The Greek and Roman Trophy: From Battlefield Marker to Icon of Power (Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies) [1 ed.] 9781315225333, 9781351846585, 9781351846578, 9781351846561, 9780415788380, 1315225336

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The Greek and Roman Trophy

“In this volume Kinnee offers a comprehensive account of the development of the trophy in Greek and Roman culture. Combining study of the literary and archaeological evidence with insights from anthropology and the history of religions, she offers a provocative new interpretation of the Greek trophy, radically different from the icon of power it later became.” Zahra Newby, University of Warwick, UK

In The Greek and Roman Trophy: From Battlefield Marker to Icon of Power, Kinnee presents the first monographic treatment of ancient trophies in sixty years. The study spans Archaic Greece through the Augustan Principate. Kinnee aims to create a holistic view of this complex monument-type by breaking down boundaries between the study of art history, philology, the history of warfare, and the anthropology of religion and magic. Ultimately, the kaleidoscopic picture that emerges is of an ad hoc anthropomorphic Greek talisman that gradually developed into a sophisticated, Augustan sculptural or architectural statement of power. The former, a product of the hoplite phalanx, disappeared from battlefields as the Macedonian cavalry grew in importance, shifting instead onto coins and into rhetoric, where it became a statement of military might. For their part, the Romans seem to have encountered the trophy as an icon on Syracusan coinage. Recognizing its value as a statement of territorial ownership, the Romans spent two centuries honing the trophy-concept into an empire-building tool, planted at key locations around the Mediterranean to assert Roman presence and dominance. This volume covers a ubiquitous but poorly understood phenomenon and will therefore be instructive to upper-level undergraduates, graduate students, and scholars in all fields of Classical Studies. Lauren Kinnee is the Director of Art History and Visiting Assistant Professor at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, USA.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies https://www.routledge.com/classicalstudies/series/RMCS

Titles include: The Etruscans and the History of Dentistry Marshall J. Becker and Jean MacIntosh Turfa Masculinity and Dress in Roman Antiquity Kelly Olson Juvenal’s Global Awareness Osman Umurhan The Greek and Roman Trophy Lauren Kinnee Forthcoming: Thinking the Greeks Edited by Lillian Doherty and Bruce King The Getae Edited by Ioana Oltean, Ligia Ruscu and Dan Ruscu Un-Roman Sex Edited by Rob Collins and Tatiana Ivleva Divinations and Systems of Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity Edited by Crystal Addey and Victoria Leonard Villas and Values Hannah Platts The Doctor in Roman Law and Society Molly Jones-Lewis

The Greek and Roman Trophy From Battlefield Marker to Icon of Power

Lauren Kinnee

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Lauren Kinnee The right of Lauren Kinnee to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Title: The Greek and Roman trophy / Lauren Kinnee. Description: Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Outgrowth of the author’s thesis (doctoral–New York University, 2011) under the title: Roman trophy from battlefield marker to emblem of power. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017048398 (print) | LCCN 2017052777 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315225333 (ebook) | ISBN 9781351846585 (web pdf) | ISBN 9781351846578 (epub) | ISBN 9781351846561 (mobi/kindle) | ISBN 9780415788380 (hardback: alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315225333 (ebook: alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Military trophies in art. | Art, Greek–Themes, motives. | Art, Roman–Themes, motives. | Military trophies–Greece–History–To 1500. | Military trophies–Rome. Classification: LCC N8224.M49 (ebook) | LCC N8224.M49 K56 2018 (print) | DDC 709.495–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017048398 ISBN: 978-0-415-78838-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-22533-3 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Sunrise Setting Ltd., Brixham, UK

I dedicate this book to Zeus Tropaios

Contents

List of figures Acknowledgements Abbreviations for standard resources and journals

viii x xi

1

Introduction

2

Grappling with definitions

11

3

Repairing fractured perspectives

18

4

The Greek trophy: written sources

34

5

Visual evidence and the history of the Greek trophy

46

6

Roman adoption and adaptation of the Greek trophy

61

7

Development and dissemination of the ‘trophy tableau’

74

8

Development of the landscape trophy in the Republic and under Augustus

105

Conclusion

130

Bibliography Index

138 157

9

1

Figures

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 3.1

6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5

7.6 7.7 7.8

Name vase of the Trophy Painter, 450–440 B.C.E., Boston, MFA 20.187 The Tomb of Caecilia Metella, 30–20 B.C.E. Trophy tableau from the frieze of the Temple of Apollo ‘Sosianus’ (in Circo), ca 25 B.C.E. inv. MC S 2777 Sant’Omobono Reliefs, ca 60 B.C.E. invv. MC 2749/S – MC 2750/S – MC 2752/S Reconstruction drawing of Octavian’s campsite trophy at Nikopolis (29 B.C.E.). After Zachos (2003) Syracusan Tetradrachm of ca 310–308 B.C.E. Victoriatus of 211–210 B.C.E., Rome mint Augustus’ Tower-Trophy at La Turbie, 7 B.C.E. Lenaia vase: stamnos depicting women congregated about an idol of Dionysos. The Villa Giulia Painter, ca 450 B.C.E. Boston MFA 90.155a Marble mannequin-trophy found at Orchomenos in 1860 Marble mannequin-trophy found at Orchomenos in 1860 Trajan’s trophy monument at Adamklissi, Romania (reconstructed). 106–109 C.E. Frieze and trophy relief from the Tomb of Caecilia Metella Inscription from the Tomb of Caecilia Metella Quinarius of C. Fundanius, 101 B.C.E. Crawford 326/2 Denarius of Caesar, 46–45 B.C.E. Crawford 468/2 Location of Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges in map of Europe and detail of Aquitania. From Barrington’s Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (2000) Reconstruction drawing of the Augustan trophy monument from Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges Portonaccio Sarcophagus. Museo Nazionale delle Terme #112327 Hispania figure from trophy monument at Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges

2 4 4 5 5 8 8 9

29 69 70 71 76 77 80 83

84 85 88 91

Figures ix 7.9

Gallia figure from trophy monument at Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges 7.10 Male captive (Gaul) from Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges 7.11 Nike of Paionios, Olympia, ca 425 B.C.E. 8.1 Location of Actium and Nikopolis in map of Europe and detail of the Ionian Coast 8.2 Location of La Turbie in map of Europe and detail of the Mediterranean coast 8.3 Reconstruction drawing of Octavian’s campsite trophy at Nikopolis (29 B.C.E.) as viewed from the southwest, by Murray and Petsas (1989) 8.4 Asklepieion at Kos, from Pollitt 1986 8.5 Reconstruction drawing of Augustus’ trophy at La Turbie. After Formige 1949 8.6 Augustus’ trophy at La Turbie. Detail of reconstructed inscription 8.7 Reconstruction of the Pharos at Alexandria by August Thiersch 8.8 Watchtower at Aigosthena, a fortress near the Attic frontier, ca 350–325 B.C.E. 9.1 Venus Victoria inscribing a shield and flanked by mannequin trophies on the Column of Trajan, Rome, ca 113 C.E. 9.2 Triumphs of Caesar: The Bearers of Trophies (Triumphal Chariots with Trophies), woodcut by Andrea Andreani after an original by Andrea Mantegna, ca 1500. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division 9.3 Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Romulus Conqueror of Akron, 1812. Louvre, Paris 9.4 Hugo Jaeger, LIFE Magazine photo of massive temporary stage decorated with a trophy-relief and erected by Benito Mussolini for Adolf Hitler’s visit to Rome in May of 1938

92 93 94 106 107

112 113 116 117 125 126 134

135 136

136

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my dissertation advisor, Katherine E. Welch, for her encouragement and guidance throughout my graduate career. She consistently challenged me, broadened my intellectual purview, and sharpened my skills as a scholar. I also owe a great debt of gratitude to James R. McCredie, who served as a mentor and provided countless hours of instruction and assistance that went above and beyond requirements or expectations. I am especially grateful to T. Corey Brennan, who helped hone the book in its final hours and who provided invaluable insight into the historical and philological aspects of my project, as well as unflagging encouragement. In addition, I am indebted to Günter Kopcke and Thelma Thomas for reading early drafts of my manuscript. I would like to acknowledge the advice, assistance and input of a bevy of other scholars as well: Clemente Marconi for crucial input regarding the Greek visual culture of warfare; Peter Schultz and Andrew Stewart for hours of conversation and drives through Boeotia; William Murray for allowing me to join him for several days in his examination of the Nikopolis monument; Gregory Bucher for constant support and for his philological input; and of course Kathryn Blair Moore for acting as a coach, a brainstorming partner and a lifeline. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not also thank Judith M. Barringer for stimulating my interest in antiquity and for being the first to teach me how to think about the Classical world. The completion of this book would not have been possible without the financial backing of the Institute of Fine Arts at New York University, the American School of Classical Studies in Athens, and the American Academy in Rome. All three of these institutions not only funded my research, but also greatly contributed to my academic formation. I am also grateful to Routledge Press, the anonymous reviewers, and especially to my editor Elizabeth Risch for her patience and assistance with problems large and small. I owe a more personal debt of gratitude to my parents, Gale Murray and Sandy Kinnee, and to my husband, Jeffrey Wilbur, for standing by me through this process and making it possible for me to finish. For that, I also must thank Cynthia Rose.

Abbreviations for standard resources and journals

AA AdI AJA AJAH AJP AM AntCl AntJ AnzAW Aquitania

Archaeology ArchCl ArcheologiaWar ArtHist ARV2 ASCL Athenaeum AttiPontAcc BAM

BCH BCSSA Berytus BullCom

Archäologischer Anzeiger Annali dell’Istituto di corrispondenza archeologica American Journal of Archaeology American Journal of Ancient History American Journal of Philology Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung L’Antiquite classique Antiquaires Journal Anzeiger für die Altertumswissenschaft Aquitania: revue inter-regionale d’archeologie: Aquitaine, Limousin, Midi-Pyrenees, Poitou-Charentes. Talence: Éd. de la Federation Aquitania Archaeology Magazine Archeologia classica Archeologia: Rocznik Instytutu historii kultury materialnej Polskiej akademii nauk (Warsaw) Art History J.D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters. 2nd edition. Oxford, 1963 Archivio storico per la Calabria e la Lucania. Roma: Associazione Nazionale per gli Interessi del Mezzogiorno d’Italia Athenaeum: Studi periodici di letteratura e storia dell’antichità, Università di Pavia Atti della Pontificia Accademia romana di archeologia Bulletin d’archeologie marocaine. Rabat: Ministère des affaires culturelles, Institut national des sciences de l’archeologie et du patrimoine Bulletin de correspondance hellenique Bollettino del Centro di studi per la storia dell’architettura Berytus: Archaeological Studies Bullettino della Commissione archeologica Comunale di Roma

xii

Abbreviations for standard resources and journals

Byzantion: Revue internationale des etudes byzantines Cambridge Ancient History L.D. Caskey and J.D. Beazley, Attic Vase Paintings in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Oxford, 1931–1963 CÉFR Collection de l’École française de Rome Chiron Chiron: Mitteilungen der Kommission für alte Geschichte und Epigraphik des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts CP Classical Philology CR Classical Review CRAI Comptes rendus / Academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres. Paris: de Boccard DialArch Dialoghi di archeologia DossPar Histoire et archeologie: Les dossiers (Paris) EcAntNîmes Ecole antique de Nîmes. Bulletin annuel Ephesos Forschungen in Ephesos veröffentlicht vom Österreichischen Archäologischen Institut in Wien Gallia Gallia: Fouilles et monuments archeologiques en France metropolitaine Gallia Suppl. Gallia Supplement GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Gymnasium Gymnasium: Zeitschrift für Kultur der Antike und humanistische Bildung Habis Habis: filología clásica, historia antigua, arqueología clásica. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, Secretariado de Publicaciones. Hesperia Hesperia: The Journal of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens Historia Historia: Zeitschrift für alte Geschichte HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology IG M. Fraenkel, Inscriptiones graecae (Berlin 1895– ) JAH Journal of Ancient History JMA Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology JRGZM Jahrbuch des Römisch-germanischen Zentralmuseums, Mainz JRS Journal of Roman Studies Klio Klio: Beiträge zur Alten Geschichte. Berlin: Akademie Verl Latomus Latomus: revue d’etudes latines. Bruxelles: Latomus LSJ 9 H.G. Liddell et al., Greek-English Lexicon. 9th edition. Oxford, 1940 LTUR E.M. Steinby, editor. Lexicon topographicum urbis romae. Rome, 1993 LTURS A. La Regina, editor. Lexicon topographicum urbis Romae: Suburbium. Rome, 2001–2008 MAAR Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome MÉFRA Melanges de l’École française de Rome, Antiquite Mnemosyne Suppl. Mnemosyne: Bibliotheca classica batava. Supplement Byzantion CAH CB

Abbreviations for standard resources and journals NHeidJB NNUM NTDAR OCD ÖJh PAPS PastPres PBSR Phoenix Pontica Popul Stud Prakt ProcPhilAs Prospettiva RA RE RÉG RLouvre RStLig SciMon ScAnt StRom StudRomagn TAPS WorldArch WürzJbb Xenia

xiii

Neue Heidelberger Jahrbücher Nordisk numismatisk unions medlemsblad L. Richardson. A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome. Baltimore, 1992 The Oxford Classical Dictionary Jahreshefte des Österreichischen archäologischen Instituts in Wien Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society Past and Present Papers of the British School at Rome Phoenix: The Classical Association of Canada Pontica: Studii si materiale de istorie, arheologie si muzeografie, Constanta Population Studies Praktika tes en Athenais Archaiologikes Etaireias Proceedings of the American Philological Association Prospettiva: Rivista d’arte antica e moderna Revue archeologique A. Pauly and G. Wissowa. Real-Encyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft, 1893–1978 Revue des etudes grecques La revue du Louvre et des musees de France Rivista di studi liguri The Scientific Monthly Scienze dell’Antichita: Storia, archeologia, antropologia (Rome) Studi romani Studi romagnoli. Cesena: Società di Studi Romagnoli Transactions of the American Philosophical Society World Archaeology Würzburger Jahrbücher für die Altertumswissenschaft Xenia: Semestrale di antichità

1

Introduction

Previous studies have focused on the trophy through either a philological or an art historical lens. Here I attempt to combine both approaches and to augment these with, for example, an anthropological view of ancient religion and magic, new views on the sociology of ancient warfare, and a semiotic examination of the term and its relation to contemporary history and culture. This book will therefore be interdisciplinary in nature, revealing the complexity of its subject matter. The ancient trophy was not only a statement of victory: it was also a magical talisman, a metaphor for power, and a tool for empire-building. To suit these different roles, it developed myriad forms. The trophy was truly a complex and fascinating aspect of the GrecoRoman visual landscape.

Questions and methodology The trophy phenomenon, an ancient Mediterranean mode of victory commemoration that encompassed a variety of visual forms, was first a Greek and then a Roman convention. Its use in these two cultures is often misunderstood. In its simplest form – the so-called ‘mannequin trophy’ – it consisted of a tree stump dressed in arms and armour stripped from the battlefield dead (see Figure 1.1). The image of the mannequin is ubiquitous in both Greek and Roman art and even literature. This shared iconography has resulted in three problematic interpretations: 1) the Greeks and Romans used the trophy to identical ends; 2) the Roman trophy is completely derivative of its Greek antecedent; or 3) the trophy was a rare object in Greece and is primarily a Roman phenomenon. This last interpretation is the result of a higher survival rate for Roman trophies, which tended to be carved in stone, while the Greek trophy was usually a perishable object left to rot on the battlefield. I argue that none of these interpretations captures the true nature of either the Greek or the Roman trophy, and that the interpretations leave unanswered several crucial questions. Namely, what is the difference between these cultures’ trophies and why did the Greek and Roman monuments ultimately diverge? In order to fully address these questions, an in-depth examination of the trophy phenomenon is necessary: that is the purpose of this book. We will here glimpse some of the basic answers. The Greek trophy originated simultaneously with the hoplite phalanx. The victors placed a mannequin at the location where the tide of battle turned in their favour. The

2

Introduction

Figure 1.1 Name vase of the Trophy Painter, 450–440 B.C.E., Boston, MFA 20.187.

trophy was, however, far more than this. It was also a necromantic talisman that might have removed the bloodstain from the battlefield, an apotropaic territorial marker, and a bold statement of political power. Following the decline of phalanx tactics, the Greek trophy became primarily an icon of power on coinage and in literature. While other scholars have touched upon some of these ideas, their research often has fallen into a single genre of Classical Studies, be it philology, art history, history or anthropology. This has produced a fractured perspective on the trophy, which has prevented a true understanding of the object’s complexity. I fuse these perspectives and draw on recent, as yet unaddressed material crucial to any re-evaluation of the trophy. Kagan and Viggiano’s (2013) landmark study of hoplite warfare, and Ogden’s (2009) long-overdue examination of necromancy have particularly influenced my effort to reveal the complexities of the underappreciated Greek trophy. Meanwhile, I seek to answer the question of what is truly Roman about the Roman trophy. In so doing, this work engages again with burgeoning trends in

Introduction

3

scholarship: Hölscher’s (1987) semantisches System in general; and, regarding warfare in Roman visual culture, Polito (1998) and Dillon and Welch (2006). My study reveals that, though the Roman trophy lacked many of the religious aspects of its Greek counterpart, its use as a tool for personal advancement and empire-building were no less fascinating. Soon after they adopted the trophy from the Greeks, the Romans began to make striking innovations by introducing a diverse repertoire of new forms, meanings and uses that are without Greek precedent. The Roman trophy is stark testimony to originality in the Roman visual arts, particularly with respect to expressions of military might. In order to illuminate the Roman changes to the trophy I present two in-depth case studies of Roman innovations that date to the republican period and reach maturity under the Augustan Principate. The first subject of discussion is the tableau monument, a sculptural ensemble depicting a mannequin accompanied by bound captives in a scene ‘frozen in time’, hence the term tableau. This genre of trophy is apparently entirely absent from the Greek repertoire. It most likely derives from the real Roman practice of parading actual captives beneath trophies in triumphal processions. I argue that it was the great and prescient general C. Marius who, in the later 2nd century B.C.E., monumentalized this practice in art. Marius’ tableau led to a proliferation of the type, which soon became a convention across media, including coins minted under Marius, Sulla, Brutus and Julius Caesar; the sculptural trophy-relief on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella (see Figure 1.2) on the Via Appia outside of Rome; and on the sculpted friezes from the Temple of Apollo in Circo (Figure 1.3) and the Sant’Omobono victory reliefs (Figure 1.4). The second major innovation discussed here is a reinvention of the Greek tradition of placing a trophy at the turning point of a battle. The Romans also constructed extramural trophies, but placed them at other geographically significant locations in order to declare Roman imperial presence. Monuments of this type include Octavian’s campsite memorial at Nikopolis, his new ‘Victory City’ located near the battle site of Actium, in Epiros in western Greece (see Figure 1.5). This monument includes stunning reliefs depicting the Actium triumphal procession, which have yet to be formally published.1 The question of why the trophy’s nature shifted so dramatically remains. I believe that the trophy was never limited to a single meaning in Greece or in Rome. The Greek version could be a temporary, religious object, or – on rare occasions – it could take the form of a permanent stone marker atop a column. Moreover, its association with the hoplite phalanx, an ultimately outdated approach to battle, forced it to evolve in the Hellenistic period from a battlefield marker to a symbol of military prowess. It was as this icon of power that the Romans first encountered the trophy, and it was an easy shift from small, symbolic coinage to large, symbolic monuments. The highly competitive Republic fuelled the development of increasingly ostentatious trophy monuments that appeared and functioned less and less like their Greek antecedents. Ultimately, what had been a small-scale practice in Greece became a large-scale approach to communicating with peoples across the Roman Empire, from ‘civilized’ Greeks to ‘barbaric’ Alpine tribes.

Figure 1.2 The Tomb of Caecilia Metella, 30–20 B.C.E. Photograph: author.

Figure 1.3 Trophy tableau from the frieze of the Temple of Apollo ‘Sosianus’ (in Circo), ca 25 B.C.E. inv. MC S 2777. Photograph: author. © ROMA – SOVRINTENDENZA CAPITOLINA AI BENI CULTURALI.

Figure 1.4 Sant’Omobono Reliefs, ca 60 B.C.E. invv. MC 2749/S – MC 2750/S – MC 2752/ S. Photographs: author. © ROMA – SOVRINTENDENZA CAPITOLINA AI BENI CULTURALI.

Figure 1.5 Reconstruction drawing of Octavian’s campsite trophy at Nikopolis (29 B.C.E.). After Zachos (2003).

6

Introduction

A call for a re-evaluation of the trophy Artistic and literary evidence leaves no doubt that the trophy is Greek in origin. Though Greek authors use the term ‘τρόπαιov’ (trophy) in passing a few times in the early 5th century B.C.E., the first substantive evidence for the trophy comes from Greek vase painting, exemplified by a mid-5th-century red-figure pelike in Boston (see Figure 1.1). The vase illustrates the standard mannequin trophy, consisting of a tree trunk dressed in arms and armour: this iconography was repeated on almost all trophy-monuments, Greek or Roman. Despite superficial similarities such as the consistent depiction of the mannequin and statement of military dominion, deeper inspection reveals that Greek and Roman trophies were fundamentally different. The details of these differences are significant enough to shed light on questions of Greek and Roman identity: particularly where and how the two merged and diverged. Today’s limited understanding of this monument type constitutes a significant lacuna in Classical Studies. Two main problems work against a clearer picture of the ancient trophy. The first is an absence of a comprehensive study of the monument type: one that sutures the fractured perspectives described above. The more critical problem is that modern scholars have, at times, employed descendants of the ancient terms τρόπαιov and tropaeum with the same generic fluency used in today’s transliterations or ‘corruptions’ of the word. Words that held particular significance in the Classical world are sometimes treated with greater fluency and breadth of meaning than is appropriate. The ancient trophy thus becomes, like the modern trophy, a generic reference to any flashy object connoting success. This problem is easy to understand but difficult to remedy, given the frequent use and popular meaning of the terms ‘trophy’ in English, ‘trofeo’ in Italian and Spanish, ‘trophee’ in French, ‘Trophäe’ in German, ‘trofeu’ in Romanian, and so on. The English word ‘trophy’ has been applied to sporting trophies, ‘trophy wives’, and objects looted during modern warfare – for example, Saddam Hussein’s personal firearm, given to American President G.W. Bush as a ‘trophy’ and subsequently kept on display in the White House. I hope to redefine the ancient term for the sake of academic clarity. Intriguingly, even among scholars who make a concerted effort to separate the modern trophy from the ancient, there is a lack of unanimity about what an ancient trophy actually was. Scholars have suggested an array of definitions of the ancient trophy, ranging from temporary or perishable objects such as battlefield mannequins, to permanent versions thereof as well as architectural monuments, booty and even the full corpus of ancient victory monuments (see Chapter 2). Some of these clearly derive from the modern definition of a trophy as ‘a showy object conveying success’. In classical texts the terms τρόπαιov and tropaeum are narrower in meaning, referring at first exclusively to mannequin trophies marking the turning point of battle, and only gradually coming to include specific sculptural and architectural monuments. I contend that in order to best understand the ancient trophy it is necessary to adopt a conservative yet flexible definition of the trophy grounded in ancient textual evidence such as the writings of Herodotus, Pausanias, Pliny and Suetonius. Ultimately, this volume constructs what I believe to be a wholly new conceptual framework for understanding the trophy, one that begins with a systematic overhaul of the definition

Introduction

7

of the term and proceeds to employ the tool sets of, and synthesize the findings from, multiple disciplines within and related to Classics. The ancient trophy remains a fundamentally alien cultural phenomenon with distinct implications for the Greeks and for the Romans. We possess a fractured picture of the topic due to the division of trophy-scholarship by discipline. This fracturing leads to misconceptions and overlooks or dismisses some useful lines of inquiry. To date the most complete study of the trophy, still considered a ‘gold standard’ reference, is Picard’s (1957) formidable, art historical survey. This survey is due for a major overhaul not only because of the myriad advances in the body of knowledge and the scholarly discourse related to Picard’s arguments, but also because we must move beyond just art history in order to achieve a more holistic understanding of the trophy. While modern philologists now dominate the study of the trophy, their work has appeared only in the occasional article or book chapter: the overall volume of scholarship has steadily dwindled since the 1950s.2 Meanwhile, other important fields have yet to be tapped, in particular anthropology and the study of ancient religion. We now possess the tools to re-evaluate Picard’s (1957) suggestion that the trophy was a magical talisman. To my knowledge, this book represents the first attempt to assess the necromantic aspects of the Greek trophy. Likewise, thanks to new scholarship on the history of hoplite warfare this study can with some confidence establish a date for the emergence of the trophy. While the first visual evidence for the Greek trophy dates to the 5th century B.C.E., the earliest Roman trophy does not appear until the late 3rd century B.C.E., ca 212 B.C.E. on the so-called Victoriatus coinage minted in the wake of the sack of Syracuse. New scholarship treating the divide been the Greek and the Roman trophy, exemplified by Hölscher’s work, understands Roman art as a distinctive tradition based upon the calculated manipulation of eclectic artistic prototypes, many of which were Greek, to create new and wholly Roman monument types. Examining Roman trophies through the lens of Hölscher’s semantisches System demonstrates that the Romans abandoned the talismanic nature of the Greek mannequin but retained visual aspects that could convey Roman ideas about the display of military power. The Roman trophy is testimony to originality in the Roman visual arts, particularly with respect to expressions of military might.3 The Roman trophy has not been fully appreciated for its radical departures from the Greek mannequin. I explore the crucial and unique innovations that Romans made in trophy design during the Republic and the Principate of Augustus – innovations that codified the familiar forms of the trophy one finds replicated across the Roman world during the imperial period. In discussing these developments this book necessarily engages with the ever-enigmatic question of what might be truly ‘Roman’ about Roman art. Ultimately, the goal here is to establish a new understanding of Greek and Roman trophies’ varied meanings in their own times and cultures.

The structure of this exploration This book addresses the fundamental difficulties involved in defining and exploring the significance of the trophy in light of both ancient and modern attempts to grapple

8

Introduction

Figure 1.6 Syracusan Tetradrachm of ca 310–308 B.C.E. Photograph courtesy Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. (www.cngcoins.com/).

Figure 1.7 Victoriatus of 211–210 B.C.E., Rome mint. Photograph courtesy Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. (www.cngcoins.com/).

with this slippery issue. Chapter 2 directly discusses problems with previous attempts to produce a viable conceptual framework for understanding the trophy, while Chapter 3 presents readers with a new framework based on my own methodology. I address crucial issues such as the history of warfare and its impact on the development of the trophy, the anthropology of prehistoric religion and magic as applied to the trophy, and the more practical and political aims of trophy construction. Chapter 4 examines ancient Greek literary evidence for the trophy through

Introduction

9

Figure 1.8 Augustus’ Tower-Trophy at La Turbie, 7 B.C.E. Bridgeman Images.

the framework laid out in the previous chapter, while Chapter 5 examines the limited visual evidence and ultimately paints a fresh picture of the Greek trophy’s nature across time: the Greek trophy-concept shifted from a concrete physical object frequently used during the height of hoplite warfare to a more abstract symbol of victory and excellence as hoplite tactics waned in importance. Together, these chapters explore and ultimately call into question the commonly-held view that Greek trophies originated as early as the Greek so-called Dark Ages and underwent a dramatic shift in character over the course of the 5th century B.C.E. from temporary, religious artefacts to permanent, commemorative markers. The Greek trophy, in contrast to the Roman trophy, remained relatively circumscribed in size, form and meaning throughout its history. Following the fifth chapter the book turns to the Roman trophy, for which visual evidence is plentiful and the relevant literature is easily interwoven with the analysis of the visual record. The sixth chapter concerns the origins of the Roman trophy, tracing these to the fall of Syracuse in 212 B.C.E. The earliest known Roman representation of a trophy appears on a coin dating to the time of this conquest (see Figure 1.7) and directly copies a Greek, Syracusan numismatic prototype

10

Introduction

(Figure 1.6). In addition to addressing the adoption of the trophy, Chapter 6 provides an overview of early Roman practices regarding the trophy, setting the stage for a new exploration of Roman changes to the trophy monument type. The next two chapters present detailed case studies of important and original Roman innovations to the trophy that developed over the course of the Republic and were perfected under the reign of Augustus. Each of these chapters incorporates discussion of my own methodology and how it responds to that of previous scholars. The seventh chapter discusses one of the most crucial modifications to the trophy: Marius’ tableau, which became a staple of Roman art. The eighth chapter investigates the other early, radical Roman modification to the trophy-concept: the landscape trophy, an enormous architectural monument assertive of imperial power. Examples include the already mentioned memorial at Nikopolis (Figure 1.5) and Augustus’ trophy of the Alps at La Turbie (see Figure 1.8). A ninth and final chapter considers some likely avenues for the exploration of post-Julio-Claudian trophies. For centuries after the dramatic Roman changes to the trophy that are discussed here, the trophy continued to grow in importance as an emblem of a wide, and often shifting, range of military powers and virtues. For example, the emperor himself joins the trophy tableau and either displays clementia or brutality. The chapter also briefly examines the Nachleben of the trophy. Much work remains to be done concerning these later trophies. That is a topic for a second volume.

Notes 1 Small black-and-white photographs of the reliefs appear in Zachos (2007), but this volume is all but inaccessible and the reliefs have yet to receive full scholarly attention. 2 Pritchett (1974); Lonis (1979); Bowden (1990), 107–130; Krentz (2002); and Gabaldón Martínez (2005), for example. 3 Polito (1998). This is a crucial reference on the depiction of military paraphernalia in Greek and Roman art and is particularly useful with regard to the typology of the equipment depicted in ancient weapon-friezes. See also Dillon and Welch, eds. (2006). Especially important is the contribution by Hölscher (2006).

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Grappling with definitions

Introduction The lack of agreement on what a trophy is results from the very limited corpus of works that treat the trophy specifically, and from the general paucity of interdisciplinary studies of not just trophies but also war booty and related aspects of visual culture. What is more, Greek and Roman ideas have become entangled in both ancient literature and modern scholarship. We often rely on Roman-era authors like Pausanias and Appian to explain much earlier Greek ideas about the trophy. Unfortunately, these later authors’ ideas about Greek trophies are tainted with the very different Roman conceptions of the trophy and must therefore be regarded with some scepticism.1 This book aims to untangle some of this web and to reach an understanding of just what the Greek trophy was and how it operated, why it appealed to a Roman audience, and how the Romans altered and manipulated the Greek object into something new, different and wholly Roman. The historiography of the trophy, even if we trace it as far back as antiquity, has always been disjointed: it lacks logical progression and reflects methodological problems common to previous scholarship in the Classics, such as the struggle to cope with a combined Greco-Roman culture and the difficulty defining the ancient trophy. As intimated in Chapter 1, I seek to resolve these issues through an approach combining philology, anthropology, sociology and semiotics. In the course of this study two main and opposing trends have emerged as characteristic of the trophy across time: magic and practicality. Understanding this duality is necessary to making sense of the trophy phenomenon and its anthropomorphic aspects in particular – whether they occur on the Greek battlefield or on sculpted Roman monuments.

Consulting ancient sources The etymology of the word τρόπαιov had a surprisingly long-lasting impact on the nature of the trophy-monument and on the relationship between trophies and military tactics. The term’s derivation and meaning, coupled with the form and placement of the trophy, seems to have recorded the shift from battle fought according to hoplite rules, to complex campaigns waged for the purpose of imperial

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Grappling with definitions

expansion. Just as the word ‘trophy’ seems to have carried very precise connotations, so, too, did other terms related to the visual culture of warfare: booty, for ~ λα or λάφυρα in antiquity. In the Classical world, warexample, was called σκu related artifacts were treated with a high degree of specificity. Though it has developed a vast set of modern implications, ‘trophy’ derives directly from Classical language. On occasion, when modern scholars use the word they may not even be aware that what they are treating as a colloquialism is in fact a modernized spelling of an ancient term with exacting and complex meanings.2 The ancient Greek word for trophy is τρόπαιov, or tropaîov in later texts (LSJ9). The Latin is tropaeum, a straightforward transliteration of the Greek – though, as we shall see, the relationship between the Roman trophy and its Greek predecessor was not itself straightforward. Nonetheless, these terms are all rooted in the vocabulary of very particular battle tactics, and etymology is crucial to understanding what the ancient words conveyed: τρόπαιov is derived from the verb τρέπω, meaning ‘turn’, suggesting that the trophy was an object that marked the turning point on the field of battle – that is, the place where the tide of battle turned.3 This has precise meaning within the context of hoplite warfare, in which lines of men, or phalanxes, faced off against one another. Each soldier held a shield that protected his own left side and the right side of his neighbour. The weakness of this formation was that the man on the far right end of the front line was only half-protected. The opposing army’s goal was to force this vulnerable soldier to tilt inward, or ‘turn’. Once he had turned, the next soldier would lose protection and turn as well, until the entire phalanx had curled up on itself. The victorious army would surround this knot of troops for an easy rout (Janssen (1957), 240–241).4 Indeed, τρόπαιov is related to τρoπή, a form of τρέπω that appears in ancient sources in direct reference to the rout (Chantraine (1980); Beekes (2010); LSJ9).This is a simplistic explanation of hoplite warfare: we will delve deeper in Chapter 3. As hoplite warfare became less dominant in the Mediterranean world the term τρόπαιov must have lost some of its specificity, and no doubt tropaeum had little or no direct connotation of the hoplite phalanx, but it is important to remember that the trophy remained a reference to warfare throughout antiquity. This association applies to early Greek trophies planted on the battlefield; to representations on coinage and in sculpture; to Roman variations on the Greek mannequin, which were occasionally carried in triumph; and ultimately to Roman sculptural and architectural groups.

Situating scholarship within the ancient framework Modern scholars have used the term ‘trophy’ to refer to an unexpectedly broad range of subjects. Because of the confusion this can create for any audience – specialists or laymen – a review and evaluation of modern scholarly terminology is important. Some scholars use the word only in passing, often without carefully separating the modern term from the ancient. Those who speak of the trophy in more particular terms tend to divide trophies into two general categories: 1) temporary or perishable objects; and 2) permanent objects or structures. The general assumption across

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scholarship has been that all trophies were originally perishable and that permanent trophies were a later development. As we shall see, this view is linked to problematic ideas about Greek warfare and its commemoration: namely, that before the Persian Wars all war had impermanent effects and therefore received impermanent commemoration, while the more permanent effects of the Persian War allowed for the introduction of more permanent modes of victory commemoration.5 This seems a tidy argument until one discovers that permanent and impermanent trophies apparently coexisted from the advent of the monument type. Perishable trophies might be found on battlefields or even in triumphal processions.6 These perishable objects consist of displays of armour and weaponry that were allowed to disintegrate over time, and some scholars believe that they take two principal forms: 1) that of a mannequin (see Figure 1.1); and 2) that of a pile of arms. The mannequin consists of a suit of armour attached to a tree or a stump as if the tree were a warrior, and indeed these mannequins generally stood on the site of battle. Romans sometimes also planted these mannequins on the battlefield, though evidence for this practice is sparse: more strikingly, a select few generals carried such trophies triumph as part of the spolia opima.7 The use of the term ‘trophy’ in reference to a perishable pile of arms is apparently a modern invention based on a legend in which a Roman maiden named ‘Tarpeia’ – phonetically similar to ‘tropaia’ – is crushed beneath a pile of shields.8 Ancient sources never directly connect ‘Tarpeia’ and ‘tropaia’ and, as a result, most scholars reject any direct connection between the trophy proper and the pile of arms. Picard presents a lengthy and convincing argument demonstrating that piles of arms belong to a completely different tradition from trophies: to my knowledge, no scholars have seriously disputed his conclusion.9 There is only one instance in which a pile of arms is definitely worthy of the title of ‘trophy’, and that is the jumble of ships’ rams and other debris that constituted a maritime trophy. These objects were generally placed on the shore near the battle site and were burned as an offering to Poseidon. Chapter 8 will treat this form of trophy in detail.10 It is probable that many permanent trophies either supplemented or replaced impermanent mannequins. To judge from Roman archaeological remains, the simplest permanent trophy was a replica of the temporary mannequin in stone or metal. Greek examples do not survive, but references to trophies atop gates – as in Pausanias 1.15.1 – or in sanctuaries, as in Diodorus 11.14.4 – are suggestive, though perhaps anachronistic. ‘Simple’, non-perishable Roman trophies remain scattered across the Empire, from Africa Nova to Gallia Narbonensis.11 I surmise that, over time, in both cultures stone or metal mannequins could be displayed almost anywhere: for instance, atop arches and gates, at sanctuaries, as crowning elements on buildings, or in statue groups.12 Permanent Roman trophies often took more elaborate forms than their Greek antecedents apparently did. For example, unlike Greek trophies, which did not occur as parts of larger groups, I argue in Chapter 7 that permanent Roman mannequins often were accompanied by sculpted captives. Moreover, ancient texts, inscriptions and reliefs allow modern scholarship to identify a small corpus of Roman buildings as trophies. Even though these architectural monuments are striking in form and

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nature, few modern scholars have examined them as trophies. The architectural trophy took a variety of forms, from a single column with a crowning statue to an elaborate altar court.13 The Romans sometimes constructed architectural trophies not on the battlefield but instead at other geographically significant locations: a state’s borders; the liminal space between different territories; or the heart of newly conquered lands (see Figures 1.5 and 1.8). Sculptural trophy groups appear in developing provincial towns and even in the streets and sanctuaries of Rome. I argue that all of these trophies loudly proclaimed ownership of conquered territories rather than victory in specific battles. As such, they were a Roman phenomenon: indeed, the crucial innovations of the late Republic and early Empire apparently were intended to shift the trophy from a battlefield marker to a statement of territorial claim on a massive scale (see Hölscher (2006), 32–34). One of the working theses underlying this study is that the word ‘trophy’ did have specific meaning in antiquity. The words τρόπαιov and tropaeum seem to occur only in reference to the monument types above. It thus seems appropriate to refer to temporary mannequins, permanent versions thereof, and verifiable architectural monuments as trophies. Importantly, both Greeks and Romans placed such trophies at crucial geographical locations. Though lacking clear literary or archaeological evidence, some modern scholars have suggested that we treat four other types of artefacts as ancient ‘trophies’. For the sake of clarity and comprehensiveness, a brief overview is in order. First, there has been a desire to define as trophies select architectural monuments whose purpose is unclear. This is understandable: structures that retain obvious, ancient proof that they are trophies – inscriptions and literary descriptions, for example – are extraordinarily rare. Examining the decoration of a structure may seem like a suitable alternative, but this approach can lead modern scholars far astray. Taken ad absurdum, for example, one might assume that the Tomb of Caecilia Metella near Rome is a trophy because its primary decoration is a relief featuring a mannequin. Modern scholars must use caution when evaluating even such tempting ancient ‘evidence’. Unfortunately, scholars have, at times, extended their reach beyond structures directly connected to trophies in one way or another. For example, Picard, a most erudite scholar, names as a trophy a tower on a hill overlooking Ephesus in western Asia Minor because it does not seem to be a tomb.14 Structures like towers and tumuli may be reminiscent of better-understood trophies, but there are so many other possible definitions for these buildings that it is difficult to accept such identifications. Second and perhaps less dangerous, scholars – including Picard and Janssen – frequently have discussed artistic representations of trophies in essentially the same terms they apply to other types of trophies.15 Coins and reliefs are treated in the same terms as mannequins. Admittedly, the presence of a mannequin on a structure, as at La Turbie, may reinforce the building’s identity as a trophy. I assert, however, that plaques depicting trophies, as in the case of the Tomb of Caecilia Metella, are not actual trophies: instead, like ancient texts, they are evidence that improves our understanding the trophy. The same applies to coins. The issue here is less one of

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misidentifying a trophy than it is of assuming that ‘pictures’ of trophies are the same thing as ‘real’ trophies. Ancient authors do not use the term to refer to depictions: only to the actual object or to virtues associated with it. Third, probably misled by the indeterminate, modern use of the word, scholars truly depart from the ancient trophy concept when referring to war booty as a tro~ λα or λάφυρα, which were quite phy.16 In antiquity there were words for booty, σκu distinct from τρόπαιov. Booty was something to be sold, melted down and recast, or placed in treasuries, temples or on the walls of stoas.17 The trophy was, as we have seen, not treated like this at all. To substitute ‘trophy’ for ‘booty’ is to mistranslate. Fourth and most troublesome is the recent tendency to call any victory monument, or monument that seems to commemorate victory, a trophy.18 Fortunately this last is a rare occurrence in published scholarship. It has no grounding in ancient textual, epigraphic or archaeological evidence. A final note is necessary to explain the contentious issue of whether a pile of arms and armour constituted a trophy in the eyes of the ancient Greeks. To my mind, a heap of war materiel is better defined as booty than as a trophy. The literary evidence from ancient Greece is ambivalent at best. The earliest texts to describe the trophy as an object constructed from captured military equipment are not explicit regarding the method of the equipment’s display, though they do exclude the possibility that equipment nailed to temples or displayed in sanctuaries was considered a trophy. One passage from Xenophon mentions the capture of a large number of shields and the consequent erection of a trophy: ‘they also captured about two hundred shields and set up a trophy’ (Hell. 1.2.3). From this passage it is easy to imagine a pile of 200 shields and to assign the name of trophy to this pile, but in fact the capture of the shields and the dedication of the trophy are separated from one another in the text as distinct events.19 As such, this mass of shields cannot constitute a trophy.

Identity of the arms on a trophy Greek sources, when they mention that trophies were constructed from arms and armour, are generally explicit that these materials were looted from the defeated army, and particularly from the general. Nonetheless, the coupling of the erection of a trophy with the stripping of the dead soldiers from both sides of the battle may leave the reader to wonder whether sometimes the equipment of the victors might also have been represented on the trophy. Later authors encourage such speculation: Pausanias, in the 2nd century C.E., reports the legend of a trophy constructed using a hero’s shield that had been removed from a sanctuary for the purpose (4.32.5–6). Moreover, some of the equipment depicted in Roman images of trophies looks rather Roman, and not particularly foreign at all. The relief on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella features confusing iconography along these lines and will be discussed in detail in Chapter 7.20 Here it will suffice to say that: 1) the ethnic identification of equipment on Roman trophies is complicated because the Romans adopted many forms of equipment from the ‘barbarians’ with whom they came into contact; 2) the ethnicity of equipment on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella is less straightforward than it seems, so that even if the equipment on the trophy appears Roman it should not be taken as

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literal evidence for the use of the victorious army’s equipment in trophies; and 3) it is inadvisable to use Roman examples to determine how Greek trophies were constructed. This last point, of course, applies to the evidence from Pausanias as well. Though the trophy Pausanias describes is supposed to be Greek, Pausanias’ story is far removed from the event it purports to relate and is almost certainly shaped by Roman ideas concerning trophies. To summarize ancient literature: the Greek trophy, probably throughout its history, was constructed from military equipment stripped from the bodies of the defeated after the battle. The Roman mannequin may have followed suit, but as most Roman trophies take the form of statues and buildings the point is moot. When possible, the equipment on a Greek mannequin was taken from the general himself, though undoubtedly his armour was not always available for this purpose. Today we may speculate that the literary references to trophies made of the armour of the general may reflect a degree of hyperbole aimed at accentuating the metaphorical aspects of the trophy as a symbol of military virtue.21 At the same time, it is not possible for us to exclude completely the possibility that some Greek trophies included material belonging to the victors. There is ample ancient evidence to prove that the Greeks dedicated and displayed the arms and armour of both defeated and victorious individuals in their sanctuaries.22 However, as already noted, the dedication of booty in sanctuaries was a separate affair from the erection of trophies. As such, the fact that we have evidence for the use of the arms of the victor in one context – sanctuaries – but not in the other – the battlefield trophy – may indicate an important distinction between the two ritual uses of military equipment. Military equipment dedicated to the gods in sanctuaries was either a gift of personally prized armour or of particularly special booty, such as the corslet of the Persian cavalry commander, Masistios, which was kept in the Parthenon.23 Military equipment dedicated on the battlefield in the form of a trophy, on the other hand, symbolized the dedication of enemy lives and therefore needed to consist of enemy war materiel. If the trophy here sounds like a stand-in for human sacrifice, we will see in Chapter 3 that it might indeed have played that role.

