Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations

colonial encounters in ancient iberia

Map of regions, places, and archaeological sites mentioned frequently throughout the book.

colonial encounters in ancient iberia Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations edited by michael dietler & carolina lópez-ruiz

The University of Chicago Press :: chi ca go and london

michael dietler is associate professor of anthropology at the University of Chicago. He conducts archaeological research in southern France and ethnographic research in Kenya, and he is author of the books Consumption and Colonial Encounters in the Rhône Basin of France: A Study of Early Iron Age Political Economy (2005) and Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France (in press), as well as coeditor of the volume Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power (2001). carolina lópez-ruiz is assistant professor of Greek and Latin at the Ohio State University. She has published articles on aspects of Greek and Near Eastern literature and mythology and their close connections, as well as on Phoenician historiography (as part of Brill’s New Jacoby). In a forthcoming monograph she explores Greek cosmogonic traditions and their Near Eastern background, with a focus on Northwest Semitic sources. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2009 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2009 Printed in the United States of America 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09

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isbn-13: 978-0-226-14847-2 (cloth) isbn-10: 0-226-14847-5 (cloth) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Colonial encounters in ancient Iberia : Phoenician, Greek, and indigenous relations / edited by Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn-13: 978-0-226-14847-2 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-226-14847-5 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Iberian Peninsula—Antiquities. 2. Phoenicians—Iberian Peninsula. 3. Greeks—Iberian Peninsula. 4. Tartessos (Kingdom)—History. I. Dietler, Michael. II. López Ruiz, Carolina. dp44.c685 2009 936.6'02 —dc22 2009017508 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1992.

contents

Ex Occidente Lux: A Preface Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz vii

p a r t i Theoretical Issues and Frameworks o n e Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean: An Exploratory Framework Michael Dietler 3 t w o Colonial Relations and Social Change in Iberia (Seventh to Third Centuries BC) Joan Sanmartí 49

p a r t i i New Perspectives on Phoenician and Greek Ventures on the Mediterranean and Atlantic Coasts t h r e e Colonial Contacts and Protohistoric Indigenous Urbanism on the Mediterranean Coast of the Iberian Peninsula Maria Carme Belarte 91 f o u r Phoenician Colonization on the Atlantic Coast of the Iberian Peninsula Ana Margarida Arruda 113 f i v e Greeks and the Iberian Peninsula: Forms of Exchange and Settlements Pierre Rouillard 131

p a r t i i i Plant Resources, Agrarian Practices, and the Colonial Political Economy s i x Botanical and Archaeological Dimensions of the Colonial Encounter Ramon Buxó 155 s e v e n Lumbermen and Shipwrights: Phoenicians on the Mediterranean Coast of Southern Spain Brigitte Treumann 169

p a r t i v The Question of Tartessos: A Debate Reframed e i g h t Phoenicians in Tartessos María Belén Deamos 193 n i n e Precolonization and Colonization in the Interior of Tartessos Sebastián Celestino Pérez 229

p a r t v Interrogating Colonial Texts and Imagined Landscapes t e n Tarshish and Tartessos Revisited: Textual Problems and Historical Implications Carolina López-Ruiz 255 e l e v e n Iberia in the Greek Geographical Imagination

Javier Gómez Espelosín 281

Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: A Coda Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz 299 List of Contributors 313 Index of Places 315

ex occidente lux: a preface Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz

This volume offers the reader access to the most recent evidence and theoretical/interpretive perspectives guiding research on the complex series of colonial encounters that occurred in the far west of the Mediterranean during the first millennium BC. This was a colonial situation that not only transformed the Iberian Peninsula but also had significant implications for the entire history of the Mediterranean. Moreover, the vibrant multinational research front exploring these Iberian colonial encounters, which has expanded dramatically in recent years, holds valuable lessons for scholars working on similar issues in other parts of the Mediterranean and those working on colonialism more generally. Given these facts, and for reasons that are clarified further below, this book can lay claim to bringing new “light from the west” (as well as shedding new light on the west). This statement is more than a whimsical inversion of an old trope: it is an assertive claim of considerable significance in view of the traditional marginalization of the Western Mediterranean in classical studies, especially in the world of Anglophone academia. The book began its life as an international interdisciplinary symposium convened at the Franke Institute of Humanities of the University of Chicago in November 2003. It was designed to transgress a variety of traditional disciplinary and political boundaries that have hampered a broader, more integrated understanding of the colonial history of ancient Iberia and of ancient Mediterranean colonialism more generally. The idea was to open a provocative conversation among a diverse mix of scholars who do not normally engage in dialogue. These included Spanish, Portuguese, French, American, and English archaeologists, historians, and philologists from disciplines such as classics, anthropology, and history working on such themes as Phoenician and Greek colonies in Iberia, indigenous Iberian societies, and the comparative anthropology of colonialism. As one Spanish scholar noted with amusement, a trip to Chicago was necessary for him to meet several colleagues from his own country for the first time. The original intention was to expand the comparative project even further by including scholars work-

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ing on Roman colonization of the region as well. However, ultimately this seemed likely to prove unwieldy for an initial exchange, and it was decided that it would be more productive to defer consideration of this last, very different phase of the colonial encounter to a future symposium. This volume represents the fruits of this effort to stimulate a fresh, crossdisciplinary engagement with the early history of colonialism in Iberia. But the book is also designed to present for the first time to an Anglophone audience a wealth of exciting new cutting-edge research that has generally remained hidden from view in regional journals and monographs published in a variety of languages.1 Because so little has been published in English on the subject, the 1993 English translation of Maria Eugenia Aubet’s (1987) book The Phoenicians in the West and the 1998 English translation of the (1993) book The Archaeology of the Iberians, by Arturo Ruiz and Manuel Molinos, have remained the principal references available in the Anglophone domain. These books are, to be sure, excellent and essential works of scholarly synthesis, but they are now well over a decade old, and in the interim there has been a great deal of very active research that has augmented and transformed our understanding of these early colonial encounters.2 For example, as Ana Arruda points out in chapter 4, the amount of Phoenician archaeological material discovered in Portugal has tripled since the 1980s. Aside from presenting a wealth of new information, then, this volume highlights in particular the shifting perception of the relative role of Greeks and Phoenicians in Iberian colonial processes, as well as exploring new domains of research, such as the ecological/agrarian dimension of the encounter, and emphasizing new issues, such as indigenous agency and consumption. The book does not pretend to offer a comprehensive global coverage of research on these colonial encounters, in the form of a textbook, a manual, or a “Noah’s ark”–style compendium. That would be both unrealistic and premature. The intention has been both more modest and more closely targeted: to produce a working document providing the reader with a selected series of cases that present a window into both the most recent data (archaeological, textual, philological) and the major competing positions in evolving interpretive debates on the encounter—that is, to present a realistic view of the current state of the field in all its complexity and theoretical plurality. As editors, we have specifically avoided imposing an artificial synthetic uniformity on the chapters or manufacturing a set of illusory general conclusions. This is an active, combative, rapidly transforming research domain, and the book is intended to convey a sense of that dynamism and diversity. For this reason, the contributions are loosely grouped in several general thematic sections. But the sections are merely organizational conveniences and are not meant

Ex Occidente Lux: A Preface • ix

to suggest a comprehensive treatment of the particular themes: each paper is an independent unit and represents a particular aspect of a broader field. Some of these sections include a wide variety of topics, while others are more restricted. The first section provides an introductory overview of some theoretical issues and frameworks guiding research on colonial encounters in ancient Iberia. Chapter 1, by anthropologist/archaeologist Michael Dietler, establishes a context for the volume by linking the ancient encounters in Iberia to broader theoretical debates about colonialism within the fields of anthropology and postcolonial studies, as well as situating the region and periods covered here within the history of ancient Mediterranean colonialism more generally. It also critically examines an evolving set of paradigms that have guided research on colonialism over the past several decades as a way of allowing the reader to situate and evaluate the theoretical positions taken (sometimes implicitly) by the various contributors to the volume. In chapter 2, archaeologist Joan Sanmartí offers a subtle and ambitious synthetic vision of the role of colonial trade in the transformation of indigenous Iberian societies in different regions. He emphasizes especially the complex, contingent, and regionally variable relations that developed among Phoenicians, Greeks, and indigenous peoples, and he stresses the mutually transformative nature of those relationships and the conditions of interdependence that emerged from them. The second section comprises a set of three archaeological case studies exploring the Phoenician and Greek presence on the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts of Iberia and the ramifications this had for indigenous societies and colonists. Chapter 3, by archaeologist Carme Belarte, tackles the complex, and contentious, issue of the role of the colonial encounter in the transformation of indigenous Iberian settlement patterns and especially in the variable process of urbanism that emerged in different regions. She stresses that changes in Iberian settlements in no way reflect an imitation of Phoenician patterns and shows instead how colonial trade affected indigenous economic and political structures and thus were indirectly responsible for regionally divergent changes in urban landscapes. Chapter 4, by archaeologist Ana Margarida Arruda, explores fascinating new information about an early Phoenician presence outside the Mediterranean, on the Atlantic coast of Portugal, from the end of the ninth century or early eighth century BC. In addition to offering a review of recent dating evidence for contact, she focuses especially on the multiple incentives for Phoenician movement to this area, the modes of contact with indigenous peoples, and the relations between colonists and natives. She tempers the traditional emphasis on the attraction of

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metal resources by pointing out a variety of other products that would have drawn Phoenician traders and colonists to the region (such as salt, slaves, and agricultural products). In chapter 5, archaeologist Pierre Rouillard makes the case for the Greek contribution to the colonial situation and challenges a number of prior assumptions on the basis of recent excavations. In particular, he presses the case for “colonization without colonies,” arguing that the number of alien colonists in Iberia, Greek or Phoenician, was very small and confined to rather modest settlements of a distinctive type that he calls “Hispanic emporia.” Part III consists of two chapters that explore natural resources and agrarian practices in the colonial encounter. In chapter 6, archaeobotanist and archaeologist Ramon Buxó traces recent evidence documenting long-term changes in the agrarian base of indigenous societies before and after the arrival of Phoenician and Greek colonists. In particular, he examines important new data concerning the development of indigenous wine and olive oil production and discusses the relationship of these practices to traditional grain-based agriculture. In chapter 7, historian Brigitte Treumann uses a wide variety of evidence to discuss the trans-Mediterranean demand for wood and to make the case for the importance of timber in explaining Phoenician interest in the Andalusian coast of Iberia, thereby challenging the traditional emphasis on metal resources as the defining vector in Phoenician colonial ventures in Iberia. She shows how changing geopolitical conditions in the Eastern Mediterranean would have drawn Phoenician merchants and shipbuilders to the rich timber resources of Spain. Part IV is composed of two chapters that reexamine issues surrounding the legendary and enigmatic polity of Tartessos, which, by virtue of its prominence in ancient texts, has played a major role in debates about early Phoenician and Greek colonial activity in southern Iberia and about the nature of a purported “Orientalizing” effect on indigenous societies. In chapter 8, archaeologist María Belén Deamos provides an updated overview of ongoing archaeological research in the Guadalquivir area (Huelva, Seville, etc.), deploying a wealth of new data to challenge traditional interpretations of important sites such as El Carambolo (Seville) while stressing the deep level of interaction and cohabitation between local populations and colonists from the Eastern Mediterranean in this region. She carefully explores the implications of this new evidence, including the possibility of agricultural colonization and the integration of Semitic and indigenous cultic practices in a commercially active environment. Archaeologist Sebastián Celestino Pérez, in chapter 9, discusses critically the popular concept of “precolonization” and uses a

Ex Occidente Lux: A Preface • xi

variety of evidence, including especially a series of stone stele of warriors, to evaluate Tartessian sociopolitical organization and the activities and interests of Phoenician colonists in the interior. He stresses particularly the changing economic and political relationships between different areas of the Tartessian domain and the implications they had for Phoenician activity in the region. The last substantive section of the book (part V) groups together two works concerned with literary sources. First, philologist and historian Carolina López-Ruiz, in chapter 10, undertakes a detailed philological analysis of the numerous epigraphic and biblical references to Tarshish in order to evaluate the hypothesis of its identification with Tartessos and, thus, the potential of this term to represent the persistence of memories of this distant polity in Phoenician and Hebrew cultures at the other end of the Mediterranean. Finally, in chapter 11, historian Javier Gómez Espelosín undertakes an extensive textual analysis of ancient Greek perceptions of geography in order to understand the experience of early colonial traders and explorers who ventured to the shores of Iberia. He shows how, before the age of Strabo, Iberia was perceived through a cultural filter shaped by the combination of a hodological tradition of envisioning and navigating space and an imagined mythological landscape. Finally, in a brief concluding coda the editors offer a few final reflections on the main themes that emerge from the book and on the direction of current and future research. Improving our understanding of these ancient colonial encounters that reshaped the cultural landscape of the Western Mediterranean is important not only for their inherent historical interest. As Dietler (chapter 1) points out, they happen to constitute the initial episode in the colonial process through which the indigenous peoples of the territories that would eventually spawn two of the dominant early colonial powers of the modern world—Spain and Portugal—first became entangled with the Greco-Roman and “Oriental” worlds that would later come to play such an obsessive role in the collective ancestral imagination and imperial ideology of these nations. This makes it doubly important to subject these ancient encounters to intense analytical scrutiny. But as chapter 1 makes clear, it also raises a number of difficult epistemological issues that have hindered scholars in their approaches to this colonial situation for many years. Circumventing these problems, insofar as this is possible, requires vigilant self-conscious reflexivity as well as theoretical and methodological ingenuity. This book represents an attempt to generate movement in this direction through a direct confrontation of different national and disciplinary traditions.

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The symposium that stimulated this book was made possible by the generosity of several institutions. Major funding was provided both by the Program for Cultural Cooperation between the Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sports and United States Universities and by the Franke Institute of Humanities of the University of Chicago. The project was also supported by various units of the University of Chicago, including the Committee on the Ancient Mediterranean World, the Department of Classics, the Department of Anthropology, the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, the Oriental Institute, and the Dean of Social Sciences. We are grateful to all of them for their contributions. The success of the symposium was due also to the many colleagues and friends who participated in this truly international and interdisciplinary encounter. Special mention should be given to Christopher Faraone, who is responsible with the coeditors for the idea of a Spanish-American meeting and has helped all along the way in the organization and fundraising for this project. We also want to thank Sebastián Celestino Pérez for his help with the fundraising from the Spanish government and for helping to coordinate contact from the Spanish side. Special thanks go to Kathy Fox for her help with logistical and administrative tasks. Carme Belarte, who could not accept the invitation to be physically with us at the Chicago meeting, has nevertheless been kind enough to contribute a chapter to the volume. Jonathan Hall, although not represented in the book, contributed insightful closing reflections at the conference. The conference also benefited from the participation of Brien Garnand, who was, alas, not able to contribute a chapter to the volume. We wish to thank all the contributors, audience members, student assistants, and moderators of sessions for their enthusiasm and engaged participation in the wide-ranging and animated debate that flowed around the presented papers. The chapters have all been considerably reworked in light of both discussion at the conference and extensive, detailed, and very helpful comments made by two anonymous reviewers of the book manuscript, for which we are also very grateful. Thanks are due to the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences at Stanford, California, where one of the editors (MD) was graciously supported as a fellow when the final revisions were undertaken. Finally, we wish to thank Susan Bielstein, Anthony Burton, and Ruth Goring, editors at the University of Chicago Press, for their care in shepherding this book through the editorial process.

not e s 1. This point about the diversity and obscurity of scholarly publications on this theme was made also by Aubet in her 1993 book; from the Anglophone perspec-

Ex Occidente Lux: A Preface • xiii

tive, aside from her impressive synthesis, the situation has changed little since then despite a profusion of new research. 2. Since this book has been in production, two other recent volumes that offer complementary information for an Anglophone audience have been brought to our attention: M. R. Bierling and S. Gitin, eds., The Phoenicians in Spain: An archaeological review of the eighth-sixth centuries B.C.E.; A collection of articles translated from Spanish, trans. M. R. Bierling (Winona Lake, IN, 2002), and A. Neville, ed., Mountains of silver and rivers of gold: The Phoenicians in Iberia, Nottingham Studies in Archaeology (Oxford, 2007).

part i

Theoretical Issues and Frameworks

[one]

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean: An Exploratory Framework Michael Dietler

Introduction This chapter is intended to do two things. In the first place, the reflections offered here seek to explain why the ancient encounters explored in this volume should be of interest and importance to a wide variety of readers, well beyond the group of specialists convened to produce this panorama of new research on ancient colonialism in Iberia. In the second place, I aim to contextualize the specific Iberian cases we are considering here within both the broader history of colonial encounters in the ancient Western Mediterranean and larger theoretical debates about colonialism that are taking place within fields such as anthropology and postcolonial studies. In other words, in addition to setting the stage for readers not already familiar with the history of the ancient Mediterranean, I want to suggest both why the particular case of ancient Iberia is of considerable significance to broader studies of colonialism in the social sciences and humanities and, reciprocally, why scholars focusing on the Iberian case can profit from a broader engagement with discussions in these other domains. Why does ancient Iberia matter? Briefly put, because the ancient colonial encounters that took place in Iberia, and in the western Mediterranean more generally, during the first millennium BC have played a profound role in the historical construction of colonial discourses, ideologies, and practices in the imperial projects of modern European nations and in the very construction of modern European identity and “Western civilization.” For reasons that will become clear later, it is crucial that scholars engaged in the study of modern colonialism appreciate this phenomenon and its many ramifications. One such ramification is that this complex modern entwinement with the ancient colonial past has had a pervasive reciprocal influence on the way that archaeologists and historians now approach and understand these seminal ancient encounters. Because of the crucial role it has played in the foundational mythology and discursive constitution of “the West,” a critical reexamination of ancient Mediterranean colonialism is very much needed. However, the legacy

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Figure 1.1 Chronological chart of some major events in the history of Mediterranean colonial expansion during the first millennium BC.

of this relationship makes it is impossible for us to evaluate and improve upon current understandings of these ancient colonial encounters without simultaneously exposing and disarticulating the entangled strands of ancient and modern colonialisms. These are rather sweeping contentions, to be sure, and I attempt to justify them with a more detailed argument later.1

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 5

But first, in order to make my comments and the gist of this volume more comprehensible to readers not already familiar with the ancient history of Iberia or the Mediterranean, let me contextualize the subject within a brief general history of colonial encounters in the ancient Western Mediterranean. This is, in fact, a complex tale in which encounters and entanglements between manifold indigenous peoples and foreign agents from several expanding states of the Eastern and Central Mediterranean played a recurrent and crucial role (fig. 1.1).

A Brief History of Colonial Encounters in the Western Mediterranean The Western Mediterranean during the first millennium BC encompassed a diverse and dynamic landscape of social identities, linguistic communities, political formations, and modes of interaction.2 However, in very general terms, one is dealing with indigenous societies constituting three broad linguistic groupings: (1) Iberian, along the coastal zones of southern and eastern Spain and extending into coastal Roussillon and Western Languedoc in France; (2) Celtic, in the lower Rhône basin of France and the interior regions of France, Spain, and Portugal; and (3) Ligurian, along the Provençal and north Italian coast east of Marseille (fig. 1.2).3 Celtic is an Indo-European language family with modern versions still spoken today in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and Brittany. However, it disappeared from the Western Mediterranean and continental Europe, with the exception of Brittany, as a result of Roman colonization and colonialism. Iberian was a non-Indo-European language family that became completely extinct as a result of the same process of Roman expansion. It is known only from untranslatable texts written in several scripts adapted from the Phoenician and, in one area, Greek alphabets.4 Ligurian is another extinct language group known essentially from only a few toponyms and ethnonyms. Hence it is even less well understood, and its broader linguistic affiliation is uncertain, although most scholars seem to agree on a tentative placement within the Indo-European family.5 Finally, a language known as Tartessian, with a much smaller distribution in the Guadalquivir Valley of southwestern Spain, should also be mentioned. This was a non-Indo-European language and was apparently not related to Iberian or any other known language. It was the earliest of all these languages to be written, with a script derived from the Phoenician alphabet.6 Three different major categories of alien traders and colonists interacted with these native peoples prior to the Roman conquest of the region in the

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Figure 1.2 Map showing major colonial sites (numbers) and indigenous language groups (in italics) of the Western Mediterranean mentioned in text, as well as the homelands of colonists. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Santa Olaia Abul Huelva Gades/Cádiz Málaga Toscanos Carthago Nova / Cartagena La Rábita/Fonteta La Picola Ibiza

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Emporion/Ampurias Rhode/Rosas Agde Lattes Massalia/Marseille Carthage Tharros Motya Phocaea Tyre

late third and second centuries BC: Phoenicians, Etruscans, and Greeks. The earliest of these were the Phoenicians. Phoenician is actually an ancient Greek term applied collectively to Semitic-speaking peoples originally from a number of independent city-states (e.g. Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos) along the Syro-Palestinian coast whose identities were more locally focused and who most likely had no collective ethnonym.7 This is an important feature to bear in mind in the discussion of colonial encounters: Phoenician is an artificial category that should not be taken to indicate a coherent, uniform, or stable culture or identity— or even a precise place of origin. It is a vague, pragmatic collective term that indexes a complex set of identities and cultural practices that evolved constantly throughout a long, interlinked process of colonial expansion in different parts of the Mediterranean. “Phoenician” traders and settlers, understood in this sense, began to spread

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 7

along the southern shores of the Mediterranean in North Africa perhaps as early as the late second millennium BC, although the precise dates of these ventures are uncertain.8 Archaeological excavations confirm that the famous city of Carthage (qart khadasht, or “new city”) was founded in Tunisia at the end of the ninth century BC, supplanting an even earlier nearby colony called Utica, and several smaller colonies were established farther west in Algeria and Morocco at roughly the same time. As early as the beginning of the eighth century BC Phoenicians had also established several trading settlements on both the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts of southern Spain and on the island of Ibiza.9 As Ana Arruda documents in chapter 4, recent archaeological evidence clearly demonstrates a contemporary Phoenician presence at multiple sites on the western coast of Portugal as well. But Phoenician colonies were predominantly restricted to the south and west coasts of Iberia. There is no textual or archaeological evidence for Phoenician colonial settlements along the eastern coast of Spain north of a line running roughly from Alicante to Ibiza,10 although it is certainly possible that a few small communities of Phoenician traders resided in indigenous Iberian settlements farther north.11 The Phoenician colonial settlements in Iberia were usually located at the mouths of rivers. Prominent examples include Cádiz/Gades (or Gadir) and Huelva in southwestern Spain, Abul and Santa Olaia in Portugal, a dense concentration along the Andalusian coast (Morro de Mezquitilla, Toscanos, Cerro del Villar, Almuñécar, etc.), and a few on the southeastern coast (e.g., Fonteta at Guardamar). In some cases, especially in the Guadalquivir, Río Tinto, Tagus, and Mondego regions, these were rivers leading to rich metal resources of the interior (especially silver but also gold, copper, tin, lead, and iron). In fact, it has been suggested frequently that before the conquest of the Phoenician city of Tyre (the mother-city of Carthage and Cádiz) by the Assyrians in 573 BC, these Spanish settlements were an important component of a trans-Mediterranean Phoenician metal trade.12 However, as various chapters in this book show, metals were by no means the only resources of interest to Phoenician traders, nor can the location of metal sources explain the origin of all, or even most, Phoenician colonies in Iberia.13 Timber, salt, slaves, agricultural products, murex for purple dye production, access to good farmland, and a variety of other things have all been invoked to explain the location and livelihood of particular Phoenician colonies. It appears that these colonies were simultaneously importing material from the Eastern and Central Mediterranean, producing their own products for export (e.g., wine, salt, purple dye, ships), and engaging in trade with surrounding native societies and each other. Ship-based Greek traders were sporadically active in Spain as well (e.g., at Huelva), although there is little evidence for this before the

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sixth century BC and, unlike the Phoenicians, Greeks did not establish any colonies in the Western Mediterranean until the sixth century BC.14 The late seventh century BC appears to have marked the apex of Phoenician trade expansion in the Western Mediterranean, after which there was a period of decline or transformation. By the early sixth century BC, many of the early establishments had either disappeared or become “indigenized” (that is, the material culture elements that made them distinctively recognizable as Phoenician had been transformed to such an extent that they resemble other native sites of the region). The well-preserved and recently excavated port site at La Rábita / Fonteta (Guardamar del Segura), buried under modern dunes near the mouth of the Segura in Alicante, is a case in point that also demonstrates some of the difficulties in understanding the nature of Phoenician colonies. Based upon some distinctive architectural features and ceramics, one can determine that it was founded by Phoenicians near the end of the eighth century BC. But the town appears to have attracted a growing native population as well, and this native presence became increasingly discernible after the mid-seventh century and dominant during the sixth century BC.15 From the sixth century BC on, the power of the former Phoenician colony of Carthage began to eclipse that of other Phoenician cities, and it gradually began to incorporate the former autonomous Phoenician establishments in Iberia, Sicily, and Sardinia within the expanding “Punic” commercial and political sphere. Punic is actually the Latin rendition of the Greek term Phoenician, but the former label is now generally used by scholars to distinguish things associated specifically with Carthage and its domain of influence. Carthage also began to found new colonies of its own in Iberia and elsewhere (among the most important of which was Carthago Nova / Cartagena, founded in 229 BC on the southeastern coast of Spain). Moreover, the rapidly expanding urban centers of Cádiz, Malaka/Málaga, and Ebusus/Ibiza eclipsed older Phoenician trading ports such as Toscanos in size and importance. During the third century BC, a large swath of interior southern Iberia was also brought within the evolving Carthaginian maritime empire, which became the major rival in the Western and Central Mediterranean of the rapidly expanding Roman Republic. Carthage and Rome fought a series of major wars beginning in the mid-third century BC, and Punic Iberia eventually passed under Roman dominion following the defeat of Hannibal and the Barcid Carthaginian armies in the Second Punic War at the end of that century. Consolidation of Roman control over the whole of indigenous Iberia required nearly two centuries of warfare and experimentation with administrative and cultural techniques of domination, but it eventually resulted in

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 9

the establishment of the imperial provinces of Hispania Tarraconensis, Baetica, and Lusitania. Meanwhile, along the nearby arc of coastline sweeping from southern France through Catalonia, the history of colonial encounters was rather different. In Provence and Languedoc, Etruscan merchants were the first alien agents from the east to initiate contacts with indigenous Celtic- and Ligurianspeaking peoples of the area. These traders began to frequent the French coast during the late seventh century BC.16 Etruscan is, again, not an endogenous ethnonym; it is an alien Roman term used to designate collectively the inhabitants of a number of independent city-states in the Tuscan region of central Italy who referred to themselves as “Rasenna” and were called “Tyrrhenoi” by Greeks. As with Iberian, Etruscan was a non-Indo-European language that gradually disappeared in favor of Latin after Tuscany was subsumed within the expanding Roman sphere of control. Unfortunately, although the Etruscans had developed a script based on the alphabet of Greek colonists in Italy, we do not have access to textual descriptions of their encounters in the west, as we do to a certain extent for Greek colonists.17 But archaeological evidence indicates that the Etruscan presence in France was different from that of the Phoenicians in Spain: it consisted largely of a shipbased “floater” trade without the founding of colonial settlements, although Etruscan trader enclaves at indigenous settlements have been suggested for a couple of sites, most notably Saint-Blaise in the Provence and Lattes (ancient Lattara) in Eastern Languedoc.18 Recent excavations at Lattes offer the only strong material evidence supporting such a proposition, but the data are still ambiguous in terms of the precise scale of an Etruscan presence there.19 Etruscan products consumed in southern France consisted overwhelmingly of wine transported in distinctive amphorae that originated most probably in southern Etruria,20 along with smaller quantities of Etruscan bucchero nero drinking ceramics and a few bronze basins. The small quantities of early East-Greek wine-drinking cups found in France were probably imported by the same merchants who brought the Etruscan goods.21 Not only were Etruscans the first colonial agents in this region, but the inhabitants of southern France were by far the biggest consumers of Etruscan exports.22 However, the consumption of Etruscan goods was largely a coastal phenomenon: there are no indigenous sites with significant quantities of this material more than about thirty kilometers inland. To be sure, very small numbers of bucchero nero drinking cups and bronze basins circulated a bit more widely, and a handful of amphorae shards have been found as far north as Lyon, but these do not alter the overall pattern. There is a particularly high

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concentration of Etruscan imports in the lower Rhône basin, and Etruscan amphorae also constitute a significant proportion of imported materials as far west as Roussillon.23 However, with the exception of the Greek colony of Emporion, Etruscan imports are conspicuously absent from (or very poorly represented at) sites farther south in Spain, and it does not appear that Etruscan traders were active to any significant extent in Iberia.24 These Etruscan merchants were quickly followed, at the beginning of the sixth century BC, by the first colonial settlement of Greeks in the Western Mediterranean, at Massalia (modern Marseille). Once again, the collective term Greek needs some qualification in this context, because it does not denote a coherent or stable identity or culture, at least not in the period of colonial expansion in the Western Mediterranean.25 It is used here purely for reasons of convenience to denote speakers of a closely related set of language dialects that originated in the Greek peninsula and were spread elsewhere as a result of colonial expansion. In any case, the “Greek” colonists who settled at Massalia were from the Ionian-Greek city of Phocaea on the coast of Turkey, and, in contrast to the heterogeneous pattern of Greek colonization in southern Italy and the Black Sea, it was almost exclusively Phocaean Greeks who settled in the Western Mediterranean.26 Massalia grew quickly to become, at an eventual size of about fifty hectares, by far the largest city in the entire Western Mediterranean, colonial or indigenous, until after the Roman conquest.27 Moving west from Massalia, Greek colonists soon established a few, much smaller, settlements in Spain as well: in Catalonia at Emporion (modern Ampurias) by the mid-sixth century BC,28 at nearby Rhode (modern Rosas) near the end of the fifth century BC, at Mainake (perhaps near Málaga?) in the sixth century BC,29 and perhaps at Huelva, at the mouth of the Río Tinto in southwestern Spain.30 None of these colonial establishments was large enough to be considered more than a very small port town or simply a trading post; in other words, they were emporia rather than apoikias in the common Greek classification.31 The pre-Roman settlement of Emporion, for example, never exceeded about five hectares in size, with a population of perhaps fifteen hundred.32 Several other later Greek colonial outposts in Spain are known mostly from rather vague textual references, and these may have been little more than diasporic communities of Greek traders residing temporarily or permanently at indigenous Iberian settlements.33 The recently excavated site of La Picola (Santa Pola), in Alicante, appears to be a good example of just such a situation—a small coastal trading center under the control of native Iberians from the nearby settlement of Illici, with just enough Greek architectural elements to indicate a probable Greek presence at the site. This may

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 11

well have been a space where various itinerant traders, of indigenous and Greek origin, met to conduct exchanges in a context where ethnic distinctions were often blurred.34 In general, Greek objects in Spain are very rare on sites predating the sixth century BC, and aside from the zone of Catalonia around Emporion, they remain relatively scarce on indigenous sites until the late fifth century BC. These imports consisted predominantly of tableware ceramics (especially Attic). Unlike the situation in southern France, there is little evidence for the consumption of Massaliote or other Greek wine, as most of the amphorae found are Phoenician or Iberian.35 The precise relationship between Etruscans and Massaliotes in the Western Mediterranean has recently been the subject of debate. A few scholars have challenged the significance of Etruscan traders, claiming that from the beginning it was actually Massalia that was responsible for importing and redistributing the bulk of Etruscan goods consumed in southern France.36 However, most others have continued to support the idea that Etruscan traders operated in southern France prior to and after the foundation of Massalia, and some have even suggested that Etruscan merchants may have founded trading enclaves in the region that subsequently attracted Massaliote attention westward.37 There is little dispute about the gradual dominance of Massaliote trade throughout the eastern part of Mediterranean France from the late sixth century until the dramatic expansion of the Roman wine trade in the late second century BC. It is also clear that Etruscan goods are only weakly represented farther west than Languedoc. As in the Etruscan case, the bulk of Massaliote goods consumed in the region consisted of wine produced at Marseille (from about 525 BC on), along with several series of imported and locally produced tablewares (primarily Attic and Massaliote céramique claire and gray-monochrome wares).38 Massalia also gradually established a series of very small subcolonies at Agde, Antibes, Hyères, Nice, and a few other coastal sites in France from the fifth century until the Roman military annexation of the region in the late second century BC.39 These were tiny settlements of a largely defensive character: Agde, the largest, was only about 4.25 hectares in extent, and, with the exception of Agde, all lacked a hinterland territory. None produced its own wine, and only Agde manufactured ceramics for trade. The possibility of a few diasporic communities of Greek traders resident at indigenous settlements has also been suggested, especially in the cases of Arles, Espeyran, Lattes, La Monedière, and Pech Maho.40 To date, although this is plausible, the archaeological demonstration of such a presence is less than clear, and it remains a subject of active research.

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As noted earlier, Roman military expansion had extended into Spain by the late third century BC, when it took over the Carthaginian imperial domain following the Second Punic War. Rome intervened forcefully in southern France as well around 125 BC, when military aid was requested by Massalia during a dispute with its indigenous neighbors. Temporary interventions of this kind had also occurred earlier in the second century, but this time Rome expanded its campaign and seized permanently all of the French Mediterranean littoral and lower Rhône basin, an area that would eventually be named the province of Gallia Narbonensis. This military incursion enabled the Romans to establish a bridge of subject territory between their recently conquered provinces in Spain and their even more recently conquered territory in northern Italy. In 118 BC, the consul Domitian founded the colony of Narbo Martius (Narbonne) on the coast of Western Languedoc. Then began the gradual process of pacification of native resistance and construction of an administrative infrastructure necessary to establish a hegemonic imperial order. This province was used as a base for an additional war of conquest against the rest of Gaul to the north by Julius Caesar from 58 to 51 BC. Hence, by the late first century BC nearly all the territory of the Western Mediterranean (Iberia and Gaul) had become conquered Roman provinces, albeit with local pockets of resistance. To briefly summarize and resituate the subject of this book within this broader colonial history: Phoenicians began to settle in a number of coastal locations in southern Spain and Portugal during the eighth century BC, and they arrived from the south after spreading along the coast of North Africa. Greeks did not constitute a significant presence in Iberia for another two hundred years, and they arrived from the north, establishing a few tiny colonies on the eastern coast of the Peninsula after moving westward toward Catalonia from Massalia. Hence, during a period of nearly six hundred years prior to the radically different colonial processes represented by the violent incorporation of the entire Western Mediterranean into the Roman Empire, Iberia was a space of encounters of varied kinds between Phoenician and Carthaginian traders and colonial settlers, Phocaean Greek merchants and colonists, and indigenous peoples. Until the third century BC, this was largely a phenomenon of the coasts and the littoral zone, but with repercussions extending into the deeper interior in some areas, especially along river valleys leading to metal resources. This long, complex history of colonial expansion, encounter, and entanglement involved diverse forms of interaction, trade, cross-cultural consumption, mutual cultural appropriations, practices of attempted control, and unintended consequences. The chapters in this volume focus on the early centuries of this colonial

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 13

history, and they furnish a more detailed exploration of various aspects of the processes noted above. Research has centered particularly on defining the changing nature of the Phoenician and Greek presence in the different regions of the Iberian Peninsula, the forms and logic of interaction between natives and newcomers, and the cultural, economic, and political consequences for all parties engaged in the encounters. More will be said about this later. For the moment, with this short historical outline in mind, let me return again briefly to the theme with which I began—why should this Iberian case be of more than local historical interest?

Why Iberia Matters: Entangled Ancient and Modern Colonialisms The most obvious answer to this question is that, as suggested earlier, these ancient encounters in the Western Mediterranean constitute the pivotal episode in a colonial process through which the indigenous peoples of the territories that would eventually spawn the dominant colonial powers of the modern world—Spain, Portugal, France, England, and Germany—first became entangled with the Greco-Roman world that would later come to play such an obsessive role in the collective ancestral imagination of these imperial nations.41 These encounters came to embody a moment of dramatic significance for the discursive constitution of modern European identity and imperial ambition—but not until nearly a millennium after the fall of the Roman Empire, in what was perhaps the most intriguing and consequential case of “invented traditions” in European history. This involved a metaphorical “colonization” of modern consciousness by the ancient Greco-Roman world. The process of the construction of a pervasive referential and reverential engagement with the ancient “classical” world was launched several centuries ago, and its evolving manifestations have been a persistent feature of European and American culture ever since.42 The modern infatuation with ancient Greece and Rome stems from the so-called Renaissance of the fifteenth century, the historical moment when a new myth of European cultural ancestry was constructed. The development and embellishment of this ancestral myth was linked to the production of both a field of “cultural capital” 43 marshaled in processes of class differentiation within European societies and an imperialist discourse providing an ideological engine (or rationalization) for European colonialism abroad. The Renaissance was less a “rebirth” than an invention, a self-conscious attempt to connect the present directly to a long dead and poorly understood period

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of the past by forgetting a millennium of intervening history and ignoring a wide variety of other cultural influences. The movement began in Italy, with ancient Rome providing the initial ancestral “golden age.” Roman culture, often anachronistically fused with Christianity in the form of the contemporary Roman Catholic Church, was the first focus of adulation and emulation. The imperial legacy of Rome was certainly a significant aspect of the appeal that stimulated imitation, and this movement rapidly spread to other parts of Europe as well, including especially Spain, Portugal, France, and eventually England.44 Visions of Roman culture inspired liberally reinterpreted simulacra and established the standards of taste in everything from architecture to literature, to art, to political philosophy, to furniture and clothing styles, to gardens.45 Latin was transformed from its role as the language of the church and expanded to attain an even more elevated status as the universal language of secular rational intellectual discourse, and the works of Roman poets, orators, and historians were studied as stylistic models and sources of moral and philosophical inspiration. The ancient Greeks were latecomers to this process. They emerged as a subject of widespread infatuation only several centuries after the debut of the Renaissance. This movement, in which the Greeks were rehabilitated from the obscure and marginal realm of oriental decadence to the elevated level of a pan-European obsession and were grafted into a new foundational position on the ancestral tree of European culture, stemmed largely from a romantic humanist vision developed in Germany during the eighteenth century and especially popularized by a scholar named Johann Joachim Winckelmann.46 The romantic aesthetic fixation on the Greeks originated partly as a reaction against the rationalist Enlightenment tradition of “Augustan” neoclassicism, which had become particularly associated with France. For the romantic Hellenists, ancient Greek culture represented the apex of human development in the quest for universal standards of absolute beauty and truth, and emulation of Greek culture, or what it was rather imperfectly understood to be, became a moral obligation. Goethe, Schiller, and other influential German writers and intellectuals avidly developed this passionate philhellenism, which Wohlleben has aptly labeled “Graecomania,” 47 as they came to believe that becoming Hellenized was the only possible path for someone seeking personal development (Bildung). This romantic strain of Graecomania soon spread to France, England, Spain, and other countries as well.48 By the nineteenth century, the Greek colonization of modern European and Euro-American culture was at its apogee. Political philosophy, art, architecture, and education were saturated with appeals to the ancient Greeks.49 This is most obviously seen in the proliferation of simulacra Greek temples,

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 15

such as La Madeleine in Paris, the Altes Museum in Berlin, the British Museum in London, the Parthenon in Nashville, and the Field Museum in Chicago, that are architectural expressions of the pervasive ideal of “high culture” on both sides of the Atlantic during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. However, Hellenism after the early nineteenth century was quite different from the earlier romantic Hellenism of Winckelmann and Shelley. As Susanne Marchand has noted for Germany, the earlier Graecophiles borrowed their ideals—self-cultivation, disinterested contemplation of the beautiful, good and true, admiration of the ancients—from aristocratic models; but the incorporation of nineteenth-century philhellenism into the founding of Prussia’s new research universities, secondary schools, museums, and art academies after 1810 universalized these values and in effect imposed them on generations of middle-class Germans. . . . As the century progressed, philhellenism became more and more the conventionalized predilection of the educated middle class, inextricably linked to the academy and state bureaucracy.50

Rome certainly did not disappear as a cultural ancestor in the face of this rampant Graecomania. It continued to stand as a powerful source of inspiration in terms of legal, institutional, and architectural models, and the legacy of its imperial conquests continued to provide a standard of reference and ambition for modern European nations.51 The fact that Rome (or at least its ruling elite) had been heavily influenced by Greek art, architecture, philosophy, and science led to the interpretation that it had actually been fulfilling a historic mission as a middleman, bringing the superior moral and intellectual enlightenment of Greek civilization to the “barbarians” it incorporated into its empire. Hence the European myth of cultural ancestry that developed in the nineteenth century enshrined both Greece and Rome as revered progenitors with complementary characteristics and roles. England and France experienced the same processes of institutional embedding that Marchand noted for nineteenth-century Germany. In all three cases, a knowledge of and a cultivated appreciation for the “classics” became a powerful form of cultural capital by which members of the ruling class (now essentially the wealthy bourgeoisie) were able to symbolically embody and assert their cultural and moral superiority. Access to this specialized cultural competence was acquired in the universities and the institutions of secondary education that were available only to the privileged and that formed the elite class of each country: the English “public school” and the tellingly named German “Gymnasium” and French “lycée.” 52 The barriers to social mobility were more than simply social conventions

16 • michael dietler

for those who were not in a position to acquire this cultural competence: they also became increasingly institutional. In France, Germany, and England during the nineteenth century, not only entry to university but even access to civil service jobs began to require passage of an examination demonstrating competence in Greek and Latin.53 This requirement assured that politicians and upper-level administrators of the empires controlled by these countries all had in common a set of implicit cultural references derived from having been steeped in the classics. From Bismarck to Gladstone, to Napoleon III, to the graduates of the École Coloniale, they shared an exclusive common bond of tastes and values grounded in esoteric access to an idolized and idealized ancient culture. To be sure, many elite schoolboys managed to acquire only a veneer of classical learning. But their education nevertheless provided them with (1) a conviction that the cultural ancestry of their own country lay in ancient Greece and Rome, (2) a belief in the inherent attractiveness and superiority of Greek and Roman “civilization” within an absolute, universal hierarchy of cultures, and (3) an assurance that the personal cultivation of Romanized and, especially, Hellenized tastes that their schooling imparted was a sign of their own superiority and an appropriate diacritical mark of their class and its destiny to lead others. Clearly, this legacy of the classics was not simply a matter of Bildung, personal cultivation and the pursuit of beauty. From Athens to Alexander, Julius Caesar, and Augustus, it was also a legacy of colonization and colonialism. This legacy was interpreted by each of the modern European states that saw itself as the legitimate heir to Greco-Roman civilization as a mandate to continue an inherited mission to “civilize” the “barbarian” world and as an ideological model for its ownimperial practices. Initially, from the fifteenth through the seventeenth centuries, Rome was the nearly exclusive source of imperial language and political models. This was the case especially in Spain and Portugal with their early imperial ventures, which had largely faded in importance by the time the infatuation with ancient Greece began to emerge. But in fact all the European empires made continual symbolic and discursive reference to the Roman Empire.54 This Roman legacy, known mostly through ancient texts and the remnants of monuments, was interpreted in an astonishing variety of ways. For example, Patricia Seed has shown how, from the fifteenth through the seventeenth centuries, the major European colonial powers all based their “ceremonies of possession” in the New World, by which they claimed sovereignty over land and peoples, explicitly upon their understandings of ancient Roman practices, although these understandings were radically different in character.55 Greek colonization and imperial politics were also gradually incorpo-

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 17

rated into imperialist discourse, becoming particularly influential in Victorian England and Prussia.56 But the Romans retained a very powerful role in imperialist discourse.57 Rome also provided a practical source of models for the practices and vocabulary of colonialism. Such “investigative modalities” 58 and technologies of control as the Roman colonial census, taxation, and cadastral land restructuration practices, ethnographic surveys, and latifundia plantations all had their derivatives in places like British India. Whatever the relative Greek /Roman emphasis, what is strikingly clear is that ancient Greek and Roman versions of colonialism were seen as axiomatic points of reference for modern situations. As R. W. Livingstone noted in 1935, “These ages, with which we have spiritual affinities and which have anticipated our problems, have a special interest and instructiveness for us. They are our Doppelgänger. We recognize our faces in theirs.” 59 A major aspect of this invocation of ancient empires was the representation of modern colonialism as the continuation of a civilizing mission that had been inherited from one’s cultural ancestors. Colonization could thus be portrayed almost as an unavoidable altruistic duty imposed by history. This idea was often quite explicitly articulated, as in the French colonial doctrine of the mission civilisatrice or the English “white man’s burden” voiced by Kipling. Of course the invocation of the classical past was not a homogeneous phenomenon.60 On the contrary, it was richly riddled with complexities, contradictions, and controversies, and the character of the Greek and Roman legacy evolved considerably from its early manifestations in the Renaissance to its bourgeois bureaucratic incarnation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Moreover, within each period Greek and Roman precedents were selectively marshaled to argue all sides of a given philosophical or political issue. But what was common to all sides of these debates was a fundamental implicit acceptance of the direct relevance of ancient Greco-Roman colonialism to modern cases and the assumption of a common “Western” cultural heritage in the civilizations of ancient Greece and Rome. There was, in other words, a shared discourse that implicitly defined the terms of discussion by shaping the boundary between the taken-for-granted and the unthinkable. The overtly hegemonic grip of the classics on European culture has gradually diminished since the catastrophic trauma of World War I and the blow this delivered to the ideological foundations of European class structures and cultural hubris. However, although cultural capital within the academy and in society at large no longer is linked to an ability to read Greek or Latin, the myth of cultural ancestry created in the Renaissance and the hierarchies of cultural superiority engendered by this tradition have persisted as a pro-

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foundly embedded part of popular consciousness. For example, while “classics” departments have been displaced from the intellectual center to the peripheries of European and American universities, they still vastly outnumber those dedicated to the study of any other ancient culture. In fact, no university feels complete without one (contrast this situation with, for example, departments dedicated to the study of ancient Celtic or Iberian culture). Moreover, although an overt concern with the classics is now the preoccupation of only a relatively small body of academic specialists, many of the tenets of earlier engagements with the Greeks and Romans have been absorbed subtly, as implicit unarticulated attitudes, into the consciousness of people who know and care little about ancient history. They have become a taken-for-granted part of a popular habitus that operates at the level of unquestioned assumptions about the “natural” order of things, a kind of landscape of the axiomatic in which we live. In the context of the themes examined in this volume, it should be clear why a critical reanalysis of these ancient colonial encounters should be such an important task, given the weight that has been placed upon them in the construction of “Western” origin myths and images of self and other. But this analysis also suggests that the intimate entanglement of ancient and modern colonial situations presents some severe challenges to scholars who are attempting the crucial work of reexamining and understanding these ancient cases that have had such profound symbolic resonance for us.61 We and our academic disciplines are, after all, products of that cultural legacy, and this has repercussions. For example, fusions of vocabulary have sometimes led to the unconscious imposition of anachronistic motivations and structures stemming from modern colonialism onto the past, as in the treatment of trade in the ancient Mediterranean in terms that derive from the competitive nationalist colonial projects of the nineteenth century.62 What is crucial is the constant questioning of our implicit assumptions and their discursive bases, because these have a great influence in conditioning research goals, interpretation, and evaluation of knowledge claims. Such assumptions may preclude the asking of certain questions, and they may create uneven standards of plausibility for interpretations. The palimpsest of colonialisms discussed above poses certain dangers that impel us to a particularly high degree of vigilance in the present case. But this issue should be of concern not only to scholars working on the ancient Mediterranean. An understanding of this ancient landscape of colonial encounters is important for studies of modern colonialism, and archaeologists and ancient historians have a good deal to contribute to the broader project of a comparative analysis of colonialism. For example, there is the

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 19

fairly obvious fact that archaeology offers access to the material dimension of colonial encounters—a link to the everyday lived experience and working out of colonial situations by a broad range of common people. This is a domain of evidence that is different from and independent of the texts of the colonizers that constitute the bulk of the evidentiary base for most analyses of colonial situations, and it has the potential to redress some of the troubling silences and silencing of the past.63 What is more, there is sometimes an unfortunate tendency toward temporal myopia among many cultural anthropologists, historians, and postcolonial scholars, for whom modern Euro-American colonialism often seems the unique focus of attention and is treated as a completely original phenomenon. It is important to recall that although the huge geographical extent of capitalist expansion is undeniable, the Roman Empire, for example, lasted far longer than any modern empire. Moreover, in many ways its colonial practices had even more profound cultural and social consequences than more recent examples (e.g., in terms of linguistic replacement).64 Furthermore, it is disturbing to hear certain aspects of colonial practice (such as the imposition of abstract space onto native place) frequently attributed to a unique origin in the logic of capitalism though they were actually features of much earlier colonial systems. In fact, most of the nineteenth-century European colonial administrators who were responsible for devising and implementing these practices were far more intimately familiar with the history of Greek and Roman colonialism (or what they imperfectly imagined it to be) than are many current scholars of colonialism and postcoloniality. As indicated earlier, the earlier European colonial officials, whatever their national origins, were in some ways “citizens of the ancient classical world,” steeped in Greek and Roman language, literature, and history. They were acutely aware of the prior origin of the practices they were trying to replicate, adapt, or justify. Among innumerable possible examples, one can cite the colonial governor of Kenya, Sir Philip Mitchell, who began an influential document, The Agrarian Problem in Kenya, by comparing the “primitive condition” of Africans to the inhabitants of pre-Roman Britain and arguing for the comparable civilizing influence of English colonial practices.65 My point here is that scholars of modern colonialism need to contextualize their studies of colonial practice and ideology within a much longer and broader historical framework. This is necessary both in order to be able to recognize those aspects of modern colonialism that are genuinely unique and because, for the colonial agents they are studying, past forms of colonialism (or imagined versions of them), were often very much an integral part of their present consciousness. Colonial practices and strategies were not invented

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from whole cloth: they were part of a complex dialectical relationship between past and present. Archaeology, and not least the archaeology of ancient Iberia, has an important role to play in furnishing that deeper context for a larger comparative understanding of colonialism and for “provincializing” 66 modern European colonialism and complicating the hegemonic place it has occupied in the construction of theories of colonialism. But the success of that role depends crucially upon the ability of archaeologists, ancient historians, and philologists to overcome the constraints imposed by their own formation within the Euro-American academic tradition described above. This in turn depends on a self-conscious critical awareness of the recursive relationship between ancient and modern colonialisms and its subtle effects upon our own practice. Hence this volume represents a plea not only for scholars working on modern colonialism to engage with emerging explorations of these culturally foundational ancient encounters but also for scholars who are examining these ancient cases to engage with comparative theoretical and empirical work on modern colonialism emerging from anthropology, history, and postcolonial studies. The chapters exhibit various forms and degrees of such an engagement, and the rest of this chapter outlines some of the paths that can be and have been taken.

Defining the Terms of Analysis: Colonialism, Colonization, Imperialism Before we proceed to that discussion, it is necessary to open a brief parenthetical discussion of terminology. Specifically, I want to make clear the senses in which I employ the intersecting terms colonization, colonialism, and imperialism. I do not harbor a futile pedantic desire to establish a semantic orthodoxy or to impose my definitions on the other authors in this book (in any case, rapid perusal of even a few chapters will make it abundantly clear that this has not happened 67). Rather, definitions are of concern for two reasons. First, these are all terms about which there is general consensus regarding their importance yet little agreement about their precise definition. There is, in fact, a bewildering variety of contradictory ways in which the terms are used (often without explicit definition) and in the ways their meanings are seen to intersect or overlap.68 The contributors to this volume obviously share in this terminological heterodoxy. Hence, one of my goals is to force some explicit critical reflection on the analytical categories and tools that we deploy.69

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 21

Which leads directly to the second goal: this issue of vocabulary serves as a striking initial example of the subtle complexities of the problematic relationship between ancient and modern colonial situations noted above. Most of our modern analytical terms for treating such phenomena actually derive precisely from this ancient Mediterranean colonial encounter (as did a good part of the operational vocabulary of modern colonialism). However, the meanings of these words have been significantly transformed as they have been applied over the centuries to a variety of modern contexts and processes. Reapplying them uncritically to the seminal ancient context poses the danger of importing modern meanings into the past and implicitly rendering the ancient cases simply as variants, or prototypes, of the modern. As should be clear from the earlier discussion, this was precisely the ideology responsible for the original application of these words to modern situations. However, Roman “colonies” were not the same thing as nineteenth-century French or British colonies, and it is analytically crucial to recognize and make explicit that what has been terminologically constructed as metonymy is actually metaphor. Overcoming the problems posed by this terminological palimpsest is not easy, but it is important. The idea of linguistic reform— of inventing and imposing upon scholars a new analytic vocabulary to deal with ancient cases that avoids all Greco-Roman terms that have been incorporated into modern discourse—seems a cumbersome and quixotic endeavor at best: the intellectual equivalent of spitting into the wind. Rather, one is constrained to pragmatically continue employing the terms current in the discourse of colonial analysis, but this is permissible only so long as we maintain a self-conscious wariness of the traps of implicit fusion and the dangers of anachronism. Whatever imperfect vocabulary one ultimately decides to employ, vigilant attention must be paid to differences as well as similarities in the colonial contexts and processes that are clustered semantically. And we must be explicit about what we mean in using these terms. My own pragmatic preference is to reserve the word imperialism to indicate an ideology or discourse that motivates and legitimizes practices of expansionary domination by one society over another. I use the word colonization to indicate the act of imposing political domination over foreign territory and people, and use founding colonies to denote the act of establishing new settlements of colonists in alien lands, whether or not this is accompanied by colonization. This also implies that I use the word colony in a sense that is both far narrower than its nineteenth- and twentieth-century usage and broader than its original Latin meaning. Colony, as used here, encompasses the Greek term apoikia and the Latin colonia (both originally implied the

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founding of a settlement in foreign territory, but with quite different relations of dependency within different structurations of the political economy).70 I use colonial province to designate a subject territory that is the product of colonization. Finally, by colonialism I mean the projects and practices of control marshaled in interactions between societies linked in asymmetrical relations of power and the processes of social and cultural transformation resulting from those practices. Hence, colonization is ultimately solidified or maintained through colonialism, but colonialism can also operate without the formal political subjugation of foreign territories that colonization implies. Or colonialism may precede an eventual colonization. The nature and effectiveness of such practices defined as colonialism, and their potential permutations, may be extremely variable from one context to another, encompassing such things as trade, missionary activities, warfare and raiding, political administration, and education. Similarly, the processes of transformation are highly variable, and they always entail a host of unintended consequences for both indigenous peoples and alien colonists. Both parties eventually become something other than they were because of these processes of entanglement and their unintended consequences. These definitions of colonization and colonialism are too broad to constitute analytically precise categorical tools used to demarcate a uniform process or a reified transhistorical phenomenon explicable within a single “theory of colonialism.” In fact, I am in agreement with the growing body of scholars who are skeptical that such a project is possible.71 Rather, in the senses used here, these terms are pragmatically general and inherently plural rubrics employed to focus critical attention and facilitate the comparative discussion and analysis of a range of practices and strategies by which peoples try to make subjects of other peoples in a variety of disparate historical situations, and the complex transformations occasioned by those practices, in the effort to better understand both the similarities and the differences among these processes through history. Other scholars will undoubtedly prefer other definitions, and that is quite appropriate as long as those definitions are clearly specified and explained. I offer these merely to provoke some awareness of the problems that inhere in our analytical vocabulary and to stimulate reflection on the goals and methods of a comparative analysis of colonialism. The various chapters in this volume make clear that, under these terms, most of the interactions that took place between Phoenicians, Greeks, and indigenous peoples in Iberia did not involve colonization, at least not beyond a very small territory surrounding a few settlements. What we do see is the founding of some colonies and trading outposts and the frequent operation,

Colonial Encounters in Iberia and the Western Mediterranean • 23

or attempted operation, of colonialism. Whether all these interactions involved, or resulted in, the asymmetrical relations of power that would constitute colonialism is a matter of empirical investigation. But colonization on a significant scale was not a factor in shaping the social and cultural landscape until the Punic expansions of the third century BC and, especially, the Roman conquest that followed them. Hence, the myriad strategies, practices, and consequences grouped under the rubric of colonialism lie at the heart of this volume and form the target of analysis.

Theoretical Approaches to Colonialism and Ancient Iberia: Challenges and Potential Let me turn now to a brief discussion of major theoretical approaches to colonial encounters that have informed work in the Mediterranean and beyond. Not surprisingly, given the earlier discussion, research in the ancient Mediterranean has been long dominated by a strongly Hellenocentric and Romanocentric tradition. It is telling, for example, that we continue to refer to Phoenicians, Etruscans, Iberians, and others by their Greco-Roman categorical labels rather than by their own ethnonyms, even when these are known and are more precisely indicative of identity. Moreover, for many decades, the dominant interpretive framework for the Greek colonial situation in the Western Mediterranean was a concept called “Hellenization.” In brief, this was the idea that a desire for Greek objects, and Greek culture in general, was a natural and inevitable result of contact. Phoenicians derived a similar, if secondary, aura of desirability by virtue of being also deemed “civilized,” and Orientalizing was the term used to denote their effect upon other cultures. It was assumed that these “civilizations” from the east were so inherently superior and attractive that so-called barbarians (Iberians, for example) would automatically wish to emulate them, however imperfectly, whenever they had the privilege of being exposed to these “more advanced” societies, or even simply their objects. The focus of research, therefore, was more to chart the clumsy progress of a presumably “natural” and ineluctable phenomenon of imitation (and resulting evolutionary advancement) than to ask why a desire for alien goods might exist at all and what the meaning and consequences of such consumption might be in terms of indigenous identity— or what reciprocal effect colonial encounters might have had in transforming Greek and Phoenician culture. I need not dwell at length on the severe limitations and problems of these perspectives, as they have been progressively abandoned over the past couple

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of decades, at least in overt form, by many (though certainly not all) scholars. They are clearly a manifestation of the colonization of modern European consciousness by the Greco-Roman past that I described earlier. It has been difficult for scholars steeped in this tradition to recognize that the modern admiration for ancient Greek culture was not necessarily shared by ancient peoples of the Western Mediterranean. Yet not only are such interpretations theoretically naive but the empirical evidence of archaeology has increasingly demonstrated that neither Greek nor Phoenician cultures were passively emulated in a blanket fashion. Rather, particular objects and practices were appropriated and consumed in a highly selective and creative manner—and, it should be emphasized, they were ignored or rejected with equal selectivity. Clearly, explaining cross-cultural consumption requires a more complex and subtle consideration of the social forces and cultural structures that govern tastes and desires. More recently, many scholars dissatisfied with these older approaches have turned for new theoretical inspiration to anthropology, the discipline most concerned with the effects of colonialism on the daily lives of colonized peoples in the modern world. But within anthropology itself there has been an evolution in approaches to the problem of colonial contact and cultural transformation that is important for those engaging in cross-disciplinary consumption of interpretive models to understand.72 Moreover, as I have argued in detail elsewhere,73 the acculturation and world-systems approaches that developed during the 1940s and 1970s, respectively, which have recently become popular in archaeology, share many of the underlying premises of Hellenization. Most seriously, they end up denying historical agency to the people who are seen as the passive periphery of “core” societies. World-systems analysis, for example, in employing the analytical concepts of “center” and “periphery” all too easily melds the physical and the metaphysical into a reified landscape of hierarchical binary difference. In other words, it risks reproducing a set of linkages among binary oppositions (centerperiphery, civilization-barbarism, dynamic-static, modern-premodern, etc.) that were fundamental to colonialist ideology and then smuggling them into a stable geography of power that cartographically inscribes and naturalizes these metaphysical constructs. As a number of anthropologists and postcolonial theorists have pointed out, the unintended consequence of the very process of applying a center-periphery model to recent history is that it serves to reproduce and perpetuate a hegemonic project in which Europe was able to defi ne itself as the center, the cultural and economic engine of world history. The subsequent uncritical projection of this concept into the

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distant past serves to further naturalize this image by validating the etiological and teleological mythology of European ancestry.

accu ltur ati o n t h eory Most of the early anthropological work on colonial encounters, up until the 1960s, can be grouped under the heading “acculturation theory.” This was a largely American program of research that attempted on a cross-cultural comparative basis to systematize knowledge about changes in the culture of small-scale societies as they came into contact with politically and economically dominant Euro-American states and to categorize cultural responses to contact.74 This research program was especially concerned to establish uniform definitions of concepts and comprehensive typologies of contact situations and responses. Although research carried out under this program produced many valuable insights that are still useful, the acculturation perspective as a theoretical approach is now considered to be seriously flawed for several reasons. One of the most salient problems is that the models developed tended to use the transfer of “culture traits” (often meaning material culture objects or stylistic elements, or technical or ritual practices) as a measure of cultural change, which implies a highly static and rigid conception of the nature of culture. In fact, this stems from the vision of non-Western societies prevalent during this period, which was rooted in the functionalist paradigm of anthropology. It tended to view what were called “primitive” or “traditional” societies as organically bounded units possessing relatively static, unchanging cultures. Characteristic sets of cultural practices and social structures served to systemically hold these societies together and maintain stability. Change was something introduced by contact with the dynamic Western colonial societies. In the now famous ironic phrase of Eric Wolf, these were “the people without history.” 75 The history they would acquire was simply one of structurally predetermined reactions to Western contact; and the possible outcomes were generally limited to various forms of assimilation or destruction. Moreover, despite occasional programmatic statements to the contrary (and some interest in individual psychology and the process of innovation), contact was usually seen to occur between “autonomous cultural systems,” 76 with little role allotted to individual agency or resistance. Cultural transfers were assumed to be largely a passive phenomenon operating in a unidirectional flow from more to less complex societies, and the crucial power relations involved in contact situations were neglected. Finally, the project as a whole was tainted

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by its frequent association with “development” projects and the demands to produce strategies for “successful acculturation.” With increasing recognition of its problems, acculturation (both the term and the paradigm) had declined in popularity within anthropology by the 1970s. Yet it continued to appear within archaeological circles and found its way into classical archaeology at about this time.77 Especially in the case of classical scholars working on Mediterranean colonial encounters, the term was frequently adopted without a full understanding of its theoretical implications or parentage, and it often stood in as a semantic replacement for the outdated “Hellenization” without requiring a challenge to the fundamental ideology underlying the concept.

wo rld -s ys te m s t heory During the 1960s and 1970s, various versions of what may be called “worldsystems” or “core-periphery” theory were developed by some economists and economic historians as a way of conceptualizing colonial and postcolonial relations of power as a coherent global system. They arose largely out of a conjuncture of Marxist critiques of modernist development economics (a program originally called “dependency theory”)78 and Althusserian structural Marxist analyses of the expansion of capitalism through the “articulation of modes of production.” 79 Despite some important differences, these approaches share the use of macro-scale models of regional structural dependency that emphasize an exploitative global division of labor maintained by counterflows of raw materials and finished goods. They seek to explain, particularly, the development of a system that allows postcolonial maintenance of economic domination in the face of apparent political autonomy between nation-states. One major point of disagreement among the seminal theorists is that Fernand Braudel and Emmanuel Wallerstein view the modern worldsystem as a fundamentally new phenomenon associated with the emergence of European capitalism in the late fifteenth century, whereas Andre Gunder Frank sees it as the result of an ineluctable process of expansion of a system that began over five millennia ago.80 During the 1970s, world-systems analysis had a significant influence among anthropologists, particularly those operating within the American political economy and European structural Marxist paradigms.81 In fact, within anthropology as a whole, the world-systems perspective had the beneficial effect of making scholars explicitly deal with the fact that the “traditional” rural peoples they were studying were not pristine, isolated societies and that many of the practices they observed could be understood only in relation to

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the history of incorporation within larger international relations of power conceptualized as the world-system. This provoked a healthy shift toward a new focus on the economic and political history of the peoples studied by anthropologists. However, by the mid-1980s both internal and external critiques of orthodox world-systems theory had already weakened its appeal and altered its application (see below). On the other hand, since the late 1980s world-systems models have become increasingly popular in the analysis of the ancient world by archaeologists and other scholars. Not surprisingly, such models have also recently become influential in discussions of Greek, Phoenician, and Etruscan colonial encounters in the Western Mediterranean, especially among archaeologists focusing on the Early Iron Age Hallstatt societies of western Europe and their connections to Massalia and Etruria,82 but also on the Phoenician and Greek presence in Spain.83 Despite many differences, these studies are united in explaining the development of indigenous political relations within a broad Mediterraneancentered world-system in which local rulers expanded their power by monopolizing a role as intermediaries in a grand Mediterranean-oriented system geared toward draining raw materials from western Europe. However, a growing number of scholars have also been voicing both serious theoretical critiques of the explanatory power of these models and caveats concerning their applicability to Greek and other Mediterranean colonial situations.84 Space precludes a discussion of the many specific empirical objections raised by these critics, but at least a brief review of basic theoretical objections is required. As noted, the archaeological attraction to world-systems models has arisen at a time when interest in them has declined rapidly in cultural anthropology. It is not that the basic idea of local histories being situated within larger relations of power has been rejected. Far from it. Rather, the objection is to the rather limited ways offered by the models to conceptualize these complex relationships, and to the emphasis on economic determinism. Instead, anthropologists have sought more culturally sensitive, less reductionist and mechanistic ways of understanding local histories within larger global structures and flows, and these new perspectives have taken many forms (see below). Unfortunately, archaeological applications of world-systems models have often suffered from a magnification of problems inherent in the original versions of world-systems theory that inspired them. In particular, these problems include an attempt to construct what Marshall Sahlins has lampooned as “a physics of the world-historical forces” 85 that obscures historical contingency and cultural variation. Such models tend toward schematic, structural overdetermination in which explanation resides solely at the level of eco-

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nomic macrostructures of power and the mechanistic articulation of modes of production. When considerations of agency are allowed to intrude in such models, these are usually confined to the “core” societies, which are seen as a kind of historical juggernaut. History is determined at the core and the peripheries simply react in structurally determined ways. Hence, in addition to a negation of the operation of culture as an historical force, there is an inability to account for local choice and resistance, the astonishing variety of locally grounded experiences of colonial situations for both colonized and colonizers, or the ways in which the larger “system”—and the “center” itself—may in fact be transformed by its interaction with peoples on the “periphery.” 86 In the Western Mediterranean, for example, such models are powerless to explain why, although imported wine was a focus of avid native demand in both Iberia and Gaul from the first stages of the encounter, there were marked regional differences in the ways it was consumed and the social roles it played, and why Iberians began producing and exporting their own wine almost immediately while native production was not seen in Gaul for centuries and export production by natives did not occur until after the Roman conquest. If, on the other hand, the world-systems concept is separated from the original crucial criteria of systemic structural dependency and a regional division of labor in order to make it more broadly applicable, then it loses its analytical specificity and power and risks becoming little more than a new, and misleading, metaphoric label for a generic idea of power or influence, or an ornate way of saying vaguely that the local and the global are connected.

t h e h i s to ri c al an thro po lo gy of colonialism, po s t co lo n i al s tu d i es , an d consump t ion More recent theoretical approaches to these issues with considerable promise for overcoming some of the problems identified above have emerged within the fields of what may be called the historical anthropology of colonialism 87 and the anthropology of consumption,88 as well as within the more humanitiesbased field of “colonial discourse analysis” that eventually developed into what is now called postcolonial studies.89 As noted above, scholars developing these perspectives by no means ignore the global structures of economic and political power in which colonial encounters unfolded or reject wholesale the numerous insights of worldsystems analysis in this domain. Rather, they seek to improve upon previous work, countering the mechanistic, reductionist tendencies noted earlier by finding more flexible and sensitive, multiscalar ways of relating local histo-

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ries and global processes. In the first place, serious attention is paid to culture as both a historical product and historical agent. Moreover, the role of indigenous agency and resistance is acknowledged but not in a naive, romanticized way. Such approaches seek both to identify the local social and cultural logic of consumption of foreign goods and practices and to understand the unintended consequences of such consumption in the entanglement of the colonial situation. The emphasis is on understanding local experience of the encounter and subtle, historically contingent transformations of culture, consciousness, and identity, in a way that illuminates local-global connections. There has clearly been a good deal of intercourse between these new perspectives in recent years. My own approach to colonialism, for example, represents a conjuncture of various strands. However, at the same time there are some distinctive elements to each that are worth emphasizing. Postcolonial studies is by no means a unified field. Indeed, it is a heterogeneous arena of debate rife with disputes and tensions concerning everything from the definition of postcolonial and the meaning of the presence/absence of a hyphen in post-colonial/postcolonial,90 to the problem of agency, to the ambivalent relationships of postcolonial theory to Marxism and postmodernism.91 However, there are a few common intellectual ancestors that are variably drawn upon, including especially Fanon and Foucault. Moreover, given the disciplinary origins of postcolonial studies, the primary evidentiary domain of such work has been discourse, and especially discourse located in texts. With some exceptions,92 the emphasis on discourse has resulted in a certain neglect of the material dimension of colonialism. Anthropology, on the other hand, has been far more engaged with the material conditions of colonial situations and the nondiscursive aspects of daily life, while developing very similar concerns with indigenous agency, cultural appropriations, transformations of consciousness, and the like. Understanding the power dynamics and historical operation of colonial discourse is clearly important, but an anthropological exploration of the localized material context of colonial encounters is equally crucial. These programs of analysis are not, of course, without their own problems. I must admit, for example, to considerable ambivalence about some key concepts that have become popular in postcolonial studies and have been picked up by archaeologists influenced by postcolonial theory.93 This includes especially the celebration of the concepts of hybridity and creolization. In the first place, the use of biological metaphors to understand cultural processes (and especially biological metaphors that are discursive products of colonial ideologies of race) seems a questionable analytical move. Given the current alarming trend toward the biologizing (indeed, geneticizing) of social and

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cultural features in Western popular and scientific discourse, one is justified in being wary. But I have more particular objections in the context of the ancient Mediterranean. To be sure, the concept of creolization may be appropriate and useful in contexts where it corresponds to indigenous vernacular representations of identity, as in the Caribbean.94 And the concept of hybridity has been usefully employed to help conceptualize colonial processes in some situations in the ancient Mediterranean, such as the case of Punic colonies in Sardinia.95 Moreover, it may be relevant to the period of Roman colonization of the Western Mediterranean. But I am less convinced that the concepts of hybridity and creolization are very helpful in illuminating the early encounters in Iberia that are the focus of this book. For one thing, if, as Amselle quite reasonably claims, métissage and creolization are originary and omnipresent processes in all cultures,96 then one has to explain what is distinctive about them in colonial contexts and how they help us to explain the history of specific colonial situations. Simply deploying these terms to indicate syncretism or fusion does not, in and of itself, constitute an explanation (any more than do the terms Hellenization, Orientalizing, and acculturation).97 Moreover, hybridity generally has a very specific meaning within colonial contexts, following Homi Bhabha 98—a meaning derived from the concept of an intentional, strategic, politically subversive form of hybridization that Bakhtin distinguished from an unconscious “organic” hybridity.99 To the extent that one automatically interprets the assimilation of alien goods or practices as an inherent sign of hybridity, one risks committing the same kind of error as that of previous scholars in uncritically accepting such evidence as inherent signs of acculturation or structural dependency. To put it another way, if archaeologists naively assume that every colonial situation can be reduced to a process of hybridity, then the term loses its specific explanatory content and ceases to explain anything. It loses its power to inform us about the diversity of the processes clustered under the rubric of colonialism—the myriad ways that people try to make subjects of others peoples in distinct historical circumstances. In effect, it can serve to dehistoricize and delocate specific cultural situations under the assumption of a shared transhistorical colonial condition—and this has been an unfortunate defect of much colonial discourse analysis. Archaeologists and ancient historians should be especially wary of this problem, given that their potential contribution to the comparative analysis of colonialism includes the demonstration of difference. In the context of the colonial encounters considered in this volume, my own preference is to approach assimilated objects and practices first as phenomena of consumption, with careful attention paid to contextual data that

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can lead to an understanding of the specific local logic and meaning of these goods and practices and the ramifications of their consumption. This is why I have preferred to use the term entanglement to denote the process that unfolded in early encounters in the Western Mediterranean,100 reserving the terms creolization and hybridity, if they are to be used at all, for the quite different kinds of situations and cultural transformations, lodged in very different asymmetries of power, that developed later in the history of the encounter, especially following Roman colonization. As I noted above, postcolonial theory has been especially concerned with the analysis of discourse, to the general neglect of the material dimension of colonialism. In using the term entanglement, I also want to signal my interest in pursuing the complex webs of economic, political, and social linkages that can result from the consumption of alien material culture—features that, I believe, have been more intensively researched and effectively theorized in the historical anthropology of colonialism and the anthropology of consumption. The crucial question for those trying to understand ancient colonial encounters in Iberia is how to avoid the various pitfalls I have noted. Developing the theoretical tools to do this, and to enable a productive archaeology of colonialism, will require coming to grips with the issue of agency in indigenous societies and abandoning the teleological assumptions of inevitability that have underlain most previous approaches. The key question, of course, is how one can effectively operationalize this notion of agency in archaeological contexts. There are several possible solutions, but in the current case (as in many others) I would suggest that a focus on the process of consumption provides a particularly promising means of penetrating this issue. As was suggested by the earlier discussion, these early Iberian encounters were articulated primarily through the selective consumption of objects and practices across cultural and political frontiers. They constituted a distinctive type of “consuming colonialism” that took place under political conditions that were radically different from the later multiple forms of colonialism that accompanied Roman colonization (although processes of consumption were certainly instrumental in that case as well). I have suggested before that a careful focus on the process of consumption can be a particularly powerful and sensitive means for archaeologists to penetrate indigenous agency and experience in these, and other, colonial encounters.101 In the first place, given the development of an appropriate analytical strategy, patterns of consumption of a very revealing type are potentially accessible in the archaeological record.102 Moreover, consumption is a domain of practice that is increasingly being recognized by anthropologists as fundamental to the development of colonialism.103 As recent studies make

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clear, demand for goods is never an automatic response to their availability. It must be understood as an aspect of the political economy of societies that follows the culturally conditioned political logic of consumption in specific historical circumstances. Hence, the evolution of tastes and desires in the realm of consumption is a powerful indicator of local experience of more global colonial processes. In order to understand the relationship between consumption and identity, one must appreciate the fact that culture is not a static, rigid phenomenon, nor is it a bundle of traits. Culture must be understood not only as something inherited from the past but as a continual creative project: it is a way of thinking, of perceiving, and of solving problems, including the everpresent problems of dealing with alien peoples and incorporating alien goods and practices.104 One must also recognize that when an object crosses cultural frontiers, it does not necessarily arrive with the meaning and practices associated with it in its context of origin. To focus briefly on a contemporary example, the consumption of Coca-Cola may serve to highlight some important points. A bottle of this beverage consumed in an African society does not have the same meaning as one consumed in Chicago. In Chicago it is a fairly banal and ubiquitous drink enjoyed on a quotidian basis, especially by the young. However, in the countryside of western Kenya, where I conducted ethnographic research some years ago, Coca-Cola was a prized luxury drink usually reserved for distinguished visitors and sometimes incorporated into ceremonial commensality (in a pattern reminiscent of the use of imported French wine in bourgeois homes in Chicago, where it would be unthinkable to use CocaCola in a similar way). The presence of bottles of Coca-Cola there was not a sign of the “Americanization” of Africa but rather of the “Africanization” of Coca-Cola. Nor can one measure a purported process of “Americanization” by simply counting the quantity of Coca-Cola bottles (any more than one can measure “Hellenization” by counting Greek wine amphorae or Attic pots). One must understand the context of consumption in order to recognize its meaning and significance. The same would be true in Paris or Barcelona, where the consumption of Coca-Cola follows different patterns and signifies something quite different than in either Chicago or western Kenya.105 In using this Coca-Cola example and speaking about the “Africanization” of its consumption, I am not implying that the consumption of Coca-Cola in Africa is a benign activity without serious economic and cultural consequences. Nor am I denying that its availability in Africa is driven by strategies of corporate executives seeking global market penetration. Nor am I naively advocating a romanticized vision of unfettered indigenous agency in which

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consumption becomes an autonomous form of liberating appropriation and resistance. As I have taken pains to emphasize, there are always unintended consequences to consuming alien goods, and precisely these consequences ought to be the focus of analysis for understanding the entangling operation of colonialism (or postcolonialism) and the transformation of consciousness and identity. But this is not a simple homogenizing process of the “cocacolonization” 106 of passive peripheral subjects. Whatever the hegemonic schemes of Coca-Cola executives for global market domination, demand for this beverage in western Kenya is a product of local tastes generated according to local cultural conceptions and social practices. In order to be desired and used, exotic goods must always be locally imbued with culturally relevant meaning and incorporated into local social relationships. And these processes of redefinition and reorientation must be contextualized and understood if we are to comprehend the transformative effects of cross-cultural consumption. A final point that needs to be made is that not only is the consumption of imported goods an inadequate measure of the “acculturation” of a society (as explained above), but, paradoxically, imported objects or practices may even become salient symbolic markers of the boundaries of identity between consumers and the society of origin. This can be true even in the case of the adoption of what Arjun Appadurai distinguishes as “hard cultural forms” that “come with a set of links between value, meaning, and embodied practice that are difficult to break and hard to transform.” 107 The “indigenization” of the English game of cricket in India analyzed by Appadurai is a classic case in point.108 The adoption of American baseball in Japan is another.109 In both cases, the games are played with the same implements under the same rules in constructed spaces of the same form. Yet because of such things as the spirit motivating play, the behavior expected of players, and the social origin and position of the players, the games are seen to be profoundly different in each cultural context. Hence these shared sports become privileged sites for the revelation and reification of cultural boundaries. To cite an example closer in time and space to the cases considered in this book, one might surmise that the Greek and Etruscan versions of the symposion represent an analogous situation. Shocked Greek references to the presence of wives at Etruscan symposia should alert us to the nature of the differentiation being evoked through this adopted and adapted practice.110 It is crucial, then, to place at the center of discussion a basic question that has been insufficiently explored—indeed, its very formulation has often been precluded by the tacit assumptions of inevitability discussed earlier. One must ask seriously why indigenous peoples of Iberia would have had any interest at all in Phoenician and Greek goods or practices. The answer to this question

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demands that we look much more carefully at the particular things that were actually consumed and the specific ways they were consumed—that is, we must examine the specific properties and contexts of these objects and practices and try to understand the social and cultural logic of the desire for them and the social, economic, and political roles that their consumption played. It is also, of course, necessary to examine the counterphenomenon—that is, what might be called the logic of indifference and/or rejection. It is necessary to understand what goods and practices were available for appropriation but were ignored or refused, and why this particular pattern of selective consumption emerged from a range of possibilities. In brief, we must find a way to discern and explain the choices that were made. Finally, we must address the equally crucial question of the consequences of consumption: what were the immediate and long-term social and cultural ramifications of the selective incorporation of these specific alien goods and practices?111

Conclusion Examination of the initial phases of Phoenician and Greek colonial encounters in Iberia is important precisely because it promises to reveal the specific historical processes that resulted in the entanglement of indigenous and colonial societies and how the early experience of interaction established the cultural and social conditions from which other, often unanticipated kinds of colonial relationships developed. As Nicholas Dirks has argued for modern colonialism, “It is tempting but wrong to ascribe either intentionality or systematicity to a congeries of activities and a conjunction of outcomes that, though related and at times coordinated, were usually diffuse, disorganized, and even contradictory.” 112 This caveat is even more apt in the context of the ancient Western Mediterranean. In order to understand how structures of colonial dependency and domination may (or may not) have been created gradually, often in the absence of coercive instruments of power, we must seek to understand the historical complexities of the transformation of consciousness and the role of material objects in this process. This means we must first understand how and why some practices and goods were absorbed into the everyday lives of people while others were rejected or turned into arenas of contest, and how those objects or practices triggered a process of cultural entanglement and transformation. Confronted with this intentionally provocative, sprawling, and openended framing of the book, the reader is now invited to explore the rest of the chapters, in which specialists in the archaeology, ancient history, and philology of Iberia offer illuminating explorations of a broad range of the

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most recent research on ancient Phoenician and Greek colonial encounters in Iberia. These wide-ranging chapters demonstrate the interest, ingenuity, problems, and potential of current approaches.

note s 1. See Dietler 2005a for a fuller discussion of this issue. 2. The Western Mediterranean is defined somewhat arbitrarily here to include the Mediterranean littoral zones of France and Spain. North Africa, although no less important, is not included here for reasons of personal competence and the relative paucity of archaeological documentation of the region. See Dietler 1997, 2007b. 3. Iberian, Celtic, and Ligurian are all classificatory terms that derive from Greek and Roman texts. Their origins are uncertain, but none served as indigenous ethnonyms for the large collections of peoples to whom they came to be applied. 4. De Hoz 1983, 1993a, 1993b, 1995, 1998; Untermann 1995a. 5. Lambert 1994; Whatmough 1970. 6. See Correa 1992; Rodríguez Ramos 2000, 2002; Untermann 1995b. 7. Markoe 2000; Moscati and Amiet 1988. 8. There is a discrepancy of over 200 years between the very early dates (late second millennium BC) indicated by classical texts and the archaeological evidence. 9. CastroMartínez, Lull, and Mico 1996; Mederos 1997; Moret 2000; Sanmartí, chapter 2 this volume. 10. Asensio et al. 2000. 11. For example, see González Prats 1991:184 on the possible case of La Peña Negra at Crevillente, Alicante. 12. Aubet 1993; Frankenstein 1979; Gras, Rouillard, and Teixidor 1995; Moscati and Amiet 1988. 13. For example, see in this volume Arruda’s chapter 4, Treumann’s chapter 7, and Celestino’s chapter 8. 14. Cabrera 2003; Cabrera and Sánchez 2000; Dietler 1997; Domínguez 2002; Rouillard 1991, 1995, and chapter 5 in this volume; Sanmartí, chapter 2 in this volume; Sanmartí-Grego et al. 1995. 15. Azuar et al. 1998; González Prats, García Menárquez, and Ruiz Segura 1997. 16. Bouloumié 1987; Dietler 1997, 2005b, 2007b; Gras 1985a, 1985b, 2000; Morel 1981; Py 1985, 1995. 17. Although the Etruscan terms for many objects and concepts, as well as the names of places and persons, are known from a large corpus of inscriptions, almost no longer texts have been preserved. See Bonfante and Bonfante 1983. 18. Bouloumié 1987; Py 1995. 19. Lebeaupin and Séjalon 2008. 20. Gras 1985b; Py and Py 1974. 21. See Dietler 2005b; Morel 1981; Py 1993.

