The Public Lives of Ancient Women 500 BCE-650 CE 900453329X, 9789004533295

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The Public Lives of Ancient Women (500 bce–650 ce)

Mnemosyne Supplements history and archaeology of classical antiquity

Series Editor Jonathan M. Hall (University of Chicago)

Associate Editors Jan Paul Crielaard (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam) Benet Salway (University College London)

volume 468

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/mns‑haca

Professor dr. Emily Hemelrijk in 2015 photo jeroen oerlemans

The Public Lives of Ancient Women (500 bce–650 ce) Edited by

Lucinda Dirven Martijn Icks Sofie Remijsen

leiden | boston

Cover illustration: Kyra Silthous mosaic (Kissufim). Copyright Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Dirven, Lucinda, editor. Title: The public lives of ancient women (500 bce-650 ce) / edited by Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks, Sofie Remijsen. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2023] | Series: Mnemosyne supplements, 2352-8656 ; 468 | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: lccn 2022060174 (print) | lccn 2022060175 (ebook) | isbn 9789004533295 (hardback) | isbn 9789004534513 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Women–History. | Women in public life–History. Classification: lcc hq1121 .p77 2023 (print) | lcc hq1121 (ebook) | ddc 305.4093–dc23/eng/20230127 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060174 lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060175

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. issn 2352-8656 isbn 978-90-04-53329-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-53451-3 (e-book) Copyright 2023 by Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks, and Sofie Remijsen. Published by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. Koninklijke Brill nv reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill nv via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents List of Figures

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Introduction 1 Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks and Sofie Remijsen Complete List of Publications by Emily A. Hemelrijk

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Warrior Queens of the Hellenistic World Rolf Strootman

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Empresses Taking Charge The Powerful Women of the Severan House in the Literary Sources Martijn Icks

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Zenobia versus Mawia A Note on Warrior Queens and Female Power in the Arab World Lucinda Dirven Image and Reality The Public and Persuasive Power of the Empress Theodora Daniëlle Slootjes Priestesses in the Sacred Space of the Acropolis A Close Reading of the Hekatompedon Inscription Josine Blok and Janric van Rookhuijzen

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Bringing Women into the Agonistic Sphere Sport, Women and Festivals in the Greek World under Rome 127 Onno M. van Nijf

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Women on Time Gendered Temporalities in Greco-Roman Egypt Sofie Remijsen

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Ut sacrificantes vel insanientes Bacchae Bacchus’ Women in Rome 173 Emilia Salerno

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Discourses of a Changing Society Women’s (Im)mobility in Times of Civil War Lien Foubert

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Present in Public Lettering The Epigraphic Dossier of Licinnia Flavilla at Oinoanda (IGR iii 500) and the Phenomenon of Honorific Text Monuments in Imperial Asia Minor 220 Evelien J.J. Roels

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Publicly Luxurious Banqueting Women on Tombstones in Roman Britain Anique Hamelink

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Beautiful Names and Impeccable Dress The Women of Dura-Europos 270 Sanne Klaver

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Female Patronage in Late Antiquity Titles and Rank of Women Donors in Sixth- and Seventh-Century Palaestina and Arabia 291 Marlena Whiting Index

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Figures 1.1

‘Skythian’-style gilded gorytos (combined bow case and quiver) from the antechamber of Tomb ii at Vergina (replica) (After Vokotopoulou 1983, p. 221 no. 259) 24 1.2 The so-called ‘Mistress of the Sea’ mosaic from Thmuis (Tmai el-Amdid) in the Nile Delta, showing the face of Berenike ii with a warship-shaped headdress (Greco-Roman Museum, Alexandria) 29 1.3 Queen Amanishakheto of Kush spearing captured enemies. Relief from her tomb at Meroe (drawing by Ernst Weidenbach; Lepsius 1849–1859, vol. 10, Pl. 40) 35 4.1 Justinian mosaic panel, apse, San Vitale, Ravenna (Picture courtesy of Marlena Whiting) 96 4.2 Theodora mosaic panel, apse, San Vitale, Ravenna (Picture courtesy of Marlena Whiting) 97 9.1 A comparison of the number of words that each writer spends on the movements of Cornelia Metella during the civil war period 197 9.2 An overview of the number of movers and stayers during the Republican civil wars of the first century bce as they appear in ancient literature. Each bar visualises an individual woman. When a woman occurs in the oeuvre of more than one author the bars are vertically aligned (Created with Flourish Studio) 202 9.3 This heatmap shows how ancient writers qualified women’s moving away or staying behind: negative, positive or neutral. The qualification ‘neutral’ is used to single out those stories that deal with women’s movements only in passing (Created with Flourish Studio) 210 10.1 Plan of the tomb with the approximate position of the genealogies on the different walls (Drawing by author after Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, fig. 1 (a)) 223 10.2 Impression of the display of the genealogy with the heading and dedicatory inscription on the façade of the tomb. Note that the block carrying the inscription on the wall’s upper left corner has now been identified by Hall, Milner and Coulton as belonging to the north wall (Tafel 1 in: Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, © Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften) 227 11.1 House of the Triclinium, Pompeii. From left to right: a man in a white tunic and purple pallium, a man in a green wide-necked tunic, a man in a white pallium, a man in a white tunic and green pallium, draped over the head, a servant in unknown dress, a woman (?) in a green tunic and brown palla/pallium draped over the legs. In front: three servants clad in white tunics and a guest in light

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12.1 12.2 12.3 12.4 12.5 13.1 13.2 13.3

figures purple tunic and dark purple pallium (Wikimedia Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0) 251 Tombstone for M. Valerius Celerinus from Cologne. Römisch-Germanisches Museum, Cologne. Late 1st / early 2nd cent. ce. He is dressed in a toga, identified by the little ‘pouch’ of cloth hanging down at the hip (umbo). His wife, seated to the left, wears a Roman tunic and palla. A servant to the right wears a wide-sleeved Gallic tunic (Wikimedia Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 /Willie Horsch Fotografie) 255 Tombstone for Curatia Dinysia CSIR 1.6 61. Grosvernor Museum, Chester. Dated to 160–250 a.d. She is depicted reclining in the synthesis and holds a cup. Her tunic is unbelted and the pallium is draped over her left shoulder, arm and her hips and legs (Picture by author) 258 Tombstone for Aelia Aeliana CSIR 1.3 40. Yorkshire Museum, York, YORYM: 2010.43. Dated to 140 a.d. to the early 3rd century. Husband and wife recline on the kline together. Their clothing is indistinct, but Aelia has her legs covered by a mantle. The young child that doubles as a servant is wearing a long, belted tunic (Picture by author) 259 Tombstone of a woman from Shirva, the Antonine Wall. CSIR 1.4 112, Hunterian Museum, Glasgow, GLAHM F.39. Dated to the Antonine period, ca. 142–180ce. The woman wears a short-sleeved tunic and pallium draped over the left shoulder and across the hips and legs. A small dog stands attentively to the left (© The Hunterian, University of Glasgow) 260 Inside of the sarcophagus of the ‘Lady of Simpelveld’. National Museum of Antiquities, Leiden. 150–175ce (© National Museum of Antiquities CCO licence) 264 Dura-Europos (Photo: Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-Europos collection) 271 Photo of salle à gradins, temple of Azzanathkona, room w9, N side (Photo: Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-Europos collection) 274 Baribonnaia, temple of Zeus Theos (Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-Europos collection, photo by author) 278 A woman, temple of Zeus Theos (Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-Europos collection, photo by Lucinda Dirven) 283 Detail of ‘The Sacrifice of Konon’. Bithnanaia (Photo: Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-Europos collection) 285 Plan of Bayt Īdis (Komê Sêrôn) Church, with locations of inscriptions (Based on Melhem and al-Husan 2001) 297 Plan of the Monastery of Lady Mary (Scythopolis) with locations of inscriptions (Based on FitzGerald 1939, Pl. ii) 304 Kyra Silthous mosaic (Kissufim). (Copyright Israel Museum, Jerusalem) 310

Introduction Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks and Sofie Remijsen

This volume with thirteen contributions in honour of Emily A. Hemelrijk grew out of a colloquium organised on the occasion of her retirement by three former colleagues. Due to the restrictions caused by the coronavirus pandemic in the autumn and winter of 2020–2021, the colloquium unfortunately never materialised, nor did other festivities planned around the valedictory lecture in October 2020. It was not the goodbye we had envisioned for our cherished professor, mentor, colleague and friend. Fortunately, the speakers of the colloquium were of the same opinion, and many agreed to rework their papers for publication in the present volume. One of the great merits of Hemelrijk’s work is that it profoundly changed the scholarly perception of the role of women in public life. Her doctoral thesis, which was published in 1999 as Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna, provided one of the first in-depth treatments of the education and literacy of Roman women from the second century bce to the early third century ce. Using mostly literary sources, Hemelrijk examined the level of education that upper-class women could reach, and how these educated women were looked upon by men in Roman society. Some Roman women also wrote poetry and prose themselves and functioned as patronesses of literature and learning. In her later research, Hemelrijk let go of the primacy of the literary sources and expanded the scope of her investigations to include epigraphy and material culture (a logical choice for a classical scholar also trained as an archaeologist). This shift overlapped with a move away from Rome and a new focus on the provinces. Inspired by Riet van Bremen’s ground-breaking work on the public role of women in cities in the Greek East during the Hellenistic and Roman periods, she delved into the virtually unexplored public role of women in local cities in the Latin West.1 In addition to numerous articles on various topics and regions, this resulted in an important volume edited together with Greg Woolf, Women and the Roman City in the Latin West (2013). Her research of many years was eventually summarised in Hidden Lives, Public Personae: Women and Civic Life in the Roman West, which was pub-

1 Riet van Bremen. The Limits of Participation: Women and Civic Life in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods, Amsterdam 1996.

© Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks, and Sofie Remijsen, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_002

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lished in 2015.2 Arguing that, inside Rome, members of the imperial family monopolised publicity both in the written sources and in the material evidence, this research excludes Rome and concentrates on Italy and the Western provinces instead. Although literary sources are largely missing outside the capital, numerous inscriptions from provincial towns make it clear that upper-class women could play a prominent role in local civic life. Outside of Rome, elite women fulfilled important roles as priestesses, benefactresses and patrons, for which they were honoured with inscriptions, portrait statues and sometime even public funerals. Another important conclusion is that the situation in the Western provinces differs in several important respects from that in the Greek East. Not only does the latter region show a great variety of public roles for women unknown in the Latin West, but as the work of Riet van Bremen has demonstrated, the public display of women in the East appears to have been more family-oriented. Hemelrijk adduces proof that, in the Latin West, women also pursued public honour and recognition for themselves and not merely to advance the careers of their male family members. She explains these public roles of women in the Western cities primarily by the spread of Roman citizenship and Roman civil law. As a consequence of Roman property and inheritance laws, thirty to forty-five percent of the private property of civic elites in the West ended up in the hands of women in the second and early third centuries. It was their wealth and independence that enabled these provincial Roman women to play such a remarkable public role. Recently, Emily Hemelrijk published a source book on inscriptions, Women and Society in the Roman World (2021). Following the rich information provided by these texts, which shed light on issues that are largely missing from the literary sources, her scope has broadened further to include other aspects of women’s lives and, in particular, also non-elite women. In addition to shedding light on imperial women and the public roles women could fulfil, the selected inscriptions illustrate social relations, religion, travel and migration, family life and occupations. Women of lower social classes such as hairdressers, wet nurses, midwives and prostitutes also receive their fair amount of attention in this corpus. The representation of freedwomen on their funerary monuments was the topic of her valedictory lecture in October 2020.3 Starting with her first monograph, Matrona Docta, Hemelrijk’s publications have received a fair amount of praise. Not only was her work applauded for its 2 For a summary of the main conclusions of this study, see her contribution ‘Public Roles for Women in the Cities of the Latin West’, in Sharon L. James and Sheila Dillon, eds., A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, London 2012, pp. 478–490. 3 Published in Dutch in Lampas 53.3 (2020), pp. 319–341.

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innovative character in its use of different types of sources resulting in important new insights, it also testifies to a superb mastering of these sources, be they literary, epigraphic or iconographic. The level of detail and thoroughness of the documentation has frequently been remarked upon by reviewers (the appendix with tables of inscriptions that are used in the chapters of Hidden Lives and Public Personae comprises 224 pages). It makes her work the perfect starting point for any further research into a topic. Some also praise her work for its clarity and refreshing lack of fancy methodological expositions. The recent publication of the Dutch-language book Verborgen levens, publieke figuren: Romeinse vrouwen buiten Rome (2021), aimed at a broader audience, fits well in an oeuvre that sets out to be comprehensible for as many readers as possible. Inspired by Hemelrijk’s work and building on the foundations she has laid, the contributors to the present volume likewise endeavour to bring ancient women out of the domestic sphere and to examine their presence and activities in the public domain. While some of the chapters focus primarily or even exclusively on literary sources, they do so with a keen awareness that the narratives of Greco-Roman authors are shaped by inherent gender biases and genderrelated literary tropes. On the one hand, these biases and tropes compromise the historical value of this type of evidence, while on the other they offer rich possibilities to examine the ways ancient women were perceived, valued and depicted in (male) normative discourses. Following in the line of Hemelrijk’s later work, most contributions complement literary sources with other types of evidence, such as epigraphic and visual material, while some forego the literary evidence altogether. The scope of the volume is not limited to the Western Roman Empire, but covers large parts of the Mediterranean, including the Near East, and encompasses a broader time period ranging from the fifth century bce to the seventh century ce. In classical literature, it is predominantly elite and, in particular, royal women who are described as having agency in the public domain. In some cases, we read that royal women obtained an exceptional amount of power. Rolf Strootman shows that Hellenistic ‘queens’ in particular are among the rare instances of royal women actually taking part in war, the ultimate male domain. Given the paucity of such examples throughout history, the two warrior queens that are the topic of the article by Lucinda Dirven, Zenobia of Palmyra and the Saracen queen Mawia, are equally remarkable. It comes as no surprise that Greco-Roman authors tend to describe these women in disdainful terms. Not only do their power and military exploits far surpass what male authors consider admissible for their gender, but their descriptions indicate that they did

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not understand the underlying cultural reasons for female rule either. Both Strootman and Dirven stress that these queens owed their exceptional position at least in part to the importance of dynastic succession in their cultures. They do not, in other words, necessarily testify to a favourable emancipated position of ordinary women. Even about royal women, there frequently is only so much that can be known. In Lucinda Dirven’s contribution on the two ‘Arab’ warrior queens, for example, the literary sources on these queens are largely determined by the moralising male narrative. In Zenobia’s case, documentary sources such as inscriptions and coins enable us to reconstruct (part of) Zenobia’s historical public persona. Dirven’s second case, the belligerent Arab queen Mawia, makes painfully clear that, without additional sources, one easily ends up with a postmodern reading in which even the historicity of persons and events may be questioned. Daniëlle Slootjes in her analysis of the speech of the empress Theodora on the occasion of the Nika riot, as ‘quoted’ by Procopius, likewise argues that we cannot possibly know what (if anything) Theodora said when she and her husband and his advisors were deliberating what to do in the privacy of the imperial palace. All we can know is how her carefully crafted public persona was used in the narrative about her husband, the emperor Justinian. Adding additional sources does not necessarily solve this problem. Slootjes indeed shows that Theodora’s portrait in the San Vitale in Ravenna is just as much manipulated to convey a certain public image as Procopius’ description of her. While such sources are problematic to reach conclusions about the actual power held by women, they do provide a valuable perspective on male perceptions of powerful women. Martijn Icks, in his contribution on the empresses of the Severan dynasty, shows that the historiographical sources are not only shaped by literary topoi concerning powerful women, but are also highly inconsistent in their portrayal of the empresses. As he argues, these different and often contradictory descriptions are actually determined by the picture the author wants to draw of the emperors. The same issues can be found in the study of the female agency of elite women. Similarly to Icks, Lien Foubert examines the male perceptions revealed by literary narratives. Her contribution on elite women’s (im)mobility during the civil wars of the Late Republic focuses on their positive depiction in the literary sources, where they are portrayed as men’s anchor points in times of crisis. She elaborates on a point made by Hemelrijk that the dichotomy between domus and forum does not always correspond with the distinction between public and private. According to Foubert, the literary figures of women staying at home or accompanying their husbands on their flight from Rome

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personify the ideals of the res publica and as such have an important symbolic function in the public sphere. In order to get closer to the historical appearances of elite women in the public sphere, a number of contributions tap other types of sources, such as inscriptions and iconographical representations. But, of course, these nonliterary sources are just as much part of a normative discourse as the literary sources, as all authors show in one way or another. The source type that may bring us closest to the hidden lives of even non-elite ancient women is their letters on Greek papyri, which are the focus of the contribution by Sofie Remijsen. In her search for female experiences of time Remijsen observes, for example, the duration of a pregnancy as a recurring temporal concern in women’s letters. More rigid and public temporal modes such as calendar days and clocks, on the other hand, turn up primarily in male-dominated spheres of life, such as military, civic and business administration or elite self-fashioning. But as soon as women find an occasion to emerge in these spheres, they turn to these temporal modes as well. When they present themselves as active in these more public spheres to their addressees (and implicitly to all intermediaries involved in the writing and reading of these letters), women take over the same temporal language as men. Anique Hamelink and Sanne Klaver both analyse depictions of women from the periphery of the Roman Empire and look at their relationship with texts, be they literary or epigraphic. Hamelink uses funerary representations of banqueting women from Britain to counterbalance textual sources on banqueting men. Although such monuments complement the information from literary sources, she points out that they picture the deceased in an idealised and aspirational social setting rather than reflecting their lived reality. The same holds true for the portraits of women in temples in Dura-Europos discussed by Klaver. She stresses that, where possible, inscriptions and representations should be studied together, because text and image may correct and complement each other. The predominantly Semitic names and rich local clothing of Durene women emphasise their local identity. Most Durene men have Greek names and at first, this suggests that men were more ‘Hellenised’ than women in Dura. The outspoken local character of these male figures, however, shows that such Greek names are first and foremost status markers and not ethnic or cultural markers that can be taken at face value. Emilia Salerno combines literary and epigraphic sources on the bacchae in Rome to retrieve the public personae of these women. A comparison between these sources results in deviating portraits. In Livy’s famous account of the Bacchanalia affair, bacchae are the counterimage of matronae, as defined during the reign of Augustus. By sheer chance, the actual senatus consultum has

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come down to us in an inscription from Tiriolo. It shows that Livy’s preoccupation with the mixture of women and men in the cult was much less of a concern to the lawmakers a century and a half earlier. Even more surprising is the inscription of Pompeia Agrippinilla from Torrenova (160–170 ce), in which this esteemed matrona figures as the priestess at the head of a large Bacchic thiasos that consists of both men and women of various grades. Hence it seems that over the course of less than two centuries, the cult developed into a socially respected organisation. Josine Blok and Janric van Rookhuijzen likewise touch upon the involvement of women in cult in their in-depth analysis of priests and priestesses in the so-called Hekatompedon-inscription from fifth-century bce Athens. Although this text can be read as regulations curtailing in particular female priestesses, and thus actively intended to limit their agency in the public sphere, the authors’ reading suggests that this was not the intention. They suggest that the restrictions related to daily cult activities that were potential hazardous (for example, fire hazards). These restrictions happen to affect several female priestesses, as, even in their cultic, i.e. public, role, the activities of women often mirrored the daily tasks they performed in the household. Both literary and non-literary sources suggest that female agency became stronger in the Greek world from the early imperial period onwards. Onno van Nijf shows that by then an increasing number of elite girls competed in various sports in agonistic festivals. Evelien Roels discusses the monumental second-century ce inscription on the mausoleum founded by Licinnia Flavilla in the Lycian city of Oinoanda. Roels identifies the mausoleum as a text monument, arguing that the monumentality of the text itself greatly contributes to its meaning because it copies the monumental epigraphic display of contemporary male aristocrats. Both Van Nijf and Roels stress, however, that we should not overestimate the emancipatory significance of this evidence. In the case of the female athletes, their victories were employed to boost the prestige of the family, and the same holds true for Licinnia’s inscription, whose contents (a genealogy of twelve generations of Licinnia’s family) stay within her socially expected roles as daughter, mother and wife, and which as such strongly differs from the far more political male text monuments. The findings of Van Nijf and Roels are in line with Van Bremen’s main conclusion that women in the public sphere in the Hellenistic and Roman East first and foremost represented their families. As was mentioned above, Emily Hemelrijk’s findings have shown that women in the Roman West had more room to act in the interest of their own public honour. However, in her contribution on inscriptions by women dated in the sixth and seventh centuries ce in churches from Palestine and Arabia, Marlena Whiting argues that these

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Eastern women, too, insisted on their social rank and titles to enhance their personal status. This is particularly striking in a Christian context, which was formerly thought to have abolished the desire for worldly fame. Inevitably, the topics addressed in this volume provide only fleeting glimpses of the lives and depictions of ancient women in the public sphere. Nevertheless, we hope to give the reader some impression of the great variety of types of sources and thematic approaches that can be fruitfully employed to delve into this rich subject matter. Women in the ancient world were active in many parts of the public domain, including the civic, the religious and at times even the political and military spheres. Their public achievements have often been criticised, downplayed or ignored in ancient sources, but throughout this volume we also find examples of women proudly presenting their public functions and even of men complimenting them for these. We hope to have shown that, with some effort, it is still possible to bring ancient women out of the domestic sphere and into the public eye.

Complete List of Publications by Emily A. Hemelrijk 1980 Cultuur en randcultuur. In: Het verhaal bij het materiaal. Een kennismaking met de archeologische studieverzameling van de Utrechtse universiteit, Utrecht (Archeologica Trajectina xiv), pp. 74–79, pl. 15–17.

1984 Vrouwen in Rome. In: Vrouwen in oude culturen (Studium Generale R.U. Utrecht), pp. 21–35. Vrouwenprotestdemonstraties in Rome. Lampas 17.1, pp. 63–80. (with K.A.D. Smelik) ‘Who Knows Not What Monsters Demented Egypt Worships?’ Opinions on Egyptian Animal Worship in Antiquity as Part of the Ancient Conception of Egypt. In: H. Temporini and W. Haase, eds., Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung 17.4, Berlin/New York, pp. 1852–2000 and pp. 2337–2357.

1985 Vrouwen in Rome. Spiegel Historiael 20.9, pp. 373–380.

1986 A Hunting Scene on a Fikellura Oinochoe. In: H.A.G. Brijder et al., eds., Enthousiasmos: Essays on Greek and Related Pottery Presented to J.M. Hemelrijk, Amsterdam (Allard Pierson Series, vol. 6), pp. 23–28. Romeinse vrouwen, ideaal en realiteit. In: F. van Dijk-Hemmes, ed., ’t Is kwaad gerucht, als zij niet binnen blijft. Vrouwen in oude culturen, Utrecht, pp. 36–60.

© Lucinda Dirven, Martijn Icks, and Sofie Remijsen, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_003

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1987 Women’s Demonstrations in Republican Rome. In: J. Blok and P. Mason, eds., Sexual Asymmetry: Studies in Ancient Society, Amsterdam, pp. 217–240. A Group of Provincial East-Greek Vases from South Western Asia Minor. BABesch 62, pp. 33–57. De Romeinse keuken. Spiegel Historiael 22.7/8, pp. 344–351.

1988 Docta puella. Vrouwen en geleerdheid in het klassieke Rome. In: T. van Loosbroek et al., eds., Geleerde vrouwen, Nijmegen (Jaarboek voor vrouwengeschiedenis 9), pp. 11–35.

1989 Vrouwen in de Romeinse maatschappij: ideaalbeelden, rolpatronen en roldoorbrekingen. Tijdschrift voor oudheidstudies 2, pp. 4–16.

1990 (with J.M. Hemelrijk) A Homeless Billy Goat in Missouri. MUSE 23–24, pp. 30–47. Review of M.E. Waithe, ed., 1987, A History of Women Philosophers. Vol. i: Ancient Women Philosophers, 600 b.c.–500a.d., Boston/ Lancaster. Tijdschrift voor theoretische geschiedenis 17.3, pp. 329–332.

1992 Een eenzijdige benadering van een belangrijk probleem: B. Witherington en de positie van vrouwen in de vroege christelijke kerk. Tijdschrift voor theoretische geschiedenis 19.3, pp. 366–375. (with L. de Blois) Review of B. Witherington, 1988, In the Earliest Churches, Cambridge (Society for New Testament Studies, Monograph Series 59). Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 104, pp. 315–316 (= Mnemosyne 45.2, pp. 279–281).

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1993 Review of G. Duby and M. Perrot, eds., 1992, Geschiedenis van de vrouw, deel 1: Oudheid, Amsterdam. Tijdschrift voor vrouwenstudies 56, 14.4, pp. 478–482.

1995 Review of G. Vidén, 1993, Women in Roman Literature: Attitudes of Authors under the Early Empire, Göteborg. Antiquité Classique 64, pp. 410–411.

1996 Geleerde vrouwen in de Romeinse elite (2de eeuw v. Chr–235 na Chr.). NWO Geesteswetenschappen. Jaarverslag, pp. 93–96. Review of P.A. Watson, 1995, Ancient Stepmothers: Myth, Misogyny and Reality, Leiden/ New York etc. (Mnemosyne Supplement 143). Antiquité Classique 65, p. 402. Review of J.-U. Krause, 1994, Witwen und Waisen im römischen Reich i: Verwitwung und Wiederverheiratung, Stuttgart (HABES 16) and Idem, 1994, Witwen und Waisen im römischen Reich ii: Wirtschaftliche und gesellschaftliche Stellung von Witwen, Stuttgart (HABES 17). Antiquité Classique 65, pp. 508–511.

1997 Review of J.-U. Krause, 1995, Witwen und Waisen im Römischen Reich iii: Rechtliche und soziale Stellung von Waisen, Stuttgart (HABES 18) and Idem, Witwen und Waisen im Römischen Reich iv: Witwen und Waisen im frühen Christentum, Stuttgart (HABES 19). Antiquité Classique 66, pp. 627–629.

1998 Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Elite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. Diss. Katholieke Universiteit Nijmegen. Geleerde Romeinse vrouwen: een vergeten groep belicht. Historica 21.4, pp. 9–10. Editor of Lampas 31.4, special issue: ‘antieke economie’. Review of E. Fantham et al., 1995, Women in the Classical World: Image and Text, Oxford; R. Hawley and B. Levick, eds., 1995, Women in Antiquity: New Assessments, Lon-

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don/New York; I. McAuslan and P. Walcot, eds., 1995, Women in Antiquity, Oxford. Lampas 31.4, pp. 351–355. Review of R. Hawley and B. Levick, eds., 1995, Women in Antiquity: New Assessments, London/New York. Antiquité Classique 67, pp. 171–172.

1999 Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London/ New York.

2000 Matrona docta: geleerde vrouwen in het antieke Rome. Spiegel Historiael 35.1, pp. 15–21. Geleerde vrouwen in de Romeinse elite. Kunst en wetenschap 9.1, pp. 7–8. Roem, roddel en reputatie: de Romeinse dichteres Sulpicia. Hermeneus 72.2, pp. 76–79. Review of B. Rawson and P. Weaver, eds., 1995, The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Canberra/ Oxford. Antiquité Classique 69, pp. 336–337. Review of P. Setälä and L. Savunen, eds., 1999, Female Networks and the Public Sphere in Roman Society, Rome (Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae, Vol. 22). Bryn Mawr Classical Review (BMCR 2000.03.11) (5pp.).

2001 Literary Patronage and the Ambiguous Social Position of Educated Women in the Roman Élite. The Journal of Classical Studies 9, pp. 79–98. Editor of Lampas 34.1, special issue: ‘de Laudatio Turiae’. Inleiding: de Laudatio Turiae. Lampas 34.1, pp. 5–17. De Laudatio Turiae. Grafschrift voor een uitzonderlijke vrouw? Lampas 34.1, pp. 62–80. De zingende Memnonkolos. Hermeneus 73.2, pp. 166–173. Review of D.E.E. Kleiner and S.B. Matheson, eds., 2000, I Claudia ii: Women in Roman Art and Society, Austin. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2001 (BMCR 2001.11.18) (5pp.). Review of A.M. Keith, 2000, Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic, Cambridge. Antiquité Classique 70, pp. 138–139. Review of B. Patzek, 2000, Quellen zur Geschichte der Frauen, Bd. i: Antike, Stuttgart. Antiquité Classique 70, p. 256. Review of S.E. Wood, 1999, Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40b.c.–a.d.68, Leiden (Mnemosyne, Supplementum 194). Mnemosyne 54.2, pp. 246–250.

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2002 Ambiguity of Status: Educated Women in the Roman Élite. In: PRAKTIKA. Proceedings of the 11th International Congress of the FIEC (Kavalla 24–30 August 1999), Athens, Vol. ii pp. 473–486. Een onbekende Romeinse vrouw. Gymnasium 21.3, pp. 8–9. Lofrede voor ‘Turia’. Groniek 157, pp. 531–539.

2003 Editor of Lampas 36.4, special issue: ‘Griekse lyriek’. Wat is de positie van een ‘first lady’? Review of A.A. Barrett, 2002, Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome, London. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis, pp. 416–418.

2004 (with L. De Ligt and H.S. Singor) Editor of Roman Rule and Civic Life: Local and Regional Perspectives (Proceedings of the Fourth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire, Leiden, June 25–28, 2003). Amsterdam. Patronage of Cities: The Role of Women. In: De Ligt, Hemelrijk and Singor, eds., pp. 415– 427. City Patronesses in the Roman Empire. Historia 53.2, pp. 209–245. Masculinity and Femininity in the Laudatio Turiae. Classical Quarterly 54.1, pp. 185–197. Kind zijn in de Romeinse oudheid. Spiegel Historiael 39.5, pp. 190–196. Leven in het Romeinse gezin. Review article of K. Cokayne, 2003, Experiencing Old Age in Ancient Rome, London; S. Dixon, ed., 2001, Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World, London; R. Laurence, 2002, Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome: A Life Course Approach, London; T.G. Parkin, 2002, Old Age in the Roman World: A Cultural and Social History, Baltimore; B. Rawson, 2003, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford. Lampas 37.4, pp. 326–329. Liefde en melancholie. Zes dichteressen uit de Grieks-Romeinse wereld. Review of M. de Vos, 2003, Niets is zoeter dan Eros. De 25 mooiste liefdesgedichten van Griekse en Romeinse dichteressen, Amsterdam. Historica 27.1, p. 25.

2005 (with G. Boter) Editor of Lampas 38.3, special issue: ‘Hellenisme’.

complete list of publications by emily a. hemelrijk

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Octavian and the Introduction of Public Statues for Women in Rome. Athenaeum 93.1, pp. 309–317. Priestesses of the Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Titles and Function. Antiquité Classique 74, pp. 137–170. Kuise matrona of wulpse Venus? Portretbeelden van vrouwen in het westelijk deel van het Romeinse rijk. Tijdschrift voor mediterrane archeologie 34, pp. 14–20. Review of S.L. James, 2003, Learned Girls and Male Persuasion: Gender and Reading in Roman Love Elegy, Berkeley/ Los Angeles/ London. Antiquité Classique 74, pp. 338– 339. Review of B. Severy, 2003, Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire, New York/ London. Antiquité Classique 74, pp. 537–539.

2006 Priestesses of the Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Benefactions and Public Honour. Antiquité Classique 75, pp. 85–117. Imperial Priestesses: A Preliminary Survey. In: L. De Blois, P. Funke and J. Hahn, eds., The Impact of Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual and Religious Life in the Roman Empire, Leiden/ Boston, pp. 179–193. Review of A. Alexandridis, 2004, Die Frauen des römischen Kaiserhauses. Eine Untersuchung ihrer bildlichen Darstellung von Livia bis Iulia Domna, Mainz. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2006 (BMCR 2006.08.21) (7pp.). (with J.M. Hemelrijk) Review of G. Hoffmann and A. Sartre-Fauriat, eds., 2001 and 2003, Les Pierres de l’offrande autour de l’oeuvre de Christoph W. Clairmont, Kilchberg and Zürich, 2 vols. BABesch 81, pp. 233–235. Review of P. Stewart, 2003, Statues in Roman Society: Representation and Response, Oxford. Mnemosyne 59.4, pp. 621–624. Review of K.M.D. Dunbabin, 2003, The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality, Cambridge. Mnemosyne 59.3, pp. 473–477.

2007 (with G. Boter and R. Nauta) Editor of Lampas 40.4, special issue: ‘Antieke herinneringsplaatsen’. Local Empresses: Priestesses of the Imperial Cult in the Cities of the Latin West. Phoenix 61.3–4, pp. 318–349. Romeins Afrika: een contradictio in terminis? Aanzet 22.3 (2007), pp. 5–7 and 53 (introduction thematic issue on Africa Romana).

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2008 Nieuwe Romeinsen, oration at the acceptance of the Chair in Ancient History at the University of Amsterdam, 29 May 2008, Amsterdam. Patronesses and ‘Mothers’ of Roman collegia. Classical Antiquity 27.1, pp. 115–162. Een wereld van verschil? Vrouwen in de lokale steden van het Romeinse rijk. Lampas 41.3, pp. 218–234. Onzichtbare vrouwen in de Romeinse provincies? Satricum (nieuwsbrief van Vereniging van Vrienden van Satricum en de Stichting Nederlands Studiecentrum voor Latium) 15.2, pp. 13–19. Verborgen levens, publieke gezichten: vrouwen in de steden van Italië en de westelijke provincies van het Romeinse rijk. Historica 31.3, pp. 15–20. Review of R.R.R. Smith, 2006, Aphrodisias ii: Roman Portrait Statuary from Aphrodisias, Mainz. BABesch 83, pp. 195–196.

2009 (with G. Boter) Editor of Lampas 42.3, special issue: ‘Romanisering’. Women and Sacrifice in the Roman Empire. In: O. Hekster, S. Schmidt-Hofner and Ch. Witschel, eds., Ritual Dynamics and Religious Change in the Roman Empire. Proceedings of the Eighth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007), Leiden/ Boston (Impact of Empire vol. 9), pp. 253–267.

2010 Fictive Kinship as a Metaphor for Women’s Civic Roles. Hermes 138.4, pp. 455–469. Women’s Participation in Civic Life: Patronage and ‘Motherhood’ of Roman Associations. In: K. Mustakallio and C. Krötzl, eds., De Amicitia: Friendship and Social Networks in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Rome (Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae; AIRF 36), pp. 49–62.

2011 De Romeinse identiteit. Review of L. Revell, 2009, Roman Imperialism and Local Identities, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 124.1, pp. 122–123.

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2012 Fictive Motherhood and Female Authority in Roman Cities. EuGeStA, Journal on Gender Studies in Antiquity 2, pp. 201–220. Public Roles for Women in the Cities of the Latin West. In: S.L. James and S. Dillon, eds., A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, London, pp. 478–490. De Romeinse stad. Review of R. Laurence, S. Esmonde Cleary and G. Sears, eds., 2011, The City in the Roman West c. 250bc–c. ad250, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 125.2, pp. 257–258. Review of V. Dasen and Th. Späth, eds., 2010, Children, Memory, and Family Identity in Roman Culture, Oxford. Mnemosyne 65.3, pp. 522–524.

2013 (with G. Woolf) Editor of Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, Leiden and Boston (Mnemosyne Supplements, subseries History and Archaeology of Classical Antiquity, vol. 360). Female Munificence in the Cities of the Latin West. In: Hemelrijk and Woolf, eds., pp. 65–84. Inscribed in the City: How Did Women Enter ‘Written Space’? In: R. Laurence and G. Sears, eds, Written Space in the Latin West: 200bc to ad300, London/ New York, pp. 135–151.

2014 Women and Public Space in the Latin West. In: W. Eck and P. Funke, eds., Offentlichkeit —Monument—Text. Akten des xiv Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae, 27.–31. Augusti mmxii, Berlin and Boston, pp. 701–703. Roman Citizenship and the Integration of Women in the Local Towns of the Latin West. In: G. de Kleijn and S. Benoist, eds., Integration in Rome and in the Roman World: Proceedings of the Tenth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Lille, June 23–25, 2011), Leiden/ Boston (Impact of Empire vol. 17), pp. 147–160. Romeinse weldoensters. Geschiedenis magazine 49.6, pp. 24–27. Spelen met identiteiten. Gebruik en betekenis van Romeinse en inheemse kleding. In: W. Hupperetz, O.E. Kaper, F. Naerebout and M.J. Versluys, eds., Van Rome naar Romeins, Amsterdam, pp. 136–140. Review of B.M. Levick, 2014, Faustina i and ii: Imperial Women of the Golden Age, Oxford. Bryn Mawr Classical Review (BMCR 2014.07.32) (4 pp.).

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Gender in de oudheid. Review of B. Holmes, 2012, Gender. Antiquity and its Legacy, London/ New York; L. Foxhall, 2013, Studying Gender in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 127.4, pp. 703–704. Review of J. Langford, 2013, Maternal Megalomania: Julia Domna and the Imperial Politics of Motherhood, Baltimore. Classical World 108.1, pp. 142–143.

2015 Hidden Lives—Public Personae: Women and Civic Life in the Roman West, New York/ Oxford. The Education of Women in Ancient Rome. In: W.M. Bloomer, ed., A Companion to Ancient Education, London, pp. 292–304. Romeinse graffiti. Review of K. Milnor, 2014, Graffiti and the Literary Landscape in Roman Pompeii, Oxford/ New York. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 128.3, pp. 483–484.

2016 Women’s Daily Life in the Roman West. In: S.L. Budin and J.M. Turfa, eds., Women in Antiquity: Real Women Across the Ancient World, London/ New York, pp. 895–904.

2017 Bescheidenheid moet je doen. Review of K. Wilkinson, 2015, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 130.1, pp. 110–112. Review of A. Mastrocinque, 2014, Bona Dea and the Cults of Roman Women, Stuttgart. Klio 99.1, pp. 831–833.

2018 ‘Slaap je, Brutus?’ Graffiti en politiek in Rome en Pompeii. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 131.1 (thematic issue ‘Tekens aan de wand. Graffiti en andere schrijfsels door de eeuwen heen’), pp. 35–50. Preface to the special edition of Mededelingen van het Allard Pierson Museum, no. 118/ 119. In memoriam Jaap M. Hemelrijk. Review of Navarro Caballero, Milagros, 2017, Perfectissima femina. Femmes de l’élite dans l’Hispanie romaine, 2 Vols. (Scripta Antiqua 101), Bordeaux. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2018 (BMCR 2018.05.10) (7 pp.).

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De antieke stad. Review of Arjan Zuiderhoek, 2017, The Ancient City, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 131, pp. 168–170.

2019 Geëerde vrouwen. In: Ontdek de Romeinen, special of the Nationale Romeinenweek in collaboration with Historisch nieuwsblad, april 2019, pp. 4–6. Romeinse grafcultuur. Review of B. Borg, 2019, Roman Tombs and the Art of Commemoration: Contextual Approaches to Funerary Customs in the Second Century ce, Cambridge. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 132.4, pp. 671–673. Romeinse lichaamstaal. Review of G. Davies, 2018, Gender and Body Language in Roman Art, New York. Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 132.2, pp. 302–304.

2020 Women and Society in the Roman World: A Sourcebook of Inscriptions from the Roman West, Cambridge. Introduction of PLINIUS: Mijn lieve Calpurnia. Romeinse vrouwenportretten, translation and commentary by Vincent Hunink, Amsterdam, pp. 7–22. Op weg naar vrijheid en burgerschap. Beelden van vrouwelijke vrijgelatenen. Lampas 53.3, pp. 319–341.

2021 Verborgen levens, publieke figuren. Romeinse vrouwen buiten Rome, Amsterdam.

2022 The Empire of Women: How did Roman Imperial Rule Affect the Lives of Women? In: H. Cornwell and G. Woolf, eds., Gendering Roman Imperialism, (Impact of Empire 43) Leiden en Boston, pp. 18–38.

chapter 1

Warrior Queens of the Hellenistic World Rolf Strootman

1

Introduction

Ancient imperial rulers resemble gangsters collecting protection money.1 There are many similarities between the foremost dynasties of the Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta, Campanian Camorra and Sicilian Cosa Nostra, and the Argeads, Antigonids, Ptolemies and Seleucids. This concerns most of all the elaborate, ritualistic ways in which these families embellish and glorify the violent foundations of their power (rather than covering them up). As one Italian judge said at a mass trial in Palermo in 1985–1986, “murder […] is the means by which the organisation achieves its aims and affirms its power; the rest is mystification and lies”.2 Another case in point is the central importance of gifts to ensure the allegiance of followers in both contexts, and of course the ideology of providing protection in return for loyalty and tribute. I always felt that Clare Longrigg’s interview-based book Mafia Women (1998) seemed to offer insights into the exceptional power enjoyed by Hellenistic royal women. In the absence of male clan leaders, their mothers, sisters, or wives often rose to prominence, especially when the organisation was family-based.3 Notorious ‘godmothers’ like Erminia Giuliano, Maria Angela di Trapani, and Maria Licciardi protected the interests of their families by assuming roles traditionally reserved for men, including the ritualised reception of petitioners and the management of violence. In the context of the Hellenistic monarchies— strongly family-based enterprises as well—royal women, too, crossed the line between female and male spheres with exceptional frequency.4 1 For a more elaborate exposition of the dynamic interrelationship of coercion and capital in ancient imperialism, see Strootman 2014, 49–53. 2 Stajano 1992, 71; quoted in Longrigg 1998, 11. 3 Longrigg 1998, xi–xii. 4 Macurdy 1932 is very dismissive of Hellenistic queens’ political agency and especially their role in warfare (see below). Scholarly interest in the agency of royal women in the Argead, Seleucid, and Ptolemaic empires has increased vastly since the beginning of the twenty-first century. Carney and Müller 2021 offer no less than fifteen separate chapters on Hellenistic queens and aspects of Hellenistic queenship. See further e.g. Ogden 1999; Carney 2000; Strootman 2014; Bielman Sánchez, Cogitore and Kolb 2015. See also below, n. 45. That Hellenistic

© Rolf Strootman, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_004

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In this chapter we will look at royal women’s roles in the most male-dominated public sphere according to the normative texts and images from antiquity: warfare.5 Classical literature abounds with stories about barbaric warrior women, stressing these women’s otherness,6 and about female citizens defending their homes against external aggressors—though the latter type of stories, too, may have moral dimensions (shaming alleged cowardly males, for instance). Some scholars have cautioned against overestimating the distinction between a male-dominated world of war and a female world beyond it; even when not actively participating in combat, they argue, women are regularly at the heart of military conflicts in various roles.7 That being said, military leadership is normally the prerogative of men. Yet in the Hellenistic period (fourthfirst centuries bce) we find a relatively high number of queens in command of armies or fleets, for instance Olympias, Arsinoe iii, Teuta, Kleopatra vii, Amanirenase of Kush, and perhaps Salome Alexandra of Judea.8 How, and why, did royal women negotiate these boundaries? In what follows, I will first present a source-based overview of noteworthy warrior queens from the so-called Hellenistic world. I hope to show that the phenomenon is not limited to the age of the Diadochs, but that it continued and further developed until the very end of the Hellenistic period. In conclusion, I discuss explanations found in modern scholarship for the prominence of warrior queens in the Hellenistic world (I speak of ‘warrior queens’ analogous to Hellenistic male rulers’ common self-presentation as heroic ‘spear fighters’).9 I define ‘Hellenistic world’ geographically as the interconnected area between the eastern Mediterranean and the Himalayas (the cultural and political heart of the ancient world, roughly corresponding to the former Achae-

5

6 7 8

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empires were in fact family-based enterprises is argued by Strootman 2014, 93–110; the ‘clan’based nature of the pre-Hellenistic Argead monarchy was emphasised by Carney 1995. In the context of the classical polis, this morality is expressed by the common image in Attic vase painting of the warrior preparing to leave his home, assisted by a woman who hands him his armour and weapons (Lissarrague 2015; also see Fuhrer 2015 on the wide-spread image of women as spectators in war). Of course, polis cults offered female citizens a public sphere in which they not only participated alongside men but often assumed leading roles that both reinforced and challenged gender norms (Goff 2004; cf. Dillon 2002). Evidence from steppe burials suggests that some Skythian and Sarmatian women indeed took part in military operations: see Melyukova 1990, 111–112; Mayor 2016. See Ducrey 2015 and Payen 2015, both focusing on ancient Greece. It is an interesting coincidence that the preeminent Roman example of a leading ‘warrior woman’, is Fulvia, who was involved in the Perusine War (41bce) as the representative of her husband, Rome’s ‘Hellenistic king’ Mark Antony; on Fulvia’s military activities, see Hallett 2015. See e.g. Barbantani 2010.

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menid Empire’s sphere of influence), with its extensive Inner Asian, West Mediterranean, and African peripheries, from the mid-fourth century bce to the early first century ce. The main examples come from Argead Macedonia, the Ptolemaic and Seleucid Middle East, and Meroitic Kush. The Antigonid Empire is conspicuous by its apparent lack of prominent women after the death of Phila i in 287, as are the minor dynasties of Hellenistic Anatolia and Armenia.10 Hellenistic Illyria on the other hand has its queen Teuta, whose expansionist activities in the Adriatic provided the Romans with a justification to embark upon their Illyrian Wars.11 The Arsacid dynasty has one prominent queen in the later Hellenistic period, Mousa, who ruled the Parthian Empire for her son Phraates v from 2bce to 4ce; but for all we know she never engaged in military activities, at least not directly.12 The Hasmonean queen Salome Alexandra (reigned 76–67bce), on the other hand, is known to have launched military campaigns against “the nations roundabout”.13 The Mauryan and GrecoBactrian dynasties in Central Asia lack sufficient narrative sources to evaluate the role of royal women in these families.14

2

Argead Royal Women

Late fourth-century Macedonia offers the highest density of powerful women of any period in antiquity.15 The first Argead queen to have a strong public role as representative of the dynasty was Eurydike, the wife of Amyntas iii and mother of Philip ii.16 Eurydike is also the first for whom military activities

10

11 12 13 14

15 16

On Antigonid queens, see Carney 2021a; cf. id. 1987, 501–502 n. 14: “the extremely military nature of the subsequent power struggle [in Macedonia] necessarily eliminated royal women from real political power.” The agency of royal women in the Anatolian kingdoms in the context of Seleucid imperialism has been studied recently by i.a. D’Agostini 2013 and McAuley 2017. On queenship in the Attalid kingdom, see Mirón 2021. Derow 2003, 51–54; Eckstein 2008, 29–76. Madreiter and Hartmann 2021, 238–240. See below. We do have two references to female royal guards in Mauryan India: Megasthenes FGrH 715 F 32 ap. Strabo 15.1.55 claims that at the Mauryan court “the care of the king’s person is committed to women”, and describes how armed women accompany the king during the hunt. In the Arthaśāstra attributed to Kautilya (1.21.1) women warriors guard the king’s bedchamber; for the Hellenistic-period origins of this text, see Trautmann 1971. See generally on Argead royal women, Macurdy 1932, 13–76; Carney 2000, 2019; Müller 2021a. As noted first by Greenwalt 1988, 41–44, contra Macurdy 1927; cf. Carney 1993, 19 n. 1. On Eurydike and her role in Argead dynastic representation, see now Carney 2019.

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have been recorded: through her Greek philia network she hired mercenaries to expel a pretender who had invaded Macedonia.17 Political history after Alexander’s death is notoriously confusing. Important to note for now is that for five years there simultaneously were two Argead kings: Alexander’s half-brother Arrhidaios, whose throne name was Philippos; and Alexander’s son by Roxane, Alexander iv. The relative weakness of the two kings—Philip iii Arrhidaios was mentally limited and Alexander iv quite young (he was not yet born when the Macedonian assembly proclaimed him king in Babylon)—offered opportunities to the strongminded women of the dynasty, including Alexander’s mother Olympias; her daughter with Philip ii, Kleopatra; and Philip’s (grand)daughters from other marriages, Kynnane, Adea, and Thessalonike. As we will see, there is more to their rise than historical coincidence: the royal women in successor dynasties with no lack of able male rulers, too, played remarkably significant roles in political history, e.g. Amastris, Apama, Phila, Arsinoe ii, and many more. We will not discuss all of them, of course, especially since not all of these powerful women qualify as ‘warrior queens’. Not only did these women perform representational roles in the public sphere, they also often had leading political, economic, and indeed military responsibilities.18 Let us begin with the best-known case from the Argead context, Olympias. As widow of Philip ii and mother of Alexander iii, the Molossian-born Olympias was already a powerful figure during her son’s reign. In his absence she appears to have served as the head of the Argead oikos—and perhaps as a counterweight to Antipatros, commander-in-chief of the Macedonian armed forces in Europe after Alexander’s departure to Asia in 334.19 In 331/30 bce, although she did not have the title of ‘Queen’ (basilissa)—no Argead royal women had such a title at that time as it had not yet been invented—Olympias represented her son as monarch when she dedicated spoils at Delphi.20 She became an active participant in the power struggles after Alexander’s death, when the warlord Polyperchon urged her to assume the epimeleia and prostasia of her grandson, the minor king Alexander iv.21 She returned to Macedonia with an army 17 18 19

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Aeschin. 2.27–29; Nep.11.3.2. On Eurydike and the Athenian mercenary captain Iphikrates, see Carney 2019, 38–40, 64–67. Carney 2004 offers a thorough discussion of Argead warrior queens and princesses. I was unable to consult Pillonel 2008. Olympias’ conflict with Antipatros, which caused her to withdraw to her native land Epeiros after c. 330, is mentioned by Plut. Alex. 39.13; Mor. 180d; Diod. Sic. 17.118.1, cf. 19.11.9; Curt. 10.10.14. On her career, see Macurdy 1932, 22–44; Carney 2006. SIG3 252. On the introduction of the title basilissa, see Carney 1991. Diod. Sic. 18.49.4, 57.2.

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provided by her nephew, the Molossian king. Douris, Justin, and Pausanias all say that Olympias was in overall command of the campaign.22 At the final confrontation with the forces of her rival, Adea-Eurydike—the young wife of king Philip iii Arrhidaios, and a famous Hellenistic warrior queen herself (discussed below)—she was personally present on the battlefield. Our sources agree that when the opposing Macedonian troops recognised Olympias, they changed their allegiance to her.23 This implies that Olympias was at the head of the army, regardless of who was in effective command; and that Macedonian commanders and troops accepted her leadership. Athenaeus, quoting Douris, gives a fanciful description of the queens confronting each other at the Battle of Euia: Douris of Samos says that the first war between two women was that between Olympias and Eurydike. In this Olympias advanced something in the manner of a Bacchant, to the sound of drums-beats, while Eurydike came forward armed in the Macedonian manner, having received a military training from (her mother) Kynnane the Illyrian.24 Philip iii and Adea-Eurydike were captured alive and later executed by Olympias, who also began eliminating her other enemies in Macedonia. Perhaps as a result of her harsh rule, she lost support among the Macedonian aristocracy and soon found herself besieged in Pydna. Again, it is clear that she was in command of her own troops.25 The garrison however was starved into surrender and Olympias put to death.26 Let us now briefly look at Olympias’ female opponent in the Battle of Euia, Adea-Eurydike. She and her mother, Kynnane,27 have become classic instances of historical warrior women in the modern perception. Kynnane was herself the daughter of Philip ii and his Illyrian wife, Audata. Polyaenus reports that Kynnane accompanied her father on a campaign in the Balkans and that she defeated an Illyrian queen in single combat: Philip’s daughter Kynnane used to undergo military training, lead armies and face enemies in battle. When she faced the Illyrians she brought down 22 23 24 25 26 27

Douris FGrH 76 F 52 ap. Ath. 560f (13.10); Just. Epit. 14.5.9; Paus. 1.11.3–4. Diod. Sic. 19.11.2 less convincingly places Polyperchon at the head of the Molossian army. The showdown took place at a place called Euia in 317 or 316bce. Ath. 13.560–561. Diod. Sic. 19.36.1–6; Just. Epit. 14.6.4; Polyaenus, Strat. 4.11.3. Diod. Sic. 19.49–51; Just. Epit. 14.6.5–12. On Kynnane, see Macurdy 1932, 48–50; Heckel 1984; Ogden 1999, 16–26; Carney 2000, 69– 70, 129–131.

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their queen with a well-timed blow to the neck and killed large numbers of Illyrians as they fled.28 Philip married her to his nephew, Amyntas, the son of Philip’s predecessor as king, Perdikkas iii. When Alexander shortly after his accession executed Amyntas (who was a potential claimant to the throne), Kynnane remained unmarried and gave her daughter by Amyntas, Adea, a similar military training as she herself had received.29 After Alexander’s death in Babylon, Kynnane apparently commanded enough support and wealth to assemble a small army and march east, hoping to marry Adea to the new king, her half-brother, Philip iii Arrhidaios. Polyaenus writes: Antipatros tried to stop her, but she overpowered the forces blocking her way and crossed the river. Then, defeating those in her path, she crossed the Hellespont, for she wished to join up with the Macedonian army.30 Kynnane was slain by the Macedonian army’s commander in 322/1, but Adea still married Arrhidaios because the troops supported her cause.31 Adea, took the Argead dynastic name Eurydike upon her marriage. In terms of dynastic legitimacy, she and Arrhidaios were the power couple par excellence of the Diadoch era. As respectively the son and granddaughter of Philip ii they both were the heirs to his basileia, while Adea in addition was the granddaughter and only heir of Perdikkas iii (in the Macedonian dynasties, kingship was transmitted also in the matriline). In 319 Adea allied herself to Kassandros son of Antipatros, a powerful warlord in search of legitimacy. She then led an army against Olympias, who had become the guardian of her grandson, Alexander iv. The Battle at Euia as we have seen ended with Adea’s downfall when her Macedonian troops went over to Olympias.32 There may exist some remarkable archaeological evidence for Adea’s military persona. The richly decorated Tomb ii inside the Great Tumulus at Vergina consists of two rooms, a main burial chamber and an antechamber, in which 28 29 30 31

32

Polyaenus, Strat. 8.60, transl. Yardley. Douris ap. Ath. 13.560–561; Polyaenus, Strat. 8.60. Polyaenus, Strat. 8.60, transl. Yardley. Arr. FGrH 156 F 9.22–24. On Adea-Eurydike, see Macurdy 1932, 48–52; Carney 1987 and 2000, 132–137. Adea is the most interesting character in Mary Renault’s novel Funeral Games (1981); it should be only a matter of time before the first young adult novel will appear about the life of the Badass Teenage Queen of Ancient Macedonia. Carney 1987, 502 attributes Adea’s downfall to her failure to produce a male heir to assure the support of the nobility.

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figure 1.1 ‘Skythian’-style gilded gorytos (combined bow case and quiver) from the antechamber of Tomb ii at Vergina (replica) after vokotopoulou 1983, p. 221 no. 259

the cremated remains of respectively a middle-aged man and a young woman were uncovered by Manolis Andronikos and his team in 1977–1979. Though controversy about the identity of the buried remains, most archaeologists and historians now seem to settle for Philip iii and Adea (rather than Philip ii and an unidentified young wife, as Andronikos believed).33 Among the grave gifts in the antechamber were a number of weapons and pieces of armour: two goldtrimmed iron spear heads, a pair of gilded bronze greaves, a piece of pectoral armour covered with gilded silver, and the gilded outer covering of a gorytus (a case for bow and arrows) decorated with a Greek-style depiction of the fall of a city (fig. 1.1).34 If the arms and armour in the antechamber were intended for 33

34

See Andronikos 1984. Already in 1980, Lehman suggested that the inhabitant of Tomb ii more plausibly was Arrhidaios, not his father, and that the young woman buried near him therefore must have been Adea; we are indeed told that the royal pair was buried in Aigai (Vergina) by Kassandros: Diyllos, FGrH 73 F 1 ap. Ath. 4.155a; Diod. Sic. 19.52.5. The number of publications has since expanded enormously. In 1984, Musgrave et al. published osteological research that to their mind proved that the inhabitant of Tomb ii was Philip ii (and on which the famous reconstruction of the face by Richard Neave was based), but this was refuted by Bartsiokas in 2000 (see however Musgrave et al. 2010; Antikas and Wynn-Antikas 2015). Borza and Palagia 2008 adduced stylistic arguments to show that Tomb ii postdated Alexander, and that the most likely candidate was Arrhidaios. Carney 2016 focuses on the identity of the female buried in the antechamber, making a convincing case that she is Adea. In terms of style, the gorytus looks ‘Skythian’ and the pectoral Thracian; they may have been gifts or even war booty.

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the woman buried there,35 this is not proof that she actually engaged in combat; but it does show that she was commemorated as a heroic warrior woman, an image that was fitting for the Illyrian identity that the Greek sources give Adea, even though her ethnicity first of all was Macedonian and Argead (only her grandmother was actually Illyrian).36 A last example from the context of the Argead Empire, is Kratesipolis. She was the wife of Alexandros, the son of Polyperchon (Olympias’ ally in the struggle for power after the death of Alexander), who commanded the Macedonian garrisons at Sikyon and Corinth. When her husband was assassinated in 314bce, Kratesipolis assumed command of his troops, with whom, as Diodoros writes, she was popular on account of her kindness.37 Diodoros also praises her political skills and bravery, and says that when the people of Sikyon took up arms to drive the garrison from their city, she drew up her forces against them and defeated them with great slaughter, but arrested and crucified about thirty. When she had a firm hold on the city, she governed the Sikyonians, maintaining many soldiers, who were ready for any emergency.38 In 308, however, she was forced to give up the citadel of Corinth to Ptolemy i, and withdrew her forces to Patras. After a failed attempt in the following year to join forces with Demetrios (and perhaps marry him), Kratesipolis disappears from our sources.39 Olympias, Kynnane, Adea, and Kratesipolis are the main examples of royal women leading armies during campaigns; but there are at least two more instances of royal woman in command of military forces even as they may not have been present on the field of battle themselves. The first is Olympias’ daughter Kleopatra, Alexander’s full sister and the last surviving heir of Philip ii’s basileia. She ruled the kingdom of Epeiros in the absence of her husband, the Molossian king Alexander i, and after his death in 331/0 became regent for their minor son.40 Her later, important role in the struggle for power among the Diadochs seems not to have involved any significant military activity on her part.41 The second is Amastris, a scion of the Achaemenid royal house who 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Hammond 1991, followed by Antikas and Wynn-Antikas 2015; Carney 2016. See Carney 2016, 127–129. Diod. Sic. 19.67.1. Diod. Sic. 19.67.2. Plut. Demetr. 9. Whitehorne 1994, 58–60; Carney 2000, 75–76. On the last phase of her career, see Meeus 2009; Müller 2021b.

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became the ruler of Herakleia in Pontos after the death of her second husband, the tyrant Dionysios.42 She was the first queen ever to issue coins in her own name, bearing the legend ΑΜΑΣΤΡΙΟΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΙΣΣΗΣ (“[coin] of Queen Amastris”).43 She founded a new city in Paphlagonia, named Amastris after herself, and ruled there from c. 300.44 Again, no military activity has been recorded for her, but it is clear that she was in command of the armed forces of Amastris’ city until her assassination in c. 284.

3

Ptolemaic Warrior Queens

The Diadoch period saw the beginning of the development of female power and visibility that would become a more established practice in the Hellenistic period. In both the Seleucid and the Ptolemaic empires, royal women were extraordinarily visible in the public space as emblems and active agents of their dynasties (less so in the Antigonid monarchy after the reign of Demetrios i).45 They receive civic honours, appear on coins and in the public rituals of monarchy, and in Egypt they are depicted on temples. They frequently oversee the political, diplomatic, and military affairs of the monarchies they represent. This happened more often than is usually accepted by modern historians. For not only did royal women in the Hellenistic empires sometimes ‘rule’ as regents for their minor sons after the death of their husbands, they also regularly served as the focal points of diplomatic affairs while the husband was elsewhere. For instance, Berenike ii stayed behind as ruler in Alexandria while Ptolemy iii went to war against the Seleucids in 246.46 The best-attested

42 43

44 45

46

See Van Oppen 2020; D’Agostini 2020; Ramsey 2021, 192–193. Van Oppen 2020; cf. De Callataÿ 2004. The obverse of these remarkable ‘Persianistic’ coins shows a youthful, beardless head wearing a Phrygian cap or Achaemenid satrapal kyrbasia; and on reverse an enthroned goddess with royal sceptre (most likely Aphrodite-Anahita; on ‘Persianistic’ dynastic identities in the Hellenistic period, see Strootman and Versluys 2017). Cohen 1995, 383–384. See Macurdy 1932; Whitehorne 1994, 80–196; Müller 2009; Bielman Sánchez and Lenzo 2015; Van Oppen 2015; Coşkun and McAuley 2016; Carney 2018; Hämmerling 2019; Llewellyn-Jones and McAuley 2019; cf. n. 4. On the political agency of royal women in the Hellenistic empires, see Strootman 2021. Callimachus fr. 110 Pfeiffer (‘The Lock of Berenike’, preserved in its entirety in a Latin adaptation by Catullus [Carm. 66]). Berenike ii is the first Ptolemaic queen to appear alongside the male ruler as Per-aat Pr-ʿʒ.t, the feminine form of ‘pharaoh’, in the opening lines of official Demotic papyri (Bielman Sánchez and Joliton 2019, 72). The title basilissa has also been attested for her, but by this time that title was no longer restricted to first queens and

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example is Laodike iii who represented the Seleucid dynasty in Asia Minor while her husband, Antiochos iii, campaigned in the east.47 This ad hoc policy of splitting up the court made big empires more manageable. A century before the activity of Laodike in Asia Minor, her Iranian ancestress Apama, co-founder of the Seleucid dynasty and the second Hellenistic queen for whom the title of basilissa has been recorded, was honoured by the demos of Miletos with a statue for the ‘goodwill and kindness’ she had shown towards Milesian troops wo had fought for Seleukos i in the east.48 The Seleucid and Ptolemaic polities were entangled imperial systems. The two rival empires constantly interacted with each other through conflict, diplomacy, and dynastic marriage. This, combined with their shared Macedonian background, shared reliance on Aegean cities for capital and manpower, and a shared Achaemenid legacy explains why royal women in both dynasties developed comparable agencies on the imperial level, despite various localised differences in form. Two rival queens, Berenike and Laodike—the first a Ptolemaic princess, the second a Seleucid (from the Anatolian branch of the family)—played leading roles in the outbreak of the Third Syrian War (246– 241), a succession conflict after the death of the Seleucid king Antiochos ii.49 Laodike moreover seems to have orchestrated the conflict underlying the socalled War of the Brothers between her two sons, Seleukos ii and Antiochos Hierax.50 The clearest examples of royal women directly involved in warfare, however, come from the Ptolemaic context, where queens had command of military forces to a degree not seen among the Seleucids. As we cannot discuss all of them, we will highlight four well-attested cases: Arsinoe iii and Kleopatras ii, iv, and vii. Polybius tells us as a matter of course that the Ptolemaic army at the Battle of Raphia (22 June 217) was led by Ptolemy iv and his sister, Arsinoe iii; he adds

47 48

49

50

could also be given to princesses of the main line; see Müller 2021c, 84 with n. 3. In 244/3, Berenike and her brother-husband, Ptolemy iii, appear as deified Theoi Euergetai on the Kanopos Decree (OGIS 56, l. 8); cf. Pfeiffer 2002, 2004, 16–17. On the career and queenship of Berenike ii, see Clayman 2014; Van Oppen 2015. Austin 1981, no. 156; SEG 26.1226 (c. 195 bce). A similar role could be played by the courts of ‘viceroys’ such as Achaios or Zeuxis. I.Didyma 480 (299/8 bce). Four new attempts to understand Apama’s role in the establishment of the Seleucid Empire recently appeared: Widmer 2015; Engels and Erickson 2016; Harders 2016; Plischke 2016; Ramsey 2016. On the role of queens as royal ‘favourites’, see Strootman 2017. The war was known to contemporaries as the Laodikean War (I.Priene 37, l. 134: Λαοδίκειος πόλεμος); Berenike was killed at the beginning of the war. On the outbreak of the war, see Coşkun 2016. Plut. Mor. 18.

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that after the troops had been drawn up in battle order, Arsinoe and Ptolemy rode before them to “inspire them with spirit and courage” and promised them rich rewards if they were victorious—a role normally reserved for the king or other commander-in-chief; her responsibility thus was more than just symbolic and she and her brother were equally important in inspiring the troops by their presence.51 The account of the Battle of Raphia in Third Maccabees closely resembles Polybius’ but paints a more vivid picture of Arsinoe’s role, which is now placed at the height of the battle: When a bitter fight resulted, and matters were turning out rather in favor of Antiochos (iii), Arsinoe went to the troops with wailing and tears, her locks all disheveled, and exhorted them to defend themselves and their children and wives bravely, promising to give them each two minas of gold if they won the battle. And so it came about that the enemy was routed in the action, and many captives also were taken.52 Both texts imply that Arsinoe rode a horse like her brother. That Ptolemaic royal women’s horsemanship was a conceivable thing is confirmed by a tale told by Hyginus about Berenike ii (who had Ptolemaic and Seleucid ancestry),53 incidentally placing her in the midst of a battle as a matter of course: Once Ptolemy, Berenike’s father, in panic at the number of the enemy, had sought safety in flight, but his daughter, an accomplished horsewoman, leaped on a horse, organized the remaining troops, killed many of the enemy, and put the rest to flight.54 On the lunette at the top of the Raphia Stele, Arsinoe wearing the headdress of an Egyptian goddess stands behind a mounted Ptolemy, dressed as a pharaoh on the stele from Memphis and as a Macedonian king on the one from Pithom, 51

52

53 54

Polyb. 5.83.3–84.1; transl. Paton. Carney 2004, 184, distinguishes three categories of female military leadership: battlefield command, symbolic leadership, and administrative leadership; but I think that our examples show that such a division is too strict. 3 Macc. 1.4–5; transl. NRSV. Note that Arsinoe’s tears and reference to children and wives gives her a role that is both masculine and feminine. Arsinoe iii reportedly followed the example of her mother, Berenike ii, and dedicated a lock of hair to ensure victory, too, perhaps before the Raphia Campaign; see Müller 2021c, 87 with the references in n. 34. For an in-depth analysis of the battle description in 3 Maccabees, see O’Kernick 2018. Clayman 2014, 157; Carney 2016, 115. Hyg. Poet. astr. 2.24.3; transl. Grant. From the text preceding this passage it is clear that Berenike ii is meant (whose father in fact was Magas of Kyrene); note however the similarity to the story about Arsinoe iii in 3 Maccabees.

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figure 1.2 The so-called ‘Mistress of the Sea’ mosaic from Thmuis (Tmai el-Amdid) in the Nile Delta, showing the face of Berenike ii with a warship-shaped headdress greco-roman museum, alexandria

striking down an enemy with a cavalry lance.55 As queen, Arsinoe, too, was responsible for maintaining peace and order. This function of the Ptolemaic queen finds confirmation in an epigram of Posidippus on the dedication of a linen cloth adorned with a depiction of Arsinoe ii as warrior;56 the image cannot be connected to a specific historical event and therefore likely refers to the heroic nature of the Ptolemaic monarchy in a more generic sense.57 It brings to mind the famous Queen of the Sea mosaic from Thmuis, probably showing the face of Berenike ii with a warship as headdress (fig. 1.2). 55 56 57

CG 31088 and 50048. Posidippus, Ep. 36 (Anathematika). Seidensticker, Stähli, Wessels 2015, 160.

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Further developing the precedent set by several of her predecessors, Kleopatra ii ruled the Ptolemaic Empire as the equal of her husband-brother, Ptolemy vi Philometor from c. 180.58 After her brother’s death in 145 she married her younger brother, Ptolemy viii Euergetes, who later also married her daughter, another Kleopatra (iii), so that there were now three sibling rulers at the same time.59 Sally-Ann Ashton comments, “being a woman had its benefits and Kleopatra ii was the constant member of any alliance, her unenviable role in fact allowing her more flexibility and power than either of her brothers”.60 Kleopatra ii fought a war against this younger brother, and established herself as sole ruler in 132. The conflict, in which also the Seleucids became involved, ended in 124bce when the joint rule of Kleopatra ii, Ptolemy viii, and Kleopatra iii was re-established. Kleopatra iv was briefly joint ruler with her own full brother, Ptolemy ix. When she was deposed in favour of a younger sister, she fled to Syria, where she raised an army to win back her throne, and allied herself to the Seleucid pretender Antiochos ix, whom she married.61 This alliance, however, got her involved in Seleucid dynastic war and in 112 Kleopatra iv’s army was defeated and she was executed while still in Syria.62 The growing prominence of the queen in the Ptolemaic monarchy culminated in the remarkable reign of Kleopatra vii Philopator (51–30 bce). She first officially shared the throne with respectively her two brothers Ptolemy xiii and xiv, and during the final years of her rule with her minor son, Ptolemy xv (‘Caesarion’). But in between these periods of joint rulership was an exceptional, eight-year interlude of sole rule (44–36bce). There is no need to summarise her reign here. Like her predecessors, her dynastic and personal charisma won her the support of courtiers and troops in internal and external conflicts. In alliance with Caesar and later Antony, she set about to restore the Ptolemaic Empire in the eastern Mediterranean.63 In her early reign, she had her own army with which she fought the faction of her brother, Ptolemy xiii, in

58 59

60 61 62

63

Macurdy 1932, 147–161; Whitehorne 1994, 103–131. “The situation of the two queens, mother and daughter, married to the same man”, Macurdy writes, “is the most revolting of all the shames of the house of the Ptolemies” (1932, 158). Ashton 2008, 28. Just. Epit. 39.3.3. Antiochos viii, the dynastic rival of Kleopatra iv’s husband Antiochos ix, was married (to complicate matters) to another of her sisters, Kleopatra Tryphaina, who reportedly ordered the execution (Just. Epit. 39.3.10–11). On Kleopatra iii and her daughters, see Macurdy 1932, 161–170; Whitehorne 1994, 132–148. Schrapel 1996.

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the Alexandrian War (48–47).64 And at very end of her reign, she was present at the Battle of Actium in 31 with her own fleet, which consisted of Egyptian and Phoenician ships and crews.65 Though the ancient sources are generally dismissive of her participation in the battle—her alleged retreat from it was cited by many Roman and pro-Roman authors as the main cause of Antony’s defeat—they describe her presence with the Ptolemaic forces in a matter-offact manner.66 Writing in the second century ce, Florus says that the queen was present on a “gilded ship with purple-dyed sails”; Cassius Dio later claimed that during the battle Kleopatra’s flagship remained anchored behind the battle line.67 Plutarch has Kleopatra herself explain why her presence during the campaign was necessary: It was not right (she said) to banish from the war a woman who made such contributions [to the war effort] and that it was not advantageous to dishearten the Egyptians, since they were a large part of the naval force, and, in addition, that Kleopatra was no less intelligent than any of the kings fighting alongside Antony [as] she had been governing such a great monarchy for a long time.68 Plutarch moreover claims that it was Kleopatra who insisted on fighting a naval battle.69 Though we cannot be sure if Ptolemaic influence on the course of the campaign was really that big, that would indeed be a very Ptolemaic course of action.70 Stanley Burstein has given a fair evaluation of Kleopatra’s role in the campaign: Cleopatra played a prominent role when hostilities actually began in 31b.c.e., commanding the Egyptian fleet in person and participating openly in Antony’s war council. […] Cleopatra’s ships formed the core of his fleet, and it was her wealth that paid his troops. Some of his

64 65 66

67 68 69 70

Caes. B Civ. 3.103. Plut. Ant. 64.2. She had earlier personally led her fleet in support of Antony and Octavian against Cassius, but the operation was abandoned before the ships could see military action; see App. B Civ. 4.10.82. Flor. 2.21.8; Dio Cass. 50.33. Also see Hor. Carm. 1.37; Verg. Aen. 8.685–688, 707–710. Plut. Ant. 56.2–3; transl. Jones 2006. Plut. Ant. 62.1, 63.5. For an analysis of the Ptolemaic as a naval empire, see Strootman 2019.

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Asian allies may even have seen in her the agent of their revenge for all the suffering brought on them by almost a century of Roman oppression.71 The fact that the ships of Kleopatra’s and Antony’s fleet carried their sails with them, rather than leaving them on the shore for the course of the battle, suggests that it had been the plan to break away and fight another day.72

4

Other Warrior Queens in the Later Hellenistic Period

In the late Hellenistic period, sole rule by queens recurred in some of the minor, non-Macedonian dynasties. I include these queens in order to complicate the image of warrior queens as a typical ‘Macedonian’ phenomenon which may have arisen from the preceding pages. The best-known of these is the Hasmonean queen Salome Alexandra. In the Jewish Antiquities, Josephus describes her reign (from 76 to 67bce) as generally peaceful.73 His Jewish War, however, contains a passage stating that Salome Alexandra ‘doubled the size of her army [and] amassed a considerable body of foreign troops that she used to strengthen her nation, [and] struck fear in the surrounding nations and became their master’,74 and for this reason a recent popularising account of her reign could present her as a “warrior monarch”.75 No military activities have been recorded for late Hellenistic regnant queens such as Dynamis of the Bosporus (sole rule 14–16 and 9/8 bce–c. 7/8 ce) or Shaqilar, from 70–75/6ce regent of her underage son Rabbel ii, the last Nabataean king before the Roman annexation.76 But their status as sole rulers implies that they were accepted by their kingdoms’ military leaders and troops.

71 72

73 74 75 76

Burstein 2004, 30. Plut. Ant. 64.2; Dio Cass. 50.31.2. That Antony and Kleopatra were aiming to break out rather than achieve a naval victory was suggested by Kromayer 1899, 35; against this view, see Lange 2011. Joseph. AJ 13.409, 429, 432; on Salome Alexandra’s position as queen in the context of Hasmonean rulership, see Wilker 2016. Joseph. BJ 1.112. Atkinson 2012. Shaqilar (sometimes spelled Shuqailat) issued coins with the jugate portrait of herself and her son; see Meshorer 1975, 71–76.

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Warrior Queens of Meroitic Kush

The last queens who merit our attention are the kandakes (‘queens’) of Meroitic Kush. Five regnant queens from the Hellenistic-period kingdom of Meroe on the Upper Nile are attested epigraphically on their tombs at Meroe, in presentday Sudan (and four more from later centuries).77 There is some additional information in Greek-language narrative sources,78 including the following account by Strabo of a Roman-Meroitic war in the late first century bce. Kushites troops had attacked and plundered the Egyptian frontier town of Syene (Aswan) in c. 25bce. At this occasion the Kushites may have taken the head of a bronze statue of Octavian that was later found buried under the steps of a temple at Meroe, and is now in the British Museum.79 After describing two punitive raids into Kush by the prefect of Egypt, C. Petronius, in 24 and 22, and the establishment of a Roman garrison at the fortress Premnis (Qasr Ibrim), Strabo writes that, Kandake, the queen of the Aithiopians in our time, was a masculine woman, who had lost an eye (in battle). […] She attacked the (Roman) garrison with an army of many thousand men. Petronius came to its assistance, and entering the fortress before the approach of the enemy, secured the place by many expedients. The enemy sent ambassadors, but he ordered them to go to Caesar (Octavian) instead. They arrived at Samos, where Caesar was at that time […]. The ambassadors obtained all that they desired, and Caesar even remitted the tribute which he had imposed.80 The outcome of the negotiations shows that the Romans were not as successful as Strabo claims they were (though the fact that the envoys travelled to the Roman emperor from a Roman point of view was a sign of submission).

77 78

79 80

See the tables in Soulé-Nan 2002, 272 and 286–287. On Meroitic queenship, see Török 1997, 443–448; Lohwasser 2021. On Greek perceptions of Northeast Africa in the Persian and Hellenistic periods, see now Burstein 2021b, with the sources collected in Burstein 1998, 23–61; also see Török, 2014. A note on terminology: Kush is the ancient Egyptian name for the Lower Nile region, sometimes called Nubia by the Greeks (though Nubia stricto sensu is the Nilotic region between Egypt and Kush); Meroe is the modern term for the kingdom centred on the city of that name from c. 600 bce to 400 ce; ‘Aithiopians’ is the generic Greek designation for the peoples of Upper Nile Africa (cf. Burstein 2021a). BM 1911,0901.1. On the Roman-Kushite War, see Török 1997, 448–455. Strabo 17.1.54; transl. H.C. Hamilton.

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The Meroitic monarchy practised matrilineal succession; the title kdke or ktke (kandake/kadake, kentake; Greek Κανδάκη) indicated a sister of the ruler whose son would be the next king but could also rule herself as regent.81 In contrast to qore, which could designate both a female and a male ruler, kandake is a title exclusively used for royal women.82 Strabo misapprehends kandake as a personal name.83 Two queens known from inscriptions can possibly be identified with Strabo’s ‘Kandake’: Amanirenase (or Amanikhabale) and Amanishakheto; both bear the titles of qore and kandake, which suggests that they were simultaneously queen mothers and rulers in their own right.84 An Egyptianising relief beside the entrance of Amanishakheto’s pyramid tomb depicts the queen in the act of spearing captured enemies, an act reserved for a male ruler in traditional Egyptian royal art (fig. 1.3).85 However, unlike ruling queens from pharaonic (pre-Hellenistic) Egypt, Amanishakheto is not presented as male.86 Despite its strong connectedness to other regions of the ancient world, the kingdom of Meroe does not often feature in standard narratives of ancient history, which still tends to focus on Mediterranean cultures and peoples. Solange Ashby recently summarised this problem in a paper on Kushite and Meroitic queens (whose relative neglect she contrasts to the greater interest in Egyptian queens): The omission of Kushite queens from an analysis of female power in the ancient world could be due to two factors: first, Egyptologists tend not to know much about Kush; second, Egypt has been associated with the Mediterranean world, while Kush is relegated to Africa. For as long as the discipline of Egyptology has been around, there has been a division between those who would see ancient Egypt as part of the Near East, the biblical world, the eastern Mediterranean (…) and those who seek to situate ancient Egypt in its African context.87

81 82 83 84 85 86 87

Priese 1968; on the importance of the queen-mother in ancient Kush, see Kahn 2012. Lohwasser 2021, 64. As does the author of Acts 8:27: ‘So he started out, and on his way he met a high-ranking Ethiopian eunuch, the treasurer of Kandake, queen of the Ethiopians.’ Lohwasser 2021, 68; cf. Soulé-Nan 2002, 286–287, preferring Amanishakheto. Lepsius 1849–1859, vol. 10, pl. 40. Cf. Ashby 2021, 31: ‘ruling queens of Meroe were extravagant in the depiction of their powerful feminine presence, [which] suggested physical power.’ Ashby 2021, 24; cf. Török 1998.

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figure 1.3 Queen Amanishakheto of Kush spearing captured enemies. Relief from her tomb at Meroe drawing by ernst weidenbach; lepsius 1849–1859, vol. 10, pl. 40

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By including Meroitic queens in my discussion of ‘Hellenistic’ queens, I aim to make a statement, and bridge the artificial divide between ancient Mediterranean studies and African studies. For notwithstanding the unfortunate Hellenocentrism implied in the established term ‘Hellenistic’, the notion of a Hellenistic World has the benefit that in contrast to most other fields within the study of ancient history it does include Northeast Africa and the wider Indian Ocean region (as well as Iran and Central Asia).88 In the recent, more neutral use of the adjective as primarily a reference to a period, Meroitic queens, too, deserve our attention in the context of ancient queenship.

6

Explaining Female Power in the Hellenistic Period

That female rule could be seen as transgressive behaviour is clear from the negative image Hellenistic queens often have in the Greek and Roman literary sources,89 especially Olympias and Kleopatra vii. But as Carney pointed out, these very same sources also unwittingly show that the military roles of Macedonian queens were accepted by the Macedonian nobility and army.90 Various explanations have been adduced to explain the wide acceptance of female rule in the Hellenistic period. These tend to emphasise either the cultural-specific backdrop of the queens in question, in particular the forms of monarchy of which they were part, or the historical conditions in which they rose to prominence. That we should look to the specific historical circumstances and assess each individual in her own right to avoid generalisations, is a point consistently made by Elizabeth Carney in her many publications on late Argead royal women. Similarly, Clare Longrigg in her book on Mafia women, wrote that, women in Camorra families frequently find themselves answering the family’s needs, stepping into the breach when the boss is in prison or in hiding. But the role they assume depends on their force of character, and the rivalries that already exist within the family.91 88

89 90 91

The potential greater inclusiveness of Hellenistic Studies in this respect is shown by the pioneering works of Stanley Burstein (see e.g., 1993) and László Török (2011). A recent volume on ‘Hellenistic’ Baktria and India meanwhile has contributed significantly to the deconstruction of the false notion that Central Asia and India constitute the ancient world’s ‘Far East’ (Mairs 2021). Müller 2021a, 295–296. Carney 1995. Longrigg 1998, 36.

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In much the same way did Olympias and other regnant queens of the Argead-Molossian house rise to power by a combination of their personal abilities and high status, and the historical circumstance that after the death of Alexander iii there were no able males within the dynasty, Philip iii being unfit to rule himself and Alexander iv being too young. The fact that royal women often ruled as guardians for their underage sons after the death of their husbands of course is also in most cases the result of historical coincidence. The question remains, however: why were women under these circumstances favoured over further removed male representatives of the dynasty, and why did the prominence of Hellenistic royal women only grow in later centuries despite changing historical circumstances? The crucial role of women in the succession may be the main reason: the fact that in these Macedonian dynasties royalty could also be transmitted in the matriline.92 Royal women were responsible for the survival of the dynasty,93 and military action by women in support of dynastic goals was acceptable.94 In the Ptolemaic dynasty, sibling marriage was a response to the potential threat this practice posed to dynastic unity, a not always successful strategy to keep basileia firmly within the family and forestall succession conflicts. In other dynasties, the faction struggles resulting from the practice of polygynous marriage may have stimulated the central roles of queen mothers in succession conflicts.95 Lastly, there is the fact that power was delegated to basilissai to create a second court and make the empires more manageable, as in the cases of Olympias, Berenike ii, and Laodike iii, as we have seen. In sum, royal women were responsible for the survival of the dynasty in a number of ways.96 Such explanations of female power in the Hellenistic dynasties only highlight how normal the phenomenon in fact was. What is not elucidated by them, however, is the acceptance of their military roles by the nobility and the army. Here, too, explanations vary between the specific and the general. Kynnane, as we saw, allegedly killed an Illyrian queen in a duel. This has compelled modern scholars to understand the martial persona of Kynnane and her daughter, Adea, as an Illyrian ‘tradition’. Kynnane, Macurdy wrote, “was of the wild, fierce, fighting type of women who flourished among the Illyrian nobility”.97 That idea 92 93 94 95 96 97

See Strootman 2010, 2016. On succession in pre-Hellenistic Macedonia, see Greenwalt 1989; Anson 2009; Psoma 2012; Müller 2017, 193–195. Whitehorne 1994, 60; Carney 2021b, 329. See Carney 1995; Müller 2013; cf. Granier 1931, 77–78, who assumed that Olympias rose to power because she embodied the dynasty and the idea of unity. Ogden 1999. Whitehorne 1994, 60; Carney 2021b, 329; cf. Granier 1931, 77–78, who assumed that Olympias rose to power because she embodied the dynasty and the idea of unity. Macurdy 1932, 48; cf. 232–233.