Notes 1 Pausanius 1.30–44, 1.32.5; App. BC 2.13, for example. 2 Examples of such confusion include Basch (1993), 24–31; and Brogan (1999), 13–14. For the dedication and display of booty treated separately from that of trophies, see Herodotus 8.121; Pausanias 1.15.4, 1.26.2, 1.27.1, 4.32.5–6 and 10.21.5–6; Camp (1986), 71, 106; Shear (1937); and Roux (1981), 62. A final important source is Polito (1995), 36–37. 3 Janssen (1957), 240–241. Some scholars have argued that the term τρόπαιov derives from the name of the god Zeus Tropaios, though this must itself derive from τρέπω and τρoπή. 4 Janssen 1957, 240–241. 5 Woelcke (1911) was the first to outline the dichotomy between temporary, battlefield trophies as ‘monuments’ with a deep past, and permanent ones, which he believed to have postdated the Persian Wars. Woelcke’s ideas have remained influential, as we can see in examples such as Pritchett (1974), 253–258; West (1969), 7–19; and, most recently, Rabe (2008). 6 See for example Picard (1957), 130.

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7 On Roman mannequins, see Östenberg (2009), 19–45; Picard (1957); and Ferris (2004), 21 and n. 36 on continued battlefield use; and Picard (1957), 317–318 for textual evidence of Roman use of battlefield trophies, which ended early in the Julio-Claudian reign. For further discussion of the spolia opima, refer to Chapter 6 in this volume, pp. 65–67. 8 The most extensive account of this legend is Plut. Rom. 17.2. Reinach (1908); and Reinach (1928) are the primary modern arguments in favour of this interpretation of the myth 9 Picard (1957), 19–22 refers to Xenophon Anabasis, 4.7.25–26 in particular. 10 Pritchett (1974), 275; and Balíl (1990), 191–200. 11 See Picard (1957), 43 for examples and a discussion of the origin of this type of trophy. 12 The earliest instance of a permanent mannequin trophy atop a gate or arch dates to ca. 300 B.C.E. and is from Athens: this is the gate of Demetrios Poliorcetes. See Camp (1986), 164. In Roman art, the appearance of trophies on arches may date to at least the Augustan period. F. Kleiner (1991), 188, points out four distinct Augustan arches on aurei and denarii from Spain, struck in 17/16 B.C.E. If the Romans were influenced by the gate of Demetrios Poliorcetes in Athens, one could easily assume that the Romans used trophies on republican arches. Regarding trophies in sanctuaries, see Brogan (1999), 13 n. 27. On sculpted captives see, for example, Schenck-David, (2003). Lastly, for architectural trophies in the round, see Schultz (2001), 27 for the possibility that a permanent trophy was part of the akroterial ornament of the Temple of Athena Nike on the Athenian Acropolis. 13 On column trophies, see Vanderpool (1966); West (1969); and Wallace (1969). Compare these with Octavian’s campsite trophy at Nikopolis, or the Trophy of Augustus at La Turbie, both discussed in Chapter Eight. The only previous, substantive exploration of the ‘architectural’ trophy remains Ibarra (2009). 14 Picard (1957), 149–152. 15 Picard (1957); and Janssen (1957) passim. 16 For example, in Basch (1993). See also Brogan (1999), 13–14. 17 Kinnee (2005). See especially Pritchett (1971), and (1974). Also, for example Amandry (1978); Bommelaer (1991); and Hamilton (2000). 18 Picard (1957) passim; see for example 75–77. 19 The Greek makes this quite clear: there is no subordination of actions – there are simply two indicative verbs given equal weight, so they are probably separate actions. 20 On the presence of the victor’s arms on trophies see Picard (1957), 24–42. See also Toynbee (1960), 72; and Gerding (2002), 57. 21 r example, Diodorus 13.19.3. 22 For the dedication and display of booty treated separately from that of trophies, see Herodotus 8.121; Pausanias 1.15.4, 1.26.2, 1.27.1, 4.32.5–6, and 10.21.5–6; Camp (1986), 71, and 106; Shear, (1937); and Roux (1981), 62. A final important source is Polito (1995), 36–37. 23 On the corslet see Harris (1995), 107 and 204; Pausanias 1.27; and Herodotus 9.22.10.

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Repairing fractured perspectives

Basic questions, basic answers Beginning in 1902 with the publication of Rouse’s Greek Votive Offerings, scholars have gradually constructed a narrative framework for understanding the trophy.1 This framework consists of an assortment of unreconciled approaches, primarily philological and art historical in nature, and it revolves around a series of fundamentally related questions. First, at what point did the Greeks begin making temporary trophies and at what point did they start making permanent ones? Second, what was the difference, beyond physical makeup, between the two types? Third and finally, were trophies religious or political in character?2 Philologists, art historians, numismatists and archaeologists all have offered varying answers to these questions, none of which is entirely satisfactory – especially in light of recent work by specialists in these assorted areas. Regarding the first issue, scholars have remained undecided concerning a date for the earliest trophies, some championing the 8th or 7th century, while others firmly insist on the 5th century. The earliest permanent trophies date to sometime in the 5th century, probably around mid-century. Scholars generally associate these with the Persian Wars.3 As for the second question, the reason for a trophy’s transience versus permanence may have to do with the philosophy of battle. According to this point of view, temporary trophies were erected for battles of minor importance against fellow Greeks. Meanwhile, permanent trophies belonged to battles of great and lasting importance in terms of political and territorial power.4 Last, the third question: though religious and political purposes need not be mutually exclusive, the general agreement is that temporary trophies belonged to religious ritual, while permanent ones were statements of political gain See in particular Hölscher (2006), 30–31. This cursory gloss of the varied approaches to the trophy remains indefinite and unsatisfying. A closer look reveals deep contradictions between, for instance, philological and art historical methods of discussing this subject. Moreover, some disciplines, such as anthropology and the history of religion, are rich with unmined data that might be applied to the trophy and elucidate its implications. This chapter will problematize the conceptual framework for understanding trophies and will introduce new approaches to the subject. We will examine such fundamental issues as the emergence of the trophy from a more interdisciplinary approach than

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previously attempted. This approach is based on recent scholarship concerning the history of warfare, which sheds light on the relation of the temporary to the permanent trophy; a re-examination of the trophy as a magical talisman and relic of prehistoric religion; and a revised view of the origin and function of the more practical, political side of the trophy. I contend that the religious and political aspects of the trophy, as well as its temporary and permanent forms, were coextensive. This is not an argument or approach that, to my knowledge, has appeared in previous scholarship. In other words, this chapter presents a new conceptual framework upon which to hang a re-examination of the ancient Greek trophy in particular, though some of the conclusions herein will apply to its Roman descendants as well.

A lack of communication While trophies by no means have been unpopular in scholarship over the past century, there remains a great deal of confusion about the topic, particularly in art historical studies. Because much of the evidence for Greek trophies is of a literary nature, philologists have dominated the study of the trophy, often arguing over the meaning of the word in terms of its implications regarding the physical appearance of the object. Meanwhile, art historians have generally grounded their interpretations in anachronistic inferences drawn from the appearance of Roman trophies coupled with an often incomplete understanding of ancient texts.5 Especially common among art historians is the application of Roman discussions of trophies to much earlier, Greek counterparts. Archaeologists, meanwhile, have dwelled on either very fragmentary remains of permanent trophy-monuments, or on dedications of hoplite arms and armour in sanctuaries and stoas.6 The latter continues to expand our understanding of the development of hoplite warfare and of its equipment, which would have composed a trophy. However, trophies were not generally displayed in cities, so while this equipment is useful in restoring the appearance of ancient trophies, it does not derive from the trophies themselves. Each of these three disciplines offers a view of the trophy that is at once useful and flawed. Philology, art history and archaeology must all be taken into account in order to understand the origins and shifting appearance and usage of the trophy. One reason integration of the physical and literary evidence has been so difficult is that the mother of all philological studies concerning trophies, and one of only two monographs published on the trophy as a whole, exists only in Flemish. This is Janssen’s (1957) Het antieke tropaion, which is extremely important because of Janssen’s discovery that the terms τρόπαιov and tropaeum changed significantly over time, from denoting a mannequin constructed of arms and armour to such diverse monuments as buildings and statues (Janssen (1957)). Even when written in English, philological studies may be buried within larger works whose titles do little to suggest that they contain important discussions of the topic. For instance, Bowden’s (1990) Oxford dissertation contains a profound and useful discussion of the term τρόπαιov and its occurrence in Classical literature, including thought-provoking criticism of previous scholarship, and ideas about the relationship between trophies and dedications of booty (Bowden (1990)). This

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Repairing fractured perspectives

discussion largely has gone unnoticed by historians of ancient art, perhaps in no small part because the dissertation’s title, Herodotos & Greek Sanctuaries, and even the title of the chapter discussing trophies, ‘Dedications of booty in sanctuaries’, hold no clues recognizable to the art historian to indicate that they might be of use in the study of the Greek trophy (Bowden (1990), 107–130). After all, nearly every study of the trophy, philological or otherwise, reports that Herodotus never uses the term τρόπαιov – a point Bowden does not dispute – and most studies affirm that trophies were not normally dedicated in sanctuaries. Thus, Bowden’s dissertation is ‘off the radar’ for most art historians interested in trophies even though it might be highly visible to other philologists, who more frequently discuss the question of why Herodotus never uses the term τρόπαιov and whether this ancient historian might actually allude to the trophy via alternate vocabulary.7 Nonetheless, art historians have not missed most philological research simply due to language barriers and ‘misleading’ titles. The fact of the matter is that outside of a few truly deep and comprehensive studies of the trophy, art historians have not generally sought philological discussions of the topic. Rather, they look to the traditional goldstandard tome within their own discipline: Picard’s art-historically oriented 1957 monograph on Roman trophies, with its introductory section on Greek trophies (Picard (1957), 14–100). Picard’s study is laudable for synthesizing a vast body of evidence and for providing an ambitious framework within which to view this material. However, the content and conclusions could stand to be re-evaluated in light of more recent work in the fields of philology, archaeology, anthropology and even art history. The only philological studies known to many of the art historians who discuss the trophy or use the term casually in their scholarship are those studies that Picard cites or that feature the word ‘trophy’ in their title. Also, until now there seems to have been a lack of interest in revisiting the trophy in a comprehensive fashion that both challenges Picard’s assumptions about the relative worth of Greek and Roman art, and that delves into anthropological questions regarding the trophy’s relationship to religion, necromancy and the evolution of warfare.8 Picard asserts that the ancient trophy was fundamentally ‘magical’ in nature, containing evil spirits released during battle, though his assertion lacks the backing of ancient texts or modern scholarship.9 As a result, most scholars postdating Picard have soundly rejected this aspect of his work. I will argue, however, that recent research into the Greek occult supports the general concept of the ‘magical’ trophy. Picard’s speculation was apparently more astute than generally has been acknowledged.10 It is unfair to imply that only art historians have lived within the confines of their own discipline. Philologists, too, have generally remained unacquainted with art historical research on trophies. However, the philologists’ lack of awareness of the art historical approach to the trophy may be less of a handicap in their research than unfamiliarity with the literary evidence has been for art historians. This is because the material evidence for Greek trophies – particularly of the Classical period – is exceptionally limited. As a result, there is more for the philologists to examine than there is for the art historians. I argue, however, that examination of both the extensive literature and the more sparse physical remains is necessary to understand the Greek trophy. This will become apparent in Chapters 4 and 5.

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To date, in the study of Greek trophies what we find is a general progression driven by robust philological studies. The backbone of these studies is the continuing argument concerning the development of both the temporary and permanent trophies.11 Early scholars in particular see the trophy as a mystical but temporary battlefield object whose use dates back to time immemorial, or at least to the 8th or 7th century B.C.E. These same scholars, led by Woelcke (1911), believe that the permanent trophy emerged following the Persian Wars, as an appropriate monument to the destruction of a barbarian foe. Over the past century, this argument lost traction. A more recent view suggests that neither type of trophy existed in a welldefined form until the 5th century, and that distinctions between the two are not as clear-cut as scholars have long believed.12 These assumptions, largely developed by philologists but now absorbed into art history as well, are surely worth further exploration. They represent only a fraction of the trophy’s cultural significance, however. Indeed, as I have suggested, the trophy provides a treasure trove of insight into Greek and Roman society including religion, magic, warfare and sociology. The study of the trophy deserves, and is ready for, a more kaleidoscopic treatment. One would hope to find such an exploration in the most recent study of Greek trophies: Rabe (2008). Unfortunately, Rabe misses the opportunity to open a new dialogue concerning the trophy. Rather than developing an interdisciplinary stance or taking advantage of recent scholarly advances in the study of warfare or Greek magic and religion, Rabe disappointingly returns to early, simplistic ideas about the trophy. In particular, with a surprising lack of evidence, Rabe attempts to revive the long-dispelled myth that the trophy descended from time immemorial. Moreover, Rabe centers her monograph on the mistaken assumption that ‘booty’ – that is, ~ λα or λάφυρα – and ‘trophy’ – τρόπαιov – are interchangeable in terms of σκu significance. This is in no way the case, as explained in Chapter 2.13 Rabe’s volume is limited in its purview and in its contribution to scholarship. To my knowledge, then, the present book is not only the first thoroughgoing investigation into the ancient Greek and Roman trophy in sixty years: it is also the first methodical exploration of questions about the trophy that attempts to span multiple aspects of Classical Studies rather than one or two of its subsidiary fields. Here I address diverse issues. These include the mystical trophy as a talisman of ‘black magic’ and the mannequin’s relation to prehistoric Greek religion. I also examine the history of ancient warfare, both Greek and Roman, paying particular attention to the relevance of contemporary tactics to the trophy’s physical form and political implications. I use the trophy to measure similarities and differences between Greek and Roman culture. Ultimately I use the trophy as a barometer, gauging the relationship between Rome and its provinces. Toward these ends I consult philology and art history, of course, but also numismatics, archaeology, anthropology, history of warfare and history of religion.

Hoplite warfare and the arrival of the trophy Previous scholarship on the Greek trophy follows one of three strands: it discusses the immediate relationship between the object and warfare, the mystical use of the

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trophy, or the political implications thereof. The first has been the most pervasive in the literature, and there is some nebulous consensus that the trophy and 5th-century ideas concerning agôn are related.14 With the exception of Krentz, however, few scholars examine the connection in much depth. The most recent research on hoplite agôn has opened a whole new window onto ancient warfare that I believe is crucial to understanding the role of the trophy in battle (Kagan and Viggiano (2013)). Scholars of Greek warfare now agree that the essentials of hoplite combat, excluding the phalanx, developed in the early Archaic Period. In what we might term ‘proto-hoplite’ warfare, elite individuals led the charge of masses of men who were loosely arrayed in small, flexible groups that carried hoplite shields protecting one another’s sides. These hoplites, in turn, were backed by a support crew of stone-throwers and horsemen, though these never played a major role in battle.15 Even without textual support, the existence of a loosely arrayed protohoplite system is difficult to deny given such strong evidence as the Chigi Vase, painted around 650 B.C.E. At first glance, then, it seems that hoplite warfare existed in the 7th century. Previous scholars have assumed that if hoplites did exist, so too must have trophies – despite our lack of evidence.16 However, the lack of evidence might only imply that the Archaic trophy was impermanent and that it was not until the excitement over the Persian Wars that the permanent trophy emerged. The 7th-century date for the hoplite appears to support the traditional argument that the trophy shifted from a long-standing temporary form to a permanent one only with the advent of war against a barbarian foe.17 In reality, current scholarly understanding of hoplite warfare as it existed in the Archaic Period does not support this argument at all.18 In fact, it seems to do just the opposite. Recent arguments about the nature and development of warfare in ancient Greece indicate that the trophy cannot have existed in the 7th century because hoplite tactics prior to the 5th century involved no ‘turning point’: I assert, therefore, that trophies of neither the temporary nor the permanent type can predate the Persian Wars. Instead, I believe both forms of trophy arose roughly simultaneously, at the dawn of the Classical Period and may be considered part of the ‘Classical Moment’ in Greek culture and history, the ‘moment’ during which Greek civilization and culture exploded with new approaches to the visual arts, new literature and new forms of government, for example.19 My proposition that the hoplite phalanx belongs to the ‘Classical Moment’ finds support in the dates and nature of the earliest evidence for trophies: a few token references in early 5th-century literature and vase paintings from the middle of the century may reflect temporary trophies, while a permanent column-trophy at Marathon dates to about 460 B.C.E. Remains of this column survive today. Given the simultaneity of historical developments in governance and, as we shall see, in warfare, and also given references to trophies in literature, images of trophies in art, and surviving archaeological evidence for permanent trophies, whatever motive stood behind the choice of permanent versus temporary, it was not chronological.20 The history of warfare encourages the conclusion that temporary and permanent trophies developed at the same time. Hoplite tactics seem to have undergone a

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significant change between the Archaic and the Classical Periods, just as so many aspects of Greek life and culture did. The Archaic style may be described as aristocratic warfare, a sort of hand-to-hand combat like that seen in Homer but with a supporting cast of men working in flexible masses, some of whom wore hoplite gear.21 During the Persian Wars, the Greeks used hoplite tactics similar to those associated with the phalanx, but without the phalanx’s rigidity.22 Nevertheless, the pre-hoplites’ cultural and military solidarity, in which they fought for and protected one another, impressed the Persians, whose military operated according to more impersonal top-down rules. The hoplite became a point of pride, and over the course of the Persian Wars, the Greek warrior-champion declined in importance and the impressive, egalitarian phalanx arose. Once the phalanx was established, warfare shifted from proto-hoplite tactics to true hoplite tactics as we understand them today. In Classical hoplite warfare there was an increasing interest in the equality of the combatants. Historians have related this shift to concurrent political developments and dubbed it the ‘Grand Hoplite Narrative’.23 This narrative asserts that the focus on equality in the army came with the removal of the tyrants in favour of oligarchies, aristocracies and democracies (Kagan and Viggiano (2013a); Hanson (2013)). The phalanx, in which each man plays a comparable role, forming a long, united chain with no clear ruler or ‘champion’, was the result of a larger shift away from focus on an individual leader, towards the ideal of the many working together.24 In the process, the practice of warfare became rigid rather than fluid: men formed a unified line rather than shifting support groups. Minor forces including mounted warriors backed the phalanxes but did not shape the overall style of combat.25 The rigid line was accompanied by rigid rules of engagement including the imperative to erect a trophy. This newly inflexible system in effect created a ‘fair’ contest between states, as if war were an organized team sport, again in contrast to the more fluid Archaic system, which was a contest between individuals whose personalities and unique fighting styles dominated the battleground.26 Hoplites, then, existed before the hoplite phalanx and its accompanying rules and rituals.27 The transition from fluid hoplite fighting behind a champion to the rigid hoplite phalanx of equals mirrors the transition from the rule of one monarch to the rule of many working together. Just as this new Classical system of ‘rule by committee’ or even by the people required the codification of laws and intrastate behaviour, so the new committee-like phalanx required codified rules of engagement (Krentz (2002), 35–37). Thus, the soldiers depicted on the Chigi Vase of the mid-7th century were indeed hoplites, but they did not fight in phalanxes. Nonetheless, they used the same kind of equipment that the Classical phalanx later did and they often formed protective, group walls of shields that guarded the soldier on his left side and overlapped with his neighbour to the right. This kind of shield, incidentally, was not called a hoplon: that is a term that refers to ‘military equipment’ in general (Krentz (2013), 137). The shield itself was an Archaic innovation with an armband at the centre and a leather grip on the right end. It was called the porpax aspis (Krentz (2013), 136). Despite using this distinctive shield and in most respects resembling the Classical hoplite, these Archaic warriors did not operate in phalanxes and therefore did not

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‘roll up’ for a rout (Krentz (2002), 35–37). The concept of a trophy would not have made sense to an army that did not ‘turn’. As a result, the arms and armour prephalanx warriors looted from the battlefield dead were dedicated in sanctuaries, sold for war profits, or melted down and recast in various forms. However, the newly formed, post-Persian, phalanx depended on the turning of the enemy line. Once lines began to turn, the battlefield trophy – the marker of the point where the losing phalanx turned – entered the world of the hoplite agôn and began to devour spoils stripped from the battlefield. Perhaps it is no coincidence that, at the same time, the number of dedications of war booty in sanctuaries began to decline.28 Given the rigid link between the hoplite agôn and the trophy, it is unsurprising that, as hoplite warfare declined in importance during the Hellenistic period, so too did the traditional use of the trophy. However, as one use of the trophy waned another grew to replace it: the Hellenistic trophy, prominent on coinage and in oration, became a true icon of power.29 There remains an important caveat: while the trophy’s etymology firmly ties it to the phalanx, there is no obvious connection between the act of ‘turning’ and the mannequin format. Nor, of course, is there an explicit connection between the maritime trophy of ships’ beaks and changes in naval battle. Probably in the latter case a pre-existing tradition – the dedication of ships and parts thereof – received the new title of ‘trophy’ at some point in antiquity. The anthropomorphism of the land trophy is more curious. It also might have had little or nothing to do with the nature of warfare in Archaic and Classical Greece. A more likely connection is with religion and necromancy, topics discussed later in this chapter. The mannequin may be a rustic representation of a god and, as such, might have been related to pre-Classical trends of using extramural sanctuaries and worship to define territorial boundaries.30 The trophy’s frightening appearance does ‘turn’ people away from these boundaries. This is, however, ‘turning’ in the apotropaic sense and has nothing to do with battlefield tactics and everything to do with guarding territory. Furthermore, there is reason to suspect that the anthropomorphism of the trophy relates not to the nature of warfare, but to a general fear of the evil spirits inhabiting a battlefield. Necromancers sometimes used dolls to capture ghosts: perhaps the anthropomorphism is, in fact, due to some sort of talismanic purpose similar to that suggested by Picard. The turning of the phalanx was responsible for the erection of a battlefield marker, permanent or otherwise, beginning in the Classical Period. Despite the lack of evidence from literary or visual sources, however, it is not impossible that a mannequin of arms and armour, unaffiliated with battle practices, was placed on the field prior to the 5th century in order to fulfil religious obligations. In sum, as a hoplite artefact marking the turning of the phalanx, trophies most commonly seem to have been temporary battlefield constructions, though permanent examples may have been constructed contemporaneously. While the hoplite phalanx continued to operate during the Hellenistic period, after the major victory of the Macedonians in 338 B.C.E. at Chaironea the phalanx was no longer on the cutting edge of warfare. The cavalry dominated Macedonian tactics, rather than standing by to support the foot soldiers as it had in the hoplite system (Snodgrass (2013), 92). In response, the trophy morphed into a Hellenistic emblem of power as

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the importance of the temporary battlefield monument, and probably also of the permanent version thereof, diminished. In its place, an emphasis grew on representations of trophies, particularly on coinage, where the mannequin become a straightforward emblem of military power. Changes in warfare transformed the trophy from a remnant of the hoplite phalanx into a symbol of victory, but these same changes did not necessarily change the trophy from an object of spiritual significance into one devoid thereof. The trophy’s practical aspects – such as proclaiming victory, delineating territory, and expressing arête – and the trophy’s more mystical aspects – as a religious dedication, a representation of a god, or a magical talisman – were not mutually exclusive. A synthesis of the two is not only possible but necessary for a full understanding of the ancient trophy.

Necomancy, hauntings and angry ghosts In his monumental work of 1957, Picard stated that early Greek trophies were traps for the dangerous spirits, or daimones, that battle released. The gradual disintegration of a trophy marked the withering of these daimones.31 Picard excused his lack of evidence for this theory by insisting that ancient authors would not have written about such magical, even taboo, aspects of the trophy. Subsequent scholarship has misread this lack of literary evidence as solid proof against Picard’s arguments, and in general scholars reject the concept of a talismanic trophy. Most recently, in 2005, Gabaldón Martínez opposed Picard’s suggestions despite arguing for a fundamentally religious interpretation of the trophy. Apparently, even those for whom the trophy is not strictly practical are sceptical of Picard.32 Nonetheless, examination of recent research concerning Greek attitudes toward the battlefield dead suggests that Picard’s theories may have more to them than presumed.33 It is time to reconsider the potentially ‘mystical’ qualities of the trophy. Picard had assumed that necromancy was too taboo for ancient authors to discuss. Without textual support, Picard could not elaborate upon his theory.34 However, recent explorations into Greek magic have revealed a trove of Classical literature concerning necromancy. This literature repeatedly mentions the stain of battle upon the battleground and the pervasiveness of ghosts and evil spirits in such places: however, ancient authors do not mention the capture of these spirits in a trophy per se.35 Texts are more likely to dwell on the touristic value of such sites. Much like Gettysburg today, in antiquity the sites of major battles spoke to a sense of collective memory. Lasting monuments hailed visitors: Marathon’s large trophy-column, rather than collecting ghosts, might better be considered an ancient parallel to Gettysburg’s Pennsylvania State Memorial (Hope (2015), 168). Stories of hauntings at Marathon and elsewhere stemmed from the idea that those who died an unnatural or early death, and those who were not granted proper burial, roamed the earth with ill intent towards all who would not help them to find closure. Soldiers were particularly susceptible to such a fate. The Greeks were interested in putting ghosts to rest and in removing the stain of death from battle sites: however, wars may have left so many ‘angry ghosts’ that it would have been impossible to

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appease each of them. Instead, battlefields might have become infested with Picard’s daimones, coalescing into a general miasma infecting the land.36 Though unattested in literature, it is tempting to believe that the trophy, an unusual and even frightening object, must have interacted with them somehow. To fully grasp the ‘magical’ implications of the trophy it is necessary to delve into Greek practices of, and ideas concerning, necromancy: we must apply an anthropological eye to the trophy.37 To my knowledge, no ancient author explicitly connects necromancy with trophy-rituals. Ancient literature contains so many fragmented references to battlefield necromancy that, given Picard’s fixation on evil spirits and the fundamentally disturbing appearance of the trophy, clad in bloodstained armour, it is natural to wonder if the trophy might relate to the dark arts. After a battle both Greeks and Romans expected the winner to have his pick of the military gear worn by the dead. The victor would respectfully bury his own men and sometimes those of the enemy as well (Ogden (2009), 12). Alternatively, the burial of the enemy dead might be left to the surviving enemy troops. However, in worstcase scenarios the enemy dead were left exposed or dumped into a single mass grave.38 Despite official Athenian claims to the contrary, archaeology has demonstrated that such a mass grave was used for the disposal of the Persians at Marathon.39 The Greeks who knew of the mass graves must have been behind the frightful tales of Marathon’s nightly haunting in which the unsettled ghosts returned to replay the battle time and time again. A visitor who came to witness this event could be possessed by the strong magical charge of the site, and old battlefields were often used for the activation of curse tablets.40 The idea was that the ground was so imbued with negative magic that it could breathe evil into anything placed upon it. These literary examples all discuss the spread of battlefield miasma. Could the trophy have functioned in the opposite way, drawing the miasma to itself? This would support Picard’s suggestion. Both the Greeks and the Romans feared ghosts and haunted battlegrounds. Ancient authors record a variety of means for laying individual ghosts to rest and cleansing the site of battle.41 A necromancer could cleanse the field based on direct consultation with the ghosts, during which he would learn how to lay them to rest permanently. More importantly, ghosts could be propitiated by an annual sacrifice, usually to Zeus Cthonia – Zeus of the ground, whence ghosts rise. An animal, usually a bull or black sheep, would be killed on the battlefield and its blood would be drained onto the ground – again, the home of the ghosts (see Ogden (2001), 182 for more details). Such rites were standard practice at Plataea by 427 B.C.E. according to Thucydides (3.58.4–5), Herodotos (9.85), and Pausanias (9.2.4). Several ancient sources, both literary and visual, attest to religious rites accompanying the erection of a trophy, though it is unclear whether these involved animal sacrifice.42 More interesting and potentially applicable to the trophy is the use of objects to hold spirits. Ancient texts do not record trophies as spirit-holders, of course, since they do not seem to mention trophies at all. However, they do list stones and dolls. Pliny Natural History 37.192 discusses a ‘holding stone’ used to keep a ghost in place upon summoning.43 Dolls could either hold a benevolent or a malevolent

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spirit. Greek necromantic dolls that appear in the Orphic Argonautica (950–87) or in Apollonius’ Argonautica (3.1008–1224) may have had positive, even erotic connotations. On the other hand, Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (6.14) describes the burning of dolls in order to destroy angry ghosts. This burning may have been related to the necromantic practice termed ‘boy-sacrifice’: both were substitutes for real human sacrifice.44 There are similarities between necromantic approaches to restless spirits and the trophy. Blood offerings – from animals – and the use of dolls as vessels for evil spirits are all suggestive of the practice of creating a trophy and placing it on the battlefield. We know from literary sources that the erection of a trophy was considered a religious ritual in honour of Zeus Tropaios, and while these sources never explicitly mention sacrifice, it is not impossible that the religious aspect of setting up a trophy was akin to better-known rituals involving sacrifices to Zeus Cthonia.45 It is particularly tempting to relate holding stones and dolls to trophies. The issue of the dolls holding negative spirits is complex. Ancient literature reports that these dolls were burned right away, probably simply to destroy the evil spirit but possibly also in mimicry of human sacrifice. However, trophies were inviolable and, unlike the spirit dolls, they could not be destroyed. There must be some sort of connection here, but it is elusive. The trophy, with its mannequin form based on a dead object – a blasted tree, ideally – rising from the ground, and its apparent similarity to a doll housing a spirit, meant to be thrown on a pyre, is eerily suggestive of human sacrifice. I do not intend to suggest that the trophy is evidence of human sacrifice. Rather, the trophy reflects the appearance of those already killed in battle – men whose lives were offered to Zeus Tropaios as a sacrifice in exchange for victory. Perhaps this was ultimately the necromantic function of the trophy: it captured the energy of the dead and offered it up to the god as a mass sacrifice of life. Despite the paucity of direct evidence for the trophy’s role in necromancy, the trophy does seem to fit the basic needs and some of the approaches to handling difficult spirits. Picard’s ‘magical’ theory is not without merit, apparently.

Religion: prehistoric precepts Related to the trophy’s function within the field of necromancy, or ‘black magic’, may be the role of the trophy in religion. The trophy seems to reflect very early, perhaps even prehistoric, apotropaic rituals performed ad hoc at the border of the polis’ chora in order to define local territorial rights and repel potential encroachment. De Polignac has convincingly argued that the early Greeks established cults on the fringes of their territory in order to delineate this territory and to turn away intruders.46 I believe that the trophy, despite its lack of temple or official cult, played the same sort of apotropaic role that was so important to developing Greek society. Central to my logic is the inseparability of magic and religion, particularly in the case of religion unregulated by state practice. Though this is not the first time that the trophy has been examined as a religious object, I believe that it may be one of the earliest attempts to do so from an anthropological stance rather than from an art

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historical or philological one. According to more traditional readings, offered by scholars as early as Wolcke in 1911, the trophy served as a dedication of thanks to Zeus, pure and simple. I propose a new reading, according to which the trophy does not merely reflect modern ideas of Greek religion: it reflects prehistoric ideas to which we have restricted access. If the trophy is a gift to Zeus, or even an image of the god, it is one that is untamed and threatening. Though the necromantic associations with magical dolls and perhaps with the remains of a sacrificed human being are suggestive, ad hoc religious practices provide an explanation for the mannequin format that is at least as compelling, if not more so. Visual evidence for two other instances of the sort of crude anthropomorphism found in a trophy may shed additional light on the question of the trophy’s anthropomorphic form, a question that no text ever addresses directly. The first of our visual examples is the representation of Dionysos on the mid-5thcentury Lenaia vases, which reflect the activities of a specific, extramural Dionysian festival from Athens. On these vases, the god consists of nothing more than a column dressed in clothing and wearing a mask (see Figure 3.1). Carpenter believes that the ‘mask-idol’ seen here reflects a common and traditional form of rustic idol current in late Archaic and Classical Athens.47 Carpenter also argues that because masks of the god and the faces of satyrs often seem interchangeable, these ‘rustic idols’ were at least partly apotropaic in function. He concludes that the ‘mask-idol’ belongs to popular religion rather than to official state cult (Carpenter (1997), 97). The Lenaia did become a recognized festival, but it remained extramural and distinct from worship within the polis. The second example is the herm, a pillar that culminates in a bust and that often features a phallus midway up the frontal surface. Herms seem to occupy a grey zone between naturalistic statues of men in stone or metal, and makeshift images like the ‘mask-idol’, where a human representation is ‘tacked on’ to an aniconic object. It seems conceivable that the herm is the direct descendant of images like the ‘mask-idol’. That is to say, though surviving herms are stone and metal, herms were probably originally more makeshift and perishable, consisting of some sort of pillar topped with a mask or other image of a human head. In function, herms are mileposts: markers of territory. Especially with their erect phalluses it is easy to see them as apotropaic images, much like ‘mask-idols’ but in this case meant to protect the territory that the herm delineated. What we can conclude about these other forms of ‘crude’ anthropomorphism in Greek art is that they derive from popular religious practices, that they are appropriate in a rural setting and as markers of territory, and that they may combine apotropaic and cultic functions – warding off evil spirits and perhaps also receiving offerings to more benevolent ones. These traits are reminiscent of those of necromantic dolls – which were used to destroy evil and keep good spirits – and they seem applicable to trophies as well. Trophies belong to popular religion in the sense that they are certainly distinct from Greek religion as practiced in sanctuaries and temples. Though the trophy is often associated with a particular god, especially Zeus Tropaios, it is generally not dedicated in a sanctuary, nor does Zeus Tropiaos, the nominal god of trophies, even have a sanctuary or temple until the Hellenistic

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Figure 3.1 Lenaia vase: stamnos depicting women congregated about an idol of Dionysos. The Villa Giulia Painter, ca 450 B.C.E. Boston MFA 90.155a.

period, when the Attalids of Pergamon created a state cult for him (Picard (1957), 75–76). Rather, the trophy is part of a widespread – and perhaps originally spontaneous – army ritual occurring in the open air and usually in a rural setting. The closest Greek trophies normally seem to come to a city is at its gates. The domain of the trophy is extramural, and in this domain the trophy expresses territorial ownership and the boundaries of the chora, whether in the form of a temporary marker or a more permanent monument visible at a distance as we will see in the case of the Persian War trophies in Chapter 5. The trophy, then, asserts and protects these boundaries: as a protector, it is fundamentally apotropaic. Meanwhile, as mentioned earlier in this chapter and then in greater detail in Chapter 4, there is significant evidence to believe that the trophy was an object of religious devotion. Xenophon describes pomp and ceremony involved in the erection of a trophy, images on vases depict Nike crowning a trophy or offering sacrifice to the trophy, and Euripides describes the trophy as an image of Zeus. Like Dionysos in the Lenaia Festival or like a roadside

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herm, the trophy was an extramural mannequin that served the sacred role of protecting the boundaries of a polis’ territory. In some sense, the modern scarecrow plays a similar role today: it is an isolated mannequin staking claim to farmland and fields, frightening away interlopers – be they animal or human. The scarecrow is successful in its apotropaic function both because it looks like a man and because it does not. From a distance, the scarecrow makes the intruder believe that a person is patrolling the land, but up close it is disturbingly inhuman. It is this dual nature – both human and not – that makes the scarecrow a ‘monster’, a frightening Halloween set-piece, an object capable of ‘turning away’ intruders. The trophy, appearing from a distance to be an armed guard but up close revealing its true nature as a lifeless shell constructed from the bloodstained armour of the dead, would have greatly amplified the disturbing and frightening qualities we associate with the scarecrow today. The effigy-soldier created by a trophy was not meant to represent a guard in absentia the way that a scarecrow is; rather, its meaning is more along the lines of a warning: ‘cross the army that controls this land and you, too, may end up a bloodied and inanimate object, no matter how well-armed you are’. The answer to the question of why the trophy is anthropomorphic, then, is probably a disturbing fusion of a necromantic reference to human sacrifice and an old religious ritual in which a crude image of a god guarded the extramural territory, or chora, of a Greek state. The trophy, although apparently distinct from the necromantic doll, the curse tablet, and the extramural sanctuary or festival seems to belong in this family of magical or potent objects.

Politics and practicalities The ‘practical’ trophy has been the subject of far more scholarship than the ‘spiritual’ trophy. Nonetheless, the authors addressing these political aspects seem to have attacked the issue from angles that initially may seem contradictory but in fact are reconcilable. I argue that the three main students of the ‘political’ trophy – Picard, Pritchett and Hölscher – advocate different forms of trophies that represent separate but complementary military and political goals. Picard’s trophy eventually took on a propagandistic role, representing not the battle dead but the aret e of the winning army and its commander (Picard (1957), 36–64, especially 36–42). Twenty years later, Pritchett asserted that the trophy had always been practical and political: it declared military prowess and ownership of land (Pritchett (1974), 246–275). For Picard, then, the trophy expressed the moment of human greatness, while for Pritchett it sealed the victory. For the former the trophy was celebratory and for the latter it was immediately apotropaic. Recently, the political use of the trophy has attracted significant scholarly attention.48 The strongest voice in the field is now Hölscher. By announcing one side’s rightful victory over the other, the trophy, Hölscher contends, represents the initial step in the transformation of battlefield actions into tangible, political power (Hölscher (2006), 30, 32). Accordingly, while cleansing the battlefield as I now believe it did, the trophy simultaneously proclaimed territorial ownership. Winning

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a battle in ancient Greece necessarily implied possession of the battlefield and thus territorial gain. Setting up a trophy was comparable to the modern practice of planting a flag on foreign soil to declare ownership. If an army placed a trophy on land to which it had not established the right of ownership, the trophy was regarded as invalid and was removed (Thucydides 8.24.1). In this role, we see the trophy again transforming battlefield victory into political gain. However, we also see less of an emphasis on the general’s personal accomplishment or on the horrific appearance of the necromantic, apotropaic trophy. Hölscher’s statement of long-term territorial claim required a permanent trophy. Since a permanent trophy was not erected immediately following the battle which it commemorated, it could not serve the purpose of an initial thank-offering to the gods, a declaration of victory to the other army, or a necromantic talisman – all of which Picard’s and Pritchett’s trophies could do. Instead, the permanent trophy’s purpose must have been to offer lasting testament to the battle’s outcome and its consequent political results. That is to say, it offered thanks in a monumental form to the gods, acknowledging the long-term importance of the gods’ assistance in the battle and perhaps serving some long-term role in suppressing the angry ghosts lurking in the soil; it solidified and asserted the permanence of the victors’ possession of the territory on which it stood; and it commemorated – in a form meant for all men to see – the prowess of the victorious military and the state it represented.49 Whereas only the armies engaged in the battle were likely to see or dwell upon the temporary trophy because it was small in stature and likely to decay, the permanent trophy would be visible to many generations of men, who might come from far away specifically to see it and remember the deeds of the victors. Thus, the temporary trophy is, in a sense, a placeholder denoting the transformation of military deeds into political power, while the permanent trophy is its replacement: a true monument to and assertion of the permanence of this new political power. Both celebrate the deeds of the general who ultimately won the battle and gained the new territory. This use of the trophy is similar, once again, to the Pennsylvania State Monument at Gettysburg: a reminder of the importance of the battle site, of those who fought, and of their lasting political achievements.

Notes 1 Rouse (1902), 99–100. Rouse also makes the first statements in favour of a religious interpretation of the trophy. 2 This dichotomy is first discussed in Woelcke (1911). 3 Woelcke (1911) was the first to outline the dichotomy between temporary, battlefield trophies as ‘monuments’ with a deep past, and permanent ones, which he believed to have postdated the Persian Wars. Woelcke’s ideas have remained influential, as we can see in examples such as Pritchett (1974), 253–258; West (1969), 7–19; and, most recently, Rabe (2008). 4 See in particular Hölscher (2006), 30–31. 5 Sections of Diodorus, Plutarch and Cicero, have been applied uncritically. 6 For instance, the sculptures at Saint Bertrand-de-Comminges (Chapter 7) or the bronze shield unearthed in the Athenian Agora and bearing the inscription: ‘The Athenians from the Lakedaimonions at Pylos’. On the latter, see Shear (1937).

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7 Foremost is Pritchett (1974), 270 but also Picard (1957), 32. 8 Picard generally assumes that Roman trophies are copies of Greek originals. Picard (1957), 86–88, for example. 9 Picard (1957), passim but especially 24–35. 10 Studies that reject Picard’s ‘magical’ interpretation include Lonis (1979), 129–146; Gabaldón Martínez (2005), 21–35; likewise, Hölscher (2006) presents a very practicalminded approach to the trophy that is quite the opposite of Picard’s mystical approach. I hope here to combine the practical and the mystical. 11 This begins with Woelcke (1911). 12 Lonis (1979), 129–146; more fully developed in Krentz (2002). 13 Kinnee (2005) presents my own analysis of this subject. 14 Lonis (1979), 129–146; Bowden (1990), 107–130; Krentz (2002); Gabaldón Martínez (2005), 21–38; and Krentz (2013). 15 This is the general consensus throughout Kagan and Viggiano, eds. (2013). 16 The idea originates with Woelcke (1911) and dominates works as recent as Rabe (2008). 17 Again, Lonis (1979), 129–146; Bowden (1990), 107–130; Krentz (2002); Gabaldón Martínez (2005), 21–38; and Krentz (2013). 18 See Krentz (2013) on the nature of hoplite warfare. 19 On the ‘Classical Moment’, see for example Pollitt (1972). 20 For an in-depth, recent examination of hoplite warfare see Kagan and Viggiano, eds. (2013). 21 Krentz (2002) passim and (2013), 137 and 148. 22 Krentz (2002) passim. 23 Kagan and Viggiano, eds. (2013) in general and especially: Kagan and Viggiano (2013a, Kagan and Viggiano 2013b); Viggiano (2013); and Hanson (2013). 24 See Pritchett (1974), 276–290 on shield devices. Krentz (2002), 34–35 discusses these as evidence for the ‘Grand Hoplite Narrative’. 25 See both Krentz (2013) and Krentz (2002). 26 This is the essential argument presented by Krentz (2002). 27 Krentz (2013), 137. See Snodgrass (2006), 345 regarding archaeological evidence. 28 On the drop-off in number of dedications in sanctuaries, see Krentz (2002), 35. 29 This is a point that appears in many studies of Greek trophies, including Janssen (1957) and in later work, including Lonis (1979), 129–146; Bowden (1990); Conti (1998–1999); Krentz (2002); Gabaldón Martínez (2005), 21–38; and Hölscher (2006), 31–32. 30 The principle of the prehistoric development of the apotropaic function of the extramural sanctuary, and of its role in defining the chora was championed in de Polignac (1995) and has since been discussed in Alcock and Osborne (1996) and Pedley (2005). Vernant (1965, 1990, 1991 in translation) is critical for understanding Greek thought and the bases of Greek religion. For an archaeological approach to the pre-literate formation of the Greek world see the recent Hansen (2006); and Whittaker (2014). 31 Picard (1957), passim but especially 24–35. 32 Pritchett (1974), 246–275; Lonis (1979), 129–146; and Gabaldón Martínez (2005), 21–38. 33 For example, Lonis (1979), 134. 34 For extensive references to ancient sources and for excellent scholarship concerning ancient necromancy and sorcery, see Parker (1996); Graf (1999); Ogden (2001); Collins (2008); and Ogden (2009). 35 Ogden (2009), 12–16, but more specifically Hope (2015), 168–169. 36 Ogden (2009), 13 refers to Pausanias 1.32.3–4 regarding the haunting of Marathon. Ogden, 12–16 discusses the impact of spirits on battlegrounds and the general failure to remove the miasma they spread. However, Ogden (2009), 16 mentions offerings to the dead, akin to ‘necromantic evocation’, which might imply propitiating these spirits on an annual basis, but it might also constitute a form of hero worship. On the general practices, see Plutrch Aristides 21 and on heroization see Thucydides 3.58.4–5, Herodotus 9.85, and Pausanias 9.2.4.