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22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

Gras 1985a. Dietler 1997, 2005b, 2007b; Hérubel 2000; Py 1993, 1995. Morel 1981; Rouillard 1991. See Hall 2002. Morel 1983, 1995. Bouiron and Tréziny 2001; Hermary, Hesnard, and Tréziny 1999; Hesnard 1995; Hesnard et al. 1999. Aquilué et al. 2002; Marcet and Sanmartí-Grego 1989; Rouillard 1991:244–81; Sanmartí-Grego 1992. Rouillard 1991. See Osuna et al. 2000; Rouillard, chapter 5 in this volume. See Bresson and Rouillard 1993; Rouillard 1991, and chapter 5 in this volume. Sanmartí-Grego 1992:29. See Domínguez 2002; Rouillard 1991, and chapter 5 in this volume. See Badie et al. 2000.; Rouillard, chapter 5 in this volume. See Rouillard, chapter 5 . Primarily Bats 1998, 2000. Gras 2000; Py 1995. Dietler 1997, 2005b, 2007b; Py 1993. Bats 1988, 1989:216–20, 1992, 1995; Brien-Poitevin 1990; J.-P. Brun 1991, 1992; Ducat 1982; Garcia 1993, 1995; Morel 1992, 1995; Nickels 1981, 1982, 1995. Bats 1992:272. This chapter’s abbreviated discussion of the relationship between ancient and modern colonialisms is drawn largely from analyses published, or about to be published, elsewhere (Dietler 2005b and Dietler in press). Readers are encouraged to consult these works for a more detailed and extensive discussion than is possible here. See Dietler 2005b. In the sense of Bourdieu 1979/1984. Pagden 1995; Quinn 1976. For example, see Auslander 1996; Haskell and Penny 1981; Kostof 1995; Mukerji 1997. Winckelmann 1755/1987; Butler 1935; Marchand 1996; Wohlleben 1992. Wohlleben 1992. Webb 1982; Zuber 1992. Grafton 1992; Jenkyns 1980; Marchand 1996; Turner 1981. Marchand 1996:xviii–xix. Koebner and Schmidt 1964; Vance 1997. Bowen 1989; Gerard 1982; Ringer 1979, 1992; Vance 1997. Bowen 1989; Cohen 1971; Marchand 1996. Brunt 1965; Mattingly 1996; Pagden 1995; Quinn 1976; Seed 1995; Tulard 1997. Seed 1995. Jenkyns 1980; Marchand 1996:24.

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57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66. 67.

68.

69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

For example, Bryce 1901; Cromer 1910; Lucas 1912; Napoléon III 1866. Cohn 1996. Livingstone 1935:117–18. See Dietler 2005a. See Dietler 2005a; see also Arruda, chapter 4 in this volume. For example, T. J. Dunbabin 1948. Trouillot 1995. Although Spanish, Portuguese, English, and French colonial ventures each managed to create broader world language communities and inflict some degree of language death, none was able to produce nearly universal language extinction and replacement on the scale that the Roman Empire managed in Spain, France, and Italy. In Africa, India, and elsewhere, the colonial languages are generally still secondary languages spoken in addition to indigenous tongues. Even in the Americas, with their deeper history of conquest, indigenous languages have persisted in many areas. Mitchell 1947:3. In the phrase of Chakrabarty 2000. For example, Sanmartí, chapter 2, and Celestino, chapter 9, use the word colonization in a sense very different from my own definition, to mean what I would call “founding colonies” or “establishing colonial settlements.” Neither uses the word colonialism at all, while Arruda, chapter 4, does, with an explicit definition. Rouillard, chapter 5, provides yet another perspective. For example, see Cohn 1996; Comaroff and Comaroff 1991; Dirks 1992; Duverger 1980; Dyson 1985; Ferro 1997; Fieldhouse 1981; Finley 1976; Horvath 1972; Koebner 1966; Osterhammel 1997; Pagden 1995; Said 1993; and the discussion of this problem in Dietler 2005a and, especially, in press. See also Rouillard, chapter 5 in this volume. See Finley 1976; Rouillard, chapter 5 in this volume. For example, Ahmad 1995; Comaroff 1997; Dirks 1992; Slemon 1990; Thomas 1994. See Comaroff and Comaroff 1991, 1997; Cooper 2005; Cooper and Stoler 1997; Dietler 1999; Dirks 1992. Dietler 1995, 1998, 2005a. For example, Beals 1953; Herskovits 1938; Redfield, Linton, and Herskovits 1936; Social Science Research Council 1954; Spicer 1962. Wolf 1982. Social Science Research Council 1954. Compare Cusick 1998, Ervin 1980, and Murphy 1964 for a more detailed critique and some attempts to revive aspects of acculturation theory. See especially Amin 1976; Frank 1967, 1969. Wolpe 1980. Compare Braudel 1984/1992; Frank 1993; and Wallerstein 1974, 1991. Roseberry 1988.

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82. Brun 1987, 1992; Cunliffe 1988; Frankenstein and Rowlands 1978; Kristiansen 1994; Sherratt 1993. 83. Frankenstein 1979; Pare 1997, Sanmartí, chapter 2 in this volume. 84. For example, Bintliff 1984; Dietler 1995, 1998; Eggert 1991; Gosden 1985; Pare 1991; Stein 1999; Woolf 1990. 85. In Kirch and Sahlins 1992: 2. 86. See Comaroff and Comaroff 1991, 1997; Roseberry 1989; Sahlins 1985, 1994; Stoler 1992; Stoler and Cooper 1997; Thomas 1991. 87. For example, Cohn 1996; Comaroff and Comaroff 1991, 1997; Cooper and Stoler 1997; Dietler 1990, 1998, 2005b; Dirks 1992; Sahlins 1985; Thomas 1991. 88. For example, Appadurai 1986, 1996; Bourdieu 1979/1984; Comaroff and Comaroff 1997; Dietler 1990, 1998, 2007a; Dirks 1992; Howes 1996a; Miller 1995; Mintz 1985; Mullins 1999; Sahlins 1985, 1992; Thomas 1991. 89. For example, Bhabha 1984, 1994; Mohanty 1988; Said 1978, 1993; Spivack 1990; Young 1996, 2001. 90. For example, Ashcroft 1996; McClintock 1992; Mishra and Hodge 1991. 91. For example, Adam and Tiffin 1991; Ahmad 1992; Slemon 1994; Young 1990. 92. For example, Ahmad 1992; Parry 1987. 93. For example, Lyons and Papadopoulos 2002. 94. See Dawdy 2000. 95. van Dommelen 1998. 96. Amselle 1990/1998. 97. For a more detailed critique of the concept of creolization, see Palmié 2006. 98. Bhabha 1994. 99. Bakhtin 1981. 100. See Dietler 1997, 1998. 101. Dietler 1998, 2005a. 102. For example, see Sanmartí, chapter 2 in this volume. 103. See Comaroff and Comaroff 1997; Thomas 2002. 104. See Sahlins 1985, 1994. 105. See also Howes 1996b:6; Pendergrast 1993:245–47. 106. Hannerz 1992:217. 107. Appadurai 1996:90. 108. Appadurai 1996. 109. Kelly 1997. 110. Cicero In Verrem 2.1.26.66; see Dunbabin 1998. 111. See Dietler 1990, 1998, 2007a for specific examples of how this can be achieved. 112. Dirks 1992:7.

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the West Hallstatt culture in the 6th and 5th centuries bc.” Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 57:183–202. ———. 1997. “La dimension européenne du commerce grec à la fin de la période archaïque et pendant le début de la période classique.” In P. Brun and B. Chaume, eds., Vix et les éphémères principautés celtiques, 261–86. Paris. Parry, B. 1987. “Problems in current discourse theory.” Oxford Literary Review 9:27–58. Pendergrast, M. 1993. For God, country, and Coca-Cola: The unauthorized history of the great American soft drink and the company that makes it. Toronto. Py, F., and M. Py. 1974. “Les amphores étrusques de Vaunage et de Villevieille (Gard).” Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome, Antiquité 86:141–254. Py, M. 1985. “Les amphores étrusques de Gaule méridionale.” In M. Cristofani, P. Moscati, G. Nardi, and M. Pandolfini, eds., Il commercio etrusco arcaico (Atti dell’Incontro di studio, 5–7 dicembre 1983), 73–94. Quaderni del Centro di Studio per l’Archeologia Etrusco-Italica 9. Rome. ———. 1993. Les Gaulois du Midi: De la fin de l’Age du Bronze à la conquête romaine. Paris. ———. 1995. “Les Etrusques, les Grecs et la fondation de Lattes.” In P. Arcelin, M. Bats, D. Garcia, G. Marchand, and M. Schwaller, eds., Sur les pas des Grecs en Occident, 261–76. Études Massaliètes 4. Paris. Quinn, D. B. 1976. “Renaissance influences in English colonization.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 26:73–93. Redfield, R., R. Linton, and M. Herskovits. 1936. “Memorandum for the study of acculturation.” American Anthropologist 38:149–52. Ringer, F. K. 1979. Education and society in modern Europe. Bloomington. ———. 1992. Fields of knowledge: French academic culture in comparative perspective, 1890–1920. Cambridge. Rodríguez Ramos, J. 2000. “La lectura de las inscripciones sudlusitano-tartesias.” Faventia 22(1):21–48. ———. 2002. “El origen de la escritura sudlusitano-tartesia y la formación de alfabetos a partir de alefatos.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 30(2):81–116. Roseberry, W. 1988. “Political economy.” Annual Review of Anthropology 17:161–85. ———. 1989. Anthropologies and histories: Essays in culture, history, and political economy. New Brunswick, NJ. Rouillard, P. 1991. Les Grecs et la péninsule ibérique du VIIIe au IVe siècle avant JésusChrist. Paris. ———. 1995. “Les emporia dans la Méditerranée occidentale aux époques archaïque et classique.” In Les Grecs et l’Occident: Actes du Colloque de la Villa “Kérylos” (1991), 95–108. Rome. Sahlins, M. 1985. Islands of history. Chicago. ———. 1992. “The economics of develop-man in the Pacific.” Res 21:12–25. ———. 1994. “Cosmologies of capitalism: The trans-Pacific sector of ‘the world system.’ ” In N. B. Dirks, G. Eley, and S. B. Ortner, eds., Culture/power/history: A reader in contemporary social theory, 412–55. Princeton, NJ.

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Said, E. W. 1978. Orientalism: Western representations of the Orient. Harmondsworth, UK. ———. 1993. Culture and imperialism. New York. Sanmartí-Grego, E. 1992. “Massalia et emporion: Une origine commune, deux destins différents.” In M. Bats, G. Bertucchi, G. Congès, and H. Tréziny, eds., Marseille grecque et la Gaule, 27–41. Études Massaliètes 3. Lattes, France. Sanmartí-Grego, E., P. Castanyer, J. Tremoleda, and M. Santos. 1995. “Amphores grecques et trafics commerciaux en Méditerranée occidentale au IVe s. av. J.-C.: Nouvelles données issues d’Emporion.” In P. Arcelin, M. Bats, D. Garcia, G. Marchand, and M. Schwaller, eds., Sur les pas des Grecs en Occident, 325–38. Études Massaliètes 4. Paris. Seed, P. 1995. Ceremonies of possession in Europe’s conquest of the New World, 1492–1640. Cambridge. Sherratt, A. 1993. “What would a Bronze-Age world system look like? Relations between temperate Europe and the Mediterranean in later prehistory.” Journal of European Archaeology 1(2):1–57. Slemon, S. 1990. “Unsettling the empire: Resistance theory for the Second World.” World Literature Written in English 30(2):30–41. ———. 1994. “The scramble for post-colonialism.” In C. Tiffin and A. Lawson, eds., Describing empire: Postcolonialism and textuality, 15–32. London. Social Science Research Council. 1954. “Acculturation: An exploratory formulation; Social Science Research Council Summer Seminar on Acculturation, 1953.” American Anthropologist 56:973–1000. Spicer, E. 1962. Cycles of conquest: The impact of Spain, Mexico, and the United States on the Indians of the Southwest, 1533–1960. Tucson. Spivack, G. 1990. The post-colonial critic: Interviews, strategies, dialogues. Ed. S. Harasym. New York. Stein, G. 1999. Rethinking world-systems: Diasporas, colonies, and interaction in Uruk Mesopotamia. Tucson. Stoler, A. L. 1992. “Rethinking colonial categories: European communities and the boundaries of rule.” In N. B. Dirks, ed., Colonialism and culture, 319–52. Ann Arbor, MI. Stoler, A. L., and F. Cooper, eds. 1997. Tensions of empire: Colonial cultures in a bourgeois world. Berkeley, CA. Thomas, N. 1991. Entangled objects: Exchange, material culture, and colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge, MA. ———. 1994. Colonialism’s culture: Anthropology, travel, and government. Princeton, NJ. ———. 2002. “Colonizing cloth: Interpreting the material culture of nineteenthcentury Oceania.” In C. Lyons and J. Papadopoulos, eds., The archaeology of colonialism, 182–98. Los Angeles. Trouillot, M. R. 1995. Silencing the past: Power and the production of history. Boston. Tulard, J. 1997. Introduction to J. Tulard, ed., Les empires occidentaux de Rome à Berlin, 9–16. Paris.

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Turner, F. M. 1981. The Greek heritage in Victorian Britain. New Haven, CT. Untermann, J. 1995a. “La lengua ibérica: Nuestro conocimiento y tareas futuras.” Veleia 12:243–56. ———. 1995b. “Zum Stand der Deutung der ‘tartessischen’ Inschriften.” In J. F. Eska, R. Y. Geraint, and N. Jacobs, eds., Hispano-Gallo-Brittanica: Essays in honour of D. Ellis Evans, 244–59. Cardiff, Wales. Vance, N. 1997. The Victorians and ancient Rome. Oxford. van Dommelen, P. 1998. On colonial grounds: A comparative study of colonialism and rural settlement in first millennium BC west central Sardinia. Leiden. Wallerstein, I. 1974. The modern world system: Capitalist agriculture and the origin of the European world-economy in the sixteenth century. New York. ———. 1991. “World System versus world-systems: A critique.” Critique of Anthropology 11:189–94. Webb, T. 1982. English Romantic Hellenism, 1700–1824. New York. Whatmough, J. 1970. The dialects of ancient Gaul. Cambridge, MA. Winckelmann, J. J. 1755/1987. Reflections on the imitation of Greek works in painting and sculpture (Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerei und Bildhauerkunst). German text with translation by E. Heyer and R. C. Norton. La Salle, IL. Wohlleben, J. 1992. “Germany 1750–1830.” In K. J. Dover, ed., Perceptions of the ancient Greeks, 170–202. Oxford. Wolf, E. 1982. Europe and the people without history. Berkeley, CA. Wolpe, H., ed. 1980. The articulation of modes of production: Essays from economy and society. London. Woolf, G. 1990. “World-systems analysis and the Roman Empire.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 3:44–58. Young, R. J. C. 1990. White mythologies: Writing history in the West. London. ———. 1996. Colonial desire: Hybridity in theory, culture, and race. London. ———. 2001. Postcolonialism: An historical introduction. Oxford. Zuber. R. 1992. “France, 1640–1790.” In K. J. Dover, ed., Perceptions of the ancient Greeks, 147–69. Oxford.

[two]

Colonial Relations and Social Change in Iberia (Seventh to Third Centuries BC) Joan Sanmartí

Introduction The word Iberia and the ethnonym Iberes were used by the ancient Greeks to designate a relatively vast region on the Mediterranean edge of the Iberian Peninsula that extended to the north of Cartagena to the Pyrenees, or even farther. In the second century BC the term acquired a more general signification and tended to name the whole peninsula; the latter is the sense it usually has in the work of Polybius, probably as a translation of Hispania, the word the Romans used to designate the Iberian Peninsula. The region that corresponds to the first, narrow meaning of Iberia is basically coincident with the area where a consistent number of ancient inscriptions of different kinds— which are dated from the later fifth century BC to the first century AD— attest the use of a specific language that has, quite logically, been called “Iberian” and still remains largely unknown.1 Despite this, the term Iberia is sometimes used in the archaeological jargon in a more general way, to denote the totality of Andalusia. In this chapter Iberia and Iberian will always be used in their most restrictive and paleoethnologically most precise sense. It is also important to recall that the ancient written sources mention the names of a few cities and of different Iberian peoples living in this area, some of which are also attested by inscriptions on coins, mostly dated to the second to first centuries BC. The aim of this chapter is to provide a reasonably comprehensive, if necessarily brief, account of the colonial relations that developed in Iberia from the seventh century BC, when Phoenician traders coming from the Straits of Gibraltar area visited its shores for the first time, until the last years of the third century BC, when, as a result of the Second Punic War, the whole area came under the rule of the Roman Republic. In the intervening time, several Phoenician-Punic (La Fonteta)2 and Greek (Emporion, Rhode)3 settlements were founded, important commercial activity was developed, and human contact between different populations led to the adoption of foreign practices and habits. At the same time, this historical period saw the develop-

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ment of the local populations of Iberia from stateless, small-scale societies to complex ones. The latter developed beginning in the mid-sixth century BC and evolved into archaic state-type polities in the third and fourth centuries BC, and correspond to the so-called Iberian Culture, while the previous populations of the seventh and early sixth centuries are usually referred to as “pre-Iberian” or as belonging to the Early Iron Age. The word Proto-history is normally used in this area to designate the period that extends from the early first millennium BC to the Roman conquest, hence encompassing the very Late Bronze Age (ca. 1000–700 BC), the Early Iron Age (ca. 700–550 BC), and the Iberian period. Our main purpose is to grasp the role of colonial activities in such social development, if any. That leads us to try to understand the pattern of imports by the indigenous populations—that is to say, why some particular colonial products were acquired by the recipient societies in specific amounts in different historical periods—but we also take into account the putative consequences that such relations had for the colonial societies. When approaching a subject of this complexity, it is important to keep in mind from the very beginning that several methodological and theoretical problems have so far limited a full and adequate understanding of ancient Mediterranean colonization in Iberia. As regards the theoretical background, it has frequently been simply nonexistent. Prestige-goods models and world-systems theory have sometimes been used, in a more or less elaborate form.4 But, as a rule, interpretation simply has been based on “common sense” or referred to the rather vague concepts of “acculturation” or “Hellenization.” One consequent flaw is that the imported material has often been considered merely as a reliable indicator for absolute chronology and as evidence of foreign contact and economic exchange. In general, it has not been related to other relevant aspects of the archaeological record (like settlement patterns, technological change, demographic growth, the nature of domestic architecture, etc.) that might help us understand the changing nature of the recipient societies, as well as the social and political role that the imports may have played in the construction and perpetuation of the social order. To begin with, only a few, quite recent papers have tried to take into account the whole body of evidence and aimed at an overall discussion of colonial trade in the Iberian area.5 On the contrary, consideration of only one part of the evidence, be it on a geographical basis 6 or else according either to the origin of the imports (Greek, Etruscan, Phoenician)7 or/and to their nature (amphorae, table-service ware, cooking pots, etc.),8 has been extremely common. Although frequently necessary from an analytical point of view, this methodological stance has obscured our overall comprehension of colonial

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trade in this area, since scholars have tended to make generalizations from the limited kinds and amounts of material they have studied. Despite considerable progress in the identification and chronology of different kinds of Greek, Etruscan, and Phoenician-Punic pottery—a basic precondition for progress in this field—reliable quantitative data on the imported ceramic material found in the indigenous sites are available only from work carried out during the last fifteen years (and not all of it!). This is obviously a serious problem, since central aspects of the subject we are dealing with (estimates of the importance of colonial trade as a whole, of the different kinds of imported materials—amphorae, table-service ware, etc., the relative weight of the different colonial suppliers in every specific period, etc.) are necessarily based on this kind of information. After all, this is the only way we may expect to obtain some idea about the scale and nature of trade, the importance that production-for-exchange might have had in the supplier areas, and the role played by the imported items in the recipient societies. The available data are actually sufficient for a preliminary approach to major trends in the origin, nature, and relative magnitude of the imports, but undoubtedly many nuances, most of all at the microregional level, still remain out of sight. One further drawback is a lack of reliable information about the contents of many types of transport amphorae, most especially of Phoenician and Punic origin, for which literary and epigraphic information is extremely scarce or simply nonexistent.9 Although microresidue analyses give hope of quick and consistent progress on that matter,10 the available information for the area considered in this paper is still scarce.11 This, too, is a serious problem, not only for study of the economy of colonial production areas (which is obviously an important matter by itself ) but also because we need to know which were the imported products in order to understand what their role within the indigenous societies was and, consequently, why they were acquired. It is also worth noting that much of what has been written about colonial trade in Iberia is based exclusively on an overall evaluation of imported material at the regional and even macroregional scale, regardless of its differential distribution in settlements that may be distinguished according to criteria like size, architectural complexity, occurrence/absence of epigraphic material, luxury items, etc.12 This too has tended to obscure the roles that imported materials played in indigenous societies.

Theoretical Background In Spanish research, Phoenician and Greek colonization has traditionally been considered to be one of the most important causes of the social change

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process that underlies the formation and development of the Iberian culture.13 However, as various researchers have pointed out lately, no real explanation has ever been provided of the mechanisms through which it may have caused or influenced those processes. As E. Junyent has recently put it, the problem has frequently been expressed as a simple (and simplistic) equation: local substratum + colonial impact = iberian culture.14 It is probably for this reason that, quite understandably, several scholars, such as Junyent himself or P. Cabrera,15 have tended to lessen or even dismiss the importance of colonial trade in local cultural change processes. While accepting these criticisms, we must object that in general no real alternative is offered: social change leading to the formation of complex polities seems to be considered a natural endogenous development that needs no explanation as to the causes that started the process nor the mechanisms through which it occurred.16 On the other hand, total dismissal of the role of interregional interactions in social change processes is a rather simplistic stance, even from endogenist positions, since foreign contacts may have a crucial importance for endogenous change.17 I aim to show that more elaborate theories, of both an endogenist and an exogenist nature, may take us further, and that a basically endogenist position as concerns the formation and development of early complex societies does not necessarily preclude the recognition of the (sometimes determinant) role of foreign contacts and consequently of colonial Greek and Phoenician-Punic action. To begin with, the evidence available in Iberia permits an empirical test of M. Harris’s cultural-materialist model of social evolution and its more recent reformulation by A. W. Johnson and T. Earle.18 This is an endogenist theory that assumes that social change is ultimately caused by population growth to the limits of the carrying capacity of a given environment. Demographic increase leads to the expansion of the political economy—sounder economic and political integration, increased social stratification—in order to manage subsistence problems. It also leads, when possible, to technological change, which in the end is a necessary condition for further population growth. Lack of technological innovation would force demographic stability— for example through birth-control methods— or else would lead to everincreasing competition for resources and even, as a consequence of environmental degradation, to social regression. Although this model is in accordance with the archaeological record in Iberia, there are also numerous indications that foreign contact had an important role in the evolution of the indigenous societies, since, as will be shown later, it made technological change possible, it gave opportunities to competing leaders to build an unequal social order, and subsequently it provided some of the necessary elements to maintain that state of affairs.

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Other important auxiliary ideas may be drawn from prestige-goods theory, which—as, I hope, will be shown—is compatible with cultural-materialist views on social-cultural evolution. Very briefly summarized, the model states that in prestige-goods economies political power is associated with control over the procurement and distribution of exotic goods, which are assigned high status.19 In small-scale societies, clan-heads who would be able to gain differential access to this kind of goods would have an important advantage in increasing their social credit, as well as their economic and political power, and would consequently gain a dominant position. Foreign trade would thus give opportunities for the development of hierarchization processes. Subsequently, further restrictions by new dominant chiefs on the nature and origin of prestige goods used in social transactions would offer them new opportunities for social control and differentiation. Since the system is based on redistribution from dominant chiefs to their subordinates, and from these in turn to their dependents, it is essential for any chief to be able to supply sufficient quantities of prestige goods to his subordinates in order to preserve social stability, while access to more— or different—sources of prestige goods (which in our case study means imported items) would give some chiefs a new opportunity for further hierarchization. In this theoretical context, it is also important to take into account M. Dietler’s penetrating insights into the social and economic role of commensality and alcohol drinking, and its potential influence in producing social change.20 Briefly summarized, Dietler’s argument states that drinking alcoholic beverages (as well as the consumption of other specific kinds of food) is primarily a social act, which has a wide range of social functions in societies where alcohol was not introduced as a consequence of European expansion. One of the most important among these functions is facilitating social interaction, mostly through the institution of hospitality and by hosting communal ceremonies. Alcoholic drinks are therefore a strategic resource for those individuals and social groups that are able to produce or obtain through trade (and also to store for a longer time) a larger supply of them. Given this prominent role in the social and economic spheres, alcohol must be considered as a relevant instrument of political power. Dietler’s theoretical analysis thus provides a good explanation of the reasons that alcoholic drinks (more specifically wine, which is a typical colonial commodity) are to be considered prestige goods in the indigenous contexts of the ancient Western Mediterranean and Central Europe. As regards ideology and its role in the building and reproduction of the social order, it is worth noting that the empirical evidence is also in accordance with some of J. P. Demoule’s ideas about the foreign (and even super-

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natural) nature of power in protohistoric societies.21 Since the elites were supposed to be the natural interlocutors of foreigners, as they also were of supernatural agents, it is a reasonable assumption that colonial trade was an important means to acquire, consolidate, and legitimize power. Finally, since imported items said to be of prestige value are important elements in the operation of the indigenous social systems, prestige-goods economies tend to integrate in wider regional networks with commercial partners, frequently of a different and more developed economic nature (usually called core areas), which are able to furnish these kinds of commodities. A system of interregional relationships is created that might be called a “world-system,” since some axial division of work exists within a bounded area that includes multiple cultures. Nevertheless, and given that a hierarchical core-periphery organization—which means intersocietal inequalities or exploitation—would be difficult to prove in any precapitalist structure (including, as will be shown, the Iberian case), we must not expect these kinds of networks to be equal to the modern global world-system.22 Rather, the model states that the relations between societies may have an important role in the economy and social relations within societies and that change within societies leads to changes in the whole intersocietal system. Adopting this perspective means that not only the “influence” of “colonizers” on “indigenous” societies is taken into account—which has usually been the case—but the reverse as well. For example, core areas would tend to specialize, at least to some extent, in the production of commodities that were demanded by the prestige-goods economies as a result of their own sociopolitical structures, and would try to exclude the trading activity of other core areas. This would result in the existence of more or less well defined trading-influence areas in the recipient regions, as well as a considerable degree of interdependence between the trading partners, whose respective economies would be fashioned, at least to some extent, by the demands of the other.

Colonial Relations and Social Change in Iberia: The Material Evidence t h e fi rs t c o n tact: p h o enician t r aders i n the pre -i be ri an early iron age In the eighth century BC 23 several Phoenician settlements were founded in the far Mediterranean west, most of them in the area that M. Tarradell appropriately christened the “Straits of Gibraltar Circle,” that is, the shores of northern Morocco and Andalusia.24 This is a very relevant and complex

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historical event, which led to the birth and rise of such important cities as Gadir (Cádiz) and strongly changed the development of this area until its incorporation under Roman rule and even later. It is obviously beyond the scope of this paper to give a detailed account of this colonial activity.25 Let me just indicate for our present purposes that its nature (whether it was basically commercial or aimed at farming and immigrant population settling) is still a controversial matter. Nevertheless, the fact that a considerable number of Phoenician containers made in this area are currently found in indigenous settlements of Andalusia dated to the second half of the eighth century shows that production for export soon attained a certain importance. It is also worth noticing that iron production—which was unknown to the Late Bronze Age indigenous societies of Andalusia, although a few iron prestige-objects are known—is already well attested at the Phoenician settlements of Morro de Mezquitilla 26 and Cerro del Villar 27 in the eighth century BC. The northernmost Phoenician settlement (La Fonteta) was founded by the mid eighth century BC on the southern end of the territory that was later to be known as Iberia.28 On the remainder of the Mediterranean edge of the Iberian Peninsula, the presence of Phoenician traders is attested for the first time about the end of the eighth century BC or the first half of the seventh. Transport amphorae of a quite distinctive type,29 made in the colonial settlements of coastal Andalusia and perhaps northwestern Africa,30 constitute the vast majority of the material they traded, along with some other big containers (usually called pithoi) and tripod mortars (fig. 2.1).31 In contrast, the Phoenician merchants did not distribute table-service wares—whether Phoenician or Greek or Etruscan—among the indigenous populations, at least in significant quantities. During this period the Phoenicians from the Straits of Gibraltar Circle practiced a particular kind of colonial trade, in which production and distribution of commodities were closely linked: since they distributed almost exclusively transport amphorae that were made in and filled with products from this same area, by no means can they be considered only as middlemen in larger commercial networks. The existence of wide opportunities for the distribution of their products—which, as we shall see, derived from the nature of the social relations in the indigenous societies—probably had an important effect in shaping the nature of the economy of the Phoenician settlements of southern Spain and northern Morocco, as already noted, twenty years ago by H. Schubart and O. Arteaga.32 We may presume that, at least to a certain extent, the production in this area was centered on specialized goods like oil, wine, and salt fish, which require important investments, possibly to the detriment of cereal and other basic goods.33 From this point of view, it is

Figure 2.1 Map of sites mentioned in text. 2. Agullana 19. Aldovesta 16. Alorda Park 28. Alt de Benimaquia 7. Anglès 18. Barranc de Gàfols 9. Burriac 26. Castellet de Bernabé 20. Castellot de la Roca Roja 31. Ebusus (Ibiza) 27. Edeta (Sant Miquel de Llíria) 30. El Oral

15. Genó 6. Illa d’en Reixac (Ullastret) 21. La Ferradura 29. Les Casetes 23. Moleta del Remei 13. Montjuïc 1. Pech Maho (Pech de Mau) 12. Penya del Moro 10. Puig Castellar 25. Puntal dels Llops 3. Rhode (Roses)

24. Saguntum 22. Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà 4. Sant Martí d’Empúries/ Emporion 17. Tarragona 11. Turó de ca n’Olivé 14. Turó de la Font de la Canya 8. Turó del Vent 6. Ullastret 5. Vilanera

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also important to stress that these archaic Phoenician amphorae were traded as far as Portugal,34 as well as Carthage, Sulcis, and Ischia, although we do not know in what quantities.35 We may consequently assume that the exportation of the products contained in these amphorae, which, as we soon shall see, were widely distributed, was important— even very important—for the economy of the Phoenician settlements of the Straits of Gibraltar area (or at least some of them), as it also was for the social dynamics of the indigenous population of the Iberian area (and possibly of other regions as well). Thus a significant degree of interdependence between indigenous and colonist societies was generated. Information regarding the contents of these Phoenician amphorae is still very scarce. There are no indications about them in the written record, nor do we have any tituli picti on the amphorae themselves. Salt fish, wine, and oil have been attested through a few microresidue analyses,36 suggesting that a single type of amphora was used to transport different commodities. The number of analyses is, nevertheless, still too low for any reliable conclusion; moreover, we have to keep in mind the possibility that these amphorae were reused as large containers in indigenous contexts. On the other hand, paleocarpological analyses have proven the presence of a significant number of grape seeds in two Phoenician settlements in coastal Andalusia (Cerro del Villar and Castillo de Doña Blanca),37 but, again, these data are still too scarce to be conclusive. In sum, much work remains to be done on this crucial field. Yet wine has always been one of the major commodities in colonial trade, and it is likely that many, or even most, of the Phoenician amphorae we are dealing with were used to transport this product. One further indication that wine was indeed the basic contents of these Phoenician containers has been afforded by recent work at the site of Alt de Benimaquia.38 Here for the first time the production of wine is well attested in an indigenous context, dated to the first half of the sixth century BC. This wine was stored in locally made amphorae that, quite significantly, imitate the characteristic archaic Phoenician shape. Reliable quantitative data regarding the imported ceramics during this early stage of contact are still very scarce, but their number seems at any rate to be extremely low before the middle or the third quarter of the seventh century BC. For example, in one recently excavated settlement, Barranc de Gàfols, by the Ebro River, they amount to only 1 percent of the total number of vases and about 3 percent of the total number of sherds.39 At Sant Martí d’Empúries (a coastal site, later to be the Palià Polis of Emporion, the Greek settlement founded in the second quarter of the sixth century BC by Phocaean Greeks), the figure is about 2 percent.40

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The human groups living in Iberia at that time were prestate societies of similar, but by no means equal, sociocultural development. In coastal Catalonia and Western Languedoc, for example, the “family-level group” of socioeconomic integration seems to have been widely dominant,41 as archaeological evidence reveals very low demographic density and extensive exploitation of the territories by small human groups composed of just a few families. These groups practiced pastoralism and “swidden systems” agriculture, which implies a not fully sedentary way of life.42 On the other hand, small, entirely sedentary villages composed of seven to twenty families and established on naturally defensible sites are well attested in the Valencian area, south of the Ebro River, at least from the Middle Bronze Age, which shows an early evolution toward the formation of “local groups.” 43 This trend is also well attested in Western Catalonia by the end of the second millennium BC,44 but, as already stated, we still have to wait until the second half of the seventh century BC to find a similar development in the coastal areas of this region. As a rule—and as predicted by the cultural-materialist model of social evolution—the development of these local communities seems to be associated with demographic expansion. In coastal Catalonia this is most clearly shown by the increasing number of tombs per year from the tenth to the seventh century BC. In Valencia, where funerary evidence is very scarce, the sedentary local communities of the Middle Bronze Age constitute the first really dense network of settlement, and the same holds true for Western Catalonia in the Late Bronze Age. Demographic growth probably made the extensive exploitation of the territories no longer possible and forced families into closer cooperation in local communities in order to protect vital subsistence resources that—since there are no indications of technological improvements, despite the fact that iron technology was already known 45—had probably become scarce.46 Indeed, when local communities emerge, huge storage vases become much more frequent, suggesting that it was necessary to gather as much food as possible and keep it well protected in the settlements.47 It is no surprise, in this context, that relatively substantial defensive walls are for the first time built, and we may suspect that on the whole increasing competition was developing between groups and lineage leaders. As regards the local production of alcoholic drinks, there is no indication of the making of wine before the first half of the sixth century BC—that is, after one century of colonial contact with the Phoenicians—despite the fact that the grapevine is a native plant and a wild variety of grapes had been consumed in the Iberian area since at least Neolithic times.48 However, it is quite probable that the indigenous societies already knew some kind of alcoholic beverages and consequently had well-established alcohol-drinking patterns.

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This is suggested most of all by microresidue analyses proving that some large and medium-sized vases from the site of Genó, which may be dated to the eleventh century BC, contained a fermented beverage made from cereal.49 Furthermore, a number of microresidue analyses in third-century BC Iberian amphorae from Catalonia also suggest that production of this kind of drink persisted up to the Roman conquest, at least in northern Iberia.50 Other residues identified as belonging to honey have been found in vases from Genó and the third-century BC settlement of Puig Castellar; they suggest the possibility that another nonvinous alcoholic beverage, similar to what is called “hydromel” (mead) in classical written sources, was also known in Iberia. So alcoholic drinks were undoubtedly consumed since at least the Late Bronze Age within the indigenous cultures. Although we are completely ignorant of drinking patterns in these specific contexts, we may assume from ethnographic studies that, as already said, alcohol consumption was essentially linked to hospitality and work-party feasts.51 By the second half of the seventh century BC, imports of Phoenician amphorae (still mainly of Andalusian origin, although other provenances, like Carthage and other, not clearly identified, culturally Phoenician areas are also attested) had greatly increased in number. In coastal Catalonia, for example, they grew to a point (25 percent of the total vases; 17 percent if the site of Aldovesta is not considered) that was never again reached in Iberian protohistory (fig. 2.2).52 In contrast, table-service wares are still almost completely lacking (fig. 2.3). Notably, the imported materials are widely distributed among the indigenous sites. Most settlements that may be dated around 600 BC have yielded a more or less significant number of Phoenician pottery fragments.53 In addition, where quantitative data are available, this material constitutes an important, if variable, percentage of the ceramic vases—57 percent (!) at Aldovesta;54 15.56 percent at Moleta del Remei;55 17.86 percent at Sant Jaume-Mas d’en Serrà;56 24 percent at La Ferradura;57 9 percent at Barranc de Gàfols;58 about 10 percent at Sant Martí d’Empúries.59 Incidentally, at this last site and the surrounding area Etruscan amphorae and wine-drinking vases are also present; this is probably due to the direct agency of Etruscan traders, who by the end of the seventh century BC had commenced frequent activity along the Mediterranean coast of Gaul.60 Northern Catalonia seems therefore to lie at the intersection of two main zones of colonial influence, but apparently only Phoenician traders visited most of the Iberian coast at that time.61 We may suppose from this material evidence that lineage leaders who were able to obtain wine from Phoenician traders were using this product (and also possibly other highly valued foodstuffs transported in Phoenician

Figure 2.2 Quantitative development of Mediterranean imports from the seventh century BC to ca. 200 BC. Based on data from Alorda Park, El Oral, Castellot de la Roca Roja, Turó de la Font de la Canya, Turó de ca n’Olivé, Illa d’en Reixac (Ullastret), La Picola, Montjuïc, Puntal de Salines, Illeta dels Banyets, L’Argilera, Bellaterra (silos), Puig Castellar, and Puntal dels Llops.

Figure 2.3 Quantitative evolution of different categories of Mediterranean imports from the seventh century BC to ca. 200 BC. Based on data from Alorda Park, Montjuïc, El Oral, Castellot de la Roca Roja, Turó de la Font de la Canya, Turó de ca n’Olivé, Illa d’en Reixac (Ullastret), La Picola, Illeta dels Banyets, l’Argilera, Bellaterra (silos), Puig Castellar, Castelltuf, and Puntal dels Llops.

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amphorae) lavishly, in a strictly traditional way, to gain prestige and power through redistribution—Phoenician amphorae are frequent finds on contemporary settlements of all kinds—and hospitality, and to mobilize labor through work-party feasts. The fact that no table-service ware was imported (at least in significant quantities) would also support this assumption. Wine would thus have been used basically in the same way as indigenous alcoholic beverages had previously been, but possibly on a greater scale. Proximity to the resources sought by Phoenician traders and favorable position in communication networks probably became important strategic advantages for lineage leaders in order to gain a dominant position. The site of Aldovesta constitutes a striking example of the importance of colonial trade for clan-heads at this precise moment.62 Aldovesta is quite a small settlement (about 250 m 2) near the Ebro River (about 25 km from its ancient mouth), with only one dwelling area (and therefore only one family living in it) and large storage capacity. This structure is quite different from that of “normal” contemporary sites, which are composed of seven to twenty much smaller houses, usually of only one room each. Imported Phoenician amphorae—traces of about one hundred have been recovered— constitute, as noted, up to 57 percent of the vases. This is the highest percentage in any contemporary indigenous settlement, so we may presume a very close contact with Phoenician traders. Aldovesta has also yielded strong evidence for the melting of used bronze items in order to obtain ingots, which demonstrates that metal was one—and probably the most important— of the interests of Phoenician traders in this area. According to these lines of evidence, we may presume that Aldovesta was the dwelling of an important lineage chief who was able to establish a privileged relationship with Phoenician agents. Such a scenario also makes sense of the presence of Phoenician imports in many other sites of this area (see Fig. 2.4), since the very limited political power of lineage chiefs of prestate societies rested mainly on their personal initiative and their capacity to act as generous leaders who could distribute different kinds of goods, among which imported Phoenician wine must have been highly prized. A further step was taken in southern Iberia, where the previously mentioned site Alt de Benimaquia has yielded impressive evidence concerning the local production of wine.63 This site, which is relatively large and well protected by substantial walls, must probably be deemed one of the centers of the local emergent elite, where prestige goods were not only imported but also locally made. Funerary evidence also gives some indications of high social status linked to the possession of imported items. Most especially, recent work at the cem-

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Figure 2.4 Quantitative evaluation of provenience of amphorae imports from the seventh century BC to ca. 200 BC. Based on data from Alorda Park, Montjuïc, Mas Castellar, Cabezo Lucero, Turó de ca n’Olivé, Illa d’en Reixac (Ullastret), Puig de Sant Andreu (Ullastret), La Picola, L’Escuera, Illeta dels Banyets, l’Argilera, Tarragona, Turó del Vent, La Creueta, Vista Alegre, Can Bartomeu, Bosc del Congost.

etery of Les Casetes (La Vilajoiosa), in southern Iberia, has yielded evidence of rich tombs containing weapons, as well as Phoenician and even some exceptional Egyptian imports, while other graves are much simpler from every point of view.64 It is also worth mentioning, almost at the opposite edge of the Iberian area, the cemetery of Vilanera (l’Escala). Here recent excavation has brought to light a group of tombs that is clearly separated from the others by the grave marker (big tumulus) and the large number of grave goods they contain, including Phoenician imports.65 In the same region, the cemeteries of Agullana—where tomb 184 is particularly rich and has yielded several

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imitations of Phoenician vases 66—and Anglès 67 have provided similar, if far less impressive, evidence. As a whole, this funerary evidence is suggestive of some kind of social hierarchization, of which there was no trace in earlier cemeteries. We may conclude that by the end of the seventh century BC and the first decades of the sixth century BC, the availability of imported goods (wine being the most important among them) favored competition between lineage leaders, probably in a general context of struggle for resources as a consequence of a demographic growth process that was not supported by technological change and economic intensification. It was probably for this reason that many contemporary settlements, including Aldovesta and Alt de Benimaquia, were violently destroyed and definitely deserted in the first decades of the sixth century BC, suggesting a climate of generalized insecurity and violence. Where evidence is available (mostly in Catalonia), a similar break may be observed in the cemeteries: most of them—including the aforementioned at Les Casetes, Vilanera, Anglès, and Agullana—were abandoned at the very same time. From this conjuncture new, quite different structures arose in the course of the sixth century BC.

the e arly i be rian p eriod: ph o cae an e m po ri a ( ca. 550 – 4 00 b c) We have good archaeological evidence that by the second half of the sixth century BC several regional polities—that is, centralized political entities that controlled a territory, much larger than a local community, inhabited by thousands of dwellers—had arisen, at least in the coastal areas, and that Iberian society was stratified.68 These trends were to continue and reach their climax during the fourth and third centuries BC; after that time the Roman conquest, as a consequence of the Second Punic War, inexorably aborted the development of these regional polities. Settlement structure is one of the clearest hints in the archaeological record to the existence of these regional polities. At least one really large site (about 3 ha) already existed at Ullastret, in northern Iberia, by the second half of the sixth century BC, and some evidence suggests that Tarragona was also an important town. What is more, an impressive defensive wall, for which there are no precedents in this area and whose building would have required an important collective effort, was erected at Ullastret. Since small and middle-sized settlements continued to exist, this may not simply be conceived as a process of population concentration. Rather, this relatively complex settlement pattern hints at demographic growth, functional specialization, so-

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cial stratification, and political hierarchy, possibly with two administrative levels. It is obvious that such a process would not have been possible without technological improvements sufficiently sound to support thorough economic intensification. It is not implausible that massive adoption of iron metallurgy was the crucial innovation, more than one century after this technique was introduced in the Iberian Peninsula. Whether the initial introduction was due to the Phoenicians (to whose metallurgical activity in the eighth century BC I have already referred), to diffusion from beyond the Pyrenees, or to both, is still a controversial matter;69 but be that as it may, the crucial importance of foreign contact is evident. It was the convergence of seemingly endogenous demographic growth with exogenous technological innovation that made possible the transition to social complexity in Iberia. Without the possibility of improved technology, the population would not have grown beyond the local community level, or if it had, it would probably have led to environmental depletion and social devolution. Despite the fact that there are no signs of population or economic decline, the ratio (but not necessarily the total number) of Mediterranean imports drastically decreased during the period after 575 BC to the lowest point in Iberian protohistory (under 6 percent of the total number of vases; see fig. 2.2). Other substantial changes may also be observed in the provenience and nature of the imported material. Table-service ware now constitutes the majority of imported ceramics70 (fig. 2.3), and, in sharp contrast with the preceding period, the exotic material comes from several geographical as well as cultural areas: Punic Ebusus, the old Phoenician cities in the Straits of Gibraltar area, Etruria, and most of all from various points of the Greek world (Eastern Greece, Corinth, Attica, Massalia, and possibly the Central Mediterranean area). In fact, Greek material is now largely dominant, but in spite of the progressive importance of Attic table-service imports, there does not seem to have been a specific area that monopolized the provision to Iberia. Let us consider, for example, the available evidence for amphorae in Catalonia: six out of thirty-one come from Phoenician areas (Ibiza and coastal Andalusia); eight are Etruscan; seventeen are Greek, eight of these from Massalia, the others having been exported from miscellaneous areas (quite often not easily identifiable) in the Hellenic world.71 In the south of the Iberian area, the El Oral site has yielded quite similar evidence: sixteen Punic amphorae from the Straits of Gibraltar area, two from Etruria, and six of Greek origin, of which three are Massaliote, two are Corinthian, and one is from Chios.72 As regards the products that were traded in these amphorae, it is usually agreed that Etruscan, so-called Ionian, Chian, Massaliote, and most Corin-

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thian containers were mainly or exclusively used for the transport of wine, but we have no indications regarding Punic and other Greek products. The possibility that wine was the most important commodity traded in these transport containers is also indirectly supported by the fact that most of the table-service ware of Greek and Etruscan origin consists of wine-drinking vases. Table-service ware is mostly Attic (at least from the last quarter of the sixth century BC onward), but the so-called Ionian cups of various origins, as well as their western imitations, are also frequently found during the sixth and the first decades of the fifth century BC; to this should be added the presence of some Etrusco-Corinthian and bucchero nero vases made in Etruria. In sum, the situation is quite different if compared to the previous period, when amphorae—and only amphorae—made in one specific area (the region around the Straits of Gibraltar) and seemingly traded by merchants from that very same area constituted nearly the totality of the imports. This material evidence raises several important questions. First, why did the influx of Phoenician amphorae from the Straits of Gibraltar area almost completely stop? Second, why did the proportion of imports so drastically decrease? Third, why did the nature of the imported items change? And fourth, why is the origin of these items so varied? One reasonable answer to the first three questions is that wine started to be produced in the indigenous world in the first decades of the sixth century BC. As already mentioned, the most impressive evidence for this local production of wine has been found at the site of Alt de Benimaquia, in southern Iberia,73 but important evidence of domesticated grapes in southern Catalonia (Barranc de Gàfols, Turó de la Font de la Canya)74 at this same time suggests that wine was also being produced in this area. This local production must have been controlled by the indigenous elites (Alt de Benimaquia is clearly a site linked to elites); they could thus reduce or even eliminate their dependence on foreign imports. In addition to local production of wine, a plausible explanation for these questions lies in the fact that the society of the Early Iberian Period was a stratified one. It is quite probable that wine consumption was then largely restricted to the elites and that they used imported table-service ware as diacritical elements to underline their paramount social position. This is not to say that redistribution did not operate but that it was mainly limited to lowerranking members of the elite. Mediterranean imports are actually found, although in small number, in many different sites, but their distribution, as far as we can say from sparse quantitative data, seems to be unequal and related to the relative importance of sites in settlement patterns (from 34.3 percent

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Figure 2.5 Number of tombs per year in protohistoric northeastern Iberia.

at Illa d’en Reixac-Ullastret, a site that on other grounds may be considered very rich and important, to just 1 percent at Turó de ca n’Olivé). It is reasonable to assume that the reduction of imported goods became possible because in this early stratified society the elites’ power rested mainly on ideology, one aspect of which seems to have been a belief that its members shared a special relationship with the supernatural world and were intrinsically different from the rest of the population. An archaeological indicator that might support this interpretation is the great decrease in the number of tombs during this period of demographic expansion (see fig. 2.5). One plausible explanation for this paradox is that complex—and archaeologically recognizable—funerary rituals were being restricted to a small segment of the population that was supposed to share a particular and different nature that would justify its privileged position. The fact that most of the tombs of the Early Iberian Period were furnished with iron weapons—a type of item nearly absent in the cemeteries of the preceding periods—and other metal objects, mainly of bronze,75 would also support this interpretation. In such a case, redistribution of a large number of imported commodities would have been no longer necessary in order to preserve the social status quo. On the contrary, the accumulation of prestige capital would have required changing the nature of prestige goods and restricting their supply and distribution.76 In the regional intersocietal network, these local changes might have caused more or less serious economic problems for the Phoenician producers and merchants of the Straits of Gibraltar area,77 where some sites were deserted by this time, while others—Malaka the most important among them—

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were newly founded.78 This has often been seen as a serious economic and even political crisis, which has been linked to the conquest of Phoenician cities in the Levant by the Babylonian empire,79 problems generated by the interruption of the production of silver at Río Tinto,80 conflict between Phoenicians and the indigenous Tartessian population, and structural changes in nearby indigenous areas, especially in Andalusia.81 We must acknowledge that the real extent and nature of the changes that the Phoenician settlements of the Straits of Gibraltar area underwent are still largely unknown. However, loss of indigenous pre-Iberian markets for specialized products like wine and salt fish accounts for the abandonment of such relatively small sites as Toscanos, Cerro del Villar, and Cerro de Montecristo better than does the interruption of the silver supply from Río Tinto—which probably had more serious effects on large cities like Gadir (Cádiz)— or political and military developments at the opposite end of the Mediterranean. This is a matter that still needs much further research in Andalusia and northern Morocco. Turning to the question of why the origin of the imported items is so varied during this period, it is important to note that since the beginning of the sixth century BC the Phocaeans had extended their activities to the Western Mediterranean and had founded, about 600 BC, the colony Massalia at the site of modern Marseille. We know from several sources that Phocaeans were mainly emporoi, that is specialized intermediaries in long-distance trade, rather than direct providers of their own products.82 The miscellaneous origin of Mediterranean imports during this period is exactly what we would expect from this kind of trading activity. It is a reasonable assumption that the Phocaeans took advantage of a conjuncture in which, because of the internal social and economic evolution of the indigenous societies, the trading structure built up by the Phoenicians in the seventh century BC, founded on the production and exportation of wine, had become obsolete. This interpretation is also in accordance with the precise chronology for the foundation of the first Phocaean settlement at Sant Martí d’Empúries that derives from recent excavations at this site.83 If, as it seems, the first emporion at Sant Martí was founded slightly before the middle of the sixth century (not at the beginning of the century, as it was formerly thought), it is a logical conclusion that it was a consequence of the Phoenicians’ retreat, not its cause. One of the most striking documents concerning this Phocaean trading activity is an unfortunately fragmentary Greek commercial letter found at Emporion in 1985, in a context that may be archaeologically dated to the end of the fifth century BC.84 In spite of this, paleographic and linguistic criteria suggest that it was written toward the end of the sixth century BC. In this text—where the Emporitoi (that is, the dwellers of Emporion) are for the first

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time explicitly mentioned—the author gives instructions to the addressee to take some steps to make a commercial deal with a third person, whose name, Basped(as), seems to be Iberian. Although this last person has usually been considered an Iberian tradesman,85 I believe that he was an Iberian chief who controlled transactions with Greek merchants at a local or regional level. An Iberian place-name, Saiganthe, is mentioned, which could correspond to a historically well-known and important city, Saguntum. This Baspedas, therefore, could have been the ruler of a territorial polity whose capital could have been Saguntum. Another important archaic document has recently been found at Pech Maho.86 It is also written in Greek, and in spite of its relatively fragmentary state, it may clearly be understood as the certification of a commercial transaction in which several non-Greek persons act as witnesses for two Greek tradesmen, Kyprios and Heronoioos. The fact that some of the names used are Iberian (in addition to others that are considered by J. de Hoz to be more strictly indigenous to the Languedoc area) has been taken as a proof of the presence at Pech Maho of Iberian traders acting as Greek ones would.87 In my judgment, these Iberian names correspond to indigenous people (this area was clearly integrated into the Iberian culture by the end of the sixth century BC),88 and more specifically to dominant chiefs or members of their entourage. Both documents are therefore quite meaningful in the perspective of the prestige-goods economy model, in which trade and contact with foreign agents are centralized activities exercised by the ruling elites.

the m i d d le i b eri an p eriod: e bu s u s ( ca. 400 – 200 b c) Important changes may be perceived again in the archaeological record from the end of the fifth century to the first years of the second century BC. The trends toward increased centralization and social integration that were already recognizable in the Early Iberian Period are now particularly evident.89 As regards territorial organization, the most important sites became much larger, from about nine or ten hectares (Burriac, Tarragona) to fifteen or even eighteen hectares (Ullastret, Edeta–Sant Miquel de Llíria). These towns seemingly had the role of central places and political capitals of substantial territorial polities.90 There also were a few smaller nucleated settlements, of about two to four hectares, which probably had specialized administrative, political, and economic functions within those polities. A third order of settlements was constituted by a substantial number of villages of about one-

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half to one hectare. Two or even three administrative levels may therefore be perceived, a trait that has frequently been taken as indicative of the existence of statelike structures.91 At the bottom of the settlement hierarchy, a dense network of small, dispersed agricultural sites were scattered throughout the lowlands—most of them founded during this period—as well as strongholds and economically specialized sites. As predicted by the cultural-materialist theory of social evolution, demographic growth was certainly the main cause for the expansion of the political economy during the fourth and third centuries BC. Indeed, it was during this period that, for the first time in history, most or even the whole territory was occupied in wide areas of Iberia, and that population increased to an unprecedented level.92 Such a demographic expansion could hardly have been possible without a sound, consistent economic intensification, of which we have several signs. The first is the settlement pattern itself, since, as already noted, the whole countryside seems to have been filled and effectively exploited. Furthermore, the number and variety of iron agricultural tools greatly increased, and there is plenty of evidence for the use of iron plows, which is usually associated with the expansion of the Eurasian model of agriculture.93 Finally, another significant evidence for intensification is the fact that the number and capacity of silos greatly increased.94 These storage devices became extremely numerous in central and northeastern Catalonia and Languedoc, and, yet more important, they were frequently grouped in large numbers, forming what is usually called campos de silos (silo fields) in Spanish archaeology. These groupings were frequently placed far from large settlements and at least in some cases appear to have been protected by some kind of fortification as well as by their topographical situation. It is reasonable to think of them as large capital reserves that were controlled and managed by the elites. During this period a local writing system also was developed and became widely used. Although the Iberian language—which has no links with any other known tongue—still remains untranslatable, it is generally agreed that the longest and most complex Iberian texts (which are written on lead sheets) usually deal with administrative and/or economic matters.95 This, coupled with the evident complexity of the settlement structure and the economy, suggests the existence of a relatively developed political and administrative system, of an archaic state type. We may suppose that the growth in size of the Iberian societies made ideology insufficient—though still necessary—to preserve social stability and required the development of administrative power and direct control over society.96 Colonial trade too underwent some significant changes during this pe-

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riod. The quantity of imported material increased considerably (up to 12 percent of the total number of vases by the end of the third century BC; refer to fig. 2.2), although not to the point that had been attained in immediately preIberian times. The reasons for the increase could ultimately lie in the costs of establishing an administrative system in which redistribution of prestige goods must have played an essential role. Likely it was also a response to a situation of instability due to competition for arable land, which probably made it necessary to reinforce social cohesion. Indeed, we know from literary sources that there were “traditional” enmities and conflicts between different ethnic groups (for example, between Suessetani and Lacetani, after Livy 34.20), a fact that could have been guessed based on the effort that was devoted to fortification. Growing populations would have led to ever-increasing competition between polities for arable land and thus to the need to enhance internal stability. We may presume that the growing number of foreign goods, distributed widely at this time among literally all Iberian sites, was one of the means to achieve these aims in this particular historical context. The proportional number of imports reached its highest point in the last decades of the third century BC, when, due to the Second Punic War, instability was particularly intense—a fact that could further support this assumption (though the presence of foreign armies might also account for it). As for the nature of the imports, table-service wares was still the most important category, but the proportional number of amphorae increased (see again fig. 2.3; see also note 67). Again, as in archaic times, most of the imported amphorae found in the Iberian and neighboring areas were products of the large colonial cities established in the far western Mediterranean: Massalia, Ebusus, and the old Phoenician towns of the Straits of Gibraltar Circle (see fig. 2.6). Their differential distribution shows that these colonial centers respectively headed three large, relatively impermeable areas of commercial influence.97 One of these areas was constituted by Iberia and the Balearic Islands 98 and was mainly (although probably not exclusively) visited by Ebusitan tradesmen, especially during the fourth century BC (up to 62.5 percent of the imported amphorae found in this area are Ebusitan; see fig. 2.4). It is only in the last decades of the third century BC, when Iberia became directly involved in the great political and military conflicts of the Central and Western Mediterranean, that Carthaginian and Greco-Italic amphorae become relevant from a quantitative point of view, although Ebusitan transport containers still remain the most important, even if only slightly. In contrast, Etruscan amphorae were no longer present, and those from Massalia and other Greek proveniences always represent a strict minority. We may conclude from this evidence that Western Mediterranean Greek and Pu-

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Figure 2.6 Areas of commercial influence in the Western Mediterranean based on the diffusion of amphorae.

nic colonial centers developed specialized economies, mainly centered on the production and exportation of wine, oil, and salt fish, and, to a lesser extent, of table service and other kinds of pottery.99 If so, they would probably have depended on production along the Iberian coast and in the Balearic Islands for a supply of bulk goods. As a matter of fact, this was the precise situation of Marseille in the sixteenth century AD: its economy was then based to a large extent on the production and exportation of wine, to the point that the city depended on imported corn to feed its population.100 In this context, one important question is why the Ebusitan agricultural production for exportation arose precisely at this rather late moment, while the first Phoenician settlement in the island is dated to about 700 BC (see note 24) and there had been continuous Phoenician-Punic occupation ever since.101 One reasonable assumption is that the extensive agricultural colonization of the island was a response to the demand of novel prestige goods among Iberian elites, especially after the upsurge of administrative power and the need to intensify redistribution made the renewal of power symbols necessary. The contents of the commercial amphorae are not always easy to ascertain. We know that Greco-Italic containers were used to transport wine, and

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this is probably true for Massaliote and most of the other Greek amphorae as well. In contrast, and given that literary and epigraphic information is completely lacking, it is extremely difficult to state what the contents of Punic amphorae were. Salt fish was a major product of the Straits of Gibraltar area, and it seems probable, but by no means certain, that most Ebusitan containers transported wine.102 Wine may also have been the main contents of the cylindrical Carthaginian containers that are frequent finds on Iberian sites of the second half of the third century BC.103 Be that as it may, we can assume that imported amphorae transported highly valued foodstuffs, while locally produced wine and beer were kept in the much more numerous Iberian amphorae. As regards other, non-amphoric ceramic imports, table-service wares were almost exclusively Attic red-figure and black-gloss types during the fourth century BC. In the third century BC, Attic imports were replaced by other black-gloss productions, mainly from Greek workshops in the Gulf of Lion and the Greek city of Rhode (now Rosas, northern Catalonia), and to a much lesser extent from Italy (Atelier des Petites Estampilles, the ateliers at Cales, etc.) and Ebusus. Only in the last decades of the third century BC did black-gloss Campanian A from Naples, which was traded with Greco-Italic amphorae, become the dominant imported tableware. As for the functional use of these vases, J.-P. Morel has shown that 49 percent of the Attic blackgloss imports in southern Iberia may be considered drinking vases, while the rest are mainly large bowls that were probably used for solid food consumption; dishes, on the other hand, are extremely rare.104 The situation was, in fact, quite similar in the rest of the Iberian littoral as far as Barcelona. But farther north, drinking vases are much more numerous (about 60–70 percent), perhaps attesting some kind of direct influence from the Greek cities of the Gulf of Lion and northern Catalonia.105 Red-figure craters are also relatively frequent in both areas, but oinochoai are always extremely rare. At any rate, both Iberian assemblages of imported Attic tableware are considerably different from the Hellenic one 106—and from the Carthaginian as well 107—a fact that pleads for specifically Iberian demand for and uses of the Greek vases (although these uses might have been thought of as truly foreign by the indigenous populations). It is also important to recall the existence at some Iberian sites of imported cooking pots, mostly made in Carthage or in its neighborhood, though some of them, of unknown origin, could be Greek or local versions of Greek ware. This kind of pottery, which was never abundant, is already well attested in the fourth century BC but reached its highest point only in the last decades of the third century BC.108

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Turning to a quantitative and functional analysis of the different classes of imported pottery at different sites, their distribution probably reflects, at least to some extent, the hierarchical organization of society, which is one of the central ideas of the prestige-goods system model, namely that prestige-goods are redistributed along social lines in order to maintain the social system. On the one hand, it is easy to prove that the distribution of imported pottery on different sites and different kinds of sites does not only, or even primarily, depend on geographical situation and proximity to communication routes. Let us consider, for example, a few settlements on the Catalan littoral: Puig Castellar,109 Montjuïc, Turó de ca n’Olivé,110 Alorda Park, and Castellot de la Roca Roja.111 All these sites lie near the coastline, except the last one, which is located on the course of the Ebro River, a very important thoroughfare for communication between the Mediterranean and the interior of the Iberian Peninsula. It seems, therefore, a reasonable statement that all these sites had equal access to imported goods traded by Punic, Greek, or Italic agents. However, the percentage of imported pottery varies greatly among them, ranging, in the fourth century BC, from just 3 percent at Castellot de la Roca Roja to 13 percent at Montjuïc. The state of affairs was more or less the same in the third century BC: from 3.35 percent at Puig Castellar to 20.85 percent at Alorda Park (see fig. 2.7). Of course, it is not only the number of imports that must be taken into account but also their nature. More specifically, it is a reasonable assumption

Figure 2.7 Percentage of imports at Iberian settlements of coastal Catalonia in the fourth and third centuries BC.

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Figure 2.8 Percentages of different categories of imported pottery at several functionally and socially different settlements.

that the contents of amphorae were the most highly prized of the imported goods and consequently that a particular concentration of this kind of containers in a given site is indicative of high status. We can equally suppose that larger table-service vessels— especially if elaborately decorated, for example in red-figure technique—were assigned a higher value. Thus a quantitative approach taking into account these differences would give a valuable glimpse into the status of the dwellers of different sites. From this point of view, it is important to notice that amphorae are particularly numerous, as compared to table-service ware and “plain pottery,” in the sites that received the largest quantities of imported material, while sites where the total number of imports is low also have a proportionally poor representation of amphorae (fig. 2.8). Available data for the proportional distribution of black-gloss and red-figure pottery in different settlements are still scarce, but on the whole they would tend to support the idea of differential distribution based on social criteria. For example, at Alorda Park, where ceramic imports, as a whole, and amphorae, in particular, are comparatively abundant, red-figure Attic pottery constitutes up to 25.8 percent of the total number of Attic table-service vases, while it amounts to only 17 percent at Puig Castellar and just 7 percent at Penya del Moro, among other sites in coastal Catalonia. On the other hand, it is also important to remember that some of these red-figure vases are large vessels, including craters (especially bell craters) that carry elaborate painted decoration. It is probably not by chance that craters are particularly frequent

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at Alorda Park, where imported material and particularly imported amphorae are very abundant (14.3 percent of Attic vases), while they are rare or nearly absent at other sites (6.7 percent at Montjuïc; 5.4 percent at Turó del Vent; 3.8 percent at Puig Castellar). Given that craters are an essential element in the Greek way of drinking wine, the fact that they are particularly frequent in sites where other items of material culture suggest a strong presence of the Iberian elite indicates that these vases were probably used in a diacritical way, to underline a different way of drinking (even if it was not exactly the proper Greek way) and the links that united the Iberian elites with the exterior world of colonizers. This idea is also probably useful to explain the presence at some Iberian sites of a certain amount of imported cooking ware, to which I have already referred. This kind of material has frequently been dismissed as an unimportant commodity used to fill empty spaces in cargoes. That does not explain, however, why the Iberians were ready to acquire such unappealing ceramics, especially since they do not seem appropriate for local cooking practices, since their shapes are completely different from those of their Iberian homologues. The use of these cooking vases to prepare Greekor Punic-type cuisine (or at least one supposed to be so) would also have a diacritical function, underlining the elites’ high status through the use of foreign practices. Before we move to another topic, it is very important to note that other aspects of the archaeological record also indicate that the settlements where imported pottery is more frequent and of better quality were richer than the others, probably indicating a high concentration of members of the social elite. Alorda Park, for example, is quite a small site (about 2,500 square meters), but it has a proportionally large and elaborate fortification wall that protects a small number of large and complex houses. These are very peculiar elements when compared with rural contemporary settlements in the same area, which may be of equal size or even larger but lack fortifications and have a very different structure. As for Ullastret, it is the largest Iberian city in Catalonia (about 18 hectares). Tarragona, too, is a large Iberian town (at least 9–10 hectares) and probably the capital of historical Cessetania,112 while Montjuïc, though still largely unknown, seems to have been an important port and probably the city of Barkeno, which is known through silver coins dated to the last decades of the third century BC. On the other hand, the settlements where Mediterranean imports are fewer and/or poorer usually are considered to have been second-order towns (such as Turó de ca n’Olivé), villages (such as Puig Castellar), farms (such as Castellet de Bernabé, near Valencia, where imported material is extremely scarce 113), or military small forts (such as Castellot de la Roca Roja or, near Valencia, Puntal dels Llops, a site

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where imported material constitutes only 0.63 percent of the total number of vases 114). Thus we may reasonably conclude that the differential distribution of imported material in Iberian settlements is patterned according to social criteria, although more quantitative studies are needed for a full understanding of the many nuances that probably remain to be discovered.

Conclusion The material evidence reviewed in section 3 fits reasonably well with the assumptions that derive from the theoretical models introduced in section 2. The first important conclusion, then, is that, as predicted by the culturalmaterialist model of sociocultural change, endogenous demographic growth was the basic mover for the transition from small-scale societies to the early states of the Middle Iberian Period. That being said, it is equally clear that foreign contact was also a crucial factor for building new social orders and then reproducing them. To begin with, this is obvious from the introduction of iron metallurgy, which was a necessary step for economic intensification and population increase beyond the limits of the local-community type of society. Whether this was due to the Phoenician colonists of southern Spain or to diffusion from beyond the Pyrenees does not really matter for my argument: the important fact is that the processes started by demographic growth would not have caused sociocultural change without exotic links. Next, from the seventh century BC onward trade appears to have been an important factor of a dynamic, dialectical relationship between indigenous and colonial societies, which resulted in profound changes on both sides. The benefits of a world-system approach—not to be conflated with I. Wallerstein’s specific theory about modern world-systems relations 115—lie precisely in the ability to consider the repercussions of systemic relations for each component of the intersocietal network and the entire system. From its very beginning, colonial trade with indigenous societies—which was conditioned by the nature of these societies— contributed to shape them into new forms by strengthening internally generated factors of change. These changes in the indigenous world were, for their part, responsible for new economic strategies and possibly for new social relations within the colonial areas. Thus the importance of alcohol—and possibly other foodstuffs—as prestige goods among preIberian societies may have enhanced specialization of Phoenician agriculture in southern Spain toward the production of wine. Conversely, some indigenous lineage heads’ capacity to acquire large amounts of alcoholic drinks probably stimulated, in its turn, the initial processes of social hierarchization. When the indigenous demand changed in the sixth century BC, as a

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consequence of the local production of wine and changing social structure, the Phoenician economy had to readapt and opportunities for good business arose for other colonial agents, the Phocaeans, who did not primarily distribute their own agricultural products but rather served as middlemen. Although imported wine arrived only in limited quantities, in this stratified society the use of imported drinking-vases would have sufficed to underline the differences between the drinking patterns of the ruling elites and the commoners. During the fourth and third centuries BC, Iberian polities developed into archaic states, with relatively complex administrative structures. The proportional volume of imports, as well as their “quality” (mostly measured by the proportion of amphorae), considerably increased; this was probably due to a need for establishing the new administrative structures and preserving social cohesion and stability in a context of sharp competition between polities and, by the end of the third century BC, generalized conflict due to the extension of the Second Punic War to Iberia. It is important to point out that most of the imported amphorae found from this period, as well as a considerable number of the third-century BC table-service wares, were made in the colonial centers of the west, showing once again that their economies were largely shaped by indigenous demand. The Iberian elites’ increasing demand for new prestige goods is a plausible explanation for the rural colonization of Punic Ibiza, which did not develop prior to the mid-fifth century BC. In summary, the history of ancient colonial relations in the far western Mediterranean is to a large extent one of deep interdependency between the indigenous societies and the Phoenician and Greek populations that settled in this area from the eighth century BC, thus forming an integrated and dynamic intersocietal system that linked differently structured and unequally developed societies and was one of the major causes of the long-term changes within them until the Roman conquest.

note s 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

De Hoz 2001. Also known as “La Rábita.” On these sites see Marcet and Sanmartí-Grego 1989; Buscató 1999. Cunliffe 1993; Sanmartí 2000b; Wagner 2000. Cunliffe 1993; Sanmartí 2000b. E.g., Gracia 2000. E.g., Trias 1967–68; Rouillard 1991; Sanmartí 1991; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez 2001. 8. E.g., Trias 1967–68; Ramon 1995; Principal-Ponce 1998; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez 2001.

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9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

Ramon 1995:264–66. Biers and McGovern 1990. Juan-Tresserras and Matamala 2004. Some glimpses on this subject have been given in a few papers, most particularly in Asensio and Sanmartí 1998. Tarradell 1962:238; Maluquer de Motes 1966:18–21. Junyent 2002:28. Cabrera 2000. E.g., Junyent 2002:31–32; Cabrera 2000:175. Sanderson 1995:183–85. Harris 1979; Johnson and Earle 1987/2000. Frankenstein and Rowlands 1978. Dietler 1990, 1996, 1999. Demoule 1999. Chase-Dunn and Hall 1991. C 14 dating suggests even an earlier date, by the second half of the ninth century BC (Aubet 1993:263). This colonial action, however, also extended as far as Portugal, the Atlantic Moroccan coast, and the Island of Ibiza, where an important settlement, Sa Caleta, was founded at about 700 BC or slightly later. For a general overview on Phoenician colonization on the Mediterranean far west, see Aubet 2001. Schubart 1999. Rovira 2005. Some scholars hold that this settlement was not a true Phoenician colony. In their view, it is rather an indigenous site that received a particularly large number of Phoenician imports and was strongly influenced by Phoenician culture (Azuar et al. 1998, 2000). Amphorae of two quite distinctive types (T-10.1.1.1. and T-10.1.2.1; Roman 1995). Ramon 1995:229–31. Vives-Ferrándiz 2005:81–147. Schubart and Arteaga 1986:510. As regards the agricultural nature of Phoenician colonization in Southern Spain and a hypothesis about its extension to the interior of Andalusia and Extremadura, see Wagner and Alvar 1989 and 2003. Arruda 2005; see also chapter 4 in this volume. Ramon 1995:281–82. Juan-Tresserras and Matamala 2004. Catalá 1999; Aubet and Buxó 1999. Gómez Bellard and Guérin 1994, 1999. Sanmartí et al. 2000:152. Aquilué et al. 2000:288.

