Ancient West & East, Volume 3, No 2 (2004) (Ancient West & East)

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ANCIENT WEST & EAST VOLUME 3, NO. 2

Academic Periodical

ANCIENT WEST & EAST Monograph Supplement: COLLOQUIA PONTICA editor-in-chief

GOCHA R. TSETSKHLADZE (AUSTRALIA) editors

A. Avram (Romania/France) – Sir John Boardman (UK) O. Bopearachchi (France) – J. Bouzek (Czech Rep.) – A. ÇilingiroÅlu (Turkey) – B. d’Agostino (Italy) – F. De Angelis (Canada) – A. Domínguez (Spain) – O. Doonan (USA) – M. Fischer (Israel) – J.Hargrave (UK) J. Hind (UK) – M. Kazanski (France) – A.Podossinov (Russia) D. Ridgway (UK) – N. Theodossiev (Bulgaria) – A.Wilson (UK) advisory board P. Alexandrescu (Romania) – S. Atasoy (Turkey) – L. Ballesteros Pastor (Spain) A.D.H. Bivar (UK) – S. Burstein (USA) – J. Carter (USA) – B. Cunliffe (UK) J. de Boer (The Netherlands) – P. Dupont (France) – A. Fol (Bulgaria) – J. Fossey (Canada) I. Gagoshidze (Georgia) – E. Haerinck (Belgium) – V. Karageorghis (Cyprus) M. Kerschner (Austria/Germany) – A. Kuhrt (UK) – I. Malkin (Israel) – F. Millar (UK) J.-P. Morel (France) – R. Olmos (Spain) – A. Rathje (Denmark) – A. Sagona (Australia) A. Snodgrass (UK) – S. Solovyov (Russia) – D. Stronach (USA) – M.A. Tiverios (Greece) M. Vassileva (Bulgaria) – A. Wasowicz (Poland) All correspondence should be addressed to: Aquisitions Editor/Classical Studies Brill Academic Publishers Plantijnstraat 2 P.O. Box 9000 2300 PA Leiden The Netherlands Fax: +31 (0)71 5317532 E-Mail: [email protected] or Gocha R. Tsetskhladze Centre for Classics and Archaeology The University of Melbourne Victoria 3010 Australia Tel: +61 3 83445565 Fax: +61 3 83444161 E-Mail: [email protected]

ANCIENT WEST & EAST VOLUME 3, NO. 2

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2004

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

ISSN 1570–1921 ISBN 90 04 13975 3 © Copyright 2004 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Articles C. Tuplin, Medes in Media, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia: Empire, Hegemony, Domination or Illusion? .................................................... G.-J. Burgers, Western Greeks in their Regional Setting: Rethinking Early Greek-Indigenous Encounters in Southern Italy ...................... M.M. Jackson, Jewellery Evidence and the Lowering of South Italian Ceramic Chronology ............................................................................ S.A. Kovalenko, The Organisation of the Mint in Chersonesus Taurica in the First Half of the 4th Century BC ............................ A.V. Podossinov, Das Schwarze Meer in der geokartographischen Tradition der Antike und des frühen Mittelalters. II. Die Halbinsel Krim, das Asowsche Meer und die Straße von Kertsch .................. A. Avram, M. Bârbulescu and M. Ionescu, À propos des pontarques du Pont Gauche ....................................................................................

223 252 283 314

338 354

Notes S.L. Solovyov and M.Y. Treister, Bronze Punches from Berezan ...... 365 F. Marco Simón, De Gallia in Hispaniam: Notes on a Brooch with the Heads of a Lion, a Bull and a Human Found in Celtiberia ................................................................................................ 376 Book Reviews The Mediterranean: A Corrupting Sea? A Review-Essay on Ecology and History, Anthropology and Synthesis (P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History) (P.F. Bang) .......... New Books on Ancient Anatolia and Assyria (C. Glatz and R. Matthews) ................................................................ New Publications on the Black Sea Region (G.R. Tsetskhladze) .................... Two Books on Mediterranean Urbanisation (T. Fischer-Hansen [ed.], Ancient Sicily; H.D. Anderson, H.W. Horsnaes, S. Houby-Nielsen and A. Rathje [eds.], Urbanization in the Mediterranean in the 9th to 6th Centuries BC ) (A. Domínguez) .......... New Publications on Maritime Archaeology (M. Juri“iÆ, Ancient Shipwrecks of the Adriatic; E. Grossmann with contributors, Maritime Tel Michal and Apollonia) (A.J. Parker) .................................................. C. Dougherty, The Raft of Odysseus (A. Snodgrass) .................................. D. Dueck, Strabo of Amasia ( J. Vela Tejada) .......................................... B. Fischer, H. Genz, É. Jean and K. Köro[lu (eds.), Identifying Changes (C. Burney) ................................................................................ R.L. Fowler (ed.), Early Greek Mythography Vol. 1 ( J. Boardman) ..........

385 399 405

410

413 415 417 419 421

vi

CONTENTS

N.A. Gavrilyuk, Istorya ekonomiki Stepnoi Skiﬁi, VI–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) .......................................................................................... V.I. Gulyaev and V.S. Olkhovskii (eds.), Skify i Sarmaty v VII–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) ........................................................................ E. Haerinck and B. Overlaet, Chamahzi Mumah. An Iron Age III Graveyard (A. Sagona) ............................................................................ A. Invernizzi, Sculture di Metallo da Nisa ( J. Boardman) ........................ K. Jordanov, K. Porozhanov and V. Fol (eds.), Thracia 15. In Honour of Alexander Fol’s 70th Anniversary ( J. Boardman) ................ A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives (S. Dalley) .............................................................................................. A.-A. Maravelia (ed.), Ancient Egypt and Antique Europe ( J. Bouzek) ........ G. Muskett, A. Koltsida and M. Georgiadis (eds.), SOMA 2001—Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology ( J. Bouzek) .................... B.S. Ottaway and E.C. Wager (eds.), Metals and Society (P. Dolukhanov) .................................................................................... A. Rathje, M. Nielsen and B.B. Rasmussen (eds.), Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead ( J. Boardman) ................................................ C. Scheﬀer (ed.), Ceramics in Context ( J. Boardman) ................................ G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea ( J. Bouzek) ...................... I.V. Tunkina, Russkaya nauka o klassicheskikh drevnostyakh yuga Rossii (XVIII–seredina XIX v.) (H.-C. Meyer) .................................................. B. Werbart (ed.), Cultural Interactions in Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean ( J. Bouzek) ........................................................................ D. Whitehouse, The Glass Vessels (V.A. Tatton-Brown) .......................... D. Zhuravlev (ed.), Fire, Light and Light Equipment in the Graeco-Roman World ( J. Bouzek) ............................................................

421 423 428 429 430 430 432 432 434 436 437 437 439 440 441 442

New Publications Russia (G.R. Tsetskhladze) ........................................................................

445

Books Received ..............................................................................................

452

In the Next Issue ..........................................................................................

455

MEDES IN MEDIA, MESOPOTAMIA, AND ANATOLIA: EMPIRE, HEGEMONY, DOMINATION OR ILLUSION? CHRISTOPHER TUPLIN Abstract The nature and even the existence of the Median empire has been the subject of controversy for a number of years. The present article revisits (I) Herodotus’ account, (II) certain items of indirect evidence, and (III) the non-Greek pre-Achaemenid material provided by texts (neo-Assyrian, neo-Babylonian and Hebrew) and archaeology (especially Anatolian) and argues the legitimacy of belief in Median domination in regions outside lowland Mesopotamia.

Convention postulates a 6th-century Median empire stretching through Anatolia to the River Halys. To validate this postulate we must validate belief in (a) the Median empire, (b) its westward extension, and (c) the role of the Halys as a frontier (Fig. 1). That this needs validating reﬂects Sancisi-Weerdenburg’s probing questions about the Median empire.1 She argued that there is no substantive direct or indirect non-Herodotean evidence for a Median Empire, and that Herodotus’ account (1. 95–130) is not only unhistoric but also too dull, ideologically barren and disinclined to treat Cyaxares as a national hero to be genuine (oral) Median mythistory or presumptive evidence for a Median state of which it can be the Charter Myth. Rather, it is a Greek construction out of a few data available via Babylon. One must stress that Sancisi-Weerdenburg was controverting the idea that the Median empire was like the Achaemenid: she credited a war with Lydia and adduced Herodotus 1. 134 (on Median ‘imperial’ rule) as relevant to the situation in which a Lydian war could be waged, but rejected a Median state or bureaucratic imperial structure; and because she was primarily engaged in heuristic hypothesis-making,2 she was more speciﬁc about what Medes did not have than about what they did. One immediately observes that, since she saw the developed Persian empire (what Medes did not have) as an artefact of Darius3 and since Cyrus had an empire, perhaps the Medes did too. But to go any further we need to examine Herodotus’

1 Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988; 1994. Kienast 1999 (which I only saw after my own paper was complete) presents a sceptical treatment based on unpublished seminar and lecture material from the early 1970s (cf. 66, n. 1). Despite some bibliographical updating, there is no reference to Sancisi-Weerdenburg. 2 Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1994, 40. 3 Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988, 197.

Map of the ancient Near East. 1. Sinope; 2. Gersh; 3. Bo
224 CHRISTOPHER TUPLIN

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account, certain pieces of indirect evidence, and the 7th- and 6th-century non-Greek sources.4 I. Herodotus’ Account I cannot deal here with every aspect of Herodotus’ account, and I shall note and comment on just ﬁve distinctive elements: • • • • •

Deioces’ creation of a single polisma and of autocracy the treatment of the kings of Media the Median form of ‘imperial’ government the chronological framework the Scythian interlude

The creation of Median autocracy. The ﬁrst stage of Deioces’ rise to power turns on his activity as an impartial dispenser of justice. We are perhaps conditioned (not least by the contrast Herodotus’ Demaratus draws between Spartan obedience to Law and Xerxes’ subjects’ obedience to the King: 7. 103) to regard behaviour of this sort as Greek, but (if so) it is a conditioning we ought to resist, not just because of the importance of data in the ideology of Achaemenid royal inscriptions5 but because the role played by even-handed settlement of lawsuits in the Deioces story does not obviously conform to a Greek stereotype: Greek law-givers are usually a product of political stasis, and Greek tyrants do not characteristically emerge as law-givers—not least because tyrants represent the suspension or circumvention of ordinary legal process. In the next stage of the story Deioces makes the Medes (who at that stage lived katå k≈maw) build him a house and provide a bodyguard. Then, when he has power, he makes them ©n pÒlisma poiÆsasyai ka‹ toËto perist°llontaw t«n êllvn ∏sson §pim°lesyai. When they agree to this as well, he builds seven walls and has the demos live around them. It is important to note that what the walls surround is Deioces’ house (1. 99. 1), not the city: the palace (basileia) is merely the innermost part of the oikia. The size of the walled area (comparable with Athens, so 10 km in circumference at a minimum), the number of the walls, and the decoration of the battlements with paint or gold- or silver-plate remind us we are in some degree in the realm of fantasy.6 But, if there is any sort of reality underlying this fantasy, then it is provided not by Greek synoecism (as one might initially be 4

For a relatively brief controversion of Sancisi-Weerdenburg’s position, see Muscarella 1994, 60–62. 5 Briant 1996, 526–28, 981–83; 2002, 510–11, 956–57. 6 Polyb. 10. 27 conveys a diﬀerent picture of Ecbatana (on which cf. some remarks in Briant 1996, 1050–51; 2002, 1023–24).

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tempted to think, given the interplay of katå k≈maw and ©n pÒlisma) but by oriental palaces: the comparison of a house with the city of Athens and (perhaps) the choice of polisma (not polis) to denote the Medes’ extra-mural settlement actually underline this point.7 The palatial model is perhaps more Persepolis or Susa than Nineveh or Nimrud—though not, of course, if one chose to regard the outer-walls of those sites as enclosing ‘royal’ space; and it should be noted that the stated circumference of Deioces’ palace lies between those of Nimrud and Nineveh. But the important thing is not to determine that there is anything distinctively Median (rather than Mesopotamian, Elamite or Persian) involved—only that we do not have to regard (and dismiss) the story as purely the product of Greek imagination. Treatment of Kings of Media. Sancisi-Weerdenburg complains of inadequate mythologising, contrasting what she sees as genuine ‘oral history’ in the story of Cyrus’ origins with the dullness of Herodotus on the Medes. This hardly seems fair to the Deioces story; and any Median angle on Astyages is lost behind Persian deformation. The complaint is therefore about Phraortes and Cyaxares—which were names to conjure with: one of Darius’ rivals in 522/1 BC was called Phraortes (Fravarti) and claimed descent from Cyaxares (DB §24). I make two points. (a) Cyaxares’ overthrow of the Scythians at a banquet (1. 106), though brieﬂy summarised, is an event of appropriate storytelling type (as indeed Sancisi-Weerdenburg concedes); so too, perhaps, the quarrel of Cyaxares and Alyattes arising from the latter’s giving refuge to child-murdering Scythian archery-teachers (1. 73). (b) Sancisi-Weerdenburg cannot imagine that Herodotus would edit orality out of what was known to him, but the truth is that he edits out the whole Fall of Nineveh, reserving it for now (and perhaps always) non-extant heteroi logoi (1. 106). Median tales about this may well have existed and been known to Herodotus; and, since Phraortes died ﬁghting the Assyrians, they will have been relevant to him as well as to Cyaxares. So, the current state of Herodotus’ text does not preclude the existence of Median mythistory. I do not assert (because I cannot prove) that it was the mythistory which (for Sancisi-Weerdenburg) is the expected by-product of state-formation, but the issue should not be used to undermine Herodotus’ status as a source, however truncated or garbled, of genuine Near Eastern material.

7 Herodotus uses polisma of Ionian cities (1. 143. 2, 6. 6)—including Athens—but also of Pelasgian sites (1. 57. 2), and of Nineveh and Babylon (1. 178. 1–2). On the term, see FlenstedJensen 1995, 129f.; Hansen 1998, 25, 158. (Polisma is almost always used synonymously with polis, in the sense of nucleated settlement [not political community], but with a tendency to denote barbarian towns, towns in the remote past and towns in border districts.)

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Imperial Government. Herodotus 1. 134. 2–3 draws an analogy between (a) the Persian scheme of honour and (b) the Median scheme of (imperial) rule: tim«si d¢ §k pãntvn toÁw êgxista •vut«n oﬁk°ontaw metã ge •vutoÊw, deÊtera d¢ toÁw deut°rouw, metå d¢ katå lÒgon proba¤nontew tim«si. ¥kista d¢ toÁw •vut«n •kastãtv oﬁkhm°nouw §n timª êgontai, nom¤zontew •vutoÁw e‰nai ényr≈pvn makr“ tå pãnta ér¤stouw, toÁw d¢ êllouw katå lÒgon t∞w éret∞w ént°xesyai, toÁw d¢ •kastãtv oﬁk°ontaw épÚ •vut«n kak¤stouw e‰nai. §p‹ d¢ MÆdvn érxÒntvn ka‹ ∑rxe tå ¶ynea éllÆvn, sunapãntvn m¢n MÆdoi ka‹ t«n êgxista oﬁkeÒntvn sf¤si, otoi d¢ ka‹ t«n ımoÊrvn, oﬂ d¢ mãla t«n §xom°nvn. katå d¢ tÚn aÈtÚn d¢ lÒgon ka‹ oﬂ P°rsai tim«si. pro°baine går dØ tÚ ¶ynow êrxon te ka‹ §pitropeËon.

The ﬁnal nine words of the Greek text present some real problems (an obelus may be called for—or even the recognition and deletion of a gloss), but in the present context this is not of crucial importance.8 What matters is the picture of successive rule in the preceding sentence: A rules B which rules C, which rules D etc.; and the Medes rule both A and A+B+C+D+ . . . The drawing of the analogy—the Persians attach a degree of esteem to everyone and the degree diminishes with distance just the Medes exercised rule over everyone and the directness of rule diminished with distance—is remarkable. The nature of Median imperial rule does not ﬁgure in Herodotus’ narrative: either he himself knows or an informant who had already drawn the analogy knew a lot more about Median arkhe than Herodotus’ text makes us aware of. And what he knows is not a retrojection of Achaemenid Persian conditions. Crucially, he has an image of the Median imperial system as diﬀerent from the Persian one. What 1. 134 says is not the same as what 3. 89 says about the formation of Darius’ tributary nomoi: katastÆsaw d¢ tåw érxåw ka‹ êrxontaw §pistÆsaw §tãjato fÒrouw oﬂ pros¤enai katå ¶yneã te ka‹ prÚw to›si ¶ynesi toÁw plhsiox≈rouw prostãssvn, ka‹ Íperba¤nvn toÁw prosex°aw tå •kast°rv êlloisi êlla ¶ynea n°mvn.

Nor is there reason to discern in the actualities of Persian administration or in the depiction of imperial space in written or iconographic form any systematic and serial diﬀerentiation of the status of subjects vis-à-vis the centre into core and increasingly peripheral peripheries. Vogelsang’s use of the concept of ‘stepped organisation’ in reference both to 1. 134 and to Achaemenid administration is a false equivocation,9 Calmeyer’s claim of an analogy between

8 The text printed above is that found in the Teubner and OCT editions. For further details see Appendix 1. 9 Vogelsang 1992, 177 (Hdt. 1. 134), 244. The latter refers to the fact that Persian conquest initially aﬀected only the upper strata of local authority, leaving that it free to continue exercising power over other groups. An example might be Persians claiming authority over a Medic elite in Cappadocia which in turn controlled native Cappadocians. But, if so, this is not what 1. 134 is talking about. Högemann 1992, 58f. also implicitly does not distinguish

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1. 134 and the (eccentric) List of Peoples in XPh is unpersuasive,10 and Tourovets’ detection of cartographic concentric circles in the arrangement of delegations on the Apadana stairways carries no implication of a hierarchy of rule and subjection as one proceeds along the carved panels.11 On the contrary, the point of the iconography is that there is a single source of power, viz. the Great King.12 Whether 1. 134 is a suﬃciently accurate or nuanced account of Median rule is no doubt debatable but is not the point; the point is that it is distinctive, and not manifestly Greek. Chronology. The Median King List is a chronological and chronographical mare’s nest, which I do not intend to revisit.13 I merely note that solutions are possible which do not conﬂict with non-Greek sources, i.e. do not locate named Median kings at times which other sources preclude. This is mostly a matter of ﬁtting them into lacunae in other evidence. But Cyaxares and Astyages (who do appear in other sources) are appropriately positioned in the King List, and that is comforting. It does not mean there is no artiﬁcial construction going on: we have two pairs of kings, each ruling a total of 75 years, and a total dynastic length of a neat 150 years; and the estimated length of Median rule of Upper Asia (1. 130) of ‘128 years, excluding the Scythian period’ does not make sense in terms of the narrative. But nothing has been produced which we know that the producer could not have regarded as ‘true’. The Scythian Interlude. Herodotus’ awareness that Scythians (who for 5thcentury Greeks belonged in the north Black Sea) might have a role in 7thand 6th-century Near Eastern history proves that he is heir to story-telling informed by some actual knowledge of that history: for people described as Scythians or Cimmerians certainly were important enough in the 7th-century Zagros to attract the interest of the Assyrians—the fact that the name Protothyes (1. 103) can be associated with the name Partatua encountered in Assyrian records14 (without prejudice to personal identity or precise chronology) is an added bonus—and seem to make some impact on the politico-geographical imagination of Hebrew prophets in the late and post-Assyrian period.15 The between 1. 134 and the Persian system. On imperial administration cf. (relatively brieﬂy) Tuplin 1987a, 1987b; (fully) Briant 2002, esp. chapters 2, 9–12, 16, 17.4. 10 Calmeyer 1987, 143. 11 Tourovets 2001. 12 Briant (1996, 194; 2002, 181) cites 1. 134 (on Persian dispensation of esteem) in reference to the true centre of the empire being the country of Persia alone. 13 See, for example, Millard 1979; Brown 1988; Scurlock 1990. 14 Klauber 1913, no. 16 = SAA iv 20. 15 On all of this, and especially the Assyrian evidence, see the extensive treatment in Ivantchik 1993. Brief summaries: Millard 1979, 121; Sulimirski and Taylor 1991, 558f.; Ivantchik 1993, 155–57. Hebrew texts: Jeremiah 25. 25 (as emended by Ivanchik 1993, 148f.; Diakonoﬀ 2000,

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idea of Scythian long-distance raiding was familiar in a North Aegean context (6. 40), but it would be absurd to suppose we have a purely Greek invention here. The ideas of Cimmerians pursued by Scythians and of Scythians displacing the Median rule ‘of Asia’16 cohere inasmuch as Greek tradition about Cimmerians in Anatolia puts them west of the Halys and so of the Scythian (Median) imperial boundary,17 so there might be Greek historical pattern-making going on here. But there was no cause to engage in pattern-making unless it was a given that ‘Scythians’ were pertinent in the ﬁrst place; and that given is genuine and non-Greek. The proposition that Scythians temporarily took over the Median empire presupposes the concept of a Median empire, but—at the worst—it neither undermines nor reinforces that concept. At the best, it coheres with (but need occasion no suspicion about) Herodotus’ distinctive picture of the Median imperial system. And the story-line does not follow what one might call the obvious line of having the Scythians kill the Median king and then be overthrown by a new liberator; Cyaxares survives, and all that has really happened is that a new authority (and consumer of taxes) is put on top of the system. Moreover, engagement with Scythians continues after the reassertion of Median authority (the renegade band of Scythian nomads: 1. 73). I am not saying any of this is true, only that it is a distinctive picture. It should be added that Vogelsang does see behind it an actual historical process of Scythian conquest leading to the emergence of a ScythoMedic elite exercising authority over a Median empire—an example of a pattern of nomad-sedentary relation analysed by Khazanov.18 Herodotus’ account is neither historical nor worthless. It has distinctive features which acquit it of any charge of being banal ﬁction (let alone Greek ﬁction), and nothing about its character requires us to eliminate the Median empire from the historical record. At the same time it does not require us to postulate a Median empire which was like Darius’ empire.19 No positive features demand that (even tribute-raising is only associated with the Scythian

228), 51. 27, Ezekiel 27. 11, 14 (with Liverani 1991, 67 n. 9, 69; Diakonoﬀ 1992, 174 n. 34, 178 n. 48, 181, 187), Ezekiel 38. 6, Gen. 10. 2f. = Chron. 1. 5f. Ivantchik (1999, 511–15) argues a reference to the Scythian Palestine raid (cf. Hdt. 1. 105) in Jeremiah 1. 14–15, 4. 6–6. 30, Zephaniah 2. 4–15. 16 Hdt. 1. 103f., 4. 2, 12, 7. 20. 17 West Anatolia: Hdt. 1. 6, 15, 16, Callin. fr. 3D, Callisth. 124 F29; Callim. Dian 251f., Hesych. s.v. Lygdamis; Archil. apud Strab. 14. 1. 40, Eustath. In Od. 396. 41; RC no. 7 = OGIS 13. North Anatolia: Hdt. 4. 12; Ps. Scymn. 948; Strab. 12. 3. 8; schol. Ap. Rh. 1. 1126; Arr. 156 F 76; Heracl. Pont. fr. 129. North-west Anatolia: Strab. 12. 4. 6, 8. 4, 13. 1. 9–10, 33. Phrygia: Strab. 1. 3. 21; Eust. Od. 11. 14; Steph. Byz. s.v. Syassos. Postulating Scythian seizure of the Median empire accounts for the Cimmerians ﬂeeing so far west, despite the absence of stories about Scythian activity in central Anatolia. (To the contrary, the prominent story is about them going south, to Palestine/Egypt: Hdt. 1. 105.) 18 Vogelsang 1992, 305f.; Khazanov 1984. 19 Or perhaps like Croesus’ empire (cf. Balcer 1994; but contrast Högemann 1992, 97f.).

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interlude); and to anyone who feels that the reader of Herodotus 1 is bound (by default) to assume that the Median empire is generically similar to the Persian one and infers that this is what Herodotus assumed, I would say (a) that Herodotus himself thought the Persian empire changed markedly with Darius (3. 89f.), but also (b) that, precisely because of the danger of assimilation to the Assyrian or Persian empires (i.e. the danger that people will want to see a sort of succession of empires), the most that Herodotus 1 attests anyway is that the ruler at Ecbatana laid claim to some sort of extensive (if often indirect) authority and was capable of turning that authority into military action far from the eastern Zagros. Which is pretty much what SancisiWeerdenburg conceded anyway. II. Indirect Evidence Some alleged indirect evidence from the Achaemenid period is certainly inconclusive;20 and a Median role as conduit for Assyrian and/or Urartian ceremonial, titulature or iconography is arguably something to be inferred from our picture of 6th-century Media, not used to establish it.21 I select just three issues that may be telling. (1) Sancisi-Weerdenburg says that the allegedly ‘Median’ phrase xshayathiya xshayathiyanam can indicate a paramount chief as well as a King of Kings; survival of the title is no guarantee of identical content.22 This is true, though one notes that either way it is not inappropriate to the imperial system of Herodotus 1. 134. But irrespective of whether Persians already had leaders who were described as ‘kings’ in Old Persian, the Median form of this special title surely signiﬁes something. The issue is not whether Darius (for example) was actually like a Median king; it is that the Median king was suﬃciently

20 That Darius’ 522/1 BC opponents included Fravarti, alias Xshathrita, descendant of Cyaxares (DB 24–5, 31–32) and Cicantakhma, the Asagartian, another ‘descendant of Cyaxares’ (DB 33), proves nothing about the extent of Cyaxares’ authority: the primary claim is dynastic legitimacy (cf. alleged sons of Cyrus [DB 40] and Nabonidus [DB 16, 49]) and national independence (the sons of Nabonidus; and perhaps Martiya, alias King Imani of Elam, in DB 22) rather than resumption of imperial rule—Cyaxares could be celebrated simply as the destroyer of Assyria (cf. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988, 202, 211). The Median character of the rebellion of Gaumata in Greek sources (cf. his description as a Mede in the Akkadian version of DB) is controversial but a Persian ‘construction’ of the events as attempted Median usurpation need not presuppose a Median empire. 21 For a strong statement of the view that the only explanation for Assyrian features in Achaemenid ceremonial and art is transmission through Media cf. Roaf 2003. Seidl 1994 by contrast postulates direct Persian observation of Urartian phenomena, even long after the end of the Urartian period. 22 Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988, 210. There are other supposed Median words in the bureaucratic or military terminology of OP inscriptions (which Sancisi-Weerdenburg also claims to be compatible with the world of tribal federation), but I concentrate on the most interesting case.

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signiﬁcant for Persians to emulate. Whether or not Cyrus was a Median subject, he certainly stepped into Astyages’ shoes. But this does not guarantee that he saw himself as a Median king,23 and the denomination ‘King of Kings’ was not demonstrably used before Darius. Its deliberate adoption makes little sense if the only interested parties were Medes and Persians and they were originally of comparable authority and status; and it is unreasonable both to envisage a disparity between Median and Persian realms large enough to account for the desire to emulate and then to insist on denying that the Median realm in question had wider, extra-Median horizons. If one admits the relevance of the issue at all, it will not do to dismiss it again just by saying xshayathiya can mean ‘chief ’ rather than ‘king’. But the issue may not be relevant: the philological presuppositions about what constitutes a Median dialect of West Iranian may be unreliable (i.e. the claim that xshayathiya xshayathiyanam is linguistically alien to Old Persian might be false) and ‘King of Kings’ is only known previously as a distinctive royal marker among the Urartians—whence Seidl seems inclined to think Darius got it direct.24 (2) Persian royal inscriptions include lists of the lands the king rules. Normally Media stands at the start with Persia and Elam, but in the earliest list it appears in tenth position, followed by Armenia, Cappadocia and the eastern Iranian provinces (Parthia, Drangiana, Areia, etc.) Vogelsang sees this as a Median imperial area, incorporated as a group.25 Its eastward extension presents problems, but the telling point (if there is one) is Armenia-Cappadocia. Normally they belong to the west, so their association in DB with a section starting in Media and otherwise moving east is noteworthy; and it is reinforced by their sartorial identiﬁcation with Medes in Persepolis iconography, and the fact that the Behistun narrative (DB 26–30, 34) deals with Armenian events as part of ‘what [Darius] did in Media’ (i.e. suppress the Median rebels, Fravarti and Cicantakhma). Five battles were involved, so the decision not to deal with it as a separate entity (as Parthia and Hyrcania, although supporting Fravarti, are treated separately: DB 35) is very striking. Armenia is clearly so strongly connected with Media that the narrator does not feel the need to note explicitly that Armenians sided with Fravarti—and so strongly that their suppression required major eﬀort. (3) Greeks tended to confuse Medes and Persians. Elsewhere I have argued that ‘Median’ terminology is characteristically used when the Persian empire is seen as an alien, faceless military and political threat.26 It is the terminology with which Anatolian Greeks reacted to the descent of Cyrus’ Iranians,

23 24 25 26

Cf. Tuplin 1994. Seidl 1994. Vogelsang 1986. Tuplin 1994.

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later taken over by other Greeks, and recurs in the concept of ‘medism’.27 I do not believe Cyrus actually styled himself as a Median king,28 so the best explanation for these phenomena lies in the Median character of the territory into which Croesus so disastrously intruded and of his excuse for doing so, perhaps reinforced by memories of the fearful character of the Medes with whom his predecessor had managed to do a deal.29 III. Ancient Near Eastern Sources We turn now to direct, pre-Achaemenid non-Greek evidence, both textual (neo-Assyrian, neo-Babylonian, Hebrew) and archaeological (with special reference to the central Anatolian site of Kerkenes Dag). Between 835 and ca. 650 BC the Assyrians encountered ‘Medes’ in the Zagros. Some live in cities, ruled by bel alani;30 others sound nomadic (‘Arabs of the Sunrise’). Presumably the latter (if really nomads) are tribal. The character of the former is more debated, but the number of putative Median cities in the later 8th century is very large: we are not dealing with real cities, and transhumant pastoralism may well be part of the socio-economic picture (cf. n. 30).31 What we see is heavily fragmented, perhaps somewhat volatile in terms of settlement pattern,32 and not very suggestive of a potentially imperial state—though the fact that, alone of adversaries encountered by Assyrians, Medes were formulaically called ‘strong’ (dannu) suggests the Assyrians perceived some actual (or claimed) special quality in them.33 (The usage may 27

On this concept, see Tuplin 1997. Tuplin 1994, 255. 29 On another possible (but inconclusive) association of ‘Media’ with territory outside the Zagros heartland (Xenophon’s ‘Media’, and Herodotus’ Matiene) see below. 30 For details, see Lanfranchi 2003, which also discusses the term’s earlier history and notes a connection with contexts which have a pastoralist dimension. (In non-Assyrian texts II Kings 17. 6, 18. 11, on deportations to ‘the cities of the Medes’—in practice the Assyrian provinces of Harhar and Kishesim—reﬂects a similar view.) The term is also used of Zagros peoples not normally reckoned as Medes. For interesting non-Zagros examples cf. below 237. 31 Radner (2003) takes a strong line against any idea that these Medes are tribally organised.—There seems to be a general willingness both to regard Assyrian pictures of Median ‘cities’ (for example, Gunter 1982; Jacoby 1991) as depictions of sites like Godin Tepe or Nush-i Jan and to suppose that there were many such sites. 32 There is little overlap in Median place names between the texts of Tiglath-Pileser III and Sargon. There are nearly 140 Median names in their texts, but only 11 appear in both sets, though no more than 31 years have passed. Moreover only ﬁve reappear in the admittedly less name-rich records of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, while over ten new names turn up. There is also relatively little repetition between texts within the reigns of Tiglath-Pileser and Sargon. I am not persuaded that these phenomena are wholly due to the two kings’ Median operations having been in almost completely diﬀerent regions ( pace, for example, Radner 2003). 33 The usage appears in texts of Tiglath-Pileser III, Sargon and Assurbanipal: for details cf. Lanfranchi 2003. CAD s.v. dannu 4d renders it ‘obstinate, bad, harsh, tyrannical’. In itself dannu can be approbative, as often when applied to gods or kings (for example, Cyrus in Cyrus Cylinder 1 and elsewhere). 28

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originally reﬂect lowlanders’ stereotypes about mountain peoples, but it is not applied by Assyrian texts to other such peoples.) There is also a problem of geography. Some Medes became part of Assyrian provinces (Harhar and Ki“esim), probably located (broadly) between Kermanshah and Malayer. But where exactly all the others were, and whether some were on the Iranian plateau or near the Caspian, is arguable: a distinction can be discerned between core, provincialised Medes and ‘distant’ Medes,34 and the sheer number of Median locations may favour eastward extension, but debate is not closed.35 Still, since relevant neo-Assyrian evidence ceases before 650 BC, it need not preclude a more-than-local Median authority based at Ecbatana after that date—and Herodotus’ dates actually locate the empire after 650 BC. So the problem is not what we see directly in Assyrian sources but whether we can imagine the process of change between ca. 650 BC and 615 BC. Some speculate about the socio-politico-economic eﬀects of tributary demands and exploitation of trade along the Great Khorasan Road (whether with Assyrian encouragement or by ‘robber-barons’) not only fostering wealth accumulation by bel alani (e.g. at Godin or Nush-i Jan) but prompting an unusually ambitious individual to seek wider authority; others might notice (i) conﬂict between Median bel alani leading to invited Assyrian intervention in 676 BC,36 (ii) the swearing of loyalty-oaths in 672 BC by Median bel alani, variously seen as part of the royal bodyguard or political refugees,37 and (iii) contemporary Assyrian apprehensions that tribute-collectors and others were in danger from Medes, Scythians and Cimmerians,38 conclude that the Zagros was disturbed, and see this as the opportunity for a capo dei capi to emerge. The two models are consistent, and in both the assault on Assyria during 615–610 BC may play a crucial role in focusing and solidifying the great chief’s authority. One may also note an eery consonance between the Herodotean Deioces’ formation of Ecbatana by elimination of other settlements (see above) and the late 7th-century demise of Godin and Nush-i Jan as elite sites (a rather formal, even ritualised, process in the latter case)—a consonance spoiled only by the fact that some date that demise 50 years later.39 So, there are stories we can tell; and Sancisi-Weerdenburg’s proposition that any move towards state-formation inherent in these stories could have been aborted is beside the point. 34 ‘Distant’ Medes appear in texts of Sargon, Sennacherbi and Esarhaddon: for details cf. Lanfranchi 2003. 35 Levine 1973; 1974; Medvedskaya 1992; 1995; Muscarella 1994, 57f.; Vera Chamaza 1994, 103ﬀ.; Reade 1995. 36 Borger 1956, §21 ll. 31–36, §27 Epp. 15–16; Heidel 1956, 24–27 iii 53–61, iv 1–20 (esp. 11f.). 37 Parpola and Watanabe 1988; Liverani 1995; Reade 1995, 41; Lanfranchi 1998. 38 Starr 1990, nos. 36–62, 64–66, 71, 77, 79–80. 39 Curtis 2003. For Sancisi-Weerdenburg (1988, 203), of course, the closure of Nush-i Jan signiﬁes the end of a process of state-formation.

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The issue is exercise of authority, not the presence of a particular structure for it to be exercised in. The events of 615–610 BC certainly show a single leader exercising authority to deploy military forces in Assyria. They do, of course, show it through the medium of a chronicle uninterested in nuanced information about the Babylonians’ alien allies. But the fact that these allies are highlighted at all makes it diﬃcult to regard them merely as a bunch of mercenaries or a renegade bit of the Assyrian army. What is true is that their participation has a spasmodic quality: they arrive (in 614, 612 and 610 BC), they ﬁght, they go away again, disappearing permanently from the chronicle record after 610 BC.40 There has been much debate about what happened to Assyria after the fall of Nineveh. Direct Greek sources imply Median occupation, Akkadian sources may not preclude this but do not impose a vision of Assyria and North Mesopotamia as part of a Median empire, and neither Xenophon’s perception that the east bank of the Tigris north of Baghdad was ‘Media’ (Anabasis 2. 4. 27) nor Herodotus’ (large) lowland Matiene (5. 52. 5), if relevant at all, can truthfully be accounted for in terms of historical Median control west of the Zagros.41 There is, in fact, only one set of evidence which puts Medes anywhere in the Mesopotamian lowlands any time after 610 BC. The place is Harran, and the evidence (from Nabonidus inscriptions) is of a certain complexity.42 But all it need show is that in the 550s BC (though for all we know at other times too) Harran was vulnerable to incursions by the Ummanmanda whom Cyrus eventually disposed of—i.e. Medes. There is no evidence they occupied the area in any permanent way; and Nabonidus’ claim that they destroyed Harran in 610 BC looks like a rewriting of history (the Fall of Nineveh chronicle attributes the 610 BC capture of Harran to Babylonians) not a reason for postulating Median rule of North Mesopotamia. So, our Median empire need not stray into the lowlands. But post-615 BC non-Greek texts do nonetheless sometimes see Media as a signﬁcant power.43 Isaiah 13. 18, 21. 2 casts them as a potential (viciously destructive) enemy of Babylon. Jeremiah in ca. 595 BC speciﬁes ‘the kings of the Medes’ (51. 11) or ‘the kings of the Medes, his viceroys ( pechah) and all his governors (sagan) 40 ABC 3. 23 (615 BC), 3. 24f. (614), 3. 38f. (612), 3. 59f. (610). The chronicle speaks ﬁrst of ‘Medes’, then of ‘Ummanmanda’, but Cyaxares (Umakistar) is their king in both cases. A contemporary letter from Nebuchadnezzar (TCL 9. 99 = Thureau-Dangin 1925) conﬁrms that the Ummanmanda at Harran in 610 were Medes. 41 On all this, see Tuplin 2003, 364–66. Högemann (1992, 82) takes a diﬀerent view about the implications of Matiene. 42 Langdon 1912, no. 1 = Beaulieu 1989, no. 15; Langdon 1912, no. 8 = Beaulieu 1989, no. 1 (with which contrast both ABC 3. 59f. and Beaulieu no. 13). In general, see Baltzer 1973/4; Beaulieu 1989, 109f.; Rollinger 2003. 43 This may also be implicit in its putative role as refuge for Uruk dissidents: Zawadzki 1988, 133; Joannès 1995 (on GC 2.395 = NBB 255).

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and all the land (eretz) of his dominions (memshalah)’ (51. 28). The plurality of ‘kings’ is striking (though the Septuagint not insigniﬁcantly has ‘king’); whether the fact that Jeremiah (25. 25) can also list ‘all the kings of Elam and Media’ (and Sidon and Tyre) among doomed nations shows plural and singular are simply rhetorically interchangeable is moot. Perhaps the answer lies rather in Nabonidus’ talk of ‘the Ummanmanda, their country and the kings who march at their side’ (Langdon 1 = Beaulieu 15). Rollinger sees tribal confederation here, Högemann an imperial structure,44 but whatever anthropological or political term we deploy, Nabonidus is identifying a unitary threat (indeed the very power which Cyrus will destroy), consisting of components which include a plurality of kings; Jeremiah’s formula could well be an alternative way of capturing this, given that the Hebrew prophet has no particular interest in the niceties of the situation. That Nabonidus ignores the chief Median king— Astyages—is due to Ummanmanda rhetoric taking precedence. (The way in which rhetoric obscures institutional accuracy is illustrated by Harran II = Beaulieu 13, where former enemies whose complaisance to Nabonidus is a sign of divine favour include ‘the king(?) of the land(?) of Egypt’, ‘the land of the Arabs’, ‘all the kings who were formerly hostile’—and ‘the city of the Medes’. Is this a deliberate denial of an overarching Median authority, or a hint at the magniﬁence of Ecbatana—where by this date Cyrus is ruler?)45 What else can we say about this Median realm? Nabonidus’ and Jeremiah’s descriptions are consistent with the sort of ‘loose’ structure Sancisi-Weerdenburg recognises in Herodotus 1. 134. But how extensive an area is involved? About the East nothing can be said (save what might be inherent in indirect evidence from Darius’ Behistun inscription). About the West I oﬀer the following points. (1) Cyrus says Marduk made Gutium and the Medes submit to him.46 In ca. 550 BC, therefore, there was a part of the western Zagros the Medes did not control, but which part is debatable, since Gutium is an elusive geographic concept. And the role of Ugbaru of Gutium as a supporter of Cyrus may skew his presentation of the matter or arise from Gutium having only recently rejected Median authority. (2) Before the Medes, Jeremiah 51. 27 lists the kingdoms of Urartu, Mannaea and the Scythians as enemies of Babylon. Some read him as implying the

44 Högemann (1992, 102f., 245f., 357f.) envisages a Median Great King ruling through kings (including those in Scythia, Urartu and Mannaea in Jeremiah 51. 27) who are ‘clientes und socii zugleich’ (247), both vassals and allies (347)—precursors of Cyrus’ satraps and indeed the ﬁrst bearers of that title. 45 Högemann (1992, 86, 118) identiﬁes the ‘city’ speciﬁcally as Ecbatana. Did Greeks have similar problems? Ibycus’ Kuãraw ı Mhde¤vn strathgÒw (320P) is rather striking, but perhaps signiﬁes no more than the perception of Medes as a source of military assault. 46 Cyrus Cylinder 11ﬀ. Text: Berger 1975. Translation: ANET 315f.; Brosius 2000, no. 12.

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three kingdoms were within the realm of the Median king(s).47 Alternatively we infer that in ca. 595 BC Cyaxares had not yet extended his authority west and north or (because of a ‘loose’ imperial structure à la Herodotus) he was not perceived by Jews as having done so. (In 605 BC Jeremiah 25. 25 mentions anonymous ‘kings of the North’ who are presumably located north of Media.48 Mannaeans fought for Assyria in 616 BC, but possibly as mercenaries rather than subjects—there is no pertinent evidence since Assurbanipal’s heavy attack in 656 BC.)49 (3) Urartu is of interest in its own right. The List of Peoples in DB may imply (some) Armenian subjection to Median authority; and it is very likely that Median expansion westwards went through Armenia, not Mesopotamia. In general terms, the Assyrians went to Media (as to Mannaea) to get horses and to thwart Urartian expansion50—which reminds us that the Medes were potentially very mobile wagers of war (and had the model of Scythians and Cimmerians in the immediate vicinity to foster this potential)—an important point to which we shall return—and suggests that Urartu might be as natural a target for Medes as Media was for Urartians. The history of Urartu post-640 BC is obscure. Urartu and Assyria had achieved coexistence; concomitantly Babylonians invaded Urartu in 608–607 BC, and perhaps 609 BC, once reaching as far as Van.51 By this time the Urartian kingdom (once a distinctive conjunction of king, army, fortresses and road network)52 had met a violent end, perhaps because earlier reverses at the hands of the Assyrians had already engendered structural fragmentation.53 The agents are debated, but both Scythians and Medes have been postulated.54 In any event there was no regional structure (or national consciousness) to resist Babylonian incursions or—when Babylonian attention turned exclusively west and south— Median assertions of authority.55 The world of eastern Anatolia was not (as a geographical environment) as alien to Median conquerors as to AssyroBabylonian ones—and might suit indirect/loose rule. Zimansky’s peception is that mobile Scythians destroyed the royal structure and moved on: perhaps 47

For example, Högemann 1992, 103. Diakonoﬀ (2000, 229), however, aﬃrms that the passage belongs shortly before 540 BC, i.e. towards end of neo-Babylonian period. The passage lists kings of Cimmerians (cf. n. 9), Elam, Media and the North. 49 616 BC: ABC 3. 5. 656 BC: Piepkorn 51ﬀ. (iii 16–iv 1); Borger 1996, 32–27 (text), 220–21 (trans.). Muscarella (1994, 62) notes the question’s relevance to late 7th-century Median power. 50 Reade 1995, 41; 2003; Radner 2003. 51 608–07 BC: ABC 4.1f., 9f., 609 BC: Reade 2003 (on ABC 3. 72). 52 Zimansky 1985; 1995a; 1995b. 53 Smith 1999. 54 Zimansky 1995a; Smith 1999, 70; Kroll 2003. 55 Högemann (1992, 84) infers from ABC 3. 72, where Nabopolassar comes to the ‘Land of Urartu’, that there is a deﬁned border and therefore that Urartu had already had ‘eine staatliche Ordnung’ imposed on it, putatively by the Medes—an optimistic argument, perhaps. 48

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similarly mobile but more territorially ambitious Medes moved in their wake and sought acknowledgment of suzerainty not with fortresses (like the Urartian kings) but a Herodotean chain of submission and rule. (4) Urartu had a western horizon, until the Assyrians interfered—though Rusa II deported people from Mushki, Hatti and Halitu, and much further north (out of historic Assyrian range) there is a 7th-century Urartian establishment at Altintepe.56 This and the Cimmerian intrusion into Anatolia via Urartu invite us to think Median advance westwards natural. Late Assyrian control in the west centres on Cilicia Pedias and Syria (where Babylon proved to be the successor power), rather than in Melid (Malatya) or Tabal (the Nevshehir—Kayseri area). The Cimmerians had seen to that. But Cimmerian power—once great (one Assyrian oracle had even called their King shar kishshati )57 and signiﬁcant inter alia in Cappadocia directly and/or through collusion with Murgallu of Tabal-Melid58—had also collapsed, at much same time as Urartian.59 There was space for Medes—and there is space in surviving source-material for imagination. The space was perhaps also conceptually familiar. It is striking that 7th-century Assyrian texts can speak of Cimmerian bel alani,60 describe the grandson of Midas with the same title, and label the Cimmerian Lygdamis as ‘king of mountains and Gutium’:61 it is as though Anatolia west of the Euphrates seemed to be a deutero-Zagros. (5) Where there was not space was in Lydia (a power which contributed to the Cimmerians’ demise). Fighting ended by treaty, circumstantially attributed to Babylonian and Cilician mediation, is a plausible scenario (Herodotus 1. 74). From a western perspective Medes were readily seen as ersatz-Cimmerians ( just as Assyrians saw Anatolian Cimmerians as ersatz-Zagros dwellers): hence the concept of medismos and the ‘Median’ enemy, already discussed. The

56

Deportations: HChI 128. Altintepe: Summers 1993, 89–95. ABL 1391 + 679, with Ivanchik 1993, 100. 58 Ishtar Temple Inscription 138ﬀ. (Thompson and Mallowan 1933, 88 [text], 96 [trans.]; A. Fuchs, in Borger 1996, 284–85 [text], 294–95 [trans.]). 59 Cf. Kuhrt 1987/90; Sulimirski and Taylor 1991, 559; Ivanchik 1993. The latest Assyrian evidence—Assurbanipal ﬁghting Lygdamis’s son Sandak“atru post-635 BC—seems to be Streck 1913, 283 = Borger 1996, 201f. (text only). Diakonoﬀ (2000, 229) postulates a surviving small Cimmerian enclave in Anatolia or the Zagros as late as ca. 540 BC (his date for Jeremiah 25. 25). 60 Streck 1916, 21 (Rassam ii 107ﬀ.); Borger 1996, 31 (text), 219 (trans.). 61 Starr 1990, no. 13. Ishtar Temple Inscription 142f.: see A. Fuchs, in Borger 1996, 284–88 (text), 294–95 (trans.). (The older reading ‘King of the Saka and Gutium’—Thompson and Mallowan 1933, 88—has long been abandoned.) Elsewhere he is king of the Ummanmanda (Streck 1916, 283; BM 122616+ = Borger 1996, 199f.) and ‘seed of halgati’ (Ishtar Temple Inscription l.c.; Annals J, Stück 6 = BM 121027 + 123410: Borger 1996, 196 [text], 251 [trans.]), understood as ‘nomad’ in AHw 313b and ‘accursed, rebellious’ in CAD s.v. zer halgati, but interpreted by Lanfranchi (2001/2, 100) as ‘seed of the (people who will be) destroyed (by Enlil)’. Lanfranchi stresses that Assyrian hostility to Cimmerians matches that of Greeks in its intensity. 57

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ﬁve-year war might even resemble Median actions in 614–610 BC—intermittent incursions, leaving a legacy of alarm about enemies who appear across an eastern border, but are perhaps not to be imagined as permanently resident on or along it. Indeed the sort of horror Medorum also exempliﬁed in Isaiah’s feverish fantasy of bow-bearing Medes who care nothing for gold and silver, only the slaughter of young men and unborn children (13. 18) may be so much more appropriate as a response to such a scenario as to be positive evidence in its favour. What else then, ﬁnally, can be said about that border and the nature of Median presence east of it? (6) Rollinger, while accepting a Lydian war and Lydo-Median treaty, questions the Halys frontier, arguing that Herodotus is unclear on the actual geography and retrojects an Achaemenid geopolitical concept connected with the Royal Road.62 This is problematic for those who believe, with French, that the Royal Road did not cross the Halys.63 French defends his route with an unacceptable translation of Herodotus (and a rather arbitrary placing of the Cappadocian border), but a conventional northern route is certainly about nine parasangs too long from Sardis to the Halys, so this old problem remains at an impasse (see Appendix 2). But a twofold answer can be posed to Rollinger. (a) We know north-western Cilicia bordered Lydia at the time of Neriglissar’s campaigns in the region in the early 550s BC (ABC 6. 23f.): there is no conﬂict with the implications of the Medo-Lydian ‘Halys’ boundary.64 (b) For those entering central Anatolia from Urartu along the Erzincan-Sivas route (as Medes could well have done) the Halys is literally a line to be crossed. But even those travelling west from the old Urartian Van-Elazig highway65 might, after crossing the mountains to Kayseri, hear talk of the nearby great river ﬂowing to the northern sea and feel that it helped to deﬁne a stage in the longer journey towards Lydia. (7) In picturing conditions east of this frontier zone one component (as we have seen) is a view of the Medes as a comparatively mobile—one might say Scythoid—military proposition. This view is, of course, entirely consonant with the implications of Vogelsang’s important wider investigation of the cultural components in the genesis of the Achaemenid empire;66 and it suits the image of absentee rule postulated in Herodotus 1. 134. There is, however, a further component which has to be ﬁtted in. This in turn comes in two parts: (a) Herodotus’ description of the initial target of Croesus’ military operations

62

Rollinger 2003. French 1998. 64 The suggestion (Högemann 1992, 114) that the Medes incited Appuwa“u against Babylon (prompting Neriglissar’s response) presupposes Median engagement in the area but, being itself a speculation, cannot prove anything in our present context. 65 Sevin 1988; 1991. 66 Vogelsang 1992. 63

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across the River Halys, and (b) the huge fortiﬁed enceinte with associated internal buildings at Kerkenes Dag. Summers has argued that we should identify these two elements but, whether or not we do so, each has to be taken into account as part of a putative central Anatolian Median imperial landscape.67 For Herodotus Croesus’ target is a Cappadocian region called Pterie which is associated with Sur¤vn kl∞roi, the pÒliw t«n Pter¤vn, and perioik¤dew aÈt∞w [sc. pÒlevw t«n Pter¤vn pÒleiw]. How should we envisage the situation? (1) It seems rather unlikely that kleroi is used as a purely casual alternative for x≈rhn or g∞n, so it is quite possible that Herodotus’ source knew there was something distinctive about local land-holding, even if we cannot tell exactly what it was.68 (2) Herodotean usage does not demand that the relationship of the perioikides poleis to the ‘city of the Pterians’ involves the type of subordination often associated with perioecic status.69 Still, given a region named ‘Pterie’ and something that Herodotus ﬁrmly calls ‘the’ city of the Pterians, it is tempting to regard the perioikides poleis as a categorically diﬀerent part of the region—provided that the region is suﬃciently large for this to be meaningful. The alternative is to identify Pteria (the region) as little more than the immediate territory of the city of the Pterians, and assume that the perioikides poleis (and some of the Syrians’ kleroi ) lie outside it: that would make a purely geographical understanding of the phrase more probable. Either way the description would neither require nor exclude the possibility that the inhabitants of the perioikides poleis were ethnically distinct from Pterians. (3) As a result of Croesus’ campaign the ‘city of the Pterians’ is enslaved (±ndrapod¤sato), the perioecic cities may be,70 and the Syrians are made énãstatoi. The diﬀerent descriptions mirror the diﬀerence between poleis and kleroi. There is nothing to require that we identify Pterians and Syrians—and nothing to require the opposite (not least because neither éndrapod¤zesyai nor énastãtouw poie›n is peculiar to, respectively, cities and non-urban populations).71 67 Summers 1997; 2000. Location of Pteria at Kerkenes was envisaged by Przeworski 1929, immediately after the discovery of the site. Other suggestions are listed in Radke 1959; Kirsten 1959. The Barrington Atlas puts Pteria at Kerkenes on Map 63 (S. Mitchell), but at Egrikale (80 km south of Sinope) on Map 87 (T. Sinclair), citing Radke 1959. Högemann (1992, 250 n. 33) opts tentatively for the Kayseri region—not in principle unreasonable. 68 Högemann (1992, 148 n. 35, 250 n. 33) suggests the ‘Syrians’ are inhabitants of the heartland Assyria deported westwards by the Medes as ‘Grenzbauern’. 69 Herodotus’ only other use of perioikis (9. 115) does not have more than geographical sense; and he uses perioikos thus as well. 70 Herodotus writes: eÂle m¢n t«n Pter¤vn tØn pÒlin kai ±ndrapod¤sato, eÂle d¢ tåw perioik¤daw aÈt∞w pãsaw, Sur¤ouw te oÈd¢n §Òntaw aﬁt¤ouw énastãtouw §po¤se. Is this phrasing meant to distinguish the fate of the two sets of cities? Or is it primarily intended as a neater alternative to eÂle m¢n t«n Pter¤vn tØn pÒlin ka‹ tåw perioik¤daw aÈt∞w pãsaw ka‹ ±ndrapod¤sato or eÂle m¢n ka‹ ±ndrapod¤sato t«n Pter¤vn tØn pÒlin ka‹ tåw peroik¤daw aÈt∞w pãsaw, and therefore equivalent to ‘he captured the city of the Pterians and enslaved it (the same fate befell the perioikides poleis) and dispossessed the Syrians . . .’? 71 In Herodotean usage énãstatow is not conﬁned to depopulation of cities: cf. 1. 97. 3 (villages, khore), 7. 118 (houses).

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(4) The Syrians are picked out as oÈd¢n §Òntaw aﬁt¤ouw—presumably in the sense that Croesus’ quarrel was with Cyrus and had nothing to do with the Syrians. The point might be sharper if ‘Pterians’ were not Syrians but more direct representatives of Cyrus’ power, but this is not essential. In the end, then, we cannot demonstrate that Herodotus is describing a situation in which (for example) an alien group (Pterians) have taken over a region and imposed themselves upon the native Syrian (Cappadocian) population, conﬁscating their land and then re-assigning it to them on some more precarious basis—though at each stage we could choose to read his text in such a way. If we did so read it, we might be tempted to see the ‘Pterians’ as Medes.72 But perhaps that would in any case be wrong. If the Pterians were Medes, why not say so? And, in any case, a scenario in which (whatever the precise local boundaries and power-relations) the Medes themselves are—as a permanently settled element—absent accords better with the requirements of Herodotus 1. 134. The programme of survey and selective excavation undertaken by Geoﬀrey Summers at Kerkenes Dag has introduced a (literally) massive new element into the situation.73 Within a 7 km enceinte of Anatolian aspect (especially, but not solely, as regards the glacis surrounding the so-called Cappadocian Gate)74 are constructions which have an Iranian allure in the shape of columned halls reminiscent of Nush-i Jan and Godin Tepe. There are public, residential and storage buildings, so it is a secular centre, not a purely ritual one. This combination of features certainly seems appropriate to the Anatolian edge of a Median empire. So, too, perhaps is the (at ﬁrst sight) disconcerting conviction of the excavator that climatic conditions would have ensured the place was not a residence of choice during the winter: here was a place of secure refuge but also (at least for anyone allowed to approach it) intimidating strength, available for use by a comparatively large transient population—for example, a Median force sent annually to assert suzerainty over (collect dues from?) the open agricultural lands to the south and more mountainous regions to the north, and to engage in predatory raiding beyond the boundaries of acknowledged hegemony.75 Not that this is the only possible model, even 72

Summers 2000, 70. Summers 1997; 2000; and http://www.metu.edu.tr/home/wwwkerk/index.html, an exemplary web-site which includes the latest seasonal report. 74 Summers 2000, 71. It is worth noting that the enceinte is larger than Boghaz Köy (Hattu“a). The extent and nature of intra-mural building is not readily paralleled in an Anatolian context (Summers 2000, 69) and also has some non-Mesopotamian features (Summers 2000, 71 n. 20). 75 Or even, initially, to conduct the war with Lydia, if one favours (as Summers now does) a foundation-date prior to 585 BC. The location of the site precisely at the point where a rugged mountain-landscape gives way to the plain of northern Cappadocia (with distant views of Erciyas Dag) is one of its most striking features. 73

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granted the hypothesis of seasonal occupation. Perhaps, instead, the site was primarily the creation of a powerful Cappadocian vassal and vicegerent of the Median capo dei capi who had some other base (further south) for winter use. On this hypothesis it is the Cappadocian ruler, not the Median king, who was primarily engaging in a nomadic assertion of suzerainty, though development of the site would have presupposed the latter’s complaisance— and even practical assistance (hence elements of Iranian architecture inside what might otherwise have been inspired by a visit to Boghaz Köy, a site still partially occupied in the Iron Age)—and its resources would have been available to any passing Median horde. A perfect understanding of the site’s operation may still elude us. The crucial point is that its creation implies the exercise of considerable power by someone and that it would be a quite unnecessarily uneconomical aproach to the evidence to attribute that power entirely to an otherwise entirely unknown, local and independent central Anatolian potentate or polity rather than seeing it as derived from or enabled by the Median king.76 All of this is true irrespective of whether Kerkenes is ‘the city of the Pterians’—always assuming that a chronological location of the (single-period) site within the ﬁrst half of the 6th-century is justiﬁed independently of that assumption. Apart from neatness and the pleasure of nailing an elusive toponym to the map, the identiﬁcation would tend to favour the Cappadocian vassalpotentate model (in view of the absence of Medes from Herodotus’ picture of the local circumstances). It might also lead one to form a view of what Herodotus’ source had in mind in speaking of (a) Pteria and the city of the Pterians and (b) the Syrians’ kleroi. Kerkenes was city-like by virtue of size and fortiﬁcation, but it only functioned as a centre of power on a seasonal basis and for the population spread out across the landscape to the south the only real focus of identity was their individual parcels of land. The description is an attempt to capture in Greek terms a sharp disjunction between precarious and disempowered agricultural settlement and the physical manifestation of a more or less distant politico-military authority. But this does, admittedly, leave one asking uneasily what (and where) are the poleis perioikides. To deny the identiﬁcation removes such diﬃculties, but only in the sense that without a speciﬁc hypothesis (to which all of Herodotus’ details might be asked to conform) there are no opportunities for mismatch. As things currently stand, Summers’ case for the identiﬁcation is, of course, strongly suggestive 76 Roaf ’s objection (2003) to the idea that Kerkenes was part of an imperial enterprise— viz. that a local Parthian chief built a bigger enceinte at Qal’eh-i Yazdigird—simply draws attention to the varied characteristics of imperial landscapes (cf. Keall 1994). Apparent Median architectural features could travel far to the west before there was any question of a Median empire (cf. Roaf 1995 on Assyrian-period Tell Jemmeh), though the context was still a (neoAssyrian) imperialist one.

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rather than deﬁnitively compelling. But any suggestion that Herodotus’ description of the location of Pterie and the contents of a Giessen papyrus might point to a serious alternative must, I think, be rejected—the alternative is scarcely viable, for the idea that Croesus and Cyrus confronted one another somewhere in the coastal plain east of Sinope or the mountains immediately to the south is certainly no less intrinsically awkward than anything implied by the Pteria-Kerkenes identiﬁcation (see Appendix 3). Perhaps Pteria was elsewhere (on a broad interpretation of the signiﬁcance of the Halys as an aspect of the frontier—see above—the general vicinity of Kayseri might come into question),77 perhaps further investigation at Kerkenes will come up with a deﬁnitive proof. One can only reiterate that, since the Herodotean Pteria and Kerkenes are separately reconcilable with a Median empire stretching into central Anatolia, it is in the current context comparatively unimportant whether they are one place or two. IV. Conclusion Sancisi-Weerdenburg’s sceptical engagement with the Median empire was a distinctive and valuable strand in the rich skein of archaeological and historical study of Media and the Medes which stretches from the Nush-i Jan and Godin Tepe excavations to the present day and is so well represented by the volume edited by Lanfranchi, Roaf and Rollinger.78 The conclusion must be that in contemplating the outreach of power (at least westwards) from a centre in north-western Iran we are not dealing with an illusion. Perhaps the term ‘empire’ should be avoided lest people be misled by false equivocation with the neo-Assyrian, Babylonian or (developed) Achaemenid Persian empires. Historians of classical Greece are accustomed to use the word ‘hegemony’ when addressing cases of unequal power-relations between an individual citystate and smaller or larger numbers of similar states within its political ambit where they detect inadequate institutional structure or sense of stability to justify talk of empire. Whether the inherent implication of leadership of other states against some real or potential outsider is quite appropriate to post-610 BC Media is perhaps doubtful. One has a stronger sense of the seizure of power because a power-vacuum presented itself and to do so suited a cultural taste—one relatively newly emerged and therefore particularly energising—for military self-expression than of the assertion and pursuit of a supposed shared 77 Högemann 1992, 250 n. 33. Given that Diod. 9. 31 speaks of Cyrus coming to tå t∞w Kappadok¤aw stenã in response to Croesus’ attack one might even wonder about the region around French’s candidate (1998) for the m°ga fulaktÆrion on the Phrygian-Cappadocian bor-

der in Hdt. 5. 52. 78 Lanfranchi et al. 2003. The existence of this important volume has allowed me to restrict citation of earlier literature on various Median, Assyrian and Urartian topics.

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agenda. Rather than hegemony, therefore, let us perhaps speak of ‘domination’. Above all, let us reaﬃrm the importance of the Median interlude in creating conditions from which other Iranians—heirs both to the ScythoMedian and to a more Mesopotamian (and literate) state-model—would create the largest empire (properly so-called) the Near Eastern and Western worlds had yet seen. Appendix 1: Herodotus 1. 134. 3 1. The ﬁnal sentence (pro°baine går dØ tÚ ¶ynow êrxon te ka‹ §pitropeËon) must be about the Medes (or the situation obtaining during their empire), not the Persians: this is clear from the tense of pro°baine which contrasts tellingly with tim«si and the fact that the sentence is about the exercise of rule, not the dispensation of honour.79 The switch of attention from the Medes in the ﬁrst sentence (§p‹ d¢ MÆdvn . . . . . . §xom°nvn) to the Persians in the second (katå d¢ tÚn aÈtÚn d¢ lÒgon ka‹ oﬂ P°rsai tim«si) and then back to the Median situation in the third is a little awkward. But it is one of those awkwardnesses which seem worse the more one thinks about them but would not much puzzle the ordinary reader, and I am not sure that in itself it is enough to authorise either Stein’s deletion of the comment on the Persians80 or the adoption of a repunctuation and amendment (dÆ for d¢) designed to subordinate it.81 I stress ‘in itself ’: the problem may not be so much the switching of focus as the unclarity of expression of the ﬁnal sentence. 2. Given the general context and the speciﬁc pairing of êrxon te ka‹ §pitropeËon it seems very improbable that §pitropeÊein does not carry the overtone of rule for someone else—for on what other basis could êrxon te ka‹ §pitropeËon be anything but pointless repetition? In Herodotus the verb always means ‘to rule on behalf of ’, not ‘to delegate’ (i.e. cause someone else to rule on one’s own behalf ), so tÚ ¶ynow cannot mean ‘the Medes’, because, though they may have delegated, they did not rule on behalf of someone else.82 Since the previous sentence makes the Median scheme one of multiple ¶ynea, it is very diﬃcult to take ¶ynow as a way of describing the Median arkhe as a whole. So, if ¶ynow cannot designate the Medes or the empire as a whole it must refer to an ¶ynow within the empire. But then further problems arise. (a) We should expect the sentence to making a statement valid for any non-Median ¶ynow, but, as it stands, tÚ ¶ynow can hardly simply be translated as ‘each ¶ynow’ or ‘any particular ¶ynow’.83

79 Rawlinson (1880, 260), Cary (1901, 61) and Waterﬁeld (1998, 62) nonetheless make the ﬁnal sentence apply to Persians not Medes (Rawlinson and Waterﬁeld also translate pro°baine as though it were a present tense), and Sayce (1883, 81) regards this as an option. 80 Stein 1901, 161. 81 Stein 1883, 159f.; Macaulay 1904, 69, 111; Legrand 1946, 152 (see below, section 3). The relocation of the contents of either the last sentence (de Selincourt 1972, 97) or the penultimate one (Powell 1949, 81) to the start of the ﬁrst sentence is presumably another reaction to unease on this score. 82 Contrast: LSJ s.v.; Stein 1883, 159f.; Sayce 1883, 81 (second translation); Macaulay 1904, 69, 111; Godley 1921, 175; Högemann 1992, 100, who mistreat the verb and equate ethnos with the Medes. Legrand 1946, 152 (app. crit.) states the objection clearly. 83 Legrand 1946, 152 correctly notes this.

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(b) What does pro°baine mean? Given proba¤nontew in 134. 2 (and, of course, the general context) we naturally take it to allude to a series.84 We might inelegantly render the sentence thus: ‘the ¶ynow went-on-to-the-next-stage-in-the-series of ruling (for itself ) and governing (for others)’; but it is hard to persuade oneself that the idea of series in proba¤nein is quite powerful enough by itself to provide the idea of ‘eachness’, i.e. to turn ‘the ¶ynow’ into ‘each ¶ynow in the series’. On the contrary, in the abstract the sentence means that ‘the’ ¶ynow kept going on to new stages in a series of (states of ) ‘ruling and governing’—a proposition which does not make a lot of sense—not that there was a series of ¶ynea each of which (in the same way) ruled and governed. (c) In any case, what does it mean to say of any particular non-Median ¶ynow that it was both ruling (on its own account) and governing (for someone else)? The only answer I can see is that, while the Medes rule everyone altogether (sunapãntvn)—so any rule by one ¶ynow of another that goes on within the system is eo ipso an example of delegated rule (because it is rule exercised by an ¶ynow which is itself ruled, and its exercise of that rule is authorised by the overarching power)—rule exercised by one ¶ynow over another is also conceived as having an existence apart from the fact of its authorisation by the overarching power. But, although this is consistent with the earlier description (and indeed could represent an interestingly distinctive additional aspect of the situation),85 it is not clear that it is relevant just at this point. The point of the analogy must be that the Persians’ esteem for people diminishes with distance just the directness of Median rule over people diminished with distance, whereas the reading of the passage’s ﬁnal sentence just suggested talks about something which is essentially the same everywhere in the system and actually says nothing about it from the Medes’ point of view at all. 3. This succession of diﬃculties makes one suspect the text is at fault. Stein deleted katå d¢ tÚn aÈtÚn d¢ lÒgon ka‹ oﬂ P°rsai tim«si and replaced êrxon with érxÒmenon.86 The latter move gives the ﬁnal sentence an interplay or ruling and being ruled which ﬁts very nicely with the lengthier description in §p‹ d¢ MÆdvn . . . . . . §xom°nvn; but gãr hardly seems to be the correct connective particle. But if one retains katå d¢ tÚn aÈtÚn d¢ lÒgon ka‹ oﬂ P°rsai tim«si while accepting érxÒmenon the ﬁnal nine words are still not a perfect explanatory comment (gãr) on the reference to the diminution of Persian esteem with distance. The repunctuation and amendment of d¢ to dÆ in katå d¢ tÚn aÈtÚn d¢ lÒgon . . . . . . tim«si87 do not really alter this (since the gãr-sentence must still 84 Sayce (1883, 81: ‘the nation continually made advances in ruling and administering’), Macaulay (1904, 111: ‘for each race extended forward thus their rule or their deputed authority’), Carey (1901, 61: ‘for that nation went on extending its government and guardianship’), Godley (1921, 175: ‘for according as the Median state advanced its domain further from home, such was the measure of its rule and suzerainty’). Marg (1973, 78: ‘denn den Vorrang hatte jeweils das Volk das herrschte und verwaltete’) and Högemann (1992, 100: ‘denn es hat ja das Medervolk ausgegriﬀen, indem es herrschte und Herrschaft in seinem Namen ausüben liess’) tried diﬀerent approaches, but the end-results seem empty of sensible meaning (at least in context). 85 How and Wells (1912, 115) were, in eﬀect, putting a speciﬁc interpretation on this when they suggested that all the ¶ynea paid tribute to Media but ruled their own dependents. 86 Stein 1901, 161f. Compare Powell (1949, 81), who shifts the content of katå . . . tim«si earlier in the sentence and translates the ﬁnal sentence as ‘for each nation in succession was both ruled and ruler’. Högemann (1992, 100f.) deletes the phrase without changing êrxon to êrxomenon. 87 Legrand 1946, 152; Macaulay 1904, 69, 111.

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be explaining the comment about Persians, even if that comment is a grammatically subordinate part of the previous sentence rather than a sentence in its own right);88 and we still have the problem that tÚ ¶ynow does not mean ‘each ¶ynow’. Legrand’s pãn ti ¶ynow 89 is meant to deal with that, but leaves all other problems unaﬀected. (His rendering, ‘car il’ y avait de peuple à peuple gradation dans le commandement et l’autorité déléguée’, says something reasonably pertinent, but not something that comes very easily out of the Greek.) 4. My feeling, therefore, is that the last nine words should either be obelised or deleted as a gloss: for the phrase as it stands does have the sort of congested, ill-formulated and slightly oﬀ-target quality which seems perfectly suitable to a marginal jotting.90 Appendix 2: The Royal Road French’s identiﬁcation of the route of the Royal Road (a crucial feature of which is that it does not cross the River Halys but runs alongside it near Avanos, west of Kayseri) depends inter alia on a new understanding of Herodotus 5. 52. 2. His continuous translation of the crucial passge runs thus:91 After Phrygia is reached the R. Halys, at which there are gates, which it is absolutely necessary to pass through and, (in doing so) in this manner, (it is absolutely necesary) to make the passage along the river; and (there is) a large guard post at this point. For the person crossing into Cappadocia and travelling through this country as far as the borders with Cilicia there are thirty less two staging posts. . . .

1. §kd°ketai d¢ §k t∞w Frug¤aw ı ÜAluw potamÒw. French wants this to be consistent with Cappadocia having started some way west of the point at which the Halys impinges on the route.92 (This is necessary to make the parasang-distance through Cappadocia ﬁt.)93 This sits ill with Herodotus’ use of §kd°kesyai in the sense of ‘follow after’ (1. 185. 6, 1. 204. 1, 4. 39. 1, 4. 41, 4. 99. 1, 6. 111. 1, 7. 211. 1), where in all cases the thing following clearly is to be imagined as following immediately after— as indeed one would expect from the word’s literal meaning. 2. diabãnti d¢ §w tØn Kappadok¤an. Encountered straight after diekperçn tÚn potamÒn, this phrase will be sore pressed not to mean ‘crossing (the river) into Cappadocia’. At one point French (revealingly?) treats it as meaning ‘for the person crossing Cappadocia’, which is plain wrong (since it ignores §w).94 Later on the same page he speaks of the ‘ﬁgurative “to cross over into a country” (5. 52: diabãnti d¢ §w tØn Kappadok¤an)’. This is in a discussion of how Herodotus putatively got confused when writing 7. 26 (Xerxes’ army crossing the River Halys, diabãntew tÚn ÜAlun potamÒn)—conﬂating this supposed ﬁgurative sense with the alleged sense of diekperçn in 5. 52, ‘to pass

88

This is no doubt why Stein, who had adopted the same amendment in 1883 (159f.), now chose to delete the phrase. 89 Legrand 1946, 152. 90 Powell (1949, 81), without providing any explanation, regarded all of the three sentences under discussion here as an interpolation; this seems excessive. 91 French 1998, 27. 92 French 1998, 16. 93 Moreover the resulting location of the border has a somewhat arbitrary quality geographically speaking. 94 French 1998, 16.

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out through (sc. the Gates)’ (on which see below)—not in a straight statement of what 5. 52 is supposed to mean. Later still we do get a correct rendering en clair 95—and, however diekperçn is translated, the passage’s implication that Cappadocia is entered at this point seems to me overwhelming. 3. ı ÜAluw potamÒw, §pÉ ⁄ pÊlai te ¶peisi, tåw diejelãsai pçsa énãgkh ka‹ oÏtv diekperçn tÚn potamÒn, ka‹ fulaktÆrion m°ga §pÉ aÈt“. 3.1 We are (i) invited to take diekperçn in terms of passing out through, for example, the Straits of Gibraltar (4. 152. 2: Colaeus of Samos) and (ii) reminded that Herodotus speaks of gates (cf. above on Herodotus’ alleged use of the verb to mean ‘pass out through [sc. the Gates]’). But, it is the river that is the object of diekperçn, not the gates (for which we have diejelãsai), so the force of (ii) is small. What about (i) (insofar as it is not aﬀected by [ii]—a river not being prima facie the same as a Strait, unless perhaps you are travelling along it to its mouth)? The other Herodotean use is 3. 4. 3, which is about crossing a desert (Cambyses and Sinai), so is also not immediately parallel to a river. In both cases, of course, the essential force of the verb is ‘get right through to the other side’, and in both cases the stress involved in diek- is contextually important. It is also contextually important to Herodotus in 5. 52 (it goes along with diejelãsai pçsa énãgkh). The continuous translation (‘make the passage along the river’) gives the game away: it is really very unlikely that diekperçn potamÒn can signify passing along a river. 3.2 The fulaktÆrion is over/on the river (aÈt“), not the gates (for which aÈta›w would be required). ‘At this point’ in French’s continuous translation is an indefensible sleight-of-hand; and, although he might claim that the guard-post was broadly speaking on the river as well as at the gates, if it is passing through the gates that matters, it would be an odd way for Herodotus to put things. (The parallelism of §pÉ ⁄ and §pÉ aÈt“ only underlines the point.) 4. French believes Xerxes’ route in 481 (7. 26) was the same as the Royal Road, but is forced to admit that 7. 26 ‘makes no sense’ (if 5. 50f. means what he thinks it means), compelling us to make a ‘modiﬁcation’ of the meaning of diaba¤nein or to re-organise and emend the passage. It seems to me that since 5. 50f. cannot reasonably mean what French wants but does on the face of it cohere with 7. 26, the economical conclusion is that French is wrong about the line of the Royal Road. 5. I freely concede (a) that French’s southern route, as a route from Sardis to the Euphrates, is in itself attractive and (b) that a northern route (crossing the Halys east of Ankara) prima face requires an second crossing of the Halys if it is to go through Cilicia (something Herodotus fails to mention), and involves a distance from Sardis to the Halys east of Ankara which exceeds that given by Herodotus by a signiﬁcant margin (of the order of nine parasangs).96 I merely insist that, if French’s route is to be accepted as a matter of fact, it will have to be on the understanding that Herodotus’ description of it does not match reality. In other words, any view of the route between Sardis and the Euphrates involves Herodotus getting something wrong. (This also goes for his estimate of the distance Ephesus-Sardis as 540 stades [54. 2].)

95

French 1998, 27. After the Halys one can ﬁnd a route back to Kayseri (to rejoin French’s route) which matches Herodotus’ ﬁgures perfectly. 96

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Appendix 3: The Location of Pteria It may be helpful to spell out some facts (and more uncertainties) about three texts bearing on the location of Pteria. 1. ‘Pteria is the strongest [part?] of Cappadocia katå Sin≈phn pÒlin tØn §n EÈje¤nƒ pÒntƒ mãlistã k˙ keim°nhn’ (1. 76). The closest parallels for katå . . . mãlistã k˙ are 2. 75. 1 (¶sti d¢ x«row t∞w Arab¤hw katå BoutËn pÒlin mãlistå k˙ ke¤menow) and 2. 148. 1 (labÊrinyon Ùl¤gon Íp¢r t∞w l¤mnhw t∞w Mo¤riow katå Krokode¤lvn kaleom°nhn pÒlin mãlistã k˙ ke¤menon). In both cases the two places in question are very close to one another,97 so on the face of it the parallels support the view that Pteria was close to Sinope. But it may be fortuitous that the only other times Herodotus says something is ‘roughly kata’ somewhere else are ones involving small distances. Powell translates it as ‘in a line with’ in all these three passages,98 associating the usage with katã = ‘opposite’ rather than = ‘near’, presumably because one cannot reasonably speak of somewhere being ‘approximately near’ to somewhere else.99 Once one has conceded this, there is no intrinsic reason to limit the distances involves, providing that sense can be made of katã, and in the case of Sinope it surely can, given that Sinope marks (for Herodotus) the northern end of a direct line across Anatolia from ‘mountain Cilicia’, which incidentally is itself roughly (mãlistã k˙) opposite (ént¤h this time) Egypt (2. 34. 2). 2. Stephanus s.v. Pt°rion reads thus: Pt°rion pÒliw MÆdvn. t¤new d¢ pterå oÈd°tervw tØn ékrÒpolin Babul«now. l°getai d¢ ka‹ yhluk«w ≤ Pter¤a. ¶sti ka‹ Pter¤a pÒliw Sin«phw. tÚ §ynikÚn t∞w Mhdik∞w PterihnÒw, t∞w dÉ §n tª Sin≈p˙ Pter¤ow. Since PterihnÚw is not Herodotean and Herodotus does not call Pteria Median, it is natural to infer the existence of another source speaking of the Pterienoi of (Median) Pterion. There is no way of telling whether this Median Pterion was or was not identical with the Herodotean one and/or Stephanus’ own Sinopean Pteria. Sinopean Pteria itself could perfectly well result from a misreading of Herodotus, but the Giessen papyrus (below)—obscure though it is—can be adduced as an argument that this is not the case, i.e. that (here too) Stephanus is reﬂecting a text other than Herodotus.100 3. PbuG 40 (olim P. Giess. 307b = Hellanicus 4 F 201 bis), republished in 1994,101 contains two badly preserved columns from what is assumed to be a scholiast (on Simonides?). Column 2, as restored, mentions Pteria three times in three lines (in one case—perhaps a parenthetic gloss on the ﬁrst occurence of the name—described, according to tentative supplements, as ≤ MÆ[dvn pÒliw] or ≤ mh[trÒpoliw]), refers to someone sailing to Karussa in the next line, and has oﬂ §n Pers¤di ka‹ oﬂ êll˙ in the line after that. Karussa perhaps = Karousa (modern Gerseh), a place on the Black Sea 150 stades south-east of Sinope (cf. Ps.-Scylax 89, Arrian PE 14 and other periplous-texts; it also appears in the Athenian Tribute Quota Lists). The fact that the reference sits between allusions to Pteria and the allusion to people in Persia does 97

Cf. Lloyd 1975/88. Powell 1938 s.v. katã; 1949, 38; so too Macaulay 1904, 37 (at 109 he rightly remarks that Sinope is 50 miles [80 km] west of the Halys, so that if Pteria is east of the river it cannot in any case by ‘near’ Sinope); de Selincourt 1972, 71; Waterﬁeld 1998, 34. 99 Legrand (1946, 79: ‘est située à peu près vers la ville de S.’) evidently thought otherwise. Others who (eﬀectively) translate katã as ‘near’ omit or mistranslate mãlistã k˙: Rawlinson 1880, 202; Sayce 1883, 45; Stein 1901, 95; Godley 1921, 95. Cary (1901, 93) and Marg (1973, 42) produce non-committal translations. 100 The brief references to Pterion/Pteria in Herodian peri katholikes prosodias 299, 359 add nothing to what appears in Stephanus. 101 Kuhlmann 1994. 98

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perhaps make it diﬃcult simply to say either (a) that the reference to Karussa belongs to some diﬀerent scholiastic train of thought from the one about Pteria or (b) that the Pteria in question is simply Stephanus’ supposed Sinopean one and none of the passage has anything to do with Cyrus and Croesus; and in any case the appearance both before and after the lines already mentioned of the phrase ﬂerÚn ékremÒna (‘holy bough’) suggests that the entire section of which our passage is part may be part of a single comment. But this does not make comprehension any easier. The length of the lines is unclear and Kuhlmann rightly says that the content of our column ‘remains dark’. It serves as an indication that Sinopean Pteria could be a location on or near the Black Sea (cf. §2) but does not convince me that this is where the armies of Croesus and Cyrus confronted one another. (I would add that the impression created by the truncated preserved lines that ‘the people in Persia and those elsewhere’ sailed to Karussa seems to put before us a scenario too peculiar to be capable of casting light on our problem. But no doubt this would be called a petitio principii by those determined to position Pteria near Sinope.) So, unless a Pteria located near the mouth of the Halys gave its name to a huge and geograpically diverse region stretching as far as Kerkenes or indeed even further (something which Herodotus failed to understand), I cannot see any way of reconciling the papyrus with the Herodotean evidence.

