other cases, as at Satricum, the connection is less apparent. An interpretation of the sculptures at S. Omobono by means of comparative evidence is therefore on a weak footing. With so little information about the relationship between acroterial and ridgepole sculptures, temples, and their dedicatees, and particularly about any relationship between the sculpture and potential dedicatee(s) at S. Omobono, some scholars have looked for meaning in potential architectural patrons rather than the divinity worshipped, and in doing so, they have focused on another possible explanation for the iconography of the Hercules and Minerva: propaganda. Taking into account the international (especially Aegean) style of the sculptures, scholars compare the potential function of the Roman group to Greek allegorical images found around Attica. The suggestion rests largely on the iconography of the group: the divinization of the demigod, which some have interpreted as an allegory of the Peisistratid rise to power in Athens.49 Several scholars of the S. Omobono sculpture suggest the allegory finds a parallel in Roman politics and contend that Tarquinius Superbus must have recognized the Athenian propagandistic success and used it in his reconstruction of the temple at S. Omobono.50 Yet, as Christer Bruun notes, scholars of Greek art no longer believe that Peisistratos promoted images of the demigod as propaganda in any new or innovative way, since myriad examples of the group predate Peisistratos’s rise to power; rather, the imagery seems to be a long-standing means to highlight the city’s patron goddess and her role in the Gigantomachy.51 Tarquinius Superbus certainly could not have commissioned the group in Rome in syncretism with Peisistratid propaganda if there was no such propagandistic function in Athens. What is more, as will become clear in Chapter 5, there is no reason to believe that Tarquinius Superbus (or any king) was responsible for this temple in the first place. In the wake of Bruun’s argument, and after continued concern for the precise dates of the temple, Patricia Lulof has noted that in the last decades of the sixth century, statues of Hercules and Minerva were produced at Caere, Veii, Pyrgi, and Satricum, and she adds that different tyrants and heads of state ruled at each of these cities. She doubts they used the same propaganda for the same links to Athens, and such a usage is absolutely nonsensical without a dynastic or political purpose at Athens itself. Still, she highlights that this kind of sculpture was not just decoration: it would have had a purpose. It was expensive, sacred, visually powerful, and “meant to be seen.”52 Thus, in line with theories of peer-polity interaction, she asserts that the proliferation of the type indicates its popularity among rival city-states seeking to outshine one another with grand sculpture. For the cities outside Rome, her argument succeeds: in response to the choice of one polity, rivals might have sought to surpass it with grander sculpture. Yet stylistically and stratigraphically, the sculpture at Rome is either the first example of the pairing on Central Italic temples, or it is one of three, the others at Veii and Caere, that date to the same time.53 If the Roman sculpture created (or helped create) the trend, it could not also follow that trend, and like the situation at S. Omobono, there is no good explanation for a link

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between the groups at Veii and Caere and the temples they adorned. Thus, several questions remain. Why was a sculpture of Hercules’s apotheosis appropriate for any of these temples? Why was the first pair produced? And why did artists choose a style and form of dress that was so foreign to Central Italy? The Hercules and Minerva remains a mystery due to the lack of a dedicatee for the temple at Rome; because ridgepole sculptures in general are difficult to interpret; and because propagandistic purposes are problematic. One last means of interpreting the pair may, however, present a new direction for interpreting archaic Central Italic acroterial/ ridgepole sculpture in general, and may shed light on the use of such an international motif at Rome. Scholars have spent most of their time considering the religious and political circumstance of the group and have largely ignored its urban context. Moreover, those seeking to interpret the group continually attempt to allegorize the statuary, suggesting that it signifies Superbus’s triumph, ties him (through various means) to the importation of the Isthmian Games to Rome, or serves some other symbolic purpose. But perhaps an historical reading of the sculpture better suits an Italic temple in early Rome at a cultural nexus and especially a point of mercantilism.54 If there is one space in Italy where Hercules’s apotheosis would be well suited for historical commemoration, it is the Forum Boarium. The S. Omobono sculpture group directly faces the site of the Ara Maxima (dedicated to Hercules) across the Velabrum. There are few Roman religious traditions whose roots scholars feel comfortable tracing back to archaic times, but even skeptical scholars suggest that the myth of Hercules and his association with the Forum Boarium may very well date back to the archaic period.55 To an audience that saw Hercules’s presence in Rome as a divine sanction of its city, a sculpture commemorating him and representing the single greatest moment in the hero’s tale would recall the greatness of both the demigod and the city. Such an interpretation does not account for the sculpture’s place on a temple to Mater Matuta or Fortuna, but given scholars’ inability to explain connections between roof sculpture and dedicatee in buildings elsewhere in early Central Italy, one should not necessarily expect that the incongruity a modern viewer perceives would translate to an ancient Roman. A new interpretation for the function of ridgepole sculptures at Veii suggests that their connection may not have even been so strictly tied to the deity worshipped in the temple, but rather to the character of the religious space. In her study of the early fifth-century sculptures at the Portonaccio Temple, Jenifer Neils suggests that the mythological figures on the roof recalled stories and lives with great moments of transition precisely because the temple was extramural, mediating the boundary of the city.56 Perhaps the same was true at Rome, and Hercules’s apotheosis with Minerva was chosen as a marker of the sanctity of this region of the city for Hercules’s mythology as well as for his association (and Minerva’s) with safety in long-distance travel, a common theme at Greek, Punic, Etruscan, Latin, and other trade hubs in the western Mediterranean. Given the recent suggestion that this and other port and trade sanctuaries were built and decorated

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specifically to facilitate smooth mercantile relationships among diverse cultures, such an interpretation of the group would work well at the site.57 Without more evidence for the temple’s dedicatee or comparanda for the relationship of ridgepole sculpture to a temple’s religious function, it is difficult to know anything more precise about the sculptures’ relationship with the temple. Still, though the question has long stumped scholars, its answerability does not define the limits of the group’s significance. The statuary’s function in relation to the god worshipped is evasive, but its location on the temple is not. Scholars agree that the Hercules and Minerva belongs on the roof of a building that itself followed a trend in raised, frontal temple design, a disposition and style of religious architecture that came to be a hallmark of the region and one of the primary ways that the architecture of Rome and its neighbors was distinct from that of the rest of the Mediterranean.58 This is not unimportant. Function and physical context are quintessential markers of culture, identity, and ethnicity, and the manufacture of this group for this location on this temple suggests a clear Central Italic functional context for the statue.59 At the same time, the style and iconography are important as well. Were it only the curvaceousness of the figure or the iconography of Hercules’s apotheosis, these might be explained as adaptations from imported vases, though that would be abnormal. Yet the obscure choice of a girded lion skin, executed in the same manner as figures produced only in Attica and the Peloponnese, alongside the defined musculature and torsion—itself not used in vase painting, not prominent in Central Italy until the end of the century, and just burgeoning in sculpture in Attica and the Aegean—and Minerva’s strikingly Attic facial composition are all hard to ignore. The statue fits best within archaic sculptural trends of the mid- to late sixth century that were contemporaneously emerging in the area around Athens. Sculptors incorporated these stylistic and iconographic trends into a distinctly local architectural vocabulary when they placed the group atop the ridge of a Central Italic temple. Thus, overall, the material (terracotta), its technique of manufacture, the iconography of Hercules and Minerva, the style of the group, and its location and function on a temple designed explicitly for Central Italy are hard to reconcile if one suggests they belong to any one cultural genealogy. Alongside other elements from the roof—including the sphinxes, simas, and revetments, which were themselves part of a long-standing dialogue with Ionic architectural sculpture—they cannot be said clearly to come from a single tradition. Instead, they appear to be the product of a meeting of Ionic, Aegean, Attic, and Central Italic artistic trends in a complex roof for a unique building in Rome. Scholars once saw such fusion as dependence: a lesser culture wantonly borrowing from a greater one; Romans dependent on Athenian, Aegean, Ionic, Veientine, and other artistic cultures to elevate the local sculpture of their unsophisticated architecture: Romans being Etruscanized or Hellenized. Now, instead, they see the significance of the fusion and of the intervention of those who assembled the different styles and iconographies in one work of art.60 In keeping with this brand of interaction theory, I

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suggest that the sculpture reveals Romans’ agency. It highlights their vanguard incorporation of stylistic and iconographic trends that were sweeping the Mediterranean into architectural sculpture for their own local architectural and religious purposes. It is an adaptation of a variegated archaic Mediterranean artistic vocabulary—one that is evident from Samos to Athens to Agrigento to Veii—to their own needs, and it is comparable to what artists were doing elsewhere in the great polities of the archaic world, where they wed artistic styles to identifiably distinct traditions. One is reminded of the later columen plaque from Temple A at Pyrgi, where scholars have long noted a combination of a style very close to the western pediment at Aegina, a decidedly Greek iconography (the Seven against Thebes), a uniquely Central Italic architectural function (columen plaque), and a compositional three-dimensional melee that looked more to Attic red-figure vases and Etruscan mirrors than to Greek architectural sculpture. A similar mixing of style, composition, function, and iconography is highlighted more and more in the comingled Mediterranean world, and it seems Romans were participating in this movement with an exceptionally complex and sophisticated temple and sculpture already by the mid- to late sixth century. Thus, while it is impossible to know if the work’s patron looked specifically to Attica and Ionia or instead looked to a cutting-edge workshop that blended fresh Mediterranean artistic trends, in any case, the sculpture reveals that Romans were keen to yoke artistic movements from beyond their shores, and even incorporate these trends in a sanctuary that would have been among the first visual statements one encountered upon entering their city. In doing so, Romans aptly fused radically different trends in style, iconography, form, material, and composition in sculpture for the roof of a temple with a distinctive plan, maintaining an artistic current unique to their city. Such subtle stylistic eclecticism would only continue in Rome in the coming century, and later, after passing through several more lenses, it would, in fact, become a hallmark of Roman art.

THE FORUM PLAIN Climbing the pathway of the Vicus Iugarius from behind the area of S. Omobono up to the Forum plain, foreign visitors and Romans alike were greeted in the second half of the century with a dramatically different—and ever-changing—landscape in what was becoming a more clearly defined civic center. Nearly all of the reconstructions and changes from this period are difficult to date with precision and could belong anywhere between ca. 520 and the very early fifth century. At the area surrounding the Regia and Atrium Vestae, a shift of architectural design was already underway. Romans had rebuilt the Regia yet again ca. 550–530; remains of both terracotta decoration and the floor plan are difficult to interpret, but again, multiple rooms adjacent to a trapezoidal courtyard are distinguishable, as are antefixes in a style

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FIGURE 63 Plan of the Regia, final archaic building, with the conjectured plan in dashed lines, excavated walls in dark gray, and pavement in light gray. American Academy in Rome, Photographic Archive, inv. Regia. R74.12, with additions. FIGURE 64 3-D reconstruction of the Regia, final archaic phase, aerial view with the roof semitransparent. FIGURE 65 3-D reconstruction of the Regia, final archaic phase, view of a doorway to the southern rooms from across the paved courtyard.

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FIGURE 66 Plan of the Regia, Imperial phase:

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found at Caere during the period.61 But it is the fifth phase at the Regia that is striking for its innovation and lasting significance. Ceramics associated with the new construction date the last archaic phase between ca. 520 and the very early fifth century.62 In this building, five courses of stone foundations support stuccoed mud-brick walls, which constitute three rooms to the south of a new trapezoidal courtyard (figs. 63–65). For the first time, the courtyard was paved in stone (cappellaccio), and several cappellaccio bases, probably for wooden columns, lined the north side. Additionally, a stone drainage canal was installed running from the middle of the courtyard to the northwest, and a large altar first built in the previous phase was enlarged with a square base. The three southern rooms were also paved, and in the westernmost room was a round cappellaccio hearth.63 As would be the case all around the plain, the new Regia does not simply mark an addition or a changed plan to an established civic space; this structure endured, marking a shift that lasted down through the Republic and Empire. In two Republican reconstructions, builders changed the size of the rooms slightly and erected stone columns in place of the wooden ones, but otherwise they maintained this late archaic plan throughout an eight-hundred-year history of use (fig. 66).64 What is more, with this late archaic phase, it is possible to see consistencies in religious markers that persisted and seem to reveal a new continuity of religious function. For example, Russell T. Scott has demonstrated that the hearth in the westernmost room was used in later periods, perhaps as part of the sacrarium of Mars. Whatever its precise function, it was installed in this late sixth-century phase and remained sacred for centuries to come, well into the Republic. Meanwhile, the east room—which has been reconstructed as a sacred storeroom, the sanctuary of Ops Consiva—appears to have first been used during this phase as well.65 Some scholars go further and suggest a more profound shift in the new reconstruction of the Regia and the endurance of the plan; to them, the new building is linked to the uprisings that started the Republic, and the plan is tied with a similar building at Athens, whose changed function celebrated the fall of a tyranny, the Peisistratids, there.66

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FIGURE 67 Hypothetical reconstruction of the Atrium Vestae, new building, with the conjectured plan in dashed lines, probable walls in gray, and excavated walls in black, ca. 530/520: following Arvanitis 2010, fig. 18, with modifications.

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Many scholars caution against a close reading of the literature on the Roman overthrow of the monarchy. Among other reasons, its date and tone are so close to the Athenian democratic revolution that it may be an annalistic contrivance imposed on early Rome by late Republican authors, in order to enliven their history.67 Perhaps more importantly, Athens is not the only city to boast a structure like this. Builders all over Central Italy—at Satricum, Acquarossa, and Gabii—adopted this plan long before its appearance at Rome, and buildings like it continue to pop up after the purported fall of the monarchy, suggesting that, if anything, Romans were participating in a long-standing, ongoing, and pervasive architectural trend, not harnessing the political meaning of a rare building.68 Further still, the date of this last archaic phase of the Regia is problematic; it could have been built as early as ca. 520 or as late as the early fifth century, and thus it could predate or long postdate the putative transition in government.69 With the broad dates for the Roman building falling on both sides of the traditional formation of Republic, with so many buildings throughout the Mediterranean boasting similar plans, and given how difficult it is to ascribe a precise function to any of them, it is unwise to tie the new plan of the Regia to the overthrow of monarchy or to a building from any one city. What is clear is that its design changed and endured, and it seems that the function of some specific spaces may have persisted from this point until the end of polytheistic religion in Rome. This persistence would become a trend over the next century in Rome, and it marks some of the first tangible evidence of an enduring urban landscape. A lasting plan and function are also apparent across the street at the Area of Vesta, where excavations have revealed not only a significant aggrandizement of the site, but also a marked correlation in orthogonal plan with the new Regia across the street. The overhaul in the Area of Vesta dates more or less to the same time as at the Regia: the very end of the sixth century or early fifth. The plan is somewhat hazy, but the fresh round of construction included cappellaccio walls for rectilinear rooms opening onto a courtyard, in an arrangement that would come to characterize the site through the Empire (fig. 67).70

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Meanwhile, just north of this structure and just east of the later Republican Temple of Vesta, a small platform of cappellaccio slabs was laid around a well at the site. Scott has highlighted the correspondence of the location of this platform with Ovid’s description of an altar directly east of the Temple of Vesta, and he argues that this area must have supported the late sixth-century altar for the goddess and presumably its later reconstructions.71 The building and accompanying monuments would endure into the Republic for some time, before a major overhaul of the site shifted its image in the fourth century.72 Together with the new courtyard building, the abundant sacrificial finds of grain, and the inscription from the previous phase, the evidence reveals the foundations of enduring architecture and ritual furnishings for one of Rome’s most quintessential and enduring cults. The late archaic structure and its sacred deposit remained in use down to a period when a more trustworthy textual record securely identifies the site as the Area of Vesta. Romans had established the cult, and, as with the Regia, they built a complex in a durable material to support an institution that was crucial enough to anticipate a long-standing use. Similar substantial and lasting changes were at work across the plain, where Romans paved the site of the Comitium yet again, this time further monumentalizing it with a stepped platform in cappellaccio stone (fig. 68).73 Its south (rear) wall is irregular in shape, but the north-facing front is straight, with three stairs rising to a large stage. To the west is a low open space, at the far edge of which is the cippus, still on its cappellaccio paving. The open space between the cippus and the west edge of the platform suggests that a monument of some kind stood in the place of a later altar or that the area remained open, used for ceremony of some kind. Immediately west of the cippus is another structure, again a platform with three steps on the north leading to the raised area; the two platforms are linked across the back by a stone wall. Archaeologists have uncovered the eastern edge of the platform in excavations. Another stepped platform may have existed beyond this break, but without further excavation, this remains unclear. The far western edge of the platform continues in some manner to the northwest, but this area too has not been excavated. Some scholars see the raised stages as an early tribunal and link their date with the traditional start of the Republic (ca. 509) and stronger senatorial powers; others are more cautious and suggest only that they were part of an enclosed, stepped speaking and meeting area that gained formalization over time.74 As with the Regia, the date of the platform can only be broadly defined, and it could belong anywhere between ca. 520 and 500, on either side of the purported start of the Republic.75 Thus, its construction cannot be linked to a change in government with any real certainty. Still, even if these concerns cannot be definitively addressed at present, the platform is not without significance in the examination of early Roman culture and the changing cityscape. In the context of other projects from the late sixth and early fifth centuries, including the temple at S. Omobono and other monuments discussed later in this chapter, the platform demonstrates a growing trend of

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FIGURE 68 3-D reconstruction of the platform and cippus at the Comitium.

b ild choosing builders h i a permanentt material—stone—for t i l t f the th entire ti elevation l ti off monuments, t in an attempt to produce not just large, but also lasting architecture. The investment in time, skill, cost, and planning suggests that whenever it was built, the platform was meant to endure, and that would only happen if its function were expected to endure as well. Whether or not it would last, no one could have been sure, but its intended structural permanence reflects the intended and desired permanence of the institutions it housed. In the end, the stepped structure stood for some two hundred years, and even then it was replaced by a similar platform, whose appearance became a hallmark not only of the Comitium in Rome, but of comitia throughout the Roman Empire.

THE HILLS The Palatine and Velia

Sometime in the early to mid-sixth century, the ravine that separated the northwestern corner of the Palatine from the Velia was filled with earth and paved over in large cappellaccio ashlars, inaugurating the first formal iteration of what came to be known as the Via Sacra.76 This stone-paved roadway marks a substantial change in infrastructure that led in and out of the Forum. The formalization of dirt paths with flagged streets may seem a small step, but the change was not inconsequential. On a pragmatic level, it meant cleanliness and a more sophisticated infrastructure; it also created stability and signified the entrenchment of one of the city’s byways. This would quickly catch on over the next fifty years as more and more roads and plazas were flagged with stone, ushering in a sense of established urban districts, their edges, and the pathways that linked them.77

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FIGURE 69 Plan of the Palatine north slope, Domus 3, late 6th century. The conjectured plan is in dashed lines, with extant walls in black, extant beaten earth pavement in dark gray, and a drain in light gray: following Carandini, Carafa et al. 1995 [2000], tav. 64 and tav. V, with modifications.

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Soon after the road was laid, a larger and more complex house went up over the Sepulcretum with tall stone walls stuccoed in painted plaster. It is the first known example of full-scale stone construction in Rome, with not only foundations and socles, but the full height of a building constructed in stone. It was not alone. Until the 1980s, it was a unique remnant of decorated domestic stone architecture in archaic Rome, but since then, excavations have revealed exceptional wealth invested in homes stretching further up the Via Sacra along the north slope of the Palatine Hill in the mid- to late sixth century. Over the past few decades, archaeologists working in the area have uncovered cappellaccio walls, beaten-earth floors, ovens, and hearths covering the slope. Amid these and other telltale signs of domestic life, they have uncovered ceramics and a few infant burials that date construction to ca. 530, with minor refurbishments through the early fifth century. The remains indicate four large houses, each with a plan that covers between 560 and perhaps an astounding 930 square meters (fig. 69).78 The site’s excavators have reconstructed precise floor plans for each domicile based on the remains, and they argue that

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FIGURE 70 Plans of “House of Tarquinius,” from the north slope of the Palatine, featuring A) remaining walls; B) probable walls; and C) a hypothetical reconstruction by excavators. From Wiseman 2008a, figs. 52–54.

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these are the earliest atrium-style houses in Italy. The walls and floors are only partially preserved, though, and many of the walls are separated by tens of meters. In one house, actual remains constitute just 5 percent of the excavators’ proposed reconstruction, and one scholar has even hinted that a roadway might have bisected the putative unified plan of one of the houses (fig. 70).79 One problem for understanding the plans is that final publication has not yet occurred. Yet Domus 3 has seen final publication, and although it retains the most walls of any of the houses, the atrium-style plan is still hard to accept. Walls seem to be connected to beaten-earth floors that conjoin one abode on a large scale. Yet, while that much is clear, so much of the house was covered with later buildings that the alae, tablinum, and, in fact, the whole of the atrium concept are by necessity speculative.80 In the end, any precise plan or identification of a type of house remains conjecture. The excavations are nonetheless extraordinarily thorough and remarkable for the scale of construction they reveal. They have brought to light remains of exceptional houses (the hearths, domestic ceramics, and infant burials found throughout the excavations clarify this much) with walls built in stone at the edge of the Roman Forum, leading up the slope of the Palatine Hill. The sheer size of these homes reveals a rare, rich class of people living in Rome. Of course, the use of stone for domestic architecture, though not widespread in the region, is not isolated to Rome. From the early sixth century, people all around Central Italy, including Rome, were building houses in part out of tuff, and by the middle of the sixth century, some were constructing whole facades in stone.81 The Roman houses fit closely with others in Etruria and Latium (and, in fact, around the Mediterranean) as examples of the increase of full-scale stone domestic architecture toward the close of the archaic period. What is exceptional about these houses is their

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 71 Female head antefix from above the huts on the Germalos, Palatine southwest slope, late 6th century. Painted terracotta, 13.5 cm × 10 cm. Palatine Antiquarium, Inv. 21.

number and size. At 930 square meters, the proposed dimensions for the largest one are far bigger than any earlier houses in Central Italy, and even the smaller homes, at roughly 560 square meters, are equal to the most impressive “palace” at Acquarossa, in Zone F, and larger than houses at Marzabotto.82 In this light, the Roman homes reveal an elite group not only within the city, but a group that was building houses that outstripped their contemporaries up and down the peninsula. Farther up the Palatine, remains are less clear, but archaeologists have nonetheless found evidence for more monumental decorated buildings across the hilltop. In excavation between the Domus Augustana and the House of Livia, they uncovered walls founded on splinters of tuff, in a building connected by clay floors.83 Unfortunately, the remains do not reveal even partial floor plans or the overall dimensions of buildings, since the trenches were so small. Nearby, below the House of Livia, archaeologists found revetments of the same system used at S. Omobono. They may pertain to the walls found by the House of Livia, but they could also belong to another, as-yet-undiscovered structure. 84 Similar remains were found on the southwest corner of the Palatine, where, directly above huts from the previous period, archaeologists uncovered roof tiles and antefixes with female heads among a rich stash of ceramics dating between the mid- and late sixth century (fig. 71). The remains would seem to indicate a far richer and more highly decorated structure atop the earlier huts, potentially a new building with a religious function.85 To be clear, no sacrificial remains or ritual objects have been found, and a sacred nature is unclear. Yet, as the next chapter will reveal, in the first part of the fifth century, another building would go up next to the remains under the House of Livia. Votive pits associated with that structure positively identify it as a sacred building, and excavations on the southwest slope seem to point again and again to a sacred character for this area of the Palatine.86 For the late sixth century, things are not so clear; what can be said is that Romans were building more and more substantial decorated buildings in the area, just as a truly elite group was constructing exceptional domiciles on the north slope. At the Edges

Throughout the city, by the riverside around the Forum plain and on the Palatine, architecture was becoming both more entrenched and more complex. Chief among the changes of this period was the erection of substantial buildings with walls fully rendered in stone; this at least is clear on the north Palatine slope, and it was also the case on the Capitoline, discussed later in this chapter. Cappellaccio was becoming a standard material for the full height of walls, and it appears that either at this same time or in the coming decades of the early fifth century, Romans employed this same stone in a new set of urban defenses around the hills.87 Until the mid-sixth century, evidence for defensive walls in Rome exists in the form of earthen works: the north Palatine wall (whether ceremonial or otherwise infrastructural), another on the eastern Capitoline, and potentially fossas (ditches) on the eastern

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hills. Overall, archaeological evidence for distinct fortifications to protect each hill or for collectively sanctioned defenses around the edges of a larger community are rare, and the textual sources are so liberal with the assignation of walls to nearly every king (and sometimes the same wall to multiple kings) that they are hard for scholars to trust, or, at least, hard to comprehend. In general, archaeological and textual evidence for the urban definition of Rome by way of defensive walls in the eighth to early sixth centuries is tenuous. Beginning perhaps in the mid-sixth century, this changes, as archaeological evidence for several segments of impressive stone defenses around the periphery of Rome appears. These are the remains that have been tied to a so-called Servian Wall. The situation of the remains is remarkably complex, even for the typically convoluted circumstances of early Roman architecture. Building material on its own is not helpful, as there are stretches of the accepted fourth-century wall and agger that may incorporate both Grotta Oscura and cappellaccio (for example, in a large section by Termini Station), and the proposed archaic stretches also use cappellaccio. The same material was used for different phases in different centuries, and cappellaccio in general was used for large-scale construction well into the middle Republic throughout the city of Rome.88 Metrology is equally uncooperative, as stones from the archaic stretches in cappellaccio are of the same sizes as cappellaccio blocks in monuments elsewhere in the city that date down to the third century.89 Meanwhile, stratigraphically attested ceramics and other datable objects are also unhelpful. They are truly rare and, in fact, the most commonly cited example of a stratigraphic find dates to the fifth century: perhaps archaic, but certainly not near the purported reign of Servius Tullius, whom the wall was once tied to.90 The debate on the walls is a thorny one, and, in the end, scholars agree that the evidence presents only a hazy picture. For some scholars, though, this hazy picture is enough to demonstrate the existence of a full circuit of defensive walls winding its way around the Capitoline, Quirinal, Esquiline, Caelian, and Aventine, following much the same path as the attested middle Republican walls built largely in Grotta Oscura. These scholars look primarily to four pieces of evidence: the contemporaneous examples in Latium of monumental urban walls in stone; the outsized architectural output of Rome during the archaic period; the remains of several segments of cappellaccio walls with a fairly clear (but broadly defined) archaic date; and the remarkable congruence of the line of these segments and the later fourth-century defenses.91 As the argument goes, archaeological evidence of segments of urban defense built in cappellaccio is generally unquestioned. Romans had built some kind of fortification walls, and comparanda from Central Italy, South Italy, Sicily, and elsewhere in the Mediterranean indicate that when urban defenses were built, they were generally built as a full circuit, not as small segments; it would be arguing against contemporaneous comparanda to suggest the walls did not form a complete circuit.92 Thus, through exhaustive study, these scholars present a unified picture of a colossal effort at stone construction, an endeavor unmatched by any architectural feat from the archaic or classical periods

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in all of the Italic Peninsula, with the exception only of the fourth-century reconstruction of the same circuit. Other scholars have been more skeptical. They point to the problem of the contemporaneous comparanda in Central Italy, which, for all of their functional and structural similarities to the proposed wall, are so much smaller that it is hard to use them as true comparanda.93 Of course, as this chapter and the next reveal, Rome’s overall architectural output in this period was both closely tied to that of its neighbors and manifestly more impressive in its scale, so perhaps it should not be so surprising that the walls would both participate in this trend and push beyond it. Still, critics can also point to the shaky grounds for dating some of the longer stretches of cappellaccio wall, many of which are founded on concrete, a situation that requires a complex (though not wholly untenable) interpretation to justify an archaic date. They also look to the extremely fragmentary nature of the remains (even when the longer, chronologically less certain stretches are included) and the noticeable absence of evidence for archaic walls in some (or perhaps all) of the valleys between the hills—that is, the most vulnerable parts of the city. Furthermore, they highlight the textual sources, which may suggest a disjointed urban defense even during the middle Republic. If the wall was discontinuous then, it seems even less likely that it would have been a full circuit during the regal period, and without a textual source explicitly describing a continuous defensive ring around all of the proposed hills in the sixth or fifth centuries, these scholars suggest the circumstances are just too unclear.94 One might add that, while comparanda for segmented walls built to defend individual hilltops may be less common than a full circuit, such an approach is not without parallel. Before the shift in siege craft and the scale of assault in the classical period, some Mediterranean polities did rely on discontinuous walls with earthen barriers and/or large trenches at less problematic intervals. Perhaps Rome did the same until attacks on its territory famously became fearsome in the late fifth and early fourth centuries.95 Moreover, the vast majority of cities with full circuits stood on single hilltops or just two high plateaus; Rome had so many valleys between the hills and its territory was apparently so large that the situation may have allowed for (or even required) a unique and judicious application of mural construction at first, which would only be converted into a full circuit in the fourth century, when much larger stone walls became far more common in the Mediterranean. Of course, such arguments cannot positively disprove the existence of a full circuit, and it must be remembered that however unlikely it may seem, the real possibility of a circuit remains. The debate has gone on for more than a century, and scholars are at such odds on the interpretation of so many pieces of evidence that their perspectives appear at present to be irreconcilable. Yet they do not disagree on every point, and a few aspects of the debate have seen some resolution that might help to provide a sense of the significance of the endeavor, whatever its precise scale or plan. There are three salient points that authors roundly agree on. First, on the far northern Quirinal, the far eastern Esquiline, and the western Capitoline hills, there are

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cappellaccio walls of archaic date that follow either the natural topography of the edges of hilltops or the same line as the later Republican wall. The location, orientation, and composition of these walls are generally accepted as solid evidence that they had an urban defensive function. There are also cappellaccio walls used for the same purpose on the lesser and major Aventine, and many scholars—even some skeptics of a full archaic circuit—give credence to an archaic date for these stretches.96 Second, there do not appear to be stone fortifications on the inner portions of the hills—that is, on the southeastern Quirinal, western Esquiline, eastern Capitoline, western Caelian, or northern Aventine. Whatever earthen works might have existed beforehand, it is unlikely that stone defensive walls ever went fully around the tops of each of the hills, but rather that—whether discontinuous or a full circuit—they only extended around the outer limits of the city.97 Third, the locations of the pomerium and of the wall—of the religious and defensive boundaries— do not seem to match perfectly in any period. This means that burials, sanctuaries, and all manner of religiously bound construction become thorny evidence for the locations of intra- and extramural portions of the city. Scholars on both sides of the argument have used the locations of graves and temples to help make their claims for either the impossibility or the certainty of archaic urban walls in a particular area, but it must be remembered that burial and sacred space were tied to the ritual boundary, not the defensive one, and it is entirely unclear whether these were one and the same in the archaic period.98 Beyond these three points, all arguments are open to attack. This is not to say that all points beyond these are radically speculative, but they are by nature less certain. There is one last aspect of the walls that scholars appear now to agree upon: no matter which segments date to the archaic period and whatever the overall plan, their precise date is ambiguous at best and inconsistent at worst. Evidence for several of the archaic portions, including those on the Quirinal, indicates a date no earlier than the fifth century, while several others are not precisely datable at all, except to say that they predate the fourth-century circuit and therefore belong in the archaic period.99 Thus, without precise dates and with such an unconnected segmentation of the remains of the wall, it is impossible even to demonstrate that the attested archaic stretches belong to a single undertaking. Textual sources are not much help. Apart from their general unreliability, they ascribe stone walls and an immense agger to Tarquinius Priscus, and stone walls to Servius Tullius and Tarquinius Superbus in different phases; what is more, they do not specify when during their reigns these kings might have undertaken such endeavors.100 Further still, there is no indication that extension of the walls would have been left unattended in the early Republic. In other words, with so many textual attestations for walls and aggers to different kings, and with such an ambiguous archaeological record (which indicates fifth-century, so, Republican, construction for at least one proposed archaic stretch), the different archaic sections of wall on the different hills could in fact each date to different parts of the archaic period, an ongoing project to fortify the city that took decades. Thus, even if there was a full circuit early on, it could have been built piecemeal over a hundred

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years or more in different initiatives from the sixth down to the fifth century, and, especially for those who want to see a full archaic circuit, certain portions could not have been finished until the fifth century, well into the Republic. A precise chronology within the archaic period is therefore as vexing as is a precise plan. There would seem to be only uncertainty. Yet, even if the settled arguments are few, they are nonetheless telling. If nothing else, scholars agree that there were several segments of walls that belong to urban defensive infrastructure at the extremities of the city, on the north Quirinal, east Esquiline, west Capitoline, and potentially even the far southeastern Aventine. That is to say, whether these walls created a full circuit, or they were erected in sections and only for areas where natural terrain and ditches or earthen rampart were insufficient, they nonetheless created a notional perimeter around the hills. To a certain degree, and with impressive effect, Romans built defensive walls around their community during the sixth and/or early fifth centuries. The walls’ location on the outer edges of the hills indicates that as a defense for all the community, they were protecting a settlement that included most of the traditional hills of the city of Rome and certainly an area of enormous proportions. This is of vital significance. If the urban walls did form a circuit, their size and the volume of material used would be without parallel anywhere in the western Mediterranean. If they were part of a more segmented, piecemeal defense, the extant traces of city walls around such an immense area are still telling. Although dense habitation would not necessarily have covered all of this land, it appears that Romans wished to protect these areas and considered them part of a territory worth consolidating behind urban fortification. No other city in the region had such an expansive protected area, and only a few nearby polities could boast such a large cohesive territory. Even if much of it was forest and pasture (as was the case with most polities of such a size), and even if the walls were not continuous, the size of the area within them was beyond compare in Central Italy. The territory protected behind extant segments on the Quirinal, Esquiline, and Capitoline (and surely including the Velia and Palatine) would have covered at least 265 hectares; if one includes the Caelian and Aventine, the area jumps to about 426 hectares. Even at 265 hectares, it is a territory without comparison anywhere in the region, although Veii would have been close; one must go to the powerful cities of archaic and classical Sicily and the east to find something comparable. If this area seems an enormous size, it is worth recalling the change at this time to domestic architecture, and over the next few pages and in the following chapter, it will become clear that from the mid-sixth to the mid-fifth century, the cityscape and especially the evidence for religious buildings in Rome indicate a newly expansive city of vast wealth, unrivaled architecture, and evident ties to the wider Mediterranean. These walls and the territory they defended fit comfortably within that picture, whether a full circuit or a segmented defense. The defense may have been in place by the mid- to late sixth century, going up alongside the north Palatine houses, the second temple at S. Omobono,

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and a new temple on the Capitoline; they may also have been part of a long project that extended well into the fifth century, or, given the lack of securely datable sixth-century segments, they may not even have been begun until the turn of the sixth to fifth centuries. Whatever the case, it seems clear that as part of their archaic cityscape, Romans created urban defenses for an unparalleled territory. The Capitoline

Whatever the date of the city walls, by ca. 500, Romans were using stone in multiple courses for wide, sturdy foundations and superstructures in civic, religious, and domestic architecture throughout the city center. The elite houses on the Palatine, the refurbished temple at S. Omobono, changes at the Regia, Atrium Vestae, and Comitium, new roads, and infrastructure, such as terracing walls and cisterns throughout the city, all reveal Romans’ capacity to build substantial, lasting monuments with sophisticated engineering at necessarily complex work sites. Without question, these architectural achievements reveal a change in construction at Rome, but they have long been overshadowed by one truly exceptional endeavor. For many scholars, no project speaks more to the city’s fast-growing wealth, international reach, and urban shift in the archaic period than does the temple that went up on the summit of the Capitoline Hill at the close of the sixth century. The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus is well known as an important sanctuary in Roman religion and as an iconic part of the city’s image, perched as it was high atop the Capitoline Hill. Those who work on early Roman culture also routinely tout the purported colossal size of the temple as an indication of Rome’s power at that time, and with good reason. The traditional reconstruction of the temple is that of an extraordinary building not only for Rome or even for Central Italy, but in fact for any city in the contemporaneous Mediterranean world, including far more famous and accepted centers of archaic cultural prowess such as Athens, Corinth, and Syracuse (fig. 72). Although a few scholars have continued to suggest a diminutive reconstruction,101 all evidence now indicates that the temple was indeed colossal. Materials from the excavation of several foundation trenches as well as surrounding finds of wells, fictile revetments, and burials all supply a solid date for construction in the second half of the sixth century, and scholars now collectively agree that archaeological evidence confirms that the temple—whatever its size—went up in the period between ca. 550 and 500.102 Mura Sommella, who led the excavation, further notes that fragments of roof tiles from earlier buildings in the area, including an example of the frieze type found at S. Omobono and elsewhere, indicate other structures standing on the site of the Temple of Jupiter until ca. 540 to 530.103 Although it cannot be determined with certainty that the building with the revetments stood precisely where the new building went up, the presence of the terracottas may be an indication that construction did not begin until after ca. 530. Whenever it was begun, the style of architectural terracottas now associated with the Temple of Jupiter as well as other remains from the site—including wells and the cap over

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FIGURE 72 Plan of the Temple of Jupiter, following traditional interpretation.

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foundation trenches—indicate that the temple was completed near the close of the century.104 Thus, with the recent excavations, there is now a consensus that sometime in the second half of the sixth century, Romans built a temple on the Capitoline. Scholars also agree that the temple stood atop a vast set of foundations, which remain in situ.105At seventy-four by fifty-four meters and totaling roughly twenty-eight thousand to thirty-two thousand cubic meters of finely cut stone, the interconnecting foundation walls sunk eight meters into the Capitoline Hill are, on their own, an extraordinary achievement for any archaic city (figs. 73–78).106 Although their date, existence, and impressiveness now go unquestioned, and although they do not by themselves present the most artistically arresting of monuments, they are, nonetheless, worth considering carefully. As a whole, the substructure is composed of multiple intersecting walls. A set of massive walls, each composed of ashlars that are arranged in an intricate mesh of headers and stretchers some ten rows wide and as many as twenty-seven courses deep, create a perimeter. Within the perimeter are four immense longitudinal walls and several transverse walls of different lengths, all woven together and joined to the perimeter by interlocking masonry at mural intersections, creating a fully bound substructure. On its own, the manufacture of such an enormous and complex mass of masonry is striking and substantial confirmation that builders in Rome swiftly attained comfort with vast stone construction. The project also attests to the refined skills and sizable labor force required for the concomitant quarrying, transportation, and work-site organization, as well as the enormous excavation of earth and the daunting task of lowering, stacking, and interlacing tens of thousands of cubic meters of heavy stone. Put simply, the foundations incorporated an enormous volume of material and were themselves a sophisticated work of architecture whose immensity saw no parallel anywhere in the region, or even the peninsula. The closest rival is the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii, but its substructure constitutes less than an eighth of the volume of stone used at Rome, and each foundation wall at Tarquinii is between three and five ashlars wide, less than half their width at the Temple of Jupiter. In fact, on its own, the intertwined mass of stone foundations on the Capitoline is more voluminous than the combined foundation and superstructure of any other work of architecture in all of archaic Italy, including the Temple of Hera I at Paestum and Temple BII at Metapontum, both famous for their awesome size.107 Despite the uncontested existence of impressive and illustrative architectonic skill, a few scholars remain unable to believe that Romans could surmount these extraordinary foundations with an equally impressive temple. The new excavations and an exhaustive comparison with contemporaneous architectural engineering practice indicate that they would have done nothing else.108 For those who remain skeptical, it may be worth presenting a summary of those analyses. The refinement and effort apparent in the foundations, as well as the vast stone resources used in their construction and the widespread evidence for stone used in contemporaneous and immediately subsequent superstructures throughout the region,

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FIGURE 73 Plan of the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter.

FIGURE 74 3-D reconstruction of the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter: axonometric view.

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FIGURES 75–78 Views of the east perimeter foundation wall of the Temple of Jupiter. Cappellaccio tuff.

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indicate that Romans had gained the necessary expertise to quarry, transport, and lay vast amounts of well-dressed stone not only for the foundations, but also for the superstructure. As the next chapter will reveal, they built many more monumental temples and building complexes—close to a dozen—in the coming decades, all of which continued to illustrate a clear, ongoing, and sophisticated ability to erect truly monumental and complex architecture in stone. The technology and material for the stone superstructure is apparent; Romans possessed the wherewithal to build with vast quantities of stone in a complex structure. Furthermore, the material, complex engineering, and intricate plan of the foundations indicate not only that a colossal temple was possible, but also that a small temple was not. The foundations were encased deep within the Capitoline. The walls did not constitute a podium or a platform off the hillside, as at the Ara della Regina or the later twin temples at S. Omobono; they were true foundations. No contemporaneous temple anywhere in the Mediterranean had foundations that did not support a colonnade or wall in the superstructure—that is to say, in the archaic and classical periods, true foundations sunk into the ground indicate superstructural elements, not platforms or pavements. Given the extraordinary effort required for their installation and the total absence of comparanda for such waste, it is unreasonable to suggest that the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter would have gone unused, and any small reconstruction implies that a vast amount of the foundations—including the entire perimeter, which employed nearly twenty thousand cubic meters of stone on its own—were laid eight meters into the ground for no reason.109

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 79 Plan of the Temple of Jupiter: following the small reconstruction by Stamper 2005, over extant foundations.

Further still, no diminutive superstructure matching the recognized plan of the Temple of Jupiter could fit atop the idiosyncratic configuration of the intersecting foundations. The wide spacing of substructure walls with yawning interstitial cavea filled only with earth simply cannot match up with the proposed reduced dimensions and the consequent restricted intercolumniations in diminutive reconstructions (fig. 79). In order to fit a small temple on those foundations, walls and columns would have to rest sometimes on stone and sometimes on earth, a structurally unsound, mixed footing that would lead to certain destabilization and collapse. As though these circumstances were not testimony enough, there are also numerous late sixth-century architectural terracottas from the site of the temple. They include fragments of revetments, eaves tiles, and possibly ridgepole tiles and antefixes that are far larger than similar architectural terracottas from monumental temples at Pyrgi, Caere, Satricum, and elsewhere in Rome (figs. 80–82).110 Each is of exceptional dimensions—the revetments some one and a half times the size of the next-largest revetments known in

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FIGURE 80 3-D reconstruction of revetments from the Temple of Jupiter: following drawings by Mura Sommella 2000b, fig. 12, and Sommella 2000a, fig. 27. FIGURE 81 Ridgepole cover tile purportedly from the Temple of Jupiter, ca. 500. Painted terracotta, 29.2 × 125 × 54 cm. Capitoline Museum, Rome, inv. 4400. FIGURE 82 Roof tile from the Capitoline Hill, ca. 500. Painted terracotta, 10.8 × 61 cm. Antiquarium Comunale. Inv. 2178.

the entire region—and the eaves and ridge tiles are equally astounding, suitable only to a colossal temple with thick beams. What is more, these tiles are telling not only for their size, but also for the wooden armature they were meant to protect, and this calls to mind a persistent concern for those who challenge a colossal Temple of Jupiter in the archaic period: the ability of Romans to roof such large spans. Nearly every scholar who has questioned the proposed colossal dimensions has rested his or her claim primarily on one proposal: a post-and-lintel roof over the twelve-meter central span of the colossal temple is impossible. In addition to its own weight, the central beam would have to support the ridgepole of the temple; a tall post would sit right at its weakest point, in the very center of the span, supporting a huge

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post above and the weight of terracotta tiles that covered the central portion of the roof. These scholars suggest that the central lintel would have to be some three meters thick to withstand such pressure, and such beams are unlikely to have been found in early Rome.111 Furthermore, even if they were, the span would be shaky at best with such a disjointed roofing system. Although there is some room to question such concerns, in general, the assertions are accurate, and, in fact, the terracotta evidence would appear at first to strengthen these arguments. When compared to contemporaneous, stylistically similar elements, the fragments of revetments found on the site indicate far larger plaques than their contemporaries at Pyrgi, Satricum, and elsewhere, but when reconstructed, they still would not have been more than a meter tall; since these revetments were created in order to cover the vertical face of roofing beams, that indicates a wooden lintel no thicker than approximately one meter, far thinner than would be necessary. The evidence would appear to be conclusive. Yet such arguments overlook a vital piece of information. Post-and-lintel roofing structures were not the only option available to the craftspeople building this temple. Trusses were used throughout Central Italy and the western Mediterranean in the archaic and classical periods, revealing a pervasive knowledge of a roofing technology that allowed for wide spans. Trusses had existed for a generation close-by at Murlo and Tarquinii and broadly in the west from Corfu to Agrigento and southern Italy, and by the end of the sixth century, builders were capping spans much wider than the Temple of Jupiter’s with a trussed framework. In fact, several scholars have suggested that throughout the western Mediterranean—perhaps due to Punic influences—trusses were the common roofing system, not post and lintel.112 A close study of terracotta elements from Central Italic architecture and the wooden elements they protected reveals that trusses would have been employed to roof many buildings, from the most basic structures to the most complex.113 With a completely different arrangement and distribution of weights, a truss would not require the vertical strut over the central beam, and in many buildings from antiquity, trusses supported heavy roofs over vast expanses: a one-hundred-foot beam was famously used in the Diribitorium, and trusses with spans as wide as twenty-four meters were successful using beams just half a meter thick.114 A span half as wide with a beam twice as thick would be no problem; the central twelve-meter span of the colossal Temple of Jupiter could be capped with relative ease with a truss, and already by the mid-sixth century, builders throughout the western Mediterranean were capping buildings with similarly wide spans with just such an armature. Any precise reconstruction for the roof of the Temple of Jupiter is necessarily hypothetical, but as an exercise to demonstrate the feasibility of such a task, it is worth proposing one such reconstruction based on known contemporaneous roofing armatures and on the evidence from the extant terracottas for the sizes of the beams at Rome. Studies of temple roofs in the contemporary Greek world have demonstrated that no two are the same. Just as every temple plan was slightly different, so too did every plan necessitate a

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slightly different wooden cap.115 In most cases, though, the primary framework was composed of four elements: transverse and/or longitudinal beams atop the columns and walls, creating a plan for the roof; vertical posts of different heights that rested on these lintels above columns and walls, in order to elevate the central portions of the pitched roof; longitudinal beams (primary purlins) that rested atop these posts, creating the longitudinal supports for rafters; and the primary rafters, which sometimes rested on and other times were cut into these longitudinal beams, creating the raked line of the roof (fig. 83). When applied to the hexastyle plan of the Temple of Jupiter with a truss, these basic elements generate a roof with a central span capped by a fully bound truss, with a thrust distributed vertically down thick posts to the central colonnades and walls of the temple (fig. 84). For the side spans, the primary rafters are cut into the purlins; that thrust, in turn, is balanced by the downward thrust of the roof tiles and posts that sit atop them over the internal colonnades and walls. The proposed roof—based on contemporaneous comparanda, extant engineering in the region, and the terracotta revetments from the Temple of Jupiter itself—produces a structurally sound, historically grounded cap for the colossal temple.116 Of course, it is only one possibility; other roofing suggestions built around a central truss could work just as well. Nonetheless, the proposal demonstrates that, contrary to the repeated claims of skeptics, the temple could have been roofed with a sturdy, practical armature using technology available and extant at sites throughout the region. Thus, in the end, there exists an unrivaled, architectonically sophisticated set of foundations; a corollary confirmation of the requisite skill to engineer complex stone architecture; abundant evidence in Rome and elsewhere in the region for monumental and intricate superstructures in stone; an absolute inability to fit the extant intersecting foundation walls with a smaller temple plan; regional and local evidence for the engineering expertise necessary to roof the temple; and even a set of colossal terracotta decorations

FIGURE 83 Schematic drawing of the basic armature of an archaic roof.

Rafter

Secondary Longitudinal Beams

Vertical Posts Longitudinal Beam

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Transverse Beam

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

to cover thick beams atop a matchless temple on the Capitoline. With the evidence in hand, it becomes clear that the temple not only could have covered the existing, unmatched, immense foundations embedded in the Capitoline Hill, but, in fact, it must have done so. The archaic Temple of Jupiter would have been colossal. If such a feat seems out of place in early Rome, it is only because it is usually studied in isolation. The impressive houses of the Palatine, unmatched in the region, and the continuity of monumental temple construction revealed in the next chapter make such an endeavor freely comprehensible. As with the plan of the foundations, the basic plan of the superstructure is clearly identifiable, although sadly not through archaeological remains. Rather, it is found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus’s precise description of the overall temple plan:

FIGURE 84 Elevation of the Temple of Jupiter, with a possible roofing system.