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of course links up perfectly with the wars fought by the Illyrian queen Teuta between 231 and 228. But how ‘Illyrian’ exactly was Kynnane, the daughter of the Macedonian king Philip ii? A more likely model than the presumed warrior traditions of the barbaric Balkans were the queens of the Hekatomnid dynasty that ruled Karia in the fourth century.98 The Argeads participated in a wider koine of satraps and kings in the Achaemenid Aegean, and female royal power was well established not only in Macedonia but also in Karia and Lykia. ‘Foreign’ influences (also from Epeiros) were especially strong in the fourth century because of the rapidly changing nature of the expanding Argead monarchy.99 The Argeads counted among their peers the Hekatomnids, whose monarchy prefigured several aspects of what we call today Hellenistic kingship, particularly in their empirecity relations and monarchy, which included ruler cult, patronage of sanctuaries, and sibling marriage.100 Apart from the well-known (but for the present purpose too early) example of Artemisia i—in command of her own fleet in the Battle of Salamis—there is Ada i, who negotiated sole rulership of Karia with Alexander in 334bce, and is described by Strabo as a military ally of the Macedonians.101 In the end, the acceptance and normalisation of women’s military roles in the Hellenistic monarchies may have had a far simpler cause: it was part of their roles as monarchs, and their embodiment of the dynasty.102 Being figureheads of dynasties necessarily also implied being military figureheads. Hellenistic monarchy was at heart a military institution without a developed administrative apparatus. The warrior skills ascribed to Kynnane and Adea, as well as the horsemanship of Ptolemaic princesses, likely were part of a public, ritual role they had to play. A recent comparative study of premodern dynasties has shown that volatile, martial dynasties such as the Argeads and Seleucids have a tendency to not rigidly structure succession, but leave much space for individual qualities and military fortunes; the repeated phases of conflict and disorder that accompanied succession were not necessarily disadvantageous, as they tended to bring to power vigorous, capable figures with a strong support base among military leaders.103 The early Hellenistic period shows that such figures could include women if capable male contestants were lacking. 98 99 100

101 102 103

Sebillote Cuchel 2015, 244; on Karian queenship, see Ruzicka 2021. Carney 1993, 321–323. See Strootman and Williamson 2020. On Hekatomnid brother-sister marriages, see Carney 2005; Carney argues that these marriages were meant to create a strong dynastic image rather than secure the succession. Sebillote Cuchel 2015, 236–237 on Strabo 14.2.17; cf. Arr. Anab. 1.23.7. Also see Carney 1995; Müller 2013. Duindam 2016, 128.

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Conclusion

In her classic book Hellenistic Queens, Grace Harriet Macurdy asks if prominent Macedonian queens really were politically influential; she concluded that they were not: The great majority of queens in Macedonia and in Seleucid Syria, though possessing wealth and prestige, had no share in the kingship. The power of the Hellenistic queens is often represented as much greater than it actually ever was except among the later Ptolemies, and exaggerated statements are made which are based on the occasional appearance of a woman in war or in politics, rather than on a consideration of the real status of the queens.104 The “real status” Macurdy refers to, however, is an illusionary (but in her time widely spread) notion that there existed in the Hellenistic world an ‘internationally’ accepted form of Staatsrecht, and that kingship was a legally defined ‘state’ institution. Unsurprisingly, she was unable to find any legal definition of Hellenistic queenship. Hellenistic royal women may not have had ‘official’ functions in ‘state’ administration, as such things hardly existed in the Hellenistic world above the level of the city state. But the informal agency women had at the royal courts was a structural aspect of the exercise of power.105 In addition, as central figures within their households and families, royal women had cardinal representative roles to play in the public arena—that too is what made them royal women. Rulership is as much a ritual as a political role. Battlefield leadership, too, is highly ritualised—also for male rulers. The presence of royal women on the battlefield therefore should not come as a surprise; it follows directly from these women’s pivotal roles within military dynasties in the war-torn Hellenistic world.

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chapter 2

Empresses Taking Charge The Powerful Women of the Severan House in the Literary Sources Martijn Icks

1

Introduction

Roman imperial women occupied an ambiguous position.1 On the one hand, their supreme status and high visibility made them the ultimate yardstick of feminine virtue, which required their strict adherence to traditional norms such as domesticity, pudicitia and modestia. On the other hand, their closeness to the monarch and crucial role in perpetuating the dynasty opened up unprecedented possibilities to exert political influence, which was traditionally the prerogative of men. If the line between the public and the private was already blurred in a regular domus, as Emily Hemelrijk has argued, this was even more so the case in the domus Augusta, where seemingly private matters such as dinner conversations and sibling rivalry could have a major impact on affairs of state.2 This ambiguity is already clear in the case of Livia, who famously spun the wool for her husband’s clothes, as he liked to boast, but also served as one of his closest political advisors, participated in public events and maintained an impressive social network of her own.3 A few generations later, Agrippina the Younger wielded significant influence as the wife of one emperor and mother of the next.4 However, it is the Severan dynasty that is often characterised as the period during which female power in the Roman Empire reached its apogee. In particular, modern scholarship frequently credits the ‘four Julias’ as the true reigning 1 Much has been written about Roman imperial women in recent decades: see for instance Bauman 1992; Wood 1999; Kunst and Riemer 2000; Burns 2007; Kolb 2010; Bédoyère 2018; Carney and Müller 2021. For the sake of convenience, I will use the terms ‘empress’ and ‘imperial woman’ rather loosely for all prominent female members of the imperial family, regardless of whether or not they held the title Augusta. 2 Hemelrijk 2015, 11. For the blurring of public and private at the Roman imperial court, see Winterling 1997. 3 Suet. Aug. 73. For spinning wool as a female virtue, see Larsson Lovén 1998. For Livia’s role as ‘first lady’ of Rome, see Barrett 2002; Burns 2007, 4–23; Kunst 2008. 4 Barrett 1996; Foubert 2006; Baus 2015.

© Martijn Icks, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_005

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powers behind the throne: Julia Domna, wife of Septimius Severus and mother of Caracalla and Geta; Julia Maesa, sister of Julia Domna and grandmother of Elagabalus and Severus Alexander; Julia Soaemias, mother of Elagabalus; and Julia Mammaea, mother of Severus Alexander. As the subtitle of Godfrey Turton’s Syrian Princesses suggests, they were “the women who ruled Rome” and allegedly “worked with their feminine genius to maintain the stability of the Empire, holding the reins of government in fact if not in name”. Michael Grant agrees, remarking that “the greater part of the civilised world was ruled by women” during the reigns of Caracalla, Elagabalus and Alexander.5 According to John Balsdon, Julia Domna surpassed even Plotina as “the most masterful Empress that Rome had yet experienced”. In Jasper Burns’ favourable estimate, Domna managed more than any previous empress “to combine beauty and brains with real political power”, while he sees the career of Julia Mammaea as “the pinnacle of feminine influence on the administration of the Roman Empire”. In a similar vein, Guy de la Bédoyère characterises the early reign of Severus Alexander as “really the reign of Maesa and Mamaea”.6 Remarkably, all four of these women exerted their alleged influence as mothers and grandmothers over their (in part underage) sons and grandsons, while the emperors’ various wives—such as Caracalla’s Plautilla, Elagabalus’ Aquilia Severa and Alexander’s Orbiana—are not credited with any remarkable degree of influence over their husbands.7 Older studies tend to tie the presumed dominance of the four Julias to their Syrian origins, openly lamenting the ‘Orientalisation’ of the principate and the apparent decline of traditional Roman values, but more recent scholarship no longer puts much credence in such ethnographic explanations.8 Without a doubt, Domna, Maesa, Soaemias and Mammaea are prominently present in Severan representation.9 The imperial family was conceived as a domus divina, a divinely ordained unit whose members all had a share in the

5 Turton 1974, blurb text; Grant 1996, 4. 6 Balsdon 1962, 151; Burns 2007, 201, 224; Bédoyère 2018, 289. In a recent publication, Bertolazzi 2021, 459 likewise claims that “there is no doubt that [the Severan empresses] surpassed previous imperial women in both visibility and influence”. 7 Although she was of course the wife of Severus, Domna’s period as the reigning power behind the throne is usually only said to begin with the reign of her son Caracalla. 8 E.g. Domaszewski 1909, 148, 197; convincingly refuted by Kettenhofen 1979. Outside scholarship, the theme of the domineering Syrian empresses can also be found in literature and the arts: see Icks 2020. 9 Much has been written about the presence of Severan women on coins, in inscriptions and other representational media: see for instance Ghedini 1984; Baharal 1992; Lusnia 1995; Kosmetatou 2002; Rowan 2011; Rowan 2012; Langford 2013; Nadolny 2016, 19–134; Günther 2016.

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rule. Next to the title Augusta, the Julias could boast such remarkable honorifics as mater castrorum, mater senatus and mater patriae, among others. They made frequent appearances on imperial coinage; in fact, the similar proportions of silver struck for Domna, Maesa and Mammaea suggests that one of the six mint workshops in Rome was entirely devoted to the production of their coins.10 In addition, Domna was depicted on monuments such as the Arch of the Argentarii in Rome and the Arch of Septimius Severus in Lepcis Magna. However, we should be careful not to equate a high degree of visibility in imperial representation with actual political clout. In fact, several recent studies have questioned or nuanced the notion of Julia Domna as the influential eminence grise pulling the strings in the palace.11 Due to the informal and nebulous nature of an empress’ power, it is hard to draw any definite conclusions.12 Nevertheless, as our literary sources attest, contemporaries certainly credited the four Julias with an extraordinary amount of power. It will not be the purpose of this paper to establish whether or not they were justified in doing so. Instead, we will focus on the literary portrayals of Domna, Maesa, Soaemias and Mammaea as a topic of interest in its own right. How did the elite male authors responsible for our literary record characterise and evaluate imperial women who stepped out of their traditional gender roles? We will examine the three main historiographical and biographical sources for the Severan period: Cassius Dio, Herodian and the Historia Augusta. Dio, a Greek-speaking senator and contemporary of the Severans, devoted six of the eighty books of his Roman History to their reigns. Despite his close ties to the dynasty—especially to Severus Alexander, who appointed him to a second consulship—and the obvious need to take the sensibilities of the reigning monarch into account, his perspective is certainly not devoid of criticism. As a senator, Dio expected emperors to behave as principes and respect the dignity of the Senate, a mark several Severan rulers fell short of.13 Herodian wrote a generation later, when the Severan dynasty was already defunct, which meant he could dispense with the need to be careful in chronicling their feats and misdeeds. Although he used Dio as his main source, he was no senator himself and less concerned with senatorial dignity. Rather, it was his express desire to entertain his readers, res-

10 11 12

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Rowan 2011, 246–247. Levick 2007, 161–162; Langford 2013, 122; Scott 2017, 430. A valiant effort is made by Nadolny 2016, who compares the literary sources with numismatic and epigraphic evidence, concluding that Domna, Maesa and Mammaea (but not Soaemias) did indeed wield an extraordinary amount of political influence. Millar 1964; Barnes 1984; Nadolny 2016, 136–142.

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ulting in a dramatic, embellished narrative riddled with factual inaccuracies.14 Even more unreliable is the Historia Augusta, a series of imperial biographies written by an anonymous author in Late Antiquity, most likely in the final decades of the fourth century. The work is brimming with scandalous stories, tall tales and inventions, and frequently contradicts itself. For the Severan period, the biographer appears to have used both Dio and Herodian, next to other sources.15 Clearly, then, we are dealing with three very different (but not independent) authors, writing in different time periods and from different perspectives. That makes it all the more interesting to see if we can establish any common patterns in their portrayals of the Severan empresses and the dominant roles they are said to have played at court. In the following, we will examine several themes that are touched upon in the works of Dio, Herodian and the Historia Augusta biographer. These include: 1) the empresses as plotters and schemers; 2) the empresses exerting control over their imperial (grand)sons; and 3) their sexual transgressions. In doing so, we will consider how the narratives of our literary sources have been influenced by gender discourses. Occasionally we will also touch on Orientalist notions. After all, the Syrian background of Domna, Maesa, Soaemias and Mammaea was frequently remarked upon. Greco-Roman authors were generally inclined to see the world of the ‘East’ as in many respects a mirror-image of their own, a place which turned traditional norms upside down—including those pertaining to masculinity and femininity.16 In this mirror world, rulers were frequently imagined to defy traditional gender expectations, with strong, capable queens such as Semiramis putting their effeminate male counterparts to shame.17 What role did such notions play in the literary depiction of the Severan empresses?

14 15

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Sidebottom 1997; Nadolny 2016, 158–164. Nadolny 2016, 179–185. The Historia Augusta purports to have been written by six different authors in the time of Diocletian and Constantine. Most scholars now accept that there was only one author. Cameron 2011, 743–782 has persuasively argued for a composition date in the 370s or early 380s. Isaac 2004, 335–351 (about Syrians in particular); Gruen 2011 argues for more complexity in Greco-Roman perceptions of the ‘Other’. The concept of Orientalism to describe Western notions and stereotypes about the ‘East’ was of course introduced by Edward Said: see Said 2003. Gambato 2000; Icks 2017, 67–70.

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Plotters and Schemers

The image of the scheming empress had been part of the literary tradition since the beginning of the principate. It is not much of a stretch to interpret this image as an expression of elite male anxiety with regard to powerful women. Behind the doors of the domus Augusta lurked an opaque, treacherous world where members of the imperial family and courtiers vied for status and power. In this world, imperial women were key players, potentially wielding influence that not even the most dignified senators could match. Inevitably, their political meddling became the focus of rumours and speculation. Hence Livia could be portrayed as a ruthless assassin who removed anyone who blocked her son Tiberius’ path to power—up to and including poisoning her own husband, to whom she had been married for over fifty years.18 Agrippina was imagined to be equally ruthless in her pursuit of the imperial purple for her son Nero, first side-lining Claudius’ natural son Britannicus and then feeding him poisoned mushrooms once Nero’s position as heir to the throne was secured.19 Compared to these notorious predecessors, the record for Julia Domna as a scheming empress is rather thin. Septimius Severus had already married her years before he made his bid for imperial power and marched on Rome. Allegedly, it was Domna’s promising horoscope—she was predicted to marry a king—that had prompted his interest for her in the first place.20 Her rise to power therefore did not invite exciting stories about a woman scheming her way to the top, nor did she have to manoeuvre to obtain the imperial purple for her children, as these were already the emperor’s intended successors to begin with. Herodian does not anywhere in his work suggest that Domna was engaged in political machinations, while the Historia Augusta barely touches upon this aspect of her character.21 Only Cassius Dio presents us with a scheming empress, but even here the picture is mixed. The historian suggests that there was enmity between Domna and Severus’ right-hand man, the praetorian prefect Plautianus, who “was always abusing her violently to Severus” and even tortured noblewomen to gather evidence against her. Domna is depicted very much as the victim in this scenario. Rather than engaging in power games

18 19 20 21

See note 3 for modern studies on Livia. Her political influence could also be presented in positive terms, for instance when she gives Augustus sound advice (Dio Cass. 55.14.1–22.2). Ginsburg 2006 examines literary and visual representations of Agrippina: see also note 4. Birley 1999, 72; Hist. Aug., Sev. 3.9; Geta 3.1. The only instance in the Historia Augusta portraying Domna as a schemer is the remark (not elaborated upon) that she was “guilty of plotting” against her husband, Severus; Hist. Aug., Sev. 18.8.

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with the prefect, she is said to have withdrawn to her philosophical studies and her circle of sophists.22 She does not even play a role in the eventual downfall of Plautianus, which is wholly attributed to Caracalla, although the author makes a point of mentioning that she rejoiced in his death.23 When Caracalla later schemes against Geta and plots to murder him, Dio once again presents Domna in a wholly passive role. In fact, she is used as an unwitting tool by Caracalla to lure his brother into a fatal trap. The text presents her as a grieving mother, cradling her dying son in her arms.24 On the other hand, Dio does twice associate Julia Domna with ‘craftiness’ (πανουργία), a trait he connects to her Syrian origins.25 During the reign of Caracalla, she is alleged to have played an important role in government, as we will discuss in the next section, revealing a political side to her character. However, the depth of her ambitions only becomes clear during her final appearance in the Roman History, after Caracalla has been murdered and Macrinus has seized the throne. Allegedly, Domna was unwilling to return to private life after so many years in the centre of power, so she planned a counter-coup: Then, as no change was made in her royal retinue or in the guard of Praetorians in attendance upon her, and the new emperor sent her a kindly message, although he had heard what she had said, she took courage, put aside her desire for death, and without writing him any reply, began intriguing with the soldiers she had about her, who were mutinous to begin with, were very fond of her, and were angry with Macrinus, and consequently held her son in pleasanter remembrance; for she hoped to become sole ruler and make herself the equal of Semiramis and Nitocris, inasmuch as she came in a sense from the same parts as they.26 Domna’s desire to seize the throne may come as a bit of a surprise to the reader. No similar scene occurs in Herodian or the Historia Augusta. Andrew Scott has rightly pointed out that Dio’s narrative contains hints that Domna was already 22

23

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Dio Cass. 76.15.6–7. All English translations of ancient texts are taken from the Loeb Classical Library editions. See Hemelrijk 1999, 122–128 for Domna’s circle; as she points out, the empress’ withdrawal from public life resembles that of a disgraced senator. Dio Cass. 77.4.4. Scott 2017, 425–426 argues that Domna’s rivalry with Plautianus hints at her own political influence, because otherwise the prefect would not have turned against her. While that certainly makes sense, Dio evidently chooses to downplay Domna’s political agency in his account of this episode. Dio Cass. 78.2.2–4; Herodian 4.3.8; 4.4.3 casts her in a similar role. Dio Cass. 78.6.1a; 10.2; see also Mallan 2013, 747–749. Dio Cass. 79.23.2–3.

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vying for political influence during the reigns of her husband and son—such as her rivalry with Plautianus—but overstates the case when he claims that “Dio depicts Julia in a consistent manner, focusing on her foreignness and desire for power”.27 After all, as we have just seen, several scenes present her first and foremost as a victim or pawn in the schemes of others, not as a political player in her own right. As Christopher Mallan argues, Dio’s portrayal of the empress primarily serves to underline the political and ethical points he wants to make. In earlier episodes, she acted as a foil to highlight the villainy of Plautianus and Caracalla, eliciting the reader’s sympathy for her plight, while in her final appearance in the text, she embodies the recurring theme of the powerful being unwilling or unable to give up their power.28 Of course, one of the most striking aspects of the counter-coup episode is Domna’s expressed desire to “make herself the equal of Semiramis and Nitocris”. These were semi-legendary eastern queens who actively governed their kingdoms.29 The empress’ scheming for dominance is hence placed in an ‘Oriental’ context and framed as un-Roman. While her bid for power would fail, Scott has plausibly argued that the association with the eastern queens foreshadows the reigns of the later Severan emperors, Elagabalus and Alexander, who hailed from Syria and stood under the influence of strong women. By projecting the domineering status of these later Severan empresses back onto Domna, Dio could use her as a bridge connecting the former to the latter half of the dynasty.30 Moreover, as Mallan points out, the historian frequently associates Elagabalus with the debauched monarch Sardanapalus, the last in the line of Semiramis’ successors. Both rulers were notorious for their alleged effeminacy and were violently overthrown. Hence Domna-Semiramis and ElagabalusSardanapalus signalled the advent of an ‘Oriental’ style of monarchy in Rome, characterised by strong women seizing control and weak men unable to hold on to power.31

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Scott 2017, 429. See also note 24. Mallan 2013. Moscovich 2004, 364–365. Semiramis, Queen of Assyria, was loosely based on the historical Assyrian queen Sammuramat. There were two queens named Nitocris in the GrecoRoman tradition, one from Egypt and one from Babylonia; Dio is probably referring to the former. Scott 2017. As the author points out (414–415), Dio’s emphasis on Domna as the bridge between the two halves of the dynasty runs counter to the official narrative under Elagabalus and Severus Alexander, both of whom claimed descent from Caracalla. Mallan 2013, 755–756. See Icks 2011, 98–101 for parallels between Elagabalus and Sardanapalus in Dio. For the juxtaposition of strong female rulers with effeminate male rulers in Greco-Roman historiography, including Semiramis and Sardanapalus, see Icks 2017.

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Julia Maesa is generally more clearly portrayed as a scheming empress than her sister, at least in some accounts. In Herodian’s retelling of the coup of Elagabalus, she is placed in the role of kingmaker. Allegedly, the old lady had lived in the imperial palace during the reigns of Severus and Caracalla, where she had managed to acquire fabulous riches. Now that Macrinus had sent her back to her hometown Emesa, she plotted to place her grandson on the throne. Herodian recounts how she spread a rumour among the soldiers that came to Emesa to watch Elagabalus perform ritual dances as high priest of Elagabal, alleging that her grandson was actually a bastard son of Caracalla. Enticed by the prospect of great riches, the soldiers invited Maesa and her family to secretly come to the army camp at night, where Elagabalus was immediately saluted as emperor and wrapped in a purple cloak.32 The account in the Historia Augusta is much briefer, but tells essentially the same story: To these [soldiers], Maesa, or Varia as she was also called, declared that this Bassianus was the son of Antoninus, and this was gradually made known to all the soldiers. Maesa herself, furthermore, was very rich (whence also Elagabalus was most wasteful of money), and through her promises to the soldiers the legions were persuaded to desert Macrinus. For after she and her household had been received into the town by night, her grandson was hailed as Antoninus and presented with the imperial insignia.33 Remarkably, Dio has a different version which assigns the role of kingmaker to a certain Eutychianus, a young man with close ties to the family. In Dio’s account, he is the one who brings Elagabalus to the army camp at night and persuades the soldiers to revolt—doing so “without the knowledge of either his mother or his grandmother”, as the historian mentions explicitly.34 Sonja Nadolny is undoubtedly right in seeing this as part of a conscious effort to dissociate Maesa from the priest-emperor’s scandalous reign. After all, Dio finalised his Roman History under Severus Alexander, who was responsible for Maesa’s consecratio, so he had a strong motive to cast her in a positive light.35 Herodian, writing in post-Severan times, was not hampered by such considerations. His portrayal of Maesa is certainly less than flattering. Not only

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Hdn. 5.3.2; 5.3.8–12. Hist.Aug., Macrinus 9.4–6. Dio Cass. 79.31. Nadolny 2016, 149–152. As the author argues, Herodian’s account of Maesa’s active role in the coup may well be more historically accurate than Dio’s version (168–169).

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did she meddle in politics, but she even did so in the ‘masculine’ space of an army camp, which highlights how far her actions exceeded proper feminine roles.36 Moreover, the author makes it clear that her scheming was not meant for the benefit of her grandson, but was motivated by purely selfish reasons. The old lady “would rather have risked any danger than live as an ordinary person, apparently rejected”, and “was anxious to get to the imperial palace she had been used to”.37 Elagabalus is merely a pawn to achieve this end. When a few years into the reign Maesa notices that the praetorians are growing disgusted with her imperial grandson, she has no scruples in discarding him and hitching her wagon to Alexander’s rising star. While Julia Mammaea secretly distributes money to the praetorians to win their support (duplicating her mother’s role in the previous coup), Maesa keeps the boy protected from Elagabalus’ schemes, for “in addition to being enterprising [she] had many years of experience of living at the imperial palace”.38 Maesa, in short, is a political creature through and through in Herodian’s account—and to a lesser extent in the Historia Augusta as well—excelling in hatching plots and foiling the schemes of rivals, including the emperor’s. Julia Soaemias and Julia Mammaea, on the other hand, are barely portrayed as schemers in any of the sources.39

3

Domineering (Grand)mothers

The Severan empresses were not just portrayed as conniving women who resorted to bribes and rumours to manipulate events. Our literary sources also present them as quasi-regents who were effectively in control of political affairs, reigning through their sons or grandsons. The prototype of such a domineering empress was Agrippina the Younger, who had allegedly first controlled her husband Claudius and later her son Nero as the true power behind the throne.40 When she first rose to political prominence, Tacitus claims that

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The notion of strong imperial women encroaching on the military sphere was a recurring theme in literary sources; e.g. Agrippina receiving homage from war prisoners before the Roman standards, which Tacitus describes as “the advertisement of her claim to a partnership in the empire” (Ann.12.37). Hdn. 5.3.11; 5.5.1. Maesa’s motives are similar to Domna’s in Dio’s account; neither empress could stand the idea of a return to private life after so many years in the centre of power. Hdn. 5.8.3–4. In the Historia Augusta’s account, Maesa does not scheme against Elagabalus, but instead urges him to make peace with Alexander; Heliogab. 15.6. The just-mentioned episode in Herodian where Mammaea bribes the praetorians to support her son (5.8.3) is the exception to the rule. Ginsburg 2006; see also note 4.

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she instigated a “tight-drawn, almost masculine tyranny”, a phrase which neatly captures the reversal of gender roles associated with feminine rule. According to the view of Greco-Roman historians and biographers, a woman who seized the reins of government usurped the power that was rightfully man’s. Inevitably, this reflected badly on the masculinity of the emperors who were supposed to be in charge.41 As we will see, such notions definitely also played a role in the portrayal of the Severan empresses and the reigning men/boys in their families. From the previous section, it will be clear that Julia Domna was not imagined as a domineering figure in the literary sources. Despite her alleged aspirations to become a new Semiramis or Nitocris towards the end of her life, we have already seen that several episodes describe how she was bullied or manipulated by Plautianus and Caracalla. In Dio’s account, it is only during the reign of her sole surviving son that Domna is credited with a prominent political role. As the historian alleges, Caracalla had “appointed her to receive petitions and to have charge of his correspondence in both languages, except in very important cases, and used to include her name, in terms of high praise, together with his own and that of the legions, in his letters to the senate, stating that she was well”. In addition, she is said to have held public receptions, just like the emperor did.42 While this passage has probably been quite influential in establishing Domna’s reputation as a powerful empress, Herodian and the Historia Augusta have little to record about her involvement in affairs of state. Even Dio’s narrative leaves no doubt that Caracalla remains firmly in control. When Domna chides him for wasting money, he is quick to dismiss her worries, indicating that his sword will guarantee a steady influx of revenue. According to Dio, the incident did not stand by itself: allegedly, the emperor never listened to his mother, even though she gave him “much excellent advice”.43 The text places the pair in sharp contrast, with Domna representing sensible government and devotion to the study of philosophy, while Caracalla spends his time “staining himself with blood, doing lawless deeds, and squandering money”.44 The passage should not be read as a plea for the virtues of feminine rule, but rather as a demonstration of Caracalla’s tyrannical qualities, with Domna serving as a positive counterpart for the occasion.

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Tac. Ann. 12.7: quasi virile servitium; Icks 2017. Dio Cass. 78.18.1–2. Dio Cass. 78.10.4; 78.18.2. Dio Cass. 78.18.1–3. Mallan 2013, 756–757 suggests that Dio draws parallels between the philosopher-rulers Domna and Marcus Aurelius on the one hand, and their unruly sons on the other.

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The literary portrayal of Julia Maesa adheres more closely to the figure of the domineering empress controlling her imperial offspring—or at least attempting to. Dio, for reasons we have already discussed, tried to dissociate the old lady as much as possible from Elagabalus’ regime. When the narrative puts her into focus, it is usually to show her opposing her unruly grandson: she objects to his plan to elevate his lover Hierokles to the rank of Caesar, and eventually starts loathing him for his misdeeds, coming to favour Alexander as a more worthy candidate for the purple.45 Herodian, on the other hand, places Maesa squarely at the centre of Elagabalian politics. Not only did she allegedly orchestrate the young man’s rise to power in the first place, as we have seen, but she is also the one who sets the affairs of the Eastern Mediterranean in order for him after the defeat of Macrinus, “because he was young and without administrative experience or education”. The decision to move on to Rome is also prompted by her, as the narrative suggests.46 However, it soon becomes clear that Elagabalus is not a very pliable puppet. When the teenage ruler insists on wearing his “strange, completely barbarous” priestly dress when he enters the capital, Maesa is horrified and tries in vain to persuade him to wear a Roman toga instead.47 The episode serves to illustrate the emperor’s ‘Oriental’, un-Roman character, but does not extend that characterisation to his grandmother, who is evidently much more in tune with the demands of Roman decorum. On another occasion, Maesa is more successful in influencing her imperial grandson, whom Herodian describes as “in most matters a thoughtless, silly young man”. Resorting to flattery, she persuades Elagabalus that he should devote all his time to his priestly duties and should adopt his cousin Alexander as Caesar to deal with affairs of state.48 Clearly, then, the narrative depicts Maesa as a deft manipulator of her fickle puppet emperor, but only up to a point, for even she is not always capable of keeping his whims under control. Remarkably, in the Historia Augusta it is not Maesa, but Elagabalus’ mother Julia Soaemias—here called Symiamira—who features as the domineering empress. Allegedly, the emperor was “wholly under the control of his mother’ and ‘did no public business without her consent”. When he visits the Senate, he invites her to come with him, places her on the consuls’ bench and lets her

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Dio Cass. 80.15.4; 19.4. However, Maesa is presented in a less favourable light in 80.11.1, where she and Soaemias join Elagabalus in singing “barbaric chants” in honour of the god Elagabal. Hdn. 5.5.1. Hdn. 5.5.4–6. Hdn. 5.7.1–2. As Nadolny 2016, 170–171 points out, in Dio’s account there is no suggestion that Maesa prompted the emperor to adopt Alexander (80.17.2).

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witness the drawing up of decrees. Hence “Elagabalus was the only one of all the emperors under whom a woman attended the Senate like a man, just as though she belonged to the senatorial order”, as the biographer remarks disapprovingly.49 The story brings to mind Agrippina, who according to Tacitus had already encroached on this masculine domain by listening in on Senate meetings from behind a curtain.50 As the Historia Augusta implies, Elagabalus and his mother went far beyond this infamous precedent. Symiamira is even put in charge of a Senate of her own: He also established a senaculum, or women’s senate, on the Quirinal Hill. (…) But now under the influence of Symiamira absurd decrees were enacted concerning rules to be applied to matrons, namely, what kind of clothing each might wear in public, who was to yield precedence and to whom, who was to advance to kiss another, who might ride in a chariot, on a horse, on a pack-animal, or on an ass, who might drive in a carriage drawn by mules or in one drawn by oxen, who might be carried in a litter, and whether the litter might be made of leather, or of bone, or covered with ivory or with silver, and lastly, who might wear gold or jewels on her shoes.51 We can read this as a testimony to the fickleness of women, who reduce the serious business of politics to irrelevant discussions about clothing, etiquette and trinkets. Rather than proving herself a second Agrippina instigating an “almost masculine tyranny”, Symiamira emerges from this passage as a vapid person obsessed with trivialities. Obviously, it was a heavy indictment against Elagabalus’ masculinity that he allowed himself to be controlled by such a woman. The emperor’s woefully lacking qualities as a man and a ruler are highlighted in another passage, this time concerning his grandmother: “When he went to the camp or the Senate-house he took with him his grandmother, Varia by name, (…) in order that through her prestige he might get greater respect— for by himself he got none.”52 49

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Hist. Aug., Heliogab. 4.1–2. The allegation that Symiamira frequented Senate meetings is in all likelihood an elaboration of Dio Cass. 80.17.2, which claims that Maesa and Soaemias attended a Senate meeting when the emperor adopted Alexander: see Schöpe 2014, 200; Nadolny 2016, 192. Elsewhere, the author of the Vita Heliogabali adds that Elagabalus even allowed his mother (or possibly his grandmother; the text only mentions “a woman”) to express her opinion in senatorial debates (12.3). Tac. Ann. 13.5. Hist. Aug., Heliogab. 4.3–4. Hist. Aug., Heliogab. 12.3.

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Finally, there is Julia Mammaea, the mother of Severus Alexander. Cassius Dio has little to say about her in his brief account of Alexander’s reign, but she features prominently as a powerful empress in Herodian and the Historia Augusta.53 During the reign of Elagabalus, Herodian records, Mammaea kept her son away from the emperor’s disgraceful activities and made sure that he got a proper Greco-Roman education, with much emphasis on self-discipline and physical exercise. Likewise, the Historia Augusta mentions that Alexander had been “nurtured from his earliest boyhood in all excellent arts, civil and military”, with Mammaea taking a leading role in his upbringing.54 However, the evaluation of the empress in both works starts to diverge strongly once Alexander sits on the throne. Herodian now sets Mammaea up as the domineering mother who has her claws dug deeply into her son. While her attempts to shield the teenage ruler from corrupting flatterers and the enticement of “low desires” could still be interpreted positively, the historian leaves no doubt that her overbearing role is highly problematical.55 Throughout his reign, Alexander is “completely dominated by his mother” and even obeys her when it goes against his better judgment, “the one thing for which he can be faulted”.56 A case in point is Mammaea’s treatment of the emperor’s wife: green with envy for having to share the title Augusta with another woman, the older empress keeps insulting her and eventually has her banished to Libya. Mammaea is also portrayed as greedy and forcibly confiscates property for her own gain—a trait typically associated with tyrants. In neither case does Alexander stand up to her.57 Eventually, the soldiers start to despise him, as “business was conducted on the authority and advice of a woman, while he himself presented a picture of negligence and cowardice in his conduct of war”.58 The resulting uprising proves fatal for the emperor as well as his mother. As Nadolny remarks, Herodian probably had literary motives for his hostile portrayal of Mammaea: with the perverted Elagabalus out of the picture, the author needed someone else to act as a contrasting figure to Alexander, and Mammaea fitted the bill. The Historia Augusta, on the other hand, presents Alexander as a more or less ideal ruler, so painting him as a pathetic ‘mother’s 53

54 55 56 57 58

A fragment from Zonaras (12.5) which describes Mammaea taking over the reins of government has sometimes been attributed to Dio, but actually derives from Herodian: see Nadolny 2016, 157–158. Hdn. 5.7.5; Hist. Aug., Alex. Sev. 3.1; 14.5. Hdn. 6.1.5–6. Hdn. 6.1.10. Hdn. 6.1.8–10. Mammaea’s tyrannical tendencies are also highlighted by the fact that she has the father of Alexander’s wife killed when he tries to stand up for his daughter. Hdn. 6.8.3. Mammaea is explicitly blamed for the failure of Alexander’s reign: 6.9.8.

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boy’ definitely would not do.59 In the biographer’s account Mammaea still plays a prominent role in affairs of state, to the extent that she “seemed to have an equal share in the rule”, but no longer looms large as an overbearing presence controlling her son. Except for one brief reference to her avarice, her tyrannical tendencies have also been removed from the narrative.60 As the text makes clear, Alexander holds the empress in high regard, but is also capable of making independent decisions and of occasionally contradicting her.61 For the first and only time in our accounts of the Severan age, we are presented with a loving and balanced relationship between mother and son.

4

Sexual Transgressions

It might seem strange to devote a section to sexual transgressions in an analysis of powerful imperial women, but only until we realise that power and sexuality are closely intertwined in Greco-Roman literary discourse.62 As the head of the domus Augusta, it was the emperor’s responsibility to guard the pudicitia of the female members of his household. Failure to keep their sexuality under control could be constructed as an indication of weak rule, for an emperor who could not keep his own house in order could hardly be expected to govern well. Tacitus’ narrative about Messalina provides a prime example: not only did her adulterous affair with a senator signal Claudius’ weak rule and lacking masculinity, but she even became a direct threat to his position when she secretly married her lover.63 According to the Historia Augusta, Julia Domna engaged in many adulterous affairs when she was married to Septimius Severus, a statement the author connects to the allegation that she was also guilty of plotting against the emperor.64 However, neither claim is substantiated. The only possible hint in a contemporary source that Domna might have been unfaithful to her husband comes from an anecdote in Dio. Allegedly, the empress engaged in conversation with the wife of a Caledonian, joking about the freedom of British women to engage in sexual relations with men. The woman replied that “we fulfil the demands of nature in a much better way than do you Roman women; for we consort openly

59 60 61 62 63 64

Nadolny 2016, 176–177, 199. Hist. Aug., Alex. Sev. 14.7. Hist. Aug., Alex. Sev. 20.3; 25.10; 26.9. For Roman sexuality, see Hallet and Skinner 1997; Skinner 2005. Tac. Ann. 11.12; 26–38. See Joshel 1997 for an excellent analysis. Hist. Aug., Sev. 18.8. See also note 22.

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with the best men, whereas you let yourselves be debauched in secret by the vilest”. While it is possible to read this remark as a veiled allusion to Domna’s own sexual liaisons, that does not seem likely, as Dio never addresses the theme again in his portrayal of the empress. We should probably rather interpret the comment as a general critique of the deplorable state of Roman morals, reflecting Dio’s own pessimistic perspective.65 In Herodian, we find an allusion to another notorious sexual practice Domna was rumoured to engage in. As the historian records, the Alexandrians cracked many jokes at the expense of Caracalla and his mother, mocking the former for the murder of his brother and calling the latter Jocasta, a name synonymous with incest.66 Herodian has nothing further to report on this allegation, but in the Historia Augusta the incest rumours are presented as fact. For unclear reasons, the anonymous author alleges that Domna is not Caracalla’s mother, but his stepmother. The emperor develops a passion for her and, encouraged by Domna herself, takes her hand in marriage. Thus “to fratricide he added incest, for he joined to himself in marriage the woman whose son he had recently slain”.67 Of course, Domna is hardly the first imperial woman who stands accused of incestuous relations with the emperor; similar stories are told about Caligula and his sisters, as well as about Nero and his mother.68 Incest is thus a stock character trait of the ‘bad emperor’ in the literary tradition, but it also signals an unusual closeness between the ruler and the imperial woman in question. The fact that Domna is such a willing partner in this scandalous liaison and even encourages her son testifies to her depraved morals, but perhaps also hints at her intention to control the emperor through sex. Just as Agrippina tried to keep Nero in her grip by presenting herself to him “coquettishly dressed and prepared for incest”, the “very beautiful woman” Domna seduces Caracalla by displaying “a considerable part of her person, as it were in carelessness”.69 Julia Maesa and Julia Mammaea are not associated with any sexual transgressions in the literary sources. However, Julia Soaemias definitely is. While she only plays a very minor role in the accounts of Cassius Dio and Herodian,

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Dio Cass. 77.16.5; Mallan 2013, 742–743. Scott 2017, 420 n. 28 is inclined to interpret the remark as a veiled comment on Domna’s promiscuity. Hdn. 4.9.2–3. Hist. Aug., Ant. 10.1–4; see also Sev. 21.7. Other late antique sources also mention the pair’s incestuous relationship: Eutr. 8.20; Aur. Vict. Caes. 21; Epit. de Caes. 21.5. Caligula and his sisters: Suet. Calig. 24.1; Dio Cass. 59.11.1; 59.22.6. Nero and his mother: Suet. Ner. 28.2; Tac. Ann. 14.2. Tac. Ann. 14.2; Hist. Aug., Ant. 10.2.

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the Historia Augusta makes her a more important character in the narrative, describing her as follows: (…) she lived like a harlot and practised all manner of lewdness in the palace. For that matter, her amour with Antoninus Caracalla was so notorious that Varius, or rather Elagabalus, was commonly supposed to be his son. The name Varius, some say, was given him by his school-fellows because he seemed to be sprung from the seed of ‘various’ men, as would be the case with the son of a harlot.70 Soaemias’ amorous affair with Caracalla, presented as a fiction or at best a possibility in older sources, has in this passage been elevated to uncontested fact.71 Together with the emperor’s nomen gentilicium Varius, it is used to portray her as a lascivious woman who sleeps with countless men. There is perhaps a hint of Orientalism here: not only did the Romans associate unbridled lust with the world of the ‘East’, but the name Symiamira which the author uses for Soaemias sounds quite similar to Semiramis and may suggest a parallel between the two. Like Soaemias, Semiramis played an active political role and was alleged to have had many sexual partners.72 There is also a clear parallel with Elagabalus himself, whom the biographer portrays as exceptionally depraved. Allegedly, the emperor considered it “the chief enjoyment of his life to arouse the lusts of the greatest number”. The link between mother and son is emphasised when both are killed together: “With him was also slain his mother Symiamira, a most depraved woman and one worthy of such a son.”73

5

Conclusion

Our main accounts of the four Julias exhibit many tropes associated with powerful women in the Greco-Roman literary tradition. The empresses appear as devious schemers plotting to overthrow emperors and advance their own offspring; as domineering (grand)mothers who have seized power for themselves; and as depraved women whose sexual transgressions signal the corruption at

70 71

72 73

Hist. Aug., Heliogab. 2.1–2. Compare Dio Cass. 79.31.3; Hdn. 5.3.10. However, note that the Historia Augusta still denies that Elagabalus was actually Caracalla’s son, remarking he had “used the name Antoninus without valid claim, wishing to be thought the son of Antoninus” (Heliogab. 17.4). See Icks 2017, 68–70, with further references. Hist. Aug., Heliogab. 5.5; 18.2.

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the heart of imperial power. At the same time, it is remarkable how inconsistently these tropes are applied. Julia Maesa may be a kingmaker in one narrative while hardly wielding any political influence in another; Julia Soaemias features as either a voracious maneater or as a bland minor character barely worth noticing; and Julia Mammaea is portrayed as an overbearing mother with tyrannical tendencies, but also as a beloved and respected advisor. These inconsistencies are even more apparent when they occur within one and the same account. Thus Dio’s Julia Domna can appear as a pitiable victim of the machinations of the men around her, only to emerge as a woman burning with ambition to set herself up as supreme ruler in a later passage, while Mammaea’s character basically transforms from benign to malign in Herodian’s history after Alexander has replaced Elagabalus as emperor. Although there are some evocations of powerful eastern queens in the texts, especially Semiramis, these also appear haphazardly: the theme of an ‘Oriental’ style rule by women remains mostly undeveloped. The reason for this is probably that the four Julias never truly take centre stage in the narratives about the Severan dynasty. Their primary literary function is to reflect on the virtues and vices of the emperors (or sometimes powerful courtiers such as Plautianus) with whom they are associated, and whom they can either resemble, be contrasted against, or dissociated from. For the most part, their characterisation is therefore dependent on the portrayal of the reigning monarch. In that sense, at least, the Syrian empresses never really managed to step out of the looming shadow of the men who were the nominal wielders of power.

Bibliography Baharal, D. (1992). The Portraits of Julia Domna from the Years 193–211a.d. and the Dynastic Propaganda of L. Septimius Severus. Latomus 51, pp. 110–119. Balsdon, J.P.V.D. (1962). Roman Women: Their History and Habits. London/Sydney/ Toronto. Barnes, T.D. (1984). The Composition of Cassius Dio’s ‘Roman History’. Phoenix 38, pp. 240–255. Barrett, A.A. (1996). Agrippina: Sex, Power and Politics in the Early Empire. London. Barrett., A.A. (2002). Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome. New Haven. Bauman, R.A. (1992). Women and Politics in Ancient Rome. London/New York. Baus, L. (2015). Kaiserin Agrippina und Seneca. Die Rehabilitation. Homburg. Bédoyère, G. de la (2018). Domina: The Women Who Made Imperial Rome. New Haven. Bertolazzi, R. (2021). Women in the Severan Dynasty. In: Carney and Müller, eds., pp. 452–462.

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Birley, A. (1999). Septimius Severus: The African Emperor. 2nd ed., London/New York. Burns, J. (2007). Great Women of Imperial Rome: Mothers and Wives of the Caesars. London/New York. Cameron, A. (2011). The Last Pagans of Rome. Oxford. Carney, E.D. and Müller, S., eds. (2021). The Routledge Companion to Women and Monarchy in the Ancient Mediterranean World. London/New York. Domaszewski, A. von (1909). Abhandlungen zur römischen Religion. Leipzig/Berlin. Foubert, L. (2006). Agrippina. Keizerin van Rome. Leuven. Gambato, M. (2000). The Female-Kings: Some Aspects of the Representation of Eastern Kings in the Deipnosophistae. In: D. Braund and J. Wilkins, eds., Athenaeus and His World: Reading Greek Culture in the Roman Empire, Exeter, pp. 227–230. Ghedini, F. (1984.) Giulia Domna. Tra oriente e occidente. Le fonti archeologiche. Roma. Ginsburg, J. (2006). Representing Agrippina: Constructions of Female Power in the Early Roman Empire. Oxford. Grant, M. (1996). The Severans: The Changed Roman Empire. London/New York. Gruen, S. (2011). Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Princeton/Oxford. Günther, E. (2016). Femaleness Matters: Identity and Identification Processes in the Severan Dynasty. Marburger Beiträge zur antiken Handels-, Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 34, pp. 113–168. Hallett, J.P. and Skinner, M.B., eds. (1997). Roman Sexualities. Princeton. Hemelrijk, E.A. (1999). Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London/New York. Hemelrijk, E.A. (2015). Hidden Lives, Public Personae: Women and Civic Life in the Roman West. Oxford. Icks, M. (2011). The Crimes of Elagabalus: The Life and Legacy of Rome’s Decadent Boy Emperor. London. Icks, M. (2017). Cross-dressers in Control: Transvestism, Power and the Balance between the Sexes in the Literary Discourse of the Roman Empire. In: D. Campanile, F. Carlà-Uhink and M. Facella, eds., TransAntiquity: Cross-Dressing and Transgender Dynamics in the Ancient World, London/New York, pp. 65–82. Icks, M. (2020). The Oriental Empresses of Rome: Severan Women in Literature and the Performative Arts. In: F. Carlà-Uhink and A. Wieber, eds., Orientalism and the Reception of Powerful Women from the Ancient World, London/New York, pp. 123–135. Isaac. B. (2004). The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity. Princeton/Oxford. Joshel, S. (1997). Female Desire and the Discourse of Empire: Tacitus’s Messalina. In: Hallett and Skinner, eds., pp. 221–254. Kettenhofen, E. (1979). Die syrischen Augustae in der historischen Überlieferung. Ein Beitrag zum Problem der Orientalisierung. Bonn. Kolb, A., ed. (2010). Augustae. Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Herrschaftsstrukturen und Herrschaftspraxis ii. Berlin.

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Kosmetatou, E. (2002). The Public Image of Julia Mamaea: An Epigraphic and Numismatic Inquiry. Latomus 61, pp. 398–414. Kunst, C. and Riemer, U., eds. (2000). Grenzen der Macht. Zur Rolle der römischen Kaiserfrauen. Stuttgart. Kunst, C. (2008). Livia. Macht und Intrigen am Hof des Augustus. Stuttgart. Langford, J. (2013). Maternal Megalomania: Julia Domna and the Imperial Politics of Motherhood. Baltimore. Larsson Lovén, L. (1998). Lanam fecit: Woolworking and Female Virtue. In: Id. and A. Strömberg, eds., Proceedings of the First Nordic Symposium on Women’s Lives in Antiquity, Göteborg, pp. 85–95. Levick, B. (2007). Julia Domna: Syrian Empress. London/New York. Lusnia, S.S. (1995). Julia Domna’s Coinage and Severan Dynastic Propaganda. Latomus 54, pp. 119–140. Mallan, C.T. (2013). Cassius Dio on Julia Domna: A Study of the Political and Ethical Functions of Biographical Representation in Dio’s ‘Roman History’. Mnemosyne 66, pp. 734–760. Millar, F. (1964). A Study of Cassius Dio. Oxford. Moscovich, M.J. (2004). Cassius Dio’s Palace Sources for the Reign of Septimius Severus. Historia 53, pp. 356–368. Nadolny, S. (2016). Die severischen Kaiserfrauen. Stuttgart. Rowan, C. (2011). The Public Image of the Severan Women. PBSR 79, pp. 241–273. Rowan, C. (2012). Under Divine Auspices: Divine Ideology and the Visualisation of Imperial Power in the Severan Period. Cambridge. Said, E.W. (2003). Orientalism. 5th ed., London. Schöpe, B. (2014). Der römische Kaiserhof in severischer Zeit (193–235 n.Chr.). Stuttgart. Scott, A.G. (2017). Cassius Dio’s Julia Domna: Character Development and Narrative Function. TAPhA 147, pp. 413–433. Sidebottom, H. (1997). Herodian’s Historical Methods and Understanding of History. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt ii.34.4. Berlin/New York, pp. 2775–2836. Skinner, M.B. (2005). Sexuality in Greek and Roman Culture. Malden, MA. Turton, G. (1974). The Syrian Princesses: The Women Who Ruled Rome, ad193–235. London. Winterling, A. (1997). Hof ohne ‘Staat’. Die aula Caesaris im 1. und 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. In: Id., ed., Zwischen ‘Haus’ und ‘Staat’. Antike Höfe im Vergleich. München, pp. 91–112. Wood, S.E. (1999). Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40b.c.–a.d.68. Leiden/ Boston/Cologne.

chapter 3

Zenobia versus Mawia A Note on Warrior Queens and Female Power in the Arab World Lucinda Dirven

1

Introduction

Contemporary Arab societies sometimes face criticism for failing to empower their women in the public sphere. This shortage of women in the public domain is commonly thought to be the result of the strong patriarchal character of Arab societies.1 In this light, it may come as somewhat of a surprise that according to classical sources two women rose to power in the ancient Arab world who personally accompanied their troops on the battlefield and repeatedly defeated the Roman army. The more famous of the two is Zenobia who, as regent for her minor son Wahballat, ruled over large parts of the eastern Roman Empire from Palmyra or Tadmor in the Syrian desert from 268–272ce. Roughly one hundred years later, around 377–378ce, Mawia or Māwiyya, known as the queen of the Saracens, wielded her military power in the same region and brought the Roman emperor Valens to his knees. I take great pleasure in dedicating this contribution on two powerful women to Emily Hemelrijk, with whom I have had the privilege of working for many years. She sets a shining academic example in a still predominantly male world. Apart from several Hellenistic queens, women holding actual political power were rare in antiquity. In most known cases we are dealing with wives, widows, or mothers of powerful men or underaged boys, who could seize power under unusual circumstances for a short period of time.2 Even more sporadic were ruling women involved in or in charge of military operations.3 As Amélie Kuhrt pointed out, in many societies of both the past and present, it seems a 1 In fact, the position of women varies greatly between Arab-speaking countries and regions and is dependent upon a great many factors—economic prosperity being one of the key factors (frequently more important than religion). For a general introduction to this huge and complex field, see Joseph and Slyomovics, 2001. 2 Clark 1989, 29. See now also the introduction of Carney and Mueller 2021. Cf. also the contributions by Strootman and Icks in this volume. 3 Again, Hellenistic queens are the exception to the rule. On the military role of Hellenistic queens, see the contribution of Rolf Strootman in this volume.

© Lucinda Dirven, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_006

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law of nature that women do not and should not participate directly in military activities.4 The editors of a recent volume on women and monarchy in the ancient Mediterranean take this one step further and maintain that women seldom ruled on their own because they did not normally participate in battle.5 After all, the editors argue, most male rulers were also military leaders who went to war, at least symbolically. Military concerns and values served above all to strengthen gender roles. The fact that the literary sources mention two belligerent women in the same region within a relatively short period of time is therefore highly unusual and demands an explanation. Not surprisingly, in modern research Zenobia and Mawia are frequently mentioned in one breath.6 To explain this unusual manifestation of female power, modern historians have looked to the classical literary sources and have pointed out the similarities between these female rulers. Since both originate from what is now called the Arab world, it is argued that in the past the chances of Arab women obtaining worldly power were much better than the current situation might suggest.7 In turn, these opportunities are attributed to the tribal, patriarchal organisation of such communities.8 Surprisingly, therefore, the same social structure that is commonly adduced to explain the lack of female power in the current public sphere is also brought forward to explain its presence in ancient Arab societies. In order to explain the military role of two women in a society dominated by men, the present chapter concentrates on the rule and military power of Zenobia and Mawia. We need to establish whether both rulers are indeed as similar as many studies suggest. Subsequently, we can explore whether their rise to power can be attributed to specific social structures typical of the Near East, or whether other factors should also be considered, such as individual agency. This is a far from easy undertaking. So-called warrior queens are an exceedingly tricky topic, for both methodological and social reasons. As mentioned earlier, in virtually all societies military concerns and values serve to strengthen gender roles. Women are not supposed to participate in battle. When women do appear as active war leaders in ancient sources, they are usually considered an aberration. In this sense, they function as counter images of the author’s 4 Kuhrt 2001. On the situation in the ancient Near East, see Clancier 2014. In everyday practice, boundaries were far less strict. On the blurring of military and family life in the literary sources, see Debrunner Hall 1996. 5 Carney and Mueller 2021, 6. 6 Abbott 1941, 20; Bowersock 1980, 493; Shahid 1984, 138 and 192; Yon 2002–2003, Yon 2019; Andrade 2018, 170, 193. Critical are Hartmann 2001, 301 and Schmitt 2004, 871. 7 Bowersock 1980, 493; Gera 1997, 11. 8 Recently Yon and Andrade (above, note 6).

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own cultural values. Hence belligerent women serve to illustrate the effeminacy of their male adversaries, or to characterise foreign peoples as ‘barbarians’.9 This holds true especially for imperial Rome, where military authority (imperium militiae) rested in the hands of a singular ruler and was an important aspect of the emperor’s public function. Consequently, female imperium was impossible in ancient Rome.10 On a more romantic (or erotic) note, belligerent women are sometimes depicted as exceedingly beautiful and desirable. The maidens in such stories initially reject and fight their suitors, but are eventually overpowered and give themselves over.11 Given the great symbolic value of this literary topos, the historical reliability of warrior women in literary sources is often questionable. Conversely, literary topoi are no evidence to the contrary either. One could also argue that there is no smoke without fire. Our first task is, therefore, to try to retrieve the historical person from the literary sources. A possible approach is to establish the character of each literary work as a whole and compare it with external documentary and material evidence. Admittedly, however, it is often impossible to obtain firm proof in this matter. Not only are female warriors socially complex literary or historical figures, but their current social significance is also highly sensitive. Their huge popularity in computer games is telling as regards their current role in promoting gender equality. Mainstream historiography is peopled with men who frequently played an important role in military matters. Since women were primarily non-combatants, they are pushed to the periphery of that conventional narrative. Studies on warrior queens are therefore frequently used by feminist historians to write women back into history.12 Questioning the historicity of such warrior queens may be seen by some as an attempt to sabotage this project. Other feminist historians, however, consider the fascination with women rulers and warrior queens a phenomenon of ‘andro-normative’ historiography, and have looked for alternative narratives.13 In the Arab world, from which the two heroines discussed in this chapter originate, the powerful position of women in pre-Islamic times is sometimes used to illustrate the elevated standing of Arab women before Mohammed.14 Frequently, this is another way of say9 10 11

12 13 14

Nollé 1996, esp. 230–231; Asher-Greve 2006. Benoist 2015. Numerous Greek myths may be read along these lines (for example Callisto, Atalanta, Thetis). The desirable warrior woman was also a popular motif in Arab folk literature of the eleventh and twelfth centuries; Kruk 1993. Interestingly, in light of Mawia’s story, the girls in such stories are frequently Christian, and are converted to Islam in the process. Some recent examples are Fraser 1988 and Cooney 2018. Lerner 1993, 16; Sommerville 1995, 42; Wagner-Hasel 2020, esp. 208–209. Smith 1985 for the main arguments in this discussion.

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ing that Islam had a negative impact on women’s rights.15 Alternatively, these women (Zenobia especially) are used by Syrian nationalists to illustrate an anticolonial conflict avant la lettre.16 Neither of the two viewpoints does justice to historical reality.

2

Zenobia of Palmyra

Zenobia, who from 268–272ce ruled over large parts of the eastern Roman Empire from Palmyra, as the regent of her minor son Wahballat, is one of the most illustrious warrior queens of the ancient world, comparable to mythical belligerent ‘queens’ like Semiramis, Kleopatra vii, and Boudicca. Zenobia’s fame as a warrior queen is largely due to the highly favourable account of her life and personality in the Historia Augusta, a compilation of the lives of Roman emperors from the second and third centuries ce that was written around 400ce.17 The biography of the queen is part of the so-called ‘Lives of the Thirty Pretenders’, a book that discusses thirty-two unsuccessful usurpers between the reigns of the emperors Gallienus (253–268) and Aurelian (270–275). Here, Zenobia is described as an ‘Oriental’, young and exotic, stunningly beautiful widow, with a range of extraordinary, masculine qualities that made her a righteous ruler and a strong military leader, who personally led her troops into battle and claimed the imperial purple for her son.18 In light of what we saw above about the negative valuation of women warriors in classical sources, this favourable image is most unusual. The Historia Augusta is a notoriously unreliable source that is full of contradictory and fantastic information.19 And Zenobia is no exception. In a recent publication, Udo Hartmann convincingly showed that the characterisation of Zenobia in her vita mixes three motifs that are frequently used in Latin histori15 16 17

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19

The impact of Islam on women’s rights is a highly debated issue. On this discussion, see Shah 2006, 1–23. Wieber 2020. The literature on Zenobia is vast. See recently Equini-Schneider 1993; Kotula 1997; Hartmann 2001; Bleckmann 2002; Sartre and Sartre 2014; Yon 2002–2003; Andrade 2018; Dirven 2021; Hartmann 2021. More popular accounts include Stoneman 1992; Southern 2008; Winsbury 2010; and Zahran 2010. Hist. Aug. Tyr. Trig. 30. Cf. Paschoud 2011, 37–41 (text) and 177–196 (commentary). It is this favourable description that has served as a source of inspiration for novelists, composers, and painters since the early renaissance. On the legendary Zenobia, see Sartre and Sartre 2014, 191–258. On literary techniques in the Hist. Aug. generally, see Paschoud 1997; on Zenobia in the Hist. Aug.: Paschoud 2011.

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ography on so-called ‘Oriental’ queens: the motif of a late antique ‘holy woman’; the motif of a masculinised warrior queen; and the motif of an ‘Oriental’ ruler in all her splendour.20 Although topoi are not necessarily untrue, it is telling that the flattering description of Zenobia in her vita is contradicted by almost everything we read about her elsewhere in the Historia Augusta, especially in the vita of the emperor Aurelian, her imperial rival.21 Here, she is pictured as a warlike and arrogant ‘Oriental’ queen who opposes Roman rule with pride and insolence. In this case the author plays with the picture of the victorious and male Imperium Romanum and the vanquished and feminised Orient.22 It is an established fact that the inconsistent picture of Zenobia in the Historia Augusta is the result of the political agenda of its author, who aims to downgrade Gallienus and to magnify Aurelian.23 Gallienus is scorned for being unable to keep the Roman Empire together and even having to tolerate a woman ruler. What is more, he was defeated in battle by a ‘barbarian’ queen. Aurelian, on the other hand, is praised for reunifying the empire. To accentuate this victory, the defeated queen had to be exceptional.24 We cannot but conclude, therefore, that the Historia Augusta is well-nigh worthless for reconstructing the historical Zenobia. Neither of the two literary portrayals of Zenobia in this work is based on any substantial information. Instead, the account is drawn almost entirely from the author’s imagination and offers a pastiche on wide-spread literary motifs.25 Fortunately, the Historia Augusta’s account can be nuanced on the basis of additional information. The fifth-century historian Zosimus is considered a trustworthy source with respect to Palmyra’s military conflict with Aurelian.26 Documentary sources such as coins, lead bulls, inscriptions, and milestones provide additional information on the imperial aspirations of Zenobia and her late husband Odainath, and the sequence of her conflict with Rome.27 Last 20 21

22 23 24 25 26

27

Hartmann 2021, 438–440. Hist. Aug. Aurel. 25–28. Zenobia is also mentioned in the biographies of five other Palmyrenes who claimed the imperial purple: Hist. Aug. Tyr. Trig. 15–17, 27–28, as well as in the biography of Gallienus (Hist. Aug. Gal. 13.2–3), Claudius (Hist. Aug. Claud. 4.4 and 7.5) and Probus (Hist. Aug. Prob. 9.5). Jones 2016. Burgersdijk 2005. Bleckmann 2002. Jones 2016. Quoted approvingly by Hartmann 2021, 440. For later literary sources on Zenobia and Odainath—which often contradict each other as well as the account in Hist. Aug.—see Dodgeon and Lieu 1991, 79–111. Many historians consider Zosimus’ account more trustworthy than the Historia Augusta. A compilation of these sources can be found in Sartre and Sartre 2014, 265–276 and Andrade 2018, 235–243.

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but not least, the rich archaeological records from Palmyra make it possible to understand Zenobia in the political, social and cultural context of the oasis.28 Although there is much about Zenobia in the Historia Augusta that we cannot possibly know, we can establish the course of events and identify obvious inaccuracies in the literary accounts. Since the historical Zenobia has been the topic of several recent publications, I shall confine myself to some aspects that are relevant to her presumed role as warrior queen.29 After the mysterious death of her husband Odainath and his eldest son and heir Hairan, for four years Zenobia acted as regent for her minor son Wahballath. Inscriptions clearly show that she owed her status to her role as the former wife of one ruler and the mother of the next.30 Odainath had been the forceful and highly successful military leader and ruler of Palmyra since the middle of the third century ce.31 Although he was a high Roman official and acted as the temporary representative of Rome, Odainath did style himself king.32 After his death, his widow continued the young dynasty, doubtlessly in accordance with her late husband’s dynastic ambitions.33 Although she remained loyal to Rome and did not claim the imperial title for herself or her son, her troops invaded and conquered Roman Egypt, thereby forcing Aurelian to act. Only then did she claim the purple for her son.34 Eventually she was defeated by the Roman emperor and his troops in several battles that took place in Syria, the last in Palmyra in the summer of 272 ce. 28 29 30 31 32 33

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Yon 2002/03. Most extensive is Hartmann 2001. See Dirven 2021 for a summary of the most important facts. Dirven 2021, 262. Hartmann 2011, especially the summary, for references. Hartmann 2011 stresses the importance of Odainath for Zenobia’s rise to power. In Dirven 2021, I argue that Zenobia’s role as regent for her son and saviour of the dynasty is the main reason for the conflict with Rome. In Rome, mothers did not act as regents for their sons, at least not officially (but compare the role of the Severan women, discussed by Martijn Icks in this volume). Notwithstanding her aggressive and expansionist politics, Zenobia did not claim imperial power on the coins she issued in name of her son. Coins minted in Antiocheia and Alexandria from November 270 till March 272, picture Aurelian on the obverse and Wahballath on the reverse. Contrary to Aurelian, Wahballath does not have the imperial titles Augustus or Caesar and the young and clean-shaven king (rex or sebastos) is not represented wearing the radiate crown, traditionally associated with the senior emperor: Bland 2011, 141–142. This only changed after Aurelian attacked in March 272. Zenobia’s submissive policy is, however, difficult to reconcile with the Palmyrene invasion of the Roman provinces of Arabia and Egypt in the summer of 270. As a consequence, there has been, and still is, a lot of discussion about the objectives of Zenobia’s actions in Egypt. For a summary of this discussion and references for further reading: Dirven 2021, 258–259.

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Documentary sources and other remains from Palmyra show that the presentation of Palmyra as a foreign power that joined forces with other ‘barbarian’ powers to revolt against Rome is false. Nor is the Historia Augusta correct in characterising Zenobia as regina orientis, queen of the East, or peregrina, foreigner.35 In fact, Zenobia bore the gentilic Septimia, showing she was a Roman citizen, and the oasis of Palmyra had been a Roman colony with ius italicum since being granted this status by Caracalla in 212. From then on, loyalty to Roman imperial rule, engagement in Roman imperial service, and participation in imperial aristocracy became crucial to Palmyra’s identity and selfperception.36 Palmyra is therefore best characterised as a Greco-Roman city, comparable to other important cities in the region.37 Hence Palmyra’s conflict with Rome was an internal Roman conflict, a civil war rather than an ‘Oriental’ rebellion against Roman rule. The identification of Zenobia and Palmyra as Arab, which is still popular in modern accounts, is entirely groundless. There are no certain indications in contemporary documents about Arabs in Palmyra, and even fewer indications that the Palmyrenes were Arabs themselves.38 Palmyra cooperated with the pastoral nomads in its region to organise the caravan trade, and some of these nomads undoubtedly settled down in the oasis or the surrounding villages.39 However, this does not mean Palmyra was an Arab city, let alone that its rulers in the third century were Arab. In fact, in several inscriptions Zenobia’s son Wahballat is presented as the conqueror of Arabia (Arabicus Maximus).40 Although documentary evidence enables us to trace the spectacular growth of Palmyra’s territory in the Roman Near East, there is no material to confirm Zenobia’s presumed personal involvement in these battles. Zosimus’ report of Aurelian’s campaign against Zenobia does provide some information, however. As Udo Hartmann points out, Zosimus stresses (contrary to the account in the Historia Augusta) that the commanders of the battles of the Palmyrenes were Zenobia’s generals Zabdas and Zabbai.41 The importance of these two men for Palmyra’s political and military history is confirmed by the honorary statues that the two erected for Odainath and his widow at the great colonnade

35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Hartmann 2001, 430–431. Cf. also Sommer 2019. Hartmann 2016, 60–62. Andrade 2013, 171–210. Contra Shahid 1984, 12 who describes Palmyra as a powerful Arab kingdom. Cf. Retso 2003, 462–466. On the ambiguous meaning of the word Arab in antiquity, see Macdonald 2003. Will 1957. ILS 8924. Hartmann 2021, 444 (cf. already Hartmann 2001, 301 and 465).

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in Palmyra in 271ce.42 One should not completely dismiss Zenobia’s involvement in military affairs, however, and deny her role as warrior queen altogether. Although it is unlikely that she personally commanded her troops on the battlefield, it follows from Zosimus’ account that she did accompany her army to the front. She was present during the battle of Antioch as well as of Emesa.43 It was by no means customary for royal or imperial women to follow their husbands or sons to the front. Although both Greek and Roman sources do mention several instances, such women are frequently considered to be outrageous.44 The Hellenistic royal women discussed by Rolf Strootman in this volume are an exception to this rule, to which we will return. Zenobia’s presence at the front consciously mirrored that of the Roman emperor and no doubt implied that she was the actual military leader of the Palmyrenes and emperor of the Roman East.45 It was a position that was indeed most unusual for a woman, and the symbolic implications of her presence for the troops must have been considerable. Although the theory is impossible to prove, it is probable that this unusual situation inspired later authors to stress her personal involvement in matters of war. The picture that emerges from the primary sources is that of a queen who has much in common with Hellenistic royal women. This holds true for her attempt to act as regent for her minor son and continue the dynasty of her deceased husband, as well as for her unusual presence at the front. It is well known that a number of Hellenistic queens had great power and attained a prominent public role. Most surprisingly, even military activity by these women was acceptable.46 Elizabeth Carney has pointed out in numerous publications that this extraordinary position of Hellenistic royal women was largely due to them being members of the royal clan.47 In turn, the importance of the clan was related to the very nature of monarchy in the Hellenistic kingdoms; it was not determined by the holding of an office by an individual, but by membership of a clan.48 As clan members, royal women could participate in shaping

42 43

44 45 46 47 48

Cf. IGLS 17.1.57 (Zenobia); IGLS 171.56 (Odainath). Zos. 1.50.2: Aurelian encounters Zenobia and a large army in Antioch. 1.51.2: After the Palmyrenes have lost the battle, they escape from the city, together with Zenobia. After Zenobia and the Palmyrenes are defeated at Emesa, they flee to Palmyra. For Rome, see Jestice 2006. Some imperial women (mothers or wives) are known to have travelled to the battlefield. It is telling that Zenobia is present at the front from the moment she and her son claim the imperial title, in the spring of 272 ce. Cf. above, note 34. Carney 1995, 389–390. See also Strootman in this volume. Carney 1995; 2019; and 2016, 7–11. Cf. Mueller 2021. Carney 1995.

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the presentation of their dynasty and become agents of their house. Carney argues that in societies where clans and dynasty matter, women have greater roles allotted to them. In Palmyra, tribal structures and family relations were very important and hence dynastic aspirations were in accordance with traditional social structures.49 So although the inspiration for the new dynasty may have come from the Hellenistic world, the notion fitted well into local traditions and could be used to express traditional ideas.50 Possibly the prominence of familial relationships in the oasis was due to Palmyra’s strong links with the surrounding desert people. Be that as it may, it explains why the belligerent queen who acted for her son was readily accepted by all social groups in the oasis and its territory.

3

Mawia Queen of the Saracens

The figure of Mawia, the so-called queen of the Saracens who revolted against Rome at the end of the fourth century, went virtually unnoticed till the 1980s. Then two articles appeared in quick succession, defending diametrically opposed positions about her. Whereas Glen W. Bowersock presented Mawia as a heroine comparable to Zenobia, Philip Mayerson warned against taking the literary sources at face value and concluded that Mawia might not even have been a historical figure at all.51 Since then, Oliver Schmitt has published several thoughtful and thorough articles on the narrative and historicity of Mawia, but his views are seldom followed.52 The disagreement is the result of the nature of the available sources. Not only are the accounts about this queen restricted to church historians with a specific Christian world view, but also, unlike in the case of Zenobia, there are no documentary sources that corroborate her story. Before we can evaluate Mawia’s role as warrior queen and compare her to Zenobia, therefore, we must first examine these literary sources and the historicity of the protagonist of the story. 49 50

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Yon 2002. This nicely illustrates Glen W. Bowersock’s frequently-quoted adage that “[Greek culture …] provided the means for a more articulate and more comprehensible expression of local traditions”: Bowersock 1996, 9. Mayerson 1980; Bowersock 1980. Schmitt 2003 and Schmitt 2004 (the two articles are virtually identical), The ancient sources are still largely followed by Isaac 1998, 447–451; Gnoli 2005; Macdonald 2016, 79– 82; Fischer 2017. The reason historians adhere to the story is probably its importance and indispensability for reconstructing Roman-Saracen relations in the fourth century. Cf. below, p. 77–78.

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The oldest accounts about Mawia were written in the first half of the fifth century by the church historians Rufinus, Socrates, and Sozomen.53 All write a history of the church based on Eusebius’ Church History (which tells the history of the Church from its beginning until the death of Crispus in 326), which they complement with an account of the developments in the remainder of the fourth century. The three reports on Mawia by and large go back to an almost contemporary text of Gelasius of Caesarea, which has been lost.54 Both Rufinus and Sozomen were near contemporaries of the events they describe. They were also well acquainted with the political and religious situation in the Roman East. Rufinus, the oldest source, also incorporates personal memories of his stay in Egypt during the reign of Valens, and Sozomen—originating from Gaza—adds that Mawia’s deeds are still remembered by the Saracens in their poems. Their accounts, however, are also coloured by their project to describe the miraculous growth of the ‘orthodox’ Catholic Church. Hence Rufinus’ narrative in Books x and xi is full of miracles and divine interventions that occur in relation to historical events. These events are frequently also known from other historical sources and are therefore likely to be based on historical facts. But it is also clear that Rufinus reinterprets the events in a markedly Catholic light.55 The challenge, therefore, is to discern the kernel of truth in these stories. The story of Mawia and her people is set during the reign of Valens (364– 378ce), the emperor who supported the party of the ‘heretic’ Arius. Although Arius’ views on the nature of Christ were condemned at the Council of Nicaea in 325, the conflict continued to divide the Church for the remainder of the fourth century. After the death in 373 of Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria and zealous defender of the Nicene creed, Valens ordained the Arian Lucius as Athanasius’ successor. The sources describe in great detail the havoc this imperial policy caused for the Nicaean Christians throughout the Roman East. In all three accounts, Mawia attains power and comes into armed conflict with the Romans after the death of her husband, an anonymous king of the Saracens and collaborator of the Romans. Her troops are so strong that the Romans sue for peace. Mawia’s only demand is that a certain Moses, an adherent of the Nicene creed, be ordained bishop over her people. The emperor agrees, but 53

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Rufinus, Hist. eccl. 11.6; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 36; Sozom. Hist. eccl. 6.38.1–4; The fourth source, Theodoret 4.23, is an overview, dependent on the three other sources. The later Byzantine sources, Theodoros Anagnostes, George the Monk, and Theophanes, are based on Rufinus and contain several new (fictitious) elements, such as Mawia being a beautiful Christian girl who became the wife of a Saracen king after being taken captive. On the sources and history of transmission, see Bowersock 1980, 477–482. Bowersock 1980, 481. Amidon 2017, 442.

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Moses refuses to be ordained by the heretical Lucius and demands ordination by the exiled Nicaean bishops instead. After Valens complies with these demands, Moses becomes bishop of the Saracens, and many among them convert to the Catholic faith. According to Socrates, Mawia gives her daughter in marriage to the commander in chief of the Roman army to affirm the treaty.56 The treaty lasts, since after the death of Valens, Mawia’s troops are involved in the defence of Constantinople against the Goths.57 Mawia is identified in these texts as the widow of a Saracen king, and is herself also probably of Saracen origin.58 The term ‘Saracen’ is first used at the beginning of the fourth century and it is still not clear where exactly it comes from.59 Initially used along with ‘Arab’, it gradually replaces the label ‘Arab’ in the fourth century. The Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus, whose Res Gestae is dated to the end of that century, states in Book 22 that the skenitai (‘tent-dwellers’) are now called ‘Saracens’, which suggests that the term was used as shorthand for nomads.60 In contrast to the term ‘Arab’, which GrecoRoman authors had applied to both pastoral nomads and settled people with a variety of professions,61 ‘Saracen’ is used exclusively for pastoral nomads of a military character. ‘Arab’ came to be restricted to the citizens of the Roman provincia Arabia. Ammianus presents the Saracens as a dangerous, perfidious people and most unreliable allies.62 His description of the nomadic Saracens is in line with a long tradition in antiquity in which nomads are depicted as the opposites of civilised men.63 Nomads do not have homes, settlements, or cities, and do not work the land and therefore have repulsive food habits. In short, they lack every rudiment of civilisation. This also holds true of their women, whom Ammianus depicts as independent and lascivious.64 The presentation of nomadic women as warriors is also part of this pastoralist ideology.

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Socrates, Hist. eccl. 4.36.12. Socrates, Hist. eccl 5.1.4; Sozom. Hist. eccl 7.1.1. Note that Amm. Marc. 31.16.4–7, who does describe the siege of Constantinople and the Saracens that participated in this battle, does not mention Mawia by name. Instead, he tells the gory tale of a Saracen drinking blood from his victim’s throat (thereby scaring the barbarous Goths!). Bowersock 1980, 481. According to Shahid 1984, 192, Mawia was an ethnic Arab. Since ‘Saracen’ and ‘Arab’ are not synonymous, this conclusion is premature. On this, as well as the development of the labels ‘Saracen’ and ‘Arab’, see Hoyland 2009, 392–393. Macdonald e.a. 2016, 76. On the ambiguous use of ‘Arab’ in antiquity, see Macdonald 2003. Amm. Marc. 14.4.1–7, quoted in full in Macdonald e.a. 2016, 78, Cf. also Isaac 2011. Shaw 1982/3. … they have mercenary wives, hired under a temporary contract. The wife … (has the right)

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The story about the Saracen warrior queen has a number of unlikely elements. It is highly implausible that Mawia’s only demand for peace should be the nomination of a particular holy man as bishop of her people. Even less likely is her interest in a highly complicated theological debate. Such oddities are best understood in the context of the entire account of Valens’ rule, in which Mawia’s story is firmly rooted. When seen as an element of this narrative, her story turns out to be the culmination of a series of miraculous events. With Rufinus, the account of Valens’ rule starts in Alexandria and the Egyptian desert, where the emperor and his patriarch persecute monks and holy men. Not only do they fail, but with God’s help the monks make even more converts. Next, Rufinus describes the persecution of ‘orthodox’ Christians in Edessa in Mesopotamia. Here the pagan praetorian prefect is so impressed with the courage of the Christians that he resigns from his job. The message of Mawia’s story is similar. Even a ‘barbarian’ female ruler knows better than the erring Roman emperor. With God on her side, she overpowers the mighty Roman army.65 In late antique and Byzantine sources, Saracens are frequently depicted as ‘barbarians’ par excellence, and their miraculous conversion on a mass scale is a popular motif illustrating God’s supremacy.66 Hence Mawia as a character is used to highlight Valens’ failure, brought about by his heretical religious policy. The fact that Emperor Valens is beaten by an eastern, nomadic warrior queen recalls the description in the Historia Augusta, where the effeminate Gallienus is defeated by the ‘Oriental’ Zenobia. The account of Sozomen, the author who relates the conflict between Mawia and the Romans in greatest detail, contains a number of remarkable similarities with Zenobia’s narrative in the Historia Augusta. Like the author of the Historia Augusta, Sozomen remarks that the war was by no means a contemptible one, though conducted by a woman. Like Zenobia, Mawia is said to have commanded her troops in person, and like the Palmyrene queen she directed her troops into Phoenicia and Palestine, as far as the regions of Egypt. Since these elements are missing in the other accounts, Sozomen’s narrative was possibly inspired by Zenobia’s exploits.67 As with Zenobia, Mawia’s military conflict with Rome is portrayed as a major event, a threat to the survival of the eastern Roman Empire. In view of the

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… to leave her husband after a stipulated time. … It is unbelievable with what ardour they give themselves up to passion. Socrates, Hist. eccl. 4.36.3: it is divine providence that repressed the fury of the Saracens. Klein 2015. Interestingly, Sozomen notes that Mawia’s exploits are still remembered by the Saracens in their poems. If such poems existed, it is likely that there were also stories celebrating Zenobia. In this case it is possible that the stories about the two queens intermingled.

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seriousness and alleged extent of this war, it is astonishing that none of the contemporary secular historians mention it. Neither Ammianus Marcellinus nor Zosimus—both near contemporaries with a great interest in military issues— mention the Saracen queen and her attack on Rome’s eastern borders. This is particularly surprising since both authors are highly critical of Valens.68 So why would they miss this excellent opportunity to discredit the emperor? Oliver Schmitt has convincingly argued that they probably ignore the conflict because this took place on a much smaller scale than the church historians suggest.69 Mawia’s assaults probably started in the spring of 377 and only lasted until the beginning of 378.70 Schmitt argues that a minor conflict accords much better with what is known about the relationship between Rome and its Saracen allies in this period. Since Constantine ii, the Romans are known to have concluded treaties with Saracen groups in their struggle with Sasanian Iran.71 From what Ammianus tells us of the tactics of Saracen units, it is clear that their way of fighting was typical of guerrilla warfare and differed from the formal warfare of Roman and Palmyrene troops.72 It is questionable whether these Saracens were already united in major Saracen tribal federations, comparable to those known from the fifth and sixth centuries. Apart from Mawia, whose tribal following is described as having treaty relations with Rome (hypospondoi), the only indication of such a confederation is a funerary inscription dated to 328ce of Imru’ al-Qays ibn ‘Amr, ‘king of all Arabs’, from Namara near Damascus.73 But despite the boastful tone of this text, the extent of the power of Imru’ al-Qays is unknown. In any case, after Julian sent letters to the Saracens to ask for auxiliary troops for his Persian campaign in March 363,74 Ammianus tells that a number of the kinglets of the Saracens came to Hierapolis and offered their services to the emperor.75 This implies that less than fifteen years before Mawia’s rise to power, the Sara68

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Shadid’s explanation (1984, 263–264) that the story of a heroic, Christian, Arab queen does not suit these authors because they are adherents of traditional Roman cults is not convincing. Schmitt 2003, 172–173; Schmitt 2004, 866–867. On the date and chronology of these events, see Roberto 2003. Hoyland 2009, for the presumed development of this relationship. Cf. also Macdonald e.a. 2016, 75–79. As Schmitt 2004, 865 with note 31, points out, most authors use the account of Mawia to substantiate their claim that Mawia was the leader of a large confederation. Without this account, however, virtually no evidence remains. Amm. Marc. 25.1.3. Cf. Isaac 1990, 235–237. This inscription is very famous and has an extensive bibliography. See Macdonald e.a. 2016, 75–76 and 405–409 for a recent discussion with references to earlier publications. Julian. Ep. 89, 401. Amm. Marc. 23.3.8 (reguli Saracenorum gentium).

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cens were still divided and governed by various petty rulers. One of these minor kings may very well have been Mawia’s husband. On the basis of circumstantial evidence, we may conclude that a military conflict between the Romans and one of their Saracen foederati is plausible in the last quarter of the fourth century, albeit on a much smaller scale than the church historians suggest. How likely is it that such a group was commanded by the widow of a tribal chief? Unfortunately, hardly anything is known about the position of Saracen women in this period. The Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium, a short merchant guide that dates back to the middle of the fourth century ce, states that the Saracens had women rulers.76 It is, however, most unlikely that this is to be interpreted as a widespread custom, or a reference to Mawia’s rule.77 The saying is part of a short description of the Saracens that is full of the familiar prejudices against nomads.78 As stated above, the reversal of the sexes is a well-known literary motif that is part of the description of many ‘barbarian’ tribes. The reference to the presumed favourable position of modern Bedouin women to substantiate the power of women like Mawia is equally problematical. It turns out that many anthropological studies that are still cited to substantiate this claim are based on hearsay and prejudices similar to those we encounter in the ancient sources.79 It is very difficult to disentangle fact and fiction here. To understand the position of Bedouin women in the past and the present, tribal organisation is crucial. Tribal societies were and are very diverse and it would therefore be misleading to make generalising statements about the position of Bedouin women. All we can say is that in Bedouin societies women are crucial to the conservation of family. Only under specific circumstances, such as widowhood and the absence of a mature heir, does this result in an advantageous position.80 Last but not least, the position of Bedouin women as a whole is not necessarily in line with the position of royal women, who, as representatives of the leading clan, were a class apart.

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Expositio 76. Contra Rouge 1966, 25 who concludes that the writer is alluding to Mawia’s reign. Bowersock 1980, 493, calls it obviously gossip, but worth taking seriously. I do not agree. Expositio 75–77: “Next to them (the Persians) lives the nation of the Saracens. They say that they spent their lives in plundering those who are engaged in work and that women rule among them. They are also godless and lying, and do not maintain their oaths in war or any other affair.” (transl. Woodman 1964, 29). For example: Retso 2003, 589 n. 59. The topic deserves further study, which falls beyond the scope of the present article. Contra Andrade 2018, 170 and 193. It can be shown that even today Bedouin women are frequently treated as non-entities and are considered to have a deplorable social position.

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On Arab Queens

Apart from Mawia, few female rulers are known from a nomadic/semi-nomadic or Arab context before the rise of Islam. In one of the rare articles on this topic (which is therefore frequently cited), Nabia Abbott counted a total of twenty-four queens in a period of over sixteen centuries.81 Not a long list to begin with, it is actually much shorter. As stated above, we may dismiss Zenobia. She ruled over a settled community that distinguished itself from Arabs and nomadic peoples who were a threat to its caravans. The Queen of Sheba, another legendary Arab queen, can also be excluded. There is no historical evidence to corroborate her existence.82 Lastly, it is incorrect to number the imperial Roman women who descended from the royal house of Emesa among Arab queens. As Martijn Icks points out in this volume, this label is largely due to the Orientalising literary accounts about them. This leaves us with only a few relevant instances. Closest in time are royal women from the Hellenistic and Roman periods. From the Arab kingdom of Nabatea, six sisters and/or wives of rulers are known by name because they are mentioned in inscriptions and on coins.83 But although they figure in public and bear the title mlkt, ‘queen’, it is not clear how much power they had, if any.84 An interesting parallel for the widow Mawia is provided by Shaqilath ii, who, after the death of her husband of thirty years, King Malik ii (40–70 ce), ruled for six more years as the regent of her minor son Rab’el ii (71–106 ce). Coins from the period depict the boy on the obverse and his mother on the reverse, accompanied by the legend ‘Shaqilath his mother, queen of the Nabateans’.85 Apart from this, nothing is known about her. It is clear, however, that Shaqilath’s power derived from her being the mother of the legal ruler. Clearly, the dynastic aspect was important for the Nabatean royal house.86

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Abbott 1941. According to i Kings 10.1–13, this queen visited King Solomon; if historical, the visit must have taken place in the tenth century bce. However, neither the date nor origin of the legendary queen can be established: Battiato, Hartman and Stabile, eds. 2016. On the Nabatean queens and their titles, see Ajwad al-Fassi 2007, 40–47. The female form of mlk, the hereditary ruler or king. As with most female declinations of the word king, it is not clear whether the title only designates a consort in marriage, a consort who partakes in power, or a female ruler with autonomous power. The latter option can be excluded, but it is not clear how much power the bearers of this title actually had. Meshorer 1975, nos. 142–146. This is also clear from the possible brother-sister marriages they conducted. On this much debated topic, see Ajwad al-Fassi 2007, 45–46.