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37 Davis (1999) has greatly influenced my understanding of the anthropological use of visual objects. 38 On the abandoned dead, Pritchett (1985), 235–241. More generally, Ogden (2009), 13. 39 Ogden (2009), 13. On the mass grave for the Persians, see Pausanias 1.32.3–4. 40 Ogden (2009), 12 and 13 n. 24. 41 Lucan Pharsalia 1.569–83 writes of the rivalry between Marius and Sulla continuing after death, with the two rising from the Campus Martius, as a symbol of Rome’s most recent Civil War, prophesying doom and terrifying those who beheld the spectacle. Other Roman examples of the dead rising from the battle ground are in Pliny’s Natural History 2.148 and Tacitus’ Histories 5.13. 42 Xenophon Hell. 4.3.21, Ag. 2.15, and Hell. 7.2.15. 43 Ogden (2001), 182 for more details. 44 Ogden (2001), 184–187 and 196–201, the latter regarding what Ogden terms ‘boysacrifice’. 45 Concerning religious rituals surrounding the trophy see Chapter 4 of this volume. See Chapter 5 in reference to the Nike Temple Parapet. Refer also to Hell. 4.3.21, Ag. 2.15, and Hell. 7.2.15. 46 de Polignac (1995) and supra no. 23. 47 Carpenter (1997), 82. See also 93–97. 48 Jung (2006) addresses the practical, political, and psychological impact of monuments, and how these ramifications changed over time to suit historical circumstance: on the whole, his argument is that Greek commemoration of the Persian Wars was, at times, a method of expressing Greek dominance over its own territory and eventually of expressing Athenian hegemony. Hölscher (2006) similarly argues that permanent trophies express lasting claim to territory and the transformation of military victory into political change, but his thesis is more broadly applicable as it does not pertain to one particular war. 49 I am indebted in this idea to Hölscher’s (2006) assertion that permanent trophies were used to convey lasting political changes associated with major victories.

4

The Greek trophy Written sources

Decompressing the narrative and reconnecting it with history Defining the ancient trophy is no simple feat. As discussed in Chapter 3, even ancient testimony must be treated carefully in order to avoid confusing Greek and Roman ideas or applying anachronisms to the trophy. Because anachronistic descriptions are often particularly detailed, and because the majority of literature referring to the trophy mentions the object only in passing, it is tempting to collapse centuries of scattered data into a single picture, which is erroneously flat and monolithic. Despite its pitfalls, ancient literature provides the largest body of evidence for the nature of the ancient Greek trophy. If we carefully track the word’s usage over time, a picture emerges of the development of a dynamic Greek trophy-concept. Because the meaning of the word τρόπαιov was fluid in antiquity I will address ancient authors according to the approximate dates of their texts in order to understand the trophy specifically as they knew it, avoiding an accidental synthesis of all ancient usages of the word into a single, amorphous definition. Moreover, I will generally group together authors who were more or less simultaneously active. My intention in so doing is to provide a broadspectrum understanding of the trophy – one that takes into consideration the views of diverse groups such as historians and poets. Consulting ancient texts without scrupulous attention to date, and assuming that late Hellenistic and even Roman authors are trustworthy sources regarding the early 5th century has been essential to the common narrative of trophy development. According to this view, the trophy was, for many centuries, merely a temporary monument meant to disintegrate over time and thus prevent the perpetuation of tension between Greek states. Suddenly, after the Persian Wars, it became a permanent monument meant to immortalize glory over a foreign foe. In Picard’s view, the shift to permanence comes even later, at the time of the Peloponnesian Wars, when generals created long-lasting trophies to advertise their own prowess. If one evaluates the ancient texts according to date and in light of recent work on the history of warfare, one finds that the evidence simply does not support any reading stating that the trophy shifted dramatically from temporary to permanent sometime in the 5th century. Rather, it suggests a much shorter, but more complex, history for the monument-type, beginning in the 5th century B.C.E. rather than the 7th or 8th centuries, and involving no clear-cut transition from temporary to permanent.

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The Greek trophy was, as its etymology suggests, a physical artefact of a postbattle ritual specific to the hoplite phalanx. As described in Chapter 3, the trophy developed out of trends that date as far back as Homer but that were not realized in a consistently recognizable form until the mid-5th century B.C.E., when the Greeks began to develop the phalanx and other ‘codes’ or ‘rules’ of hoplite combat. During the Peloponnesian War this hoplite trophy reached new heights of popularity, but it came into crisis when Philip of Macedon forced a shift in Greek warfare away from hoplite tactics and towards a style of combat dominated by the cavalry. Though the trophy declined in importance during the lifetimes of Philip and his son, Alexander the Great, Alexander’s successors revitalized the monument type during the Hellenistic period, converting it into an emblem of personal power and military success.

Literature Examining ancient literary sources allows us to track this progression in some depth. The visual and archaeological evidence complements the literature well, but it is in much lesser supply and is best understood when viewed through the lens of the written sources. This chapter will focus on the trophy as it appears in the work of historians such as Thucydides, Xenophon, historian P of the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, and Diodorus Siculus; poets such as Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Aristophanes and the author of the Battle of the Frogs and Mice; and orators and philosophers such as Lysias, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Aeschines, Isocrates and Lycurgus. For the most part, these authors use the word in passing, apparently under the assumption that their audience already knows precisely what a trophy is and that the term does not require explanation. This implies that the trophy existed and was in relatively common usage before the texts in question were written. The general pattern of the word’s employ and the select instances in which these authors dwell upon the term suggest that the trόpaiov in Classical Greece was indeed a mannequin of arms and armour or, less commonly, some sort of permanent battlefield monument.1 Though the sources do not specify the form of these permanent monuments, it seems reasonable to assume that because Greek authors distinguish between the temporary and permanent monuments only in terms of durability, the permanent trophies were likely similar in form – though not in material – to the temporary mannequins. The literary evidence is suggestive of minor shifts in the connotations of the term trόpaiov from the Classical to the late Hellenistic world, but these are largely conceptual rather than physical shifts. In other words, though there is an increased usage of the term in a metaphorical sense in the later 5th century, the literature does not reveal any significant change in the physical appearance of the trophy during this period. Problematic texts In perhaps the earliest description of a trophy-like object, Homer may describe an awkward ‘proto-trophy’ in Iliad X, 459–468: here Odysseus decorates a tamarisk bush with booty as a landmark for himself, so that he can find his way in the middle

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of the night following a raid against the Thracians. Despite this curious use of war materiel, Homer never uses the proper terminology, nor does he describe a true mannequin. His object does not even reflect the function of later trophies. Homer’s proto-trophy is important to the argument that the monument type likely did grow out of pre-existing trends but that it did not have an extensive history prior to the Classical Period. However, one must tread carefully: the tamarisk possibly bore no relation to the later trophy. Even if it did, it might not accurately reflect 8th-century poetry at all: the Homeric epics were likely not transcribed until the 6th century B.C.E., possibly as late as the 520s. The tamarisk tree incident is intriguing but problematic. More problematic is a supposed 6th century B.C.E. reference employing a variation on the Classical ‘trόpaiov’: it is only by virtue of misdating that Aesop’s Fable 20, l. 7 has been mistaken for the earliest direct reference to the trophy. It is important to dispel this myth. Philologists now believe that this author is a legendary figure and that the animal stories attributed to him date to the late 5th or early 4th centuries. The fable’s reference to a cockerel as a ‘bearer of trophies’ is neither useful in understanding the term nor in constructing its chronology.2 The ubiquitous trophy of the early- to mid-5th century The first genuine mention of a trophy is found in the plays of Aeschylus, who began his career in the 480s B.C.E.3 The trόpaiov appears a remarkable three times (l. 277, 706, 956) in the Seven Against Thebes, first performed in 467 B.C.E. This implies that the term – and therefore the object – was in common use by the early 5th century B.C.E., not long after the development of the phalanx, but probably significantly after the Homeric tamarisk bush, which serves at best as an indication that the trophy, like the hoplite phalanx, developed gradually. Thucydides (460–395 B.C.E.), Sophocles (496–406 B.C.E.) and Euripides (490– 406 B.C.E.) follow closely in Aeschylus’ footsteps in writing lucidly about the trophy. By the early- to mid-5th century we have entered a period during which the term was bandied about with the assumption that the audience was familiar with the object to which it referred. There is a collective understanding that the trophy was an object used to mark victory. In addition to opening the door to regular usage of the term, these authors make several important points regarding its nature. First, trophies are an integral part of the process of declaring victory in battle. Thucydides routinely describes the aftermath of a battle with phrases such as ‘stripping the dead and setting up a trophy’ (3.112.8) and ‘stripped the dead and set up a trophy’ (5.10.12). Even more frequently, Thucydides indicates simply that the victors ‘set up a trophy’ and then returned home.4 The trophy, then, represents the formal conclusion of battle and the declaration of victory. Second, as the declaration of victory in battle, a trophy is usually placed in a topographically significant location on or near the battlefield, most often the turning point of course but in some cases near the gates of a city (as early as Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, l.945–955) or fort taken by siege (Thucydides 5.3.4), on a promontory (Thucydides 2.84.4) or island (Thucydides 7.23.4) near the site of a

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naval battle, at the site where the victorious army began its advance, or at the site where the victorious army experienced its first real success (for the latter two, see Thucydides 7.45). In this topographically significant location, the trophy takes on the characteristics of a landmark. It denotes ownership of territory: Thucydides tells of a trophy being removed because it was erected in territory that its creators did not control (8.24.1). It is Thucydides again who describes the trophy as a reference point in the landscape, something used to provide directions – akin to a modern ‘make a left at the fork in the road’ – or to describe a location near the trophy – similar to ‘it is near the statue’ (5.10.6). Third, trophies are composed of looted arms and armour placed on some kind of support. Thucydides, despite his verbose and frequent reference to the use of trophies, is generally silent concerning their physical make-up. Nonetheless, he notes a shield taken from an enemy and ‘used for the trophy which they [the Athenians] set up for this attack’ (4.12.1). Euripides is even clearer in the Heracleidae: ‘the trophies of victory are being raised with the armor of your enemies upon them!’ (L. 784– 787). None of these early authors overtly describes a mannequin or states whether the object was permanent, though they do not preclude the possibility. Vase painting and archaeological remains of permanent trophies flesh out these aspects of the trophy’s appearance, but it is useful to see what ancient authors chose to describe about trophies over the centuries. In a few isolated instances, these writers record that arms and armour compose a trophy, but the authors feel no need to describe the object further: perhaps the concept was not new, alien, or obscure in the 5th century B.C.E. This suggests the existence of a burgeoning proto-trophy contemporaneous with proto-hoplite warfare, but it does not require the existence of a fully formed trophy in the Archaic Period. Fourth, Euripides in particular is clear that trophies were dedications to Zeus. He goes as far as suggesting that a trophy was an image of Zeus himself (Phoenissae, l. 1240–1254). Thucydides upholds the interpretation of the trophy as a dedication to a god, though he does not specify which one: passages like 2.92.4–5 imply that trophies, like booty, were dedications. No author of the early- to mid-5th century – aside from Euripides – asserts directly that trophies are images or effigies of gods, but Euripides’ description of trophies as such at the very least supports the conclusion that early Greek trophies were anthropomorphic in nature. The form of the trophy, like other aspects of the monument-type, must have been obvious enough to most Greeks that special commentary was unnecessary. Fifth and particularly usefully, these early- to mid-century Greeks make a distinction between trophies and more generalized dedications of booty. Thucydides in particular repeatedly mentions the construction of a trophy and the dedication of spoils, but he always describes the two as separate events. For instance, after a naval battle: ‘The Peloponnesians also set up a trophy as victors for the defeat inflicted upon the ships they had disabled on shore, and dedicated the vessel which they had taken at Achaean Rhium, side by side with the trophy’ (2.92.5). The ship, which is booty, is dedicated with the trophy but is distinct from it: it is para, not εpi, tοn trόpaiov. Likewise, after a land battle: ‘The victory remained doubtful, as each side routed one of the wings opposed to them, and both set up trophies and sent spoils to

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Delphi’ (4.134). Thus trophies and spoils are again separate – even more so in this case, in which the trophies remain on the battlefield while the spoils are sent to a sanctuary. Trophies apparently were distinct from booty dedicated to the gods either on the field of battle or in a sanctuary. Unlike the booty, the trophies take a specific form, most likely that of a mannequin of arms and armour, and belong to a specific place associated directly with the battle, not a sanctuary or temple. Late Classical perspectives Xenophon (431–355 B.C.E.), Aristophanes (456–386 B.C.E.), Lysias (445–380 B.C.E.), Plato (428–347 B.C.E.) and Isocrates (436–338 B.C.E.) provide a slightly different – perhaps more ‘developed’ – view of the trophy and its meaning. In particular, these authors reveal that in the late-Classical period, the term trόpaiov no longer referred simply to an object: they demonstrate that the trόpaiov had real symbolic currency for the Greeks – that is, it could be invoked to stand for concepts such as valour, achievement, greatness and military prowess. The authors of the lateClassical period frequently use the term in an emblematic sense. Xenophon calls a trophy a memorial of a general’s valour (Ages. 6.2). Aristophanes uses the term in both the Lysistrata and the Wasps to refer metaphorically to victory and its fruits (Lysistrata, l. 315–318 and Wasps, l. 707–712). Lysias, on multiple occasions, uses the erection of a trophy to illustrate the greatness of men (Lys. 2 20, 2 25, and 2 63). Plato is explicit about the connection between trophies and valour: ‘men of faint heart never yet set up a trophy’ (Plat. Criti. 108c), he asserts.5 Isocrates makes a similar point with slightly more obtuse language, declaring that ‘it is not possible for people who are reared and governed as are the Persians, either to have a part in any other form of virtue or to set up on the field of battle trophies of victory over their foes’ (Isoc. 4 150). His point is not that the Persians never set up a trophy. Instead, he is declaring that the valour and greatness required to set up a trophy were beyond Persian faculties. Isocrates’ point is abstract. There is, to my knowledge, no substantive evidence that the Persians ever constructed trophies. Until the Romans encountered it, the trophy seems to have been an exclusively Greek phenomenon, tied to the vicissitudes of contemporary military practice. Though the relationship between hoplite warfare and the trophy is recurrent in these pages, the trophy itself gradually becomes decoupled from battlefield tactics, a theme upon which I will later expand in detail. The evidence firmly supports the view that by the late-Classical period the term trόpaiov, and presumably the object it denoted, so fully symbolized victory and its attendant virtues of valour, strength and greatness that the trophy could stand in for these virtues in metaphorical speech. Again, the authors appear to be thinking of the trophy as a physical object, though they are now more interested in its metaphorical potential rather than in historical instances in which it actually was erected. Related to this heightened sense of the symbolic potential of the trophy are new hints at the object’s use as a permanent, commemorative monument. Impermanent mannequins were statements of victory, but, because they did not stand long, their primary purpose was probably not to boast of military valour to a broad audience.

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Though the early- to mid-5th-century Greek authors do not preclude the construction of permanent trophies in their own time, it is only in the later Classical period that the authors provide any real evidence for trophies as lasting monuments. Xenophon, for instance, describes trophies in honour of the Persian Wars as objects visible for a prolonged period following the battles they commemorate: “As tokens of these victories we may, indeed, still behold the trophies” (Anabasis 3.2.13). The trophies in question may not have been erected at the time of the Persian Wars since earlier sources do not mention any such monuments: archaeology, as we will see, complicates this picture. Fundamentally, Xenophon is not, however, concerned with the ‘shelf-life’ of a trophy. The significance of the passage is instead that it indicates the extent to which trophies were beginning to be understood as monuments with commemorative power: that is, monuments that lent gravity to an event and proclaimed its importance to future generations. Commemorative monuments were highly politicized and were meant to assert the prowess of one particular polis or even of a single individual: the latter was a trend the Romans eventually exploited to its full extent. This commemorative function was layered atop the primary characteristics and functions of the earliest recorded trophies – trophies that sealed the outcome of battle via religious and magical ritual. Trophies were becoming, at this point, more complex in terms of the messages they conveyed, with ever-growing emphasis on their potential to communicate abstract ideals of valour, success and steadfastness. Authors like Xenophon focus on the trophy as an object that can call to mind glorious events from the past. All of this interest in remembering past deeds implies permanence. Xenophon makes this crystal clear when he reports that Agesilaus ‘set up a trophy, leaving behind him imperishable memorials of his own valor’ (Ages. 6.2). Meanwhile, Lysias is also explicit about the new, commemorative value of trophies. In his Funeral Oration, he proclaims: ‘ever memorable and mighty are the trophies’ that the ancestors of the Athenians ‘have everywhere left behind them owing to their valor’ (Lys. 2 20). Despite the new emphasis on the trophy as a commemorative and symbolic monument, late-Classical literature does demonstrate a high degree of continuity with earlier material in terms of the treatment of trophies. The majority of times that early-, middle- or late-Classical authors mention the term it is only in passing: a battle was won and a trophy was therefore erected. In several instances, Xenophon provides additional, striking details about the process of setting up a trophy, revealing that at least in the later Classical period this portion of the post-battle ritual was accompanied by musical performance and that the soldiers attended it decked in garlands (see Hell. 4.3.21, Ag. 2.15 and Hell. 7.2.15). At this point, trophies were religious in character, as they seem to have been throughout their history, but also secular – as demonstrations of human might. Xenophon also frequently reports locations that were chosen for the erection of a trophy. For the most part, these are the same types of locations that the earlier authors indicate: the site of first engagement, city gates or the site where victory was achieved. One new location is a mountain pass through which an army marched (Hell. 4.6.27). Though this fits the pattern of important topographical sites used for trophies earlier in Greek history, the specific choice of a mountain pass is worth noting as it is a site that the Romans eventually

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came to exploit for their own, much later trophies (see La Turbie in Chapter 8). It is interesting that Xenophon mentions the ceremony surrounding the trophy and the locations appropriate for it: perhaps his readers were no longer as intimately familiar with the trophy’s role in battle as they had been in the early- to mid-Classical era. The rise of the Macedonians and the formation of a Hellenistic world Greek literature of the early- to mid-4th century B.C.E. shows a drastic decrease in the number of references to trophies. In part this may reflect the dearth of surviving literary accounts dating to the period of the rise of Macedon all the way to the 1st century B.C.E. Even Diodorus Siculus, who wrote in the 1st century B.C.E. about the early Hellenistic Period, and who relied on a variety of now-lost historians contemporary to that era, mentions trophies markedly less frequently, though in greater detail, than did either Thucydides or Xenophon.6 It is likely that the overall drop in interest in the trophy reflects changes in warfare, in which hoplite tactics, and therefore hoplite ritual practices such as the erection of a trophy, gave way to cavalry-based warfare as practiced by the Macedonians.7 Despite these changes, however, one philosopher (Aristotle, 384–322 B.C.E.) and several orators (Demosthenes, 384–322 B.C.E.; Aeschines, 389–314 B.C.E.; and Lycurgus, 390– 325 B.C.E.) continue to discuss or at least mention the trophy during the rise of Macedon, and fragments of a history (the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, dated to either 378–320 B.C.E. or the 2nd century B.C.E.) and of poetry (the Batrachomyomachia, likely dating to the time of Alexander the Great) from roughly the same period also contain passing references to trophies. Aristotle and the later 4th-century orators who mention the trophy do so with such emphasis on the symbolic and metaphorical aspects of the trόpaiov that the physical object is all but forgotten. Aristotle, in fact, specifically discusses the term in relation to the use of metaphors (Rhetoric, 3.10.7), while the orators, especially Demosthenes, insist on the trophy as a marker and measure of excellence, and as something that inspires greatness in future generations (e.g., Dem. 19 16). The antiMacedonian stance of these later orators may account for their interest in this symbol for hoplite victory in the face of the encroachment of the Macedonian cavalry, to whose tactics the trophy was foreign. The special case of Diodorus The single most important source on the Hellenistic trophy is the erudite historian Diodorus Siculus – even though his writings may contain occasional anachronisms. Diodorus differs dramatically from earlier Greek authors in his treatment of the trophy. Whereas the earlier authors, including poets, tend to be quite pithy in their descriptions of trophies, Diodorus writes as though he does not expect his audience to instantly know what he means by ‘trόpaiov’. He is the most clear and detailed of the Greek authors in his definition of this term: only Euripides, with his description of trophies as objects ‘with the armor of your enemies upon them!’ (Heracleidae, l. 784–787) comes close to providing the same level of information

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about the physical appearance of a trophy. Fortunately, what Diodorus says concerning a trophy’s appearance matches what Euripides reports. Euripides is not the only source that supports extending Diodorus’ definition of the trophy to the 5th century: the visual arts, in particular the painting on a pelike in Boston dating to 450–440 B.C.E. (Figure 1.1; and see Chapter 5), match the words of both of these Greek authors. Ultimately, it is probably best to treat Diodorus as a source of scrupulously researched information, but also as an author whose work must be regarded with some scepticism. Though he provides much insight into earlier trophies, it is crucial to take his word as secondary to that of the contemporary authors. Diodorus defines the trophy over the course of two passages in his thirteenth book. In a short span Diodorus provides a physical description of the mannequin trophy as it is seen in Greek art, links this description to the Greek word trόpaiov, and establishes the dichotomy between temporary and permanent trophies that has been prevalent in modern scholarship on the subject. In his first passage concerning the appearance of a trophy, Diodorus writes that it is an object consisting of military equipment nailed to a support. This description appears at the conclusion of an otherwise unremarkable account of the end of battle and the declaration of victory. Diodorus reports: ‘the Syracusans set up two trophies, nailing to each of them the arms of a general’ (13.19.3). In the second passage, Diodorus reveals the material of the support to which these arms are nailed. This disclosure comes in the form of a rhetorical question: ‘For what reason did the ancestors of all the Greeks ordain that the trophies set up in celebrating victories in war should be made, not of stone, but of any wood at hand?’ (13.24.5). This question confirms that traditional Greek trophies were made of wood – in other words, that the support to which ‘the arms of a general’ were nailed was wood found in the area of the battle: ‘any wood at hand’. By the 1st century B.C.E., when Diodorus was active, the battlefield trophy was still in use: however, its origins and much of its supporting logic must have seemed obscure, part of an inaccessible, ‘ancestral’ past from which the average Greek reader would have felt estranged. Diodorus is, in effect, asking why temporary trophies were ever created, and he is writing from the point of view of someone who believes that stone is a fair alternative to wood. This boils down to the question of what the difference is between a temporary and a permanent trophy. Diodorus himself attempts to answer this question, but he seems to miss the target. While there is evidence to support the claim that Diodorus’ mannequin trophy is an accurate description of the 5th-century trόpaiov, his ensuing claim that ‘the ancestors of all the Greeks’ used exclusively temporary trophies constructed of armour and wood ‘in order that the memorials of the enmity, lasting as they would for a brief time, should quickly disappear’ (as the passage continues; 13.24.6) is rather more dubious. Earlier authors do not support this assertion. 5th-century writers such as Xenophon and Lysias speak with praise of trophies that are enduring in nature (for example, Xen. Ages. 6.2 and Lys. 2 20), and earlier authors including Thucydides do not describe the decay of trophies or imply that there was a desire for trophies to be short-lived. Awkwardly, then, Diodorus claims that early Greeks disdained the permanent trophy, while the early Greeks themselves express admiration for permanent trophies.

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Scholarship has traditionally dealt with this problem by positing two phases in the development of the trophy, which I have mentioned previously but will explain more fully here. In the first of the two presumed phases, the permanent trophy was antithetical to Greek ideas regarding warfare and intracultural relations. It therefore did not exist. In the second phase, permanent trophies became acceptable – even laudable – because they came to symbolize the defeat of non-Greeks. A temporary trophy decayed in order to maintain the Greek way of life, while a permanent trophy stood witness to the protection of the Greek way of life – specifically against the Persians. The earliest trophies that are evidently permanent in Xenophon’s writings commemorate war against non-Greeks (the Persians: Anabasis 3.2.13). At first glance, then, literature seems to validate scholars’ long-held hypothesis that trophies erected for victory over barbarian enemies could be lasting even when those against fellow Greeks were required to decay. In addition, the later permanent trophies in Xenophon (Xen. Ages. 6.2) post-date the well-known, durable trophies erected in commemoration of the Persian Wars. The later permanent trophies can be explained as the product of a new mindset in which, inspired by these Persian War examples, trophies in general were not required to decay and disappear.8 As we know, despite its allure this argument does not withstand scrutiny. The idea that temporary trophies were initially preferred to permanent ones because of deeply rooted beliefs concerning the dissolution of tensions between city-states seems untenable. There is no evidence for such an ideology in the early texts. Diodorus’ explanation implies some degree of ‘civility’ in warfare among the Greeks that seems more like misguided nostalgia than like a realistic view of hoplite warfare.9 Perhaps more importantly, the trophy, permanent or not, seems to have been born in the aftermath of the Persian Wars, when the phalanx and the tactic of ‘turning’ the opposing army’s lines coalesced along with other aspects of Classical hoplite agôn. Historical developments in the practice of warfare, coupled with visual and literary evidence, strongly suggest that the full-blown trόpaiov did not exist prior to the 5th century. Moreover, the earliest accounts, images and remains of trophies are a mixture of permanent and temporary. The narrative that best fits the evidence for the development of the two types of trophy is that they emerged roughly simultaneously, and that the permanent trophy became more common as the nature of ancient warfare moved away from hoplite tactics. The prominence of permanent trophies in literature grows hand-in-hand with ancient sources’ metaphorical use of the term to stand for military virtue, again in the face of changes to the practice of warfare. Temporary trophies are most frequently reported when they are simply fulfilling their role as a ritualistic conclusion to battle. Gradually, with the increasing importance of the cavalry, the trόpaiov’s role became metaphorical: it related less and less to battlefield tactics and more to ideas of battlefield excellence. Excellence was more likely to be commemorated with a permanent monument than with a temporary religious marker, and so the importance of the permanent trophy grew. However, this does not mean that the two emerged at different times. The trophy ‘paradigm shift’ from temporary to permanent never occurred. Instead, the shift was from proto-trophies of some sort and proto-hoplites to full-fledged versions of both. This was part of the ‘Grand Hoplite Narrative’,

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of course, but it was also part of the larger scale paradigm shift in Greek culture: the ‘Classical Moment’. Apart from Diodorus’ illuminating and controversial descriptions of trophies in the two passages from book thirteen, this historian’s other uses of the word generally conform to earlier understandings: trophies indicate possession of land (13.73.1) and are separate from dedications of booty (12.48.1). There are, however, a few important differences between his trophies and those appearing in other ancient texts. For example, while most trophies in Diodorus, like those in Thucydides and Xenophon, are mentioned in passing as part of the ritual of declaring victory, at other times Diodorus seems to imply that trophies were only erected for particularly important battles and that a trophy therefore signalled real progress towards winning a larger-scale war rather than simply victory in one skirmish. For instance, concerning a battle at Tegyra, Diodorus reports that ‘on account of the importance of the victory the Thebans erected a trophy’ (15.81.2). Another novelty in Diodorus is the first definite appearance of a trophy in a sanctuary. This is a permanent monument erected at Delphi by the local population in commemoration of the Persian Wars: ‘the Delphians, desiring to leave to succeeding generations a deathless memorial of the appearance of the gods among men, set up beside the temple of Athena Pronaea a trophy’ (11.14.4). Interestingly, this trophy does not commemorate a victory in battle, but rather Delphi’s emergence, unharmed, from the Persian Wars. Finally, Diodorus makes one new and very unusual metaphorical use of the term trόpaiov: he refers to murderers as ‘living trophies’ of those they have killed (13.29.2). On one level, this statement supports the interpretation of the trophy as a mannequin meant to be an effigy of the enemy whose destruction it records. At the same time, it seems quite distant from all other references – particularly the metaphorical references of earlier writers – to the trophy. The emphasis of Diodorus’ metaphor is not on the virtues conveyed by the trophy, but on the negative aspects of destruction and defeat that the trophy reflects onto the enemy. We see in Diodorus a looser, more fluid understanding of the trophy than we saw in earlier authors. The trophy is no longer simply the object erected at the end of each battle in order to declare victory: nor is it merely a metaphor for military virtue. One has the sense from Diodorus that these old meanings, particularly the former, were somewhat out-of-date, and that in the 1st century B.C.E. the trophy was not the regular part of battle it once had been. Nor was its significance or form as immediately obvious to the historian’s audience as it had been in the 5th century B.C.E. The trophy now needed to be described, and its purpose, once so well-known as a religious and probably also magical approach to declaring and consecrating a battleground, had become a topic worth questioning and discussing – as evidenced by rhetorical questions such as that concerning the impermanence of early trophies. Diodorus is also the first author to show particular interest in the negative connotations of the trophy: in particular, its ability to prolong enmity and its symbolism of defeat for the enemy. This interest in the trophy as a reflection of ill-will suggests that by the 1st century B.C.E. the trophy was a much more complicated object than when it emerged as a mainstay of Greek warfare in the 5th century.

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Conclusions We may dramatically simplify the story of the Greek trophy into one of transition from a battlefield marker to a metaphor of military strength. However, there is more to this story than the written, or the visual, evidence can provide. The early use of the term trόpaiov in ancient texts is, as noted, too casual for it to reflect the initial usage of the object itself. Moreover, the only ancient passage to discuss the question of why some trophies were impermanent while others were permanent, a question that has long plagued scholars, belongs to the 1st century B.C.E. and provides no answers. Some informed speculation is therefore in order. Hypothetically, the story of the trophy really begins with the enticing but imperfect narrative of the ‘Classical Moment’: the ‘cultural awakening’ or revolution that followed the Persian Wars. This transformation, which has been coupled with the ‘Great Hoplite Narrative’, suggests that the trophy – both permanent and temporary – was a product of the Persian catalyst. As with nearly every development that can be associated with the Classical Moment, it seems likely that, following the wars, the trophy developed rapidly out of nascent, pre-existing trends. The material we have just examined supports the idea that a proto-trophy predated the wars – but it is important to note that prior to the early- or mid-5th century there is no surviving evidence to suggest the existence of mannequin trophies or even close cousins to these, in terms of form or meaning. Even Homer’s reference to the display of armour on branches is a far cry from a trophy. Most suggestive of the existence of a proto-trophy is the shift from a flexible hoplite system to the more rigid phalanx during the Classical Moment. Because the Archaic Greek military was not dissimilar from the Classical army, we may conjecture that the Archaic hoplite system featured flexible battlefield rites, which morphed into the trophy following the wars. Simply because there was no ‘turning point’ prior to the 5th century does not mean that the trophy cannot yet have existed in some nascent form: it only implies that whatever existed was not a genuine trόpaiov, or turning-point marker. Ultimately, there is no evidence requiring the trophy or even a proto-trophy to have existed before the Persian Wars, and etymologically the trophy proper should not predate the phalanx. However, it is unreasonable to assume that the trophy arose fully formed in the early 5th century. In all likelihood, the trophy was a creature born of post-Persian War reform, and those wars, as with so many aspects of Greek culture, were truly the catalyst that drove the development of the unique relic of warfare that is the trophy. Thus far we have been speaking in speculative terms. Turning to what direct literary evidence we have, we find a picture of a standard battlefield mannequin in use by the 5th century B.C.E. The symbolic significance of this mannequin gradually morphed so that by the Hellenistic Period, the trophy served more as an emblem of military power than as a mode of sealing battlefield victory. Authors describing the trophy, from the early 5th century B.C.E. to the 1st century B.C.E., suggest that across its history, the monument-type gradually gathered and discarded various layers of meaning. Based on the data we have explored thus far, at its height in the 5th century, a strategos might have used the trophy toward necromantic,

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religious and political ends. In addition, the format – that is, the arms and armour nailed to wood – was a firm statement of Greek cultural identity. However, by the 1st century B.C.E. mannequins seem to have become simpler though perhaps more forceful statements of military prowess. At this point, they were still in use on the battlefield in temporary and permanent forms, though not as frequently as we find in earlier centuries. Often they were reserved for ‘special’ victories and were placed so as to mark the turning point not of a battle but of a war. Also by the end of the Hellenistic Period, the Greeks were placing trophies in sanctuaries and city centres with greater regularity: here, as on coins and in history and literature, the trophy abandoned its original role and discarded battlefield-specific implications regarding religion, magic and territory. Divorced from their original contexts, these later trophies expressed a singular, powerful message of military superiority. As different as the late Hellenistic trophy may have been from its ancestors, these differences pale in comparison to the changes in both content and form that the Romans imposed upon the trophy in the late Republic and early Empire. The Romans took their initial inspiration for the trophy from Greek models, and Roman trophies do reflect a continued interest in both the iconography of the mannequin and some of its religious and political underpinnings. However, as we will see, in the course of the late Republic and early Empire, the Romans drastically altered the trophy in concept and form.

Notes 1 Thucydides 4.12.1, and Euripides, Heracleidae, l. 784–787; later, Diodorus 13.19.3 and 13.24.5. 2 Regarding Aesop see s.v. ‘Aesop’, OCD. 3 s.v. ‘Aeschylus’, OCD. 4 See Thucydides 1.30.1, 1.54, 1.63.3, 1.105.6, 2.22, 2.79.7, 2.82, 2.84.8, 2.94–5, 3.91.5, 3.109.2, 4.12.1, 4.14.5, 4.25.11, 4.38.4, 4.44.3, 4.56.1, 4.67.5, 4.72.4, 4.97.1, 4.101.4, 4.124.4, 4.134, 5.3.4, 5.10.6, 5.74.2, 6.70.3, 6.70.3, 6.94.2, 6.97.5, 6.98.4, 6.100.3, 6.103.1, 7.5.3, 7.23.4, 7.24, 7.34.7, 7.41.4, 7.45, 7.54, 7.72.1, 8.24.1, 8.25.5, 8.42.4, 8.95.7, and 8.106.4. 5 The Greek here suggests that Plato is still conceptualizing of the trophy as a real object, even if he is referring to it in a figurative sense. 6 On Diodorus Siculus and his sources, see Walbank (2001). 7 On the rise of the cavalry see Billows (1990) and Corrigan (2004). For earlier use of horsemen in Greek warfare, see Worley (1994) and Gaebel (2002) as well as Kagan and Viggiano (2013). 8 See, for example, West (1969). This is West’s central argument: that permanent trophies originated as markers of victory against barbarian enemies, rather than against Greeks. See also Pritchett (1974), 253–258. 9 On the brutality of hoplite warfare, see, for example, Hanson (2009).

5

Visual evidence and the history of the Greek trophy

Visual evidence: vases To reiterate, the archaeological material testifying to the appearance and nature of ancient Greek trophies is so paltry that, in order to construct a clear picture of the Greek monument-type, it is necessary to examine visual representations before turning to the trophy proper. Along with literature, visual material such as vases, bas-reliefs, and coins provide the most useful evidence for reconstructing and understanding the Greek trophy. Beazley recognizes thirteen representations of trophies on Greek vases, none of which he believes to be earlier than the middle of the 5th century B.C.E (Caskey and Beazley (1931–1963), 66–67, n. 160. See also Pritchett (1974), 246). Janssen and Woelcke had earlier asserted that one of these vases, a Boeotian black figure fragment, belonged to the first half of the 5th century and was the earliest known image of a trophy (Woelcke (1911), 24–25; Janssen (1957), 63). Beazley rejects this claim, placing the fragment in the late 5th century (Caskey and Beazley (1931–1963), 66–67). The highest quality and most wellknown of the assorted vase paintings of trophies is the pelike in Boston, which is the name-vase of the Trophy Painter (see Figure 1.1). Beazley dates this pelike to 450–440 B.C.E., making it one of the earliest examples of the trophy’s appearance in the visual arts (Boston 20.187. See ARV2 857, n. 2). The only possible earlier image of a trophy is found on a fragment of a low-quality Attic red-figure vase in Bonn (Bonn 697.111. Caskey and Beazley (1931–1963), 66–67). The Boston pelike depicts, on one side, a standing youth; and on the other, a winged Nike nailing a helmet onto a rough, wooden post – possibly a denuded tree – that already wears a cuirass, a short chiton, and a baldric that supports both a sword and a spear. A round shield leans against the base of the tree. There can be no doubt that this illustrates the trophy as described by Diodorus and Euripides: a wooden support with the enemy’s arms nailed to it. Remarkably, the appearance of the trophy in this nascent image persists with little change throughout the history of the trophy’s use in both Greece and Rome. Though the types of arms and armour vary, and the corpus of monument types that receive the title of ‘trophy’ shifts, the trophy on the Boston pelike embodies the essence of the mannequin trophy from outset to decline. The other vases depicting trophies exhibit a limited iconographic repertoire. For the most part, they depict either Nike erecting a trophy, as in the Boston example, or

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men – warriors and/or youths – standing near and perhaps admiring a trophy. Two significant departures from these templates are seen on a pelike in Athens (Athens 1683) and a chous in New York (75.2.13). The pelike in Athens, which was found in Megara and may not be of Attic manufacture, depicts a bull and a ram before a trophy, where they are about to be sacrificed. Nike flies overhead with a wreath to crown the trophy. This vase is important because it provides visual evidence for the treatment of a trophy as a cult image and the recipient of offerings – including the blood of animals, which will be spilled onto the battleground as in necromantic cleansings of haunted places. Though Beazley does not date this vase, he places it with other 5th-century examples (Athens 1683. Caskey and Beazley (1931–1963), 66–67). The New York chous, which belongs to the mid-4th century B.C.E., has more complex iconography. In addition to the trophy it features a herm and a retinue of divinities. These include Nike, Athena, Dionysos, Herakles and possibly Demeter, Kore and Hygeia as well. The significance of such iconography is unclear, though Beazley thinks it may indicate the commemoration of a specific victory (New York 75.2.13. Caskey and Beazley (1931–1963), 66–67). Alternatively, the profusion of divine figures surrounding the trophy might reflect the growing interest in the trophy as a symbol of a variety of virtues and the increasing dissociation of the trophy from its original context as an artifact of hoplite ritual.

Visual evidence: bas-reliefs Visual evidence for the Greek trophy in the form of relief carvings is more limited, with the prime example being the parapet from the Temple of Athena Nike on the Athenian Acropolis, dating to ca 415 B.C.E.1 Unfortunately, the sections of this relief featuring trophies are extremely fragmentary. Nonetheless, Dinsmoor has identified five trophies and has postulated an original total of twelve. In addition, Dinsmoor notes that the trophies on the parapet are of three types: 1) ‘hoplite’ trophies featuring heavy armour, circular shields, helmets and greaves; 2) ‘Persian’ trophies defined by sleeved chitons or chain mail, lunate shields, caps with flaps, swords, bows and quivers; and 3) maritime trophies consisting of naval paraphernalia such as rudders (see Dinsmoor (1926), 22–23). Because Dinsmoor reconstructs the parapet trophies entirely on the basis of very small fragments that often preserve no more than the indication of the curve of a shield or part of a tree trunk, it is wise to remain sceptical about the number of trophies on the parapet. This is especially true because the total number of trophies – twelve – is more the result of an attempt to see symmetry in the design of the parapet than it is the product of any strong external evidence. At the same time, the three types of trophy fragments that Dinsmoor has identified indicate that there must have been at least three trophies on the parapet, and the volume of fragments is suggestive of even more. The fragmentary nature of these trophies prevents us from understanding exactly how they functioned within the larger relief. However, Dinsmoor believes that it is safe to reconstruct at least two of the trophy scenes as juxtapositions of Athena and a trophy, possibly without an attendant Nike (Dinsmoor (1926), 22–26). This fits with the theme of the frieze, which Hurwit defines as a series of sacrifices carried out by

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Nikai but overseen or directed by Athena (Hurwit (2004), 190). In this case we may surmise that the parapet depicted Athena in her guise as a war-goddess repeatedly inspecting the ‘sacrifice’ of a mannequin, perhaps in lieu of an actual enemy corpse, following a battle. On the parapet, then, the trophy is treated as analogous to other, more traditional animal sacrifices to the gods. The visual evidence on Athens 1683 and the parapet show the trophy as both recipient and object of sacrifice. The visual evidence is testament to the dual nature of the trophy in a religious context, as a cultic image and as a thank-offering.

Visual evidence: coinage Coins provide the most plentiful visual evidence for trophies, which are a common subject on reverses from the 4th century onward and particularly in the Hellenistic period. The iconographic range of these numismatic trophies is restricted, featuring either a trophy standing on its own, or, more commonly, a trophy in the company of a deity or personification such as Nike, Herakles, or – in one case – Pan.2 The divine figure tends to be shown erecting, crowning or carrying the trophy. Nike and Herakles are not unexpected companions for the trophy. Nike, as the goddess who announces victory, is a natural counterpart to the trophy, which also announces victory. Herakles, meanwhile, has associations with strength and victorious power that are appropriate to the more metaphorical aspects of the trophy. In addition, Isocrates makes Herakles one of the earliest warriors to use the trophy, though in an unusual, aniconic form: the demigod creates the Straits of Gibraltar, also known as the Pillars of Hercules, as a trophy of victory and a territorial marker (Isoc. 5 111–112). Pan, however, is unexpected; his presence on a Macedonian coin is explicable only as a reference to Pan’s supposed aid in Antigonos Gonatas’ victory over the Gauls in 277 B.C.E. (see Mørkholm (1991), catalogue #432). A fourth personification sometimes has been understood as accompanying a trophy on a coin. This is Aetolia, who appears seated atop a pile of shields on coins dating to 220–189 B.C.E. Pausanias describes an Aetolian monument at Delphi consisting of a trophy and a female personification of Aetolia, a region in the northwest of Greece (10.18.7): scholars often have connected Pausanias’ description with the Hellenistic coin, despite its lack of a mannequin trophy (Mørkholm (1991), 151 and catalogue #513– 515 and #517). In some discussions of the Aetolian monument, scholars interpret the ‘trophy’ as the pile of shields pictured on the coin, leaving open the question of whether the Greeks of the 3rd-century would have called this pile a trophy, or whether Pausanias’ use of the term is anachronistic. Other scholars, preferring the idea that both the 3rd-century Greeks and Pausanias used the term consistently to mean a mannequin, suggest that the coin only represents one half of the monument that Pausanias describes, and that the actual trophy at Delphi included both the woman seated on the shields and a mannequin, not shown on the coin.3 Both sides of the debate accept that there is, in fact, a connection between this coin and Pausanias’ description. This is a useful and interesting connection to make, and given the increasingly fluid usage of the word there is no imperative to restore a mannequin to this monument. Whether the use of the term ‘trophy’ for the pile of shields in the

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image reflects 3rd century B.C.E. Greek usage or an anachronism on the part of Pausanias is unclear. If it reflects 3rd-century usage, this coin would be the lone piece of evidence in favour of the argument that a trophy can be a pile of infantry equipment. Trophies do not appear on coins prior to the 4th century. That is, their use on coinage belongs exclusively to the period during which the trophy’s role as a symbol of military virtue came to overshadow its role as part of a post-battle hoplite ritual. The earliest example of a trophy on a coin dates to 394–350 B.C.E. and was minted at Lampsakos in the Troad (Woelcke (1911), 76 and plate 2). Like the Boston pelike, this coin depicts Nike nailing military equipment to a post. Capua also produced coinage depicting Nike with a trophy and possibly dating back as far as 342 B.C.E (Woelcke (1911), 76). However, apart from these issues trophies are absent from coinage until after the death of Alexander the Great. In the late 4th century and particularly in the 3rd century B.C.E. there was a surge of interest in the trophy as a numismatic device, with examples springing from dynasties and independent cities across the Greek world. Trophies appear on coinage minted by Syracuse (see Figure 1.6), Macedonia, Lysimachos, the Seleucids, Bithynia, Pyrrhus of Epirus, Boeotia, Aetolia, Phonecia and an assortment of Greek towns in southern Italy and Asia Minor.4 Though there is very little literary evidence for the battlefield use of the trophy in the Hellenistic period, these coins assert special interest in the trophy.5 In fact, the new and widespread use of the image of a trophy on coinage at the same time that the trophy became a less familiar subject in literature suggests the rebirth of the monument type as an icon of power following the decline of hoplite ritual. The coin was, in fact, the ideal vehicle for this transformation and new use of the trophy. Numismatic images naturally take on an iconic quality: the format of the coin demands a simplified scene, while the coin’s repeated reproduction and use in daily life makes its images visually familiar. Meanwhile, the primary purpose of much coinage was to pay and thus assure the continued allegiance of both the standing military and the large corps of mercenaries in the employ of the Hellenistic monarchs. In this role, the coins acted both as a material reward and as propaganda broadcasting the military power of the minting state, using the icon of the trophy to assure soldiers and mercenaries that they were in the employ of a victorious king. On coins, then, the trophy became emblematic of the personal power of kings in the Hellenistic period, whereas earlier trophies, more closely tied to hoplite ritual, probably reflected on both the army as a whole and the general in command. Picard believes that this new, personalized use of the trophy is one of the hallmarks of the Hellenistic trophy, and also that it is a precursor to the increasingly self-aggrandizing trophies of republican Roman generals, which we will examine in Chapter 6.6

Visual evidence: remains of permanent monuments Having gleaned what we can from literature and surviving representations of trophies, we at last are able to examine the final and most complex category of visual evidence for Greek trophies: the physical remains of real, permanent trophies.