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It stood on a high base and was eight hundred feet in circuit, each side measuring close to two hundred feet; indeed one would find the excess of the length over the width to be but slight, in fact not a full fifteen feet. For the temple that was built in the time of our fathers after the burning of this one [the archaic temple] was erected upon the same foundations,

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

and having three rows of columns on the side facing south and single colonnades on the sides, it differed from the ancient structure in nothing but the costliness of the materials. The temple consists of three parallel shrines, separated by party walls; the middle shrine is dedicated to Jupiter while on one side stands that of Juno and on the other that of Minerva, all three being under one pediment and one roof.117

In the past, some scholars have been skeptical of Dionysius’s account because he was writing with conspicuous political and social bias nearly a half millennium after the early years of Roman history. Yet the use of Dionysius’s text to help reconstruct the Temple of Jupiter is markedly different from using his work as evidence of a battle fought at the start of the Republic, a law code purportedly introduced by a king, or even the patronage and intentions behind the construction of the Temple of Jupiter itself, and scholars have now come to recognize this distinction. If relying on his word in those latter cases, one is expecting Dionysius to have detailed information about an ephemeral event that occurred five hundred years before he was writing, an event that ceased and would only be evidenced by written or oral record in the intervening centuries.118 For the Temple of Jupiter, however, Dionysius is not reaching through time to a lost building of the sixth century, depending on ancient hearsay for details of its design, but, rather, he is looking to a temple that stood just a generation before him, “in the time of our fathers.” Pliny, Cicero, and others are clear that the original temple survived down to 83 bce, just twenty years before Dionysius’s birth, and recent excavations have upheld their testimony.119 Surely the structure underwent refurbishment—perhaps its roof was even replaced in part—but the temple built in the late sixth century survived down to the latest days of the Republic. The archaic temple that Dionysius describes would have been seen by half of Rome that lived while he wrote, and record of it would have been abundant. For this reason, scholars are now in agreement that his words are an accurate summary of its design.120 As he describes it, the temple had three rows of six columns, creating a deep porch (see fig. 72). Behind the porch, three cellae occupied the center of the temple, with colonnades flanking either side. While scholars accept the basic elements of this plan, recent excavations have called into question one part of the building: the area behind the cellae. Mura Sommella first suggested that the rear foundation walls (proposed by her team based on their own exploration as well as earlier excavation and research) constituted foundations for rear rooms as part of a posticum (fig. 85). Such rooms do exist in Central Italic religious architecture. Postica have been hypothesized not only in the Ara della Regina, as Mura Sommella suggests, but also in the rectangular temple at Caere, Vigna Parrocchiale, and at Satricum and elsewhere.121 Gabriele Cifani presents several claims against Mura Sommella’s hypothesis. The most compelling is his argument that a pozzo at the east end of the foundation wall for the rear of the cella may be a well to collect rainwater falling from the corner of a roof. Archaeologists have argued the same function for pozzi at the front of Temple A at

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 85 Plan of the Temple of Jupiter: following Mura Sommella 2000b, fig. 5.

Pyrgi.122 Under Cifani’s proposal, the pozzo on the Capitoline would have caught rainwater from the north-rear corner of the roof, and thus the roof would not extend over the foundations behind the cella or any structure they supported. His argument is sound, and although it is not certain proof, it suggests that the rear of the temple proper and its roof terminated at the rear wall of the cella. This still leaves the rear substructure walls, which are clearly bound to the rest of the temple foundations. For now, the question of their function must remain open. Perhaps they supported distinct rooms/buildings: separately roofed structures that were built discretely to house votives or ceremonial objects in the area “post aedem Iovis O(ptimi) M(aximi).”123 Or perhaps they supported an open area without any structures; as Nicola Terrenato and Albert Ammerman have highlighted, at its very rear, the temple was perched at the precipice of the hill, and such buttressing walls would not be tectonically unwelcome.124 In fact, the arrangement of these walls is markedly different from those that support the cellae and columns, and the distinction in arrangement could indicate their use as a buttress of the rear for the structure. Whatever the case, the temple building proper appears to have covered only the front foundations. It would have measured some fifty-four meters wide and sixty-two meters long, an enormous temple on a gargantuan

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 86 Plan by the author of the Temple of Jupiter, with measurements.

foundation, possibly accompanied by additional buildings at its rear. As for the precise location of columns and cella thresholds, any proposal based on known remains is hypothetical, but as an exercise, a brief look at proportions in the foundations may offer some ideas. The interaxial distance between the second and third (and the fourth and fifth) longitudinal foundation walls is nine meters. A measurement between the midpoints of the short transverse foundation walls yields a length of exactly double that (fig. 86). Applied to the superstructure, these proportions may indicate the position of columns, spaced nine meters apart longitudinally, as well as cella doors that align precisely with the foundations. Though conjectural, the scheme may be corroborated by the location of the single long transverse wall that connects only the internal longitudinal foundations.125 A similar wall (only partially connecting longitudinal foundations) is found in just one other contemporaneous Mediterranean temple, the so-called Temple of Polykrates (Dipteros II) at Samos, begun sometime between 550 and 530, and there it served as added foundational support for a novel third colonnade in the porch of a rare tripteral temple.126 The proportions outlined above situate the third colonnade of the Temple of Jupiter directly over the partial transverse foundation wall. For now, the precise scheme is only conjecture.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

• • •

The basic image of the temple, then, is that of an immense seventy-four-by-fifty-fourmeter set of foundations supporting a 4.85-meter-tall podium, which in turn held aloft a colossal temple with three cellae flanked by colonnades and nestled behind a deep porch, itself filled with columns (fig. 87).127 Such a building was completely without parallel in the archaic Italic Peninsula. Certainly other imposing buildings existed—particularly the so-called courtyard buildings at Murlo, Montetosto (outside Caere), and Centocamere— but these had decidedly different functions and, despite their monumental facades, the majority of the space was occupied by an open courtyard. By contrast, the Temple of Jupiter was a dense structure that was unlike the courtyard buildings in topographical situation, design, and function, and when compared with other, similar building types in Central Italy, it overwhelms them. Of the temples built in Central Italy before the Temple of Jupiter, the “oikos” temples at Veii (Piazza d’Armi), Tarquinii (Beta), Gabii, and Satricum were modest structures—the Veii structure being the largest, at twelve by ten meters and just 3 percent of the footprint of the Temple of Jupiter.128 More sophisticated temples began to appear by the mid- to late sixth century at Rome (S. Omobono) and Satricum (Temple I), but with the largest of these (at Satricum) just thirty-three by twenty-one meters, or 17 percent the dimensions of the Temple of Jupiter, they are still insignificant by comparison (fig. 88). The second-largest temple in archaic Central Italy is phase II of the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii, which dates contemporaneously with the Temple of Jupiter and is fifty-five by thirty-one-and-a-half meters.129 The building has a somewhat complex plan, with a deep porch, wide central span that may have required a truss, and a deep platform off one side of the Pian della Regina.130 It is unquestionably an exceptional building, but its foundation covers just over half the ground of the Temple of Jupiter, and that difference is precisely the distinction between monumental and colossal, impressive and overpowering. Temples on par with the Ara della Regina are quite common throughout the archaic Mediterranean and exist in multiples at sites such as Athens, Corinth, and Selinunte. Temples on the scale of the Temple of Jupiter are truly rare. As Wilhelm Alzinger, Dieter Mertens, and others have argued, the dimensions of the Temple of Jupiter are much closer to the truly colossal temples of the archaic Mediterranean, found only at Agrigento, Selinunte, Ephesos, Samos, and Athens, than they are to anything on the Italic Peninsula, suggesting that Romans were in contact with these Mediterranean powers, or at least enduring similar influences and interests in the drive for size.131 The connection is based on two clear similarities: the rare, immense size and the newness of that size. The Samian Heraion of ca. 570 measures about 52 by 95 meters and, when rebuilt beginning ca. 550 to 530, it became the largest Greek temple, at about 55 by 111 meters. The Temple of Artemis at Ephesos measured some 46 by 115 meters in ca. 560, and the archaic Temple of Apollo at Didyma (though its size is not entirely certain) probably measured roughly 38 by 85 meters. On the mainland, the Temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens measured some 41 by 108 meters, though it was not finished until much later,

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 87 3-D reconstruction of the Temple of Jupiter. FIGURE 88 Scale comparison of Temple I at S. Omobono, Temple I at Satricum, and Ara della Regina phase I at Tarquinii, from left to right.

0 111

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

5

10m

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40m

while on Sicily, Temple GT at Selinunte (never finished) measured approximately 50 by 110 meters, and the Olympieion at Agrigento measured 53 by 110 meters (fig. 89). All of these were begun either before or during construction of the Temple of Jupiter, with the exception of the temple at Agrigento, which was begun more than a decade after completion of the Roman temple.132 As at Rome, architects for these temples did not follow any local tradition of colossal construction, but rather seem to have chosen the vast scale as a new means to proclaim greatness or vie for supremacy.133 For example, the ca. 560 Temple of Artemis at Ephesos is over five times the size of its predecessor, and the first colossal Temple of Hera at Samos is over seven times the size of the Orientalizing period temple there (fig. 90). At Selinunte, the next-largest temple that predates the foundation of Temple GT is Temple F, which occupies just one-quarter the surface area of its neighbor, and similar comparisons can be made for the other sites.134 The size of these archaic temples was new to the architecture of these polities, just as the size of the Temple of Jupiter, their contemporary, was new to Rome. Furthermore, also as with Rome, Selinunte and Agrigento were new cities; they do not have monumental urban histories that stretch further back than a century and a half. Thus, the conditions and outcome of construction at the Temple of Jupiter and at each site of a colossal archaic temple were remarkably similar. What Mertens suggests, though, is that there is more here than just a noticeable parallel; there is evidence of a cultural relationship.135 He suggests that, while a ceramic vessel or a small statue may be traded without significant contact between manufacturer and buyer, that is, without deep cultural contact and effect, one cannot propose a major work of architecture without knowing how to build it—without the knowledge of those who had accomplished such architectural feats—and that is especially true when dealing with complex work-site organization and engineering, such as quarrying and transporting vast amounts of stone or stacking tall columns and walls.136 Mertens suggests this in a broad

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 89 (OPPOSITE) Scale comparison of the Temple of Hera (Samos), Temple of Artemis (Ephesos), Temple of Olympian Zeus (Athens), Temple of Jupiter (Rome), Temple GT (Selinunte), and Temple of Olympian Zeus (Agrigento), from left to right: following Davies 2006, fig. 1, with modifications. FIGURE 90 Scale comparison of the earliest colossal temple and the largest preceding temple at three sites: 0

Samos (first dipteros and hekat-

20

40m

ompedos), Ephesos (“Croesus Temple” and early archaic temple), and Selinunte (Temple GT and Temple F), from left to right.

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way, arguing that the very size (and therefore the implied engineering complexity) of these temples is enough to indicate a connection. Perhaps it was not the same master builders or craftspeople at work, but there must have been, at least, a sharing of both knowledge and intention that would require substantial, long-standing intercultural contact. The premise is rather straightforward: the creation of the Temple of Jupiter was extraordinary; to create it without any prior knowledge or connection to others who had already achieved this—especially given the complex engineering necessary for the deep intersecting foundation walls, the requisite vast quarries, mechanisms for transportation, and the tall, multi-colonnaded porch—would be prohibitively difficult. Romans must have had access to some kind of expertise, and the only widespread proficiency in colossal temples lay in Ionia, Athens, and Sicily. Mertens’s suggestion has sparked widespread interest, and it is therefore worth looking deeper into his hypothesis—at each aspect of the Temple of Jupiter—to see if a cultural relationship with those places is evident in more than just the similar sizes of their temples. The best-preserved and perhaps clearest indication of a new engineering lies in the interconnected longitudinal and transverse walls of the substructure of the Temple of Jupiter. All known previous Central Italic temples, and even most that postdate the Temple of Jupiter, mix walls and pillars in foundation plans, and pillars feature as isolated supports under the interior columns of the porch (fig. 91).137 Such stand-alone piers are absent in the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter. By contrast, comparisons that do match the mural plan of the Roman foundations abound outside of Central Italy, from Paestum to Metapontum, Selinunte, Agrigento, Corinth, Athens, Delos, Ephesos, Samos, and elsewhere. As a trait that seems to unite Greek architecture across the Mediterranean, builders laid foundation walls underneath all load-bearing elements in their sanctuaries: peripteroi, naos, opisthodimos, and adyton walls and colonnades inside naoi and pronaoi (fig. 92).138 The broad comparison suggests a tighter correspondence

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 91 Schematic foundation plans of four Central Italic temples (not to scale), clockwise from top right: Orvieto, Tarquinii, Lanuvium, and Ardea. FIGURE 92 Schematic foundation plans of four Greek temples (not to scale), clockwise from top left: Corfu, Assos, Delphi, and Corinth.

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with the engineering of Greek temples than Central Italic temples. One particularly close comparandum suggests more than a general similarity. In both the Samian Heraion and the Temple of Jupiter, longitudinal and transverse foundations support colonnades and cella walls, as with other Greek temples. Two features of the foundations of the Roman and Samian temples are, however, exceptional. In both, builders use the same transverse foundation wall between the frontal colonnade and the cella(e), as added support for the third colonnade at Samos and potentially at Rome as well (fig. 93 and see figs. 86, 89). The arrangement is unique to these two temples.139 In addition, in contrast to the vast majority of Greek temples, in these two temples the perimeter foundation wall is bound to the internal foundations. Rather than separate rectangular foundations for the peristyle and for internal features, builders connected longitudinal foundation walls to the outside foundations in a fully bound substructure (compare figs. 92 and 93). No other temple of any size that this author is aware of uses such a foundation composition with a partial transverse wall under a frontal colonnade and longitudinal walls bound to the perimeter. Foundations are visible only to those who witness a temple’s construction, and for one building to mirror another’s foundations suggests builders’ intimate knowledge not just of the image of the finished building, but, more importantly, of the whole process

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

0

FIGURE 93 Schematic foundation plan of the Temple of Hera at Samos (following Buschor 1930) and the Temple of Jupiter in Rome to scale, with walls for a third colonnade marked.

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20m

of construction. The similarity is a tempting indication of a closer connection to the eastern Mediterranean tradition of colossal temples, and to builders from Samos especially. As for the superstructure of the Temple of Jupiter, while scholars may debate specific proportions and precise alignments, they agree that the temple had three frontal colonnades, as well as lateral colonnades and a triple cella. The side columns and colonnaded porch were anomalous in Central Italy when the Temple of Jupiter went up.140 By comparison, in the late sixth century, side ptera were an indispensable part of a newly pervasive Greek temple architecture. One hardly needs to describe or enumerate examples: they flank the naos of most monumental temples in the Greek-speaking world from Anatolia to Agrigento from the seventh century onward.141 As for the frontal forest of columns on the Temple of Jupiter, there is no earlier temple and no earlier foundation in Central Italy that remotely suggests a triple-colonnaded porch.142 Even in the wider Mediterranean world, it is hard to find a precedent. Builders at Syracuse, Metapontum, Selinunte, and further from Rome at Samos and Ephesos had already experimented with two colonnades. In the years preceding the completion of the Temple of Jupiter, though, only architects at Athens, Ephesos, and Samos were more daring and started temples with triple colonnades, and only architects at Ephesos and Samos had previously erected multiple colonnades in colossal temples.143

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

The Temple of Jupiter finds its company only in these three buildings, and the significance of this association is greater than a potential superficial trade in design ideas. Stacking multiple un-engaged colonnades in an open porch and surmounting them with a heavy roof would be precarious and arduous, and to successfully do so would require an advanced, specialized knowledge of engineering for both the structural integrity of the architectural elements and the mechanisms to lift them into place. Architects might attempt a few columns in antis on small buildings (as had been done in Central Italy) through trial and error, but something as daunting and potentially catastrophic as assembling twenty-four mammoth stone columns (with their potential of collapse) and the great beams and terracottas covering the nearly four-thousand-square-meter footprint of the superstructure would demand the knowledge and ability of people who understood the tectonics involved. Of course, it is possible that this was all done without previous experience, through trial and error at Rome, but that seems highly unlikely. Much like the foundation walls and their thousands of expertly crafted, intricately laid cut-stone blocks, the colonnades and walls of the superstructure would require tremendous expertise to organize and engineer extraction, transportation, and construction. To enter into such an endeavor without sustained, capable guidance would be reckless, and given how seldom such an endeavor was conceived and carried out successfully to completion, it is hard to imagine that Romans either envisioned the task on their own or became one of just two or three archaic communities to achieve their goal fully—unless they had experienced help. That expert aid with colossal construction was only available in the Greek east. The terracottas that capped the building were also new to the region, but their innovation was not in material, engineering, or form: it was in content and style. Their decoration included a prominent anthemion relief with sculpted lotus buds and palmettes (see fig. 80). Anthemia had featured in painted, flat simas and revetment plaques as well as perforated crestings all throughout the Mediterranean since the early to mid-sixth century. They are popular in some of the earliest decorated roofs of the Greek mainland, notably at Corinth; they appear at Metapontum, Agrigento, Naxos, Selinunte, and other places in the west by the early to mid-sixth century, not long after their initial use in Asia Minor; and by then, they also appear for the first time in Central Italy in roofs at Veii, Caere, and elsewhere.144 Throughout the mid-sixth century, and in nearly every part of the northern Mediterranean, anthemia were a common part of decoration. But they were rarely (if ever) the primary decoration of raking and horizontal cornices. For example, at Selinunte, where they appear in large, smooth plaques on Temple C, the anthemion is buried on revetments and simas within several patterns, including guilloche, tongues, bead and reel, and meander (fig. 94).145 They are also typically painted onto smooth surfaces; when they are molded in relief, it is only for intricate perforated plaques, not for the simas that channeled water to lateral or corner spouts or for revetments on wooden beams. Still, in the broadest sense, the use of an anthemion for the decoration of a building was not new with the Temple of Jupiter. What is notable in the temple is the size of the

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 94 Drawing of an entablature with an anthemion as part of the decoration, from Selinunte, Temple C. FIGURE 95 Architectural terracottas from Mitylene, Lesbos, mid-6th century. Painted terracotta, preserved dimensions 16.5 × 31.5 cm. FIGURE 96 Architectural terracottas from Larisa on the Hermos.

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anthemion, its primacy in the decoration of the cornice, the orientation of the palmettes, and the prevailing use of relief. These features may not seem notable on their own, but as a whole, this shift was part of a change in roof decoration that started in Ionia and quickly took over Central Italic temple decoration. Beginning ca. 550 at Mitylene on Lesbos, Larisa on the Hermos, and in a few other places in Asia Minor, artists began rendering anthemia in relief on simas and as the primary eaves decoration of highly decorated buildings (figs. 95, 96).146 The style did not become popular in the Aegean or the Greek mainland, and it did not appear in South Italy until the last years of the sixth century, but it does show up on Sicily and in Central Italy and Campania immediately on the heels of its adoption in Ionia. Almost simultaneously at Tarquinii, Veii, Rome, Satricum, Minturnae, Pompeii, and Cumae between ca. 540 and 510, artists incorporated anthemion revetments as the primary roof decoration for temples.147 It was a substantial change, just as it had been in Asia Minor. Previously, as in Ionia, revetments had not featured floral decoration; they were filled with processions, races, and other figural elements, as at S. Omobono. Beginning ca. 540, sculpted anthemia cropped up here and there, and, for a time, floral and figural decoration existed together in the region. But slowly, between ca. 540 and 500, a change was in the works, and by the end

on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

of the long shift, figural decoration would be almost completely replaced with revetments and simas filled with anthemia in various and complex configurations. The transformation fundamentally altered the composition of friezes, and what is more, it changed the scale of the revetments in relation to the temple itself. The close parallel in the changing roof decoration of buildings in Central Italy and Ionia calls to mind the ongoing, shared shifts in decorated friezes in the two regions, visible in the chariot racing and procession scenes at S. Omobono and elsewhere in Central Italy and at Larisa on the Hermos and elsewhere in Ionia. Yet again, with the anthemion, they saw a close and simultaneous shift. In the Temple of Jupiter, however, the regional parallel goes beyond roof decoration. It is visible also in the foundations, the immense size of the temple, and the arrangement of multiple colonnades, and the mounting evidence requires a close look at the situation of cultural contact and colossal temples in the two regions. By the mid-sixth century, architects at both Samos and Ephesos had finished the first truly colossal temples built in the archaic Mediterranean. These were the only places where architects had grappled with the precise tectonic issues of quarrying soft stone (poros), arranging a work site and infrastructure for such a giant endeavor, engineering the erection of tall columns and cella walls, and erecting a wooden armature for a roof high atop the towering colonnades.148 Soon thereafter, they would begin work on new, even more extraordinary sanctuaries. The similarities between the new Artemesion and the Temple of Jupiter lie only in size; the dates of construction are less certain at Ephesos, so it remains unclear whether the triple colonnade there had yet been imagined when the Roman temple went up, and, furthermore, the decoration and foundations do not appear to have any particular similarities with the Temple of Jupiter. In contrast, the Temple of Hera at Samos shows several close similarities. The second colossal Samian temple and the Temple of Jupiter seem to be the very first of the four great Mediterranean temples that sported triple colonnades, the one at Samos already underway by ca. 550–530. They are also among only two (maybe three) temples completed in the archaic period on a truly colossal scale; the others all took much longer to build.149 Moreover, the use of a partial transverse wall and extended longitudinal walls in the foundations is unique to these buildings, and these elements would only be seen by those who witnessed their construction. Such structural and artistic similarities in rare—even unique—buildings that required profound, specialized engineering knowledge is substantial enough coincidence to consider that, perhaps, there was a direct connection between the two sites. The dates of construction at each sanctuary suggest the potential for just such a relationship. Recent studies of the Samos excavations have revealed that work on the foundation of that temple was underway by the very middle of the sixth century.150 Its plan had been designed, the substructures were being laid, and by ca. 540–530, even the cella had begun to go up. At Rome, the Temple of Jupiter was begun sometime after ca. 550; when exactly remains in question. Construction could have begun anytime before ca. 510, and revetments from buildings that preceded it may confirm that construction did not begin

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

until after 530.151 At precisely that moment, sometime between 540 and 530, construction at Samos stopped.152 Whether as a result of the purported assassination of Polykrates, a general displacement of artists from Asia Minor by the Persian invasions of western Anatolia, a financial upheaval, or some other event, archaeological evidence now clearly indicates that work ceased midstream. Meanwhile, at Rome, construction on the Temple of Jupiter began and was completed swiftly, by the turn of the sixth century. Then, remarkably, construction began again at Samos, just at the turn of the sixth to the fifth century.153 This is either an extraordinary coincidence or there was something truly significant happening between Rome and Samos. One can imagine the circumstance involved: builders and skilled craftspeople at Samos were busily working until the sudden interruption of construction, when they were left with expertise and plans, but no work. It is possible that they sat with nothing to do for the subsequent three or four decades—more than a generation. But the simultaneous influx of new roofing systems and other examples of Ionic craftsmanship to the west, as well as the remarkable similarities in the foundation, tripteral porch, colossal proportions, and overall style of the design of the temple at Rome and the sculpted anthemion revetments used there—all assembled in a way that was without a known precedent in Central Italy, or indeed anywhere else in the western Mediterranean—suggest that Samian craftspeople may have traveled widely to the west, and particularly to Rome, with a complex tectonic expertise and architectural and sculptural vocabulary based in work they had already begun at Samos. Once at Rome, they helped fashion a remarkable sanctuary that mirrored what they would finish upon returning to Samos. The consonance in the buildings is such that it is tempting to see a single building team’s fingerprint in the colossal Samian and Roman temples. Whether by a direct connection to Samos or not, the associations with Asia Minor are multiple, and time and again they recall Mertens’s broad hypothesis regarding the size of the Temple of Jupiter. Such an immense sanctuary and all of these rare elements fit best among the new trend toward complex, colonnaded, colossal temples that was sweeping in from Ionia. More and more, scholars see such architectural exchange as part of a vibrant network in the archaic period that promoted deep cultural connections from east to west and north to south, to a degree that had never before been seen in the western Mediterranean: builders, artists, merchants, rulers, all traveling from Persia to Phoenicia, Egypt, Ephesos, Corinth, Agrigento, and, it seems, to Rome.154 With small objects, the depth of cultural influence in these widespread interactions is hard to discern, since the objects can travel easily with little or no link between manufacturer and user, between intended function and eventual usage. But, as Mertens and others have highlighted, the complexities of architecture, especially innovative and sophisticated construction, require a much more profound, long-term, and influential collaboration. Whether built by a team from Samos or based on a less specific interaction, the similarities and the requisite knowledge for the construction of such a complex sanctuary suggest that it is in this company that the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus belongs.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

• • •

When considered within both the open network of the archaic Mediterranean and the history of Rome and its art and architecture, these ties and their potential significance for the interpretation of Roman culture are crucial. At the same time, it is equally imperative to recognize that the Temple of Jupiter was not a copy of another temple, Samian or otherwise. Its frontal disposition and triple cella are not common features of temples built elsewhere in the Mediterranean, and, in fact, it has characteristics that are unique even among other polities in Central Italy. This should not be surprising. Just as people at Ephesos, Athens, and (especially, famously) Agrigento adapted the elements of complex colossal architecture for their different needs and traditions, resulting in manifestly different designs, so too did Romans. The religious functions and architectural history of temples at Samos and Ephesos did not necessarily require a frontal disposition. Early Central Italic sanctuary architecture, on the other hand, is defined largely by a viewer’s frontal approach to a temple.155 Even after Central Italic people opened up to many of the international trends of colonnades, monumentality, and Ionian floral revetments found in the Temple of Jupiter, they only commissioned two known peripteral temples, at Pyrgi and Satricum; both were in communities heavily influenced by Greeks, and, still, a frontal staircase dictated these buildings’ primary facades.156 Peripteral temples were not popular in Central Italy, probably for religious or architectural-historical reasons: divination, augury, foundation ritual, or some other religious practices seem to have required a frontal disposition, and by the sixth century, architectural tradition in Central Italy dictated that a building’s rear be closed.157 The resulting frontal disposition of the Temple of Jupiter expresses its fundamental Central Italic religious function. Builders did not sacrifice the ritual traditions of the people who commissioned the temple to architectural form. Instead, the use of the ptera, for example, alongside frontal disposition reveals the marriage of previously unseen foreign architectural elements to established Central Italic traditions. This kind of adaptation of international styles and local traditions had been seen already at S. Omobono and the Regia, and it was fast becoming a hallmark of architecture and art in Rome. Meanwhile, just as builders were maintaining local traditions and experimenting with new styles from far afield, they were also experimenting with an architectural element that was uncommon to the entire Mediterranean basin: by all rights, the Temple of Jupiter is the first known temple to employ a triple cella in such a grand structure. Contact with Punic builders, who used triple cellae in their temples, may have influenced the new arrangement, but it is not clear if Punic temples had triple cellae before the fifth century.158 A three-room building at Murlo dates to the seventh century, but its function is hotly debated, and excavators are hesitant even to brand it a building with religious functions; it is better conceived of as a three-roomed structure than as a tripartite temple, and is therefore not very helpful in the search for a precedent for the Temple of Jupiter.159 Building Beta at Tarquinii, best known as one of the earliest temples/sacred spaces in Central Italy and itself linked to Punic contact, seems to have been transformed into a three-room

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

FIGURE 97 3-D reconstruction of the Temple of Jupiter, view from the south corner.

structure in the mid-seventh century, and while it may have been as much the seat of a priestly chief as it was a temple, this still provides a predecessor in the region with three rooms and a religious function.160 Still, like the building at Murlo, it is a structure made up entirely of those three rooms: there are no columns, there is no porch, and there is no podium. A true precedent for a triple-cella temple is therefore illusive, and whether the three-room configuration is Punic, native to Central Italy, or entirely new, it appears that Romans brought its uncomplicated design into an intricate framework of columns and podia, elaborating the form in the Temple of Jupiter for the first time. One may discount the innovation as purely necessary: a triple dedication (Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva) required a triple cella.161 Yet the Capitoline triad created the opportunity for a triple cella— it did not demand it. Multiple deities are worshipped in one room at other sanctuaries in the Mediterranean, and architects at Rome could have continued that tradition. It may have been a logical choice to build a cella for each deity, but it was still a choice, and it represents something new entering Roman and Central Italic religious architecture, an innovation that would persist for as long as polytheism persisted in the Mediterranean world. With the Temple of Jupiter, Romans pioneered a new religious architecture for Central

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

Italy (fig. 97). It incorporated lateral colonnades and a tripteral porch into a traditional Central Italic temple with frontal disposition and a high podium supporting an innovative triple cella. What is more, with several of its innovative elements, the Temple of Jupiter also helped usher in a new architectural movement for the wider western Mediterranean. Its design, location, and date therefore have several sweeping implications for the status and image of Rome in that broader context at the end of the sixth century.162 First, the sheer size of the Temple of Jupiter and the volume of materials needed for its construction indicate that archaic Rome was a vastly more powerful city than scholars have believed. Penelope Davies has suggested that the author of the Roman temple “chose an international language of monumentality,” identifying and harnessing the statement that only colossal architecture could make.163 Central Italic architects, while building big, had not yet dared to build temples on a colossal scale. That Rome could be associated with Athens, Ephesos, Samos, Didyma, Selinunte, and Agrigento as boasting one of the largest temples of the archaic Mediterranean speaks clearly of its economic capacities and its vision. This may at first seem remarkable, even hard to believe. It was an outstanding achievement, and for the late sixth century, the Temple of Jupiter stands as a solitary temple of truly monumental proportions in Rome, at least as far as is known. But this would not last; as the next chapter reveals, within a half century, a flood of monumental temple construction would strike Rome, and this shift would put the broader image of Rome’s economic and cultural wherewithal in league with several major Mediterranean polities. Second, Romans did not follow the trend in colossal construction; they helped establish it. Huge temples of this kind have their origins in the eastern Mediterranean starting in the early to mid-sixth century at Ephesos and Samos. Builders at Selinunte and Agrigento only began looking to such designs at the end of the century, after Romans had already begun the Temple of Jupiter.164 Given the complexity involved in construction, the potential problems, the demand on resources, and the requisite expertise from far afield, the adoption of such a new trend suggests that Romans had far more than just a passing interest in creating this building. As with the Forum reclamation, such a project would not have been undertaken lightly. It was a weighty choice. Moreover, Romans had the vision to reach for this achievement not in the wake of their supposed superiors on Sicily, but alongside them, and in the end, theirs would be the first known colossal temple west of Asia Minor to be completed. This should come as no surprise, given the ongoing adaptation of eastern Mediterranean sculptural trends found at the temple at S. Omobono and perhaps ten other roofs of that system in Rome; the close ties with Campanian roofs seen at the Regia and elsewhere; the extraordinarily rapid buildup of unmatched domestic architecture on the Palatine; the rare and immense territory contained within the defensive wall(s); and the swift increase in international luxury items found around the riverside and in graves. The city had been moving quickly in this direction, and it would not stop here.

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on a new scale (ca. 550–500)

THE POTENTIAL OF A UNIFIED CITY To say that the cityscape changed between the middle of the sixth century and its close would hardly do justice to the extraordinary amount of work that went into these buildings. Over the course of those fifty years, especially from ca. 540/530 to 500, Rome transformed (fig. 98). At the start of the period, builders had only experimented with stone and terracotta around the Forum, at S. Omobono, on the Capitoline, and along the Palatine slope in a few modest houses. Just fifty years later, they had mastered construction in these materials and had adorned their city with truly monumental civic, religious, domestic, and infrastructural architecture in lasting materials. A tremendous amount of this expertise would have been gained perhaps through the construction of urban defensive walls and certainly with the creation of the Temple of Jupiter. Its production began when Rome still had only a handful of well-crafted stone buildings, at least as far as the evidence currently suggests. As it went up, elites harnessed the refined craftsmanship to erect grand houses, and at the port and around the Forum plain, Romans erected lasting seats for what seem now to have been entrenched governmental and religious institutions. These monuments reveal a new Roman power, one with civic offices that were secure enough to endure into the Republic and one wealthy enough to build on a scale that visually proclaimed its hold on a booming Central Italic economy. By ca. 500, Rome was

FIGURE 98 Plan of known buildings in Rome, ca. 500.

Temple of Jupiter

Forum fill and gravel pavement

em ba nk

Pa la

tin

eh

ou s

es

me nt

Regia & Atrium Vestae “Via Sacra”

clay beds/ tile manufacturing S. Omobono

port area

site of religious buildings on SW Palatine

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not just a city with a well-established and growing architectural organization. With construction of some seven to ten religious buildings around the city using the same roof system employed at S. Omobono, with the erection of grand homes on the Palatine and other monumental religious and civic buildings around the Forum, and with the completion of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, Rome’s cityscape became more substantial than those known contemporaneously at Caere, Tarquinii, Satricum, Ardea, or at any other Central Italic polity, and this is with only a fraction of the city excavated. In the coming decades, there was a surge in urban monumental enterprises throughout the region, including the Portonaccio Temple at Veii and the temples at Pyrgi and Caere, Orvieto, Vulci, Lanuvium, Ardea, and elsewhere, and Rome would participate heavily in that shift. But in the late sixth century, monumental construction was still rare in the region, and the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii and the Temple of Jupiter in Rome—both exceptional monuments—appear to have set a tone for impressive urban ornamentation. The architectural shift of the late sixth century reveals tremendous economic means and intercultural connectivity. It also speaks to the ongoing topographical cohesion of the city and to civic unity, especially beginning ca. 540/530. Around that time, the wall that had existed for nearly two centuries on the north Palatine slope was demolished, and in its place, elite Romans constructed their monumental houses.165 The change in the function of that space was dramatic. It shifted from a barrier to communication (as seen in the wall) to an opening up of the Palatine community, embodied in the erection of the most private kind of architecture—residential—with doors facing outward onto a street that facilitated communication from the Forum up to the hilltop. And this was not a mere pathway; it was a newly paved road. This stone byway and others like it were not just cleaner and sturdier iterations of something that had existed before—they were new, prominent facilitators of communication. Their significance is similar to the great roads of the middle Republic, which marked Romans’ hold on Central Italy. Before Appius Claudius Caecus laid his formal byway through Latium, there would certainly have been established roadways and paths, but once that corridor was established, the ease of use along it, its straight path, and its smooth, durable surface would invite more and more people to follow its prescribed route.166 In the same way, where once a path up the Palatine may have allowed contact, now a formalized stone street, whose stability and permanence reflected an entrenched connection, bespoke either desired formalization or anticipated heavy traffic. People living in the area were not left to stamp out haphazard pathways; instead a community set a course that directed people on a predetermined byway, and it sent them directly in front of these new homes. What is more, the permanence of the stone suggests they intended for the road to endure. The elite houses along the road could expect traffic for some time. In fact, surely by erecting them along this route, the elites building them wanted the traffic. They placed their rare, monumental homes on a new artery leading into what was now a civic nexus with the rebuilt Regia, Atrium Vestae, and Comitium, whose functions as civic

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institutions for all the hills had gained new and enduring clarity. At the same time, an area of the Capitoline that had been used at least in part for homesteads was repurposed for the titanic Temple of Jupiter.167 The activity involved in its manufacture (as well as the way it harnessed styles from far afield) also reveals a new kind of evidence for community in Rome. The requisite vast workforce and the use of stone from all around the city confirms a unified endeavor, and as a communal sanctuary, it exposes extraordinary shared effort for civic prestige.168 Moreover, it was created by the same Roman populace that was dismantling divisive walls and opening up their homes onto new roads that facilitated communication. What is striking here is not only the inauguration of new architecture or the demolition of old, and not only the cessation of one function or the beginning of a new one. Rather, it is that in several places at the same time, one can see in the architectural record both the termination of a divisive use of space and a total repurposing of that space in a way that specifically highlights cohesion and community over isolation.169 This would continue down into the early fifth century with more monumental temples, houses, and connective, enduring infrastructure. The quick and decisive shift ca. 540/530 toward monuments that reflect a unified city is striking. Even if the buildings in the Forum were meant to advance cohesion already in the late seventh and early sixth centuries, there were still walls dividing parts of the city and few discernable pathways to link them all.170 The visible connections were scanty, and the shift after the mid-sixth century led to an unmitigated sense of community on a whole new scale. The persistent increase in physical, visible demonstrations of unification suggests a fluid process, one that began as communication, continued as communal agreement, and slowly emerged as comprehensive civic union. Perhaps distinct aspects of civic life even appeared to cohere at different times. All evidence points to a unified community in the world of trade early on, followed by a unified sense of religion and some civic institutions, and only later a total sense of cohesion. For those whose lives revolved around one aspect of the community more than another, unity might have seemed present at different periods. A tradesman on the Tiber working closely with those from other hills might have felt part of a single community already in the eighth century, while a priest at a distinct sanctuary on the Quirinal or the head of a settlement there might not feel particularly connected to—potentially even at odds with—a contemporary on the Palatine. Thus, to different people at different times, the city would seem unified in different ways. The process would be fluid and dependent on one’s role in civic life and connections to others on the hills. By the end of the sixth century, though, most barriers seem to have disappeared, and even to have been destroyed and replaced by symbols of the community’s cohesive rise in power. It would not stop there. In the coming decades, Romans continued to build on the hills and between them on a massive scale, creating an ever more topographically, architecturally, and artistically cohesive urban landscape, maintaining an urban image that reflected ongoing prosperity.

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4

The Continuity of Splendor (ca. 500–450)

The construction of the Temple of Jupiter would have required an enormous workforce. The effort required to dig nearly thirty-two thousand cubic meters of earth from the Capitoline Hill for the foundations; to quarry, transport, and lay the vast stone substructure with such precision; and to create an apparatus to stack the stone walls and columns, construct the elaborate roof, and fashion thousands of terracotta tiles, revetments, antefixes, and other decorations could only have occurred so quickly with a surplus of labor. It should therefore come as no surprise that immediately after completion of the temple, more and more monuments built with stone walls and columns and impressive terracotta roofs went up across the city. With so many workers unoccupied after decades of building, and with such sophisticated tectonic principles in play, there would be a new need to give builders work and a new excess of well-trained artists and builders to go around. Beginning with what some have called the Capitoline Era, Rome had become a city where sophisticated architecture was the new normal.1 Some of the response to this comfort with the new architecture has already been seen, in the reconstructions of the Comitium, Regia, Atrium Vestae, and monumental houses around the turn of the century. After 500, construction did not let up. If anything, it redoubled as two monumental temples went up in the Forum, several others were built on the hilltops, and another truly exceptional sanctuary nearly equal in size to the Temple of Jupiter joined the urban image at the riverside. What is more, to service the growing city, its monumental architecture, and the evident increase in political and economic activity, a new tide of infrastructure—including vast paved plazas and roads—joined these works, bestowing permanence and refinement on the city’s public spaces.

THE HILLTOPS Evidence for architecture on the Capitoline and Palatine from ca. 500–450 is almost exclusively in the form of fictile revetments with little or no context for architectural design. Although they create a frustratingly piecemeal record of urban change, the fragments are nonetheless revealing of impressive change on the hilltops.

Excavation near the site of the Temple of Jupiter uncovered numerous fragments of anthemion revetments with lotus buds, palmettes, and interlocking volutes as well as openwork crestings, which constitute part of an extensive program of terracotta decoration for at least one other large religious building on the summit of that hill dating to the early fifth century.2 One particularly well-preserved fragment is composed of hanging palmettes stylized in a fan shape, alternating with long, hanging lotus buds surmounted by vertical lotus flowers (fig. 99). The hanging palmettes are held by interlocking volutes that arc over the buds and flowers. The fragment matches revetments from Segni, the Temple of Juno, and especially Satricum, Temple II (figs. 100, 101).3 All three are composed of the same motif. Three arched, flat ribbons join together by way of thin bands, which hold hanging palmettes. The ribbons curl at either side of the base of each palmette to form volutes. Beneath each arched ribbon is an upright lotus blossom above a hanging lotus bud. In all three examples, the anthemion relief measures approximately twenty-five to twenty-six centimeters tall, and the similar size of the revetments is attended at Satricum and Segni by similarly monumental dimensions in the temples they adorned. Satricum’s Temple II measures twenty-one meters wide, while the Temple of Juno at Segni measures twenty-four meters wide, both substantial in size: in fact, among the most monumental of the region.4 As with other examples of similar sculpted roof decoration and architectural remains throughout Central Italy, the comparative evidence is telling. The revetments are far larger than those used on smaller temples at Velletri and S. Omobono in Rome, and not as sizable as those on rare, truly outsized buildings, such as the Temple of Jupiter at Rome. They are used only on temples of impressive dimensions, and they indicate a temple of monumental size, similar to others in Central Italy at Pyrgi, Ardea, and Caere. Sadly, any precise details about the plan of the Roman building will remain a mystery until further excavation is performed, but the construction of a second substantial religious building atop the Capitoline in the first decades of the fifth century to accompany the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus is itself a striking addition to the image of the city. While excavating the area around the houses of Augustus and Livia and the precincts of Magna Mater and Victoria on the Palatine, archaeologists found another set of terracottas. These were uncovered beneath and behind a structure identified as the Temple of Victoria Virgo, along with several walls in cappellaccio that pertain to a religious building accompanied by three favissae (ritual pits) filled with votives. On top of the walls, in what appears to be a layer of destruction, were three antefixes with the head of Juno Sospita that date to the early fifth century (figs. 102, 103). The remains of the foundations (just two perpendicular walls) are insufficient for reconstructing a full plan for the structure, and the exact dimensions of the building are difficult to gauge. Still, the thin walls composed of just a single row of ashlars have generally been compared to other modest temples, including the temples at S. Omobono, which measure 10.6 meters wide, and the temple at Ss. Stimmate in Velletri, which measures some thirteen square meters.5

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FIGURE 99 Revetments from a temple on the Capitoline Hill, first decades of the 5th century. Painted terracotta, fragment 26 × 18 cm. Antiquarium Comunale, inv. 20093. FIGURE 100 Revetments from Satricum, Temple II, early 5th century. Painted terracotta, height 25 cm. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia.

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FIGURE 101 Revetments from Segni, Temple of Juno, early 5th century. Painted terracotta, height 25 cm. Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia.

FIGURE 102 Antefix of Juno Sospita from behind the Temple of “Victoria Virgo,” early 5th century. Painted terracotta, 21 × 22.5 cm. Palatine Antiquarium. Inv. 380945, 34343. FIGURE 103 Excavated cappellaccio foundation behind the Temple of “Victoria Virgo.”

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The comparison seems appropriate, especially as larger contemporaneous structures at Pyrgi, Caere, Rome, and elsewhere tend to have foundation walls composed of ashlars that are several rows wide. This single new, comparatively modest building on the southwest Palatine slope may not appear to add much to Rome’s image, but in the context of at least two other buildings that had recently gone up there (discussed in the previous chapter), it adds to an increasingly substantial sacred area on the promontory overlooking the Tiber and valley below, an area that had, at this point, witnessed continued construction of sacred architecture from at least the mid-sixth century through the early to mid-fifth. Moreover, during the same period or soon thereafter, a large stone platform was installed off the slope of the Palatine, below the later Temple of Victoria, perhaps as a site for augury (an auguratorium) or as a forecourt tied to the sacred building with antefixes of Juno Sospita.6 Further still, a wall of some kind, either a terracing wall or a temenos wall, was constructed concurrently around the corner of the hill, enclosing the new temple, the platform, and the other, earlier sacred buildings.7 In all, by the early to mid-fifth century, at least three moderately sized buildings adorned with sculpture stood on the promontory, two with a secure religious function alongside a large, raised stone forecourt and enclosure wall. Whether this area had been sacred from the earliest days when huts dotted the landscape or this character developed over time, by the early fifth century, it seems clear that a substantial sacred precinct capped this area of the Palatine. The space would remain among the most enduring holy sites in Rome through the Republic and Empire, when temples to Victoria and Magna Mater accompanied and supplanted those that already stood in the precinct.8 In fact, as the Palatine grew as a place of elite residences, it seems that nearly the entire hilltop became an elite domestic quarter, with the sole exception of this corner, where sacred rites stretched back through the Republic, finding their roots in the monuments of the late sixth and early fifth centuries, or perhaps even earlier. Across the hill, over the entire northern slope from the Forum to the Colosseum valley, small but clear traces of continued activity and further monumentalization are extremely fragmentary, but telling nonetheless. Excavations around the newly built, monumental homes uncovered minor changes to the houses that now characterized the area. For the most part, evidence is of a few new interior walls and repaved floors, a drainage channel added in one area, and other minor refurbishments, but there was no wholesale repurposing on the scale seen in the late sixth century.9 Rather, the image is of refinement and continuity throughout the century. At the opposite corner, close to the later Arch of Constantine, excavators have uncovered remains of a street and a wall in cappellaccio. The close proximity of the wall to earlier sacrificial remains suggests that a sacred precinct already in existence by the late seventh century gained more substantial architectural elaboration near the end of the archaic period. Recent excavation uncovered silen-head antefixes and other fragmentary examples of the same dancing maenads found in association with the Temple of Castor in

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FIGURE 104 Revetment with an anthemion relief from Velia, early 5th century. Painted terracotta, 25.5 × 33 cm. Antiquarium Comunale.

the Forum, discussed later in this chapter.10 As with that site, the finds from the northeast Palatine, overlooking the Colosseum valley, date between 480 and 470. Sadly, at present, the remains reveal very little about the precise function, or even the overall image, of the buildings in the area. There seem to have been two sites, and excavators suggest that one may be an early iteration of the Curiae Veteres. Whatever its function, the remains indicate that a substantial building constructed in well-dressed stone and with a substantial terracotta roof stood at this corner of the Palatine Hill. Along with the second temple on the Capitoline and new sacred architecture on the southwest Palatine, the remains indicate that yet another monumental building was part of the early fifth-century cityscape. What is more, the existence of such a building at the edges of the Colosseum valley is yet another indication that, however much the Forum plain may have become a place of civic cohesion, the city was large, and it was undergoing monumentalization in several directions, including toward the Colosseum valley and overlooking the riverside, both from the Capitoline and Palatine hills. In fact, although proper excavation and finds from the Velia and Esquiline are rare, they too bear witness to the spread of impressive architecture in still more dispersed areas across those hills. On the Velia, the wells uncovered in rapid excavation during the 1930s of the soon-to-be demolished hill attest to wealthy inhabitants discarding the residue of elite life into pits surrounding their homes, and another pair of small finds from the excavations provides a glimpse of the kind of architecture that would have dotted the hill beginning in the early fifth century: namely, a floral revetment and, possibly, a column casing (fig. 104).11 Most scholars have suggested that the remains belong to a temple;

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again, so little of the structure survives that its plan and precise function remain in doubt, but the revetments are nonetheless a find worth consideration. Their relief decoration is composed of upright and hanging palmettes and lotuses, both open and closed, in an impressively intricate and delicate design. They are stylistically comparable to those from the Temple of Castor. In both, ribbons and volutes are used liberally to connect floral elements, and all decoration, including lotuses, palmettes, ribbons, fasteners, and volutes, have a bulbous quality with a rounded execution rather than the peaked or blocked relief found in similar revetments elsewhere in Central Italy. Paint is used liberally and especially in the interstitial areas to highlight the form and shape of the design. At twenty-five centimeters tall, and executed with exceptional detail, the interlaced anthemion design is comparable in size, style, and craftsmanship to several others from Pyrgi, Satricum, Rome, and Segni, all of which adorned truly monumental temples (see figs. 99–101).12 The composition of the Velia relief does not have as close a comparandum as does the revetment from the Capitoline, so the relative scale of the temple it adorned cannot be determined with such certainty. Still, anthemion revetments of this size are not found on temples smaller than the 18.5-square-meter Portonaccio Temple at Veii, and one should therefore expect that the revetment from the Velia would have adorned a temple of substantial size. It was certainly expertly crafted. Further east, on the Esquiline, another isolated terracotta reveals more impressive architecture, but this time it is not the size of the building that is remarkable, it is the international character of its sculpture. During excavation of tombs in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, Rodolfo Lanciani unearthed a two-thirds-life-size sculpture of an Amazon slain in battle (figs. 105, 106). The piece has long been regarded as a masterwork of archaic sculpture: a fallen Amazon lies on her right side, still holding her shield aloft; the wound below her left breast issues blood down her torso; and a broken piece of terracotta joining her right calf reveals that another figure, hypothetically reconstructed as her attacker, hovers over her, perhaps still driving a spear into his victim. In a recent analysis of the sculpture and its historiography, Patricia Lulof has pieced together its probable incorporation into a fill below the first-century Horti of Maecenas and suggests that it was originally an acroterion for a temple of the late sixth or very early fifth century.13 Scholars note that the painting and sculptural qualities of the statue are a tour de force and have long suggested that a Greek craftsperson was behind the execution. In a detailed analysis of the warrior, Lulof confirms that it was manufactured by a Sicilian artist.14 She notes that the sculptor created the body of the Amazon using three layers of clay: a thick underbody to generate the basic shape; a smoother, refined coating to give detail to the anatomy of the figure; and a fine slip on top for polychrome. The technique is absent in the Mediterranean except in South Italy and Sicily. Lulof adds, however, that only the torso of the figure is constructed with this technique, and a few parts of the Amazon are, instead, constructed using only one layer of clay; apart from the Roman Amazon, the combination of both techniques in terracotta sculpture is found only on

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FIGURE 105 Amazon from the Esquiline, early 5th century. Painted terracotta, torso fragment 37 × 23 cm. Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. 3363. FIGURE 106 Reconstruction drawing by Patricia Lulof of the Amazon from the Esquiline.