Addendum Since the paper was submitted several new articles have appeared based on new ﬁndings. The Gordion team, using C 14 analysis, has dated the Gordion destruction level to between 830 and 800 BC (S.W. Manning et al., ‘Anatolian Tree Rings and a New Chronology for the East Mediterranean Bronze-Iron Ages’. Science 294, 2532–35). Some scholars disagree (O.W. Muscarella, ‘The Date of the Destruction of the Early Phrygian Period at Gordion’. Ancient West & East 2.2 [2003], 225–52; D.J. Keenan, ‘Radiocarbon Dates from Iron Age Gordion’. Ancient West & East 3.1 [2004], 100–03). The last two years of excavation at Kerkenes Dag have demonstrated that the city was most probably Phrygian (G.D. Summers and F. Summers, ‘The Kerkenes Project’. Anatolian Archaeology 9 [2003], 22–24; G.D. Summers, F. Summers and S. Branting, ‘Megarons and Associated Structures at Kerkenes Dag: An Interim Report’. Anatolia Antiqua XII [2004], 7–41). A Median identity for Kerkenes Dag has also been rejected by R. Rollinger (‘Kerkenes Dag and the Median Empire’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 321–26). The contents of two further papers by Rollinger, ‘The Median “Empire”, the end of Urartu and Cyrus the Great’s campaign in 547’ and ‘Das Phantom des Medischen “Grossreichs” und die Behistun-Inschrift’ (www.achemenet.com/ressources/souspresse/ annonces/annonces.htm) are also relevant—and reconcilable with the thrust of the present paper. Deioces is the subject of a brief new monograph: M. Meier et al., Deiokes, König der Meder (Stuttgart 2004).

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Classics and Ancient History SACOS University of Liverpool 12 Abercromby Square Liverpool L69 7WZ UK [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations ABC A.K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (Locust Valley, NY 1975) ABL R.F. Harper, Assyrian and Babylonian Letters (Chicago 1892–1914) AchHist Achaemenid History I–VIII (Leiden 1987–1994) AJA American Journal of Archaeology AMI Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran ANET J.B. Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (3rd ed.: Princeton 1969) AnSt Anatolian Studies BCSMS Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies CAD Chicago Assyrian Dictionary (Chicago 1956–) DB Darius Behistun Inscription: see R.G. Kent, Old Persian (New Haven 1953) or R. Schmitt, The Bisitun Inscription of Darius the Great: Old Persian Text (London 1991) or P. Lecoq, Les inscriptions de la Perse achéménide (Paris 1997) HChI F.W. König, Handbuch der chaldischen Inschriften (Graz 1957) IEJ Israel Exploration Journal IrAnt Iranica Antiqua JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies LAAA Liverpool Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology NABU Notices assyriologiques brèves et utilitaires RA Revue d’Assyriologie RC C.B. Welles, Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period (New Haven/Prague 1934) RLA Real-Lexikon der Assyriologie (Berlin 1932–) SAAB State Archives of Assyria: Bulletin VDI Vestnik drevnei istorii WdO Welt des Orients ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie Balcer, J.M. 1994: ‘Herodotus, the “Early State”, and Lydia’. Historia 43, 246–49. Baltzer, D. 1973/4: ‘Harran nach 610 “medisch”?’. WdO 7, 86–95. Beaulieu, P.A. 1989: The Reign of Nabonidus, King of Babylon (556–539 BC) (New Haven /London). Berger, P.-R. 1975: ‘Der Kyros-Zylinder mit dem Zusatzfragment BIN II Nr 32 und die akkadischen Namen im Danielbuch’. ZA 64, 192–234. Borger, R. 1996: Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals (Wiesbaden). Brosius, M. 2000: The Persian Empire from Cyrus II to Artaxerxes I (London). Brown, S.C. 1988: ‘The Medikos Logos of Herodotus and the evolution of the Median state’. AchHist 3, 71–86. Calmeyer, P. 1987: ‘Zur Genese altiranischer Motiven, VIII: Die Staatliche Landcharte des Perserreiches—Nachträge und Korrekturen’. AMI 20, 129–46. ——. 1994: ‘Baylonische und assyrische Elemente in der achaimenidischen Kunst’. AchHist 8, 131–47.

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Cary, H. 1901: Herodotus (London). Curtis, J. 2003: ‘The Assyrian heartland in the period 612–539 BC’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 157–67. de Selincourt, A. 1972: Herodotus: The Histories (revised ed.: Harmondsworth). Diakonoﬀ, I.M. 1992: ‘The naval power and trade of Tyre’. IEJ 42, 168–93. ——. 2000: ‘The Near East on the eve of the Achaemenian rule ( Jeremiah 25)’. In Dittmann, R. et al. (eds.), Variatio Delectat: Iran und der Westen. Gedenkschrift für Peter Calmeyer (Münster), 223–30. Flensted-Jensen, P. 1995: ‘The Bottiaians and their polis’. In Hansen, M.H. and Raaﬂaub, K. (eds.), Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis (Stuttgart), 103–32. French, D.H. 1998: ‘Pre- and early-Roman roads of Asia Minor: The Persian Royal Road’. Iran 36, 15–43. Godley, A.D. 1921: Herodotus I (London/Cambridge, Mass.). Gunter, A. 1982: ‘Representations of Urartian and West Iranian fortress architecture in the Assyrian reliefs’. Iran 20, 103–12. Hansen, M.H. 1998: Polis and City-State (Copenhagen). Högemann, P. 1992: Das alte Vorderasien und die Achämeniden (Wiesbaden). How, W.W. and Wells, J. 1912: A Commentary on Herodotus (Oxford). Ivantchik, A.I. 1993: Les Cimmériens au Proche-Orient (Fribourg/Göttingen). ——. 1999: ‘The Scythian “rule over Asia”: the classical tradition and the historical reality’. In Tsetskhladze, G. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 496–520. Jacoby, R. 1991: ‘The representation and identiﬁcation of cities on Assyrian reliefs’. IEJ 41, 112–31. Joannès, F. 1995: ‘Les relations entre Babylon et les Mèdes’. NABU 1995–21. (http://www. achemenet.com/recherché/texts/babyloniens/nabu/nabu.htm) Keall, E. 1994: ‘How many kings did the Parthian King of Kings rule?’. IrAnt 29, 253–72. Khazanov, A.M. 1984: Nomads and the Outside World (Cambridge). Kienast, B. 1999: ‘The so-called “Median Empire”’. BCSMS 34, 59–67. Kirsten, E. 1959: ‘Pteria (1)—Nachträge’. RE 23, 2466. Klauber, E. 1913: Politisch-religioese Texte aus der Sargonidenzeit (Leipzig). Kroll, S. 2003: ‘Medes and Persians in Transcaucasia’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 281–87. Kuhlmann, P. 1994: Die Giessener literarischen Papyri (Giessen). Kuhrt, A. 1987/90: ‘Lygdamis’. RLA 7, 186–89. ——. 1995: ‘The Assyrian heartland in the Achaemenid period’. In Briant, P. (ed.), Dans les Pas des Dix-Mille (Toulouse), 239–54. Lanfranchi, G. 1998: ‘Esarhaddon, Assyria and Media’. SAAB 21, 99–109. ——. 2001/2: ‘The Cimmerians at the entrance of the Netherworld. Filtration of Assyrian cultural and ideological elements into archaic Greece’. Atti e Memorie dell’Accademia Galileiana di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti 114, 75–112. ——. 2003: ‘The Assyrian expansion in the Zagros and the ruling elites’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 79–118. Lanfranchi, G., Roaf, M. and Rollinger R. (eds.), 2003: Continuity of Empire(?): Assyria, Media, Persia (Padua). Langdon, S. 1912: Die neubabylonische Königsinschriften (Leipzig). Legrand, Ph.-E. 1946: Hérodote: Histoires. Livre I (Paris). Levine, L.D. 1973: ‘Geographical studies in the neo-Assyrian Zagros I’. Iran 11, 1–27. ——. 1974: ‘Geographical studies in the neo-Assyrian Zagros II’. Iran 12, 99–124. Liverani, M. 1991: ‘The trade network of Tyre according to Ezek.27’. In Cogan, M. and Eph’al, I. (eds.), Ah, Assyria . . . ( Jerusalem), 65–79. ——. 1995: ‘The Medes at Esarhaddon’s court’. JCS 47, 57–62. Lloyd, A.B. 1975/1988: Herodotus II: Introduction and Commentary (Leiden). Macaulay, G.C. 1904: The History of Herodotus I (London). Marg, W. 1973: Herodot: Geschichten und Geschichte Buch 1–4 (Zurich/Munich). Medvedskaya, I.N. 1992: ‘The question of the identiﬁcation of 8th–7th century Median sites and the formation of the Iranian architectural tradition’. AMI 25, 73–79. ——. 1995: ‘Byvali li Assiriitsy v Ekbatane?’. VDI 2, 147–55. Millard, A.R. 1979: ‘The Scythian Problem’. In Ruﬄe, J. et al. (eds.), Glimpses of Ancient Egypt: Studies in honour of H.W. Fairman (Warminster), 119–22.

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Panaino, A. 2003: ‘Herodotus I 96–101: Deioces’ conquest of power and the foundation of sacred royalty’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 327–38. Parpola, S. and Watanabe, K. 1988: Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (Helsinki). Powell, J.E. 1938: Lexicon to Herodotus (Cambridge). ——. 1949: Herodotus (Oxford). Przeworski, S. 1929: ‘Die Lage von Pteria’. Archiv Orientální 1, 312–15. Radke, G. 1959: ‘Pteria(1)’. RE 23, 1497–98. Radner, K. 2003: ‘An Assyrian view on the Medes’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 37–64. Rawlinson, G. 1880: History of Herodotus (London). Reade, J.E. 1995: ‘Iran in the neo-Assyrian period’. In Liverani, M. (ed.), Neo-Assyrian Geography (Rome), 31–42. ——. 2003: ‘Why did the Medes invade Assyria?’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 149–56. Roaf, M. 1995: ‘Media and Mesopotamia: history and architecture’. In Curtis, J.E. (ed.), Later Mesopotamia and Iran: tribes and empires, 1600–539 BC (London), 54–66. ——. 2003: ‘The Median Dark Age’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 13–22. Rollinger, R. 2003: ‘The western expansion of the Median “empire”: a re-examination’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 289–319. Rosen, H. 1987: Herodoti Historiae I (Leipzig). Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 1988: ‘Was there ever a Median Empire?’. AchHist 3, 197–212. ——. 1994: ‘The orality of Herodotus’ Medikos Logos or: the Median Empire revisited’. AchHist 8, 39–55. Sayce, A.H. 1883: The Ancient Empires of the East. Herodotos I–III (London). Scurlock, J.A. 1990: ‘Herodotos’ Median Chronology Again?!’. IrAnt 25, 149–63. Seidl, U. 1994: ‘Achaimenidische Entlehnungen aus der urartäischen Kultur’. AchHist 8, 107–29. Sevin, V. 1988: ‘The oldest highway: Van—Elazig’. Antiquity 62/236, 547–51. ——. 1991: ‘The south-western expansion of Urartu’. In Cilingiroglu, A. (ed.), Anatolian Iron Ages (Oxford), 97–112. Smith, A.T. 1999: ‘The making of an Urartian landscape in southern Transcaucasia: a study in political architectonics’. AJA 103, 45–71. Starr, I. 1990: Queries to the Sungod (Helsinki). Stein, H. 1883: Herodotos (5th ed.: Berlin). ——. 1901: Herodotos (6th ed.: Berlin). Sulimirski, T. and Taylor, T. 1991: ‘The Scythians’. In Cambridge Ancient History III.2 (2nd ed.: Cambridge), 547–90. Summers, G.D. 1993: ‘Archaeological evidence for the Achaemenid period in Eastern Turkey’, AnSt 43, 85–108. ——. 1997: ‘The identiﬁcation of the Iron Age city on Kerkenes Dag’. JNES 56, 81–94. ——. 2000: ‘The Median Empire reconsidered: a view from Kerkenes Dag’. AnSt 50, 55–73. Thompson, R.C. and Mallowan, M. 1933: ‘British Museum Excavations at Nineveh 1931–2’. LAAA 20, 74–186. Thureau-Dangin, F. 1925: ‘La ﬁn de l’empire assyrien’. RA 22, 27–29. Tourovets, A. 2001: ‘Nouvelles propositions et problèmes relatifs à l’identiﬁcation des délégations de l’escalier est de l’Apadana (Persépolis)’. AMI 33, 219–56. Tuplin, C.J. 1994: ‘Persians as Medes’. AchHist 8, 235–56. ——. 1997: ‘Medism and its causes’. Transeuphratène 13, 155–85. ——. 2003: ‘Xenophon in Media’. In Lanfranchi et al. 2003, 351–89. Vera Chamaza, G.W. 1994: ‘Der VIII. Feldzug Sargons II’. AMI 27, 91–118. Vogelsang, W. 1986: ‘Four short notes on the Bisutun text and monument’. IrAnt 21, 121–40. ——. 1992: Rise and Organisation of the Achaemenid Empire (Leiden). Waterﬁeld, R. 1998: Herodotus: The Histories (Oxford). Zimansky, P. 1985: Ecology and Empire: the Structure of the Uratian State (Chicago). ——. 1995a: ‘Xenophon and the Urartian legacy’. In Briant, P. (ed.), Dans les Pas des DixMille (Toulouse), 255–68. ——. 1995b: ‘The Urartian frontier as an archaeological problem’. In Liverani, M. (ed.), NeoAssyrian Geography (Rome), 171–80.

WESTERN GREEKS IN THEIR REGIONAL SETTING: RETHINKING EARLY GREEK-INDIGENOUS ENCOUNTERS IN SOUTHERN ITALY1 GERT-JAN BURGERS Abstract Indigenous peoples throughout the eastern and western reaches of the Greek colonial world have commonly been regarded as socio-politically and culturally subordinate to the Greek colonists who settled among them. In this article I wish to reassess such long-standing perceptions by tracing the active, conscious role the indigenous peoples played in the historical process. Focusing on southern Italy, I hope to demonstrate that the small groups of Greeks who settled here in the 8th and 7th centuries BC, were only some of the many actors in a regional context of land reclamation, territorial expansion and redeﬁnition enhanced to a signiﬁcant degree by indigenous groups. It can even be argued that they were deliberately exploited in the contemporary indigenous socio-political arena, one marked by great ferment

Introduction Historians and classical archaeologists alike have commonly characterised the relationship between Greek colonists and the indigenous peoples throughout the eastern and western reaches of their colonial activity as one of great antithesis. Contributing to this perception has been the recurrent focus on the histoire événementielle recorded by ancient literary tradition. Ancient texts cite numerous military conﬂicts between the colonial Greek poleis and their nonGreek neighbours. By and large, the Greeks emerged triumphant from these conﬂicts. A case in point is Italian Greek Sybaris, which, according to Strabo (6. 1. 13), came to rule over a vast indigenous territory. However, examples of the opposite have also been recorded. One particularly striking case is that of the Salento Peninsula, in the heel of Italy. Here, references to battles dominate ancient, as well as modern historiography. The most famous of these is Herodotus’ account of the indigenous Messapians defending themselves against an assault on their towns by a coalition of Taras and Rhegion (ca. 470 BC; Herodotus 7. 170). According to Herodotus, this coalition suﬀered the most crushing defeat the Greeks had ever seen.

1 I would like to thank Peter Attema, Martijn van Leusen and Douwe Yntema for their feedback on earlier versions of this article; and Bert Brouwenstijn, Jaap Fokkema and Harry Burgers (Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam) for preparing the ﬁgures. The English text was edited by the Language Centre at the Vrije Universiteit.

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Various modern studies have sought to integrate the short-term approach to recording history in these accounts into a medium-term diachronic exploration of socio-political trends.2 These studies generally discuss events in connection with expansionist trends of the Greek colonies. The latter are examined in light of relevant urbanisation and polis-formation processes, which unfolded parallel with and were closely related to processes on the Greek mainland. In contrast to the Greek colonial city-states, most of the non-Greek regions throughout the Mediterranean are seen to have ‘lagged behind’ socially and culturally—some to the point of chronic underdevelopment.3 It has even been argued that this basically unequal development was one of the major factors contributing to the continuously dialectic—and often conﬂicting—relationship that stands out so prominently in the history of the events cited above.4 Until recently, attempts at testing the latter hypotheses were rare in problemfocused ﬁeldwork. Classical archaeological excavations have concentrated on colonial Greek city-states, from Chersonesos and Olbia along the shores of the Black Sea to Selinous and Metaponto in Italy. Traditionally, these excavations focused—as many continue to do—on Greek colonisation and Greek art, architecture and town planning.5 The merits of this research tradition are indisputable. Unfortunately, however, research in the indigenous regions was in no way comparable.6 If these regions were studied at all, it was primarily when numerous burial grounds were found to contain vast numbers of Greek vases and other artefacts, the style and iconography of which appealed to researchers. At the same time, such ﬁnds were taken to conﬁrm the widespread power of Hellenism, or Hellenisation, a concept denoting the dissemination of Greek culture among indigenous peoples. This diﬀusion, in turn, was felt to support the general belief in Greek cultural, political and technological superiority.7 As new generations of scholars have emerged, the latter premises have not passed unchallenged. The concept of Hellenisation in particular has been questioned more and more as regarding its usefulness in studying cultural change. Scholars have abandoned the notion that Greek culture spread in a linear and uniform process. Rather, they now emphasise the geographic, as well as diachronic, variability in Greek—indigenous contacts.8 A more fundamental 2 For example, Dunbabin 1948; Graham 1983; Vallet 1983; Snodgrass 1986; Giangiulio 1987; Lepore 1989; Pugliese Caratelli 1996a. 3 For example, Dunbabin 1948; Boardman 1964; Torelli 1988. 4 Torelli 1988. 5 Major volumes, such as those edited by Pugliese Caratelli (1985–1990, 1996b) and Tsetskhladze (1998) provide comprehensive overviews of the principal issues at stake. 6 Cf. Morel 1984; Gualtieri 1987; Whitehouse and Wilkins 1989; D’Andria 1991; 2002; Burgers 1998. 7 See, in particular, Dunbabin 1948; Boardman 1964. 8 For example, Whitehouse and Wilkins 1989; Lombardo 1991; D’Andria 1991; 2002.

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criticism has also been advanced, namely that the concepts of Hellenism and Hellenisation are rooted in an unquestioned belief that Greek culture was inherently superior and that, correspondingly, its diﬀusion was a natural and benevolent civilising enterprise. These concepts have recently been placed within a contextual perspective. Moreover, some argue that they were constructed in an 18th and 19th century Romantic tradition, as a foundation myth of Western civilisation, a myth inﬂuenced by the belief in the civilising mission of contemporary European colonialism.9 The critics of this perspective on early Greek colonisation advocate an explicit, culturally relative paradigm, i.e. they start from the premise that all cultural systems are equally valid. Many recent studies on Greek colonisation oﬀer other innovative perspectives.10 One eﬀect of this development is particularly relevant to this study: the new perspectives have expanded the scope of classical archaeology to include regions throughout the Mediterranean that the Greeks considered marginal. Recent problem-focused ﬁeldwork in some of these regions has revealed that many non-Greek groups were far less static than previously presumed. In fact, the evidence suggests that their settlements and societies evolved with much the same growing complexity.11 These new perspectives have also paved the way for various recent projects aimed at expanding and reﬁning the theoretical and methodological framework for research into local societies. One of these projects was carried out between 1997 and 2002 by the archaeological research centres of Amsterdam’s Vrije Universiteit (ACVU) and Groningen University.12 This project, entitled ‘Regional Pathways to Complexity’ (RPC), sought to broaden and reﬁne the basis for empirical generalisation regarding centralisation and urbanisation in early Italy. To this end, the project team carried out intensive ﬁeld surveys, used land evaluation techniques and conducted ethnographic and technological research in three target regions: the Pontine region in Latium, the Apulian Salento isthmus and the Sibaritide in Calabria (Fig. 1). Rich data sets were already available for each of these regions from existing long-term ﬁeldwork projects in both institutes. Using this multidisciplinary, comparative approach, the RPC research team set out to analyse the increasing social complexity of the regional societies in question. Their focus in this undertaking lay on reﬁning the nuances of

9

For example, Morris 1994; van Dommelen 1995; Lomas 1996. In particular, see Morel 1984; Malkin 1987; Carter 1998; Osborne 1998; Lombardo 1991; 2002; Greco 2003; and in Finley 1973; Descoeudres 1990; Tsetskhladze and Snodgrass 2002. 11 With regard to Italy, which is the focus of this article, see, in particular, Bottini and Guzzo 1986; Whitehouse and Wilkins 1989; Herring 1991; D’Andria 1991; 2002; Yntema 1993a; Burgers 1998. 12 The RPC project was subsidised by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientiﬁc Research (NWO). Major integrating publications on the project include Attema et al. 1998; 2002. 10

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Fig. 1. The research areas of the RPC project.

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traditional text-based accounts. This article seeks to contribute towards that aim, especially in regard to early Greek colonisation in southern Italy, which took place roughly in the 8th and 7th centuries BC. Two of the RPC study areas, the Sybaris region and the Salento Isthmus, oﬀer ample grounds for a critical reassessment of long-standing perceptions of Greek impact on local societies. By tracing the active, conscious role these societies played in the historical process, I hope to demonstrate that the groups of Greek settlers in southern Italy were only some of the many actors in a regional arena of land reclamation, territorial expansions and redeﬁnitions enhanced to a signiﬁcant degree by local groups. My intention in focusing on the regional perspective is not to produce an anti-Greek manifesto. Rather, I hope to underscore the fact that the interaction between the groups we studied was highly complex, with power diﬀerentials between local actors playing a major role. The Hegemony of Sybaris The Sybaris Plain on the south Italian Ionic coast is among those regions where the issues discussed above dominate the archaeological agenda. The Iron Age and Archaic settlement conﬁgurations there have long been interpreted primarily in the light of early Greek colonialism and territorial expansion. The colony that played a pivotal role in these developments was Achaian Sybaris, which was reportedly founded in the later 8th century BC. This colony is commonly thought to have exerted a regional hegemonic inﬂuence from its very foundation until its destruction in 510 BC by the neighbouring polis of Kroton.13 One major indication of this dominance can be found in literary sources, notably in an account by Strabo, which states that the town ruled over three tribes (ethne) and 25 towns ( poleis hypekooi; Strabo 6. 1. 13). It was not until fairly recently that archaeologists made a positive identiﬁcation of Sybaris,14 buried as it was under the ruins of its successor towns, Thurii and Copiae (Fig. 2). What is more, the town was covered by alluvial deposits that reached up to 6 m in depth. Located near the conﬂuence of the rivers Crati and Coscile, Sybaris lies 2.5 km from the coastline (which is thought to have bordered the town in antiquity). Despite intensive excavations that span decades, few traces of ancient Sybaris have actually been unearthed.15 The remains of two temples that were found as spolia in public buildings of Roman Copia have received the most attention. In addition, a series of private houses dating to the 6th century BC were excavated at Stombi, which lies roughly 1.5 km to the north. The discovery of this systematically organised 13

For example, Guzzo 1987; 1993. Guzzo 1970, 15–23. 15 Kleibrink 2001 (with extensive bibliography) discusses at length the meagre evidence of early Greek and indigenous groups at Sybaris and in its chora. 14

Fig. 2. The Archaic Sibaris region, with indication of major sites (after Vanzetti 2002, ﬁg. 7).

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nucleus of houses at a fairly large distance from what is presumably the town’s centre is believed to indicate Sybaris’ formidable size. Similar houses dating to the 6th century BC have been excavated at Amendolara/S. Nicola and Timpone della Motta near Francavilla Marittima (Fig. 2).16 The former site is located some 30 km from Sybaris, at the northern end of the plain. The latter lies 18 km from Sybaris, on one of the foothills forming the western border of the plain, on the eastern bank of the River Raganello. The houses at these sites featured the same construction techniques as the Sybarite houses. They also yielded very similar artefactual repertoires. Moreover, the houses at Amendolara were laid out in insulae encapsulated within a well-deﬁned street pattern: a layout per strigas in miniature.17 These ﬁndings are believed to conﬁrm the theory of contemporary Sybarite hegemony over the larger part of the region.18 In the case of Timpone Motta, this conclusion is deduced primarily from the presence of a Greek sanctuary on top of the hill. Sybaris’ later dominance is generally accepted—at least in regard to the surrounding plain. The formative phases of its hegemony, however, are the subject of much debate. Pier Giovanni Guzzo, one of the leading Italian archaeologists involved in the research into Sybaris, contends that its dominance can be dated back to the recorded foundation of the colony in the later 8th century BC. At that time, the few originally indigenous sites present in the region, including Amendolara, Francavilla Marittima and Torre Mordillo, were rapidly falling under colonial control.19 He derives archaeological evidence for this theory from the presence, among other things, of Greek ceramics, dating to the ﬁrst half of the 7th century BC in an indigenous necropolis at Amendolara. Guzzo also interprets the temple structures at Timpone Motta and those at other sites, such as Torre Mordillo, where similar Greek artefacts have reportedly been found, along the lines established by De Polignac: he places them in the context of the formation of a crown of frontier sanctuaries that deﬁne and defend the early colonial territory.20 Although Guzzo draws heavily on data sets from the wider Sybaritide, the region’s originally indigenous populations ﬁgure only cursorily in his otherwise rich account. He takes the same approach to the 8th century BC precolonial period, where he focuses primarily on indications of Greek trading activities preceding actual colonisation. This exchange is assumed to have 16 For Amendolara, see especially De la Genière and Nickels 1975, 483–98; for the site of Francavilla Marittima, Kleibrink 2001, 42; cf. Osanna 1992, 159–64; Greco 1993, 469–72. 17 Greco 2001, 177. 18 Greco 2001, 178; Osanna 1992; 2000, 210–12; Kleibrink 2001. 19 Guzzo 1982; 1987. Cf. Greco 2001, 177–78; Osanna 2001, 210–12. 20 Guzzo 1987, 373–79. Cf. De Polignac 1984; Osanna 1992, 122–32, 157–66; Greco 1993, 467.

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taken place based on the occurrence of Greek (and Phoenician) artefacts in the early Iron Age necropoleis of the indigenes. Also in this case Greek involvement is considered to have been a decisive factor in the fortunes of the Sybaris region. In fact, Guzzo suggests that the prestigious allure of Greek consumer goods prompted the indigenes to settle on hill-top sites near the shores.21 Accordingly, Greek inﬂuence is not only thought to have triggered urbanisation in the colonial period, but also settlement transformations in the preceding phase. Iron Age Indigenous Settlement Expansion and Early Indigenous-Greek Encounters Guzzo’s views have not gone uncontested. For one thing, they do not appear to tally with the ﬁndings of the Roman School of Protohistory’s ongoing archaeological research project in the Sybaritide.22 This project’s excavations and extensive surveys indicate that even as early as the Middle Bronze Age, a stable, centralised settlement system emerged in the Sybaritide. Major subcoastal hill-top sites were built at fairly even distances (3–5 km apart), each controlling a corresponding territory. After a process of concentration and selection during the Final Bronze Age, favouring the best-defended sites, such as Broglio di Trebisacce and Torre Mordillo, the project team found evidence of settlement expansion in the early Iron Age (Fig. 2). This time, the expansion appears to have been concentrated at the centre of the plain, where minor new—and probably satellite—sites appear in the territories of major sites (e.g. Terranova and La Prunetta in the territory of Torre Mordillo).23 The emergence of these sites has been interpreted as the inﬁll process by which major centres populated their already established territories. Political and territorial competition between the major centres is thought to have been the driving force behind this inﬁll. This reconstruction of developments diﬀers considerably from Guzzo’s. It focuses not so much on a decisive Greek factor, but rather on dynamic processes in indigenous settlements and societies, especially on the active social strategies of local groups. Pre-colonial contact with Greeks overseas does not ﬁgure prominently in the Roman School’s processualist approach. The Roman School does acknowledge, however, that the Greek role in the indigenous socio-political dynamics of the pre-colonial period was probably ‘co-operative’.24 Even so, the reported colonisation of Sybaris in the late 8th century BC is argued to have caused serious indigenous-Greek conﬂicts and a rather abrupt truncation of indigenous

21 22 23 24

Guzzo 1982, 146–51. Peroni 1994; Vanzetti 2000; 2002. Peroni 1988; Vanzetti 2002, 43. Vanzetti 2002, 45.

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urbanising trends, as it coincided with the abandonment of a number of Iron Age settlements in the region. Recently, Vanzetti has studied these transformations using a rank-size analysis based on Peroni’s territorial analysis.25 The analysis demonstrates that the dimensional relationships between the major settlements show a constant convex structure for the Final Bronze Age, indicating a non-hierarchical internal relationship. In contrast, during the transition to the Iron Age, the rank-size structure tends towards log-normality. Vanzetti argues that the latter corresponds to rather sudden (late 8th century BC) and aggressive Greek colonial expansion, which caused the collapse of the traditional settlement system and the formation of Sybaris as a prime central place.26 Recently, Marianne Kleibrink has openly contested Guzzo’s views in a detailed review of academic discourse and historical and archaeological evidence of indigenous-Greek relations in the Sybaritide.27 Drawing on the Roman School project and other research, Kleibrink argues that the presence of strong indigenous groups in the Sybaritide during the 9th and 8th centuries BC precluded the development of early Greek settlement colonisation. As a parallel to the Roman School’s research, she draws attention to the Italian-Dutch project at Francavilla Marittima (Figs. 2 and 3). Excavations in that project have unearthed, among other things, the remains of an Iron Age indigenous settlement (at Timpone Motta) and those of a local cult preceding the mid-7thcentury BC construction of a Greek-style temple complex. A large, apsidal 8th-century BC wooden house with a hearth/altar, which was excavated on a hill-top there, is thought to be one of a group of three large and centrally located aristocratic houses. These houses are accompanied by huts built along the ridge of the hill. The presence of ﬁnely decorated loom-weights (labyrinthine patterns) and votive oﬀerings (bronze jewellery and food items) in the excavated house on the hill-top have been taken as evidence of cult activities focused on a local deity, who protected weaving. Further evidence of a ﬂourishing indigenous community at the site comes from the nearby Macchiabate necropolis (Fig. 3). Situated at the foot of the Timpone Motta hill, this necropolis was excavated as early as the 1960s. The ﬁrst indigenous tumulus-burials there are contemporary with the wooden elite houses discussed above. The contention is that they belonged to an extended family, one branch of which is thought to have climbed to aristocratic ranks in the mid-8th century BC because of its increasingly conspicuous display of wealth and status.28 25

Vanzetti 2000, 169–83; Peroni 1994. Vanzetti (2002, 45) notes that the Sybaritide transformation is morphologically analogous to that demonstrated for South Etruria in the proto-urbanisation period during the early Iron Age, albeit that in the Etruscan case this was conceived internally. 27 Kleibrink 2001. 28 Kleibrink 2001, 54–55. 26

Fig. 3. Francavilla Marittima. The sites of Timpone Motta and Macchiabate and surroundings.

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These data are highly signiﬁcant as they suggest internal social competition in the contemporary indigenous community at Timpone Motta. Such an interpretation is very reminiscent of the arguments proposed by the Roman School in explaining regional settlement expansion in the Early Iron Age (see above). According to Kleibrink, there is nothing to suggest Greek involvement in these processes. Until about 700 BC, hardly any Greek and only few other (e.g. Phoenician) imports occur in the Macchiabate necropolis. It was only in the ﬁrst half of the 7th century BC that the use of Greek pottery in funerary rites grew in popularity, as Greek artefacts began to be buried alongside traditional indigenous artefacts. Kleibrink takes this evidence to indicate that the indigenes did not associate with Greek migrant groups until a later phase.29 She approaches the Amendolara necropolis mentioned above along similar lines, contesting Guzzo’s interpretation of it as showing evidence of early Greek colonial pressure. In the same vein, Kleibrink maintains that the foundation of Sybaris, recorded as having taken place in the late 8th century BC, cannot be seen to correspond to a planned, large-scale wave of Greek settlement colonisation.30 She points out that researchers have been too readily inclined to view the archaeological evidence obtained so far in the Sybaritide as conﬁrmation of theories derived from the literary tradition and projected onto the early excavations of major Greek colonies, such as Sicilian Megara Hyblaia. Incidentally, archaeologists have long accepted the notion that from the time Sicilian Megara Hyblaia was founded, the space occupied by the new settlement was rationally deﬁned and subdivided in lots.31 However, recent research has yielded increasing evidence that—in its infancy—the colony did not constitute a nucleated settlement with systematically laid out, continuous insulae. Rather, it seems to have been fairly dispersed.32 The same contention could also be made of Sybaris. The ﬁnds dating to the 7th century BC there consist mainly of trenches where a mixture of indigenous, imported and locally produced wares were found together with charcoal and bones. Reviewing the very scanty evidence of late 8th- to mid7th-century BC occupation, Kleibrink argues that the early settlement probably consisted of dispersed nuclei of huts containing dugout storage facilities.33 She rejects Guzzo’s reading of the fragments of indigenous pottery in the layers related to this settlement as indicative of indigenous labour in the service of the Greeks. Rather, she suggests that indigenous groups, and especially

29 30 31 32 33

Kleibrink 2001, 54–55. Cf., in particular, Osborne 1998. Vallet, Villard and Auberson 1976. De Polignac 1999; cf. Greco 2001, 173–75. Kleibrink 2001, 38–42, 45.

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their elites, played an important part in this early settlement. In the model she proposes, Greek colonisation at Sybaris was initially gradual, and did not result in a thorough transformation of the settlement until the latter half of the 7th century BC, when Sybarite power extended across the larger part of the plain. According to this reconstruction, Greek colonisation of the Sybaritide proﬁted from and was built on formative urbanising experience enhanced by the region’s indigenous populations. To what degree and how these indigenes (were) subsequently integrated with Greek migrants in a new socio-political landscape controlled by Sybaris is still poorly understood.34 In her ﬁrm belief that settlement expansion and ‘proto-urbanisation’ took place in the phase preceding recorded Greek colonisation, Kleibrink adheres to the Roman School’s reconstruction. At the same time, however, her contention that the Greeks gained dominion gradually in a relatively late phase diverges signiﬁcantly from the school’s thesis, which seems to fall much more in line with Guzzo’s interpretation. Neither Vanzetti nor Guzzo devote much attention to the continuity of the local element, or to the issue of integration, which Kleibrink underscores in her account of gradual transformations at sites, such as Sybaris and Francavilla Marittima. In this respect, Kleibrink’s approach oﬀers a promising new angle for further research. In a recent response to Kleibrink’s article, Guzzo credits her for questioning and testing traditional interpretive approaches to Greek colonisation.35 At the same time, he makes a number of critical observations. He counters her contention, for instance, that Greek migrants were initially too few in number to be considered a dominant party. He points in this regard to the Greeks’ indisputable technological superiority (e.g. in seafaring and warfare), which would have counterbalanced their numerical disadvantage. He also notes that the Normans were outnumbered during their conquest of southern Italy in the Middle Ages and dominated the region for many years to come. Guzzo likewise criticises Kleibrink for paying little attention to written sources that mention the servile status of indigenes. However, he does acknowledge the problems these sources pose: they are diﬃcult to date, could be viewed as objectionably Hellenocentric, and could even be used to support Kleibrink’s thesis. Similarly, with regard to his main point, namely that there are still too many gaps in archaeological data to allow for Kleibrink’s farreaching conclusions, Guzzo also openly admits that those data are not suﬃcient to contradict her safely either. The dilemma is clear. As Guzzo emphatically—and correctly—points out, we need more analytically collected archaeological data. I think this is one more reason to welcome problem-focused

34 35

Attema et al. 1998, 342. Guzzo 2003.

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ﬁeldwork and alternatives to the traditional explanations of the data, such as Kleibrink’s. Kleibrink’s line of research can be taken further by zooming out and approaching the Sybaritide as just one element in a much wider, regional landscape. For instance, if we were to take the whole of southern Italy as our point of departure, we would see that recent archaeological investigations oﬀer ample new evidence of the continuity of local dynamics and of parallel Iron Age and Archaic processes of growing social complexity in areas that experienced direct colonial interference as well as in areas that did not. Let us turn now to a second RPC study region in exploring these issues further. A Colonial Enclave and its Wider Context; Taras and the Salento Peninsula The Taranto Plain in the north-west of the Salento Peninsula is the only place in Apulia where evidence has been found of a lasting Greek colonisation venture (Fig. 4). It was there that the polis of Taras developed, which, like Sybaris, is generally considered to have been one of the most powerful of those of Megale Hellas. The astu of Taras is located beneath present-day Taranto, on the Ionian Gulf at the western extremity of the Salento isthmus. The ancient town occupies a strategic promontory, which closes oﬀ an internal bay (called the Mar Piccolo) from an outer one (the Mar Grande), the latter merging into the Tarentine Gulf. Given the ﬁndings of recent investigations into ancient geomorphology, the earliest colonial settlement is thought to have developed in an insular context, surrounded by humid lagoonal and marshy zones.36 Based on the literary sources, Taras is believed to have been founded slightly later than Sybaris, towards the end of the 8th century BC, by Laconian—not Achaian—colonists.37 Literary tradition has it that in the early days of their existence, the two colonies were embroiled in a ﬁerce dispute as to who controlled the land between them (especially Antiochos; in Strabo 6. 1. 15). This power struggle culminated in the Achaian foundation of the polis of Metaponto between the Bradano and Basento rivers. Tarentine expansion after that proceeded primarily in the direction of the Salentine neighbours, and ultimately carved out a territory on the Taranto Plain during the Archaic period. Like the archaeological investigations at Sybaris, those at Taranto have been intensive. So far, however, researchers have discovered relatively few early traces of the ancient town, buried as it is beneath the modern city.38

36

Piccareta 2001, 381. For recent reviews of the literary tradition and of modern studies about it, see, in particular, De Juliis 2000; Moggi 2002; Mele 2002; Lombardo 2002. 38 Particularly De Juliis 2000; Lippolis 2002; Dell’Aglio 2002; Graepler 2002. 37

Fig. 4. The Tarantine Plain and the Salento Peninsula: major archaeological sites.

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Moreover, the territory has not yielded the kind of abundant evidence found, for instance, at the chora of Metaponto.39 However, it is commonly argued that the data sets available indicate the formation of an agrarian system characterised by stable rural settlements in the chora of Taranto. As in the Sybaritide and other Greek colonies, the establishment of such a stable territory at Taras is commonly viewed as the logical outcome of an expansionist policy, which was implemented from the time the colony was reportedly founded during the late 8th century BC. As mentioned above, this assumption was long based primarily on written sources (dating to a much later time). A passage in Strabo (6. 3. 2) has been a major focus of attention in this regard. The passage recounts a Delphic oracle advising the oikist Phalanthos to take possession of the lands of Taras (and of ‘Satyrion’), and to become a bane to the local Iapygians.40 And indeed, the archaeology of both the town and countryside has been interpreted in the light of this. Not surprisingly, it ﬁts well into the conventional model that identiﬁes Tarentine—and more generally speaking— Greek colonisation as the primary trigger of urbanisation, landscape inﬁll and related transformations in land use patterns in southern Italy. My discussion in the introduction makes a critical assessment of this view from a theoretical perspective. In it, I have also underscored the fact that this model takes hardly any account of the agency of local peoples living in lands directly contested by the Greeks, as well as those living outside contested lands. Recent research in the Sybaris Plain by both the Roman School of Protohistory and the Groningen Institute of Archaeology has demonstrated that the local perspective adds signiﬁcant nuances to traditional text-based accounts, highlighting the active and often decisive roles of local power diﬀerentials. This becomes even more evident wherever it proves possible to investigate the wider geographical region outside the alleged colonial chorai. The Salento Peninsula is a prime example. The ongoing excavations of the University of Lecce and of the Apulian Soprintendenza Archeologica there

39 Most information can be found in detailed inventories of the Soprintendenza’s archival registrations of incidental ﬁnds and small-scale excavations; Cocchiaro 1981; Alessio and Guzzo 1989–1990; Lo Porto 1990; Osanna 1992. Cf. also Alessio 2001; Dell’Aglio 2001; Maruggi 2001b; Schojer 2001. For early extensive surveys, see Cocchiaro 1981. Cf. also Greco 1981; 2001; Osanna 2001. New, intensive explorations were recently launched by the Laboratorio di Topograﬁa Antica of the University of Lecce in a large-scale project of the Italian Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche (Guaitoli 2002). In 2003, the Archaeological Institute of the Vrije Universiteit of Amsterdam also started a series of intensive, systematic ﬁeld surveys in the Taranto chora, as part of a new project focused on the Murge plateau. This ‘Murge Upland Project’ is being carried out in collaboration with the Scuola in archeologia classica e medievale of the University of Lecce and the Dipartimento di scienze storiche, archeologiche e antropologiche dell’antichità of Rome-la Sapienza. 40 Antiochos of Syracuse fr. 13 Jac, in Strabo; cf. Diodoros Siculus Bibliotheca Historica 8, fr. 21. See, in particular, Lombardo 1992, 10–11/59; 2002, with an extensive further bibliography.

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have produced an invaluable framework of interpretation for the Dutch surveys in the RPC project.41 The excavations carried out so far on this relatively level peninsula point unanimously to one conclusion: the Iron Age Salento settlements were dispersed, consisting of spatially separated, stable groups of huts of relatively large dimensions.42 As demonstrated by intensive ﬁeld surveys, the total settlement space occupied by such hut nuclei spanned surface areas as wide as 90 ha.43 These were probably open settlements; as yet, Iron Age fortiﬁcations have rarely been attested. The absence of contemporary funerary evidence is equally conspicuous, a factor that complicates considerably the study of social phenomena in Salento communities. With regard to funerary practices, it is generally accepted that Salento is exceptional among the southern Italian Iron Age regions in that its dead were honoured and disposed of in archaeologically unconventional, i.e. untraceable, rituals. Formal burials did not emerge until the late 7th/6th century BC. Initially, however, it occurred in such small numbers that we can only conclude that large segments of the local populations continued to be buried with traditional rites for a long time. The well-known series of stelae found at indigenous Salento sites lifts the tip of the veil on the nature of these traditional rites, which date as far back as the Early Iron Age. Recently, Lombardo proposed a convincing interpretation of these stelae as funerary markers.44 They were probably related to elite contexts, as has been contended regarding a stele found at Cavallino featuring a depiction of a chariot.45 Thus, they may be parallel to the contemporary elite manifestations in the burial grounds of neighbouring indigenous regions, which Bottini and Guzzo have tentatively interpreted in terms of social diﬀerentiation and increased competition.46

41 We would like to thank our colleagues at the University of Lecce and at the Soprintendenza for their close collaboration over many years. Reports on excavations and ﬁeld surveys carried out in the Salento region regularly appear in Studi di Antichità and Taras. A landmark in regional archaeology is the publication of Atti Taranto XXX, which is dedicated to the indigenous Messapians. The ﬁndings of Dutch ﬁeldwork are also reported regularly in the Bulletin Antieke Beschaving. For syntheses, see especially Boersma 1990; Yntema 1993a; Burgers 1998. 42 Iron Age dwellings have been unearthed at such sites as Otranto, Cavallino, Vaste, Valesio, Oria, S. Vito dei Normanni and I Fani. For a comprehensive overview, see D’Andria 1990; Russo Tagliente 1992. 43 Yntema 1993a, 157. 44 Lombardo 1994. Unfortunately, most of these stelae have been found in secondary contexts, which hampers veriﬁcation of their conventional interpretation as being related to cult activities. Lombardo’s interpretation of them as funerary markers is based on a lucid examination of relevant written sources and archaeological data. Archaeologically, the most convincing argument is that in the few cases where such stelae have been found in situ, they are related to later, formal graveyards, which suggests continuity in the use of formal space. 45 Pancrazzi 1979, 233–35; D’Andria 1991, 409–13. 46 Bottini and Guzzo 1986.

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We should recall in this context that similar competitive tendencies have been identiﬁed in the pre-colonial Sybaritide, where they were related to a process of settlement expansion in the territories of the major sites. Although Iron Age Salento has still been relatively poorly investigated in this regard, certain broader, regional patterns can be also observed there. These too indicate indigenous landscape inﬁll and territorial expansion, especially during the 8th century BC. The excavations cited above, notably those at Otranto, have been essential in clarifying the stratigraphical sequences of Iron Age settlement contexts and chrono-typological series of related pottery repertoires. The latter make it possible to monitor transformations in the distribution and density of the many incidental discoveries of Iron Age pottery at sites that have yet to be studied systematically. The major guide-fossil in this is the regional matt painted pottery with geometric decoration, the individual type series of which can be fairly closely dated, within 25–50 years.47 According to analysis of the incidental Iron Age ﬁnds in Salento, the number of locations with chronologically diagnostic matt painted pottery types rose sharply during the later 8th century BC (Fig. 5).48 Indeed, these ﬁnds suggest that site densities increased notably during that century, and that both the inland and coastal landscapes between the former Early Iron Age sites were gradually ﬁlled in. In a previous publication, I assessed the exponential growth in site numbers, making various critical observations.49 One of these concerned the need to take account of the possibility that distributive networks of matt painted wares already existed. Theoretically, networks may have restricted the circulation of matt painted wares to speciﬁc social groups, most probably those living in dominant sites, such as Oria. In fact, other groups at minor sites may have been excluded from the circulation. In that case, coarse, handmade impasto pottery may have been the only wares available to communities at minor sites until social restrictions disintegrated during the 8th century, and matt painted wares spread to even the smallest hamlets.50 However, there is one major argument to counter this hypothesis: the impasto wares cited in the Iron Age excavations and survey contexts published so far are almost invariably associated with matt painted ceramics. Apparently, no Iron Age communities have been documented whose ceramic repertoires are limited to impasto and lack matt painted wares. It would seem most prudent at this point in time, therefore, to accept that the site increase conforms to past reality and indicates a settlement expansion across the larger part of the Salento Peninsula. 47

Yntema 1990. D’Andria 1991, 405; Burgers 1998, 186–89. 49 Burgers 1998, 173–91. 50 In Salento, the chronological diagnosticity of the major coarse impasto wares is still remarkably poor, lacking detailed fabric analysis. 48

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Fig. 5. The Salento Peninsula. Sites with Salento Late Geometric pottery of the late 8th/early 7th century BC.

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This thesis has also been tested methodically in the systematic site surveys launched by the ACVU in the Brindisi Plain in north-eastern Salento.51 The areas surveyed had all yielded incidental ﬁnds of Iron Age pottery (i.e. Oria, Valesio, Muro Tenente, Muro Maurizio, Li Castelli di San Pancrazio Salentino). These areas are located throughout the Brindisi Plain, from the sandy extensions of its centre to the southern clayey soils of San Pancrazio and the coastal Adriatic area near Valesio. Naturally, it was impossible to tackle the problem cited above concerning diﬀerential access to matt painted wares. The horizontal stratigraphies documented with the surveys were simply not suitable for sub-dating impasto pottery concentrations, or establishing whether or not these were associated with matt painted pottery. Remarkably, however, the results of the surveys also pointed to the 8th century BC as the period to which the earliest diagnostic pottery can be dated.52 The distribution of the surface scatters within the survey areas in all cases conforms to the dispersed habitation patterns established for other Iron Age Salento sites on the basis of excavations (Fig. 6; spatially separated groups of huts). It also contrasts strikingly with typical nucleated patterns, such as those of the Roman surface concentrations recorded at the same sites. A further comparison of the Iron Age settlement areas surveyed in this manner would reveal rapid expansion at all of them. Although the sites presumably originated as fairly ephemeral rural settlements at various points throughout the 8th century, they all appear to have grown into substantial (dispersed) villages in the later 8th/early 7th century BC. Moreover, judging by the ACVU’s additional rural surveys, isolated rural occupation seems to have been a limited phenomenon in Iron Age Salento: these surveys detected only a handful of such ephemeral sites, which do not seem to have survived after one generation.53 This indicates that the newly emerging habitation pattern was of a village type; one could conclude that clustered villages constituted the rural landscape inﬁll that characterised Salento in the (late) 8th century BC. Excluding the site of Oria, the aggregate extent covered by the individual new villages does not diﬀer greatly, varying between 15 and 28 ha (Fig. 7). This also includes open spaces between the nuclei; the surface eﬀectively covered with scatters varies between 4 and 10 ha).54 However, a deﬁnite hierarchy emerges when we consider the site of Oria, whose total settlement area Yntema estimates at nearly 90 ha (Fig. 6; an estimate based on all available information from archives, excavations and surveys).55 Signiﬁcantly, Oria is 51 52 53 54 55

Yntema Burgers Yntema Burgers Yntema

1993b; Burgers 1998. 1998, 174–79. 1993a: Oria sites 7–1 and 13–7. Burgers 1998, 61: Muro Tenente site 7–4A. 1998, 174–79. 1993a, 157.

Fig. 6. Oria in the Iron Age: scatters (cross-hatched) and loose ﬁnds (dots); thick line: extent of present-day Oria.

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also the only Iron Age site in this part of the Brindisi district that is known to have been continuously occupied from the Bronze Age on.56 In fact, it expanded into a major, fortiﬁed settlement in the Late Bronze Age, and is thus arguably one of the few sites that survived the subsequent process of selection in the Final Bronze Age. Apparently, it expanded again during the 8th century BC. This time, it not only became the largest population agglomeration in the Brindisi region, but also ﬁlled in its territory. The ephemeral sites detected in the Oria survey include Muro Tenente. Given its relatively short distance from Oria (approximately 10 km), it is tempting to view its foundation as emanating from the latter. This inﬁll may have occurred in part (possibly the margins) of Oria’s catchment area, which had been carved out earlier. In other cases, like Valesio, the new village was probably laid out ex novo in previously untilled lands. Signiﬁcantly, the locations of most of the new settlements seem to have been selected with a view to exploiting a range of resource zones.57 Once again, Valesio is an example: its catchment area oﬀers both fertile soils for cereal cultivation and a coastal lagoonal climate suitable for animal husbandry.58 A similar argument can be advanced regarding the western part of the Salento isthmus. Like Oria, various sites there, including Taranto/Scoglio del Tonno, Torre Castelluccia, Torre Saturo and Monte Salete, have Bronze Age origins and were undoubtedly also inhabited by indigenous populations during the 8th century BC.59 It was not until recently that a systematic survey project was launched there (the ‘Murge Upland Survey’; see above note 39). For this reason, it is more diﬃcult to arrive at any reconstructions of regional settlement conﬁgurations. However, analysis of the surface scatters detected during Fornaro’s extensive topographical research into the limestone Murge landscape around Grottaglie, suggests that this upland area was also characterised by Iron Age settlement expansion and inﬁll.60 In most cases, the origins of the new sites recorded by Fornaro proved impossible to date more precisely. However, the one site that was systematically excavated, the site of mass. Vicentino, yielded stratigraphical proof that it was founded during the 8th century BC.61 Signiﬁcantly, a similar conclusion can be drawn with regard to the site at l’Amastuola, which is strategically located on a hill-top at approximately 8 km from the Ionian Gulf, and overlooks the larger part of the coastal Taranto Plain (Fig. 8). Grazia Angela Maruggi has uncovered parts 56

Maruggi 2001a. Burgers 1998, 190. 58 Bijlsma and Verhagen 1989. 59 On Scoglio del Tonno and Torre Castelluccia, see Taylour 1958; on Torre Saturo, see Lo Porto 1964; on Monte Salete, see D’Andria 1991, 414, note 20. 60 Fornaro 1976–1977; Fornaro and Alessio 2000. 61 See especially Fornaro and Alessio 2000. 57

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Fig. 7. Aggregate and eﬀective extent of late 8th–7th century BC villages (in hectares) and isolated sites (in m2) in the Brindisi region, investigated with on-site surveys.

Fig. 8. Bird’s eye view of the site of l’Amastuola. Photograph by permission of Mr Giuseppe Montanaro.

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of an Iron Age/Archaic settlement at this site, along with an adjacent necropolis.62 So far, l’Amastuola has attracted attention mainly because of its Archaic period, when a Greek take-over is thought to have taken place. However, in the present context one must emphasise the earliest traces of the settlement, dating roughly to the mid-8th century BC; they consist of dry stone foundation walls of hut structures common in the contemporary indigenous world. The presence of groups of indigenous inhabitants at the site can also be inferred from the ceramic repertoires used, which consist largely of typical local coarse impasto and ﬁne matt painted wares.63 Although the segment of the site excavated by Maruggi is too small to estimate the extent and precise nature of the indigenous settlement, the data available indicate that it emerged around the middle of the 8th century BC.64 If the results of the systematic excavations and surveys discussed above are indeed representative of the many incidentally discovered Iron Age sites in Salento, we must conclude that, during the 8th century BC, the region’s indigenous populations engaged in settlement expansion, rural inﬁll and reclamation of previously non-exploited or only marginally exploited landscapes. These processes seem to have involved virtually all major Salento landscape units, including the Taranto Plain. In recent years, various hypotheses have been proposed to explain the developments outlined above. Population growth, socio-economic diﬀerentiation and related elite proliferation, as well as the quest for control over agricultural and pastoral resources were certainly among the most prominent factors.65 One almost inevitable conclusion is that the transformations in the arrangement of settlements and landscape indicate a redeﬁnition of territorial boundaries within the local communities, territorial expansions and—correspondingly—a series of related conﬂicts between indigenous groups. Questioning Early Greek Colonial Impact In view of the above, we must seriously question the primary role Greek trade or Greek migrants are presumed to have played in triggering contemporary indigenous settlement and social conﬁgurations—including in Salento. In the introduction to this article, I argued that this role has long been empha-

62

Maruggi 1996. Cf. Greco 2001; Osanna 2001 64 Maruggi 1996. In 2003, the Soprintendenza’s excavations at the site were resumed in collaboration with the Archaeological Institute of Amsterdam’s Vrije Universiteit. These excavations also indicate that the site was founded in the mid-8th century BC. We would like to thank Graziella Maruggi here for her very helpful co-operation. See Burgers and Crielaard in press for the preliminary results of the 2003 excavations. 65 For example, D’Andria 1991, 405; Yntema 1993a, 161; Burgers 1998, 190–91. 63

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sised disproportionately in the light of a Hellenist tradition that leans heavily on a literal reading of the ancient written sources. This tradition may explain the classical archaeological focus on Greek contexts in the colonial enclaves and on the presence of colonial Greek artefacts in indigenous contexts. In turn, the very discovery of these contexts encouraged theories of Greek colonial expansion, power and impact. Aside from the theoretical objections discussed in the introduction, this Hellenist focus is subject to other criticisms. First, it should be noted that early colonial Greek objects do not abound in indigenous contexts. Thus, most Greek artefacts in Salento, including those dating to the early colonial and pre-colonial periods, arrived there by means of trans-Adriatic contacts.66 These contacts are now generally interpreted in terms of indigenous-Greek exchange patterns. However, there is no evidence to suggest that the Greeks dominated this exchange, or that the Greek objects had an intrinsically prestigious allure. In fact, this may not have been the case at all. In a recent review of relevant data sets, I set aside the one-sided Greek perspective.67 Instead, I attributed agency to local groups and argued that the constant internal pressures of social reproduction and the accompanying tendency towards emulation were what prompted indigenous elites to grasp opportunities for exchange. These elites began using Greek objects, and may have associated themselves with Greek ideas and customs, redeﬁning and appropriating them as well as integrating them into existing aspects of the local value systems. Ultimately, the appeal of Greek objects and of associating with Greeks in general may well have depended on autonomous indigenous strategies. Aside from these considerations, there is even reason to doubt that seaborn exchange with overseas Greeks played a pivotal in local social dynamics. The Iron Age settlement pattern that developed in the Salento Peninsula displays remarkable similarities in its geomorphological location and spacing of the settlements as that in the Sybaritide. Here too, sites are spaced some 10–12 km apart, often in defensible hill-top positions. This pattern continues into the interior Murge upland, and may in fact be more strictly related to the mobilisation of and control over high quality agricultural and pastoral resources.68 My second objection to this focus on colonial Greek contexts is closely related to the ﬁrst. As compared to the indigenous southern Italian archaeological records, Italiote Greek contexts are easily singled out because of their ‘otherness’: they are highly visible. Hence, the visibility of the formation of a colonial chora is disproportionately high as compared to indigenous territories. 66 67 68

D’Andria 1984. Burgers 1998, 179–94. van Leusen 2002; cf. Burgers 1998, 190.

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Viewed the other way around, intra-indigenous expansion and territorial disputes are disproportionately invisible because of the relative uniformity in local material culture. In my discussion above, I have considered a range of new evidence to overcome this bias. We have every reason to posit a regional process involving internal colonisations, expansions and territorial redeﬁnitions enhanced by indigenous groups. Correspondingly, the Greek migrant groups in the Sybaris and Taranto plains are arguably only some of the many participants in this process. There is more to sustain this argument. Recently, Yntema approached the subject from a diﬀerent angle in his review of the historical and archaeological data available on the early Greek presence in south-eastern Italy.69 Drawing on modern studies on social identity, one of Yntema’s major arguments is that the oracles and colonial foundation accounts recorded by the written sources should be viewed as origin-myths created or transformed during the Archaic and Classical periods to conform to speciﬁc contemporary socio-political circumstances and agenda. Contextualising the myths primarily in the later phases, Yntema maintains that they were redeﬁned or invented to provide the rapidly developing urban communities of the time with a heroic colonial, and ethnically Greek, past. Accordingly, the colonial charters cannot be considered reliable accounts of the early, 8th- and 7th-century BC contact phases. Nor should they be taken literally in their portrayal of the colonial ventures as mass migrations marked by inherent aggression and expansion. Seen in this light, the archaeological data from excavation reports and incidental ﬁnds presents a very diﬀerent picture of early Greek migrations in southern Italy.70 In the ﬁrst part of this paper we have already discussed at length the case of the Sybaris region, concluding with Kleibrink’s contention that the latter witnessed gradual—and relatively late—Greek settling colonialism. In the case of Salento, a similar argument must be proposed. Here sites, such as those at Otranto and Tor Pisana/Brindisi, merit special attention as they are generally considered to have harboured small Greek communities among, or on the fringes of, well-established indigenous settlements. This conclusion is based on the presence of speciﬁc closed assemblages of Greek artefacts amongst local indigenous contexts.71 The traces of these com-

69

Yntema 2000; cf. Osborne 1998. Yntema 2000; Kleibrink 2001. 71 Yntema 2000, 23–25. Cf. D’Andria 1988, 655–56; 1991, 403; Lombardo 1995. The Otranto and Brindisi contexts are dated to the late 8th/mid-7th and the second and third quarters of the 7th century BC, respectively. At Otranto, the presence of Greeks has been inferred from warehouses containing unusually large numbers of Greek, and notably Corinthian imports. At Brindisi/Tor Pisana, a small graveyard has been discovered with both cremation and inhumation burials containing exclusively Greek ceramics. 70

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munities can be compared side by side with those of a small mid-7th-century BC dispersed hut settlement excavated at Metapontion/Andrisani-Lazzazzera. Due to the patently Greek ceramics related to this settlement, it is thought to have been inhabited by Greek migrants only.72 In south-eastern Italy, parallels for both of these contexts can be assumed at L’Incoronata, Siris-Polieion in Basilicata, and possibly at Taras and Torre Saturo in Salento. The evidence available in the latter cases, however, is far from conclusive.73 Nevertheless, in comparing these data to the evidence of indigenous settlements discussed in more detail above, we can deduce that migrant Greeks were, indeed, present in south-eastern Italy from at least the later 8th century BC, albeit mainly in relatively small groups living in indigenous settlements or at the margins of indigenous territories.74 In view of the observations above, this can be called highly signiﬁcant; if we were to substitute the conventional Graeco-centred perspective for an ‘indigenous’ one, as I have proposed in the introduction, we could argue that the small early Greek groups were consciously used in the contemporary indigenous socio-political arena, an arena marked by great ferment. Association with foreigners may not only have enhanced prestige among one’s own and other indigenous communities; the newcomers may also have played a role in internal political/territorial struggles as well as in intra-tribal warfare.75 Admittedly, these reconstructions of early indigenous-Greek encounters are based on scanty artefactual evidence. However, the same holds true of theories emphasising early Greek colonial interventions and territorial expansion. These theories rely heavily on a literal reading of alleged facts reported in oracles and foundation accounts. The merit of the reconstructions presented here, however, is that they place those written sources in a sociologically embedded context related to their own time. Finally, it should be noted that

72

De Siena 1996. Yntema (2000) discusses the archaeology and the bibliography of these sites in brief. Cf. De Siena and Tagliente 1984; Kleibrink 2001. No early Greek settlement traces have been recorded at Taranto. Only a very limited number of Greek burials can be dated to the ﬁrst half of the 7th century BC (Dell’Aglio 2001). The number does not rise signiﬁcantly until the second half of the 7th century. For Torre Saturo, Yntema contests the allegedly rigid separation between the 8th-century BC indigenous strata and the successive, entirely ‘Greek’ layers recorded by Lo Porto (1964a). He notes that the most recent indigenous wares can be dated roughly to 680/660 BC, i.e. later than some of the wares in the Greek strata (Yntema 2000, 21–23). Yntema suggests that the site harboured a small, mixed indigenous-Greek community in the ﬁrst half of the 7th century BC, which erected a Greek-like sanctuary and started to bury their dead in Greek-style graveyards during the second half of that century. 74 Yntema 2000; cf. Burgers 1998, 180–94; Kleibrink 2001. The archaeological data suggest that it was only towards the later 7th century BC that a few of these sites (Siris, Metapontion and Taras) began to grow rapidly, subsequently developing into ﬂourishing population centres characterised by an urban material culture. 75 Burgers 1998, 183–94; Yntema 2000. 73

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the text-based tradition takes hardly any account of the increasing amount of data on indigenous settlement transformations, hierarchies, territorial expansion and reclamation. In reviewing these data, we have every reason to question the allegedly dominant role of relatively small groups of Greek migrants and to consider a diﬀerent theory of co-operation and cohabitation, or even of indigenous domination. Clearly, more problem-focused research is needed to reﬁne these theses, not only as regarding the coastal enclaves that Greek migrants entered, but also—and especially—the broader South Italian landscape beyond them. Salento should serve as an example to demonstrate that trends of growing complexity in settlements and societies were not phenomena restricted to the Greek colonies and their immediate hinterlands. In fact, if the reconstructions above prove by and large to withstand the scrutiny of further investigation, we may conclude that the settlement transformations and landscape inﬁll observed for the later South Italian Iron Age were not the single result of Greek interference. Rather, they seem to reﬂect a more general macro-regional phenomenon, one primarily involving the indigenous coastal communities and induced by social diﬀerentiation, population growth and increased competition for available resources and territorial expansion. Correspondingly, we could argue that small groups of Greek migrants were allowed to exchange, settle and integrate among the indigenous communities, because association with them or with the items they traded or produced were useful in local or intra-tribal competitive social strategies. These Greek foreigners constituted one of the elements in the ferment of shifting power structures. Archaeological Centre Vrije Universiteit De Boelelaan 1105 1081 HV Amsterdam The Netherlands [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AION.ArchStAnt Atti Taranto XXIV Atti Taranto XXX Atti Taranto XXXII

Annali dell’Istituto universitario orientale di Napoli. Seminario di studi del mondo classico. Sezione di archeologia e storia antica Magna Grecia, Epiro e Macedonia. Atti del XXIV. Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 5–10 ottobre 1984 (Taranto) I messapi. Atti del XXX Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto-Lecce 1990 (Naples) Sibari e la Sibaritide. Atti del XXXII Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto-Sibari, 7–12 ottobre 1992 (Taranto)

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Problemi della chora coloniale dall’Occidente al Mar Nero. Atti del XL Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 29 settembre–3 ottobre 2000 (Taranto) Taranto e il Mediterraneo. Atti del XLI Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia. Nuovi documenti dai territori ranatini (dalla tavolo rotonda di Taranto, 7 giugno 2001) (Taranto) Taranto e il Mediterraneo. Atti del XLI Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia. Taranto 12–16 ottobre 2001 (Taranto)

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JEWELLERY EVIDENCE AND THE LOWERING OF SOUTH ITALIAN CERAMIC CHRONOLOGY1 MONICA M. JACKSON Abstract Tomb groups and other ﬁnds are traditionally dated according to the coins, pottery and terracottas. The objective of this paper is to demonstrate that Hellenistic jewellery has its own chronological context. The technology, form and style of the jewellery when assessed in conjunction with other tomb objects can be used to provide reliable dating criteria. Context is the key. All grave oﬀerings must be taken into account to avoid subjective conclusions; jewellery is an always relevant, sometimes important, factor. There is now suﬃcient jewellery from well-documented ﬁnd contexts to provide ﬁxed points for chronological comparison. Accordingly, in this paper, a series of chronological arguments is presented. A selection of tomb groups and other ﬁnds from South Italy is approached from a critical perspective and traditional dates and assumptions reassessed. In particular the ceramic evidence from the Pantanello tomb deposit is re-evaluated in conjunction with the new information provided by the Pantanello earrings and other comparable Tarentine tomb groups. Earlier and later comparative material from dated deposits in other important centres of the Hellenistic world helps to build as comprehensive a picture as possible and construct a reliable chronological framework.

Introduction The discovery of a pair of gold penannular earrings from an intact vaulted tomb (Tomb 71) in the Pantanello Necropolis at Metaponto in South Italy contributes important new archaeological evidence in the process of revision of Tarentine chronology. They also help to link earrings of similar form, style and technique as the products of local Tarentine workshops. The earrings (inv. J11–12) come from a controlled context in Nucleus 4 of the Necropolis.2 Their distinguishing feature is an arc of braided wires with 1 Some aspects of this paper were originally published in: ‘Jewellery from a tomb in Metaponto: a chronological review’. Art Antiquity and Law 4.4 (December 1999), 347–62. My very warmest thanks to Gocha R. Tsetskhladze for inviting me to submit this paper and for his continuing encouragement and support. For their help and useful comments I wish to thank Prof. J.R. Green (University of Sydney), Dr Judith McKenzie (Oxford), Dr Michael Moore (University of London) and Ms Elizabeth Evans. I would like to thank Dr Gertrud Platz-Horster (Altes Museum, Berlin) for permitting me to study the material in Berlin and also Barbara Niemeyer (Altes Museum, Berlin) for her generous help. I am also extremely grateful to the Museum for supplying the photographs of the Tarentine coin. For his comments on the coin I wish to thank Dr Nicholas Hardwick (University of Sydney). Finally for the opportunity to study the jewellery in Taranto I would like to thank Dr Giuseppe Andreassi (Archaeological Museum, Taranto). I am also most grateful to the three anonymous referees for their helpful comments and suggestions. 2 Prohászka 1995, 129–30, ﬁg. 36, pl. 37; Carter et al. 1998, 453.

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a hollow cast Eros pendant at one end and a stylised lion protome at the other (Fig. 1). The Metapontine earrings have close parallels with other examples from Tarentine tombs including an almost identical pair from Tomb 5, Solito Taranto (inv. 119.352–353)3 (Fig. 3) and a single earring from Tomb 4, Piazza d’Armi (inv. 541.70).4 This small group of pendant Erotes/lion protome earrings are linked by the braided construction of the hoops to other Tarentine earrings with lions (Fig. 8) and birds5 as well as a pair of disc and pendant earrings with braided hooks and Eros pendants (Fig. 4). The Necropolis The Pantanello Necropolis lies about 0.5 km from the Pantanello springsanctuary site, and 3.5 km from ancient Metaponto. The entire surface of the necropolis was systematically excavated by a team from the University of Texas between 1982 and 1989,6 and contained 324 virtually undisturbed tombs with 18 nuclei. Nucleus 4 (which contained tomb 71) had six burials. It thus provides a large and statistically valid sample. There were 17 vaulted tombs belonging to the last phase of the necropolis, constructed of terracotta well liners.7 With one known exception these vaults contained only women.8 The smallest of the vaulted tile tombs, T71 (dimensions: L. 1.75 m., W. 0.55 m., H. 0.39 m.), was the only tomb in the Pantanello necropolis to contain gold objects. It contained a woman in her twenties.9 The gold earrings were found in situ beside her skull.10 Pantanello Tomb 71—Context A large number of tomb oﬀerings accompanied the pair of gold earrings. These were: a small black glaze bowl; a black glaze cup; ﬁve pieces of ﬁne Gnathia pottery (a hemispherical bowl, a ribbed lekanis with lid, three ribbed bottles) an unglazed pyxis or terracotta statuette base; an unglazed unguentarium; a coarse ware table amphora; four terracotta ﬁgurines (a Tanagra-

3

Prohászka 1995, 130. The earring in Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, is unpublished, and is discussed further on in this paper. 5 De Juliis 1984, 188–89, cat. 125. There are a number of examples of this type dated to the end of the 3rd and the beginning of the 2nd century BC. 6 Prohászka 1995, 20–21; Carter et al. 1998, 25–31, ﬁgs. 2.2, 2.2A, 2.2B. 7 Carter et al. 1998, 100, ﬁg. 3.59; 451—the vaulted tomb type constructed of well liners is tightly dated. 8 Carter et al. 1998, 101. 9 Carter et al. 1998, 265. 10 Carter et al. 1998, 265, nos. 21–22 for the placement of the earrings. See also 265 for a description of the remainder of the tomb contents listed below. 4

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Fig. 1. Pair of penannular lion protome earrings with Erotes pendants, T71, 21–22. Metaponto, Museo Archeologico (after Prohászka 1995, pl. 37 A—J11, J12).

Fig. 2. Gnathia ribbed bottle, T71–6. Taranto, Museo Archeologico (after Carter et al. 1998, 631–32, 635 ill.).

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Fig. 3. Pair of penannular lion protome earrings with Erotes pendants, inv. 119.352–353. Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (after De Juliis 1984, 186–87, cat. 119).

Fig. 4. Pair of disc and pendant Erotes earrings, inv. 12.013. Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (after De Juliis 1984, 175, cat. 96).

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style fragmentary dancer, a Tanagra-style small standing female ﬁgure, a Tanagra-style dancing female ﬁgure, a fragmentary goose or dove) three alabastra; two small bronze pocket mirrors of Type 1 and a cylindrical lead pyxis with a bronze spoon inside.11 The Ceramic Evidence According to current Gnathia ceramic chronology, based on the close stylistic analyses of A.D. Trendall, T.B.L. Webster and J.R. Green, the earliest dateable material in Tomb 71 was deposited in ca. 325 BC and the latest in ca. 280 BC.12 The black glaze pottery is traditionally dated by the associated Gnathia pottery and ends ca. 275 BC. Accordingly, the accompanying Gnathia pottery dates the earrings to the end of the 4th and early decades of the 3rd century BC.13 Green notes that Gnathia has its own inherent set of problems that are now under review.14 In a recent publication L. Puritani discusses the chronological revision of Gnathia pottery and the problems associated with stylistic dating.15 One of the most important questions to be determined is the latest proposed date for the production of black glaze and Gnathia pottery at Metaponto. This will aﬀect the terminus post quem for when the Pantanello cemetery fell out of use as the vaulted tile tombs belonged to the last phase of the necropolis. Two of the Gnathia ceramics (the ribbed bottles, T71–6 and T71–13) from Tomb 71 at Pantanello belong to the ‘Alexandria Group’. They are attributable to the same hand, but based on their clay do not appear to have been made in Metaponto. The ribbed lekanis (T71–11) may be of local clay. The third Gnathia bottle (T71–2) is stylistically between the Painter of the Louvre Bottle and the ‘Alexandria Group’. It is a particularly ﬁne piece with high rounded shoulders, crisp ribbing and carefully applied ﬂoral decoration. This bottle stands out from the rest of the contents of Tomb 71 as an early piece and on stylistic grounds cannot be later than ca. 300 BC.16 However, since

11 Prohászka 1995, 82–84, pl. 26A; see esp. 84 for comments on the chronology—ca. 300 BC. Bronze spoon, 805–06; MT 14—310–280 BC. 12 Carter et al. 1998, 17, 234–36, 643. Carter has used the traditional stylistic dating for red ﬁgure and Gnathia pottery, but cautions that the implications of the chronological re-evaluation must be borne in mind, particularly for the last phases of the site. 13 Carter et al. 1998, 234–35. 14 Green 1995, 273, n. 5. 15 Puritani 2002, 53, 3, 385. 16 Green, personal communication, 9 September 2003. He has commented that if the chronology of 3rd-century BC Gnathia and black glaze ceramics is to be lowered, then it must be remembered that this will involve a corresponding adjustment of 4th-century BC red ﬁgure vases, many of which are stylistically ﬁrmly dated.

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dating is calculated on the basis of the latest dateable object of a given context, earlier objects do not aﬀect the chronology. The other two ribbed bottles (T71–6 and T71–13) have shallow ribbing and their centre of gravity is lower (Fig. 2—T71–6). Green does not have a problem with lowering the date of the Gnathia ceramics from Tomb 71 to ca. 240 BC, with the exception of the ribbed bottle (T71–2). As it antedates the other vessels in the tomb its presence is explained as an heirloom piece.17 The unguentarium (T71–12) also derives from the ﬁnal phase of the Pantanello necropolis.18 Numismatic Evidence from the Pantanello Necropolis A single very worn diobol coin was found in Tomb 71 in situ with the gold earrings.19 The majority of the coins at Pantanello were Type C. When these coins were associated with decorated pottery, it was always the Gnathia style.20 COIN FROM T71 (Inv. 71–23). Group 3c. Inv. Number

Diam. mm

Th. mm

Wt. g.

Posit.

