Monumentality and the Roman Empire: Architecture in the Antonine Age

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MONUMENTALIT Y AND THE ROMAN EMPIRE

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MONUMENTALIT Y AND THE ROMAN EMPIRE Architecture in the Antonine Age Edmund Thomas

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Edmund Thomas 2007 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Antony Rowe Ltd., Chippenham, Wiltshire ISBN 978-0-19-928863–2 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

K. V. T. V. J.T. E. C. L. GENITORIBUS OPTIMIS ET MEMORIAE AVI CENTANNI

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CONTENTS Acknowledgements List of Figures List of Maps Abbreviations Glossary

ix xi xxiii xxiv xxv 1

INTRODUCTION

PART I: MONUMENTAL FORM 1. Principles of Monumental Form in Antiquity

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2. The Contribution of Antoninus Pius

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3. The Symbolic Signiﬁcance of Architectural Form

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4. Patrons and the Monumentality of Architecture

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5. Creating Form: Architects in the Antonine Age

91 103

Conclusion

PART II: MONUMENTS OF CIT Y AND EMPIRE 6. Buildings, Politics, and the Monumentality of Antonine Cities

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7. The Cities and the Emperor

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8. Imperial Architecture

150 161

Conclusion

PART III: MONUMENTS AND MEMORY 9. Preserving the Monuments of the Past

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10. Building the Monuments of the Future

179 204

Conclusion

PART IV: RESPONSES TO MONUMENTS 11. Experiencing and Responding to Architecture

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12. The Architectural Descriptions of Lucian of Samosata

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Conclusion GENERAL CONCLUSION

235 237

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contents MAPS 1. The Roman Empire (western provinces)

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2. The Roman Empire (central and eastern provinces)

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3. Roman Italy

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4. The ‘Restoration of Italy’ by Antoninus Pius

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5. Roman Asia Minor

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6. Roman Africa

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APPENDICES 1. Nidiﬁcatio and the Motif of Labyrinths in Private Houses

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2. Epigraphical Dossier Relating to the Architect Nicon

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3. Translations of the Inscriptions from the ‘Basilica Stoa’ at Thera

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4. Text and Translation of the Verse Inscription from the Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium (Kasserine, Algeria)

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TABLES 1. Summary description of Roman provincial coins showing arcuated lintels and similar forms

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2. Architects in the Roman Empire in the second century c.100–200

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3. Known Mausolea in the Roman world

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4. Principal public buildings in the Roman Empire of the Antonine Age, ad 138–192

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Notes Bibliography

273 315

INDEXES 1. Index of place-names

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2. Index of ancient personal names

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3. Index of modern personal names

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4. Index locorum

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5. Index of Latin terms

364

6. Index of Greek terms

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7. General Index

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book is the fruit of thoughts on Roman buildings that were conceived over many years and inspired by many architectural environments; accordingly, it has taken several forms and proﬁted from numerous institutions and individuals. The idea for it grew out of a doctoral thesis carried out at the University of Oxford in 1989–93. I am grateful to my undergraduate tutor Ewen Bowie for encouraging me to take it up in the ﬁrst place and for his perceptive criticisms, years later, of drafts of what is now the ﬁnal chapter. My doctoral supervisor, Nicholas Purcell, patiently tolerated and even fuelled my reﬂections on a topic which raised many an eyebrow among classicists and which others would probably have urged me to abandon; both the thesis and early drafts of the book, which I composed at St. John’s College Oxford as graduate student and research fellow respectively, beneﬁted from his breadth of knowledge and insights. My examiners John Onians and Simon Price kindly provided acute criticisms of the original thesis, yet still encouraged me to publish it as a single book instead of as isolated articles, and convinced Oxford University Press to publish it. I am particularly grateful to Ja´s Elsner for reading and commenting on the ﬁnal draft. Within OUP, there are many people to whom I owe thanks: above all, Hilary O’Shea for believing in the project from the start; Dorothy McCarthy for her immense patience in bringing it to fruition; Kathleen McLaughlin for overseeing the ﬁnal stages with efficiency and magnanimity; Sue Tipping for her skill in setting the illustrations; and Jeff New and Kay Clement for their swift and thorough work in copy-editing and reading proofs. Throughout this period, I have beneﬁted from the support of many institutions or funding bodies: the British Academy, for funding a three-year Major State Studentship to undertake the original thesis, a research trip to Tunisia in January 1992, and a three-year Postdoctoral Fellowship to revise and substantially expand it; St. John’s College Oxford, for providing me with a civilized home during both those periods; the Craven Committee at Oxford, for a Craven Fellowship, which helped me to see many of the buildings I discuss in these pages; the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, for a lavish grant enabling me to travel widely in Turkey in 1991; the Lemmermann Foundation in Rome, for funding a ten-month stay in Rome in 1991–2, and the Scuola Normale Superiore at Pisa, for receiving me as an exchange student; the British School at Rome, for a Rome Scholarship in 1993–4 when I started to think beyond the thesis; the Historic Towns Trust, for including me within their Historic Towns Atlas project in 1998 and so helping me to think more widely about urbanism and architecture, and Hertford College Oxford, for offering collegial comforts during that period. Ampleforth College, the National University of Ireland Galway, and the Universities of Exeter and Durham have all provided me with idyllic environments in which to write. The staff of a vast number of libraries, in Oxford, London, Rome, Durham, Exeter, Leeds, Aberystwyth, Newcastle, Sheffield, Edinburgh, Galway, Ankara, and New York, have been helpful without exception. I am grateful to the Faculty of Arts of the University of Durham for a generous subvention towards the cost of illustrations; Jonathan Williams of the British Museum gave me invaluable assistance with the coin illustrations; and the staff of several institutions (listed in the illustration credits) have readily provided other photographs. For their kind permission to publish their illustrations, I am grateful to the following individuals: Miranda Greene, Ted Kaizer, Lawrence Keppie, Fred Kleiner, Shawna Leigh, Jeff Saward, Antony Smith, Bert Smith, Martin Steskal, Hubert Steiner, Karin Tancke, Pierluigi Tucci, Andrew Wilson, and Mark Wilson Jones. For their critical comments on drafts of this book, I am grateful to Elisabeth Albanis, Barbara Borg, Ewen Bowie, Ja´s Elsner, Emily Gowers, and Nicholas Purcell. For their insights, expertise, or conversations at various stages of this project, I am grateful to many people: Martin Biddle, George Boys-Stones, Lucilla Burn, Robert Coates-Stephens, Howard Colvin, Jim Coulton, Michael Crawford, Francesco de Angelis, Janet DeLaine, Pierre Gros, Johannes Haubold, Volker Heuchert, Elena Isayev, Andrew Kahn, Ted Kaizer, Birthe Kjølbye-Biddle, Eugenio La Rocca, Christoph Leidl, the late John Lloyd, Judith McKenzie, Milagros Navarro Caballero, Mare Rand, Arthur Segal, Salvatore Settis, Giovanna Tedeschi Grisanti, Paul Tod, Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Tim Whitmarsh, and Christian Witschel. For any remaining errors I alone am responsible. Finally, my greatest debt is to my parents, who not only read successive drafts thoroughly and assiduously, but supported me constantly and immeasurably throughout the monumental process of this book’s construction. It is dedicated to them and to the memory of my grandfather, whose monumental life-span fell just short of his seeing this book in print.

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LIST OF FIGURES 1. Architectural monumentality and the roadside interior. Reproduced from Robert Venturi, Learning from Las Vegas (Cambridge, Mass., 1973), 55, ﬁg. 53. © The MIT Press.

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2. Bronze sestertius of Trajan, reverse face, showing image of a bridge, probably the Danube Bridge built by the emperor Trajan to the design of the architect Apollodorus. CREBM iii, Trajan no. 851. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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3. Remains of the Capitolium temple, Thuburbo Maius (Tunisia). Photo: author.

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4. The Roman theatre at Dougga (Thugga). (a) View of the stage-building from the auditorium. Photo: © Andrew Wilson. (b) View of the theatre from behind the stage-building. Photo: author. (c) Reconstruction model, Museo della Civiltà Romana, Rome. Photo: German Archaeological Institute Rome, Inst. Neg. 73.1007.

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5. Library of Celsus, Ephesus, c.112–17 ad. (a) The site today, with reconstructed front elevation, open area in front, and entrance gateway to the agora built in the Augustan period by the freedmen Mazaeus and Mithridates. Photo: © Stockphoto International. (b) Allegorical statue of the ‘Virtue of Celsus’ reinstalled in left-hand niche of the façade. Photo: © Stockphoto International. (c) Memorial text inscribed on the façade, with modern red highlighting. Photo: author. 9‒10 6. Grange Court (Old Town Hall), Leominster, Herefordshire. Photo by permission of Miranda Greene, Historic Herefordshire On Line.

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7. Schematic symbol of aqueduct section (forma), engraved on the lost upper section of an inscription from Sestino (Sestinum) recording the repair to the Aqua Augusta. Drawing by Eugen Bormann from Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin, 1891), vol. xi, no. 6016.

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8. The Theatre at Orange (Arausio): detail of the central opening of the stage-building with reinstalled statue of Augustus surmounted by a pediment. Photo: author.

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9. Trajanic relief, the so-called anaglypha Traiani, from the Roman Forum, now kept in the Curia, on which the emperor Trajan is shown (right) standing in front of a templum rostratum. Photo: German Archaeological Institute Rome, Inst. Neg. 68.2783.

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10. Cast of a sestertius of Domitian, reverse face, showing domical shrine guarded by soldiers and containing a colossal statue of the emperor. CREBM ii, Domitian, p. 407*. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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11. The Parthian Arch of Nero on the Capitoline Hill in Rome. Reconstruction by Fred Kleiner, based on coin representations. Reproduced from F. S. Kleiner, The Arch of Nero in Rome (Rome, 1985), pl. 22, with the permission of Fred Kleiner.

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12. Pedimented entrance to the amphitheatre at Nîmes (Nemausus). Photo: Bildarchiv Foto Marburg, neg. no. 37.215.

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13. Flavian relief from the tomb of Aulus Hirtius in the Campus Martius, Rome (Palazzo della Cancelleria). From E. Rodríguez-Almeida, MÉFRA (1994), ﬁg. 9, with permission of the École Française de Rome.

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14. Column monument to Hadrian, Lambaesis. (a) and (b) Front and side views of the inscribed base. Photos: L. Leschi, Études d’épigraphie, d’archéologie et d’histoire africaines (Paris, 1957), 142, ﬁg. 2. Reproduced with permission of Arts et Métiers Graphiques, Paris, and the Algerian service for antiquities. (c) Reconstruction of the column. From Jean-Marie Gassend and Michel Janon, ‘La Colonne d’Hadrien à Lambèse’, Bulletin d’Archéologie Algérienne, 7 (1977–9), ﬁg. 8, shown at the same scale as other honoriﬁc column monuments of the Roman Empire, from D. M. Bailey, Excavations at El-Ashmunein, iv. The Buildings at Hermopolis Magna (London, 1991), pl. 39. Images reproduced with permission of the Bulletin d’Archéologie Algérienne and the British Museum Press. 15. Antoninus Pius (ad 87–161, emperor 138–61). (a) Marble portrait, Glyptothek, Munich. Photo:

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list of ﬁgures © Glyptothek, Munich. (b) Relief from the Antonine Altar, Ephesus. Photo: © Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, ANSA I 864.

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16. The Tomb of Hadrian in Rome. (a) Reconstruction model, Museo del Castel Sant’Angelo. Photo: © Alinari. (b) Reconstruction drawing. Reproduced from Amanda Claridge, Rome: An Oxford Archaeological Guide (Oxford, 1998), 371, ﬁg. 190, with permission of Oxford University Press. (c) Rebuilt as the Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome, now approached from the Ponte Elio, on the site of the former Pons Aelius. Photo: author.

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17. The Temple of the Deiﬁed Hadrian (Hadrianeum), Rome. (a) Location plan, in relation to the modern street plan. Reproduced from Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), with permission of Oxford University Press. (b) Restored section, from F. Coarelli, Roma (1974), 265, reproduced with permission of Edizioni Laterza. (c) Reconstructed elevation of the long side of the colonnaded precinct, with statues of the Roman provinces hypothetically positioned at the attic level. Drawing by Amanda Claridge, from Provinciae Fideles, ed. Marina Sapelli (Milan, 1999), reproduced with permission of Mondadori Electa.

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18. The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, Rome. (a) View of the temple from the Palatine hill. (b) Front elevation. (c) Side elevation. (d)–(e) Details of the dedicatory inscription on the building’s frieze. Photos: author. (f ) Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the temple dedicated to Faustina. CREBM iv, Antonius Pius no. 1508 © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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19. Columnar orders of monumental temples in Antonine Rome. (a) The Temple of Hadrian (Hadrianeum). Drawing by Mark Wilson Jones. Reproduced from JRA 2 (1989), with permission of Journal of Roman Archaeology and Mark Wilson Jones. (b) The Pantheon. Drawing by Mark Wilson Jones, reproduced from M. Wilson Jones, Principles of Roman Architecture with permission of Yale University Press and Mark Wilson Jones. (c) The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina. Drawing by Mark Wilson Jones, reproduced from Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 107, ﬁg. 41, with permission of Mark Wilson Jones and Oxford University Press.

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20. Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the Temple of the Deiﬁed Augustus. CREBM iv, Antoninus Pius no. 2064 © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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21. Bronze medal of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing a round temple with two columns, a statue of Bacchus, and two semicircular colonnades. Cohen 1187, formerly in the Vatican Albani Collection. Photo: © Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de Monnaies et Médailles.

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22. Plan of excavations at Tor di Nona, left bank of the Tiber in the northern Campus Martius, Rome. Reproduced from D. Marchetti, Bull. Com. Arch. (1890), pl. 2.

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23. Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, circular building of the Doric order. (a) and (b) Views of reconstructed remains. Photos: author. (c) Reconstruction model of Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, Museo della Villa Adriana Tivoli. Detail showing the Doric Temple Area. From William MacDonald and John A. Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa and Its Legacy (New Haven, 1995), 59, ﬁg. 50. Reproduced with permission of Yale University Press.

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24. Wall-painting from the ‘House of Apollo’, Pompeii, ‘bedroom 25’, west alcove, with scene of Apollo seated in a central tholos ﬂanked by goddesses, representing the contest between Venus and Hesperus. Photo: © Alinari.

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25. The Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus, begun by Hadrian, continued by Antoninus Pius, and completed by Marcus Aurelius, after damage by earthquake. (a) Proposed plan of the temple. (b) Reconstructed section of cella with galleries. (c) Reconstruction of the main order. (d) Reconstruction of the front elevation with conventional pediment. (e) Alternative reconstruction of the front elevation with ‘Syrian pediment’. Drawings by Antony Smith, ‘Hadrianic Architecture in the Eastern Roman Empire’, Ph.D thesis, Cambridge University (1980), ﬁgs. 110, 116, 122, 112, reproduced with kind permission of Dr Smith. 26. Reservoir structure at the head of the Aqueduct of Hadrian, Athens, completed by Antoninus Pius. (a) Plan of the ancient and modern structures. (b) Reconstructed front elevation. Drawings by Shawna Leigh, reproduced with her permission and permission of the Journal of Roman Archaeology.

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list of ﬁgures

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27. Roman villa at Ptolemais (Libya). Reconstruction of the colonnaded entrance to Room 14. Drawing by G. R. H. Wright. From Carl H. Kraeling, Ptolemais: City of the Libyan Pentapolis (Chicago, 1962), 129, ﬁg. 48. Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.

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28. The ‘Temple of Hadrian’, Ephesus, dedicated by Publius Quintillius Valens Varius, ad 118. Reconstruction from surviving fragments. Photo: author.

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29. The Gate of Hadrian at Ephesus. Restored elevation. Drawing from Hilke Thür, Das Hadrianstor in Ephesos, Forschungen in Ephesos, XI/1 (Vienna, 1989), Plan 12, reproduced with permission of the Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna.

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30. Ishtar Gate, Babylon. Reconstruction in the Museum of the Ancient Near East, Berlin. Photo: © Preussische Kulturbesitz, Berlin.

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31. Coin of Trajan from Caesarea. BMC Palestine, Samaria, Caesarea no. 39. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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32. Roman triumphal arch at Orange (Arausio). Detail of the attic level of the east façade. Drawing from Robert Amy, L’Arc d’Orange, Gallia suppl., 15 (Paris, 1962), pl. 21. Reproduced with permission of CNRS Editions, Paris.

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33. Course of the Antonine Wall, showing location of distance slabs and division of work into ﬁfteen construction sectors shared by three legions. Drawing by Margaret Scott, from Lawrence Keppie, Roman Distance Slabs from the Antonine Wall: A Brief Guide (Glasgow, 1979), 6, ﬁg. 2, reproduced with kind permission of Professor Keppie and Hunterian Museum Publications.

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34. Relief slab from Bridgeness, East Lothian, originally located at the start of the Antonine Wall. Photo: © The National Museums of Scotland, no. 24526.

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35. Relief slab from Old Kilpatrick, originally located at the culmination of the Antonine Wall. Photo: © The Hunterian Museum, Glasgow, inv. no. F.15.

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36. Relief distance slab from Hutcheson Hill. Photo: © The Hunterian Museum, Glasgow, inv. no. F.1969.

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37. Fragmentary relief from Croy Hill. Photo: © The National Museums of Scotland, inv. no. X. FV44.

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38. Sanctuary of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Baalbek. (a) General plan (reconstructed). After K. S. Freyberger, ‘Im Licht des Sonnengottes,’ Damaszener Mitteilungen, 12 (2000), 98, ﬁg. 1. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute, Oriental Section, Damascus. (b) Reconstructed view by Bruno Schulz. Reproduced from Theodor Wiegand (ed.), Baalbek, i, by Daniel Krencker, Theodor von Lüpke, and Hermann Winnefeld (Berlin and Leipzig, 1923), pl. 16.

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39. Exedra of the great court of the Sanctuary of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Baalbek. Photo: © Ted Kaizer.

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40. ‘Temple of Bacchus’, Baalbek. (a) Exterior view of front side from the north-west. Photo: © Ted Kaizer. (b) Restored view of front elevation. Drawing by Bruno Schulz, reproduced from Theodor Wiegand (ed.), Baalbek, ii, by Daniel Krencker, Theodor von Lüpke, and Hermann Winnefeld (Berlin and Leipzig, 1923), pl. 7. (c) Plan of the temple. After Freyberger,‘Im Licht des sonnengottes’ (above, Fig. 38), 99, ﬁg. 2a. (d) Interior view, west end. Photo: © Ted Kaizer. (e) Restored interior view from the east. Drawing by Bruno Schulz, reproduced from ibid., pl. 17. 48‒9 41. Bronze coin of Neapolis, Samaria, reverse face, showing sanctuary on Mt Gerizim. BMC Palestine, 48–9, Neapolis, no. 20. © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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42. So-called ‘Temple of Diana’, Nîmes (Nemausus), interior view of remains, showing stone vaulted ceiling. Photo: author.

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43. Bronze sestertii of Marcus Aurelius, showing temple with four herms. (a) and (b) CREBM iv, Marcus Aurelius nos. 1441–2. © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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44. The ‘Captives’ Façade’, north side of the agora, Corinth. Restored view, drawn by R. Stillwell. Reproduced from R. Stillwell, R. L. Scranton, and S. E. Freeman, Architecture, Corinth i.2 (Princeton, 1941), pl. 7, with permission of the American School of Classical Studies in Athens. Photo: © The National Library of Scotland.

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list of ﬁgures 45. Arcaded terrace beneath the Capitoline hill known as the ‘Tabularium’. Restitutive plan showing the location of the Temple of Juno Moneta on top of the terrace. Drawing by Pier Luigi Tucci, after Richard Delbrück, Hellenistische Bauten in Latium, i. Baubeschreibungen (Strasburg, 1907), pl. 3, and A. M. Colini, Bull Com Arch 70 (1942), pl. 2. Reproduced from JRA, 18 (2005), 22, ﬁg. 12 with permission of Pier Luigi Tucci. © The Journal of Roman Archaeology.

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46. Statue of Artemis Ephesia from Ephesus. Selçuk Museum; E 45. Photo: © The Austrian Archaeological Institute.

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47. The so-called ‘Praetorium’ at Phaena (Mismije), Syria. Detail of interior showing the stone vault. Photo: Dumbarton Oaks Collection, © Princeton Theological Seminary.

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48. Coffered ceiling from the Temple of Bel, Palmyra, with zodiac relief band around a central dome. Drawing by Robert Wood, from The Ruins of Palmyra, otherwise Tedmoor, in the Desert (London, 1753), pl. 19. Photo: © Special Collections, University of Newcastle.

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49. Round building in the agora at Side, Pamphylia. (a) Location plan. From Arif Müﬁd Mansel, Die Ruinen von Side (Berlin, 1963), 99, ﬁg. 75. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute. (b) Remains of the building. Photo: author. (c) Plan of the building. From Mansel, Die Ruinen von Side, ﬁg. 79. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute. (d) Restored view. From ibid. 104, ﬁg. 80. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute. (e) Remains of segmental pediment and coffering from the dome. Photo: author. (f )–(g) Fragment of entablature, and detail of its ornament. Photos: author. (h) Detail of one of the surviving ﬁgures from the coffering. Photo: © Karin Tancke. (j) Imperial coin of Side, reverse face, showing a round temple with domical roof. From Mansel, Die Ruinen von Side, 107, ﬁg. 83b. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute. 57‒8 50. Keystone of vault with ‘signature’ of the architect Diodorus, from the Sanctuary of Zeus at Jerash (Gerasa), Jordan. (a) Plan of the sanctuary, with location of keystone. (b)–(c) Restored drawing of the keystone, and section from below. From J. Seigne, ‘Le Sanctuaire de Zeus à Jerash: éléments de chronologie’, Syria. Revue d’Art Oriental et d’Archéologie, 62 (1985), 287–95, ﬁg. 1 (p.288) and ﬁgs. 2–3 (p.290). Reproduced with permission of the French Institute of Archaeology of the Near East, Beirut.

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51. Ceiling of Room IV of the ‘House of the Painted Vaults’, Ostia. Photo: © Fototeca Unione, AAR, neg. no. 6182.

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52. Imitation coffering on a ceiling from the Roman villa at Gadebridge, Hertfordshire. Photo: James Brown, courtesy of Dr David S. Neal and the Dacorum Heritage Trust.

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53. Floor mosaic of the ‘Terme dei Cisiarii’, Ostia. Photo: author.

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54. Altar with relief of northern mother goddess, Corinium Museum, Cirencester. Photo: © Corinium Museum.

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55. Altar of the goddess Nehalennia, from Domburg, now in the Rijksmuseum van Oudheden, Leiden. Photo: © Rijksmuseum van Oudheden.

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56. Bronze coin from Apollonia Salbace, Caria, showing the city deity within an arcuated lintel surround. BMC Caria and Islands, Apollonia Salbace no. 23. © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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57. Bronze coins from Samos. (a) from the reign of Domitian, ad 81–96; (b) from the reign of Trajan Decius, ad 249–51. BMC Ionia, Samos, nos. 229 and 336. Photos: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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58. ‘Temple A’, Niha, Lebanon. (a) Exterior view from the front. (b) Interior view. Photos: © Ted Kaizer. (c) Restored view of the interior. Drawing by Sheila Gibson, from J. Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture (Harmondsworth, 1981), 323, ﬁg. 208. Reproduced with permission of Yale University Press. (d) Plan. After K. S. Freyberger, Damaszener Mitteilungen, 70 (2001). Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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59. Silver plaque from Heddernheim, showing Jupiter Dolichenus. © The British Museum.

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60. Diocletian’s Palace, Split, inner court. Photo: © friderich.net.

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list of ﬁgures

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61. Missorium of Theodosius, Real Academia de Storia, Madrid. Photo: © German Archaeological Institute, Rome, Inst. Neg. 81.4507.

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62. Silver plate with depiction of the marriage of David and Michal, from the David Plates, c.ad 613–30, Cyprus Museum, Nicosia. Photo: © The Cyprus Museum, J. 452.

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63. The Temple of Ammon, Luxor, Egypt, room of the imperial cult. Reconstruction of paintings along the south wall, based on the excavations of 1852–6 and those of 1977. From J. G. Deckers, ‘Die Wandmalerei im Kaiserkultraum von Luxor’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, 94 (1979), ﬁg. 34. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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64. Silver denarius of Antoninus Pius (senatorial issue), ad 158/9, reverse face. CREBM iv, Antoninus Pius no. 915. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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65. Bronze sestertius of Commodus, reverse face, showing emperor as sky god. CREBM iv, Commodus no. 568. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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66. So-called ‘Arch of Janus’, Rome. Photo: author.

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67. Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, ad 145/6, reverse face, showing emperor with radiate crown, as if a sun god. CREBM iv, Antoninus Pius no. 1666. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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68. Coin from Tralles, reverse face, with assimilation of Antoninus Pius to the sun god Helios. BMC Lydia, Tralles no. 94. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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69. Adlocutio coin of Nero. (a) and (b) two versions of the type. CREBM i, Nero (Lugdunum mint) nos. 303–4. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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70. Model of the forum of Roman Assisi, with Tetrastyle of Castor and Pollux sited in front of the Temple of Minerva. Museo della Civiltà Romana. Photo: © German Archaeological Institute Rome, Inst Neg. 73.939.

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71. The Pantheon in Rome. (a) Plan and section of Hadrian’s Pantheon. After K. de Fine Licht, from Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 202, ﬁg. 94. Reproduced with permission of Aarhus University Press and Oxford University Press. (b) Detail of front elevation, under scaffolding in 1994, with the main inscription on the frieze. Photo: author. (c) Panini, Giovanni Paolo, Interior of the Pantheon, Rome, Samuel H. Kress Collection, Image © 2005 Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, c.1734, oil on canvas, 1.280 ¥ 0.990 m.; framed: 1.441 ¥ 1.143 m. (d) Interior view. Detail of arched lintel over the entrance. Photo: author.

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72. Mosaic from Pula (Pola), Croatia. Reconstruction drawing showing labyrinth enclosed within wall circuit. Photo: © Jeff Saward, Labyrinthos, the Labyrinth Resource Centre, Photo Library & Archive.

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73. Epitaph of Molestus, cemetery of S Agnese, Via Nomentana, Rome. After ICUR viii (Rome, 1983), 88, no. 21201. Reproduced with permission of the Pontiﬁcal Institute of Christian Archaeology, Rome.

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74. Suburban Baths, Herculaneum, vaulted inner court. Photo: © German Archaeological Institute, Rome, Inst. Neg. 67.609.

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75. The forum of Dougga (Thugga). (a) View of the forum from the south-east. (b) Fragment of entablature from the forum colonnade with inscription recording its reconstruction by Gabinianus. Photos: author.

73

76. The Capitolium temple at Dougga. (a) View of main façade from the south. (b) View of the temple from the east. (c) Detail of pediment with remains of apotheosis relief. Photos: author.

73‒4

77. The Capitolium temple at Ostia. (a) Plan of the temple. (b) Restored elevation, after Carlo Albo, MEFRA (2002). Reproduced with permission of the French School in Rome. (c) Detail of the threshold of the temple cella, consisting of a block of africano marble from Teos. Photo: author.

75

78. The theatre at Sabratha, Libya, originally built ad c.166–9. Interior view of the stage-building. Photo: © Andrew Wilson.

75

79. Forum Baths, Ostia, ad c.150–60. (a) Plan of the baths showing the south wing of heated rooms. After P. Cicerchia and A. Marinucci, Scavi di Ostia, xi. Le Terme del Foro o di Gavio Massimo (Rome, 1992), pl. 10. Reproduced with permission of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici di Ostia. (b) View

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list of ﬁgures of the open area to the south of the baths. (c) View of the remains of the frigidarium from the west. (d) Male portrait head from a decorative clipeus, perhaps representing the donor of the building, Gavius Maximus. Photos: © Archivio Fotograﬁco della Soprintendenza per i beni archeologici di Ostia.

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80. Roman baths, Wroxeter (Viroconium), ad c.120–40. (a) View of the excavated remains of the ‘baths basilica’. Photo: author. (b) Reconstructed aerial view of the Roman city, detail showing the Roman bath complex. Photo: © English Heritage.

78

81. Roman baths, Thaenae, Numidia. Reconstructed plan. After A. Schulten, ‘Archaologische Funde im Jahre 1905: Nordafrika’, Arch. Anz. (1906), 157–8, ﬁg. 7.

79

82. Sanctuary of Aesculapius, Lambaesis, ad c.162. (a) General plan of the upper town showing location of the sanctuary. (b) Plan of the sanctuary. From Michel Janon, ‘Recherche à Lambèse. III, Essais sur le temple d’Esculape’, Antiquités Africaines, 21 (1985), pls. 1 and 2. Reproduced with permission of Antiquités Africaines. (c) Remains of the main temple building viewed from the north. Photo: © Hubert Steiner. 79‒80 83. The theatre at Patara, Lycia. Dedicatory inscription on the east parodos wall. Photo: author.

82

84. The theatre at Aspendus, Pamphylia. (a) Dedicatory inscription on the rear wall of the stagebuilding. Photo: author. (b) Reconstruction of the stage-building. Drawing by Karl Niemann, reproduced from Karl von Lanckoronski, Städte von Pamphylien (Vienna, Prague, and Leipzig, 1890), i, pl. 20.

82

85. Nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus, Olympia, ad c.160. Reconstruction by R. Bol, from Das Statuenprogramm des Herodes-Atticus-Nymphäums, Olympische Forschungen, 15 (Berlin, 1984), Beilage 5. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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86. ‘Gate of Immortal Harmony’, situated between the villas of Herodes Atticus and his wife Annia Regilla at Marathon, Attica. Restored view of the front of the gate, from the south. After A. Mallwitz, MDAI(A) 79 (1964), pl. 3. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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87. The Asclepieion, Pergamon, propylon building. (a) Remains of a pediment with clipeus inscribed in the name of Claudius Charax from the exterior façade. Photo: author. (b) Reconstruction of the pediment. (c) Plan of the propylon building. After O. Ziegenaus, Das Asklepieion (Berlin, 1981), pls. 47 and 48a. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute. 88. The theatre at Myra, Lycia, ad c.143–53, built by a donation of Opramoas of Rhodiapolis. Photo: author. 89. Sanctuary of Artemis, Jerash, Jordan. Propylon building with stairway leading to the temple, completed ad c.145–61. (a) Front view. (b) View from within the sanctuary. Photos: © Ted Kaizer. (c) Detail of the stairway. Photo: © Fototeca Unione, AAR, neg. no. 15532.

84‒5 85

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90. Roman nymphaeum, Jerash, dedicated in ad 191. Photo: © Ted Kaizer.

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91. The Roman theatre, Hierapolis, Phrygia. (a) View of the stage-building from the cavea. (b) Detail of the hyposcaenium below the stage. Photos: author.

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92. Aphrodisias, Caria. (a) Plan of the excavated area of the Roman city. Drawing by Lionel Bier. Reproduced by courtesy of Bert Smith. (b) View of the tetrapylon, originally built ad c.150. Photo: author.

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93. Memorial of Nonius Datus, Lambaesis. Photo reproduced from Die Wasserversorgung antiker Städte: Mensch und Wasser, Mitteleuropa, Thermen, Bau/Materialien, Hygeine, edited by the FrontinusGesellschaft (Mainz, 1988), 217, ﬁg.5 with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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94. Marble slab from Pergamon, inscribed with a hymn to the Sun by Aelius Nicon. Bergama Museum, Turkey. Photo: author.

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95. Marble silenus or satyr-like ﬁgure, 2nd century ad, reused in the Bema of Phaedrus, Theatre of Dionysus, Athens. Photo: © Alison Frantz Photographic Collection, American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

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96. Lower Agora, Pergamon. (a) Plan of the excavated area. (b) Photograph after excavation of the north colonnade of the agora, probably the agoranomion built by ‘young Nicon’. From MDAI(A) 27 (1902), pls. 2 and 5. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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list of ﬁgures 97. The Asclepieion, Pergamon. (a) Phased plan of the complex, showing elements of the secondcentury rebuilding. (b) Restored view of the east side. (c) The Temple of Zeus–Asclepius, on the east side of the precinct. From O. Ziegenaus, Das Asklepieion (Bolin, 1981), i, pl. 68, and ii, pl. Y and 62. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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98. The ‘Oval Piazza’, Jerash. View of the paved area from the south, showing the concentric paving. Photo: © Ted Kaizer.

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99. Plan of Roman Gerasa (Jerash). Drawing by C. S. Fisher, from the Topographical Survey of C. M. Hucklesby. From C. H. Kraeling, Gerasa: City of the Decapolis (New Haven, 1938), plan I. Reproduced with permission of the American School of Oriental Research.

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100. City fresco from the Oppian hill, Rome. Photo: © Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma.

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101. City gate and towers, Antalya (Attaleia). (a) Exterior view of the gate from the south. Photo: author. (b) Restored view of the gate and towers. Reproduced from Antony Smith, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’ (above, Fig 25), ﬁg. 154, with permission of the author. (c) Inscription on the east tower recording the dedication by Julia Sancta. Photo: author.

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102. Coin of Bizya in Thrace, struck under Antoninus Pius. Reverse face, showing city gate. Photo: © Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de Monnaies et Médailles.

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103. The ‘Porta Nigra’ at Trier. (a) Outer façade. (b) Inward façade. Photos: © Alain Janssoone.

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104. Roman copy of the statue of the Tyche of Antioch by Eutychides. Vatican Museums, inv. no. 2672. Photo: © The Vatican Museums, neg. no. XXXV.20.86/2.

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105. Bronze sestertius of Hadrian from Rome, bearing the legend RESTITUTORI ORBIS (‘restorer of the world’). CREBM iii, Hadrian no. 1211. © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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106. Marble head of female statue from Italica, wearing a tower crown, Archaeological Museum, Seville. On loan for exhibition in Tarragona, 1993. Photo: author.

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107. Crenellated head of Tutela. Nîmes, Avenue Carnot (formerly Quai Roussy), 1827. First or second century ad. Musée Archéologique de Nîmes, inv. No. 891.25.12 (Recueil d’Émile Espérandieu, no. 2669). Photo: courtesy of the Musée Archéologique de Nîmes.

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108. Marble male portrait statue with mural crown from the Temple of Saturn, Dougga. Reproduced from C. Poinssot, Les Ruines de Dougga (Tunis, 1958), with permission of the Institut National d’Archéologie et Arts, Tunis.

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109. City gate, Lambaesis, with ornamental keystone in the form of a head with mural crown. S. Gsell, Monuments antiques d’ Algérie, i (Paris, 1901), pl. 31.

114

110. Hermopolis Magna, Egypt. Plan of the central area. After D. Bailey, Excavations at El-Ashmunein, iv. The Buildings of the Roman Period (London, 1991), pl. 109. Reproduced with permission of the British Museum Press.

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111. Forum, Sufetula (Sbeitla, Tunisia). View of the three temples. Photo: author.