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Sicily. Moreover, in a study of contemporaneous architectural sculpture from around Rome, the Amazon is the only piece whose material is not terracotta made from a regional clay source. In fact, it is made of clay with inclusion of mudstone, which is not found elsewhere in Central Italy, but is common on Sicily.15 She concludes that a Sicilian sculptural master was commissioned by a patron in Rome to create this acroterial statue and probably a vast program for a precious temple on the Esquiline. In fact, as Lulof adds, the style of the sculpture and its polychrome are matched by particularly close examples from Sicily.16 Either the artisan brought his ceramic materials from Sicily or, far more likely, he created the group on the island, and the valued works were then shipped up to Rome. Examples of the long-distance transportation of whole roofs have been documented between Campania and Central Italy, and the Esquiline warrior would seem to reveal that roof sculpture was traveling even further, from Sicily to Rome.17 The sculpture is all that remains of the temple. Several scholars have suggested that another revetment of a procession, following the system used at S. Omobono, as well as a large ridge tile and part of a metal tripod may all belong to the same sanctuary, but the procession relief would not date later than ca. 540–510, and the fallen Amazon would not date before ca. 500 and would not belong to such an early roofing system. The finds would therefore appear to belong to two different temples. Scholars have suggested two possibilities: an aedes fortunae built by Servius Tullius, although that would be much too early for either piece, and a Temple of Spes, which ancient texts mention existed by ca. 477.18 The identification cannot be ascertained with confidence through the available remains, and it is not even clear that all the terracottas should be ascribed to sanctuaries on the Esquiline. Given that the Amazon was found in a secondary context, as part of a fill from the first century bce, it and the revetments could in fact be from any part of the city. They could perhaps have come from one of the other hills, although it seems unlikely that workers would haul earth so far and uphill for an organized dump. In any case, these doubts do present problems in the assemblage of a precise image for the cityscape, and they are therefore truly unfortunate. The Amazon is nonetheless extraordinarily important. It joins revetments from elsewhere in the city to reveal something of architectural decoration in archaic Rome. Alongside earlier examples from the roofs at S. Omobono and the Regia and the innovative architecture and revetments of the Temple of Jupiter, it is yet another example of Romans’ interests in international artistic trends and of their direct ties to foreign artists. Meanwhile, its value stands alongside the Hercules and Minerva, the more permanent and monumental architecture of the Regia and Comitium, and the expansive homes on the Palatine as yet another example of the rising luxury of art and architecture in the city, built with more lasting, sturdy, costly materials and more and more exotic decoration. Just as parts of the Capitoline, Palatine, Velia, and Esquiline seem to have been devoted increasingly to monumental houses and religious buildings, the far eastern plateaus of the Esquiline and Quirinal also saw increased sumptuousness, but, for their part,

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the excess was lavished on graves. Archaic graves in Rome are scarce, largely because the outlying parts of the ancient city were covered over with architecture during Italian reunification in the late nineteenth century; no early monumental necropolis like those at Caere or Orvieto has yet been found in Rome, but this probably has more to do with the modern city than the ancient. Nearly every excavation on the northeastern Esquiline and Quirinal that has reached the lower levels of the city has uncovered graves. For most of the seventh and sixth centuries, the extant burials were small cremation and inhumation fossa graves (sometimes partially revetted in rough tuff slabs) with burial deposits of local character, including fibulae, small bronze figures, impasto vases, and, for exceptionally wealthy people, bronze pectorals, cistae, jewelry, and spears.19 The early fifth century brought a new formalization of space and a refinement of sarcophagi and cinerary urns that may indicate a change in Romans’ access to building materials from much farther afield. Excavations in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele in the early twentieth century and again between 2003 and 2005 revealed over twenty sarcophagi constructed of finely carved rectangular slabs of peperino tuff.20 The burials were either plundered in antiquity or their remains were discovered and preserved (though now lost) in the early twentieth-century excavations; in either case, their original contents are currently a mystery. That does not mean the graves are not instructional. The very presence of so much peperino used for tombs in Rome is revealing. The material is only available in the Alban Hills, and the concerted effort to line tombs in a fine, hard stone, which had to be transported over land into Rome, reflects a capacity to devote time and resources to sumptuousness rather than utility, even in objects that would vanish from sight after only a few days of use. It also reveals a certain access to distant building materials. Textual sources suggest that by the early fifth century, Rome had a hold on the nearby Alban territories, variously by treaty and by conquest.21 Archaeological remains have not been able to confirm the traditional history absolutely, but the abundance of these sarcophagi would seem to indicate that Romans either had some kind of influence in the hills or that the political circumstances in Latium allowed them access to materials far outside of their city’s periphery and into the territory of other polities. Alongside these early fifth-century peperino sarcophagi was another burial, where the deceased’s remains were placed in a rectangular cinerary urn with a pitched cover. This urn was in turn placed in a larger, finely carved peperino chest. The chest itself is yet another example of Romans getting their hands on material from the Alban Hills, but it is often overlooked for its exceptional contents. The smaller urn inside it, measuring sixty-one by thirty-eight by thirty-two centimeters, is a finely carved and sumptuously painted chest of Parian marble (fig. 107). It is the only known example of marble from the Aegean island used in such a capacity in the entirety of Central Italy, save a fragment from a similar chest at Caere.22 The presence at Rome of such a lavish burial object, matched only at one of Central Italy’s greatest cities, speaks of significant ties to the outside world. In fact, the only known comparanda for the object elsewhere in the entire western

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FIGURE 107 Cinerary urn from the Esquiline, early 5th century. Painted white (Parian?) marble, 61 × 38 × 32 cm. Museo Centrale Montemartini, Rome. Antiquarium Comunale, inv. 455.

Mediterranean come from Spina in northeast Italy and from Cumae in the Bay of Naples, and their remarkable similarity leads scholars to suggest that either they all come from the same Parian workshop, or that a single craftsperson was importing the marble to Italy to create exceptional, elite burial paraphernalia. Unfortunately, little more can be said of burials from the period, and without contents from the graves, it is hard to say more about the community of the dead in early fifth-century Rome. Still, the increased expense lavished on the urn and sarcophagi represents an elevation in excess wealth in Rome. This occurred just as the rest of the hilltops reveal more sumptuous architecture, and it will become clear that the same display of wealth is found in other areas of the city. In this context, the character of the burials is doubly revealing: nearly every fifth-century burial that has been excavated has given up the peperino sarcophagi, and their quantity suggests that refined, imported, expertly quarried stone was not the exclusive right of a very few, but rather of a wider set of the elite population.23 Romans were either wealthy enough to import the material routinely, or their control of Latium was substantial enough to allow them to demand it. In either case, their orbit was growing, and the polity’s reach seems to have touched a wider population. Meanwhile, the marble urn reveals that some of Rome’s elite were capable of importing lavish materials from halfway across the Mediterranean. Compared to marble funerary stelae and statues in the east, it is small, but that hardly makes this urn less impressive. The exoticness of the material carried a more powerful message in Central Italy, far from its source.24 Moreover, this urn was to be enclosed and buried. That is to say, while the stelae

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would remain aboveground and had a much more enduring visual impact, the deceased in Rome lavished the expense on a funerary object that would disappear after it was interred. This truly speaks to a culture of prestige and excess in Rome in the early fifth century. It is unfortunate that so few graves from the period have been uncovered, but it is nonetheless striking that the vast majority of the few that have been excavated hint at a culture of resource and demonstrate yet again an interest in luxury goods from afar. Overall, though impressive, the image of the hilltops in the period is sadly fragmentary. On the Palatine, the southwest and north slopes are all that have seen real excavation; 90 percent of the surface remains buried beneath later architecture. The same is true of the Capitoline, where real excavation has only happened at the Temple of Jupiter (see fig. 1). The Velia, now largely demolished, and the Esquiline, Quirinal, Caelian, and Aventine, all buried beneath modern construction, have only seen sparse scientific excavation down to archaic levels. Still, it is important to recognize that nearly every investigation that has touched the late sixth and early fifth-century layers of the hilltops has turned up substantial remains of architecture or burial. Even on the Caelian, a rare sounding that reached down to archaic levels discovered a rubble wall, perhaps for a house, dating to the late sixth century.25 In short, one should not see the lacunae in maps of the archaic hilltops as an indication of a lack of buildings or burials, but rather as a lack of excavation. With so much monumental architecture in the city, and with the desire for so many sanctuaries and so much civic infrastructure (as is discussed in the following sections), one should in fact expect that the surface of the Palatine and Capitoline, most of the western Esquiline and Quirinal, and perhaps even the Caelian and Aventine were filled with domestic and civic buildings to house the people of Rome and their institutions.26 What does remain on the hilltops is an impressive and widespread image of luxury, monumentality, and wealth in every genre of architecture. On the hills alone, two impressive temples on the Capitoline, another on the Velia, and a packed sanctuary on the southwest slope of the Palatine with at least three sacred buildings all stood along with the great houses of the north slope, another sanctuary by the Colosseum valley, and yet another sacred building manifest in a masterful archaic sculpture of an Amazon slain in battle. Together, these finds reveal that in every corner of the city there were impressive monuments, growing swiftly in number and proclaiming from the city’s highest points the power and influence of the people of Rome.

THE FORUM According to historical tradition, between 499 and 496, Romans fought rebellious Latins at the battle of Lake Regillus, where Aulus Postumius prayed for the aid of Castor and Pollux, in whose name he vowed a temple, should he win. Soon after the victory, the Dioscouri appeared at the site of the Lacus Iuturnae by the Atrium Vestae to water their horses and proclaim Rome’s victory.27 In recognition of his promise to the Dioscouri, Postumius

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FIGURE 108 Schematic plan of the foundations of the archaic Temple of Castor: following Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, pl. 12.1. FIGURE 109 Plan of the archaic Temple of Castor: following Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, fig. 55. FIGURE 110 3-D reconstruction of the archaic Temple of Castor, view from the north.

N

N

purportedly founded a temple just across from the site of their epiphany, in accordance with his vow. The inclusion of the two demigods in the events may be legend, but recent excavations have borne out at least the basic framework of the temple’s foundation story. On the very site that ancient sources describe, just by the Lacus Iuturnae, excavators have unearthed terracottas and substantial foundation walls for a monumental Temple of Castor and Pollux dating to the early fifth century, concurrent with Livy’s account of a dedication in 484.28 The temple is just one of several major changes that swept the Forum plain around the turn of the sixth to fifth centuries. Just prior to its construction were the overhauls at the Comitium, Regia, and Atrium Vestae, and along with the new temple to the Dioscouri, Romans began an initiative to pave the entire plaza in stone and, it seems, to build a second temple at the base of the Capitoline, dedicated to Saturn. On the site of the Temple of Castor and Pollux itself, excavations have revealed a truly monumental building, some 27.5 by 37 to 40 meters. Once completed, it became the third-largest and most extensively decorated temple known from all of archaic Central Italy, surpassed only by the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline and the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii (figs. 108–110). Its footprint is just a few meters smaller than that of the Augustan iteration of the temple, whose podium still dominates the plain today. What is more, excavation down to the archaic ground level and within the subterranean foundations

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uncovered remnants of a tall stone foundation and podium, towering five meters above the Forum plain, just as the Imperial temple did.29 The podium lies at the southern corner of the Forum, where the ground of the Palatine Hill slopes sharply down to meet the flat ground level of the reclaimed Forum basin, and the temple is oriented to the northeast, facing across the open Forum.30 The foundations and podium are formed of intersecting walls, similar to those in the Temple of Jupiter. Builders laid slightly wider foundation courses in the ground to support the high podium walls in the area of the cellae and a solid foundation at the front, beneath the colonnades; also, as with the Temple of Jupiter, they filled the spaces between the walls with earth and then capped the podium with twenty-centimeter-thick slabs of cappellaccio to create the temple floor.31 Above the podium, the design of the building remains somewhat unclear, but archaeologists are able to reconstruct an approximate plan based on the grid of foundations. These suggest a triple-cella temple with three colonnades occupying a deep porch.32 Given the size and weight of the roof, sheathed in terracottas, excavators conclude the walls and columns of the building, whatever their configuration, must have been fully rendered in stone. Like the Temple of Jupiter and most moderate to large temples in Central Italy, stone was critical for a lasting building capped with such a weighty roof, and with spans of ten meters, the Temple of Castor would also require a complex and expertly

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crafted roof. Terracotta fragments of revetments, simas, antefixes, and openwork crestings from the roof and stucco from the temple walls reveal a rich ornamentation.33 The revetments were adorned with a strigil course atop an anthemion decoration in relief, and simas with a strigil course atop a painted guilloche band; they are similar in style and coloring to the revetments of the earlier Temple of Jupiter as well as contemporaneous temples at Veii (Portonaccio), Pyrgi (A), Falerii Veteres (Sassi Caduti), Satricum (Temple II), and the second temple on the Capitoline in Rome. By contrast, the antefixes show a relatively new style. Until the early fifth century, figured-head antefixes dominated Central Italy, but the Temple of Castor’s are large, intricate, full-bodied silens and maenads like those on the contemporaneous early fifth-century temple at Satricum.34 In all, the terracottas covering the roof and the stuccoed, painted walls of the temple reveal a rich and complex program of decoration adoring a monumental, lavish temple. Outside of the Temple of Jupiter and Ara della Regina, the only known temple in Central Italy that can match the length of the Temple of Castor is the one dedicated to Juno at Segni, but that temple is not as wide. The next-largest is Pyrgi, Temple A, but although substantial at 24 by 34.5 square meters, its footprint is 828 square meters, compared to the Temple of Castor, which is between 1,018 and 1,100 square meters: some 19 to 25 percent larger. This does not even account for the towering podium of the Roman temple, which is five times as tall as its closest rivals at Pyrgi, Segni, Ardea, and elsewhere. In the end, as a colonnaded stone temple over twenty-seven meters wide and nearly forty meters long raised on such a tall podium, the grandeur of the Temple of Castor considerably surpasses all but the two greatest temples of Central Italy.35 Like them, its overwhelming impression is better understood in comparison with the famous archaic and classical temples at Olympia, Selinunte, Agrigento, Syracuse, Corinth, and elsewhere. Among the Temple of Hera at Olympia, the Temple of Aphaia at Aigina, temples C, D, and F at Selinunte, the temples of Concordia, Hera, and Herakles at Agrigento, the Temple of Apollo and the Ionic Temple at Syracuse, and the Temple of Apollo at Corinth, none has a facade as wide as that of the Temple of Castor in Rome (fig. 111).36 Of course, each of these temples had a length-to-width ratio that made it more elongated. Still, the Roman temple covered more square footage than the temples of Hera at Olympia and of Concordia, Castor and Pollux, and Hera at Agrigento—all famous for their imposing stature—and it covered 95 percent of the footprints of the temples of Artemis at Corfu and Apollo at Corinth. What is more, the Roman temple towered above devotees on a foundation and podium that raised it five times higher than the stylobates at Agrigento, Corfu, Selinunte, Corinth, Olympia, and elsewhere. It was a remarkable building for any city in the archaic Mediterranean, and it fit well in the growing urban image of Rome, with its increasing number of impressive temples. Given the corroboration of the textual tradition in archaeological finds and the continued use of the building and its refurbishment through the Empire, there is little doubt that this temple served the cult of the Castores from its creation in the early fifth century.37

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0

FIGURE 111 Scale comparison of the temples of Apollo at Corinth, Hera at Olympia, Artemis at Corfu, Aphaia at Aigina, and Castor at Rome, from left to right.

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With this in mind, one must question what it says that such a rare monumental temple at the heart of a Central Italic city would host this particular cult. Worship of the two demigods is attested in Central Italy—Latium especially—for over a century prior to this building, so to some degree, the cult is not new.38 But there is no evidence of a sanctuary or ritual hub dedicated to them that is remotely as impressive, and throughout its history, this sanctuary remained if not the most impressive site dedicated to them in the region, then certainly one of the top two: the other being at Tusculum.39 In fact, because the inauguration of the temple is so closely tied to conquest in Latium, and because of the particularly close association of the demigods with Lavinium and Tusculum in Latium, most see the Roman cult as stemming from the Latin character of the demigods, which time and again has shown a deep connection to rituals from Sparta and South Italy, in contrast to the character of the demigods in Etruria.40 At the same time, given that the temple was inaugurated at the center of the city (and presumably within any sacred bounds, including the pomerium), some have suggested that this must be evidence of the existence of the cult in Rome prior to this temple.41 Livy says that the vow was for a temple, not to inaugurate a new cult of Castor and Pollux, so the cult space may have existed at Rome for some time. This would make sense; evidence for buildings below the Temple of Castor may be testimony of earlier cult activity, in which case the temple would not be a sign of Romans appropriating a cult from outside their city in something similar to (though not the same as) evocatio, but rather a sign of them aggrandizing their own cult center in such a way as to supersede those of their vanquished Latin opponents.42 The purpose of the earlier buildings remains unclear for now, though, so this remains speculative. In any case, the temple gave new prominence to the Castores in Rome and new prominence to the Roman cult of the Castores in Latium and all of Central Italy, and this

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is truly significant. Just a few decades prior, Romans had established on the Capitoline a sanctuary for Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva—a temple to the head of a religious pantheon along with his wife and daughter—on the highest point of their city.43 In doing so, they created a cult center, whose religious meaning as a home of the “best and greatest” of gods and whose visual impression as one of the largest temples built in the whole of the archaic Mediterranean established Rome as a primary (perhaps the primary) center for religious dedication in Central Italy. The presence of this truly monumental sanctuary to the Castores at the heart of Rome adds to that image. It would remain among the most opulent sanctuaries in the region for centuries and was a chief place of worship for the gods thereafter. In this sense, the monumentality of these two sanctuaries at the heart of Rome indicates that there was something more about the urban environment than just large, sumptuous construction. Romans were raising more and more—and ever more diverse— cults in their city, effectively establishing themselves as a religious center as much as an architectural or economic one, and these temples were not alone. As seen on the hilltops, and as will be seen elsewhere in the valleys, as the years passed, they continued to add to this visual and physical impression of religious imperative. There has been only one substantial excavation in the area immediately northwest of the Temple of Castor, below the later Basilica Julia. In that small sounding, there were several archaic and early Republican layers, but only fragments of a few walls and terracottas that date with certainty to the sixth or early fifth century. In a small sounding within the trench, excavators uncovered several strata containing ashlar blocks and antefixes of a silen’s head and of Juno Sospita, which date to the early fifth century.44 The ashlars are distinct from those discussed previously in regard to a potential reclamation embankment wall and are slightly higher in elevation; the antefixes have been linked to the Temple of Castor.45 It is difficult to make any claims based off such unclear, fragmentary finds, but the ashlars indicate that another building stood along the edge of the Forum fill, hard by the Temple of Castor, by the beginning of the fifth century. For now, its form and function remain unclear. Across the plain, at the base of the Capitoline Hill, textual sources also mention the construction of a Temple of Saturn in the early fifth century. Sadly, these sources do not describe its size, plan, or decoration. Macrobius says that the sacred area had existed for some time, back to the age of Tullus Hostilius; according to Macrobius and Dionysius, initial construction of the temple building began either with the kings or the first consuls, and it was dedicated between 501 and 493. The next mention in ancient texts of refurbishment or reconstruction of the building is with L. Munatius Plancus’s restoration of it in 42 bce.46 As with the Temple of Castor, archaeological remains can corroborate little of the tale surrounding the creation of the first Temple of Saturn with real certainty, but they do suggest that it was in fact completed in the early decades of the fifth century. The interpretation here is a bit more complicated, though, than it is in the case of the straightforward archaeological finds from the Temple of Castor.

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perimeter of Late Imperial temple

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FIGURE 112 Foundation plan of the Temple of Saturn, with remains in black and probable walls in dashed lines: following Maetzke 1991, with modifications.

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As with that excavation, archaeologists have found early foundations beneath the late Republican Temple of Saturn, this time three parallel walls (fig. 112). In overall form, they resemble the longitudinal foundations of the Temple of Jupiter and Temple of Castor, and the material in the Saturn foundations is the same gray granular tuff (cappellaccio) used in the foundations of the other two temples; furthermore, at two and a half meters wide, the walls are the same width as the foundation walls in the Temple of Castor and are constructed similarly, with two headers and one stretcher laid in rows across each course.47 The repeated correspondences may suggest a fifth-century temple, but excavations at the Temple of Saturn did not uncover the same stratigraphically sound, datable ceramic material that the Temple of Castor and Temple of Jupiter excavations did. In fact, they were originally uncovered during unscientific excavations in the eighteenth century and are entirely without stratigraphy or any securely datable finds. Furthermore, the individual tuff blocks are about forty by sixty by ninety centimeters—roughly ten centimeters thicker than the Capitoline and Castor blocks—and this has created some doubt.48 Still, although this does indicate a departure from those two buildings, the dimensions are by no means proof against an archaic date. Sixth- and fifth-century cappellaccio foundations and walls elsewhere, especially in cisterns on the Palatine and at the temples at S. Omobono, vary in size, and many are as tall as forty centimeters, others as short as twenty centimeters. Dating based on ashlar dimensions is a notoriously problematic method. In sum, the material remains of the Temple of Saturn are ambiguous, and short of revealing that there was an early-Republican Era temple, they do not secure a date for the first Temple of Saturn. Yet there is good reason to believe that the foundation walls do date to the early fifth century. Textual sources are unwavering, and as was seen in the case of the Temple of Jupiter, more and more scholars recognize these sources’ value in establishing dates for works of architecture (especially sacred buildings) that endured down to the late Republic and Empire. As Nicholas Purcell has noted, “Historical consciousness at Rome was linked with buildings and cults more solidly than with notions of constitutional change, important though that ingredient became.”49 Even scholars who distrust textual sources for early Roman political and military history tend to agree that literary evidence for the foundation dates of civic buildings—particularly sanctuaries and temples, with their annual sacred rights, priestly records, and dedications—gains some trustworthiness beginning with the “Capitoline Era.”50 From the dedication of the Temple of Jupiter onward, Romans used stone masonry more widely for foundations and superstructures in major temples, and these durable materials allowed the buildings to endure for centuries. The temples were also outfitted with votives, inscriptions, and institutions that bore tangible—and sometimes legible—objects documenting a history of existence. That is to say, monumental stone sanctuaries and their concomitant votives, traditions, and decorations stood the test of time. Like the Temple of Castor and the Temple of Jupiter, whose textual chronology have both been upheld by recent excavation, the Temple of Saturn stood for centuries;

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a record of activity specific to the building and its sacred functions would have supplemented any citywide annals and oral tradition to help chroniclers ascertain its origins with far greater accuracy than the passing speeches, events, and ephemeral artwork of the same period. Thus, its origins are far less likely to suffer fabrication. Moreover, the Temple of Saturn was not just any temple; it contained the aerarium populi Romani (or Saturni)—the treasury of Rome—and the records associated with the security and distribution of state funds would leave a substantial trail of information on the building, which would allow historians to trace its roots. Further still, this is not just a case of possibility. In every way, the archaeology matches the textual tradition. The overall measurements and construction technique of the foundation walls are in complete accord with other buildings from the period, especially the Temple of Castor, and excavation of the site has found no intervention in the building until the construction of a towering concrete podium in the late first century bce.51 This precisely matches the chronology found in Livy, Dionysius, Macrobius, Suetonius, and the epigraphic record, all of which state clearly that a temple was dedicated in the early fifth century and was only replaced in the late first century.52 If the Imperial temple stood today without any trace of a previous building, its fifth-century origins might be called into question. But this is not the case, and in the face of such accord between architectonic, textual, archaeological, and epigraphic records, a date corresponding to the textual tradition is most likely. Whatever the precise years of construction, remains at the site indicate a hexastyle temple with a slightly expanded central intercolumniation, and an overall width measuring close to twenty meters.53 It was over two-thirds the width of the Temple of Castor (about twenty-seven meters), and one can imagine it suitably balanced its near twin at the south end of the Forum. Both faced onto the open plain, bordering the Vicus Iugarius and Vicus Tuscus, the two major arteries from the Tiber to the monumental city center. With these two temples, the Forum seems in part to have acquired its lasting image. The Comitium, with its raised platform, cippus, and paved communal space at one end, would be the established seat of the Roman Senate and People until its demolition by Caesar half a millennium later. At the other end, the Regia and Atrium Vestae complex now featured more permanent stone buildings in a form that lasted for almost a millennium, and two temples joined them, adding further, enduring monumental religious character to the space. To accompany these changes, beginning around 530, when the monumental houses went up on the north slope of the Palatine, Romans had begun to pave roadways entering the Forum in stone. A second stone street joined the “Via Sacra” in the early fifth century, leading from the Forum to the riverside, by the Temple of Castor. It became known as the Vicus Tuscus, as it purportedly led through a quarter of the city with an Etruscan character.54 At the same time, in the early fifth century, to connect these new roads and the buildings surrounding the Forum plain, it seems that Romans paved the entire space in flags of cappellaccio stone. Excavators of the Temple of Castor found traces of the pavement

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15.6 D 11.7 12.3 12.1 B C A

11.5 10.85 F 10 E G

FIGURE 113 Elevations (in meters above sea level) of archaic cappellaccio flags (pavement 1) in the following areas, in relation to the elevation of the Temple of Castor: A) Temple of Caesar; B) Lacus Iuturnae; C) Temple of Castor, trench A; D) top of the podium of the Temple of Castor; E) archaic Vicus Tuscus; F) Basilica Julia; and G) Equus Domitiani: following Nielsen 1990, fig. 6. FIGURE 114 Equus Domitiani excavation, with cappellaccio pavement at the left edge.

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surrounding the temple and dating contemporaneously with its construction, and archaeologists also identified it in excavations at the later Lacus Iuturnae, Arch of Augustus, and all around the Temple of Caesar (fig. 113).55 At the center of the plain, too, in excavation at the “Equus Domitiani,” Gjerstad identified further evidence for cappellaccio flags of the same dimensions dating to the same period as the remains in the southern half of the Forum (fig. 114).56 As with so much of the cityscape, it is difficult to assemble a full image of the central plain and to determine if, indeed, the stone floor covered the whole space. Yet it is hard to dismiss the finds. In every excavation down to the early fifth-century levels, these same stone pavers have turned up. To be sure the plaza was flagged entirely, further widespread excavation will be necessary. Still, at present, the evidence points in that direction, and the preponderance of cut stone in massive quantities used in architecture and infrastructure throughout the city suggests that Romans were moving toward this kind of durability in all manner of construction, and that the Forum plain may itself have seen its first full pavement in hard, sturdy material at the start of the sixth century. One need only consider the difference between dragging a cart on gravel and on stone, on earthen (sometimes muddy) streets and on those flagged in smooth ashlars, to comprehend how transformative this action was. Alongside the monumentalized stone civic and sacred buildings that now opened up onto the plain, the stone pavement would give prominence and polish to an area that seems to have become—and would remain for a millennium—the heart of the city and, eventually, the empire.

A NEW URBAN FACADE Down by the riverside, the small temple at S. Omobono fell sometime around 500 and left the site in need of a new temple. Scholars are divided on the date of the next phase of construction, which transformed the sanctuary’s image. Some argue for reconstruction within the next few decades, while others contend that the site lay barren until Marcus Furius Camillus’s purported reconstruction, which textual sources date to 396.57 Those texts do not indicate that the site was in disuse for the intervening century; rather, the suggestion of abandonment stems entirely from the modern interpretation. During initial excavations, archaeologists unearthed a massive platform composed of a stone perimeter wall that had been filled with earth and debris (fig. 115).58 Within the wall, embedded in the fill and pertaining to the perimeter structure, were deep foundation walls and pillars that supported the columns and walls of two monumental temples, which stood atop the platform; they occupied its rear, and before them lay a vast, open forecourt (fig. 116). Further excavation laid bare the entire height of several parts of the perimeter wall and of a pillar that supported one of the temple’s columns. The pillar and walls are composed of ten courses of cappellaccio, and exploration in 1974 revealed more of the east perimeter wall and also allowed a stratigraphic study of its foundation trench.59 The

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FIGURE 115 3-D reconstruction of the foundations of the twin temples at S. Omobono, axonometric view.

FIGURE 116

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Plan of the twin temples at S. Omobono.

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trench cuts a terracotta deposit and leveling layer above the destroyed second temple and indicates that builders dug through those activities to lay the perimeter wall. The platform therefore undoubtedly postdates those activities. Those who believe the platform belongs in the fourth century—some one hundred years after the destruction of the second temple—argue that, in accordance with practices in use from the sixth through the third centuries, builders used cappellaccio for the foundation walls and pillars and the perimeter walls, but these scholars point out that the foundations and the fill were then covered over in a pavement of Monteverde slabs, many of which remain on the site.60 Monteverde is not used in Roman construction until the early fourth century, so it would seem that the cappellaccio foundations and the accompanying Monteverde pavement must date no earlier than ca. 400. This fits remarkably well with the tale of Camillus and his purported refurbishment of the twin temples at the site. The premise is clear and it would be compelling, except that there is no stratigraphic or architectonic reason to tie the Monteverde slabs to the same activity as the cappellaccio foundation. The blocks of Monteverde tuff are only used as a pavement, placed atop the cappellaccio foundations. They could easily be part of a later repaving of the sanctuary, perhaps Camillus’s famed renovation. Such repaving is common throughout the city in the Republic and Empire, and in fact, the twin temples at S. Omobono themselves exhibit several later repavings, with stone laid directly on top of earlier floors. What is more, there is evidence of a pavement of the podium that predates the first Monteverde pavement. Antonio Maria Colini notes two pavements in Monteverde tuff at the west side of the platform. Scholars largely agree that the second (upper pavement) dates to a reconstruction of the area ca. 213, and that the first (lower pavement) dates to Camillus’s building.61 In excavations in front of the apse of the church in the eastern portion of the platform, Gjerstad states that he too uncovered evidence for two pavements. His top pavement is in Monteverde stones on a thin, beaten-earth stratum. The bottom pavement is evidenced only by a distinct layer of beaten earth; it is identical to other such layers found throughout the city where pavement slabs were removed in antiquity. In the eastern portion of the site, where Gjerstad was excavating, the second (upper) Monteverde pavement is absent; there, only the first (lower) Monteverde remained in situ past antiquity.62 Thus, Gjerstad’s Monteverde pavement corresponds to the earliest pavement and reconstruction, and the other below it appears to be a still earlier pavement that would correspond to a phase of construction before ca. 396. Recent examination of unpublished excavation material by teams currently excavating the site as well as finds from new soundings reveal more of the compressed earth foundation for an early fifth-century cappellaccio pavement, upholding this interpretation.63 In addition to the pre-Monteverde (pre-396) pavement, there is further reason to believe that the monumental double sanctuary was built in the early fifth century. As Colini notes, evidence is clear (and scholars agree) that the second temple fell around 500. If the temples were only rebuilt under Camillus, that would mean the site lay in utter

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abandon for over a century.64 It is hard to believe that Romans would leave so historic and prominent a religious site empty for that long. Although this is not sure proof of a rebuilding ca. 500, it should arouse some doubt about arguments for a late reconstruction. Moreover, suspicion only increases upon examination of the stratigraphy of the site, which offers a further, positive means of establishing an early date. Atop the destruction and leveling layers that cover the second temple, builders deposited an enormous amount of earth and debris to fill the inside of the platform and raise the area around it; in analyses of this fill, archaeologists have discovered not one find dating to the fifth century or later.65 Enrico Paribeni and Giovanni Colonna published finds from the 1938 excavations and record nothing that dates after ca. 500. In subsequent excavations, archaeologists concluded that of the hundreds of Euboean, Pithecusan, Corinthian, Ionic, Attic, and Italic impasto and bucchero in all of the strata—from the destruction of the second temple to the ceremonial deposit above it, the leveling layer above that, and up to the top of the fill of the twin temple platform—not one fragment dates after the end of the sixth century.66 Recent and ongoing investigations of previous excavations as well as new soundings have found the same situation, with materials deposited in layers of both fill and the foundation trenches for walls and pillars of the twin temples dating no later than the end of the sixth century.67 If, in the face of Colini’s argument, one were to suggest that Romans could have abandoned the site for a century, one must still contend with the absence of fifth-century materials in the fill of the cappellaccio podium and all layers below it. It is hard to imagine that over the course of more than one hundred years of urban development and occupation all around it, and in the process of dumping vast amounts of earth and debris within the platform, not one scrap of material culture from after ca. 500 would find its way into the site, or that after abandonment, for a century no trace of activity would appear in the stratigraphy or construction of a temple built in the fourth. All evidence points to an early fifth-century reconstruction, and a small stash of terracottas from the excavations of 1938 may settle the argument. In all, only three revetment plaques and two roof tiles have been published. The roof tiles are undecorated and do not offer substantial chronological clues.68 The revetments, on the other hand, offer a firm date (fig. 117). The remaining fragments are part of a large anthemion relief. One piece contains a five-frond palmette held at its base by two volutes banded together; the volutes are each part of long, S-shaped spirals. An undecorated band circumscribes the palmette, and on this fragment the band also defines the lower edge of the plaque. Another fragment retains the other end of the S-shaped spiral, where it connects with another volute. As Gjerstad points out, these fragments are identical to a set of reliefs that adorned the Acropolis Temple at Ardea, and a comparison with the Ardea plaques allows a full image of the revetments at Rome.69 They constitute a two-tiered anthemion decoration; the top palmettes are upright and fastened at the bottom to S-shaped spirals, which curve down and lock together to hold the lower palmettes, which are themselves upside down. A thin band weaves between the palmettes, and a torus and strigil course top the relief. Arvid

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FIGURE 117 Drawing of the double anthemion revetment used at Rome and Ardea, with Roman fragments, early 5th century. Painted terracotta. Fragments, Antiquarium Comunale, Rome. Inv. 15835, 15850.

Andrén establishes a date for the Ardean plaques in the early fifth century, based on the style of both the palmette and strigil as well as the delicately outlined forms of the relief. Similarities are clear in the elongated, animated leaves of the palmettes from other early to mid-fifth-century anthemion reliefs at Satricum and Rome, as well as in the design of interlocking S-shaped spirals at Segni.70 The context of the S. Omobono terracottas is unclear, and there can be no illusion that their stratigraphy reveals more about their association with the twin platform. Yet their discovery at the site is striking. Along with the absence of finds dating after ca. 500 in layers pertaining to the construction of the platform, and the presence of a pavement predating a restoration of ca. 400, the early fifth-century revetments appear to confirm that soon after the small temple fell, Romans leveled the area around S. Omobono and built an enormous cappellaccio platform. Ongoing excavation continues to provide more and more proof of this and suggests that they quickly rebuilt and paved the platform, probably in cappellaccio, and over the course of the coming decades, they built two large, twin temples capped with terracotta roofs sporting a novel style of double-anthemion reliefs.71 In the new twin sanctuary, builders circumvented any major concerns about flooding: the top of the new platform was approximately 12.75 meters above sea level, some three meters above annual flood levels.72 Also, in contrast with the first and second temples, which are oriented north–northeast to south–southwest, the twin temples are

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oriented directly north–south. This created a massive shelf off the southwest corner of the Capitoline Hill, with its rear and eastern side only a few courses deep, but its front projecting five meters above the natural ground level. Thus, on all sides, and especially at the front, the temples and their platform loomed high above the surrounding area. Even in the Empire, the Vicus Iugarius was lower than the rear of the temple platform, and remains of an Imperial spur of the street flanking the north side of the sanctuary descend from a meter below the platform at the rear to nearly two meters below it at the front. A similar situation existed around the late fifth-century Temple of Apollo Medicus in the Campus Martius and the fourth-century Temple of Portunus, each just a few hundred meters from the S. Omobono platform. For these sanctuaries, builders also raised platforms nearly five meters off the ground with a temple on top.73 Thus, with the twin temples and their successors nearby, it seems that Romans building in the low-lying areas around the worrisome Tiber had decided to take more serious precautions when building monumental architecture. As to the plan and elevation, like any temple that is missing much of the superstructure, a full reconstruction is necessarily hypothetical. Still, a conspicuous correspondence between the cappellaccio foundations of the archaic buildings and the extant late Republican and Imperial reconstructions remaining on the site provides substantial corroboration of the basic image (fig. 118). The Imperial remains reveal two temples at the north end of the platform with their backs to the Capitoline; they flank a central, longitudinal passageway that leads from the Vicus Iugarius to a forecourt at the front of the temples. The rear wall of the platform supports the rear walls of the two temples. The west colonnade of the west temple and the east colonnade of the east temple are on top of the longitudinal perimeter walls of the platform, and the opposing colonnades of each temple are on two longitudinal foundations that flank the central passageway. The cellae rest on deep cappellaccio walls, and in front of the cellae’s side walls, four foundation pillars support four columns, creating a dipteral facade. In front of the temple buildings, a wide platform paved in cappellaccio creates an open space slightly lower than the temples themselves. A stair of some kind mediated the change in elevation; whether it went across the whole width of the temples or only between the center columns is unclear. Scholars contend that the Imperial superstructure would correspond precisely with that of the original twin temples. This seems clear for the cellae and columns in front of them, but the character of the alae is debatable. It is possible that they were originally solid walls instead of colonnades. Whatever the precise image of the colonnades, the platform measures 47.5 meters square, and each temple is 20.5 meters wide and 29.5 meters long.74 Elevated together, high above a viewer, the twin buildings created a truly overwhelming sight for visitors entering Rome from the Tiber. Individually, each has impressive dimensions, comparable to truly monumental temples, including the temples of Juno, Castor and Pollux,

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FIGURE 118

and Concordia at Agrigento, Temple B at Pyrgi, Temple II at Satricum, and Temple A at Selinunte.75 Yet the height and isolation of the platform above the surrounding area of the Velabrum, Campus Martius, and Tiber banks would join the double superstructures in a viewer’s eye. Towering five meters high above an approaching visitor, the double-temple complex was nearly fifty meters wide, as expansive as the Temple of Apollo at Didyma or the partially built Olympieion in Athens, and eclipsed in the Italic Peninsula only by the width of the Temple of Jupiter, which loomed high overhead. Perched as they were over the valley and river below, both colossal sanctuaries—atop the Capitoline and projecting off its slope—stood prominently over the banks of the Tiber. Facing south toward ships advancing to Rome, they formed an imposing, colossal facade for a truly impressive urban landscape.

3-D hypothetical reconstruction of the twin temples at S. Omobono.

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5

The Great Rome of the Romans

Between the eighth and mid-fifth centuries, the Roman cityscape experienced a true transformation. The changes visible on the hills and in the valleys demonstrate both rising prosperity and increasingly profound interaction with cultures from far afield. They also reveal a dynamic production of social spaces that morphed over time and shaped the enduring image of the city and the functions of many quintessential civic areas (fig. 119). The coalescence of burials on the eastern plateaus would seem to indicate communication among the hilltop communities already by the eighth century. The requirements and impact of the Forum reclamation suggest that people on the hills were working together on substantial communal activities by the end of the seventh century. In the wake of the creation of the Forum plain, more and more civic monuments went up between the hills, which suggests more social cohesion and the formation of a city of Rome, and beginning around 540/530, architectural, infrastructural, epigraphic, and artistic evidence testify to a truly unified community with a common interest in urban change, shared civic regulation (although the details remain hazy), and a common promotion of status through a monumental cityscape. Meanwhile, the design, tectonics, and adornment of the city’s architecture reveal an increasing participation in the wider world of Mediterranean art, architecture, and cultural interaction, with monuments that mixed local, nearby, and distantly foreign elements more and more into a unique and connected artistic and urban image. Such conclusions, based principally on archaeological evidence, can be of sweeping significance, but some scholars search for more. In order to flesh out the details of political, military, religious, diplomatic, and economic history, they look to ancient authors to flesh out a more complete narrative. They stress the potential information in the literary evidence and suggest a close correspondence between these physical traces of urban shift and the people and events mentioned in the ancient textual history of Rome.1 Others are reluctant to tie architecture and texts together in this early period, because of the pitfalls of extrapolating from protohistorical sources and because of doubt surrounding the names, actions, and patrons of both architectural and socio-political initiatives in the regal period and early Republic.2 Perhaps there is a middle ground. Although ancient texts are indeed problematic for this period, more and more, historians agree that one can

Capitoline, temple II

Comitium

em ba nk

me nt

Vicu s

Temple of Jupiter

Temple of Castor

S. Omobono

Pa lat ine

us

paved Forum

Tus c

Temple of Saturn

ho us es

Velia temple

Regia & Atrium Vestae

“Via Sacra”

clay beds/ tile manufacturing

Colosseum valley temple

port area

100m

0

FIGURE 119 Plan of known buildings in Rome, ca. 450.

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N

site of religious buildings on SW Palatine

assemble a broad narrative from their reports, particularly toward the end of the sixth and beginning of the fifth centuries; with a growing archaeological framework for early Roman topography, there may be a means to tie the two together in something better than a “Schliemann-esque” manner. At stake is a fraught question: Can one use this art and architecture as more than evidence of a Roman artistic culture, urban design, or broad cultural contact and economic wherewithal, potentially seeing in it substantial information about the roots of Roman civic life? There is good reason for skepticism, but the subject is too important to go unquestioned here.3 What is more, maintaining the long-standing disciplinary divisions between text, archaeology, art, and architecture only encumbers scholarly endeavor, as is evident by one particularly misleading trend in the current scholarship on architecture, politics, and the Archaic Era. The period of monarchy (ca. 750–509) has seen frequent integration of textual sources with archaeological remains as well as substantial assessment both advocating and discouraging such synthesis.4 By contrast, the period of the transition to Republic and the early so-called social struggles (c. 509–450) has seen textual evidence of civic change largely studied apart from archaeology and architecture.5 In some ways, this has been beneficial, as it has led to few tenuous ascriptions of monuments to putative rulers, and even fewer assertions of those potential patrons’ purported intentions in the early Republic. At the same time, it also means that evidence of architectural change has not

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been brought to bear on the vigorous discussion of civic and institutional restructuring. In fact, the art and architecture of the first half century of the Republic—including the many monumental temples and international sculptures of the last chapter—have seen precious little discussion at all. This has led to a questionable division in scholarship that (through silence) inaccurately suggests an architecturally and artistically prolific regal period followed by a sharp decrease or total absence of architectural output with the beginning of the Republic.6 This has fundamentally skewed perspectives of governmental shift, religious continuity, and artistic manufacture in a way that has been detrimental to the study of the genesis of Roman art and civic life and to the relationship of this early history with the study of later Roman culture. It therefore deserves reexamination across disciplinary lines: across the gaps that divide architecture and text, regal period and Republic.

HISTORY, PIECE BY PIECE Of primary concern is the overall correspondence between texts and archaeology. Certainly one can see accord between the history presented in ancient sources and in archaeological finds. Without question, there was a considerable expansion of settlement on the Palatine, Capitoline, and Quirinal in the late eighth and early seventh centuries, and ancient sources suggest a similar development under Romulus and Numa at that time.7 In a similar way, it is entirely possible that the wall on the north Palatine is a Romulean work of architecture; indeed, it has been dated to the traditional period of his reign.8 The date of a votive deposit on the Capitoline also coincides remarkably well with Romulus’s purported foundation of a Temple of Jupiter Feretrius on that hill, as one scholar has suggested.9 Meanwhile, according to Cicero, the Valerii did have a house on the Via Sacra near the Forum, and it was historically associated with rare family burials inside the pomerium; this fits nicely with the circumstances of the house above the Sepulcretum, and, moreover, as another scholar proposes, huts there could potentially date to the reign of Tullus Hostilius, whose house the Valerii purportedly replaced.10 But these links are circumstantial. Expansion on the hills during the purported regnal dates of Romulus and Numa does not prove the existence or patronage of those two kings, and identification of the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius, the Palatine Wall, the House of the Valerii, and any other monuments from the period have their problems. Ancient sources say the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius was located on the summit of the Capitoline.11 If they mean the very highest point, the votive deposit does not match their description, and if instead they mean vaguely the top of the hill, it is presumptuous to suggest that the one early votive deposit found there matches that temple; there could be dozens of other as-yet-undiscovered votive deposits nearby in the vast unexcavated areas. The same could be true of the so-called Wall of Romulus, and its precise function as a civic boundary is not even certain. Several scholars have criticized the manipulation of textual evidence in the case of the wall to fit a find that does not actually match their words.12 As to the Valerii

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and Tullus Hostilius, the house atop the Sepulcretum identified as theirs may be on the summa sacra via, as ancient sources attest, but given that nearly every excavation down to late archaic levels on the summa sacra via has turned up elite houses from the sixth century (with infant burials) atop older huts, it is specious to single out this one as their domus.13 In the end, most scholars agree that with so much of the city unexcavated, without contemporaneous inscriptions or textual sources, and without architecture that endured down to the historical period, it is dangerous to link traditional tales of Rome’s inhabitants to remains of monuments from this period.14 The reliability of the sources is thorny, and although the years of total disregard for the literature have passed, most agree that only through careful reading of the literature and remains can one glean subtle elements of a broader history of this period.15 Any precise or sweeping correlation of architecture and archaeology with the people, functions, intention, and events of the texts in this early time is just too problematic. Beginning with the late seventh and early sixth centuries, however, some scholars feel better about tying changes in the Roman cityscape to the textual tradition. Tarquinius Priscus is said to have drained the valleys of Rome.16 Although the Forum reclamation dates prior to his reign, one could postulate that it was first created imperfectly, without drainage, and that Priscus might have seen the need and done exactly what Livy says.17 According to Cicero, Dionysius, and Livy, Priscus added to the Senate’s number; one could hypothesize that the erection of the terracotta-roofed building and the first pavement of the Comitium were built to accommodate these changes, though this is heavy extrapolation.18 Meanwhile, one could see the increased wealth found in lavish grave goods and more sumptuous architecture as evidence of the tremendous spoils Priscus is said to have brought in from wars with Collatia, Crustumerium, Ficulea, and Cameria as well as others in Latin, Sabine, and Etruscan territory.19 He is also cast as the son of Demaratus, whom some scholars have tied to the importation of architectural terracotta manufacture from Corinth to Central Italy, and it is precisely during Priscus’s traditional regnal dates (ca. 616–579) that this craft appears in the archaeological record at Rome.20 With these and other correlations between text and archaeology, beginning with the putative reign of Tarquinius Priscus, one is tempted to believe that perhaps some consistency begins to appear between archaeology and the ancient narrative. Scholars have consequently long highlighted an increase in wealth, civic structure, and architectural fervor in archaeology that coincides with the last three kings of Rome.21 This is, of course, the start of the famous “Grande Roma dei Tarquini.” The idea of a “Great Rome of the Tarquins” gained support almost as soon as Giorgio Pasquali published his treatise with this title in 1936; despite a brief trend away from it in the mid-1960s, many scholars have come to embrace the idea.22 In his article, Pasquali highlights prosperity and greater military conquest under the Tarquins, as remembered in textual sources, and he ties this to archaeological evidence of greater wealth and refinement during the years of their traditional regnal dates. As the years have passed, more and more evidence has come to light suggesting that there was indeed a rise

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both in economic and military power and in civic structure in Rome at the time. Over time, scholars have augmented Pasquali’s study with new finds and with further textual research, and, overall, scholarship on the period has benefited from this study.23 Yet as more and more scholars have pulled from the premise (and the title) of Pasquali’s treatise, the story of the “Great Rome of the Tarquins” has moved away from his original narrative. The contents of Pasquali’s article highlight economic, military, and civic organization, not architecture; in fact, Pasquali does not even investigate architecture or urbanism under the kings per se.24 The “Great Rome” to which he refers in his title is not the physical (architectural) city, but rather the state; regal topography features only in a few lines in the first paragraph, and there he speaks of “una comunità” that made it possible, not the Tarquins. In contrast, the new scholarship foregrounds architecture; it ties new archaeological evidence for construction closely to Pasquali’s broad premise of Tarquin power; and it assumes that the Tarquins were in control of architectural manufacture.25 This, in turn, has generated an idea that the Tarquins were responsible for an architectural overhaul, investing the city with its monumental urban foundations and setting up Rome with its most lavish early projects. Thus, by way of exhibitions, articles, and books, “La Grande Roma dei Tarquini” has become synonymous with the foundations of a Roman architecture, urbanism, and art under Tarquin patronage. This is dangerous, and it is problematic. The texts and the archaeological remains do not work as well to uphold a great Tarquin patronage of architecture or urban development as they do to uphold Pasquali’s broader great Tarquin community. The economic wherewithal, mercantilism, and even civic reforms that Pasquali does highlight have been confirmed more and more by way of both archaeology and textual scholarship. As they relate specifically to architecture, though, the texts are difficult to synchronize with archaeology to suggest a great city built by the Tarquins, and this is not something that one can brush aside; there are real problems. Despite all the modern scholarship on their great urban achievements, ancient sources do not single out any of the last three kings as eminent builders; in fact, they speak more highly of their predecessors. These sources famously record that Romulus vowed a Temple of Jupiter Feretrius on the Capitoline and Jupiter Stator near the Palatine, and that Titus Tatius built a sacellum to Jupiter, Mars, and Quirinus on the Quirinal. Other sanctuaries that the sources ascribe to the early regal period include Vulcan, the Sun and Moon, Saturn, Rhea, Vesta, Diana, Quirinus, Janus, and Pallor and Panic.26 All of these supposedly date to the eighth and early seventh centuries, and these are just the temples. Two major urban fortifications also purportedly date to the reigns of these kings. The Curia is ascribed to Tullus Hostilius, as is a new palace on the Caelian, and Ancus Marcius was said to have built the Pons Sublicius, itself one of the great feats of the regal period, as well as the Carcer.27 In total, if one is following the sources, that is some seventeen monuments ascribed to the first four kings. By contrast, Priscus is said to have undertaken just five urban endeavors: a group of shops under porticos at the edge of the Forum, the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, new fortifications, excavation of the Circus Maximus, and drainage ditches.28

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Servius Tullius purportedly built the Temple of Diana on the Aventine—its famous comparison to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesos is not for size or opulence, but rather its similar cult—and two temples to Fortuna, as well as his walls.29 Superbus is given credit for no new monuments; he is said to have continued work on the Temple of Jupiter, which his (grand)father, Priscus, had purportedly started, and to have continued work on the hollows of the Circus Maximus and the Cloaca Maxima, which his (grand)father had also purportedly dug out.30 In all, the three are credited with just four temples, a set of shops, an urban wall, and two infrastructural works, which are described as digging projects, not buildings. The Temple of Jupiter certainly stands out as an enormous accomplishment, but one can glean no sense of the size or sumptuousness of these rulers’ other projects from the sources. The walls of Servius can no longer be tied to the massive circuit proposed by some scholars, as the only datable remains from it belong in the fifth century, and the texts give no indication that the urban defense he purportedly built was any larger in scale than the fortifications ascribed to his predecessors. In the end, the textual tradition credits the last kings with just nine endeavors among the three of them, as compared to the seventeen works ascribed to their four predecessors. Certainly the sources state that these rulers added to the city’s monuments, but they do not record them as exceptional builders compared to others. This does not by necessity mean that they were not prolific, but it must be made clear that the sources themselves do not remember the Tarquins as great—or even as uncommonly productive—architectural patrons. The problem with the texts is not only that they fall short of the modern narrative of the great architecture of the Tarquins, but also that, in many cases, archaeology tells a strikingly different story than the texts. First, literary sources do not mention the truly radical shift in architecture of ca. 540/530; there is mention of the Temple of Jupiter (although that is also problematically tied to Priscus), but elsewhere in ancient sources there is no mention of monumental construction in the last years of the kings.31 Superbus is given no new projects, despite the swift increase in archaeological evidence for construction during his traditional regnal dates. How does one account for ancient sources overlooking multiple monumental houses, the creation of the first speaker’s platform at the Comitium, the reconstruction of the Area of Vesta (such a fundamental, sacred site), temples on the Palatine, all seven to ten of the temples evidenced by the S. Omobono roofing system, and so much else? The ancient sources certainly mention locations where the last three kings lived, but they do not say the kings built these houses, nor do they mention their size or contrast them in any way with houses (regal or otherwise) before them. They do not mention a platform at the Comitium or, in fact, anything about that site between Priscus and the late fifth century. The first mention of the speaker’s platform is a half decade after it would have been built, and even then, the platform’s citation is not for its importance, patron, or construction, but rather as a secondary object, as the thing on which the Twelve Tables were purportedly affixed.32 One might explain away these omissions simply by saying that the sources clearly were not meant to record every

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building—that their purpose lay elsewhere—but it is striking that just as they record none of these on the one hand, on the other, excavations have only been able to confirm and ascribe with certainty just one of the buildings that they do mention, namely the Temple of Jupiter. No archaeological remains of the sixth-century Circus Maximus, the Temple of Diana, the shops in the Forum, or the temples of Fortuna have been found. One of the temples at S. Omobono has been interpreted by some as a Temple of Fortuna, but this is by no means a settled matter. In general, it is not a promising record. What is more, there would also appear to be many examples not just of glaring omissions in the records, but also of substantial misattributions. Although the texts do not credit Priscus for the work that dates to his reign at the Comitium or Curia, they do recall Tullus Hostilius as building the Curia; yet there is no evidence of construction of any kind there during his purported regnal dates.33 Scholars once believed that the first temple at S. Omobono was archaeological proof of the textual tradition: Servius Tullius was said to have built a Temple of Fortuna there, and excavation of a building from somewhere around 580 seemed to have uncovered it. Of course, there was no proof that the temple uncovered was in fact dedicated to Fortuna, and the later association with Mater Matuta (not mentioned in the sources with regard to Tullius) caused further problems. Then, to make things more complicated, that temple was re-dated and assigned to the period of Tarquinius Priscus, who is not credited in the sources with anything like it.34 Furthermore, it is in the period traditionally ascribed to Superbus and the first consuls that one finds archaeological evidence for the Atrium Vestae’s lasting function and its largest architectural transformation through the middle Republic. Yet sources do not mention any of these leaders—Tullius, Superbus, or the first consuls—paying attention to the Area of Vesta at all.35 This is a major oversight, given that the Atrium Vestae was one of Rome’s quintessential cults from inception to late antiquity. Finally, if the textual sources record any of the last three kings as major builders, it is Tarquinius Priscus, with five major endeavors, perhaps followed by Servius Tullius, with four. They remember Superbus as having done nothing new, just finishing three of his (grand)father’s works, and only one of those was a building. The archaeological evidence tells the story in reverse; there are certainly projects that date to the purported reign of Priscus, but nothing at all like the undertakings that begin toward the end of Tullius’s traditional regnal dates and continue well into the Republic. These pitfalls persist through much of the sixth century. With occasionally vague corroboration, sometimes clear disproof, and often equivocal evidence, one is left in a better place speaking about archaeological and architectural remains in terms of community, artistic shift, civic development, and broad cultural contact than in terms of kings and their intentions. This is not to say that the sources should not be consulted, or even that they are wrong, but it is to say that the modern story of the “Great Tarquin Rome,” as it relates specifically to architecture, rests on shaky textual grounds, and before one assumes architectural patronage and begins to indiscriminately tie monuments to kings and their

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intentions, it is worth noting the many discrepancies, inaccuracies, and shortcomings of both the textual and material records. As will become clear, this is key to the broader picture of architecture in archaic Rome, especially as it relates to the early Republic.