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41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

71. 72.

Johnson and Earle 1987/2000. Wolf 1969; Garcia 2000, 2004; Sanmartí 2001a, 2004. Gil-Mascarell and Aranegui 1981; Jover 1999. Maya, Cuesta, and López 1998. The iron items that date to this period are almost exclusively prestige elements, like razors, rings, and knives (Ruiz Zapatero 1985:852). Johnson and Earle 1987/2000:33. Maya, Cuesta, and López 1998; Sanmartí et al. 2000. Buxó 1995. Juan-Tresserras 1998. Juan-Tresserras 2000. Dietler 1990. The quantification system used in this chapter has been developed by the team working under Michel Py’s direction at Lattes (ancient Lattara), near Montpellier (Eastern Languedoc): Py et al. 1991. All figures refer to the minimum number of individuals (MNI) as obtained from the quantification of vessel rims, handles, and bases. Vives-Ferrándiz 2005:81–147; Asensio et al. 2000; Gracia 2000. Mascort, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1991a, 1991b. Gracia 2000. Ibid. Ibid. Sanmartí et al. 2000. Aquilué et al. 2000:288. For general distribution maps see also Asensio et al. 2000 and Gracia 2000 (Catalonia), Mata and Burriel 2000 (Valencia), and VivesFerrándiz 2005:82 (from Murcia to southern Catalonia). Py 1995. Sanmartí, Asensio, and Martín 2006. Mascort, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1991a, 1991b. Gómez Bellard and Guérin 1994, 1999. García Gandía and Padró 2002–3. Aquilué et al. 2008:178–86. Palol 1958. Oliva and Riuró 1968. Ruiz and Sanmartí 2003. Junyent 1992. The relatively high percentage of amphorae (35.5 percent) indicated for this period in figure 2.3 is exclusively due to one site, El Oral, where it constitutes 82 percent of the individuals. The figures are much smaller in Catalonian sites, ranging from 0 to 35 percent. The high number of Punic amphorae in the same site also accounts for the large figure (37!) in figure 2.4. Sanmartí, Asensio, and Martín 2002. Abad et al. 2003:88.

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73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109.

Gómez Bellard and Guérin 1994 and 1999. Information kindly provided by D. Asensio. Fletcher 1965; Maluquer de Motes 1984 and 1987, among others. Kim 2001:464. As a matter of fact, the number of grape seeds found at the Phoenician settlement of Cerro del Villar drastically decreases during its last occupation phase, in the first half of the sixth century BC (Catalá 1999; Aubet and Buxó 1999). Aubet 1987:276–78. Arteaga, Padró, and Sanmartí-Grego 1978:134–35; Schubart and Arteaga 1986:505–6. Aubet 1987:276. Delgado, Fernández, and Ruiz 2000. Morel 1990. For the precise meaning of the word emporos, see Reed 2003:6–14. Aquilué et al. 1999. Sanmartí-Grego and Santiago 1987. De Hoz 1994:247; Gracia 1998:52, 54, 60. Lejeune, Pouilloux, and Solier 1988. De Hoz 1994:247; Gracia 1998:52, 54, 60. Gailledrat 1997. Ruiz and Sanmartí 2003. Mata 2001; Sanmartí 2001a and b; Ruiz and Sanmartí 2003. Wright and Johnson 1975:267; Marcus and Feinman 1998:8–9; Flannery 1998:17, 55. Sanmartí 2001a; Ruiz and Sanmartí 2003. Wolf 1969; Alonso 1999; Rovira 2000. Asensio, Francès, and Pons 2002. De Hoz 1993, 1994; Sanmartí 2001a and b. Similar processes have been described by J. Kim (2001:466). Sanmartí 2000b, contra Gracia 1998:51–52. Guerrero 1997; also Sanmartí 2000b. For Ibiza, Ramon 1985:37 and 1991:148–49; Sanmartí 2000b; Gómez Bellard 2003:226–27. Bertucchi 1990:48. The Phoenician town of Ibosim, later to become Roman Ebusus and modern Ibiza (or Eivissa), was founded by 600 BC. Ramon 1991:131–35. Ramon 1995:266. Morel 1994. Bats 1989; Sanmartí 2000a. Bats 1989; Sanmartí 2000a. Morel 1994. Sanmartí and Asensio 2005. Ferrer and Rigo 2003.

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110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115.

Asensio et al. 2000–2001. Belarte, Noguera, and Sanmartí 2002. Pou, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1993. Guérin 2003. Bonet and Mata 2002. Wallerstein 1991.

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Asensio, D., et al. 2000. “L’expansion phénicienne sur la côte orientale de la péninsule ibérique.” In Th. Janin, ed., Mailhac et le Premier âge du Fer en Europe occidentale: Hommages à Odette et Jean Taffanel, Actes du Colloque International de Carcassonne, 249–60. Lattes, France. ———. 2000–2001. “Resultats de la campanya de 1998/1999 i estat de la qüestió sobre el nucli laietà del turó de ca n’Olivé (Cerdanyola, Vallès Occidental).” Pyrenae 31–32:163–99. Aubet, M. E. 1987. Tiro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente. Barcelona. ———. 1993. Tiro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente. Rev. ed. Barcelona. ———. 2001. The Phoenicians and the West: Politics, colonies, and trade. 2nd rev. English ed. Cambridge. Aubet, M. E., and R. Buxó. 1999. “Los recursos y la economía colonial.” In M. A. Aubet et al., Cerro del Villar, vol. 1, El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, 334–39. Seville. Azuar, R., et al. 1998. “El asentamiento orientalizante e ibérico antiguo de ‘La Rábita,’ Guardamar del Segura (Alicante): Avance de las excavaciones 1996–1998.” Trabajos de Prehistoria 55(2):111–26. ———. 2000. “L’établissement orientalisant et ibérique ancien de ‘La Rábita,’ Guardamar del Segura (Alicante, Espagne): Première et seconde campagnes de fouille, juin 1996 et avril 1997.” In M. Olcina and J. A. Soler, eds., Scripta in honorem Enrique A. Llobregat Conesa, 265–85. Alicante, Spain. Bats, M. 1989. “Consommation, production et distribution de la vaisselle céramique.” In P. Rouillard and M.-Ch. Villanueva-Puig, eds., Grecs et Ibères au IV es. av. J.-C. Commerce et iconographie: Actes de la table ronde de Bordeaux, 197–216. Bordeaux, France. Belarte, C., J. Noguera, and J. Sanmartí. 2002. “El jaciment del Castellot de la Roca Roja (Benifallet, Baix Ebre): Un patró d’hàbitat ibèric en el curs inferior de l’Ebre.” In I Jornades d’Arqueologia, Ibers a l’Ebre: Recerca i interpretació, Ilercavonia, 3:89–110. Barcelona. Bertucchi, G. 1979. Les amphores et le vin de Marseille, VIe s. avant J.-C.–IIe s. après J.-C. Supplément 25, Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise. Paris. Biers, W. R., and P. E. McGovern, eds. 1990. Organic contents and ancient vessels: Materials analysis and archaeological investigation. MASCA Research Papers in Science and Archaeology 7. Philadelphia. Bonet, H., and C. Mata. 2002. El Puntal dels Llops: Un fortín edetano. Serie de Trabajos Varios 99. Valencia, Spain. Buscató, L. 1999. La Colònia grega de Rhode: una aproximació al seu origen, evolució i desaparició. Girona, Spain. Buxó, R. 1995. “Sobre la vinya i la viticultura durant la prehistòria a l’occident de la Mediterrània.” In Cultures i medi de la prehistòria a l’edat mitjana: 20 anys d’arqueologia pirinenca; Homenatge al Professor Jean Guilaine, X Col·loqui Internacional d’Arqueologia de Puigcerdà, 105–12. Puigcerdà, Spain. Cabrera, P. 2000. “El comercio jonio arcaico en la Península Ibérica.” In P. Ca-

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brera and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani Occidental, 165–75. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Catalá, M. 1999. “La agricultura: Los recursos vegetales a partir de las semillas y los frutos.” In M. A. Aubet et al., Cerro del Villar, vol. 1, El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, 307–12. Seville. Chase-Dunn, Chr., and Th. D. Hall. 1991. “Conceptualizing Core/Periphery Hierarchies for Comparative Study.” In Chr. Chase-Dunn and Th. D. Hall, eds., Core/ periphery relations in precapitaist worlds, 5–44. Boulder. Cunliffe, B. 1993. “Core-periphery relationships: Iberia and the Mediterranean.” In P. Bilde et al., eds., Centre and periphery in the Hellenistic world, 53–85. Aarhus. De Hoz, J. 1993. “La lengua y escritura ibéricas y las lenguas de los iberos.” In Actas del V coloquio sobre lenguas y culturas prerromanas de la Península Ibérica, 635–66. Salamanca. ———. 1994. “Griegos e iberos: Testimonios epigráficos de una cooperación mercantil.” In P. Cabrera, R. Olmos, and E. Sanmartí-Grego, eds., Iberos y griegos: Lecturas desde la diversidad, 243–71. Huelva Arqueológica 13(2). Huelva, Spain. ———. 2001. “Algunas reflexiones sobre fronteras étnicas y lingüísticas.” In L. BerrocalRangel and Ph. Gardes, eds., Entre celtas e íberos: Las poblaciones protohistóricas de las galias e Hispania, 77–88. Madrid. Delgado, A., A. Fernández, and A. Ruiz. 2000. “Las transformaciones del s. VI a.n.e. en Andalucía: Una visión desde las relaciones entre fenicios e indígenas.” In Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos (Cádiz, 1995), 4:1781–87. Cádiz. Demoule, J.-P. 1999. “La société contre les princes.” In P. Ruby, ed., Les Princes de la Protohistoire et l’émergence de l’État: Actes de la table Ronde internationale de Naples (1994), 125–34. Collection Centre Jean Bérard 17 / Collection École Française de Rome 252. Naples. Dietler, M. 1990. “Driven by drink: The role of drinking in the political economy and the case of early Iron Age France.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 9:352–406. ———. 1996. “Feasts and commensal politics in the political economy: Food, power, and status in prehistoric Europe.” In Food and the status quest: An interdisciplinary perspective, 87–125. Oxford. ———. 1999. “Rituals of commensality and the politics of state formation in the ‘princely’ societies of early Iron Age Europe.” In P. Ruby, ed., Les Princes de la Protohistoire et l’émergence de l’État: Actes de la table Ronde internationale de Naples (1994), 135–52. Collection Centre Jean Bérard 17 / Collection École Française de Rome 252. Naples. Domínguez Monedero, A., and C. Sánchez. 2001. Greek pottery from the Iberian Peninsula: Archaic and classical periods. Leiden. Ferrer, C., and A. Rigo. 2003. Puig Castellar: Els ibers a Santa Coloma de Gramenet; 5 anys d’intervenció arqueològica (1998–2002). Monografies Locals 2. Barcelona.

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Flannery, K. V. 1998. “The ground plans of archaic states.” In G. M. Feinman and J. Marcus, eds., Archaic states, 15–57. Santa Fe, NM. Fletcher, D. 1965. La necrópolis de La Solivella (Alcalá de Chivert). Serie de Trabajos Varios 32. Valencia, Spain. Frankenstein, S., and M. J. Rowlands. 1978. “The internal structure and regional context of Early Iron Age society in south-western Germany.” Bulletin of the Institute of Archaeology 15:73–112. Gailledrat, E. 1997. Les Ibères de l’Èbre à l’Hérault: VI e –IV e s. avant J.-C. Monographies d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne 1. Lattes, France. Garcia, D. 2000. “Sistemas agrarios, cultivo de los cereales y urbanización en Galia meridional.” In R. Buxó and E. Pons, eds., Els productes alimentaris d’origen vegetal a l’edat del Ferro de l’Europa Occidental: De la producció al consum, 189–96. Sèrie Monogràfica 18. Girona. ———. 2004. La Celtique méditerranéenne: Habitats et sociétés en Languedoc et en Provence, VIII e –II e siècles av. J.-C. Paris. García Gandía, J.-R., and J. Padró. 2002–3. “Una cantimplora de faienza egipcia procedente de la necrópolis de Les Casetes (La Vila Joiosa, Alicante).” Pyrenae 33–34:347–67. Gil-Mascarell, M., and C. Aranegui. 1981. El Bronce Final y el comienzo de la Edad del Hierro en el País Valenciano. Monografías del Laboratorio de Arqueología de Valencia 1. Valencia, Spain. Gómez Bellard, C. 2003. “Colonos sin indígenas: El campo ibicenco en época feniciopúnica.” In C. Gómez Bellard, ed., Ecohistoria del paisaje agrario: La agricultura fenicio-púnica en el Mediterráneo, 219–35. Valencia, Spain. Gómez Bellard, C., and C. Guérin. 1994. “Testimonios de producción vinícola arcaica en l’Alt de Benimaquia (Denia).” In P. Cabrera, R. Olmos, and E. Sanmartí-Grego, eds., Iberos y griegos: Lecturas desde la diversidad, 9–31. Huelva Arqueológica 13(2). Huelva, Spain. ———. 1999. “La production du vin dans l’Espagne préromaine.” In R. Buxó and E. Pons, eds., Els productes alimentaris d’origen vegetal a l’edat del Ferro de l’Europa Occidental: De la producció al consum, 379–87. Sèrie Monogràfica 18. Girona, Spain. Gracia, F. 1998. “El comercio protohistórico en el noreste peninsular entre los siglos VII–III a.C.: Balance de investigación 1985–1997.” In Comerç i vies demunicació (1000 aC-700 dC): XI Col·loqui Internacional d’Arqueologia de Puigcerdà, 51–72. Puigcerdà, Spain. ———. 2000. “El comercio arcaico en el nordeste de la Península Ibérica: Estado de la cuestión y perspectivas.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani Occidental, 257– 76. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Guérin, C. 2003. El Castellet de Bernabé y el Horizonte Ibérico Pleno Edetano. Serie de Trabajos Varios 101. València. Guerrero, V. M. 1997. Colonización púnica de Mallorca: La documentación arqueológica y el contexto histórico. Palma de Mallorca, Spain.

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Harris, M. 1979. Cultural materialism: The struggle for a science of culture. New York. Johnson, A. W., and T. K. Earle. 1987/2000. The evolution of human societies: From foraging group to agrarian state. Stanford, CA. Jover, F. J. 1999. Una nueva lectura del “bronce valenciano.” Alicante, Spain. Juan-Tresserras, J. 1998. “La cerveza prehistórica: Investigaciones arqueobotánicas y experimentales.” In J. L. Maya, F. Cuesta, and J. López, eds., Genó: Un poblado ibérico del Bronce Final en el Bajo Segre (Lleida), 239–52. Barcelona. ———. 2000. “La cerveza: Un producto de consumo básico entre las comunidades ibéricas del N.E. peninsular.” In C. Mata and G. Pérez-Jordà, eds., Ibers: Agricultors, artesans i comerciants, III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, Saguntum, 3:139–45. Juan-Tresserras, J., and J. C. Matamala. 2004. “Los contenidos de las ánforas en el Mediterráneo occidental: Primeros resultados.” In J. Sanmartí, D. Ugolini, J. Ramon Torres, and D. Asensio, eds., La circulació d’àmfores al Mediterrani occidental durant la Protohistòria (segles VIII–III a.C.): Aspectes quantitatius i anàlisi de continguts, II Reunió Internacional d’Arqueologia de Calafell, 283–92. Serie Arqueomediterrània 8. Barcelona. Junyent, E. 1992. “Els origens de la metallúrgia del ferro.” Revista d’Arqueologia de Ponent (Lleida, Spain) 2:21–34. ———. 2002. “Els segles de formació: El bronze final i la primera edat del ferro a la depressió de l’Ebre.” In I Jornades d’Arqueologia: Ibers a l’Ebre—Recerca i interpretació, Ilercavonia, 3:17–35. Barcelona. Kim, J. 2001. “Elite strategies and the spread of technological innovation: The spread of iron in the Bronze Age societies of Denmark and southern Korea.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 20:442–78. Lejeune, M., J. Pouilloux, and Y. Solier. 1988. “Étrusque et ionien archaïques sur un plomb de Pech Maho (Aude).” Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise 21:19–59. Maluquer de Motes, J. 1966. El impacto colonial griego y el comienzo de la vida urbana en Cataluña. Barcelona. ———. 1984. La necrópolis paleoibérica de “Mas de Mussols,” Tortosa, Tarragona. Barcelona. ———. 1987. La necrópolis paleoibérica de Mianes en Santa Bárbara (Tarragona). Barcelona. Marcet, R., and E. Sanmartí-Grego. 1989. Empúries. Barcelona. Marcus, J., and G. M. Feinman. 1998. Introduction to G. M. Feinman and J. Marcus, eds., Archaic states, 3–13. Santa Fe, NM. Mascort, M., J. Sanmarti, and J. Santacana. 1991a. “Aldovesta: Les bases d’un modèle commercial dans le cadre de l’expansion phénicienne au nord-est de la Péninsule Ibérique.” In II Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici, 3:1073–79. Rome. ———. 1991b. El jaciment protohistòric d’Aldovesta (Benifallet) i el comerç fenici arcàic a la Catalunya meridional. Tarragona, Spain. Mata, C. 2001. “Límites y fronteras en Edetania.” Archivo de Prehistoria Levantina 24:243–72.

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Mata, C., and J. M. Burriel. 2000. “Importaciones de los siglos VI–V aC en el centro y norte del país Valenciano.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani occidental, 233– 56. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Maya, J. L., F. Cuesta, and J. López, eds. 1998. Genó: Un poblado ibérico del Bronce Final en el Bajo Segre (Lleida). Barcelona. Morel, J.-P. 1990. “Marseille et les établissements phocéens dans le mouvement colonial grec.” Les Dossiers d’Archéologie 154:4–13. ———. 1994. “La céramique attique à vernis noir en Ibérie et à Carthage: Une comparaison.” In P. Cabrera, R. Olmos, and E. Sanmartí-Grego, eds., Iberos y griegos: Lecturas desde la diversidad, 323–44. Huelva Arqueológica 13(2). Oliva, M., and F. Riuró. 1968. “Nuevos hallazgos en la necrópolis hallstáttica de Anglès (Gerona).” Pyrenae 4:67–99. Palol, P. de. 1958. La necrópolis hallstáttica de Agullana. Bibliotheca Praehistorica Hispana 1. Madrid. Pou, J., J. Sanmartí, and J. Santacana. 1993. “El poblament ibèric a la Cessetània.” El poblament ibèric a Catalunya, Laitània 8:183–206. Principal-Ponce, J. 1998. Las importaciones de vajilla fina de barniz negro en la Cataluña sur y occidental durante el siglo III aC. BAR International Series 729, Western Mediterranean Series 2. Oxford. Py, M. 1995. “Les Étrusques, les Grecs et la fondation de Lattes.” In P. Arcelin et al., eds., Sur les pas des Grecs en Occident: Hommages à André Nickels, 261–76. Collection Études Massaliètes 4. Lattes, France. Py, M., et al. 1991. Lattara 4: Système d’enregistrement, de gestion et d’exploitation de la documentation issue des fouilles de Lattes. Lattes, France. Ramon, J. 1985. Els monuments antics de les illes Pitiüses. Ibiza, Spain. ———. 1991. Las ánforas púnicas de Ibiza. Trabajos del Museo Arqueológico de Ibiza 23. Ibiza, Spain. ———. 1995. Las ánforas púnicas del Mediterráneo central y occidental. Col·lecció Instrumenta 2. Barcelona. Reed, C. M. 2003. Maritime traders in the ancient Greek world. Cambridge. Rouillard, P. 1991. Les Grecs et la Péninsule Ibérique du VIIIe. au IVe. siècle avant JésusChrist. Publications du Centre Pierre Paris 21. Paris. Rovira, C. 2000. “Aproximación a la agricultura protohistórica del noreste de la Península Ibérica mediante el utillaje metálico.” In R. Buxó and E. Pons, eds., Els productes alimentaris d’origen vegetal a l’edat del Ferro de l’Europa Occidental: De la producció al consum, 269–80. Sèrie Monogràfica 18. Girona, Spain. ———. 2005. “Los talleres metalúrgicos fenicios del Cerro del Villar (GuadalhorceMálaga).” In V Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici (Palermo-Marsala, 2000), 3:1261–70. Palermo, Italy. Ruiz, A., and J. Sanmartí. 2003. “Models comparats de poblament entre els ibers del nord i del sud.” In J. Guitart, J. M. Palet, and M. Prevosti, eds., Territoris antics a la

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Mediterrània i a la Cossetània oriental: Actes del Simposi Internacional d’Arqueologia del Baix Penedès, 39–57. Barcelona. Ruiz Zapatero, G. 1985. Los campos de urnas del N.E. de la Península Ibérica. Madrid. Sanderson, S. K. 1995. “The evolution of societies and world-systems.” In Core-periphery relations in precapitalist worlds, 167–92. Boulder. Sanmartí, J. 1991. “El comercio fenicio y púnico en Cataluña.” In I–IV Jornadas de Arqueología Fenício-Púnica (Ibiza 1986– 89), 119–30. Ibiza, Spain. ———. 2000a. “Les importations de céramique attique du IVe s. av. J.-C. sur la côte centrale de Catalogne.” In B. Sabbattini, ed., La céramique attique du IV e siècle en Méditerranée occidentale: Actes du Colloque International d’Arles (1995), 233–41. Naples, Italy. ———. 2000b. “Les relacions comercials en el món ibèric.” In C. Mata and G. PérezJordà, eds., Ibers: Agricultors, artesans i comerciants, III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, Saguntum, extra 3:307–28. Valencia, Spain. ———. 2001a. “La formació i desenvolupament de les societats ibèriques a Catalunya.” Butlletí Arqueològic de la Reial Societat Arqueològica Tarraconense, època 5, 23:101–32. ———. 2001b. “Territoris i escales d’integració política a la costa de Catalunya durant el període ibèric ple (segles IV–III aC).” In A. Martín and R. Plana, eds., Territori polític i territori rural durant l’edat del Ferro a la Mediterrània occidental: Actes de la Taula Rodona celebrada a Ullastret, 23–38. Monografies d’Ullastret 2. Girona, Spain. ———. 2004. “From local communities to early states.” Pyrenae 35(1):7–41. Sanmartí, J., and D. Asensio. 2005. “Comercio púnico y estratificación social: La difusión de cerámicas comunes en la costa nordoriental de la Península Ibérica.” In V Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici (Palermo-Marsala, 2000), 3:1285–310. Palermo, Italy. Sanmartí, J., D. Asensio, and M. A. Martín. 2002. “Les relacions comercials amb el món mediterrani dels pobles indígenes de la Catalunya sudpirinenca durant el període tardoarcaic (ca. 575–450 aC).” Cypsela 14:69–106. ———. 2006. “Etruscan imports in the indigenous sites of Catalonia.” In S. Gori, and M. C. Bettini, eds., Gli Etruschi da Genova ad Ampurias: XXIV Convegno di Studi Etruschi ed Italici (Marseilles-Lattes 2002), 2 vols., 1:193–203. Studi Etruschi. Pisa, Italy. Sanmartí, J., et al. 2000. L’assentament del bronze final i primera edat del ferro de Barranc de Gàfols (Ginestar, Ribera d’Ebre). Arqueomediterrània 5. Barcelona. Sanmartí-Grego, E., and R. A. Santiago. 1987. “Une lettre grecque sur plomb trouvée à Emporion (fouilles 1985).” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 68:119–27. Schubart, H. 1999. “La forja fenicia del hierro en el Morro de Mezquitilla.” In A. González-Prats, ed., La cerámica fenicia en Occidente: Centros de producción y áreas de comercio; Actas del I Seminario Internacional sobre temas fenicios. Alicante, Spain. Schubart, H., and O. Arteaga. 1986. “El mundo de las colonias fenicias occidentales.” In Homenaje a Luís Siret, 499–525. Seville.

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Tarradell, M. 1962. Les arrels de Catalunya. Barcelona. Trias, G. 1967–68. Cerámicas griegas de la Península Ibérica. Valencia, Spain. Vives-Ferrándiz, J. 2005. Negociando encuentros : Situaciones coloniales e intercambios en la costa oriental de la Península Ibérica (ss. VIII–VI a.C.). Cuadernos de Arqueología Mediterránea 12. Barcelona. Wagner, C. G. 2000. “Comercio lejano, colonización e intercambio desigual en la expansión fenicia arcaica por el Mediterráneo.” In P. Fernández Uriel, C. G. Wagner, and F. López Pardo, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo, 79–91. Madrid. Wagner, C. G., and J. Alvar. 1989. “Fenicios en Occidente: La colonización agrícola.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 17(1):65–76. ———. 2003. “La colonización agrícola en la Península Ibérica: Estado de la cuestión y nuevas perspectivas.” In C. Gómez Bellard, ed., Ecohistoria del paisaje agrario: La agricultura fenicio-púnica en el Mediterráneo, 187–204. Valencia, Spain. Wallerstein, I. 1991. “World system versus world-systems: A critique.” Critique of Anthropology 11(2):189–94. Wolf, E. 1969. Peasants. Englewood Cliffs, NJ. Wright, H., and G. Johnson. 1975. “Population, exchange, and early state formation in southwestern Iran.” American Anthropologist 77:267–89.

part ii

New Perspectives on Phoenician and Greek Ventures on the Mediterranean and Atlantic Coasts

[three]

Colonial Contacts and Protohistoric Indigenous Urbanism on the Mediterranean Coast of the Iberian Peninsula Maria Carme Belarte

Introduction At the end of the eighth century BC, the indigenous populations of the Iberian Peninsula began a period characterized by contacts with other peoples of the Mediterranean. These contacts took a variety of forms, from simple commercial activity initiated by traders (without the foundation of settlements) to the establishment of new colonial settlements with a largely foreign population—as in the case of the Phoenician settlements of the south and southeast of the Peninsula or that of Sa Caleta on the Island of Ibiza. An intermediate form of settlement included mixed communities, which integrated both Phoenician and indigenous people (e.g., Penya Negra, Crevillent).1 The Phoenician presence in the south and southeast of the Peninsula introduced new elements in a wide variety of domains. In regard to urbanism and architecture, it is generally accepted that the presence of these settlements resulted in indigenous peoples’ adoption of some new elements, such as a rectangular floor plan, buildings with a complex ground plan, building materials such as lime, techniques such as adobe wall construction, and the like.2 Moret considers that the influence of these exogenous architectural traditions continued into later centuries, and this would explain why the houses of the Iberian settlements in the modern province of Valencia have larger and more complex ground plans than the Iberian settlements farther north.3 North of the River Segura, there are no recorded archaeological traces of colonial foundations throughout the first period of contact (end of the eighth century through the seventh century BC); the territories corresponding to what is now Catalonia and the northern area of Valencia Province were occupied by indigenous populations. However, as early as the sixth century BC, Emporion (Ampurias) was founded by Phocaean Greeks in the northern part of Catalonia. Far from presenting a uniform pattern, the indigenous communities of this littoral zone of the Eastern Peninsula north of the Segura (where colonial settlements are absent) were characterized by a diversity of settlements

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Figure 3.1 Map of settlements on the Mediterranean coast of Iberia.

(fig. 3.1). From the eighth to the sixth century BC, a series of heterogeneous, regionally distinctive transformations took place that were especially marked in settlement structure and that led to the first forms of urbanism.4 These changes result from transformations of economic and social relations and are framed within the set of processes that led to the formation of complex societies in this zone. Different researchers have used different theoretical models to analyze the processes undergone by these communities and to explain the observable

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phenomena in each area. In some zones local historical explanations have been used, while in others acculturation models in which colonial commerce plays an important role have been emphasized.5 Within the framework of this book on colonial encounters, this chapter offers an analysis of the current state of research concerning the first urbanism on the Mediterranean peninsular coast, placing emphasis on the significance of the potential role played by the colonial factor—in particular, Phoenician commerce.6 The discussion is centered on southern Catalonia, but it also examines selected sites of the littoral.

Forms of Settlement in the Final Bronze Age: Caves, Villages, and Settlements During the Late Bronze Age, Catalonia and the northern part of Valencia province shared a certain degree of cultural uniformity that did not, however, include forms of dwelling. These zones fall within the broad “Urnfield culture” area, characterized by a common burial type (cremation in urns, normally located in small loculi) and by certain ceramic forms and decorations (particularly channeled decoration). Dwellings, on the other hand, are characterized by heterogeneity. Since the 1980s, and particularly in Catalonia, these multiple forms of settlement have been examined in numerous works that have proposed systematic analyses of the different zones.7 Hence I need not delve deeply into the details of these settlement data here but will broadly outline the different types of settlement organization and then consider more closely some areas of special interest. In the interior regions of Catalonia (the Ebro Valley and the plain of Lleida) one finds settlements composed of groups of houses with walls of stone and party walls (or a rudimentary partition) and with a central open space free of buildings. The structure of these settlements, the best example being Genó (Aitona, Lleida),8 indicates the existence of a kind of spatial planning that, from the Late Bronze Age, permits us to speak of a nascent urbanism. In the eighth century BC, settlements defended by strong fortifications, such as Vilars (Arbeca, Lleida), appeared in this zone.9 A similar pattern is presented by the Lower Aragón region, where, at least from the eighth century BC, there is evidence of settlements made up of clusters of adjacent houses, alternating with circulation spaces. The patterns from these interior zones are exceptions within the territory considered here, and they contrast markedly with the Catalan coastal zone, which from the seventh century BC onward was occupied by huts built of

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perishable materials. These huts were sometimes isolated and at other times grouped to form settlements, as in the case of La Fonollera (Torroella de Montgrí, Girona).10 But they always exhibit a complete absence of streets and of urban-style organization. In the mountainous areas, there is evidence for the occupation of some caves. The pattern found in coastal Catalonia extends northward into Languedoc and Provence, in France, where settlements of this first period consist of clusters of huts with the foundations cut into bedrock and a superstructure of perishable materials.11 In Valencia, the Late Bronze Age is less well known. However, the data that exist seem to indicate that the Urnfield influence was weaker and that the system of dwellings consisted of very simple structures, at times isolated and with a preurban character.12 In some areas of the coastal zone of Catalonia, new modes of habitation appeared and led to settlements of a protourban type during the eighth century BC.13 This process is most apparent in southern Catalonia, particularly along the lower course of the Ebro River. The north and central zones of Catalonia, with some exceptions, maintained the hut form of residence until well into the sixth century BC.14 At the close of the sixth century BC (that is, at the beginning of the Early Iberian period), huts and caves were abandoned and were reoccupied only periodically. By the fifth century BC, settlements that we can describe as urban were found over the entire region under consideration here. As previously noted, this situation is the result of a sequence of processes that had affected these communities to different degrees over the course of prior centuries and that, among other things, constituted the first experiences of urbanism. Archaeological research is uneven among the areas discussed here, and important gaps in our knowledge still exist. Therefore, the panoramic picture we can present of the processes experienced by protohistoric communities is of variable resolution and in no way definitive. Bearing this in mind, let us focus on those areas that have been objects of intensive research and the sites that have revealed the most information on the subject under consideration.

The Development of Settlement on the Lower Course of the Ebro River n i n t h -e i ghth c e n tu ri es b c: t h e p reurb an s e t tle m e n ts i n the m ó r a dep ression The zone of the Móra Depression deserves special attention because it is one of the best known valleys in terms of protohistoric settlement, because of the

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intensive research carried out there from the 1980s to the present. A project was developed and carried out in this area by a research group from the Universitat de Barcelona.15 The work of that research group has yielded a great deal of information about the forms of occupation of this territory. From the systematic survey work undertaken, we deduce that in the Late Bronze Age this territory was made up of small settlements (several hundred square meters in surface area) located at low elevations near the River Ebro and also near small torrential streams that flow into this river. Three of these nuclei are located very close together: Barranc de Sant Antoni, Les Deveses, and Barranc de Gàfols (Ginestar, Tarragona). These were excavated during the 1990s and have shown a settlement system consisting of huts on a rectangular plan, at times with rounded corners. These were built on stone foundations slotted into cuts in the stone supporting earthen walls. It appears that these constructions were isolated or detached; that is, they were not part of groups of dwellings. The site of Barranc de Sant Antoni, in the two phases recorded (which correspond respectively to the ninth and the second half of the eighth century BC),16 consists of a single house, twenty-five square meters in area, complete with a hearth and other domestic structures. The neighboring nucleus of Les Deveses, dating to the eighth to seventh centuries BC, seems to be a settlement of the same type, but the state of conservation of the site (it is largely destroyed) prevents a precise understanding of its characteristics. Finally, in Barranc de Gàfols, the remains of several houses have been identified. These houses are separated from each other and oriented in different directions, without any discernible model or system of ordering. Rather than a cluster of houses, it seems to be the result of different occupations, brief and temporally successive.17 Analysis of these houses is difficult because they have in large measure been destroyed by building activities of a later period. These settlements would appear to be the result of a lifestyle that was still not fully sedentary, such that a single human group must have occupied them in alternate ways.

pho e n i c i an c o m m erce and t h e s e t tle m e n t o f ald o vest a During the second half of the seventh century BC, at the time of the maximum arrival of Phoenician products, a building of approximately two hundred square meters divided into eight internal spaces was constructed some twenty kilometers south of the zone discussed above (still on the River Ebro), on a promontory some eighty meters high (fig. 3.2a). Each of these “rooms” had a specialized function: a living space with a hearth has a domestic char-

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Figure 3.2 Plans of El Calvari (after Bea, Diloli, and Vilaseca 20002, modified) and Aldovesta (after Mascort, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1991, modified).

acter; two spaces that held a large number of Phoenician amphorae and indigenously produced jars would have served storage purposes; another area, which contained elements of bronze as well as a mold to produce ingots, seems to have been dedicated to artisanal activities; and the remaining two spaces would have been open areas, perhaps corrals. This site, which is known by the name Aldovesta, contained a large number of ceramic containers of Phoenician manufacture: these were numerically superior (57 percent) to those of indigenous origin. This feature should be considered in conjunction with the building’s unusual structure (unique to this context), as well as the presence of metals destined to be recast and the ingot mold. The whole complex has been interpreted by its excavators as an indigenous fluvial port that had the dual function of storage and commercial exchanges between indigenous populations.18 On the other hand, E. Díes Cusí (1995) has proposed that there should have been a Phoenician presence at this settlement, at least occasionally.

t u ró d e l calvari : an o r i en t alizing sanct uary? Contemporaneous with Aldovesta, some twenty kilometers inland on a hill at a relative altitude of 150 meters and situated equidistant between Aldovesta and the Móra Depression, is the nucleus of El Turó del Calvari (Vilalba dels Arcs, Terra Alta, Tarragona). The excavations that have recently been carried out 19 have made it possible to recognize that this is a single building, a turriform one on a rectangular plan with rounded ends. The surface area

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is sixty-six square meters, and it is divided into two rooms of equal size (fig. 3.2b). It was constructed with stone foundations and adobe brick walls, the interior was finished in lime (an element usually associated with Phoenician influence) and decorated with polychrome painting. The excavation has revealed moldings made of clay mixed with lime, which must have adorned the walls or been part of pieces of furniture, as well as fragments of low tables made of clay. The pottery includes typically indigenous productions that follow the Bronze Age tradition. However, also noteworthy is the presence of wheelthrown ceramics of indigenous appearance but imitating Phoenician forms. There is also material from the Phoenician sites of the south of the Peninsula— amphorae as well as other types of vessels—which makes it possible to date the site between 650 and 575 BC. Judging from its location and external form, this building may have served a function of territorial control. In any event, according to the excavators, its structure can also be related to the floor plan of buildings of the Eastern Mediterranean (such as the Cypriot temples of Kition and Agia Irini, or the Cretan temple at Dreros). Ultimately, it has been interpreted as the result of contacts between the indigenous populations of the Late Bronze Age and Semite navigators from the south of the Iberian Peninsula.20 It would appear that this settlement has its closest parallel with the area of Matarranya, specifically with the site Tossal Redó (Calaceit). The latter is dated to the seventh century BC on the basis of an indigenous vase that imitated a Phoenician form.21 This site is known only partially, on the basis of a single survey carried out at the beginning of the twentieth century by P. Bosch Gimpera as part of the work of the Institute of Catalan Studies (Institut d’Estudis Catalans) in the area of Lower Aragón.22 This survey made it possible to recover a fragment of a clay table—specifically, a leg, part of the top, and a small cup in one corner. R. Lucas suggests that the tabletop was quadrangular, supported on four legs in the shape of truncated cones, and adorned with four small cups. He interprets this as an offering table or portable altar, based on the presence of the cups or kotiliskoi.23 Along with this piece, some of the ceramic material found (specifically, an animal-headed tumbler or cup) leads one to believe that, as at Turó del Calvari, we may be confronted with a room with a religious function. Unfortunately, the data are insufficient to allow us to know what kind of rituals may have been associated with these buildings. Other elements that make it possible to compare Tossal Redó with Calvari are the discovery of fragments of moldings of clay mixed with lime, destined to adorn architectural elements or make up part of the furniture,24 and the

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presence of ceramic material of Phoenician influence. Finally, it should be noted that these two sites are relatively near to each other, separated by some thirty kilometers. The traits of these buildings, which probably had a religious significance, indicate the intensity and nature of Phoenician influence in this area: beyond trade mechanisms and economic relationships, it seems that some cultural ideas had penetrated the minds of indigenous populations.

e arly e xpe ri m e n ts wi th urb anism During the second half of the seventh century BC, settlements with an early form of urbanism began to appear along the lower course of the Ebro River. These consisted of rows of juxtaposed houses, with party walls (however rudimentary), that were separated by streets. These settlements were of relatively small size (between 400 and 1,200 m 2), and they are usually described as containing between ten and fifteen houses of around twenty square meters each.25 One of these settlements is Barranc de Gàfols, in the Móra Depression. Although in a previous phase it presented a clearly preurban settlement structure, from the end of the seventh century BC it was composed of juxtaposed houses with party walls, arranged in blocks separated by streets. The houses were built using stone footing and adobe walls (fig. 3.3g).26 Other settlements of the zone that show a structure of this type are Puig Roig (Masroig),27 Ferradura (Ulldecona,28 fig. 3.3d), and Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà (Alcanar).29 This latter site is strongly fortified (fig. 3.3f ). At that time, the use of adobe in construction was also being initiated at Barranc de Gàfols and at Puig Roig. In this zone there are no indications of the use of this technique prior to commercial contacts with Phoenicians. Although the settlements mentioned above share common traits in terms of their internal structure, they show differences in regard to function, and this suggests a certain amount of specialization. Some seem to have been built to exercise control over territory (Ferradura, Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà). Others would have been related to the exploitation of mines of argentiferous galena (Puig Roig), and still others (Barranc de Gàfols) appear to have been related to agricultural production. This pattern is not unlike that presented by the northern zone of Valencia, between the Ebro River and the Palància River, where there is evidence of a hierarchization of settlements. This is characterized by the existence of control points along the commercial routes (Puig de la Nau, Vinarragell), as well as by other sites for the purpose of surveillance of the territory and its resources, such as mining exploitation (La Torrassa).30

Figure 3.3 Comparative plans of some of the mentioned sites, modified by the author. a. Pech Maho (after Gailledrat and Solier 2004) b. Palaiàpolis of Emporion, phase IIa (after Aquilué et al. 2000) c. Palaiàpolis of Emporion, phase IIIa (after Aquilué et al. 2000) d. La Ferradura (after Maluquer de Motes 1986)

e. Era del Castell, phase 2 (after Molera et al. 2000) f. Sant Jaume (after Garcia and Gracia 2002) g. Barranc de Gàfols, phase 2 (after Sanmartí et al. 2000)

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All the sites mentioned in this section have provided materials that are products of commercial exchanges with Phoenicians, above all amphorae. In the area around the Móra Depression, imported materials are in short supply in relation to indigenous products (9 percent at Barranc de Gàfols). Farther south, the settlements located between the mouth of the Ebro and the Sènia River, such as Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà (Alcanar), Ferradura (Ulldecona), and Moleta del Remei (Alcanar) present, during their first phase, considerably higher percentages of Phoenician material. This averages around 20 percent,31 and it reflects more intense contacts with Phoenician traders. Some sites, such as Barranc de Gàfols,32 Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà, and La Ferradura,33 have revealed, in addition to imported Phoenician material, other ceramic products with forms that can be ascribed to the Phoeniciantype tradition. However, these ceramics were created with clays that on a macroscopic level are clearly different from both the Phoenician products from the south of the Peninsula and Iberian wheel-thrown ceramics. These clays are not of a single type, which suggests that they came from different production centers. Perhaps we should think of indigenous production centers where the new forms were imitated or, as has already been suggested,34 the existence in this area of a settlement that was either Phoenician or a mixed community that manufactured ceramics of a Phoenician typology. Returning to the question of settlement patterns, we can conclude that this situation reflects a new organization of the landscape— one that implies the control of communication routes, the exploitation of raw materials that enable a supply of trade goods for exchange with Phoenicians, and the acquisition of enough surplus agricultural production to allow the expansion of other economic activities.35

The Development of a Settlement on the Coast of Tarragona: Era del Castell (el Catllar) On the greater part of the Catalan coast, with the exception of the lower course of the Ebro, settlements were of the preurban type from the Late Bronze Age until the sixth century BC. However, it is necessary to consider the possibility that the uniformity of the settlement pattern in this zone is merely apparent and that its appearance corresponds in part to gaps in archaeological research. This is suggested by the recent excavation of the site of Era del Castell (El Catllar).36 The results of that excavation indicate an important transformation of the settlement around the middle of the seventh century BC. In effect, for the Late Bronze Age occupation phase, the

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remains of the settlement conserved consist of post holes and hearths, which belong to huts built with perishable materials. This is followed by a second phase, dated between the middle of the seventh and the first quarter of the sixth centuries BC, in which the settlement was made up of houses (with stone plinth, rectangular ground plan, and party walls) separated by streets (fig. 3.3e). From the perspective of material furnishings, the first phase is marked by hand-modeled ceramics while in the second phase there is also evidence of the importation of Phoenician amphorae from the south of the Peninsula. It is important to underscore the points in common between this settlement and Barranc de Gàfols, both in the concept and structure of the settlement and in building techniques. In both cases, the transformation occurred at a time that coincides with the presence of Phoenician imports. It is reasonable to surmise that the process illustrated at this site may have been the case at other points on the coasts of Catalonia and Valencia as well. The continuation of such research will most likely provide other examples like Barranc de Gàfols and Era del Castell and progressively fill the gaps in our knowledge regarding this period, allowing us to understand the processes undergone by these sites.

Province of Valencia Region between Palància and the Segura River This region has been the object of intensive research by several different archaeologists, and it has provided extremely abundant information, which in recent years has been reviewed in different works by H. Bonet and C. Mata.37 For this reason, here I shall only refer to these synthetic works, mentioning the results briefly without going into detail. Both of the Bonet and Mata publications concede a fundamental role to Phoenician commerce in the organization of the protohistoric landscape of Valencia: the foundation, in the eighth century BC, of the Phoenician settlement La Rábita / La Fonteta, in Guardamar del Segura, is seen to have given rise to a process that resulted in the transformation of indigenous societies. Shortly after this foundation, still in the eighth century, the nuclei of Los Saladares and Penya Negra received their first Phoenician imports. The foundation of Sa Caleta on the island of Ibiza, in the seventh century BC, supposes the existence of a new support base for trade and it resulted in the foundation of new indigenous settlements, from which we now have abundant Phoenician material. During this period, the site of Alt de Benimaquia (Dénia), with its evidence for indigenous wine production, demon-

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strates the indigenous population’s imitation of amphorae and other Phoenician vessels.38 From that moment, Phoenician colonization accelerated a process already initiated during the Late Bronze Age: a stimulation of commercial demand in which the main element was a demand for metals. This commerce was realized via the Late Bronze Age networks then in place. The process, which would adopt different forms according to the peculiarities of the local social substrate, was accompanied by a restructuring of the dwelling as well as the appearance of numerous settlements of organized urban character that were situated according to a nascent hierarchical model, where some nuclei emerged as consolidated central places. Ultimately, the processes giving rise to the first urbanism observed in this zone, specialization and hierarchization of settlements, show similarities to those described in the zone of the lower course of the River Ebro, although the processes now became more intense and rapid.

Sant Martí d’Empúries: From Indigenous Urbanism to the Phocaean Foundation The foundation of the palaiàpolis of Emporion (Ampurias) by Phocaeans occurred at what is now Sant Martí d’Empúries at the beginning of the sixth century BC, in the passage from the Late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age. Recent excavations at this location have revealed the evolution of a preexisting indigenous settlement from the Late Bronze Age until the establishment of the Greek settlement. At Sant Martí d’Empúries, archaeological materials from the Late Bronze Age (phase I of the site) have been documented, although no remains of residential structures corresponding to that moment have been recovered. At the beginning of the Iron Age (the second half of the seventh century to the first decades of the sixth century BC: phase IIa), an indigenous settlement existed. It is only partially preserved but was made up of houses built with stone foundations and earthen walls, on a 5 × 2.8 m plan, with party walls and with hearths inside (fig. 3.3b). According to the excavators, the organization of this settlement reflects an incipient planning of residential space 39 that has been compared to that found in Barranc de Gàfols in the same period. During this phase, among the pottery there is a notable predominance of hand-modeled indigenous wares. Along with this, in very small percentages, appear Etruscan and Phoenician imports from the south of the Iberian Peninsula. The presence of Phoenician material is interpreted as a sign of regular

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commerce resulting from a search for new resources (metals or agricultural products) on the part of Phoenician traders. It is assumed that these traders would have tried to intervene in the already extant indigenous circuits of exchange.40 The presence of Etruscan material is usually explained as the result of an indirect commerce, via the regular circuits that existed with the Phoenico-Punic centers of the Central Mediterranean. Phase IIb (625/600–580 BC) is defined by changes in house structures, which were now made by cutting trenches into the solid rock and constructing huts on an oval-shaped plan. This change, occurring in a fully indigenous settlement, is interpreted by the excavators as a form of regression.41 In the ceramic materials there are no great changes, except an increase in imported materials. At the close of this phase a new transformation occurred in the settlement, with the appearance of row houses on a rectangular plan. At that point the arrival of Greek materials began. Throughout phase III (580–540 BC) the buildings were more solid, with stone foundations forty to fifty centimeters thick and adobe walls, and these correspond to the Phocaean foundation. The excavators of this site see these changes in the settlement from a diffusionist perspective (fig. 3.3c).42 In the development described, two remarkable facts stand out: • the existence of an initial urbanism from phase IIa (650— 625/600 BC), prior to contact with the Greeks but in a context marked by the arrival of products from Phoenician commerce • the apparent return to preurban dwelling forms in phase IIb 625/600— 580 BC) It seems evident from the data analyzed that during the Early Iron Age and prior to the foundation of the palaiàpolis, the indigenous population of Emporion was experimenting with new ways of building and using space. The apparent regression of the form of dwellings in phase IIb must be seen as one more episode in this experimental period. The foundation of the palaiàpolis, then, occurred in the midst of this indigenous substrate in the process of transformation; the settlement adopted an urban model in which the streets and buildings cross at right angles, much more regular than the layout of the first indigenous urbanism. I must insist, however, that the idea of planning space already existed among the zone’s indigenous population. Phoenician commerce may have exercised a by no means inappreciable stimulus on the indigenous population in producing the transformations described above. Apart from the Phoenician imports recorded at the settlement, Phoenician trade and the significance given to products from this trade are suggested by

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the presence of Phoenician materials in important concentrations in some tombs of the cemetery of Vilanera, in l’Escala, in a context dated between the second half of the seventh century and the beginning of the sixth century BC.43 The zone of the Ampordan has not yielded evidence of contemporary settlements similar to that at Sant Martí d’Empúries. Moret 44 believes that Emporion did not modify the life of the indigenous communities of the Ampordan since, in this zone, and with the exception of Ullastret, we do not find quadrangular ground plans until the beginning of the 5th century BC. However, it must be said that the earliest phases of the villages of the Ampordan region are not well known. Thus, the exceptionality of Sant Martí d’Empúries could, in part, be a product of lack of knowledge of the zone.

A Look at Languedoc: The Settlement of Pech Maho (Sigean) During the Final Bronze Age and up until the sixth century BC, the regions of Languedoc and Provence, in France, present preurban settlements similar to those on the Catalan coast.45 The first forms of urbanism appeared after the first colonial contacts. The foundation of Marseille seems to have played a major role in this process, but Etruscan commerce also would have intervened in the urban development of some indigenous communities, among which it is worth mentioning the port of Lattara at the mouth of the Lez River, at the close of the sixth century BC. From about 550 BC, colonial influence resulted in the appearance of the first settlements with houses constructed with stone and adobe and with urban planning, such as Tamaris and Saint-Pierre-les-Martigues (Martigues, Provence), and Lattes (Eastern Languedoc). Without venturing into detailed analysis of this extensive area (which deserves a study of its own), I would like to dedicate a few lines to the coastal site of Pech Maho (Sigean), in Eastern Languedoc, which was closely linked culturally to the Iberian world.46 Pech Maho presented, circa 540 BC, a settlement organization consisting of houses of a rectangular plan (with party walls) made of stone and adobe, abutting against a long retaining wall. It appears there was an alternation between groups of houses and patios or other sorts of open spaces (fig. 3.3a).47 This is the oldest known example of both urbanism and the use of adobe in Western Languedoc. Contemporary settlements of the region, such as Montlaurès (Narbonne) or La Moulinasse (Salles d’Aude) are made up of independent houses, and the grouping of houses that had party walls does not appear until the fifth century BC.48 Pech Maho was an indigenous settlement where Greek commerce played an important role, and it maintained close relations with the Iberian world as well.

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An interesting work by P. Moret relates the urbanism of Pech Maho to Iberian models, while at the same time invoking the influence of the palaiàpolis of Emporion.49 In brief, the regular layout of Pech Maho would be the result of fusion among these influences. While it is true that the plan of Pech Maho shows similarities with Ampordan urbanism, it also maintains certain distinctive details of its own, such as the presence of houses separated by open spaces, an element absent both at Emporion and the Catalan protohistoric settlements. The urbanism of Pech Maho could be the result of a process like the one we have seen in southern Catalonia: at a time of colonial contacts (abundant Greek imports but also Etruscan imports and, rarely, Phoenician ones), foreign building techniques and urban layouts were adopted and integrated into the indigenous substrate; the combination of different influences led to the creation of an original urban landscape.

Final Reflections In some of the zones described, we have analyzed a series of changes in settlement patterns, including the appearance of the first urbanism, that often appear to be contemporary with or shortly after commercial contacts with the Phoenician colonial world. What role did colonial commerce play in this process? Is it possible to establish a cause-effect relationship between the two phenomena? Clearly, the structure of these first indigenous settlements of an urban type is radically different from the structure of Phoenician settlements from every perspective: dimensions, organization of urban space, and ground plan of the houses. As Moret has recently pointed out,50 there is no formal or structural relation between the complex ground plans of the houses of the Phoenician settlements of the south and southwest of the Iberian Peninsula and the simple ground plans of the settlements on the lower course of the River Ebro, such as Barranc de Gàfols and Sant Jaume, or those of the indigenous settlement of Sant Martí d’Empúries. Thus Moret explains the urbanizing experiments of these Catalan sites as the result of a process of cultural expansion, from west to east, of a phenomenon initiated on the middle Ebro during the Late Bronze Age.51 In my view, it is necessary to explore more deeply the complex processes that indigenous communities experienced before attempting to establish a direct cause-effect relationship between Phoenician influence and the adoption of urban structures. It is important to insist that the demand for products (agricultural or mineral) on the part of Phoenicians must have provoked increased production on the part of indigenous peoples. What indications of

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this phenomenon does the archaeological record show? Toward the end of the seventh century BC, it seems, changes in the modes of exploiting the land occurred, such as a passage from shifting agriculture to a fallow system, as well as a decline in gathering wild plants in favor of agriculture. All of this was accompanied by an increase in storage capacity (quite plausibly related to an increase in production). The important transformation in the organization and structure of settlements such as Barranc de Gàfols 52 and, perhaps, Era del Castell seems to reflect this change in techniques of agricultural exploitation, which, in its turn, would promote more sedentary settlements. The transformation of protohistoric societies into urban societies is linked, then, to a process of becoming sedentary, which is, in turn, the consequence of changes in the economy. Directly or indirectly, these changes could have been stimulated by Phoenician commerce. In the zone of the lower course of the Ebro, transformations in the form of the house were accompanied by new building techniques, such as the use of adobe or limestone. To these elements it is necessary to add the appearance of Phoenician type wheel-thrown ceramics of a still unidentified provenance, suggesting either indigenous imitations or the presence of a Phoenician population.53 In spite of the fact that no such settlement on the Catalan coasts has been documented, the influence exercised by colonial contact with Phoenicians in technical matters in this zone is undeniable. Following the lower course of the Ebro River, the presence of the settlement of Aldovesta suggests the existence of a regulated exchange, with distribution networks that were exploited by the colonial agents. On the other hand, if we accept that the settlement of Turó del Calvari was a religious building, contacts between indigenous peoples and colonial traders must have gone beyond what one would expect to derive from a commercial relationship. These contacts, then, would have been overcome by penetrating into more abstract elements such as the politico-religious.54 Although it is true that neither the ground plan of Aldovesta nor that of Turó del Calvari is in any way related to Phoenician models, on the whole the materials that they have provided, as well as the structural originality that they show with respect to contemporary settlements, suggest that they are settlements whose structure responds to very concrete needs, the result of interaction between colonists and indigenous peoples. As for Valencia, the process of the first appearance of urbanism and hierarchization of the settlements observed shows similarities with that described for the zone of the lower course of the Ebro, although it occurred more intensively and rapidly in Valencia. We should ask ourselves whether this greater

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intensity is a consequence of the presence of Phoenician settlements in the zone and the greater intensity of colonial trade. In northern Catalonia, the enclave of Sant Martí d’Empúries underwent a more complex process, with different urbanizing experiments that I believe influenced both the first wave of colonial contacts in the context of the settlement of the Late Bronze Age and, in a more forceful way, the Phocaean settlement. In the evaluation of this period of transformations, I have proposed Pech Maho as an instance of an indigenous site where—perhaps due to the influence of the Greeks established in the palaiàpolis of Emporion—similar changes occurred. In conclusion, given the extent of the region under consideration, I believe that although it is reasonable to suggest that the evolution of indigenous communities themselves would have led to the appearance of urbanism, colonial trade also played an important role as an accelerator of the process. Finally, I would like to mention a phenomenon that has frequently been the subject of debate and about which there exists no commonly accepted interpretation. Most of the settlements that have served to illustrate this early urbanism were destroyed, apparently violently, at the beginning of the sixth century BC, prior to the initiation of the early Iberian period. In general, they were not reoccupied. This phenomenon seems to have been the norm in the zone of the lower course of the Ebro River (Barranc de Gàfols, Puig Roig, Sant Jaume, and El Calvari would have been destroyed by fire) and in Lower Aragón (Tossal Redó, Sant Cristòfol, Torre Cremada). It is probable that there is a relationship between this phenomenon and the process of transformation of these indigenous societies initiated by contact with Phoenicians, a process that in some way was interrupted. Apparently the abandonment of these settlements occurred after a cessation of the importation of Phoenician products. In any event, the destructions occurred in a violent way, and this suggests a period of instability and confrontations that at present we are unable to explain.55

note s 1.

The excavations at the indigenous site of Penya Negra (Crevillent) have revealed a local production of Phoenician-style pottery, sometimes even with Phoenician graffiti, as well as Etruscan orientalizing jewelry. These data probably indicate the existence of a Phoenician community, composed by craftsmen, at the site (González Prats 1991:184). 2. The influence of Phoenician architecture among the communities indigenous to the peninsula has been widely studied by E. Díes Cusí in his doctoral dissertation (1995).

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3. Moret 2002:352. 4. By “urbanism,” following the definition of López Cachero (1999:75), I mean the existence of a prior plan that results in a rationally patterned form, including a regular distribution of houses and streets, and that is the result of the needs of a community. 5. The various models have recently been surveyed by Junyent 2002. 6. On colonial commerce in the Iberian Peninsula, see the contribution of J. Sanmartí in this volume (chap. 2). 7. Noteworthy among them are Rovira i Santacana 1982 and 1989; Pons, Maya, and Buxó 1989; Maya 1994. 8. Maya, Cuesta, and López Cachero 1998. 9. Alonso et al. 1998. 10. Pons 1982. 11. Dedet 1999. 12. Bonet and Mata 2000 and 2001. 13. Asensio et al. 1994–96b. 14. Pons, Maya, and Buxó 1989. 15. Grup de Recerca d’Arqueologia Clàssica, Protohistòrica i Egípcia (Research Group for Classical, Protohistorical, and Egyptian Archaeology). 16. Asensio et al. 1994–96a. 17. Asensio et al. 1994–96b; Sanmartí et al. 2000. 18. Mascort, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1991. Also see the contribution of J. Sanmartí in this volume (chap. 2). 19. Bea, Diloli, and Vilaseca 2002. 20. Ibid., 85. 21. Sanmartí-Grego 1975:114. 22. Bosch Gimpera 1913–14. 23. Lucas Pellicer 1989:192. 24. This type of molding has been identified in other sites of the zone, such as Sant Cristòfol de Maçalió and Escodines Altes (Belarte 1999–2000). 25. For this phase, in addition to the project in the Móra Depression noted earlier, it is important to mention the work of the team of F. Gracia in the region (comarcas) of Montsià. 26. Sanmartí et al. 2000. 27. Genera 1995. 28. Maluquer de Motes 1983. 29. Garcia and Gracia 2002. 30. Bonet and Mata 2000 and 2001. 31. According to recent studies by David Garcia (1999). 32. Asensio et al. 2000a. 33. Garcia Rubert 1999. 34. Asensio et al. 2000a. 35. Asensio et al. 2000b.

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36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

Molera et al. 2000. Bonet and Mata 2000 and 2001. Gómez Bellard et al. 1993. Aquilué 1999. Ibid., 126. Ibid.,182. Ibid., 283. Agustí et al., 2002, 2004. Moret 2000–2001 and 2002. Dedet 1999. The relationship to the Iberian world is obvious from the abundance of Iberian ceramics from the first phase of occupation of the site as well as from the discovery of a commercial letter, inscribed on lead, where the names of Iberian personages appear. Gailledrat and Solier 2004. De Chazelles 1999:485. Moret 2001. Moret 2002. Moret 2000–2001:382. Asensio et al. 1999. Asensio et al. 2000a; Sanmartí et al. 2000. Bea, Diloli, and Vilaseca 2002. This was one of the questions debated at the I Jornades d’Arqueologia de Tivissa (First Archeological Conference of Tivissa), held in November 2001, without arriving at any agreement or conclusion.

re fe re nce s Agustí, B., D. Codina, R. Dehesa, J. Llinàs, J. Merino, C. Montalban, and A. Vargas. In press a. “Excavacions arqueològiques a Vilanera l’any 2000 (L’Escala, Alt Empordà).” In VI Jornades d’Arqueologia de les comarques de Girona, 161–66. Sant Joan de les Abadesses, Spain. ———. In press b. “Excavacions arqueològiques a Vilanera (L’Escala, Alt Empordà).” In Tribuna d’Arqueologia 2000–2001, 99–114. Barcelona. Alonso, N., E. Junyent, A. Lafuente, and J. B. López. 1998. “Poder, símbolo y territorio: El caso de la fortaleza de Arbeca.” In Los iberos, príncipes de occidente, 355–72. Barcelona. Aquilué, X., ed. 1999. Intervencions arqueològiques a Sant Martí d’Empúries (1994 – 1996) de l’assentament precolonial a l’Emporion actual. Monografies Emporitanes 9. Girona, Spain. Aquilué, X., P. Castanyer, M. Santos, and J. Tremoleda. 2000. “Les ceràmiques gregues arcaiques de la palaià polis d’Emporion.” In Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani occidental, 285–346. Barcelona.

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Asensio, D., M. C. Belarte, C. Ferrer, J. Noguera, J. Sanmartí, and J. Santacana. 1994–96a. “El jaciment del Barranc de Sant Antoni (Ginestar, Ribera d’Ebre).” In “Primera Taula d’Arqueologia: Models d’ocupació, transformació i explotació del territori entre el 1.600 i el 500 a.n.e. a la Catalunya meridional i zones limítrofes de la depressió de l’Ebre, Sant Feliu de Codines, 18–19 novembre 1994.” Special issue, Gala 4–6:231–46. ———. 1994–96b. “El poblament de les comarques del curs inferior de l’Ebre durant el Bronze Final i la Primera Edat del Ferro.” “Primera Taula d’Arqueologia: Models d’ocupació, transformació i explotació del territori entre el 1.600 i el 500 a.n.e. a la Catalunya meridional i zones limítrofes de la depressió de l’Ebre, Sant Feliu de Codines, 18–19 novembre 1994,” Special issue, Gala 4–6:301–18. Asensio, D., M. C. Belarte, J. Noguera, J. Sanmartí, and J. Santacana. 1999. “Approximation à la structure économique du site de Barranc de Gàfols (Ginestar, Ribera d’Ebre, Tarragone).” In Els productes alimentaris d’origen vegetal a l’edat del Ferro de l’Europa occidental: De la producció al consum (Actes del XXII Col·loqui Internacional per a l’Estudi de l’Edat del Ferro, Girona 1998), 259–68. Girona, Spain. Asensio, D., M. C. Belarte, J. Sanmartí, and J. Santacana. 2000a. “Las cerámicas fenicias y de tipo fenicio del yacimiento del Barranc de Gàfols (Ginestar, Ribera d’Ebre, Tarragona).” In Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de estudios fenicios y púnicos (Cádiz, 2 al 6 de octubre de 1995), 4:1733–45. Cádiz, Spain. ———. 2000b. “L’expansion phénicienne sur la còte orientale de la péninsule ibérique.” In Mailhac et le Premier Âge du Fer en Europe Occidentale: Hommage à Odette et Jean Taffanel, Actes du Colloque International de Carcassonne, 17–20 septembe 1997, 249–60. Monographies d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne 7. Lattes, France. Bea, D., J. Diloli, and A. Vilaseca. 2002. “El Turó del Calvari (Vilalba dels Arcs, Terra Alta): Un recinte singular de la primera edat del ferro al curs inferior de l’Ebre.” “I Jornades d’Arqueologia, Ibers a l’Ebre: Recera i interpretació, Tivissa, 23 i 24 de novembre de 2001.” Special issue, Ilercavònia 3:75–87. Belarte, M. C. 1999–2000. “Sobre el uso del barro en la protohistoria del Bajo Aragón: Estudio de materiales conservados en el Museu d’Arqueologia de CatalunyaBarcelona.” Kalathos 18–19:65–93. Bonet, H., and C. Mata. 2000. “Habitat et territoire au Premier Âge du fer en Pays Valencien.” In Mailhac et le Premier Âge du Fer en Europe Occidentale: Hommage à Odette et Jean Taffanel, Actes du Colloque International de Carcassonne, 17–20 septembre 1997, 61–72. Monographies d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne 7. Lattes, France. ———. 2001. “Organización del territorio y poblamiento en el País Valenciano entre los siglos VII al II a. C..” In Entre Celtas e Iberos: Las poblaciones protohistòricas de las Galias e Hispania, 175–86. Madrid. Bosch Gimpera, P. 1913–14. “Campanya arqueològica de l’Institut d’Estudis Catalans al límit de Catalunya i Aragó.” In Crònica de la Secció Històrico-Arqueològica. Anuari de l’Institut d’Estudis Catalans 5. Barcelona. De Chazelles, C.-A. 1999. “Les maisons de l’Àge du Fer en Gaule méridionale, témoins de différentes identités culturelles et reflets d’une certaine disparité so-

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ciale.” In Habitat et société, XIX Rencontres Internationales d’Archéologie d’Antibes, 481–98. Antibes, France. Dedet, B. 1999. “La maison de l’oppidum Languedocien durant la protohistoire.” Gallia 36:313–55. Dies Cusí, E. 1995. “La arquitectura fenicia de la Península Ibérica y su influencia en las culturas indígenas.” Microfiche. PhD diss., Universitat de València, Valencia, Spain. Gailledrat, E., and Y. Solier. 2004. Pech Maho 1: L’établissement côtier de Pech Maho (Sigean, Aude) aux VIe–Ve s. av. J.-C. fouilles (1959–1979). Monographies d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne 19. Lattes, France. Garcia Rubert, D. 1999. “Evolució del poblament a la comarca del Montsià: Ss. VII a.C.–III d.C.” MA thesis, Universitat de Barcelona. Barcelona. Garcia Rubert, D., and F. Gracia. 2002. “El jaciment pre-ibèric de Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà (Alcanar, Montsià). Campanyes d’excavació 1997–2001.” “I Jornades d’Arqueologia: Ibers a l’Ebre. Recera i interpretació, Tivissa, 23 i 24 de novembre de 2001.” Special issue, Ilercavònia 3:37–50. Genera, M. 1995. El poblat protohistòric del Puig Roig del Roget (El Masroig, Priorat). Memòries d’Intervencions Arqueològiques a Catalunya 17 (Departament de Cultura de la Generalitat de Catalunya). Barcelona. Gómez Bellard, C., P. Guérin, E. Díes Cusí, and G. Pérez Jordà. 1993. “El vino en los inicios de la cultura ibérica: Nuevas excavaciones en l’Alt de Benimaquia, Denia.” Revista de Arqueología 142 (February): 16–27. González Prats, A. 1991. “Quince años de excavaciones en la ciudad prehistórica de Herna (La Peña Negra, Crevillente, Alicante).” Saguntum 26:181–88. Junyent, J. 2002. “Els segles de formació: El bronze final i la primera edat del ferro a la depressió de l’Ebre.” “I Jornades d’Arqueologia. Ibers a l’Ebre: Recera i interpretació, Tivissa, 23 i 24 de novembre de 2001.” Special issue, Ilercavònia 3:17–35. López Cachero, J. 1999. “Primeros ensayos urbanísticos en el NE peninsular: El ejemplo de Genó y los poblados de espacio central.” Pyrenae 30:69–89. Lucas Pellicer, R. 1989. “El vaso teromorfo del poblado grande del Tossal Redó (Calaceite, Teruel) y su contexto arqueológico.” Cuadernos de Prehistoria de la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid 16:169–210. Maluquer de Motes, J. 1983. El poblado paleoibérico de La Ferradura, Ulldecona. Programa de Investigaciones Protohistóricas 7 (Institut d’Arqueologia i Prehistòria, Universitat de Barcelona). Barcelona. Mascort, M. T., J. Sanmartí, and J. Santacana. 1991. El jaciment protohistòric d’Aldovesta (Benifallet) i el comerç fenici arcaic a la Catalunya meridional. Publicacions de la Diputació de Tarragona. Tarragona, Spain. Maya, J. L. 1994. “En torno al origen del mundo ibérico catalán: Problemas de sustrato.” In El poblament ibèric a Catalunya (Actes), 9–19. Laietania 8. Materó, Spain. Maya, J. L., L. Cuesta, and J. López Cachero, eds. 1998. Genó: Un poblado del Bronce Final en el Bajo Segre (Lleida). Publicaciones Universitat de Barcelona. Barcelona.

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Molera, S., A. Ollé, P. Otiña, J. M. Vergés, and J. Zaragoza. 2000. “L’Era del Castell (El Catllar): Un assentament de la primera Edat del Ferro al Camp de Tarragona.” In Tribuna d’Arqueologia 1997–1998, 7–17. Barcelona. Moret, P. 2000–2001. “Emporion et les mutations de l’architecture ibérique au premier âge du fer.” Zephyrus 13–14:379–91. ———. 2002. “Maisons phéniciennes, grecques et indigènes: dynamiques croisiées en Méditerranée occidentale (de l’Hérault au Segura).” “Habitat et urbanisme dans le monde grec de la fin du palais mycénien à la prise de Milet (494 av. J.-C.): Colloque de Toulouse, 9–10 mars 2001.” Special issue, Pallas 58:329–56. Pons, E. 1982. “La Fonollera, Torroella de Montgrí.” In Les excavacions arqueològiques a Catalunya en els darrers anys, 113–14. Departament de Cultura de la Generalitat de Catalunya. Barcelona. Pons, E., J. L. Maya, and R. Buxó. 1989. “Hábitat y estructuras domésticas durante el final de la Edad del Bronce en el norte y oeste de Catalunya.” In Habitat et structures domestiques en Mediterranée occidentale durant la protohistoire: Colloque International (pre-actes). Arles-sur-Rhône, France. Rovira, J., and J. Santacana. 1982. “Protourbanismo y asentamientos en la Edad del Bronce en Cataluña.” Informació Arqueològica (Institut de Prehistòria i Arqueologia, Barcelona) 38:26–35. ———. 1989. “From the end of the Bronze Age to the First Age of Iron: Convulsion of the social and economic structures at the Mediterranean coast of the Iberian Peninsula.” In M. L. Stig Sørensen and R. Thomas, eds., The Bronze Age–Iron Age transition in Europe, pt. 1, 100–111. BAR International Series 438 (1). Oxford. Sanmartí-Grego, E. 1975. “Las cerámicas finas de importación de los poblados prerromanos del Bajo Aragón (comarca del Matarranya).” Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueología Castellonense 2:87–130. ———. 1978. “Les cultures protohistòriques de la comarca del Matarranya: Un estat de la qüestió.” Fonaments 1:121–49. Sanmartí, J., M. C. Belarte, J. Santacana, D. Asensio, and J. Noguera. 2000. L’assentament del bronze final i primera edat del ferro del Barranc de Gàfols (Ginestar, Ribera d’Ebre). Arqueo Mediterrània 5, Universitat de Barcelona. Barcelona.

[four]

Phoenician Colonization on the Atlantic Coast of the Iberian Peninsula Ana Margarida Arruda

Introduction Although a Near Eastern presence had been documented for the “Far West”— namely Portuguese territory—since the nineteenth century, study of the arrival of Eastern Mediterranean populations on the European Atlantic coast expanded considerably in the last twenty years of the twentieth century. In effect, the discovery and excavation on archaeological sites of mostly Mediterranean material culture has almost tripled since the 1980s, and a return to archaeological materials that had long been sitting in museum storage facilities has also been possible.1 Today, the amount of archaeological data concerning the Phoenician presence in Portuguese territory is extensive and varying in nature, and we possess finds and architecture that can be analyzed in the context of an Orientalizing Iron Age (see maps in figs. 4.1 and 4.2).2 Ceramics and their stratigraphic sequences, domestic and funerary architecture, radiocarbon dates, and even the geography of the sites are data that we can explore in order to understand the motives behind Phoenician voyages to Portugal, their chronology, and not only how settlement took place but how means of contact were established between the indigenous world and foreign groups of newcomers.

Sites, Materials, and Chronologies The geographical distribution of archaeological sites at which a Phoenician presence has been detected reveals, first of all, the littoral character of the overall colonization. Indeed, it becomes clear that at least until the sixth century BC such sites were confined to the coastal region. Looking further into the matter shows that even in this region settlement from the Mediterranean world is effectively confined to the three major rivers on the west coast (the Mondego, Tagus, and Sado) and leeward Algarve. The majority of these sites have a predominantly indigenous character.

Figure 4.1 Portuguese orientalizing areas in the context of the Iberian Peninsula.

Figure 4.2 Portuguese sites with a Phoenician or orientalizing culture.

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The results we have from excavating in Conímbriga, at the Mondego, in Almaraz and Santarém, on the Tagus; in Alcácer do Sal and Setúbal, on the Sado River; and in Castro Marim and Tavira in eastern Algarve, have allowed us to conclude that, for all of them, human occupation began during the Late Bronze Age period and that during the beginning of the Iron Age, ceramics with oriental traits account for only a tiny percentage of the inventory. Only Abul (on the Sado estuary) and Santa Olaia (on the Mondego estuary) seem to correspond to Phoenician foundations. This judgment is due not only to the architectural characteristics and type of implantation the sites present but also to the fact that there is no evidence of an occupation prior to the Iron Age. The first set of sites consists of elevated settlements (Conímbriga, Santarém, Almaraz, Alcácer do Sal, Castro Marim, Tavira, and also Lisbon and Setúbal) clearly visible on the landscape, which have good natural defense conditions and visually overlook vast stretches of territory. Almost all are located on elevated positions that dominate rivers, thereby controlling fluvial transit (figs. 4.3, 4.4, 4.5, and 4.6). The available data seem to support the conclusion that the regions first touched by Phoenician presence were the Tagus and Mondego estuaries and that before settlement in ex-nihilo-founded-sites there were contacts with the indigenous world. In effect, the typology of the red-slip ceramics of Santarém and Conímbriga, and even the radiocarbon dates for the lower levels of the first sites, show that the path of the Phoenician navigators was not a linear upstream line (see ceramics in figs. 4.8–4.9 for Santarém, figs. 4.10–4.11 for Conímbriga, 4.13 for Castro Marim). Nor does there seem to have been any progressive occupation of increasingly remote territories. The arrival of Eastern populations did not follow a south-north pattern— on the contrary, it appears that from the very beginning there was a desire to reach certain areas—in this case, ones located at the center of the Portuguese western coast. This pattern demonstrates, I believe, that these arrivals were not at all random, haphazard occurrences but, on the contrary, were determined by a set of goals and a previously established project. The Santarém citadel offered two radiocarbon dates for the levels corresponding to the first orientalizing occupation (fig. 4.7). The materials found in these levels (plates with a narrow rim and ample diameter in a red-slip ware, R1 amphorae, type 10.1.1.1, and abundant hand-modeled ceramics) seem to point to a date around the eighth century BC, and the carbon-14 dates, two sigma calibrated, point to a period between 898–765 cal BC (ICEN 532: 2640 + 50 BP) and 920–770 cal BC (BETA 131488: 2650+ 70)—in other words, between the end of the tenth and the first quarter of the eighth century BC.3 Both interception points are located at the end of the ninth century,

Figure 4.3 The medieval castle of Lisbon, where an orientalizing presence has been detected.

Figure 4.4 Alcácer do Sal from the Sado River.

Figure 4.5 Citadel of Santarém, view from the Tagus River.

Figure 4.6 The hill of Castro Marim.

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Figure 4.7 Santarém: the radiocarbon sequence of the Iron Age.

Figure 4.8 Red-slip ceramics from Santarém (ancient levels, eighth century BC).

Figure 4.9 Red-slip ceramics from Santarém (eighth-seventh centuries BC).

804 and 805 BC respectively. The two dates are close to ones from the Andalusian Mediterranean coast, more specifically for level 1 of Toscanos 4 and for the second phase of Morro de Mezquitilla, and they are also close to dates that seem to correspond to a second moment of contact between Phoenician colonizers and the indigenous populations of the Málaga hinterland, for example at Acinipo and Cerro de la Mora.

Figure 4.10 Bronze Age ceramics from Conímbriga.

Figure 4.11 Ceramics from Conímbriga, eighth to sixth century BC (after Alarcão et al. 1976).