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112. Forum, Gigthis, Tunisia. (a) View of the forum. (b) Forum gateway, detail of pilaster with Corinthian capital. Photos: author. (c) Plan of the forum. Reproduced from L. -A. Constans, Nouvelles Archives des Missions Scientiﬁques, fasc. 14 (Paris, 1916), pl. 2.

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113. Timgad (Thamugadi), Algeria. Plan of the area around the west gate showing the paved space outside the Temple of Genius Coloniae, possibly the platea restored in ad 151. Detail from A. Ballu, Les Ruines de Timgad, antique Thamugadi: sept années de découvertes (1903–1910) (Paris, 1911), plan before p. 3.

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114. The Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, Ostia. (a) Reconstructed entrance with pediment and inscription. Photo: author. (b) Restored view of street outside © 2001 Marzia Vinci. (c) Detail of inner courtyard. Photo: author. 122 115. The ‘Schola di Traiano’, Ostia, mid-second century ad. Detail of curvilinear entrance court. Photo: author. 116. The schola of the nautae, Aventicum (Avenches). (a) Inscribed lintel block, possibly from the entrance, recording the dedication of the building. Photo: © Musée d’Avenches. (b) Corinthian capital from the entrance to the building. Photo: R. Bersier, Fribourg © Musée d’Avenches.

123

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list of ﬁgures (c) Restored plan, from G. T. Schwarz, Bulletin de l’Association Pro Aventico, 17 (1957). Reproduced with permission of the Fondation pro Aventico.

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117. S Maria in Cosmedin, Rome. Plan of the church with outline of the second-century ‘Statio Annonae’ formerly on the site. From Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 257, ﬁg. 122. Reproduced with permission of Oxford University Press.

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118. Large Baths, Madauros (Mdaourouch, Algeria). Plan showing the ornamental latrine. From S. Gsell, Khamissa, Mdaourouch, Announa, ii. Mdaourouch (Algiers, 1917), 94, ﬁg. 13.

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119. ‘Staatsagora’, Ephesus. (a) Aerial view of the site. Photo: © The Austrian Archaeological Institute. (b) Plan, showing location of Stoa Basileios and bouleuterion. From H. Thür, ‘. . .Und verschönerte die Stadt. . .’ Ein ephesischer Kaiserpriester des Kaiserkultes in seinem Umfeld, Sonderschriften des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts, 27 (Vienna, 1997), 95, ﬁg. 38. © The Austrian Archaeological Institute.

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120. ‘Harbour Baths’, Ephesus. Plan of the main block, from Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture (above, Fig. 58), 293, ﬁg. 190A. Reproduced with permission of Yale University Press.

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121. Bouleuterion, Ephesus, ad c.147–51. (a) View from the ‘Staatsagora’. (b) Detail of the Stoa Basileios and Bouleuterion. Photos: © The Austrian Archaeological Institute. (c) Site plan by Lionel Bier, from ‘The Bouleuterion at Ephesos: Some Observations for a New Survey’, in P. Scherrer, H. Täuber, and H. Thür (eds.), Steine und Wege. Festschrift für Dieter Knibbe, Sonderschriften des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts, 32 (Vienna, 1999), 10, ﬁg. 2. © The Austrian Archaeological Institute.

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122. Bouleuterion, Nysa, Caria. (a) View of the standing remains. Photo: author. (b) Restored plan, after K. Kourouniotis (1921–2), from J.-C. Balty, Curia Ordinis (Brussels, 1991), 448, ﬁg. 218. Courtesy of the Académie Royale Belgique des Sciences.

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123. Bath-gymnasium of Publius Vedius Antoninus Sabinianus, Ephesus, ad c.147–51. (a) Plan, after Max Theuer (1929), by courtesy of Martin Steskal and the Austrian Archaeological Institute, Vienna. (b) The ‘imperial hall’, standing remains in 1991. Photo: author.

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124. Basilica Stoa, Thera. (a) View of the excavated remains from the south. (b) View of the building from outside the original entrance, with inscribed stelae standing against the back wall.(c) Detail of inscribed stelae, recording the decision to rebuild the stoa as a basilica in ad 149 and the building’s dedication in ad 161.(d) Plan of the excavated state. Photos and plan from H. von Gaertringen (ed.), Thera I (Berlin, 1899), pls. 13–14 and pp. 218 and 220, ﬁgs. (e) Restored plan of the original stoa. (f ) Restored plan of the ‘basilica stoa’ rebuilt in 149–61. Reproduced from Balty, Curia Ordinis (Brussels, 1991), 392, ﬁg. 194. Photo: © L’Académie Royale Belgique des Sciences, Brussels. 136‒7 125. Basilica, Smyrna (Izmir, Turkey). (a) View of the standing remains. Photo: author. (b) Restored plan with axonometric view by Sheila Gibson. From Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture (above, Fig. 58), p. 287, ﬁg. 186. Reproduced with permission of Yale University Press.

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126. Ancient Carthage. Plan of the excavated areas of the city, showing its development in the Antonine period. From Friedrich Rakob, Karthago, i, plan 37. Reproduced with permission of the German Archaeological Institute.

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127. The judiciary basilica, Carthage, ad c.147–60. (a) Plan of the site on the Byrsa hill in 1981, indicating squaring and vegetation. Modern walls and buildings are indicated in outline; the perimeter wall of the basilica is marked in bold; and underlying internal structures are lightly hatched. Scale: 1: 600. (b) Restored east–west section of the basilica. (c) Hypothetical reconstruction of the two interior architectural orders. Drawings by G. Robine. From P. Gros, Byrsa, iii (Rome, 1985), ﬁgs. 63, 127, and 128. Reproduced with permission of the École Française de Rome.

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128. Antonine Baths, Carthage. Ground plan of the main bathing block. From Alexandre Lézine, Carthage, Utique (Paris, 1968), 8, ﬁg. 3. Reproduced with permission of CNRS Éditions, Paris.

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129. Harbour structures of Roman Carthage. (a) Plan of the second-century rebuilding, completed ad c.200. (b) Reconstruction of the entrance façade. From H. Hurst, ‘Excavations at Carthage, 1977–8: Fourth Interim Report’, Antiquaries Journal, 59 (1979), ﬁgs. 5–6. Reproduced with permission of the Society of Antiquaries and Henry Hurst.

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list of ﬁgures

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130. Gold coin (aureus) of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the arrival of Aeneas in Latium. CREBM iv, Antoninus Pius no. 237. © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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131. Statue of Marsyas at Rome. (a) Plan of the central area of the Roman Forum. From Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 86, ﬁg. 27. Reproduced with permission of Oxford University Press. (b) Relief from the amphitheatre at Capua, showing ﬂaying of Marsyas. Photo: German Archaeological Institute Rome.

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132. Forum at Althiburos. General view, showing the base of the statue of Marsyas still in situ in the centre of the paved area. Photo: author.

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133. Assembly building of the agonothetai, Apollonia in Illyria, Albania. (a) View of the building from the rear. (b) View of the façade, reconstructed in 1935. (c) Detail of the entablature of the façade with memorial and dedicatory inscription and Corinthian capital. (d) Detail of the raking cornice of the pediment of façade. Photos: author.

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134. Baths of Faustina, Miletus, Ionia (Turkey). (a) Reconstructed plan of the building. (b) Restored view of the ‘Hall of the Muses’ by F. Krischen. (c) Elevation of the arched entrance to the ‘Hall of the Muses’ with ﬁgured keystone. From A. von Gerkan and F. Krischen, Milet. i.9. Thermen und Palaestren (Berlin, 1928), pl. 22, p. 65, ﬁg. 80, and plate 17.

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135. Marble portrait statue of a male priest of the imperial cult, from the west hall of the bathgymnasium of Vedius, possibly the donor Publius Vedius Antoninus Sabinianus. Izmir Museum, inv. 590. Photo: © The Warburg Institute, Rosenbaum Collection.

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136. Head of a priest of the imperial cult, from an unknown architectural context, possibly a votive pillar. Princeton Art Museum, Princeton, NJ, inv. y1990–3. Photo: © Trustees of Princeton University.

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137. Wall of brick-faced concrete from ‘the building outside the Porta Marina’, Ostia, incorporating marble opus sectile decoration representing diamond skoutlosis pattern. (a) View of the whole ensemble. (b)–(c) Details of the skoutlosis pattern. From G. Becatti, Scavi di Ostia, iv. Ediﬁcio fuori Porta Marina con opus sectile (Rome, 1958), pls. LXXVI 1–2 and LXXVIII 1. Reproduced with the permission of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici di Ostia, Archivio Fotograﬁco.

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138. Bronze sestertius of Marcus Aurelius, reverse face, showing Roman victory trophy. CREBM iv, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus no. 1302. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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139. The ‘Tropaeum Traiani’, Adamklissi, Romania, victory monument of the emperor Trajan, ad c.114. From F. B. Florescu, Tropaeum Traiani. Das Siegesdenkmal von Adamklissi (Bucharest, 1965), pl. 13. Reproduced with permission of the Romanian Academy of Sciences.

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140. A post-modern monument, as conceived by the American architect Robert Venturi. From Learning from Las Vegas (above, Fig. 1), 156, ﬁg. 139. © The MIT Press.

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141. Fragment of an inscribed marble slab from Ostia, apparently recording a date AB VRBE CONDITA (‘from the foundation of Rome’). Photo: author, with permission of the Soprintendenza Archeologica di Ostia.

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142. Course of the River Tiber through ancient Rome, with bridges marked. From J. Le Gall, Le Tibre (Paris, 1953), Map II. Reproduced with permission of CNRS Éditions, Paris.

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143. The Fountain of Peirene at Corinth. (a) Phased plan of the building. (b) Restored view of the building as rebuilt in the Antonine period. From B. Hill, Corinth, i.6, The Springs (above, Fig. 44), pls. 7 and 11.

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144. Tomb at Milas (ancient Mylasa), south-west Turkey. (a) View of the monument. (b) Detail of the interior with ornamental ceiling. Photos: author.

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145. Consecration coin. Bronze sestertius of Marcus Aurelius, CREBM iv, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus no. 1363, showing consecration of the deiﬁed emperor Lucius Verus (died ad 169). Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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146. Area of the Campus Martius, Rome. Plan of ancient buildings overlaid on modern street plan, showing monuments of the Antonine dynasty. From Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 174–6, ﬁg. 77. Reproduced with permission of Oxford University Press.

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list of ﬁgures 147. Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the rebuilt lighthouse (‘Pharus’) at the Claudian harbour (Portus) near Ostia. CREBM iv, Antoninus Pius no. 1655. Photo: © The British Museum, Department of Coins and Medals.

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148. Pediment from Side, Turkey, probably from a funerary monument, with relief of an eagle, suggesting a visual pun on the Greek word aetos. Archaeological Museum, Side. Photo: author.

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149. Funerary relief from the Tomb of the Haterii, Via Labicana, Rome, late ﬁrst or early second century ad, showing the construction of a temple-tomb. Museo Gregoriano Profano, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 9998. Photo: © The Vatican Museums, neg. no. XI.24.21.

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150. Fragmentary pediment of white marble from a funerary monument, with portrait of a man. Mid-second century ad. Height 47 cm. Formerly in the Princeton University Art Museum. Photo: © Trustees of Princeton University.

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151. Epitaph from the tomb monument of Caius Iulius Helius, a shoemaker, Rome. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. no. MC.930/S. Photo: Archivio Fotograﬁco dei Musei Capitolini, foto A. De Luca.

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152. Tomb of the Atilii, Sadaba, near Zaragoza, Spain. Photo: © Arte Historia, Spain.

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153. Rock tomb of Atilia Pomptilla (‘la Grotta della Vipera’), Cagliari (Carales), Sardinia. (a) View of the tomb. (b)–(c) Details of the entablature over the entrance, with inscribed dedication of the tomb. (d)–(e) Details of verse inscriptions carved on the rock inside the tomb, CIL 10.7565 and 7567. Photos by permission of Soprintendenza Archeologica della Sardegna, Cagliari. 186‒7 154. ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’, Via Appia, Rome. View from the rear of the monument. Photo: author.

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155. Fragment of terracotta pediment and marble parapet from Grottarossa, Via Flaminia, north of Rome. (a) View of the reconstructed ensemble in the Antiquarium del Malborgetto. (b) Detail of ornament of the pediment. Photos: author, published with the permission of the Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma.

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156. The ‘Barberini Tomb’, Via Latina, Rome. (a) View of position on Via Latina. (b) Rear view of the tomb. (c) Detail of terracotta decoration of the lower order of the rear façade. (d) Detail of the upper order of the rear corner of the building. Photos: author.

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157. Pediment with inscription on the cornice, probably from an aedicular structure in Rome. Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome, inv. no. 33996. Photo: author.

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158. Tomb monument of Julia Apollonia in the Isola Sacra, the necropolis of Portus. (a) General view of the tomb. (b) Detail of the front façade with ornamental funerary inscription. Photos: author.

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159. The ‘Orange Mausoleum’, Haidra, Tunisia. Photo: author.

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160. Tomb of the tribune of the plebs Caius Poblicius Bibulus (died 209 bc), Rome, possibly rebuilt in the early ﬁrst century bc. (a) View of the standing remains, adjacent to the Vittoriano in central Rome. Photo: author. (b) Restored view of the façade, after Not. Scav. (1907), ﬁg. 39, from Claridge, Rome (above, Fig. 16), 169 ﬁg. 75. Reproduced with permission of Oxford University Press.

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161. Passageway relief from the Arch of Titus, Rome, showing triumphal procession at Rome after the conquest of Jerusalem in ad 70, with details of the memorial placards shaped as tabulae ansatae. Photo: author.

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162. The ‘Tomba di Nerone’, Via Cassia, Rome. Early third century ad. (a) General view. (b) Detail of the main side with inscription. Photo: author.

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163. Epitaph of Sertoria Festa, from Lyon, shaped as tabula ansata, with texts in the ansae alluding to Roman military prayers and the Christian belief in the Resurrection. Photo: © Musée GalloRomain Lyon-Fourvière.

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164. Drawing of a Roman tomb at Gélignieux, southern France, from the manuscript Antiquitates by Philibert Pingon, Baron du Cusy (1525–82), Archivio di Stato, Turin, fol. 172r. Photo: © Archivio di Stato, Turin.

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165. (a) and (b) Funerary stelae, Musée de Châteauroux, France, DSC 1413 and 1414. Photos: J. Michel Lauret. © Musée de Châteauroux.

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list of ﬁgures 166. Sarcophagus of Claudia Aulonia from Melﬁ. Photo: © German Archaeological Institute, Rome, Inst. Neg. 5836.

xxi 196

167. Tomb of the Flavii, Kasserine (Cillium), Tunisia. (a) Present state of the monument. Photo: author. (b) Restored view of the monument’s original appearance. From R. Cagnat and V. Chapot, Manuel d’archéologie romaine, i. Les Monuments. Décoration des monuments. Sculpture (Paris, 1916), 351, ﬁg. 186.1. (c) Detail of the ﬁrst storey with memorial inscription. (d) Detail of the podium with inscribed verse text. Photos: author. 197, 199 168. Forum and basilica, Doclea, Dalmatia (Montenegro). (a) Plan. (b) Restored view of the interior of the basilica. From P. Sticotti, Die römische Stadt Doclea in Montenegro (Vienna, 1913), ﬁgs. 63–4.

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169. Arch at Iader, Dalmatia (Zadar, Croatia), built by Melia Anniana in honour of her husband. Drawing from George Wheler, A Journey into Greece (1682), 12. Corpus Christi College Library, Oxford, Rare Books, LC.6.c.6. Photo by permission of the President and Fellows of Corpus Christi College, Oxford.

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170. Monument of the augustales, Misenum, Campania, southern Italy. Detail of the pediment showing the memorial clipeus. Photo: author.

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171. Wall-painting from a Roman house on the Esquiline hill in Rome, c.50–40 bc, section 6, showing a scene from the Odyssey with Odysseus entering the palace of Circe. Vatican Museums. Photo: © Alinari 38030.

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172. Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Baalbek. ‘Trilithon’ from the podium of the temple. Photo: © Ted Kaizer.

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173. Reconstructed plan of Lucian’s baths by Charles Cameron. From The Baths of the Romans (London, 1772), 10. Photo: © The Brotherton Library,University of Leeds.

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174. Reconstructed plan of Lucian’s baths by Friedrich Weinbrenner. From Entwürffe und Ergänzungen (1809). Photo: © The British Library.

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175. (a) and (b) Reconstructed plans of Lucian’s baths by Fikret Yegül. From Archeologia Classica 31 (1979), pls. 41 and 42. Reproduced with permission of Fikret Yegül and Archeologia Classica.

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176. Reconstruction drawings of Lucian’s hall by Friedrich Weinbrenner. (a) Front elevation. (b) Side elevation. (c) Floor plan. (d) Plan of the ceiling level. (e) Section of the long side. (f ) Section of short side. From Entwürffe und Ergänzungen (1809). Photos: © The British Library.

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177. Copies of the bronze peacocks from the Tomb of Hadrian. Belvedere Courtyard, Vatican Museums. Photo: author.

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178. Proposed design by Daniel Libeskind for Ground Zero Memorial Garden and Liberty Tower, New York. Photo: © Archimation.

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LIST OF MAPS 1. The Roman Empire (western provinces)

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2. The Roman Empire (central and eastern provinces)

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3. Roman Italy

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4. The ‘Restoration of Italy’ by Antoninus Pius

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5. Roman Asia Minor

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6. Roman Africa

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ABBREVIATIONS All literature is referred to in the footnotes in full at its ﬁrst citation and, in subsequent notes, by author and brief title. Abbreviations for ancient authors, periodicals, and principal reference works follow those given in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd edition, ed. S. R. F. Hornblower and A. Spawforth (Oxford, 1996), pp. xxix–liv. Otherwise, the following abbreviations are used: Abbott–Johnson

F. F. Abbott and A. C. Johnson, Municipal Administration in the Roman Empire (Princeton, 1926)

ABSA

Annual of the British School at Athens

ArchEspArq

Archivo español de Arqeologia (Madrid: Instituto español de Arqeologia)

ARID

Analecta Romana Instituti Danici (Copenhagen: Accademia di Danimarca)

BAC

Bulletin Archéologique du Comité des travaux historiques et scientiﬁques. Antiquité, archéologie classique (Paris: Ministère de l’éducation)

BÉFAR

Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome (with vol. no.)

CÉFR

Collection de l’École Française de Rome

CREBM

Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum

GIBM

The Collection of Greek Inscriptions in the British Museum, ed. C. T. Newton and E. L. Hicks, 4 vols. (Oxford, 1874–1916)

ICUR

Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae septimo seaculo antiquiores, nova series, ed. G. B. de Rossi and A. Ferrua (Rome, 1935– )

IEph, etc.

Die Inschriften von Ephesos, ed. H. Wandel et al., Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 11–17 (Bonn, 1979–85) [other vols. in this series by analogy]

ILAfr

Inscriptions Latines d’Afrique (Tripolitaine, Tunisie, Maroc), ed. R. Cagnat and A. Merlin (Paris, 1923)

ILBardo

Catalogue des inscriptions latines païennes du Musée de Bardo, ed. Z. Benzina ben Abdallah, CÉFR 92 (Rome, 1986)

ILTun

Inscriptions Latines de la Tunisie, ed. A. Merlin (Paris, 1944)

IRT

The Inscriptions of Roman Tripolitania, ed. J. M. Reynolds and J. B. Ward-Perkins (Rome and London, 1952)

JSAH

Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians (Philadelphia: Society of Architectural Historians)

LTUR

Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, ed. M. Steinby, 6 vols. (Rome, 1993–9)

ÖJh

Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien (Vienna: R. M. Röhrer)

SCO

Studi Classici et Orientali (Pisa: Goliardica, Giardini)

GLOSSARY Adlocutio: a public address, especially by an emperor, e.g. to an army Aedicula: an architectural unit framed by columns and surmounted by a pediment, used in niches and in memorial architecture Anta(e): pilaster(s) placed at the ends of the lateral projecting walls of a temple Apodyterium: the changing-room of a Roman bath, usually adjacent to the entrance vestibule and provided with niches or shelves for bathers’ clothes Archeion: the records office of a Greek city Archivolt: a moulding following the curved outline of an arch Arcuated lintel: an entablature (q.v.) that breaks into an arch at the centre Asiarch: a priest of the imperial cult in cities of Roman Asia Minor Baldachin: a canopy, usually domed, supported on columns Bouleuterion: assembly-building for the city council of Greek cities Caldarium: the hot-room or rooms of a Roman bath, heated by an underground hypocaust system supplied by its own furnace and often furnished with hot-water pools Cella: the inner, walled core of a temple building, often surrounded by colonnaded ambulatories Chalcidicum: a colonnaded porch or vestibule, typically of a secular public building such as a basilica or meeting-house Ciborium: a domed canopy, especially used in imperial ritual Cipollino: green-veined marble from the quarries near Carystus in Euboea Cippus: a small stone pillar, serving as a boundary marker and usually carrying an inscription Console: a scroll-like supporting projection on the face of a wall or an arch Coffers: sunken ornamental panels of a ceiling, generally square or polygonal Cryptoportico: a portico partially concealed below ground or abutting an earth embankment. It often took the form of a half-hidden arcade, lit by lateral vents, often directly below a portico and forming a rectangle surrounding a building or an open space Cyma recta: a moulding in the upper part of a cornice, consisting of a double curve, the upper part of which is concave and the lower part convex; sometimes also known as an ogee moulding Cyma reversa: a moulding in the lower part of a cornice, consisting of a double curve in the reverse order from a cyma recta (above), with the upper part convex and the lower part concave; sometimes also known as a keel moulding Domical: a kind of vault shaped like a dome Entablature: the horizontal members supported by columns (comprising architrave, frieze, and cornice) Euergete: a benefactor (see following entry) Euergetism: the activity and pattern of private benefaction in Greek cities of the Hellenistic and Roman periods Frigidarium: the room of a Roman bath that was used for cold bathing, containing tubs, basins, and cold-water plunge pools Gerousia: the ‘body of elders’ in a Greek city Giallo antico: a yellow crystalline limestone from central North Africa, especially quarries near Chemtou (ancient Simitthus) in Tunisia. It was ﬁrst quarried by the kings of Numidia and was used at Rome from the ﬁrst century bc onwards Heröon: a tomb or memorial shrine of various forms dedicated to a deceased individual of high standing (a ‘hero’) and often associated with a religious cult to the dead person Impluvium: a rectangular water basin placed at the centre of the atrium or reception hall of a Roman house to receive rainwater through an opening in the roof above Natatio: the principal cold-water bathing pool of a Roman bath, which in the larger imperial baths occupied a separate room from the frigidarium (q.v.) Neocorate: An honour awarded to Greek cities of Asia Minor by the Roman Senate for housing a provincial temple of the imperial cult Octastyle (temple): with a façade of eight columns

xxvi

creating form: architects in the antonine age

Odeion/odeum: a small theatre, usually roofed, for dramatic and musical performances Opus reticulatum: technique for facing Roman concrete or mortared rubble, consisting of small stones of regular, square shape laid in a diamond pattern Palaestra: the open exercise-court of a Greek gymnasium or Roman bath-building Pavonazzetto: a white marble with purple veins, mainly from the quarries of Synnas and Docimeion in Phrygia, used especially for architectural ornament and sarcophagi Poros: a type of hard, white limestone found in mainland Greece, used for architecture and sculpture Pronaos: a colonnaded porch at the front of temples and other buildings Propylon: a monumental entrance, especially leading to a sanctuary Proscaenium: façade wall of the stage of a Roman theatre, often embellished with alternately rectangular and semicircular niches and decorated with marble revetment and columns or pilasters Prostyle (temple): with a portico in front Prytaneion: official building for city magistrates in Greek cities (cf. below) Prytanis: the leading magistrate of certain Greek cities, e.g. Ephesus Pulvinar: a banqueting couch intended to receive images or symbols of deities or persons receiving divine honours, and either installed within or in front of a temple or a separate structure altogether. The word is also used of the umpire’s tribunal or the imperial box in a stadium or circus building Schola: an alcove or recess in gymnasia, baths, basilicas, private houses, or beside a tomb monument, it is usually of semicircular or rectangular form and furnished with a seat or bench. However, the word is also used of an interior space of a library or similar building used for recitals or declamations Septizonium (or Septizodium): an unusual type of structure found particularly in North Africa and of uncertain function and meaning, but probably a fountain building and associated in some way with the seven planetary divinities Skene: stage-building of a Greek or Roman theatre, a closed or covered structure used as both a dressing-room for actors and a store for props Stephanephoros: ‘garland-wearer’: a public official in some Greek cities, e.g. Smyrna Stibadium: a semicircular couch, used in dining-rooms or garden architecture Sudatio: a sweating-room of a Roman bath Tabula ansata: inscription frame of rectangular form with triangular appendages on either side Tepidarium: the warm-room of a Roman bath, often without its own furnace, but heated by communication through a hypocaust with the furnace of neighbouring heated rooms Tetrastyle: with four columns (usually of an arch, or, sometimes, a temple front) Travertine: a hard, light-coloured, and ﬁnely crystalline form of calcium carbonate limestone. Its name is derived from the Latin Tiburtinus, meaning ‘from Tivoli’, from where the stone was principally quarried for building purposes Ustrinum: a square funerary structure or pyre where dead bodies were cremated Voussoir: one of a series of wedge-shaped stones making up an arch

INTRODUCTION [E]ven the majestic ruins that are still scattered over Italy and the provinces would be sufficient to prove that those countries were once the seat of a polite and powerful empire. (Edward Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Vol. I, Ch. 2) [I]s it the truth or simply the falsehood of a society which one learns from its monuments? (Robert Harbison, The Built, the Unbuilt and the Unbuildable, 37)

Roman buildings are among the most impressive and conspicuous legacies of the ancient world. To the millions who visit their ruins and reconstructed forms every year they are an absorbing and fascinating sight, not only because of their physical size and beauty as works of art, but for their historical value as a suggestive reminder of the past. For Edward Gibbon, these architectural remains were evidence of cultural and economic prosperity and supported his conclusion that: ‘[i]f a man were called to ﬁx the period during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would without hesitation name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian [ad 96] to the accession of Commodus [ad 180].’1 Since Gibbon’s time, excavation and scholarly analysis have reinforced this impression. Most regions within the Roman Empire have produced archaeological evidence of imposing buildings from this period. Foundations, scattered ﬁnds of building materials and architectural decoration, and building inscriptions, together suggest that the volume of buildings erected at this time was substantially greater than the surviving structures might suggest. This book is about Roman monumental architecture erected under the Antonine emperors, particularly during the reigns of Antoninus Pius (ad 138–61) and Marcus Aurelius (ad 161–80). Although there have been many individual regional and site studies, there has never been a general synthesis which evaluates the architecture of the Antonine period as a whole in the light of the increasing quantity of evidence.2 The present book does not aim to provide that synthesis in the manner of a conventional art-historical analysis of forms and styles. Nor does it set out to analyse the technologies and materials of Roman buildings, the logistics or practicalities of their construction, or the processes of their design, aspects which have been well studied in recent years.3 It attempts, rather, to consider the signiﬁcance of the architecture of this period for contemporaries. Its focus is the question of architectural meaning. In the ancient world, buildings were not only a backdrop and setting for social interaction but also a form of social language. This language had meaning not just for the professional group who constructed those buildings, but for the whole population who experienced them. General studies of Roman architecture hint at the importance of this period in architectural history. Admittedly, in terms of technical advances, the previous ﬁfty years, since Nero’s reign, seem to have been more revolutionary, especially in the development of techniques of Roman concrete construction, regarded as ‘the Roman Architectural Revolution’.4 In Italy, southern Gaul, and Spain, public building had reached its apogee by the Flavian period and is considered to have experienced saturation during the second century.

But the formal consequences of the late ﬁrst-century architectural revolution began to be seen more extensively during the second century, especially at Rome itself, as the volume of stamped bricks demonstrates.5 In the wealthy provinces of North Africa and Asia Minor, and in the developing frontier provinces of Britain, Germany, central Europe, and the Near East, a wide range of architectural forms was deployed in cities from the later ﬁrst century onwards.6 The image of public architecture presented by William MacDonald, consisting of broad colonnaded avenues, structures raised on podia with axial stairways, and elaborate columnar displays, although without explicit time reference, reﬂects, to a large extent, the designs of patrons and architects of the Antonine period.7 MacDonald compares some of these forms with buildings of the seventeenth-century Roman Baroque, and such ‘baroque’ architecture is often considered a feature of Antonine architecture. Margaret Lyttelton has traced back to the Hellenistic period the use of three kinds of monumental presentation identiﬁed by Heinrich Wölfflin as characteristic of ‘Baroque’ style: ﬁrst, a ‘painterly style’, richly decorated, with complex, stage-like façades; second, a ‘grand style’, with ‘picturesque’ effects, vistas, and planned approaches, demanding to be seen from the front, ‘massive’ in scale, and giving the illusion of ‘movement’ by means of alternately projecting and receding forms or bays and intercolumniations varying in width; third, an ‘a-tectonic’ style, in which classical rules are either concealed or ‘broken’, often by using several miniature ‘orders’ secondary to the main order.8 The last of these features was the most important formal characteristic of ancient ‘baroque’ style, involving a ‘breaking away’ from the dominant postand-lintel system.9 Roman patrons had for some time developed such new forms in their private architecture, exploiting the formal experimentation in Alexandria and other Hellenistic centres, but from the last years of the ﬁrst century they increasingly characterized public buildings.10 However, the ‘baroque’ forms of second-century Roman architecture did not simply replicate Alexandrian ornamental vocabulary, but used their own distinctive forms.11 Any assessment of the architecture of the whole Roman Empire over one epoch should certainly bear in mind the argument of John WardPerkins that the building styles of different provinces were largely determined by the particular architectural traditions, practices, and materials of each area. Yet that does not mean that there were not shared features. Ward-Perkins himself sees a more ‘universal’ style in the growth of an imperial ‘marble style’ architecture’, originating, in his view, in Hellenistic Asia Minor, and spreading across the whole

2

introduction

Empire, encouraged by the more centralized organization of marble quarries and the distribution of products from associated workshops.12 His arguments, like those of MacDonald and Lyttelton, are mainly archaeological and art-historical, but they have implications for the social, political, and economic history of the period. During the period at which this style was at its height, between about 120 and 170, there was considerable movement between regions by Roman administrative and military officials, which might explain the development of such artistic taste in human as well as purely artefactual terms. In the last ﬁfteen years some historians of Roman architecture have made more effort to consider the historical context of provincial building. Pierre Gros and Jean-Charles Balty have investigated Roman theatres and assembly-buildings as political settings and as representations of imperial power.13 Engelbert Winter has studied the involvement of individual emperors in the erection of public buildings, concluding that this was often greater than has been imagined in the past.14 A conference at Xanten in 1989 explored the transformation of provincial Roman cities during the second century, focusing especially on the possible decline of public space and the increasing number of private buildings.15 As the questions raised have become increasingly historical in nature, so archaeologists have turned their attentions to the issue of ‘monumentalization’. This term had been introduced at a conference at the German Archaeological Institute in Madrid in 1987, on the extensive urban development of Roman Spain during the last years of the Republic and the early Empire.16 Paul Zanker deﬁned ‘monumentalization’ as ‘adornment with buildings and memorials intended for show’. Yet, although the question of monumentality was raised, the conference proved disappointing, as individual contributions continued to focus on speciﬁc archaeological questions. More positive was John Bodel’s study of ‘monumental villas’, which showed how the Roman aristocracy used private villas for their own self-advertisement, especially through the construction and maintenance of family tomb monuments on their estates.17 But if private architecture is recognized as a vehicle of individual patrons in their search for personal fame, the term ‘monumentality’ is perhaps even more relevant to the public buildings which were often erected in Roman cities at the expense of individual citizens. The adjective ‘monumental’ is one of the most common, and some might say overused, terms applied to ruins of ancient architecture and to public architecture in general. What does it actually mean? The derivation of the term from Latin monumentum implies that a ‘monumental’ structure is a memorial, commemorating something. It may have been originally intended by the builder as a monument in this sense or subsequently have become one, ‘unintentionally’, because of accumulated associations with the past.18 Originally, the conception of a ‘monument’ followed the word’s classical meaning, of a memorial left as a ‘warning’ (monere) to posterity. This is the main sense in which Alberti uses the term monumentum in his De Re Aediﬁcatoria of 1452. The concepts with which he associates it are revealing: the monuments of antiquity are described in terms of ‘ruin’ (ruina), ‘age’ (vetustas), or ‘restoration’ (instauratio), and all monuments, ancient and modern, are associated with ideals like ‘eternity’ (perennitas), ‘memory’ (memoria), ‘dignity’ (dignitas), ‘renown’ (gloria), ‘distinction’ (decus), or ‘praise’ (laus).19 In the French Dictionnaire universel of 1690, ‘monument’ is de-