THE THRESHOLD OF REPUBLIC Toward the end of the period, at the end of the sixth century and into the fifth, things begin to change. The primary reason one can begin to find credible connections between text and archaeology is the longevity of the new architecture. Until the very end of the regal period, nearly every work of architecture was built and then destroyed, leaving no imprint on the landscape and therefore no hope of visibility or direct connection to those who wrote Rome’s history. In contrast, many late archaic monuments did endure for centuries, and this allowed the accumulation of archaeological (including epigraphic) evidence of their functions and meanings, down to the appearance of a more trustworthy textual narrative in the middle and late Republic. In some cases, as with the Temple of Castor or the Temple of Jupiter, buildings stood through the middle to late Republic, when texts can corroborate their function and/or design.36 In other cases—for example, with the Area of Vesta or the monumental twin temples of Fortuna and Mater Matuta—archaeological evidence from subsequent centuries of use is enough to attest to a structure’s ongoing function as a sanctuary to the same god or goddess. The Regia built at the end of the sixth century endured until the third century, when both plentiful archaeological evidence and some corroborative textual testimony of its function arise. In a similar way, the houses along the Palatine north slope stood for a few hundred years with only minor refurbishments, and finds from their long use help identify them as well-maintained elite residences.37 Thus, beginning ca. 540/530, many spaces are more clearly identifiable, and from that time, one can feel some real security in speaking of the Comitium, Atrium Vestae, Temple of Jupiter, and other buildings with their proper names and with some correspondence with texts. This clarity has led some scholars to feel comfortable tying the re/creation of these spaces to political events and to the purported intentions of those who were at the head of the waning monarchy or the new Republic when they were built. Although one is on more solid ground at this point, caution is still essential. It is one thing to recognize that the archaeological date for the Temple of Jupiter coincides with the date given in ancient textual sources; to acknowledge that its image matches these sources’ description and location of it; and, based on a broad scholarly consensus, to uphold that the cult of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva existed in this archaic building. In this situation, archaeology is confirming a textual record that looked to the structure itself, which existed just decades prior to an author’s birth, and where abundant records bore witness to a religious institution. It is another thing to suggest that the temple was commissioned by Tarquinius Superbus for reasons extrapolated from those sources. In this kind of argument, one is putting

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faith in annalists and their successors, each of whom relied on testimony about people and ephemeral actions that occurred nearly a half millennium prior. Their record of the desires, thoughts, and intentions of kings and early magistrates may be accurate, but there is real room for doubt. This is not to say that such arguments are without merit, but they are certainly more hypothetical, and this can become tenuous in extreme cases. For example, some scholars have followed a proposal that suggests the Comitium was erected at the beginning of the Republic by the heads of a new magisterial system to mark their new government. Yet no source—archaeological or textual—gives a clear date for the new Comitium platform, much less the names or station of its patrons, their circumstances under either monarchy or Republic, or their reasons for creating it; it could have been built by anyone with authority between ca. 520 and 490 and for myriad unknowable political and governmental reasons. Thus, it is only through an elaborate reasoning founded on indirect testimony and hypothetical circumstances that one can cobble this story together.38 In fact, despite a few scholars’ insistence upon a direct and clear correlation between archaeological evidence and the details (and weighty interpretations) of the textual tradition, the period of the transition to Republic is only just at the threshold of reliable history, and some would not even go that far. This does not mean that textual sources and identifiable civic structures cannot be linked or that texts do not provide a better framework for understanding these urban changes, but before attempting such a hazardous interpretation, an assessment of the ancient tradition is crucial. The Textual Story

A vast majority of scholars believe that a critical eye is necessary when dealing with these sources because of political, social, and cultural biases and due to the temporal distance between the authors and the period of early Rome. 39 The farther back one goes, the more questions arise. Yet even the greatest critics of ancient sources concede that until the end of the sixth century, and perhaps just around the traditional date of ca. 509, monarchy—at least in the broad sense of one-man rule—prevailed in Roman government.40 The government would appear to have stopped short of tyranny, and even under monarchy, an elite group would have held some power over civic life and the institutions of government and religion; that much seems clear. Scholars generally agree that the role of these elite administrators (senators and magistrates, if those terms can be applied to the regal period) reached back into the sixth century or even before.41 In the waning decades of that century, a tightening fist on the reins of power seems to have prompted a fundamental change in civic order (whether by political coup, military action, or popular sentiment, it is difficult to say), wherein monarchy shifted to rule by a wider—though apparently still elite—segment of the population. With the rule of law and religion unclear after the cessation of monarchy, one elite group—patricians—who seem already to have held a position of substantial influence under the kings, attempted to organize a new governance of existing political and religious institutions with themselves at the helm.42 It is

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unclear whether they did so in concert with the broadly defined non-patrician populace (primarily the plebeians) or if they attempted to seize power independently; it is also unclear how exclusive a hold they had on civic institutions before the fall of monarchy, but all evidence points to substantial control.43 Given the radical conflict between sources and the haze of fabricated tales, real doubt is in play until ca. 490, and Harriet Flower has recently described the period between ca. 510 and 490 as a time of transition, when Romans were probably wrestling with how to assign (or reassign) administrative roles in government and religion.44 Sources then recount a quick succession of events that purportedly occurred around 490. These include the creation of the Plebeian Tribunate and the Plebeian Council, the origins of plebiscites, the founding of the Temple of Ceres on the Aventine—famously a plebeian hill and the location where tribunes and the Plebeian Council met—and a general civic rancor during what is known as the “first secession” of the plebs.45 For many, the specific events of this period are suspect, and for several reasons, there is doubt that much of this happened precisely as the sources describe it. Still, while one minor law or uprising could be dismissed as fabrication, there is a broad scholarly consensus—even among most skeptics—that the cluster of events and the general description of changes to government in ancient sources reveal the memory of something taking hold in the non-patrician ranks beginning in the first decade of the fifth century, perhaps in reaction to the patricians’ increasing control (or their continued dominance) of civic life.46 Then, despite this initial attempt at a broader voice in government, over the next forty years, the sources speak largely of patricians maintaining power, with a few stories of unrest and attempts by tribunes and plebs to gain some authority. After years of internal strife, in 451, the struggle climaxed with a second secession, the creation of a council (the decemviri) to generate law codes, and the overthrow of this council, resulting in the Valerio-Horatian laws. The historicity of the events themselves—especially the decemvirate, but also the precise content of the laws and the dramatic events surrounding their passage—may again be tenuous, but once more, most historians agree that one can assign to this time a new shift in the political structure of Rome that resulted in the establishment of more recognition for plebeians and their offices.47 The overall picture, then, is that very soon after the end of the kingship, plebeians recognized their disenfranchisement and began to set up institutions that might give them a voice in government, and around 450, they succeeded in gaining some ground in Rome’s civic organization. Perhaps plebeians sought a new voice not because of a perceived seizure of power from them, but rather at their own discretion and as part of a distinct Roman government, or perhaps their new exclusion from patrician-held positions prompted a more reactionary drive for influence. Regardless, it seems clear that plebeians began to achieve results during the middle of the century.48 This was by no means the end of the struggles. During the late fifth and the fourth century, the dispute over political and religious power continued, only reaching substantial resolution with the Licinian-Sextian

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rogations, which officially opened the consulship to plebeians in 366, and the Lex Ogulnia, which opened most priesthoods to them in 300.49 The Architectural Story

The transition was long, and textual scholars have highlighted a gradual shift in power and governmental structure from the last decades of monarchy through the first century of Republic. By contrast, scholars of archaeology and architecture have tended to position urban change in the years surrounding the purported expulsion of the kings as a reflection of that transformative event: that is, on either side of the date of the fall, ca. 509. Monuments preceding the end of monarchy (the Temple of Jupiter, the penultimate Regia, and the last small temple at S. Omobono) are upheld as the final actions of an autocrat, and those that date after the start of the Republic (especially the newly reorganized Regia and the speaker’s platform at the Comitium) become markers of a new rule characterized by popular appointments in the Senate, magistracies, and priesthoods. Furthermore, the general narrative presented by architectural and art historians and by classical historians at large suggests widespread construction in the regal period, with a precipitous drop in architectural commission at the date of 509. It is not worth going through each example; suffice it to say that to a problematically misleading extent, and in nearly every publication on the period, scholars either assume or imply a fundamental shift in the scale of architectural output at the year 509.50 There are several problems with a division of architecture along such strict lines. First, the changes at both the Comitium and new Regia are difficult to date; they belong anywhere between ca. 520 and 490, and may therefore have been erected during the monarchy or the Republic.51 Meanwhile, the second temple at S. Omobono did not fall until well into the last decade of the sixth century, years after the purported shift in government, so while it may have been built by a king, its destruction cannot necessarily be tied to the end of monarchy, as some have suggested.52 Second, and perhaps more problematic, is the often-overlooked continuity on either side of the putative date of the fall. The Regia and Comitium would not have been the only monuments built in the first decades of the Republic, if they were built then. The temples of Castor and Saturn, Fortuna, and Mater Matuta were among the largest and most opulent in all Central Italy when they were built, during the first fifty years of the Republic, and, overall, the city continued to see as much construction after ca. 509 as it did before. Romans continued to occupy sumptuous stuccoed houses roofed in terracottas along the Via Sacra and up the Palatine in the decades and centuries after the monarchy without any substantial reconstruction, which reveals continuity in elite domestic life—potentially even continuity of inhabitants, as there are no noticeable changes coinciding with the “fall of monarchy.”53 Meanwhile, the Temple of Jupiter may have been commissioned by a king, but it was dedicated at the start of the Republic; its endurance through the purported strife has led several scholars to suggest that it is representative not of monarchic enterprise, but instead of a continuity of elite

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power, as seen in the patrician priesthoods established under the monarchy and perpetuated until ca. 300.54 What is more, there are many monumental civic buildings attested by terracottas all across the Palatine, Capitoline, and Esquiline that were built continuously on either side of the fall of monarchy. The real, archaeologically attested picture of architectural manufacture in Rome is not one of a split before and after 509. Rather it is of a distinction between the period before and after ca. 550/530. At that time, beginning with the inception of the Temple of Jupiter, there was a rapid increase in monuments of substantial civic grandeur and domestic monumentality. From that moment, the scale of construction continued uninterruptedly through the early to mid-fifth century and, in many cases, these monuments endured for centuries thereafter (fig. 120).55 This continuity exists not only in the broad sense of persistent construction in Rome, but also in the details of that construction: in the kinds of projects underway, and the structural and sculptural elements of the new movement.

FIGURE 120 Timeline of construction at Rome from ca. 650–450.

Traditonal Dates of

Tarquinius Priscus

Servius Tullius

Tarquinius Superbus

Republic

Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus

Habitation on site of Capitoline Temple

Temples with S. Omobono roof system Two buildings on SW Palatine

Huts on SW Palatine

Second temple on Capitoline ?

Juno Sospita antefixes / favissae on Palatine Temple with Esquiline Amazon Temple on Velia

Monumental houses on north slope of Palatine

Rectilinear building on Palatine n. slope

First house above Sepulcretum Forum Reclamation 650 600 Occupation of Construction at Area of Vesta Area of Vesta Wall and possible canal at Comitium area Remains at Regia

Second house above Sepulcretum 550 New activity at Atrium Vestae

First Comitium pavement and “Curia” First two phases of consruction at Regia

Temple on NE Palatine 500 Cubicula around courtyard and hearth under later temple at Atrium Vestae

Second Comitium pavement

Third Regia

Stepped platform at Comitium

Fourth Regia

Fifth Regia Temple of Castor Temple of Saturn

Occupation of S. Omobono site

S. Omobono Temple I

S. Omobono Temple II

Exploitation of clay in Velbrum. Tile manufacture in valley. Use of riverside for port. Range of construction dates Period of occupation

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Twin Temples of Fortuna and Mater Matuta

450

For example, although some have pointed to 509 as the moment of change in roofing systems in Central Italy, in fact, that shift was a much longer process that reaches back to the middle of the sixth century.56 The earliest roofs in Central Italy using anthemion revetments are found at Rome, Satricum, Minturnae, Pompeii, Cumae, and elsewhere between ca. 540 and 510.57 They do not appear only with the Temple of Jupiter at the end of the century; their incorporation into architectural sculpture had a more gradual genesis. Moreover, while the new system would quickly dominate the region, all elements used in it were not fully assembled in these first temples; that is, the makeup of the system was not complete by 509. Certain elements, such as full-bodied antefixes, would not appear until ca. 490/480, particularly at Satricum, Rome (Temple of Castor), and Pyrgi (Temple B).58 That is to say, the shift in terracotta decoration entered Central Italic architecture decades before the purported fall of monarchy. It experienced a long gestation and shift beginning already ca. 540/530 and continuing well into the fifth century; it did not arrive fully formed in the year 509. Furthermore, its gestation was not confined to Rome. It was used quickly throughout the region in areas not allied with Rome or its political system, from Caere to Cumae, and its shifts were present throughout the region. Thus, to tie its genesis to a date that is specific to a Roman political situation is deeply problematic and dismissive of a much wider cultural phenomenon that touched on peoples and cultures from Campania to Latium to Etruria and even Ionia. The same can be said for the widespread use of stone for the full height of walls and columns and even broadly for the increase in more monumental architecture. That shift began in the middle of the sixth century throughout the region, especially in houses. Monumental temples with stone foundations, walls, and columns also began to dot the landscape in the mid-sixth century, at the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii, with its sizable foundations and platform, and in the Temple of Jupiter beginning already ca. 550/530. This too did not generate an instantaneous change (and certainly not at the date of 509), but rather a long process of mixed use. Houses throughout the region were built sometimes in full-scale stone construction and sometimes in mud brick and pisé well into the fifth century from Pompeii to Lanuvium, Gabii, Rome, Caere, Tarquinii, Marzabotto, and elsewhere.59 It would take time for full-scale stone construction and monumental proportions to gain widespread popularity in Central Italy, especially in temples. Some were still built in mud brick and pisé well into the fifth century, and although a few builders had begun to use stone for full elevations of monumental temples already in the mid- to late sixth century, the practice did not really take off until the early to mid-fifth century at places such as Caere, Pyrgi, Rome, and Satricum.60 Furthermore, as with the change in roof decoration, these architectural shifts occurred throughout the region, not just in Rome. It would be tendentious to tie widespread regional architectural and sculptural changes to a purported governmental shift at Rome. In the end, the question is moot, since the artistic and architectural shifts do not rest at the date of that transition alone, but rather during a century-long period that began

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ca. 550/540 and continued across a broad geographic area, with subtle changes in form, iconography, material, tectonics, and composition through the mid-fifth century. The shift in architecture and sculpture was much more drawn-out and broadly transformative than art and architectural historians of Rome tend to let on; it did not occur entirely within the boundaries of the regal period, and it saw no marked change with the purportedly swift fall of the Tarquins. On close inspection of the archaeological and art-historical record, in fact, the date of 509 passes without notice. Instead, a shift had begun already in the mid-sixth century, and it continued without interruption well into the Republic. This has dual significance. First, it undermines a fundamental premise of the “Great Rome of the Tarquins”: that kings were responsible and required for the great architectural and urban changes of the archaic period. Second, it demands a reassessment of how civic change, social upheaval, and architectural shift fit together in the broad period from the mid-sixth to the mid-fifth centuries. As to the Tarquins, the continuity of architectural production after their fall calls into question their role in the creation of monuments in the first place. Whatever system existed for the commissioning and construction of public works during the regal period, it does not appear to have faltered with the change in leadership. This suggests one of two things. Either the power to build in Rome rested with the kings during monarchy and was then seamlessly transferred to the newly forming magistracies at the start of the Republic, or the power to build during the monarchy did not rest in the hands of kings alone. For several reasons, the latter seems the more likely scenario. While it is possible that the kings were behind all major architectural achievements during monarchy, as scholars tend to assume, there is, on closer inspection, no evidence to that effect. In fact, for the regal period, the only existing building that can be tied to the kings with any certainty is the Temple of Jupiter. There is no statement or implication in the texts or in the material record that a king commissioned any of the other remaining monuments that date to their putative reigns. Under the Tarquins and Servius Tullius, there is no record of regal patronage for the Regia, Atrium Vestae, Comitium, the second temple at S. Omobono, any of the seven to ten temples attested by the system there, the religious buildings on the southwest Palatine, or anything else that remains.61 Furthermore, the two most famously proposed examples of regal patronage—the first temple at S. Omobono and the so-called Servian Wall—can be bound to them only through specious argumentation. The S. Omobono temple is frequently proposed as a temple to Fortuna built by Servius Tullius, but it cannot be tied with certainty to his regnal dates, and even if it could be, it is at present impossible to determine what god it was dedicated to.62 The “Servian Wall” and its date are even trickier.63 No segment yet found can be dated to Tullius’s reign. For those who see a full circuit, one portion of the Quirinal would not have gone up until the fifth century. The remaining segments have stratigraphies that could place them anywhere in the sixth or fifth century. In fact, without any secure finds, the whole enterprise could date to the early fifth century and, thus, it may be a work of Republican commission under a new governmental

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system. The contention that they were commissioned by one king or another, or even that they were necessarily commissioned during the regal period, is tendentious. As with all but one of the extant monuments, they simply cannot be convincingly tied by archaeological or textual evidence to regal patronage. Furthermore, the assumption that kings were the only ones with the authority to build private or public monuments is in fact a premise without textual or archaeological foundation. The texts on Rome say nothing of the sort, and evidence from other Mediterranean polities indicates that such mandates are largely a modern fiction. Just as scholars of the Roman Empire, of Peisistratid Athens, and of other hegemonies once mistakenly assumed that all architecture built during the reign of a ruler was part of his “program,” so too does it seem such readings are out of place for most of the archaic Mediterranean, Rome included.64 Those studying architecture at Syracuse, Agrigento, Cumae, Delphi, Ephesos, and elsewhere have demonstrated that tyrants were not solely in charge of construction in polities under their rule.65 Wealthy individuals, political bodies, and communities were frequently patrons, even in cities under tyranny, and they might even have been the primary sponsors of architectural production. Such evidence confirms a shift in archaeological theory that has risen over the past twenty years among those working on the wider Mediterranean and elsewhere in the world. These models recognize substantial problems in the assumption of monolithic powers, even under tyrannies and monarchies. Instead, they highlight greater evidence in the archaeological record for agency among individuals and broader social groups, especially for periods and places where the duties and powers of those in control are not expressly known.66 The circumstances in early Rome point to the kind of heterarchical structure that these theories promote, and scholars have been supporting this multi-systemic perspective with more and more frequency and more and more success. Those who work on early Rome recognize widespread archaeological evidence for a close-knit social hierarchy based in clan structures, reaching back to the centuries before the Republic. Several scholars have come forward recently to argue on solid ground that these elite gentes (clans) had a much stronger hand in economic, social, and religious concerns than has been given credit, reaching from the regal period down into the first decades of the Republic.67 Others have highlighted the power of elite groups far outside of the Roman kingship, groups that moved across state lines and curried favor with other high-ranking inhabitants of neighboring polities, participating in a deeply rooted, well-documented, Mediterraneanwide social network of elite communication and exchange.68 Archaeological evidence for elite wealth, social stratification, and division by clans at many sites in Central Italy, from Caere to Gabii to Rome, indicates that these factions and their elite networks were rooted in the region already in the late Bronze Age and early Iron Age: that is, long before Rome even cohered as a city-state.69 One scholar has recently argued that these early clans and their far-reaching networks might have been the real holders of sway, even under the Roman monarchy.

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Archaeological evidence (especially in burials) reveals a corporate social structure with stratified elite groups with a hold on wealth and power before state formation and monarchic rule are presented in the texts: that is, before the mid-eighth century. It is hard to believe these clans would have completely given over their control to someone above them, unless it was done with their oversight and was meant to foster their stronghold. Archaeological remains appear to bear this out; material evidence for the wealth of these elite clans continued well into the monarchy, indicating that they gave up little of their dominance of the economic and social structure in Rome. Thus, the argument goes, even under the kings, these clans would have held substantial sway.70 Even if the textual tradition of the formation of monarchy and its continued existence is left out of the argument, the study of increasingly stratified wealth—not restricted to one ruler, but rather as part of a much broader dispersion of elite groups—indicates that these powerful clans prevailed throughout Latium, Etruria, and elsewhere to a substantial enough degree that they would affect the city-states to which they belonged.71 Furthermore, the evidence indicates that they often operated together—by alliances, perhaps by blood relation—and that they communicated and interacted across state lines.72 This kind of elite interstate commerce and communication outside of monarchic power fits well alongside evidence of roaming militias that were also present in early Central Italic culture from Etruria to Campania, a heavily destabilizing force that could operate in concert with elite clans and undermine the centralized role of monarchs.73 Overall, these arguments and others that grapple with the same evidence for a more diverse system of powers in Rome and all of Central Italy suggest that authority of all kinds in the region was complex, and the idea of despots holding absolute control over all actions and inhabitants of each city-state is too simple. The evidence, then, points to a much broader power structure and a much more nuanced political system than that used to tie lonely, totalitarian Roman kings to the complete political, military, social, religious, and architectural output of their city-state. Surely kings in Rome would have held certain powers, and if the sources are to be believed, they led the state; but there is no indication whatsoever that they held absolute control over every sphere of public life, and, furthermore, the sources and the material remains give no indication that their powers stretched to urban change or architectural and artistic commission. Certainly architecture could have been a tool for political power, but what source suggests that every building must belong to the will of a king? In light of scholarship that points to an influential role for elite clans and for a more subtle system of elite communication, exchange, and expression in Central Italy and the wider Mediterranean, and in consideration of the state of the evidence for architecture in early Rome, one must ask if perhaps these clans (or their representatives in powerful socio-political or governmental positions at Rome) were behind some of the architectural and artistic commissions of the late regal period. One must consider that, in the case of those buildings without evidence of kingly manufacture (and this is all but one of the dozens of archeologically attested buildings), the king was in fact not the patron; instead, perhaps the many civic and

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religious administrators mentioned in textual sources in the regal period were responsible for their creation. This is in keeping with both archaeological and textual evidence for contemporaneous polities throughout the Mediterranean, where a broader group of elites played a role in architectural commission, even under monarchies and tyrannies; it is in keeping with scholarship on later Roman architecture and politics, when such powers were well dispersed; it is in keeping with current scholarship on the investigation of agency in the archaeological record; and it fits with the current state of scholarship on the broader heterarchy of Central Italic polities, Rome especially. Without textual testimony to suggest a regal monopoly on construction, and without a theoretical framework to suggest that monarchs and tyrants in Central Italy or the Mediterranean were universally in charge of construction, the question must remain open, and the patronage of architecture in the sixth century, particularly the boom in construction after ca. 550/530, must be considered more broadly. In the end, it is hard to know who exactly stood behind the architecture built under kingship. Certainly the Temple of Jupiter can be tied largely to the Tarquins in the texts, and perhaps kings were responsible for some of the other archaeologically attested buildings that date to their reigns. In this sense, the idea of Tarquin architecture should not be completely disregarded. But the kings cannot be tied to every monument of the regal period, and what is more, they certainly cannot be tied to the impressive monuments that rose after their purported ouster. Lavish, monumental construction continued well beyond their purported fall. This “Great Rome” was not theirs alone. The power of the city and the grandeur of the cityscape only grew during the early years of the res publica, and it prospered continuously in the decades thereafter. In fact, Rome’s urban monumentalization only faltered with the crisis of the late fifth century, which occurred more than sixty years—some three generations—after the fall of the monarchy, and which pervaded all of Italy, even places that either maintained tyrannies or had long since removed them. That shift appears to have been linked not to a change in the architectural patronage system— certainly not exclusively—but rather to a much more complex shift steeped in regional military conflict, local social change, and a faltering Mediterranean balance of power. With this in mind, one must question how the long architectural and urban transformation that lasted from ca. 550/540 until ca. 450 might fit with textual scholarship on the period, and what the length of the shift within that period might say about contemporaneous civic change. After all, there can be no mistake that, over that hundred-year period, there was a remarkable redefinition of the Roman cityscape, and over the same century there was a revolution in political and social systems. That both architectural and civic shift coincided and persisted is hard to put down to chance. Were the changes minor—a single new building or law—they might not be worth remark, but this was no minor transition. Just as Romans fundamentally restructured the administration of their political and religious offices in this long period, so too did they redefine the architecture of those

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institutions in a way that endured. The question is whether one can see in the two more than just a coincidental period of architectural and socio-political overhaul and longevity. Any answer must be given with caution. One way to account for the correspondence in the long transition of both government and urban landscape may be to look not to the alleged patrons of architecture, but instead to its users: those who held civic office. A king would have held certain powers during the monarchy. That is clear enough, but during the sixth century, a substantial and growing hold on civic life appears to have been in the hands of the Senate, magistracies, and priesthoods, certainly within elite clans.74 Their status, their wealth, and their share in the rule of Rome may have shifted with the Republic, but it was not entirely new. Material evidence for social stratification indicates that they had a grasp on wealth and power long before the Republic began. It remains in question whether these elites were composed exclusively of patricians or of a mix of social and economic groups at that time, but it appears that the transition to Republic saw patricians grab at power either to maintain their hold or to create a new, exclusive place at the head of all branches of civic life. This narrative coincides remarkably well with contemporaneous urban changes. Whoever commissioned the monuments, it was elite governmental administrators and priests who were the stewards of these buildings, from their foundation down through the Republic. With the transition to Republic and the concomitant political uncertainty, textual scholars suggest that patricians used any means possible to maintain, consolidate, and advance an exclusive hold on political and religions positions. Whether through marriage restrictions or through restriction to the priesthoods, nearly every scholar who writes on the period sees this attempt at exclusivity in the patrician grasp for power.75 Urban design would logically have been a crucial part of this. As a tool for the creation and perpetuation of exclusive civic institutions, the continued establishment of monumental architecture in the Forum would fuel the patrician grasp on power through restricted social space.76 The preservation of the old monuments for their offices and the inauguration of new ones would serve to reinforce (and perhaps served as a means to promote) a patrician agenda, which embraced the same desires for exclusivity, consolidation, and connection that the architecture made visible. Through the maintenance of existing houses of worship and governance, they would cultivate a history for their hegemony, and by creating new monuments, they would help it to endure. By erecting more monumental temples controlled by their exclusive priesthoods, by creating and maintaining monuments that housed their political offices, and in general by promoting the solid, commanding, monumental cityscape that had begun to take shape during their navigation out of the final decades of monarchy, they generated an urban image that fostered a sense of control and power under their supervision. Could it be that the reflexive nature of architecture and civic change did not stop here? Whatever their motives, by ca. 470, patricians appear to have maintained and enhanced an impressive urban image, with the extant monumental architecture largely

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restricted to their offices. Perhaps it was the continuity in architecture—which mirrored a continued exclusivity in government and religion—that led plebeians to forcibly demand change. It is one thing gradually to perceive that the political or social restructuring one expected with the downfall of a king is not coming to pass; it is quite another to watch as monumental markers of that lack of change go up, one after the other, reinforcing an unmoving power structure.77 Just when temples to Castor and Saturn went up in the exclusive, elite Forum plain, the paradigm shifted, and in those same years, plebeians seem to have looked to create a new civic assembly; over the next hundred and fifty years, they succeeded. In this sense, perhaps one can see architecture not only as a tool for the promotion of patrician desires, but also as an impetus for plebeian reform. The idea is by necessity hypothetical. Still, one can imagine that the continuous construction of buildings restricted to one class would only reinforce societal division and the seemingly unchanged performance of civic roles. Could it be that, isolated up on the hills and within the inward-facing, restricted architecture of the Forum, patricians distinguished themselves from the plebs at the peril of their societal hegemony? Whether or not one can see such civic turmoil in the monuments of Rome during the late archaic period, the unbroken string of major architectural projects down through the mid-fifth century reveals something that is crucial for the study of early Rome and the formation of civic and artistic life in the city. The transformation of Rome from hilltop settlements overlooking a morass to a monumental cityscape with towering sophisticated architecture was not restricted to monarchy, and this has extraordinary significance. With the temples in the Forum, at S. Omobono, on the Palatine’s southwest and northeast slopes, on the Velia, and on the Esquiline, and with the continued refurbishment of houses on the Palatine north slope down through the mid-fifth century, it becomes clear that whatever governmental changes there might have been, Roman culture, religion, economy, and art did not witness a break with the end of the regal period. For the history of Roman art and architecture especially, a line at the end of the sixth century is artificial and arbitrary. The texts do not suggest such a change or division; the archaeology does not suggest it; and, in the end, there is no reason to see it. This was not a “Great Rome” only of the Tarquins. This city, its monumental architecture, the art that adorned it, and the urban fabric that it generated saw prosperity on a remarkable scale well after the Tarquins’ purported fall. This art and architecture, which emerged in a unique way already in the early sixth century, lived on with no break and past such traditional boundaries to affect a great Rome that was patronized, designed, built, and experienced by a much broader Roman population. These monuments would endure. They would remain standing for centuries, and they would have boundless effects on the art and architecture produced in Rome throughout the Republic and Empire.

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6

Integration

In 600, a gravel-paved Forum plain was just beginning to see real construction at its periphery; architecture on the hills still appears to have been composed largely of wattleand-daub huts; and clear links to cultures beyond neighboring Central Italic communities were limited. A century and a half later, Rome boasted sweeping monumental architecture and art in an expanding and connected cityscape that looked far beyond the region. Although it does not find its way into surveys of archaic Mediterranean art and culture, and although scholars have long seen Rome in this period as a poor cousin to its Imperial self, the image of the city by ca. 450 was nothing short of exceptional, boasting numerous impressive homes, civic buildings, and especially temples (see fig. 119). On the Capitoline and its slopes, there were at least four: the colossal Temple of Jupiter, a nearby sanctuary manifest in monumental terracottas, and the twin temples at S. Omobono. On the Velia, there was another temple of substantial size, also evidenced by monumental terracottas. In the Forum, looking in toward the impressive civic structures, there were more temples of rare size: the Temple of Castor and—if not in the early decades, then by the end of the fifth century—another dedicated to Saturn. Alongside these exceptional seven temples were still more impressive sanctuaries. On the Palatine, the Juno Sospita antefixes and corresponding foundations suggest a temple similar in size to the early S. Omobono temples, accompanied by an adjacent platform perched off the slope of the hill. Another religious building erected in the late sixth century still stood nearby with a set of reliefs from the roof system used at S. Omobono, a system that itself decorated at least six other modest religious buildings elsewhere in the city. On the northeast Palatine, another temple of substantial size is revealed in antefixes of dancing maenads and silens and stone walls. On the Esquiline, the Amazon acroterion indicates yet another temple in Rome with impressive decoration imported across the Tyrrhenian Sea from Sicily. And that is just the sacred architecture. In addition, homes of unrivaled size in the region, which were on par with some of the most impressive known from the archaic northern Mediterranean, went up along the north slope of the Palatine, and around the Forum itself stood a new Comitium, Regia, and Atrium Vestae, each outfitted with monumental stone-founded, terracotta-roofed buildings, whose functions endured for centuries: in some cases, a millennium or more.

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The architecture of the city was imposing and, more importantly, it was without parallel in the region. Recently, a study of architecture and terracottas at Caere has revealed that it too boasted a far more impressive cityscape than scholars imagined. Perhaps as many as six temples of various sizes, modest to monumental, were present there. Given its international mercantile ties and religious presence at Delphi, Caere itself presents yet another example of how much more impressive and well connected all the polities of Central Italy were than studies of the archaic Mediterranean tend to indicate.1 Still, with its excess of temples—from modest to monumental to colossal—and its houses to rival any in the region, Rome appears to have been unparalleled by any contemporaneous city on the whole of the Italic Peninsula, not even by Paestum, Metapontum, or Caere.2 And this is with only a tiny fraction of the city having seen excavation. By the mid-fifth century, the scale of construction and the impressive architecture of Rome find their only parallels in the most monumental cityscapes of the contemporaneous Mediterranean, including Selinunte, Syracuse, and Agrigento. This is not the company Rome usually keeps in histories of the archaic period, and the mere suggestion will surely invite accusations of exaggeration. Yet the comparative evidence is clear. The six famous and impressive temples at Selinunte are remarkably similar in overall dimensions to the six monumental temples at Rome, and Temple GT, which was in fact begun in the fifth century and never finished, is one of just a handful that are larger than the colossal Temple of Jupiter. A similar comparison can be made with Agrigento. The sacred architecture of both cities was indeed larger than that of Rome, but not by much. And while some temples at Agrigento and Selinunte boasted larger footprints due to their elongated plans, they did not tower five meters above a viewer, as did the temples of Jupiter, Castor, Fortuna, and Mater Matuta in Rome, a visual impression that surely enhanced the experience of the religious cityscape. Athens, Corinth, and other noted Greek polities have even fewer monumental temples. Of course, none of these cities has seen complete excavation, and more temples, houses, and civic buildings could be found at each of them, but the same is true of Rome on the central Palatine, the Arx of the Capitoline, and on the Quirinal, Aventine, Esquiline, and Caelian, where texts remark on more temples and houses dotting an expansive city.3 In the end, I do not wish to imply that Rome was as big or as important a player in the Mediterranean world as Athens or Selinunte; to do so would go beyond the limits of the evidence. Yet it is worth making the comparison to bring Rome into this milieu and reveal just how closely the material remains compare to those of more famous polities from the period. This, at least, can be said based on a single glance at the size and number of monuments built between the sixth and mid-fifth century in Rome. For some time, a few scholars have been willing to see the Temple of Jupiter as an indication of Rome’s wealth and the establishment of civic buildings in the Forum as a sign of the city’s growing stability.4 The image revealed in these pages suggests an impressive image for the city as a whole that fits well with such suggestions. Yet there is a difference between

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a city whose place alongside sites such as Agrigento, Caere, and Corinth is based on monumentality alone, and one that compares to the great archaic polities because of its participation in the broader artistic, architectural, and cultural milieu that was transforming the Mediterranean during this period. In short, there is a difference between scale and sophistication. The archaic period transformed Mediterranean culture. Scholars have long since demonstrated that the period gave rise to new, far-reaching trade and cultural contact, with their concomitant initiatives of colonization and settlement and by way of political, commercial, and artistic interests that coursed through a network of exchange moving between east and west, north and south.5 Until recently, the prevailing scholarly supposition about early Rome has been that it was a budding, thoroughly Italic city, one not in contact with the world outside of Central Italy but instead steeped in its own tradition: improved from within, independent of assistance except from regional powers.6 It would remain isolated, subverted, and dependent on Italic and/or Etruscan culture until the middle Republic. The material presented in this book challenges such a perspective. The early Roman cityscape boasts numerous examples of cultural interaction, which, if found in other, more famous polities of the Mediterranean, would almost certainly be considered an indication of their participation in that wider cultural network. When considered in this context, it is difficult to imagine that such an impressive cityscape, especially one whose prosperity is tied to trans-Mediterranean trade along the Tiber, was entirely cut off from the bustling world beyond its shores. The vast scale of monumental construction and the requisite economic power would not allow the city to remain hidden from the wider Mediterranean community, and the analysis of architectural and sculptural style, iconography, tectonics, and function suggests that, in fact, Rome was deeply connected to that world. Of course, it is possible that Romans imagined the sculpted pediment at S. Omobono on their own, independently devising the closed gable, filling it with sculpture, and creating the heraldic feline iconography, which only by chance showed remarkable consonance with contemporaneous examples from Corfu, Syracuse, Athens, and elsewhere. It is possible that a new roofing system with identical sculptural elements would appear in Rome at the Regia, Comitium, and on the Capitoline and contemporaneously in the Bay of Naples at Cumae and Pithecusae, then coincidentally spread in similar roofs throughout the area. It is possible that Romans decided to build a giant temple on the Capitoline on their own, recognizing through trial and error that they needed the foundations to reach eight meters into the ground, down to bedrock, and so they created a mechanism to transport vast quantities of stone, stacked towering columns and walls, and designed a building that matched a uniquely similar temple at Samos, all entirely of their own accord. All of this is possible. But it is unlikely, and especially so given the scale of the city; given the wealth of monumental construction and the economy it would demand; given the extraordinary complexity of some of the major monuments; and given

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the repeated examples of new styles and engineering appearing in Rome just as they came into fashion throughout Sicily, mainland Greece, and Ionia. Rather, Romans appear to have been well aware of—and, in some cases, seem to have been promoting—major artistic trends that were sweeping the Mediterranean. In fact, Rome appears to have been at the same time a profoundly accommodating and decidedly unique participant in that network. Like other polities connected to the larger Mediterranean world, Rome was not a city of uncompromisingly foreign design; its architecture, sculpture, and urban fabric—its changing urban iconology—was of a style and form all its own. Many elements of these buildings were undeniably locally produced and locally commissioned and demonstrate Romans’ dogged maintenance of building types for traditional, local needs. Styles, forms, materials, and interests distinct to Rome and its neighbors are at the core of this cityscape. Most were manufactured with mud brick, pisé, local tuff, and terracotta, and while the image that these materials create would be out of place in much of the Mediterranean (especially the Greek mainland and Ionia, where hard stone walls and roofing elements were coming into fashion, especially for architectural sculpture), it would be at home in much of the Italic Peninsula (it should be stressed that this includes some western Greek polities). Furthermore, formal elements such as raised podia, low-pitched roofs, full-bodied antefixes, frontal access, ridgepole sculpture, and regional molding styles feature in both religious and civic buildings, and for a stranger to Central Italy, these aspects of the cityscape would define it as indigenous, part of a culture that prospered in the archaic period in a region without local access to hard limestone and with a deep religious tradition of its own. Furthermore, Rome’s artistic culture was even distinct from its closest neighbors who shared these traditions. The frieze of the third Regia finds comparanda that stretch from Campania to Latium, but are not found in Etruria. Meanwhile, the roofing system of the second temple at S. Omobono finds its only iconographic and stylistic parallels in a tight circle that extended into Etruria and Latium, perhaps originating in Rome itself, but it is not found farther afield. At the same time, like other life-size and near-life-size sculpture in Central Italy, the Hercules and Minerva from that temple has a style that is unique to Rome. The same can be said, for example, for ridgepole sculptures from Veii, which would not be confused stylistically with those from Satricum.7 Scholars have tied the Veientine sculptures distinctly to a south Etruscan style, and the Satrican works to a south Latin style with close ties to Campania. Both groups of sculptures share a fluency in broad archaic formal trends that were sweeping across the Mediterranean world, but they also maintained distinctions that reveal their manufacture for polities with unique connections to that wider world. The figures from S. Omobono share this simultaneously unique and internationally current character. In a similar way, the Temple of Jupiter fits in a broad Central Italic tradition of frontality and raised podia, but in almost every other way, it is unique to the peninsula; its size, tectonics, and image are closer to a rare set of colossal temples from Ionia. Meanwhile, the plan of the twin temples at S. Omobono, with

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their large frontal platform perched off the edge of a hill, finds its only close parallel in the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii, a temple in decidedly Etruscan territory. From the most monumental tectonic innovations to the most delicate sculptural details, the art and architecture of Rome does not truly match that of any other polity in the Mediterranean, any more than those distinct polities—Caere, Satricum, Agrigento, Athens, Samos—are perfect mirrors of one another. Rome was part of a culture as different from that of its neighbors as the neighbors were from each other, and it fit uniquely and broadly into a network of people whose artistic cultures were simultaneously vastly different from one another and steeped in the same shifting Mediterranean vocabulary.8 For some, this monumental, international Rome will be hard to reconcile. It is not the cityscape that even the most enthusiastic ancient sources envisage for this early period. Both they and the modern interpretations of a “Great Rome” of the kings suggest a large population in an established urban landscape with contacts in Central Italy, but the image this book reveals for Rome by 450 is far more substantial. By the early Republic, Rome was a powerful state capable of creating impressive and artistically avant-garde monuments, and its inhabitants chose to exert their means to create a city that—piece by piece, over time—already by the middle of the fifth century had become one of the most resplendent in the western Mediterranean world. This is not the early polity that Livy, Dionysius, Cicero, and others speak of; it is wealthier, more prodigious, and more sophisticated. And this was only the beginning of life for these monuments. The immediate and subsequent effect of these works on Roman art and architecture forms a crucial part of their history. Already in the late sixth century, Rome had become a place of substantial artistic influence: perhaps earlier, if one is to see the early sixth-century sculptures found at the Regia, Comitium, and on the Capitoline as the inspiration for similar relief sculpture at Gabii, Cumae, and Pithecusae. In the wake of these buildings, the roofing system of ca. 540 from S. Omobono and elsewhere in Rome capped buildings in as many as ten polities in the region, with Rome as either the home of the workshop or its most frequent patron. At the same time, lateral colonnades, a deep porch, a tripteral facade, a foundation grid, triple cellae, and an innovative anthemion roofing system all came from diverse sources to meet for the first time in the Temple of Jupiter in Rome, and afterward, the popularization of these features transformed over a dozen sanctuaries in the region, from Vulci to Ardea.9 The profusion and emulation of elements from early Roman architecture reach far beyond the city, and what is more, they reach well beyond the archaic period. It would go too far to say that early Rome had an outsized, overwhelming regional or Mediterraneanwide impact, but still, already by the sixth and fifth centuries, it certainly participated in this wider world with a unique and observable effect on contemporaneous and future art and architecture. The impact of these monuments beyond archaic Central Italy is perhaps harder to spot than the immediate effects, but it is there. The monuments and sculptures of early Rome do not leave the same obvious impression in the record as do the sculptures

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of Polykleitus and Myron, so frequently emulated in the Empire and so clearly and neatly attributable to a neo-Attic popularity that swept the whole of the Mediterranean from the later Hellenistic period.10 The presence of early Roman monuments in the art of the coming centuries in the wider Mediterranean environment is not so straightforward; it is far subtler. Yet it is no less fundamental to the character, meaning, and image of Rome and its art or to the culture of the broad archaic, classical, and later worlds. The Temple of Jupiter is a particularly clear example. Although it had tremendous influence on Roman (and, more broadly, on Central Italic) religious architecture, it is clear from the wildly inconsistent plans of temples in Central Italy that they are not molded from any one temple, including the Temple of Jupiter. That is precisely why one does not find in the architectural record a line of temples from the Temple of Jupiter down to the Empire that exhibits a uniform impact, not even in capitolia.11 Yet it was a touchstone—a temple that people borrowed from and emulated. It helped define Roman and Central Italic religious architecture not by prompting copies, but rather because its grandeur popularized elements that had never been brought together—many that had never been seen in the region—and that individually and collectively came to exemplify magnificence in Roman and Italic temples.12 In fact, several elements that the temple featured for the first time in Central Italy endured in temple architecture through the Roman Republic and Empire. The use of triple cellae is not only found in later capitolia; architects also used this in temples throughout the Republic, even in some with only one or two dedicatees, such as the temples of Castor and Saturn in Rome or the Temple of Jupiter in Pompeii.13 Architects would continue to use the anthemion frieze throughout Central Italy and in Rome until the late Republic, in Hellenistic structures such as the Temple at Talamone and Temple of Apollo at Civita Castellana. After its popularization through the roof sculpture of the Temple of Jupiter, the motif remained a principal decoration in all varieties of architecture throughout the Empire in monuments such as the Tomb of the Sempronii and Ara Pacis Augusti.14 Multiple frontal colonnades also remained common. They are found immediately after the Temple of Jupiter at Pyrgi, Ardea, Orvieto, and elsewhere, and they remained popular in Roman temples such as those to Castor, Victoria, Venus Genetrix, and the Pantheon. Though Vitruvius does not provide a name for the temple plan commonly called a peripteros sine postico, after the Temple of Jupiter, the type remained popular in Roman architecture, as evidenced by buildings such as the “Temple of Feronia” in Largo Argentina and the Temple of Mars Ultor in the Forum of Augustus. The deep, open porch was also ubiquitous in later temples; Central Italic architects immediately incorporated it at Pyrgi, Lanuvium, Orvieto, and elsewhere, and it remained popular in Roman temples through the Empire, the most famous examples of the style being the Temple of Portunus and the Maison Carrée. When seen in this light, the significance of the Temple of Jupiter reaches far beyond the confines of archaic urbanism. Similar traces of elements from other archaic

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monuments can be found in the materiality, style, iconography, function, and design of art and architecture in the middle and late Republic, which itself served as the foundation for Imperial art. Once the Temple of Jupiter and the other works of the archaic period were finished, their lives had only just begun, and as monuments that were used, seen, and encountered, they would go on to affect viewers and builders who themselves commissioned and designed temples throughout Rome, Central Italy, and the Roman Empire.15 As Romans vowed new temples and commissioned new art in the fifth and fourth centuries, they did so amidst these earlier monuments, and they drew from that art and architecture so that a seamlessly intertwined visual landscape greeted any new forms, styles, or cultural shifts that emerged in later centuries. Thus, as they had with the Temple of Jupiter and with the second temple at S. Omobono and all its sculpture, when builders and patrons of Hellenistic Rome vowed new temples, they followed a long-standing Roman tradition—established already in the archaic period—of adapting new styles to established architectural and artistic foundations. They did so amidst temples raised on tall podia with deep porches, lateral colonnades, and multiple frontal colonnades that dotted the city from the Temple of Jupiter to the temples of Castor, Apollo Medicus, “Feronia,” Victoria, and Spes, all steeped in traditions that reached back to the Roman archaic period. They married these features with other trends that had already entered the Roman religious architectural tradition, such as tighter columnar spacing—perhaps with the introduction of stone entablatures in the Temple of Victoria—and Hellenistic Ionic proportions and peripteral designs, themselves a part of the Roman sacred landscape from the early third century.16 Eventually, all of these adaptations of Roman temple architecture were yet again hybridized when married to the marble of Athens in Metellus’s Temple of Jupiter Stator. Thus, as Romans hauled the despoiled art of Syracuse, Tarentum, and Corinth through their streets, they did so within a vibrant, deeply historic, historically international, and historically adaptive artistic culture and cityscape. What is more, the longevity and continuity of early Roman art and architecture is found not only in each individual work or in the fusions of diverse trends in isolated monuments, but also in a wider urban diachronic cohesion. By all rights, many of the most quintessential districts of Rome—some of the most fundamental urban elements of one of the most influential cityscapes from antiquity—took shape in the archaic period in a way that deeply and directly affected their character well into the Republic and Empire. It is in this era that the Capitoline became the premier sacred area of Rome and perhaps all of Central Italy, the seat to the chief cult of the best and greatest of gods and of the most impressive building on the peninsula, one that would remain the most impressive perpetually in reconstruction even down to late antiquity, when Cassiodorus praised it as a work of architectural “genius.”17 It is in the archaic period that the Palatine southwest slope gained its initial and enduring sacred character, one that would last for a millennium; that the Regia would see its entrenched plan, also a fixture on the Forum for nearly a thousand years; and that the first incomparable elite houses would go up on the Palatine and the

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streets leading into the Forum. Even the edges of the Colosseum valley appear to have gained prominence in these early centuries, and by all rights, the Forum became the Forum during this period, from the very artificial accumulation of soil it rested on to the first and most defining civic and religious buildings. It is in the sixth and early fifth centuries that Romans built temples and governmental institutions that gave the city physical and symbolic prominence, so that two hundred years later, a newly repurposed block of tabernae could become banking stalls, giving the Forum the mercantile character that Varro so deeply attributed to its essence.18 That act and the many others of civic and architectural aggrandizement would not have happened if these spaces had not seen their initial physical and social definition centuries earlier in an enduring, monumental form. With this perspective, one can see a history of Roman art and urbanism that reaches much farther back than the Roman conquest of the Hellenistic east. Certainly there would be a great shift with that transformative moment, but there had already been at least one sea change in the history of Rome’s art and culture centuries earlier, with the Mediterranean connectivity of the archaic period. The functions, tectonics, styles, materials, and meanings of individual works and of whole urban districts created at this time would endure, in some cases, for over a thousand years in Rome, exerting a profound influence on later spaces, objects, and people in a way that was distinct to Rome and its shifting culture. By the third and second centuries, when a new cultural paradigm began to transform all of the Mediterranean, a unique, sophisticated, international, and monumental form of art, architecture, and urbanism had already existed in Rome for centuries, just as it had at Athens, Syracuse, and the other polities that witnessed the Hellenistic revolutions. On contemplating the potential implications that the study of early Rome has for the art of the Roman classical, Hellenistic, and Imperial periods, and for the wider archaic and classical Mediterranean world, more questions arise than can be answered in these pages, and more conundrums, tropes, and assumptions face inquiry. For example, where does this situate Rome in relation to Latium and Etruria in this early period and in the subsequent centuries? Studies of polities throughout the region are revealing more and more sophisticated, international, and monumental cityscapes. What might further study of these architectural centers reveal about peer-polity interaction, about shifts in urbanization in the region, or about Rome’s purported place at the head of a Latin hegemony that stretched to the edges of Campania? Furthermore, how does one square an early Roman artistic culture that was so fully its own and so deeply enmeshed with the art and culture of the Mediterranean with the idea of Hellenization? If Rome was already a participant and was already mixing trends from Ionia, Etruria, Sicily, and elsewhere in the sixth century, can one speak of Hellenization at all? Was Rome—like Samos, Caere, Syracuse, and Athens—instead a producer of a distinct vision within a more subtly constructed Mediterranean art, beginning with its first steps onto the larger stage back in the seventh

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century? If so, perhaps it would be better to speak of archaization and classicization in a varied but connected cultural community. How might such a view affect scholarship that assumes Hellenization only with the sack of Syracuse, an idea that is mired in the centuries-old cleaving of Greek from Roman art: a problematic, unnecessary, and linguistically biased segregation, a division that Mediterranean scholars are now beginning to reintegrate to great effect? In short, where does this leave Rome in the subsequent periods of classical and Hellenistic shift? Such questions reach into the very essence of Rome, its art, and its architecture, and they touch the wider cultures of the Central Italic and Mediterranean worlds. In the wake of all the fresh scholarship that is emerging on early Roman art, economy, religion, and politics, they are topics worth considering anew.