Description

C26

14.4

2.2

1.85

Centre of head

O/bearded man (Zeus) wearing laurel wreath, facing right. R/two barley ears.21

Coin Chronology The bronze coinage cannot yet be securely dated, but has a burial range of between 300–270 BC on current chronology. The worn condition of the coin indicates it had been in circulation for some time, before being placed in the mouth of the young woman (her fare for the journey to the underworld). Both its deposition in a tomb and its condition make the chronological interpretation less precise. The Pantanello contexts are arranged according to Johnston’s chronology for the bronze issues, her Group C dating to the

17

Green, personal communication, 9 September 2003. Carter et al. 1998, 687. 19 Prohászka 1995, 160–69, pl. 46, O–P; Carter et al. 1998, 265, no. 23 (Fig. 1 above), 830–32. 20 Carter et al. 1998, 232. 21 Cf. Danish National Museum 1942—O: possibly pl. 25:1238 (Ammon) R: pl. 25:1257–58; Kraay 1976, pl. 35.607—ca. 300 BC. 18

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Pyrrhic Wars in Italy (280–275 BC).22 Johnston assigned Type C to the period 300–250 BC.23 The bronze coinage of Metaponto is now also due for revision. Tomb 5, Solito—Taranto The dating of the earrings from Tomb 5, excavated in August 1961 in the Solito quarter (inv. 119.352–353) (Fig. 3), can now be reassessed in conjunction with the Metapontine examples (inv. J11–12) (Fig. 1). On current chronology they are dated to the beginning of the 2nd century BC.24 The earrings are thought to have originated from a local Tarentine workshop but do not come from a controlled context (where a fully documented report of all the tomb objects was made). Carter notes that the authors of Gli Ori di Taranto have stated there was no report of the Tarentine excavation for T5 in the Solito quarter.25 The accompanying grave goods included a gold and enamel ring (inv. 119.351) with a large digital bezel ﬁlled with bright enamel and an Eros ﬁgure in intaglio;26 a fragmentary wreath of rosettes with cone-shaped petals, the last two incomplete (terracotta, bronze, lead, and sheet-gold) (inv. 119.341–349)27 and a circular bronze mirror (inv. 119.350).28 Importantly, there was a cylindrical lead pyxis, with a loop handle (inv. 119.340)29—of the type found at Pantanello.30 Included also were an incomplete alabastron, probably dated to the 2nd century BC (inv. 119.354);31 a late style trefoil oinochoe with diluted reddish glaze on the upper section of the body (inv. 119.338);32 a two-handled cup (one handle only preserved) and the body largely incomplete, in pale clay with red glaze (inv. 119.339);33 a small cup of careless manufacture, which is clearly distinguished from the Gnathia and black glaze ceramics that range in date from the end of the 4th through the 3rd century BC.34 In his publication Carter proposes that the tomb may have contained both earlier (between the end of the 4th and the 3rd century BC) and later deposits, 22

Johnston 1989, 38, 121–22; 1990, no. 164. Carter et al. 1998, 232; Johnston 1989, 121. 24 Schojer 1985, 186–87, type V, A, cat. 119; De Juliis 1984, 453–54, CXXIII, no. 1; Prohászka 1995, 130, n. 269; Carter et al. 1998, 234. 25 Carter et al. 1998, 236, n. 198. 26 De Juliis 1984, 453, CXXIII, no. 2. 27 De Juliis 1984, 453, CXXIII, no. 3. 28 De Juliis 1984, 453, CXXIII, no. 4. 29 De Juliis 1984, 354, cat. 315, 453, CXXIII, no. 5, excavated 10 August 1961 from T5 on Lupoli Street. 30 See note 8 above. For another example from Taranto grave D-23, see Hempel 2001, 66, ﬁg. 26. 31 De Juliis 1984, CXXIII, 453, no. 6; 454. 32 De Juliis 1984, CXXIII, 453, no. 7. 33 De Juliis 1984, CXXIII, 453–54, no. 8. 34 De Juliis 1984, CXXIII, 454. 23

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which would explain the chronological discrepancy. He lists only three of the accompanying tomb objects: the badly damaged alabastron (inv. 119.354) of the type found at Pantanello in the last period, the oinochoe (inv. 119.338) and the two-handled cup (inv. 119.339).35 The three objects he lists are the ones that date the tomb to the ﬁrst half of the 2nd century BC.36 Carter has recently conﬁrmed that the burial was a double one and poorly excavated. There are two chronologically distinct groups, and he believes it is not clear that the earrings belong to the later one.37 The discrepancy in the chronology between the Pantanello and Solito earrings will be discussed once the latest chronological research, as well as important comparative material, has been assessed. Current Chronological Research Seminal research is presently being undertaken into the complete revision of the chronology of the Hellenistic period in two important areas, northern Greece and South Italy.38 The enormous quantities of Macedonian grave assemblages with dateable coins are providing critically important information about absolute chronology.39 New material from Thessaly has also been published recently including ceramics from the later Hellenistic period.40 Scholars argue that it is crucial to assess all the available evidence to gain an accurate picture of the grave assemblages. Any attempt at dating based on the typology and stylistic analysis of selected ﬁnds, without at the same time taking all the grave oﬀerings into account will lead inevitably to subjective conclusions.41 In South Italy scholars are reﬁning the relative and absolute chronology of the Tarentine and Lucerian tomb groups.42 To a large extent the detailed discussions concentrate on the Hellenistic ceramics and terracotta ﬁgurines that have traditionally dated the Tarentine graves. In his chronological review, Lippolis has proposed that the date of Gnathia production in South Italy be extended to the last quarter of the 3rd century BC.43 Graepler has published an even more radical challenge to the prevailing chronologies for South Italian 35 Carter et al. 1998, 236. This list is incomplete. It is close to that of Pfrommer’s, except that Pfrommer includes the lead pyxis and a smaller number of Gnathia ceramics of the 3rd century BC. See Pfrommer 1990, 236, FK 56. 36 De Juliis 1984, CXXIII, 454. 37 Personal communication, 2 October 2003. 38 Carter et al. 1998, 235, n. 194. 39 Drougou 1991 for a chronological index; Miller 1993, 580–81. 40 Drougou and Kypraiou 2000, 33ﬀ. 41 Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 220. 42 Lippolis 1990 [1997]a; Hoﬀmann, 2002. 43 Lippolis 1990 [1997]b, 359.

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pottery.44 He argues for a new methodology for the dating and interpretation of closed ﬁnd contexts, by using a combination of systematic interconnections of statistical and contextual evidence.45 His methodology is to use correspondence analysis for over 11,700 Tarentine graves, to establish seriation curves for both the graves and their contents. The seriation curves establish a relative sequence, which reveal seven chronological phases, from Phase A-Phase G,46 with an upper limit of ca. 375 BC and a lower limit of ca. AD 25. Within the sequence, changes over time to grave objects, including the terracottas, can be charted. The results of this survey reveal that there is no apparent evidence of a break in the material culture of Taranto as a result of the Pyrrhic War of 272 BC.47 If his methodology and resulting conclusions, prove to be correct it would seem that production continued without a major disruption, down to the time of Hannibal 212 BC and beyond.48 Green as well as Carter and Giannotta have suggested that pottery production may have continued at Metaponto once it had ceased in Taranto, after the capture of the city by the Romans. There is evidence for the later production of the ‘Alexandria Group’ of Gnathia pottery at Metaponto late into the 3rd century BC.49 Grave 12, Via Duca degli Abruzzi An example of Graepler’s methodology is illustrated in the dating of the large number of terracottas from a Tarentine tomb listed as Grave 12, Via Duca degli Abruzzi 41. The burial was found in the Taranto necropolis 17–22 December 1909, via Anﬁteatro, Tomb 2 in the garden of the church of S. Francesco di Paola. On the basis of the large sample of terracottas he has assigned the tomb to Phase E, dated to 175–100 BC.50 Among the tomb oﬀerings was a single earring of a small Eros now in the Archaeological Museum, Taranto inv. 12.283.51 The ﬁgure is attached from behind to a long suspension hook while the opposite end is twisted around a closure ring soldered to the lower part of Eros’ legs. It has been assigned by the authors of

44

Graepler 1997, 54–147. Graepler 1997, 71–80. 46 Graepler 1997, 71–80. 47 Graepler 1997, 82. 48 One would need to be careful before accepting a date as low as AD 25, as suggested by Graepler. His phases will require further rigorous analysis. 49 Green 1995, 273; Carter et al. 1998, 17, and n. 72—where he refers to M.T. Giannotta, personal communication, 1995. 50 Graepler 1997, 82, 256–57 (tomb context). 51 De Juliis 1984, 187, cat. 120; 476–4481, CXXXVI, nos. 1–48 (tomb context). 45

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Gli Ori di Taranto to the ﬁrst half of the 2nd century BC.52 Although one must treat Graepler’s phases with caution (his latest phases extend down to AD 25)53 in this case the dating of the terracottas ﬁts well with the late date of the Eros earring. A small but signiﬁcant technical detail, the presence of a closure loop through which the hook is inserted, helps to place this earring well into the 2nd century BC. Comparative Chronological Tomb Finds—Macedonia, Egypt and South Russia (1) Neapolis, Macedonia —Cist Tomb An intact cist tomb of a young girl at Neapolis near Thessaloniki is important both chronologically and as a unique record of the cosmopolitan nature of the Macedonian Hellenistic koine.54 The sepulchre was excavated in 1958.55 It contained an eclectic mix of rich oﬀerings of gold, bronze, terracotta and faience now in the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki.56 The gold jewellery and terracotta ﬁgurines from the Neapolis tomb have a time spread from the second half of the 4th century BC to the middle of the 2nd century BC.57 Eros is well represented among the tomb oﬀerings. He is seated on a larger than life-size terracotta goose (inv. 2819). Erotes pendants dangle from a pair of earrings (inv. 2833–2834), each with an eight-petalled rosette and a central inset garnet (one only preserved).58 His image is carved in intaglio on an oval dark red garnet that forms the centrepiece of a loop-in-loop chain necklace.59 The chain is attached to the centrepiece by two conical garnet beads set in gold sleeves, joined by ﬂexible hinges secured by toggle pins.60 The Neapolis necklace (on the basis of the hinge) can be dated to the late 3rd century BC. Further evidence to support this date will be discussed below. Hellenistic jewellery is typically composed of multiple parts that are either permanently or mechanically joined. The smooth surface textures of permanent joints can be visually deceptive, but mechanically joined parts (hinged, pinned, suspended or wired) are clearly identiﬁable—an important factor in chronological assessment. Non-utilitarian or decorative shapes are susceptible 52

De Juliis 1984, 186. Graepler 1997, 82. 54 Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 220. 55 Daux 1959, 706; 707, ﬁg. 26; Vickers and Nikonanou 1985, 180–201. 56 Vokotopoulou 1996, 55–77, for a description of the objects. 57 Daux 1959, 706. 58 Daux 1959, ﬁg. 26; Ninou and Kypraiou 1979, 79, cat. 311; Vickers and Nikonanou 1985, 189, no. 3, pl. 5a; Vokotopoulou 1996, 57. 59 Ninou and Kypraiou 1979, 78, cat. 307, pl. 43; Yalouris 1980, 154, cat. 100; Vokotopoulou 1996, 56, inv. 2837. 60 Yalouris 1980, 154, cat. 100 (detail of hinge). 53

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to changes in fashion over time, but the passage of time does not necessarily cause stylistic change. On the other hand, objects of everyday use such as hinges tend to retain their original form. For example, the Phoenician grooved cylinder hinge persisted, essentially unchanged, from the 7th century at least into the 3rd century BC.61 Other forms appeared during the 6th century BC.62 The jewellers of the Hellenistic period introduced new forms with diﬀerent functions. Now hinges functioned not only as ﬂexible joining mechanisms but also as clasps and suspension devices. The Hellenistic hinge thus provides a terminus post quem for the jewellery. The Neapolis tomb also contained two imported Egyptian objects, a cast glass cup with incised leaves and oval ornamentation (inv. 11545) and a green faience basket/kalathos (inv. 2829) with impressed decoration in horizontal zones.63 The ﬁrst zone of the kalathos has a hunting scene (Artemis accompanied by animals), the second aquatic birds and lotus ﬂowers and the third rosettes. Daﬀa-Nikonanou has dated it to the ﬁrst half of the 2nd century BC.64 Both objects have parallels in Egyptian Ptolemaic deposits,65 including a relatively recent ﬁnd from Tel Atrib. (2) Tel Atrib, Lower Egypt In 1993 during the rescue excavations carried out at Kom Sidi Youssuf (part of Tel Atrib, ancient Athribis) the Polish-Egyptian excavators found a group of faience vessels, one of which is stylistically close to both the glass cup (inv. 11545) and faience kalathos (inv. 2829) from Neapolis.66 The vessels were found in a room beneath an intact layer of rubble in the artisans’ quarter.

Perea 2002, 178–80, 179 ﬁgs. 1–2. Tsigarida 1998, 50–51. The leaf-shaped bifurcate hinge-plate (as well as the square type) are found on bow ﬁbulae. The bow ﬁbula ﬁrst appeared during the Archaic period and was very common not only in Macedonia and Thrace, but throughout the whole of the Greek world. For the leaf-shaped bifurcate-hinge, see Marazov 1998, 199, cat. 140. For the square type, see Williams and Ogden 1994, 78, cat. 33. Another form of hook/bifurcate hinge-plate comes from Kerch (Pantikapaion). It is attached to an Eros earring in the Hermitage (inv. P. 1848–49.6). A suspension loop (on the head of the pendant) is inserted into the fork of the hook at the front where it bifurcates, forming a hinge held together by a pin. All of these examples are dated to the 4th century BC. 63 Ninou and Kypraiou 1979, 79, no. 311. 64 Daﬀa-Nikonanou 1987, 263–77, ﬁgs. 1–3, pls. 54–57. 65 Daﬀa-Nikonanou 1987, 277; Vokotopoulou 1996, 56. 66 My≤liwiec 1993, 42–44, ﬁgs. 1–2. Compare the faience kalathos in Vokotopoulou 1996, 55 ill. and the glass cup, 56, ill. with the Ptolemaic faience bowl found at Tell Atrib. See My≤liwiec and Abu Senna 1995, 231–32, ﬁgs. 32 a–b, 33 a–b. The Tell Atrib bowl has rich relief decoration in concentric ﬁgural friezes. On the outside are ﬂoral patterns similar to those on the outside of the glass cup in Thessaloniki (inv. 11545) and on the inside are hunting scenes with ﬂeeing animals which are similar to the hunting scenes of animals and birds on the faience kalathos (inv. 2829). 61 62

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The room may have been used as a manufacturing workshop.67 A single Eros earring was also found in context with the faience objects.68 Five bronze coins of Ptolemy IV Philopator (222/1–205/4) were found in situ with the objects.69 The coins are in good condition and do not exclude a slightly earlier but not later date for the earring and the faience objects.70 In 1930 Robert Zahn identiﬁed and assembled a group of Eros earrings, which he believed to have originated from Alexandria.71 A technical feature of several earrings belonging to Zahn’s original group is the hinge used as a suspension device.72 The Tel Atrib earring (while it lacks a hinge) is of similar form and style to one of Zahn’s less elaborate examples and can now be included with them.73 The coins provide a terminus ante quem for the Tel Atrib stratum and the objects therein of the second half of the 3rd century BC.74 They also provide a date for Zahn’s hinged and pendant earrings. The Tel Atrib type of short winged hollow cast baby Eros ﬁgure can be paralleled in many respects with those examples from South Italy discussed in this paper. They are stylistically similar and carry similar attributes, the alabastron or papyrus scroll in one hand and a phiale, mask or shell in the other. It is likely that Tarentine metal workers migrated to Egypt after the Roman defeat in 272 BC.75 Evidence exists in the form of plaster casts of the models used by the metal workers in the workshops of Alexandria,76 and Memphis (modern Mit-Rahineh).77 For the Graeco-Roman period there is considerable written evidence for the existence of a large number of small goldsmiths workshops throughout Egypt.78 A distinction was made between the toreutai metal workers and the xrusoxÒi or gold casters, who worked either in small village workshops or in larger more diversiﬁed ones in the large cities.79 A document of 97 BC refers to Herodes in Arsinoe, who commissioned the goldsmith Mystharion to make for him two gold arm rings weighing eight mnaieions.80 It was emphasised that the gold should be solid,

67

My≤liwiec and Abu Senna 1995, 206–40. My≤liwiec 1993, 41–42. 69 Jackson 1999, 74, ﬁgs. 8–12. 70 My≤liwiec, personal communication, 28 April 1995. They were cleaned and identiﬁed by Dr Aleksandra Krzyzanowska in situ, My≤liwiec, personal communication, 15 August 1996. 71 Zahn 1930, 202–06. 72 Jackson 1999, 66, ﬁgs. 1–3. 73 Jackson 1999, 67, ﬁg. 4; Zahn 1930, 204, n. 22; pl. 22, no. 6. 74 Jackson 1999, 72–75; 67, ﬁg. 4. 75 Langlotz 1963, 92. 76 Treister 1996, 115. 77 Reinsberg 1980, 244–53, 278. 78 Schäfer 1910, 14. 79 Schäfer 1910, 13, n. 3—in the unpublished Berlin Papyrus, 9565. 80 POxyrh 3456 conﬁrms that the mnaieion was equal to 8 drachms. 68

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dox¤miow, and hallmarked, •p¤shmow.81 However, the average cost of a pair of

gold earrings during the 3rd century BC was usually not more then 20 drachms.82 (3) Artyukhov Barrow, Taman The next chronological link comes from the three associated tombs within the Artyukhov mound. They probably formed a family burial dated by coins to within 75–100 years of each other. The tombs are important because the jewellery can be cross-dated technically and stylistically to similar pieces. Tomb I—contained a richly adorned female skeleton. On her head was the famous Heracles knot diadem (inv. Art 1) in the State Hermitage Museum (Fig. 7). It was repaired in antiquity using details from other pieces.83 The diadem consists of three curved elements joined together by hinges. The chronology for this type of diadem has been much debated84 but the hinges help date it to the late of 3rd century BC. Tomb II—amongst the rich grave oﬀerings was a pair of disc and pendant earrings (Fig. 5). The pendants are white and green enamelled doves on plinths, suspended from swing-style hinges decorated with granule rosettes. Each earring has a partially enamelled double-rosette disc with an egg and tongue border, but is inset with a small garnet at the centre instead of a granulation pearl and has garnet ﬁnials on the side chains.85 The usual surmounting palmette is replaced by the Egyptian sun disc, inlaid with carnelian, and ﬂanked by inlaid Isis feathers. Enamelled doves were common in Tarentine jewellery (Fig. 6). (See discussion below). Robert Zahn used the Artyukhov earrings to date his group of Alexandrian Erotes earrings (discussed above) to the end of the 3rd or beginning of the 2nd century BC.86 The tomb contents included a coin of Lysimachus Posthumous, with a terminus post quem of 281 BC,87 and a gold stater of Paerisades II who ascended the throne in 284 BC.88 81

Schäfer 1910, 11. See also Ogden 1996, 193: one mnaieion weighed 28 g—192, n. 8. POxyrh, II, 267. 83 CR 1880, 1,1, III, 2; Minns 1913, 432, ﬁg. 322; Becatti 1955, 203, cat. 438, pl. CXXI, no. 438; Gorbunova and Saverkina 1975, 10; Maksimova 1979, 46–48; Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 54–55, ﬁg. 1f; Pfrommer 1990, 309, HK 99, 262–263, FK 121, pl. 29–32 h. 84 Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 52. 85 Higgins 1980, XXVI, 48B, pl. 48B; see Ondrejová 1975, 52, pl. III–2a 7 b. Inset stones were introduced slightly later towards the end of the 3rd-beginning of the 2nd century BC. Compare also a single earring of an Eros riding on a stone with similar pendant garnets suspended on gold chains. (Inv. NHM, 129) Tirana, Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology. A controlled context in Albania dated to the second half of the 3rd century BC, Grave no. 3 in Lower Selca, Pogradec: Eggebrecht 1988, no. 289; Pfrommer 1990, 253–54, FK 103, late 3rd–early 2nd century BC. 86 Zahn 1930, 203–04, n. 3, 16, and 28. 87 Minns 1913, 404, n. 3; 430; Seyrig 1968, 183–200, esp. 196–97, n. 7. 88 Minns 1913, 430. 82

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Fig. 5. Pair of enamelled dove earrings, Artyukhov Barrow, Tomb II, H. 6.2 cm. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum (image courtesy State Hermitage Museum).

Fig. 6. Pair of enamelled bird earrings, inv. 6.430 A, B. Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (after De Juliis 1984, 169, cat. 85).

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Fig. 7. Diadem from Artyukhov Barrow, Tomb I, gold, enamel and carnelians, inv. Art 1. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum (after Minns 1913, 432, ﬁg. 322).

Fig. 8. A pair of lion’s head earrings with braided hoops, inv. 40. 156 A, B. Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (after De Juliis 1984, 182–183, cat. 111).

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It was originally thought that the coins gave a date for the tombs at the end of the 3rd or the beginning of the 2nd century BC.89 More recent analysis of the coins extends the time frame of the tombs through to the middle of the 2nd century BC.90 Tomb III contained both early and late material including a pair of earrings with twisted wire hoops terminating above in ﬁne points.91 The front is a nude Eros with his feet attached to a small base. These earrings have close parallels from an intact burial in Vergina Grave LXXIII, burial A.92 The tomb also contained a second pair of disc and pendant earrings stylistically similar to the dove earrings from Tomb II.93 Related Tarentine Earrings—Their Contexts and Chronology (1) Tomb 4, Piazza d’Armi Tomb 4, Piazza d’Armi provides two close parallels from Taranto that further establish a date in the second half of the 3rd century BC for the earrings so far discussed. (a) A pair of disc and pendant dove earrings (inv. 6.430 A–B) from T4 excavated in the Piazza d’Armi on 9 May 1911 (Fig. 6), can be stylistically crossreferenced to the dated Artyukhov Barrow dove earrings from Tomb II (Fig. 5). The Piazza d’Armi earrings have been published and dated to the 2nd century BC.94 They have mauve enamel dove pendants and single tasselled chains on either side of the doves (only one is preserved on the second earring). Each disc has a double rosette edged in ﬁligree wire with a granulation pearl in the centre. Although the disc is stylistically similar to the Artyukhov Barrow earrings (Fig. 5) there is one crucial diﬀerence. The Piazza d’Armi disc lacks an inset stone and therefore must be dated slightly earlier to second half of the 3rd century BC.95 (b) A single unpublished penannular lion protome Eros earring (inv. 541.70) from the same context is an almost identical parallel to the earrings from Pantanello ( J11–12) (Fig. 1) and those from Solito (inv. 119.35) (Fig. 3).96 The Piazza D’Armi earring is a more secure parallel than the Solito earrings, since it is

89

Minns 1913, 433; Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 54. von Schwarzmaier 1996, 111, 107, n. 12; Plantzos 1996, 128–30. 91 Maksimova 1979, 53, ﬁg. 10. 92 Petsas 1963, 220–34, 229, nos. 6 a–b, pl. 262; Pfrommer 1990, 259, FK 112, 362, OR 114: ﬁg. 30, 63. 93 CR 1880, 1, 11, 12 and 21; Minns, 1913, 430–33, ﬁg. 321; Maksimova 1979, 53, ﬁg. 8. 94 De Juliis 1984, 168–70, cat. 85; Guzzo 1993, 251, no. 2; Masiello 1990 [1997], 319–20, pl. 258. 95 See note 84 above for Ondrejová’s remarks on the date for the introduction of inset stones. 96 This earring has been examined by the author together with the original inventory list of tomb oﬀerings. 90

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from a single intact burial. Carter has pointed out the inherent dangers in using material from double burials.97 The other tomb oﬀerings included a wreath of oak leaves cut from sheet-gold98 and two silver appliqués of masks of silens.

(2) Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale The next example is an unprovenanced disc and pendant earring in Taranto (inv. 12.013) (Fig. 4). The earring was acquired from Antonio Lupo in 7 April 1910.99 It shares a combination of stylistic, technical and iconographic elements in common with the previously discussed Tarentine and Artyukhov earrings—a braided hook, a disc with a central rosette and a circular setting for a stone (not preserved). The pendant Eros is equipped with the same attributes as the Erotes on the lion’s head penannular earrings—a phiale mesomphalos and a papyrus-scroll or alabastron. The earring was dated in accordance with traditional chronology to the end of the 4th, beginning of the 3rd centuries BC by the authors of Gli Ori di Taranto. Lippolis has now lowered the date of the earring to between 240 and 200 BC,100 in line with a reassessment of the ceramic evidence.101 (3) Tomb 2, Taranto via Cugini A pair of penannular earrings with braided hoops and lion protomes (inv. 40.156 A, B) (Fig. 8) are also linked by close stylistic and technical similarities to the Tarentine examples. The earrings come from Tomb 2, Taranto via Cugini, excavated in June 1974.102 When considered together with their contexts this group can provide crucial chronological information. The braided hoops terminate at each end in stylised lion’s heads. The smaller of the two lion’s heads has an attachment wire ﬁxed to its mouth (when preserved). Following traditional Tarentine chronology, they are presently dated between the end of the 4th and the beginning of the 3rd century BC, on the basis of their context.103 A small number of tomb oﬀerings accompanied the via Cugini earrings—a bronze mirror (inv. 40.158); a Gnathia oinochoe (inv. 40.159) and a cup with two handles (inv. 40.160)—all dated to the end of the 4th/beginning of the 3rd century BC (traditional chronology).104 The most important 97

Personal communication, 23 October 2003. For a discussion of the chronology of gold wreaths from Taras (Taranto), see Kaninia 1944–1955, 49–50, 131, pls. 25–30. 99 De Juliis 1984, 175, cat. 96, 422, LXXVII. 100 Lippolis 1990 [1997]b, 240–41, tabl. XVIII—‘Orecchini’. 101 Lippolis 1990 [1997]a, 243. 102 De Juliis 1984, 183, cat. 111, 424, LXXXII, no. 1 (tomb context); Lo Porto 1974, 350, pl. LXIV, 1. 103 De Juliis 1984, 183, cat. 111. 104 De Juliis 1984, 424, LXXXII, 2, nos. 3–5. 98

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of the accompanying objects in terms of chronology, was a heavy gold and garnet intaglio ring with an almost circular bezel (inv. 40.157)105 (Fig. 9). It depicts a woman bent at the waist with a nude elongated curved back, holding a globular vase. Her right hand grasps the handle while the left supports the base. It is dated to the beginning of the 3rd century BC (traditional chronology).106 The Tarentine ring has a close parallel in the Museum of Fine Arts Boston (inv. 21.1213) (Fig. 10). It comes from the illicitly excavated and recently republished Tomb of the Erotes, Eretria.107 The oval convex garnet intaglio depicts an Aphrodite arming. She leans forward bearing a shield and spear. It was signed by Gelon who was thought to have been active in Alexandria towards the end of the 3rd century BC.108 Kourouniotis originally dated the ring to the end of the 3rd century BC,109 while Beazley dated it slightly later to ca. 200 BC.110 It has also been dated as early as the second quarter of the 3rd century BC.111 The two stylistically and technically similar rings, together with their contexts, provide important chronological links with a securely dated Tarentine tomb group in the Berlin Altes Museum. (4) The Altes Museum Parure A stylistically homogeneous group in the Berlin Altes Museum consists of a rich parure of jewellery of a Tarentine woman (Fig. 11).112 Gertrud PlatzHorster believes that analyses of the garnets and the gold, as well as comparative studies of the wire and soldering techniques indicate that elements of the assemblage were made at diﬀerent times and in diﬀerent workshops, but they were all made at Taranto between ca. 230 and 210 BC.113 The parure contains two necklaces that provide the next chronological links. The ﬁrst has alternating gold and cut garnet links (inv. 1980.17) (Fig. 11a) and ﬂexible hinged cornelian terminals set in gold sleeves (Fig. 12—detail).114 It is of similar construction to the necklace from Neapolis (inv. 28337) previously discussed on p. 232. These two necklaces have a third close parallel from the

105

De Juliis 1984, 295, cat. 224, 424, LXXXII, no. 2. De Juliis 1984, 295, cat. 224. 107 Huguenot 2001, 92–123. 108 Plantzos 1999, 68, pl. 29, no. 125; Huguenot 2001, 94. 109 Kourouniotis 1890, 233–34, col. 288. 110 Beazley 1920, no. 102; Boardman 2002. 111 Yalouris 1980, 153, cat. 99. 112 Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 266–77, cat. 124–129. This treasure was previously dated by the authors to the late 4th–3rd century BC; Heilmeyer 1980, 199–203; De Juliis 1984, 452, CXXII, nos. 1–7; Heilmeyer 1990, 97–108, pls. LVI–LXXI; Guzzo 1993, 320, nos. 43–48; Platz-Horster 2002, 69–71, 69–ill. 113 Platz-Horster 2002, 74. 114 Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 271, pl. VIII, cat. 126; 273, cat. 126; De Juliis 1984, 452, CXXII, no. 3; Guzzo 1993, 212, 1; Platz-Horster 2002, 69, ill. 70, pl. 42. 106

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Fig. 9. Intaglio garnet ring. Woman carrying a water jug, inv. 40.157. Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (after De Juliis 1984, 295, cat. 224).

Fig. 10. Intaglio garnet ring, Aphrodite arming, inv. 21.1213. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts (after Yalouris 1980, 153, cat. 99).

Fig. 11. Eight-piece jewellery parure said to be from Taranto, inv. 1980. 17–22. Berlin, Altes Museum, Antikensammlung (after Platz-Horster 2002, 69–74, cat. 42).

a

d

Fig. 12. Detail of gold and cut garnet chain necklace with conical carnelian terminals with hinged gold sleeves, inv. 1980.17. Berlin, Altes Museum, Antikensammlung (after Platz-Horster 2002, 70, cat. 42).

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Tomb of the Erotes assemblage (inv. 98.794).115 The Tomb of the Erotes necklace has a forged gold sleeve originally set with a cornelian or garnet and a hinged terminal that functioned as a clasp. When the clasp was fastened with a toggle pin the Eros sat upright on a cylindrical gold base (Fig. 13—detail).116 However it is the second necklace in the Berlin parure that conﬁrms the date for the assemblage. This necklace has a triple loop-in-loop woven arrangement from which are suspended 114 short beaded wires decorated with small spheres (inv. 1980,18) (Fig. 11d).117 The loop-in-loop necklace from the parure once had an almost exact parallel also in Berlin in the von Gans Collection (inv. 30219, 312)118 with a completely oxidised Tarentine silver stater (inv. 30219, 312) adhering to it (Fig. 14).119 The stater was struck between 212 and 209 BC. On the obverse is the ‘horseman of Taranto’; on the reverse is a dolphin with male rider holding a cornucopia (Fig. 15, O/R).120 The coin provides a secure date for the jewellery parure and the associated jewellery pieces—the ﬁnger-rings, the necklaces and the lion hoops, which can now be more accurately dated to ca. 230–210 BC.121 The Chronological Problem The chronology of the Tarentine jewellery so far discussed brings us back to the Pantanello earrings (inv. J11–12) from T71, and to an interesting chronological problem that has arisen as a result of their discovery. The date proposed by the excavators of ca. 300 BC122 diﬀers substantially from that of the identical pair from T5 Solito, Taranto. The date assigned by the authors of Gli Ori di Taranto for the Tarentine gold Erotes earrings is the beginning of the 2nd century BC. This date is around 100 years later than the conventional date for the Pantanello chamber tomb 71 (and the Eros earrings), and around three-quarters of a century later than the date proposed here (the second half of the 3rd century BC). The Tarentine date is too low, suggesting one of three possibilities. 115

Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 140–41, cat. 50 a–c; Yalouris 1980, 149–50, cat. 91a–b. Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 274: ‘The function of the hinge may have been to adjust to the wearer’s shoulder and keep the necklace in place if worn from shoulder to waist.’ 117 Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 274–75, cat. 127; De Juliis 1984, 452, no. 4; Guzzo 1993, 204, cat. 7; Platz-Horster 2002, 69–71, ill. 118 The necklace was lost during the War. 119 Zahn 1932, 6, no. 22; Greifenhagen 1961, 103, no. 48, ﬁg. 39; Segall 1964, 170; Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 274; Greifenhagen 1975, 98, pl. 68, 7–8; Guzzo 1993, 203, cat. 5, ill; Platz-Horster 2002, 74. 120 Zahn 1932, 6, no. 22. Although the necklace (inv. 30219, 312) is missing, the silver stater is still in the Museum’s collection. It had been placed in the mouth of the deceased woman at the time of burial and over time, through the process of oxidation, had become ﬁrmly attached to the front of the necklace. Personal communication, Barbara Niemeyer, Altes Museum (Berlin), 17 September 2003. 121 Platz-Horster 2002, 74. 122 Prohászka 1995, pl. 30, n. 269; 131, tabl. 42; Carter et al. 1998, 234. 116

Fig. 13. Detail of gold and cut garnet chain necklace with hinged clasp, inv. 98.794. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts (after Yalouris 1980, 149–150, cat. 91a, b).

Fig. 14. Gold loop-in-loop woven necklace with a silver stater from Taranto, inv. 30219, 312. Berlin, Altes Museum, Antikensammlung (after Guzzo 1993, 203, cat. 5).

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Fig. 15. Tarentine silver stater of Hannibal, 212–209 BC, inv. 30219, 312, Berlin, Altes Museum, Antikensammlung. O/Horseman of Taranto, facing left, diam 20 mm. R/Dolphin with male rider holding a cornucopia, facing left (Photo courtesy Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Antikensammlung).

(1) The Tarentine earrings were family heirlooms passed on for at least two generations.123 (2) The same style continued to be produced from the 3rd into the 2nd century BC. (3) It is incorrect. The ﬁrst possibility is that the earrings may be heirlooms. The possible existence of heirlooms in tomb assemblages presents a diﬃcult problem. It is impossible from the distance of centuries, to determine what was considered of sentimental worth within a particular family and worthy of being handed on from one generation to the next. Sometimes small and inexpensive pieces can have as much sentimental value as very valuable jewellery. The best way to approach the problem is to look closely at the jewellery itself for signs of wear etc. and to study the burial customs of the period. Rings are the most obvious examples of jewellery with sentimental value; such pieces frequently show signs of wear, for example the ring in the Metropolitan Museum with Eros ﬁgure supports.124 The decorative details and features of the Erotes’ faces have become blurred through years of constant use.

123 124

Carter et al. 1998, 236. di Cesnola 1878, 310; Oliver 1966, 278–79, no. 18.

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It can be argued also that highly prized jewellery was often constructed of multiple and intricate component sections such as the exquisitely crafted boatshaped earring with Nikai in the National Museum, Taranto (inv. 110.090)125 or the famous Nike earring in the Museum of Fine Arts Boston (inv. 98.788) which was made of 130 separate pieces.126 Such jewellery often shows signs of ancient repairs. One such piece is the Heracles knot diadem in the Hermitage from Tomb I, Artyukhov Barrow referred to above.127 Some pieces were even recycled, indicating their intrinsic worth and the high value placed upon the workmanship, for example the gold Heracles knot in the British Museum.128 It may originally have formed the centrepiece of a bracelet (as there seems to be a certain amount of curvature in the knot). A small wingless Eros stands astride the centre of the knot. Traces on the back of the ﬁgure indicate the original presence of wings, suggesting the reuse of the ﬁgure from a previous ornament, probably an earring. The traditional assumption that much grave jewellery is considerably older than the accompanying pottery and terracottas has already been challenged. For example, A. Schwarzmaier has demonstrated that the imported red ﬁgure pelike from Tomb I at Bolshaya Bliznitsa129 known as the tomb of the ‘priestess of Demeter’ and dated by Schefold on stylistic grounds to 350–340 BC130 is at least 10–20 years earlier than the jewellery from the same tomb which is dated to 330–300 BC.131 From the end of the 4th century BC onwards, trade with the Greek kingdoms of the East brought an unprecedented era of economic prosperity and intense artistic activity. A larger number of people could now share in the wealth and almost every young girl would have owned at least one pair of earrings. Tomb evidence indicates that it was customary to bury dead females with the objects they owned and used when alive, including their toilet articles.132 In Tarentine tombs jewellery made speciﬁcally as grave oﬀerings was often made as clay imitations of popular styles.133 At Pantanello the contents of the tomb were modest the gold Eros earrings being the only valuable items,

125

De Juliis. 1984, cat. 68, 154–157. Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1965, 76–81 for a discussion of the Boston Nike earring. 127 For the references, see note 83 above. The Heracles knot had great ritual signiﬁcance in the ancient world and was closely associated with marriage. It was tied by the bride and untied by the groom. 128 Marshall 1911, 23–24, cat. 2001, pl. XXXIV, 2001; Pfrommer 1990, HK 150, pl. 5, 9; Williams and Ogden 1994, 251, cat. 191. 129 Hermitage Museum, inv. BB 67. 130 Schefold 1934, no. 396, pl. 4–1–2 and 31,1; Williams and Ogden 1994, 184, ﬁg. 57; von Schwarzmaier 1996, 115–16, 137. 131 Williams and Ogden 1994, 184–95, cat. 130. 132 Tsigarida 1997, 61. 133 De Juliis 1984, 157–59, cat. 69–72. 126

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so there is every reason to suggest that they were worn during the lifetime of the deceased as part of her attire and buried with her.134 Tomb evidence also attests to the fact that Eros had particular and immediate signiﬁcance to young females at this time both in life and in death.135 Jewellery made speciﬁcally as grave oﬀerings was often fragile and would not be robust enough to withstand regular use. At Bolshaya Bliznitsa small gold foil clothing plaques found in diﬀerent tombs were so delicate they could not have been worn in life.136 In fact since jewellery was continually being buried a constant demand was created for new pieces, which was traded all over the Hellenistic world.137 As a consequence precious grave oﬀerings tended to be made at more or less the same period as, or slightly earlier than, the date they were deposited.138 Ptolemaic marriage contracts frequently list jewellery as the most common component of dowries.139 In addition, temple inventories from Delos of 279 BC and subsequent years mention dedications of necklaces with pendants as well as wreaths, diadems, bracelets, ﬁnger-rings, pins and buttons.140 The second possibility—that the same style continued unchanged over time, is also unconvincing. Stylistic change is a fact of life, particularly for non-utilitarian objects such as jewellery, and the Hellenistic period was one that embraced change and originality.141 Now that there was a plentiful supply of gold and semiprecious stones the creative imagination of both goldsmith and client could be indulged. For example, diﬀerential signs of wear on certain pieces such as the jewellery parure from Taranto (now in Berlin) suggests that jewellery sets were often added to and modiﬁed according to the latest fashion.142 It is diﬃcult therefore, to believe that a Tarentine or Metapontine workshop would have continued to produce the same type of lion protome Erotes earrings with no observable changes, over a time span of approximately 75–100 years.143 The fact that in form, style and technique the Pantanello 134

Touratsoglou 1998, 30. Large numbers of Eros earrings have been excavated from the tumuli near Kerch (ancient Pantikapaion)—see Reinach 1891, 61. See p. 292 above for the evidence from the cist tomb at Neapolis. 136 Minns 1913, 54. 137 Rosenthal 1974, 9. 138 Rosenthal 1974, 30. See also the evidence from Tel Atrib above, note 74, where the earring from the destruction level was approximately contemporary with the coins. 139 von Wilcken 1908, 131ﬀ. 140 Higgins 1980, 157, 165; Plantzos 1999, 16. 141 See Reeder 1987, 423, 440. She comments on the large repertory of motifs available to the Hellenistic metalworker/goldsmith, while the extensive commerce at this time explains its international ﬂavour. Further evidence of the existence of a wide variety of motifs used by Hellenistic goldsmith comes from western Anatolia (probably the Güre region) where a large selection of bronze punches and formers have been found—see Özgen and Öztürk 1996, 211–30. 142 Platz-Horster 2002, 74. 143 See Miller 1979, 37. In her discussion on medallions, she uses the Galjub models to illustrate her point, that once an iconographic type was developed in the durable form of a bronze 135

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earrings are identical to the Tarentine examples, down to the smallest detail, means that they are likely to be contemporaneous and by the hand of the same goldsmith or from the same workshop.144 Taking into consideration the close work involved in producing intricate pieces of jewellery, the working life of a goldsmith must have been shorter than that of a vase painter, who would normally be expected to be productive for approximately 20–30 years. In any case the date of manufacture of the Tarentine earrings should be close to those from Pantanello. The movement of metal workers and goldsmiths can be traced from the Archaic Period onwards. Punches and formers from the Greek cities of the Black Sea including the Cimmerian Bosporus suggest that Milesian, Ephesian and Lydian metal workers were producing objects in the Animal Style for the Scythians.145 A late Archaic bronze punch from Romania (Oprisor) enables a connection to be made with the Lydian-Ionian tradition and the same inﬂuences can be found in Thrace.146 The third possibility—that the date may be incorrect, will almost certainly prove to be the case now that a revision of the necropolis of Taras is under way. It is necessary to look closely at the evidence from the related Tarentine earrings and their contexts as discussed above. A date in the second half of

mould, it could have continued to be used, perhaps over several generations, as long as the style was considered desirable. Finishing details of the features and borders could be altered to express the regional taste of a goldsmith and his clientele. Jewellery made for Scythian clients by Greek jewellers such as the Loeb Diadem can illustrate Miller’s point. The goddess at the centre of the Heracles knot wears a chiton and holds a phiale, but her rounded face and ﬂattened oriental features betray Scythian preferences. See Hoﬀmann and Davidson 1985, 51–53, ﬁg. 1b. Continuity of style depended on the transmission of the bronze and plaster jewellers’ models (or moulds) throughout the Hellenistic world. When the models were exported or accompanied the goldsmiths (who travelled widely) the original version of a style may then have survived for another generation in its new location. Up to a point Miller’s theory is correct, but in practice continuity of style over several generations in one location seems unlikely. In a traditional society jewellery was one of the few creative expressions of individual taste for females, and this can be observed even today. New versions of existing iconographic types are likely to have been introduced by the goldsmith and old models discarded at least every ten years or so. The varied types and styles of Hellenistic jewellery in the archaeological record attest to the ﬂuctuating fashions and the desire for change. Relatively few sets of jewellers’ models have been preserved; the Galjub and Memphis models are the best known. However, a set of miniature bronze models has been found in the necropolis of Heraclea as discussed above. The set, consisting mainly of Negro heads, shells, animals and birds, were found in Tomb 68, and are dated to the 2nd–1st centuries BC. There is uncertainty however, as to whether the miniature cast moulds were used to make actual jewellery. 144 Rare evidence for the likely existence of a local jeweller’s workshop comes from tomb 68 in the southern necropolis of Heraclea (south of Metaponto). The tools (hammers, awls, chisels) are both in bone and iron, and are dated to the 2nd–1st centuries BC. See Nava 1999, 96; 178–79, pl. 58. 145 Tsetskhladze and Snodgrass 2002, 85. 146 Tsetskhladze and Snodgrass 2002, 85; Treister 2001, 75–76.

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the 3rd century BC can now be ﬁrmly established for the lion’s head protome earrings. However, even with the newly proposed chronology, an early 2nd century date is still too low for the Tarentine earrings.147 It will therefore be necessary to adjust the date for the production and subsequent deposition of these earrings. At Pantanello it is not possible to establish a terminus ante quem for the earrings on the evidence of a single well used coin. However, it is likely that the date of deposition of the earrings would have been not long (perhaps about two decades) after the date of their manufacture, and should reﬂect fairly closely the terminus ante quem for the tomb itself. A date in the second half of the 3rd century BC for the Pantanello earrings would make more sense than either the ﬁrst decades of the 3rd century BC (on traditional Gnathia ceramic chronology) or early 2nd century BC (on accepted Tarentine jewellery chronology).148 As discussed previously, the date of the Gnathia ceramics from Tomb 71, with the exception of the ribbed bottle (T71–2) can be brought down comfortably to ca. 240 BC. Summary and Conclusion In certain situations where there is a discrepancy or uncertainty in the ceramic record and where coins are of little use, the ceramic evidence (in this case the Gnathia ware) can be assessed in conjunction with well-dated jewellery. The terminus date is obtained by taking the latest upper date ranges of reliably dated pieces in a deposit and the latest lower ﬁgure of the same pieces. In most cases this is the date range of a single object, but here this is not the case. As mentioned above in relation to the question of heirlooms, Agnes von Schwarzmaier believes that the ceramics and terracottas in the Bolshaya Bliznitsa complex are considerably older than the metal grave goods. She uses comparative stylistic analysis of the jewellery and compares it with similar pieces from the Kul-Oba Kurgan to reﬁne and lower the date by ten years.149 The Pantanello Erotes earrings together with the supporting evidence discussed above including the Gnathia pottery may be a crucial chronological marker for conﬁrming the date of ceramic production at Metaponto into the second half of the 3rd century BC. 147

Carter et al. 1998, 236. There is a slight discrepancy in the interpretation of the dates between Carter and the contributors to Gli Ori di Taranto (De Juliis 1984) for animal protome hoop earrings with Erotes. In the latter they are dated ‘from the beginning of the 2nd century BC’, while Carter gives a date for the earrings of mid-2nd century BC. 148 Prohászka 1995, 130, n. 269; see also 84 where she states that the chronology of the Tarentine tombs is debatable. The datings proposed in De Juliis 1984 in almost all respects tend to be lower than the datings attested by the ceramic ﬁnds at Pantanello. 149 von Schwarzmaier 1996, 137. It must be mentioned however, that the dating of jewellery on the basis of style is frequently inaccurate. Form, iconography and technique must also be taken into account.

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Importantly, the ﬁnds oﬀer a number of fascinating contrasts and similarities, which aﬀect the chronological interpretation of the deposits. The Pantanello coin was well worn, and had been in circulation for some time before being placed in the tomb—for a speciﬁc purpose.150 It is of little use in giving a precise date for the tomb. Given that the lowest date for the Gnathia ﬁne ware is 240 BC, the Pantanello earrings can now be placed slightly later in the second half of the 3rd century BC. Finally, it is necessary to reconsider the problem of dating the Tarentine Solito earrings. The Pantanello earrings together with related examples have well documented excavation contexts, while the Solito earrings come from a double burial and lack an excavation report. In a situation such as this, where certain technical, stylistic and morphological aspects of jewellery from sealed dated deposits can be cross-referenced with less precisely recorded jewellery the chronological horizons can be broadened.151 A date in the second half of the 3rd century BC can with reasonable certainty now be assigned to the Solito earrings. With a re-evaluation of the ceramic evidence it now seems likely that Tomb 71 at Pantanello (which belongs to the last phase of the site) had a time span extending late in the 3rd century BC, up to the arrival of Hannibal in 212 BC. The huge quantity of ceramics compared with a paucity of gold jewellery ensures that it will always be of paramount importance. However, the technical aspects of jewellery can add a further chronological dimension beyond the traditional reliance on typological and stylistic analysis. In addition the international and homogeneous nature of the Hellenistic gold-working industry makes it particularly suitable for successful cross-referencing. Used in conjunction with other archaeological evidence, including ceramics and terracottas, jewellery can play its part in the quest for objective conclusions and in the wider process of chronological review. 4 Billong Street Neutral Bay Sydney NSW 2089 Australia [email protected]

150 151

Prohászka 1996, 160. Touratsoglou 1998, 31.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AMITOS Atti Taranto CR POxyrh

Amitos timetikos tomos gia ton kathegete Manole Androniko Atti del . . . Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto (Taranto/Naples) Compte-rendu de la Commission Impériale archéologique (St Petersburg 1880) Grenfell, B.P. and Hunt, A.S. 1898–1927: The Oxyrhynchos Papyri, I–XVII (London) SNG Copenhagen Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum Copenhagen

Bailey, D.M. (ed.) 1996: Archaeological Research in Roman Egypt (Ann Arbor). Beazley, J.D. 1920: The Lewes House Collection of Ancient Gems (Oxford). Becatti, G. 1955: Oreﬁcerie antiche dalle minoiche alle barbariche (Rome). Boardman, J. (ed.) 2002: The Lewes House Collection of Ancient Gems [now at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston] by J.D. Beazley (Oxford). Carter, J.C., Morter, J. and Toxey, A.P. (eds.) 1998: The Chora of Metaponto. The Necropoleis I–II (Austin). Danish National Museum 1942: SNG Copenhagen. The Royal Collection of Coins and Medals. Danish National Museum (Copenhagen). Dapha-Nikonanou, A. 1987: ‘Two Imported Vases out of a Grave from Neapolis in Thessaloniki’. AMITOS 1, 263–77 (in Greek). Daux, G. 1959: ‘Chronique des fouilles et découvertes archéologiques en Grèce en 1958’. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 83, 567–793. De Juliis, E.M. (ed.) 1984: Gli Ori di Taranto in età ellenistica (Exhibition Catalogue) (Milan). di Cesnola, L.P. 1878: Cyprus: its Ancient Cities, Tombs and Temples (New York). Drougou, S. (ed.) 1991: Hellenistic Pottery from Macedonia (Thessaloniki). Drougou, S. and Kypraiou, E. 2000: Hellenistike Keramike apo te Thessalia (Athens). Eggebrecht, A. (ed.) 1988: Albanien, Schätze aus dem Land der Skipetaren (Exhibition Catalogue) (Mainz). Gorbunova, X. and Saverkina, I. 1975: Greek and Roman Antiquities in the Hermitage (Leningrad). Graepler, D. 1997: Tonﬁguren im Grab: Fundkontexte Hellenistischer Terrakotten aus der Nekropole von Tarant (Munich). Green, J.R. 1995: ‘From Taranto to Alexandria’. In Bourke, S. and Descoeudres, J.-P. (eds.), Trade, Contact, and the Movement of Peoples in the Eastern Mediterranean. Studies in Honour of J. Basil Hennessy (Sydney), 271–74. Greifenhagen, A. 1961: ‘Goldschmuck aus dem Berlin Antiquarium: Verluste im Kunstgutlager Schloß Celle 1946–1947’. Archaologische Anzeiger 76, 81–130. ——. 1975: Schmuckarbeiten in Edelmetall. II Einzelstücke (Berlin). Guzzo, P.G. 1993: Oreﬁcerie dalla Magna Grecia: ornamenti in oro e argento dall’Italia Meridionale tra I’VII ed il I secolo (Taranto/La Colomba). Heilmeyer, W.-D. 1980: ‘Goldschmuck aus Tarent’. Jahrbuch (der Stiftung) Preussischer Kulturbesitz 17, 199–203. ——. 1990: ‘Ori di Taranto a Berolino’. Taras 10, 99–108. Hempel, K.G. 2001: Die Nekropole von Tarant im 2. und 1. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Studien zur materiellen Kultur/La necropoli di Taranto nel II e I sc. ac. Studi sulla cultura materiale (Taranto). Higgins, R.A. 1980: Greek and Roman Jewellery (Berkeley/Los Angeles). Hill, D.K. 1947: ‘Bacchic Erotes at Tarentum’. Hesperia 16, 248–55. Hoﬀmann, A. 2002: Grabritual und Gesellschaft: Gefässformen, Bildthemen und Funktionen unteritalischrotﬁguriger Keramik aus der Nekropole von Tarent (Leidorf ). Hoﬀmann, H. and Davidson, P.F. 1965: Greek Gold. Jewelry from the Age of Alexander (Exhibition Catalogue) (Mainz). Huguenot, C. 2001: ‘Les ‹‹erotes›› volants: recherche sur la signiﬁcation d’un groupe de terres cuites hellénistiques d’Érétrie’. Antike Kunst 44, 92–123. Jackson, M.M. 1999: ‘New evidence for dating a group of Ptolemaic earrings’. Études et Travaux XVIII, 61–86.

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Johnston, A. 1989: ‘The bronze coinage of Metapontum’. In Le Ridder, G. et al. (eds.), KraayMørkholm Essays. Numismatic Studies in Memory of C.M. Kraay and O. Mørkholm (Louvain-la-Neuve), 121–36. ——. 1990: ‘The Coinage of Metapontum’. Numismatic Notes and Monographs Part 3 (New York). Kaninia, E. 1944–1955: ‘Gold wreaths from the necropolis of ancient Rhodes’. Archaiologikon Deltion 49–50 and 131 (in Greek with English summary). Kourouniotis, K. 1890: ‘Taphoi Chamarotoi Eretrias’. Archaiologike Ephemeris, 221–34. Langlotz, E. 1963: Die Kunst der Westgriechen in Sizilien und Unteritalien (Munich). Le Rider, G. (ed.) 1989: Numismatic Studies in Memory of C.M. Kraay and O. Mørkholm (Louvainla-Neuve). Lightfoot, C.S. 1985: ‘Roman double ﬁnger rings’. Jewellery Studies 2 (Gloucester). Lippolis, E. (ed.), 1990 [1997]a: Catalogo del Museo Nazionale Archeologico di Taranto, III, I. Taranto, La necropoli: Aspetti e problemi della documentazione archeologica tra VII e I sec.a.C (Taranto). ——. 1990 [1997]b: ‘La necropoli ellenistica: problemi di classiﬁcazione e cronologia dei materiali’. In Lippolis 1990 [1997]a, 240–41. Lo Porto, G.G. 1974: ‘L’attività archeologica in Puglia’. In Atti Taranto XIV, 337–50. Maksimova, M.I. 1979: Artyukhovskii Kurgan (Leningrad). Marazov, I. (ed.) 1998: Ancient Gold; The Wealth of the Thracians (New York). Marshall, F.H. 1911: Catalogue of Jewellery, Greek, Etruscan and Roman, in the Department of Antiquities, British Museum (London). Masiello, L. 1990 [1997]: ‘La necropoli ellenistica: le oreﬁcerie’. In Lippolis 1990 [1997]a, 319–20. Miller, S.G. 1979: Two Groups of Thessalian Gold. Hellenistic Jewelry from Pelinna (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London), 25–67. ——. 1993: Review of Pfrommer, M. 1990. American Journal of Archaeology 97.3, 580–81. Minns, E.H. 1913: Scythians and Greeks (Cambridge). Munksgaard, E. 1942: ‘The Royal Collection of Coins and Medals. Danish National Museum.’ SNG Copenhagen. My≤liwiec, K. 1993: ‘Tell Atrib 1993’. Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean V, 40–47. My≤liwiec, K. and Abu Senna S., 1995: ‘Polish-Egyptian excavations at Tell Atrib in 1991–1993’. Études et Travaux XVII, 206–40. Nava, M.L. (ed.) 1999: Treasures from the South of Italy. Greeks and Indigenous People in Basilicata (Exhibition Catalogue) (Milan). Ninou, K and Kypraiou, L. (eds.) 1979: Treasures of Ancient Macedonia (Exhibition Catalogue) (Thessaloniki). Ogden, J. 1996: ‘Weight units of Romano-Egyptian gold jewellery’. In Bailey, D.M. (ed.), Archaeological Research in Roman Egypt (Ann Arbor). Oliver, A. Jr 1966: ‘Greek, Roman and Etruscan Jewelry’. Bulletin of the Metropolitan Museum 24.9, 269–84. Ondrejová, I. 1975: Les bijoux antiques du pont Euxin Septentrional (Prague). Özgen, I. and Öztürk, J. 1996: The Lydian Treasure (Istanbul). Perea, A. 2002: ‘The articulated diadems with triangular ends from Iberia: change and persistence’. Revue archéologique 1, 177–81. Petsas, P. 1963: ‘Macedonia’. Archaiologikon Deltion 18, 220–34. Pfeiler-Lippitz, B. 1972: ‘Späthellenistische goldschmiedearbeiten’. Antike Kunst 15, 107–19. Pfrommer, M. 1990: Untersuchungen zur Chronologie früh-und Hochhellenistischen Goldschmucks (Tubingen). Plantzos, D. 1996: ‘Hellenistic cameos: problems of classiﬁcation and chronology’. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies (London) 41, 115–31. ——. 1999: Hellenistic Engraved Gems (Oxford). Platz-Horster, G. 2002: Altes Museum. Ancient Gold Jewellery (Berlin). Prohászka, M. 1995: Reﬂections from the Dead. The Metal Finds from the Pantanello Necropolis at Metaponto (Austin). Puritani, L. 2002: ‘Problemi di classiﬁcazione e di datazione della cosiddetta ‘ceramica di Gnathia’. Archeologia Classica 53.3, 370–403. Reeder, E.D. 1987: ‘The mother of the gods and a Hellenistic bronze matrix’. American Journal of Archaeology 91, 423–40. Reinach, S. 1891: Antiquité Russie Méridionale (Paris).

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Reinsberg, C. 1980: Studien zur hellenistischen Toreutik. Die Antiken Gipsabgüsse aus Memphis (Hildesheim). Rosenthal, R. 1974: Jewelry of the Ancient World (Minneapolis). Samartzidou, S. 1987: Recent ﬁnds from the cemeteries of ancient Amphipolis’. To Archaiologiko Ergon sti Makedonia kai Thrake I, 327–41, 532. Schäfer, H. 1910: Ägyptische Goldschmiedearbeiten (Berlin). Schefold, K. 1934: Untersuchungen zu den Kertscher Vasen (Berlin). Schojer, T. 1984: ‘Orecchini’. In De Juliis 1984, 127–37, 140–92. von Schwarzmaier, A. 1996: ‘Die Gräber in der Grossen Blisniza und ihre Datierung’. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 111, 105–37. Seyrig, H. 1968: ‘Monnaies hellénistiques de Byzance et de Calcédoine’. In Kraay, C.M. and Jenkins, G.K. (eds.), Essays in Greek Coinage Presented to Stanley Robinson (Oxford), 183–200. Touratsoglou, I. 1998: ‘Dated gold: evidence from Hellenistic Macedonia’. In Williams, D. (ed.), The Art of the Greek Goldsmith (London), 30–38. Treister, M.Y. 1996: ‘Essays on the Bronzeworking and Toreutics of the Pontus’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), New Studies on the Black Sea Littoral (Oxford), 75–105. ——. 2001: Hammering Techniques in Greek and Roman Jewellery and Toreutics (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Snodgrass, A.M. (eds.) 2002: Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (Oxford). Tsigarida, B., 1998: ‘Fifth-century BC jewellery from the cemeteries of Pydna, Macedonia’. In Williams, D. (ed.), The Art of the Greek Goldsmith (London), 48–54. Vickers, M. and Nikonanou, A. 1985: ‘Burial objects from a Hellenistic grave in NeapolisThessaloniki’. Makedonia 25, 180–201. Vokotopoulou, J. 1996: Guide to the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki: from the Pre Historic to Christian Times (Athens). von Wilcken, U. 1908: ‘Straßburger Papyrus’. Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete IV (Leipzig). Williams, D. and Ogden, J. 1994: Greek Gold: Jewellery from the Classical World (Exhibition Catalogue) (London). Yalouris, N. (ed.) 1980: The Search for Alexander (Exhibition Catalogue) (Boston). Zahn, R. 1930: ‘Zur hellenistischen Schmuckkunst’. In Schumacher-Festschrift zum 70. Geburtstag Karl Schumacher, 14. Oktober 1930 (Mainz), 202–06. ——. 1932: Ausstellung von Schmuckarbeiten in Edelmetall aus den Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin (Berlin).

THE ORGANISATION OF THE MINT IN CHERSONESUS TAURICA IN THE FIRST HALF OF THE 4TH CENTURY BC1 S.A. KOVALENKO Abstract The present article discusses an issue hitherto not covered well in specialist literature. The emergence of new material and studies of the early coins of Chersonesus (with neither names nor monograms of magistrates on them) in terms of their die-images allow us to investigate how the Chersonesus mint functioned, as well as the methods of control over the minting process used in its early stages, and the amount of production in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC.

Not so long ago, it seemed unreasonable even to pose the problem that is the subject of the present article. The words of V. Anokhin, in his classic work about minting coins in Chersonesus, read like a ﬁnal verdict: ‘The coins themselves do not provide any information concerning this problem [organisation of the mint—S.K.].’2 According to him, ‘apart from some personal names (full or abbreviated, with no titles accompanying them) that had been put on the coins during the entire period of the city’s autonomy, there are hardly any other signs which could give us any information about control over the minting process.’3 This conclusion seemed particularly plausible for coins from the ﬁrst series of minting activity by the city: here even names or monograms are absent. However, two inter-connected circumstances have enabled us to abandon such a pessimistic point of view. First of all, there has been a considerable increase in the numismatic material available for study since the publication of Anokhin’s book; secondly, we now have the results of die-study of the coins in question—in particular, those from the early-non-magistrate—series. These series include silver and bronze coins without names or monograms on them (nos. 1–32 and 177 in Anokhin’s catalogue), dated by him to 390–350 BC.4 In my opinion, minting of them may have started already in the 5th century BC: the sequence of minting and the chronological frame for each series are

1 This article was prepared during my stay in Germany in 2001–2002 as the recipient of a scholarship from the Alexander Humboldt Foundation. Translation from Russian to English by V. Kozlovskaya. 2 Anokhin 1977, 41. 3 Anokhin 1977, 41–42. 4 Anokhin 1977, 134–36.

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diﬀerent from those suggested by Anokhin.5 The coins from these particular series are at the centre of the discussion in the present article. The question of why a polis started to strike its own coinage is the most important determinant of how an ancient mint functioned. To a great extent this determined the scale of minting activities, the number of craftsmen engaged in carving, and the usage of the dies they produced. Particularly important in this context are questions concerning the sources of metals and the choice of the system of weights in accordance with which the minting would be performed. Another very important component of the organisation of the work of a mint is control over the minting process in order to regulate the emission of coins, to examine the amount of metal used for minting and, consequently, of the income acquired by the state from turning metal ingots into coins, as well as to prevent all sorts of misuse of instruments and materials during the minting process. Closely connected is the question of the status of the persons in charge of the process.6 Chersonesus Taurica must have started striking its own coinage at either the very end of the 5th or the beginning of the 4th century BC.7 This quite late date appears to conﬂict both with the hypothesis about the foundation of Chersonesus in the last quarter of the 6th century BC, which has been developed over the last ten years,8 and with the assumption that foreign trade played an important role in the city’s economy.9 However, it must be said that this kind of situation was not unusual or exceptional. The metropolis of Chersonesus—Heracleia Pontica—began minting its own coinage only in the last quarter of the 5th century BC, almost a century and a half after its foundation; another Heracleian colony on the Black Sea littoral—Kallatis—founded at the end of the 6th century BC,10 struck its ﬁrst coins only during the time of Alexander.11 Even more signiﬁcant is the example of Byzantium. This city,

5

Kovalenko 1999a. For a general discussion of the issues concerning the organisation of mints and control over minting in antiquity, see Furtwängler 1982; Martin 1985, 153, 228; Picard 1987; Lorber 1990; Howgego 1990; Figueira 1998, 144–46. 7 Kovalenko 1999a, 114. 8 This hypothesis is most logically and thoroughly presented, including the historiography of the question, in Vinogradov and Zolotarev 1999. 9 For the importance of foreign trade in the economics of Chersonesus at the end of the 5th–beginning of the 4th century BC, see Burstein 1976, 34–35; Kats 1990, 105–07; Shcheglov 1981, 211; Saprykin 1986, 83, 89; Marchenko 1996, 19. The opposite view is presented in Zubar 1993, 46–47. 10 Pippidi 1971, 38. The other dates suggested for the foundation of Kallatis are the 540s BC (Vinogradov and Zolotarev 1999, 123–24) and the beginning of the 4th century BC (Ivantchik 1998, 322, no. 77). 11 Pick 1898, 86. An earlier date for the beginning of minting by Kallatis—around mid-4th century BC—was suggested by Iliescu (1976, 94–95). 6

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with its exceptionally advantageous geographical position, prospered above all thanks to its active foreign trade, and began to mint its own coinage almost 200 years after its foundation.12 There are many further examples of this kind,13 which show that the long-term absence of its own coinage in a polis was not always linked to a city’s weak economic potential, as some have argued.14 Presence of certain ﬁnancial resources was, no doubt, the most important factor for a city in terms of starting minting its own coinage,15 but did not necessarily lead to it. The absence of polis’ own coinage could have been determined by other reasons rather than economic weakness or undeveloped commodity-money relations in the polis.16 Payments could have been made by means of foreign currency, metal ingots, various wares, or credits. Emergence of its own coinage in a polis, on the other hand, could have been determined not only by interests of trade, but also by the necessity for the state to make all kinds of payments, to pay citizens for their participation in governing the state, to carry out military expenses, or just by the desire to increase the state’s budget by means of turning metal into coins, in which taxes were then collected, customs duties were levied, etc. Finally, the desire to have its own coinage could have had a political motivation, coinage being a symbol of political independence of a polis.17 The ﬁrst series of Chersonesian coins included emissions of silver and bronze coins. All the coins had the same types of the obverse and the reverse. On the obverse there was the head of Parthenos18 in a kekryphalos, turned to the left, and on the reverse a ﬁsh was depicted, with a club underneath, and the abbreviated legend of the city (Fig. 1, 1–6). Noteworthy is the fact that the minting of the city’s own coinage started with simultaneous emissions of silver and bronze coins. Some other centres of the Black Sea littoral and the Mediterranean started to strike their own coinage at the end of the 5th century 12

Schönert-Geiss 1970, 3, no. 1. For a list of the Greek poleis which started to mint their own coinage relatively late, see Martin 1995, 275–76. Noticeably, Megara—the pro-metropolis of Chersonesus Taurica and an important trade centre—is on this list as well: it minted its ﬁrst coin only in the 4th century BC (Martin 1995, 276; Paﬀord 2000, 347). According to C. Starr, more than half of the known Greek poleis never struck their own coins (Martin 1995, 270–71). 14 Turovskii 1997, 12–13. 15 Martin 1985, 153, 228. 16 Zubar 1993, 37. 17 Kraay 1989, 206–07; 1976, 50; Crawford 1970, 46; Howgego 1990, 8–15; Martin 1985, 228, 233; 1995, 268–69, 280–81; 1996, 258–59, 279, 281–82; Ashton 2001, 96–97; Trevett 2001, 24. The theory that coinage was a symbol of political independence in Classical Greece has been opposed by Martin (1985, 6–7, especially 219–48; 1995, 227–79; 1996). 18 Parthenos is the name of the divine patroness of the city of Chersonesus, whose cult encompassed features characteristic of both the Greek Artemis and a local goddess of the Taurians (Zhebelev 1953, 244; Babinov 1972, 31–32). Some scholars deny any connection between the cult of Parthenos and the religious tradition of the Taurians claiming that the name of Parthenos is just one of the epithets of Artemis (Rusyaeva 2000, 76). 13

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Fig. 1. Coins from Chersonesus, ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC: 1–4—silver; 5–24—bronze.

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BC in a similar way.19 It must be said that at that time bronze coins were still a relatively new and far from widely spread phenomenon in the economic life of the ancient Greek polis.20 Minting of coins in many Greek cities, which started to strike silver coins already at the end of the 6th–5th century BC, went through a long development process before bronze coins started to be minted along with silver ones. Chersonesus Taurica, however, was striking its coins in two metals from the very beginning. The subsidiary character of bronze coins in comparison with silver ones, as well as a certain conservatism in the minting, were reﬂected in the fact that the typology of the bronze coins was not worked out, so that the depictions on them were literally copying images from the contemporary silver coins.21 The second important feature of the ﬁrst series of the Chersonesian coins, along with the simultaneous emissions of both silver and bronze coins, was the fact that those coins had various denominations. We can speak at present of didrachms, drachms, tetrobols, diobols, hemiobols in silver coins,22 and of three denominations of bronze coins. Simultaneous striking of coins in two metals from the very start, as well as variety in their denominations, suggests that the organisation of the minting process was well-planned, on the one hand, and multifunctional, on the other hand. The decision of the city to start minting its own coinage was one at state level and, most likely, was made by the highest state authority in the polis of Chersonesus—the People’s Assembly.23 It also seems that the choice of the images which would appear on the ﬁrst coins had to be approved by the same body.24 19 Byzantium (Schönert-Geiss 1970, 52–53); federal coinage of Rhodes (Ashton 2001, 90–91), and possibly of Thuria (cf. Price 1968, 94). 20 For the emergence and spread of bronze coinage in antiquity, see Price 1968. 21 For example, for the West Pontic cities, see Stefanova 1984, 30; Topalov 1995, 65; for the South Italian and Sicilian cities, see Lacroix 1979, 285; Rutter 2001, 7. 22 In the recent catalogue of the Chersonesian coins a silver coin from the ﬁrst series was published, identiﬁed by the author as an obol (Shonov 2000, 7, no. 2). Unfortunately, there is no information concerning the weight of the coin, so that its attribution remains uncertain. 23 The People’s Assembly, along with the Council, is mentioned in the Chersonesus’ decrees (IOSPE I2, nos. 340, 344, 356–57, etc.). 24 Evidence for making decisions concerning striking coinage and, in particular, introducing bronze coins, by means of voting in the 5th century BC is preserved in literary sources for the case of Athens (Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae 815–816; Athenaeus XV, 669d). In the Athenian law of 375–374 BC, dealing with coinage, coins of the demosios kind are mentioned, i.e. the ones which were struck with usage of the oﬃcial dies, which had been approved in accordance with an established procedure. These dies were distinguished in the law from the dies with analogous images (most likely, these are imitations of Attic coins, rather common in antiquity), which however had not been approved by the established procedure (Stroud 1974, 159, lines 4–10, 164–165), of which we know nothing in this case. There is also a decree from Gortyna (Crete) of the 3rd century BC, passed by the people’s assembly, dealing with the introduction of bronze coinage into the city’s monetary system (SIG 3 I, 525; Jackson 1971, 37). A decision concerning striking its own coinage as well as images to be put on the coins, was

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A noteworthy fact is the absence of the coins of the smallest denominations (tetartemorions and hemitetartemorions) among the silver coinage—it is quite clear that their functions were to be performed by the bronze coins contemporary with the silver ones. Already in the ﬁrst series there were bronze coins of small denominations (two-thirds of the coins of low value have weight of 0.50–0.75 g). Silver coins of high denominations from the ﬁrst series which were published recently are also of a tremendous interest.25 Data concerning the weights of all the presently known silver coins of small value, starting with tetrobols, suggest that they were struck in accordance with the Persian system of coin weights, which had been adopted by the metropolis of Chersonesus— Heracleia Pontica.26 A unique coin with the weight of 4.40 g, which most likely represented a drachm of the lighter Persian weight, must have belonged to the same system.27 The question of the weight system according to which coins of higher denominations were struck is not that easy to answer. It has been suggested that they represented didrachms on the Chios standard. Three of such coins could have equalled four Aegean drachms of the lighter weight.28 In any case, no matter according to what system these coins were struck, the most important fact is that silver coins of such high denomination were minted at the beginning of the monetary history of Chersonesus, which was unprecedented in the minting activities of other cities of the Black Sea littoral at the last quarter of the 5th-beginning of the 4th century BC.29 It would be quite natural to assume that such kinds of coins were ﬁrst of all meant to be used in foreign trade. If we take into account that Chersonesus did not possess its own silver mines,30 the fact that the polis was striking its own silver coins of high denominations could serve as an indirect proof of the important role played by foreign trade in the economic life of the polis. This assumption however is contradicted by the fact that all presently known silver coins of high denominations come either from Chersonesus itself or from its surroundings;31 besides, at the early stage of striking silver coins this process made by the people’s assembly in Sestos (Thracia), as shown by a decree from about mid2nd century BC honouring the strategos Menas discovered there (OGIS I, no. 339, lines 43–45; von Fritze 1907, 4; cf. also Martin 1995, 267). 25 6.78 g, GIM n.14830 (Grandmezon 1990, ﬁg. 1, 1; Kovalenko 1999a, table I, 13); 6.00 g, location unknown (Shcheglov 1998, 21, no. 2); 4.40 g, private collection (Turovskii 1997, 79, no. 1); 8.58 g, private collection (Turovskii 1997, 85, no. 1). 26 Anokhin 1977, 34; tetrobol—3.55 g; diobols—1.68–2.11 g; hemiobols—0.43 g, 0.50 g. 27 Kovalenko 1999a, 115. 28 Kovalenko 1999a, 115. 29 The Panticapaean didrachms from the third quarter-end of the 5th century BC are now considered forgeries (Frolova 1996, 60–61). There is no agreement about whether the staters of Eminakos belonged to the city coinage of Olbia (Anokhin 1989, 15–17). 30 For Thrace as a possible source of silver for the early Chersonesian coinage, see Semkalova 2001, 111; for the absence of nonferrous metals on the Crimean Peninsula and of their possible import from other places, see Kadeev 1970, 41–43; Zubar 1993, 38–39. 31 Turovskii 1997, 6; Shcheglov 1998.

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went on a rather low scale. Silver coins of high denominations, as well as drachms and tetrobols, are represented by single examples. To date only ten diobols and four hemiobols are known. Most of the diobols show traces of having been in circulation for a long period of time. All eight coins of this denomination, whose state of preservation allowed secure identiﬁcation of the dies, were made with the same diverse die (Fig. 1, 3). Three diﬀerent dies were used for their reverses. This data shows that the chances of new, unknown obverse dies for the obverse to be discovered are very low in the case of the diobols.32 In the case of the hemiobols two diﬀerent dies for the obverse and two diﬀerent dies for the reverse were used. Stylistic peculiarities of the images on the silver coins of all denominations in the ﬁrst series suggest that all dies were carved by the same craftsman. The small number of preserved silver coins from the early series and of the dies used for their striking both point out that at the initial stage of minting its own coinage the city was limited in means.33 The fact, however, that the coins were nevertheless minted, and a large number of coins of various denominations, including some rather high ones, was struck, might have had to do with some unknown political circumstances under which it was necessary for Chersonesus to have its own coinage. It is possible that the fact of striking of coinage of high denomination was meant to make some sort of statement or had to do with the necessity to make some large payments. The fact that silver coins of smaller values were struck, followed by emissions of bronze coins, shows, on the other hand, that from the very beginning the needs of the inner market were to a great extent stimulating the emergence of the city’s own coinage.34 At the same time, the number of minted bronze coins was much larger than the number of the contemporary silver coins. Bronze coins of higher denominations were struck with six obverse and eight reverse dies; nine obverse and eleven reverse dies were used for striking of coins of lower denominations.35

32 For diﬀerent methods used for calculation of the initial number of dies, see Esty 1986; the most convenient and precise method, however, appears the one suggested by Carter (1983). 33 As one of the most important expenses accompanying the opening of a mint, according to Martin, is purchasing metal for striking coinage (Martin 1985, 153). 34 Interestingly, a similar situation existed at about the same time in Byzantium: the number of silver coins of smaller denominations struck there noticeably exceeded the number of drachms and tetradrachms, which could point to the inner market as the primary one for whose needs the coinage was struck. This, however, would be hard to explain, taking into account Byzantium’s well-developed foreign trade network (Schönert-Geiss 1970, 12, no. 9). 35 The low index-ﬁgure (which is the number of preserved coins struck with every known die for the obverse) for the bronze coins of the ﬁrst series (1.66 for the coins of higher denominations—with weights from 3.20 to 4.00 g—and 1.11 for the coins of lower denominations) points to a considerably larger number of dies which were initially used for striking of these coins. There is only one known coin of medium denomination, which is very badly preserved (GChMZ no. 2794).

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While all the dies, both obverse and reverse ones, used for striking of silver coins were carved by a professional, the dies used for striking of bronze coins must have been made by craftsmen whose qualiﬁcation was much lower. This can be seen, in particular, in the images depicted on the obverse and reverse of some coins of smaller values. The head of Parthenos on them looks very schematic, has a disproportionately large nose and chin, the image and the legend on the reverse are struck retrograde (Fig. 1, 6). All the dies for the obverse of the coins of the higher denominations were carved rather professionally, however, the quality of some dies used for the reverse side leads us to think that their carving was performed by less skilled craftsmen, who were not always able to place the image into the circle of the coin correctly or to carve the image itself properly (Fig. 1, 5). Such facts show that at the initial stage of its existence the mint of Chersonesus could have not had its own professional die carvers and the city had to invite them from somewhere else, in order to manufacture, ﬁrst of all, dies used for striking of silver coins, as well as dies used for the obverse of bronze coins of higher, medium, and, partially, lower denominations. Local craftsmen, however, were trusted with carving of dies for the reverse of bronze coins of the higher values and for both sides of bronze coins of lower values. The fact that some less skilled craftsmen were taking part in the carving of the dies, in this case, may have been due to the large number of struck coins and to the high speed of the process, so that hired professionals could not have handled carving of all the dies by themselves, or, what is more likely, taking into account the insigniﬁcant number of the known coins of the ﬁrst series and of the dies used to strike those coins, due to the limited ﬁnancial resources of the polis and its inability to pay for long-term engagement of expensive professionals. The last assumption is supported by the fact that after having minted the ﬁrst series of silver coins, Chersonesus struck no silver coins for at least 20 years,36 only minting bronze coins of various denominations, which indicated active development of the inner market of the polis. The minting of bronze coins increased progressively. For the striking of the second series of bronze coins, which included coins of only one denomination (the majority of them weighed between 1.00 g and 1.50 g), 28 dies for the obverse and 26 for the reverse were used. The circular blanks for coins of this series were manufactured by means of casting, which is indicated by 36 The next series of silver coins which included coins of three denominations united by the depiction of Parthenos’ head on the obverse (Anokhin 1977, nos. 23–25) was struck only in the ﬁrst half of the 370s BC (Kovalenko 1999a, 123–26). The number of coins struck in this series was also rather low: only ﬁve examples of coins of the higher denomination are known (for the manufacture of which diﬀerent pairs of dies were used), three examples of coins of the medium denomination (for two of which the same pair of dies was used), and ﬁve examples of coins of the lower denomination.

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the traces of this process on some of them. However, after casting, the borders of the circular blanks were usually ﬁled or ground in order to remove the traces of the casting, which indicates that the quality of minted coins was considered of importance. The images on the reverse of these coins repeated the images on the reverse of the coins of the ﬁrst series; on the obverse of the new coins a bucranium was depicted.37 In the second series there were two emissions of coins, which were minted within a rather short period of time. On the coins of the ﬁrst emission, the image on the reverse (ﬁsh, club) is characteristically turned to the right, just like on the reverse of the coins of the ﬁrst series. It is noteworthy that the positioning of the images in relation to each other is very unstable, as well as the positioning of the legend, which could be placed either under the image or above it (Fig. 1, 7–8). The second emission is characterised by the invariable turn of the image on the reverse of the coin to the left, and by the location of the legend underneath it (Fig. 1, 9–11). Stylistic idiosyncrasies of the images on the dies used for striking of the coins of the second series lead us to the assumption that no less than four craftsmen were involved in every stage of their production, each of whom must have been working on both the dies used for the obverse of the coins and the ones used for their reverse. A detailed description of the personal artistic style of each craftsman is unnecessary here: from the major variants of the images on the obverse of the coins at Fig. 1, 7–10, the work of diﬀerent craftsmen can be identiﬁed. The number of coins in the ﬁrst emission was very small—only seven dies used for the obverse of the coins and six for their reverse sides are known. The majority of the coins in this series belong to the second emission, where three of the craftsmen, involved in the production of the ﬁrst emission of coins, were also actively working on the dies for the second emission, which indicates that the whole series was produced within a short period of time. Along with the old craftsmen, one new artisan was taking part in the production of dies for the coins of the second emission (Fig. 1, 11). Analysis of the die-links for the coins of the second series revealed certain features characteristic of the dies used for the manufacturing of those coins. Thus, dies of each type (i.e. made by one and the same craftsman) used for the obverse of the coins, were used only in combination with certain particular dies for the reverse. There are no die-links between the dies used for the obverse of the coins made by diﬀerent craftsmen. This fact can indicate that dies (both for the obverse and for the reverse of the coins) produced by diﬀerent craftsmen were kept and used separately, which points to the exis-

37

Anokhin 1977, nos. 9–12.