ﬁned as the ‘witness of some great power or grandeur of the past centuries’, and similarly, in the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française of 1694, as a ‘public mark that one leaves to posterity to preserve the memory of some illustrious person, or of some famous action’.20 Johnson’s Dictionary deﬁnes a ‘monument’, similarly to the ancient deﬁnitions of Varro and Festus, as ‘any thing by which the memory of persons or things is preserved’, especially a tomb or a cenotaph. He deﬁnes the adjective ‘monumental’, accordingly, as ‘preserving memory’, although it is questionable whether all the examples he cites—such as Milton’s phrase ‘of pine or monumental oak’—have that meaning.21 Following these ‘classical’ deﬁnitions is John Ruskin’s article on the proposed memorial to Walter Scott in Edinburgh, published in 1839, which is, strangely, the only place in his extensive oeuvre where he gives any attention to the concept of monumentality as such. Ruskin distinguishes true monuments, which recall the memory of life, from sepulchres, which venerate death: ‘the honour of the monument rejoices; the honour of the sepulchre mourns.’ For him a monument is not only a record for posterity, but also achieves an emotional effect. In fact, in the French dictionaries the original sense of the word ‘monument’ had already shifted by 1771 to refer to ‘any remarkable building’.22 In 1819 it was stated that ‘monuments are to architecture what the epic genre is to literature’.23 When the adjective ‘monumental’ began to appear in French architectural literature, in the 1840s, it was derived from this new sense of ‘monument’, and its various deﬁnitions reﬂected the assumption that something of ‘monumental character’ produced certain effects. The spread of such terms owed much to the fashion of describing ‘monumental’ buildings and providing statistics of features and dimensions, of which the great archaeological campaigns of the later nineteenth century provide good examples. A ‘monumental’ work was now deﬁned, not in terms of its commemorative function, but in terms of ‘grandiose effects’, the use of ‘materials solid and of large dimensions’, ‘imposing masses’, or ‘simplicity of means’. It was to convey this sense that a noun ‘monumentality’ was eventually formed; it is ﬁrst attested as French ‘monumentalité’ in 1845.24 The aesthetic value of ‘monuments’ acquired through the new Romantic sensibility was combined with their cognitive value as perceived by the antiquarian tradition of the Enlightenment to produce a concept of the historic monument, which informed the emergence of restoration as an intellectual and practical discipline and the awareness of architectural heritage.25 Yet at the same time monumentality began to be something more than a cultural phenomenon concerned with memory and temporality: the historian Jules Michelet (1798–1874) saw it as a natural instinct that humans share even with lowly termites, whose arch-like constructions bear an uncanny resemblance to Hadrian’s Pantheon, not only in basic form and structural technique, with the materials becoming gradually lighter towards the top, but even in the presence of an ‘oculus’ at the top. George Hersey calls this ‘monumental impulse’ almost a ‘genetic homology’.26 Writing of the Athenian Acropolis, Robin Rhodes calls it a ‘genetic Greek drive, a ﬁxation, a compulsive desire for grandeur and permanence of creation’.27 Architectural writers began to refer to ‘monumentality’ as an ideal only in the last third of the nineteenth century in the French Beaux Arts school.28 And then it was with a different meaning from the etymological one. According to eighteenth-century French architectural theory,

introduction monuments had been public memorials, which served both a pedagogical and an aesthetic function.29 These functions were believed to be best served by classical public buildings constructed in materials such as marble that were conventionally associated with that style. In 1879, however, the Dictionnaire de l’Académie broke new ground by deﬁning a monument in terms of its imposing character and status. Henceforth it could be a private building as well as a public one, and could be constructed not only with traditional materials but also with new ones such as iron or steel. Although Ruskin never uses the adjective ‘monumental’ in this wider sense, he was concerned in many of his works with precisely those qualities that others in his lifetime would have described as ‘monumental’. In The Seven Lamps of Architecture, above all, he associates the ‘sublime’ with such characteristics, especially great scale. For instance, he notes that while ‘mere size’ will not ‘ennoble a mean design’, ‘every increase of magnitude will bestow upon it a certain degree of nobleness’; to achieve a sublime effect, as opposed to a simply beautiful one, the architect should ‘reach at least that degree of magnitude which is the lowest at which sublimity begins, rudely deﬁnable as that which will make a living ﬁgure look less than life beside it’.30 So the concept of ‘monumentality’ goes beyond the notion of ‘monuments’ as primarily sepulchral structures or memorials. In 1912 the architect C. H. Reilly, writing in the Town Planning Review, noted that the weakness of modern architecture was its lack of ‘monumental’ qualities: ‘If we consider what we mean by the word monumental as applied to a building, we see at once that we mean some quality in it which isolates it from its practical and immediate use and gives it a peculiar appeal to our imagination.’ Reilly identiﬁed four qualities of ‘monumental architecture’: ﬁrst, an appeal as a whole, unity of conception, and mass; second, suggestions of labour and craft, skilfully directed; third, large scale; and, ﬁnally, reﬁnement and delicacy of detail. However, there was an unease in the early twentieth century that monumentality might only be achieved by buildings of the past. Reilly’s examples were all past monuments: Greek temples, Roman thermae and fora, and Renaissance domes, and of modern buildings only the new Pennsylvania Station in New York was considered able to compete with these. For Alois Riegl, a structure’s monumental character was its ‘Erinnerungswert’, its value for memory. Thus, a monument was either ‘intentional’, constructed ‘to preserve human deeds or events in the consciousness of future generations, and therefore to remain alive and present in perpetuity’, or, more often, ‘unintentional’, becoming a ‘monument’ only retrospectively after its original conception, in which case its builder had no control over it.31 The connection of monumentality with works of the past led most protagonists of the Modern Movement until the late 1930s to avoid it. Le Corbusier tried to break away from these traditional associations, and some of his works suggest almost an ‘anti-monumentality’.32 His deﬁnition of the ‘monumental’ focuses on form alone: ‘We call monumental that which contains pure forms assembled according to a harmonious law.’ However, from the 1960s even his Villa Savoye acquired the status of a historic monument, which became an emblem both of modernism and the French architectural heritage.33 Those who clung to the older conception of monuments were troubled by the idea that true monumentality might only be achieved several centuries hence. The new public

3

monuments of National Socialist Germany were presented in Hitler’s speeches as ‘great cultural documents of granite and marble’ that ‘rise like the cathedrals of our past into the millennia of the future’. But their designer, Albert Speer, felt that their monumentality could only be assured by a series of drawings that imagined their future ‘value as ruins’, after 500, 1,000, and 2,000 years.34 Both these views shared the idea that the monumental should be ‘beyond the everyday, extraordinary, transcendent, permanent in its universal appeal to the human condition’.35 An attempt to rehabilitate ‘monumentality’ among modernists was made at a symposium organised by the Architectural Review in 1948.36 Its most vocal spokesman, Sigfried Giedion, argued that modern architecture must achieve the quality of ‘monumentality’, later expanding on this theme in Architecture, You, and Me (1958) and listing his ‘nine points on monumentality’. A variety of issues were raised, summed up in the questionnaire issued by the Architectural Review, which encouraged its future use.37 Delegates at the symposium agreed on two almost contradictory aspects of ‘monumentality’: ﬁrst, that it was associated with the glories of past time and remained conceptually as a memory; and, second, that it was something that architecture must achieve in the future. ‘Monumentality’, in other words, is something visionary. We recognize it when we see it, but we cannot predict or describe it exactly in advance. The future is made up of buildings as if we had seen them in the past: when a future building becomes past, or passed, it will be recognized as monumental. But in the contemporary world monumentality is difficult to achieve. In 1952, on the ﬁve-hundredth anniversary of Alberti’s De Re Aediﬁcatoria, Henry Hope Reed lamented the loss of the monumental: ‘Even if we should wish to build monumentally, we would fail miserably. The tools to create the monument have been lost.’38 It is a token of the resilience of the notion that, even after Reed’s resounding pessimism, ‘monumentality’ continued to be revived. Again, there was an attempt to look for new forms, but a falling back on the features of the old. Robert Venturi distinguished these two varieties of ‘monumentality’ in terms of different physical qualities (Fig. 1).39 In December 1981 American architects met to discuss the themes of ‘Monumentality and the City’. Although the art historian James Ackerman declared that ‘now is not the time to be thinking of monumentality’, others insisted that the notion, based on a general deﬁnition of a ‘monument’ as a ‘signiﬁcant building or space’, continued to be relevant, on the grounds that ‘our society continues to build and to invest buildings with meaning. By virtue of their existence alone, urban buildings acquire some signiﬁcance in the public’s perception of the city.’ Not to think about monumentality is dangerous, because ‘it seeks to extinguish a facet of cultural life’. Deﬁned in terms of its commemorative function and its role in identifying cultural priorities, the ‘monumental’ reﬂects the general attitudes of a society. But the secondary deﬁnition of the ‘monumental’ in terms of its visual impact suggests, on the contrary, that monumentality presumes a relation to the individual. The key word here, emphasized by Ruskin in his Seven Lamps, is ‘contemplation’, the close scrutiny of a monumental work. In antiquity the concept was intertwined with a monument’s ritual meaning, as an object of cult. It occurs from the moment of the priest’s inauguration of a templum, which

4

introduction

involved contemplatio, ‘being alone with the temple’, as Stefan Weinstock put it seventy years ago, up to the act of pilgrimage, in which the worship itself was preceded by an extended contemplation of the site. But by the early Empire contemplation had another sense, common in tomb inscriptions: namely, the visual relation between a standing monument and an individual. The monumentality constructed out of this interactive relationship was not simply a matter of how the monument appears on the ground; it was a product of ideals formed by the imagination. When we call a particular building ‘monumental’ today, we usually mean one of these two senses of the term, either that the building is physically imposing or that it is a memorial of the past. But, although the term itself is a relatively modern one, that does not mean that there was not an equivalent notion in antiquity. To try to identify the characteristics of such past ‘monumentality’ from archaeological evidence alone would be circular: we tend to label as ‘monumental’ precisely those structures that seem to correspond to our own preconceived notions of monumentality. Today we judge buildings as monumental by criteria such as great size, bulky materials, long-range visibility, relation to human scale, costly materials, and elements of certain architectural

1. Architectural monumentality and the roadside interior.

languages, such as classical or gothic, conventionally associated with accepted monuments. Some of these features were also valued in antiquity. In Ancient Egypt, for example, ‘monumentality’ was ‘a matter, on the one hand, of the material, which must be hard, expensive, and unchanging, and, on the other, of a strictly regulated visual organization, which we call the “Egyptian canon”’.40 These features also play a role in Roman architectural ideas. But unless we recognize the differences between the ways in which people of the past thought about buildings and those in which we do so today, we will not only miss what was distinctive about ancient culture, but also fail to see how our own attitudes came into being. The visual effect of Egyptian monuments, for example, depended not just on their monumentality, but also on their ‘magical’ powers.41 Once one begins to list criteria corresponding to modern and ancient notions of monumentality, questions soon arise: how many of these criteria are subject to individual opinion or cultural perspective and how many of them are the result of general human perception? Which of the concepts implicit in the notion of monumental architecture are shared between different cultures and different epochs? For example, today we regard great size as the main deﬁning feature of monumental architecture, and it is often so regarded in the ancient classical world too, but this was not the case in all cultures. In ancient Chinese art and architecture even small objects could possess monumentality.42 The notion of monumental architecture as being of great size is not an arbitrary one. It is based on an implicit human analogy of architecture, according to which ‘normal’ buildings possess a human scale and those exceeding such scale appear as somehow ‘superhuman’ or ‘monumental’. Under what circumstances or in what context did this or similar individual notions become established? Were they disputed or defended? Is it possible to detect occasions when existing ideas about monumentality were challenged or replaced by different ones? Finally, if concepts of the monumental changed through successive arthistorical periods, how were those changes related to developments in artistic taste? Not all of these questions can be easily answered, but this book tries to deal with some of them as they apply to the architecture of classical antiquity. Given, then, that any deﬁnition of monumentality reﬂects its own cultural priorities and is as subject to cultural change as the forms of architecture it purports to describe, certain basic constituents of monumentality may be set out as an agenda for investigation. Besides the aspects of commemoration and great size already mentioned, monumentality in architecture also implies durability. For that reason the material of a building plays an important role in contributing to its monumentality, some materials being considered more durable than others. But durability is not only a question of physical materials. For example, the bridge erected over the Danube in 103/5, during the emperor Trajan’s Dacian Wars, made famous to neo-Classical architects through the description of Palladio, shows that there is more to the monumentality of a structure than its imposing position or the memory it records of the past.43 Certainly, the ‘monumentality’ of the structure was enhanced by its setting, across a river that had never previously received a bridge of durable materials, at one of the remotest spots of the Empire. But the building gained additional monumental status far beyond the Danubian zone: it was represented on Trajan’s coinage

introduction

5

If the importance of monumental architecture goes beyond the immediate practical function of a building, where does it lie? For the Roman period, the answer can be inferred from the work of the architect Vitruvius, who argued, towards the end of the ﬁrst century bc, that architects needed to be expert in several different arts and sciences: literature, design, geometry, history, philosophy, music and mathematics, astrology, medicine, and the study of climate. Adopting an elaborate architectural metaphor, he wrote: given that the great discipline of architecture is embellished and overﬂowing with these many, various spheres of learning, I do not consider that men can properly be called architects just like that, unless they have ﬁrst climbed these steps of disciplines from their early childhood, fed on the knowledge of several varieties of arts and letters, and then ﬁnally reached, at the summit, the supreme temple of architecture.49

2. Bronze sestertius of Trajan, reverse face, showing image of a bridge, probably the Danube Bridge built by the emperor Trajan to the design of the architect Apollodorus.

(Fig. 2), depicted on the relief sculptures of the emperor’s memorial column at Rome of 112, and, just as Greek architects had once written about their temples, it became the subject of a literary treatise by its architect, Apollodorus of Damascus, who also designed the column.44 Although the bridge was made of stone and built to last, these images guaranteed that it was perceived as a monument from almost the moment it was built. At each end an arch bore a statue of Trajan between two trophies. And its ‘visibility’ at Rome and elsewhere in the Empire by these means was much more important than its visibility at the obscure location on the river Danube where it actually stood, thus ensuring that its memory survived its unceremonious dismantling soon after Hadrian’s accession; it was still admired by the historian Dio a century later.45 With the Danube bridge, the emperor Trajan and his architect Apollodorus had placed themselves in a grand tradition of bridgebuilding by great rulers from Xerxes and Darius of Persia to Julius Caesar and the emperors Gaius and Domitian.46 The construction did not just meet a military need; it helped to perpetuate Trajan’s memory and his Dacian Wars, like the victory monument at Adamklissi or an epic poem such as that talked of in 107 by the younger Pliny to his friend Caninius Rufus.47 The monumentality of the Danube bridge also exhibits another attribute of monumental architecture, namely, that its importance exceeds its practical use. The most common approach to architectural form adopted by architectural historians is a pragmatic one. It is based on the premise that form is achieved by the construction of raw materials into a structure which is designed to serve a recognizable and agreed function, such as a shelter in which to live or sleep or a place of worship. On this view, the materials themselves have no signiﬁcance until they are shaped to serve a function, and the act of construction has no importance beyond being a means to this practical end. Monumental architecture, by contrast, involves buildings whose ‘scale and elaboration exceed the requirements of any practical functions that a building is intended to perform’.48 The corollary of this observation is that monumental architecture has a meaning beyond its practical function.

As the architect reached the metaphorical temple at the summit of his education by following a wide variety of arts and sciences, so the monumentality of a building was achieved by other than strictly architectural considerations. If, then, we are to understand the monumentality of Roman architecture, we need to look beyond the architectural remains. Many different disciplines—philosophy, philology, political, religious, and military history, as well as archaeology—contribute to an understanding of the monumentality of Roman buildings. In an analysis of Hellenistic architecture, Henner von Hesberg uses the term ‘monumentality’ in this wider sense, that of the social and political statements made by buildings.50 For him, the term mirrors the extent to which social and political changes in the Greek world were responsible for architectural ones; so he attributes the erection of unusually large buildings to individuals being no longer bound by social constraints.51 In the Roman world, Gros has seen the architectural transformation of Rome and Italy in the last two centuries bc with new materials such as rubble concrete and foreign marbles as reﬂecting the political growth and inﬂuence of Rome. ‘Monumental’ epigraphic writing has been considered in similar terms, as a visible expression of a social phenomenon.52 Yet the material form and the status and prosperity that it implies cannot necessarily be treated as a ‘truthful’ reﬂection of social reality. Archaeologists have noted that in prehistoric societies periods of monumentalization often seem to characterize the formative periods of cultures, with public buildings acting as ‘solid metaphors’ for patterns of social behaviour; Richard Bradley has seen monumentbuilding in the British Isles between the Neolithic and early Bronze Age periods as both a clue ‘to the character of ancient social institutions and part of the process through which those institutions acquired and maintained their power’.53 Likewise, Roman epigraphic display may have concealed insecurities and social upheavals and directed ‘attention to the most mobile sectors of Roman imperial society’.54 A similar argument has been applied to the study of coins of the later Roman Republic. Jonathan Williams and Andrew Meadows, highlighting the etymological connection between the Latin term monumentum and the Roman mint of Juno Moneta, have stressed the function of coin types as ‘monuments’ to ‘remind’ their users of particular values promoted on their reverses.55 They identify the word ‘monumentality’, in its strict etymological sense, as a more useful heading under which to examine the changing representations on coin reverses

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of the late Roman Republic than terms used previously such as ‘propaganda’. Such a label, they maintain, implies the ability of Roman coin types to promote ‘ideas of continuity at a time of irreversible social change’. The concept of monumentality should be seen as more than a purely visual or aesthetic phenomenon and as a reﬂection of a social or political process. In the same way, they suggest, the construction of public buildings with spectacular monumental façades in Italy during the late second century bc may have been intended to reinforce a sense of continuity at a time of radical political change.56 These lines of argument give reason to question Gibbon’s inference that the architectural remains of the second century, a more obvious example of monumentality than coins or inscriptions, reﬂected real prosperity, rather than image-making. The period with which this book is concerned, the central years of the second century, is often considered by historians to have been signiﬁcant for the long-term development of western society. For Gibbon, the age of the Antonines was a formative, even epochal moment, when a sublime period of human prosperity was about to be eclipsed by one of decisive and cataclysmal change.57 The dominions of Rome were at their greatest extent (Maps 1–2), yet united by the culture of the capital, which was manifested not only in common language, law, and custom, but in buildings of similar form. The peoples who lived in that world comprised many varied ethnic, religious, or professional groups, but none could ignore the power of the Roman State. Roman culture was a ﬁxed point which had a lasting effect on the collective identity of population groups in the Empire. The composition of Roman society in the second century was noticeably different from that in the ﬁrst. Regional and family origins were still important, but they were no longer such insuperable obstacles to attainment of the highest rank. The pinnacle of the social order was the emperor himself. Between 138 and 180 he was an Italian, and his cultural interests reﬂected those of Rome. Antoninus Pius (138–61) came from Lorium, just north of the capital, and both of his adopted sons, Marcus Aurelius (161–80) and Lucius Verus (161–9), were born and lived in Rome. These emperors and their extensive households made signiﬁcant efforts to impose Roman values on other cities in the Empire with very different cultural and ethnic backgrounds.58 The Antonine emperors were less actively involved in provincial public building than their predecessors, especially Hadrian, had been. However, their direct hand was far less necessary to ensure the promotion of Roman culture, as a wide range of individuals, both Italian and provincial, were vigorous patrons of Roman architecture. The imperial presence was increasingly apparent from the public buildings, which, even if not directly resulting from imperial patronage, carried dedications to the emperors, were decorated with their statues, and represented by their architectural styles the standards of the imperial masters. One sense of the monumentality of imperial architecture, not only temples of the imperial cult, but also basilicas, bath-buildings, theatres, and amphitheatres, was its expression of the power and identity of the Roman Emperor and the Imperial State. The monumentality of public buildings should also be seen in terms of the social ambitions of the people who built them. Architectural patronage in provincial cities was usually controlled by members of the Roman governing class. This comprised former consuls who held ofﬁce as proconsuls of the senatorial provinces of Africa and Asia, sena-

tors and equestrians who served as legates in charge of the other, imperially run provinces or held military and administrative posts, and other members of the provincial elites who now increasingly gained admission to the senatorial and equestrian orders by their wealth and inﬂuence. It is now widely recognized that the private architecture of such individuals can be seen in terms of the idea of ‘conspicuous consumption’ formulated by the sociologist Thorstein Veblen.59 The patronage of public buildings offered such men a means of advancement of personal power and status. The members of the Senate and the equestrian order originated from far aﬁeld, from Spain, North Africa, Asia Minor, and other provinces, as well as from Italy, guaranteeing a process of dynamic interaction and reciprocal cultural inﬂuence between the centre and the periphery.60 Accordingly, the consuls of the Antonine age, who were drawn from the Senate, were, though still the sons of previous consuls, now from Africa, Spain, and Asia Minor, as well as Italy.61 At a lower level, the much greater size and importance of the imperial household and government afforded Romans and nonRomans the chance to acquire wealth and recognition. Although not politically as inﬂuential as under the Julio-Claudians and Flavians, the freedmen of the emperors continued to have social importance in the Antonine age.62 These men, whose Roman citizenship was directly owed to imperial favour, frequently engaged in building activities to demonstrate their acceptance of imperial Roman values and so to achieve further social advancement. Some were members of the nobility in their own home cities, like the Spartan Eurycles, who became Marcus Ulpius Eurycles.63 Others were Greeks of lesser status, like Publius Aelius Funisulanus Tryphon from Phrygia, who, as the architect Tryphon, acquired higher status by employment in Roman service, ﬁrst by gaining his freedom in the household of a Roman aristocratic family, that of the governor of Asia and inﬂuential Domitianic senator, Funisulanus, and then through the higher favour of the emperor Hadrian.64 In Italy imperial freedmen achieved glory from prestigious architectural benefactions, like Publius Aelius Agathoclianus in 173 at Forum Clodii north of Rome, ‘the ﬁrst who gave marbles and columns to the ornament of the public baths’ there.65 Usually these persons were freed in their thirties and went on to build up personal fortunes which they spent on new buildings.66 To others, the rise of the praetorian guard in Rome and, more importantly, the regularization of the army on the frontiers gave similar opportunities for individuals of wide social and cultural backgrounds to participate in and take personal credit from the creation of architectural works, either as officers within the service or as veterans celebrating their new social advancement.67 Enfranchisement after military or imperial service, and the presence of building workshops in all the great cultural centres of the Mediterranean—not only Rome, but Antioch, Athens, Alexandria, Carthage, Ephesus, and Smyrna, to name only the largest and most populous—were parallel routes to the same result: the dissemination of Roman values of building among all social classes of the Empire. Although great wealth and the means of substantial architectural patronage remained in the hands of a very few prominent families, increasing social mobility ensured that the culture of building was not restricted to them, but found outlets at many levels.68 In place of its earlier, more complex levels of stratiﬁcation, Roman society was by the

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3. Remains of the Capitolium temple, Thuburbo Maius (Tunisia).

second century divided into two broad groups, constantly subject to mobility between them: honestiores (‘the nobler’) and humiliores (‘the lower’). The former consisted of senators, equestrians, decurions of provincial towns, and legionaries of the Roman army, all of whom took individual pride in their ‘nobility’. They had the resources and opportunities to pursue architectural ambitions of their own and the education to be aware of the multifarious ideas which their buildings might communicate. Yet building was also important to the humiliores. By the second century, more people of a lower social rank participated in the culture of building and social display, especially by creating funerary monuments as expressions of personal and family pride.69 Some patrons of public architecture were humble ﬁgures, like the builder Caius Celius Saturninus from the town of Abitinae in North Africa, who in 132 dedicated two columns in the cella of the Temple of Caelestis at Vallis as a personal act of religion.70 His gesture was in its own terms as important and symbolic a statement as a proconsul’s dedication of a complete temple. No longer only the old families, but also the middle class and the freed gave gifts to their community in the form of buildings in return for honour, prestige, or personal salvation.71 To understand better what ‘monumentality’ meant for these patrons of public building, we need to see their social circumstances and political and cultural status in juxtaposition with the appearance of their buildings. Thus the magniﬁcent marble Capitolium at Thuburbo Maius in the province of Africa, which survives today with its columns and Corinthian capitals re-erected (Fig. 3), was dedicated in 169 by the former

consul and learned jurist at the Antonine court Lucius Octavius Cornelius Publius Salvius Iulianus, then proconsul of Africa, and his legate, the future emperor Marcus Didius Iulianus.72 Public building was also promoted across the provinces by the ﬂamines, local aristocrats who held the prestigious office in charge of the imperial cult in their communities. The impressive theatre at Dougga (ancient Thugga) (Fig. 4a–c), for instance, was dedicated to his home city by Publius Marcius Quadratus, who was ﬂamen of the cult of the Deiﬁed Augustus and made an equestrian judge by Antoninus Pius.73 The building, with its columnar display, was a monument to its patron’s social elevation. For local elites, architectural patronage might be a means of political ingratiation. The porticoes around the forum at Dougga were dedicated by Quintus Gabinius Felix Faustinianus and his children to the safe preservation of the emperor Antoninus Pius.74 Despite these benefactors’ diverse social status and cultural roots, their association with an accepted language of monumental architecture showed their common ties to Rome. During the second century, the language of monumental architecture in Roman cities underwent great change. In the Greek East public building had declined since the Roman conquest in the second century bc, and by the late ﬁrst century ad was technically far behind Italy. But by the time that Hadrian succeeded Trajan in 117, architectural tastes were beginning to change. The ruling classes of the leading cities of western Asia Minor, admitted into the Roman Senate in ever greater numbers since the Flavian period, became increasingly involved in the offices of imperial government and increasingly assimilated to Roman

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(c)

(a)

(b) 4. The Roman theatre at Dougga (Thugga). (a) View of the stage-building from the auditorium. (b) View of the theatre from behind the stage-building. (c) Reconstruction model in the Museo della Civiltà Romana, Rome.

culture.75 This social and political change was reﬂected in changes to the classical orders, which, as elsewhere in the Greek world, were then still the most important vehicle of architectural monumentality. The architectural ornamentation of the grandest public buildings in the cities of Asia Minor developed in a more exuberant and vigorous direction, apparently inspired by architectural ideas practised at Rome itself, so that the ornament of buildings constructed only a generation earlier already seemed stiff and sterile.76 At Ephesus, the administrative centre of the Roman province of Asia, the Roman cultural inﬂuence on traditional forms of architecture

was particularly visible. The ‘Library of Celsus’, which stands today at the centre of the ancient city (Fig. 5a), reconstructed in the late 1970s, shows a ﬂorid architectural ornament of the ﬁnest quality. The library took its name from Tiberius Iulius Celsus Polemaeanus, former consul and governor of the province, for whom the building was a ﬂamboyant memorial shrine.77 Begun c.114–17 by Celsus’ son, the wealthy Ephesian Tiberius Julius Aquila Polemaeanus, himself suffect consul at Rome in 110, the library was brought to completion by his heirs under the direction of Tiberius Claudius Aristio, whom the younger Pliny describes as ‘the foremost of the Ephesians (princeps Ephesiorum), a mu-

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5. Library of Celsus, Ephesus, a.d. c.112–117. (a) The site today, with reconstructed front elevation, open area in front, and entrance gateway to the agora gate built in the Augustan period by the freedmen Mazaeus and Mithridates.

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(b)

(c) 5. Library of Celsus, Ephesus, a.d. c.112-117. (b) Allegorical statue of the ‘Virtue of Celsus’ reinstalled in left-hand niche of the façade. (c) Memorial text inscribed on the façade, with modern red highlighting.

niﬁcent man and harmlessly popular’.78 It was literally Celsus’ monument, as he was buried in the vault underneath the building, and allegorical statues of Virtue, Wisdom, Knowledge, and Intelligence stood in niches on the façade (Fig. 5b), with memorial texts inscribed above (Fig. 5c).79 As curator of temples and public buildings at Rome in 92–5, Celsus had absorbed the language of monumental public architecture in the capital. The ornament of the library, perhaps planned by him, though actually executed by his son, strongly suggests the inﬂuence, if not of imperial court architects, at any rate of metropolitan Roman ideas moulded by eastern forms. The cornices were decorated with the monumental acanthus which had marked imperial architecture in Rome since Augustus, and the friezes of acanthus-like palmettes resembled work being done around the same time in Trajan’s Forum. According to the reconstruction by Wilberg, the building was composed in the ‘aedicular’ style of traditional monumental architecture in the region, with two levels of stage-like projecting aedicules, although the interior behind consisted of three, rather than two, storeys. The pride of the building, in terms of materials and expense, were the columns that ﬂanked each aedicule, of which the shafts were monoliths of prestigious Phrygian marble, distinctively white with purple streaks, or pavonazzetto (‘peacock-like’), to use the Italian term regularly employed today.80 What we would now characterize as a ‘baroque’ effect was achieved by the relation of the aedicules of upper and lower storeys, which do not stand directly above each other, but notably overlap. In the upper storey the capitals belong to the Corinthian order, which had become established as the principal order of Graeco-Roman monumental architecture since Augustus. Yet they are dominated by the taller columns and larger Composite capitals below,81 elaborating earlier examples with their more pronounced carving and the upper part of their calathus covered by a row of lotus leaves, sometimes regarded as symbolic of eternal life, standing above the acanthus.82 The upper storey was crowned by three pediments, all with sculptural decoration; but, unlike earlier stage-like architecture in the region, such as the Nymphaeum at Miletus of c.81, these were not all of conventional triangular form. On either side of the central triangular pediment there was a segmental one, and the combination produced a rhythmical alternation anticipated in Nabataean architecture such as the Palace Tomb at Petra and characteristic of Italian style since the later ﬁrst century.83 With its elaborate variation of basic formal elements such as the column, the pediment, and the arch, the façade of this building was a monumental statement of the family’s rise to the highest circles in Rome, combining metropolitan and local idioms with verve and daring. Perhaps not completed until later in Hadrian’s reign, it has much in common with Antonine monumental architecture. In being also a tomb monument, the Library of Celsus is an unusual case.84 For most Roman public buildings, if there was a purpose besides their practical function that made them into monumental architecture, it was to express the political identity of a community. In modern times, the Houses of Parliament in London are an obvious parallel. Their ‘monumentality’ lies both in their imposing size and distinctive architectural style and in their prominent political function. The connection between the two is apparent in the recent suggestion that Pugin’s Gothic design was chosen for political purposes, as an icon of English parliamentary democracy.85 On a more local scale, the con-

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6. Grange Court (Old Town Hall), Leominster, Herefordshire, completed 1634, to the design of John Abel (1578/9–1675).

struction of town halls in early modern England was a celebration of municipal power.86 On the former town hall of Leominster in Herefordshire (Fig. 6), built by John Abel c.1600, the analogy between the architectural structure and its political purpose was made explicit. On a band alongside the wooden ﬁgures appearing to support the projecting upper storey runs the inscription: ‘as pillars do support the building, so the noble gentrye do uphold the fabrick of the kingdome.’ A similar meaning can be detected in Roman civic architecture. As Vitruvius wrote, public buildings had to reﬂect the dignity of a municipium.87 Monumentality, then, was not only a quality of ruins, memorials, and disused structures, but also of buildings that had an active function in the life of a community. In the classical world this was true, not only for structures such as bridges or aqueducts, where monumentality is achieved by their formal properties, but also for urban buildings such as theatres, assembly buildings, basilicas, and baths, where the gathering of a community created a context for the structure’s monumentality. Roman cities were developed to create a multitude of public or collective spaces distributed around the urban area, not just concentrated around the civic centre of the forum or agora. The buildings in these areas might cement the coherence of a civic community, deﬁne a smaller sub-group within a city, or assert the combined unity and harmony of several different cities in the Empire. The highest monumental architecture transcends the concerns of individuals, communities, and cities. As in literature the sublimity of epic poems lies in their ability to enlighten mankind about the difference between mortality and immortality, so some monumental buildings have a capacity to make users consider their own human mortality. In any society the buildings most frequently deﬁned as monuments are funerary structures, which commemorate the dead and, in perpetuating their existence for the living, express a dialogue between mortality and immortality. But this can also be a theme of non-funerary architecture. When imposing buildings physically compete with the grandeur of the natural landscape around them, they in-

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evitably illustrate the mortality of man and the fragility of man’s constructions, by contrast with permanent and immutable Nature. The most monumental buildings were the temples of the gods, who were considered to represent enduring values and often identiﬁed with the forces of nature. Robin Francis Rhodes describes how the buildings of the Athenian Acropolis ‘bridge the gap between mortal and immortal’: ‘The “perfection” of [the columnar orders in expressing] universal human concerns in a universally meaningful fashion . . . is at the heart of Greek “monumentality”.’88 Monumentality is thus an agent of commemoration, of sacred human memory, and of the relationship of man with the gods. In the second century, the relation between mortality and the divine was complex and varied. Religious devotion embraced a broad spectrum of beliefs. In many cases the adherence to a cult did not depend, as earlier, primarily on civic or state loyalties, but on deliberate personal commitment.89 A great diversity of gods was worshipped by both ruling elites and lower classes. In an encomium to Roman rule delivered in 155, the rhetor Aelius Aristides listed the protecting deities who were supposed to watch over the Roman emperors. His list is longer and more varied than the traditional Graeco-Roman pantheon that might have appeared a century earlier. It includes not only traditional Greek deities such as Zeus, Hera, Athena, Hephaestus, Dionysus, Demeter, Poseidon, Apollo, Artemis, the Muses, Hermes, Ares, and Aphrodite, as well as Asclepius, to whom he devoted particular concern himself, but also the sun god Helios and the Egyptian gods Serapis and Isis.90 The combination of all these deities, or their Latin equivalents, implied that ‘Roman’ imperial religious identity was broader and more diverse under the Antonines than previously. This diversiﬁcation was, of course, a process that had started earlier in the Empire. In North Africa, for example, Roman proconsuls and legates dedicated a variety of cult-buildings from the ﬁrst century onwards, not only Roman Capitolia, which now were no longer essential to the identity of a Roman colony, but temples of Ceres, Neptune, Magna Mater, and the Egyptian Isis.91 But it was not until the second century that the cults of Asclepius, Serapis, and Isis attained their dominating importance and inﬂuence on the lives of individuals. What these newer cults offered worshippers was the combination of a powerful godhead associated with the elemental forces of the universe and the possibility of close protection and eventual personal salvation for each single individual in his or her own right. Furthermore, both private aristocratic and popular forms of life in the cities of the Antonine world were marked by many cults outside even this broad ‘Pantheon’, particularly the religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Mithraism. These cults, which rapidly acquired adherents by proselytizing, according to the now more current principle of personal ‘conversion’, frequently used architecture, with its implicit suggestion of stability, in order to gain social acceptance.92 Attractive in their appeal to the individual’s hope of personal salvation, they played a crucial role in the religious and social life of the Roman Empire. Despite their differences in individual practice and belief, there was much ‘common ground’ between these cults, Graeco-Roman and other, above all a monotheistic tendency to encourage the individual worshipper to place hopes in a close and intensely personal relationship with a single, supreme deity.93 In all cases, the architectural settings of these religions served as more than mere background. They were places of personal de-