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Visual evidence and history

Permanent trophies are of particular interest for two reasons. First, while temporary trophies were talismanic objects meant to play an immediate, battlefield role, permanent trophies were long-lasting, highly visible and commemorative of major victories. Second, the date of the earliest permanent trophy in relation to that of the temporary trophy has been much debated in scholarship, and this debate has implications for the relation of the trophy to the advent of the hoplite phalanx.7 The examination of the remains of real, permanent trophies is here divided into two subcategories, one Classical and one Hellenistic. Stone fragments at Marathon, Salamis and Leuctra may reflect Classical-period trophies belonging to each of these sites. In 1965 at Marathon, Vanderpool removed several fragments of a marble monument from a ruined medieval tower into whose walls these Classical fragments had been built. The fragments included portions of several column drums, an orthostate block, a step block, an Ionic capital, part of an inscription listing a pair of names, and a very badly preserved portion of a sculpture. Vanderpool dated the column to ca 460 B.C.E. primarily on the basis of a comparison of the capital with those from the Stoa of the Athenians at Delphi. He placed the orthostate and step block in the 4th century B.C.E., and the inscription in the 4th or 3rd century B.C.E (Vanderpool (1966), 97–100). The orthostate, step block and inscription, if they belong with the column, should be associated with a later modification of the monument. The fragment of sculpture, though undated, is assumed to belong to the initial phase of the column-monument as a crowning figure, much like the Naxian sphinx at Delphi (Vanderpool (1966), 100). Vanderpool immediately identified this column-monument with Pausanias’ description of a white marble trophy at Marathon in honour of the Greek victory over the Persians (1.32.5) (Vanderpool (1966), 102). Earlier Greek authors also mention a trophy celebrating the Greek victory over the Persians at Marathon. Plato might have been referring to real, physical objects when he explained that the Greeks refused to provide a later Persian king with official aid ‘for fear of disgracing the trophies of Marathon, Salamis and Plataea’ (Menex. 245a). Other authors, though, sound more metaphorical in their references to Persian War trophies: Aristophanes, for instance, refers in the Wasps to Athenians ‘enjoying the delights to which the great name of their country and the trophies of Marathon give them the right’ (l. 710–711). Though there is no straightforward, contemporary evidence for a permanent trophy erected at Marathon in the mid-5th century B.C.E. in celebration of the victory of 490 B.C.E., Vanderpool’s idea remains attractive. A columnmonument topped with a statue was an oft-used Greek commemorative format, seen not only in the Naxian sphinx but also in the monument of Kallimachos on the Athenian Acropolis, which consisted of an Ionic column crowned by a statue of a running Nike. This monument dates to ca 490 and its inscription reveals that it was made specifically to commemorate the victory at Marathon (Hurwit (1999), 130). As Vanderpool asserts, a lone Ionic column found on the plain of Marathon with a fragment of sculpture could only be a commemorative monument erected in honour of victory over the Persians. Moreover, the date of the column (ca 460 B.C.E.) seems to support this interpretation. Rather than being too late, a date of 460 B.C.E. seems to coincide with growing Athenian interest in celebrating the successes of the

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Persian Wars. This was the time when Phidias’ colossal Bronze Athena, also known as the Athena Promachos, was dedicated on the Acropolis in commemoration of the Persian Wars.8 It seems fair to accept that Vanderpool’s column-monument was erected at Marathon in the mid-5th century B.C.E. in celebration of the famous battle. This was probably the monument that Pausanias saw in the 2nd century C.E. and described as a trophy of white marble: the question remains, however, of whether Pausanias’ use of the word trόpaiov was anachronistic. There may be reason to believe that the Greeks understood this marble monument as a trophy even in the 5th century B.C.E.: for example, Xenophon, in the early 4th century, explicitly mentions a Marathon ‘trophy’ (Anabasis 3.2.13). This may, however, have been metaphorical usage of the term. The question of whether the Marathon monument really does represent the earliest permanent equivalent to the temporary trophy might have been easier to resolve if more of the crowning sculpture had survived: if there were proof that this sculpture represented a mannequin trophy then Pausanias’ use of the term trόpaiov would be perfectly appropriate. If, however, the sculpture were of a more traditional figure such as a Nike, it would be easier to assume that Pausanias’ use was anachronistic. It is my conclusion, then, that while this column certainly commemorated the battle at Marathon, the Greeks who actually erected it would have viewed it as a trophy only if the crowning statue included a mannequin figure as Vanderpool (1966, 106) suggests. It does not seem unreasonable to speculatively restore such a crowning statue and to assert that these remains may, indeed, belong to the earliest permanent Greek trophy. Fragments of another marble column at Salamis may reflect a sister monument to the one found at Marathon, and evidence concerning this monument may shed further light on the Marathon column as well. Travellers in the 18th and 19th centuries C.E. described a lone column standing at Cape Varvara on Salamis, which they interpreted as a trophy in honour of Athenian victory over the Persians at that site. Stuart and Revett, for instance, report seeing: Some Fragments of an ancient Column of white Marble, which are yet remaining on Punto Barbaro, a Promontory of Salamis: : : . They are probably the Remains of a Trophy erected for the Victory of Salamis. These Fragments are yet very discernible from Athens, and must have been much more so, when the Column was entire.9 Likewise, Leake believed remains on this cape, which he called ‘Cape Tropaea’, to have been part of a trophy in honour of the victory at Salamis.10 These ‘modern’ authors were influenced in their interpretation of the now-lost remains by vague references to a Salamis trophy from several ancient authors – namely, Plato, Xenophon and Lycurgus. Plato’s reference, as previously discussed, may refer to a real set of objects. Xenophon, like Plato, uses the term to refer to glorious deeds of the past as well as concrete monuments to these deeds: ‘all of them he reminded of the trophies erected at Salamis and begged them not to bring to disrepute the far-famed glory of their fatherland’ (13.15.2). Lycurgus’ language has a similar

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effect to Xenophon’s. By ‘trόpaiov,’ he likely means battlefield victory and its accompanying monument: ‘not content with erecting the trophy in Salamis, they fixed for the Persian the boundaries necessary for Greek freedom and prevented his overstepping them’ (Lyc. 1 73). Today the only physical evidence for this Salamis trophy consists of a series of Hellenistic inscriptions in honour of Athenian ephebes. These decrees, which span a period of about thirty years, state that the ephebes’ training exercises included sailing from Athens to a trophy on Salamis, at the foot of which the ephebes made sacrifices to Zeus Tropaios.11 They therefore not only attest the existence of a trophy at Salamis, but also to the continued treatment of the trophy as a cultic object during the Hellenistic period. None of the decrees predates the late-2nd century B.C.E. It may nonetheless be safe to assign the trophy in question to the 5th century B.C.E. Support for this supposition comes in the form of the mid-5th-century date for the column at Marathon and the apparently similar form of the trophy monument at Salamis, as well as suggestive references from authors as early as Xenophon. Assembling all of this scattered evidence, we can speculatively reconstruct two 5th century B.C.E. columns topped by permanent trophies honouring the Persian Wars, one at Marathon and the other at Salamis. There may, in fact, have been a third as well, located at Plataea. Though there is no physical evidence for this third trophy, it appears alongside those for Marathon and Salamis in Plato’s list (Menex. 245a). These trophies – at least those at Marathon and Salamis – were revered during the Hellenistic period and treated as tourist attractions in the 2nd century C.E. when Pausanias (1.32.5) saw the one at Marathon. On a clear day, one or both of these trophies might have been visible on the horizon from the Athenian Acropolis, particularly if the crowning trophies included metal elements such as spears, helmets, shields or greaves designed to catch the sunlight. Thus, to an even greater extent than the early extramural cults discussed in Chapter 3, these trophies delineated the Athenian state’s immediate political realm: the chora and beyond, though certainly not the entire Empire. The trophies were testimony that Athens’ power extended at least as far as the eye could see.12 The third and final Classical trophy for which there may be physical evidence is a tower-like structure believed to celebrate the 371 B.C.E. victory of the Thebans over the Spartans at Leuctra. Isocrates, and later Cicero, makes reference to a trophy commemorating this victory. Isocrates writes of a trophy at Leuctra that was ‘imposing and conspicuous’ (Isoc. 6 10), and Cicero (De inv. II, 23, 69) asserts that the trophy was made of bronze. In addition, Pausanias reports an anecdote (4.32.5–6) alleging that the Thebans set up an unusual trophy prior to the battle at Leuctra in order to assure themselves of victory. This trophy, on the advice of an oracle, included the shield of a hero, which had to be removed specially from a temple for the purpose. By all accounts, then – including one contemporaneous with the battle at Leuctra – the Thebans’ trophy for Leuctra was a remarkable and unusual monument. In 1924, Orlandos reconstructed what he believed to be this Theban trophy on the plain near Leuctra (see Orlandos (1958)). The reconstruction makes the trophy a round tower with a dome-like top featuring a frieze of shields. In form, this reconstruction matches an image found on Boeotian coins of the 3rd century B.C.E.

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The reconstruction is based on Hellenistic or Roman architectural fragments found in the area, and its association with the trophy-monument is based on: 1) the shield motif, which is not only generically militaristic but which also seems to reflect Pausanias’ anecdote; and 2) the fact that the fragments come from the area of Leuctra. These remains cannot belong to the original trophy of 371 B.C.E., but they may belong to a later replacement or rebuilding of the original.13 It is unclear whether this tower-like form, possibly crowned with a mannequin like the columns at Marathon and Salamis, actually reflects the 4th century B.C.E. appearance of the trophy or is a later reimagining. In either case, in the Leuctra trophy we see the Greeks placing an increased emphasis on the architectural aspects of their permanent trophies and thereby minimizing the importance of the mannequin itself. This is a trend that the Romans later followed and exploited to a greater degree. Of the surviving fragments of permanent trophies only the Persian War columns and the Leuctra tower have a strong claim to the title of trόpaiov, due to their locations and the evidence of literature and coinage. Nonetheless, there is a variety of additional candidates, specifically bases dating to the Hellenistic period: ironically, these belong to the phase of Greek history during which the use of the term ‘trophy’, particularly in reference to a physical object, dropped off sharply. Though it is tempting to identify several of these bases as evidence for permanent trophies in the Hellenistic period, support is lacking. For example, at the Neorion on Delos, a structure for housing a dedication of a ship, retains the base for the dedication of a suit of cavalry armour. Brogan speculates that this suit of armour could have been arranged as a trophy (see Brogan (1999), 139–140). Unfortunately, there is no evidence that the armour did not instead comprise a panoply. A panoply, in antiquity, was a full suit of armour arranged for display but not affixed to a support like a trophy nor meant to declare victory or even to symbolize military success in the same way that a trophy could. Panoplies were far more commonplace in antiquity than trophies. They were frequently dedicated in sanctuaries: for example, Arrian reports that Alexander sent 300 suits of captured armour to the Athenians as a gift (Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, I.16). Despite their visual similarities, the panoply – whether it consisted of captured arms or of those of a victorious warrior – was distinct from a trophy. Perhaps the root of the differences between these two uses of a suit of armour lay in the spheres in which they operated. A panoply was a sumptuous and completely inanimate gift to a god that one placed in a sanctuary, reflecting the gleaming power of a soldier’s full raiment. On the other hand, a trophy was a bloody offering and a frightening, potentially animate apotropaic device that one placed on the battlefield, reflecting death, ownership and the containment of evil spirits. Other proposed Hellenistic ‘trophies’ are even more speculative. Brogan describes a series of small statue bases from Pergamon as candidates for holding diminutive trophies, but there is no evidence to support this claim and, in fact, Brogan himself is quite sceptical of it (Brogan (1999), 98). The large, round base on the Pergamene Acropolis that has often been reconstructed as the original support for the Attalid dying Gauls is another candidate for a trophy base. Hannestad and Schober have championed the idea, and Schober has identified a series of cuttings on the round base as settings for five trophies. Both scholars reconstruct captives, such

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as the dying Gauls themselves, flanking the putative trophies (Brogan (1999), 222– 224). This is pure speculation: as will be demonstrated in Chapter 6, the motif of captives accompanying trophies is entirely Roman. The Pergamene base cannot have held any such group. The only Hellenistic base with any likely association with trophies is in fact a gate in Athens. In this case, archaeological remains coincide with literary evidence, albeit literature of the 2nd century C.E. Pausanias (1.15.1) describes a gate in the Athenian Agora that functioned as a base for a trophy commemorating Demetrios Poliorketes’ 303/2 B.C.E. victory over Pleistarchos, with whom he was vying for control of the city: As you go to the stoa which is called Poikile because of the pictures, there is a bronze Hermes called Agoraios, and a gate nearby. On the gate is a trophy erected by the Athenians when in a cavalry fight they defeated Pleistarchos, who was the brother of Cassander and was entrusted with the command of his cavalry and mercenaries. Camp has indeed excavated the foundations of a gate to the west of the Stoa Poikile, at one of the most prominent locations in the Agora: traffic, particularly festival processions, into the Agora and up to the Acropolis would have passed under this gate. Camp believes that the gate itself dates to ca 300 B.C.E., and he associates with it a gilt bronze leg and sword found in a nearby well (Camp (1986), 164). Dinsmoor reconstructs the gate with an arch, equestrian statue and two trophies – note that Pausanias only mentions one – and thereby makes the monument into a prototype for the Roman triumphal arch. Though such a reconstruction is strictly possible – Greek gates of this period alternated between arched and straight lintels – it seems somewhat fanciful (Camp (1986), 164). Nonetheless, Pausanias’ description does reveal the Greeks using a prominent gate as a statue base, much as the Romans came to use arches. If Demetrios’ gate was not actually an influence on Roman triumphal arches, it still seems to have been something of an antecedent. The question remains of whether or not this trophy-gate reflects a Greek idea of ca 300 B.C.E. It is unclear whether the gate was constructed specially as a monumental base for the trophy: in fact, it is more probable that a trophy was mounted on a pre-existing gate. In other words, what we are dealing with here is probably not a gate-and-trophy ensemble envisioned as an integral monument along the lines of a Roman arch and its crowning sculptures. Very likely, the trophy in Athens was added to the gate at the time of Demetrios’ victory and persisted through Pausanias’ time, in which case one must assume that the trophy was made of stone or metal. It is also possible that the trophy Pausanias saw was a much later addition – perhaps a replacement for an earlier, perishable trophy or perhaps even a completely new monument erected long after Demetrios’ victory. The last of these options – that the trophy was added considerably later than 300 B.C.E. without any antecedent – can be discarded. The fortunes of one Hellenistic king against another in Athens did not inspire new monuments over decades the way that the Persian Wars did. The trophy, whether it was originally permanent or not, must have been conceived in

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303/2 B.C.E. In all likelihood, it was permanent from the beginning, since, again, Demetrios’ victory was not the kind of event to inspire the renewal of old monuments. Finally, whether the gate was built specifically as a base for the statue or not, the concept of using a gate as a base for a mannequin trophy seems to be a completely original innovation, introduced here for the first time but later exploited to full effect by Romans who may or may not have been aware of its use in Greece. In this sense, the trophy gate in Athens has much in common with the trophy tower at Leuctra. Both represent Greek ‘discoveries’ of new modes of display for the mannequin trophy. However, both show by their uniqueness in the Greek tradition that despite such innovations, the Greek use of the trophy remained quite conservative throughout its history.

A reconstructed history of the Greek trophy On the basis of the visual evidence for the Greek trophy it is possible to reconstruct the history of the monument-type with greater clarity than it was from the literary evidence alone. While the literary evidence suggests that temporary trophies predated commemorative, permanent ones by as much as a generation, the surviving visual evidence shows no such gap. The earliest vase paintings of temporary mannequin trophies, such as that on the pelike in Boston, are roughly contemporaneous with the permanent column-trophy at Marathon.14 Moreover, the vases and the column predate the majority of the literary evidence for the trophy – only Aristophanes’ and possibly some of Sophocles’ references must precede 460 B.C.E., the date of the column at Marathon and also of the early vases. While these early dramatists make it clear that trophies were set up prior to the Marathon column, they cannot be said to provide firm evidence for a lengthy tradition of temporary trophies predating the erection of the Marathon trophy. Moreover, it is primarily Thucydides and the later plays of Euripides that suggest the lack of early permanent trophies. Since these sources postdate the Marathon column, and perhaps other permanent trophies like the one at Salamis, it is curious that they do not mention stone or bronze trophies. Indeed, our first literary references hinting at the existence of permanent trophies like the one at Marathon date to the 4th century B.C.E.: the earliest of these is Xenophon, who writes after the fact about permanent trophies commemorating the Battle of Coronea in 394 B.C.E.15 There is a real and troubling disparity here: the literary evidence, though it is rarely clear about whether trophies are temporary or permanent, does not suggest the existence of permanent trophies until after 400 B.C.E.; meanwhile the physical evidence, in the form of the Marathon column, suggests the existence of a permanent trophy as early as 460 B.C.E. There are two straightforward but contradictory solutions to this discrepancy. One could argue that the literary evidence is ambiguous and provides insufficient evidence to support the claim that the permanent trophy was a late innovation. According to this view, the Marathon trophy and any other early, permanent trophymonuments simply were not of interest to the ancient authors whose works have survived. Indeed, Thucydides, writing about the Peloponnesian Wars, had no particular interest in enumerating Persian War trophies of any type. Alternately, one

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could argue that the Marathon monument is either incorrectly dated or should not be considered a trophy. In this explanation, the lack of any language suggestive of permanent trophies prior to ca 400 B.C.E. reveals not a lack of interest in commemorative monuments. Rather, it suggests that even if authors like Thucydides knew of the column in honour of the Persian Wars, they did not consider it a trophy: these authors subscribed to the view that trophies were temporary talismans meant to summon spirits, not commemorative monuments meant to summon tourists. I propose a third, more nuanced solution. Rather than assuming that all Greeks of the 5th century B.C.E. shared the exact same concept of the trophy, as the second argument implies, I suggest that even early in its history the term had some flexibility and that, though the temporary trophy may have been the norm in the 5th century B.C.E., there were occasional exceptions like the Marathon trophy. The existence of such permanent trophies did not affect the Greeks’ understanding of the temporary trophy because the two types of trophy were seen as related but separate alternatives that could coexist in different contexts under the same title. Whether intended primarily for religious or for commemorative purposes, all trophies recognized victory and valour on the battlefield, and all followed the same essential visual model: the mannequin on a real or stone tree stump. In the 4th century B.C.E., with the waning of the hoplite style of warfare, it seems that the Greeks blurred the boundaries between the ritualistic and the commemorative trophy. That is to say, some of the concepts related to the trophy as a permanent, commemorative object merged with those more mystical associations of the temporary trophy. As a result, a 4th-century or later Greek speaking of ‘trophies’ might have meant either temporary or permanent objects. Both temporary and permanent trophies would likely have grown to be a composite of the meanings of each: both were associated with the post-battle ritual and both were concerned with long-term commemoration. There is, then, no momentous shift from temporary to permanent: rather, the two types coexisted from early in the history of the trophy and became increasingly integrated with one another during the 4th century B.C.E. Perhaps, as Hölscher has suggested, permanent trophies were originally envisaged as applying only to battles with very long-lasting repercussions like that at Marathon, while temporary trophies applied to the majority of hoplite warfare, in which victory conferred only ephemeral political power, the lifespan of which was probably not particularly different from the lifespan of the trophy itself (Hölscher (2006), 29–31). For purposes of cleansing the battlefield of angry ghosts, it may be that haunted sites like Marathon received both kinds of trophy: there is no way to be certain, but the basic tenets of necromancy suggest that a temporary trophy would have been advisable. After the devastating Peloponnesian Wars and during the rise of the Macedonian cavalry, the political implications of military victory must have seemed more significant, leading the Greeks to conflate the meaning of the permanent trophy with the mystical aspects of the temporary object (Hölscher (2006), 31–32). The Hellenistic age, by which time traditional hoplite warfare had fallen out of practice, brought with it new trends in the use of the trophy. As the literary evidence reveals, there was a drop in interest in the trophy during the late 4th century B.C.E.

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The reign of Alexander the Great represents the nadir. No trophies are attested in any form during this time, and Pausanias asserts that Alexander himself, the greatest military victor of his age, never dedicated a trophy. He goes on to explain that this was because Macedonian kings did not, as a rule, set up trophies (Pausanias 9.40.7–9).Earlier literary sources contradict Pausanias’ claim regarding the Macedonians in general. Diodorus reveals that not only did Alexander’s successors, the Macedonian Diadochs, dedicate trophies, but Alexander’s own father, Philip II, did as well.16 Nonetheless, Pausanias’ assertion that trophies were a practice that lacked resonance among the Macedonians may reflect a kernel of truth. If the trophy declined because Macedonian cavalry-based warfare superseded hoplite tactics, then it is fair to assume that the trophy, Greek in origin, was somewhat alien to the Macedonian kings – even if they used it on occasion, perhaps as an expression of their sophistication. Despite the decline of the hoplite traditions to which the trophy belonged, however, numismatic images reveal a vast resurgence of interest in the trophy during the Hellenistic period. The Macedonian kings to whom the trophy was alien discovered in this hoplite symbol of military virtue a useful emblem of personal success. The coins reveal that it was in the Hellenistic period that the trophy truly became an icon of power, while other visual evidence from the period – namely, the gate in Athens, reveals a growing interest in the prominent display of the trophy within the cityscape. In sum, then, this is the picture of the Greek trophy’s history that we can glean from the visual and literary evidence. The trophy emerged before the middle of the 5th century B.C.E., by which point it was a well-defined object-type. Though the temporary form dominated the literature of this period, the permanent trophy probably coexisted with it from the earliest times. In the 4th century, however, temporary and permanent trophies lost their identities as separate and distinct types of objects: instead they were increasingly conflated with one another and they came to share the same meanings in literature. Interestingly, this conflation of temporary and permanent trophies occurred simultaneously with the gradual disappearance of temporary trophies from common battlefield usage, owing to the decline of hoplite warfare. Ultimately what we find is that just as the ritualistic erection of a trophy on the field of battle dwindled in importance, the use of representations of these battlefield trophies in order to assert power expanded tremendously, peaking on 2ndcentury B.C.E. coinage. Almost simultaneous with this development, a single, innovative monument in Athens signalled the birth of the permanent trophy as an element of the cityscape – that is, as a victory monument meant to confront citizens on a daily basis and remind them of their ruler and his military capabilities. As we shall see, it is in these two last forms – as an emblem of power and as public, political art – that the Romans first encountered and then adopted the trophy.

Conclusions The Greek trophy is a surprisingly slippery object to define – both in terms of physical appearance and ancient usage. Though it appears frequently in Classical and Hellenistic literature, the authors who discuss it rarely delineate its characteristics or dwell

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upon it. Surviving visual evidence is uncommon and indirect. There are still extant representations of trophies and architectural supports for permanent mannequins, but none of these actual mannequins remains. An unidentifiable fragment of sculpture from Marathon may be part of the permanent trophy from that site, and scholars have suggested individual pieces of military equipment as parts of temporary trophies, but the identification of these remains is highly speculative and does little to improve our understanding of the trophy (Matthew (2012), 149). The evidence is unequivocal on one fairly obvious point only: that the trophy marks military success.17 This is not to say that the evidence can reveal nothing further about the Greek trophy. On the contrary, there is a wealth of understanding to be gleaned from literary and physical evidence so long as one is willing to approach this evidence critically. Past scholarship on the Greek trophy has often suffered from the acceptance of Roman evidence, both literary and visual, as an uncomplicated reflection of Greek history, or of Diodorus’ words, rather than those of contemporary writers, as the most interesting and reliable source of information on the 5th-century trophy.18 Given the paucity of Greek visual evidence for the trophy, it has been particularly tempting to view Greek trophies through the lens of the far more substantial body of Roman physical material remains. The modern understanding of the trophy also has suffered from a pair of contradictory compulsions that scholars have followed when confronted with the vast and disparate array of evidence for the ancient trophy. Some define the trophy according to a strict and universal formula in order to narrow the field of evidence, while others are too comprehensive in their definition and, as a result, embrace as trophies such a wide range of objects and ideas that the term becomes effectively meaningless.19 A more balanced view of the use of the word seems to better fit the literary sources. The word trόpaiov indicated to the Greeks a mannequin of arms and armour attached to a support: this mannequin could be perishable or, more rarely, durable. The mannequin, in its temporary form, served a ritual purpose with symbolic overtones reflecting the military virtue of the people responsible for its erection. The durable or permanent form exploited these overtones so that the trophy served a commemorative, propagandistic purpose. Anachronistic evidence, including that, again, of Rome and of Diodorus, has encouraged the idea that Greek trophies arose in the legendary past and remained perishable until after the Persian Wars. Greek evidence prior to late Hellenistic literature provides no support whatsoever for this theory, however, and it now seems that temporary and permanent trophies may have emerged more or less contemporaneously. Nonetheless, the evidence for permanent trophies in ancient Greece remains quite limited. There is no description in Greek literature of the form or forms that a permanent trophy might take: for this, our best evidence comes from representations of trophies, not the otherwise unintelligible, battered trophies themselves. Physical remains suggest that permanent mannequins stood atop columns or, later, atop short towers – though a more commonplace figure, like a Nike or a sphinx, may have formed the crowning element instead. There is no evidence to suggest that the Greeks ever paired mannequin trophies with elaborate architectural settings or with images of defeated warriors: both of these trends must have been uniquely Roman and will be explored in Chapters 7 and 8. The mannequin itself

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seems to have remained the focus of Greek trophy monuments throughout their history, whether those mannequins were dedicated on the battlefield; sculpted and placed atop columns; or depicted on coins, vases or reliefs. While the mannequin was conserved throughout the history of the Greek trophy, the use and meaning of the trophy shifted significantly during the monument-type’s history so that the trophy as the Romans first encountered it was rather different from the early trophies of the 5th century B.C.E. As we will see in the next chapter, the Romans probably first came across the Greek trophy in the late 3rd century B.C.E. in Sicily. By this time, the trophy had shed much of its original, ritual meaning as a part of the hoplite agôn of the 5th century. Nonetheless, Diodorus reveals that the trophy was still in use on the battlefield in Sicily, so the Romans probably had the opportunity to encounter the apotropaic trophy-cum-bloody effigy that had populated the fields of mainland Greece over the previous few centuries. Simultaneously, the Romans would have had ample access to the less disturbing and more celebratory image of the trophy as an emblem of power on coinage. Syracuse in particular produced large issues of beautiful trophy-coinage, which, as we shall see, influenced the earliest Roman conceptions of the trophy. Eventually, Roman envoys travelling in Greece would have come into contact with the final and most influential type of Greek trophy: the permanent trophy monument, displayed for centuries at topographically important locations in the form of the Persian Wars’ column-trophies and also displayed perhaps even within the civic landscape of Athens. While the column trophies and Demetrios’ trophy atop a gate can hardly anticipate the great variety and subtlety of meaning of permanent Roman trophy monuments, many of the ideas that the Romans elaborated in their monuments can be seen in nascent form in the Greek antecedents. Such ideas include the interest in siting the monument so that it could broadcast a message of military victory and territorial ownership to a distant audience, the use of the trophy in the centre of town to remind inhabitants of the power of a foreign ruler like Demetrios Poliorketes, and the use of durable materials to express the lasting nature of political power gained through military might.

Notes 1 For a wide range of examples of military equipment in friezes, see Polito (1998), 71–117. See Hurwit (2004), 190: a date as early as 421 or as late as 410 B.C.E. is possible. In the backdrop of a battle scene there is a trophy on the west frieze of the Temple of Athena Nike (424–418 B.C.E.). See Hurwit (2004), 181–188. 2 Picard (1957), 90; more importantly, on Hellenistic coinage see Mørkholm (1991). Specifically see Mørkholm catalogue #432, the Macedonian coin with Pan crowning a trophy, a reference to Pan’s ‘role’ in Gonatas’ 277 B.C.E. victory over the Gauls. 3 Hannestad (1993), 17: ‘It has often been assumed that Pausanias’ trophy and statue was in fact one and the same monument and that the trophy should be identified with the base decorated with arms’ found near the Apollo temple. The original text suggests that this modern reading is incorrect. 4 Picard (1957), 84, and 90. For the Syracusan coins, see Picard (1957), 91. For the dynasties mentioned: Mørkholm (1991), catalogue #139–140 (Seleucid), #416 (Bithynia), and #432 (Macedonian).

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5 See Chapter 4 on the literary evidence from the late Classical through the Hellenistic periods. 6 See Picard (1957), 64–100 generally but especially 65. 7 See the discussion of hoplite agôn in Chapter 3. 8 Vanderpool (1966), 106. See also Hurwit (1999), 151–152. Both Demosthenes and Pausanias assert that the monument relates to the Persian Wars. 9 See Stuart and Revett quoted in West (1969), 15. 10 See Leake quoted in West (1969), 16. 11 West (1969), 16. See IG, II2, 1006. 28–29 (dated 122/1 B.C.E.); 1008. 17–18 (dated 118/ 17 B.C.E.); 1028. 24–28 (dated 101/0 B.C.E.); 1030. 24–25 (dated after 94/3 B.C.E.); 1032. 8 (dated beginning of 1st c B.C.E.). 12 See Jung (2006) concerning the commemoration of the Persian Wars, the construction of identity through places of collective memory such as Marathon and Salamis, and the corresponding political implications of commemorative monuments – perhaps trophies – at these major sites. 13 On the coins and details of the trophy, see Picard (1957), 43; Orlandos (1958); and Markle (1999), 241. 14 Vanderpool’s dating of the column-trophy to ca. 460 has gone unchallenged, and if his comparison with the capitals of the Stoa of the Athenians at Delphi is valid then this date should hold. The date of this building has been controversial, but the proposed dates range only from 479 to ca. 450 B.C.E. with the former being improbably early and the latter being somewhat too late, so ca. 460 seems a fair compromise. Walsh (1986), passim, and Bommelaer (1991), 147–150. See also Meiggs and Lewis (1990), 53–54. 15 s.v. ‘Xenophon’, in OCD and Gray (2010), 14–16. 16 Regarding the Diadochi, see 13–14 and Reinach (1913), 347, 398; Picard (1957), 64–100; and also Brogan (1999). On Philip II, see Diodoros 16.4.7 and Diodoros 16.86.6. 17 Diodorus’ bizarre reference to murderers as ‘living trophies’ is the one exception to this statement (13.29.2). 18 It is not merely an issue of accepting Roman literature in lieu of Greek literature: it is also a matter of mistaking Roman trophies for copies of Greek originals, which is a problem throughout Picard (1957). 19 Pritchett (1974) is enamoured of exacting translations, though in the case of trophies his translations are at times incorrect or at least borrowed from inaccurate sources: for example, he notes several ‘trophies’ from Herodotus, who never used the term. Oddly, Picard (1957), who also aims to very precisely define his topic, frequently falls into the trap of accepting most any monument or relic of warfare as a trophy. See Picard (1957), 75–77.

6

Roman adoption and adaptation of the Greek trophy

The Roman discovery and appropriation of the Greek trophy Numismatic evidence suggests that the Romans first encountered the trophy in the 3rd century B.C.E. in Sicily, perhaps on the battlefield but certainly on local coinage such as a series of tetradrachms from Syracuse that bear an image of Nike erecting a trophy on the reverse (see Figure 1.6). These coins were minted as early as 310 B.C.E. and continued in production to at least 295 B.C.E. They were surely in use for decades after this and must have been represented in hoards that the Romans would have looted in 212 B.C.E. (Picard (1957), 91). Indeed, whether or not the Romans had ever seen a trophy before coming to Sicily, it was apparently here, during the conquest of Syracuse in 212 B.C.E., that the mannequin first took hold of the Roman imagination and consequently entered the Roman visual vocabulary. We can say this with some confidence because the earliest evidence for the Roman trophy is in fact a near-copy of the image on the reverse of the Syracusan tetradrachms mentioned above. This first Roman trophy appears on coins of the Victoriatus type (see Figure 1.7), which were issued for a brief period in the late 3rd century B.C.E. following the sack of Syracuse, and which provide the only evidence for the existence of Roman trophies prior to the late 2nd century B.C.E. (Janssen (1957), 242; Crawford (2001), catalogue 44–168). Traditionally, a passage from Florus, writing in the Augustan Principate, is taken to reveal the earliest Roman use of a trophy on the battlefield, rather than simply as a device on coinage (Picard (1957), 104–107). In this passage describing the Gallic campaigns of 121 B.C.E., Florus states: The great joy caused by both these victories may be judged from the fact that both Domitius Ahenobarbus and Fabius Maximus set up towers of stone on the actual sites of the battles which they had fought, and fixed on the top of them trophies adorned with the enemy’s arms. This practice was unusual with our generals; for the Roman people never cast their defeats in the teeth of their conquered enemies (Florus, Epitome of Roman History, 1.37.5–6). Florus does not actually say that this was the first Roman use of trophies, but scholars have assumed that to be the meaning of his description of their use as

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‘unusual’.1 Picard is sceptical of the passage and its interpretation, believing that the Romans must have used trophies earlier and postulating trophies for prior victories such as that in the Battle of Pydna in 168 B.C.E. (Picard (1957), 106–107; 145–14. See generally Picard (1957), 137–148). A coin of 62 B.C.E. depicts Pydna’s victor, Aemillius Paullus, and Pydna’s conquered King Perseus of Macedon with his two children, flanking a trophy (Picard (1957), 145–146; Crawford (2001), catalogue 415). The coin, which we will revisit in Chapter 7, appears to support Picard’s position, but in reality it is not clear that it can be trusted as a source of information regarding events that had occurred a century before it was minted. Perhaps it is most prudent to conclude simply that the Roman use of trophies was not common until the latter part of the 2nd century B.C.E. By the first century B.C.E., trophies had become highly popular in Roman art and text. Trophies appeared on coins minted across the entire Empire, and Cicero in particular spoke frequently of trophies and their usage.2 This story of the Roman adoption of the trophy prompts questions about why Rome was interested in using the trophy, and what the trophy meant to the Romans. One can only speculate, but given the similarity between the Syracusan tetradrachms and the earliest example of Roman trophies – the reverse of the Victoriatus – it seems likely that the trophy entered Rome with the tide of Greek art and culture that accompanied the conquest of southern Italy, particularly following the sack of Syracuse in 212 B.C.E.3 The appeal of the trophy must have been quite different from that of other Greek artworks flowing into Rome: it certainly lacked the rich refinement of the sculptures and paintings that both impressed the Romans and inspired in them an uncomfortable and vociferous ambivalence towards the conquered Greeks. On the contrary, the trophy probably struck the Romans as having a comfortable affinity with their own traditional interests and practices. Picard suggests that the use of trees in trophies appealed to the Roman belief in sacred trees, such as Jupiter’s oak, and that the display of armour resonated with the local, Etruscan-inspired penchant for the exhibition of war materiel, as seen, for example, in Etruscan tomb painting (Picard (1957), 120–124; Vermeule (1960), 300; Richmond (1963), 221; Polito (1995); (1998)). The trophy probably struck 3rd-century Romans as a rare fragment of Greek culture that felt familiar and that was unimpeachable to those who accused philhellenism of making Romans soft and weak. Here was something Greek that seemed in no way luxurious, but rather entirely useful to a society of warriors. The trophy’s increasing significance in Greece as a symbol of victory and military power must have struck Romans as a potentially innovative means of enhancing their own military prestige, which was itself the basis for their social and political standing. The affinities between Roman traditions regarding pride in battle and Greek trophies as markers of battlefield success probably account for the immense popularity of the trophy in Rome, especially in art, which was unprecedented in Greece, where the trophy tended to be an ephemeral artefact.

The complex collision of Roman and Greek culture I have just posited that statuary and other ‘high art’ – that is, Greek cultural production – may have been troublesome to Rome’s bellicose society whereas

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the trophy was not. The issue of the intersection between Greek and Roman culture is far more complex than this bare-bones assertion suggests. It is necessary to examine this issue with more attention to nuance. The most basic principle to keep in mind while exploring the relationship of the two cultures is this: Roman art was never purely derivative of Greek art, or of the art of any other culture. This includes trophies. Greek visual culture may have inspired the Roman imagination and led to new cultural production, but in the case of ‘high art’ like sculpture or ‘low art’ like trophies the Romans used this Greek material as a starting point, which they reinterpreted for their own purposes.4 Just as it is easy to misread Roman art as derivative, so it is easy to misconstrue the Roman response to Greek art as one of hostility. The most basic misunderstandings of the relationship between Greek and Roman consist of two contradictory halves. The first misconception is that Roman art is unoriginal and derives from foreign prototypes. We have already rejected this idea wholesale. The second is that, conversely, the Romans felt great animosity towards foreign art and were so threatened by it that they wrote what appear to be vicious tracts on the subject. As we shall see, there are alternate and more likely interpretations for these ancient texts. In short, Roman art was neither derivative, nor was Greek art reviled. Gruen has convincingly argued that, while Roman rhetoric could be virulently anti-Greek, this rhetoric did not mirror cultural reality.5 To begin, the sack of Syracuse did not mark the first important encounter between Romans, whether soldiers or citizens who viewed the loot back in the metropolitan city, and Greek cultural production. The Greeks and the Romans had been trading partners for many centuries prior to this – as they both had been with other Mediterranean cultures – and there cannot have been anything particularly new or shocking about the nature of Greek culture (Wallace-Hadrill (2008), 7–13). The common myth of Syracuse as the beginning of Roman cultural appropriation on a grand scale has been perpetuated across the centuries by select passages from Roman literature. Accepting the ‘Syracusan myth’ requires ignoring both the long-standing interest of republican Romans in Greek art and the Romans’ complicated attitudes towards this art (Hölscher (1990), 73–84; Gruen (1992), 84–130; Krostenko (2001), 22–31). Moreover, to disregard the long-time trade relationship between these peoples is to reject the likelihood that the Greeks and Romans developed a cultural milieu that was at least in part shared (Wallace-Hadrill (2008), 14–16). Most of Hellenistic history and art best fits a Greco-Roman paradigm: there was no singular ‘Roman identity’. At most, one could argue that the Romans’ acquisition of Greek art objects en masse around the sack of Syracuse forced more Greek culture into the limelight in Rome, thus altering the Roman relationship with Greek culture and cultural production, but not producing a sudden sense of shock and dismay throughout the city. Based on archaeological evidence, the Romans were deeply enmeshed with Greek culture from the legendary time of the foundation of Rome itself, 753 B.C.E. (Coarelli (2014), 2). Even Cato the Elder (234 B.C.E. to 149 B.C.E.), the most outspoken critic of the adoption of Greek culture, was well-versed in Greek language and literature. The source of Rome’s apparent Hellenophobia was not a

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sense of cultural inferiority, but was more likely part of a desire to define ‘Romanness’ in the face of the increasingly cosmopolitan Mediterranean world. There is excellent textual evidence indicating that virulent rhetoric apparently directed against Hellenic culture was primarily a commentary on decorum: that is, authors were not demanding the wholesale rejection of all things Greek. Rather than expressing the idea that Greek culture made the Romans weak and effeminate, authors with an apparently anti-Hellenic bias, like Cato, were actually debating when the Greek language should be used, where it was appropriate to place Greek artworks, and, in general, how to clarify the nature of Roman identity (Wallace-Hadrill (2008), 17–27). There was, in antiquity, very little question of whether the Romans ought to enjoy Greek art (Gruen (1992), 111). Indeed, as war booty – in other words, as proof of military prowess – Greek cultural artefacts illustrated Roman superiority and appropriation of an illustrious artistic tradition, and to enjoy this art was only natural (Gruen (1992), 107). Nonetheless, the Romans have left plentiful written evidence that the influx of Greek art over the course of Rome’s gradual conquest of Greece produced internal cultural conflict. Decorum in particular was a tough nut to crack: after the import of Greek art and adoption of Greek styles, what would still be fundamentally ‘Roman’ within Roman culture? Vergil condenses the general impression of many oratorical debates and assertions: Let others melt and mould the breathing bronze To forms more fair,—aye! out of marble bring Features that live; let them plead causes well; Or trace with pointed wand the cycled heaven, And hail the constellations as they rise; But thou, O Roman, learn with sovereign sway To rule the nations. Thy great art shall be To keep the world in lasting peace, to spare humbled foe, and crush to earth the proud. (Verg. A. 6.801)6 Others – that is, Greeks – make beautiful things. Romans fight wars and conquer people. This is a fundamental difference of occupation, not taste. There is no implication that the Romans do not or must not associate with the ancient Greeks’ ‘beautiful things’. In fact, when the Romans constructed their earliest mannequin trophies in the late 3rd or early 2nd century they certainly used Greek arms and armour, which were superior in value, materials and craftsmanship to war materiel obtained elsewhere. In a sense, then, as gruesome as the traditional mannequin may have been, its accoutrements represented a type of Greek finery as well: one decorously used in military contexts (Östenberg (2009), 19–45). Thus, in the case of the trophy as elsewhere the Romans were neither genuinely hellenophobic nor were they fundamentally opposed to the beauty of Greek cultural artefacts. Nonetheless, there is plenty of evidence that their relationship with Greek art was ambivalent.

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Regarding ‘high art’, this ambivalence has become a common theme in the scholarly debate over what makes Roman art uniquely Roman.7 The debate has yet to encompass the trophy, perhaps because this was an object of ‘low art’.’ However, because the Romans shaped this ‘low art’ into ‘high art’ such as sculpture and architecture, study of the trophy may be one of the most straightforward approaches to learning what the Romans saw as crucial to their own identity. The Romans transformed the trophy from a temporary wooden construct, or at its most elaborate, a statue atop a column or gate, into a tower in the Alps: this must say something about ‘Roman-ness’. In Roman hands the trophy became a newly minted form of high art, ubiquitous as a stand-alone monument or as a decorative element. Though it drew on Greek ‘low art’, the Roman ‘high art’ equivalent had much greater visibility and durability than its Greek counterpart, including the handful of permanent Greek trophies. In fact, it remains so visible that the ancient trophy as we tend to picture it today is, in fact, a Roman development. The Victoriatus coins suggest the fundamentally Greek visual inspiration for trophies, while mature Roman trophies, from tableaux statue groups to architectural monuments, reveal the nearly wholesale Roman transformation of the concept. It is the transition between the Victoriatus and the much later tower trophies that occupies the remainder of this chapter. The underlying question will be what drove the Roman alterations to the Greek concept: I think the most basic answer is that the Romans used the trophy as an empirebuilding tool, while the Greeks used it for purposes closer to home – purposes related to religion, relatively small-scale political and territorial disputes and statements of pride.