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tence of several anvils which were used simultaneously for production of the coins from the series in question. The lack of any notable stylistic development of the images on the obverse of the coins, as well as the participation of the same craftsmen in production of the dies for both the ﬁrst and the second emissions of the series under discussion, argue against the assumption that the sets of dies might have been used not simultaneously but rather one after another and that considerable time passed between the period of usage of each of them and the next one. The next series of coins minted in Chersonesus consists of bronze coins with a depiction of the head of a lion on the obverse and a star on the reverse.38 This series is the largest one among the series of coins minted by the city in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC—it includes six consecutive emissions, for the minting of which 35 dies for the obverse and 57 dies for the reverse of the coins were used. Every emission of the series in question diﬀers from the others either by the turn of the lion’s head on the obverse or by details of the image on the reverse. Analysis of the images on the coins of these emissions leads to the conclusion that such diﬀerences were not a coincidence. For each emission a particular set of dies for the obverse and for the reverse was used; no dielinks between the coins of diﬀerent emissions have been established so far, while all the coins within one and the same emission are closely connected with each other through the common dies used for the obverse or the reverse, which shows that most of the dies used for each emission must have been used simultaneously. Coins of the ﬁrst emission had on their obverse a depiction of the lion’s head turned to the left, and a star with six rays on the reverse. This is the only emission with the depiction of the lion’s head turned to the left. Initially, there were no letters between the rays of the star, but later on, letters X, XE, XER were placed there consecutively (Fig. 1, 12). Starting from the second emission, the head of the lion on the obverse was always turned to the right. On the reverse, either a ﬁve-ray star with no letters between the rays, or a six-ray star with the letters XE was depicted (Fig. 1, 13). Coins of the third emission have a depiction of a ﬁve- or six-ray star on the obverse, with the legend XER (Fig. 1, 14); coins of the fourth emission display a six-ray star with the legend XER and three dots in relief between the rays (Fig. 1, 15); coins of the ﬁfth emission have a six-ray star, the legend XER and the letter P between the rays (Fig. 1, 16); coins of the sixth

38 Anokhin 1977, nos. 27–32; for the dating of this series and its place in the history of Chersonesus’ coinage, see Kovalenko 1999a, 117–23.

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emission have a ﬁve-ray star, the legend XER, the letter P and a small additional ray (Fig. 1, 17), and sometimes a ten- or twelve-ray star with no legend (Fig. 1, 18). Since the coins of this series all have the same denomination, the diﬀerences between the images on their reverses have nothing to do with the diﬀerences in their values and can be most likely explained by the intention to indicate diﬀerent issues of the same series, which included a large number of coins struck within a short period of time. The intensity of the minting process can be indicated, apart from the large number of both dies and preserved coins (about 240 coins as for today), by the sloppy manufacturing of coin ﬂans, many of which show traces of the casting process, as well as the inclusion of a signiﬁcant amount of lead in the alloy used for the coinage,39 obviously with the purpose of making the casting process easier and diminishing the costs of acquiring metals for the minting. This method used by coin manufacturers in Chersonesus for diﬀerentiation between the consecutive emissions of the same series of coins, obviously came into existence because it was necessary to keep under control the amount of both the minted coins and the metals used for the process. It was also linked to the consciously increasing complexity of the images depicted on the coins by adding more and more new details. Another important element of this system of control, according to the results of the analysis of the die-links, was the use of entirely new sets of dies for the obverse and for the reverses of the coins of each consecutive emission. Despite the fact that the obverse of the coins of the ﬁve emissions in this series shows the lion’s head turned to the right, there is no evidence that the same die was used for the obverse of the coins in any two emissions in the series. Based on the relation of the number of the known dies to the number of the preserved coins, there is hardly a chance that new dies or die-links will be discovered.40 Most likely, after each emission of coins, all dies used in the process were taken out of use or simply destroyed. Then a new set of dies needed for the next emission was cut. Such a system was probably designed to prevent possible misuse of dies. Use of similar methods of control can be traced in the monetary productions of other Greek cities in the Classical period. The nearest to Chersonesus in terms of its location was Panticapaeum. Panticapaean emissions of silver coins from the end of the 6th through the 5th century BC have been attract-

39

Smekalova 2001, 113. For the ﬁrst issue this relation, i.e. index ﬁgure, equals 9 (3 dies used for the obverse of the coins and 27 coins); for the second issue the number is 4.83 (6 and 29 respectively); for the third issue it is 6.66 (6 and 40 respectively); for the fourth issue it is 3.37 (8 and 27); for the ﬁfth issue it is 3.5 (4 and 140); for the sixth issue it is 5.25 (8 and 42). 40

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ing the attention of scholars for a long time, so that their typology and chronology are very well worked out by now. They also belong to the initial phase of the development of minting at Panticapaeum.41 A catalogue of Panticapaean silver coins from that time period was published recently, accompanied by an analysis of dies used for their minting.42 The obverse of the coins of all denominations (except for the tetartemoria) is the same during the entire period under discussion—it is the muzzle, or less often the skin, of a lion, en face. One can talk about a certain evolution of this image during the time period in question, from a rather primitive, archaic depiction, to a more realistic, mature one.43 Such changes are fully in accordance with the development of Greek art during that period. Much more interesting for us are those changes which are demonstrated by the images on the reverse of the Panticapaean coins and which, along with the stylistic development of the images on the obverse, were very reasonably used by scholars as the most important criteria for determining the order of the consecutive emissions.44 However, it seems that these changes (apart from a few exceptions) can not be viewed simply in terms of evolution of the images and should not be understood just as an increasing complexity of the coin type, indicating only the improving skills of the craftsmen working at the mint or the progress of the minting technique. We should be talking here about a well thought through, logical system of strict control over the emissions of coins, about the necessity to easily diﬀerentiate them from one another, dictated by the scale of the emissions, by their number, by the development of the minting itself in the polis. As shown by the Panticapaean minting, the development of such a system in our case also went from the simple to the complex. Coins of the ﬁrst emissions with the simple quadratum incusum on their reverse are followed by coins of the later emissions with two, and then with four relief dots in the corners of a concave quadrate. Later on, dots are replaced by stars, at ﬁrst with four rays, and then with eight rays; the city legend consists at ﬁrst of two letters, then of three, and ﬁnally of ﬁve.45 Analysis of the die-links undertaken by N. Frolova shows that diﬀerent sets of dies for both the obverse and the reverse were used for coins of the same denominations belonging to diﬀerent emissions. Despite the fact that diobols were being minted in the course of eight consecutive emissions (types 7–15, according to Frolova), and hemiobols—in the course of nine consecutive emissions (types 1–9), not once was one and the same die used for minting of the

41 42 43 44 45

See, for example, Zograf 1951, 164; Shelov 1956, 13–77; Anokhin 1986, 5–30. Frolova 1996. Shelov 1956, 18–19. Shelov 1956, 20–24. Frolova 1996, 51–52.

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obverse of coins belonging to diﬀerent emissions. This fact indicates that after minting was ﬁnished these dies were no longer kept at the mint, but were intentionally taken out of use, and most likely destroyed. Minting in Byzantium which started at the end of the 5th century BC also had a homogeneous character—the obverse of silver coins of all denominations displayed the same image of a cow turned to the left and standing on a dolphin; the reverse showed a quadratum incusum. Only hemiobols had the cow’s head turned to the left on their obverse.46 The ﬁrst coins of Byzantium, minted in accordance with the Persian system, unlike later emissions using the Rhodian system of weights, had no monograms on them. Small additional symbols, found on the coins of some emissions following the Persian system of weights, served the purpose of control over the quality of minting and of preventing the manufacture of fake coins that are noted to have appeared at that time.47 Recognising the order of the emission of silver coins minted in accordance with the Persian system of weights is based exclusively on analysis of the stylistic changes in the images on the obverse and on the reverse of the coins which took place during the course of minting, since no die-links were established for the majority of the coins.48 It should be noted however that a signiﬁcant number of dies were used for the obverse and for the reverse of the coins during a short period of time while coins of this standard were being minted.49 Most of the dies, however, are only represented by single coins. This fact suggests not just that we might know only a small amount of Byzantium’s coins;50 it might also be a consequence of the chosen method of control over the amount of minted coinage which was used here before the marking of the emissions by monograms (as on the coins minted in accordance with the Rhodian system of weights) was introduced. This method consisted of using of only one set of dies for the reverse and for the obverse of the coins in each emission; after the needed 46

Schönert-Geiss 1970, Taf. 1–26. Schönert-Geiss 1970, Taf. 24. 48 Schönert-Geiss 1970, Taf. 13. For example, for 235 drachms minted in accordance with the Persian system of weights, only 9 die-links through the reverse of the coins have been established; for 360 hemidrachms this number is even smaller—only 7; none has been established for hemiobols and one-and-a-half-obols. On the account of the fact that number of the produced dies was usually higher for the reverse than for the obverse, there are by far more known cases of usage of the same die for the reverse in combination with two or more diﬀerent dies for the obverse. Here we can see a direct connection between the number of found coins of a certain type and the number of such die-links: 19 for drachms, 41 for hemidrachms, 4 for one-and-a-half-obols, and even for hemiobols (there only 7 of them known as for today) there is one die-link of the sort mentioned above. 49 Schönert-Geiss (1970, 38) dated this emission of coins of the Persian type to 411–387/386 BC. For drachms minted in accordance with the Persian system of weights she counted 210 dies used of the obverse and 226 dies used for the reverse; for hemidrachms, the numbers are respectively 312 and 352 (Schönert-Geiss 1970, 10). 50 Schönert-Geiss 1970. 47

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number of coins had been minted, the set was destroyed, and it did not matter whether the dies were worn-out or not. The manufacture of new dies at the mint in Byzantium was made easier and was speeded up by applying the so-called hubbing technique, whereby the necessary number of dies was simply produced with the help of one relief matrix-die.51 W. Wallace pointed out that dies were destroyed after each emission of silver coins by the Euboean League at the end of the 5th century BC.52 He also noted that when drachms of the same type were minted for diﬀerent series, one and the same die for the obverse was never used in more than one series.53 In Athens, the dies not in use were subject to special control and are mentioned in the treasurers’ accounts of the Parthenon, along with expensive vessels and coins kept there.54 The special attention paid by the authorities to the use of dies is indicated, for example, by the practice of marking every die, used for the obverse or for the reverse, by a single letter, as it was the case at the mint in Poseidonia (Lucania) at the last quarter of the 5th century BC. The order in which dies were put into use corresponded in this case with the sequence of the letter signs on them.55 A complex system of letter signs, numbers, and various symbols, which had to do with the process of control over the use of dies, and, according to M. Crawford, was partly borrowed from the monetary system of the Ptolemaic Egypt, was applied at the mint of the Roman Republic from the 3rd century BC on.56 Finally, the so-called multi-type emissions of Kyzikos, Mytilene, Phokaia, and Lampsakos have to be mentioned,57 where the type of the obverse die was changed annually, followed by the introduction of a new die for the reverse. A. Furtwängler convincingly proved that those monetary types can not be identiﬁed with personal emblems of the magistrates in charge of the minting.58 It is most likely that in this case each new type of die for the obverse was also used to mark a new emission. 51

Schönert-Geiss 1970, 49–50. Wallace 1956, 115. 53 Wallace 1956, 116. According to Wallace, this can be explained by the fact that minting did not go on uninterrupted and that long periods of time passed between minting of diﬀerent series. 54 Melville-Jones 1993, nos. 169–70, 174–75, 185–86. 55 Noe 1952, 10–12. 56 Crawford 1974, 584, no. 2; 585–89. See also Burnett 1977, 119. For the argument against the interpretation of letter signs as the numbers of the dies on the coins of Arsinoe II minted after her death, see Troxell 1983, 37–40. 57 For Kyzikos, see von Fritze 1912; for Phokaia and Mytilene, see Bodenstedt 1981; for Lampsakos, see Baldwin 1924. 58 Furtwängler 1981, 20–22. 52

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Some emissions of the Chersonesus’ bronze coins of the ‘lion-star’ series have on their reverse, apart from the city legend, some additional signs or letters, which have not been yet satisfactorily explained. On the coins of the fourth emission, for example, three dots in relief are placed between the rays of the star; on the coins of the ﬁfth emission there is the letter P; on the coins of the sixth emission we can see the same letter and a small additional ray. Anokhin associated the letter P with the name of a magistrate, attributing the minting of this series to the period when putting a reference to magistrates’ names on coins became a part of the monetary production in Chersonesus.59 N. Grandmezon associated the letter P with the beginning letter of the word polis.60 The assumption, mentioned above, that the changes in the design of the reverse of the coins were determined, ﬁrst of all, by the necessity to diﬀerentiate the consecutive emissions from one another, allows a new interpretation of additional symbols and letters of the kind described above. In this case they could have a numeric meaning. The emission with the letters XER and three dots on the reverse of the coins was minted after the emission of the coins which only had the legend XE on their reverse.61 If we take into account that there were two earlier emissions with an abbreviated name of the city represented on the coins by one or two letters, then the emission in question would be the fourth in the sequence, which was expressed on the reverse of the coins by the combination of the legend characteristic for the coins of the previous emission with three (and not one or two) dots. On the coins of the next—ﬁfth—emission, the letter P appears next to the legend. It can be associated with the initial letter of the word pente (ﬁve). Its random positioning on the coin, with no relation to the city legend, indicates that there was no connection between the word polis and the letter P, which could be placed before or after the letters XER, or sometimes even upside down in relation to them. On the coins of the sixth emission, a small line appears next to the letter P, also made look like a ray in terms of its shape. However, its function was diﬀerent, because it was much smaller than other rays and it was placed in a certain relation to the letter P—always to the right of it. On account of this, it can be suggested that this line represented number 1, thereby making its combination with P into ‘six’ and in that way marking the number of the 59 Anokhin 1977, 21; recently, a similar opinion was expressed by Smekalova (2001, 114); she however completely ignored the logic of the development of Chersonesus’ coinage in the 4th century BC. 60 Grandmezon 1982, 35. 61 Evolution of the depiction of the city legend on these coins, in particular, is an important criterion determining the order of the emissions in the series under discussion. It seems logical to assume that the legend gradually became longer—from one letter it went to two and then to three, i.e. to the form which then remained in the monetary production of Chersoneus for centuries.

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emission. Thus, the number here was presented in accordance with the socalled acrophonic system, common for writing numbers in inscriptions on stone and on ceramics.62 If this interpretation is correct, it is not clear why this particular system was used for writing numbers on Chersonesus’ coins, since the most common way of diﬀerentiating emissions in Greek numismatics was use of the letters of Greek alphabet,63 or ‘letter-labels’, as M. Tod called them.64 Moreover, this particular letter system was used later in Chersonesus itself for the large emission of coins with a representation of a quadriga on the obverse and of a hoplite on the reverse.65 It is possible that here we are dealing with an experiment, which would be characteristic for an early stage of the development of minting in a city, when attempts were being made to ﬁnd both an adequate way of control over the emissions of coins and means of diﬀerentiating emissions from each other. It must be noted, however, that along with the alphabet and the letter-labels, the acrophonic system was also used in Greek numismatics for representing digits and numbers. On the bronze coins from Centuripe and Catana with the weight of 10 ounces, the value was represented by the letter D (10); the letter P (5) was placed on coins from Catana, Rhegium, and on the coins of the Mamertines, all with the value of 5 ounces.66 The symbol on a silver coin from Argos, published by K. Regling, was interpreted by the author as representing the coin’s value of 5 chalkoi.67 Two more series of Chersonesus’ bronze coins from the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC, to a certain extent, reﬂect the same process. The ﬁrst series consists of coins of two denominations. Coins of the larger denomination (with weights mostly between 2.00 g and 2.50 g) have a depiction of Parthenos’ head in a laurel crown on the obverse and of a club in a wreath on the reverse. Coins of the smaller denomination (with weights between 1.00–1.40 g) have a depiction of a crater surrounded by a dotted rim on their obverse, and also a club with a wreath on their reverse.68 Two emissions of this series are known. Typologically homogeneous, they clearly diﬀer from one another by the turn of the head of the goddess and by the positioning of the club. On the coins of the larger denominations of the ﬁrst emission the head of Parthenos is turned to the left, and the club on the reverse is depicted vertically (Fig. 1, 19). Coins of the second emission have on their obverse the 62

Johnston 1979, 27–30; Tod 1911–1912; 1926–1927; 1940. For example, see Kraay 1976, 8—for Zankle; Barron 1966, 59–61—for Samos; Williams 1992, 16—for Velia; Noe 1935—for Thurii; etc. 64 Tod 1954, 1. 65 Anokhin 1977, nos. 39–56. 66 Babelon 1901, 457. 67 Tod 1946, 57, no. 11; another similar coin is in Winterthur (Grangjean 1998, 35). 68 Anokhin 1977, nos. 13–15, 19–20. For the dating of this series to the beginning of the second quarter of the 4th century BC, see Kovalenko 1999a, 127. 63

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head of Parthenos turned to the right, and the club is shown horizontally (Fig. 1, 20). On coins of the smaller denominations of the ﬁrst emission the club is turned downwards, on those of the second emission it is turned upwards (Fig. 1, 21–22). For minting of the coins of the larger denominations 22 dies for the obverse and 27 dies for the reverse were used; minting of the coins of the smaller denomination went on a smaller scale—8 dies for the obverse and 10 dies for the reverse are known so far. A particular turn of the head of the goddess corresponds only to a particular positioning of the club in the crown, which allows us securely to view these details in the design of the coins of the series under discussion as features used for diﬀerentiating the emissions from one another. Stylistic diﬀerences in the depiction of the crater on the obverse of the coins with the smaller denominations indicate that the two same craftsmen took part in manufacturing of the dies for the obverse of the coins for both the ﬁrst and the second emissions (Fig. 1, 21–22). Another series consisting of two typologically homogeneous emissions includes coins with an image of a dolphin on their obverse, and with an image of a club on their reverse.69 In this case, the feature diﬀerentiating one emission from the other is the turn of the horizontally depicted club. On the coins of the ﬁrst emission it is turned to the left, and on the coins of the second emission it is turned to the right (Fig. 1, 23–24). Thus, the series of coins of Chersonesus discussed above, despite the fact that there are no names or monograms on them, nevertheless have several features which allow us to assume that there was control over the minting process in Chersonesus. It seems that the major purpose of that control was regulating the amounts of minted coinage. In this context, the fact that the city struck mostly bronze coinage, which had a conventional value, was of the foremost importance. On the one hand, it was very advantageous for the state, since it allowed the state to gain a considerable proﬁt while turning the inexpensive alloy into coinage;70 on the other hand, it had a danger of rapid devaluation of the coinage whenever the amount of minted coins exceeded the needs of the market. Of a considerable importance was probably also the fact that Chersonesus did not possess its own sources of metals suitable for minting coins, which made it necessary to acquire those metals from outside, followed by strict control over their later use.71 69

Anokhin 1977, nos. 21–22. For the advantages of minting of the coinage with a conventional value, see Price 1968, 91. The decree honouring Menas from Thracian Sestos (second half of the 2nd century BC) directly points to the intention to get some proﬁt as the main reason for minting its own bronze coinage by a city (OGIS 339, lines 45–46; cf. Melville-Jones 1972, 39; Martin 1985, 239–40; 1996, 263–64; Howgego 1990, 18). 71 While copper was cheap, tin was a rather expensive metal during the Classical period (a 70

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The methods of control were simple and eﬀective. There was a strict control over the use of dies, which were simply destroyed after the minting of coins of a particular emission was ﬁnished. In the absence of the hubbing technique, the manufacturing of new dies was made easier by reproducing the same types of the obverse and reverse images, with some unimportant but easily noticeable changes in them. Thus, two goals were achieved, both very important for mass production of coins: new dies were manufactured rapidly and consecutive emissions were easily recognisable. The mints of other Greek cities also used similar methods of organisation of the minting process during the Late Classical period. Thasos, for example, for almost a century starting in the 390s BC, minted bronze coins of several denominations with identical images on the obverse and the reverse of the coins—the head of Heracles on the obverse and a bow and a club on the reverse.72 The means of diﬀerentiating between consecutive emissions of the same type in this case was the way in which the ethnikon was represented (in one or in two lines, in retrograde or in the normal position) and its positioning on the reverse (under the club and the bow or between them) in combination with some small additional symbols, placed inside the bow and reappearing on coins of diﬀerent emissions.73 Of the same signiﬁcance was the depiction of Heracles’ head: with beard or without, and turned to diﬀerent sides.74 Annual emissions of tetradrachms by Amphipolis in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC with a depiction of Apollo’s head en face on the obverse, were marked, according to L. Lorber, by means of intentional variations in representation of the god’s head, with additional usage of symbols or control marks, the meaning of which remains unclear.75 A similar system was used for the early (ﬁrst decades of the 4th century BC) silver drachms in Larissa, with a depiction of the head of the city nymph en face on the obverse. Combinations of diﬀerent modiﬁcations of one and the same image on the obverse and variations of the reverse allowed the diﬀerentiation of emissions from each other, between which there are hardly any die-links. Apart from that, another way of control over minting in Larissa was the variety in size of the portrait on the reverse—no die-links have been

talant of copper cost 35 drachms in Athens at the end of the 5th century BC, a talant of tin—230 drachms) (IG I2, 371; Treister 1996, 248). Thus, it is probably not a coincidence that for the minting of the most numerous series of the early Chersonesus’s bronze coinage (‘lion’s head—star’) lead was used instead of the expensive tin (Smekalova 2001, 113; lead cost from 1.5 to 3 drachms for a talent: Treister 1996, 250–51). 72 Picard 1987. 73 Picard 1987, 9, 11. 74 Picard 1987, 12. 75 Lorber 1990, 19, 107.

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found between the coins with large images and the coins with small images belonging to the same group.76 At the end of the 5th–beginning of the 4th century BC, the Macedonian city of Dion minted two emissions of small bronze coins (with the weight between 2 g and 3 g) with a depiction of Zeus’ head on the obverse and Demeter sitting on her throne on the reverse. The major diﬀerence between the two emissions was in the way the images were turned. On the coins of the ﬁrst emission Zeus’ head turned to the right always corresponded to Demeter’s head turned to the left; on the coins of the second emission the head of Zeus turned to the left was always accompanied by the depiction of Demeter with her head turned to the right.77 Emissions of bronze coins of the same type, with the diﬀerence only in the way the image on the obverse was turned, were minted in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC in Mesambria,78 and in the last quarter of the 5th century BC in Leontinoi, with no die-links between the coins of diﬀerent series.79 We do not know for how long minting of coins for each of the early emissions in Chersonesus usually continued. Even if we assume that minting of each emission lasted for about a year (as for example could be the case with coins of the type ‘quadriga-hoplite’)80 and take into consideration that the high date for the non-magistrate emissions was the 360s BC,81 the entire time of non-stop minting within the period of almost half a century would be no more than 20 years.82 This indicates, ﬁrst of all, that the work of the Chersonesus mint in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC was not carried on without interruption. Thus, the mint was not working continuously but opened only when

76 77 78 79 80

Lorber 1992, 260–62. Demetriadi 1998, 115–17, pl. 28. Karayotov 1994, 19; Topalov 1995, 66–67, 73. Boehringer 1979, 146, 151. Anokhin 1977, 44; Turovskii 1997, 14. For the argument against it, see Kovalenko 1999b,

205. 81

For the high date for those emissions, see Kovalenko 1999a, 128–29. By now, 19 emissions of coins have been relatively securely attributed to the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC: 1. Silver and bronze coins of the type ‘Parthenos’ head—ﬁsh, club’ (Anokhin 1–7); 2–3. Two emissions of the series of the type ‘bull’s head—ﬁsh, club’ (Anokhin 9–12); 4–9. Six emissions of the series of the type ‘lion’s head—star’ (Anokhin 26–32); 10–11. Two emissions of the series ‘Parthenos’ head in a laurel crown—club in a wreath’ with the coins of smaller denominations of the type ‘crater—club in a wreath’ (Anokhin 13–15, 19–20); 12–13. Two emissions of the series ‘dolphin—club’ (Anokhin 21–22); 14. Emission of the type ‘Parthenos’ head—dolphin’ (Anokhin 17–18); 15. Emission of silver coins of three denominations with Parthenos’ head en face on the obverse (Anokhin 23–25); 16. Emission of the type ‘Parthenos’ head in a tower-crown—dolphin, club’ (Anokhin 16); 17. Emission of the type ‘sitting Parthenos—butting bull’ (Anokhin 8); 18. Emission of the type ‘Parthenos’ head in a crown—lion’s scalp’ (Anokhin 26); 19. Emission of the type ‘eagle—goat’ (Anokhin 177). It is also possible that the real number of the emissions was even smaller since some of the coins mentioned above could have represented diﬀerent denominations of the same emission. 82

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there was a need to mint the next emission of coins. In that case, both the craftsmen cutting dies and the other personnel could have been contract workers.83 Naturally, therefore, it would have unnecessary to have special permanent magistrates in charge of the minting. General questions, to do with buying metals for minting, allocating funds for hiring the workmen, and determining the amount of coinage needed to be minted, were in the jurisdiction of the highest ﬁnancial institution in the city or of the persons in charge of making decisions concerning these questions and other aspects of ﬁnancial life of the city.84 The direct control over the work of craftsmen involved in the cutting of dies and minting of coinage as well as over the quality of the alloy used for minting, and over the weights of the coins which had to be in accordance with the metrological norms, etc., could be performed by someone with the actual technical experience needed for that kind of activity—jeweller, smith, craftsman; not necessarily someone of high social status.85 The introduction of the practice of placing magistrates’ names on the coins, ﬁrst in an abbreviated form, and later in the full one, could be connected with the opening of a permanently functioning mint at the mid-4th century BC and with the introduction of new methods of control over the minting of coins. Thus, this analysis of the early non-magistrate coinage in Chersonesus Taurica allows us to come to the following conclusions in terms of the organisation of its mint in the ﬁrst half of the 4th century BC. At that time the mint most likely functioned from time to time, its work determined by the requirements of each particular emission. Based on those requirements, appropriate specialists were hired as contract workers to perform certain tasks. At the beginning, not only local craftsmen but also artisans from other places were invited to manufacture dies. For emissions of large amounts of coins more than one anvil could have been employed at a time, each anvil having

83 Cf. Milne 1939, 67–68; in the treasurers’ report of the Delphic Amphiktionia concerning organisation of the minting of Amphiktiony’s own coinage in 338–333 BC (Kinns 1983), payment to the mint master Dexius, for example, is mentioned specially (CID II, 75, col. I, 53). The Athenian monetary decree of 375–374 BC mentions payment to the mint workers out of the state’s treasury (Stroud 1974, 159, lines 54–55, 184). 84 Furtwängler 1982, 7, 13–18; Chersonesus’ inscriptions of the 3rd–1st centuries BC mention dioiketes, ‘the head of the government’, who, together with the Collegium of Nomophylakes, submitted to the Council and to the people’s assembly bills and drafts of decrees for consideration (IOSPE I2, nos. 343, 347, 349, 351). However, the primary duties of that person were in the sphere of ﬁnances—he was in charge of the state’s income and expenses (RE 1903, cols. 786–88). To ﬁll in the position of this magistrate, the person had to be elected; then one stayed in the position for at least one year (RE 1903, col. 789). It can be suggested that these magistrates, along with their other duties, also performed the necessary control over the minting of coinage at the beginning stage of the existence of Chersonesus’ mint (see also FischerBossert 1999, 404). 85 Furtwängler 1982, 13; Milne 1939, 67.

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its own set of dies for the obverse and for the reverse. The minting of its own coinage by Chersonesus was meant, ﬁrst of all, to satisfy the needs of the internal market. This, along with the absence of its own sources of silver, and probably with the fact that means for acquiring metal abroad were limited, made it necessary that great quantities of small bronze coins were minted. Such coins had a conventional value, and their minting, on the one hand, was of great advantage for the city’s treasury, but on the other hand, required special control over the amount of coinage struck in each emission and over the rational use of dies. Since there were no special magistrates in charge of minting, such control was secured by using a completely diﬀerent set of dies for each emission of a series which included more than one emission. The production of dies in this case was made easier by employing one and the same image and introducing small changes into to allow diﬀerentiation between the emissions. Department of Coins and Medals Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts 12 Volkhonka Str. 121019 Moscow Russia [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AJN American Journal of Numismatics ANSMNN American Numismatic Society Museum Notes BSA Annual of the British School of Archaeology at Athens CID Corpus des Inscriptiones de Delphes IG Inscriptiones Graecae IOSPE Inscriptiones Antiquae Orae Septentrionalis Ponti Euxini Graecae et Latinae JRS Journal of Roman Studies KS Khersonesskii Sbornik KSIA Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Arkheologii Akademii Nauk SSSR NC Numismatic Chronicle NE Numizmatika i Epigraﬁka OGIS Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae RA Rossiiskaya Arkheologiya RE Pauly-Wissowa-Kroll. Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft RN Revue Numismatique SIG Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum SNR Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau VDI Vestnik Drevnei Istorii Anokhin, V.A. 1977: Monetnoe delo Khersonesa (Kiev). ——. 1986: Monetnoe delo Bospora (Kiev). ——. 1989: Monety antichnykh gorodov Severo-Zapadnogo Prichernomor’ya (Kiev). Ashton, R.H.J. 2001: ‘The Coinage of Rhodes 408–c. 190 BC’. In Meadows, A. and Shipton, K. (eds.), Money and Its Uses in the Ancient Greek World (Oxford), 79–115.

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Babelon, E. 1901: Traité des monnaies grecques et romaines I/1 (Paris). Babinov, Y.A. 1972: ‘Mestnye elementy v religii Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. In Sotsial’noekonomicheskie problemy istorii drevnego mira i srednikh vekov (Moscow), 30–40. Baldwin, A. 1924: ‘Lampsakos: The Gold Staters, Silver and Bronze Coinage’. AJN 53 (oﬀprint). Barron, J.P. 1966: The Silver Coinage of Samos (London). Bodenstedt, F. 1981: Die Elektronprägung von Phokaia und Mytelene (Tübingen). Boehringer, C. 1979: ‘Die frühen Bronzemünzen von Leontinoi und Katane’. In Le origini della monetazione di bronzo in Sicilia e in Magna Grecia. Atti del VI Convegno del Centro Internationale di studi Numismatici, Napoli 1977 (Rome), 145–77. Burnett, A. 1977: ‘The Coinages of Rome and Magna Graecia in the Late Fourth and Third Centuries BC’. SNR 56, 92–121. Burstein, S.M. 1976: Outpost of Hellenism: The Emergence of Heracleia on the Black Sea (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). Carter, G.F. 1983: ‘A Simpliﬁed Method for Calculating the Original Number of Dies from Die Link Statistics’. ANSMN 28, 195–206. Crawford, M.H. 1970: ‘Money and Exchange in the Roman World’. JRS 60, 40–48. ——. 1974: Roman Republic Coinage (New York). Demetriadi, V. 1998: ‘Dion in Macedonia: a Bronze Coinage of the Classical Period’. In Ashton, R. and Hurter, S. (eds.), Studies in Greek Numismatics in Memory of Martin Jessop Price (London), 115–17. Esty, W.W. 1986: ‘Estimation of the Size of a Coinage: a Survey and Comparison of Methods’. NC 146, 185–215. Figueira, T. 1998: The Power of Money. Coinage and Politics in the Athenian Empire (Philadelphia). Fischer-Bossert, W. 1999: Chronologie der Didrachmenprägung von Tarent 510–280 v. Chr. (Berlin/New York). von Fritze, H. 1907: ‘Sestos. Die Menas-Inschrift und das Münzwesen der Stadt’. Nomisma 1, 1–13. ——. 1912: ‘Die Elektronprägung von Kyzikos’. Nomisma VII, 1–38. Frolova, N.A. 1996: ‘Monetnoe delo Bospora serediny VI–V vv. do n.e.’ RA 2, 34–69. Furtwängler, A. 1982: ‘Griechische Vieltypenprägung und Münzbeamte’. SNR 61, 5–25. Grandmezon, N.N. 1982: ‘Zametki o monetakh Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. In Yanin, V.L. (ed.), Numizmatika antichnogo Prichernomor’ya (Kiev), 34–42. ——. 1990: ‘Pervye monety Khersonesa’. KSIA 197, 57–59. Grangjean, C. 1998: ‘Le valeur des monnaies de bronze du Péloponnèse à l’époque classique et hellénistique’. RN 153, 31–40. Howgego, C.J. 1990: ‘Why Did Ancient States Strike Coins’. NC 150, 1–25. Iliescu, O. 1976: ‘Le système monétaire et pondéral à Histria, Callatis et Tomis aux Ve–IIe siècles av.notre ère’. In Cahn, H.A. and Le Rider, G. (eds.), Actes du 8ème Congrès international de numismatique. New York-Washington, septembre 1973 (Paris), 85–98. Ivantchik, A.I. 1988: ‘Die Gründung von Sinope und die Probleme der Anfangsphase der griechischen Kolonisation des Schwarzmeergebietes’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area (Stuttgart), 297–330. Jackson, A.E. 1971: ‘The Bronze Coinage of Gortyn’. NC XI, 37–51. Johnston, A.W. 1979: Trademarks on Greek Vases (Warminster). Kadeev, V.I. 1970: Ocherki istorii ekonomiki Khersonesa v I–IV vv. n.e. (Kharkov). Karayotov, I. 1994: The Coinage of Mesambria. Vol. 1: Silver and Gold Coins of Mesambria (Sozopol). Kats, V.I. 1990: ‘Emporii Khersones’. Antichnyi mir i arkheologiya 7, 97–111. Kinns, P. 1983: ‘The Amphictionic Coinage Reconsidered’. NC 143, 1–22. Kovalenko, S.A. 1999a: ‘O monetnom dele Khersonesa Tavricheskogo v pozdneklassicheskuyu epokhu’. NE XVI, 108–31. ——. 1999b: ‘Retsenziya na knigu E.Y. Turovskogo Monety nezavisimogo Khersonesa 4–2 vv. do n.e.’ RA 3, 202–10. Kraay, C.M. 1976: Archaic and Classical Greek Coins (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). ——. 1989: ‘Schatzfunde, Kleingeld und der Ursprung der Münzen’. In Alföldi, M.R. (ed.), Methoden der Antiken Numismatik (Darmstadt), 180–210. Lacroix, L. 1979: ‘La typologie du bronze par rapport a celle de l’argent’. In Le origini della monetazione di bronzo in Sicilia e in Magna Grecia. Atti del VI Convegno del Centro Internationale di studi Numismatici, Napoli 1977 (Rome), 265–92.

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Lorber, C.C. 1990: Amphipolis. The Civic Coinage in Silver and Gold (Los Angeles). ——. 1992: ‘The Early Facing Head Drachms of Thessalian Larissa’. In Nillson, H. (ed.), Florilegium Numismaticum. Studia in Honorem U. Westermark Edita (Stockholm), 259–75. Marchenko, L.V. 1996: ‘Prirodnye factory v stroitel’stve i khozyaistve Khersonesa’. KS VII, 19–24. Martin, T.R. 1985: Sovereignty and Coinage in Classical Greece (Princeton). ——. 1995: ‘Coins, Mints and the Polis’. In Hansen, M.H. (ed.), Sources for the Ancient Greek City-State (Copenhagen), 257–91. ——. 1996: ‘Why Did the Greek Polis Originally Need Coins?’. Historia 45, 257–83. Melville-Jones, J.R. 1972: ‘Epigraphical Notes on Hellenistic Bronze Coinage’. NC XII, 39–43. ——. 1993: Testimonia Numaria: Greek and Latin Texts Concerning Ancient Greek Coinage (London). Milne, J.G. 1939: Greek and Roman Coins and the Study of History (Oxford). Noe, S.P. 1935: The Thurian Di-Staters (New York). ——. 1952: ‘A Group of Die-Sequences at Poseidonia (c. 430–410 BC)’. ANSMN V, 9–19. Paﬀord, I. 2000: ‘Megara: the Denomination System and Chronology of the Hellenistic Coinage’. In Kluge, B. (ed.), XII. Internationaler Numismatischer Kongress. Berlin 1997. Akten—Proceedings— Actes vol. 1 (Berlin), 347–50. Picard, O. 1987: ‘L’administration de l’atelier monétaire à Thasos au IV siècle’. RN, 7–14. Pick, B. 1898: Die antiken Münzen von Dacien und Moesien (Berlin). Pippidi, D.M. 1971: I Greci nel Basso Danubio dall’ eta arcaica alla conquista romana (Milan). Price, M.J. 1968: ‘Early Greek Bronze Coinage’. In Kraay, C.M. and Jenkins, G.K. (eds.), Essays in Greek Coinage Presented to Stanley Robinson (Oxford), 90–104. Rusyaeva, A.S. 2000: ‘Kul’ty i svyatilishcha v sfere politiki demokraticheskikh polisov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya v ranneellinisticheskoe vremya’. VDI 3, 78–84. Rutter, K. (ed.) 2001: Historia Numorum. Italy (London). Saprykin, S.Y. 1986: Gerakleya Pontiiskaya i Khersones Tavricheskii (Moscow). Schönert-Geiss, E. 1970: Die Münzprägung von Byzantion. Teil I: Autonome Zeit (Berlin/Amsterdam). Shcheglov, A.N. 1981: ‘Tavry i grecheskie kolonii v Tavrike’. In Lordkipanidze, O. (ed.), Demograﬁcheskaya situatsiya v Prichernomor’e v period Velikoi Grecheskoi Kolonizatsii (Tbilisi), 204–18. ——. 1998: ‘Zolotaya i serebryanye monety IV–II vv. do n.e. iz sluchainykh nakhodok v Khersonese i ego okruge’. In 6 Vserossiiskaya Numizmaticheskaya Konferentsiya. Tezisy i soobshcheniya (St Petersburg), 20–22. Shelov, D.B. 1956: Monetnoe delo Bospora VI–II vv. do n.e. (Moscow). Shonov, A. 2000: Monety Khersonesa Tavricheskogo. Katalog (Simferopol). Smekalova, T.N. 2001: ‘Sostav splava monet Khersonesa’. Problemy istorii, ﬁlologii, kul’tury X, 110–33. Stefanova, A. 1984: ‘Nyakoi problemi na bronzovoto monetosechene na Apoloniya Pontika’. In Antichna numizmatika v Bulgariya (Soﬁa), 30–33. Stroud, R.S. 1974: ‘An Athenian Law on Silver Coinage’. Hesperia 43, 157–88. Tod, M.N. 1911–12: ‘The Greek Numeral Notation’. BSA XVIII, 98–132. ——. 1927: ‘Further Notes on the Greek Acrophonic Numerals’. BSA XXVIII, 141–57. ——. 1940: ‘The Greek Acrophonic Numerals’. BSA XXXVII, 236–57. ——. 1946: ‘Epigraphical Notes of Greek Coinage. II. XALKOUS’. NC 1946, 47–62. ——. 1954: ‘Letter-Labels in Greek Inscriptions’. BSA XLIX, 1–8. Topalov, S. 1995: Mesambria Pontika. Prinosi k’m prouchvane monetosecheneto na grada V–I v. pr.n.e. (Soﬁa). Treister, M.Y. 1996: The Role of Metals in Ancient Greek History (Leiden/New York/Cologne). Trevett, J. 2001: ‘Coinage and Democracy in Athens’. In Meadows, A. and Shipton, K. (eds.), Money and its Uses in the Ancient Greek World (Oxford), 23–34. Troxell, H.A. 1983: ‘Arsinoe’s Non-Era’. ANSMN 28, 35–70. Turovskii, E.Y. 1997: Monety nezavisimogo Khersonesa 4–2 vv. do n.e. (Sevastopol). Vinogradov, Y.G. and Zolotorev, M.I. 1999: ‘Khersones iznachal’nyi’. In Podossinov, A.V. (ed.), Drevnie gosudarstva Vostochnoi Evropy 1996–1997 gg. Severnoe Prichernomor’e v antichnosti. Voprosy istochnikovedeniya (Moscow), 91–129. Wallace, W.P. 1956: The Euboian League and Its Coinage (New York).

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DAS SCHWARZE MEER IN DER GEOKARTOGRAPHISCHEN TRADITION DER ANTIKE UND DES FRÜHEN MITTELALTERS. II. DIE HALBINSEL KRIM, DAS ASOWSCHE MEER UND DIE STRAßE VON KERTSCH1 ALEXANDER V. PODOSSINOV Abstract This paper continues the series of works on the historical geocartography of the Black Sea countries in Antiquity. It is devoted to the image of the Sea of Azov, the Kerch strait and the Crimean peninsula in ancient, early mediaeval European and Islamic maps and geographic descriptions based on maps. The author comes to the conclusion that until the 14th century on all these maps the Sea of Azov was drawn as an internal lake, and the Kerch strait and the Crimean peninsula were therefore absent. Since this cartographic deformation is reﬂected only in the so-called Agrippean (Roman) tradition, one can see the origin of this mistake in the world map of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa (died 12 BC).

In meiner ersten Studie habe ich eine merkwürdige Tatsache behandelt, nämlich, daß Trapezus, eine Stadt im südlichen Pontusraum, in einigen römischen kartographischen und literarischen Quellen an der nördlichen Küste des Schwarzen Meeres—also falsch—lokalisiert wurde; so z. B. auf der Karte des Schwarzen Meeres auf dem Schild eines römischen Legionärs aus Dura— Europos (Mitte des 3. Jhs. n. Chr.), auf der Tabula Peutingeriana, die bis in die ersten Jahrhunderte n. Chr. zurückreicht, in der Getica des Iordanes (6. Jh.) und in der Kosmographie des anonymen Geographen von Ravenna (Ende des 7. Jhs.), dessen Beschreibung der Oikumene auf einer Karte beruhte, die ähnlich der Tabula Peutingeriana war. Dieselbe Situation ist auch in einigen geographischen Schriften der Araber zu beobachten, z. B. in dem Buch des alMa'sùdi (10. Jh.)2 oder in dem Opus geographicum des al-Idrìsì (12. Jh.). Aus der Analyse dieser literarisch-kartographischen Tradition kam ich zu dem Schluß, daß von der Weltkarte des Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa (Ende des 1. Jhs. v. Chr.) eine römische kartographische Tradition (der falschen Lokali-

1 Diese Studie ist eine Fortsetzung meiner Beobachtungen an der Darstellung der circumpontischen Territorien in der antiken und frühmittelalterlichen Geokartographie. Die erste Studie s. in Ancient West and East 2.2 (2003), 308–24. Für die sprachliche Bearbeitung dieses Aufsatzes bedanke ich mich herzlichst bei Herrn Dr Joachim Hupe (Trier) und Herrn Dr M. Kerschner (Wien). 2 Maçoudi 1861, 273. In diesem Text, der mir erst jetzt bekannt wurde, erwähnt der Geograph die Stadt Trapezus an der Maeotis, was ihre nordpontische Lokalisation voraussetzt.

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sierung von Trapezus) ihren Ursprung nahm, die sich in vielen geographischen und kartographischen Denkmälern der spätantiken und frühmittelalterlichen Geokartographie widerspiegelte. Diese Feststellung ist nicht ohne Bedeutung für die Geschichte der römischen Kartographie, da wir an ihr zwei Dinge erkennen: 1) Die römischen Karten waren so ungenau und fehlerhaft, daß man sich mit ihrer Hilfe überhaupt nicht orientieren konnte, womit sie für die Bedürfnisse von Reisenden praktisch wertlos waren; 2) Es existierte eine bestimmte kartographische Tradition bei der Darstellung einzelner Regionen.3 Der letzte Satz berücksichtigt die Ansichten einiger moderner Historiker, wie z. B. Kai Brodersen, der meiner Meinung nach zu Recht die praktische Benutzung der geographischen Karten in der Antike verneint, dann aber zu radikal die Existenz von Karten (wie z. B. der Weltkarte des Agrippa) überhaupt in Abrede stellt.4 In diesem zweiten Punkt bin ich mit ihm nicht einverstanden:5 Gerade die Lokalisation von Trapezus bestätigt, daß einzelne kartographische Details lange Zeit erhalten blieben und von einer Karte in andere kopiert werden konnten. Die vorliegende Aufsatz behandelt die Darstellung des Asowschen Meeres (in der Antike Maeotis lacus oder palus), der Halbinsel Krim (Chersonesos Taurica oder einfach Taurica) und der Straße von Kertsch (Bosporus Cimmericus). Vorab sei hier gesagt, daß das erste als Binnensee dargestellt wird, während die beiden letzteren in der römischen kartographischen Tradition, die in Europa bis in das 14. Jahrhundert reicht und auch in der arabischen Geokartographie zu verfolgen ist, ganz und gar fehlen. Wenden wir uns den Quellen zu, und zwar zunächst den antiken kartographischen Quellen. Aus der Antike sind nur zwei Karten bekannt, die das Schwarze Meer darstellen. Das sind die schon erwähnte Schildkarte aus Dura— Europos und die Tabula Peutingeriana.6 Auf der ersten, nur fragmentarisch erhaltenen Karte7 ist ein Teil der westund der nordpontischen Küste abgebildet, an der einige Städte und Flüsse mit griechischen Namen eingetragen sind: der westpontische Fluß Panysos, die Städte Odessos, Bybona (Byzone), Kallatis, Tomea, Istros, der Fluß Danubis, dann Tyra, Borysthenes (Olbia), Chersonesos (beim heutigen Sewastopol), dann Trapezus und Artaxata. Die ganze Küste ist lediglich als schwach gewölbte Linie

3

Ausführlicher s. Podossinov 2003, 308–24. Brodersen 1995, 285. 5 Vgl. auch die Kritik an seiner Position von Weber 1996, 265–67 und Engels 1999, 373. 6 Die dritte aus der Antike erhaltene Karte stammt aus dem 1. Jh. v. Chr. und stellt vermutlich Spanien dar (Galazzi, Kramer 1999, 189–208). 7 Letzte Ausgabe der Karte mit ausführlichem Kommentar und Literaturhinweisen bei Podossinov 2002, 80–101. Vgl. auch die Karte und ihre Rekonstruktion in Podossinov 2003, 308–24. 4

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wiedergegeben, wobei die Halbinsel Krim und die Straße von Kertsch ebenso fehlen wie das Asowsche Meer. Einige Forscher, z. B. Oswald Dilke und Pascal Arnaud, versuchten in Trapezus einen taurischen Berg Trapezus (’atyrdag) und in Arta- (-xata fehlt auf der Karte) eine griechische Transliteration des lateinischen Wortes Arta (‘Engpass’) zu sehen, um damit die Reputation der Karte zu retten.8 Allerdings braucht unsere Karte diese künstlichen Rettungsmittel gar nicht, da wir dieselben Phänomene auch in den anderen Karten der Antike und des Mittelalters beobachten können. Die beste Darstellung in dieser Hinsicht stellt uns die Tabula Peutingeriana zur Verfügung (Segment VIII, 1–2).9 Im Bereich der nordpontischen Küste (s. Abb. 1, 1), wo die Krim liegen müßte, sehen wir nur eine gerade Linie. Die Straße von Kertsch fehlt; das Asowsche Meer erscheint dadurch als ein Binnensee, der mit der Beischrift Lacus Meotidis versehen ist. Im Raum zwischen dem Lacus Meotidis und Pontus Euxinus ﬁnden sich allerdings einige Angaben zur Halbinsel Krim, wie der Name Saurica, der vielleicht in verderbter Schreibung den Namen Taurica wiedergibt; ferner die Inschrift ‘Fossa facta per servos Scutarum’, die sich oﬀensichtlich auf die ‘Taphrae’ (Tãfrai) bzw. den ‘Taphros’ (Tãfrow) bezieht, d. h. den Graben, den die Knechte der Skythen nach Angaben des Herodot und des Strabon10 auf der Landenge von Perekop angelegt haben. Darüber hinaus liest man Namen bekannter Städte der Taurike—Kalos Limen, Acra, Nymphaeon und möglicherweise Myrmecion. Über die gesamte Fläche zwischen dem Lacus Meotidis und dem Pontus Euxinus verläuft der Schriftzug BOSFORANI, mit dem die ‘Einwohner des Bosporanischen Reiches’ gekennzeichnet sind, dessen Territorium sich bekanntlich beiderseits der Straße von Kertsch erstreckte. So ist die Tabula Peutingeriana das klarste und überzeugendste Zeugnis dafür, daß in der antiken Kartographie die Vorstellung existierte, die Maeotis sei ein Binnensee.11 Das Paradoxe an dieser Situation besteht darin, daß die deskriptive literarische Geographie sowohl der Griechen als auch der Römer, die auf der griechischen Geographie fußte (wie Pomponius Mela oder Plinius), über eine ganz 8

Dilke 1985, 120; Id. in Harley and Woodward 1987, 249; Arnaud 1988, 154, Adn. 16; 1989, 377, Adn. 12; 384. 9 Siehe Faksimileausgabe der Tabula Peutingeriana in Weber 1976; vgl. auch die neueste Ausgabe der Karte in Podossinov 2002. 10 Herod. 4. 3 und 20; Strabo 7. 3. 19; vgl. auch Mela 2. 4. 11 Man könnte vermuten, daß der Kartograph den nordpontischen Küstenverlauf hier grob vereinfachend als eine gerade Linie dargestellt hätte, da solche ‘Kleinigkeiten’, wie Buchten, Halbinseln, Meerengen und Seen für ihn nicht von Interesse gewesen wären. Der Sachverhalt stellt sich jedoch ganz anders dar: Auf der Karte sind alle in der Antike bekannten Meere (außer der Maeotis) eingezeichnet, alle wichtigen Buchten (vgl. I, 1–3: sinus Aquitanicus; VII, 1–2: Syrtis Minor; VII, 4: Syrtis Maior; VII, 1: sinus Argolicus; VIII, 1: Goldenes Horn), alle Meerengen (VIII, 1: Bosporus Thracicus) und alle Halbinsel (IV, 1: Histria im Adriaticum; VI, 1–2: beide Halbinseln an der ‘Sohle des italienischen Stiefels’; VII, 5–VIII, 1: Griechenland mit der Peloponnes; VII, 5–VIII, 1: Chalkidike; VIII, 1: Konstantinopels Halbinsel) u. a.

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Fig. 1. Die Krim und das Asowsche Meer auf antiken und mittelalterlichen Karten: 1) Tabula Peutingeriana; 2) Eine T-O-Karte; 3) Anglo-Saxon world map; 4) Die Ebstorfer Karte; 5) Die Hereford Karte; 6) Die Portolankarte aus dem Atlas des Pietro Vesconte; 7) Die Karte des Ptolemäus; 8) Die Karte der Maeotis des al-Hwàrizmì; 9) Die Karte des al-Idrìsì (Alle Darstellungen sind im ungefähr gleichen Maßstab und mit der Nord-Orientierung gegeben).

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klare Vorstellung von dieser Region verfügte. Es war bekannt, daß das Asowsche Meer durch den Bosporus Cimmericus mit dem Schwarzen Meer verbunden war, und demzufolge nahm man auch die Krim als eine Halbinsel wahr. Diese Tradition war schon seit Herodot bekannt, der in seinem ‘Skythenlogos’ die Taurike als die südliche Grenze Skythiens erwähnt,12 und in der antiken Geographie allgemein verbreitet. Erinnern wir nur an einen Topos, der in der Antike sehr populär war, nämlich an den Vergleich der Form des Schwarzen Meeres mit der eines skythischen zweiteiligen Kompositbogens. Die Bogensehne sollte die südliche Schwarzmeerküste sein, der Bogen selbst mit seinen zwei hervortretenden Buckeln wurde mit der west- und der nordpontischen Küste verglichen.13 Die Vertiefung zwischen diesen beiden Buckeln repräsentierte die Halbinsel Krim. In diesem Rahmen kann man hinzufügen, daß viele antike Schriftsteller die Maeotis ‘Mutter des Pontus’ nannten (mater Ponti, M∞thr toË PÒntou).14 Diese Benennung setzt nicht nur die Kenntnis einer Verbindung zwischen den beiden Meeren voraus, sondern belegt zudem, daß man die Maeotis als Quelle des Pontus Euxinus betrachtete. Die griechische wissenschaftliche Kartographie hat die topographische Situation in dieser Region oﬀenbar recht realistisch wiedergegeben. Darauf lassen Zeugnisse des Eratosthenes sowie von Hipparchos, Strabon, Marinus von Tyros und Ptolemäus schließen.15 Dieser Umstand bestätigt unsere Beobachtung, daß die Deformationen nur der römischen kartographischen Tradition eigen sind. Wo und wann könnte diese Tradition entstanden sein? Wie im Fall von Trapezus vermute ich auch hier den Einﬂuß der Weltkarte des Agrippa. Ich glaube, dafür gibt es einige, wenn auch indirekte Gründe. Obwohl die Karte selbst nicht erhalten ist, haben wir eine Vorstellung über ihren Inhalt aus zwei spätantiken geographischen Katalogen, der Divisio orbis terrarum und der Demensuratio provinciarum (5. Jh.), die die Grenzen und Ausdehnungen der verschiedenen Regionen der agrippäischen Karte angeben. In diesen Traktaten wird das Territorium der nördlichen Schwarzmeerküste folgendermaßen beschrieben:

Herod. 4. 20 und 99: ≤ TaurikÆ. S. z. B. Ammian. Marcell. 22. 9: ‘Alle Geographen (erwähnt werden “Eratosthenes, Hekataios, Ptolemäus und andere Autoritäten”.—A.P.) vergleichen einstimmig das Aussehen des Meeres mit einem skythischen Bogen mit gespannter Bogensehne’; vgl. auch Strabo 2. 5. 22; Plin. NH 4. 76; Dionys. Perieg. 156–62. Über die Form des skythischen Bogens, auch nach archäologischen Funden, s. Melyukova 1964, 14ﬀ.; Rausing 1967, 141–42; Kozub 1973, 270–74. 14 Vgl. Herod. 4. 86; Strabo 2. 125; Dionys. Perieg. 165; Agath. 2.14; Procop. Caes. BG. 4. 6. 15 Vgl. Ptol. Geogr. 3. 6 und 5. 9. 1–7 (ed. C.F.A. Nobbe). Siehe auch die Karten des Ptolemäus in den griechischen und lateinischen Handschriften des 13.–15. Jhs. in: Kamal 1928 2.1, 132 und 148. 12

13

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Sarmatien, Taurisches Skythien (Sarmatia, Scythia Taurica). Sie grenzen im Osten an die Gebirge des Kaukasus, im Westen an den Fluß Borysthenes, im Norden an den Ozean, im Süden an die Provincia Pontica.16

Die taurische Halbinsel wird hier also nicht als ein besonderer Teil bezeichnet, sondern nur als ein Attribut Skythiens (Scythia Taurica). Hiermit sollte bloß gesagt werden, daß damals Skythien als Teil der Krim existierte, eine Aussage, die für die Zeit Agrippas auch zutraf. Als südliche Grenze dieser Region wird die Provincia Pontica genannt; in dieser Bezeichnung erkenne ich das Territorium des Bosporanischen Reiches, das zur Zeit Agrippas einmal kurzfristig mit dem südpontischen Reich Pontus vereinigt wurde.17 Das Fehlen der Maeotis, der Krim und der Straße von Kertsch in der Beschreibung der Region, die im Westen an den Dniepr und im Osten an den Kaukasus grenzt, sollte die künftige kartographische Darstellung dieses Gebiets sehr stark beeinﬂußen. Dies umso mehr, da hiermit die drei wichtigsten geographischen Fixpunkte dieser Landschaft fehlten. Das Kartenbild der einzelnen Regionen auf der Weltkarte Agrippas war gar nicht darauf angelegt, alle Halbinseln und Meerengen zu zeigen, es ging vielmehr um eine allgemeine Darstellung der politischen und ethnischen Einteilung der Welt. Deshalb ist das Asowsche Meer in den Dokumenten Agrippas auch nicht zu erwarten. Außerdem wissen wir, daß die Karte erst nach dem Tod Agrippas anhand seiner Commentarien bzw. Chorographie gezeichnet wurde.18 Und wenn der Zeichner bereits in diesen Commentarien LACUS Meotidis las (was die übliche antike Bezeichnung des Asowschen Meeres war), dann muß es für ihn naheliegend gewesen sein, das Asowsche Meer wircklich als einen SEE, d. h. als einen Binnensee, darzustellen. Es ist auch einmalig, daß ein Meer in der Antike über viele Jahrhunderte hinweg als ‘See’ bezeichnet wurde. Schon Herodot nennt das Asowsche Meer Mai«tiw l¤mnh, was eigentlich ‘stehendes Gewässer, Teich, See’ bedeutete und auf Lateinisch sehr treﬀend als ‘lacus, palus sive stagnum’ übersetzt wurde. In der Tat war und ist der größte Teil des Asowschen Meeres sehr seicht und erinnert eher an ein großes Sumpfgebiet. Zudem war der Meeresspiegel der Maeotis in der Antike einige Meter niedriger als heutzutage.19 Ich halte es 16

Den Text s. Schnabel 1935, 405–40; Brodersen 1996, 332–48; Podossinov 2002, 67 und 75. Ausführlicher betrachte ich diesen Text in Podossinov 2003, 317–18. 18 Plin. NH 3. 17. 19 Vgl. die Beschreibung der Maeotis bei Polybios 4. 40. 4–9, besonders 8–9: ‘Die Maeotis nämlich ist bereits verschlammt. An den meisten Stellen beträgt ihre Tiefe nicht mehr als sieben oder fünf Klafter, deshalb kann man sie auch mit großen Schiﬀen nicht mehr ohne Lotsen befahren, und während sie ursprünglich, wie die Alten übereinstimmend berichten, ein mit dem Pontos in Verbindung stehendes Meer war, ist sie jetzt ein Süßwassersee, da das Meerwasser durch die Anschwemmungen hinausgedrängt worden ist und das Süßwasser der einmündenden Flüsse die Oberhand gewonnen hat’ (Übersetzung von H. Drexler in Polybios, Geschichte [Zürich/Stuttgart 1961, 367]). 17

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daher für sehr gut möglich, daß der Name LACUS Meotidis den Kartenzeichner aufgrund seiner Unkenntnis der geographischen Verhältnisse dazu verleitete, die Maeotis als einen Binnensee wiederzugeben. Es scheint mir, als ob die Darstellungen auf der Karte aus Dura-Europos und auf der Tabula Peutingeriana in diesem Punkt der agrippäischen Tradition folgen, da diese beiden Karten nach Meinung vieler Forscher die agrippäische Linie in der Entwicklung der antiken Kartographie repräsentieren; und nicht von ungefähr habe ich gerade in diesen Karten die gleichen Verschiebungen bei der Lokalisation von Trapezus feststellen können wie in der Karte des Agrippa.20 Dieser (agrippäischen) Tradition werden auch einige geographische Werke zugeschrieben, denen oﬀensichtlich Karten zugrunde lagen. Es handelt sich um zwei Kosmographien: eine von Iulius Honorius (4.–5. Jhs.), die eigentlich eine alte abgenutzte Karte beschreibt, und eine zweite des sog. Anonymus von Ravenna (Ende des 7. Jhs.), die auf einer Karte beruhte, die sehr ähnlich der Tabula Peutingeriana war. Wie sieht unsere Region in diesen beiden Werken aus? In der Kosmographie des Honorius sind folgende Meere im nördlichen Viertel der Oikumene erwähnt: ‘Mare Maeotis, mare Bosphorum, mare Cimmerium, mare Pontum etc.’21 Das zweite und das dritte Meer müßten eigentlich als Bosporus Cimmericus aufzufassen sein, d. h. die Straße von Kertsch. Die Tatsache, daß Bosporus und Cimmericus als zwei getrennte Meere bezeichnet werden, bezeugt meiner Meinung nach, daß die Meerenge auf der Karte nicht eingezeichnet war. Oﬀensichtlich jedoch stand der Name Bosporus auf dem Meer, und zwar neben der Stelle der nicht vorhandenen Meerenge; ähnlich wie bei der Tabula Peutineriana, wo der Bosporus fehlte, Bosforani als Beischrift aber bestehen blieb. Es gibt einen weiteren Hinweis, der möglicherweise für das Fehlen der Straße von Kertsch auf der Karte des Honorius spricht. An der nordpontischen Küste erwähnt Honorius eine sehr merkwürdige Stadt—‘Sindi Taurica oppidum’.22 Bekanntlich waren Sindi ein Volk auf der Halbinsel Taman (auf der östlichen Seite der Straße von Kertsch), Taurica bezeichnete aber bereits das westliche Ufer der Meerenge, d. h. die Krim. Aufgrund der Tatsache, daß die Karte die ethnische Bezeichnung Sindi mit der topographischen Bezeichnung Taurica verband und beide zusammenschrieb, ist zu schließen, daß das Gebiet zwischen dem Asowschen und dem Schwarzen Meer als durchgehender Landstreifen ohne Meerenge dargestellt war.23 20

Podossinov 2003, 308–24. Iul. Honor. Cosm. 28A. Den Text s. Riese 1878, 21–55; vgl. auch Podossinov 2002, 123. 22 Iul. Hon. Cosm. 32A. 23 Dieser Text eröﬀnet die seltene Möglichkeit, Aussagen über die Orientierung einer antiken Karte (hier die des Honorius) zu treﬀen. Die Zusammenstellung ‘Sindi Taurica’ ist nur vorstellbar, wenn der Betrachter eine Karte vor sich hatte, bei der Süden oben lag; demnach sah 21

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Betrachten wir im folgenden die Angaben der Kosmographie des Anonymus von Ravenna. Wie schon gesagt wurde, war die agrippäische Verschiebung von Trapezus von der südpontischen zur norpontischen Küste auch in diesem Werk vorhanden. Die Beschreibung der nordpontischen Küste ist sehr ausführlich.24 Allerdings gibt es auch hier Hinweise, daß auf der Karte, die dem Anonymus zugrunde lag, das Asowsche Meer als See dargestellt war, und demzufolge auch die Straße von Kertsch nicht existierte. Im ersten Buch, in dem der Anonymus ausschließlich Binnenländer beschreibt, ohne überhaupt Meere zu nennen, berichtet er von den ‘paludes Meotides’ im Hinterland der Region und charakterisiert sie als echten (seichten) Sumpf.25 Im Kapitel 17 desselben Buches zählt er die Meere auf, die zum Mare Nostrum gehören. Die Palus Meotis ﬁndet sich nicht in dieser Liste. Nichtsdestoweniger war dem Anonymus bekannt, daß die Palus Meotis zusammen mit dem Tanais (Don) eine Grenze zwischen Asien und Europa bildet und in das ‘mare Ponticum’ ﬂießt. Allerdings stammen diese Angaben aus schriftlichen Quellen, die andere Informationen als die Karte enthielten. So sagt er in 2. 20: ‘. . . omnimodo recte dicunt, quod ipse paludes Meotides Asie ﬁnes existant et quod ipse Tanais inter Asiam et Europam dividat. Alii vero et ipsos . . . montes Rimpheos, de quibus praefatus Tanais egreditur, dicunt inter Asiam et Europam dividere usw.’ Klar, daß diese Information gar nicht von der Karte abzulesen war (vgl. dicunt). In 4. 3 werden die Städte des Bosporanischen Reiches aufgezählt, das sich, wie bereits gesagt, beiderseits der Straße von Kertsch erstreckte. Dabei verläuft die Aufzählung ohne jeden Bruch über die Stelle der Meerenge, die demzufolge oﬀensichtlich fehlte. In 3. 5 lesen wir, daß ‘Meotida regio . . . usque ad praefatam Bosphoranam patriam pertingit’ (‘erstreckt sich bis zum oben genannten Bosporanischen Land’); schon zuvor wurde gesagt, ‘patria Bosphorana’ selbst ‘iuxta mare Ponticum posita’ (3. 3). Diese Tatsache hat den besten Kenner, Herausgeber und Übersetzer der Ravennatischen Kosmographie, Josef Schnetz, veranlaßt, zu behaupten, daß die Meotis auch hier, wie auf der Tabula Peutingeriana, keine Verbindung mit dem Pontus Euxinus hatte.26 Was die falsche Lokalisierung von Trapezus betriﬀt, so folgte oﬀenbar auch Iordanes mit seiner ‘Getica’ dieser agrippäischen Tradition, indem er Trapezus im nordpontischen Skythien ansiedelte.27 Hatte er vielleicht ebenfalls eine Karte der Betrachter links (östlich) die Inschrift ‘Sindi ’ und rechts (westlich) die Inschrift ‘Taurica’, so daß er beide zusammen als ‘Sindi Taurica’ lesen konnte. Triﬀt dies zu, dann war die Karte südorientiert. Die meisten Forscher glauben, antike Karten wären nach Norden bzw. nach Osten orientiert. Nur Fr. Castagnoli (1977, 56–69) und ich selbst (Podossinov 1993, 34, 39, 42) vermuteten, daß viele Karten in der Antike auch eine südliche Orientierung aufgewiesen haben. Der Name ‘Sindi Taurica’ gibt einen zusätzlichen Beweis zugunsten dieser Hypothese. 24 Siehe die Ausgabe von Schnetz 1990; vgl. auch Podossinov 2002, 161–286. 25 1. 12: per multorum miliariorum spatia aliqua pars praelate paludis ab hominibus perambulari potest. 26 Schnetz 1926, 159. 27 Ausführlicher zu diesem Problem Podossinov 2003, 313.

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vor sich, auf der die Krim nicht eingezeichnet war? In der Tat erwähnt Iordanes in seiner ziemlich ausführlichen Beschreibung Skythiens die Halbinsel Krim mit keinem Wort, obwohl er die Maeotischen Sümpfe (Meotis Palus), die Bosporische Meerenge (angustiae Bosfori ) und einige Städte auf der Krim nennt (Chersona, Theodosia, Careon, Myrmicion). Oﬀenbar beruhen diese Angaben auf schriftlichen Quellen.28 Weitergehende Aussagen zur Darstellung der nordpontischen Küste auf der Karte des Iordanes lassen sich zum gegenwärtigen Zeitpunkt nicht treﬀen. Wir können demnach in einigen Fällen darauf schließen, in anderen jedoch nur vermuten, daß die Halbinsel Krim und die Straße von Kertsch auf römischen Karten fehlten und dadurch das Asowsche Meer als ein Binnensee erschien. Den Ursprung dieser kartographischen Tradition können wir mit großer Wahrscheinlichkeit in der Weltkarte des Agrippa fassen, auf der beide Elemente fehlten. Die genannte Weltkarte diente bekanntlich den späteren Karten der sog. agrippäischen Tradition als Vorlage, einer Tradition, die sich stark von der griechischen, oder besser ptolemäischen Tradition der wissenschaftlichen Kartographie unterschied.29 Es ist bemerkenswert, daß sich diese römische Tradition auch in der mittelalterlichen Kartographie fortsetzte. Bekanntlich ist die mittelalterliche Kartographie hauptsächlich durch Weltkarten vertreten, die mappae mundi hießen und sich stark voneinander unterschieden.30 Ihnen konnte ein ganz einfaches Schema in der Art eines Kosmogramms zugrunde liegen, wie den berühmten T-O-Karten oder Radkarten, wo der Buchstabe O den äußeren Ozean, die senkrechte Haste des Buchstabens T das Mittelmeer, der Querbalken des Buchstabens T die Linie Nil, Ionisches Meer, Bosporus, Schwarzes Meer, Asowsches Meer, Tanais bildeten (Abb. 1, 2). Aber es gab auch sehr viel ausführlichere und detailliertere Karten, wie z. B. die Ebstorfer Weltkarte (13. Jh.), die mehr als 1500 Legenden enthält. Vor einigen Jahren wurde ein Buch veröﬀentlicht, in dem alle westeuropäischen Karten von 8. bis 13. Jh. publiziert und kommentiert wurden, die Information über Osteuropa enthalten.31 Anhand dieser Publikation habe ich alle mittelalterlichen Karten auf unsere Fragestellung hin untersucht. Es liegt auf der Hand, daß man auf Karten des T-O-Typs keine Darstellung der Halbinsel Krim erwarten kann, da auf solchen Karten das gesamte Schwarze Meer zusammen mit dem Asowschen, dem Marmara und dem Ionischen

28

Iordan. Get. 30–33, 37–39, 44–46, 123–126. Über diese zwei Linien in der Geschichte der antiken Kartographie hat K. Miller ausführliche Untersuchungen angestellt (Miller 1895, 2). 30 S. ausführlicher Harley and Woodward 1987, 286–370. 31 Chekin 1999. 29

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Meer als linker Querbalken des Buchstabens T dargestellt wurde, also als lange, durchgehende Linie.32 Aber auch auf ausführlicheren Weltkarten, die versuchen, Meeresküstenlinien, Inseln und Meerengen wiederzugeben, ﬁnden sich weder die Krim noch die Straße von Kertsch. Betrachten wir die drei größten mittelalterlichen Karten, die sog. AngloSaxon world map aus dem 2. Viertel des 11. Jhs., die Ebstorfer und die Hereford Weltkarte aus dem 13. Jh. Die erste Karte (Anglo-Saxon, Abb. 1, 3) zeigt bereits in Ansätzen realistische Umrisse des Meeres und des Festlandes, wobei allerdings keine Spuren der Krim auszumachen sind. Ebenso fehlt das Asowsche Meer; inmitten der nordpontischen Küste liest man lediglich die Inschrift ‘Meotides paludes’.33 Die Ebstorfer und die Hereford Karte, die sehr detailreich sind, zeigen ebenfalls keine Krim. Die nordpontische Küste ist hier einfach als gerade Linie gezeichnet34 (Abb. 1, 4 und 5). Auf der Ebstorfer Karte ist die Meotis zwar dargestellt, jedoch als innerer See, der mit dem Schwarzen Meer durch drei Flüsse verbunden ist, die parallel zueinander von der Meotis zum Schwarzen Meer ﬂießen. Auf der zweiten Karte, der Hereford Karte, ist einer der Flüsse, die von Norden ins Schwarze Meer münden, mit der Beischrift ‘Meotides paludes’ versehen. Somit können wir feststellen, daß die mittelalterliche Kartographie—wie die römisch-agrippäische—unsere Region ohne Krim, ohne Straße von Kertsch und ohne Asowsches Meer als Teil des Mare Nostrum wiedergibt. Hierin zeigt sich die ununterbrochene kartographische Überlieferung von der Antike zum Mittelalter, die schon lange vermutet wurde, aber bisher nie wirklich greifbar war. Ich denke hier u.a. an die Arbeiten von Joseph Partsch,35 Detlev Detlefsen,36 Rudolph Uhden,37 Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken38 und John Williams,39 die glaubten, die Karte des Agrippa sei Basis für die Ausgestaltung des mittelalterlichen Weltbildes gewesen, da sie bereits sehr früh als Vorlage für die mittelalterlichen Weltkarten diente. Seit dem Beginn des 14. Jhs. entwickelte sich in Europa ein besonderer Zweig der kartographischen Produktion, die Portolankarten, die ein graphisches Pendant zu den schriftlichen Portolanen, d.h. den Lotsenbüchern, darstellten.40 Aus der frühen Phase der Portolankarten (bis zum Jahr 1500) sind 32 Siehe die Reproduktionen solcher Karten: Chekin 1999, 25, 33, 37, 58, 69, 117, 160 und Abb. 1–4, 6–7, 9–19, 26–34. 33 Chekin 1999, 120–21 und Abb. 36; vgl. auch die Karten auf Abb. 37, 39, 42, 44, 55, 56, 57, 58, 64. 34 Chekin 1999, Abb. 55 und 58. 35 Partsch 1875. 36 Detlefsen 1884. 37 Uhden 1935/1936, 1–28, besonders 22–23. 38 von den Brincken 1991, 132–35. 39 Williams 1997, 7–32. 40 Allgemein zu den Portolanen s. Harley and Woodward 1987, 371–456.

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mehr als 180 Exemplare erhalten.41 Entstanden aus den praktischen Bedürfnissen der Seefahrt, bieten diese Karten eine unglaublich realistische Darstellung der Küstenlinie des Mittelmeeres, des Schwarzen Meeres und—endlich—des Asowschen Meeres mit all seinen Buchten, Vorgebirgen und Halbinseln. Eine vollständige Untersuchung aller Portolankarten der frühen Periode ergab, daß das Asowsche Meer, die Straße von Kertsch und die Taurische Halbinsel bereits von Anfang an kartiert sind und dabei sehr realistisch dargestellt werden42 (Abb. 1, 6). Dasselbe Phänomen ﬁnden wir auf den Karten des Ptolemäus, die erst in griechischen Manuskripten aus dem 13.–14. Jh. überliefert sind. In Westeuropa waren diese seit dem 15. Jh. bekannt und wurden dort fortan reproduziert43 (Abb. 1, 7). So führte erst die Verbindung der beiden Richtungen der Kartographie— der praktischen der Portolanen und der theoretischen griechisch-ptolemäischer Prägung—dazu, daß das Asowsche Meer, die Straße von Kertsch und die Halbinsel Krim im 15. Jh. endlich ihre feste Position in den kartographischen Darstellungen Osteuropas erhielten. Merkwürdigerweise erscheint auch bei vielen frühmittelalterlichen arabischen Geographen das Asowsche Meer als ein Binnensee, der mit dem Schwarzen Meer nicht verbunden ist.44 Es ist bekannt, daß die arabische Geokartographie vieles von der antiken Wissenschaft übernommen hat.45 So geht beispielsweise die Vorstellung, der Tanais (Don) und die Maeotis markieren die Grenze zwischen den Kontinenten Europa und Asien, auf die antike Geographie zurück. Den größten Einﬂuß jedoch haben die Karten und Werke des Ptolemäus ausgeübt, die sehr früh ins Arabische übersetzt und bewußt rezipiert wurden.46 Umso interessanter sind hier Erscheinungen, die nicht mit der ptolemäischen, sondern der agrippäischen Tradition verbunden sind.