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Slightly later inscriptions from the Arab kingdom Hatra in modern northern Iraq also show that the power of female royalty was intrinsically related to their relationship with the male rulers. The closer a woman was to the king and his official heir, the higher was her status. Dushfary, for whom a life-size statue was erected in the so-called fifth temple in Hatra, is identified as the daughter of King Sanatruq and Barsimya, the mother of the crown prince.87 Dushfary’s mother was clearly the most important woman at Sanatruq’s court. Since her title testifies to a hierarchy among royal women, it may well be that Sanatruq had additional wives, and that Barsimya was the principal one among them.88 As far as we know, none of the Arab queens discussed so far were autonomous rulers, and none was involved in military affairs. From the Neo-Assyrian period, however, several Arab queens are known who were personally present on the battlefield. Interestingly, they were probably also rulers in their own right. They are the so-called ‘Queens of the Arabs’, a group of nine queens who are mentioned in Neo-Assyrian annals and royal inscriptions over a period of ninety-one years (ca. 750–650bce). Together with other tribes, their people were involved in military conflicts with the Assyrian court.89 It is not entirely clear what the Assyrian sources mean by ‘Arabs’.90 We know that four of these queens—Zabibe, Samsi, Te’elhunu and Tabua—ruled from Adumattu, also known as Duma (medieval Dumat al-Jandal), a stronghold in North-West Arabia. This suggests a pastoral lifestyle that was combined with settlement in an oasis city. Possibly the tribal elite settled down and set up court, whereas others of their tribe retained their traditional way of life.91 It follows from the Assyrian records that the queens Samsi, Te’elhunu, Adiye, Iapa, and Baslu were personally present on the battlefield.92 The function of these Arab queens as military leaders is symptomatic of the extent of their power. Eleanor Bennett has recently argued in her dissertation that these Arab queens exercised power in their own right.93 Bennett’s main argument is that they are referred to in the Assyrian records as sharratu, the feminised form

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H36 dated to 238 ce. For the statue, see Safar and Mustafa 1974, figs. 240–241. Polygyny was common at the Arsacid court. Since the kings of Hatra modelled their court on that of the King of Kings (Dirven 2022), it may well be that they adhered to this principle as well. On women at the Parthian court, see Madeiter and Hartmann 2021, esp. 235–236. For the background of these conflicts, see Arnold and Strouw 2016, 1112–1116. Most recently on these queens, Bennett 2021. Bennett 2021, 41–44. Will 1957. Bennett 2021, 91–104 (Samsi) and 105–111 (Te’elhunu). Cf. the summary on their military role in idem, 129–130. Bennett 2021, esp. 29–41.

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of sharru, the Assyrian word for king. In contrast, royal Assyrian women are called ‘women of the palace’, which suggests that the Assyrians put these Arab queens on a par with their own rulers instead of their rulers’ wives. In 732 bce, Queen Samsi violated a political agreement of some sort with Tiglatpileser iii.94 Despite the fact that her troops were defeated, she stayed in power; seventeen years later she is mentioned again as sending tribute to Sargon i (722– 705bce).95 Another indication that these queens had autonomous power is the fact that a certain Basqanu, who rebelled against Sennacherib together with the Babylonian King Marduk-apla-iddina, is identified as the brother of Iati’e, the Queen of the Arabs.96 This suggests that his status derived from his relationship with the queen. Last but not least, these queens were important priestesses. Te’elhunu, the Arab queen who was defeated by Sennacherib and was deported to Assyria together with her gods, is called Apkallatu in an inscription of Sennacherib’s successor Esarhaddon. Clearly her priestly title was misunderstood as her name.97 Her brother Hazael, identified as ‘King of the Arabs’, later came to Esarhaddon to ask for his gods to be returned. He probably got more than he asked for. Sennacherib agreed, but placed the lady Tabua as ruler over the Arab people and returned her together with her gods. Tabua was raised in the palace and probably was the daughter of Te’elhunu.98 The Arab queens mentioned in the Assyrian records possessed an unusual amount of power. In fact, their role as autonomous rulers far exceeded the power of other Arab royal women, who were all representatives of male family members. It is therefore unlikely that their position is characteristic of Arab societies in pre-Islamic times. The queens of Arabs are only attested in the records for a short period of time. When the last Babylonian king, Nabonidus (555–539bce), set up his court in Tayma in North-West Arabia, we hear nothing about female rulers, so probably it was a transitory phenomenon.99 Although it follows from this case study that female Arab rulers could at times acquire a substantial amount of power, too little is known to explain it adequately.100

94 95 96 97 98

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RINAP 1 20 18. RINAP 1 42 19′b–22′a. RINAP 3 1 28. Epha’el 1982, 118–125; Bennett 2021, 177–179. RINAP 4,1 iv5–16. Cf. Bennett 2021, 169 for the translation. The situation is intriguing. Did Te’elhunu become part of the royal household, and is this daughter the fruit of her union with the Assyrian king? In that case, it would be one of the earliest documented instances of ethnic cleansing through sexual violation. Note that Sennacherib also inscribed the name of his god Assur on the Arab cult statues. On Nabonidus’ encounter with the Arabs, see Retso 2003, 181–189. The main problem is that the descriptions are made by outsiders, who do not necessarily

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Given the exceptionality of the situation, it is probably the result of specific local and historical circumstances. As far as we can see, these circumstances are very different from Mawia’s. As in her case, the power of most Arab royal women is intrinsically tied to male rulers, either dead or alive.

5

Zenobia, Mawia and Their Power Base

Classical authors depict the rise to power of the queens Zenobia and Mawia in a similar way. On closer examination, however, most resemblances are literary topoi without any basis in historical reality. Extra-literary sources on Zenobia show that she was a strongly Hellenised ruler of a Greco-Roman city, who eventually claimed the imperial purple of the Roman East for her minor son. In all likelihood, she was personally involved in these military operations. She is very different from queen Mawia, who ruled a people of pastoral nomads who had only recently concluded a treaty with Rome. In contrast to Zenobia, Mawia can rightfully be called an Arab queen. Whether she personally headed her troops, as the sources claim, we cannot possibly know. We may safely assume, however, that the number of her men was nothing in comparison to Zenobia’s. Mawia’s military actions took place on a small scale and did not threaten the survival of the empire. In spite of these differences, what both women have in common is that they took over power on the death of their husbands because they were the only suitable representatives of their dynasty. Zenobia ruled for her minor son, whereas Mawia ruled on her own account. A male heir was probably lacking, since Socrates mentions only a daughter. In this respect, Mawia is more similar to Boudicca of the Iceni in Britannia than to Zenobia.101 In some studies, Zenobia and Mawia are mentioned to illustrate the powerful position of women in the ancient Arab world. Zenobia and Mawia both rose to power in societies where clans and dynasty mattered. This, however, cannot be called a typical Arab feature; nor is this trait confined to the Near East. Instances from the Arab world are limited to Arab queens from the eight and

101

have a correct understanding of the situation. The sources suggest that these women were queen-priestesses, and this religious function may have been a decisive element of their power base. Dio Cass. 62.1–2; Tac. Ann. 14.29–39. After Rome confiscated Boudicca’s property and violated her minor daughters, Boudicca, the widow of Prasutagus of the Iceni, united the British tribes and headed a revolt against Rome. Much has been written on this warrior queen; see Allison-Jones 2012 for an overview and further references. There are also important differences between Boudicca and Mawia. Most importantly, Boudicca succeeded in uniting the British tribes and organised a revolt on a much bigger scale than Mawia did.

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seventh centuries bce and a few instances from the Nabatean empire. Close to Zenobia and Mawia both in time and place are Hellenistic royal women in Asia Minor and Egypt, and Boudicca in Britannia. Dynastic succession was important here too. Romans and Greeks in the classical period, however, did not understand the prominence of the royal clan, and their negative portrayal of these women is the result of a cultural miscommunication about the organisation of political power.102 However, although the prominence of the clan helps us understand the rise to power of these queens, it is not a sufficient explanation. For this, the number of women who attained political power in the ancient Arab and classical world is far too small. Clearly, they were the exception to the rule and only functioned as reserve troops for the dynasty. Both Zenobia and Mawia came to power because no suitable male candidates were available. This holds true for most instances of female power in antiquity. But not all women in this position could hold their power. The personal talents and ambitions of female rulers must have contributed greatly to their success. In turn, these ambitions may have been inspired by famous female predecessors. It is noteworthy that throughout history, powerful royal women frequently occur in clusters.103 Zenobia and Mawia operated in the same region within a short time frame. This was probably no coincidence.

Abbreviations RINAP Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period (http://oracc.museum.upenn​ .edu/rinap/corpus/)

102 103

Rightly pointed out by Carney 1995, 383. This holds true for the Arab queens discussed above, attested within a period of 91 years during the Neo-Assyrian period. It is remarkable that the two most powerful royal women attested at the Assyrian court date from the same period: Sammu-ramat, the mother of King Adad-nerari iii (810–783 bce), and Naqi’a, the mother of Esarhaddon (681–669bce) and grandmother of Assurbanipal (695–627bce). On these women, see Melville 2020. The Hellenistic queens provide another example of this phenomenon. The Historia Augusta states that Zenobia looked on Kleopatra vii as a role model. The imperial Severan women may have served as another source of inspiration.

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Bibliography Ajwad al-Fassi, H. (2007). Women in Pre-Islamic Arabia. Nabataea. Oxford. Allason-Jones, L. (2012). Women in Roman Britain. In: S.L. James and S. Dillon, eds., A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, Malden/Oxford/Chicester, pp. 467–477. Amidon, P.R. (2017). History of the Church by Rufinus of Aquilea. Washington. Andrade, N.J. (2013). Syrian Identity in the Graeco Roman World. Cambridge. Andrade, N.J. (2018). Zenobia. Shooting Star of Palmyra. Oxford. Asher Greve, J.M. (2006). From Semiramis of Babylon to Semiramis of Hammersmith. In: S.W. Holloway, ed., Orientalism, Assyriology and the Bible, Sheffield, pp. 322–373. Battiato, F., Hartman, S. and Stabile, G., eds. (2016). La regina di Saba. Un mito fra oriente e occidente. Atti del seminario diretta da Riccardo Contini Napoli, Universita “l’orientale” 10 novembre 2009–14 gennaio 2010. Napoli. Bennett, E. (2021). The Queens of the Arabs during the Neo-Assyrian period. Diss. University of Helsinki. https://www.academia.edu/47128213/The_Queens_of_the_Arabs​ _During_the_Neo_Assyrian_Period Benoist, S. (2015). Women and Imperium in Rome. Imperial Perspectives. In: J. FabreSerris and A. Keith, eds., Women and War in Antiquity, Baltimore, pp. 266–288. Bleckmann, B. (2002). Zenobia von Palmyra. Ein Mythos der spatromischen Geschichtsschreibung. In: H. Temporini Vitzthum, ed., Die Kaiserinnen Roms. Von Livia bis Theodora, München, pp. 317–332. Bowersock, G. (1980). Mawia Queen of the Saracens. In: W. Eck, ed., Studien zur Antiken Sozialgeschichte: Festschrift F. Vittinghoff, Wien, pp. 477–495. Bowersock, G. (1996). Hellenism in Late Antiquity. Michigan. Burgersdijk, D. (2005). Zenobia’s Biography in the Historia Augusta. Talanta 37, pp. 139– 152. Carlà-Uhink, F. and Wieber, A., eds. (2020). Orientalism and the Reception of Powerful Women from the Ancient World. London. Carney, E. (1995). Women and basilea: Legitimacy and Female Political Action in Macedonia. CJ 90.4, pp. 367–391. Carney, E. (2016). King and Court in Ancient Macedonia. Rivalry, Treason, and Conspiracy. London/New York. Carney, E. (2019). Eurydice and the Birth of Macedonian Power. Oxford. Carney, E. and Mueller, S., eds., (2021). The Routledge Companion to Women and Monarchy in the Ancient Mediterranean World. London/New York. Clancier, P. (2014). Warlike Men and Invisible Women. How Scribes in the Ancient Near East Represented Warfare. Clio 39, pp. 17–34. Clark, G. (1989). Women in the Ancient World. Oxford. Cooney, K. (2018). When Women Ruled the World. Six Queens of Ancient Egypt. Washington.

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Debrunner Hall, M. (1996). Eine reine Männerwelt? Frauen und das römische Heer. In: M. Dettenhofer, ed., Reine Männersache? Frauen in Männerdomänen der antiken Welt, München, pp. 207–228. Dirven, L. (2021). Zenobia of Palmyra. In: E. Carney and S. Mueller, eds., pp. 256–268. Dirven, L. (2022). Religion in Hatra and the creation of a local Parthian Identity. In: U. Hartman, F. Schleicher and. T. Stickler, eds., Imperia sine fine? Der römischparthische Grenzraum als Konflikt- und Kontaktzone Akten der internationalen Tagung vom 18. bis 20. September 2019 in Jena, Stuttgart, pp. 119–150. Dodgeon, M.H. and Lieu, S.N.C. (1991). The Roman Eastern Frontier and the Persian Wars (ad226–363). A Documentary History. London. Eph’al, I. (1982). The Ancient Arabs. Nomads on the Borders of the Fertile Crescent 9th–5th Centuries b.c. Jerusalem/Leiden. Equini Schneider, E. (1993). Septimia Zenobia Sebaste. Roma. Fisher, G. (2017). From Mavia to al-Mundhir: Arab Christians and Arab Tribes in the Late Antique Roman East. In: K. Dmitriev and I. Toral-Niehoff, eds., Religious Culture in Late Antique Arabia. Selected Studies on the Late Antique Religious Mind, Piscataway, pp. 165–218. Fraser, A. (1988). Warrior Queens. Boudicca’s Chariot. London. Gera, D. (1997). Warrior Women. The Anonymous Tractatus De Mulieribus. Leiden. Gnoli, T. (2005). Dalla hypateia al phylarchoi: per una storia istituzionale del limes Arabicus fine a Guistiniano. In: Ravenna da capitale imperiale a capitale esarcale: Atti del xvii Congresso internazionale di studio sull’alto medioevo, Ravenna 6–12 giugno 2004, Spoleto, pp. 495–536. Hartmann, U. (2001). Das Palmyrenische Teilreich. Stuttgart. Hartmann, U. (2016). What Was it Like to Be a Palmyrene in the Age of Crisis? Changing Palmyrene Identities in the Third Century ad. In: A. Kropp and R. Raja, eds., The World of Palmyra, Copenhagen, pp. 53–69. Hartmann, U. (2021), Zenobia of Palmyra: A Female Roman Ruler in Times of Crisis. In: K. Dross-Kruepke and S. Fink, eds., Powerful Women in the Ancient World. Perception and (Self ) Presentation. Proceedings of the 8th Melammu Workshop, Kassel 30 January–1 February 2019, Münster, pp. 433–452. Hoyland, R.G. (2009). Arab Kings, Arab Tribes and the Beginnings of Arab Historical Memory in Late Roman Epigraphy. In: H.M. Cotton, R.G. Hoyland, J.J. Price and D.J. Wasserstein, eds., From Hellenism to Islam. Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, Cambridge, pp. 374–400. Isaac, B. (1998). The Eastern Frontier. In: A. Cameron and P. Garnsey, eds., The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. xiii, Cambridge, pp. 437–460. Isaac, B. (2011). Ammianus on Foreigners. In: M. Kahlos, ed., The Faces of the Other. Religious and Ethnic Encounters in the Later Roman World, Turnhout, pp. 237–258. Jestice, P.G. (2006). Roman Women and War. In: B.A. Cook, ed., Women and War. A

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Historical Encyclopedia from Antiquity to the Present, Santa Barbara/Denver/Oxford, pp. 493–495. Jones, P. (2016). Rewriting Power: Zenobia, Aurelian, and the Historia Augusta. CW 109, pp. 221–233. Joseph, S. and Slyomovics, S., eds. (2001). Women and Power in the Middle East. Philadelphia. Klein, K.M. (2015). Marauders, Daredevils, and Noble Savages: Perceptions of Arab Nomads in Late Antique Hagiography. De Islam 92.1, pp. 13–41. Kotula, T. (1997). Aurélien et Zénobie. L’unité ou la division de l’Empire? Wroslaw. Kruk, R. (1993). Warrior Women in Arabic Popular Romance: Qannâsa bint Muzâhim and Other Valiant Ladies. Part i. Journal of Arabic Literature 24.3, pp. 213–230. Kuhrt, A. (2001). Women and War. NIN. Journal of Gender Studies in Antiquity 2, pp. 1– 25. Lerner, G. (1993). The Creation of Feminist Consciousness from the Middle Ages to Eighteen-Seventy. Oxford. Liebeschuetz, W. (2015). Nomads, Phylarchs and Settlement in Syria and Palestine. In: Id., East and West in Late Antiquity. Invasion, Settlement, Ethnogenesis and Conflicts of Religion. Leiden, pp. 241–255 (article first published in 2006). Macdonald, M.C.A. (2003). “Les Arabes en Syrie” or “La pénétration des Arabes en Syrie”. A question of perceptions? In: M. Sartre, ed., La Syrie hellénistique, Lyon, pp. 308– 318. Macdonald, M.C.A., e.a., (2016). Arabs and Empires before the Sixth Century. In: G. Fisher, ed., Arabs and Empires before Islam. Oxford, 11–89. Madreiter, I. and U. Hartmann (2021). Women at the Arsakid Court. In: E. Carney and S. Mueller, eds., pp. 234–245. Mayerson, P. (1980). Mauia Queen of the Saracens. A Cautionary Note. IEJ 30.1–2, pp. 123–131. Melville, S.C. (2020). Royal Women and the Exercise of Power in the Ancient Near East. In: D.C. Snell, ed., A Companion to the Ancient Near East. 2nd ed., Malden/Oxford, pp. 234–244. Meshorer, Y. (1975). Nabatean Coins. Qedem 3. Jerusalem. Mueller, S. (2021). On a Dynastic Mission. Olympias and Kleopatra. Agents of their House. In: K. Dross-Kruepke and S. Fink, eds., Powerful Women in the Ancient World. Perception and (Self ) Presentation. Proceedings of the 8th Melammu Workshop, Kassel 30 January–1 February 2019, Münster, pp. 241–258. Nollé, J. (1996). Frauen wie Omphale? Überlegungen zu ‘politischen’ Ämtern von Frauen im kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien. In: M. Dettenhofer, ed., Reine Männersache? Frauen in Männerdomänen der antiken Welt, München, pp. 229–259. Paschoud, F. (2011). Histoire Auguste iv.3: Vies des trente tyrans et de Claude. Paris. Roberto, U. (2003). Il magister Victor e l’oppozizione ortodossa all’imperatore Valente nella storiografia ecclesiastica e nell’ agiografia. Mediterraneo Antico 6.1, pp. 61–93.

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Retso, J. (2003). Arabs in Antiquity. Their History from the Assyrians to the Umayyads. London/New York. Rougé, J. (1966). Expositio totius mundi et gentium. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, notes et commentaire. Paris. Safar, F. and Mustafa, M. (1974). Hatra. The City of the Sun God. Baghdad. (in Arabic) Sartre, A and Sartre, M. (2014). Zénobie. De Palmyre à Rome. Paris. Schmitt, O. (2003). Mavia, die Königin der Sarazenen. In: T. Herzog and W. Holzwarth, eds., Nomaden und Sesshaften. Fragen, Methoden, Ergebnisse. Teil i, pp. 163–179. Schmitt, O. (2004). Noch einmal zu ‘Mavia der Konigin der Sarazenen’. Mediterraneo Antico 7, pp. 859–877. Smit, J.I. (1985). Women, Religion and Social Change and Early Islam. In: Y. Yazbeck Haddad and E. Banks Findly, eds., Women, Religion and Social Change, New York, pp. 19–35. Shah, N. (2006). Women, the Koran and International Human Rights Law. The Experience of Pakistan. Leiden. Stoneman, R. (1992). Palmyra and Its Empire: Zenobia’s Revolt against Rome. Ann Arbor. Shahid, I. (1984). Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fourth Century. Washington. Shahid, I. (1999). The Women of Oriens Christianus Arabicus in Pre-Islamic Times. Parole de l’Orient 24, pp. 61–77. Sommer, M. (2019). Through the Looking-Glass: Zenobia and ‘Orientalism’. In: D. Boschung e.a., eds., Reinventing the ‘Invention of Tradition’? Leiden, pp. 113–125. Sommerville, M.R. (1995). Sex and Subjugation: Attitudes to Women in Early Modern Society. London/New York. Wagner-Hasel, B. (2020). Instead of a Conclusion: Gynaecocracy in the Orient, Oriental Submission in the Occident. In: F. Carlà-Uhink and A. Wieber, eds., pp. 200–209. Wieber, A. (2020), The Palmyrene Queen Zenobia in Syrian TV: Inverting Orientalism for Modern Nationalism? In: F. Carlà-Uhink and A. Wieber, eds., pp. 136–150. Will, E. (1957). Marchands et chefs de caravanes à Palmyre. Syria 34, pp. 262–277. Winsbury, R. (2010). Zenobia of Palmyra: History, Myth, and the Neo-Classical Imagination. London. Woodman, J.A. (1964). The expositio totius mundi et gentium. Its Geography and its Language. MA Thesis, Ohio State University. https://web.archive.org/web/201702240556 48/https://etd.ohiolink.edu/rws_etd/document/get/osu1166462501/inline Yon, J.-B. (2002). Les notables de Palmyre. Beyrouth. Yon, J.-B. (2002–2003). Zénobie et les femmes de Palmyre. Annales archéologiques arabes syriennes 45–46, pp. 215–220. Yon, J.-B. (2019). Femmes de Palmyre. In: S. Lalanne, ed., Femmes grecques de l’Orient romain, Besançon, pp. 183–203. Zahran, Y. (2010). Zenobia, Between Reality and Legend. London.

chapter 4

Image and Reality The Public and Persuasive Power of the Empress Theodora Daniëlle Slootjes

1

Introduction

When Justinian and Theodora married around 524 ce, they could not have foreseen that their marriage would turn them into one of the most famous power couples of the late antique world. He, from peasant descent in Thrace but able to rise in rank through connections and a military career, found himself adopted by his uncle, the ruling emperor Justin, in the early 520s. She, the daughter of a bear keeper of the Greens in Constantinople and an actress herself in her early years according to Procopius’ Secret History, eventually managed to emerge in circles that were close to the imperial court.1 She and Justinian met and married, for which Justinian had to have the marriage laws changed, as she would otherwise not have been accepted as his wife because of her lower social status.2 By 523 they both were elevated to the rank of patricians, and by 525 Justinian was made Caesar by his imperial father, which set the couple up for imperial rule. By early 527 Justinian was appointed Augustus, and when Justin died later that year, he became the sole ruler with Theodora as the new Augusta.3 Although Justinian and Theodora both seem to have taken up distinct and separate roles as the Augusti, the public image of their imperial rule was one of harmony, mutual respect and the will to create a stable regime together.4 This contribution zooms in on the way in which the ancient sources present Theodora in her role as imperial spouse. Among the most important sources 1 As Potter 2015, 22 emphasised, from a young age Theodora must have been aware of the importance of the Blues and the Greens for the city. According to some traditions, once her parents were divorced and her mother remarried, her stepfather became bear keeper for the Greens. In other source traditions, Theodora might have come from Paphlagonia, Alexandria or Syria, where she might have been the daughter of a Monophysite priest. See Foss 2002, 164–166. 2 Cod. Iust. 5.4.23. 3 Malalas 17.18. Potter 2015, 118–122. 4 Cf. Connor 2004, 125–126.

© Danië l le Slootjes, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_007

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for this contribution are the presentation of Theodora by two of her contemporaries: Procopius in his works the Wars, the Buildings and the Secret History, and John Malalas in his Chronicle. Like most people from the ancient world, Theodora has not left us writing of her own, so we are dependent on others to tell us her story and on “our ability to isolate clues in our various sources”.5 As Foss’ detailed analysis of the sources on Theodora has demonstrated, “the very abundance of sources is deceptive, for the image they create is full of contradictions”.6 On the one hand, in Procopius’ Secret History her image is that of a harlot in her earlier years, and of an empress who was vindictive, who had her spies everywhere, who humiliated adversaries with great pleasure and who might even have been a demon.7 On the other hand, she is praised for her piety and charity as her most important public features, which according to her role as empress she demonstrated by being involved in communal gift giving, by having special care for the unfortunate of society, by taking responsibility for the bestowal of large endowments, or by organising receptions for domestic and foreign guests.8 Moreover, as imperial spouse she would have been regarded by many as someone who could provide access to the emperor. Justinian had officially recognised her as co-ruler and as such she would also officially be in diplomatic correspondence with foreign rulers.9 In other words, her official political position might have carried much further than some of the previous imperial women, as she had become—according to the ideas of Potter—as Augusta not “a mere extension of her husband”, but “a ruler in her own right”.10 However, perhaps we should also not overstate Theodora’s political importance, as Averil Cameron noted when she argued for a more private and traditional role of the empress, which led to Foss’ conclusion that “Theodora’s influence on the empire appears to have been overwhelmingly benign”.11 In religious matters, Theodora seems to have been a devoted Monophysite, unlike Justinian who was associated with the Orthodox. She publicly supported and protected the Monophysite church and its followers who repeatedly were oppressed.12 Moreover, she seems to have tried to influence appointments of bishops and patriarchs of Constantinople and Alexandria throughout her life.

5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Potter 2015, 144, and also 4: ‘Hers is a life known through others’. Foss 2002, 141. Cameron 1985, 69; Foss 2002, 154–159; Connor 2004, 126–128. Cameron 1985, 67; Foss 2002, 150; Connor 2004, 129; Potter 2015, 124. Novella 8.1 of 535. Foss 2002, 150–151. Potter 2015, 119. Foss 2002, 153. Cf. Cameron 1985, 73–74. Cameron 1985, 76–79; Foss 2002, 143–149; Connor 2004, 131.

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What are we to make of so many and at times contradictory images? It seems impossible to separate the fictitious from the real Theodora. It is not my intention to repeat the extensive and excellent work of other scholars on this issue, although I do want to mention Averil Cameron’s 1985 chapter on Theodora in her book Procopius and the Sixth Century and subsequently Brubaker’s 2004 article on the rhetoric of gender and Theodora’s portrayal in Procopius’ Secret History as sources of inspiration for this contribution.13 As they both demonstrated, we should be careful in extracting information on the real Theodora in Procopius’ works, as he so skilfully crafted a negative image of Justinian through slandering his wife. In the following, I want to focus specifically on the oftenquoted speech of Theodora during the Nika riots in Procopius’ History of the Wars and on the famous Theodora mosaic on one of the side walls of the apse in the church of San Vitale in Ravenna. Our (mis)understanding of both sources has had a lasting impact on the way in which our presentation of Theodora’s personality has developed over the centuries. They have presented us with the image of a woman who was visibly proud of her imperial purple robe and who was most courageous in times of deep political crisis. I aim to demonstrate that the speech and the mosaic offer us an image of Theodora that was carefully crafted for a specific purpose by its creators. That image created a Theodora who discarded traditional gendered boundaries of what would have been expected of a woman even if she was the wife of an emperor. The creators of this image deliberately used Theodora to transgress those boundaries as a public way of positioning Justinian within their description and depiction that opened up opportunity to criticise even the emperor. One might question, furthermore, to what extent such an image could be used to help us to get a glimpse of the ‘real’ Theodora, if that were possible at all.

2

The Nika Riots: Fight or Flee?

A few years into their rule, Justinian and Theodora experienced what turned out to be perhaps the most serious threat to their imperial position. This is not the place to present an in-depth analysis of the event, the so-called ‘Nika-riot’, as others have done that adequately, but for the purposes of this contribution it is important to briefly set the stage.14 Within a few days in early January of 13 14

Cameron 1985, 66–82; Brubaker 2013. For valuable studies on Theodora, see for instance Cameron 1985; Beck 1986; Evans 2002, 40–47; Harvey 2010; Potter 2015. See for more detailed analyses Bury 1897; Evans 1984; Greatrex 1997; Meier 2003 and 2004; Potter 2015, 147–155. Cf. Foss 2002, 152–154.

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532 a situation evolved in the city and in the Hippodrome of Constantinople which led to the potential loss of the imperial throne for Justinian. The Hippodrome could contain large crowds of people, with a seating capacity for perhaps 50,000 people (though scholars disagree on this number).15 By the sixth century, spectators at the chariot-races in the Hippodrome were often described as Blues and Greens, colours that were connected not only to the different racing teams, but also to a possible larger division of factions within the city population with distinct views on political and religious issues.16 Whereas the Greens and Blues would often be in competition with each other, at this particular event in January of 532 they joined forces, which potentially turned them into an almost uncontrollable mass. In reaction to what they considered unfair trials and subsequent executions, the two factions ended up as one voice acclaiming anti-Justinian sentiments during races at the Hippodrome. They called for the removal of his most important officials: John the Cappadocian, the praetorian prefect of the East, Eudaimon the city prefect, and Trebonian the quaestor and jurist. Over the course of the following days, these demands for change in the imperial circle of officials were accompanied by destruction and violence in the city, which must have been quite disturbing for many of its inhabitants. After some failed attempts to calm down the crowds, Justinian decided to react no longer in person. Although one could fully understand why Justinian might have dreaded facing the immense crowd in the Hippodrome, at the same time his public absence also signalled a lack of courage and imperial strength. No wonder that the anger of the crowd escalated and they started to call for Justinian’s replacement with their own candidate, Hypatius. One can only imagine what the atmosphere would have been in the imperial palace where Justinian and his inner circle sat together in anticipation of what might happen, while next door in the Hippodrome the energy of the crowd continued to swell, and not necessarily in a positive way. While the longer textual account of Malalas of the event offers the perspective of the people outside of the palace complex, Procopius is considered to be responsible for the ‘inside-the-palace’ perspective.17 Justinian and those who had withdrawn with him into the palace complex were deliberating over how to handle the increasingly flammable situation that was developing in the city and in the Hippodrome. An end to this crisis seemed no longer possible without violent militarily interference. For the emperor, fleeing the scene, possibly by boat, and 15 16 17

See Dagron 2011, 79–90; Giatsis 2000. Cameron 1976; Parnall 2014. The fullest ancient accounts of the Nika-riot are found in Procop. Pers. 1.24.1–1.24.58 and Malalas 18.71–18.72. Meier 2003, 276–277; Meier 2004, 88–89.

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perhaps taking up refuge at one of the other imperial residences outside of the capital to regroup, was on the table as a serious option to consider. While scholars have understood this as a cowardly reaction by Justinian, it might also have been his way of distancing himself and thereby not witnessing the potential massacre that would take place when the military were sent in to stop the riots. The distance might subsequently also allow the emperor to return to the capital less stained with blood than he would be if he stayed in the direct vicinity of the slaughter which he would have ordered.18 At this stage in the story, Procopius presents a speech by Theodora as the rhetorical centrepiece of the deliberations held to decide on a course of action. Her words are worth quoting here for the subsequent analysis of the meaning of the speech: As to the belief that a woman ought not to be daring among men or to assert herself boldly among those who are holding back from fear, I consider that the present crisis most certainly does not permit us to discuss whether the matter should be regarded in this or in some other way. For in the case of those whose interests have come into the greatest danger nothing else seems best except to settle the issue immediately before them in the best possible way. My opinion then is that the present time, above all others, is inopportune for flight, even though it brings safety. For while it is impossible for a man who has seen the light not also to die, for one who has been an emperor it is unendurable to be a fugitive. May I never be separated from this purple, and may I not live that day on which those who meet me shall not address me as mistress. If, now, it is your wish to save yourself, o Emperor, there is no difficulty. For we have much money, and there is the sea, here the boats. However consider whether it will not come about after you have been saved that you would gladly exchange that safety for death. For as for myself, I approve a certain ancient saying that royalty is a good burial-shroud.19 Without going into an in-depth textual analysis of the speech, the following elements in this ‘rhetorical set-piece’ are important for our attempt to understand Procopius’ portrayal of Theodora in this particular episode.20 By taking the floor to speak in the company of her husband and his advisors in this moment of serious political crisis, she steps out of her traditional female role, 18 19 20

Greatrex 1997, 78. Procop. Pers. 1.34.33–37 (all translations of Procopius from the Loeb editions). Cameron 1985, 68. Cf. Connor 2004, 126.

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in which she would normally not be expected to interfere in state affairs, let alone to make such a powerful statement of direction. As Theodora emphasises at the beginning of her speech, she is encouraged to do so precisely because the dire situation is not alleviated by holding on to differences in male and female expected behaviour. Notably, Theodora herself thus draws attention to existing notions of expected male and female conduct both in words and in actions. She considers herself to be capable of having valuable and constructive insights into matters of government. For an emperor to flee from the palace, she continues, is not acceptable, precisely because he is the emperor. While it might save his life, it does not befit his imperial stature. For herself, Theodora declares that she will never give up her imperial status, her imperial purple robe, but would rather die instead. In other words, she is firm in her stance of not wanting to flee from the palace and is thus willing to face the consequences. Remarkably, even though she is clear on her own position, she leaves Justinian the possibility of departing. Thus, a second layer of the impression that Justinian was a coward is cleverly brought into the speech here by Procopius. It is not only unacceptable for an emperor to flee; it would even be worse if he were to leave behind his empress, who would thus turn out to be much braver than him. That would certainly not be an action to be undertaken by the head of state and commander in chief of an empire. How are we to understand Theodora’s speech, which is presented by Procopius as a crucial turning-point in Justinian’s considerations of possible scenarios for handling the crisis? Theodora’s firm words of perseverance not only give the emperor courage but all those around as well: ‘When the queen had spoken thus, all were filled with boldness, and, turning their thoughts towards resistance, they began to consider how they might be able to defend themselves if any hostile force should come against them’.21 Motivated by his wife’s words, Justinian then feels the courage to order his generals Belisarius and Mundus to stop the rioters with military violence. With over 30,000 lives lost—if the number that Procopius gives us is to be believed—Constantinople returns to a period with more peace and order. Justinian would remain on the imperial throne until his death in 565. Was Theodora thus ultimately the decisive factor that saved Justinian’s position? Procopius certainly would like his reader to believe so. The attempt to answer this question, I would argue, can be approached from two opposite perspectives; by assuming that Theodora did indeed give the speech or that Procopius made up the speech for his own rhetorical purposes.

21

Procop. Pers. 1.34.38.

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As for the first perspective, if the speech was really given by Theodora, how would Procopius have known about it? Would he have been present himself at the court in those days or would he have heard about the speech from others? Scholars tend to think that Procopius had not been present himself in the palace, but that he would have heard about Theodora’s words through Belisarius.22 Throughout his life Procopius was in close contact with Belisarius, whose secretary and legal advisor he was and whom he also accompanied on several military campaigns.23 The men thus knew each other well. During the deliberations in the palace the general would certainly have been present, offering his advice on the course of action. In envisioning the situation at the palace with Justinian and his close advisors trying to decide on how to proceed, one can well imagine that Theodora would have been present too. With the impression we have of her throughout the sources as an imperial spouse who was involved in the imperial rule, it is unlikely that she would have been waiting in her own quarters of the palace for the men to decide what to do. The matter was potentially life-threatening and therefore perhaps simply too urgent for her not to have been present. If so, it would have been only natural for her to have taken part in the discussions as well and thus she could have given her assessment of the situation. Procopius might have been informed by Belisarius later of her opinion. Apart perhaps from a few sentences that were worth remembering exactly, such as Theodora’s reference to the purple and the burial-shroud, Belisarius would probably have paraphrased most of her words.24 The fact that the style of the speech is in alignment with the entire narrative of Procopius points to his further polishing of the speech, which cannot be considered a verbatim account of Theodora’s words. This should not make us uneasy or suspicious, as speeches in the works of ancient historians were quite often not precise accounts and were not expected to be.25 Consequently, for his version of this episode Procopius had the freedom to embellish or dramatise the entire scene in the palace. Ultimately, he succeeded in demonstrating that Theodora played a decisive role in the outcome of the deliberations over the course of action. This particular interpretation, which has certainly influenced our modern image of Theodora as a brave and courageous empress in a time of crisis, ultimately depends on our accepting that she indeed gave this speech.

22 23 24 25

Evans 1984, 382; Meier 2003, 277; Meier 2004, 89. Cf. Evans 2002, 45, suggests that Procopius might have been present. Procop. Pers. 1.1.3–4. Cameron 1985, 7; Börm 2015, 324–325. Meier 2004, 99–100 on earlier examples of references to a burial-shroud. Stadter 1973 and Morrison 2006 on speeches in Thucydides; Adler 2008 and Levene 2010 on speeches in Tacitus.

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The second perspective on Theodora’s speech assumes that Procopius fabricated the speech, because he considered it a rhetorical opportunity for expressing his own views on the way in which Justinian handled the situation.26 In such an interpretation, Procopius would weave in a speech by Theodora at a moment that would seem credible to his audience and present the powerful words as a beacon of guidance through the storm. Theodora’s firmness would put Justinian and his indecisiveness directly into the shadow of his wife. This could be seen as a serious criticism not only of Justinian’s behaviour during these moments in the palace, but also of his poor judgement during the entire period of those few days of January, rather than as a serious attempt by Procopius to praise Theodora for her bravery. It is precisely the female boldness and sense of direction in this moment of crisis that make Theodora’s speech a counter image of Justinian’s conduct. By letting her step out of the expected, more timid and private role of women within a household, even if it was the imperial household, Procopius exposed Justinian’s weakness and lack of courage. That might have had nothing to do with the way in which Theodora had reacted in real life, but it certainly was convenient for Procopius to give her this spirited personality in the speech. Most of Procopius’ audience would not have been able to check if the speech had actually been given by Theodora and might not even have been interested in that aspect. What mattered most was the image of the empress that was the reverse of that of her husband. In this first book of the Wars, which was predominantly a narrative of the military campaigns that were fought for Justinian by his generals, the longer episode and the interference of Theodora by way of her speech would undoubtedly have made an impression on the audience. Within the work it is also her first significant appearance in which she plays an active part in the story line. The only other episode in the first book of the Wars in which the empress was involved was that of the dismissal of John the Cappadocian.27 Thanks to Theodora’s scheming, which mostly took place within the confinement of the private female chambers, John fell out of imperial favour and had to leave Constantinople. In this episode we are presented with a less courageous Theodora, but with a woman who played secret games to get her way. Whichever of the two interpretations of Theodora’s speech one is to follow, it is quite clear that we have to emphasise that Procopius was responsible for the empress’ image in this episode. It was the author’s choice to allow her a crucial role in a situation that in hindsight can be regarded to represent a decisive moment in Justinian’s rule. 26 27

Evans 1984; Meier 2004, 95–102. Procop. Pers. 1.25.11–1.25.30; Malalas 18.89 for a matter-of-fact description of John’s removal without mentioning any interference of Theodora. Cf. Potter 2015, 186–187.

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Theodora in the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna

figure 4.1 Justinian mosaic panel, apse, San Vitale, Ravenna picture courtesy of marlena whiting

While Theodora might have spent most of her life as an imperial spouse in Constantinople and in the East, her image travelled further around the Mediterranean. The two imperial panels that were set up on both sides of the apse in the San Vitale in Ravenna have generated much modern discussion.28 Multiple interpretations and layers of meaning can be applied to the imperial panels. On the left side of the apse, there is a panel with Justinian accompanied by Archbishop Maximian of Ravenna and two deacons, as well as by several high officials and a small group of soldiers. Theodora, whose panel is on the right side, shows the empress flanked by two male attendants or court officials (most likely eunuchs), by two women from the upper classes and a group of five ladies

28

Among the many studies, see for instance Deichmann 1969, 241–256, for positioning the panels within the entire mosaic programme of the San Vitale, and Deichmann 1974, 181– 187; Maguire 1987, 78–80; Barber 1990; Elsner 1995, 177–189; Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997; Bassett 2008. For more general historical studies on late antique Ravenna see Deliyannis 2010; Jäggi 2013; Herrin 2020.

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figure 4.2 Theodora mosaic panel, apse, San Vitale, Ravenna picture courtesy of marlena whiting

presumably attached to her household.29 The imperial couple is portrayed as offering gifts to the church, Justinian donating a paten while Theodora is holding a chalice. The presentation of these objects can be identified as part of the Little Entrance that signalled the start of the Liturgy in the Byzantine church.30 Within the scholarly attempts to understand the meaning of the two panels, the issue of two distinct phases in the creation of the mosaics and the interpretation of some of the other figures besides Justinian and Theodora have featured most prominently. Close analyses of the techniques and materials used for the panels, as discussed for instance in detail by Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold, have shown that the first phase of the mosaic could be dated to the period between the autumn of 544 and mid-February of 545 when Victor, the bishop of Ravenna had died. Since 538 he had been responsible for the construction of the church, but he would not live to see it finished. His successor 29

30

Several scholars connect the appearance of Theodora on the panel to Procopius’ description of her in Arc. 10.11. See Connor 2004, 135–136 for an analysis of Theodora’s appearance on the panel. Deichmann 1969, 241; Barber 1990, 20; Elsner 1995, 187; Connor 2004, 134.

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Maximian, who had been appointed on the order of Justinian and Theodora, consecrated the church.31 It is also the newly appointed bishop who seems to have been responsible for some serious alterations, in a second phase probably between late 546 and midsummer 548. Among several adjustments, he had the face of the bishop on Justinian’s panel changed into his own face with the addition of an inscription with his name.32 Furthermore, he might have added a figure to the mosaic positioned between himself and Justinian, possibly to be identified with John, the nephew of the rebel Vitalian.33 John was a general under Justinian and married to the daughter of the emperor’s cousin. While the identity of Justinian and Theodora has not been called into question, the identity of the members of the upper classes that accompany them on the panels is less certain. Several attempts were made to identify them with people from the circles around the imperial couple.34 A plausible identification which I follow in this contribution recognises Belisarius as standing directly to Justinian’s right, together with Anastasius, the fiancée of Joannina, who was Belisarius’ daughter.35 On the other imperial panel, Belisarius’ wife Antonina might have been placed directly next to Theodora on the empress’ left side, with Antonina’s daughter Joannina standing directly next to her mother.36 For the purposes of this contribution, I want to zoom in on Theodora and the way in which multiple meanings in relation to expected female presentation and conduct can be assigned to her panel. Throughout the analysis we have to keep in mind that Theodora’s panel cannot be examined without any reference to the meaning of that of Justinian’s, as the panels were meant to present a visual and coherent set that belonged together, despite many differences in their presentation.37 Nevertheless, here, the primary focus will be on hers. While previous scholarship has defined many specific characteristics of Theodora’s panel, in regards to the empress’ image in relation to the reality of her personality, there is room for further consideration. I want to draw atten-

31 32 33

34 35 36 37

Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 716; Verhoeven 2011, 122. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997; Bassett (2008), 51. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 721. Cf. Deichmann 1969, 241–244 who thought it might have been the praetorian prefect of Italia who might have attended the consecration ceremony of the church. Barber 1990, 34. One might also argue that apart from Maximian none of the people depicted on the panels is officially identified. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 719–720; Connor 2004, 122–123 and 137–139. For modern analyses of the relation between Theodora and Antonina, see Fisher 1978 and Evans 2011. Barber 1990; Connor 2004; 134–135; Bassett 2008 for an explanation of several stylistic differences.

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tion in particular to the location of the panel within the larger context of the church, as well as her presence on the panel. For us, at first sight, Theodora’s panel might induce some surprise, because of its prominent position in such a central and sacred space of the church, namely in the apse close to the altar. This would certainly not be a common location for depictions of secular women, even if they were empresses. If women were depicted in such a sacred space, such portrayals were mostly limited to images of the Virgin Mother or of female saints.38 Justinian’s panel was of course equally prominently set up in the apse, though in his case one might consider this as less surprising, as Byzantine emperors liked to present themselves as important mediators between Christ and the people. Bishops of course would see that role for themselves as well, so in this instance the portrayal of bishop and emperor next to each other on the imperial panel is a notable one. In Ravenna, the apse mosaics of the church of San Giovanni Evangelista might have been one outstanding example and source of inspiration for the prominent place of the imperial couple in San Vitale.39 San Giovanni Evangelista was built in the fifth century by Galla Placidia.40 The mosaic decoration of its apse, which unfortunately is lost now, may have contained a depiction of a bishop flanked by the imperial couple Arcadius and Eudoxia on his left side and by Theodosius ii and Eudocia on his right. An inscription possibly indicated that the emperors offered gifts (munera).41 Although it can only remain a hypothesis, one might wonder about the possibility that the audience in Ravenna might have realised a connection to this apse when they stepped into the church of San Vitale. If indeed these panels evoked a link with the mosaics in San Giovanni Evangelista, then the imperial power of Justinian and Theodora was visibly positioned in a longer line that went back to the successful Theodosian dynasty. Considering the prominent presence of Eudoxia and Eudocia in the church of San Giovannia Evangelista, Theodora’s presence would be required in the church of San Vitale if a symbolic connection were to be made. Then Arcadius and Theodosius could be associated with Justinian, while Eudoxia and Eudocia would be linked to Theodora. During actual church services, the apse as a space where clergy moved around to perform rituals would not be a place for an emperor, and certainly not an empress, to physically enter during a church service. Even though by the sixth century the physical presence of emperors during church services might

38 39 40 41

Ihm 1960. Thanks to Mariëtte Verhoeven who pointed this out to me. Deichmann 1974, 98–108; Verhoeven 2011, 32–34. Verhoeven 2011, 23, with footnotes, for the text of the inscription: confirma hoc Deus, quod operates es in nobis a templo sancto tuo, quod est in Jerusalem. Tibi offerent Reges munera.

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have occurred more often, it probably still took place mostly during major festivals and important moments of the liturgical year and not on a weekly basis.42 Moreover, the physical presence of an emperor would not mean that he was allowed to stand in the apse throughout the service. Remarkably, thus, the position of the panels of Justinian and Theodora in the apse gives them a permanent and prominent presence during the services in San Vitale. As the imperial couple never visited Ravenna, their panels can also be considered a visual reminder of the imperial connection and approval of the church. Our understanding of the meaning of Theodora’s panel might be advanced by taking the process of the creation of the panels into account. Who was the initiator? Were Justinian and Theodora involved? Who decided on the composition of the panels? These are questions that are not easily answered, but that are worth considering for the interpretation of the panels. As for the initiator of the church, while Maximian consecrated the church in 548, its construction was originally started by bishop Ecclesius, who died in 532.43 Subsequently, two more bishops were involved, Ursinicus and Victor, but neither saw the end of the project. At the beginning of the construction, perhaps already in the late 520s, the Ostrogoths still ruled in Ravenna, which they did well into the 530s until Belisarius had reconquered the territory for Justinian.44 As AndreescuTreadgold and Treadgold have argued, the imperial panels must have been decided on and designed in a later phase of the construction of the church, “because the Ostrogothic kings would hardly have permitted anyone to put up mosaics in their capital that glorified the emperor and empress as rulers of Ravenna”.45 Taking into account that Maximian had the face of the bishop changed, the panels must have been started under his predecessor Victor, who was bishop from 538–545. Should we imagine that Victor had asked permission from Justinian and Theodora to have them depicted in the panels and so conspicuously? In her 2004 analysis of Theodora’s panel, Connor has argued for the possibility of Theodora commissioning the panel as part of her marriage strategy for Joannina and Anastasius. As such, “the mosaics are also meant to be a public show of unity between the family of the imperial couple and that of Belisarius and Antonina, with the impending marriage about to seal the deal”.46 In this interpretation, the mosaic contained a message for Belisarius

42 43 44 45 46

See McLynn 2004 for an analysis of imperial churchgoing of Constantine the Great and his immediate successors. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 712. See Moorhead 1993 on the rule of Theodoric in Ravenna. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 712. Connor 2004, 139–140.

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and his wife as well, who were probably spending time in Ravenna in these years around the consecration of the church. Ultimately, however, there is no evidence at all that Justinian and Theodora were involved in the design of the panels. As said, the imperial couple never visited Ravenna, and thus never saw the church or the panels. As for the likeness of their portraits on the panels, they would not have sat for their portraits (if an emperor ever would pose for such an occasion), but the mosaic workshops might have been given portraits to work with.47 At the consecration of the church on May 17 of the year 548, which was led by Archbishop Maximian of Ravenna, they were in Constantinople, where Theodora was ill and would pass away a little over a month later on June 28.48 Nevertheless, it is also hard to imagine that they would not have been informed at all about the panels. The reconquest of Ravenna in the mid-530s must have been received as great news in Constantinople, as it symbolised victory over the Ostrogoths and the return of parts of the West under Byzantine rule. A public and prominent portrayal of the imperial couple in Ravenna to be set up shortly after the reconquest would certainly have been considered an advertisement of Byzantine rule at the court in Constantinople. As for the intended viewers of the panels, these consisted probably of a more local audience of the inhabitants of Ravenna, Italians, Byzantines and Ostrogoths. For Maximian, without a doubt, the consecration was an important event to confirm his ecclesiastical position, which was visually backed up in the church by the imperial couple who had appointed him. Equally, such a ‘local’ interpretation of imperial support for Maximian does not stand in the way of the panels’ further meaning as an expression of imperial Byzantine power in a period, as said, in which Byzantine rule had just been established again in the previous decade.49 The presence of Maximian himself on the panel was advantageous for his own position of ecclesiastical power, the presence of Belisarius and his wife a reminder of the general who had reconquered Italy, and the presence of the imperial couple a reference to the highest secular ruler in Constantinople. By placing these panels into the apse, the representatives of ecclesiastical, military and worldly power were visibly positioned within the church, symbolically paying their respect and showing obedience to Christ as

47

48 49

Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 720–721 for the suggestion that the Italian clergy might have sat for their portraits at the workshop. Cf. Procop. Aed. 1.10–15–19 for a description of a large mosaic ceiling in the Chalke Gate on which Justinian and Theodora were depicted. See Connor 2004, 136–137. Deichmann 1969, 241; Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997, 721. Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997,721; Barber 1990, 34–35.

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the ultimate source of the highest power. The hierarchic order of the world was hereby visualised for visitors of the church.50 While the previous paragraphs have examined Theodora’s panel within the specific location of the church as well its meaning within the larger hierarchical context of the Byzantine imperial rule, Theodora’s depiction on the panel deserves further attention. Without going into a detailed and technical analysis of her panel, I am interested here—similar to the question on Theodora’s speech above—in the question whether Theodora’s depiction offers a glimpse of the real historical Theodora or presents a visual construct of an image that the creator of the mosaic wanted the audience to grasp.51 Theodora’s appearance on the panel has been described by modern scholars as having a ‘calm stare’ and a ‘regal appearance’, luxuriously dressed in a long purple cloak with the three Magi embroidered on it, and with exquisite jewellery, an image quite appropriate for an empress.52 In real life in Constantinople she might have appeared in such a grand and elaborately dressed fashion, especially during public ceremonies. At the same time, it can also be regarded as a strong ideological image of an empress. While some scholars have seen individual traits of Theodora in her portrait on the panel—to some her paler cheeks are an indication of her (pending) death—the portrayal of the empress is simultaneously generic and would potentially suit any Byzantine empress.53 Others, such as Barber in his analysis of the panels from a gender perspective, assume that Theodora’s panel can function as an expression and perhaps even breach of the boundaries between the private sphere of women and the public realm of men.54 While she and her company seem to have moved from private female quarters into a transitional space, the arm of one of the two male figures in the panel holding a curtain to the side might indicate that they are about to step into a darkened room which could represent the public space of the church.55 According to Barber, such an interpretation allows Theodora to cross traditional boundaries between the use of public and private space by men and women.56 In being portrayed as moving between the private and public sphere, Theodora is positioned outside of the traditional boundaries. At the same time, while Justinian’s panel suggests that the emperor together with the bishop had 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Maguire 1987, 76; Elsner 1995, 180–181. For more detailed (stylistic) analyses, see Barber 1990; Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997; Connor 2004, 133–145; Bassett 2008. Connor 2004, 117–118 and 133–145. Elsner 1995, 186; Cesaretti 2001, 351–352. Barber 1990. Connor 2004, 134–135. Barber 1990, 25–38.

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already arrived in the church, the unclarity of the precise location of Theodora and her company means that she is not presented as equal to the emperor. Moreover, the bishop is portrayed on Justinian’s panel and not on hers, which is also an indication of hierarchy. In comparing the two panels in this respect, existing male and female boundaries remain intact. Although one can seriously wonder if the designer of the mosaic had a complicated gendered interpretation in mind, it is clear that Theodora’s unique position as empress led to her appearance on this panel in the apse of San Vitale. That specific location gives her an exceptionally visible image in comparison to most other Byzantine empresses. Her depiction, however, seems not necessarily a reflection of the real historical Theodora, but I would argue that we are confronted here with an idealised portrayal of the empress whose position of power was of value for the connection between the imperial couple and the bishops of Ravenna who were responsible for the construction, consecration and thus subsequent use of San Vitale.

4

Conclusion

This contribution should be seen as a first exploration of further refinements that we could develop in our search for an understanding of the life of the empress Theodora. Her imperial position brought her out in the public eye and allowed her to take up an influential and visible role in Byzantine society that few women would ever be able to obtain. At the same time, she would also be vulnerable to being used because of that position. The extremities that have crept into the ancient descriptions of her, in particular in those of Procopius, have led to a distortion of her image which brings to the fore Procopius’ intentions and personal preference more so than that they guide us to the ‘real’ historical Theodora.57 Both her famous speech in Procopius’ narrative of the Nika-riots and the imperial panel in the San Vitale have led to a representation of a strong, courageous and elegant empress. However, both sources were created with the intention to use Theodora for a particular message in the public sphere. In the case of Procopius, that might have been to emphasise Justinian’s weak and incompetent reaction to the Nika-riots. In the case of San Vitale, the image of Theodora as well as that of Justinian was of value for the bishops in stressing their ecclesiastical legitimacy and the support of the Byzantine imperial court in Constantinople. In both sources, Theodora is thus given agency in

57

Connor 2004, 132–133.

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the events that were of importance at a specific time or location in the empire. However, one might question if these sources offer the audience a glimpse of the real Theodora or of her image. Even though we have tried and we should continue to try and find the historical Theodora, we should also accept that we might never be able to find her. As is almost always the case with images, written or visual, it is eventually up to the audience to decide on the meaning. As for Theodora herself, the imperial burial-shroud that Procopius has her comment on in her speech has found its way into an eternal image of an elegantly dressed empress in the San Vitale mosaic. She probably would have been pleased.58

Bibliography Adler, E. (2008). Boudica’s Speeches in Tacitus and Dio. CW 101, pp. 173–195. Adshead, K. (1993) The Secret History of Procopius and its Genesis. Byzantion 63, pp. 5–28. Andreescu-Treadgold, I. and Treadgold, W. (1997). Procopius and the Imperial Panels of S. Vitale. The Art Bulletin 79, pp. 708–723. Barber, C. (1990). The Imperial Panels at San Vitale: A Reconsideration. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 14, pp. 19–43. Bassett, S.E. (2008). Style and Meaning in the Imperial Panels at San Vitale. Artibus et Historiae 29, pp. 49–57. Beck, H.-G. (1986). Kaiserin Theodora und Prokop. München. Börm, H. (2015). Procopius, his Predecessors, and the Genesis of the Anecdota: Antimonarchic Discourse in Late Antique Historiography. In: H. Börm, ed., Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity, Stuttgart, pp. 305–346. Brubaker, L. (2004). Sex, Lies and Intertextuality: The Secret History of Prokopios and the Rhetoric of Gender in Sixth Century Byzantium. In: L. Brubaker and J.M.H. Smith, eds., Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West 300–900, Cambridge, pp. 83– 101. Brubaker, L. (2005). The Age of Justinian: Gender and Society. In: M. Maas, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, Cambridge, pp. 427–447. Bury, J. (1897). The Nika Riot. JHS 17, pp. 92–119. Cameron, Alan (1976). Circus Factions: Blues and Greens at Rome and Byzantium. Oxford. Cameron, Averil (1985). Procopius and the Sixth Century. London.

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I would like to express my gratitude to Martijn Icks and Mariëtte Verhoeven for their valuable suggestions on this contribution.

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Cesaretti, P. (2001). Theodora Empress of Byzantium. New York. Connor, C.L. (2004). Women of Byzantium. New Haven. Dagron, G. (2011). L’hippodrome de Constantinople. Jeux, peuple et politique. Paris. Deichmann, F.W. (1969). Ravenna: Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes i. Wiesbaden. Deichmann, F.W. (1974). Ravenna: Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes ii. Wiesbaden. Deliyannis, D.M. (2010). Ravenna in Late Antiquity. Cambridge. Elsner, J. (1995). Art and the Roman Viewer. The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity. Cambridge. Evans, J.A.S. (1984). The “Nika” Rebellion and the Empress Theodora. Byzantion 54, pp. 380–382. Evans, J.A.S. (2002). The Empress Theodora. Partner of Justinian. Austin. Evans, J.A.S. (2011). The Power Game in Byzantium. Antonina and the Empress Theodora. London/New York. Fisher, E.A. (1978). Theodora and Antonina in the Historia Arcana: History and/or Fiction? Arethusa 11, pp. 253–279. Foss, C. (2002). The Empress Theodora. Byzantion 72, pp. 141–176. Giatsis, S.G. (2000). The Organization of Chariot-Racing in the Great Hippodrome of Byzantine Constantinople. International Journal of the History of Sport 17, pp. 36–68. Greatrex, G. (1997). The Nika Riot: A Reappraisal. JHS 117, pp. 60–86. Jäggi, C. (2013). Ravenna. Kunst und Kultur einer spätantiken Residenzstadt. Regensburg. Harvey, S.A. (2010). Theodora the “Believing Queen”. A Study in Syriac Historiographical Tradition. Journal of Syriac Studies 4.2, pp. 209–234. Herrin, J. (2020). Ravenna. Capital of Empire, Crucible of Europe. Princeton. Ihm, C. (1960). Die Programme der christlichen Apsismalerei vom vierten Jahrhundert bis zur Mitte des achten Jahrhunderts. Wiesbaden. Jeffreys, E., Jeffreys, M. and Scott, R. (transl.) (2017). The Chronicle of John Malalas. Leiden. Levene, D.S. (2010). Speeches in the Histories. In: A.J. Woodman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Tacitus, Cambridge, pp. 211–224. Maguire, H. (1987). Earth and Ocean. The Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art. University Park/London. McLynnn, N. (2004). The Transformation of Imperial Churchgoing in the Fourth Century. In: S. Swain and M. Edwards, eds., Approaching Late Antiquity, Oxford, pp. 235– 270. Meier, M. (2003). Die Inszenierung einer Katastrophe. Justinian und der Nika-Aufstand. ZPE 142, pp. 273–300. Meier, M. (2004). Zur Funktion der Theodora-Rede im Geschichtswerk Prokops (BP 1, 24,33–37). RhM 147, pp. 88–104.

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Moorhead, J. (1993). Theodoric in Italy. Oxford. Morrison, J.V. (2006). Interaction of Speech and Narrative in Thucydides. In: A. Rengakos and A. Tsakmakis, eds., Brill’s Companion to Thucydides, Leiden, pp. 251–277. Parnall, D.A. (2014). Spectacle and Sport in Constantinople in the Sixth Century ce. In: P. Christesen and D.G. Kyle, eds., A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity, Malden MA, pp. 633–645. Potter, D. (2015). Theodora. Actress, Empress, Saint. Oxford. Stadter, P.A., ed. (1973). The Speeches in Thucydides: A Collection of Original Studies with a Bibliography. Chapel Hill. Verhoeven, M. (2011). The Early Christian Monuments of Ravenna: Transformations and Memory. Turnhout.

chapter 5

Priestesses in the Sacred Space of the Acropolis A Close Reading of the Hekatompedon Inscription Josine Blok and Janric van Rookhuijzen

1

Introduction

A female deity, Athena Polias, reigned on the Acropolis, the central religious space of the city of Athens and its surrounding area Attica, from the late eighth century bce until the end of antiquity.1 Many other cults, both of Athena in other qualities and of other deities, appeared next to her. Since the cults on the Acropolis, and that of Athena Polias in particular, were essential to the identity and protection of the polis as a polity, the sacred area was also the heart of Athens’ civic space. Ideally, divine and human interests on the Acropolis blended without friction, but the practical handling of these interests was more complicated. The responsibility for the cult of Athena lay with female cult personnel, and that for the Acropolis as a public space with male civic magistrates, called the Tamiai (treasurers). Their duties differed in nature, but could, in practice, lead to tension. This friction is exemplified in the Hekatompedon inscription (IG i3 4), an extraordinary, early Attic inscription compiled from many fragments found on the Acropolis and currently in the Epigraphical Museum of Athens. Named by scholars after a structure called the Hekatompedon that appears twice in it, the inscription’s remit was wider: it regulated the conduct of worshippers and cultic personnel on the entire Acropolis. Still today, in its damaged state, it stands apart for its consistent, clear, and beautiful lettering.2 In this paper, we aim at a better understanding of the Athenian legislation on public sanctuaries exemplified in this inscription, especially concerning the decrees’ division of responsibility for the Acropolis sanctuaries between some of the highest priestesses and some of the highest officials of the polis. Following a brief introduction to the inscription, we describe the personnel on 1 All dates are bce, unless otherwise indicated. The qualification Polias (of the Acropolis) is attested from the mid-fifth century (IG i3 363); on the cults of Athena on the Acropolis, Meyer 2017. 2 On the aesthetics of the Hekatompedon inscription, Butz 2010.

© Josine Blok and Janric van Rookhuijzen, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_008

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the Acropolis, and next discuss the inscription’s regulations for the female cult personnel, namely the priestesses and the so-called zakoroi. We then propose a new restoration for a lacuna in this damaged text, and close by integrating all findings in the inscription’s message at large. We offer our contribution to Emily Hemelrijk in appreciation of her work on women in the public sphere of the ancient world, both inside and outside the domain of religion.

2

The Hekatompedon Inscription

The Hekatompedon inscription consists of two decrees, issued by the Athenian people in the archon year of Philokrates (485/4). The inscription is one of about a dozen inscribed decrees issued by the polis and the demes in the democracy’s early decades (ca. 508–460), of which all except one deal with religious matters.3 The inscription enacts rules of conduct not only for worshippers, but also for the Tamiai and the priestesses, who all belonged to the highest strata of Athenian society. It thus testifies to the self-consciousness of the demos as the sovereign authority of the polis, entitled to lay down the law on the elite.4 This confidence seems to be expressed as well in the enactment clause at the end of both decrees: ταῦτ ἔδοχσεν ⋮ το͂ι δέ[μοι ἐ]π̣ὶ Φ[ιλοκράτος ἄρχοντ]ος (the people decided this in the archonship of Philokrates), followed on the last one by τὰ ἐν τοῖν λίθοι[ν τούτ]οιν (on both these stones): the demos seems to be acting here of its own accord, without any role for the council.5 Although the name of the archon is severely damaged and the date has elicited much controversy (dates as high as the mid-sixth century and as low as 460/59 have been proposed),6 3 The extant fragments of IG i3 1 deal with rents and military duties of the klerouchoi on Salamis; whether the decree also settled religious matters is presently unknown. 4 IG i3 4 was issued in a period (490–480) when the people implemented several measures to quell inter-elite rivalry: applying ostracism every year from 488/7 (Hipparchos) to 483/2 (Aristeides), and the reinstitution in 487/6 of Solon’s method for selection of the archons by allotment from preselected candidates (klerosis ek prokriton) instead of election (Ath. pol. 22); cf. Forsdyke 2005, 175–177. 5 The enactment clause of Athenian decrees was not yet entirely fixed. Two decrees from c. 508–480 feature council and people in the prescript (IG i3 5, IG i3 243 A); the enactment clause of IG i3 1, just as on IG i3 4, only mentions the demos, but it is unknown whether the council featured at the end of this inscription. 6 The controversy is partially due to possible reconstructions, dates, and topography of the archaic Acropolis temples. In particular, the Older Parthenon, an unfinished temple thought to have been under construction on the south side of the Acropolis in 485/4, seems incompatible with the practice of treasure storage on that site in 485/4: see most recently Paga 2021, 288–289. However, we would argue instead that the dating of the archaic temples should follow the framework provided by the date of the inscription rather than vice versa.

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we are convinced by Ron Stroud’s arguments that the name of the archon was Philokrates and that the decrees accordingly date to 485/4.7 The decrees were inscribed in one go on two slabs of Hymettian8 marble (A and B) that are, in a sense, precursors to the rectangular marble stones (stelai) on which later Athenian decrees were inscribed. They were probably installed juxtaposed at a prominent place near the entrance of the Acropolis. The slabs of the Hekatompedon inscription can be grouped with three similar slabs that form a fifth-century revetment of the Mycenaean wall in the forecourt of the Old Propylon (the predecessor of the Periclean Propylaea). The five stones could be leftover or recycled metopes of the so-called H-architecture (also known as the Bluebeard Temple), an archaic temple possibly demolished in the sixth century.9 The exceptionally beautiful letters, highlighted by red paint, are aligned in a perfect grid (stoichedon) on the stones, cut by a man who has been described as “at the epicentre of his generation’s epigraphic innovations”.10 Decree 1 is written on slab A, which is so heavily damaged that only a few words and clauses are legible. Slab A also contains the beginning of decree 2, which continues on the slightly better-preserved slab B. Decree 2 holds at least two directives for the Tamiai, two sets of prohibitions for worshippers, one set of prohibitions for the priestesses and again one instruction for the Tamiai. Every clause is separated by a sign of nine dots. The various prohibitions are clearly structured by the words μέ … μεδέ … (not … nor …). Despite this formal clarity, the interpretation of the text is less straightforward as it employs in places an unusual, archaic Ionic-Attic vocabulary.11 This language

7 8 9

10 11

Stroud 2004. Butz 1995; Butz et al. 1999. Earlier commentators believed the marble to be Parian: e.g. Lolling 1890, 627. Stone B of the inscription has vestiges of a decorative tongue pattern and a crowning fascia, matching those preserved on fragments of marble metopes of a building that could be the Bluebeard Temple. On the metopes most recently, Butz et al. 1999, 259; Shear 1999, 108; Kissas 2008, 39–45, 109; Stewart 2008, 401; Butz 2010, xi; Holtzmann 2014, 34; Meyer 2016, 366; Paga 2017, 156; Rous 2019, 110. Meyer 2016, 366 identifies the stone of IG 13 230 (c. 520–510) as another metope of the Bluebeard Temple. Meyer 2016, 367. On the cutter’s original choice of letter forms, Tracy 2016, 28. The verb hιπνεύεσθαι is rare (see below). The verb ἱερουργέω recurs in IG i3 243 l. 132 (480– 450), the noun ἱερουργία appears in Hdt. 5.84–84, Pl. Leg. 775a1, and in a dozen Ionic inscriptions in Asia Minor. The frequency of the verb δράω in the text is unusual, but it occurs (for offering sacrifice) in IG i3 244 (475–450; see AIUK 4.1, no. 3) C, l. 4, 11. The expression δράω (τὰ) ἱερά is only attested in literary texts after the third century. The noun θωή (penalty) recurs in IG i3 105 l. 41, beside the common Attic ζημία in l. 23. Both the vocabulary of IG i3 4 and its paratactic style are paralleled in other fifth-century Attic

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has more affinities with epic, lyric, and tragedy than with classical prose and in these early Attic decrees it creates a formal style apparently considered fitting for legislation. In the translation below we have restored significant words (square brackets indicate words that cannot be read at all but seem possible) and numbered the sections of decree 2:12 Decree 1 (slab A l. 1–15): but if anyone … or a guard … fifty drachmas … the exaction process shall be conducted before the three [archons?] in the Agora, without deposits, and of the [ fines?] half shall go to the public treasury, the other half … [to the goddess?]; the Tamiai having … [ judge/ fine] the [slaves?] just as the free. [These things were decided by the People?] in the archonship of Ph[ilokr]a[t]es. Decree 2 (slab A, l. 16–28 + slab B) A. 1.

B. 2.

3.

4.

12

13

(l. 16–28) One of the Tamiai is to remain in the precinct of the temple on specified days, whenever … if he is able; but if not … [the] prytanis, and shall give to the … bronze vessels and spits except … sign … [If someone transgresses] knowingly, … but these (things) … two drachmas [is to be paid] to the public treasury.13 If he does not give … (l. 1–4) The Tamiai shall make a written record of all the bronze vessels on the Acropolis that they use, except those … in the storerooms with a sign (seal?), if from each … in the acropolis area (?). (l. 4–8) When persons performing rites (hιεροργο͂ντες) offer sacrifice inside, they shall not place any earthen cooking pot to the side, nor … nor … nor the fire; if anyone does any of these things knowingly, the Tamiai may impose a fine up to three obols. (l. 8–13) Persons performing rites … shall not … temple, and of the pre… altar … to the—side of the temple, inside the Kekropion nor along

inscriptions and hence do not offer arguments to regard the text as a re-inscription of an older original, pace Jordan 1979, 36–54. The text in IG is based on editions no later than 1967; the translation in AIO, which we used and modified here, is based on more recent editions and commentaries; https://www​ .atticinscriptions.com/inscription/IGI3/4. The prytanis (chairman) could be the leader of the Tamiai, but this arrangement is not otherwise known; he may also be another official.

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the entire Hekatompedon nor shall they throw out the animal waste; if anyone does any of these things knowingly, the Tamiai may impose a fine up to three obols. 5. (l. 13–17) The priestesses on the Acropolis and the zakoroi shall not … a treasury storeroom on the Acropolis nor shall they light a fire in ovens; but if anyone does any of these things, they shall be fined at their accounting one hundred drachmas, and the Tamiai, if they allow it, shall be fined at their accounting one hundred drachmas. 6. (l. 17–25) The treasurers shall open up the storerooms in … the Hekatompedon no less than three times per month on the days before the new moon and on the tenth and the twentieth for inspection; whoever is absent although being able (to be there), shall pay a fine of two drachmas each; the prytanis shall collect the fine, but if he does not, he shall himself be liable to the same penalty at his accounting; the prytanis shall inform the Tamiai about violations of what is written on the stone. These things which are on these two stones were decided by the People in the archonship of Ph[ilokrates.

3

The Female Cult Personnel on the Acropolis

At the time of the inscription, all priests and priestesses of polis cults were drawn by lot from the gene (kin groups, singular genos) that had held these privileged offices since ancient times.14 Besides providing cult personnel, the gene performed other cultic duties, such as customary sacrifices. The priestesses and priests were appointed for life, their assistants selected from the people for a year. Section 5 of the Hekatompedon inscription imposes two prohibitions on the priestesses, mentioned in the plural, and the zakoroi. The repeated clause ἐμ πόλει (on the Acropolis) shows that the regulations concern only the personnel of cults on the sacred rock.15 Strikingly absent are directives addressing the male priests of cults there, such as the priest of Poseidon-Erechtheus and

14 15

On the gene and the selection of their priests and priestesses, Blok and Lambert 2009. No priestesses of Athena Ergane and Hygieia are known, Athena Nike received a priestess of her own in the 430s (Blok 2014). On the slope, the cult of Aphrodite Pandemos possibly of the sixth century (Parker 1996, 48–49) had a priestess in the early third century (IG ii3 1, 879), but whether there was one already in 485/4, is unknown. Artemis Brauronia possibly had a small sanctuary on the Acropolis in the sixth century, but the main cult and its priestess were in Brauron. Cf. Hurwit 1999, 40–42.

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Boutes, and the priest of Kekrops.16 The reason is not stated, but we hypothesise that this notable absence can be explained by the cultic duties of these priests: they visited the Acropolis only sporadically for particular sacrifices at specific altars, whereas the female cult personnel moved about there frequently, some even on a daily basis, to attend to their multiple sacred responsibilities, which also required them to enter the treasuries. Who were this female cult personnel, and what were their duties? On current evidence we can identify several priestesses with certainty and one possibly. The cult of Athena Polias was the most prominent cult on the Acropolis. She was served by an impressive array of female personnel, among whom the priestess of Athena Polias held pride of place. The priestess was drawn from the Eteoboutadai, who more than any other genos counted as an aristocracy of birth.17 She oversaw the annual festivity in the month Hekatombaion (July/August), when the polis offered the goddess a new robe (peplos) and a large sacrifice, an event magnified into the prestigious festival of the Panathenaia in 566. The Panathenaia were celebrated every year, with every four years an extra splendid Great Panathenaia of pan-Hellenic ambitions, with an extensive competition programme in athletics, music and poetical performances. Athena was also celebrated on the third day of this month, which was her birthday, when the priestess probably provided an offering to her.18 The priestess of Athena Polias was the highest-ranking woman in Athens; Peter Thonemann vividly pictures her religious authority on the Acropolis, to the extent that the sacred area was regarded as her domain.19 The priestess of Athena Polias was assisted by two priestesses called the Trapezo(phoros) (Table-Carrier) and the Kosmo (Decoration Girl), possibly also drawn from the Eteoboutadai.20 Furthermore, two or four young girls, selected from the people, called Arrephoroi (meaning uncertain) helped the priestess setting up the loom for the peplos. They lived on the Acropolis during their term of service and had a ritual of their own related to Pandrosos, one of the daugh-

16 17 18 19 20

These priests were drawn from the Eteoboutadai (a different branch from the priestess of Athena Polias) and the Amynandridai respectively. On the extent to which the gene can be described as an aristocracy of birth, Lambert 2015. Harp. s.v. τριτομηνίς; Mikalson 1975, 16, for arguments why the 3rd rather than the 28th was Athena’s birthday. Thonemann 2020, 132–133 connects passages from Aristophanes’ Lysistrata to the duties of the priestess of Athena Polias. Harpocration calls the office of Τραπεζοφόρος (s.v.) a priestesshood (ἱερωσύνη). For the possible association with the Eteoboutadai, Lambert 2019, 165. On both women, SourvinouInwood 2011, 263–264.

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ters of the mythical king Kekrops.21 Preparing the wool and weaving the peplos was the duty of yet another group of maidens, the Ergastinai (Work Maids), selected from the people.22 When the new peplos had been offered, the old one was stored among Athena’s treasures on the Acropolis.23 Another ritual for Athena Polias was performed by two maidens, the Loutrides or Plyntrides (Bath-Women and Washerwomen) drawn from the genos Praxiergidai.24 They carried out the annual cleansing of the ancient wooden cult image of the goddess.25 The days of the two connected rituals, the Plynteria and the Kallynteria in the month Thargelion (May/June), were a time ritually cut off from normality. During the Plynteria, an inauspicious period, the polis refrained from important actions: the temple was closed, the cult image was removed, her jewellery and vestments were taken off, the peplos was washed, the image was veiled, taken in procession to the sea at Phaleron, washed and dressed again with the clean peplos.26 In the Kallynteria, the statue was returned to her cleaned and adorned abode, which was then reopened. A polis decree of ca. 420 (IG i3 7) confirmed the ancestral duties of the Praxiergidai as ‘putting on the peplos’, with a pre-sacrifice to the Moirai, Zeus Moiragetes (Leader of the Moirai), and Ge Kourotrophos (Child-Nurturing Earth); this ‘putting on the peplos’ must refer to the Plynteria, not to the Panathenaia.27 Was there also a priestess of the Praxiergidai? No such priestess is attested in our scarce sources, but we can consider the possibility. Across Greece, dressing and cleaning the cult statues of goddesses was entrusted to female cult personnel, not only because the production and care of textiles belonged to 21 22

23 24

25 26 27

Paus. 1.27.3. On the Arrephoroi, Parker 2005, 219–223. On the ritual functions of young and teenage girls in Athens, Brulé 1987. Hesych. s.v. ἐργαστῖναι. Cf. Connelly 2007, 39. IG ii2 1060 + IG ii2 1036; cf. AIUK vol. 1 2018, a decree of 108/7 that honours more than a hundred girls listed in tribal order, who had served in this role, all from prominent families. On the Chalkeia, when the weaving began, Clements 2017. IG ii2 1462, l. 12, the accounts of the Tamiai of 329/8 mention a peplotheke. Hsch. s.v. Πραξιεργίδαι; IG i3 7; Hsch. and Phot. s.v. Λουτρίδες, who seem to think that the two girls performed both duties, but see Mansfeld 1985, 367–368 for two distinct offices. Cf. Parker 1996, 307, Connelly 2007, 40. We follow here primarily Sourvinou-Inwood 2011, 135–224. For wooden cult statues and their dressing with vestments in Greece, Brøns 2017, 149–214. Plut. Alc. 34; Parker 1996, 307; 2005, 478. IG i3 7, l. 11; CGRN 24; comm. in AIO. On the peploi for Athena, Parker 2005, 265–269; Sourvinou-Inwood 2011, 263–311; Brøns 2017, 323–347. In IG ii2 1060 + IG ii2 1036; AIUK vol. 1, 2018, l. 8–9 either the [Praxiergi]dai or the [Euenorid]ai “receive the current year’s peplos”. The genos Euenoridai were also involved in dressing and clothing a statue, either of Athena Polias or of Aglauros, but no priestess is known. Cf. SEG 58.145 with Lambert 2008.

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the women’s domain, but also because these rituals meant physical and visual intimacy with the cult image representing the powerful goddess herself, a task appropriate for women only.28 The young Loutrides presumably performed their duties, which were crucial for the polis, under the supervision of an adult. The existence of a priestess of the Praxiergidai who supervised the girls and performed the sacrifices in the Plynteria is therefore an eminent possibility. An alternative scenario, in which the priestess of Athena Polias supervised the girls, is far less plausible, because a role for her in the Plynteria is not known, nor likely.29 If a priestess of the Praxiergidai indeed existed, she would be on duty on the Acropolis for some time in Thargelion, and might have provided the traditional offering to Athena on the third day of the month.30 Covering the ritual year of Athena Polias together, the two gene were closely associated.31 Solid evidence shows the existence of a priestess from the Salaminioi who served the cults of the mythical heroines Aglauros and Pandrosos and of Ge Kourotrophos.32 The Pandroseion was on the top of the Acropolis, contiguous with the temple of Athena.33 Aglauros had a sanctuary on the east slope of the Acropolis.34 Ge Kourotrophos received a pre-sacrifice before any greater sacrifice; likewise, Pandrosos received a sheep when a cow was sacrificed to Athena.35 In sum, this priestess had a range of sacrificial duties on the Acropolis. While these women were responsible for the cult of Athena Polias and other cults on the Acropolis, the board of the Tamiai was responsible for Athena’s

28

29 30 31

32

33 34 35

Brøns 2017, 215–223; Holtzmann’s assumption 2003, 222, that in decree IG i3 7 the care of the cult image, including the donning of the peplos, was entrusted to male Praxiergidai, has no corroboration from ancient sources and seems unlikely. Sourvinou-Inwood 2011, 158, 198, 201, 216. Cf. IG i3 7 l. 20–21; CGRN 24 C l. 6–7: δὲ Θαργελι | [ο̑νος … 18 … τ]ρίτες διδόναι. IG ii3 1, 1026, l. 18–20, a third-century decree honouring the priestess of Athena Polias for financially assisting the Praxiergidai with their ancestral sacrifice. On the ritual year, Sourvinou-Inwood 2011, 348–349. That the priestess of Athena Polias supervised the girls is implausible, since she had no role in the Plynteria: Sourvinou-Inwood 2011, 148–151, 214. The priestess of Aglauros from the genos Salaminioi (see below) performed a sacrifice to Aglauros in the Kallynteria, but she had no role in the Plynteria either. Combined priesthood: RO 37, of 363/2; the cults perhaps merged with that of Ge Kourotrophos in the fourth century; Parker 1996, 311. The honorific decree of the polis for the priestess of Aglauros (IG ii³,1 1002) shows that this cult, and thus probably the others as well, were on the Acropolis, not in the demes, as Parker 1996, 311 wonders. Paus. 1.27.2. Holtzmann 2003, 205, 165. For the Aglaureion, Paus. 1.18.2–3; Dontas 1983. Suda k 2193: Κουροτρόφος γῆ; Harp. s.v. Ἐπίβοιον.

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property. At the time of our decree, they were ten in number, one from each tribe, drawn by lot from the highest property class and serving for four years, from Great Panathenaia to Great Panathenaia.36 The Tamiai had been (re)instituted by the lawgiver Solon in or shortly after 594, to guard the divine treasures on the Acropolis. By the later sixth century, a public treasury (the demosion) had come into existence, of which a body called the kolakretai administered the expenses.37 From the early sixth to the late fourth century, the administration of divine and public human property changed, but the Tamiai remained the overseers of Athena’s wealth. Our inscription shows them also responsible for proper conduct on the Acropolis.

4

The Province of the Priestesses

Most of the current restorations in the Greek text of IG i3 4 in the Inscriptiones Graecae are convincing to us,38 with one exception that matters here. The text in IG of section 5) is the following:

15

τὰς] hιερέα[ς] τὰς ̣ ἐμ πόλει ⋮ καὶ τ⋮ ἐμ πόλει ⋮ μὰς ζακόρος [μὲ hέχεν οἴ]κεμα ταμιεῖον ̣ εδὲ hιπνε[ύεσθαι· ἐὰν δέ τις τ]ούτον τι δρᾶι ⋮ εὐθύνε[σθαι hεκατὸν] ⋮ δραχμε͂σ[ι καὶ] τὸ̣ ̣ς ταμίας ⋮ ἐὰν ἐο͂σ[ι εὐθύνεσθαι] hεκατὸν δραχμε͂[σι.

The decree lists prohibitions for ‘the priestesses’ in the plural: they would include the priestess of Athena Polias and her priestess-assistants of the Eteoboutadai, the Salaminioi priestess, and, if she existed, the priestess of the Praxiergidai. A second group addressed here are the zakoroi; the feminine article shows that women are meant. The term ζάκορος, used across Greece both for men and women, is often translated as ‘temple servant’. However, this is somewhat misleading, because what is crucial in this office is not the temple, but the cult.39

36 37 38 39

Ath. pol. 8.1. On their term of office, Develin 1984. For the institution of the Tamiai, Bubelis 2016, 21–60. For their inventories, Harris 1995. On the demosion, Samons 2000, 54–62. The treasury itself was probably not on the Acropolis, but below it (56 and n. 129). We cannot address here the reconstruction of the fragments of slab B, which has not been challenged since they were first collected by Lolling 1890. Cf. Butz 2010, 163. LSJ s.v. ζάκορος. On female cult personnel, Georgoudi 2005. ‘Temple servant’ is an apt

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Zakoros was the personal name of the earliest hierophantes (main officiating priest) at Eleusis known to us, who held his priesthood around the time of our decree.40 Although his name is clearly a quasi-modest case of hieronymy (the use of the name of a sacred office as a personal name), he will not have regarded himself as a temple servant, but rather as a servant of the goddesses in their cult. This image of ‘serving the cult’ is also immanent from other cases of the noun ζάκορος and the verb ζακορεύω (serving as a zakoros).41 All available evidence agrees that a zakoros was an acolyte, often serving directly under a priest(ess). The female zakoroi of our inscription cannot be identified directly from the text, nor from any other inscriptions or literary texts concerning the Acropolis. Rather, it seems that the Hekatompedon decree uses zakoroi as an umbrella term that could include all the cult assistants of the priestesses listed above. What does the decree say about the priestesses and the zakoroi? The text is far from fully preserved, but several restorations can be made. The restoration οἴ]κεμα (room) is virtually certain given the recurrent references to οἰκέματα in the text. Section 2) features rooms for the storage of metal objects. These rooms were provided with a sign, probably a seal, as the Tamiai may have been told to do in A, l. 21. Section 6) mentions rooms in the Hekatompedon, which the Tamiai are to open and inspect three times per month. Whether the rooms in section 2) are a subset of those in section 6) is not clear, but what is clear is that some rooms are in the Hekatompedon. The word ταμιεῖον appears here for the first time in extant Greek. The term derives from ταμίας (treasurer) and translates as ‘of the Tamiai’ or ‘relating to the treasury’.42 Occurring by itself, it is a noun meaning ‘treasury’, but in our inscription it is juxtaposed to the noun οἴ]κεμα. The combination οἴ]κεμα ταμιεῖον may be a predicative expression that can follow a limited number of verbs (i.e., ‘[to have/make] a room as a treasury’). Yet, ταμιεῖον could also function more simply as an appositive of οἴ]κεμα: ‘a room [that is] a treasury’ or ‘treasury room’. The clause implies that there were also other rooms on the Acropolis that were not used for treasure storage.