Roman mannequins Though Roman trophies ultimately diverged radically from their Greek ancestors, it is not entirely clear when this process of transformation began or even how serious Roman interest was in the trophy following the encounter with the image on Syracusan coinage. It is possible that early Roman trophies followed the lead of Greek mannequin trophies, existing only as temporary markers of battle during the 3rd and 2nd centuries B.C.E. Literary evidence, albeit anachronistic, suggests such traditional use.8 Regardless of actual practice, the Romans at least revered the old-fashioned Greek mannequin. This is particularly clear in their association of the trophy not with the battlefield but with the triumphal procession. Most notably, the spolia opima were dedicated in trophy-form. Plutarch’s Life of Romulus provides patent evidence of Roman admiration for the Greek form of battle commemoration: But Romulus, after considering how he might perform his vow in a manner most acceptable to Jupiter and accompany the performance with a spectacle most pleasing to the citizens, cut down a monstrous oak that grew in the camp, hewed it into the shape of a trophy, and fitted and fastened to it the armour of Acron, each piece in its due order. Then he himself, girding his raiment about him and wreathing his flowing locks with laurel, set the trophy on his right shoulder, where it was held erect, and began a triumphal march, leading off in a

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Roman adaptation of the Greek trophy paean of victory which his army sang as it followed under arms, and being received by the citizens with joyful amazement. This procession was the origin and model of all subsequent triumphs. (Plut. Rom. 16.5-6)

Romulus’ supposed dedication of a trophy at the conclusion of a triumphal procession was, in Roman lore, a final touch required for the specific set of rituals enacted in recognition of the victor’s acquisition of the spolia opima, which were the arms and armour stripped from the dead commander, king or chief of the opposing army. A triumph was a tremendous honour, but the celebration of a triumph that included the spolia opima was so rare an achievement as to be legendary. There are only three recorded instances of the spolia opima: one was that of Romulus in the war against the Sabines, described above. The second was the 5th century B.C.E. victory of Aulus Cornelius Cossus, who defeated Lars Tolumnius, the king of Veii. According to Livy, Cossus stripped Toluminius, paraded his head on a spike, and dedicated his arms and armour to Jupiter (Livy IV 19–20). This does not exactly match the usual description of a trophy but it is close in sentiment if nothing else. The third celebration belongs to Rome’s historical rather than legendary past, though, like the legendary examples, it predates the apparent Roman discovery of the trophy – this time by only a decade. In 222 B.C.E., M. Claudius Marcellus celebrated the spolia opima after he killed Viridomarus, the king of the Gaulish Insubres. Plutarch, writing in the 1st century C.E., states that Marcellus stripped Viridomarus and ‘dedicated the armor (of gold and silver) by cutting a giant oak, fashioning it in the shape of a tropaeum, hanging the armor on it, and carrying it in triumph’ (Plut. Marc. 6–8). Whether accurate or legendary, these tales of the spolia opima reveal just how much the Romans admired the Greek mannequin, and how fond they were of the idea of displaying it within the city. Indeed, as we will see in Chapter 7, it is likely that the mannequin eventually became a regular part of the triumphal procession, carried on a ferculum alongside carts of war booty. Sources are more elusive about the presence of mannequin trophies on the battlefield, but some do mention such use.9 Regardless of early practices, the Romans definitely developed a unique and rather ‘un-Greek’ approach to the extramural trophy that translated the foreign artefact into a form more potent in the Roman context of empire-building. The Romans reimagined the trophy as a monument type comprehensible in faraway lands to peoples who might not have recognized the immediate significance of the mannequin. To the Gauls, for example, an effigy-like display would have seemed a toned-down parallel to their own practices in which human heads were placed in specially carved niches along walls and doorways. The Gallic religious site of Roquepertuse is famous for the sheer number of such displays that survive and are on display today (Collectif (2012)). To an audience like the Gauls, the Roman trophy needed to become an assertion of military threat – much like the heads – but also of dominance as embodied through cultural sophistication in art and architecture. In particular, what is unique about the Roman trophy is: 1) the mannequin’s association with the triumphal procession; 2) the trophy’s frequent placement outside

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of the city but at sites other than the battlefield; 3) the trophy’s elaboration – either as part of a sculptural group or architectural setting; and 4) the trophy’s dedication to specific patron gods rather than just Zeus Tropaios or Poseidon. First, the Greeks lacked triumphal processions. The closest Greek approach to the uniquely Roman festival was the sumptuous procession of Ptolemy II Philadelphus in 285 B.C.E. (Athenaeus (quoting Callixenus the Rhodian), 5.25; Rice (1983)). Second, while Greek trophies occurred almost exclusively on the battlefield, in a city or at a sanctuary, Romans had a tendency to place their trophies in a completely different kind of location – one that was geographically significant because it was a frontier, a boundary between territorial zones, or the heart of a newly acquired territory. Third, while the Greeks do not seem to have created complex sculptural groups in the round featuring trophies, to have constructed buildings that they considered to be trophies, or to have made truly massive and elaborate bases for mannequin trophies, the Roman Republic and the Principate of Augustus are replete with examples of such practices. Fourth and finally, Greek trophies were almost exclusively dedicated to either Zeus or Poseidon. Roman trophies, to the contrary, are essentially never inscribed to just one of those two gods but are instead dedicated to a range of gods considered to be personal protectors or patron deities of the victorious general.10 Of course, the Romans also erected more traditional trophies à la Grecque during the Republic and Principate, but those with the uniquely Roman characteristics just mentioned are the more interesting and innovative. They will form the basis of the case studies that dominate the next few chapters. These studies demonstrate that the ‘Roman’ qualities of trophies became increasingly pronounced over time.

Early trends in Roman trophies I will now examine the major trophies dedicated by each of a series of Roman generals whose practices illuminate the nature of the Roman trophy in the 1st century B.C.E. The individuals I will discuss are Sulla, Pompey and Julius Caesar. The subsequent trophies of Octavian/Augustus seem to synthesize burgeoning ideas about the trophy and to codify the new monument types that I refer to as the trophy tableau and the landscape trophy. As a result, Augustus’ trophies will be treated separately, in Chapters 7 and 8. Chapter 7 will also deal in greater depth with one of the most important republican changes to the trophy: C. Marius’ development of the trophy tableau, a monument designed to reflect the importance of the trophy in triumphal processions. Thus, the generals and trophies examined below are meant primarily to provide a backdrop to other, more dramatic changes that were afoot in the 1st century B.C.E. – to give a sense of how Romans were beginning to manipulate the trophy toward their own ends – while the next two chapters are intended to explain the most dramatic innovations. I am in agreement with Picard’s assertion that what was most characteristic of Roman trophies was their above-mentioned tendency to be associated with gods selected by the victor as his ‘patrons’ – that is, as the ones who granted him power by divine right (Picard (1957), 64–100; 101; 163; 167–170). Accordingly, this is the trend that we will track most closely over the remainder of this chapter.

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Picard describes the Roman general Sulla as ‘the true founder of the Roman military monarchy’, in part because Sulla began the trend of ‘personalizing’ the trophy by inscribing it to ‘personal’ gods. Sulla erected three trophies in Greece that were rather traditional, except that they were dedicated to an unusual triad of gods: Mars, Venus and Victoria.11 In 86 B.C.E., after successfully taking Athens, Sulla marched his troops north to Boeotia for a confrontation with Archelaos, the general of Mithridates VI of Pontus. Sulla defeated Archelaos at Chaironeia, delivering a massive blow to Pontus, which had, at that point, been waging war against Rome for twenty years.12 Both Pausanias and Plutarch (Pausanius 9.40.7–9, Plut. Sull. 19.9– 10) describe the two trophies that Sulla erected upon his victory (Pausanias 9.40.7; Plutarch, Sull. 19.9–10). Plutarch’s account is the more complete, as he was in fact a native of Chaironeia. He states that after the victory Sulla: : : : inscribed upon his trophies the names of Ares, Nike, and Aphrodite because he had brought the war to a successful conclusion no less by good fortune than by shrewdness and strength. Now the trophy of the battle in the plain stands where the forces of Archelaos extending as far as the stream Molos first gave way, but there is another placed on the top of Thourion to commemorate the encirclement of the barbarians, which signifies in Greek letters that Homoloichos and Anaxidamos were heroes. (Plutarch, Sull. 19.9–10) Subsequent to the victory at Chaironeia, Sulla defeated Archelaos again at nearby Orchomenos, where he seems to have erected a third trophy monument, to judge from the denarius of his son, Faustus Cornelius Sulla (Camp et al. (1992), 450). Remarkably, remains of three Sullan trophies have been discovered at these two sites. In 1860, a grey marble mannequin trophy was found at Orchomenos (see Figure 6.1; Camp et al. (1992), 448–449). Then, in 1990 at Chaironeia, the American School of Classical Studies at Athens unearthed fragments of the trophy atop the hill called Thourion, including an inscribed base and part of a column shaft (Camp et al. (1992)). The inscription exactly matches that recorded by Plutarch (Camp et al. (1992), 444–447). Most recently, in December 2004 a cotton farmer in Orchomenos discovered a stone base and a buried, stone mannequin-trophy, described by the Associated Press as a ‘column styled to look like a tree trunk bearing the armor of fallen soldiers’ (Gatopoulos (2004)). This last is currently on display just outside the Tholos at Orchomenos, and it does indeed consist of a sculpted tree trunk dressed in arms and armour; this originally socketed into a base decorated with a pile of shields and weapons (see Figure 6.2). To judge from the column with a moulded base found in 1990, and the rather large and impressive base of the monument discovered in 2004, it seems that the Sullan trophies involved some sort of architectural elaboration, though perhaps this was as simple as a column topped by a trophy after the Greek fashion. Indeed, for the most part the remains seem reminiscent of older Greek traditions. At least two of the three groups of remains – the Chaironea trophy and the newly-discovered trophy at Orchomenos – were found on the battlefield, and that at Chaironeia seems to have

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Figure 6.1 Marble mannequin-trophy found at Orchomenos in 1860. Photograph: author.

been placed at the very location where the Pontic army was routed (Camp et al. (1992), 451–453). Picard suggests that such traditionalism was the result of an effort by Sulla to follow local custom in marking his victories (Picard (1957), 174). While it seems possible that Sulla made here a conscious effort to imitate Greek trophyforms, this does not have to be the case; Roman trophies may simply have still been very Greek-looking at this point. As mentioned before, what is remarkable about Sulla’s trophies – apart from their all-but-miraculous survival – is their dedication to the triad of Mars, Venus and Victoria. Sulla’s choice to honour not one god, but three, and to select three gods who did not receive trophies in ancient Greece, seems to have been a conscious departure from Greek tradition – perhaps even a ‘personalization’ of the trophy, as Picard would have it. Other generals’ trophies might belong to Zeus, but Sulla’s were for Mars, Venus and Victoria. By personalizing his trophies in this way Sulla suggested a special connection between himself and these gods, thus staking a claim to them as his personal protectors or helpers in battle. Indeed, we know that Sulla considered Venus to be his patron (App. BC 197; Keaveney (1983), 60–61; Keaveney (2005), 69).

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Figure 6.2 Marble mannequin-trophy found at Orchomenos in 1860. Photograph: author.

Pompey was in many ways Sulla’s successor as a ‘star’ Roman general (Picard (1957), 182–183). However, his use of trophies differed significantly from Sulla’s in terms of form, placement and dedication. Pliny reports (Natural History 3.4.3) that Pompey made a major trophy dedication ca 71 B.C.E. in the Pyrenees, apparently at present-day Panissars. Some of the remains survive and indicate a sizable, probably architectural, monument: wishful thinking suggests that it was a tower, but the remains never have been reconstructed and the trophy’s appearance remains a mystery.13 Picard imagines Pompey’s trophy to have been some sort of tumulus surmounted by a mannequin, similar in format to the Tropaeum Traiani at Adamklissi (see Figure 6.3): however, it is not clear that there is any good reason to think that Pompey’s monument would have resembled Trajan’s (Picard (1957), 184). As Florus indicates, the Romans had been building architectonic, towertrophies as early as 121 B.C.E. and there is nothing in the physical remains or textual evidence to suggest that this trophy was unique in appearance compared to earlier towers, or that it presaged trophies built centuries later. Despite the uncertainty regarding its appearance and format, the Panissars monument was definitely innovative. The two most remarkable aspects of Pompey’s trophy were: 1) its location, which was not the site of battle but instead the border between Roman provinces – in this case, Hispania Citerior and Gallia Transalpina; and 2) its dedication, which was to another personal, patron deity: Venus Victrix (Picard (1957), 184). It is with this monument of Pompey that we see three of the uniquely Roman characteristics brought together in one trophy for the first time: architectural elaboration, positioning on the frontier, and dedication to a patron deity.14 Julius Caesar’s contribution to the development of the Roman trophy was rather different from the contributions of Sulla and Pompey: he fostered the increased personalization of the trophy as a symbol of victory and power, rather than

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Figure 6.3 Trajan’s trophy monument at Adamklissi, Romania (reconstructed). 106–109 C.E. Alamy Images.

introducing changes to any of its characteristics as a monument-type. In fact, though trophy monuments seem to have proliferated during Caesar’s lifetime, Caesar himself left few trophy remnants, save on coinage, examined in Chapter 7 (see generally Picard (1957), 190–228). The most remarkable non-numismatic Caesarian trophy for which there is reliable evidence was that erected at Zela in central Anatolia to commemorate Caesar’s defeat of Pharnaces in 47 B.C.E. (Picard (1957), 207–208). Cassius Dio (42.48.2) explains what about this monument was particularly interesting, reporting that he set up a trophy to offset the one which Mithridates had raised somewhere in that region to commemorate the defeat of Triarius. He did not dare to take down that of the barbarians, because it had been dedicated to the gods of war, but by the erection of his own near it he overshadowed and in a sense overthrew the other. This is a rather singular use of a trophy, to outdo an earlier trophy: no such thing ever happened in the Greek world, to my knowledge. This sort of competitive siting is more akin to the way Greek states jostled for the best placement of their monuments at Panhellenic sanctuaries (for example, Pollitt (1986), 282). As such, Caesar’s use of the trophy at Zela is a sign that the trophy had become a monument more fully

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commemorative of the individual who erected it, rather than of the specific event in question. Here, the trophy stands not so much for victory on the battlefield as it does for the might of Caesar, which surpasses and visually overshadows that of his enemies.

Romans take a turn shaping the trophy Sulla, Pompey and Caesar each made exemplary use of the trophy, heightening the degree to which it signified personal success, altering concepts about where it was appropriate to place trophies, and producing increasingly elaborate designs for trophy monuments – either as sculptural ensembles like Sulla’s or architectural edifices like Pompey’s. Though these pre-eminent Roman generals each strategically shifted the usage and signification of the trophy away from its Greek origins and toward new, Roman goals, their achievements really only set the stage for a more dramatic set of changes yet to be explored in this volume. Indeed, as we shall see it was Octavian/Augustus who made by far the most innovative and prolific use of trophies. Though Augustus can be reliably associated with numerous different trophy monuments, I will focus on the Augustan trophy tableau at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, which adapts a strikingly Roman innovation to the trophy for which we should credit C. Marius, as well as on the impressive landscape trophies at Nikopolis and La Turbie. Chapter 7 concerns the development of the trophy tableau type, of which the Augustan monument represents a decided pinnacle of innovation and a radical departure from ancient Greek examples. Unlike its precedents, the tableau utilizes the trophy as the centerpiece of an elaborate and three-dimensional sculptural composition. Moreover, following its birth in the metropolitan centre, the Romans placed this ensemble in the civic centres of newly established towns, where it communicated a message of territorial ownership and control. Chapter 8 focuses on the similarly territorial message of Augustan landscape trophies. The two examples – La Turbie and Nikopolis – both reveal Augustus’ innovations in the use of trophies, and they illustrate the differences in conception between trophy monuments placed in the East and those placed in the West of the Empire.

Notes 1 Hölscher (2006), 32, counts these as the first Roman trophies, for example, despite their atypical appearance. 2 See also Janssen (1957), 241. For coins minted across the Empire, see for example Crawford (2001), catalogue #452, 468 (minted in Spain), and 503–507. From Cicero, see for example Against Verres 2.2.115, Cic. Deiot. 12.34, for Marcellus 4.11, Against Piso 38.92, On the Consular Provinces 2.4, For Archias 9.21. 3 On the Roman reception of Greek culture following military conquest, see particularly Gruen (1992); McDonnell (2006); and Miles (2008). Other particularly interesting works, some of which are very recent and cutting-edge, include Rawson (1985); Schneider (1986); Ferris (2004); Marvin (2008); Östenberg (2009); Rutledge (2012); Kousser (2014); Longfellow (2014); and Bakogianni and Hope (2015). 4 See Hölscher (1987). This is the seminal work on this subject and many scholars have contributed or added to Hölscher’s point of view: for example, Marvin (2008), 4–14.

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5 Other important scholarship on Roman attitudes toward Greek culture, particularly the acquisition and collection thereof, include Rutledge (2012), 31–77 and Welch (2006a, 2006b). 6 Interestingly, shortly before this passage, in Aeneid 6.831, Vergil makes reference to La Turbie, the Alpine castle over Monoecus (Monaco): Allied by nuptial truce, the sire descends From Alpine rampart and that castled cliff, Monoecus by the sea; the son arrays His hostile legions in the lands of morn. 7 Warfare is a good place to begin this conversation: see Welch (2006b), 2. 8 Picard (1957) and Ferris (2004), 21 and n. 36 on continued battlefield use. 9 See Picard (1957), 317–318 for textual evidence of Roman use of battlefield trophies, which ended early in the Julio-Claudian reign. 10 Picard (1957), 24–25 asserts that Greek trophies were dedicated to Zeus and Poseidon. On the wider selection of gods to whom the Romans dedicated their trophies see Picard (1957), 172, 184, and especially 239–40. Pritchett (1974), 275 discusses the dedication of trophies to Poseidon. 11 On Sulla, see Picard (1957), 167, and on his triad of gods, Picard (1957), 175. 12 On the remains of the trophies see Camp et al. (1992), 443; and Gatopoulos (2004). 13 Picard (1957), 183. Castellvi, Nolla and Rodà (1995) have speculated that there were two, attached trophies but they have not pursued the idea, for which the only proof is that there is a base near Panissars that appears to be divided in half. Ibarra (2009), 83–112 speculates that the divided base indicates an arch. I dispute both the 1995 and 2009 claims. Archaeological reports, such as that in 1995, indicate that the remains of the monument do not include the components crucial to arch-construction. Meanwhile, the idea of two structures, very closely spaced is both bizarre and to my knowledge unprecedented. 14 There is a fourth Roman characteristic mentioned above: inclusion in the triumph. This applies only to mannequins.

7

Development and dissemination of the ‘trophy tableau’

Definitions The trophy ‘tableau’ monument type, here examined in depth for the first time as a distinctive phenomenon, emerged in republican Rome and became one of the Roman world’s most vital and innovative modes of victory commemoration.1 Monuments of this type featured at least one mannequin trophy – the standard set of arms and armour arranged in anthropomorphic fashion on a tree stump – represented with one or more prisoners of war bound at its feet. Together, these figures formed a scene ‘frozen in time’, hence the use of the term ‘tableau’. Though we have seen that the mannequin trophy itself is a Greek convention, I argue that the addition of bound captives – seen on Roman coins and reliefs – is a genuine Roman invention connected to the exhibition of real bound captives in the triumphal procession.2 As in so much republican art, the Romans started with the Greek prototype and heightened its message, in this case drawing attention specifically to the subjugation of conquered peoples. Despite its ubiquity in Roman art and originality in conception, the trophy tableau has received less than its due of scholarly attention. This may result from the supposition that all forms of mannequin trophy were wholly derivative of Greek antecedents. Conversely, the lack of attention may be due to the assumption that, because most surviving visual evidence for trophies is Roman, the mannequin in all its forms can be taken for granted as standard Roman fare. Neither of these options leaves room for the apparent reality: the tableau was a remarkable Roman development that significantly expanded the possible meaning and use of the trophy.3

Origins and development: the Tomb of Caecilia Metella The lack of scholarly attention to the trophy tableau as a Roman phenomenon has led to a misinterpretation of one of the type’s most remarkable instances: the oftenoverlooked yet remarkably well-preserved relief of a trophy tableau that decorates the Tomb of Caecilia Metella in Rome, dating to ca 25 B.C.E.4 The traditional reading of the tomb, without the benefit of a broader understanding of the trophy tableau type, associates the relief with the achievements of the Licinii Crassi,

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the family of Caecilia Metella’s husband, who was probably the elder son of the ‘triumvir’ M. Licinius Crassus.5 I suggest instead that the relief mostly emphasized the military achievements of Caecilia’s father’s ancient plebian family, the Caecilii Metelli, rather than those of her husband, as has been previously assumed. The inscription on the tomb suggests such an emphasis by providing both Caecilia Metella’s father’s praenomen and the triumphal agnomen ‘Creticus’ that he earned as a result of military exploits in Crete – while only mentioning her husband at the very end, and only by his family name: ‘Crassi’.6 That the tomb advertised the clout of the Caecilii Metelli will become clear through an examination of the origin, significance and popularity of the Roman tableau trophy monument type with its bound captives. In the course of this examination, I will explore a diverse array of evidence including texts, sculpture and coinage. This last is of particular importance for the understanding of the trophy tableau: I will present a new reading of an extraordinary series of republican coins that reveal the nuances of the development of this monument-type. Ultimately, what I offer here is a cultural history of a significant Roman innovation, seen first on coins, such as quinarii of 101 and 98 B.C.E. issued in commemoration of C. Marius’ victories over the Cimbri and Teutones; then on the very monument under examination here, Metella’s tomb; and thereafter routinely in imperial-period relief sculpture. For example, the trophy-with-captives motif appears on a relief of a Severan triumphal procession, dating to the later 2nd century C.E.; and again on the Arch of Constantine, dating to 315 C.E.7 We now turn to the development of the trophy tableau type and to discussion of a new, alternative reading of the Tomb of Caecilia Metella. Overview of the tomb The Tomb of Caecilia Metella is extraordinarily well-preserved and still stands majestically on the Via Appia today (see Figure 1.2). It consists of a large square base, now denuded of its original masonry facing, surmounted by a cylindrical drum, which retains the facing.8 The crenellation around the top of the drum and the structure attached to the side of the tomb belong to the medieval Caetani castle (constructed in 1302–1303 C.E.) and do not reflect the appearance of the ancient structure (Gerding (2002), 13; Rausa (2004), 10–11). The tomb is, and was, relatively austere, ornamented with only a frieze encircling the top of the drum and the inscribed plaque below this frieze (see Figure 7.1). The frieze depicts garlands supported by bucrania, and is punctuated by a large trophy relief, about twice the height of the frieze and positioned on the side of the tomb that conspicuously faces the road. This relief is fragmentary: only about a third of it survives, including a trophy with a bound captive at its base, and, to the right of this, a fragment of a draped figure.9 The draped figure probably belonged to a central group that would have been flanked by the surviving trophyand-captive group on the left and another, analogous (but now lost) group on the right (Hülsen (1896), 51; Castagnoli et al. (1972), 17; Gerding (2002), 56–57).

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Figure 7.1 Frieze and trophy relief from the Tomb of Caecilia Metella. Photograph: author.

The trophy itself is a traditional mannequin, consisting of a rough, T-shaped wooden support adorned with a tasselled cloak and a bowl-shaped helmet with large cheek-guards and a tiara-like crest over the forehead. A large shield is attached to each extremity of the trophy’s support; one shield is hexagonal, while the other is of the figure-of-eight type. Directly below the relief is a large, inscribed block (see Figure 7.2) reading as follows: CAECILIAE QCRETICIF METELLAECRASSI (CIL VI 1274.) This translates to: ‘Caecilia Metella, daughter of Quintus [Metellus] Creticus, wife of Crassus’ (Della Portella (2004), 64). It is certain that the tomb is not missing any further sculpture or inscriptions. The identification of the military equipment on the trophy has been the focus of scholarship dealing with the relief. The general agreement has been that the shields and helmet are Gallic in character. However, they cannot be associated definitively with any specific Gallic tribe, historical period, or campaign (see, for example, Holloway (1966), 172; Toynbee (1971), 155). In fact, some of the equipment can be interpreted as indigenous Roman rather than barbarian: not only does the trophy’s drapery seem clearly identifiable as a sagum, which was a distinctive, red, fringed cloak unique to the Romans, but in the period following the

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Figure 7.2 Inscription from the Tomb of Caecilia Metella. Photograph: author.

Gallic Wars – that is, in the period to which the tomb of Caecilia Metella belongs – Rome adopted Gallic designs for much of its arms and armour.10 While I do not dispute that some of the equipment, particularly the hexagonal shield, carries a distinctively Gallic flavour and was likely intended to suggest the recent Roman campaigns in Gaul, the presence of Roman equipment – particularly the sagum and the helmet – complicates the picture. The trophy is ethnically ambiguous rather than specific.11 An examination of the shield devices on the triumphal relief illustrates the difficulties inherent to an attempt at neatly categorizing the trophy’s ethnicity. These shield devices have been a focal point for arguments that the military equipment on the trophy reflects a specific enemy or a specific military campaign. In reality, close examination of the devices only enhances the ethnic ambiguity of the trophy.12 The right, figure-of-eight shield features an acanthus motif that has been interpreted as a thunderbolt, a traditional device for Roman shields despite the basically ‘Gallic’ form of the shield.13 The left, hexagonal shield, on the other hand, shows a carefully arrayed display of ‘barbarian’ paraphernalia comparable to that seen on the Tiberian Arch at Orange (20 C.E. or later) (see Holloway (1966), 172, supra n. 25; on the date of the arch, see Gros (1979)). The explicitly ‘barbarian’ objects include a pair of trumpets with zoomorphic mouths, known as carnyxes, along the shield’s vertical axis; two standards surmounted by wild boars in the upper portion of the shield; and four torques in the lower portion of the shield. Between the standards and torques is a pair of enigmatic objects typically

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and probably rightly identified as anchors (see Holloway (1966), 172). The general conclusion is that if one sets aside the question of shape and focuses on decoration, the former shield is ‘Roman’ and the latter is ‘Gallic’ or at least generically ‘barbarian’ (see Holloway (1966), 172; Gerding (2002), 57–59).Though previous scholarship has assumed that this intermingling of Gallic and Roman iconography points to a specific military encounter between the two cultures, perhaps instead it is indicative of an inconsistent or even ambivalent approach to the ethnicity of the enemy. In other words, the military equipment on the trophy was not intended to identify a specific enemy or campaign. The traditional assumption that the trophy refers to a Gallic enemy has led scholars to associate the relief with the activities of Caecilia Metella’s husband, who campaigned in Gaul, though without particularly distinguishing himself.14 The consensus has been that the tomb was constructed by the Licinii Crassi in honour of the military career of Caecilia Metella’s husband. I argue instead that the Gallic nature of the trophy has been overestimated, and furthermore that the presence on the relief of Gallic-looking equipment indicates not that the tomb commemorates victory in Gaul but that it follows contemporary, high-profile trends in victory commemoration, in which Gallic equipment was prominent to the extent that foreign-looking objects displayed in the triumph or after the fact were usually identified as Gallic even when such a description was not entirely fitting (Östenberg (2009), 110–111). The Roman mental equation between ‘Gaul’ and ‘foreign’ is a trend that continues into the high imperial period, when, for example, we find Gallic paraphernalia standing in for barbarian weaponry in general on the base of the Column of Trajan. Development of the trophy-tableau monument type The trophy relief on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella was part of an important and newly developing tradition of victory commemoration that originally derived from ritualistically parading trophies with real, live bound captives below them in triumphal processions, a practice that was now being reproduced in the visual arts.15 Initially, the translation of this event into sculptural form was intended to perpetuate the ephemeral procession that was one of the greatest moments in a triumphator’s public life. Over time, however, the image of a trophy with bound captives became a standard symbol for military success and conquest. Throughout the transition to symbolic usage, this type of monument maintained its vitality due to the poignancy of its iconography, in which not only the arms of the defeated but also the defeated people themselves became Roman property and were thus perforce converted into a metaphorical ‘trophy’ – a symbol of battlefield victory. The trophy tableau blurred the boundaries between honour in victory, sympathy for other human beings, and the sheer entertainment value of the over-the-top spectacle that was the triumph.16 As previous scholars have noted, both literary and visual evidence argue for the parading of real, live captives under their weapons in the Roman triumphal procession. For example, in the second half of the 1st century B.C.E., the poet Sextus

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Propertius described such a scene in his Elegies. Relating the experience of watching a triumphal procession, he wrote: : : : I shall see the spoils heaped on Caesar’s carts, and captured chiefs crouching ’neath their shields, the darts of the fleeing Horse and bows of the trousered Foot, the steeds oft stopping for the Pleb’s applause, and leaning on my darling’s breast I’ll catch the sight first and then read on plaques the captured towns! (3.4.12–17)17 Though Propertius does not state explicitly that the weapons were in the form of a trophy, his words remain powerfully suggestive of an origin in actual events for trophy tableaux in the visual arts.18 Moreover, the 25 B.C.E. interior frieze of the Temple of Apollo in Circo, or ‘Apollo Sosianus’, in Rome, depicts bound captives at the feet of trophies as part of a triumphal procession rather than as an isolated tableau: here, a team of men hoists the group on a platform, or ferculum, and carries it in parade (see Figure 1.3).19 The practice of parading captives in this way on fercula may well have developed only in the late 2nd or early 1st centuries B.C.E., after Rome had pacified both its immediate neighbours and the majority of the Hellenistic world. Prior to this, the display of captives in the triumphal procession showed preference for foreign chieftains and kings, who were chained and forced to march, sometimes to their own deaths.20 As the scale of Roman campaigns diminished and the extravagance of the booty returning from foreign wars dwindled, one of the tactics triumphatores may have used to infuse their celebrations with greater excitement and provocativeness was the addition of more captives, now fully bound and carried in procession just as inanimate booty had been carried for years before. Coins provide the clearest and most plentiful evidence for the development of visual representations of trophy tableaux, yet these numismatic images have never before been evaluated as a group, an approach that is truly illuminating. Chapter 6 discussed in some detail the Victoriatus type (see Figure 1.7). This coin was issued only until ca 170 B.C.E. (Janssen (1957), 242; Crawford (2001), catalogue 44–168). After 170 B.C.E., trophies do not appear on Roman coins again until the beginning of the 130s B.C.E. From 138 to 101 B.C.E., the trophy returns, but almost exclusively as an attribute of Mars or Hercules (Crawford (2001), catalogue 232, 244, 252, 255, 306). In one coin of 119 B.C.E., Victory crowns a patently ‘barbarian’ trophy that is likely to refer to the defeat of Gallic tribes in 120 B.C.E. (Crawford (2001), catalogue 281). It is not until 101 B.C.E. that the trophy appears for the first time on coins with captives bound at its base. In 101 B.C.E., C. Fundanius minted an issue of quinarii depicting a victory crowning a trophy that is identified as Gallic by an accompanying carnyx – the type of Gallic zoomorphic trumpet seen on the hexagonal shield on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella. A captive with his hands tied behind his back kneels below the trophy (Figure 7.3). Crawford recognizes this coin as part of a series that Fundanius minted

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Figure 7.3 Quinarius of C. Fundanius, 101 B.C.E. Crawford 326/2. Photograph courtesy Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. (www.cngcoins.com/).

in commemoration of Marius’ victories over the Teutones and the Gallic Cimbri.21 Crawford believes that another, similar issue dating to 98 B.C.E. also commemorates Marius’ victories. This second coin type, minted by a T. Cloulius, similarly depicts Victory crowning a trophy with a carnyx beside it and with a captive whose hands are bound behind his back at its base.22 The fact that these two different issues, minted by different moneyers several years apart, are nearly identical in iconography perhaps suggests that they reproduce a permanent sculptural monument depicting a trophy with a captive bound at its feet. It is not merely the repeated motif on coinage that suggests a monumental prototype: there is interesting literary evidence as well.23 Suetonius famously reports that Marius erected an important trophy monument on the Capitoline Hill. This monument was apparently so remarkable that Marius’ rival Sulla had it removed and Julius Caesar later had it reinstated.24 The novel presentation of a captive with a trophy on a coin, the striking similarity between the different issues, and the literary account of an important and controversial Marian victory monument all imply that Marius commemorated his victories in an innovative form that featured a representation of a bound captive beneath a trophy. Indeed, Marius, who was elected to an unprecedented five consecutive terms as consul of Rome, was exactly the sort of charismatic, unconventional character one might expect to innovate striking new forms of victory commemoration.25 This great general, along with the artists working under his direction, then, should probably be credited with the invention of the trophy-tableau monument type around 101 B.C.E. In fact, Marius’ monumental trophy on the Capitoline Hill seems to underlie the ensuing developments in trophy iconography on coins – further testament to the considerable importance and influence of this lost monument. In the years immediately following the issue of the Marian trophy-coins, there is a return to the

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earlier trend in which the trophy occurs almost exclusively as an attribute of a god or hero.26 Only with Sulla in the mid-80s B.C.E. does the trophy again become the focus of coin reverses. By way of his campaign issue of a denarius and an aureus featuring a pair of trophies with augural equipment, Sulla ushered in a new era in which, when they appear, trophies are the dominant image on reverses.27 As we saw in Chapter 6, Sulla erected two major battlefield monuments, parts of which survive today, at the sites of his most important victories in Greece: at Chaironeia and at Orchomenos. Each featured a stone trophy atop a column in apparent imitation of Greek trophies celebrating victories in the Persian Wars.28 Sulla’s coins evidently were intended to reproduce his sculptural groups in Greece, just as the Marian coins reproduced Marius’ trophy tableau in Rome. It seems that Sulla’s victory in the Jugurthine War (112–106 B.C.E.) was celebrated in Rome itself with a tableau monument in the round, though here the trophies appear not to have been sculpted in the round but instead relegated to the position of bas-reliefs on the statues’ base. The reverse of denarii dating to 56 B.C.E. and minted by Sulla’s son likely depicts the tableau itself. These denarii show Sulla seated above Jugurtha, kneeling and bound to Sulla’s left. Jugurtha, the King of Numidia, was a critical figure in the feud between Marius and Sulla because it was Sulla who captured Jugurtha, while it was Marius who paraded the king in triumph. Bocchus I of Mauretania, who had helped Sulla capture Jugurtha and who actually dedicated the sculptural monument in Rome, kneels on the left side of the coin (Plut. Mar. 32, Sul. 6). Hölscher has suggested that this group of captive and captors may have belonged as a statue group on a base clad with the well-known Sant’Omobono reliefs (see Figure 1.4; Schäfer (1989), 74–83; Reusser (1993), 121–137, 221–226; Hölscher (1994), 57–58; Reusser (1999a); Crawford (2001), catalogue 426 4b. See also Schäfer (2008), 206–207).29 Hölscher and Picard have associated the Sant’Omobono reliefs with Sulla because of their double Erotes, a reference to Sulla’s patron goddess Venus, and because of their double trophies, a reference to the emblem seen on Sulla’s coins referring to his ‘double victory’ in Greece. The entire Sullan monument probably once stood atop the Capitoline Hill, likely in the very place of Marius’ inventive trophy group.30 In this Sullan group from the Capitoline Hill in Rome there are both captives and trophies, but they are isolated from one another. It seems that by separating captive and trophy Boccus I, working under Sulla’s eye, carefully avoided depicting a scene from a triumphal procession. In this particular case, perhaps we are witnessing a mixture of personal and political interests: the absence of any triumphal imagery may allude, sotto voce, to Marius’ ‘stolen’ triumph over Jugurtha. Meanwhile, Sulla’s refusal to reference the triumph was a politically savvy demonstration of personal modesty. Not every Sullan monument was intended as a comment on Marius, however. On the whole, Sulla does generally separate trophies from captives in his victory iconography. This must be chiefly the result of his lack of a triumph until late in his career. In any case, I would suggest that the doubletrophy presented separately from captives represents Sulla’s appropriation and personalization of the monument type initiated by Marius. Sulla removed Marius’ trophy-with-captive group from the Capitoline Hill and replaced it with his own

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variation, copying Marius’ original idea of a permanent trophy monument in the round in both Greece and Rome and employing it as a personal emblem on coinage. In the 60s and 50s B.C.E., Roman moneyers took increasing advantage of the burgeoning trophy-monument iconography, using it to celebrate historical successes even when these successes may not in fact have originally been marked with trophies. Most notable is the denarius of 62 B.C.E. issued by one L. Aemilius Lepidus Paullus. On his coins, this individual uses trophy-tableau iconography in order to assert a spurious claim to descent from the famous Aemilius Paullus, conqueror of Macedon (Crawford (2001), catalogue 415). The denarius depicts on its reverse a trophy with the triumphator on one side and three captives on the other – King Perseus and his two sons, who were indeed paraded in Aemilius Paullus’ triumph following the 168 B.C.E. Battle of Pydna (Gruen (1984), 505). However, their juxtaposition with a trophy on the 62 B.C.E. coin is unlikely to represent actual events of the previous century; it is more likely an imagined scene whose iconography has been drawn from contemporary practice. The use of the trophy, then, like the claim of descent from Aemilius Paullus, is probably a fiction aimed at inflating the moneyer’s worth in the eyes of a public trained to understand trophy tableaux as signs of military success. The adoption of this iconography demonstrates that it was becoming a recognized language for the communication of military prowess. It was no longer the translation of reality into art that it had been for Marius and Sulla. Instead, the trophy tableau could be a pictorial fantasy, signalling victory without literally reproducing a portion of a real triumphal procession. In the 40s B.C.E. – simultaneous with Julius Caesar’s reinstatement of Marius’ trophy monument on the Capitoline – the trophy reached an apex of popularity on coins. In particular, Brutus and Caesar made wide use of the type (Brutus: Crawford (2001), catalogue 503–507; Caesar: Crawford (2001), catalogue 452, 468, 482). Coins of the 40s B.C.E. minted throughout the Roman world often feature Galliclooking trophies, sometimes with bound captives (see Figure 7.4; Crawford (2001), catalogue 452, 468 (minted in Spain), 503–507). The trophies are regularly characterized by the presence of a carnyx – again, like those on Caecilia Metella’s relief. In addition, the specialized ‘figure-of-eight’ shield seen on the tomb is a common feature of Brutus’ coins. This Gallic iconography was ostensibly the product of the roughly contemporary Gallic War and of Brutus’ governorship of Gaul in 46 B.C.E., but it may also reflect the coins’ relation to Marius’ trophy, since this too featured a carnyx. Both by reinstalling the Marian trophy and by minting numerous coins recalling its appearance, Julius Caesar greatly promoted the trophytableau mode of victory commemoration. In addition, because both Marius and Caesar used this mode to celebrate victories against Gallic peoples, the trophy tableau developed a distinctly Gallic iconography of the type reflected on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella. Through the end of the Republic and into the early Empire, the trophy-andcaptive tableau is known primarily through inference from coins, literary references, and reliefs in both stone and terracotta. However, surviving sculpture in Gaul and North Africa dating to the late 1st century B.C.E. confirms that tableau groups were made in the round as emblems of military prowess, and that the type had become

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Figure 7.4 Denarius of Caesar, 46–45 B.C.E. Crawford 468/2. Photograph courtesy Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. (www.cngcoins.com/).

popular enough for export into the provinces where it could spread the message of Roman domination. The most remarkable of these new, standard tableau compositions is the trophy at Lugdunum Convenarum, modern Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, in ancient Aquitania, now southwestern France (see Figure 7.5). This early Augustan monument (see Figure 7.6), which we will examine in greater detail later in this chapter, survives in fragmented condition and consisted of three trophy groups displayed together: the central group featured a trophy atop a ship’s prow and was flanked by a pair of land-trophies with bound male and unbound female captives. The monument most likely stood in the new forum of the recently founded frontier town of Lugdunum Convenarum.31 Other examples of the type outside of Rome include a bronze trophy at Hippon in ancient Cyrenaica, now Libya: the trophy is probably from the 1st century B.C.E., though possibly later (see Picard (1957), 216–217). There was also a triumphal fountain dating to ca 10 B.C.E. at Glanum in ancient Gallia Narbonensis, now southeastern France (see, for example, Salviat (1990), 110–111). All these provincial tableaux likely functioned within newly established public spaces to announce a goal of ‘Romanization’. The question of who commissioned these provincial monuments remains open. Whether the directives came from the metropolitan centre; from locally-based Roman magistrates; or from local, philoroman elites, these trophy tableaux drew on a trend that developed in the city of Rome itself in order to express Roman military prowess and dominance over conquered peoples. Whoever commissioned the monuments must have been making a strong, conscious statement of Roman identity or, at the very least, of solidarity with the Romans. These tableaux therefore took part in the pro-Roman side of the dialogue between Roman and indigenous cultures in the provinces.32

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Figure 7.5 Location of Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges in map of Europe and detail of Aquitania. From Barrington's Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (2000).

Considering the evidence of coins, literature, relief sculpture and provincial statue groups, one may postulate the existence of a corpus of trophy-tableau monuments in the round in Rome itself during the Republic. Kuttner has recently argued for the prominence of such monuments in late-republican Rome, suggesting, for example, that one originally occupied the much-discussed so-called Altar of Domitius Ahenobarbus.33 The triumphal relief on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella should be seen as belonging to a major, late republican trend in Roman victory commemoration in which the depiction of a trophy, particularly accompanied by bound captives, proliferated in the visual arts under the influence of Marius, Sulla and Julius Caesar. The iconography of this type, probably first realized by Marius around 101 B.C.E., originated as a monumentalization of a particularly affecting aspect of the ephemeral triumphal procession. However, through repetition in the visual arts it came to stand generally for military victory, and was used as a symbol of such by contemporary

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Figure 7.6 Reconstruction drawing of the Augustan trophy monument from Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges. © Boube 1996.

Romans celebrating their ancestors’ successes, and by Roman officials in the provinces to convey a message of subjugation and acculturation. Moreover, the type took on a distinctively Gallic flavour because of its use by Marius and Caesar to commemorate victories over Gallic tribes. A new interpretation of the Tomb of Caecilia Metella Seen within the context of the development of the trophy-tableau monument type, the trophy relief on the tomb of Caecilia Metella need not commemorate a specific victory against the Gauls, despite the generically Gallic appearance of equipment in the trophy. There is therefore no need to associate the relief with the unexceptional military service of Caecilia Metella’s husband, Crassus, in Gaul.34 Instead, I propose that the emphasis the tomb’s inscription places on Caecilia’s father’s name and, in particular, on his triumphal agnomen Creticus, implies that the relief should be associated with past military successes of Caecilia Metella’s birth family (Gerding (2002), 68). As noted above, the inscription states that the tomb belongs to ‘Caecilia Metella, daughter of Quintus [Metellus] Creticus, wife of Crassus’. It thus highlights three individuals as relevant to the tomb: Caecilia Metella herself, her father, and her husband. The most striking feature of the inscription is the unbalanced treatment

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of the names of Caecilia Metella’s father and husband. While her father’s praenomen and triumphal agnomen are provided, her husband is mentioned by his family cognomen alone. Some scholars have made the assumption that only the family cognomen is supplied because Caecilia Metella’s husband was so famous that Romans would instantly know who was meant, or because he was the only important Crassus alive at the time (see, for example, Gerding (2002), 65). In other words, Caecilus Metellus Creticus’ name was provided in detail because his identity would not have been obvious to contemporary Romans: he was too obscure or merely one among many Metelli, while only part of Crassus’ name was provided as if to ‘show off’ how famous he was. This seems a convoluted interpretation of the inscription, and it largely springs from previous attempts to associate the Crassus of the inscription with the triumvir, an association that prosopography of the Crassi and Metelli families has shown to be faulty. Simply put, Caecilia Metella would have been too young to be married to the triumvir; she must instead have married his son. More striking is the fact that Metellus’ name occupies almost the entire inscribed area, while Crassus’ is ‘tacked on’ at the end, in pointedly smaller text. The emphasis on the Metelli – and particularly on Caecilia’s father’s exploits in Crete – is most evident in a literal translation of the inscription that preserves its formal and sacral character. Such a translation reads: ‘For Caecilia, daughter of Quintus, the conqueror of Crete, from the family Metellus, and wife to Crassus’. Perhaps the meaning to be taken from the unbalanced nature of the nomenclature here is not that Caecilia’s father was obscure while her husband was famous, but rather that her father and his triumphal agnomen were more important to the tomb’s design and message than were her husband’s name and achievements. The decoration of one of the trophy’s shields with anchors further emphasizes the importance of Caecilia’s father’s deeds, as they alone do not fit tidily with the rest of the iconography: their naval character is not really appropriate to the Gallic Wars, but instead to Q. Caecilius Metellus Creticus’ victories against pirates on Crete. This seems the key to understanding the relief: the inscription emphasizes the father and his military achievements, underscoring the depiction of his military triumph in the relief above. The Gallic appearance of the trophy is not at odds with this interpretation because, like the trophy on the Aemilius Paullus coin, the trophy on the tomb was not intended to be a realistic reflection of an actual, historical trophy – it was instead an emblem of victory. More importantly, even though the equipment on the trophy is generally Gallic in flavour the trophy seems not to have been intended as an accurate reflection of a single, particular set of ethnic weapons. Rather, it was somewhat ethnically ambiguous, pairing a Roman sagum with Gallic-looking shields that reflected the prominence of Gallic weaponry in existing trophy-tableau monuments. On the tomb’s relief, the use of Gallic shields ‘updated’ Caecilia Metella’s birth family’s old successes in terms of modern modes of victory commemoration. The relief does seem to offer one small nod to Creticus’ specific achievements: the small anchors on one of the shields, relevant to victory over pirates but not to victory over Gauls. At the time when the Tomb of Caecilia Metella was constructed, the Metelli, once a vital political force in the Republic, had lost their lustre. The family’s last great

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military success had been Caecilia Metella’s father’s triumph nearly forty years earlier, earned against pirates on Crete in the midst of a dramatic rivalry with Pompey the Great that proved politically ruinous to the Metelli (Van Ooteghem (1967), 221–231; Gerding (2002), 68). The family recalled this specific, final victory in the tomb’s inscription, in which the agnomen reflecting this triumph, ‘Creticus’, is prominent. Meanwhile, the relief, with its up-to-date emblem of battlefield prowess, drove home the concept of military superiority to which the inscription alluded. The exploitation of a Gallic-looking trophy as a general emblem of victory without any specific ties to Gaul itself – the Metelli were largely uninvolved in the Gallic campaigns – was apparently a significant innovation on the part of Caecilia Metella’s family.35 Though the trophy tableau was already in use as a symbol of military success, up to this point Gallic iconography seems to have been limited to the commemoration of events involving the Gauls: the coin reverses of Marius, Julius Caesar and Brutus all relate to military campaigns against Gallic enemies. However, after the construction of Caecilia Metella’s tomb, objects plainly associated with the Gauls – like the carnyx, which had originally functioned for the Gauls the way a standard did for the Romans – worked their way into more monuments without a specific Gallic connection.36 A proverbial example is the base of Trajan’s column, where a dragon-headed carnyx appears in a jumble of weaponry. The carnyx appears again in the hands of Dacians on the column’s frieze. Evidently, this distinctive dragon-trumpet had lost its specific connection to – and connotation of – Gaul and had come instead to stand for ‘barbarian’ in a more general sense by the second century C.E.37 The trophy-tableau monument type, invented by Marius, co-opted by Sulla, and promoted by Julius Caesar, developed in a period during which the city of Rome was being filled up with monuments to the military prowess of its aristocracy, and during which the members of this aristocracy were eager for new ways to make their victories stand out from the rest. The trophy tableau was successful because of its poignancy; because of its overt reference to the triumphal procession; and because, unlike a manubial temple, it could squeeze into already crowded areas of public display. The trophy-with-captives rapidly became a recognizable motif, popular on coinage and often imbued with Gallic iconography. As such, it was adopted by Caecilia Metella’s family in order to assert their continuing military prowess in a period during which their political, and hence military, fortunes were on the decline.38 In the process, the Metelli opened the door to the use of Gallic weaponry as a symbol for military foes in general, rather than for any one particular ethnic group. Lastly, in dwelling on the achievements of the Metelli the tomb reflects the clannish nature of the Roman family. Though it ostensibly celebrates a single individual – Caecilia Metella – the tomb is really an advertisement for the occupant’s birth family, thereby illustrating the firm and pragmatic nature of the bond between father and daughter, uninterrupted by the years of marriage that connected her to another, perhaps even more influential clan – the Licinii Crassi.39 The use of the high-powered and relatively novel motif of the trophy tableau in this more individualized context constitutes a bold statement of family allegiance.