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votion, deeply embedded with meanings fully accessible only to the worshipper and encouraging a new sense of religiosity.94 Then there were the temples of the imperial cult, usually not temples to the emperor alone, but associated with traditional Graeco-Roman deities. At Pergamon the temple known as the Traianeum was dedicated in c.113/14 to Zeus Philios and Trajan.95 The second temple in the city to serve the worship of the imperial cult, it was begun in the later years of Trajan’s reign by a local aristocrat who had achieved the highest position at Rome. Caius Antius Aulus Iulius Quadratus of Pergamon had served as imperial legate in Bithynia and twice as consul at Rome, in 94 and 105, before becoming governor of Asia in 109/10. The formal vocabulary of this temple was similarly Asiatic, but its overall layout and the execution of its ornament derived from Roman sources, with some details resembling work in Trajan’s Forum and the treatment of the entablature perhaps inspired by the Temple of Quirinus at Rome, recently rebuilt by Trajan.96 On the terrace directly below the imperial cult temple Quadratus also erected the Temple of Dionysus Kathegemon, decorated in the same Roman style. At Italica, in the Spanish province of Baetica, another temple dedicated to Trajan was enclosed within a walled precinct articulated by semicircular niches, a design similar to Vespasian’s Temple of Peace in Rome and found again in Hadrian’s Library at Athens.97 The archaeological remains that survive today are only a fraction of the architecture of the second century. Yet they provide invaluable evidence for the way in which Roman buildings shaped contemporaries’ experience of their world. An interpretation of architecture that is derived only from the archaeological remains, however, is ultimately incomplete. The ﬁnal, decorated appearance of these buildings, which had the greatest impact on contemporary perception, is the least well attested. If we are to understand the monumentality of Roman architecture as it was perceived at the time, we must try to understand how these spaces were used and enjoyed, through the interplay of their structures, lighting, materials, and decoration. For this reason, evidence of how individuals perceived actual buildings of antiquity is particularly valuable. So, just as the inquiring visitor turns to ancient texts to understand the ruins before which he stands, anyone who wants to learn about the meanings of Antonine buildings must complement the visual evidence with literary sources. Of these a substantial number survive from the second century. Like the architectural remains, these literary remnants are only a suggestive sample of contemporary writing, partly because the works of that time were, individually and collectively, considered by subsequent generations to be less valuable or worth preserving than the literature of earlier periods. Even second-century writers themselves belittled the productions of their own day and elevated the works of the past.98 Yet modern philologists have seen the Antonine period as a distinct phase of ancient literature, worthy of study in its own right and characterized by a typological range as wide as that of any period of antiquity. It produced long epic poems commemorating emperors and wars and short epigrams honouring individuals or monuments, accomplished prose orations and sketchy exercises for the rhetorical schools, antiquarian treatises and philosophical discourses, histories, biographies, satires, and novels, and a variety of theoretical writings on medicine, astronomy, and law. Composed in Greek or Latin, the

two main languages of the Empire, these works reﬂected the cultural dualism of the time.99 Antonine literature is of particular relevance to Antonine architecture, since embedded in its texts are many telling references to actual buildings and the processes of design, construction, and response. Some of these passages are direct descriptions, some are mere allusions, and some highlight the signiﬁcance of architecture as a setting for other activities. But, independently of these more speciﬁc texts, literature also has another use, for understanding a society’s perception of the importance of its buildings. Architecture was sometimes employed as the vehicle of metaphors applied to many other different activities and spheres of life. These metaphors are signiﬁcant in their own right because they provided the ancients with a visualization of their thoughts.100 Buildings are prominent in ancient texts because they were prominent in ancient minds. Buildings feature in our thoughts, as well as in our visual and physical experience. We memorize them and place them in a world of ideas by thinking of them in terms of basic forms. And these ‘mental buildings’ are almost more important than real buildings, because they construct the boundaries of our experience and deﬁne monumental ideas. As the art historian Ernst Gombrich has recognized, it is form that deﬁnes the symbolic potential of an image.101 The meaning of architecture is, above all, conveyed by the different forms which buildings take and the varying associations that those forms have for different persons and in different societies. But written texts are not only a source of information about architecture. They are also an analogy for architecture itself. Literature has its own ‘monumental’ variety, epic, with its distinctive form, distinguished in the classical world usually by the hexameter and in English literature by iambic verses. Other distinguishing characteristics of epic, as of monumental buildings, are its dimensions, in other words its length, and its completeness of form. Another is that it is placed within a tradition. As a recent literary critic has written: ‘The epic strives for totality and completion, yet is at the same time driven obsessively to repetition and reworking. From this contradiction arise the speciﬁc dynamics of the epic tradition within the general mechanisms of imitation and tradition in ancient literature.’102 Most importantly, ‘monumental literature’ expects to arouse in its audience an aesthetic response. This expectation is the basis of the late Sir Nikolaus Pevsner’s famous distinction between Lincoln Cathedral as a piece of architecture and a bicycle shed as simply a building: ‘Nearly everything that encloses space on a scale sufficient for a human being to move in is a building; the term architecture applies only to buildings designed with a view to aesthetic appeal.’103 Monumental architecture is something to be noticed and responded to, arousing sentiments and emotions, from positive feelings of joy and admiration to negative ones of hatred or fear. The Antonine period has left a considerable number of verbal responses to architecture, which corresponded to the intellectual interests that ﬂourished at this time. It seems that people were now more concerned to verbalize their experiences of architecture in written or spoken descriptions. There were two main kinds of such description. First, there were orations delivered directly within a building, in which architecture and rhetorical language were supposed to be mutually beneﬁcial, but often in practice conﬂicted. Second, there were written

introduction descriptions of a past experience, whose object was to convey the memory of architecture visited and to spread the building’s fame to readers either not yet born or who had never seen the building in question. The way in which an individual responded to a building helped to deﬁne his or her identity. At the same time, the expectation that public buildings required a particular kind of cultivated response created a climate of exclusivity which undermined the notion that they were truly ‘public’ monuments. The architectural monuments of the Antonine period were monuments for the masses, yet they also conveyed a monumentality that could truly be understood only by the few. It was not only Rome which determined the pattern of the response to monumental architecture of the period. There was also, especially in the East of the Empire, a very prominent and deeply entrenched Hellenic culture. Its clearest manifestation was that phenomenon which is most characteristic of the Antonine age, the ‘Second Sophistic’, of which both ﬁelds studied here, architecture and literature, were parallel and mutually dependent expressions. This high intellectual culture looked back to the model of the sophists of ﬁfth-century Athens and emphasized Classical Greek values. It was more than a narrow literary and philosophical movement, and its impact was widespread. It promoted kindred values among the educated classes and delivered them in a very public and conspicuous form to the masses of the Empire. Recent scholars, applying the sociological theories of Pierre Bourdieu104 to this movement, have shown how such activities served as ‘symbolic capital’, providing its practitioners with a ‘proﬁt of distinction’ that seemed ‘the result of a nearly biological superiority’.105 According to another suggestion, the prestige attached to activities that seemed to be of no practical consequence made them an instance of what Veblen called ‘conspicuous leisure’.106 In the cities of Roman Greece, Asia Minor, and North Africa, ‘sophists’ not only enlightened huge crowds at public performances in city theatres and temple precincts but lavished their wealth on the collective community of their cities, above all on splendid buildings. Roman power and Greek culture were not worlds apart, but closely interwoven. The same men whose literary pursuits were based on the cultural superiority of the Hellenic past undertook building projects in a contemporary Roman style. A number of different issues, therefore, is involved in the notion of ‘monumentality’. Although often interpreted as synonymous with commemorative structures or buildings of unusually great size, monumental architecture has a much wider range of meanings, including the social ambition of the builder, the political identity of a community, the sacral identity of a cult, and, generally, the expectation that users will not only use a building for its practical purpose, but also respond to it as a work of art or a monument. As it is not possible within this book to take account of all the possible manifestations of the idea of ‘monumentality’ in the Roman Empire of the second century, the four principal sections of this book consider four important components of the concept. I do not claim that these are the only ones. But most monumental buildings contain an element of each. The ﬁrst section of this book (Chapters 1–5) deals with the forms of monumental public architecture. In it I explore the signiﬁcance of certain elements of architectural vocabulary that today we take for granted as being ‘monumental’—columns, arches, and pediments—and show how, through their associations with particular symbolic meanings,

13

they could turn an ordinary public building into a monument. Such forms reﬂect the social ambitions of their patrons and, so far as we can tell, the architects who made them. Above all, individuals were aware of the physicality of architecture. This can be seen not only from the bulky structures of ancient buildings themselves, but also from the prominence of architecture in metaphor and philosophy. I shall argue that certain architectural forms, such as the arch, the arcade, and in three-dimensional space the dome, were used to lend authority to monumental structures, partly through their association with the supposed form of the universe. On the other hand, the second section of this book (Chapters 6–8) considers the civic or political meanings that made public buildings in Roman cities monuments of their city, society, or community. In particular, I examine how under the emperors Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius the monuments of public buildings were a ﬁeld for the competition between the chief cities of Asia Minor, especially Ephesus, Smyrna, and Pergamon. A new kind of public space decorated with imperial statuary or dedicated to the worship of the emperor attempted to resolve this conﬂict by creating a new Roman monumentality that uniﬁed the competing civic ideologies of the province. The third section (Chapters 9–10) addresses the aspect of monumentality as commemoration and the presumed relation of monumental buildings to eternity. A monumental building makes a statement about its place within a temporal or historical framework. It may commemorate a person or event of the past, or it may reﬂect more generally views on mortality and immortality. In either case it is a statement about how architecture exists in a longue durée, as a monument for the future. I explore how buildings were intended to impress not only a contemporary audience with the status and aspirations of their builders, but also to evoke memories of their age for future generations. Monumentality in this sense is seen from two perspectives. First, it reﬂects a preoccupation with the past and the idea that buildings of a former age hold enduring values. Second, it implies the ambition of a builder to construct a building as a monument for posterity and his expectation that it will invite the same feelings of enjoyment of the past in the people of a later time. This second sense of ‘monumentality’ raises again the question implied by Gibbon, whether Antonine architecture can be accurately evaluated today as a mirror of its age. These ﬁrst three sections are conceived from the viewpoint of the builder and the intended role of a building in Antonine society, but the ﬁnal two chapters (11–12) focus on the range of responses or anticipated responses that monumental buildings inspired in their viewers. Some responses are behavioural, others are verbal. But the status of any building as a monument is measured by the responses, expected or unexpected, of its users and viewers. I shall explore how the external features of public buildings encouraged their perception as monuments, especially by suggesting similarities to sacred buildings, and invited the audience to see the interiors as hallowed sancta deserving a proper response. As problems of architectural form and meaning have rarely been considered for any phase of the culture of antiquity,107 I have tried, at the beginning of each section, to see each issue in the context of preceding historical eras. The sketches offered here, inevitably selective, show how opinions about buildings and their appearances did not remain static in the minds of ancient Greeks and Romans, but were modiﬁed in response

14

introduction

to political, social, and cultural changes. In the general conclusion the question is raised of how Antonine architectural forms and ideas about architecture contributed to the emergence of those features that are regarded as characteristic of the society and buildings of late antiquity. The symbolic function of buildings is easy to overlook in the rush and movement of everyday experience. It can take a natural disaster or a terrorist catastrophe for most people to recognize how a building can represent more than its function or appearance. In the ancient world, perhaps more than today, buildings served to deﬁne an individual’s or a community’s horizons and cultural priorities. To acknowledge this tenet

is to come closer to understanding what it means to call a building ‘monumental’. To return to the two quotations which form the epigraphs to this Introduction, it is worth considering the extent to which monumental architecture expressed not only the actual prosperity and conditions of its time, as implied by Gibbon, but also that society’s aspirations and dreams. Those dreams were dreams which the builders of subsequent ages might have recognized and approved. The ideas of architectural monumentality that ﬂourished during that period survived into subsequent ages and still affect our attitude to buildings today.

PART I MONUMENTAL FORM

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CHAPTER 1

Principles of Monumental Form in Antiquity The basic architectural shapes of the buildings we see have an impact on our thoughts and behaviour as human beings. We memorize them in certain shorthand ways and conceptualize their more complex variations in terms of the idea of ‘form’. To think of a building as a ‘form’ implies conceiving it in three essential ways. First, it involves a consideration of how the building is made, and therefore an evaluation of its nature as an artefact and of the activity of the person who has made it. Architectural form is something shaped by processes of design and construction, and by those involved in putting up a building—the patron, architect, contractors, and workmen—and the image that they have of themselves and of their work. Second, to speak of the ‘form’ of a building is often to see it in an overall, schematic way, without consideration of its details. This means that the varieties of architectural form most commonly seen as signiﬁcant are basic formations, like the column, capital and entablature, the pediment and roof, and the arch. Third, these schematic formal appearances are considered signiﬁcant because of their capacity not just to suggest something purely architectural, but also to convey wider social or intellectual meanings.1 At the most fundamental level of visual assimilation, architectural forms have a deeper meaning because of their potential to resemble forms from the natural world, either the elemental forms of the universe or more familiar forms such as the human body. Just as Greeks and Romans recognized ‘heads’, ‘necks’, ‘breasts’, or ‘arms’ in natural features,2 so certain architectural formations might be characterized as ‘eyebrows’, ‘faces’, or other features of the human body;3 these must have represented generally held visual conceptions, rather than just the technical language of the specialist.4 However, architecture can only bear these meanings if it is already regarded as a signiﬁcant social medium for communicating ideas. For instance, to see a building as mirroring the cosmos presupposes the application of an architectural metaphor to the universe itself. As a recent critic has written: ‘Nature is the archetype of architecture only insofar as architecture is the archetype of nature. It is less that architecture is cosmic than that the cosmic is architectured.’5 It is a feature of human perception to see architectural forms in natural objects, whether a cornice in a human face,6 or ‘windows’, ‘columns’, ‘stairs’, ‘bridges’, or ‘theatres’ in natural formations: on a grander scale, the universe itself was conceived as a great work of architecture, with ‘gates’, ‘pillars’, a central ‘navel’ and ‘outer circle’, and a ﬁrmament of stone or bronze.7 The concept of ‘form’ is at the very heart of human considerations of architectural meaning, because, without it, no meaning would be possible. By following the notion of form in this chapter it will be possible to consider how important a part buildings played in the attitudes of

ancient Mediterranean society. Although symbolic interpretations of architectural form have sometimes been considered, they are usually believed to be most developed during the later imperial and early medieval periods.8 However, while it is generally widely acknowledged that ideas of late antiquity had their origins in earlier classical culture, architectural symbolism has very rarely been studied for the preceding classical era.9 When thinking of ‘monumental architecture’ in a classical context, most people have certain preconceived ideas about its form. In particular, monumental classical architecture usually means the classical orders, a columnar structure crowned by pediment and entablature. It would probably not be far wrong to speculate that most inhabitants of the Roman Empire in the second century ad shared this perception of monumental form. Certainly, Graeco-Roman builders had traditionally reserved the classical pediment for their most sacred buildings. But to conclude that classical architecture of this kind was the only formal vehicle of architectural monumentality would be a gross oversimpliﬁcation. As in any culture that attaches a high symbolic importance to building, so in the Greek and Roman worlds monumentality was expressed by a great variety of forms. Before looking at the contribution of the Antonine period, I shall brieﬂy survey the preceding tradition.10 Monumental architecture seems always to have derived its particular value from comparison with the natural landscape, which not only constituted a building’s physical setting, but also provided its constituent materials. Columns are like trees; ceilings evoke the sky. Criteria of scale, contrast, and surprise must have been among the most important factors in determining a building’s impact and therefore its degree of monumentality. For example, the names of early ziggurat buildings in Mesopotamia make explicit their supposed resemblance to mountains.11 Similarly, in the Greek world mountains could have anthropomorphic qualities, as physical manifestations of the gods;12 so it was appropriate that the monumentality of Greek temples, the houses of the gods, and later that of secular buildings too was judged primarily by their dimensions. Comparisons between architecture and nature encouraged architects to aim for monumental buildings of great scale. From possibly the eighth century bc, some temples were designed 100 foot long (hekatompeda).13 As the most impressive feature of buildings is that they stand up, their system of support is a fundamental part of their monumentality. From early monuments of Mesopotamia onwards, the column was a key element of structural design, and it was not uncommon to personalize the column through anthropomorphic structures which made the action of physical support comprehensible in human terms.14 But even

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principles of monumental form

in these early monuments there was an alternative structural system, that of the arch and the vault. For expressing monumentality, this second system had an intrinsic superiority to the ﬁrst. A column, with its vertical upward thrust, can sustain only the weight placed directly above it and a second column is therefore needed to support a horizontal upper element such as a beam, and the weight that can be supported is limited. However, a vault is capable of distributing a load over a wider area. Its expansion from the base and extension outwards give it a much more dynamic quality, creating movement in all directions.15 The subsequent history of monumental architectural form, from the sixth century bc up to the imperial Roman period, can be seen in terms of these two basic systems of architectural support. From the Archaic period onwards, the vehicle preferred by Greek communities for monumental buildings was the post-and-beam structure of the orders with its accompanying vocabularies of ornamentation. In addition to its natural setting, a classical Greek temple derived its monumentality from three particular aspects: a surrounding columnar frame, or peribolos; a platform of steps, or peristasis, which raised the temple above the groundlevel of its precinct; and relief sculpture in the triangular pediments at either end. Such forms determined not only the physical appearance of monumental architecture in the Greek world, but also the symbolic potential of architecture as a metaphor and sign. Early Greek cosmologists imagined the form of the world as like the drum of a column, ﬂat, solid, and maintaining a stable balance.16 Because of its stability the column was also a natural image of individual human endurance in Greek poetry, and this metaphor may have been commoner in everyday speech.17 In another way, the image of columnar architecture, such as that used by the poet Pindar (518–438 bc) for his poetic work—a cliché in later Greek and Latin literature—was to dominate architectural and literary aesthetics for the next two-and-a-half millennia: ‘By setting golden columns under the ﬁne wall of the porch to an inner chamber, we shall build, as it were, a spectacular palace hall (megaron). A work beginning must have a façade that shines far away.’18 And he evoked similar features for the divinely crafted form of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi: by the all-skilful hands of Hephaestus and Athena, what was the shape that showed itself? Bronze the walls and bronze the pillars that stood beneath, and on its pediment six golden Sirens sang.19

The clearest evidence of the inﬂuence of classical columnar architecture upon notions of monumentality in the Greek world can be seen, of course, in the great religious monuments of the classical period like those on the Athenian Acropolis. But the aesthetic of the columnar façade viewed from afar achieved real signiﬁcance from the fourth century onwards. A proliferation of lesser gateways, fountain buildings, and temple-like structures appeared in Greek cities, all emphasizing the monumentality of the aedicular form of columns and pediment.20 The dominant role of the classical orders can be seen not only in the composition of the façades, but also in the interior spaces of such structures. For example, in the north propylon of the Asclepieion at Epidaurus, dated to c.300 bc, the monumental exterior is deﬁned by the Ionic order, and Corinthian columns articulate the interior as a monumental unity.21 Such smaller structures demonstrated the extent of the belief

that architectural monumentality required recourse to the classical post-and-beam form. With the eastern conquests of Alexander the Great, however, both the symbolic authority and the formal ideals of columnar architecture received a new challenge. The cities of Alexandria in Egypt, founded by Alexander in 331 bc, and Antioch in Syria, founded by Seleucus I in 300 bc, with their substantial oriental, Aramaic, and Jewish communities, were fertile environments for the growth of cross-cultural ideas. In architecture, too, straight and angular forms now competed with curvilinear ones originating from Egypt and Mesopotamia. The curved arch and the vault were introduced as a means of structural support in the Greek world, initially in Alexander’s native Macedonia, but later elsewhere.22 In Ptolemaic Egypt and Seleucid Syria sacrality was deﬁned not only by traditional Greek angular pediments, but also by the arched or segmental pediments of native sanctuaries.23 Such formal innovations challenged the moral authority of the Greek post-and-beam system of support. Although the curved vault remained limited to profane architecture and could not compete with the ﬂat ceiling in Greek temple architecture,24 the new form acquired philosophical sanction. There is some evidence that in Babylonian and Semitic cosmology the sky or heaven was regarded as a dome or canopy over the earth. In the Akkadian epic Enuma elish, the god Marduk divides his body in two with a sword to create the heavenly vault and the earth. Some Stoic philosophers, such as Chrysippus of Soli (c.280–207 bc) and his successors Hecaton of Rhodes and Posidonius of Apamea (c.135–c.51 bc), based their understanding of the structure of the world on the vault, rather than the column. As Chrysippus wrote, ‘the stones of the vault are responsible to one another for their load standing ﬁrm, but they are not responsible for one another’.25 The arch and vault came together when they embraced a space in three dimensions, in plan as well as in elevation, especially in the form of an apse, where the curved boundaries of wall and vault alike softened and uniﬁed the space they enclosed. Curvilinear forms lent authority to a number of Hellenistic structures.26 The basic ornamental language of monumental architecture continued to be deﬁned by the classical orders. However, their use and meaning changed. From perhaps as early as the second century bc, the columnar orders received a semiotic interpretation previously alien to Greek architecture. At its heart was the awareness of separate rules and symmetries for all three columnar orders, familiar to us from the Latin text of Vitruvius, but originating in the Attalid and Seleucid kingdoms of Asia Minor. Yet whereas formerly each of the three columnar orders—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—could be the organizing principle of a whole building, the recourse to iconic modes of architectural decoration prevalent in the ancient Near East now led to the more expressionistic employment of different orders within the same structure.27 The monumentality of a building came not only from its natural setting and its structural components, but also from the simple fact of its being raised upon a secure foundation. The image of good foundations plays a large role in early ideas of architectural monumentality. This is clear from the round tholos-type shrines with bulky bases dedicated to gods and heroes from the Archaic period, which were called thymelai, a term related to the Greek themelios [lithos] (‘foundation stone’) and Latin tumulus. The link implies that the presence of a substantial foundation was regarded in both Greek and Etruscan–Roman traditions as

principles of monumental form an important ingredient of monumentality, reﬂected in the continued use of podia and bases for the most valued statuary images. In the Near East, the image of foundations had a grander application as a metaphor for the establishment of a community, from the Babylonian foundation account of Sennacherib to the Hebrew Old Testament.28 In the Book of Genesis, for instance, God, the primeval architect of the world, was said to have ‘built’ woman from Adam’s rib (Gen. 2: 22). In the Hellenizing period of Judaism, when the Old Testament was translated into Greek, these images underwent no signiﬁcant change, with the Greek linguistic equivalents, principally the verb oikodomein and its compounds, producing no substantial alteration in meaning. The metaphor of ‘building’ became established in Jewish tradition and was much discussed in Rabbinic literature, where it was given both a moral signiﬁcance, with the doing of good works compared to sound building practice, and implicit cosmological meaning. The creator of the world was portrayed as a king wanting to build, and digging ever deeper in order to lay a secure foundation (Hebrew temelyos, or Greek themelios). Hence Abraham, or alternatively David, Jacob, or the Messiah, could be interpreted as the ‘rock’ on which he built or the ‘ﬂoor’ of the world; and the elders and scholars of the Jewish community were themselves ‘builders’ of the faith or ‘pillars’ of the community of Israel.29 There is little evidence of such ideas in the Greek world beyond, of course, Plato’s image in his Timaeus of the divine artist (demiourgos) working from a model form or template (paradeigma) to create the world. More widespread was the idea that correct building corresponded to moral uprightness. In early Greek lyric poetry human virtue is described as ‘foursquare’, ‘faultless’, or ‘perfectly fashioned’, and the same equivalence between architecture and moral excellence seems to lie behind the representation of symbols of geometry on a vase of 480/70 bc attributed to the Cage Painter.30 Demosthenes, in his Second Olynthiac, argues that, just as the foundations of a house or a ship should be as strong as possible, so the beginnings and basic principles of actions should be true and just.31 In Euripides’ Iphigeneia in Tauris the column is a symbol of moral excellence. As ﬁrst the cornice and then the whole roof of the house collapses, a single column is left, which takes on hair and a voice to become Orestes.32 In the Greek world, building (oikodomia) had a moral value. Professional architects and their workmen achieved order, symmetry, and harmony by their craft and expertise. A public building was regarded as the creation of its architect. Greek architects were respected public officials or agents of a community, who followed the instructions of the civic assembly which had ﬁnancial responsibility for a project. Earthly architecture was considered to be an essentially teleological process. Its importance lay not in the activity itself (Greek oikodomesis), but in its end, a building (oikia).33 Geometry, like other disciplines in which architects were trained, was, Aristotle maintained, a practical, rather than a theoretical art. It offered nothing to those inquiring about the shape of the world, since whether a straight line or an arc of a circle was more beautiful was only a matter of subjective taste.34 From the fourth century, however, royal patrons looked beyond the practical purpose of public buildings. They erected public buildings of great size as an expression of their power, measured not in cubits but in stadia, the largest unit of measurement available in the Greek world.35 To Plato the huge dimensions of the Temple of Poseidon at

19

Atlantis were something ‘barbaric’.36 But size in architecture was also an admirable quality.37 It seemed to show that the patron possessed those moral excellences of ‘magniﬁcence’ (megaloprepeia) and ‘greatness of spirit’ (megalopsuchia), the latter widely cited as a social virtue in honoriﬁc inscriptions38 and deﬁned by Aristotle as a capacity to dispense wealth harmoniously and to judge what was morally right.39 Patronage, then, had its own virtue, which lay in good judgement and correctness, corresponding to the architect’s technical accuracy. At the same time, architects acquired further authority in their professional practice. The Ionian architect Pythius propagated the idea, familiar to us from Vitruvius, of the architect as a universal man trained in all other disciplines, arts, and sciences.40 In second-century bc Cyme in Asia Minor, a public building project, funded at private expense, made use of ‘architects’ competitions with models of the scheme under completion’.41 The public visibility of architectural form here is clear. The model was shown ‘to the majority of the people’, presenting an ideal version of the form that was envisaged. Its aim was not only practical, but metaphoric: to catch the essence of built architecture in microcosm.42 Thus Vitruvius noted that representations of architecture in groundplan, elevation, and depth perspective were known in Greek as ideai, representing the conception of a building in the mind of its designer, in the same way that the Platonic idea is a perfect image in the divine world, of which objects in the material world are merely copies.43 In an earlier passage in the ﬁrst book of his work Vitruvius declares the purpose of drawn plans. He writes that an architect needs to include drawing among the skills he requires, ‘so that he is more easily able to deform (deformare) the appearance of the building that he wants by painted copies (exemplaribus pictis)’.44 The term for ‘plans’, exemplaria, implies their function as ‘copies’ of a work conceived by the designer, transmitted from a mental vision to a painted form. Similarly, the verb deformare suggests the transferral of a ‘form’ (forma) from that conceptual image in the artist’s mind to a visible, painted one.45 The Latin term forma, which Vitruvius introduces as a translation for Greek sche-ma and which in later usage is translated simply as ‘plan’, corresponds to three different Greek words, eidos, sche-ma, and idea. It was the Roman tool for visualizing buildings, referring strictly not to the drawn plan itself, but to the ideal property of the design, or almost its raison d’être. Vitruvius distinguishes later between forma and ratio, the former being the ideal property of shape contained within a building and the latter the process of thinking about it by the architect.46 So, as he writes near the start of his work, architecture is generated, in a kind of scientiﬁc theogony, from a parentage of fabrica and ratiocinatio.47 Fabrica is deﬁned as ‘a practising of function’ (usus meditatio) out of whichever material is needed ‘for the purpose of the plan’ (ad propositum deformationis). Deformatio here does not connote a drawn plan, for which descriptio would be more apt, but keeps the focus on the ‘built’ nature of architectural fabric by representing the design process as a transferral of ‘form’ from its original version in the designer’s mind to a drawn ‘copy’. Vitruvius’ distinction between fabrica and ratiocinatio is not so much one between practice and theory as between actual ‘built-ness’—what Nelson Goodman calls ‘the build of a building’48— and intellectual discourse on architecture. For Vitruvius, form could be represented in ground-plan, elevation,

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principles of monumental form

or axonometric depth. He saw the creation of a building’s form as analogous to the fabricatio of iron in furnaces into omne genus formae.49 The word forma was also used of the ancestral imagines in a Roman house, moulded out of wax, or of moulds for shaping cheese or bread.50 Latin writers are often imprecise about exactly what part of an object was constituted by its form, but they agree on its leading importance for the identity of the object. Although Cicero distinguishes a painting’s real ‘form’ from its outline (extrema liniamenta), he still regarded these two aspects as being the object’s most fundamental part, the last to fade, and the most important to be preserved.51 Similarly, the ‘form’ of a landscape lay somewhere between its terrain (situs) and its outline (circumscriptio), and the ‘form’ of Italy was characterized by its regions.52 The younger Pliny wrote of the ‘very beautiful form’ of the region in which his Tuscan villa lay, comparing it to ‘an immense amphitheatre of the kind that only Nature can construct’.53 For Statius the ‘form’ (forma) of a villa’s beata loca was not as visible as the actual ‘sight’ (visus) of it, but more recognizable than an ‘image’ (imago) or ‘shadow’ (umbra).54 On the other hand, others have a very clear physical sense of forma, which is often identiﬁed with an outline or cross-section. To Livy, for example, the city of Phocaea in Asia Minor was ‘oblong in form’, and his subsequent account suggests that he does not envisage it, in our own sense of the word ‘oblong’, as a simple rectangle, but as wedge-shaped with a triangular end.55 For Sallust the Numidians’ ‘barbarian’ houses were similarly ‘oblong’, but with curved ends.56 The forma of Roman aqueducts, whose repair is often recorded in Latin inscriptions, is not the whole structure, but the cross-sectional shape of the channel conveying the water.57 This is made clear by an image on an inscription from Sestinum in the Apennines, which appears originally to have shown the cross-section of the aqueduct channel as a round arch circumscribed by a triangular gable (Fig. 7).58 So when Romans referred to the ‘form’ (forma) of a building, they meant both the ideal sense of its perfect mental conception and the physical sense of its visible form, especially its outline. Indeed, it is often ambiguous whether Roman writers are referring to a physical object or the perfect ideal of which the latter is a copy. When Livy refers to the distinctive ‘form’ of Sardinia, he may either mean the drawn map, set up in the Temple of Mater Matuta at Rome, or the country’s actual geophysical outline.59 In an architectural context ‘form’ often appears schematic, as representing something extraneous to the architecture. The understanding of architectural form as an ideal, mental image can be seen from the picture of a city architect given by the Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria, which is in other respects similar to that of Vitruvius: Having observed both the favourable climate and location of the site, he ﬁrst designs within himself a plan of virtually all the parts of the city to be completed . . . Then, taking up the imprints of each object in his own soul, as in wax, he carries around the intelligible city as an image in his head. Summoning up the representations by means of his innate power of memory, and engraving their features ever more distinctly [in his mind], he begins to construct the city out of stones and timber, looking at the model and ensuring that the corporeal objects correspond to each of the incorporeal ideas.60

Philo’s conception of the creation of the world by the divine Logos is similar: ‘Just as the city that was marked out beforehand in the architect

7. Schematic symbol of an aqueduct section (Latin forma), engraved on the lost upper part of an inscription from Sestino (ancient Sestinum) (province of Arezzo, Tuscany). The inscription records the repair to the Aqua Augusta.

had no location outside, but had been engraved in the soul of the craftsman, in the same way the cosmos composed of the ideas would have no other place than the divine Logos who gives those ideas their ordered disposition.’61 The analogy here shows an ‘upgrading of the demiurgic metaphor’ familiar from the account of the world’s creation in Plato’s Timaeus.62 In this, Philo resembled Roman precedents, notably Cicero, who, in his translation of Plato’s work, interpreted Plato’s demiurge as a builder (aediﬁcator).63 Both Cicero and Philo followed Aristotle in the observation that looking on the world was like seeing a well-designed house: one cannot avoid the conclusion that a god was responsible for the design.64 Such explicit visualization of the creation of the world as the construction of a city65 was accepted also by Stoics, although it provoked scepticism from Epicureans like Cicero’s companion Velleius: ‘By what mental vision could your master Plato gaze on the construction of such a great work, with which he makes the universe erected and built by God? What kind of engineering, iron tools, levers, cranes, or functionaries belonged to so great a project? How could air, ﬁre, water, and earth obey and be subjected to the will of an architect?’66 Yet, despite that alleged implausibility, the parallel between the world’s creation and terrestrial buildings became an important component of Middle Platonism in the second century.67 Its implication for architec-

principles of monumental form tural projects was that these now had the illusion of themselves being cosmic projects, the works of divine designers. But there was also a second, more common analogy, which determined the understanding of architectural form. Romans perceived a fundamental relation between themselves and their buildings. This too was inﬂuenced by Plato’s Timaeus, in which the structure of the human body and soul is described in architectural terms: the head, for example, is like an acropolis, the heart like a guardroom.68 Such conceptions, which inﬂuenced architectural terminology,69 were sometimes based on supposed visual correspondence, as, famously, in Vitruvius’ characterization of the Greek columnar orders according to ‘gendered’ features: in the Ionic column, for instance, the base was ‘like a shoe’, the ﬂutes of the shafts like the pleats on a woman’s dress, and the volutes of the capital ‘like hair-curls’. 70 The towers of Jerusalem’s city wall constructed by Herod the Great were not only named after individuals; the tower of Queen Mariamme was more decorated than those named after men because of the feminine character it was intended to portray.71 Cicero even described the Sicilian town of Himera as ‘formed in the shape of a woman’.72 Such direct visual comparisons between humans and buildings were relatively rare; for Vitruvius, the analogy was not so much a literal equivalence as a ratio, a principle of design similar to Polyclitus’ Canon for sculpture;73 it helped, for example, to understand the entasis of columns in terms of the strain suffered in supporting a superimposed weight. The recognition of resemblances to humans in a building was more often used negatively, as in the poet Catullus’ crude abuse;74 or, earlier, the Athenian comedian Cratinus mocked the unusually bulbous shapes of Pericles’ Odeion and of his head: ‘look how he comes this way, with the ostrakon upon his skull.’75 A more signiﬁcant aspect of the human analogy with architecture was its moral dimension.76 In a scene from one of the earliest surviving complete Latin texts, Plautus’ comedy Mostellaria, produced in the early second century bc, the analogy between a building and a human being is described as a simulacrum, an ‘image’ or ‘representation’, and developed at length. The protagonist declares that ‘a building resembles a man’, almost like a portrait.77 The analogy, however, is based not on visual resemblances, but on thematic and moral similarities between men and buildings, which assume a fuller mental identiﬁcation of the two. Parallels are established between the events or processes in a man’s life and those in the history of a building, for instance, between construction and education, climate and circumstance, or collapse and corruption. So too for modern architects: buildings are born, they have birthdays, become ill, grow old, and are eventually pulled down when they cannot be repaired.78 For Romans, medicine and architecture were analogous arts; both aimed at ‘restoring the failings of the body’, whether of a building or a person.79 The younger Pliny wrote to console his wife’s grandfather Fabatus about the state of his Villa Camilliana in Campania, whose fabric was ‘decaying with age’, hoping ‘that it will be restored to the best possible state of health’.80 Private buildings were seen as extensions of their owner, and human life and feelings were sometimes attributed to them.81 There were good conceptual reasons for this analogy between man and building in Roman culture. The Latin term for building, aediﬁcatio, has a similar etymological root (‘making a house’) to the Greek term

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oikodomia. But it had wholly different connotations, and the activity it described possessed a different status in Roman culture and society. The main difference was that, whereas oikodomia was a skill practised by the artisan, even if it involved the moral judgement of the architect as well as the manual dexterity of the mason, aediﬁcatio was an act performed by the patron himself. According to the word’s original, etymological sense (aediﬁcatio, from aedes and facere ), the object of building was a temple, and the patron therefore a public magistrate and religious official. The word, however, often also referred to the construction of a private house or of public works built with private money. It is noteworthy that, while the Alexandrian Philo compared the creation of the world to the work of an architect, for Cicero the divine designer was an aediﬁcator. The aediﬁcator, or ‘builder’, was a private individual who aimed to build a structure in his own name. This basic distinction in meaning between Greek oikodomia as a technical skill of building workers and Latin aediﬁcatio as reﬂecting the perspective of the patron continued throughout the period of the Roman Empire. It followed from this notion of aediﬁcatio that many Roman patrons took an interest in questions of architectural form. By contrast, in the Greek world it was considered characteristic only of a ﬂatterer to encourage his patron to seek credit from the design of his house.82 Cicero, on the other hand, expressed admiration for both the dignity of traditional columnar forms and the novelty of new, curvilinear ones.83 The latter he understood as acquiring authority from the shape of the cosmos. The story that Pompey modelled the design for his theatre in Rome on the theatre of Mytilene on Lesbos indicates a concern with physical architectural form on the part of this military man.84 Likewise, Julius Caesar is said to have taken an interest in the ‘form’ of a new gladiatorial school, and will hardly have left it at that, in view of his wellknown plans for reshaping the centre of Rome.85 The reason for the perceived importance of architectural form for Roman politicians seems to have been twofold. First, aediﬁcatio was, as Paul Veyne has suggested, essentially ‘“ludic” in the multiform sense that Huizinga gives to that word’,86 or in other words a variety of ‘play’. In one sense, building activity could be regarded as a ‘trivial pursuit’, inviting moral censure: Cicero mocked a legal adversary for his ‘insane’ obsession with columns, and later, Tacitus criticized the younger Drusus for spending his nights in banquets (convivia) and his days in building projects (aediﬁcationes).87 It was this aspect that earned aediﬁcatio moral censure and associated it with extravagant or excessive display.88 However, Roman building projects were also ‘ludic’ in the more serious sense that they constituted a ﬁeld of competition with rivals of similar status and a means of acclaim and advancement. The dedication of a public building was a public ceremony, at which the presiding magistrate who formally placed his hand on the doorpost and prayed to the gods was an object of admiration and respect.89 Roman builders had to tread a difficult path in creating something architecturally impressive, while avoiding the moral opprobrium attached to building.90 While Hellenistic monarchs boasted of the enormous scale of their projects, at Rome building a ‘mountain’ of a villa was thought ‘intolerable’.91 As Columella wrote: ‘A farmer should build elegantly; but he should not be a builder (aediﬁcator).’92 The second reason for Roman patrons’ interest in architectural form was its potential value as a symbol of wider ideas. As Ernst Gombrich