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In regard to the chronology of the ancient settlement of Santarém, I would like to emphasize that there is a high degree of coherence between the stratigraphic sequence and the ensemble of radiocarbon dates obtained (fig. 4.7). In the same 3 × 3 meter area, the analyzed carbon samples were derived from three clearly superimposed archaeological levels that also provided finds that can be typologically distinguished. The radiocarbon sequence was as follows: PHASE I (Deep levels) ICEN 532: PHASE I (Deep levels) BETA 131488: PHASE II (Medium levels) ICEN 525: PHASE III (Upper levels) BETA 131487:

2640+50 BP— 898–765 cal. BC 2650+70 BP—920–770 cal. BC 2470+70 BP—799–396 cal. BC 2200+60 BP—396–60 cal. BC

The materials discovered in the strata from which the dates that correspond to phase I were obtained can be placed easily in the middle or second half of the eighth century BC (in traditional or historic chronology). The results of carbon-14 analyses have allowed us to extend the chronology that concerns the first contact of Phoenician populations with the Tagus estuary further back, toward the end of the ninth or beginning of the eighth century BC. In relation to the Mondego estuary, it seems reasonable to defend a degree of antiquity for the orientalizing period of Conímbriga. Even if it is true that the vast majority of materials belong to the seventh century BC,5 the fact remains that some objects, namely the red-slip plates (fig. 4.11), can be dated as far back as the second half or end of the eighth century BC. It should also be pointed out that the site was occupied at least during the Late Bronze Age and that numerous remains dating from that period have been found there.6 We can thus conclude that between the foundation of Morro de Mezquitilla and the first contacts with the Portuguese coast there is only a twentyfive-year gap. This chronology must be associated, therefore, with a boom in oriental settlement on the Iberian Peninsula, a moment that coincides with the foundation of Toscanos and Cerro del Villar, and also with the arrival of Phoenicians in eastern Spain and certain areas of Andalusia, Extremadura, and inland Alicante. Even though it seems clear that the regions touched first by Phoenician commerce are the Tagus and Mondego estuaries, there are still other elements that, in both cases, should be evaluated. Investigations carried out by João Carlos Senna-Martinez in the Beira Alta region, a place that is reached precisely via the Mondego River, are in this context of the utmost importance. In the Beijós Castles (Outeiro dos Castelos de Beijós),7 a Late Bronze Age site, five fragments of forged iron were discov-

Phoenician Colonization on the Atlantic Coast • 121

ered, three of which form part of a small curved knife. It was also possible to subject this to carbon-14 dating (SAC—1539—2960+45), and a two-sigma calibration pointed to a period that stretches between the years 1310 and 1009.8 In relation to the Tagus, there are elements that allow us to detect an early settlement of Near Eastern populations in the region. Some curved iron knives were also found here in a Late Bronze Age context. An example is the Quinta do Marcelo (Almada), located next to the left margin of the estuary, for which a carbon-14 date was obtained (ICEN—924: 27000+70) that, calibrated at two sigma, indicates a period lying between the years 994 and 783 cal BC.9 In the Beira Baixa region, known for its resources in tin and other metals, archaeological projects led by Raquel Vilaça in Moreirinha and Monte do Frade also discovered iron knives associated with dates between the eighth century and the end of the tenth century BC.10 At the Cachouça site, in Idanha-a-Nova, Raquel Vilaça was also able to retrieve archaeological materials that demonstrate the arrival of oriental influences in the Beira interior region.11 In strata where typical Late Bronze Age hand-modeled ceramics are abundant, wheel-made pottery of gray finegrained polished clay was discovered, as well as blades of iron knives, glass necklace beads, and a polychrome fragment of the same material. These ceramics have several morphological similarities to those found at Medellín and on the Tagus estuary, namely at the Santarém citadel. These strata were radiocarbon dated and they delivered two dates, two sigma calibrated, which provide a timeframe of 1025–845 and 893–602 cal BC.12 One must not forget that it is via the Tagus that access is gained to the Beira interior region, which can also serve to explain not only the presence of very early iron pieces in the region but also the precocity of a Phoenician presence in the estuary and the antiquity of Cachouça. All the evidence shows that the Portuguese Atlantic coast was a target of occasional and episodic visits by populations from the Eastern Mediterranean at a moment that can be traced to the period—in radiometric chronology—between the eleventh and tenth centuries. These travels, proven by some iron objects collected in the Beira interior region, fit into what Jaime Alvar has called the “non-hegemonic mode of contact.” 13 The tin and gold of the Beiras region certainly suggest that it was the Tagus and Mondego estuaries that granted access to these metals and thereby indicate that it was on the banks of those rivers that a more permanent settlement of occidental Phoenicians took place. At an undetermined time during the ninth century BC (still in radiometric chronology), very likely toward the end of it—which corresponds to the

Figure 4.12 The two phases of Abul.

Figure 4.13 Orientalizing Iron Age ceramics from Castro Marim.

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second half of the eighth century BC in traditional chronology—Near Eastern navigators began to travel systematically to the west coast of Portugal. They then very possibly settled in some indigenous settlements, such as Santarém, Almaraz, and Conímbriga. This new situation corresponds to what Alvar called the “systematic mode of contact.” 14 From the seventh century BC (traditional chronology) onward, the area explored by the Eastern populations grew progressively, and it is clear that only after the beginning of that century did the Sado estuary and east Algarve became integrated into the Portuguese orientalizing koiné. During the seventh century BC, oriental sites were founded, as is the case of Abul (fig. 4.12) on the Sado River and Santa Olaia on the Mondego River, although the functions that each of these carried out may have been distinct. In fact, the layout of the former, the existence of an altar, and its small size lead to the conclusion that in this case we are dealing with a religious edifice located between two important, strongly orientalized indigenous settlements, Alcácer do Sal and Setúbal. Conversely, at the same time, incursions inland occurred via the Tagus. The Mediterranean culture was strong at the time in Conímbriga, Santa Olaia, Lisbon, Almaraz, Santarém, Abul, Setúbal, Alcácer do Sal, Tavira, and Castro Marim. During the sixth century BC, a series of small sites were founded on the Tagus and Mondego estuaries, neighboring large settlements such as Lisbon, Almaraz, and Santa Olaia; and it appears that this situation derives from a process of internal colonization that was a response to the alimentary needs of the populations living in the larger settlements. In fact, the topographic position, the location on soils of good agricultural capacity, and the reduced dimension of these sites support this hypothesis.

The Motives and Modes of Contact I do not intend to enumerate or discuss the several theses concerning the reasons that brought Phoenicians to the Far West. It must be noted, however, that the singling out of peninsular metalliferous resources as the most common cause for the phenomenon of Phoenician colonization of the Iberian Peninsula has been progressively questioned and that other explanations are emerging. In 1998 a polemical text by J. D. Mulhy questioned the validity of the expansionist model based on the demand for metal resources,15 and some other authors, long before that, had been looking for other western resources that could justify Phoenician interest. We must not forget that since 1988 C. Wagner and J. Alvar have been defending the idea that the agricultural resources

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of the Guadalquivir Valley were central to the occupation of those territories by Eastern populations.16 Nor should it be forgotten that F. Moreno Arrastio has suggested that the decorated stele of the Late Bronze Age may indicate that the recruitment of slaves was also a considerable attraction.17 The exploitation of marine resources, namely fishing and the production of salt 18 and purple dye 19—production of the latter having been indirectly documented in Almuñécar, Toscanos, and Mezquitilla—have also over time been added to the list of activities related to the presence of Phoenicians in the Far West. In this volume (chap. 7), Brigitte Treumann shows the importance of timber exploitation by the Phoenicians in the Iberian Peninsula. Again, this is not the place to discuss all these proposals. However, the agricultural dimension of the Phoenician colonization of what is today Portugal should not be neglected, even if it was not the decisive factor in the occupation of specific territories. It seems certain that the Phoenician occupation contributed decisively toward a transformation of the landscape that accommodated colonial commerce. An introduction of vineyards and an increase in cultivable land—in the Tagus Valley at least—have been established for a period that coincides with the arrival of Eastern populations.20 On the other hand—and like many other places in the Mediterranean, and even in the North African Atlantic, where the presence of Phoenician populations has been demonstrated (for example at Mozia and Lixus)—the vast majority of oriental and orientalizing sites on the Portuguese coast are located in areas where salt exploitation has been practiced almost continuously up to the present day. Even today, saltpans surround Castro Marim and Tavira and the salt of the Mondego and Sado rivers has been systematically exploited (figs. 4.15). This is no simple coincidence, despite the fact that once again it is debatable whether the exploitation of sea resources was a decisive factor in stimulating voyages to the European Atlantic or, on the contrary, it was merely one of the direct consequences of such voyages. I must confess my particular sympathy for Moreno Arrastio’s proposal concerning the recruitment of slaves (whether reflected in the abovementioned stelae or not); I would add that slave labor would be essential not only in mines, for salt exploitation itself would certainly require the same kind of labor force. I do believe, however, that the metalliferous resources of the Iberian Peninsula cannot be considered a minor feature in the whole of the western Phoenician colonial process. This is true even if a Phoenician presence is increasingly being documented in Anatolia for the period between the sixth and eighth centuries BC 21 and even though it is clear that Cyprus was from an early time under Tyrian control.

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Figure 4.14 Evidence of metallurgic work in Santarém. Scale 1/2.

Figure 4.15 Salt pans near Castro Marim.

If we keep in mind that in classical texts the Iberian Peninsula is referred to systematically because of its metal resources, it seems reasonable to suggest that the archaeological data on this issue are practically unquestionable. To be sure, the large majority of Phoenician settlements in Mediterranean Andalusia were not located in areas where there were metalliferous resources, and archaeology has shown the importance of agriculture, fishing, and livestock husbandry in the economy of those places. But settlements at the mouths of navigable rivers permitting access to mineral-rich regions should not be forgotten. Evidence for intense metallurgic activity in Huelva and its territory (Cerro de Salomón, San Bartolomé de Almonte, and Peñalosa en Escacena), and in Doña Blanca shows the importance of that activity in the context of Phoenician colonization of the West. The data from Portugal can aid in advancing this debate. In the first place,

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it should be remembered that the regions touched first by Phoenician commerce seem to be the Tagus and Mondego estuaries, and there are features of both that must yet be appreciated. The exploitation of metalliferous resources by Phoenician settlers is also very well documented in Santa Olaia, which lies precisely on the Mondego river-mouth.22 There, in the site founded by Phoenicians during an advanced stage (seventh century BC), a set of metallurgical furnaces that extends throughout an area of 960 square meters was discovered. The activity of processing metal was very intense there, but it is curious to note that no crucibles or molds have been found. This suggests that the activity was limited to transformation and purification of metal and did not include production of objects. It thus seems reasonable to suppose that the metal processed here was mostly destined for exportation. Metallurgical activities were also detected in Almaraz, also in the Tagus area, where crucibles, tuyeres, and foundry remains are abundant. However, it should be noted that the double-spring fibulae found there, in every way typologically identical, reveal two distinct groups of metallurgical techniques. These may correspond to two origins: one foreign and the other local.23 In the Santarém citadel (fig. 4.5), two small combustion structures were associated with metallurgical practices, such are the quantities of tuyeres and cupels identified in their immediate vicinity. Due to the presence of cupels it seems reasonable to conclude that the metal at stake was silver (fig. 4.14).24 Regarding the modes of contact, the diffusionist perspective has tended to dominate analysis of colonial phenomena in general and, more specifically, studies on the Phoenician presence in the Far West. This is still the case despite the fact that in recent years new theoretical approaches have been developed. Local groups have continually been looked upon as passive agents in the constructive process of their own history—as mere receptacles of Eastern cultural influences. Indeed, if during the first half of the twentieth century the colonizers were regarded as transmitters of “culture” and “civilization,” it is fair to say that the dualist perspective did not fade away, especially given that in the second half of that century indigenous groups are referred to as “noble savages” and innocent victims of a process that socially destabilized a kind of Garden of Eden, a lost paradise. With the diffusionist perspective— which was dominant during the nineteenth century and for a considerable part of the twentieth—largely forgotten in studies of ancient colonialisms (since this perspective in a way justified modern colonialisms), an indigenist version, born in the 1960s, ended up paradoxically strengthening the dualist vision. In the postcolonial era in which we live, this must be rigorously called into question.

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It is my belief that ancient colonialisms involved a real subordination of the colonized to the colonizer and that the latter wished to exploit economically the resources of the former. However, from my perspective there was a significant interaction between the elite of both parties, which allows us to speak of hybridization. It also seems evident that within colonial contexts, the colonizers “recurrently need to redefine their social positions, thus contributing to an articulation of local indigenous situations in the wider colonial context.” 25 The Phoenicians who came from the Straits of Gibraltar arrived at the mouths of the estuaries of the Tagus and the Mondego and found human communities with their own interests. The reasons that the native populations inhabiting Conímbriga, Santarém, Alcácer do Sal, Tavira, and Castro Marim engaged in regular and continued exchange with the colonialists, integrating some of their social practices and products into their daily lives, can only be elucidated as concrete cases of colonial phenomena are studied in more dephth. I believe the data currently available and the new contours and dynamics of the colonial phenomenon allow us to shift the theoretical debate, since it seems clear that the settlement of Phoenicians on the west coast of the Iberian Peninsula was preceded by prior contacts. One must remember that this settlement depended on the existence of resources that justified it and the capacity to exploit them. These elements therefore imply not only knowledge of the region but also direct contact with the inhabitants—and it is obvious that only the indigenous inhabitants could grant access to the resources and in some way guarantee the success of the exploitation. It seems out of the question to assume that foreign populations that envision exploitation and exportation of local resources could settle in any territory without previous consent from its inhabitants, except for instances in which settlement follows military occupation, which manifestly does not seem to be the case here. The Phoenician presence in Portugal is a phenomenon of colonial character. I use the concept “colonialism” here in regard to the presence of a human group alien to the region, of distant origin, that maintains asymmetric and unequal economic and social relations with the native communities of the colonized region. Inequality and asymmetry occur because the original social systems and technological developments of the respective communities are radically different. I must underline, however, that I seek to distance myself from the view of colonialism according to which colonial situations are a permanent confrontation between two separate entities. But the social realities are not necessarily homogeneous, and there may well be divergences of interest between the two communities. “Indigenous” and “colonists” are

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not realities with an absolute coherence, and divergences can exist within both. But this is now another kind of history, where individual attitudes gain importance. Only many archaeological studies and excavations can help us to understand the role of agents in this process.

not e s 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Tavares. 1993. Arruda 1999–2000. Ibid. Almagro Gorbea 1970:223. Alarcão et al. 1976; Correia 1993. Correia 1993. Senna-Martinez 2000. Ibid., 54. Ibid. Vilaça 1995. Vilaça and Basílio 2000. Ibid. Alvar 2000:28. Ibid. Mulhy 1998. Wagner and Alvar 1989. Moreno Arrastio 1999 and 2000; cf. other interpretations in Celestino and LópezRuiz 2006. Manfredi 1992; Wagner 2000. Fernández Uriel 2000; Wagner 2000. Arruda 2003. Botto 1988. Pereira 1997. Araújo et al. 2004. Arruda 1999–2000:215. van Dommelen 1997:308.

sour ce s Alarcão, J., M. Delgado, F. Mayet, A. M. Alarcão, and S. Anda Ponte. 1976. Céramiques divers et verres. Fouillles de Conimbriga 6, Mission Archaeologie Française au Portugal / Museu Monográfico de Conímbriga. Paris. Almagro Gorbea, M. 1970. “Las fechas del C-14 para la prehistoria y la arqueología peninsular.” Trabajos de Prehistoria 29:228–42. Alvar, J. 2000. “Comercio y intercambio en el contexto precolonial.” In Intercambio

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y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos (Madrid, 1998), 27–34. Madrid. Araújo, M. F., L. Barros, A. C. Teixeira, and A. A. Melo. 2004. “EDXRF study of prehistoric artefacts from Quinta do Almaraz (Cacilhas, Portugal).” In Proceedings of the Fifth Topical Meeting on Industrial and Radioisotope Measurement Applications (Bologna, Italy, 9–14 June 2002), 741–46. Nuclear Instruments and Methods in Physics Research B213. Amsterdam. Arruda, A. M. 1999–2000. Los fenicios en Portugal: Fenicios y mundo indígena en el centro y sur de Portugal. Cuadernos de Estudios Mediterráneos 5–6. Barcelona. ———. 2003. “Contributo da colonização fenícia para a domesticação da terra portuguesa.” In Ecohistoria del paisaje agrario—la agricultura fenicio-púnica en el Mediterráneo, 205–17. Valencia. Botto, M. 1988. “L’attività commercial fenicia nella fase arcaica in relazione alla direttice sirio-anatolica.” In Atti del 2º Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici, 259–66. Rome. Celestino, S., and C. López-Ruiz. 2006. “New light on the warrior stelae from Tartessos (Spain).” Antiquity 80:89–101. Correia, V. 1993. “Os materiais da Idade do Ferro de Conímbriga e a presença fenícia no Baixo vale do Mondego.” In A. A. Tavares, ed., Actas do encontro: Os fenícios no território português, 229–83. Estudos Orientais 4. Lisbon. Fernandez Uriel, P. 2000. “El comercio de la púrpura.” In Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos (Madrid, 1998), 271–80. Madrid. Manfredi, L. I. 1992. “Le saline e il saqle nel mondo punico.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 20:3–14. Moreno Arrastio, F. 1999. “Conflictos y perspectivas en el período precolonial tartésico.” Gerión 17:149–77. ———. 2000. “Tartessos, estelas modelos pesimistas.” In Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos (Madrid, 1998), 153–74. Madrid. Mulhy, J. D. 1998. “Copper, tin, silver, and iron: The search of metallic ores as an incentive for foreign expansion.” In S. Gitin, A. Nazar, and E. Stern, eds., Mediterranean peoples in transition: Thirteenth to early tenth centuries BCE; Studies in honor of Professor Trude Dothan, 314–29. Jerusalem. Pereira, I. 1997. “Santa Olaia et le commerce atlantique.” In R. Etienne and F. Mayet, eds., Itineraires lusitaniennes: Trente années de collaboration archéologique lusofrançaise, 209–53. Paris. Senna-Martinez, J. C. 2000. “O problema dos primeiros ferros peninsulares em contextos do Bronze Final da Orla Atlântica: Os dados do ‘Outeiro dos Castelos de Beijós’ (Carregal do Sal).” Trabalhos de Arqueologia da EAM 6:39–56. Tavares, A. A., ed. 1993. Actas do encontro: Os fenícios no território português. Estudos Orientais 4. Lisbon.

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Van Dommelen, P. 1997. “Colonial constructs: Colonialism and archaeology in the Mediterranean.” World Archaeology 28(3):305–23. Vilaça, R. 1995. Aspectos do povoamento da Beira Interior (Centro e Sul) nos finais da Idade do Bronze. Trabalhos de Arqueologia 9. 2 vols. Lisbon. Vilaça, R., and L. Basílio. 2000. “Contributo para a caracterização arqueológica da I Idade do Ferro da Beira Interior: Cerâmicas a torno da Cachouça (Idanha-aNova).” Almadan 2(9):39–47. Wagner, C. 2000. “Santuarios, territorios y dependencia en la expansión fenicia arcaica en Occidente.” ARYS (Antigüedad: Religiones y Sociedades) 3:41–58. Wagner, C., and J. Alvar. 1989. “Fenicios en Occidente: La colonización agrícola.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 17(1):61–102.

[five]

Greeks and the Iberian Peninsula: Forms of Exchange and Settlements Pierre Rouillard

A Well-Defined Historical Framework Within the Mediterranean region, the Iberian Peninsula is the only place where Phoenicians, Carthaginians, and Greeks interacted during the same time period and participated equally in the Mediterranean network of exchanges. It is also the only territory where groups of both Semitic and Greek origin lived side by side for five centuries without the geographical boundaries that existed in Sicily. In contrast to the latter case, in Iberia they experienced mutual influences and exchanges. Therefore, special attention on a local scale should be paid to, on one hand, the joint exchange partners and, on the other hand, Phoenician and Greek modes of settlement—which may not be so fundamentally different. Or it may be advisable to take a more comprehensive approach—“the big perspective”—in order to discern differences or similarities more readily. It may be useful to summarize the historical and chronological framework and examine some commonly accepted facts. The earliest exchanges during the Archaic period (shortly preceding the first Phoenician settlements) occurred during the second quarter of the eighth century BC on the coast of southern Spain—between Villaricos and the region of Cádiz (fig. 5.1). An estimated foundation date for Cádiz of 1100 BC cannot at this point be verified.1 In the last fifteen years, it has been discovered that Phoenicians coming from southern Spain, rather than the Eastern Mediterranean, established settlements on the eastern coast of the Iberian Peninsula, south of Valencia at the mouth of the river Segura,2 and on the Atlantic coast at the mouth of the river Sado.3 Very few Greek objects dating from the last third of the eighth century BC have been discovered. Those that have been found should probably be understood as being part of the Phoenician trading network or from isolated Greek contacts on the Peninsula.4 Beginning in the sixth century BC, the social landscape began to change: the most active foreign “partner” was Greek, settling primarily on the eastern

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Figure 5.1 Map of the Iberian Peninsula showing the limits of the distribution of Greek ceramics around 400 BC and places mentioned in the text.

coast of the Peninsula. This chronology is based on historical events documented in literary sources, as well as on the sequence of imported Greek pottery.5 The earliest date, around 600 BC or probably a bit later, coincides with the Phocaean settlement at Emporion (Ampurias) on the Gulf of Rosas in northern Catalonia—and, quite possibly, a settlement at Huelva. Until 550 BC the diffusion of Greek objects seems to have been restricted to Catalonia, Huelva, and isolated places such as La Luz, near Murcia.6 Then, between 550 and 450 BC, objects of exclusively Attic production are found increasingly on settlements and cemeteries on the eastern coast of the Iberian Peninsula. Between 450 and 350 BC, there occurred a veritable explosion in the frequency and distribution of Greek objects, mostly Attic vases. The great river valleys of the Ebro, the Segura, and the Guadalquivir served as prime inroads of diffusion—more than three hundred recorded sites show evidence of usage of Attic vases. This framework, based both on textual evidence and on the appearance and sequence of Greek vessels, seems well founded. However, it is necessary

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to consider additional historiographical facts from which new inquiries and considerations might emerge.

Contrasting Historiographical Overviews A historiographical overview could begin some fifty years ago, in the mid1950s.7 At that time, a new approach to archaeology emerged, based primarily on material evidence from the excavation of Ampurias and its publication by Martín Almagro Basch.8 This clashed with the more traditional and timehonored analysis of classical scholars, in particular that of Antonio García y Bellido’s crucial volume Hispania Graeca.9 Here was a man who, despite his thorough knowledge of classical history and in-depth understanding of literary sources, would continue to identify ancient sites in the traditional manner and would not depart from previous learned opinions. Gloria Trías de Arribas took the next major step forward by publishing a comprehensive work on Greek pottery in Spain.10 This work represents a thorough study of the material assemblage, analyzed in its own context and classified according to J. D. Beazley’s categories. Soon thereafter, scholars began to consider broader questions such as modes of exchange and the relationship between Greeks and Iberians, following an approach familiar to non-Spanish researchers, especially Italians.11 During the 1970s many questions and problems arose, and to many of these there are still no answers, such as whether Phoenicians and Carthaginians traded Greek vessels directly or indirectly, especially during the Archaic period. One could certainly disregard these considerations because today we are trying to understand the function and use of Greek vessels; but one must not forget that the discovery of Archaic ceramics at Huelva (dated to between 600 and 550 BC) has revived the hypothesis of direct Greek trade, stimulated by a Greek colonial settlement on the southern coast of Andalusia, which could be Mainake. Another subject, the relations between Ampurias and Marseille, is still under discussion. This is also the case with the identification of Strabo’s “three small Massaliote cities” (Strabo 3.4.6) on the coast south of Valencia: opinions are equally divided among scholars who still accept the text and those who reject its validity altogether. The investigation of the question of “colonies” in this region has widened considerably (the “case” of Mainake, which the classical literature places in the Andalusian coast, having been added to the mix) by combining the study of literary sources 12 and other sundry evidence to better study cultural exchanges between Greeks and Iberians; on balance these sources suggest that a permanent Greek settlement was not necessary. Among those considerations are the significance of the Greek

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drinking set, such as the one found at Cabezo Lucero (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante), dated to about 450 to 350 BC;13 the role of the Greek alphabet in the writing of the Iberian language at about the same time; and when Greek elements became evident in Iberian sculptures. In fact, the center of interest has ceased to be the status of the settlement—we have known for some time now that these were probably not “colonies” or apoikiai—and has become the processes of exchange between trading partners of various communities. It is clear at present that the only true Greek settlements we know are Emporion and the Hellenistic strata at Rhode.14 At present, scholarly work focuses primarily on the basic form and structure of settlements, such as they are, without preconceived notions and open to new definitions ranging from apoikia to emporion. Another strong point of interest is the question of potential ties between these settlements, especially the emporia, and individual enterprises such as that of Colaios of Samos at the end of the seventh century BC (Herodotus 4.152). The process of urbanization has equally become of interest, following the discovery of houses at Palaiàpolis (Ampurias; dated to about 580 BC) and the study of indigenous contexts, such as at La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante), and the extent to which they reflect culturally mixed urban structures. Other potential topics of research are the role of indigenous inhabitants in their dealings with Greeks; the modes of exchange visible in the organization of settlements such as La Picola, a phenomenon parallel to trade patterns for goods known from the lead letters from Pech Maho and Ampurias; and the significance of Greek vessels as objects of prestige—thus opening a new chapter in social history that deserves, in my opinion, more discussion than it has been given so far. In short, inquiry has become multifaceted and highly complex since the 1950s, when scholarship offered seemingly more simple ideas. Issues that, I think, need further in-depth attention include modes of acquisition, trade, transport and use of imported objects, and settlement dynamics of Mediterranean “partners.” I use the word partner intentionally, because the concept “colony” is fraught with conceptual difficulties. Of course we do know that people left their places of origin to go far afield and establish themselves elsewhere; this action is denoted by the Greek verb apoikeo or apoikizein (literally, “to establish a home away from home”).15 The verb to colonize first came into being during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries AD, referring in particular to Roman history; it was then also applied to an apparently similar dynamic in the Greek world. The word itself derives from colere, Latin for “to cultivate,” and the word colony referred to a certain Roman settlement that took on a military character during the Republican era. Then, during the Roman

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Empire, colony became the most desirable status to which a town could aspire.16 The concept of colonization has taken on a much wider meaning in modern and contemporary times—namely occupying territory for commercial, agricultural, and military purposes. In modern times, the word colony always implies dependence, which was not the case for Greek “colonies” (other than in the kleroukiai of Athens). The fact that no proper word has been found to translate apoikia (= “home away from home”) has thoroughly muddled the debate. It has been, unfortunately, useless to merely disagree or to reiterate that neither Phoenicians nor Greeks established colonies comparable to those of the Roman model, or indeed to those of the modern era. There is no explicit evidence on the Iberian Peninsula that either Phoenicians or Greeks practiced large-scale agriculture. Equally, we cannot be certain of the existence of an apoikia, a settlement with a substantial population; Cádiz might have been an exceptional case. Thus, as far as we know, Greeks do not come into play at all in this regard. In fact, the emporion model is most appropriate for the Iberian Peninsula. Fortunately this model has been investigated more extensively, and much has been published on the topic. Classics scholars have done substantial work on the earliest Greek settlements in the central Mediterranean basin as well as on the Greek vocabulary regarding colonization.17 Economic anthropologists such as Marcel Mauss, Karl Polanyi, and Michael Dietler have contributed significantly to a better understanding by suggesting models of open exchange of goods and culture with trading partners, implicitly highlighting the role of the indigenous partner who receives or welcomes (whether peacefully or not is another issue). The first effect of this new approach that I propose is to completely change our point of view and to focus our attention on what happened in the country that received Greek merchandise, Greek modes of thinking, Greek methods, or even Greeks themselves. It would be interesting here to speculate and draw parallels to the European discovery of the Americas and the profound impact this had on the “new” continent. To my knowledge, neither in Spain nor in Portugal has such an association been considered between ancient “colonization” and the “colonization” of the Americas.18 Yet Spanish history (but not the ancient history of Spain) was introduced to Central and South America. Spanish missionaries in Mexico used the story of the Arab conquest and the ultimate expulsion of the Moors to kindle hatred of Muslims in the recently converted and to teach them to admire the ideals of the Crusades.19 To popularize these beliefs, Spanish friars instituted, beginning in 1530, the popular festival of Moros y Cristianos. The Spanish tandem—Christian and Moor—was very

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soon supplanted by the pair of the converted Indian and the pagan Indian. Christian faith, locked in combat with barbaric beliefs, was assured absolute victory. Images of Rome or the conquest of Oran were equally used for purposes of propaganda, as the deities of the Greco-Roman pantheon were used to assimilate the Mexican gods. To establish links between ancient and modern phenomena is probably not very useful, because the conquistadores re-created contemporary Spanish structures in the New World; it was much more a question of establishing a “new Spain” and transforming Indians, like Spaniards, into royal citizens. Moses Finley points out that while Greek colonies were independent (a probably quite accurate point of view but one that needs to be scrutinized for each individual case), modern counterparts were, without fail, linked to their colonizers.20 The Latin American world and ancient Spain could therefore not become the object of mutual reflection.

Greek Objects Used by Iberians, Phoenicians, and Greeks The assimilation of the Greek element is above all an assimilation of Greek objects, whether by a community, which could be a village, by craftsmen and artists, or by traders, as for instance is seen in the case of the development of the use of writing. Not only the elites were responsible for this assimilation, although they played an essential role, as it was they who gave the major commissions, for example, for monumental sculptures. The archaeology of objects is a necessary step 21 in any effort to analyze foreign presence on the Peninsula, since there is little else to rely upon. Let us remember that Greek imports are few and far between before 600 BC. Essentially, they represent two types: common tableware brought in by Phoenicians (the recent discoveries at La Rábita / La Fonteta confirm my hypothesis 22) or objects of luxury, gifts, perhaps tentative individual gestures toward the “powerful” (whose status was judged by the size and the value of the gift). A perfect example is a geometric crater from Huelva (ca. 740 BC).23 An Ionian vase dating to about 150 years later, found at La Luz, close to Murcia, appears to have had the same meaning. After 600 BC, the most frequently imported items were Greek vessels. However, during the sixth century BC there are not many finds beyond Emporion and some places on the Catalonian coast. There is scattered evidence at Huelva, Medellín,24 and Murcia. The pattern of imports changed significantly in the fifth century BC, but only in the second half, and in the fourth century BC up to 350–330, when Greek vases appeared in greater quantities and across a wider geographical area: in Catalonia, in the lower Ebro Val-

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ley and its tributaries, in the countryside around Valencia, and in the southeastern part of the Peninsula, especially in those regions through which the Segura River flows, upper Andalusia (accessible via the Segura and the Guadalquivir and their tributaries), and western Andalusia.25 However, frequency does not equal abundance, and it should be remembered that the percentage of Greek vessels is comparatively small in relationship to indigenous ceramic assemblages, regardless of whether one counts fragments or whole vessels. It behooves us in this regard to look at numbers compiled by Joan Sanmartí from four sites in Catalonia, between the years 550 and 400 BC.26 The percentage is anywhere between 1 and 6 percent. At La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) Attic pottery is represented—in fragments— by 3.5 percent of the vessels and 1.38 percent of the ceramics. The numbers representing MNI (minimum number of individuals) are 10 percent and 7.5 percent, respectively. At the same site, the proportion of Greek amphorae (including from Marseille) comes to less than 1 percent, regardless of the method of counting used. Amphorae at this site are predominantly Iberian.27 Phoenician imports can also be fairly accurately traced. South of the Segura River, on the Andalusian coast, amphorae and other vessels (Phoenician or of Phoenician tradition) are found at sites with evidence of Phoenician settlers. But north of the Segura in Catalonia, the ceramic evidence consists, until the middle of the sixth century BC, almost exclusively of Phoenician or Phoenicianizing amphorae that come for the most part from the southern coast of Andalusia, from the Straits of Gibraltar to the area of Granada. Analysis of the repertoire of ceramic forms also helps in understanding the relationship between Iberians and their Mediterranean partners. Tableware is the most frequent import, and it is found mainly in dwellings as well as in several archaic burial grounds during the fifth and above all fourth centuries BC. Closed forms of whatever size are, by contrast, rather rare. They are accounted for by the near absence of imported pieces in sanctuaries.28 At the Phoenician settlement, the forms are either Phoenician or, occasionally, a Greco-Phoenician combination. In this instance the most common vessel is the skyphos of Phoenician facies (late eighth and seventh centuries BC), closely resembling Euboean or Corinthian products.29 Interestingly enough, these pieces and Greek objects of the same period seem mutually exclusive. However, this does not apply to Toscanos or to La Rábita / La Fonteta (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante): at the latter site a Corinthian geometric cup of the Thapsos type was found.30 Synthesizing the characteristics of Greek vases, we learn that they were primarily drinking vessels, easy to stack and transport.31 This fact has stimulated a debate about banquets.32 It is a complicated subject since one must

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consider concurrently the type of libation that has been observed in certain cemeteries as well as specific traits of a “funerary banquet.” I tend to favor the notion that a vessel may have served communal purposes—deemed useful and appealing to the community. They would have been useful for the communal consumption of wine; the desires of these populations were either caused or merely strengthened by these imports during the sixth and fifth centuries. We have here a confluence of convenience (easy transport) and necessity.33 An understanding of the nature of Phoenician and Greek imports may be further enhanced through study of certain shipwrecks discovered in the Western Mediterranean. Of two shipwrecks found in the Bay of Mazarrón, off the southern coast of the province of Murcia dating from the seventh century BC, one had a homogenous cargo of amphorae of the “detroit” type, while the other was loaded mainly with ingots.34 The shipwreck of Giglio, off the coast of Tuscany, dates from about 600 BC—the date of the foundation of Marseille and a time when ships berthed alongside the small island of Sant Martí d’Empúries, the site of Palaiàpolis. It carried a mixed freight of Etruscan and Greek amphorae (some containing olives and pitch), one Phoenician amphora, several Corinthian aryballoi, other Etruscan ceramics (canthares and aryballoi), and copper (two) and lead ingots. Other vessels on board included a Laconian vase, an Ionian bowl, and Greek lamps. The naukleros may have been eastern Greek, according to M. Cristofani, even if the main freight consisted of Etruscan amphorae.35 Shipwreck 1A of Cape Lequin (530–510 BC), off the coast of Provence, had an equally diverse cargo with sixty-seven amphorae, including twenty-five of the group Miletos-Samos, eight of Attic origin of the à la brosse type, seven from Lesbos, six from Chios, five Corinthian amphorae type B (from Magna Graeca), three Corinthian specimens of type A, two from Clazomenes, two from the southern Aegean region, and eight “Ionio-Massaliote,” probably of Magna Graeca origin; one Etruscan amphora appears to be an isolated example. The main freight consisted of more than two thousand vases, including about 350 Attic black figure cups, 200 type C black gloss cups (according to H. Bloesch’s typology), and above all 1,500 Ionian type B2 black gloss cups (according to G. Vallet and F. Villard’s typology), which were probably made in the west rather than in Ionia. These vessels were stocked in amphorae and pithoi. In addition, there were three bronze figurines and twelve figurines made of terra-cotta. It is obvious that most of the objects in this shipwreck originate from continental Greece, the Aegean, and Magna Graeca.36 The shipwreck of El Sec in the bay of Palma de Mallorca, dated ca. 375–350 BC, presents an equally diverse freight. Of the more than 400

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wine amphorae, 127 are from Samos, 58 from Corinth, and 27 from Chios; there are also amphorae from places on the Black Sea, as well as from the central Mediterranean basin, if one counts those from Locri or other workshops in Magna Graeca. Also present are 16 Punic amphorae. Associated with Greek wine there are 507 Attic vases: 101 red figure vases, 398 black gloss vases, and 8 lamps. Forms that belong to the canon associated with celebrating a “symposium” such as kraters, cups, skyphoi, and canthares or bowls are most numerous. Added to all this are “fish” plates and lekythoi. All of these pieces may be found in the settlements and cemeteries on the Levantine coast of the Iberian Peninsula and in eastern Andalusia. But—and this is a major problem—the occurrence of Greek amphorae is extremely rare on Iberian sites and in the Balearic Islands. The same freight also contained lebes and bronze situlae from central Italy, as well as stone millstones. The great variety of objects in the cargo and the existence of Punic and Greek graffiti have fueled a debate about the origin and destination of this ship (the great quantity of amphorae from Samos suggests to some a point of departure somewhere on the island of Samos). Is it a Greek or a Punic ship? The debate is inconclusive—resting, as it were, on a single case.37 Shipwrecks have provided a lot of evidence.38 Except for the wrecks of Mazarrón (one wreck full of amphorae, another of ingots) and that of Grand Ribaud F, off the coast of Provence, dated to ca. 500 BC, which contained almost exclusively Etruscan amphorae,39 the make-up of the freight on other ships was extremely varied. The heavy cargo tends to be wine, oil, victuals, and metallic objects from a variety of places. The fine wares appear to have been an extra. It has often been suggested that these ships were coasters, stopping in every port to unload and to take on new cargo. But might it not also be possible that each ship departed from its own port or trade station loaded with a greatly varied cargo to unload in different ports of call? Corinth, Athens, Rhodes, Syracuse, Marseille, Ampurias (ancient Emporion), and any of the west Phoenician settlements could have been points of departure and sources of sundry merchandise. The so-called Punic Amphora Building in Corinth may fit into this picture.40 It is certain that naval itineraries were highly complex, and so were the origins of sailors: Phoenicians, Greeks, Etruscans, or Carthaginians. However, since we cannot be certain in each case of their specific identities—we do not know who manned those ships—we cannot uphold the idea of a direct link between a center and a point on the periphery. If starting in the middle of the sixth century BC Attic ceramics are predominant, it probably means that Athens had a monopoly on the production of these vases. Here we can speak of the emporia model as defined by Michel Casevitz:41

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a commercial enterprise of the emporos, a long-distance trader dealing in all manner of business; and the emporion is the place where emporia takes place. The activities of the emporia, which are reflected in the cargoes of those shipwrecks I have just summarized, are characteristic of the Archaic period. But the emporion is also attested to two centuries later, as can be seen in the great diversity of objects in the shipwreck of El Sec. The emporion always had a very specific meaning to Greeks, and non-Greeks had similar notions for this type of exchange. Herodotus (4.152) refers to this when he describes the emporion akeraton (“untouched market”) to which the Samian Kolaios arrives, as might have been the case for Huelva. The character of the settlement, a “virgin market,” is evidence that Greeks were not yet present and therefore had not yet influenced extant cultural patterns in any way. The many and diverse items on those shipwrecks are evidence of open markets and many trading places or emporia. This may also be observed in the evolution of Emporion (Ampurias) from Palaiapolis, the small island site of Sant Martí d’Empúries.

Trading Centers Trading centers on the Iberian Peninsula share two basic traits: they are small and do not occupy much land, and they are without an extensive hinterland or chora. The Mediterranean trading partner, who is known from literary sources by his indigenous name, is present and directly involved in commercial transactions. Lead-tablet letters from Ampurias 42 and Pech Maho,43 dating to the end of the sixth and the second quarter of the fifth centuries BC, attest to that, as well as to the multifold commercial activities of the indigenous trader. This may also relate to the manufacture of “proto-Iberian” and, later, Iberian amphorae (by comparison to the smaller volume of Phoenician and Greek amphorae).44 When one studies the trading centers on the Iberian Peninsula, it is striking how close the indigenous element always is. This applies equally to the so-called Phoenician and Greek sites. La Rábita and later La Picola are very instructive in this regard. La Rábita / La Fonteta (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) was established at the mouth of the River Segura toward the end of the eighth century BC by Phoenician merchants, probably coming up from Andalusia, who were attracted to the spot because the Segura served as a gateway to the Andalusian highlands. Native communities of the Sierra de Crevillente—such as Penya Negra—were attracted by this trade to the extent of creating a mixed village. Here at La Rábita during the seventh century BC the percentage of indigenous pottery remained stable at around 40 percent, while, concurrently, domestic architecture and planning bore Phoeni-

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cian traits.45 A detailed comparative study should be undertaken for the sites on the Andalusian coast, since the time is probably ripe for a revision of the nature of Phoenician foundations. It has been pointed out that agriculture was always under native control.46 Perhaps the time has come to posit Phoenician settlement in or alongside native communities. The results from La Rábita / La Fonteta could be most instructive in this regard. Since the 1950s the study of ceramics at Palaiàpolis, Ampurias, on the island of Sant Martí d’Empúries, has shed much light on the question of coexistence between indigenous and immigrant groups. Further observations of the habitat show that there existed an indigenous village during the early Iron Age, built of rectangular mud huts (650/625–580 BC). At that point it appears to have been a marketplace: west Phoenician and Etruscan amphorae mingle with objects of east Greek provenience toward the end of the seventh century BC. At about 580/560, new houses were constructed on a rectangular foundation according to standardized measures (2.75 m × 2.95 m) along streets. Adobe walls were erected on stone foundations. We are still far removed from any intentional urban planning such as exists at the Greek colony of Megara Hyblaea, but the area of the site was too small to allow it.47 In Huelva a similar development could have taken place—but the only (and insufficient) evidence for that hypothesis is the large amount of Greek pottery at the site (of east Greek or Athenian provenience), dated between 600 and 550 BC.48 La Picola–Santa Pola (Alicante) is another case of Greeks and Iberians coming together.49 (As the project director, I might add here that I was initially inspired by a clearly stated— even desperate—hunt for the Alonis mentioned in Greek sources.)50 This is not the place to discuss the identity of the site or the name; as of this moment, neither is known. At La Picola, which was short-lived and is dated between 450 and 330 BC, the architecture appears to be Greek inspired. The architecture shows a mastery of certain aspects of the Greek pattern, and the temporary presence of a Greek architect or several Greeks is a perfectly possible hypothesis. Excavated evidence points to square foundations, small-scale dimensions (2,960 square meters intra muros and 5,900 square meters including the fortification), and Greek town planning (a regular layout, with parallel streets and regular blocks, and a complex defensive system, according to a foot of about 30 cm). It also appears that the way of life corresponds to that in Iberian oppida. At La Picola, houses are oriented in the same way as at Palaiàpolis—at right angles to the street—and in both cases the width of the street is identical to the width of the houses. The foot is the same (29.5/30 cm), and the only difference is the module: 12 feet at La Picola, 10 feet at Palaiàpolis.51

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The ambiguous interpretation of the architectural remains and of the construction techniques, as well as that of the ceramic assemblage, suggests the following hypotheses. This may have been a Greek foundation permitted by the Iberians of Ilici, without whose implicit agreement this could not have come into being. Or it could have been a creation by the inhabitants of Ilici, who might have taken advantage of Greek methods and know-how. One thing is certain: the central role of Ilici, without which nothing could have been done. A Greek foundation may have been accepted by indigenous neighbors of Ilici, who would have seen advantages in having a trading post nearby. A mixed population would have stimulated this port settlement of La Picola, and Greeks would have become so immersed in the indigenous community that they did not use Greek cooking vessels, Greek lamps, or Greek coinage and did not wish to live within the confines of Greek architecture. In fact, none of the excavated houses can be recognized as being Greek— or identified as having been lived in by Greeks. Neither suggestion can be adequately verified, but La Picola can probably be interpreted as a foundation by the Iberians of Ilici, with evidence of certain Greek architectural traits, that functioned as a maritime trading center. The port and the construction of the defensive system may be attributed to indigenous builders who wished to control their interests. Both trading partners would have benefited: Greeks could rely on a well-organized and stable site, secure enough to warrant ongoing trade and backed by a strong local trading partner. Thus there would have been no need for a permanent Greek presence. La Picola may have received itinerant officials, traders, and important personalities, such as those known from the lead letters from Pech Maho. The concept of, or perhaps the need for, Ibero-Greek writing may well have evolved in this type of settlement— even if there is no evidence for it either in Santa Pola or in Elche. The coastal settlement/port of La Picola emerged from an indigenous hinterland power and prospered as an emporion under indigenous control. La Picola is, in fact, one of many redistribution centers—the role of which is described by the Ampurias text. The text of Ampurias—a commercial letter inscribed on a lead tablet—also mentions Saguntum. But other redistribution centers are also worth mentioning—for example, Los Nietos, close to Murcia.52 In fact, I use arguments from the publications for these sites to counter the opinions of most of my colleagues, who contend that Ampurias was the only noteworthy port of call on the Levantine coast of the Iberian Peninsula. Certainly it played a role in the distribution network, but a ship such as was found at El Sec could have arrived equally at Los Nietos or at Santa Pola.

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Exchange, Influence, and Appropriation Certain Near Eastern and Greek traits on the Iberian Peninsula enable us to better understand the special and original character of the place. During the Archaic period, Phoenicians and Greek elements overlapped—lasting well into the sixth and fifth centuries BC. Let us look, for example, at the country around Valencia: the artist who made the sphinxes of Agost or of Elche at the end of the sixth century BC was influenced by one or several Near Eastern aesthetic elements.53 The same is true of the pillar of Montforte del Cid, with its false doors and Egyptianizing cornices.54 At a slightly later date, the griffin head of Redovan with palmette decoration quite distinctly suggests Near Eastern influence.55 From the same period stems the sphinx head in the museum of Barcelona, which bears imprints from Attic-Ionian statuary.56 The recent study of the Dama de Elche and of the draped garments on sculptures from southeastern Spain reveals a combination of Greek motifs of several periods, from Archaic style to Severe style, and from different regions in Greece.57 Another example of eastern Greek “reflection” in this same region is Greek-Iberian writing.58 However, it should be noted that there may have been an ephemeral adoption of an Ionian system, dating from the fifth century BC, which lasted only between the end of the fifth and the beginning of the fourth century BC. But by then the “meridional” writing had been established. It originated in Andalusia and was brought to the southeast by Phoenician and Tartessian merchants—this can also be observed in the shipwrecks of Mazarrón and at La Rábita / La Fonteta. As with the ephemeral nature of Ionian-Iberian writing, it can be said that Greek influence on Iberian architecture did not become substantially apparent until the middle of the fifth century BC. This occurred in several coastal sites at the same time when imports of Greek vessels were increasing, and it is evident in the fortification systems and urban planning. None of this, though, requires a significant contingent of transmitters. A local artist may understand new techniques quite easily, and their subsequent integration occurs rapidly. The wall at the Heuneburg, with its Greek architectural elements, did not require the presence of many Greeks within Germania. Perhaps we have to imagine small groups of itinerants. Two examples supporting that idea come from the lower Segura basin (of course they are not Greek, but that is besides the point): these are, respectively, two Punic tombs within the Iberian cemeteries of El Molar 59 and at Cabezo Lucero,60 where a cache of jeweler’s tools and molds, probably of Gaditan origin, was found in the middle of an abandoned road. Yet nothing is simple. Destruc-

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tion of Iberian statuary around 400/350 BC, perhaps owing to some social upheaval, is evident in many cemeteries of southeastern Spain. But it is also worth noting that these sculptures were hidden after their destruction, and they lost and never regained their meaning.61 The settlement pattern may be an extension of an exchange system and thus adapts to the exchange system. The trade-emporia also imply hospitality and the offering of gifts, as well as friendship with the foreigner. May there not be some continuity between the acquisition at Huelva of a krater/pyxis and the rich offerings made by King Arganthonius to the Phocaeans (Herodotus 1.163)? The link between philia and xenia was well established in this region at one point, but during the first half of the sixth century BC Greek presence was merely ephemeral. Further, I would like to draw a parallel with the reception of Greeks by a community in the Gulf of Rosas, on the island of Sant Martí de Empúries. The emporion has evolved from the individual gift. In fact, merchants relied on emporia, these open markets tied to a community in the proximal hilly hinterland. On the other hand, Phoenicians and Phocaeans had access to neighboring systems (this is also true for Euboeans) where small groups established themselves next to indigenous centers. Once more, Herodotus (1.163) describes these makrai nautilai. They were found in four regions: in the Tyrrhenian basin, in the Adriatic, in Iberia, and in Tartessos. Moreover, they tend to be the result of small groups that moved to regions sparsely settled by Greeks and took advantage of the lack of competition. It is noteworthy that Herodotus’s list does not mention Marseille, the only Phocaean apoikia. The rather modest aspect of these settlements is remarked upon by Strabo (3.4.6) in the first century BC, when he speaks of tria polichnia massalioton situated between the Júcar River and Carthago Nova. While there is no point in debating their localization or their very existence, it is worth noting the emphasis on the small size of these elusive sites. In this regard Phoenician and Greek evidence is very similar, also pertaining to the dynamics of their presence on the Iberian Peninsula. This observation has led me to speak frequently of a model that one may call the “Hispanic emporion.”

Conclusions In conclusion, the following observations may be offered: 1. There is evidence for colonization on the Iberian Peninsula without the presence of a colony; we can all agree to that, and I think here in particular of Adolfo Domínguez Monedero and Luca Antonelli.62

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2. I suggest that there is a link between modes of object diffusion and the nature of settlements. 3. Foreigners who arrived on the Iberian Peninsula were few in numbers, and their settlements were often very modest in size and presence. This is one of the traits of a “Hispanic emporion,” whether the partner was Phoenician or Greek. 4. Two phenomena may be observed: a late appearance of the Iberian Peninsula in the myths 63 and a tendency to integrate isolated foreign elements in a manner ranging from the most simple (the case of the ceramics) to the most subtle (the case of the sculptures). 5. Whether apoikia or emporion, are the modes of exchange of culture really different? I ask myself that question—but does the question make any sense?

note s 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

Aubet 1994. Azuar, Rouillard, et al. 1998; Rouillard et al. 2007; González Prats 1998. Arruda 1999–2000; Mayet and Tavares da Silva 2000. Rouillard 1991:87–90; Cabrera 2003. Rouillard 1991. Rouillard 2000. Cf. Olmos 1991. Almagro Basch 1951, 1953–55, 1964. García y Bellido 1948. Trías de Arribas 1967–68. Arce 1979. Martín 1968; Morel 1975. Aranegui et al. 1993:87–94. Vivo 1996. Casevitz 1985:114. Lepore 2000:17–18; Casevitz 1985:8–11; Gras 1995:122–23. Casevitz 1985 and 1993. The methodological lesson formulated by Serge Gruzinski (historian of the Americas; 1999) and Agnès Rouveret (archaeologist of classical antiquity; Gruzinski and Rouveret 1976) should not be forgotten; it has certainly influenced Spanish archaeologists, but only after a delay of at least fifteen years. Gruzinsky 1999. Finley 1971:233–36; cf. also Lepore 2000:18. Gras 2000. Rouillard 1991:30–33. Ibid., 24–25; Cabrera 2003.

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24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

Almagro Gorbea 1970. Cf. maps in Rouillard 1991:118–25. Sanmartí, Asensio, and Martin 2002:99. Badie et al. 2000:147. Rouillard 2004. Rouillard 1990; Briese and Docter 1992; Sanmartí, Asensio, and Martin 2002:99. García Martín 2000. Rouillard 1991:158–85. Quesada 1994; Aranegui et al. 1993; and Sanmartí, chapter 2 in this volume. See also Sanmartí, chapter 2 in this book, who follows the same approach as Michael Dietler (cf. chap. 1). Negueruela et al. 2000. Cristofani 1996. Long, Miro, and Volpe 1992; Long, Pomey, and Sourisseau 2002:50–54. Arribas et al. 1987a and b; Cabrera and Rouillard 2003. Étienne, Müller, and Prost 2000:190–94. Long, Pomey, and Sourisseau 2002:55–62. Williams 1979. Casevitz 1993:20. Sanmartí-Grego and Santiago 1998. Lejeune, Pouilloux, and Solier 1998; Decourt 2000. Badie et al. 2000:168–73, Sanmartí, Asensio, and Martin 2002:101; Rouillard et al. 2007. Rouillard et al. 2007. López Pardo and Suárez Padilla 2003:80–81. Moret 2000–2001. Osuna et al. 2000. Badie et al. 2000. Artemidoros, in Stephanos of Byzantion 80.7. Moret 2000–2001:388. García Cano and García Cano 1992. Chapa 1985:40–41, 46–47. Almagro Gorbea and Ramos Fernández 1986. García y Bellido 1943:145–46. Blech and Ruano 1992:74–75. Truszkowski 2003. de Hoz 1993, 1995, 1998; Untermann 1995. Sala Selles 1996. Les ibères 1997:259–61. Chapa 1993. Domínguez Monedero 1996, 2000, 2003; Antonelli 1997. Cruz Andreotti 1993; Plácido 2000; Marín Ceballos 2001; see also chapters 10 and 11 in this volume.

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source s and bib liogr a ph y Almagro Basch, M. 1951. Las fuentes escritas referentes a Ampurias. Monografías Ampuritanas 1. Barcelona. ———. 1953–55. Las necrópolis de Ampurias, I et II. Monografías Ampuritanas 3. Barcelona. ———. 1964. Excavaciones en la Palaiápolis de Ampurias. Excavaciones Arqueológicas en España 27. Madrid. Almagro Gorbea, M. 1970. “Hallazgo de un kylix ático en Medellín (Badajoz).” In XI Congreso Nactional de Arqueología (Mérida 1968), 437–38. Zaragoza. Almagro Gorbea, M., and R. Ramos Fernández. 1986. “El monumento ibérico de Montforte del Cid.” Lucentum 5:45–63. Antonelli, L. 1997. I Greci oltre Gibilterra: Rappresentazioni mitiche dell’estremo occidente e navigazioni commerciali nello spazio atlantico fra VIII e IV secolo a. C. Hesperia 8. Rome. Aquilué, X., et al. 1999. Intervencions arqueològiques a Sant Martí d’Empúries (1994 – 1996): De l’assentament precolonial a l’Empúries actual, Gérone. Monografies Emporitanes 9. Barcelona. ———. 2000. “Les ceràmiques gregues arcaiques de la Palaià Polis d’Empòrion.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos. eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental, 285–341. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Aranegui, C., et al. 1993. La nécropole ibérique de Cabezo Lucero (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante). Colección de la Casa de Velázquez 41. Madrid. Arce, J. 1979. “Colonización griega en España: Algunas consideraciones metodológicas.” Anales Españoles de Arqueología 52:105–10. Arribas, A., et al. 1987a. El barco de El Sec (Costa de Calviá, Mallorca): Estudio de los materiales. Mallorca. ———. 1987b. “L’épave d’El Sec (Mallorca).” In P. Rouillard and M.-C. VillanuevaPuig, eds., Grecs et ibères au IVe siècle avant Jésus-Christ: Commerce et iconographie, 13–146. Revue des Études Anciennes 89. Bordeaux, France. Arruda, A. M. 1999–2000. Los fenicios en Portugal. Cuadernos de Arqueología Mediterránea 5–6. Barcelona. Aubet Semmler, Ma. E. 1994. Tiro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente. 2nd ed. Barcelona. Azuar, R., P. Rouillard, et al. 1998. “El asentamiento orientalizante e ibérico antiguo de ‘La Rábita,’ Guardamar del Segura (Alicante): Avance de las excavaciones 1996–1998.” Trabajos de Prehistoria 55(2):111–26. Badie, A., E. Gailledrat, P. Moret, P. Rouillard, Ma. J. Sánchez, and P. Sillières. 2000. Le site antique de La Picola à Santa Pola (Alicante, Espagne). Paris. Blech, M. 2001. “Los griegos en Iberia.” In M. Almagro et al., Protohistoria de la Península Ibérica, 283–326. Madrid. Blech, M., and E. Ruano Ruiz. 1992. “Zwei iberische Skulpturen aus Úbeda la Vieja.” Madrider Mitteilungen 33:70–101.

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Briese, C., and R. Docter. 1992. “Der phönizische Skyphos: Adaptation einer griechischen Trinkschale.” Madrider Mitteilungen 33:25–69. Cabrera, P. 1988–89. “El comercio foceo en Huelva: Cronología y fisionomía.” Huelva Arqueológica 10–11(3):41–100. ———. 2000. “El comercio jonio arcaico en la Península Ibérica.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental, 165–75. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. ———. 2003. “Cerámicas griegas y comercio fenicio en el Mediterráneo occidental.” In Contactos en el extremo de la “oikouméne,” 61–86. Treballs del Museu Arqueològic d’Eivissa i Formentera 51. Ibiza, Spain. Cabrera, P., and C. Sánchez, eds. 2000. Los griegos en España: Tras las huellas de Heracles. Madrid. Cabrera, P., R. Olmos, and E. Sanmartí-Grego, eds. 1994. Iberos y griegos: Lecturas desde la diversidad. Huelva Arqueológica 13. Huelva, Spain. Cabrera, P., and P. Rouillard. 2003. “L’épave d’El Sec, dans la baie de Palma de Majorque (milieu du IVe siècle av. J.-C.).” In Le vase grec et ses destines, 125–31. Munich. Cabrera, P., and M. Santos, eds. 2000. Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Casevitz, M. 1985. Le vocabulaire de la colonisation en Grec ancien. Paris. ———. 1993. “Emporion: Emplois classiques et histoire du mot.” In A. Breson and P. Rouillard, eds., L’emporion, 9–22. Publications du Centre Pierre Paris 26. Paris. Chapa, T. 1985. La escultura ibérica zoomorfa. Madrid. ———. 1993. “La destrucción de la escultura ibérica.” Trabajos de Prehistoria 50:185–95. ———. 2005. “Las primeras manifestaciones escultóricas ibéricas en el oriente peninsular.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 78:23–47. Cristofani, M. 1996. “Un naukleros greco-orientale nel tirreno.” In M. Cristofani, ed., Etruschi e altre genti nell’Italia preromana: Mobilità in età arcaica, 21–48. Rome. Cruz Andreotti, G. 1992. “Estrabón y el pasado turdetano: La recuperación del mito tartésico.” Geographia Antiqua 2:13–31. Decourt, J. Cl. 2000. “Le plomb de Pech Maho. État de la recherche 1999.” Archéologie en Languedoc 24:111–24. De Hoz, J. 1993. “Las sociedades paleohispánicas del área no indoeuropea y la escritura.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 66:3–29. ———. 1995. “Ensayo sobre la epigrafía griega de la Península Ibérica.” Veleia 12:151–79. ———. 1998. “La epigrafía ibérica de los noventa.” Revista de Estudios Ibéricos 3:127–51. Domínguez Monedero, A. 1996. Los griegos en la Peninsula Ibérica. Madrid. ———. 2000. “Los mecanismos del emporion en la práctica comercial de los foceos y otros griegos del Este.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos. eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica : centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental, 27–55. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona.

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———. 2003. “Fenicios y griegos en Occidente: Modelos de asentamiento e interacción.” In Contactos en el extremo de la “oikouméne,” 19–59. Treballs del Museu Arqueològic d’Eivissa i Formentera 51. Ibiza, Spain. Étienne, R., C. Müller, and F. Prost. 2000. Archéologie historique de la Grèce antique. Paris. Finley, M. 1971. Les anciens Grecs. Paris. García y Bellido, A. 1943. La Dama de Elche y el conjunto de piezas arqueológicas reingresadas en España en 1941. Madrid. ———. 1948. Hispania Graeca. Barcelona. García Cano, C., and J. M. García Cano. 1992. “Cerámica ática del poblado ibérico de La Loma del Escorial (los Nietos, Cartagena).” Archivo Español de Arqueología 65:3–32. García Martín, J. M. 2000. “El comercio de cerámicas griegas en el sur del País Valenciano en época arcáica.” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental, 207–23. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. González Prats, A. 1998. “La Fonteta, el asentamiento fenicio de la desembocadura del río Segura (Guardamar, Alicante, España): Resultados de las excavaciones de 1996–97.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 26:191–28. Gras, M. 1995. La Méditerranée archaïque. Paris. ———. 2000. “Donner du sens à l’objet: Archéologie, technologie culturelle et anthropologie.” Annales, Histoire, Sciences Sociales 3:601–14. Gras, M., P. Rouillard, and J. Teixidor. 1995. 2nd ed. L’univers phénicien. Paris. Gruzinsky, S. 1999. La pensée métisse. Paris. Gruzinski, S., and A. Rouveret. 1976. “Ellos son como niños: Histoire et acculturation dans le Mexique colonial et l’Italie méridionale avant la romanisation.” MEFRA (Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome, Antiquité) 88(1976-1):159–219. Lejeune, M., J. Pouilloux, and Y. Solier. 1988. “Étrusque et ionien sur un plomb de Pech Maho.” Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise 21:19–59. Lepore, E. 2000. La Grande Grèce: Aspects et problèmes d’une “colonisation” ancienne. Centre Jean Bérard, Coll. Études 5. Naples. Les ibères. 1997. Paris. Long, L., J. Miro, and G. Volpe. 1992. “Les épaves archaïques de la pointe Lequin (Porquerolles, Hyères, Var): Des données nouvelles sur le commerce de Marseille à la fin du VIe siècle et dans la première moitié du Ve s. av. J.-C. .” In Marseille grecque et la Gaule, Lattes-Aix-en-Provence, 199–234. Études Massaliètes 3. Lattes, France. Long, L., P. Pomey, and J.-C. Sourisseau. 2002. “Les étrusques en mer: Épaves d’Antibes à Marseille.” Marseilles, France. López Pardo, F., and J. Suárez Padilla. 2003. “Aproximación al conocimiento del paleoambiente, poblamiento y aprovechamiento de los recursos durante el primer milenio a. C. en el litoral de Málaga.” In C. Gómez Bellard. ed., Ecohistoria del paisaje agrario: La agricultura fenicio-púnica en el Mediterráneo, 75–91. Valencia.

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Marcet, R., and E., Sanmartí-Grego. 1989. Empúries. Barcelona. Marín Ceballos, M. C. 2001. “Les contacts entre phéniciens et grecs dans le territoire de Gadir et leur formulation religieuse: Histoire et mythe.” In S. Ribichini et al., eds., La questione delle influenze vicino-orientali sulla religione greca, 315–31. Rome. Martín, G. 1968. La supuesta colonia de Hemeroskopeion: Estudio arqueológico de la zona Denia-Javea. PLAV 3. Valencia, Spain. Masson, O. 1985. “Hermokaïkoxanthos.” Journal des Savants, 1985, 17–24. Mayet, F., and C. Tavares da Silva. 2000. Le site phénicien d’Abul (Portugal), comptoir et sanctuaire. Paris. Morel, J.-P. 1975. “L’expansion phocéenne en Occident: Dix années de recherches (1966–1975).” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 99:853–96. Moret, P. 1998. “ ‘Rostros de piedra’: Sobre la racionalidad del proyecto arquitectónico de las fortificaciones urbanas ibéricas.” In C. Aranegui, ed., Los iberos, príncipes de Occidente, 83–92. Barcelona. ———. 2000–2001. “Emporion et les mutations de l’architecture ibérique au premier âge du fer.” Zephyrus 13–14:379–91. Moret, P., and P. Rouillard. 2000. “La Picola aux Ve et IVe siècles av. J.-C.: Un port entre grecs et ibères.” In A. Badie et al., Le site antique de La Picola à Santa Pola (Alicante, Espagne), 255–65. Paris. Negueruela, I., et al. 2000. “Descubrimiento de los barcos fenicios en Mazarrón (Murcia).” In Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos. Cádiz (1995), 1671–79. Cádiz, Spain. Olmos, R. 1991. “Historiografía de la presencia y del comercio griegos en España.” Boletín de la Asociación Española de Amigos de la Arqueología 30–31:123–33. Osuna Ruiz, M., et al. 2000. “El santuario protohistórico hallado en la Calle Méndez Núñez (Huelva).” In P. Cabrera and M. Santos. eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani occidental, 177–88. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona. Plácido, D. 2000. “Los viajes griegos arcaicos a Occidente: Los procesos de mitificación.” In P. Fernández Uriel et al., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterraneo (Madrid, 1998), 267–70. Madrid. Quesada, F. 1994. “Vino, aristócratas, tumbas y guerreros en la cultura ibérica (ss. V–II a.C.).” Verdolay 6:99–124. Robert, L. 1968. “Noms de personnes et civilisation grecque.” Journal des Savants, 1968, 197–213. Rouillard, P. 1990. “Note sur quelques vases d’inspiration gréco-géométrique de Toscanos (1967).” Madrider Mitteilungen 31:178–85. ———. 1991. Les grecs et la Péninsule Ibérique du VIIIe au IVe siècle av. J.-C. Publ. Du Centre Pierre Paris 21. Paris. ———. 2000. “Les céramiques de Grèce de l’est dans le sud-est de la Péninsule Ibérique: Nouveaux elements.” In P. Cabrera P. and M. Santos, eds., Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i commerzialització al Mediterrani cccidental, 225–31. Monografies Emporitanes 11. Barcelona.

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———. 2004. “Vases grecs entre habitats et sanctuaires en Gaule et en Espagne: Introduction à une enquête.” Beihefte zum Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum Deutschland 2:115–20. Rouillard, P., E. Gailledrat, P. Moret, and F. Sala. 2007. Fouilles de La Rabita II, Guardamar del Segura (Alicante): L’établissement protohistorique (fin VIIIe–fin VIe s. av. J.-C). Colección de la Casa de Velázquez Madrid. Rouillard, P., and M.-C. Villanueva-Puig, eds. 1987. Grecs et ibères au IVe siècle avant Jésus-Christ, commerce et iconographie. Revue des Études Anciennes 89. Bordeaux, France. Sala Selles, F. 1996. “Algunas reflexiones sobre la fase antigua de la Contestania ibérica: de la tradición orientalizante al periodo clásico.” Anales de Arqueologia Cordobesa 7: 9–32. Sanmartí-Grego, E., and R. Santiago. 1998. “La lettre grecque d’Emporion et son contexte archéologique.” Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise 21: 3–17. Sanmartí, J., D. Asensio, and A. Martin. 2002. “Les relacions comercials amb el món mediterrani dels pobles indígenes de la Catalunya sudpirinenca durant el periode tardoarcaic (ca. 575–450 AC).” Cypsela 14:69–106. Trías de Arribas, G. 1967–68. Cerámicas griegas de la Península Ibérica. Valencia, Spain. Truszkowski, E. 2003. “Réflexions sur la sculpture funéraire et votive du sud-est de la Péninsule Ibérique.” Madrider Mitteilungen 44:311–32. Untermann, J. 1995. “La lengua ibérica: Nuestro conocimiento y tareas futuras.” Veleia 12:243–56. Vivó Codina, D. 1996. “Rhodè: Arquitectura i urbanisme del barri hellenistic.” Revista d’Arqueologia de Ponent 6:81–117. Williams, Ch. K., II. 1979. “Corinth, 1978: Forum southwest.” Hesperia 48:105–24.

part iii

Plant Resources, Agrarian Practices, and the Colonial Political Economy

[six]

Botanical and Archaeological Dimensions of the Colonial Encounter Ramon Buxó

The evolution of Iberian society cannot be understood without an emphasis on the encounter with colonial cultures, Phoenician and Greek, that established colonies along the Mediterranean zone of the Iberian Peninsula. Their presence and their actions were transformative, definitively affecting the structure of indigenous communities of the region. Not least among these changes to consider is the evolution of the production of vegetal resources during the Iron Age in the region, which appears to have progressed from an economy of cereal products to an expansion of vineyards and later of olive trees. From the ninth century BC until the implementation of Romanization, the Mediterranean coast of the Iberian Peninsula was characterized by cultural and political areas whose economy had a strongly agricultural character. The distribution of settlements was in accordance with the potential of the soil. However, the disposition of settlements could vary because they responded not only to economic factors but also to intervening criteria of a functional nature and to issues of defensive strategy.

The Natural Framework For the Late Bronze Age, evergreen oak (Quercus ilex) has been characterized as one of the most important plants of the Mediterranean littoral plain. However, the same paleoecological studies that establish this fact show that this plant was on the decrease as more xerophytic and pioneer species populated the littoral. Signs of changes and transformations of the landscape during this period are related to the extension of crops to the littoral plain. But the most intensive alterations appeared later, with the influence of colonial encounters and the development of Iberian settlements (fig. 6.1). The most important changes to the landscape appeared during the course of the Iron Age (especially during the Iberian period—from the mid sixth to the second centuries BC), when secondary plant formations accompanying evergreen oak developed in a significant way. During this period, the lit-

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Figure 6.1 Comparison between ancient vegetation, before 1000 BC, and present vegetation in the area of the Empordà (northeast Spain).

toral and prelittoral plains of the north of the Peninsula (e.g., in Catalonia) must have been agricultural territories. However, the presence of marsh or flooded soil is recorded in the areas adjacent to the littoral chain. This kind of landscape would have affected especially the settlements of Puig de Sant Andreu (Ullastret) and Mas Castellar (Pontós), located on plains formed by the shallow watercourse of the rivers Ter, Daró, or Fluvià, in the eastern part of Catalonia, as well as settlements such as Bòbila Madurell and Turó de ca n’Oliver, located on the plain between the rivers Ter and Llobregat, a sector of the northern relief. During the Late Iron Age, the number of heliophilous taxa increased: pine, heather, rockrose, juniper, etc. However, species of Submediterranean type still persisted; these are related to zones with deciduous trees (oaks) and mixed forests of green oak and deciduous oak. Thus sporadic discoveries of mountain taxa such as red pine and beech are ongoing, although these are not present today in the lowland Mediterranean landscape.1 The study of isotopic discrimination in carbonized samples of freethreshing wheat and hulled barley for this period does not show serious alterations, but some variations are detected in relation to the environmental conditions of growth, as has been demonstrated by recent investigations in this domain.2 Analysis of plant remains also demonstrates that agriculture improved

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and the exploitation of plant resources was transformed with the incorporation of new cultivated plants that require the creation of new land spaces. This contributed in a decisive way to the transformation of areas that are now occupied by tree vegetation. However, it seems that marsh conditions were not modified in a conscious way, because the indigenous sites are located in zones or at elevations where this land could be exploited for productive processes of an agricultural type. On the east coast and the south of the Peninsula, paleoecological analyses for the Iron Age are more meager, but together with the analysis of vegetal samples, they show important traces of human activity in the development of agricultural activities. The evidence records a tendency to limit the presence of tree cover, improving a more arid environment. Paleopalinology studies undertaken at the settlements of Puntal dels Llops (Olocau, Valencia) and Puente Tablas ( Jaén) show that the plant landscape did not undergo major modifications: it seems that the natural context was similar to that of today. In Puente Tablas, in a sounding dated to the sixth century BC, green oak and pine are the representative taxa of the tree cover, but they are presented in the frame of a forest-tunnel characteristic of riverside environments—tamarisk, willow, and black poplar, as well as alder and ash—and a steppe type of vegetation with esparto grass and thyme. This research suggests that humidity was greater than today, so many forest areas were preserved in the interior mountains of the peninsular southeast.3 In the coastal areas, an increase in steppe vegetation is recorded (i.e., zones of vegetation according to height). At the least, we can begin to observe different models of exploitation of the landscape in the Iberian period. We have sufficient recurring features to suggest the extensive presence of Mediterranean forest, with an important presence of pine, together with green oak forest, indicating a tendency toward higher humidity than today.

Distinguishing Elements of Colonization by Phoenician Populations From the ninth century BC, colonies and settlements of Phoenician populations were established and developed in the south of the Peninsula, and these appear to have undertaken considerable commercial activity in the region. Various goods and products of Phoenician origin were acquired to exchange for oil and, probably, wine. This colonial population recognized the potential for agriculture in the zone, particularly in the alluvial valleys of eastern Andalusia and the Guadalquivir Valley. Studies of samples from the site of Cerro

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del Villar (Málaga) show the presence of an agriculture of cereal type, based on crops of hulled barley and wheat (both hulled and naked), together with pulses (legumes), lentils, and peaches.4 The production of wine seems to be one of the distinguishing elements of Phoenician colonization. The analysis of phytoliths and the remnants of containers considered to be for wine show that if during the first phases wine was imported from the eastern Mediterranean or other areas in the Phoenician trade network (such as Egypt), wine production was quickly started in the west. The territory of the hinterland surrounding Phoenician settlements in eastern Andalusia (Cerro del Villar, Málaga) and western Andalusia (Castillo de Doña Blanca, Puerto de Santa María, Cádiz) was planted with vineyards, as much for direct local consumption as for the production of wine as an exchange commodity. At the latter site, paleocarpological remains demonstrate the existence of domesticated grapes and wine production for the eighth to seventh century BC.5 In the case of Cerro del Villar, besides the paleocarpological material there is the identification of one workshop for the production of amphorae (VR-1 or T-10.1.2.1. types) destined for the transport of wine. These features characterized colonial and Iberian sites in the Mediterranean area of the Peninsula between 650 and 575 BC.6 Amphorae produced in this region are amply distributed between Andalusia and the south of France and at Ibiza and in the Central Mediterranean, indicating the development of wine production during the seventh century BC. A significant demand promoted and accelerated the management of wine among these communities during the Early Iron Age (or the beginning of the Iberian culture). At the beginning of the sixth century BC, some Iberian settlements, for instance Alto de Benimaquia (Dénia, Alicante), opted for intensive production of wine geared toward internal and external trade circuits. This is manifested by the construction of structures for pressing grapes and the maceration of the must in order to transform the juice. As a hypothetical exercise, I would estimate that the territory of Benimaquia could produce approximately four hundred hectoliters of wine per year. Storing this quantity of wine would require between 1,300 and 1,600 amphorae. This would necessitate the industrial production of a ceramic workshop throughout the year to provide a sufficient supply of containers.7 This situation seems to have continued during the Iberian period at sites in the southeast—as evidenced, for instance, by the amphorae at La Quejola (San Pedro, Albacete) dated to the fifth century BC—and, especially, in the eastern zone, with the settlement of El Castellet de Bernabé (Llíria, Valencia). The exploitation of grapes in a wild state was not unusual for indigenous communities of the Peninsula from ancient times, but remains of domesti-

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cated grapes prior to Phoenician colonization have not been found. Finds of wild grape remains are common in the archaeobotanical record since the Neolithic period. Wild grapes may have been consumed in different ways: as fresh or dried fruit, in cookies, or as grape flour, for example. This ancient presence in archaeological contexts on the Mediterranean coast proves the indigenous character of grapes in the area. In Catalonia, we find wild grapes at different prehistoric sites: in Neolithic contexts at La Draga (Banyoles, Pla de l’Estany),8 Cave 120 (Sales de Llierca, La Garrotxa),9 Bauma del Serrat del Pont (Tortellà, la Garrotxa),10 and Can Tintorer (Gavà, Baix Llobregat),11 and in Chalcolithic–Early Bronze Age contexts at Bòbila Madurell (Sabadell, Vallès Occidental) and Cave 120.12 With respect to the eastern area of the Iberian Peninsula, the presence of vine pollen has been recorded in levels dated to the Upper Paleolithic in the Cave of Calaveras (Benidoleig, Alicante)13 and the Cave of Les Mallaetes, between 27,000 and 29,000 BP (Barx, Valencia).14 From the Middle Pleistocene, they have been identified in the south of the Peninsula in Padul (Granada)15 and in a sounding dated to 4,480 BP at La Laguna de las Madres (Huelva).16 On the other hand, the carpology indicates the presence of pips or pedicels of grapes in Chalcolithic levels at Los Millares (Santa Fe de Mondújar, Almería) together with contexts dated to the Bronze Age at La Cuesta del Negro (Purullena, Granada), Castellón Alto (Galera, Granada), and in Iberian levels at Fuente Amarga.17 In short, a long tradition of picking grapes as a fruit is possible, although the extreme dispersion of remains raises doubts about the regularity of this practice. But since the Iron Age, or, more concretely, since the Phoenician colonization, the multiplication of grape pips collected at archaeological sites allows us to envisage a regular consumption together with a systematic cultivation of vines. With Phoenician colonization, olive oil production seems to follow a similar pattern, but it was not until the end of the Late Iron Age that this crop saw its maximum expansion. Analysis of remains has demonstrated that at the end of the seventh century BC, Phoenician amphorae of the Straits of Gibraltar area (VR-1 type) could be used to transport olive oil and olives, as a basic product or preservative medium, to the Ebro region. Moreover, paleocarpological analyses of material from phases II (600–575 BC) and I (550– 500 BC) at El Castillo de Doña Blanca show the existence of the crop and the exploitation of the olive tree in the nearby territory. In the south of France, paleocarpology indicates that olive trees were being cultivated since the Late Iron Age. However, this practice is principally related to Greek colonization in that region, and its widespread dissemina-

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tion is recognized only in the Roman period. In the Iberian Peninsula, the number of discoveries is also minor. I have recorded the existence of structures related to the exploitation of olive trees only in archaeological levels dated to the fourth and third centuries BC at the sites of Edetània (Camp del Túria, Valencia): El Castellet de Bernabé and La Seña.18

Greek Colonization From the sixth century BC, we begin to see the distribution of wine from Massalia and Etruria (as well as other types from the Aegean) to sites on the Peninsula. At Sant Martí d’Empúries we have identified the remains of cultivated vines in a mid-seventh-century BC context, although the frequency of finds of grapes is significantly higher in strata corresponding to the period after the fifth and fourth centuries BC.19 These grapes come from the vineyards of the neighboring chora (territory) of Ampurias (Emporion) or from areas under Iberian control where vines were also grown. Archaeobotanical remains of the same types have also been found at settlements such as Les Toixoneres (Calafell, Tarragona),20 Moleta del Remei (Alcanar, Tarragona), in all the levels of Mas Castellar de Pontós),21 in samples from the first half of the third century BC at Puig de Sant Andreu d’Ullastret,22 and in the Neapolis of Ampurias.23 It is possible that at the beginning of the fourth century BC, as part of the increase of surplus Iberian production fostered by Ampurias, vine cultivation was expanded to include new species. Possible evidence of this is found in the cargo of the El Sec (Calvià, Mallorca) shipwreck from about 375 BC.24 This ship was making the voyage from the Aegean and Sicily to the Iberian Peninsula and was carrying ready-to-plant vine stocks, as well as different types of wine amphorae from the Central and Eastern Mediterranean. In southern Gaul the influence on, and alterations to, the economic structure caused by the Phocaean colony of Massalia can also be seen throughout the Languedoc region. In the excavations at Lattes, for example, we can observe how cultivation of the vine increased in relation to traditional crops and see evidence of the cultural changes that came about during the second half of the third century BC. This model allows us to pinpoint the economic strategies of a region in accordance with external demand and internal political organization, in which the monocultivation of the vine constitutes a highly significant factor in the development of mass production for speculative purposes 25 (fig. 6.2). In the sixth century BC, the Phocaean colony of Massalia also introduced the cultivation of the olive as the basis of its trade with the territories of the

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Figure 6.2 Example of the increased cultivation of the vine at the archaeological site of Lattes during the second half of the third century BC.

south and interior of Gaul, as well as with the north of the Iberian Peninsula. However, as mentioned earlier, it would not be until the Late Iron Age that this type of cultivation really came into its own. The wild olive tree is well documented from prehistoric times, but unlike the vine, the wild olive is found in thermo-Mediterreanean or lower mesoMediterranean bioclimatological areas. In addition, it is extremely difficult to distinguish on a carpological level between a wild and a cultivated specimen. Neither is it easy to say whether a wild individual is one that has become wild, losing its cultivated features. Neither paleocarpology nor palynology can resolve this question, nor differentiate between olives from a wild olive tree and those from a cultivated olive tree. In the Mediterranean area of the Iberian Peninsula, the presence of wild olive charcoal has been indicated in the Epipaleolithic levels of the Cave of Nerja (10,860 ± 160 BP), where it increases up to the beginning of the Neolithic.26 The same plant has also been documented in the Neolithic in the south of Catalonia at Can Tintorer (Gavà),27 with a similar evolution to that defined in the eastern zone during the same period.28 In the southwest of the Peninsula, we continue to see it in stratigraphic registers from the middle to the end of the Neolithic in the Cave of El Toro, with a subsequent increase in the levels from the Chalcolithic period at the Campos, Los Millares, and Las Pilas excavations.29 Archaeobotanical analyses also demonstrate the presence of wild olive

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stones in the south of France in the Mesolithic levels of the Cave of L’Espérit (Roussillon, eastern Pyrenees)30 and in the Middle Bronze Age levels in the Cave of Montou (Roussillon, eastern Pyrenees). However, on the Iberian Peninsula remains of the wild olive are more abundant, and stones from this species have been discovered in archaeological registers along the whole Mediterranean coast. In the northwestern area they are found in midNeolithic contexts at Can Tintorer,31 in Chalcolithic / Early Bronze Age contexts in Cave 120,32 in the eastern area in the early Neolithic in the Cave of Les Cendres, in the southeast in the late Neolithic in the Cave of El Toro and the Cave of Nerja, in the Chalcolithic of Los Millares and Campos, and finally, in the Bronze Age levels of Fuente Álamo 33 and Serra Grossa.34 The introduction of vine and olive cultivation represents structural changes in the economic systems of indigenous societies, which had been mainly based on the traditional crops of cereals and legumes. Wine, as an element of cultural change, was introduced as a luxury item for consumption by the elite classes. In part it replaced alcoholic drinks produced by fermenting cereals, to the extent that it became a means of cultural dissemination and the adaptation of practices of indigenous societies to ceremonies of Mediterranean origin.