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Figure 7.7 Portonaccio Sarcophagus. Museo Nazionale delle Terme #112327. Alamy Images.

With the end of the Republic, personalized use of the trophy tableau disappeared from common practice as so many other monuments of self-commemoration did. The tableau instead expressed the military might of the emperor alone, in public commissions and on mass-produced art, ranging from coinage to household items. For example, from the Augustan period to the 2nd century C.E., some Romans roofed their houses with terracotta plaques now known as the Campana reliefs: these were stamped with images of Gallic captives flanking battlefield trophies, or being paraded in triumph. Such commonplace objects as roof tiles rendered a once powerfully unique image of individual victory into a quotidian reminder of the grander Empire’s power over the ‘other’. In the late 2nd century C.E., however, the tableau motif came full circle and returned to private use on elaborately decorated, individualistic battle sarcophagi such as the spectacular Portonaccio Sarcophagus (see Figure 7.7). Remarkably, on both the tiles and the battle sarcophagi the enemy remains Gallic. It seems that, as a result of the tableau’s origins, the Gaul as he appeared in the late Republic had come to play the mythical role of the Roman foe par excellence.40

Dissemination: Lugdunum Convenarum Despite their provincial origins, Augustan trophy tableaux at Lugdunum Convenarum in Aquitania (modern Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges in France; see Figure 7.5) may be the earliest surviving examples of three-dimensional tableau

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41

trophies. However, as we know, several generations before Lugdunum Convenarum was even founded the ambitious triumphator Marius – and then likely a host of imitators – had already erected similar monuments in the metropolitan centre of Rome. The group of trophy tableaux at Saint-Bertrand stands not at the outset of the development of the tableau type, but instead at the forefront of the motif’s dissemination into the provinces. Just as the tableau exploded in popularity in the city of Rome, so too did it in the provinces – but with some significant changes in meaning. In the metropolitan centre, the propagandistic messages of a tableau would have been easily accessible: tableaux in Rome were designed for a public accustomed to sculptural monuments, to buildings and statue groups celebrating military virtue, and even to the parading of captives in the triumphal procession. As a result, many different levels of meaning would have been legible to the viewing public. Provincial tableaux, on the other hand, were designed for and received by a rather different sort of audience: one that combined Romans, for whom the metropolitan messages of the monuments would have been accessible, with indigenous inhabitants, for whom monumental sculpture – let alone a trophy tableau – would have been completely alien and novel.42 I would now like to examine the Saint-Bertrand trophy monument in light of these considerations. Introduction to the Saint-Bertrand trophy tableaux Today the trophy tableaux at Saint-Bertrand is highly fragmentary, consisting of nearly a dozen separate figures known from over a hundred fragments sculpted in local marble.43 The vast majority of these fragments were unearthed in unfortunately unsystematic excavations carried out in 1926 behind the site’s forum temple.44 The fragments seem to have come from a sculpture ‘dump’ that contained miscellaneous additional artworks: this has complicated the study of the trophy tableaux. Several reconstructions, none of which is unproblematic, have been offered for the monument.45 The excavator of the statue-dump, Sapène, initially associated all of the fragments with a single monument, which as a result included a cuirassed emperor, three trees, two female captives, two male captives, two divine female figures – which he identified as one clothed and one nude Victory – and the prow of a ship, which Sapène initially believed to be a seated figure (Sapène (1932). For summaries, see Boube (1996), 19; Schenck-David (2003), 30–31). Picard, who in 1957 offered the next reconstruction of the monument, discarded the emperor, re-identified the nude Victory as a tritonesse, and added another clothed Victory and an eagle atop a globe (Picard (1957), 272–273; see also Boube (1996), 20–22; Schenck-David (2003), 31). In 1996, Boube removed the second Victory and added a dolphin and a crocodile (see Figure 7.6; Boube (1996), 22–36; see also SchenckDavid (2003), 31–32). Finally and most recently, in 2003 Schenck-David removed the dolphin and crocodile and stated that the number of Victories cannot be determined.46 Schenck-David’s reconstruction seems the most reasonable.47 The monument at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges is ultimately a large and complex ensemble of three trophy tableaux grouped together. It has never before received extensive treatment in scholarship outside of France. Two of the tableaux at

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Saint-Bertrand are fairly traditional: each of these consists of a mannequin in the form of a tree dressed in a fur cloak and crowned by a scalp, flanked by captives: one kneeling, undressed and bound male and one standing, clothed and unbound female. It may be significant that the men are bound while the women are not. Kampen posits that the reason for this trope is that the male figures represent the threat of barbarian violence, while women reflect barbarian submission (Kampen (1996), 20). SaintBertrand’s more ‘traditional’ tableaux are generally referred to as representing victory over the foreign, but long subdued, Hispania (on the left) and Gaul (on the right) (Picard (1957), 272; see also Boube (1996), 91–138). Despite these designations, with the exception of the female from the ‘Gallia’ group, who wears a Gallic torque, the figures lack identifying attributes. The best-preserved figures from the monument are the female from the ‘Hispania’ group and the male from the ‘Gallia’ group. The Hispania figure in particular reveals the high quality of the sculptural ensemble. Hispania is rigorously classical in style, while the male Gaul exhibits a more baroque emphasis on musculature. The far less traditional, naval ‘tableau’ was probably displayed in between the other two. Though Boube (see Figure 7.6) has reconstructed this group without a tree, the remains of a third tree suggest that the group did, in fact, include a mannequin trophy mounted on top of the miniature ship’s prow. Also atop this prow stood a tritonesse carrying a globe upon which an eagle perched: there may have also been one or two small-scale Victories associated with this central group. On the whole, the backs of the figures are less finished than the fronts, allowing us to conclude that the statues probably stood lined up along a wall. The two female captives, generally assumed to be personifications of Hispania and Gallia, are slightly under life size and are fairly well preserved, though both have been reconstructed from fragments. Hispania (see Figure 7.8) stands a metre-anda-half tall. The statue’s most notable losses are the lower left arm, the fingers, the nose and a large portion of the right thigh and knee. On the whole, the statue is of remarkably high quality, particularly considering that it was found in a frontier town that has yielded little other sculpture. The figure is highly idealized, with the sort of classicizing face typical of Augustan art, and is clad in an unbelted Dorian chiton, which falls open along the right flank of the body and which has slipped off the left shoulder to reveal the breast. The figure brings her arms to her chest and seems to absently touch her hair; her facial expression is a small, poignant smile. The mood of the figure has been characterized, perhaps appropriately, as resigned sadness. Despite the convention of referring to this statue as ‘Hispania’, it in fact lacks identifying attributes: its identification relates instead to Lugdunum’s geographical proximity to Spain and the perhaps reasonable desire to associate ideal, female captives with personifications.48 The figure of Gallia (see Figure 7.9) is similar in many respects to Hispania (in Figure 7.8), for example in dress, style, quality of carving, scale and general position. There are, however, two crucial differences between Gallia and Hispania. First, the figure is obviously less well preserved. It is missing most of its right arm, most of its left leg, and its entire head. Also notable is the damage to the chest: the figure looks rather masculine because both breasts have been lost. The second

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Figure 7.8 Hispania figure from trophy monument at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges. Photograph: author.

difference from Hispania goes a small way towards making up for these losses; unlike Hispania, Gallia actually has an identifying attribute. This is the torque she wears about her neck, which identifies her as a Gallic captive if not actually a personification of Gaul itself. It is worth pointing out that Hispania’s and Gallia’s gestures and positions mirror one another: Hispania’s weight is on her left leg, while Gallia’s is on her right; Hispania’s right side is exposed, while Gallia’s left is; Hispania’s left arm lies horizontally across her body, while Gallia’s right lies horizontally across hers.49 The states of preservation of the two male captives are much less comparable to one another: one is missing only the right leg below the knee, the head and the bulk of the right arm; of the other, only the battered upper torso, right knee and right hand survive. On the basis of the shapes of their plinths, the better-preserved male captive has been associated with the Gallia group (see Figure 7.10), while the less well preserved has been associated with the Hispania group. Neither statue bears any identifying attributes, but each figure wears a short cloak over his back and is bound

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Figure 7.9 Gallia figure from trophy monument at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges. Photograph: author.

about the wrists with figure-eight-shaped chains.50 Like their female counterparts, the male captives seem to have mirrored one another in pose; each knelt on one knee and twisted his torso into the same plane as his raised leg. The carving is again highquality. However, while the statues of the women are rigorously Classical in style, the men have a baroque, Hellenistic flair due to their exaggerated and bulging musculature.51 The three trees are fairly straightforward. Two of them are shorter and stumpier in appearance than the third; these two have been associated with the Hispania and Gallia groups. The tree that best fits the Hispania plinth is less well-preserved than the tree that fits the Gallia plinth, but we can assume that both originally culminated in the sort of tenon observed on the Gallia tree.52 The tall, slender tree with clamp holes on the top is usually associated with a third, naval trophy group.53 Given the surviving tenon and clamp holes it seems that all three trees were used as the bases for mannequin trophies. A number of small fragments have been associated with these mannequins, including parts from two fur cloaks known as rhenos and

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Figure 7.10 Male captive (Gaul) from Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges. Photograph: author.

associated generally with northern and western barbarians in Roman art. Other fragments seem to belong to sculpted scalps that would have literally capped the mannequins. One might also restore metal arms and armour to these representations of trophies, though there is no proof for the presence of such additions.54 The tritonesse, ship prow and eagle upon a globe all join to form a single sculpture. Unfortunately, the pieces are so badly damaged that today the joins are all exceptionally awkward: it is difficult to fully understand the appearance in antiquity of this complicated ensemble. Basically, the group consisted of a small and somewhat inelegant ship’s prow, about 80 cm tall, complete with a ram featuring applied bronze decoration and shown moving through water, which billows clumsily at the sides of the hull. Perched high on the front of the prow was a tritonesse: a female version of a triton, with fishy tails for legs. Today these distinctive legs are in a poor state of repair, as are the breasts. However, the fishy tail-ends of the tritonesse’s legs can be seen curling up behind the figure, where they appear in relief on a heavy pillar that supported the globe and eagle. The globe was thus perched atop the tritonesse’s

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shoulders and tail fins. It, in turn, supported an eagle clutching in its talons a vegetal bouquet wrapped around a thunderbolt. The tree belonging to this group likely rose behind the trionesse, globe and eagle. The quality of this group is fairly difficult to judge due to the poor state of preservation, but it seems that at least parts – like the ship prow – are somewhat poorer than the other figures associated with the monument.55 Finally, fragments survive from one or more winged victories.56 Today these have been reconstructed as belonging to a single figure, but it is technically possible that they represent multiple statues (Schenck-David (2003), 33–34). The original statue, or statues, seems to have shown Victory alighting; her windblown chiton flattens against her body and slips from her shoulder, while the toes of her left foot touch down upon some surface. The carving of these fragments is particularly fine. In style, the figure is exceptionally similar to the famous Nike of Paionios at Olympia, dating to 425 B.C.E. (see Figure 7.11; Boube (1996), 27). The Victory at SaintBertrand is usually associated with the naval group, but it is unclear where exactly the figure could have stood. Picard has proposed Victories flanking the ship, while Boube believes a single Victory stood atop the maritime tree, though Schenck-David

Figure 7.11 Nike of Paionios, Olympia, ca 425 B.C.E. Alamy Images.

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has more recently declared this last suggestion to be physically impossible (Picard (1957), 258; Boube (1996), 27–30; Schenck-David (2003), 35). Unfortunately, due in part to the manner in which the sculptures were excavated we know neither the chronological nor the topographical context of this trophy (Boube (1996), 45–46). Style and historical circumstances are our sole available criteria for dating the monument. Based on the high degree of idealization seen in Hispania, I support an Augustan date. I further speculate that the wide range of styles, including the male captives’ baroque musculature, might indicate a particularly early date within the period. Due to the high quality of the carving and the large number of sculptures involved in the trophy, scholars have assumed that the Saint-Bertrand trophy was a metropolitan commission, and that sculptors may have been imported from Rome to execute it (Boube (1996), 40–42). It is equally probable that the monument was initiated at the behest of local magistrates with access to highly talented sculptors and a desire to lend a distinctively metropolitan flavour to Lugdunum. Scholars have put forward a variety of claims regarding the purpose of the monument; most believe that there is some kind of message of universal domination behind the motif of the triple trophy, particularly since it involves both land and sea.57 Many think that the monument as a whole commemorates some specific military success in Spain and Gaul, while the naval trophy is usually assumed to refer to Augustus’ great victory at Actium as part of the general message of triumph (Boube (1996), 33–34; Schenck-David (2003), 34). No part of these arguments has any firm basis in fact, however, and it seems more prudent to simply admit that we do not know what specific victories this monument commemorates, if any. As we shall see, more than the commemoration of a specific victory, the purpose of the statue group seems to be the assertion of Roman dominion in Aquitania. Site and setting The location of the Saint-Bertrand tableaux makes a sharp contrast to that of its predecessors, such as Marius’ trophy on the Capitoline Hill in Rome. While the latter stood in the metropolitan centre as a permanent reminder of an ephemeral moment from the triumphal procession, the former was only the most elaborate artistic element in a small-scale and new – but rapidly developing – Roman urban environment. Modern Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, located on the plain before the Pyrenees, is an essentially rural community; however, from the 1st century B.C.E. to the late 6th century C.E. it was an important provincial city. Named Lugdunum, this was the regional capital of the Convenae, which was what the Romans called the assorted tribes living in the nearby foothills of the Pyrenees.58 Passages from Strabo (Geography 4.2.1) and Pliny (Natural History 4.33.1) describe the Convenae as ‘people assembled from different countries to dwell in one place’. Either under Augustus or over several decades following Pompey’s campaigns in the same region, a variety of indigenous tribes living in the Pyrenees – tribes that apparently spoke a mixed language of Iberian and Celtic influence – were systematically moved from the hills out onto the plain, where they would be easier to

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control and ‘Romanize’. To put this less contentiously, in this new town the locals could be induced to adopt Roman cultural norms, which the Romans thought of as humanitas, so that the Romans could more comfortably interact with them. At about the same time as Augustus declared Aquitania a Roman province, Lugdunum seems to have been founded ex-novo at a crossroads as an accessible centre for administering and acculturating these diverse peoples. As an outpost of Roman identity in the barbarian west, it was given civic structures and, according to Strabo (Geography 4.2.1), Latin rights. The reigns of Augustus and Tiberius marked the main phase of urban development at the site, during which Lugdunum received nearly all the building types associated with a Roman city. This included the construction of streets, Roman-style atrium houses, baths, a temple and precinct dating to the last 20 years B.C.E., and a macellum near the temple that turned the zone into a formal, public square at the end of Augustus’ reign. The trophy tableaux most likely stood up against a wall within this macellum complex. The overall plan of the city remained essentially unchanged from this form for the remainder of its history.59 This reading of the site’s history accords well with an Augustan date for the trophy monument. Woolf, in his important 1998 book Becoming Roman, argues that the development of Roman-style urban centres, and particularly the construction of monumental civic amenities, is a major mark of cultural change in Gaul (Woolf (1998), 106–141). Though in many senses the cultural shift from ‘Gallic’ to ‘Roman’ has been oversimplified in scholarship, it seems fair to understand the new, early imperial town of Lugdunum as a rather explicit declaration of Roman presence in Aquitania. The city was founded to help exercise Roman administrative power in this province, and as noted above it was given a Roman layout, Roman building types and monuments, and Roman-style domiciles. While much of the Roman cultural identity of the town, at least in terms of physical appearance, was likely produced at the behest of Roman magistrates living in Aquitania, it is also likely that members of the native elite took part in the production of this new Roman town. That is to say, it is likely that non-Romans financed and commissioned some of the Roman-looking monuments and homes in the town. In so doing, these elites consciously declared their allegiance to Rome or at least to the products of Roman culture, and they thereby expressed a strong interest in adopting a Roman identity. Thus, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges – or rather, Lugdunum Convenarum – was itself an expression of Roman presence and potency in Aquitania. The trophy tableaux can be thought of as concentrating – even intensifying – this message.60 In sum, though we are ignorant of the original display context of the trophy monument from Lugdunum Convenarum, it seems likely that the statue group was erected near the Augustan period temple and later macellum that defined the town’s earliest public square. The trophy at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges was part of a growing, urban landscape, with which it worked to shift the character of the new Aquitanian province from that of ‘barbaric’ wilderness to Romanized ‘civilization’. I would now like to examine how this statue group operated meaningfully within its provincial setting.

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The Meaning of a provincial trophy tableau The tableau group at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, unlike the groups erected in Rome, likely did not commemorate a specific military victory or campaign. Its purpose was not to call to mind a particular event, but instead to stake claim to foreign territory and to communicate a message of Roman presence and cultural dominance both to Roman magistrates and to the local, indigenous population. The trophy group was erected during a period of peace in Aquitania – it postdates by some fifty or sixty years Pompey’s campaigns in the area and, as an Augustan monument, it is unlikely to celebrate these. Moreover, the combination of naval and land trophies lends the group a generalizing aspect: the monument is broadly about victory and control. Its presence in a minor provincial capital makes it a sort of territorial marker along the lines of the Greek battlefield trophy, though without the ties to a particular genre of warfare. The erection of a trophy in ancient Greece and also in Rome, outside of the boundaries of the metropolitan centre, signified ownership of the land upon which it stood. The trophy group at Saint-Bertrand, by virtue of being erected along the Roman frontier, made a statement of Roman presence and domination. The difference between the Greek and Roman traditions is, however, rather large: while Greek trophy monuments might stand at the edge of a city-state’s farmland, usually on the order of thirty miles from the polis itself, Roman examples like the trophy at Saint-Bertrand were quite far-flung from the metropolitan centre. Moreover, while Greek trophy-monuments tended to mark the battlefield, their Roman counterparts could be – and usually were – divorced from the site of battle, allowing them to stand as an affirmation of Roman dominion, rather than for a specific historical victory. Perhaps even more than expressing territorial ownership, however, the trophy at Saint-Bertrand was intended to participate in the acculturation of the indigenous population. Given that the town of Lugdunum was organized from a gathering of local hill tribes and that it was quickly given a full range of Roman civic structures, it is natural to conclude that the town was meant to restructure the lives of these nonRomans along more metropolitan, Roman lines. As a provincial centre for Roman authority, Lugdunum was designed not only to acculturate the locals, but also to allow Roman magistrates to exercise power over them. Tableaux such as Marius’ in the metropolitan centre of Rome expressed and celebrated individual claims to military virtue to an audience familiar with the propagandistic use of triumphal iconography. The tableaux at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges did not belong to this Roman sphere of one-upmanship. It was not meant to showcase one individual’s achievements over another’s. Instead, it was meant as a civic emblem expressing Rome’s role as conqueror. Regardless of who erected this group – a Roman or a member of the provincial elite – the Saint-Bertrand tableaux are a statement not merely of Roman presence but of Roman domination in Aquitania. The poignant imagery here of bound or dejected captives beneath their own arms and armour takes on a different meaning from what we encountered in Rome. The artists have enhanced the level of degradation here both by picking out the men’s chains in extreme detail and relief, and by depicting

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both women with their hair loosened and their clothes falling open or slipping from their shoulders: these were standard symbols for rape in the ancient world (Kampen (1996); Dillon (2006), 258 including n. 34 and n. 35). The tableaux at Lugdunum Convenarum left no question regarding the degree of cruelty ‘barbarians’ could expect to suffer at the hands of the Romans. In the metropolitan centre, this iconography impressed the conquering people with their own military elite’s abilities to subdue foreign enemies: here in the subdued provinces, the meaning was more complicated. On the one hand, the trophy tableau was a visceral reminder of the military basis for Roman rule in the provinces. On the other hand, by the time this group was erected the province of Aquitania had long been at peace with Rome, and the inhabitants of Lugdunum Convenarum likely thought of themselves – at least to some extent – as members of the ‘conquering people’ rather than as ‘subdued locals’. The Saint-Bertrand tableaux carried an ambivalent message, expressing Roman dominance but presenting the local population with more than one possible response to its new masters. The tableaux were a reminder to the indigenous peoples that, should they resist the Roman march of progress, they would return to their former status as the disgraced and chained barbarians. At the same time, the monument communicated the message that anyone who took up the Roman cause against ‘barbarian’ enemies would always stand victorious over their pitiful foes. In other words, the tableaux urged the adoption of a Roman identity, for the Romans were a victorious people who defeated and chained foreigners. A Roman, or a local who aimed to adopt a Roman identity, had the privilege of playing the role of conqueror looking down upon the ‘barbarians’ in the tableaux. The local who did not feel or act like a true Roman, meanwhile, was cast as one of the dejected figures from the sculptural group, at the mercy of a superior, conquering force. The monument was simultaneously a threat and an encouragement: be ‘Roman’ and successful, or be a ‘barbarian’ and suffer.

Conclusions The famous Roman general and consul Marius appears to have invented the trophy tableau monument-type as a means of giving permanent form to an ephemeral moment from the triumphal procession. Though Roman generals had been constructing trophies in various forms since the sack of Syracuse, Marius’ brilliant combination, in sculpted form, of trophies with captives marks a major point of divergence from Greek precedence. The image of captives bound beneath a trophy made of their own weaponry was viscerally powerful, and Marius’ tableau monument was highly controversial. To judge by the subsequent popularity of the motif, first in the city and considerably later in the provinces, the Marian tableau inspired a host of imitations, many of which retained the Gallic appearance of the original monument, often because these new monuments also celebrated Gallic campaigns. This was certainly the case with the Tomb of Caecilia Metella, where we find Gallic iconography used to commemorate a victory over Cretan pirates. By the Augustan period, the trophy tableau with Gallic arms and armour had become a recognizable

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symbol for military virtue; it no longer had to refer to a specific triumph or even a specific military victory. In this same period, the tableau began to appear in the provinces. Whether its use at sites like Glanum and Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges was due to the agency of Romans or the local elite, these provincial tableaux carried a more nuanced – even ambivalent – message than their metropolitan counterparts. In expressing Roman presence in and domination over foreign territory, they reminded the Roman magistrates administering this territory of their role as conquerors and they reminded the locals of the somewhat stark choice they faced, between adopting Roman cultural norms and thus playing the role of conqueror of their own homeland, or maintaining their indigenous cultural identity and therefore taking on the role of subdued captives.

Notes 1 The only previous examination, to my knowledge, is Kinnee (2016). 2 On the display of live, bound captives beneath trophies in triumphal processions, see Bastien (2007), 262; and Beard (2007), 107–142, 146, 175–176. 3 Houghtalin (1993), 289–298, esp. 291, notes that captured provinces may be depicted ‘as part of a trophy’. See also Östenberg (2009), 222, who discusses bound captives in the absence of a trophy. It is not unlikely that the two motifs – the captive and the trophy – developed separately and were eventually brought together. Kinnee (2016) remains the most detailed exploration of the subject. 4 For historical bibliography, consult Rausa, ‘Caeciliae Metellae Sepulcrum’, LTURS. Scholarly treatment of the tomb begins with Pratilli (1745), 59. Archival material relating to the tomb’s medieval history can be found in Galletti (1776). Important early studies of the tomb are Nibby (1848–1849), 384–386; Canina (1851); and Tomassetti (1910), 60–74. G.B. Piranesi executed a series of drawings and etchings of the tomb between approximately 1745 and 1756. On the drawings, see Gerding (2002), 147. They include a plan of the interior, a cross-section, and several views of the tomb’s exterior. Piranesi’s etchings reveal a similar state of preservation to what we see today. On the etching including the triumphal relief and inscription (facing the Via Appia), see also Calvesi and Monferini (1967), n. 772. The most important recent study of the tomb is Gerding (2002). Rausa (2004) can be understood as updating and supplementing Gerding (2002). Also of note is von Hesberg (1992), 1, 10, 29, 97, 211; and Paris (2000). Regarding date, many of the tomb’s physical characteristics place the structure in the early Augustan period. The tomb’s use of a ‘dusky-red’ mortar may be typical of the Augustan period (Gerding (2002), 49), while its use of cut or broken roof tiles instead of fired bricks in its opus testaceum facing suggests that it may be an early example of the technique, which was in use in Rome by 12 B.C.E. at the very latest (Van Deman (1912), 391, 395, 396; see also Gerding (2002), 48 and 50). Similarly, the letter forms of the inscription have been called ‘early Augustan’ by several scholars, and the punctuation of the inscription finds its closest parallels in the late Republic (Gerding (2002), 63). Gerding reports that the type of punctuation used on the Tomb of Caecilia Metella had been phased out of Rome by 20 B.C.E. Taken together, these factors provide relatively good evidence for an early Augustan date for the tomb. This date agrees with what scholars have deduced concerning the biographies of Caecilia Metella and her male relatives (see notes 6 and 7 below). 5 For details on Caecilia Metella’s lineage specifically, see Van Ooteghem (1967). For the relevant prosopography more generally see Gerding (2002), especially 44, 66–67 and 70.

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Most scholars now agree that Marcus Licinius Crassus, the elder son of the triumvir, was Caecilia Metella’s husband (for instance, Hülsen (1896); Gerding (2002), 70; Della Portella (2004); LTURS, 9; and s.v. ‘Caecilia (RE “Caecilius” 136) Metella (2)’ in OCD), and I concur. On triumphal agnomina, see Thomas (1977); and Linderski (1987). On Q. Caecilius Metellus Creticus’ activities in Crete, see Van Ooteghem (1967), 231–237. On the Severan relief, see Aillagon (2008), catalogue #3 (Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Altemps, Inv. no. 8640). The square podium measures approximately 30 m (100 Roman feet) on a side and is 8.3 m tall. Most of the original revetment has been lost, so the actual measurements are smaller than they were in antiquity: 28.6 m along the north side, 28.1 m along the south side, 28.4 m on the east, and 28.1 m on the west side. See Gerding (2002), 26. The drum measures nearly 30 m (100 Roman feet) in diameter and is 12.0 m tall. Gerding (2002), 36. On the typology of round tombs, see Schwarz (2002). On the facing, see Gerding (2002), 46–54. On the relative sizes of the frieze and relief, see Paris (2000), 31; and Gerding (2002), 54. An unfringed variety of the sagum originated in Gaul, but the fringed version seen here is distinctively Roman. On the sagum, see Junkelmann (1986), 157; Bishop and Coulston (1993), 100; Cleland, Davies and Lewellyn-Jones (2007), 164; and Hurschmann (2008), 867. The sagum appears in Diodorus, 5.30.1; Vergil, Aeneid 8.660; Tacitus, Histories 2.20; Ammianus Marcellinus, 29.5.48; Silius Italicus, 9.420. See Bishop and Coulston (1993) generally – 93, for example. See also Feugère (1994), 51–76. Ethnic ambiguity in Roman reliefs is an emerging topic in scholarship. A seminal work on the subject is Smith (1988). More recent research includes Hughes (2009). On the typology of weaponry in Roman art see Polito (1998), 33–70, 122–190. Comparison of the equipment in the relief with that seen on the arches at Carpentras, Glanum, and Orange seems to support the reading of the trophy as generically Gallic ‘in flavour’, though ultimately ambiguous in its ethnic reference. For the dating of these three monuments, see Gros (1979). Works discussing the arches and their decoration include: For Carpentras, Picard (1960); Turcan (1984); and Lamuà Estañol (2009). On the arch at Glanum, see especially Rolland (1977), but also Chamoux (1958) and Picard (1964). On the arch at Orange see Amy, Duval and Formige (1962); and Gros (1986). In the study of the shields’ decorative devices, scholars have relied primarily on older drawings of the monument – particularly those by Azzurri (first published in 1895). Examples of the reliance on these drawings are Hülsen (1896); and Holloway (1966). Today, however, the monument itself is easily read thanks to conservation work carried out in the late 1990s (Paris (2000), 6). According to Bishop and Coulston, legionary shields were decorated with a thunderbolt, or fulmen. See Bishop and Coulston (1993), 92. Comparison with the Arch at Orange suggests that figure-of-eight shields may also be associated with the Roman military (see supra n. 16). Despite this comparison, figure-of-eight shields most frequently appear as Gallic attributes, particularly on Roman coinage. See, for example, Crawford (2001), catalogue #503–507. The trophy has alternately, but less frequently, been associated with a son’s military achievements. Either way, almost every piece of scholarship on the tomb associates the trophy relief with the Crassi. To cite just a few major examples, see Hülsen (1896), 50–58; Paris (2000); Gerding (2002); Della Portella (2004); and Claridge (2010). Regarding the unremarkable career of the son, see Groag (1901), 1681; Caesar, De bello Gallico 5.24, 5.46–47, 6.6; Gerding (2002), 66; Appianos, Bella civilia 2.41. On the triumph as a performative ritual see Östenberg (2009), 1–18. The visual and literary evidence for the parading of captives beneath trophies in the triumphal procession is unequivocal and previous scholars have recognized the triumph as the origin for the motif. See particularly Rabe (2008), 67 n. 226 and La Rocca (2008), 45.

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In some cases the captives may have been maquettes: a Severan triumphal relief depicts unnaturally small-scale captives. Earlier representations, such as that on the Temple of Apollo in Circo, depict captives at the same scale as other participants in the triumphal procession, implying that the captives were real people at this point. I am indebted to Ashley Hill for introducing me to the topic of captives and booty paraded in the triumphal procession in ‘Booty in the Roman Triumph’, seminar presentation in War Booty and Roman Aesthetics, Professor Katherine Welch (New York: Institute of Fine Arts, 24 October 2003). Lucan speaks of such a blurring, but only with regard to deceased Roman soldiers. I believe some of the same information can be fruitfully applied to the tableau. See Leigh (1997), 250–258, and commentary on Lucan 3.583–751 in Bakogianni and Hope (2015), 159. Translated Tyler Travillian, September 2010. In fact, Goold notes in the 1990 Loeb edition of Propertius Sextus, Elegies 3.4.11–20: ‘The manacled captives sat on floats below their weapons, which were paraded as trophies on a higher platform’ (note a, 264–265). On the reliefs from the Temple of Apollo in Circo, see Kleiner (1992), 84–86. For a provocative discussion of the display of captive kings, see Beard (2007), 119–122. Crawford (2001), catalogue #326. See also Brennan (2005), 61 XIII.13. Brennan also sees this coin as a turning point in early republican coinage, reviving the trophy previously seen on the Victoriatus. A quinarius minted by a T. Cloulius who is likely identical with the Marian Cloelius who was legate in 83 B.C.E. Crawford (2001), catalogue #332 and Brennan (2005), 63 XIV.4. On the danger of assuming that a monumental prototype underlies a common motif, see Marvin (2008), 193, n. 102. Suetonius, Julius Caesar 11 (trans. Loeb [J.C. Rolfe, 1913]): He failed however because of the opposition of the aristocratic party; wishing therefore to impair their prestige in every way he could, he restored the trophies commemorating the victories of Marius over Jugurtha and over the Cimbri and Teutones, which Sulla had long since demolished.

25

26 27 28

29 30

On the rivalry between Marius and Sulla, see Badian (1984); and Brennan (1992). See also Reusser (1999b), 91. Marius was consul in 104, 103, 102, 101 and 100 B.C.E.; in addition, he served as consul in 107 and 86 (for a total of seven consulships). See Evans (1994), 78–91 and 211–216. On Marius and his remarkable career, see also Badian (1958); Van Ooteghem (1964); and Carney (1970). Crawford (2001), catalogue #335, 342, 358. A jug and a lituus. Crawford (2001), catalogue #359. There is also a nearly identical aureus. These coins state name Sulla ‘IMPER. ITERUM’, or ‘Imperator a Second Time’, which is likely related to Sulla’s fixation on doubled successes. Regarding Chaironeia: Pausanias 9.40.7 and Plutarch, Sull. 19.9–10. Furthermore, in 1990, the American School of Classical Studies at Athens unearthed fragments of the trophy atop the hill called Thourion, including an inscribed base and part of a column shaft. The inscription was found to match exactly that recorded by Plutarch. These discoveries were published in 1992. Two other marble trophies found at Orchomenos – one in the 19th century and one in 2004 – have also been associated with Sulla. The recently discovered trophy has not yet been published, but it consists of a large-scale, stone mannequin and a base clad with reliefs of weapons. Camp et al. (1992) and also Gatopoulos (2004). This monument is somewhat controversial, but the association with Sulla and the so-called Bocchus monument seems logical. The assumption that the Marian trophy originally stood atop the Capitoline is reasonable given the findspot of the Sant’Omobono reliefs at the base of the Capitoline Hill. The

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36 37

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reliefs must have tumbled down the slope at some point in the post-antique period. Some doubt can be cast upon this assumption based on the excellent state of preservation of the reliefs; however, it remains more than likely that their findspot near the base of the Capitoline suggests an original display location on that hill. On Sulla’s removal of Marius’ monument, see Suetonius, Julius Caesar 11. See also Hölscher (1994), 57–58. On Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, see Boube (1996); Schenck-David (2003); and Rosso in Aillagon (2008), 163. For nuanced discussions of cultural identity in the Roman provinces, see for example Fentress (1982); Woolf (1998, 2004); Fentress (2006); and briefly Marvin (2008), 242–245. See Kuttner (1994), especially 203–204 and 208. This idea is based on Hölscher’s placement of the Jugurtha group on the Sant’Omobono reliefs. Caecilia Metella’s husband, Marcus Crassus (elder son of the triumvir) served in Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars as a quaestor. He appears as such in Caesar’s De bello Gallico for the first time in 54 B.C.E. (Caesar, De bello Gallico 5.24, 5.46–47, 6.6). Since the minimum age for a quaestor was thirty, Marcus must have been born by 84 B.C.E. at the latest. In 51 or 52 B.C.E., he appears to have left Gaul and been replaced by M. Antonius as quaestor; he likely returned to Rome at that time to attend to family affairs, given the death of both his father and brother in 53 (Gerding (2002), 66). He last appears alive in 49 B.C.E. in Gaul, in Appianos’ Bella civilia (Appianos, Bella civilia 2.41). Scholars have generally assumed that Marcus died around this time, away from Rome (Gerding (2002), 66). Particularly in comparison to Q. Caecilus Metellus Creticus, Marcus Licinius Crassus seems to have lived a rather short and unremarkable life. L. Caecilius Metellus Diadematus may have been a commander in Gallia Cisalpina in 117–116 B.C.E., but he is the only known member of this gens to have campaigned anywhere in Gaul. As for the Crassi, L. Licinius Crassus may have held a command in Gallia Cisalpina in 95 and in either Gallia Cisalpina or Gallia Transalpina in 94. He is the only of the Crassi to have held command in Gaul. Though Caecilia Metella’s husband served in Gaul under Julius Caesar (see supra n. 57), his service was evidently not distinctive. Also, Caecilia Metella’s son was not involved with Gaul so he cannot be any more directly associated with the relief than can the Metelli. See Gerding (2002), 67; and Groag (1901), 1681. I am indebted to T.C. Brennan for supplying me with a list of provincial republican commanders from his own research. For the carnyx as standard, see Hunter (2001) and Östenberg (2009), 180–181. Östenberg echoes this: ‘ : : : in art, the carnyx, from being a Gallic emblem, became a general barbarian symbol denoting victories over Germans and Dacians, although these peoples never themselves employed the trumpet.’ See also Høeg (1987). Meanwhile, Hölscher adds that defeated Germans in imperial art appear with Gallic hairstyles and clothing. See Hölscher (1990); and Östenberg (2009), 276. In short, the Romans liked the idea of the conquered ‘other and, as a result, they had an interest in depicting it in art and visual culture. However, the Romans were not anthropologists and it should not be surprising that they did not mind or notice the inaccuracy of their subdued enemies. The use of Gallic war materiel to stand for ‘barbarian’ in general, while it seems to derive from very particular historical circumstances, should not be surprising. The use of triumphal imagery referring to her father’s exploits is an attempt to transfer the glory of his accomplishments onto the younger generations of the Metelli – including Caecilia and her descendants. This may be a plebian parallel to Augustus’ propagandistic references to his Divine Father, Julius Caesar. Just as Augustus’ association with Divus Iulius elevates him to a quasi-divine status, so does Caecilia Metella’s reference to her father’s triumph elevate her to a quasi-heroic status. Such a message is particularly appropriate on a tomb, where it seems to decorously elevate the dead but has implications for the living Metelli as well.

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39 See Hallett (1984). The use of her father’s cognomen on the funerary inscription reveals that Metella was not married in manus to Crassus: legally she remained a member of her birth family throughout the marriage. On the in manus marriage, see Rawson (1987), 19; and Pomeroy (1994), 155. Though marriage in manus became increasingly rare over the course of the Empire, particularly among members of the aristocracy, Metella’s explicit reference to her non-manus marriage in her funerary inscription was ground-breaking. Brennan’s believes that Metella is one of the earliest Roman women to take her father’s cognomen ostentatiously in inscriptions. 40 On the Campana tiles see Bailey (1983), 191–192. On the use of Gallic prisoners to reflect Roman triumph in general, see Östenberg (2009), 146. 41 In antiquity, the city may have been called simply Lugdunum. To distinguish it from the more famous Lugdunum, modern Lyon, scholars usually call this site Lugdunum Convenarum. May (1996), 11–12. 42 Scholars are increasingly of the opinion that pre-Roman Gauls did not produce monumental, figural sculpture. Examples of indigenous sculptural output are generally datable to the 1st century B.C.E. or later. See Agusta-Boularot et al. (2004), 50. 43 Boube (1996), 23 and 26. There are approximately 135 fragments associated with the group. Most of the sculptures, all of which were carved in a local marble quarried nearby at Saint-Beat and most of which preserve traces of a reddish pigment, survive only in very fragmentary form (Boube (1996), 23 and 26. On polychromy see Boube (1996), 37–38). 44 Boube (1996), 17 and 45–46. The statuary was unearthed to the west of the forum temple. Perhaps the group was displayed nearby. Boube (1996), 42; and Schenck-David (2003), 34–35. 45 On the reconstructions see Schenck-David (2003), 30–33; and Boube (1996), 19–36. 46 Schenck-David (2003), 32–36. Unfortunately he does not offer a reconstruction drawing. 47 There is some solid evidence for the original composition of the monument. First, the plinths of the Hispania and Gallia groups reveal the arrangement of the figures: in each, the tree trophy stood towards the back and centre of the plinth, and was flanked by the two captives. In the Gallia group, the woman was to the right and the man to the left. In keeping with the mirroring observed between the groups, the man and woman were switched on the Hispania plinth (Boube (1996), 91–94 and 117–118). Second, given the way these two groups mirror one another, it only makes sense that they should have flanked the naval trophy group. Third and finally, we can conclude that the statues were meant to be seen only from the front given the lack of finish on the figures’ backs. The groups perhaps stood in a line against a wall like a tableau. 48 On Hispania see Boube (1996), 125–132. 49 On Gallia see Boube (1996), 106–110. 50 Scholars have generally referred to this cloak as a sagum, the distinctive Roman military cloak, which is red and fringed. This is not such a Roman cloak. Supra no. 16. 51 On the male captives, see Boube (1996), 111–115 and 133–135. 52 On the Hispania tree, see Boube (1996), 119–120; on the Gallia tree, see Boube (1996), 95–99. 53 On the tree of the naval trophy, see Boube (1996), 69–73. 54 On the mannequins, see Boube (1996), 100–105 and 121–124. See also Picard (1957), 257 on the possible attachment of metal arms. 55 On the naval group, see Boube (1996), 57–68. 56 On the fragments of the Victory or victories see Boube (1996), 75–84. 57 Picard (1957), 257. Idea repeated throughout later scholarship on the subject; see, for example, Boube (1996), 41. 58 Lugdunum Convenarum stands about 50 km north of the modern French border with Spain, in the Haute Garonne region of ancient Aquitania, at the base of the Pyrenees, on a plain irrigated by several small rivers, the most notable of which is the Garonne itself, a river of limited navigability (Dieulafait, Boube and Aupert (1996), 13–14). Lugdunum

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was also located at the convergence of four major roads, which were in place at least by the late 1st century B.C.E. (May (1996), 25). 59 See May (1996), 15–19 for an overview of later developments. 60 On the complexities of such ‘Romanization’, see, for example, Kleiner (1991); Woolf (1998, 2004); and Fentress (2006).

8

Development of the landscape trophy in the Republic and under Augustus

Introduction As we saw in Chapter 7, the Romans innovated the trophy tableau in the metropolitan centre itself and they subsequently used it for public display specifically in urban environments. Perhaps even more striking, however, is the Roman innovation of the landscape, or architectural, trophy, which was designed for use at geographically significant and usually non-urban sites along the frontier.1 Landscape trophies were highly visible statements of territorial ownership, appropriate to an expanding territorial empire like Rome. As such, they developed early: landscape trophies are in fact the first attested Roman use of the trophy, coinage aside. Though we have evidence for these architectural trophies from as early as 121 B.C.E., it is the Augustan examples that seem to crystallize Roman ideas about how this sort of monument could convey power to a variety of audiences.2 Augustus erected two landscape trophies: one at Nikopolis in western Greece, near modern Preveza (see Figure 8.1), and the other at La Turbie in the easternmost part of Gallia Narbonensis, near modern Nice and Monaco (see Figure 8.2). Both monuments are statements of victory and prowess, both are architecturally elaborate, and both occupy key sites in both local geography and in the geography of the Empire as a whole. Beyond these initial similarities, however, the two monuments are strikingly different in approach and message. I believe this is largely because of their cultural contexts: the Nikopolis monument was constructed in the eastern portion of the Empire, in already ‘civilized’ Greece, from which the trophy as a concept had been acquired in the first place. The La Turbie monument, on the other hand, was constructed in western, ‘barbarian’ lands where the local audience would not necessarily recognize traditional Greco-Roman expressions of military dominance. This chapter will examine the landscape trophy through the lens of these two, contrasting, Augustan examples, which underscore differences between Roman approaches to actualizing military and political power in the eastern and western portions of the Empire. Chapter 5 discusses a handful of Greek trophies that may be construed as anticipating the Roman landscape trophy in the sense that they are in some way architectonic and, as a result, stand out against their rural setting in order to convey a message of territorial ownership. Specifically, these are the Marathon trophy and the small trophy-tower at Leuctra in Boeotia. It is almost unfair to consider the Persian

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Figure 8.1 Location of Actium and Nikopolis in map of Europe and detail of the Ionian Coast. From Barrington’s Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (2000).