40 41 42

translation of διάκονος, such as Syeris, who served the priestess Lysimache and the goddess Athena in her temple for many years (IG ii² 3464). [Lys.] 6, Andoc. 54; Clinton 1974, hierophant no. 1; 10. IG i3 250 (CGRN 25; AIO); B l. 35–36; IG ii² 1328, l. 16–18. Male zakoroi: IG ii² 840; IG ii² 2953; several male zakoroi for the priests of Isis, etc. From the fifth century, a tamieion is normally the treasury (Thuc. 1.96; 7.24). Occasionally tamieion refers to a storeroom of foodstuffs (e.g. Aesop. Fab. 82) but the association with valuables is stronger (Pl. Prot. 315d2; [Arist.] Oec. 1344b33).

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The lacuna has seven further unknown characters. They certainly begin with μέ (not), because the dependent term μεδέ (nor) appears later in the sentence. An infinitive verb form must follow. As there are no three-letter infinitives available that make sense here, the infinitive must be longer. No additional space is thus left for the definite article τό, which implies that the inscription speaks of a or any treasury, rather than a particular one. The infinitive occupies the five remaining characters. Whereas the restorations [μὲ and οἴ] are thus clearly valid, the restoration of the infinitive as hέχεν (to have), first proposed by Dittenberger and accepted by Jameson in IG i3, is problematic.43 First, the appearance of a word with a double aspiration is unlikely in inscriptions of this date.44 Second, the penalty clause ‘if anyone does one of these things’ confirms that more than one action is forbidden. However, the possession of a treasury can hardly be considered an action that could be forbidden by imposing a fine. Third, in prohibitions elsewhere, the use of the construction μὴ ἔχειν is extremely rare; it does not occur in inscriptions, and in literary texts the few passages with μη(δὲ) ἔχειν are not really prohibitions, but rather pressing advice.45 In our decree, however, the rule is certainly not a matter of advice, but an explicit prohibition. Fourth, in terms of polis administration, it would seem strange to prohibit the priestesses and the zakoroi from having a treasury of their own: it is hard to see how this situation could arise, because only the Tamiai had ultimate authority over the treasuries and their surveillance. It was thus redundant to state that the priestesses and their assistants are not ‘to have’ a treasury, especially in this concise decree. The same objection applies to Kirchoff’s restoration ποιε͂ν (to make) in IG Is, yielding the prohibition against ‘making a room a treasury’. Phonological, semantical, syntactical, and historical objections, in sum, disqualify the restorations hέχεν and ποιε͂ν.46 For an alternative, we return to a remark by Wilhelm Dörpfeld, who, without attempting to restore the Greek text, suggested that the prohibition concerns trespassing into the treasuries.47 Such a measure would make sense, since the women’s various cultic duties made them enter the temples and sanctuaries frequently. As elsewhere in Greece, the Acropolis temples seem to have been divided into parts for the cult statue and parts for treasure storage; they thus

43 44 45 46 47

Dittenberger 1891, 472–473. This inscription postdates the completion of Grassmann’s law (the cancellation of the first of two aspirations in subsequent syllables in a word). Hippoc. Art. 40.8.; Hipp. Mul. 2, 145, 243; Isoc. Nic. (2) 50.9. Neither is accepted by Butz 2010, 164. Dörpfeld 1890, 422.

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amalgamated the domains of the female cult personnel and the Tamiai.48 In the treasures, the authorities of the priestess of Athena Polias and the Tamiai overlapped, because she was responsible for the gifts made to the goddess in her cult and they were responsible for the goddess’ wealth on behalf of the polis.49 We can imagine that this spatial situation could lead to confusion. Regulating the use of these rooms firmly under the authority of the Tamiai would resolve any dispute, and help to safeguard the treasures as the decree intends. We therefore propose to restore the text with the present infinitive πατε͂ν from πατέω (walk in, dwell in, frequent), which governs the accusative case and can do without a preposition and an article, and thus fits the lacuna.50 With πατε͂ν, the decree would prohibit the priestesses and zakoroi from going into any of the treasure rooms more frequently than strictly necessary or to linger there. We regard our conjecture certainly not as conclusive, but as preferable to hέχεν and ποιε͂ν on linguistic, grammatical, and historical grounds.51 The second action prohibited for the priestesses and zakoroi is hιπνεύεσθαι, lighting an ἰπνός (an oven, notably a portable one made of clay).52 The verb ἰπνεύω is extremely rare and occurs, beside here, in two sacred laws from Argos 48

49

50 51

52

On the classical treasury locations, van Rookhuijzen 2020. From 434/3bce until the end of the fourth century, a treasury named ‘Parthenon’ (Παρθενών, Virgin Room) appears in the Tamiai’s inventory inscriptions as a location for the storage of ancient heirlooms and Persian war spoils. The name indicates a plurality of virgins and could refer to female cultic personnel. The room is traditionally identified with a part of the great temple of Athena later known as the Parthenon, but there are reasons to locate it in the Karyatid Temple instead. IG ii2 1456 A l. 22–23; IG ii2 1472 A l. 7, fourth-century accounts of the Tamiai, show that the priestess of Athenia Polias was involved in the annual accounting of the goddess’ treasures; Lycoph. fr. 6.4 = Suda s.v. συσσημαίνεσθαι: a decree regulated that she sign the accounts together with the Tamiai. Cf. Connelly 2007, 217; Thonemann 2020 139, who argues that in 412 the priestess of Athena Polias, Lysimache, may have actively opposed using the so-called Iron Reserve of the goddess’ wealth for the financing of war. LSJ s.v. πᾶτέω, ii.2; e.g. Soph. Phil. 1060; Theoc. 18.20. Less likely solutions include: οἴγεν from οἴγω (to open), which in combination with a building or room usually implies entering it (Hom. Il. vi.89; Od. 1.436; Pind. Nem. 1.41; Soph. El. 1458), but in classical Attic the compound verbs ἀνοίγω and ἀνοίγνυμι replaced the simplex οἴγω, and in our decree, ἀνοίγω appears in section 6); and δύνεν from δύ(ν)ω (to enter). We found this option by entering the clause in the ‘PYTHIA’ model, which offers possible restorations of Greek text based on artificial intelligence (Assael, Sommerschield, Prag 2019). Cf. Hom. Il 3. 322; Il. 22.99; Eur. HF 873; Soph. Ant. 1217. However, the verb is preferably combined with a preposition, for which space is lacking here. Beside these linguistic objections, a prohibition for the women from entering the rooms at all is not very plausible, given their sacral duties. For fifth-century Attic ἱπνός (with rough breathing) Threatte, i 1980, 503; Ar. Av, 436. For such ovens, Sparkes 1962, plate v, 1 and 2.

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and Paros, which prohibit worshippers, among other things, to light a fire in the sanctuary and to make a mess with animal waste.53 Hesychius seems to understand ἰπνεύεσθαι as the roasting of barley.54 Barley in various shapes was a common dedication to the gods: once roasted above a fire, it was called alphita (groats) and it did not need to be baked again, but was mixed with water, olive oil (and some salt) into mazai (balls of bread) offered to the gods.55 Barley mixed with wheat, or wheat only, was mixed with water and oil into a dough and baked as pemmata (loaves), to be offered to the gods as pelanoi (offering cakes). Among the gods receiving such cakes was Zeus Hypatos, who according to Pausanias only accepted bloodless, vegetal sacrifice on his altar close to the Erechtheion, a sanctuary that can plausibly be associated with the Kekropion of our inscription.56 This section thus seems to forbid the priestesses and zakoroi to light an oven to roast barley or bake bread. A plausible reason for this prohibition is the risk of fire: the law from Paros explicitly mentions this danger. In section 4) the performers of the rites are likewise prohibited from using fire in some way, but they face a much lower fine. These measures draw our attention to another striking feature of section 5): the fines set for the priestesses and zakoroi if they violate either one of the prohibitions are exceptionally high. What does this fining practice tell us about the significance of the regulations?

5

Fines in the Hekatompedon Inscription

The fines in the Hekatompedon inscription can be compared to other fines in Athenian decrees, which show a certain pattern.57 Private persons misbehaving in public, whether in sanctuaries or elsewhere, paid a fine either to the public treasury, or to the gods, or both. Until the mid-fifth century, the maximum fine that lower officials such as demarchs, priests and public cult officials could impose was 50 drachmas.58 Officials, i.e. citizens holding a public or cultic

53 54 55

56 57 58

Argos: IG iv 557. Paros: IG xii,5 126 (late second century). The single literary reference is Hsch. E 1548: ἐκοδομεύετο· ἐφρύγετο. ἰπνεύετο. κοδομεύω = to roast barley; φρύγω = to roast, especially barley (LSJ). CGRN list 28 files with barley as gift to the gods; barley is offered in six Athenian decrees roughly contemporary with the Hekatompedon-decrees, between 510 and 450: IG i3 231; 232; 234; 243; 244; 246 (CGRN 20); OR 108 (= IG i3 7, ca. 450–420). On the significance of bread offerings to the gods, Kearns 2011. Paus. 1.26.5. Cf. 1.38.6; 8.2.3. On the relation of the Erechtheion and the Kekropion, van Rookhuijzen 2021. For this pattern, Blok 2022. E.g. IG i3 82 l. 26; for the fourth century ii2 1237, l. 54–58; ii2 1362.

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office, could be penalised when they had to account for their duties at the end of the year. Normally, they paid double the fines of private citizens to the public treasury. If they had failed to fine a trespasser, they were liable for the same fine that they had failed to impose. Fines were imposed on free persons; slaves were often penalised with an equivalent number of lashes. To modern eyes the system seems occasionally erratic, but the amount of a penalty reflects the gravity of the violation according to the demos. With this pattern in mind, we consider the forbidden actions and penalties in the Hekatompedon decrees, for clarity presented in the following table.

Prohibited action

Addressee

Amount

Money due to

Reference

Decree 1 archons? (half to the public treasury, probably half to Athena) No one to remain in the sanctu- Tamiai None,59 but Decree 2.1, ary Prytanis must lines 16–23 take action ? ? 2 drachmas Athena?60 Decree 2.1, lines 24–28 Placing earthen cooking pot to Performers 3 obols ?62 Decree 2.3 the side when sacrificing inside of rites61 Throwing out waste in the Kek- Performers 3 obols ?62 Decree 2.4 ropion, near the temple and of rites near the Hekatompedon Entering treasuries, baking Priestesses 100 drachmas public treasury63 Decree 2.5 bread and zakoroi ?

People standing guard

59 60 61

62 63

50 drachmas

διδόναι (to give) is normally not used for paying fines. In line 26, τε͂ι Ἀθεναίαι (to Athena) would be a plausible restoration, making the fine payable to the goddess, because in the next line a fine is owed to the public treasury. By these ‘performers of rites’, who apparently make both vegetal and animal sacrifices, private persons are meant, because the decree, like all decrees, refers to office holders, cultic and civic, by their office titles. To which treasury this fine is due, is not stated. Fines due to a god are indicated by the name of the god and often by the verb ὀφείλω (to owe). Cf. Scafuro 2014; Blok 2022. The verb εὐθύνεσθαι (to be accountable) implies paying a fine at one’s accounting for office to the public treasury.

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Prohibited action

Addressee

Allowing priestesses and Tamiai zakoroi to enter treasuries, or to bake bread Tamiai Failing to be present at the regular inspections of the treasure storerooms three times a month Failing to fine Tamiai as per 2.6 Prytanis

Amount

Money due to

Reference

100 drachmas

public treasury63

Decree 2.5

2 drachmas

(probably) public treasury

Decree 2.6

2 drachmas

public treasury

Decree 2.6

All fines in the Hekatompedon inscription fit the fining pattern in the first half of the fifth century. The fines for common citizens would seem modest, but for poor people they were between half and twice a day’s wage. However, two cases stand out. First, the penalty of 50 drachmas in decree 1 is the maximum fine, probably for citizens on duty as guardians who are to be fined if they fail in their duties.64 Second, the fines for the priestesses and zakoroi for entering treasuries and roasting barley, and the Tamiai if they fail to act, are set at the maximum for officials: 100 drachmas. This is an exorbitant amount; for comparison, it is 200 times higher than the fine of 3 obols set for citizens when misbehaving during sacrifice, including the use of fire. A similar high fine is set for the male priests of the Eumolpidai and the Kerykes, the gene of Eleusis, if they initiate into the Mysteries more than one person at a time.65 The decree in which this fine appears, dated to ca. 460, concerns a quite different kind of sanctuary, but like the Hekatompedon inscription it regulates the conduct of the cult personnel and worshippers, including fines for misconduct, and reveals the drive of the Athenian demos to con64

65

Standing guard (φρουρά) was a duty for citizens, of which proxenoi, if they were to settle in Athens, could be exempt; IG i3 159 (ca. 430); 164 (440–425). In the first half of the fifth century, Athens had fifty guards (Ath. pol. 24.3), of which an unknown number on the Acropolis. IG i3 45 (445?) decides on action against thieves on the Acropolis, where a building needs to be roofed within sixty days and three archers from the phyle in prytany are to guard it. IG i3 6 (I.Eleusis 19; OR 106); in C l. 29–30. The amount is restored in IG as εὐθύνεσθα[ι χιλιάσι] δρα[χ]με͂σι], but hεκατόν is equally possible and more plausible, cf. Blok 2022. Jordan 1979 suggests that only a form of sacrilege, namely mixing sacred and secular fires, can explain the high fine for baking.

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trol the sanctuary, probably motivated by pious responsibility and sovereign authority in equal measure. A comparison of the regulations for Eleusis with the Hekatompedon inscription suggests that the point of the latter decree is primarily not bringing female priestesses under control of male officials (the Tamiai), but rather bringing cult personnel, that is female due to the gendered division of cultic labour on the Acropolis, under control of polis officials under authority of the demos. The high fines in these decrees reflect the urgency with which the actions concerned were forbidden. To explain these fines and regulations, we need to take the whole text into consideration.

6

The Message of the Hekatompedon Inscription

The essential message of the Hekatompedon inscription is a deep concern for the safety of Athena’s treasures on the Acropolis. The visual salience of the stones, the first to be used in this way and located in a prominent place, and the impressive appearance of the text give striking expression to the urgency of the decrees. The demos made the Tamiai, supervised by a prytanis, responsible for implementing all measures. Citizens who failed to guard the Acropolis properly were fined heavily. Worshippers who were careless with fire or sacrificial waste were to be fined relatively mildly, but the fine was still high enough for an effective prohibition. On specified days, one of the Tamiai was to be present on the Acropolis. The treasures of the goddess in their care fall into two categories: regularly used bronze objects that were to be inventoried, and another group of treasures. All treasures were stored in dedicated rooms marked with a seal. Three times per month, at regular intervals of ten days, these rooms must be opened and inspected. The decree includes clear instructions for the priestesses and their cult assistants. For their cultic duties, the women had to enter the buildings on the Acropolis frequently, but, as we have argued above, the decree ruled that they refrain from going into the treasure rooms more often than strictly necessary. The women were also forbidden to roast barley or bake bread; it would seem that they formerly did so, but now it was no longer allowed. Any potential clash of authority over the treasure rooms between the priestesses and the Tamiai was firmly resolved in favour of the latter. Inscribed norms for keeping sanctuaries safe and clean abound in ancient Greece, but the Hekatompedon inscription’s insistence on such precautions invites comment. What motivated these measures?

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First, in terms of polis administration, with these decrees the Athenian demos implemented their responsibility for the goddess’ property and enforced their authority on the Acropolis and over its highest cultic and financial officials. To this end, they extended the responsibility of the Tamiai, whose mandate had possibly been limited to handling the treasures of Athena, but with this decree clearly was widened to include the surveillance of the conduct of citizens and cult personnel on the Acropolis that might endanger the treasures. Second, for this policy, there may have been good reasons beside democratic control. The fear of fire in sanctuaries was realistic. In 548, the temple of Apollo at Delphi burned down. In ca. 510, the temple of Aphaia on Aegina, close to Athens, was destroyed by fire; rebuilding took place probably in the years just prior to our inscription.66 Such fires could be caused by cult personnel: in 423, the temple of Hera at Argos was ravaged by fire because the priestess had put a torch close to garlands inside the temple.67 On the Acropolis itself, a fire devastated the Old Temple of Athena in 406/5, which may have burned also the Pandroseion and plausibly led to the removal of treasures from the Parthenon treasury.68 In the fourth century, a fire burned the Opisthodomos treasury that was located in the Great Temple of Athena; the Tamiai were held accountable for this disaster.69 In conclusion, we arrive at a new context for the purpose of this extraordinary document: reading between its beautiful, yet strict lines, the Hekatompedon inscription’s primary purpose was to guarantee the survival of the Acropolis temples and its treasures—the sacred possessions of Athena and the recourse of the young democracy in its future days of emergency. The decrees fit a pattern of legislation by which the Athenian demos secured more control and responsibility over the polis’ sanctuaries. This development seems to be spurred by both the demos’ piety and their wish to exert sovereignty over religious matters. Consequently, they regulated the conduct not only of worshippers, but also of the priests and priestesses who by tradition served these cults. By and large, gods were served by men, goddesses by women, but exceptions existed: in Eleusis, the cult of the goddesses Demeter and Kore was served by male priests, who found themselves subjected to new regulations, too. On the Acropolis, the major cults of Athena were served by women, whereas the public administration of her treasures remained the domain of men in a traditional,

66 67 68 69

Gill 1988. Thuc. 4.133.3. Xen. Hell. 1.6.1; IG ii2 1654 + IG i3 478 revised text on AIO, with AIO-Paper no. 7; l. 35–36. Removal of treasures: van Rookhuijzen 2020, 27–29. Dem. 24.136.

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gendered division of labour. It was everyone’s duty to heed the admonitions for conduct laid out in the Hekatompedon decrees, but among its most prominent addressees were the priestesses and young girls who took care of the temples and in whose hands rested the continuation of the cult of the goddess.70

Bibliography Assael, Y., Sommerschield, T., and Prag, J. (2019). Restoring Ancient Text Using Deep Learning: A Case Study on Greek Epigraphy. Proceedings of the Conference in Empirical Methods in Natural Language Processing (EMNLP—IJCNLP 2019), pp. 6369– 6376. Blok, J.H. (2014). The priestess of Athena Nike: A New Reading of IG i3 35 and 36. Kernos 27, pp. 99–126. Blok, J.H. (2022). Ten Thousand: Fines, Numbers and Institutional Change in FifthCentury Athens. In: R. Sing, T.A. van Berkel and R. Osborne eds., Numbers and Numeracy in the Greek Polis. Leiden/New York, pp. 96–130. Blok, J.H. and Lambert, S.D. (2009). The Appointment of Priests in Attic Gene. ZPE 169, pp. 95–121. Brøns, C. (2017). Gods and Garments: Textiles in Greek Sanctuaries in the 7th to the 1st Centuries bc. Oxford. Brulé, P. (1987). La fille d’Athènes. La religion des filles à Athènes à l’époque classique. Mythes, cultes et société. Paris. Bubelis, W.S. (2016). Hallowed Stewards. Solon and the Sacred Treasurers of Ancient Athens. Ann Arbor. Butz, P.A. (1995). The “Hekatompedon Inscription” and the Marble of its Metopes. Part i: Empiricism and the Epigraphical Tradition. In: Y. Maniatis, N. Herz and Y. Basiakos, eds., The Study of Marble and other Stones Used in Antiquity, London, pp. 65–72. Butz, P.A., Maniatis, Y., and Polikreti, K. (1999). The “Hekatompedon Inscription” and the Marble of its Metopes. Part ii: the Scientific Evidence. In: M. Schvoerer, ed., Archéomateriaux: Marbres et autres roches. Actes de la ive Conférence International, Bordeaux, pp. 255–260. Butz, P.A. (2010). The Art of the Hekatompedon Inscription and the Birth of the Stoichedon Style. Leiden/Boston. Clements, J.H. (2017). Weaving the Chalkeia: Reconstruction and Ritual of an Athenian

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Festival In: C. Brøns and M.-L. Nosch, eds., Textiles and Cult in the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford, pp. 36–48. Clinton, K. (1974). The Sacred Officials of the Eleusinian Mysteries. TAPhS n.s. 64.3. Philadelphia. Connelly, J.B. (2007). Portrait of a Priestess. Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece. Princeton/Oxford. Develin, R. (1984). From Panathenaia to Panathenaia. ZPE 57, pp. 133–138. Dittenberger, W. (1891). Zur Hekatompedon-Inschrift. Hermes 26.3, pp. 472–473. Dontas, G.S. (1983). The True Aglaurion. Hesperia 52.1, pp. 48–63. Dörpfeld, W. (1890). Der alte Athenatempel auf der Akropolis 4. AM 15, pp. 420–439. Forsdyke, S. (2005). Exile, Ostracism, and Democracy. The Politics of Expulsion in Ancient Greece. Princeton. Georgoudi, S. (2005). Athanatous therapeuein. Réflexions sur des femmes au service des dieux. In: V. Dasen and M. Piérart, eds., Ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ. Les cadres «privés» et «publics» de la religion grecque antique. Actes colloque CIERGA, Fribourg Sept. 2003, Liège, pp. 69–82. Gill, D.W.J. (1988). The Temple of Aphaia on Aegina: The Date of the Reconstruction. ABSA 83, pp. 169–177. Harris, D. (1995). The Treasures of the Parthenon and the Erechtheion. Oxford. Holtzmann, B. (2003). L’Acropole d’Athènes. Monuments, cultes et histoire du sanctuaire d’Athèna Polias. Paris. Holtzmann, B. (2014). IG i3 4: L’Acropole en chantier. BCH 138.1, pp. 1–13. Hurwit, J.M. (1999). The Athenian Acropolis. History, Mythology, and Archaeology from the Neolithic Era to the Present. Cambridge. Jordan, B. (1979). Servants of the Gods. A Study in the Religion, History and Literature of Fifth-Century Athens. Göttingen. Kearns, E. (2011). Ὁ λιβανωτὸς εὐσεβές καὶ τὸ πόπανον: The Rationale of Cakes and Bloodless Offerings in Greek Sacrifice. In: V. Pirenne-Delforge and F. Prescendi, eds., «Nourrir les dieux?» Sacrifice et représentation du divin, Liège, pp. 89–103. Kissas, K. (2008). Archaische Architektur der Athener Akropolis. Dachziegel—Metopen —Geisa—Akroterbasen. Wiesbaden. Lambert, S.D. (2008). Aglauros, the Euenoridai and the autochthon of Atlantis. ZPE 167, pp. 22–26. Lambert, S.D. (2015). Aristocracy and the Attic Genos: A Mythological Perspective. In: N. Fisher and H. van Wees, eds., Aristocracy in Antiquity. Redefining Greek and Roman Elites, Swansea, pp. 169–202. Lambert, S.D. (2019). The Priesthoods of the Eteoboutadai. In: Z. Archibald and J. Haywood, eds., The Power of Individual and Community in Ancient Athens and Beyond. Essays in Honour of John K. Davies, London/Oxford etc., pp. 163–176. Lolling, H.G. (1890). Ἑκατόμπεδον. Συμβολαὶ εἰς τὴν ἱστορίαν τῶν ἐπὶ τῆς Ἀκροπόλεως ναῶν τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς. Ἀθηνᾶ 2, pp. 627–662.

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Mansfeld, J. (1985). The Robe of Athena and the Panathenaic ‘Peplos’. Diss. University of California, Berkeley. Meyer, E.A. (2016). Posts, Kurbeis, Metopes: The Origins of the Athenian ‘Documentary’ Stele. Hesperia 85, pp. 323–383. Meyer, M. (2017). Athena, Göttin von Athen. Kult und Mythos auf der Akropolis bis in klassische Zeit. Wien. Mikalson, J.D. (1975). The Sacred and Civil Calendar of the Athenian Year. Princeton. Paga, J. (2021). Building Democracy in Late Archaic Athens. Oxford. Parker, R. (1996). Athenian Religion. A History. Oxford. Parker, R. (2005). Polytheism and Society at Athens. Oxford. Rous, S.A. (2019). Reset in Stone: Memory and Reuse in Ancient Athens. Madison. Samons, L.J. (2000). Empire of the Owl. Athenian Imperial Finance. Stuttgart. Scafuro, A. (2014). Patterns of Penalty in Fifth Century Attic Decrees. In: A.P. Matthaiou and R.K. Pitt, eds., Ἀθηναίων Ἐπίσκοπος: Studies in Honour of Harold B. Mattingly, Athens, pp. 299–326. Shear, I.M. (1999). The Western Approach to the Athenian Akropolis. JHS 119, pp. 86– 127. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2011). Athenian Myths and Festivals. Aglauros, Erechtheus, Plynteria, Panathenaia, Dionysia. Oxford. Sparkes, B.A. (1962). The Greek Kitchen. JHS 82, pp. 121–137. Stewart, A. (2008). The Persian and Carthaginian Invasions of 480b.c.e. and the Beginning of the Classical Style: Part 1, the Stratigraphy, Chronology, and Significance of the Acropolis Deposits. AJA 112.3, pp. 377–412. Stroud, R.S. (2004). Adolf Wilhelm and the Date of the Hekatompedon Decrees. In: A.P. Matthaiou, ed., Αττικαί επιγραφαί: πρακτικά συμποσίου εις μνήμην Adolf Wilhelm (1864–1950), Athens, pp. 85–97. Thonemann, P. (2020). Lysimache and Lysistrata. JHS 140, pp. 128–142. Threatte, L. (1980, 1996). The Grammar of Attic Inscriptions, 2 vols. Berlin. Tracy, S.V. (2016). Athenian Lettering of the Fifth Century b.c. The Rise of the Professional Letter Cutter. Berlin/Boston. van Rookhuijzen, J.Z. (2020). The Parthenon Treasury on the Acropolis of Athens. AJA 124.1, pp. 3–35. van Rookhuijzen, J.Z. (2021). The Erechtheion on the Acropolis of Athens. Kernos 34, pp. 69–121.

chapter 6

Bringing Women into the Agonistic Sphere Sport, Women and Festivals in the Greek World under Rome Onno M. van Nijf

1

Introduction: Women and Sport A pankratiast dreamt that he had given birth and that he was breastfeeding his own baby. He left that contest and stopped with sport altogether. For it seemed to him that he was taking on not a man’s job but that of a woman. artem. On. 5.451

One often-repeated generalisation about the role of women in Greek athletics is that women had no significant role to play in the gymnasia and stadions, as they were confined as much as possible to the domestic sphere, while men dominated outside spaces. This reflects, of course, ideology as much as a social reality. Throughout its history sport has largely been seen as a man’s thing: sport is most often carried out by men, watched by men, and talked over by men. As athletic success often depends on physical strength, men often excelled at it, or at any rate, activities in which men excelled were considered (true) sports. And as it were mostly men that were seen to excel in sport, all men would derive part of their identity from sport. The consequence is that sporting success has often been presented as success at being masculine. Greek men internalised this message, as is shown by the Artemidoros quotation: even to dream of taking on a female role was enough to shed doubts on one’s masculinity and thereby on one’s standing as an athlete. As Mark Golden points out: athletics served as a discourse of difference—and the most striking difference was that between men and women.2 And yet, as is well known, some women did enter the agonistic domain. We know about running contests for girls from the classical period and female chariot owners who started to appear in the Hellenistic period. But most of

1 Unless stated otherwise, all translations are my own. 2 Golden 1998, 127–128.

© Onno M. van Nijf, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_009

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our evidence concerns the Roman period, when women entered major athletic festivals and the gymnasia.3 In quantitative terms this evidence pales in comparison with the evidence for male participation in athletics. This is not surprising: in the climate sketched above women’s athletic activities would have gone underreported, or even unreported, or they were framed in various ways, so as to minimise the risk of challenging the dominant masculine perspective. When discussing women’s sport in the ancient world, it is, therefore, not enough to limit ourselves to a simple listing of athletic activities that women engaged in. Rather, we need to understand what was at stake when women were entering into public view with athletic activities: to whom or what were their activities important? What kind of reactions did they generate? What were the implications of these activities? In this paper I shall offer a brief survey of the evidence for women entering the agonistic sphere—both as participants and as officials, organisers and financiers. More specifically, I am interested to find out where and when their presence was publicised and what the implications of this publicity were. We shall see that when women entered the agonistic sphere a simple male versus female dichotomy is intersected by other dimensions such as wealth, status and age. Another observation that we shall have to make time and again, is that the social identity of women entering the agonistic sphere was, and remained, tied up with those of their families, their fathers, their husbands and even their sons. Finally, we shall see that the sudden increase in numbers of women involved in sport in the early Roman period was often connected with the imperial cult and the representation of imperial women.

2

A View from the Centre I admire many of the rules of your training, Sparta, but most of all the great blessings derived from the girls’ gymnasia, where a girl can exercise her body, naked, without blame, among wrestling men, when the swiftthrown ball eludes the grasp, and the curved rod sounds against the ring, and the woman is left panting at the furthest goal, and suffers bruises in the hard wrestling. Now she fastens near the glove the thongs that her wrists delight in, now whirls the discus’ flying weight in a circle, and now,

3 See Mantas 1995 for the most complete overview. Tsouvala 2014 sheds new light on the role of women in the gymnasia; Bielmann 1998 discusses women in an organisational role.

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her hair sprinkled with hoar frost, she follows her father’s dogs over the long ridges of Taygetus, beats the ring with her horses, binds the sword to her white flank, and shields her virgin head with hollow bronze, like the crowd of warlike Amazons who bathe bare-breasted in Thermodon’s stream; or like Helen, on the sands of Eurotas, between Castor and Pollux, one to be victor in boxing, the other with horses: with naked breasts she carried weapons, they say, and did not blush with her divine brothers there. prop. 3.14.1–34, transl. kline

We may start our exploration of the role of women in Greek sport in the imperial age with an image from the centre of the Roman Empire. In his elegy 3.14, the Roman poet Propertius sketches an exciting image of Spartan girls exercising in the nude with the boys. He complains about the social distance that he was forced to keep from his (imaginary?) lover, while in Sparta girls were exercising publicly in the gymnasia. It is possible to see this as a humoristic and perhaps overexcited piece of fantasy, but it has recently been argued that Propertius’ poem is representative of contemporary Roman opinions about what had been going on within Spartan education. But to what extent was this image based on Greek reality? And what may have been the reason to thematise this issue?4

3

Traditional Footraces Neai: women who competed in a sacred footrace hsch. s.v. νέαι·

Greek girls engaged in sport also outside Sparta. One of the ways in which (some) women could enter the world of sport was through contests that formed part of maturation rituals for parthenoi (young unmarried women) and girls, mostly in the cult of female deities. Such contests must have originated in the archaic period, but we are best informed for the classical period, even though some of the sources are (much) later. Hesychius, writing in the fifth or sixth century ce, suggests that footraces were even an identifying activity for a category of young women, neai, a female equivalent of the neoi that are found in so many Greek cities.5 The site of Brauron in Attica has yielded interesting visual evidence in the shape of small vase paintings of little girls or parthenoi engaged 4 Cairns 2006, 362–403. 5 Kennell 2012; Forbes 1933.

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in what seems to be a footrace. This may refer to a female ritual involving some form of competition held as an alternative to more conventional male competitions.6 There is of course debate as to whether this really should be seen as ‘sport’, but this seems too sceptical: a fourth-century inscription shows that there must have been a gymnasion and a palaistra in the immediate vicinity of the places where the girls (known as arktoi) were housed,7 although the buildings are as of yet not found, which points at regular athletic activity. Most scholars would accept this as sufficient proof for athletic activity in the case of males. At any rate, it is very likely that only a handful of young women could take part in them. To these girls—and their families—participation offered an opportunity for public self-representation through their offerings to the goddess and even a source of prestige, as we may deduce from a line in Aristophanes.8 It is fair to assume that such girls involved in sport were not a crosssection of society, but will have belonged to prominent families for whom the visibility of their women added to their symbolic capital. Inscriptions from Thessaly point in a similar direction. From Atrax and some other cities we have dedications to Artemis that were set up by (young) women describing themselves as epinebeusasa. This term is interpreted by Hatzopoulos as referring to an age-group for women—comparable to the male epheboi—and he proposes that the dedicants had been engaged in some type of race in a context of initiation rituals.9 More evidence for this kind of traditional footraces dates to the Roman period. Perhaps the most famous example of girls’ races is the Heraia at Olympia, which were described in some detail by Pausanias.10 He mentions that the winners were allowed to set up statues with their names inscribed, but interestingly no such inscription appears to have survived, and no victor is known.11 As to the statues, the only evidence we have consists of a small number of statuettes from the archaic period—all found outside Olympia—of a running girl in the pose described by Pausanias.12 6 7 8 9 10 11

12

Scanlon 2002. SEG 52.104, l. 1–8. Ar. Lys. 641–647 who does not, however, mention the footraces. Kravaritou 2018 and Hatzopoulos 1994. For an example see SEG 34.493. Paus. 5.16. There is some debate as to whether the Heraia were a female equivalent of the Olympic games, but it seems more likely that they were anchored in local traditions: PirenneDelforge 2019. It is not impossible that they received a boost in the Roman period when several contests developed footraces for women. If so, Pausanias may have witnessed a (re)invented tradition. One statue of a young girl in a similar pose is archaising in style, but undoubtedly stems from the Roman period. If anything, this is a sign of antiquarian interest.

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The statuettes may have a link with Sparta, although proof for this has not been offered. If a Spartan connection may be accepted, it certainly fits with established ideas that girls participated in the Spartan agoge. The famous educational system obviously had its roots in the Spartan past, but in the course of its history it was re-invented several times to suit contemporary needs.13 The public nature of female education had been exercising the minds of many commentators, but is not so easy to unpack the evidence and distinguish fact from fiction. There can be no doubt that physical training had been part of the upbringing of Spartiate girls. The earliest sources refer to footraces and contest in strengths that were attributed to the mythical lawgiver Lykourgos, who set them up for eugenic purposes.14 It is not clear what happened to these races in the Hellenistic period, but there is firm evidence for footraces in the Roman period. Pausanias describes footraces (dromou agones) that were held for the so-called Dionysiades, a small group of eleven girls in the service of Dionysos.15 A fragmentary inscription from imperial Sparta establishes a link with the agoge. The activities of the Dionysiades were overseen by the biduoi, a board of officials whose duties were broadly comparable to those of the kosmetai in Athens, which suggest that these races should indeed be seen as truly agonistic.16 So far the evidence for female sport in Roman Sparta is not that dissimilar to what we find in other Greek cities, as it consisted mainly of training and footraces for a select group of young girls. It is not impossible that physical education for girls went beyond running, and may in fact have involved some form of nudity. Ancient observers long before Propertius had been clearly excited by the idea; Euripides already presented Spartan women as being as loose as their clothing, which may be one of the earliest examples of the sexualisation of female athletic bodies.17 However, it seems safer to follow Plutarch, who may have echoed Plato in his admiration for the Spartan constitution. He states that girls received an all-round athletic training, which indeed included (ritual) nudity, but he is also keen to present this practice in a conservative and traditional frame. The purpose of the exercise was to prepare Spartiate girls for childbirth and motherhood.18

13 14 15 16 17 18

Kennell 1995. Xen. Lac. 1.4. Paus. 3.13.7. SEG 11.610 with Cartledge and Spawforth 1989, 190. Eur. Andr. 595–601. Plut. Lyc. 14.2–15.1.

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All the credible evidence places the athletic activities of girls in a traditional framework. Footraces served to demarcate distinctions between categories of women. In all cases the sporting activities served to distinguish parthenoi from adult (married) women. Female exercise was reserved for unmarried girls, and could be justified by reference to its potential contribution to their future role as mothers. Although the girls were in the public eye, they certainly did not escape the domestic sphere. They had a place in the world of sport, but it was only on rare occasions that female participation became a truly public event. Such events were reserved for only a small selection of women presumably of elite families that were able to capitalise on the physical activities of their daughters. This holds even for Sparta, where relatively large numbers of girls were engaged in athletics, yet the agoge was only open to Lakedaemonian girls, not to perioikoi or helots.

4

Women and Horse Races Kings of Sparta were my fathers and brothers. Kyniska, victorious at the chariot race with her swift-footed horses, erected this statue. I assert that I am the only woman in all Greece to have won this crown. IvO 160, transl. miller19

Footraces were not the only way whereby women could enter the agonistic sphere: chariot races provided an alternative and even more distinguished route. Here, the distinction between males and females intersects with other distinctions especially of wealth and power, as horse racing has always been the pursuit of the wealthy classes. Women could compete on equal terms with men in equestrian competitions because they did not necessarily involve personal participation. In ancient—and modern—horse races, it was the owners who entered the horses and reaped the glory of victory, while the jockeys and charioteers, who did the racing, remained anonymous. Owners did not even have to be physically present, which made it possible for wealthy women to take part even in the Olympic Games, where women were not allowed. This allowed for agency on the part of women. However, as we shall see, a family frame was rarely far away. As far as we know, the first Greek woman to have exploited this opening was the Spartan princess Kyniska, who won twice in Olympia, probably in 396

19

Miller 2012, 106.

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and 392bce, and achieved Panhellenic recognition, as is clear from an inscription that she dedicated in Olympia and a mention in Pausanias.20 The latter also mentions that other Spartan women followed in her footsteps, including a women called Euryleonis, who obtained a victory at Olympia in 360 bce. By the time that Pausanias visited Sparta, a statue had been set up for her in the city, suggesting high status.21 And finally, a woman called Olympio, daughter of Agenor, was successful in the Athenian Panathenaia of 170–169 bce.22 All in all, more than thirty female equestrian victors are known who obtained at least forty-three victories between them.23 Pausanias presents Kyniska as the first woman to have an interest in breeding and racing horses, which is of course impossible to check. It is likely though, that Kyniska’s interest in horses was anchored in local traditions in Sparta where (some) young women of elite status were engaged in horse racing at the Hyakinthia.24 Still, the decision to enter in the Olympics was a strikingly public move and reactions have been predictably ambivalent. Pausanias describes Kyniska, as ‘extremely ambitious’ which is not a positive qualification for a woman, and, more significantly, stories circulated to deny Kyniska agency and diminish the value of her victory.25 However, Kyniska’s tone suggests differently. It is also important to note that she emphasises her family connections in her own inscription. Her proud claim to be the daughter and sister of Spartan kings suggests that we should understand her initiative rather as an attempt to gain prestige for herself and her family on a Panhellenic scale. We should also note that she seems to have inspired a run of female chariot owners to do the same. Quite a few of them belonged to, or were associated with, the Ptolemaic court. It is well known that the Ptolemies played an active role in Greek athletics by sponsoring participants and of course by entering themselves in major contests.26 They may have wanted to flag their Greek credentials, but this remarkable display of agonistic spirit will also have served to convey an image of the Ptolemaic dynasty as particularly successful and powerful. At least thirteen members of the ruling family are attested as having competed (and won) at chariot races, among them four women.27 In chronological order we find 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

IvO 160, Paus. 3.8.1. Paus. 3.17.6. SEG 41.115 col. 1 l. 34. For a list see the appendix. Ath. 4.139–140. Xen. Ages. 9.6 and Plut. Ages. 20.1 attributed the idea to her brother Agesilaos. Remijsen 2009. Scharff 2019, 211–224. I want to thank Sebastian Scharff for sharing his unpublished Habilschrift with me.

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Berenike i, Arsinoe ii, Berenike Syra and Berenike ii who were victorious in the Olympic, Nemean and Isthmian games between 292 and 244 bce. All these victories were publicised widely by poets such as Callimachus and Posidippus.28 It is explicitly stated that the first Berenike sought to emulate “and take away the ancient glory from Kyniska”, which suggests that Panhellenic recognition was a major aim.29 However, the high visibility of royal women appears to have been part of a strategy to create a dynastic image, as male Ptolemies linked the glory of victory not only to the arete of individuals, but to their entire ‘house’, explicitly referring to the successes of their female family members.30 Ptolemy ii even appears to have been more concerned to highlight his mother’s achievements than those of his father: “of my father’s glory I boast not, but that my mother, a woman, won with her chariot—that is great”.31 This shows that the visibility of women was not only due to the self-presentation of women themselves, but a structural element of the collective self-presentation of a dynasty integrating their female members into an image of power. The high visibility of agonistic women was not limited to women of the royal family, but was extended to other women at court, such as Belistiche, the mistress of Ptolemy ii, who is on record for victories in Olympia in 268 and 264bce.32 Moreover, we find female chariot owners also among the newly emerging Ptolemaic international aristocracy. One example comes from Athens: between 202 and 178/177bce Polykrates of Argos, his wife Zeuxo and their daughters Eukrateia, Zeuxo and Hermione were all successful at the horse races in the Panathenaia.33 The high status of this family is evident from a series of honorific dedications on Paphos. They were examples of a newly emerging Panhellenic elite, extremely wealthy, extremely well-connected and operating on a large international scale.34 Van Bremen has shown that agonistic skills and competing at the games were built into the careers of such people.35 Polykrates was the Ptolemaic governor of Cyprus, his wife Zeuxo stemmed from Cyrene. Polykrates’ son Ptolemaios, an archisomatophylax of Ptolemy, was honoured by his fellow members of his gymnasion, but it was the agonistic glory won by his mother and his sisters that made this family stand out.36 Polykrates’ own sister 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Posidippus, Ep. 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 87 and 88. Callim. Victoria Berenices. Posidippus, Ep. 87 on the victory of Berenike i. For this argument see Scharff 2019, 217. Posidippus, Ep. 88, l. 5–6. Transl. Scharff 2019, 217. P.Oxy 17.2082, l. iv. 6–8. and Paus. 5.8.11 (Moretti no. 554 and 549). Tracy and Habicht 1991. SEG 20.194–198. Van Bremen 2007, 360–361. SEG 20.198.

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seems also to have been victorious at Athens, adding another female element to this family’s glory. Another example concerns a family descending from Telemachos of Elis, whose victories spanned a period from the third to the first centuries bce. Their names appear on a large statue base in Olympia that honours several members of this prominent family, six of whom claim victory in an equestrian discipline at Olympia.37 Two of these are women: Timareta and her daughter Theodota ii. Timareta is honoured by her two brothers, and the three of them honour their mother Theodota i (who may have won a victory as well). It is very likely that the family tree can be expanded to include other Olympic victors. Whatever the precise arrangement of this family, it is clear that a female victory was highly valued and fully integrated in the display of the family, whose agonistic qualities seem to have been maintained over several generations. This trend continued in the Roman period. A famous text from Delphi that will be discussed below mentions Hedea, originally from Caesarea Tralleis, as the victor of a chariot race at Isthmia.38 Her victory should be dated round the middle of the first century ce. An entry in a victors’ list of Oropos mentions a certain Habris from Kyme, who had entered the Amphiareia Romaia with a span of horses (synoris teleia) in the first half of the first century bce.39 Also in the first century we find in Kyme itself a fine funerary epigram for Damodika, who did not only proudly frame her racing victory as a source of prestige for her family, but also referred to their pro-Roman credentials:40 My name was Damodika, my husband was the splendid and honourable Hermogenes—Krates brought me forth in this life. I did not die without being lamented widely, for I left behind a son, and the glory of a renowned victory in the chariot race. I could not look to my husband as I gave out my last breath, as he was in Rome as an envoy, and could not oblige me with the final favour. I.Kyme 46

This brief survey has shown that the sporting success of women was not limited to initiation rituals. There is substantial evidence that women could play a highly visible role in the equestrian events at a panhellenic scale. It is clear that their contribution in sport was highly valued and considered an important 37 38 39 40

IvO 198–204. The family is discussed in Zoumbaki 2001, esp. 372–376. Syll.3 802. Epigr. tou Oropou 525, l. 61. I.Kyme 46 = SGO 05/03/03.

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part of the collective self-presentation of prominent families. This is in keeping with the general role of sport and athletic victory in this period, but the role of women is also an indication of the changing nature of society. Their visibility was not a sign of emancipation, but a sign of a more hierarchical world order centred on elite families. In the Hellenistic period some women were able to enter the agonistic sphere only as members of prominent families, in the expectation that they would add to their family’s prestige.

5

Female Athletes in the Early Empire Hermesianax son of Dionysios citizen of Kaisareia Tralleis, as well as Ko …. (dedicated) to Pythian Apollo (the statues of) his own daughters who themselves had the same citizenships. Tryphosa who had won the stadion at the Pythian games when Antigonos and Kleomachis were agonothetes, and at the following Isthmia when Iuventius Proclus was agonothete, the first of girls. Hedea, who had won the chariot race in armour at the Isthmian games when Cornelius Pulcher was agonothete, and the stadion at the Nemean games when Antigonus was agonothete. And in Sikyon when Menoitas was agonothete. She also won the kithara-singing in the boys’ category at the Sebasteia (Augustus games) at Athens, when Novius son of Pheilinos was agonothete. And she was the first ever to become a citi[zen of …], the first girl. Dionysia, who had won …. when Antigonus was agonothete; and the stadion at the Asklepieia in sacred Epidauros. Syll.3 802

The idea that young girls could compete in running contest was firmly established in practice and on an ideological plane, and the idea that female victories in horse races could contribute to family status on a Panhellenic plane had also found wide acceptance. In the early imperial period these two strands came further together, as there was a sudden increase in footraces for girls that were part of—or associated with—prestigious festivals in Korinth, Delphi, Nemea, Sparta, Neapolis and Rome. Most of our information comes from public victors’ lists or victory dedications, mostly set up by relatives of the victorious girls.41 Pride of place must

41

See the appendix for a list of all the known cases.

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go to a unique monument from Delphi set up by a Hermesianax from Tralleis for his three daughters, Tryphosa, Hedea and Dionysia, who had all been victorious in running competitions at Delphi, Isthmia, Nemea and Sikyon.42 There is some discussion as to whether this means that they competed against boys, but it seems more likely that these races were reserved for girls.43 Such races seem to have been an innovation of the early imperial period. A contemporary inscription from Korinth mentions the introduction of a girls’ race (a virgi[num certame]n) at the Kaisareia of Isthmia.44 This inscription is dated to the reign of Tiberius or Claudius, when the cult of Livia was established in several parts of Greece.45 Her cult seems to have been accompanied by footraces in other places as well. Around the same time another footrace in her honour appears to have been established in Sparta, as we learn from a second-century inscription for a certain Panthalis daughter of Agis(?) who was victorious in one such race.46 A festival for Livia as Julia Augusta was also set up in Thyateira by a private benefactress. It was apparently run by female agonothetes who set up dedications to the empress.47 More evidence for separate races for girls are found in Neapolis, where we find an inscription for a Seia Spes (2 ce), who had won in a footrace for the “daughters of councillors”.48 The recent publications of victor lists for the Italika Romaia Sebasta set up by Augustus have added more girls who competed in races for senatorial girls (synkletikai parthenoi). They may have been local girls, but a Flavia Thalassa came from Ephesos to win the girls’ stadion race.49 Finally, there is literary evidence for footraces for girls in Rome under Domitian and Septimius Severus, and a later text mentions an all-girls footrace at Antiocheia, which may be dated to the reign of Caracalla.50 The evidence is limited, but points at a wave of agonistic innovations in the early imperial period that made it possible for girls to compete in top-tier agonistic festivals, and find public recognition for it. This innovation was, however, anchored in various ways, so as not to undermine the social hierarchy. The first anchor was cultural traditionalism: the evidence is limited to footraces, which 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Syll.3 802 = F.Delphes iii.1 534 = IAG 63 with SEG 52.526. Lee 1988. SEG 52.526. Kantirea 2007, 74–78. SEG 11.830. TAM v.2 904–906. SEG 14.602. SEG 58.1085; SEG 64.860. Miranda de Martino 2016, 393. Domitian: Suet. Dom. 4; Dio Cass. 67.8.1; Septimius Severus: Dio Cass. 75.16.1.5; Caracalla: Malalas 12.288–289 with Remijsen 2015, 100–103.

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had always been an acceptable field for girls to compete in, and had become a point of interest for Pausanias and other authors exactly around that time. Secondly, as with the chariot races, the celebration of athletic skills was firmly subordinated to family interests. Where we have information about their background, the girls seem to have belonged to elite families. In the case of the Sebasta in Neapolis, it is explicitly stated that the contests were open only to parthenoi of high status: daughters of councillors (thygaterai bouleutikai) or unmarried girls of senatorial rank (parthenoi synkletikoi). We know nothing about the status of Hermesianax and his daughters, but the fact that Hedea was able to enter in a chariot race suggests that they must have been well off as well. Finally, the name of the Spartan girl who won in the diaulos is mangled, but it is possible that she should be identified with a Iulia Panthalis, daughter of Agis who is known from an honorary inscription set up by her son, so she will have been of high status as well.51 Seia Spes even linked two families: the inscription identifies her as from bouleutic stock, but it was set up—perhaps years later—by her husband, which suggests that her status and victory served his family interests as well. And thirdly, it is striking that several of these texts explicitly locate the victories in contests connected with the imperial cult—some of which were even dedicated to the empress Livia—and were thus supportive of the social and political order.

6

Women and Gymnasia When Publius son of Decimus was archon, in the month Boukattios. The archontes M. Antonius Primus and Antonius Zosimos, and Publius Castricius Alkimos inscribed the members of the upper gymnasion at their own cost: Marcia Ismenodora, Marcus Thalerus etc. IG vii 1777

The evidence for women’s involvement and success in agonistic festivals raises a further question: if the daughters of Hermesianax as well as the female contestants in the Sebasta of Neapolis were successful in running competitions— including competitions at the highest level—they must have been able to train somewhere. In the ancient world this would have implied that they had access to a gymnasion. This is of course, not without significance. The gymnasion had always been a public space in the city, revolving around the education of boys

51

IG v.1 588.

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and fostering manhood. So, how did women get access to this male space, and what can we say about their place in the agonistic sphere? We have seen above that female presence in a gymnasion context was certainly attested in Roman Sparta.52 It is possible that girls were accepted to the gymnasion elsewhere, but the evidence is scanty. A line in Athenaeus (second century ce) suggests that something similar occurred on Chios, where girls were also seen (or imagined) exercising alongside the boys.53 An inscription from Pergamon praises a magistrate for keeping order among the girls (eukosmia parthenon). As eukosmia is a value term that is particularly associated with the orderly behaviour of ephebes and neoi in the gymnasion, this may be another indication that girls had access to this institution.54 Another indication of membership may be that women were occasionally singled out in oil distributions by (male and female) gymnasiarchs.55 Tsouvala has recently collected some more evidence for the participation of women in the gymnasia of the Roman East56 She interprets an inscription from imperial Hermione as a list of ca. 130 members of a gymnasion, of whom at least a quarter can be identified as feminine.57 Two other examples support her case: an inscription from Roman Thespiai, which underwent an agonistic boom in the Roman period, explicitly mentions one Marcia Ismenodora as a member of the upper gymnasion, as well as a contributor to the financing of the inscription.58 Another female member of a gymnasion is attested on imperial Kos, where one Hetereia Procilla, daughter of Caius, is listed as a member of the presbytike palaistra, which Tsouvala interprets as being reserved for young men and women in the final stages of their education.59 Tsouvala rightly points out that even though the evidence is scanty, it must present the tip of a wider iceberg of female interests in sport and competition.60 Women may have entered gymnasia and agonistic contests in larger numbers than has often been assumed, but it remained relatively difficult for them to obtain public recognition as active members, and direct evidence for

52

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Bérard 1989 has drawn on visual evidence to argue that women were admitted to Athenian gymnasia as well. It is not clear, however, that the images pertain to Athens or were indeed depicting a realistic situation. Cf. Neils 2012. See above note 22. IvP ii 463 (before 37 ce). See below note 67. Tsouvala 2014. IG iv 732 with SEG 65.220. IG vii 1777. Iscr. di Cos ED 228. Tsouvala 2014, 121.

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their activities is lacking. However, there were other ways for women to gain prominence in the agonistic world, namely as gymnasiarchs, agonothetes and benefactresses. This will bring us back to the familiar role of women as the representatives and agents of wealthy families.

7

Women as Agonistic Officials The city (honoured) Euthymia Hira, who was gymnasiarch, and the first and only to provide oil by the barrel for an entire year, all day long, on account of her virtue and benevolence towards itself. I.Erythrai 85

In the imperial period women entered the agonistic world not only as contestants, but also, and crucially, as officials, benefactresses and even as organisers and financiers of athletic institutions and events. This is part of a broad trend of women occupying a place in the public sphere, and may be connected to a wider social and political transformation that culminated under the early emperors.61 The most frequent category is that of the gymnasiarchs. Most gymnasiarchs were of course male, but in the Roman period we also see women in that position.62 The number is small, but not negligible: female gymnasiarchs are attested in at least twenty-eight cities. Gymnasia were public institutions, but in the Roman period the running of the gymnasion was often left to private citizens who were appointed as gymnasiarchs. From the second century bce, it became increasingly common for gymnasiarchs to pay for the running costs of the gymnasion; most of the evidence concerns the supply of oil, but running the baths, which became a popular feature in the Roman era, was costly as well.63 This seems to have raised the status of the office: in many Hellenistic cities the gymnasiarchy was referred to as an arche, whereas it had ranked as a mere liturgy in classical Athens.64 The high status of the office is further reflected in the fact that in many cities the known gymnasiarchs belonged to the upper echelons of society. Many of these women were performing the job together with their husbands—but others were evidently acting alone.65 But even if women were acting together

61 62 63 64 65

Van Bremen 1996 is fundamental. Van Bremen 1996, 68–73; Bielmann 1998, 36–42. Fröhlich 2009. Quass 1993 describes this as liturgical archai. van Bremen 1996, 68–73.

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with their male relatives, this does not preclude a (strong) personal interest in athletics, nor should we deny women agency in this process.66 It is normally assumed that female gymnasiarchs were not involved in the daily running of the gymnasion and that the gymnasiarchy of this period was limited to a financial contribution. While this may be true in many cases, there is some circularity, as part of the argumentation that gymnasiarchs were no longer actively involved may rest exactly on the fact that there were women gymnasiarchs. Yet, even if the minimum expectation was only a financial contribution, this would have applied equally to male and female gymnasiarchs. We are of course not informed about the motivations of individual benefactors for a particular form of euergesia, but we do know that they had a choice that they could exercise— even against the wishes of the general population.67 No-one would deny that a male gymnasiarch might have wanted to fund a gymnasion out of a strong personal connection with athletics, and we cannot exclude that the same applied to at least some women.68 We are not often informed about the duties of these female gymnasiarchs, but there is no reason to assume that they differed significantly from those of their male counterparts. It is worth pointing out that at least some of these female gymnasiarchs made a point of directing their benefactions specifically to other women. Female gymnasiarchs were occasionally praised for including the women of their communities as the recipients of oil, which is another indication that women had access to the gymnasion.69 In the same period women also entered the agonistic sphere as the organisers, sponsors and presidents (agonothetes) of agonistic festivals.70 Emily Hemelrijk has looked at the role of women as sponsors of festivals and spectacles in the western provinces, and concluded that female benefactors were much more likely to spend on banquets and distributions (in which they included women more often than did their male counterparts) than on games and spectacles.71 But the situation in the East was different. Here the evidence for women who sponsored, organised or were otherwise involved in agonistic festivals is far from negligible. It should be noted, however, that many more women may have been active as organisers, as the organisation of festivals and 66 67 68 69 70 71

The famous story about Kallipateira of Rhodes (Paus. 6.7.1–6) suggests that female pride in the achievements of male relatives may have been a factor in their enthusiasm. Van Nijf 2020. A special connection may be assumed in: TAM iii.1 179 and 180. E.g. I.Stratonikeia 242 and 311. See for the duties of the priestly couples involved: Williamson 2013. Van Bremen 1996, 73–76; Bielmann 1998, 42–48. Hemelrijk 2015, 138–147.

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contests was often included among the duties of (imperial) priestesses, even if this was not always spelled out in our sources. We must remember that many of the contests were organised as part of the imperial cult, although some cases involved women benefactors funding local commemorative games.72 Finally, a fairly prestigious, but not very frequent way in which women could be involved in the agonistic world was as theoroi, which is mostly attested at Ephesus.73 Theoroi were generally official spectators, sent out by one city to observe the contests of another, but these women seem to have acted locally.74 Louis Robert suggested long ago that these women were a special and privileged category of spectators, perhaps as a local counterpart to the priestess of Demeter, who in ancient Olympia had been the only married woman allowed to watch the games.75 Again their backgrounds were impeccable: all known women theoroi belonged to the highest strata of society, that is to the same topfamilies that also provided the gymnasiarchs and agonothetes. The inscriptions from which we know their names were often set up by (male) family members as well, showing that their public involvement in the agonistic world was seen a source of pride for their families. What does this tell us about the ability of women to gain public recognition with this function? In the first place, these women entered the agonistic domain, not merely as individuals, but as the representatives of their families. We saw that many of these women were not acting alone. In about half of the cases, female gymnasiarchs carried out the job together with male members of their family: their husbands and sometimes their underage sons, or in some cases other female members of their families. Female agonothetes were also often operating together with their husbands.76 In some cases there was a clear family tradition of agonistic involvement as gymnasiarchs or agonothetes. This may be connected to the general patterns of civic euergetism, but in some cases we may assume that women were active in these roles out of some special engagement with the agonistic sphere. What is beyond doubt, however, is that all the women involved belonged to wealthy and important families and that their role was bound up with the creation and maintenance of family reputation. Entering the agonistic domain afforded a public visibility that was appreciated widely by elite families in the Roman East. 72 73 74 75 76

See below. I.Ephesos 718, 892–897, 1264; Samitz 2018, no. 1 (all from Ephesos); IG v.1 587 refers to a theoros at the Spartan Hyakinthia. Rutherford 2013. Robert 1974. Bielmann 1998 43–44.

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143

Finally, it is striking that nearly all women involved had in one way or other a strong connection with the imperial cult, or at least with the representation of the imperial system. Some were involved in the imperial cult mostly as imperial priestesses, others served at the occasion of a particular festival in honour of the emperors.77 In one exceptional case we even find a female member of the imperial family acting as a perennial gymnasiarch. The fingerprints of the emperors, and of imperial women, are found all over, and this ties in with our observations above that many of the festivals with footraces for girls were also connected with the imperial cult—and sometimes specifically dedicated to female members of the imperial house. It would appear, then, that female athletics was specifically connected to the representation of the imperial dynasty and specifically with its female members. The female members of the imperial family could be associated with agonistic festivals as benefactors of dedicatees, but they were apparently not allowed to gain personal agonistic success, as this may have clashed with the traditional Roman view of appropriate behaviour for women that Augustus sought to restore. Their female Greek subjects were not limited in a similar way. Greek agonistic tradition offered women a way to enter the public domain, without fully escaping the domestic sphere.

8

Conclusion

The role of women in ancient sport was perhaps limited, but its importance should not be underestimated. Women’s sport was not exceptional, but integrated in the social and political structures of the Greek polis, and peaked in the early imperial period. For most of the time, however, it remained hidden. The perceived nature of athletics as a quintessentially male pursuit prevented its publication. When women made a public appearance in the agonistic sphere, their athletic role intersected with issues like status and wealth. In several Greek cities young women had always engaged in athletics, especially in running contests as part of coming-of-age rituals or of a broader educational system. These activities were locally based, but they must have been structural in many Greek cities. The numbers involved in each case may have been small, and only a handful of girls from elite families were able to publicise their athletic achievements. Even in Sparta, where female sport was integrated in a wider educational structure, the beneficiaries appear to have been full Spartiate girls.

77

Bielmann 1998, 40–42 and 46–48.

144

van nijf

From the fourth century bce on, some women were able to take on a public role in agonistic events at a Panhellenic scale, especially through horse racing. Although the agency of the women is not in question, we see that women engaged in sport only as members of royal dynasties and wealthy families, whose male members apparently considered public commemoration of their achievements an advantage. Female victory was a crucial element in the selfpresentation of these families. In the early Roman period, there was a strong increase in the number of possibilities for women to enter the agonistic domain. The visibility of women in sport was now part of a wider social and political transformation that was connected to the rise of imperial power. Footraces for girls are attested at some Panhellenic events, often in connection with the imperial cult. The field seems to have been socially selective, although female participation at the highest level must have had a wider base—in local contests and gymnasia. There is indeed some evidence for active female participation in imperial gymnasia, although its precise nature remains difficult to establish. In this period, women also started to enter the agonistic sphere as officials, organisers and financiers of athletic events. These women belonged to the wealthiest and best-connected families of their home town, and like their Hellenistic ancestors they were part of the collective self-presentation of these families and their role was highly valued. Significantly, many of these women were also connected to the representation of imperial power, often as priestesses in the imperial cult. In this way they played an important role in connecting local and imperial structures of power. These developments may also have formed the backdrop of Propertius’ comments on contemporary athletics in Sparta. The conspicuous entry of women into the male world of Greek athletics as spectators, financiers, organisers and as participants was thus linked with the onset of imperial rule. So, far from being marginal, women’s sport was widely spread and not without importance. Much of it may have been carried out in the background —without attracting the attention of male writers and observers: but when they did, it becomes clear that their role could be significant. Rather than being a marginal group, or exceptions to the rule, women made an important contribution to athletic life, and in this capacity they must have formed a structural element of the imperial Greek city.78 78

I would like to thank Ruurd Nauta for discussions on Propertius, and Sofia Voutsaki for careful reading and suggestions during a heatwave. Caroline van Toor has helped me with the appendix. The research for this article was made possible by grants from NWO: Connecting the Greeks VC.GWC 17.144 and Anchoring Innovation. Anchoring Innovation is

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the Gravitation Grant research agenda of the Dutch National Research School in Classical Studies, OIKOS. It is financially supported by the Dutch ministry of Education, Culture and Science (NWO project number 024.003.012). For more information about the research programme and its results, see the website www.anchoringinnovation.nl.

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Female victors in chronological order No.

Person and origin

Prosopographies79

Festival

Discipline

1

Nikagora

CC ID 9583

Olympia in Elis?

running: dromon ton parthenon

2

Kyniska daughter of Archidamos ii from Sparta

CC ID 3451 = Moretti (1957), no. 373, 381

Olympia in Elis (2×) equestrian: harma (2×)

3

Euryleonis from Sparta

CC ID 3647 = Moretti (1957), no. 418; Mannheim, no. 1393

Olympia in Elis

equestrian: synoris

4

Berenike i daughter of Magas from Eordaia (Macedonia)

CC ID 3690 = Canali de Rossi Olympia in Elis (2013), p. 102, no. 3; Mannheim, no. 248

equestrian: harma teleion

5

Phanion daughter of Onesandros from Chios

6

Arsinoe ii Philadelphos from Alexandria (Egypt)

7

Berenike (Syra?) from Alexan- CC ID 3728 = Canali de Rossi dria (Egypt) (2013), p. 103, no. 6; Mannheim, no. 250

Nemea in Argos; Isthmia in Corinth; Olympia in Elis

8

Belistiche from Macedonia

Olympia in Elis

79

unknown

CC ID 3692 = Canali de Rossi Olympia in Elis (2013), p. 103, no. 5; Mannheim, no. 192

CC ID 1147 = Moretti (1957), no. 549, 552; Mannheim, no. 247

equestrian (3×): harma polikon, synoris teleia, harma teleion equestrian: tethrippon teleion?

equestrian: tethrippon polikon and synoris

CC references are to the Connected Contests database, maintained at the University of Groningen (www.connectedcontests.org); Mannheim references are to a database of Hellenistic athletes, maintained by a team at the University of Mannheim: http://athletes​ .geschichte.uni‑mannheim.de.

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149

Date

Comments and references

unknown

An inscription for Nikagora, set up by her brother Nikophilos is mentioned in a gloss in a manuscript of Pausanias by Manuel Souliardos. The attribution to Olympia is uncertain.

early 4th c. bce; 97 and 96th Olympiad? ca. 375– 350bce; 103rd Olympiad? Some date between 292– 280bce 3rd c. bce

272bce

Souliardos on Paus. 5.16.2, cf. BE (1907) p. 64 Kyniska was the sister of Agis ii and Agesilaos ii (king of Sparta from ca. 398–360bc). Pausanias saw two victory monuments of Kyniska (5.12.5, 6.1.6). One consisted of bronze horses, the other of a chariot, horses, a charioteer and a statue of Kyniska herself. Paus. 3.8.1; 6.1.6; IvO 634; IvO 160 = IG v1, 1564a = IAG 17 Pausanias mentions a statue set up in Sparta for Euryleonis who won a victory at Olympia with a two-horse chariot in the 4th c. bce. The statue may have been erected later. Paus. 3.17.6 Posidippus Epigr. 87 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xiii, ll. 31–34; Posidippus Epigr. 78 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xii, ll. 20–33; Posidippus Epigr. 88 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xi l. 35–xiv l. 1 Dedication to Leto by Aristodemos of a statue of Phanion, daughter of Onesandros, who had won unknown contest. SEG 35.933 Daughter of Ptolemaios i. Posidippus Epigr. 78 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xii, ll. 20–33

mid-3rd c. bc

268bc 128th Olympiad (P.Oxy 2082); 264bc 129th Olympiad (Pausanias)

Berenike Syra, the daughter of Ptolemaios ii Philadelphos, the sister of Ptolemaios iii, wife of Antiochos ii (285–246 bce) was victorious in the harma teleion at Olympia in 260 or 256bce; in all horse races at Nemea between 260–240 and in a horse race at the Isthmia in 260–240. Perhaps she should be identified with Berenike ii the wife of Ptolemaios iii Euergetes (266– 221 bce). (Canali de Rossi, p. 103, note 22). Posidippus Epigr. 78 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xii, ll. 20–33; Posidippus Epigr. 79 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xii, ll. 34–49; Posidippus Epigr. 82 = P. Mil. Vogl. viii 309, col. xiii, ll. 9–14 Belistiche won at Olympia in harma polikon in 268bc and synoris polike in 264bc. She was a courtesan of Ptolemaios ii Philadelphos. P.Oxy 2082; Paus. 5.8.11; Euseb. Chron. ll. 264–265 (ed. Christesen); Ath. 13.596e; Plu. Amat. 9

150

van nijf

Female victors in chronological order (cont.) No.

Person and origin

9

Festival

Discipline

Berenike ii daughter of Magas CC ID 4193 = Mannheim, from Alexandria (Egypt) no. 249; Kostouros (2008), no. 35 ..a.gora daughter of LysCC ID 9561 = Mannheim, istratos from Pedieis (Rhodes) no. 1566

Nemeia in Argos

equestrian: tethrippon

Haleia in Rhodes

equestrian: synoris polike

11

Hermione daughter of Polykrates from Argos

CC ID 9564 = Mannheim, no. 514; ProsPtol 17209

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: keles teleion and keles polikon

12

Eukrateia daughter of Polykrates from Argos

CC ID 9563 = ProsPtol 17210; Mannheim, no. 435

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: synoris teleia

13

Zeuxo daughter of Polykrates from Argos

CC ID 9562 = Mannheim, no. 1074; ProsPtol 17212

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: harma polikon

14

Zeuxo daughter of Ariston from Kyrene

CC ID 9565 = Mannheim, no. 1073; ProsPtol 17211

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: harma polikon

15

Aristokleia daughter of Megalokles from Larissa (Thessaly)

CC ID 7956 = Mannheim, no. 160

Eleutheria in Larisa (Thessaly)

equestrian: synoris polike

16

[synoris polike victress] daughter of Mnasiadas from Argos [panathenaia victress] from Argos

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: synoris polike

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: synoris teleia

10

17

Prosopographies

18

[keles teleios victress] from Alexandria (Egypt)

CC ID 9567 = Mannheim, no. 1185

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: keles

19

Olympio daughter of Agetor from Sparta Kleainete daughter of Karon from Liguria (Italy) Eirene daughter of Ptolemaios from Alexandria (Egypt)

CC ID 9571 = Mannheim, no. 785 CC ID 9570 = Mannheim, no. 591 CC ID 9569 = ProsPtol 1463; Mannheim, no. 387

Panathenaia in Athens Panathenaia in Athens Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: harma teleion equestrian: synoris polike equestrian: harma polikon

20 21

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151

Date

Comments and references

mid-3rd c. bce

Call. Fr. 383 Pfeiffer + SH 254.1–10

ca. 200bce

..a.gora Lysistratou Pediada was honoured by several cities for a victory in the Haleia of Rhodes in synoris polike. Pedieis was a deme of Lindos.

202–198bce

202–198bce

Tit. Cam. 282, 23a = MDAI(A) 25 (1900), p. 107, no. 106 Hermione daughter of Polykrates from Argos, won with keles teleion in the Panathenaia of 202 and with [keles polikon] in Panathenaia of 178–177. See also the victories by her sister Eukrateia: no. 12, Zeuxo: no. 13 and her mother Zeuxo 14. IG ii(2), 2313 col. 2 lines 14–15; IG ii(2), 2314 col. 2 lines 91a–92, 93a–94 See also the victories by her sisters Hermione no. 11, and Zeuxo no. 13 and her mother Zeuxo no. 14.

202–198bce 182–181bce

IG ii(2), 2313 col. ii, lines 12–13 She was twice victorious at the Panathenaia. See also the victories by her sisters: Hermione no. 11, Eukrateia no. 11 and her mother Zeuxo no. 14.

202–198bce

IG ii(2), 2313 col. 2 lines 8–9; IG ii(2), 2314, col. 1 ll. 49–50 See also the victories by her daughters Hermione no. 11, Eukrateia no. 12 and Zeuxo no. 13.

Between 196– 150bce

IG ii(2), 2313 col. ii lines 59–60 NN daughter of Mnasiadas of Argos ([… Mnasi]ada Argeia).

182–181bce

IG ix.2, 526 l. 18–19 = SEG 40. 1640 = Graninger (2011), 161–165, no. 2. IG ii(2), 2314, col. i, ll. 47–48

182–181bce

NN from Argos [… Argeia ap’ Achaia].

182–181bce

IG ii(2), 2314, col. i, ll. 53–54 --- adou Alexandritis (NN daughter of ---ades, from Alexandria; cf. Tracy—Habicht (1991); SEG 41, 114).

170–169bce

IG ii(2), 2314 col. i, ll. 51–52 SEG 41.115 colI, line 34

170–169bce

SEG 41.115 col. i lines 30–31

170–169bce

SEG 41.115 col. i, line 33

152

van nijf

Female victors in chronological order (cont.) No.

Person and origin

Prosopographies

Festival

Discipline

22

Archagathe daughter of Polykleitos from Antiochia ad Pyramum (Mallus) (Cilicia) Eugeneia daughter of Zenon from Tarsos (Antiochia ad Kydnon) (Cilicia) Menophila daughter of Nestor, origin unknown Kleopatra ii daughter of Ptolemaios v Epiphanes from Alexandria (Egypt) Agathokleia daughter of Noumenios from Alexandria? (Egypt) Damodika daughter of Krates from Kyme (Aiolis)

CC ID 9568 = Mannheim, no. 125

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: synoris teleia

CC ID 9572 = Mannheim, no. 429

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: harma polikon

CC ID 9575 = Mannheim, no. 698 CC ID 9574 = Mannheim, no. 604

Panathenaia in Athens Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: synoris polike equestrian: harma teleion

CC ID 9573 = Mannheim, no. 4

Panathenaia in Athens

equestrian: harma polikon

CC ID 9576 = Mannheim, no. 1559

Unknown

equestrian: harma

28

Theodota daughter of Antiphanes from Elis

CC ID 985 = Moretti (1957), no. 675; Mannheim, no. 247

Olympia in Elis

chariot: harma polikon

29

Timareta daughter of Philistos from Elis (Elis)

CC ID 983 = Moretti (1957), no. 673; Mannheim, no. 1040

Olympia in Elis

chariot: synoris teleia

30

Eukleia daughter of Me--from Chios?

CC ID 9577 = Mannheim, no. 431

Unknown on Chios

equestrian: harma polikos

31

Mnasimache daughter of Phoxinos from Krannon (Thessaly)

CC ID 9582 = Mannheim, no. 718

Amphiareia Rhomaia in Oropos

equestrian: harma polikon

32

Lysis daughter of Hermonax from Magnesia on the Maeander (Caria) Peitho daughter of Makedon from Ephesos / Apollonia (Ionia) Habris daughter of Kaikos from Kyme (Aeolis)

CC ID 9581 = Mannheim, no. 655

Amphiareia in Oropos

equestrian: keles polikon

CC ID 9579 = Mannheim, no. 822

Rhomaia in Xanthos (Lycia)

equestrian: synoris polike

CC ID 9395 = Mannheim, no. 473

chariot: synoris teleia

[---]ione daughter of Polyxenos from Larissa (Thessaly)

CC ID 7980 = Mannheim, no. 1346

Amphiaraia kai Rhomaia in Oropos (Boiotia) Eleutheria in Larissa (Thessaly)

23

24 25

26

27

33

34

35

equestrian: harma teleion

bringing women into the agonistic sphere

153

Date

Comments and references

170–169bce

SEG 41.115 col. i line 32

166–165bce

SEG 41.115 col. ii, lines 28–29

162–161bce

SEG 41.115 col. iii, lines 11–12

162–161bce

Tracy—Habicht (1991) iiii, lines 21–22 = SEG 41.115 col. iii lines 21–22

162–161bce

SEG 41.115 col. 3 ll. 17–18

1st c. bce?

Epitaph with epigram for Damodika who “left behind fame on account of a victory with the chariot”. Kyme was famous for horse racing.

84bce; 174th Olympiad ca. 100– 75bce; 174th Olympiad? 88bce?

ca. 80–50bce?

I.Kyme 46 = SGO 05/03/03 On a family monument. IvO 203 On a family monument. IvO 201 Eukleia daughter of Me … won in a local chariot race on Chios. McCabe Chios 58 = AD (1927), 28, n. 12 cf. Robert OMS i no. 34, 518–524 She may be identified with a priestess of Artemis, which would require downdating this inscription (Graninger 2011, 83; cf SEG 42, 507 with Habicht ZPE 101 [1994], 225–226).

ca. 80–50bce

I.Oropos 529 I.Oropos 527, l. 13–14

80–60bce

Peitho daughter of Makedon Ephesia had herself announced as from Apollonia in Lycia.

ca. 80–50bce

SEG 28.1246, l. 42–44 I.Oropos 525 = IG 417+415 = Arch Eph (1923), 48, 126

First half of the [Ep]ione? 1st c. bce SEG 54.560 = Graninger (2011), nr. 4

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Female victors in chronological order (cont.) No.

Person and origin

Prosopographies

Festival

Discipline

36

[female athlete] from Neapolis? (Italy)

CC ID 966 = Ugolini (2015), no. 7

37

Kasia daughter of Marcus Vettulenus Laetus from Elis (Elis)

CC ID 780 = Moretti (1957), no. 866

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis (Italy) Olympia in Elis

running: stadion thygateras bouleuton chariot: tethrippon polikon

38

Dionysia daughter of Hermesianax from Kaisareia Tralleis (Caria)

CC ID 622 = Sève (1993), no. 13; Moretti (1953), no. 63

Unknown contest (Nemea?) and Asklepiaia in Epidauros

running: stadion

39

Hedea daughter of Hermesianax from Kaisareia Tralleis (Caria)

CC ID 299 = Kostouros (2008), no. 72; LGPN v5b7084; Farrington (2012), no. 1.142; Moretti (1953), no. 63

Unknown contest in Sikyon; Nemeia in Argos; Isthmia in Corinth

running: stadion?; chariot: enoplion harmati

40

Tryphosa daughter of Hermesianax from Kaisareia Tralleis (Caria)

CC ID 297 = Moretti (1953), no. 63; Weir (2004), p. 129; Farrington (2012), no. 1.141; LGPN v5b-12953

Pythia in Delphi; Isthmia in Corinth

running: stadion

41

CC ID 9591

42

(… E …) [female runner] from Neapolis Kasta (Casta) from Neapolis?

CC ID 9590

43

Iousta (Justa) from Neapolis

CC ID 9589

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis

44

Flavia Thalassa from Ephesos

CC ID 9588

45

Aemilia Rekteina from Neapolis?

CC ID 9587

46

Panthalis daughter of Agis? from Sparta (Lakonia)

CC ID 970 = Ugolini (2015), 10

Livia in Sparta

running: parthenoi politikai running: parthenoi sygkletikai running: stadion for bouleuton thygatheres running: stadion parthenon running: diaulos for bouleuton thygateres running: diaulos

47

Seia Spes daughter of Seius CC ID 964 = Ugolini (2015), Liberalis from Neapolis (Italy) no. 5

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis (Italy)

running: stadion thygateras bouleuton

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis

bringing women into the agonistic sphere

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Date

Comments and references

After 27bce

Fragmented text, imperial age.

21ce = 200th Olympiad

I.Napoli 66 Moretti 1957, no. 866 identifies her as Kasia M[nasithea] He suggests that Kasia’s victory took place at the 233rd Olympiad (= 153 ce). A new fragment allowed changing both the date and the name.

ca. 45ce

ca. 43ce ca. 45ce

ca. 45ce

I.Olympia Suppl. 31 = IvO 233 = SEG 40.391 = SEG 44.389 = SEG 48.550 = SEG 53.433 Dionysia daughter of Hermesianax from Tralleis won an unidentified (running?) competition (possibly Nemeia) and the stadion at the Asklepiaia at Epidauros. She was one of three sisters who all won various victories in running and other contests. F.Delphes iii.1, 534 = IAG 63 Hedea daughter of Hermesianax from Tralleis won the enoplion harma at the Isthmia, the stadion at Nemea and in Sikyon, and the paidas kitrarodous in the Sebasteia at Athens. She won as “prote parthenon, prote ap’aionos”. She was one of three sisters who all won various victories in running and other contests. F.Delphes iii.1, 534 = IAG 63 Tryphosa Daughter of Hermesianax from Kaisareia Tralleis won the stadion at Pythia, and the Isthmia immediately after one another; she won “prote parthenon”. She was one of three sisters who all won various victories in running and other contests.

82ce

F.Delphes iii.1, 534 = IAG 63 Miranda (2017a) 257, col. i, l. 35–36

82ce

Miranda (2017a) 257, col. i, l. 30

82ce

Miranda (2017) 257, col. i, l. 27

82ce

Miranda (2017a) 258, col. i, l. 25

82ce

Miranda (2017b) 94–95.

2nd c. ce

The name is uncertain. Panthalis daughter of Agis (?) may be identified with Panthalis Agidos in IG 5.1, 588.

154ce

SEG 11.830 = Meritt Hesperia Suppl. 8 (1949), 215 SEG 14.602

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Female victors in chronological order (cont.) No.

Person and origin

Prosopographies

Festival

Discipline

48

[running victress] from Neapolis?

Ugolini (2015), no. 7

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis

Running: For bouleuton (?)thygateras

49

[chariot victress]?, origin unknown

CC ID 9592

Italika Rhomaia Sebasta in Neapolis (Italy)

equestrian: harma teleion?

bringing women into the agonistic sphere

Date

157

Comments and references

Imperial period Uncertain. NN appears in a list of victors in a running race for … θ]υγατέρας of the Italika Rhomaia Sebasta.

86ce

I.Napoli i 66 = IG xiv, 755g Highly uncertain. θυγ(ατέρα??) appears at the end of a list of victors in the chariot race of the Italika Rhomaia Sebasta of 86. Miranda (2014), 1185 thinks that this refers to a different contest, such as a composition in prose of poetry in honour of a daughter of an emperor. Miranda (2018), 275. no. 3

chapter 7

Women on Time Gendered Temporalities in Greco-Roman Egypt Sofie Remijsen

1

Introduction

All notions of time are social constructs. Of course, natural phenomena, such as the daily sunset or the seasons, are used as points of reference, but they derive their meaning as time markers only from the social and religious activities associated with them (e.g. bed time, New Year celebrations, etc.).1 It is through such social activities that people learn to think about time. As women often participate in different activities from men, they tend to orient themselves within the shapeless mass that is time in other ways than men. Consequently, they are faced with different expectations regarding, for example, punctuality and they express time in different terms when trying to synchronise their activities with others. In recent years, several scholars have started to explore this gendered nature of temporalities in more detail. Sarit Kattan Gribetz, for instance, has observed how rabbinic sources from the first five centuries ce “rhetorically associate positive time-bound rituals more strongly with men”.2 The rabbinic texts expressly exempt women from time-bound positive commandments such as the Shema prayer, which every Jewish man was supposed to perform in the mornings and the evenings as a daily affirmation of his dedication to God, and which thus structured his daily routines. Feminine temporal patterns, on the other hand, were set according to these sources primarily by a woman’s menstrual cycle: by the monthly alternation of periods of purity and impurity, and by the perceived necessity to check every morning and evening by means of an internal examination in which of these states she was.3 Although these daily examinations can be seen as a direct parallel to the male Shema prayer, as Kattan Gribetz indeed suggests, the interesting conclusion is that this did not change the gen1 This idea of time as a social construct goes back to Durkheim (1912, 14–17). For an overview of subsequent discussions, see e.g. Nowotny 1992. 2 Kattan Gribetz 2017, 152. 3 Kattan Gribetz 2017.

© Sofie Remijsen, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_010

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eral image in the Rabbinic texts of men taking control of time and women following the flow of time. A similar difference between an artificially scheduled masculine temporality and a more natural female temporality has been described for colonial Egypt. On Barak traces how Western clock time started to dominate the life of the middle-class man around 1900: male professionals adopted strict time schedules set by the clock and an ideal of time-thrift. This was a requirement for their jobs (e.g. for the railroad or in offices), but also became part of a new, fashionable lifestyle. Women’s schedules continued to flow more naturally to the rhythm of their household activities, which affirmed the stereotype of the woman as time squanderer, which could for instance be found in cartoons. Accepting the idea expressed in contemporary magazines of a dichotomy between masculine clock-oriented time and feminine task-oriented time as a straightforward historical reality is again too simplistic, however, as in each household these different temporalities constantly interacted. Barak shows, for example, how the rigid schedule of the husband was not possible without a wife who anticipated the scheduled mealtimes and who taught the children to manage time. But the dichotomy nevertheless dominated the public imagination of gendered temporalities.4 Roman-era Jewish culture and colonial Egypt share an important feature with Greco-Roman culture: that women were primarily associated with the private sphere of the household and not given a large role in the public sphere. This raises the question of whether other areas of the Greco-Roman world also knew this distinction between a female temporality in which the duration and order of household tasks and of biological cycles loomed large, and a male temporality determined by the more rigid schedules of public life. The present article is intended as a first exploration of female temporalities in papyrus documents from Greco-Roman Egypt (from the third century bce to the fourth century ce). It studies how women wrote about time, in order to understand better how they oriented themselves in time during their day-to-day activities and how they communicated about their own time use. Papyrological evidence is well suited to such questions: when women wrote letters to their relatives or explained their griefs and misfortunes in petitions to the government, they left direct expressions of how they experienced and communicated time in their daily lives. These documents are generally categorised as private: they were not published for a larger audience, but directed to a specific addressee. They do not, therefore, bring us to the same public

4 Barak 2014.

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sphere that many other contributions to this book explore, namely that of the political life of the larger cities. Their representativeness for other areas of the Greco-Roman world is difficult to assess. The papyri do not, however, document strictly private experiences or intimate correspondence either. In their written communications—often written down or read with the help of literate outsiders—women from Greco-Roman Egypt were putting on their public face: they communicated their lives to people outside their own household and played with the gender expectations of their communities. This material also poses challenges. Although women are better represented in documentary papyri than in most other types of ancient sources, they are still underrepresented in comparison to men. A significant methodological challenge is deciding where to start when trying collect a representative corpus: by ploughing through all texts authored by women, or by looking for specific temporal modes, and comparing the documents by men with those by women? Neither method ensures that the identified patterns are gendered: in the first case because the men remain out of sight, in the second because the general underrepresentation of women impedes easy comparison. In what follows, I will try both approaches and discuss this problem of method in more detail. For the first section, I start from an anthology of women’s letters, in order to explain how women oriented themselves in the middle-long term, that is in the months and days of the recent past and near future. For the second section, I survey all papyrological evidence for the use of clock time, an aspect of orientation in the short term. Here, I aim to explain the apparent female reluctance to use this specific temporal mode.