The Impact of Colonization on the Traditional Cultivation of Cereals and Legumes The social and economic complexity of the Iron Age can also be interpreted through the traditional crops of cereals and legumes and through farming practices. The diet of Iberian settlements was based on cereals and legumes. However, the promotion of the vine as a highly profitable cultivar during the Late Iron Age suggests an increase in the amount of land destined for the production of grapes, yet without affecting the cultivation of cereals for local consumption.35 Accustomed to a type of agriculture with one or two harvests a year, the produce of which was consumed or traded immediately, the locals had to get used to the vine and the olive. The latter two had a long period without any yield, a time during which there was no profit to be shown on the investment, though a large area of land and human and material resources was allocated to it. Only a centralized power made up of aristocrats or nobles could have assumed the risks and consequences of the economic transformation brought about by the new crops. The Early Iron Age is characterized by the individualized spread of cereal-producing species. Hulled barley, free-threshing wheat, and emmer

Figure 6.3 Comparative finds of cultivated plants (cereals, pulses, oil, fiber crops, and fruits) from Iron Age sites in Mediterranean Spain: major component (black) to minor component (gray).

Figure 6.4 Relative frequency of the most representative cereals in the Iron Age.

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wheat as basic cereals, are the most representative. Among the different types of wheat, there is a large proportion of free-threshing wheat; there is also an appreciable amount of emmer wheat, at least in certain Mediterranean areas of the Peninsula (figs. 6.3 and 6.4). This cereal production was backed by cultivated legumes such as the pea, the lentil, and the bean and complemented and augmented by vetch and possibly alfalfa. Finally, millet and, later, oats were developed as new crops in indigenous communities.36 Their expansion occurred throughout the whole period, although millet became particularly widespread from the Early Iron Age and is found in the majority of excavations in the Mediterranean areas of the Peninsula. The archaeobotanical register indicates the technical complexity developed in the agriculture of this period. Apart from the generalized use of metal tools, agriculture came to incorporate new techniques in farming practices, underlining a capacity for surplus production of cereals together with the exploitation of legumes, the incorporation of new species (some of them to be used as animal feed), and the spread of vine monocultivation. These changes came about as a result of an increasing pressure of population growth that required ever-larger areas of forest to be cut down, provoking their regression, even before the effects of Roman agriculture became evident. The most common cultivated plants are those we habitually find in the Iron Age; from the Late Iron Age there is a highly significant predominance of hulled barley and free-threshing wheat, and a small amount of hulled wheat, as well as the introduction of millets, among the most important cereals (see fig. 6.3). As indicated by the historical sources, the new economic strategies did not exclude the exploitation of other plants in different settlements—for example, flax at Ampurias and esparto grass in the area of Cartagena—linked with other types of resources from the animal world, from either the sea or the land. Flax was first cultivated for oil production but later was progressively more used for its fibers.

Conclusion The first signs of colonial trade between the native societies that subsequently came to make up the Iberian world date back to the seventh century BC or, at the earliest, the end of the previous century. The economy of the native settlements of the Iberian period is characterized by a combination of different cereals and pulses, although their agriculture was basically cereal dominated. This system was accompanied by livestock rearing, represented by ovicaprids (basically sheep); however, there was decreasing emphasis on

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pastoralism, and organized pig rearing did not increase significantly from previous periods. The value of agricultural products, basically cereals, within a commercial circuit stimulated by the colonial world (first promoted by the Phoenicians and Etruscans, later by Greeks) could have favored the application of more intensive farming techniques and encouraged the capacity of the Iberian world to produce surpluses. But one of the most interesting aspects of the agriculture of this period is the appearance of grapevine and olive cultivation. It was the colonization movement (Phoenician and Greek) that stimulated the changes in vine exploitation. The current hypothesis on viticulture suggests local wine production during the seventh century BC. Proof of this can be found in the remains recorded at the site of Alt de Benimaquia (Dénia, Alicante), or, more recently, with further indications of cultivated vines in southern Catalonia at the sites of Barranc de Gàfols and Turó de la Font de la Canya. As far as olive tree cultivation is concerned, its main expansion did not take place until the Roman period. However, a series of archaeological structures dating from the third century BC related to olive processing have been found in the areas surrounding Edeta (Llíria, Camp del Túria) and Kelin (Caudete de las Fuentes, Plana d’Utiel), although these olive remains are still somewhat ambiguous.

note s 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

Riera and Esteban 1994. Araus et al. 1997. Ruiz and Molinos 1993. Català 1999. Chamorro 1994. Aubet et al. 1999. Gómez Bellard, Guérin, and Pérez 1993. Buxó, Rovira, and Saüch 2000. Agustí et al. 1987. Alcalde, Molist, and Toledo 1994. Buxó, Català, and Villalba 1991. Buxó 1997. Fumanal and Dupré 1983. Dupré 1980. Florschütz, Menéndez-Amor, and Wijmstra 1971. Stevenson 1985. Buxó 1997. Pérez 1993.

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19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

Buxó 1999. Sanmartí and Santacana 1987. Canal 2000. Buxó 1997. Buxó 1989. Arribas et al. 1987. Buxó 1996. Bernabeu, Aura, and Badal 1993. Buxó 1997. Vernet, Badal, and Grau 1983:672. Rodríguez 1992. Leveau et al. 1991. Buxó, Català, and Villalba 1991. Agustí et al. 1987. Stika 1988. Hopf 1971. Buxó 1997. Buxó et al. 1995.

sour ce s Agustí, B., G. Alcalde, F. Burjachs, R. Buxó, N. Juan-Muns, J. Oller, M. T. Ros, J. M. Rueda, and A. Toledo. 1987. Dinàmica de l’utilització de la cova 120 per l’home en els darrers 6000 anys. Serie Monogràfica 7. Girona, Spain. Alcalde, G., M. Molist, and A. Toledo. 1994. Procés d’ocupació de la Bauma del Serrat del Pont (La Garrotxa) a partir del 1450 AC. Publicacions Eventuals d’Arqueologia de la Garrotxa 1. Olot. Araus, J. L., R. Buxó, A. Febrero, F. Molina, O. Rodríguez, M. D. Cámalich, D. Martín, and J. Voltas. 1997. “Changes in carbon isotopic discrimination in grain cereals from different regions of the western Mediterranean Basin during the past seven millennia: Palaeoenvironmental evidence of a differential change in aridity during the late Holocene.” Global Change Ecology 3:107–18. Arribas, A., G. Trías, D. Cerdá, and de Hoz, J. 1987. El barco de El Sec (Calviá, Mallorca): Estudio de los materiales. Mallorca, Spain. Aubet, M. E., P. Carmona, E. Curià, A. Delgado, A. Fernández, and M. Párraga, eds. 1999. Cerro del Villar, vol. 1, El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del río Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland. Seville. Bernabeu, J., J. E. Aura, and E. Badal. 1993. Al oeste del Edén: Las primeras sociedades agrícolas en la Europa mediterránea. Historia Universal 4: Prehistoria. Madrid. Buxó, R. 1989. “Análisis paleocarpológico de la Neápolis de Ampurias.” In E. Sanmartí et al., Las estructuras griegas de los siglos V y VI a. de J.C., halladas en el sector sur de la necrópolis de Ampurias (campaña de excavaciones del año 1986), 199–207. Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueologia Castellonenses 12. Castellón, Spain.

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———. 1996. “Evidence for vines and ancient cultivation from an urban area, Lattes (Hérault), southern France.” Antiquity 70:393–407. ———. 1997. Arqueología de las plantas: La explotación económica de las semillas y los frutos en el marco mediterráneo de la Península Ibérica. Barcelona. ———. 1999. “Les restes de llavors i fruits.” In X. Aquilué, ed., Intervencions arqueològiques a Sant Martí d’Empúries (1994 –1996): De l’assentament pre-colonial a l’Empúries actual, 605–611. Monografies Emporitanes 9. Ampurias, Spain. Buxó, R., N. Alonso, D. Canal, M. Català, C. Echave, and I. González. 1995. “Estudios recientes sobre agricultura y alimentación vegetal a partir de semillas y frutos en Catalunya (Neolítico–2ª Edad del Hierro).” In Actas dos Trabalhos de Antropologia e Etnologia, Primer Congreso de Arqueologia Peninsular, 467–83. Porto, Portugal. Buxó, R., M. Català, and M. J. Villalba. 1991. “Llavors i fruits en un conjunt funerari situat en la galeria d’accés a la Mina 28 de Can Tintorer (Gavà).” Cypsela 9:65–72. Buxó, R., N. Rovira, and C. Saüch. 2000. “Les restes vegetals de llavors i fruits.” In A. Bosch, J. Chinchilla, and J. Tarrús, eds., El poblat lacustre de la Draga: Excavacions de 1990 a 1998, 129–39. Monografies del CASC 2. Girona, Spain. Canal, D. 2000. “Dieta vegetal y explotación agraria en el mundo ibérico a través dels análisis de semillas y frutos: El Mas Castellar de Pontós.” In III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, Saguntum-PlaV, extra no. 3, 125–31. Valencia. Català, M. 1999. “La agricultura: Los recursos vegetales a partir de las semillas y frutos.” In M. E. Aubet, P. Carmona, E. Curià, A. Delgado, A. Fernández, and M. Párraga, eds., Cerro del Villar, vol. 1, El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del río Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, 334–40. Seville. Chamorro, J. 1994. “Flotation strategy: Method and sampling plant dietary resources of Tartessian times at Doña Blanca.” In E. Roselló and A. Morales, eds., Castillo de Doña Blanca: Archaeo-environmental investigations in the Bay of Cádiz, Spain (750– 500 B.C.), 21–35. BAR International Series 593. Oxford. Dupré, M. 1980. “Análisis polínico de sedimentos arqueológicos de la Cueva de les Malladetes (Barx, València).” Cuadernos de Geografía 26:1–22. Florschütz, F., Menéndez-Amor, J., and Wijmstra, T. A. 1971. “Palynology of a thick Quaternary succession in southern Spain.” Palaeogeografia, Palaeoclimatolologia, Palaeoecologia 10:233–64. Fumanal, M. P., and M. Dupré. 1983. “Schéma paléoclimatique et chono-stratigraphique d’une séquence du paléolithique supérieur de la région de Valence, Espagne.” Bulletin de l’Association Française pour l’Étude du Quaternaire 1983(1):39–46. Gómez Bellard, C., P. Guérin, and G. Pérez. 1993. “Témoignage d’une production de vin dans l’Espagne Préromaine.” In M. C. Amouretti and J. P. Brun, eds., La production du vin et de l’huile en Méditerranée, 379–95. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique, Supplément 26. Paris. Hopf, M. 1971. “Vorgeschichtliche Pflanzenreste aus Otspanien.” Madrider Mitteilungen 12:101–14. Leveau, P., C. Heinz, H. Laval, P. Marinval, and J. Medus. 1991. “Les origines de

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l’oléiculture en Gaule du sud: Données historiques, archéologiques et botaniques.” Revue d’Archeométrie 15:83–94. Pérez, G. 1993. “La producció d’oli al món Ibèric: L’exemple del Camp de Túria.” BA thesis, Universidad de Valencia. Riera, S., and A. Esteban. 1994. “Vegetation history and human activity during the last 6000 years on the central Catalan coast (northeastern Iberian Peninsula).” Vegetation History and Archaeobotany 3:7–23. Rodríguez, O. 1992. “Human-plant relationships during the Copper and Bronze ages in the Baza and Guadix Basins.” In J.-L. Vernet, ed., Les charbons de bois, les anciens écosystèmes et le rôle de l’homme, 451–64. Bulletin de la Société Botanique de France. Paris. Ruiz, A., and M. Molinos. 1993. Los iberos: Análisis arqueológico de un proceso histórico. Barcelona. Sanmartí, J., and J. Santacana. 1987. “El poblat ibèric d’Alorda Park (Calafell, Baix Penedès) i el seu entorn.” Tribuna d’Arqueologia, 1986–87, 7–14. Stevenson, A. C. 1985. “Studies in the vegetational history of S.W. Spain: Part 2, Palynological investigations at Laguna de las Madres, S.W. Spain.” Journal of Biogeography 12:293–314. Stika, H. P. 1988. “Botanische Untersuchungen in der bronzezeitlichen Höhensiedlung Fuente Alamo.” Madrider Mitteilungen 29:21–76. Vernet, J.-L., E. Badal, and E. Grau. 1983. “La végétation néolithique du sud-est de l’Espagne (Valencia, Alicante) d’après l’analyse anthracologique.” Comptes Rendus des Séances de l’Académia des Sciences, ser. 2, 296(3):669–72.

[seven]

Lumbermen and Shipwrights: Phoenicians on the Mediterranean Coast of Southern Spain Brigitte Treumann

Introduction The symposium for which this paper was originally written addressed the evidence and nature of interaction between indigenous populations and Phoenician and Greek transients/immigrants/colonizers on the Iberian Peninsula during the first millennium BC. Slightly at variance with the presentations of my colleagues, many of whom took an Iberocentric point of view to the question of colonial encounters, I see the cluster of small Phoenician sites perched on the southern Mediterranean coast of Spain (fig. 7.1) as part of a pattern that had its matrix in the Eastern Mediterranean basin and the coastal Levant. This matrix, by and large, existed as early as the Early Bronze Age 1 and can be discerned well into the Middle Ages, as has been extensively demonstrated by Maurice Lombard 2 (tables 7.1–7.3). Thus we find in Iron Age metropolitan Phoenicia—and this pattern is mirrored on the Spanish coast between Cádiz (ancient Gadir) and Adra (ancient Abdera, in Almería province)—a string of port sites, which lay at the bottom of torrents and rivers or wadis, connecting them with the proximal forests of the hinterland. These extended beyond the nuclear Phoenician realm, northward into coastal and inland Syria and the Cilicias, well within reach of a great variety of trees in the Amanus Mountains and the Taurus massif with its superb stands of coniferous and deciduous woody species (figs. 7.2–7.3). But timber was not only plentiful in these regions. At the time of Phoenician expansion into the Western Mediterranean, substantial forests also covered the mountain ranges of Greece, Italy, and particularly the Iberian Peninsula. These forests were among the most coveted, accessible, and therefore most widely exploited natural resources in the northern half of the Mediterranean basin. I propose that the ever-growing demand for wood and its eminently transportable byproducts was a prime mover in the establishment and existence of the west Phoenician communities on the Mediterranean coast of

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Figure 7.1 Southern Mediterranean coast of Spain: Phoenician settlement cluster.

Spain, where the immediate hinterland offered many woody species but no precious metals to speak of (fig. 7.4). Further, I concur with M. E. Aubet that these settlements with their specialized industrial activities and output (shipwrighting prominent among them) may have had strong economic (and perhaps administrative) ties with the great western colonial hub of Gadir for local and long-distance trade networks, transport, and distribution.3 And with L. E. Stager, I think it entirely plausible that they represented part of a hierarchy of trade—with smaller-time merchants residing along the Mediterranean coast and the major port power as an “oligarchy, that exercised indirect economic power through the integrated and hierarchical system of market exchange,” 4 ruling profitably in Gadir.

More about Timber, East and West In this section I will describe more fully the forest cover of mountain ranges bordering the Eastern Mediterranean and the woody species that were most likely available to the Phoenician settler on the southern Mediterranean coast of the Iberian Peninsula. In the east the mountains are Mount Lebanon, the coastal mountains

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of Syria (Djebel Ansarijeh and Baer Bassit), the Amanus straddling modern Syria and Turkey, and the Taurus ranges of Turkey. In the first millennium BC, these regions either were inhabited by Phoenicians or, at the very least, had strong trading relations with Phoenicians, and their inhabitants most likely shared the cultural koine of Aramaic and Phoenician origins.5 Written sources, including Assyrian royal inscriptions, Strabo’s descriptions, and early medieval documents, inform us about the forests in the Levant. Dendro-archaeology and paleobotanical studies of certain areas have added more detailed information about the distribution of species and cyclical fluctuations of vegetation. The densely wooded slopes of the Amanus and the mountains of Syria

Table 7.1 Juxtaposition of early Islamic centers of timber activity (according to Lombard) and Iron Age ports on the coast of Syria.

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Table 7.2 Juxtaposition of early Islamic Centers of timber activity (according to Lombard) and Iron Age ports on the southern coast of Turkey.

and Lebanon were sources of high-quality timber for Egyptian, Israelite,6 and Assyrian monarchs, who imported trees commercially. Assyrian royal inscriptions describe the kinds of timber that were cut and transported to Mesopotamia as items of trade and sometimes as tribute or booty: beams of cedar (Cedrus libani), cypress (Cupress sempervirens), juniper (Juniperus excelsa), and logs of boxwood (Buxus).7 Other species of trees in the forests of the Amanus, the Baer Bassit, and the Djebel Ansarijeh were oak (Quercus pseudocerris, Quercus coccifera, Quercus libani), fir (Abies cilicica), and pine (Pinus halepensis, Pinus brutia).8 The mountain ranges of Turkey that border the Mediterra-

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nean are still covered with remnants of coniferous tree stands: fir, cedar, several species of pine, evergreen oak, many varieties of juniper, and cypress. Pollen diagrams from several sites in the Near East show that this rich and variegated reservoir of woody species has a history of expansion and contraction. Specifically, palynological data imply that natural forest components began to decline toward the end of the second millennium BC in south and southwest Turkey and somewhat later in the Levant.9 Anthropogenic disturbance may be observed in a decline of conifer and deciduous oak in western Turkey and evergreen oak in the Levant, and the rise of cultivated trees at that time.10 This period of contraction is known as the Beysehir Occupation phase and has been calculated to have lasted until the end of the first millennium AD, when once again the Taurus was an abundantly wooded landscape.11 Even though such reconstruction must be viewed with caution

Table 7.3 Juxtaposition of early Islamic centers of timber activity (according to Lombard) and Iron Age Phoenician ports on the southern Mediterranean coast of the Iberian Peninsula.

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Figure 7.2 Lumber ports of Syria.

at this point, as the correlation of pollen records is difficult and the distance between coring sites great, a relative depletion of woodlands in the Eastern Mediterranean in the first millennium BC appears likely. It is tempting, in this context, to speculate that the enterprising Phoenician seafarer-lumberman began to look for new resources in the west. By comparison with the Eastern Mediterranean, the history of trees and timber on the Iberian Peninsula comes into focus at a much later date. Greco-

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Roman geographers and historians give us first glimpses of “dense and tall trees” and refer quite specifically to the (former) existence of pine trees. Dendro-archaeological investigations, botanical and paleobotanical studies that have been conducted in various regions of Spain over the last decades, confirm the existing Greco-Roman descriptions of the southern Iberian forest cover. While it is still difficult to apply the results of localized studies to larger areas, this research in conjunction with textual references by classical authors and Andalusi geographers allow for specific inferences about the first-growth forest cover. Premedieval textual references to timber and forests in our area of study come primarily from the indefatigable Strabo and from a late Latin poem, the Ora Maritima.12 The latter source is especially significant since it not only mentions pinus hanc quondam frequens (the pine that once was frequent here) but refers to the former presence of Phoenicians and their specific environment and geography on the Mediterranean littoral: On the island there is a lagoon and a safe port. The town Menace is above it. (431) Where the named region draws itself back from the waves, the Moun-

Figure 7.3 Mediterranean coast of Turkey: ports from Amanus to Cape Anamurion. Number 17 is Kinet Höyük.

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Figure 7.4 Indigenous (Tartessian) and Phoenician zones of settlement on the Iberian Peninsula (eighth to sixth centuries BC).

tain Silurus swells with lofty top. Then a vast crag rises up and enters the deep sea. (435) The pine that once was frequent here gave the crag its name in the Greek tongue. . . . But on this shore frequent cities formerly stood, and many deserted Phoenicians held these lands of old (440). The deserted earth now extends inhospitable sands. The lands, bereft of crops, lie neglected.13

The island with its lagoon and port and the town of Menace have been identified with the west Phoenician site of Toscanos and its environment.14 Silurus is the Sierra Nevada, which can be seen from this site. Strabo also mentions that “dense forests of tall trees” cover the mountains behind Málaga, “the mountain-chain which separates the coast from the interior.” 15 Equally, a much later description, from the eighteenth century AD, speaks of the maderas excelentes in the hinterland of Málaga and says that in antiqity very fine hardwoods grew in the upland (serranías) and mountains of Vélez-Málaga (where there is a major concentration of west Phoenician sites).16 Some early archaeologists already embraced the idea that during the earlier first millennium BC dense forests covered the mountain ranges of the

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Iberian Peninsula.17 More recent geographical/botanical studies and paleobotanical investigations confirm the ancient sources and much more recent descriptions and add more detailed knowledge about frequency and distribution of species. They indicate that among the original climax vegetation in Andalusia were many species of evergreen oak as well as deciduous oak (Quercus lusitanica and Quercus toza bosc.) and coniferous trees, especially fir and several species of pine.18 It is also worth mentioning that a charcoal analysis from the west Phoenician site Morro de Mezquitilla yielded pine and pistachio, species that can no longer be found on the southern Mediterranean coast of Spain.19 Aleppo pine (pinus halepensis) was also present in the pollen analyses around another Phoenician site, called Cerro del Villar, west of Málaga.20

Ease of Access: Rivers and Coasts Rivers and streams made the forests on the eastern and southern Peninsula especially accessible, since relief and hydrological conditions combine favorably in these areas. Throughout the year, rivers connected the settlement at the edge of the sea with the resource in the mountains. During the summer months, when the riverbeds were often dry, they served as passageways for people and animals alike; in winter and spring, when the seasonal flow was highest, logs could simply be sent down the streams that begin in the coastal mountains of Andalusia and flow into the Mediterranean.21 Similar conditions apply to parts of the southern coast of Turkey and Syria/Lebanon, and for these regions there is textual as well as pictorial evidence for timber conveyance. This may have involved shooting and floating logs, singly or lashed together as rafts, down steep and swiftly running currents and wider rivers. An elaborate system of timber conveyance on the Euphrates and Tigris and their tributaries existed in Mesopotamia,22 and M. Lombard quotes from early Islamic sources to show that cedar and cypress were expedited on the descending torrents to small ports on the coasts of Turkey.23 Analysis and interpretation of the ever-changing Mediterranean coastal landscapes and river deltas have become a major area of research. Such exploratory work was done by the German Archaeological Institute in the late 1980s on the southern Mediterranean coast.24 In addition to producing further evidence of Phoenician presence in this region,25 investigation revealed that the sea reached inland, in some cases by as much as two kilometers with an approximate water depth of six to seven meters. Thus many sites were on higher ground, on hillocks and rocky outcrops, and were surrounded by or adjacent to deep lagoons;26 others were situated on small peninsulas that

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projected into the bay.27 The ancient topography thus further facilitated easy access and seamless conveyance from mountain to sea.

Ports on the Sea: The Material Evidence . . . a settlement on a hill, with a harbour, where [ship]- building timber is brought down . . . 28

Among the many Phoenician harbor settlements along the southern Mediterranean shore of the Iberian Peninsula, the cluster of sites of Toscanos, Cerro del Peñón, and Alarcón (fig. 7.1, nos. 4, 5, and 7) were among the first excavated in the 1960s by the German Archaeological Institute at Madrid. They stand here as a model for other west Phoenician foundations and petit port de bois on the Peninsula.29 These three areas developed in the course of fifty years. Toscanos, the earliest settlement, with about two and a half hectares, was founded ab initio around the middle of the eighth century BC on top of a natural elevation, ten meters above sea level, and like its neighboring sites to the east lay alongside a bay and the estuary of the Vélez River.30 Industrial activities spilled onto the eastern slope of the adjacent Cerro del Peñón early in the seventh century BC, and during that time the hillock of Alarcón, located uphill and to the north of Toscanos, was settled.31 At the end of the seventh century the entire area, which apparently had some system of fortification, indicated by a deep trench and some vestiges of walls in the Alarcón area, constituted roughly twelve hectares. H. G. Niemeyer has estimated that at this stage some 1,000 to 1,500 people populated the area.32 Early on in the sixth century BC occupation appears to have gradually declined, and the sites were abandoned by the mid sixth century BC. The most prosperous period at the site of Toscanos appears to cover the end of the eighth and the beginning of the seventh century BC and is represented by stratum III. To this stratum belongs the so-called Magazingebäude, or storehouse, named Building C. Its tripartite plan and its possible architectural relationship to Iron Age Near Eastern storehouses have been emphasized. The stone foundation probably supported a mud-brick superstructure, and ashlars were used to construct the quoins. One of the naves had a second floor accessible by an outside stairway.33 Almost 80 percent of the pottery associated with this building consisted of large, undecorated receptacles made of coarse ware; amphorae were common, representing one-third of the total corpus.34 These findings lend support to the interpretation of a storehouse or place of business. Adjacent to this building and contemporary with it

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stood structures E, F, and G; they are described as simple, rather mean living quarters. On the adjacent slope of the Cerro del Peñón were found remains of a seventh-century BC iron-smelting operation, furnaces containing slag of a type that is called “furnace bottom” and other melting residues, as well as fragments of tuyeres. This site has been interpreted as an independent “industrial” area, but most scholars assume correctly, in my view, that it was essentially the “village smithy” of the larger adjacent Toscanos.35 Finally, it must be repeated that this area had access to the then heavily wooded uplands of the proximal and visible Sierras Tejeda, Chaparral, and Guajaras—those mountain chains with tall dense trees where pine was so abundant and which were (and still are) visible from this coast. In the Eastern Mediterranean basin, the aforementioned matrix, such a model site could be Kinet Höyük in Cilicia, which by the fourth century BC was known as Issos and in medieval times as Hisn at-Tinat, a port that was particularly known to trade in pine (fig. 7.3, no. 17). As S. Redford and others suggest, the Deli Çay (Deli River) must have been the “vehicle” for this trade.36 The Deli Çay rises in the Amanus Mountains and flows now into the Mediterranean about 2.7 kilometers south of the site, and timber cut in the heavily wooded Amanus was floated down the river and “loaded onto ships for use in the maritime industry in the timber-starved Eastern Mediterranean.” 37 It bears emphasizing that the site occupies a prime location on the coast at the edge of the Cilician plain, within easy distance from timber—the Amanus foothills begin less than six kilometers away—and was the trailhead of a major route leading from the Cilician plain southward along the Amanus range to the central Phoenician coast and, across the Beilan pass, to the ‘Amuq Valley and beyond to Mesopotamia. Kinet Höyük has a much longer history than its famous Issos associations with Alexander the Great and Cyrus the Younger, in that excavations of the site have revealed continuous strata of occupation from the Chalcolithic period to the first century BC 38 and evidence for the thirteenth century AD.39 During the earlier Iron Age (ninth and eighth centuries BC) it may have been known as Sissu,40 a lively Mediterranean harbor where local Luwians, Greeks, and Syrian/Phoenicians mingled in pursuit of business.41 Two large buildings (perhaps resembling the Magazingebäude in Toscanos) were excavated, one on the western side of the settlement looking down on the harbor and the other overlooking the river. Both were similarly constructed with foundations of river stones, with a mud-brick superstructure, and covered with a thick layer of plaster. Associated with these buildings many cooking vessels and storage jars have been found, as well as tableware decorated in

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what the excavators call the Cypro-Cilician style.42 One storage amphora bore an inscription in Phoenician letters of a Luwian name, provisionally read as “To Sarmakanddis.” 43 During the second half of the eighth century BC, the excavators also observe a change in the material culture (ceramic assemblage and architecture) at the site that may be due to neo-Assyrian control and occupation.44 The most dramatic event in this period affecting Sissu was Essarhaddon’s campaign in Cilicia in 677 BC. He sought to break up an alliance between Sanduarri, king of Kundi and Sissu, and Abdi-Milkutti, king of Sidon. Their diplomatic efforts came to an unfortunate end, since both lost their heads to the neo-Assyrian axe.45 As elsewhere in the Levant, neo-Assyrian aggression and successful occupation/control in the late eighth century BC threatened to interrupt independent pursuit of business, making the attainment of local resources more difficult. Could this have been yet an additional impetus to “take to the tempting waters” to look for new resources that could be tapped “duty free” and without geopolitical encumbrances? Given the temporally coincident founding and proliferation of Phoenician sites on the Iberian Peninsula, this may be more than idle speculation.

Lumbermen and Shipwrights: Timber Use There is textual and pictorial evidence for Canaanites and later Phoenicians as royal owners of mountainous cedar groves, skilled lumbermen, and independent timber merchants from the third millennium BC onward. However, here we are particularly concerned with testimony for the Iron Age. One of the best-known documents is the papyrus fragment with the Report of Wenamon, dated to the early eleventh century BC from the reign of Ramses III. From it we learn how the Egyptian official Wenamon traveled to Byblos to petition Zakarbaal, the prince of Byblos, for cedar wood for the building of a sacred barge of Amen. After much back and forth, Zakarbaal conceded and assigned three hundred men and three hundred cattle to cut the timber for Wenamon.46 In the tenth century BC, Hiram, the ruler of Tyre, cut a deal with Solomon, king of the united monarchy of Israel and Judea, to deliver cedar and pine for the building of the temple in Jerusalem with the following words: “In this matter of timber, both cedar and pine, I will do all you wish. My men shall bring down the logs from Lebanon to the sea and I will make them up into rafts to be floated to the place you appoint; I will have them broken up there, and you can remove them” (1 Kings 5:8–10). At the end of the eighth century BC, a passage from Nimrud letter 12 not

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only sheds light on the political tension in central Phoenicia at that time but also illustrates its citizens’ savvy, independent, hands-on involvement in the timber business: Urdi-assur-llamur to the king: With regard to the ruler of Tyre, of whom the king said that I was to speak kindly to him—all the quays are open to him— [and] his subjects enter and leave the quay-houses as they wish, [and] sell and buy. Mount Lebanon is at his disposal, and they go up and down as they wish, and bring down the wood. I levy taxes on anyone who brings down the wood, and I have appointed tax-collectors over the quays of all Mount Lebanon. . . . I appointed a tax-collector over those who come down to the quays which are in Sidon, but the Sidonians chased him off. Then I sent the Itu’aeans into Mount Lebanon, and they made the people grovel. . . . I made a statement to them, that they might bring down the wood and do their work with it, [but] that they were not to sell it to the Egyptians or to the Palestinians [Philistines], or I would not allow them to go up to the mountain.47

These restrictive measures—levying taxes on all timber activities (cutting and trading), the use of enforcers, and, significantly, an embargo on timber trade with Egypt and Philistia—were taken by the Assyrians to protect and ensure exclusive access to a prime commodity. The Sidonian lumbermen quite obviously accepted the challenge, and the business of providing timber and its byproducts to Egypt (and presumably Philistia) continued to flourish despite Assyrian taxes and embargoes.48 If that meant exploiting nature beyond his own backyard, the entrepreneurial Phoenician, “so skilled at cutting trees” (1 Kings 5:20) and trading, was willing and able to do so, as has been pointed out several times already. Thus we learn from at least two documents that cedar wood was used in the construction of royal Egyptian ceremonial barges and as highly prized building material in the royal temple in Jerusalem. Other woody species were essential in shipbuilding and naval architecture, for which Phoenicians were justly famous as independent agents or mercenaries. Ezekiel’s lament over Tyre includes a passage (27:39) that perfectly illustrates the material and skills necessary to build a ship: “They made all your planks of fir trees . . . they took a cedar to make a mast for you . . . of oaks . . . they made your oars; they made your deck of boxwood. . . . Skilled men were in you, caulking your seams.” 49 Some of the ship timber mentioned in Ezekiel has been identified in shipwrecks throughout the Mediterranean. For example several kinds of oak (used in the construction of the hull) and cedar were found in the remains of a ship that sank at Cape Gelidonya.50 Pine was used for the planking, ten-

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ons and dowels were made of oak, and ribs of oak and maple. The ram was constructed of pine and probably tipped with iron.51 Timber from pine was so frequently used in naval construction that the word pinus became synonymous with “ship” among Latin poets.52 Both the mountain pine (Pinus laricio) and the umbrella pine (Pinus pinea) were considered suitable woods, especially perhaps for yards. Fir was useful for masts and oars.53 The coastal pine was also a rich source of resin/rosin and pitch.54 Pitch and resin/rosin, used to caulk the joints of a ship’s boards and/or to cover the entire hull, played a major role in the Mediterranean economy, primarily as vital naval materials without which no ship would be seaworthy.55 In addition to the coastal pine, other coniferous trees were considered highly productive for these byproducts, such as the maritime pine (Pinus pinaster) and the mountain pine (Pinus laricio or nigra). All of these species were part of the climax vegetation on the Iberian Peninsula, including Pinus halepensis and Pistacia lentiscus, which produce a very gummy liquid called mastic;56 evidence for these species has been found in the west Phoenician sites. Pitch and resin/rosin also played an important role in the transportation, if not also in the production, of wine: amphorae in which wine was transported were made waterproof by lining them with pitch, and wine was flavored with resin.57 Resin from the lentisk bush or mastic resin was used medicinally in Egypt as an astringent and a type of chewing gum; it also served as varnish for coffins.58 All of these commodities were easily transported in amphorae, as could be observed in the Ulu Burun shipwreck,59 and could have been traded in multiple markets near and far. In the words of F. Braudel, “identical production probably did not restrict exchanges.” 60

Making Sense of It All Clearly I am arguing strongly for the concept of a group or cluster of settlements whose primary purpose was to exploit the proximal forests in a region where seafarer-lumbermen’s eyes would have been quick to note stands of oak and pine so close to the shoreline. They were in search of new resources and found them on the far western shores of the Mediterranean, on the Iberian Peninsula. I suggest further that the main “industrial” activities here were most probably connected to shipbuilding.61 All the necessary and desirable material was within easy reach of specialists who brought the experience and know-how from the Levant. In addition to ship timber, there were other naval materials available in close proximity to the sites, such as pitch and rosin (resin), and for further outfitting of boats, esparto (Lygeum spartarium) and halfa grass (Stipa tenacissima), versatile fibers that grow wild in large ar-

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eas in southeastern Spain and that became one of the most popular materials for outfitting riggings.62 Strabo also lists ruddle (miltos) or crimson dye-stuff, a necessary ingredient in ships’ paint, as plentiful in the southern Iberian Peninsula.63 We also have evidence of ironsmithing at several sites and know from eastern contexts (Athlit) that rams were tipped with iron. The technology of working with iron ores was introduced to the Peninsula by Levantine seafarers.64 M. E. Aubet’s suggestion that the sites on the southern Mediterranean coast of the Peninsula were in some way tied to Gadir, the only sizable colonial hub on the Peninsula, could be consonant with my suggested scenario if they constituted the “wharves” for this Carthage of the far west. This may well have been the beginning of a long history of purpose and function for this particular area—the trade in timber and its byproducts and, above all, shipbuilding—that lasted well into early Islamic times, until deforestation of the ranges on the southern Mediterranean coast of the Iberian Peninsula made it no longer a viable industry.65 Thus the geopolitical situation in the Levant during the last decades of the eighth and the early seventh centuries BC stimulated a westward exodus, setting in motion dynamics that took on their own life, creating new patterns of settlement, trade, and communications and colonial encounters in the western basin of the Mediterranean Sea. In time, these patterns and material culture became “native,” but with discernible roots in and communication with their Eastern matrix.

note s 1. 2. 3.

4.

5.

Stager (2001) suggests so-called “port-power networks” for the Early and Middle Bronze ages in the Levant. Lombard 1972. Aubet is quoted in Sagona 2004:251: “The establishment of the Phoenician colonies to the east of Gadir, in a zone not very conducive to land trade, seems to have been to serve the great western metropolis of Gadir.” Stager 2001:629. A perfect description of this “system” and its actors comes from a nineteenth-century traveler, William Burckhardt Barker (Barker 1853:121), voyaging up the Orontes: “We entered the Bay of Suedieh. . . . The wind being favorable, we entered the river, and anchored after half an hour’s sailing . . . at Al Mina, the port of Antakia. . . . Mina is a miserable village built close to the river’s right bank, consisting of about seven or eight houses, the best of which serves as a place of residence to the Aga, whom the Aga of Antakia [the more important upriver estuarine port city of Antioch] appoints to receive the duties upon exports and imports.” Röllig 1992:98.

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6. Liphschitz and Biger (1995:125) discuss the increased import of timber into ancient Palestine from the Middle Bronze Age onward. 7. On the use of these woods in furniture making and construction, see Rowton 1967:269. See also in particular an analysis of written sources for timber exploitation in Assyria by Postgate (1992:177–92). On timber from the west, ibid., 187–89. See also Willcox 1992:1–31. 8. Wirth 1971:122–26; Frey and Kürschner 1989:1–26. 9. Roberts 1990:57–64. 10. Baruch 1994:116–17 and fig. 10. 11. Roberts 1990:61 and figs. 7–8. 12. The history of this poem is complicated and need not be analyzed in this context. Rufus Festus Avienus, a Latin poet and translator who flourished about 400 AD, garnered from “many ancient authorities notices on the Spanish coast and beyond.” He wrote for the antiquarian and the scholar, not necessarily for the traveller in need of a guide-book” (Murphy 1977:vi–viii). 13. Avienus (Murphy 1977:29), emphasis added. 14. H. G. Niemeyer proposed (1980:165–89) that Toscanos might indeed have been the place called Mainake in the Ora Maritima but that the toponym may not be of Greek origin. See also Leña, de la 1789:309. 15. Strabo 3.4.1–3. 16. Leña, de la 1789:67. 17. E.g., Schüle 1969:6. 18. Anthracological and palynological area studies were conducted in the Andalusian uplands (Sierra de Baza-Filabres, the basins of Baza and Guadix in the province of Granada and the Ronda basin, province of Málaga) in the last fifteen years by M. O. Ariza-Rodríguez (1992); see also Riera Mora, Esteban Amat, and Gómez Ortiz 1995:1–14. All in all they confirmed the findings of more general studies by H. Lautensach and E. Mayer (1964:599) and V. Bielza de Ory (1989:332–34), as well as that of F. Masclans (1990:119–34). 19. Schoch 1983:149–52; Neumann 1992:427. 20. Aubet 1992:71–88. 21. On the relationship between gradient, local climate, and the river system in southern Andalusia, see Bielza de Ory 1989:262. See also Hoffmann 1987:16: the Andalusian rivers Guadarranque, Guadiaro, Vélez, and Guadalféo—all of which have evidence of Phoenician occupation in their deltas— carried water throughout the year. 22. Fales 1983, 1995. 23. Lombard 1972:135, 156. 24. Schulz, Jordt, and Weber 1988; Hoffmann 1995; Arteaga 1991. 25. Arteaga, Hoffmann, Schubart, and Schulz 1988. 26. Line 431 of the Ora Maritima describes the lagoon adjacent to Mainake (Toscanos). 27. For the coastal change see references in notes 25 and 26 above.

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28. The full quote refers to Hamaxia, a site on the Turkish coast: “a settlement on a hill, with a harbor, where ship-building timber is brought down. Most of this timber is cedar; and it appears that this region beyond others abounds in cedar-wood for ships” (Strabo 14.5.2–3). 29. Publications on the excavations on Spain’s southern Mediterranean coast are too numerous to cite. In the following I shall refer only to some of the more recent and/or comprehensive works about the area: Aubet 2004; Arteaga 1991; Niemeyer 2002; Schubart 1982, 1988a, 1988b; Bierling and Gittin 2002. 30. Niemeyer and Schubart 1969. 31. Schubart 1988b. 32. See Niemeyer 2002:40. 33. Schubart 1982:19. 34. Maass-Lindemann 1982:28–29. G. Maass-Lindemann’s volume is the most comprehensive publication and analysis of west Phoenician pottery to date. For the beginning and duration of the west Phoenician sites and the suggestion of a relative chronology based on the evolution of the “type-fossil” (a red-slipped burnished plate), see Schubart 1976 and 2001:297. 35. Schubart 1998. Schubart underscores the possibility that iron ore was available in the proximal hinterland and that the new settlers from the Near East knew of its value and were familiar with the inherent technology of melting and working with this metal. No finished objects such as tools or weapons are associated with the “smithy.” To this may be added that the close availability of iron ore and its applications—as will be suggested—also in shipwrighting support the argument in this presentation. 36. Redford et al. 2001:63–64. 37. Ibid., 64. 38. Ibid. 39. Excavations have been conducted at the site since 1992 under the direction of M.-H. Gates of Bilkent University. 40. Hodos, Knappett, and Kilikoglou 2005:64. 41. Gates 1996. Cf. also Horden and Purcell 2000; Purcell 2005. 42. So called because it represents a local and acculturated version of Iron Age ceramics that was influenced by Cypriot and Phoenician traditions but was manufactured locally in Cilicia. The excavators and ceramic specialists at Kinet Höyük, Hodos, Knappett, and Kilikoglou (2005:81), suggest that “cultural connections are expressed through local production of styles across a broad koine, such as the specifically Cypro-Cilician koine during the ninth and eighth centuries, and the most widespread imitation of east Greek wares during the seventh and sixth centuries.” 43. Ibid., 65. 44. Ibid. 45. Borger 1956:49–50. 46. Goedicke 1975.

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47. This translation is by J. Nicholas Postgate (1974:390–91). H. W. F. Saggs (1952:126) suggests that the twelve Nimrud letters as a whole are to be dated between about 740 and a few years before 705 BC. D. B. Redford (1993:345) sees them in the context of the reign of Tiglath Pileser III, and R. Meiggs (1987:75) ascribes the letter to the reign of Sargon II and interprets its “alarming news” as a sign of “serious restiveness in Phoenicia.” 48. The history of Egyptian presence, influence, and control in central Phoenicia needs no general reiteration here; suffice it to say that at the end of the eighth century BC, and in later centuries, Egypt, despite several attempts to revive dominance in the north, failed to regain its former control of Phoenicia. And while Egyptians most probably continued to purchase trees from central Phoenicia (see above the Nimrud letter) despite political encumbrances, there is some evidence that they also began to explore other sources of timber. The Saite ruler Psammetichus I (ca. 664–610 BC, incidentally the most prosperous period of the west Phoenician sites on the Iberian Peninsula) dealt directly and independently with Greeks and Phoenicians who furnished him with desirable commodities from other regions of the Mediterranean. See Redford 1993:434 and Lauffray 1970:160–62. 49. This translation is found in Hepper 1992:103. 50. Western 1967:168–69. 51. L. Casson, J. R. Steffy, and E. Linder (1991:17) observe that the following timbers were identified in the so-called Athlit Ram: stem timber: elm; keel, wales, and planking: pine; tenons and tenon pegs: oak. 52. Rougé 1981:37. 53. Casson (1995:46) emphasizes that ship timber was oak, poplar, pine, and fir; masts and oars were of fir. 54. Meiggs 1987:467. 55. Ibid., 469. 56. Schubart 1998:556. See also chapter 6 in this volume (Buxó) for a recent study of the botanical landscape of the Iberian Peninsula at the time of Phoenician colonization and the transformations triggered by Phoenician presence. 57. R. Meiggs (1987:468) refers to this process quoting Columella. 58. Hepper 1992:147. 59. Amphorae packed with resin from the terebinth were found in the Ulu Burun shipwreck as mentioned in Bass et al. (1986–89. 60. Braudel 1972:236. Any attempts to establish specific patterns of trade in this period with wider Mediterranean networks have so far yielded only speculative theories—and this presentation suggests only, and as a minor point, that it was probably more than one polity or market that drove dynamics of trade in the Western Mediterranean. 61. This notion has been alluded to by Arteaga and Schubart (1984:508). See also Aubet 1997:12. 62. Ariza-Rodríguez 1992:462; Rougé 1981:67; Casson 1995:193. 63. Strabo 3.2.5–6; note 2.

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64. See Schubart 1998:557. 65. These forests had receded by the time Andalusi rulers controlled the old coastal lumber ports and wharves along the southern coast (see table 7.3) and additional timber had to be brought from across the Straits of Gibraltar, from the Rif Mountains in Morocco. Lombard 1972:125; Goitein 1967:212, 308.

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———. 1995. “Rivers in neo-Assyrian geography.” Quaderni di Geografia Storica 5:203–15. Frey, W., and H. Kürschner. 1989. “Die Vegetation im Vorderen Orient. Erläuterungen zur Karte A VI: Vorderer Orient.” In TAVO: Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, 1–26. Herausgegeben vom Sonderforschungsbereich 19 der Universität Tübingen mit Unterstützung der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft. Tübingen. Gates, M-H. 1996. “Archaeology in Turkey.” American Journal of Archaeology 100(2):277–335. Goedicke, H. 1975. “The Report of Wenamun.” In J. Pritchard, ed., Ancient Near Eastern texts relating to the Old Testament, 3:25–29. Princeton, NJ. Goitein, S. D. 1967. A Mediterranean society: The Jewish communities of the Arab world as portrayed in the documents of the Cairo Geniza, vol. 1, Economic Foundations. Berkeley, CA. Hepper, F. N. 1992. Illustrated Encyclopedia of Bible Plants, Flowers and Trees, Fruits and Vegetable Ecology. London. Hodos, T., C. Knappett, and V. Kilikoglou. 2005. “Middle and Late Iron Age painted ceramics from Kinet Höyük: Macro, micro and elemental analyses.” Anatolian Studies 55:61–87. Hoffman, G. 1987. Holozänstratigraphie und Küstenlinienverlagerung an der Andalusischen Mittelmeerküste. Bremen, Germany. ———. 1995. “Die nacheiszeitliche Landschaftsentwicklung der andalusischen Mittelmeerku ˝ste am Beispiel der phönizischen Niederlassung Sexi (Almuñécar).” Madrider Mitteilungen 36:11–98. Horden, P., and N. Purcell. 2000. The corrupting sea. Oxford. Lauffray, J. 1970. “Les bois d’origine libanaise: Note à propos de l’étude du kiosque de Taharqa.” Mélanges de l’Université Saint Joseph 46:160–62. Lautensach, H., and E. Mayer. 1964. Iberische Halbinsel. Munich. Leña, G. de la. 1789. Conservaciones históricas malagueñas. Málaga, Spain. Liphschitz, N., and G. Biger. 1995. “The timber trade in ancient Palestine.” Tel Aviv 22:121–27. Lombard, M. 1972. Éspaces et réseaux du Haut Moyen Age. Paris. Maass-Lindemann, G. 1982. Toscanos: Die west-phönikische Niederlassung an der Mündung des Río de Vélez. Berlin. Masclans, F. 1990. Guia per a conèxer els arbres. Barcelona. Meiggs, R. 1987. Trees and timber in the ancient Mediterranean. Oxford. Murphy, J. P., ed. and trans. 1977. Rufus Festus Avienus, Ora Maritima: A description of the seacoast from Brittany to Marseilles [Massilia]. Chicago. Neumann, K. 1992. “The contribution of anthracology to the study of the Late Quaternary vegetation history of the Mediterranean region and Africa.” Bulletin de la Société Botanique 139:421–40. Niemeyer, H. G. 1980. “Auf der Suche nach Mainake: Konflikt zwischen literarischer und archäologischer Überlieferung.” Historia 29:165–85. ———. 2002. “The Phoenician Settlement at Toscanos: Urbanization and Function.”

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In M. R. Bierling, and S. Gitin, eds., The Phoenicians in Spain: An archaeological review of the eighth-sixth centuries B.C.E.; A collection of articles translated from Spanish, 31–48. Winona Lake, IN. Niemeyer, H. G., and H. Schubart. 1969. Toscanos: Die altpunische Faktorei an der Mündung des Río de Vélez. Berlin. Postgate, J. N. 1974. Taxation and conscription in the Assyrian empire. Rome. ———. 1992. “Trees and timber in the Assyrian texts.” Bulletin on Sumerian Agriculture 6:177–92. Purcell, N. 2005. “Colonization and Mediterranean history.” In H. Hurst and S. Owen, eds., Ancient colonizations, 115–39. London. Redford, D. B. 1993. Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in ancient times. Princeton, NJ. Redford, S., S. Ikram, E. Parr, and T. Beach. 2001. “Excavations at medieval Kinet, Turkey: A preliminary report.” Ancient Near Eastern Studies 38:59–138. Riera Mora, S., A. Esteban Amat, and A. Gómez Ortiz. 1995. “El depósito turboso de la cañada larga del Cerro del Sotillo (1890 m, Sierra de Baza-Filabres): Estudio polínico y geomorfológico.” In Actas, 3a reuniâo do Quaternário Ibérico (Coimbra, 27 de Setembro a 1 de Outubro de 1993), 491–98. Coimbra, Portugal. Roberts, N. 1990. “Human-induced landscape change in south and southwest Turkey during the Later Holocene.” In Bottema/Van Zeist, 57–64. Rotterdam, the Netherlands. Röllig, W. 1992. “Asia Minor as a bridge between East and West: The role of the Phoenicians and Arameans in the transfer of culture.” In Greece between East and West, 10th– 8th centuries B.C.: Papers of the meeting at the Institute of Fine Arts, 93–102. New York. Rougé, J. 1981. Ships and fleets of the ancient Mediterranean. Middletown, CT. Rowton, M. B. 1967. “The woodlands of ancient western Asia.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 26:261–77. Saggs, H. W. F. 1955. “The Nimrud letters, 1952: Part II.” Iraq 17:126. Sagona, C. 2004. “The Phoenicians in Spain from a Central Mediterranean perspective: A review essay.” Ancient Near Eastern Studies 41:240–66. Schoch, W. 1983. “Holzkohlenanalytische Untersuchungen von Proben aus der phönizischen Siedlung auf dem Morro de Mezquitilla.” Madrider Mitteilungen 24:149–52. Schubart, H. 1976. “Westphönizische Teller.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 4(2):179–96. ———. 1982. “Grabungsbericht.” Madrider Mitteilungen 6:5–25. ———. 1988a. “Endbronzezeitliche und phönizische Siedlungsfunde von der GuadiaroMündung, Prov. Cádiz: Probegrabung 1986.” Madrider Mitteilungen 29:132–65. ———. 1988b. “Alarcón: Vorbericht über die Grabungs-Kampagne 1984 im Bereich der Phönizischen Siedlung und der Befestigungmauer.” Madrider Beiträge 14:172–88. ———. 1998. “Phönizische Eisenschmiede auf dem Morro de Mezquitilla.” Veröffentlichungen der Joachim-Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften 87:545–57. ———. 2001. “Die Phönizier an den Küsten der Iberischen Halbinsel.” In Hispania Antiqua, 283–304. Mainz, Germany.

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Schüle, W. 1969. Die Meseta-Kulturen der iberischen Halbinsel: Mediterrane und eurasische Elemente in fru˝heisenzeitlichen Kulturen Südwesteuropas. Berlin. Schulz, H. D., J. P. Jordt, and W. Weber. 1988. “Stratigraphie und Küstenlinien im Holozän (Río de Vélez).” Madrider Beiträge 14:5–38. Shefton, B. B. 1982. “Greeks and Greek imports in the south of the Iberian Peninsula: The archaeological evidence.” Madrider Beiträge 8:337–68. Stager, L. E. 2001. “Port power in the Early and the Middle Bronze Age: The organization of maritime trade and hinterland production.” In S. R. Wolff, ed., Studies in the archaeology of Israel and neighboring lands: In Memory of Douglas L. Esse, 625–38. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 59. Chicago. Strabo. 1969. Geography. Trans. H. L. Jones. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge. Western, A. C. 1967. “Appendix to G. Bass, ‘Cape Gelydonia: A Bronze Age shipwreck.’ ” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 58(7):168–69. Willcox, G. 1992. “Timber and trees: Ancient exploitation in the Middle East; Evidence from plant remains.” Bulletin on Sumerian Agriculture 6:1–31. Wirth, E. 1971. Syrien: Eine geographische Landskunde. Darmstadt, Germany.

part iv

The Question of Tartessos: A Debate Reframed

[eight]

Phoenicians in Tartessos María Belén Deamos

Introduction The administrative structure regulating archaeological activities in Andalusia since 1985 has not favored field research.1 Such research has been relegated for the most part to emergency or “salvage” excavations carried out in specific older urban centers and to some survey work. The latter has received more encouragement lately, even if due more to a stronger policy of control of archaeological wealth than to any scientific interest in the study of the peoples who dwelled in Andalusian territory in antiquity. Work carried out in Tejada la Vieja2 and in Castillo de Doña Blanca,3 the only settlements of which we have good knowledge in the Tartessian area,4 is a notable exception. However, work at those sites was suspended many years ago, leaving unanswered numerous questions about contacts between Phoenicians and the native populations in the Western Mediterranean.5 This is a key topic if we are to understand and explain the many changes that took place in the Lower Guadalquivir region starting in the eighth century BC, especially in comparison with the preceding Late Bronze Age.6 In spite of this rather disappointing situation, I believe that research done over the last twenty years has had a very positive effect. One of the major advancements of recent decades has been the development of several theoretical models which have led to a much more accurate type of research work, the results of which have been verified by more recent archaeological discoveries, as I will discuss below.7 The most striking aspect of the transformations following the onset of Phoenician trade in Tartessos8 is the local population’s apparent adoption of religious iconography and funerary rituals with markedly Eastern characteristics. Interpretations of these changes as expressions of the natives’ religious acculturation have proved to be less than convincing, especially if we accept the traditional view that there was no extended direct contact with the putative agents of acculturation. This assumption, however, has been questioned recently. While most scholars still believe commercial exchange to be the driving force behind cultural change, the works of J. Alvar and

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C. G. Wagner in the 1980s proposed a very different (if complementary) model.9 Following the older postulates of G. E. Bonsor, better defined much later by C. R. Whittaker,10 Alvar and Wagner defended the hypothesis that the Phoenicians, driven by the critical situation of their metropoleis in the seventh century BC, created agricultural colonies in the interior of the Guadalquivir Valley. They particularly focused on the area surrounding the town of Carmona, near Seville. Admitting the presence of Eastern communities in the proximity of Tartessian settlements or the existence of mixed populations in the region provided a more plausible explanation for cultural adoptions, but it also forced archaeologists to look for traces of these supposed migrations in the archaeological record of the orientalizing period. Thus, the Cruz del Negro cemetery, in Carmona, ceased to be Tartessian— or indigenous—and became a Phoenician or mixed cemetery, as was the case with other cemeteries and tombs where similar funerary rites were carried out. This proposal was received with great skepticism, if not open rejection, in Spanish research circles, leading to recent modifications to the initial formulation. It has now been posited that the purpose of these colonies was to produce surpluses for trade—a theory that supplies a causal connection between commercial interests and territorial expansion. Some scholars see this as the most plausible explanation for the cultural mixture revealed in Tartessian archaeology.11 With these details in mind, they now believe that there were fewer Phoenician farmers present than was once thought; in any case, it is out of the question that Phoenician traders were as interested in agricultural and livestock products as they were in metals.12 It can be said that most scholars who were at one time skeptical have come to accept that there was indeed a stable Phoenician presence in the old Tartessian territory. Further, the research does not exclude the possibility that commercial activity, which appears to have been of a high priority, encouraged modest migratory movements that may have included a variety of social components, such as farmers, merchants, and craftsmen.13 The archaeological discoveries that will be discussed here have had a notable influence on our understanding of the orientalizing period in Tartessos, as they have revealed a complex commercial organization joined together by a dense network of sanctuaries.14 This organization would in itself explain the stable settlement of an Eastern population in the region, not only in the coastal trade centers but also in other trading points that emerged in the hinterland. This activity must have favored the arrival of very heterogeneous peoples, diverse not only in their interests but also in their origins and their ethnic makeup. I perceive the presence of these small groups through a hybrid archaeological culture that I call Tartessian, side by side with the

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Phoenician group and the indigenous society itself. A brief note on what I mean by “Phoenician” is also called for. As a mere convention, I use this term to refer to groups of Near Eastern non-Greek origin. However, we have every reason to believe that apart from Phoenicians of varying origins, some of them born in immigrant communities in places such as Cyprus and Carthage, there were also Israelites and Arameans, among others.15 Spanish historiography has up to now identified orientalization as a phenomenon that affected only the indigenous culture, but this point of view is no longer sustainable.16 The opposite point of view, that orientalization affected only the population of Levantine stock settled in Tartessos,17 is equally excessive and is unsupported given the reactions of other Mediterranean cultures to the presence of merchants and colonists. Furthermore, Tartessos, even in the reduced geographical dimension that we are dealing with here, was not a uniform cultural space. The orientalizing transformation took place at different speeds and its significance and reach varied, so the image provided by Huelva or by the Lower Guadalquivir region must not make us forget that there were other very different contemporary scenarios. As in the case of the Etruscan world, the orientalizing process in Tartessos mainly occurred near the coast and in areas connected to the large communication routes, both fluvial and by land. In this chapter I will limit myself to commenting on the information archaeology offers about the Phoenician presence and what can be deduced from it with regard to the Phoenicians’ relationships with the natives. The causes, the pace, and the manner in which this expansion was carried out have been analyzed by many authors, whose opinions and bibliography are reviewed in Domínguez Monedero 2003:31–32.

Areas of Exchange The cemetery of La Joya and the urban center of the city of Huelva, where there have been continuous excavations for more than thirty years,18 have clearly shown how interested both Phoenicians and Greeks were in this Tartessian settlement located in the estuary of two navigable rivers. Their interest can be easily explained if we keep in mind not only Huelva’s proximity to mining centers and its location along the route to the Portuguese Atlantic but also the experience the indigenous peoples had in long-distance trade.19 Recent finds have revealed an emporium in Huelva that was open to Phoenician trade starting in the first half of the ninth century BC, almost one hundred years before what we had supposed from the scarce evidence available before these discoveries.20 Unfortunately, the impressive collection of materials that

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allowed us to reach this conclusion was recovered with the aid of machinery from a dump in a vacant lot in the center of present-day Huelva, so we cannot rely on an accurate stratigraphy for the findings.21 As I shall explain further on, some excavation work had been done in the city previously, but it was abandoned when the dig was flooded by groundwater. All the recovered materials are attributed to a single-layer deposit of one meter, dated between the first half of the ninth century BC and 770 BC. The most illustrative material of a first period of contacts is represented by a group of amphorae with characteristics similar to others found in Tyre.22 Following Strabo’s description of this part of the coast (3.5.5), we might assume that the Phoenicians had settled at a certain distance from the native population, on an island that they had closely modeled on Gadir and that they consecrated to Melkart.23 Eventually, at some point before 770 BC, according to the above-mentioned authors, other pottery from Cyprus and Greece would arrive as well as some of Phoenician origin. It included Attic, Euboean-Cycladic, Etruscan, and Sardinian pottery, which seems to indicate that there was a convergence of different commercial routes and interests. This is to be expected in a situation in which the security of the people and the profitability of the companies involved were guaranteed by the institutions regulating sailing and trade routes.24 In my view, however, the variety and volume of pottery imports is less important than is the abundant evidence of craft activities, which is a crucial index of the stability of the emporium. The presence of wood, ivory, tools, slag, and waste materials related to metallurgical work proves that diverse products were made locally and therefore that craftsmen and others involved in these activities lived there permanently. If the chronology assigned to this collection of materials is confirmed, we will also have early evidence of the use of writing by the indigenous people and of the introduction of iron metallurgy. On the level where these materials were found, the remains of a silversmelting furnace dated between the eighth and seventh centuries BC,25 as well as three superimposed buildings, had been recovered previously. These three structures were thought to be successive cultic complexes in use up to the fifth century BC. Besides the architectural remains, the archaeologists identified other elements of clearly cultic character, such as baetyls, a small mound with remains from rituals, which apparently went back to the foundation period, and wells that contained ashes, caprine and bovid horns, and a great deal of pottery, both Phoenician and Greek. The deposit of amphorae found outside the second building and the jewelry and metallurgy workshops located next to the most recent of the three buildings are illustrative of the trading context in which this sanctuary developed. Also significant was the discovery of a weight with a reproduction of a small bull-skin-shaped altar

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engraved on it, perhaps indicative of the participation of this temple in transactions.26 On the other hand, the excavation of this sacred site has confirmed the relevance of Phocaean trade in Huelva during the sixth century BC.27 Very close to this sanctuary, in the same port area, an architectural zone was developed along Eastern urban patterns. According to Manuel Pellicer, this was a Phoenician settlement, which by the seventh century BC had become “one of the largest and most prosperous Phoenician colonies in Iberia; it had an area of approximately ten hectares (24.7 acres) and a population of about 2,000 inhabitants.”28 In Pellicer’s opinion, this sector of the population was contemporaneous with a native stratum located in the hills. His hypothesis seems to agree with the data produced by excavations in the high areas of the town and also with the pattern of occupation in the coastal areas of the Lower Guadalquivir, where settlements are often located on heights, at a certain distance from the rather unhealthy flooded banks of the estuary. On the other hand, it is also frequent for the trade center to be separate from the settlement it depended on. Pellicer’s theory, however, seems to attach too much significance to the size of the Phoenician population, although the importance of ancient Onuba (modern Huelva) is beyond question.29 He probably oversimplifies a much more complex reality. Without any doubt, the Phoenicians preceded the Greeks in the Huelva emporium, but it is very likely that from the beginning of the eighth century BC other merchants of different origins joined them—Euboeans, Cypriots, Sardinians, and others.30 Later on, the activity of the Phocaeans in Huelva must have required the presence in the emporium of infrastructure and people that served their interests, although they may not have intended to settle there permanently.31 The archaeology of recent years has also brought us some novel insights into the character of Phoenician settlement in the Lower Guadalquivir area. It has taken us a long time to find a relationship between the archaeological data and the knowledge we have about the geography of the region in the first millennium BC, reconstructed decades ago and confirmed by recent studies. According to this reconstruction, the vast wetlands of the Guadalquivir did not exist as such; in their place was a wide sea gulf whose coast reached the modern city of Seville. The Guadalquivir, divided into several branches, flowed into this gulf, leaving behind a wide estuary, which in Roman times was still navigable by ships with a certain draft as far as Ilipa Magna, about fifteen kilometers (9.3 miles) upstream from Hispalis.32 Human activity and natural agents caused the former Sinus Tartesii to be transformed some centuries later into the lagoon known to the Romans as Lacus Ligustinus.33 The ambiguous references made by Avienus to Phoenician places of worship on the Tartessian coast34 can be understood better now that we know that the

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Guadalquivir delta, like many other river mouths of the entire Mediterranean basin,35 was the scene of coastal commercial activity in which the sanctuaries played an essential role, as they are known to have done in other trading areas. There is a clear cause-effect relationship between the beginning of the commercial exchanges and the dense occupation that begins to take place in the eighth century BC in this coastal region. From Ebora to Corduba (modern Córdoba), the route toward the interior is marked with settlements built on hills of a certain height, so as to avoid the inconveniences associated with proximity to the riverbank and also in order to facilitate control of river traffic. Settlements like the Cerro Macareno and Seville itself are exceptions, as they arose and prospered as points of exchange along the riverbank. When it was occupied in the ninth century BC, the Cerro de San Juan of Coria del Río (ancient Caura) was little more than an elongated hill of some twenty meters in height (sixty feet), but it had great strategic value, as it overlooked the old mouth of the Guadalquivir and two small inlets, both suitable for anchorage, that were open to the north and to the south. There is some evidence that it was occupied during the Chalcolithic, but the seven meters (about twenty feet) of archaeological deposits that add to its natural height are the result of its settlement during the first millennium BC. The first excavations of this site were scheduled at the beginning of the 1990s. In a phase of preliminary research, existing archaeological finds from the site were studied. The materials from the seventh and sixth centuries BC formed a most unusual collection for such a settlement: bronze skewers for roasting meat, stone anchors, and Phoenician and Greek imported pottery, including an amphora fragment from Chios and complete perfume containers and small jugs. The singularity of these finds sparked conjectures about the possible existence at Coria del Río (Caura) of a sanctuary frequented by Mediterranean sailors during the most prosperous period of trade in Tartessos. Offering stone anchors as votive gifts to the deities who protected sailing was a common practice among Phoenicians and Greeks.36 It was almost inevitable that this place was associated with the Mons Cassius mentioned by Avienus in his Ora Maritima, as a topographic reference in the charts that described the pre-Roman coast.37 Good fortune allowed this hypothesis to be confirmed some years later when, during excavation work, the remains of five buildings were discovered corresponding to sanctuaries built one on top of the other between the eighth and sixth centuries BC.38 These sacred buildings were erected next to a group of residences that could have been part of the temple district, made up of dwellings for personnel and other installations connected with the sanctuary’s activities. None of these religious buildings have survived in their entirety, but we know that they were freestand-

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ing complexes surrounded by a wall, comprising cobblestone courtyards and rectangular rooms with adobe walls and earthen floors repeatedly painted in red. The best-documented building is a seventh-century BC sanctuary, where a bull-hide–shaped altar was found. This altar is important not only because it confirms the sacred character of the site but also because it indicates that it was dedicated to Baal (the bull is the animal associated with Baal), probably Baal Saphon. The fact that the altar faces the rising sun during the summer solstice, the use of multicolored earth in its construction, and its bull-hide shape are all symbolic aspects that tend to support the initial hypothesis.39 In its oldest form, the altar had an appendix in its eastern end with a small cavity painted in red (fig. 8.1), but this part was hidden when the level of the room floor was raised during a later remodeling. Egyptian scarabs— one of them with the image of a feminine winged deity (fig. 8.2)—fragments of ostrich eggs with remains of ochre paint, and bovid horns are other elements indicating offerings and rituals. The existence of this sacred site indicates that a small community had been established here, which was involved in the services offered by the sanctuary to the local inhabitants and travelers while participating at the same time in the more profane activities that had led the Phoenicians to remain in the area around the mouth of the Guadalquivir. There were also important strategic reasons for building the sanctuary. Besides being a navigational landmark, its hilltop location allowed its inhabitants to control the routes leading to the interior, both by way of the Guadalquivir and by other secondary rivers. However, most of the new Phoenician findings in the Lower Guadalquivir have come from the area surrounding the present-day city of Seville, some miles upstream from Coria. The obvious difficulties involved in digging into the urban subsoil of the modern capital down to the levels of pre-Roman occupation explain why we know so little about ancient Seville. It seems clear, however, that its origins are related to port activity and trade and, more specifically, to the establishment of a trade center in the eighth century BC, one that was still important in late Roman times. The remains of buildings and the absence of wheel-thrown pottery at the deepest levels of the unique stratigraphy of the period have suggested a first settlement of only three hectares (7.4 acres) consisting of huts made of clay and wattle, which were common in the region at the end of the Bronze Age.40 The relationship between this first settlement and Phoenician expansion can be traced to its original name, Spal (cf. its later Latin name Hispalis), thought to be of Phoenician origin, meaning “lowland” or “plain,” which would correspond to its location in an alluvial plain.41 An alternative recent hypothesis suggests that the

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Figure 8.1 Coria del Río (Seville). Altars of the Phoenician sanctuary. (Courtesy of J. L. Escacena.)

Figure 8.2 Egyptian scarab of the sanctuary of Coria del Río (Seville). (Courtesy of J. L. Escacena.)

name Hispalis could also be a Latin derivative of the name of the god Baal.42 This hypothesis is backed by numerous examples of Phoenician settlements, many of them islands, named after divinities, and fits well within the scholarly tradition that points to Hercules, the Roman version of Baal of Tyre,43 as the founder of the city.

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The Spal (Hispalis) trade center should not be thought of as an isolated initiative. At that same time other settlements were appearing upstream (Cerro de la Cabeza de Santiponce, Cerro Macareno), which gives us an idea of the density of population along the old estuary from Coria as far as Alcalá del Río (Ilipa Magna), the ending point for navigation.44 However, the closest connection between the port of Hispalis and its surroundings can be found at the site of El Carambolo, located on a hill overlooking the west bank of the estuary, about three kilometers (about two miles) from Seville. The hill has been excavated only fairly recently, more than forty years after the discovery in 1958 of an impressive treasure during the reconstruction of a sports facility.45 It has since been accepted that there are actually two different sites there, succeeding each other in time: a first settlement dating to the Late Bronze Age (ninth to mid eighth century BC?) on top of the hill (Carambolo Alto) and a later one, built on the hillside that overlooks the river (Carambolo Bajo), contemporaneous with the beginning of Phoenician trade in the middle of the eighth century BC. From the older one we had recovered only the remains of a hut destroyed by fire and a considerable amount of handmodeled pottery painted with geometric designs, traditionally considered the best examples of autochthonous pre-Phoenician culture.46 Hundreds of years later, perhaps coinciding with the violent end of the hillside village toward the end of the sixth century BC, a vessel containing golden jewelry may have been hidden in the archaeological deposits lying on top of the remains of the hut. This was the famous treasure of El Carambolo (fig. 8.3), which sparked the attention of archaeologists and led them to undertake excavation work there in later decades. This site was at first thought to be an indigenous settlement that, like other Tartessian settlements of the Lower Guadalquivir region, showed signs of the impact of Phoenician trade, not only in the volume of imports—many of them from the East—but also in its architecture. This settlement stands out for the dominant role it seems to have played in the political and territorial network of the region and for its undeniable close connections with the trade center of Spal.47 Along with these opinions, which were subscribed to by most researchers, a new hypothesis arose suggesting that what had been assumed to be a hut at Carambolo Alto, with its exceptional collection of painted urns, could in fact have been a place of worship and not a dwelling.48 This interpretation was strengthened by the chance find of a small bronze statue of a sitting Astarte.49 The presence of this votive offering of a Semitic goddess added new ingredients to the debate. The explanation that the object had originally been dedicated in an Eastern sanctuary and then sold and transported to the West before being acquired by a wealthy native was not very convincing.50

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Figure 8.3 Treasure of El Carambolo (Seville). (Courtesy of M. Fuentes.)

Furthermore, not only the function of the structure was discussed but also its dating, an essential problem if we consider that the stratigraphy of Carambolo Alto had become for many the best example of the development of autochthonous culture in the Late Bronze Age. The question was whether to accept the assertions of the excavator regarding the presence of wheelthrown pottery in the lower level of the supposed bottom of the hut. As we shall see, the latest archaeological work carried out at the site has put an end to the controversy by ruling out the existence of pre-Phoenician materials at this site. Even before that, the identification of Greek stemmed cups and local imitations of them had led researchers to date some of the deposits containing the emblematic geometrical local pottery no earlier than the end of the seventh and sixth centuries BC.51 Disagreement on issues so important in the protohistory of the region encouraged my colleague José Luis Escacena and me to go through the written accounts of the old excavations and the objects that had been recovered and kept. Even though we agreed with other authors who dated El Carambolo Alto and Bajo from the eighth century BC on, we began to suspect that the site had never been a real settlement, either before or after Phoenician trade was introduced, but rather a place of worship, a sanctuary showing the architectural complexity to be expected given the multiple functions that these religious centers had had.52 Indeed, when we analyzed the available docu-

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ments, we found in the description of the hillside excavation significant data that explained the presence of some objects whose cultic characteristics had not been overlooked by J. de M. Carriazo, despite the fact that he eventually was inclined to see little more than simple structures and domestic waste in what he concluded were disappointing ruins. Our conclusion was that the four phases of construction that Carriazo had distinguished corresponded to successive religious complexes built between the middle of the eighth and the sixth centuries BC.53 In the oldest of the sanctuaries we identified a chapel with an adobe altar and a bench covered with flat flagstones; at the foot of the altar, in a pile of ashes, there was a small limestone water basin that may have been used in purifying rituals, and on the floor we found plates, small bottles, holders, and high-quality red-slip vessels, some of them imported from the East, which we supposed were containers for offerings of perfumes, wines, and foods which at one time were placed either directly on the bench or on the holders. The architecture of the other buildings was in no way exceptional, apart from some thresholds covered with seashells, which were at the time unknown in the protohistory of the Peninsula; however, we did find objects such as stone and bronze cups, meat skewers, fibulae and belt clasps, perfume burners, terra-cotta, and some small clay baetyls, which are not normally found in domestic environments and which seemed to point to a cultic context. In the most recent building, two highly unusual stones were found under a flimsy masonry structure. These had led Carriazo to remark about the curious collecting habits the house’s residents must have had,54 never suspecting that they were the sacra of the sanctuary, a black-silex baetyl and its pedestal, hastily hidden in order to prevent their profanation when circumstances forced the site to be abandoned. A hurried abandonment of this holy place would explain why the important temple treasure was buried in a deep pit, which until then had been used as a disposal site for the waste produced by the ritual activities. This is the very pit that had been thought to be a Late Bronze Age hut. Baetyl cults, offerings of perfume, a bird-shaped terra-cotta, and other symbolic elements, such as small bowls decorated with rosettes, all confirm that Astarte was venerated here, as had been deduced upon the discovery of the aforementioned votive bronze figure. The nakedness of the goddess suggested that her cult may have included sacred prostitution and offerings of carnal services controlled by the religious authorities, an aspect of her cult that has also been observed in other sanctuaries dedicated to the Phoenician deity.55 The hypothesis that I have only briefly expounded upon here, that is, the nonexistence of an indigenous settlement on the hill and the integration of

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the Carambolo Alto and Bajo in the same sacred complex of Eastern characteristics, has been confirmed by the archaeological work done at the site over the past several years. The plan to build a hotel complex on the site, which would replace the old sport facilities, made it necessary to carry out emergency excavations, which have produced spectacular results.56 The work has affected only the top of the hill and has allowed us to verify that the twentiethcentury buildings recently demolished had been built on top of the ruins of an important religious center, the origins of which can be dated to the first decades of the eighth century BC. After successive redesigns of the original plan, in the seventh century BC a building was constructed entirely of adobe. It was composed of several adjacent rooms, where we have identified chapels with lateral benches and altars, rooms with tiers placed against the walls, and open courtyards (figs. 8.4, 8.5, and 8.6). In these interior spaces, the bright red color used to paint the floors, walls, and benches was predominant. One could reach this area, located at the end of the building, through a wide corridor (40 by 7 meters = 131 by 23 feet) whose floor was covered with pink shells, before which a large stone courtyard served as the entrance to the complex. A two-meter-thick (6.5 feet) adobe wall surrounded all of these structures, including the aforementioned refuse dump that had been mistaken for a hut. Immediately outside this monumental complex, at the foot of the northern slope, a more modest building had been built; its purpose remains unclear. Future studies will help to answer this and other questions, such as the relationship between the area excavated by Carriazo on the same slope and the large building at the top of the hill, but it seems certain that this important sacred center served Phoenician interests and that its history is linked to that of the trade center next to the estuary. Pellicer has found similarities between the end of the occupation of the Carambolo in the late sixth century BC and the signs of instability (fires and abandonment of the place) detected in the stratigraphic sequence of Seville.57 Although we were surprised by the perspective that these finds gave us on the planned organization of Phoenician trade in Tartessos, this could have been foreseen, not only because these strategies were well known in other colonies but also because we already had precedents in Andalusia from which we could deduce that sanctuaries and trade expansion were inseparable. Curiously, the first data pointing in that direction came from the interior of the region. Some decades ago, J. Ma. Blázquez identified an oriental sanctuary in Cástulo, in the rich mining district of Sierra Morena, located outside an indigenous settlement and next to a river that flows into the Guadalquivir. It was probably built toward the end of the eighth century BC and would have been a point at which exchanges between natives and Phoenicians were

Figure 8.4 El Carambolo (Seville). Plan of the Phoenician sanctuary of the seventh century BC (Fernández and Rodríguez 2005, fig. 4).