41

Kup‘ík 2000, 9–10. Unter den früheren Portolanen vgl. z. B. die Portolanen des Giovanni da Carignano (Anfang des 14. Jhs.), Pietro Vesconte (von 1311), Paulinus Minorita (von 1320), Marino Sanudo (von 1321), Angelino de Dalorto (von 1325), Opicinus da Canistris (von 1336) und vieler anderer (siehe Kamal 1936. 4.1, 1138, 1140, 1160, 1169, 1172, 1174; 1937. 4.2, 1197, 1205, 1216; 1938. 4.3, 1331, 1333, 1334, 1350, 1368 et al.; 1939. 4.4, 1396, 1417, 1457, 1463 et al.; 1951. 5.1, 1491, 1493–6, 1498, 1503, 1506–8, 1513 et al. Vgl. auch die Portolane in den Ausgaben: Dimitrov 1984; Kup‘ík 2000. 43 Siehe die Karten des Ptolemäus in Kamal 1928, 132, 148. Vgl. Harley and Woodward 1987, 266–74. 44 An dieser Stelle möchte ich mich bei meiner Moskauer Kollegin, der Arabistin Frau Dr T. Kalinina bedanken, die mir große Hilfe bei der Untersuchung der geographischen Texte der Araber geleistet hat. 45 Klein-Franke 1980; Sabra 1987, 223–43. 46 M≥ik 1912, 403–06; 1915; Harley and Woodward 1992, 1, 4, 10–11, 94–102 (mit den Literaturangaben). 42

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Einer der ersten arabischen Geographen, Mu˙ammad ibn Mùsà al-Hwàrizmì (1. Hälfte des 9. Jhs.) nennt in seinem Werk ‘Kitàb ßùrat al-ar∂ ’ (Das Buch des Bildes der Erde), das die Geographie des Ptolemäus als Vorlage verwendete,47 die Koordinaten für die Küstenlinie des Schwarzen und des Asowschen Meere. In den einzigen, aus dem Jahr 1037 stammenden Manuskript dieses Werkes ist auch eine Karte mit der Darstellung der Maeotis (Màyù†ìs) erhalten (Abb. 1, 8).48 Wie die Beschreibung und die Karte selbst lehren, ist die Maeotis nicht mit dem Schwarzen Meer verbunden.49 Dabei wurde der Bosporus Cimmericus zu einer Bucht umgebildet. Al-Hwàrizmì nennt Maeotis ‘al-Ba†ì˙a’, was soviel wie ‘Tal, breites Flußbett’ im Sinne von ‘See’ bedeutet. Interessant ist hier die Vereinigung verschiedener Elemente beider Traditionen in einer Beschreibung. Einerseits wird die Maeotis—al-Ba†ì˙a—wie in der agrippäischen Tradition als Binnensee charakterisiert, andererseits sind die Angaben zur östlichen und westlichen Küste der Maeotis nahezu identisch mit der Beschreibung des Ptolemäus.50 Eine ganze Reihe von arabischen Autoren des ausgehenden 9.–10. Jhs.— ibn-Rustah, Qudàmah ibn-Ja'far, al-Battànì, al-Ma'sùdì, Agapius von Manbidj, al-Kharaqì und andere—gibt eine sehr ähnliche, fast kanonisch zu nennende Beschreibung der Meere, die, wie moderne Forscher vermuten, aus einer maßgebenden Quelle stammte, und zwar einem nichterhaltenen geographischen Werk aus der Feder des ibn-Hurdàdhbih oder des al-Jayhànì, die beide im 9. Jh. lebten.51 Der Text lautet: ‘Das Meer Pontus erstreckt sich von Lazika bis Konstantinopolis . . . In den Pontus mündet ein Fluß, der als Tanais bekannt ist und aus dem Norden kommt, aus einem See, der Maeotis heißt’.52 Hierin erkennen wir eine Vorstellung über die Lage der Maeotis im Norden und ihre Verbindung mit dem Pontus durch den Tanais. In diesem Zusammenhang ist es bemerkenswert, daß der Tanais auch in einigen westeuropäischen mappae mundi des Mittelalters als ein durch die Maeotis in den Pontus ﬂießender Strom dargestellt wurde.53 Der irische Mönch Dicuil schrieb im Jahre 825 in seinem Buch ‘De mensura orbis terrae’ (6. 42): ‘Fluvius 47

M≥ik 1915, 163–64; Honigmann 1929, 123–25, 143–48; Harley and Woodward 1992, 98. M≥ik 1915, 161; Abb. der Karte bei Harley and Woodward 1992, Taf. 5. Im Manuskript beﬁnden sich insgesamt vier Karten (Beschreibung und Abbildungen: Harley and Woodward 1992, 105–06 und Tafeln 4–5), die die ältesten erhaltenen islamischen Karten überhaupt sind (Ib., 106). 49 S. die Paragraphen 2378–2384 nach der Ausgabe M≥ik 1926 und die Karte selbst. 50 Kalinina 2000, 289, 290, 292. 51 Kalinina 2000, 289; vgl. Harley and Woodward 1992, 92–93 (mit den Angaben zu den Editionen). 52 Vgl. Ibn-Rustah 1892, 85–86; al-Battànì 1889, 27; al-Ma'sùdì 1861, 260; 1894, 62–63, 66–67; Zitate aus al-Kharaqì in al-Battani 1889, 173. Ausführlicher s. Kalinina 2000, 289. 53 So z. B. auf der Münchener Weltkarte des 12. Jhs., s. Chekin 1999, 122–23 und Abb. 38; vgl. auch Abb. 39, 48–50. 48

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Tanais nascitur in monte Hyperborei Rhiphei. Per Meotidas paludes exiens inﬂuit in Euxinum Pontum’.54 Dabei ist zu berücksichtigen, daß sein Buch die Divisio orbis terrarum und die Kosmographie des Iulius Honorius als Quelle benutzte, also fest im Rahmen der agrippäischen Tradition stand. Die Vorstellung, die Maeotis sei durch den Tanais mit dem Pontus Euxinus verbunden, ist oﬀensichtlich ein Erbe der Antike, da schon Arrian in seinem Periplus Ponti Euxini (19. 4) schreibt: ‘Er (d. h. der Tanais—A.P.) entspringt im Maeotischen See und ergießt sich in den Pontus Euxinus’. Ein Echo dieser Vorstellungen ist auch in der frühen byzantinischen Geographie spürbar.55 Wir können also gut verfolgen, daß die antike kartographische Tradition, nach der die Maeotis als See dargestellt wird, durch den der Tanais auf seinem Weg von Norden ins Schwarze Meer ﬂießt, sowohl in der europäischen als auch der arabischen Kartographie des Mittelalters ihren Niederschlag gefunden hat. Im 12. Jh. hat der spanisch-arabische Gelehrte al-Idrìsì (1110–1165) ein geographisches Werk (Nuzhat al-mushtàq oder ‘Buch des Roger’) geschaﬀen, das auch eine Weltkarte und siebzig Sektionskarten enthielt.56 Obgleich in dem Werk die Geländegestaltung der nordpontischen Küste relativ korrekt beschrieben wird—oﬀenbar auf der Grundlage von Ptolemäus57—, geben die Karten den Küstenverlauf als fast gerade Linie wieder, wobei das Asowsche Meer unberücksichtigt bleibt58 (Abb. 1, 9). Ich möchte daran erinnern, daß wahrscheinlich al-Idrìsì Trapezus im Nordpontus lokalisierte, was seine Abhängigkeit von der agrippäischen Tradition bestätigen dürfte. In diesem Rahmen ist besonders wichtig, darauf hinzuweisen, daß unter seinen Quellen auch ein römischer Autor des 5. Jhs., Paulus Orosius, genannt wird,59 der in den geographischen Teilen seines historischen Werkes oﬀenbar der agrippäischen Tradition folgte.60 Zusammenfassend darf man sagen, daß die arabische Kartographie einerseits von der agrippäischen (römischen), andererseits von der ptolemäischen (griechischen) Kartographie beeinﬂußt wurde. Die Widersprüche und Inkonsequenzen, die in der arabischen Geokartographie in Bezug auf die Lage des Asowschen Meeres zu beobachten sind, erklären sich oﬀensichtlich aus der unkritischen Verknüpfung dieser beiden kartographischen Traditionen. 54

Dicuil. De mensura orbis terrae 6, 42 (ed. G. Parthey). Vgl. Procop. Caes. BG. 4. 4. 21; Euag. Hist. eccl. 4. 23: ‘Tanais heißt bei den Einheimischen die Meerenge, die von den Maeotischen Sümpfen in den Pontus Euxinus führt’. 56 Siehe ausführlicher Harley and Woodward 1992, 156–74 mit der Literatur. 57 Al-Idrìsì erwähnt Ptolemäus siebenmal (Al-Idrìsì 1970, 6, 7, 17, 43, 103, 221, 939). 58 Zu den Karten des al-Idrìsì s. Kamal 1933 4. 864, 866, 867; Harley and Woodward 1992, Abb. 7, 1–22 und Taf. 11–12. Über die Darstellung der nordpontischen Region bei alIdrìsì s. Konovalova 1999, bes. 52. 59 Al-Idrìsì 1970, 5–6; Harley and Woodward 1992, 169; Konovalova 1999, 26–27. 60 Bemerkenswert ist, daß die geographischen Teile des Werkes des Orosius schon im 10. Jh. unter dem Kalifen von Cordoba 'Abd ar-Ra˙màn III (912–961) ins Arabische übersetzt wurden (Lewicki 1945, 45). 55

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Die Frage, auf welche Art und Weise und zu welchem Zeitpunkt Elemente der agrippäischen Tradition in die arabische Geokartographie gelangten, bleibt vorerst oﬀen und bedarf weiterer Untersuchungen. Als möglicher Vermittler römischer Einﬂüsse auf die spätgriechische Kartographie und über diese wiederum auf die arabische Kartographie kommt die sog. Weltkarte des byzantinischen Kaisers Theodosius II in Betracht, die im Jahre 435 angefertigt wurde, möglicherweise eine Replik der Weltkarte des Agrippa war und die oﬃzielle Staatskarte dieser Zeit darstellte.61 Im dichterischen Epilog der bereits oben erwähnten Divisio orbis terrarum wird über die Herstellung dieser Karte mitgeteilt, die Meister hätten ‘die ganze Welt als kurzes Kompendium dargestellt (totum breviter comprehendimus orbem)’. In dieser Form konnte Agrippas Weltkarte als Vorlage für mittelalterliche mappae mundi und möglicherweise für spätgriechische sowie für arabische Karten (vielleicht schon für al-Ma"mùns Weltkarte62 oder die der Balhì-Schule)63 dienen. Institut für allgemeine Geschichte der Russischen Akademie der Wissenschaften Leninskij prospekt 32a 117334 Moskau Rußland [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHIE Arnaud, P. 1988: ‘Observations sur l’original du fragment de carte du pseudo-bouclier de Doura-Europos’. Revue des Etudes Anciennes XC, 151–62. ——. 1989: ‘Une deuxième lecture du “bouclier” de Doura-Europos’. Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres. Comptes rendus, 1989, av.-juin, 373–89. al-Battànì sive Albatenii 1899: Opus Astronomicum 3 (Milano). Brodersen, K. 1995: Terra Cognita: Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung (Hildesheim/Zürich/New York).

61 Zu dieser Karte s. Wolska-Conus 1973, 276–78; Hövermann 1980, 93–94; Harley and Woodward 1987, 259–60; Weber 1989, 117. Vgl. auch eine Bemerkung von J. Engels über die typologische Ähnlichkeit der Werke des al-Idrìsì und des Agrippa: ‘Die Verbindung einer Weltkarte mit einer Beschreibung der Welt für einen Herrscher stellt eine gute Parallele zur Oikumenekarte und den Commentarii Agrippas dar’ (Engels 1999, 393). 62 Über diese Karte s. al-Mas'ùdì 1894, 33; vgl. Harley and Woodward 1992, 95–96. Bemerkenswert ist, daß die volle arabische Übersetzung der Geographie des Ptolemäus erst nach dem Tod des al-Ma"mùn angefertigt wurde (Harley and Woodward 1992, 99). 63 Vgl. Harley and Woodward 1992, 129 über die Ähnlichkeit dieser arabischen Karten mit den mittelalterlichen mappae mundi und über die mögliche Entlehnung dieser Kartenform aus der byzantinischen Kartographie. Ein gutes Beispiel der islamisch-europäischen Zusammenarbeit in der Kartographie stellt eine typisch westeuropäische T-O-mappa mundi des 8.–9. Jhs. aus der Nationalbibliothek in Madrid (Vitr. 14. 3. 117v) dar, die aber auf Arabisch beschrieben ist und typisch arabische Topo- and Ethnonymie enthält (s. ausführlicher Chekin 1999, 54–57 und Abb. 11).

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——. (ed.) 1996: C. Plinius Secundus der Ältere. Naturkunde. Buch VI (Zürich). von den Brincken, A.-D. 1991: ‘Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte im Verhältnis zur spanischen und angelsächsischen Weltkartentradition’. In Kugler, H. und Michael, E. (eds.), Ein Weltbild vor Columbus. Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte. Interdisziplinäres Colloquium 1988 (Weinheim). Castagnoli, F. 1977: ‘L’orientamento nella cartograﬁa greca e romana’. Atti della Pontiﬁcia Accademia Romana di Archeologia Rendiconti 3. Ser. 48, 56–69. Chekin, L.S. 1999: Kartograﬁya khristianskogo srednevekov’ya. VIII–XIII vv. Texty, perevod, kommentarii (Moskau). Detlefsen, D. 1884: Die Weltkarte des M. Agrippa (Glückstadt). Dilke, O.A.W. 1985: Greek and Roman Maps (London). Dimitrov, B. 1984: Bulgaria in the Medieval Maritime Map-making. XIV–XVII Centuries (Soﬁa). Engels, J. 1999: Antike Oikumenegeographie und Universalhistorie im Werk Strabons von Amaseia (Stuttgart). Galazzi, C. und Kramer, B. 1998: ‘Artemidor im Zeichensaal. Eine Papyrusrolle mit Text, Landkarte und Skizzenbüchern aus späthellenistischer Zeit’. Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete 44.2, 189–208. Harley, J.B. and Woodward, D. (eds.) 1987: The History of Cartography. Vol. I: Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and Mediterranean (Chicago/London). ——. (eds.) 1992: The History of Cartography. Vol. II, Book 1: Cartography in the Traditional Islamic and South Asian Societies (Chicago/London). Honigmann, E. 1929: Die sieben Klimata und die pÒleiw §p¤shmoi (Heidelberg). Hövermann, J. 1980: ‘Das Geographische Praktikum des Claudius Ptolemaeus (um 150. p. C. n.) und das geographische Weltbild der Antike’. Abhandlungen der Braunschweigischen wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft 31, 83–103. Ibn Rustah 1892: ‘Kitàb al-a'làq al-nafìsah’. Bibliotheca Geographorum Araborum 7 (Leiden). al-Idrìsì 1970: Opus geographicum sive “Liber ad eorum delectationem qui terras peragrare studeant” vol. 1 (Leiden). Kalinina, T.M. 2000: ‘Vostochnaya Evropa v predstavleniyakh arabskikh geografov IX–X vv. (vodnye basseiny)’. In Sejranyan, B.G., Smelyanskaya, I.M. und Filonik, A.O (eds.), Arabskije strany Zapadnoj Azii i Severnoj Afriki (istoriya, ekonomika i politika). Vyp. 4 (Moskau), 286–96. Kamal, Youssouf 1928: Monumenta cartographica Africae et Aegypti 2.1 (Cairo). ——. (ed.) 1933–1939: Monumenta cartographica Africae et Aegypti 4.1–4 (Cairo). ——. (ed.) 1951: Monumenta cartographica Africae et Aegypti 5.1 (Cairo). Klein-Franke, F. 1980: Das klassische Antike in der Tradition des Islams (Darmstadt). Konovalova, I.G. 1999: Vostochnaya Evropa v sochinenii al-Idrisi (Moskau). Kozub, Ju.A. 1973: ‘Model luka iz Olvii’. In Iljinskaya, V.F. Terenozhkin, A.I. und Chernenko E.V. (eds.), Skifskiye drevnosti (Kiev), 270–74. Kup‘ík, I. 2000: Münchener Portolanen: “Kunstmann I–XIII” und zehn weitere Portolankarten (München). Lewicki, T. 1945: Polska i kraie s[siednie w ≤wetle “Ks\gi Rogera” geografa arabskiego z XII w. alIdrisi’ego. Ch. 1 (Uwagi ogólne, tekst arabski, t∑umachenie) (Kraków). al-Maçoudi 1861: Les Prairies d’or 1 (Paris). al-Ma'sùdì 1894: ‘Kitàb at-Tanbìh wa’l-ischràf ’ (Leiden). Melyukova, A.I. 1964: Vooruzhenie skifov (Moskau). Miller, K. 1895: Mappae mundi. Die ältesten Weltkarten 1 (Stuttgart). M≥ik, H. 1912: ‘Idrisi und Ptolemaeus’. Orientalische Literaturzeitung 15, 403–06. ——. 1915: ‘Ptolemaeus und die Karten der arabischen Geographen’. Mitteilungen der Kaiserlichen und Königlichen geographischen Gesellschaft in Wien 58, 152–76. ——. (ed.) 1926: Das Kitàb ßùrat al-ar∂ des Abù ]a'far Mu˙ammad ibn Mùsà al-Huwàrizmì (Leipzig). Partsch, J. 1875: Die Darstellung Europa’s in dem geographischen Werke des Agrippa. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Erdkunde (Breslau). Podossinov, A.V. 1993: ‘Die Orientierung der alten Karten von den ältesten Zeiten bis zum frühen Mittelalter’. Cartographica Helvetica 7, 33–43. ——. 2002: Vostochnaja Evropa v rimskoj kartograﬁcheskoj tradizii. Texty, perevod, kommentarii (Moskau). ——. 2003: ‘Das Schwarze Meer in der geokartographischen Tradition der Antike und des frühen Mittelalters. I. Lokalisation von Trapezus’. Ancient West & East 2.2, 308–24. Rausing, G. 1967: The Bow. Some Notes on its Origin and Development (Lund). Riese, A. 1878: Geographi Latini minores (Heilbrunnae).

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Sabra, A.I. 1987: ‘The Appropriation and Subsequent Naturalization of Greek Science in Medieval Islam: A Preliminary Statement’. History of Science 25, 223–43. Schnetz, J. 1926: ‘Onogoria’. Archiv für slavische Philologie 40, 157–60. ——. (ed.) 1990: Itineraria Romana 2 (Stuttgart; erste Ausgabe—Lipsiae [Leipzig] 1940). Uhden, R. 1935/1936: ‘Die Weltkarte des Isidor von Sevilla’. Mnemosyne 3, 1–28. Weber, E. (ed.) 1976: Tabula Peutingeriana. Codex Vindobonensis 324, vollständige Faksimile-Ausgabe im Originalformat (Graz). ——. 1989: ‘Zur Datierung der Tabula Peutingeriana’. In Labor omnibus unus. Festschrift G. Walser (Stuttgart/Wiesbaden), 113–17. ——. 1996: ‘Rez.: K. Brodersen, Terra Cognita. Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung (Hildesheim; Zürich; New York, 1995)’. Tyche 11, 265–67. Williams, J. 1997: ‘Isidore, Orosius and the Beatus Map’. Imago mundi 49, 7–32. Wolska-Conus, W. 1973: ‘Deux Contributions à l’histoire de la géographie, I La “diagnôsis” ptoléméenne, date et lieu de composition; II: La “carte de Théodose II”, sa destination?’. Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance, Travaux et mémoires 5, 259–79.

À PROPOS DES PONTARQUES DU PONT GAUCHE ALEXANDRU AVRAM, MARIA BA˘RBULESCU, MIHAI IONESCU Résumé L’inscription I.Kallatis 99, de 172 ap. J.-C., dont la copie ﬁdèle est IGR I 651 (I.Kallatis 100), témoigne de l’activité du gouverneur M. Valerius Bradua et mentionne également un prôtos pontarchès du koinon du Pont Gauche (Hexapolis) et son ﬁls, pontarchès, ayant pris en charge la réfection des sept tours et des murailles de la ville. Pour autant qu’un autre prôtos pontarchès soit attesté à Histria (I.Histriae 207) vers 140, il est évident que les deux avaient été respectivement le ‘premier pontarque’ originaire d’Histria et le ‘premier pontarque’ originaire de Callatis.

Dans le corpus des inscriptions grecques et latines de Callatis (I.Kallatis), une place de choix est occupée par l’inscription n° 99 (Musée de Mangalia, n° d’inv. 2457). Il s’agit d’une plaque réutilisée comme pierre tombale dans la nécropole romano-byzantine, découverte à l’occasion des fouilles entreprises par Mihai Ionescu en novembre 1992 dans un secteur situé à l’ouest de la ville de Mangalia, à savoir la zone occupée actuellement par le dépôt de matériaux de construction érigé au sud de la route qui va de Mangalia à Albe{ti. Sur une surface fouillée de 17 × 11 m on a trouvé 16 tombes (en ciste de pierre ou en fosse simple) échelonnées du IVe jusque vers le début du VIIe siècle ap. J.-C., ce qui porte à croire qu’il s’agit d’un secteur extrêmement dense de la nécropole romano-byzantine de Callatis. La tombe contenait un squelette déposé E–O en fosse simple (1,90 × 0,60 m) et était entièrement dépourvue de mobilier.1 Le texte gravé sur la plaque de marbre bleuté, brisée à droite2 (Fig. 1), a été restitué de la façon suivante:

4

ÉAgay∞i tÊxhi: Yeo›w [pçsin] AÈtokrãtori Ka¤sari M(ãrkƒ) AÈrhl¤ƒ ÉAntvne¤nƒ [ÉArmeniak“ Paryik“ Mh]dik<“> G(ermanik“) AÈgoust“ ka‹ to›w uﬂo›w aÈtoË, di°po[ntow tØn §parxe¤an prono]oum°nou toË presb(eutoË) ka‹ éntistratÆgou toË Seb(astoË) O[Èaler¤ou BradoÊa, T(¤tow) A‡liow Mi]n¤kiow ÉAyana¤vn, ı pr«tow pontãrxhw ka‹ érxi[ereÁw ka‹ êrjaw t∞w ÑEjapÒ]levw, ka‹ ı uﬂÚw aÈtoË T(¤tow) A‡liow Min¤kiow Mosx¤vn po[ntãrxhw ---- ]

Un rapport détaillé en a été présenté par M. Ionescu à l’occasion de la 27e Conférence nationale d’archéologie (Constantza, mai 1993). Sur la nécropole romano-byzantine de Callatis voir Preda 1980. 2 Hauteur = 63 cm; largeur = 108,5 cm; épaisseur = 11,5 cm. Pour la description et toutes autres données techniques, on se rapportera à I.Kallatis 99. 1

Fig. 1. Inscription I.Kallatis 99 (cliché Mihai Ionescu).

À PROPOS DES PONTARQUES DU PONT GAUCHE

355

A. AVRAM, M. B>RBULESCU, M. IONESCU

356

ow toÁw •ptå pÊrgouw ka‹ tå per‹ aÈtå te¤xh épÚ toË [yemel¤ou én°sthsan ka‹ toÊ]-

8 tou ént°labÒn te ka‹ §peskeÊasan ka<‹ t>åw pÊlaw ka‹ [ ----------- ] L. 1: mots espacés.- L. 3: DIKO la pierre.- L. 8: KAPAS la pierre = ka‹ tãw.

Traduction: À la bonne fortune. À tous les Dieux. À l’empereur Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, [triomphateur des Arméniens, des Parthes], des Mèdes et des Germains, Auguste, ainsi qu’à ses ﬁls, aux soins du gouverneur de la province, V[alerius Bradua], légat impérial aux pouvoirs proprétoriens, [Titus Aelius Mi]nicius Athanaiôn, premier pontarque, grand prêtre [et principal magistrat de l’Hexapo]le, ainsi que son ﬁls, Titus Aelius Minicius Moschiôn, po[ntarque---], se chargèrent [de reconstruire depuis les fondations] les sept tours et les murailles attenantes et de faire réparer également les portes et --Notes critiques L. 1: Yeo›w [pçsin] a été restitué d’après [Y]eo›w p[çsin] de l’inscription I.Kallatis 100 (cf. ci-dessous; nous en donnerons les raisons dans le commentaire). L. 3: l’abréviation bien étrange G. ne peut être assignée qu’à l’épithète G(ermanik“). C’est sans doute parce qu’il aura été renseigné au dernier moment du nouveau titre octroyé à l’empereur que le lapicide ﬁt insérer en hâte l’initiale de G(ermanik“), sans pour autant trop aﬀecter la disposition initiale du texte qu’il avait devant ses yeux comme modèle. Par conséquent, notre inscription date de 172 ap. J.-C.3 Nous remarquons ensuite que AÈgoust“ — d’ailleurs moins usité que Sebast“ — n’est pas à sa place normale. La restitution assurée des titres impériaux nous donne ainsi une idée de ce qu’il faudrait ajouter à droite. Pour la l. 3, la solution di°po[ntow tØn §parxe¤an prono]oum°nou est, elle aussi, donnée par la copie de ce texte révélée par I.Kallatis 100. L. 4: la date du document étant assurée, il reste à insérer le nom du gouverneur de 172, Valerius Bradua, duquel il sera question plus bas. Ensuite, prénom, gentilice et cognomen du prôtos pontarchès doivent être identiques à ceux de son ﬁls (l. 6), d’autant plus que le cognomen ﬁnit en -nikios. L. 5: érxi[ereÁw ka‹ êrjaw t∞w ÑEjapÒ]levw. Il n’y a que la première partie de la restitution qui soit hors de doute; pour le reste [êrjaw t∞w pÒ]levw ou bien [uﬂÚw t∞w pÒ]levw demeurent également possibles, même si un peu trop courtes. L. 6: vaut ce que vaut le supplément po[ntãrxhw], on pourrait penser e.g. à po[ntãrxhw t∞w ﬁd¤aw patr¤d]ow (cf. IGBulg I2 14, de Dionysopolis). L. 7: toÁw pÊrgouw ka‹ tå per‹ aÈtå te¤xh. Quelle que soit la solution adoptée pour combler la lacune, le désaccord de genre est évident (auta mal accordé avec tous pyrgous). Il se peut que le rédacteur (ou le lapicide) ait été inconsciemment attiré par le neutre ta teichè. Quant aux possibilités de continuation, nous voyons mal épÚ toË s’accorder avec le génitif révélé par le -tou du début de la ligne suivante; sinon toÁw pÊrgouw ka‹ tå te¤xh deviendrait le complément du prédicat 3 Cf. Kneißl 1969, 106–07: ‘im Jahre 173 ﬁndet sich GERMANICUS auf einigen wenigen Münzemissionen, vorwiegend auf Aesprägungen und hierbei an exponierter Stelle in den Reverslegenden. Dagegen fehlt GERMANICUS auf den Emissionen der Reichsprägung für das Jahr 174 völlig. Erst 175 erscheint der neue Siegerbeiname auf zahlreichen Typen und noch im gleichen Jahr begegnet er zusammen mit SARMATICUS’.

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ént°labon, qu’il faudrait alors traduire par “ils se sont emparés”, ce qui n’a guère de sens ici. Nous prendrions plutôt ént°labon au sens de “ils se sont char-

gés de . . .” (construit avec le génitif du début de la l. 8). Il reste donc suﬃsamment d’espace pour un tout autre génitif introduit par épÚ toË, ce qui invite à penser à épÚ toË [yemel¤ou -- ] = a fundamentis.4

La découverte de ce nouveau document a permis de restituer d’une manière presque complète une autre inscription callatienne, qui, malgré son état fragmentaire, avait retenu à plusieurs reprises l’attention des savants (IGR I 651 = I.Kallatis 100):

4

8

[ÉAgay∞i tÊxhi: vacat Y]eo›w p[çsin] [AÈtokrãtori Ka¤sari M. AÈrhl¤«] ÉAntvn[e¤n«] [ÉArmeniak“ Paryik“ Mhdik“ G. AÈgou]st“ ka‹ [to›w] [uﬂo›w aÈtoË, di°pontow tØn §parxe¤an] pronoo[um°nou] [toË presb. ka‹ éntistratÆgou toË Seb. OÈ]aler¤ou [BradoÊa], [T. A‡liow Min¤kiow ÉAyana¤vn, ı pr«tow p]ontãrxhw [ka‹ ér][xiereÁw ka‹ êrjaw t∞w ÑEjapÒlevw, ka‹ ı uﬂÚw aÈtoË] [T. A‡liow Min¤kiow Mosx¤vn pontãrxhw ktl. ------ ].

Au-delà de quelques petites variations de lecture et de restitution, tous les savants ayant traité de ce document avaient rapporté le mot [p]ontãrxhw5 de la l. 6 au nom [OÈ]al°rio[w] de la ligne antérieure; d’où un pontarque portant le gentilice Valerius, constamment recensé parmi les titulaires de cette charge.6 Une telle manière de comprendre les fragments du texte était pour autant diﬃcilement acceptable. Car, si on restitue ÉAntvn[e¤nƒ] à la l. 2 conjointement à [Seba]st“ (plutôt [AÈgou]st“ au vu du modèle) à la l. 3, il convient d’admettre qu’entre les deux mots ﬁguraient bien d’autres titres de l’Antonin, quel qu’il fût, et que le texte était donc disposé sur des lignes plus longues; en plus, le ka¤ de la l. 3 nous informe qu’à l’empereur était associée au moins une autre personne de la famille impériale. Cela étant, l’écart entre les mots [OÈ]al°rio[w] et [p]ontãrxh[w] devient considérable, ce qui place sous le signe 4 La construction usuelle en est, quand il s’agit d’une reconstruction, §k yemel¤ou uel §k yemel¤vn. Si, par contre, il est question d’une consécration, cf. OGIS 717: [tÚn lãkkon toË Íd]reÊmatow épÚ yemel¤ou <§>[k t]«[n ﬁd¤vn ka]mãtvn én°yhka. Enﬁn, à cause du te explétif d’après ént°labon, il faut intercaler non seulement un verbe qui soit le prédicat dont toÁw pÊrgouw ka‹ tå te¤xh constitue le complément, mais aussi un ka¤. Certes, pour le verbe en question il

y aurait nombre de possibilités; mais, puisque le texte est conçu au datif, comme une dédicace à l’empereur et à ses ﬁls, il est presque sûr qu’il s’agit de én°sthsan; ce qui expliquerait d’ailleurs mieux épÚ toË [yemel¤ou], et non §k yemel¤ou. 5 Le sigma ﬁnal est en partie visible sur la pierre (Institut d’Archéologie de Bucarest, n° d’inv. 790). R. Cagnat (IGR I 651) préférait restituer [p]ontarxÆ[santow] conjointement à [OÈ]aler¤o[u] (l. 5). 6 Sur la pierre on voit pourtant le bras oblique gauche d’un upsilon, donc [OÈ]aler¤ou, ce qui revient à dire qu’il ne peut être question d’accord entre ce génitif et le nominatif [p]ontãrxhw, à moins de reprendre la solution envisagée par Cagnat (voir note précédente).

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du doute le rapport de sens. Seul G. Mihailov semble en avoir compris la diﬃculté.7 La découverte de l’inscription I.Kallatis 99 a permis d’en trouver la solution. En fait, il suﬃt de disposer le texte selon les exigences qu’imposent les débris de mots conservés sur ce fragment pour en arriver à une restitution complète. La similarité des deux textes va jusqu’à la contrainte de maintenir les mêmes abréviations, le barbarisme G. pour G(ermanik“) compris. En ﬁn de l. 1 on distingue un P: ce qui invite à restituer [y]eo›w p[çsin], comme dans une inscription de Tomis (I.Tomis 154); c’est justement ce qui manquait à la l. 1 de l’inscription prise comme modèle (I.Kallatis 99; voir plus haut). L’identité des formulaires introductifs laisse supposer que les textes des deux inscriptions étaient identiques jusqu’à la ﬁn; dans ce cas nous aurions ici une copie — de moindre qualité graphique — de l’inscription I.Kallatis 99, exposée à un autre endroit. Le gouverneur M. Valerius Bradua À part ces deux inscriptions, le gouverneur dont nous venons d’identiﬁer le nom8 nous est connu grâce à trois autres documents épigraphiques, dont deux proviennent toujours de Callatis (I.Kallatis 97 et 98). En éditant l’inscription I.Kallatis 98, S. Lambrino9 avait déjà identiﬁé ce gouverneur au père du consul de 191, Valerius Bradua Mauricus: ce qui a été déﬁnitivement conﬁrmé par une dédicace découverte plus tard à Albingaunum (Albenga, en Ligurie), sans doute la patrie d’origine des Bradua (Ann. ép. 1975, 404): M(arco) Valerio Braduanio Maurico [M(arci) Val]eri [Braduae] Claudia[ni] ﬁlio ordo Albig[aunens(ium)]

C’est ainsi que l’on apprend le nom complet de celui qui a été gouverneur de Mésie inférieure vers 171/2–175/6:10 Marcus Valerius Bradua Claudianus.

Mihailov 1979, 16, n° 18: à la l. 2 il note simplement --antvn--. Sur son cognomen, qui est fort rare et réservé aux seules familles sénatoriales, voir Syme 1988, 375 note 2. 9 Lambrino 1935–1936, 329–32. 10 Doruﬂiu Boil> 1992, 34–35. Il ne reste qu’à trouver une date pour le consulat de M. Valerius Bradua Claudianus; il aurait été suﬀectus ‘spätestens um 170’: Alföldy 1977, 197. 7 8

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Les deux Minicii Le nom de naissance du père (Athanaiôn) est traditionnellement mégarien,11 alors que nom du ﬁls est, à son tour, également bien représenté à Callatis.12 Le nom romanisé de T. Aelius Minicius Athanaiôn montre que son premier porteur avait obtenu la citoyenneté romaine sous le gouverneur L. Minicius Natalis Quadronius Verus (140/141–144).13 Il est bien possible que le même personnage soit attesté par l’inscription I.Kallatis 70 à côté d’un T(¤tow) A‡(liow) Min¤kiow PoÊde(n)w, lequel appartenait sans l’ombre d’un doute à la même famille de notables. Un descendent de la même famille pourrait être T¤tow A‡liow Min[¤kiow], attesté par une inscription d’Histria de la première moitié du IIIe s. (I.Histriae 143) comme pontarque de la Pentapolis et prêtre de Poseidon diå b¤ou. Sur les traces des premiers éditeurs de l’inscription, D. M. Pippidi y restituait Min[oukianÒw], mais la solution Min[¤kiow] est hautement préférable. Nous aurions donc aﬀaire à une famille ayant donné plusieurs pontarques au ﬁl du temps. L’objet de la consécration Les hepta pyrgous kai ta peri auta teichè sont, selon toute évidence, les sept tours des remparts de la ville et les courtines attenantes. Les inscriptions I.Kallatis 97 et 98 nous informent que la reconstruction des remparts de la ville s’est faite sous le même gouverneur à la suite d’une levée de taxes — exactio pecuniae. Le parallèle le plus proche en est fourni par l’inscription bilingue de Philippopolis de Thrace (CIL III 7409 = 6121 = ILS 5337 = IGR I 712 = 1467 = IGBulg III 878), datée toujours de 172. Grâce à la muniﬁcence impériale et aux bons soins du gouverneur de la province de Thrace, C. Pantuleius Graptiacus, la ville ﬁt reconstruire ses murailles: [§k doy°ntvn] aÈtª xrhmãtvn ÍpÚ toË yeio[tãtou aÈtokrãtorow ktl.].14 En revanche, à Callatis, il est question d’une levée exceptionnelle de taxes, exactio pecuniae. Sans doute vers la même époque, à Tomis, on organise une souscription pour réparer quelques portions de l’enceinte (?) de la ville.15 Les sources de ﬁnancement allouées aux travaux de reconstruction étaient donc bien variées, mais la raison en aura été la même. Il est bien possible que toutes ces activités de Voir les remarques de Robert 1969, 261 note 3. Le nom ﬁgure à Callatis dans les inscriptions I.Kallatis 6, 74, 158, sans doute aussi 69. L. Robert ajoute le magistrat monétaire dont le sigle est ÉAya(—): Münsterberg 1911, 87. Dans la région, le nom ne revient que dans la mégarienne Mésambria: IGBulg I2 315, 324 (à deux reprises), 326, 334 sexies, 339. 12 I.Kallatis 69, 92, 128. 13 PIR 2 V/2, M 620; cf. Rodà de Mayer 1978, 219–23; B>rbulescu et R>dulescu 1997, 167–70, n° 1. 14 Cf., dans le texte latin: murum ciuitati Philippopoli[tanorum exstruxit] (ou bien dedit; mais exstruxit est justement le mot qu’emploie I.Kallatis 97). 15 I.Tomis 21: [-- m]er¤di toË te¤xouw, avec l’interprétation proposée par Aricescu 1977, 155. 11

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reconstruction dans les villes de Mésie inférieure et de Thrace ne furent que la conséquence des destructions provoquées en 170 par les attaques dévastatrices des Costoboces de 170.16 Le remaniement presque total de l’enceinte callatienne vers les années soixante-dix du IIe s. est largement conﬁrmé par les fouilles archéologiques.17 Plus tard, la muraille d’enceinte et la porte principale de la ville seront représentées sur des monnaies callatiennes frappées sous Septime Sévère et Caracalla.18 Dans ces conditions, il ne reste qu’à voir dans l’initiative des Minicii un volet secondaire de la grande action initiée par le gouverneur. Un bel exemple (de l’époque de Tibère) en est fourni par une inscription d’Odessos (IGR I 659 = IGBulg I2 57): Íp¢r t∞w aÈtokrãtorow Tiber¤ou Ka¤sarow . . . tÊxhw kt(¤)stou toË kainoË p(e)ribÒ(l)ou (ÉA)pollvn(¤)ou toË Promay¤vnow [t]Øn sxoin¤an tØn metajÁ t«n dÊo pÊrgvn oﬁkodomÆsaw ka‹ stegãsaw (§)k t«n ﬁd¤(v)n yeo›w pçsin . . . L’initiative semble avoir été impériale et c’est dans le cadre d’une opération plus complexe qu’un particulier en assuma une partie. Remarques sur les pontarques et la pontarchie La principale contribution apportée par le couple I.Kallatis 99–100 concerne l’expression prôtos pontarchès. Ce titre a été expliqué de trois manières diﬀérentes: a) ‘premier pontarque’ au sens temporel absolu (à savoir, le tout premier à avoir jamais exercé la charge de pontarque);19 b) ‘premier pontarque’ au sens toujours temporel, mais uniquement par rapport à ses successeurs originaires de sa ville natale;20 c) ‘premier pontarque’ au sens de personnage prééminent, par rapport à des présumés subordonnés ne portant que le titre de pontarque tout simplement.21 Jusqu’à la découverte du document I.Kallatis 99, la discussion ne concernait que M. Ulpius Artémidôros, notable d’Histria, le seul à être mentionné comme prôtos pontarchès dans une inscription datée des environs de 140 (I.Histriae 207).22 16 Sur les eﬀets de ces incursions dans la Dobroudja, voir Popescu 1964, 192–200 (commentaire à CIL III 14 214, 12: épitaphe d’un interfectus a Castabocis — sic); Vulpe 1968, 158–63; Suceveanu 1969, 355; Suceveanu 1990, 240. 17 Preda, Popescu et Diaconu 1962, 439–42; Preda 1968, 21 (cf. Suceveanu 1969, 355); Ionescu et Geogescu 1998, 205–19. 18 Pick 1898, nos 321 et 323; sur les portes ( pylai ) voir également l’inscription commentée dans cet article. 19 Veyne 1966, 149 et suiv.; Nawotka 1987; 1990; 1993; 1997, 216–36; Musielak 1994. 20 Pippidi 1960 = Pippidi 1975, 230–49; Pippidi 1969 = Pippidi 1975, 250–56; cf. Deininger 1983, 223: ‘vorläuﬁg nicht genau bestimmbare Ehrenbezeichnung’. 21 Doruﬂiu Boil> 1975, 154–55, avec note 26; Mihailov 1979, 29–33. 22 Pippidi datait l’inscription de ca. 140–160, mais cf. Nawotka 1994, 79–84. Voir, pour le même personnage, I.Histriae 137, 178–80, 193, avec les commentaires portant sur ses liens prosopographiques. Nawotka 1994, 79–84 (cf. SEG XLIV 619 et Nawotka 1997, 225) suggère la lecture (l. 3–4): M. OÈ[l(p¤ou) ÑUpaf?]l≈rou (contra: Avram 1998, 311); cf. Nawotka 1998,

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Au regard de notre inscription, il convient de renoncer déﬁnitivement à la première des solutions susmentionnées; car désormais on connaît au moins deux personnes portant le titre de prôtos pontarchès. D’autre part, pour autant qu’aucun koinon connu des autres régions de l’Orient romain ne fournisse de parallèles pour une organisation collégiale, il nous semble plus diﬃcile d’accepter que le prôtos pontarchès ait été le pontarque ‘suprême’ de tout le koinon, alors que ceux désignés tout simplement comme pontarchès n’aient été que des pontarques ‘locaux’, chacun dans sa ville.23 Il ne reste donc qu’à reprendre le point de vue défendu plus d’une fois par D.M. Pippidi, selon lequel M. Ulpius Artémidôros avait été le premier des pontarques originaires d’Histria. Par conséquent, T. Aelius Minicius Athanaiôn aurait été le premier pontarque originaire de Callatis. Il aurait été en charge bien avant 172, la date de l’inscription qui l’atteste; car si, en 172 ou bien quelque peu avant cette date, son ﬁls était déjà, à son tour, pontarque, il faut laisser place pour un certain délai entre la charge du père et la charge du ﬁls. Un bon parallèle nous est fourni par l’un des exemples allégués par P. Veyne, pour démontrer que ‘pr«tow nude dictus désigne ici une priorité chronologique’24: C. Curtius Proclus de Mégare, pr«tow Pan°llhn,25 à savoir ‘le premier Mégarien à faire partie du Panhellènion’.26 À continuer le raisonnement, si le premier pontarque originaire d’Histria ne remonte sans doute qu’à l’époque d’Hadrien (en tout cas, de quelques bonnes années avant la date assignée à l’inscription dans laquelle il ﬁgure à côté d’un autre pontarque) et le premier pontarque originaire de Callatis que des années cinquante à soixante du IIe siècle, on voit mal comment on pourrait faire remonter l’origine de la pontarchie à une époque plus ancienne que celle des règnes de Trajan ou d’Hadrien. Car, si la pontarchie datait de l’époque d’Auguste ou même de la basse époque hellénistique — comme on l’a supposé à quelques reprises — il est bien diﬃcile, voire impossible de trouver des explications raisonnables au fait que durant plus d’un siècle les pontarques n’auraient été choisis que parmi les notables de Tomis, Dionysopolis, Odessos et Mésambria, tandis que les deux autres villes (Histria et Callatis) n’en auraient donné aucun. Il vaut mieux admettre que la pontarchie n’a été constituée que sous le règne de Trajan ou (plutôt) d’Hadrien. Aucun document de la liste des pontarques connus27 ne date d’une période antérieure au règne d’Hadrien. 107–08: M. OÈ[l(p¤ou) -- ]l≈rou (SEG XLVIII 970). Par conséquent, le ‘premier pontarque’ M. Ulpius [-]loros serait diﬀérent du pontarque M. Ulpius Artémidôros de I.Histriae 137 (cf. 234). Pour le koinon voir aussi Gocheva 1998 (mais qui ne fait pas du tout état des contributions de Nawotka et de Musielak). 23 Voir, à ce propos, les remarques critiques de Deininger 1983, 221–23. 24 Veyne 1966, 150. 25 IG VII 106 = Oliver 1970, n° 42. 26 Cf. Robert 1940, 262; Follet 1976, 131. 27 Mihailov 1979, 9–21, avec quelques modiﬁcations apportées depuis lors par Musielak 1994, 110–15, Nawotka 1997, 234–36 et I.Kallatis, p. 71.

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L’un des premiers pontarques aurait été le Tomitain Phaidros, père de T. Flavius Poseidônios, lequel fut, quant à lui, agonothète du divin Antinoos (ce qui date sa charge de 130–138) et pontarque.28 L’inscription de Callatis oﬀre donc un atout majeur en faveur de l’idée que le koinon ouest-pontique ne fut créé comme organisme du culte impérial, avec un pontarque à sa tête, que vers l’époque d’Hadrien ou de Trajan au plus tôt; c’est, en quelque sorte, l’opinion soutenue à plusieurs reprises par I. Stoian,29 qui datait le koinon de l’époque d’Auguste ou de Tibère et la pontarchie et, par conséquent, le koinon comme organisme du culte impérial de l’époque d’Hadrien, et — d’une manière encore plus ferme — par P. Veyne,30 qui ne trouve pas nécessaire une telle distinction et préfère réunir koinon et pontarchie et les dater tous les deux de l’époque d’Hadrien. K. Nawotka suggère, à son tour, une date autour de 107–117 pour la constitution du koinon, dans le contexte de la réorganisation des provinces danubiennes sous Trajan, alors que M. Musielak31 s’en tient à l’époque d’Hadrien ou d’Antonin le Pieux. Quoi qu’il en soit de toutes ces hypothèses, il faut désormais compter sur deux notables, M. Ulpius Artémidôros d’Histria et T. Aelius Minicius Athanaiôn de Callatis, ayant porté le titre de prôtos pontarchès. Il est, semble-t-il, question à chaque fois du premier parmi ses concitoyens à avoir exercé la charge de pontarque, et non du tout premier à l’avoir jamais revêtue. L’heureuse découverte d’un document désignant de la même manière un personnage d’une troisième ville de l’Hexapole pourrait trancher déﬁnitivement la question. Université du Maine Faculté des Lettres, Langues et Sciences humaines Av. Olivier Messiaen 72085 Le Mans France

Alexandru Avram

Muzeul de Istorie Naﬂional> Arheologie {i Art> Constanﬂa Piaﬂa Ovidiu 12 8700 Constanﬂa Romania

Maria B>rbulescu

28 I.Tomis 52: [tÚn p]ontãrxhn ka‹ ér[xier°]a t∞w ÑEjapÒevw [tÚ]n uﬂÚn toË PÒntou ka‹ pr«ton égvnoy°thn yeoË ÉAntinÒou, T. Flãouion Poseid≈nion, uﬂÚn Fa¤drou toË pontãrxou ka‹ uﬂoË t∞w pÒlevw; voir les remarques de Veyne 1966, 151, et de Pippidi 1975, 253. 29 30 31

Stoian 1965, 70–89 = Stoian 1972, 147–66. Veyne 1966, 152–54. Musielak 1993, 195.

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}os. Constanﬂei Bl. T 2 8727 Mangalia Romania

363

Mihai Ionescu

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Abréviations Ann. ép. BCH CIL IG IGBulg I–V IGR I.Histriae I.Kallatis ILS I.Tomis OGIS PIR 2 V SEG ZPE

L’Année épigraphique Bulletin de correspondance hellénique Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum Inscriptiones Graecae G. Mihailov, Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria repertae (Serdicae 1958–1997) R. Cagnat et al., Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes (Paris 1906–1927) D.M. Pippidi, Inscripﬂiile din Scythia Minor grece{ti {i latine I. Histria {i împrejurimile (Bucarest 1983) A. Avram, Inscriptions grecques et latines de Scythie Mineure III. Callatis et son territoire (Bucarest/Paris 1999) H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae selectae (Berlin 1892–1916) I. Stoian, Inscripﬂiile din Scythia Minor grece{ti {i latine II. Tomis {i teritoriul s>u (Bucarest 1987) W. Dittenberger, Orientis Graeci inscriptiones selectae (Leipzig 1903–1905) L. Petersen et al., Prosopographia Imperii Romani, 2a ed., V. L–O (Berlin 1970–1987) Supplementum epigraphicum Graecum Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

Alföldy, G. 1977: Konsulat und Senatorenstand unter den Antoninen. Prosopographische Untersuchungen zur senatorischen Führungsschicht (Bonn). Aricescu, A. 1977: Armata în Dobrogea roman> (Bucarest). Avram, A. 1998: ‘Compte-rendu de Mrozewicz et Ilski 1994’. Studii {i cercet>ri de istorie veche {i arheologie 49, 307–11. B>rbulescu, M. et R>dulescu, A. 1997: ‘Dedicaﬂii imperiale din Tomis’. Pontica 30, 167–75. Deininger, J. 1983: ‘Zu einer neuen Hypothese über die Pontarchie im westpontischen Koinon’. ZPE 51, 219–27. Doruﬂiu Boil>, E. 1975: ‘Contribution épigraphique à l’histoire de Tomis à l’époque du Principat’. Dacia N.S. 19, 152–57. ——. 1992: ‘Die Statthalter Niedermösiens zwischen 161 und 175’. Dacia N.S. 36, 23–35. Follet, S. 1976: Athènes au II e et au III e siècles. Études chronologiques et prosopographiques (Paris). Gocheva, Z. 1998: ‘Organization of the Religious and Administrative Life of the Western Pontic Koinon’. Dans Fol, A., Gocheva, Z., Jordanov, K. et Porozhanov, K. (éds.), Studia in honorem Christo M. Danov Univ. Prof. D. Dr. collegae et discipuli dedicaverunt (Soﬁa), 141–46. Ionescu, M. et Georgescu, V. 1998: ‘Le système défensif callatien’. Dans Zahariade, M. and Opri{, I.I.C. (éds.), The Roman Frontier at the Lower Danube 4th–6th centuries. The Second International Symposium, Murighiol/Halmyris, 18–24 August 1996 (Bucarest), 205–19. Kneißl, P. 1969: Die Siegestitulatur der römischen Kaiser. Untersuchungen zu den Siegerbeinamen des ersten und zweiten Jahrhunderts (Göttingen). Lambrino, S. 1935–1936: ‘Valerius Bradua, un nouveau gouverneur de la Mésie inférieure’. Revista istoric> român> 5–6, 321–32. Mihailov, G. 1979: ‘The Western Pontic Koinon’. Epigraphica 41, 7–42. Mrozewicz, L. et Ilski, K. (éds.) 1994: Studia Moesiaca I–II (Poznan). Münsterberg, R. 1911: ‘Die Beamtennamen auf den griechischen Münzen geographisch und alphabetisch geordnet’. Numismatische Zeitschrift 44 (N. F. 4), 69–132. Musielak, M. 1993: ‘Pr«tow pontãrxhw’. Pontica 26, 191–95. ——. 1994: ‘Pontarchowie’. Dans Mrozewicz et Ilski 1994, I, 101–15. Nawotka, K. 1987: ‘Zgromadzenia prowincjonalne w rzymskich prowincjach naddunajskich’. Antiquitas 13, 189–91.

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——. 1990: ‘KoinÚn toË PÒntou’. Balcanica Posnaniensia 5, 151–61. ——. 1993: ‘The “First Pontarch” and the Date of the Establishment of the Western Pontic KOINON’. Klio 75, 342–50. ——. 1994: ‘Pierwszy Pontarcha raz jeszcze’. Dans Mrozewicz et Ilski 1994, II, 79–84. ——. 1997: The Western Pontic Cities. History and Political Organization (Amsterdam). ——. 1998: ‘Inscr. Scyth. Min. I 207 (Istros) Reconsidered’. ZPE 120, 107–08. Oliver, J.H. 1970: Marcus Aurelius. Aspects of Civic and Cultural Policy in the East (Princeton). Pick, B. 1898: Die antiken Münzen von Dacien und Moesien I, 1 (Berlin). Popescu, E. 1964: ‘Epigraphische Beiträge zur Geschichte der Stadt Tropaeum Traiani’. Studii clasice 6, 192–200. Pippidi, D.M. 1960: ‘Un nouveau document sur le koinon pontique au IIe siècle. En marge d’un album agonistique d’Istros’. BCH 84, 434–58. ——. 1969: ‘Réﬂexions sur la pontarchie et les pontarques de Mésie’. Dans Bibauw, J. (éd.), Hommages à Marcel Renard II (Bruxelles), 623–33. ——. 1975: Scythica Minora. Recherches sur les colonies grecques du littoral roumain de la mer Noire (Bucarest/Amsterdam). Preda, C. 1968: Callatis 2e éd. (Bucarest). ——. 1980: Callatis. Necropola romano-bizantin> (Bucarest). Preda, C., Popescu, E. et Diaconu, P. 1962: ‘S>p>turile arheologice de la Mangalia (Callatis)’. Materiale {i cercet>ri arheologice 8, 439–55. Robert, L. 1940: Les gladiateurs dans l’Orient grec (Paris). ——. 1969: Opera minora selecta V (Amsterdam). Rodà de Mayer, I. 1978: ‘Le iscrizioni in onore di Lucius Minucius Natalis Quadronius Verus’. Dacia N.S. 22, 219–23. Stoian, I. 1965: ‘Sur la communauté des cités grecques du Pont Gauche’. Latomus 24, 70–89. ——. 1972: Études histriennes (Bruxelles). Suceveanu, A. 1969: ‘Observations sur la stratigraphie des cités de la Dobrogea aux IIe–IVe siècles à la lumière des fouilles d’Histria’. Dacia N.S. 13, 329–65. ——. 1990: ‘Das römische Histria’. Dans Alexandrescu, P. et Schuller, W. (éds.), Histria. Eine Griechenstadt an der rumänischen Schwarzmeerküste (Konstanz), 233–64. Syme, R. 1988: Roman Papers (Oxford). Veyne, P. 1966: ‘Augustal de l’an I — premier pontarque’. BCH 90, 144–55. Vulpe, R. 1968. Première partie de Vulpe, R. et Barnea, I., Din istoria Dobrogei II. Romanii la Dun>rea de jos (Bucarest).

NOTES BRONZE PUNCHES FROM BEREZAN1 Abstract The present article discusses two bronze punches found during the excavation of two Archaic house complexes on the island of Berezan. One has been published before; the other, discovered in the course of studying the collection of artefacts from Berezan, is published for the ﬁrst time. The punches show that the traditions of jewellery manufacture in Lydia and northern Ionia had been developed further on Berezan. To date, no other Archaic Greek settlement in the northern Black Sea region has yielded any material proving the existence of local production of jewellery and toreutics.

Excavation on the island of Berezan of the earliest Greek colony on the northern Black Sea coast has revealed some very important evidence for Archaic metalworking, including the remains of workshops,2 as well as stone casting forms,3 used for manufacturing various bronze objects, including those made in the Scythian Animal Style (Fig. 1). An ivory eye with bronze lashes belonging to a bronze statue, found in the ﬁll of a pit house from the end of the 6th-beginning of the 5th century BC,4 has added to the variety of artefacts manufactured by Berezan’s craftsmen (or by craftsmen living on Berezan). The discovery in 1986 of a bronze punch (Appendix 1.2; Figs. 2–4) in house 6 room 1, with material from the last quarter of the 6th century BC (Appendix 3), permits us to consider the manufacture in Archaic Berezan of objects made out of precious metals, possibly appliqués in the shape of masks, attached to the walls of phialai mesomphaloi,5 or the terminals of necklaces, like those on the golden necklace from Sindos in Macedonia (from burial 67, dated to ca. 510 BC).6 It has been suggested that the house where the punch was found (Fig. 5) might have belonged to a bronze-caster or a jeweller.7 During study of the collection of objects from Berezan in the State Hermitage Museum (GE), another punch was discovered (Figs. 6–8; Appendix 1.1), also from an Archaic context, dating no earlier than the mid-6th century BC (Appendix 2). This punch deserves detailed analysis. From comparative analysis of the few bronze punches of the 6th–4th centuries BC found along the north-western and western Black Sea coast, the following can be said. The punch discovered in stratum of the 6th century BC in the Hallstatt

The description of the context of the ﬁnds is by S.L. Solovyov; the attribution of the punches is provided by M.Y. Treister. Translation from Russian to English by V. Kozlovskaya. 2 Solovyov 1999, 93; Domanskii et al. 2001, 12–14. 3 Son 1987, 118ﬀ.; Treister 1998a, 179ﬀ.; Vinogradov and Kryzhitskii 1995, 105, ﬁg. 100.2–4. 4 Nazarov 1997, 21. Large bronze statues were usually cast near their intended installation. For bronze sculpture fragments and traces of production discovered in the North Pontic Region, see Treister 1988, 152–57; 1999, 121ﬀ. 5 Treister 1996, 74–75; 1998a, 187–88; 1998b; 2001, 72. 6 Cat. Thessaloniki 1985, no. 320; Vokotopoulou 1996, 129, nos. 7968–7969. 7 Solovyov 1999, 93, n. 55. 1

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Fig. 1. Map of the north-western Black Sea littoral.

settlement of Opri{or in Romania,8 which had been used for manufacturing acorn pendants9 or decorating phialai,10 diﬀers from the Berezan punch in terms of size (it is larger: its length is 5.9 cm, the height of its working part is 3.0 cm) and the shape of its bushing, whose cross section is oval, almost round, although the working part of the punch is separated from the bushing by a deep groove. Numerous punches from northern Bulgaria, dated to the 4th century BC, recently put into circulation, present images from the Thracian artistic tradition and have a diﬀerent shape—their working part is not accentuated by a groove.11 The ﬂattened parallel piped shape of the punch, with the edges smoothly widening towards the working part of the instrument, resembles the shape of some bronze punches from U{ak in eastern Lydia, unfortunately coming from looted excavations, although it has been suggested that they came from one of the burial-mounds. The punches can be divided into two groups: 1) Has an image of a standing female ﬁgure with primitive features, her arms stretched down along the body. The height of the ﬁgure varies from 2.5 cm to 3.3 cm; the length of the punch is 3.8–4.9 cm. The ﬁgure is not separated from the main

8 Babe{ 1993, 125ﬀ., ﬁgs. 1, 3.1: 4th–3rd centuries BC. Cf. Kull 1997a, 689–90, ﬁgs. 1, 3; 1997b, 566ﬀ., ﬁgs. 8, 15, 14; 1997c, 206–07; Treister 2001, 17, 75–76. 9 Kull 1997b, 575–78. 10 Babe{ 1993, 125–34; Tonkova 1994, 182; Treister 2001, 76. 11 Torbov and Paunov 2000, 267ﬀ.

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Fig. 2. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.86.311. Photograph by the Hermitage.

Fig. 3. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.86.311. Photograph by the Hermitage.

Fig. 4. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.86.311. Photograph by the Hermitage.

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Fig. 5. Plan of houses in the north-western sector, with house 6, 1986 excavation of Berezan.

body of the punch by an incision.12 A punch of a similar shape with a depiction of a standing kore on the working part was found in Othryoneion in the Troad during the Trojan survey expedition in June 2001 (BR257 AO.621). As on the Berezan punch, the working part of that from Ophryneion was separated by a groove.13 However, one of the punches acquired by the Antiken Sammlung in Munich,14 supposedly originating from Asia Minor, also with an image of a standing female ﬁgure on it, has bushing of a diﬀerent shape, even though also ﬂattened: this bushing is rather narrow and its edges are parallel, widening immediately at the beginning of the working part.15 2) Includes punches for bead and acorn pendants, with a length of 4.2–4.3 cm; the height of the pendants is 2.2, the diameter 1.9 cm.16 Similar pendants decorate one of the necklaces found in the area of U{ak.

12 13 14 15 16

Özgen and Öztürk 1996, nos. Bieg 2002, 451–56, ﬁgs. 2–3. Kaesar 1994, 210–11, ﬁg. 25; Kaesar 1994, 210–11, ﬁg. 25; Özgen and Öztürk 1996, nos.

195–197; Treister 2001, 61, 404, ﬁgs. 8–9. Treister 1998a, 184–87, 196–97; 2001, 67–72. Treister 2001, 71, 408, ﬁgs. 23, 25. 201–202; Treister 2001, 61–62, 405, ﬁgs. 12–13.

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Fig. 6. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.73.398. Photograph by the Hermitage.

Fig. 7. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.73.398. Photograph by the Hermitage.

Fig. 8. Bronze punch from Berezan. GE, inv. number B.73.398. Photograph by the Hermitage.

The punches of the second group are closer to the punch from Berezan in terms of their proﬁle line and the size of their imprints (their length is 3.17 cm; their height 1.33 cm); apart from that, the working part of each punch, used for imprinting the image, is separated from the main body of the punch by a groove, as with the Berezan punch. What kinds of objects could have been manufactured by the Berezan punch? Most likely, we can talk here about necklace pendants, with their upper parts in the shape of a rounded bead and their lower part in the shape of a cylinder with a rounded end; the part between the bead and the rest of the pendant looks as if bound slightly by a string. Such pendants, as far as we know, have not previously been found in

17

Özgen and Öztürk 1996, 108; Meriçboyu 2001, 104.

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the Berezan necropolis, where so far only two Archaic and early Classical graves have been discovered, both with a rather modest set of gold and silver jewellery.18 However, nor have such pendants been found among the gold jewellery from the Archaic necropolis in Olbia.19 In general, gold necklaces of the Archaic period with pendants are relatively rare and represented by other types.20 Necklaces from the Archaic necropolis of Ialissos on Rhodes, for example, have pendants in the shape of balls with smooth surfaces.21 Pendants in the shape of amphorae with wide cylindrical necks can be seen on the necklace from burial 56 (ca. 510 BC) at Sindos.22 Similar pendants decorate the necklace currently in the Dallas Museum.23 Necklace pendants in the shape of amphorae, coming from Cyprus and dated to the ﬁrst half of the 5th century BC, are made of two parts, where as the body of an amphora and the bead are made as one piece.24 Necklaces from the ﬁrst quarter of the 5th century BC from burials 4 and 5 of the early Classical necropolis in Eretria are decorated with pendants of an ovoid shape with smooth surfaces, each made as one piece with the bead ( just like pendants manufactured with the Berezan punch); on one of the necklaces such pendants are used alternately with acorn pendants.25 Similar pendants of an ovoid shape (wheat-grained pendants), but without beads at the top, come from burial 67 (ca. 510 BC) in the Sindos necropolis in Macedonia.26 And similar Archaic pendants of an ovoid shape come from Lydia27 and Phrygia (necklace from burial-mound A at Gordion, the 6th century BC).28 In the latter necklace, such pendants are used together with acorn pendants. Although we were not able to ﬁnd exact analogies to the pendants which could have been made by the Berezan punch, the technique used to manufacture the pendants decorating the necklaces discussed above is similar: hollow pendants were made out of two halves, joined with solder along their vertical axis, each half manufactured by means of a punch. The fact that the Berezan punch was used for manufacturing a pendant and a necklace bead in one piece is paralleled not just by the punch from U{ak. The pendants from Eretria and Cyprus, manufactured by the same technique (dating, however, from the ﬁrst half of the 5th century BC), indirectly conﬁrm our attribution. The Berezan punch from the mid- to third quarter of the 6th century BC once again emphasises the important role played by metalworking, including the manufacture of objects from precious metals, in the early stages of the development of a Greek colony. In this context, we should mention the 1975 discovery of the Berezan coin hoard from the beginning of the 6th century BC, containing electrum coins from Vinogradov 1994; Vinogradov and Kryzhitskii 1995, 105, ﬁgs. 117–118. Skudnova 1988. 20 Higgins 1980, 129; Deppert-Lippitz 1985, 116–22. 21 Grave 153: Jacopi 1929, 155, ﬁg. 148; 157, no. 8, inv. 6654. Grave 155: Jacopi 1929, 155, ﬁg. 150; 158, n. 9, inv. 6722. 22 Cat. Thessaloniki 1985, no. 285. 23 Deppert-Lippitz 1985, no. 63: 6th–5th centuries BC. 24 Deppert-Lippitz 1985, 139, ﬁg. 88; colour pl. VIII. 25 Kuruniotis 1913, 306, 312, Taf. XV, 1–2; Higgins 1980, 129, pl. 26C; Deppert-Lippitz 1985, 120, ﬁg. 68c; Despini 1996, nos. 119–120. 26 Cat. Thessaloniki 1985, no. 315; Despini 1996, no. 135. 27 Meriçboyu 2001, 52, 55. 28 Bingöl 1999, no. 113; Meriçboyu 2001, 54. 18 19

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Erythrae and Miletus, as well as gold jewellery pieces, including two acorn pendants;29 the hoard had possibly belonged to a jeweller.30 The punches found in Berezan clearly show that the traditions of jewellery manufacture in Lydia and northern Ionia had been further developed here.31 So far, no other Greek settlement of the Archaic period in the northern Black Sea area has yielded any material to indicate the manufacture of jewellery and toreutics. Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities The State Hermitage Museum Dvortsovaya nab. 34 190000 St Petersburg Russia [email protected]

S.L. Solovyov

Weißenburgstr. 59 D-53175 Bonn Germany [email protected]

M.Y. Treister

Appendix 1. Bronze Punches from Berezan. 1. GE, inv. number B.73.398. Pit 2. Figs. 6–8. Bronze punch. Length 3.17 cm; height of working part 1.33 cm; width 0.43 cm. Of trapezoidal shape; width of the upper part is 0.88 cm; thickness of the upper part is 0.53 cm, widening towards the lower part up to 1.3 cm (thickness is 0.43 cm). The working part is separated form the main body of the punch by a shallow incised line on both sides. The upper surface of the stamp is ﬂattened by hammer strokes; the edges are curved downwards. The resulting surface measures 0.94 × 1.14 cm. Relief height is 0.3 cm. The outline of the depiction on the working part of the punch is somewhat blurred: in the upper part a small oval-shaped bead is distinctive, which appears to be slightly bound with a string underneath; the middle and lower section of the working part is formed by a ﬁgure of rectangular shape, interpreted as a whole, with a rounded lower end. Unpublished. 2. GE, inv. number B.86.311. Bronze punch. Room 1/6. Figs. 2–4. Total height is 4.76 cm. The shaft is of almost round cross-section and has a rather smooth horizontal surface in its upper part (height is 0.99 cm; width 0.93 cm). The body of the shaft widens and slightly thickens towards its lower part (height is 1.75 cm; width 1.05 cm). The working part is separated from the main body of the shaft by a rather wide incision, triangular in cross-section. The depiction in high relief shows a male head with short hair, short wide nose, round eyes, emphasised by grooves, and wide ﬂat mouth. In addition, the upper part of the neck can be seen. The depiction of the neck is completed at the bottom by means of a horizontal line; the corners

Karyshkovskii and Lapin 1979, 105; cf. Hind 1984, 79–80; Skrzhinskaya 1986, 124, ﬁg. 5.1. Treister 1996, 74–75, 142. 31 For details, see Treister 2001, 75–77. For gold working techniques in Lydia, see Ramage and Craddock 2000. 29

30

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are slightly rounded. The maximum relief height is 1.05 cm (chin). Height of the image is 2.12 cm; width 1.0 cm. The bushing of the punch has an uneven surface, with some traces of polishing, and had most likely been cast from a wax model. (Bibliography: Domanskii et al. 1989, 52, ﬁg. 14.6; Treister 1996, 75–76; 1998a, 187–88, 197, ﬁg. 13; 1998b, ﬁg. 10; 2001, 17, 23, 31, 72, 75, 385; Solovyov 1999, 93, n. 35, ﬁg. 90.1–2.) Appendix 2. Context of artefact B.73.398. Western area, square 72. Pit 2. At the southern border of square 72 a pit, oval in plan, was discovered. Part of it continued into the southern border of the square. It measured 2.5 m from west to east and 1.75 m from north to south; the depth was 0.65 m. It was ﬁlled with grey-clay soil, containing a rather insigniﬁcant amount of material from the mid-6th century BC. Other ﬁnds included pieces of hand-made pottery and kitchenware and the foot of a Rhodian-Ionian plate from a period not earlier than the mid-6th century BC (B.73.69, Fig. 9).

Fig. 9. Foot of Rhodian-Ionian plate. Berezan, 1973, pit 2. GE, inv. number B.73.69. Photograph by S.L. Solovyov.

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Appendix 3. Context of artefact B.86.311. Room 1/6. House 6, of trapezoidal shape, measuring 10 × 12 m, occupied the north-eastern corner of the living quarter. The house consisted of a courtyard and three or four rooms. It was built at the end of the third quarter of the 6th century BC and destroyed by the end of the same century, most likely as a result of a violent ﬁre: a large burnt level (its thickness reaching up to 0.50 m) was found in part of the courtyard (room 5) and particularly in two or three rooms in the southern part of the house. In one of these (room 2) a bronze-casting or jewellery workshop had been located (Fig. 5). The punch was found in room 1 (next to room 2, the workshop). In the ﬁll of room 1, 1096 pieces of pottery were discovered, 90.3 % of which were amphora sherds (including thick-necked Chian, grey-clay Lesbian, and red-clay Proto-Thasian amphorae), a further 9.4 % were sherds of wheel-made pottery (including an Ionian plate, B.86.56, Fig. 10), and 0.3 % were pieces of hand-made pottery. A lead loomweight was also discovered. Overall, the discovered material was rather uninformative. Room 2, a workshop, was of a particular interest. Two hearths were discovered there (one made out of the upper part of an amphora, the other one made out of a lower part, both cut into the ground and coated with clay) and remains of a furnace (pieces of slag were found). In the room, 3266 sherds were found, mostly of amphorae, but also of wheel-made pottery (9.2 % of the total): fragments of Ionian striped, black-glazed, Chian, Corinthian, and black-ﬁgure Attic vessels (B.86.63, 74). Hand-made pottery was also of some interest, even though only a small amount of it was recovered (including a fragment of a Thracian pot). Other ﬁnds included a bronze arrow-head, dolphin-shaped coins (B.86.293, 294, 295), a scraper for handling hides made out of a bovine jaw, and a fragment of an iron akinakes.32 BIBLIOGRAPHY Babe{, M. 1993: ‘Ein toreutisches Werkzeug aus dem 4.–3. Jh. v. Chr. aus Opri{or ( jud. Mehedinﬂi)’. Studi si cercetâri de istorie veche {i arheologie 44.2, 125–34. Bieg, G. 2002: ‘Neue Funde aus der Troas—eine archaische Bronzepunze aus Ophryneion und ein hellenistischer Klappspiegel mit Erosrelief aus der Umgebung von Kumkale, Provinz Canakkale’. Studia Troica 12, 451–66. Bingöl, F.R.I. 1999: Anadolu medenizetleri müyesi. Antik takilar (Ankara). Cat. Thessaloniki 1985: Sindos (Athens). Deppert-Lippitz, B. 1985: Griechischer Goldschmuck (Mainz). ——. 1996: Ancient Gold Jewelry at the Dallas Museum of Art (Dallas). Despini, A. 1996: Ancient Gold Jewellery (Athens). Domanskii, Y.V., Beketova, N.S., Marchenko, K.K., Popov, S.G. and Rogov, E.Y. 2001: ‘Osnovnye rezul’taty rabot Berezanskoi (Nizhnebugskoi) antichnoi ekspeditsii v 2000 g.’. In Otchetnaya arkheologicheskaya sessiya Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha za 2000 g. (St Petersburg), 12–14. Higgins, R. 1980: Greek and Roman Jewellery (London). Hind, J.G.F. 1984: ‘Greek and Barbarian Peoples on the Shores of the Black Sea’. Archaeological Reports 30, 71–97. Jacopi, G. 1929: Scavi nella necropoli di Jalisso (Rhodes). Kaesar, B. 1994: ‘Vier archaische ostgriechische Goldschmiedepunzen’. Münchner Jahrbuch der bildenden Kunst 3. Folge XLV, 210–11.

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Solovyov 1999, 95, ﬁg. 96.

Fig. 10. Rhodian-Ionian plate. Berezan, 1986, house 6/1. GE, inv. number B.86.56. Photograph by S.L. Solovyov.

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Karyshkovskii, P.O. and Lapin, V.V. 1979: ‘Monetno-veshchevoi klad epokhi grecheskoi kolonizatsii, naidennyi na Berezani v 1975 g.’. In Lordkipanidze, O.D. (ed.), Problemy grecheskoi kolonizatsii Severnogo i Vostochnogo Prichernomor’ya. Materialy I Vsesoyuznogo simpoziuma po drevnei istorii Prichernomor’ya. Tskhaltubo 1977 (Tbilisi), 105. Kull, B. 1997a: ‘Orient und Okzident. Aspekte der Datierung und Deutung des Hortes von Rogozen’. In Becker, C. and Dunkelmann, M.-L. (eds.), Chronos. Beiträge zur prähistorischen Archäologie zwischen Nord- und Südosteuropa. Festschrift für Bernhard Hänsel (Eskelkamp), 689–710. ——. 1997b: ‘Die Siedlung Opri{or bei Turnu Severin (Rumänien) und ihre Bedeutung für die thrakische Toreutik’. Germania 75, 551–84. ——. 1997c: ‘Tod und Apopheose. Ikonographie in Grab und Kunst der jüngeren Eisentzeit an der unteren Donau und ihrer Bedeutung für die Interpretation von “Prunkgräbern”’. Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Komission 78, 197–466. Kuruniotis, K. 1913: ‘Goldschmuck aus Eretria’. Athenische Mitteilungen 38, 289–328. Meriçboyu, Y.A. 2001: Antikça[’ de Anadalu takilari (Istanbul). Nazarov, V.V. 1997: ‘Archäologische Untersuchungen auf Berezan’. In Stähler, K. (ed.), Zur graeco-skythischen Kunst. Archäologisches Kolloquium Münster, 24–26. November 1995 (Münster), 5–21. Özgen, I. and Öztürk, J. 1996: Heritage Recovered. The Lydian Treausre (Istanbul). Ramage, A and Craddock, P. 2000: King Croesus’ Gold. Excavation at Sardis and the History of Gold Reﬁning (London). Skrzhinskaya, M.V. 1986: ‘Grecheskie ser’gi i ozherel’ya arkhaicheskogo perioda’. In Rusyaeva, A.S., Kryzhitskii, S.D. and Mazarati, S.N. (eds.), Ol’viya i ee okruga (Kiev), 112–26. Skudnova, V.M. 1988: Arkhaicheskii nekropol’ Olvii (Leningrad). Solovyov, S. 1999: Ancient Berezan. The Architecture, History and Culture of the First Greek Colony in the Northern Black Sea (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Son, N.A. 1987: ‘Remeslennoe proizvodstvo’. In Kryzhitskii, S.D. (ed.), Kul’tura naseleniya Olvii i ee okrugi v arkhaicheskoe vremya (Kiev), 118–24. Tonkova, M. 1994: ‘Traces des ateliers d’orfèvres en Bulgarie du Nord-Est’. Helis III, 175–215. Torbov, N.T. and Paunov, E.I. 2000: ‘Bronzestempel mit Stierkopfdarstellung aus Nordwestbulgarien’. In Thomas, R. (ed.), Antike Bronzen. Werkstattkreise: Figuren und Geräte. Akten des 14. Internationalen Kongresses für antike Bronzen in Köln, 21. bis 24. September 1999 (Cologne), 267–75. Treister, M.Y. 1988: ‘Bronze Statuary in the Antique Towns of North Pontic Area’. In Gschwantler, K. and Bernhard-Walcher, A. (eds.), Griechische und römische Statuetten und Großbronzen. Akten der 9. Internationalen Tagung über antike Bronzen (Vienna), 152–57. ——. 1996: The Role of Metals in Ancient Greek History (Leiden). ——. 1998a: ‘Ionia and North Pontic Area. Tradition and Innovation’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea. Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Stuttgart), 179–99. ——. 1998b: ‘Ioniiskie remeslenniki—skifam’. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 4, 130–41. ——. 1999: ‘Materialy k korpusu postamentov bronzovykh statui Severnogo Prichernomorya’. Khersonesskii sbornik X, 121–58. ——. 2001: Hammering Techniques in Greek and Roman Jewellery and Toreutics (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Vinogradov, Y.G. 1994: ‘A Maiden’s Golden Burial from Berezan, the Island of Achilles’. Expedition 36.2–3, 18–28. Vinogradov, Y.G. and Kryzhitskii, S.D. 1994: Olbia (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Vokotopoulou, I. 1996: Führer durch das Archäologische Museum Thessaloniki (Athens).

DE GALLIA IN HISPANIAM: NOTES ON A BROOCH WITH THE HEADS OF A LION, A BULL AND A HUMAN FOUND IN CELTIBERIA Abstract This paper sets out to study the ﬁnd of a Gallo-Roman brooch on the outskirts of a metalworking settlement in the heart of Celtiberia. The historical context of where it was found is analysed. The brooch, with an interesting iconography of two lions, along with a human head and bull’s head, is the product of a workshop in central-eastern Gaul, datable to the 1st century AD. It provides yet further evidence of the presence of Gaulish elements in the mid-Ebro valley (province of Hispania Tarraconensis), possibly related to the exploitation of iron ore in the Moncayo region.

In 1998 a brooch of notable quality and interest was found near the village of Vera de Moncayo (Zaragoza) in the valley of La Huecha, a northern tributary of the River Ebro rising in the Moncayo. Most probably it originated from the sizeable Celtiberian settlement of La Oruña (approximately 500–1000 m upstream, whence the current carried it down to its eventual location). La Oruña was a metalworking settlement that grew rapidly from the 2nd century BC onwards. Towns such as Bursau, nearby Karaues (whose coins bore the abbreviation Gal ) and Belsinon (mentioned by Ptolemy 6. 58) are known from numismatic and ancient written evidence (Fig. 1). The brooch is currently part of a private collection in Tarazona (Zaragoza), an important Celtiberian settlement called Turiasu, a municipality in the Roman period.1 The brooch is about 4 cm long and 2.3 cm wide in its conserved state, and varies in thickness between 0.4 and 1.6 cm. In the bow there are two reclining lions facing each other and connected at the chest (Fig. 2). Between the forepaws of one lion a human head is represented on the end of the rectangular plate which carries the catch below (Fig. 3), and between the paws of the other lion there is a bull’s head (Fig. 4). The anatomical details of the animals and the human head are faithfully represented. The man’s head has round eyes, a ﬁxed mouth, ears, and ﬁnely inscribed parallel lines represent his hair. Other incisions on the bull’s head clearly show folds in the skin. The lions are very realistically represented with open jaws, eyes and ears, along with a splendid depiction of their manes, which reach their feet in three circular segments consisting of concentric lines and regular curves. The example belongs to the type of Gaulish Lion-bow brooch with the usual spring within a cylindrical socket, occasionally with a human or bovine head between the lion’s paws.2 This type is characteristic of central-eastern and eastern Gaul where the 1 Aguilera 1995. My thanks to D. Javier Bona, Director of the Centro de Estudios Turiasonenses of the Institución ‘Fernando el Católico’ (Zaragoza) for informing me of the existence of the piece, as well as for facilities to study and photograph it, and to Dr Romana Erice for providing me with her bibliography on brooches. 2 Feugère’s type 18b (Feugère 1985, 278ﬀ.), with a total of about 30 examples—20 from France, the rest from other parts of western Europe. However, one example was found in western Turkey: it belongs to the earliest type of the Lion-bow series (datable to the last quarter of the 1st century BC) and was carried there through contact with the prosperous Roman province of Asia: see Hattatt 1989, 30, ﬁg. 14. Feugère’s variant 18b 1–2 shows just one lion in the bow (Feugère 1985, ﬁg. 29); in particular 18b 2 has a bull’s head between the lion’s paws or on the hinge. Examples of this type can be seen in Lyons Museum, the British Museum

Fig. 1. Celtiberian towns in the Moncayo area (after Aguilera 1995, adapted). With silver mint. With bronze mint only. Town without mint.

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Fig. 2. Brooch found near La Oruña (Vera de Moncayo, Zaragoza).

Fig. 3. Detail of one of the lions and the human head.

Fig. 4. Detail of bull’s head between the lion’s paws.

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probable centre of distribution was Burgundy. On the brooch found in Celtiberia the bow is formed by two identical, linked and symmetrical lion protomes, and variants of this nature have been also documented. Some have been found in Pannonia and Britannia, but to date no example had been found in Hispania.3 The earliest of the Lion-bow series are dated to 20–5 BC,4 but the variant with two lions was manufactured at the end of the Augustan period and the start of Tiberius’ reign. However it should come as no surprise that some pieces were in use throughout the whole of the 1st century AD. Their quality as objects of value and their religious meaning (possibly forming part of a funeral rite) more than explain why they were so highly valued.5 Etrusco-Roman prototypes have been suggested as models, and the hypothesis that they were of Etruscan origin was taken up again by Soutou,6 who felt that the work was executed by a craftsman in a Celtic ambit;7 but Joﬀroy’s interpretation that this work implies Gallo-Roman reworking of an unknown or forgotten type seems more reasonable.8 The lion was a highly symbolic ﬁgure in the funerary practices of the Mediterranean world and in the western Iberian fringes, while the bull and human head were two iconographic elements characteristic of the Celtic world. Thus, Gallo-Roman statuary shows iconographic parallels with this type of brooch. The most interesting examples are, perhaps, the sculptures in Trier and Hettange-Grande, with lions holding a human head between their claws.9 The beasts of Noves (Bouches-du-Rhône) and Linsdorf (Alsace) are variations on the theme.10 A bull with a clean-shaved human

(Hattatt 1989, ﬁg. 166) and especially in Badalona (Feugère 1985, ﬁg. 31.2). This particular brooch, similar to another from Frejùs, was found on a site of a clearly military nature; it is on show at the Museo Arqueológico de Barcelona (Feugère 1985, 282). The examples in the museums of Rolin in Autun and in Neuss (Germany) have clearly marked human heads between the legs of the lions (Feugère 1985, ﬁg. 32.1–2). 3 Feugère 1977, ﬁg. 1.1; Feugère 1985, ﬁg. 33 (type 18b 3–4). This variant of two lions corresponding to the example found in Celtiberia is well attested in Aveyron—St Rome-de-Cernon, La Graufesenque, museums of Fenaille in Dodez and La Couvertoirade. In the last mentioned location the bull’s head between the claws had been replaced with a human one. Consequently it is identical to the ‘Celtiberian’ example referred to in this study (Feugère 1985, ﬁg. 102, no. 1339). Pieces with the same characteristics have been found in Mâlain (Côte d’Or) and St Bertrand de Comminges (Haute-Garonne); others are kept in the British Museum and in the J. Gréau Collection in Paris. The type is also attested in Bibracte and Alesia ( Joﬀroy 1964, 7), in Autun—with depictions of human heads (Pinette et al. 1985, 183) and in Roanne (Loire)— with two bovine heads—(Moinet et al. 1987, 73–75). The example found in Vieille-Toulouse (Feugère 1985, 102, ﬁg. 1340) shows one bull’s head between the lion’s claws, and the piece in St Bertrand (Feugère 1985, 102, ﬁg. 1341) only shows the two leonine protomes. Other brooches from Millau (La Graufesenque), Loubers (Camp-Ferrus), and Toulouse (Le Bazacle) (Feugère 1985, 102, ﬁgs. 1343–1345) have a human head on the plate that holds the catch. 4 Hattatt 1989, 30. 5 Feugère 1985, 285. 6 Labrousse (1948, 86–87) remarks that a leontomorphic brooch found in Gegovia (ﬁg. 37) is an Etrusco-Roman import of the 1st century BC. 7 Soutou 1964. 8 Joﬀroy 1964, 10. 9 Espérandieu 1915, no. 5008; 1938, no. 7815, respectively. 10 The heads are bearded in Noves and clean-shaven in Linsdorf (Megaw and Megaw 1989, 170–71, showing parallels within both cultures with Roman funerary sculpture).