2

The Course of the Year in Women’s Letters

For this first section, I start from the collection of 210 women’s letters from Egypt published by Roger Bagnall and Raffaella Cribiore in 2006. Although this selection includes letters up to the seventh century ce, I have focused on the letters from the third century bce to the fourth century ce. As with any anthology, this collection reflects to some extent the personal interests of the collectors, but the chronological distribution of the texts and the editors’ particular attention to the effects of scribal interference make it a convenient starting point. The corpus contains a number of time indications that give us an idea of how women oriented themselves within the year, and allow us to study how they communicated events in the recent past, how they knew at the time of writing what day it was, and how they managed to plan days and even months ahead.

women on time

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As noted in the introduction, we cannot assume that all time indications in these letters offer evidence for gendered temporalities: to make such identifications, we need to know both whether men oriented themselves in time in similar ways and how far men influenced the content of women’s letters. The first question can be addressed by referring to broader epistolary customs. The latter question is more complex. Letter writing was the main route of communication with anyone outside one’s own village or town, and its practice was far more widespread than literacy. Most letters were written, therefore, with the help of scribes, which in turn raises the question of how far the nominal female authors controlled the content. The analysis of the handwriting and writing style of the letters by the editors of the collection, however, identifies some good indicators of feminine control. Female handwriting cannot be recognised as such (gendered handwriting is a result of modern schooling, and absent from premodern documents). Instead, the difference between a (female) author’s own handwriting and the use of a (possibly male) amanuensis is often revealed by the regularity of the hand. Most literate women and men had little need to write, as the use of scribes was considered a status symbol. This led to hesitant handwritings, often easy to distinguish from the trained, secretarial hands of professional scribes. These more hesitant hands often show up in the final greetings, which literate persons added in their own hand as a sign of politeness and personal investment in the letter. Such a change of hand in the greeting is a reliable indication that the rest was written by a clerk. Language styles can furthermore reveal control over the content. If the letter is composed mostly of short, choppy sentences, this is a good indication that the scribe was writing down a spoken dictate. If such a style is combined with a greeting in a woman’s own hand—which offers proof that she was literate and able to control the work of the scribe—this is a sound indication that we are hearing the woman’s own voice.5 A first observation regarding time indications in this corpus is that a number of letters do not contain a precise date. This has nothing to do with gender: dating letters was not always considered necessary. Its main purpose was to give the recipient an indication of how long the letter had travelled, which due to the lack of a civil postal system was very unpredictable.6 We do regularly find the month and day according to the Egyptian civil calendar mentioned at the end of the letter. The year constituted superfluous information as this would have been known to the recipient. Although it is often added in Ptolemaic let-

5 Bagnall and Cribiore 2006, 6–8, 42–48, 59–65. 6 Casson 1994, 219–226; Bagnall and Cribiore 2006, 37–40.

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ters, it is extremely rare after the early first century ce. In some cases, the lack of a date is linked to preservation, as the normal place for the date, that is at the bottom of the piece of papyrus, is often damaged. That at least the month and day often feature in women’s letters raises the question of how they kept track of the calendar. Even today, when dates are far more ubiquitous, people easily lose track of the exact calendar date. Administrative functions that required close attention to the calendar were mostly performed by men. Possibly, it was not the nominal authors of these letters, but the professional clerks hired by them who filled out this piece of information. In a few cases, analysis of the handwriting has indeed revealed that the final greeting formula was added by the female author of the letter, but the date was added in the same secretarial hand as the rest of the dictated letter.7 But even if the average woman may not have kept close track of the calendar date, the letters do show that women were widely assumed to understand calendar dates just as well as men did. Some women can, moreover, be identified as active users. Their letters also refer to the dates of other events.8 Businesswomen in particular were routine users of calendar dates. In BGU 4.1205 (cols. ii–iii, 28bce), for example, written in what seems to be her own handwriting on the 28th of Phaophi, Isidora informs her addressee in a bossy manner of various business matters, reacting expediently, as she explains herself, to the arrival of his letter on the 27th. In BGU 16.2618 (7bce) another woman, Tryphas, advises her son and daughter about economic strategies. She is keeping close track of the daily changing price of grain: “Please listen to me and lock up the grain and give nothing to anyone; for on the fifteenth it went up 3 obols, and they fear that it may become more expensive”. The addition of the final greeting at the end shows she was a literate woman, who expected the amanuensis to follow her dictate. Eudaimonis, another literate lady who confidently dictated and added her own greetings at the end, supervised the weaving enterprise of her daughter-in-law Aline during her absence and kept book according to the civil calendar. She explains in a letter (P.Brem. 63, ca. 117 ce) that on the 29th of the previous month, Aline had sailed away to give birth elsewhere, that on the next

7 Bagnall and Cribiore 2006, 48, with BGU 16.2617 and 2618 as examples. 8 E.g. SB 5.7743 (1st c. ce): A woman (capable of adding greetings in her own hand) claims to have been ill since the 17th of Tybi. P.Mich. 8.507 (2nd or 3rd c. ce): date of the arrival in the city because of a court case. P.Mich. 8.508 (2nd or 3rd c. ce): one sister writes to the other about the travel arrangements for their brother, who went upcountry on the 9th of Epeiph. P.Oxy. 14.1773 (3rd c. ce): a woman discusses business and travel arrangements with her mother. She arrived on the 30th of Tybi at the Tyrannion.

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day, she, Eudaimonis, had finished a job, and that on the 10th of the current month Epeiph she got materials back from the dyer. For those women whose occupations did not require constant reference to the calendar, there were nevertheless moments within the month that marked out temporal orientation points. Today, the regular rhythm of the week is the most important orientation aid. With the exception of Jews, however, the inhabitants of Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt did not have a sense of the week as an intermediate between the day and the month.9 This changed gradually from the fourth century ce on.10 Before that, people could refer to festivals and other ritual activities as temporal orientation points.11 An interesting example is P.Mert. 2.81 (second century ce), in which a woman wrote to her son that she consulted an oracle every ten days about his welfare. Since Egyptian months all had thirty days, this implies that she performed this ritual on fixed days of the month. Festivals marked out a special period within the month, and also created a need for careful time management, as they required the planning of special travel and catering arrangements.12 Most of the examples of festivals functioning as time markers in the corpus cannot be identified as gendered, as they refer to festivals enjoyed by the whole community. This way of orienting oneself in time does have the potential to be gendered, however, as some cults and festivals attracted more female participation than others.13 The gendered aspect is stronger for biological rhythms. With the menstrual cycle, women physically experience a biological rhythm that is close to the civil month, which could theoretically have been experienced as a marker of time.

9 10

11

12

13

For a recent overview of the history of the week, see Bultrighini and Stern 2021. E.g. P.Oxy. 48.3407 (4th c. ce): The landlady Klematia orders two male assistants to get materials ready. “But by all means today, since they have agreed to take them (the rocks) away on Sunday, that is, tomorrow the 11th.” For more discussion of weekdays in papyri see Ast 2013; Remijsen 2023. E.g. P.Oxy. 10.1209 (4th c. ce): “since the New Year we have been very ill”. P.Bour. 25 (4th c. ce): A date of death described as “during the Paschal feast”. P.Cair.Zen. 1.59028 (3rd c. bce): The timing of the wages and clothing allowances for Satyra, a female harp player, were linked to festivals in which she performed. E.g. P.Oxy. 59.3991 (2nd or 3th c. ce): A woman is expecting a visitor for a festival. P.Oxy. 14.1679 (3rd c. ce): “Agathos is coming to you perhaps on the ninth to bring you some things for the festival.” P.Lond. 3.951 verso (3rd c. ce): “Do all you can to come for the Calends.” SB 12.10840 (4th c. ce): “I wanted to come to you before the celebration (and) my sister Mike stopped me, telling me, ‘Arrive at our mother first for the end of the fast’.” SB 20.14226 (4th or 5th c. ce): “Inform me so that I receive the leg ornaments so that I can wear them at the feast, because mine broke. Don’t I deserve the cakes and the spiced wine of the Kalends?” See, for example, Rowlandson 1998, 56–57 for cult associations of women.

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References to this cycle are absent in the women’s letters, however. Information on the menstrual cycle was kept in the private sphere: modern researchers in fact know very little about how ancient women dealt with their periods.14 The idea that menstruation caused ritual impurity did exist in Greco-Roman Egypt, but it was not as central as in contemporary Jewish sources.15 Probably, the influence of the menstrual cycle on women’s private experience of time should not be overrated: for a woman in a society with an early age of marriage, a high average number of pregnancies and longer lactation periods, menstruation only occurred in shorter intermediate phases. Pregnancies, on the other hand, were very much part of the public face of women. They too marked time and required time management, not only for the pregnant person. The letters reveal how a pregnancy was a period of nervous anticipation for all the women close to her.16 The timing of the birth was difficult to predict, but women did make calculations on the basis of the assumption that a normal pregnancy lasted ten months. This would indeed have given them a reliable indication, as the count was inclusive, meaning that a tenmonths child completed nine months in the womb and was born in the tenth month, which is in accordance with the modern calculation of forty weeks.17 Women made active attempts to estimate the time of delivery, and made travel arrangements geared toward it.18 This childbirth-related time management is

14 15

16

17

18

Sessa 2018, 6. SEG 42.1131 (1st c. bce), an inscription which stood at the entrance of a temple in Ptolemais, lists the number of days people were not welcome in the temple after being impure. For menstruation, seven days of purificatory intermission were required. A male disgust towards menstruating women is absent from the sources from Greco-Roman Egypt, however, cf. Nifosi 2019, 159–178. E.g. P.Münch. 3.57 (2nd c. bce): “I received the letter from you in which you inform me that you have given birth. I prayed to the gods daily on your behalf. Now that you have escaped (from danger), I shall pass my time in the greatest joy.” P.Haun. 2.18 (3rd c. ce): “Greet my sister and let me know if she has given birth and what has been born.” Hanson 1987, 589 (with discussion of the ancient medical literature on the topic in the rest of the article). For an example from the women’s letters: In P.Berenike 2.219 (1st c. ce), a woman uses this to put pressure on her son: “Was it for this that I carried you for ten months and nursed you for three years, so that you would be incapable of remembering me by letter?” E.g. P.Brem. 63 (ca. 117 ce): Aline travels to an unspecified place to give birth. SB 5.7572 (2nd c. ce): Between some notes about groceries and greetings: “And at the moment I am 7 months pregnant.” BIFAO 94 (1994) 33–34, n. iii (2nd c. ce): Sarapias gives birth at Myos Hormos (a relatively comfortable harbour town in the Eastern Desert) and afterwards leaves again. BGU 1.261 (2nd or 3rd c. ce): Thermouthas writes to her brother “I want you to know, I and Valeria, if Herois gives birth, we are praying to come to you; for it is necessary.” P.Oxf. 19 (3rd c. ce): “Do me the favor of bringing my daughter so that she

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a recurring topic in women’s letters. For instance, “If you are coming to your days of giving birth, write to me so that I may come and perform your delivery, since I do not know your month”, wrote one woman to another in O.Florida 14 (second century ce). The letters’ female preoccupation with the duration of a pregnancy strongly differs from what we find in literary sources written by men, which we find more often reflected in the scholarship on the topic:19 whereas the latter texts focus on the implications for the legitimacy of the child (a retrospective concern), the letters show that women wanted to know the date for practical and social reasons, that is to help the pregnant woman with childbirth (a prospective concern). Afterwards, the date of the delivery was remembered and a successful birth was a joyful moment that ended the nervous anticipation.20

3

Clock Time as a Masculine Mode of Time

Whereas Bagnall and Cribiore’s selection of women’s letters offers a number of clues about how women in Greco-Roman Egypt oriented themselves within the course of the year, it contains only a few glimpses of how they planned their days. In order to examine whether this absence of information is significant, this second section follows the opposite approach. By looking at the available documents from Greco-Roman Egypt on the use of clock time as a way to orient oneself within the day, I aim to establish whether this abstract and precise mode of thinking about time could be considered, as Barak observed for colonial Egypt, a masculine temporal mode. Did women keep clear of clock time because this did not fit the societal expectations of how a woman expressed herself and her experience of time in public contexts? Clock time was first developed in Ancient Egypt. Already in the second millennium bce, and perhaps earlier, the Egyptians had a system of twelve hours of the day and twelve hours of the night. Because the exact duration of the

19 20

may give birth, so that I may be grateful to you, by Mesore 1.” Cf. Montevecchi 1979 for a fuller discussion of the question “How many months pregnant is she?” in papyri. E.g. Hanson 1987, 589, 591–592 (with reference to the story about the legitimacy of Demaratus of Sparta in Herodotus 6.61–69). E.g. P.Fouad 75 (64ce): “… poor Herennia has died, even though she had already come safely through a miscarriage on Phaophi ninth. For she gave birth to an eight-month child, dead, and lived on for four days …” What is interesting in this letter is that the date of birth is given explicitly, but the date of death is not. Other indications of the careful registration of the date of birth are the horoscopes found in Greco-Roman Egypt, or the celebration of birthday parties (Perpillou-Thomas 1993, 3–13).

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hour (1/12th of day or night time) varied with the seasons, we call these seasonal hours. The time of day and night was determined with various tools: star tables, water clocks and several types of sundials. Their purpose was not to divide the day with mathematical precision, but to identify specific moments for ritual practices. In daily life, clock time only started to play a role when Egyptian and Greek notions of the hour merged around 300 bce, that is at the beginning of the period under discussion in this article. The Greeks had developed their own notion of the hour in the mid-fourth century bce. The term ὥρα in the sense of an hour first appears when an astronomical division of the diurnal arc (the apparent path of the sun in the course of one day) started to be used as a unit of duration in civil contexts. These first Greek hours were equinoctial hours (i.e. hours with the stable length of sixty minutes) and were not counted from a fixed point. On the earliest Greek sundials, the first and last rays of sunlight of the day fell on different places of the dial throughout the year. Therefore, these equinoctial hours were an awkward tool for locating a specific moment of time within the day (which is what we consider clock time). By the beginning of the third century bce, the Greeks in Alexandria switched to seasonal hours and perfected a new type of concave sundial, with which the twelve seasonal hours of the day could be determined easily throughout the year. This new notion of clock time spread quickly across the Mediterranean. By the second century bce, Greek hollow sundials were a common feature of the cityscape from Italy to Bactria.21 The reason to choose ancient clock time as a test case for gendered temporalities is that this way of measuring time was taken up primarily in maledominated contexts. The earliest evidence for an interest in the abstract measurement of the time of day emerges in the scholarly context of astronomy. The first civic use is documented by clocks set up in public contexts: on central squares full of political activities and in sanctuaries.22 One route through 21

22

This overview of the introduction of clock time in the Greek world is a summary of my more detailed discussion of all early evidence for clock time in Remijsen 2021. The earliest attestation of the word ὥρα is Pl. Leg. 784a (ca. 350 bce). Cf. Sattler 2019, 171–180. Interestingly, this first passage connects the concept of the hour to women: in Plato’s ideal society, a council of carefully selected women would supervise marital virtue by means of a daily meeting of a third of an hour (a level of precision that never recurs in later sources on actual political activities). The earliest certain user of clock time was the Alexandrian astronomer Timocharis, who is said to have made an astronomical observation “at the end of the third hour of the night” on the 29th of January 283bce (Ptol., Alm. 1.2.25–26). A large database of ancient sundials, documenting their geographical and chronological distribution, has been compiled by the team of Gerd Graßhoff and published online at http://repository.edition‑topoi.org/collection/BSDP. Remijsen 2021, 13–21.

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which clock time quickly reached a wide cross-section of the population was the military. This is clear in particular for Egypt. Thirty years after its first attestation in Alexandria, clock time was used by local officials, estate managers and even potters in small settlements across the Nile: these are Greek males belonging to the first generations of colonists. Many of the early colonists were clerouchs, settlers who received a plot of land in exchange for military service. As I will argue elsewhere, it must have been during their military service that they learned to think and communicate about time by means of clock time.23 This early diffusion in male-dominated contexts seems to have set the pattern for the use of clock time for the centuries to come. In the circa 140 papyri from Greco-Roman Egypt (from the third century bce to the fourth century ce) containing a reference to a numbered hour (i.e. the most unambiguous evidence for the use of clock time), female users are underrepresented. They can be identified with certainty in ten texts, two of which are different drafts of the same petition. This strong underrepresentation can be explained by the overrepresentation of documents originating from domains of life from which women were excluded. In particular the frequency of Roman military contexts is striking, and indicates that clock time continued to be part of military discipline. Even in the small Roman military camps in the eastern desert, movements of soldiers in and out the camps were recorded by the hour.24 The use of clock time in the civil administration is more unsystematic, but the occasional use does reflect the idea that clock time fitted an ideal of administrative precision.25 Because such societal contexts were dominated by men, a mode of time connected to it can be identified as gendered as well. Some exceptions— communications in which clock time is used by women—confirm this picture: female users in these texts adapted their communication to standards set by 23

24

25

Evidence for users of clock time in Egypt in the 250s can be found in: P.Lond. 7.1973 (estate manager of high official); P.Cair.Zen. 2.59214 (local official); P.Cair.Zen. 4.59611 (potter); P.Hibeh 1.110 (clerk). The latter document attests to the consistent notation of the hour in the administration of the Ptolemaic post. The use of clock time by the Ptolemaic military is attested in W.Chr. 1. This argument will be further developed in a follow-up to Remijsen 2021. Many references to clock time are found in ostraca found in Roman army stations in the eastern deserts (esp. Krokodilo, Mons Claudianus, Didymoi). The most systematic use of the hour can be found in postal diaries, such as O.Krok. 1. A colourful recent addition to the corpus is P.Worp 51, an official note recording the result of an investigation into a delay in the military post, which turned out to be caused by the messenger’s nocturnal visit to a woman. E.g. P.Hibeh 1.60 (ca. 245 bce, official letter); P.Tebt. 1.15 (114bce, official letter); SB 1.5663 (1st or 2nd c. ce, note on prisoner transport).

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their male addressees. This is clearly the case for two female petitioners. To contextualise their letters, I compared them to other petitions from the Hellenistic and Roman period containing the word ‘hour’. Despite this choice of keyword, this larger set of forty documents shows that clock time was not the dominant temporal mode for expressing the time of day for most private people on the Egyptian countryside: indeed, most petitioners could not pinpoint the exact hour, but explained vaguely that a crime happened at, for example, a “late” hour. This is the case for petitions submitted by men as well as for petitions submitted by women or concerning a crime against a woman.26 In only thirteen petitions did the petitioner know exactly when he or she was on the road, visiting the temple or inspecting his fields, and could express this by using clock time.27 In most cases, this petitioner was a man; the exceptions are formed by two women from the third and fourth centuries ce. The first, Nemesous, reported the disappearance of her husband, who was last seen leaving the house “around the sixth hour”, that is around midday.28 This formulation, a typical rounded hour, suggests that she may not have been a habitual user of clock time, but, perhaps in consultation with the scribe who wrote this for her, reformulated ‘midday’ in a more formal way because of the official nature of the letter. The second female petitioner, however, a certain Aurelia Ataris, was clearly in souverain control of clock time: she declares an attack on her own body when she went to collect a debt “at the tenth hour”.29 Even if she had the letter written by a clerk, she was the only one who could have offered this piece of information. She probably chose the temporal mode of her communication deliberately: her letter is addressed to the local army commander, who would have appreciated this type of military precision. The reason she could do so lies in her upbringing: she was the daughter of a veteran. This example therefore reaffirms that clock time was associated with the male domain of the military. But even if only men became soldiers, they were linked to a network of women, who were fully equipped to anticipate the male users of this system.

26

27

28 29

E.g. P.Oxy. 6.901 (336 ce, by a woman); P.Tebt. 2.283 (93 or 60bce, by a woman concerning an attack on her mother); P.Oxy. 51.3620 (326 ce, by a man concerning an attack on his wife by another woman); P.Sarap. 1 (125 ce, by a man). P.Sorb. 3.133 (226? bce); SB 6.9068 (230–200 bce); P.Petr. 2.38 a (198bce); BGU 10.1907 (after 177bce, reading of hour not certain); P.Heid. 9.423 (158 bce); BGU 6.1254 (154? bce); P.Erasm. 1.2 (after 152 bce); P.Tebt. 1.138 (130–100bce); P.Athen. 32 (after 39 ce); P.Gen.(2) i 17 (ca. 207 ce); PSI iii 184 (292 ce); P.Abinn. 51 and 52 (346 ce, both concerning the same crime). P.Laur. 3.60 (3rd c. ce) is also of interest, as he mentions the duration of one hour. P.Gen.(2) 1.17. P.Abinn. 51 and 52.

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The most striking exception to the apparent female reluctance to use clock time in my corpus can be found in one peculiar genre: invitations for dinner parties. As part of a formal display of politeness, members of the imperialperiod elites handed out written invitations for the dinner parties they hosted for special events, such as weddings.30 These forty-nine formulaic texts make up over a third of my whole corpus of references to clock time, as they represent a rare text genre in which the hour is part of the standard formula.31 The parties generally started at the ninth hour (that is three hours before sunset). This is well-attested as dinner time in literary sources and on mosaics from across the Roman Empire, but it cannot be generalised for the whole population: being free from work in the mid-afternoon implies leisure time, and therefore characterised elite lifestyles and special events. Although a few of the hosts took this leisure element a step further and invited their guests as early as the seventh or (more commonly) the eighth hour, one showed more restraint and started only at the tenth hour.32 Of the forty-six invitations for which we can identify the gender of the host, seven were issued by women. These represent the rest of the female users in the total corpus. Although women are still underrepresented in this subsection of the corpus, here the underrepresentation is not significant, as it is in line with the general underrepresentation of women in private documents. In some cases, women hosted parties for family occasions—perhaps because the male head of the household was no longer alive or capable of acting as host.33 The other three concern invitations for ritual dinners for Isis.34 These form a female counterpart for the more commonly attested Sarapis dinners hosted by men. This shows that in the cult of these two divine spouses, both men and women found opportunities to act as benefactors to their fellow adherents of the divinity. These invitations suggest, moreover, that in two spheres of life, the elite lifestyle and religion, clock time was an appropriate temporal mode for both genders. Again, this can be explained by the original .

30 31

32 33 34

For an insightful comparison to Victorian visiting-cards, see Skeat 1975, 254. The latest addition to the corpus was published in Nelson, Marshall and Gardner 2018, with references to earlier literature. They add a list of 48 known invitations. To be added to this list are P.Oxy. 75.5056, 5075 and O.Medin.Madi 31 (the latter is less formulaic, but similar in content). In my above count of 49, I do not include P.Oxy. 12.1484 as the date and hour are lost in this text, nor P.Oxy. 9.1214, which is a related text from the fifth century, and falls outside the chronological scope of this article. Seventh hour: P.Oxy. 11.1214 and 12.1485; eighth hour: e.g. P.Oxy. 4.747, 12.1486 and 1487; tenth hour: SB xxii 15358. P.Oxy. 1.111, 12.1579, 33.2678 and 75.5057 (all 2nd or 3rd c.; invitations to wedding parties organised by the mother of the bride or groom). P.Fouad i 76 (2nd c. ce); P.Oxy. 66.4539 and 75.5056 (2nd or 3rd c.).

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patterns of diffusion of clock time: already in the third century bce, clock time had a strong foothold among the educated socialites of Alexandria, as well as in the Egyptian temples, where clock time had a venerable tradition. The elite connotations of clock time have also been observed for other areas in the Roman world, for example for Pompeii, where sundials were frequently found in the private residences of the wealthy.35 In a few exceptional inscriptions from Egypt, the female usage of clock time can be linked to all three aforementioned contexts. Julia Balbilla was a female poetess who travelled to Egypt in the company of the empress Sabina, the wife of Hadrian. During their visit to Thebes, the imperial party visited the socalled Memnon statues: massive statues of Amenhotep iii, the most northerly of which made a singing noise in the early morning because an earthquake in the reign of Augustus had created a particular pattern of cracks. This sound was interpreted as a song sung by the hero Memnon. In two carefully composed inscriptions, Julia Balbilla recorded at which times her party had heard the statue sing.36 Although their poetic language makes these inscriptions stand out from the rest of the graffiti on the statue, the inclusion of the hour was not a rare element. She copied this from other inscriptions. By far the best represented among the graffiti detailing the hour are Roman men with often military functions, which suggests that the habit was inspired by military discipline.37 Julia Balbilla creatively adapts, however, the standardised formulation of her models to fit her own poetic ambitions: But when the Titan driving through the heavens with his steeds of white, brought into shadow the second measure of hours, like ringing bronze Memnon again sent out his voice.38 (IGR i,5 1187, ll. 8–10). Like other texts quoted throughout this book, and the previously discussed dinner invitations, such an inscription shows how social class had a large impact on the extent to which a woman could come out into the public sphere and adopt the masculine modes of communication that reigned here. 35

36

37 38

Posidippus, a poet at the Ptolemaic court writing in the second quarter of the third century bce, attests to the early use of clocks and clock time by the Alexandrian elite. Ep. 124 (Anth. Gr. 5.183) mentions the fifth hour as the start of a drinking party; Ep. 52 describes a sundial on a funerary monument. For sundials as elite markers in the Roman world, see Bonnin 2015, 212–219. Colosse de Memnon 28 (= IGR i,5 1187), l. 9: ἐν̣ ̣ὶ σκίαι ὠράων δεύτερον ἦχε μέτρον; Colosse de Memnon 31, l. 4: ὤρας δὲ πρώτας ἄλιος ἦχε δρόμος. Also nos. 29 and 30 are composed by Julia Balbilla (without time indications). Colosse de Memnon 32 (= OGIS 681) was dedicated by empress Sabina herself. Although it is heavily damaged, it is clear that this inscription recorded the hour of the observation as well, though in less poetic language; l. 3–4: ἐντὸς ὥρας [αʹ(?) τοῦ Μέμνονο]ς δὶς ἤκουσε. Colosse de Memnon 18, 20, 23, 67, 78, 79. Translation from Plant 2004, 152.

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This chapter set out to look for indications of gendered temporalities in documentary papyri from Greco-Roman Egypt. This type of sources led us beyond the public sphere of politics discussed in many other contributions in this book, but nevertheless shows us the public face of women: they express, sometimes with the help of male intermediaries, their own experiences of time in letters addressed to people outside their own household, men and women alike. The conclusions are not too different from the comparative research discussed in the introduction: Greco-Roman women in Egypt were less likely than men to use rigid temporal schedules such as clock time, whereas natural rhythms, primarily the biological duration of pregnancies, play a prominent role in female time management. These gendered temporalities are situational: women are less active in many of the contexts in which rigid schedules are conventional, most strikingly in the military, but also in the civil administration; this exclusion affected their experience of time. In business transactions, in the communication of elite lifestyles and in certain ritual contexts, however, we do find women in souverain control of the schedules of the calendar and the clock. In these contexts, they seem not to have felt inhibited by gender expectations in communicating their control of time.

Bibliography Ast, R. (2013). Schedule of Work Days. In: Rodney Ast et al., eds., Papyrological Texts in Honor of Roger S. Bagnall (P.Bagnall), Durham, pp. 9–16. Bagnall, R. and Cribiore, R. (2006). Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt. Ann Arbor. Barak, O. (2014). Times of Tamaddun. Gender, Urbanity, and Temporality in Colonial Egypt. In: N. Maksudyan, ed., Women and the City, Women in the City. A Gendered Perspective on Ottoman Urban History, New York, pp. 15–35. Bonnin, J. (2015). La mesure du temps dans l’Antiquité. Paris. Bultrighini, I. and Stern, S. (2021). The Seven-Day Week in the Roman Empire. Origins, Standardization, and Diffusion. In: S. Stern, ed., Calendars in the Making. The Origins of Calendars from the Roman Empire to the Later Middle Ages, Leiden, pp. 10–79. Casson, L. (1994). Travel in the Ancient World. Baltimore/London. Durkheim, É. (1912). Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Paris. Hanson, A.E. (1987). The Eight Months’ Child and the Etiquette of Birth: obsit omen!, Bulletin of the History of Medicine 61, pp. 589–602. Kattan Gribetz, S. (2017). Time, Gender, and Ritual in Rabbinic Sources. In: E. Shanks Alexander and B.A. Berkowitz, eds., Religious Studies and Rabbinics. A Conversation, London/New York, pp. 139–157. Montevecchi, O. (1979). “Πόϲων μηνῶν ἐϲτιν: P. Oxy. xlvi, 3312”, ZPE 34, pp. 113–117.

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Nelson, M., Marshall, C.W., and Gardner, C. (2018). P.Brit.Col. Inv. 1 and Invitations to Sarapis Dinners, ZPE 205, pp. 207–212. Nifosi, A. (2019). Becoming a Woman and Mother in Greco-Roman Egypt. Women’s Bodies, Society and Domestic Space. London. Nowotny, H. (1992). Time and Social Theory. Towards a Social Theory of Time. Time and Society 1, pp. 421–454. Perpillou-Thomas, F. (1993). Fêtes d’Égypte ptolémaïque et romaine d’après la documentation papyrologique grecque. Louvain. Plant, I.M. (2004). Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome: An Anthology. London. Remijsen, S. (2021). Living by the Clock. The Introduction of Clock Time in the Greek World, Klio 103, pp. 1–29. Remijsen, S. (2023). Business as Usual? Sunday Activities in Aphrodito (Egypt, Sixth to Eighth Century ad). In: U. Heil, ed., From Sun-Day to the Day of the Lord. The Cultural History of Sunday in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Turnhout, pp. 143–186. Rowlandson, J. (1998). Women and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt. Cambridge. Sattler, B. (2019). Cosmology and Ideal Society. The Division of the Day into Hours in Plato’s Laws. In: K. Miller and S. Symons, eds., Down to the Hour. Short Time in the Ancient Mediterranean and the Near East, Leiden/Boston, pp. 158–183. Sessa, K. (2018). Daily Life in Late Antiquity. Cambridge. Skeat, T.C. (1975), Another Dinner-Invitation from Oxyrhynchus (P.Lond.Inv. 3078). JEA 61, pp. 251–253.

chapter 8

Ut sacrificantes vel insanientes Bacchae Bacchus’ Women in Rome Emilia Salerno

1

Introduction

One of the recurring associations passed on by the Latin literary tradition is the one between women and the domus. Authors of diverse genres and ages have constructed the feminine ideal around the management of the household and the care for the family, in open contrast with the masculine rule over the ‘outside’. Besides being constantly remarked on in literary evidence, this dualism was also supported by the Roman law. In an excerpt of the Digest, we read: Feminae ab omnibus officiis civilibus vel publicis remotae sunt (“Women are excluded from all civic or public offices”).1 There were indeed areas of Roman social life from which women were excluded, and those who trespassed on the socially imposed limits were at the very least looked upon with diffidence. However, thanks to the tireless work of scholars like professor Emily Hemelrijk, we nowadays have a much broader view on the actual roles women could assume in Roman society. If we look at material evidence, it becomes quite clear that “the boundaries between the domestic and the public were, in practice, much more flexible than the moralizing sources suggest”.2 In other words, there were ways for women to push the boundaries of the social norms to gain more publicity without becoming ‘public women’ (a euphemism for prostitutes). Religion, in particular, offered numerous opportunities to step out of the domestic sphere and into public life. Countless studies have explored the religious agency of Roman women (the adjective ‘Roman’ is used in a broad sense here), often proving that the information conveyed by literary sources does not quite coincide with what material evidence shows.3 Beside the well documented cases of religious agency exclusively controlled by women, such as the Vestals, the Flaminicae or the celebrations of Matralia and Bona Dea,4 it 1 2 3 4

Dig. 50.17.2 (Ulp.). See Hemelrijk 2015, 10 n. 16. Hemelrijk 2015, 11. Duby-Perrot-Pantel 1992; Schultz 2006, 10–11. Scheid 1992, 381–385 mentions and analyses these typically feminine religious roles in a very

© Emilia Salerno, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_011

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has been increasingly shown that gender division in cultic activities was not as sharp as was once believed, and that priestesses and female attendants were to be found in cults and cultic acts traditionally ascribed to men, and vice versa.5 Nevertheless, this does not imply that religion was a free area for women. There were, in fact, rules and behaviours to be followed so that their public roles could remain socially acceptable. This could happen only if the outside activities unequivocally referred to women’s domestic duties and virtues.6 Qualities such as modesty (pudicitia), moral integrity (innocentia) and chastity (castitas) had to be constantly present in any public activity women pursued, including religious ones.7 These virtues distinguished Roman from barbarian, respectable from despicable, trustworthy from dangerous women. This is the reason why for a long time it has been believed that the only acceptable cultic activities for Roman women were the ones reflecting their social roles of caregivers, the ones aimed at propitiating fertility or protecting the city, preferably if addressed to a female goddess. And this is also the reason why cultic activities that challenged this feminine ideal were extremely controversial, if not utterly despised in the traditional narrative. One of the most important examples of cultic activity in open contrast with the social norms regulating women’s life and behaviour is the cult of Bacchus. The tradition about this cult and the women consecrated to and attending its rituals has been deeply affected by the narrative Euripides made of it in his tragedy Bacchae (407/6bce).8 His image of the frenzied priestesses of Dionysus (also known as maenads) has had such a deep impact on the artistic and literary production throughout the centuries that it has been quite difficult to distinguish legend from history. The question of whether the bacchae did in fact exist has been often addressed and unfortunately left without a clear answer. The material evidence in favour of their existence—as fascinating as it is—is scarce and raises more questions than answers. And yet the fact that we find the word bacchae/βακχίς used in different contexts, both literary and archaeological, is extremely interesting. In contrast to the material evidence, where this term does not imply any moral judgement and simply defines a group of attendants of Dionysus, the literary use of the word bacchae does entail a num-

5 6 7 8

contradictory chapter, in which he tries to prove that Roman women could only aspire to marginal roles in religious activity, while presenting conspicuous examples of the contrary. Schultz 2006, 16, 23, 51; Salerno 2016–2017, 232 n. 44; Diluzio 2018. Hemelrijk 2015, 12. Hemelrijk 2015, 15. Henrichs 1978, 21; Wyler 2012, 3; Bremmer 2017, 23–26; Massa 2021, 248.

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ber of moralistic nuances, depending on the image the authors want to convey about the women involved. In this paper the matter of the definition of the Bacchae in Rome will be analysed with the help of the three case studies of Paculla Annia, Valeria Messalina and Pompeia Agrippinilla, three women associated by either literary or epigraphic evidence with the cult of Bacchus-Dionysus. More specifically, this paper aims to explore to what extent the followers of Bacchus pushed the boundaries of the social norms and how they managed (if they did) to anchor their public roles in traditionally acceptable ones. Given that Bacchus entered the Roman pantheon quite early and stayed in it until the arrival of Christianity, one might wonder how one of its most controversial aspects, such as the role women had in the cult, has been dealt with across the centuries. For reasons of length, this question cannot be fully answered here. But the three aforementioned case studies help to gain a better insight into the development of women’s role in Bacchus’ cult over the course of time, while also showing how different kinds of sources conveyed a different representation of the bacchae in Rome.

2

Paculla Annia: the (Problematic) Introduction of Bacchus’ Cult in Rome

A woman called Paculla Annia is mentioned only in Livy’s recount of the Bacchanalian affair.9 We have no other evidence of her existence except for this narrative of one of the most famous interventions of the Roman government in the religious life of its citizens. She is not defined as baccha; instead she is addressed as sacerdos (“priestess”) of Bacchus’ mysteries. According to Livy’s account, she is the one responsible for bringing the mysteries of Bacchus to Rome and for corrupting Roman men and women, transforming the latter into frenzied bacchae.10 It has become quite clear that Livy’s narrative about the Bacchanalian affair cannot be taken at face value, as the author lived centuries after the events happened and had a specific agenda.11 However, the character 9

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Livy 39.13.9: Pacullam Anniam Campanam sacerdotem omnia, tamquam deum monitu, immutasse: nam et uiros eam primam filios suos initiasse, Minium et Herennium Cerrinios; et nocturnum sacrum ex diurno, et pro tribus in anno diebus quinos singulis mensibus dies initiorum fecisse. Livy 39.13.12: Viros, uelut mente capta, cum iactatione fanatica corporis uaticinari; matronas Baccharum habitu crinibus sparsis cum ardentibus facibus decurrere ad Tiberim, demissasque in aquam faces, quia uiuum sulpur cum calce insit, integra flamma efferre. Steinhauer 2020, 147.

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of Paculla Annia and the story that revolves around it is an interesting starting point to achieve a better comprehension of the narrative that has been made about the bacchae as well as of the cult of Bacchus and the role women had in it. Livy’s report of the events that led to the senatus consultum ultimum and the repression of the Bacchanalia pivots around five female characters: Duronia, Hispala Faecenia, Aebutia, Sulpicia and of course Paculla Annia. These are five women of different socio-cultural background who, on closer inspection, represent specific virtues and vices of femininity. Duronia, widow of an eques, is the one who kindled the scandal of the Bacchanalia. Encouraged by her new husband, she pushed her minor son Publius Aebutius to be initiated into Bacchus’ mysteries, to fulfil a vow she made when he was sick. According to the boy’s stepfather, the Bacchanalia would be an effective way to corrupt the young man’s morals and get a hold on him. At this point, we get the first information about the rituals entailed in the Bacchic mysteries: in order to be initiated, one had to observe ten days of chastity; afterwards, the initiation would take place after a common supper.12 This is the first aspect that clarifies the nature of Bacchus’ cult, as sexual abstinence and the consumption of a common meal were recurring rituals in mystery cults, such as those of Isis and Osiris.13 Rather than from mere interest in the cultic tradition, Livy uses the detail of sexual abstinence to introduce the second woman relevant to his narrative. In order to observe the ten days of chastity, Publius Aebutius first has to warn his lover Hispala Faecenia, a freedwoman who makes a living as a scortum, a prostitute. When he tells her about the upcoming initiation, Hispala is startled. She reveals that, when she was still a slave, she too was initiated into Bacchus’ mysteries by her mistress. Once freed, she never came back to the sacrarium, as “she knew it to be a sink of every form of corruption”.14 Aebutius’ and Hispala’s experiences are very similar, as both are led to their initiation by a woman with no regard for their free will. Even though Aebutius’ mother and Hispala’s mistress are called neither bacchae nor sacerdotes and it is impossible to learn anything about an actual initiation process or a sort of cultic hierarchy, it seems quite clear that the two women were already members of the Bacchus cult and could introduce new ‘acolytes’ by virtue of their recognised social status.

12

13 14

Livy 39.9.3–4: uia una corruptelae Bacchanalia erant. mater adulescentem appellat: se pro aegro eo uouisse, ubi primum conualuisset, Bacchis eum se initiaturam; damnatam uoti benignitate deum exsoluere id uelle. decem dierum castimonia opus esse: decimo die cenatum, deinde pure lautum in sacrarium deducturam. Bonfanti 2020, 335 n. 3. Livy 39.10.6: scire corruptelarum omnis generis eam officinam esse. Transl. Roberts.

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The corruption of the youth is presented as one of the most despicable aspects of the cult. In Hispala’s words: It was a matter of common knowledge that no one had been initiated for the last two years above the age of twenty. As each person was brought in, he was handed over to the priests like a victim and taken into a place which resounded with yells and songs, and the jangling of cymbals and drums, so that no cry from those who were suffering violation could be heard.15 The use of loud music and physical mortification was proverbial in other mystery cults.16 The fact that very young people were made to go through this demeaning ordeal is considered particularly appalling. The narrator ascribes the introduction of this custom to Paculla Annia, who, according to Hispala’s account, was the first to initiate her own sons into Bacchus’ mysteries. She is, in fact, presented as responsible for perverting a cult that was already looked upon as deeply suspicious because of its origin.17 At first they were confined to women; no male was admitted, and they had three stated days in the year on which persons were initiated during the daytime, and matrons were chosen to act as priestesses. Paculla Annia, a Campanian, when she was priestess, made a complete change, as though by divine monition, for she was the first to admit men, and she initiated her own sons, Minius Cerinnius and Herennius Cerinnius. At the same time she made the rite a nocturnal one, and instead of three days in the year celebrated it five times a month. When once the mysteries had assumed this promiscuous character, and men were mingled with women with all the licence of nocturnal orgies, there was no crime, no deed of shame, wanting. More uncleanness was wrought by men with men than with women. Whoever would not submit to defilement, or 15

16 17

Livy 39.10.6–7: et iam biennio constare neminem initiatum ibi maiorem annis uiginti. ut quisque introductus sit, uelut uictimam tradi sacerdotibus. eos deducere in locum, qui circumsonet ululatibus cantuque symphoniae et cymbalorum et tympanorum pulsu, ne uox quiritantis, cum per uim stuprum inferatur, exaudiri possit. Transl. Roberts. Burkert 1987, 112–113. Livy 39.8.3–4: Graecus ignobilis in Etruriam primum uenit nulla cum arte earum, quas multas ad animorum corporumque cultum nobis eruditissima omnium gens inuexit, sacrificulus et uates; nec is qui aperta religione, propalam et quaestum et disciplinam profitendo, animos errore imbueret, sed occultorum et nocturnorum antistes sacrorum. initia erant, quae primo paucis tradita sunt, deinde uulgari coepta sunt per uiros mulieresque.

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shrank from violating others, was sacrificed as a victim. To regard nothing as impious or criminal was the very sum of their religion. The men, as though seized with madness and with frenzied distortions of their bodies, shrieked out prophecies; the matrons, dressed as Bacchae, their hair dishevelled, rushed down to the Tiber with burning torches, plunged them into the water, and drew them out again, the flame undiminished, as they were made of sulphur mixed with lime. Men were fastened to a machine and hurried off to hidden caves, and they were said to have been rapt away by the gods; these were the men who refused to join their conspiracy or take a part in their crimes or submit to pollution. They formed an immense multitude, almost equal to the population of Rome; amongst them were members of noble families both men and women. It had been made a rule for the last two years that no one more than twenty years old should be initiated; they captured those to be deceived and polluted.18 The first feature that is emphasised about Paculla Annia is her non-Roman origin. She is ‘Campanian’, and thus foreign to Roman civilised customs and religious ethic. Just like the Graecus ignobilis who brought the cult of Bacchus to Italian shores, the Campanian priestess is stigmatised for her geographic origin. According to Livy, her cultural background determines her moral nature.19 The loathing for her ‘otherness’ is justified by a long list of her crimes, disguised as religious zeal. She is accused of: 1) being the first to admit men to Bacchus’ rites, 2) making the rite nocturnal, 3) increasing the number of celebration days from three times a year to five times a month, 4) letting men mingle with women during the rite, during which men were more debased than women, and 5) introducing youths no older than twenty years who were easily corrupted. 18

19

Livy 39.13.9–14: Pacullam Anniam Campanam sacerdotem omnia, tamquam deum monitu, immutasse: nam et uiros eam primam filios suos initiasse, Minium et Herennium Cerrinios; et nocturnum sacrum ex diurno, et pro tribus in anno diebus quinos singulis mensibus dies initiorum fecisse. ex quo in promiscuo sacra sint et permixti uiri feminis, et noctis licentia accesserit, nihil ibi facinoris, nihil flagitii praetermissum. plura uirorum inter sese quam feminarum esse stupra. si qui minus patientes dedecoris sint et pigriores ad facinus, pro uictimis immolari. nihil nefas ducere, hanc summam inter eos religionem esse. uiros, uelut mente capta, cum iactatione fanatica corporis uaticinari; matronas Baccharum habitu crinibus sparsis cum ardentibus facibus decurrere ad Tiberim, demissasque in aquam faces, quia uiuum sulpur cum calce insit, integra flamma efferre. raptos a diis homines dici, quos machinae illigatos ex conspectu in abditos specus abripiant: eos esse, qui aut coniurare aut sociari facinoribus aut stuprum pati noluerint. multitudinem ingentem, alterum iam prope populum esse; in his nobiles quosdam uiros feminasque. biennio proximo institutum esse, ne quis maior uiginti annis initiaretur: captari aetates et erroris et stupri patientes. Steinhauer 2020, 151.

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If the low-born Greek was responsible for bringing this cult with its despicable rituals to Etruria, Paculla Annia is even more deplorable for taking this “pestilential evil” to Rome like a “contagious disease”.20 Livy portrays the priestess as disrupting the very foundation of Roman society, subverting not only its religious customs, but—more importantly—also its traditional social system based on a specific division of gender roles. It is not simply the mixed participation of men and women that appals the author, but more specifically the fact that during the rituals men are more defiled than women, who contextually gain more power, especially in the role of bacchae. According to Livy, this privileged position was reserved for matrons, who abandoned their traditional status as mothers and wives and left the domestic sphere to enter the public sphere in a state of frenzy. This information overlaps with the description some Greek sources present of women’s role in the Bacchic cult. According to these sources, only married women (γυναῖκες) were entitled to become maenads, celebrate the mysteries and offer sacrifices; whereas the virgins (παρθένοι) were in charge of bringing the thyrsus, Bacchus’ ritual staff, and leading the procession in frenzied dances.21 As with Livy’s recount, it is quite challenging to verify this kind of information, as both literary and representational evidence (e.g. the frescoes in Pompeii’s Villa dei Misteri22) is deeply influenced by mythical elements. As corrupted Roman matrons threatened the feminine ideal by assuming a role as bacchae, order and decency is re-established thanks to the intervention of two Roman matrons, Aebutia and Sulpicia, viz. young Aebutius’ aunt and the mother-in-law of the consul who took care of the investigations and the ban against the Bacchanalia and their participants. Aebutia’s and Sulpicia’s main merit was convincing the two young lovers, Aebutius and Hispala, to come clean in front of the consul about the crimes committed during the Bacchic rituals. The consul trusted the two women because they were old-fashioned matrons, who respected the traditional values of Rome.23

20 21

22 23

Livy 39.9.1: Huius mali labes ex Etruria Romam ueluti contagione morbi penetrauit. Diod. Sic. 4.3.3: “Consequently in many Greek cities every other year Bacchic bands of women gather, and it is lawful for the maidens to carry the thyrsus and to join in the frenzied revelry, crying out ‘Euai!’ and honouring the god; while the matrons, forming in groups, offer sacrifices to the god and celebrate his mysteries and, in general, extol with hymns the presence of Dionysus, in this manner acting the part of the Maenads.” See Burkert 1987, 105. See also Henrichs 1978, 147. Ricciardelli 2000, 275–282. Livy (39.11.3–5) most clearly defines Sulpicia a gravis femina (a woman of high character) and Aebutia a proba et antiqui moris femina (virtuous woman of the old style).

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The juxtaposition of virtuous and corrupted women is crucial to Livy’s account of the events leading up to the senatus consultum ultimum. While Duronia and Paculla Annia pervert their role as mothers and protectors of the household by forcing their children into a despicable cult, the matrons Aebutia and Sulpicia and the freedwoman Hispala embody the feminine ideal that was constructed and spread by Augustan propaganda. Livy was an important contributor to this propaganda.24 In fact, his narrative of the Bacchanalian affair is especially remarkable for depicting the women involved in the cult as responsible not only for the corruption of the traditional religious sentiment with their prava religio (“corrupt religion”), but also for posing a threat to the very fabric of society.25 When the consul Postumius makes his speech before the senate deliberating over the suppression of the Bacchanalia, it becomes immediately clear that the main concern is not simply the mixing of men and women in the same rituals, but the perversion of gender roles. On the one hand, women who should be subordinate to men and who should obey the precepts of pudicitia and modestia indulge in licentiousness and exercise physical power upon men. On the other hand, men and boys are turned into simillimi feminis mares (lit: “males extremely similar to females”) after their initiation by undergoing and committing stuprum (stuprati et constupratores).26 It is difficult to pinpoint what it is exactly meant by stuprum here. The term is usually employed to indicate all kinds of illegitimate sexual intercourse, including pederastic relationships.27 However, defining men as simillimi feminis might refer to an alleged subversion of the socially acceptable sexual roles attributed to men and women. While the Roman masculine ideal was that of an ‘impenetrable penetrator’, never passive and always active in the bedroom as well as in political and social life, passivity belonged to women, as penetrability was a symptom of weakness.28 Subverting this active/power— passive/weakness dualism constituted an ethic issue and a social threat. In light of this, Livy suggests that men participating in Bacchic rituals are so corrupted by their passive role that they are eventually unable to “wield their swords in 24 25 26

27 28

Milnor 2005. See also Edwards 2002, 42. Scheid 1992, 398–399. See also Bakkers 2005, 51–53. Livy 39.15.9: primum igitur mulierum magna pars est, et is fons mali huiusce fuit; deinde simillimi feminis mares, stuprati et constupratores, fanatici, uigiliis, uino, strepitibus clamoribusque nocturnis attoniti. Bakkers 2005, 37 n. 4. See Mommsen 1955, 694; 703. The expression ‘impenetrable penetrator’ was coined by Judith Butler in her 1993 work, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”. Then it was discussed and applied to ancient historical research by scholars like Jonathan Walters (1997) and Angus McLaren (2007).

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defence of the chastity of your wives and children”, that is to fulfil their masculine role par excellence.29 As women corrupt their role as wives and mothers, and men lose their status of protectors and warriors, the Bacchanalia are presented as a dreadful menace to the two pillars of Roman society: the family and the state.30 On top of that, these gender-mixed congregations constituted a direct threat to the Senate’s authority, also because of their own inner hierarchy (discussed in the last section), which overturned established social roles. It is thus not unlikely that the more profound reason behind the banning of the Bacchanalia and the destruction of their locations all over Italy was a mere political concern for the stability of the ruling class.31 It is extremely interesting that women are primarily responsible for this major threat that has far-reaching repercussions for the socio-political fabric. The low moral stance Livy ascribes to the bacchae not only reflects his adhesion to the Augustan conception of female ethics,32 but also results from a Roman patriarchal fear of the power of women, developed in particular by the generation after the Hannibalic War.33 From this perspective, the independence in cultic agency and the authority women gain over men in acting as bacchae posed a major political threat.

3

Messalina: A Baccha in Power

If in Livy’s account danger came from fairly anonymous women acting as bacchae, the threat got bigger when Bacchus’ cult crossed the thresholds of the imperial palace. In his ground-breaking essay Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina, Albert Henrichs efficiently sums up in one sentence the core problem of the Dionysiac experience in the context of political power: “Bacchic impersonation was potentially disruptive and dangerous, especially if it was not controlled by the mitigating mechanism of traditional cult”.34 The evidence at our disposal up to the second century ce mainly presents Bacchic activity as exceptionally un-traditional, often as a reflection of society’s untameable

29 30 31 32 33 34

Livy 39.15.14: hi cooperti stupris suis alienisque pro pudicitia coniugum ac liberorum uestrorum ferro decernent? Scheid 1992, 398. Schultz 2006,90; Bakkers 2005, 50. Tac. Ann. 3.25; Suet. Aug. 14 (about the Leges Iuliae); Livy 31.1 (about the Lex Oppia). Mac Góráin 2017, 329. Henrichs 1978, 159.

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moral decay, or—in later literary sources—as the expression of the hybris characterising some exponents of imperial power. Messalina is the most blatant example of the latter. In one of the most debated passages of his Annales, Tacitus describes the decadent scene of a mock-bacchanal organised by Messalina, right after she married her lover Gaius Silius, while still being married to the emperor Claudius. While Claudius sojourned in Ostia, the bigamous empress staged a Dionysiac frenzy: Meanwhile Messalina, never before more unrestrained in her debauchery, was celebrating a mock-vintage in the house at the height of autumn. The wine presses were being trodden, the vats were overflowing, and women girt in animal skins were leaping about like maenads sacrificing or out of their minds. Messalina herself was shaking the thyrsus with her hair flowing, Silius beside her wreathed in ivy, wearing tragic buskins, tossing his head about, a wanton chorus shrieking around them. The story goes that Vettius Valens climbed up a very tall tree as a joke. When asked what he could see, he replied “a frightful storm from Ostia.” So either something resembling a storm was on the horizon, or maybe a chance word let fall turned into a prophecy.35 Tacitus’ masterful use of literary references, especially to Euripides’ Bacchae, has caused much discussion about the reliability of this episode. Various details concur to enhance the theatrical nature of this account: from the description of the attire and behaviour of Messalina and her female companions, recalling a very classical maenadic iconography, to the detail of the cothurni worn by Silius, to the moment when Vettius Valens climbs up a tree to spot the Bacchic gathering, in the same way Pentheus did when spying on Dionysus’ followers.36 On the other hand, it has been suggested that it was Messalina herself who wanted to imitate a theatrical performance of the maenadic ritual.37 In both cases, a

35

36 37

Tac. Ann., 11.31. 2–3: at Messalina non alias solutior luxu, adulto autumno simulacrum vindemiae per domum celebrabat. urgeri prela, fluere lacus; et feminae pellibus accinctae adsultabant ut sacrificantes vel insanientes Bacchae; ipsa crine fluxo thyrsum quatiens, iuxtaque Silius hedera vinctus, gerere cothurnos, iacere caput, strepente circum procaci choro. ferunt Vettium Valentem lascivia in praealtam arborem conisum, interrogantibus quid aspiceret, respondisse tempestatem ab Ostia atrocem, sive coeperat ea species, seu forte lapsa vox in praesagium vertit. Transl. Mac Góráin 2017, 332. Von Stackelberg 2009, 616. Mac Góráin 2017, 331. Fernández 2013, 188 n. 27.

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very political reason can be spotted behind Tacitus’ narrative and Messalina’s alleged actualisation of a maenadic performance. Accusations of debauchery, sexual excesses or depravity were powerful tools in the hands of Roman intellectuals to diminish the authority of a political party or person.38 Tacitus contributes to the construction of Messalina’s entire character as meretrix Augusta (“the imperial prostitute”), which was begun by Juvenal and developed by other historians such as Suetonius and Cassius Dio.39 The enactment of a bacchanal is presented by Tacitus as the last signature act of a despicable woman. Similar to Paculla Annia and Duronia in Livy’s account, Messalina betrays the Roman feminine ideal of devoted wife and loving mother, using her sexuality not to assure the stability of her household, but for her own pleasure and political agenda.40 Moreover, Messalina’s representation as a bacchante placed her on the same moral line as her great-grandfather Mark Antony, who was similarly attached to Dionysiac religiosity and equally despised for it.41 Tacitus’ intention to discredit the empress is quite evident and corresponds to ubiquitous sentiments about her. This was a woman who eventually underwent a damnatio memoriae by the Senate.42 On the other hand, if Tacitus’ account can be taken at face value and Messalina did stage a Bacchanalia-like ritual, it is interesting to consider what might have been her motivation. One hypothesis is that such a ritual was meant to seal a calculated conspiracy to dethrone Claudius; another sees in Messalina’s impersonation of a baccha the affirmation of her personal authority at the court, especially against her competitor and future replacement, Agrippina.43 Either way, the choice to impersonate a bacchante seems to be determined by an aspiration to reach a new level of power, by transgressing the constraints imposed on her female status. More specifically, it has been argued that by means of the freer sexuality traditionally attributed to the bacchae, Messalina aimed to detach herself from masculine control and attain a more masculine authority.44 However, this interpretation contrasts with the role given to Silius in the mock-Bacchanalia, as he clearly plays the part of Dionysus. As a matter of fact, he wore cothurni, the footwear usually reserved to the impersonation of divine characters in tragedies. If Silius impersonated Dionysus, Messalina 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Edwards 2002. Cenerini 2010, 180. Joshel 1995, 56. Plut. Ant. 75, 4–6. See Salerno 2018, 154–155. Varner 2001, 64. Cenerini 2010, 184. Von Stackelberg 2009, 614; Hidalgo de la Vega 2007, 405. Fagan 2002, 574 argues against this interpretation.

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could be seen not simply as a baccha, but as Ariadne, the first mythological baccha and Dionysus’ spouse. This parallel has been read as an attempt to claim the kind of divine honours that other empresses received and that Claudius apparently withheld from her. However, it is not clear why Messalina would have preferred a secondary mythological character, rather than a more authoritarian and more power-related goddess, such as Ceres (impersonated by Livia) or Cybele (impersonated by Agrippina).45 Moreover, if this sort of representation was meant to emphasise her release from her wedlock with Claudius, it set her in a subordinate position to her new spouse Silius, who acted as a god. It is unlikely that Messalina would organise a fake Bacchanalia to assert and enhance her authority when it would have had the opposite effect. In fact, the entire episode is a lot more comprehensible as a literary construct by Tacitus, who, like a perfect director, places Dionysiac elements with impeccable timing and balance within his narrative.46 For this reason, Messalina’s maenadic behaviour does not have any ritual significance.47 The lack of any further evidence to substantiate her attachment to the Bacchic cult also profoundly undermines the historicity of the episode. Nevertheless, this passage is extremely relevant with regard to the value attributed to the image of the bacchae. As a matter of fact, with Messalina this image assumes a very political connotation, a mark of infamia, a moral stigma comparable to and associated with her muchgossiped-about activity as a prostitute. By assuming the aspect and behaviour of a frenzied maenad, the empress confirms her unfitness for her role as a public person and embraces her reputation as a public woman.

4

Pompeia Agrippinilla: The Bacchae in Public

It has been argued that a maenad is not a woman, but an attitude.48 The widely accepted distinction between mythological and historical bacchae has been based on this idea, as the real women recorded in literary and epigraphic sources worshipped Dionysus in imitation of their mythical counterparts. As the first two case studies show, literary sources clearly drew details from myth in order to highlight the profound and dangerous strangeness of Bacchus’ cult and its attendants. However, we obtain a far less dramatic image when we shift

45 46 47 48

Von Stackelberg 2009, 616–617 n. 61. Massa 2021, 249. Henrichs (1978, 155) includes her among the so called “maenads without maenadism”. See also Fernández 2013, 190. Díez Platas 1996, 323–334. See Fernández 2013, 185.

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the focus from literary to epigraphic sources, where the stigmatisation of the bacchae is less present, if not absent. In the story Livy tells about the Bacchanalian affair, the social status of the women and their role as bacchae are incongruous. Women who participated in the rites had to be punished privately by their relatives or guardians, or publicly disciplined.49 The affair has a bloody end, with the banning of the rites, the persecution of Bacchus’ followers and attendants and the destruction of Bacchic shrines all over Italy. Signs of this repression can incidentally be found in the archaeological record: a subterranean chamber in Bolsena and a building in the archaeological site of Gianmartino testify to the deliberate destruction of Dionysian places of worship.50 However, the famous inscription of Tiriolo, which provides us with the exact text of the senatus consultum, shows that Livy’s description of the measures adopted to eradicate Bacchus’ cult from Italy is incomplete and incorrect. As a matter of fact, despite the severity of the government’s intervention, one can hardly talk about eradication of the cult. The ultimate goal was rather its containment and regulation. This was, however, extremely strict, as the senatus consultum decreed: 1) the abolition of gathering places 2) the prohibition of sacred celebrations for groups bigger than five people (two men and three women), in order to avoid conspiracies and common vows as well as the creation of a common treasury 3) a clearer and stricter division between men and women with distinct roles. Exceptions to these rules could only be allowed by a praetor urbanus after a meeting with at least one hundred senators.51 Bacchus’ cult was thus not eradicated, but deeply modified. On the one hand it became controllable by the state, on the other it was more compatible with Roman social and religious standards.52 The senatus consultum makes a clear distinction between male and female worshippers. Men are forbidden to become priests (sacerdos) or officers (magister), and cannot be appointed bacchantes. This very specific prohibition may 49

50 51 52

Livy, 39.18: mulieres damnatas cognatis, aut in quorum manu essent, tradebant, ut ipsi in priuato animaduerterent in eas: si nemo erat idoneus supplicii exactor, in publico animaduertebatur. The verb animadverto could mean both “punish” or “execute”. However, a death sentence would seem quite disproportionate, also in light of the fact that women kept being involved in the cult. Macchione-Mastroianni 2018. CIL x 104 = CIL i 581 (p. 723, 832, 907). Fernández 2013, 188; Schultz 2006, 90–91; Caerols 2006, 103–106.

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allow us to infer that, before the Bacchanalian affair, there was no gender restriction on becoming a baccha. If that is the case, the image of the bacchae as an exclusive group of frenzied women can only be based on the profound bias of literary narratives. Moreover, whereas both men and women were forbidden to become officers, women are not prohibited from becoming bacchae or priestesses.53 It is difficult to say why the decree makes a difference between magister and sacerdos, why women were forbidden to become officers but allowed to be priestesses and bacchae. It has been assumed that the alleged popularity of Bacchus’ cult among women would make their role as bacchae more acceptable to the public eye than other roles (i.e. magister) commonly associated with more traditional religious expressions.54 Notwithstanding the different roles attributed to the two genders in the decree, it is clear that the mixed participation of men and women was not really an issue. Contrary to what Livy states, the most pressing concern was to avoid having men of a certain status at the highest level of the Bacchic hierarchy. That means that slaves and foreigners, harmless as they were in the eye of the Roman government, could in fact become bacchantes, regardless of their gender.55 Unique evidence of male bacchantes is provided by an inscription found in Torre Nova, in Latium, dating to around 160–170 ce. It is inscribed in the base of a statue dedicated to the priestess Pompeia Agrippinilla.56 She was the wife of Gavius Squilla Gallicanus, consul in 150ce and proconsul of Asia in 165 ce, who is mentioned in the inscription with the title of ἱερεύς (“priest”). The entire inscription records more than 400 names of both male and female attendants of Bacchus’ cult, organised in what seems to be a specific hierarchy. This thiasos has often been identified as a family religious association, founded by Pompeius Macrinus, Agrippinilla’s father and consul in 115 ce.57 The fact that he is addressed as ἥρως in the second line of the inscription has raised some debate about his role in the association. As the title ἥρως was commonly attributed to Dionysus, it could have indicated the chief of the entire congregation, making Macrinus, not Agrippinilla, the actual head of the thiasos.58 On the other hand, the title might simply be an honorary epithet conferred on an important

53 54

55 56 57 58

Steinhauer 2019, 140. Steinhauer 2019, 141; 38 Jaccottet 2003, i, 114 and Jaccottet 2003, i, 118: “La place particulière des femmes dans le monde bachique est une autre donnée qui nous permettra de saisir le réseau complexe des liens existant entre le dieu et le monde humain.” Jacottet 2003, 333–334. AGRW 330 = IGUR i 160 = Vogliano 1933, 215–231. Barbieri 1970, 263. Jacottet 2003, 333. About the title ἥρως, see Cumont 1933, 238–239.

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deceased initiate of the thiasos.59 Even though there cannot be any certainty about who was the founder of this Bacchic association, the prominent position occupied by Agrippinilla in the association is undeniable, as she appears as the first and only dedicatee of the monument. However, she was by no means the only ἱέρεια of the association, as there were two more women with the same title. One can thus suppose that the dedication is made in virtue of her status, as member of the family that founded the thiasos and that most likely sustained it. With the exception of about seventy Roman names, the majority of the initiates are recorded by Greek or non-Roman names, which might lead us to think of an eastern origin. However, many of these seem to be ritual names (such as Βάκχις, Ἡδόνη, Τύχη) or names of (ex-)slaves related to Agrippinilla’s senatorial family and initiated in virtue of this bond.60 The fact that such a large thiasos depended on such a rich and apparently renowned family testifies to the major changes that occurred between the second century bce, when Bacchus’ cult was violently brought under the state’s control, and the second century ce, when, according to epigraphic evidence, Bacchic/Dionysian associations flourished in Rome and Italy.61 It is difficult to identify a specific moment in time when the restrictions posed to the cult loosened up. In due time thiasoi were not only accepted, but the celebrations also involved large groups of attendants, while citizens of high status and mixed gender were admitted to the highest levels of inner hierarchy. A plausible hypothesis is that the cult never actually stopped, but was instead transformed and incorporated into the more ‘institutionalised’ celebrations for the gods Liber and Libera (the Liberalia), to whom Dionysus was often assimilated.62 The inscription of Agrippinilla not only gives us a rare representation of the organisation of a Bacchic thiasos, but also provides unique information about the role women had in the hierarchy. We read at least sixty-one feminine names in very specific positions of the Bacchic organisation. Other women are recorded together with men in other positions, such as an unspecified title ἀπὸ καταζώσεως (“at/for the belt”) bestowed upon eighty-nine individuals of both genders. It is difficult to estimate the precise number of women initiated into

59 60 61

62

Ricciardelli 2000, 270. Beard 1998, 271. Steinhauer 2019, 145 table 2: most of the epigraphic evidence from Rome and its surroundings referring to Bacchic/Dionysiac rituals and gatherings are dated between the first and the fourth century ce. Wiseman 1995, 133; Mac Góráin 2017, 326–329. For a discussion about a restoration of the cult under Caesar, see Fernández 2013, 188.

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the mysteries, as the inscription is hopelessly damaged on one side, but the numbers at our disposal clearly show that all levels of the Bacchic hierarchy were open to both men and women, from priest(-esses) to the so called σειγηταί, those who had to “stay silent” waiting to be initiated.63 The more than 400 people listed in this inscription are divided into twentyfive or twenty-six cultic titles. Three of these titles are particularly relevant for the scope of this paper, namely the ἀρχιβασσάραι (4), the βάκχαι ἀπὸ καταζώσεως (3) and the simple βάκχαι (44). No other inscription on Italian territory records these titles, so their interpretation is totally dependent upon this one occurrence. It follows from their position in the inscription and the prefix ἀρχι(“chief”) that the ἀρχιβασσάραι are bacchantes of a higher level. According to Aeschylus’ lost tragedy, The Bassarides, the βασσάραι were the bacchantes from Thrace who killed Orpheus. Their name derives from the βασσάρα, the fox-skin they wore in honour of Dionysus.64 Possibly, the title still refers to the peculiar attire of these attendants, who could be in this way distinguished from the other members of the congregation. Similarly, the so called βάκχαι ἀπὸ καταζώσεως, the “bacchae at/for the belt”, might owe their title to a ritual girdle involved in the ritual or in the hierarchy. It is not clear whether the bacchae mentioned here wore this garment or were in charge of engirdling the initiates.65 It is indeed impossible to state with any certainty whether the chief-bacchantes or the ‘bacchae at/for the belt’ had specific tasks in the thiasos and how they were different from the simple βάκχαι. It is, in fact, very likely that in the course of the centuries these old titles had simply become names to mark the different levels of an inner hierarchy.66 The relevance of this inscription is manifold. Firstly, it is invaluable evidence about the organisation of the Dionysiac mysteries in Roman territory, only comparable to the evidence provided by the frescoes of the Villa dei Misteri.67 Secondly, it stands in open contrast to the theory, long sustained by a strand of scholarship, that the Dionysiac cult attracted mostly female worshippers of a repressed social status.68 In fact, the inscription from Torre Nova demonstrates that, especially in the imperial period, gender was not an exclusive requirement 63 64 65 66 67 68

Ricciardelli 2000, 275. Ricciardelli 2000, 272 n. 35; a different interpretation of the term in Braccini 2010, 7–21. Ricciardelli 2000, 273–274. Henrichs 1978, 156. According to Boyancé 1966, 52 the βάκχαι ἀπὸ καταζώσεως occupied a higher level of the hierarchy than the simple βάκχαι; see Ricciardelli 2000, 273 n. 46. For a comparison with the representation of the mysteries in the Villa dei Misteri, see Ricciardelli 2000, 275 and Näsström 2003, 143–144. Kraemer 1979, 55–56 and 80; Näsström 2003, 141. Both authors, however, strongly base their evaluations on the development of the cult in Greece and Magna Graecia.

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to attend the Dionysiac mysteries, as men and women could equally access the different levels and offices of the Bacchic organisation. Even a role stereotypically assigned to women only, like the bacchae, is clearly accessible to men too, as the inscription presents two ἀρχιβάσσαροι, fifteen βάκχοι ἀπό καταζώσεως and more than one hundred ἱεροὶ βάκχοι. In this respect, the inscription confirms the gender mix condemned by Livy. The very fact that this is recorded in stone may lead us to doubt even more that this was ever a real issue. Another interesting point of contact between the inscription of Agrippinilla and Livy is the distinction between ἱεραί and βάκχαι. As we read before, Livy too seems to draw a line between the sacerdotes and the bacchae, as Paculla Annia herself is never defined as baccha, but as sacerdos. If Paculla Annia was the initiator of the congregation in the same way as Agrippinilla was the head of the thiasos in the inscription, it is evident that priests and priestesses were at the head of a hierarchy. In the inscriptions, the bacchantes are mentioned last, showing that they were low-status attendants. However, whereas in Livy’s account the hierarchical difference does not necessarily correspond to a difference in social status—Paculla Annia is a foreigner and an outcast, while the bacchae are Roman matrons—in the inscription, the priestess Agrippinilla is a woman of a wealthy family, even of noble ancestry, while the bacchae were either in the service of her family or attached to it by patronage. In light of this, one wonders whether, in the course of time, a difference in social status would affect placement in a specific position within the Bacchic hierarchy. In other words, would it have been possible for Agrippinilla to be a baccha, or was she one at a certain stage of her initiation? As this is the only piece of evidence at our disposal, no straightforward answer can be offered. However, given the strong stigma attached to the bacchae, it would have been unlikely for a member of the ruling class to worship Bacchus/Dionysus as less than a priest. Nevertheless, the presence of bacchae on a public monument such as a statue base gave them the visibility, if not the dignity, traditionally denied by the literary evidence. It seems that the thiasos of Agrippinilla brings the Bacchic rituals back within the norms of a socially accepted religiosity, as each and every aspect of the rituals and those who performed them fell into a rigid organisation, resembling—with all due differences—the traditional collegia.69 Unfortunately, it is still impossible to reconstruct how such an organisation came to be, because of the scant nature of epigraphic sources and the moral bias the literary sources are filled with. However, the very existence of this inscription allows

69

Bakkers 2005, 52.

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us to conclude 1) that the cult of Bacchus was at a certain point integrated within the traditional religious system, and 2) that despite its literary construction, being a baccha was not always synonymous with being a depraved woman. In fact, this epithet could even become an official title to be displayed in public inscriptions.

5

Conclusions

There cannot be any definition of the bacchae without considering the impact of literature on their identity as well as on the description our historiographic sources make of them. The image of the bacchantes that Livy and Tacitus pass on in their works is deeply affected by the portrait developed in Euripides’ tragedy and material depictions. The loud music, the frenzied dances, the nebris and the thyrsus are all aspects present in both accounts, in perfect harmony with the traditional representation of Bacchus’ women. One aspect of the Bacchic experience is particularly highlighted in Roman literary sources, namely the transgression of gender norms. By invading the typically masculine domain of the ‘outside’ and by abandoning the socially imposed values of pudicitia and castitas, the bacchae are constantly represented as degenerate women, who exercise an unnatural power upon men. Livy uses this image for two purposes: on the one hand, he denounces the decay of moral customs caused by the introduction and spread of a cult that gave much power to women. On the other hand, he reinforces the dualistic construction of gender norms by presenting those who violated them as a threat to the social fabric and political stability. Therefore, in his account of the Bacchanalian affair, there is no possibility for the bacchae to be reintegrated in the community, and the only response to their rejection of the feminine ideal is repression. Tacitus uses the same Bacchic themes in a very similar way, although in a very different context. Messalina is not a ritual baccha, but a theatrical one. Every detail of her private bacchanal is artistically constructed to expose her depraved, somehow hubristic nature. Moreover, unlike the anonymous women mentioned by Livy, Messalina was already a public woman, in the centre of the political spotlight. Therefore, by assuming the role of a baccha, she not only betrays the traditional feminine ideal, but she also perverts her role as empress. She is the ultimate example of the decay of imperial power. The case of Pompeia Agrippinilla represents a counter-tendency, or mirrors the cult’s integration in Roman society. Her monument displays a variety of Bacchic attendants, including bacchantes, both men and women. For lack

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of similar monuments, the interpretation of this inscription has remained so far quite obscure. However, it is undeniable that a) the visibility given to the bacchantes by recording their names on a public monument contrasts with their stigmatisation in the literary sources; and b) the inner organisation of the thiasos, dependent on one of the wealthiest Roman families, reflects a profound change in the relationship with Roman institutions since the ban of 186bce. The matrona Agrippinilla is publicly presented as a priestess of Bacchus, just as hundreds of women of lower status are publicly recognised as bacchae. Therefore, not only does it seem that the limitations imposed by the senatus consultum disappeared over the years, but it is not far-fetched to assume that, thanks to the hierarchical organisation of the thiasos, Bacchus’ women could be reintegrated into the social norm. As the literary sources responded to the need of regulating the respective domains of Roman men and women, the bacchae were employed as the perfect paradigm of non-women. By invading the public domain while abandoning their role as mothers and wives, the bacchae could be represented only as a threat to the social structure. However, once their public role as attendants of Bacchus was part of an institutionalised version of the cult, the title of baccha could be detached from the traditional stigmatisation and acquire a more neutral value, not different from other religious titles.

Bibliography Bakkers, A. (2005). De Bacchanalia. Leidschrift 20.1, pp. 35–54. Barbieri, G. (1970). Pompeo Macrino, Asinio Marcello, Bebio Marco e i Fasti Ostienses del 115. MEFRM 82.1, pp. 263–278. Beard, M., North, J., and Price, S. (1998). Religions of Rome: A History. Vol. 1. Cambridge. Bonfanti, M. (2000). Tito Livio. Storia di Roma dalla sua fondazione. Volume xi. Libri xxxix–xl. Milano. Boyancé, P. (1966). Dionysiaca. REA 68, pp. 45–54. Braccini, T. (2010). Intorno a bassara. Glotta 86, pp. 7–21. Bremmer, J.N. (2017). Roman Maenads. In: K.M. Coleman, ed., Albert’s Anthology, Cambridge, MA/London, pp. 23–26 Burkert, W. (1987). Ancient Mystery Cults. Cambridge, MA. Butler, J. (1993). Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex. London. Caerols, J.J. (2006). Sacrificuli ac uates ceperant hominum mentes (LIV. 25.1.8): Religión, miedo y política en Roma. In: K.M. Coleman, ed., Albert’s Anthology, Cambridge, MA/London, pp. 89–136. Cenerini, F. (2010). Messalina e il suo matrimonio con C. Silio. In: A. Kolb, ed., Augustae.

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Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Akten der Tagung in Zürich 18.–20. 9. 2008, Berlin, pp. 179–192. Cumont, F. (1933). La grande inscription bachique du Metropolitan Museum. AJA 37, pp. 232–263. Díez Platas, F. (1996). Las ninfas en la literatura y en el arte de la Grecia Arcaica. Diss. Universidad Complutense, Madrid. Duby, G., Perrot, M., and Schmitt Pantel, P. (1992). A History of Women in the West. From Ancient Goddesses to Christian Saints. Vol. 1. Cambridge, MA. Edwards, E. (2002). The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome. Cambridge. Fagan, G. (2002). Messalina’s Folly. CQ 52.2, pp. 566–579. Fernández, Z.A. (2013). Maenadic Ecstasy in Rome: Fact or Fiction? In: A. Bernabé, M. Herrero de Jáuregui, A.I. Jiménez San Cristóbal, R. Martín Hernández, eds., Redefining Dionysos, Berlin, pp. 185–199. Hallett, J.P. and Skinner, M.B. (1997). Roman Sexualities. Princeton. Hemelrijk, E. (2015). Hidden Lives, Public Personae. Women and Civic Life in the Roman West. Oxford. Henrichs, A. (1978). Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina. HSPh 82, pp. 121– 160. Jaccottet, A.F. (2003). Choisir Dionysos. Les associations dionysiaques ou la face cachée du dionysisme. Zürich. Joshel, S.R. (1995). Female Desire and the Discourse of Empire: Tacitus’s Messalina. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 21.1, pp. 50–82. Kraemer, R.S. (1979). Ecstasy and Possession. The Attraction of Women to the Cult of Dionysus. HThR 72, pp. 55–80. Macchione, V.E.J. and Mastroianni, D. (2018). La Proibizione dei Bacchanalia tra la Magna Grecia e l’Etruria. Il Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus di Tiriolo e il Trono delle Pantere di Bolsena. AAntHung 58, pp. 641–656. Mac Góráin, F. (2017). Dionysus in Rome. In: V. Zajko and H. Hoyle, eds., A Handbook to the Reception of Classical Mythology, Hoboken, pp. 323–336. Massa, F. (2021). Menadi, prostitute, devote: modelli di mania bacchica nell’età imperiale. In: D. Bonanno and I.E. Buttitta, eds., Narrazioni e rappresentazioni del sacro femminile. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi in memoria di G. Martorana, Palermo, pp. 247–259. McLaren, A. (2008), Impotence: A Cultural History, Chicago. Milnor, K. (2005), Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus: Inventing Private Life. Oxford. Mommsen, T. (1955). Römisches Strafrecht. Graz. Näsström, B.M. (2003). The Rites in the Mysteries of Dionysus: The Birth of the Drama. Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis 18, pp. 139–148. Ricciardelli, G. (2000), Mito e Performance nelle Associazioni Dionisiache. In: M. Torto-

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relli Ghidini, A. Storchi Marino and A. Visconti, eds., Tra Orfeo e Pitagora. Origini e Incontri di Culture nell’Antichità. Atti dei Seminari Napoletani 1996–1998, Napoli, pp. 265–284. Salerno, E. (2016–2017). The Taurobolium in Gallia: A Link Between the Center and the Periphery. Talanta 48–49, pp. 215–243. Salerno, E. (2018). Rituals of War. The Fetiales and Augustus’ Legitimization of the Civil Conflict. In: D. van Diemen, D. van Dokkum, A. van Leuken, A.M. Nijenhuis and F.A. van der Sande, eds., Conflicts in Antiquity: Textual and Material Perspectives, Amsterdam, pp. 143–160. Scheid, J. (1992). The Religious Role of Roman Women. In: G. Duby, M. Perrot and P. Schmitt Pantel, eds., A History of Women in the West. From Ancient Goddesses to Christian Saints. Vol. 1, Cambridge, MA, pp. 377–408. Schultz, C.E. (2006). Women’s Religious Activity in the Roman Republic. Chapel Hill, NC. Steinhauer, J. (2019). Dionysian Associations and the Bacchanalian Affair. In: F. Mac Góráin, ed., Dionysus and Rome. Religion and Literature, Berlin, pp. 133–156. Varner, E. (2001). Portraits, Plots, and Politics: “Damnatio memoriae” and the Images of Imperial Women. Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 46, pp. 41–93. de la Vega, M.J.H. (2007). La imagen de “la mala” emperatriz en el Alto Imperio: Mesalina, meretrix Augusta. Gerión Extra 1, pp. 395–409. Vogliano, A. (1933). La grande iscrizione bacchica del Metropolitan Museum. AJA 37, pp. 215–231. Von Stackelberg, K.T. (2009). Performative Space and Garden Transgressions in Tacitus’ Death of Messalina. AJPh 130.4, pp. 595–624. Walters, J. (1997). Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought. In: J.P. Hallett and M.B. Skinner, eds., Roman Sexualities, Princeton, pp. 29– 43. Wiseman, T.P. (1995). Remus. A Roman Myth. Cambridge. Wyler, S. (2012). Dionysiaca aurea: The Development of Dionysian Images from Augustus to Nero. Neronia Electronica 2, pp. 3–19.

chapter 9

Discourses of a Changing Society Women’s (Im)mobility in Times of Civil War Lien Foubert

1

Introduction

An examination of ancient literature shows that Roman society assigned the domus, a term that embodied family life, the household, with its goods and servants, as the proper place for women. Men, on the other hand, belonged to the world of the forum, an all-purpose word that represented political life in its broadest sense.1 These opposite worlds of domus and forum were gendered: societal discourse—whether articulated through visual imagery, ancient literature, funerary inscriptions, or juridical texts—tied them to ideas of masculinity and femininity. Spoken and unspoken rules, fuelled by what was deemed ‘natural’ and therefore proper, dictated the performance of men and women in civic society.2 Their social peers evaluated their behaviour accordingly, and praised or dismissed as they deemed fitting. Modern scholarship often parallels the Latin terminology of domus and forum with the modern ‘private’ and ‘public’. However, as Emily Hemelrijk has pointed out, such a division was not clear-cut: “The ‘private’ world of family and friends spilled over into the ‘public’ domain of the forum, just as the ‘public’ sphere of politics was part of the ‘private’ world of the domus.”3 Numerous anecdotes dating to the period under discussion in this contribution, that of the Republican civil wars, exemplify this point, though the examples are by no means restricted to this period of crisis. In 42 bce, for instance, Hortensia headed to the tribunal of the Triumvirs on the forum together with a group of Roman matrons to protest against a tax on their property.4 Valerius Maximus states that as no man wanted to lend them his advocacy Hortensia successfully pleaded their cause herself. He adds that her father, the famous orator

1 Livy’s narrative of the repeal of the Oppian Law is the locus classicus to exemplify the existence of this dichotomy in Roman society: see Milnor 2005, 154–179. 2 Hemelrijk 2004, 188–189; Cenerini 2009; Hemelrijk 2015, 9–12; Foubert 2016a, 462–463. 3 Hemelrijk 2015, 11. 4 Val. Max. 8.3.3; App. B Civ. 4.32–34.

© Lien Foubert, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_012

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Q. Hortensius, ‘lived again in his female progeny and inspired his daughter’s words’. Even though she physically and symbolically entered the domain of the forum, Hortensia did not incur censure for her public performance. Yet, Valerius Maximus’ phrasing indicates the precariousness of overstepping boundaries. Women’s visibility in the ‘public’ domain needed to be justified, preferably— as in the case of Hortensia—in terms of family and domesticity.5 Travel was one of those social practices that catapulted women in the ‘public’ domain. Was, then, the domiseda, the wife who stayed at home, the ideal, for she seems to be more in agreement with Roman society’s gendered ideas of the ‘proper’ Roman way of life? In what follows, I will answer this question and assess the value that ancient writers attached to, on the one hand, the wife who accompanied her husband during the Republican civil wars out of Rome and, on the other hand, the wife who stayed behind. Ancient writers have provided us with anecdotes, most of them dating to the imperial period, in which the perception of elite women’s travel as a transgressive act becomes clear.6 One of these writers is Juvenal, who describes how Eppia, a senator’s wife, travels to Egypt with a troop of gladiators. He explains that ‘oblivious of her home (domus) and husband and sister, she disregarded her fatherland (patria) and shamelessly deserted her wailing children and, what’s more amazing, Paris and the Games.’7 Is the author exaggerating? Juvenal’s satirical approach forces us to question the extent to which Roman society indeed considered women’s physical movements as transgressive. In this respect, the well-known examples of Agrippina Maior and Plancina come to mind: both of them accompanied their husbands abroad during military and political campaigns, which resulted in Agrippina’s interference in defending the Rhine bridge at Vetera in 14ce and Plancina’s participation in cavalry exercises in 18ce; both of them were criticised for their behaviour.8 The risk that travel would lead to such excesses urged society to keep women ‘movers’ under close scrutiny, so it seems. In the Consolation to Helvia, Seneca

5 Hopwood 2015. There are also ample examples of how politics intruded in the ‘private’ domain of the domus, resulting in opportunities for women to influence Rome’s state business. See, for instance, Cicero’s letter to Atticus (Cic. Att. 15.11) in which he describes a meeting on 8 June 44 bce in Antium, where Cicero, Brutus the tyrannicide, Cassius his fellowconspirator, Brutus’ wife Porcia, Brutus’ mother Servilia and her daughter Iunia Tertia were all present. Cicero explains how Servilia voiced her opinion during the meeting and set about to relieve Brutus and Cassius of an arrangement that was offered to them by the senators. 6 Foubert 2016a; Carucci 2017. 7 Juv. Sat. 6.82–87. Unless explicitly stated otherwise, all English translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library text editions. 8 Tac. Ann. 1.69 and 2.55. Foubert 2011.