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notes

INTRODUCTION 1. Suet. Aug. 28–31; Cass. Dio. 51.10–22. The modern bibliography is long: see, for example, Zanker 1968; Zanker 1972; Zanker 1990; and Favro 1996. 2. The bibliography on middle to late Republican architecture is growing quickly. A sample of important studies includes Coarelli 1977b; Coarelli 1983a; Coarelli 1988a; Ziółkowski 1992; Welch 2003; Tucci 2005; Tucci and Cozza 2006; Davies 2009b; and Davies forthcoming. 3. One only needs to scan the majority of books written on Rome and the contents of articles published in major journals to see the unbalanced focus on the late Republic and Empire. Some books (e.g., Gros 1996; Clarke 2003) include the date in their titles as a means to define the parameters of study, and consequently divorce later Roman art from earlier art. Others (e.g., Brown 1961; Ward-Perkins 1981; Sear 1989; Boëthius, Ling, and Rasmussen 1994; Claridge 1998, 61–99; Gros 2006; Hallett 2005; and Zanker 2010) assume a perspective that only begins with the late Republic or even later: sometimes purposefully, other times almost without regard for the implications. Of course, all of this is steeped in a deep historiography, which this book seeks to question: see, for example, Brendel 1953, Brilliant 2007, and the section of this Introduction entitled “Connectivity.” 4. All dates are BCE unless otherwise specified. 5. The segregation of early Roman art from later Roman art is long-standing. For a recent example, see Zanker 2010, and this Introduction, “Connectivity.” 6. For some of the more important studies on the relationship of these topics to art and architecture, see below, n8. 7. I would direct the reader to the following recent

8.

9.

books dedicated to these topics. On Roman and Central Italic urbanism, see Fulminante 2014 and Riva 2010. On religion, see Colantoni forthcoming; on architecture and politics (though focused on the Republic), see Davies forthcoming. For a synopsis of archaeologists concerned with architecture, see Cifani 2008, 19–39. Gjerstad’s major works are Gjerstad 1953–73; Gjerstad 1961; Gjerstad 1965a; and Gjerstad 1965b. Some of the major works include the following: Cifani 2008 is a catalogue of archaic Roman architecture, building materials, and construction. The work of Andrea Carandini and his team, with its professed desire to synthesize material finds with ancient texts, includes Carandini 2007; cf. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Carandini 1997; Carafa 1998; Carandini and Cappelli 2000; Carandini 2004; Carandini et al. 2006; and Arvanitis 2010. For caution and criticism, see Wiseman 1995a; Smith 1999; Wiseman 2001; Poucet 2010; Poucet 2011; Wiseman 2013; and Ampolo 2013. The work of Filippo Coarelli has touched every corner of archaic Rome, and a recent work (Coarelli 2011), The Origins of Rome, is a masterful overview of textual, visual, and material evidence for Rome in the regal period and middle Republic. Important studies by Giovanni Colonna, Mario Torelli, Anna Mura Sommella, Nancy Winter, and others have traced the roots of individual architectural features across Central Italy, often in connection to Rome in a way that has deeply affected its architectural historiography; they are included in the bibliography of this book. Winter’s recent volume (Winter 2009c) alongside the Delicae Fictiles series (Rystedt, Wikander, and Wikander 1993; Luloff and Moormann 1997; Edlund-Berry, Greco, and Kenfield 2006; and Lulof and Rescigno 2011) has

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

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thrown a spotlight on the broader study of early Central Italic terracotta sculpture, though not specifically Rome. This bibliography does not include the essential and transformative excavations, which are the foundation of all of this research, and which will be referenced directly and extensively in the body of this manuscript. For the segregation, see above, n3. The argument for and assumption of an origin in the third century can be found many places, including Brendel 1953; McDonnell 2006; Brilliant 2007; and Zanker 2010. A recent rebuttal can be found in Kleiner 2012. The go-to scholarship includes Holloway 1994; Cornell 1995; Smith 1996; and Forsythe 2005. Holloway and Smith highlight art and architecture, but with a broader concern for Rome as part of Latium, and they are not particularly concerned with the effects of urban, architectural, or sculptural design. I do not count among these Boëthius, Ling, and Rasmussen 1994, as this study was a self-professed look at early Central Italy (Etruria and Rome, as Boëthius called it), not the architectural history of early Rome in particular. The significance of that distinction will be made clear in the section of this Introduction entitled “Connectivity.” On the Velia, see Terrenato 1992 and Palombi 1997, with references. For the original attribution of that area as the Velia, see Castagnoli 1946, 162–164. For an opposing view, cf. Tomei 1994, but see also Ziółkowski 1996, esp. 147–148. The exception to small excavations on the Esquiline is the study of tombs in the area of the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele: see Pinza 1914; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.162–279, with references; Colonna 1977; Albertoni 1983; Colonna 1996; Barbato 2003; and Barbera 2005. An accessible summary of the dating scheme for Latial culture and early Rome can be found in Cornell 1995, 48–53, esp. n47. On absolute and relative chronology, see Colonna 1974; Colonna 1976; Meyer 1983; Bietti Sestieri and Anzidei 1984; Belardelli and Bietti Sestieri 1986; Bietti Sestieri 1992a; Bietti Sestieri 1992b; Bettelli 1997; Nijboer et al. 1999–2000; de Santis 2001; and Bettelli 2002. For skepticism about the dating mechanism in the “North Slope” excavations, see Ammerman et al. 2008, 27n79; Edlund-Berry 2011; and Ampolo 2013. For the dating of these excavations,

notes to pages 4–8

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

in general, see Carandini 1990, 209–274. Cf. Carandini 1990, 251, where the reader is told that ceramics were found in excavation, but there are no pictures of the ceramics and no table of the number of ceramics or discussion of them in detail, other than “black varnished ‘stemless cups’ appear at this point. . . . In this period, there are new forms of impasto . . . and ‘internal slip ware’ no longer appears.” Another example is Carandini 1990, 230, 246n117, and 252, where the reader is referred to a large number of ceramics from the foundation trench of a cistern and a comparison with other similar constructions in Central Italy. Yet the ceramics are not discussed or published anywhere, and the comparanda referenced have broad possible dates from the sixth to the fourth centuries. Much of the early dating in general is tied to the study of undecorated ceramics, the accuracy of which is not universally agreed upon; see Carafa 1995. On seeking to examine these ceramics, the author was told that they and others from the excavations have been lost. For the reference to Servius Tullius, see Carandini 1990, esp. 73–87. Carandini et al. 1995 [2000], 237–266, esp. 244–248, based on Gros and Torelli 1988, 36; but see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 206. Carandini explains his view in a well-argued exhortation of his desire to engage a wider public audience; see Carandini 2007. For a contrary view, see Wiseman 2008b, 271, 276–280; Wiseman 2013; Poucet 2008; Poucet 2010; Poucet 2011; and Ampolo 2013. For extensive bibliographies, see Rystedt, Wikander, and Wikander 1993; Luloff and Moormann 1997; Edlund-Berry, Greco, and Kenfield 2006; Winter 2009b; and Lulof and Rescigno 2011. For example, Cifani (2010) only rarely includes architectural terracottas as part of his study. Recently, a few scholars have suggested that this must change; see Wikander and Wikander 2006; Lulof 2013; Lulof 2014; and Nancy Winter and Maria Bonghi Jovino (in personal conversation with the author). For examples of terracottas as evidence for architecture and urban change in Corinth, see Pfaff 2003, 115–119, 121–122, with references; for architecture and urban change in Athens, see, for example, Hurwit 2004, 67–68, 109–110. Andrén assumed such a correlation; see Andrén

1940. Cf. Lulof 2013 and Lulof 2014, on Satricum and the “Rome system.” In some cases, when enough of the decoration exists, precise dimensions may be ascertainable, as in the case of work being done at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. Other examples include anthemion revetments from Segni, Satricum, and Pyrgi, which date to the early fifth century and have seen wide comparison in terms of style, content, and size, just as they adorned temples whose widths were all between 19 and 24 m. (Satricum Temple II measures 21 x 34 m; the Temple of Juno at Segni measures 24 x 40 m; Temple A at Pyrgi measures 24 x 34.5 m; and Temple B at Pyrgi measures 19 x 30 m.) On the terracottas, see Andrén 1940, 474 II:417, pl. 151: 515, 400 I:410 pl. 122: 430. For a comparison between Segni and Satricum, see also Ceccarelli and Marroni 2011, 464. The content is similar to frieze type A:14 (Temple A) and B:1 (Temple B) from Pyrgi, although the style of the Pyrgi revetments is less delicate and more robust; cf. Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 177–183. These are some of the largest known anthemion revetments in Central Italy, and they adorned some of the largest known temples in Central Italy. Their footprints were only substantially outmatched by the two largest sanctuaries in the region, the Capitoline Temple at Rome and, to a slightly lesser degree, the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii; the terracottas from those two sanctuaries are also far larger. 20. The traditional narrative is found in many fragments and is discussed at length in the works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus (books 1–6) and Titus Livius (books 1–4). Earlier histories existed in antiquity, but are now lost or only extant in a few fragments. 21. On Etruscan military domination, see Bloch 1960, 96, 107–110; Walsh 1961, esp. 276; Scullard 1964; Alföldi 1965; and Ogilvie 1976. This is now largely debunked; see Meyer 1983, esp. 142; Cornell 1986b; Renfrew 1986, 7–8; Cornell 1995, 151–172; Zevi 1995; and Vernole 2002, esp. 18, 166–198. 22. For wildly divergent and sometimes pointedly critical writings, see T. P. Wiseman (Wiseman 2001; Wiseman 1993a; Wiseman 2013), Andrea Carandini (Carandini 2007), Jacques Poucet (Poucet 2007; Poucet 2008; Poucet 2010; Poucet 2011), Timothy Cornell (Cornell 1986c), Gary Forsythe (Forsythe 2005), R. T. Scott (Scott 2009a), and Nikolaos Arvanitis (Arvanitis 2010,

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23.

24.

25.

26.

27. 28.

29.

30.

14, with disparaging references to the work of Jolivet and Scott). For studies primarily or strictly based on text, with material evidence only used to support the annalistic tradition, see Alföldi 1965; Ogilvie 1965; Scullard 1967; and Ogilvie 1976. For liberal uses of text alongside archaeology, see Carandini 1990; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Carandini and Cappelli 2000; and Carandini 2004. For a more analytical, but nonetheless accepting, use of text with archaeology, see Cornell 1986a; Cornell 1986c; Raaflaub and Cornell 1986; Pallottino 1993; Cornell 1995; and Braund, Gill, and Wiseman 2003. For critical use of text, see esp. Wiseman 1993b; Holloway 1994; Wiseman 1994; Wiseman 1995a; Forsythe 2005; and Wiseman 2008a. Arguments for a discrete examination of material and textual evidence for early Rome include Poucet 1985, 116–127; Poucet 2008, 13–15; and Gabba 2009, 217. Cf. Colantoni forthcoming for a similar methodology. To some degree, it is impossible to remove the textual history of Rome completely from this study. Ceramic chronologies have long been implicitly linked to literary chronologies, and much of the dating in this study is linked to ceramic chronology. I have consciously left dates broad in hopes of leaving the reader in a position to interpret widely. Identity in this period of protohistory has long been a major question in studies of Greek interaction with the west, and I believe my diction fits well with practices in that line of scholarship. Cf. Hall 1997; Antonaccio 2003; Hall 2004; Shefton and Lomas 2004; Hall 2008; Wallace-Hadrill 2008b, esp. 3–37; and Gruen 2011. On authorship and object-hood, see Barthes 1977. Esther Pasztory employed a similar approach to address different (but similarly problematical) textual issues; see Pasztory 1992. On objectoriented ontologies, see Harman 2002, esp. 2, 16; and Bryant, Smicek, and Harman 2011. See Gell 1998, esp. 12–13, 23. The best summary of this historiography is still found in Brendel 1953, esp. 16. See also above, n3. Cf. Brilliant 2007 for a reappraisal. On the historiography, see Brendel 1953; cf. Gruen 1990; Gruen 1992; and Wallace-Hadrill 2008. Cf. Droysen 1877; and Winckelmann and Potts 2006, esp. 186–372. On the deconstructionist school, see, famously,

Derrida 1967; Deleuze 1969; and esp. Deleuze and Guattari 1987. For its respondents, especially regarding networks, see Wellman and Berkowitz 1988; Wasserman and Faust 1995; Appadurai 2001; Barabási 2002; Carrington, Scott, and Wasserman 2005; and Latour 2005. On the application to Mediterranean cultures, see Broodbank 2013; Braudel 1972; Sherratt and Sherratt 1993; Horden and Purcell 2000; Abulafia 2003; Morris 2003; Harris 2005; Malkin 2005; Horden and Purcell 2006; Kousoulis, Magliveras, and Aigaiou 2007; Malkin, Constantakopoulou, and Panagopoulou 2009; Dommelen and Knapp 2010; Abulafia 2011; and Malkin 2011. 31. Bloch 1960, 96, 107–110; Scullard 1964; Alföldi 1965; Ogilvie 1976. Walsh is mostly concerned with Livy’s patriotic distortion of the early period, though Walsh gives a more even treatment of the “period of Etruscan dominance” than Alföldi, especially; see Walsh 1961, esp. 276. Alföldi, the most vehement, proposed an order in which warriors from Tarquinii, Caere, Vulci, Veii, and Clusium successively took over the city; see Alföldi 1965, 206–235. His interpretation was controversial from the start and has seen much criticism, but it had an undeniable impact on scholarship. For recent scholarship along these lines, see Hall 1996; Stopponi 2000; Marcattili 2008; and Torelli and Moretti Sgubini 2008, 168– 197. These are largely works that focus on early Italy or early Rome, but the story of Etruscan Rome frequently appears in surveys of Roman history, art, and architecture. 32. Scullard 1967, 172–173 (emphasis added by the author). He is careful to point out that “it is difficult or even impossible to determine how much was due to their direct encouragement and example,” and that “the political aspect is equally difficult: where and when do Etruscan features represent definite Etruscan rule?” Despite his caution here, Scullard goes on to propose military control of Rome and Praeneste. Cf. Altheim and Mattingly 1938, 97, 100–103; Heurgon 1973, 107, 140; Ogilvie 1976, esp. 30, 40–42, 137; Naso 2001; and cf. Cornell 1995, 159–163. 33. Two accessible articles in English that summarize the finds in Latium include Cornell 1980; and Cornell 1986b. For overviews of finds, see also Acanfora 1976; Zevi, Bartoloni, and Cataldi Dini 1982; Bietti Sestieri 1992a; Bietti Sestieri 1992b;

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notes to pages 13–14

Bietti Sestieri and Italy Soprintendenza archeologica di Roma 1992; Holloway 1994, 103–164; Ceccarelli and Marroni 2011; and n34. For Etruria, domestic architecture, early terracotta production, and sanctuaries have seen the most revision; see Wikander 1981; Edlund-Berry 1992; Phillips 1992; De Puma and Small 1994; Nielsen and Tuck 2001; and de Grummond and Edlund-Berry 2011, esp. 143–165. 34. On lavish grave contents across the region, see, for example, Cornell 1980; Cornell 1986b; and Holloway 1994, 103–164. Cf. Fulminante 2003. For Osteria dell’Osa, see Bietti Sestieri 1992a; Bietti Sestieri 1992b; cf. Holloway 1994, 112–113. On Satricum, see Holloway 1994; Bouma et al. 1995; Waarsenburg 1995; Ginge and Becker 1996; and Waarsenburg 2001. On La Rustica, see Colonna 1976, 28–29; Bartoloni 1981, 91; and Zevi, Bartoloni, and Cataldi Dini 1982, 258. On Praeneste, see Colonna 1976, 28–29. On Decima, see Zevi, Bartoloni, and Cataldi Dini 1982. On Acqua Acetosa Laurentina, see Bedini 1984; Holloway 1994, 114; and Naso 2001, 226. On grave 70 at Acqua Acetosa, see Bedini 2000. On Satricum, see Acanfora 1976, 337–339. On Decima, see Zevi, Bartoloni, and Cataldi Dini 1982. For Tivoli, Lavinium, and elsewhere, cf. Colonna 1976, 33–34; Ridgway 1979, 193–194; and Cornell 1995, 84–85. For early “princely” huts in Latium, see Colonna 1988b, 471–472; and Waarsenburg 2001. On the Tiber and Anio as major trade routes, see Colonna 1976, 28–29, 31; and Bartoloni 1981. Cf. Naso 2001, esp. 223, 228; Baglione 1986; Bartoloni 1986; Belardelli and Bietti Sestieri 1986; Colonna 1986; and Santoro 1986. For a reassessment of early Italic temple architecture and terracottas, see Damgaard Andersen 1993; Damgaard Andersen 1998, 196–197, app. 124–198; and Potts 2011a. On temples at Gabii, see Guaítoli 1981, 164; Colonna 1981b, 55; and Colonna 1984, 399. On temples at Satricum, see de Waele 1981, 24–28; and Colonna 1981b, 55. At grave 482 at Osteria dell’Osa, archaeologists discovered an inscription that dates to ca. 770 BCE, being by far the earliest inscription in Central Italy and dating over fifty years before the first instance in Etruria; see Bietti Sestieri, de Santis, and La Regina 1989–90, 83–88; La Regina 2012; Holloway 1994, 112; and Naso 2001, 223. For a suggestion that early Latin inscriptions resemble those in Greek as much as those in Etruscan–e.g., the Lapis Satricanus—see

Stibbe 1980; and Holloway 1994, 149–153. For an inscription on an aryballos from the Esquiline, see Colonna 1964, 7. And for the Greek characteristics of an inscription at Lavinium to Castorei Podlouqueique qurois, see Sellers 1986, 299. Cf. Torelli 1984, 210. On the inscription in general, see Bietti Sestieri, de Santis, and La Regina 1989–90. 35. On Murlo, Acquarossa, and the terracottas, see Wikander 1981; Edlund-Berry 1992; Phillips 1992; de Puma and Small 1994; and Nielsen and Tuck 2001. For the temples on podia with base moldings and raised frontal dispositions, the first examples are found at Rome, S. Omobono I, and Satricum. Because of the heavy debate (and clear anachronism) involved in applying Vitruvian (and, in general, late Republican architectural and humanistic philosophical) analysis to such an early period, I stay away from terms such as “Tuscan.” I also do not employ the now more common “Etrusco-Italic,” since that implies a division and distinction between Etruscan and Italic culture, which by this period is deeply entangled, as I discuss in this section. The features of this temple type are specific to and pervasive throughout Central Italy, so I call them Central Italic. The earliest known oikos in Etruria is at Graviscae, and it may in fact be a Greek building. For a reassessment of early Italic temple architecture and terracottas, see Damgaard Andersen 1993; Damgaard Andersen 1998, 193–198, app. 124–198; and Potts 2011a. Cf. Colonna 1984; Colonna 1985; and Colonna 2006. There are subcategories of change. For example, Murlo and Acquarossa have not only the earliest known terracottas, but also the first of many types of terracottas, including antefixes and revetment plaques; see Winter 2009c, 24, 27, 39, 42, 49, 50, 51–58, 89–92, 101. Meanwhile, Satricum has the first oikos temple, and either Rome or Satricum has the earliest architectural base molding in Central Italy; the recessed gable, so characteristic of Central Italic temples, appears at Minturnae, in southern Latium, then moves up through Satricum, only then to make it to Etruria. On the molding, see Edlund-Berry 2008, 442; and Winter 2009a. On the recessed gable, see Winter 2006b. There is some debate as to whether the early Ara della Regina at Tarquinii stood on a platform or a podium, but in any case, the trend takes off almost simultaneously and is far more

185

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36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

persistent throughout Latium than Etruria, and the podium would become far more pronounced in Rome than anywhere else until Roman conquest dispersed it throughout the Mediterranean. Cf. Potts 2011b; and Bonghi Jovino 2012. For revision of colonialist theory, see Mazzarino 1945; Renfrew 1975; Brumfiel 1976; Renfrew 1977; Knapp and Stech 1985; Hodder 1986; Renfrew 1986; Renfrew and Cherry 1986; Blanton, 1994, esp. #1298; Kohl 1987; Schortman and Urban 1987; Schortman and Urban 1992; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Hegmon 2000; Horden and Purcell 2000; Lyons and Papadopoulos 2002; Stein 2002; Antonaccio 2003; Hurst and Owen 2005, esp. Antonaccio, 97–113, and Purcell, 115–139; Manning and Hulin 2005; M. L. Smith 2005; Snodgrass 2005; Stein 2005; van Dommelen 2005; Hodos 2006; LaBianca and Scham 2006; Kardulias and Hall 2008; Knappett 2011; and Knappett and Society for American Archaeology Annual Meeting 2013. For interaction and networks of exchange, see Brumfiel 1976; Renfrew 1977; Knapp and Stech 1985; Brumfiel and Fox 1994; Dobres and Robb 2000; Hegmon 2000; Hodder 2005; Hodos 2006; Fulminante 2012; and Fulminante 2014. For outdated suggestions of cultural dependence and the gifting of cultural superiority, see Scullard 1967, 172–173. See also Altheim and Mattingly 1938, 97, 100–103; Heurgon 1973, 107, 140; Ogilvie 1976, esp. 30, 40–42, 137; Hall 1996; Stopponi 2000; Naso 2001; Marcattili 2008; and Torelli and Moretti Sgubini 2008, 168–197. On the deconstruction of the myth of Etruscan conquest, see Renfrew 1986, 7–8; Cornell 1995, 151–172; Zevi 1995; and Vernole 2002, esp. 18, 166–198. On exchange without military conquest, see Renfrew 1986. This is made clear in scholarship on Satricum, Ardea, Lavinium, Minturnae, and elsewhere in Latium. It is also clear in scholarship on Etruria, especially in the forthcoming series Cities of the Etruscans, edited by Nancy de Grummond and Lisa Pieraccini and published by the University of Texas Press. Hall 2002. For more on the subject, see EmlynJones 1980; Hall 1997; Malkin 2001; Lyons and Papadopoulos 2002; Antonaccio 2003; Hall 2004; Lomas 2004; Shefton and Lomas 2004; Malkin 2004; Malkin 2005; Hodos 2006; Tsetskhladze 2006; selections from Shapiro 2007; Hall 2008;

Whitmarsh 2010; Malkin 2011; and Skinner 2012. 41. Stein 2002. (See above, n29.) This is certainly true for the idea of a “pure” Greek political culture and the notion of the polity; see Morris 1987; Hall 1995; and Hall 2002. Even as some scholars are emerging to suggest that center-periphery models are worth considering in certain circumstances, and as the idea of multiple shifting foci (rather than a single, unchanging center) sees solid argumentation, few would suggest a return to that old dichotomy of pure or tainted. 42. The phrase comes from Dougherty and Kurke 2003. (See also n29.) 43. Some important works include Braudel 1972; Barletta 1983; Knapp and Stech 1985; Sherratt and Sherratt 1993; Horden and Purcell 2000; Abulafia 2003; Morris 2003; Hall 2004; Shefton and Lomas 2004; Malkin 2005; Manning and Hulin 2005; van Dommelen 2005; Hodos 2006; Horden and Purcell 2006; Tsetskhladze 2006; Kousoulis, Magliveras, and Aigaiou 2007; Malkin, Constantakopoulou, and Panagopoulou 2009; van Dommelen and Knapp 2010; Abulafia 2011; Gruen 2011; Malkin 2011; and Broodbank 2013. In part, this is precisely because of the variations visible in the Greek polities. As scholars have placed more emphasis on local interests, innovations, and artistic and tectonic choices in Sicily, for example, they have highlighted the potential roots for such trends in heavier contact with non-Greek cultures. The connectivity has seen many definitions, as hybridization, creolization, and mixing, none of which seems satisfactory to all scholars. 44. See Ampolo 1976–77; Bachhuber and Roberts 2009; and Counts, Tuck, and Holloway 2009. See also above, nn29 and 39, for further bibliographies. 45. Scholars have long investigated how pottery, metalware, and, indeed, all manner of art and material culture crossed these divides, sometimes shifting in function, style, and meaning as they did so, but still carrying the mark of connection to varying degrees of effect. See, for example, Antonaccio 2003, with bibliography. Architecture can leave an especially telling mark of cultural contact, since it cannot be transported (certainly not with the same ease as a small aryballos) and because the application of complex tectonics generally requires the direct and prolonged communication of rare specialized knowledge; see Mertens 1994, 196–197.

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notes to pages 16–21

46. See Renfrew 1975; Wasserman and Faust 1995; Parkins and Smith 1998; Abulafia 2003; Hodos 2006; LaBianca and Scham 2006; and Knappett and Malafouris 2008. See also above, nn29 and 39.

CHAPTER 1. THE MAKINGS OF A CITY 1. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.386; Ioppolo 1971–72, 17; and Daminato 1977, 35. On the rapid excavations, see Colini 1938. Ongoing excavation has revealed that the forecourt did not entirely rest on earthen fill. I thank Nicola Terrenato for this information. 2. Daminato 1977, 35; Pisani Sartorio 1977, 60; Virgili 1977, 26; cf. Ioppolo 1971–72, 14; and sector A-D, stratum 5–8: Gjerstad 1953–73, III.462, 435–436, IV.430–437. Analysis of soil composition indicates to some that the fill was pulled from the adjacent Capitoline Hill; see Lugli and Rosa 2001; and Cazzella et al. 2007. Recent excavation has uncovered both alluvium from the Tiber area and Tufo Lionato, from the Capitoline Hill, suggesting material for the fill came from all around the site. Andrea Brock presented preliminary finds at the 2015 annual meetings of the Archaeological Institute of America. 3. Gjerstad’s suggestion of continued settlement is based off of handles of the keeled type, but his comparanda date anywhere from the twelfth to the ninth centuries; see Gjerstad 1953–73, IV.36. Recent study appears to confirm a continuous settlement; cf. de Santis 2001; de Santis et al. 2010; cf. Fulminante 2014, 66–77. On the nature of continuity in Mediterranean visual and material culture between ca. 1200 and 950, cf. Morris 1992; Langdon 1997; and Morris 2000. 4. For a clear summary, see Cornell 1995. 5. On the literary history, see Cicero de re publica 1.10.17; Livy 1.6.3–1.34.12; and Dion. 2.1.1–2.46.1; for criticism of its use, see Wiseman 1995a. For a summary of the archaeological record, see Gjerstad 1953–73, I.21–85, 118–129, II.119–187, 162–247, 267–278, III.145–177, 132–134, 145–160, 165–167, 190–199, 378–450, IV.125–330; Cornell 1995, 48–118; Panella 1996; Carandini and Cappelli 2000; and Forsythe 2005, 7–93. For the Palatine/ Velia settlement, see Gjerstad 1953–73, II.13–145. For the Forum of Caesar, see de Santis 2001; and de Santis et al. 2010. 6. On the wells from the Velia, see Magagnini 2001; cf. Cifani 2008, 153–154. On the graves from the Quirinal and Esquiline, see Pinza 1905; Pinza 1914, 117; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.162–279, with references;

7.

8. 9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

187

and Albertoni 1983, 142, with references. Vaglieri 1907; Puglisi 1951; Romanelli 1951; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.45–62. Cf. Pensabene 1990– 91; Angelelli and Falzone 1999; and Tagliamonte 1999. On the date, see Puglisi 1951a, 39–43; and Puglisi 1951b, esp. 51–65. For reconstruction of the hut type, see Davico 1951. Vianello 1950; Romanelli 1951. Brown 1967, 52–53; Brown 1974–75, 19; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 116–118; Scott 1999, 191; Rathje and van Kampen 2001; Arvanitis 2004; Filippi 2004a, 98; Scott 2009a, 7–8; Arvanitis 2010, 27–37; Filippi 2010, 21–23. For the North Slope excavations, dating is left broad here, due to the lack of published finds. On the Quirinal sanctuaries, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.145–165, IV.151–152. On the Capitoline votive deposit, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.190–201; and Cifani 2008, 109. On S. Omobono (Sector A-B, strata 15–20; sector B-C, strata 16–20; sector A-D, strata 16–20), see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.381, 386; Ioppolo 1971–72, 8, 43, fig. 41, pl. 48; Virgili 1977, 30–33; Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 42–43; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, 30–31, pl. III. On the Regia and Atrium Vestae, see Brown 1935, 64–68; Brown 1967, 47–64; Brown 1974–75, 15–36; Scott 1993a, 11–17; Filippi 2004a, 101–121; and Filippi 2004b, 19–100. On the northeast Palatine, see Zeggio 2006, 63–66. Cf. Colantoni forthcoming. If one is to believe ancient sources, they record Romulus building a Temple of Jupiter Feretrius on the Capitoline (Dion. 2.34.4; Livy 1.10.5–7) and Jupiter Stator near the Palatine (Dion. 2.50.3), and that Titus Tatius built a sacellum to Jupiter, Mars, and Quirinus on the Qurinal (Varro LL 5.74; Festus, 302; Paul. Fest., 303; and Pliny NH 15.120; or for Numa erecting this temple, see Cicero de re publica 2.20; Livy 1.16.5; and Dion. 2.63.3). Other temples, for example, include Vulcan (Dion. 2.50.2–3), the Sun and Moon, Saturn, Rhea, Vesta, Diana, and Quirinus (Dion. 2.50.3), Janus (Livy 1.19.2–3), and Pallor and Panic (Livy 1.27.7–8). All of these supposedly date to the eighth and early seventh centuries, before stone construction. Of course, the texts should be treated with extreme caution for this early period. On the tiles, see Il viver quotidiano 1989, 30–31. Panella and Zeggio 2004, 68–69; cf. Zeggio 2006, 63–66; and Panella 2013, 27–28. Cf. Ammerman 2009. The excavation team dates the first wall to ca. 750, conspicuously the same date as the traditional

notes to pages 21–24

14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20.

foundation of the city. No comparanda have been found in Latium or south Etruria; see Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 150–151. The first wall is dated largely based on ceramics from what has been interpreted as a foundation deposit, but for this early period, when impasto vessels with very broad chronologies are the only datable finds, it is difficult to confine a chronology so tightly. In fact, one olla from the deposit is otherwise known only in Latial IV contexts (so, only after ca. 730/720), but excavators choose to label it as “possibly one of the most ancient attestations of these products” and give it a mid-eighth-century date; see Brocato et al. 1992, 129n196. Excavators also mention an Italo-Geometric vessel in a deposit below the door in the wall. Similar vessels that even the excavators reference date as late as ca. 650, suggesting that this deposit and the opening in the wall above could date as late as the mid-seventh century; see Brocato, Ricci, and Terrenato 1992, 129n187. The second wall is dated to the late seventh century, between the dates for houses above it and an infant burial below; cf. Canciani 1974, 51–53, where all dates are given as late eighth or early seventh century. Overall, for the wall, see Ammerman, Carandini, and Brocato 1992; Brocato, Ricci, and Terrenato 1992; and Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 63–71, 139–175. Cf. Ziółkowski 2004, 141–144. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 201–208. On the purported wall of Romulus, see Livy 7.3; Dion. 1.45.3. On the Capitoline wall, see Fortini 2000. On substantial problems with the interpretations of a Romulean boundary, see Ampolo 2013. See, for example, Childe 1950; Rendeli 1993; Damgaard Andersen et al. 1997; Hansen 2000; Riva 2005; Riva 2010; and Fulminante 2014. Some have even dismissed the idea of such strict categorization (for example, of universal distinctions between villages, cities, metropoleis or settlement, polities, states); see Horden and Purcell 2000, 89–122; and Osborne and Cunliffe 2005, 5–8. Pinza 1905. Gjerstad 1953–73, IV.331–348, 581–599; Gjerstad 1961; Gjerstad 1965a; Gjerstad 1965b. Müller-Karpe 1959; Müller-Karpe 1962. See Acanfora 1976; Pallottino et al. 1977; Pallottino 1979; Quilici 1979; Ampolo 1980a; Ampolo 1980b; Ampolo 1983; Ampolo 1988; Pallottino 1992; Pallottino 1993; Wiseman 1995a; Carafa 1996;

21. 22.

23.

24.

25. 26.

27.

28.

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Peroni 1996; Betelli 1997; Carandini and Cappelli 2000; Gennaro and Guidi 2000; Peroni 2000; de Santis 2001; Pacciarelli 2001; Wiseman 2001; Vanzetti 2002; Fulminante 2003; Carandini, D’Alessio, and di Giuseppe 2006; Fulminante 2003; Wiseman 2008a; Riva 2010b; and Fulminante 2014. More recently, see Fulminante 2014; and see above, nn3–14. Peroni 2000, 26. Cf. Peroni 1988. Recently, for the wider Italic Peninsula, see Pacciarelli 1994; and Pacciarelli 2001. For a summary with a recent bibliography, see Fulminante and Stoddart 2013. On Peroni’s approach and the so-called “Roman school,” see Fulminante 2014, 21–29. On the necessity of corporate structures in populations over five hundred people, cf. Fulminante 2014, 29, with references. Some sites would not make the move to urbanization; see Fulminante 2014, 17; and Yoffee 2005, 22. See, for example, Castel di Decima, which had social stratification, elite burials, rich goods, and proto-urban systemization, but no eventual urban center. For a warning about teleology in proto-urban approaches, see Zuchtriegel 2014. See di Gennaro 1986; Stoddart and Spivey 1990; Barker and Rasmussen 1998; and Pacciarelli 1994, for concise explanation, with references. Cf. Pacciarelli 2001. Fulminante 2014, 8–9; cf. Pacciarelli 2001; Fulminante and Stoddart 2013, with bibliography. On the size of the hilltops in the ninth to eighth centuries, see Fulminante 2014, 74, which gives estimates of the Palatine-Germalos-Velia as about 37 hectares and the Capitoline-Quirinal as about 54 hectares. For a discussion of the necessity of swift cohesion, see Bietti Sestieri 2000, 17; cf. Fulminante 2014, 72–77. For an opposing view, see Carandini 1997, 335–336. Estimates for the size of the initial (eighth-century) proto-urban center range from eighty to two hundred hectares; see Fulminante 2014, 79, with references. By the late archaic period, it would almost certainly have covered two hundred or more hectares; see Fulminante 2014. On geographic divisions and problems that would cause, see below on the Forum reclamation. On the early division between Palatine and Capitoline communities, and for references to the general scholarly consensus, see Fulminante 2014, 67–77.

notes to pages 25–28

29. Bietti Sestieri and Anzidei 1984; Belardelli and Bietti Sestieri 1986; Bettelli 1997; de Santis 2001; Bettelli 2002; de Santis et al. 2010. Cf. Riva 2010b; Fulminante and Stoddart 2013; and Fulminante 2014. 30. See Guidi 1982; di Gennaro and Peroni 1986; di Gennaro 1986; Carandini 1997; and Carandini and Cappelli 2000. Highlighting the same discoveries, but only as indication of proto-urbanization, are Fulminante and Stoddart 2013; and Fulminante 2014. Expressing caution are Smith 1999; and C. J. Smith 2005. 31. Some have mentioned the site of the Comitium and the Forum fill as indication of cohesion already; the high dates suggested for these interpretations are problematic. For a full examination of the dating, see Hopkins 2010, 26–37. On the date of the Forum fill, see below, n40, and on the Comitium, see Chap. 2, nn32, 37. There are also problems with the dating and interpretation of a rectangular structure near the later Area of Vesta. For more on that, see Chap. 2, nn28, 31. On the wall on the north slope, see this chapter, nn13–14; for the roadways by the Regia, see above, n10, and Chap. 2, nn3–4; on the votive deposits on the hills, see above, n10. 32. For more on this, see chaps. 2 and 5. 33. The idea is based on Renfrew; see Guidi 1982. Cf. Ampolo 1983, esp. 429. It should be noted that deposits at the Atrium Vestae have been put forth as an example of a religious site outside of the Palatine wall, and thus an indication of a sanctuary outside of the Palatine community, that is a religious site between the hills: a sign of cohesion. This requires that the Palatine wall be an indication of a ritual or fortified boundary around a distinct Palatine settlement. Not only is that disputed (e.g. Ampolo 2013), but also, if true, by necessity, the boundary would itself reinforce an argument for the distinction/separation of that Palatine settlement and an ongoing community division. 34. On the problems of teleology, see Gosden 1999, 471; Terrenato and Motta 2006; Terrenato 2010; and Zuchtriegel 2014. Cf. C. J. Smith 2005. 35. Until the 1990s, scholars assumed that during the late eighth and seventh centuries, settlements on the hills gradually expanded down the slopes and converged in one of these valleys, the Forum basin, creating the unified city of Rome. They disagreed on the pace of this cohesion, but generally they saw the same growth of wattle-and-daub

36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

189

settlements down into the basin. Giovanni Pinza first argued for nucleated settlements; see Pinza 1905. The disputed settlement pattern and dating is found in Gjerstad 1953–73, I–III; Gjerstad 1961, 69–102; Gjerstad 1965b, 1–74; and Müller-Karpe 1962. For a succinct discussion of the argument, see Pallottino 1979, 208–211. The area below nine meters above sea level (masl) was not marshy, as ancient authors believed (e.g., Varro LL 43.156). The surface of the Tiber in antiquity was five masl, approximately one meter lower than it is today; see Ammerman 1990, 636; and Ammerman 1998, 219. On the floods, see Ammerman 1990, 636; and Aldrete 2007, 39–50. Ammerman and Filippi note several geological features that help establish the nine-meter threshold of flood-prone areas: from the west side of the Capitoline Hill, curving around the south corner to the Area Sacra di S. Omobono (< 9 masl), to the Temple of Saturn (> 9 masl), to the Comitium (= 9 masl), and to the Argiletum, curving back to the Sepulcretum (> 9 masl), where a small tail continues up the Via Sacra between the Sepulcretum and the Regia (> 9 masl), back to the later Temple of Castor (partially > 9 masl), following the later Vicus Tuscus, then around the southwest slope of the Palatine for the length of the Valley of the Circus Maximus (< 9 masl); see Ammerman 1990, 638–642; and Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 7–28. On the elevation of the Colosseum and Circus Maximus valleys, see Ciancio Rossetto 1985, 214–223; Ciancio Rossetto 1986, 127–134; and Panella 1996, 11–19. On construction materials in early Rome, see Gjerstad 1953–73, I, II; Cifani 1994, 185–188, with references; and Cifani 2001, 55–57, with references. Livy and Dionysius mention a few sanctuaries in the Forum somewhere, but they are either close to the Comitium and Regia, at the edges, or are not assigned a location. See chaps. 2–4, and on the Forum Boarium, see Coarelli 1988a, 60–204. On the Forum huts, Ammerman notes that evidence is almost nonexistent; see Ammerman 1990, 632. Ammerman 1990. The date has been questioned, but on shaky grounds; see Carafa 1997, 599–601; Carafa 2000, 71; and Gusberti 2005, 119–124, with charts. A fragment of Italo-Corinthian ware, which dates to ca. 650 and was found in one of the lower strata (Gjerstad stratum 25), provides

notes to pages 28–30

41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

a secure terminus post quem for the fill. The revisionist chronologies do not account for this find. For a thorough discussion, see Hopkins 2010, 27–33. Ammerman 1990, 639–643; Ammerman et al. 2008, 27. On the surfaces, see Gjerstad 1953–73, II.33. Dunia Filippi believes Romans first paved the Forum at a lower level, stratum 24; see Filippi 2005a, 105–115. For an argument against this view, see Ammerman 1990, 639–643; and Ammerman 2011, 260–261. The existence of this pavement does not affect the dating of the fill. Late buccheroid impasto and Italo-Geometric wares in stratum 25 and above secure a date after 650. Ammerman has since suggested that access to the clay beds was the primary motive and that the Forum landfill was an afterthought; see Ammerman et al. 2008. Evidence cannot confirm this at present, and, in any case, it seems unlikely, given the amount of material that was dumped in the Forum and the change it created to topography. Such a change touched on communities from all the hills and would certainly require consent (see later in this chapter, “A Community of Romans”). Perhaps the material was dumped there in small quantities before the landfill was seen as a possibility, and perhaps reaching the clay beds was the initial project; still, at some point, given its effects on the communities and given the labor necessary for such a mammoth project, the landfill must have become an endeavor of its own and, from that moment, it would require a far more dedicated plan and execution. See Cornell 1995, 94; Carafa 2000, 71; Rathje and van Kampen 2001, 386; Forsythe 2005, 86; and Gusberti 2005, 119. No monograph on the Roman Forum as a whole has been published since Ammerman’s study. Many other projects were probably enacted and are as yet unknown. For examples of known works, cf. Biswas 1970, 29–31; Garde 1978, 14; Lancel 1979, 361; Garbrecht 1987, 6–10; Coarelli 1991, 35–41; Antonaccio 1992, 90, with references; Manzelli 1995, 239; Ortalli 1995, 61–69; Wilson 2000a, 161–164; Wilson 2000b, 308; Briant 2001; and Mertens 2006, 185–187; cf. Ammerman 2011. Cf. Herodotus Histories 2.158. I am grateful to Albert Ammerman for his support of this inquiry. Information on the cores is found in Ammerman 1998, 219, fig. 212; and Ammerman and Filippi

46. 47.

48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

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2004, 16–23. The dating of the later elevations is clear from an abundant number of finds in core 11. Cf. Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 18, on thin gravel layers. Excavation down to virgin soil throughout the middle of the Velabrum and Forum Boarium has turned up no evidence for construction until the middle Republic; see Cressedi 1984. In a study of the monuments and history of the Forum Boarium, Coarelli found no remains from before the middle Republic; see Coarelli 1988a, 60–204. Carettoni 1961, 59. Mertens and Cancik-Kirschbaum 2003, 26–28, 80–88; Mertens 2006, 185–187. This should also be noted as an example of settlement expansion on hilltops rather than in valleys. Cf. n41, above. Lancel 1979, 361. I thank Emily Modrall for drawing this to my attention. On the date, see Antonaccio 1992, 90–98, with references. On the late Geometric wall, see Antonaccio 1992, 100, with references. I thank Nassos Papalexandrou for drawing this to my attention. Cf. Ammerman 1990, 633, 644; and Hopkins 2007, 1–13. For the natural slopes in these areas, see Ammerman 1990, 633; Ammerman, Carandini, and Brocato 1992, 87–93; and Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 18. On the stream, see Holland 1961, 33, 349–350; and Ammerman 1990, 636. Hopkins 2007, 1–13; Hopkins 2010, app.; and Hopkins 2012a. On the origins as a stream, see Holland 1961, 33, 349–350. Bianchi and Antognoli 2010 argue for a regal period date for the Cloaca Maxima, but see Hopkins 2010, app. Excavation is needed to determine a date. See Ortalli 1990, 7–41; Ortalli 1994, 291–296; Manzelli 1995, 229–240; and Ortalli 1995, 61–69. Ammerman first suggested the fill was between ten thousand and twenty thousand m3, but this was before cores in the Argiletum indicated the fill’s larger expanse; see Ammerman 1990, 641–642. Assuming a scalene ellipsoid where the length radius is 112.5 m, width radius is 50 m, and height radius is 2 m, the total volume is 47,006 m3, half of this being 23,503 m3. The length of this ellipsoid, however, terminates at the wall, cutting off a significant amount of the landfill in the triangular areas at the corners of the wall, and so the fill would have a higher volume. As to the embankment, an earthen wall is unlikely given that inundation would destroy it too easily, and a

notes to pages 30–36

54. 55.

56. 57.

58.

59.

60. 61.

62.

wooden embankment, though possible, is equally difficult. Nielsen 1990, 89–104; and Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–40. On S. Omobono and the harbor, see Coarelli 1988a, figs. 22, 50; and see Chap. 2, nn75–59. On the natural roads entering the Forum, see Ammerman 1990, 631, 636; Ammerman 1998, 219– 220; and Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 18, fig. 18. On the approach to Rome, see Meyers 2003, 161–193. For an initial suggestion of such cohesion based on occupation of the Forum, cf. Gjerstad, who dated its use later, and, more recently, Pacciarelli 1994, 245–246. This is the logic Müller-Karpe employed (1962), but one should expect a few decades of a preceding growing community, not centuries; see Ampolo 1988. On the significance of edges in communities, see Lynch 1960, 62–66. For a theory of politically unifying spaces as reflective of antecedents, cf. Goodsell 1988, 8. On central space as a sign of civic cohesion and the formation of cities, see Roncayolo 1978; and Ampolo 1983, esp. 427. In part, Gjerstad saw this shift in the first gravel pavement of the Forum, although with a date that was too low; see Gjerstad 1953–73, IV.581–582. Müller-Karpe suggests that this is part of something more long-standing; see Müller-Karpe 1962. Cf. Ampolo 1988, 157–158. Cifani has little to say on this subject, but his discussion of the city walls and graves suggests he agrees to a certain extent that the early transfer of graves outside a potential ager would place the first communal efforts in the period before the reclamation, and true unification toward the end of the sixth century with the circuit wall; see Cifani 2008, 255–259. However, cf. Bernard 2011. Ammerman 1996. For more on this, see Chap. 2, n32. Ammerman has pointed out that Romans were not alone in reclaiming a valley for what became a city center; see Ammerman 2011; and Ammerman 2013, but see Hopkins 2014. Cf. Fulminante 2014, 21–29, and see above, n41. This narrative is found in countless studies that suggest haphazard and gradual accumulation of settlement in the Forum in the eighth to fourth centuries; see Brown 1961; Ward-Perkins 1981; Sear 1989; Boëthius, Ling, and Rasmussen 1994;

63.