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head held between its forelegs was found in Rottenburg (Württemberg),11 while in ﬁnds from Ristissen and Cannstatt a bearded human head sits below the animal’s stomach.12 In the sanctuary of Altbachtal in Trier there is a reclining male ﬁgure between the legs of a bull, his hands apparently tied behind his back.13 In Avenches (Switzerland) there is a ﬁgure of a child resting on his left arm between the legs of a similar animal.14 These examples of statuary, sculpture and leontomorphic brooches with human and/or bull’s heads are especially characteristic of eastern Gaul, i.e. the region where the brooches were manufactured. The head in Celtic imagery was of tremendous importance.15 Between the claws of a beast the signiﬁcance is ambivalent: it could express beneﬁcial and protective or aggressive symbolism.16 The lions of the La Couvertoirade brooch, which is identical to the one in this study, have been interpreted as tutelary ﬁgures that protect the bovine heads.17 It is not my intention to deal with ‘uncertainties’18 implicit in the associations between lions, bulls and the human head that these Gallo-Roman pieces of the 1st century AD might suggest. However the lions might have had some protective function over livestock and people, rather than it be an allegorical expression of the triumph of death over life (this viewpoint has been defended in complexes such as Noves19 and others that show a devouring carnivore).20 Whatever the case may be, it does appear that this is an example of the re-introduction of an Etrusco-Italian concept into GalloRoman work.21 Some years ago a number of coins (quadrants) were found in the settlement of Bilbilis22 and have been interpreted as miners’ currency. The head on the obverse (a representation of Vulcan according to the publisher García-Bellido)23 has been identiﬁed with the god Sucellus (with the petasos of Mercury), protector of wealth and sponsor of mining: 11

Espérandieu 1931, no. 622. Espérandieu 1931, nos. 663 and 558, respectively. The same association is seen in the sculpture of Ober Ensingen (Württemberg) (Bodson 1990, pl. XXIV.2). 13 Espérandieu 1928, no. 7587. The well-known Chalon-sur-Saône group show a lion about to devour a gladiator, while a bronze piece from Penne shows a panther with one leg on the back of a wild boar (Moitrieux 1999, 90). 14 Bodson 1990, 24, pl. XXIII.1. 15 Lambrechts 1954. See Moitrieux 1999 about heads at the feet of protecting or conquering divinities (Hercules, Minerva, Jupiter), metonymically symbolising the defeated monster, in comparison with the more general variant of the divinity ( Jupiter) riding down serpent-footed giants (Woolf 2001). 16 Moitrieux 1999, 90. 17 Soutou 1964. 18 Olmos (1997) uses the term (‘incertidumbres’) in his iconographical analysis of Iberian silver pieces. 19 Green 1989, 153. 20 The devouring carnivore in Iberian iconography as a message of individual initiation to death is proposed by Olmos (1997, 102). 21 Feugère (1977, 384) records that in the world of ﬁgurative bronzes they were as common currency as the ﬁliations and unchanged for centuries. 22 García-Bellido 1985–86. On the obverse to the right, a human head, with a winged hat or cap, can be seen. On the reverse a naked male ﬁgure moving to the left, carrying in his right hand a miner’s lamp with hook; behind him there is the legend BIL (bilis). 23 García Garrido and Lalana 1982. 12

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It is known that Sucellus is rarely observed in Hispania. The identiﬁcation of these coins would imply the presence of a Gaulish settlement in this area. There are no determining arguments to back this up, but there are reasons to believe that it could be so.24

Pliny (NH 3. 10) also documents Sucaelo as being amongst the best known cities in Baetica. It is situated in Fuente Tójar (Cordoba) and is a homonym of the Gaulish deity. Moreover it is close to Arialdunum, whose suﬃx clearly points to a location beyond the Pyrenees. García-Bellido’s proposal strikes me as intriguing, although the interpretation of the Celtiberian miners’ coins with Sucellus lacks a suﬃciently solid basis. In any case, some elements existed in Celtiberia that could point to the existence of a deity of the type known in Gaul;25 and these Gauls might possibly have been attracted to Celtiberia (or brought there) to exploit the mines, given that in mining areas there are certain levels of migration.26 The coins were minted at the mine, so the appearance of the toponym Bilbilis on them owes more to its role as the regional capital of the mineral trade. Pliny (NH 34. 144) commented that Bilbilis and Turiaso were the centres where the ore was bought and sold.27 There is clear evidence of a Gaulish presence in the mid-Ebro valley and neighbouring regions. An example is the bronze tabula from Gallur (Zaragoza),28 which mentions a Pagus Gallorum et Segardinensium—undoubtedly ethnic references. The same Pagus Gallorum, whose name continues to exist in present day Gallur, is referred to in Latin on a bronze found in the nearby village of Agón, which during the Hadrianic period was documented as a community with an irrigation system for its lands.29 Other ancient toponymic and numismatic features point to the presence of Gauls in the Moncayo, the Ebro and the Jalón, whose existence was ﬁrst commented on by Burillo.30 Examples are Forum Gallorum and Gallicum, both next to the river Gallego (which ﬂows into the Ebro from the Pyrenees), and numismatic evidence such as the settlement of Karaues (found close to the ﬁbula). The abbreviation on the

24 García-Bellido 1985–86, 155. For further information about the Gaulish deity, see Thevenot 1986, 136, who relates him to the world of forge workers; García y Bellido 1966, 125ﬀ., ﬁgs. 5–6. 25 Such as a human head with a wolf skin on a jar in Numancia, an anchor form symbol in the shape of a ‘T’ (similar to the tau Gallicum) on a stone monument in the same city and a passage by Appian (Iber. 48) about Celtiberian heralds from Nertobriga wearing wolf skins; Sopeña Genzor 1995, 312–15; Marco 2003, n. 19. 26 As inscriptions and coins from Sierra Morena, Río Tinto (Huelva) and the north-west of Hispania show. Quadrants similar to those from Bilbilis (with the head of Vulcan and a naked ﬁgure with a miner’s lamp) were minted in Ilipa (Alcalá del Río, Seville), which was a large centre of silver production (Strabo 3. 2. 3) in the Republican period. In both areas the evidence indicates coins used to pay the workforce. Similar ones were minted during the Trajanic-Hadrianic period in Pannonia, Dalmatia and the Noricum (García-Bellido 1985–86, 155–56 and n. 7). 27 Martial (4. 55. 11) indicates that the steel from Bilbilis was superior to that of Noricum or that of the Chalybes, and the superiority of the Celtiberian sword, which could wound both with the point and edge, to those of the Latenien Celts which could only cut (Polybius 3. 114) explain the adoption of the gladius hispaniensis by the Roman army from the Second Punic War onwards (Suidas frag. 96, Polybius). For more information about the manufacture of Celtiberian swords and their qualities, see: Diodorus 5. 33 (taking references from Posidonius of Apamea); Pliny NH 34. 144; Martial 1. 49. 4; 12. 14. 35; Plutarch De garr. 17; Justin 44. 3. 8. 28 Beltrán Lloris 1977. 29 Beltrán Lloris 1999, 31–33. 30 Burillo 1988.

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reverse of these coins, -kal- (-gal-), has been interpreted as referring to the ethnic gal(lorum). The name of the nearby city of Alaun (Alavona), located on the conﬂuence of the Jalón and the Ebro, clearly refers to Gallia, where there is a city called Alauna.31 I mentioned in another study that the Volciani—mentioned by Livy (21. 19. 6) after the events of 218 BC—who lived south of Pyrenees, were a southern branch of the Volcae whose capital was the ancient Tolosa (Toulouse).32 It is quite exceptional that literary texts also make mention of the arrival of trans-Pyrenean ethnic groups with added allusions to the historical circumstances that brought this about. Such is the case with the information about the arrival in Ilerda in 49 BC of no fewer than 6,000 people, their children and slaves (along with Gaulish horsemen and Ruteni archers).33 They settled perhaps in the mid-Ebro valley, just as others would have done. La Oruña, the most likely origin of this splendid brooch, is a large, walled metalworking settlement in a central Celtiberian area, rich in iron mines, which traditionally belonged to the people of the Lusones.34 Its most important phase was the 2nd century BC, however it was not abandoned at the time of the Roman conquest. There are signs of a destruction level in the central part datable to the end of the 2nd century, but its privileged position close to mineral sources and water from La Huecha attracted new inhabitants. The site continued to be occupied until the end of the 1st century AD.35 Thus, and without dismissing military or other explanations, it would thus seem that exploitation of iron provides the historical context36 not just for the presence of the Gaulish Lion-bow brooch found in La Huecha valley, carried there in the course of contacts between the mid-Ebro valley and the other side of the Pyrenees, but also for certain surprising iconographic similarities observed between cultic images in Celtiberia and Gallia, expressly between the vase from nearby Arcobriga (Monreal de Ariza, Zaragoza) and the cultic vase from Sens du Nord (Bavay).37 Departamento de Ciencias de la Antigüedad Facultad de Letras University of Zaragoza C/ Pedro Cerbuna, 12 E-50009 Zaragoza Spain [email protected]

Francisco Marco Simón

31 Holder (1961, 75) mentions a homonymic city in Britannia and an ethnonym Alauni in the Noricum. 32 Marco 1996. Recently Pina and Alfayé (2002) have proposed the localisation of the Volciani in the valley of the Cinca, a southern tributary of the Ebro. 33 Caesar BC 1. 51. 34 Hernández Vera and Murillo 1985; Lorrio et al. 1999, 168. 35 Bienes Calvo and García Serrano 1995, 244. What is unknown is whether the proﬁts made by metalworking in La Oruña and other fortiﬁed settlements in the area were retained or remitted to hierarchically superior centres (Aguilera 1995, 228) such as Turiaso or others in the same valley. 36 For the historical context of the ﬁnd, see Fatás Cabeza et al. 1989; Beltrán Lloris et al. 2000. 37 Marco 2003. The possibility should not be dismissed of a relationship with Gaulish elements of a small coticula (medical plaque) found in Celtiberia and datable to the 1st/beginning

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AEArq Archivo Español de Arqueología CAN Congreso Arqueológico Nacional RAE Revue Archéologique de l’Est et du Centre-Est Aguilera, I. 1995: ‘El poblamiento celtibérico del área del Moncayo’. In Burillo Mozota, F. (ed.), Poblamiento celtibérico. III Simposio sobre los Celtíberos (Zaragoza), 213–33. Beltrán Lloris, F. 1999: ‘Inscripciones sobre bronce, un rasgo característico de la cultura epigráﬁca de las ciudades hispanas?’. XI Congresso Internazionale di Epigraﬁa Greca e Latina (Rome), 21–37. Beltrán Lloris, F., Martín-Bueno, M. and Pina Polo, F., 2000: Roma en la Cuenca Media del Ebro (Zaragoza). Beltrán Lloris, F. and Ortiz, E. 2002: ‘Burdo Medugeno munus dedit. Sobre una coticula inscrita del Museo de Zaragoza’. Paleohispanica 2, 295–325. Beltrán Lloris, M. 1977: ‘Una celebración de ludi en el territorio de Gallur, Zaragoza’. CAN XIV (Zaragoza), 1061–69. Bienes Calvo, J.J. and García Serrano, J.A. 1995: ‘Avance a las primeras campañas de excavación en La Oruña (Vera del Moncayo—Zaragoza)’. In Burillo Mozota, F. (ed.), Poblamiento celtibérico. III Simposio sobre los Celtíberos (Zaragoza), 239–44. Bodson, C. 1990: L’image des dieux celtes. Etude sur trois thèmes animaliers (Liège). Burillo, F. 1988: ‘Galos y celtíberos’. In Burillo, F., Pérez Casas, J.A. and De Sus, M. (eds.), Celtíberos (Zaragoza), 25–28. Espérandieu, E. 1915: Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaule romaine VI: Belgique— deuxième partie (Paris). ——. 1928: Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaule romaine: suppléments (suite) et tables générales du recueil (Paris). ——. 1931: Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Germanie romaine (Paris/Brussels). ——. 1938: Recueil général des bas-reliefs, statues et bustes de la Gaule romaine: suppléments (suite) (Paris). Fatás Cabeza, G., Martín Bueno, M., Marco Simón, F., Blasco Bosqued, M.C., Burillo Mozota, F. and Beltrán Lloris, F. 1989: Los celtas en el valle medio del Ebro (Zaragoza). Feugère, M. 1977: ‘À propos de deus ﬁbules de type leontomorphe trouvées à Roanne (Loire)’. RAE 27, 383–86. ——. 1985: Les ﬁbules en Gaule meridionale de la conquête à la ﬁn du Ve d. ap. J.-C. (Paris). Février, P.A. 1976: ‘Colonisation romaine et forme artistique dans les provinces de la Méditerranée occidentale’. Actes du 2e congrès international d’étude des cultures de la Méditerranée occidentale (Alger), 90–103. García y Bellido, A. 1966: ‘Sucellus en España’. AEArq, 125–29. García-Bellido, M.P. 1985–86: ‘Monedas mineras de Bilbilis’. Kalathos 5–6, 153–59. García Garrido, M. and Lalana, L. 1982: ‘Acerca de una posible moneda inédita de Bilbilis’. Numisma 177–179, 65–68. Green, M.J. 1989: Symbol and Image in Celtic Religious Art (London). Hattat, R. 1989: Ancient Brooches and Other Artefacts (Oxford). Hernández Vera, J.A. and Murillo, J.J. 1985: ‘Aproximación al estudio de la siderurgia celtibérica del Moncayo’. Caesaraugusta 61–62, 177–90. Holder, A. 1961: Alt-celtischer Sprachschatz, I (Graz/Leipzig). Joﬀroy, R. 1964: ‘Les ﬁbules zoomorphes du type au lion’. Ogam 16, 1–3, 7–14. Labrousse, M. 1948: ‘Les feuilles de Gergovie. 1945–46’. Gallia 6.1, 31–95. Lambrechts, P. 1954: L’exaltation de la tête dans la pensée et l’art des Celtes (Bruges).

of the 2nd century BC, with the inscription Burdo.Medugeno/munus.dedit. Burdo, apparently the donor’s anthroponym, is frequently encountered in Gaul, and this object has parallels with the Gallo-Roman ‘eye specialist’s seals’ (Beltrán Lloris and Ortiz 2002).

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Lorrio, A.J., Gómez Ramos, P., Montero, I. and Rovira, S., 1999: ‘Minería y metalurgia celtibérica’. In Burillo Mozota, F. (ed.), IV Simposio sobre los Celtíberos. Economía (Zaragoza), 161–80. Marco, F. 1996: ‘Volcas en Hispania? A propósito de Livio, 21,19,6’. Études Celtiques 32, 43–49. —— 2003: ‘Signa Deorum: Comparación y contexto histórico en España y Galia’. In Tortosa, T. and Santos, J.A. (eds.), Arqueología e Iconografía: Indagar en las imágenes (Rome), 215–30. Megaw, R. and Megaw, V. 1989: Celtic Art. From the Beginnings to the Book of Kells (London). Moinet, E. et al. 1987: Le Pays Roannais gallo-romain. Approche historique et archéologique (Riorges). Moitrieux, G. 1999: ‘Caput ad pedem: des visages sur quelques ﬁgurations gallo-romaines’. In Burnand, Y. and Lavagne, H. (eds.), Signa Deorum. L’iconographie divine en Gaule romaine (Paris), 83–91. Olmos, R. 1997: ‘Las incertidumbres de los lenguajes iconográﬁcos: las páteras de plata ibéricas’. In Olmos, R. and Santos Velasco, J.A. (eds.), Iconografía ibérica, iconografía itálica: Propuestas de interpretación y lectura (Roma 11–13 nov. 1993) (Madrid), 91–102. Pina, F. and Alfayé, S., 2002: ‘Propuesta de ubicación de los Volcianos en el área pirenáica’. Palaeohispanica 2, 201–11. Pinette, M. et al. 1985: Autun-Augustodunum, capitale des Eduens (Exhibition Catalogue) (Autun). Sopeña Genzor, G. 1995: Ética y ritual. Aproximación al estudio de la religiosidad de los pieblos celtibéricos (Zaragoza). Soutou, A. 1964: ‘La ﬁbule aux lions de La Couvertoirade (Aveyron)’. Ogam 16, fasc. 1–3, 189–93. Thevenot, E. 1986: Divinités et sanctuaires de la Gaule (Paris). Woolf, G. 2001: ‘Representation as cult: the case of the Jupiter columns’. In Spickermann, W. (ed.), Religion in den germaniscgen Provinzen Roms (Tübingen), 117–34.

REVIEWS THE MEDITERRANEAN: A CORRUPTING SEA? A REVIEW-ESSAY ON ECOLOGY AND HISTORY, ANTHROPOLOGY AND SYNTHESIS P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Currupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History, Blackwell Publishers, Oxford 2000, XIV+761 pp., maps and tabls. Paperback. ISBN 0–631–13666–5 The Corrupting Sea is a grand gesture. It is a bold and laudably ambitious, almost Herculean, eﬀort, the summum opus of Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell. The book is extraordinary; copious, abundant, radically revisionist and interdisciplinary, frequently more than a little self-indulgent, and extremely demanding. The scholarly community will take a long time digesting it. The mighty tome, the ﬁrst of a proclaimed set of two, is an attempt to tread where Braudel eventually refrained from going and produce a synthesis of la longue durée for the whole of pre-industrial, civilised Mediterranean history, from the late Bronze Ages to the early modern world.1 The attempt should be welcomed; the authors deserve both praise and respect for undertaking this courageous and potentially ungrateful enterprise, a project long overdue. Historians, Anthropologists and the Mediterranean Apart from Braudel’s celebrated work The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (French: Paris 1949; English: London 1972), H. and P.’s book has few, if any, real predecessors. Specialised scholarship has generally been content to write the history of regions conﬁned within the cultural and chronological divisions traditionally accepted by the historical discipline: history in the Mediterranean rather than of it. Nonetheless, the Mediterranean has played an important role in the works of a number of great historians whom H. and P. list as important further inspirations: Rostovtzeﬀ, Pirenne and Goitein (pp. 26–45). One may learn a lot about the project from this selection, not least from its silences and exclusions. The most important thing to note about these ‘four men in a boat’, including Braudel, is the attempt to bring ancient and mediaeval history together—a reﬂection of the combined interests of the authors, one a classicist, the other a mediaevalist. Excluding Braudel, however, neither of these earlier historians lend themselves easily to such an enterprise. To Rostovtzeﬀ, the end of the Roman empire marked a complete and utter disaster, an unambiguous collapse of civilisation as such. There is an unbridgeable gap separating the light of antiquity from the darkness of the middle ages in the historical understanding of Rostovtzeﬀ.2 Pirenne, on the other hand, did seriously question the dismal view of the late antique world. He saw an essential

1 As we now know Braudel did in fact work on such a book, submitted a manuscript but never pushed it through the press when the commissioning publisher lost interest in the project. The unﬁnished manuscript was published posthumously in 1998 as Les mémoires de la Méditerranée (Paris). Its value is mainly historiographical. 2 M.I. Rostovtzeﬀ, The Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire (Oxford 1926; 2nd ed. 1957). A third edition based on Rostovtzeﬀ ’s revision notes has recently been published by A. Marcone in Italian.

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continuity characterising the barbarian successor kingdoms with trading links to the eastern Mediterranean persevering. Only the rise and expansion of Islam brought the unity of the Mediterranean world to an end. Muslim conquest created a rupture in old connections and loyalties. This was the precondition from which Europe began to develop. While the Merovingian rulers had still relied on access to the complex, monetised economy of the eastern Mediterranean, Charlemagne, as the ﬁrst Holy Roman Emperor, depended on his landed possessions in north-western Europe. The link between north and south that eventually became Europe had begun to form. Much more than an historian of Mediterranean unity, Pirenne was occupied by its dissolution and the subsequent birth of Europe.3 Finally, there is Goitein. The historian of a Jewish trading community in mediaeval Cairo, he is, perhaps, the one least likely to appear in the group of H. and P.’s intellectual precursors. Goitein’s work provides very little in the way of grand synthesis. His temper was that of the empiricist; his perspective that of the local; his ambition to map the life of a small community of Cairene Jews as minutely as was possible.4 Yet, paradoxically, it is to his approach that the two authors are, perhaps, most closely related. They share his preoccupation with the small scale, the close attention to detail, and the ‘thick’ description of small diﬀerences between individual Mediterranean localities. This is an approach of questionable value in a work on the unity of Mediterranean history; grand synthesis feeds from generalisation, it drowns in detail. Nonetheless, the Mediterranean of H. and P. is a tesselated mosaic of extreme, localised fragmentation and diversity. In their vision, unity in Mediterranean history is created from the bottom-up (p. 151). This brings them to take issue with all four of their named predecessors. Common to all of these is a preoccupation with high commerce. The history of their Mediterranean is a history of shifting trade routes, of merchants competing for proﬁt and of commercial developments in long-distance trade. Essentially, H. and P. tend to view those phenomena as ephemeral. In doing so, they are undoubtedly greatly indebted to Finley who has done more than anyone else to undermine the writing of Mediterranean history as a succession of commercial hegemonies.5 Inspired by economic anthropology he rejected the writings of Rostovtzeﬀ as capitalist modernising. The Graeco-Roman world of Finley was dominated by landed wealth rather than commerce, of aristocratic rather than bourgeois capitalist interests. It was a world of many small city-states mainly relying on their own hinterlands to fulﬁl most of their material wants.6 It is curious that H. and P. have not included him in their intellectual pedigree. Finley’s absence is conspicuous. Much more, for instance, than Goitein, Pirenne, Rostovtzeﬀ and even Braudel, his main work, The Ancient Economy (1973/1985), provides a synthesis of Mediterranean history for a major part of the time-period concerned in The Corrupting Sea. Rostovtzeﬀ, it is true, spanned almost as broadly. But his works were organised as dynastic his3

H. Pirenne, Mahomet et Charlemagne (Paris 1937; English ed. London 1939). During his imprisonment by the Germans (1916–18) Pirenne wrote a history of Europe from the barbarian invasions to the 16th century, only published after his death. His main work, Histoire de Belgique, 7 vols. (Brussels 1900–32), saw the history of Belgium in terms of a link between the Latin and Germanic parts of Europe. 4 The main work of S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society. The Jewish Communities of the World as portrayed in the Cairo Geniza (Berkeley/Los Angeles) ran to six volumes printed between 1967 and 1988. 5 As they grudgingly seem to recognise on p. 32 in their discussion of Rostovtzeﬀ. 6 M.I. Finley, The Ancient Economy (London 1973; 2nd ed. 1985).

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tories. Only Finley attempted to oﬀer a conceptualisation of Mediterranean history designed to account for the structural development of the Graeco-Roman world. In fact, The Corrupting Sea seems to spring from an engagement with Finley’s interpretation more than anything else. It takes the inspiration from economic anthropology several steps further. One result, for instance, is to group trade together with all other kinds of exchange under the common rubric of redistribution, recalling the work of Karl Polanyi introduced to classics by Finley.7 Their shared lack of concern for the vicissitudes of high commerce, also lead H. and P. to doubt the value of the concept of economic crisis for understanding Mediterranean history (cf. VII, 4 and VIII); a basic agrarian continuity is more important. Even the title The Corrupting Sea seems to be a polemical reﬂection of their engagement with the thought of Finley. He emphasised as crucial the low standing of merchants in classical antiquity, the prevailing suspicious attittude towards trade, money-making and the sea as corrupting inﬂuences on social order, and the great store put on economic autarky and social independence. To H. and P. these attitudes are of very little relevance to the reality of Mediterranean history. They are ﬁrst and foremost a reﬂection of cultural aspirations, the adulation of a social ideal nourished by its very unattainability (pp. 151, 147). The corrupting sea was not marginal, H. and P. assert to the contrary, it was a constitutive force of life in the pre-industrial Mediterranean. Exchange, or, as they prefer to call it, redistribution, needs to be integrated in our understanding of the many small communities lining the coasts of Homer’s wine-dark sea. It was indispensable to life in the Mediterranean. This concern of H. and P. is a response to more recent developments in social anthropology (treated in Part 5). Traditionally, anthropologists have tended to study villages or small cities as isolated units, eﬀectively self-suﬃcient. They wanted to study a life unsullied by modernisation and social development, man living in small communities almost untouched by history. Increasingly, anthropology as a discipline has become aware that the search for man in his pristine condition is an elusive quest. Christ did not stop at Eboli, to contradict the famous metaphor of Carlo Levi; he reached further, as did markets, germs, cities and states.8 The numerous villages of peasant society, almost irrespective of how remote they were, did not exist in splendid isolation. Their development was deeply aﬀected by inclusion in wider networks of power, be they religious, social, political or economic. The fortune of peasant villages, and nomads, ﬂuctuated with changes in these wider networks. Peasant society was not unchanging, autarkic; it had a history which, moreover, needed to be included in anthropological reﬂections. One notable example of this trend, to examine the

7 Polanyi’s seminars at Columbia after the Second World War were an important inﬂuence on Finley’s early works: Studies in Land and Credit in Ancient Athens (New Brunswick 1952); The World of Odysseus (New York 1954). The inspiration from Polanyi has been developed further in classics by S. Humphreys, Anthropology and the Greeks (London 1978); P. Millett, Lending and Borrowing in Ancient Athens (Cambridge 1991); S. von Reden, Exchange in Ancient Greece (London 1995). 8 In Christo si è fermato a Eboli (Turin 1944), the Jewish-Italian doctor Carlo Levi described his exile in a small, secluded, south Italian community seemingly bypassed by history. Not even Christianity had made a deep impact there; in spirit the population was still pagan. Hence the local saying ‘Christ stopped at Eboli’, meaning that the forces of civilisation, the state, the church, economic development etc., had left the population living beyond the city of Eboli to its backwardness, poverty and misery. Life in these regions went on much as it had always done unaﬀected by the mainstream of historical development.

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small communities studied in anthropological ﬁeldwork in relation to wider economic and political networks, is Eric Wolf ’s famed Europe and the people without history (Berkeley/Los Angeles 1982). Describing how so-called ‘primitive’ people and peasant communities were very much subject to the currents of history on all continents, how global trends penetrated and reshaped these allegedly changeless forms of life, the book serves to remind us that the ‘discovery’ of the less than perfect autarky of peasant villages is not a particularly Mediterranean phenomenon. It is visible across the board.9 Indian villages, for instance, long considered the paragon of self-suﬃciency organised by the unchanging caste system, are now studied as dynamic small communities. Their changing relations to wider economic and political systems have been made clearer. Even the caste system, formerly thought to stand outside history, is now considered a highly mutable, diverse and varied way of social organisation.10 Ecology and Mediterranean Unity The approach of H. and P., however, owes more to ecology than history. Before it becomes a problem of history, of social relations, the involvement of peasants and peasant communities in wider contexts is put down to ecological need. Here they draw on some of the insights provided during the 1980s by ethno-archaeology on agricultural conditions in antiquity.11 In the analysis of H. and P., the Mediterranean environment simply forces peasants to rely on exchange-processes to survive. The extreme fragmentation of Mediterranean geography combines with highly ﬂuctuating annual rainfall to produce greatly varying harvest results. Under those high-risk circumstances a strategy aiming at self-suﬃciency becomes impractical. Instead peasants have to diversify production, to make the most of the diﬀerent opportunities oﬀered by the very variable geographical conditions, and rely on exchanges to ensure that the material wants of the household are met. Exchange and product diversiﬁcation are seen as essential tools of risk aversion, of avoiding the consequences of bad or failing harvests: 9 Seminal contributions to this research include R. Redﬁeld, Peasant Society and Culture (Chicago 1956) and William Skinner’s work on Chinese peasant villages. Cf. ‘Marketing and Social Structure in Rural China’. The Journal of Asian Studies 24 (1964–65), 3–43, 195–228, 363–99. D. Thorner, ‘Peasant Economy as a Category in Economic History’, in Deuxième Conférence Internationale d’Histoire Économique, Aix-en-Provence vol. 2 (Mouton 1962), 287–300 is an important theoretical contribution, making the integration into wider networks a basic characteristic of peasant economies. 10 S. Bayly, Caste, Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth Century to the Modern Age (Cambridge 1999). A. Yang, Bazaar India (Berkeley/Los Angeles 1998), 5–11; R. Inden, Imagining India (Oxford 1990), chapter 4; and C. Fuller, ‘Misconceiving the grain heap: a critique of the concept of the Indian jajmani system’, in Parry and Bloch (eds.), Money and the Morality of Exchange (Cambridge 1989), 33–63 for discussions of the gradual erosion of the idea of the self-contained Indian village. A seminal contribution was made by McKim Marriot and A.R. Beals (eds.), Village India (Chicago 1955) inspired by Redﬁeld’s lectures, only published in the following year, cf. n. 9. 11 P. Halstead, ‘Traditional and Ancient Rural Economy in Mediterranean Europe: plus ca change?’. Journal of Hellenic Studies 107 (1987), 77–87 is now a classic example, stressing the ﬂexibility of human response to climate and geography. This leads him to caution against relying too much on modern ethnographic data in reconstructing the past. Culture and history will also be important in shaping agricultural practices. H. and P. do share this insight, but tend to slide back towards reaﬃrming a more static anthropological vision, cf. Part 5, with less room for history, as will appear from this review.

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Historically, the most important strategy for coping with risks of all kinds to the provision of food and the maintenance of production, and especially coping with the unpredictability of the weather, has probably been redistribution. Redistribution from one part of a micro-environment to another . . . is one of the normal and obvious ways of responding to risk . . . The strategy of entering a market may thus be seen as an ingredient in the repertoire of responses to risk (p. 178).

In this scenario the Mediterranean Sea has a crucial role to play. The relative ease of sea-transport compared to movement of goods on land made the inland sea absolutely indispensable to the agricultural practices of the region. The Mediterranean Sea created a fundamental ‘connectivity’ between the individual, very diverse microenvironments (Chapter 5). It was the enabling factor which allowed local societies to combat the risks of agriculture by complementing their own produce through entering wider exchange and market networks. To our authors it is ‘the diversity, extreme mutability, and pervasive interdependence of Mediterranean microecologies’ (p. 83) which hold the key to unlocking the secret of Mediterranean history. The unity of the Mediterranean does not primarily consist in a particular set of cultural practices, nor in the cultivation of a distinctive range of food crops such as wheat, wine and olives, rather unity arises from an inescapable ecological logic of interdependence. The individual localities of the Mediterranean could not subsist on their own; they had to redistribute resources among themselves. The visible expression of this process of ecological exchange between individual micro-environments is not the ‘high commerce’ of trade history but the stable, immutable ‘background noise’ of ‘cabotage’ (p. 150). Cabotage is here portrayed as the small scale, irregular movement, usually over relatively short distances, of small boats with limited cargoes of peasant agricultural surpluses tramping along the coast looking for a deﬁcit area. Individually such voyages appear insigniﬁcant but the accumulated weight of all the many small scale movements adds up to producing a basic connectivity and interdependence from which the Mediterranean region is created, in the picture of H. and P. (Chapters 5 and 9). The idea that the Mediterranean world was the result of an ecological equilibrium between the fragmented localities of the greater region is fascinating. But it is also both reductionist and abstract. I wonder whether the notion can carry the weight it is asked to bear. Adaptation of cultivation to diverse micro-environments, ﬂuctuating rainfall and risk aversion are not primarily concerns of the Mediterranean peasant; they are ubiquitous features of pre-industrial agriculture. The Mediterranean may, on average, be more extreme in this respect than most other macro-regions. But the Mediterranean average is itself composed from a very great variety of agricultural conditions. The unrivalled capacity of Egypt for producing large food surpluses makes this sub-region an unusually stable and homogeneous agricultural micro-environment on any pre-industrial scale of comparison.12 Fragmented diversity, in other words, seems insuﬃcient to function as the deﬁning principle which lend Mediterranean history its particular ﬂavour and set it apart from other areas of the old world. To get to those characteristics a certain preference for particular food crops, such as indeed wine, olives, and wheat may not be quite as unhelpful as H. and P. claim. Mediterranean agriculture is admittedly far more complex than this triad may initially suggest.13 But

12 A.K. Bowman and E. Rogan (eds.), Agriculture in Egypt: from Pharaonic to modern times (Oxford 1999) for a trans-epochal collection of articles on Egyptian agriculture. 13 See the discussion of P. Garnsey, Food and Society in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge 1999), 12–19.

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when we are trying to deﬁne macro-regions such simplifying markers can be of use;14 they prevent our image of the Mediterranean from dissolving into excessive and bewildering detail or evaporating into thin abstraction. The Corrupting Sea suﬀers from both weaknesses. It is paradoxical that the Mediterranean of Braudel, though never afraid of using the broad brush, comes across as a much more concrete, living, breathing organism than H. and P.’s work dedicated to the myriad micro-environments of the sea. The dictum of Levi-Strauss used by H. and P. to sum up their argument, ‘that it is not the resemblances, but the diﬀerences which resemble each other’ (p. 51), is a dangerous ally. The strength of Levi-Strauss’s abstract brand of structuralism was its capacity for identifying similar organising principles across the most diverse cultures and widely separate regions.15 It is probably going to be less eﬃcient in identifying the speciﬁc features of the Mediterranean; and its disposition to abstract generalisation is certainly no substitute for the vivid descriptions and striking illustrations of lived life scattered across the pages of Braudel’s grand synthesis. Quite the reverse, the analysis of H. and P. tends to rub out the very signiﬁcance of the many irregularities governing life in favour of broad, harmonising abstractions. The key notion of connectivity, for instance, may seem theoretically attractive, in the abstract. In the pre-industrial Mediterranean it is unconvincing, an exaggeration at best. Braudel, who can hardly be accused of underestimating the role of transport, discussed the same issue as a question of an unremitting struggle against the obstacle of distance . . . It is with a constant awareness of the problems of distance that the Mediterranean economy with its inevitable delays, endless preparations, and recurrent breakdowns must be approached.16

The Mediterranean Sea was unquestionably an important means of transport. In spite of its inviting aspect, however, it was not unproblematic, not easily mastered. A trip from one end to the other was still a question of months. The time-distance covered was equal to a world for people of those days. Writing just after the Second World War, Braudel noted how one could in his day travel around the globe in the same 60–90 days that a ship would have spent crossing the Mediterranean on an average journey in former times.17 To us the diﬀerence in scale is even bigger. The Mediterranean was truly a vast expanse. Sea currents, wind patterns, treacherous rocks and seasonal ﬂuctuations all posed a serious challenge to the uninhibited movement of goods and people. Winter saw a signiﬁcant reduction in sailing due to the much increased risk of wreck. This was precisely, one may note, in the months when food-stocks were beginning to wear thinner, making it even more diﬃcult to receive new supplies from the outside. Supplies simply cannot be expected a priori to have found their way to the communities most in need. There were too many obstacles

14 Compare, for instance, the discussion of food crops in K.N. Chaudhuri, Asia Before Europe. Economy and civilisation of the Indian Ocean from the rise of Islam to 1750 (Cambridge 1990). 15 Good examples are C. Levi-Strauss, Le cru et le cuit: Mythologiques 1 (Paris 1964; in English as The Raw and the Cooked, New York 1969) and La Pensée Sauvage (Paris 1962; in English as The Savage Mind, Chicago 1966). 16 F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II vol. 1 (London 1972), 374–75. 17 F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II vol. 1 (London 1972), 370.

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to the movement of both goods and information to enable communities to reach a state of ecological equilibrium through the redistribution of agricultural surpluses. These would generally have been distributed in a much more uneven, irregular fashion. This is to say nothing of the considerable part of the population which lived inland, away from the coasts and islands. It would have experienced the same problems, but in aggravated form. Trusting your life to the mechanism of redistribution was, in other words, not unequivocally a risk-averting strategy.18 The curious thing is that some of these problems do receive mention by H. and P. But they gloss over the consequences in their analysis. Take, for instance, the discussion of 16th-century Pescia (p. 117) which gradually came to depend on food imports to supply the developing silk industry of the town. Yet in 1546, while short of wheat, the city relied on local substitutes such as lower quality grains and chestnuts rather than imports. This is not simply a conﬁrmation of the need to diversify production in order to take full advantage of the many individual micro-ecological niches of the Mediterranean. Contrary to H. and P., it is also a very striking illustration of the very real limits to the level of connectivity and the powerful economic forces working in favour of autarky, even in a city which was redirecting its economy to the requirements of export manufactures. Most cities of pre-industrial Mediterranean history were in a much less favourable position to take advantage of wider commercial networks. The majority would have had no highly lucrative export industry to ﬁnance their imports. Connectivity, redistribution and interdependence were much less inevitable facts of Mediterranean life than the authors care to admit.19 It is one thing to note that small communities would occasionally attempt, however imperfectly and irregularly, to complement local productions with some limited imports to alleviate shortfalls. It is quite another claim to make this the basis of a Mediterranean-wide economic interdependence. The movements of cabotage were generally shorthaul and irregular. These could not have supported a Mediterranean unity. On the other hand, large megalopoleis, such as imperial Constantinople or Rome which drew on resources from broad sections of the Mediterranean, cannot easily be reduced to an expression of the same fundamental ecological mechanism that the authors see governing the majority of inﬁnitely smaller settlements. The need for imports of the former was permanent, incomparably larger, both proportionately and absolutely, and required the stable involvement of a much wider area. None of this could be supplied by the ﬂeeting connections of cabotage. Yet, to H. and P. both higher and lower order settlements in the Mediterranean are essentially of the same kind, ‘the tentacular settlement’ (p. 121). An unhelpful abstraction, this. It leaves the authors impervious to the fundamental and all important diﬀerences. A Constantinople or Rome did not evolve smoothly out of the same ecological order as the numerous small cities dotting the Mediterranean. If anything, the super-cities were grandiose and stubborn human

18 These problems are amply described and analysed by Braudel in The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II vol. 1 (London 1972), 246–311, 355–93. See further: J.-M. André and M.-F. Baslez, Voyager dans l’antiquité (Paris 1993); R. Duncan-Jones, Structure and Scale in the Roman Economy (Cambridge 1990): J. Rougé, Recherches sur l’organisation du commerce maritime en Méditerranée sous l’empire romain (Paris 1966). 19 For a much more extensive critique of H. and P. ’s tendency to underestimate the obstacles to connectivity, see B. Shaw, ‘Challenging Braudel: a new vision of the Mediterranean’. Journal of Roman Archaeology 14 (2001), 1–25.

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attempts to defy this very order. They required an entirely diﬀerent level of economic interdependence to be sustained. Not every squid is a giant octopus.20 The Human Component In other words, H. and P. seem frequently to have been led astray by their microecological perspective. It makes it diﬃcult for them to perceive the speciﬁc nature of larger processes and their contribution to the history of the Mediterranean. This problem is particularly pertinent to the human component of Mediterranean unity. Climate and geography, obviously, shape the conditions of agriculture in important ways. But the practices of production, redistribution and connectivity are all mediated and articulated through human, i.e. social, relations. This is particularly clear in the case of Rome and Constantinople. Both cities were capitals built on the proﬁts from empire. In the last instance, they were the results of successful warfare and conquest—both eminently social aﬀairs. But this consideration is equally true of even the smallest peasant village. Any search for a history of the Mediterranean, therefore, must go on in the intersection of physical environment and human relations. This is the Achilles heel of all ecological history. H. and P. are well aware of this fact and they do deserve credit for tackling the problem head on. They emphasise that their ecology is not static. Human response to the physical environment is profoundly inﬂuenced by the prevailing social conditions. The same geographical location may experience very diﬀerent agricultural regimes in the course of history. How the potential of the environment is exploited, which practices become viable, these questions are to a large extent determined by the changing kinds of human networks in which each locality is included. H. and P.’s brand of historical ecology is conceived in dynamic terms (pp. 45–49, 89–122, 342–400). This would presumably also hold good for their notion of Mediterranean unity, one might think. It, too, has to be understood as a product of changes in human interactions, not simply ecological necessity. Yet, here their analysis never really passes beyond scratching the surface of social phenomena. The analysis of Constantinople, as presented above, is regrettably representative of their penchant for broad abstractions of questionable explanatory value. Another example is their discussion of customs dues and sales taxes. It proceeds from one of Cassiodorus’ letters (Variae 4. 19. 3) which mentions a suspension of the exaction of the siliquaticum, a sales tax, on grain, oil and wine during a crisis, of food supplies presumably. This was supposed to attract more merchants and thus make it easier for the provincials to come through their period of hardships: For who is not incited to sell more abundantly when he is relieved of the normal costs? A ship coming to our harbours will not fear that they will not oﬀer a safe refuge if the hands of the tax collectors, who often inﬂict greater losses than shipwreck, are not making incursions.21

20 See F. Braudel, The Structures of Everyday Life (London 1981), 525–58 on the big cities. N. Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland (Cambridge 1996) shows how imperial Rome created ties of permanent economic integration with other Italian regions far from identical with cabotage. 21 Cassiodorus, Variae 4. 19. 3: Quis enim ad vendendum non incitetur largius, cui solita dispendia subtrahuntur? Portus nostros navis veniens non pavescat, ut certum nautis possit esse refugium, si manus non incurserint exigentum, quos frequenter plus aﬄigunt damna, quam solent nudare naufragia.

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H. and P., however, take issue with the reasoning behind Cassiodorus’ instructions (p. 375); customs (and other sales taxes) did not act as important brakes on commerce and connectivity. Indeed, they rather envisage a scenario where the need to defray those dues in coin would have contributed to the further commercialisation of the economy. Here they are, of course, referring to the link between taxes and trade suggested by Keith Hopkins.22 Hopkins, however, mainly thought of peasants having to market some of their surplus production in order to pay their land taxes. The link is much more uncertain when it comes to customs. Tolls increase the price of bringing goods to market. That much is certain. The immediate eﬀect is to incumber the movement and exchange of products. Cassiodorus and ancient administrators in general were fully aware of this fact, even to the extent that they were willing to forego revenue in order to quicken the ﬂow of goods in special cases. Such behaviour should not be dismissed easily and virtually without argument. In general, customs do impede connectivity. Only under special circumstances may this eﬀect be alleviated. Occasionally buyers may be able to sell more of their own products in order to pay for the increase in price of the desired import. But this ability cannot be taken for granted and would frequently not have been an option. As a rule, production could not be expanded at will in the ancient world.23 Normally people will simply have had to make do with fewer imports. A much more obvious possible benign side eﬀect of customs exactions, unmentioned by H. and P., is linked to the realm of protection. Customs may be seen as payment for protection. If the taxing authority improve the level of security, merchants may in the end ﬁnd themselves to have beneﬁted from the introduction of customs dues. For most of history, however, the link between security and the level of customs payments has been tenuous, at best. Generally optimism is unwarranted.24 At any rate, this should suﬃce to demonstrate that the particular nature of social dynamics is bound to have shaped the character of Mediterranean unity profoundly. It is remarkable that H. and P. are consistently averse to exploring the diﬀerent eﬀects on connectivity exercised by the varying social systems of history (cf. pp. 143–52). They cannot all automatically be assumed to have been vehicles of H. and P.’s ecologically motivated integration. On the contrary, human networks of power will frequently have modiﬁed, worked against or even introduced radically opposing principles of organisation to the basic logic of risk avoiding redistribution at the centre of H. and P.’s vision of the small Mediterranean communities.25 22 K. Hopkins, ‘Taxes and Trade in the Roman Empire (200 BC–AD 400)’. Journal of Roman Studies LXX (1980), 101–25. 23 The comment on p. 268 that ‘before modern times, the environment as a whole, through redistribution and intensiﬁcation, could accommodate any imaginable demographic increase’ is rhetorical hyperbole. Malthus may stand in need of revision on many points both in regard to production and social relations (cf. E. Boserup, The Conditions of Agricultural Growth [London 1965]; A. Sen, Poverty and Famines: an Essay on Entitlement and Deprivation [Oxford 1981]), but the constraints on production at the centre of the ‘dismal science’ can hardly be ignored. 24 Cf. F.C. Lane, Proﬁts from Power: Readings in Protection Rent and Violence-Controlling Enterprises (New York 1979). 25 On p. 377 H. and P. carry the tendency of ignoring the obstacles to connectivity even further. In a discussion of the relative price of land- and sea transport, they note that land transport generally had higher social overheads, in other words was subject to more customs exactions. Yet somehow they manage to conclude from this, that ignorance of this fact, has misled scholars to exaggerate the costs of land transport and underestimate its importance relative to water-borne transport. I do not see how this could be the case.

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This problem is nowhere more visible than in their discussion of the extraction and production of peasant surpluses. ‘It seems to us odd that more attention has not been given in the study of Mediterranean production to . . . the mechanisms of political (in a broad sense) power,’ H. and P. announce rather curiously (p. 206). Curiously, because of the countless discussions in previous scholarship of the slave- and feudal modes of production, of latifundism, of debt-bondage, of imperial estates, of great households (oikos-economy) and many more themes dealing precisely with the issue of political power and agricultural surplus production.26 All this work, however, is practically ignored by H. and P., simply brushed aside. It does not correspond to their ecological model. Instead, they oﬀer the conceptual pair of intensiﬁcation and abatement of agricultural production in response to mostly extraneous pressures, that is demands imposed on the peasant community by political elites. Such demands exercised a strong inﬂuence on crop patterns, as they note (cf. Chapter 6). The cultivation of wine, oil and wheat was to a very large extent decided by the needs of privileged urban consumers. The irony, however, is that the production patterns induced by political demand generally increased risks for the peasant. Land and labour, for instance, had to be spent on growing the more diﬃcult and vulnerable wheat crop to satisfy outside claims rather than being directed towards avoiding the risks of the erratic climate. The peasant household, in other words, was subjected to more than one productive logic. H. and P., however, will hear nothing of the kind: Quite the reverse! The agrarian history of the Mediterranean will be intelligible only if we recognize that there is a single spectrum of resource management in which pressures from outside bear upon a portfolio of risk-avoiding gambits (p. 216).

Intensiﬁcation and abatement, they insist, occur as modiﬁcations within ‘the single spectrum’ of agricultural strategies pursued by the peasant. They do not represent diﬀerent ‘modes’ of production, if you like. For oil, wine and wheat were already part of the diversiﬁed portfolio of peasant crops used to minimise risk, H. and P. argue. This is all very well. But it does not take us very far and cannot disguise the fact that the peasant household is forced to perform a delicate balancing act between competing and potentially irreconcilable claims. It was normally constrained to hand over a substantial part of its surplus production to political elites, thus increasing its risks. A visible expression of this basic logic is the widespread phenomenon of peasants falling into debt, losing their independence and perhaps even their land. Political extraction of peasant surpluses presents considerable problems for the interpretation advanced in The Corrupting Sea. It puts the whole ediﬁce under severe pressure and strains the conceptual apparatus of H. and P. The concept of redistribution, a cornerstone of the book, would need considerable rethinking to be workable. The core articles of Mediterranean redistribution, its ‘quintessential’ commodities as the authors describe it, were precisely the culturally preferred crops such as wheat, wine and olive oil.27 However, these ‘cash crops’ were, as we have just seen, grown pre26 Examples would include: M.I. Finley, Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology (London 1980); K. Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves (Cambridge 1978); A. Carandini, Schiavi in Italia (Rome 1988); A. Schiavone, La Storia Spezzata (Rome 1996; in English as The End of the Past, Cambridge, Mass. 2000); C. Wickham, ‘The other transition: from the ancient world to feudalism’. Past and Present 103 (1984), 3–36; J. Haldon, The State and The Tributary Mode of Production (London 1993); P. Anderson, Passages from Antiquity to Feudalism (London 1974). 27 Cf. p. 218. On pp. 220–24 H. and P. even proclaim the garden, frequently used to grow vegetables and fruits (cash crops) in the vicinity of urban markets, to be the more typical form of Mediterranean agriculture. This seems exaggerated.

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dominantly in response to political pressure. They were intended to satisfy the demands of privileged groups, mostly urban populations. But if that is so, it becomes almost impossible to uphold the interpretation of redistribution as the fundamental riskavoiding strategy of Mediterranean peasants, living in a fragmented and volatile microenvironment. Most of the surplus circulated was simply never intended to cover their needs.28 Indeed, the production of ‘cash crops’ was conducted in contradiction to the needs of risk-avoiding strategies, not infrequently to the point of ‘outweighing’ the latter, as the authors recognise (pp. 218, 229) but fail to integrate into the conceptual framework of The Corrupting Sea. Relations and networks of social and political power, therefore, are never really successfully incorporated in the ecological model of H. and P. In the ﬁnal analysis they remain external forces which participate in the risk-avoiding strategies of local communities (p. 278–79). They may modify the course of the game, but the rules remain the same. Here the authors seem to have been constrained by the weaknesses of the microperspective oﬀered by ecological anthropology. They have, in one sense, been unable to transcend the horizon of the small community. This has prevented them from investigating the dynamics of the wider social networks and relations of power which embrace the micro-community. The processes, which become manifest as intensiﬁcation or abatement of productive pressure in the local community, are left unexplained. They simply wax and wane, come and go (e.g. pp. 261–62, 280–82)—deus ex machina. This is unsatisfactory if the goal is to understand the processes on which Mediterranean unity was based, how that human ‘control and harmonization of chaotic variability’, which H. and P. proclaim as the core of Mediterranean history (p. 175), was achieved. It is a telling index of this weakness that warfare is almost entirely lacking from The Corrupting Sea. Only piracy receives a short analysis (pp. 154–59). Yet warfare must have been a signiﬁcant component of both redistribution and connectivity. Military competition fostered the spread of technologies of power in the widest possible sense.29 Military campaigns and conquests create plunder, then tribute and control of land. Some of the most powerful processes of redistribution on a Mediterraean-wide scale were sparked by military activities, as any standard history of the Roman empire will demonstrate. Universalist Hellenic and later Latin high culture, followed by the Christian and Muslim faiths, were great vehicles of supraregional integration, tools of hegemonic imperial connectivity (only sporadically treated on p. 449. Again the authors are more interested in exploring the micro-geography of religion).30 Ecology and the Dynamics of History It is not that an ecological approach does not allow the investigation of mechanisms which govern these broader networks. One elegant example is provided by William McNeill in The Human Condition (Princeton 1980), listed in the bibliography 28 Cf. P. Bang, ‘Romans and Mughals. Economic integration in a Tributary Empire’. In Rich and De Blois (eds.), The Transformation of Economic Life under the Roman Empire (Amsterdam 2002), 1–27 for some hypothetical quantitative reﬂections relating to Roman times, when the system reached its climax. 29 Cf. W.H. McNeill, The Pursuit of Power (Chicago 1982). 30 Cf. E. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford 1983), chapter 2; C.A. Bayly, ‘“Archaic” and “Modern” Globalization in the Eurasian and African Arena, c. 1750–1850’ and A.K. Bennison, ‘Muslim Universalism and Western Globalization’. Both in A.G. Hopkins (ed.), Globalization in World History (London 2002); S. Swain, Hellenism and Empire (Oxford 1996); G. Woolf, ‘Inventing empire in Ancient Rome’. In Alcock et al. (eds.), Empires (Cambridge 2001).

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of The Corrupting Sea. Like H. and P. he insists that the physical conditions of life are heavily inﬂuenced and shaped by human agency. Man belongs to the ecology, like plants, germs and larger animals. The world of the peasant should therefore be seen as shaped by two fundamental processes deﬁned as micro-parasitism and macroparasitism. Micro-parasitism belong to the realm of nature, as it is usually understood. Weeds, pests, diseases, and more broadly plants and animals in general, compete with peasant producers for food, energy and space within the ‘habitat’. Peasants, however, do not only have to face competition from ‘nature’; they are also subject to ‘predation’ from other humans. Military experts, aristocracies and urban consumers are characteristic examples of such macro-parasitism. In the interpretation of McNeill, human networks have come to form an intrinsic part of the ecology, also conceptually. Diﬀerent kinds of ‘parasites’, as it were, compete for the peasant. In this perspective, payment of political rents and tribute can be portrayed as another form of risk aversion. It buys oﬀ the macro-parasites whose demands may be more immediately pressing on the peasant. The ecological equilibrium, constantly shifting, is a dynamic function of the relative balance of micro- and macro-parasites. The point about ecological history, in other words, is double. Ecology should be brought into history, but history must also be brought into ecology. Pre-Industrial Historical Change, La Longue Durée and Anthropology H. and P., though, have been reluctant to go all the way. ‘The world of macroparasites’ is only let half way into the analysis. This is undoubtedly because history, as it has usually been perceived, forms no part of the project of The Corrupting Sea. Heavily inﬂuenced by the current anthropological agenda, H. and P. are determined to exclude anything which smacks, however faintly, of evolutionary thinking, reiﬁed categories and cultural stereotypes (p. 271). The old chronological demarcations of slave-owning antiquity (Archaic, Classical . . . and Late), the Dark Ages and the feudal Mediaeval world ﬁnd no favour in the eyes of H. and P. None of these ‘make useful markers for its [the Mediterranean] periodization’ (p. 391). It is, for instance, illusory to depict the economy of the Mediaeval world as more advanced than the Graeco-Roman, they argue with Finley in mind (Chapters 5, 4 and 7). There is undoubtedly an element of healthy iconoclasm in this stance. Mediaeval conditions cannot unequivocally be portrayed as further advanced than classical antiquity. It may have known the windmill but the level of urbanisation was lower. One should not a priori expect that each successive period represents another step in humanity’s march towards modernity. In economic and technological terms, H. and P. are surely right to insist that the various periods from the late bronze ages to the early modern world were broadly comparable: ‘Over that time, gains in certain regions were always oﬀset by losses elsewhere; a population-mass of comparable size rattled around in an increasingly dog-eared-looking world, deployed by the powerful for new versions of the old games with intensiﬁcation and abatement’ (p. 279). But this is not the end of the matter. It is important to remind ourselves that the history of the corrupting sea took place in pre-industrial conditions. Diﬀerences between various periods in average wealth and production were bound to be relatively modest, by nature. From the perspective of the modern era, pre-industrial history is indeed likely to appear almost motionless. The scale and pace of change was fundamentally diﬀerent from the world we inhabit today. The historian of agrarian societies, however, ought not to be satisﬁed merely with conﬁrming this feeling. He should adjust

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his sensory apparatus to the smaller scale of the past world in order to be more alert to its signiﬁcant developments. It is not a little ironic that a study dedicated to the small-scale, to the fragmented individual environments of the Mediterranean, should end up with a more uniform, unchanging formula for its history than any of the historiographies the authors dismiss. The Corrupting Sea is really a radical vindication of the anthropological longue durée.31 The standard critique of Braudel for having failed to integrate historical developments with his view of la longue durée, in fact seems much more apposite in the present case. After all, Braudel’s work is full of middle-term conjunctures. Such phenomena, however, vanish from sight in The Corrupting Sea, absorbed by the immovable ocean as only so many variations in a changeless web. Permanent continuity, however, is not the only alternative to a progressivist, teleological view of history. If all history has not been one single, albeit irregular, movement towards the modern world, we may ask which developments shaped history before capitalism and industrialisation became dominant forces. The great comparative historian Marshall Hodgson, for instance, suggested that the creation and spread of Islam was the dominant force in world history from the 7th to the 18th century.32 ‘The Venture of Islam’ was part of the slow, but nevertheless steady consolidation and expansion of civilised peasant societies across Eurasia from the Bronze Ages till the onset of modernity. No doubt the gradual rise and formation of the Mediterranean as a uniﬁed region mark one stage in this historical development. To become a study of Mediterranean history, rather than an historical anthropology of life in the Mediterranean, H. and P. would also need to ask when and how the region came together into one world. A study of Mediterranean history should include an attempt to follow the particular human processes which moulded the geographical setting into a ‘social organism’, a universe, and trace its further development. This question was ﬁrst put on the agenda with penetrating insight by Polybius (2nd century BC) in his history of the rise of Rome: Now in earlier times the world’s history had consisted, so to speak, of a series of unrelated episodes, the origins and results of each being as widely separated as their localities, but from this point onwards history becomes an organic whole: the aﬀairs of Italy and of Africa are connected with those of Asia and Greece, and all events bear a relationship and contribute to a single end . . . For it was after their victory over the Carthaginians in the Hannibalic War that the Romans came to believe that the principal and most important step in their eﬀorts to achieve universal dominion had been taken, and were thereby encouraged to stretch out their hands for the ﬁrst time to grasp the rest, and to cross with an army into Greece and the lands of Asia (1. 3. 3–6).33

Modern historians will not want to buy into all aspects of Polybius’ analysis. But he is undoubtedly right in identifying the process of state-formation and military competition in the 4th and 3rd centuries BC as an important force in pulling the regions of the Mediterranean together in one world. The culmination of this was the consolidation of the universal Roman empire, orbis terrarum. This was the high point of Mediterranean connectivity. 31 The essay of Finley, ‘Anthropology and the Classics’, chapter 6 in The Use and Abuse of History (London 1975), could have been written with The Corrupting Sea in Mind, reasserting the relevance of historical change in spite of Levi-Straussian structuralism. 32 M. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam vols. 1–3 (Chicago 1974). 33 Translation cited from the selection of F.W. Walbank translated by I. Scott-Kilvert in Penguin Classics, Polybius. The Rise of the Roman Empire (London 1979), 43.

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The world of the Romans, however, was already old. The origins of Mediterranean connectivity should probably be looked for in the gradual expansion into the Mediterranean of civilisation from its riverine centres in the Middle East. This development accelerated in the 1st millennium BC with the colonisations of Greek, Phoenician and Etruscan city-state cultures. In a slow movement the western section of the great sea was drawn into the orbit of civilised life. Having started as periphery, the Mediterranean gradually took on a life of its own. A clear indication of this is the changing balance of social power in the Levant between the Persian wars and the conquests of Alexander. Societies of the central Mediterranean had now become more important inﬂuences on life in the Middle East than vice versa. The maximum of unity achieved by the Romans was surprisingly stable and long lived. The empire stretched technologies of power to the breaking point. Fragmentation was an ever latent possibility. In some periods the imperial purple was split between several contenders based in diﬀerent regions; in others, it was shared out on parallel governments. Eventually the colossus broke up in successive waves from the 5th century onwards. First, imperial power collapsed in the West. Next, fervent Muslim horsemen conquered the Middle East, the southern shores of the Mediterranean, and then Spain. H. and P. are undoubtedly right in asserting that this was not the end of the Mediterranean world. There were still some large imperial conglomerations left warring each other in the Mediterranean. Universalist religious high cultures, cultural contacts and economic exchanges also contributed to maintaining a level of unity. But this level was signiﬁcantly reduced compared to the Roman high point. Archaeologists have, it is true, become much better in recent years at detecting ﬁnds from the so-called Dark Ages in the West. But this is not unequivocal evidence of continuity ( pace pp. 153–72). The fact that one has to look so much harder for signs of life, in some regions, in these centuries, is testimony to a signiﬁcantly reduced scale of material civilisation. Again, it is important to stress that the historian should adjust his vision to the smaller scale of changes in the pre-industrial world. Mediterranean unity continued at reduced intensity, though with changing constellations, until the 16th century, the age of Braudel’s work, and even with some recovery. The fragmentation of the Roman empire, however, did see some potentially new ‘worlds’ forming. The victorious forces of Islam reached beyond the Middle East, across Persia, and into the grass steppes of central Asia and the Indian Ocean world. In the West, the signiﬁcance of the north-western periphery increased signiﬁcantly. The contours of diﬀerent continental alignments were becoming visible. In this perspective I suspect the 16th century marked the end of Mediterranean history. The opening of the Atlantic, the threatening eclipse of the old world caravan routes through the Middle East by the new route south of Africa, the growth of the Baltic trade in bulky commodities, the reformation, and the collapse of the Habsburg bid for European hegemony were all premonitions of a new order. This order became manifest in the 17th century. The importance of Mediterranean powers declined signiﬁcantly compared to the Atlantic world. A European system of states consolidated itself and absorbed much of the old Mediterranean world in a new international order centred on France and Britain. The Mediterranean sea had ceased to be the gravitational centre of its own history.34 34 Much of this process can be followed in detail through F. Braudel’s Civilisation and Capitalism, translated by S. Reynolds from Civilisation matérielle, économie et capitalisme, XV e–XVIII e siècle, 3 vols. (London 1981–84). See further: M. van Creveld, The Rise and Decline of the State (Cambridge

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This short sketch of the historical development of the Mediterranean world is obviously not meant to be exhaustive. Demographic and epidemic trends, for instance, are absent from the picture. Rather, it is intended as suggestive of some of the largescale processes which might have been used by H. and P. to integrate ecology and history more eﬀectively in their study of the Mediterranean. It is possible to write pre-industrial history with attention to its long-term historical dynamics without falling pray to teleological evolutionism. But it does require us to think carefully about which stories it is possible to tell. On this particular point anthropology has more to learn from history than the other way around. Grand Synthesis and the Micro-Perspective It has been the ambition of H. and P. to write a history of the Mediterranean from the bottom up. This favourite ‘battle cry’ of historians originally arose in opposition to an individualistic and event-focused conception of history. It was the task of the historian to detect the broader trends transcending individual events and actions. Braudel’s study of the Mediterranean is one of the ﬁnest examples of this ambition. Broad trends, however, are invisible in the micro-perspective. History, it is true, happens in the small scale. But the larger patterns are only revealed by taking an overview whereby unnecessary detail disappears from sight. The wave-like movements of congested traﬃc are not easily discerned by the driver at the wheel. He experiences a stop-go pattern. The wave is only visible from above. The Corrupting Sea is not always mindful of this. As a synthesis it is sometimes overloaded with examples and learned detail. This makes the book a very hard read indeed and may inhibit its reception. That would be regrettable. The undertaking of H. and P. is an important and challenging one. The value of the book is not in oﬀering an (elusive) deﬁnitive interpretation; it is in inviting reﬂection and debate on the character of Mediterranean history across established disciplinary and chronological boundaries. It deserves a serious response. It is in that spirit the above critical remarks have been written. In the announced second volume of The Corrupting Sea, the authors promise a look at the Mediterranean from outside. That may go some way towards meeting these criticisms. University of Copenhagen

Peter Fibiger Bang

NEW BOOKS ON ANCIENT ANATOLIA AND ASSYRIA J. Hazenbos, The Organization of the Anatolian Local Cults During the 13th Century BC. An appraisal of the Hittite cult inventories, Cuneiform Monographs 21, BrillStyx, Leiden/Boston 2003, X+358 pp. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12383–0/ISSN 0929–0052

1999); D. Landes, The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (London 1998); A. Watson, The Evolution of International Society (London 1992); C. Tilly, Coercion, Capital and European States (Oxford 1990); M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power vol. 1 (Cambridge 1986); W.H. McNeill, The Pursuit of Power (Chicago 1982); E.L. Jones, The European Miracle (Cambridge 1981).

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S. Jakob, Mittelassyrische Verwaltung und Sozialstruktur. Untersuchungen, Cuneiform Monographs 29, Brill-Styx, Leiden/Boston 2003, LXII+587 pp. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12398–9/ISSN 0929–0052 S. Yamada, The Construction of the Assyrian Empire. A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859–824 BC) Relating to his Campaigns in the West, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 3, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2000, XVIII+449 pp., 7 maps. Cased. ISBN 90–04–11772–5/ISSN 1566–2055 D.C. Hopkins (ed.), Across the Anatolian Plateau. Readings in the Archaeology of Ancient Turkey, The Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research Vol. 57 (2000), American Schools of Oriental Research, Boston 2002, IX+209 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–89757–053–7 The aim of Hazenbos’s study of Hittite cult inventory texts is to reconstruct the organisation of cult activities on a provincial level and to examine their reform in the late imperial phase. This volume constitutes a detailed and instructive discussion of the texts and their various subject matter. It highlights the procedural stages in the reorganisation of cult activities in provincial areas and the roles and powers of diﬀerent imperial and local oﬃces associated with the Hittite state cult. H. also proposes a possible hierarchy of cult centres across Anatolia. Cult inventories conventionally list a town’s collection of cult objects, locally celebrated festivals, oﬀerings to the gods and the personnel attached to a given temple. They may also include descriptions of one or more festivals, reports on past investigations as well as references to measures introduced directly by the great king. Based on palaeographic characteristics and, in some cases, the mention by name of a Hittite king, Tudhaliya IV in all known instances, the majority of cult inventories are dated to the 13th century BC. The ﬁnd-spots are mainly restricted to the Hittite capital, Hattusa. The recent additions of cult inventories from Ortaköy (Sapinuwa) and Ku{aklı (Sarissa) and methodological advances in Hittitology constitute the original basis for this revised version of H.’s 1998 dissertation (University of Amsterdam). The bulk of this book (Chapters 2–4) is devoted to a catalogue of 58 inventory texts in transliteration and translation with comments by the author and an overview of previous literature. The ﬁrst part of Chapter 5 is dedicated to the routines of festivals described in the texts. The most important of these, the autumn and spring festivals, are found to share a series of standardised procedural formulae, which according to the author are attributable to a central institutional source. Like the autumn and spring festivals, other celebrations described in the cult inventories formed part of the agricultural cycle and may have quite ancient origins. Several formulae used in the inventories to describe various ritual stages in these festivals are reminiscent of the instructions for the autumn and spring celebrations. This seems to suggest some degree of standardisation in the 13th-century BC cultic activities over a relatively large geographical area. Hattusa, it seems, was interested to ‘get a grip on these local traditions and to incorporate them in the cult of the state’ (p. 172). The second part of Chapter 5 consists of a brief introduction to and descriptions of divine representations. It includes a comprehensive table, listing town, deity, object, material, weight and measurements, miscellaneous additional information as well as the relevant text passages in the inventories.

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Chapter 6A investigates the geographical scope of the cult reorganisation of the 13th century BC. by Hattusili III and his successor Tudhaliya IV. In this part, H. details the current state of Hittite historical geography in order to place the most important cult centres in northern, southern, central and western Anatolia. The geographical reconstruction adopted by the author suggests a large-scale reorganisation of local cults within the Hittite core area, the Upper and Lower Lands, Kizzuwatna, Tarhuntassa as well as western Anatolia. The destruction of important Old Hittite cult centres on the northern plateau by the hostile Kaska tribes and their recapture during the empire period may explain the concern of Hittite kings with the reintroduction and organisation of cult activities in these areas during the 13th century BC. However, as the author rightly remarks: ‘there must have been another reason in the case of other towns, especially in the centre, the south and west’ (pp. 198–99) for Hittite interest in the standardisation of local cults. The centralised nature of the decision-making process in this reformation is demonstrated in Chapter 6B, where H. outlines the roles of the great king, regional kings as well as local priests and commoners in the transformation and sustaining of a particular cult. The establishment of new measures and alterations to local cults was ﬁrmly in the hands of the great king and the administration at Hattusa. Personnel in lower ranking oﬃces appear to have been solely responsible for the correct continuance of individual cults. Chapter 7A describes the procedure that preceded the reform. These include inquiries to the local temple personnel and the gods in the form of oracles. Once this information had been passed on to Hattusa, changes could be ordered or more information about the cult requested. Based on the number of gods worshipped, the number of cult objects and their value, the amount of cultic oﬀerings, the quantity of temple personnel involved in sustaining the cult, as well as the number of festivals celebrated, the author attempts to scale diﬀerent settlements according to their relative cultic importance. According to these criteria, a series of towns such as Nerik, where many gods were worshipped in several temples, appear to have stood at the top of a cultic hierarchy. Many diﬀerent festivals were celebrated at these locations and a mobile workforce was made available by the central administration. At the other end of the spectrum are towns that cared for only one god in the form of a stele with little personnel and only the minimum number of festivals to celebrate. A glossary of Hittite words, Sumerograms, numbers, Akkadograms, gods, persons and toponyms concludes the volume. This study represents an informative and detailed treatment of the text genre of Hittite cult inventories and will be of interest to scholars and students of Hittite society, culture and history, as well as those of ancient cults and religions and their relationship to early states and empires. It also serves as a useful reference work for these inventories and descriptions of divine representations. However, it does not venture far beyond the descriptive. This is particularly apparent in the conspicuous absence of a concluding chapter, where the various threads of inquiry could have been drawn together. Although the author remarks several times that the central Hittite administrations had an interest in the standardisation of festivals and festive procedures across Anatolia, no attempts at interpretation or the provision of a somewhat wider perspective are made. In Chapter 7, a possible hierarchy of cultic centres is proposed. Many of the larger cult centres, such as Ku{aklı (Sarissa), formed part of a secular administrative hierarchy. Smaller towns housing local cults may also have had an important role in the reinforcement of Hittite control, real and ideological, in provincial

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contexts. Yet, despite the intertwined character of Hittite political and cultic power, the author does not adequately place the cult inventories and the royal measures described in them into the wider socio-political context of the 13th century BC. Nor are the implications of a procedural and ideological standardisation of cults within an imperial society explored. This seems regrettable, because evidence for a largescale reorganisation of cult procedures naturally raises questions of this kind. The volume by Jakob represents an impressive attempt to characterise and consider the history and structure of the Middle Assyrian state from the time of Assuruballit I (1363–1328 BC) until the reign of Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 BC). This was a formative period in the development of the Assyrian state in Upper Mesopotamia, during which Assyria rose to a degree of prominence on the international stage, as epitomised in the two surviving letters of Assur-uballit to the pharaoh at Amarna. More or less continuous campaigning in the west throughout the 13th century BC by successive Assyrian kings (Adad-nirari I, 1305–1274; Shalmaneser I, 1273–1244; and Tukulti-Ninurta I, 1243–1207) established a pattern of shifting relationships and constant negotiation with the existing powers of the West that can be readily traced in later episodes of Assyrian history (see review of Yamada 2000, below). J.’s book commences with an outline of the Middle Assyrian state, considering in turn issues such as the development of its administrative structure, the role of the king in the state, and the structure and elements of the state economy. The bulk of the book comprises detailed considerations of a host of speciﬁc Assyrian terms for oﬃcials, military personnel, professions and occupations. J.’s method is to consider each term in turn, within a highly structured presentation. In every case he provides the documentary evidence for a term, the name(s) of cited oﬃce-holders, and a detailed discussion of the function of each oﬃcial. These speciﬁc studies are grouped under headings such as court and state, regional administration, taxation, law, military, security, and occupations and professions. In this way J. builds up a detailed and meticulous account of the workings of the Middle Assyrian state, constructing in the process a convincing picture of that state as an integrated and practical entity. Through this nuts-and-bolts portrayal of Middle Assyrian administration and society we gain an image of the state as a smoothly operating engine, composed of a host of working parts, large and small, all held together by the oil of the state cult of Assur, whose earthly representative was the king himself. It is to J.’s great credit that this vision is sustained throughout his book by means of an approach that is highly meticulous yet suﬃciently broad. Yamada publishes a recent doctoral dissertation at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Its focus is the reign of the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III, during whose long rule in the middle of the 9th century BC the consolidation of Assyria’s rise to international prominence was realised, a process set underway by his predecessor Assurnasirpal II (883–859 BC). The 35-year reign of Shalmaneser III was characterised by almost constant military campaigning, both to the west against the states of Syria, as well as to the north against Urartu. The volume under review is a detailed consideration of inscriptions relating to Shalmaneser’s 21 attested campaigns in the west. In this study Y. makes full use of all known texts of Shalmaneser III, including annalistic inscriptions on a variety of media (stone and clay tablets, monoliths, statues, gate and monumental bull inscriptions) and summary inscriptions also on a range of media (cliﬀs, tunnels, tablets, clay cones, throne bases, door sills, statues, stele), and miscellaneous texts of assorted types. The wide variety of the source material is itself

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a clear indication of the highly contextualised nature of the king’s military activities within the structure of the Assyrian state. Knowledge of the king’s achievements in the ﬁeld of military campaigning, as in other respects, was by these means widely dispersed and integrated within the fabric of Assyrian society at all levels. In an introductory section Y. provides excellent coverage of the source material, establishes a basic chronology of Shalmaneser’s campaigns, and provides a useful summary of the political history of the western frontier of Assyria in the decades preceding Shalmaneser’s accession. The largest section of the book comprises an ‘Historical and Historiographical Analysis of the Western Campaign Accounts’, whereby each campaign to the west from 858 to 829 BC is addressed in detail. Y.’s method is to present the available textual account(s) of each campaign followed by a historical analysis of that campaign, a method that works extremely well and allows the reader to follow his arguments and interpretations step by step. Throughout these analyses Y. displays a keen awareness and understanding not only of epigraphic niceties but also of broader historical and archaeological issues. The next section is concerned with ‘Booty, Tribute and Other Economic Exploitation’, a detailed consideration of the 52 occasions in which booty is recorded in Shalmaneser’s inscriptions relating to campaigns in the west. Using information provided in texts as well as relief and stele depictions of booty and tribute, most famously the Balawat bronze gate bands, the Black Obelisk and the Calah throne base, Y. builds up a convincing picture of Assyrian extortion and use of commodities from the periphery of its burgeoning empire, including people, horses, livestock, metals, textiles, ivory, wood and wine. A series of maps graphically illustrates this asymmetric relationship between imperial core and periphery. Y.’s conclusion is that the extent and intensity of Shalmaneser’s exploitation of the lands west of the Euphrates represent ‘a new phenomenon in the history of the ancient Near East’ (p. 271), whereby the Assyrian state systematically extracted the accumulated wealth of the pre-existing states of Syria. Following a short section on Shalmaneser’s ‘Ceremonial-Commemorative Acts’, including the setting-up of royal monuments and the washing of weapons in the sea or rivers (a Mesopotamian tradition going back at least as far as the 3rd millennium BC), Y. completes the main part of the volume with some concluding remarks, outlining a two-tier structure of control based on direct Assyrian control over subjugated lands and dominion over vassal kingdoms. His basic thesis is summarised thus: ‘Shalmaneser’s western expansion was not merely a series of campaigns for plunder but a systematic attempt to establish dominion over the countries in the west’ (p. 308). In the appendices Y. considers a range of related issues, including Aram-Israel relations as reﬂected in the Aramaic stele from Tel Dan, selected aspects of the Black Obelisk and Calah statue inscriptions, and the Kurkh Monolith inscription. The book is completed by a series of useful maps, bibliography and convenient indexes. In sum, Y. is to be congratulated on producing an attractive and very readable account of a key episode in the history of one of the most signiﬁcant political entities of the ancient Near East. His book can be read with proﬁt and pleasure by epigraphists, historians and archaeologists, and that in itself is a rare achievement. The archaeology of Turkey, and in particular the study of the Bronze and Iron Ages, deserves and demands more intensive interest from the larger archaeological community. Later prehistoric and early historic Turkey is, in comparison to the adjacent regions of the East Mediterranean and the Near East, a vast and archaeologically little explored territory. The volume edited by Hopkins aims to capture and summarise the current state of knowledge and research in Anatolian archaeology with

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articles by archaeologists and Hittitologists, as well as specialist accounts in the ﬁelds of archaeobotany, metallurgy and spatial analysis. It consists of 16 chapters, including an introductory overview of the origins, developments, problems and advances in the discipline to date (Gorny). The articles are arranged chronologically and take the reader across the plateau from ‘The plants and people of Ancient Anatolia’ (Nesbitt), via ‘Early Bronze Age Titri{ Höyük’ (Matney) and a metallurgical investigation of the Taurus Mountains (Yener), to six papers on various aspects of Hittite history, religion, literature and material culture (Gorny; McMahon; Neve; Ünal; Henrickson; Beckman). Hittite international connections are touched upon by Itmar Singer’s article on a 13th-century Hittite seal from Megiddo. The ﬁnal ﬁve papers each introduce later periods, ranging from an Urartian Ozymandias (Zimansky), the imperial iconography of Achaemenid coins (Dusinberre) and Lydian houses and household size (Cahill), to Iron Age Gordion (Voigt) and the urban layout of Aphrodisias (Ratté). The book is intended as a reader and includes, therefore, articles that for the most part have been published previously (1986 and 1993 special editions of Biblical Archaeologist, now Near Eastern Archaeology). Accessibly written and suitable for a broad audience, all articles synthesise often diverse and problematic sets of archaeological and historical data and represent coherent and educational introductions to their particular subject matters. This volume should, therefore, be of interest to students and scholars of ancient Anatolia and its surrounding regions. Additionally, it provides a non-academic audience with a taste of some of the societies, their cultures and histories on the Turkish mainland during the last three millennia BC. In a critical assessment of the state of research in 2nd-millennium Anatolia, R. Gorny points out some of the problems inherent in the discipline, which continue to demand solutions if Hittite and Anatolian archaeology are to move beyond out-dated theoretical and methodological practices. These include the clariﬁcation of the scope of ‘Hittite archaeology’, the ethnonym ‘Hittite’ and its generalised and uncritical use to characterise 2nd-millennium central Anatolian material culture. The study of the Hittite empire, moreover, requires the placing of this phenomenon within the geographical and ecological framework of the Turkish landmass. It needs to be incorporated into a broader cross-cultural perspective alongside other imperial societies that emerged in this region and under comparable circumstances. At the level of archaeological data collection and interpretation, Anatolian archaeology evidently still has some way to go. Yet, with academic language boundaries diminishing, as demonstrated by the article of Peter Neve in English, other barriers between national traditions may also be overcome and more comparable research results be produced. More recent archaeological projects have begun to be characterised by a tentative emancipation from art-historical and text-based approaches and to show a greater focus on interpretation in addition to cataloguing and sequencing of artefacts. Hopkins has successfully compiled a series of important papers in Anatolian studies that include critical self-assessments of the subject and its sub-disciplines as well as directions for future work. University College London

Claudia Glatz and Roger Matthews

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NEW PUBLICATIONS ON THE BLACK SEA REGION D.V. Grammenos and E.K. Petropoulos (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea, Publications of the Archaeological Institute of Northern Greece 4, the Archaeological Institute of Northern Greece/the Archaeological Receipts Fund (Athens), Thessaloniki 2003, 2 vols., 1432 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 960–214–200–6 L. Hannestad, V.F. Stolba and A.N. Sceglov (eds.), Panskoye I Vol. 1: The Monumental Building U6, Archaeological Investigations in Northwestern Crimea, Aarhus University Press, Aarhus 2002, 368 pp., 191 pls. Cased. ISBN 87–7288–770–2 A. Bill, Studien zu den Gräbern des 6. bis 1. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. in Georgien unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Beziehungen zu den Steppenvölkern, UPA 96, Dr. Rudolf Habelt GmbH, Bonn 2003, 269 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 3–7749– 3192–5 G. Gamkrelidze (ed.), Research on the Archaeology of Georgia in Ancient Times 1, Dziebani-The Journal of the Centre for Archaeological Studies of the Georgian Academy of Sciences, Supplement IX, Centre for Archaeological Studies of the Georgian Academy of Sciences, Tbilisi 2003, 197 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISSN 1512–0597 (in Georgian with English summaries) The two volumes edited by D.V. Grammenos and E.K. Petropoulos are bulky, large-format books produced on art paper. Alas, they are in paperback, insuﬃciently sturdy to stand up to frequent use. They publish contributions written by scholars of many nationalities to give information on about 30 Greek sites around the Black Sea—Apollonia Pontica, Mesambria, Odessos, Histria, Orgame, Olbia-Berezan, Kerkinitis, Chersonesus, Theodosia, Panticapaeum, Nymphaeum, Myrmekion-Porthmeus, Kyta [must be Kytaia], Kepoi-Phanagoria-Taganrog, Gorgippia, Hermonassa, Tanais, Patraeus-Cimmeris-Achilleion, Dioscurias, Gyenos, Phasis, Amisos, Sinope and Heracleia Pontica-Amastris. Most of the authors have ﬁrst-hand, practical experience of the sites and their excavation. The stated aim of the book is extremely welcome: to give Western scholars information about the Greek colonies in the Pontus. Page 13 claims for the work a comprehensive presentation of data, but there were more than 70 Greek colonies on the Black Sea (not 200 as suggested on p. 17), far more than are treated here. The selection criteria are not clear, nor is the presence of a chapter on Tanais, which was established by Bosporan Greeks in the 3rd century BC as a trading settlement. If Tanais, why not other similar settlements? When I ﬁrst heard of this book, I was excited, expecting to learn much from it. But when I started to read it, I was quite disappointed. Although it has noble and important aims, it is a missed oportunity. I was able to gain very little new from it, despite its length (nearly 1500 pages). Often it was impossible to understand what the authors were trying to convey so poor is their English (see below). Much of the information has already been published elsewhere, not just in Eastern Europe but also in the West.1 Frequently authors give information without citing their own original 1

See, for example, the following publications: G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation of

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publications.2 This might be understood where ﬁrst publication had been in the East, in a language or publication inaccessible in the West, but not of the many contributors whose work had appeared in the West. The ﬁrst almost 80 pages are written by one of the editors, E.K. Petropoulos, on ‘Problems in the History and Archaeology of the Greek Colonization of the Black Sea’. This piece is mainly bibliographical. It is often impossible to distinguish which opinions are the author’s and which are of those whose works he discusses. There is no clarity or proper structure. He overuses ‘ibid.’ in such a way that it becomes unclear to what work he is referring. When he talks about written sources or cites them, his principal purpose is to illustrate archaeological material (for example, p. 22). He makes frequent comparisons with Naucratis, Al Mina, Pithecoussai (pp. 28, 37–38, etc.), but he misunderstands these sites as he does the situation in the Black Sea. He over-emphasises trade. For him, everything, including Greek pottery, is linked to trade. But pottery can arrive by other means. One cannot write about colonisation of the Black Sea without examining the reasons for it. No such attempt is made; had it been, then trade would have been revealed as a consequence not a cause. P. takes up the long-rejected idea of an ‘emporion-period’ in the Greek colonisation in the northern Black Sea—that future Greek colonies had been initially established as small trading stations. Many pages are devoted to discussion of the meaning of emporion. Although he cites a few articles from the volumes of the Copenhagen Polis Centre in his bibliography, he makes no reference to them in the text. Had he really examined them, he would have discovered that the concept of the emporion held by authors of the Classical period cannot be imposed mechanically onto the Archaic period. How can one talk about Pistiros in Bulgaria without knowing or citing the two-volume publication of the results of the excavation of the site?3 One can continue, but I have said enough to show that this chapter does not form a very satisfactory introduction to the problem of Greek colonisation of the Black Sea. The bibliography looks quite messy. An obvious example (p. 76) is A. Nibbi, Studies of Greek Pottery in the Black Sea Area, published in Prague; actually it is by Jan Bouzek—Nibbi writes on Egypt. Ironically, this chapter is dedicated to the late Y.G. Vinogradov, his erstwhile PhD supervisor. Knowing Vinogradov, I feel he would have had some reservations about being the dedicatee. It looks as though the editors have not done their job: they have assembled the contributions but have not actually edited them. This is shown, ﬁrst of all, by the the Black Sea Area. Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Stuttgart 1998); G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology. Recent Discoveries and Studies (Leiden 2001); J. Boardman, S.L. Solovyov and G.R. Tsetskhladze (eds.), Northern Pontic Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum (Leiden 2001); G.R. Tsetskhladze and J. de Boer (eds.), The Black Sea Area in the Greek, Roman and Byzantine Periods (Talanta XXXII–XXXIII) (Amsterdam 2002); J. Fornasier and B. Böttger (eds.), Das Bosporanische Reich. Der Nordosten des Schwarzen Meeres in der Antike (Mainz 2002), etc. 2 For example, V. Kuznetsov—in G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden 1999); G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology; G.R. Tsetskhladze and J. de Boer (eds.), The Black Sea Area; J. Fornasier and B. Böttger (eds.), Das Bosporanische Reich; O. Sokolova—in G.R. Tsetskhladze and J. de Boer (eds.), The Black Sea Area; V. Tolstikov—in J. Fornasier and B. Böttger (eds.), Das Bosporanische Reich. 3 J. Bouzek, M. Domaradzki and Z.H. Archibald (eds.), Pistiros I: Excavations and Studies (Prague 1996); J. Bouzek, L. Domaradzka and Z.H. Archibald (eds.), Pistiros II: Excavations and Studies (Prague 2002). See also M. Domaradzki (ed.), Volume editors: L. Domaradzka, J. Bouzek and J. Rostropowicz, Pistiros et Thasos. Structures économiques dans la péninsule balkanique aux VII e–II e siècles avant J.-C. (Opole 2000).