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tells his mother to take comfort from the companionship of her sister, whose identity remains unknown but who might have been the wife of Gaius Galerius.9 Seneca’s aunt behaved most properly during her husband’s governorship in Egypt: “(…) she was never seen in public (numquam in publico conspecta est), never admitted a native to her home (neminem provincialem domum suam admisit), sought no favour from her husband, nor suffered any to be sought from herself.”10 Seneca explains that even the most honest prefect might become the subject of gossip and complaints in a province like Egypt, so he considers it even more praiseworthy that the locals ‘respected her as a singular example of blamelessness’. Here too, one observes the opposition between the world of the domus and that of the forum, an opposition that transcends the territory of the city of Rome, in Seneca’s view. If anything becomes clear it is that women abroad are being assessed by their social peers, or—at the very least—should behave as if they were being watched and judged.11 According to Seneca, this means that accompanying wives should stay within the restrictions of the domus, also when they are abroad.12 There are different aspects of travel that contribute to its perception of it being a (potentially) disruptive activity. The travels that we discern in ancient literature are almost always motivated by affairs of the state, be it of a political, military or juridical nature.13 When elite women joined their male relatives in their official capacity, they necessarily found themselves up-close 9 10 11

12

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On this text in general, see Fantham 2007. Sen. Helv. 19.6. Ancient writers are rarely explicit about whom they considered their peers, by whom they were or felt judged, nor whether women had an equal share in these dynamics of peer pressure. The fact that upper-class women wrote letters to inform their husbands and male relatives about the goings-on in Rome indicates that they were actively involved in processes of peer communication (cf. Jeppesen-Wigelsworth 2013). This would have been facilitated by the existence of the upper-class women’s network, which scholars have called conventus matronalis or ordo matronarum, which assembled on special occasions (often for religious reasons) but undoubtedly also presented informal lines of communication (cf. Hemelrijk 1999, 12–14). Lucan later echoed the sentiment of his uncle Seneca in his description of Cornelia Metella’s behaviour in Lesbos in Luc. 8.154–158: “with such love had she attached some by her gentleness (pudor), other by her goodness (probitas) and her pure and modest looks (castique modestia voltus), because, humble of heart (summissa animis) and a burdensome guest to none of the people, she lived, while her husband’s fortune stood firm, as if he had been conquered already.” See also Bruère 1951, 228. Note that the travel motivations that appear from other source material (i.e. funerary and honorary inscriptions, papyri, ostraca, tablets, graffiti) are much more diverse. See Kulinat 2002; Foubert 2018; Le Guennec 2020. The emphasis of ancient writers on affairs of the state, rather than affairs of the family, explains the difference between the source types.

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figure 9.1 A comparison of the number of words that each writer spends on the movements of Cornelia Metella during the civil war period

with ‘public’ life. Moreover, as Juvenal stated when describing Eppia’s decision to leave, travel physically dissociated women from their patria, including the social networks of which they were part and on whose opinion their reputation depended. This might have been liberating for some, but it also meant that the Roman ‘stayers’ were free to guess and gossip about what was happening abroad. The making and breaking of a woman’s reputation hung on hearsay remedied or aided by epistolary communication. Thirdly, the destination of the journey had the power to evoke associations that did not resonate with Roman society’s sense of what was a proper environment for elite women. The speech held by Lentulus, in Lucan’s De Bello Civili, to convince his fellow senators that Pompey’s plan to travel to Parthia was the wrong one and should be adjusted, exemplifies this final point. The impact of Parthia on the life and reputation of Pompey’s wife, Cornelia Metella, was a key argument in their discussion. Cornelia Metella plays a vital part in Lucan’s epic poem. Though he is definitely not the only ancient writer who treats her journey through the Mediterranean as Pompey the Great’s travel companion, Lucan is by far the author who invests the most in her story (fig. 9.1). In Book 8, Lucan describes the final journey of Pompey and Cornelia as spouses. After the battle of Pharsalia, Pompey travels back to Lesbos where the Mytilenians had harboured his wife. From there, they moved on to a new destination. Lucan’s Pompey had decided that Parthia would keep them safe, in particular because it was remote. Lentulus opposes this plan: its remote-

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ness was not a unique selling point, but in fact a disadvantage.14 He draws a picture of Parthia that was well grounded in the ethnographic doctrine that tied climatic zones with psychological dispositions: ‘every step you go towards the East and the torrid zone, the people grow softer as the sky grows kinder. There one sees loose garments and flowing robes worn even by men.’15 The Parthian king, so Lentulus continues, is a despotic tyrant pur sang. It should be inconceivable to condemn Cornelia to a life at the Parthian court, where sexual perversions reign.16 The indignity of even considering to bring Cornelia to Parthia is also preserved in Appian’s and Plutarch’s accounts, to which the latter adds: ‘to carry a young wife, of the family of Scipio, among Barbarians who measure their power by their insolence and licentiousness, where, even if she suffer no harm, but is only thought (κἂν μὴ πάθῃ, δόξῃ δὲ παθεῖν) to have suffered harm, her fate is a terrible one, since she has come into the power of those who are able to do her harm.’17 It is tales like this that have tempted scholars to conclude that elite women hardly ever travelled outside the Italian peninsula.18 It may sound like a contradiction at first, but we owe it to the intrusive presence of Rome’s military apparatus—a public institution associated with male power—that we are able to study women’s lives all over the Mediterranean in quite a lot of detail. The military presence at Hadrian’s Wall in Roman Britain brought us writing tablets, excavated in one of the forts, that testify to the friendship between Claudia Severa and Sulpicia Lepidina, the wives of two officers.19 Excavations in Noviomagus (modern Nijmegen) in the Netherlands brought to light women’s brooches on military territory, indicating that some women moved around amongst the soldiers.20 Amidst the ruins of Roman military camps along the roads of the eastern desert in Egypt, letters on potsherds and papyrus were found that attest to the movements of soldiers’ female relatives in the vicinity of the camps. And then there are the thousands of inscriptions—votive reliefs, military diplomas, funerary engravings, or honorary inscriptions—written by military men or by their wives, mothers, sisters, daughters that illustrate family life in a military context. Relatively speaking, there is an abundance of evidence throughout the Mediterranean in different types and materials that shows that

14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Tracy 2014, 21–30. Luc. 8.365–368. Luc. 8.396–416. Plut. Pomp. 76.6. See also App. B Civ. 2.83. See, for instance, Severy 2003, 25 (with references). See Greene 2012 and 2015 (with references). Cf. Foubert 2013, and also below note 22. Van der Veen 2021.

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a strict separation of a male military sphere from a female domestic sphere is very hard to make. Though it is by now acknowledged that the anecdotes of (in particular) imperial women in the provinces indicate that the practice of women joining their husbands abroad became more common, perhaps even accepted, during the imperial period, it is felt that during the Republican period women stayed on the Italian peninsula. When discussing Lucan’s passage in which Marcia pleads to follow the camp with her husband Cato (“Why should I be left behind in peace and safety, and be kept further away than Cornelia from civil war?”), Elaine Fantham comments that “the request to join Cato on campaign verges on fantasy”.21

2

Measuring Elite Discourse on Movers and Stayers during the Roman Republic

When trying to assess the ‘normality’ of women travellers of the Roman elite, scholars are at the mercy of ancient literature.22 Ancient texts, however, can only offer us insights in the lived reality of women to a certain extent. In the past, scholarship has made it abundantly clear that the genre in which an author wrote (e.g. poetry vs. history) or the aim of a text (e.g. invective vs. eulogy) shaped an audience’s expectations and, therefore, the narrative strategies of the writer. The author’s personal circumstances—the presence of a patron on whom he depended, his personal philosophy of life, his rank and political career, his education and the events during his formative years, to name but a few things—also impact on how he offers his perspective on Roman history.23 Considering all these variables, it goes without saying that one should not turn to the literary sources for a faithful and exhaustive reconstruction of

21

22

23

Fantham 1992, 144 (on Luc. 2.348–349). Sannicandro 2007, points out that Lucan is indebted to Propertius (4.3.45–46), who has Arethusa asking her husband Licota to be allowed to accompany him. On Propertius’ passage, see also Rosati, 1996. The movements of the non-elite are far and foremost traceable through ostraca, papyri and archaeological remains (e.g. Van Driel-Murray 1998; Allison 2006; Greene 2013; Foubert 2016b and forthcoming). The sub-elite, meaning those who were wealthy enough to pay for a funerary monument or whose investments in civic life were rewarded by way of honorary dedications, can be studied through inscriptions (see Noy 2010; Foubert 2013 and 2020; Le Guennec 2020). Quantitative research to assess the percentages of female movers is a time-consuming task, since mobility is rarely addressed explicitly in these sources and often needs to be deduced from circumstantial evidence. See most recently Meeus 2020.

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how women moved around the Mediterranean during the decades of civil strife in the first century bce. That is not to say that we can retrieve no ‘true’ information on women’s whereabouts from the ancient writers. Caecilia Metella’s presence in Athens in 89bce, to give but one example, is only recorded in the Greek text of Plutarch in the late first century and early second century ce.24 No (near-)contemporary, that we know of, mentions her at Sulla’s side during the sack of Athens. So why did Plutarch decide to include such a seemingly trivial detail? Caecilia probably owes her mention in Plutarch’s Life of Sulla precisely to the importance of the event to a Greek audience. It has been argued that Plutarch’s narrative of Sulla’s siege of Athens diverges in tone from those of first century bce authors such as Strabo and Diodoros.25 Whereas the latter explain Sulla’s actions as strategic and sensible from a military point of view, Plutarch emphasises Sulla’s excessive violence and implies that he was guided by emotions rather than strategy. Plutarch’s narrative placed Athens on a pedestal and in doing so he was indebted to the Second Sophistic, where Athenocentrism was part of a widespread philhellenism. Sketching the siege of Athens in all its details, including an anecdote about Sulla’s wife being there, added to the dramatic effect: it brought Athens to life and enhanced the seriousness of the event. Sulla’s siege and plundering of this cultural capital undoubtedly left a bitter taste with Plutarch’s philhellenic audience. The author’s strategic framing could tempt us to set aside Caecilia Metella’s presence in Greece as an exaggeration for dramatic impact, but the abundance of inscriptions that were set up in Athens, Oropos, Akraiphia, Thespiae, Messene and Delos to honour her and Sulla firmly place her on the scene.26 Caecilia Metella’s journey, however, is a rare case in which we can clearly add other source material to the story in order to verify the reliability of the ancient narrative as much as possible. For the vast majority of women’s travels we have only the literary sources to fall back on. It is tempting to treat the numbers of companioning and stay-behind wives we encounter in the literary corpus as a reflection of Roman mentality (if not reality) and forget about the large amount of critical evidence that is missing. Whereas it gives us little insight in the actual lived reality, as already mentioned above, it tells us to a certain extent which women’s stories were remembered, recorded, brought to live by ancient writers, and survived as portions of ancient narratives that were deemed relevant enough to copy by medieval scribes. A more fruitful endeavour than 24 25 26

Plut. Sull. 6, 13, 22. Kuin 2018. For the list of inscriptions, see Zoumbaki 2017, n. 93 or Zoumbaki 2019, n. 100.

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attempting to reconstruct the specifics of women’s whereabouts during the civil wars is, for instance, to map different discursive threads, examine whether these are bound to a specific author or genre, and look for developments in individual character portrayals. The question whether it was thought conceivable to a Roman audience for a Marcia to join her Cato taps into the larger societal discourses on the impact of civil war on the lives of elite families, on the effects of change on a community’s ideals, and on the view of the elite society’s ‘way of life’. In order to make statements about discursive developments along these lines, first an inventory of literary passages that deal with female movers or stayers needs to be made.27 The (near-)contemporaries that provide us with anecdotes about women’s whereabouts during periods of civil strife are Cicero, Cornelius Nepos, Nicolaus of Damascus, the presumed author of the text which has become known as the Laudatio Turiae, Velleius Paterculus and Valerius Maximus.28 The later authors (i.e. those who wrote at least two to three generations after the events) consist of Lucan, Plutarch, Martial, Appian and Cassius Dio. Graph 9.2 captures the coverage of the movers and stayers in the ancient texts. For this contribution, I will only identify and discuss the general patterns discernable in the ancient source material and will, therefore, not go into details about the individual women that are behind the vertical bars, nor will I pay detailed attention to the poetics of each individual writer in whose text these women appear.29 The collected source material shows that the ancient writers were almost equally interested in documenting wives who moved in times

27 28

29

I borrow the terms ‘movers’ and ‘stayers’ from Woolf 2016. Admittedly, since the so-called Laudatio Turiae is created to be part of a funerary monument, aimed at eulogising one woman, it potentially distorts the overall picture when taken together with literary texts that pay attention to several women without prioritising among them. However, considering the length of the text, its detailed narrative on civil war practices, and the fact that it sheds light on Roman society’s attitudes towards female behaviour in times of crises—as Emily Hemelrijk has made abundantly clear (Hemelrijk 2004)—it would be negligent to leave the inscription out of the equation. Note that in this contribution only those authors that discuss the movements of women during the civil war period are taken into account. Writers who do mention the civil wars but do not pay attention to women’s whereabouts in this context, such as for instance Propertius, are left out. The movers are an anonyma, three different groups of anonymae, Caecilia Metella, Cornelia Metella, Fausta Cornelia, Fulvia, Julia Antonia, Livia Drusilla, Mucia Tertia, Octavia Minor, Orestilla, Porcia, Sulpicia, Tullia, the unnamed mother of Atilius, the unnamed wife of Apuleius, the unnamed wife of Arruntius, the unnamed wife of Rheginus, and the unnamed wife of Virginius. The stayers are two different groups of anonymae, Atia Balba, Cornelia Metella, Fulvia, Julia Antonia, Junia Secunda, Marcia, Octavia Minor,

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figure 9.2 An overview of the number of movers and stayers during the Republican civil wars of the first century bce as they appear in ancient literature. Each bar visualises an individual woman. When a woman occurs in the oeuvre of more than one author the bars are vertically aligned. (Created with Flourish Studio)

of civil unrest (a total of eighteen individual attestations) as in explicitly framing women as stayers (a total of twenty individual attestations). A noticeable exception is Velleius Paterculus, who stays silent on women who stayed behind in Rome when their husbands or other male relatives moved away, and only describes the women who moved. Some women, like for instance Fulvia—who represents the first bar in the heatmap—are recorded as both. Another remarkable feat, when compared with the accounts of other writers, is the elaborate Porcia, Servilia, Terentia, Tullia, Turia, the unnamed wife of Acilius, the unnamed wife of Coponius, the unnamed wife of Ligarius, the unnamed wife of Septimius and the unnamed wife of Vettius Salassus.

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repertoire of women movers and stayers in Appian’s Roman History with a total of twenty-five. The runners-up are Cassius Dio and Plutarch with a total of nine and eight respectively. Compared to these authors, the small repertoire of the (near-)contemporaries is striking. In the remaining part of this article, I want to focus on the discursive strategies that underlie ancient writers’ representations of movers and stayers. The heatmap above illustrates that for most authors they are almost equally important as building blocks in the narrative. Based on this quantitative survey, however, it is difficult to hypothesise that the domiseda was more appealing than the companioning wife. A more qualitative examination is therefore in order.

3

The Elites’ Dilemma in Times of Crisis

By the time of Cassius Dio in the late second and early third century ce, a clear narrative had arisen in which in times of civil war the Republican elites were considered to have two options.30 Dio, who describes the events of 49 bce when Caesar had crossed the Rubicon and marched towards Rome, explains that there were those who left Rome and the Italian peninsula and took their entire household with them: οἵ τε γὰρ πανοικησίᾳ ἀνιστάμενοι τὰ ἱερὰ καὶ τοὺς οἴκους τό τε ἔδαφος τὸ πατρῷον ὡς καὶ τῶν ἀντιστασιωτῶν εὐθὺς ἐσόμενα ἀπέλειπον, καὶ αὐτοὶ οὕτω τὴν γνώμην, ἄν γε καὶ περισωθῶσιν, εἶχον ὡς κἀν τῇ Μακεδονίᾳ τῇ τε Θρᾴκῃ κατοικήσοντες (…) dio cass. 41.7.2–3

Such as were removing with their entire households said farewell to the temples and to their homes and to the soil of their ancestors, with the feeling that these would straightway become the property of their opponents; and as for themselves, not being ignorant of Pompey’s purpose, they had the intention, if they really survived, of establishing themselves in Macedonia and Thrace. Those who left, in other words, had given up: they had no hope of ever returning to their patria—to use Juvenal’s term—and considered starting over some-

30

See esp. Cic. Fam. 144, 145, 146, 155, 159, 160.

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where in the Greek Mediterranean. But there were also those elites, so Cassius Dio continues, who held on to their fatherland: καὶ οἱ κατὰ χώραν τούς τε παῖδας καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας τά τε ἄλλα τὰ τιμιώτατα καταλείποντες ἔχειν μέν τινα ἐλπίδα τῆς πατρίδος ἐδόκουν, πολὺ δὲ δὴ τῶν ἑτέρων, ἅτε καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν φιλτάτων ἀπαρτώμενοι, διττῇ τε τύχῃ καὶ ἐναντιωτάτῃ παραβαλλόμενοι, χαλεπωτέρως ἀπήλλασσον· τὰ γὰρ οἰκειότατα τῷ πολεμιωτάτῳ σφῶν ἐκδόντες ἔμελλον ἐθελοκακοῦντες μὲν αὐτοὶ κινδυνεύσειν, προθυμούμενοι δὲ ἐκείνων στερηθήσεσθαι, καὶ προσέτι φίλον μὲν μηδέτερον ἐχθροὺς δὲ ἀμφοτέρους ἕξειν, Καίσαρα μὲν ὅτι μὴ καὶ αὐτοὶ κατέμειναν, Πομπήιον δὲ ὅτι μὴ καὶ ἐκεῖνα συνεπηγάγοντο. dio cass. 41.7.4–6

Those who were leaving behind on the spot their children and wives and all their other dearest treasures gave the impression, indeed, of having some little hope of their country, but in reality were in a much worse plight than the others, since they were being separated from all that was dearest to them and were exposing themselves to a double and most contradictory fate. For in delivering their nearest interests to the power of their bitterest foes they were destined, in case they played the coward, to be in danger themselves, and in case they showed zeal, to be deprived of those left behind; moreover, they would find a friend in neither rival, but an enemy in both—in Caesar because they themselves had not remained behind, and in Pompey because they had not taken everything with them. Dio’s account continues with two more chapters in which he explains and illustrates with emotionally heavy language the traumatic experience of the body of citizens when faced with their two options. He describes how the city of Rome emptied and how the city gates became a spot where people said goodbye to each other (41.9.2), a place where “all who were to remain behind were there, too, with all the women and children” (41.9.3). One could wonder to what extent this type of mobility was indeed considered a choice. Cassius Dio makes it clear in the above cited passage that the choice of those who left their wives and children behind was a false one: being separated from their loved ones made the elite men weaker than they already were. When we compare Dio’s phrasing with the narratives of other writers who dealt with the same events, the lack of agency of the women of the Roman elite is remarkable. Women are left behind, they did not choose to stay behind. This differs greatly from, for instance, the discursive framing of Valerius Maximus and Appian in their accounts of the proscription period during the second triumvirate.

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In Valerius Maximus’ Memorable Doings and Sayings, two of the three exempla that illustrate ‘the fidelity of wives towards their husbands’ (de fide uxorum erga viros) date to 43/42bce.31 The wife of Q. Lucretius, in the past identified as the unnamed wife who is celebrated in the so-called Laudatio Turiae is deliberately framed as a stayer:32 Q. Lucretium proscriptum a triumuiris uxor Turia inter cameram et tectum cubiculi abditum una conscia ancillula ab inminente exitio non sine magno periculo suo tutum praestitit singularique fide id egit, ut, cum ceteri proscripti in alienis et hostilibus regionibus per summos corporis et animi cruciatus uix euaderent, ille in cubiculo et in coniugis sinu salutem retineret. val. max. 2.6.7.2

Proscribed by the Triumvirs, Q. Lucretius was hidden by his wife Turia between the ceiling and the roof of their bedroom. So with one slave girl for accomplice she kept him safe from imminent death not without great risk to herself. When others of the proscribed barely escaped in alien and hostile regions at the price of cruel tortures of body and mind, he, thanks to her extraordinary fidelity, kept his life in his bedroom and the bosom of his spouse. Valerius Maximus describes Turia as an active agent: she is the one who takes charge of hiding her husband, an endeavour that was not without risk, so the author states. What is more, her staying transforms her husband into a stayer as well. Contrary to many of his social peers, Q. Lucretius was not forced to leave his patria behind. Valerius Maximus considers him blessed because of it. Appian too mentions Turia’s actions. He states that Lucretius tried to leave the city in the company of a slave but turned around when they met a group of soldiers at the city gates. After trying to hide in one of the funerary tombs along the way, he turned to his wife, who hid him until Lucretius was no longer listed as a proscribed man.33

31

32 33

In Valerius Maximus’ entire text, only five passages deal with women’s whereabouts during the Republican civil wars, of which two consider mobile women (4.6.3 and 6.7.3) and three immobile women (4.6.5, 6.7.2 and 8.4.3). His limited attention to this topic, probably due to the delicacy of the subject for his Tiberian contemporaries, many of whom owed their fortunes or misfortunes to the proscription period, resembles Velleius Paterculus’ rather than Appian’s. On the identification of the unnamed wife, see Osgood 2014. App. B Civ. 4.6.44.

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Sulpica’s tale, which immediately follows the anecdote of Turia in Valerius Maximus’ enumeration, represents the companioning wife, instead of the staybehind wife. She too is presented as an active agent, making her own choices: Sulpicia autem, cum a matre Iulia diligentissime custodiretur, ne Lentulum Cruscellionem, uirum suum proscriptum a triumuiris in Siciliam persequeretur, nihilo minus famulari ueste sumpta cum duabus ancillis totidemque seruis ad eum clandestina fuga peruenit nec recusauit se ipsam proscribere, ut ei fides sua in coniuge proscripto constaret. val. max. 2.6.7.3

Sulpicia was held in close custody by her mother Julia to prevent her following Lentulus Cruscellio, her husband proscribed by the Triumvirs, to Sicily. Nonetheless she reached him in a secret flight dressed as a servant along with two slave girls and as many slaves. She did not baulk at proscribing herself in order to maintain her fidelity to her proscribed husband. Whereas Turia’s presence in Rome tied her husband to the capital and its res publica and in doing so prevented him from turning to foreign lands and a nonRoman ‘way of life’, Sulpicia wanted to join her husband in his flight to the Greek Mediterranean. Valerius Maximus emphasises how she overcame different obstacles: she escaped the watchful eye of her mother and by dressing like a servant and travelling as one of them she deliberately set aside the matronal dignitas that accompanied her rank. Sulpicia’s journey also appears in Appian’s Roman History, who adds that Lentulus explicitly ordered her not to follow him abroad, an order she ignored as soon as she learnt where he stayed.34 Appian ends the story by explaining how after a difficult sea voyage Sulpicia found him in a dishevelled state because of their separation, implying that her presence in Sicily made Lentulus whole again, restored his self-esteem, his dignitas. What these texts show us is that when looking back on the Republican civil wars, imperial writers assessed that the elites were faced with a dilemma: leaving their properties, their wives, children or relatives, their city—all of which embodied their sense of the elite ‘way of life’—behind or take as much and as

34

App. B Civ. 4.6.39. In Appian’s account, the tales of Turia and Sulpicia are accompanied by those of the mother of Mark Antony and the unnamed wives of Acilius, Apuleius, Antius, Rheginus, Coponius, and Verginius, all of whom excelled in actively hiding their husbands and male relatives, financing their flights, or accompanying them to Sicily. See also below for some of their stories.

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many as possible with them.35 In many of the stories that single out individual women, authors give women an active say in which option they choose. Yet, according to Cassius Dio, and the same goes for the Tiberian writer Valerius Maximus, one option was not better than the other. If one turns to a more detailed examination of the discursive make-up of the passages that deal with women’s whereabouts, it appears that ancient writers did not in fact prioritise: staying behind was not considered to be more in accordance with social norms than accompanying one’s husband and relatives, or vice versa, as will be explained below.

4

The Exemplary Ethics of Staying and Moving Away

It is well-known that Roman exemplary ethics shaped literary discourse. Ancient literature is filled with exempla: anecdotes with a simple story structure that are easy to remember and aim to evoke an emotional response from the audience.36 They embody important cultural values and enforce or reinforce society’s moral compass. Their meaning, however, was open for discussion and Roman elite society’s evaluation of exempla may have developed over time. Roman exemplary ethics explored inherent tensions, such as the relationship between society’s normative framework and actual daily practice. The narratives on women’s whereabouts during the Republican civil wars need to be understood in the context of this literary practice. An examination of the anecdotes that deal with female movers and stayers shows that there are surprisingly few stories that depict women’s whereabouts during the civil wars in a negative manner. This may seem surprising considering the life changing impact of in particular the proscription period. It has been argued that more than any other type of war, the civil wars of the first century bce threatened Roman society in its core values. The wars during the imperial period—even when they could be labelled as civil wars, such as the armed conflict of 69 ce—ended in replacing one ruling family with another. The political system as a whole was not called into question in any fundamental and altering way. The Republican civil wars, however, made it clear that the res publica had failed in “its most basic mission to mediate strife between its members and to establish rules for the political game, rules that in each previous generation had transcended both individual ambitions and any single political issue of the

35 36

See also Vell. Pat. 2.72.3–5; 2.77.2–3; App. B Civ. 3.10.66; 3.14.89. See most recently Langlands 2018.

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day”.37 The notion of res publica embodied a way of life, a set of shared norms and values, transmitted from one generation to the other. The violent marches on Rome first by Sulla and then by Cinna in the early 80s bce had unsettled this way of life to the extreme. It would in other words not have been surprising if writers had criticised women who had turned their backs on Rome. Yet, there is little censure. Negatively framed anecdotes about women’s whereabouts during the violent conflict illustrate how the elites’ world was turned upside down, to such an extent that even mothers were too scared to save their sons’ lives.38 Amongst the many stories in Appian’s Roman History is the story about the wealthy, young Atilius.39 His name appeared on the list of proscribed men on the day that he would sacrifice in the temples because that day he would assume the toga. His friends deserted him, so Atilius turned to his mother. But even she— her name remains unknown—was too afraid to hide him. In despair, because if even his mother would not help him no one would, the young man fled to the mountains. In the end, he was captured and put to death. It was definitely not a given that mothers were courageous enough to help their children in hiding, let alone to follow them in their escape from Rome. The same applied to wives. Appian explains that there were women who tried to save their husbands, but then there were also those women ‘who plotted in criminal fashion against their husbands’. One of these was Septimius’ wife, whose name Appian does not disclose.40 She had been the lover of one of the associates of Mark Antony and used the civil conflict to get rid of her husband: she arranged that Septimius was added to the list of proscribed and when he turned to her for a hiding place, she kept up appearances until his executioners came and took him away. Appian morbidly adds that ‘on the same day they killed him, she celebrated her marriage’. Salassus suffered a similar fate: when he discovered that his wife did not intend to help him but brought executioners with her instead, Salassus threw himself off the roof.41 In addition to Atilius’ mother and the wives of Septimius and Salassus, there is but one other woman who receives negative press from the ancient writers, both when she is framed as a stay-behind wife and when she starts to move around. Only Cornelius Nepos presents a positive picture of Mark Antony’s wife Fulvia as a stayer, a rather extensive one at that. It is worthwhile to have a look

37 38 39 40 41

Flower 2010, 75. See also Wiseman 2010. See also Parker 2005. App. B Civ. 4.5.30. App. B Civ. 4.4.23. App. B Civ. 4.4.24.

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at this characterisation first, as it contrasts greatly with Cicero’s portrayal of Fulvia, which—we may assume—has been leading in Fulvia’s later representation. Cornelius Nepos explains that he ‘will show (his) readers by examples that as a rule (…) it is the character (mores) of every man that determines his fortune’.42 He makes it clear that he was a good friend of Atticus, and Nepos’ literary tone has been described as apologetic, encomiastic or even plain hero worshipping.43 Nepos wrote and published the first half of his biography, in which his portrait of Fulvia appears, during the lifetime of his subject, adding chapters and re-publishing his biography after Atticus’ death.44 The author explains that after the Battle of Mutina in 43 bce, Mark Antony had left the Italian peninsula, leaving Fulvia—who had stayed behind—vulnerable to attacks from Antony’s enemies. Atticus supported Fulvia and her children with advice, legal and financial support, ‘considering it the greatest profit to be known as mindful and grateful, and at the same time desiring to show that it was his way to be a friend to mankind and not to their fortunes’.45 Atticus, so Nepos states, was aware of the fickleness of politics and led his life so that he was in a position to help everyone regardless of his or her political affiliations. The episode that sketches the socially isolated Fulvia during Antony’s absence, who must have been one of the most public and influential figures at the time, enhances Cornelius Nepos’ goal. For in doing so, he takes an explicit stand against Cicero’s portrayal of Fulvia in Philippics, in which Fulvia’s whereabouts are used to cause as much damage as possible to Antony’s dignitas.46 In Cicero’s invectives, when at home Fulvia ‘auctions’ kingdoms and provinces; when she is travelling with Antony to Brundisium, she witnesses up-close the assassinations of centurions by her husband.47 Whereas in Nepos’ biography she functions as the domestic damsel-in-distress for the hero Atticus, in Cicero’s text Fulvia appears as an active agent who publicly participates in Roman politics, a portrayal that was closely followed by Velleius Paterculus, Appian, Plutarch and Cassius Dio. Though the portrait of Fulvia certainly is powerful—it has inspired novelists and painters alike—which could tempt us to overestimate the value of her 42 43 44 45 46

47

Nep. Att. 19.1–2. Milnor 2005, pp. 207–214; Stem 2020. The added chapters appear from chapter 19 onwards, as explained by Nepos himself in 19.1. Nep. Att. 9.5. Nepos states that “[a]lthough Atticus was very intimate with Cicero and a close friend of Brutus, so far was he from being induced to help them injure Antony, that on the contrary he protected the latter’s friends as much as he could in their flight from the city, and gave them what help they required.” (9.3) Fulvia is Nepos’ example par excellence. Cic. Phil. 5.11, 5.22 and 13.18.

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figure 9.3 This heatmap shows how ancient writers qualified women’s moving away or staying behind: negative, positive or neutral. The qualification ‘neutral’ is used to single out those stories that deal with women’s movements only in passing. (Created with Flourish Studio)

anti-exemplum (i.e. behaviour to avoid), most of the stories are framed as positive exempla (i.e. behaviour to follow). The qualitative distribution of the stories can be captured as shown in fig 9.3. A comparison between stories about movers and stayers clarifies that the make-up of the anecdotes, the values that are involved, the emotions these stories invoke, and their function in the text in which they appear are almost identical (see below table 9.1). Incorporating the stay-behind wife offers a writer the opportunity to let a woman perform her traditional role as a mother or a wife: in the absence of her husband or male relatives, often risking her own life, she excels in protecting their property and their lives. In doing so, she acted like a lifeline for her male relatives: at a time when the proscriptions forced elite men out of the Italian peninsula, which stripped elite men of their wealth, political functions, class and status markers, women in Rome salvaged the elites’ dignitas through their actions and moral behaviour. But the companioning wife plays a similar role in the writers’ narratives. In most texts, she functions as the embodiment of the Roman domus: when taking her with him, a husband not only finds himself morally supported by a travel companion (comes), he also brings with him Rome, as will become clear. The above mentioned Turia in Valerius Maximus’ Memorable Doings and Sayings is one example of how a stay-behind wife is strategically framed as

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the keeper of her husband’s dignitas. Several other stories explain how women defended their home from intruders, battled in court to secure their husband’s return or to safeguard their financial capital, and sold their jewellery to allow their husband a safe escape or a comfortable lifestyle abroad. Appian, for instance, tells the story of Acilius, who tried to flee the city but was betrayed to a group of soldiers by a slave. He persuaded them to visit his wife who would be able to offer them a bigger reward than when they would collect the reward that was promised by the triumvirs. We never learn the name of Acilius’ wife, but Appian explains that she offered them all of her jewellery, after which the soldiers hired a ship and sent Acilius to Sicily.48 The unnamed wife in the socalled Laudatio Turiae is praised by her husband for similar reasons: [Amplissima subsi]dia fugae meae praestitisti ornamentis / [me instruxisti] cum omne aurum margaritaque corpori / [tuo detracta trad]isti mihi et subinde familia nummis fructibus / [callide deceptis a]dversariorum custodibus (…) [Interea agmen ex repe]rtis hominibus a Milone quoius domus emptione / [potitus eram cum ille esset] exul belli civilis occasionibus inrupturum / [et direpturum fortiter reiecist]i [atque defe]ndisti domum nostrum. ILS 8393 2a–5a and 9a–11a

You gave me plentiful support for my escape. You provided me with your jewelry, when you tore off your body all your gold and the pearls and handed them over to me. Then you enriched me, while I was away from Rome, with slaves, money, and supplies, cleverly deceiving the enemy guards. (…) Meanwhile, a gang of the men gathered by Milo, whose house I had acquired through purchase when he was in exile, was going to take advantage of the opportunities offered by civil war, force their way in, and loot everything. Bravely you drove them back and defended our house.49 The death of a husband or male relative abroad did not make a woman ‘useless’ for an ancient writer. Even then could she restore an elite man’s dignitas. Valerius Maximus, Martial, Appian and Plutarch all commemorate the loyalty of Porcia, Brutus’ wife, towards her husband: when she heard of Brutus’ death, she did not hesitate to take burning coals into her mouth and killed herself.50 The unnamed wife of Arruntius chose the same fate: when she, 48 49 50

App. B Civ. 4.6.39. Transl. Osgood, 2014. Val. Max. 4.6.5; Mart. 1.4.2; Plut. Brut. 23 and 53; Dio Cass. 47.49.3–4.

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table 9.1

The exemplary ethics behind women’s whereabouts during civil strife

According to ancient writers Staying behind

Moving away

shows fides towards the husband offers an opportunity to display courage enables a woman to defend the domus

shows fides towards the husband offers an opportunity to display courage turns a wife into the embodiment of the domus creates an opening for a wife to safeguard creates an opening for a wife to safeguard a husband’s dignitas, through: a husband’s dignitas, through: – being a present reminder of Repub– financial support lican values – legal support – providing him with a reason to fight – securing a hiding-place – moral support – following him in death creates a platform for a woman to display: creates a platform for a woman to display: – modestia – modestia – pietas – pietas – grief

who had already lost her husband during the armed conflict, heard that her son had perished at sea after he managed to escape the city, she starved herself.51 As already hinted at above with Valerius Maximus’ account of Sulpicia, companioning wives were also framed as lifelines, as the keepers or restorers of the elites’ dignitas (see table 9.1). Velleius Paterculus’ framing of Livia’s journey will illustrate this. In Velleius Paterculus’ Roman History, until Octavian enters the narrative, women appear as passive agents. The author uses them to clarify the pedigree of Rome’s male protagonists or to explain the allegiances between the different main characters. When Velleius’ account reaches the triumviral period women become more active. Yet, compared to, for instance, Appian’s later Roman History, the number of female protagonists remains small (see fig. 9.2). The movements of Livia are firmly embedded in a storyline that illustrates how Roman elite families were driven out of the capital and into the Italian countryside, only to be

51

App. B Civ. 4.4.21.

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entirely driven out of the peninsula and into Sicily where they were hosted by Sextus Pompey, son of Pompey the Great. Livia is presented in the context of her domus, as the wife of Tiberius Claudius Nero, and the mother of their infant son Tiberius. The author pictures Livia on the scene in all her matronal dignitas: Livia, nobilissimi et fortissimi viri Drusi Claudiani filia, genere, probitate, forma Romanarum eminentissima, quam postea coniugem Augusti vidimus, quam transgressi ad deos sacerdotem ac filiam, (…) vell. pat. 2.75.3

She, the daughter of the brave and noble Drusus Claudianus, most eminent of Roman women in birth, in sincerity, and in beauty, she, whom we later saw as the wife of Augustus, and as his priestess and daughter after his deification, (…) Velleius Paterculus’ Livia embodies the passing of time, the changes that Roman society underwent. In line with and yet at the same time diverging from Velleius’ earlier practice in his Roman History, a pedigree is introduced to clarify Livia’s membership of the Roman elite. Different from the earlier examples in Velleius’ text, the woman is the main character here, a man playing a supporting role, and not the other way round. Livia is firmly anchored in the res publica, both by her family background and by her and her father’s traditional virtues. It has been pointed out that Velleius conceived the res publica as one in which there was room for more than one princeps, a term that for Velleius indicated leadership in line with the Republican ‘way of life’, a set of values that included justice, fairness, sternness, resolve, etc. Livia’s father was one of those principes, leading men.52 By alluding to Livia’s future role as Julia Augusta, Velleius not only makes it clear that—in spite of his role as the push factor for her flight in the underlying passage—Augustus too was a leading man, if not the leading man (optimus princeps), but also that Livia herself took on a leading role: in these days of civil strife, Livia was already eminentissima; she was already the Romana princeps.53 The writer’s detailed description of her flight underlines this: (…) tum fugiens mox futuri sui Caesaris arma ac manus bimum hunc Tiberium Caesarem, vindicem Romani imperii futurumque eiusdem Cae52 53

Gowing 2005, 40. On Velleius Paterculus’ strategies to depict Livia as eminentissima, see Welch 2011.

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saris filium, gestans sinu, per avia itinerum vitatis militum gladiis uno comitante, quo facilius occultaretur fuga, pervenit ad mare et cum viro Nerone pervecta in Siciliam est. vell. pat. 2.75.3

(She) was then a fugitive before the arms and forces of the very Caesar who was soon to be her husband, carrying in her bosom her infant of two years, the present emperor Tiberius Caesar, destined to be the defender of the Roman Empire and the son of this same Caesar. Pursuing by-paths that she might avoid the swords of the soldiers, and accompanied by but one attendant, so as the more readily to escape detection in her flight, she finally reached the sea, and with her husband made her escape by ship to Sicily. Velleius Paterculus’ rendition takes a minimalist approach: apart from a faceless companion, Livia appears alone, as a mother in distress bringing her infant to safety. In doing so, she secures the future and continuity of Roman society for her infant is portrayed as the future vindex of the Roman Empire. In her journey, the persona of Livia embodies the state of the Roman nation, at least from an elite’s perspective. Lucan uses a similar strategy when he voices a speech by Pompey the Great to the inhabitants of Lesbos, who had harboured his wife Cornelia Metella: (…) Tali pietate virorum / Laetus in adversis et mundi nomine gaudens / Esse fidem “Nullum toto mihi” dixit “in orbe Gratius esse solum non parvo pignore vobis / Ostendi: tenuit nostros hac obside Lesbos / Adfectus; hic sacra domus carique penates, / Hic mihi Roma fuit. (…)” luc. 8.127–133

Cheered in his hour of defeat to find such devotion, and glad, for the sake of humanity, that loyalty still existed, Pompey replied: “By a most dear pledge I have proved to you that no land on earth is more acceptable to me: Lesbos held my heart, while Cornelia was your hostage; Lesbos was my hearth and home, all that was dear and sacred; Lesbos was Rome to me.” The portrayal of Cornelia as a lifeline, or a compass, is a recurring topic in Lucan’s De Bello Civili. Though the marital couple does not travel alone—they are accompanied by their children and servants, but also fellow senators54—it 54

Luc. 2.728–736.

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is Cornelia who is consistently framed as the embodiment of Pompey’s household, as the Republican cultural values personified. In doing so, Lucan connects the idea of the companioning wife with the ‘normal’ way of life. Whereas many of Pompey’s social peers have left their domus, their wives and children, their ‘Rome’, behind, Pompey managed to secure the core of his ‘way of life’ and bring it with him.55

5

Conclusions

An inventory of literary attestations of women’s whereabouts during the Republican civil wars makes several things clear. First of all, there are few Republican writers who give insight in contemporary discourses about women’s movements. This should not surprise us per se, considering that we suffer from a general lack of contemporary documents for this period of crisis. Cicero, usually our main source for Republican politics and society, did not survive the proscription period long enough to elucidate us on how he and his social peers felt about women leaving together with their male relatives or staying behind in Rome to guard their property. Secondly, we establish that the (near-)contemporary writers’ repertoire of women whose whereabouts they deemed worthy to commemorate was much smaller than that of the later generation of writers, though we should immediately add that this increase in ‘memorable women’ is largely owed to Appian. And yet, one could wonder just how memorable these women were in Appian’s view: he rarely mentions them by name. Appian emphasises their deeds, their proper or improper behaviour, and their relation to their husbands or sons. With regard to the latter, we can add a third observation: he certainly was not the only one. Picturing women as the embodied link between the displaced elite men of Rome and their patria is a common thread in literary discourse, from Republican to early or mid-imperial writers, in history, biography, exemplary literature, or oratory. Contrary to what one might expect, stay-behind wives were not considered more in accordance with society’s moral compass than the wives who joined their husbands abroad. The main brush strokes of their literary portraits are similar: the good ones (a majority in the source material) excel in courage and self-sacrifice, display loyalty towards their husbands, and showcase matronal dignitas. Women, both the movers and the stayers, epitomise the Roman elite domus. As a materfamilias, a wife guarantees—at least in theory—

55

See also Ahl 1976, 177 and 181; Mulhern 2017, 441–442.

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the elite household’s continuity. Ancient writers treated her as the embodiment of the traditional Republican values that were at stake in the military conflict between the principes, the leading men of Rome. Women were men’s anchor points; they brought stability in a period of crisis. A question that remains as yet unanswered is whether the discursive strategies we discern in the examined source material give us an insight into how (mostly) imperial writers thought about the Republican past or whether they tell us more about how these writers assessed the movements of the women of their own days. Are they reminiscing and contemplating the changes that society underwent? A quick survey gives the impression that stories that deal with female movers in an imperial context are less positively framed than those in the Republican context under scrutiny. Here too a quantitative and qualitative examination is needed. Moreover, it is essential to distinguish the different contexts in which women were framed as movers or as explicit stayers. Was moving in the context of military campaigns or otium treated differently than the ‘forced’ movements of the civil wars? Can we discern an increasing liking for the domiseda in times that the Roman Empire got bigger and travelling became easier and more accepted, or the other way around? Did the crisis of 69ce resemble the crisis of the first century bce in how authors strategically pictured women’s whereabouts? A thorough examination of the developments in the literary discourse on women travellers and non-travellers can offer us a chance to see the writing elites come to terms with a changing society.56

Bibliography Ahl, F. (1976). Lucan: An Introduction. Ithaca, NY. Allison, P.M. (2006). Mapping for Gender. Interpreting Artefact Distribution Inside 1stand 2nd-Century a.d. Forts in Roman Germany. Archaeological Dialogues 13, pp. 1– 20. 56

Doing research during a pandemic in which libraries are inaccessible and academic discussions on a regular basis are absent is taxing. The same applies to living the life of a student. I owe all my gratitude to the group of students who were willing to spend their spare time—during lockdown and after—discussing my research results, adding to the dataset, creating and deliberating the right visual aids and finetuning (sometimes rewriting) parts of this research. Thank you Valérie van Boven, Rick van Brummelen, Romeo Burger, Marieke Ceelaert, Jarnick Maarse, Demi Storm, Celis Tittse and Job Verwaaij. I also owe thanks to Arjen van Lil, and Nadine Franziska Riegler and her colleagues at Forum Antike for allowing me to present some of these research results. But far and foremost, I thank Emily Hemelrijk: I would not be in this line of research without her. It goes without saying that any remaining faults are my own.

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Bruère, R.T. (1951). Lucan’s Cornelia. CP 46, pp. 221–236. Carucci, M. (2017). The Dangers of Female Mobility in Roman Imperial Times. In: E. Lo Cascio and L.E. Tacoma, eds., The Impact of Mobility and Migration in the Roman Empire, Leiden, pp. 173–190. Cenerini, F. (2009). La donna romana. Bologna. Fantham, E. (1992). Lucan. De Bello Civili. Book ii. Cambridge. Fantham, E. (2007). Dialogues of Displacement: Seneca’s Consolations to Helvia and Polybius. In: J.F. Gaertner, ed., Writing Exile: The Discourse of Displacement in GrecoRoman Antiquity and Beyond, Leiden/Boston, pp. 173–192. Flower, H.I. (2010). Rome’s First Civil War and the Fragility of Republican Political Culture. In: B.W. Breed, C. Damon, and A. Rossi, eds., Citizens of Discord. Rome and Its Civil Wars, Oxford, pp. 73–86. Foubert, L. (2011). The Impact of Women’s Travels on Military Imagery in the JulioClaudian Period. In: O. Hekster and T. Kaiser, eds., Frontiers in the Roman World, Leiden, pp. 349–362. Foubert, L. (2013). Female Travellers in Roman Britain: Vibia Pacata and Julia Lucilla. In: E.A. Hemelrijk and G. Woolf (eds.), Gender and the City in the Roman West, Leiden/Boston, pp. 391–403. Foubert, L. (2016a). The Lure of an Exotic Destination: The Politics of Women’s Travels in the Early Roman Empire. Hermes 144, pp. 462–487. Foubert, L. (2016b). Migrant Women in P.Oxy. and the Port Cities of Roman Egypt: Tracing Women’s Travel Behaviour in Papyrological Sources. In L. de Ligt and L.E. Tacoma, eds., Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden, pp. 285–304. Foubert, L. (2018). Men and Women Tourists’ Desire to See the World: ‘Curiosity’ and ‘a Longing to Learn’ as (Self-)Fashioning Motifs (1st–5th centuries c.e.). Journal of Tourism History 10, pp. 5–20. Foubert, L. (2020). The Spinning of the Wheels. Women’s Travel Stories in Latin Funerary Inscriptions (‘Ruedas que giran: historias de viajes femeninos en inscripciones funerarias latinas’), Gérion 38, pp. 137–156. Foubert, L. (forthcoming). Soldiers’ Wives en route in the Egyptian Desert During the Roman Period. A Study through Graffiti, Private Letters and Official Documents. In E.M. Greene and L.L. Brice, eds., Present but Not Accounted for: Women and the Roman Army, Cambridge. Gowing, A.M. (2005). Empire and Memory. The Representation of the Roman Republic in Imperial Culture. Cambridge. Greene, E.M. (2012). Sulpicia Lepidina and Elizabeth Custer: A Cross-Cultural Analogy for the Social Role of Women on a Military Frontier. Theoretical Roman Archaeology Journal 2011, pp. 105–114. Greene, E.M. (2013). Female Networks in Military Communities in the Roman West. A View from the Vindolanda Tablets. In: E. Hemelrijk and G. Woolf, eds., Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, Leiden/Boston, pp. 369–390.

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Greene, E.M. (2015). Conubium cum uxoribus: Wives and Children in the Roman Military Diplomas. Journal of Roman Archaeology 28, pp. 125–159. Hemelrijk, E. (1999). Matrona Docta. Educated Women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London/New York. Hemelrijk, E. (2004). Masculinity and Femininity in the “Laudatio Turiae”. CQ 54, pp. 185–197. Hemelrijk, E. (2015). Hidden Lives, Public Personae. Women and Civic Life in the Roman West. Oxford. Hopwood, B. (2015). Hortensia Speaks: An Authentic Voice of Resistance? In: K. Welch, ed., Appian’s Roman History: Empire and Civil War, Swansea, pp. 305–322. Jeppesen-Wigelsworth, A. (2013). “Amici” and “Coniuges” in Cicero’s Letters: Atticus and Terentia. Latomus 72, pp. 350–365. Kuin, I. (2018). Sulla and the Invention of Roman Athens. Mnemosyne 71, pp. 616–639. Kulinat, K. (2002). Gute Reise! Reisemotive aus der Sicht der Anthropogeographie. In E. Olshausen and H. Sonnabend, eds., Zu Wasser und zu Land. Verkehrswege in der antiken Welt, Stuttgart, pp. 419–428. Langlands, R. (2018). Exemplary Ethics in Ancient Rome, Cambridge. Le Guennec, M.-A. (2020). Mobilités et migrations féminines dans l’antiquité Romaine. Une histoire fragmentaire. Clio: Femmes, Genre, Histoire 51, pp. 33–52. Meeus, A. (2020). Truth, Method and the Historian’s Character. The Epistemic Virtues of Greek and Roman Historians. In: A. Turner, ed., Reconciling Ancient and Modern Philosophies of History, Berlin, pp. 83–122. Milnor, K. (2005). Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus: Inventing Private Life. Oxford. Mulhern, E.V. (2017). Roma(na) matrona. CJ 112, pp. 432–459. Noy, D. (2000). Foreigners at Rome. Citizens and Strangers. London. Osgood, J. (2014). Turia. A Roman Woman’s Civil War. Oxford. Parker, H. (2005). Loyal Slaves and Loyal Wives: The Crisis of the Outsider-within and Roman Exemplum Literature. In: S.R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan, eds., Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture, London, pp. 164–185. Rosati, G. (1996). Il modello di Aretusa (Prop. 4.3): Tracce elegiache nell’epica del I sec. d.C. Maia 48, pp. 139–155. Sannicandro, L. (2007). Per uno studio sulle donne della Pharsalia: Marcia Catonis. MH 64, pp. 83–99. Severy, B. (2003). Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire. New York/London. Stem, R. (2020). Nepos’Life of Atticus, Nicolaus’Life of Caesar, and the Genre of Political Biography in the Age of Augustus. In: K. De Temmerman, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Biography, Oxford, pp. 139–152. Tracy, J. (2014). Lucan’s Egyptian Civil War. Cambridge. Van der Veen, V. (2021). Women in Roman Military Bases: Gendered Brooches from the

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Augustan Military Base and Flavio-Trajanic Fortress at Nijmegen, the Netherlands. Britannia 52, pp. 343–363. Van Driel-Murray, C. (1998). A Question of Gender in a Military Context. Helinium 34, pp. 342–362. Welch, K. (2011). Velleius and Livia: Making a Portrait. In: E. Cowan, ed., Velleius Paterculus: Making History, Swansea, pp. 309–334. Wiseman, T.P. (2010). The Two-Headed State. How Romans Explained Civil War. In: B.W. Breed, C. Damon and A. Rossi, eds., Citizens of Discord. Rome and Its Civil Wars, Oxford, pp. 25–44. Woolf, G. (2016). Movers and Stayers. In: L. de Ligt and L.E. Tacoma, eds., Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden, pp. 438–461. Zoumbaki, S. (2017). Sulla, the Army, the Officers and the poleis of Greece: A Reassessment of Warlordism in the First Phase of the Mithridatic Wars. In: T. Ñaco del Hoyo and F. López Sánches, eds., War, Warlords, and Interstate Relations in the Ancient Mediterranean, Leiden, pp. 351–379. Zoumbaki, S. (2019). Sulla’s Relations with the Poleis of Central and Southern Greece in a Period of Transitions. In: A. Eckert and A. Thein, eds., Sulla: Politics and Reception, Berlin/Boston, pp. 33–54.

chapter 10

Present in Public Lettering The Epigraphic Dossier of Licinnia Flavilla at Oinoanda (IGR iii 500) and the Phenomenon of Honorific Text Monuments in Imperial Asia Minor Evelien J.J. Roels

1

Introduction

In the world of elite benefactors and competitive euergetism that was Imperial Asia Minor, the politics of honour was based for a large part on the employment of public lettering. A rather prolific form of honorific public lettering developed particularly, but not exclusively, in second-century Lycia,1 where a regional epigraphic practice took root, involving the display of extensive dossiers on monumental buildings, which derived their meaning from the visual impression and accumulation of texts. For the occasion of honouring our honorand I want to have a look at one particular ‘text monument’, which was founded by a woman and both anchors in and deviates from this wider epigraphic practice while at the same time pushing the boundaries of what it meant to be present in public lettering as a woman. This is the funerary monument erected by Licinnia Flavilla in the Lycian city of Oinoanda (IGR iii 500) in the second century. Licinnia Flavilla, a well-to-do and, above all, well-connected citizen of Oinoanda, made a very particular public statement by having constructed an impressive funerary monument for her family. While the design of the tomb was rather common,2 the monument stands out for the long genealogical texts it was embellished with, recording members of Licinnia’s family going back more than twelve generations. In this contribution, I will examine how Licinnia through the epigraphic display of her genealogy placed herself within a wider epigraphic practice current among male members of the Lycian elite, which was characterised by a conspicuous display of testimonials, presenting the honorand as well-connected, powerful and beneficent. But while the dossiers erected by male aristocrats generally focused on external relations and splendid careers, Licinnia modified her presence in public lettering by rather placing

1 All dates are ce unless stated otherwise. 2 Hall, Milner, Coulton 1996, 112 with a long list of comparable tombs.

© Evelien J.J. Roels, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_013

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emphasis on her ancestors and direct family, that is, on her role as daughter, mother and wife.

2

Another Gem of Epigraphic Eldorado

The city of Oinoanda lies in the north-western region of the Roman province of Lycia, the Kabalitis, extending over a rocky and steep hilltop at a height of 1400 meters above sea level, with the acropolis in the north and the urban area to its south. Its main sources of wealth were agriculture, livestock farming and wood. This wealth must have been considerable as intensive building activities testify, including two large thermal complexes, an agora and the theatre during the Imperial period.3 While Oinoanda was not particularly powerful nor special,4 the city is renowned today for its prolific epigraphic culture, producing (amongst others) three extensive and unconventional epigraphic monuments, causing one of the excavators to speak of an ‘epigraphic Eldorado’.5 Of these three inscriptions, pride of place goes to the treatise setting out the philosophy of Epicurus. According to the text itself, it was published by a certain Diogenes (a rather common name at Oinoanda, as we will see below) on the wall of a stoa—probably to be identified with the south stoa on the Roman agora, the so-called Esplanade.6 Apart from philosophy in epigraphic form being an anomaly, the inscription further amazes by its magnitude, having contained ca. 25,000 words in its complete state, stretching over probably more than 260 square meters of wall, and counting as the longest Greek inscription known.7 The dossier, of which almost 300 fragments have been identified so far, consists of treatises on various topics of Epicurean philosophy as well as writings by Diogenes himself.8 The second epigraphic gem uncovered 3 Brandt and Kolb 2005, 40–42; Bachmann 2017, 2–3. 4 Coulton 1983, 17. 5 Bachmann 2017, 7. The city name itself actually means ‘rich in vine’ or ‘rich in vines’ (Haake 2020, 121). The monuments are unconventional in the sense that the inscriptions were not composed in lapidary style. 6 Smith 1993; Smith 1996; Hammerstaedt and Smith 2014; Haake 2020. 7 Smith 2017, xiii. The text was divided into columns and originally spanned a width of c. 80m; the inscribed courses measured 3.25 m in height (Bachmann 2017, 16–17, 21–23; Hammerstaedt 2017, 30–38; Smith 1996, 76–81). According to the last report of the total number of fragments found, it amounts to more than 300 fragments (Haake 2020, 124 n. 37). The award of the longest Greek inscription surviving from antiquity has led to more creative epigraphic epitheta as it has now been crowned with the title ‘Empress of Inscriptions’ (Id., 122). 8 Smith 2017, xiii notes that “in its complete state it may have contained about 25,000 words and occupied about 260 square metres of wall-space.”

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at Oinoanda is a large stele, now to be seen in the garden of the museum at Fethiye, containing the institution of a penteteric agonistic festival by C. Iulius Demosthenes, dated to 124/125.9 The details of the festival are elaborated in over more than 100 lines and it constitutes “with the exception of the first stele of the Athenian tribute lists, the longest exposition of a single inscribed document from the ancient world that has ever been published”.10 Finally, the third inscription colossus from Oinoanda has also deserved a superlative of its own, as it provides the latest example of the use of stoichedon style known.11 This is the long genealogical treatise initiated by Licinnia Flavilla and probably continued by her cousin Flavianus Diogenes. The document is known as the ‘genealogy of the Licinnii’ for the detailed pedigree it provides on this family. It is in no way inferior to the sheer demonstration of textual force shown by Diogenes and Iulius Demosthenes, as more than 300 lines have been preserved, which covered the tomb on three sides.12 The tomb (see fig. 10.1) is located in the southern end of the urban area, more precisely 40m below an isolated stretch of the Hellenistic southern wall, and was discovered amid a group of smaller tombs and sarcophagi.13 The monument is now largely destroyed except for its eastern end, although a substantial number of blocks have been recovered in the immediate surroundings. Origin-

9 10 11

12

13

Wörrle 1988; English translation in Mitchell 1990. Dimensions of the stone: 187×105×25cm. Mitchell 1990, 183. Schuler 2015, 268. While stoichedon seems to have been used in Attica in the fourth and early third centuries bce mostly, it was neither confined to Attica nor to the classical period. Several examples can be cited from the imperial period showing that the use of (elements of) the stoichedon style persisted, although often with the intention to render the inscriptions an older appearance (see e.g. IG ii2 3827 with SEG 54.310; Woodhead 1992, 30–31; McLean 2002, 45–46; Higbie 2017, 127–129 with fig. 2.14). The inscription was already discovered and partly described in Spratt and Forbes 1847 (providing the location of the mausoleum (H) on the site map facing p. 273) and Petersen and von Luschan 1889, 180–183 before the first copy was provided in Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, 41 no. 60. Further additions and comments in Wilhelm 1897, 77–79 (on the genealogy on the north wall); Dessau 1900, 199–205; Cagnat 1906 (IGR iii 500); Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996 with detailed analysis of the monument, new edition and fragments (SEG 46.1709). Note that, in the following, I will discuss the content of the inscription only in broad outline. The rich prosopographical and chronological information given by the genealogy has attracted a lot of scholarly attention but, as my focus lies on the employment of text as honorific capital, I will largely refrain from these discussions and refer to already existing studies instead (most notably Jameson 1966; Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996; Slavich 2003; Zimmerman 2007; Reitzenstein 2011). For the location see H on the map drawn by Thomas Spratt (Spratt and Forbes 1847, facing p. 273); it is also indicated as ‘mausoleum’ on the map in Coulton 1983 and in square Lr of the BIAA site plan (Eilers and Milner 1995).

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figure 10.1 Plan of the tomb with the approximate position of the genealogies on the different walls drawing by author after hall, milner and coulton 1996, fig. 1 (a)

ally, the tomb contained a main vaulted chamber with recesses for two or three sarcophagi and had a shallow porch on the east with antae; the reconstruction by Hall, Milner and Coulton assumes a tetrastyle prostyle, but no columns belonging to the tomb have been found so far.14 The façade was on the east, where a shallow porch led into the vaulted chamber; on the west, there appears to have been an arched recess on the exterior, probably an exedra containing benches (see below). The position of the tomb possesses an easy access on both the western and eastern side of the ridge so that the east and west side of the monument would have been clearly visible for those approaching the city. The dating of the tomb in the second century is based on the evidence given by the genealogy, especially the abundant reference to persons known from other sources. The genealogy was inscribed on the east, north and west wall, all inscriptions originally occupying a fair amount of wall space. The inscription

14

Dimensions of the tomb: 9.3 × 10.75m. Detailed discussion of the architectural aspects in Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 111–121; see also Cormack 2004, 253–255.

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on the first two walls was probably contemporaneous with the monument, and has been dated to the second half of the second century, the text on the latter wall has been dated to the beginning of the third century. Heberdey and Kalinka first described and published the text; their edition was substantially emended and enhanced by the work of Hall, Milner and Coulton, who provided new readings and added several new fragments.15 However, since especially the text surviving from the west wall has been preserved in fragments, an overall idea of the text and its position on the monument can only be reconstructed approximately.

3

A Text Monument of Family Descent

Let us start our tour through the genealogical ramifications of the Licinnii family at the east façade where the dedicatory inscription, carved on the lintel above the doorway, announces the patroness’ intention and motivation for the construction of the tomb:16 Licinnia Flavilla, daughter of C. Licinnius Thoantianus, citizen of Oinoanda, | had this heroon built, in which she placed sarcopha|gi of her parents and forefathers. Let no one have | permission to bring in an alien body into the heroon or he will have to| pay a fine to the most sacred treasury of 10.000 denarii, and he will be | under a curse by gods and goddesses. According to the dedication, Licinnia founded the tomb (τὸ ἡρῶον), not for her own burial, but for that of her parents and forefathers. While the burial of her parents would correspond to the two recesses within the tomb containing room for two sarcophagi, the remains of which were seen by Heberdey and Kalinka,17 the inclusion of a large and unspecified group of ‘forefathers’ or ‘ancestors’ can hardly be taken literally, as it would have seriously superseded the tomb’s physical capacity. While references to the burial of the parents

15 16

17

Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, 41 no. 60; IGR iii 500; Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996. IGR iii 500, ll. 1–6: Λικ. Γ. Λικ. Θοαντιανοῦ θυγάτηρ Φλάβιλλα Οἰνοανδὶς | κατεσκε⟨ύ⟩ασε[ν] τὸ ἡρῶον, ἐν ᾧ κατέστησεν σωματοθή|κας τῶν γονέων αὐτῆς καὶ τῶν προγόνων· οὐδεὶς δὲ ἐξου|σίαν ἕξει ἀλλότριον πτῶμα ἐπισενενκεῖν τῷ ἡρώῳ, ἢ ἀπο|τείσει τῷ ἱερωτάτῳ ταμείῳ (δην.) μύρια, ἔσται | δὲ ἐπάρατος θεοῖς καὶ θεαῖς. Translations are my own, unless stated otherwise. Letter height: l. 1 4 cm, ll. 2–4 3.5 cm, ll. 5–6 3 cm (Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, 41). Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, 41: “In dem Hauptraume selbst liegen jetzt noch die Trümmer zweier (vielleicht mehrerer) schmuckloser Sarkophage.”

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within a family tomb are regularly found elsewhere,18 the burial of generations preceding that of the parents is rare. Rather, especially in light of the genealogy displayed on the walls, which included the προγόνοι within the tomb ad verbum, we should rather interpret the dedication symbolically. It is a nice example of how the presence of absent family members was achieved through public inscriptions.19 The second part of the dedication, announcing the prohibition for non-family burials and the curse to be inflicted on those who would depose alien bodies in the tomb, is a common feature of funerary inscriptions, especially in Lycia, and can be found in similar forms elsewhere.20 The dedicatory inscription on the lintel is probably the oldest text engraved on the mausoleum: this appears not only from the letter forms (use of four-barred sigma), which differ from that of the eastern genealogy (square sigma), but also from the absence of any mention of Diogenes Flavianus, who appears prominently in the eastern genealogy’s heading.21 Apart from being the oldest epigraphic element, the dedication, setting forth the patron and purpose of the tomb, is also the most conventional. The real departure from epigraphic convention is the genealogical inscription stretching over the main part of the tomb’s façade. This genealogy, setting out Licinnia’s ancestry over more than twelve generations, is carved out over six columns (ii–vii),22 starting four metres above the ground,23 with two long columns on the wall to the left of the entrance and four shorter columns running above the doorway and beneath the overarching vault (see fig. 10.2).24 Since the space beneath column vii (as well that of vi) has been left vacant

18 19

20 21

22

23 24

Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 139 n. 101. Most scholars assume that only Licinnia’s parents were buried here: see e.g. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 119, 139. Nevertheless, as genitive possessive of the object of κατέστησεν, the Greek still states that sarcophagi of ancestors were placed in the tomb. Wiedergut 2018. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 139–140, who also consider the absence of stoichedon style in the lintel inscription as an indication for its older age, but as the stoichedon style was very rare in this period and rather seems to be employed as a visual and stylistic device to give the genealogy an archaising touch, which would be unnecessary, if not undesirable, for the lintel dedication. Note that in the editions of both Heberdey and Kalinka and that of Cagnat (IGR) this column is listed as column ii, due to the fact that both editors assumed the existence of another column (i) in the left upper corner of the east façade. Hall, Milner and Coulton, however, have demonstrated convincingly that this genealogical text belongs to the north wall (see below). Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 120. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 17 and fig. 4. This design makes one wonder whether the overall layout and design of the text went according to plan.

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just as the remainder of line 13 (vii), we may conclude that the end of this genealogy has been preserved in full. As noted above, the text is laid out in stoichedon style. Stoichedon is also applied in the texts on the north and west wall and must have rendered the genealogy an impressive, if not beautiful, appearance, while also hinting at old age and a long history.25 We know from other sources (both literary and epigraphic) that archaising letter forms were regularly employed to make new things look old, a strategy comparable to the employment of stoichedon here.26 The six columns are covered by a heading stretching over all columns and set out in larger letters than the text below.27 For reasons of space I only cite the heading and the first part of the genealogy to give an impression of the text we are concerned with here.28 (heading) The local [geneal]ogy [of Licinn]ia Flavilla and Diogenes, her kinsman, [citizens of Oinoanda]. (genealogy) Trokondas Tris29 had a | son, Thoas. Thoas’ sons | were Mousaios and Thoas, of whom | the former was called Licin|nius Mousaios, the lat|ter Marcius Thoas, both | were lyciarchs. From | Mousaios and Ammia, | daughter of Kroisos, were born sons, | Licinnius Thoas | and Licinnius Mousaios, | named after his father, and a | daughter Tation. From Mar|cius Thoas and Marcia | Gè, daughter of Marcius Mo|lebouloubasios, a son Ma|rcius Flavianus Thoas and a | daughter Tation. The genealogy is continued in more or less the same way over 229 lines, disclosing the wide-reaching connections of the Licinnii such as their (first and

25 26 27 28

29

Schuler 2015, 268 with fig. 13.4; Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 111 n. 3. Hartmann 2010, 487; Zadorojnyi 2018, 53–54 with examples in n. 19. Letter height in heading: 6 cm; in columns: 3 cm (Heberdey and Kalinka 1896, 42). IGR iii 500, l. 7 and ii, ll. 1–18: [γενεαλ]ογία ἡ ἐπιχώ[ριος Λικινν]ίας Φλαβίλλης καὶ Διογένους τοῦ συνγενοῦς αὐτ[ῆς Οἰνοανδέων] || Τροκόνδας τρὶς ἔσχεν υἱ|ὸν Θόαντα. τοῦ Θόαντος υἱ|οὶ Μουσαῖος καὶ Θόας, ὧν ὁ | μὲν ἐχρημάτισεν Λικίν|νι[ος] Μουσαῖος, ὁ δὲ ἕτ[ε]|ρος Μάρκιος Θό[α]ς, ἀμφότε|ροι δ[ὲ] ἐλυκιάρχησαν. ἀπὸ | τοῦ Μ[ο]υσαίου καὶ Ἀμμίας | Κροίσου γείνονται υἱ|οὶ μὲ[ν] Λικίννιος Θόας | καὶ Λικίννιος Μουσαῖος, | ὁμώνυμος τῷ πατρί, καὶ θυ|[γά]τηρ Τάτιον. ἀπὸ τοῦ Μαρ|[κίου Θό]αντος καὶ Μαρκίας | [Γῆς, θ]υγατρὸς Μαρκίου Μο|[λε]βουλουβάσιος, υἱὸς Μάρ|[κιο]ς Φλαυιανὸς Θόας καὶ θυ|[γά]τηρ Τάτιον. Literally, ‘the third’.

figure 10.2 Impression of the display of the genealogy with the heading and dedicatory inscription on the façade of the tomb. Note that the block carrying the inscription on the wall’s upper left corner has now been identified by Hall, Milner and Coulton as belonging to the north wall tafel 1 in: heberdey and kalinka 1896, © österreichische akademie der wissenschaften

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second) marriages, offspring as well as the wide array of prominent offices held by various family members. They include those of proconsul, consul, lyciarch (archpriest of the Lycian League), commanders of garrisons and cohorts, and an Arval priest.30 Licinnia herself is named several times in relation to her parents and husband, but she figures most prominently in the genealogy’s closing lines, together with her brothers, Licinnius Longus and Licinnius Fronto, and (probably) their wives. In fact, Flavilla makes up the last word of the inscription. Thus, the final part concerns Licinnia’s own parentage and closest relatives and therefore forms an appropriate ending to the genealogy, where we come full circle after the announcement in the dedication that the tomb was erected for Licinnia’s parents and ancestors (τῶν γονέων αὐτῆς καὶ τῶν προγόνων).31 Just around the corner where the eastern genealogy ended, another line of descent had begun to be inscribed but—as the text breaks off mid-sentence— the carving was stopped before it was finished.32 Considering the letter forms and the use of stoichedon style, this genealogy seems to be contemporaneous with the one on the east wall and starts in similar fashion by setting out the scope of descent it aims to present:33 The genealogy (starting) from Flavia [Platonis, citizen of | Kiby]ra, mar[ried to Licinnius]| Thoas (going) [as far back as] the sending forth of [Kleandros | by Amykles to the city] of Caesarea Kiby[ra. In the year of An]|tichares ii34 of […]| on the 28th35 [of the month …] being as follows:

30 31

32

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34 35

See for a detailed discussion of the family of the Licinnii, Jameson 1966, 125–130 with stemma; Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 121–124; Slavich 2003, 275–289. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 121–122. Of the last column, a total of eleven lines are missing. Hall, Milner and Coulton assume that these contained the descent of the wives of Licinnia’s brothers, Longus and Fronto, and note that, if this is correct, it would hardly have left space to include Licinnia’s own children, Fronto and Flavillianus (Jameson 1966, 136 nos. 39 and 40) too. This genealogy survives on three blocks, which Kalinka and Heberdey located on the south-eastern corner of the east wall. After a re-examination of the blocks, Hall, Milner and Coulton suggest to place it on the north wall (Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 117). i, ll. 1–13: Ἡ ἀπὸ Φλαυίας [Πλατωνίδος Κιβυ]|ρατικῆς τῆς γα[μηθείσης Λικιννίῳ]|Θόαντι γενεαλ [ογία μέχρι Κλεάνδρου] | τοῦ πεμφθέντος [ὑπὸ τοῦ Ἀμύκλα εἰς τὴν] ‖ Καισαρέων Κιβυ[ρατῶν πόλιν· ἐπὶ Ἀν]|τιχάρους δὶς τοῦ ..... μηνὸς ....]|ου κζʹ ἔχουσα οὕ[τως· v v ἄρχει δὲ τὸ] | γένος ἀπό τε Κλε[άνδρου καὶ Ἀμύκλα]|Λακεδαιμονί[ων βασιλέων καὶ ἡρώ?]‖ων, τοῦ μὲν ἐκπέμψαντος τὴν [ἀποι]|κίαν, τοῦ Ἀμύκλα, Κλεάνδρου δ[ὲ ἀγα-]|γόντος καὶ οἰκίσαντος τὴν τ[ῶν Κι]|βυρατῶν πόλιν κατά τὸν vacat Reitzenstein 2011, 205 no. 55. See Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 125 n. 53 for the translation with ‘28th’ instead of ‘27th’.

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[v v the race | begins with Kle[andros and Amykles], | of the Lacedaemonians [kings and heroes?]|, the latter, Amykles, sent out the colony, | while Kleandros was the lea|der and founded the city | of t[he Ki]byrates in accordance with the vacat36 In contrast to the genealogy on the east wall, which was explicitly characterised as ‘local’ (ἐπιχώριος), this pedigree has a broader outlook as it presents Flavia Platonis’ descent within the wider framework of the Hellenic oikoumene, going as far back as the alleged foundation of Kibyra by the Spartans. Flavia Platonis also features in Licinnia’s genealogy: she was the second wife of Licinnius Thoas, himself the son of Licinnius Mousaios, who served as lyciarch.37 As is often the case, we are better informed about Flavia’s husband, Licinnius Thoas, who is named in the Demostheneia-inscription as one of the envoys sent to the Roman governor to seek official approval for the institution of the festival.38 More importantly, Flavia was Licinnia’s paternal greatgrandmother, as Flavia’s daughter Flavilla married to Licinnius Fronto, from whose reunion Licinnius Thoantianus came forth.39 Being originally from Kibyra, Flavia was at some point married into the Oinoandean family of the Licinnii: the genealogy on the north wall thus treated the Licinnii’s Kibyran descent through the intermarriage with Flavia. This ‘Kibyran pedigree’ as it was conceived (but never inscribed, probably due to the change in the tomb’s ownership) would have exceeded the genealogy on the east wall by far, namely thirty generations (running from Kleandros all the way down to Flavia Platonis) as opposed to the twelve generations depicted on the east wall. Flavia Platonis’ pedigree formed a valuable asset to the genealogies published on the Licinnii tomb because of her origin from Kibyra, a significantly more important and powerful city than Oinoanda, which claimed to go back to the son of the mythical founder of Sparta himself.40 It was Flavia Platonis, not her husband, who had the more prestigious family ties, conveying further prestige on the family of the Licinnii.

36

37 38

39 40

I follow here the revised text as presented in Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 124. For detailed discussion of the reconstruction of the text, also compared to the editions of Heberdey and Kalinka, Cagnat and Wilhelm, see Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 125. ii, ll. 36–39. See Reitzenstein 2011, 168–169. Wörrle 1988, ll. 113, 116; see Wörrle 1988, 48, 74–74. Contrary to Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 124 n. 52, Thoas was not part of an embassy to emperor Trajan in the year 124, that was his brother Fronto. See the stemma in Jameson 1966, with Flavilla (no. 16) and Licinnius Fronto (no. 13) as Licinnia’s grandparents through her father Licinnius Thoantianus (no. 37). See e.g. OGIS ii 497, but cf. Strabo 13.4.17; Spawforth and Walker 1985, 82; Jones 2011, 115.

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This second inscription contains one specific date, namely the eponymous lyciarchy of Antichares ii (‘Dis’), who held this position in the year 151.41 Due to the fragmentary state of survival, it is not clear what the date is supposed to mark exactly, but the suggestion proposed by Hall, Milner and Coulton that this might have been the year of Flavia’s death, and therefore a proper (albeit tragic) closure for the genealogy is plausible.42 Stylistically, there is a significant difference with the genealogy on the east wall. While the pedigree on the façade was covered by a conspicuous heading, carried out in larger letters and spanning all six columns, the text on the north wall was not accentuated by such a prominent intervention. Maybe the inclusion of a heading was foreseen only at the end of the inscribing process, but it is equally possible that another layout was intended as the information found on the east wall in the heading part, was on the north already included in the first column. The third (and chronologically last) wall of the tomb covered with family connections of the Licinnii is the west wall. Unfortunately, the state of its preservation is far more fragmentary and, as a consequence, the genealogy’s overall content and presentation are less clear.43 The four surviving blocks show a similar layout in columns and the text may have run originally over the voussoirs above the recessed arch and on the wall of the arched recess below.44 As the line length is unknown, an adequate reconstruction of the exact content of the text is impossible, although what remains seems to point to the ancestry and close relations of Flavianus Diogenes, who already appeared in the heading on the east wall. Flavianus was Licinnia’s first cousin twice removed through his

41

42 43 44

The date of Antichares ii is secured by his mention in three letters by emperor Antoninus Pius published within the dossier of the funerary monument of Opramoas of Rhodiapolis, itself dated independently to the fourteenth year of his tribunicia potestas (Kokkinia 2000, doc. no. 47 (xii C, l. 7), 48 (xii D, l. 7) and 49 (xii E, l. 5); Reitzenstein 2011, 205). Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 124 n. 52. Id. 1996, 119–120, 127–139, 142. This text was probably inscribed at a later point, considering the letter forms with lunate epsilon and sigma and the absence of stoichedon. The layout in columns is particularly visible on block A (Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, fig. 5). For a reconstruction of the west wall of the tomb see Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 119–120. Originally, a bench may have been placed within the recessed arch although the existence of a rear entrance cannot be excluded entirely. The height of the arch is reconstructed on the basis of the assumption that it must have left the inscriptions inscribed above the crown of the arch still legible and the height probably corresponded to that of the inscription on the east side, that is, on the assumption that legibility, visibility and lightning were guiding principles during the construction of the tomb. However, the analysis of inscriptions displayed on the building shows that legibility is rarely a guiding principle (Roels 2018b, 280–282, 294–300). Besides, the genealogy on the west wall is substantially later than the construction of the tomb.

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father and was probably one or two generations younger.45 The genealogy differs in several aspects from those on the east and north wall. The family ties are drawn out more expansively, emphasising connections with families outside Oinoanda, including the intermarriage of the Licinnii and the Diogenesfamily with families from Balboura (the Marcii), Xanthos (the Metii) and, again, Kibyra (the Claudii).46 The biographical information given about individual family members is more extensive as we find references to specific dates, a farm and probably also some judgements of value.47 Of interest may be one line referring to (apparently) Flavianus as inheritor or heir to something or to someone.48 The editors would like to interpret it as a reference to Flavianus’ inheritance of the tomb, supposing that Licinnia must have been dead at the time of the inscription, but the surviving text neither confirms nor excludes this.49 Actually, considering how much of the northern genealogy is missing, Flavianus’ exact position within this genealogy cannot be fully reconstructed either. Two important and related issues that have not been addressed so far concern the question of the tomb’s ownership and that of the tomb’s chronology, i.e. the date of the construction and the attachment of the inscriptions. For how do we reconcile Licinnia’s sole patronage of the tomb (according to the lintel dedication) with the statement of the heading, which conspicuously incorporates the name of Flavianus Diogenes as well, besides the observation that Licinnia, in her turn, is absent from the genealogy on the west wall?50 To start with the tomb’s chronology, I would argue that we may consider the dedicatory inscription on the lintel, as any dedication more or less an intrinsic part of the building, as the oldest inscription. It states Licinnia’s role as the tomb’s founder and its purpose of housing the sarcophagi of her parents and forefathers. Licinnia’s role as patron is further confirmed by the fact that the eastern genealogy not only centres around Licinnia’s own family and descent,51 but

45

46 47 48 49 50 51

Flavianus Diogenes appears in iv. l. 11 as the son of Simonides and Flavia Lycia. He was the grandson of Licinnia’s nephew T. Flavius Titianus, his great-grandmother was the sister of Licinnia’s mother. See Reitzenstein 2011, 126 for this development. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 130. Block D, ll. 6–7. Diogenes as subject of this sentence follows from the mention of his father, Simonides, in l. 5, and the reconstruction of –σ̣ας to [ὁ λυκιαρχή]σ̣ας. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 138. The Flavilla mentioned on block D, l. 7 is identified as the second wife of Flavianus Diogenes (Ibid.). This is e.g. visible on the stress laid on the mothers of both Licinnia herself (ll. 48–50) and her husband, Aelius Aristodemos (ll. 53–55).

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that it also ends programmatically with her direct relatives, being herself the last to be named in the extensive pedigree. This clearly points to her involvement in the decision to put the genealogy on the wall. We might similarly argue with respect to the north wall since Flavia Platonis was more directly related to Licinnia than to Flavianus Diogenes. Besides, as appears from the genealogy on the west wall, Flavianus already enjoyed multiple connections with families from other cities so that it would have been less compelling for him to devote a complete genealogy (and wall) to the ancestry of a great-aunt from Kibyra. The use of similar letter forms on the east and north wall also speaks for the contemporaneous inscription of both genealogies. Accordingly, the west wall would have been inscribed at a later stage. Apart from the depiction of different family connections on the west wall as compared to the east, this interpretation is also convincing because of the location of the west genealogy in the less attractive position on the tomb’s rear. Even when the monument would have been clearly visible from both the front and the back side, as observed above, a brief comparison with the position of other large inscriptions carved on monumental buildings in Asia Minor demonstrates that the entrance area, especially the antae (parastades), was by far the preferred place for epigraphic display.52 We may therefore conclude that the façade would have been the first wall to be covered with inscriptions. Based on the prosopographical information offered in the inscription combined with independent sources elsewhere, especially those on the eponymous lyciarchs and the identification of one of Flavianus’ children with an athlete of distinction from Oinoanda bearing the same name, Hall, Milner and Coulton have suggested dating the carving of the genealogy on the east wall before 210.53 Reitzenstein has criticised this, arguing that the omission of Roman citizenship in the inscription was not uncommon, and cannot be taken as strict dating criterium.54 Thus, the tomb and the epigraphic display of the Licinnii family probably date to the second half of the second century, while a date sometime in the third century is still plausible. How do we bring this internal chronology into accordance with the dual ownership of the tomb, as the heading on the east wall implies? As Licinnia’s cousin twice removed on paternal side, that is, as the grandson of Licinnia’s nephew T. Flavius Titianus, Flavianus was probably a generation or two “younger”.55 We may therefore assume that Licinnia had the tomb construc52 53 54 55

Roels 2018a. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 122–123. Reitzenstein 2011: 220–221 with further literature. According to Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 140 with double quotation marks. In fact,

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ted (as the dedicatory inscription indicates) and ordered for the inscription of her genealogy on the façade as well as that of Flavia Platonis’ descent on the north wall. The carving was begun at the front wall, which was completed in the form it was conceived with, after which work was continued on the north wall. At some point during the carving works, Licinnia died and Flavianus inherited the tomb. He might have stopped the inscription of the north wall and ordered instead for the inscription of (probably) his own genealogy on the west wall, employing the same epigraphic form of decoration his great-aunt had initiated. It is plausible that within this context the heading on the east wall was inscribed, as it prominently names Flavianus Diogenes and thus points to his involvement in the tomb by this time. A transferal of ownership during the time the east genealogy was inscribed or just after it was finished, when the northern genealogy was just on its way, seems the most likely. I do not agree with Hall, Milner and Coulton, who consider the omission of Licinnia’s grandchildren as an indication that the genealogy was never finished or that Flavianus either broke off the carving or trunked the text that was to be inscribed.56 Apart from several plausible explanations for their absence, such as that Licinnia’s grandchildren died early,57 the dedicatory inscription explicitly states that Licinnia had the tomb built for her parents and forefathers (τῶν γονέων αὐτῆς καὶ τῶν προγόνων). It is therefore plausible that Licinnia considered her parents and their direct offspring, that is, Licinnia herself and her brothers, as a fitting conclusion to the genealogy. Thus, we may conclude that the conception and foundation of the tomb are to be ascribed to Licinnia Flavilla, who assumed a prominent role through the impressive employment of public lettering, elevating the prestige and position of her family, which was at a later stage continued by her heir, Flavianus Diogenes.

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genealogical maths, as it is based on a substantial amount of sophisticated guesswork, is doomed to stay approximate at best, since we have no idea how old the mothers were, let alone the fathers, when they had or conceived children. Reitzenstein 2011, 220 also cautions against strict calculations, arguing that different generations within one family need not be exactly coetaneous. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 140. Ancient inscriptions that remained unfinished are not unknown in Asia Minor. See e.g. MAMA ix P4, a copy of the reply of a Roman curator to emperor Hadrian, preserved in the dossier on the temple land in the pronaos of the temple of Zeus at Aizanoi (Phrygia), and Pugliese Caratelli 1989, no. 5, an honorific decree from the city of Iasos (Caria). Bartels 2008, 134–135 pointing out in relation to Macedonian references of descent that completeness was seldomly sought after; Reitzenstein 2011, 126 n. 3, 220.

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Oinoanda’s Local Dialogue of Epigraphic Boasting

With the erection of a funerary text monument for her ancestors, decorated with inscriptions celebrating Licinnia as the node within a large family and ‘closing act’ of her family branch, Licinnia succeeded in a form of epigraphical representation that clearly adhered to what seems to have been an ongoing dialogue in the city of Oinoanda. During the imperial period, an epigraphic culture developed in Oinoanda which was characterised both by a strong inclination to put longer texts on stone and a tendency to display in an epigraphical form genres less likely to be inscribed in other cities.58 Licinnia’s genealogy is a case in point: although inscriptions with lines of descent were regularly put up in other cities, the extent and attention to detail of the Oinoanda text were unrivalled.59 As for her role as a woman, Licinnia joined in local epigraphic behaviour while staying within the limits of what was socially accepted for a woman.60 The blurred line between what was conventional and what was not, characteristic for Oinoanda’s local epigraphic culture, is particularly visible in the philosophical inscription of Diogenes mentioned earlier. Thankfully for the modern scholar—and a rare feature in ancient epigraphy—Diogenes sets out in the prologue what caused him to display the philosophical writings of Epicurus on the wall of the stoa, namely, to provide mental or philosophical support for those in distress.61 Observing that some people find themselves in a difficult situation, Diogenes puts, so to say, deeds into words (διὰ τῆ[ς]| γραφῆς καθάπερ πρ[άτ]|των), by making Epicurean thought publicly accessible, which is thought to help in achieving atarxia (“freedom from disturbance”), any Epicurean’s ultimate goal.62 Diogenes continues: “since the succors of the written composition affect a larger group of people, I wished by using this stoa to dis-

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See below. Note that also in comparison to other inscriptions containing ancestral descent covering several generations Licinnia’s genealogy is exceptional since it closely resembles a pedigree, which we seldomly find in inscriptions on such a massive scale. For an example from Carthage see CIS i.3778 (with Quinn 2011, 399) where sixteen generations of the sacrificer’s ancestors are listed on an inscription set up in the tophet. The ancestral concern in Licinnia’s genealogy differs substantially from the genealogical practice in classical Athens as described by Thomas 1989, 176–177. Van Bremen 1996, 96–100. Smith 1993, frag. 2 i, ii, iii ll. 1–4. For an analysis of the various intended readers of this inscription, see Roskam 2015. Frag. 3, i ll. 7–13: δε[ι]|κνύειν δὲ πειρώμε|νος ὡς τὸ τῇ φύσει | συμφέρον, v ὃπερ ἐσ|τὶν ἀταραξία, καὶ ἑνὶ | καὶ πᾶσι τὸ αὐτό ἐσ|τιν.