64.

65.

66. 67. 68. 69.

Claridge 1998, 61–99; Gros 2006; and Rutledge 2012, 5. Coarelli is an exception to this; see Coarelli 1983a. The narrative presents irreconcilable conclusions. First, it presumes the unsavory natural condition of the Forum valley; then, without proposing why, it suggests that Romans focused their community around and within this unstable landscape. It also neglects agency and intentionality. On the commonality of hilltop settlement, see Tarquinii, Bolsena, Acquarossa, Caere, Roselle, Murlo, Regisvillae, Vulci, Lanuvium, Gabii, Satricum, Ardea, Velletri, Segni, Pompeii, Capua, Cumae, Neapolis, Selinunte, and Agrigento. Cf. Barker and Rasmussen 1998, 10–42; Pacciarelli 2001; and Fulminante 2014. For an opposing view, see LaBianca and Scham 2006. Cf. Ammerman 2011, however, n41. Belardelli and Bietti Sestieri 1986, 63–69; Quilici Gigli 1986, 71–89; Colonna 1988b, 467–515; Cristofani 1990b, 9–145; Cornell 1995, 81–118, 198–214; Meyers 2003, 162–169; Forsythe 2005, 80; Meyer 1980. On the area north and east of Tiber Island, including the Pons Sublicius and S. Omobono, see Gilotta 1990, 141; Colini 1980, 43–45; and Coarelli 1988b. For a new location for the Pons Sublicius, near the Porta Trigemina, see Tucci 2011/12. For more on trade, the Tiber, and cultural openness at Rome, see chaps. 2–3. Delaine 2002, 210. Trigger 1990, 125. Hodder 2005, 18–20. For the north Palatine, see Ammerman, Carandini, and Brocato 1992; for other areas of the city, see Ammerman 2006b; and personal correspondence with the author. Cf. Ammerman 2000.

CHAPTER 2. COHERENCE AND DISTINCTION 1. For stone architecture in Etruria, see Östenberg 1975; Architettura Etrusca nel Viterbese 1986; Donati 1994; and Izzet 2001. The transition at San Giovenale can be ascertained somewhat by the two phases of House I in Area F; see Karlsson 2001. On early terracottas, see Wikander 1981; Edlund-Berry 1992; Phillips 1992; de Puma and Small 1994; Nielsen and Tuck 2001; and Winter 2009c, 24, 27, 39, 42, 49, 50, 51–58, 89–92, 101, with references. 2. On the huts on the Velia spur, see Gjerstad

191

notes to pages 37–41

1953–73, I.87–9393, 9118–9130, II.9388–9145; and Rathje and van Kampen 2001. I thank Prof. Rathje, who confirmed some thorny dating issues. On the ravine, see Ammerman, Carandini, and Brocato 1992, 107–138; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 73, 227; and Filippi 2004b, 100–103. For the suggestion of a road in this ravine early on, see Filippi 2004b, 100. 3. On the Regia itself, see below, beginning with n12. See also Brown 1967, 51–52; Brown 1974–75, 17–21; and Scott 1993b, 162–163. 4. Scott 2009a, 7–8. Cf. Arvanitis 2004; Filippi 2004a, 98; and Arvanitis 2010, 27–37. 5. This has still not seen full publication, but cf. Filippi 2004a, 103–107. 6. Scott (2009a), 7–8, argues for an unknown purpose, based on the ambiguity of finds. Carafa (2004), Arvanitis (2004), and Filippi (2010) suggest a cult, based on the location of the site outside the putative settlement wall on the Palatine. Cf. Arvanitis 2004; Filippi 2004a, 98; and Arvanitis 2010, 27–37. 7. Perhaps this was the impetus for the landfill; see Brown 1967, 52–53; and Brown 1974–75, 19; cf. Scott 1999, 191. 8. Gjerstad 1953–73, I.130–152, III.403–417; Ampolo 1980a, 166; Melis and Rathje 1984, 387; Rathje and van Kampen 2001; van Kampen et al. 2005. Scholars seldom remark on the fact that this site shifts from multiple small domiciles to one. A new way of appreciating such a shift can be seen in Colantoni 2012. 9. Coarelli 1983a, 82–84. For a more recent source, see Roller 2004. Cf. Rathje and van Kampen 2001, 383–388. 10. On the significance of the change from curvilinear to rectilinear homes in Central Italy, cf. Izzet 2001, 43–44. 11. Cf. Brown 1980, esp. 33–37; and Coarelli 1983a, 45, 147. For material and textual evidence of the homes, see the aedes of P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus (Livy 44.16.10, 28.38.8); cf. Carettoni 1961; Coarelli 1983a, 45, 147; Wiseman 1987; and Purcell 1995, 329. 12. Spending time with plans, site maps, and other notes relating to the excavations at the Fototeca and the archaeological collection of the American Academy in Rome allowed me to confirm more or less what is published in Brown 1967, 52–53; and Brown 1974–75, 19–21. A clear break in the stone foundations of one of the west rooms

13.

14.

15. 16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22.

192

indicates the doorway to the courtyard. Cf. Brown 1974–75, 19–212. In a second phase of this iteration, the courtyard was widened to the north. On the Regia as a house or regal quarters, see Coarelli 1983a, 61–62; Stopponi 1985, 186–191; Scheffer 1990; Prayon 2004; Filippi 2004a, 119– 120; and Prayon 2009. Scott 1999, 190, with references. It seems to have hosted religious activity already by the sixth century; see Brown 1974–75, 17, 35–36; Scott 1999, 190–191; and Chap. 3, n64. On the literature and the site’s later use, see Brown 1967; and Scott 1999, 189–192. See Chap. 3, n64. Other examples of such conflation include Building Beta at Tarquinii (Bonghi Jovino 1999), a three-roomed structure at Murlo (Nielsen and Tuck 2001, esp. 44–45), the overall complex at Murlo (Edlund-Berry 1992, 205), and a house outside of Rome at the site of the modern auditorium (Carandini et al. 2006). A newly excavated structure at Gabii may be yet another example; as yet, it has seen only summary publication: http:// www.beniculturali.it/mibac/opencms/MiBAC/ sito-MiBAC/Contenuti/MibacUnif/Comunicati/ visualizza_asset.html?id=66828&pagename=129 (accessed January 5, 2015). Cf. Prayon 2004; and Prayon 2009, 60–61, with references. Cf. Downey (1995), who refers to a north building and a south building, following plans in Brown 1967; and Brown 1974–75. For a severe critique, see Arvanitis 2010, 14, 17. Winter 2006a, 350–351; Winter 2009b, 210. Cf. Downey 1995, 2. Winter 2006a, 352–354. For example, Gjerstad claimed that in this period, Romans were “dependent on Etruscan prototypes”; see Gjerstad 1953–73, 585. See also the Introduction to this book, “Connectivity.” As to the roof, see Winter 2009c, 144–148, 162, 169–172, 210, with references; and Winter 2006a. Downey 1995, 20–30; Winter 2006a, 354. Reported in Castagnoli 1980, 164; Guaítoli 1981, 166; Martinez-Pinna 1990–91, 127; and Winter 2009c, 179n188; also reported on by Fabbri 2013. On other roofs in the region, see Colonna 1987a, esp. 63; and Winter 2009c, chaps. 1–3. On the Regia, see Downey 1995, 25–26. Downey suggests that the Regia frieze is the only one with mythological figures, but the Lavinium friezes have a

notes to pages 42–47

23.

24. 25.

26.

27.

28.

chimaera. For an extensive treatment, see Winter 2009c, 143–221, where the Regia frieze is dated before the others. Cf. Winter 2009c, 143–221. This is of course only provisional; there may be earlier, as-yetundiscovered friezes elsewhere. Ammerman et al. 2008; Winter 2009c, 554, 556. On the Mediterranean, connectivity, and trade as action in antiquity, cf. Renfrew 1975; Renfrew 1977; Wasserman and Faust 1995; Renfrew 2001; Manning and Hulin 2005; LaBianca and Scham 2006; Malkin, Constantantakopoulou, and Panagopoulou 2009; Counts, Tuck, and Holloway 2009; van Dommelen and Knapp 2010; and Malkin 2011. Two teams working in the Area of Vesta have come up with radically different dating schemes and reconstructions. R. T. Scott has published findings in full, and I use his dates; see Scott 2009a, 7–9. Arvanitis has not yet published enough information to confirm dates or stratigraphic distinctions; see Arvanitis 2004; and Arvanitis 2010, esp. 40–42. In a few instances, especially as regards structure Ib2–3 and Ib4–6, it is difficult to understand from published materials why he dates a structure that could coexist with Scott’s material (dated later) to such early periods. I keep my interpretation limited. On the new construction, see Arvanitis 2004; and Arvanitis 2010, 41–44. On the well and the remains inside it, see Bartoli 1961; and Colonna 1980, 55–56; cf. Scott 2009a, 7–8. The uncommon luxury found in the terracotta tiles and the continuity of site use at the Area of Vesta from this point through the Empire may suggest that there was a continuity of function, though this can be teleological; see Arvanitis 2004; Filippi 2004b; Arvanitis 2010, esp. 40–42; and Filippi 2010, 21–23. Filippi 2004b; Filippi 2005b, 200–201; Filippi 2010, 21–23. The dates are problematic. It was the second replacement for the large rectilinear hut-house mentioned above, n5, datable to the second half of the eighth century. The length of use for that eighth-century structure is unclear; only a single cup from an infant burial associated with its destruction provides a date of occupation. Excavators date it to ca. 700 (Filippi 2004b, 114), but the comparandum

29.

30.

31.

32.

193

they provide from tomb 99 on the Esquiline necropolis (Gjerstad 1953–73, II.234–237; MüllerKarpe 1962, tav. 29.22) dates to the same period as the early hut habitation on the Sepulcretum: anywhere between the late eighth and mid-sixth century; see Rathje and van Kampen 2001, and author’s personal correspondence with Rathje. What is more, there was still another phase of occupation after that destruction, which also had no datable remains. Without a terminus post quem it could have gone up much later, as the next building on the site dates no earlier than ca. 550; see Filippi 2010, 21–23. In the end, a date sometime between ca. 650 and 550 is reasonable. On the walls beneath and around the Temple of Castor, see Cullhed et al. 2008, 325, pls. 324–325, 331–332; Fischer-Hansen 2008; and Poulsen 2008, 368. On the lack of clarity about the function of walls at the Regia and Atrium Vestae, see the immediately preceding paragraphs, and on the area to the east, see below, n31. On the terracottas, see Romanelli 1955; Nielsen 1987; Martinez-Pinna 1990–91, 129–130; and Winter 2009c, 147n146. Coarelli 1983a, 70; cf. Downey 1995, 1–2; Winter 2009c, 147n146. The revetments have been found at the Comitium and on the Capitoline. See above, n24. The ascription, through a complex interpolation of ancient sources, is to the Domus Regis Sacrorum by way of the Domus Regis Sacrificuli and the Domus Publica, all buildings that have contested uses and locations even in the late Republic and Empire; see Filippi 2004b; Filippi 2005b, 200–201; and Filippi 2010, 21–23; cf. Papi 1995; Scott 1995; Scott 1999; and the discussion in Ziółkowski 2004, 19–22. There is no archaeological evidence for the function of the site. On the plain roof tiles, for a recent discussion, see Winter 2009c, 144, 211–212. On the geological setting and the clearing of the area, see Ammerman 1996, 121–136. Carafa (1998, esp. 44–87) suggests a very early date for the clearing coinciding with Titus Tatius, but this is highly problematic. On the fragments, see Coarelli 1977a, 171, 180. Bucchero from the layer dates after ca. 625; see Colonna 1964, 6; and Rosi 2004, 259, 263, with references. Cf. Hopkins 2010, 33–37. Evidence for the building comes from a thick burn layer that covered this first pavement and contained numerous terracottas; see Boni 1900, 328; Gjerstad 1953–73, II.218–219; and Coarelli 1977a,

notes to pages 47–51

120–121. Cf. Winter 2009c, 144. 33. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.250–251. The decorated terracottas belong to the Lapis Niger deposit, which contains materials dating from the sixth to the first centuries BCE; see Boni 1900, 326–327; and Gjerstad 1953–73, 223–256. On the comparison with Cumae, see Winter 2006a, 353–354. Cf. Winter 2009c, 169–170, 176–180. On the date, see Winter 2009c, 144, 169–170, 178, 179–180; and Gjerstad 1953–73, 223–256. Cf. Winter, Iliopoulos, and Ammerman 2009. 34. Ammerman et al. 2008, 25. 35. Before the discovery of Murlo and Acquarossa, this sprang largely from the fame of “Vulca of Veii”; see Gantz 1974a, esp. 8; and Andrén 1976– 77; cf. Vacano 1973. For opposing views, see Mura Sommella 1977, 82–83; Colonna 1987a, 63–65; Colonna 1981a; and Colonna 1981b. 36. For Titus Tatius, see Tac. Ann. 12.24; Plut. Rom. 19.7; and Cass. Dio fr. 5.7. For Tullus Hostilius, see Varro LL 5.155; and Livy 1.30. In general, see Coarelli 1995a, 309–311. 37. Coarelli 1995a, 309–311. Carafa (1998, 60–87) has attempted to link the early clearing of the site with Tatius, but see n32 and Hopkins 2010, 35–37. 38. See Chap. 5, nn39–41. On the function of the Comitium in the Republic, see Coarelli 1995a, 309–313. 39. Coarelli 1977a, 175, 179, 188, 215–229. Cf. Dion. 6.67.2. 40. Coarelli 1977a (see above). On the deposition materials, see Fortini 2009. On the date of the deposition of materials ca. 50 BCE, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.252–253. 41. “The statue of that bravest of men, Horatius Cocles, which stood in the Comitium at Rome, was struck by lightning. To make expiatory offerings because of that thunderbolt, diviners were summoned from Etruria. These, through personal and national hatred of the Romans, had made up their minds to give false directions for the performance of that rite. They accordingly gave the misleading advice that the statue in question should be moved to a lower position (suaserunt in inferiorem locum perperam transponi). . . . It became evident, in exact accord with what were later found to be the proper directions, that the statue ought to be taken to an elevated place and set up in a more commanding position in the area of Vulcan (constititque eam statuam, proinde ut verae rationes post compertae monebant, in locum

42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

47. 48.

49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

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editum subducendam atque ita in area Volcani sublimiore loco statuendam).” Gell. Misc. 4.5.1–4. Cf. Gellius 1946. Coarelli 1983a, 161–164. Gantz 1974a, 350–355. Gantz 1974a. On the translation, see Goidanich 1943, 477; and Palmer 1969, 51. Cf. Coarelli 1977a, 230. For this interpretation, originally, see Hülsen and Carter 1906, 108; more recently, see Santalucia 1994, 3–34. Cf. Coarelli 1977a, 230–232. For discussion of the kin or for a rex sacrorum/sacrificuli, see Goidanich 1943, 477; and Palmer 1969, 51. On the Comitium as a templum, see Detlefsen 1860, 128–160; and Palmer 1969. Cf. Livy 5.52.16. In new explorations by the universities of Michigan and Calabria, archaeologists are reevaluating the site and its artifacts; the study promises a new understanding of the sanctuary. On the problem of the water table during excavation, see Ioppolo 1971–72, 12; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, 29. See Ioppolo 1971–72, 43; Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 42; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, 30–31, pl. III. Il viver quotidiano 1989, 31–35, pls. IV–V; Colonna 1991, 52. Recent studies of the terracotta decoration and stratigraphy have confirmed a date around 580; see Mura Sommella 1977, 86; and Mura Sommella 2000a, 13–14; cf. Giuliano 1981, 35; Colonna 1988b, 313; Arata 1990, 123; MertensHorn 1994, 272–274; Parisi Presicce 1997, 176; and Winter 2009c, 191–192. Cf. Adornato 2003, 823, but see also Hopkins 2010, 125–146. Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 42–43. The tall podium may have been a means to circumvent flooding, as it is at the same level as the Forum fill. Cf. Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 16; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.245–246; Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, fig. 2; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, pl. II. Cf. Ioppolo 1971–72, 8, 11–12; and Virgili 1977, 30–32, for votive and ceremonial deposits. For the dimensions and staircase, see the discussion in Ioppolo 1971–72, 14; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, pl. IV. On the dimensions, see Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 43. Identification of the altar is based on burned plant and animal remains; see Ioppolo 1971–72, 14, app. II, 43. The fill inside the podium is the same throughout. See Sector A-B, stratum 13, as discussed in Gjerstad 1953–73, III.381. For the full reconstruction, see

notes to pages 51–56

54. 55.

56.

57. 58.

59.

60.

Il viver quotidiano 1989, 31–35, pls. IV–V; and Colonna 1991, 52. For Sector A-B, strata 11–13, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.381. Although the eastern side of the podium has not been found, its location has been ascertained by the axial staircase and altar at the front of the temple and remains of the second temple, which reveal the building’s line of symmetry; see Ioppolo 1971–72, 14, app. II, 43. On the eastern cella wall, see Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 41, 43, fig. 42; and Il viver quotidiano 1989, pls. II, IV. In the trench, the single course of foundations continues out of the east boundary, but the podium’s vertical fascia and torus as well as the wall socle terminate in a nearly perfect vertical cut near the middle of the trench, 1.9 m west of the eastern podium wall. Particularly, see Mura Sommella 1977, 65, 68. She notes that it is similar to a column capital from the Temple of Artemis at Corfu, but ends up suggesting it is more like those on the Temple of Hera I at Paestum. Cf. Mertens 2006, 146–147, esp. fig. 249. Arata and Riemer Knoop also suggest comparanda in capitals from Vulci, Portonaccio, and in paintings from tombs at Tarquinii; see Arata 1990, 123; and Knoop 1987, 59. While these examples do have similar profiles (a thin torus supporting a hawksbeak below a quarter-round), they do not have fluted shafts or a strigilated hawksbeak. For Portonaccio, see Stefani 1953, 46 and fig 21.u. For Vulci, see Meritt and EdlundBerry 2000, 131. For Tarquinii, see Steingräber 2006b, pls. 97, 101. Scholars have so far not mentioned the possibility that the terracottas belong to votive columns. It would be difficult to prove such a function, but comparanda do exist in early Central Italy. Il viver quotidiano 1989, 34; Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 43. On contemporaneous trusses, see Hodge 1960, 17–42; Turfa and Steinmayer 1996, 22n34, with references; and Klein 1998, 351; cf. Winter 2009c, 528–529. Also, see Chap. 3, nn112–114, on the Capitoline Temple roof. For a full reconstruction, see Winter 2009c, 149–150. Cf. Mura Sommella 1977, 83–89; Colonna 1988b, 313; and Arata 1990, 123. On the torus, cf. Winter 2009a; and Mura Sommella 1977, 68–71. I thank Nancy Winter for confirming the correct roof angles. Cf. Winter 2009c, 149–150.

61. Mertens-Horn 1994, 272; cf. Mura Sommella 2000a, 13–14. 62. Mura Sommella 1977, 86. 63. Colonna 1991. On the podium, see Potts 2011b. Potts clarifies the distinction between a podium and a platform, and at present there is little physical evidence elsewhere in Central Italy for an earlier podium. 64. For discussion of the Tarquinian temple and disputed evidence for a podium, see Potts 2011b; and Bonghi Jovino 2012. 65. The iconography of felines flanking a Gorgon may have one contemporary parallel at Acquarossa, roof G:3. This is variously dated ca. 600–580, but the identification of a central Gorgon is no longer certain; cf. Winter 2009c, 67–68, 111–112, with references. On the newness of the closed pediment at S. Omobono and the Corinthian style of the sculpture, see Mura Sommella 1977, 84; Mertens-Horn 1994; Mura Sommella 2000a; and Winter 2009c, 149, 191–192. 66. The best-known examples of closed pediments from Falerii Veteres and Talamone date to the late third or second centuries. In the absence of architectural remains, Mura Sommella (1977, 84) looked to votive temple models to find comparanda for the Roman roof, but scholars do not agree that these models should be used to identify architectural forms. Cf. Staccioli 1968; and Winter 2006c. The only sixth-century model with what might constitute a lintel and thus a true closed pediment is the Veii votive, but scholars tend to date it to the middle of the sixth century, after the first temple at S. Omobono; see Staccioli 1981, 38–41. 67. Adornato 2003, 823–824. Yet as others have demonstrated, stylistically, the pedimental sculpture dates no later than ca. 570. The same is true of felines on revetments; see Mura Sommella 1977, 86; Cristofani 1990c, 32; Colonna 1991, 54–55; Mertens-Horn 1994, 272–274; Mura Sommella 2000a, 13–14; and Winter 2009c, 149. On the revetments, for a recent discussion, see Winter 2006a, 354. On the Tomb of the Panthers, see Steingräber 2006b, 61. 68. Mura Sommella 2000a, 13–14; Winter 2009c, 149–150. 69. Mura Sommella 1977, 86; Cristofani 1990c, 32; Colonna 1991, 54–55; Mertens-Horn 1994, 272–274; Mura Sommella 2000a, 13–14. 70. On Syracuse, see Orsi 1903. On Athens, see Payne and Young 1936, 11, pls. 13I and 15IV; Schrader,

195

notes to pages 56–63

71.

72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77.

78.

79.

80. 81.

Langlotz, and Schuchhardt 1939, 640; and Beyer 1974, 180–184. On animals flanking a running Gorgon at Aegina, see Marconi 2007; and Schefold 1993, 180–181. For further discussion of the affinity for Gorgons and lions together in temple pediments in the Greek world, see Marconi 2007, 214–218. Mertens-Horn 1994, 270. On the Corinthian link with Demaratus, see Zevi 1995. On the chronology and its problems, see Poucet 1985; Wiseman 1979; Wiseman 2008a; de Cazanove 1988; and Cornell 1995, 124–126. On the new popularity, see Marconi 2007, 214–218. On the kinds of decision-making for sacred sculpture, cf. Lulof 2000, 207–211. Ammerman et al. 2008; Winter, Iliopoulos, and Ammerman 2009. For a full explanation of the process, from clay extraction to firing and roof construction, see Winter 2009c, 505–530. Cf. Ammerman et al. 2008, 26. On workshops and workshop practices, see Winter 2009c, 535–538. On the Tiber as a major trade route already in the eighth century, see Baglione 1986; Bartoloni 1986; Belardelli and Bietti Sestieri 1986; Colonna 1986; and Santoro 1986. On grave goods, see Colonna 1979, esp. 230–233; and Albertoni 1983, 142–147. For example, see Colonna 1979, 227; Colini 1980, 47; Coarelli 1988b, 144; and Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 14–17. On the suitability of the port and the convergence with the Anio, see Colini 1980, 43–45. The gradual buildup of the shoreline and modern embankment changed this; see Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 1–5, 14–17. Deep cores have recently uncovered cappellaccio stone along the Tiber’s bank just by the sanctuary at S. Omobono, probably dating to the sixth century. These have been interpreted as a wall along the river; see Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 16–17; Ammerman 2006a; and Ammerman 2006b, 307. On the proximity of the shoreline in this early period to S. Omobono, see Ammerman and Filippi 2004, 14–17. On foreign votives at the sanctuary, see Chap. 3. Potts 2011a, 236–239. Gjerstad also placed the unification in this period, though on different grounds, and as a result of the three major civic areas, rather than primarily the Forum; see Gjerstad 1953–73, IV.584.

82. Cf. Terrenato and Motta 2006; and Terrenato 2010. Terrenato has presented on this theme at the Archaeological Institute of America Annual Meetings in 2012 and elsewhere. On the continuity of state formation into the early to middle Republic, cf. Flower 2010; Smith 2011, 34; on civic institutions in the late monarchy and early Republic, see Chap. 5. This theorization would also include those who distinguish proto-urban phenomena from urban phenomena; see Chap. 1. Horden and Purcell call into question the whole idea of a distinction between different types of towns (village, city, metropolis, etc.); see Horden and Purcell 2000, 89–122. This is based in a not-uncommon distrust of the Childean paradigm; see Childe 1950; cf. Finley 1977, 3; Ampolo 1983; and C. J. Smith 2005. For a recent overview embracing an urban definition, cf. Marcus and Sabloff 2008. 83. On the affective power of architecture, objects, and social space, see Findley 2005; Gell 1998; Giddens 1984; Hölscher 2005; Lefebvre 1991; Low and Lawrence-Zúñiga 2003; and Parker Pearson and Richards 1994. On individual agency in archaeology, see Brumfiel and Fox 1994; and Dobres and Robb 2000.

5. 6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

CHAPTER 3. ON A NEW SCALE 1. It is possible that the second phase consisted only of a lengthening of the superstructure walls, a new molding wedded to the flanks of the existing temple, and new roof decoration. That is to say, it is possible that it was just a large-scale refurbishment. Nicola Terrenato (2013) has floated the idea, and, during the 2015 annual meetings of the Archaeological Institute of America, Ingrid Edlund-Berry argued for something similar at the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii. 2. Colonna originally suggested that the second temple was much longer, but later retracted that argument; see Colonna 1985, 70; and Colonna 1991, 52–53. Cf. stratum 5, Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 42. The initial reconstruction, refined by Colonna, can be found in Il viver quotidiano 1989, pl. II; and Colonna 1991, 53, fig. 53. A similar podium with differing moldings exists at Ardea. I thank Ingrid Edlund-Berry for this reference. 3. Mura Sommella 1977, 71, 78; Winter 2009c, 316–318. 4. Gantz 1974b, 1–4; Lulof 2014, with references; and see immediately subsequent paragraphs. For an argument that the primary male and female

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notes to pages 64–70

12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

figures are Hercules and Minerva, see Mura Sommella 2009c. Fortunati 1986; cf. Cristofani 1981b; Cristofani 1990c on the Roman temple. Mura Sommella 1977, 78, 90–94. Another decorated revetment plaque has also been identified in excavations at S. Omobono. It has a relief of meanders alternating in swastikas and rectangles; see Mura Sommella 1977, 78; Ciaghi 1997; and Lulof 2014; cf. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.454. Cristofani suggests an identical match; see Cristofani 1990c, 36–37; and Cristofani 1990a, 135–137. For an opposing view, see Winter 2009b. I am sincerely grateful to Patricia Lulof for sharing her forthcoming work on these roofs and for allowing me to include this information in my manuscript. Cf. Lulof 2014, with references. Winter 2009c, 311–393, esp. 312, with references. Gantz 1974b; Cristofani 1977; Cristofani 1981b; Fortunati 1986; Cristofani 1987, 98–99; Fortunati 1989; Fortunati 1993; Winter 2009c, 311–393, esp. 312, with references; Lulof 2014. Caere and Veii have also been suggested, but this is largely based on the fabled “superiority” of Etruria and of Vulca of Veii; see Andrén 1940, cl–cli, 409; Gantz 1974b; and Cristofani 1977, 4–5. On the transportation of roofs, see Lulof 2006. On the formulas and clays, see Lulof 2014. The contexts of the Esquiline and Comitium fragments are problematic, and the roof of ca. 520 from S. Omobono may be part of a refurbishment, hence the potential of just seven temple buildings in total, rather than the ten suggested by Lulof. On the shipping of stamped Greek roofs, see Felsch 1990. On Ionia, see Åkerström 1966. On South Italy and Sicily, see Mertens 2006, 90–95. On Central Italy, see Winter 2009c. Mertens 2006, 104–256; Winter 1993. They had been a staple in roof sculpture revetments at Acquarossa and Murlo, and military or ritual processions of chariots (at Poggio Buco, Acquarossa, Tuscania, and elsewhere) were in use already by ca. 580; see Winter 2005, 242–244. On Acquarossa, see Wikander 1981. On Murlo, see de Puma and Small 1994. Åkerström 1966; Winter 2009c, 311–504; cf. Cristofani 1977, 2. Neandra in Asia Minor may have the earliest chariot race on a raking sima that dates to ca. 560. I thank Nancy Winter for this reference.

18. Cf. Winter 2009c, 313n314, 392–393; Cifani 2014; and Lulof 2014. Now that these reliefs are tied to those at Velletri, the arguments found in Åkerström 1954 would appear to apply here as well, inasmuch as they are still current. 19. For Sicily, see Barletta 1983; and Barletta 2000. For Central Italy, see later in this chapter in relation to “The Capitoline.” 20. On the Giglio wreck, see Bound 1991. 21. Åkerström 1954, esp. 196–206; Cristofani 1977, 2; Lulof 2014. 22. For example, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.448; Mura Sommella 1977, 84–88; Ampolo 1981, 32–35; Cristofani 1981b, 31; Mura Sommella 1981, 59–60; Arata 1990, 120; Cristofani 1990a, 136; Cristofani 1990c, 33; and Mura Sommella 1990, 116. Coarelli argues for a Venus-Astarte goddess; see Coarelli 1981b, esp. 36; and Coarelli 1988b, 144. But this has been successfully countered; see Lulof 2000, 207–219. 23. For Eos and Kephalos, see Mura Sommella 1977, 113. Cf. Andrén 1940, pl. 11; also, Cristofani 1990a, 136; and Winter 2009c, 381–382. For Ino and Leukothea, see Mertens-Horn 1997, 145–147. For Hermes and Dionysus, see Parisi Presicce 1997, 173. 24. Mura Sommella 2009a; cf. object 5.E.1.b in Winter 2009c, 381–382, 386, figs. 5.36 and 5.37. 25. On early representations of Hercules, cf. Martinez 2009. A few images from the Orientalizing and archaic periods depict Hercules with a female figure or Hercules and his labors, but these are few, and it is unclear if the association with the female is with Athena. If they are meant to represent the apotheosis or the victory of Hercules with Minerva, those images are rare and much smaller than in this sculpture. Cf. also Olofsson 2006, 122–129, with references. 26. On the Cypriot Herakles and Ionic Minerva, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.454–456; Cristofani 1977, 2–7; Mura Sommella 1977, 122–128; and Lulof 2000, 209. On a link between Athens and Rome, see Ampolo 1981; but see Bruun 1993. 27. See, for example, Gjerstad 1953–73, III.454–456; Cristofani 1977, 2–7; and Mura Sommella 1977, 122–128. For an interpretation of the Cypriot figures as Master of Animals rather than Herakles, see Counts 2008. For dating of middle Cypriot sculpture to the early sixth century, see Fourrier 2007. 28. Winter 2009c, 379. 29. Richter 1949, 75. Cf. Richter and Richter 1970,

197

notes to pages 71–80

30.

31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

39.

40.

41.

42.

113–125; and Stewart 1990, esp. 120, 122, pls. 123, 132. Winter 2009c, 379. On the shield band, see Kunze 1950, 15, 106–108, taf. 130. Cf. “Athena” 2004; and “Herakles” 2004. Translation by the author; Mura Sommella 1977, 122. Cf. Richter 1968, 55, figs. 327, 241–344, 354–367. For a close assessment of the heads, cf. Briguet 1988, 54–56. The Caeretan sarcophagi date ca. 530–500, and the Temple of Apollo dates ca. 500; see Haynes 2000, 214–217. Lulof forthcoming. Ferrari 1994–95, 221–225; cf. “Athena” 2004; “Herakles” 2004. Shapiro 1989, 157, 161. For examples from Central Italy, produced in Attica (and with comparanda distributed throughout the Mediterranean, from Gela to Athens to Samos), see “Herakles” 2004, nn2851, 2852, 2879, 2881, 2886, 2892, 2908. The Regia relief discussed in the preceding chapter is a frieze lifted from a frieze; at S. Omobono, it would be a sculpture in the round lifted from a painted frieze. Livy 5.19, 5.23. On the identification, see Colini 1959–60, 4; and Colini 1977, 19; cf. Castagnoli 1979, 145–151. Cristofani 1990c, 33. The only evidence is found in fragments of a roof in Campanian style that dates ca. 550–540. Because this is not contemporaneous with the ca. 540–520 temple, though, it could be a predecessor, rather than a twin. For now, the question remains open. Livy 5.19.6; cf. Dion. 4.27.7. Livy does not date the temple of Fortuna with real precision; scholars seeking to match the first temple to his date have simply down-dated it. On the sacrificial remains, see Pisani Sartorio 1982. On the problems linking Hercules with the gods, see Coarelli 1981b. Winter has pointed out that both Hercules and Mater Matuta (Leukothea) do have close ties to Corinth; she ties the temple to Tarquinius Priscus, thus Demaratus, thus Bacchiads from Corinth; see Winter 2005. As I explain below (n51), though, the Athena and Hercules phenomenon appears to stretch much farther than Corinth, and again, it is impossible to say at present whether this temple would have been dedicated to Mater Matuta or under the reign of Tarquinius Priscus. There are simply too many leaps for the hypothesis to be considered

43.

44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52.

53.

54.

55. 56. 57.

198

conclusive. See below, nn48–50, and on the issue with Demaratus and Tarquinius Priscus, see Chap. 5, n20. Although it might seem tempting to suggest that pedimental sculpture throughout the Greek world had a straightforward iconographic connection with temple dedicatees, many temples—Artemis at Corfu, Apollo at Syracuse, C at Selinunte, and many more—have either an opaque correlation between dedicatee and pedimental sculpture, or they are so inscrutably fragmentary that it is unfair to assume there was a clear connection. Edlund-Berry 1992, 205. See, for example, Colonna 2001, esp. 42–43. Although for an interpretation as Niobe and her children, see Neils 2008; as Leukothea with Palaimon, see Winter 2005. On the sanctuary and the sculptures, for recent discussions, see Carlucci 2001; and Colonna 2001. Lulof 1993; Lulof 1996. See, for example, Boardman 1972. Cf. Ferrari 1994–95, 221–225; cf. “Athena” 2004; and “Herakles” 2004. Herakles’s association with Athena appears to have been an Athenian propagandistic iconography relating to the city’s patron goddess; see Shapiro 1989, 157, 161. See, for example, Ampolo 1981; Winter 2005, 247–249; and Cifani 2014, 22–23. Bruun 1993; cf. Shapiro 1989; but see Ferrari 1994–95. Lulof 2000, 207–211. Nancy Winter argues that Superbus had strong ties to each of these cities; Winter 2005, 247–249. For the quotation, see Lulof 2000, 213. For similar arguments based on peer-polity interaction, see Snodgrass 1986. The early comparandum from Veii and another at Caere are the only ones that might date as early as ca. 540; see Lulof 2000, 207–211. In a forthcoming work, Lulof suggests that the Caeretan figure may be the first, based on a stylistic analysis. This is a very tight dating in a period of tremendous regional and even local stylistic differences. It needs further discussion. On narrative in early Italic, Etruscan, and Roman art, see Torelli 1982; Brilliant 1984; Holliday 2002; and Hölscher 2004. Wiseman 2008a, 56–57; and Wiseman 2008c. Cf. Cornell 1995, 162. Neils 2008, esp. 44. Potts 2011a, 236–239. Wallace-Hadrill has recently remarked on “Athena (with Hercules)” as one of

notes to pages 80–87

58.

59.

60.

61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67.

68.

69. 70.

71.

the divinities “most cultivated by Greek colonists.” Cf. Wallace-Hadrill 2011, 417. On safety and apotropaic qualities, see Stafford 2012, 175–176, with sources. Mura Sommella 1977, 99–112; Ampolo 1981, 33; Mura Sommella 1981, 59–64; Colonna 1985, 70; Colonna 1991; Lulof 2000, 210; Winter 2005, 244–245. On the importance of function and context as indications of culture/identity/ethnicity and meaning, see Hall 2002, 110; Marconi 2007, esp. 1–28; and Osborne 2009, 2–3; cf. Antonaccio 2010, 43–44. See, for example, Snodgrass 1986; Antonaccio 2003; van Dommelen 2005; Counts 2008; Knappett 2011; Knappett and Society for American Archaeology Annual Meeting 2013; selections from Gruen 2011; Dougherty and Kurke 2003; and Renfrew and Cherry 1986. For interaction of other kinds that support this kind of assessement, see Schortman and Urban 1987; Schortman and Urban 1992; Hegmon 2000; Stein 2002; Blanton 1994; Hodos 2006; Kousoulis, Magliveras, and Aigaiou 2007; and van Dommelen and Knapp 2010. Downey 1995, 65. Brown 1967, 54; Brown 1974–75, 17, 33–36. For the plan, material, and hearth, see Brown 1967, 54–64. For the pavement, drainage, and altar, see Scott 1999, 190–191. Brown 1974–75, 17; Scott 1999, 190. Brown 1974–75, 17, 35–36; Scott 1999, 190. See, for example, Ampolo 1971. Cf. Cornell 1995, 148, who follows Ampolo. Alföldi dismissed this part of the literary tradition as entirely derived from Greek tropes and based largely on Thucydides’s description of the Athenian overthrow; see Alföldi 1965, 72–84. For a more recent discussion, see Cornell 1995, 226–241; and Forsythe 2005, 147–150. On similar buildings, see Wikander and Wikander 1990. Another has recently been found at Gabii; see http://www.beniculturali.it/mibac/ opencms/MiBAC/sito-MiBAC/Contenuti/ MibacUnif/Comunicati/visualizza_asset. html?id=66828&pagename=224 (accessed January 5, 2015). See above, n62. Arvanitis 2004, 147–152. Arvanitis calls them cubicula, but this is hypothetical. The excavations await full publication. On the slabs and orientation with the Regia, see

72. 73.

74.

75. 76.

77.

78.

199

Scott 1993a, 11–13; Scott 1993b, 165–166; Scott 1999, 191; and Scott 2009a, 11–16 Scott 1999, 190–191; Scott 2009a, 11–16. Coarelli 1977a, 172, fig. 174.172; cf. Gjerstad 1941, 97–98, 105–106. The early levels of the Comitium were reopened in 2010; renewed study has yet to see publication. On structure G, see Gjerstad 1941, 106–107; and Coarelli 1977a, 172–173, fig. 174. It would make little sense to leave the space open unless it was perhaps used for ceremonial purposes. Coarelli 1983a, 145–152; Wiseman 1986, 307. Based on the presence of irregular rock outcroppings, Carafa has disputed Coarelli’s circular plan; see Carafa 1998. Cf. Welch 2003, 19–20n57. Amici 2004–5, 351–354. Ashby 1899, 467; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 73, 227; Filippi 2004b, 100–103; Filippi 2010, 21–24. Cf. Coarelli 1983a, 108–118. On the many interpretations of the Via Sacra, see Ziółkowski 2004 and cf. Coarelli (2012, 29–35), who is now in agreement with Ziółkowski and includes analysis of the “clivus Sacer,” which, he (Coarelli) concludes, extended to the sadle between the Palatine and Velia (at the Arch of Titus). On the terminology, see Lynch 1960; cf. Favro (1996), who adopts some of his concepts for Rome. For more on this, see Chap. 4, nn55–57. Carandini 1986; Carandini 1990; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Arvanitis 2004; Carandini 2004; Filippi 2004a; Filippi 2004b; Filippi 2010. For the plans, see Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 266–282. The materials that help date this include a mass of Attic ceramics in the layer immediately below the walls and floors of the house, and an infant burial in one of the gardens—common in houses from this period—that dates to the end of the century; see Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 250, with references. The archaeologists have felt confident enough to date the houses to between 530 and 520. Carandini and his team have given these a full context in the textual tradition with ascription to specific kings; see Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 73–86; Carandini 2004; Filippi 2004a; and Filippi 2004b. Evidence for such association is highly problematic, especially now that Coarelli has changed his reading of the Via Sacra and Via Nova; see Wiseman 2008b; and Coarelli 2012, 53–56. Furthermore, these houses were occupied for centuries, indicating occupation long after kings,

notes to pages 87–92

79. 80.

81.

82.

83. 84.

85.

86.

and consequently the ability of others to inhabit such rich domiciles. Also, such houses existed in multiples during the monarchy, and this indicates that others were capable of acquiring and maintaining such lavish homes even during the regal period. The size of the roughly 930 m2 house has been called into question because of the proposed street that might bisect it; see Coarelli 2012, 56, fig. 13, 15. In any case, it and the other houses are of enormous size for domestic structures. Wiseman 2008b, esp. 271, 276–280. The excavators name other rooms, such as the room of the materfamilias. This is based on Gros and Torelli’s hypotheses; see Gros and Torelli 1988, 36. For reaction against Gros and Torelli, see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 206. For a piece-by-piece deconstruction of the plans, see Wiseman 2008b; cf. Coarelli 2012, 56. Despite two substantial excavation reports (Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000] and Carandini and Papi 1999 [2004]), excavators suggest there is more to come. Other examples have been found at Acquarossa, Macchia Grande at Veii (Damgaard Andersen 1998, 86, 93–94), and the auditorium site outside Rome (Carandini, d’Alessio, and di Giuseppe 2006). On Acquarossa, see Architettura Etrusca nel Viterbese 1986, 81–92; Wikander 1986; and Olofsson 1989. Only Casa 1 at Marzabotto can compare, although much of that space is open air, not interior architectural space, and that phase dates to the fifth century; see Govi and Sassatelli 2010, 23, 180. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.78, VI.401–402; Carettoni 1957. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.79, 87. That frieze type has only been found on religious buildings, in Rome and elsewhere, and therefore it is likely that this building too was somehow sacred. On the frieze, see Winter 2009c, 315–323. Puglisi 1951c. Cf. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.79; and Winter 2009c 347 5.C.3A. The religious nature is unclear. On the walls around the southwest Palatine and on other sanctuaries, see Pensabene et al. 1993, 23–24; Pensabene 1998, 85–88; and Pensabene 1980, 75. Cifani suggests the walls include large substructures at the side of the Temple of Victoria, but those probably date to the late fifth or fourth century; see Pensabene and Falzone 2001, 97–119; and Cifani 2008, 164–165. See also Chap. 4, nn5–8.

87. Recent summaries of the evidence and the arguments for dates and locations of walls can be found in Cifani 1998; Battaglini 2004; Battaglini 2006; and Bernard 2011. 88. For the situation on the Esquiline, see Lugli 1933, 27. For a summary, cf. Bernard 2011, 14–16. 89. Cifani 1998, 379–80, with references. Cf. Bernard 2011, 9–10. 90. Gjerstad 1953–73, IV.353–354. Cf. Cifani 1998, 363, 368; and Coarelli 1996, 12–13. With caution, see Bernard 2011, 11–12. 91. See, for example, Lugli 1933; Coarelli 1995c; Cifani 1998; Cifani 2008, 45–73; and, proposing much the same argument with an updated bibliography, see Cifani 2013; cf. Fabbri 2008. 92. On Archaic- and Classical-Era walls in the Mediterranean, see Lugli 1957, 83–86, 245–252; Leriche and Tréziny 1986; Tréziny 1996; Becker 2007, 92–183; and Frederiksen 2011. 93. For the evidence and comparison, see Guaítoli 1984, 370–373; Cifani 1998, 362; and cf. Becker 2007, 203. But for a discussion with criticism, see Bernard 2011, 8. 94. 94. See, for example, Säflund 1932; Holloway 1994, 91–102; Cornell 1995, 198–202; Smith 1996, 151–154; and Bernard 2011. 95. This may have been the case at Syracuse, where Dionysius I appears to have once connected discontinuous walls: Diod. XIV.18; cf. Lawrence 1979, 117. Lawrence (1979, 117) remarks that where cliffs and hillsides were steep enough, walls were often forgone in the Greek world, and though the circumstances are different, segmented barrier walls appear at Greek sites (1979, 167–172). Although the terrain is different, this situation is also found in Samnite fort towns—e.g., at Monte Miglio, La Romana, Roccavecchia di Pratella, and others; see Oakley 1995. In South Italy, Siris appears to have had both mud brick and earthen defenses early on, and Megara Hyblaea used mixed materials for different sections of the walls, sometimes stone, but others not; see Adamesteanu 1986, 105, 109–110; and Tréziny 1986, 186–189. At Rome, it may be that similarly disparate materials (stone, mud brick, earth, etc.) were used and only the stone survives. 96. For an outline of the walls with an agreed-upon function, location, and date in the sixth to fifth centuries, see Cifani 1998, 364–377, with bibliography. With criticism of a few of these segments and a more constrained number of attested

200

notes to pages 92–97

archaic urban walls, see Bernard 2011, 13–35, with bibliography. 97. For an overview of this, see Bernard 2011, 1–6, and passim. Cf. Cifani 1998. It should also be noted that location of the pomerium and the wall, of religious and mural boundaries, do not seem to match perfectly in any period. This means that burials, sanctuaries, and all manner of religiously bound construction become thorny evidence for the locations of intra- and extramural portions of the city. 98. Bernard 2011, 6–7, but with somewhat contradictory claims at 12. Cf. Coarelli 1988a, 386; Holloway 1994, 98–102; and Cornell 1995. 99. Bernard 2011, esp. 8–13; Cifani 1998, 380. 100. For Priscus, see Dion. 3.67; and Livy 1.38.6. For Servius Tullius, see Livy 1.44.3; and Strabo 5.3.7. For Superbus, see Pliny NH 3.66. 101. On the colossal reconstruction, the primary critics of a monumental temple have been Castagnoli (1955; 1966–67, 73–74; 1974, 435; 1984, 3–20); Giuliani (1982, 31; 2012, 36–38, a reiteration of earlier arguments); Stamper (2005, 21–27); Tucci (2006, 386–390); and Arata (2010). 102. No scholar has published anything against the new evidence for the date. Scholars who support it include Ridley 2005; Stamper 2005; Davies 2006; Tucci 2006; Cifani 2008; Ramage and Ramage 2009; and Arata 2010. The leading voice against a sixth-century date had been Riemann 1969, 118. For detailed analysis of dating materials, see Mura Sommella 2000a, 21; Mura Sommella 2000b, 72; Mura Sommella 2000b, 62–67; Danti 2001, 334–336, 339–343; and Albertoni and Damiani 2008, 18. Cf. Hopkins 2010, 203–207; Hopkins 2011; and Hopkins 2012b. The wealth of seventh- and early to mid-sixth-century materials in the strata leading up to the temple’s construction and in the foundation trench fill, alongside the absence of any materials dating after the turn of the sixth to fifth centuries, is a strong indication that work ended before ca. 500. Another major indication of the date is a well on the northeast side of the temple; the top of it is flush with the beaten-earth pavement that surrounded the temple, indicating that it was interred only at the completion of the building, and its manufacturing technique is one that was common at the end of the sixth and very beginning of the fifth century. This would seem to supply a solid terminus ante quem in the years

surrounding 500. An even stronger indication of the temple’s completion, however, is a set of enormous revetments for the building that were found in the same excavations; see Mura Sommella 2000a, 24–26. Revetments are among the last elements builders attach to a temple, and so these indicate the completion of the Capitoline Temple between 510 and 500. 103. Mura Sommella 2000a, 22n60; Mura Sommella 2000b, 72. Cf. Arata 2010. 104. 104. On the ridge and eaves tiles now associated with the Temple of Jupiter, see Mura Sommella 2009c. On all other evidence, see above, n102. 105. No scholar whom this author is aware of has questioned the date and size of the foundation since the excavations that ended in 2000. Those scholars who support the date and impressiveness of the foundations, but who question an equally large superstructure, include Ridley 2005; Stamper 2005; Tucci 2006; and Arata 2010. 106. The dimensions of the Capitoline substructure mentioned here include foundations and podium, which total 12.75 m in height. In all, the intersecting foundations and podium are constituted by two 45.5-x-6.9-x-12.75-m walls, four 45.5-x-4-x-12.75-m walls, two 53.5-x-8-x-12.75-m walls, and one 53.5-x-5-x-12.75-m wall, plus all transverse walls and rear longitudinal walls. On their composition, see Hopkins 2010, 189–198. Gabriele Cifani has questioned the association of several segments of rear walls. He argues that Gjerstad’s northeast-corner wall exhibits a clean edge; yet, on examination of the elevation of these walls and of excavation photos, no such clean edge is visible, and in fact, many broken and misaligned headers and stretchers protrude. Blocks at the accepted corners of the building are far more uniform in size and edge composition, suggesting a break/collapse here. For the elevation, one can see this clearly in Cifani 2008, fig. 77; for the other corners, cf. the southwest and southeast corners in Hopkins 2010. Cifani also questions how substantial Hackens’s wall is, but the central-rear longitudinal wall is structurally bound to the foundation under the rear cella wall and it exists in fifteen course. It is not conjectural or unsubstantial; see Hackens 1962, 16–21, figs. 12–14. Cifani also fails to appreciate the remarkable coincidence that all of these walls and those detached at the rear are in strict orthogonal correspondence with the rest of the temple

201

notes to pages 97–101

foundations, and that the rear of Hackens’s central wall (which is clearly determined) terminates at exactly the same point as do the two other detached rear portions, indicating a shared rear foundation edge; see Hopkins 2010, 191–192; and Mura Sommella 2000a, 21. In short, the arguments for the dimensions of the foundations put forth in Mura Sommella 2000a should stand. 107. Neither has foundations that are as substantial as at Rome. Their superstructures are composed largely of voids. The Temple of Hera I measures 25 x 60 m in plan and is 13 m tall; while impressive, that is less than half of the dimensions of the foundations of the Roman Temple. Temple BII at Metapontum is smaller, at 20 x 42 m. 108. For excavations, see Mura Sommella 2000a, 21; Mura Sommella 2000b, 62–67, 72; Danti 2001, 334–336, 339–343; and Albertoni and Damiani 2008, 18. For structural and comparative analysis, see Hopkins 2010, 207–237; Hopkins 2011; and Hopkins 2012b. 109. I have addressed all of these concerns at length in other publications; see Hopkins 2010, 207–237; Hopkins 2011; and Hopkins 2012b. Since their publication, F. P. Arata has written an exhaustive study of the state of the research; see Arata 2010. He argues that ancient authors only remark on the size of the platform (which he agrees was colossal and archaic). Thus, there is no mention in antiquity of the temple building’s enormity; see Arata 2010, esp. 586–587, 612. Yet Dionysius’s phrasing may in fact not refer to the platform: “ốκτάπλεθρος” (eight hundred) could refer to κρηπĩδος (the platform, as Arata interprets), but it could also refer to the subject of the verb “έποιήθη,” namely, “ναός.” Thus, Dionysius could be assessing the size of the temple, and, in fact, as Mura Sommella (2009b) notes, such measurements generally were made of superstructures (especially around the colonnades), not of foundations, so the passage is far more likely to refer to the superstructure than the platform. Moreover, the arguments in Hopkins 2011 still indicate that it is impossible to fit a small temple on the extant foundations, and it is in fact nonsensical that such effort for enormous foundations would go toward a small building. For a full discussion and citations for comparanda, see Hopkins 2010. Arata also argues that, given the fact that such enormity was almost without parallel and certainly was unmatched in Central Italy, one would

expect ancient sources to remark on Rome’s building; see Arata 2010, 612. As to the unmentioned power of Rome in this period, first one has to contend with the foundations. Superstructure or not, those giant stone walls in the ground evidence a remarkably wealthy and powerful city, which the sources still do not reference. What is more, as this and the subsequent chapter demonstrate, there is more than just this temple to suggest that Rome was an extraordinary power in this period, and that with or without the Capitoline, it outstripped cityscapes in the Italic Peninsula; ancient authors overlooked an entire city that was spectacular. 110. These include a ridgepole cover whose diameter is some 27 percent larger than its closest rival in Central Italy, suggesting an enormous beam; several eaves tiles that are 45 percent larger than their nearest comparanda; and fragments of a revetment plaque that is twice the size of the next largest plaque found in the region; see Ferrea 2005; cf. Mura Sommella 2009c, 94–98. On the comparative ridge tiles, similar tiles on the roofs at Murlo, Aquarossa, and Veii and in Rome at both S. Omobono and the Regia have widths between 30 and 40 cm. In fact, until ca. 500, most ridge tiles stay within that range, and no known ridge tile in all of Central Italy has an internal diameter greater than 42.5 cm; see Winter 2009c, chaps. 1–6, section H; cf. Lulof 2014, 119. Meanwhile, at Tarquinii, pan tiles are 85 x 60 cm, far closer to the Capitoline roof tile, which is 95 x 66 cm, than to those from moderately monumental temples such as those at Pyrgi and Segni, which are roughly 65 x 50 cm. For Tarquinii, see Chiesa and Binda 2009, 72; for the Capitoline, see Mura Sommella 2009c, 96; for Pyrgi, see Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 124–131, with comparisons to similar temples. Meanwhile, fragments of the anthemion decoration from Rome are the only part of the Capitoline revetments that remain, with large lotus buds, some 8 x 16 cm, as compared to similarly styled lotus buds at Segni, Satricum, and Pyrgi, which are all roughly 5.25 x 9 cm. Scholars suggest a comparison between the style and form of the Capitoline frieze and the frieze of the second temple at Satricum and Temple B at Pyrgi; see Mura Sommella 2000a, 24–26; in personal correspondence with the author, Nancy Winter and Patricia Lulof suggest Satricum. At 37 cm tall, one anthemion type from

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notes to pages 102–105

111.