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variations in structure of the chapters. Where they contain the same sort of thing it is not presented in the same order—some have the history of the investigation of a site at the beginning, others somewhere in the middle, still others at the end. Two chapters are devoted to chorai—to those of Olbia and the Cimmerian Bosporus. Why not have a separate chapter on the chora of Tauric Chersonesus, which is unique and about which a Ukrainian-American project is yielding much interesting new material?4 Some of the bibliography is in Russian, some is transliterated, other items translated from Russian (not always correctly—on p. 187 Vestnik Drevnei Istorii is rendered as ‘Newspaper of Ancient History’, whilst N. Gavrilyuk’s book of 1999 should be translated not as ‘History and Economy . . .’ [p. 1201] but ‘History of the Economy’). There are many other examples of bibliographical errors and inconsistencies (the same author is transliterated in diﬀerent ways in diﬀerent contributions, confusing the reader: contrast pp. 957–1005 and 1200, and pp. 997 and 1201, for example), and methods of citation vary from article to article. All of this is of less account than the barelycomprehensible English of several of the chapters (see, for example, pp. 461, 466–67, 567, 998, etc.). There is page after page of grimly opaque and ﬂawed English, encouraging one to give up the struggle. On p. 1222 there is ‘ancient archaeology’, surely classical archaeology. The translators cannot have been native speakers of English, indeed many authors may have translated their own work. Nobody appears to have checked the English, certainly no specialist looked at it: many technical terms are just made English by transliterating the Russian (‘gimnezium’, p. 424; ‘Martsellin’, p. 399; ‘Synds’, p. 963; ‘Skil’, pp. 399, 460, etc., etc.). There are problems with the ancient Greek text in A. Avram’s piece: it is obvious that the author never saw the proofs otherwise, as an excellent epigraphist, he would have noticed and corrected the mistakes. It is sad that a book produced for a Western audience is packed with so many irritating mistakes and so much tangled prose, likely to cause anyone new to Eastern European scholarship and subjects to turn aside when the purpose of the book is the complete opposite.5 The editors should have made a much better job of their work. I know that copy-editing is time-consuming and frustrating, but it must be done— it can make or mar. On a more positive note, the book has a number of useful illustrations. The volume on Panskoye I edited by L. Hannestad, V.F. Stolba and A.N. Sceglov [Shcheglov] is the ﬁrst in a planned three-volume series. Panskoye I settlement in the north-western Crimea existed from ca. 400–270 BC. For its ﬁrst 50 years or thereabouts it formed part of the chora of Olbia, and afterwards of that of Tauric Chersonesus. The site includes not only the settlement but a burial ground as well. It has been investigated by the Tarkhankut Expedition since 1959 but the settlement itself became the principal object of the Expedition only after 1969. From 1994 this project has been conducted jointly with the University of Aarhus. However, in view of various political problems, the project abandoned ﬁeldwork in favour of publication.

4 See G.N. Nikolaenko, ‘The Adjacent Chora of Tauric Chersonesus in the 4th Century BC’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology, 177–204; J.C. Carter, M. Crawford, P. Lehman, G. Nikolaenko and J. Trelogan, ‘The Chora of Chersonesos in Crimea, Ukraine’. AJA 104 (2000), 707–42. 5 For the most recent treatment of major Black Sea colonies, see A. Avram, J. Hind and G. Tsetskhladze, ‘The Black Sea Area’. In M.H. Hansen and T.H. Nielsen (eds.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis (Oxford 2004), 924–73.

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This ﬁrst volume is a ﬁne, large-format publication on art paper. The text and illustrations are bound separately. It publishes the so-called ‘Monumental Building U6’. The chapters are written by Russian and Danish specialists. The Director of the Expedition, A.N. Shcheglov, provides a general description of the complex and its 36 rooms, and the gate, courtyard and well, as well as construction periods, the materials used in construction, the system of measurements, etc. Part II is written by a number of specialists. It publishes the archaeological material found during excavation—such as tiles and ceramic containers, black glaze, red ﬁgure and grey ware, commonware, hand-made pottery, terracottas, cult sculpture, altars, sacred vessels and votives, graﬃti and dipinti, coins, metal objects, glass objects and bone objects. There are ﬁve appendices, presenting palaeogeographic and geomorphological studies in Lake Sasyk (Panskoye), petrographic analysis of stamped amphorae, petrophysical study of hand-made pottery, palaeobotanical material, and osseous remains. On pp. 96–98 there is a ‘Discussion’ section, although this is really a series of brief notes and comments. It would be much easier for Western readers if Slavic names were transliterated into the normal forms used in English (the language of the volume), free from diacritics. Instead, a mixture of German (for example, Kac instead of Kats) and central European (diacritics) practice is employed. The illustrations are exceptionally ﬁne and of high quality. They not merely help one to follow the discussion but provide a very clear idea about the site itself. They demonstrate the soundness of the methodology used to investigate the site. This is primarily thanks to the Director, Shcheglov, one of Russia’s most prominent archaeologists, who has been involved in study of the Crimea for many decades.6 Without doubt, the excellent technical facilities of Aarhus University Press and a large grant from the Danish National Research Foundation have combined to make this an exemplary production. We keenly await the rest of the series. The book by A. Bill derives from her PhD dissertation written at the Free University of Berlin; it presents a study of burial monuments and customs in Georgia in the 6th–1st centuries BC. The investigation is based on numerous published burials found in Colchis and Caucasian Iberia. Of course, there are many more burials yet to be published, but what B. has done is more than impressive. Her detailed knowledge of the bibliography is outstanding (17 pages, double columns, small typeface). The catalogue (100 pages, again in small type) and illustrations (23 text ﬁgures, 193 tables at the end, and 6 distribution maps) are witnesses to the work the author has put in. The primary aim of this work is to study burials, to identify locals and local traditions and foreign migrants (and their rites). Burials are divided into two groups: autochthonous (Group A) and migrant (Group B). Group A is the larger; it demonstrates the continuation and evolution of tradition from the previous period. Group B contains those with no parallels in local tradition but similar to burial customs from Greece, Asia Minor and the Achaemenid world. B. properly connects Type B burials to the migration of Eurasian nomads into the lands of ancient Georgia. One cannot agree with B.’s interpretation of how they migrated and what they did once in Georgia, but her general ideas are correct. 6 In 2003 Aarhus University Press published as the ﬁrst volume in its Black Sea Studies series a Festschrift for A.N. Shcheglov (P.G. Bilde, J.M. Højte and V.F. Stolba [eds.], The Cauldron of Ariantas). The third volume appeared in 2005: V.F. Stolba and L. Hannestad (eds.), Chronologies of the Black Sea Area in the Period c. 400–100 BC. Reviews of them will appear in future issues of this periodical.

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This book is more than a study of burials. In the introduction B. discusses the geography of ancient Georgia, the history of the study of Georgian antiquities, provides a very intelligent examination of the evidence and its limitations, etc. She rightly questions the existence of a strong, uniﬁed Colchian kingdom and concludes that there is no evidence to support it. After a brief discussion of Colchian silver coins, she comes to the view that there is nothing to show that they were not minted by Greek colonies. I would like to add that detailed study demonstates that the earliest types of Colchian coins display striking similarities to those of Lydia and other provinces of the Achaemenid empire, including Miletus, which may point to Colchis having been part of the Achaemenid empire and the introduction of coinage in the eastern Black Sea having occurred at the direction of the Achaemenid authorities.7 In the bibliography, all Georgian literature is given in Russian translation, which is unhelpful to those seeking to follow up the references: it would be better given in German translation or transliteration. B. sometimes uses the term kurgan to describe burials in Colchis, especially those at Vani; this misrepresents the type of burial to be found there: they are not kurgans at all and they are better described as tombs. Her statement that there is no evidence that ancient Georgia, especially Iberia, was part of the Achaemenid empire is no longer valid. New excavations and publications demonstrate the contrary.8 The collection of articles edited by G. Gamkrelidze is written by members of the Department of Classical Archaeology (Iberia-Colchis), Centre for Archaeological Studies, Georgian Academy of Sciences, Tbilisi. It reﬂects the Department’s ﬁeld projects and other work. The 21 articles discuss topics such as ballistas from the Vani city-site, new evidence from the environs of Kavtiskhevi, burials from the Tekhuri river basin, strainers from western Georgia, amphora burials from ancient Pityus, as well as a Roman legionary’s burial from the same site, head ornaments from Vani, a Sasanian portrait on the Sartichala signet-ring, representations of the wolf from the Aragvi valley, 1st-century AD glassware from Mtskheta, arch-shaped ﬁbulae from Kazbegi, local sacred clay vessels from Vani, the production of Colchian amphorae in the Hellenistic period, the chora of ancient Mtskheta, etc. There is a bibliographical essay on Colchian silver coinage. The volume concludes with an impressive list of departmental staﬀ publications for 1990–2002. This volume is packed with new information and ideas about ancient Colchis and Iberia. It demonstrates the leading role of the Department in the study of classical Georgian antiquities. University of Melbourne

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Gocha R. Tsetskhladze

I am intending to write an article on this subject. See, for example, G.R. Tsetskhladze, ‘The Culture of Ancient Georgia in the First Millennium BC and Greater Anatolia: Diﬀusion or Migration?’. In A.T. Smith and K.S. Rubinson (eds.), Archaeology in the Borderlands. Investigations in Caucasus and Beyond (Los Angeles 2003), 238–45, with bibliography. 8

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TWO BOOKS ON MEDITERRANEAN URBANISATION T. Fischer-Hansen (ed.), Ancient Sicily, Acta Hyperborea 6, Danish Studies in Classical Archaeology, Museum Tusculanum Press, Copenhagen 1995, 316 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 87–7289–298–6/ISSN 0904–2067 H.D. Anderson, H.W. Horsnaes, S. Houby-Nielsen and A. Rathje (eds.), Urbanization in the Mediterranean in the 9th to 6th Centuries BC, Acta Hyperborea 7, Danish Studies in Classical Archaeology, Museum Tusculanum Press, Copenhagen 1997, 468 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 87–7289–412–1/ISSN 0904–2067 The series Acta Hyperborea, published by the University of Copenhagen, presents in these two volumes the proceedings of two Conferences held at Copenhagen in 1993 and 1994, respectively. Both books deal with issues relating to the ancient Mediterranean world, but while the ﬁrst of them is devoted to ancient Sicily, from prehistoric to Roman times, the second deals with issues related to urbanisation and the rise of urban structures in diﬀerent areas of the Mediterranean, including Greece, Etruria, ancient Italy and the Phoenician world. Ancient Sicily begins with two contributions dealing with the prehistory of the island: E. Procelli studies the period between the Neolithic and the Middle Bronze Age, showing how, in the ﬁnal part of the period, Sicilian society begins to exhibit increased complexity as a result of Aegean contacts. R.M. Albanese Procelli’s paper analyses the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age, including the eﬀect on Sicily of the ﬁrst colonial activity, mainly that of Greeks. With G. Shepherd’s paper the part of the book devoted to the Greeks in Sicily begins. Shepherd studies the funerary evidence provided by Greek colonies (principally Syracuse, Megara Hyblaea and Gela) to discover whether their burial customs were related to those of their respective mother-cities or, conversely, if they had developed their own rituals. The answer, convincingly argued, is that the practices diverged from those of their mother-cities and showed greater similarity to each other’s. Thus, one of the main conclusions of the paper is of the creation of a separate colonial identity. E. Østby observes, as a starting point, the monumental character of Selinus and he tries to place the development of the city in its chronological context, taking into account its increasing monumentality. A. Cordsen studies the evidence for the socalled pastas-house in Sicily, suggesting that this was a building denoting prominent status. It spread to native settlements, where it was also a form of prestige architecture. One of the best known native settlements in inland Sicily is Morgantina (Serra Orlando). B. Tsakirgis presents an overview of the site from prehistoric to Roman times. L. Karlsson studies the coinage of Timoleon with the image of Zeus Eleutherios, which ﬁtted very well with his political programme of giving freedom to Sicily after a long age of tyrannies. J.A. Krasilnikoﬀ, who deals mainly with the two Dionysii, writes on the power base of Sicilian tyrants: the control of populations, both Greek and native, the large-scale use of foreign troops and the militarisation of Syracusan society. The increased presence in Sicily of Oscan peoples from the 4th century BC is addressed by T. Sironen, mainly from the linguistic point of view. These foreign peo-

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ples considered Greek to be a prestige language, which would explain their Hellenisation; the same might be the case with the (native) Elymian language. O. Belvedere opens the chapters dealing with Roman Sicily with a study of land tenure and settlement. He examines mainly western Sicily and the position of latifundia as the backbone of the Roman system of land occupation. Lastly, C. Hollegaard Olsen, A. Rathje, C. Trier and H.C. Winther make a thorough analysis of the Roman house (domus) in Sicily. They cover a wide panorama of the chief excavated sites of Roman date on the island. The domus was usually integrated within a regular town plan and showed a tendency to growth as time went on; it was constructed according to Hellenistic traditions, decorated with wall paintings and mosaics. The book closes with some other pieces unrelated to its general subject (on nuraghic Sardinia by D. Ridgway and F.R. Serra Ridgway and on Rhodian amphorae by G. Finkielsztejn). I shall not review them here. In general, this book presents valuable and updated information on various aspects of ancient Sicily. It is not a general overview of all of today’s most debated issues but all the contributions add usefully to our knowledge. The scope of the second book is considerably broader because it deals with a more general topic, urbanisation, and with the origin and early development of the city in the Mediterranean. Theoretical issues are present in most papers and it becomes clear how diﬃcult it is to deﬁne ‘urbanisation’ (or, at least, what is meant by it in modern research). Deﬁnitions abound in the various papers, but each author tends to have his own analysis. A.L. Schallin compares the process of urbanisation (distinguishing between urban centres, central places and nucleation) in the Greek islands and on the mainland. Through several case-studies (Melos, southern Argolid, Keos, the Nemea region and the Berbati-Limnes region), quite well surveyed in recent years, she concludes that nucleation and the formation of urban centres are not usually related: the ﬁrst phenomenon is connected to crisis, while urbanisation is the result of intense economic activity. Some diﬀerences between the islands and the mainland are observed, but the survey work undertaken so far does not permit deeper insights. A. Mersch deals with the urbanisation of Attica from the late 8th century to the 6th century BC through the analysis of several large settlements. The main conclusion is that these large settlements were the means used by the Athenian polis to incorporate the extensive territory which characterised it. The subsequent evolution of Athens during the 7th century is studied by A.M. D’Onofrio, who develops a matching picture to that outlined by Mersch. According to D’Onofrio the settlements existing on Attic territory, a result of previous internal colonisation, became administrative centres for the territory in the form of demes. The paper contains a useful list of sites in the Attic countryside. J. Hall compares polis formation in three sites on the Argive plain: Argos, Mycenae and Tiryns. While Argos developed a process of centripetal location, the other two followed a diﬀerent model, with a more dispersed settlement around the old Mycenaean acropoleis. Hall questions the traditional (Aristotelian) model of the polis represented by Argos compared with the alternatives represented by Mycenae and Tiryns. Away from Athens, M.C.V. Vink sets her deﬁnition of urbanisation against the evidence provided by Late and Sub-Geometric Eretria and Zagora. She sets ﬁve key tests that deﬁne a city; according to them, neither Eretria nor Zagora were urban centres, although Eretria was closer to the mark than Zagora. However, in my opinion,

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some of her hypotheses rest upon argumenta ex silentio and very restrictive criteria. The Greek colonial world is represented by the analysis which P. Danner carries out of Megara, Megara Hyblaea and Selinus, examining the relationship between mother city, colony and sub-colony in the ﬁeld of town planning to conclude that the similarities between them are few. In some ways this paper complements that by Shepherd in Ancient Sicily (reviewed above). C. Antonaccio studies the case of urbanism at Morgantina. The development of this Sicel city has been used on many occasions to argue in favour of a profound Hellenisation of native Sicily. Antonaccio prefers to regard the Greek appearance of many architectural remains in the city as a means deployed by the Sicel elite to show a changing identity. The paper by H.W. Horsnaes on Pompeii changes the focus from the Greek world to the Italic. Although Pompeii was considered by early scholars to have been a Greek foundation, Horsnaes argues, correctly, against this and places the development of Pompeii within the wide panorama of urbanisation in southern Campania. This region was inhabited by Oscans, Etruscans and Greeks, and its history was one of interrelations between them. Sardinia is studied in two contributions. M.G. Køllund observes the development of a hierarchisation in the island from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age which would transform Nuraghi into political centres of some kind. At the same time, she stresses the important role played by sanctuaries in Early Iron Age Sardinia and the alternative they posed to the development of urban centres. In his paper, P. Van Dommelen deals with the development of the Phoenician city of Tharros within its environmental context, as well as of the native settlements surrounding it. He studies the existence of two diﬀerent and unrelated systems during the ﬁrst centuries of the Phoenician presence, although from the 5th century BC the situation changed and the rural surroundings were integrated into the Phoenician area of inﬂuence. His results are of great value because they are based on an important survey, the Riu Mannu project. Urbanisation in Latium is treated in three papers. P. Attema gives a general outline of the main problems in Latium vetus, especially in the Pontine region. He observes a rupture in the process of urbanisation begun in the Early Iron Age around 500 BC, perhaps as a result of the rise of a new identity such as the ‘Latin nation’. Writing about the same territory, a diﬀerent approach is that of E. Van’t Lindenhout, who writes about the ﬁrst towns in the coastal plain of Latium. She is less interested in terminological matters (thus making an explicit criticism of historians) than in analysis of material remains. Her approach emphasises the importance of mobility (and control of it), making transhumance play a major role in the process. H.C. Winther examines burials in Etruria and Latium vetus, but only the richest, the so-called princely tombs. The picture provided by this evidence is, of course, distorted by the richness of the grave goods, which make war a seemingly important factor in the development of society in the Orientalising period. The author includes a useful table summarising the (very standardised) ﬁnds from these tombs. The last part of the book is devoted to Etruria. It begins with a paper by A. Berardinetti, A. de Santis and L. Drago about the use of burials to study the development of Veii; after arguing in favour of the use of this evidence, they show how the Veians used diﬀerent areas for burial as well as diﬀerent types of tomb. This spatial and diachronic perspective lets them observe the rise of aristocratic groups from the 7th century BC, who would be responsible for a new organisation of the territory, the prelude to the formation of the city, already visible during the 6th century BC.

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H.D. Andersen, for his part, doubts the usefulness of funerary evidence in analysing urbanisation and prefers, instead, a more general overview of known Etruscan settlements (including Rome) during the 7th and 6th centuries BC. She thinks that, out of a previous background of farmers, a new ‘middle-class’ arose from the late 7th century which forced a change in the existing social structures. In this changing panorama trade would have been the ‘most important element in the development of the Etruscan city’. A.J. Nijboer considers the development of specialised craftsmanship as a means of observing the process of urbanisation: these skills were in increasing demand in emerging cities, within the context of the labour specialisation that was a prominent feature of the Archaic city. With A. Gotzev’s paper we experience a radical change of scenery, from Italy to Thrace. He gives a brief overview of settlements in Early Iron Age Bulgaria, with very pessimistic conclusions derived mainly from our limited knowledge of archaeological evidence before the 6th century BC. Readers of this book will welcome the wide variety of approaches to the subject of urbanisation, as well as the selection of diﬀerent case-studies chosen to illustrate the process. It is diﬃcult to draw general conclusions from such very diﬀerent papers but, when considered together, they provide an updated perspective on the diﬀerent forms assumed by the urban phenomenon across the Mediterranean. Universidad Autónoma de Madrid

Adolfo J. Domínguez

NEW PUBLICATIONS ON MARITIME ARCHAEOLOGY M. Juri“iÆ, Ancient Shipwrecks of the Adriatic. Maritime Transport during the First and Second Centuries AD, BAR International Series 828, Archaeopress, Oxford 2000, VII+169 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–039–3 E. Grossmann (with contributors), Maritime Tel Michal and Apollonia. Results of the Underwater Survey 1989–1996, BAR International Series 915, Archaeopress, Oxford 2001, 131 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–212–4 These two reports, both based on the authors’ doctoral dissertations, are useful additions to the impressive list of volumes published by British Archaeological Reports. Both volumes, while being clearly laid out and pleasant to handle, retain a personal freshness of presentation and comment, and an informal, home-made feel in many of the illustrations. In other respects, however, not just in subject-matter, the two volumes are rather diﬀerent. Eva Grossmann’s study of the coastal archaeology at Tel Michal (not far north of Tel Aviv) represents a formidable amount of work carried out, often in diﬃcult conditions, on the rocks, masonry and sand lying just oﬀ shore. The northern part of the study area consists of the seaward aspect of the Crusader fortress of Arsur, known in Roman times as Apollonia, and for much of the rest of history as Arsuf. The main visible features here are masonry walls (now much degraded) in the shallow water at the base of the fortress hill: these were studied by Avner Raban, who concluded that they were probably a lower bailey of the mediaeval castle, but G. (and her collaborator

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Israel Roll) seem to have good arguments for thinking it was indeed a harbour. Her analysis of the mortar used in the construction suggested it was Byzantine rather than Crusader in date, but one feels more study is needed, since there is apparently no other dating evidence. There is, however, disagreement between G. and R. over the orientation of the entrance of the harbour, and of the nature and eﬀects of the local coastwise currents: G. brings oceanographic opinion and some on-site observations to suggest that at this point the coastwise current tends to be from north to south, so the harbour entrance would be at the downstream end. R., on the other hand, is unaware of this local observation, considers the entrance was intended to capture onshore swells for ﬂushing out sand, and notes that the harbour is now silted-up. One feels that G. is right: at Roman Caesarea, on another section of the Israeli coast, excavation has proved that ﬂushing arrangements used the harbour entrance as a downstream exit for silt and rubbish, and we should expect something comparable at Apollonia. To the south of the harbour lies a fairly extensive area, protected by an oﬀshore reef (now apparently eroded) which G. describes as an ‘anchorage’, and considers to be of Roman (and perhaps earlier) date. This seems cogent, in view of the large quantity of ﬁnds of that period, but, even though thousands of hours were spent in the water, recording this area, one feels that the true character of this feature, and of the structures which it seems stood around it, has not been conclusively established. As for Tel Michal, to the south of the remains so far described, it seems that in the Roman period Arsuf/Apollonia took over from the older settlement at Tel Michal as a centre of activity on this stretch of coast. There are no harbour remains in the sea at Tel Michal, but a study of the land formation suggests that in the early period an inlet of the sea, perhaps artiﬁcially improved, provided a beaching-place in the shelter of the tel. Although a lot more ﬁeldwork could still be done on this question, there is enough evidence gathered here to show that this interesting and signiﬁcant arrangement of maritime facilities did indeed complement the settlement on the tel. Shoreline remains such as those studied in this volume, especially on the Levantine coast of the Mediterranean, can easily appear desperately intractable. G. had the advantage, in this case, of lifelong acquaintance with the site from her home nearby, and this certainly has given her the insight needed to turn the inchoate rocks and stones into a meaningful story, insight which in part makes up for the relatively limited resources she was able to bring to bear in the ﬁeld. The shipwrecks of the Adriatic take us from the eastern to the central Mediterranean, but Mario Juri“iÆ is conscious of his study area as potentially providing evidence of contact between East and West. The book is tightly focused on the 1st and 2nd centuries AD, and this is a pity, because many interesting classes of material, widely found in the Adriatic, fall either before or after the period in view. Indeed, the place of the Adriatic in long-distance traﬃc in the Roman empire would be more vividly established if opportunity had been taken to compare early with late. J. has covered the sites and ﬁnds from the study area comprehensively, and his book contains a great deal of useful information (and some mouth-watering photographs of underwater wreck sites); the pottery drawings and the numerous maps are, unfortunately, often clumsy, and there are many errors or insuﬃciencies in the detail of the text. His main argument is that the shipwrecks indicate two routes, one from the West and one from the East, which met in the Adriatic; a lively examination of potential sailing routes and probable hazards along the way is brought to bear on the location of wrecks, but the theory of this is not thoroughly worked out: if ships chose to

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avoid dangerous places, then the ﬁnd-spots of wrecks are unlikely to reﬂect where the ships sailed! It seems more likely, as J. admits in the case of Vis, that ships made for ports which oﬀered a market or a haven, and were in some cases lost accidentally on the way there. On the issue of sailing routes along the eastern Adriatic coast, J. identiﬁes stages, e.g. for a day’s sail, and likely passages which would have to be made, but this information is not worked up into any more general theory of ancient navigation or maritime landscape. It is a matter of regret for J., and for the reader, that the shipwreck record, now quite good for Croatia, is largely wanting for the coasts of Montenegro and Albania; were it possible to undertake, or to stimulate, proper underwater exploration in those regions, the potential of the present study would be greatly enhanced. In the meantime, the author is to be congratulated on his achievement in making available this comprehensive and intereresting body of early Roman material, and to be encouraged to produce sequels which cover the earlier and later periods of antiquity. Then it will be possible to tease out more threads of interest for the story of east-west contact in classical antiquity. University of Bristol

A.J. Parker

C. Dougherty, The Raft of Odysseus. The Ethnographic Imagination of Homer’s Odyssey, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2001, X+243 pp. Cased. ISBN 0–19–513036–7 Carol Dougherty’s book is, at the most fundamental level, a sustained and eloquent plea for the view that the Odyssey was, and could only have been, composed in the ﬁrst age of permanent Greek settlement overseas. It is as much about that historical process as Kipling’s poetry, for example, is about late British imperialism; in more detailed respects, however, a much closer parallel is with D.’s own chosen analogue, Jean de Léry’s 16th-century narrative of his journey to Brazil. Dougherty characterises her work as ‘a “historicizing” rather than a strictly historical reading of the poem’ (p. 12), certainly much the preferable of these two alternatives. If her fundamental argument is one by now already widely accepted, what makes this book original is its perceptive treatment of the more speciﬁc analogy between poetry and maritime sailing. This analogy is well developed in Chapters 2 and 3, which start out from the building of Odysseus’ raft on Calypso’s island, with much apt citation of Hesiod and Pindar; it moves on, in Chapter 4, to one of Odysseus’ most memorable destinations, Phaeacia, and the comparison with Prospero’s isle in The Tempest, another text directly inspired by very recent colonial experiences; and it surfaces again at the climax of the book, in Chapters 8 and 9, where numerous echoes are found, in the account of Odysseus’ return to Ithaca, of his earlier experiences abroad, above all in the very close parallelisms between the poet’s initial description of the raft and now of the marriage bed. There is much detailed exploration of nautical imagery and even of nautical technicalities: on the way from the raft to the bed, the Polyphemus episode provides a useful stepping-stone, with its explicit negative references to maritime aﬀairs and its shipbuilding similes. In between, Chapters 5 to 7 have provided the overtly ‘historicizing’ element of the book, in the contrast or comparison, mainly in economic terms, of the Phaeacians

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with the imaginary Cyclopes, the historical Euboeans and the Phoenicians who, in Homer’s notoriously prejudicial account, hover somewhere between those two categories. Here D. draws intermittently on archaeology; and only here did I ﬁnd grounds for substantive criticism. D. ﬁrst develops, in Chapter 5, a very fruitful contrast between the aristocratic notion and practice of gift-exchange, as represented by the Phaeacians, and the proﬁt-driven exchanges which Homer usually attributes to the Phoenicians. But from then on, I found that she insistently over-played the second of these elements, commercial trade. We all know that such trade features in the Odyssey, but there are numerous places where D. extends its scope too far, diluting in the process the much subtler contrast that she has just set up. On p. 103, for instance, the Phaeacians are presented as ‘a kind of mirror-double for the historical Euboeans in the audience, those Greeks who were at the forefront of overseas commerce and colonization’. This is not the place to go into the origins of a now widespread tendency in Mediterranean archaeology at large, and in the English-speaking world in particular, which ﬁrst appeared (not coincidentally) in the 1980s and has ﬂourished ever since. But it is worth saying that, in Economic History, the belief in past ‘mercantilist systems’ had long since been disparaged and, by this period, had virtually lost intellectual respectability. One day, perhaps, ancient studies will catch up with mainstream thought. At the heart of it lie the linguistic issues. Throughout, D. translates the Greek word kerdos, its plural form and its cognates, as ‘proﬁt’, ‘proﬁtable,’ etc. But the word has other meanings: it is worth trying out the eﬀect, in each case, of using ‘advantage’ as a translation. For example, a man who throws himself to the ground to avoid attack by aggressive dogs (p. 63), or who drops a heavy hint in order to borrow a cloak on a cold night (p. 57), can hardly be said to have secured a ‘proﬁt’, yet the poet uses kerdos-derived words for the results of both actions. Then there is D.’s treatment of Odysseus’ raft itself. What the poet says is that it was as broad as a cargoship; but for D., the raft has thereby become ‘a large-hulled cargo boat’ (p. 39), with an ‘extra large cargo hold’ (p. 62): nor is this the only place where D. seems to stray across the divide between ‘was like’ and ‘was’. Again, in translating the diﬃcult word alphestes as ‘proﬁt-hungry’, rather than the more orthodox ‘grain-eating’ (p. 116), D. quotes Stephanie West’s commentary on the Odyssey (209, n. 70) for this minority view, with the explicit citation ‘proﬁt-hungry, enterprising’; West’s commentary merely ventures ‘enterprising’. More broadly, her otherwise excellent use of Pindar is overstretched by the claim (p. 40) that he ‘will shed some light on how the notion of proﬁt may be applied to the business of poetry in early archaic times as well’. The archaeological evidence is not always handled with a sure touch: thus on p. 153 it is conjectured that 8th-century Euboeans ‘may have taken advantage of a diolkos, or canal, to the Corinthian Gulf ’; but the diolkos was not a canal, and this is a century before its construction. The material evidence is not, however, the main ﬁeld of D.’s work. Enough has been said to show that her book addresses issues of central concern to readers of Ancient West & East, by admirably bringing into play the one literary perspective which cannot be ignored in any study of early Greek enterprise in the West. Cambridge, UK

Anthony Snodgrass

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D. Dueck, Strabo of Amasia. A Greek Man of Letters in Augustan Rome, Routledge, London/New York 2000, IX+227 pp., 1 map. Cased. ISBN 0–415–21672–9 A detailed study of Strabo’s Geography is always welcome, insofar as there are few monographs devoted exclusively to his work,1 although it has received much greater attention in articles. This was Strabo’s magnus opus which, in 17 books, deals with all the regions of the ancient world and includes a wide list of historical references. Dueck’s book is the oﬀspring of her 1996 PhD dissertation presented at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem under the supervision of Joseph Geiger. In Chapter 1, ‘Strabo’s background and antecedents’ (pp. 1–30), D. shows clearly that the Geography is the only ancient source to throw light on Strabo. She also explains the nature of his writings: ‘the man and his book are inseparable and present a mutual reﬂection, each of the other’ (p. 1). To illustrate this she makes use of Strabo’s family tree (p. 6), which shows the prominent position his family enjoyed at the courts of Mithridates V and VI. Just as relevant is the map of Strabo’s travels (ﬁg. 2, p. 17): as a ‘writer of geography’ he followed predecessors in combining extensive travel and critical analysis. Nevertheless, some of these visits, such as those to Athens or to the great library in Alexandria, had a ‘scholarly’ aim. Travel and research combine to determine the nature of his work. In Chapter 2, ‘Strabo and the Greek tradition’ (pp. 31–84) D. presents Strabo as a man of letters who looks back to the Greek past in order to understand Augustan Rome. Homer, the educator of Greece, appears as the founder (archegetes) of the science of geography (see 1. 1. 2), which impelled Strabo to consult his writings for many details (p. 35 contains a concordance of quotations). D. also succeeds in studying the periplous as a traditional tool for the description of a particular region. Periploi have determined the oikoumene, the ancient concept of the inhabited world which Strabo (and D.) adopts as a guiding principle. However, the treatment of this subject is merely descriptive—a compilation of examples—and D. does not enter into the structure of genre; she even asserts, without evidence, that ‘this method of geographical description . . . cannot be deﬁned as a literary genre’! (pp. 42–43). It would have been pleasing to ﬁnd greater attention paid to Polybius, from whom Strabo learnt the role of geography within an historiographical context. He clearly approached his task along similar pragmatic lines (his pragmatike geographia parallels Polybius’ pragmatike historia, the history intended to instruct future readers). Likewise, a section devoted to scientiﬁc geography and history would have been welcome—Strabo cannot be understood without reference to the Greek tradition of scientiﬁc and mathematical geography. Then we could have expected more detailed study of, above all, Eratosthenes and Artemidorus, whose fragmentary texts have been reconstructed in part from Strabo. D. is right to turn to Strabo’s ideas on historiography (he had written previously a lost Hypomnemata Historika). Some scholars believe it possible to reconstruct this work from the Geography, but D. prefers to focus ‘on Strabo’s general notions concerning historiography’ (p. 72). In this respect it is hard to understand such a detailed reliance upon quotations from Josephus in contrast with the oblivion meeted out to major historians such as Timaeus. D. concludes Chapter 2 by confronting Hellenocentrism, in which Romans are ‘reﬁned Barbarians’, to underline Strabo’s

1

One year earlier K. Clarke published Between Geography and History. Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford 1999), but there Strabo shares the leading role with Posidonius.

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duality as a Greek in Roman surroundings—highlighted in the subtitle A Greek Man of Letters in Augustan Rome (the subject of Chapters 3–5). Thus, in ‘Strabo and the world of Augustan Rome’ (pp. 85–106), D. looks at biographical information on Strabo’s long stay in Rome. We can agree that one aspect in which Strabo seems to comply with the Roman point of view is the political. The image of Augustus is clearly a dominant one, particularly in politics and conquest (see Epilogue 6. 4. 2). D. enlarges her survey to pay attention to Strabo’s approach to Roman conquest in Chapter 4, ‘Geography, politics and empire’ (pp. 107–29). The Geography reveals a double attitude: admiration for Roman power and political achievements but at the same time criticism of the bad moral consequences arising from military advance. After the conquests interest in geographical matters increased in Augustan Rome, even for political purposes. Special projects were initiated, such as that by Agrippa consisting of both written commentaries and a map describing the oikoumene. D. inclines to accept the hypothesis that Strabo saw Agrippa’s tablet laid out in Rome and took from it Roman measurements of distance. And in ‘Greek scholars in Augustan Rome’ (pp. 130–44), according to D., we can place Strabo in the context of the Pax Augusta which enabled Greek scholars as well as other inhabitants of the empire to visit intellectual centres, mainly Athens, Alexandria and Rome. D. presents a wide list of Greek intellectuals who spent time in Augustan Rome, even though she realises that there were some whom Strabo did not meet. Such a list may be a good exhibition of erudition but it were better she focused on those who had a real inﬂuence on Strabo. The ﬁnal chapter (pp. 145–87) contains a most detailed study of the Geography. D. ﬁrst of all presents an accurate history of the text and a survey of its inﬂuence on geographers in the following centuries. Next she underlines Strabo’s new approach to this genre insofar as he combines periploi, histories and periodoi ges. Although Strabo’s work is based on many sources, he assembles details into one carefully constructed whole which at the same time contains smaller units of a descriptive nature. The result is a colossal work in which the interrelatedness of the various parts ﬂows from a deﬁned plan. To elucidate this D. analyses the particular constitution and tendency of each book, but her examination does not go beyond a summary of outlines. On the other hand she shows a good management of ancient sources and modern criticism of them. The book is completed by a wide and well-chosen Bibliography (pp. 206–16), even though it lacks some major titles on historiography (K. Meister, O. Lendle) and Jacoby’s essential compilation of lost sources. D. has consulted a praiseworthily broad spectrum of work, not just in English (as too often happens with Anglophone writing). The indices of geographical (pp. 217–22) and personal (pp. 223–27) names are also useful tools. Something should be said about the handling of texts. All quotations of ancient authors use the Loeb Classical Library, whose translations and editions of texts are obsolescent. Greek and Latin are never used; thus we lose the freshness of the original sources. There are traces of the book’s origin as a PhD dissertation in the predominance of biographical and descriptive information, whereas it lacks a deeper literary approach. Nevertheless, the criticisms I have made are only to propose improvement; my overall opinion is deﬁnitely positive: this will become a standard reference work for all those interested in Strabo and ancient geography. Thanks to D., we have an excellent general survey of the state of our knowledge from the mythical past to the Augustan age. D. draws upon a wide range of source material accurately docu-

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mented, gives a clear exposition of the issues, and treats methodologies and opinions with rigour. University of Zaragoza

José Vela Tejada

B. Fischer, H. Genz, É. Jean and K. Köro[lu (eds.), Identifying Changes: The Transition from Bronze to Iron Ages in Anatolia and its Neighbouring Regions, Proceedings of the International Workshop, Istanbul, November 8–9, 2002, Istitutum Turcicum Scientiae Antiquitatis, Istanbul 2003, VIII+317 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 975–807–063–0 Publications of archaeological gatherings—whether termed conferences, colloquia or (as in this case) workshops—are proliferating at what some might think a rather alarming rate. The obvious fear is that certain participants spend much of their time beating the same drum. Fortunately this is not true of this workshop, yielding 25 papers with introduction and conclusion. This gathering thus did not suﬀer from the drawbacks of larger conferences. Moreover, it has kept to its chosen theme, even if the avowed emphasis on Anatolia is not quite as dominant as perhaps intended. The bibliographies are especially useful, the discussions rather less so, though nonetheless welcome. The latter inevitably vary in length, not appearing after every paper, notably those in the section entitled Natural Sciences. Jak Yakar (Tel Aviv) emerges as the most frequent contributor. This publication is introduced by the four organisers and divided into seven sections: Aegean, Balkans and western Anatolia; Cilicia, Cyprus and the Levant; southeastern Anatolia; central and northern Anatolia; eastern Anatolia and the Caucasus; natural sciences; ﬁnal discussion. This workshop thus covered a wide geographical expanse. Inevitably not every region is treated with equal authority. One may contrast the masterly discussion of central and northern Anatolia (central Black Sea region) with the less satisfactory coverage of the most easterly territories, notably the Van region. The absence of a number of ﬁeld archaeologists directly involved with excavations and surveys in the Urartian lands, and responsible for identifying material remains convincingly attributed to the Early Iron Age, reduces the contribution of this otherwise excellent workshop. One speciﬁc aspect deserving mention is the sequence of three stratiﬁed Early Iron Age levels distinguished on Büyükkaya (Bo[azköy). Under the direction of Jürgen Seeher, himself a prehistorian by training, the emphasis of the German excavations was for a time shifted to Büyükkaya, extending the timespan of occupation of Bo[azköy and ﬁlling the void represented by the supposed ‘dark age’ following the fall of the Hittite empire. Here continuity of settlement is apparent, even though the main concentration of Early Iron Age sites lies to the north, in the area of Amasya and Merzifon. Continuity of population is quite another matter: this seems unlikely, in the light of the retrogression in building methods and the drastic ceramic change, from the standardised plain wheel-made wares of the Late Bronze Age to hand-made, low-ﬁred pottery, much of it with incised or painted decoration. Comparison has been made with pre-Hittite empire pottery, with the suggestion that Kaska tribes may have returned south to territory they had occupied before Hattusili I established his capital at Hattusa. The participants from the Bo[azköy excavations (Seeher and Genz)

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have, however, back-pedalled on this front. Bo[azköy remains the sheet-anchor for understanding the Early Iron Age of central Anatolia, while it is admitted (by Sevket Dönmez) that excavations will be essential for any ﬁrm grasp of developments in the central Black Sea region. Another crucial aspect relates to the distribution and dating of the so-called ‘groovy’ pottery, found in and well beyond the Elazi[ region. Its context is discussed in relation to three excavated sites—Lidar and Tille on the Euphrates and Nor{untepe in the Altinova (Isuwa in the Hittite empire)—and to the Van region, where it seems to have been typical of the pre-Urartian period (Early Iron Age), when it occurs side by side with the red polished ware associated with the most prestigious fortresses. Doubts about the pre-Urartian date of certain cemeteries, including Karagündüz, and the settlement of Yoncatepe seem unjustiﬁed. Solution of the problems surrounding the ‘dark’ age—dark mainly from our ignorance—was the prime motivation behind this enterprising workshop. Continuity of settlement rather than drastic shifts can now be detected as marking this stage in central Anatolia, the erstwhile heartland of the Hittite empire. Further east, in and beyond the Van region, the picture remains tantalisingly obscure for the centuries following the end of the Early Transcaucasian cultural era. As the introduction makes plain, the emphasis is overwhelmingly on the archaeological evidence, with minimum reliance on the ancient written records. The participants are to be commended for adhering ﬁrst and foremost to the material data rather than theoretical constructs. The sixth section, on natural sciences, adds much to the weight of this publication, even if participants found it hard to raise questions to promote discussion. Was this perhaps in some measure the fault of the specialists in question? Climatology is one of the most interesting topics covered, having reference to the dry period, especially marked in the Early Iron Age, over a wide zone including Anatolia and Mesopotamia. The organisers of this workshop record their awareness of the need to apply a variety of techniques not exclusively reliant on further ﬁeldwork. The role of migrations is a longstanding challenge to all concerned with these centuries, approximately 1300–800 BC, and receives due attention. Desertion of their entrenched territories by the political elite under the rule of Hattusa can explain the cultural sequences in central Anatolia and the Elazi[ region, later the westernmost province of Urartu. The other subjects covered include a wide-ranging discussion of migrations (Yakar); Troy VII (Becks); North-West Pontic and North Aegean architecture (Pieniazek-Sikora); Cilicia ( Jean); reliefs of Karatepe (Özyar); a change to continuity in south-eastern Anatolia (Müller); tradition and change in southern Caucasia (Bertram); and crops and cultivation (Riehl and Nesbitt). The editors and contributors are to be congratulated on the speed of publication of a volume well supplied with ﬁgure drawings, those of Late Bronze and Early Iron Age pottery side by side being particularly useful. As for the workshop itself, a third day would surely have been welcome? Buxton, UK

Charles Burney

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R.L. Fowler (ed.), Early Greek Mythography Vol. 1: Text and Introduction, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2000, 430 pp. Cased. ISBN 0–19–814740–6 This is a critical edition of the remains of 29 Greek mythographers from the 6th to 4th centuries BC, notably Hecataeus, Hellanicus and Pherecydes, who account for nearly two-thirds of the testimonia. It depends, inevitably, on Jacoby, but will be inﬁnitely easier to use. It is by no means a work for philologists and mythographers only, though for most Ancient West & East readers the projected second volume of Commentary will be even more valuable. The Greeks derived much of their myth from sights and stories outside Greece itself, and they as readily projected their myth on to foreign names and locations. In the early period this can tell much about what they knew and understood of the outside world, and Fowler is presenting us with an authoritative account of the literary (there is of course much more) evidence for it. There is a full proper-name index to the texts of both the authors and the ancient authorities for them, but only a select one of verba potiora for the latter. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

N.A. Gavrilyuk, Istorya ekonomiki Stepnoi Skiﬁi, VI–III vv. do n.e. (History of the Economy of Steppe Scythia, 6th–3rd Centuries BC), Institute of Archaeology, Ukrainian National Academy of Sciences, Kiev 1999; 420 pp., many illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 966–02–1051–5 This history of the economy of the Scythians of the steppes (from Archaic times to the Hellenistic period) is a very solid study of more than 400 pages, equipped with 66 text ﬁgures. These are chieﬂy of pottery and other small ﬁnds, but there is a welcome appearance of the mammal- and bird-life of the steppe, some of which, not unnaturally, was also represented on Scythian art-objects. Among the numerous tables of data those relating to the fauna (osteological material, pp. 132–45) and ﬂora (seeds, pollen grains and ﬁbres, pp. 155–64) are also of special interest. The book is a compact one, economical of print-space; the publishers have, however, gone too far in this direction in placing all main chapter headings, after the fourth, half way down the page of the previous one, as though they were sub-headings. Further, the introductory maps (Figs. 1, 2a–b, 3) are so reduced on the page as to be barely usable by anyone hoping to locate sites in the relevant Lower Dnieper area of Scythia. The meat of the book is in nine chapters, of which the last one actually strays beyond the promise of the title, covering a revival, after a break in the 3rd century BC, of settlement lasting from the 2nd century BC down to the 2nd century AD. This is linked by Gavrilyuk to a reference by Strabo (7. 4. 5) to a ‘Little Scythia’, including the Crimea and reaching westwards as far as the Borysthenes (Dnieper). Chapter 1 discusses methodology, and the ancient literary sources (very meagre in content except for Herodotus); oddly, although other ancient writers appear in the index, Herodotus does not. More attention is given to Scythian burials, but the real subject of the book is the settlements on the east and west banks of the Lower Dnieper, dating mainly to the late 5th and 4th centuries BC. The second chapter is based on Grakov’s earlier excavation at the major site of Kamenskoe (a huge defended area near Nikopol and Kamenka), but also on the recent ones carried out between

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1987 and 1988. The site is at a crossing of the Dnieper, and at its intersection with the curious windings of the River Konka. It is sometimes characterised as a Scythian ‘royal’ centre. Traces of the debate among Ukrainian colleagues about the exact nature of Kamenskoe gorodishche (city-site) are here visible in some passages of sharp polemic (p. 31). One wonders whether one might here follow Boltenko, who in 1958 suggested that Kamenskoe was the mysterious Kankytos (place on the Konka?). This place was visited by Saitaphernes, king of the Saioi, when approaching Olbia to receive, or extort, his tribute. Kamenskoe had certainly been resorted to by Olbiopolitans in the 4th century, and, even if less fully used by Scythians in the 3rd than formerly, it still might have been visited in seasonal ‘progresses’ by them. The chapter also deals with Lysaya Gora and over a hundred lesser settlements of the 4th century BC, mainly on the eastern bank of the Dnieper. How these relate to Herodotus’ somewhat earlier Skythai Georgoi of the same area (‘agriculturalists’ or *gauvarga, ‘pastoralists’) is not entirely clear. Interestingly Strabo, basing himself on sources three or four centuries later, places the Georgoi in the eastern Crimea, and clearly thinks of them as farmers (7. 4. 6), not specifying, however, whether he thinks of them as ‘Scythian’. Chapter 3 is on the region’s natural conditions and resources, its major rivers and general ‘woodlessness’, the ﬂat, deep-soiled steppe, the pasture and marsh. Here in the survey of the rivers there must be a slip, where it is stated (without reference) that the River Molochnaya is usually identiﬁed with Herodotus’ Panticapes or Hypaciris (p. 108; cf. p. 139). Not so—the Molochnaya is most commonly identiﬁed with the Gerrhos of Herodotus, and even that is disputed. In Chapter 4 an attempt is made to estimate the population of Scythia—the diﬃculties were outlined by Herodotus (4. 81; 5. 3) and Thucydides (3. 97). Between the 7th and the 4th centuries BC a startling growth-rate is proposed, based on the area of pasture available to herds and ﬂocks but shared with the wild herbivores using the steppe; eventually too great a strain on the steppelands may have led to a temporary collapse. So the argument runs, with an appeal made to mathematical (actuarial?) techniques. Here is a second point of polemic with some colleagues. The formulae presented, however, do seem to produce too precise an impression (yet within broad parameters) of the ‘populationexplosion’ in the steppes (pp. 119–20; 126–27). It is a great pity that we cannot use the great bronze cauldron at Exampaios, which Herodotus believed to have been made out of arrow-heads used as census-tokens of the Scythian king’s men (4. 81). Calculating numbers from the size of the cauldron would have been as beguiling a task as using the area of the steppe country as a starting point—and beset by as many variables! Chapter 5 is by far the longest, covering nomadic and semi-nomadic cattle- and sheep-rearing, and the increasing number of agricultural settlements noted along the Dnieper from the late 5th century BC. The crafts practised by the Scythians are considered here (bone-, leather-, felt- and metalwork), and the hunting of game (boar, red deer, elk, roe deer, hares)—in short, the people within their environment. Trade and the role of various items of exchange are the subject of Chapter 6; Greek coins appear at Kamenskoe and elsewhere in these up-river settlements, especially from Olbia, in the 4th century. Again formulae are resorted to in estimating the relative value of slaves and gold (pp. 284–86); one suspects that the value of both ‘commodities’ would vary greatly according to the Scythians’ demands on their neighbours/subjects for ‘gifts’ and on the amount taken in war and raids, quite apart from the two-way trade. Again a dispute with colleagues is aired (pp. 267–69); G. argues

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(so also Shcheglov) that it was not the steppeland Scythians who produced the grain surplus exported from Bosporus to Greece, but the chora of Bosporus itself. The short Chapter 7 deals with the Scythian economy in general terms from the 6th to the 4th centuries BC. The suggestion is made that Herodotus’ sub-divisions of the Scythians (Georgoi, Nomades, Basileioi/Eleutheroi) may have been economic rather than ethnic in character (p. 293). However, Herodotus does place them in speciﬁc areas and mentions rivers as boundaries; this suggests some regional diﬀerentiation. Chapter 8 is also brief, dealing with the 3rd century, Hellenistic, crisis; this is seen as at least in part due to a decline in resources (over-pasturing the steppe) rather than to a decline in the climate (pp. 90–91). How the Scythian settlements came to an end toward the end of the 4th century/early 3rd, and why there is relatively little settled occupation in the 3rd is another unresolved and disputed question (pp. 313–15). The content concludes with two appendices, one a list of amphora-stamps found at Kamenskoe (Grakov was a pioneer-scholar in this branch of Greek trade as well as the best-known excavator of the site). The ﬁnal tabular-appendix is a summary presentation of the types of object, and their frequency, found on Scythian sites, and its utility can easily be appreciated. This book is almost encyclopaedic in its coverage of aspects of the economy of Scythia of the open steppe. It is based on studies by many predecessors and contemporary scholars, and also on the author’s earlier work on hand-made pottery, on local imitation of imports, and on food-provision. About one aspect of trade this reviewer would have liked to see a little more extensive discussion. Mention of animalfurs receives a very short paragraph (p. 233). Yet this trade was important enough by Herodotus’ time to attract Greeks far inland, beyond the steppe country, from the coastal emporia. They lived in a timber town, Gelonos, in the land of the Boudinoi, trapping or netting beavers, otters and muskrats in a great lake (Herodotus 4. 109). Centuries later Strabo still presents skins, along with slaves, as the major exports from the barbarians (Strabo 11. 2. 3). The nomadic Basileioi will have exacted some tolls on such goods going to the coast. The archaeological base has in the past been exploited to study the military and political side of the Scythians, their social structure and their distinctive art. This book provides insight into further facets of their culture—their environment and economy. Leeds, UK

J.G.F. Hind

V.I. Gulyaev and V.S. Olkhovskii (eds.), Skify i Sarmaty v VII–III vv. do n.e.: paleoekologiya, antropologiya i arkheologiya (Scythians and Sarmatians in the 7th–3rd Centuries BC: Paleoecology, Anthropology and Archaeology), Institute of Archaeology, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow 2000; 318 pp., many illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–89930–044–2 This volume publishes the proceedings of a conference held in November–December 1999 at Dedovsk near Moscow on the theme then deﬁned as ‘The Scythians of the North Black Sea Area in the 7th–4th centuries BC’. The book’s present, broader, title reﬂects the inclusion of the Sarmatian peoples east of the Don, with a range

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reaching the Volga and Ural regions and, on occasion, Pazyryk in the Altai. The chronological range has also been extended to embrace the 3rd century BC. This was the ﬁrst such major conference for almost 30 years, and it served also as an occasion to celebrate the achievement and archaeological heritage of B.N. Grakov, who was the chief inspiration behind the previous series (1952, 1967, 1972) of gatherings, which was discontinued in the early 1970s. An introductory group of four papers considers Grakov’s historical/archaeological contribution (pp. 5–9), the signiﬁcance of his excavations at Kamenskoe on the Dnieper, opposite Nikopol (pp. 10–14), and describes the ‘Grakov collection’ of Scythian material in the State Historical Museum, Moscow (pp. 15–21). The section concludes with an account of Grakov’s evolving views on the early Sarmatians in the Don-Donets area (Skripkin, pp. 31–36). This survey turns into a sharp criticism of a recent view put forward by the St Petersburg scholar, Zuev, and suggests that the ‘archaeological facts’ are best explained by a combination of groups of incoming Sarmatians, intermingling with residual elements of the pre-existing population. The following group of papers goes under the heading, ‘Palaeodemography’, ranging geographically from the Ukrainian/South Russian steppe and wooded-steppe via the Middle Don region and the North Caucasus to the Pazyryk burials. Particularly striking is the title, ‘Were the Scythians Obese?’ (Buzhilova and Kozlovskaya, pp. 36–38). Cranial evidence (endocrinal) suggests that some at least, especially women, were obese. A famous passage in Ps-Hippokrates (§§ 22–24) is quoted for the physical characteristics of Scythians (as noted by Greeks), but the life-style of the nomads, particularly their diet and the many hours spent by the women in the waggons, might be suggested as possible root-causes. Comparative study of the crania from burials in Scythia and Central Asia also leads to the, rather common-sense, view that the Scythians, like their Sarmatian relatives later, incorporated some people from the existing population into their society for intermarriage, birth and burial (Yablonski, pp. 73–79). The Pazyryk burials of the Altai provide evidence for body-preservation techniques (akin to taxidermy), designed to keep the corpse in good condition for many days, probably until the nomadic group reached its burial ground (Polosmak, pp. 67–72). This recalls the 40-day tour around relatives carried out before burial by the ‘ordinary’ Scythians (Herodotus 4. 73). Four papers follow on the theme of Palaeoecology, one on the fauna of the North Black Sea region (Antipina, pp. 80–86), and one on the evidence for climate-change over the long period of the 6th century BC–5th century AD (Demkin et al., pp. 87–90); samples from tumuli serve as the test-material. Palaeobotany is used to assess the forms of agriculture practised at Scythian sites on and around the Dnieper in the steppeland region (Lebedeva, pp. 91–100; Pashkevich, pp. 100–09). The amount of grain (wheat and millet) grown from the late 5th century to the late 4th is something of a surprise. It is suggested that it may have been used in porridge more than for bread, and that the barley may have been intended mainly for animal fodder (pp. 108–09). The main section of the collection, ‘The Scytho-Sarmatian Problem—Approaches, Hypotheses, Solutions’, contains 23 papers. Eight papers consider the early period of formation of Scythian society (7th–6th centuries BC). Two of these study early forms of horse-harness (bits and bridle-chains). One (Makhortykh, pp. 186–93) is a critique of a recent study of Cimmerian and early Scythian ﬁnds in ‘Upper Asia’, which

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treated the two ethnonyms as overlapping, if not synonymous, concepts. Very interesting is the paper on the rich tumuli at Novozavedennoe II, where imported Greek pottery gives conﬁrmation of date to assemblages that are very like those at Kelermes (Petrenko et al., pp. 238–48). For good measure there is also publication of the tumulus at Lubotin in the Severski Donets region, and a discussion of the Late Archaic/Early Classical defended settlement at Motroninskoe, in the wooded-steppe region (200 ha in area) in the bend of the River Tyasmin, and far up the Dnieper. This latter, it is suggested, was the capital of a tribal group, subject to the Scythians. A paper on early iron-working in the north-western Caucasus (Terekhova and Erlikh, pp. 280–86) expands on a theme often touched on by ancient writers, the production of iron and even a form of steel, in the eastern Black Sea and Caucasus regions. Writing on Elizavetovskoe, Kopylov argues that, after a period of depopulation in the second half of the 6th century, a mixed group of ‘Scythians’ with origins in the Dnieper wooded-steppe area moved into the Don delta at the end of the 6th or early 5th century BC. These were the people responsible for the large fortiﬁed site at Elizavetovskoe, and its accompanying rich burials, which lasted until ca. 300 BC (pp. 157–66). Seven papers deal with the period of ﬂoruit of Scythia, as evidenced by archaeology—the 4th century BC. The typical Scythian tumulus (royal/elite version) is characterised by Boltryk (pp. 129–37). This, he demonstrates, is likely to have been constructed to a standard and largely unitary plan. The subsidiary burials in the mound were, he suggests, of retainers and attendants, and some of the tomb-robbers’ trenches, at least, followed the lines of the original dromos-type passages. Two extensive burial grounds of the 5th–4th centuries are discussed, that at Mamai Gora on the Lower Dnieper, probably a burial place for the people of Kamenskoe (Andrukh, pp. 110–18) and one at Ternovo on the middle reaches of the Don (Savchenko, pp. 268–80), which is also thought to be of a Scythian group, rather than Sarmatian. Two papers attempt to tie in the archaeological ﬁndings from Scythian burial grounds and defended ‘towns’ with known historical events of the latter half of the 4th century. Murzin and Rolle (pp. 216–19) suggest that Philip of Macedon’s defeat of the aged Scythian king, Ataias, in 339 BC may have led to a break-up of the Royal Scythian’s overlordship of the steppes under a weakened leadership of elderly and discredited chieftains. This is largely speculative, drawing on analogies from the loose structure of the Huns, Golden Horde and other nomadic empires. Slightly later (ca. 309 BC) events, centred upon the activities of Eumelos of the Bosporus, may have helped further to weaken the position of the last Scythian king of the European steppes, Agaros. It is argued that this created a relative vacuum for the Sarmatians to occupy. So Lukyashko interprets the end of the Scythian period in the Don delta and the Bosporan settlement of Elizavetovskoe in the period 300–270 BC (pp. 167–80). Several papers are concerned with the population-groups occupying the Lower Don and Middle Don regions, exploring the possibility of identifying Herodotus’ Sauromatai, Boudinoi, Gelonoi, and, some suggest, also the ‘breakaway’ people who left the ‘Royal’ Scythians. Some specialists, following Rybakov, take the Tanais to be the course of the Lower Don and the Severski Donets (so Maksimenko, p. 183). But the traditional view that the Tanais was the Don proper, far up its course, is more compatible with the ancient tradition and with the respective bends in the course of the Don and Volga rivers; Medvedev draws in Ptolemy’s co-ordinates for the great bends in these two rivers (p. 195, ﬁg. 1). This article also has interesting comments on Herodotus’

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‘Square Scythia’, and on the reason why greater detail is given for the tribal series to the east than for the peoples of the north-west and north (pp. 196–99). One supposes that the physical lie of the land, the tree-less corridor, ﬂat and deep-soiled (Herodotus 4. 23–24), made this inter-tribal contact relatively easy, even across the stated seven language barriers. Immediately to the east of Scythia lay Herodotus’ Sauromatai, who must be the same as the Syrmatai of Eudoxos and Ps-Skylax in the next century, and the (generic) Sarmatai of the Hellenistic and Roman periods. There is no evidence to support the view that a section of Herodotus’ Sauromatai moved northwards and eastwards away from a group that remained near the Don delta (p. 183). The argument for this is vitiated by confusion between the references in two portions of Herodotus’ work (4. 21; 116). In the ﬁrst passage the Sauromatai are said to occupy the steppe country for a distance of 15 days journey north from Lake Maeotis, and in the second to have travelled east for three days, and north for three more, before reaching their lands in the ﬁrst place. An inconsistency there is in Herodotus, but not one warranting belief in two separate groups of Sauromatai. About the Boudinoi there is also some diﬀerence of opinion within the volume; some would locate them in the wooded-steppe Middle Don region (Medvedev, p. 199), while others would have them put further east in the area of the bends of Don and Volga in the wooded Eurasian steppe (Gulyaev, p. 148, ﬁg. 2). The area between Severski Donets and Don is archaeologically a ‘debatable land’. The Chastye tumuli at Voronezh probably represent members of the Royal Scythians, at the eastern limit of their range (Gulyaev, p. 151). However, the settlements of the region and the accompanying burial sites, which are usually found within 3–8 km of each other, are said to have handmade pottery and bronze objects of a locally distinct kind, and the implication is that they were a distinct people (Puzikova, pp. 258–68). Were these then a section of the Boudinoi ? Three papers are studies of objects or types of monument associated with nomad societies of the Scythian period. ‘Stone dishes’ and ‘portable footed altars’ (the former in Scythia, the latter mainly further east) receive detailed study (Moshkova, pp. 201–15). This paper is directed, at least in part, against a recently expressed view that they were bowls for mixing cosmetics; the author reverts to an earlier view that they were for some cult purpose. But here one might attempt to be more speciﬁc, and recall the skaphai (‘open bowls’, Herodotus 4. 73; 75), into which the Scythians were said to place red-hot stones, for the burning of cannabis seeds. This produced the famous intoxication, which the Scythians induced as a closing part of their burial ritual. On the other hand, the stone slabs with rough edges, also found in burials, ‘of unknown function’ (p. 202) might be connected to cosmetic use. Might they not be the ‘rough stones’, said by Herodotus (4. 75) to be used by the Scythian women to pound fragments of wood into a paste for a cleansing facial? The second paper is on ‘kamennye baby’, stylised stone eﬃgies attributed to the Cimmerians, Scythians and more easterly Eurasian peoples as far as Mongolia (Olkhovski, pp. 220–30). In the East the earliest, least anthropomorphic, ﬁgures often bear designs in the form of running or standing stags or ibexes—hence the name ‘stag-stones’. At the end of this tradition of stone markers come some increasingly realistic, trousered ﬁgures from the Caspian/Aral region, which look as though they were inﬂuenced by Parthian sculpture, as well as Bactrian and Sogdian intermediaries (p. 225, ﬁg. 5).

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The third study of a typically Scythian object deals with the small, two-pronged (more rarely three-pronged), bronze or bone ‘forks’. These are found not infrequently in Scythian burials, associated with a number of arrow-heads (Fialko and Boltrik, pp. 287–96). Something very similar is illustrated dangling from the left side of a Scythian humanoid marker-stone (p. 293, ﬁg. 4); on the other sides are an akinakes (sword), a gorytus (bow-and-arrow holder), and a whetstone. These ‘forks’ have been variously explained as a means of ‘testing’ an arrow-shaft, or of aiming an arrow, or as a ‘ritual object’ (p. 294). The suggestion of Cherednichenko (quoted p. 292) that they might be the means of stringing the Scythian bow is an attractive one, though how they would operate (as a kind of lever?) in the diﬃcult stringing process (Herodotus 4. 10) is not clear. Alternatively, they might be a means of keeping the bow-string safely wound, without tangles or knots beneath the slightly knobbed ends. A clutch of papers deals directly with, or touches on incidentally, the distinctive ‘animal-style’ of Scythian art. Perevodchikova (pp. 213–17) demonstrates the links between the Lower Don and Lower Volga regions and the Kuban/western Caucasus area; the style’s variants in the Ural and Altai regions are discussed by Dvornichenko (pp. 153–56). Similarities between ﬁnds in the wooded-steppe region, in the North Caucasus, and in the Don delta, emerge in papers already mentioned (pp. 162–64, 231–37, 243). The last paper on Scythian art, actually the concluding one of the volume, was not delivered at the conference but has been rescued from the obscurity of an earlier publication in Muzeinoe Delo 1977. This is Shkurko’s, ‘Scythian Art of the Animal Style—the Evidence from Objects from the Wooded-steppe Area’ (pp. 304–13). It is an analytical study of Scythian objects of bone, antler, gold, silver, silver-gilt and bronze. These are all small pieces of bone and metalwork designed as bridle-chains, bits, chamfrons, cheek-pieces, pole-tops, dress ornaments, mirrors and the like—perhaps shield-emblazons too. The paper gives a very useful chronological breakdown of the frequency of diﬀerent motifs in three periods—7th–6th centuries; 5th century; 4th–3rd centuries. Animal motifs are divided into hooved animals (and their parts), predators, birds (and parts, especially eagle-heads), and fantastic beasts (hybrid animals etc.). The stag (leaping to escape?) and the predator (standing, crouched, paired with another, coiled), panther-like usually, but sometimes wolf-like, or even reminiscent of a wolverine, are the most common animals in the early period, though boars, goats, elks and heads of rams also occur frequently. Perhaps they are to be seen mainly as prey—and predator—species; both categories were also objects of the hunt for the Scythians, the former for their meat and hides, and the latter for their furs, and prestige gained from killing a dangerous beast. Skify i Sarmaty . . . is a very professionally produced volume; it is as wide-ranging over their culture as the Scythians were over the steppelands, and at times as ‘polemical’ as they were, in its argumentation. This makes for a highly stimulating Proceedings. The editors are to be congratulated on this collection, which was published with exemplary speed after the conference’s closure. Leeds, UK

J.G.F. Hind

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E. Haerinck and B. Overlaet, Chamahzi Mumah. An Iron Age III Graveyard. Belgium Archaeological Mission in Iran, The Excavations in Luristan, Pusht-i Kuh (1965–1979), The Gent University and the Royal Museums of Art and History, Brussels, Joint Expedition Directed by Louis Vanden Berghe(†), Luristan Excavation Documents Vol. II (Acta Iranica 33), Peeters, Leuven 1998, 218 pp., many illustrations (some in colour). Cased. ISBN 90–429–0027–X The antiquity of Luristan remains a conspicuous paradox of the ancient Near East. On the one hand, its name is well known through its association with the vast quantity of bronzes, as remarkable as they are heterogenous, and mostly without a provenance, which have ﬂooded the antiquities market in their thousands, especially in the last half-century. Fantastic master-of-animals standards, idols, horse gear and decorative plaques are among the categories of bronzes that are testimony to a rich artistic tradition claimed to originate in ancient Luristan. Yet on the other hand, with so few controlled excavations having been carried out in the region, the archaeology of Luristan suﬀers desperately from a lack of contextual detail. Only a very small number of bronzes actually have a provenience compared with the mass that has been plundered. Bronzes aside, the most fundamental questions such as the social and political circumstances of these highland communities, their domestic situation, let alone their very identity cannot be addressed with any degree of certainty. This volume, therefore, is most welcome. It presents the results of the excavations at Chamahzi Mumah, a cemetery in the Pusht-i Kuh region of Luristan, carried out during the 10th (1974) and 11th (1975) campaigns of the Belgian Archaeological Mission in Iran under the direction of Louise Vanden Berghe. The 15 campaigns carried out in Luristan by Vanden Berghe and his team remain our torch in this dimly lit part of the ancient Near East. We are therefore much indebted to Haerinck and Overlaet who, since Vanden Berghe’s death in 1993, have patiently and assiduously collated the archival data of the Belgian Mission and are making them available for scholars. In their dedication and energy they follow Vanden Berghe himself who was commended for his perseverance and speed of publications. The book is produced in folio size and at a high standard that we have come to expect from Peeters Press, even though the image on the dust jacket is somewhat fussy and confusing. Eighty-one Iron Age III tombs were excavated at Chamahzi Mumah and show little variation in structure. They are stone-built cist graves each with a single interment delineated at the surface by an oval-shaped ring of stones. The ﬁrst three chapters—Introduction, Site Description and Tomb Construction—are fairly brief totalling some six pages. They are followed by a detailed description and listing of Burial Goods that is divided into pottery, metal objects and miscellaneous objects. References to comparative material are sprinkled throughout the catalogue. The ﬁnal chapter, Concluding Remarks, is succinct, like the introductory comments. Interestingly, despite having yielded a considerable metalwork repertory, this cemetery can claim only two objects (an axe-adze and a tubular support) that are typical ‘Luristan Bronzes’, a situation that according to the authors is indicative of the site’s western orientation. An invaluable illustrative catalogue includes well-executed drawings and sharp photographs. The remarkably clean and crisp excavation areas reﬂect a careful ﬁeldwork technique that inspires conﬁdence and enhances the trustworthiness of the report. Regrettably, no information is presented on the skeletal remains, which are housed in the Iran National Museum. Should this information become available in the future, it is hoped that a more rounded appraisal of the mortuary practice at Chamahzi Mumah will be considered. In the meantime, the authors have used grave goods as

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their guide to the sex of the deceased whenever possible, suggesting that ‘armament can be considered to indicate a male burial, certain jewellery, such as anklets, a female burial’ (p. 5). But given current theoretical discourse on gender in the past, such an assumption is perhaps better avoided. While this volume is full of basic information pertaining to the tombs and artefacts, one may be forgiven for feeling a little short-changed. An extended discussion that places these results in a cultural or socio-political context would be most welcome. Nonetheless, this is an important contribution and H. and O. are to be congratulated for making the heritage of Luristan a little less enigmatic and perplexing. University of Melbourne

Antonio Sagona

A. Invernizzi, Sculture di Metallo da Nisa. Cultura greca e cultura iranica in Partia, Acta Iranica 35, Peeters, Leuven 1999, 236 pp., many illustrations (some in colour). Cased. ISBN 90–429–0733–9 The Parthian site at Nisa is best known for its impressive architecture, the hoard of ivory rhyta and various works of hellenizing stone and clay statuary. There is little minor sculpture in metal (the best in gilt silver, and some bronze and iron), but what there is is important, especially when dealt with as thoroughly as it is here, by an expert in both classical and Central Asian matters. This touches major subjects, sometimes far from Nisa. Thus, the small silver Athena prompts a useful account of the record of her and her pompier helmet in the east. We need not doubt her continuing identity as the Greek goddess in the light of the inscriptions on a pendant and ring at Tillya Tepe (burials 2.1, 3.78), where her iconographic degeneration has already gone far (notably on another ring, with turquoise intaglio, burial 2.2). An eagle, appliqués of a relief bowman-centaur and a sphinx, and a siren boxfoot, do not take us outside the Hellenistic repertory that found favour in the east, with or without local relevance, though very probably of local make. A leaping griﬃn is on what might be part of a heavy lampstand of Central Asian type. The pattern on the base is perhaps no more than a rather emaciated double guilloche. Relief discs are a popular decorative form for the area: here one with a frontal lion head; another with the forepart of a stag is, for the tilt of its head, perhaps more classical than Animal-Style in associations. The disc is not in itself, perhaps, a mirror, as once thought, but might have been attached to one; such eastern ornaments are often found to lack clear signs of how or to what they were attached. There is more to learn of the weapons reported from the site. Here a cut-out iron eagle and tall-stemmed ﬂame palmettes are attributed to the border of a very large (dimensions of the pieces are not given) shield, with a trident centrepiece (seen only in the restoration drawing). But the ﬁnest weapon is a ceremonial gilt silver axe head which deﬁes easy classiﬁcation but is clearly at home at this date and place. Most of the metal objects belong late in the site’s main Parthian history, around the turn of the era. This is a handsome and important book, its scholarship matched by its production, although, with so much information of disparate character and a wide range of comparanda discussed and illustrated, an Index would have been really welcome. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

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K. Jordanov, K. Porozhanov and V. Fol (eds.), Thracia 15. In Honour of Alexander Fol’s 70th Anniversary, Institute of Thracology, Soﬁa 2003, 703 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISSN 0204–9872 Sixty two articles, here occupying a whole periodical volume, are oﬀered to the leading ﬁgure in Thracian studies of the last half century, a scholar whose work has embraced the history and religion as well as the archaeology of Thrace. Most of the contributions are from Bulgarian scholars, but there would have been no diﬃculty in ﬁnding many others willing to join the celebration since he is a well-loved international ﬁgure. I can mention only a few of the articles that caught my attention: Jordanov on the politics of Persians in Thrace; Hiller on inscribed spindle-whorls in the Aegean area; Roller on the Thrace/Phrygia mother goddess and Goceva on her cult in Thrace; Wright on important severed heads, Orpheus to John the Baptist; Poruciuc on the Indo-European origin of Orpheus’ name; Popov on bears; Porozhanov on Thrace in world history; Janakiewa on -andros names; Kitov on the Griﬃn tumulus (Kazanlak region); Neykova on Orphism not being shamanism; Vassileva on the Gordian knot; Zheleva-Martins on the semantics of the Ionic capital; Tonkova on late IA pit-sanctuaries in Thrace; Agre, a Thracian subject for the Panagurishte rhyton; Konova on the lead model chariot from Apollonia; Doncheva on collecting, ancient and later; and very much else of great value on sites and religion. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives, The Twenty-First J.L. Myres Memorial Lecture, Delivered at New College, Oxford, on 7th May, 2001, Leopard’s Head Press, Oxford 2002, 32 pp., 5 ﬁgs. Paperback. ISBN 0–904920–44–5 Much has been written in the recent past about how the Greeks described foreigners, mainly referring to Persians. A. Kuhrt, well read in that branch of scholarship, aims here to reverse the study by looking at how people in the ancient Near East viewed the Greeks. By the term Greeks she includes Ionians or East Greeks from western Turkey and the islands, as well as Macedonians of Alexander’s time, but largely not Hellenic mainland Greeks. Beginning with sparse and often arguable evidence for contact in the 8th century, K. emphasises diﬃculties of interpretation, drawing attention to debate about Greek settlements and pottery in the Levant. Her own argument takes oﬀ when she turns to political rhetoric and representations of power. Basing her theme upon an interpretation of the famous Sargon Geography text, one of the most diﬃcult in the cuneiform repertoire to interpret, she promotes the idea that Hana was a geographical name that could be applied to Greeks. Many of the geographical names are archaic, hard to deﬁne in terms of 8th-century locations. Does the Cedar Mountain refer to a very speciﬁc place, or with K. ‘somewhere away in the highlands of Central Turkey’? It is hard to see why K.’s schematic pattern puts Hana beyond the Cedar Mountain far to the north-west, when the text seems to imply that the far border of Hana, viewed from central Mesopotamia, is the Cedar Mountain, not the reverse.