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play in public [the medicines] that bring salvation”.63 The urge to be publicly visible and to interfere in the business of fellow citizens, as many scholars have already noted, is clearly a political one, albeit in an Epicurean veil, despite Diogenes’ own assurance that he is not a man of politics (οὐ πολ[ει]|τευόμενος).64 The festival foundation by Demosthenes as recorded in the Demostheneiastele, on the other hand, is a more common instance of civic euergetism. The text published on the stele not only announces the details of the institution of the festival meticulously, but also presents the patron as victorious in several obstacles any benefactor could encounter, such as the permission of the city council, the Roman provincial governor and the emperor himself besides the willingness and cooperation of his fellow citizens, on whose effort the practical organisation of the festival would be based.65 The epigraphic monuments of Diogenes and Demosthenes belong to the competitive field of benefactions and patronage, played by local men of means. Both text monuments might have ranked as extraordinary achievements within the local community, the one maybe outdoing the other. With an estimated population of around 1,400 to 2,400, Oinoanda can be considered as a face-toface community, meaning that communal knowledge about the citizens’ acts, moves and achievements can be presupposed.66 Women, especially those of means such as Licinnia, could not play that field in the same way but they did play along by putting emphasis on their family.

5

Ancestral Power Display: Genealogies and the Role of Women

According to the genealogy’s modern editors, we owe this epigraphic gem to “Asian ladies of means, perhaps especially those of mature years”, like Licinnia, who “spent considerable energy comparing pedigrees and ranking one another by reference to them”.67 This is, however, a serious trivialisation of the political 63

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Frag. 3, v ll. 8–15, vi ll. 1–2: ἐπειδὴ οὖν εἰς | πλείονας διαβέβη|κε τὰ βοηθήματα | τοῦ συνγράμματος, ἠθέλησα τῇ στοᾷ ταύ|τῃ καταχρησάμενος | ἐν κοινῷ τὰ τῆς σωτη|ρίας προθεῖν[αι φάρμα]|κα. See Roskam 2015, 151 for the notion of monumental or epigraphic ‘poster’. See Haake 2020, 123–124 on the Epicurean position on political involvement. The text includes several documents: it starts with an imperial letter, followed by an account on the regulations and instructions on the foundation, the minutes of the proceedings of the council, a decree of the assembly of Oinoanda, and a subscriptio by the proconsul. See Wörrle 1988, 19–22; Van Nijf 2007, 144–145. Haake 2020, 126. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 143. This is not to deny that a considerable documentary collecting and compiling must have preceded the publication of the genealogy (Zimmerman 2007, 118).

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potential and the confirmation of status and prestige such prominent display of ancestry and family connections effected. Furthermore, it also simplifies the public role women such as Licinnia could assume. At the time the Licinnii genealogy was inscribed, references to a person’s ancestry and family connections were a frequent feature of the epigraphic record in southwestern Asia Minor. The honorand was contextualised and labelled by references to his or her ancestors, sometimes going back four or five generations; an important element constituted the inclusion of offices family members had held, especially prestigious ones such as the lyciarchy or membership of the Roman senate.68 This preoccupation with ancestry and relations was particularly distinctive in several Lycian cities where the careful citation of previous generations, dubbed by one scholar ‘genealogical bookkeeping’, distinguished from the more common practice of including the filiation and (less common) the generation of the grandparents.69 The concern with ancestry, descent, kinship and, in their wake, genealogies, was long-standing in both Greek and Roman culture. Kinship, (legendary) genealogy and ancestry played a central role already in the works of Homer and Hesiod and tracing (or fabricating) a city’s or man’s lineage back to a distinguished founder or ancestor formed one way to explain the present through the past.70 Besides the wellknown Roman commemorative practice of displaying images of ancestors in the atrium and carrying ancestor masks (imagines) in funeral processions, the ancient sources also provide glimpses of the compilation of elite genealogies and (painted) family trees also played a role, although not a single genealogy, similar to the Licinnii genealogy, has survived.71 While ancestry was a fundamental aspect of societies where kinship conferred political and social capital, descriptions of descent were not present to the same extent within the public epigraphy of Greek poleis. Rather, the epigraphic display of ancestry emerges only in the second half of the second century, at a time when the formation of intermarrying elite families and their fusion on a regional and imperial scale had led to a more family-oriented style of public self-representation. 68 69

70 71

Examples from Lycia include IGR iii 492–496 (Oinoanda) and Marek 2006, no. 137 (honorific inscription for Flavia Maxima, Kaunos). See Reitzenstein 2011, 120 with n. 6. Bartels 2009, 131–135, pointing out that in case of Macedonian inscriptions (the subject of his study) rank and achievement seem to have been the guiding principle for inclusion as mostly family members with important positions appear; Reitzenstein 2011, 120–121; ‘genealogical bookkeeping’: Van Nijf 2011, 171. Thomas 1989, 173–181 with the distinction between legendary ancestry and ‘historical’ genealogy; Möller 1996, 19 with n. 17–18. Flower 1996; Jones 2011. Painted family tree in Pliny (Nat. 35.6) with Flower 1996, 211–212. A parallel to the Licinnii genealogy may be found in Aulus Gellius, who refers to a librum

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The prominence of ancestry in the Lycian epigraphic record resulted from the political and social capital of the lyciarchy.72 As Reitzenstein has shown, a Lycian Bundespriesterelite was negotiated through the claim of having a former lyciarch within the family. Possession of this office over several generations bestowed even more prestige: the demonstration of one’s ties to or descent from lyciarchs, senators or consuls confirmed membership of the ruling Roman elite.73 Women played an important role within this epigraphic demonstration of descent as they constituted the connecting link between different families. They might perhaps therefore have achieved a high level of public visibility in genealogical inscriptions in particular.74 Licinnia’s genealogy should be understood within this specific Lycian context of competitive ancestral display. As a woman, the foundation of a funerary monument embellished with the impressive pedigree of her family was actually quite conventional, albeit the scale rather uncommon. The presence of women in public lettering was—although on the whole smaller than that of men—more frequent in the written space of the graveyard than in the urban centre and the sanctuary.75 Licinnia’s monument is in this regard no exception. As Hemelrijk has argued in relation to the Latin West, female presence within public spaces (especially with regard to women of high rank) was communicated mostly through the woman’s social status, her union with men of impressive careers and the merits and achievements of her offspring, while Van Bremen has worked out for the Greek world that the public image of womanhood was a familial one.76 This is particularly visible in the case of Licinnia’s genealogy, which shows how closely the public role of women was connected to their role as daughter, mother or wife, both literally and metaphorically.77 With the erection of the tomb for her parents and ancestors Licinnia also participated in the broader competition of acquiring prestige for her family within the civic community. For the genealogy not only provided proof of the Licinnii’s membership to the Lycian Bundespriesterelite through the possession of the lyciarchy by

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commentarium de familia Porcia, possibly a genealogy of the Porcian family (Gell. 13.2017; Zimmerman 2007, 118). Familial relations start to become more prominent in the public space (in statues and inscriptions) from the first century bce, see Van Bremen 1996, 163–169; Van Nijf 2011, 171– 172. Reitzenstein 2011, 121–128. See also Quaß 1993, 56–76. For the dual family belonging of women (as daughter and as wife) see Van Bremen 1996, 204; a particular example from Patara is cited in Zimmerman 2007, 119–120. For the Roman West see Hemelrijk 2013, 135; Eck 2013. Van Bremen 1996; Hemelrijk 2013, 144; Günther 2014, 4–5. Metaphorical role of women as mothers of cities: Van Bremen 1996, 164; Hemelrijk 2010.

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several family members, but it also offered an explanatory note to the public presence and munificence of her family members within the wider urban space. Members of the Licinnii family are known through other inscriptions to have been involved in various acts of benefactions in Oinoanda.78 However, as these benefactions were commemorated in isolated and individual epigraphic monuments such as statue bases, the interrelationship between individual family members might have gotten out of sight.79 The genealogy on the façade of the tomb puts—so to say—the strings together by drawing out the family connections coherently. Finally, from a visual perspective, the genealogy’s size, layout and the employment of stoichedon style, together stressed that the family was both extended, well-connected and of old and venerable age.80 In other words, Licinnia’s genealogy in its lavish epigraphic display at Oinoanda was a particularly fitting power move by a woman, while she stayed within the boundaries of her socially expected role as daughter, mother and wife.

6

Honorific Text Monuments

Apart from the profound statement of family prestige through the depiction of the wide connections of the Licinnii family, I would argue that Licinnia reached higher than merely putting her family in the spotlight. For the way in which the Oinoandean tomb was decorated with extensive texts recalls a mode of epigraphic presentation employed by male aristocrats, namely the display of extensive epigraphic dossiers testifying to extended networks and impressive careers through the accumulation of documents, an epigraphic culture particular to Asia Minor during the first, second and third centuries.81 The most direct parallel to Licinnia’s monument with respect to the employment of text as principal form of decoration is that of Opramoas in Rhodiapolis,

78 79 80

81

IGR iii 492–496; see MacMullen 1986, 441. Outside Oinoanda: Jameson 1966, 129 (Cadyanda). Reitzenstein 2011, 123. An interesting antidote to Licinnia’s foundation is an honorific decree from Histria for Aba, daughter of Hekataios, that explicitly states that the honorand did not consider having a venerable ancestry alone sufficient exultation, if it were not supplemented by benefactions made by herself (I.Histriae 57, ll. 13–15: μ̣ικρὸν ἡγησαμένη τὴν ἀπὸ μόνου τοῦ |[γένους με]γαλαυχίαν εἰ μὴ καὶ τὴν ἀπὸ τῆς ἰδίας | [πρὸς τὸ]ν δ[ῆμον] εὐποιΐας προσκτήσαιτο δόξαν, also cited in Van Bremen 1996, 297–299). Roels 2018b. The phenomenon of these large aristocratic epigraphic dossiers has seen a lot of scholarly attention, see e.g. Haensch 2009, 175–176; Witschel 2011, 61–65; Kokkinia 2017; Kokkinia 2020.

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situated on a top spot within the city centre, right in front of the theatre.82 Opramoas was an incredibly rich and influential citizen of Rhodiapolis, who acted as civic benefactor for at least thirty communities within Lycia and around. The monument, erected in the middle of the second century, stands out for the large number of documents inscribed on its walls: roughly seventy documents dating from 123 until 152 were written on its front and two lateral sides.83 The inscriptions amply testify to the numerous and large benefactions made by Opramoas to various cities and to his good relations with and approval by the Roman authorities.84 As the monument contains decoration only on a small scale, the inscriptions seem to have been the main form of adornment. The building is generally interpreted as Opramoas’ funerary monument but as for the construction and purpose of the monument several questions remain open.85 So it is unclear whether Opramoas took care of the construction himself or whether it was erected only posthumously, supervised by the council and people of Rhodiapolis or Opramoas’ heirs. It is also unknown whether the cella contained a burial.86 A comparable text monument is that of Iason in Kyaneai.87 In the burial area to the east of the city, a podium was cut out of the rocks, probably as the basis for a sarcophagus, decorated with three large text fields on its front that are more or less equally distributed over the whole length of the nine metre long podium. Within the text fields, several honorific decrees and one imperial let82 83

84

85

86

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TAM ii 904; Petersen and von Luschan 1889, 76–133; Kokkinia 2000; Cormack 2004, 274– 277; Reitzenstein 2012; Berard 2013. They include thirty-two decrees and thirty-eight letters, arranged in twenty columns of one hundred lines on average. Twelve letters were written by emperor Antoninus Pius, the others by the Roman governor of Lycia. The honorific decrees were all issued by the Lycian League. See Kokkinia 2000, passim; Id. 2001, 17–18. To give one example: after a heavy earthquake struck various Lycian cities in probably 141, Opramoas donated money to several cities such as Patara, Tlos and Myra to support the civic communities by the rebuilding of their monuments. The fact that it concerns an intra-mural burial does not necessarily speak against its interpretation as funerary. Several contemporary examples exist, where we find the same mixture of civic honorific functions and a burial within the city walls, e.g. the library of Celsus in Ephesus and that of an unknown person in the library in Nysa. In both cases, the burial of the founder of the monument went hand in hand with a benefaction to the civic community while at the same time reminding the audience of the honorands’ education and prominent position within current elite networks (see Berns 2013). Berns (2013, 232) assumes that the cella might have been equipped with a sarcophagus and perhaps also statues of Opramoas and members of his family. However, this cannot be supported by any discoveries thus far. See also Reitzenstein 2012, 163. IGR iii 704; Berling 1993; Kokkinia 2001, 21–23; Fauconnier forthcoming.

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ter, all dating to the reign of emperor Antoninus Pius, were inscribed.88 The text field on the left presents the abstracts of several civic decrees and letters honouring Iason.89 The one in the middle, framed by a large tabula ansata, contains two honorific decrees for Iason issued by Myra and Patara, and the text field on the right consists of the last part of the Pataran decree, a decree by the Lycian League and a letter by emperor Antoninus Pius.90 The design of the text fields suggests a sort of climactic development with their differences in layout and decoration reflecting their increasing importance. Besides testifying to Iason’s munificence, the documents also concern a conflict about the honours granted to Iason, which was instigated by a certain Moles, fellow citizen of Kyaneai. The conflict was eventually brought before emperor Antoninus Pius, who decided in Iason’s favour.91 Iason’s text monument bears several similarities to that of Opramoas: both were employed to put a dossier of honorific testimonies on display, relating to the honorand’s benefactions, their acknowledgement by other, mostly, Lycian cities and the approval of the emperor. And in both cases, the presentation of the dossiers aimed not so much at conveying the content of the documents, but rather at impressing the onlooker by the accumulating effect. The monuments of Opramoas and Iason form the most striking parallels to Licinnia’s tomb, but over the whole of Asia Minor aristocratic dossiers can be found employing the same strategies of applying text for heightening monumental and honorific effect. An early example is the fragmentarily preserved dossier of Potamon, son of Lesbonax, at Mytilene (Lesbos), including at least two letters written by Caesar, two senatus consulta, and several other documents.92

88

89

90 91 92

Berling 1993, 25–26; Kokkinia 2001, 21–23. The monument was inserted into the rock slope of a narrow gorge and situates along a small path approaching the city on the south, which was—considering the scale and outline of the road—probably no main approach to the city, but used by pedestrians only. Other finds surrounding the podium include two water wells and a bench: the place seems to have functioned as a sort of resting place. These documents are not cited in full, but only the author or issuing authority as well as the date of composition are given. In contrast to the other text fields, there is no frame or other form of decoration, setting off the text field from rock. Berling 1993, 29 with a schematic overview. IGR iii 704. See now Fauconnier forthcoming. IG xii 2.23–41; Sherk 1984 no. 83. Potamon was an orator and had participated in delegations to Caesar and Augustus. The following documents could be identified: a letter of Caesar; a letter by a Roman official, probably also Caesar; another letter of Caesar with a copy of a senatus consultum regarding Mytilene; two senatus consulta and a treaty between Rome and Mytilene as well as several fragments of honorary civic decrees. The documents were inscribed on the base of the monument; most fragments were later reused in the walls of the local castellum.

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Most examples date to the second century: the Stiftungsdossier of C. Vibius Salutaris, inscribed on the analemma walls of the theatre at Ephesos, celebrating his foundation of a festival;93 the dossier of letters in honour of M. Ulpius Eurykles published at the walls of the temple of Zeus in Aizanoi;94 the dossier of Claudianus of Pessinous with four letters by Trajan;95 the remains of three letters, written by Hadrian to Claudius Candidus Iulianus testifying to a successful embassy of the honorand to the emperor, surviving at Stratonikeia.96 Finally, a more modest example, albeit similar in design to the monument of Iason in Kyaneai is the funerary monument of the couple Ktesikles and Ktasabas from Idebessos, a settlement to the north of Rhodiapolis. It consisted of a stylobate serving as a podium for a sarcophagus and, just as in Kyaneai, the podium carries an honorific decree for Ktesikles, which records quite extensively the deceased’s merits and his benefactions to his city.97 For reasons of space I cannot go into further detail here, but let it suffice to say that what all these dossiers have in common is that they consist either of letters written by the emperor or one of his officials, or of decrees issued by cities, councils and leagues, testifying to the honorand’s merits and benefactions. The publication of these documents followed on private initiative and their monumental presentation was clearly the result of a pre-conceived plan.98 Some monuments may be identified as the honorand’s tomb, for others this must remain uncertain.

93

94

95

96 97

98

Rogers 1991, 19–38. Compare also the inscription set up by Sosandros in the pronaos of the bouleuterion at Stratonikeia, which also concerns the establishment and rules for a new cult (I.Stratonikeia 1101; see Goldhill 2001, 8–10; Chaniotis 2003, 186–189). OGIS 504–507. See also the dossier displayed on the theatre-stadium (Wörrle 1992, nos. 1– 4), where several members of the Ulpii family are named; other examples from Aizanoi probably also include the dossiers of the Menophilos-family and the so-called lateClaudian dossier (Wörrle 2011; Wörrle 2014). I.Pessinous 8–11 (Oliver 1989, nos. 50–53). The editors propose that the marble slab and block originally belonged to the wall of a building; they suggest a heroon of Claudianus. The remaining fragments concern mainly the beginning and end of the letters and reveal some sort of exchange between the emperor and Claudianus. The honorand is otherwise unknown: identifications range from a weaver of woollen clothes to the priest of Cybele (Strubbe 2005: 19). Oliver 1989, nos. 79–80, probably dating to the year 127. TAM ii 838. Another notable example is the archive wall of Aphrodisias (Reynolds 1982, nos. 6–20), but this dossier cannot (yet) be ascribed to one specific honorand, see recently Kokkinia 2016. Further examples in Haensch 2009, 176. Roels 2018b. At the basis of the creation of such dossiers lay the collecting of honorific decrees and other documents by the honorands themselves and the selection for publication (Zimmerman 2007, 118; Haensch 2009).

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These text monuments are a particular manifestation of the honorific culture that developed during the first and second centuries, which saw local elites in the Greek world endeavour to establish their own position within provincial and imperial elite networks through contact with the emperor and his closest associates, by holding offices on the highest level of the imperial administration and through munificence.99 The dossiers are part of what Kokkinia has called the ‘imperial koine of honorific practice’: statues, speeches of praise and grants of Roman citizenship, to name a few, were of equal importance.100 The attachment of dossiers to tombs of elite members was particular to Asia Minor and seems to have developed as a new aspect of its honorific culture.101 Such honorific text monuments were, of course, not only beneficial to the honorand himself. The civic communities had an interest in them as well, as honours for one citizen also affected the city by awarding the latter prestige and enhancing its standing within the Greek world: honorific inscriptions were after all still a civic mirror.102 This mirror, however, acquired a distinct material and textual character, when the dominant presence of text on the walls—reflecting the large numbers of honours acquired—became a defining and powerful characteristic of honorific monuments, carrying symbolic value. Returning to Licinnia’s text monument, we may point out how the epigraphic display of her genealogy, both by testifying to prestigious offices held by family members and the layout of the inscriptions, structured in several columns and provided with a heading, clearly calls to mind the text monuments erected by her male peers, for which the inscriptions similarly formed the main decoration.103 When we ask what the value of Licinnia’s monument was compared to text monuments erected by male aristocrats, I would suggest that we may consider it as a profound act of euergesia in its own right. The euergetic act consisted, first, in displaying the connectivity and prestige of the Licinnii family as a whole and of family members individually. The genealogy also had an honorific impact on living family members, who got another ‘epigraphic mention’—so to speak—thrown in their lap. Second, the civic community profited as the genealogy showed the connections of the Oinoandean local elite with other cities as far as the senate in Rome, although we may assume that rival families would not have

99 100 101 102 103

Quaß 1993, 149–264; Lendon 1997, 63–89; Zuiderhoek 2009, 117–153. Quaß 1993, 125–177; Heller and Van Nijf 2017, 12–15; Kokkinia 2017, 373. See also the examples listed in Berling 1993, 32–35. Heller and Van Nijf 2017, 13. Organisation in columns and the provision with a heading are found in Kyaneai and Rhodiapolis and Kyaneai respectively.

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been charmed by the prominence of the Licinnii advertised by the genealogy. Furthermore, as we have observed earlier with regard to Diogenes’ philosophical inscription, in Oinoanda, putting up a monumental text was in itself considered as a benefaction. In other words, the public display of the Licinnii genealogy (and the costs it would have involved) constituted Licinnia’s benefaction to her family, city and posterity, with which she participated in her role as mother, daughter and wife in the competitive honorific discourse of her time.104 A final interesting aspect of these epigraphic dossiers in general, and of the genealogy in particular, that I want to point out here concerns the resemblance to a feature characteristic of Roman epigraphic culture. As we know from the Res gestae divi Augusti published next to the emperor’s mausoleum in Rome, tombs were a fitting place to advertise one’s deeds and achievements to the world. On a less grand scale, the inclusion of the cursus honorum, listing the offices held previously by the deceased, was a common aspect of Roman epitaphs. Zimmerman has already drawn attention to the similarities between Licinnia’s genealogy and the handful of pedigrees known from Rome.105 I would propose that we might extend the similarity to this typical aspect of Roman epigraphic culture and the aristocratic dossiers from Asia Minor, listing honours and offices in similar fashion, albeit more verbose. The honorific dossiers, therefore, may be considered as a Greek epigraphic cultural counterpart of the cursus honorum common in the West and was, just as the heightened preoccupation with ancestry and family office holding in inscriptions, the product of the integration of local aristocrats into the Roman imperial elite.106

7

Conclusion

The genealogy Licinnia Flavilla had put up on the tomb intended for her parents and forefathers is in many ways exceptional, but not in its employment of epigraphic writing, which makes her monument in appearance, munificence and power display in no way inferior to those erected by her male aristocratic peers. For a well-connected woman of her standing, an extensive genealogy of family members and of more distant ancestors provided a welcome and

104 105 106

Whether she puzzled the pedigree together herself, we will—alas—never know (cf. Hall, Milner and Coulton 1996, 143). Zimmerman 2007, 118. For the impact of elite integration on the inclusion of ancestry in inscriptions, see Reitzenstein 2011, 120.

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strategic means of participating in public lettering. This is not to say that the inscription (or the compilation) of genealogies was the prerogative of women alone: her cousin Flavianus Diogenes continued to cover the tomb with a listing of his descent after inheriting the funerary monument. Looking at the local context of Oinoanda specifically, we have seen that it was marked by the display of extensive and unconventional texts, showing that men such as Diogenes and C. Iulius Demosthenes, and a woman as Licinnia, were neither short of words nor cash when they erected their text monuments. The same applies to several other aristocratic peers from Lycia and Asia Minor and their verbose honorific monuments. The resemblance of the Licinnii tomb to these other monuments, especially that of Opramoas in Rhodiapolis, with respect to the predominant presence of extensive texts, invites us to think of Licinnia’s genealogy as a female equivalent of the epigraphic display of connections and achievements. Through the monumental presentation of her genealogy Licinnia Flavilla clearly adhered to the broader epigraphic practice common in the second century. But while the dossiers erected by male aristocrats focused on imperial relations and splendid individual careers, Licinnia rather placed the emphasis on her family.

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chapter 11

Publicly Luxurious Banqueting Women on Tombstones in Roman Britain Anique Hamelink

1

Introduction

Written sources from ancient Rome offer a selective and normative picture of women’s role and participation in public life. These sources present their authors’ ideal world in which women confined themselves to domestic affairs. But research by Emily Hemelrijk has pointed out that inscriptions and sculptural monuments provide testimonies of women’s wider participation in public life beyond being devoted wives, as shopkeepers, priestesses and benefactresses.1 In this paper, we turn towards the women on the outskirts of the Roman empire, in the province of Britannia, where the iconography of funerary monuments raises questions about the visibility of women’s activities outside the traditional ideal. A small corpus of funerary monuments from Britain from the second and third centuries ce depicts women in the setting of a banquet: drinking wine, being served and reclining. These monuments are remarkable as they depict these women taking part in the banquet by themselves, without male company. As banquets and banqueting iconography have been primarily associated with male activity, these monuments test our understanding of the social norms governing women’s participation in such activities, both in art and in real life. This paper explores the relationship between dining practices at the centre and periphery of the Roman Empire, and the meaning of the iconography of banqueting women in the north-western provinces.

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Dining in Italy

Dining (the convivium or formal meal) was an important part of social life in Roman Italy, and in practice it ranged from an intimate meeting between a small group of friends or family members at home to a show of socio-economic 1 Hemelrijk 2015; 2020.

© Anique Hamelink, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_014

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status with large numbers of attendants in a public venue. Such dinners were a setting in which client-patron or peer relationships could be strengthened. Emperors, politicians and wealthy benefactors would sponsor large public banquets, and private parties hosted by the affluent could have a long guest list as well. Dining was an integral part of the social life of collegia (association) too, whether these were of a religious or professional nature. Written and visual sources convey an image of dining as a male-dominated activity in which women were only rarely involved.2 Though it was perfectly acceptable for Roman wives and children (especially boys) to join the pater familias for a formal dinner either at their own home or somewhere else, allmale dining is the presented norm.3 Most of the painted representations of dining parties found in Pompeii and Herculaneum depict an exclusively male company. When they do include women, they most likely represent courtesans, as they are in a state of undress (fig. 11.1).4 This type of scene is highly suggestive of sexual activity and correspondingly often found in the cubicula: the more private rooms in which guests could retreat during dinner.5 Only a handful of Roman paintings include respectably dressed women as full participants in the banquet, with one example of a mosaic in which a woman is placed in the central position as a guest of honour.6 These visual representations, however, cannot be taken at face value as direct representations of Roman dining practices. The artists based their compositions on Hellenistic prototypes, using stock images.7 In Classical and Hellenistic Greece, dining had been an activity from which ‘respectable’ women were normally excluded. Greek aristocratic men would partake in communal feasting in the company of courtesans while their wives stayed at home. In contrast, in Rome from the late Republican period onwards, there is no doubt that wives accompanied their husbands to banquets on a regular basis.8

2 Plut. Mor. 697D; Bradley 1998, 38. 3 Nep. Praef. 6; Plin. Ep. 9.36.4; Cic. Q Fr. 21.19; Plut. Mor. 725F–726A; Lucian. Merc. cond. 15, cf. 29. 4 Museo Nazionale Napoli inv. 9024 from Herculaneum is the clearest example, as the woman’s upper body is nude. 5 Jacobelli 2018, 158. 6 Dunbabin 2003, 62. Most clearly the Capua mosaic: fig. 31. 7 Dunbabin 2003, 52. Examples of such Hellenistic iconographic features are characters reclining independently or in couples on individual couches rather than seated with three people on one couch, like the Roman seating arrangement. 8 Donahue 2019, 99; Dunbabin 2003, 22. Similar to the presence of wives at Etruscan banquets: Id., 27–28. Men and women could still dine separately: Val. Max. 2.1.2 recounts how Tiberius hosted the senators, while Livia hosted the senators’ wives at a different banquet.

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House of the Triclinium, Pompeii. From left to right: a man in a white tunic and purple pallium, a man in a green wide-necked tunic, a man in a white pallium, a man in a white tunic and green pallium, draped over the head, a servant in unknown dress, a woman (?) in a green tunic and brown palla/pallium draped over the legs. In front: three servants clad in white tunics and a guest in light purple tunic and dark purple pallium wikimedia creative commons attribution-share alike 4.0

Both men and women would attend public banquets, and even sponsor them as an act of public munificence.9 One of many examples is an inscription that records the donation of the wealthy matron Ummidia Quadratilla, who 9 Donahue 2017; 2019, 98–100. On women sponsoring and attending banquets, see Hemelrijk 2015, esp. 138–147, 190–193 (funerary banquets), 206–207 (banquets of associations), 217 (religious banquets). For epigraphic sources of women donating banquets see Hemelrijk 2015, table 3.6 pp. 488–512.

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restored the theatre at Casinum and celebrated its dedication with a banquet for the decurions, the people of the town and the women in the late first century ce.10

3

Dining in Britain

Communal feasting, which (as a luxury practice) included the drinking of wine imported from the Mediterranean, had already been a practice of the various cultures in Britain, Gaul and the Rhine area before the arrival of the Romans. But the specifically Roman form of dining with its accompanying etiquette and material culture, such as reclining on dining couches, became established only after the conquest of these regions.11 Tacitus’ remark on the attractions of the elegant Roman banquet to native British elites is corroborated by the archaeology of dining rooms found in villas and town houses, as well as in mansiones and praetoria.12 The furniture of Roman style dining, the klinai (couches) and mensae (serving tables), is also displayed on funerary monuments in Britain, where there was a craft tradition of creating such furniture in locally sourced black slate.13 Women’s participation in Roman style banquets in Britain is harder to substantiate. There is no evidence for women’s sponsorship of, or participation in, public banquets from inscriptions like there is from the Mediterranean area. This is due to the general lack of portrait statues in Britain with honorary inscriptions dedicated to non-imperial men and women, which would normally mention such acts of munificence as attested in other provinces.14 Correspondence between the wives of officers who resided in the forts along 10

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AE 1946, 174 = AE 1992, 224. [Ummidia C(ai) f(ilia) Qu]adrati[lla theatr]um / [impensis? patri]s sui [exor-natum? vetus]tate / [collapsum Casinatibus su]a pec(unia) [res]titu[it et ob dedica]tionem /[decurionibus et popu]lo et [m]ulier[ibus epulum] dedit. “Ummidia Quadratilla, daughter of Gaius, restored the theatre that had been adorned on the expenses of her father and had collapsed by old age for the citizens of Casina from her own resources. To celebrate the dedication, she gave a banquet to the decuriones, the people, and the women.” Hemelrijk 2015, 66. For feasting and wine in Iron Age Europe, see Cool 2006, 130–140; Ralph 2007. Tac. Agr. 21; Dunbabin 2003, 13; Birley 1977; Cosh 2001; Pearce 2002, 932; Van Enckevort 2004, 109. Dining couches: Croom 2007, 46–55. Side and serving tables: Croom 2007, 68–88. Women of rank were certainly present in Britain, but they rarely appear in the epigraphic record outside the funerary realm. E.g. RIB 644, a dedication of an altar to Fortuna by Sosia Iuncina, wife of the imperial legate Q. Antonius Isauricus, and RIB 1539, a dedication of an altar to Cybele by Tranquila Severa (Watts 2005, 26–39). Russell 2019; 128–130; Stewart 2003, 174–175.

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Hadrian’s Wall does attest to the organisation of more private festive occasions with invited guests.15 Sculpted reliefs of dining scenes on funerary monuments are more numerous. These monuments are stelae that display both men and women (either separately or together) taking part in a banquet. This type of image is called the ‘funerary banquet’ or ‘(Toten)mahlrelief ’ and was a preferred motif all along the northern regions of the Roman empire. The scenes depict the deceased as partaking in a dinner: it shows him or her reclining on an ornamental couch (kline), attended by one or more servants. A small three-legged ornamental side table laden with food and drink stands in front of the couch and the deceased holds a drinking cup (fig. 11.2).16 Funerary monuments were designed with the public eye in mind, as they were set up along the roads into towns. As such they are highly instructive of the social norms and traditions that determined the public image of the men and women who were commemorated. It provides us with a—admittedly highly structured—window into what was considered acceptable and suitable behaviour and appearance. Various components of the iconography could be left out or added for personal preferences or following local trends.17 Before we look in more detail at the iconography and its meaning in Roman Britain, we will take a look at the history of the motif of the funerary banquet itself.

4

Banquet Iconography

Banquet iconography first appeared in Italy in Etruscan funerary culture, but it became popular in Rome and the provinces via Hellenistic Greece, where it was the most common subject on funerary reliefs. The iconography of dining became established in Roman art between the late first century bce and the first century ce. It appears on wall paintings and mosaics in homes, sculpted in relief on tombstones and on objects used in a dinner setting (such as tableware) as a self-referential decoration. Its diffusion across the Roman Empire is uneven, but it is one of the most favoured iconographic themes in funerary art throughout the empire.18 15

16 17 18

Letter between Sulpicia Lepidina, the wife of the commander of the ninth cohort of Batavians in Vindolanda and Claudia Severa, wife of Aelius Brocchus, commander of a nearby fort: Tab. Vindol. ii 291. For women’s presence and networks along Hadrian’s Wall, see Greene 2013. Noelke 1974, 2000, 60–61; Stewart 2009, 259–267. As argued for the corpus of Hellenistic funerary banquet reliefs: Fabricius 2016, 49. Dunbabin 2003, 105–108. For the iconography of banqueting in Rome and Italy, see Dunbabin 2003, 103–140.

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Though the iconography does not refer to military activities, the funerary banquet was particularly popular among soldiers, especially auxiliary soldiers, from the first century ce onwards. These soldiers were responsible for the diffusion of the iconography from the Balkan provinces along the northern borders to the Rhineland and Britain in concurrence with troop movements.19 The reclining men are sometimes accompanied by their wives, who are usually seated in high-backed chairs (fig. 11.2). In the early second century ce, the theme found popularity with the civilian population in Germania Superior and Inferior. At first, the iconography was used only in settlements in the vicinity of military sites, but in the mid-second century the popularity of the banquet scenes extended to the residents of eastern Gallia Belgica (Trier and Arlon especially).20 The banquet scenes on the tombstones of civilians no longer depict the deceased alone at dinner, but include the whole family.21 In Britain, twenty-nine funerary monuments with banqueting iconography are attested in total, a significant portion of the total number of funerary monuments with portraits (approx. 123) from that province.22 The majority of British funerary banquet tombstones date from the second century ce, a few from the early third century.23 Almost all funerary banquet tombstones come from military communities such as various sites along Hadrian’s Wall, and cities with a legionary fort such as Chester and York. Some of them mention a military occupation, one of them an officer.24 It is likely that the men and women commemorated with a funerary banquet were either military personnel, relatives of soldiers, or people who lived in close proximity to a military installation.25

19 20

21 22

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Noelke 2000, 415–416 (also for a full discussion of the dating of the Rhineland tombstones); Stewart 2009, 255–267; Colling 2011, 175. Noelke 2000, 61–62. See Noelke, Kibilka, and Kemper 2005 for a catalogue of Familienmahl scenes from Gallia Belgica and Germania Inferior and Superior. An early example of a funerary banquet stone from the hinterland of the limes comes from Maastricht (Panhuysen 1996, 253–254 no. 1). Together, these scenes are referred to as Mahlreliefs (Noelke 2000, 69; Colling 2011, 20). Stewart (2009) counted 28 in total, but missed one (CSIR 1.3 51) in Mattern’s (1989) publication. The number of tombstones with portraits is not exact, as the identification of a few pieces as either tombstones or altars or other types of reliefs is uncertain. This is what Stewart (2009, 259–267) argues, contra the CSIR editions and Mattern 1989. See Stewart 2009 table 1, p. 258, for the revised dating of the tombstones. RIB 1561. D(is) M(anibus) | Ael(iae) Comindo | annorum xxxii | Nobilianus dec(urio) | coniugi car[i]ss[i]m(ae) p(osuit). Also RIB 497; RIB 769; RIB 1064. Hope 1997, 253; Stewart 2009, 257–271. Chester and York were the location of a legionary fortress and town (a colonia in the case of York and a substantial canabae legionis at Chester).

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Tombstone for M. Valerius Celerinus from Cologne. Römisch-Germanisches Museum, Cologne. Late 1st / early 2nd cent. ce. He is dressed in a toga, identified by the little ‘pouch’ of cloth hanging down at the hip (umbo). His wife, seated to the left, wears a Roman tunic and palla. A servant to the right wears a wide-sleeved Gallic tunic wikimedia creative commons attribution-share alike 4.0 /willie horsch fotografie

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The meaning of banqueting iconography and its relation to the realities of the lives of the commemorated is debated. Funerary banqueting scenes may appear as casual and genuine depictions of a family meal, but they are highly structured.26 It has been suggested that the funerary banquets are depictions of rites performed for the dead, such as the commemorative banquets held by the relatives of the deceased at the grave site.27 Archaeological evidence supports the practice of such ritual meals and offerings of food to the dead in Roman Britain and Gaul.28 In addition, funerary banquet iconography may also be a visualisation of the blissful afterlife the dedicants wished for themselves or their deceased family member or friend.29 However, as an object in public space erected at considerable expense, its main effect on the passersby was the reflection of the (somewhat polished) socio-economic status of the deceased. They showcased their economic ability to host and attend elaborate dinners and festivities, which included the elaborate furnishings depicted on the monuments, such as elegantly carved klinai and mensae tripodes (threelegged side tables), the finest tableware, sumptuous amounts of textiles covering the furniture and walls and servants in attendance. This might well be a true reflection of reality for the most sizeable monuments in the genre, which were erected by the wealthy citizens of Trier and Arlon. But most of the Mahlreliefs in the Rhineland and in Britain are much humbler in size and quality of craftsmanship. They were erected by and for soldiers of low rank, who did not have the salary or inherited wealth to afford such high-standard living. The funerary banquet tombstones thus depict the deceased in an idealised and aspirational social setting rather than reflecting their lived reality.30 The genre appropriated the elements of luxury upper-class feasting and projected them onto the lives of people who had few chances of actually partaking in such activities. It was a symbol of wished-for status, privilege, luxury and pleasure.

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Huskinson 2011, 522. Colling 2011, 156–157. Alcock 2001, 36–39. The dedicants of the monument may be the deceased him/herself, husbands, parents, siblings or heirs with no apparent family connection. Stewart (2009, 274) calls it a conventional abstraction, remote from the lives of those who used the reliefs: “there is no good reason to suppose that such banqueting was a part of these people’s lives”. Dunbabin 2003, 34–35; Noelke, Kibilka, and Kemper 2005, 211–214.

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Dress Etiquette in the Provinces

Banqueting scenes were not just an abstract copy of art from Roman sculptural forms that had no local meaning. They reflected a symbol of status that did resonate with local practices of dining in Britain and the other north-western provinces (at least of the provincial elite). The iconography of the banquet was firmly anchored in established ‘Roman style’ dining practices of the elite in Britain. This becomes apparent from the presence of archaeological remains of dining architecture, tableware and furniture, but also in the special dinner dress of both the men and women on the banquet monuments. The men and women on the funerary banquet monuments from the Rhineland and Britain are dressed in an unbelted tunic, with a mantle draped over the legs, and occasionally, the shoulder too (most clearly visible on figs. 11.3–5). This dress evokes the synthesis (or cenatoria), a special form of dress, distinct from the toga or daily wear, worn by men and women alike to dinners and other festive activities.31 Its exact look is unknown to us, but it is clear that it was a set of special and fine clothing, composed of a tunic and a rectangular mantle (the pallium).32 The synthesis came in a large variety of colours or decorations, and people of means could own multiple sets of syntheses.33 One of the few clear colour depictions of the synthesis is a fresco from the house of the Triclinium in Pompeii (fig. 11.1). The man on the left wears a purple pallium over a white tunic. Most other images of the banquet in domestic painting depict the male subjects with a bare torso, in the Hellenistic iconographic tradition.34 Though our sources do not stress what made the synthesis different from other tunics and rectangular mantles, we might infer from the poet Martial and the representational setting of its use during dinner parties that it was an especially rich costume in fabric and colour, meant to display the wealth and taste of its wearer.35

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Wilson 1938, 167–169; Brewster 1918, 132–134; Olson 2017, 117–119. Wilson 1938, 170. The pallium and himation are the Latin and Greek names for the same rectangular wrap. Wilson 1938, 167–172; Olson 2018. For further references to the use of the word synthesis in describing sets of items, see Brewster 1918, 136–137. Mart. (2.46) describes a man who owned many syntheses; and in v, 79 he makes fun of a man who changed his synthesis a preposterous eleven times during the course of a single dinner. In the Acta of the Arval Brethren, it is specified that they wore white syntheses for festive dinners (CIL vi 2104; CIL vi 2114). A green synthesis was a gift to a woman (Mart. 10.29.3–6). Dunbabin 2003, 58. Brewster 1918, 131; Olson 2017, 118.

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Tombstone for Curatia Dinysia CSIR 1.6 61. Grosvernor Museum, Chester. Dated to 160–250 a.d. She is depicted reclining in the synthesis and holds a cup. Her tunic is unbelted and the pallium is draped over her left shoulder, arm and her hips and legs picture by author

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Tombstone for Aelia Aeliana CSIR 1.3 40. Yorkshire Museum, York, YORYM : 2010.43. Dated to 140 a.d. to the early 3rd century. Husband and wife recline on the kline together. Their clothing is indistinct, but Aelia has her legs covered by a mantle. The young child that doubles as a servant is wearing a long, belted tunic picture by author

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figure 11.5

Tombstone of a woman from Shirva, the Antonine Wall. CSIR 1.4 112, Hunterian Museum, Glasgow, GLAHM F.39. Dated to the Antonine period, ca. 142– 180 ce. The woman wears a short-sleeved tunic and pallium draped over the left shoulder and across the hips and legs. A small dog stands attentively to the left © the hunterian, university of glasgow

Writing tablets discovered in the fortress of Vindolanda provide glimpses of a dinner-culture, through the mention of the necessities of banqueting, such as tableware and food wares as well as the synthesis and cenatoria.36 These tablets were part of an inventory of the possessions of Flavius Cerialis, the commander of the cohort of Batavians stationed there On account of the price of textiles in antiquity, actually owning one or multiple sets of special dining clothes was the prerogative of members of the wealthier classes, such as Flavius Cerialis and his superiors. Other people could easily employ more modest mantles to serve as the pallium of the synthesis if required.37 The propriety of covering the lower limbs, which was proper 36 37

Tab. Vindol. ii 195; 196. Pearce 2002, 941. A passage from the Historia Augusta mentions the acceptability of other mantles to cover the legs whilst dining. Hist. Aug. Tyr. Trig. 23.5: huius insigne est quod convivio discumbere milites, ne inferiora denudarentur, cum sagis iussit, hieme gravibus, aestate perlucidis. “He [Saturninus] is famous for having commanded the soldiers, when reclining at table, to wear military cloaks in order that their lower limbs might not be bared, heavy ones in winter and very light ones in summer.”

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etiquette, was paramount, not the quality of the garment used. Thus, we need not envisage the men and women depicted in a synthesis on their funerary monuments as dressed in purple silks, but rather in the ancient equivalent of one’s ‘Sunday best’. For the commissioners of the funerary monuments discussed here, the auxiliary soldiers and their families, or the civilian population of moderate wealth, this would have consisted of a tunic and a rectangular form of mantle, such as the pallium/palla or a local equivalent. They probably did not wear, or weren’t in possession of, a true synthesis, but they appear in dress that evokes the synthesis. In that regard, they are depicted as participating in the banquet with its connotations of luxury and Roman style living. Often the dress worn on these monuments has been wrongly identified as the toga, due to the similarities in the drapery.38 One important difference between the toga and synthesis is that the synthesis was not legally restricted to men of citizen status. Since the synthesis did not make any claims to legal status or gender, its representation in commemorative art was accessible to everyone.

6

Reclining Unaccompanied

Women on British reliefs recline on their couches, and often do so without the company of a husband. Unique to Britain are the ten monuments that commemorate women partaking in a banquet independently, out of twentynine banquet monuments in total (fig. 11.3–5).39 They were erected by their husbands or heirs, and the inscriptions on the monuments (when preserved) describe them as dutiful and cherished wives.40 The absence of the men on 38

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Shirva monument CSIR 1.4 112 stated that it is a toga; Noelke et al. 2005, fig. 21, p. 175; fig. 22, p. 176; fig. 25 p. 178. For a good visual comparison between the toga and the synthesis drape on funerary banquet monuments, compare LUPA 15532 (Bonn); 15538 (Kalkar); 15539 (Bonn); 20696 (Cologne) with fig. 11.5 in this paper. Hope 1997, 254; Stewart 2009, 257, 271; Colling 2011, 157–158. Of a total of 29 mahlreliefs, fourteen depict women. On four stones the gender attribution is uncertain due to a state of poor preservation: CSIR 1.3 51 (York) 1.3 59 (York); 1.6 491 (Chester); 1.9 65 (Chester). Women reclining alone: 1.3 42 (York) 1.3 43 (York); 1.4 112 (Shirva); 1.6 194 (Carrawburgh); 1.9 61 (Chester);1.9 62 (Chester); 1.9 67 (Chester); 1.9 69 (Chester); RIB 3162 (Chester); RIB 769 (Kirkby Thore). Women reclining with their husbands: CSIR 1.1 75 (Corbridge); 1.3 40 (York); 1.3 94 (Catterick); 1.6 491 (Carlisle). Inscriptions mentioning wifely titulature: RIB 563: D(is) M(anibus) | Fesonie Severi|ane vixit ann(os) | xxv sỊ [ ̣ ̣]o[ ̣ ̣]ii | [c]o[niugi] car|[issimae]| [ ̣ ̣ ̣]. RIB 1561: D(is) M(anibus) | Ael(iae) Comindo | annorum xxxii | Nobilianus dec(urio) | coniugi car[i]ss[i]m(ae) p(osuit). RIB 3162: D(is) M(anibus) | Iusta Do- vacat |ṛịti pịịṣ[s]| [ime vixit …]. RIB 688: D(is)

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the banquet couch cannot be explained by an unmarried or widowed state, as most women commemorated in the inscriptions had living husbands who dedicated the monument. Nor does there seem to be a particular reference to a traditional domestic or motherly role. Three of the monuments depict children serving their mother, but the appearance of children on funerary banquet tombstones in Britain is not related to the gender of the deceased. Both men and women reclining without a spouse were depicted with their child(ren).41 The women appear to take part in a banquet of their own accord. This posture and independent participation are rare for women in Roman funerary art in general, and unparalleled in the north-western provinces. In Arlon and the Rhineland, women usually sit in a separate chair and when they do recline on a dining couch, they are accompanied by their husband.42 Though it has been established that women in Roman society would regularly partake in dinners, and even organised and sponsored them, some Roman writers had strong opinions about how they ought to seat themselves at dinner. Valerius Maximus and Varro lamented the practice of women reclining to dine as shameful and immoral conduct. They advocated a return to the supposedly ancient custom of women being seated in a separate chair at dinner.43 However, Varro’s and Valerius Maximus’ ancient customs are a fictional idealised past. Contemporary literary sources from the Late Republic through to the imperial period consistently describe women partaking in dinners while reclining.44 The connection Varro and Valerius Maximus make between posture and morality is informed by the implicit sexual connection between men and women who recline together in literary sources, especially elegiac poetry.45 The convivium, with the wine flowing and bodily proximity between diners sharing a

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M(anibus) | Iulie Velve pientissi|me vixit an(nos) L Aurel(ius) | Mercurialis her(es) faci| undum curavit vivus | sibi et suis fecit. Women: RIB 769; CSIR 1.3 43 and CSIR 1.9 69. Men: CSIR 1.9 68 and 1.9 46. Mander’s study of funerary monuments from the western provinces of the Roman Empire did not find a correlation between women and children, except in the depiction of women with babies (Mander 2013, 96–97). Depictions of a single parent (either man or woman) with a child are not rare in other types of funerary iconography in Britain either: e.g. CSIR 1.5 19 and 1.6 497. Colling 2011, 175. Val. Max. 2.1.2; Varro in Isid. Etym. 20.11.9. Senatorial and imperial women reclining at banquets: E.g. Plin. HN 9.117–118; Plut. Mor. 619D. For more references, see Roller 2006, 99–123; Dunbabin 2003, 23. Perhaps some women, such as elderly matrons, would sit in a chair at dinner at special events, following old-fashioned traditions befitting their status and age. E.g. Ov. Am. 1.4.15–16; Prop. 34–44; Roller 2006, 111–112.

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couch, was a setting for potential sexual transgression.46 In their condemnation of the women’s posture, they are indebted to the Greek traditions of the symposium in which respectable women, if present at all, were seated in separate chairs while courtesans would recline with men on one couch.47 This sense of decorum had deep roots and as a result it was inappropriate for a woman to be represented on her grave monument as a reclining banqueter, in spite of that being the reality.48 As such, the traditional motif of the banquet with a reclining man and a separately seated woman is dominant in funerary art in Rome, though there are five examples of couples reclining together, and ten examples of women reclining alone in a banquet setting.49 Ten examples in the metropolitan area of Rome, however, form a much smaller percentage of the total number of monuments depicting a banquet than in Britain. Therefore, the significance of the British reliefs is greater and more representative than the Roman reliefs. The existence of the image of the reclining female banqueter in Rome is, as Katherine Dunbabin concluded “… an anomaly which almost certainly reflects not only the use and adoption of different models, but also a fundamental ambivalence both in actual practice and in the ideology that lay behind it”.50 This ambivalence may also be seen in the interior relief sculpture of a sarcophagus from Simpelveld, the Netherlands (fig. 11.6). It depicts a woman in a dining setting, reclining on a couch with a napkin on her right shoulder, surrounded by the typical three-legged side table and tableware, and a highbacked chair of the type usually used to depict women sitting separately at 46 47 48

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E.g. Val. Max. 2.1.5; Plin. HN 14.141; Roller 2006, 116–117. Dunbabin 2003, 22. See Dunbabin also for a discussion of the evolution of the banqueting motif in Greek, Etruscan and Roman art. Dunbabin 2003, 114–117; Roller 2003. Even on the revival kline monuments from the late second and early third centuries ce on massive marble sarcophagi, which typically show a couple reclining together, there is a distinction in their level of participation in the banquet: the men are depicted drinking while the women do not participate in drink or food and at most hold a garland. This gendered division goes back to Etruscan sarcophagi lids and cinerary urns from the Hellenistic period, where men hold drinking vessels or scrolls whilst women hold garlands, fruit, fans or mirrors. (Dunbabin 2003, 123–124). Dunbabin, 2003, 114–117. Illustration of the funerary altar of Q. Socconius Felix, fig. 64 and that of Lorania Cypare, fig. 65. Roller 2006, 124 names ten examples of women reclining alone in a banquet setting from the surroundings of Rome. The funerary banquet is to be distinguished from the category of kline monuments, which are free standing sculptures that depict a single figure on a couch, and were set over a grave or which had the ash urn inserted. Men depicted in this motif recline in a dining pose and hold a drinking cup. Women and young boys, in contrast, lie back on the cushions as if sleeping or resting and there are no references to the banquet (Dunbabin 2003, 110–113). Dunbabin 2003, 23.

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figure 11.6

Inside of the sarcophagus of the ‘Lady of Simpelveld’. National Museum of Antiquities, Leiden. 150–175 ce ©national museum of antiquities cco licence

dinner is situated to her side in what may be a nod to the morally preferable posture. Such chairs appear more frequently in funerary art in the North-West, seating women at dinner or during wool spinning or child-care.51 No such ambivalence is present in the British reliefs, as all women recline, either by themselves, with children, or with their spouse.52 The iconography of independently reclining women at a banquet is far more common and consistent in Britain than it is in Rome, or anywhere in the western part of the Roman Empire. Funerary monuments in Hellenistic Rhodes are similarly deviant from the norm. In funerary reliefs from Hellenistic Greece, women normally sit at the end of the couch, but in the Rhodian monuments, they recline. These women were citizens and metics, and the explanation for their abnormal appearance is their position in Rhodian society: they were wealthy and were often members or founders of societies and thus benefactresses who had prestige of their own, which they expressed by employing the visual language of the banquet.53 But this is an explanation that only works in that specific context, as women of the same socio-economic status in Rome did not have themselves commemorated with banquet iconography. In Rome, they were freedwomen or otherwise of middle-class status.54 The women in Britain who recline as banqueters did 51 52

53 54

CSIR 1.1 249 from South Shields and CSIR 1.6 497 from Carlisle. With the exception of one female figure in the tombstone for Julia Velva from York (CSIR 1.3 42). The identity of this figure is unclear and poorly understood. She is not the primary focus of the monument, and she is not named in the inscription, which is complete. Fabricius 2016, 55. Roller 2006, 123.

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not possess an elevated social prestige, as they were the families of legionnaires or auxiliary troops. The reasoning behind their choice of the funerary banquet as a suitable iconographic motif on their tombstones has to be different from the motivation at Hellenistic Rhodes. The popularity of reclining women on British funerary reliefs was likely inspired by their connection to the military. The iconography of the funerary banquet had a long history as a popular motif among soldiers and auxiliary soldiers in the Roman Empire. It is only after the motif started to incorporate women and children in the early second century ce that people in Britain started to use the iconography on funerary monuments. At that point, they apparently saw no problem in extending that visual language to women and felt it was acceptable for women to be commemorated thus. Far removed from the outcry of moralists and lacking an established masculine tradition of banqueting iconography, women could be depicted as the primary focus of the monument, without reservations in posture, drinking or their independent attendance. They appear as participants on an equal level with the men, drinking, lounging and being attended by servants.55

7

Concluding: Public Dining?

The location of the monuments along the roads into settlements and cities situates these banqueting women in public view and makes them subject to the public gaze. They are depicted as taking part in an activity that is ambiguously set both in the private and semi-public sphere. Dining at one’s own home, with family members, would be considered a private, domestic activity in concordance with the traditional Roman ideal of women staying at home. But the independent female diners could equally be hosting a large dinner party or attending an event outdoors. Either way, these monuments show us that the familiarity with, and understanding of dining in Roman style was genderinclusive in Britain. The banqueting monuments in Britain were erected by people who were unlikely to regularly partake in actual high-living dining; the banquet alludes to an ideal of luxury dining that was only practised by a select few, such as the commanders of forts and their wives along Hadrian’s Wall. The women on the tombstones appear in an aspirational imitation of those standards of living. In reality, they may only have dined on special occasions, while

55

Dunbabin 2003, 114; Roller 2003, 401.

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reclining (though on a less elegantly carved piece of furniture), dressed in their best clothing (but not syntheses of silk) and drinking (affordable) wine while being served by their children. The corpus enriches our understanding of how selective our sources are, and how the normative picture of women’s lives may vary regionally. In Britain, banqueting monuments are not evidence of women dining in public or luxuriously, but of the acceptance and idealised values the practice represented to both the men and women in the communities in which they were erected. This contrasts with how this practice was perceived elsewhere in the west of the Roman Empire, where it was primarily depicted as a male activity, in spite of the reality of women’s participation in banqueting events. Through small corpora of evidence such as these tombstones, we get a better understanding of women’s (aspirational desire for) regular participation in activities that would otherwise be perceived as exclusively male, as well as the process of familiarisation with Roman dining in provincial society.

Acknowledgements Thanks go to the editors and the publisher for their kind comments on the paper. Any remaining mistakes are my own. This study was supported by the Dutch ministry of Education, Culture and Science (OCW) through the Dutch Research Council (NWO), as part of the Anchoring Innovation Gravitation Grant research agenda of OIKOS, the National Research School in Classical Studies, the Netherlands (project number 024.003.012). For more information see https://anchoringinnovation.nl/.

Abbreviations RIB

Roman Inscriptions of Britain online: https://romaninscriptionsofbrita in.org Tab. Vindol. ii Vindolanda Tablets online: http://vindolanda.csad.ox.ac.uk/index.sh tml LUPA Ubi Erat Lupa database of sculpted Roman monuments: http://lupa.at CSIR Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani CSIR 1.1 Phillips, E.J. (1917). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.1 Hadrian’s Wall East of the North Tyne. Oxford. CSIR 1.2 Cunliffe, B. and Fulford, M.G. (1982). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.2, Bath and the Rest of Wessex. Oxford.

publicly luxurious CSIR 1.3 CSIR 1.4 CSIR 1.6

CSIR 1.9

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Rinaldi Tufi, S. (1983). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.5, Wales. Oxford. Keppie, L.J.F. and Arnold, B. (1984). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.4, Scotland. Oxford. Coulston, J.C.N. and Phillips, E.J. (1988). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.6, Hadrian’s Wall West of the North Tyne, and Carlisle. London. Henig, M. (2004). Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain. 1.9, Roman Sculpture from the North West Midlands. Oxford.

Bibliography Alcock, J.P. (2001). The Funerary Meal in the Cult of the Dead in Classical Roman Religion. In: J.P. Alcock, ed., The Meal. Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 2001, Devon, pp. 31–41. Birley, R. (1977). Vindolanda. A Roman Frontier Post on Hadrian’s Wall. London. Bradley, K. (1998). The Roman Family at Dinner. In: H. Nielsen and S. Nielsen, eds., Meals in a Social Context. Aspects of the Communal Meal in the Hellenistic and Roman World. Vol. 1, Aarhus, pp. 36–55. Brewster, E.H. (1918). ‘The Synthesis of the Romans’. In Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 49, pp. 131–143. Colling, D. (2011). Les scènes de banquet funéraire ou Totenmahlreliefs originaires d’Arlon. Bulletin Trimestriel de l’Institut Archéologique Du Luxembourg 87.4, pp. 155– 176. Cool, H.E. (2006). Eating and Drinking in Roman Britain. Cambridge. Cosh, S.R. (2001). Seasonal Dining-Rooms in Romano-British Houses. Britannia 32, pp. 219–242. Croom, A. (2007). Roman Furniture. Stroud. Donahue, J. (2017). The Roman Community at Table during the Principate. 2nd ed., Ann Arbor. Donahue, J. (2019). Roman Meals in their Domestic and Wider Settings. In: P. Erdkamp and C. Holleran, eds., The Routledge Handbook of Diet and Nutrition in the Roman World, London/New York, pp. 93–100. Dunbabin, K.M. (2003). The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality. Cambridge. Fabricius, J. (2016). Hellenistic Funerary Banquet Reliefs. Thoughts on Problems Old and New. In: C.M. Draycott and M. Stamatopoulou, eds., Dining and Death: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on the ‘Funerary Banquet’ in Ancient Art, Burial and Belief, Leuven, pp. 33–70. Greene, E.M. (2013). Female Networks in Military Communities in the Roman West. A

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View from the Vindolanda Tablets. In: E. Hemelrijk, ed., Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, Leiden, pp. 369–390. Hemelrijk, E.A. (2015). Hidden Lives, Public Personae. Women and Civic Life in the Roman West. Oxford. Hemelrijk, E.A. (2020). Women and Society in the Roman World. A Sourcebook of Inscriptions from the Roman West. Cambridge. Hope, V.M. (1997). Words and Pictures. The Interpretation of Romano-British Tombstones. Britannia 28, pp. 245–258. Huskinson, J. (2011). Picturing the Roman Family. In: B. Rawson, ed., A Companion to Families in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Oxford, pp. 521–541. Jacobelli, L. (2018). Pitture di banchetto con presenze femminili nelle case di Pompei: alcune considerazioni. In: R. Berg and R. Neudecker, eds., The Roman Courtesan. Archaeological Reflections of a Literary Topos, Rome, pp. 157–166. Mander, J. (2013). Portraits of Children on Roman Funerary Monuments in the West. Oxford. Mattern, M. (1989). Die Reliefverzierten römischen Grabstelen der Provinz Britannia. Themen und Typen. KJ 22, pp. 707–801. Noelke, P. (1974). Unveröffentlichte “Totenmahlreliefs” aus der Provinz der Niedergermanien. BJ 174, pp. 545–560. Noelke, P. (2000). Zur Chronologie der Grabreliefs mit Mahldarstellung im römischen Germanien. In: H. Walter, ed., La sculpture d’époque romaine dans le nord, dans l’est des Gaules et sans les régions avoisinantes. Acquis et problématiques actuelles, Besançon, pp. 59–70. Noelke, P., Kibilka, B., and Kemper, D. (2005). Zu den Grabreliefs mit Darstellung des convivium coniugale im römischen Germanien und im benachbarten Gallien. BJ 205, pp. 155–241. Olson, K. (2017). Masculinity and Dress in Roman Antiquity. Abingdon/New York, 2017. Olson, K. (2018). Toga and Pallium: Status, Sexuality, Identity. In M. Masterson, N. Sorkin Rabinowitz and J. Robson, eds., Sex in Antiquity, London and New York, pp. 442– 468. Panhuysen, T. (1996). Romeins Maastricht en zijn beelden / Roman Maastricht Reflected in Stones. Maastricht/Assen. Pearce, J. (2002). Food as Substance and Symbol in the Roman Army. A Case Study from Vindolanda. In: P. Freeman e.a., eds., Limes xviii—the xviiith International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies held in Amman, Jordan (September 2000), Oxford, pp. 931–944. Ralph, S. (2007). Feasting and Social Complexity in Later Iron Age East Anglia. Oxford. Roller, M.B. (2003). Horizontal Women. Posture and Sex in the Roman Convivium. AJPh 124.3, pp. 377–422. Roller, M.B. (2006). Dining Posture in Ancient Rome. Princeton.

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Russell, M. (2019). Farewell Two Arms. A Roman Bronze Body Part from Halnaker, West Sussex. Sussex Archaeological Collections 157, pp. 125–132. Stewart, P. (2003). Statues in Roman Society. Representation and Response. Oxford. Stewart, P. (2009). Totenmahl Reliefs in the Northern Provinces. A Case-study in Imperial Sculpture. JRA 22, pp. 253–274. Van Enckevort, H. (2004). The Roman Military Complex in Nijmegen NL. In: F. Vermeulen, K. Sas and W. Dhaeze, eds., Archaeology in Confrontation. Aspects of Roman Military Presence in the Northwest, Ghent, pp. 103–124. Watts, D. (2005). Boudicca’s Heirs. Women in Early Britain. London. Wilson, L.M. (1938). The Clothing of the Ancient Romans. Baltimore.

chapter 12

Beautiful Names and Impeccable Dress The Women of Dura-Europos Sanne Klaver

1

Introduction

The archaeological remains of Dura-Europos, a small town on the left bank of the Euphrates in Syria, show a city with a large cultural variety (fig. 12.1).1 From its archaeological finds—architecture, art, languages, religious life, and inhabitants—we can deduce influences of Greek, Parthian, Roman, regional and local cultures. Some scholars have argued that Dura-Europos remained essentially a Greek city after its incorporation into the Parthian Kingdom in 113bce and, later, the Roman Empire.2 Although the Greek language and Macedonian-Greek names had dominated the city since its foundation in the third century bce right up to the third century ce, other elements of the city were not

1 On March 30 1920, Indian-British soldiers searched for protection against the Bedouins in the ruins of what later turned out to be Dura, which was called Europos by the (presumed) descendants of Greek settlers. By chance, they stumbled upon the temple of Bel with a striking wall painting, the so-called Sacrifice of Konon, depicting a family alongside two priests in the act of sacrifice. James Henry Breasted of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago was in Baghdad at the time and, informed of the discovery, left for further investigation of the site. He identified the city as Dura and published his findings in his book, Oriental Forerunners of Byzantine Painting. With the support of the Belgian scholar Franz Cumont, Breasted presented his findings to the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres in 1922, which aroused enough interest to prompt a proper excavation. In 1922 and 1923, the excavation of DuraEuropos began, commissioned by the Académie and led by Cumont. From 1928 until 1937, excavations continued; this time, the collaboration was between the French Académie and Yale University, with Mikhail Rostovtzeff as supervisor. However, the threat of war and budget problems halted the excavations in the late 1930s. Excavations were finally resumed in the 1980s, this time by a team of French and Syrian archaeologists under the supervision of Pierre Leriche. Again, excavations were interrupted with the outbreak of the Syrian civil war in 2011. During this conflict, the site was heavily looted: an unfortunate turn of events that will influence future research on the site. For a useful overview on the history of the excavations, see Baird 2018, 1–16. 2 See Kaizer 2015, 91–101 for a nice overview on this topic. It was especially Fergus Millar 2006, 406–431, in particular 415, who saw Dura-Europos as an essentially Greek city. Welles (1951, 253, 262) also argued that Dura-Europos remained fundamentally a Greek city.

© Sanne Klaver, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_015

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Dura-Europos photo: yale university art gallery, dura-europos collection

‘Greek’ at all; for example, Dura-Europos did not issue its own coins, its religious architecture followed local plans, and the city had no classical monumental buildings. Moreover, the cults of Dura-Europos showed a great cultural variety.3 Other scholars have, consequently, emphasised its diversified character and have argued that the usage of Greek culture in Parthian and Roman times was a deliberate choice of self-representation by the inhabitants.4 This article follows that hypothesis and thus focuses on the interaction between Greek, Parthian, Roman, regional and local culture by examining elite representations. The Durene material relating to self-representation by elite families is extremely rich and diverse and consists of inscriptions, wall paintings, and statues dating from the first century bce to the third century ce. Material from religious contexts is by far the most common and most informative. The elites often portrayed themselves on the walls of their temples. In addition, the pronaoi, naoi, and other cult rooms were adorned with inscriptions referring

3 Kaizer 2015, 95–97. 4 Sartre 2005, 194–197; Pollard 2007, 100; Baird 2014, 241–256.

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to members of the elite. In this article, I argue that elite families used their representation in the temples (by means of both inscriptions and portraits) to communicate various aspects of their social status and their cultural identities. I study these families by examining the representations of Durene women. Many sociological and anthropological studies have shown that women often signify the values embedded in societies, social groups, and families.5 Studying women thus increases our understanding of a society and of the social groups in which they acted. For a short history of approaches to gender in antiquity, I refer the reader to Lin Foxhall’s study Studying Gender in Classical Antiquity.6 Studies on women in the Latin West and the Greek East have shown that the social position of women in these regions varied and was determined by cultural differences.7 In order to study cultural interaction and its effect on the lives of women and their families, I have selected representations of women that allow us to examine both them and their male relatives. Crucially, Dura provides us with one of the few instances in which epigraphic and pictorial material can be compared, and it is most remarkable that some of the portraits and family groups relate to the same families that represent themselves by means of inscriptions. It will be of great interest, therefore, to see whether the outcomes of my study on the epigraphic material resemble those of the pictorial material. From the so-called salles à gradins in the temples commonly ascribed to Artemis, Atargatis, and Azzanathkona,8 I have collected over eighty inscriptions that mention women 5 See, for example, James 1996; Hendrickson 1996; Durham 1999; Eicher 1999. 6 Foxhall 2013. 7 An important study on women in antiquity is Riet van Bremen’s study The Limits of Participation. Women and Civic Life in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods, in which she concludes that, when women participated in public life, it was not just a signifier of their wealth, but often an expression of family traditions and of the need for elite families to maintain their high profile and visibility for political ambitions: see Van Bremen 1996. Women in the Latin West have been studied in great detail by Emily Hemelrijk: see Hemelrijk 2010, 49–62; Hemelrijk 2012, 478–490; Hemelrijk 2013a, 65–84; Hemelrijk 2013b, 147–160; Hemelrijk 2015. Here the situation appears to have been slightly different, for women participated in public life as a means of public self-representation: see Hemelrijk 2015, 272. Hemelrijk studies the various civic roles women held, e.g. priestesses, benefactresses, and patronesses, and the public recognition that these women received. The changing marital and inheritance laws, which allowed more women to control their own finances, and the ‘Romanisation’ of the provinces increased the participation of women in civic life, albeit with local differences. Hemelrijk rightly concludes that, although the lives of women in the Roman West were clearly not confined to the domestic realm, it would be pushing the evidence too far to conclude that the position of women in the public realm resembled that of men. See Hemelrijk 2015, 339– 344. 8 Admittedly, we do not know for sure whether these temples were indeed dedicated to these

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in relation to their patrilineal descent and their husband’s family. In addition, four painted portraits from the sanctuary units of the temples of Bel and Zeus Theos show women as part of family groups.

2

Beautiful Names: Gendered Use of Names and Presented Cultural Identities

In the aforementioned temples, three salles à gradins were found (fig. 12.2). These cult rooms contain stepped seats engraved with names of women and their genealogy along male lines. These seats were used for sitting or standing while observing some kind of religious rite, thus demonstrating women’s active participation in the religious life of the city.9 In antiquity, it was not uncommon for women to participate in or engage with cultic ceremonies or rituals: small rites such as libations could be carried out by women.10 The inscriptions can probably be situated somewhere between commemorative inscriptions that commemorate the sponsoring of the steps, and honorary inscriptions, since the focus on family relationships and genealogy suggest that the inscriptions were also meant to represent elite families in the religious sphere.11 Of the eighty-four inscriptions, ten are steps dedicated by husbands to their wives and four seats are dedicated by fathers to their daughters.12 In the

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goddesses since it is unlikely that they were the only deities that were worshipped in the temples. However, epigraphic and archaeological finds from these three temples do suggest the three goddesses were the most prominent deities worshipped here. See Downey 1988 for general descriptions of the temples. Hollinshead 2012, 27–65. I have excluded inscriptions from the salles à gradins that were not found on the steps or pedestals. Inscriptions that are too damaged for the female names and family affiliations to be retrieved are also excluded. Based on these conditions, I have selected eighty-four inscriptions, of which twenty-seven are found in the temple of Artemis, twenty in the temple of Atargatis and thirty-seven in the temple of Azzanathkona. In this article, I follow the numbering of the original publications by Cumont and the preliminary report: Temple of Artemis, Cumont 1926, nos. 57, 58, 59b, 60–79, 81–84; Temple of Atargatis, Cumont 1926, nos. 86, 88–91, 93, 98, 100, 101, 104, 106– 108, 110–111, 116–118, 120–121; Temple of Azzanathkona, TEAD v, nos. 511, 513–517, 519–526, 529–549, 552–553, 555. Foxhall 2013: 137–144. For more detailed information of the religious life in Syria and the role of women see Kaizer 2002; Kaizer 2016; Yon 2016; Yon 2018; Klaver 2019a. See Yon 2018, 276–277 for their honorific function. No. 69 in the temple of Artemis; nos. 104, 121 in the temple of Atargatis; nos. 513, 516, 522, 537, 539, 546, 552 in the temple of Azzanathkona. The dedicator is mentioned in the nominative and the females are mentioned in the accusative (nos. 69, 104), in the dative (nos. 121, 513, 516, 537, 539) or in the genitive (no. 546), or two cases in the nominative

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figure 12.2

Photo of salle à gradins, temple of Azzanathkona, room w9, N side photo: yale university art gallery, dura-europos collection

remainder of the inscriptions, no dedicator is mentioned explicitly. It is not certain whether the other women financed the remaining seats themselves; nevertheless, the fact that these female names are written in the nominative and genitive points towards an active role of women in the erection of their own seats.13

13

(nos. 522, 552), which is unusual and may point towards a mistake in grammar by the stonecutter (misspellings were not uncommon in these inscriptions). Three inscriptions mention women in the dative, but no dedicator is mentioned: nos. 120, 517, 547. The following seats were erected by fathers: nos. 533, 536, 542, 553. McLean 2002, 197. The hypothesis that Durene women financed their own seats is substantiated by evidence from the Greco-Roman world in general and Dura-Europos in particular. It was not uncommon for women in the Greek and Roman world to finance parts of buildings or contribute to feastings and festivals: see Van Bremen 1996, 194–196, 283– 293 and Hemelrijk 2013, 65–84. Seven papyri documents found in Dura-Europos testify that women in the region received gifts (slaves), were the legal owners of property, and sold property without the need of a guardian. In this regard, one document (P.Dura 18) is of interest to us since the recipient of the gift (Timonassa) is also known from two seats in the temple of Azzanathkona. This gift was presented in 87ce, by Nikanor, son of Xenokrates grandson of Addaeus, of Europos, and entailed the return of property to Timonassa, daughter of Seleukos, Lysias’ son, of Europos. Hence, the papyri show that at

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The women are mentioned in relation to their patrilineal descent and their husband’s family. This gives us the unique opportunity to study female and male names within the same families and establish what these names say about the presented cultural identity of these families. Most male and female names in the salles à gradins are Greco-Macedonian. The inscriptions mention women with Greco-Macedonian names such as Timonassa, Sosipatra, Athenophila and so on. Most of the men also carry Greco-Macedonian names, such as Seleukos, Lysanias, Lysias, and Apollophanes. Whether these women and men were indeed descendants of the Macedonian settlers is unknown and of little consequence for our objective. What is significant is that most elite families gave their children—daughters included—Greco-Macedonian names and thus presented themselves as being of Greek descent.14 What meaning did Greco-Macedonian names have in Dura-Europos under Seleucid and Parthian rule? Citizens in Dura-Europos traced their ‘Greekness’ through patrilineal descent. During the period of Seleucid and Parthian rule, only those who presented themselves as descendants of the original Macedonian founders were strategos and epistates.15 The ‘Greek’ families of DuraEuropos were called Europaioi, a term often found in inscriptions and papyri from the city.16 The status as an Europaios was determined by patrilineal descent. We cannot prove, however, whether or not these Europaioi were actual descendants of the Macedonian settlers. The genealogy may reflect not a real ancestry but a social reconstruction; nonetheless, what is clear is that they presented themselves as descendants. The fact that three generations of men in our inscriptions had Greco-Macedonian names suggests that this was not

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least a few women in the city had some financial independence. The idea that the women themselves financed most seats in the three salles à gradins is therefore likely. But since no such transactions have been recorded in the corpus of the papyri or otherwise, this is bound to remain a hypothesis. It is not known whether the original Macedonian colonisers brought their wives from their homeland or married local women. The earliest accounts found in Dura-Europos, such as a registry of contracts of 190bce, only show Greco-Macedonian male names and we have no information on women in this period: see Welles 1951, 262–263. C. Bradford Welles suggests that the Macedonian soldiers who immigrated to Dura-Europos may have brought their own wives with them, and he sees the Greco-Macedonian names as markers of race: see Welles 1951, 263–264. Pollard successfully refutes the existence of Welles’ Greco-Macedonian elite group as the actual biological descendants of the Macedonian colonisers: see Pollard 2007, 89. At all events, the majority of women and men in the three salles à gradins had Greco-Macedonian names. Andrade 2013, 212–214. Andrade 2013, 218; Pollard 2007, 83; TEAD PP, 7.

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a sign of fashion, but of tradition. People consciously wanted to show their Greco-Macedonian origins (imaginary or real) through patrilineal descent. Although we cannot determine whether the female worshippers in the salles à gradins were actually descendants of the Macedonians, it is clear that most families wanted to present not only their sons, but also their daughters as such. In addition to the families with Greco-Macedonian names, we have some families with exclusively Semitic names. The presence of Semitic names in the salle à gradins can be explained by the fact that, over the course of time, Semitic people of various origins settled in the city and co-habited with the original population.17 The families in the temples may have been indigenous; although again, the establishment of origins remains uncertain here. Women from these families were called Imaboua, Baribonnaia, Roumea, Bazeïs (this last name may have been Iranian) and so on. Since they intermingle with Dura’s elite in the salles à gradins, it follows that a Greco-Macedonian name was not a prerequisite to gain prestige. Apparently, these Semitic families gained esteem through other means. Some families show more diversity: these have members with both GrecoMacedonian and Semitic names. In our quest for presented cultural interaction and identity, these inscriptions are perhaps the most interesting. We may ask ourselves whether women with Semitic names married men with GrecoMacedonian names, whether women with Greco-Macedonian names married men with Semitic names, whether Greek families gave their daughters (and sons) Semitic names and vice versa. Let us take a closer look at the inscriptions in the three rooms.

3

Temple of Artemis

Twenty-one of the thirty-four women mentioned in the inscriptions had GrecoMacedonian names while thirteen women had Semitic names, some of which had a theophoric character (such as Mekatnanaia, Mekannaia and Baribonnaia). Additionally, of the sixty-five men mentioned in the inscriptions, fiftysix had Greco-Macedonian names and nine men had Semitic names.18 Seventeen of the twenty-six inscriptions in the temple of Artemis mention families

17 18

Dirven 1999, 5; Millar 1993, 446. Inscriptions nos. 67, 81–84 are undated, but all show families with Greco-Macedonian names.

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with only Greco-Macedonian names.19 Seven inscriptions show families with both Greco-Macedonian names and Semitic names.20 Of these, all but two inscriptions (nos. 68 and 79) show women with Semitic names within families with Greco-Macedonian names. In 7–6bce, a seat was inscribed (no. 58) that was shared by two women: Goriaia, daughter of Xenokrates, and Eugenia, daughter of Apollonios and wife of Antiochos. Goriaia is a Semitic name, whereas the name of her father is Greek. This indicates that naming one’s daughters with Semitic names was a possibility for ‘Greco-Macedonian families’ and, in these cases, ‘Greekness’ was communicated through patrilineal descent. Inscription no. 79 from 129–130ce mentions Bazeïs, daughter of Baphaladados and Baribonnaia and wife of Lysanias son of Nikanor. That the mother of Bazeïs was a prominent member of the elite in Dura-Europos is testified to by the mural painting in the temple of Zeus Theos where, in all probability, the same Baribonnaia is painted among her family members (fig. 12.3).21 Both parents of Bazeïs have Semitic names and Bazeïs’ name shows Iranian roots.22 She was the wife of Lysanias son of Nikanor, suggesting she married into a ‘Greco-Macedonian family’. Whether the family of Bazeïs was actually of Semitic origins is not known but also not important in this discussion. What is remarkable here is that all members of her family have Semitic names and thus presented themselves as a ‘Semitic family’. That they were part of the social elite is indicated by the seat in this temple and the painting in the temple of Zeus Theos. They clearly did not receive their prestige through Greco-Macedonian names but through other means (perhaps their wealth).

19 20 21

22

Cumont 1926, nos. 59b, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 70–71, 73, 76, 77, 81, 82, 83, 84. Cumont 1926, nos. 58, 68, 69, 74, 75, 78, 79. It is possible that it is not the same Baribonnaia who was pictured in the temple of Zeus Theos. The dating of the inscription and the dating of the painting to the second century do make this interpretation highly plausible, however. Other graffiti and dipinti found on the side wall in the naos of Zeus Theos reveal the names of a certain Bargates son of Zabinos, an Olympos son of Lysias son of Olympus, a Barlaas, a Sosipatras son of Bargatos, a Mekannaia, and a Bargatos. According to Frank Brown, two families were depicted here. One is the family of Lysias son of Olympos, which may be the same as the Lysias family mentioned in the salle à gradins from the temple of Artemis (nos. 70–71, 73–75). If this is the case than it must be noted that only a Mekannaia is mentioned in these inscriptions and none of the other names may be connected to this family. The other family was connected to a certain Bargates son of Zabinos. Baribonnaia was probably linked to this family and not to the family of Lysias, since she is not mentioned in the inscriptions from the salle à gradins. For the graffiti and dipinti, see TEAD vii–viii, nos. 890–899. Cumont 1926: 425.

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figure 12.3

Baribonnaia, temple of Zeus Theos yale university art gallery, dura-europos collection, photo by author

From the first decade of the second century, three families (who were united by marriage) were presented by several inscriptions in the salle à gradins; eight inscriptions from 102–103ce to 140–141ce mention ten women from this family.23 Some of these women had Greek names: Timonassa, Antiochis, Euthynike and Athenophila. However, six women had Semitic names. Olympos, son of Lysanias, named all three of his daughters with Semitic names (Mekannaia,

23

Cumont 1926, nos. 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78.

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Taroudaia and Eudiaia). Mekannaia is a Semitic name with a theophoric character and Nanaia was the Semitic name of the goddess Artemis, the same goddess to whom our temple was dedicated. The fact that two more women from this family were named Mekannaia suggests that it was not uncommon in ‘Greco-Macedonian families’ to name their daughters with Semitic names with a theophoric character. The names Eudiaia and Taroudaia do not necessarily point towards the mixture of the ‘Greco-Macedonian family’ with an ‘indigenous family’ (again, I refer to the presented origins, not the actual origins, since it is impossible to infer this from the inscriptions). It does, nevertheless, underline the idea that ‘Greco-Macedonian families’ did not hesitate to name their daughters with Semitic names, whereas the family tree clearly shows the men were all named with Greco-Macedonian names. This again proves that ‘Greekness’ was passed through the patrilineal line. The last Semitic name is Mamaia, who is mentioned as the mother of Seleukos and as the grandmother of Lysanias. The fact that she is mentioned instead of her husband probably means that her husband was already dead and that she had a prominent position within the family.24 Only two inscriptions mention families with exclusively Semitic names. In 7–6bce, Imaboua, daughter of Salamnos and the wife of Beloobassaros, shared a seat with Mekatnanaia, daughter of Papias and the wife of Zebidadados (no. 57). All family members have Semitic names (although the name Papias is ambiguous and may have had Greek origins). Lethachoua, daughter of Admalichos and wife of Belaoas, son of Sommakos inscribed a seat in 104ce (no. 72). As shown in the salle à gradins in the temple of Artemis, some of the families in the temple presented themselves as Semitic elite families, but whether they actually were inhabitants of the city who had their roots in the local surroundings remains hypothetical. Nonetheless, their presence in the salle à gradins shows that, at least from the beginning of the Common Era onwards, ‘Semitic families’ were part of the Durene elite society alongside the so-called Macedonian elite.

4

Temple of Atargatis

From the women mentioned in the twenty inscriptions from the salle à gradins in the temple of Atargatis, twelve women have Greco-Macedonian names, four have Semitic names, and four names are incomplete. Thirty-nine men are

24

Johnson 1932, 24, n. 17.

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mentioned in the inscriptions, twenty-nine of whom have Greco-Macedonian names and eight have Semitic names. Four male names are so badly damaged that no name could be reconstructed. The above-discussed families of Seleukos, son of Lysias, and of Seleukos, son of Lysanias all have Greco-Macedonian names whereas, in the family of Konon, one woman has a Semitic name (Baribonnaia). Other inscriptions show more diversity in names. The first inscription on the left staircase (no. 86) mentions a Euthynike, daughter of Abi[…], the wife of A[mm]onios. Euthynike is a Greco-Macedonian name; her father’s name may have been indigenous. No. 90 mentions a Zeneiis, the daughter of a Bagesos, son of Danymos and wife of Herakleitos. The name Bagesos is Semitic and the name Zeneiis could either be from Zeus or from Zana, a name common in the Near East. It is worth mentioning here that Danymos gave his son a Semitic name, which tells us that Greek names were not the only signifier of social status. Inscriptions nos. 93 and 98 mention families with mixed names; Dadaia is mentioned as the wife of Sa[m]isilabos and a woman called [A]ri[b]a[g]anaias, daughter of Abe[mm]os, son of […]boutios, is cited as the wife of a S[…]iphaton. One of the remaining inscriptions shows a family with Greco-Macedonian names: seat no. 101 on the right staircase mentions a Euboula, daughter of Ol[…]; the name Seleukos is also cited, but the damaged inscription does not provide us with the information as to whether he is her grandfather or husband. This step also belonged to her (nameless) daughters. Step no. 104 was erected by Diokles, son of A[…], [son of] Krateas, for Babile[i]on (fem.?), who was most likely his wife. Although the name is not complete, the first letters make a Semitic name more plausible than a Greco-Macedonian name.

5

Temple of Azzanathkona

From the inscriptions in the salle à gradins we have thirty-eight female names, of which thirty-one are Greek (84%) and seven are Semitic. We have an additional ninety-seven male names, of which seventy-four are Greek (76%) and twenty-three are Semitic. The seats are owned by both ‘Greco-Macedonian’ and ‘Semitic’ families. The above-mentioned family of Apollonios, son of Danymos, were the descendants of the Danymos mentioned in the temple of Artemis (nos. 61–62).25 The names Danymos and Apollonios are present from 19 ce onwards, which again indicates that Greek names were not a sign of fashion,

25

Nos. 523, 524, 525, 533.