112.

113. 114.

115. 116.

Pyrgi is the closest rival to the Capitoline’s in Central Italy; all other stylistically and formally similar anthemion decoration, including examples from Satricum and Segni, measure between 18 and 27 cm tall. The Satricum frieze measures 59 cm in total height; it has a 26.5-cm-tall anthemion relief, with an 8.5-cm-tall lotus bud very similar to the Capitoline’s. Its anthemion decoration constitutes 45 percent of the total height, a common proportional scheme for anthemion revetments in Central Italy. A reconstruction of the Capitoline Temple frieze based on this type (with a painted band, half-rounds, and strigil course) indicates a total height of 90 to 103 cm. This is far larger than those at Pyrgi, Segni, Caere, Satricum, and Ardea, none of which measure above 70 cm in total height. Cf. n101, esp. Giuliani (1982, 31; 2012: 36–38, a reiteration of earlier arguments); and Stamper (2005, 21–27). For a full explication and assessment of the labor involved and evident abilities at Rome, see Hopkins 2010, 207–237; and Hopkins 2011. On the trusses, a full explanation with citations can be found in Hopkins 2010, 207–237. For trusses in the western Mediterranean and Central Italy especially, cf. Hodge 1960, 17–40; Klein 1998, 351; and Turfa and Steinmayer 1996, 22. Damgaard Andersen 1998, 53, 64, 91, 121–124. For example, with the simplest of armatures, the beams of trusses at S. Peters and S. Paul’s Outside the Walls in Rome—beams that were just half a meter thick in the case of S. Paul’s—supported spans of some twenty-four m; see Adam 1994b, 212. Of course, the example is from much later, but the tectonic feasibility does not change. The same kinds of studies have not been done for Central Italy, unfortunately. I thank Dr.-Ing. Clemens Voigts, who commented on and improved a trussed roofing system that I had initially proposed, and who checked weights, distribution, and engineering for the system proposed here. His assessment of the roof proposed and illustrated here accounts for tiles with an exaggerated weight of 150 kg/m2 and rafters and truss spaced on purlins every three meters, thus stressing primary purlins with 4,725 tons per segment, plus the weight of the rafters and purlins themselves. The weights and density of several different woods (chestnut, silver fir, and oak) were calculated, and the required size

of the purlins is determined to be 41.5 x 41.5 cm at most, based on very conservative estimates. Thus, purlins proposed here of about 50 x 50 cm could safely hold rafters and truss, which themselves could be composed of timbers just 40 x 40 cm. The calculations also took into account the projecting elements at the front of the building, which extend some 3 m beyond the first colonnade, and would not bend or break, due to the counterbalance of these elements below the props and rafters behind the frontal colonnade. An article assessing this information in detail is in preparation by the author and Voigts. 117. Dion. 4.61.3–4, translation based on that by Earnest Cary; see Dionysius 1937, 4.61.3–4. 118. This is precisely the kind of detail that scholars such as Gabba (1991) suggest Dionysius would not have had, regardless of his historical scruples. Criticism of textual histories of early Rome is extensive. For recent discussions, see Wiseman 1995a; and Wiseman 2008a. In support of the use of texts for this narrow purpose, Nicholas Purcell has suggested (and especially in relation to the Capitoline) that Romans had a much more enduring historical consciousness of buildings and cults than they did of historical events, and moreover that the tradition of marking the year with a new nail in the Capitoline doorpost reveals one way that modern scholars might see buildings as stronger and more enduring physical reminders of Rome’s past than reports of legal, political, or sociological changes. Thus, he goes as far as to suggest 509 as the start of a “Capitoline Era” rather than the actual start of the Republic or expulsion of the kings; see Purcell 2003, 28–30. In fact, as I argue in the next few lines of this chapter, the reasons to believe the history and design of the Capitoline are stronger than just Romans’ heightened historical sensibility for architecture. 119. See, for example, Cicero Catil. 3.9; Dion. 4.52.5–6; and Pliny NH 33.16. On the excavation results, see the immediately subsequent paragraph and Danti 2001. Still, one need not blindly trust Dionysius, as recent excavations have gone a long way to confirm his description; cf. Hopkins 2012b. In a recent essay, Mura Sommella accounts for the discrepancy between Dionysius’s exact measurement and the rear foundations, explaining that his measure would have been around the colonnade, not the podium, and certainly not the

203

notes to pages 107–110

subterranean foundations that remain today; see Mura Sommella 2009b. For an opposing view, see Arata 2010, but see above, nn109–110. 120. On the general credibility of such descriptions of architecture, see Purcell 2003, 28–30. Every scholar working on the temple now follows his description of the plan, including Mura Sommella (2000a, 21; 2000b, 62–67, 72); Ridley (2005); Stamper (2005, 21–27); Davies (2006); Tucci (2006, 386–390); Albertoni and Damiani (2008, 18); Cifani (2008); and Arata (2010). Mura Sommella has suggested a nuanced reading of his passage that would allow for a rear pteron. I do not follow that suggestion here, although it is a possibility. 121. Mura Sommella 2000b, 62; cf. Colonna 1985, 70–73. Cifani himself cites them; see Cifani 2008, 101; cf. Cristofani 1992, pl. I. 122. Cifani 2008, 101. On the pozzo at Pyrgi, see Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 13–20. 123. See Cifani 2008, 101. Cf. CIL III.2, 846; and Jordan 1876, 166. 124. On the location of the temple at the rear of the hill, cf. Ammerman and Terrenato 1996. The same function—buttressing and raising the structure— would not apply to the rest of the foundations, under the temple itself, as those are immured completely in the hill, in an area not prone to collapse, even after two thousand years of erosion. 125. On evidence for this wall and its composition, see Pietrangeli 1976; and Hopkins 2010, 190, 193–196. On the absence of a continuation of this transverse wall past the interior four longitudinal walls, cf. Hopkins 2010, 194–196; and Danti 2001, 325–327. Cf. Cifani 2008, 103. Here Cifani agrees that Mura Sommella’s excavations of 2001 found that longitudinal wall V was not connected to the side wall VI. For excavation of the area between the easternmost perimeter and longitudinal walls, cf. Jordan 1876, 152–153; and Jordan 1885, fig. 66. 126. Recent publication has made clear that the temple was underway and the transverse wall in question was laid by around 530; see Hellner and Kienast 2009, 8. Cf. Buschor 1930, 1–162, esp. 172; and Reuther 1957, Z1. For more on the similarities of their plans, see below, nn139–53. On the composition and evidence for a partial wall under the third colonnade at Rome, see Hopkins 2010, 190–191. 127. Explanation of the dimensions and plan can be found in the immediately preceding paragraphs,

128.

129. 130.

131.

132.

204

with the exception of the height of the podium, 4.85 m from the extant top of the substructure wall (visible only in the Muro Romano and partially extant in a few walls in the Palazzo Caffarelli). There is a contraction of between 15 and 25 cm around the circuit of each wall; the width changes from 4 m to 3.75–3.85 m; see Danti 2001, 343. Cf. Mura Sommella (2001, 262–264), who states that the podium is ca. 4 m tall, but also that her measurements are not exact. Measurements were confirmed on-site by the author. The change occurs both in the Muro Romano and in another wall within the Palazzo Caffarelli. At this same elevation, excavators report an earthen pavement covering the foundation trench beside the eastern perimeter wall of the temple; hence, that is where the foundation wall ends and the podium begins; cf. Danti 2001, 334–341; and Albertoni and Damiani 2008, fig. 21. It is widely accepted that concrete atop the Muro Romano was the bed for the floor of the Imperial temple, and thus the height of the podium is determinable. It is impossible to know if the archaic podium was taller or shorter, but the wall is relatively uniform in construction. There is no reason to believe it would have been taller—in fact, ancient authors remark that the height of the podium was unchanged, causing Catulus to want to lower the area capitolina around it after Sulla’s reconstruction had begun; see Valerius Maximus 4.4.11; Fest. 88; and Gell. 2.10. Stefani 1944, 178–290; Colonna 1981b, 51–59; Colonna 1984, 396, 400; Colonna 1985, 58; Damgaard Andersen 1998, 23; Colonna 2006, 132–168. Bonghi Jovino 1997, 69–95; cf. Winter 2006c, 128–130; Bonghi Jovino 2009. Bonghi Jovino (1997, fig. 17), shows flanking walls, but reports no evidence to demonstrate walls rather than a colonnade. On the dimensions, see Bonghi Jovino 1997, 89. Measurements taken by the author at the site confirm Bonghi Jovino’s. On the roof of the Ara della Regina, Chiesa (Chiesa and Binda 2009) suggests post and lintel, but Patricia Lulof is currently suggesting a truss, which this author agrees with. I thank Lulof for sharing this ongoing work. Alzinger 1982, 24–26; Rendeli 1989, 49; Mertens 1994, 195–200; Turfa and Steinmayer 2002, 6; Davies 2006, 187–190. For dimensions of Samos, see Buschor 1930, 72; and Dinsmoor 1975, 124, 134. For Ephesos,

notes to pages 110–113

133. 134.

135. 136. 137.

138.

see Hogarth et al. 1908, 188. For Ephesos and Didyma, see Dinsmoor 1975, 127, 134. For Athens and Selinunte, see Dinsmoor 1975, 99, 101. For Agrigento, see Lawrence and Tomlinson 1983, 146. The Athenian temple was not finished until Hadrian, but architects began work and surely intended to complete a colossal structure. For dates, see Dinsmoor 1975, 99, 101, 124, 127, 134; and Lawrence and Tomlinson 1983, 146. Most suggest the Olympieion was dedicated after the victory at Himera in 480. Cf. Snodgrass 1986, 55, for the Ionian temples. At Ephesos, Temple C is approximately 25 x 48 m; see Hogarth et al. 1908, 63–73, 288, pl. I. At Samos, the geometric building is about 16 x 40 m; see Buschor 1930, 10–20. For Selinunte, see Mertens 2006, 227, 232. Mertens 1994, 203. Mertens 1994, 196–197. On the complexity of the work site, see also Cifani 2008. For Tarquinii, see Bonghi Jovino 1997, 87–89, fig. 17; and Colonna 2006, VIII.34. For Vulci, see Massabò 1988–89, 103–135. For Orvieto, see Pernier 1926, 137–164. For Ardea, see Stefani 1954, 6–30. For Lanuvium, see Galieti 1928, 75–118. Exceptions postdating the Capitoline are Marzabotto, Temple C (see Brizio 1889, 258–260, pls. I–X); Pyrgi A and B (see Colonna 1965, 191–219; and Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 36–43, 275–287); and Rome (Castor) (see Nielsen and Zahle 1985, 61–79, esp. 76). Scholars have argued that each of these sites experienced significant Greek influence. I suggest some outside influence on the Temple of Castor; see Chap. 4, nn38–44. On the other sites, see Colonna 1965, 192; and Mertens 1980, 49. Cf. archaic temples at Samos, Ephesos, Didyma, Delos, Athens, Delphi, Corinth, Perachora, Corfu, Metapontum, Paestum, Agrigento, Selinunte, Syracuse, and elsewhere; Mertens 2006, 97–155, 216–309. On archaic temples in general, see Dinsmoor 1975, 69–113, 123–146; and Lawrence and Tomlinson 1983, 141–159, 160–173. On the correlation between foundations and superstructures in Greek architecture, see Cook and Nicholls 1998, 11–12; and Cooper 2008, 230–234. On specific sites, e.g., Metapontum, see Adamesteanu, Mertens, and d’Andria 1975, passim, esp. 109; and on Assos, Bacon et al. 1902, 141, pl. 141. On Samos Heraia, see Buschor 1930, 1–162, esp. 172. On the Temple of Apollo at Delos, see Courby 1931, pls. II, III. On Locri, see de

Franciscis 1979, 59–100, figs. 105–134. On Paestum (Foce del Sele), see De La Geniere, Greco, and Donnarumna 1997, 337–344; and De La Geniere et al. 1999, 501–507. On Corinth, see Fowler et al. 1932, pls. I, V. On Didyma, see Gruben 1963, esp. 78–85. On Ephesos, see Hogarth et al. 1908, pls. I, XII. On Naxos, see Lambrinoudakis and Gruben 1987, 569–621, abb. 513. On Paestum (Hera I), see Mertens, Schützenberger, and Sponer-Za 1993, 5–15, taf. 14–17, 20. On Syracuse (Olympieion), see Orsi 1903, 369–391. On Apollo Alaei, see Orsi 1933, 22–27, figs. 23–24. On Corfu, see Rodenwaldt 1939, taf. 3, 22. In my survey, I found that only three archaic Greek temples do not follow this: the Temple of Dionysus on Naxos, the Marasà sanctuary at Locri, and the Temple of Apollo Alaei. These have foundation walls under all superstructure walls and colonnades, but pillars supporting the three or four naos/opisthodomos columns (that is, interior columns). 139. See above, nn125–126. A survey of temple plans revealed this quite unexpectedly. 140. Only Temple I at Satricum has lateral colonnades that could predate the Capitoline’s, but it has been tied to Greek or Campanian builders; also, it may have been begun contemporaneously with the Temple of Jupiter, as it was completed just prior to it, but was far smaller. 141. Even Barletta (2001), who takes a cautious view on the purported dominance of peripteral temples in early Greek architecture, concludes that in the sixth century, the design took off. For a brief synthesis, recent discussions can be found in Pedley 2005, 62–68; and Lawrence 1967, 88–142. 142. See above, n135. 143. Syracuse-Apollo, Syracuse-Olympieion, Selinunte-C, Metaponto-A II and similar, Metaponto-B I, and Locri-Marasà; see Mertens 2006, 108, 111, 121, 151, 137. Cifani (2008, 292), makes the broad comparison to Ephesos and Samos as well. 144. On the Greek mainland, Ionia, and the west, see Wikander 1986, 13–16; and Winter 1993, 233–236, 273–303. On Central Italy, see Winter 2009c, 303–305 and 495–501. 145. Wikander 1986, 13–16; Winter 1993, 233–236, 273–303. 146. Winter 1993, 260. Cf. Åkerström 1966, 24–25, 54–57. 147. On Veii and Caere, see Winter 2009c, 495–501. On Campania and Satricum, see Rescigno 1998. The Roman example is the Capitoline. On

205

notes to pages 114–120

148.

149.

150. 151.

152. 153. 154.

155.

Sicily, see Wikander 1986, 13–16. The temples at Veii, Tarquinii, Satricum, Minturnae, Pompeii, and Cumae all date ca. 540–520. The Temple of Jupiter in Rome was begun (see n102) around the same time; it was not finished until ca. 510–500, and the revetments would appear to be later, but they are certainly participating in the early days of this trend. Given the temple’s early start date, it is entirely possible—even likely—that builders had already conceived the roofing elements at the same time as the other buildings in the region, especially if the builders came from Samos. The Temple of Artemis is famously hypaethral, but that is only in the cella; architects had to roof the porch with its double colonnade as well as the colonnaded pronaos, some four rows deep. On the dates of construction, see Hellner and Kienast 2009, 202, and see below, n150. The other would be the Temple of Artemis, still not finished until 460, and it may have taken longer. The Olympieion at Agrigento was only begun ca. 480 and would not have been completed before the middle of the century. The archaic Temple of Apollo at Didyma remains in only cloudy circumstances. It was destroyed by the Persians in 494, but it is unclear whether or not it was finished at that time. Temple G at Selinunte was never finished, and it would take the Roman conquest of Athens and the reign of Hadrian for the Temple of Olympian Zeus to be completed there. Hellner and Kienast 2009, 8, 143–148, 201–202. This is almost irrelevant. The terminus post quem is based on bucchero fragments that could date as late as 525, and in any case, as a terminus post, construction could have started much later, even in the 520s. Hellner and Kienast 2009, 202. Hellner and Kienast 2009, 8, 143–148, 201–202. See, for example, Barletta 1983; Horden and Purcell 2000; Morris 2003; Hall 2004; Shefton and Lomas 2004; Malkin 2005; Hodos 2006; Horden and Purcell 2006; LaBianca and Scham 2006; Tsetskhladze 2006; Malkin, Constantantakopoulou, and Panagopoulou 2009; Counts, Tuck, and Holloway 2009; van Dommelen and Knapp 2010; and Malkin 2011. On approach to buildings in Central Italy and earlier frontal religious precedents, see Colonna 1981b, 51–59; Colonna 1984, 396–411; Colonna 1985; Meyers 2003, 1–5; and Colonna 2006, 132–168. There are exceptions to every rule—for example, in the Greek world there are exceptions,

especially the oikos of the Naxians on Delos and the Naxian Temple of Dionysus—but these are the exceptions. 156. For Pyrgi B and Satricum Temple II, see Mertens 1980. 157. Colonna 1981b, 51–59; Colonna 1984, 396–411; Colonna 1985; Colonna 2006, 132–168. This is problematized by Potts (2011a), although she has noted that things change with the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, so caution regarding this building should be maintained. 158. Pensabene 1990. 159. Nielsen and Tuck 2001, esp. 44–45. 160. Bonghi Jovino 1999. Cf. Prayon 2004; and Prayon 2009, 60–61, with references. 161. A triple dedication is innovative in its own right. Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva all had cults in rival Latin cities that predated their sanctuary in Rome, and Jean Bayet argues that by creating the Capitoline triad, Romans commandeered the deities of powerful neighboring states in a bid for supremacy; see Bayet 1969, 40. Similar moves are know elsewhere; Rome’s seizure of Juno Regina from Veii and the appropriation of the Dioscouri from Latium have been signaled as other examples. For Veii and Rome (Castor), see Chap. 4, n43. 162. See, for example, Barletta 1983; Barletta 2000, 203–216; and Mertens 2006, 90–256. 163. Davies 2006, 189. 164. Hogarth et al. 1908, 188; Buschor 1930, 72; Dinsmoor 1975, 124, 127, 134. 165. Cf. chaps. 1 and 2; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 175–185, figs. 130–133; Arvanitis 2004; Carandini 2004; Filippi 2004a; Filippi 2004b; Filippi 2010. 166. See MacBain 1980, esp. 363, and throughout, with references and discussion. Cf. Davies forthcoming. 167. On the earlier habitation, see Lugli and Rosa 2001; and Cazzella et al. 2007. 168. On the location and organization of tuff extraction, see Cifani 2008, 221–236. On the idea of shared effort and civic unity in Rome, see Ampolo 1980b; and Ampolo 1983. 169. Cifani suggests also that a new circuit of city walls would confirm this; see Cifani 2008, esp. 259. 170. Lynch 1960, 49–62, 66–72.

CHAPTER 4. THE CONTINUITY OF SPLENDOR 1. Purcell 2003, 28–30. 2. Muñoz and Colini 1930, 11, fig. 17; Andrén 1940,

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notes to pages 120–131

342–343, I.348–310; Gjerstad 1953–73, 203–204, fig. 128.201. A female head antefix once thought to be from the Capitoline may in fact be from the Esquiline or elsewhere; see Mura Sommella 2009c. 3. On the terracottas and their comparison to Satricum, see Andrén 1940, 474 II: 417, pl. 151: 515, 400 I: 410, pl. 122: 430. For a comparison between Segni and Satricum, see Ceccarelli and Marroni 2011, 464. For the temple at Segni, see Cifarelli 2003. The content is similar to frieze type A:14 from Temple A at Pyrgi, also of similar dimensions (the anthemion portion of the relief is 24.5 cm and the temple dimensions are some 24 × 34.5 cm); cf. Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 177–183. 4. Cf. the Introduction on the terracottas and Chap. 3, n110. See also de Waele 1981, 29–30; and Ceccarelli and Marroni 2011, 462. These temples fall behind the temples of Jupiter and Castor in Rome and the Ara della Regina in Tarquinii, and they are similar to Temple A at Pyrgi. 5. Pensabene 1980, 75; Pensabene et al. 1993, 23–24; Pensabene 1998, 85–88. Also associated with this building is a terracotta ring of contested function. It was first called a column base, but since has been characterized as a cover for a ritual well. 6. On the area as a whole, see Pensabene 1980; and Pensabene and Falzone 2001, 13. It was once assumed the platform was the auguratorium; see Platner and Ashby 1929, 61. On the suggestion of a sacred area of Juno Sospita, later replaced or assimilated with a sanctuary of Victoria, see Carandini 1997, 70, 207–211. 7. Säflund 1932, 8–9; Pensabene and Falzone 2001, 100n175, with references, and 104–113, with references. 8. Mario Torelli has recently suggested that the sites of huts of prominent figures may have become religious space—temples—in the wake of their famous rulers, although he does not suggest exactly how a deity would be chosen; see Torelli 2013. 9. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 249–256. 10. Panella 2013, 28–42; Zeggio and Panella 2013. Cf. Zeggio 2005, 63–76; and Zeggio 2006, 63–66. The Temple of Castor is discussed later in this chapter. 11. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.133–135; Andrén 1940, 364–365 I: 365, pl. 109: 389; Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 161. The object that has been identified as a column casing by some is believed by others to be the lower part of a louterion or a perirrhanterion.

12. Pyrgi, Temple B; Satricum, Temple II; Rome, Temple of Castor; and Segni, Capitolium. 13. At first in doubt, Patricia Lulof has addressed concerns about the date in detail; see Lulof 2007, 7–10 and 22, with references. 14. Lulof 2007, 21–25; cf. Colonna 1977, 163–164. 15. Winter, Iliopoulos, and Ammerman 2009, 14. 16. Lulof 2007, 20–25. 17. Lulof 2006. 18. On the objects, see Colonna 1977, 134; Colonna 1996, 336; and Mura Sommella 2009c, 90–91. Coarelli has suggested the funerary temple; see Coarelli 1988a, 283–284; and Coarelli 1995b, 382– 384. Mura Sommella associates the terracottas with the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline; see Mura Sommella 2009c. 19. Pinza 1914; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.162–279, with references; Colonna 1977; Albertoni 1983. Cf. Fulminante 2003. 20. Pinza 1914; Gjerstad 1953–73, III.162–279, with references; Colonna 1977; Albertoni 1983; Ampolo 1984; Colonna 1996; Zevi 1996; Barbato 2003; Barbera 2005. I owe thanks to Penelope Davies for calling the recent excavations to my attention. The poor treatment of undecorated tombs in the archaeological record has led many to see a lack of necropoleis in Rome and throughout Latium after ca. 450; this concern is beyond the scope of this work, but it would seem more likely that the absence of graves is due more to a lack of excavation throughout the entirety of the Esquiline than to changes in antiquity. 21. According to the Dionysius and Livy, the Alban cities had been under stress from Romans who either subjugated them or had treaties with them and the Latins, beginning especially under Tullus Hostilius; see Livy 1.23, 1.28; and Dion. 3.2, 3.34. Also, if the sources are to be believed, Rome had a secure treaty with the Latins by the reign of Tarquinius Superbus, who renewed that treaty; see Livy 1.32–33, 1.50; and Dion. 3.43. 22. On the tomb and the urn, see Pinza 1914, 136; Ampolo 1973, 97, 196; and Colonna 1977, 139–146. Most of the painting is now lost. On dimensions, context, type of marble, and comparandum at Spina, see Ampolo 1973, 196–197; for more on the chest, its date, and comparanda elsewhere, see Colonna 1977, 139–146. 23. Barbato 2003; Barbera 2005. 24. Seth Bernard foregrounded the notion of exoticness in this urn in a talk presented at the College Art Association Annual meetings in 2012.

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notes to pages 131–140

25. Carignani et al. 1990, 72; Pavolini 2006, 70. 26. Perhaps this is indication enough that the purported circuit walls around these hills existed as early as the archaic period; see Cifani 1998; cf. Cifani 2008, 45–73, with references. But see Bernard 2011. Surely this debate is not yet over. 27. On the battle and the Dioscouri, see Dion. 4.13. Livy omits the epiphany of the Dioscouri (2.21.12, 2.42.5). On their appearance at the Lacus Iuturnae, see Dion. 4.12.1–2; Plut. Aem. 25.1–2; and Plut. Cor. 3.4. For more on the sources and the dates, see Ogilvie 1965, 286; and Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 46, 54–45. 28. Livy 2.21.12, 2.42.5. On the date of the remains, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 75–79, 157–171. The full excavation report on the early temple is in Nielsen and Poulsen 1992; Bilde et al. 2008; and Slej, Cullhed et al. 2008. 29. On the dimensions, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 75. On the height of the podium, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, pl. 11. The elevation of the podium at the north corner is 15.6 masl, and the elevation of the contemporaneous ground pavement there is between 9.4 and 11.3 masl on each side. See fig. 113. 30. The slope leaves ground level higher along the north side and rear of the temple, presenting a podium just over 5 m there and just over 4 m on the south side; see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–41, 76, pl. 11. 31. Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–41, 72, pls. 11, 13. 32. Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 76–79. The plan is hypothetical, and one could argue for antae extending to the front of the podium rather than colonnades, but in publication the excavators seem certain of their reconstruction. 33. For a survey of stone walls and columns in Central Italy, see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 93–96. On Pyrgi, see Colonna 1966, 268–277; and Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 43. On Marzabotto, see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 93. On Satricum, see de Waele 1981, 31. On Pompeii, see de Waele and Cantilena 2001, 113. On Veii (Portonaccio), see Stefani 1953, 43. On Rome (Castor), see Nielsen and Zahle 1985, 78. On Lanuvium, see Galieti 1928, 93–94. On Tarquinii, see Bonghi Jovino 1997, 89–90. For western Greek stone architecture in the archaic period, the bibliography is vast; see, for example, Mertens 2006. For the terracottas, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 157–171, pls. 137–141, I–V. Cf. Poulsen and Grønne 1988; and Grønne 1990. On other fragments found before the

34.

35.

36.

37. 38.

208

Castor excavations, but tied to that temple, see Phillips 1989. The doorframe may not be archaic and could date as late as the second century BCE; see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 157–171. For the comparisons, Nielsen compares it largely to Pyrgi and Falerii Veteres. See also Chap. 3 and Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 157–171, pls. 137–141, I–V. For discussion of the antefixes and their placement, probably on the pediment, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 168–169. Comparanda listed there are from contemporary or later temples in Central Italy, primarily at Satricum and Pyrgi. Cf. Andrén 1940, CLXXXIII. On earlier antefixes from Central Italy, see Winter 2009c, chaps. 1–6, section C. For Central Italy, the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus is 64 × 54 m; the Ara della Regina is 55 × 31.5 m; and the Temple of Castor is 37–40 × 27.5 m. Others in the region that are close, but still eclipsed, by the Temple of Castor include the Tinia Temple at Marzabotto, at 35.5 × 21.9 m; Temple II at Satricum, at 33.9 × 21.05 m; Pyrgi Temple A, at 34.47 × 23.98 m; and Ardea Colle della Noce, at 31 × 23.35 m. At Olympia, the Temple of Hera is 18.75 × 50 m; at Aigina, the Temple of Aphaia is just 13.77 × 28.82 m; at Selinunte, Temple F is roughly 24.43 × 61.83 m, Temple C is roughly 24 × 63.24 m, and Temple D is 24 × 56 m; at Syracuse, the Temple of Apollo is also only 24.5 m wide, though 58.1 m long, and the Ionic temple is 25 m wide by 59 m long; at Agrigento, the Temple of Herakles is 25.4 m wide and 67 m long, and all others, save the Olympieion, have a smaller footprint than the Temple of Castor (Concordia is 16.9 × 39.4 m and Hera is 16.9 × 38.1 m). At Corinth, the Temple of Apollo is 21.48 × 53.82 m. All dimensions are of the superstructure and are from Lawrence and Tomlinson 1996. Cf. Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 46–53, with references. The most famous example being the inscription to castorei Podlouqueique qurois from Lavinium, which dates to the sixth or fifth century; see Castagnoli 1975, 3–5, 441–443, fig. 507; Torelli 1984; Sellers 1986, 299; and Bietti Sestieri, de Santis, and la Regina 1989–90. For some time, the location of the Battle of Lake Regillus in the area of Tusculum suggested to some a link between that site and Rome, but this has been questioned by Alföldi (1965), who points out that the demigods

notes to pages 140–142

were particularly special in all of Latium. 39. On the cult, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 46–53, with references. 40. Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 47n17. 41. Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 47. 42. Livy 2.21.12, 2.42.5. Some have tied the buildings below the Temple of Castor to the Regia and Atrium Vestae; see Chap. 2, nn30–31. The remains below the temple could have many functions. They could relate to an earlier cult of the Castores, they could be part of the religious compound tied to the Regia, or they could be related to both. All of this is possible. 43. On the character of that triad, for a recent discussion, see Purcell 2003, 30; cf. Woodard 2006. 44. Gianfilippo Carettoni and Laura Fabbrini argue they found an archaic impluvium in peperino and cappellaccio; see Carettoni 1961, 59. For images, see Cristofani 1990b, tav. IV, VI. Only one wall remains, however, leaving the function unclear, and its date seems later. At 11.5 masl, its elevation is almost a meter higher than the archaic pavement level around the Temple of Castor and closer to fourth-century levels in that area. Analysis of pavement levels from the natural valley floor to the Imperial pavements reveals a gradual slope up from the center, from the middle of the Basilica Julia area to the area around the Temple of Castor, so the same pavement level at the “impluvium” would correspond to a higher pavement level at the Temple of Castor; thus, the 11.5-masl elevation of the impluvium suggests a date closer to the fourth century or later. Ground level at the north corner of the Temple of Castor in this period is 10.85 masl and slopes upward to 12.40 masl at the Lacus Iuturnae; see Nielsen 1990, 89–104; Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–40, 67–69, 75, 157; and Carettoni 1961, 57. At 11.5 masl, it is equal in elevation to a second-century Forum pavement, although that elevation is for pavement at the center of the plain, and it may have sloped up a bit in this area, as it does elsewhere; see Carettoni 1961, 57. Cf. Gjerstad 1953–73, II.33, 80–81. 45. Carettoni 1961, 59. On the Temple of Castor, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 169. 46. For the archaic temple, see Macrobius Sat. I. 8; Dion. 6.1; and Livy 2.21, which suggest it was vowed and dedicated between 501 and 497. Cf. Pensabene, Foglia, and Ioppolo 1984, 8–12. Without ancient testimony of its foundation date,

47.

48.

49.

50.

51. 52. 53.

54.

55.

209

some scholars suggest that, like the Capitoline Temple, it may have been begun under the kings (cf. Macrobius I.8.1 and Dion. 6.1.4, who suggests it was dedicated [καθιερωθῆναι] under Aulus Sempronius Atratinus and Marcus Minucius in 495, but begun either by Titus Larcius or Tarquinius Superbus) and finished and dedicated some years into the transition from monarchy to Republic. Cf. Pensabene, Foglia, and Ioppolo 1984, 8–12; and Gjerstad 1972. For Plancus, see Suet. Aug. 29; CIL VI, 1316; and CIL X, 6087; cf. Pensabene, Foglia, and Ioppolo 1984, 13–14. On the excavations, see Maetzke 1985, 173–178; Maetzke 1986, 378; Maetzke 1989, 73; and Maetzke 1991, 60–66. Cf. Cifani 2008, 109–111. For comparison with the Temple of Castor, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 61–79. On the lack of stratigraphy, see Maetzke 1985, 173–178; Maetzke 1986, 378; Maetzke 1989, 73; and Maetzke 1991, 60–66. On the height, see Maetzke 1989, 62. Cf. Cifani 2008, 111. Purcell 2003, 30. On buildings and memory, cf. Vasaly 1993, 29–33; Edwards 1996, 2, 29, passim; and Hölscher 2001, 184, passim. Cf. Cicero de fin. 5.2: “Places have so great a power of suggestion that the technical art of memory is with good reason based upon them.” Purcell 2003, 29–30, following Pliny NH. 33.17, and the figure of Gnaeus Flavius, who spoke of an era “after the dedication of the Capitoline Temple,” post Capitolinam aedem dedicatam. Pensabene, Foglia, and Ioppolo 1984, 17–36, with references. See above, n46. The 20-m estimation is based on the assumption that a fourth wall on the east side of wall one had the same intercolumniation as that between walls two and three. A burn layer between two undisturbed stone pavements included early fifth-century fragments of the temple’s decoration and other inclusions dating after the early fifth century. The finds and correspondence of the slabs to the foundations of the temple indicate that the lower pavement dates to the early fifth century; see Nielsen 1990, 89–104; Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–40, 67–69, 75, 157; and Poulsen 2008, 368. On the Vicus Tuscus, see Papi 1999. On the east side of the Temple of Castor, it is 11.70 masl; at the Temple of Caesar, the pavement is also 11.70 masl; and further up the Palatine

notes to pages 142–149

56.

57.

58. 59.

60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

69. 70.

slope at the Lacus Iuturnae, it is 12.40 masl. See Nielsen 1990, 89–104; Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 39–40, pl. 11; and Poulsen 2008, 368. Gjerstad 1953–73, II.33, 44, 58–59, 73–74. The elevation is 10 masl. He dates the stratum to 450, but this is on dubious grounds and has long been questioned; the best date is provided by the ceramics in the fill, none of which certainly dates later than ca. 510/500. A terminus post quem, then, of ca. 510/500 seems appropriate for this pavement. Sources in favor of a fifth-century date include Colini 1977, 16, 19; Colonna 1985, 70; Il viver quotidiano 1989, 13; and Pisani Sartorio 1990, 113. For an opposing view, see Sommella 1968, 65; and cf. Cornell 2000, 44. Coarelli (1988a, 214) believes the pavement dates even later. For more on the fill, see Chap. 1, nn1–2. The top of the pillar is still visible underneath the apse of the church. Cf. Il viver quotidiano 1989, pls. II, IV. Gjerstad omits the profile of the pillar from his excavation sections (figs 3.4–3.5), but it is included in composite images of the excavations; see Ioppolo 1971–72, 44, fig. 8. For the foundation trench, see Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, fig. 2; and Virgili 1977, 26–28. See, for example, Sommella 1968, 65; for a synthesis, see Cornell 2000, 44. See, for example, Sommella 1968, 65; Virgili 1988, 80; and Colini et al. 2000, 99 (his p. 91). For the pavements, Sector A-B-C, and A-D, strata 1–2, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.380, 384–385. For the situation of the eastern part of the platform, see Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, fig. 1; Colini et al. 2000, 99 (his p. 91). The state of the pavement was confirmed on observation of the site (November 20, 2008). Cf. Hopkins 2010, 132–134. Brocato et al. 2012, 21–22, 38. Colini 1977, 16, 19. Palazzo dei Conservatori 1981, 115. Colonna 1959–60, esp. 138; Paribeni 1959–60, esp. 110; Ioppolo 1971–72, 17; Daminato 1977, 35–42; Rizzo 1977, 43–54; Virgili 1977, 26–28; Colini et al. 1978, 424. Brocato et al. 2012, 17, 39–52. For discussion of a ridgepole cover and a fragment of a pedimental sima, see Gjerstad 1953–73, III.448. Gjerstad 1953–73, III.448. Andrén 1940, 440 I:447, pl. 136:478. Colonna and others date the Acropolis temple in Ardea to ca.

71. 72.

73.

74. 75.

465; see Colonna 1984, 494. For Satricum and Segni, see Andrén 1940, pl. 122.431, 150.513. For Rome, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, pl. 37.33. Brocato et al. 2012. Measurements were calculated from the top of the torus of the first temple to the top of Gjerstad’s stratum 3, the first pavement foundation; this is confirmed by a measure from S. A. R. A. Nistri, S.r.l, a cartographic group in Rome. On Apollo, see Ciancio Rossetto 1998, 192–195. On Portunus, see Adam 1994a. Cf. Ciancio Rossetto 1998, 192. Pisani Sartorio 1990, 114. The stylobate of the Temple of Castor and Pollux is 13.39 × 31 m, Juno is 16.9 × 38.15 m, and Concordia is 16.91 × 39.44 m. They are all longer, but not as wide, and their overall square footage is similar. Temple B at Pyrgi is 19.6 × 29.3 m, roughly equal, but also much lower to the ground. Temple II at Satricum measures 21 x 34 m, and Temple A at Selinunte measures 18.25 × 42.6 m, so it is somewhat larger.

6. 7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12.

CHAPTER 5. THE GREAT ROME OF THE ROMANS 1. See, for example, Carandini 2007; cf. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Carafa 1996; Carafa 1997; Carafa 1998; Carandini and Cappelli 2000; Carandini 2004; and Carandini, d’Alessio, and di Giuseppe 2006. With more caution, see Coarelli 1983a; Mertens-Horn 1994; Cornell 1995; Winter 2005; and Winter 2009c. Also, see notes throughout this chapter. 2. See, for example, Poucet 1985; Smith 1996, esp. 151; Smith 1999; Forsythe 2005; Poucet 2007; Wiseman 2008a; Wiseman 2008c; Poucet 2010; and Poucet 2011. 3. Several scholars have pointed out the perils of shrugging off Rome’s early history; see Flower 2010; Raaflaub 2005a; Raaflaub 2005b; and Scott 2005. 4. See above, nn1–2. 5. Raaflaub points to the common omission of archaeology from the discussion of the so-called social struggles; see Raaflaub 2005a. Cf. Scott 2005. For scholarship on the institutions based largely on textual sources, see Walsh 1961; Ogilvie 1965; Walsh 1966; Momigliano 1969; Rawson 1972; Richard 1978; Ogilvie 1984; Cornell 1986a; Cornell 1986c; Raaflaub and Cornell 1986; Mitchell 1990; Gabba 1991; Richard 1993; Forsythe 1994; Cornell 1995; Oakley 1997; Forsythe 1999; North and Powell 2001; Purcell 2003; Momigliano 2005;

210

notes to pages 149–156

13.

14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22.

23.

Raaflaub 2005a; Raaflaub 2005b; Raaflaub 2005c; Ungern-Sternberg 2005; Jehne 2006; Flower 2010; Mitchell and Howarth 2010; and Smith 2011. Coarelli (e.g., 1977a; 1981a) has been the primary scholar to assemble the two records. Cf. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Arvanitis 2004; Carandini 2004; Filippi 2004a; Filippi 2004b; and Arvanitis 2010, who link archaeology and text together from the regal period through the early Republic with little textual criticism and with questioned results. See above, n5, and below, n50. Dion. 2.50, 62. Cf. Müller-Karpe 1962. See Chap. 1, n13. Cf. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 150–151. The dates are better if defined broadly, as discussed in Chap. 1. Colonna 1984, 401; Colonna 1987a, 63. Cf. Coarelli 1996. Coarelli 1983a, 79–82. Cf. Cicero De re publica. 2.31.53; Plut. Popl. 10.6. Dion. 2.34.1; Livy 1.10. Cf. Coarelli 1996, with references. Cf. Fontaine 2004; Miller 1995, 109–112; Ampolo 2013. Cf. Colantoni forthcoming. See above, n10. For recent discussion of the summa sacra via and an apparent agreement on its location, see Ziółkowski 2004; and Coarelli 2012, 29–35. For broader perspectives on the tradition, see Wiseman 1979; Poucet 1985; Cornell 1986c; Cornell 1995; Wiseman 1995a; Wiseman 1995b; Smith 1999; Wiseman 2001; Forsythe 2005; Poucet 2011; and Wiseman 2013. See the discussion in Raaflaub 2005a. Dion. 3.67.5; Livy 1.35.7, 38.6; Pliny NH 38.6; Strabo 5.3.8. See, for example, Ammerman 1990, 638. Dion. 3.67; Cicero de re publica 2.20; Livy 1.35.6. Livy 1.36–39; Strabo 5.3.4; Dion. 3.49–66. Livy 1.34; Dion. 3.46–47; Strabo 5.2.2; Tact. Ann. 11.14. The sources do not state that Demaratus did this explicitly. On Demaratus, his historicity, and concerns about his association with terracotta manufacture, see Blakeway 1935; Williams II 1980; Ridgway and Serra Ridgway 1994; Zevi 1995; and Winter 2009c, esp. 578–579. Frank 1927; Ryberg 1929; Pasquali 1936; Ryberg 1940. Cf. Cornell 1995, 204–214. Following Pasquali are Colonna 1987a; Cristofani 1990b; Kuhoff 1995; Carafa 1996; Mura Sommella 2002; and Martinez-Pinna 1990–91. Cf. Ampolo 1976–77; Colonna 1987a; Cristofani

24. 25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

211

1990b; Martinez-Pinna 1990–91; Zevi 1995; Carafa 1996; Gabba 1998; Mura Sommella 2002. Against the idea of a Tarquin exceptionalism, see Cornell 1995, 122–214, esp. 127–130. He mentions it only briefly in the first page; see Pasquali 1936. See n22. On the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius on the Capitoline, see Dion. 2.34.4; and Livy 1.10.5–7 (or for Numa erecting this temple, see Cicero de re publica 2.20; Livy 1.16.5; and Dion. 2.63.3). On Jupiter Stator, see Dion. 2.50.3. On the sacellum to Jupiter, Mars, and Quirinus on the Quirinal, see Varro LL 5.74; Festus, 302; Paul. Fest., 303; and Pliny NH 15.120 (or for Numa erecting this temple, see Cicero de re publica 2.20; Livy 1.16.5; and Dion. 2.63.3). On Vulcan, see Dion. 2. 50.2–3. On the Sun and Moon, Saturn, Rhea, Vesta, Diana, and Quirinus, see Dion. 2.50.3. On Janus, see Livy 1.19.2–3. On Pallor and Panic, see Livy 1.27.7–8. On the Curia, see Livy 1.30. On the new palace on the Caelian, see Livy 1.30. On the Pons Sublicius, see Livy 1.38; and Dion. 3.45. On the Carcer, see Livy 1.38. On the Temple of Jupiter, see Livy 1.38.7; Dion. 3.69.1; and Cicero de re publica 2.20.36. On drainage ditches, see Dion. 3.67.5; Livy 1.35.7, 38.6; Pliny NH 38.6; and Strabo 5.3.8. In regard to the houses/palaces, it should be clear, the sources mention where Priscus lived, but they do not in any way suggest that he built the house he lived in, nor do they describe it except to mention the balcony he addressed a crowd on; see, for example, Livy 1.41.4; and Solin 1.24. Meanwhile, Martinez-Pinna suggests the shrine of Venus Cloacina be ascribed to Priscus, but this is by way of extraordinary maneuvers; he suggests that the cult of the goddess must have been around from the origin of the Cloaca Maxima (possible, but not certain), and since Priscus purportedly built the Maxima, and there are some nearby early sixth-century pot shards (found out of stratigraphic sequence in an Imperial deposit), they must be evidence of the sixth-century temple built by Priscus; see Martinez-Pinna 1990–91, 130. This is simply too much extrapolation, and as will be made clear below, n34, there is no reason to believe that kings were in charge of building everything that dates to their reigns. On Diana, see Livy 1.45; and Dion. 4.25. On Fortuna, see Dion. 4.27. On the walls, a recent assessment can be found in Bernard 2011, but see

notes to pages 156–161

also Cifani 1998. 30. On the Temple of Jupiter, see Cicero de re publica 2.24.44; Livy 1.53.2–3, II.8.6; and Dion. 3.69.2, IV.59.1, V.35.3. On the Circus Maximus and Cloaca Maxima, see Livy 1.56; and Dion. 3.67, 4.44. The same is true for Superbus’s house as is true for Priscus’s. See above, n28. 31. See above, n28, for more on this. 32. Diod. Sic. 12.26; Zonar 7.18; Pomp. Dig. 1.2.2.4. Cf. Cicero Balb. 23.53. 33. For more on this, see chaps. 2–3. Cf. Varro LL 5.155; and Livy 1.30. 34. Dion. 4.27. On the S. Omobono temple as built by Servius Tullius, see Mura Sommella 1977, 64; and Coarelli 1988a, 205, 219–221. On it being reattributed to Priscus, see Martinez-Pinna 1990–91, 135–138; and following Martinez-Pinna, see Mertens-Horn 1994; Mura Sommella 2000a, 19–20; and Winter 2009c, 150. 35. The only mention of Vesta or the Vestals in ancient sources between Priscus and the late fifth century is when Dionysius states that Priscus increased their number (but he says nothing about building anything), and when he gives the location for the Lacus Iuturnae as being near their sanctuary; see Dion 3.67, 6.13. 36. On the archaeological and textual history and longevity of the Temple of Castor, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992; and Bilde et al. 2008. On the Temple of Jupiter, see Chap. 3, nn116–118; Cicero Catil. 3.9; Dion. 4.52.5–6; Pliny NH 33.16; and Danti 2001. On the credibility of the function and design of the Capitoline, cf. Purcell 2003, 30–31. See also chaps. 3–4 for a general discussion of monuments that endured into the Republic. 37. On the Regia, see Brown 1935, 71–72; Brown 1967; and Scott 1999, esp. 189–190. Cf. Scott 1993b, 167. On Vesta, see Livy perioch 19; Ovid fasti 6.437–454; Pliny NH 7.141; and Val. Max. 1.4.5. Cf. excavation of material dating to that phase of construction: Scott 1993b, 167; Scott 2009b, 18–34; and Arvanitis 2010, 45–48. On the houses, see Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 250–256. See, generally, chaps. 3–4. 38. Coarelli 1977a, 244–245; Coarelli 1983a, 145. 39. Ogilvie 1984; Flower 2010, esp. 38–39. The concern for accuracy before 300 in general stems from doubt about record-keeping before the Licinian-Sextian rogations, the legitimacy of the family histories of nobiles, the accuracy of oral history before Fabius Pictor assembled the first known history of Rome, and the otherwise late

40.

41.

42.

43.