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has shown, the form of visual objects can serve as an icon conveying more than purely aesthetic principles.93 For Roman orators from the late Republic onwards, simple arched or columnar forms could represent ideas, or even whole sentences.94 An example of the signiﬁcance of architectural form as a medium of expression is the development of the basilica in the late Republic. Its ﬁrst certain appearance in the Roman Forum was the Basilica Porcia of 184 bc, dedicated by the aedile Marcus Porcius Cato, which seems to have taken its name by analogy with the nearby third-century bc Atrium Regium; the latter may have functioned to receive royal visitors from Greek kingdoms and thus become known as ‘the basilica’ from the Greek translation of its name, aule- basilike- (‘royal hall’).95 Later examples of the type helped to organize the central political area of the city by deﬁning its spatial borders and rationalizing its functions very similarly to the development of agoras in Greek cities like Athens and Pergamon during the same period.96 In this context, the arrangement of columns within the space could be seen as both a physical encumbrance and a politically symbolic emblem of senatorial power, as is shown by a later incident regarding the Basilica Porcia, when the tribunes objected to one of its columns which obstructed their places and proposed its removal, only for it to be eloquently defended by the founder’s great-grandson, the younger Cato.97 Internally, the basilica differed from the Greek stoa, ﬁrst by being closed off from the public square, and secondly in its interior, which included an upper level and was organized in a markedly axial way. Its very name implied a ‘royal’ structure, and its focus was the raised tribunal at one end, where the praetor was separated from the ordinary merchants in the body of the building below. The hierarchical nature of the building’s interior layout was mirrored by its architectural forms. A ‘giant order’ embracing the two levels of the building expressed a superhuman scale. Vitruvius had described the giant order of his basilica at Fanum as a form of columns ‘of continuous height’ (altitudinibus perpetuis ) with pilasters on two levels behind,98 the effect of which can be judged from the surviving, late second-century bc example at Pompeii. From the ﬁrst century bc the monumental possibilities of the exterior were exploited more vigorously. The façade, previously concealed by shops, now offered an arcaded display with engaged orders framing the columns. The same form dominated the forum at its western end in the so-called ‘Tabularium’.99 The semiotic importance of both the basilica and the arcade in the late Republic is clear from their representation on Roman coins, which, as the creation of the Roman mint (Moneta ), highlighted the signiﬁcance of these forms as monumenta.100 Two other architectural forms, one Roman and one Greek in origin, may be mentioned here because of their similar monumental value. The ﬁrst was the free-standing arch, a distinctively Roman creation. Erected from at least the early second century bc by Roman generals to commemorate their own military glory, the triumphal arch under the Empire became associated with the Senate and People, as an honoriﬁc award to the emperor alone.101 The second was the triangular pediment (fastigium), which Cicero identiﬁed as giving the Capitoline Temple in Rome its essential dignity (dignitas).102 The temple was the supreme monumental form, and, accordingly, it was a huge political honour to be granted the privilege of dedicating it by solemnly laying hold of the doorpost. The pediment

continued to bestow a sacral quality on monuments into the Antonine period, although it was by no means limited to temples. A pediment was placed over the entrance of the official house of Julius Caesar as pontifex maximus.103 As these two examples suggest, the language of monumental public architecture offered hierarchical possibilities that could be reinterpreted under the Empire. As with the Hellenistic kings in the Greek world, the criterion of enormous size, height, and domination over other buildings was an important feature of the architectural ideology of the early Roman emperors.104 Vitruvius’ preface to his work, incorporating a dedication to Augustus, plays on the verbal similarity between the name Augustus and the words for ‘increase’ (augere) and ‘authority’ (auctoritas).105 Tall buildings embodied the authority of their builders. So the new regime was marked by an increase in the scale of public buildings.106 In actual buildings such superhuman scale could be suggested by the ﬂexibility of modular design, which readily permitted an increase in scale to accommodate a supposedly greater authority.107 Aediﬁcatio was intrinsically connected with such monumentalization. For Pindar, the Temple of Apollo at Delphi with bronze walls and columns was the culmination of a mythical development from two earlier, more primitive versions, the ﬁrst made of laurel branches, the second from wax and feathers.108 Likewise, Vitruvius wrote that modern building originated from the imitation by early men of swallows’ nests—their ‘buildings’ (aediﬁcationes)—in the earliest buildings of twigs and thatch.109 As supposed evidence of this prototype he cited the conical log cabins of the Phrygians and the primitive thatched hut of Romulus in the Area Capitolina at Rome, which showed the ‘manners of antiquity (mores vetustatis)’.110 The latter, to be distinguished from the older ‘house of Romulus’ on the Palatine, may in fact have been a construction of the Augustan period, perhaps when the Area Capitolina was restored in 26–20 bc.111 Its monumental purpose was apparently, as an image of ‘primitive’ building, to serve as a visual counterpoint to the true monumentality of the great Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus with its gilded tiles, restored by Augustus.112 In the opening to Virgil’s third Georgic, the marble temple dedicated by Augustus to Roman and Italian gods, a literary borrowing from Pindar’s image mentioned earlier in this chapter, expressed the Augustan monumental- ization of Italy.113 The emperor’s famous claim to have transformed Rome from brick to marble could have a similarly ﬁgurative meaning.114 Related to these images was the established notion of the state as a building.115 In the late Republic Cicero told Varro, author of a treatise on architecture,116 that they had been ‘commissioned . . . not just as architects, but even as masons, to rebuild the community’.117 Imperial rule was deﬁned metaphorically by speciﬁc architectural forms, which went beyond the generalizing pattern of that conception. Valerius Maximus, probably alluding to the form of the Capitoline temple, wrote that Roman military discipline created ‘the ridge-pole of the whole world, arisen out of the little hut of Romulus’.118 The idea of a temple pediment crowning the ediﬁce of imperial power is also expressed in Velleius Paterculus at the end of his history of Rome, in his prayer to the Roman gods, Jupiter Capitolinus, Mars Gradivus, Vesta, and ‘any other deity that has lifted this bulk (moles) of the imperium Romanum onto the largest pediment (amplissimum . . . fastigium) in the world, to protect and conserve it and to bring successors to Tiberius

principles of monumental form who could be strong enough to support the world on their necks’.119 The Empire was represented as a great bulk (moles) that might at any moment collapse,120 and therefore needed an Atlas or a Hercules to sustain it on his shoulders; alternatively, in the Basilica Paulli rebuilt in ad 22, it was the Phrygian barbarian caryatids of purple Docimian marble (pavonazzetto) who seemed to uphold this symbol of Rome’s domination.121 Under Augustus the columnar orders could be used to express the new social order. Thus the superimposed orders of Tuscan–Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian adorning the exterior of the auditorium of the Theatre of Marcellus seemed to symbolize not only the threefold hierarchy of ancient society, but the speciﬁc regulations of the new Lex

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Julia Theatralis, according to which the theatre rows were arranged for senators in the lowest ten rows, equestrians above them, and free citizens above that.122 Although not so explicitly coordinated, the columnar displays of the scaenae frons of imperial theatres, especially the central niche, sometimes known as the porta regia, originally crowned by a pediment as at Orange (Arausio) in southern France (Fig. 8), depended for their social impact on the same symbolic patterns associated with these basic monumental forms.123 The triangular pediment remained the most sacral monumental symbol and the highest sign of social honour. Like his adoptive father Julius Caesar before him, Augustus was granted the right for his house

8. The Theatre at Orange, southern France (ancient Arausio, province of Gallia Narbonensis): detail of the central niche of the stage-building, with reinstalled statue of Augustus surmounted by a pediment.

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principles of monumental form

9. Trajanic relief, the so-called anaglypha Traiani, from the Roman Forum, now kept in the Curia. The Emperor Trajan is shown (far right) standing in front of a templum rostratum.

on the Palatine to be crowned with a pediment, which enclosed a corona civica of oak leaves.124 The form had implicit associations with royalty and divinity, and so it became common later to highlight the emperor’s divine authority by showing him in front of a pedimented temple façade, especially the raised platform of the templum rostratum in the Roman Forum (Fig. 9).125 On one coin the emperor Domitian appears to be shown seated in a domical shrine resembling a triangular pediment, the letters S. C. (Senatus Consulto, ‘by decree of the Senate’) perhaps indicating the Senate’s sanction of this honour (Fig. 10).126 But the Latin word for ‘pediment’, fastigium, had other than purely architectural associations. It symbolized an individual’s personal honour and rank, as Livy, for example, applies it to the early heroes of the Republic.127 For Tacitus, Germanicus was a man ‘of high fastigium’, above all because he possessed tribunician power.128 Yet it was in archi-

10. Cast of a sestertius of Domitian, reverse face, showing a domical shrine guarded by soldiers and containing a colossal statue of the emperor.

11. The Parthian Arch of Nero on the Capitoline Hill in Rome. Reconstruction, based on coin representations.

principles of monumental form tecture that this ﬁgurative use of the term was manifest. It is notable that, from the ﬁrst century ad, many honoriﬁc arches and similar structures tended to include a pediment within the attic, although it had no structural function.129 The arch itself remained a potent architectural symbol during the ﬁrst century, undergoing successive modiﬁcations. There was a tendency to distinguish the central keystone from the other voussoirs, particularly through ﬁgured decoration, and in Nero’s Parthian Arch of 64 and its successors this became a separate element altogether, expanded into a console linking arch and entablature (Fig. 11). There is some reason to believe that this change was interpreted at the time in political terms, with the enlarged console taken as an image of Nero’s tyrannical power and contempt for the Senate.130 Nero’s arch also enlivened the role of the columns in the design of the honoriﬁc arch, which henceforth were free-standing elements projected forward from the façade.131 Nero, of course, is only an extreme example of the obsession of Roman patrons with aediﬁcatio.132 The ludic aspect of Roman building is plain, as much as in real architecture, in the extraordinary but well-documented habit of aristocrats to employ ‘builders’ (structores)

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to construct towers of food that provoked amazement in their guests.133 Likewise, the survival of trompe l’œil architectural paintings on the walls of houses, most impressively at Torre Annunziata (Oplontis), with display of columns, pediments, and arched forms, offers a hint that those forms may have been considered as having symbolic, as well as simply decorative, importance.134 In public buildings, the use of pediments in unexpected places, as over the arches of the bays on the north side of the amphitheatre at Nîmes (Fig. 12), shows a freer use of this vocabulary, with architectural elements treated like icons.135 Quintilian’s Flavian rhetorical handbook offers a parallel, in its development of earlier architectural mnemonics to create sequences of such arches and intercolumniations arranged as ‘symbols’ (signa) within a public building. The change is reﬂected in the layout of actual buildings. Unlike the earlier Baths of Agrippa, those of Trajan have a symmetrical layout, with rooms arranged in a systematic way, as repeated symbols around a compass-like crossaxis.136 From the later ﬁrst century the improvement in construction techniques and in the materials used for the caementa that formed the core of Roman concrete vaults137 encouraged patrons to believe that archi-

12. Amphitheatre at Nîmes (Nemausus), southern France (province of Gallia Narbonensis), north entrance façade, decorated with two orders of Tuscan columns and a pediment supported by two half-length bulls.

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tecture could be manipulated to convey an inﬁnite variety of meanings. The use of a rubble concrete aggregate of superior tensile strength, not just for supporting terrace structures but for standing buildings, and the rise of a developed building-timber industry138 were bound to affect not only the range of individual architectural shapes that could be constructed, but also Romans’ attitude to how buildings were formed. Advanced and more ﬂexible building techniques allowed builders to create unusual geometrical forms from what seemed an assemblage of unpromising and unattractive timbers, metals, and mortars of lime and rubble: ‘shapeless raw materials were transposed into building solids by inverting natural processes.’139 At an early stage of this revolution in the building industry, Seneca wrote: There is nothing that a tenacious workman and a concentrated and diligent attention cannot overcome. You will summon timbers, however curved, back into a straight line; the action of heat makes crooked beams straight, and objects made in one natural form are shaped into whatever our purpose requires: how much more easily is the mind formed, being pliant and more responsive to every moisture!140

Some years later, Martial observed the relentless rise of tall scaffolding structures across the Velia ridge, the Colosseum valley, and the Oppian and Caelian hills of Rome.141 The scene he describes is paralleled by a marble relief, which shows a roughly oval building, presumably the Colosseum, under scaffolding, an incomplete colonnade, and a standing ﬁgure in a cloak or toga, who might be either the architect or the aediﬁcator (Fig. 13).142 This representation, which may have adorned a Flavian tomb monument, gave contemporary building projects a mythic status similar to that of the foundation of Rome depicted on the Basilica Paulli. Later still, Trajan’s massive engineering works, which cut into the hill to clear room for his huge forum complex with its colonnades, triumphal arch, basilica, and temple, showed what aediﬁcatio could now achieve.143 The height of the hill removed in this refashioning of the city landscape was measured by the emperor’s Column; the inscription on its base, which was also his tomb, stated the function of this monument, ‘to show of what great height were the hill and site that were excavated for such great works’.144 But the Latin text seems to conﬂate two grammatical constructions: both an indirect question, as in the translation given here, and a parallel structure quantae . . . tantis, which implies that Trajan’s new forum buildings were also as great, or as high, as the former hill.145 Art had equalled nature.146

13. Flavian relief from the tomb of Aulus Hirtius in the Campus Martius, Rome (Palazzo della Cancelleria). The relief, which is probably from a funerary monument, but was found re-used, shows a large building under construction, covered by several levels of scaffolding (pegmata) and overseen by a togate ﬁgure (right), possibly the contractor.

No wonder, then, that with Hadrian the traditional Roman passion for aediﬁcatio appears almost as an obsession.147 Familiar with the memory-palaces of the rhetor Metrodorus of Scepsis, he was said to be able with his own prodigious powers of memory to recall the forms of all the buildings he visited across the Empire.148 The philosophers at his court indulged his interest in architecture as a language of expression, developing, for instance, an analogy between the life of a man and the layout of a bath-building.149 He was not only a proliﬁc patron of public buildings across the Empire,150 but a keen draftsman with a ﬂair for individual and creative solutions.151 One can detect a preference above all for arched and domical designs. Already in Trajan’s reign Hadrian had allegedly offered advice to Trajan’s architect Apollodorus of Damascus on the design of Trajan’s Forum in Rome, which Apollodorus dismissed, telling him to go away and draw his ‘pumpkins’.152 To the Syrian architect, trained within the classical tradition, such domical forms were a monstrosity, but his trivializing of this form did not do justice to its revolutionary design.153 The ‘pumpkins’ which, according to the anecdote, Hadrian had a fondness for drawing are mirrored by the ribbed forms of segmental or ‘umbrella’ domes in certain pavilion structures of Hadrian’s private villas.154 These include structures from the ‘Piazza d’Oro’ and ‘Serapeum’ of the villa at Tivoli, a pavilion of the Horti Sallustiani in Rome, built after its acquisition by the emperor in 126, and the so-called ‘Temple of Venus’ at Baiae, where Hadrian had a villa.155 In planning the Temple of Venus and Rome, ‘the largest temple ever constructed at Rome’,156 inaugurated on the city’s birthday festival, the Parilia, on 21 April 121 and sited on the Velia ridge above the Roman Forum, Hadrian pointedly sent Apollodorus his own sketch plan.157 Again Apollodorus criticized the design, this time for the lack of a raised site and for making the cult statues too tall for their setting, recalling a well-known criticism of Phidias’ statue in the Temple of Zeus at Olympia,158 but Hadrian simply had the architect executed for maiestas. Even if this account is not historically accurate, its signiﬁcance should not be underrated.159 If the physical evidence throws doubt on the details of the anecdote about Apollodorus, it corroborates its general context. The architect’s emphasis on the substructures and height of the podium corresponds to the actual situation and structural remains of the temple on the Velia. Hadrian’s personal taste may well also have inﬂuenced the restoration of Agrippa’s Pantheon in the Campus Martius, for which a great dome was constructed that cannot have been solely the design of the traditionalist Apollodorus.160

principles of monumental form

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Perhaps more signiﬁcant than his own interests in architectural design was the fact that Hadrian set a standard for others to follow across the Empire. He developed the building industry at Rome, reorganized by Trajan, with the year 123 alone widely recognized as an annus mirabilis in the history of the Roman brick industry.161 According to an ancient biographer, he ‘enrolled builders, geometers, architects, and every sort of expert in construction or decoration on the model of the legions, in cohorts and centuries’.162 On his provincial travels he commissioned buildings himself and encouraged the architectural efforts of both local patrons and the Roman army. At Stratoniceia, renamed Hadrianopolis after his visit in the same year, he encouraged the local government to repair a neglected private house, rather than leave it to ruin.163 Despite his own interests in architectural design, he ordered all dining-rooms, porticoes, crypts, and garden areas (topia) existing in Roman camp buildings to be pulled down, on the grounds that they were offensive to the ideal of Roman fortitude, an anecdote which incidentally shows how misguided the conventionally austere image of the Roman camp is and how deep-rooted was the craze for aediﬁcatio, even in such unlikely contexts. Hadrian removed all these trappings of architectural luxury and enforced a much more appropriate idea of construction. In one of several speeches to the Roman troops at Zara on the border of Mauretania on 9 or 10 July 128, Hadrian admired an auxiliary cavalry detachment, the Ala I Hispanorum, for its proﬁcient building work: You have brought to completion in a single day [fortiﬁcations] which others spread over several days; you have built up a wall of long stonework of the kind made for winter quarters designed to last in a time not much longer than a wall is built from turf, which is cut in equal measure, easily transported from the quarry, handled and built without trouble, smooth and malleable according to its nature: but you [have built it] with huge, heavy, unequal blocks of stone 14 (a, b). Column monument of Hadrian, Lambaesis. Front and side views of the inscribed base.

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14 (c). Column monument of Hadrian, Lambaesis. Reconstruction of the column in comparison with other Roman column monuments. which cannot be quarried or lifted or set in position without inequalities appearing between them; you have driven a ditch in proper fashion, hard and rough with gravel, and made it smooth by scraping the surface.164

The emperor’s words mirror the rhetoric of the soldiers’ architecture. The whole imperial address was inscribed for posterity on the pedestal of a commemorative column in the auxiliary camp at Lambaesis in Numidia (Fig. 14a, b). Erected at the centre of a large precinct 200 metres square, this monument is comparable in size to other honoriﬁc columns erected later at other cities in the empire, particularly those at Hermopolis Magna and Alexandria in Egypt (Fig. 14c).165 Even the stonecutter’s work in recording the speech shows how certain parts of the speech were emphasized. He preserved the powerful impact of the language describing the large stonework of the wall by raising the initial letters of the key words, Lapi[dibus] Grandibus Gravibus Inaequalibus (‘with Huge, Heavy, and Unequal Stones’), a phrase which recalls the early Roman epic adored by Hadrian, with its striking rhythm of ascending tricolon and alliteration.166 The text

placed emphasis on the form, size, and texture of the architectural materials used to make even this most routine of architectural creations. Whereas the grassy sods of earth (caespes) used for a typical earth rampart were smooth (planus) and pliable (mollis), the blocks of stone were heavy (gravis), huge (grandis), and of different sizes (inaequalis). A work in stone was a far more impressive achievement, one that deserved to be praised in an oration and recorded on a monument for posterity. Similarly, Apuleius later compared his literary rhetoric to the rapid and haphazard piling up of unworked stones in a wall without any attempt at achieving evenness, regularity, or alignment.167 The gloriﬁcation of stones of large dimensions was intended to instil a sense of the ‘monumental’ nature of Roman architecture on the grand scale, and the use of language from ‘monumental’ Latin literature reinforced that. Moreover, once the construction was complete, it was thought to inspire the soldiers for a successful military performance. The epic tone of the emperor’s speech elevated their banausic labours in constructing a fort to a heroic military achievement. It marked the creation of monumental architecture.

CHAPTER 2

The Contribution of Antoninus Pius It is frequently assumed that the reign of Antoninus Pius—Titus Aurelius Fulvius Boionius Antoninus, surnamed ‘Pius’—was less remarkable than that of Hadrian in the matter of architectural patronage, more sparing in the construction of new buildings, and marked chieﬂy by the restoration of older structures.1 Some scholars, arguing that ‘the reaction against the practice of Hadrian is palpable’, have concluded that this was the result of imperial policy.2 Such a view is based partly on the chance survival of a rescript of Pius, in which the emperor decreed that builders should spend money on the renovation of old buildings, rather than on new ones. But this declaration, which is not precisely dated, having been extracted from its context by the later compilers of the Justinianic digest of Roman law, represents only one side of architectural policy in Antoninus’ reign.3 Moreover, it implies a very different concept of restoration from that with which we are familiar today, involving, as it does, substantial new structural work.4 The traditional view of Antoninus Pius also derives from the statement of his adopted son and successor as emperor, Marcus Aurelius, that Pius was ‘not personally interested in building’.5 But this opinion is designed to detach Marcus’ positive view of his predecessor from the negative image of aediﬁcatio. It plays on a pattern in the ancient sources, which compares the works of successive emperors. The difference between examples to be commended and those to be avoided is deﬁned in terms of the distinction between aediﬁcatio, the self-indulgent and trivial pursuit of building for its own sake, and publica magniﬁcentia, concern for embellishing the buildings of the state and serving the public good. The history of imperial building can be seen in terms of the desire of successive emperors to achieve the virtue of magniﬁcentia without slipping into the vice of aediﬁcatio. The positive image of Augustus’ building, promoted in his res gestae and in Tiberius’ funeral oration, brings into focus the restraint of Tiberius himself, who, in order to avoid the negative associations of aediﬁcatio, shunned even the virtue of magniﬁcentia.6 As the grandiose works of Gaius restored the image of the emperor as builder, so Claudius played on the idea of Gaius’ buildings as wanton luxury, pointing to the latter’s demolition of the Aqua Virgo in his own rebuilding of that aqueduct.7 By contrast, he appears to have stressed the utility of his own constructions, ‘works of stone’ frequently characterized by a rusticated manner in the style of earlier utilitarian projects like the emissaria of the Alban Lake.8 Although such rustication can no longer be regarded as a unique feature of Claudian architecture,9 it is nonetheless striking that public building in his reign was restricted to utilitarian projects and its forms characterized by the rusticated surface considered as appropriate to such works. The engaged columns of the ‘Porta Maggiore’, the monumental archway which car-

ried the new Aqua Claudia and Anio Novus aqueducts across the Via Praenestina, are formed from column drums, whose bizarre, unworked shape is an extreme example of rustication that is not paralleled in other utilitarian structures. This deliberately unﬁnished stonework has been variously interpreted: as an act of piety;10 a conscious emulation of Etruscan antiquities by the antiquarian-minded Claudius;11 an echo of the uneven travertine appearance of the Republican Sanctuary of Hercules Victor at Tivoli favoured by that emperor, and perhaps the model for the temple built to him on the Caelian hill;12 or a rough-hewn style appropriate for a grotto-like water architecture.13 After Claudius’ death this affected austerity could be satirized as the work of a deformed monster with ‘a new kind of face’.14 Nero, in his turn, reacted against such inelegant forms, and created private architecture of ‘unbridled creativity’15 and public buildings that seem to have been popularly admired, only to fall victim to the senatorial defamation of his buildings after his death, especially his Golden House, as the excesses of a tyrant;16 Vespasian, by reaction, returned the latter area to public use, with the Colosseum built over the site of Nero’s lake and the Temple of Peace laid out over an earlier, Republican food market.17 The Flavian focus on the emperor as sponsor of the people, above all in architecture, was extended by Domitian, who restored the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, rebuilt by Vespasian after the civil wars and destroyed again in the ﬁre of AD 80, and initiated several other building projects. Yet the obsessive building manifested in his new, mountain-like palace, including porticoes with translucent walls of phengite—a hard, translucent stone ﬁrst brought to Rome by Nero18—that allowed him to see dangers behind him, his passion for arches, his Midas-like desire to make everything gold or marble, and his neglect for the memory of past builders all brought him the revilement of posterity.19 Pliny’s Panegyric of Trajan implied a contrast with Domitian, when he praised Trajan as ‘sparing in building (parcus in aediﬁcando), but liberal in public magniﬁcence’.20 Under the adoptive emperors, the imperial ideal of liberalitas became more prominent.21 Hadrian achieved the greatest reputation for liberality to cities,22 an attitude which encouraged comparison with Augustus, but the hostility of the Senate towards him on his death suggests that many may have seen his passion for aediﬁcatio more negatively. That his memory survived such revision was due above all, as we will see, to the pietas of his successor Antoninus. Marcus’ view that Antoninus was uninterested in building is, therefore, exaggerated. It is true that the remains of Antoninus’ own estates at Lanuvium, his birthplace, and Lorium, his official residence as emperor where he undertook tasks of government, do not show the same radical architectural development or originality of design as those

30

contribution of antoninus pius

of his predecessor at Tivoli and Baiae, but the evidence is hardly comparable and the ruins of his ‘palace’ there survived into the fourth century.23 On the other hand, the late fourth-century biography in the Historia Augusta attributes twelve works in Rome to Antoninus.24 Certainly, half of these were restorations of older buildings. However, both the buildings which he undertook to restore and the new projects he initiated contributed signiﬁcantly to the form of the city and the position of the emperor within it. In the city of Rome the emperor had a responsibility for the appearance of the capital, and its extensive building industry was directly under his patronage.25 Moreover, the public works that each emperor promoted there were seen as an important indication of the character of his rule and his relationship to the Roman people. The projects in which Antoninus Pius took an active initiative are no exception. They suggest that, far from being uninterested in matters of construction, the new emperor was alert to the signiﬁcance of architectural form and the monumentality of buildings. When the 52-year-old Antoninus became emperor on Hadrian’s death in July 138, he had lived most of his life in Rome, receiving the immaculately polished and well-rounded education of an aristocratic Roman (Fig. 15a).26 The exception had been the three years he served 15. Antoninus Pius (a.d. 87–161, emperor 138–161). (a) Marble portrait, a.d. c. 150 in the Glyptothek, Munich. (b) Relief from the Antonine Altar, Ephesus.

(a)

(b)

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contribution of antoninus pius as governor of Asia, from 132 to 135, an experience that inﬂuenced the close relationship he had with that province during his reign. After the death and grand burial of Hadrian’s designated successor Aelius Verus in January 138, Antoninus was formally adopted by Hadrian on 25 February, acquiring the rank of imperator and the tribunician power; and, in the same ceremony, he himself adopted both Marcus, the later emperor Marcus Aurelius, who was the son of Marcus Annius Verus and so his own brother-in-law, and also Lucius Aurelius Commodus, the later emperor Lucius Verus, who was the son of Aelius Verus.27 This event, announcing the arrival of the Antonine dynasty, appears

to have been commemorated by a huge altar constructed at Ephesus, which was decorated with reliefs of the imperial family that emphasize the dynastic ties between Hadrian, Antoninus, Marcus, and Lucius (Fig. 15b).28 Antoninus took the additional name Pius, and, as the name suggests, was loyally attached to his adoptive father, standing at his deathbed at Baiae and carrying through Hadrian’s deiﬁcation despite senatorial opposition.29 His earliest architectural projects reﬂect this. In 139 he completed the construction of a tomb monument for Hadrian across the Tiber from the Campus Martius.30 This colossal tumulus structure (Fig. 16a–b), now the Castel Sant’ Angelo, was ap-

(b)

(a)

16. The Tomb of Hadrian in Rome. (a) Reconstruction model, Museo del Castel Sant’ Angelo. (b) Simpliﬁed reconstruction drawing. (c) Rebuilt as the Castel Sant’ Angelo, Rome, now approached from the Ponte Elio, on the site of the former Pons Aelius.

(c)

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contribution of antoninus pius Venus and Rome—share a ﬂorid style of architectural decoration, which differed markedly from the austere Augustan classicism favoured in the principal public works of Trajan and Hadrian.34 Yet, during the same years, Antoninus also presided over the building of a temple more in keeping with that style, located in the Roman Forum and dedicated to his wife Faustina, who died in 140 and, like the recent imperial ladies Marciana, Matidia, and Sabina, was deiﬁed. This was the ﬁrst new temple in the Forum since the Temple of Vespasian, a prostyle temple, which, in its materials and decoration, exhibited the character of a monument (Fig. 18a–e) and was duly commemorated on Antoninus’ coinage (Fig. 18f ).35 After his own death, Antoninus himself was included in the dedication. The columnar orders of these temples established a standard for the design of monumental architecture.36 The order of the Hadrianeum (Fig. 19b) took its starting-point from the portico of the Pantheon (Fig. 19a), which it followed closely in its proportions and in the design of the Corinthian capitals. In basing the dimensions, however, on the height of the order, 50 Roman feet high, rather than the height of the column shaft (40 feet for the Pantheon), the building achieved compa-

proached from the rest of Rome by a new bridge, the Pons Aelius, named after Hadrian (Fig. 16c), and stood out especially in its enormous scale.31 How much Pius himself contributed to the design of Hadrian’s tomb is unknown. Its basic tumulus form was almost certainly inﬂuenced by the only imperial funerary monument then existing at Rome, the Mausoleum of Augustus. But Pius did begin the construction of a temple precinct dedicated to the deiﬁed Hadrian in the privileged area of the Campus Martius, near Hadrian’s Pantheon and the temple to Hadrian’s mother-in-law Matidia (Fig. 17a). The ‘Hadrianeum’, as it is known, was completed in 145; at its dedication on 17 March, the Liberalia, Pius gave largesse to the people of Rome, showing his liberalitas, and his adopted son Lucius Aurelius Commodus received the toga virilis.32 The temple had both a ‘Greek’ peripteral design, such as had been recently adopted for Hadrian’s Temple of Venus and Rome, and a barrel-vaulted interior (Fig. 17b), and it was enclosed in a precinct adorned with allegorical statues representing the Roman provinces (Fig. 17c), which resemble images on Hadrian’s own coins.33 These three buildings—the Tomb of Hadrian, the Hadrianeum, and the Temple of

(a)

(b)

(c) 17. The Temple of the Deiﬁed Hadrian (Hadrianeum), Rome. (a) Location plan, in relation to the modern street plan. (b) Restored section. The location shown here of the ‘province reliefs’ at ground level in the interior of the temple

is unlikely (see next ﬁgure, 17c). (c) Reconstructed elevation of the long side of the colonnaded precinct, with statues of the Roman provinces hypothetically positioned at the attic level.

33

contribution of antoninus pius

(a)

(c)

(d)

(e)

(b) 18. The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, Rome. (a) View of the temple from the Palatine hill. (b) Front elevation. (c) Side elevation. (d)–(e) Details of the dedicatory inscription on the building’s frieze. (f ) Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the temple dedicated to Faustina.

(f )

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contribution of antoninus pius

19. Columnar orders of monumental temples in Antonine Rome. (a) The Temple of Hadrian (Hadrianeum). (b) The Pantheon. (c) The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina.

rability with the Temple of Castor in the Roman Forum and perhaps also the putative Temple of the Divine Trajan at the west end of Trajan’s Forum. The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina followed the Temple of Vespasian and the Pantheon portico in the size of the order (Fig. 19c), and was similar to the former in its ornamental frieze, while in its proportions and the grandeur of its capitals the building resembled the Pantheon and the Hadrianeum.37 The material of the monolithic columns showed more originality. These were of green-veined cipollino marble from Carystos in Euboea and offered a new, exotic tone to the colours of the Forum (Fig. 18b).38 At Rome Antoninus Pius is said to have restored the Colosseum and Agrippa’s Pantheon, recently rebuilt by Hadrian. Although it is not clear in either case exactly what work was done, the attention paid to these buildings appears signiﬁcant in the context of his imperial self-image. The Pantheon had been ﬁnished perhaps only a dozen years before

Hadrian’s death, and that it was already restored shows that priority was given to the upkeep of a building associated with the political and divine authority of the emperors and notionally linked to the beginnings of imperial rule.39 The maintenance of the Colosseum shows that Pius continued to uphold the emperor’s role as sponsor of popular entertainment, something later questioned by his successor. But it was also linked to a particular occasion. The year 148 was the nine-hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the city, an event anticipated since the inauguration of the Temple of Venus and Rome in 121 and especially on the emperor’s coinage from the start of the reign.40 When the temple was completed early in Pius’ reign, the event was publicized in particular by a series of commemorative medals recalling the legendary origins of Rome.41 The beginning of the tenth saeculum since Rome’s foundation was celebrated at the Parilia festival on 21 April 148, the city’s traditional ‘birthday’. The new temple, the templum Urbis, whose own foundation day was also 21 April,42 was presumably the setting of this important symbolic event, and the emperor, as pontifex maximus, presided at the ritual.43 Magniﬁcent games in the restored Colosseum helped to celebrate the start of Rome’s tenth saeculum.44

contribution of antoninus pius Another work restored by Antoninus was the Graecostadium, the Greek slave market on the south side of the Forum.45 A fragment of the Severan marble plan seems to show it as consisting of a colonnade with a platform along one side, serving as a slave market, and a temple structure in the centre.46 This temple has been identiﬁed with the new Temple of the Deiﬁed Augustus completed by the emperor Gaius,47 which appears, with an octastyle front, on coins dated to 159 apparently celebrating its restoration (Fig. 20).48 It is not clear what work was involved.49 The image may simply have been chosen to present Antoninus Pius’ repair of the Graecostadium in a more monumental light. At any rate, the image of the Temple of Augustus proclaimed continuity with the ﬁrst emperor and underlined the prominence of conventional classical architecture in the hierarchy of monumental form. The architectural activity in Rome under Antoninus Pius was thus focused on monuments that supported his self-presentation as the princeps who was celebrating a new age of Rome.50

20. Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the Temple of the Deiﬁed Augustus.