War trophies ‘architectonic’, since they were really just honorific columns – yet the column does set these monuments apart from other mannequin trophies, transforming the trophy into something permanent and monumental. In addition, it elevates the sculpture, possibly of a mannequin, above the plain for increased visibility. When the Romans placed architectural trophies along the frontier or near important sites of battle, their aims were similar: to monumentalize and call attention to military success through the use of architectural elements. In this sense, we can think of the Persian War trophies as very early precursors for the much more elaborate Roman monuments. However, the closest Greek parallel to the later Roman innovations is the tower trophy celebrating the victory of the Thebans over the Spartans in 371 B.C.E. at Leuctra – but even it pales in comparison to the Roman examples. The Leuctra trophy was constructed on the field of battle and consists of only a simple domed drum probably topped by a mannequin trophy. I would estimate that the entire construction at Leuctra was likely no more than about 12 m tall. As we shall see, the siting, simplicity, and size of this monument all contrast sharply with the huge and intimidating Roman landscape trophies. In particular, what is unique about the Roman tower trophy is: 1) its architectural elaboration and scale; 2) its frequent placement outside of cities but at sites other

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Figure 8.2 Location of La Turbie in map of Europe and detail of the Mediterranean coast. From Barrington’s Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (2000).

than the battlefield; and 3) its dedication to specific patron gods and even to men. While the Greeks do not seem to have constructed buildings that they considered to be trophies, the Roman Republic and Principate of Augustus abound with examples of such practice. Likewise, while Greek trophies occurred only on the battlefield, in a city, or at a sanctuary, Romans had a tendency to place their trophies in a completely different kind of location: one that held geographic significance as a frontier, as a boundary between territorial zones, or at the heart of a newly acquired territory. Last, as we have seen, Greek trophies were almost exclusively dedicated to either Zeus or Poseidon: Roman ones, on the contrary, are rarely inscribed to just one of those two gods but are instead dedicated to a range of gods considered to be personal protectors or patron deities of the victorious general, as described in Chapter 7. Sometimes they are even dedicated to mortal men – in particular, to the emperor. Chapter 6 cited a passage from Florus, writing in the Augustan Principate, as the earliest evidence for the Roman use of a trophy on the battlefield (Picard (1957), 104–107). To reiterate, in this important passage describing the Gallic campaigns of 121 B.C.E., Florus states: The great joy caused by both these victories may be judged from the fact that both Domitius Ahenobarbus and Fabius Maximus set up towers of stone on the actual sites of the battles which they had fought, and fixed on the top of them trophies adorned with the enemy’s arms. This practice was unusual with our generals; for the Roman people never cast their defeats in the teeth of their conquered enemies (Florus, Epitome of Roman History 1.37.5–6)

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This passage is our second piece of evidence – following the ca 210 B.C.E. Victoriatus – of the Roman use of the trophy. It indicates that within a few generations the Romans had become interested in the trophy’s architectonic possibilities. It is not clear whether the Romans took inspiration from Greek antecedents of some sort or whether they developed the idea independently. It is tempting to think that the Romans were elaborating upon the Greek idea that a trophy could be given an architectural base, monumentalizing it and allowing it to stand out prominently in the landscape. In any case, what is clear is that the Romans began to employ ‘towers of stone’ to elevate trophies and broadcast a message of Roman territorial domination in the very earliest days of Roman trophy usage. It is enticing to see a connection between these stone markers delineating territory and the twelve, oversized altars that Alexander the Great erected at the easternmost point of his conquest.3 Alexander apparently did not use ‘real’ trophies, but he does seem to have championed the massive stone monument as an approach to delineating territory, and the Romans may have rebranded his idea as a ‘trophy’ proper. Alexander’s giant altars do call to mind both the altar court at Nikopolis and the tower at La Turbie, which was accompanied by an altar. Though it perhaps springs from a handful of Greek antecedents, the Roman architectural trophy – often, but not always, in the form of a tower – seems to have quickly developed an importance in the Roman repertoire of victory commemoration that was unmatched in ancient Greece. Following its early use in Gaul, the tower trophy was adopted by Pompey for use in Spain. As discussed in Chapter 6, Pompey’s tower stood in the Pyrenees, in a newly conquered portion of the Roman frontier (Pliny, Natural History 3.4.3; Picard (1957), 183–184). Though we know essentially nothing about Roman architectural trophies in the intervening years, Pompey’s use of the tower tells us that in the mid-1st century B.C.E. the type was becoming increasingly important as a symbol of personal power and of Roman presence abroad. It is possible that the architectural trophy saw little use in the years between Florus’ example and Pompey’s, and that Pompey revived a rare form of commemoration in order to make his monument appear simultaneously traditional and unusual or remarkable. Whatever the case may be, Pompey’s tower trophy can be understood as a precursor to the proliferation of such architectural monuments under Augustus. Known Augustan examples include the surviving tower of Drusus at Mainz in Germany, the campsite memorial at Nikopolis in Greece – an example of an architectural trophy that was not, in fact, a tower (see Figure 1.5), and the tower at La Turbie in France (see Figure 1.8). I will focus on the latter two, which are better understood and illustrate the differences between the use of the architectural trophy – perhaps more appropriately termed a landscape trophy by the time of the Augustan Principate – in the eastern (Figure 1.5) and western (Figure 1.8) parts of the Empire.

Augustan landscape trophy at Nikopolis Octavian’s Campsite Memorial at Nikopolis, erected in northwestern Greece in 29 B.C.E. to memorialize the Battle at Actium, was a nuanced commemorative monument that combined the appearance of a Greek sanctuary with the burgeoning

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Roman traditions of trophy-use (Murray and Petsas (1989), 129). The monument can validly be understood as a trophy because that is the language Suetonius (Aug. 18.2) uses to describe the site and its decoration: And to exalt the fame of his Actian victory and to perpetuate his memory, he founded the city of Nikopolis near Actium and established quinquennial games there. He enlarged the ancient temple of Apollo and adorned the area where he had set up his camp with naval trophies and consecrated it to Neptune and Mars. As Suetonius’ account implies, Octavian’s trophy monument was part of a larger programme of dedications and reorganization in the region of Octavian’s Actium camp. This programme included the foundation of the town Nikopolis, or ‘Victory City’, by synoecism: the resettlement of nearby cities into one, new centre that, according to Roman practice, was also a veteran camp. Though the inclusion of veterans was primarily a Roman custom, establishing a ‘victory city’ was a Hellenistic tradition: perhaps Octavian’s adoption thereof was part of a conscious effort to insert himself into local culture (Murray and Petsas (1989), 4). In the vicinity of Nikopolis Octavian created two victory monuments. Like Octavian’s/Augustus’ new city, these combined Greek and Roman features. The first of the two monuments was Hellenic in conception, but Roman in scale: it consisted of a specially built arsenal containing one of each kind of ship in Antony’s and Cleopatra’s fleet: a minimum dedication of about ten ships. This was essentially a vast series of Greek neoria, buildings constructed explicitly for the display of ships that were dedicated to a god as booty. Unfortunately, these neoria burned to the ground within a generation of their construction (Murray and Petsas (1989), 5–6, 116). Notable examples of Greek neoria are found at Samothrace and Delos.4 Though Murray and Petsas have suggested that the neoria at Nikopolis were trophies, they do not fit the profile (Murray and Petsas (1989), 5–6). Neoria were sanctuary dedications meant for display: one can only imagine how striking shipdedications must have been. Confronting the looming underbelly of a warship, housed in a cage-like structure, must have had an immediate and visceral impact on its viewers. Maritime trophies were rather less exciting. They consisted of piles of naval weapons, namely ships’ beaks, or rostra, burned on shore as close to the site of victory as possible. Octavian’s other victory monument at Nikopolis better fits Aug. 18.2.: as Suetonius states, Octavian did enlarge the area where he had set his camp – apparently the ancient temple of Apollo. He also set up real naval trophies – that is, rostra, not entire ships – and, as the campsite’s inscription reads, he consecrated this site to Neptune and Mars. The genuine Trophy at Nikopolis, the Campsite Memorial, consisted of a pair of platforms terraced into a hill high above the city, offering a clear and arresting view over the sea to the very site of the battle at Actium. This architectonic trophy would have been visible from a great distance by land or sea, and indeed it would have been the single most prominent structure in the entire region in antiquity. Even today it is visible from a considerable distance and from all parts of

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the city below, and standing within the monument’s precinct one has the sense of standing atop the world, on an elevated and wind-swept pinnacle. On the topmost terrace of the monument, set back toward the hill, was a U-shaped stoa with an altar set in the middle (see Murray and Petsas (1988, 1989); Murray (1993); and Zachos (2001, 2003)). Recent finds of high-quality sculptural fragments suggest that this altar was decorated with a frieze of battle scenes and a triumphal procession, which can only be that of Octavian over Antony and Cleopatra (Zachos (2003), 83–89). Not only would it be nonsensical for some other triumphal procession to appear on this monument, but the fragments depict two children riding in the triumphal chariot with Octavian himself. These are Caesarion and Cleopatra Selene, Cleopatra’s children by Julius Caesar and Antony, respectively. Octavian paraded them in his triumph as royal captives taken in his successful campaign, but he placed them in his chariot in order to demonstrate his clemency toward his enemies’ children, of whom he was now guardian and protector (see Zachos (2007), 411–434). The choice to depict this triumph on the Nikopolis monument is very striking: Octavian scrupulously avoided enduring references to the defeat of Antony and various other Romans in his political iconography in the city of Rome itself. In the metropolitan centrer it would have been shocking and antagonistic for him to perpetuate an image of himself as a triumphator over fellow Roman citizens. However, the Nikopolis monument demonstrates that in the provinces a different set of rules applied. At the site of battle itself, far from the political sensitivities of the city, Octavian could be more forthright about his victory. In fact, depicting the ephemeral triumphal procession that had occurred in Rome in a faraway, provincial location may have been a way of communicating to Rome’s provincial citizens and to the military veterans living in Nikopolis some of the splendour and pomp that the victory in their territory had brought to the Imperial capital. The front wall of the upper terrace, below the altar court containing this remarkable triumphal frieze, featured a lengthy inscription reading: Imperator Caesar, son of the divine Julius, following the victory in the war which he waged on behalf of the Republic in this region when he was consul for the fifth time and commander-in-chief for the seventh time, after peace had been secured on land and sea, consecrated to Neptune and Mars the camp from which he set forth to attack the enemy, which is now ornamented with naval spoils. (Murray and Petsas (1989), 114; Zachos (2003), 76) Note again the dedication to Neptune and Mars, which matches Suetonius’ account of the Augustan trophy. Below this inscription was a row of about 35 ships’ rams, or rostra, embedded in the wall. Rostra – but not entire ships, as I have noted – took the place of the mannequin as the trophy par excellence when celebrating victory at sea (see Chapter 2; also Pritchett (1974), 275; Balíl (1990), 191–200). Suetonius is explicit about this equation between maritime trophies and ships’ beaks (Aug. 18.2). The cuttings for the Nikopolis rams survive today, revealing that the rams came from different sizes of warships and were generally arranged from largest,

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on the left when facing the monument, to smallest, on the right (see Figure 8.3; Zachos (2003), 74). The ram of a ship was the main weapon of naval warfare and some examples from Nikopolis must have consisted of multiple tons of cast bronze. In 1980, a complete ram from a Ptolemaic ship dating to between 204 and 164 B.C.E. was found off the coast of Israel (Murray (1993), 70). It weighs a stunning 465 kg and would have cost 1,116.2 silver drachmas .5 Today this ram, known as the Athlit ram, provides a clear idea of the sort of object that would have protruded from the terrace wall at Nikopolis: however, the cuttings indicate that the majority of the rams at Nikopolis dwarfed the Athlit example in terms of weight and worth (Murray and Petsas (1989), 103–105). These giant rams were a real testament to the might of Octavian, who could not only defeat such a well-equipped navy, but could also afford so conspicuously to display the wealth – in terms of the monetary value of the enormous rams – that came with his victory. This must have made quite the sight, especially if we imagine that the Nikopolis rams, unlike the Athlit ram, were polished and gleamed in the sunlight.6 In its basic layout, the Nikopolis trophy bore much in common with terraced Hellenistic sanctuaries like the Asklepieion at Kos (see Figure 8.4), or their Roman imitators like the sanctuaries at Tibur and Praeneste (Zachos (2003), 69). Each of these sanctuaries featured a progression of terraces that gradually elevated the visitor from the mundane world below to the quasi-divine realm of the sanctuary at its summit. The monument at Nikopolis appears from a distance to operate in the same way, though up close it becomes apparent that there is no direct approach to the structure: one cannot climb the hill towards the front of the monument and ascend each terrace in sequence. Unlike the Asclepeion at Kos, at Nikopolis there are no steps or ramps. Instead, it appears that one would have approached the complex from the side.7 Therefore, the ‘Hellenistic sanctuary’ effect seems to have been largely for appearances – something to be perceived and understood from a distance – rather than something to be experienced. Given the difficulty of access, one wonders how many visitors the Nikopolis monument really had. It seems likely that the structure’s message was largely intended for ships at sea and the inhabitants of the plain below. In other words, the monument broadcasts its similarity to a Hellenistic sanctuary rather than acting as one. In addition to looking like a terraced sanctuary, in form the Nikopolis monument is essentially a Hellenistic altar court: a monumental enclosure for a sacrificial altar whose precedents are Athens’ Altar of the Twelve Gods of the late 5th century B.C.E., Samothrace’s Altar Court of 330 B.C.E., the Altar of Zeus at Pergamon of ca 180 B.C.E., and perhaps even Alexander’s altars on the Indian frontier. The descendants of the Greek altar court famously include Augustus’ own Ara Pacis of 9 B.C.E.8 Based on surviving relief fragments, Zachos has restored a weapons-frieze at Nikopolis: such friezes were a mainstay of Hellenistic art, in altar courts and sanctuaries, and therefore reinforce the interpretation that the Nikopolis monument was meant to have an overtly Greek flavour (See Zachos (2007), 411–434; Polito (1998), 80–96, figs 12–13 (Dion), 14–15 (Thasos) and 20 (Delos)). Likewise, the display of captured rams on the retaining wall below a temple-like structure has an important parallel in ancient Greece: namely, the Stoa of the Athenians at Delphi,

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Figure 8.3 Reconstruction drawing of Octavian’s campsite trophy at Nikopolis (29 B.C.E.) as viewed from the southwest, by Murray and Petsas (1989). Courtesy American Philosophical Society.

which stood against the retaining wall for the temple of Apollo and used this wall for the mounting of spoils, including small rams (Walsh (1986); Meiggs and Lewis (1990), 53–54). Despite its formal similarities to Greek architecture, the Nikopolis monument clearly exhibits distinctly Roman characteristics. These are not limited to the function of the monument as a simulacrum of a Hellenistic sanctuary meant to be experienced at a distance. Additionally, we may note as peculiarly Roman: 1) the degree of architectural elaboration put into a monument made to display trophies and placed on the infantry campsite, which is about as close as one can get to the battlefield when the victory is at sea; 2) the placement of the monument at the geographical junction between the eastern and western halves of Roman territory; 3) the dedication of the monument to a patron god; and finally 4) the self-aggrandizing language of the inscription.9 Given the monument’s placement at the camp and the dedication to Neptune, the Nikopolis memorial can be seen to function like a traditional trophy, despite its

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Figure 8.4 Asklepieion at Kos, from Pollitt 1986. Courtesy Cambridge University Press.

unconventional appearance. Greek naval trophies often were dedicated to Poseidon, or here to the Roman equivalent – Neptune – rather than to Zeus, and because it would not be possible to erect a mannequin trophy at sea, the trophies for naval victories could not be placed at a genuine ‘turning point’ on the site of battle. Instead they had to be placed on the shore in proximity to the site of the battle – often they were erected on a promontory in order to achieve a clearer line of sight between the site of battle and the trophy itself.10 A solid, ancient Greek example of this practice would be the trophy at Salamis, erected on a promontory overlooking the site of the Persian War naval battle (see West (1969), 7–19). Despite operating like a Greek naval trophy, the Nikopolis monument does not look like one: it is not a mannequin, nor is it an honorific column with a crowning statue. Instead, it looks like a Hellenistic sanctuary. This unconventional appearance is the product of the distinctly Roman drive to create architecturally elaborate trophies. Meanwhile, the convenient geographical location of Nikopolis accorded with Roman interests in placing trophies in liminal spaces – here, a sort of boundary between the eastern and western portions of the Roman Empire. Nikopolis, on the western shore of Greece, stands on the edge of the eastern, ethnically Greek half of the Roman world, facing across the Ionian Sea toward Italy and the west. What is more, because Actium was the site where Rome finally and conclusively overcame Greek – or eastern – resistance, the site has symbolic resonance as a historical juncture between Greek and Roman, eastern and western. It is only appropriate in such a context that victory be marked with a Romanized form of a Greek sanctuary and a Greek monument-type: the trophy.

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Finally, in typical Roman fashion, the celebratory language of the inscription is personalized. Octavian/Augustus dedicated his Nikopolis trophy to Neptune and Mars. Neptune, as the equivalent of Poseidon and the god of the sea, was the traditional recipient of maritime trophies in ancient Greece and is a logical choice for the patron of Actium. Mars as the god of war seems equally logical, even if Jupiter would have been a closer parallel to Zeus Tropaios. Octavian/Augustus selected Mars for a specific reason, though: he claimed descent from this god, who was therefore his personal patron. Mars was also a god of vengeance in his form of Mars Ultor, and, given Octavian’s/Augustus’ obsession with vengeance against the enemies of Caesar, Mars’ avenging role may have been implied. What is truly self-aggrandizing is not the dedication to a personal deity, however: it is the rest of the inscription, which begins with Octavian’s descent from the Divine Julius. The inscription then lists Octavian’s military titles, proclaims him protector of the Republic, and promises that he will guarantee peace on land and at sea. Though this grandstanding is typical of and was acceptable on Roman inscriptions, such as the Res Gestae of Augustus, it was not typical trophies prior to this one (Suet. Aug 101, s.v. ‘Res Gestae’, OCD). With its elaborate inscription, the monument at Nikopolis fully realizes the Roman personalization of the trophy begun in Chapter 6. Recall that the Greek mannequin trophy and permanent versions thereof were sacrifices to Zeus Tropaios or to Poseidon. Occasionally literature records a particular army or king as the victor, and perhaps on rare occasions someone might have cursorily inscribed the names of both armies onto the equipment. This last is a feature seen on some arms and armour dedicated in sanctuaries: its use in the trophy is pure conjecture (Meiggs and Lewis (1990), 154, 208–211). We have no record of inscriptions from permanent Greek trophies. It simply seems that the Greek trophymonument, quite unlike its Roman antecedent, was no ‘soapbox’ (Picard (1957), 172, 184, 239–240). Even as a Greek icon of power on coinage and in literature it lacked the grandiosity of Octavian’s/Augustus’ inscription. In sum, the Nikopolis monument combines a sensitivity to eastern, or Greek, architecture and commemorative traditions with the maturing qualities of a distinctly Roman trophy. Interestingly, we may have observed such a sensitivity to the Greek context in our other example of Roman trophy monuments in Greece: Sulla’s trophies at Orchomenos and at Chaironea, discussed in Chapter 6. These monuments consisted of stone mannequins erected atop columns, thereby emulating Greek precedents – specifically, the Persian War trophies at Marathon, Salamis and Plataea. The only distinctly Roman quality of Sulla’s trophies was their dedication to Sulla’s patron gods rather than to Zeus (Picard (1957), 175). Sulla’s monuments, taken in conjunction with Octavian’s campsite memorial, suggest a trend: when Romans set up trophy monuments in Greece, they aimed to create monuments that looked Greek in one way or another. This may reflect respect for Greek traditions, an awareness of the Greek origins of the trophy, or an interest in erecting monuments that would harmonize with their Greek setting rather than disrupting it. It may be that the Romans felt the Greeks would better swallow the message of Roman conquest that these monuments communicated if the trophies were integrated with local custom and tradition.

The landscape trophy 115 Whatever the reason, it is clear that Roman trophies in Greece take on a distinctly Greek flavour – whether by copying Greek trophy monuments or innovating new Roman types based on Greek sanctuaries and the display of booty within them. Roman trophies outside of the Greek sphere, on the other hand, show a drastic departure from the trophy’s Greek origins. We have already seen this in the trophy tableau, which, though it incorporates a permanent mannequin trophy, does not have any real Greek antecedent for its inclusion of captives. We will now see an even more radical departure as we turn to Octavian’s/Augustus’ other major landscape trophy, the one at La Turbie, which looks neither like a Greek sanctuary nor like a Greek trophy of any sort. Western trophies, it seems, could abandon Greek precedent – and did so regularly in order to better communicate with western, non-Greek audiences. Though Roman trophies take on a Greek flavour in Greek contexts, they do away with this in the west.

Augustan landscape trophy at La Turbie Augustus’ tower trophy (see Figures 1.8, 8.5, 8.6) at La Turbie, a town in the French Alps whose name is a corruption of ‘tropaia’, meaning ‘trophies’, is a landscape trophy in the same sense as the Campsite Memorial, but it could hardly be more different in form. The La Turbie monument was reconstructed at the beginning of the 20th century and is impressive in its appearance even today. The trophy consisted of a rectangular base surmounted by a tholos, which, in turn, was crowned by a bronze statue, probably a trophy. Pliny (Natural History 2.24) records the dedication of the monument and the lengthy inscription that appeared on its quadrangular base. This inscription consisted of a comprehensive list of the tribes Augustus claimed to have subjugated. It is noteworthy that the inscription does not mention a specific victory as the focus of the monument: rather, the trophy was erected ‘in remembrance that under his command and auspices all the Alpine nations which extended from the upper sea to the lower were reduced to subjection by the Roman people’. The La Turbie trophy thus commemorates the subjugation of an entire territorial region and is a statement of claim to the land and to the people named on the tower itself. In addition to clarifying the monument’s purpose, the La Turbie inscription dates the trophy precisely to 7/6 B.C.E. and reveals that it was an official commission of the Senate and people in Rome.11 Reliefs of flying Victories and mannequin trophies flanked by chained captives adorned the base as well (see Figure 8.6), while portrait statues – probably of Augustus’ generals – stood in niches around the tholos wall. The entablature featured a Doric frieze with sculpted metopes of weapons and bulls’ heads.12 The location chosen for the trophy was particularly significant: it stood on an old, well-known pass through the Alps, near access to the sea, and directly between the last Italian city on the frontier and the newly subdued province of Gallia Narbonnensis (see Binninger (2001), 287–301). The trophy was therefore truly liminal – touching the fringes of Roman civilization on one side, and the fringes of the barbarians’ homeland on the other. Because it lay on an important road connecting the two, the trophy undoubtedly had an audience of both Romans and

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Figure 8.5 Reconstruction drawing of Augustus’ trophy at La Turbie. After Formige 1949.

barbarians, for whom it would have served as an important signal of departure from one world – barbarian or civilized – and entrance into the other. Pompey’s less wellunderstood trophy in the Pyrenees, with its comparable inscription announcing the subjugation of various Spanish tribes, probably functioned similarly: however, because Augustus’ trophy was closer to Italy its tension as a sort of mediator between the barbarian and civilized worlds may have been heightened.13 The monument’s architectural grandeur and high degree of visibility against the landscape must have made it stand out as a beacon to travellers – particularly if a bronze trophy, glinting in the sun like the rams at Nikopolis, crowned the massive structure. Augustus’ trophy at La Turbie is the ultimate example of the early Roman use of architectural elaboration and geographical positioning to elevate a simple trophy into a statement of territorial domination. The trophy at La Turbie has been standing continuously since antiquity, though in varying states of repair. Pliny, as noted above, discusses the trophy and reproduces its inscription in his Natural History, written in the 1st century C.E. (Pliny, Natural

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Figure 8.6 Augustus’ trophy at La Turbie. Detail of reconstructed inscription. Photograph: author.

History 3.24). Though no further references to the trophy survive in ancient literature, there is no evidence to suggest that the structure began to deteriorate until the 5th century C.E., when the monks of nearby Lerins physically attacked it because it was a tribute to paganism. The core of the monument remained intact despite two well-staged attempts at its destruction, but the stone façade survived only in fragments.14 Fortunately, in the 19th-century antiquarian interest in the trophy awakened, leading to Philippe Casimir’s excavation of the site between 1905 and 1909. A serious architectural study by Camille Formige followed. Between 1929 and 1933, restoration – particularly of the western façade – was undertaken by Camille’s son, Jules Formige (Lamboglia (1956), 18–26). The current appearance of the trophy is the result of that work.15 The trophy stands in a flat plaza carved into the hill and measuring roughly 40 m on a side. The trophy itself is made primarily of local limestone, quarried at the nearby site of Justicier. A few details, such as the column capitals, inscriptions and reliefs other than the metopes, are picked out in Luna marble.16 The stones are held together by clamps inscribed with Augustus’ name (Lamboglia (1956), 34). Its basic form and dimensions are important for understanding the structure’s function. The trophy’s podium is square, 37.8 m long on a side and 10 m tall, and is surmounted by a smaller platform, 34 m on a side, that is divided into three steps that are each about 3.5 m tall. Sitting atop these steps is the tholos, which has a diameter of approximately 10.5 m and is about 10.6 m tall, including the entablature and cornice. The

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roof of the tholos was conical, and, with the crowning statue was probably 17 m tall. The total height was just over 40 m, making the trophy at La Turbie the tallest known architectural trophy: the Tropaeum Traiani at Adamklissi is a hair shorter at just 40 m.17 The La Turbie monument’s adornment consisted primarily of large, identical inscriptions and several sculptural reliefs and busts. The inscription (see Figure 8.6), measuring 17.5 m wide by 3.7 m tall, was posted twice – on both the east and west sides of the monument so as to face both Italy and Gaul.18 It has been restored with flying victories in its corners and with reliefs depicting under-sized captives kneeling at the bases of over-sized mannequin trophies (Formige (1949), 52–54 and 58; Lamboglia (1956), 42–46). These reliefs have been reconstructed from fragments, and lacunae have been filled in based on comparisons with similar images from the arches at Carpentras, Orange and Glanum, and also with reference to the trophy at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges (Formige (1949), 52–54 and 58; Lamboglia (1956), 42–43). On the north and south faces of the podium, instead of the inscription and relief sculptures there were doors leading to the interior chamber of the trophy, where a spiral staircase led up a circular shaft towards the roof.19 Above the podium, tholos columns, which are basically Tuscan in appearance, stand atop pillar-like socles that are a remarkable 2.4 m tall (see Figure 8.5). Such high socles are unusual in early imperial architecture, though they become more common in the high Empire. It seems possible that their presence here is at least partly the result of a desire to increase the height of the tholos without altering the proportions of the columns.20 Behind and between the monument’s twenty-four columns, twelve niches were set into the wall. Each of these apparently carried a statue of one of Augustus’ generals who fought in the Alpine campaigns (Formige (1949), 69–70; Lamboglia (1956), 53–54). The head of one of these statues, representing Drusus Maior, survives and is kept today in Copenhagen (Picard (1957), 294). It is of relatively fine quality. Above the columns was a Doric frieze with carved metopes in the local limestone, featuring images of bull heads and of arms and armour. The carving of the metopes is subpar, perhaps due to the inferior quality of the stone.21 The crowning statue on the roof of the monument is particularly difficult to reconstruct. No physical remains survive, and the only literary evidence is medieval. Documents dating to the 12th or 13th century C.E., and to the 15th century, both describe the trophy’s acroterion as a depiction of man or god with demons at his feet. This description is reminiscent of a trophy tableau, but it is vague enough that even Picard interprets the central figure as Augustus (Picard (1957), 294–296). While a tableau may have surmounted the tower, this is simply an educated guess. The only known, definitive example of a crowning tableau is that atop the Tropaeum Traiani (see Figure 6.3). Lamboglia breaks with Picard and argues that Trajan’s use of a trophy might have been inspired by an otherwise unprecedented tableau atop the monument at La Turbie.22 The nature of the trophy’s crowning element remains unresolved. I prefer to imagine a tableau atop the monument, but this is, of course, speculation.

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Introduction to the site The trophy at La Turbie was built along the via Iulia Augusta, newly finished in 13/12 B.C.E. to connect Italy with the recently consolidated province of Gallia Narbonensis (Binninger (2001), 291). The trophy rises at the summit of the road – its highest elevation in the Alps, just anterior to the descent into Gaul (Lamboglia (1956), 15; Binninger (2001), 290–291). Though a small village now occupies the site, in antiquity the trophy was a lone outpost in the wilderness, with the Alps behind it and the Mediterranean Sea and Narbonnaise plain stretching out below it (see Binninger (2001)). In fact, the region around the trophy seems not to have supported even the agricultural use that one might require in order to term the area ‘rural’ (Binninger (2001), 297). The immediate area was almost entirely unpopulated, and ancient structures other than the trophy, a watering system for the use of travellers, and perhaps an altar are unknown.23 The closest evidence of habitation is found in the enigmatic remains of villas located along the via Iulia at Terragna and Saint-Pierre. Each of these sites lies approximately 3 km from the trophy monument, to the east and west, respectively (Binninger (2001), 294). Very little is understood about these villas, and their dates are unknown (Binninger (2001), 296). In addition to the villas, the via Iulia was punctuated by occasional roadside graves, many of which must postdate the trophy (Binninger (2001), 294, 296). A construction in petit appareil some seven or so kilometres to the east of La Turbie at Cape Martin appears to be a mausoleum marking the most noteworthy of these graves (Binninger (2001), 296). Several other traces of buildings are spread throughout the region, but the remains are so scanty that it is not possible to say what these other buildings were or when they were erected (Binninger (2001), 296). In any case, none of these obscure remains is suggestive of significant habitation or of other monumental structures in the region. Indeed, the nearest settlement to La Turbie was the small port of Monaco, which was located slightly under 3 km to the southeast of the trophy as the crow flies, down the mountain and accessible by a minor road. The ancient site of Monaco, called Monœci Portus, is poorly understood, like everything else ancient in the region: its remains have not been dated. Nonetheless, archaeologists have divided the site into three main zones: two agglomerations and a villa. The agglomerations consisted of La Condamine, located around the ancient port, and some habitations at Monte Carlo. Habitation in the third zone, Moneghetti, was most likely centred on a villa. Strabo (Geography 4.6.3) mentions that Monœci Portus was small but featured a local sanctuary to Hercules; its archaeological remains have not been securely identified.24 Finally, aside from these structures and graves, a few ancient quarries in the mountains provide evidence of ancient activity in the area. The most notable of these are the limestone quarries at Justicier and Giram, the former of which provided material for the construction of the trophy. Presumably slaves and other ‘marginal’ individuals worked at these quarries, living in impermanent huts on site.25 It seems clear based on this information that La Turbie occupied an essentially undeveloped region in antiquity. The trophy’s location is nonetheless topographically significant. The tower stands on an Alpine foothill at an altitude of some 500 m above the sea, visible to its south.

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This location represents the easternmost boundary of the zone of Greek influence, via Massalia, over southern France. It also represents, as previously noted, the boundary between Roman Italy and Gaul, since the trophy stood in an old and wellknown pass directly between the last Italian city on the frontier, Vintimille, and the subdued province of Gallia Narbonnensis.26 The hill of La Turbie specifically forms a natural stopping place on the journey from Rome into the west, and in fact it seems to be the site described in the Itinerary of Antoninus as Alpe Summa, before which one was in Italy, and after which one entered Gaul.27 The milestones of the via Iulia Augusta confirm the transitional nature of the site: they ascend steadily toward La Turbie, level out at the trophy hill – which marks their highest elevation – and then begin the descent out of the Alps (Binninger (2001), 291). La Turbie is thus a genuine turning point on the journey between Rome and its barbarian provinces. The trophy was also the meeting point of several roads: from it, one could travel along the via Iulia to Italy or to Gaul, obviously, but one could also take a minor road south to the port of Monaco and access the sea; so, in addition to being a turning point, La Turbie was a minor crossroads (Binninger (2001), 290–292). According to Lentheric, writing in the 1890s, ancient tradition records La Turbie as the actual site of Roman victory over the local Ligurians: however, to my knowledge this association is recorded nowhere else. Lentheric’s assertion is questionable at best, as he appears to have based it on the general association of trophies with battlefields (Lentheric (1976), 434). Given the topographical importance of La Turbie, accentuated by the construction of the via Iulia in the years after the Roman conquest of the region, it seems much more likely that the site was selected not because it was the pivotal point of a battle, but because it was the pivotal point of regional geography.

The Roman conception of the western landscape trophy The massive, virtually indestructible, architectural tower-trophy at La Turbie was a type that the Romans employed with preference in northern and western barbarian regions. The nature of these zones, a combination of forested and mountainous terrain with indigenous populations that were sometimes dispersed across the land, made size and visibility fundamental to trophy design. This of course contrasts with the lower-profile – though still highly visible – sanctuary-format of the landscape trophy at Nikopolis, but the logic of the western type of landscape trophy becomes even more apparent when contrasted with the other trophy-monument type erected in the western Empire: the trophy tableau. We will now turn to a comparison of the Augustan trophies at La Turbie and Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges.28 This is fundamentally a comparison between a massive architectural monument of a type unknown in the metropolitan centre, with a smaller-scale sculptural group that directly reflects a trend originating in the capital city itself – a trend in which images of trophies and captives were displayed first in the triumphal procession and were later monumentalized in the form of statue groups along the triumphal route. As discussed in Chapter 7, the Saint-Bertrand monument was of a type that required a civic context and an audience initiated into the Roman language of images in order to understand its message of imperial domination.

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By contrast, the trophy type represented by the monument at La Turbie – a tall, distinctive mass of stone crowned by a glinting, metal commemorative portrait or mannequin accompanied by bound captives – was the ideal means of communicating Roman power to the decentralized locals, as it would have been visible at a distance and through the forests. Florus’ passage concerning the early trophies of Domitius Ahenobarbus and Fabius Maximus, set up in the barbarian regions of southern Gaul, as distinguished from the regions colonized by the Greeks, describes these trophies as ‘towers of stone’ (Florus, Epitome of Roman History 1.37.5–6). As such, though they may not be the first example of any kind of trophy used by Romans, the trophies of Domitius and Fabius may well represent the first Roman use of the landscape trophy, an innovation whose popularity should not be underestimated as it was adopted by Pompey, Drusus Maior, Augustus and eventually Trajan.29 Pompey’s trophy, addressed in Chapter 6, was an architectural monument in the Pyrenees, dating to about 77 B.C.E.: as we have seen, some of its remains survive and indicate that it was both sizable and architectonic – it may have been a tower – but the remains have not received thorough, archaeological treatment. As a result, the original appearance of this trophy is unknown (Picard (1957), 183). Another remarkable example, deeper in ‘barbarian’ lands than either Pompey’s trophy or that of Augustus at La Turbie, is the trophy tower erected around 9 B.C.E. at Mainz, the Roman military outpost to the south of the Teutoburg Forest in Germany, by Drusus Maior – who also was portrayed on the monument at La Turbie. This stark, cylindrical tower still rises at the outskirts of the old city today, stating the Augustan claim to a territory that the Romans could not truly subdue (Frenz (1985), 394–421). Finally, perhaps the most famous example of this tower-trophy type is Trajan’s monument erected between 106 and 109 C.E. at Adamklissi in Romania (see Figure 6.3). This monument stands in the midst of a Roman graveyard for the many soldiers Trajan lost in his attempt to subdue the Dacian barbarians of the north: it therefore doubles as a mausoleum-like memorial, perhaps allowing the restless ghosts of battle to sleep, and a monument to the ultimate triumph of the emperor’s forces.30 The La Turbie trophy-type thus appears to have been the Roman monument of choice for the commemoration of Roman victory in the barbarian north and west. Prior to Roman intervention, indigenous populations throughout the western Empire often took the form of scattered hill tribes: as at Saint-Bertrand-deComminges (Lugdunum Convenarum), the Romans would induce these tribes to resettle in newly founded Roman towns. This was a gradual process. As a result, we see two categories of Roman trophy-monuments in the west. First, there are tableaux like the ones at Saint-Bertrand, meant to occupy civic spaces and address a ‘civic’ audience. Second, we see landscape trophies like the one at La Turbie, meant to address a broader audience that included people living outside of Roman towns.31 Based exclusively on the nature of their sites, one can draw further useful distinctions between the trophies of La Turbie and Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges. While both trophies seem to have operated as territorial markers, staking a claim to frontier outposts, the trophy at Saint-Bertrand required an urban environment in order for its message to function. Its scale was appropriate to a civic square: unlike

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the tower at La Turbie, it was designed to communicate its message on a human scale, to individuals transacting business in its immediate vicinity rather than to farflung tribes spread out across the landscape. The Saint-Bertrand monument was not intended to convey its message of Roman territorial ownership in isolation, as the tower at La Turbie was. Instead, it depended on its context in the town of Lugdunum, a newly established centre of Roman administration. The trophy tableau in SaintBertrand stood as a complicated and in some ways ambivalent emblem of the city’s goals of acculturation, while the tower at La Turbie more baldly declared Roman presence in the Gallic frontier. We will now examine the mechanisms through which the tower at La Turbie made this declaration. Conceptually, one can conclude that at La Turbie the trophy staked a claim to the conquered Alps like a flag planted in the soil: it presided over the subdued province of Gallia Narbonensis and it carried the message of Rome’s presence across the plains, suturing Gaul and Italy together along their shared boundary.32 Gallia Narbonensis had a long history of cooperation with the Romans, who traded with Greek cities such as Massalia and established Roman towns across the region during the 2nd century B.C.E. The region was officially declared a province in 112 B.C.E., but more recent Augustan victories over regional tribes both in the Alps and elsewhere in the province were exploited by the princeps in a propagandistic move to reinforce the emperor as a victor over land, sky and sea. The lengthy list of defeated tribes was likewise an overblown piece of self-aggrandizement, suggesting that the province was still ‘barbarian’ and required not just any strong leader, but Augustus himself, to enforce Roman dominance and the spread of the Empire. This was apparently an aggressive campaign to tout Augustan power, as it included not only the La Turbie monument but also the erection of multiple trophy statue groups, such as that at Saint-Bertrand, as well as approximately nine arches decorated with weapon-friezes – for example, those at Toulouse, Avignon, Saint-Remy, Orange, Carpentras, Vienne, Narbonne, Arles and Beziers. This militaristic rhetoric stands in curious opposition to the more peaceful images to be found in the metropolitan centre (see Silberberg-Peirce (1986), 314–315, 319; and Ferris (2004), 39). Thus, Augustan imagery reinforces the pax romana in the metropolitan centre while emphasizing military might abroad. The further from Rome one travelled, the more the princeps tended to demonstrate that the pax romana was the product of a great Roman military leader. The trophy at La Turbie addressed two main audiences: one, the traveller passing between ‘barbaric’ Gaul and ‘civilized’ Italy, or between these and the sea port at Monaco; the other, the local population of Romans, Greeks and most importantly indigenous Alpine tribesmen. To the former, the trophy would have seemed a monumentalized milepost, drawing attention to the passage between different types of Roman territory and different degrees of Romanization. Given the presence of water and perhaps of an altar, the traveller would have been encouraged to pause and rest in this liminal space. The trophy would not then have acted merely as a visual cue to the passage between worlds: it would have actually encouraged the traveller to recognize this concept of division in his itinerary by inserting a physical pause between the Italian and Gallic portions of his journey, and moreover, by offering him

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the opportunity to solemnize the experience of passing from one to the other with a sacrifice or other religious act at the altar. Thus, the site alone of the La Turbie trophy was enough to convey a powerful message of transition and change to the ancient traveller. The message the trophy’s siting would have communicated to the native population in antiquity was somewhat different and less experiential. Up on its high mountain pedestal, the La Turbie trophy could have been seen from a great distance. It thus would have carried a message of Rome’s presence to the ships entering the port at Monaco, to the residents of the Monaco agglomerations, to anyone on the plain to the west, and to whatever locals still lived on the mountains themselves. The prominent location of the trophy thus allowed it to communicate with the extremely varied local population, which, due to its dispersion through the hills, across the plains, and in isolated settlements, could not be reached by more traditional and localized Roman methods of displaying power, such as triumphal processions or the erection of monuments in a town centre like the forum. The message conveyed across these distances to these different and barbarian peoples was more than an announcement of Rome’s presence in that part of the world. The monument also would have drawn the local audience’s eyes toward the road leading into Gaul from Italy – that is, to the real source of the influx of Roman authority and culture. Moreover, the great height and visibility of the monument, and its consequent ability to reach and impress a large number and range of locals, hinted at the all-encompassing nature of Roman power. Despite their differences, the trophies at Saint-Bertrand and La Turbie both represent uniquely Roman approaches to the trophy. The Greeks did not create architecturally elaborate trophy monuments like the one at La Turbie, or even like the one at Nikopolis – despite its superficially Greek appearance. Nor did they tend to place them outside of their home cities or off the field of battle – in this respect, the frontier siting of both of the Saint-Bertrand and La Turbie trophies is unusually Roman. Finally, the Greeks did not generally dedicate their trophies to anyone other than Zeus Tropaios or Poseidon. The La Turbie monument flies in the face of such religious tradition, being dedicated not to a god at all but to Augustus himself, during his lifetime. It is not improbable that the trophy at Saint-Bertrand had a similarly personal aspect.