Figure 8.5 El Carambolo (Seville). Partial view of the Phoenician sanctuary of the seventh century BC. (Courtesy of Álvaro Fernández and Araceli Rodríguez.)

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Figure 8.6 El Carambolo (Seville). Phoenician sanctuary of the seventh century BC. Hall with ox-hide-shaped altar and side benches. (Courtesy of Álvaro Fernández and Araceli Rodríguez.)

coordinated.58 The religious buildings of Montemolín (Marchena), dated between the seventh and sixth centuries BC, have also been attributed to Near Eastern communities.59 They are freestanding buildings set on a hill that provides great visibility, overlooking a ford of the River Corbones. The hilltop position also commands a view of a crossroads where the region’s most important roads converged. These routes traversed the region from north to south and from east to west, linking the coast, from one side of the Strait of Gibraltar to the other, with the interior regions of the Guadalquivir Valley. The settlement has an area of sixteen hectares and was one of the basic pillars of a territory that is thought to have been under the hegemony of Carmona (ancient Carmo; fig. 8.7). Carmona, where I will finish this examination of the archaeology of exchange, is considered by some the most “Semiticized” pre-Roman town, and not without reason, as there is a great deal of evidence pointing in this direction. As mentioned, Carmona has been in the spotlight of the historiographic debate about the presence of Eastern peoples in Tartessos since the end of the nineteenth century. Already in 1899, Bonsor argued that the archaeological registry of the pre-Roman cemetery in the surrounding area suggested the arrival of Eastern farmers from North Africa. More recently other authors have concurred with his major theses. They point to the tombs at Cruz del Negro,

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a cemetery of the orientalizing period located near the northern exit of the town (i.e., toward the Guadalquivir), as probably the surest archaeological evidence of an agricultural colonization. When Alvar and Wagner presented their hypothesis at the end of the 1980s,60 it was met with strong opposition, which has continued up to now. This opposition has persisted despite the fact that the accumulation of objects distributed by Phoenician traders in these and other tombs in the area surrounding Carmona has led researchers to consider the possibility that Phoenician craftsmen were present there and even to regard as possible an emigration of peasant farmers from Gadir.61 The strongest detractors of Alvar and Wagner’s theory have not been swayed by the recovery of a great deal of strong evidence of ethnic and cultural mixture in the Tartessian habitat. The oldest town of Carmona was located very close to the pre-Roman coast, on a high tableland with great strategic value for the defense and control of a vast territory rich in agricultural and livestock resources. In the eighth century BC, in a five-hectare area (12.3 acres) to the north of the historical center, there emerged a settlement whose urban characteristics had nothing in common with contemporary groups of huts found in the surrounding countryside. Evidence of the innovations that marked the transition from the Bronze to the Iron Age in the West have been found there: solid houses built in the Eastern style, Phoenician wheel-thrown pottery and iron metallurgy,

Figure 8.7 Carmona (Seville). A fortress in the Guadalquivir Valley. (Courtesy of J. Blánquez.)

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and hand-modeled native ceramic objects. In 1992, on a plot of land in the center of this urban area, a group of archaeologists excavated the remains of several buildings that had been built and demolished, one after the other, on the same site between approximately the seventh and the middle of the fifth century BC.62 In the oldest building, they could define only one rectangular room, less than two meters (6.5 feet) wide, which could be reached by way of a door near one of the corners, after passing through an adjacent room. In each of the other three corners, a hole had been dug in the earthen floor. Inside were two standing pithoi of the same shape and of similar size, fragments of which were found spread over the floor of the room, together with red-slip plate fragments, two gray-clay stemmed cups with a metallic appearance which were used as covers, two rough hand-modeled vessels, and four ivory spoons onto which were etched the hindquarters and forequarters of a four-legged ungulate animal. These spoons are very similar to those found in tombs in Carthage and Syracuse. One of the pithoi is decorated with a procession of griffins marching through abundant vegetation, flowers, and lotus buds. The animals wear typical embroidered skirts, but their anatomy is unusual for supernatural beings of this kind in Eastern imagery. The other two vessels show the same motif of buds and lotus flowers painted by different artisans; in both cases, the sequence of open and closed flowers includes a withered flower, an important detail that led us to conclude that such an aesthetic composition could represent a life cycle. In one of the pieces, an eight-petal rosette had been added next to the other flowers (fig. 8.8). Although this collection of items is rather unusual, pottery decorated with Eastern motifs is abundant at settlements in the countryside around the Guadalquivir, especially between Carmona and Porcuna (ancient Obulco).63 They have generally been classified as luxury products acquired by the wealthiest of indigenous people, for whom the vases and the representations on them would be exotic and alien. However, we are now inclined to see in these representations of fantastic beings and exotic flowers encoded messages written in symbolic language. We find in them numerous references to Phoenician and Punic religious iconography, especially that surrounding the figure of the goddess Astarte. Consequently, we have concluded that the remains may be those of a religious building belonging to a Semitic community, which, as it seems most likely, did exist in Carmona—although some authors are open to the possibility that it was an indigenous or mixed sanctuary.64 The sacred character of the place, whatever its ethnic ascription was, is corroborated by its architecture and especially by the articles recovered in the more recent building, including vessels used in libation rituals that had been intentionally broken, as well as offerings of small marble baetyls.65

Phoenicians in Tartessos • 209

Figure 8.8 Carmona (Seville). Vases with orientalizing decoration (María Belén Deamos, City Museum, Department of Urban Archaeology).

Another important find, unfortunately lacking a known archaeological context, confirms the consolidation of urban lifestyles and of civic relationships in this Tartessian town throughout the most important period of its international projection.66 I refer here to what is, in my opinion, the lower part of a small feminine statue sculpted in grayish limestone (fig. 8.9). The figure is wearing a skirt with narrow flounces decorated with a wide vertical band delimited by a sinuous scallop trim and divided into squares filled with palmettes and some deteriorated lotus flowers. This statue must have been similar in size to the Kore of Auxerre,67 although I believe the piece found in Carmona belongs to a later period. The skirt with flounces has a millenary tradition in the East, and variants of it were still worn in Cyprus and Anatolia during the eighth and seventh centuries BC; but the central band, with its meander, palmette, and flower motifs, is more comparable to garments worn by Greek women in the first half of the sixth century BC. Very similar designs are to be found in the work of Sophilos and Kleitias and in the findings of three statues of the sphyrelaton technique recently published, which have also been dated to the first decades of the sixth century BC,68 that is, the same period that we have proposed for the sculpture found in Tartessos. The palmettes seem to be more Greek and Etruscan than Phoenician. We also find parallels in the Etruscan world in the way the volutes that hold them up are

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Figure 8.9 Carmona (Seville). Fragment of a small feminine figure on stone (María Belén Deamos, City Museum, Department of Urban Archaeology).

interlaced.69 To sum up, as is the case with many other orientalizing works, the piece in question seems to synthesize several Mediterranean influences.70 During the first half of the sixth century BC, trade reached a truly international dimension in the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula, and large amounts of imports, especially those from eastern Greece, arrived in western trade centers. However, in Carmona the exchanges bear a clearly Phoenician stamp, which leads me to believe that the Phoenicians were instrumental in bringing the stone statuary there.71 If I am correct about this object being a small cult image, we would have a valuable example here of a community expressing its identity through its religious institutions within the framework of completely urban social relationships.

Spaces for Confrontation The verb confront has two meanings that are not incompatible. They both apply very well to the effects of the cultural contact in the trade centers of the old Mediterranean Sea. On the one hand these centers were meeting places that favored the coexistence and the mixing of different ethnic and cultural

Phoenicians in Tartessos • 211

groups, but, on the other, they were also ideal scenarios for each group to highlight its uniqueness. The new archaeological findings examined thus far offer a very different picture from the one experts previously had of how international trade was organized in Tartessos and about how the mixed orientalizing culture might have come about. The new data do confirm the crucial role played by trading relationships as motors of change in the native culture, yet it is now clear that the presence of stable communities was the most efficient means of fostering direct contact between the different cultures, even if through different mechanisms, as the controversial Phoenician farming colonization hypothesis shows.72 Nevertheless, I must point out that some researchers do not share my interpretation of the architectural remains found in Coria del Río, Carmona, Montemolín, and El Carambolo; to the contrary, they maintain that these were all indigenous sanctuaries integrated into palatial buildings of Eastern tradition. As in the case of the funerary rituals and the religious iconography represented in ivory and bronze, and the jewelry of the orientalizing period, these materials, in their view, reveal the deep acculturation of Tartessian society.73 We might argue that we know practically nothing about the Tartessian religion in the period preceding the beginning of Phoenician trade and that it is therefore difficult to evaluate the transformations that intercultural contact might have provoked.74 The hypothesis conflicts with the conservative reactions that are produced in any society when it is faced with important changes in the field of beliefs.75 However, the same authors admit that the Phoenicians must have lived and intermingled with the Tartessians from the very moment the exchanges began76 and that part of the Tartessian cemetery could have even been mixed.77 The theory that small communities of emigrants from the East lived permanently in the main Tartessian settlements, as agents and intermediaries of a commercial network controlled by Gadir and supported by the sanctuary of Melkart, had already been confirmed by other researchers,78 but we did not suspect the complex reality that the new finds would allow us to glimpse, perhaps because we supposed—unfoundedly—that these most western lands had remained apart from the historical dynamic that affected other colonies. The trade center was the most typical commercial structure in the pre-Roman Mediterranean Sea,79 and Greeks and Etruscans, as well as Phoenicians and Carthaginians, were integrated into it.80 Deltas, estuaries and other strategic communication areas were the most attractive places for exchange. They were usually port settlements isolated from the native center upon which they depended, but there were also emporia in inland areas, in places well

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situated with respect to the main fluvial and land routes.81 When the Phoenicians started their western expansion in the ninth century BC, they already had a great deal of experience organizing exchanges by founding small colonies of artisans and traders, such as those established in the Nile Delta during the New Kingdom82 or those that had been set up in the middle of the eleventh century BC in the north of Palestine and in Cyprus.83 Any settlement in a foreign land implied local authorities’ concession of lands where foreigners could build their houses, storehouses, and, especially, religious buildings. The self-interested actions of Pharaoh Amasis toward the Greeks of Naucratis (Herodotus 2.178.1) and those of the Etruscan king of Caere toward Semitic traders in the port of Pyrgi84 exemplify political recognition of the role played by the sanctuaries in trade center activity.85 As far as the Phoenicians are concerned, the fact that a single word, maqom, meant sacred space (temple or sanctuary) and marketplace shows the close association between sanctuaries and trade.86 As a religious institution, the sanctuary was guarantor of oaths, agreements, and transactions between parties and, as such, had the authority to keep public or private titles of legal character on file in its archives.87 However, for the foreign communities, their temples were also places that offered protection, a piece of the fatherland where their relationship with their gods confirmed their identity with respect to others. Religion was the best instrument for expressing cultural differences, even when confrontation arose between ethnic groups that in principle had a great deal in common. The Phoenicians of Memphis,88 for example, were known as Sidonians, Tyrians, or Giblites and worshiped the divinities of their respective towns of origin, while the Phoenicians of Gadir referred to themselves as Tyrians and brought with them the cults of Astarte and Melkart.89 The national sanctuaries were meeting places for compatriots, both residents and pilgrims, but it should be assumed that peoples of other origins and cultures visited them.90 Epigraphy provides us with a good deal of information about this phenomenon, and not only with respect to the large international sanctuaries. I might cite as an example the discovery of Etruscan dedications in the Greek sanctuary at Gravisca (Etruria)91 and the inscriptions that describe the religious sacrifices made by persons with Greek or Latin names in the Punic sanctuary of El Hofra (in Constantina, ancient Cirta Regia, Algeria).92 In the sacred area excavated in the port of Huelva there was a Phoenician sanctuary, to judge by the articles found in what is thought to be the original tumulus, but there was also a good amount of Greek pottery, especially drinking cups93 and turtle shells, which could have served as resonance boxes for small lyres offered to Hermes or Apollo94 or could have been used in rituals in their honor, which

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indicates that there were religious buildings in the same area, shared or not, that offered services to Phoenicians and Greeks alike. The Phoenicians often used the sanctuaries as headquarters for the merchant associations that kept watch over both the economic interests of their members and the strict observance of ancestral cults and rites. The information that we have about the thiasoi of traders of Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut in different Greek towns proves the existence in the Greek and Roman periods of a corporate model of Ugaritic tradition that had the character of a sacred institution.95 These associations had the patronage of a national divinity and held banquets on the occasion of religious festivals. They usually met in a sanctuary built on lands that had been given to them by the host town, and when they did not have their own, they used the local sanctuary.96 In the first reform of the sacred complex at El Carambolo (Seville), large rooms were built with benches and tiers of seats set against the walls, which seems to indicate that they were used for such celebrations. In one of these rooms (8 by 15 meters = 26 by 49 feet) there was an ox-hide-shaped altar slightly sunk into the clay room’s earthen floor; it was painted with red-tinted clay, the same as the rest of the room, and had the fireplace in the center.97 The fact that this same shape can also be seen in altars discovered in Coria del Río (Seville) and in Cancho Roano (Zalamea de la Serena, Badajoz),98 as well as on some weights found in the sanctuary at Huelva and in the commercial zone of the Phoenician colony at Cerro del Villar (Málaga),99 leads me to believe that the bull-hide was an evocative symbol of the religious sphere that guaranteed the legality and protection of trade activities, rather than being an image related to a specific divinity,100 although the two roles would not be incompatible. In favor of this hypothesis, we have documents linking the ox-hide to oaths, pacts and public treaties.101 In the opinion of Ma. C. Marín Ceballos, the icon is related above all to the sacrifices marking the beginning of these acts.102 This lends more support to my interpretation. Certainly, we cannot be sure that the large room at El Carambolo, with seating room for considerable numbers of people on both sides of the bull-hide-shaped altar, was used for the signing of agreements and mercantile contracts or documents in the presence of religious authorities,103 but neither can we reject this possibility. The hand-modeled pottery with geometrical designs found at this site, which does not represent the everyday ware used in the Tartessian settlements, was most probably reserved for special occasions. This could indicate that the sanctuary was frequented by natives. I do not wish to conclude that it was systematically shared but rather that it was used for occasional visits and offerings justified by economic or political interests.104 Whatever their identity was, coastal or continental, international or of a

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more limited scope, the commercial settlements had in common the fact that they were formed by a mixed population, both full-time residents and transients who had different customs and spoke different languages, with each ethnic community living in a separate district and having its own places of worship.105 Continuous contact between peoples of diverse origins favored cultural diffusion and the intermixing of individuals from different communities. For instance, it is thought that there were mixed marriages between Euboeans and native women in Pithecoussai,106 as well as between Euboeans and Phoenicians in Carthage.107 However, the archaeological record does not offer irrefutable signs of exogamic practices, even when cultural mixing can be clearly seen. In the case that concerns us here, it is difficult to trace this kind of contact, although I suppose that cohabitation and miscegenation must have been frequent. It is generally accepted that in the most important Tartessian settlements there were mixed populations, as was the case in the coastal colonies.108 More specifically, the existence of a double or triple settlement in Huelva has been verified,109 as well as a Phoenician community in Carmona, where not only craftsmen were integrated, as happened in other places,110 but also farmers.111 Frequent references are made in recent scholarship to mixed marriages between common people and aristocrats.112 The current perspective of colonial expansion in the Lower Guadalquivir region has encouraged archaeologists to search for Phoenician tombs in the cemeteries of the orientalizing period,113 which until recently had been thought to be the best overall manifestation of Tartessian acculturation, but the results of this investigation cannot be considered definitive yet.114 Any attempt to find signs of ethnic identities is hindered by the lack of information needed to evaluate the changes that might have taken place in the ancestral funerary customs of each of the groups.115 The funerary epigraphy of the Phoenicians who lived in Greece in Hellenistic times reveals the preoccupation of some emigrants with receiving burial in accordance with the rites of their places of origin.116 However, it is not easy to discern the traditions of one group or another without the help of epigraphic sources; nor are we certain that the observance of rituals was always entirely orthodox. The cemeteries of the Phoenician colonies in southern Spain show a great variety of funerary equipment and tomb types, although cremation was the most common ritual up to the end of the sixth century BC.117 Still, it remains evident that some of the graves of La Joya (Huelva)118 and La Cruz del Negro (Carmona) are not substantially different from those found in Ibiza and Cádiz. Perhaps we will never be sure of who is who in the cemeteries of the Lower Guadalquivir region,119 but we can affirm that Tartessos was an eth-

Phoenicians in Tartessos • 215

nic and cultural meeting place.120 The unavoidable direct contact within the organized but complex commercial structure that we are finding, the coexistence in the exchange centers, and the ethnic mixture explain the evident changes that took place in the autochthonous world in the eighth and seventh centuries BC. However, a reinterpretation of Tartessian archaeology would be necessary, as what we refer to as “orientalizing” culture is not exclusively a product of the natives’ acculturation; it is partly the result of Phoenician settlement, if that is how we agree to describe anything foreign and of Eastern origin. The findings discussed here confirm the role attributed to sanctuaries as key elements in colonial expansion and relations with the native societies. The abandonment of the sacred complexes described in the preceding pages and the end of the cemeteries at the same time in the sixth and fifth centuries BC are clearly symptomatic of a significant change in the historical situation, the causes of which appear to be both diverse and complex, and beyond the scope of this study.121

note s 1.

2. 3.

4.

5.

Research for this chapter was carried out with assistance from University of Seville, Research Group HUM-650 (Regional Government of Andalusia), and Research Project BHA2003-05866 (Spanish Ministry of Education and Science). I would like to thank the editors of this work, C. López-Ruiz and M. Dietler, for being so understanding and patient with me. I would also like to thank J. Langford and M. Fernández de los Ronderos for translating the text, and Carolina López-Ruiz and Michael Dietler for revising it. Fernández Jurado 1987. Ruiz Mata and Pérez 1995. In a more recent work, D. Ruiz Mata (1999) argues that the Doña Blanca colony is ancient Gadir. Arteaga and Roos give an opposing view: 2002:26–27. The latest archaeological findings in Cádiz have been published recently, proving that there was flourishing commercial activity on the island going back to the ninth century BC (De Frutos and Muñoz 2004). Tartessos is the western sector of present-day Andalusia, which includes the Lower Guadalquivir, approximately from Córdoba to Cádiz, and the coastal and precoastal region of Huelva, as far as the Guadiana River. This term, however, is often used to describe a much larger geographical area, and Tartessian culture is taken to mean orientalizing culture (Torres 2002). On the other hand, literary sources describe the Tartessian region as extending as far as the Mediterranean coast in southeastern Spain (Koch 2003:186). It is especially regrettable that the cemetery at the site of Castillo de Doña Blanca has not been excavated, as it is the largest one found so far (over one hundred hectares). The only funerary site studied in the area (Ruiz Mata and Pérez 1989) promises important future discoveries.

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6. In Belén and Escacena 1995 the differences between these two periods are discussed. 7. A different view can be found in Aubet 1995:229 and 2002:9. 8. There is no agreement on the dates of the beginning of Phoenician trade in the western region of the Iberian Peninsula. The debate about whether there was a period of contacts prior to the first colonial foundations, as many authors contend (Torres 2002:38–39), has not ended (Aubet 1994:177–87). Nor is there agreement about the foundation dates of the first colonies, as it depends not only on whether calibrated or uncalibrated C14 dating is used (Aubet 1994:317–23; Mederos 1997, tables 16–18) but also on whether we value some pieces of information more than others (Belén and Escacena 1995:76–77; Torres 1998:57; Gómez 2001–2:114–15). 9. Wagner and Alvar 1989. 10. Bonsor 1899; Whittaker 1974. 11. Wagner and Alvar 2003. 12. Aubet 1995:228; Ruiz-Gálvez 2000:17; Wagner and Alvar 2003:193–95. 13. Belén and Escacena 1995:91; Bondi 1999:363; Botto 2002:60; Koch 2003:216. The substitution of the term acculturation for interaction in the literature on the subject is also a consequence of these changes of opinion, as well as of the different assessments of the active role played by the native population in its incorporation into long-distance trade. 14. There is abundant bibliography on the relationship between sanctuaries and commercial and colonial projection, especially in the Greek sphere (for example, Romero 1997; Domínguez Monedero 2001). With regard to Phoenician expansion, the brief synthesis made by C. Baurain and C. Bonnet is quite illustrative (1992:188–90), as are Ma. E. Aubet’s comments (1990:34, 37–38) about the role of the temple of Melkart in Gadir in western Atlantic trade. This issue has also been dealt with by D. Van Berchem (1967) and G. Bunnens (1986), among others. 15. For example, Garrido and Orta 1989:82; Rouillard 1991:46; Garbini 2001; and Koch 2003:215. 16. See criticism in Belén and Escacena 1995:90–94 and Álvarez 2003. 17. Garrido and Orta 1989:75; Escacena 2004:7, 41–42. 18. Fernández Jurado 1988–89; Garrido and Orta 1989; Gómez and Campos 2001. 19. Ruiz-Gálvez 1998:288. 20. Different researchers (for example, Fernández Jurado 2003:836–44) support the idea that there had been frequent visits to this land by Eastern traders going back to the times of Hiram I, king of Tyre in the tenth century BC. Many accept the identification of the Tarshish of the Bible with Huelva (Koch 2003:4, 17; also see López-Ruiz’s study of the problem in chapter 10 and references there). However, the earliest evidence that we had, dated after 800 BC, did not raise the suspicion that there might have been systematic exchanges so early. 21. González de Canales, Serrano, and Llompart 2004. 22. Ibid., 196–99. They are type 12 amphorae from Tyre. As the authors themselves point out, however, items that can be securely ascribed to these first periods are

Phoenicians in Tartessos • 217

23.

24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

few and of very imprecise chronology, quite limited for the nearly one hundred years that passed before the arrival of the first Greek imports around 780–770 BC. The presence of geometric pottery coincides with the period of greatest commercial activity, which is also the period most recently documented. The absence of pottery styles recorded in Tyre from layer III of Tyre and of red-slip ware, present in the colonies of the Málaga coast since their very foundation, leads me to date the bottom of the layer as I have. This island is identified with Saltes, where there was a Phoenician settlement, of which we know very little so far (an Islamic settlement lies on top of it and thorough excavations have not been conducted). Just off the coast, in the surrounding sea, two bronze statuettes representing Phoenician deities have been found. They are similar to those deposited as votives in the sanctuary of Melkart in Cádiz (Belén 2000:66–67). Whittaker’s observations regarding this (1974:62) are interesting. López Castro 2000:125. There is only a preliminary study, Osuna, Bedia, and Domínguez 2001, about these discoveries. The symbolism of the altar with a so-called bull-skin shape and the presence of bovid horns are paralleled in the sanctuary of Coria del Río (Seville), which will be dealt with later. Other finds (perfume recipients made of ceramic and vitreous paste and musical instruments) could be related to the cult of a feminine deity with attributes similar to those of the Phoenician goddess Astarte (Bonnet 1996:152), who in turn shared many characteristics with the Greek Aphrodite. Cabrera 1988–89. Pellicer 1996:121. Gómez and Campos 2000:165; Ruiz Mata 2000:27. Rouillard 1991:94–95 and Antonelli 1997:51–52, 66–71; a synthesis of the testimonies regarding combined Phoenician and Euboean action is in Domínguez Monedero 2003:20–31; against direct Greek trade prior to the sixth century BC, see Cabrera 2003:61, but cf. also 73. The Cyprus-Sardinia connection and its link with the Iberian Peninsula in the period before the Phoenician foundations has been dealt with by Ruiz-Gálvez (1998:276–89). Apart from the Sardinian imports recovered in Huelva, askoi with the same origins have been identified in Cádiz and in El Carambolo (Seville; see Torres 2004a). Rouillard 1991:94–101 and 2000:261. Without entering into a discussion about linguistic issues beyond my expertise, I find interesting the hypothesis of J. P. Garrido (2000:177) about the location of a Greek Olbia in Huelva, which, in my understanding, was a community whose origins were based on commercial activity. The district where trade was concentrated was also known to the Greek inhabitants by a Greek name. From the text of Herodotus (1.163) we cannot conclude that they did not have a stable presence in the trade center. Strabo 3.2.3. Arteaga, Schulz, and Roos 1995.

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34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58.

Ora Maritima 259–61. Rouillard 2000:265. Romero 1997:403–4; also Domínguez Monedero 2001:245–46. Ora Maritima 259. See also Koch 2003:10. Escacena and Izquierdo 2001. Escacena and Izquierdo 2000. Pellicer 1997:249. Lipinski 1984:100–101. Correa 2000. Collantes de Terán 1977:46–47. Along the coast of the Peninsula, the Phoenicians dedicated to Melkart some islands in the Bay of Algeciras, near Carthago Nova, and in the Huelva estuary (Strabo 3.1.7; 4.6, and 5.5, respectively). Outside this town, about fifteen kilometers (9.3 miles) to the north of Seville, a cemetery belonging to the orientalizing period (seventh–sixth centuries BC) has recently been excavated, providing important but as of yet unpublished new findings. Carriazo 1973. Castro, Lull, and Micó 1996:197–99. Pellicer 1997:249. Blanco 1979:95. The news that has been reported by various authors about the discovery of this piece in the same area as the treasure seems to be very reliable. It bears a Phoenician inscription that confirms its votive character and allows the piece to be dated between the middle of the eighth and the beginning of the seventh century BC (Bonnet 1996:127–31). Amadasi Guzzo 1992:178–79; Lipinski 1984:117. Amores 1995:167; Schattner 2000. We use the term sanctuary in the same sense as does Hermann 1965:47. Belén and Escacena 1997. In this study we comment in further detail on the aspects summarized here. Carriazo 1973:273. Lipinski 1984:114–16. The issue of sacred prostitution has been dealt with by different authors, most recently Domínguez Monedero 2001 and Ribichini 2001–2. The latter observes that very different situations are reflected in the testimonies that make reference to these practices in the Phoenician world. He also explains the importance of this practice as an institution protected by the sanctuaries, although, as in any other historical period, the ports offered sailors the possibility of satisfying their sexual desires. Most of the information that we discuss here has been taken from Escacena 2004. See more recently Fernández and Rodríguez 2005. Pellicer 1997:242. Cf., for example, Blázquez 1991. The trading-post character of the sanctuary is accepted by Domínguez Monedero 1995:64.

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59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

88. 89. 90.

Amongst others, Chaves and De la Bandera 1991; De la Bandera et al. 1995. Wagner and Alvar 1989. Ruiz Mata and Pérez 1995:176, 187. Belén et al. 1997. Another important collection of figurative pottery was found in the previously mentioned site of Montemolín, in a similar cultural context (Chaves and De la Bandera 1991). Alvar 2002:16. These arguments are explained in greater detail in Belén et al. 1997:181–88. Belén and García Morillo 2005. Martínez 2000:6. Guralnick 2004:209–20. For example, Von Hase 2000:135, 139. Cf. Martínez 2000:40. Cf. Rouillard 1997:88. The Greek presence in the southwest part of Spain seems more insignificant, but it is highly likely that there were small Greek communities in different places, as there seem to have been in Huelva, considering the large amounts of Ionian, Corinthian, and Attic imports in the sixth century BC (Rouillard 1997:90, 92). For example, Torres 2002:332–39. Belén and Escacena 1995:75. Alvar 1993a. Almagro-Gorbea, Torres, and Mederos 2003:242. Torres 2004b:441–42. Aubet 1990:38. Gras 1993:109. As the author himself warns (p. 103), “le concept d’emporion est multiforme.” In fact, some Greek authors use the term emporion when making reference to Phoenician trade (Gras 1993:104). Counillon 1993:50–51. Bonnet 1988:157–63. Aubet 2003:177. Amadasi Guzzo 1995:670–73. Domínguez Monedero 2001 discusses religion in the trade centers. López Castro 2000:125. Zoppi (1996:331) thinks that the cretulae found in a temple in Selinunte belonged to a public registry that held commercial documents. Regarding the juridical capacity of the sanctuaries, see Grotanelli 1981:131. Scandone and Xella 1995:635. See Lancelotti and Xella 2004 regarding religion as a cohesive element of the Phoenicians abroad; with regard to the Phoenicians in the West, see López Castro 2004. The polytheism of the different Mediterranean pantheons favored interpretatio phenomena (Grotanelli 1981:121).

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91. Domínguez Monedero 2001:247. 92. Lancelotti and Xella 2004:121. 93. This type of drinking cup also constitutes the most abundant body of ceramics at the Greek sanctuaries in Naucratis and Gravisca: Domínguez Monedero 2001:243, 245. 94. Sachs 1947:126. 95. Baslez 2003:236–40 points out the millenary tradition of the marzeah, thiasos in Greek, as a religious institution and analyzes the documents that guarantee their validity in the Semitic communities in the Aegean Sea. 96. Baslez 2003:236–37. 97. Fernández and Rodríguez 2005. The shape of the altar is similar to that of two pieces of the treasure found at the site: Carriazo 1973, fig. 41. 98. This is another religious complex with clearly mercantile functions, belonging to a later period than those here described and located in the surroundings of Tartessos. See Celestino 1994 and S. Celestino’s most recent evaluation of this evidence in chap. 9 of this book. 99. Aubet 2003, fig. 2, left. 100. Escacena and Izquierdo 2000. 101. Scheid and Svenbro 1985. Gras 2002:192–93 also makes reference to the economic worth of the ox-hide and its exchange value. 102. Marín Ceballos (2006) concludes that there are no arguments to identify the oxhide with any Eastern divinity. 103. Ruiz de Arbulo 2000:20. 104. See Morris 1997:66 and Domínguez Monedero 2001:242. 105. Good examples are the Tyrian trade districts of Damascus and Samaria: Aubet 2003:181. 106. Ridgway 2000:102. 107. Gras 2002:190. 108. Amongst others, Alvar 2002:14, Ruiz Mata 2000:27, and Wagner 2004:270–74. 109. Pellicer 1996:119; Garrido and Orta 1989:71. 110. The presence in Carmona of craftsmen devoted to the production of ivory objects, gold and silver ornaments, and pottery has been pointed out by different authors. Districts of potters and of gold and silver smiths have been found in other indigenous inland towns, such as Penya Negra (Crevillente, Alicante). Cf. González Prats 2000:113. 111. Apart from Alvar and Wagner, there are other authors who agree that there were Phoenician farming colonies in the lands surrounding Carmona, although they link them to Gadir (Ruiz Mata and Pérez 1995:176, 187). 112. Alvar 2001:31. 113. It is difficult to find proof of coexistence and miscegenation in the most common archaeological registry, in the remains of houses or in household wares. This is why historians, when trying to identify these foreign groups, have looked for more reliable material data connected with beliefs and religious practices,

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114. 115. 116. 117. 118.

119.

120. 121.

assuming that the mentality of that time, which was perhaps more averse to change, lent itself to a longer conservation of ethnic identity. Belén 2001:60–68; Wagner 2004:280–86. Interesting observations about the issue of ethnic identities can be found in Ridgway 2000:98–99. Baslez 2003, esp. 225–28. Jiménez Flores 1996; Pellicer 2004. Garrido and Orta (1978:199, 204, 209–11) have found in this cemetery the presence of orientalizing groups of different origins, among which there may be Tyrians, Cypriots, and Rhodians, apart from western Phoenicians. We have found only a few dispersed examples of Phoenician tombs in mixed cemeteries in other colonies, and in every case, epigraphy has been decisive in the identification of Semitic residents. Cf. Garrido 2000:187 and Ruiz Mata 2000:28. There is a large bibliography dealing with the possible causes of what is known as the end of Tartessos, which was also the end of the historical circumstances that made possible the orientalizing culture. The cessation of Phocaean trade around the year 540 BC, well documented in Huelva, could reflect not only the problems of the Ionian metropolis but also the internal tensions that arose upon the death of the Philo-Hellenic king Argantonio. Regarding the different aspects of the crisis and its causes, see, for example, Alvar 1993b.

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comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I coloquio del CEFYP (Madrid, 9–12 de noviembre, 1998), 9–25. Madrid. Ruiz Mata, D. 1999. “Visión actual de la fundación de Gadir en la bahía gaditana: El Castillo de Doña Blanca en El Puerto de Santa María y la ciudad de Cádiz— Contrastación textual y arqueológica.” Revista de Historia de El Puerto 21:11–88. ———. 2000. “Fenicios e indígenas en Andalucía occidental: Tartessos como paradigma.” In D. Ruiz Mata, ed., Fenicios e indígenas en el Mediterráneo y Occidente: Modelos e interacción, 9–37. El Puerto de Santa María, Spain. Ruiz Mata, D., and C. J. Pérez. 1989. “El túmulo 1 de la necrópolis de ‘Las Cumbres’ (Puerto de Santa María, Cádiz).” In Ma. E. Aubet, ed., Tartessos: Arqueología protohistórica del Bajo Guadalquivir, 287–95. Sabadell, Spain. ———. 1995. El poblado fenicio del Castillo de Doña Blanca (El Puerto de Santa María, Cádiz). El Puerto de Santa María, Spain. Sachs, C. 1947. Historia universal de los instrumentos musicales. Buenos Aires. Scandone, G., and P. Xella. 1995. “Égypte.” In V. Krings, ed., La civilisation phénicienne et punique: Manuel de recherché, 632–39. Leiden, Netherlands. Schattner, T. G. 2000. “Formas de Grecia oriental en la cerámica ‘tartésica.’ ” Habis 31:63–72. Scheid, J., and J. Svenbro. 1985. “Byrsa: La ruse d’Élissa et la fondation de Carthage.” Annales: Économies, Societés, Civilisations 1985(2):328–42. Torres, M. 1998. “La cronología absoluta europea y el inicio de la colonización fenicia en Occidente: Implicaciones cronológicas en Chipre y el Próximo Oriente.” Complutum 9:49–60. ———. 2002. Tartessos. Madrid. ———. 2004a. “Un fragmento de vaso askoide nurágico del fondo de cabaña del Carambolo.” Complutum 15:45–50. ———. 2004b. “Las necrópolis tartésicas.” In A. González Prats, ed., El mundo funerario: Actas del III Seminario Internacional sobre Temas Fenicios, Guardamar del Segura, 3–5 de mayo de 2002, 425–56. Alicante, Spain. Van Berchem, D. 1967. “Sanctuaires d’Hercules-Melqart: Contribution à l’étude de l’expansion phénicienne en Méditerranée.” Syria 44:73–109, 307–38. Von Hase, F.-W. 2000. “Die goldene Prunkfibel aus der Tomba Regolini-Galassi in Cerveteri – Überlegungen zu ihrer Genese und Funktion.” In F. Prayon and W. Röllig, eds., Akten des Kolloquiums zum Thema der Orient und Etrurien: Zum Phänomen des “Orientalisierens” im westlichen Mittelmeerraum (10.– 6. Jh.v.Chr.), Tübingen, 12–13 Juni 1997, 129–52. Pisa, Italy. Wagner, C. G. 2004. “Colonización, aculturación, asimilación y mundo funerario.” In A. González Prats, ed., El mundo funerario: Actas del III Seminario Internacional sobre Temas Fenicios, Guardamar del Segura, 3–5 de mayo de 2002, 267–98. Alicante, Spain. Wagner, C. G., and J. Alvar. 1989. “Fenicios en Occidente: La colonización agrícola.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 17(1):61–102.

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———. 2003. “La colonización agrícola en la Península Ibérica: Estado de la cuestión y nuevas perspectivas.” In C. Gómez Bellard, ed., Ecohistoria del paisaje agrario: La agricultura fenicio-púnica en los paisajes mediterráneos, 187–204. Valencia, Spain. Whittaker, C. R. 1974. “The western Phoenicians: Colonization and assimilation.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 200(20):58–79. Zoppi, C. 1996. “Le cretule di Selinunte.” In M. F. Boussac and A. Invernizzi, eds., Archives et sceaux du monde hellénistique: Actes du Congrès, Turin, Villa Gualino, 13–16 Janvier, 1993, 327–40. Bulletin de Correspóndance Hellénique Suppl. 29. Athens.

[nine]

Precolonization and Colonization in the Interior of Tartessos Sebastián Celestino-Pérez

The Issue of Precolonization The term precolonization is a very complex one and has generated a certain amount of confusion for the chronological interpretation of a phenomenon that has nevertheless been adopted by research bodies of the Mediterranean countries,1 albeit with somewhat different characteristics, given that the Central Mediterranean has always been associated with Mycenaean navigation to the west.2 In the case of the Iberian Peninsula, with a few exceptions, the term precolonization is linked more closely with the presence of objects from the East immediately prior to the Phoenician and Greek colonization, than with a phenomenon of cultural assimilation. For this reason it refers to a matter of simple commercial contact prior, though essential, to a subsequent colonization, a circumstance that has often been repeated throughout the various colonial processes of history. Nevertheless, the appearance of Mycenaean ceramics in the central Guadalquivir has resulted in a new research channel for which we still have few, though significant, data.3 A few years ago several authors showed an interest in this precolonization stage, and they have more recently taken up the subject again in the light of new data provided by archaeology, though from different positions with regard to the Mediterranean geographic area that would have provided such a contact: the Aegean world 4 or the Syro-Palestinian world.5 However, precolonization has also been conceived as a continuum, starting with the presumed Mycenaean navigations to the west, either through the direct intervention of Sicily and Sardinia 6 or else thanks to sailors who organized this commercial circle both from the Atlantic and from the two Mediterranean areas.7 But if we observe the structural changes that took place in native society following precolonization, with this last being deemed an initial stage in Phoenician colonization, we must highlight the studies that J. Alvar has carried out in recent years.8 At the same time, we must observe that new contributions have appeared which refer to the socioeconomic transformations arising from the

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impact of precolonization.9 An extensive bibliography has also been generated concerning the way in which these first contacts came about and the circumstances under which they developed, whether with reference to the arrival of Phoenicians 10 or the arrival of Greeks.11 Finally, although some viewpoints do not consider this moment as capable of providing unequivocal stimulus for the development of the indigenous communities, which would, by then, have developed sufficiently to accept colonization without traumas,12 the idea of a stage prior to colonization seems unquestionable today.13 It seems logical that precolonization must have had a greater impact in areas able to provide better trade relations. In the case of the Iberian Peninsula, this was in the so-called Tartessian territory, which must already have been exploiting its mining and agricultural resources, even if in a limited manner, in such a way that its potential would be of sufficient interest to attract traders from the east. Such traders would surely have known about these resources thanks to the contacts commanded by Tartessos with other areas of the Central Mediterranean, in particular with Sardinia and Sicily, from at least the tenth century BC.14 Surprisingly, it has been possible to follow this phenomenon of precolonization with greater clarity in areas bordering the Tartessian territory, where a clear link with the Atlantic world of the Late Bronze Age 15 can be detected. These areas do not appear to have suffered too many changes until well into the Early Iron Age.16 If we place precolonization chronologically in the ninth century BC (although clear signs of prior contacts exist which date back to the tenth century), we can appreciate how the extensive territory involved— the current Extremadura, the southern half of Portugal, and the west of the southern plateau—shares clear cultural analogies with the Portuguese Atlantic coast.17 This Late Bronze Age stage appears very homogeneous in the Portuguese Beira area, for instance, with precariously structured and thinly inhabited areas located at strategic points and with a total absence of cemeteries and a wide scattering of remains, which makes any territorial study impossible.18 This situation could easily be relocated to the area of the Tagus (Tajo) Valley in Spanish territory.19 Nevertheless, there are also evident signs of chieftaincies that were homogeneous, both over time and in the extensive space they occupied, with characteristic symbols and chattels denoting prestige. Among these should be noted crowned or female stelae, warrior stelae, and valuable ornaments, as well as a high percentage of bronze weapons. All these archaeological finds appear in high concentrations in very specific areas identified with rich grazing lands. In agriculturally rich areas, on the other hand, hardly any remains or settlements have been located for this

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Late Bronze Age stage, except for a few finds near the most important river crossings. Indeed, if we take a map of the Iberian Peninsula showing the object distribution pattern characteristic of the Late Bronze Age as a reference point, we see immediately that except for the logical infringement of the embryonic trade that must have existed between nearby areas, there is a clear specialization of the different cultural areas. We are particularly interested in the southwest quadrant, where, given the characteristics of the different finds, we can define a Tartessian area occupying the Lower Guadalquivir Valley and the southern reach of Huelva Province, together with a south Atlantic area surrounding the Lower Tagus Valley and spreading to the Algarve and the mid Guadiana Valley. The cultural differences are increased by the vast geographical spaces wherein remains from the Late Bronze age are practically nonexistent, as in the rich plains of Tierra de Barros or the western area of La Serena in the province of Badajoz, as well as the mid Guadalquivir Valley or the southeast area of the Meseta, all of which are characterized by intense agricultural activity. On the contrary, most of the finds pertaining to this era are located in the Portuguese Beira and Alemtejo, in the Cáceres peneplain and in the eastern part of La Serena and its extension toward the Los Pedroches area in Córdoba and the western plateau, all characterized by low agricultural yield and high grazing productivity. These areas also coincide with the presence of warrior and crowned stelae of the Late Bronze Age and with most of the bronze finds and the characteristic Atlantic ornaments. Finally, the introduction of compositions of Mediterranean origin is simultaneous both in the stelae and in the decorative groups that can be assigned clearly to the Late Bronze Age, as in the case of the Berzocana treasure bowl (fig. 9.1a).20 Such objects became increasingly prevalent on the Atlantic coast, as is shown by the ritual Baios carts 21 and some of the elements pertaining to the ornaments of the Roça do Casal do Meio tombs,22 to mention but a few of the best known examples (fig. 9.1b). Consequently, this extensive geographical area should never be deemed peripheral to Tartessos: the concept “peripheral” implies a sociocultural dependency that cannot be perceived in the area until the Mediterranean colonization was well established. It is not until at least the seventh, and really not until the mid sixth, century BC that we can speak of a Tartessian periphery. And this does not imply a break with the Atlantic links that fostered its cultural substance.

Figure 9.1a Late Bronze gold treasure and Mediterranean bronze bowl type. Berzocana (Cáceres, Extremadura).

Figure 9.1b Late Bronze funerary offering and foreign objects acquired abroad from the Mediterranean Sea. Roça do Casal do Meio (Portugal).

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The Warrior Stelae: The Influence of Colonization in the Interior Thanks to their characteristic decoration, the warrior stelae (also called southwest stelae, because of the area where they have been documented) have generated a very extensive literature that has often served as the basis for carrying out all manner of experiments on the evolution of the Late Bronze Age and the transition to the Early Iron Age, and the bibliography has been gathered in the latest monograph dealing with these aspects (see map of distribution of the stelae in fig. 9.2).23 By way of synthesis, I should first stress that the stelae can be divided into two clearly differentiated groups: the slabs and the stelae proper. The former, also called basic stelae, are distinguished by their having been found in the northernmost part of the southwestern quadrant, covering areas of the Portuguese Beira, the Gata Sierra, and the Tagus Valley. The stone slabs are always of a size similar to that of the human body, around 1.70 m tall. They depict a shield engraved in the center with a characteristic V-notched cut, invariably flanked by a spear at the top and a sword at the bottom, weapons that show no formal analogy with any known ones for these early dates of the Late Bronze Age (figs. 9.3a and 9.3b). The slabs were probably made to cover

Figure 9.2 Map of distribution of the stelae.

Figure 9.3a and b Basic stelae with V-notched shields (Tagus Valley).

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burial cists like the ones documented for this extensive area, a ritual deeply rooted in the Middle Bronze Age. The slab would thus represent the body of a warrior with a sword at his waist and a spear ready to be hurled. Finally, the lower part of the slabs is not ground, and both edges lack all decoration, which clearly shows that they were never used as stelae. The V-notched shield is one of the most noteworthy elements for the study of these monuments, on account of both its shape and the great detail with which the earliest stelae were engraved. Its characteristic form has also been documented in Ireland, central and northern Europe, Cyprus, and Greece, and for this reason, most authors, depending on their philo-cultural leanings, have attributed their origins to these places. However, the V-notched shields found in the Irish bogs clearly date from between the seventh and sixth centuries BC,24 though in his classical study on European shields, and in view of his technique and morphology, J. M. Coles 25 perceived a date prior to the seventh century BC to be impossible for central European or Nordic shields. Finally, Cypriot and Greek samples found in places of worship have never been dated earlier than the eighth century BC, and some of them have even been found together with securely dated materials, such as the ones found at Paleopaphos dated to the end of the seventh century BC (fig. 9.4).26 The conclusion is, therefore, that the V-notched shields of the stelae are earlier than those documented outside the Iberian Peninsula.27 For this reason, it is not difficult to place their origin in the Peninsula itself. Furthermore, we should bear in mind that most of the shields from the Greek Samian Heraion are ceramic and very small, whereas the one unearthed in the Cyprus Idalion appeared in a clearly sacred context; for these reasons, it would seem likely for them to have arrived at these places after having been copied and presented as votive offerings to the god protecting the long voyage west. It may be worthwhile remembering how classical sources repeatedly make reference to Greek traders’ habit of offering gifts and tithes for the success of their voyage. Here, the attitude shown by Kolaios of Samos (Herodotus 4.152) upon his return from a journey around the Iberian coasts is of particular interest: he offered a tithe of his earnings to the goddess Hera, the patron of Samos, after melting bronzes and making votive offerings as a sign of gratitude.28 These votive offerings could have been imitations of exceptional objects seen in those lands. Thus, the shields would not be a first unambiguous proof of initial precolonial contact, but rather evidence of an indigenous culture with its own personality: it does not seem logical for models of Mediterranean shields to have been imported or copied when these basic stelae still show no traces of objects of an Oriental tradition such as combs, mirrors, carts, etc. Likewise, Atlantic-type swords cannot yet be recognized

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Figure 9.4 Cypriot and Greek V-notched shields.

despite the great detail with which the weapons are depicted. Besides, if their origin were European and they had been cast in bronze, it would seem logical for examples to have shown up in the archaeological record. The second group (the stelae proper) is more numerous, and its range of motifs is likewise more complex. The lower part of the stelae is clearly pointed in order for them to be pushed into the ground. They also vary greatly in size and only rarely exceed 1.5 meters. These monuments appear only in areas surrounding the Guadiana, Algarve, and Guadalquivir, that is, the southernmost areas of the Peninsula. The most important characteristic is the introduction of a warrior figure of a distinct Atlantic style, surrounded by his weapons, and a series of objects of Mediterranean origin denoting prestige: two-wheeled carts, mirrors, “elbow” fibulae, combs, pins, or musical instruments, with the lyre clearly standing out. Among these Mediterranean elements is also the appearance of bull-like horns on the anthropomorphic figure, a type of representation of possible Syro-Palestinian origins.29 As the

Figure 9.5a Stelae from Zarza Capilla (Badajoz).

Figure 9.5d Stela from El Viso (Córdoba).

Figure 9.5b Stela from Fuente de Cantos (Badajoz).

Figure 9.5e Stela from Ategua (Córdoba).

Figure 9.5c Stela from Écija (Seville).

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stelae appear in the southernmost area bordering with Tartessos, a larger number of objects denoting prestige is incorporated to the detriment of the weapons. The latter on occasion even disappear to give way to scenes of high social value, as, for instance, the hunt on the Erdivel II stele or the funerary ritual on the Ategua (fig. 9.5e) and Zarza Capilla III (fig. 9.5a) stelae (see figs. 9.5a–e). In turn, other elements plainly related to trade show up, such as the collection of weights observed on a number of the southernmost stelae.30 Finally, at a time contemporary with the eastern colonization, the stelae spread to the Tartessian territory itself. Their survival in this area does not seem to have stretched beyond the beginning of the seventh century BC, whereas it may have continued for at least another century in areas of the interior, where consequently a social system different from the one governing the Tartessian territory lingered on. The southwest stelae thus corroborate the prior contacts with the Eastern Mediterranean, although they seem to do so through Tartessos. This was a very homogeneous and culturally and socially settled territory where the absence of warrior stelae during the Late Bronze Age is particularly significant. They are documented only in moments prior to and at the beginning of colonization, when the stelae changed their meaning and incorporated elements having clear Mediterranean roots. The disappearance of these monuments represents a sudden change not only in the administration of the chieftaincies of these territories but also in their social organization, now clearly stimulated by the Tartessian culture.

The Reflection of Phoenician Colonization in the Interior The interest shown by the Tartessians first, and then by the Phoenicians, in this spacious territory of the interior would have been based on the rich farming and human resources in it, and the warrior chieftaincies represented on the stelae would have been the most appropriate mediators for obtaining the products. This would have accelerated the reactivation of the trade routes to the interior that had possibly existed since the Late Bronze Age, as the stelae themselves show. Archaeology documents only those objects denoting prestige received by the chieftaincies, but it seems logical that this exchange was not as unequal as the stelae suggest. We have less information on the products that the peoples of the interior traded with the Tartessian territory, but if we bear in mind the rich pasturelands on which they settled, it would be likely that cattle and their byproducts played a basic role. Human contributions to these areas of the Tartessian interior territory must have been of even greater importance; this would explain both the demographic blossom-

Precolonization and Colonization in the Interior • 239

ing of Tartessos toward the ninth century BC 31 and the growing economic activity in the area, which would be difficult to undertake without this human contribution. It is a different matter to determine whether the arrival of people from the interior to contribute to the mining or the agricultural exploitation at Tartessos was carried out within a system of slavery, as some authors have suggested recently 32—such enormous social inequality cannot be detected from an archaeological standpoint— or whether it was a voluntary contribution, given the economic possibilities available in Tartessos. The latter eventually would have had positive effects on the chieftaincies of the interior, which, on the other hand, as colonization advanced, became settled increasingly closer to the Tartessian focus. The demographic and commercial infrastructure at Tartessos must have allowed for a swift Phoenician colonization that would have taken advantage of existing resources in order to encourage commercial exchange and, at the same time, allow for economic and cultural development of the area. The lands of the interior also profited from this economic boom, although this is not as evident as it is in the Tartessian territory. It is, once again, the warrior stelae that allow us to outline a hypothesis. It is quite telling that the rich grazing lands of the interior are the ones that show greater development, while barely a sign of trade based on mining exploitation exists, despite the fact that researchers have used the latter activity most to justify Tartessian and Phoenician interest in these territories. Indeed, no single proof exists in favor of this thesis; it is backed only by the fragile data extracted from the Cáceres site of Logrosán, where signs of temporary tin mining during the Late Bronze Age exist.33 However, the demographic structure that can be detected throughout this large territory of the interior would make any mining exploitation unlikely to succeed on any scale other than a small and indeed residual one. Besides, the type of chieftaincies that the stelae allow us to envisage 34 do not seem to be the most appropriate social system for mining exploitation, which requires stable settlements and perfectly organized trade routes to export its product. Moreover, it is important to highlight the increase in the consumption of mutton and goat in the Mediterranean to the detriment of beef, a fact to be borne in mind in order to understand the interest in the area: it may have been sheep or goat herders from the interior who gradually approached the Tartessian territory. On the contrary, a significant increase in Guadalquivir agricultural exploitation can be perceived, which would have guaranteed the economic and nutritional requirements of Tartessos. These areas of the interior must have retained the social structures of previous times despite the economic progress achieved. This, at least, is re-

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flected in the territorial study carried out in certain areas of the Guadiana Valley,35 where the settlement system and other parameters pertaining to the Late Bronze Age are reproduced without great changes being apparent. It would seem, therefore, that the social system of interior areas was sufficiently consolidated to allow them to retain their own control and exchange mechanisms with the southern territory without their cultural essence, still greatly indebted to the Atlantic Late Bronze era, being altered. Besides, we cannot forget that the organization of an essentially cattle-ranching society differs greatly from cultures that have developed under an agricultural or mining system, which involve greater social complexity and less burdensome development on account of both their economic diversification and their geographic stability. Therefore, although strong interests were in action benefiting both areas, it seems there were no changes in social strategy in the interior areas: societies of these areas must have retained their status and social organization in the Tartessian territory well into the Orientalizing Period. This would justify the cultural disparity between both areas and the endurance of the Orientalizing Period in the interior until the fifth century BC. Once the Orientalizing Period consolidated at Tartessos, from the middle of the seventh century until its crisis in the middle of the sixth century BC, in the extensive territory of the Tagus Valley and the Guadiana that surrounds it, and despite a few signs of its culture, we are still immersed in a social structure that is very similar to the one described for the Late Bronze Age. The stelae still played a salient role in cultural expressions, although, to be sure, they were now distributed in areas closer to the Guadalquivir River Valley and they display scenes of greater social complexity. Conversely, we are unable to detect stable settlements or cemeteries, and all the studies referring to these areas of the interior during the Orientalizing Period have necessarily limited themselves to rich, isolated finds, as in the preceding period. We know this period in the Tagus Valley because of finds such as the Aliseda treasure (Cáceres) or on account of isolated graves with elements clearly assignable to the East (fig. 9.6).36 The same is true for the Guadiana Valley, where, notwithstanding, a slight change in the economic strategy can be observed that would become consolidated in the sixth century BC.37 Likewise, the studies devoted to this area bordering Tartessos and to the Tagus Valley are centered on isolated finds of elements that could be classified as having social prestige. These were surely directly connected with the still prevailing chieftaincies; this is the case with ornaments of a clearly oriental style that show a distinctive personality compared to those fashioned in Tartessian territory.38 Other bronze objects of great lavishness also exist, clearly showing the reactivation of dealings with Tartessos at the beginning of the sixth

Precolonization and Colonization in the Interior • 241

Figure 9.6 Aliseda treasure.

century BC.39 Yet we are still unable to detect any sizable settlements, any large mortuary centers, or, consequently, the organization of the territory. Therefore the outlook does not differ in any substantial manner from that described for the previous period.

The Tartessian Colonization of the Interior: Cancho Roano The turning point for Tartessos, toward the middle of the sixth century BC, was brought on by a new economic strategy in the Mediterranean belt. A demographic surplus must have ensued, given the abandonment of some of the agricultural and mining exploitations, which must have had social repercussions in the area. This crisis did not bring about the end of the Tartessian society but rather forced it to restructure its economic premises in general and its commercial propositions in particular. The archaeological reflection of this fact can once more be followed clearly in areas of the interior that can now be called peripheral to the Tartessian territory. They seem to be the only ones capable of absorbing the surplus of population that ultimately would have been the cause of the intense, though late, orientalization and of the economic and social transformations that can be perceived clearly in these areas after the sixth century BC. The assimilation of this excess Tartessian population had a positive effect on the exploitation and extension of farmlands that had been inactive until then. At the same time, it caused certain

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settlements to make their appearance in the Tagus Valley 40 and particularly in the Guadiana Valley: for instance, Medellín 41 and El Palomar,42 two sites of great importance to which should be added others still under study.43 This circumstance implies a greater social complexity, likely not very different from that evident in Tartessian territory. As of the sixth century BC, a radical change in strategy becomes clearly manifest in areas close to the river valleys in the Tartessian periphery, with the Tartessians progressively occupying areas even farther inland. There was a drastic change in the occupation of this territory, which became generally inhabited in the more fertile agricultural areas to the detriment of the grazing lands that had previously been occupied. It is significant that this change is noticeable in parts of the Guadiana central valley and, specifically, in natural regions such as La Serena, where a high concentration of small settlements made their appearance at this point in an area with a complete absence of Late Bronze Age remains. These small settlements are dependent on a central place. The Cancho Roano architectural complex at Zalamea de La Serena, in the province of Badajoz, was built in the center of the La Serena natural region. This was a spacious grassland appropriate for cultivation, bordering the extensive grazing lands that had supported local populations during the Late Bronze Age, and it is where most of the warrior stelae, metallic weapons, and elevated enclaves originated. Yet there are scarcely any Late Bronze Age remains from this farmland of La Serena, which would now become the central territory of the interior though it is somewhat removed from the Guadiana Valley, where other important centers, such as Medellín and El Palomar, arose. Cancho Roano would become the paradigm of this new circumstance, acting as a reference point for the small farming settlements of its extensive surroundings. The studies of this site are plentiful, and, for this reason, I refer to some recent bibliography, in which all the above is included (see also figs. 9.7a and b).44 The sanctuary that we can observe today belongs to the last stage of occupation. It is a complex building that has reached us in a fine state of preservation, with most of the materials it housed in situ. This building was set on fire and then totally covered with earth in order to preserve it from any future violation. This proves that a new social change took place toward the end of the fifth century BC, bringing to an end the Tartessian model and the cultural features derived from it. Therefore, the studies that have been undertaken concerning the use of the building can refer only to that last moment, and we should not extrapolate its function to earlier periods. It is for this reason that I speak of a sanctuary, a function that Cancho

Figure 9.7a Sanctuary of Cancho Roano (Badajoz). Aerial photo of excavation area.

Figure 9.7b Sanctuary of Cancho Roano (Badajoz). Superposition of sanctuaries.

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Roano must have performed as of its foundation in the early sixth century BC. However, it would seem logical to assume that the complex must have played an important commercial and political role, and for this reason it has been identified as a palace or a commercial center. In point of fact, Cancho Roano seems to follow the oriental models already worked out in the Tartessian territory, with examples such as the ones described by Belén Deamos in chapter 8 of this volume. Cancho Roano was founded as a small circular hut next to a small stream with a constant flow of water due to its springs. Surrounded by pasturelands and established on level ground, it is imperceptible in the scenery. Hence, a display of power does not seem to have been its main objective. The first building facing east (C.R. C) rises directly above the indigenous structure mentioned above, retaining a spacious central hall, where an initial circular libationary altar was built, together with other structures that indicate the purely religious sense of the building. At the end of the sixth century BC, a new building (called C.R. B) was raised on the ruins of the previous one. In this new larger building the spaces devoted to ritual stand out: in particular, a great central hall that has the same dimensions as the previous one and where an altar in the shape of a bull-hide extending over the axis of the previous circular altar has been excavated. The last building (C.R. A) consists of several substages. But what I am interested in highlighting here is that despite its new architectural complexity—a widening of the space, the construction of perimeter chapels with offerings in their interior, the excavation of a ditch surrounding the monument, etc.—the central space in this building is once again set apart as a ritual hall. Following exhaustive studies of the archaeological materials and in particular an analysis of the function of the building, there is no great difficulty in defining the architectural complex as a sanctuary, though always in the oriental sense of the term (that is, as one with other functions, including a commercial and, naturally, political nature). The fact is that a series of small settlements with very simple architectural structures have been found around Cancho Roano. These contribute to understanding not only the function of the sanctuary but also the territorial strategy during the Orientalizing Period. Finally, the development of large buildings with a Mediterranean ground plan of the Cancho Roano type, though constructed as of the fifth century BC, also occupied a central position within these new farmlands.45 This is a circumstance that shows not only the social changes mentioned above but also the economic splendor of the area, at this point greatly indebted to the Tartessian culture. The most interesting problem we encounter at this point is what happened to the peoples who supported the society in which the war-

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riors of the stelae played a chief role. They must have functioned until only a few years before the Tartessian colonization of these agricultural territories of the interior.46 In fact, one of these warrior stelae was reused as a slab at the entrance of Cancho Roano A.47 There is one certain fact: in geographical areas characterized by the previous presence of stelae, which we should remember coincide with territories rich in pastures, there are barely any signs of the Orientalizing Period. However, it seems evident that the lands that were now beginning to be cultivated and, therefore, the complex structures now built, were indebted to the orientalizing or, to be more exact, Oriental culture. An indicative fact confirmed by these monuments, and by the small settlements or cemeteries excavated, is the absence of weapons. This shows that the socioeconomic changes on the periphery of Tartessos as of the sixth century BC must have taken place without great trauma; and for this reason colonization of the land by the Tartessians allowed the introduction of orientalizing fashions that had ceased to function in the Tartessian territory. The fact that no conflicts stemming from the occupation of farmlands have been detected is probably due to the circumstance that the agricultural colonizers from Tartessos were the inheritors of the previous culture. For this reason, no ethnic or territorial clash took place since, as has been mentioned, the agricultural areas now exploited were not occupied during previous phases. We have to bear in mind that when a change in territorial strategy such as the above takes place, a number of years is necessary for the earth to be productive. This is why the peoples who colonized the new territories must either have been awarded the lands, which seems unlikely, or else have found them unoccupied, in which case they would not have had to compete with the natives, who would have continued occupying their pasturelands. It is highly probable that once the economic profitability and the new possibilities proffered by sedentarism had become evident, the inhabitants of pasturelands would have joined the new agricultural strategy at a time coinciding with the disappearance of the warrior stelae, which also presupposes submission to a new social order. As seems logical, cattle exploitation in the extensive lands adjoining Cancho Roano and the other centers of this type built in the Guadiana basin would never have been abandoned. Although this is a subject still under study, it is likely that in the end competition between the cattle raisers and the farmers could well be at the origin of the destabilization of the area as of the fourth century BC, when all the centers of the Cancho Roano type and the settlements like Medellín and El Palomar were abandoned. At that point, a new territorial strategy related to fortifications and elevated walled settlements arose, and all vestiges of a Mediterranean influence disappeared.

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not e s 1. Acquaro et al. 1988. 2. Moscati 1983; Bartoloni 1990; Graham 1990; Bernardini 1991; Bartoloni, Moscati, and Bondi 1997. 3. Martín de la Cruz 1988. 4. Bendala 1992. 5. Almagro Gorbea 1998. 6. Lo Schiavo 1991; Guzzardi 1991. 7. Mederos 1999. 8. Alvar 1997; 2000. 9. Celestino 1998; 2001b; Guerrero 2000; Wagner 2000. 10. Aubet 1994; Wagner 1995. 11. Domínguez Monedero 1991. 12. Ruiz-Gálvez 1998; 2000. 13. Blázquez 2002. See recent discussions of this topic in Celestino, Rafel, and Armada 2008. 14. Bernardini 1991; Aubert 1992. 15. Coffyn 1985; Ruiz-Gálvez 1998. 16. Senna-Martínez 1995. 17. Martín Bravo and Galán 1999. 18. Vilaça 1995; 1997. 19. Pavón 1998. 20. Almagro Gorbea 1977. 21. Silva, Silva, and Lopes 1986. 22. Spindler et al. 1974. 23. A complete study of the stelae is found in monographs by Celestino (2001b) and R. J. Harrison (2004). For the Leventine origin of some of the figurative elements of the Tartessian stelae (particularly the horns and weapons), see Celestino and López-Ruiz 2004 and the more extensive study in Celestino and López-Ruiz 2006. 24. Eogan 1964:324. 25. Coles 1962. 26. For the Cypriot shields, see Karageorghis 1963. The dating of these V-notched shield does not exclude the existence of earlier non-V-notched bronze shields; that is in fact the case of numerous shields found in Great Britain and in Denmark, the so-called Yetholm shield (Needham 1979, 1996; Osgood 1998), some of which have been carbon-dated around the tenth century BC. Cf. for instance the shield found in south Cadbury, today in the Somerset County Museum of Tauton (Tabor 1999). 27. I should also note that a similar chronology has been recently proposed for some Irish shields, which nonetheless do not have an absolute chronology (Harrison 2004:134).

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28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

See Ruiz de Arbulo 1997. See Celestino and López-Ruiz 2006. Celestino 2000. Belén and Escacena 1995; Celestino 1998. Moreno Arrastio 2000. Meredith 1998. Mederos and Harrison 1996. Rodríguez and Enríquez 2001. Martín 1998. Almagro Gorbea 1990; Celestino 1995. Perea 1995; 2005. Jiménez 2002. Rodríguez and Enríquez 2001. Almagro Gorbea 1999; Almagro Gorbea and Martín 1994. Jiménez and Ortega 2001. Rodríguez and Enríquez 2001. Celestino 2001a and 2001c; Celestino and López-Ruiz 2003; Celestino 2003. Rodríguez and Ortíz 1998. Celestino 2005. See Celestino 1996.

sources Acquaro, E., L. Godart, F. Mazza, and D. Musti, eds. 1988. Momenti precoloniali nel Mediterraneo antico: Atti dell Convengo Internazionale (Roma, marzo 1985). Rome. Almagro Gorbea, M. 1977. El Bronce Final y el Período Orientalizante en Extremadura. Biblioteca Praehistorica Hispana 14. Madrid. ———. 1990. “El Período Orientalizante en Extremadura.” In La cultura tartésica y Extremadura, 85–126. Cuadernos Emeritenses 2. Mérida, Spain. ———. 1998. “Precolonización y cambio socio-cultural en el Bronce Atlántico.” In Intercambio e comércio as economias da Idade do Bronze, 81–100. Lisbon. ———. 1999. “El territorio de Medellín en época protohistórica.” In J. G. Georges and F. G. Rodríguez, eds., Économie y territoire en Lusitanie romaine, 17–38. Collección de la Casa Velázquez 65. Madrid. Almagro Gorbea, M., and A. Martín. 1994. Castros y Oppida en Extremadura. Complutum Extre 4. Madrid. Alvar, J. 1997. “El problema de la precolonización en la gestación de la Polis.” ARYS 8:12–31. ———. 2000. “Comercio e intercambio en el contexto precolonial.” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 27–34. Madrid. Aubert, C. 1992. “Le periode pré-phenicienne en Péninsule Ibérique: Relations avec la Mediterranée Centrale.” Mélanges de la Casa de Velásquez 28(1):8–18.

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Aubet, M. E. 1994. Tiro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente. Barcelona. Bartoloni, P. 1990. “Aspetti precoloniali della colonizzazione fenicia in Occidente.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 18:157–67. Bartoloni, P., S. F. Bondi, and S. Moscati. 1997. La penetrazione fenicia e punica in Sardegna: Trent’anni dopo. Rome. Belén, M., and J. L. Escacena. 1995. “Interacción cultural fenicios-indígenas en el Bajo Guadalquivir.” In Arqueólogos, historiadores y filólogos: Homenaje a Fernando Gascó, 1:67–101. Kolaios, Publicaciones Ocasionales 4. Seville. Bendala, M. 1992. “El mundo fenicio-púnico y su expansión mediterránea.” In La prehistoria de les illes de la Mediterránea occidental: X Jornades d´Estudis Històrics Locals, 375–91. Ibiza, Spain. Bernardini, P. 1991. Micenei e Fenici: Considerazzione sull´eta precoloniale in Sardegna. Rome. Blázquez, J. M. 2002. “La precolonización y la colonización fenicia: El Período Orientalizante en el Península Ibérica; Estado de la cuestión.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 75:85–101. Celestino, S. 1995. “El Período Orientalizante en Extremadura.” In L. Berrocal, S. Celestino, J. J. Enríquez, and F. Valdés, eds., Extremadura Arqueológica, 4:67–90. Madrid. ———. 1996. El palacio-santuario de Cancho Roano VI: Los sectores sur, oeste y este. Serie Arqueológica 3. Badajoz. ———. 1998. “Los primeros contactos orientales con el suroeste de la Península Ibérica y la formación de Tartessos.” In J. M. Galán, J.-L. Cunchillos, and J.-A. Zamora, eds., Actas del Congreso El Mediterráneo en la Antigüedad: Oriente y Occidente. Sapanu: Publicaciones en Internet II, www.labherm.filol.csic.es. ———. 2000. “Intercambio y estructuras comerciales en el interior de la Península Ibérica.” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 137–52. Madrid. ———. 2001a. Cancho Roano. Madrid. ———. 2001b. Estelas de guerrero y estelas diademadas: La precolonización y la formación del mundo tartésico. Barcelona. ———. 2001c. “Los santuarios de Cancho Roano: Del indigenismo al orientalismo arquitectónico.” In D. Ruiz and S. Celestino, eds., Arquitectura Oriental y Orientalizante en la Península Ibérica, 17–55. Madrid. ———, ed. 2003. Cancho Roano VIII y IX: Los materiales arqueológicos. Mérida, Spain. ———. 2005. “El Período Orientalizante en Extremadura y la colonización tartésica del interior.” In S. Celestino and J. Jiménez, eds., El Período Orientalizante, 767–85. Anejos del Archivo Español de Arqueología 35. Mérida, Spain. Celestino, S., and C. López-Ruiz. 2003. “Sacred precincts: A Tartessian sanctuary in ancient Spain.” Archaeology Odyssey, November/December 2003, 21–29. ———. 2004. “El motivo del toro guerrero en las estelas sirio-palestinas y sus analogías

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con las estelas tartésicas.” In VII Congreso Internacional de estelas funerarias, Santander, 24 –26 octubre 2002, 95–108. Santander: Fundación Marcelino Botín. ———. 2006. “New light on the warrior stelae from Tartessos (Spain).” Antiquity 80:89–101. Celestino, S., N. Rafel, and X. L. Armada. 2008. Contacto cultural entre el Mediterráneo y el Atlántico (siglos XII–VIII ane): La precolonización a debate. Serie Arqueológica 11. Rome. Coffyn, A. 1985. Le Bronze Final Atlantique dans la Péninsule Ibérique. Paris. Coles, J. M. 1962. “European Bronze Age shields.” In Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 31, 156–90. London. Domínguez Monedero, A. 1991. “Los griegos de Occidente y sus diferentes modos de contactos con las poblaciones indígenas: II, El momento de la fundación de la colonia.” Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la UAM 18:149–77. Eogan, G. 1964. The Later Bronze Age in Ireland in the light of recent research. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 30. London. Graham, A. J. 1990. “Pre-colonial contacts: Questions and problems.” In J. P. Descoudres, ed., Greek colonists and native populations: Proceedings of the Congress of Classical Archaeology in Honour of A. D. Trendall, Sidney, 1985, 96–123. Oxford. Guerrero, V. 2000. “Intercambios y comercio precolonial en las Baleares (c. 1100– 600 cal. BC).” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López,, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 35–58. Madrid. Guzzardi, I. 1991. “Importazione dal Vicino Oriente in Sicilia fino all’età orientalizante.” Atti II Congresso Internazzionale di Studi Fenici e Punici, 941–54. Rome. Harrison, R. J. 2004. Symbols and warriors: Images of the European Bronze Age. Bristol, UK. Jiménez, J. 2002. La toréutica orientalizante en la Península Ibérica. Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 16. Madrid. Jiménez, J., and J. Ortega. 2001. “El poblado orientalizante de El Palomar (Oliva de Mérida, Badajoz): Noticia preliminar.” In D. Ruiz and S. Celestino, eds., Arquitectura Oriental y Orientalizante en la Península Ibérica. Madrid. Karageorghis, V. 1963. “Une tombe de guerrier à Paleopaphos.” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 87(1):265–300. Lo Schiavo, F. 1991. “La Sardaigne et ses relations avec le Bronze Final Atlantique.” In C. Chevillot and A. Coffyn, eds. L’Âge du Bronze Atlantique: Ses faciès, de l’Écosse à l’Andalusie et leurs relations avec le Bronze continental et la Méditerranée; Actes du 1er Colloque du Parc Arquéologique de Beynac, 48–59. Beynac, France. Martín, A. M. 1998. “Evidencias del comercio tartésico junto a puertos y vados de la cuenca del Tajo.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 71:37–52. Martín Bravo, A. M., and E. Galán. 1999. “Poblamiento y circulación metálica en la Beira interior y Extremadura durante el Bronce Final y la transición a la Edad del Hierro.” Estudios Pre-históricos 6:305–23.

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Martín de la Cruz, J. C. 1988. “Mykenische Keramik aus Bronzezeitlichen Siedlungsgeschichten von Montoro am Guadalquivir.” Madrider Mitteilungen 29:26–48. Mederos, A. 1999. “Ex occidente lux: El comercio micénico en el Mediterráneo Central y Occidental (1625–1100 a.C.).” Complutum 10:229–66. Mederos, A., and R. J. Harrison. 1996. “Patronazgo y clientela: Honor, guerra y festines en las relaciones sociales de dependencia del Bronce Final atlántico en la Península Ibérica.” Pyrenae 27:31–52. Meredith, C. 1998. “El factor número: El caso del estaño y el yacimiento de Logrosán (Cáceres).” In A. Rodríguez Díaz, ed., Extremadura protohistórica: Paleoambiente, economía y poblamiento, 73–96. Cáceres, Spain. Moreno Arrastio, F. J. 2000. “Tartessos, estelas, modelos pesimistas.” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 153–74. Madrid. Moscati, S. 1983. “Precolonizzazione greca e precolonizzazione fenicia.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 11:1–7. Needham, S. P. 1979. “Two recent British shield finds and their continental parallels.” Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 45:87–93. ———. 1996. “Chronology and periodisation in the British Bronze Age.” In K. Randsborg, ed., Absolute chronology: Archaeological Europe, 2500–500 BC, 121–40. Acta Archaeologica 67. Copenhagen. Osgood, R. 1998. Warfare in the Late Bronze Age of North Europe. BAR International Series 694. Oxford. Pavón, I. 1998. El tránsito del II al I Milenio a.C. en las cuencas medias de los ríos Tajo y Guadiana: La Edad del Bronce. Cáceres, Spain. Perea, A. 1995. “La metalurgia del oro en la fachada atlántica peninsular durante el Bronce Final: Interacciones tecnológicas.” In M. Ruíz-Gálvez, ed., Ritos de paso y puntos de paso: La Ría de Huelva en el mundo del Bronce Final europeo, 69–78. Complutum Extra 5. Madrid. ———. 2005. “Relaciones tecnológicas y de poder en la producción y consumo de oro durante la transición Bronce Final–Hierro en la fachada atlántica peninsular.” In S. Celestino and J. Jiménez, eds., El Periodo Orientalizante, 1077–88. Anejos del Archivo Español de Arqueología 35. Mérida, Spain. Rodríguez, A., and J. J. Enríquez. 2001. Extremadura tartésica: Arqueología de un proceso periférico. Barcelona. Rodríguez, A., and P. Ortíz. 1998. “La Mata de Campanario (Badajoz): Un nuevo ejemplo de arquitectura de prestigio en la Cuenca Media del Guadiana.” In A. Rodríguez, ed., Extremadura protohistórica: Paleoambiente, economía y poblamiento, 201–45. Cáceres, Spain. Ruíz de Arbulo, J. 1997. “Santuarios y comercio marítimo en la Península Ibérica durante la época arcaica.” In F. Gusi, ed., Espacios y lugares culturales del mundo ibérico, 517–35. Quaderns de Prehistoria i Arqueología de Castelló 18. Castellón, Spain.