As well as claiming his pietas to Hadrian, Antoninus, like his predecessors as emperor, also signalled the change from the previous reign. Although, as with Hadrian, the state coinage emphasized the emperor’s liberalitas,51 it also highlighted the related imperial virtues of indulgentia and libertas, of which the latter implied liberation from Hadrian’s dominion.52 Moreover, whereas Hadrian had focused on provincial identity, and especially on restoring the province of Achaea to its ancient prosperity, and had perhaps been criticized for neglecting Italy, Antoninus Pius’ efforts centred on ‘Italia’, whose allegorical portrait is frequently depicted on the reverses of his coins.53 In Hadrian’s case the volume of building projects in Greece seems to have been intended to express the economic revival of that region in monumental form. This is clearest in the case of Megara, where Hadrian’s rebuilding of the old brick Temple of Apollo in marble presented the same image of renewal as Augustus’ transformation of Rome. Pausanias’ observation that this was not in fact sufficient to restore Megara’s economic fortunes conﬁrms both that such monumentality was intended to give that impression and that it was unfulﬁlled.54 Architectural monuments served an analogous purpose for Pius in Italy. Three monuments were erected between 140 and 145 at Augusta Praetoria (Aosta), Bononia (Bologna), and Placentia (Piacenza) which celebrated Pius as the ‘restorer of Italy’ (restitutor Italiae).55 They were probably arches, built to straddle a major artery running from Transpadane Gaul to the east coast of Italy.56 Augusta Praetoria was re-

35

garded as the ‘Alpine limit’ of the route northwards from Rhegium in the south through Rome.57 Bononia and Placentia lay on the Via Aemilia built by Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (consul in 187 BC) to link the cities of the Po plain with the eastern coast. All these monuments probably belonged to a single, grand project, which originated at Rome and celebrated Pius’ revival of the peninsula’s economic fortunes (Map 4).58 It can perhaps be dated to 143, when work is attested to the south, on the Via Aemilia Scauri, which passed through Lorium to Rome and was linked to the older Via Aemilia by the Via Postumia.59 The baths restored by Pius at Tarquinii and an unknown work built in his name at Pisa, which lay near this route, may have been connected with this project.60 To the south of Rome, a second bath building built by Pius can also be seen in the context of economic regeneration. The ‘Ostian bath’ (lavacrum Ostiense) mentioned by the Historia Augusta is generally identiﬁed with the so-called ‘Neptune Baths’ lying on the north side of the main east–west street, the decumanus maximus, in the eastern part of the town.61 A surviving dedicatory inscription, dated to 138/9 and believed to be from the same project, states that Pius completed the baths promised by Hadrian with 2 million sestertii, ‘the addition of as much money as was further desired, and likewise marbles for all the decoration’.62 Excavations63 have revealed portrait statues of Sabina (possibly destined for the imperial cult),64 Plotina, and Lucius Verus, and idealized statues of divinities including Bonus Eventus, Fortuna, and Aesculapius, as well as mosaics of athletic scenes.65 In fact, the building had several earlier phases going back to the reign of Claudius, which were substantially reconstructed by Domitian, and the Hadrianic–Antonine rebuilding involved the destruction of an earlier swimming-bath (natatio) and the creation of three new bathing halls in its place, including an imposing new frigidarium with marble water basins, of which one was approached by an arch resting on two grey granite columns.66 The Antonine date is conﬁrmed by the surviving architectural decoration and by the brick stamps from the baths and neighbouring buildings, which suggest that the whole area underwent a wholesale reconstruction sponsored directly by members of the imperial family.67 This project was part of a more extensive development of the town

21. Bronze medal of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing a round temple with two columns, a statue of Bacchus, and two semicircular colonnades. On the left side, a sacriﬁcial attendant (victimarius) leads a goat, and on the right a slave holds a basket of fruit.

36

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in his reign, which included the development of the forum, the rebuilding of the Capitolium temple begun under Hadrian (Figs. 77a–b), and several private projects,68 and had been occasioned by the economic growth of the town resulting from Trajan’s reconstruction of the Claudian harbour at Portus and perhaps initiated by the Praefectus Annonae—the official in charge of Rome’s grain supply—under Trajan, Marcus Rutilus Lupus.69 Antoninus’ rebuilding of the lighthouse, or ‘Pharos’, at Portus belongs to the same economic context.70 As with private patrons, Antoninus’ completion of a project promised by his adoptive father was not unambiguous homage to Hadrian; it gave more credit to himself for realizing the work than to Hadrian who had simply promised it. Likewise, he did not simply restore the harbour works at Puteoli promised by Hadrian.71 Other architectural projects mentioned by the Historia Augusta—the rebuilding of the harbour at Terracina, a new harbour constructed at Caieta, and aqueducts at Antium, just south of his villa at Lanuvium—show that Antoninus made this whole coastline a focus of architectural development.72 He also gave some attention to the opposite seaboard, on the Adriatic, where the harbour and the city at Ravenna were developed around this time.73 His concern for Italy reached from Augusta Praetoria in the north to Lucania in the south, where he donated an aqueduct.74 Such projects were complemented by similar monumental schemes in the provinces which were probably the result of imperial policy or intervention,

above all the development of the harbour at Carthage, but also at Flavia Brigantium (La Coruña), where a new port with arcaded wharves was built during the middle of the second century.75 With these projects, the former harbour buildings along the Tiber at Rome became less important, and Antoninus developed their site with a different monumental aspect. A medallion from his reign shows a domed tholos housing an image within a semicircular colonnade (Fig. 21).76 The statue is interpreted as representing Bacchus (Dionysus), apparently in an archaizing style, with two temple servants offering a goat for sacriﬁce and a basket of fruits. No such shrine is mentioned by historical sources, although it used to be identiﬁed with a temple of Bacchus (tecta Lycaei) on the Sacra Via mentioned by Martial.77 However, neither the brick exedra to the north side of this street nor the fragment of a curved entablature found nearby, which bears an inscription apparently recording a dedication by an emperor ‘Antoninus’ and framed by a relief with a dancing Maenad, provides irrefutable conﬁrmation of this identiﬁcation.78 A more convincing context proposed for the shrine shown on the medallion may be the harbour area at Tor di Nona in the northern Campus Martius. The excavations carried out here in 1891 before the construction of the harbour embankment revealed a mole over 90 metres long, situated a little downstream from the new Pons Aelius, oblique to the current, and on the axis of the Tomb of Hadrian (Fig. 22). It was straddled by a temple structure with

22. Plan of excavations at Tor di Nona, left bank of the Tiber in the northern Campus Martius, Rome, revealing a round temple, possibly of Bacchus, built over the former harbour mole.

contribution of antoninus pius

37

(b)

(a)

(c)

23. Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, circular building of the Doric order. (a) and (b) Views of reconstructed remains. (c) Detail from the reconstruction model of

Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, showing the Doric Temple Area. Museo della Villa Adriana, Tivoli.

ﬁfteen columns arranged in a horseshoe and two antae at each end, which enclosed a small round aedicula and an altar decorated with plants that may be either Dionysiac vines or Herculean planes.79 The date is uncertain, as the altar is reused and the date of the capitals found in the excavations, which are decorated with lion-skins, is much disputed.80 However, it appears that the use of this harbour area ceased with the construction of the bridge and the reinforcement of both riverbanks; this circular shrine was built over the former mole to ﬁll the desolate space left facing the new tomb of Hadrian.81 The architecture chosen is striking. In plan, it recalls the Doric temple at Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli (Fig. 23a–c);82 and the façade shown on the medallion resembles a domical shrine represented in a fresco of the House of Apollo at Pompeii, where Apollo is ﬂanked by reclining semi-naked goddesses, one of whom also holds a sceptre (Fig. 24). The fact that Pius never left Italy after his accession may suggest that he took less initiative in provincial building than in the peninsula. However, the Historia Augusta records that he supported ‘many cities’ ﬁnancially.83 In 144 Aelius Aristides praised the emperor as a model of liberality.84 In the Empire at large he was reputed as the author of great works, inspiring many contemporary writers to give detailed descriptions of his buildings in Carthage, Ionia, Greece, and Syria.85 Although these writings do not

survive, many actual buildings do, if only at foundation level, or are attributed to Pius by inscriptions or later sources: at Carthage, a new judiciary basilica and baths; in Greece, the completion of the aqueduct at Athens; in Syria, the colossal precinct of the Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Baalbek. In Ionia, several works may have been singled out as Antoninus’ achievement, including the buildings associated with Vedius Antoninus at Ephesus, the completion of the Asclepieion at Pergamon, the commencement of a grand basilica at Smyrna, and perhaps the great Temple of Zeus and Hadrian at Cyzicus. In not all of these cases, however, can the patronage be exclusively credited to Pius.86 So, if these were the buildings described as the works of Antoninus Pius, they were attributed to him in a different sense from that normally used today. In fact, when an emperor is credited with the construction or restoration of a provincial building by an inscription or a historical source, it need not always mean that he had taken the initiative for that project.87 Stephen Mitchell has stressed the distinction between ‘buildings for which the emperor took responsibility and those that were simply erected during his principate’.88 The mention of an emperor’s name on an inscription, even in the nominative case, may refer not to his direct patronage of a project, but to his authorization of the project through a speciﬁc ruling.89 More commonly, it did refer to his ﬁnancial

38

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24. Wall painting from the ‘House of Apollo’, Pompeii, ‘bedroom 25’, west alcove. The god Apollo is shown seated in a central tholos ﬂanked by two goddesses. The scene appears to represent a rare mythical account of a beauty contest between Venus (the morning star) and Hesperus (the evening star), here arbitrated by Phoebus Apollo (representing the sun).

involvement in the commission, but that could take many forms: the supply of materials from imperially owned resources; the subvention of imperial provincial revenues for speciﬁc building-works; the remission of a city’s dues to the treasury to allow for the cost of public building; the receipt by the emperor of bequests by local citizens intended for particular buildings; as well as simple imperial grants. Payments for public buildings might be made from either the treasury of the Roman state, the aerarium, kept in the Temple of Saturn, or the emperor’s own fund, the ﬁscus.90 The administration of both these funds suggests that the emperor was not always the real impetus for the erection of public buildings said to have been ﬁnanced by him.91 However, as in practice the emperor could order payments also from the aerarium, the distinction between the two became increasingly blurred, and the emperor himself was regarded as the ‘author’ of works, regardless of where the funds had actually come from. But, in addition to these sources of wealth attached to him as emperor, Antoninus was a very wealthy man.92 He had a huge personal fortune, and it is a plausible suggestion that for this reason he established the res privata as a separate fund and department from the emperor’s patrimonium.93 In short, while the ac-

tual circumstances of funding of a public building might have been rather complex, the general perception was simpliﬁed, with the emperor viewed as the ‘author’ or instigator of a building. It also reﬂected credit on a community to be seen as favoured by the emperor. While imperial involvement may sometimes have been the result of an emperor’s own interests, it was often a response to local petitions for help. That also suited the emperor’s own self-image, as a reputation for liberality answering the needs of afflicted cities was more positive than to be seen as indulging in aediﬁcatio for its own sake. Indeed, Antoninus was personally sensitive to accusations of meanness; when his wife Faustina criticized his lack of generosity, he replied: ‘Foolish woman, now that we have gained an empire we have lost even what we had before.’94 Thus, when early in his reign, probably in 142, an earthquake struck Lycia, and as far west as Cos, the emperor gave great ﬁnancial assistance to the reconstruction of Rhodes, which the orator Aristides lamented had been particularly damaged, and was praised as having ‘refounded’ the city.95 Pius also responded to the appeal for aid by Stratonicea in mainland Caria with a grant of a million sestertii.96 In the wake of this ‘cosmic earthquake’, the emperor’s aid appeared, like that

contribution of antoninus pius of his predecessors in similar circumstances, as a divine salvation; statues erected to him at Araxa and Oenoanda portrayed him as ‘saviour of the cosmos’.97 Aristides also reported a series of earthquakes a few years later, probably in 147/8, which caused great damage in northern Mysia and threatened the Ionian cities of Ephesus and Smyrna.98 At Mytilene on Lesbos, one of the places worst affected, the emperor was proclaimed in the mid-150s as the city’s ‘founder’, presumably after its reconstruction with imperial aid.99 In the western Empire he restored at his expense a complex of baths at Narbo, the capital of Gallia Narbonensis, that had been damaged by ﬁre in 145, adding porticoes and basilicas.100 This, though, was no ordinary bath-building, but imperial thermae, part of a provincial sanctuary of the imperial cult, going back to the early Flavian period.101 Remains of its marble and mosaic decoration have been found, around a vast colonnaded precinct beside the amphitheatre associated with an augusteum built under Augustus.102 Pius’ interest in this project was perhaps also due to family connections with the region, as probably both his grandfathers came from nearby Nemausus.103 As at Rome, Pius showed pietas towards his adoptive father by com-

39

pleting public projects begun by his architecturally active predecessor. One was the restoration of the Temple of Zeus at Cyzicus, begun by Hadrian, who had dedicated a colossal statue of himself in the pediment, but subsequently damaged by earthquakes in Hadrian’s reign and possibly also in 147/8.104 An inscription attributed to this building by the ﬁfteenth-century antiquarian Cyriac of Ancona celebrates the achievement of one ‘Aristenetos’, apparently the architect.105 However, the poetic expression ‘with abundance of hands of all Asia’ may suggest that the revenues of the province had been used for the project.106 Even if Aristenetos’ role related to the patronage of the building rather than to its design,107 that does not mean that the emperor was given no credit in a work of such importance for the imperial cult, the reverence of his adoptive father, and the harmony of the province.108 Local coins suggest that the building was completed in his reign;109 and, as the imperial ‘author’ of the work, his name was inscribed on the temple.110 Although little now survives of the temple, Cyriac’s drawings suggest that it was massive in dimensions (Fig. 25a) and had a traditional peripteral form; the seventy-foot columnar order (Fig. 25b) seems to have followed contemporary work in Rome in its proportions. Cyriac

25. The Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus, begun by Hadrian, continued by Antoninus Pius, and completed by Marcus Aurelius, after damage by earthquake. (a) Proposed plan of the temple. (b) Reconstructed section of cella with space for galleries.

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25. The Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus, begun by Hadrian, continued by Antoninus Pius, and completed by Marcus Aurelius, after damage by earthquake. (c) Reconstruction of the main order. (d) Reconstruction of the front elevation with conventional pediment. (e) Alternative reconstruction of the front elevation with arcuated lintel.

shows the temple surrounded not by a conventional portico with straight entablatures, but by an arcade with round arches springing directly from the capitals, with a gallery above (Fig. 25c). This reconstruction, with a continuous octastyle façade (Fig. 25d), seems preferable to that of one broken by an arch at the centre (Fig. 25e). The arcade was once thought to be ‘the earliest example on a monumental scale of this type of arcading’,111 which was later adopted in western public buildings of the later second and early third centuries, the basilicas at Verona in northern Italy,112 Doclea in Dalmatia (Fig. 168b),113 and, most famously, Lepcis Magna in North Africa (present Libya).114 Yet the form may have appeared a few years earlier at Athens in a grand basilica structure just east of Hadrian’s Library and the Roman Agora. It is believed that this structure, with an interior arcade of rounded arches supported by massive, cruciform piers, was the ‘Pantheon’ erected by Hadrian, which contained an inscribed display of all Hadrian’s religious building projects in the Greek world and perhaps served as the meeting-place of the Panhellenion of Greek cities under Roman rule established by Hadrian in October 124.115 The decision to rebuild the ancient temple precinct at Cyzicus with a new arcuated form, in addition to the conventional trabeated one, helped to redeﬁne the characteristics of monumental architecture. However, the project, perhaps

interrupted again by an earthquake in 160, was not completed until 167. I shall return to it in Chapter 7. A more unqualiﬁed intervention by Pius was his completion of the aqueduct at Athens begun by Hadrian.116 The water was collected in a nymphaeum structure below Mount Lykabettus outside the city, which took the form of a three-aisle, apsidal basilica hall (Fig. 26a).117 The entrance façade comprised an Ionic portico of three bays, but the traditional straight entablature of the side bays, where the dedication was inscribed on architrave and frieze, was interrupted by an arch (Fig. 26b). Architects in the Roman East had experimented with such unions of Greek portico and Roman arch for several decades, as witnessed by two villas at Ptolemais of probably the ﬁrst century (Fig. 27) and, in painted form, in the villa at Oplontis, of the mid-ﬁrst century.118 In these cases the arch is placed on top of the whole entablature, producing a hybrid of arch and entablature that entertained Roman builders119 and regained popularity in post-classical monumental architecture, above all in the tripartite form of a Venetian window also known as a Serliana.120 In the portico at Athens a variation of this form was achieved, with the arch placed on top of the architrave alone and interrupting the frieze, to give the impression of being inserted between these two members. Despite the earlier parallels, it was still

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41

(a)

26. Reservoir structure at the head of the Aqueduct of Hadrian, Athens, completed by Antoninus Pius. (a) Plan of the ancient and modern structures. (b) Reconstructed front elevation.

27. Roman villa at Ptolemais (Libya). Reconstruction of the colonnaded entrance to Room 14.

strikingly unusual when it was built, around 140. So it is helpful to consider its origin. A similar structure had been erected at Ephesus at the start of Hadrian’s reign (Fig. 28).121 Although this building is known as the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ because of its dedicatory inscription, it is now believed that it was probably not an official cult temple.122 Its patron was a local dignitary, Publius Quintillius Valens Varius, who had held several offices at Ephesus including the post of panegyriarch of the great festival of Artemis, and he also dedicated an adjacent bath–gymnasium complex.123 The ‘Temple of Hadrian’ was in effect an annexe to these baths, with a street-side façade and a shrine dedicated to the emperor.124 It was ratiﬁed by the secretary of the town council, Publius Vedius Antoninus, who may have been Varius’ father-in-law.125 As ornamental street architecture, it is similar to the ‘Fountain of Trajan’ along the street. However, it differs from the latter in that the entablature does not continue in a straight line, but breaks into a curve to run around the arch at the centre of the façade. This so-called ‘arcuated lintel’, or ‘Syrian gable’, represents the most perfect union of arch and entablature.126 Its outline was mirrored by the semicircular relief over the doorway behind, which depicted the Ephesian Artemis as a ‘strange vegetation goddess, perhaps a pre-Greek “Artemis of the Swamps”’.127 The date of 117/8 or 118/9 provided by the inscription places this monument in the context of Hadrian’s accession in late summer 117. Hadrian, who had joined Trajan’s new expedition to Parthia in October

113 and was subsequently appointed governor of Syria, was at Antioch when he heard of Trajan’s death at Selinus in Cilicia, subsequently renamed Traianopolis, on 8 August 117. On the following day, having already been designated to a second consulship for the next year, he was proclaimed as Trajan’s son and successor.128 He abandoned the provinces of Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Assyria, newly annexed by Trajan, and began the long journey back to Rome. As he travelled westwards through Anatolia, communities welcomed the new emperor. In

28. The ‘Temple of Hadrian’, Ephesus, dedicated by Publius Quintillius Valens Varius, a.d. 118. Reconstruction from surviving fragments.

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November, Claudius Cyrus, an envoy representing the neoi of Pergamon, intercepted him at the road-station of Iuliopolis on the southern border of Bithynia to offer congratulations. A copy of Hadrian’s businesslike reply was subsequently displayed in the new Temple of Trajan at Pergamon.129 The date of the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ at Ephesus suggests that this was a similar gesture of acclamation of the new reign. Varius’ temple was perhaps not the only building erected on this occasion. A gateway seems also to have been constructed in honour of the emperor, close to the new Library of Celsus. As with other cities in Asia Minor, where triumphal arches or gateways were erected in Hadrian’s honour in the 120s by members of senatorial families,130 the Gate of Hadrian at Ephesus was probably complete to receive the emperor when he visited the city in summer 124.131 The front of the gate at Ephesus was adorned with two storeys of columns with composite capitals below and Corinthian above;132 over the central opening of each storey rose a semicircular arch, not in the proper form of an ‘arcuated lintel’ or ‘Syrian gable’, as on the ‘Temple of Hadrian’, but, as at Ptolemais, simply superimposed on the lateral entablatures (Fig. 29).133 The stylistic origin of the arcuated lintel is disputed.134 Its most direct archaeological examples before this period occur in three temples in Syria, which are generally placed between 33 BC and about AD 100.135 Older parallels, however, from this region go back to the ninth century BC and are attested in a relief on the bronze gate of Balawat, now in the British Museum.136 This form was also used in the famous Ishtar Gate at Babylon (Fig. 30).137 A Syrian origin of the motif is therefore most probable.138 The monuments of this ancient city held a fascination for Romans at this time. When Trajan heard the report of his armies’ rout in 116, he was at Babylon, looking in wonder at the ‘mounds, stones, and ruins’ of that ancient city.139 A coin of Caesarea in Samaria issued under Trajan, which depicts a similar temple structure around a statue of a city goddess (Fig. 31), shows the monumental signiﬁcance attached 29 (above). The Gate of Hadrian at Ephesus. Restored elevation. 30 (left). Ishtar Gate, Babylon. Reconstruction in the Museum of the Ancient Near East, Berlin.

31. Coin of Trajan from Caesarea Maritima in Judaea on the Palestinian coast (incorporated into the province of Syria Palaestina under Hadrian). A ﬁgure of the goddess Tyche (‘Fortune’) is shown standing within a temple façade with arcuated lintel.

contribution of antoninus pius to this form. It is unclear whether it was the Ishtar Gate, by then more or less ruined,140 or similar forms seen by Hadrian at Caesarea, Antioch, or elsewhere, which prompted the use of arcuated lintels on buildings and coins at this time. But Hadrian’s Syrian experience and Trajan’s confrontation with the monuments of Babylon raise the possibility that the novel form of the ‘Temple of Hadrian’, which was added to a public building already under completion, was intended to celebrate his accession. The ﬁgured keystone of the arch, apparently representing the goddess Tyche, Roman Fortuna, might be explained as an allegorical image of the coming fortune traditionally regarded as signalled by a new reign.141 The arcuated lintel, however, had already appeared on a smaller scale in western Roman architecture. In the sanctuary of Isis at Pompeii, the ‘megaron’ or ‘purgatorium’ was entered through a low arched entablature that crowned a façade decorated with Egyptianizing themes and paintings of the Fourth Pompeian Style.142 The choice of the form here appears due to Egyptian or Alexandrian associations. Even more intriguing is its use on the side bays of the triumphal arch at Orange, generally believed to be Tiberian in date.143 On the better-preserved east façade, the arch seems to enclose the remains of eight of originally twelve rays of the solar crown of a ﬁgure beneath (Fig. 32).144 We will return to the symbolism of the form in the next chapter. From the present perspective, however, the ‘Temple of Hadrian’, where it ﬁrst appears on a large scale in Roman architecture, represented a signiﬁcant new departure in the forms of monumental architecture of the Empire.

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Given Hadrian’s interests in similar architectural forms,145 the completion of the nymphaeum at Athens with a similar arcuated form was an appropriate act of pietas. The same form appears again in the frigidarium of the ‘Baths of Neptune’ at Ostia, begun by Hadrian and completed by Antoninus, where it framed the stepped approach to a marble water basin and rose above marble pilasters and grey granite columns over 5 metres high.146 It was also ﬁtting that a monument commemorating the end of Hadrian’s reign and Antoninus’ accession should resemble those erected at Ephesus to celebrate the beginning of the reign. This was indeed perhaps no coincidence, since, as governor of Asia in the 130s, based at the provincial capital Ephesus, Antoninus would have known the building, and the secretary of the Ephesian council who ratiﬁed it, Publius Vedius Antoninus, was his friend and relation. As we shall see, Vedius’ grandson was to be closely involved with the emperor in rebuilding the city in the 140s.147 However, it was not exactly similar to either Ephesian monument: the form at Athens is halfway between the ‘Syrian gable’ of the ‘Temple of Hadrian’, where arcuate and trabeate forms are ideally fused, and the Hellenic–Roman solution of the Gate of Hadrian, in which the arch is superimposed on the entablature. Such a compromise recalls the solepsistic design of the Arch of Hadrian at Athens, probably attributable to Hadrian himself, in which the same desire for experimentation is revealed.148 Under Antoninus Pius these hybrids of arched and columnar architecture became a deﬁning element of monumental building in the Roman Empire. The ﬁrst great provincial work of his reign was the construction of a defensive barrier, the Antonine Wall. This boundary

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marked the extension of the northern frontier of the Empire beyond the older Hadrian’s Wall by military successes in northern Britain.149 Its execution, between 139 and 142, when Pius received his second acclamation as emperor from the Senate, was the work of the three legions stationed in Britain, under the command of the senatorial governor, Quintus Lollius Urbicus.150 But, as Marcus Cornelius Fronto declared in a speech delivered after the victory: ‘although he had delegated the auspicium of conducting the war, staying himself on the Palatine at Rome, yet, like one presiding at the helm of a warship, he [Pius] deserved the glory of the whole passage.’151 At ﬁrst sight the narrower turf or earth ramparts of the Antonine Wall seem less impressive than the stone-based structure of Hadrian’s Wall. Indeed the historian R. G. Collingwood argued that the wall was poorly situated from a strategic perspective and ‘bears the marks of a deliberate effort after cheapness, at the cost of a serious decrease in efficiency’.152 Nevertheless, in the light of Hadrian’s address at Lambaesis fourteen years earlier,153 such works of fortiﬁcation should not be regarded simply as strategic objects, but also as monumental works in

which soldiers and commanding officers alike took personal pride. Its monumentality was highlighted by a series of decorated stone slabs along its course, which recorded the contributions to the work of the different military detachments (Fig. 33). Placed at regular intervals where one unit ﬁnished and another started, these ‘distance slabs’ marked the gradual completion of the work.154 ‘As each squad ﬁnished its appointed section, it set up at either end a memorial slab dedicated to the Emperor and recording the exact amount of work it had accomplished.’155 But the slabs served more than a practical purpose. Sir George Macdonald concluded from the ﬁnd spots of these stones that they had been deliberately hidden, possibly at some time immediately preceding the wall’s eventual abandonment.156 It would appear that these inscribed reliefs were regarded as no mere markers, but as symbolizing the monumental endurance of the wall and the Roman presence on the frontier. The inscriptions are framed by ornamental surrounds, some enclosed in tabulae ansatae, the ansae being either triangular or in the shape of the soldiers’ pelta shields, and others framed by ﬁgures in relief

1

CR 21 OY H IL L

33. Course of the Antonine Wall, showing location of distance slabs and division of work into ﬁfteen construction sectors shared by three legions. The distance slabs are numbered 1–20: those mentioned in the text are nos. 1 (Bridgeness), 11 (Hutcheson Hill), 17 (Old Kilpatrick) and 21 (Croy Hill).

34. Relief slab from Bridgeness, East Lothian, originally located at the starting point of the Antonine Wall.

contribution of antoninus pius

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or supported by winged victories.157 The start of the project was commemorated at the wall’s eastern end at Bridgeness on the Firth of Forth by such a distance slab, framed by two reliefs (Fig. 34). As with Hadrian’s words at Lambaesis, these reliefs represent the building project as a grand military campaign. On the left-hand relief a horseman trampling barbarians is shown beneath a shallow arch springing from columns, with a column with spiral ﬂutes standing to the right and, in the centre, an inscription on a slab framed by peltae, dedicated to Antoninus Pius; the right-hand relief depicts the ceremony of the suovetaurilia within a frame of two columns supporting a triangular pediment.158 This Roman religious ceremony served to purify an army starting out on campaign; it had probably been held on the occasion of the initiation of the wall-building programme in or soon after 140.159 The dedicatory inscription conﬁrms the religious nature of the work.160 The architectural forms are signiﬁcant: the ceremony takes place beneath the conventional triangular pediment of a temple, while the ﬂat, rounded form over the horseman, suggestive of a triumphal arch, indicates the military triumph that will come after the war’s completion. Most of the twenty surviving slabs, however, were found within the last few miles of the wall at its west end, probably not coincidentally as this section was completed last. A buff sandstone relief found at Old Kilpatrick probably came from the western termination of the wall (Fig. 35).161 Slightly over 2 feet square, it shows a distyle Corinthian façade with a triangular pediment enclosing a Victory at rest with palm, wreath, and globe and a wild boar, symbol of the Twentieth Legion, which completed the work. This image, with the Victory resting after work completed, apparently refers to the completion of the wall in terms equivalent to the conduct of a successful campaign and as a sacred work. As Macdonald observed, ‘the erection of the Limes marked the close of a successful war’.162

Two other reliefs deserve particular attention. One, from Hutcheson Hill near Bearsden, shows three openings between columns (Fig. 36).163 While the side openings, containing ﬁgures of kneeling captives who support clipei inscribed with the emperor’s name, are crowned by triangular pediments over a ﬂat entablature, the central opening is crowned by an arch, curiously decorated above by small roundels. Beneath this, a female ﬁgure, holding a sacriﬁcial dish in her left hand, places a laurel wreath with her right hand into the beak of the eagle of a legionary’s standard. The whole form suggests a triumphal arch, but it is not exactly the same, and the way in which the central arch springs out of the side pediments resembles more closely the kind of arcuated forms that we have been discussing. It has been suggested that the female ﬁgure represents Britannia acknowledging

35. Relief slab from Old Kilpatrick, West Dunbartonshire, originally located at the culmination of the Antonine Wall.

37. Fragmentary relief from Croy Hill.

36. Relief distance slab from Hutcheson Hill.

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the Roman army’s success.164 However, it does not seem apt for ‘Britannia’ to award the victory, and the ﬁgure’s appearance, especially her hairstyle, looks more like Faustina Maior, who died in 144.165 If this identiﬁcation is correct, the relief can be interpreted as showing the empress welcoming home the victorious Roman army. The arch raised over the columns celebrates the monumental nature of the occasion. The other relief, however, is perhaps even more striking (Fig. 37). Found on Croy Hill in 1802, it is the left-hand fragment of a larger work showing a lively architectural design.166 Two Corinthian columns, of which the shafts have twisted ﬂutes and the entablatures project forward from the intercolumnation, enclose a naked female ﬁgure, who from her posture appears as the goddess Venus. From the entablature springs an arch, which encloses a wreath, originally containing an inscription and supported by a falling, naked Cupid.167 Another divinity presumably stood in the right-hand niche which suggests an overall conception similar to that shown on the medallion with the tholos of Bacchus. But here the structure was a façade with ‘arcuated lintel’ like those at Ephesus and Athens. The stone seems to have been a building inscription, set up by the Sixth Legion Victrix at the military fort on Croy Hill. This was the central and crowning point of the Antonine Wall, 400 feet above sea level, with a commanding view east to the isthmus, north across the Kilsyth range, and west to Bar Hill, and the architectural relief expressed Pius’ monumental achievement. The effect of displaying these architectural images on the Antonine Wall was to emphasize the monumentality of a work of construction which in its materials might not have ranked with showy monuments in marble or gold. So Aelius Aristides gloriﬁed the walls of the Roman frontiers, ‘a second line beyond the outermost ring of the civilized world . . . from Ethiopia to the Phasis and from the Euphrates to the great outermost island in the West’. Despite their unimpressive materials, they could compete with the ﬁnest monuments: ‘They are not built with asphalt and baked brick,168 nor do they stand gleaming with stucco. But these ordinary works too exist at their individual places in very great number, and, as Homer says of the palace wall, “ﬁtted close and accurately with stones, and boundless in size and gleaming more brilliantly than bronze”.’169 These monumental frontier works are only a metaphor for that ‘much greater and more august (semnoteros) ring’ of the Roman army manning these defences: expanding on Homer’s simile from the context of the quotation, Aristides presents the mass of shields and helmets as an architectural structure itself, which, ‘raised overhead, might support race-tracks in mid-air, more solid than those in cities’; ‘such harmonies are locked together’.170 Other frontiers of the Empire were similarly monumentalized later in the reign, in accordance with an increased need for military defence. In North Africa an impressive fortiﬁcation was constructed at Tipasa in the early 140s, which also seems to have been planned from Rome.171 In the 140s several forts along the borders of Upper Germany and Raetia were rebuilt in stone, with commemorative inscriptions similar to those in northern Britain, with the emperor’s name inscribed within a stone garland.172 In the 150s, possibly 155, new ramparts were constructed under the authority of the legate Caius Popillius Carus Pedo, as a ‘second line’, just a few miles beyond the old boundary.173 One wellpreserved, particularly monumental section ran straight for 50 miles, so

that to contemporaries it appeared, like the British wall, ‘boundless in size’, in Aristides’ words.174 The new boundary stretched as far as Noricum, and, further east, several defensive structures were erected from the 150s in the Thracian region.175 In 155 the defences of the city of Bizya were consolidated under the legate Caius Iulius Commodus Orﬁtianus, who constructed ‘towers’ in the city’s territory.176 At the other end, an Antonine inscription suggests a major new public building at Cologne (Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium) in Lower Germany.177 Yet the series of distance slabs from northern Britain is unique and is the plainest example of how forms associated with civil or religious architecture could glorify otherwise less ornate military constructions. The arcuated lintel is a dominant feature of the grandest architectural project attributed to Antoninus Pius, the great precinct of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Baalbek, which in later antiquity was considered one of the greatest sights in the ancient world (Figs. 38a–b).178 The ﬁnal architectural and religious sequence of the monument—from the horseshoe-shaped forecourt and outer propylaea to the hexagonal court, then the inner gateway, and ultimately the great inner rectangular court with altar buildings and temple, its interior involving a further ascent to the raised adyton at the back—probably took from the ﬁrst to the third century to complete, and the dating of individual structures is disputed. According to the most likely chronology, the temple itself, on its high podium, of which the central part includes three gigantic blocks of stone, the legendary trilithon, belongs to the ﬁrst century. The possibly exaggerated statement by the Byzantine writer John Malalas that Antoninus ‘founded’ (ektize) the temple,179 can be explained by attributing the undertaking of the great inner court around the temple to his reign, with the propylaea with its ‘Syrian’ gable ﬁnally completed under Severus and Caracalla.180 The well-preserved remains of the court are as clear a statement as anywhere in the Roman world of the ‘monumentality of Roman architecture’.181 The colonnades along its sides are decorated with a columnar architecture which frames a succession of semicircular exedras, in which the two levels of niches are mounted by ornate, segmental pediments below and triangular ones above, and framed by giant columns of Aswan granite, which, as with giant orders of honoriﬁc arches, achieve a monumental effect by their suggestion of sublime scale (Fig. 39).182 Not only their scale, but their provenance from the imperial quarries of Mons Claudianus make it virtually certain that the project was at least assisted, if not directly planned, by the emperor. The court, raised on a terrace some 7 or 8 metres above the natural terrain, was supported by corridors with stone barrel-vaults, off which lay rooms whose decoration mirrored the exedras above them. In one of these underground rooms, a long, low segmental arch is adorned with a ﬁgure that recalls the segmental tympanon of the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ at Ephesus.183 The whole complex forms one of the most impressive surviving examples of ancient Roman ‘baroque’ style. Probably also the consequence of Antoninus’ patronage was the smaller, but still enormous, temple to the south (Fig. 40a).184 Its traditional identiﬁcation as the Temple of Bacchus is based on no more secure grounds than the subject-matter of its ornamental reliefs depicting the legend of that god, and a more recent view that, like the larger temple, it was dedicated to Jupiter rests hardly more ﬁrmly on the presence of an eagle in the soffit relief over the temple entrance.185 The gran-

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Key: 1. Forecourt 2. Hexagonal court 3. Altar court. 4. Temple of Jupiter 5. ‘Temple of Bacchus’ 6. Court of medieval fort 7. Medieval dungeon 8. ‘Temple of Venus’

(a)

38. Sanctuary of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Baalbek. (a) General plan (reconstructed). (b) Restored view.