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but of tradition and thus conferred prestige in Dura-Europos under Parthian rule. Only three of the thirty-seven inscriptions show families with exclusively Semitic names (nos. 517, 522, and 546), and only a handful of inscriptions mention so-called mixed families, in which the family members have either GrecoMacedonian or Semitic names. In these ‘mixed’ unions, we see that women often have Semitic names while men have Greek names, because ‘Greekness’ is transferred through the male line. We also find four examples of this in the temple of Azzanathkona (nos. 526, 531, 532, and 552). More remarkable with respect to the interaction between Greek and Semitic families, are the three inscriptions in which the men carry Semitic names and the women have Greek names. In the year 107–108 ce, an Aiosa[m]sos, son of Otainetos, raised a step for his wife Patrophila, daughter of Philip (no. 516), and in 39–40ce a Zabeinas, son of Nikanor(os), dedicated a step to Ammia, daughter of Isodoros, who was his wife (no. 513). This inscription is also of interest as it shows a Greek father who gave his son a Semitic name. And finally, a Theodora, daughter of Nikanor(os), was married to a Retagthos, who is the son of Antaios (no. 541). These are the first instances of women with Greek names marrying men with Semitic names. This again suggests that ‘Greekness’ is not the only signifier of status, but that people could gain prestige through other means. It also shows that the social status of Semitic families increased in Dura over time, and that a union with a Semitic family was appropriate for a Greek family. Due to the large corpus of Greek inscriptions and the abundance of GrecoMacedonian names, it has often been suggested that Greco-Macedonian culture was still dominant in Dura-Europos under Parthian rule. It follows from the above that this view is too simplistic. True, in the three temples under discussion, the inscriptions are written in Greek (following the epigraphic habit) and the majority of names are Greek; however, closer inspection tells us that the elite families may not have been as ‘Greek’ as hitherto argued. ‘Semitic’ families with exclusively Semitic names also engraved seats in these temples. In addition, it is evident that the Greco-Macedonian families intermingled with the Semitic families. We saw instances of women with Greek names from Greek families marrying men with Semitic names, and women with Semitic names (from both ‘Semitic’ and ‘Greek’ families) marrying men with Greek names. Those families who especially wanted to present themselves as Greek did so by naming their sons with Greek names, which clearly demonstrates that ‘Greekness’ was commonly transferred through patrilineal descent and women were less ‘important’ for a family as signifiers of a ‘Greek’ heritage. Let us now turn our attention to dress behaviour in the portraits to see whether the same strategies apply here.

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Impeccable Dress: Gendered Dress Behaviour and Portrayed Cultural Identities

In this section, dress behaviour as presented in the pictorial representations of women and their families from the temples is discussed.26 The pictorial material consists of The Sacrifice of Konon from the temples of Bel and portrait fragments from the temple of Zeus Theos. Through careful analysis of these images, I examine whether cultural identities were also communicated through portraits of the elite families and whether we can identify elements of gendered dress behaviour. In studying these images, the emphasis will therefore be on dress. As argued elsewhere, dress is particularly suited to the study of identity and the interaction between different cultures, gender, and social groups.27 Others have similarly argued that especially female dress is used to advertise a variety of meanings.28 Dress—which includes jewellery and other adornments—is not only an expression of wealth or solely of cultural identities, but is also full of symbolic meanings and associations.29 However, for comparison with the inscriptions, I will focus on cultural identity.30 In what follows, I explore the images with several questions in mind: is there a difference in appearance between men and women? What cultural identities were communicated in these portraits? Did these include ‘Greekness’?

7

Family Portraits in the Temples of Zeus Theos and Bel

Two women dressed in colourful garments and adorned with jewellery were depicted at the beginning of the first century ce on the walls of the naos in the temple of Zeus Theos (Figs. 12.3–4). One woman can be identified through the inscription as Βαριβονν[αια]; she is dressed in a violet-coloured garment, but it is especially her headdress and jewellery that we can study in detail. Baribonnaia wears a pink flat-topped cylindrical headdress, richly decorated with colourful 26

27 28 29 30

Jen Baird has examined dress practices through textile fragments, jewellery and attributes, and textual references: see Baird 2014, 215–229. With some caution, we may conclude that there are some similarities between the archaeological and textual evidence on the one hand and the pictorial representations on the other hand, without taking the portraits at face value as representing clothing practices in daily life. Klaver 2016, 375–391. Heyn 2017, 210–217. Johns 1996, 5–8. Maura Heyn rightfully argues that dress has more meaning than just representing cultural identity, see Heyn 2017, 210–217.

beautiful names and impeccable dress

figure 12.4

A woman, temple of Zeus Theos yale university art gallery, dura-europos collection, photo by lucinda dirven

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bands and white dots that may represent pearls. A silver head chain with two plaited chains descends on both sides of her face down to her breast. The top of her headdress is covered by a veil, which runs down to her shoulders. She wears five necklaces: three with red, black, yellow, grey, and white beads. One necklace is of braided silver with a silver pendant; the fifth necklace is also a silver chain but adorned with small silver pendants. The second portrait resembles Baribonnaia’s in that this woman also wears a violet-coloured dress and a headdress, although only the lower two bands are preserved. Small traces of her veil are distinguishable on both sides of her face. The woman wears six necklaces: four with coloured beads and two with silver braided chains with pendants. On her wrist, she wears a silver bracelet.31 The wall painting, The Sacrifice of Konon, shows the Konon family in a procession with two priests sacrificing incense to the gods. On the left-hand side of the panel stands Konon, followed by two priests in front of an altar. The five children of Konon stand next to the priests. In the lower register, three adolescents are depicted. The fourth figure from the left is Bithnanaia (fig. 12.5). The inscription on her dress tells us that she is the daughter of Konon, the patron of the painting (Bithnanaia (daughter) of Konon).32 Her left arm is completely concealed from view by her dress. Her right arm is raised with her palm outwards. She wears a rectangular pink headdress, which is decorated with embroidery. The headdress is adorned with two ribbons and a head chain made of beads. The top of her cap is covered with a scarlet-coloured veil, which hangs to the shoulders. On her chest, we see traces of the same scarlet colour, indicating her tunica or perhaps a shawl. She wears a foot-length white mantle, and her shoes are also white. She wears various jewels, which are described by Breasted and Cumont as follows: earrings, a braided bracelet, a neck collar of four metal rings, a necklace with pendants, and a purple plaited oval medallion. On her breast hangs a round medallion with stones in red, purple and green (to imitate enamel) with a rectangular-shaped pendant with beads in green, white and red, followed by two cylindrical pendants. These pendants consist of red- and pearl-coloured beads and two small spherical pendants.33 In the lower zone of the wall painting, a young girl who greatly resembles Bithnanaia is depicted. She is not identified by an inscription. The painting has not survived completely as her feet are missing. She raises her right hand with her palm outwards. Breasted mentions that she may have carried a purse in her

31 32 33

Klaver 2016, 377. Cumont 1926, 359–360. Breasted 1924, 74–88; Cumont 1926, 49–51.

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figure 12.5 Bithnanaia. Detail of ‘The sacrifice of Konon’ photo: yale university art gallery, dura-europos collection

left hand, but Cumont writes that she holds her cloak.34 Her arms are wrapped in a pink, foot-length cloak. The folds of the dress emphasise her waist. Beneath the cloak, she wears a dark-coloured dress, and a pink veil falls over her rectangular, dark red headdress, which is decorated with embroidery. The girl wears earrings and has plaited bracelets on both wrists. The necklace around her neck is made up of four rings. From the descriptions of Breasted and Cumont, we know she wears two long necklaces on her chest: one has an oval shaped medallion with imitation enamel stones in red, yellow, and pink. Below it hangs a round medallion with two pendants.35 Concerning the dress of men, we can say the following: five adult men and two boys are portrayed in The Sacrifice of Konon. Konon, the head of the family, is dressed in a long-sleeved white tunic, which falls to his calves. On the tunic, traces of two purple bands are visible, running from the shoulders to the bottom of his garment. Two purple appliques adorn both sleeves. His white mantle is draped over his left shoulders and hangs over his left arm. His overgarment 34 35

Breasted 1924, 76–88 and Cumont 1926, 52–53. Cumont’s interpretation is the preferred since it was indeed a conventional pose in the region. Breasted 1924, 76–88 and Cumont 1926, 52–53.

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is decorated with a H-shaped applique which in shape resembles appliques found on the garments of Hatrene priests and decorations found on garments worn by men in the synagogue paintings.36 An example of this decoration is also found in Durene textiles.37 On his head, he wears a purple-coloured cap, the tip of which falls over to the left. His legs are bare, and he wears white shoes.38 His adult sons and grandson in the upper register all have voluminous dark hair and wear similar garments; they are dressed in long-sleeved white tunics that are decorated with two purple vertical bands and traces of purple are found around their right wrists and on their upper-left arms. Their legs are also bare and they wear similar shoes to Konon.39 The two boys in the lower zone wear belted white tunics with red bands down the front.40 Finally, apart from finger rings, the men wear no jewellery, although (from an image of a priest and of Bargates, son of Zabinus, both found in the temple of Zeus Theos) we know that men could also wear earrings and silver braided necklaces.41 The fragments in the temple of Zeus Theos show men dressed in similar fashion: young men wear white garments that are girdled at the waist, other men wear white garments with clavi, while (apparently) Bargates, son of Zabinus wears a similar headdress to Konon, although this and his jewellery are hardly visible in the present state of conservation.42 In the The Sacrifice of Konon, only Konon wears a headdress; whether this is related to his higher social status or his participation in the act of sacrifice is unknown. It is especially regarding the colour of the garments, jewellery, and headdress that the appearance of men differs from that of women.43 Even though

36 37 38 39

40 41 42 43

Al-Salihi 1991, 35–40; TEAD Synagogue. TEAD Textiles, fig. 1. 19, 10–11. Cumont 1926, 44–46. Cumont 1926, 51. Breasted mentions a purple tunic and white overgarments, which are edged at the front with purple bands, see Breasted 1924, 83. Due to the state of the painting, it is difficult to distinguish the different garments. For the present state of the painting, see Leriche 2012, 143–155. Cumont 1926, 52–53; Breasted 1924, 84. See TEAD vii–viii, 202–203 for the mention of the earrings and necklace on Bargates, which are no longer visible. For a description of the paintings from Zeus Theos, see TEAD vii–viii, 196–208. The Sacrifice of Konon also shows great differences between men and women regarding their positioning within the picture frame (the painting clearly gives a sense of hierarchy within this families). Bithnanaia is positioned next to the priests, which at first glance is a prominent position. However, on reflection, we can see that she is smaller in size and positioned to the back of the painting: she literally stands behind the priests and her male family members.

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the women in the temple of Bel and Zeus Theos wear tunics and mantles that resemble the Greek chiton and himation and may ultimately derive from Greek dress, they are not portrayed as Greek women: their flat-topped cylindrical headdresses, head chains, and lavish display of jewellery are not in line with Greek sculptural traditions.44 Instead, as I argue elsewhere in more detail, the dress of women in Dura-Europos followed regional and local traditions.45 Likewise, the dress of the men in these frescoes seems to be a combination of regional and western features. The coloured bands on the garments have been identified by Franz Cumont as clavi, the vertical bands found on Roman tunics, whereas the coloured H-shape appliques on the mantles and/or tunics resemble appliques found on Hatrene dress and are a local feature. Their ceremonial headdresses and modest jewellery are not in line with Greek pictorial traditions either.46 Even though the men look more ‘Greek’ than the women, again, the overall impression is not aligned with Greek portraiture: their garments, Konon’s headdress, their big dark coiffure, gestures, and attributes do not follow Greek standards. Where being ‘Greek’ was important in name, looking ‘Greek’ was apparently not an issue.47

8

Conclusions: Cultural Identity at Dura-Europos

My research on women in Dura-Europos has shown that the commonly found ideas that Dura remained an essentially Greek city or that ‘Greekness’ was the main signifier of social status are either wrong or too narrow. To elucidate, my study on the inscriptions has—to some extent—underlined the existing notion that ‘Greekness’ was used to communicate status. This appears to have been especially true regarding patrilineal descent and male names. However, for women, who were also important signifiers of status (as is attested by their overwhelming presence in the temples and beyond), this ‘being Greek’ was a little less important. For instance, we see that women bore Semitic names more often than men. Based on the findings from the salles à gradins, one would expect that the desire to be Greek would also be reflected in visual representations of elite members from the same context. Interestingly, this was not the case. Neither men nor women follow Greek pictorial traditions; even though

44 45 46 47

See Dillon 2010 for more information on Greek female portrait statues. Klaver 2016 and Klaver 2019b. Cumont 1926, 44–46, 51–53. For a more detailed overview on the concept of clavi on Roman tunics, see Bender Jørgensen 2011, 75–81. Of course, it is also possible that these Durenes in fact thought they did look Greek.

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it was particularly the women who looked local, men were not Greeks either. An important general lesson to learn from my research is that looking over the border of your own discipline is crucial in trying to understand ancient societies. If art historians were to study only the elite portraits, they might think of the Durenes as ‘locals’ whereas epigraphers studying the inscriptions might think of the Durenes as mainly ‘being Greek’. The approach I have used here has shown us that the actual picture is far more nuanced.

Abbreviations TEAD v

Rostovtzeff, M., ed. (1934). The Excavations at Dura Europos Conducted by Yale University and the French Academy of Inscriptions and Letters. Preliminary Report v. New Haven. TEAD vii–viii Rostovtzeff, M., Brown, F.E. and Welles, C.B., eds. (1939). The Excavations at Dura-Europos Conducted by Yale University and the French Academy of Inscriptions and Letters. Preliminary report vii–viii. New Haven. TEAD PP Welles, C.B., Fink, R. and Gilliam, J., eds. (1959). The Parchments and Papyri. The Excavations at Dura-Europos Conducted by Yale University and the French Academy of Inscriptions and Letters. Final report v 1. New Haven. TEAD Synagogue Kraeling, C.H. (1956). The Synagogue. Excavations at Dura-Europos Conducted by Yale University and the French Academy of Inscriptions and Letters. Final report viii 1. New Haven. TEAD Textiles Pfister, R. and Bellinger, L. (1945). The Textiles. Excavations at DuraEuropos Conducted by Yale University and the French Academy of Inscriptions and Letters. Final report iv.2. New Haven.

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chapter 13

Female Patronage in Late Antiquity Titles and Rank of Women Donors in Sixth- and Seventh-Century Palaestina and Arabia Marlena Whiting

1

Introduction

Emily Hemelrijk’s research into the epigraphic testimony of women’s participation in public life in the Roman Imperial West has categorically demonstrated—as summarised by one reviewer—“that women pursued public honour and recognition for themselves and not merely to advance the careers of family members”.1 For the late antique Near East, such examples of female munificence continue to be present epigraphically, recording women’s gifts to churches and memorialising them in specific ways.2 These inscriptions, put up by the women themselves, express women’s places in their societies, and how they used dedications and inscriptions to achieve specific aims and desires. Christianity has an impact on the expressed objectives: they are more commonly focused on heavenly or spiritual rewards than civic honours and titles. Nevertheless, it is clear that despite this theological slant, women as well as men continued to seek honours among their communities, in the form of recognition and approval from the readers of their inscriptions, and the beneficiaries of their building works. Beyond religious sentiment, tradition, family honour, and social competition all played a role in how women chose to express their social identity in inscriptions commemorating their benefactions. The inclusion of official titles and rank in the text of the inscription was one way to communicate one’s place in one’s community, a practice in which women also engaged, not just men. In the Imperial Latin West, patronesses and benefactresses might receive public honours in return for their donations, in the form of honorific statues, or public funerals.3 However, in Late Antiquity, in both the Latin West and the 1 Skinner 2016, 280. 2 On the epigraphic evidence for women’s patronage in the late antique East, see MentzouMeimaris 1998. 3 Hemelrijk 2015, 275.

© Marlena Whiting, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004534513_016

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Near East, the reciprocity of public acknowledgment of a patron or patroness in response to financial gifts is largely subsumed beneath a Christian rhetoric of piety and humility.4 There is a noticeable trend towards restricting biographical detail in inscriptions, or even to total anonymity, where the patrons are only referred to collectively as “the donors” or “those whose name God knows”.5 Conversely, sometimes only names are given, as in the case of a church in the village of Ayun Musa near Mount Nebo in Jordan, where one inscription in the southwest corner of the mosaic carpet of the north aisle only mentions Sabina and Anastasia, without any dedicatory formula.6 The Christian change in attitudes that resulted in greater anonymity in inscriptions, also produced a greater emphasis on prayer and ‘exchange with divinity’, borrowing language from ex voto inscriptions rather than dedicatory inscriptions.7 Donations of buildings or mosaic pavements were made ὑπὲρ εὐχῆς, in response to a vow, or ὑπὲρ ἀναπαύσεως, if commemorating the deceased. Other commonly expressed desires, often in the imperative, are for God to provide divine salvation (σῶσον), mercy (ἐλέησον), remembrance (μνήσθητι or μνησθῇ), or aid (βοήθει). This Christian rhetoric, amplified by Christian patristic texts, has led to the questioning of whether there is such a thing as civic euergetism at all in a Christian context, or if the social contract between the donor and the public has been replaced by a private contract between the donor and God.8 Instead of providing facilities for the benefit of the community at large, for which they receive public recognition and concrete ‘honours’, the donor is ostensibly seeking personal spiritual rewards for themself and their family. Recent scholarship, however, emphasises a degree of continuity, with new modes of expression accompanying new types of buildings and gifts.9 These expressions, manifested in inscriptions, indicate that public recognition of earthly status, and a desire to contribute to the community and receive recogni-

4 For this phenomenon in the Latin West, see e.g. Brown 2012, 526; Vuolanto 2002, 268 n. 95. 5 As in an example from a mosaic pavement in a monastery in the Judean Desert: ὑ[πὲρ] σωτ[ηρί]α̣ς καὶ ἀν[αλή]μψεως τῶν κα[ρποφο]ρησάντων κα[ὶ καρ]ποφο[ρο]ῦντ[ων], ὧ̣ν Κ(ύριο)ς γι[νώσκει] τὰ [ὀν]όματα. SEG 38.1648. 6 Di Segni 1998, 455, no. 66. 7 Yasin 2009, 149. 8 E.g. Veyne 1976, 51–55; Patlagean 1977, who see Christian benefaction as completely different to earlier civic euergetism. 9 Goddard 2021, 323: “… Christian basilicas, monasteries and hospices offered a temporary asylum to euergetism in late antiquity and contributed paradoxically to preserving the old and multisecular municipal culture.” See Goddard 2021, 297–299 for a summary of scholarly trends.

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tion in return, are still present in the donor inscriptions of the sixth and seventh centuries, although it remains inextricably intertwined with Christianity. This is especially clear in inscriptions where the donor’s social rank and titles are mentioned. In the cases when a woman’s rank or title is given (which are rare in the Near East, compared to their male counterparts), it is clearly a deliberate act of self-representation. Below I will look at these instances in the provinces of Palaestina i–iii and Arabia in the sixth- and seventh centuries, to understand what messages about social status the inclusion of women’s titles and rank is intended to convey.

2

Female Office-Holders in the Church

First, let us look at titles and offices possessed by women in their own right. Professions of women are hardly ever mentioned in the inscriptions of the Late Antique Near East, especially in donor inscriptions. Even in funerary inscriptions professional labels are virtually unknown for women—there are no artisans, shopkeepers, or midwives, a contrast with the situation for example in Asia Minor. There are rare exceptions of higher-ranking women who held office either within the Church, or at the imperial court. In what follows, we shall look at the office of deaconess. Within the context of the Church, options for official participation were limited. Women could be ordained as deaconesses, or form their own religious communities, but they could not be ordained as bishops or presbyters. This has been interpreted by some scholars as an improvement over women’s participation in religious life in pagan society, where it was assumed that women’s participation in cult was nominal, and women only held the title of priestess in cults of female gods or if they were the wives of priests.10 However, Emily Hemelrijk’s research has demonstrated the many opportunities for women to be involved in cult; in the Latin West at least, as priestesses in their own right.11 Unfortunately, it is not possible to make a direct comparison in the Near East between women’s cultic activity in the Greco-Roman period and in the early Christian period, as the epigraphic testimony for priestesses is very scanty.12 Even the imperial cult, which provided many opportunities for women to participate in public cult as priestesses in the provincial cities of the

10

11 12

See the assessment e.g. of Karras (2007, 344–345): “At a time when women … in the predominant (pagan) religion were generally limited to serving female deities, the liturgical and pastoral functions given to women in early Christianity appear broad in comparison.” Hemelrijk 2021, 221–242. Yon 2009.

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Roman West—and which one might expect to have a degree of universality— is poorly attested in the Near East.13 In the Christian context of Late Antiquity, it was possible for the wives of clerics to use the feminine version of their husbands’ titles.14 However, the only two offices that women might hold in their own right were those of abbess (ἡγουμένη) and deaconess (διακόνισσα, or ἡ διάκονος). Evidence of patronage by abbesses in our region is too limited to consider here. I will instead consider the activities of deaconesses. The duties of the office of deaconess were set out in the Constitutiones Apostolorum of around 380.15 Deaconesses were drawn from among the ranks of virgins and widows, and were formally ordained, although in the hierarchical sacerdotal lists they ranked below male deacons.16 Deaconesses’ role in liturgy was mainly to assist in the baptism of female catechumens to preserve their modesty; they also delivered the eucharist to housebound female parishioners. The other duties of the deaconess are “to guard the women’s entrance to the church; to conduct the examination of strangers; to perform charitable deeds under the surveillance of both bishop and deacons and to act as a liaison between the women and the male members of the clergy.”17 The aspect of performing “charitable deeds” is significant, as deaconesses were also important patronesses. They tended to stem from social environments where patronage or euergetism were expected of members of their class. An exaggerated example may be found in the vita of the deaconess Olympias of Constantinople, who made lavish gifts of land and profitable businesses to the Church. However, she came from a senatorial background, her grandfather having served as consul and praetorian prefect of the East, an office which carried with it obligations toward largesse and support for urban infrastructure.18 In the epigraphic testimony of towns and villages outside the exalted environs of the capital, however, the social status of deaconesses can be understood on analogy with local deacons, who, unlike bishops and presbyters, were not a professional priesthood, but high ranking individuals, curiales or imperial

13 14 15 16

17 18

E.g. Hemelrijk 2006; on the imperial cult in the Near East, see Dirven 2011. See Karras 2007 for attestations in late antique and Byzantine sources of women accorded the title of presbytera or episcopa as the wives of the principal office-holder. Elm 1994, 168–171. Elm 1994, 171; cf. Karras 2004, 292–294, who argues that the male and female diaconate were essentially equal in rank but women were subject to a double standard rooted in cultural mores. Elm 1994, 170–171. S.v. Olympias 2, PLRE i, 642–643; Ablabius 4 (her grandfather), PLRE i, 3–4.

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office-holders.19 The importance of deaconesses as patronesses is exemplified by an inscription from a village church in Rihab, northern Jordan, dated to 594. The four-line mosaic inscription, set within a wide tabula ansata (“tablet-withhandles”)20 frame in the floor of the nave facing the altar, reads: προνοίᾳ θ(εο)ῦ ἐθεμ[ελιώ]θη κ(αὶ) ἐτελιώθη ὁ ναὸς τοῦ ἐνδοξ(οτάτου)/ μάρτυρ[(ος) το]ῦ ἁγ(ίου) Βασιλ[ίου ἐπ]ὶ τοῦ ἁγιωτ(άτου) κ(αὶ) ὁσιωτ(άτου) Πολυεύκτ[ου ἀ]ρχι-/ επισκό(που) [ἐξ ἐπιμ]ελ(είας) Ζώης διακο(νίσσης) καὶ Στεφάνου κ(αὶ) Γεωργίου κ(αὶ) Βάσσ[ου κ(αὶ)] Θεοδώ-/ ρου κ(αὶ) Βαδ[αγίου ὑπὲρ] ἀναπαύσ(εως) Προκοπίου κ(αὶ) γ(ο)νέων. ἐγράφ(η) τοῦ ἔτ(ους) υπθ´ χρό(νοις) ιβ´ ἰν(δικτιῶνος) By the providence of God was laid the foundation and was completed the church of the most glorious martyr, Saint Basilios in the time of the most holy and most pious Polyeuktos, archbishop, from the offering of Zoe the deaconess and Stephanos and Georgios and Bassos and Theodoros and Badagios as a vow for the repose of Prokopios and forebears. (This) was written in the year 489, in the times of the 12th indiction.21 Zoe is the principal donor; since she is listed first, it can be inferred that she endowed the greatest amount of money towards the building of the church. The individuals listed after her appear to belong to one family, as the purpose of the gift is in memory of Prokopios (their father?), and their forebears. It is unclear whether Zoe also belongs to this family, but it seems more likely that she is an independent donor, as her name is separated from the others with a fully spelled-out καὶ, while the others are separated by a καὶ ligature. She likely contributed half if not more of the funds necessary to build the church, with the family group pooling their resources (possibly an inheritance from the deceased Prokopios) towards the fulfilment of their vow. We can infer that Zoe has more personal financial resources at her disposal than the other group (whose exact social rank is unknown). It would be expected of her to make 19

20 21

Rapp 2005, 179–189, on the recruitment of clergy, including deacons, from the curial and senatorial classes. Although legislation of Justinian (Nov. 6.1.1, dated 535) made it impossible for retired officeholders and curiales to become bishops, the diaconate seems to have remained open as an option. Rapp 2005, 198. On the tabula ansata as a framing device for late antique inscriptions, see Leatherbury 2018. Piccirillo 1981, 71–72; Nowakowski 2020 (transl. Avi-Yonah 1947, lightly modified by Nowakowski and author).

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an offering toward the building of a church even if she was not related to or purposely contributing to the commemoration of Prokopios, but instead fulfilling her role in the diaconate by providing assistance to the church, in this case providing funds and a place for worship. The term ἐπιμέλεια (lit. “attention”) carries with it a certain sense of obligation or duty; it can also mean a commission or charge. This reinforces the idea that the donation stems from Zoe’s responsibilities to the Church and her community as a deaconess, rather than necessarily stemming exclusively from personal feeling. The Constitutiones Apostolorum emphasise that a deaconess should be “a pure virgin; in absence of that, a widow married only once, faithful and honourable”.22 Moralising notions of female chastity aside, these are the types of women who, following the reforms of marriage and inheritance laws in the fourth century, would have had greatest control over their own finances.23 Wendy Mayer views the recruitment of women to the diaconate as almost predatory: ordination as deaconnesses was a way for the Church to try to control how these women used their wealth, so that the Church, instead of the women, were de facto in charge of its distribution.24 This occasioned some social anxiety, but legislation attempting to curb women becoming deaconesses and turning their patrimony over to the Church (e.g. by imposition of age limits) was usually swiftly repealed.25 However, deaconesses remained very much a part of their social fabric and embedded in their families, who frequently had other clerical associations.26 We can see this clearly in the example of two mosaic inscriptions from the village of Bayt Īdis (Komê Sêrôn) in northern Jordan, about 10 km east of Pella.27 These two inscriptions were found in the south aisle of the church. A further inscription with names of donors was found in the north aisle, while an inscription in the top border of the central nave mosaic may indicate a date around 612/3 (fig. 13.1).28 However, the two inscriptions from the south aisle clearly date from two separate periods. It is equally likely that the repaving of the north and

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Const. Apost. 6.17. 4 (transl. Elm 1994, 171). On the changes to marriage and inheritance laws in Late Antiquity, see Kuefler 2007. Mayer 1999, 270. Cod. Theod. 16.2.27 (dated June 390, repealed two months later), see also a law of Majorian of 458 (Nov. Majoriani 6.5) repealed in 463; Kuefler 2007, 354; Clark 1993, 55. See Elm 1994, 175–176. Melhem and al-Husan 2001; Melhem and al-Husan 2002. SEG 51.2060. This dating is problematic as the indiction does not match the year following the presumed dating system of the era of Provincia Arabia: see Nowakowski 2017, who is unable to identify an alternative, as using another dating system produces a date of 443 ce, which likewise does not match the indiction.

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figure 13.1

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Plan of Bayt Īdis (Komê Sêrôn) Church, with locations of inscriptions based on melhem and al-husan 2001

south aisles and the nave all took place at different times (years or even decades apart), and it is entirely possible, thus, to see the changing status of significant members of this village community traced out in the dedicatory inscriptions.29 The earlier of the two inscriptions in the south aisle, embedded within the geometric design of the mosaic carpet, records the donation of a woman, Kyra,30 towards renovations of the church. ἐπὶ τοῦ θεοσεβ(εστάτου) πατρὸς ἡμῶν Ἀμέρου ἀνενεόθη τὸ μαρτύρην· Κ(ύρι)ε, μ⟨ν⟩ήσθηθι Κύρα-

29 30

That the inscriptions were produced at different times is supported by the fact that all three mosaics mention different priests: Kaisarios, Porphyras, and Ameros. SEG (Tybout) suggests correcting the reading from Κύρα | τος to Κυρᾶ(ς) | το, meaning the woman’s name was Kyra, not Kyras. While this reading requires the assumption that the mosaicist made two back-to-back errors, Kyra is by far the more common as a woman’s name. The second inscription gives her name as Kyra. This reading is also preferred by Feissel 2006, 272–273, No. 869.

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τος Μαρίνου διακ(όνου) τοῦ μακαρίου καὶ ἐνθάδε κιμένο(υ), κὲ σõσον αὐτῆς τὰ τέκνα Ἰλίου κὲ Πορφυρίας κὲ ἐπίβλεψον αὐτῆς τὴν ὧδε σπουδ[ὴν ---] ḤΜ[---] Under our most God-fearing father, Ameros, was restored this martyr shrine (martyrion). O Lord, remember Kyra, daughter of Marinos the deacon, the blessed one (i.e. deceased) and buried here, and save her children, Elias and Porphyria, and look well upon her efforts here [---].31 The inscription slightly to the east of the main aisle pavement post-dates the previous one, as the son, Elias, is now deceased. Προσφορὰ Κύρας διακονίσσης ὑπὲρ σοτηρίας αὑτῆς καὶ ὑπὲρ ἀναπαύσεος Ἠλίου υἱοῦ καὶ Μαρίνου πατρ(ός) The offering of Kyra(s), the deaconess, as a vow for the salvation of herself and for the repose of Elias, (her) son, and Marinos, (her) father.32 The other major change is that Kyra has now been ordained as a deaconess, something worthy of commemoration in an inscription that is ostensibly seeking spiritual rewards rather than earthly honours. There is a strong emphasis on Kyra’s patrilineal line and her children, but her husband is absent among the supplicants. Since Kyra is able to become a deaconess, she must be widowed by that point, but why is there no prayer for his memory? It is possible that the south aisle pavement was funded from an inheritance left by Marinos the deacon specifically for his own memory and that of his descendants. In fact, it is not uncommon for women to commission inscriptions in aid of themselves and their children without reference to a husband.33 Kyra’s husband may have 31 32 33

SEG 51.2065 (adapted and transl. Nowakowski 2017). SEG 51.2064 (lightly adapted and transl. Nowakowski 2017). Cf. the example of Kyra Maria of Scythopolis, discussed below.

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been omitted from this inscription since it is for the salvation of the living (herself and her children), and otherwise is an epitaph for her father marking his burial (ἐνθάδε κιμένο(υ)). If we return to look at the inscription from the north aisle, which lists all male donors, we might be able to contextualise Kyra’s place in the social hierarchy. Κύριε, ἐλέησον Κεσαρίου πρεσβ(υτέρου) κὲ Τεβερίου διακ(όνου) κὲ Ανααμου κὲ Αββασοβ κὲ Αναμου κὲ Ἰωάννου κὲ Μαρίνου γέρωντες κὲ λυπὺς (= λοιποὺς) συνκωμήτες Σηρων κὲ Ἠλία Νόννου Κύριε ἐλέησον τοὺς διακόνους Βεσμον κὲ Γερμαν ἀδελφ(ούς) Κ(ύρι)ε, βοήθι Καιουμου κὲ Ἠλία μοναχ(ο)ῦ κὲ Στεφάνου ψιφαρίου Lord, have mercy on Kaisarios the presbyter and Tiberios the deacon and Anamos and Abbasob and Anamos and Ioannes and Marinos the elders and the other co-villagers of Seron and Elias son of Nonnos. Lord have mercy on the deacons Besmos and Germas (his) brother. Lord, help Kaioumas and Elias the monk and Stephanos the mosaicist.34 The Marinos mentioned here may well be the father of Kyra. He is listed here as a village elder (γέρων), clearly a person of some prominence and wealth, but not a deacon. At some point he was ordained deacon and served the church for which he had already acted as patron, a tradition carried on in his name by his daughter. The donation made by Kyra in restoring the church pavement in memory of her father may well have been the act of patronage which promoted her to the diaconate, as it seems likely that the final inscription memorialising Marinos and Elias was added not very long afterwards. Her father’s standing in the community thus reflected on her, and she was in the financial position and of a disposition to perpetuate it. In order to be ordained a deaconess, Kyra must have been at least 40. It is therefore likely that Elias was already an adult when he passed away; he may even be the Elias son of Nonnos mentioned in the inscription in the north aisle (which would make Nonnos Kyra’s elusive husband, probably already deceased since he is not among the actual donors

34

SEG 51.2062 (transl. author’s own).

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mentioned)—although given the popularity of these names this is an entirely conjectural connection. Kyra’s acts of patronage exemplify the complex interplay of on the one hand seeking spiritual rewards (salvation or repose for the dead) while at the same time seeking personal honours (promotion within the church, recognition from the community) and honouring family.

3

Titular Rank and Female Officers of the Imperial Court

One of the clearest social identity markers that conveys social standing is titular rank, and the wealth and privilege it implies. This information is conveyed in inscriptions by including a person’s social rank and any official titles they might hold. In the fourth century, the traditional Roman ranks of clarissimus, spectabilis, up to illustris (also magnificus) were still the norm.35 However, following the reorganisation of the imperial administration during the Tetrarchy, the class of clarissimus came to be awarded to all those who held imperial office, and to their spouses, and their children. Women could thus have the rank of clarissima either by birth, or by marriage. However, the hereditary nature of the title, combined with the widespread recruitment of imperial officials from among the curial classes of provincial cities, meant that the grade of clarissimus became so ubiquitous, even outside the capitals, as to lose much of its cachet, and, during the reign of Justinian, clarissimi were no longer invited to serve in the Senate.36 By the mid-sixth century, the title of gloriosissimus/ἐνδοξότατος (less commonly gloriosus/ἔνδοξος), came to be used for the highest rank of the titular classes.37 This was not a hereditary rank, although the children of gloriosissimi were clarissimi by birth. However, it was conferred upon the spouses of office holders.38 Some women held the rank of gloriosissima in their own right, namely the women who served the empress in the imperial court. One such woman is recorded in two inscriptions from the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, found in excavations at the modern-day Russian Orthodox monastery.39 The first inscription is set in a mosaic roundel, of which the top two thirds are missing.

35 36 37 38 39

Koch 1903, 5. Haldon 2004, 188–189. On the gradual superseding of illustris and magnificus by gloriosissimus, definitely in effect for the top offices by the 530’s, see Koch 1903, 73. Spouses of gloriosissimi: Koch 1903, 60. On their children, Koch 1903, 61–62. See Tchekhanovets 2018, 45–55 on the archaeological context of these inscriptions.

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[--] [--] [--] [--] Θ[εο]δοσίας τῆς ἐνδοξοτάτ(ης) κουβικουλα☙ ρίας. ❧ … of Theodosia the most glorious cubicularia.40 This was originally interpreted as a funerary inscription (with the lacuna at the start restored as ὑπὲρ ἀναπαύσεως) but this restitution is too short for the available space, and in light of a second inscription mentioning a Theodosia, which is most definitely an epitaph, is unlikely. Instead it may have contained a votive formula (e.g. ὑπὲρ εὐχῆς or ὑπὲρ σοτηρίας) and possibly a dedication of the pavement or church in which it was found. The palaeography, with its curlicues, suggests a date in the later sixth century. Theodosia holds the rank of ἐνδοξότατα (gloriosissima), which enables us to situate her among the highest echelons of the senatorial aristocracy. Theodosia also has an official title, κουβικουλάρια (cubicularia). This title indicates that she served in the imperial household, which adds lustre to her rank as ἐνδοξότατα. Cubiculariae specifically served the empress as ladies-in-waiting. Although her birth and family connections were doubtless instrumental in Theodosia obtaining this post, she nonetheless holds this title and office in her own right, from her own labours. Her earthly rank and office were clearly a matter of importance and even pride for Theodosia since they were so clearly proclaimed in this inscription. There is a second inscription of a Theodosia found in another part of the same complex: it seems likely that they both refer to the same individual.41 [Ἐνθάδε κεῖται ἡ μον]άχουσα Θεοδωσία [-- μετ]απρέψασα σῶμα [-- φ]αινόμενον τῇ [-- προσενε]γκαμένη τὸν [(?) βίον τῷ σταυρωθ]έντι Χ(ριστ)ῷ τῷ Θ(ε)ῷ ἡ[μῶν -- ἀνῆλ]θεν δὲ εἰς οὐ(ρα)νόν 40 41

SEG 8.175 with the older reading of ὑπὲρ ἀναπαύσεως; the readings of Di Segni are to be preferred: CIIP i.2 no. 836 (ph.); Di Segni 1997, 624–625, no. 213, fig. 264. CIIP i.2, 154.

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[--]μένη μοναχοῖς [--]ΙΚΟΝ ἄνθους(?) ΥΣΚΗ [-- μηνὸς Σε]πτεμβρ(ίου) ιδʹ ἰνδ(ικτιῶνος) ιαʹ βα[σιλείας Μαυρικίου φι]λ(ο)χ(ρίστο)υ ἔτους ιαʹ. [? Here lies the] nun Theodosia … having been distinguished … visible(?) body, having dedicated(?) [her life(?)] to Christ our God who was crucified … went to heaven … to monks. … On the 14th of the month of September, indiction 11, in the 11th year of the reign of Christ-loving [Maurice] (592ce).42 In the second inscription Theodosia is described as μονάχουσα, i.e. a nun. This inscription is a funerary inscription and so represents Theodosia’s social identity at the end of her life. One of the salient aspects of entering the monastic life was the renunciation of earthly ties, rank, and wealth. If these two inscriptions represent different phases in the same woman’s life, then in the first one we observe a donation or vow made by a woman conscious of her rank and privilege. She might have been on pilgrimage to Jerusalem from Constantinople. Or perhaps she was newly retired from imperial service, and was on the cusp of entering the religious life and thus disposing of her property through gifts and patronage to the Church. The second represents a fulfilment of a spiritual lifestyle, notable by the apparent absence of the earthly titles that Theodosia once laid claim to. Theodosia’s titles were hers by right of her own service to the imperial household. However, this is quite a rare occurrence, to be able to identify a rank or profession that belonged to the woman alone. What was noted by Emily Hemelrijk for the Imperial Roman West holds true for the sixth-century Near East: “The surest indication of a woman’s social standing is the rank and career of her husband or father.”43

4

Reconstructing Women’s Rank through Family Associations

I will turn now to examine two examples where the female donors’ social rank is not given, or given in sufficient detail to accurately situate their social status, but can be reconstructed from the titles and offices of their male family

42 43

Di Segni 1997, 622–624, no. 212, fig. 263; SEG 46.2016; CIIP i.2 no. 1006. Hemelrijk 2015, 13.

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members. Our first example is that of Maria, who appears in two inscriptions in a monastery in Scythopolis in Palaestina Secunda, located in the northern cemetery, just inside the city walls. She possesses the honorific title “lady”, kyra (κύρα), the feminine of kyros (κύρος, or κύριος). While it may seem that this is a generic marker of respect or elevated status,44 it was, in fact, reserved for quite specific dignities. The title kyros (kyrios), derived from the Latin domnus (dominus), was nominally reserved for the very highest rank of the senatorial classes, i.e. the gloriosissimi, magnifici, and illustres.45 Their wives were extended the privilege of using the honorific kyra, although the ladies-in-waiting of the court (the cubiculariae) were also entitled to bear this honorific in their own right. The first inscription is located in the narthex outside the chapel (fig. 13.2). Χ(ριστ)ὲ ὁ Θ(εὸ)ς σωτὴρ τοῦ κόσμ(ου) ἐλέησον τὴν φιλ[όχ(ριστο)]ν κυρὰν Μαρίαν κ(αὶ) τὸν ταύτ[ης υἱ]ὸν Μάξημον κ(αὶ) ἀνάπαυσον τοὺς αὐτῶν γωνεῖς εὐχαῖς πάντων τῶν ἁγίων. Ἀμίν. Christ, God, saviour of the world, have mercy upon the Christ-loving Lady Maria and her son Maximos, and grant rest to their forebears, through the prayers of all the saints. Amen.46 The second inscription, an epitaph and tomb marker, is located in the southeast corner of the chapel itself. [☩ Ὅπο]υ ἐστὶν τὸ στεφανωσταύρι(ο)ν, [ἐκ(ε)ῖ κ]εῖτ⟨αι⟩ τὸ πελλαικὸν τοῦ στόματος τοῦ μνημ(ε)ίου, ἔχ⟨ο⟩ν κρικεῖα· καὶ ὁ βουλόμενος ἐπ⟨αί⟩ρει τὸ στεφανωσταύρι(ο)ν κ(αὶ) εὑρίσκει τὸ πελλαικὸν κ(αὶ) θάπτει. Εἰ δὲ θελήσῃ ἡ κυρὰ Μαρία ἡ τόνδε τὸν ναὸν κτ⟨ί⟩σασα κατατεθῆναι ἐν τ⟨ῷ⟩δε τ⟨ῷ⟩ μνημ(ε)ίῳ

44 45 46

See e.g. Starr 1937, 87–88, who translates kyra as “Madame”. Koch 1903, 82–84. However, there is evidence that some clarissimi also styled themselves thus. Di Segni 1997, 408, no. 110, fig. 144; FitzGerald 1939, 14, no. 3, pl. xx.

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Plan of the Monastery of Lady Mary (Scythopolis) with locations of inscriptions based on fitzgerald 1939, pl. ii

ἢ τ⟨ί⟩ς ποτε τῆς αὐτῆς γενεᾶς, ἐγὼ Ἠλίας, ἐλέει Θ(εο)ῦ ἐνκλ⟨ει⟩στός, ἐν ὀνόματι Π(ατ)ρ(ὸ)ς κ(αὶ) Y(ἱο)ῦ κ(αὶ) ἁγίου Πν(εύματο)ς εὐλογῶ κ(αὶ) ἀναθεματίζω ἕκαστόν τινα μετ’ ἐμὲ κολύοντα ἢ αὐτὴν ἤ τινα τ⟨ῶ⟩ν αὐτῆς ἢ κ(αὶ) ἐπ⟨αί⟩ροντ[α] ταῦτά μου τὰ ☩ γράμματα. ☩ Where the wreathed cross is, [there] lies the lid of the mouth of the tomb, which has rings. Whoever wishes shall lift the wreathed cross, and he will find the lid, and bury. And if the Lady Maria, who founded this church, should desire in future to lay down (the deceased) in this tomb, or anyone of her family at any time, I Elias, by the mercy of God a recluse, in

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the name of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost, curse and anathematise whoever after me hinders her or any of hers, or removes this inscription of mine.47 This inscription is fascinating not least for its testimony of the supernatural role of the holy man in guarding the repose of the dead, and the role of inscriptions as objects in ‘extended networks of agency’.48 However, here we shall confine ourselves to what it tells us about the donor Kyra Maria and her aims. This inscription further specifies that this Kyra Maria is the founder of the chapel (εἱ τόνδε τὸν ναὸν κτήσασα). The use of the title kyra allows us to presume that she held senatorial rank, but does not allow us to be more precise. However, inferences can be made about her social status based on the other donor inscriptions found in the same building. The inscriptions, located in the main hall of the monastery, in the border of an elaborate zodiac mosaic, are all contemporary with one another. The tomb inscription of Kyra Maria dates to around 567, while the others presumably date to 568/9.49 The first one, located at the main entrance to the hall, lists several names of donors and their titles. ☩ Πρ(οσφορὰ) ὑπὲρ [μν]ήμης κ(αὶ) τελ(ε)ίας ἐν Χ(ριστ)ῷ ἀναπαύσεως Ζωσίμου ἰλλουστρίου κ(αὶ) σωτηρίας κ(αὶ) ἀντιλήμψεως Ἰωάννου ἐνδοξ(οτάτου) ἀπὸ ἐπάρχων κ(αὶ) Πέτρου κ(αὶ) Ἀναστασίου φιλοχρίστων κομίτων κ(αὶ) παντὸς τοῦ εὐλογιμέν(ου) αὐτῶν οἴκου εὐχ[αῖς τῶν ἁγί]ων· Ἀμήν. ☩ Offering for the memory and perfect rest in Christ of the illustris Zosimos, and the preservation and succour of John, the gloriosissimus honorary

47

48

49

Di Segni 1997 408–411, no. 111, fig. 145. Translation lightly adapted by author; FitzGerald 1939, 14–15, no. 4, pl. xxi. πελλαικὸν is a word of disputed derivation which appears to refer to the stone covering (i.e. lid) of the tomb (see FitzGerald 1946; Starr 1937; Piccirillo and Russan 1976, 64 n. 3). As noted already by Peter Brown: “the exercise of the curse points backwards to the position of the holy man as an arbitrator and mediator.” Brown 1971, 88. On objects sanctified by holy men as part of object-agent networks in Late Antiquity, see Hunter-Crawley 2020. A second tomb inscription in the chapel yields the date 567, and thus the terminus ante quem for the construction of the chapel. The donor inscriptions from the main hall are set together in a pavement with a third inscription including an indiction which corresponds either to 553/4 or, as is more likely, 568/9. FitzGerald 1939, 16.

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prefect, and of Peter and Anastasios, Christ-loving comites, and of all their blessed house, through the prayers of the saints. Amen.50 All are titles related to the civic administration of the city.51 Scythopolis was the provincial capital of Palaestina Secunda, thus a city of importance. Unlike offices of the provincial government, however, the offices of the city council could be held by natives of that city. This increases the possibility that the four men mentioned in the inscription are natives of Scythopolis. This in turn increases the likelihood that they were related to each other and that the donation honouring Zosimos was a family act rather than a collegiate one. Since the ranks were not hereditary, it is possible for each member of the family to have earned a different title through their service. It is possible that Zosimos was the father, and that John, Peter, and Anastasios were his sons, using a legacy from the father to commemorate him and endow the monastery with which their family was connected with a stylish—and expensive—mosaic pavement. How might Maria have been connected to this group? She could have been a daughter of Zosimos, although it would then be slightly unusual for her not to be mentioned among the siblings in the hall pavement. The title of kyra must have come through her marriage, since she could only have inherited the rank of clarissima. I therefore propose that, rather than being a daughter of Zosimos married to a man of gloriosissimus rank not otherwise named in the mosaics, that she was married to John, who had the correct rank to be able to bestow the title kyra on his wife. This conclusion is further supported by the second inscription in the main hall, located north of the zodiac pavement, at the entrance to a small chamber. ☩ Χ(ριστ)ὲ ὁ Θ(εὸ)ς ἡμῶν, σκέπη κ(αὶ) ἀντίλημψις γενοῦ κύρου Ἰωάννου ἐνδοξ(οτάτου) ἀπὸ ἐπάρχων κ(αὶ) τοῦ εὐλογιμένου αὐτοῦ οἴκου, εὐχε͂ς τῶν ἁγίων. ☩ Ἀμήν. O Christ our God, be Thou the protection and succour of lord John, the gloriosissimus honorary prefect, and of his blessed house, through the prayers of the saints. Amen.52

50

51 52

Di Segni 1997, 401–402, no. 106, fig. 140; FitzGerald 1939, 13–14, no. 1; SEG 45.1980. While ἀπὸ ἐπάρχων translates to “ex-prefect”, Di Segni believes that this is more likely to have been an honorary prefecture. Either office entitled John to the rank of gloriosissimus. Liebeschuetz 2000, 214. Di Segni 1997, 406–407, no. 109, fig. 143; FitzGerald 1939, 14, no. 2.

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This inscription mentions John again, but this time adds the title kyros, to which he is entitled by virtue of his rank as gloriosissimus. This parallels nicely with the styling kyra employed by Maria: since that title would be hers by marriage it strongly suggests that she was married to John. The second inscription from John independent of the others marks him out as an important donor to the monastery, further suggesting a pairing with Maria as his wife, since she is responsible for building the chapel, with funerary arrangements for her family. That the donations by John are also for the benefit of his family is emphasised in both inscriptions with the phrase τοῦ εὐλογιμένου αὐτοῦ οἴκου. Although Maria and John were both alive at the time the respective inscriptions were commissioned, the inscription in the chapel makes it quite clear that Maria is the commissioner of the work in the chapel, independently of any male relative (including her son). It is possible that the funds for the chapel came from her patrimony, while other areas of the monastery were endowed by her husband’s family. Even if the relationship between Maria and John cannot be as tidily explained as I have done here, it seems nonetheless clear that Maria is part of the same family in some way. All other inscriptions in the complex relate to the monastic and ecclesiastical hierarchy, making it even more likely that these lay donors represent a single family, who have endowed the monastery as a sort of private funerary chapel.53 This then allows us to situate Maria within the social milieu of these high-ranking civil officials. The second example, where a woman’s social status can be deduced from the titles and offices held by her male relatives, is the case of Pallous, whose donation is recorded in the East Church of the village of Nessana (‘Auja el Hafir), in the Negev Desert, dated to 601. [☩] Ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας τῶν καρποφορησάντων Σεργίου ἀπὸ συμπόνου κ(αὶ) μοναχοῦ κ(αὶ) Παλλοῦτος ἀδελφ(ῆς) κ(αὶ) Ἰωάν(ν)ου διακ(όνου) αὐτῆς υἱοῦ πρωτεύοντ(ος) μητροπ (όλεως) Ἐμμίσ(ης), (ἔτους) υϙϛ´ ἰνδ(ικτιῶνος) ε´ μη(νὸς) Γορπ(ιαίου) κ´. For the salvation of the benefactors, Sergios ex-assessor and monk, and Pallous his sister, and John the deacon, her son, principalis of the metropolis of Emesa, in the year 496, indiction 5, on the 20th of the month Gorpiaios.54 53 54

The exception is a second epitaph in the north-east corner of the chapel, which records the burial of the hermit Elias’ sister Georgia. FitzGerald 1939, 15, no. 5. Di Segni 1997, 790–793, no. 308, fig. 359; Kirk and Welles 1962, 173–174, no. 95; SEG 8.312 (following an older reading with Πιάνου instead of Ἰωάν(ν)ου).

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Sergios is a former assessor, a legal advisor to the provincial governor. While not an office which conferred senatorial rank, it was nonetheless one of the many offices that characterised the Late Roman administration as cosmopolitan and upwardly mobile. Sergios would have held his office outside his home province, and it seems likely therefore that he lived in Emesa, modern-day Homs in western Syria. Pallous’ son is πρωτεύων, which indicates that he was among the leading citizens of the city of Emesa, with curial responsibilities, probably inherited from his father, Pallous’ husband. That he is a deacon further reinforces his social standing as someone of wealth and consequence in his home community. This allows us to conclude that Pallous is a matron of prominent standing as well. How is it, then, that this cosmopolitan group of urban elites come to be endowing a church in a rural village on the fringes of the Sinai Desert? One suggestion is that Sergios was a native of Emesa, and served his term as assessor in Palaestina Tertia, and retired to Nessana as a monk, specifically drawn to Nessana because of its location on the pilgrimage route.55 The interpretation I favour, on the other hand, is that both Sergios and Pallous were natives of the village of Nessana, that he spent his career in Emesa (eventually arranging the marriage of his sister to a prominent local Emesene), and on the event of his monastic retirement, either returned to his home village, or endowed a church there.56 This accounts for Pallous’ and John’s involvement, and gives additional insight into the emphasis on these urban titles in a rural setting: they highlight the success obtained by Sergios and Pallous in their career and marriage, and set them apart from the other villagers in terms of their status. The other epigraphic and papyrological evidence from Nessana confirm a modus of competition for social prestige rooted in family power and socio-economic class.57 Leah Di Segni comments on the absence of Pallous’ husband from the arrangements, and suggests that this indicates she is a widow, and that her son is serving as her guardian in the matter of the benefaction. However, according to Roman law a husband had no automatic legal right to a woman’s property outside her dowry.58 This inscription likely commemorates the act of Sergios disposing of his property prior to becoming a monk, which would entail bequeathing it to his family (in this case his blood relations, his sister and

55 56 57 58

Kirk and Welles 1962, 174; Figueras 1995, 429. See Di Segni 1997, 790–793. Ruffini 2011. As in Cod. Iust. 5.14.8 (dated 450). See Arjava 1996, 145–154.

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nephew), with a portion set aside for the monastery he intended to enter.59 The dedication of the church may represent the disposal of all those funds in one swoop, with the consent of and for the mutual benefit of all his heirs. Since this benefaction involves blood relatives on Pallous’ side of the family, the absence of her husband in what is in essence the legal disposal of joint property and inheritance is by no means surprising. Even if Pallous were a widow, it is unlikely that John was acting as her guardian, as there is very little indication that the guardianship of women (tutela mulierum) was practiced after the midfourth century.60 Pallous is fully empowered to make her own decisions with the funds that she has dedicated to the building of this church. However, John’s participation, beyond as Sergios’ direct heir, may be to honour his mother’s family using his own patrimony. As a deacon, part of his expected contribution would be financial gifts to the church in Emesa, indicating a predisposition to generous donations on John’s part.

5

Putting On Airs? The Donor Portrait of Kyra Silthous at Kissufim

Rank and titles seem to have been of particular importance to the self-representation of the family that endowed the monastery in Scythopolis, and for the urban elites from Emesa attested at Nessana. In an urban environment in particular, where there would be a greater concentration of people who would have such titles and recognise their meaning, such niceties would confer precise distinctions. Further away from the provincial capitals, however, especially in rural societies where the social gap between wealthy patrons and their beneficiaries would have been more obvious, titles could be more vague, and have less specific meaning. This is illustrated by another occurrence of the title kyra, in a church in a rural setting located 17km southwest of Gaza, in modern-day Kissufim. The title occurs as part of the label of a mosaic donor portrait, situated in the second intercolumniation on the north side of the nave. Two dated mosaic inscriptions, one at the entrance to the nave and the other in the first intercolumniation, date the work to between 576 and 578.61 The label accompanies half-length portraits of two women, both elegantly dressed, with jewellery and covered heads (fig. 13.3). The figure on the left proffers a dish with a prepared bird, while the woman on the right distributes coins in an expansive gesture 59 60 61

Just. Nov. 123, 38. Arjava 1996, 112–123; 141, 147–156. CIIP iii 2542–2543 (phs.); SEG 30.1688–1689; SEG 34.1472.

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Kyra Silthous mosaic (Kissufim) copyright israel museum, jerusalem

with her right hand. The figure on the right is larger than the one on the left, affording her greater prominence in the composition, which likely reflects her greater prominence and higher status in life as well. καλὴ ὥρα ἡ κυρὰ Σιλθοῦς. Kalliora (or a happy hour), the lady Silthous (or the lady of Silthous)62 Despite, or perhaps because of, its brevity, the inscription has occasioned many conflicting interpretations. The first concerns the word ΚΑΛΗΩΡΑ. Is this to be taken as a personal name, or as a descriptor of the scene (the donation represents a happy time)? Are these the portraits of two women donors (whose names were Kalliora and Lady Silthous)? Or, given the smaller scale of the figure on the left, is it a portrait of one woman and a servant, or is the left-hand figure perhaps to be understood as a personification, of the “happy moment”, or of the act of benefaction?63 These concerns do not necessarily affect us here,

62 63

Di Segni 1997, 681–682, no. 231, fig. 283; SEG 30.1690. Jacobs 2020, 36 and n. 7 summarises the differing schools of thought.

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as we are focused on the figure on the right, which is generally agreed to be a portrait of the donor herself. This figure is likewise not without ambiguity. There are two interpretations of Σιλθοῦς. It can either be read in the nominative as a personal name, i.e. the name of the person represented. Or it can be read as a genitive, the lady of Silthous, in which case Silthous would be the name of the estate, and the woman would be its mistress. Some suggest that “Kalliora” was the personal name of the figure on the right, rather than referring to an abstract concept or the figure on the left, making Kyra Silthous a title.64 To further muddy the waters, Kyra and its variants were also popular personal names in the period, as we saw above with the deaconness Kyra.65 Despite this profusion of interpretations, I prefer the reading of Leah Di Segni, that Silthous is a personal name, and kyra is an honorific. I further suggest that this church relates to an estate— rather than a village—setting, as it provides context for the use of kyra as a title. The senatorial classes who were entitled to bear the honorific kyros or kyra as we saw above, were strongly linked to the land through extensive ownership of rural property. The swelling of the ranks of the senatorial aristocracy in the fourth century meant that the link to the cities of Rome and Constantinople was diluted; in fact, the senatorial aristocracy were encouraged to remain in their provinces.66 While the elite may have preferred to reside in cities, they were among the most important holders of rural and agricultural land in the empire. In addition to the ‘old families’ with long-standing holdings, more recent entrants into the ‘service aristocracy’ also increased their wealth through acquiring land, often through imperial grants. They might also hold emphyteuctic (long-term or even perpetual) leases on imperial estates.67 In the absence of male titulature relating to rank or offices, it is impossible to say what rank or station the use of kyra here is meant to indicate. It is possible, too, that the title has been co-opted by a representative of the lower orders (occasionally clarissimi styled themselves as kyros), or even a non-aristocrat.68 Kyra might not be meant as formally reflective of titular rank but to identify the donor as the mistress of the estate. This would be equivalent to the title of domina and dominus used for the owners of households, both urban and rural, in the Roman period, as a general marker of respect. A donor portrait including

64 65 66 67 68

E.g. Habas 2008, 83. Feissel 2013, 608. Jones 1973, 529. Jones 1973, 770; 788–789; Haldon 2004, 192. See Jacobs 2020, esp. 40, who suggests that Kyra Silthous may not have been a member of the aristocracy at all, but a representative of a well-off farming or trading family.

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a portrait of the estate’s domina would recall mosaics found in villas of Sicily or North Africa, where “[t]he frequent presence of the dominus and domina clinch the relationship between the personae of the owners and the villa and estate they owned”.69 This would be especially valuable to reinforce the landownerlabourer relationship in cases where the owners of the estate would be likely to be absentee, resident in a large city, with extensively scattered landholdings.70 The idea that the donor is flaunting her status—perhaps beyond what her actual status entitled her to—carries over into the iconography of the portrait itself, which draws heavily on motifs from imperial iconography. Most noticeably, Kyra Silthous’ cloak is of a purple hue, which has connotations of high—imperial—rank.71 In addition to the rich attire of the figures, the gestures employed are reminiscent of imperial donor portraits.72 In terms of style and composition (if not the sumptuousness of the materials represented), the rendering of the details resembles the sixth-century mosaics of Empress Theodora and her attendants in San Vitale in Ravenna, especially the technical rendering of the facial features, the cloak, head-dress, and jewellery.73 The gesture of proffering what resembles a liturgical vessel also recalls the Ravenna scene.74 The gesture of dispensing coins with open hand recalls the act of sparsio, the distributing of coins performed by emperors and consuls at games, while the way in which our figure clutches fabric in her lap with her left hand is evocative of the mappa, with which the emperor or consul signalled the start of the games as seen e.g. on consular diptychs.75 While the gesture with 69 70 71

72 73 74

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Marzano and Métraux 2018, 30. Sarris 2004, 58, on the anxieties of the absentee landowning elite regarding their rural tenants. Jones 1973, 770. In Late Antiquity, the use of the costliest purple dye, Tyrian purple made from murex shells, was tightly controlled by imperial legislation, and a law of 424 made it illegal for anyone not in the imperial household to wear the pure colour. This law was modified in the sixth century, however, to allow women’s garments to be made from genuine purple (while men could only wear cloth dyed with a 50 % blend). Cod. Theod. 10.21.3, amended Cod. Iust. 11.9.4. Marquardt 1879–1882, 516, n. 2. Less expensive purple dyes were widely available, but purple continued to be associated with power and prestige, and more negatively with excessive wealth and luxury. Pennick Morgan 2018, 51. On imperial emulation in women’s donor portraits in the late antique Near East, see Britt 2008, 121, 124–131. See Cohen 1993, 281, who notes the high technical skill and the minute tesserae (5×5mm) used for detailed work. The dish, with a flared foot base, resembles examples of liturgical patens, used for serving the bread of the Eucharist. The item on the dish, sometimes identified as a fowl or chicken, is a bit of a puzzle. See for example, the portrait of Constantius ii performing sparsio in the Calendar of 354 (Codex Vaticanus Barberini latinus 2154, Stern 1953, 155–157 and Pl. xiv), or the personific-

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the coins can also be a general motif of liberality, as in the case of the mosaic personification of Megalopsychia (magnanimity) from the Yakto complex at Antioch, it is also a gesture made by Anicia Juliana, descendant of Theodosius the Great, in the donor portrait of the Vienna Dioscurides (dated 512).76 This portrait has other parallels with that of Kyra Silthous: in it Anicia Juliana wears a headdress with a prominent central medallion (giving the impression of a diadem); her garment is also worn tightly wrapped around the torso. Anicia Juliana is also flanked by female personifications (Megalopsychia, magnanimity, and Phronesis, prudence). While Anicia Juliana’s portrait teems with more specific imperial and consular imagery than that of Kyra Silthous, the parallels are certainly there. Bente Kiilerich describes Anicia Juliana’s appropriation of consular, imperial, imagery as “pretentious” (since, despite her lineage, she was not related to the reigning imperial family).77 One can only imagine how pretentious it would have been for our patroness. Perhaps the church belonged to an imperial estate; this would have been commissioned during the regency of Sophia (from 574 to 578), so images of female imperial rulership might have been appropriate. The inscription along with the iconography of the donor portrait, convey an impression of very high status, but in the absence of more precise corresponding male titles it is impossible to know whether these were emblems that the patroness was entitled to by her rank, or if she was putting on airs: a sixth-century Hyacinth Bucket, making a display of status as grande dame to the rest of the community. In a rural area there would be greater opportunities for self-aggrandisement: with fewer people in possession of titles there would be less direct competition for prominence but more of a need to emphasise social distinction. The audience of this mosaic would be more likely to be impressed by their patroness’s consequence than offended by her effrontery.78 The inscriptions discussed above share certain characteristics: they all employ a recognised form of title or honorific address as an indicator of the social status of the woman making the donation. This appears to contradict the Christian rhetoric of pious humility which would encourage believers to eschew earthly status, as Theodosia, first ἐνδοξότατα κουβικουλάρια and later

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ation of January (when consuls held their inaugural games) in the calendar mosaic from the Villa of the Falconer at Argos of ca. 500 ce, Åkerström-Hougen 1974, 73–75. On the iconography of consular diptychs, see Olovsdotter 2011. Codex Vindobonensis med. gr. 1. fol. 6v. See Kiilerich 2001 for discussion of imperial and consular imagery in the portrait. Kiilerich 2001, 177. On the social context of the church, possibly a family funerary church, see Ashkenazi 2018, 718.

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μονάχουσα, did. Instead it tells us that these women are trying to convey very specific information about themselves and their place in the community to those who might view the inscriptions. Despite this, the inscriptions express Christian theological concepts, requesting salvation, mercy, or remembrance for the patroness, adopting the formula of an ex voto inscription. But rather than just being a one-to-one contract between the patroness and the divine, the act by the community, of reading and commemoration, had the effect of amplifying the original prayer of the donor. As demonstrated by Sean Leatherbury: “As clergy and laypeople walked around outside and inside the church, encountering inscribed prayers at different parts of the building, they came face to face with a network of prayers for important individuals in the community.”79 Not only were the donors able to reap the immediate social benefits of endowing a place of worship for their community, in which their and their families’ names were prominently displayed, but further spiritual rewards were also accrued through the repetition of that recognition, in the reading of the inscription and reiteration of the prayer. Emily Hemelrijk summarised the motivations for women’s public benefactions in the Latin West as follows: Apart from a desire for public honour, a wish to be remembered favourably, pride in one’s city, and a wish to enhance its beauty or contribute to its amenities must have been powerful motives; religious sentiments, too, must often have induced benefactors to build, adorn or restore temples. Furthermore, there is the possible influence of family strategies, of the desire to live up to a family tradition, or of competition between social peers.80 All of these motives are evident in the inscriptions we have looked at above as well. The religious sentiments, are of course, the most explicitly stated motivation, in the requests for salvation, mercy, or remembrance. The desire to enhance the beauty of the church, and to provide it with amenities, is implicit in the act of donating the mosaic pavements into which all these inscriptions are incorporated. The desire to live up to family tradition is clearly evident in the inscriptions of Kyra the deaconess, who, like her father before her, became a patroness of the local church. The desire to honour forebears is expressed in the inscription by Kyra Maria, while the desire to secure the spiritual wellbeing

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Leatherbury 2020, 258. Hemelrijk 2013, 77.

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of descendants is expressed by her and by the deaconess Kyra. Social competition is a strong undercurrent in the inscription from Nessana and the donor portrait from Kissufim. The inclusion of titles and rank in the inscriptions is for the benefit of the ‘readers’, the members of the community who are both able to confer social rewards through their recognition of the donor’s status, and to amplify their spiritual rewards by echoing her written prayers. It demonstrates that women’s motives for making benefactions to churches constitute a form of euergetism which could confer honours on the woman and her family, in a manner not dissimilar to their Roman foremothers.81

Bibliography Åkerström-Hougen, G. (1974). The Calendar and Hunting Mosaics of the Villa of the Falconer in Argos. A Study in Early Byzantine Iconography. Stockholm. Arjava, A. (1996). Women and Law in Late Antiquity. Oxford. Ashkenazi, J. (2018). Family Rural Churches in Late Antique Palestine and the Competition in the ‘Field of Religious Goods’. A Socio-Historical View. JEH 69.4, pp. 709–727. Avi-Yonah, M. (1947). Greek Christian inscriptions from Riḥāb. Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities in Palestine 13, pp. 69–70. Britt, K. (2008). Fama et Memoria: Portraits of Female Patrons in Mosaic Pavements of Churches in Byzantine Palestine and Arabia. Medieval Feminist Forum 44.2, pp. 119– 143. Brown, P. (2012). Through the Eye of a Needle. Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550ad. Princeton, NJ. Clark, G. (1993). Women in Late Antiquity. Pagan and Christian Lifestyles. Oxford. Cohen, R. (1979). A Byzantine Church and Mosaic Floor near Kissufim (in Hebrew). Qadmoniot 45.1, pp. 19–24. Cohen, R. (1993). A Byzantine Church and Its Mosaic Floors at Kissufim. In: Y. Tsafrir, ed., Ancient Churches Revealed, Jerusalem, pp. 277–282. Di Segni, L. (1997). Dated Greek Inscriptions from Palestine from the Roman and Byzantine Periods. Diss. Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Di Segni, L. (1998). The Greek Inscriptions. In: M. Piccirillo and E. Alliata, eds., Mount Nebo. New Archaeological Excavations, 1967–1997, Jerusalem, pp. 430–450. 81

I am very pleased to be able to share this research that emerged from my NWO Veni project “Gendering Sacred Space” (University of Amsterdam, 2015–2019) in this volume honouring Emily’s impact on the fields of epigraphy and the history of women, as a token of gratitude for her mentorship and support over the years. Further thanks to Sean Leatherbury for reading an early draft of this work, and to Elodie Turquois and Paweł Nowakowski for comments on Greek translation.

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Index abbess 294 Acropolis, Athens 107–117, 121–123 Acropolis, Oinoanda 221 Ada, Carian queen 38 Adea-Eurydike, Macedonian queen 21–25, 37–38 Aegina 123 Aglauros 113–114 agoge 131–132 agonothetes, female 136–137, 140–142 agora 110, 221 Agrippina Maior 195 Agrippina Minor 46, 50, 54, 57, 60, 183– 184 Alexandria 26, 60, 70, 76, 88–89, 148, 150– 152, 166–167, 170 altar 99, 110, 112, 119, 253, 255, 262, 284, 295 Amanirenase, queen of Kush 19, 34 Amanishakheto, queen of Kush 34–35 Amastris, queen of Herakleia 21, 25, 26 Ammianus Marcellinus 75, 77 Amphiareia Romaia 135, 152 ancestry 27–28, 113, 144, 189, 203, 221, 224–225, 228, 230, 232, 234–238, 243, 275 Anicia Juliana 313 Antioch 70, 72, 137, 313 Apama, Seleucid queen 21, 27 Apollo 136 Arianism 74 army 21–23, 27, 30, 32–33, 36–37, 53–54, 65, 72, 75–76, 167–168 arrephoroi 112–113 Arsinoe ii, Ptolemaic queen 21, 29, 134, 148 Arsinoe iii, Ptolemaic queen 19, 27–29 Artemis 111, 130, 153, 272, 280 Artemisia, Carian queen 38 Asklepieia 136, 154–155 Assyrian 52, 80–81, 83 Athena 107, 111–116, 118, 120–123 Athens 107, 112–113, 121, 123, 131, 134–136, 139–140, 150, 152, 155, 200, 234 Aurelian, Roman emperor 68–72 Bacchanalia 5, 176, 179, 180–181, 183–184 bacchantes 5, 174–179, 181–186, 188–191

Bacchus 174–177, 179, 181, 184, 185–187, 189, 190–191 banquet 5, 13, 141, 249–250, 252–253, 255– 257, 260–266 barbarian 67, 69, 71, 76, 78, 174, 198 basilissa 21, 26–27 Bedouin 78 Belistische, Ptolemaic lady 134, 148–149 benefactions 13, 141, 235, 238–241, 243, 291– 292, 308, 310, 314–315 Berenike Syra, Ptolemaic princess 27, 134, 148–149 Berenike i, Ptolemaic queen 134, 148 Berenike ii, Ptolemaic queen 27–29, 37, 134, 149–150 Boudicca, queen of the Iceni 68, 82, 83 Brauron 111, 129 breast 129, 284 breastfeeding 127, 164 businesswoman 162 Caecilia Metella 200–201 Caracalla, Roman emperor 47, 51–53, 55, 60–61, 71, 137 Cassius Dio 31, 48, 50, 58, 60, 183, 201, 203– 204, 207, 209 childbirth 127, 131, 162, 164–165 Cicero 201, 209, 215 circus factions 91 Blues 88, 91 Greens 88, 91 clock time 5, 159, 160, 165–171 Constantinople 75, 88–89, 91, 93, 95–96, 101–103, 294, 302, 311 convivium 249, 262 Cornelia Metella 196–199, 201, 214–215 Cornelius Nepos 201, 208–209 courtesan 149–250, 262 cubicularia 301 cultural interaction 271–272, 281–282 deaconess 293–296, 298–299, 314 Delphi 21, 123, 135–137, 154 Demeter 123, 142 demos 27, 108, 120–123 dignitas 206, 209, 210–213, 215

320 Dionysiades 131 domestic 3, 7, 89, 127, 132, 143, 173–174, 179, 199, 209, 249, 257, 261, 265, 272 domiseda 195, 203, 216 domus 4, 46–47, 50, 59, 173, 194–196, 210– 215 dress 28, 56, 60, 102, 104, 113, 178, 206, 250–254, 257, 260, 265, 270, 272, 281– 287 Dura-Europos 5, 270–272, 274–278, 281, 287 Dushfary, princess of Hatra 80 Dynamis, queen of the Bosporus 32 dynasty 37–38, 46, 70, 72–73, 82–83, 143 Argead 20–21, 37 Arsacid 20 Hekatomnid 38 Ptolemaic 37, 133, 134 Seleucid 27 Severan 4, 46, 48, 52, 62 Theodosian 99 Egypt 8, 26, 28, 31, 33–34, 52, 70, 74, 76, 83, 148, 150, 152, 158–161, 163–168, 170–171, 195–198 Elagabalus, Roman emperor 47, 52–54, 56– 58, 61–62 Eleusis 116, 121–123 elite 1–2, 4–6, 10–12, 16–17, 48, 50, 80, 108, 132–134, 136, 138, 142–143, 169–171, 195– 199, 201, 203–204, 206–207, 210–216, 220, 236–240, 243, 252, 271–273, 275– 277, 279, 281–282, 287–288, 308–309, 311–312 Emesa 53, 72, 79, 307–309 epitaph 153, 243, 298, 301, 304, 307 Erechtheion 119 ergastinai 113 Eteoboutadai 112, 115 euergetism 142, 220, 235, 292, 294, 315 Euripides 131, 174, 182, 190 Europaioi 275 Eurydike, Macedonian queen 20–21 exemplum 205, 207, 210 Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium 78 femininity 12, 28, 46–47, 49, 158–159, 173– 174, 176, 179–180, 183, 190, 194 feminism 67

index festival 6, 100, 112, 128, 136–138, 141, 143, 148, 163, 222, 229, 235, 241, 274 fines 110–111, 117, 119–122, 224 fire 110–111, 119, 121–123 Flavia Platonis 229, 232–233 footraces for girls 129, 130–132, 136–137, 143– 144 forum 4, 194–196 freedwomen 2, 176, 180, 263 Fulvia 19, 201–202, 208–209 funerary monument 2, 5, 17, 77, 135, 170, 194, 196, 198–199, 201, 205, 220, 225, 230, 234, 237, 239, 241, 244, 249, 252–253, 255–257, 260–265, 293, 301–302, 307, 313 Gallienus, Roman emperor 68–69, 76 Ge Kourotrophos 113–114 Gelasius of Caesarea 74 gender 3, 11, 13, 16, 17, 19, 48–49, 55, 66– 67, 90, 102–103, 122, 124, 158–161, 163, 166–167, 169, 171, 174, 179, 180–181, 186– 190, 194–195, 260–262, 265, 272–273, 282 genealogy 6, 220, 222–238, 242–244, 273, 275 Geta, Roman emperor 47, 50–51 grandmother 25, 47, 53, 56, 57, 83, 229, 231, 279 guardians, female 23, 37 guardians of women 185, 274, 308, 309 gymnasiarchs, female 139–143 gymnasion 127–130, 134, 138–141, 144 Hatra 80, 286–287 headdress 28–29, 282, 284, 285–287, 312–313 Hekatompedon 107, 111, 116, 120 Hera 123 Heraia 130 Herodian 48–50, 53–56, 58, 60, 62 Hesychius 119, 129 hierarchy 80, 102–103, 136–137, 176, 181, 186– 189, 191, 286, 294, 299, 307 hippodrome 91 Historia Augusta 48–51, 53–61, 68–71, 76, 83, 260 horse races 91, 132–136, 138, 149 Hortensia 194–195 host of party 169, 250, 256

index household 6, 53, 59, 81, 85, 97, 159–160, 169, 171, 173, 180, 183, 194, 203, 215, 301–302, 312 Hyakinthia 133, 142 imperial cult 13, 128, 138, 142–144, 293–294 independence 2, 59, 75, 181, 261, 263, 265, 275, 295, 307 inheritance 2, 231, 272, 295–296, 298, 309 initiation 130, 135, 176, 180, 189 Isis 116, 169, 176 Isthmia 137 Isthmian Games 134–136, 148–149, 154–155 Jerusalem 99, 300, 302, 310 jewellery 102, 113, 211, 282, 284, 286–287, 309, 312 Julia Balbilla 170 Julia Domna, Roman empress 1, 10–11, 13, 16, 47–52, 55, 59–60, 62 Julia Maesa, Roman empress 47–49, 53–54, 56–57, 60, 62 Julia Mammaea, Roman empress 47–49, 54, 58–60, 62 Julia Soaemias, Roman empress 47–49, 54, 56–57, 60–62 Julian, Roman emperor 77 Justinian, Roman emperor 4, 88–103, 295, 300 Juvenal 183, 195, 197 Kaisareia 137 Kallynteria 113–114 kandake 33–34 Kekropion 110, 119–120 Kekrops 112–113 Kibyra 229, 231–232 Kleopatra, daughter of Philip ii 21, 25 Kleopatra ii, Ptolemaic queen 30, 152 Kleopatra iii, Ptolemaic queen 30 Kleopatra iv, Ptolemaic queen 30 Kleopatra vii, Ptolemaic queen 19, 30–31, 36, 68, 83 kline 253, 259, 262 Kore 123 Kratesipolis, Macedonian ruler 25 Kyniska, Spartan princess 132–134, 148–149 Kynnane, Macedonian princess 21–23, 25, 37–38

321 Laodike iii, Seleucid queen 27, 37 letters by women 5, 159–162, 164–165, 168, 171, 196, 253 Licinnia Flavilla 6, 220, 222, 224–225, 228– 238, 240, 242–244 literacy 1, 160–162 Livia, Roman empress 12–13, 46, 50, 137– 138, 154, 184, 212–214, 250 Livy 5, 6, 175–181, 183, 185–186, 189, 190, 194 Loutrides 113–114 Maenad 174, 179, 181–184 Malalas 89, 91, 137 Marcia 199, 201 marriage 21, 23, 27, 37, 38, 60, 75, 79, 88, 100, 164, 208, 228–229, 231, 278, 296, 300, 306, 308 masculinity 12, 33, 49, 54–55, 57, 59, 68, 69, 127, 159, 165, 170, 180–181, 183, 194 matron 1–2, 5–6, 10–11, 13, 57, 177–180, 189, 191, 194, 196, 206, 213, 215, 252, 262, 308 Mawia, queen of the Saracens 3, 4, 65–67, 73–79, 82, 83 menstruation 158, 163, 164 Messalina, Roman empress 59, 175, 181–184, 190 monasticism 302, 307, 308 motherhood 6, 14–16, 18, 37, 47, 51, 54, 58, 61, 65, 131–132, 134, 179–181, 183, 191, 198, 208, 210, 214, 221, 237–238, 243, 261 Mousa, Arsacid queen 20 Nabatea 32, 79, 83 neai 129 Neapolis 136–138, 154 Nemea 130, 137 Nemean Games 134, 136, 148–149, 154–155 Nika riots 90–91, 103 Nitocris, Egyptian queen 51–52, 55 nomads 71, 75–76, 78–79, 82 nun 302 Odainath, Palmyrene ruler 69–72 Oinoanda 6, 220–222, 224, 226, 229, 231– 232, 234–236, 238, 243–244 Olympia 130, 132–135, 142, 148–149, 152, 154 Olympias, deaconess 294 Olympias, Macedonian queen 19, 21–23, 25, 36–37

322 oriental 47, 52, 56, 62, 68–69, 71, 76, 79 Orientalism 49, 61 Oropos 135, 152, 200 oven 111, 118–119

index publicity 2, 128, 173 pudicitia 46, 59, 174, 180–181, 190 Pythian Games 136, 154, 155 Queen of Sheba 79

Paculla Annia 175–181, 183, 189 pallium 251, 257, 259–260 Palmyra 3, 65, 68–73, 76–77 Panathenaia 112–113, 115, 133–134, 150–152 Pandroseion 114, 123 Pandrosos 112, 114 Parthenon 22, 108, 118–119, 123, 130–133, 138, 149 Parthia 20, 80, 197–198, 270–271, 275, 281 patriarchy 65, 66, 181 patrilineal decent 273, 275–277, 279, 281, 287 patronage 1, 11–12, 14, 38, 189, 224, 231, 235, 272, 291–292, 294–295, 299, 302, 313–314 peplos 112–114 pilgrimage 302, 308 Plancina 195 Plutarch 31, 131, 198, 200–201, 203, 209, 211 Plynteria 113–114 Plyntrides 113 poetess 170 polygyny 80 Pompeia Agrippinilla 6, 175, 184–186, 190 Pompeii 16, 170, 179, 250–251, 257 Portia 195, 201–202, 211 portraits of women 2, 4–5, 32, 101–102, 272– 273, 281–284, 287, 309–313, 315 Posidippus 26, 29, 134, 149, 170 Praxiergidai 113–115 pregnancy 5, 164–165, 171 prestige 6, 39, 57, 130, 133, 135–136, 229, 233, 236–238, 242, 263–264, 276–277, 281, 308, 312 priest 6, 53, 111–112, 116, 119, 121, 123, 177, 185– 186, 188–189, 228, 241, 270, 284, 286, 293, 297 priestess 2, 6, 13, 81–82, 107–124, 142–144, 153, 174–175, 177–179, 186, 189, 191, 213, 249, 272, 293 Procopius 4, 88–95, 97, 103–104 Propertius 129, 131, 144, 199, 201 property 2, 58, 82, 115, 123, 194, 203, 210, 215, 274, 302, 308–309 proscriptions 204–205, 207, 210, 215

Ravenna 4, 90, 96–97, 99–103, 312 Rhodiapolis 230, 238–239, 241–242, 244 Rome 1–5, 8–9, 11–16, 19, 46–48, 50, 52, 56, 67, 69, 70–73, 76–77, 82, 135–137, 175, 178–179, 187, 195–196, 198, 202–204, 206, 208, 210–212, 214–216, 240–243, 249–250, 253, 255, 262, 263, 311 Roxane, wife of Alexander 21 Rufinus 74, 76 Sabina, Roman empress 170 sacrifice 14, 109–114, 119–121, 178–179, 182, 208 of Konon (painting) 270, 280, 282, 284– 287 Salaminioi 114–115 Salome Alexandra, queen of Judea 19, 20, 32 salles à gradins at Dura-Europos 272–280, 287 Samsi, Assyrian queen 80–81 Saracens 3, 73–78 Sardanapalus, Assyrian king 52 Sebasta (Naples) 137–138, 154, 157 Sebasteia (Athens) 136, 155 self-representation 130, 236, 271–272, 293, 309 Semiramis, Assyrian queen 49, 51–52, 55, 61–62, 68 senatorial rank, women of 57, 137–138, 187, 287, 294, 301, 303, 305, 307, 311 Septimius Severus, Roman emperor 47–48, 50, 59, 137 Severan 4, 46, 48–49, 52–55, 59, 62, 70, 83 Severus Alexander, Roman emperor 47–48, 52–53, 58 sexualisation 131 sexuality 59, 183 Shaqilar, Nabatean queen 32 Shaqilath ii, Nabatean queen 79 singing 56, 136, 170 Socrates Scholasticus 74–76, 82 Sophia, Roman empress 212

index Sozomen 74, 76 Sparta 128–129, 131–133, 136–139, 142–144, 148–150, 154, 165, 229 synthesis (dress) 257–258, 260 Tabua, Assyrian queen 80–81 Tacitus 54, 57, 59, 94, 182–184, 190, 252 Tamiai 107–118, 120, 121–123 Te’elhunu, Assyrian queen 80–81 Temple of Artemis at Dura-Europos 272– 273, 276–280 Temple of Atargatis at Dura-Europos 272– 273, 279–280 Temple of Azzanathkona at Dura-Europos 272–274, 280–281 Temple of Bel at Dura-Europos 270, 273, 282, 284–287 Temple of Zeus at Aizanoi 223, 241 Temple of Zeus Theos at Dura-Europos 273, 277–278, 282–283, 286–287 Teuta, Illyrian queen 19, 20, 38 Theodora, Roman empress 4, 88–90, 92– 104, 312 theoroi, female 142 Thessalonike, Macedonian princess 21

323 thiasos 6, 186–189, 191 toga 56, 208, 254, 257, 260 topos 4, 67, 69, 82 training for women 22, 23, 128, 131 travel by women 2, 72, 162–164, 170, 195– 200, 206, 209–210, 214, 216 treasure 34, 107–108, 110–123, 185, 204, 224 Turia 11–12, 201–202, 205–206, 210–211 tutela mulierum 208 Valens, Roman emperor 65, 74–77 Velleius Paterculus 201–202, 205, 209, 212– 214 victors, female 144, 148–157 Vindolanda 198, 253, 260 Wahballat, Palmyrene ruler 65, 68, 71 warrior queens 3–4, 18–19, 21–22, 26, 29, 32–33, 65–70, 72–73, 76, 82 Zakoroi 108, 111, 115–121 Zenobia, Palmyrene ruler 3, 65–66, 68–73, 76, 79, 82–83 Zeus 113, 119, 280, 286 Zosimus 69, 71–72, 77