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Ruiz-Gálvez, M. L. 1998. La Europa atlántica en la Edad del Bronce: Un viaje a las raíces de la Europa Occidental. Barcelona. ———. 2000. “La precolonización revisada: De los modelos del siglo XIX al concepto de interacción.” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 9–26. Madrid. Senna-Martínez, J. C. 1995. “No alvorecer da vida urbana: Bronze Final e presenças orientalizantes no centro de Portugal.” In Actas dos I Cursos Internacionais de Verao de Cascáis, 85–96. Cascáis, Portugal. Silva, C. A. F., C. T. Silva, and A. B. Lopes. 1986. “Deposito de fundidor do final da Idade do Bronze de castro da Señora da Guia (Baioes, San Pedro do Sul, Viseu).” Centro de Estudios Humanísticos, 1986, 45–63. Spindler, K., A. Castello, G. Zbyszewski, and O. V. Ferreira. 1974. “Le monument à coupole de 1’Age du Bronze de la Roça do Casal do Meio (Calhariz).” Comunicaçoes dos Serviços Geológicos do Portugal 57:91–154. Tabor, R. 1999. “South Cadbury: Milsoms Corner.” Current Archaeology 163:251–55. Vilaça, R. 1995. Aspectos do povoamento da Beira Interior (Centro e Sul) nos Finais da Idade do Bronze IPPAR. Trábalhos de Arqueología 9. Lisbon. ———. 1997. “Monte do Trigo.” In Aspectos da pré-história da Beira Interior: Catálogo da exposiçao, 10–15. Centro de Estudios Pré-históricos da Beira Alta. Lisbon. Wagner, C. G. 1995. “Metodología de la aculturación: Consideraciones sobre la forma de contacto cultural y sus consecuencias.” In A. Mangas and J. Alvar, eds., Homenaje a J. M. Blázquez, 445–63. Madrid. ———. 2000. “Comercio lejano, colonización e intercambio desigual en la expansión fenicia arcaica por el Mediterráneo.” In P. Fernández, C. Wagner, and F. López, eds., Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo: Actas del I Coloquio del Centro de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, Madrid, 1998, 79–92. Madrid.

part v

Interrogating Colonial Texts and Imagined Landscapes

[ten]

Tarshish and Tartessos Revisited: Textual Problems and Historical Implications Carolina López-Ruiz

Introduction Within the framework of a new discussion of Phoenician and Greek colonization in the Iberian Peninsula, the question of the possible identification of the protohistoric culture of Tartessos in the mentions of a legendary Tarshish in the Hebrew Bible is quite relevant. This chapter deals with the possible written testimony of Levantine and Iberian relations and the imprint that Tartessos might have left on Phoenician and Hebrew traditions of the first millennium BC.1 The correlation between the Tartessos of the Iberian Peninsula, mentioned by Greek authors, and the Tarshish of the Hebrew Bible was first suggested in a late lexicon.2 The dual enigma of the identification of Tarshish and Tartessos has since sparked the enthusiasm of both biblical scholars and archaeologists of the Iberian Peninsula’s protohistory. While for biblical scholars the issue posed some kind of riddle and it seemed interesting to elucidate the location or meaning of the mysterious Tarshish, mentioned in relation with Solomon’s trading enterprises, for the latter the stakes were higher. Should the identification be proven correct, the culture of Tartessos would leave the shadowy land of semimythical imagination where Herodotus and others had placed it and would gain a more prominent position in Mediterranean history. The appearance of Tartessos in the Hebrew Bible would both provide a written proof of the important connection of Tartessos with the Levant and reinforce the theory of an early date for the first arrival of the Phoenicians in the West. The great advances of archaeological research in the last decades, however, make it possible today, as this book shows, to discuss these aspects of peninsular protohistory independently of the literary questions and the old and long-debated problem posed by biblical Tarshish. On the other hand, it is precisely the new picture that has emerged from archaeological research, well represented in this book by the chapters of Celestino and Belén Deamos, that calls for a fresh analysis of the written sources. The relationship be-

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tween written testimonies and archaeological evidence in this case has practically suffered a complete inversion. That is, where it was once the written Phoenician-Hebrew sources that attested the prominence of Tarshish on the Phoenician horizon, it is now the archaeologically established importance of the region that we called Tartessos (based on the Greek sources) that explains why those Phoenician-Hebrew sources would have mentioned Tarshish/ Tartessos in the first place. While it is admittedly difficult to offer innovative solutions to this question, which still remains in the realm of the hypothetical and educated guesswork, I hope that a critical review and some fresh thoughts about the Tartessos-Tarshish problem will be of interest within the framework of this broader study of cultural exchange in the Iberian Peninsula. We are discussing, after all, the possible persistence in the memory of the Phoenician and Hebrew cultures of the close contact between their people and the Tartessian world and its preservation in West Semitic written sources.

Interpretations of the Word tarshish in the Hebrew Bible Rather than going in detail through the biblical passages in which Tarshish 3 appears (see list of passages at the end of this chapter), I will review the main uses the word seems to have in the different contexts in which it appears and the main interpretations of the term given by scholarship.4 It appears (1) as a place-name (numbers 1–11 in the list of passages); (2) in the expression “ships of Tarshish” (Hebrew ‘oniyyot tarshish), modifying “ships” (12–19); (3) as the name of a precious stone (20–25);5 and (4) as a personal name (26–28). As is generally acknowledged, all of these meanings can in one way or another be reduced to an original use as a place-name.6 For example, the expression “ships of tarshish,” most frequently associated with the name, points to the association with a place, even if the precise relationship between the two nouns (“ships” and tarshish, in what is called in Semitic languages a “construct chain”) is not explicit. Assuming, then, that tarshish denotes a place, we still cannot determine whether the phrase refers to ships coming from or going to Tarshish, made in Tarshish, typical of Tarshish, etc. A similar expression found in Egyptian sources of the Middle Kingdom (2160–1788 BC) is “ships of Byblos,” in this case in connection with a wellknown city-state, which in that early period already had a role in Egyptian trading activities.7 Other more intricate meanings for the word tarshish have been proposed besides as a place-name. For instance, in the Septuagint,8 Origen, the Aramaic Targum, and Jerome, this word has occasionally been interpreted and

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rendered as “sea.” 9 This interpretation, however, was clearly an attempt to clarify the frequent expression “ships of Tarshish.” 10 In the same sources there is no consistency, and they treat Tarshish as a place-name on other occasions.11 The versatile scholar Cyrus Gordon attempted a more refined version of the previous interpretation. Inspired by the Homeric expression en oinopi pontoi, referring to the “wine-red” or “wine-dark” sea, he argued in a short article that tarshish did stand for “sea” but with the metaphoric nuance of “red or dark like wine.” 12 Gordon based this etymology on the comparison with other Semitic words, namely Coptic troshresh, “red,” from a root trsh, and the Northwest Semitic word for “wine,” attested in Hebrew (tirosh), Phoenician (trsh), and Ugaritic (trt and mrt).13 Perhaps Gordon’s theory would have been more appealing if he had extended his proposed etymology to the other occurrences of the word. There are certainly universal examples of place-names and ethnic names carrying a color element in their etymology, often in connection to some physical or geographical characteristic. A good example might be the Phoenicians themselves, who, according to one possible etymology, received the name by which we know them from the Greeks from the word phonix, “red” or “purple dye,” derived in turn from the adjective phoinos, “red.” 14 In the Iberian Peninsula, too, we might recall that one of the richest mining areas in the south (precisely the ancient Tartessian area) is called Río Tinto (red river). An etymology that has won greater acceptance is that proposed in the first place by William Foxwell Albright, according to which tarshish could be a loanword from the Akkadian root rshsh “to melt” (in Phoenician and Hebrew formed with a prefix t-, *tarshishu). In principle the word would denote any place characterized by mining exploitation. Hence, the “ships of Tarshish” would be those bringing smelted metals from abroad, a “refinery fleet,” so to speak.15 Without entering into the philological problems of this etymology, the idea has gained certain favor, especially since it seems clear that the word tarshish appears in the Bible associated frequently with commerce and in particular with the metal trade attributed to King Solomon and his Phoenician neighbor King Hiram. It is also well known that Phoenician commerce and settlement in the western Mediterranean was driven to a great extent by access to and exploitation of metal resources. The practice of naming a place or a region after a product in which it is rich is not alien to ancient or modern peoples. Some examples are among the names given by the Spanish people who arrived in the New World, such as El Dorado (The Golden) or Río de la Plata (Silver River), inspired by the proverbial abundance of those precious metals found in the new lands.16

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These etymological inquiries have attempted to explain the original sense of the obscure word on a diachronic plane but have proven inconclusive and do not provide a solution for the problem of the identification of the place that received such a name. The only sure thing for the time being is that tarshish was originally a place-name that has survived “fossilized” in different expressions in the Hebrew Bible and in some rare epigraphic sources.

Where Was Tarshish? The biblical references to Tarshish are sufficiently vague as to have allowed for the most diverse theories as to its location. Proposed candidates range from the Red Sea to Ethiopia or India in the East to a place within the Mediterranean basin, be it Tartessos, Tarsus in Cilicia, Carthage, or just an indefinite place in the western Mediterranean. I will briefly discuss the main problems posed by these hypotheses before treating the case of Tartessos in more detail. Tarshish is mentioned in connection with the Red Sea in several biblical passages (1 Kings 22:48 [passage no. 19], Psalm 72:10 [no. 11], Isaiah 66:19 [no. 7], Jeremiah 10:9 [no. 8], and Ezekiel 38:13 [no. 4]). Some authors, such as U. Täckholm, J. M. Blázquez, or J. J. Arce, have insisted on locating Tarshish along the commercial route of the Red Sea or at the end of that route in India proper.17 On the one hand, perhaps too much of a “map mentality” has been used to approach these texts, with efforts to apply the cardinal points to interpret and “order” these lists of places, which might in fact be oriented according to very different criteria.18 On the other hand, Tarshish appears frequently associated with other well-known places in the Mediterranean, such as Tyre, Kittim (Cyprus), and Egypt (Isaiah 23:1–14, nos. 5, 6, 14, 15), or among the “sons of Yawan” (Ionia or Greece in general) in the so-called List of Nations in Genesis 10:4 (no. 26).19 Tarshish is also mentioned as one of the members of the tribe of Benjamin in 1 Chronicles 7:10 (no. 27) and in Esther 1:14 (no. 28) as one of the seven princes of Persia and Media.20 Those who locate Tarshish in India draw on letter 37 of Jerome (347– 420 AD), an interpretation of the word that can also be found later in the tenth-century AD Byzantine lexicon called Souda.21 First of all, it is possible that both sources were referring to what we call today Ethiopia and not India, an equation that can be seen in other ecclesiastical authors.22 Furthermore, Jerome’s testimony is nothing but confusing; it is clear that the name tarshish already posed a mystery for him and other ancient authors, who were forced to speculate just as we modern scholars have done and continue doing. Already in Hellenistic times, if not before, other authors thought that

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Tarshish was Carthage or more generally Africa. This is evident in the different renderings of the term in the Septuagint. For instance, in some passages of Ezekiel (nos. 3, 4, and 17) and of Isaiah (nos. 6, 14, and 15), Tarshish is rendered as “Carthage,” while in others (nos. 1, 8, and 18) as “Africa.” The latter, as E. Lipinski has suggested, could refer to the Roman province of Africa, corresponding in fact to the territory of Carthage.23 As we shall see later on, this might be an important clue to the location of Tarshish within the limits of the Punic Empire, which comprised the Iberian Peninsula.24 Even though some scholars have persisted in the identification with Carthage or Africa, it is generally discarded as a product of confusion within the Hellenistic sources, a point to which I will come back later.25 But perhaps the theory that has gained most popularity, besides the one about Tartessos, is the identification of Tarshish with Tarsus in Cilicia, after the testimony of the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus in the first century AD.26 The apparent phonetic similarity between the two names and the convenient situation of Tarsus in Asia Minor, almost within the limits of Syria, are the main reasons for this tempting hypothesis. The interpretation of Josephus, at a time when the name was already unknown (cf. Septuagint), was probably based on the transliteration of tarshish in the Septuagint as Tharseis (losing the Semitic sibilant /sh/) and the similar sound of the name of the contemporary city of Tarsus in the common language, Greek, i.e., Tarsos. The ignorance of both Josephus and the Septuagint of the original place behind biblical Tarshish is the more evident if we take into consideration that Josephus not only knew the Septuagint but probably used it as one of his sources, despite which he chose a different interpretation of the name, not satisfied with the solution of the Hellenistic translators (i.e., Africa, Carthage). Many scholars have insisted on and reelaborated this hypothesis again and again, but others do not trust the apparently arbitrary character of these sources. Still others discard the possibility, drawing on linguistic data: the ancient name of Tarsus in Cilicia appears spelled as Tarzu in Assyrian inscriptions and as Trz on an Aramaic coin of the city in the fourth century BC, all of which indicate the existence of a consonant z instead of sh in Semitic languages, although it also appears as tarsha in documents of the Hittite Empire (and in any event the vocalization would not seem to include an /i/).27 Last but not least, other scholars have defended the identification of Tarshish as a city of Etruria, relying upon a medieval lexicon and then on the appearance of the name in Egyptian sources from ca. 1200 BC among the “Sea Peoples.” These Tursha have frequently been identified with the Tyrsenoi (in Greek), the Etruscans. The Egyptian source, however, might be making a reference to a different people, perhaps the one that appears in the Hebrew

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Bible as tiras (tîras) or an otherwise unattested ethnic group. In any case, the phonetic similarity with Tarshish is quite remarkable.28

Epigraphic sources for Tarshish Do the epigraphic sources help us identify the location of Tarshish? An Assyrian inscription of King Esarhaddon (680–669 BC) reads: “All the kings from the middle of the sea, from Yadnana, Yaman and Tarsisi, prostrated themselves at my feet, and heavy tribute I laid on them.” 29 Yadnana is equal to Cyprus, and Yaman to Greece (cf. Hebrew Yawan) or possibly Greek Ionia. Again, scholars have tended to emphasize the sequence of the names, as if they were ordered from east to west, and hence Tarsisi, easily equivalent to Tarshish, should be located at least to the west of Greece or of Asia Minor.30 The other problem is whether the king is mentioning territories that really were under his dominion (which did not extend further west than Cyprus) or, on the contrary, he is exaggerating his power by saying something like “all the kings from Cyprus to the west lay at my feet.” 31 A fragmentary inscription on a ceramic support found in Málaga may mention the same Assyrian king, according to Lipinski’s reading. The finding apparently dates to the seventh century BC and would also mention the king of Ekron, a Philistine city that did fall within Esarhaddon’s realm.32 Was this monarch claiming control over the territories colonized by Tyre, a city that also was under his control at some point? For now we cannot draw many conclusions from a still doubtful reading, and this piece of the puzzle does not help much in the identification of Tarshish. A more important and long-discussed Phoenician inscription is the one found at Nora, in Sardinia, usually dated between the ninth and eighth centuries BC.33 There are two possible readings of the first preserved letters,34 depending on where we place word divisions. While some scholars divide them as bt-rsh-sh, vocalized bet-rosh-‘ash, that is, “house or temple of the headland (which . . . ?),” 35 more read them as b-trshsh, that is, “in/from Tarshish” (b∂-tarshish), and assume that this is a mention of the Tarshish of the Bible.36 This second reading presents fewer problems than the first one,37 and if correct, this would be the only testimony of Tarshish in the western Mediterranean.38 Further down in the inscription, a certain Milkuton is mentioned, who would have been driven out from Tarshish and found refuge in Nora.39 Some scholars have connected this inscription with a story in Pausanias, according to which the Iberians came to Sardinia following Aristeus, with Norax as a leader, and founded the city of Nora, the first one in the island.40 While this type of mythical material may not be the most reliable and must

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be used with caution, we should not underestimate the capacity of orally transmitted traditions to preserve in transformed versions certain notions about migrations and ancestry in prehistoric or protohistoric times. In any event, archaeological data have demonstrated undeniably close relationships between the island and Tartessian culture.41 Finally, there is still another epigraphic document relatively recently brought to light. It is a paleo-Hebrew text written on an ostracon, dated by its first publishers to the end of the seventh century BC, on paleographical grounds.42 The text alludes to the collection of funds for the renovation of the temple of Jerusalem, presumably under King Yoshiah ( Josiah), and reads as follows: “As Ashyhw [Yoshiah?] the king has ordered you to give into the hand of Zakariahou the silver of Tarshish [ksp trshsh] for the house of YHWH, 3 sh[ekels].” 43 The expression “silver of Tarshish,” on the one hand, reminds one of the biblical references to Tarshish, where the name is associated in particular with silver trade (cf. nos. 2, 8, 16, 18). On the other hand, we face the exact same problems here as we did with the interpretation of biblical Tarshish. It is difficult to say whether the reference is to the actual provenance of the silver or the phrase has turned into a sort of cliché for a standard measure or quality of silver.44 This document, in any event, must be added to the inscriptions of Esarhaddon and Nora as one of the very few extrabiblical testimonies of Tarshish. In fact, given the problematic reading of the Nora inscription, this paleo-Hebrew inscription becomes the most valid “external” document attesting the Tarshish of the Bible. Its date and the appearance of the expression “silver of Tarshish” bring the document remarkably close to the use of the word in the Hebrew Bible, if we compare it with the expression “ships of Tarshish” and keep in mind the frequent association of the name with metal trade. To sum up, the general picture the written sources about Tarshish offer us is of a place or area of the Mediterranean, perhaps in the west (cf. especially the Septuagint and the Nora stela), which was of great importance for Phoenician commerce around the eighth and seventh centuries BC. We can now proceed to consider the connection of all this with Tartessos and with Phoenician colonization in ancient Iberia.

Tartessos and Tarshish: The Names The list of authors who at some point or another have pointed to the identification of Phoenician-Hebrew Tarshish with Tartessos in the Iberian Peninsula is too long to be presented here. Even authors who have defended other of the above-mentioned theories have ended up giving some credit to the op-

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tion of Tartessos, at the risk of making confusing declarations. For instance, after defending the location of Tarshish in Tarsus of Cilicia, G. Garbini admits that the name has been applied by ancient sources to Tartessos in Spain by mistake.45 Albright, in turn, first argues that the Tarshish possibly mentioned in the Nora stele must be situated in Sardinia but then adds: “Biblical and Assyrian Tarshish may have been in Sardinia instead of in southern Spain, but the relatively early age of Gades and the tremendous mineral wealth of southern Spain in antiquity make this alternative improbable.” 46 What makes the identification of Tarshish with Tartessos so irresistible then? To begin with, as in the case of Tarsus, there is a striking similarity between the names tarshish and Tartessos. There are two basic ways of approaching the connection between these names. One is thinking that the word has been borrowed by the Greeks from the Phoenicians, i.e., that Tartessos is a Greek derivation from Tarshish. In this case, we could either think of a Semitic etymology of the word, for which several possibilities have already been mentioned, or consider that the Phoenician word adapted by the Greeks was originally foreign to the Phoenicians themselves. The analysis would be the following: the third consonant would have dissimilated from the fourth and assimilated to the first (Tarshish > Tartesh),47 and then the Greeks would have naturally added the Greek ending -os. As a result, but probably by mere chance, the word would have ended up looking like the familiar place-names in -es(s)os, characteristic of pre-Greek Aegean and Anatolian toponyms (cf. Lemessos in Cyprus, Knossos in Crete, etc.; in other dialects -assos and -issa, as in Parnassos, Larissa, Amphissa, or Anatolian names such as Halikarnassos, Sagalassos, etc).48 The other possibility is that both the Greek and Phoenician names are independent adaptations of an indigenous name, in which case the adaptation to fit into Greek schemes would have been the same (adding -essos or -os), only from an indigenous name directly. This is the opinion of Koch, Tsirkin, and others, and a possibility that I believe more interesting and probable, especially considering the existence of a very similar root, trt/trs, in the toponymic landscape of the south of the Iberian Peninsula.49 This root, perhaps the same one underlying the Semitic and Greek name, is the one present in some names transmitted by later authors such as Polybius, who mentions the toponym Tarseion and the ethnonym Thersitai 50 as he talks about the Roman-Carthaginian conflict. However, it has been recently and quite solidly argued that there are problems with the connection of Tarseion to the Iberian Peninsula.51 In any case, these names, or at least that of the Thersitai, can be related to another group of local names preserved in Roman sources, mainly the tribes of the Turdetani and Turduli, who inhabited the south of

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Roman Hispania.52 These names, as well as the Greek name Tartessos, would be Latin and Greek adaptations of local names with a root *trt-, with variants trd- and trs-. Experts in pre-Roman languages of this area believe that these languages did not distinguish between voiced and voiceless stops, which would explain the variations between /t/ and /d/ in the Greco-Latin sources.53 Unfortunately, today the knowledge of the pre-Roman languages, among them the Tartessic one, is too limited to allow more precision about the phonetic variants involved, but at least we can say that in Greek and Semitic languages the voiceless dental stop /t/ and the voiceless alveolar /s/ are very close phonetically, and a /t/ is susceptible to becoming an /s/ in certain contexts, especially in contact with a semivowel /i/ or /y/, a phenomenon called palatalization.54 The different consonants preserved in the Greek and Phoenician names (tart- versus tarsh-) could be the products of two different renderings of this indigenous root. These variants could also reflect different local formations of the same root, either of them providing a better explanation than the derivation of the Greek name from the Phoenician directly.

The Historical-Archaeological Context As Javier Gómez Espelosín shows in his contribution to this volume (chap. 11), Tartessos represented for the Greeks the rich and mysterious land at the end of the known world. A semimythical image of Tartessos has reached us, mostly incorporated into Greek epic tales about the heroic nostoi.55 There are, however, some few “historical” references of greater value, such as the story told by Herodotus about the rich merchant Kolaios of Samos and his accidental and fortunate visit to Tartessos, or about a proverbial Tartessian king, Argantonios, famous for his longevity and his friendship with a Phocean expedition.56 Then there are a few other notices of Tartessos in Ephorus and in Avienus’s Ora Maritima,57 from which not much accurate information can be extracted. Besides this scarce literary evidence, we can now rely on archaeological data to provide a more complete picture of Greek contacts with the Iberian Peninsula, as has been shown in the previous chapters (see especially chaps. 2 and 5, by Sanmartí and Rouillard respectively). The Greeks must have arrived in the Iberian Peninsula at least in the midseventh century BC, a century later, if not more, than their Near Eastern counterparts, who probably were responsible for the first information about the region received by the Greeks.58 I am not going to discuss either the dates for the first Phoenician colonial foundations in the West (Lixus, Gadir, Utica, and later Carthage)59 or

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the probable previous stage of “precolonization,” still a vague and problematic term, all of which is beyond the scope of this paper and has been treated in other chapters of this book.60 Let us only bear in mind, as a framework for this discussion, that the flourishing of Tartessos on the archaeological map of the Iberian Peninsula has been unanimously associated with the impact of the Phoenician presence from the eighth century BC onward, with a marked decline in the fifth century BC.61 It is also important to note the connection between the colonization movement toward the West and the situation of the Phoenicians themselves in their motherland. The Phoenician city-states, in particular Tyre (home city of the founders of Gadir and Carthage, among other colonies), suffered Assyrian oppression especially between the years 737 and 570 BC approximately. A massive movement to the West did not begin as such until this oppression impelled it, independently of other previous and less intensive contacts. It is perhaps this desperate situation that Isaiah expresses in his oracle against Tyre (Isaiah 23:1, 14, etc.): “Cross over to Tarshish, wail, inhabitants of the coast!” (no. 5),62 which brings us back to the biblical sources and the problem of Tarshish. These verses by Isaiah are usually dated to the seventh century BC; that is, the passage can be considered practically contemporary with the events it describes. It is tempting to compare it, for instance, with the inscription of Esarhaddon, who destroyed Sidon in 677 BC. It seems probable, then, that in this passage Tarshish symbolized the Phoenician colonies in the West as a refuge to escape to from Assyrian oppression. Other mentions of Tarshish in the Bible can also be dated to the end of the seventh century, such as the “list of nations” (Genesis 10:4, no. 26), 1 Chronicles 7:10 (no. 27), and Jeremiah 10:9 (no. 8). The ostracon mentioning “silver of Tarshish,” in turn, could be placed, as I pointed out above, in the same historical context of the seventh century BC, while the Nora inscription would belong perhaps to an even earlier stage of the Phoenician adventures in the West. As for the rest of the mentioned biblical passages, to complete a chronological view of these sources, they cover from the sixth to the fourth centuries BC (according to conventional dating), while the Septuagint, Josephus, Jerome, the Souda, and so on already enter into the Hellenistic and Roman periods and late antiquity.63 At this point I want to make one last observation about the biblical passages before returning to Tartessos. An argument frequently used by scholars to deny the identification of Tarshish with Tartessos is that Tarshish appears in several passages (nos. 1 and 18) connected with the ships of Solomon and Hiram (king of Tyre). This connection, as some argue (Aubet for instance), would situate Tarshish in the context of the tenth century BC, according

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to traditional chronology. This date would exclude Tartessos as an option, according to them, since at present a flourishing trade is not attested in the Iberian Peninsula at such an early date.64 Other scholars, confronting this chronological problem, have argued that these biblical sources connected to Solomon, Hiram, and the tenth century BC actually refer to a previous stage of “precolonization,” as has also been argued regarding some classical sources mentioning rather mythical contacts with the Iberian Peninsula. Leaving aside the discussion of the archaeological evidence for these early stages of colonization, most archaeologists show little awareness of the problems involved in the reading of biblical sources and their use for historical arguments. For instance, they do not question the historicity of the books of Chronicles and Kings in regard to the kingdom of Solomon and its international expansion. It is important to be aware that, in a similar way as in the classical tradition, the biblical sources might be projecting backward into the supposedly glorious days of Solomon and his “United Monarchy” of Israel a situation that would rather correspond to one or two centuries later. In fact, this is the view of a group of archaeologists led by Israel Finkelstein, who propose a lower date for the strata traditionally attributed to Solomon’s kingdom in the main Israelite sites, putting the splendor of the Solomonic period into question.65 Be that as it may, it is worth remembering that the biblical sources have been for long the subject of a complex literary criticism and historical scrutiny at least as strong as that imposed on the GrecoRoman sources. Furthermore, as I will explain below, I believe that despite the apparent contradictions of biblical and archaeological data at hand, it is not impossible to see considerable synchrony between the earliest references to Tarshish and the period in which Tartessos was an important part of the Phoenician universe. This synchrony, in turn, makes very possible (there not being strong arguments against this equivalence) that it is this region of the Mediterranean basin that is referenced in the Semitic sources. Finally, as can be seen in the other studies presented in this volume, the Syro-Palestinian/Phoenician presence in the Iberian Peninsula was principally linked to the exploitation of metals and other resources.66 For instance, products such as ivory and even timber (as Treumann shows in chap. 7) would have had a prominent role in east-west trade and the more permanent settling of colonists in the region,67 which propelled the transformation of the indigenous economy and social structures and offered a means of escape from the economic and political straits of the Phoenicians and other Levantine peoples.68 As Aubet has put it: “With the colonial foundations in Malta, western Sicily, southwest Sardinia, Ibiza, Carthage and Gadir, the Phoenicians built up a kind of ‘Phoenician triangle’ in the West that was practically

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impregnable . . . and would be the foundation of the future Carthaginian maritime strength.” 69 It is indeed between the sixth and fifth centuries BC that Carthage enters the scene, precisely coinciding with the decline of Tartessian culture, overtaking the Phoenicians from Tyre in the control of western Mediterranean trade and becoming the middlemen between the West and the powers of the Middle East.70

Putting the Pieces Together If we try to assemble all the pieces of this complex puzzle, a more or less coherent picture emerges, difficult as it may seem. The different interpretations of the name Tarshish as “the sea,” Carthage, Africa, Tarsus, or India in Hellenistic and later sources clearly indicate that by this time the referent for “Tarshish” did not exist anymore or was totally unknown in those circles. Then we have the more ancient biblical sources and the problem of the meaning and origin of this name in them. It seems reasonable to assume that the Tarshish of the Hebrew Bible goes back to a Phoenician and Hebrew tradition that was fairly quickly lost, giving place to the numerous reinterpretations of the word already present in the Bible. This is the more apparent if we try to answer the following simple question: If the oldest references to Tarshish in the Hebrew Bible referred to Carthage or to Tarsus or to any other well-known contemporary place, why did they not use the familiar names of these places? Carthage had existed since the eighth–seventh centuries BC, and Tarsus was by this time a very old city, whose first trading relationships with Phoenicia are attested already in the ninth century BC.71 However, they mention tarshish, not Carthage (with its Semitic name, Kart-khadasht, “new city”), nor Tarsus (which in Phoenician or Hebrew should have been *Tarzu or the like). Furthermore, the name Tarshish in the Hebrew Bible does not seem to denote a concrete city (as Carthage and Tarsus were) but a region or broad area, all of which matches more adequately with the profile of Tartessos in the historical-archaeological record. The history of the controversial term and its possible connection with Tartessos, according to my view of the evidence, could be reconstructed as follows. First, a small number of the biblical passages mentioned above can be considered contemporary with the period in which Tartessos was of great importance for the Phoenician trading activity in the West, that is, the eighth–seventh centuries BC. The remaining biblical references to Tarshish therefore seem to follow the earlier ones more or less blindly, evoking those past times in which the “ships of Tarshish” were a symbol of Phoenician maritime power and broad reach. Second, when such Phoenician control was

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weakened and Carthage took control of the strategic points of the western Mediterranean, a sort of barrier emerged between West and East (coinciding with the decline of Tartessian culture itself ). This new situation must have limited to a great extent the vision that the inhabitants of the Levant had acquired of this far-off part of the world. Tarshish thus would have become a fossilized term, as we can see in most of the sources, a mythic name for a place far away in time and space. The expression “ships of Tarshish” stops being productive, as we can observe in Jonah (nos. 9 and 10) and in Isaiah 66 (no. 7), which are usually dated to the fourth century BC.72 From this point onward, Carthage will be the symbol of commercial power in the whole area, as clearly reflected in the Septuagint and its rendering of tarshish as Carthage and Africa, which indicates only that the general notion of a westward orientation of the legendary place was maintained. At the same time, and more or less independently of this tradition, Greek writers gathered an image of the same culture, which they called Tartessos, and its more significant or appealing features. Finally, we must add to the picture the role of Roman domination in the Iberian Peninsula, which was most responsible for the disappearance of these indigenous cultures as such, but paradoxically also for the definitive preservation of some scattered Greek traditions and locally gathered data about the indigenous peoples. Trapped between the Greco-Roman and the Near Eastern world, the intellectuals of Hellenistic Alexandria would inevitably have lost the connection between the Phoenician tarshish and its referent in historical reality. By then, Hebrew Tarshish was but a riddle, and the Greco-Roman legends about Tartessos and its 120-year-old king Argantonios were too distant culturally for these intellectuals to connect them with the texts of the Hebrew Bible that they were handling. Can we then maintain that the indigenous orientalizing culture of the south of the Iberian Peninsula appeared in West Semitic written sources of the first half of the first millennium BC? The most honest answer might be that the problem seems doomed to remain open until new evidence comes to light, ideally epigraphic evidence in Tartessian territory mentioning Tarshish. Having said this, I still think that the interpretation of Semitic Tarshish as Tartessos is, as of today, quite a reliable hypothesis and in any case the most plausible explanation thus far offered for the Tarshish of the Bible. The textual evidence matches quite comfortably with the historical and archaeological framework of the ascent and descent of Tartessian civilization and its relationships with its Phoenician and later Greek and Carthaginian counterparts. As I pointed out at the beginning of this chapter, the hypothetical location

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of Tarshish in Tartessian territory is not crucial anymore for demonstrating the development of Iberian protohistoric cultures and their ties with the rest of the Mediterranean. In fact, the reverse argument might apply, namely, that the increasing amount of archaeological data from this period can help us understand the contact between indigenous peoples and the Phoenician newcomers and how this perception perhaps was molded into a very old written tradition. The region known to us as Tartessos, in any case, was of enough importance for the Phoenicians and their immediate neighbors that it should not be surprising if it found its place in their historical memory, becoming one of the most frequently mentioned places in the Hebrew Bible outside the Levant. In fact, it would be much more surprising if any other region had received such privileged treatment in the Semitic tradition while Tartessos (as Tarshish), a region of the Far West so intensively settled and exploited by Phoenicians, was completely forgotten without leaving any trace.

biblical re fe re nce s t o t a r sh ish 73 1.

2. 3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

2 Chronicles 9:21: For the king’s ships went to Tarshish with the servants of Hiram; once every three years the ships of Tarshish used to come bringing gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks. 2 Chronicles 20:36: He joined him in building ships to go to Tarshish, and they built the ships in Eziongeber. Ezekiel 27:12: Tarshish trafficked with you because of your great wealth of every kind; silver, iron, tin, and lead they exchanged for your wares. (Septuagint: Carthaginian merchants.) Ezekiel 38:13: Sheba and Dedan and the merchants of Tarshish and all its villages will say to you, “Have you come to seize spoil? Have you assembled your hosts to carry off plunder, to carry away silver and gold, to take away cattle and goods, to seize great spoil?” (Septuagint: Carthaginian merchants.) Isaiah 23:6: Pass over to Tarshish, wail, O inhabitants of the coast! (Septuagint: Carthage.) Isaiah 23:10: Overflow your land like the Nile, O daughter of Tarshish; there is no restraint any more. (Septuagint: . . . for ships no more come out of Carthage.) Isaiah 66:19: And I will set a sign among them. And from them I will send survivors to the nations, to Tarshish, Put, and Lud, who draw the bow, to Tubal and Javan, to the coastlands afar off, that have not heard my fame or seen my glory; and they shall declare my glory among the nations. Jeremiah 10:9: Beaten silver is brought from Tarshish, and gold from Uphaz. They are the work of the craftsman and of the hands of the goldsmith; their clothing is violet and purple; they are all the work of skilled men. Jonah 1:3: But Jonah rose to flee to Tarshish from the presence of the Lord. He went down to Joppa and found a ship going to Tarshish; so he paid the fare,

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10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

18.

19. 20. 21. 22.

23.

24.

25.

and went on board, to go with them to Tarshish, away from the presence of the Lord. Jonah 4:2: And he prayed to the Lord and said, “I pray thee, Lord, is not this what I said when I was yet in my country? That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that thou art a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and repentest of evil.” Psalm 72:10: May the kings of Tarshish and of the isles render him tribute, may the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts! Psalm 48:7: By the east wind thou didst shatter the ships of Tarshish. Isaiah 2:16: Against all the ships of Tarshish, and against all the beautiful craft. Isaiah 23:1: The oracle concerning Tyre. Wail, O ships of Tarshish, for Tyre is laid waste, without house or haven! From the land of Cyprus it is revealed to them. (Septuagint: Carthaginian ships.) Isaiah 23:14: Wail, O ships of Tarshish, for your stronghold is laid waste. (Septuagint: ships of Carthage.) Isaiah 60:9: For the coastlands shall wait for me, the ships of Tarshish first, to bring your sons from far, their silver and gold with them, for the name of the Lord your God, and for the Holy One of Israel, because he has glorified you. Ezekiel 27:25: The ships of Tarshish traveled for you with your merchandise. So you were filled and heavily laden in the heart of the seas. (Septuagint: Carthaginian merchants.) 1 Kings 10:22: For the king had a fleet of ships of Tarshish at sea with the fleet of Hiram. Once every three years the fleet of ships of Tarshish used to come bringing gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks. 1 Kings 22:48: Jehoshaphat made ships of Tarshish to go to Ophir for gold; but they did not go, for the ships were wrecked at Eziongeber. Exodus 28:20: [A]nd the fourth row a beryl [Hebrew tarshish, Septuagint beryllon], an onyx, and a jasper; they shall be set in gold filigree. Exodus 39:13: [A]nd the fourth row, a beryl [Hebrew tarshish, Septuagint beryllon], an onyx, and a jasper; they were enclosed in settings of gold filigree. Ezekiel 10:9: And I looked, and behold, there were four wheels beside the cherubim, one beside each cherub; and the appearance of the wheels was like sparkling chrysolite [Hebrew ‘even tarshish, Septuagint lythou anthrakos]. Ezekiel 1:16: As for the appearance of the wheels and their construction: their appearance was like the gleaming of a chrysolite [Hebrew tarshish, Septuagint tharsis]; and the four had the same likeness, their construction being as it were a wheel within a wheel. Daniel 10:6: His body was like beryl [Hebrew tarshish, Septuagint tharsis], his face like the appearance of lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and the sound of his words like the noise of a multitude. Song of Solomon 5:14: His arms are rounded gold, set with jewels [Hebrew tarshish, Septuagint tharsis]. His body is ivory work, encrusted with sapphires.

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26. Genesis 10:4: The sons of Javan: Elishah, Tarshish, Kittim, and Dodanim. 27. 1 Chronicles 7:10: The sons of Jediael: Bilhan. And the sons of Bilhan: Jeush, Benjamin, Ehud, Chenaanah, Zethan, Tarshish, and Ahishahar. 28. Esther 1:14: The men next to him being Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish, Meres, Marsena, and Memucan, the seven princes of Persia and Media, who saw the king’s face, and sat first in the kingdom. (Septuagint: name omitted.)

not e s 1.

2. 3.

4. 5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

This article is a revised English version of a paper delivered at the Congreso de Protohistoria del Mediterráneo Occidental: El Período Orientalizante, Mérida, May 5–8, 2003. I want to thank the audience there as well as at the conference in Chicago for their stimulating questions. I also thank Dennis Pardee for his help and suggestions in the early stages of my research on this topic as part of my gradate work in Chicago. See Lipinski 1992:441, s.v. “Tarshish”. A brief overview of the biblical appearances of tarshish is in Lipinski 2006. I use the transliteration tarshish (tarshîsh) for the Hebrew and Phoenician word in specific biblical expressions and epigraphic sources, but I capitalize Tarshish when referring to the hypothetical place-name alluded to in them. For a detailed study and references to the Greek and Latin sources that mention Tarshish and Tartessos, see Alvar and Blázquez 1993. We do not know to which specific stone it referred. The Greek translation of the Septuagint varies between beryllos (a green gem) and anthrax (of dark color, a ruby or the like), or simply transliterates tharsis. Josephus calls it “crisolite” (Bellum Iudaicum 5.234) or “topaz” (Antiquitates Judaicae 3.168), etc. The use of Tarshish as a proper name is not rare and might be explained by the invention of eponymous ancestors, whose names are often derived from the name of the place they are associated with. Finally, the possibility of homonymous words overlapping cannot be overruled. In Esther 1:14 (no. 28), for instance, Persian origin has been suggested for the word, in connection with the term trshus “eager, anxious” (Tyloch 1978:46n5). R. D. Barnett suggests they were ships made for the “route of Byblos” (Barnett 1958:223) and that they were developed after the Mycenaean “long ships” (Barnett 1958:225–27). G. F. Bass and S. Wachsmann (1997:34) mention parallels of modern ships named after a place or people with whom they had trade, like the “east Indiamen” or the “Boston packets.” The Septuagint is a translation of the Hebrew and Aramaic biblical texts into Greek, allegedly made by seventy-two Jewish wise men for the Library of Alexandria in the second century BC. The Septuagint translates “ships of Tarshish” as “ships of the sea” in Isaiah 2:16 (no. 13). We have a reference to the expression in Origen, in his commentary on the Septuagint translation of Ps. 47:8 (=48). He writes “Tharseis, thalasses,” the

Tarshish and Tartessos Revisited • 271

10.

11.

12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

meaning of the gloss being too vague, probably due to a corruption of the text at this particular point. He then goes on to explain that Tharseis is also said to be a region of Aethiopia and that Tarsus (Cilicia, Origen Tharsos) is the same as the Tharsis (Origen Tharseis) mentioned in the passage of Jonah (Origen 1982, col. 1440B). The Aramaic Targum renders “sea” in Isaiah (nos. 5, 6, 7, 13, 14, 15, 16), Ezekiel (3, 4, 17), Jonah (9, 10), etc. Josephus identifies Tarshish with Tarsos in Cilicia (Ant. 1.6.1; 9.10.2), but in Ant. 8.7.2 he says it refers to “the so-called Tarsic sea” (tarsiki). Jerome believed that tarshish was in fact the Hebrew word for “sea” and that yam (a common Hebrew word) was an Aramaic loan word in Esaiam 1 (2.16; Corpus Christi 73.37–38), etc. See Bunnens 1979:336. Bunnens 1979:345. The Septuagint translates Tarshish as “Carthage” in Isaiah (nos. 5, 6, 14, 15) and Ezekiel (nos. 3, 4,17); the Targum maintains Tarshish or translates as “Africa” (nos. 8, 18, 19, 1), while Jerome suggests a location in India in his letter 37.1–2 but transcribes Tharsis in other places and in Ezekiel 27:12 (no. 3) translates “Carthaginenses negotiatores,” probably under influence of the Septuagint. See Bunnens 1979:337. In several instances this vague translation simply does not match (no. 3, 4, 7, 11). At the same time, it could be argued that other vague renderings could be applied to the term and a similar result would be obtained. Hoenig (1979:181–82) defends the phonetic equivalence of Hebrew tarshish and Greek thalassa (sea). If there were any truth in this, the Hebrew word would have necessarily acquired some different meaning from simply “sea,” in order for another word to exist side by side with it in Hebrew for “sea,” i.e., yam. For instance, Iliad 23.316. The comparison is not exact, since in Homer the adjective is an epithet, not a name that replaces it. See Gordon 1978:51–52. Maybe because of their hair or skin, or the connection with purple-dye production? See Chantraine 1990:1217–19. This could be a popular etymology. We also are unaware thus far of any possible Semitic etymology for this Greek name. It has also been pointed out the possibility that the Greeks took the name for the Phoenicians from the Egyptian name “Fenkhu.” See Tsirkin 2001 and references there. Cf. Akkadian rashashu “to melt.” See Albright 1941:21–22. This type of morphological construction seems to be late in biblical Hebrew and usually taken from Aramaic loans, but no concrete Aramaic parallel is known for this word (Gordon 1978:52). See discussion in Solá-Solé 1957:33–35. The same root is attested in Hebrew as “to break, shatter,” a possibility that Albright does not consider. W. Gesenius (1853:1316b) was the first one to associate Tarshish with the Semitic root rshsh, which he took to make reference to a city in Spain “shattered” by the Phoenician colonists. The inverse mechanism is also frequent, i.e., naming a product after the place or the people who produce it. Cf. the case of the Phoenicians, after whom the Greeks named the palm tree, phoenix, their writing system, phoinikeia grammata, and the scribes, poinikastas. Chantraine 1990:1218–19.

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17. Täckholm 1965:143–66; Blázquez 1968:18–21, 245–46; Arce 1974 and 1977. This solution, however, is not free from problems; as Jaime Alvar has pointed out, there is no real way to equate Tarshish with the places in the Red Sea area that appear in them (see Alvar 1982:219). 18. For instance, in Psalm 72 (no. 11), where Tarshish appears together with Sheba and Seba (located in the Red Sea), Tarshish could be understood either to belong to the same area as the other two places or, on the contrary, to be at the other end of the world, if subject to the frequent poetic resource of parallelism in West Semitic literature, which can function either to elaborate on the same idea or to emphasize the contrary. The same ambiguity applies to Ezekiel 38 (no. 4) and other passages (Alvar 1982:216). About Isaiah 66 (no. 7), see Alvar 1982:223. 19. Uphaz ( Jeremiah 10, no. 8) is an unknown place, identified by some as “Ophir” (Brown, Driver, and Briggs 1907), so it does not provide any help regarding the location of Tarshish. 20. In this case it is possible that there is overlapping with a Persian homonym. In the case of 2 Chronicles, for instance, it is clear that the author does not understand the word. As in the other cases where the name appears in this book (nos. 1 and 2), the chronicler seems to be simply “breaking out” the construct chain of the expression “ships of Tarshish” in order to give some sense to it. See Alvar 1982:224. 21. In the Souda, see “Tharsis,” p. 685, no. 54, and “Tharsieis,” p. 685, no. 56. 22. Arce 1977:129–30. G. Bunnens (1979:335–37) also evaluates the testimony of Jerome as utterly confusing. 23. Lipinski 1988:61–62. 24. See Elat 1982:61. D. W. Baker (1992:333) adds that the existence of a “Carthage” (Carthago Nova) in the southeast of the Iberian Peninsula might have led to some confusion and reinforced the identification of Tarshish with this city. 25. See references in Lipinski 1988:62 and Baker 1992:333. Other authors have maintained that Tarshish designated the western Mediterranean in general: Alvar 1982:230; Bunnens 1979:344. 26. Ant. 1.127, 8.181, 9.208; Bell. 7.238. His testimony has been clearly overestimated. G. Garbini (1965:180), for instance, states: “La tarda notizia di Flavio Giuseppe . . . è tanto più digna di nota in quanto conserva la testimonianza del significato originario de Tarsis in un periodo assai posteriore alla diffusione dell’uso del termine per indicare luoghi e cose diverse da Tarso.” See also acceptance of Josephus’s interpretation by R. D. Barnett (1958:226) and more recently A. Padilla Monge (1994). On tarshish as rendering Assyrian Tarsisi and denoting the area of Cilicia, see Lemaire 2000 and Schmitz forthcoming. 27. Lipinski 1992:440 (s.v. “Tarse”). See Elat 1982:57 and references there. 28. Genesis 10:2; 1 Chronicles 1:5. See Bunnens 1979:334 and references there. 29. Following Borger 1956:86. Editio princeps by Campbell Thompson 1931. See Pritchard 1955:290a. 30. See Elat 1982:58 and Bunnens 1979:314 references there. 31. The former idea has been argued by Garbini (1965:17) in order to support the

Tarshish and Tartessos Revisited • 273

32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

39. 40. 41.

42.

43. 44.

identification Tarshish-Tarsus—the latter by those who think Tarshish was in the West. See also Bordreuil, Israel, and Pardee 1996:54. Lipinski’s reading is as follows: [qrn.’bd.’sh]. See Lipinski 1988:86–88. As he also notes, the name Assurbanipal (668–627 BC) could also be referred to. In either case there is a problem with the spelling of the names with sh instead of s, as they are usually written in Hebrew. M. G. Amadasi Guzzo and P. G. Guzzo (1986) date it between 830 and 730 BC. See bibliography and commentary in Gibson 1982:25–28 and discussions in Bunnens 1979:30–41 and Cross 1986. A recent synthesis of the research on this stele to the moment is available in Castillo 2003, who concludes that it does not represent a useful source for the location of biblical Tarshish in the West. W. F. Albright (1941) insisted that it was complete, while Cross (1972, 1986), for instance, believes the two first lines are missing. A. Dupont-Sommer (1948:15) and M. Delcor (1968:351) translate “Temple du Cap de Nogar.” Cf. Donner and Röllig 1964n46, who also prefer this word division. Albright 1941:19; Peckham 1972:459; Cross 1972:15, 1986:118–20. See Gibson 1982:27. The main problems are the writing of rsh for r’sh and of sh for ‘sh (with missing aleph and ‘ayin), not impossible but very rare at this early date, and the proposed sense of “of” for the relative particle ‘sh (Dupont-Sommer 1948 and Delcor 1968), otherwise not attested in Phoenician. Albright (1941:21–22) and later his disciple Cross (1972:18) have insisted that Tarshish would have been in Sardinia itself, being an important mining settlement, in consonance with their theory regarding the etymology of tarshish (see above). Following Peckham 1972:459–60. Paus. 10.17.5. See Elat 1982:60. For a study of the heroic legends associated with Sardinia, see Bernardini 2002. See Santos Velasco 1997:161–62. The most convenient naval routes from Tyre to the Iberian coasts went through Sardinia and Ibiza, with a return via Africa. See Aubet 1993:165. According to its editors, P. Bordreuil, F. Israel, and D. Pardee (1996:57–60); see also Bordreuil, Israel and Pardee 1998. Epigraphist Ada Yardeni has confirmed this date (cited by Shanks 1997:31). Cross and McCarter (cited by Shanks 1997:31) think it could go back to the second half of the ninth century BC. The ostracon belongs to the private collection of Shlomo Moussaieff, which unfortunately makes its original provenance and date the more uncertain and has cast some doubt on its authenticity. See discussion on Ephal and Naveh 1998. Following Bordreuil, Israel, and Pardee 1996. See also Shanks 1997. Bordreuil, Israel, and Pardee 1996:60. Cf. the ostracon found in Tel-Qasile (Tel Aviv), from the eighth century BC, which reads: “Gold of Ophir for Beit-Horon [a temple?], 30 shekels.” See Ahituv 1992:100–102. Note the similarity between the two ostraca and the biblical sources (see nos. 2 and 19). The Tel-Qasile ostracon uses the Phoenician, not the Judean, numeral system. For a coastal system (Philis-

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45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50. 51.

52.

53.

54.

55.

tine in origin) this is not surprising (Ahituv 1992:102), and it fits well within the general picture of Tarshish and its famous ships. Garbini 1965:18–19. Albright 1941:21. See Gras, Rouillard, and Teixidor 1989:122 and references there. A similar process of dissimilation-assimilation occurred in the adaptation of the Punic name for Carthage (Kartkhadasht) to the Greek language (Albright 1941:21n29). See also Cintas 1966:27. For the Anatolian (Indoeuropean) origin of these pre-Greek endings see Finkelberg 2005, chap. 3. See Koch 1984:5. Polybius 3.24.2.4 and 3.33.9. See Tsirkin 1986b:182. Moret 2002. Tarseion is mentioned together with Mastia but probably represents an independent name, despite the fact that tradition has situated it in relation to Tartessos and Tarshish. P. Moret reasonably argues that it probably referred to a location in North Africa or Sardinia but in any case not to the Iberian Peninsula. Strabo 3.1.6. Cf. Artemidorus Turtytani (Stephanos of Byzantion, Ethnika, s.v. Tourdetania). See Tsirkin 1986b:182, and in general Pérez-Rojas 1969, but especially the work of E. Ferrer Albelda and F. J. García Fernández (2002) about the ethnic unity of the groups known as Tartesic, Turdetani, and Turduli. The GrecoRoman concept of Turdetania was more artificial, as it brought together peoples with different ethnic components, such as the Bastuli, Celtic, and Turdetani. Üntermann 2003. See also Cunchillos 2000:224; in this article Cunchillos offers a new interpretation of the etymology of the Roman name for the Iberian Peninsula, i.e., Hispania, as derived from the Northwest Semitic word meaning “island/coast” (‘i) and “north” (spn), therefore “northern island, island to the north,” or else “island of the metals” (root spy/h, “beat metals,” etc.). Both senses would fit well with geographic perceptions that the Iberian Peninsula might have triggered for the Phoenicians. Could the different vocalization explain the different forms Tartessos in Greek and tarshish or the like in Phoenician? (Again, we are relying on Hebrew, even though vocalization in the Hebrew Bible may or may not have been identical to the Phoenician original, and the Phoenician testimonies of an epigraphic nature present no vocalization.) See Gómez Espalosín’s chapter in this book (chap. 11). For a study on the image of Hispania in classical sources, see Gómez Espelosín, Pérez Lagarcha, and Vallejo Girvés 1995. A complete list of the Greco-Latin sources and a large bibliography for Tartessos is in Alvar and Blázquez 1993. See also Wagner 1986:213. The Greek and Latin references are numerous, but only the more ancient are of interest here: there are sporadic allusions to Tartessos by archaic lyric poets, such as Stesichorus, who mentions the wealth of the Tartessos River (Strabo 3.2.12); Anacreon, who praises the longevity of King Argantonius (cf. Strabo 3.2.15); or Hecateus, who mentions the Tartessic city of Elibyrge (Stephanos of Byzantion,

Tarshish and Tartessos Revisited • 275

56. 57.

58.

59.

60.

61.

62.

s.v. Elibyrge). See discussion on the historicity of the Greek sources in García Iglesias 1979. A recent study of the “invention” of the Iberian Peninsula’s geography in classical sources is in Cruz Andreotti, Le Roux, and Moret 2006 and 2007. Herodotos 4.152.1–4 and Herodotos 1.163, 165, respectively. Latin work of the fourth century BC. Probably based on a Punic Periplous of the sixth century BC (with some Latin interpolations of the first century BC), it describes the coasts from Tartessos to Marseille, including information from Tartessic travelers about the Atlantic coast up to Ireland and Great Britain. See Murphy 1977 for an English-Latin bilingual edition. Wagner 1986:227–28; Tsirkin 1986a:163–64. See a recent collection of classical sources about the Phoenicians in White 2002. This author seems to accept there that Tarshish makes reference to the far West and the Iberian coasts (White 2002:87). Veleius Peterculus (1.2.3; 1.8.4), Strabo (1.3.2), Pliny (Natural History 19.216), and Pomponius Mela (3.6.46) coincide in a date for the foundation of Gadir ca. 1110 or 1104 BC, and of Utica and Lixus around the same period. See Aubet 1993:136. So far the archaeological data have not offered evidence of such an early date in these places, either in Carthage (traditional foundation date 814 BC) or in Sardinia (Aubet 1993:136–37, 181), but this picture is changing as archaeological data increase. Very early materials have been excavated in Portugal, for instance (see Arruda’s contribution to this book, chap. 4) or nearby Cádiz in El Castillo de Doña Blanca. See Ruiz Mata 1989. For previous discussions on the process of “precolonization,” see, for instance, Aubet 1993:172–84; Blázquez 1968:21–57; and Bendala 1997. A sequence of events of this type would seem to be described by Diodorus (5.35.1–5 and 5.20.1–2). See discussion and references in S. Celestino’s contribution to this book (chap. 9). Literature on the archaeology of Tartessos has increased enormously in the last decades. A synthesis until 1991 is in Bendala 1991. For bibliography before 1968, see Aubet 1969. See also Pellicer 1993 for research between 1968 and 1993. The new tendency is to approach Tartessos as an emporion (trading post) composed of a great number of protourban settlements with an economic focus on maritime trade supported by agrarian and metallurgical exploitation of the hinterland (Díaz del Olmo 1989:14). Classical sources situated the nucleus of this civilization in the southwest of the Peninsula, even in Cádiz (Gadir) itself (Avienus, Pliny, and others), in the mouth of the river of the same name (later called Baetis by the Romans and today called Guadalquivir, from its Arab name) or on an island between its main branches. See Blázquez 1968:226–31. P. Cintas (1966:34), on the contrary, believes its center would have been in the east coast, where Polybius possibly situated Mastia-Tarseion (see above n51) and where Carthago Nova (New Carthage) was later founded. For more information, see Celestino’s and Belén Deamos’s works in this volume (chaps. 9 and 8) and the bibliography they cite. Elat 1982:67–69. Tsirkin (1986b:184–85) goes too far in the estimation of Tartes-

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63. 64. 65. 66.

67.

68.

69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

sian influence, as he argues that Tarshish is set in parallel to Assyria in the “oracle against Tyre” (Isaiah 23:10, no. 6), as a threat to the Phoenician cities and that this is an allusion to Tartessian power. It seems more logical that it represents the escape from and solution for Tyre’s oppression. For the dating of the biblical mentions, see Lipinski 1988:63–65. See for instance Aubet 1993:177 and, more recently, Padilla Monge 1994:65. See Finkelstein 1996 and Finkelstein and Silberman 2001. Aubet 1993:60, 222, etc. The main areas rich in metals in this period were Sinai and Cyprus (copper), Etruria and the island of Elba (tin, copper, and iron), Anatolia (silver, copper, tin, iron, and lead), and Tartessos (silver, gold, and iron). Bibliography on metals exploitation is very abundant. For an overview, see Fernández Jurado 1995 and references there. A study of Phoenician gold in the Western Mediterranean shows that Cádiz, Tharros (Sardinia), and Carthage were in permanent contact, with a fluid interchange of artisans. See Perea Caveda 1997:139 and Ruiz Mata 1989:218. Recent findings in Syro-Palestine confirm this picture. In the eleventh century BC level at Tel-Dor (north coast of Israel), silver has been found with the same composition (high in gold) of silver from the Río Tinto ores. See Stern 2001:25. Silver pieces apparently proceeding from these ores of Huelva have in fact been found among other objects from the eighth century BC in Schem (Samaria, Israel; Stos-Gale 2001). Lipinski (1988:65–74) has argued that all the products mentioned in 1 Kings 10:22 (no. 18) could be brought from the Iberian Peninsula, including the ivory, which was extracted from elephants from the Magreb (where the species survived until the Punic Wars). Ivories of Hispano-Phoenician manufacture dated to the seventh century BC have been found in Carthage and the island of Samos off the coast of Asia Minor (Lipinski 1988:70–73). Ruiz Rodríguez 1997:178–81. Consolidation of the aristocratic system in the seventh century BC was due to these fruitful relationships. At the end of the sixth century BC, tensions between these elites and the colonizers increased, contributing to the collapse of the Tartessian culture at the end of the fifth century BC. Aubet 1993:166. On maritime routes, see Díes Cusí 1994. Tsirkin 1986b:182. Lipinski 1992:440 (s.v. “Tarse.”). Ibid., 64. Translations are those of the Revised Standard Version. I deemed it not necessary to provide my own translations, since they would not significantly alter the meaning of the passages in relation to our topic.

sour ce s Ahituv, S. 1992. Handbook of ancient Hebrew inscriptions [in Hebrew]. Jerusalem. Albright, W. F. 1941. “New light on the early history of Phoenician colonization.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 83:14–22.

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Alvar, J. 1982. “Aportaciones al estudio del Tarshish bíblico.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 10:211–30. Alvar, J., and J. M. Blázquez. 1993. Los enigmas de Tarteso. Madrid. Amadasi Guzzo, M. G., and P. G. Guzzo. 1986. “Di Nora, di Eracle Gaditano e della più antica navigazione fenicia.” Aula Orientalis 4:58–71. Arce, J. J. 1974. “La Epístola 37 de S. Jerónimo y el problema de Tartessos igual a Tarshish bíblica.” Latomus 33:943–47. ———. 1977. “Tarsis-India-Aethiopia: A propósito de Hierom.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 5:127–30. Aubet, M. E. 1969. “Selección de bibliografía moderna para el análisis de los problemas de Tartessos.” In Tartessos y sus problemas: V Symposium Internacional de Prehistoria Peninsular (Jerez de la Frontera, septiembre 1968), 407–17. Barcelona. ———. 1993. The Phoenicians and the West: Politics, colonies, and trade. Cambridge. Baker, D. W. 1992. “Tarshish (Place).” In D. N. Freedman, ed., The Anchor Bible dictionary, 6:331–33. New York. Barnett, R. D. 1958. “Early shipping in the Near East.” Antiquity 32:220–30. Bass, G. F., and S. Wachsmann. 1997. “Ships and boats.” In E. M. Meyers, ed., The Oxford encyclopaedia of archaeology in the Near East, 5:33–34. Oxford. Bendala, M. 1991. “Tartessos.” Boletín de la Asociación Española de Amigos de la Arqueología 30–31:99–110. ———. 1997. “A thorny problem: Was there contact between the peoples of the sea and Tartessos?” In M. Balmuth, A. Gilman, and L. Prados-Torreira, eds., Encounters and transformations: The archaeology of Iberia in transition, 89–94. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 7. Sheffield, UK. Bernardini, P. 2002. “Gli eroi e le fonti.” Soprointendenza Archeologica per le Provincie di Cagliari e Oristano, Quaderni 19:209–33. Blázquez, J. M. 1968. Tartessos y los orígenes de la colonización fenicia en Occidente. 2nd ed. Salamanca, Spain. Bordreuil, P., F. Israel, and D. Pardee. 1996. “Deux óstraca paléo-hébreux de la collection Sh. Moussaeiff.” Semitica 46:49–76, pl. 7–8. ———. 1998. “King’s command and widow’s plea: Two new Hebrew ostraca of the biblical period.” Near Eastern Archaeology 61:3–7. Borger, R. von. 1956. Die Inschriften Asarhaddons, Königs von Assyrien. Archiv für Orientforschung, Beiheft 9. Osnabrück, Germany. Brown, F., S. R. Driver, and C. A. Briggs. 1907. A Hebrew and English lexicon of the Old Testament. Oxford. Bunnens, G. 1979. L’expansion phenicienne en Méditerranée: Essai d’interpretation fondé sur une analyse des traditions littéraires. Brussels. Campbell Thomson, R. 1931. The prisms of Esarhaddon and of Ashurbanipal. London. Castillo, A. del. 2003. “Tarsis en la estela de Nora: ¿Un topónimo de Occidente?” Sefarad 63:3–32. Chantraine, P. 1990. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque: Histoire des mots. Paris. Cintas, P. 1966. “Tarsis-Tartessos-Gadès.” Semitica 16:1–37.

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Cross, F. M. 1972. “An interpretation of the Nora Stone.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 208:13–19. ———. 1986. “Phoenicians in the West: The early epigraphic evidence.” In M. Balmuth, ed., Studies in Sardinian archaeology, vol. 2, Sardinia in the Mediterranean, 117–30. Ann Arbor, MI. Cruz Andreotti, G., P. Le Roux, and P. Moret, eds. 2006. La invención de una geografía de la Península Ibérica, vol. 1, La época republicana (Actas del Coloquio Internacional celebrado en la Casa de Velázquez de Madrid entre el 3 y el 4 de marzo de 2005). Málaga, Spain. ———. 2007. La invención de una geografía de la Península Ibérica, vol. 2, La época imperial (Actas del Coloquio Internacional celebrado en la Casa de Velázquez de Madrid entre el 3 y el 4 de abril de 2006). Málaga, Spain. Cunchillos, J. L. 2000. “Nueva etimología de la palabra Hispania.” In M. E. Aubet and M. Barthélémy, eds., Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos, 2– 6 octubre 1995, 1:217–25. 4 vols. Cádiz, Spain. Delcor, M. 1968. “Réflexions sur l’inscription phénicienne de Nora en Sardaigne.” Syria 45:323–52. Díaz del Olmo, F. 1989. “Paleografía tartésica.” In M. E. Aubet et al., Tartessos: Arqueología protohistórica del Bajo Guadalquivir, 13–23. Barcelona. Díes Cusí, E. 1994. “Aspectos técnicos de las rutas comerciales fenicias en el Mediterráneo Occidental (s. IX–VII a.C.).” Archivo de Prehistoria Levantina 21:311–36. Donner, H., and W. Röllig. 1964. Kanaanäische und Aramäische Inschriften. 3 vols. Wiesbaden, Germany. Dupont-Sommer, A. 1948. “Nouvelle lecture d’une inscription phénicienne archaïque de Nora in Sardaigne.” In Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, 12–22. Paris. Elat, M. 1982. “Tarshish and the problem of the Phoenician colonization in the Western Mediterranean.” Orientalia Lovaniensia Perodica 13:55–69. Ephal, I., and J. Naveh. 1998. “Remarks on the recently published Moussaieff ostraca.” Israel Exploration Journal 48:269–73. Fernández Jurado, J. 1995. “Economía metalúrgica de Tartessos.” In Tartessos 25 años después, 1968–1993: Actas del Congreso Conmemorativo del V Symposium Internacional de Prehistoria Peninsular Tartessos 25 años después, 1968–1993, 411–16. Jerez, Spain. Ferrer Albelda, E., and F. J. García Fernández. 2002. “Turdetania y turdetanos: Contribución a una problemática historiográfica y arqueológica.” Mainake 24:133–51. Finkelberg, M. 2005. Greeks and pre-Greeks: Aegean prehistory and Greek heroic tradition. Cambridge. Finkelstein, I. 1996. “The archaeology of the United Monarchy: An alternative view.” Levant 28:177–87. Finkelstein, I., and N. A. Silberman. 2001. The Bible unearthed: Archaeology’s new vision of ancient Israel and the origins of its sacred texts. New York. Garbini, G. 1965. “Tarsis e Gen. 10, 4.” Bibbia e Oriente 7:13–19.

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García Iglesias, L. 1979. “La Península Ibérica y las tradiciones griegas de tipo mítico.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 52:131–40. Gesenius, W. 1853. Thesaurus Philologicus Criticus Linguae Hebraeae et Chaldaeae Veteris Testamenti. 2nd ed. Leipzig. Gibson, J. C. L. 1982. Textbook of Syrian Semitic inscriptions, vol. 3, Phoenician inscriptions. Oxford. Gómez Espelosín, F. J., A. Pérez Lagarcha, and M. Vallejo Girvés. 1995. La imagen de España en la antigüedad clásica. Madrid. Gordon, C. M. 1978. “The wine-dark sea.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 37:51–52. Gras, M., P. Rouillard, and J. Teixidor. 1989. L’univers phénicien. Paris. Hoenig, S. B. 1979. “Tarshish.” Jewish Quarterly Review 69:181–82. Koch, M. 1984. Tarshish und Hispanien. Berlin. Lemaire, A. 2000. “Tarshish-Tarsisi: Problème de topographie historique biblique et assyrienne.” In G. Galil and M. Weinfeld, eds., Studies in historical geography and biblical historiography presented to Zacharia Kallai. Vetus Testamentum Suppl. 81. Leiden. Lipinski, E. 1988. “Carthage et Tarshish.” Bibliotheca Orientalis 45:60–81. ———, ed. 1992. Dictionnaire de la civilisation phénicienne et punique. Paris. ———. 2006. “Tarshish.” In G. J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren, and H.-J. Fabry, eds., Theological dictionary of the Old Testament, 15:790–93. Grand Rapids, MI. Moret, P. 2002. “Mastia Tarseion y el problema geográfico del segundo tratado entre Cartago y Roma.” Mainake 24:257–76. Murphy, J. P., ed. and trans. 1977. Rufus Festus Avienus, Ora Maritima: A Description of the Seacoast from Brittany to Marseilles [Massilia]. Chciago.Origen. 1982. Patrologia Graeca, vol. 12, Origen. Edited by J.-P. Migne. Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graecae. Paris. Padilla Monge, A. 1994. “Consideraciones sobre el Tarsis bíblico.” Aula Orientalis 12:51–71. Peckam, B. 1972. “The Nora inscription.” Orientalia n.s. 41:459–68. Pellicer Catalán, M. 1993. “Balance de 25 años de investigación sobre Tartessos (1968– 1993).” In Tartessos 25 años después, 1968–1993: Actas del Congreso Conmemorativo del V Symposium Internacional de Prehistoria Peninsular Tartessos 25 años después, 1968–1993, 41–71. Jerez, Spain. Perea Caveda, A. 1997. “Phoenician gold in the western Mediterranean: Cádiz, Tharros, and Carthage.” In M. Balmuth, A. Gilman, and L. Prados-Torreira, eds., Encounters and transformations: The archaeology of Iberia in transition, 135–40. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 7. Sheffield, UK. Pérez Rojas, M. 1969. “El nombre de Tartessos.” In Tartessos y sus problemas: V Symposium Internacional de Prehistoria Peninsular (Jerez de la Frontera, septiembre 1968), 69–78. Barcelona. Pritchard, J. B. 1955. Ancient Near Eastern texts. Princeton, NJ. Purcell, N. 1990. “The creation of provincial landscape: The Roman impact on Cisalpine Gaul.” In T. Blagg and M. Millet, eds., The early Roman Empire in the West, 7–29. Oxford.

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Ruiz Mata, D. 1989. “Huelva: Un foco temprano de actividad metalúrgica durante el Bronze Final.” In M. E. Aubet et al., Tartessos: Arqueología protohistórica del Bajo Guadalquivir, 209–43. Barcelona. Ruiz Rodríguez, A. 1997. “The Iron Age Iberian peoples of the Upper Guadalquivir Valley.” In M. Díaz-Andreu and S. Keay, eds., The archaeology of Iberia: The dynamics of change, 175–91. London. Santos Velasco, J. A. 1997. “The Iberians in Sardinia: A review and update.” In M. Balmuth, A. Gilman, A., and L. Prados-Torreira, eds., Encounters and transformations: The archaeology of Iberia in transition, 161–66. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 7. Sheffield, UK. Schmitz, Ph. C. Forthcoming. “An orthographic analysis of Biblical Hebrew tarshîsh ‘Tarshish’ and Phoenician trshsh.” Schulten, A. 1945. Tartessos. Barcelona. Shanks, H. 1997. “Three shekels for the Lord: Ancient inscription records gift to Solomon’s temple.” Biblical Archaeology Review 23(6):28–32. Solá Solé, J. M. 1957. “Tarshish y los comienzos de la colonización fenicia en Occidente.” Sefarad 17:23–35. Stern, E. 2001. “The silver hoard from Tel Dor.” In M. Balmouth, ed., Hacksilber to coinage: New insights into the monetary history of the Near East and Greece, 19–26. ANS Numismatic Studies 24. New York. Stos-Gale, Z.A. 2001. “The impact of the natural sciences on studies of Hacksilber and early silver coinage.” In M. Balmouth, ed., Hacksilber to coinage: New insights into the monetary history of the Near East and Greece, 53–76. ANS Numismatic Studies 24. New York. Täckholm, U. 1965. “Tarsis, Tartessos und die Säulen des Herakles.” OpRom 5:143–200. Tsirkin, J. B. 1986a. “The Greeks and Tartessos.” Oikumene 5:163–71. ———. 1986b. “The Hebrew Bible and the origins of the Tartessian power.” Aula Orientalis 4:179–185. ———. 2001. “Canaan. Phoenicia. Sidon.” Aula Orientalis 19:271–79. Tyloch, W. 1978. “Le problème de Tarsis à la lumière de la philologie et de l’exégèse.” In Deuxième Congrès International d’Étude des Cultures de la Méditerranée Occidentale II, 46–51. Algiers. Üntermann, J. 2003. “Los vecinos de la lengua ibérica: Galos, ligures, tartesios, vascones.” In S. Torallas Tovar, ed., Memoria de los Seminarios de Filología e Historia del CSIC 2003, 53–76. Madrid. Wagner, C. G. 1983. “Aproximación al proceso histórico de Tartessos.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 56:3–36. ———. 1986. “Tartessos y las tradiciones literarias.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 14:201–28. White, V. S. 2002. The ships of Tarshish: The Phoenicians. Wheathampstead, Herts, UK.