(b)

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39. Exedra of the great court of the Sanctuary of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Baalbek.

ite columns and Corinthian capitals of the main south front resemble the same features of the Pantheon in Rome (Fig. 40b–c; cf. ﬁg. 73b below).186 A frieze around the outside of the cella walls depicted two parallel sacriﬁcial processions, similar to those shown on the precinct wall of the Ara Pacis or on the cella of the Parthenon.187 Giant threequarter columns with Corinthian capitals decorated the walls of the cella, framing two levels of niches headed by triangular pediments (Fig. 40d). The raised, baldachin-like adyton behind was reached by arches on each side, with relief decoration in the spandrels, and lined by two storeys of pilasters with Corinthian capitals above and composite ones below (Fig. 40e).188 The Corinthian capitals have been seen as similar to those of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina in Rome (Fig. 19c), and the style of the architectural decoration in general seems to indicate a construction date around the 150s.189 Whether Antoninus himself was responsible for the work, which was perhaps even the ‘temple of Zeus’ referred to by Malalas, cannot be conﬁrmed, and the building might also be ascribed to the local patronage of men such as Marcus Licinius Pompenna Potitus Urbanus, a Roman citizen who is attested as a priest of Jupiter Heliopolitanus.190 However, given the statement of Malalas and the size of the temple, imperial involvement in the project or its funding is more than likely, and not contradicted by the presence of a dedication to Jupiter Heliopolitanus and the emperor Commodus dated to 186 in the ‘Syrian sanctuary’ on the Janiculum in Rome.191 One further imperial building-project from this region deserves mention for the way in which it embodies a monumental ideal. On Mt Gerizim, in Jordan, the site where Abraham was supposed to have prepared to sacriﬁce Isaac, a temple was dedicated to Zeus Hypsistos by Hadrian and allegedly decorated with bronze doors from the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem.192 Remains of a peripteral temple with a threestepped stylobate and a podium 5 feet high were found in excavations in 1964; thus it may have resembled the Temple of Venus and Rome or the Hadrianeum in Rome. An image of the sanctuary is shown on coins

40 (a)

40 (b)

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(c) 40. So-called ‘Temple of Bacchus’, Baalbek. (a) Exterior view of front side from the north-west. (b) Restored view of front elevation. (c) Plan of the temple. (d) Interior view, west end. (e) Restored interior view from the east.

(d)

(e)

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41. Bronze coin of Neapolis, Samaria, province of Syria Palaestina (modern Nablus, West Bank), reverse face, showing sanctuary on Mount Gerizim.

of Neapolis in Samaria, ﬁrst struck under Antoninus, which show a highly unusual design (Fig. 41).193 The representation focuses on a long, steep stairway ascending to the temple of ‘Zeus the Highest’ past a series of arcaded terraces. This stairway was part of the monumental mythology of the sanctuary, consisting, we are told, of up to 1,500 steps.194 The role of Antoninus is unknown, but, once again, we see him here showing his pietas to Hadrian by perpetuating the novelty of his designs. The coins’ strikingly new presentation reﬂects contemporary ideals of grandeur.195 Apart from sheer height, the buildings of Antoninus Pius suggest a number of other ways in which monumentality was an important issue. In Rome it helped the emperor to deﬁne more closely an acceptable imperial image in order to consolidate his own and his family’s power. This image was based on the classical ideal of pediment and entablature. In his attentions to the Pantheon and the Temple of Augustus, he linked himself with the ﬁrst emperor. His new temples to Hadrian and Faustina highlighted the prominence of the Antonine dynasty in the centre of Rome, while at the same time conﬁrming the Augustan view of monumentality as determined by the Corinthian order and bringing that columnar architecture to a new monumental standard. In his restoration of the Colosseum, adorned on its exterior with symbols of that columnar ideal, he promoted the positive perception of the emperor as sponsor of the people’s games. At the same time, in the Hadrianeum and the Tomb of Hadrian, he paid tribute to his predecessor in continuing a new, more ﬂorid style of architectural ornament used in the Temple of Venus of Rome, which he completed and made a centrepiece of his own saeculum celebrations. In Italy, however, architectural monumentality had a different purpose. Here it celebrated the emperor’s role as the restitutor Italiae. His new buildings at Terracina and Tarquinii, Ostia, Antium, and Ravenna promoted an image of prosperity connected with a desire to regenerate the wealth of the peninsula by overseas trade, especially with North Africa and the East. In the provinces, Antoninus’ buildings established a newer kind of monumentality introduced by Hadrian and based on the combination of a Roman arch with columnar forms. The temples of Jupiter at Baalbek and of Hadrian at Cyzicus, and the architectural reliefs associated with the Antonine Wall expressed an alternative monumentality deﬁned by the arcuated lintel and the arcade. At Rome this was only evident in the

Sanctuary of Bacchus in the northern Campus Martius, which in its location in the harbour area spoke to a cosmopolitan audience of travellers, traders, and immigrants, the inﬂux to Rome from the rest of the Empire. In the provinces, however, these curvilinear forms were more prominent, in the West as well as the East. At Timgad in Numidia, the North Gate of the city, begun by Trajan, was restored or completed in 149, with the unusual form of broken segmental pediments over each of the side bays.196 Also worth mentioning is the so-called ‘Temple of Diana’ at Nîmes. It was roofed with a barrel-vault of stone blocks, unusual for western architecture, and its interior walls, with engaged columns framing triangular and segmental pediments (Fig. 42), resemble those of the ‘Temple of Bacchus’ at Baalbek (Fig. 40d–e).197 It seems to have formed part of the substantial augusteum complex built around a natural spring.198 The date of the building is much disputed; but the resemblance to the architecture of Baalbek and the association of Antoninus Pius with Nemausus may be indications of the Antonine date formerly suggested.199 Indeed, the famous ‘Maison Carrée’ in the same city, usually regarded as an Augustan monument, has recently been redated to the same period, when the town was at its height, and may even be the ‘basilica of wonderful construction’ founded by Hadrian around 122 ‘in honour of Plotina’, the wife of Trajan.200 This chapter has focused on the projects of Antoninus Pius because imperial activity in architecture is much better documented for his reign than for the later Antonines. His successor Marcus Aurelius had a reputation for thrift, probably formed as much by economic circum-

42. So-called ‘Temple of Diana’, Nîmes (Nemausus). Interior view of remains, showing stone vaulted ceiling.

contribution of antoninus pius stance as by philosophical choice.201 The ‘very famous’ villa built by his co-ruler Lucius Verus on the Via Clodia202 suggests that Verus was interested in aediﬁcatio; although the villa is mentioned only in the context of his parties, and nothing is known of its appearance, Fronto clearly considered Verus a suitable target, when he set out for his Parthian expedition in 165, for the advice to look at the ‘monuments of Hadrian’s journeys’.203 A rare example of architecture appearing on Marcus’ coins is a series of sestertii dated to 173, which shows a temple with four herms instead of columns, and a segmental pediment containing images of Mercury (Fig. 43a–b).204 This probably does not commemorate the restoration of a temple at Rome, but rather the ‘rain miracle’ of the Quadi campaign, which was credited to the intervention of Mercury.205 The unusual segmental pediment would reﬂect the religious concerns of the Egyptian magician Arnuphis, who had invoked Mercury after the miracle.206 Imperial building under Marcus was limited by economic constraints, and in most cases conducted on the initiative of provincial governors rather than the emperors themselves.207 The exception was Marcus’ response to natural and military disasters. With his co-ruler he made personal efforts to repair the damage in Rome caused by a ﬂooding of the Tiber, and in 163 restored ‘the roads through the territory of the Ceutrones, which had been destroyed by violent torrents’, as well as temples and baths in that Alpine region of northern Italy.208 But his appointment of curatores with responsibility for many cities and regions of Italy and for the maintenance of the road network suggests a less ‘hands-on’ approach than that of Antoninus.209 In the provinces, although Marcus’ wife Faustina Minor was the patron of a grand bath–gymnasium at Miletus,210 the only notable piece of grand provincial architecture that is attributable to Marcus himself was at the sanctuary of Eleusis, where, after a raid by German tribes from the north, in perhaps summer 170, he rebuilt the Telesterion and enclosed the sanctuary with a new precinct wall, adding a second, outer propylaea to the inner sanctuary.211 Its monumentality has an important symbolic role, in asserting the revitalization of the Mysteries. As for Marcus’ son

44. The ‘Captives’ Façade’, north side of the agora, Corinth. Restored view.

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43. Bronze sestertii of Marcus Aurelius, showing temple with four herms. (a) and (b)

Commodus, few of his works have survived his damnatio memoriae under Severus, which makes it difficult to assess his contribution to monumental architecture.212 Best known is the commemorative column for Marcus Aurelius, modelled on Trajan’s, but located in an area of imperial funerary memorials rather than in association with a grand forum.213 Yet imperial building certainly continued: at Ostia, the extensive reconstruction of the town culminated in his reign in the beginning of a project to enlarge the theatre to suit the town’s expanded population;214 and in the East Commodus was regarded as ‘an avid builder’.215 However, it may be that he was more interested in the gladiatorial games held on the occasion of the buildings’ opening than in the architecture itself.216 One other major provincial work may belong to the later Antonine period. Its date is disputed and its patronage undocumented, but the triumphal character of its ornamentation strongly suggests that it was an imperial project. Its architectural form illustrates the principles of monumentality that we have seen deﬁned during this period. The so-called ‘Captives’ Façade’ in the Agora at Corinth was a two-storey ornamental façade added to the west, inner side of an earlier propylon, which stood at the culmination of the Lechaeum Road (Fig. 44).217 The piers of the upper storey were adorned with over-life-size ﬁgures in east-

52

contribution of antoninus pius

ern dress, perhaps captives or client kings, and allegorical female ﬁgures, personiﬁcations probably of Parthia and Media or of Armenia and Mesopotamia. The central bay of the façade may possibly have been crowned by an arched lintel breaking the entablature of the upper storey.218 The arch thus appeared to express the triumph of Roman culture and its integration into classical architectural vocabulary. The original dating by the excavators to the mid-second century has been challenged, with other scholars arguing for the Augustan or Severan periods.219 However, the structural relation of the façade to the propylon points to the former’s erection soon after the propylon’s second restoration in the later ﬁrst century and slightly before the construction of the Peirene court on the opposite side of the gateway, which has similar workmanship.220 Comparison of the architectural ornament of the façade with work elsewhere, which had originally pointed to a date of around 155, may now indicate a date some years earlier.221 The style of the sculpture indicates a span between 130 and 170, and one can probably not be more speciﬁc today, as it is unclear to what the three-bay arch shown on coins of Marcus and Verus relates.222 As for the Peirene court, which a fragmentary inscription may have assigned to a private patron, possibly Herodes Atticus, its trefoil plan suggests a connection

with the most innovative imperial designers of Hadrianic or Antonine Rome.223 Here was a major transformation of the approaches to what had once been the race-track of the Greek city.224 The architectural projects of Antoninus Pius are not as well known as those of Hadrian. But they do not simply reﬂect, as Marcus Aurelius wrote, ‘the behaviour of a man who is interested in what has to be done, and not in the reputation that he gets’.225 Certainly there is no evidence that Pius practised architectural drawing, as Hadrian did. But by advertising the distinctive forms of his buildings on his coins and medallions he made these forms into important symbols of his rule. The reliefs of the Antonine Wall, the use of buildings to highlight Pius’ attempted economic revival of Italy, and the literary works, now lost, that celebrated his architectural achievements, all announced an ideal of monumentality, a visual demonstration of the beginning of Rome’s tenth saeculum. Although the later Antonines were not concerned with building to the same degree, the language of imperial architecture continued to be signiﬁcant. That it did so was largely due to the high symbolic content of the architectural forms. This is the subject of the next chapter.

CHAPTER 3

The Symbolic Signiﬁcance of Architectural Form In the Roman Empire, where the vast majority of inhabitants were either illiterate or had only a very basic literacy, it was natural to communicate ideas and beliefs visually. For some groups, even the Christians, for whom religion had a strong textual basis, visual symbols played a large role in addition to more direct forms of expression, as they propagated hidden meanings which could be recognized by the faithful alone.1 Historians of ancient art have recently begun to study more closely the ways in which forms of art served to conceptualize the divine.2 There is still little investigation of architectural form itself as a ﬁeld for symbolism in the same way as representative arts like painting and sculpture. As the late Richard Krautheimer wrote, over sixty years ago, ‘symbolic signiﬁcance’ in architecture had ‘a more or less uncertain connotation which was only dimly visible and whose speciﬁc interpretation was not necessarily agreed upon’.3 Yet the visibility of the basic geometrical forms deployed by buildings offered considerable potential for symbolic meaning, as many written sources conﬁrm.4 The Christian writer Clement of Alexandria exercised his ingenuity by keenly speculating on all kinds of symbolism, including that expressed by architecture.5 But not all architectural symbolism was the rareﬁed sport of intellectuals. It provided a means of imaginative thinking for the illiterate, and therefore gives access to the responses of those large sections of the population whose views and perceptions are least recorded.6 Because the impact of architectural forms was visual and spatial, the meanings they expressed were taken for granted and are not always documented in surviving literary sources. Where written accounts are lacking, the appearance of architectural forms themselves often demonstrates more than a purely practical convenience. It would, of course, be an oversimpliﬁcation to conclude that all symbolic meanings were equally apparent to all viewers. But it is possible to outline some general directions in which buildings offered ﬁelds for deeper meaning. In this chapter I shall use both written and archaeological material to interpret the different levels of this symbolic framework underlying the perception of buildings in the Roman Empire. Few historians would dispute that the triangular pediment had a symbolic value and was considered an appropriate vehicle to signify the divine.7 From the early Archaic period, the relief sculpture on temple pediments emphasized the centre of the composition and presented a ‘confrontational’ aspect, which, unlike a frieze which unfolds gradually, manifests itself to the viewer all at once.8 This is apparent not only from the hundreds of ancient temples, where the gable ends of their roofs are marked by this form, but also from places where the form is less expected, but nonetheless adds a divine ﬂavour to an otherwise

ambiguous context.9 The very use by Roman orators of temples and aediculas, characterized by their pedimental top, to memorize words and phrases from their forensic speeches implies that these forms were regarded as symbolic ‘containers’ of ideas.10 In ancient written sources such obvious architectural symbolism is so taken for granted that it is communicated only indirectly. Thus, for Cicero, the authority of the pediment (fastigium) derived from its combination of practicality (utilitas) and dignity (dignitas).11 The latter quality was not only an aesthetic one. It suggested that the form was ‘worthy’ (dignus) to be adopted for the houses of the gods, such as the Capitoline Temple, to which Cicero refers here, the greatest religious monument of ancient Rome, and all lesser temples. Cicero does not say that the form is symbolic, but that is because he does not need to be so explicit. By the shorthand of dignitas he alludes to a feature of the fastigium that is widely recognized in his society.12 But to us outside that society the architectural symbolism is manifest. In modern semiotic terms, Cicero’s interpretation of the pediment in Roman architecture implies that Roman architectural forms acted as a language that communicated, or ‘commuted’, straightforward social meanings between patron and designer. But Roman architecture could also be said to ‘transmute’ forms on a higher and less ‘readable’ level.13 The most common instance of this was the capacity of architecture to represent the universe. Thus the younger Pliny compared his Tuscan villa with the stars of the ﬁrmament described by Aratus, ut parva magnis.14 Since the time of the earliest Greek philosophers, the geometrical shape most associated with the cosmos was the sphere. Empedocles and Xenophanes saw it as the ideal shape of the one perfect God, and were followed in this by Plato.15 Aristotle doubted that geometry could be a basis for subjective aesthetic opinions; however, when Cicero wrote on the subject it seemed to him incontrovertible that the world was round, since no other geometrical shape had such balance in movement and constancy in order.16 Cicero also believed that rounded forms—among solids, the sphere and, in two dimensions, the circle—were innately superior, as not only could they alone enclose all other shapes within their outline, but they were perfectly even and unbroken by angles, protrusions, or depressions.17 Since Plato’s Atlantis, the circle had offered a rich ﬁeld for symbolism, which was exploited by early Roman buildings: the aviary of Varro,18 the Temple of Fortuna huiusce dei in the Largo Argentina,19 and, above all, the Temple of Vesta, where the circular form explicitly represented not only the hearth, but the earth.20 Not surprisingly, the sphere was also adopted as a symbol of cosmic sovereignty by successive Hellenistic monarchs, followed by the Roman dynasts Pompey, Caesar, and Augustus, who were frequently portrayed in

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statues and on coins with the globe as an emblem of their imperial power.21 The circle and the sphere were not the only shapes associated with the cosmos. Anaximander and others had seen the earth and the moon as cylindrical.22 Yet others regarded the cone as the archetypal shape of the sun, the stars, and even the whole universe, and this judgement is mirrored in its use in architecture.23 The pyramid too had also been believed since Aristotle’s time to be the basis of all shapes (sche-mato-n . . . tme-tiko-tato-n).24 Plutarch accepted this judgement and included it as one of ﬁve perfect shapes: the pyramid, cube, octahedron, icosahedron, and dodecahedron.25 Explanations of the universe considered its structure as well as its shape. Greek and Roman geographical conceptions show that the heavens were conceived as a great vault over the earth, supported by columnlike mountains at its corners or other places, which were sometimes identiﬁed with the divine strength of Atlas or Hercules.26 Ennius wrote of the ‘huge arches of heaven’ (caeli ingentes fornices).27 Cicero criticized Ennius’ language because the globe is not an arch, but he does not seem to have questioned the model of curvilinear architecture, preferring Lucretius’ more plausible metaphor, ‘caverns of heaven’ (caeli cavernas). Varro even derived the word for ‘heaven’ (caelum) from cavus, ‘hollow’.28 According to an ancient tradition allegedly going back to Numa, a long vault of precious stones was built under the earth as a store.29 So, although the temple pediment expressed highest sanctity in monumental architecture, the arch and the vault had a subordinate and supporting role. This can be clearly seen in the rebuilding of the Capitoline Temple after the ﬁre of 83 bc, dedicated by Q. Lutatius Catulus. Beneath the temple’s pedimented façade was an arcaded terrace of eleven bays—the socalled ‘Tabularium’30—which has been interpreted as corresponding, according to a Platonic idea of divine and cosmic order, to the ‘army’ of eleven gods behind Zeus/Jupiter;31 for others, the temple that stood upon

this monumental terrace (Fig. 45) should be seen as that of Juno Moneta, protectress of the Roman coinage and of monuments in general.32 The arches are adapted to the vertical dimension by being combined with the linear and upward movement of framing engaged columns, to suggest the idea of ascent.33 The monumentality of other great temples in the Roman world was expressed similarly. Thus, in an over-life-size statue of Ephesian Artemis from the Artemisium at Ephesus, the goddess wears an elaborate three-tier headdress with a representation of the great temple of Artemis on top and a row of arches on columns beneath (Fig. 46).34 Its Romanized form is in contrast to smaller statuettes, which reproduced the authentic version in the cult temple.35 For some Stoics, the structure of the vault expressed their conception of the world as a uniﬁed body whose preservation depended on every 46. Statue of Artemis Ephesia from Ephesus. Selçuk Museum.

45. Arcaded terrace beneath the Capitoline Hill known as the ‘Tabularium’. Restored plan showing the hypotheticallocation of the re-builtTemple of Juno Moneta on top of the terrace.

signiﬁcance of architectural form member.36 An interesting passage appears in Diogenes Laertius’ Life of Zeno, where he follows the argument of Hecaton that there were intellectual virtues, as distinct from non-intellectual ones in which the mind played no part, such as health and strength, and that the latter developed out of the former. He argues that ‘health attends on and is coextensive with the intellectual virtue of temperance in the same way that strength results from the building of a vault (psalis)’.37 The principle could be observed on a small scale in the arch composed of voussoirs, which also symbolized strength and endurance. An epigram from the harbour quarter of Attaleia (Antalya) reads: ‘You have erected indestructible arches, purest Rufus, and you will bring everything to completion, bound to grow in successes.’38 For philosophers of the Middle Stoa, the symbolic importance of the arch, believed by Posidonius to have been invented by the Atomist philosopher Democritus, derived from the structural balance produced by the contact between its voussoirs.39 The stability of the whole was threatened by the removal of any single part.40 To the Roman Stoic Seneca, the form provided an analogy for the structure of society.41 But, most of all, the vault was symbolic of the universe. In the Peri kosmou (‘On the Kosmos’), a text ascribed to Aristotle but probably written during the ﬁrst century ad, the unity of the cosmos is compared to ‘those stones in vaults that are called omphaloi, which are placed in the centre and hold the whole structure of the vault together in harmony and order’.42 In the same way, the author continued, Phidias had set his own image on the boss in the

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centre of Athena’s shield, so that, if it were removed, the whole sculpture would fall apart. It was the function of God within the cosmos to preserve the harmony of everything by staying ﬁxed and immutable at the centre.43 In perhaps the 170s the Peri kosmou was translated into Latin by Apuleius as De Mundo.44 In his translation he wrote that ‘God resides on the heights of the highest mountains in the world, and his power makes the sun and moon move and the whole sphere of the sky turn, assuring the safety of mortals’.45 He also translated the original Greek description of ‘the god controlling the universe’ (tou ton kosmon epechontos theou)46 as the god who is ‘highest and most outstanding’ (summus atque exsuperantissimus).47 These epithets echo the description of the Syrian Baal, ‘Lord of the Sky,48 and reappear in Apuleius’ description of the ‘highest god’ in his philosophical works.49 They refer not to the traditional Greek Zeus or Roman Jupiter, primus inter pares, but to a unique god controlling and residing at the head of the cosmos, an image that reﬂects the tendency towards universalism in secondcentury religion.50 As a living source of energy, this god was often identiﬁed with the sun. In Apuleius’ De Platone he appears at the summit of an arrangement of deities on three levels: at the top, the unique god and the ﬁxed sphere of the universe; underneath, the planets and the celestial beings; and, below these, the sub-lunar world and local deities.51 This supreme deity, the Jupiter of Baalbek and the ‘highest Zeus’ of Mount Gerizim, appears in religious vocabulary of the later Antonine period, in a dedication to ‘Jupiter Dolichenus exsuperantissimus’ from Samnium and an inscription from Utrecht, united with the Roman Jupiter Optimus Maximus;52 Commodus adopted a similar phrase as an imperial title.53 Strangely, however, in his De Mundo Apuleius completely omits the analogy of the vault as an image of the cosmic god, although his translation of the Peri kosmou is generally faithful to the original. Beaujeu suggested that Apuleius would have regarded the image as ‘vulgar or irrelevant’.54 But this explanation is unsatisfactory. In other passages Apuleius was keen to add Roman colour.55 Is it possible that the comparison of the keystone of a vault to a universal divine ﬁgure was too close for comfort to the decoration of Roman vaults to be made explicit? One might think that the vault was not an element of religious architecture in classical antiquity. So Gerhalt Rodenwaldt argued in 1939: Throughout antiquity the vault was an element of profane architecture, as opposed to the sacred form of the ﬂat ceiling. That was already the case in Egyptian and near Eastern art. A brick vault, such as spans the temple palace in Medinet Habn, would be inconceivable for the main space of an Egyptian temple. Even more profane than the barrel vault was the cross-vault. The Greeks of the Empire used it only relatively seldom. Even the Romans tried to conceal it with decoration, rather than emphasise it.56

47. The so-called ‘Praetorium’ at Phaena (Mismije), Syria. Detail of interior showing the stone vault.

Since Rodenwaldt’s time, the question of how large Roman buildings were roofed has been much debated.57 It is true that in Trajan’s grand building project at Rome the cross-vault was limited to the markets that served a purely practical purpose, whereas the Basilica Ulpia had a ﬂat ceiling. However, Rodenwaldt acknowledged that even his claim that ‘no temple in antiquity was ever roofed with cross-vaults’ could be opposed by counter-examples.58 Long before Maxentius’ audacious

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48. Coffered ceiling from the Temple of Bel, Palmyra, with zodiac relief band around a central dome.

vaulting of the twin cellas of the Temple of Venus and Rome, there were religious spaces that were roofed with domes and barrel vaults. Edmund Weigand suggested that the ‘praetorium’ at Phaena (Mismije) in Syria, with central cross-vaulted hall (Fig. 47), was in fact the main temple of this site, dedicated to Zeus Phainesios in 168/9.59 In 192 another vaulted temple was dedicated, to the goddess Tyche, some 15 miles away, at Aere (i¸s-S¸anamên). The exposed vaults and domes of some secular buildings hardly show embarrassment about this form.60 Moreover, the decoration of these vaults often emphasized celestial or religious themes, which underlined their symbolic importance. As Karl Lehmann famously observed, some vaulted ceilings in imperial Roman residences, notably Nero’s Golden House and Hadrian’s villa at Tibur, are decorated with images that suggest that the ceiling is to be regarded as a heavenly vault.61 The motif can be traced to earlier royal palaces in the Near East, such as the Achaemenid palace at Babylon.62 But it is also used to decorate sacred buildings. Vaults, of course, are among the least well-preserved parts of Roman buildings, so the best evidence comes from the undisturbed, subterranean vaults of tombs. Some domical vaults of tombs in Rome are painted to represent a starry

sky.63 A tomb from Alexandria, dated to the second half of the second century, gives an indication of the highly religious symbolism that many temples probably also once displayed.64 In the north adyton of the Temple of Bel at Palmyra, for example, a rectangular coffered ceiling with inner domical vault is ringed by a band of zodiac signs, which in the centre contains ﬁgures of deities (Fig. 48).65 Similar images of the zodiac appeared on the coffered marble dome of a small, round peripteral temple in the agora at Side in Pamphylia, possibly dedicated to Tyche (Fig. 49a–j).66 If the roof contained a central oculus, open to the sky, as has been suggested,67 the appearance of the sun through the vaulted marble roof of the cella at the point where the keystone would be, and encircled by a band of images of the zodiac sky, would have made the building a representation of the celestial hemisphere. The building may even have been a circular dining-room in the manner of Nero’s Golden House.68 In the western Empire, a zodiac runs around the extrados of the arch of a gateway at Mainz (Moguntiacum).69 Surviving architectural decoration also illustrates the importance attached to the keystone, the omphalos, presented in the Peri kosmou as the most important symbolic space.70 In an arch, the central keystone,

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signiﬁcance of architectural form

(a)

(c)

(b)

(e) 49. Round building in the agora at Side, Pamphylia (modern Turkey). (a) Location plan. (b) Remains of the building. (c) Plan of the building. (d) Restored view. (e) Remains of segmental pediment and coffering from the dome.

(d)

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(f )

(h)

(g)

(j)

49. Round building in the agora at Side, Pamphylia (modern Turkey). (f )–(g) Fragment of entablature, and detail of its ornament. (h) Detail of one of the sur-

viving ﬁgures from the coffering. (j) Imperial coin of Side, reverse face, showing a round temple with domical roof.

which had the greatest stabilizing effect, was symbolically the most important of all.71 For this reason, keystones on Roman buildings are often decorated, especially with a divine image, as we have seen on the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ at Ephesus (Fig. 29).72 It was the same with the keystone of a vault. In ad 27/8 the Syrian architect Diodorus, son of Zebedas, chose this element for his signature (Fig. 50a–c).73 But it could also be appropriated as the location of the most important religious images in a building. This made it anathema to those of other faiths. Thus Tertullian urged building-workers of Christian faith to avoid working on sanctuaries or temples, which involved contact with idols, especially as there was plenty of work to be had in secular projects: ‘houses, praetoria, baths, and insulae’.74 The difficulty was that, as Tertullian observed elsewhere, ‘public squares, the forum, baths, stalls, and even our houses are not entirely free of idols’.75 In the Mishnah, Jews practising the building trade within the Roman domains were forbidden to assist in the construction of ‘a basilica, scaffold, stadium, or judges’ tribunal; one may help [the Romans] to build public baths or bath-houses, but when they have reached the vaulting where they have set up the idol it is forbidden [to help them] to build’.76 Given the importance of building as a metaphor for their own religious identities,77 it was not surprising that the pagan images at the apex of Roman

public buildings caused Jews and Christians such offence.78 If vaulted architecture was associated by the Romans with religious sanctity, one can perhaps understand why Apuleius omitted the vault metaphor from his translation. If the keystone of Nero’s arch on the Asylum ridge at Rome (Fig. 11) carried a ﬁgure of the genius Augusti, representing the emperor’s symbolic position at the pole of the ﬁrmament,79 it is entirely possible that imperial iconography also appeared at the apex of vaulted buildings. For Apuleius to preserve the original metaphor of the Peri kosmou in a context of the ‘highest and most pre-eminent’ god at the centre of the universe might have seemed too explicit an image of the emperor’s divinity. By the middle of the second century mosaic vault decoration had become increasingly common in baths and other structures.80 The fascination for Roman patrons of vaulted forms can also be seen in their numerous illusionist imitations. In the early third-century House of the Painted Vaults at Ostia, a simple cross-vaulted roof is painted to appear like an eight-faced umbrella dome supported by pendentives (Fig. 51).81 In a villa at Gadebridge, near Hemel Hempstead, a ﬂat ceiling is painted to imitate stone or stucco coffering (Fig. 52).82 A mosaic pavement from France strikingly echoes a coffered ceiling from Palmyra.83 At the ‘Terme dei Cisiarii’ (‘Baths of the Carriage-drivers’)

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signiﬁcance of architectural form

(b)

(a) 50. Keystone of vault with ‘signature’ of the architect Diodorus, from the Sanctuary of Zeus at Jerash (Gerasa), Jordan. (a) Plan of the sanctuary, with location of keystone. (b)–(c) Restored drawing of the keystone, and section from below.

(c) 51. Detail of the painted ceiling of Room IV of the ‘House of the Painted Vaults’, Ostia.