Conclusions Octavian’s/Augustus’ landscape trophies at Nikopolis and La Turbie are a continuation of some of the earliest trends in the development of the Roman trophy, but even in this context both monuments are strikingly new and innovative in both form and concept. Both monuments completely break with Greek tradition by casting the trophy not as a mannequin but instead as a massive architectonic structure in which the mannequin or the ships’ beaks of a naval trophy play only a subsidiary role. Both monuments are fundamentally concerned with high visibility – with announcing Roman presence and hegemony to a far-flung audience, whether at sea or on land. These are ambitious, self-aggrandizing monuments whose inscriptions boldly and

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straight-forwardly proclaim Octavian/Augustus as victor over – and consequently as ruler of – all territory within sight. They are also both monuments that occupy a liminal space at the junction between two different portions of the Roman world: the Nikopolis trophy stands on the boundary between the eastern, Greek portion of the Empire, and the western world of Italy and beyond. It marks the site of a battle (Actium) that politically stitched the seam between these two worlds and it thus acts as a symbol of their conjunction. Likewise, the La Turbie trophy stands at the transition between Italy and Gaul, joining the familiar and ‘civilized’ world of the Italic peninsula with the less secure, more alien world of the west and north. Like the Nikopolis monument, it serves to announce the suturing of this junction – the creation of a unified, Roman world. Despite these similarities, Octavian’s/Augustus’ two landscape trophies operate in some crucially different ways that reflect different approaches to the expression of Roman victory and power in the eastern and western portions of the Empire. Though it breaks resolutely with Greek traditions for the erection of trophies, the Nikopolis monument is emphatically Greek in appearance, mimicking not only Hellenistic sanctuary design but also the Greek architectural form of the enclosed altar precinct, and the Greek tradition of erecting booty on the walls of stoas, often within sanctuaries. It is almost as if Octavian, recognizing that his monument would be ‘un-Greek’ in conception, tried to mitigate its strangeness by going out of his way to make its appearance familiar. There is a definite sense that this is a monument that is meant to dovetail visually with Greek architectural traditions. This dovetailing had two consequences. First, it allowed Octavian to insert himself into a Greek architectural lineage: to take part in the tradition of Greek sanctuary construction. Second, it presented the Greeks themselves with a less foreign and therefore less threatening image of their new, foreign rulers: the monument communicates Roman victory over the Greeks but with a veneer of familiarity that suggests that the Romans are bowing to Greek cultural ‘superiority’. The Nikopolis monument is at once an emblem of Roman domination of Greece and of Roman respect for, and indebtedness to, Greek culture. This seems wholly appropriate for a Roman elaboration on a Greek concept: that is, for a Roman trophy erected in Greece itself, the birthplace of the trophy. La Turbie, by contrast, did not need to make concessions to Greek sensitivities or to a Greek cultural landscape. Instead, it was free to be boldly and completely Roman: this monument is overwhelmingly large and towering, and in antiquity it must have gleamed like a beacon over land and sea in a way that the Nikopolis monument simply did not, despite its own visual prominence. There is an impression of bold simplicity in the La Turbie trophy. Though it uses an essentially Greek format, the tholos with a frieze of metopes, it makes no attempt to look like a genuinely Greek monument. La Turbie brought ‘civilization’ to barbarians, whereas Nikopolis demonstrated Roman sophistication to the civilized Greeks. Interestingly, the closest comparanda for the trophy-type at La Turbie are probably tower-tombs such as the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus and its descendants, as well as lighthouses (see Figure 8.7) and watchtowers (Figure 8.8).33 In addition to the twin concerns of celebration and memorialization, Romans may

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Figure 8.7 Reconstruction of the Pharos at Alexandria by August Thiersch. Alamy Images.

have taken into account less obviously practical issues in selecting tomb-like forms for their trophies: in particular, they may have been showing concern for the ghosts of soldiers. To judge by ancient literature, the Romans were, indeed, more frightened of hauntings than were the Greeks: constructing trophies that looked like tombs and could serve as homes for lost spirits fit the collective magical thinking of the Greco-Roman world.34 There is real, physical evidence for the connection between trophy and necromantic, funerary rites in the case of the Tropaeum Traiani. Here the trophy stood near both the battle site and the graves of some 3,000 soldiers. This trophy communicated at once a message of Roman victory and of Roman respect for those who died achieving that victory.35 It also provided an elaborate tomb, perhaps intended to propitiate the angry battle-dead discussed in Chapter 3. The comparison with lighthouses and watchtowers is straightforward. A lighthouse or even a watchtower is by nature a tall, tower-like structure that is meant to survey a broad swathe of territory and to broadcast a message across that

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Figure 8.8 Watchtower at Aigosthena, a fortress near the Attic frontier, ca 350–325 B.C.E. Alamy Images.

territory. The lighthouse announces the end of the sea and the beginning of land. Similarly, a watchtower allows its occupants to survey the landscape, to send messages to other outposts by means of fires lit atop the tower, and to broadcast to the inhabitants in the surrounding territory the presence of a military outpost controlling their land.36 These aims are all very much in the same vein as those of the trophy at La Turbie, which announces the beginning of Roman power and the presence of a controlling military force – with all the implications of surveillance that such a presence brings. From a practical standpoint it seems natural that the trophy at La Turbie should resemble a lighthouse or a watchtower, and particularly when one compares it with the monument at Nikopolis it seems more likely that this resemblance was the result of a deliberate choice to evoke such structures. The Nikopolis trophy stands on a hillside above a sea, towering over a city that was founded to celebrate and to house veterans from the Battle at Actium, on a hillside above the sea. It would be sensible for it, too, to take the form of a lighthouse or a watchtower – yet it does not. It takes the form of a sanctuary. There is an intentional

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distinction here between the eastern form of the Roman landscape trophy – which evokes sacred Greek architecture – and the western form of the landscape trophy – which, while appearing similar to a tholos-type temple, may bear more resemblance to a tomb or a martial structure like a lighthouse or watchtower. In a sense, the difference is between a monument – Nikopolis – that the Romans are inserting into an already ‘civilized’ context, and one that the Romans hope will force its audience to understand that it is a bastion or outpost of civilization in a place that carries the threat of the wild and untamed.

Notes 1 On landscape trophies see also Ibarra (2009). 2 Early landscape trophies are recorded in Florus, Epitome of Roman History 1.37.5–6. 3 Pliny, 6.21, ‘The Hyphasis was the limit of the marches of Alexander, who, however, crossed it, and dedicated altars on the further bank’. 4 On the dedication of warships in sanctuaries see Herodotus 8.121, Thucydides 2.92. On Delos more specifically, Georges Roux, ‘Problèmes Deliens, Le Neôrion, Bulletin de correspondance hellenique 105 (1981), 61–71. The date is contested, with suggestions ranging from 306–245 B.C.E. The surviving physical evidence indicates the dedication of a large Hellenistic dreadnought with a statue at its prow. On Samothrace, where the remains indicate a much smaller ship, see McCredie (1987), 270. The monument is of Hellenistic, like that at Delos. 5 Regarding the specific weight and worth of the ram, see Murray (1985), 141–150. See also Murray and Petsas (1989), 127, n. 16. 6 Murray disagrees with this idea; he feels that the rams would have retained a sea-worn appearance of verdigris. In this case, rather than sparkling in the sunlight like precious metals, the rams would have struck the viewer as raw instruments of military power. 7 These are all ideas based on my personal experience of the monument in June 2010. This travel was part of the research I conducted as a Solow Fellow of the American School of Classical Studies in Athens. At Nikopolis, William Murray very kindly allowed me to accompany and assist him for several days while he completed block measurements of the Campsite Memorial. Professor Murray drew my attention to the lack of frontal access to the monument and we discussed the implications of this, so I am indebted to him for my ideas on the subject. 8 On the Athenian Altar of the Twelve Gods: Camp (1986), 40–42. On the Samothracian Altar Court, see Lehmann and Spittle (1964). For the Altar of Zeus at Pergamon, see A. Stewart, ‘Pergamo Ara Marmorea Magna: On the Date, Reconstruction, and Functions of the Great Altar of Pergamon’, in de Grummond and Ridgway, eds (2000): 32–57. Lastly, on the Ara Pacis: Torelli, ‘Pax Augustae, Ara’, in LTUR; and NTDR 287–289. 9 Hölscher, ‘The Transformation of Victory into Power: From Event to Structure’, in Dillon and Welch (2006), 33. 10 See for example Thucydides 2.84.4 and 7.23.4. This issue is addressed in Chapter 2. 11 On the inscription, see also Casimir (1932); more generally, Lamboglia (1956), 16–17 and 40–42. 12 Regarding the decoration of the monument, see Formige (1949), 42–54 and 68–70 and Lamboglia (1956), 42. 13 Regarding Pompey’s monument, see Pliny, Natural History 3.4.3. 14 On the trophy’s post-antique history, see Lamboglia (1956), 18. 15 For a detailed account see Formige (1949), 35–80. On the restoration projects see Lamboglia (1956), 24.

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16 On materials see especially Formige (1949), 76–80. Lamboglia (1956), 33, 47 and 52–53. 17 For complete dimensions of the trophy at La Turbie, see Bates (1910), 383; and Formige (1949), Fig. 7 (between pp. 60–61). For the height of the monument at Adamklissi, see Radulescu (1977), 10. 18 Lamboglia (1956), 42 on the measurements and 40 on the placement of each inscription. 19 Formige (1949), 49–51; and Lamboglia (1956), 47 regarding the doorway. On the interior staircase, see Lamboglia (1956), 48–50. 20 On the socles of the column bases, see Formige (1949), Fig. 7 (between 60–16) and 67; Manino (1983), 28–36. The ideas regarding the use of such high socles are the result of discussion with Katherine Welch, November 2005. 21 Formige (1949), 68–69; Lamboglia (1956), 53. Regarding the classification of the bulls as bucephala, which are complete heads, rather than bucrania, which are skulls: Napp (1933), 2. 22 For the argument that the crowning element was not Augustus with captives but instead a trophy see Lamboglia (1956), 57–58. 23 Binninger (2001), 296–297. On the altar, see Picard (1957), 291. 24 Strabo, Geography 4.6.3: ‘The Monœci Portus is merely a roadstead, not capable of containing either many or large vessels. Here is a temple dedicated to Hercules Monœcus. The name seems to show it probable that the Massilian voyages along the coast extended as far as here. Monœci Portus is distant from Antipolis rather more than 200 stadia.’ On Monaco and this sanctuary, see Binninger (2001), 292–293. 25 Binninger (2001), 296–298. On Justicier as the quarry for the trophy at La Turbie, see Formige (1949), 76–80. 26 Strabo Geography 4.6.12, citing Polybius (Alpine Passes): ‘He only names four passes over the mountains, one through Liguria close to the Tyrrhenian Sea, a second through the country of the Taurini, by which Hannibal passed, a third through the country of the Salassi, and a fourth through that of the Rhæti, all of them precipitous.’ See also Binninger (2001), 287–301. 27 Itinerary of Antoninus (from a 9th-century manuscript, describing Alpe Summa): ‘ : : : usque hic Italia, hinc Gallia’. See also Binninger (2001), 290, 298. 28 Ferris (2004), 42–46 provides a very brief comparison of these monuments. 29 Picard (1957), 107: ‘Toute rhetorique mise à part, Fabius et Domitius sont sans doute les premiers Romains à avoir construit sur le champ de bataille des tour-trophees.’ 30 Radulescu (1977), 7–8 on date and placement of the Adamklissi monument. 31 See Chapter 7 on Roman synoecism and the trophy at Saint-Bertrand. 32 Hölscher (2006), 33 discusses the La Turbie monument as a ‘landscape trophy’ used to signal territorial claims in a grand and highly visible manner. 33 On tombs in general: Picard (1957), 45 compares the trophy at La Turbie with mausolea, and Toynbee, Von Hesberg and Gros each outline a class of tombs very similar in form to the La Turbie monument. Toynbee describes a class of ‘Tower tombs [that] may be characterized as tall masonry structures, square or rectangular in shape, and rising from bases : : : in two or several storeys’ (Toynbee (1971), 164). Von Hesberg defines a similar class of ‘Türme’ in Römische Grabbauten (Von Hesberg (1992), 72–76). La Turbie finds particularly strong comparanda in Gros’ ‘tombeaux à edicule sur podium’ in both Italy and the provinces (Gros (2001), 399–422). See especially 401 fig. 462, the 2nd century B.C.E. Ptolemaion of Limyra (reconstruction after G. Stanzl), and 407 fig. 477, the tholos tomb of Sestion, ca. 40–20 B.C.E. (upper part restored by M. Verzar). More specifically regarding Halicarnassus, see for example Waywell (1988). Concerning lighthouses, Von Seiglin (1908); Picard (1957), 328–329 compares trophies with lighthouses. See also Brill (1984); and Bouchard (2007). 34 Ogden (2001), 145–149, 267. See an especially disturbing, and probably exaggerated, description of necromantic practice in Lucan Pharsalia 6.529–32. The necromancer is a

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witch who collects body parts, tears fetuses from wombs, rips eyes from buried bodies and pulls bones from pyres. 35 See Alexandrescu-Vianu (1995–96), 145–188; Ricci (2001); Hope (2003); and Ricci (2006). More generally on the proximity of trophies to the burial sites of the battle dead, see Stroszeck (2004), 317. 36 On Greek fortifications and watchtowers, see McCredie (1966), especially 117–120. Lawrence (1996), 174–176. On their Roman counterparts, see Gros (2001), 26–55.

9

Conclusion

The trophy is one of the most ubiquitous martial monument-types in the ancient Greco-Roman world, and yet it also has been one of the most consistently frustrating to scholars. In part this is because of the interdisciplinary approach required for any meaningful study of the monument type. In order to make sense of the trophy phenomenon even on a very basic level, scholars not only must break down the traditional typologies that dominate art history – typologies of sculpture, painting and architecture: they also must bridge the divide between disciplines like art history, numismatics, philology, the anthropology of religion and magic, history and the sociology of warfare. The kaleidoscopic nature of the trophy accounts for the significant effort shown in this volume merely to define the topic – to address the general meaning of the term ‘trophy’, to investigate the changes this meaning underwent over the course of Greek and Roman history, and to understand why a topic as pedantic as etymology is so crucial to both of the issues mentioned above. Etymology is crucial: I am, of course, referring to the strong likelihood that trόpaiov derives from the verb τρέπω, and that it therefore relates to specific characteristics of hoplite warfare in which the moment of victory was termed the τρoπή in reference to the turning of the enemy line on the field of battle. What was very tightly linked to a particular set of tactics gradually decoupled from these as the nature of warfare shifted from the phalanx-based hoplite system of the 5th century to the cavalry-based system of the Macedonians that became dominant in the 4th century B.C.E. As the trophy grew increasingly independent of the mechanics of warfare it proliferated in terms of form and meaning: nonetheless, without understanding the term’s origin as a gruesome battlefield talisman it is impossible to make sense of its successors in the following centuries. The ubiquitous monument-type evolved from rich and sometimes morbid traditions. It must not be consigned to the marginalia of visual culture. The trophy is deceptive in its familiarity. The word is one we use regularly and loosely in our modern, daily lives, and the image of a mannequin of arms and armour appears throughout the classical and post-classical world. We are familiar with the mannequin from ancient vase painting, sculpture and coins, but also from Renaissance paintings, French royal domestic decor, and Fascist architecture, among other instances. Between 1486 and 1505, Andrea Mantegna painted the mannequin trophy in The Triumphs of Caesar (Martindale (1979); Arlt (2005)).From 1669 to 1672,

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Louis Le Vau decorated the roofline of his Enveloppe des Grands Appartements of the Palace at Versailles with massive stone trophies, and trophies composed part of the interior decoration in the Salon de la Guerre, where mannequins appear in gilt bronze relief.1 The Fascist tomb of the Unknown Soldier on the Janiculum in Rome is decorated with a mannequin trophy as well. Common as the trophy is, we naturally assume that we know it – but even a cursory inspection frustrates this notion and proves the trophy to be elusive, alien, and misunderstood. One of the most intriguing aspects of Classical antiquity is its simultaneous familiarity and strangeness to the modern mind: the Classical world may be the root of much that is traditional in western civilization, but it is also strikingly different from its cultural descendants in ways that seem limitless in their capacity to surprise and delight both scholars and laymen alike. The trophy distils and concentrates this conflict between the familiar and the alien in Classical antiquity. Nonetheless, I hope this exploration has come some distance towards its goal of elucidating the nature of ancient trophies by defining them and providing a framework upon which to hang our sparse knowledge of them. I have tried to be emphatically clear in my use of the term ‘trophy’ without becoming overly restrictive and without ignoring the inevitable and important change that the term’s usage underwent over time. In the process I have attempted to make some sense of what the trophy was to the Greeks who invented it. The trophy was a relic of spontaneous religious practices that coalesced around hoplite warfare and were ‘canonized’ in the 5th century B.C.E. with the development of the phalanx. Additionally the trophy really does seem to have been a relic of necromantic practice and an apotropaic scarecrow composed of bloody war materiel that was used to claim territory and to imply doom for any who would challenge this claim. These more ‘magical’ claims about the trophy have been suggested in the past, particularly by Picard, but a lack of anthropological research into Greek magic and necromancy has left much room for doubt. New studies in these areas lead me to believe that there is a connection between the trophy and magical practices, one that opens new avenues for debate. Eventually, the Greek trophy took on a commemorative function, marking military greatness for a wider audience rather than marking territory alone. As hoplite warfare declined in importance during the rise of Macedon in the 4th century B.C.E., this commemorative and symbolic aspect of the trophy survived, while the original ritual purposes may have withered. By the Hellenistic period, the trophy was becoming a true icon of power rather than a battlefield marker. It was as an icon that the Romans encountered the trophy in Syracuse in 212 B.C.E. For them, it seems to have had immediate resonance: it was emblematic of the fundamentally bellicose nature of the ancient Romans. The trophy entered Rome as a device on coinage – coins were, after all, minted in order to pay the soldiers, so in this context such an image of military success was wholly appropriate. Within only a few generations the Romans were constructing towers of stone on their frontiers and calling these structures trophies. At the same time, they were erecting traditional, Greek-style stone mannequins as trophies in Greece itself. What is more, they were parading actual mannequin trophies with bound captives beneath them in the triumphal procession – and then turning this event into a sculptural tableau on the

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Capitoline Hill. The Republic was thus a period of intense experimentation with the trophy-concept, and from it emerged two strikingly new and distinctly Roman forms of trophy, both of which outstripped Greek trophies in terms of visibility and symbolic potency. These Roman innovations were: 1) the tableau trophy, a sculptural installation featuring the uniquely Roman combination of a mannequin trophy with bound captives; and 2) the landscape trophy, a new type of architectural trophy on a scale unimagined by the Greeks. Remarkably, the Romans chose to place both tableau and landscape trophies not on the field of battle, but at conspicuous sites along the frontier or in the metropolitan centre of Rome – sites where their messages of Roman military success could be broadcast loud and clear. Like their Greek antecedents, the new Roman monument-types were used to stake territorial rights and to assert personal claims of military virtue. However, unlike their antecedents they did so in a way that confronted and grappled with the culture of the defeated enemy and that often communicated complex and ambivalent messages about what it meant to be Roman. Thus, the Nikopolis monument in Greece is a Roman trophy, but it is meant to look like a Greek sanctuary. In contrast, the tower at La Turbie looks generically Greco-Roman but owes its prominent placement, great height, and eye-catching combination of gleaming white stone and glittering metal sculpture to the need to address an alien, western culture of hill tribes dispersed across heavily forested terrain. In terms of ambivalence, the tableaux at Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges best illustrates the complex relationships audiences of subjugated locals and conquering foreigners would have had with a Roman trophy monument. In this case, the tableaux offered the Gauls two options: 1) they could adopt a Roman identity and see themselves as part of the new order; or 2) they could refuse to ‘become Roman’ and instead play the role of the tableaux’s suffering, enchained prisoners-of-war. The tableaux found in Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges and elsewhere meanwhile reminded the local Roman governors that their position was dependent upon military success and that this success separated them from the indigenous population. The messages of all these monuments – the tableaux at Saint-Bertrand and the landscape trophies at Nikopolis and La Turbie – show political complexity that was completely unknown in Greek trophy monuments. Greek trophies were fascinating for their myriad religious, magical and apotropaic implications, but less so in their political statements. Greek trophies did not grapple with the culture of the defeated, and they did not try to mediate or comment upon the relationship between victor and defeated beyond a simple statement that one side has won and now owns the territory of the battlefield. Such has been the main thrust of this volume: the development and resultant differences between the Greek and Roman trophies. The Greek trophy belonged to the realm of hoplite battle tactics, extramural religious practices, black magic and – increasingly – political grandstanding. Meanwhile, in Roman hands, the concept of a trophy gained a different kind of nuance, one related to the ever-present Roman concern with developing and maintaining an Empire across three continents of great geographical and cultural complexity: hence the specific siting of trophies at passageways from one part of the Empire to the next, and the interest in speaking to local populations using different visual languages. Though Greek and Roman trophies are

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rooted in the same desire to mark victory and territory, and though both invoke religious power of some sort towards this end – whether it be the power of Zeus, of the emperor, or even of a necromancer – the two are dramatically different in form and intent. Religion and demarcation of the chora were crucial to the Greeks, while a combination of adaptation to regional needs and political showmanship were key to the Romans. Perhaps this multifariousness is, to some extent, the origin of the puzzlement over what a trophy was. Since much of the literary evidence that has confounded modern scholarship concerning the trophy is in fact late Hellenistic or Roman in date, it reflects a complexity and an ambivalence about the nature of the trophy that was the direct product of Rome’s experimentation with the monument type. The Greek trophy was a battlefield marker and eventually an icon of power with its own nuanced history and relationship to extramural religion, necromancy, politics and battle tactics. The Roman trophy was to some extent a battlefield marker and icon of power, too, but the Romans downplayed the Greek fixation on religion and magic in favour of complex concepts of personal power, ‘Romanization’, and the accord between conquered and conqueror that needed to exist in order for the territorial Empire to survive. All of the above has become apparent from a study of the trophy’s Greek origins and the Roman innovations that occurred during the Republic and the Augustan Principate. Though Augustus canonized forms of the Roman trophy that were revisited throughout the remainder of Roman history, the trophies we have examined are in a very real sense only the beginning of a much larger story. The Roman trophy did not ossify at this point; indeed, it continued to develop and to proliferate in the visual arts. Much work remains to be done concerning the imperial Roman trophy of the 1st through 4th centuries C.E. During this period, the trophy lost most of its original Greek connotations as a battlefield marker: according to Picard, the latest battlefield trophy for which we have ancient literary evidence was erected in 16 C.E. by Germanicus (Picard (1957), 317–318). Meanwhile, the trophy motif grew in importance as an emblem of a multiplicity of military powers and virtues. This change is evident in two classes of trophy monuments: one derived from the older trends discussed in Chapters 7 and 8, and one based on newly emergent trends such as the decoration of arches, columns and sarcophagi with trophies. Here it is possible only to offer a glimpse into these later developments: however, these intriguing issues will form the cornerstone of this book’s sequel, in which I will illuminate the evolution and nature of imperial and post-antique trophies. Under the Empire, the emperor himself appears in trophy tableaux with increasing prominence, and in these tableaux he adopts a variety of attitudes towards the captives bound beneath the trophies. Initially the emperor is often shown exercising mercy, or clementia, on coins, particularly of Antonine date. Later, particularly during the tetrarchy, it becomes increasingly common to depict the emperor inflicting punishment on captives.2 At first glance this appears to be a response to Rome’s weakening grip on its borderland provinces, but the reality is undoubtedly more complex. Indeed, the social and political reasons for this shift are of extreme interest and need to be explored in order to shed new light on Rome’s attitude towards the

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Figure 9.1 Venus Victoria inscribing a shield and flanked by mannequin trophies on the Column of Trajan, Rome, ca 113 C.E.

evolving Empire. Meanwhile, the landscape trophy, while still uncommonly used during the Empire, becomes Trajan’s monument type of choice for the frontier commemoration of his Dacian campaigns, and the Tropaeum Traiani at Adamklissi (Figure 6.3) is one of the best-known trophies from all of antiquity (see Picard (1962); Alexandrescu-Vianu (1995), 19–96). In addition to expanding these categories of trophy monument that we have already considered, the Romans found new ways to exploit the trophy over the course of the Empire. New and remarkable are depictions of trophies on arches in Rome, such as Constantine’s, and in the provinces – on Tiberius’ arch at Orange, for example.3 This focus on arches might be understood in terms of how such depictions relate to actual practices, including events in the triumphal procession and the display of booty on gates. Closely related to trophies on arches are trophies depicted on historiated columns. The most well-known examples of this are the columns of Trajan (see Figure 9.1) and Marcus Aurelius, but there are other intriguing instances of trophies on columns and their bases – for instance, on the Jupiter column at Mainz,

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Figure 9.2 Triumphs of Caesar: The Bearers of Trophies (Triumphal Chariots with Trophies), woodcut by Andrea Andreani after an original by Andrea Mantegna, ca 1500. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. Alamy Images.

on the columns of Theodosius and of Arcadius in Constantinople.4 Trophies on columns frequently are associated with images of Venus Victoria inscribing a shield: this pairing is particularly interesting in light of the growing interchangeability of the mannequin trophy and the inscribed shield in the high and then late Empire.5 Finally, and perhaps most fascinating is the emergence in private contexts of the trophy – an emblem previously reserved for public and official uses – on people’s sarcophagi, highly decorated in relief and all the rage in the later 2nd century C.E.6 The trophy was essentially ubiquitous in Classical art for nearly a thousand years but by the 4th century C.E. it began to disappear from the visual repertoire. It appears that as the Christian religion grew, so, too, did an association of the cross with the trophy. In consequence, the cross came quite directly to take the iconographic place of the trophy over the course of the 5th and 6th centuries C.E.7 Though the motif fell out of favour during the early Christian period, Renaissance artists revived it and during the course of the past six centuries trophies have once

Figure 9.3 Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Romulus Conqueror of Akron, 1812. Louvre, Paris. Alamy Images.

Figure 9.4 Hugo Jaeger, LIFE Magazine photo of massive temporary stage decorated with a trophy-relief and erected by Benito Mussolini for Adolf Hitler’s visit to Rome in May of 1938.

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again become ubiquitous in western visual culture. Fascinating examples that I will explore include trophies carried in procession in Andrea Mantegna’s Triumphs of Caesar (ca 1500, see Figure 9.2), trophies as architectural ornament at Versailles (1669–1672), the central trophy in J.A.D. Ingres’ Romulus Conqueror of Akron (1812, see Figure 9.3), trophies nailed to columns in the curia in Jean-Leon Gerôme’s famous painting of La Mort de Cesar (1859–1867), and trophies as decorative elements on a massive temporary stage erected by Benito Mussolini for Adolf Hitler’s visit to Rome in May of 1938 (see Figure 9.4).8 Hugo Jaeger’s colour photographs of this event have only just been rediscovered. Neither the photographs nor the trophies have yet been treated in a scholarly fashion.9 In addition to being worthy of study in their own right, these post-antique trophies are interesting from the point of view of the Classicist because they are in no small part responsible for the trophy’s visual familiarity to the modern viewer in spite of the ‘foreignness’ of its original use and meanings in antiquity. The reappraisal of the trophy, and the effort to clarify its nature, use and meaning – the effort to create a conceptual framework within which it can be understood – is by no means at an end.

Notes 1 On the Enveloppe see Berger (1985), 24; on the Salon de la Guerre, see Walton (1986), 25. In addition, see Verlet (1985). 2 Picard (1957), 368, 431–433 on clementia; 464, 490–491 on the growth of images of brutality. See also Bux (1948); Leggewie (1958); Wallace-Hadrill (1981); Macmullen (1986); and Dowling (1995). 3 See for example Amy, Duval, and Formige (1962); Brilliant (1967); Richardson Jr. (1975); F. Kleiner (2003); Lusnia (2006); and Speidel (2005–2006). On the significance of the depiction of military equipment in these contexts, see Polito (1998), 143–155, 191–233. 4 On trophies on columns, see Picard (1957), 121, 340, 389–391; on the Column of Theodosius see Picard (1957), 508; on the Column of Arcadius in Constantinople see Picard (1957), 507; and Polito (1998), 226–233. For further detail see also Instinsky (1959); P. Zanker (1970); Bauchhenss (1984); Maffei in LTUR, ‘Columna Marci Aurelii Antonini’ and ‘Forum Traiani: Columna’; Settis (1988); Claridge (1994); Pirson (1996); Polito (1998), 192–199; Coarelli (2000); Davies 2000; Speidel 2005–2006; and Galinier 2007 5 On the increasingly interchangeable nature of the trophy and the shield, see Picard (1957), 265–266, 272, 386, 391, 406–407, 427, 441, 481–482, 493–494. 6 On trophies on sarcophagi see Picard (1957), 79–80, 88, 415–416, 429–430, 442–445, 474–75, and 481–482. For further detail see also Barrera (1914); Polito (1998), 224; and Ewald (2003). 7 On the relationship between the trophy and the cross see Picard (1957), 464–465, 494–508. See also Dinkler (1964); Storch (1970), 105–117; and Conti (1998–1999). Also on early Christian trophies, see Gessel (2004). 8 Regarding Ingres, see Rosenblum (1985), 94–95; Picard-Cajan (2006), catalogue #209, 210, 211, and ill. 28; and Siegfried (2009), 248–256. The Gerôme is now in the Walters Museum of art in Baltimore. See des Cars, de Font-Reaulx, and Papet, eds. (2010), catalogue #67. 9 Jaeger (1938) and personal communication with Brennan, April 2010.

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Index

Locators in italics refer to figures, those containing ‘n’ refer to notes acculturation 85, 97, 122 Actium 95, 108–109, 113–114, 124, 126 Adamklissi 70, 71, 118, 121, 134 Aetolia 48–49 agôn 22, 24, 42, 59 Alexander the Great 35, 49, 53, 57, 108, 111 Altar Court (Samothrace) 111 Altar of Domitius Ahenobarbus 84 Altar of the Twelve Gods (Athens) 111 Altar of Zeus (Pergamon) 111 altars 108, 110, 111 American School of Classical Studies 68 anchors 78, 86 animals, depiction of 47 anthropology 11, 18, 20–21, 130 anthropomorphism 11, 24, 28, 30, 37, 74 Antony 109–110 Ara Pacis 111 Arch of Constantine 75 archaeology (archaeologists) 18–19, 35, 37, 39, 119 Archelaos 68–69 arches 13, 17n12, 54, 73n13, 77, 118, 122, 133–134 architectural elaborations 68, 70, 106, 112, 116 architectural trophies 14, 105 architecture 12, 65–66 Aristophanes 35, 38, 50, 55 armies 12, 15–16, 23–24, 30–31; adaptation 66; evidence 49; landscape trophies 114 armour 13, 15, 19, 24, 37, 114; adaptation 62, 64, 66; evidence 46, 53; trophy tableaux 77, 97 arms 15–16, 24, 37, 46, 114; adaptation 64, 66; trophy tableaux 77, 97 see also weaponry

art history (art historians) 18–21, 130 artworks 62–63 Asklepieion 111 Associated Press 68 Athena 43, 47–48, 51 Athens 28, 68, 111; evidence 47–48, 51–52, 54–55, 57 attributes 90–91 audiences 11–12, 131–132; adaptation 66; evidence 59; landscape trophies 109, 115, 120–123; sources 35–36, 38, 40, 43; trophy tableaux 89, 97 Augustus (Octavian) 67, 72, 95–96; landscape trophies 105, 107–111, 114–118, 121–124 barbarians 15, 21–22, 42, 68, 71; landscape trophies 115–116, 120–124; trophy tableaux 76–79, 87, 90, 93, 96, 98 bas-reliefs see reliefs battlefields (battlegrounds) 12, 25–26, 124–125; adaptation 67–68; evidence 56; landscape trophies 112; sources 36; tactics 38, 42; trophy tableaux 97 battles 36, 38, 43; philosophy of 18 beaks, ships’ 24, 109–110, 123 see also rams, ships’ Beazley, J.D. 46–47 Binninger, S. 115, 119–120 Boeotia 49, 52, 68, 105 booty 15, 21, 24, 37–38, 64, 79; landscape trophies 109, 115, 124 Boube, E. 85, 89–90, 94–95 boundaries, territorial 113, 120 see also territories Bowden, H. 19–20 broadcasting 49, 59, 108, 111, 125–126, 132

158

Index

Brogan, T.M. 53–54 Brutus 82, 87 buildings 13, 19, 96 burials (tumuli) 14, 25–26, 70–71 see also graves (graveyards); tombs Caesar, Julius 69, 70–72, 110, 134–135, 137; trophy tableaux 79–80, 82–85, 87 Camp, J.McK. 54, 68–69 Campana reliefs 88 Capitoline Hill 80–81, 95, 132 captives 13, 53–54, 97; female 83, 89–90; landscape trophies 115, 118; royal 110; trophy tableaux 75, 78–82, 87 carnyxes 77, 79–80, 82, 87, 102n37 Caskey, L.D. 46–47 Cato the Elder 63–64 cavalry (horsemen) 22, 35, 40, 42, 56–57 celebrations 66, 79, 124 chains 79, 97–98, 115 Chaironeia 68 Chigi Vase 22–23 chora 27, 29–30, 52, 133 Cicero 52, 62 cities 49, 67, 95–96, 106, 109 Classical Moment 22, 43–44 Classical Period 20, 22–24, 36, 38–39, 50 clemency 110 Cleopatra 109–110 cloaks 76, 90–92 see also sagum coinage 12, 14, 24, 48–49, 57, 71; trophy tableaux 75, 80–82, 84; Victoriatus 7, 8, 61–62, 65, 79, 108 Column of Trajan 134 columns 14, 22, 28, 50, 68, 106, 118 commemoration 42–43, 47, 51, 56, 121; of individual 72, 75; trophy tableaux 82, 84, 86, 95 see also victory communications see broadcasting conquest 78, 108 control 72, 96–97, 126 Crawford, M.H. 61–62, 79–82 crossroads 96, 120 culture 21, 22, 62–63, 96, 109, 137; Greek 42–43, 114 curse tablets 26, 30 daimones see spirits decorum 64 dedications 15–16, 19–20, 24–25, 28, 53, 107; adaptation 66–67, 69–70; La Turbie 115; Nikopolis 109–110, 112, 114; sources 37, 43

Delos 53, 109, 111 Delphi 38, 43, 48, 50, 111 Demetrios 54–55, 59 Dinsmoor, W.D. 47, 54 Diodorus Siculus (Diodorus) 13, 35, 40–43, 57–59 Dionysos 28–29, 47 dolls 26–28, 30 domination 66, 83, 95–98, 108, 116, 120 Drusus 108 eagles 89–90, 93–94 emblems 24–25, 35, 44, 57, 59; landscape trophies 122, 124; trophy tableaux 81–82, 86–87, 97 see also symbols emnity, prolonging of 43 ethnicity 77–78, 86, 90–91 Euripides 29, 35–37, 40–41, 46, 55 evidence, archaeological 63 evidence, visual 57–59, 78; bas-reliefs 47–48; coinage 48–49; monument remains 49–55; reconstructed history 55–57; vases 46–47 evidence, written 64–65, 70, 78, 80, 107–108, 118 Florus 61, 70, 107–108, 121 friezes 47, 52, 75–76, 79, 87; landscape trophies 110–111, 115, 118, 122, 124 frontiers 67, 70, 90, 106–107, 111, 115, 120–123 Fundanius 79–80 Gallia 90–92 Gallia Narbonensis 13, 83, 105, 115, 119–120, 122 gates 13, 29, 36, 39, 54 Gaul (Gauls) 61, 66, 107–108, 118–124, 132; trophy tableaux 76–80, 82, 85–88, 90–91, 93, 95–96 Gerding, H. 75, 78, 85–87 ghosts 24–27, 56, 121, 125 globes 89–90, 93–94 gods 16, 31, 37–38, 43, 47–48, 81; adaptation 67–69, 71; landscape trophies 107, 114 Grand Hoplite Narrative 23, 42 graves (graveyards) 119, 121, 125 see also burials (tumuli); tombs Gruen, E.S. 63–64, 82 hauntings 25–27 Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 35, 40

Index Hellenistic Period 24, 131; evidence 48–49, 52–53, 57; sources 35, 40, 44–45 Hercules 79, 119; Pillars of 48 herms 28, 30, 47 Hispania 70, 90–92, 95 holding stones 26–27 Holloway, R.R. 76–78 Hölscher, T 14, 18, 30–31, 33n48, 56; adaptation 63; trophy tableaux 81 Homer 23, 35–36, 44 houses 88 Hurwit, J. 47–48, 50 ideals, abstract 38–39 identity, Roman 64–65, 96, 98 images 22, 28 inscriptions 13–14, 37, 50, 52, 68, 92; La Turbie 115–118; Nikopolis 109–110, 112, 114; Tomb of Caecilia Metella 76–77, 85–87 Isocrates 35, 38, 48, 52 Jaeger, Hugo 136 Janiculum 131 Janssen, A.J. 12, 14, 19, 46, 61, 79 Jupiter 62, 65–66, 114, 134 Kampen, N. 90, 98 Krentz, P. 22–23 La Turbie 72, 107–108, 115–124, 126, 132 Lamboglia, N 117–119 landscape trophies 105–108, 123–127; La Turbie 115–120; Nikopolis 108–115; Roman conception 120–123 see also architectural trophies Lenaia 28–29 Lerins 117 Leuctra 50, 52–53, 55, 105–106 Lewis, D.M. 112, 114 Licinii Crassi 74, 78, 87 lighthouses 124–126 literature 22, 25–26, 63, 84, 114, 117; Diodorus Siculus 40–43; early- to mid5th century 36–38; late classical 38–40; Macedonians and Hellenistic world 40; problematic texts 35–36 living trophies 43 locations 36–37, 39, 70–72; landscape trophies 105, 112–113, 115–116, 119–120, 123; trophy tableaux 90, 95, 97

159

Lugdunum Convenarum 88–98; introduction 89–95; meaning 97–98; site and setting 95–96 Lysias 35, 38–39, 41 Macedonia 40, 48–49, 56–57, 130 magic 20–21, 26–27, 39, 125 Mainz 108, 121 mannequins 13, 19, 24, 28, 30; adaptation 61, 64–67; evidence 46, 48, 51, 53, 55; landscape trophies 106, 115; sources 35–38, 41, 43; trophy tableaux 76, 90, 92 Marathon 22, 25–26, 32n36, 105, 114; evidence 50–53, 55–56, 58 Marius 75, 80–82, 84–85, 87, 89, 98 Mars 68–69, 79, 109–110, 114 mask-idols 28 Meiggs, R. 112, 114 metopes 115, 117–118, 124 military equipment 41, 76 Monoeci Portus 119 monuments 11, 13–15, 19, 21, 25, 29; adaptation 65–68, 71–72; landscape trophies 105; remains 49–55; sources 34–39, 42–43 see also trophy tableaux motifs 53–54, 75, 77, 80, 87–89, 95 Murray, W.M. 109–111, 112, 127n6 Natural History 70, 95, 108, 115 naval battles (warfare) 24, 37, 111 naval trophies (maritime) 13, 24, 47, 94–95; landscape trophies 109–110, 113, 123 naval weapons (paraphernalia) 47, 109 necromancy 20, 24–27, 47, 56, 125 neoria 109 Neptune 109–110, 112–114 niches 66, 115, 118 Nike 29, 46–51, 58, 61, 68, 94 Nikopolis 72, 105–106, 108–116, 120, 123–124, 126–127 Orchomenos 68–69 Östenberg, I. 64, 78 paintings 41, 62 see also vases Panissars 70–71 passes, mountain 39–40, 115, 120 patron gods (deity) 67, 69–70, 107, 112, 114 Paullus, Aemilius 62, 82, 86 Pausanias 13, 15–16, 26, 48–54, 57, 68 pax romana 122 pelikai 41, 46–47 Peloponnesian Wars 34, 55

160

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Pergamon 29, 53, 111 permanent trophies 13, 18, 22; evidence 50, 55; sources 31, 41 Persian Wars 13, 18, 21–23, 81; evidence 54, 58–59; sources 34, 43–44 personification 48, 68–69, 90–91, 94, 115, 118 Petsas, P.M. 109–111, 112 phalanxes 22–23, 36, 42 phalluses 28 Phillip II (Phillip of Macedon) 35, 56 philology (philologists) 18–21, 36, 130 Picard, G.-C 13–14, 20, 24–27, 29–31, 34, 49; adaptation 61–62, 67–71; landscape trophies 114, 118, 121; trophy tableaux 81, 83, 89–90, 94–95 Plataea 26, 50, 52, 114 Plato 35, 38, 50–52 Pliny 26, 70, 95, 108, 115 Plutarch 65–66, 68 poetry 36, 40 politics 23, 30–31 Polito, E. 62, 111 Pompey 70, 72; landscape trophies 108, 116, 121; trophy tableaux 87, 95, 97 population, local (indigenous) 43, 97–98, 120–123, 132 Portonaccio Sarcophagus 88 Poseidon 13, 67, 107, 113–114, 123 power 24–25, 39, 48–49, 57, 70; landscape trophies 108, 121, 126; military 44, 62; personal 35, 49, 108; political 30–31, 56; trophy tableaux 88, 96–97 Praeneste 111 Pritchett, W.K. 30–31, 46, 60n19, 110 processions 13, 54, 65–67, 110, 120, 123; trophy tableaux 75, 78–79 see also trophy tableaux promontories 36, 113 propaganda 30, 49, 58, 87, 89, 122–123 public spaces (squares) 83, 87, 96, 121 Pydna 62, 82 quarries 119 rams, ships’ 13, 110–112, 116 see also beaks, ships’ rape 98 reliefs 13–14, 82, 84, 88, 115, 118; carvings 47–48 religion 18, 20–21, 24–25, 26–30, 48, 66; sources 39, 42 remains, archaeological 68, 70

Renaissance (period) 130 rhenos 92 rituals (ceremonies) 29, 39, 40, 49, 66, 78 Roman Empire (Rome) 14, 21, 46, 58; & Greek culture 62–65; adoption 61–62; early trends 67–72; landscape trophies 105, 110, 113, 115, 120, 122–123; mannequins 65–67; trophy tableaux 74, 77, 79–84, 87, 89, 95–98 Romulus 65–66, 136 Romulus Conqueror of Akron 136 rostra 109–110 see also beaks, ships’; rams, ships’ sacrifices 26–30, 47 sagum 76–77, 86 Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges see Lugdunum Convenarum Salamis 50–53, 59, 113–114 Samothrace 109, 111 sanctuaries 13, 19–20, 24, 28, 30; adaptation 71; evidence 53; landscape trophies 108–109, 111–115, 124, 126; sources 38, 43 scarecrows 30 Schenck-David, J.-L 89, 94–95 scholars, modern 12, 14 sculpture 12, 65, 76, 106 shields 23, 48–49, 52, 77, 82, 86 ships 13, 24, 37, 53; beaks 24, 109–110, 123; landscape trophies 109–111, 123; rams 13, 110–112, 116; trophy tableaux 83, 89–90, 93–94 soldiers (men) 12, 15, 22–25, 39, 49, 53; adaptation 63, 68; landscape trophies 125 see also cavalry (horsemen) Sophocles 35–36, 55 sources, written 34–35, 44–45, 55, 82; literature 35–43 spaces, liminal 113, 122, 124 spirits 24–27, 56 spoils (of war) see booty spolia opima 65–66 statue groups (trophy groups) 13–14, 83–84, 120, 122 statues 19, 115, 118 stoa 15, 19, 54, 110–111, 124 Stoa of the Athenians 50, 111 Strabo 95–96, 119 Straits of Gibraltar 48 subjugation 85, 115–116 success 39, 50, 57–58, 62; military 78, 82, 95, 106; personal 72

Index Suetonius 80, 109–110 Sulla 68–70, 72, 80–82, 84, 87, 114 superiority: Greek 124; military 45, 87; Roman 64. see also Roman Empire (Rome) surveillance 126 symbols 47, 49, 57, 70, 108, 124; sources 35, 38, 40, 42–43; trophy tableaux 84, 87, 98 Syracuse 49, 59, 61–63, 98, 131 tableaux groups 65, 82, 97 tamarisk bushes 35–36 Tarpeia 13 temples see sanctuaries territorial ownership 14, 29, 30–31, 37, 43, 97; landscape trophies 105, 122 territories 24–25, 27, 30; markers 28, 48, 97, 121 texts, ancient 13–15, 19–20, 26, 62–63 see also literature; sources, written Thucydides 26, 31, 35–37, 40–41, 43, 55–56 Tibur 111 Tomb of Caecilia Metella 14–15, 74; development of monument type 78–85; new interpretation 85–88; overview 75–78 tombs 14, 124–125 see also Tomb of Caecilia Metella tourism 52, 56, 111 towers 14, 50, 52, 106 trade 63, 122 Trajan 70–71, 78, 87, 118, 121, 134 transition 120, 122–124 travellers 119, 122–123 see also tourism trees 13, 62, 68, 90, 92, 94 tritonesse 89–90, 93 triumphs 66, 86 Triumphs of Caesar 130, 135 trophies: materials used 41; types 14–15, 43, 47

161

trophy tableaux 74, 98–99, 120 see also Lugdunum Convenarum; Tomb of Caecilia Metella turning points 12, 22, 24, 36, 113, 120 valour 38–39, 56 Vanderpool, E. 50–51, 60n14 vases 37, 46–47 vengeance 114 Venus (Venus Victoria) 68–70, 81, 134, 135 Versailles 131 veterans 109–110, 126 victors 30, 66, 67 victory 30–31, 108, 110–111; adaptation 62, 69–70; evidence 48, 52, 56; monuments 15; sources 36, 38, 41, 43 viewers see audiences Viggiano, G.F. 22–23 visibility 106, 109, 116, 120–121, 123–124 visitors see tourism visual arts 46, 84 Wallace-Hadrill, A. 63–64 warfare (combat) 13, 19–25, 56–57; sources 35, 40, 42 warfare, hoplite 11–12, 19, 21–25, 130–132; evidence 47, 49–50, 56–57; sources 35–37, 40, 42, 44 see also phalanxes watchtowers 124–126 weaponry 13, 86 see also arms Woelcke, K. 16n5, 21, 31n3, 46, 49 Xenophon 15, 29, 35, 38–43, 51–52, 58 Zachos, k. 110–111 Zeus 26–29, 37, 52, 67, 69, 133; landscape trophies 107, 111, 113–114, 123