[eleven]

Iberia in the Greek Geographical Imagination Javier Gómez Espelosín

The attempt to re-create, be it only in broad outlines, the frame of geographical perception that goes back to a time for which we have no direct testimonies of the protagonists when discovering new lands appears to be a very difficult task. Those who undertook overseas adventures in the first moments of the Greek Archaic period left us no record of their experiences, unlike later times, when, especially during the Renaissance and early Modern ages, an abundant literature of travel arose from the great discoveries carried out on the American continents. We are barely able to retrieve some scattered bits of news about a few historical experiences of anonymous people and can hardly grasp the basic scheme of the referential mind prevailing in the field of geographical perception. These ways of thinking may have been reflected in the literature of the age, but that literature has hardly survived. Moreover, the process of filtering the initial kernel of real experiences intensively lived by their protagonists from what surfaced on the more sophisticated stage of literary reworking must have been very complex, and their available outcomes are surely very far from its true origins. This kind of process can be shown in the conversion of the set of nautical instructions aimed at coastal sailing that were likely in circulation in early times, called periploi, to the actual texts, usually of a later age, that we have preserved under that label. These are mostly just boring lists of names of places and peoples, lacking in style and very tedious. The process of literary distillation has left some hints of the initial experience of maritime adventure, but the available results are very far from those initial lively moments. We know very little of actual experiences of geographical discovery achieved by the Greeks themselves, or conveyed in some way to them by the real protagonists, during the Archaic period. Most of the fragmentary scraps available to us are of uncertain origin and have ended up being incorporated as mere allusions in Herodotus’s work, such as the travel of the Samian merchant Colaeus (or Colaios) to Tartessos, the exploration of the Carian mariner Scylax and other unnamed travelers through the coastal lands of the Indian Ocean, or the voyage undertaken by an African tribe (the Nasamonians) from

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the vicinity of Cyrene to the hitherto unknown hinterland of that continent. The real core of those experiences has been left far behind the brief notices contained in Herodotus, who, to be sure, used them with other aims in mind than reconstructing the actual facts of exploration. We do have more reliable accounts of experiences of travel and discovery achieved during the second half of the fourth century BC—by Pytheas to northern seas and by Nearchus through the Indian coast. But these also have little value when it comes to the issue of grasping their geographical perceptions. The account of the incredible voyage of Pytheas was strongly affected by the very critical appraisals made by illustrious authors such as Polybius and Strabo, who denied the Massaliote sailor all his credit. Hence, his voyage has left few visible traces in ancient literature, unless we include the fantastic speculations that surface in later accounts of northern regions, which likely owed much to the influence of that traveler’s account. Nor do we have the original Periplus written by Nearchus. It was later readapted and synthesized into a new literary work aiming at very different goals, as was the work of Arrian on the campaigns of Alexander the Great. Hence, possible hints that might lead to recovery of the initial geographical perceptions are rather complex and difficult to follow. When we search for guidance in the field of ancient geographical perception, we must therefore look for aid to other periods of history when the protagonists of exploratory travels recorded their own accounts. These accounts reveal in a more direct and straightforward way the geographical frame prevailing in their time, through which the perception of new territories emerging on the horizon was channeled. From the analysis of this kind of literature, scholars such as John K. Wright and John L. Allen have duly highlighted the key role of imagination in the process of geographical discovery in the course of history. In a different vein, although converging on the same issue, there are the reflections made by Stephen Greenblatt about the impact produced by the discovery of America on the European mind and the ways in which that incredible meeting with a new world was reflected in the literature of the age. The clear interaction of real and imaginary geography in the motives and goals that drove the explorers, as stressed in both kinds of studies, conditioned to a great extent the actual experience achieved in that kind of travel. As Allen has pointed out, “The geographical lore has seldom either been coherent or unified, and motives for exploration have been modified by the general cultural, intellectual and environmental background of the explorers themselves and by the hopes, desires and ambition that always color geographical images.” 1 The same author has also added in another context that “this power of imagination over experience in the expansion and consol-

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idation of geographical knowledge is exemplified by the persistence of myths that constantly retreat into still unknown territory. Reflections on what was seen in the field are colored by strongly held preconceptions. However, in many cases the transmission and interpretations of exploratory data may be also distorted by desires for personal gain or by national pride.” 2 In the same way, Greenblatt has argued that “the viewers carry with them a powerful set of mediating conceptions by which they assimilate exotic representations to their own culture. These conceptions are at once agents and obstacles in the drive to possess a secure knowledge of the alien. The discoverer sees only a fragment and then imagines the rest in the act of appropriation. The supplement that imagination brings to vision expands the perceptual field, encompassing the distant hills and valleys or the whole of an island or an entire continent, and the bit that has actually been seen becomes by metonymy a representation of the whole.” 3 All people undertaking travel to unknown lands take with them a referential frame of the world in which they live, the cohesion and consistency of which vary according to the greater or lesser level of their educational background. Nonetheless, this frame provides the explorer with the kind of mental map that he needs for planning his travel into a hitherto unknown space and, later, for integrating within it the different bits of geographical and ethnographic information emerging in the course of his own experience. This previous frame similarly conditions the range and content of his expectations, since the traveler is able to guide his desires and expectations toward a certain goal, also constructed from the sum of previous experiences, in a curious and sometimes perverse dialectic between both poles. The resulting travel tale cannot be a completely new account founded only in the actual experience. On the contrary, it must be fitted within this established frame that is, at the same time, warranting the coherence and cultural sense of such a traumatic experience. These two factors, more or less intertwined, were also likely at play in the minds of the early Greek sailors who undertook the uncertain and hazardous adventure of overseas travel aiming at the discovery and exploration of the far western Mediterranean at the beginning of the Archaic period. Colonization was not an exclusively physical and material phenomenon implying a simple movement of populations from one place to another. In such an event a series of previous mental processes were at play, having to do with the perceptions that the colonizing people had of the external world or of foreign territories and peoples inhabiting them. There was a preexisting configuration, material and imaginary, of the space to be explored and dominated, a predetermined image of the world that constantly informed the way coloniz-

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ers acted. This previous image conditioned their behavior and also, more especially, helped to shape the view they sought to convey through their accounts, some of which attained a more or less prestigious status by being incorporated in later literature. In a world where maps were not in use and in which theoretical models of knowledge were not easily recognized, it was epic poetry, and particularly the Homeric poems, that provided people with a referential frame of the world. For a long time the Homeric poems were the true filter through which the Greeks perceived reality, becoming something like a Bible in terms of their enormous diffusion at all levels of society and their preeminent place in education. This nearly absolute predominance of the Homeric mind in the Greek view of things persisted until Roman times, as is shown by Strabo’s passionate defense of the privileged position of the poet as a pioneer in all forms of wisdom and particularly in the field of geography. As Francesco Prontera has argued, epic poetry provided Greeks with a referential frame into which they could fit information about the edges of the oikoumene.4 As this legacy was instrumental in shaping knowledge of the new colonial world, it became, at the same time, an obstacle to the discovery how much new there was in that world. The usual trend of fitting the Homeric geography into contemporary geographical knowledge emerging from new discoveries was actually a notorious burden in the advance of an accurate geographical literature, as S. Greenblatt points out—an obstacle to the actual perception of a strange and a hitherto unknown world. Epic poetry did not supply a complete and clear shaping of geographical space. Although it is true that, as P. Vivante has argued, “countries near and far [were] thus essentially the same,” 5 a certain sense of distance or remoteness is also perceived in some instances, as when one of the Achaeans makes reference to his distant fatherland viewed from the site of Troy, or when some allied forces of the Trojans, such as the Phrygians or the Lycians, are said to inhabit distant countries. There is certainly a consciousness of the difficulty implied in the fact of traversing such distances, even though the gods make that travel seem easy with their constant comings and goings from Olympus to the Trojan battlefield. Indeed, a consciousness of difficulty in travel appears sometimes to affect the divinities themselves, as in the case of Hermes in the episode of Circe from the Odyssey, when he declaims his trouble in traveling through a great and indefinite stretch of sea lacking those signs of civilization that mean the cities of men (5.100–101). Travels made through Greek territory, a space defined essentially by the presence of these cities, are thus the only ones that are more or less clearly shaped from a geographical viewpoint. This can be shown, for example, in Telemachus’s travel through

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the Peloponnesus, when he moves in search of news from his father, or in Hera’s voyage, in which the goddess flies from Olympus to the Trojan camp and goes through different regions, reflecting the actual itinerary of that journey with its more recognizable intermediate points (Iliad 14.225–30, 280–85). Geographical references beyond this Greek space are much more vague, as can be seen in the wanderings of the false Odysseus through the eastern Mediterranean basin into such far places as Egypt and the Libyan coast. He mentions some compelling intermediate and referential geographical points, such as the islands of Crete and Cyprus and the Phoenician people inhabiting these borderlands. But the scene of action is considerably less punctuated with recognizable and familiar places: much more stressed is the sense of adventure and risk implied in such travels. Even these kinds of geographical references, vague as they are, do not exist for the western basin of the Mediterranean, a space open to the unknown, for which the island of Ithaca seems to constitute a last meaningful border. Beyond this island begins a predominantly imaginary realm where sometimes the fixed points on the horizon are lost and the consequent confusion of daring travelers is a frequent circumstance, as, for example, when Odysseus and his companions reach such places as Circe’s island or the land of the Laestrygonians. In fact, the existence of this sort of blank on the map has been easily exploited by both ancient and modern interpreters of the Odyssey, as they have tried to set different places touched by Odysseus on a real chart without precise hints in the extant text of the poem justifying such steps. In Odysseus’s “western” wanderings the only clear spatial references are the sailing distances between points. But those distances are just a way of picturing the movement of the protagonist within this space rather than true traces of a voyage heading to a certain place. There are no geographical descriptions in the sections of the poem concerned with Odysseus’s travels. Upon arrival in a new land, the hero always displays a reaction of uncertainty caused by the ambiguous status of the place and its inhabitants, midway between the divine and human worlds, as occurs in the Cyclops’s land and the islands of Circe and the Phaeacians. The only route that appears to be fixed by a series of well-established intermediate points is the way to Hades, shown to the hero by Circe; but the scenery resulting from it is not a properly geographical space. What is described is an imaginary topography located beyond Ocean and provided with such emblematic and significant places as Persephone’s wood, the infernal rivers and the Stygian pool, and the famous Leucadian rock situated at the confluence of both rivers (10.509–15). All in all, this is a world out of human space where different statuses (the divine, human, and animal ones) are constantly intermingling and where clear geographical

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signs are completely absent from an indistinguishable realm defined by the prevailing presence of the sea. This means the negation of all significant signs that could be related to concrete lands and peoples of the real world, as seems to be expressed in the declamation of Hermes noted above. Thus, the epic geography of these unknown spaces became a cosmology, since the only valid references as shaping marks of the world are mythical ones. One of these references was the world of the dead, situated beyond Ocean in the westernmost position, as was argued by Graziano Arrighetti in a famous paper about Homeric and Hesiodic cosmology.6 Another was the river Ocean bordering the oikoumene, as is displayed in the picture arising from the famous shield of Achilles. Ocean is the place where the sun rises and falls, and it marks the boundary between the human world and a fabulous universe beyond inhabited by pious peoples, such as the Ethiopians, who enjoyed the frequent company of the gods, or by ancient deities such as Iapetus and Cronos. The image resulting from this view was not a well-defined space with clear geographical references. Rather, it was an impressive setting, where landscape elements such as rivers, islands, meadows, and woods, confusedly and indistinctly intertwined, were charged with meaningful connotations, both utopian and eschatological, and whose privileged inhabitants were a long-lived and generous people possessing all kinds of riches. This dominance of cosmology over geography is shown by the role played by the Straits of Gibraltar as the most outstanding and significant place in descriptions of the far western regions of the oikoumene. The straits were called the “Pillars of Heracles.” This was possibly the final result of a process of speculation and rationalization about the presence of a giant at the edge of the world, who supported the heavens—a widespread ancient belief. The role of this giant was successively played in Greek myth by Briareus and Atlas. The latter appeared first as separating the heavens from the earth, later gave his name to the external sea, and was then identified as a geographical trait, becoming an enormous mountain in touch with the heavens or eternally clouded. This was described by Herodotus (4.184.3–4), who attributes, curiously, its naming as the column of heaven to the native people of the North Africa region where it was located. Out of this cosmological frame, yet somehow connected with it, the geographical perception present in epic also showed a marked hodological quality, to use a term coined by Pietro Janni.7 According to this view, different places are linked in a way that depends on the experience of travel, being located in a sequence emerging from the travel route, regardless of the fact that the real distances between them could be established in a more direct way. A clear example of this kind of geographical perception is the flight of

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the goddess Hera from Olympus to Troy (Iliad 14.225–93) mentioned above, which takes her across the different places in the sailing route linking the two points, from the Thermaic Gulf through the islands of Lemnos and Imbros to the Troad, despite the theoretical possibility of getting there by flight in a much more direct line. This perception of space as a sequence of places favored the pleasure of naming and was reflected at the narrative level by the accumulation of toponyms in long lists that, through the epithets accompanying the place-names, hold sonorous qualities and evocative powers. The image of the world emerging from this view did not always fit the geographical reality. Some toponyms did not have a real geographical correspondence but were instead related to certain sagas or myths, as has been argued by Christian Jacob. The space thus described was not organized through a series of clearly distinguishable geographical points but according to the significant traces left in a mythical landscape by ancient heroes, who were the true shaping forces of these spaces. This kind of geography is present in the famous catalogs of the Iliad, both Achaean and Trojan. These long lists of names of places and peoples reflect a geographical perception of the world that was mnemonic rather than transparent, since spatial knowledge was constructed orally, usually during the poem’s performance and its subsequent effects, rather than by reading a treatise or consulting a map. Its immediate result was the fact of fixing gradually in the listener’s mind a certain toponymic nomenclature and a set of landscapes and ethnographic stereotypes shaping an imaginary view of unknown spaces. This “catalogical” image of the world has likely left traces in the extant literature through the constant presence of a series of placenames related to the far western regions of the world, such as the island of Erytheia, the land of Tartessos, the town of Gadira (i.e., Gadir), the Pillars of Heracles, and, less prominently, the Pyrenees Mountains, the Eridanos River, and the Cassiterides Islands, accompanied at times with evocative and significant epithets. This could partly explain the refusal of Herodotus to credit items that were not supported by external evidence and seemed to be rather within the realm of poetical invention (3.115). The reappearance of such a list, with some variations, in a later work, such as Avienus’s poem Ora Maritima, could also be very significant in this regard. The mythical landscape shaped by the influence of epic also left its traces in the geographical perception of the world’s western edge current in Archaic times by setting the presence of heroes as the true axis shaping and defining those unknown lands. This left a series of material hints serving later as significant signs for geographical description. The Pillars of Heracles are the most obvious example of such a view, as are, somewhat less prominently,

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the temples and sanctuaries mentioned in Strabo’s Geography that are linked to the passing of Odysseus or other heroes through the lands of the Iberian Peninsula (3.2.13). This perception of geographical landscape in which significant places held a central role in the shaping of space is also reflected in the famous Sacred Promontory, located on the far western side of the Iberian Peninsula. It was to become, along with the Pillars of Heracles, the referential trait through which the geographical description of the Iberian Peninsula, especially its entire southern end, was later achieved in Strabo’s work (3.1.3). The lost work of Asclepiades of Myrleia, at least if we credit the allusions made by Strabo himself to it (3.4.3), must have exemplified the weight of this view in shaping the landscape, claiming the existence of monuments and other emblematic marks left by ancient heroes as the significant points of description. This occurred despite the fact that Asclepiades was writing at a time when Iberia had been completely conquered by the Romans and had become, at least in these southern regions, a civilized province of the empire. This mode of geographical perception, clearly influenced by epic, was surely the referential frame that shaped the view of the first explorers, traders, and colonizers who visited the Iberian Peninsula in the early phases of the Archaic period. The gradual transfer of the old myths to more western latitudes is just another symptom, perhaps the most evident, of this kind of influence. The first western codification of the geography of the Odyssey was ascribed to the Euboeans, as Lorenzo Braccesi and Luca Antonelli have recently argued;8 the Euboeans were perhaps the first explorers of those lands. Western horizons were then gradually expanding from the Balkan land of Epirus and the Adriatic Sea to the Tyrrhenian Sea and further to the Iberian Peninsula. The image emerging from the experience of these first contacts was a confused and vague realm where fabulous lands and peoples coexisted with rather real partners. In Hesiod’s poetry the Mediterranean lands beyond the Aegean emerge as an undefined geographical space where sacred islands and fabulous beings (such as the Gorgons and Hesperides) are intermingled with realer places (such as Mount Etna) or true peoples (such as the Etruscans; fragment 150.25; Theogony 1116); this view could be representative of this stage of the transferring of knowledge to literary texts. The picture of the southern regions of the Iberian Peninsula as reflected by Stesichorus was likely the result of this same kind of process, in which there was a mixture of a fabulous and mythical landscape (in which the terrifying monster Geryon and his cows, living in the vicinity of Hades, had his dwelling) with a much more real geographical space clearly defined by identifiable places, such as the emporium of Tartessos and the river of its surroundings. This sort of epic scenery seems to reappear also in the original source from which

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arose, through a complex and tortuous process, the famous Ora maritima of Avienus. This perception of geographical space arising from the epic also likely conditioned the expectations of the first Greeks who reached Iberian lands. The impressive scenery of the Straits of Gibraltar seemed to close the Mediterranean Sea on its western side, while it opened beyond onto an infinite stretch of water that appeared to be full of mystery and great perils. The fact that this place was the key feature that shaped the mental map of the explorers and merchants who sailed this part of the world can be demonstrated by the story of Colaeus, as recounted by Herodotus (4.152), in which the only geographical feature of his route to the Far West recorded by the historian is precisely the crossing of the strait to arrive at Tartessos. The early transformation of this powerful geographical sign into the famous Pillars of Heracles, as heirs of the cosmological columns that closed the western ends of the world, was also a clear result of the impression caused by that place. They were later gradually rationalized and identified with the mountains located at either side of the strait or with the columns of the temple of Gades. A further example of the rationalizing trend to relocate all this early phantasmagorical topography within more recent geographical information is the apparent confusion existing around the town of Gades, as it was successively identified with the Island of Erytheia and with the Pillars themselves, as is shown in Pindar, where they are called Pylai Gadeiritai. Despite these rationalizing tendencies, the weight of epic images remained attached to the shaping of this remote area, as can be shown in Avienus’s descriptions of scenery, still tinted with infernal connotations. The same can be said of his references to the existence of a temple dedicated to an infernal goddess and a pool whose name, which can probably be read as Erebea, recalls curiously the ancient cosmological speculations linked to this western region. It is likely that the perception of Tartessos itself was also affected by this epic view of the far western ends of the world, if we recognize the possibility that the image forged for Argantonios was more likely influenced by the model of Alcinous, the Pheacians’ king in the Odyssey. This benevolent ruler inhabited a prosperous land, gave the warmest of receptions to Odysseus, and proposed that he remain forever in his country by marrying his daughter. Odysseus refused this proposal and decided to return to his fatherland, albeit charged with numerous and abundant riches provided by the king. Argantonios was also portrayed as the generous and long-lived ruler of a bountiful land who showed his hospitality toward the Phocaeans who arrived in his country and provided them with the money necessary for their defense against the Persians. The Greeks refused his proposal and chose, as Odysseus

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had done before, to return to their fatherland, despite the appealing prospect that living in those thriving lands offered. The sparse information from these lands that reached Greece through the personal experiences of the first travelers, to a great extent merchants such as the above-mentioned Colaeus, who returned to the fatherland with their profits and their stories, contributed to raising the expectations of new travelers. This anonymous chain of information over time forged an incoherent and variegated corpus of knowledge. This was as characteristic of the content of the information coming from unknown lands as it was of the condition of its bearers: hence the Greeks’ paramount distrust of the reports of merchants. This can be seen in the suspicions initially raised by Odysseus during his stay in Pheacia, dispelled later by Alcinous, and in the critical appraisal this kind of information received in Herodotus’s, Polybius’s, and Strabo’s interpretations. Archaeology has revealed the immense lacunae existing in our knowledge about the different links of this chain of transmission and the complex interaction of its numerous and anonymous protagonists. We know only two names, the abovementioned Colaeus and the much more mysterious Midacritus, whom Pliny the Elder qualified as the first merchant who reached the tin ores of northern or western Europe and returned with that product to the Mediterranean countries (Natural History 7.57.197). The sum of sailing and trading experiences in these regions is simply subsumed in Herodotus’s allusion to the Phocaeans as the first discoverers of the Far West (1.163). The thickness of reality was surely much more intense and variegated, as the archaeological research is constantly showing, especially in the regions of Huelva and the eastern coast of Spain. To be sure, the earlier arrivals on the coast of the Iberian Peninsula by Greek sailors and merchants and its corresponding geographical perception have undoubtedly left some traces in the literary tradition. Traits of the geography thus forged most likely include the existence of a great river, a formidable emporium (as Tartessos actually was), the confluence there of other trading routes, the echoes of the remote and mysterious Cassiterides Islands, some local and typical products coming from there, and, most of all, the consciousness of a clear differentiation between the Mediterranean as an inner sea and Ocean as the great outer sea, with the Straits of Gibraltar being the symbolic and geographical line dividing them. Some of those items ended up being crystallized as current information in the extant Periploi, as can be seen in works such as those of Pseudo Scylax or Pseudo Scymnus and, more likely yet, in the original source of Avienus’s poem, through channels and intermediaries of which we are completely ignorant. Thus, we find in this

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kind of literature mention of the perennial pillars, the islands of the strait, the name of the already omnipresent Gadir/Gadeira/Gades, the presence of Punic factories, some toponyms (such as Mainake and Emporion), and some distances between different points that are evaluated with varying accuracy. Their origins in this flux of early information is shown by the evident mixture of clear geographical references, such as the rivers and their estuaries, the presence of certain islands, and some outstanding promontories, with another kind of information more concerned with the trading interest of the different regions, such as the origin of certain products and the difficulties involved in getting them. But in the historical work of Herodotus we can perhaps better perceive this long process of filtering the information emerging from the geographical perceptions of the first travelers, merchants and others, as it was shaped in the epic frame to the literary and rational level of our sources. The Iberian Peninsula was certainly a marginal region of the oikoumene from which information reaching the central Greek lands was very meager, as can be seen from its sparse appearances in what could be qualified as the earlier compilation of geographical knowledge for the Greeks. There had been no systematic exploration of the region, as had occurred in the eastern part of the world. Exploration in the East occurred through the action of the Persian Empire, whose kings commanded expeditions such as those of Scylax and others, and their traces were reflected in the work of Herodotus. The task of exploration in the West was mainly achieved by Carthaginians, but their results did not produce the same level of knowledge within the Greek world, since there seems to have been no participation of Greek partners in this task, as had occurred in the East. The fantasies blatantly present in Hanno’s Periplus and the allusion to Ocean terrors contained in Himilco’s work, noted in Avienus’s poem, are clear testimonies to the confusion and opacity arising from those Carthaginian exploratory travels. The sparse and exotic references to the discoveries and trading of the Carthaginians that appear in Herodotus’s work (such as the famous allusion to silent trade, for example, 4.196) also are convincing evidence in this respect. In fact the expedition of Pytheas himself showed, in part, the prevailing ignorance of the possibilities existing in this western area. A work such as the Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, describing meticulously the successive trading posts along an ancient route through the eastern seas, highlights the contrast between the levels of knowledge in this domain at both sides of the world, since we have nothing of the sort for the western side. Thus, the Iberian Peninsula had a limited role in Herodotus’s descrip-

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tion of the world. As a place-name, Iberia is mentioned just once, when, in a review of the sequence of discoveries made by the Phocaeans in the West, it appears as a step prior to Tartessos and after having crossed the Adriatic and Tyrrhenia (1.163). As the name of a people, the Iberians feature only as an item within the long list of mercenaries collaborating with the Carthaginians (7.165). All other references concerning the Iberian Peninsula are focused on Tartessos (four) and, above all, on the Pillars of Heracles (ten). Tartessos still remained a meaningful reference, as it appears to have been the final goal both in Colaeus’s travel and in the chain of discoveries of the Phocaeans, who went there to establish friendly relations with its king Arganthonios. Its condition as a prosperous emporium and its political structure as a wellorganized monarchy within the apparent vacuum of its surroundings could be the significant key to explain the actions of these first Greek explorers. The Pillars of Heracles had become, by that stage, an unavoidable point of geographical reference for the location of any place in that region of the world, as can be seen in what can be qualified as Hecataeus’s fragments, where all the towns mentioned from that area are situated with reference to this emblematic axis. Yet by this point other elements articulating the topography of the zone that seemed to play a prominent role in the mental map of the region (as can be seen in Stesichorus or the possible source of Avienus’s poem), such as the liminal rivers and the mysterious island, have vanished. Some emblematic places, such as the Island of Erytheia, have lost their preferential place: Erytheia is alluded to only as a spatial reference within the mythical context of Geryon’s story. Other more historical items, as the Phoenician town of Gades, had passed into oblivion: Gades is mentioned only once, as a simple geographical reference for locating the above-mentioned Erytheia (4.8) and is relegated in this way to a secondary level. Certainly, the mythical legacy shaping the perception of western geography has been extraordinarily shortened in the work of Herodotus, who viewed with great suspicion and utter distrust the possibility of emblematic entities featuring that scenery, such as Ocean, the Eridanos River, and the Cassiterides Islands (3.115). The rationale prevailing in his time called for the progressive suppression of items that could not be proved by available research or known through credible testimonies. But despite this apparent progress shown in more coherent and rational attitudes about mythical constructs, the geographical perception of the Iberian Peninsula did not seriously improve: it still remained within the hodological frame prevailing in ancient periploi. This can be seen in cases such as the above-mentioned itinerary followed by the Phocaeans in their discoveries (which shows the coexistence of Iberia and Tartessos as two different and sequent geographical entities), or

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when Herodotus had to locate the Celts within an imaginary map of that far western region and placed them to the west, beyond the Pillars but before the Cinetes, who were considered the most western people of Europe (2.33). This kind of view remained in play for a long time, despite the wellknown advances made by geographical exploration and military conquest and colonization. The pieces of information that reached the stage of literature were relatively few, and these followed the same channels that are evident in ancient periploi and Herodotus. This can be shown in the sparse and scant information on the Far West surfacing, for example, in the extant work of paradoxographers, even though the emblematic position of the Iberian Peninsula at one edge of the world, with all its potential charge of exoticism, could have nurtured their enterprise. The scale of the marvelous was ascribed only to prodigies occurring beyond the Pillars, such as a fabulous island reportedly discovered by the Carthaginians, the incredible abundance of some products (such as tuna in some passages of those coasts when in low tide, or the great oil resources), and curious ethnographic customs. This line seems also to have been followed by the more serious historian Polybius, who included such phenomena in his famous lost book of geographical facts. It is likely that the progress made in direct knowledge of the Iberian Peninsula during the Hellenistic Age and the early phases of Roman expansion was reflected in contemporary sources, but all these are almost irremediably lost. These Greek and Roman achievements were, however, incorporated to a variable degree in the geographical work of Strabo. The Greek geographer also performed a considerable labor of rationalizing and distilling the mythical elements shaping the image of western regions of the world. He did remove the most emblematic signs of the ancient Iberian Peninsula and sometimes substituted the corresponding historical item. But when it comes to delineating the southern part of Iberia cartographically, the most significant places of the ancient frame reappear as shaping axes of this apparently new way of mapping. A line is traced from the Pyrenees to the sacred headland, with the famous Pillars as the central point between these edges (3.1.3). The hodological frame, harking back to Homeric epic, was thus still prevalent despite the obvious advances that had been made in cartographical design by Hellenistic scholars, especially Eratosthenes; this was recognized and criticized by Strabo himself. However, he stated that the sea had been his main and best counselor for his description of the world, because it suggested the order of places more easily (9.2.21). With its epic connotations of cosmological origin, the hodological frame thus continued to be the prevailing pattern through which the Iberian Peninsula was perceived. That had long been the rule of geographical perception,

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and Iberia kept its place within this ancient tradition (albeit with adaptations to demands of the times) as the last stage in an obscure and mysterious route leading toward the western edge of the world.

not e s 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Allen 1976:44. Ibid., 53. Greenblatt 1991:122. Prontera 1990:75. Vivante 1970:74. Arrighetti 1965–66. Janni 1984. Braccesi 2003; Antonelli 1995; etc.

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———. 2002. Il viaggio di Pitea sull’ Océano. Bologna. Morgan, C. 2003. Early Greek states beyond the Polis. London. Nenci, G. 1990. “L’Occidente barbarico.” In Hérodote et les peuples non grecs, 301–18. Entretiens sur 1’Antiquité Classique 35. Geneva. Niemeyer, H. G. 1990. “The Greeks and the Far West: Towards a re-evaluation of the archaeological record from Spain.” In La Magna Grecia e il lontano Occidente: Atti del 29 Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, 29–53. Taranto, Italy. Olmos, R. 1989. “Los griegos en Tartessos: Una nueva contrastación entre las fuentes arqueológicas y las literarias.” In M. E. Aubet, ed., Tartessos: Arqueología protohistórica del Bajo Guadalquivir, 495–518. Sabadell, Spain. Pearson, L. 1939. Early Ionian historians. Oxford. ———. 1960. The lost histories of Alexander the Great. Chico, CA. Pédech, P. 1956. “La géographie de Polybe: Structure et contenu du livre XXXIV des Histories.” Les Études Classiques 24:3–24. ———. 1984. Historiens compagnon d’Alexandre. Paris. Peretti, A. 1979. Il Periplo di Scilace. Pisa, Italy. Prontera, F. 1990. “L’estremo Occidente nella concezione geografica dei Greci.” In La Magna Grecia e il lontano Occidente: Atti del 29 Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, 55–82. Taranto, Italy. ———. 1993. “Sull’ esegesi ellenistica della geografia greca.” In G. W. Most, H. Petersmann, and A. M. Ritter, eds., Philantropia kai eusebeia: Festschrift für A. Dihle zum 70, Geburstag, 387–97. Göttingen, Germany. ———. 1994. “Note sul Mediterraneo occidentale nella cartografia ellenistica.” In M. Khanoussi, P. Rujgeri, and C. Vismare, eds., L’ Africa romana: Atti del XI Convegno di studi, 335–41. Sassari, Italy. Reed, C. M. 2003. Maritime traders in the ancient Greek World. Cambridge. Roller, D. 2006. Through the pillars of Herakles: Greco-Roman exploration of the Atlantic. London. Romm, J. S. 1992. The edges of the earth in ancient thought. Princeton, NJ. Rouillard, P. 1991. Les Grecs dans la péninsule ibérique du VIII au IV siècle avant J. C. Paris. Santos, J., and E. Torregaray. 2003. Polibio y la Península Ibérica. Vitoria, Spain. Thomas, R. 2000. Herodotus in context: Ethnography, science, and the art of persuasion. Cambridge. Vivante, P. 1970. The Homeric imagination. Bloomington, IN. Walbank, F. W. 1948. “The geography of Polybius.” Classica et Medievalia 9:155–82. West, M. L., ed. 1966. Hesiod: Theogony. Oxford. Wolf, A., and H. H. Wolf. 1983. Die wirkliche Reise des Odysseus: Zur Rekonstruktion des Homerischen Weltbildes. Munich. Wright, J. K. 1947. “Terrae incognitae: The place of imagination in geography.” Annals AAG 37:1–15. Reprinted in Wright, J. K. 1966. Human nature in geography, 66–88. Cambridge, MA. Wright, M. R. 1995. Cosmology in antiquity. London. Zumthor, P. 1993. La mesure du monde: Representation de 1’espace au Moyen Age. Paris.

colonial encounters in ancient iberia: a coda Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz

The preceding chapters in this volume offer a multinational, polydisciplinary overview of current trends in the exploration of colonial encounters between Phoenicians, Greeks, and indigenous peoples in ancient Iberia. This is a moment of exciting transition and new dialogue in what has become a very active research frontier, and the book presents a targeted view of the present state of the field through a selected set of cases in which scholars approach these encounters from multiple angles with a variety of methods and theoretical tools.1 A final chapter purporting to offer a general summary conclusion, although highly desirable, would be both premature and misleading given the uneven state of research in different areas, the still-developing nature of many lines of inquiry and evidence, and the often-conflicting working hypotheses, interpretations, and theoretical perspectives being explored by different scholars. But as editors we would be remiss should we fail to at least attempt to underline some of the main themes that emerge in the volume and to sketch a rough map of the terrain of current and future research. In that spirit, this chapter is more in the way of a brief provisional coda than a conclusion. As the volume demonstrates, the main questions attracting the attention of current researchers have evolved from those that were prevalent in past decades. For example, the issue that dominated discussions for more than a century—the chronology of the first Phoenician presence in Spain and the glaring discrepancy between the dates of colonial foundations given by ancient texts and those indicated by archaeological evidence—has largely receded into the background. This is because the consistent dating evidence from an increasing number of excavations of early Phoenician sites in recent years has largely resolved the long-standing battle between historians and archaeologists in favor of the latter. The earliest reliable C 14 dates for any foundational levels at Phoenician sites or significant quantities of Phoenician objects on indigenous sites in Iberia are no earlier than the end of the ninth century BC (or perhaps the beginning of the century if one credits a few less secure dates), and most fall within the eighth century BC.2 This is a

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good two centuries after the dates suggested by texts, which are now generally considered to be somewhat fanciful etiological speculations. Similarly, attempting to identify on the ground the multiple Greek colonies in Iberia named in ancient texts has ceased to be a primary focus of research, given the recognition that many of these may have been little more than small groups of Greek traders residing at indigenous port towns.3 The unidirectional diffusionist model of the spread of “civilization,” represented by the concepts of “Orientalizing” and “Hellenization,” has also passed out of favor as an explanation for the consequences of the encounters between colonists and natives, although, to be sure, many implicit assumptions have stubbornly persisted as a result of this legacy.4 Discussion of the Phoenician and Greek presence in Iberia has, consequently, moved on to more sociologically interesting questions, such as the diverse natures and histories of different colonial settlements, the economic relations between Phoenicians and Greeks, the forms and logic of interaction with native peoples (including the significance of indigenous agency), and the social and cultural consequences of the encounters for all the parties involved. This shift in research has been greatly aided by another relatively recent development. Although Phoenician and Carthaginian cemeteries were an early focus of archaeological attention, research on colonial settlements in Spain had been somewhat limited until the past couple of decades. This was due, to a certain extent, to the fact that settlement excavations have been hindered by the existence of modern cities built over many of the ancient sites. For example, the coastal island site of Gadir/Gades, one of the most important and largest (at an estimated ten hectares) of all Phoenician colonies in Iberia, lies buried under modern Cádiz. However, excavations and survey work in recent years have dramatically increased the quantity and quality of information about Phoenician settlements. A prime example of a large Phoenician colony that has been extensively explored archaeologically is Toscanos, which was founded near Málaga around 740–730 BC. A small early settlement on a hill expanded quickly to include several more impressive domestic structures and a fortification. Around 700 BC a large two-story warehouse, of a type that has also been found in Sardinia and North Africa, was constructed in the center of the settlement. It contained a large number of amphorae and other storage vessels. During the seventh century the settlement grew to its maximum extent (estimated at twelve to fifteen hectares) and attained an estimated population of about 1,000 to 1,500. Traces of copper and iron working were also found for this period.5 By the beginning of the sixth century BC, the warehouse and large residences were abandoned,

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and the site as a whole appears to have been abandoned by around 550 BC.6 Similarly, excavations at Sa Caleta, on the island of Ibiza, have revealed a small town of about four hectares with characteristic Phoenician architecture and organizational structure and traces of iron and silver processing. After about a century of occupation, it was abandoned around 600–590 BC in favor of the new Punic town of Ebusus/Ibiza.7 Other important recent excavations at Seville, Huelva, Santa Olaia, and other sites have greatly improved understanding of the nature and histories of Phoenician colonies, including illuminating the importance of religious sanctuaries and ritual practices in the life of these establishments and in the functioning of trade.8 The pattern represented by Toscanos of expansion, fortification (during the seventh century BC), and eventual decline and abandonment (by the mid sixth century BC) appears to have been fairly typical for a number of other Phoenician settlements along the south coast, especially in the Andalusian area. But the histories of individual colonies were different, and each involved processes of complex demographic and structural transformation, as well as changing economic and political relations with indigenous peoples and other Mediterranean states.9 In general, however, it is safe to say that Phoenician colonies in Iberia were quite small, with most ranging from less than one hectare to three or four hectares in size. Cádiz, Toscanos, and, perhaps, Huelva 10 (at ten to fifteen hectares) were exceptionally large by these standards, yet even these were quite small compared to Phoenician colonies elsewhere in the Mediterranean, such as Motya (forty hectares) and Kition (seventy hectares).11 Greek colonies in Iberia were also very small.12 The settlement at Emporion never exceeded about five hectares in size (until the Roman period), and the other Greek establishments in Iberia were probably even smaller. Massalia (modern Marseille), the largest colonial city in the Western Mediterranean, Greek or Phoenician, was about ten times the size of Emporion; and Massalia was small in comparison to the Greek colonies in the Central Mediterranean and to Etruscan cities.13 Another aspect of the colonial situation where understanding has been greatly improved by recent archaeological work is awareness of the existence and importance of indigenous trading centers, with the presence of resident or itinerant Phoenician and Greek merchants. The recently excavated site of La Picola (Santa Pola), in Alicante, has been particularly illuminating in this respect. This tiny fortified settlement appears to have been a coastal trading center under the control of native Iberians from the nearby settlement of Illici, but with just enough Greek architectural elements to indicate a probable Greek presence at the site. This was undoubtedly a space where various

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itinerant traders, of indigenous and Greek origin, met to conduct exchanges in a context where ethnic distinctions were often blurred.14 The port site at La Rábita / Fonteta (Guardamar del Segura), near the mouth of the Segura River in Alicante, offers another variation on this type of mixed settlement. Although apparently founded as a Phoenician trading center (based upon some distinctive architectural features and ceramics) near the end of the eighth century BC, it appears to have quickly attracted a growing native population, which became dominant during the sixth century BC.15 Trading centers of this kind may have been far more numerous than previously imagined: other suggested cases include La Peña Negra, at Crevillente, Alicante;16 Los Nietos, near Murcia;17 and Santarém, Almaraz, and Conímbriga in Portugal.18 This fact should force a restructuring of interpretations of regional trade, including the recognition of a significant role for indigenous peoples in trade networks. Rouillard, for example, argues that the traditional role accorded to Emporion as the only significant trading port on the eastern coast of Iberia has been greatly exaggerated and must be reevaluated in the light of recent discoveries such as that of La Picola.19 The fact that when peoples along the coast of Catalonia eventually adopted a script it was, throughout the region, Iberian rather than Greek (unlike the situation in the area surrounding Massalia) is perhaps another indication that the relative significance of Emporion needs to be reevaluated.20 The picture of the early Phoenician and Greek presence in Iberia emerging from this recent research leads to the conclusion that the impact on indigenous societies of these tiny clusters of alien traders and settlers was decidedly not based upon their capacity for military violence and colonization,21 which would have been rather limited, at least before the third-century BC Punic expansion into the Iberian interior and its Roman imperial aftermath. Rather, for the most part, these would have been precarious establishments that were based upon integration rather than exclusion and were dependent upon cultivating good relations with native peoples, or at least negotiating a toleration of their presence based on serving a useful role in supplying desired commodities and services. Understanding of the economic basis of Phoenician and Greek colonies in Iberia has also been considerably nuanced by recent work. The attraction of rich metal resources (such as those of the Río Tinto and Guadalquivir valleys of Spain and the Tagus and Mondego valleys of Portugal) offers an obvious clue to the location of some colonies (e.g. Cádiz, Huelva, Abul). This feature was noted many times in ancient texts, and it has served as a primary explanation of Phoenician colonial activity in Iberia for a long time. However, the significance of metal resources is by no means obvious for most Phoeni-

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cian colonies, nor was it the only economic rationale for colonies such as Cádiz. For example, Treumann has pointed to the lush timber resources of the Andalusian coast as a major factor in explaining the cluster of Phoenician colonies in that region. The timber and various forest products, such as resin and pitch, would have been harvested both for export and for local shipbuilding.22 The rich agricultural and pasturage land around the Andalusian colonies and in the Guadalquivir Valley has also been noted as a major attraction.23 Salt production, purple dye manufacture, slaves, and a variety of other things have also been signaled, and many of these have been documented at sites such as Toscanos.24 Similarly, although the Greek colony of Emporion was clearly on the route toward the circuits of metal trade emanating from southern Iberia, the vast collective storage fields of grain silos surrounding the Iberian settlement of Mas Castellar at Pontós in the hinterland of Emporion also point to the agricultural resources of the area as a major attraction.25 Wine and olive oil production also became important activities for many of the Phoenician colonies, but not for the Greek colonies in Iberia (unlike Massalia, which had a thriving wine industry, the other Greek establishments in the West were wine importers).26 Ultimately, most of these colonial establishments were probably pursuing a very mixed range of economic activities, of which trading in a variety of commodities was always a prominent aspect. Most were simultaneously importing material from the Eastern and Central Mediterranean, producing their own products for export (e.g., wine, purple dye, salt, ships), and engaging in trade with surrounding native societies and other colonies. The trade itself was not one that should be confused with nineteenthcentury nationalist mercantilism in which merchants were “flying the flag,” and it is probably an error even to speak of “Phoenician” or “Greek” trade as if these were coherent or distinct phenomena. There is no reason to expect that ships had ethnically homogeneous crews or would even have identified themselves as, for example, Greek, Phoenician, Etruscan, or Iberian. Nor would they have necessarily trafficked in goods of a specific ethnic derivation. Indeed, the evidence of shipwrecks in the Western Mediterranean, at least before the Roman era, seems to show a typical pattern of small ships with extremely heterogeneous cargoes in which it is generally impossible to categorize the origin of the crew.27 These were probably ships with crews as mixed as their cargoes, plying the waters from port to port in order to satisfy very local patterns of demand with available goods. Moreover, the ports were undoubtedly very fluid, open, and perhaps liminal spaces in which traders of a variety of origins, identities, and languages mixed and bartered.28 One area that has witnessed an obvious development in recent years is

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the interpretation of the social and cultural consequences of colonial encounters. As noted earlier, simple diffusionist models in which “influence” flows unidirectionally from “civilized” Greeks and Phoenicians to the local “barbarians” are rapidly disappearing, at least in overt form. For reasons discussed in chapter 1, the legacy of this perspective still lingers in the form of many tacit assumptions that constrain the posing of questions and influence the evaluation of knowledge claims. But dissatisfaction, stemming both from an increasing engagement with theoretical work on colonialism in other disciplines and from empirical difficulties with the model of emulation of Greek and Phoenician culture, has led many researchers to a search for new interpretive perspectives. Although the intellectual foundations of new interpretations sometimes remain implicit or inchoate, explicit experimentation with such theoretical domains as world-systems theory, anthropology, and postcolonial theory has also been growing.29 What most of these new directions emphasize is that both parties to these encounters were transformed by the experience. Greek and Phoenician identities and culture, for example, were not simply transferred intact to the West as coherent and stable entities: they emerged and took form as a result of the very process of colonialism. Hence, attention has begun to be focused on the internal dynamics of Greek and Phoenician colonial sites and spaces; researchers are rethinking ethnicity and looking for variations in consumption patterns, material practices, and ritual for signs of syncretisms, ethnogenesis, or nostalgic archaisms.30 In a related move, Gómez Espelosín, in chapter 11, probes the Greek experience of discovery of Iberia by exploiting a variety of textual sources to examine the way in which Iberia figured in the changing geographical imagination of Greeks. Despite the work of this kind now being undertaken on colonists, much greater attention has so far been focused on improving understanding of the transformation of indigenous societies in these colonial encounters. The idea of passive imitation and cultural inferiority is gradually being replaced by a concern for understanding indigenous agency and the social logic and unintended consequences of the consumption, appropriation, and rejection of alien goods and practices. The mysterious emporium of Tartessos, located somewhere in the lower Guadalquivir Valley, continues to occupy a prominent place in research on this theme, as it has for more than a century in discussions framed by the “Orientalizing” model. The site acquired a legendary reputation both in antiquity and among modern scholars for several reasons, not least of which is the romantic trope of the “lost civilization.” After being celebrated in various Greek texts as a kingdom rich in precious metals headed by a wealthy

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and generous ruler named Argantonios, Tartessos disappeared in the sixth century BC (for reasons that are still not clear) and has never been precisely relocated as a specific site, although several have been suggested.31 LópezRuiz, in chapter 10, shows how the Semitic name tarshish, known from biblical passages and various inscriptions, probably represents the memory of Iberian Tartessos preserved in the Eastern Mediterranean into a period when its exact location had been long forgotten and it had acquired a purely mythical status. Gómez Espolosín, in chapter 11, shows how Greek perceptions of Tartessos, and of Iberia in general, were already framed by models derived from epic literature and shot through with mythical allusions. But interest in the legendary Tartessos among modern scholars has also been generated by the linguistic situation. The extinct Tartessian language was a non-Indo-European one that appears to be unrelated to any other known family, including Iberian. Moreover, Tartessians were the first natives of Iberia to develop a local script, during the seventh century BC, within about a century after contact with Phoenician traders. This much-debated script (also called the Southwestern script) is known from a series of stelae found over an area running through southern Portugal, Extremadura, and the lower Guadalquivir—in other words, an area much larger than the zone associated with Tartessos proper.32 Long known and speculated about purely on the basis of literary evidence, Tartessos has stimulated a good deal of archaeological survey and excavation as well. Because of the early adoption of writing, the hierarchical political structure indicated by Greek texts, and the apparent adoption of various exotic motifs and ritual practices, Tartessian culture and society have tended to feature very prominently in discussions of the “Orientalizing” influence of Phoenician colonization (which was seen to have occurred later in the ethnogenesis that produced “Iberian” culture in other areas), and they have continued to serve as a focus for research under new interpretive paradigms. In general, current research is less concerned with the precise identification of a settlement that can be matched to the historical Tartessos than with understanding the relationship between native peoples and Phoenician colonists in southwestern Spain, and the term Tartessian is used to refer to the broad region of the lower Guadalquivir valley rather than to a particular site. As Belén shows in chapter 8, the situation in the valley is marked by an extremely complex fusion of cultural elements that has resulted in many disputes among scholars about the ethnic identification (Tartessian or Phoenician) of particular settlements and sanctuaries. It seems probable that between Cádiz and the deeper interior of the valley there existed a zone that included small Phoenician agricultural settlements and religious/trading sites

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alongside, or intermingled in various ways with, native inhabitants, and in which there was a good deal of borrowing and appropriation, and perhaps intermarriage, in both directions. This is the hybrid zone known as Tartessian. Much remains to be explained about it, including its apparent collapse in the sixth century BC and its changing relationship to the surrounding indigenous areas where various warrior stelae and inscriptions have been found.33 Beyond the Tartessian realm, new research on the consequences of colonial encounters for indigenous societies has tended to focus both on the broad regional process (often referred to as “Iberization”) resulting in the formation of a newly distinctive “Iberian culture” and on the locally varied responses to trade and contact that are indicative of indigenous agency within quite specific cultural and social contexts. The term Iberization has been used to denote (often somewhat ambiguously) the process of formation of a local Iberian culture (a kind of in situ ethnogenesis), especially in southern Spain during the sixth century BC, or the diffusion through trade of elements of such a culture formed elsewhere, or the actual displacement of local populations by Iberian immigrants. What recent work makes clear is that, in the contexts of both Iberia and southwest Mediterranean France, the phenomena described as Iberization were rather heterogeneous, exhibiting a great deal of local variation but including such things as distinctive styles of stone sculpture, writing, painted pottery, and forms of architecture. There is also general agreement that Iberization was a transformation associated in some important way with colonial encounters with Phoenicians and Greeks and the development of colonial trade relations in which Ibero-Punic goods played a significant role.34 Different domains of material culture show the varied and complex responses to colonial encounters. It has long been surmised, for example, that Iberian architectural forms and urban landscapes were affected by these encounters. But as Belarte shows in chapter 3, this was not a case of simple emulation of Phoenician forms, techniques, and organizational structures. Indeed, as she notes, the new settlements that appeared were “radically different from Phoenician settlements from every perspective: dimensions, organization of urban space, and ground plan of the houses.” Rather, as her detailed regional synthesis demonstrates, there was a series of complex regionally specific experimentations with new urban forms that was related more to transformations in modes of production resulting from evolving trade relations than to any desire to imitate Phoenicians.35 Similarly, current work on other aspects of the material culture and economy of indigenous societies has shown the variety of creative responses to trading contacts that occurred, and the often unintended consequences of

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these new relationships. Much of this research has centered on the transformation of local political relations and structures and their connections to the broader political economy of colonial trade.36 However, there has also been an increasing focus on such things as the process of consumption, with consideration of patterns of choice in the demand for alien goods as a key to local agency. The demand for wine and drinking ceramics has attracted perhaps the most attention, given that these were immediate and widespread objects of desire, but with locally specific patterns of consumption that can be discerned by a closer examination of contextual data.37 The quest for this kind of contextual analysis has, in turn, placed new demands on research strategies for excavations with the realization that many data from older excavations are not adequate to the kinds of questions now being posed. Understanding of the relationship between cross-cultural consumption and the transformation of local production has also developed significantly.38 For example, Iberian societies in southern Spain responded to the influx of Phoenician wine by quickly beginning their own production of wine and amphorae in a way that contrasts markedly with the almost complete absence of indigenous production in southern France.39 In brief, current approaches to the colonial encounters that occurred in ancient Iberia are both varied and in a phase of innovation. In addition to a proliferation of empirical research, there is a good deal of experimentation with new research questions and strategies and with new interpretive models and theoretical perspectives. Generally there has been a tendency to move away from older issues of chronology, typology, and historical identification and older monolithic views of colonial process toward an exploration of local diversity, complexity, and agency. At the same time, scholars are seeking ways of productively integrating regional microhistories within broader global forces of Mediterranean history. In the interests of furthering that project, this book was intended as a forum for simultaneously (1) stimulating a conversation between researchers from a variety of different national and disciplinary traditions who have been at the forefront of working on these issues, (2) presenting this work for the first time to a broader Anglophone audience, and (3) setting the stage for future research directions. If the book perhaps raises more questions than it answers, this may be seen as an accurate reflection of the vibrant state of the field.

note s 1.

The book was intended to be representative, rather than comprehensive, in its coverage. Consequently and regrettably, a number of issues and research direc-

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2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

tions that are important domains of current work could not be treated here, except perhaps in passing comments. These include, for example, the issues of Iberian sculpture, Iberian pottery, and Iberian writing and language. See Abad and Soler 2007; Aranegui-Gascó et al. 1997; de Hoz 1995; Olmos and Rouillard 2002; Truszkowski 2003. Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume); Aubet 1993; Belén, chapter 8 (this volume); Castro, Lull, and Mico 1996; Mederos 1997; Moret 2000. See Rouillard 1991, chapter 5 (this volume). See Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume); Dietler 2005 and chapter 1 (this volume). Perhaps, as Treumann (chapter 7, this volume) suggests, the traces of a smithy related to ship building. Niemeyer 1982, 1995. Ramon 1991. See Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume); Belén, chapter 8 (this volume). See Aubet 1993; Gras, Rouillard, and Teixidor 1995; Niemeyer 1996; Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume). Pellicer 1996. Aubet 1993; van Dommelen 1998. See Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume). See Dietler, chapter 1 (this volume). See Badie et al. 2000.; Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume). Azuar et al. 1998; González Prats, García Menárguez, and Ruiz Segura 1997; Rouillard et al. 2007. González Prats 1991:184. García Cano and García Cano 1992. See Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume). See Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume). De Hoz 1993. In the sense of Dietler, chapter 1 (this volume). See Treumann, chapter 7 (this volume). For example, see Belén, chapter 8 (this volume); Celestino, chapter 9 (this volume); Wagner and Alvar 1989, 2003. Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume); Moreno Arrastio 1998, 2000; Wagner 2000. Asensio et al. 2002; Buxó 1997; Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume). See Buxó, chapter 6 (this volume); Dietler 1997, 2007b. See Dietler 1997, 2007b; Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume). See Arruda, chapter 4 (this volume); Belén, chapter 8 (this volume); Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume), Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume). For example, see Dietler 1990, 1998, chapter 1 (this volume); Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume); Vives-Ferrándiz Sánchez 2005; van Dommelen 2005. For example, see Belén, chapter 8 (this volume), who uses the term orientalizing in a sense very different from its traditional usage to describe a process of mutual cultural transformation by all the parties to Phoenician colonial encounters.

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31. See López-Ruiz, chapter 10, and Gómez Espelosín, chapter 11 in this volume, for discussion of the Greek literature on Tartessos and other ancient references. 32. See Correa 1992; Rodríguez Ramos 2000, 2002; Untermann 1995. 33. See Celestino, chapter 9 (this volume). 34. See Gailledrat 1993, 1997; Garcia 1993; Panosa Domingo 1993; Py 1993; Ruiz and Molinos 1998; Sanmartí and Santacana 2005. 35. See Belarte 1997, chapter 3 (this volume). 36. For example, see Belarte and Sanmartí 2006; Celestino, chapter 9 (this volume); Ruiz and Molinos 1998; Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume); Sanmartí and Santacana 2005. 37. See Dietler 1990, 1998, 2007a; Rouillard, chapter 5 (this volume); Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume). 38. For example, see Belarte, chapter 3 (this volume); Buxó, chapter 6 (this volume); Celestino, chapter 9 (this volume); Sanmartí, chapter 2 (this volume). 39. See Buxó, chapter 6 (this volume); Dietler 2007b.

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contributors

ana margarida arruda, Universdade de Lisboa maria carme belarte, Institut Català d’Arqueologia Clàssica, Tarragona maría belén deamos, Universidad de Sevilla r amon buxó, Museo de Arqueología de Cataluña sebastián celestino pérez, Instituto de Arqueología, Mérida, CSIC michael dietler, The University of Chicago javier gómez espelosín, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares, Madrid carolina lópez-ruiz, The Ohio State University pierre rouillard, CNRS, Paris joan sanmartí, Universitat de Barcelona brigitte treumann, independent scholar, PhD University of Chicago

index of places

Figure captions and contents are indexed and specified except when the name appears somewhere else in the page; map and table captions are indexed but not maps and table contents— consult maps and tables on pages ii, 6, 56, 71, 92, 114, 132, 170–75. Abdera, 169 Abul, 6 fig. 1.2, 7, 115, 122 fig. 4.12, 123, 302 Achaea (Achaeans), 284, 287 Acinipo, 118 Adra, 169 Adriatic Sea, 144, 288, 292 Aegean Sea, 138, 160, 220n95, 229, 262, 288 Aethiopia. See Ethiopia (Aethiopia) Africa, 4 fig. 1.1, 7, 12, 32, 35n2, 37n64, 55, 206, 259, 266–67, 271n10, 273n41, 274n51, 281, 286, 300; African, 19, 32, 124, 281; “Africanization,” 32 Agde, 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 11 Agia Irini, 97 Agost, 143 Agullana, 56 fig. 2.1, 62, 63 Aitona, 93 Alarcón, 178 Albacete, 158 Alcácer do Sal, 115, 116 fig. 4.4, 123, 127 Alcalá del Río, 201 Alcanar, 98, 100, 160 Aldovesta, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 61, 63, 95–96, 106 Alemtejo, 231 Algarve, 113, 115, 123, 231, 236 Algeciras, Bay of, 218n43 Algeria, 7, 212 Alicante, 7–8, 10, 35n11, 120, 134, 137, 140–41, 158–59, 165, 220n110, 301–2 Aliseda, 240, 241 fig. 9.6 Almada, 121

Almaraz, 115, 123, 126, 302 Almería, 159, 169 Al Mina, 183n4 Almuñécar, 7, 124 Alonis, 141 Alorda Park, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 73–75 Alt de Benimaquia, 56 fig. 2.1, 57, 61, 63, 65, 101, 165 Amanus Mountains, 169, 171–72, 175 fig. 7.3, 179 America, 282; American, 13–14, 18–20, 25–26, 33, 281; “Americanization,” 32; the Americas, 37n64, 135, 145n18; Central and South, 135; Latin American, 136 Ampordan, 104–5 Ampurias. See Emporion (Ampurias, Sant Martí d’Empúries) ‘Amuq Valley, 179 Anamurion, Cape, 175 fig. 7.3 Anatolia, 124, 209, 276n66; Anatolian, 262, 274n48 Andalusia, 4 fig. 1.1, 49, 54–55, 57, 64, 67, 78n33, 120, 125, 133, 137, 139–40, 143, 157–58, 177, 184n21, 193, 204, 215n1, 215n4; Andalusian, 7, 59, 118, 133, 137, 140–41, 184n18, 184n21, 193, 301, 303 Anglès, 56 fig. 2.1, 63 Antakia (Antioch), 183n4 Antibes, 4 fig. 1.1, 11 Antioch (Antakia), 183n4

316 • Index of Places Aragón, 93, 97, 107 Arbeca, 93 Arles, 11 Asia Minor, 259, 260, 276n67 Assyria, 184n7, 276n62; Assyrian, 4 fig. 1.1, 7, 171–72, 180–81, 259–60, 262, 264, 272n26 Ategua, 237 fig. 9.5e, 238 Athens, 16, 135, 139; Athenian, 4 fig. 1.1, 141. See also Attica Athlit, 183, 186n51 Attica, 64; Attic, 11, 32, 64–65, 72, 74–75, 132, 137–39, 143, 196, 219n72. See also Athens Badajoz, 213, 231, 237 figs. 9.5a–9.5b, 242, 243 figs. 9.7a– 9.7b Baer Bassit, 171–72 Baetica, 9 Baetis River. See Guadalquivir (Baetis) River Baios, 231 Baix Llobregat, 159 Balearic Islands, 70–71, 139 Banyoles (Pla de l’Estany, La Draga), 159 Barcelona, 32, 72, 95, 143 Barkeno, 75 Barranc de Gàfols, 56 fig. 2.1, 57, 59, 65, 95, 98, 99 fig. 3.3, 100–102, 105–7, 165 Barranc de Sant Antoni, 95 Barx, 159 Bauma del Serrat del Pont (Tortellà, La Garrotxa), 159 Baza, 184n18 Beijós Castles (Outeiro dos Castelos de Beijós), 120 Beira, 121, 230–31, 233; Beira Alta, 120; Beira Baixa, 121 Beirut, 213 Bellaterra, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3 Benidoleig, 159 Berlin, 15 Berzocana, 231, 232 fig. 9.1a Black Sea, 4 fig. 1.1, 10, 139 Bòbila Madurell, 156, 159 Bosc del Congost, 62 fig. 2.4 Boston, 270 Britain. See Great Britain Brittany, 5

Burriac, 56 fig. 2.1, 68 Byblos, 6, 180, 256, 270n7 Cabezo Lucero, 62 fig. 2.4, 134, 143 Cáceres, 231, 232 fig. 9.1a, 239–40 Cachouça, 121 Cadbury, 246n26 Cádiz (Gades). See Gadir (Gades, Cádiz) Caere, 212 Calaceit, 97 Calafell (Les Toixoneres), 160 Calaveras, Cave of, 159 Cales, 72 Calvià, 160 Camp del Túria, 160, 165 Campos, 161–62 Can Bartomeu, 62 fig. 2.4 Cancho Roano, 213, 241–45 Ca n’Oliver. See Turó de ca n’Olivé (ca n’Oliver) Can Tintorer, 159, 161–62 Caria (Carian), 281 Caribbean Sea, 30 Carmo (Carmona), 194, 206–11, 214, 220nn110–11 Carmona. See Carmo (Carmona) Cartagena. See Carthago Nova (Cartagena) Carthage, 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 7–8, 57, 59, 72, 183, 195, 208, 214, 258–59, 263–69, 271n10, 272n24, 274n47, 275n59, 275n61, 276nn66–67; Carthaginian (Punic), 4 fig. 1.1, 8, 12, 23, 30, 49, 51–52, 61 fig. 2.4, 63–65, 70–73, 75, 77, 79n70, 103, 131, 133, 139, 143, 208, 211–12, 259, 262, 266–69, 274n47, 275n57, 276n67, 291–93, 300–302, 306 Carthago Nova (Cartagena), 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 8, 49, 144, 164, 218n43, 272n24, 275n61 Cassiterides Islands, 287, 290, 292 Castellet de Bernabé, 56 fig. 2.1, 75, 158, 160 Castellón Alto, 159 Castellot de la Roca Roja, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 73, 75 Castelltuf, 60 fig. 2.3 Castro Marim, 115, 117 fig. 4.6, 122 fig. 4.13, 123–24, 125 fig. 4.15, 127

Index of Places • 317 Cástulo, 204 Catalonia, 9–12, 58–59, 63–65, 69, 72, 73 fig. 2.7, 74–75, 79n59, 91, 93–94, 101, 105, 107, 132, 136–37, 156, 159, 161, 165, 302; Catalonian, 79n70, 136 Caudete de las Fuentes (Plana d’Utiel, Kelin), 165 Caura (Coria del Río), 198–99, 200 figs. 8.1–8.2, 201, 211, 213, 217n26 Cerro de la Cabeza de Santiponce, 201 Cerro de la Mora, 118 Cerro del Peñón, 178–79 Cerro del Villar, 7, 55, 57, 67, 80n77, 120, 158, 177, 213 Cerro de Montecristo, 67 Cerro de Salomón, 125 Cerro de San Juan, 198 Cerro Macareno, 198, 201 Cessetania, 75 Chicago, 15, 32, 270n1 Chios, 64, 138–39, 198 Cilicia, 169, 179–80, 185n42, 258–59, 262, 271n9, 272n26; Cilician, 179–80, 185n42 Cirta Regia, 212 Clazomenes, 138 Conímbriga, 115, 119 figs. 4.10–4.11, 120, 123, 127, 302 Constantina, 212 Corbones River, 206 Córdoba. See Corduba (Córdoba) Corduba (Córdoba), 198, 215n4, 231, 237 figs. 9.5d–9.5e Coria del Río. See Caura (Coria del Río) Corinth, 64, 139; Corinthian, 64–65, 137–38, 219n72 Crete, 262, 285; Cretan, 97 Crevillent (Crevillente), 35n11, 91, 107n1, 140, 220n110, 302 Crevillente. See Crevillent (Crevillente) Cruz del Negro, 194, 206, 214 Cyclades (Cycladic), 196 Cyprus, 124, 195–96, 209, 212, 217n30, 235, 258, 260, 262, 269n14, 276n66, 285; Cypriot, 97, 180, 185n42, 197, 221n118, 235, 236 fig. 9.4, 246n26 Cyrene, 282

Damascus, 220n105 Daró River, 156 Dedan, 268 Deli Çay (Deli River), 179 Dénia, 101, 158, 165 Denmark, 246n26 Djebel Ansarijeh, 171–72 Dreros, 97 Ebora, 198 Ebro River, 57–58, 61, 73, 93–95, 98, 100, 102, 105–7, 132, 136, 159 Ebusus (Ibiza, Eivissa), 6 fig. 1.2, 7–8, 56 fig. 2.1, 64, 68, 70, 72, 77–78n24, 80n99, 80n101, 91, 101, 158, 214, 265, 273n41, 301; Ebusitan, 62 fig. 2.4, 70–72 Écija, 237 fig. 9.5c Edeta (Sant Miquel de Llíria), 56 fig. 2.1, 68, 165 Edetània, 160 Egypt, 158, 181–82, 186n48, 258, 285; Egyptian, 62, 108n15, 172, 180–81, 186n48, 199, 200 fig. 8.2, 256, 259, 271n14; Egyptianizing, 143 Eivissa (Ibiza). See Ebusus (Ibiza, Eivissa) Ekron, 260 Elba, 276n66 El Carambolo, 201, 202, 204, 205–6 figs. 8.4–8.6, 211, 213, 217n30 El Castillo de Doña Blanca, 57, 158–59, 193, 215n5, 275n59 El Catllar. See Era del Castell (El Catllar) Elche, 142–43 El Hofra, 212 El Molar, 143 El Oral, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 64, 79n70 El Palomar, 242, 245 El Sec, 138, 140, 142, 160 El Toro, Cave of, 161–62 El Viso, 237 fig. 9.5d Empordà, 156 fig. 6.1 Emporion (Ampurias, Sant Martí d’Empúries), 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 10–11, 49, 56 fig. 2.1, 57, 59, 67, 91, 99 fig. 3.3, 102–5, 107, 132–34, 136, 138–42, 160, 164, 291, 301–3. See also Palaiàpolis (Emporion)

318 • Index of Places England, 13–17; English, 15, 17, 19, 33, 37n64. See also Great Britain Epirus, 288 Era del Castell (El Catllar), 99 fig. 3.3, 100–101, 106 Erdivel, 238 Eridanos River, 287, 292 Erytheia, 287, 289, 292 Escodines Altes, 108n24 Espeyran, 11 Ethiopia (Aethiopia), 258, 271n10; Ethiopians, 286 Etna, Mount, 288 Etruria, 9, 27; Etruscan, 4. fig. 1.1, 6, 9–11, 23, 27, 33, 35n17, 50–51, 55, 59, 62 fig. 2.4, 64–65, 70, 102–5, 107n1, 138–39, 141, 165, 195–96, 209, 211–12, 259, 288, 301, 303 Euboea (Euboean), 137, 144, 196–97, 214, 217n30, 288 Euphrates, River, 177 Extremadura, 78n33, 120, 230, 232 fig. 9.1a, 305 Eziongeber, 268–69 Ferradura, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 98, 99 fig. 3.3, 100 Fluvià River, 156 France, 4 fig. 1.1, 5, 9, 11–16, 35n2, 37n64, 94, 104, 158–59, 162, 306–7; French, 9, 12, 15, 17, 21, 32, 37n64 Fuente Álamo, 162 Fuente Amarga, 159 Fuente de Cantos, 237 fig. 9.5b Gades (Cádiz). See Gadir (Gades, Cádiz) Gadir (Gades, Cádiz), 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 7–8, 55, 67, 131, 135, 158, 169–70, 183, 183n3, 196, 207, 211–12, 214–15nn3–4, 216n14, 217n23, 217n30, 220n111, 262–65, 275n59, 275n61, 276n66, 287, 289, 291–92, 300–303, 305; Gaditan, 143 Galera, 159 Gallia. See Gaul (Gallia) Gaul (Gallia), 4 fig. 1.1, 12, 28, 59, 160–61 Gavà, 159, 161 Gelidonya, Cape, 181 Genó, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 93 Germania, 143. See also Germany

Germany, 13–16; German, 14–15, 177–78. See also Germania Giglio, 138 Ginestar, 95 Girona, 94 Granada, 137, 159, 184n18 Grand Ribaud, 139 Gravisca, 212, 220n93 Great Britain, 19, 246n26, 275n57; British, 15, 17, 21. See also England Guadalféo River, 184n21 Guadalquivir (Baetis) River, 5, 7, 124, 132, 137, 157, 193–95, 197–99, 201, 204, 206–8, 214–15n4, 229, 231, 236, 239–40, 275n61, 302–5 Guadarranque River, 184n21 Guadiana River, 215n4, 231, 236, 240, 242, 245 Guadiaro River, 184n21 Guadix River, 184n18 Guardamar del Segura, 7–8, 101, 134, 137, 140, 302 Hamaxia, 185n28 Heuneburg, 143 Hisn at-Tinat (Kinet Höyük). See Issos (Hisn at-Tinat, Kinet Höyük) Hispalis (Spal, Seville), 194, 197–99, 200–201, 202 fig. 8.3, 204, 205–7 figs. 8.4–8.7, 209–10 figs. 8.8–8.9, 213, 215n1, 217n26, 217n30, 218n44, 237 fig. 9.5c, 301 Hispania, 9, 49, 133, 263, 274n53, 274n55 Huelva. See Onuba (Huelva) Hyères, 11 Ibiza (Eivissa). See Ebusus (Ibiza, Eivissa) Idalion, 235 Idanha-a-Nova, 121 Ilici, 142 Ilipa Magna, 197, 201 Illa d’en Reixac-Ullastret, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 66 Illeta dels Banyets, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4 Imbros, 287 India, 17, 33, 37n64, 136, 258, 266, 271n10; Indian, 136, 282

Index of Places • 319 Indian Ocean, 281 Ionia, 138, 258, 260; Ionian, 10, 64–65, 136, 138, 143, 219n72, 221n121 Ireland, 5, 235, 275n57; Irish, 235, 246n27 Ischia, 57 Israel, 180, 265, 269n16, 273n31, 276n66; Israelite, 172, 195, 265 Issos (Hisn at-Tinat, Kinet Höyük), 175 fig. 7.3, 179, 185n42 Italy, 4 fig. 1.1, 9–10, 12, 14, 37n64, 72, 139, 169; Italic, 62 fig. 2.4, 70–73 Ithaca, 285 Jaén, 157 Japan, 33 Javan, 268, 270 Jerusalem, 180–81, 261 Júcar River, 144 Judea, 180; Judean, 273n44 Kelin (Caudete de las Fuentes, Plana d’Utiel), 165 Kenya, 19, 32–33 Kinet Höyük (Hisn at-Tinat). See Issos (Hisn at-Tinat, Kinet Höyük) Kition, 97, 301 Kittim, 258, 270 Kundi, 180 Laconia (Laconian), 138 La Crueta, 62 fig. 2.4 La Cuesta del Negro, 159 Lacus Ligustinus, 197 La Draga (Banyoles, Pla de l’Estany), 159 La Ferradura (Ulldecona), 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 98, 99 fig. 3.3, 100 La Fonollera (Torroella de Montgrí), 94 La Fonteta (La Rábita), 6 fig. 1.2, 7–8, 49, 55, 77n2, 101, 136–37, 140–41, 143, 302 La Garrotxa, 159 La Joya, 195, 214 La Laguna de las Madres, 159 La Luz, 132, 136 La Monedière, 11 La Moulinasse (Salles d’Aude), 104 Languedoc, 5, 9, 11–12, 58, 68–69, 79n52, 94, 104, 160

La Picola (Santa Pola), 6 fig. 1.2, 10, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 134, 137, 140–42, 301–2 La Quejola (San Pedro), 158 La Rábita. See La Fonteta (La Rábita) L’Argilera, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4 La Seña, 160 La Serena, 231, 242 Las Pilas, 161 La Torrassa, 98 Lattara (Lattes), 6 fig. 1.2, 9, 11, 79n52, 104, 160, 161 fig. 6.2 Lattes. See Lattara (Lattes) La Vilajoiosa. See Les Casetes (La Vilajoiosa) Lebanon, 172, 177, 180 Lebanon, Mount, 170, 181 Lemnos, 287 Lequin, Cape, 138 Lesbos, 138 L’Escala, 62, 104 Les Casetes (La Vilajoiosa), 56 fig. 2.1, 62, 63 Les Cendres, Cave of, 162 L’Escuera, 62 fig. 2.4 Les Deveses, 95 Les Mallaetes, Cave of, 159 L’Espérit, Cave of, 162 Les Toixoneres (Calafell), 160 Lez River, 104 Libya (Libyan), 285 Liguria (Ligurian), 5, 9, 35n3 Lion, Gulf of, 72 Lisbon, 115, 116 fig. 4.3, 123 Lixus, 124, 263, 275n59 Lleida, 93 Llíria, 158, 165 Llobregat River, 156 Locri, 139 Logrosán, 239 London, 15 Los Millares (Santa Fe de Mondújar), 159, 161–62 Los Nietos, 142, 302 Los Saladares, 101 Lud, 268 Lusitania, 9 Luwia (Luwian), 179–80 Lycia (Lycian), 284

320 • Index of Places Macedonia, 4 fig. 1.1 Magna Graeca, 138–39 Mainake, 10, 133, 184n14, 184n26, 291 Málaga. See Malaka (Málaga) Malaka (Málaga), 6 fig. 1.2, 8, 10, 66, 118, 158, 176–77, 184n18, 213, 217n22, 260, 300 Mallorca, 138, 160 Malta, 265 Marchena, 206 Marseille. See Massalia (Marseille) Mas Castellar (Pontós), 62 fig. 2.4, 74 fig. 2.8, 156, 160, 303 Masroig. See Puig Roig (Masroig) Massalia (Marseille), 4 fig. 1.1, 5, 6 fig. 1.2, 10–12, 27, 64, 67, 70–71, 104, 133, 137–39, 144, 160, 275n57, 301–3; Massaliote, 11, 62 fig. 2.4, 64, 72, 133, 138, 144 Mastia, 274n51, 275n61 Matarranya, 97 Mazarrón, Bay of, 138–39, 143 Medellín, 121, 136, 242, 245 Media, 258, 270 Megara Hyblaea, 141 Memphis, 212 Menace, 175–76 Mesopotamia, 172, 177, 179 Mexico, 135 Miletos, 138 Moleta del Remei, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 100, 160 Mondego, River, 7, 113, 115, 120–21, 123–24, 126–27, 302 Mons Cassius, 198 Monte do Frade, 121 Montemolín, 206, 211, 219n63 Montforte del Cid, 143 Montjuïc, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 73–75 Montlaurès (Narbonne), 104 Montou, Cave of, 162 Montpellier, 79n52 Montsià, 108n25 Móra Depression, 94, 96, 98, 100, 108n25 Moreirinha, 121 Morocco, 7, 54–55, 67, 187n65 Morro de Mezquitilla, 7, 55, 118, 120, 124, 177 Motya (Mozia), 6 fig. 1.2, 124, 301 Mozia. See Motya (Mozia)

Murcia, 79n59, 132, 136, 138, 142, 302 Mycenae (Mycenaean), 229, 270n7 Narbo Martius (Narbonne), 12 Narbonne. See Montlaurès (Narbonne); Narbo Martius (Narbonne) Nashville, 15 Naucratis, 212, 220n93 Neapolis, 160 Nerja, Cave of, 161–62 Nice, 4 fig. 1.1, 11 Nile Delta/River, 212, 268 Nimrud, 180, 186nn47–48 Nora, 260–62, 264 Obulco (Porcuna), 208 Olbia, 4 fig. 1.1, 217n31 Olocau. See Puntal dels Llops (Olocau) Olympus, Mount, 284–85, 287 Onuba (Huelva), 6 fig. 1.2, 7, 10, 125, 132–33, 136, 140–41, 144, 159, 195–97, 212–15n4, 216n20, 217nn30–31, 218n43, 219n72, 221n121, 231, 276n66, 290, 301–2 Ophir, 269, 272–73 Oran, 136 Outeiro dos Castelos de Beijós (Beijós Castles), 120 Padul, 159 Palaiàpolis (Emporion), 99 fig. 3.3, 102–3, 105, 107, 134, 138, 140–41. See also Emporion (Ampurias, Sant Martí d’Empúries) Palància River, 98, 101 Paleopaphos, 235 Palestine, 184n6, 212; Palestinian, 181. See also Syro-Palestine Paris, 15, 32 Pech de Mau (Sigean). See Pech Maho (Pech de Mau, Sigean) Pech Maho (Pech de Mau, Sigean), 11, 56 fig. 2.1, 68, 99 fig. 3.3, 104–5, 107, 134, 140, 142 Pedroches, 231 Peloponnesus, 285; Peloponnesian, 4 fig. 1.1 Peñalosa en Escacena, 125 Penya del Moro, 56 fig. 2.1, 74 Penya Negra, 91, 101, 107n1, 140, 220n110

Index of Places • 321 Persia, 258, 270; Persian, 4 fig. 1.1, 270n6, 272n20, 289, 291 Philistia, 181; Philistine, 181, 260 Phocaea, 6 fig. 1.2, 10; Phocaean, 10, 12, 57, 63, 67, 77, 91, 102–3, 107, 132, 144, 160, 197, 221n121, 289–90, 292 Phrygia (Phrygian), 284 Pillars of Heracles, 286–89, 291–93 Pithecoussai, 214 Pla de l’Estany (Banyoles, La Draga), 159 Plana d’Utiel (Caudete de las Fuentes, Kelin), 165 Pontós. See Mas Castellar (Pontós) Porcuna (Obulco), 208 Portugal, 4 fig. 1.1, 5, 7, 12–14, 16, 57, 78n24, 124–25, 127, 135, 230, 232 fig. 9.1b, 275n59, 302, 305; Portuguese, 37n64, 113, 114 figs. 4.1–4.2, 115, 120–21, 123–24, 195, 230–31, 233 Provence, 9, 94, 104, 138–39 Prussia, 15, 17 Puente Tablas, 157 Puerto de Santa María, 158 Puig Castellar, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 73–75 Puig de la Nau (Vinarraguel), 98 Puig Roig (Masroig), 98, 107 Puig de Sant Andreu, 62 fig. 2.4, 156, 160 Punic. See Carthage: Carthaginian (Punic) Puntal dels Llops (Olocau), 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 75, 157 Puntal de Salines, 60 fig. 2.2 Purullena, 159 Put, 268 Pyrenees, 49, 64, 76, 162, 287, 293 Pyrgi, 212 Quinta do Marcelo, 121 Redovan, 143 Red Sea, 258, 272nn17–18 Rhode (Rosas), 4 fig. 1.1, 6 fig. 1.2, 10, 49, 56 fig. 2.1, 72, 134 Rhodes, 139; Rhodian, 221n118 Rhône, River, 5, 10, 12 Rif Mountains, 187 Río Tinto, 7, 10, 67, 257, 276n66

Roça do Casal do Meio, 231, 232 fig. 9.1b Rome, 8, 12–17, 136; Roman, 4 fig. 1.1, 5, 8–14, 16–19, 21, 23–24, 28, 30–31, 35n3, 37, 49–50, 55, 59, 63, 77, 80n101, 134–36, 160, 164–65, 175, 197–99, 200, 206–7, 211, 213, 259, 262–65, 267, 274nn52–53, 275n61, 284, 288, 293, 301–3; Romanocentric, 23 Ronda, 184n18 Rosas. See Rhode (Rosas) Roussillon, 5, 10, 162 Sabadell, 159 Sa Caleta, 78n24, 91, 101, 301 Sacred Promontory, 288 Sado River, 115, 116 fig. 4.4, 123–24 Saguntum, 56 fig. 2.1, 68, 142 Saint-Blaise, 9 Saint-Pierre-les-Martigues, 104 Sales de Llierca (La Garrotxa), 159 Salles d’Aude (La Moulinasse), 104 Saltes, 217n23 Samaria, 220n105, 276n66 Samian Heraion, 235 Samos, 134, 138–39, 235, 263, 276n67; Samian, 140, 281 San Bartolomé de Almonte, 125 San Pedro (La Quejola), 158 Santa Fe de Mondújar. See Los Millares (Santa Fe de Mondújar) Santa Olaia, 6 fig. 1.2, 7, 115, 123, 126, 301 Santa Pola. See La Picola (Santa Pola) Santarém, 115, 117 fig. 4.5, 118 figs. 4.7–4.9, 120–21, 123, 125 fig. 4.14, 126–27, 302 Sant Cristòfol de Maçalió, 107–8n24 Sant Jaume–Mas d’en Serrà, 56 fig. 2.1, 59, 98–99 fig. 3.3, 100, 105, 107 Sant Martí d’Empúries (Ampurias). See Emporion (Ampurias, Sant Martí d’Empúries) Sant Miquel de Llíria. See Edeta (Sant Miquel de Llíria) Sardinia, 4 fig. 1.1, 8, 30, 217n30, 229–30, 260, 262, 265, 273n38, 273nn40–41, 274n51, 275n59, 276n66, 300; Sardinian, 196–97, 217n30 Schem, 276n66 Scotland, 5

322 • Index of Places Seba, 269, 272 Segura River, 8, 91, 101, 131–32, 137, 140, 143, 302 Selinunte, 219n87 Sènia River, 100 Serra Grossa, 162 Setúbal, 115, 123 Seville. See Hispalis (Spal, Seville) Sheba, 268–69, 272 Sicily, 4 fig. 1.1, 8, 131, 160, 229–30, 265 Sidon, 6, 180–81, 213, 264; Sidonian, 181, 212 Sierra de Baza-Filabres, 184n18 Sierra de Chaparral, 179 Sierra de Crevillente. See Crevillent (Crevillente) Sierra de Gata, 233 Sierra de las Guajaras, 179 Sierra Morena, 204 Sierra Nevada, 176 Sierra Tejeda, 179 Sigean (Pech de Mau). See Pech Maho (Pech de Mau, Sigean) Silurus Mountain, 176 Sinai, 276n66 Sinus Tartesii, 197 Sissu, 179–80 Spal (Seville). See Hispalis (Spal, Seville) Straits of Gibraltar, 49, 54–55, 57, 62 fig. 2.4, 64–67, 70, 72, 127, 137, 159, 187n65, 286, 290 Sulcis, 57 Syracuse, 139, 208 Syria, 169, 171, 171 table 7.1, 174 fig. 7.2, 177; Syrian, 179, 259. See also Syro-Palestine Syro-Palestine, 276n66; Syro-Palestinian, 6, 229, 236, 265. See also Palestine; Syria Tagus River, 7, 113, 115, 117 fig. 4.5, 120–21, 123–24, 126–27, 230–31, 233, 234 figs. 9.3a–9.3b, 240, 242, 302 Tajo River. See Tagus River Tamaris, 104 Tarraconensis (Hispania Tarraconensis), 9 Tarragona, 56 fig. 2.1, 62 fig. 2.4, 63, 68, 74 fig. 2.8, 75, 95–96, 100, 160 Tarseion, 262, 274n51, 275n61

Tarsus, 258–59, 262, 266, 271n9, 273n31 Taurus, Mountains, 169, 171, 173 Tauton, 246n26 Tavira, 115, 123–24, 127 Tejada la Vieja, 193 Tel-Dor, 276n66 Tel-Qasile, 273n44 Terra Alta, 96 Ter River, 156 Tharros, 6 fig. 1.2, 276n66 Thermaic Gulf, 287 Tierra de Barros, 231 Tigris River, 177 Torre Cremada, 107 Torroella de Montgrí (La Fonollera), 94 Tortellà (Bauma del Serrat del Pont, La Garrotxa), 159 Toscanos, 6 fig. 1.2, 7–8, 67, 118, 120, 124, 137, 176, 178–79, 184n14, 184n26, 300–301, 303 Tossal Redó, 97, 107 Troy, 284, 287; Trojan, 284–85, 287 Tubal, 268 Tunisia, 7 Turdetania, 274n52 Turkey, 4 fig. 1.1, 10, 171–73, 175 fig. 7.3, 177; Turkish, 185n28 Turó de ca n’Olivé (ca n’Oliver), 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 66, 73, 74 fig. 2.8, 75, 156 Turó de la Font de la Canya, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 65, 165 Turó del Calvari, 96–97, 106–7 Turó del Vent, 56 fig. 2.1, 62 fig. 2.4, 74 fig. 2.8, 75 Tuscany, 9, 138; Tuscan, 9 Tyre, 4 fig. 1.1, 6–7, 180–81, 196, 200, 213, 216n20, 216–17n22, 258, 260, 264, 266, 269, 273n41, 276n62; Tyrian, 124, 212, 220n105, 221n118 Tyrrhenia, 292; Tyrrhenian, 144, 288; Tyrrhenoi, 9; Tyrsenoi, 259 Ullastret, 56 fig. 2.1, 60 figs. 2.2–2.3, 62 fig. 2.4, 63, 66, 68, 73 fig. 2.7, 74 fig. 2.8, 75, 104, 156, 160 Ulldecona. See La Ferradura (Ulldecona)

Index of Places • 323 Ulu Burun, 182, 186n59 Uphaz, 168, 172n19 Utica, 7, 263, 275n59 Valencia, 58, 75, 79n59, 91, 93–94, 98, 101, 106, 131, 133, 137, 143, 157–59, 160; Valencian, 58 Vallès Occidental, 159 Vélez-Málaga, 176 Vélez River, 178, 184n21 Vilalba dels Arcs, 96 Vilanera, 56 fig. 2.1, 62–63, 104

Vilars, 93 Villaricos, 131 Vinarragell (Puig de la Nau), 98 Vista Alegre, 62 fig. 2.4 Wales, 5 Yadnana, 260 Yaman, 260 Zalamea de la Serena, 213, 242 Zarza Capilla, 237 fig. 9.5a, 238