212

date of the earliest remaining full accounts of this period. On these concerns and strategies for using textual sources with caution, see Cornell 1986a; Cornell 1986c; Forsythe 2005, esp. 59–77; Mitchell 1990, 221–228; Momigliano 2005, esp. 168–170; North and Powell 2001; Oakley 1997, 102; Purcell 2003; Raaflaub 2005a; Raaflaub 2005b, xi; Rawson 1972; Smith 1996, 176–183; Wiseman 1993a; Wiseman 1994; Wiseman 1995a; and Wiseman 2008a, esp. 234–236, 306, 310, 312. On Livy specifically, see Luce 1977; Oakley 1997; Ogilvie 1965; Ungern-Sternberg 2005, esp. 80; Walsh 1961; Walsh 1966; and Wiseman 1979. On Dionysius of Halicarnassus specifically, see Gabba 1991. Wiseman (2008a, 235, 314n22) suggests that before the Licinian-Sextian rogations, the Senate would not have kept particularly good records, and that it was only with the proactive inclusion of plebeians in the consulship that one should conceive of trusting the fasti. This is perhaps not the case if the plebeian aediles in charge of the cult of Ceres were given the authority to house senatorial decrees beginning ca. 450, as Livy suggests (3.55.13). Cf. Cornell (1995, 264), who points out that Drummond and Alföldi saw this as a fabrication, but explains why it should not be treated as such. On the fasti and early Roman magistracies, a recent summary of debate can be found in Smith 2011. Those who are reluctant to give much weight to ancient texts on the monarchy and early Republic, but who do see this change in government, include Alföldi 1965, 72–84; Forsythe 2005, 78–115, 47–49; Oakley 1997; and Wiseman 2008a, esp. 306. For a broader belief in textual history, see Cornell 1986c, esp. 62–63; and Walsh 1966, esp. 126. On the establishment of patrician power during the kingship, see Flower 2010, 45; Mitchell 1990, esp. 64–130, 68–90; Raaflaub 2005c, esp. 185–186; Cornell 1995; and Richard 1978. See note 41. For a discussion of the initial organization of the government under patricians, with some openness to plebeians at first, see Cornell 1995, 215–262; Flower 2010, 45–49; and Forsythe 2005, 147–156, 62–65. Flower 2010, 48–49. Some scholars see a patrician rule sweeping in from the kingship; others are much more cautious about the credit we can give to ancient sources at this time. Famously, the fasti record several plebeian consuls even in the

notes to pages 161–162

44.

45.

46.

47.

first years of the Republic, but scholars debate their credibility and even whether the names are plebeian by necessity; see a recent discussion in Smith 2011. De Sanctis’s (1956–69, esp. 228) proposal that the government was initially somewhat open, until patricians closed it off after the first decade of the Republic, has found support among a majority of scholars. For a summary of this debate, see Cornell 1995, 242–256; Flower 2010, 45–49; Forsythe 2005, 157–170; and Raaflaub 2005c. Flower 2010, 48–49. Cf. Smith 2011; and Wiseman 2008a, 306–320. Raaflaub (2005c, 199) places this change in 487, following De Sanctis’s idea of the “serrata del patrizio” (De Sanctis 1956–69). Forsythe (2005, 165) follows the idea that the initial government after the kings was open to non-patricians until the closing of the Patriciate. Cf. Cornell 1995, 252–265. On the “first secession” and the creation of the tribunate, the concilium plebis, the plebiscites, and the first fights between patricians and plebeians thereafter, see Livy 2.28–3.32, esp. 2.28.1, 2.33.1–3, 2.34.8–35.6, and 3.31–32. On the Temple of Ceres, see Dion. 6.17. Livy 2.41.10 has only a statue being dedicated to Ceres at this time, but notes the plebeian aediles meeting in her temple from 449 onward to accept the records of the Senate; see Livy 3.55.13. For discussion of the “first secession,” see Cornell 1995, 256–265; and Forsythe 2005, 171–183. Even Forsythe (2005, 172–177), who discounts each of these events, nonetheless concludes that they preserve an historical memory of the creation of the tribunate and other plebeian offices during the first decades of the Republic as a foil to the patricians, who had long had control. On the decemvirate, the initial Twelve Tables, and the resulting Valerio-Horatian laws, see Cornell 1995, 272–292; Forsythe 2005, 201–233; and Ungern-Sternberg 2005. On the initial drive for new laws ca. 454, see Livy 3.31.8. On the decemvirate, see Dion. Hal. 10.50–60; Livy 3.31–57; Cicero de re publica 2.53–62; and Diod. 12.22–24. On the Leges Valerio-Horatii, see Livy 3.53–55; and Cicero de re publica 2.53. Cf. Cornell 1995, 260, 4, 76–92. The actions that seem to preserve a memory of change include the attempt to give more structure to Roman laws based on Greek precedent ca. 454; the second secession of plebeians; the decemviri and their Twelve Tables;

and ultimately a series of official recognitions of plebeian offices. These include the Leges ValerioHoratii, which purportedly gave legal recognition to the power of the plebeian tribunes and the suggestions put forth in plebiscites (proposals advanced by tribunes) as well as authority given to aediles—plebeian magistrates—of the cult of Ceres to house decrees of the Senate in their temple; meanwhile, the Lex Canuleia allowed plebeians to marry into patrician families, ostensibly opening the back door to senatorial magistracies. Cf. Cornell 1995, 272–292; Flower 2010, 48–49; Forsythe 2005, 201–233; Raaflaub 2005c, 187, 203–205; and Ungern-Sternberg 2005. Cornell (1995, 4, 76, 260) explains the Senate’s willingness to give such power to the aediles as a concession to unhappy plebs. Forsythe (2005, 230–233) dismisses the entire series of events; several scholars have suggested his dismissal of all these events is arbitrary and unsubstantiated; see de Rossi 2005; and Hölkeskamp 2007. Ungern-Sternberg (2005, 79) and Drummond (1990) tackle the issue with a somewhat more measured argumentation, concluding that there were substantial, if not holistic or even necessarily enduring, improvements to the plebeian position at or around the date Livy suggests. They argue, though, that little more of the story surrounding the change can be given serious credit. 48. The most famous ideas associating change with patrician power dynamics are expounded in De Sanctis 1956–69; and Last 1945. For perspectives that focus on the changing dynamics of the plebs, see Momigliano 1969; Richard 1978; and Richard 1993. On the idea that there were stages to the conflicts and changes in the concerns at hand over the early centuries of Roman history, see Cornell 1995, 215–292; Flower 2010, 3–57; and Raaflaub 2005c. 49. Wiseman sees this moment as the occasion to begin lending credence to the textual tradition of Roman history, at least as regards names of those in power; see Wiseman 2008a, 235, 314. A good review of the material is found in Cornell 1995, 327–340. 50. See above, nn2–3, 22. The division was for some time predicated on the purported change in culture from the hegemony of Etruscans to independent Romans; see, for example, Boëthius, Ling, and Rasmussen 1994, 103–113. This discourse has changed substantially in the past twenty years;

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notes to pages 162–163

cf. Cornell 1995, 151–172; and see the Introduction to this book, “Connectivity.” Nonetheless, the association of architectural change with the end of the monarchy persists; see Brown 1967; and Brown 1974–75; cf. Ogilvie 1976, who highlights the date of the new Regia; Coarelli 1977a, esp. 244–245; and Coarelli 1983a, 56–78, 145, on the whole complex of the Regia and Atrium Vestae areas as a regal palace converted to religious structures at the start of the Republic, and on the transformation of the Comitium with the start of the Republic. This has been expanded recently by those working on the so-called palaces on the north slope of the Palatine; see Arvanitis 2004; Arvanitis 2010; Carandini 2004; Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000]; Filippi 2004a; and Filippi 2004b. The whole idea of a “Grande Roma dei Tarquini” suggests a focused spurt of urban magnificence that then falls with the expulsion of the Tarquins; see Carafa 1996; Cristofani 1990b; Mura Sommella 2000a; and Pasquali 1936. In general, see Coarelli 1981a; and Coarelli 1983a. Scott (2005) implicitly contrasts the regal period with the Republic when, after summarizing archaeological evidence for social struggles, he says, “As to temples, few were built in Rome from the end of the sixth century to the end of the fourth.” Though not overt, the implication is that there is a change in Roman architecture, and it happens at the traditional date of the fall of the monarchy. Smith is less emphatic, but his survey of archaeology effectively ends with the last king before he begins looking more to textual evidence. He has only one paragraph on the architecture of the early Republic, and he states that he believes it was under the last three kings, in the late regal period, that Rome “developed its institutions and its topography” (Smith 1996, esp. 150–151). The implication is that there was an architectural and civic formation at this time that is noticeably distinct from what happened next. He does briefly discuss the first events of the Republic and suggests a continued prosperity for an elite group (Smith 1996, 165, 232), but he does not explain how this ties to the architecture he mentions. Holloway (1994) argues for a Rome whose wealth and culture continued from the regal period to the middle Republic, but he is speaking broadly about Rome’s wherewithal, not social issues or governmental change. Like Smith, he cuts the narrative of architecture and the makeup of

51. 52.

53.

54. 55.

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government at the fall of the monarchy, which leaves a reader with the impression that there is a shift at that point. Despite the implications of the title of his book, Architettura Romana Arcaica: Edilizia e società tra Monarchia e Repubblica, Cifani (2008) speaks almost entirely in terms of artistic periodization (archaic) and does not suggest anything regarding social change as it pertains to architectural and urban shifts. Winter largely steers clear of the topic; still, although predicated on a major change in style, her survey ends ca. 510 in Rome, which perpetuates this division; see Winter 2009c. Even Coarelli’s recent book on Le Origini di Roma has a lengthy discussion of the monarchy. Then, after only a few paragraphs on only a few buildings from the early Republic (and with no apparent indication of continuity), it leaps to the art of the middle Republic. Amici 2004–5, 351–354; Brown 1974–75. See, for example, Lulof 2000, 207, which ties the final construction to Superbus and the destruction to the foundation of the Republic, when “the temple was ritually destroyed.” On the date, see Daminato 1977, 39–40; Rizzo 1977, 44; Pisani Sartorio and Virgili 1979, 44; Virgili 1977, #1442; and Virgili 1990, 130. Cf. Mura Sommella 2000a. For a summary, see Hopkins 2010, 118–119. On the continued use and reconstruction of houses, cf. Carandini and Carafa 1995 [2000], 74–76, 215–266. Flower 2010, 48; Purcell 2003, 31. A tally of the buildings definitively erected before and after ca. 509 (not including the Regia, Atrium Vestae, or Comitium, which could have been built on either side of that date) will reveal that some fifteen buildings went up between 550 and 509, and between 509 and 460 there are eight known buildings. That is certainly fewer, but such a numbers game is misleading. The temples of the Castores and Saturn and the early fifth-century temples on the Capitoline and Velia were far larger than the small temples at S. Omobono and most of the other sacred buildings from the late sixth century. In fact, the size of the Temple of Castor (at 27.5 × 37–40 m) and its immense podium (5 m tall) would account for the same amount of material and labor used in ten of the small temples at S. Omobono (just 11.2 × 13.2 m with a 1.7-m podium). The early fifth-century twin temples at S. Omobono were nearly equal in combined size to the Temple of Jupiter.

notes to pages 163–166

56. On 509 as a marker for change in roofing systems, see Winter 2009c, 4. 57. See Chap. 3, nn19–21. 58. For a discussion of the antefixes, also found contemporaneously at Satricum, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992, 168–169. 59. For a survey of stone walls and columns in Central Italy, see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 93–96. On Pyrgi, see Colonna 1966, 268–277; and Colonna and Pallottino 1970, 43. On Marzabotto, see Damgaard Andersen 1998, 93. On Satricum, see de Waele 1981, 31. On Pompeii, see de Waele and Cantilena 2001, 113. On Veii (Portonaccio), see Stefani 1953, 43. On Rome (Castor), see Nielsen and Zahle 1985, 78. On Lanuvium, see Galieti 1928, 93–94. On Tarquinii, see Bonghi Jovino 1997, 89–90. 60. In fact, for the years between ca. 520 and 500 (that is, immediately surrounding 509), there are precious few stone temples in Central Italy; in contrast, beginning ca. 500/490, there is a quick increase in construction throughout the region and for the next forty years. Cf. Damgaard Andersen 1998, 23–25, 93–95. The same argument could be made for the size of temples, which begin to grow in the middle of the sixth century, with the Ara della Regina, Temple I at Satricum, and the Capitoline Temple in Rome. By the late sixth century, there are others, at Satricum, Pyrgi, Caere, and elsewhere. The trend takes off only in the early fifth century. 61. For a summary of evidence for regal patronage, see above, nn7–30. 62. On S. Omobono specifically, see, for example, Bradley 2005, 130, and above, n34. Nancy Winter has pointed out that the iconography of Hercules and Minerva is found in cities throughout Central Italy where Tarquinius Superbus had ties, and she concludes a regal patronage; see Winter 2005. Although somewhat problematic, if her assessment of the Hercules and Minerva sculptures were to be accurate, it only undermines the suggestion that the Tarquins and Servius Tullius were in control of all construction in Rome. If Superbus was able to build monumental temples in other polities, that leaves open the possibility that those in power in other cities might have done the same in Rome. The textual sources speak of a number of potentates with ties to Rome during the regal period. There is no textual or archaeological evidence to suggest

63. 64.

65.

66.

67.

68.

69.

70. 71. 72.

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that Superbus would be able to build in other cities, but those from other cities would not have the same option in Rome. Thus, the buildings erected under the reigns of the kings in Rome could be the work of other elites and rulers from polities with close ties to Rome, including people from Tarquinii, Gabii, Praeneste, and elsewhere. Thus, one could not assume that architecture in Rome was the work of kings, or even the work of Romans! See Chap. 3, nn100–101. On Rome, see Stewart 2008, 113–116. On Athens, see Shapiro 1989, 157, 161. Examples of scholarship that either assume regal patronage or actively attempt to tie architecture to monarchs include Coarelli 1981a; Colonna 1981a; Colonna 1981a; Colonna 1987a; Coarelli 1988a; Il viver quotidiano 1989; Cristofani 1990b; Mura Sommella 1990; Ammerman 1990; Carafa 1996; Lulof 2000; Mura Sommella 2002; Arvanitis 2004; Winter 2005; Davies 2006; Winter 2009c; Arata 2010; Arvanitis 2010; and Cifani 2014. Marconi 2007, 42–45. Cf. Martin 1973; Howe 1985, 276; Manganaro 1996, 59; Hellmann 1999, 100; de Angelis 2003, 166; Rescigno 2013. See, for example, Dobres and Robb 2000; Blanton et al. 1996; Drennan 2000; and Spencer 1993. On Rome, see Terrenato 2011 for a review. For a recent discussion, see, Terrenato 2011. Cf. Franciosi 1999 on clan structures; on the Roman clan and its early formation, see Smith 2006, esp. 144–158, for Bronze and Archaic Age evidence for clan structures. On elite networks of exchange and communication, see Ampolo 1976–77; Rendeli 1993; Cornell 1995, 87–92; Smith 1996; and Fulminante and Stoddart 2013. Cf. Latour 2005; and Knappett 2011. For recent studies of the evidence with bibliographies, see Smith 1996; Pacciarelli 2001; Fulminante 2003; Riva 2010b; and Fulminante 2014, with references. Also see the discussion of the multiple elite houses in this volume. For Rome especially, see Bietti Sestieri 2000; and Fulminante 2014, 74. On Rome and the steep rise in economic stratification in relation to Latium, cf. Smith 1996. Terrenato 2011. Smith 1996; Fulminante 2014, esp. 231–233. Cf. Fulminante 2003. This is especially apparent at Osteria dell’Osa,

notes to pages 166–173

73. 74.

75.

76.

77.

but Fulminante pushes the evidence to suggest a broader Latial familial elite structure; see Fulminante 2003; Fulminante 2014, 233–234. Cf. Bietti Sestieri 2000. Cornell 1995, 143–145, with references. On the establishment of patrician power during the kingship, see Flower 2010, 45; Mitchell 1990, esp. 64–130, 68–90; Raaflaub 2005c, esp. 185–186; Cornell 1995, #62; and Richard 1978. For a discussion of the initial organization of the government under patricians, with some openness to plebeians at first, see Cornell 1995, 215–262; Flower 2010, 45–49; and Forsythe 2005, 147–156, 62–65. A few different perspectives that agree on an establishment of patrician power include De Sanctis 1956–69, esp. 228; Richard 1978; Mitchell 1990, esp. 64–130; Cornell 1995; Raaflaub 2005c, esp. 185–186; and Flower 2010, 45. For a summary of this debate, see Cornell 1995, 242–256; Forsythe 2005, 157–170; Raaflaub 2005c; and Flower 2010, 45–49. On political power and social space, see Findley 2005; Gell 1998; Giddens 1984; Goodsell 1988; Hölscher 2005; Lefebvre 1991; Low and Lawrence-Zúñiga 2003; and Parker Pearson and Richards 1994. On the phenomenology of perception and the power of the spectator, see, for example, Hegel 1977; Merleau-Ponty 1962; Schapiro 1968; Rancière 2004; and Rancière 2009.

CHAPTER 6. INTEGRATION 1. Lulof forthcoming; Rizzo 2008; Rizzo 2011; Bellelli 2011a; Bellelli 2011b; Gaultier et al. 2013. 2. Perhaps Cumae or Neapolis may have, but this is unknown. The closest rivals are Paestum and Metapontum, which hosted large domestic quarters and four truly monumental temples each. Caere and Ardea are the next-closest rivals: Caere had the six temples mentioned; one might include as well the two temples at the port of Pyrgi, some seven miles away, but then perhaps there was a Roman port on the Tyrrhenian coast as well. Ardea has three similar monumental temples and another slightly smaller in the port area, Fosso dell’Incastro. Marzabotto has two: Temple C and the Tinia Temple. Otherwise, major temples, such as the Ara della Regina at Tarquinii, the Portonaccio Sanctuary at Veii, the Temple of Juno at Segni, and Temple II at Satricum, exist largely as solitary major sanctuaries with a few

3.

4.

5.

6.

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small temples to complement them. For those who conservatively place construction of the temples of Saturn and of Fortuna and Mater Matuta anywhere in the fifth century, rather than at its start, it should be noted that this only delays Rome’s addition of those three temples by fifty years. As Paestum, Metapontum, and Caere did not add substantially to their image after ca. 450, Rome would still outstrip them by the end of the century. For the colossal temples, by ca. 450, the Temple of Samos would have been completed, and the Temple of Artemis was not finished until 460 or later. The Olympieion at Agrigento was only begun ca. 480 and would not have been completed before the middle of the century. The circumstances, date, and full image of the archaic Temple of Apollo at Didyma remain unclear. It was destroyed by the Persians in 494, but it is unclear whether or not it was finished at that time. Temple G at Selinunte was never finished, and it would take the Roman conquest of Athens and the reign of Hadrian for the Temple of Olympian Zeus to be completed there. See Chap. 3, n162. Other temples from the period mentioned in ancient sources include Ceres, Liber, and Libera (Dion. 6.17.2–3; Tac. Ann. 2.49.1); Mercury (Livy 1.27); and Dius Fidius (Dion. Hal. 9.60.8; Varro de ling lat. 5.52). Alzinger 1982, 24–26; Rendeli 1989, 49; Mertens 1994, 195–200; Turfa and Steinmayer 2002, 6; Davies 2006, 187–190; Cifani 2008, 290–293. See the Introduction to this book, “Connectivity.” The bibliography is already vast. See, for example, Sherratt and Sherratt 1993; Antonaccio 2010; Antonaccio 2003; Malkin 2004; Knappett 2005; Malkin 2005; Morris 2005; and Hall 2002, esp. 104–124. To some extent, Central Italy has been excluded from this conversation, though this is changing; see Malkin 2001, 14; Riva 2010a; and Malkin 2002. The exception has of course been the influence of Etruscans on the early city, but beyond this, Rome is portrayed as cut off from the bustling Orientalizing and archaic world; see Hall 1996; Stopponi 2000; Marcattili 2008; and Torelli and Moretti Sgubini 2008, 168–197. These are largely works that focus on early Italy or early Rome, but the same story frequently appears in surveys of Roman history, art, and architecture; see, for example, Ramage and Ramage (2009, esp. 44 and

notes to pages 173–178

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

66–67), who state that “[The Capitoline Temple] was constructed in the Etruscan style by Etruscan builders.” Cf. Allan 2005, 12. On the Veii sculptures, see Carlucci 2011. On the Satricum sculptures, see Lulof 1996. 8. In this sense, it was not Sicilianized, Hellenized, or Ionicized, but, following Jonathan Hall’s emphasis on that particularly meaningful suffix, it was perhaps Sicilianizing, Hellenizing, and Ionicizing; see Hall 2002, esp. 107. Although I argue in this chapter that, for Rome in this period, perhaps it is better to speak more broadly. The sanctuaries in question are at Ardea (Acropolis, Casalinaccio), Vulci (Fontanile di Legnisina), Veii (Portonaccio), Satricum (Temple II), Lanuvium, Rome (Castor), Pyrgi (temples A and B), Orvieto, and Marzabotto (Temple C, Tinia Temple). Of the thirteen known temples built in the wake of the Capitoline, a clear majority assembled the elements of the Roman temple. For a full discussion of the effects, see Hopkins 2012b. On the sources of inspiration, see Chap. 3, nn129–152. On the emulation of classical styles, see Gazda 2002a; Gazda 2002b; Koortbojian 2002; Perry 2005; Junker, Stähli, and Kunze 2008; and Marvin 2008. For such an assertion, see Colonna 1985, 60; Boëthius, Ling, and Rasmussen 1994, 41–42; and Gros 2006, 136–137. For a recent investigation of the problems with identifying and conceiving the image and function of capitolia, see Quinn and Wilson 2013. Recently, Jean-Claude Golvin (1988) and (more explicitly) Katherine Welch (2009, 138–141) have described the effects of the Colosseum in a similar manner. While no amphitheater after it copies it outright, they argue its design was so influential as to “canonize” the building type. See, for example, the temples of Castor and Pollux and of Saturn in Rome and the Temple of Jupiter in Pompeii (often referred to as a Capitolium). On Capitolia and temples misattributed as Capitolia, see Barton 1982; and Quinn and Wilson 2013. On the tomb, see Davies 2009a. Jacques Rancière (2004, esp. 12–15; 2009, esp. 13, 17, 59, 109–112) argues that the experience of that viewer will dictate her/his actions, and in the case of the Capitoline Temple, its viewers’ experiences will have influenced the adoption

of many of its aspects in the construction of later temples. Meanwhile, among many others, Derrida 1987 and Heidegger 2008 (originally 1935) have highlighted the importance of time and circumstance on the study and activation of art and object-hood. 16. On the introduction of stone entablatures and tighter columnar spacing, see Davies 2009b. On the incorporation of Ionic proportion and peripteral temples, the Temple of Spes in the Forum Holitorium dates ca. 254, and the spacing of columns in the Temple of Janus may be tied both to Ionic proportions and to the introduction of stone entablatures at the Temple of Victoria. 17. Cassiod. Var. 7.6.1. 18. Varro ap. non. 853L; Livy 9.40.16.

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———. 2004. Sacra Via: Twenty Years After. Warsaw, Fundacja im. Rafała Taubenschlaga. G. Zuchtriegel. 2014. “Review: The Urbanization of Rome and Latium Vetus: From the Bronze Age to the Archaic Era.” Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2014.12.30, http://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2014/2014-12-30.html.

illustration credits

The photographers and the sources of visual material other than the owners indicated in the captions are as follows. Every effort has been made to supply complete and correct credits; if there are errors or omissions, please contact Yale University Press so that corrections can be made in any subsequent edition. Unless otherwise indicated, all illustrations are by the author.

Frontispiece and figs. 30, 40, 47, 50, 55, 81, 82, 99, 107, 117 (fragments). Published by permission of the Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini Figs. 2–3. Images created by the Ancient World Mapping Center (AWMC) and available for free at awmc.unc. edu. Published with additions by the author by permission of the AWMC. Fig. 4. Photo by Andrea Giovagnoli and published by his permission Figs. 5, 17, 24 (fragment), 117 (drawing). The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (900228). Copyright Foto Vasari and published by permission of Alessandro Vasari. Fig. 6. Photo ©luigispina. Published by license of the Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo—Soprintendenza Speciale per I Beni Archeologici di Roma. Fig. 9. Photo by Carla Antonaccio and published by her permission Figs. 12–14, 63. Published by permission of the American Academy in Rome, Photographic Archive Figs. 15, 39, 44, 46. Drawings by Renate Sponer Za for Winter 2009c Figs. 16, 18, 71, 102. Published by license of the Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo— Soprintendenza Speciale per I Beni Archeologici di Roma

Fig. 19. Photo by John Hopkins. Published by permission of the American Academy in Rome. Figs. 20, 24–25, 31–32, 38, 41–43, 48, 64–65, 68, 80. 3-D reconstruction and imaging by Zichu “Will” Wang, with John Hopkins Fig. 23. Boni 1900, fig. 30 Figs. 28–29. Photo by John Hopkins. Published by permission of the Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Figs. 33, 58–59, 62, 100–101. Published by permission of the Soprintendenza per I beni archeologici dell’Etruria Meridionale Figs. 34, 56. Gianni Dagli Orti/The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y. Figs. 35–36. Photo by Edward Paul “Bud” Skibitzke and published by his permission Figs. 45, 95–96. From Åkerström 1966, published by permission of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome Fig. 49. Metropolitan Museum of Art, OASC Figs. 51–52. Nimatallah/Art Resource, N.Y. Fig. 53. Vanni Archive/Art Resource, N.Y. Fig. 54. Photo by Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, N.Y. Fig. 57. Photo by Hans Ollermann and published by his permission Fig. 60. Scala/Art Resource, N.Y. Fig. 61. Scala/Ministero per i Beni e le Attività culturali/ Art Resource, N.Y. Fig. 70. Published by permission of Peter Wiseman Fig. 72. Plan of the temple by Janis Atelbauers, with John Hopkins and Richard Beacham. Published by permission of Richard Beacham. Foundation plan by John Hopkins. Figs. 74, 87, 97, 110, 115, 118. 3-D reconstruction and imaging by Janis Atelbauers, with John Hopkins and Richard Beacham. Published by permission of Richard Beacham. Figs. 75–78. Photo by Erik Gustafson. Published

by permission of the Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Figs. 84, 86, 109, 116. Drawing by Janis Atelbauers, with John Hopkins and Richard Beacham. Published by permission of Richard Beacham. Fig. 103. Published by permission of Patrizio Pensabene. Fig. 104. Published by permission of the Antiquarium Comunale di Roma—Archivio Fotografico. Fig. 105. Photo by Patricia Lulof. Published by permission of the Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Fig. 106. Drawing by Patricia Lulof, published by her permission. Fig. 113. Elevation of the Temple of Castor by Janis Atelbauers, with John Hopkins and Richard Beacham. Published by permission of Richard Beacham. Fig. 114. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (900228). Published by permission of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome.

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index

acroteria (acroterion): , 80–81, 82; Amazon sculpture, 132-134, 172; Regia, second building, disk acroterion, 43, 45–46; S. Omobono, second phase (see also Hercules and Minerva sculpture group), 68, 70, 72, 73–74 aedes fortunae, 134 Aegean korai, 75, 76, 81 aerarium populi Romani, 144 aggers, 95 Agrigento, 116, 120, 122, 140, 173, 174; Olympieion, 110, 112, 113 Alban Hills, 135 Alzinger, Wilhelm, 110 Amazon sculpture, 132–134 Ammerman, Albert, 28, 30, 108 Anavysos Kouros, 75–76 Ancus Marcius, 157 Anio River, 62 Antefix(es): Colosseum Valley excavations, 130, 172; Comitium, 49; earliest examples in Central Italy, 185n35; earliest full-bodied antefixes, 165; head from Germalos, 92; Juno Sospita from Palatine, 127, 129, 130, 164; Regia, second building, 43, 44, 45–46, reconstruction ca. 550-530, 84; S. Omobono, 68; Temple of Castor, 140, 142; Temple of Jupiter?, 102 anthemia (anthemion): first use of, 165; in the Mediterranean, 116–118; Temple of Jupiter, 177, 202n110; at twin temples at S. Omobono, 149–150; Velia revetment, 131 Apollo (Temple of Apollo, Veii), 76, 77, 78 Appius Claudius Caecus, 124 Ara della Regina (Tarquinii), 99, 107, 110, 111, 124, 138, 165, 176 archaeological finds versus textual records: and dating and chronology, 6–7, 143–144, 182n14; and defensive walls, 93–96; disciplinary divisions between text, archaeology, art, and architecture, 3, 9–12, 153–155;

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during transition to Republic, 154–155, 160–163; regal period, 154–160, 168–169; on use of stone masonry, 143–144 architectural achievements: comparison of Mediterranean cities, 173–174, 215n2; impact and emulation of, 176–180; overview, 172; patronage and, 11–12, 155–160, 166–169, 214n62; Rome as distinct, 175–176 architectural shifts: coinciding with civic shifts, 169–171; and fall of the monarchy, 86–87, 163–165, 171, 213n50, 213n55; gradual nature of, 165–166; timeline of construction in Rome ca. 650–450, 164; transformation of ca. 550–500, 66, 123–125 Arch of Constantine, street and wall near, 130 Ardea, 68, 114, 124; Acropolis Temple, 149–150, 210n70; revetment plaques, 149–150 Area of Vesta. See Atrium Vestae Argos: Heraion, 32, 33; land works, 32 Ariadne. See Dionysus and Ariadne/Leukothea sculpture group aryballos, 45 ashlar dimensions, dating and, 143 Asia Minor, 116, 117, 118–119 Athens: Acropolis, 76, 77; allegorical images of Peisistratid rise to power, 81; depictions of Hercules and Minerva, 79; Peplos Kore, 76; terracottas, 8; triple colonnades, 115 Atrium Vestae, 26, 27, 40, 47–48, 87–88, 159 Attica: Anavysos Kouros, 75–76; black-figure amphora, 76; korai, 76, 78, 79; krater, 51 Augustus, 1 Aula Regia, 21 Aulus Postumius, 137–138 Bacchiad dynasty, 59–60 banquet scene iconography, 45, 67, 70 Basilica Julia, 31, 32, 142, 145

Bruun, Christer, 81 bull-headed man iconography, 43, 45 burials and graves, 20–21, 23–24, 25, 26, 27, 95, 135–137, 155 Caelian, 5, 6, 29, 36, 95, 137, 157, 173 Caere, 25, 65, 81–82, 165, 173; marriage sarcophagi, 76, 77, 78, 81 Campania, 14, 43, 45–46, 122, 134 Capitoline: communal activity, 25–27; defensive walls, 92–93, 94–95, 96–97; early settlement, 20–23; excavation sites, 5, 137, 202n110; revetments, 65, 68, 126–127, 128, 132; Temple of Jupiter Feretrius, 155, 157; Vicus Iugarius, 34, 151. See also S. Omobono; Temple of Jupiter Capitoline Era, 126, 142, 143 cappellaccio, 92, 93, 129, 143–46. See also stone, use of Caprifico, 68, 69, 70, 71 Carandini, Andrea, 182n14 Carthage landfill project (byrsa), 32 Castor and Pollux. See Temple of Castor and Pollux Castores cult, 140–142 cellae (cella walls), 54–55, 109–110, 120–121, 139, 176, 177–178 Central Italy: acroterial and ridgepole sculpture in, 80–81, 82, 83; antefixes, 140; anthemia, 117; architectural shifts, 165–166; characteristics of architecture, 177; clan structures in, 167–169; colossal construction in, 121–122, 139–140; defensive walls in, 93–94; depictions of Hercules and Minerva, 79; features of temple design, 53, 56, 58–61; foundation walls and pillars, 113, 114; iconography, 70–72; oikos temples, 110; peripteral temples in, 120; Rome as cult center of, 142; Rome’s surge in power and wealth in, 123–124; study of, 13–16; use of marble, 135–136; use of stone, 39 chariot racing iconography, 67, 70, 71, 118 Cicero, 9, 107, 155, 156, 176 Cifani, Gabriele, 107–108 cinerary urns, 135–136 cippus at the Comitium, 50–53, 63–64, 88, 89, 144 city-state genesis, 24–27, 35 clan system, 167–169, 170 Cloaca Maxima, 32–33, 158 Coarelli, Filippo, 40, 51 Colini, Antonio Maria, 148–149 Colonna, Giovanni, 54, 55, 149 colonnades, 109–110, 111–113, 114, 115–116, 118, 139, 176, 177, 178 Colosseum valley, 28, 36, 131, 137 column capital casing (S. Omobono), 55, 194n56 columns in antis, 55

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Comitium, 48–53, 193n41; cippus at, 50–53, 63–64, 88, 89, 144; pavement and stepped platform, 88–89; speaker’s platform, 144, 158, 161 connectivity: international artistic styles, 65, 83–84, 134, 175; Mediterranean region, 12–19, 118–119, 174–175; Merten’s theory of architecture and, 112–113; and Regia second building, 43, 45–46; between Rome and Ionia, 70–72; Samos and Temple of Jupiter, 118–119; and S. Omobono first phase, 56–61, second phase 83-84; trade, 61–62 Corinth, 8, 45, 68, 70, 116 courtyard buildings, 110 cult activity, 22, 27, 36, 47, 74, 87, 140–142, 160, 178 cultural interaction. See connectivity cultural superiority/dominion, 14, 16 Cumae, anthemia in roofing systems, 117, 165; architectural patronage, 167; marble cinerary urn, 136; roofing system shared with Pithecusae 43, 46, 49, 65, 174 Curia, 49–50, 51, 157, 159 Curiae Veteres, 131 Cypriot statues, 74–75 Davies, Penelope, 113, 122 deep porches, 110, 176, 177 DeLaine, Janet, 38 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 9, 106–107, 142, 144, 156, 176 Dionysus and Ariadne/Leukothea sculpture group (S. Omobono, second phase), 73–74 disk acroterion, 43, 45–46 Domus 3, 90, 91 Downey, Susan, 43, 45 Droysen, J. G., 12 Edlund-Berry, Ingrid, 80 Ephesos, 110, 112, 113, 115, 118, 119, 120, 158 Equus Domitiani excavation, 145, 146 era of monarchy. See regal period Esquiline: Amazon sculpture, 132–134; communal activity, 26–27; early settlers, 20–23; excavation sites, 5; graves, 134–135, 136 Etruria (Etruscans): clans, 168; cultural relationship to Rome, 9, 12, 13–15, 18, 83–84, 165, 174, 175, 179; domestic stone architecture, 91–92; early settlements, 25; and Mediterranean connectivity, 16, 17, 19, 175; proto-urban centers, 25, 26; roofing systems, 49, 62; sculptures, 76; terracottas, 43, 49, 175; and trade, 62. See also specific cities and sites excavations: dating and, 6–7, 182n14; fragmented history of, 6; hilltops, ca. 500–450, 137; reconstructions and interpretations of, 7; sites, 4–6. See also specific buildings

feline iconography, 43, 45, 47, 48, 56–61, 174 Ficana, 14, 68 “first secession” of the plebs, 162 flooding, 28–30, 150–151, 189n36 floral motifs, 70, 72, 117, 127–129, 131, 132. See also anthemia Forum: architecture and unification, 64–65, 123–124, 178-179; Atrium Vestae, 26, 27, 40, 47–48, 87–88, 159; Comitium (see Comitium); house atop the Sepulcretum, 40–41; pavements, 30, 144–146; Regia (see Regia); Temple of Castor and Pollux, 137–142; Temple of Saturn, 142–144. Forum basin excavation sites, 5 Forum basin reclamation, 27–38, 189n41, 190n53; area flooding, 27–29, 189n36; canal construction, 32–33; as critical moment in Roman history, 37–38; embankment, 31–32; evidence of habitation prior to, 29–30; motivations for, 35–37; scope and outcome of, 34–35; Tarquinius Priscus and, 156 Forum Boarium, 82 friezes, 43, 45, 56, 67 frontal staircases, 54, 56, 66, 120 Gabii, 45, 48, 49, 87 gables, 14, 56 Gantz, Timothy, 52 Gellius, A., 51 Gigantomachy, 74, 79, 81 Giglio shipwreck, 72 Gjerstad, Einar, 4, 24, 29, 30, 54, 55, 74–75, 146, 148, 149 Gorgon iconography, 43, 44, 45–46, 48, 56–61 graves. See burials and graves Great Rome of the Tarquins (La Grande Roma dei Tarquini), 156–160 Greece (Greeks): cultural reach and artistic output of, 12–13, 70; cultural variations and divergences, 16–18, 186n43; temple foundations, 113–116. See also specific cities and sites Grotta Oscura, 93 Hephaestus, 51 Heraion of Samos (Temple of Hera), 109, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118–119 Hercules and Minerva sculpture group: association of Hercules and Minerva, 79; dress and style of Hercules, 74–76; incorporating artistic trends, 83–84; identification of, 72–73; importance of location of, 83; and link to temple’s dedicatee, 79–80, 82; Minerva’s face and style, 76-78; as propaganda, 81–82; and trade, 82–83 Horatius Cocles, 193n41

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House of Livia area building, 92 “House of Tarquinius,” 91 houses, stone, 90–92, 160, 199n78 huts, wattle and daub, 20–24, 39–41 inscription, first known public, 51–53 international artistic trends, 65, 83–84, 134, 175 Ionia: and colossal temples, 113, 119, 175; roof decorations, 70, 71, 72, 117, 118, 120; sculpture, 75, 84 Ioppolo, Giovanni, 54, 55 Juno Sospita, 127, 129, 130 kingship era. See regal period kraters, 51 Kroisos Kouros. See Anavysos Kouros Lanciani, Rodolfo, 132 Lapis Niger, 44, 49, 52, 53 Lararium, 21 Larisa on the Hermos, 70, 71, 72, 117, 118 Latium, 13–14, 43, 56, 124, 141, 179 Latona (Temple of Apollo, Veii), 76, 77, 78 Livy, 9, 53, 79–80, 141, 144, 156, 176 L. Munatius Plancus, 142 longitudinal and transverse foundations, 113–116 lotuses in relief, 116, 117, 127, 128, 132 Lulof, Patricia, 81, 132–134 Macrobius, 142, 144 marble, 75, 76, 77, 135–137 Marcus Furius Camillus, 146, 148 marriage sarcophagi. See Caere, marriage sarcophagus Mater Matuta, 80, 82, 127, 159, 160, 173 Mediterranean region: and anthemia, 116–117; architectural patronage in, 167, 168–169; burial urns, 135–136; colonnades, 115; colossal temples of, 110–112, 122; comparison of city architectural achievements, 173–174; cultural interconnectivity and exchange, 12–19, 43–47, 56–61, 83–84, 118–119, 174–175; houses, full-scale stone construction, 91–92; international artistic styles, 65, 79, 87; map, 17; trade, 18, 62–63; urban defenses, 93–94; use of terracotta, 60; use of trusses, 104 Merenda Kouros, 76 Mertens, Dieter, 110, 112–113, 119 Mertens-Horn, Madeleine, 56, 58, 59–60 Metapontum Temple BII, 99 Minerva. See Hercules and Minerva sculpture group Mitylene (Lesbos), 117 Monteverde pavement, 148

monumental initiatives theories, 38 Müller-Karpe, Hermann, 24–25 Murlo, 61, 80, 104, 110, 120, 121 Neils, Jenifer, 82 Numa, 155 oikos temples, 110, 185n35 Ops Consiva, 86 Palatine: communal activity, 25–27; early settlement, 20–24; excavation sites, 5, 7, 137; head antefix from Germalos, 92; houses, 90–92, 160; Juno Sospita antefixes, 127, 129, 130; North Slope excavations, 7, 23, 90-91, 182n14, 187n13, sanctuary on SW slope, 130; terracottas (ca. 500–450), 127, 129–131; Via Sacra, 89; wall, 26–27 Palestrina, 68 palmettes in relief, 116, 117, 127, 128, 132, 149–150 Parian marble, 135–137 Paribeni, Enrico, 149 Pasquali, Giorgio, 156–157 patricians and plebeians, 161–163, 170–171, 213n patronage and architectural achievements, 11–12, 155–160, 166–169, 214n62 pavements, 30, 88–89, 144–146, 148–149 pediments, 8, 56–58, 59–60, 65, 71, 174 peer-polity interaction, 12–18 peperino tuff, 135, 136 Peplos Kore, 76 peripteral temples, 120 Peroni, Renato, 25 Piazza d’Armi (Veii), 110 Piazza Vittorio Emanuele excavations, 132, 135 Pinza, Giovanni, 24 Pithecusae. See Cumae, roofing system shared with Pithecusae plebeians and patricians, 161–163, 170–171, 213n50 podia, 14, 54–55, 101, 110 138–139, 140, 175 Portonaccio Temple (Veii), 76, 77, 78, 82, 124, 132, 140 post-and-lintel roofing structures, 103–104 posticum, 107, 108 pozzi (pozzo), 107–108 Praeneste, 68 procession iconography, 43, 45, 56, 67–70, 79, 134 proto-urbanism, 25-26, ptera, 115, 120 Purcell, Nicholas, 142 Pyrgi: Hercules and Minerva, 81; Temple A, 84, 107–108, 140; Temple B, 120, 152, 165

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Quirinal: communal activity, 26–27; cult activity, 36; and defensive walls, 93, 94–95, 96; early settlement, 20–23; excavation sites, 5, 6; Forum basin reclamation and, 28, 29, 34; graves, 20, 21, 22, 134–135 raking cornices, 72, 116 raking gables, 56 raking geisa, 56, 60, 68 raking revetments, 66–67, 66–68 regal period (era of monarchy, kingship era): archaeological finds versus textual records of, 9, 154–160; architectural patronage during, 166–169; overthrow of monarchy and architectural shifts, 86–87, 161– 163 Regia: building and rebuilding at, 64, 160, 163, 164, 172; early huts at site of, 40; final archaic phase, 84–88; first building, 41–42; Imperial phase, 86; roofing systems, 43, 45, 46, 47, 65, 66, 68, 70; second building, 42–47 Republic, transition to: and architectural shifts, 169–171; and architecture, 86–87, 163–171; textual records of, 154–155, 160–163 revetments: anthemion, 116–118, 131, 149, 150, 165; from Capitoline, Palatine, Velia, Esquiline (ca. 500–450), 127–132, 140; from Comitium area, 48–49; figural, 45, 46, 49, 56, 66-72; under House of Livia, 92; from Lapis Niger deposit, 49; Regia, 45-46; S. Omobono, first phase, 45, 56, 57, second phase, 66–72, 149–150, twin temples, 149-150; and size of buildings, 8-9; Temple of Castor, 140; Temple of Jupiter, 102–104, 116-118; Velia, 131–132 Richter, Gisela, 75 ridgepole cover tile, 102-103, 209n68 roads: Appian way, 124; pathway near Regia site, 26; pebble street along north Palatine slope, 40; Via Sacra, 89, 144, 154, 155, 163; Vicus Iugarius, 34, 84, 151; Vicus Tuscus, 34, 144, 154 Romans, use of term, 11 Romulus: hut of, 21; tomb of, 52; and works of architecture, 155, 157 roofing systems: 509 as artificial moment of change in, 165; Comitium area building, 48–49; and Etruscans, 49, 62; excavation of, 7–9; Ionia, 70, 71, 72, 117, 118, 120; manufacture of, 61-61; pervasiveness of styles of, 65, 165; Regia, 43, 45, 46, 47, 65, 66, 68, 70; Rome as exporter of, 46, 68, 70, 176–177; and size of buildings, 8–9; S. Omobono second phase, 66–72; Temple of Jupiter, 102–106; terracotta roof tiles, 8, 39, 40, 43, 46, 47, 49, 61, 68, 70, 149; Veii, 68, 70. See also specific elements

Samos: connections to Rome, 18, 84, 110, 118–119, 122, 174; Heraion (Temple of Hera), 109, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118–119 sarcophagi, 76, 77, 78, 135, 136 Satricum: and anthemion revetments, 117, 128, 132, 150, 165, 202n110; ridgepole sculpture, 80, 81; Temple I, 110, 111; Temple II, 127, 128, 152; ties to other polities, 65, 81, 87, 176 Scott, Russell T., 86, 87 sculptures: acroterial and ridgepole sculptures, 68, 70, 73–74, 80–81, 82 (See also Hercules and Minerva sculpture group); Amazon, 132–134. See also specific works Segni, 127, 129, 140, 150 Selinunte, 113; colonnades, 115; and colossal construction, 122, 140, 173; landfill project, 32; roof decorations, 116, 117; Temple A, 152; Temple C, 116, 117; Temple F, 112; Temple GT, 11, 112, 173 Sepulcretum: huts, 39, 40, 122; stone house, 90, 155, 156 Servian Wall, 92–97, 166 Servius Tullius, 51, 80, 93, 95, 134, 158, 159, 166 Sicily, 132, 134 simas, 68, 69, 70, 83, 116, 117, 118, 140 social hierarchy, 167–169 Sommella, Anna Mura, 73, 97, 107, 108 S. Omobono area: excavations, 20; temple, first phase, 53–61; cella walls and columns, 54–55; foundation, 53–54; Gorgon pediment, 56–61; plan of the site, 54; reconstruction, 58; temple, second phase, 66–72 (see also Hercules and Minerva sculpture); temple, twin temples at, 20, 21, 146–152 sphinxes, 68 staircases, 54, 56, 66, 120 stone, use of, 39, 90, 97, 123, 143, 165 Suetonius, 144 summa sacra via, 156 Syracuse, 59–60, 97, 140, 173, 178 Tarquinii: and anthemia, 117; Ara della Regina, 99, 107, 110, 111, 114, 124, 138, 165, 176; Building Beta, 110, 120–121; connections to other cultures, 65; podia, 56; roofing systems, 68, 70; tomb paintings, 58, 59; and trusses, 104 Tarquinius Priscus, 59, 95, 156, 157–158, 159, 211n28 Tarquinius Superbus, 81, 82–83, 95, 158, 159 Tarquins, 9, 156–160, 166 Temple of Aphaia (Aigina), 140, 141 Temple of Apollo (Corinth), 140, 141 Temple of Apollo (Didyma), 110 Temple of Apollo Medicus (Campus Martius), 151

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Temple of Apollo (Veii), 76 Temple of Artemis (Corfu), 59–60, 140, 141 Temple of Artemis (Ephesos), 110, 112 Temple of Athena (Syracuse), 59–60 Temple of Caesar, 145, 146 Temple of Castor (and Pollux) (Rome), 47, 48, 137–142 Temple of Castor and Pollux (Agrigento), 140, 152 Temple of Fortuna, 80, 82, 158, 159, 160, 164, 166, 173 Temple of Hera (Olympia), 140, 141 Temple of Hera (Samos). See Heraion of Samos Temple of Hera I (Paestum), 99 Temple of Juno (Segni), 127, 129 Temple of Jupiter Feretrius, 155, 157 Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, 97–122; engineering and, 116; area behind the cellae, 107–108; as beginning of new architectural movement, 121–122; columns and cellae, 109–110; comparisons of size, 110–113; construction date, 97, 99; and contact with Samos, 118–119; foundation, 99–102, 113–116; plans, 98, 102, 106–107, 108, 109; rear substructure walls, 108; reconstruction of, 121; roofing system, 102–106, 202n116; significance and emulation, 177–178; size of, 99, 103–104; Tarquins and, 158; terracottas, 116–118; textual records, 160; unique characteristics, 120–121 Temple of Olympian Zeus (Agrigento), 112, 113 Temple of Olympian Zeus (Athens), 110, 112 Temple of Polykrates (Dipteros II, Samos), See Heraion of Samos Temple of Portunus, 151 Temple of Saturn, 142–144 Temple of Spes, 134 Temple of Vesta, 88 Temple of Victoria, 130 Temple of “Victoria Virgo,” 127, 129 terracotta decorations: Amazon sculpture, 132–134; ca. 500-450, 127–130; information provided by, 7–9, 182n19; manufacture of, 14, 49, 61–62, 156; shift in use of, 165; S. Omobono, 56–61, 66–72, 149–150; Temple of Castor, 140; Temple of Jupiter, 102–104, 116–118; use and mastery of, 123; use of, as critical shift, 39. See also roofing systems, specific sculptures and specific buildings terracotta roof tiles, 8, 39, 40, 43, 46, 47, 49, 61, 68, 70, 149 Terrenato, Nicola, 108 textual records. See archaeological finds versus textual records Tiber Island, 37, 61 Tiber River, 28–30, 37, 61 Titus Tatius, 49, 157 Tomb of the Panthers, 58, 59

tombs. See burials and graves trade, 37, 61–62, 82–83 treasury of Rome, 144 Trigger, Bruce, 38 triple cella, 120–121, 139, 176, 177–178 trusses, 55, 104 Tullus Hostilius, 49, 51, 142, 155, 156, 157, 159 Tusculum, 141 urbanization and unification, 1, 2; cityscape transformation (ca.800–450), 153; defensive walls and, 92–97; Forum basin reclamation and, 34–35, 36–37; of the hilltops, 24–27, 188n35; perspectives of, 1–2, 63–65; Temple of Jupiter and, 124–125 Valerii, house of the, 40–41, 155–156 Valerio-Horatian laws, 162 Veii: anthemia, 116, 117, 132; Apollo (Veii), 76, 77, 78; ceramic manufacture, 49; interactions with neighboring states, 16, 84; Piazza d’Armi, 110; Portonaccio Temple, 76, 77, 78, 82, 124, 132, 140; as proto-urban center, 25; roofing systems, 68–69, 70, 72; sculptures, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 175 Velabrum: clay beds and terracotta manufacture, 49, 61–62; flooding and Forum basin reclamation, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 37; map, 5 Velia: early settlements, 21, 22, 24, 26, 39, 40; excavation sites, 5, 137; revetments (ca. 500–450), 131–132; temple, 137, 154, 171, 172 Velletri temple, 67, 68, 70, 127 Vestal Virgins, 26, 38, 42 Vetulonia, 68 Via Sacra, 89, 144, 155 Vicus Iugarius, 34, 84 Vicus Tuscus, 34, 144 Volcanal, 51 volutes, 127, 128, 149 Vulcan, 51, 157 walls, defensive fortifications (Servian Wall), 92–97, 166 walls, north slope of the Palatine, 23, 26–27, 155 Winckelmann, J. J., 12 Winter, Nancy, 43, 45–46, 75

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