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K. correctly locates the Haneans on the Middle Euphrates in the 2nd millennium BC, but misleads in calling them a ‘tribal group’. She mentions their ‘small kingdom’, but underplays its importance for this theme. Amanda Podany’s synthesis, The Land of Hana (2002) reminds us that this was a literate, urbanised and well-organised kingdom that lasted for 500 years according to several groups of texts, most of them legal contracts sealed with well-cut cylinder seals. Hardly barbarians, therefore, in the eyes of Mesopotamians. K. also discusses the Babylonian Mappa Mundi, showing how distant regions have a legendary and dangerous aspect to which the main text refers. A more prosaic interpretation is apparent from the labels on the map; the sparse information suggests that measurement, however schematic, was the aim, to show distances between regions. The legendary allusions add nothing to the argument that Haneans are Greeks, because Hana is found neither on the map nor in the text. K. associates the ‘far-away, mythical zones’ with Sargon II’s claim that he ‘caught Ionians of the midst of the sea like ﬁsh’, but a more prosaic understanding is possible. Turning to the Persian period, K. collects the evidence for Greeks on sculptures at Persepolis, showing how diﬀerent groups of Ionians are distinguishable and hard to tell apart from Carians and Lydians. A change came, she maintains, with Alexander, and in the ﬁnal section we discover where the preceding emphasis on Haneans was leading. Although cuneiform texts of this period introduce Macedonians and continue to refer to Ionians, Alexander’s army in described in several texts as LÚ ha-ni-i, ostensibly ‘Hanean men’. Joannès is quoted for the statement that Haneans are ‘barbarians from the NW edge of the world’, and K. now describes the name Haneans as having ‘a threatening, barbarian aura’. This seems to the reviewer an untenable view for which no hard evidence is adduced. There is nothing ‘wild and remote’ to Mesopotamians about the region of Hana, nor is there evidence to show why its location should shift to Greece and become the place where Seleucus I was murdered. There is plenty of evidence from Sumerian and Akkadian texts to show how barbarians were envisaged: without cities or proper houses, they were eaters of uncooked food who did not know bread or beer, named traditionally as Gutians and Sutians, not as Haneans. Therefore Kupper in 1957 was probably right to say that ha-ni-i troops in late Babylonian texts have nothing to do with Hana on the Middle Euphrates. One can only suggest that the word in these late texts might be read with lí as the correct value for the sign NI, so KUR ha-lí-i = Hellas, despite phonetic problems, referring to mainland Greek as Hellenes. This would give us an Akkadian writing for mainland Greeks. This lecture gives a stimulating introduction to an interesting set of problems in cuneiform texts. Even if the main conclusion is open to doubt, the way now lies open to scholars in future to beneﬁt from a pioneering attempt to answer that intriguing question: what did the Babylonians and Assyrians think of the Greeks? Oriental Institute, Oxford

Stephanie Dalley

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A.-A. Maravelia (ed.), Ancient Egypt and Antique Europe Two Parts of the Mediterranean World. Papers from a Session Held at the European Association of Archaeologists Seventh Annual Meeting in Esslingen 2001, BAR International Series 1052, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, II+82 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–433–X This attempt to bring together Egyptologists and Mediterranean archaeologists deserves sympathy, even if the volume concentrates less on particular subject areas than one could wish. The reports on excavations at Tell Ibrahim Awad in the Delta (G.A. Belova, T.A. Sherkova) give a useful survey of the site and its religious importance, A.-A. Maravella refers to the Egyptian collections in museums in Greece, and also publishes two Egyptian faience artefacts from the Benaki Museum. E. CladakiManoli, M. Nicolakakoi-Kentrou and E.R. Tourna contribute a catalogue of selected items from the Egyptian collection of the National Archaeological Museum at Athens, mainly stone and wooden sculptures, two Hellenistic bronze ﬁgurines of wrestlers, one Fayum portrait and one Ptolemaic papyrus. V. Lebedinsky describes underwater investigations on the Mediterranan and Red Sea coasts of Egypt; H.E. Tzalas the activity of the Hellenic mission ‘Archaeological survey in Alexandria’; and I. Liritzis reports on the activities of the Greek ‘Archaeological Sciences Institute of the Aegean’ in Alexandria. The volume concludes with preliminary information on the ‘Databank of Eastern European Egyptology’ project by S.E. Ivanov. The dialogue announced in the introduction between the Mediterranean archaeologists and Egyptologists in the particular ﬁeld of interrelations is thus postponed, but even the meeting of specialists coming from diﬀerent countries and diﬀerent backgrounds may have its importance: the ﬁrst step, apparently, has been made here. It is not just that archaeology, like surgery, can be undertaken anywhere; many problems deriving from interpretations of archaeological sources are common to other areas of research. Charles University, Prague

Jan Bouzek

G. Muskett, A. Koltsida and M. Georgiadis (eds.), SOMA 2001—Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology. Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Meeting of Postgraduate Researches, The University of Liverpool, 23–15 February 2001, BAR International Series 1040, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, X+247 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–418–6 It is a nice idea to organise meetings of young scholars undertaking research in Mediterranean archaeology in the United Kingdom. The volume is divided into sections devoted to speciﬁc approaches to study. Most of the contributors come apparently from Greece and Italy, two countries in which their research is also mainly concentrated. The Survey section contains two papers on southern Italy (Neolithic Calabria, by D. Van Hove; the Troine area in Sicily, by G. Ayalia and M. Fitzjohn) and two on the area of Cyrene in Libya (the cemeteries, by L. Cherstich and D. Paolini; Ain Hofra near Cyrene, by D. Fossataro); that on Landscape and Topography three: one dealing with funerary architecture in Crete (G. Vavouranakis), a second with the

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urban development in Interannia Praetuttiorum (modern Teramo) in northern Abruzzo (M. Tornese), and a third on the county of Aprutium in the same area of Abruzzo (S. Antonelli). The section ‘Sacred Space’ has one paper on Etruscan sanctuaries—Murlo and Acquarosa were apparently partly sanctuaries and partly buildings for profane use (C.A. Murray). The continuity of worship of Aphrodite at Paleopaphos from the Bronze Age to classical antiquity, and its later tradition in Christian churches in the area (one of them named Our Lady Aphroditissa), are surveyed by E.D. Vassiliou. O. Menozzi analyses the rural sanctuaries in the territory of Cyrene; P. Goodman those of the imperial cult at Lyons and Narbonne; L. Foschia the transition from pagan to Christian cult places in late antiquity and the retreat of pagan worship from the public domain into private houses. The next section examines Symbolic Architecture. U. Thaler discusses Neopalatial domestic architecture and Minoan villas; O. Zolotnikova develope some religious ideas on the geometric symbolism of the Mycenaean Palatial megaron; M. Aston analyses the gates of Diocletian’s palace at Split; and M. Koltsida the fortiﬁed houses of the 17th–19th centuries on the island of Andros. Section 5 (Movement and Social Dynamics) contains four papers. The earliest (Neolithic) colonisation of the Dodecanese is dealt with in a highly theoretical approach by M. Georgiadis; K. Vastebeenhuyse comes to the (not very new) conclusion that Neopalatial Crete diﬀered from Near Eastern societies with a clearly deﬁned ruler, and describes the situation (which I would prefer to compare with the temple-economy system of protoliterate Mesopotamia, under the authority of a strong female priesthood) in his jargon as ‘corporate society’ or ‘group-oriented chiefdom’. White Slip Ware of Cypriot production centres is analysed by H. Hatcher: Sanidha workshops supplied a larger coastal area. N. Leriou examines the problem of the newcomers to Paleopaphos. They may well have been Greeks, but she wants to free the analysis from foundation myths as reported by much later Greek authors. There are four contributions to the section Body, Gender and Space. M. Sánchez Romeiro tries to ﬁnd out where women lived and worked in prehistoric sites and houses in Spain. Kitchens and storerooms and textile production are generally held to be within this sphere, but the author suggests that even the production of Neolithic stone tools was a female activity—a new hypothesis which should be tested in other areas. A. Kotsida analyses where there were female areas in the Amarna villas. Seclusion of women does not seem to have been the norm in ancient Egypt, but the inner living room might well have been a ‘family room’—a private family place more associated with women, family members who spent most of their time indoors. But rooms can be used in more than one way, as the author wisely concludes. A.L. Lesk discusses anatomical votive terracottas in central Italy: the sanctuary of Asklepios at Corinth, where anatomical parts of the human body were dedicated, had but little impact on the healing cults of central Italy. K. Lorentz addresses the occipital ﬂattening of child skeletons from Cyprus. Up to the Late Cypriot period, cranial deformation may have occurred unintentionally, but later it became intentional. The unusually thin section on Iconography also consists of four contributions. S. Saunders discusses the Middle Kingdom female ﬁgurines. Several varieties can be distinguished, and several explanatory hypotheses are given. They could hardly be concubines or servants, but perhaps they were dancers, members of troupes performing in religious ceremonies; anyway, the strongly-marked sexual organ makes it clear that they represented the female forces of fertility, helping to realise the afterlife, the

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rebirth in the spiritual world. K. Kouloutourou deals with musicians in Early Iron Age art and their forerunners; F. Zardini with the myth of Heracles and Kyknos on the vases by the Micali Painter; and D.-C. Naum with the statuary in the Villa di Papyri in Herculaneum. The modern interpretation of Cycladic ﬁgurines is discussed by G.V. Stergiopoulos. He mentions some of the explanatory theories and ends by rejecting all of them. But they were deposited in graves as a kind of protection, and my personal explanation, apparently unknown to the author ( Journal of Prehistoric Religion XI–XII [1998], 18–21), interprets them as ﬁgurines of priestesses, Sibyllae, in their inner meditative concentration while listening to divine messages. This is similar to the views of Getz-Preziosi, too. The ﬁnal contribution (L.G. Tahan) criticises the Lebanese museums, not taking into consideration how much eﬀort and personal sacriﬁce was necessary to bring them through the civil war. The ﬁrst impression is that subjects of study are all chosen to avoid problems with the bureaucratic complications of access to ﬁnds in museums in Greece and Italy, but they also reﬂect a greater interest in more theoretical approaches than in former mainstream archaeology, though with less background in Classics than in the previous generation. Sometimes it might be for the better, sometimes the ‘archaeological theory’ now in fashion seems to be an insuﬃcient background for proper understanding of the problems. In most cases the papers in this volume are merely preliminary drafts, and it is to be hoped that the ﬁnal results of the studies in preparation will be more rewarding. Charles University, Prague

Jan Bouzek

B.S. Ottaway and E.C. Wager (eds.), Metals and Society, Papers from a Session Held at the European Association of Archaeologists Sixth Annual Meeting in Lisbon 2000, BAR International Series 1061, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+144 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–441–0 The early use of metal and the technological and social aspects of early metallurgy and metalworking traditionally remain a focus of scholarly interest to European prehistorians. These topics were discussed at a session on Metals and Society, held at the 6th Annual Meeting of the European Association of Archaeologists, in Lisbon in 2000. The volume under review contains 13 papers presented at that session, plus an introduction by Barbara Ottaway. These papers cover a wide geographical area: from Spain and Portugal to Russia, from Scandinavia to Jordan and Egypt. The majority are focused on prehistory: the Late Neolithic and the Bronze and Iron Ages. Yet later periods are also discussed, such as early mediaeval metalwork and 19thcentury mining. The papers are organised into four parts: adoption and development of metallurgy; metal-making; metal-working; and consumption of metal objects. In my opinion this division inadequately reﬂects the volume’s content. I would instead prefer to distinguish three groups of papers: theoretical; analytical; and those which combine the two. The most important paper in the former group is that by Derevenski and Sørensen (pp. 117–22). The writers belong to the post-modernist school of thought, which strongly believes that people relate to their world and visualise their social relationships through objects. Based on that presumption, the writers view the technological

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change that included the initial manufacturing and use of bronze in Europe as a social process. They further argue that the incorporation of innovations should be studied as an outcome of ‘bargaining, negotiations and renegotiations’, in the course of which the social meaning and status of new objects are established (p. 117). The writers dwell on the relative character of social values attached to new technologies and view them as ‘responses shaped by individual and group strategies’ (p. 117). They emphasise that gender played an important part in social negotiations (p. 119). This theoretical concept is developed further in the paper by Wager (pp. 45–50), who views Bronze Age mining in North Wales as an action that ‘constituted a context for the production and reworking of social relations, understanding of individual and group identities . . .’ (p. 46). Bergstøl (pp. 77–82) focuses his paper on an Iron Age burial ﬁeld in southern Norway that contained ‘hundreds of cooking pits’. He visualises them as cultic places that functioned from the Roman Iron Age until the 13th century. Bridgeford (pp. 123–32) asks the question whether the increased production and use of bronze tools were related to a Bronze Age ‘arms race’. Her answer is negative. She states that ‘the advent of bronze was not necessarily a crucial factor determining social change during the period of its use’ (p. 128). All these papers raise important theoretical issues. Yet to prove their point, the writers rarely use arguments, either archaeological or analytical. Archaeological material is very often looked at from a bird’s view (Bergstøl, p. 79). Signiﬁcantly, Derevenski and Sørensen acknowledge that their conclusion about the role of gender in social negotiations is made ‘irrespective of gender distinctions in the archaeological record’ (p. 119). The second group of papers includes the large corpus of analytical data. Based on the metallurgical analysis of copper tools, Rovira concludes that early copper metallurgy in Spain was a ‘domestic system of production’ with little evidence of trade (pp. 5–20). Niederschlag and Pernicka (pp. 51–60) use the lead isotope composition in copper ores in southern Germany and in the Czech Lands to identify the possible sources of metal in the Unêtice culture. Their results are rather inconclusive as the deposits exhibit very large variations. Shalev and Freund (pp. 83–98) revert to the dispersive spectrometry and metallographic analyses in their studies of 200 metal objects of the Fatimid era (10th–11th centuries AD) in Caesarea. This enables them to identify at least three diﬀerent technological processes. De Melo, Alves and de Fatima Araujo (pp. 109–16) use the non-destructive technique, the dispersive X-ray ﬂuorescent spectrometry, for the study of a ‘looped bronze palstave’, typical product of Portugal’s Late Bronze Age. By this means they were able to establish the ‘binary’ copper and tin composition of the bronze alloy, similar to those known in Italy, Sicily and Sardinia. Two writers base their conclusions on the robust archaeological analysis with little or no use of analytical techniques. Adams (pp. 21–32) has identiﬁed signiﬁcant changes in the organisation of copper metallurgy (‘from farms to factories’) at the transition from Bronze Age II to III at Fayan in Jordan. Zaitseva (pp. 99–108) uses stylistic analysis of metal jewellery from the 13th-century castle of Serensk in central Russia to reconstruct the manufacturing of prestige items in mediaeval Russia on the eve of the Mongol invasion. The articles in this group include important empirical evidence, but rarely have a suﬃcient theoretical component. Two articles stand out from the rest, combining abundant use of analytical evidence with clear theoretical awareness and a wide contextual view. Krause (pp. 33–44)

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used a comprehensive database of chemical and metallographic analyses of prehistoric artefacts from Europe and the Near East to follow up the early development of Early Bronze Age metallurgy in central Europe. He concludes that the transition from the Late Neolithic to the Corded Ware/Bell Beaker cultures was accompanied by the re-orientation of the traditional trade routes in Europe. He further argues that the technological advance notable in the Unêtice culture was due mostly to inﬂuences emanating from south-eastern Europe. Staaf uses abundant analytical and archaeological evidence in addressing a similar problem focused on Scandinavia (pp. 133–44). He concludes that the technological potential of metals became acknowledged in Europe by the end of the 3rd–beginning of the 2nd millennium calBC. In Scandinavia the use of metalwork markedly increased in the Late Neolithic/Early Bronze Age (2200–1800 calBC). This went together with the change in chemical composition and the reconﬁguration of distribution channels. The writer views this as a result of the greater comprehension of the role of metals in society. This volume adequately reﬂects the present-day state of research on early metallurgy in Europe and beyond, seen in a wide social context. The book may be recommended both to professional archaeologists and to undergraduate students, to all those who are interested in today’s vision of the past. University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne

Pavel Dolukhanov

A. Rathje, M. Nielsen and B.B. Rasmussen (eds.), Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead, Acta Hyperborea 9, Danish Studies in Classical Archaeology, Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen, Copenhagen 2002, 295 pp., illustrations, including 23 colour plates. Paperback. ISBN 87–72–89–712–0/ISSN 0904–2067 This is a collection of essays about pots, many not about the usual Greek and Roman subjects. H.S. Roberts tries to associate some pot graﬃti with Orphic and similar inscriptions deposited in tombs, and questions of ‘pots for the dead’. M. von Mehren observes the lack of Armour of Achilles and Sack of Troy scenes on the Attic Tyrrhenian export ware; Carpenter’s articles on OJA 2 and 3 covered some of the same ground. T. Melander thinks the number of ‘satyr pursuing nymph’ scenes on Attic pots imported to Locri Epizephyrii could relate to the subjects of the local clay reliefs. B. Poulsen considers the distribution of Genucilia plates; H.D. Andersen and H.W. Horsnaes the clay house models at Basilicata; A.M. Carstens the ‘Carianness’ of Archaic Carian pottery. The role of local plain wares on the Rhône route into Europe is explored by L. Leegaard; and the transport amphorae and the sigillata of Cyprus by K.W. Jacobsen and J. Lund. Analysis of the clay of a forged black ﬁgure vase seems as decisive as analysis by style (A.G. Schmidt and K.L. Rasmussen). L.W. Sorensen reviews the evidence from Vroulia in Rhodes and eﬀectively corrects I. Morris’s account of the site. This is a useful range of topics in a style of publication becoming increasingly familiar, soon to pose problems for editors ﬁnding new titles for them. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

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C. Scheﬀer (ed.), Ceramics in Context. Proceedings of the Internordic Colloquium on Ancient Pottery held at Stockholm, 13–15 June 1997, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Stockholm Studies in Classical Archaeology 12, Stockholm 2001, 172 pp., 63 ﬁgs. Paperback. ISSN 0562–1062/ISBN 91–22–01913–8 Several of these essays have Ancient West & East subjects. L. Hannestad considers the devotion of Greeks to Greek or Greek-type pottery far from home. L.W. Sorensen discusses the Cypriot-ness of plate and pottery in the island. P.Roos ﬁnds the distribution of ‘West Slope Ware’ in Anatolia worthy of note; its deﬁnition now requires some attention. C. Malmgren considers Protovillanovan from south of the Tiber (Ficana). M. von Mehren evaluates the iconographic inﬂuence of the Attic black ﬁgure export wares (Tyrrhenian and Nikosthenic) in Etruria. H. Parko thinks that Corinthian oil ﬂasks were traded per se, as votives, and not for their contents. I.E.M. EdlundBerry looks at the miniature votives at Morgantina, and H.W. Horsnaes those in Lucania. A.M. Carstens compares Mycenaean and Hittite deposition of cups in tombs à propos of Caria (Müsgebi). Among the other papers: R. Kristensen considers Protocorinthian at Greek sanctuaries, with a welcome and sensible use of statistics. J.R. Brandt returns to Panathenaics suggesting that the trittys sacriﬁce was once part of the festival. G. Ekroth has a most useful analysis of representations of bomoi and escharai. C. Scheﬀer writing of gods on Athenian vases ﬁnds more of socio-cultural than religious import, and condemns the idea of ‘propaganda ukases’ for the painters, which I think no one has ever seriously suggested, rather than the chosen socio(=politico)-cultural suitability of certain scenes, including new ones. T. Tuukkanen ﬁnds the goddess-mounting-chariot on late black ﬁgure lekythoi to be Persephone, implying an escape from Hades; a pity that none are more explicit. A. Waern-Sperber looks at perception of time in metamorphosis scenes, and might consider Eumousia (Papers . . . A. Cambitoglou, 1990, 57–62) for some of the general problems and non-problems. Clearly the subject is in good health but remains in serious danger of repetitious or incomplete argument, given the inordinate amount of new publication, often on minor issues or unremarkable individual vases, and perhaps too few major studies. Something briefer than the valuable but often late reports in REG is now required (and these too should perhaps report rather than review) to ensure general awareness, perhaps on the web. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea, BAR International Series 1062, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+129 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–442–9 The papers of a 1996 series of joint seminars of the Faculty of Classics, University of Cambridge, and the Department of Classics, Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, University of London, have been prepared for the press and are now published, with a preface by the editors and a bibliography of the most important works which have appeared in the intervening years.

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J. Boardman deals with Syria, and also discusses more general problems: pots vs people, traditional vs ‘New’ archaeology. Who brought the products made in one place to the ﬁnal destination is just as important as who originally made them. The presence of foreigners has to be considered when the quantity of imports is larger, and also when plain pottery of everyday use is present, while luxury items may often represent a gift or souvenir. Imitations of pottery may have been made either for local Greeks or for Phoenicians. Preference for some kinds of drinking vessel, for example, speaks in favour of a speciﬁc cultural identity. The author gives examples of prejudices in interpretation, discusses the subjective attitudes of various scholars arising from their societies, background, education, etc., examining these aspects of his own life, but he shows that these individual inclinations should not be overestimated, which has been the case in a number of post-modern studies. He successfully defends ‘old-fashioned’ pragmatism based on sound human reason and instinct, which, alas, seem to have deserted many of our contemporaries, against post-modern ‘theoretical’ approache. His contribution is sometimes very personal, but methodologically important, and should be widely read. A. Kuhrt examines Greek contacts with the Levant and Mesopotamia from an eastern viewpoint, particularly references to Ionians in Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian literarature; they were involved both in trade and as artisans active in these areas. She also discusses the way that Phoenician trade was supervised by the Assyrian kings and their envoys, and how the taxation of goods and traders was organised. The pressure to pay higher taxes led the Phoenicians to increase their commercial and colonial activities in the West. The agreement between Egypt and Babylonia in 570 BC meant that Phoenicia passed fully into Babylonian hands, and the general features of the system of commercial activities and relations persisted into the Persian period. A.G. Keen deals with the poleis of the South Anatolian coast: some were Greek, some Lycian, Pamphylian or Cilician, but they slowly became similar to Greek cities. For Lycia, the Lycian league formed in ca. 200 BC provided a satisfying solution by combining polis- and ethnic identity. J. Hind discusses Black Sea geography as described by Herodotus, and comes to the conclusion that no Greek city existed at Phasis prior to the 4th century BC. Z. Archibald gives an extensive treatment of relations between Greeks, Thracians and Scythians in Hellenistic times, concluding that there was less antagonism between them than earlier scholars had thought. D. Braund discusses the foundation myths of Panticapaeum and other Black Sea cities. G. Tsetskhladze contributes a profound survey of Ionian colonial and trading activity in the Black Sea, Italy, South France and Spain. The available evidence is brought up to date, and the paper includes a very useful bibliography. The last contribution, by Y. TunaNörling, is a survey of Archaic Attic pottery in Ionia, including statistics of distribution of particular shapes in individual cities. This useful volume brings together a variety of approaches to the problems it discusses, revealing present trends in scholarship, various possibilities for solving particular problems, and making an interesting attempt to combine archaeological and written sources in a way which may be fruitful for future scholarship. It contains many inspiring ideas and should be warmly welcomed. Charles University, Prague

Jan Bouzek

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I.V. Tunkina, Russkaya nauka o klassicheskikh drevnostyakh yuga Rossii (XVIII– seredina XIX v.) (Russian Scholarship of Classical Antiquities of Southern Russia [18th to mid-19th Century]), Nauka, St Petersburg 2002, 676 pp., many illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–028475–0 The world and civil wars of the 20th century, and the ensuing isolation of scholarship under Soviet rule, readily explain why Russian and Ukrainian archaeological museums, institutes and publications look and function unlike their counterparts elsewhere. It is usually overlooked, however, that a particularly Russian approach to the study of classical antiquity developed much earlier. In the northern Pontic region Greek antiquities became accessible at a time when Ottoman suzerainty precluded serious exploration in Greece and Turkey, and commercial prospects did little to widen the range of archaeological methods and sites explored in Italy. The book reviewed covers these initial stages of Russian archaeology, opening with Peter I’s cultural reforms and Catherine II’s staged conquest of the northern Pontic lands from Turkish control, and ending with the foundation of the Archaeological Commission in St Petersburg, when a centralised network came to regulate excavation throughout the empire. The period witnessed the emergence of a distinctive tradition of research, equally innovative and rich in drama. While Perestroika prompted a number of eastern European archaeologists to look into the past of their discipline,1 Tunkina oﬀers the ﬁrst monograph concentrating on the scholarship of Greek and GraecoScythian antiquities discovered on the northern shore of the Black Sea. The study falls into three parts. The ﬁrst and most substantial is given to the history of the institutions, collections and individuals involved, from the foreign travellers and academicians of the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences, who wrote their accounts in the immediate wake of the Russian conquest, to the antiquarian societies and museums in Odessa, Kerch, Moscow and St Petersburg. Part two analyses contemporary research statements for ﬁeldwork and conservation, and devotes individual chapters to epigraphy, numismatics and the understanding of archaeological topography as reﬂected in contemporary maps. The third part presents a detailed gazetteer of early surveys and excavations conducted on the then known sites along the Pontic shore between the island of Leuke (ostrov Zmenyi) and Toricos (Gelendzhik). T. taps with great gusto the seemingly inexhaustible holdings in Russian and Ukrainian archives, which deliver a continuous stream of information not only on M.I. Rostovtzeﬀ but also on such seminal early discoveries as the Litoi (1763), Patignoti (1820–21) and Kul-Oba (1830) barrows. A highlight is the ﬁrst publication of the maps of archaeological sites in the eastern Crimea, including Panticapaeum, Myrmekion, Nymphaeum, and the Zolotoi kurgan, drawn by the French émigré Paul Du Brux (16 plates, all in colour). At a time when the grandees of the St Petersburg Academy failed to see the urgency of his work, this tireless amateur scholar recorded archaeological topographies that were rapidly obliterated by construction work. Although widely plagiarised among his colleagues in southern Russia, Du Brux’s own manuscripts were destined to gather dust in archives due to his poverty (and poor command of French orthography). Here and elsewhere in her study T. gathered a profusion 1 In translation are available V. Bulkin, L. Klein and G. Lebedev, ‘Attainments and problems of Soviet archaeology’. World Archaeology 13 (1982), 272–95; L.S. Klejn, Das Phänomen der sowjetischen Archäologie: Geschichte, Schulen, Protagonisten. Gesellschaften und Staaten im Epochenwandel 6 (1997).

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of biographical data. One might be wary of anecdotal overload, yet this personal ﬂavour turns out to be at the very heart of the matter: while the various branches of classical studies had soon been institutionalised in Western universities, a crucial share of the Russian venture remained throughout the 19th century in the hands of ‘invisible colleges’, private collectors and dilettanti. This book is a great achievement. It sums up more than 20 years of painstaking archival research by a scholar in a privileged position for an undertaking of this sort: she is the Director of the St Petersburg Archive of the Academy of Sciences. The structure reﬂects remote origins in a thesis, but the hefty volume avoids tedious repetitions and, assisted by an index and numerous appendices, remains very user-friendly. Opening a vast new area of study, T. is generous in her directions to yet unexploited source material. Her book will be of interest to ﬁeld archaeologists, museologists, and historians of modern and ancient periods alike. Wolfson College, Oxford

H.-C. Meyer

B. Werbart (ed.), Cultural Interactions in Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean during the Bronze Age (3000–500 BC). Papers from a Session Held at the European Association of Archaeologists Sixth Annual Meeting in Lisbon 2000, BAR International Series 985, Archaeopress, Oxford 2001, II+84 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–271–X The idea of this volume is sound: what is the background of European civilisation during the Bronze Age? How were the innovations and impulses known from diﬀerent parts of Europe transmitted? The editor provides a very general and theoretical introduction, in which many questions are raised. But can they be answered without knowledge of earlier studies, and which of her questions have already been answered by her predecessors? The otherwise interesting information on the excavations at Hazor (A. Ben-Tor) is rather out of context in this volume; it can hardly bring answers to the problems posited. The second contribution, by Li Winter, examines rock art. She believes that its symbolism took much from the Mediterranean world. To some extent she may be right, but there are suﬃcient reasons to suppose that many religious ideas from the north had an impact on the Mediterranean world, and that relations were reciprocal. E. Hjärtner-Holdar and C. Risberg discuss the transition from Bronze to Iron Age from the Aegean to Scandinavia along usual lines, but with interesting information on Swedish sites. L. Oosterbeek looks in general terms at the theoretical concepts of diﬀusion, interaction, contact and encounter. It is certainly possible to ﬁnd a variety of names for archaeological phenomena, but some of the real background behind them has to be investigated. Anyway, this piece should be welcomed for its concept of European cultural unity: a holistic approach to Bronze Age studies should not be gainsaid. G. Börenhult deals with megaliths. He also connects the Mediterranean and Atlantic megalithic traditions, despite diﬀerences in the detailed construction of the monuments. If we pass from the archaeology of physically preserved features to the ‘archaeology of mind’, his approach may be considered legitimate. The last contribution, by A.-A. Maravelia, compares Sappho with Egyptian love poems; she ﬁnds many parallels in pictures and even vocabulary. As we know from folk love poetry in many parts of the world, the ‘missing links’ may well have existed, even if not

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recorded in the written documents preserved to us. It would be very hard to imagine any human culture without love poetry, mainly oral of course, before writing became common on all social levels. The contributions prepared for this volume have apparently been written by young scholars at the start their careers. The authors have discovered for themselves, in many cases as novelties, what others had found earlier: a good example of the kind of comparative work at which they should have looked is the conference volume Communications in Bronze Age Europe (Museum of National Antiquities Stockholm Studies 7, Stockholm 1999), where further bibliography can easily be found. Their very general conclusions deserve to be proven in more detail by archaeological features and objects in corpore. Both their enthusiasm and the basic understanding of the importance of spiritual interrelations, certainly more common in antiquity than the transport of objects, are welcome; so too is the concept of the holistic cultural unity of Bronze Age European culture. But the mechanics of interrelations, the changing rhythm of periods of closer and more distant relations, as well as more detailed understanding of these interactions, need more sophisticated and more detailed treatment. Charles University, Prague

Jan Bouzek

D. Whitehouse, The Glass Vessels, The University of Ghent South-East Arabian Archaeological Project, Excavations at ed-Dur (Umm al-Qaiwain, United Arab Emirates) Vol. I, an Appendix by R.H. Brill, illustrations E. Smekens, Preface E. Haerinck (ed.), Peeters Press, Leuven 1998, X+89 pp., 12 ﬁgs., 15 pls. Paperback. ISBN 90–429–0662–6 The preface, written by Ernie Haerinck, considers whether ed-Dur can be identiﬁed with Omana. In any case, the coastal site of ed-Dur was in close contact with the inland site of Mleiha, with ed-Dur probably acting as the harbour while Mleiha was able to deliver items lacking at ed-Dur. This importance was lost after the middle of the 2nd century, maybe as a result of the silting up of the lagoon. Whitehouse then continues with the main body of the catalogue and notes that some glass vessels may be later than AD 100 as at least one area of the site was reoccupied. ‘Cast Vessels’ is a bit of a misnomer and they would be better labelled as ‘Non-Blown’ as they were sagged over a form and often subsequently decorated. His ﬁrst group consists of monochrome vessels, either plain or linear cut. They were popular on numerous sites in the Mediterranean. Ribbed bowls are considered next, but the method of manufacture is not as Gudenrath says in Tait, Five Thousand Years of Glass (London 1991), 222. Rather, a disc was made by pouring and the ribs were immediately formed by pincering. Working quickly with pincers several ribs can be made before the glass needs reheating (Taylor and Hill in Gudenrath and Tatton-Brown, Catalogue of the Greek and Roman Glass in the British Museum II: Non-Blown and Early Blown Glass [London forthcoming], 77–78). Then the bowl was slumped over a form. After being cooled (annealed) the narrow zone below the rim was ground smooth and the interior ﬁnished by grinding and polishing. Thus far this is the most credible way of making ribbed bowls so that they resemble Late Hellenistic and Early Roman bowls. They cannot be made with a lath or laths as Stern (Stern and Schlicke-Notte, Early Glass of the Ancient World

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[Ostﬁldern 1994], 72–79) or bar (Lierke, Antike Glastöpferie [Mainz 1999], 51–55). The ribbed bowls are, nonethless, one of the most popular varieties of the Late Hellenistic and Early Roman world and they were exported beyond the eastern frontier of the Roman empire. The ribbed bowls from ed-Dur have large, evenly-pressed ribs. Mosaic ribbed bowls form another category, but they were made ﬁrst by fusing the elements together and then as described above. W. notes that they were found in all parts of the Roman world, but concentrated in Italy and the western provinces. Blowing was discovered in the Syro-Palestinian region of the Roman empire where tube-blown vessels from Jerusalem are among the earliest examples, being buried about 50–40 BC. Small blown glass vessels, mostly toilet bottles, were produced by the time of Augustus (27 BC–AD 14). The ﬁrst group of essels are toilet bottles, most of which probably contained perfumes, and others are small vessels probably for drinking. These are followed by a vessel with splashed decoration, which means that it is decorated with white blobs, but the pre-heated chips scattered on a heat-resistant surface were picked up on a gather of soft glass and rapidly became embedded. The whole was then blown and annealed. This type of glass was probably at its best around AD 50, but it started in the early 1st century AD and ﬁnished around AD 70. First found in the Crimea and the Aegean, it was most popular in northern Italy. Section B3 considers vessels with applied decoration. Trails were added to a gather of soft glass that rapidly became embedded for the ﬁrst example. In the case of cat. no. 104, the trails were pinched. Soon after the discovery of blowing, it was found that glass could be blown in decorated moulds. By the middle of the 1st century AD mould-blown glass was present in Austria, France, Germany, Greece, Italy and Switzerland, though it started in the Syro-Palestinian area. The catalogue concludes with a vessel with wheel-cut decoration, probably a Hofheim cup as many were found at that site, though they are found throughout the Roman empire. It is concluded that most of the glass is Roman and that the glass is made from soda, silica and lime, using natron as the soda. A proﬁle of the glass considers what it was used for, and ed-Dur is one of several places identiﬁed as Omana, a port mentioned by both Pliny and the author of the Periplus. The appendix by Robert H. Brill is worthwhile and the bibliography is inclusive. The drawings are clear and there are a few colour pictures and photographs. This book, in spite of some slight deﬁciencies in the discussion of the technical aspects, will be of interest to those working on the glass of the Arab countries and beyond. The British Museum

Veronica Tatton-Brown

D. Zhuravlev (ed.), Fire, Light and Light Equipment in the Graeco-Roman World, BAR International Series 1019, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+119 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–400–3 The annual meetings of the European Association of Archaeologists provide an opportunity for any group of specialists to organise a session to discuss a particular subject, in this case Roman lamps. This volume publishes papers of the meeting held on 17 September 1999 at Bournemouth, together with an article by Y. Zaitsev (Moscow), prepared for print from the paper he read to the previous session of the Association at Lisbon. All are profound material studies. The ﬁrst, by D. and N.

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Zhuravlev (Moscow), is a preliminary study on multi-nozzled Late Hellenistic lamps from the Cimmerian Bosporus, showing besides the usual shapes some interesting local varieties. D. Zhuravlev also publishes in the volume a Late Scythian burial with an Early Roman picture lamp from the Belbek IV necropolis in the Crimea. L. Chrzanowski (Geneva) contributes a study of lamps in the shape of a bull’s head. In this class he distinguishes products of Attic, Italic, Egyptian and Pontic workshops. Bull-headed lamps—inspired by bronze lamps of this shape in Athens, and also perhaps at Pergamon—arose in the 2nd century BC, and continued until the 1st century AD. They are good examples of a fashion in lamp production in the Graeco-Roman world. The same author also publishes here a lamp handle with a relief ﬁgure of Harpocrates, found at Leptis Magna and dated to the second half of the 2nd century AD. Y. Zaitsev contributes a publication of Late Hellenistic and Early Roman lamps and candelabra from the Ust-Alma necropolis in the Crimea, and a second piece on a Hellenistic set of lamps from the palace of the Scythian king Scilurus at Scythian Neapolis (2nd century BC). C. Sandoz (Geneva) provides a study of scenes from the Old Testament on Christian lamps of Late Antiquity, and S. Sorochan (Kharkov) a general survey of Early Byzantine lamp production. This well-edited volume brings a number of new, previously unknown items and may be widely recommended to all lamp specialists. It shows a good level of connoisseurship, and the lamps are generally well reproduced. It brings useful information, notably on the use and distribution of lamps in the Crimea. Charles University, Prague

Jan Bouzek

NEW PUBLICATIONS RUSSIA* Periodicals Antichnyi Mir i Arkheologiya (Ancient World and Archaeology) 11, Saratov 2002, 214 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISSN 0320–961X This is a thematic issue on the ancient world and the barbarian periphery. It contains the papers given at a conference held in Saratov in 2000. Many publish new material and discussions on the relations of Greece and Rome with local populations. The third part is entirely concerned with Greeks, Romans and barbarians in South Russia, concentrating on Chersonesus, Olbia and a few sites from the Cimmerian Bosporus. The papers are published as given, without any editing. Arkheologicheskie Otkrytiya (Archaeological Discoveries) 2001, Moscow 2002, 552 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–008823–4; 2002, Moscow 2003, 497 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–008890–0 These two volumes from the Institute of Archaeology, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow publish short reports on the results of archaeological projects conducted in Russia and adjoining countries during 2001 and 2002, viz. in South Russia, mainly the Taman Peninsula, the northern Caucasus and the Crimea. Arkheologicheskie Vesti (Archaeological News) 10, St Petersburg 2003, 422 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–86007–370–4 (summaries in English) This periodical of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg contains articles on a local painted oinochoe from Olbia, the orientation of the necropolis of Chersonesus, the northern boundaries of the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom, and the military history of the Sarmatians. Arkheologicheskii Sbornik Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha (Archaeological Collection of the State Hermitage Museum) 36, St Petersburg 2003, 147 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–93572–100–7 (short summaries in English) This issue is dedicated to the centenary of the birth of A.P. Mantsevich. At the beginning it lists her 73 books and articles. Individual contributions examine the graves of the Nemirovskoe city-site, rituals bowls with zoomorphic decoration, a golden comb from the Solokha barrow, etc. Drevnosti Bospora (Bosporan Antiquities) 5, Moscow 2002, 333 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–94375–007–X; 6, Moscow 2003, 374 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–94375–015–0 (summaries in English) Five issues of this periodical of the Institute of Archaeology, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow were published under joint editorship; issue 6 has grown a large Editorial Committee and a multitude of editors. Issue 5 has articles on the typology

* I would like to thank my Russian colleagues for sending/giving me copies of new publications. I am particularly grateful to S.L. Solovyov, A.V. Podossinov, S.L. Dudarev, A.I. Romanchuk, Y.Y. Piotrovskii, A.Y. Alekseev and V.P. Kopylov. I collected most of the literature myself during various visits to St Petersburg and Moscow in 2002–2003. For previous summaries of new publications from Russia, see Ancient West & East 1.1 (2002), 217–20; 2.1 (2003), 158–60.

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and chronology of Chian amphorae, the central part of Gorgippia in the ﬁrst centuries AD, the chora of Nymphaeum, the kurgan necropolis of Hermonassa, new inscriptions from Gorgippia and Patraeus, etc. Issue 6, dedicated to T.V. Blavatskaya and I.T. Kruglikova, contains contributions on the central part of Gorgippia between the 6th century BC and the 3rd century AD, the chora of Theodosia in the 4th–3rd centuries BC, Panticapaeum, underwater studies at Phanagoria from 1999 to 2002, etc. Materialy i Issledovaniya po Arkheologii Severnogo Kavkaza (Material and Investigations on the Archaeology of the Northern Caucasus) 1, Armavir 2003, 214 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–89971–177–9; 2, Armavir 2003, 276 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–89971–177–9; 3, Armavir 2004, 349 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–89971–177–9 This periodical is produced by the Centre for Archaeological Research, Armavir State Pedagogical University. Issue 1, dedicated to Prof. V.B. Vinogradov, includes articles on Caucasian antiquities from the Late Bronze Age to the mediaeval period. Issue 2 publishes material from the Eneolithic to the Middle Ages and has a special section on the history of the military population of the northern Caucasus; it also contains a reviews and discussion section. Issue 3 commemorates the centenary of Prof. E.I. Krupnov. Its ‘monographs’ section contains an 85-page study by S.L. Dudarev of the Early Iron Age burial ground of Belochenskii 2; there are articles and notes publishing new material from the Eneolithic to the mediaeval, and reviews and discussions. Problemy Istorii, Fililogii, Kul’tury (Problems of History, Philology and Culture) XII, Moscow/Magnitogorsk 2002, 615 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–86781–293–6 (short summaries in English) This issue has a section on the northern Black Sea littoral and the Bosporus (pp. 222–333). It contains an article by A.N. Zograf on coins from the excavation of Tyras, a manuscript completed in 1937 but not previously published. Other articles are devoted to inscriptions from Phanagoria, gems from Phanagoria, the historical geography of the Taman Peninsula, the agrarian history of the northern Black Sea, etc. A section on Abkhazia and Dagestan (pp. 334–414) carries reports of new excavations and material from sites there. The relationship between Byzantium and the Khazars as well as Byzantine administration in Kherson form the subject of four further articles (pp. 509–85). Tamanskaya Starina (Taman Antiquities) 4, The State Hermitage Museum Publishing, St Petersburg 2002, 177 pp., illustrations. Paperback. No ISBN/ISSN This fourth issue published by the State Hermitage Museum has articles on the Sindian kingdom, the chora of Hermonassa, rural settlements in other parts of the Taman Peninsula, inscriptions in the Taman Museum, drinking horns from Ulyapsk No. 4 Tumulus, glass vessels from the necropoleis of the Taman Peninsula kept at the State Hermitage, etc. Books M.G. Abramzon, N.A. Frolova and Y.V. Gorlov, Klady Antichnykh Monet na Yuge Rossii. po Materialam Krasnodarskogo Kraya (Ancient Coin Hoards in South Russia. Krasnodar Region), Editorial URSS, Moscow 2002, 590 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–8360– 0357–2 (summary in English)

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This is a publication of 38 hoards containing nearly 10000 gold, silver and bronze coins dating from the 6th century BC to the 6th century AD, kept in museums in Krasnodar, Anapa, Taman and Novorossiisk. Many coins are here published for the ﬁrst time. A.Y. Alekseev, Khronograﬁya Evropeiskoi Skiﬁi VII–IV vekov do n.e. (The Chronography of European Scythia, 7th–4th Centuries BC), The Hermitage Publishing House, St Petersburg 2003, 416 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–93572–086–8 (summary in English) An extremely welcome and timely publication, providing us with an up-to-date synthesis of Scythian history and archaeology by a scholar with many years of ﬁrst-hand experience studying Scythian antiquities. It includes a chronology and discussions of evidence about the Scythians, the Cimmerian-Scythian problem, Scythians in the northern Black Sea and on the European steppes, etc. A large part of it is devoted to Scythian kings and so-called Royal Scythian tombs. Its appearance in a Western European language would be very useful. T.M. Arseneva, S.I. Bezuglov and I.B. Tolochko, Nekropol’ Tanaisa. Raskopki 1981–1995 gg. (The Necropolis of Tanais. Excavations of 1981–1995), Paleograf, Moscow 2001, 274 pp., 100 tabls. Cased. ISBN 5–89526–007–1 This is a very detailed publication of more than 300 graves from the necropolis of Tanais from the 3rd century BC to the 5th century AD: pit graves, pit graves with ledges, niche graves and catacombs. It gives a very detailed description of graves and grave goods, the chronology and the skeletal remains. Some tables are in colour. V.A. Korenyako, Iskusstvo Narodov Tsentral’noi Azii i Zverinyi Stil’ (Art of the Peoples of Central Asia and Animal Style), Vostochnaya Literatura, Moscow 2002, 327 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–018205–2 (summary in English) A large part of this book is dedicated to the study of Scytho-Siberian Animal Style in the 1st millennium BC-beginning of the 1st millennium AD. The art of the nomads of Central Asia in the 19th–20th centuries AD is also discussed. Korenyako tries to ﬁnd the origins of modern Central Asian nomadic art motifs in ancient ScythoSiberian Animal Style. A.K. Korovina, Germonassa. Antichnyi Gorod na Tamanskom Poluostrove (Hermonassa. Ancient City in the Taman Peninsula), Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow 2002, 146 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–89189–004–6 Korovina excavated Hermonassa for many years. This posthumous publication is the ﬁrst and only monograph to publish the archaeological material from this site. It discusses written sources, the history of the investigation, and Hermonassa in the Archaic, Classical, Hellenistic, Roman and Early Mediaeval periods. An appendix contains a catalogue of inscriptions, art objects, etc. found in Hermonassa. T.N. Kuznetsova, Zerkala Skiﬁi VI–III Veka do n.e (Mirrors of Scythia of the 6th–3rd Centuries BC) Vol. 1, Indrik, Moscow 2002, 350 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–85759–241–0 (short summaries in Western European languages) Several hundred Scythian mirrors are published in this ﬁrst volume. The author provides a lengthy discussion of their chronology, typology and places of production. There are many tables and ﬁgures, maps and charts, as well as a complete catalogue of all known mirrors.

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A.A. Maslennikov, Drevnye Zemlyanye Pogranichno-Oboronitel’nye Sooruzheniya Vostochnogo Kryma (Ancient Earth Frontier Defensive Structures in the Eastern Crimea), Grif i K, Moscow/Tula 2003, 280 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–8125–0356–7 This book publishes the results of many years of ﬁeld- and archival investigation by the author on earthen defensive structures of the eastern Crimea. The dating of these complexes is a very diﬃcult task, but all available evidence and methodologies are used. E. Molev, Elliny i Varvary. Na Severnoi Okraine Antichnogo Mira (Hellenes and Barbarians. On the Northern Edge of the Ancient World), Tsentroligraf, Moscow 2003, 390 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–9524–0544–4 This is a popular book seeking to summarise what we know about Graeco-barbarian relations in the northern Black Sea region. The diﬀerent chapters tell us about the Scythians, Olbia, Chersonesus, the Bosporan kingdom, Mithridates VI, and the relationship between Rome and northern Pontus. The last chapter contains short bibliographical essays on the most prominent scholars researching the area. A.I. Puzikova, Kurgannye Mogil’niki Skifskogo Vremeni Srednego Podon’ya (Publikatsiya Kompleksov) (Funeral Barrows of the Scythian Period in the Central Don Area [Publication of Complexes]), Indrik, Moscow 2001, 271 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–85759–161–9 (summary in English) This monograph publishes four burial grounds, containing altogether 106 barrows. The material dates from the Bronze Age down to the 3rd century BC. Many of the burials are published here for the ﬁrst time, providing new evidence on GraecoScythian relations. It is very richly illustrated. A.I. Romanchuk, Glazurovannaya Posuda Pozdneantichnogo Khersona. Portovyi Raion (Glazed Pottery of Late Byzantine Kherson. Port District), Ekaterinburg 2003, 224 pp., 228 tabls. Paperback. ISBN 5–89088–025–X (summary in German) The ﬁrst monograph on Byzantine glazed pottery from Kherson. The author provides a catalogue and description, and a discussion of where items were made and how they got to Kherson. S.Y. Saprykin, Bosporskoe Tsarstvo na Rubezhe Dvykh Epokh (The Bosporan Kingdom on the Verge of Two Epochs), Nauka, Moscow 2002, 271 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–008806–4 A study of the political history of the Bosporan kingdom in the 1st century BC and 1st century AD and the relations of Bosporus with Rome, the Greek cities of Taurica and local peoples. M.V. Skrzhinskaya, Skiﬁya Glazami Ellinov (Scythia Through Greek Eyes), Aleteiya, St Petersburg 1998, 296 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–89329–108–5 Although this is a popular book, it is also very useful for academics. It presents and discusses all the information about Scythians found in Greek writings, beginning with Homer. Naturally, a long chapter is devoted to Herodotus. Other chapters discuss the treatment of Scythians and other peoples of the northern Black Sea by Greek poets and dramatists, in the speeches of Athenian orators, and in Athenian vase painting etc. M.V. Skrzhinskaya, Budny i Prazdniki Ol’vii v VI-I vv. do n.e. (Everyday Life and Festivals in Olbia in the 6th–1st Centuries BC), Aleteiya, St Petersburg 2000, 288 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–89329–293–6

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The introduction describes the physical appearance of Olbia and gives a short history of the city. Other chapters look at the calendar, festivals, music, sport, trade, the judiciary, the life of ordinary folk, the upbringing and education of children, costume and ornaments, toiletries and cosmetics, food and utensils. S.L. Solovyov, Arkheologicheskie Pamyatniki Sel’skoi Okrugi i Nekropolya Nimfeya. Itogi Rabot Kerchenskoi Arkheologicheskoi Ekspeditsii Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha: 1992–1999 gg. (Archaeological Monuments of the Rural Environs and Necropolis of Nymphaeum. Results of the Investigations of the Kerch Archaeological Expedition of the State Hermitage Museum), The Hermitage Publishing House, St Petersburg 2003, 212 pp., illustrations. Paperback. No ISBN/ISSN (summary in English) This is one of the ﬁrst volumes in a new series issued by the Hermitage to publish the results of its various archaeological expeditions. It presents the results from the rural settlement Geroevka II and 42 burials from the necropolis of Nymphaeum dating from the middle of the 6th century BC to the ﬁrst centuries AD. There are many illustrations and appendices on palaeomorphology, faunal remains, anthropological material from the necropolis, etc. B.V. Tekhov, Graﬁcheskoe Iskusstvo Naseleniya Tsentral’nogo Kavkaza v Kontse II i v Pervoi Polovine I Tysyachiletiya do n.e. (po Bronzovym Poyasam iz Tli) (Graphic Art of the Population of the Central Caucasus of the End of the 2nd-First Half of the 1st Millennium BC [According to Bronze Belts from Tli]), Vladikavkaz/Tskhinval 2001, 315 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–93000–022–0 (summary in English) The ﬁrst study of bronze belts with incised decoration from the Tli burial ground— some 138 specimens. The author correctly links the producers of these belts with the Iranian world. B.V. Tekhov, Tainy Drevnikh Pogrebenii. Arkheologiya, Istoriya, Etnograﬁya (Mysteries of Ancient Graves. Archaeology, History and Ethnography), Proekt-Press, Vladikavkaz 2002, 512 pp., illustrations (many in colour). Cased. ISBN 5–88734–014–2 (summary in English) This very richly illustrated book continues the publication of complexes from the famous Tli burial ground—graves nos. 334–481, excavated between 1983 and 1986 and in 1988. It provides very detailed descriptions of burials dating from the 11/10th– 5/4th centuries BC and the objects found there. The graves are similar to those of the Koban culture and the author introduces the new term ‘Koban-Tli’ to describe the culture of the southern slopes of the Greater Caucasian range. I.L. Tikhonov, Arkheologiya v Sankt-Peterburskom Universitete. Istoriograﬁcheskie Ocherki (Archaeology in St Petersburg University. Historiographical Essays), St Petersburg University Press, St Petersburg 2003, 330 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–288–02828–1 (summary in English) St Petersburg University, from its foundation in 1724, has played a central role in the research and teaching of archaeology. This is a comprehensive survey of archaeology in general, including classical and Scytho-Sarmatian. Much attention is paid to famous archaeologists and expeditions organised by the university. Between 1936 and 2000, 819 students graduated from the Department of Archaeology, many later to achieve prominence and distinction. S.Y. Vnukov, Prichernomorskie Amfory I v. do n.e.-II v. n.e. (Morfologiya) (Black Sea Amphorae of the 1st Century BC–2nd Century AD [Morphology]), Institute of Archaeology, Moscow 2003, 234 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–94375–013–4 (summary in English)

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This is the ﬁrst publication to result from the author’s long-running project to study amphorae. It presents the form and structure of Hercleian, Sinopean and Colchian amphorae, distinguishing several types, variations, etc. Wide use is made of scientiﬁc methods to study the composition of clays in order to distinguish places of manufacture. Vnukov provides measurements and capacity for each type of amphora. His conclusions set Black Sea amphorae within the overall picture of wine-container production in the Roman period. Collections of Articles E.D. Frolov (ed.), Antichnoe Gosudarstvo. Politicheskie Otnosheniya i Gosudarstvennyie Formy v Antichnom Mire (The Ancient State. Political Relations and State Forms in the Ancient World), St Petersburg 2002, 211 pp. Paperback. ISBN 5–288–03125–8 This collection, produced by the Department of the History of Ancient Greece and Rome, St Petersburg University, contains a section on the ancient Black Sea littoral, publishing two articles, one on the major cities in the Cimmerian Bosporus, the other on Bosporus and Rome in the reign of Mithridates VIII. As is now common in Russia, the papers are published unedited (as the volume makes clear). I.S. Kamenetskii and A.A. Formozov (eds.), Ocherki Istorii Otechestvennoi Arkheologii (Essays on the History of Russian Archaeology) 3, Moscow 2002, 196 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–008761–0 This third volume contains six articles discussing such subjects as archaeological sites shown on old maps of the Kuban region, the archaeology of the Smolensk region, and biographical notes on P.P. Eﬁmenko and on two local historians of Dagestan. The ﬁnal piece is a hitherto unpublished essay by S.A. Zhebelev on academic degrees and positions in classics and classical archaeology before and after the Russian Revolution. It is made clear that the old Russian system was just like that of the rest of Europe, especially Germany, and how everything deteriorated under the Soviets. Little has changed since the death of the Soviet Union to revive things: still all must have prizes. T.I. Makarova and S.A. Pletneva (eds.), Krym, Severo-Vostochnoe Prichernomor’e i Zakavkaz’e v Epokhu Srednivekov’ya, IV–XIII Veka (Crimea, the North-East Black Sea Littoral and Transcaucasia during the Middle Ages, 4th–13th Centuries), Moscow 2003, 533 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 5–02–008787–4 This latest volume in the series once called ‘Archaeology of the USSR’, now plain ‘Archaeology’, provides a synthesis of archaeological sites and material from the Crimea, Taman Peninsula and the Transcaucasian republics. Characteristic of these publications is the presentation of up-to-date information on settlement patterns, burial rites, diﬀerent aspects of material culture, ethnicity and history of the regions covered. All chapters and sections within them are written by multiple authors (altogether some 20 scholars are involved), specialists in their own ﬁelds. The illustrations (more than 200 tables, ﬁgures, maps, etc.) are very well reproduced and extremely useful. The bibliography is not comprehensive but still very helpful. M.A. Polyakovskaya (ed.), M.Y. Syuzyumov, Vizantiiskie Etyudy (Byzantine Studies), Ural State University, Ekaterinburg 2002, 396 pp. Paperback. ISBN 5–7996–0137–8 This volume is a collection of articles written by the late M.Y. Syuzyumov, one of the premier Soviet Byzantinists. Within one cover it contains 16 articles written over many years and appearing originally in a wide variety of publications.

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Conference Summaries and Papers V.P. Kopylov (ed.), Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya v Basseine Chernogo Morya v Drevnosti i Srednie Veka. Rezyume Dokladov XI Mezhdunarodnoi Konferentsii, 31 Maya-5 Iyunya 2003 (International Relations in the Black Sea Region in Ancient and Mediaeval Times. Summary of the Papers of the 11th International Conference, 31 May–5 June 2003), Rostov State Pedagogical University, Rostov-on-Don 2003, 66 pp. Paperback. No ISBN/ISSN The summaries included in this booklet cover a wide chronological and geographical range, from the Eneolithic of the Dniester area down to the 17th century AD, and as far distant from the Black Sea as the Thracian hinterland. Y.Y. Piotrovskii (ed.), Stepi Evrazii v Drevnosti i Srednevekov’e. Materialy Mezhdunarodnoi Nauchnoi Konferentsii, Posvyashchennoi 100–letiyu so Dnya Rozhdeniya M.P. Gryaznova (The Eurasian Steppes in Ancient Times and the Middle Ages. Proceedings of an International Conference Dedicated to the Centenary of M.P. Gryaznov) Vol. II, The Hermitage Publishing House, St Petersburg 2003, 308 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–93572–091–4 The second volume of the proceedings of the conference dedicated to M.P. Gryaznov, best known as the excavator of the Arzhan tumulus, publishes several dozen papers about Siberian, Central Asian and Eastern European nomads from the Bronze Age to the Middle Ages. V.Y. Zuev (ed.), Bosporskii Fenomen: Problemy Khronologii i Datirovki Pamyatnikov. Materialy Mezhdunarodnoi Nauchnoi Konferentsii (Bosporan Phenomena: Problems of the Chronology and Dating of Monuments. Materials of an International Conference), The Hermitage Publishing House, St Petersburg 2004, Part I–XVI+331 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–93572–116–3; Part II–XIV+381 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 5–93572–117–1 These two volumes publish a huge number of summaries of papers from a conference of the same title. In fact, many of the intended participants did not attend to present their papers, so the publication is more extensive than the event; and more than half the papers published here fall outside the theme of the conference, chronologically or geographically. It seems as though all summaries received were published, and with slight editorial attention. Somewhat oddly, Part I is dedicated to N.Z. Kunina and Part II to O.Y. Neverov, thus the two volumes almost suggest two conferences. University of Melbourne

Gocha R. Tsetskhladze

BOOKS RECEIVED S.E. Alcock, T.N. D’Altroy, K.D. Morrison and C.M. Sinopoli (eds.), Empires. Perspectives from Archaeology and History, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2001, XXII+523 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–521–77020–3 P. Attema, G.-J. Burgers, E. Van Joolen, M. Van Leusen and B. Mater, New Developments in Italian Landscape Archaeology. Theory and Methodology of Field Survey, Land Evaluation and Landscape Perception, Pottery Production and Distribution. Proceedings of a Three-Day Conference Held at the University of Groningen, April 13–15, 2000, BAR International Series 1091, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+265 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–469–0 B.A. Barletta, The Origins of the Greek Architectural Orders, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2002, XI+220 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–521–79245–2 A.B. Bosworth, The Legacy of Alexander: Politics, Warfare and Propoganda under the Successors, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2002, XIV+308 pp. Cased. ISBN 0–19–815306–6 A. Chaniotis and P. Ducrey (eds.), Army and Power in the Ancient World, Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien 37, Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2002, VIII+204 pp. Paperback. ISBN 3–515–08197–6 A.J. Clark and J. Gaunt (eds.) (with B. Gilman), Essays in Honor of Dietrich von Bothmer, Allard Pierson Series Vol. 14, Studies in Ancient Civilization, Amsterdam 2002, Vol. 1: text, 348 pp., illustrations; Vol. 2: plates, 88 pls. Both Cased. ISBN 90–71211–35–5 E.R.M. Dusinberre, Aspects of Empire in Achaemenid Sardis, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2003, XV+325 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–521–81071–X A. Egberts, B.P. Muhs and J. van der Vliet (eds.), Perspectives on Panopolis: An Egyptian Town from Alexander the Great to the Arab Conquest. Acts From an International Symposium Held in Leiden on 16, 17 and 18 December 1998, Papyrologica Lugduno-Batava 31, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2002, XX+274 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–04–11753–9/ISSN 0169–9652 S.A. Grigoriev, Ancient Indo-Europeans, Edited by J.F. Hargrave, Eurasian Ancient History Vol. 1, Institute of History and Archaeology, Chelyabinsk Academic Centre, The Ural Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Rifei, Chelyabinsk 2002, 496 pp., 157 ﬁgs. Cased. ISBN 5–88521–151–5 E. Haerinck, The Tombs, The University of Ghent South-East Arabian Archaeological Project, Excavations at ed-Dur (Umm al-Qaiwain, United Arab Emirates) Vol. II, an Appendix by P. Stone, illustrations E. Smekens, Peeters, Leuven 2001, 110 pp., 313 b/w pls., 8 colour pls. Paperback. ISBN 90–429–0997–8 L. Hannestad, V.F. Stolba and A.N. Sceglov (eds.), Panskoye I Vol. 1: The Monumental Building U6, Archaeological Investigations in Northwestern Crimea, Aarhus University Press, Aarhus 2002, 368 pp., 191 pls. Cased. ISBN 87–7288–770–2 J. Hazenbos, The Organization of the Anatolian Local Cults During the 13th Century BC. An appraisal of the Hittite cult inventories, Cuneiform Monographs 21, Brill-Styx, Leiden/Boston 2003, X+358 pp. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12383–0/ISSN 0929–0052 D.C. Hopkins (ed.), Across the Anatolian Plateau. Readings in the Archaeology of Ancient Turkey, The Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research Vol. 57 (2000), American Schools of Oriental Research, Boston 2002, IX+209 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–89757–053–7

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S. Jakob, Mittelassyrische Verwaltung und Sozialstruktur. Untersuchungen, Cuneiform Monographs 29, Brill-Styx, Leiden/Boston 2003, LXII+587 pp. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12398–9/ISSN 0929–0052 W. Jongman and M. Kleijwegt (eds.), After the Past. Essays in Ancient History in Honour of H.W. Pleket, Mnemosyne Supplements 233, Subseries: History and Archaeology of Classical Antiquity, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2002, XXIV+378 pp. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12816–6/ISSN 0169–8958 V. Karageorghis, Early Cyprus. Crossroads of the Mediterranean, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles 2002, 230 pp., 200 colour and 100 b/w illustrations. ISBN 0–89236– 679–6 S.A. Kingsley, A Sixth-Century AD Shipwreck oﬀ the Carmel Coast, Israel. Dor D and Holy Land Wine Trade, BAR International Series 1065, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+144 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–445–3 J. Luke, Ports of Trade, Al Mina and Geometric Greek Pottery in the Levant, BAR International Series 1100, Archaeopress, Oxford 2003, IV+81 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–478–X J.G. Manning, Land and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt. The Structure of Land Tenure, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2003, XVIII+335 pp., 2 maps. Cased. ISBN 0–521– 81924–5 H.C. Melchert (ed.), The Luwians, Handbook of Oriental Studies, Section One: The Near and Middle East Vol. 68, Brill, Leiden/Boston 2003, XX+384 pp., 29 pls. Cased. ISBN 90–04–13009–8/ISSN 0169–9423 N.F. Miller and K. Abdi (eds.), yeki bud, yeki nabud: Essays on the Archaeology of Iran in Honor of William M. Sumner, The Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at UCLA, in association with the American Institute of Iranian Studies and the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, The Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at UCLA Monograph 48, Los Angeles 2003, XII+340 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 1–931745–05–6 L. Moscati-Castelnuovo (ed.), Identità e Prassi Storica nel Mediterraneo Greco, Università degli Studi di Milano, dipartimento de Scienze dell’ antichità, Edizioni Et, Milan 2002, 216 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 88–86752–20–2 L. Mulvin, Late Roman Villas in the Danube-Balkan Region, BAR International Series 1064, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, XV+329 pp., 8 maps, 9 charts, 147 ﬁgs., 118 pls. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–444–5 M. Negru, The Native Pottery of Roman Dacia, BAR International Series 1064, Archaeopress, Oxford 2003, IV+112 pp., 26 ﬁgs., 25 pls. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–475–5 I. Nielsen, Cultic Theatres and Drama. A Study in Regional Development and Religious Interchange between East and West in Antiquity, Aarhus Studies in Mediterranean Antiquity IV, Aarhus University Press, Aarhus/Oxford/Oakville CT 2002, 395 pp., 71 pls. Cased. ISBN 87–7288–879–2 D. Parrish (ed.), Urbanism in Western Asia Minor. New Studies on Aphrodisias, Ephesos, Hierapolis, Pergamon, Perge and Xanthos, JRA Suppl. Series 45, Portsmouth, Rhode Island 2001, 192 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 1–887829–45–8/ISSN 1063–4304 J. Pollini, Gallo-Roman Bronzes and the Process of Romanization: The Cobannus Hoard, Monumenta Graeca et Romana 9, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2002, XIV+104 pp., 2 maps, 117 ﬁgs. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12437–3/ISSN 0169–8850 B.B. Powell, Writing and the Origin of Greek Literature, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2002, XVI+210 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–521–78206–6

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B. Rückert and F. Kolb (eds.), Probleme der Keramikchronologie des südlichen und westlichen Kleinasiens in geometrischer und archaischer Zeit, Internationales Kolloquium, Tübingen, 24.3.–26.3.1998, Antiquitas, Reihe 3, Band 44, Dr. Rudolf Habelt GmbH, Bonn 2003, 138 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–7749–3139–9 C. Sagona, The Archaeology of Punic Malta, Ancient Near Eastern Studies, Supplement Series 9, Peeters, Leuven/Paris/Sterling VA 2002, XIV+1165 pp., including 349 ﬁgs. and 13 maps. Cased. ISBN 90–429–0917–X N. Schreiber, The Cypro-Phoenician Pottery of the Iron Age, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 13, Brill, Leiden/Boston 2003, XXX+409 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12854–9/ISSN 1566–2055 M. Schuol, U. Hartmann and A. Luther (eds.), Grenzüberschreitungen. Formen des Kontakts zwischen Orient und Okzident im Altertum, Oriens et Occidens 3, Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2002, 414 pp., 29 tabls. Cased. ISBN 3–515–7962–9/ISSN 1615–4517 M. Skele, The Poseidonian Chora. Archaic Greeks in the Italic Hinterland, BAR International Series 1094, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, VI+115 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–472–0 R. Thomas, Herodotus in Context. Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2002, 330 pp. Paperback. ISBN 0–521–01241–4 V. Tosto, The Black-Figure Pottery Signed NIKOSTHENES EPOIESEN, Allard Pierson Series 11, Allard Pierson Stichting, Amsterdam 1999, Part 1: Text, 303 pp.; Part 2: Plates, 165 pp. (145 pls.). Both cased. ISBN 90–71211–30–4 L.F. Vagalinski, Burnished Pottery from the First Century to the Beginning of the Seventh Century AD from the Region South of the Lower Danube (Bulgaria), NOUS, Soﬁa 2002, 200 pp., illustrations. Parallel text in Bulgarian and English. Paperback. ISBN 954–90387–5–X M.S. Venit, Monumental Tombs of Ancient Alexandria. The Theater of the Dead, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 2002, XV+267 pp., black and white and colour illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–521–80659–3 M.J. Versluys, Aegyptiaca Romana: Nilotic Scenes and the Roman View of Egypt, Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 144, Brill, Leiden/Boston 2002, XVI+509 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–04–12440–3/ISSN 0927–7633

IN THE NEXT ISSUE Editorial Articles M. Valdés Guía, The Cult of Aglauros (and Aphrodite) in Athens and in Salamis of Cyprus: Reﬂections on the Origin of the Genos of the Salaminioi M. Damyanov, Necropoleis and Ionian Colonisation in the Black Sea J. Bouzek, Local Schools of Thracian Toreutics in the 4th Century BC R.A. Kearsley, Women and Public Life in Imperial Asia Minor: Hellenistic Tradition and Augustan Ideology M.P. Abramova, Peculiarities in the Process of Formation of the Alan Culture of the North Caucasus (Archaeological Data) Notes J. Hind, Archaic Scythia: Neither Scythia nor Archaic? (Herodotus, Hist. 4. 99. 2) J.H. Shanks, Alexander the Great and Zeus-Ammon: A New Interpretation of the Phalerae from Babyna Mogila P. Magee, Columned Halls, Bridge-Spouted Vessels, C14 Dates and the Chronology of the East Arabian Iron Age: A Response to Some Recent Comments by O. Muscarella in Ancient West & East Book Reviews West and East: A Review Article (4) (G.R. Tsetskhladze) Recent Romanian Publications (Z.H. Archibald) New Publications on Murals (F.R. Serra Ridgway) B.A. Barletta, The Origins of the Greek Architectural Orders (R.A. Tomlinson) A.K. Bowman, H.M. Cotton, M. Goodman and S. Price (eds.), Representations of Empire. Rome and the Mediterranean World (R. Alston) G. Bradley, Ancient Umbria (P.J. Smith) K. Clarke, Between Geography and History (R. Alston) A.A. Donohue and M. Fullerton (eds.), Ancient Art and Its Historiography ( J. Boardman) E.R.M. Dusinberre, Aspects of Empire in Achaemenid Sardis (M. Weiskorf ) J. Fornasier and B. Böttger (eds.), Das Bosporanische Reich (S.M. Burstein) K. Geus and K. Zimmermann (eds.), Punica-Libyca-Ptolemaica (C. Sagona) E. Haerinck, The Tombs (P. Magee) W. Held, Das Heiligtum der Athena in Milet (R. Nicholls) V.I. Kozenkova, U istokov gorskogo mentaliteta (S.L. Dudarev) J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz, Decline and Fall of the Roman City ( J. Tuck) L. Moscati-Castelnuovo (ed.), Identità e Prassi Storica nel Mediterraneo Greco (A. Snodgrass) J. Prevas, Xenophon’s March into the Lair of the Persian Lion (C. Tuplin) W. Regter, Imitation and Creation (D. Ridgway) St John Simpson (ed.), Queen of Sheba (B. Overlaet) V. Tosto, The Black-Figure Pottery Signed NIKOSTHENES EPOIESEN (D. Ridgway)

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IN THE NEXT ISSUE

M.J. Versluys, Aegyptiaca Romana (C. Vout) V.M. Zubar and A.I. Khvorostyanyi, Ot yazychestva k khristianstvu (L.G. Khroushkova) New Publications Books Received Notes to Contributors In the Next Issue

ANCIENT WEST & EAST CONTENTS VOLUME 3 – 2004

Articles S.L. Dudarev, The Mastering of Iron-Working by the Peoples of the Northern Caucasus in the Early Iron Age (Soviet and Russian Historiography of the Second Half of the 20th Century) .................................................................................................. S. Vassallo, The Stone Casting Moulds from Colle Madore: Evidence of Metallurgy in Sikanie ...................................................... H.G. Niemeyer, Phoenician or Greek: Is There a Reasonable Way Out of the Al Mina Debate? .............................................................. R. Fletcher, Sidonians, Tyrians and Greeks in the Mediterranean: The Evidence from Egyptianising Amulets ........................................ M. Alexandrescu Vianu, Présences nord-syriennes et chypriotes en Mer Noire à l’époque archaïque .......................................................... With a Supplement: A. Baltres, A. Andrei, C. Costea and M.V. Rusu, Two Archaic Casts from Histria: Mineralogy, Paint Composition and Storage Products ............................................................................ C. Tuplin, Medes in Media, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia: Empire, Hegemony, Domination or Illusion? .................................................... G.-J. Burgers, Western Greeks in their Regional Setting: Rethinking Early Greek-Indigenous Encounters in Southern Italy ...................... M.M. Jackson, Jewellery Evidence and the Lowering of South Italian Ceramic Chronology ............................................................................ S.A. Kovalenko, The Organisation of the Mint in Chersonesus Taurica in the First Half of the 4th Century BC ............................ A.V. Podossinov, Das Schwarze Meer in der geokartographischen Tradition der Antike und des frühen Mittelalters. II. Die Halbinsel Krim, das Asowsche Meer und die Straße von Kertsch .................. A. Avram, M. Bârbulescu and M. Ionescu, À propos des pontarques du Pont Gauche ....................................................................................

1 20 38 51 78

87 223 252 283 314

338 354

Notes D.J. Keenan, Radiocarbon Dates from Iron Age Gordion are Confounded ............................................................................................ 100 A. Apakidze, G. Kipiani and V. Nikolaishvili, A Rich Burial from Mtskheta (Caucasian Iberia) .................................................................. 104

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CONTENTS VOLUME 3 – 2004

S.L. Solovyov and M.Y. Treister, Bronze Punches from Berezan ...... 365 F. Marco Simón, De Gallia in Hispaniam: Notes on a Brooch with the Heads of a Lion, a Bull and a Human Found in Celtiberia ................................................................................................ 376 Discussion R. Alston, Writing the Economic History for the Late Antique East: A Review (S. Kingsley and M. Decker [eds.], Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean during Late Antiquity) ........................................ 124 N. Pollard, Models, Data or Both? Some Problems of Evidence for the Study of the Late Antique Economy in the East ........................ 137 A. Wilson, Cyrenaica and the Late Antique Economy ........................ 143 R. Tomber, Polarising and Integrating the Late Roman Economy: the Role of Late Roman Amphorae 1–7 ............................................ 155 Book Reviews (No. 1) New Publications on Hittite Archaeology and History: A Review Article (D.P. Mielke) .............................................................................. Two Books on Ancient Frontiers (F. Hartlog, Memories of Odysseus; C. Smith and J. Serrati (eds.), Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus) (F. De Angelis) ...................................................................................... Bosporskie Issledovaniya ( J.G.F. Hind) .......................................................... R.E. Blanton, Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Settlement Patterns of the Coast Lands of Western Rough Cilicia (F. Kolb) ................................ J. Boardman, The History of Greek Vases (A. Shapiro) .............................. G. Carr and S. Stoddart (eds.), Celts from Antiquity (B. Cunliﬀe) .......... M. Cruz Fernández Castro and B.W. Cunliﬀe, El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones (A. Alzola Romero) ...................................... R.H. Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas (A. Smith) .............................. G. Kitov and D. Agre, Vavedenie v trakiiskata archeologiya (N. Theodossiev) .................................................................................... H. Koch, Persepolis (B. Overlaet) .............................................................. J. Luke, Ports of Trade, Al Mina and Geometric Greek Pottery in the Levant ( J. Boardman) ........................................................................................ N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus (E. Irwin) ................................................................................................ S.Y. Monakhov, Grecheskie amfory v Prichernomor’e ( J.G.F. Hind) ............ M. Pfrommer, Greek Gold from Hellenistic Egypt (M. Treister) .................. A. Rodríguez Díaz and J.-J. Enríquez Navascués, Extremadura tartésica (E. Sánchez-Moreno) ............................................................................ M. Rousseva, Trakiiska grobnichna arhitektura (N. Theodossiev) ................ J.-P. Roux, L’Asie Centrale (B. Overlaet) ..................................................

167

172 177 179 181 183 184 186 189 189 190 192 194 196 197 200 201

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R.J. Rowland Jr, The Periphery in the Center (P. van Dommelen) ............ 201 P. Ruby (ed.), Les princes de la protohistoire et l’émergence de l’état (K. Vlassopoulos) .................................................................................... 204 S.M.M. Young, A.M. Pollard, P. Budd and R.A. Ixer (eds.), Metals in Antiquity (B. Overlaet) ............................................................................ 206 New Publications Iberian Archaeology (A. Domínguez) .................................................. 209 Books Received .............................................................................................. 217 In the Next Issue .......................................................................................... 221 Book Reviews (No. 2) The Mediterranean: A Corrupting Sea? A Review-Essay on Ecology and History, Anthropology and Synthesis (P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History) (P.F. Bang) .......... New Books on Ancient Anatolia and Assyria (C. Glatz and R. Matthews) ................................................................ New Publications on the Black Sea Region (G.R. Tsetskhladze) .................... Two Books on Mediterranean Urbanisation (T. Fischer-Hansen [ed.], Ancient Sicily; H. D. Anderson, H.W. Horsnaes, S. Houby-Nielsen and A. Rathje [eds.], Urbanization in the Mediterranean in the 9th to 6th Centuries BC ) (A. Domínguez) .......... New Publications on Maritime Archaeology (M. Juri“iÆ, Ancient Shipwrecks of the Adriatic; E. Grossmann with contributors, Maritime Tel Michal and Apollonia) (A.J. Parker) .................................................. C. Dougherty, The Raft of Odysseus (A. Snodgrass) .................................. D. Dueck, Strabo of Amasia ( J. Vela Tejada) .......................................... B. Fischer, H. Genz, É. Jean and K. Köro[lu (eds.), Identifying Changes (C. Burney) ................................................................................ R.L. Fowler (ed.), Early Greek Mythography Vol. 1 ( J. Boardman) .......... N.A. Gavrilyuk, Istorya ekonomiki Stepnoi Skiﬁi, VI–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) .......................................................................................... V.I. Gulyaev and V.S. Olkhovskii (eds.), Skify i Sarmaty v VII–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) ........................................................................ E. Haerinck and B. Overlaet, Chamahzi Mumah. An Iron Age III Graveyard (A. Sagona) ............................................................................ A. Invernizzi, Sculture di Metallo da Nisa ( J. Boardman) ........................ K. Jordanov, K. Porozhanov and V. Fol (eds.), Thracia 15. In Honour of Alexander Fol’s 70th Anniversary ( J. Boardman) ................ A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives (S. Dalley) .............................................................................................. A.-A. Maravelia (ed.), Ancient Egypt and Antique Europe ( J. Bouzek) ........

385 399 405

410

413 415 417 419 421 421 423 428 429 430 430 432

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G. Muskett, A. Koltsida and M. Georgiadis (eds.), SOMA 2001—Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology ( J. Bouzek) .................... B.S. Ottaway and E.C. Wager (eds.), Metals and Society (P. Dolukhanov) .................................................................................... A. Rathje, M. Nielsen and B.B. Rasmussen (eds.), Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead ( J. Boardman) ................................................ C. Scheﬀer (ed.), Ceramics in Context ( J. Boardman) ................................ G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea ( J. Bouzek) ...................... I.V. Tunkina, Russkaya nauka o klassicheskikh drevnostyakh yuga Rossii (XVIII–seredina XIX v.) (H.-C. Meyer) .................................................. B. Werbart (ed.), Cultural Interactions in Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean ( J. Bouzek) ........................................................................ D. Whitehouse, The Glass Vessels (V.A. Tatton-Brown) .......................... D. Zhuravlev (ed.), Fire, Light and Light Equipment in the Graeco-Roman World ( J. Bouzek) ............................................................

432 434 436 437 437 439 440 441 442

New Publications Russia (G.R. Tsetskhladze) .................................................................... 445 Books Received .............................................................................................. 452 In the Next Issue .......................................................................................... 455