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52. Imitation coffering on a ceiling from the Roman villa at Gadebridge, Hertfordshire.

near the Porta Romana at Ostia, decorated at some time between 120 and 140, the three-dimensional form of a groin vault is represented on a ﬂoor mosaic (Fig. 53).84 Four telamon ﬁgures standing on composite capitals at the corners of the room, like the imposts of a groin-vault, appear to shoulder the walls and towers of a square city, represented in a more conventional manner at the centre of the ﬂoor. It is unclear whether the original three-dimensional space of the room was actually vaulted or not, but a vault was constructed slightly later on reinforcing piers, which might have made the ﬂoor image seem more suitable.85 In appearing to hold up the heavens, the mosaic telamons added a cosmic meaning to this room, the central one of the baths complex, suggesting that it was an entire world.86 They also oriented each visitor by their gestures, which have been interpreted as a form of ‘kinesthetic address’,87 equivalent to Pliny’s letters guiding his reader around his vil-

53. Floor mosaic of the ‘Terme dei Cisiarii’, Ostia.

las. Users of the baths were encouraged to imagine the space as an enclosed cosmic vault. Even without telamon ﬁgures, mosaic pavements could give the illusion of a three-dimensional domed space. For example, in the pavement of the Odeion of Herodes Atticus at Athens (c.160–74), a sequence of interlocking concentric circles homing in on a central emble-ma creates the illusion of a three-dimensional concave volume, although the room that the mosaic decorated was probably not vaulted.88 Such designs are attested on ﬁrst-century mosaics from Italy and Greece, but they appear to have been particularly fashionable during the Antonine period.89 A second instance, now relaid in a ﬂoor of the Museo Nazionale at Rome, which is centred on an emble-ma containing the head of a medusa, has suggested to some a resemblance to the concentric rings of the inner dome of the Pantheon and the illusion of planetary movement.90 To others, the image looks more like a shield.91 The difference between these two interpretations may have been less signiﬁcant in antiquity. In the Peri kosmou the keystone vault and the boss in the centre of Athena’s shield were used in an equivalent way as analogies of the universal god. Homer’s Shield of Achilles, with the stream of the Ocean around its rim, was renowned as an emblem of the cosmos; the scholiast Eustathius interpreted the shield-strap, for which Homer uses the term telamo-n, as an allegory of the axis that supports the universe.92 The vault was thus an important element of pagan religious architecture. Vaulted grottoes, whether natural or artiﬁcial, long continued to be part of the formal setting of many religious cults. The caves of Taenarum and Heraclea Pontica, or of Acheron and Avernus, were regarded as having a sacral aura suited to necromancy.93 Initially, the mystery inherent in such forms appeared subversive. The cult rituals of the Bacchanalia in 186 bc, with their dances, banquets, and initiation rites, took place in ‘hidden caves’, apparently vaulted grottoes. By the Antonine period, high-ranking aristocratic families participated in these Dionysiac mysteries. A long inscription of c.150 from Tusculum, now in the Metropolitan Museum, New York, included, among the religious officials of an aristocratic cult, two antrophulakes or ‘guardians of the cave’.94 Whether this grotto was natural or artiﬁcial,95 what mattered from the perspective of symbolism was the vaulted form. The use of vaulted spaces as sacred settings of cults of the Nymphs or the Muses, not to mention cults of Demeter, Magna Mater, Cybele, Bendis, and the Bona Dea, further reinforces this symbolism. The Greek term for a vault, psalis, referred not only to major vaulted structures, both secular and sacred, but also to small vaulted niches that housed a sacred image.96 The symbolism of such ‘micro-architecture’ is an important indication of how architectural form deﬁned notions of sanctity.97 Thus, in the north-western provinces a wide variety of local cults exploited the authority not only of the triangular pediment, but also of the semicircular vault as a monumental canopy in the frequent shell-niches that surround images of deities. In Britain a relief in the Corinium Museum at Cirencester shows a mother goddess and three hooded spirits (genii cucullati), covered by an ‘umbrella dome’ inside an outer pediment (Fig. 54).98 A similar conception is presented by several altars from Colijnsplaat in the Netherlands dedicated, mostly by traders (negotiatores), to the mother goddess Nehalennia, who was widely worshipped in the region of northern Germany in the later sec-

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ond century and may be the goddess identiﬁed by Tacitus with Isis.99 One example from Domburg, found in 1647 and now in the Rijksmuseum van Oudheden at Leiden, shows a pedimented front, framed by pilasters, with an inner domical vault, which acts as a canopy for the seated goddess (Fig. 55).100 Hadrian’s ‘pumpkins’, which in reality were enlarged versions of the same ‘umbrella vaults’, with obtrusive interior ribs, were an expression of the same symbolic principle.101 In the same way, the arcuated lintel that we have met in the last chapter was used to enshrine a divine image, as on the Trajanic coin from Caesarea and the relief from Croy Hill (Figs. 31, 37). A series of coins from the eastern provinces shows how this form was adopted as a sacred architectural surround for a wide range of deities (Table 1).102 Given its likely origins, it might be unsurprising to see it used for oriental cults such as Astarte, Tyche, and the Persian divinities at Zela, but it also adorns Graeco-Roman deities such as Zeus, Hera, and Apollo, some of whom may have been syncretized with eastern gods. The architecture depicted varies. Most of these coins show the strict form of an arcuated lintel, as on that from Apollonia Salbace (Fig. 56), where the almost Serlian arrangement of three bays, the central one arched, beneath a temple pediment closely resembles the structures at Ephesus and Athens, and the disposition of the deities is like that in the Croy Hill relief.103 Sometimes, though, the arch is shown in a wider form dominating the composition, and some coins show an arch superimposed on the entablature.104 The

55. Altar of the goddess Nehalennia, from Domburg, now in the Rijksmuseum van Oudheden, Leiden.

54. Altar with relief of a northern mother goddess and three hooded spirits, Corinium Museum, Cirencester.

56. Bronze coin from Apollonia Salbace, Caria, showing city deity within arcuated lintel surround.

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distinction between these forms may not be too signiﬁcant, especially as not all such representations can be accurate depictions of an actual building. It is now believed that the production of coin dies was centralized at a few main centres, and thus the wide distribution of the same form on coins of different cities in the same regions might be explained in terms of an origin at one or more central workshops. Some versions of the form appear to be designed simply to create a higher space in order to show the cult image better, rather than to depict a real building.105 In other cases the same temple is shown interchangeably with either an arcuated or a straight entablature, which suggests that the coin image cannot be an accurate representation of an actual built form.106 However, given that ‘monumentality’ can be considered the essence of what coins communicate in general,107 and Roman provincial coins in particular have a purpose to proclaim local identity through architectural form, the structures depicted are likely to be signiﬁcant. Even if the representation of a temple form on a coin differed from its actual appearance, that only highlights the die-cutter’s purpose in wanting to draw attention to the ‘unreal’ form. The contribution of the arcuated lintel to notions of monumentality can be seen by comparing such a representation with an alternative. The two Samian coins shown here (Fig. 57), which were minted under Domitian and Trajan Decius (ad 249–51), present cult statues of Hera indistinguishable in form in the centre of a tetrastyle Ionic temple façade.108 But, while the earlier representation shows the statue in a conventional ‘Greek’ context, under a ﬂat architrave and triangular pediment (Fig. 57a), the later coin shows an arcuated lintel forming a crown around the headdress of the goddess (Fig. 57b). The role of this feature in giving the statue an emphatic, heightened position, and also one more in harmony with the architectural surround, is complemented by two other differences between the two representations. First, whereas the conventionally trabeate temple appears as peripteral with a stepped peristasis, the other is raised on a podium with frontal steps framed on either side by stair platforms, a well-known feature of Roman architectural style.109 Second, the columns here are shown not as smooth monoliths of white marble, as on the earlier coin, but with spiral ﬂutes, a typical feature of architecture in Roman imperial Asia Minor and common on such coin images of the later second and third centuries.110 The spiral ﬂutes on each column, which run in opposing directions, draw attention to the central ﬁgure. Yet not all sanctuaries in the Roman East were celebrated in this

way. Although the cult of Hera at Samos is monumentalized with an arcuated lintel, Ephesian Artemis is shown with only classical forms. One might wonder why the arcuated lintel was not used also in that case, when it clearly emphasized the statue so effectively. The cult statue seen earlier in this chapter (Fig. 46) may provide an answer. Here the older architectural form made too important a cultural statement.111 But such forms of representation were not only aesthetic techniques to give the cult statue greater prominence. There is reason to believe that at least some of the coin types did represent actual structures. Variations of this form without a cult statue suggest that its numismatic representation was not just a matter of replicating a ﬁxed type of surround for a deity.112 Indeed, in the case of the Temple at Baalbek the arcuated lintel depicted on a coin is corroborated by archaeological evidence. Parallels in Syria and Asia Minor from the later Antonine or Severan periods conﬁrm that it was as much a feature of the architect’s as of the die-cutter’s repertoire.113 Perhaps more commonly, however, the forms depicted on the coins were not the cult temple itself, but, as Price and Trell have suggested, ‘the domed baldachino or arched shell-in-niche which covered the cult-image within the temple’.114 What this form may originally have looked like is suggested by the inner sanctuary (adyton) of a temple at Niha near Baalbek from the late second century, which provides a basis for a detailed reconstruction (Fig. 58a–c).115 There is a parallel for this use of the arcuated lintel in another cult which grew in popularity during the Antonine period, that of Jupiter Dolichenus. The Hittite storm god from the hill of Dülük-Baba near Doliche in Commagene became amalgamated with Jupiter, after Syria became a Roman province in 64 bc. His earliest known sanctuary outside Commagene was a temple dedicated in North Africa in 125/6 by the commander of the Legio III Augusta, which included many soldiers of Syrian origin.116 One of the silver plaques from Heddernheim depicting the iconography of this cult shows Jupiter Dolichenus and his consort Juno Regina, standing on the backs of cattle, beneath an arcuated lintel within a temple form similar to that on the coins (Fig. 59). The Syrian connection of cult and worshippers may explain the use of this feature. But it was not limited to that region. At the fort at Croy Hill, from which came the relief with arcuated lintel, were two fragments of a second relief, which appears to have originally shown Jupiter Dolichenus and his consort in similar fashion.117 It is the most

57. Bronze coins from Samos. (a) from the reign of Domitian, a.d. 81–96; (b) from the reign of Trajan Decius, a.d. 249-251.

(a)

(b)

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(a)

(b) 58. ‘Temple A’, Niha, Phoenicia (modern Lebanon). (a) Exterior frontal view. (b) Interior view. (c) Restored view of the interior. (d) Ground plan.

(c)

(d)

northerly attestation of this cult. Although it is not certain that the ﬁgures on this relief were crowned by an arch, the combination with the military relief is suggestive. Here the deity beneath the Syrian gable was not Jupiter Dolichenus and Juno Regina, but Venus. The cult of Dolichenus, however, was an ‘inclusive’ religion, integrating into its cult the worship of many other deities. At the Dolichenum constructed on the Aventine hill early in Antoninus’ reign,118 the ﬁrst major sanctuary of the cult at Rome, a wide number of divinities were worshipped: Diana, Apollo, Venus, Isis and Serapis, Mithras, the Dioscuri, Hercules, Silvanus, Sol and Luna. The connection of these deities with the cult of Dolichenus may provide a hint of how this ‘Syrian’ monumental surround might have been adapted to other gods that had traditionally been represented beneath straight lines. The symbolic forms of monumentality were changing, and new cults like Jupiter Dolichenus helped to promote this change. The Dolichenum at Rome seems to have been a private rather than a public sanctuary, serving mainly civilian worshippers. The sphere from which they came was probably what one might call the ‘ﬂoating population of the Empire’: traders, soldiers, slaves, and aristocrats in imperial service. Such groups were perhaps more open than the estab-

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59. Fragmentary silver plaque from Heddernheim, showing Jupiter Dolichenus (left, standing on a bull) and Juno Dolichena (right, partially preserved, standing on what was probably a heifer) within an aedicule with pediment, Corinthian columns, and arcuated lintel. In the angles of the pediment are a crescent moon (top) and two six-pointed stars (left and right). A winged victory extends a laurel wreath over the head of Jupiter Dolichenus, while Juno Dolichena holds a sacriﬁcial dish (patera) over an altar. There are traces of gilding on some details.

lished aristocracy to the spread of these new ideas of monumentality. The success of the cult of Jupiter Dolichenus was also due to a ‘prominently advertised alliance’ between the gods of its cult and the emperor himself. This raises the question of the extent to which these new cults and the architectural forms associated with them affected styles of imperial representation. A partial answer is offered by the so-called ‘Syrian sanctuary’ on the Janiculum, excavated in 1908–9 and identiﬁed with the Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus.119 In its fourth-century state the building, like the Dolichenum, had an axial plan leading towards an inner sanctum via an open central courtyard. An earlier phase, datable to the late second or early third century, was discovered in excavations in 1981–2, pointing either to an earlier form of the temple or to a private house or bath structure which showed an awareness of the great Syrian cult soon after the considerable attentions shown to it by Antoninus Pius. A marble altar table, reused as a threshold in the fourth-century building, was dedicated in 176 to Jupiter

Heliopolitanus and the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Commodus by one Marcus Antonius Gaianas, a man of apparently eastern origins. There was also an imperial portrait group, including a statue of Antoninus Pius, juxtaposed with orientalizing religious iconography: an Egyptian basalt ﬁgure, a gilded bronze statue of Hadad, Cronos, Aion, or Osiris, or a syncretized combination of some or all of these deities,120 and a marble statue of a seated male god, either the Syrian Baal, Jupiter Heliopolitanus, Serapis, or Aion.121 The history of this complex is incompletely preserved, but it was probably in private structures like this and the Dolichenum, rather than in the older state cults, that there developed in Antonine Rome an architectural symbolism which linked the gloriﬁcation of the ruling dynasty to the great cult monuments of the East. To understand the imperial symbolism associated with the arcuated lintel more fully, it is helpful to turn to Roman palace architecture of late antiquity. In the interior court of Diocletian’s Palace at Split (Fig. 60), the central arched entablature, bordered by arcades, establishes a visual and ceremonial focus on the emperor’s throne below.122 The ceremonial function of the form is clearly brought out on the Madrid missorium of Theodosius, where the emperor is shown seated on his throne under a similar arch (Fig. 61).123 Less well known, but equally explicit, are the silver ‘David Plates’ from the reign of the emperor Heraclius (610–41), the subjects on which appear to go back to the fourth century, here used to express biblical parallels to Heraclius in the context of his Persian campaign.124 Four of the nine plates depict scenes from the ﬁrst book of Samuel conducted in front of a colonnade beneath an arcuated lintel, which show ‘The anointing of David’, ‘The introduction of David to Saul’, ‘David trying on Saul’s armour’, and ‘The marriage of David and Michal’ (Fig. 62).125 These images help to explain the place of the arcuated lintel in imperial ritual, with, in each case, the important act oc-

60. Diocletian’s Palace, Split, a.d. c.300-306. Inner peristyle, formerly Plokata sv. Duje (‘St. Dujo Square’) and Piazza del Duomo, after excavation and restoration in 1903–10. This ceremonial courtyard, 24 m. long by 13.25 m. wide, is ﬂanked by arched colonnades and leads to a monumental porch in front of the vestibule of the imperial residence, with twelve columns of red amphibolic granite (5.25 m. high), re-used marble Corinthian capitals, and an arcuated lintel. The intercolumniations of the porch were originally closed by stone lattices (transennae) to a height of 2.40 m.

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61. The Missorium of Theodosius I, commemorative silver plate, a.d. 388. Diameter 74 cm; thickness 4–8 mm. Real Aacademia de Storia, Madrid. The plate, found with other silverware in southern Spain in 1847, was made for the tenth anniversary of Theodosius’s reign as emperor (Decennalia).

62. Commemorative silver plate, showing the marriage of David and Michal, from the ‘David Plates’, a.d. 613–630, Cyprus Museum, Nicosia.

curring under the central arch.126 But a second form, equally suggestive of imperial power, is concealed behind the arcuated lintel. In the Hall of the Imperial Cult built in honour of Diocletian and the other three members of the ﬁrst Tetrarchy in the ancient sanctuary of the pharaoh Amenophis III at Luxor, a painted scene at the centre of the chamber, set behind a pair of Corinthian columns, within a semi-domed apse, and probably beneath an arcuated lintel, represents an imperial arrival (ad-

ventus) (Fig. 63). The painting alludes to the use of the form in actual imperial ritual as a canopy for the reception of the emperor, a baldachin or ciborium.127 When added to the already portentous use of the columnar display of an aedicular façade, which was a hallmark of ‘public magniﬁcence’ and occurs in ostentatious public buildings such as city gates, theatres, fountain-buildings, gymnasia, and libraries, the arcuated lintel provided a hierarchical focus on a political or religious centre.128

63. The Temple of Ammon, Luxor, Egypt, room of the imperial cult. Reconstruction of paintings along the south wall, based on the excavations of 1852–56 and those of 1977.

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Some doubt whether the baldachin was actually used as a throne tabernacle in Roman palaces.129 Scholars now tend to dismiss the possibility that similar forms in monumental architecture had cultic associations.130 In particular, the idea, most strongly advanced by the American art historian Earl Baldwin Smith (1888–1956), that this visual treatment of the later Roman emperors anticipated the focus on the image of Christ in early Christian architecture has come under heavy ﬁre from scholars of ‘late antique’ art wishing to deconstruct this ‘emperor mystique’ and contest the view that Christian art was dependent on it.131 The self-confessed ‘obsession’132 with which Smith pursued this theme owed much to his particular and innovative interest in iconography as a tool for architectural history and, above all, to his association with Howard Butler in the 1920s in the Princeton excavations of Syria, where the prevalence of arcuated forms in temple and church architecture helped to arouse his interest in investigating the link between them. Nevertheless, although one should be wary of inferring too much from the striking correspondences between the architecture of imperial palaces and that of Christian churches, it is clear that already by the end of the second century the celestial ske-ne- was so associated with the appearance of emperors that its domical form could be immediately recognized as an imperial emblem, as emerges from its appearance on the coins of some Thracian cities, crowning the towers of a city gate, presumably in commemoration of a visit or an anniversary of a reign. By the fourth century, coins with baldachins over portals were widely issued across the Empire.133 The widespread use of the ciborium, cupola, and globe on coins of Diocletian and Constantine unsurprisingly leads one to suspect that those emperors adopted the baldachin for certain ceremonies, at least in the eastern provinces.134 The gourd-like corrugations on the inside of such half-domes, similar to the niches in which the northern goddesses are enshrined (Figs. 54–5), have been interpreted in terms of cosmic symbolism, as a representation of the convex gores of a celestial tent.135 The suitability of such a domical vault, or ciborium, as a monumental canopy derived from the cosmic associations of the arch and the vault and their religious authority to enclose a sacred image. It has thus been compared to the ritualistic adoption of a royal tent in Egypt for the cult of the Horus-king, with four posts and a curved canopy, used for the king’s jubilee to celebrate the renewal of his divine life.136 The baldachin of Alexander the Great was regarded as a heavenly throne.137 A sky-shelter of Meleager and Dioscurides is depicted on an Etruscan mirror, and similar imagery of apparently Alexandrian origin occurs in Pompeian art.138 In the Fourth Style, the royal baldachin appears as a particularly prominent motif. In the scene from the House of Apollo at Pompeii (Fig. 24), a sun god, identiﬁable from the form of his crown and holding a sceptre, stands beneath a domed baldachin within a semicircular columned surround in front of a door leading into a domical vestibule.139 The royal elements in this scene, perhaps a legacy of Alexandrian palace ceremonies, are obvious to the naked eye. The similarity of its composition to the Temple of Bacchus in the northern Campus Martius, shown on the medal of Pius (Fig 21), leads one to ask whether this cult of Dionysus contained some imperial ritual. Hadrian was indeed worshipped in Asia Minor as a ‘new Dionysus’, sharing the Temple of Dionysus Kathegemon at Pergamon, and the presence in the mysteries of imperial cult of officials (sebastophantai and theophantai) whose task it was

64 (left). Silver denarius of Antoninus Pius (senatorial issue), a.d. 158/9, reverse face, showing a nude male statue, probably of the ‘Genius of the Senate’, within a vaulted shrine. 65 (right). Bronze sestertius of Commodus, reverse face, showing emperor as sky-god.

to reveal the emperor’s image and praise his virtues has suggested to some a similar meaning.140 At Rome, the cult of Dionysus, celebrated in the iconography of the new ‘Temple of Bacchus’ at Baalbek, although this was in all likelihood dedicated to another deity,141 enjoyed at Tusculum the favour of the highest social circles.142 While emperor worship in the eastern provinces certainly had much more in common with other cults than used to be admitted, and we need to know more about its character before following too rigid a view of its development,143 these examples offer a hint of how cosmic symbolism could be encouraged by the architectural forms. While these speculations will inevitably continue to seem fanciful to many, the last years of Pius’ reign reveal a more explicit use of a domical ciborium associated with his image. On the reverse of coinage minted at Rome in 158/9, for the emperor’s vicennalia, is the front view of a shrine with a vaulted canopy springing from four columns to enclose a statue of a male ﬁgure on a tall base (Fig. 64).144 The representation cannot be deﬁnitely connected with any archaeologically attested structure, and Smith’s earlier suggestion that the statue was one of the emperor himself can no longer be entertained, as other coins identify the ﬁgure with the allegorical ‘Genius of the Senate’ (genius Senatus).145 Yet within the coinage of Rome this form stands out as particularly novel. In particular, a row of star-like cusps along the outer edge of the arch indicates that this canopy signiﬁed the arch of heaven, a numismatic convention seen later on the Byzantine royal baldachin.146 The form is not known under Marcus Aurelius, but his son Commodus developed its implications. His coins show a double-faced Janus, the ancient sky god, under a domed ciborium; if the ﬁgure does not appear to show Commodus himself, as used to be thought, it strikingly associates the domed baldachin in an official way with the adoration of a cosmic divinity (Fig. 65).147 Janus, it should be remembered, was the god of the vaulted gate, and his quadrifrons monument at Rome has not only the characteristic vaulted passage of all triumphal arches, but, on each face, twelve vaulted semi-dome niches (Fig. 66).148 To Fronto, the emperor Antoninus Pius was ‘that divine man, characterized by foresight, piety, and reverence’.149 In the context of his wider public image, this description had a speciﬁc resonance. A series of aurei and sestertii issued at Rome in 145/6, after the British ‘victory’, and bearing the legend PAX AUG., show the bearded emperor as imperator,

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(a)

(b)

69. Adlocutio coin of Nero. (a) and (b) two versions of the type.

66. So-called ‘Arch of Janus’ in Rome, a quadrifrons (four-way arch) 16 m. high by 12 m. wide, early 4th century a.d.

holding a spear and an olive branch of peace, but also wearing a broad nimbus like a sun god (Fig. 67).150 Representations of the Roman emperor as a ‘Sun-Emperor’, pacator orbis, are more familiar from the third century. But Caligula had been hailed in the East as Neos Helios; Nero had been depicted on the vaults of his Golden House as a Sol Cosmocrator; and even Augustus had adopted the crown of sun’s rays.151 In 130 Hadrian consciously rejected such pretensions. The reinstatement of this cosmic symbolism by Antoninus, who in other respects followed Hadrian’s example so carefully, may be considered signiﬁcant. A medal type, also of 145/6, shows the Sun riding in a quadriga above the clouds, with Tellus holding a cornucopia.152 The imagery here, perhaps suggesting the abundance of the impending new saeculum,153 is only allusive, but on a second type, from Tralles, where there was a cult of Helios, the inscription He-lios Sebastos identiﬁes the emperor more explicitly with the sun (Fig. 68).154 The mint of Corinth reissued a type representing the chariot of Helios that had not been seen since Nero’s reign, and in Bithynia bronze coins from Prusias and Nicaea also depict Helios.155 This solar symbolism had special meaning in the context of the death of Faustina Maior in 140 and her deiﬁcation. A coin reverse type minted in Alexandria in 141/2 shows Antoninus and Faustina as the Sun and Moon.156 Medals issued in Rome in 145, when her temple was prob-

67 (left). Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, a.d. 145/6, reverse face, showing emperor with radiate crown, as if as sun-god. 68 (right). Coin from Tralles, reverse face, with apparent assimilation of Antoninus Pius to the sun god Helios.

ably completed, use zodiacal symbolism to illustrate Faustina Maior’s astral immortality.157 After Antoninus’ death it reappeared on the base of Antoninus’ column, where the couple were shown together, with an allegorical ﬁgure holding an obelisk. The temple itself, re-dedicated to them both, is decorated with a pair of griffins, the mythical attendants of the sun (Fig. 18c), who also appear on portraits of Antoninus.158 The Alexandrian type was reissued in 152/3, suggesting that the deceased Faustina was the star of night, with Antoninus, still alive, represented by the star of the day.159 All this imagery must have made it natural for worshippers at the Aventine Dolichenum to see the altar dedicated there in 150 to the Sun and Moon ‘for the well-being of ’ the emperor as a veiled reference to Pius and his late wife.160 Certainly, at his court the emperor was perceived in this way. Fronto wrote to the future Marcus Aurelius: ‘I truly love Antoninus like the sun, like the day, like life and breath, I love him and feel that I am loved by him.’161 The domed ciborium shown on the denarius of Antoninus was a novel form, which had not been systematically exploited as a vehicle of religious symbolism in the early Empire. An aedicula of Mars Ultor is shown as a domical shrine on a coin of Augustus, but, as with the sun imagery, it was under Nero that domical forms are most conspicuous, present not only in his macellum, a ‘monumentalised baldachin’, but also in the aedicula for his daughter Claudia shown on a coin of 63 issued by an eastern mint.162 There is a suggestion of a cosmic ciborium in the scene on a coin of Nero, where the emperor addresses his troops not, as usual, from an uncovered platform, but under a cusped skene within the posts of a pavilion; in the variant minted at Lyon (Lugdunum) this is replaced by a dome of thatch (Fig. 69a–b).163 But even under Domitian, despite his taste for domical forms in his Domus Flavia and for banqueting in the midst of stars,164 the ciborium did not enter the repertoire of imperial ceremonial, unless, that is, the structure shown housing a colossal statue of the emperor on his coinage (Fig. 10) is understood to represent a ‘conical baldachin’.165 Generally, the ﬂat-roofed tetrastyle was preferred for imperial ritual. Its origin lay in Persian forms like the high, four-posted baldachin with a ﬂat canopy hung with fringes, under which Darius and Xerxes were enthroned for some ceremonies. For the Roman emperors, this was not so much a real ceremonial setting as a symbolic setting for imperial statuary. Thus Augustus set up the four giant columns from the atrium of Aemilius Scaurus in the Theatre of Marcellus at Rome, placing them in regia theatri, or in other words within the so-called porta regia, the central opening of the theatre stage, where the emperor’s statue

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stood.166 The records of the Arval Brethren, the fraternity of priests most closely connected with the public cult of the emperors at Rome, indicate that it was the tetrastylon, not the dome, that was most closely associated with this cult. In the sanctuary of Dea Dia at Bovillae a tetrastylum, ﬁrst documented in 87 under Domitian, was used for the Arvals’ sacriﬁcial banquets.167 Its ritual use continued through Antoninus’ reign into the third century.168 Whether its roof was ﬂat or domed is not clear from the texts, but the fact that it is described only as a tetrastylum implies that, in terms of architectural symbolism, this was its most signiﬁcant feature. The best surviving indication of its likely appearance is the ‘tetrastylum of Castor and Pollux’ set up by two freedmen around this time in the forum at Assisi, again illustrating the association of the form with divine power (Fig. 70). One might compare the ‘tetrastylum Dianae et Antinoi’ erected at Lanuvium in the 130s and, later, the ‘tetrastylum nymphaeum’ dedicated in 191 in honour of Commodus at the Esquiline sanctuary of Jupiter Dolichenus in Rome.169 Under Antoninus Pius, a grouping of architectural imagery was formed that celebrated the power and presence of divinities and could be applied to the worship of the emperor. Both arcuated lintel and dome were canopies for the statue of an omnipresent god. Details such as the cusps around the dome on the coin of 158/9 associated the emperor with the light and power of the sun; the combination of form and solar image recalls the apparent sun god under an arcuated lintel on the arch at Orange (Fig. 32).170 But at Rome one building promoted this meaning better than any other, a religious monument rebuilt a dozen years before Antoninus’ accession, associated with the cult of several Roman deities and used for the audiences of the emperor and to assert his political authority. That building, of course, was the Pantheon, which, as we have seen, Pius scrupulously maintained. Before closing this discussion of architectural symbolism, we should consider its impact. The building completed by Hadrian in the 120s was, from the point of view of symbolism as well as of architectural design, a successful compromise between the old and the new.171 In his restoration Hadrian was constrained by the need to be faithful to the idea of the Agrippan templum, which now seems to have consisted of a circular and open precinct with cult statues of Caesar, Mars, and Venus, and a colonnaded entrance portico including statues of Augustus and Agrippa.172 As the anthropologist

70. Model of the forum of Roman Assisi, Museo della Civiltà Romana, Rome. The Tetrastyle of Castor and Pollux is situated in front of the Temple of Minerva. The four columns and roof are absent from the model.

Sir Edmund Leach argued in a celebrated lecture, the entrance to a sacred enclosure represents in many religious cultures an ambiguous point of mediation between the human and the divine, and thus demands special architectural treatment;173 and, like other Graeco-Roman temples, the Pantheon (Fig. 71a) is no exception. Its pedimented front, with a roof of marble tiles including some elements reused from the earlier Augustan precinct, a relief on the tympanum, perhaps of an eagle, symbol of apotheosis, and blazoned with the name of Agrippa on the frieze, bestows on the building an unmistakeable air of sacrality (Fig. 71b).174 A huge, almost natural-size drawing of this form was carved into the pavement in front of the entrance to Augustus’ Mausoleum, which the Pantheon itself faced along an augural north–south line and with which it was associated through the statues of Caesar and Augustus within its precinct and portico.175 The associations of this kingly fastigium with those founders of the Empire were not forgotten in this sanctuary, which Agrippa had originally planned as an Augusteum dedicated to the living emperor-god. At ﬁrst view, Hadrian appeared to have preserved this aspect of the Pantheon, although also embellishing it by replacing what was probably a wooden entablature with one of marble and columns of Egyptian granite. But entering the building by the great bronze doors, which survive today, having been recast in the sixteenth century, revealed an entirely different symbolic content. The building’s form evoked a closed, self-contained cosmic space (Fig. 71c).176 The dome, with ﬁve rows of coffers, corresponding to the number of the planets recognized in ancient astronomy, was dominated centrally by the intrusion of the real sun and rose above the ﬁrst-storey order of pilasters in twenty-eight panels, analogous to the phases of the moon. The building’s schematic construction from the ideal shapes of cube, cylinder, and sphere enhanced the potential for cosmic symbolism, which was suggested by the pavement of huge alternate squares and circles of porphyry and coloured marbles, and may originally have been further accentuated by appropriate decoration in the coffering of the dome.177 The concept was perhaps inﬂuenced by the cosmological theory of Greek intellectuals such as the astrologer Dionysius of Miletus, notorious for his ‘Chaldaean arts’.178 The design was revolutionary, not only in terms of technology, but also in meaning, as it constituted the realization of the idea of ‘the dome of heaven’.179 The later historian Dio Cassius, himself familiar with Greek philosophy, explained the name of the building by the resemblance of its vaulted roof to the heavens.180 Over the entrance the entablature of the interior order was broken by a huge Syrian gable (Fig. 71d). The forms of the building encouraged Romans to understand literally the description of Hadrian on his official coinage as the ‘restorer of the circle of the earth’ (restitutor orbis terrarum). Cosmographic design is one of those cross-cultural constants of religious architecture identiﬁed by Leach.181 But cosmic interpretations of architecture were possible in Roman imperial architecture only because the architectural forms themselves already had an importance in their own right which allowed the universe itself to be considered in architectural terms. No pre-existing notion of cosmic space was applied to Roman buildings. Their cosmic meaning was suggested by the dynamic vigour and potential for meaning that lay in the architectural forms. The signiﬁcance of the Pantheon for Roman culture and design was more pronounced and more lasting than that of any other building. In Rome,

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its distinctive architectural form served during the next centuries as the model for temples and imperial mausolea and, later, early Christian chapels, although the design of the original was often modiﬁed.182 In one example, the so-called ‘Tor de’Schiavi’ dating to c.300, it would be no surprise if the trabeated façade of the original was replaced by an arcade, as has been suggested, or perhaps rather an arcuated lintel, given the importance of that feature for imperial ceremonial of the time.183 In the provinces the impact of the building was even more pronounced and immediate, resulting in the construction of a half-size near copy of the building’s form in the Temple of Zeus–Asclepius at Pergamon in the early Antonine period (Fig. 99c, below).184 But, as much as the designs of Hadrian himself, it was the cosmic imagery and ciborium forms, linked under Antoninus Pius to the rule and worship of the emperor, that brought this symbolism into focus.

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(b) 71. The Pantheon in Rome. (a) Plan and section of Hadrian’s Pantheon. (b) Detail of the front elevation, under scaffolding in 1994, with the main inscription on the frieze (letters of bronze alloy reinstalled in 1878). (c) Giovanni Paolo Panini, Interior of the Pantheon, Rome, Samuel H. Kress Collection, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C. (d) Inner arched lintel over entrance.

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CHAPTER 4

Patrons and the Monumentality of Architecture Architectural symbolism explains monumentality for only a small number of religious or imperial buildings, in their representations of the divine and the cosmic, or their insinuation of the semi-divine nature of the emperor. But for the majority of patrons of public buildings under the Roman Empire monumentality was not tied to such concepts, but was expressed on a more human level. Architecture contributed to the public image of individual patrons in the same way as did other ‘status symbols’. A Roman aristocrat’s house was a public monument;1 by contrast, the house of a disgraced man was destroyed.2 In what follows, I shall argue that the forms of architecture used in public as well as private buildings played an important role in promoting an owner’s social identity, and that they did so because of the ideas they embodied.3 For Seneca, the squared stone construction of the villa of Scipio Africanus at Liternum, with ‘towers raised on all sides to defend it’,4 was a physical embodiment

72. Mosaic from Pula (Pola), Croatia.Reconstruction drawing showing a labyrinth enclosed within a fortiﬁed wall circuit.

of the idea that ‘a man’s home is his castle’.5 In the same way, the frequent mosaic pattern in private houses at Pompeii and other Roman colonies, especially in southern Gaul and northern Italy, of a labyrinth set within a walled circuit (Fig. 72), had a metaphoric purpose: it signalled that the house was both exclusive and impregnable, the work of a Daedalus-like master architect, and, as the aediﬁcatio of the owner, a statement of his social rank.6 Because such a mosaic pattern could only be fully comprehended from the top of the building, preferably a high one, it had an inherent association with monumental architecture.7 Cicero chose a portico on his estates for its ‘dignity’ and a vault for its honour, while the younger Pliny in his villas at Laurentum and Tusci relished forms that he had ‘begun [himself ] or, if already begun, brought to completion and thoroughly adorned’; they included a white marble stibadium, a ‘tetrastyle’ arbour of cipollino columns, and a topiary of box which, like a

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patrons and monumentalit y monumental inscription, spelled his name and that of his architect.8 Imposing villas, as at ‘Sette Bassi’ and ‘Casal Morena’ on the Via Latina, together with the building activity suggested by brickyards on senatorial estates, suggest that, under the Antonines, private architecture at Rome remained an intense ﬁeld of aristocratic competition.9 The moral ambivalence of domestic architectural features such as gilded ceilings and purely ornamental marble columns has been well studied.10 On the one hand, they were derided as morally degenerate;11 on the other, the ‘conspicuous consumption’ they represented gave their owners social prestige.12 But if excessive surface ﬁneries were regarded as vulgar ostentation, rather than as a mark of proper taste, only those of unworldly disposition like the Cynics denied altogether the importance of ornamentation as a means to self-advancement. When Diogenes ridiculed nobility of birth and popular honours as ‘ornaments of vice’,13 he was reversing the normal aristocratic assumption that such things were ‘ornaments of virtue’.14 A man’s moral calibre and social rank could be judged from his outer appearance, and his sense of well-being was enhanced by the beauty of his surroundings.15 In contemporary literature, it was assumed that bodily appearance was improved by the application of suitable and attractive adornments (ornamenta), although some, like Polemo, were wary of such ‘physiognomic deception’.16 The qualities for which handsome bodies were admired were like those of beautiful buildings: eyes were considered handsome if they were open and brilliant like marble, and correct proportions were thought to show good character, whereas an asymmetrical body was the sign of a rogue.17 At a wider social level too, architecture was seen as an important index of morality. The tools of architectural design and construction, used to create properly proportioned buildings, were symbolic paradigms of the creation of human perfection. Numerous tombstones of mediocre quality across the Empire depict images of builders’ tools as metonyms for the virtues for which the deceased was remembered.18 They are sometimes the memorials of building-workers or soldiers involved in construction in the frontier provinces.19 But they are also used for people who had nothing to do with the building trade, and have a more ﬁgurative meaning. For instance, in the Catacombs of S Agnese in Rome, an epitaph written by a schoolmaster for his pupil Molestus shows a hammer, two chisels, and a builder’s level to communicate the idea of moral improvement (Fig. 73).20 Used for men and women alike,21 such representations of architecture were metaphors with a moral purpose. The balance and the rule were symbols of the just and measured life; the hammer and the chisel represented man’s ability to perpetuate his memory by carving his name on a monument; the tools of the building trade thus stood for man’s establishment of moral order in a chaotic world. The moral authority of aediﬁcatio was most conspicuous in the case of public building. Even more than private houses, public buildings

were a bid for social recognition. They might symbolize a patron’s political rank, advertise his, or sometimes her, social advance in a community, or lend him moral authority. As with private buildings, they did so through their forms and materials. At Herculaneum, the vestibule of the ‘Suburban Baths’, constructed shortly before the volcanic eruption of ad 79, presented a daring and radical form, with two levels of arches springing from the four red columns of a fountain, lit by an upper skylight (Fig. 74).22 This original design, worthy of John Soane, was apparently the work of Marcus Nonius Balbus, proconsul of Crete and Cyrenaica, who had risen to prominence after Vespasian’s victory in the civil wars and rebuilt the town walls and gates and the basilica; he may have owned the adjacent private house, the ‘House of Telephus’.23 Like the equestrian statue erected on the raised terrace in front of the entrance, the new arcuate forms of the vestibule marked the new Flavian regime and signalled the patron’s status by their monumentality. Outside Rome, the building and restoration of public buildings depended not only on a city’s public funds or the intervention of the emperor, but on private muniﬁcence. In Roman colonies and municipia the magistrates, duoviri and aediles, as the elected representatives of the city, had authority over public buildings, but they also had to supplement the public funds from their own wealth.24 The fee they paid on entry to office, the summa honoraria, was imposed with increasing frequency from the late ﬁrst century on all decurions entering the city council, as communities struggled to ﬁnd funds for public buildings.25 Towns were increasingly dependent on voluntary donations, frequently promised in return for honours, and often in the form of legacies from wealthy equestrians, who acquired sufficient money for a benefaction only towards the end of their lives.26 For the donor, the work provided an opportunity ‘to enjoy the fruit of his muniﬁcence’, even if only posthumously, by means of a commemorative inscription.27 A building ﬁnanced with public money required the emperor’s permission, but private individuals could build new works freely.28 Antoninus Pius expressed his conﬁdence in this system: ‘I believe that those who have surplus of wealth will voluntarily contribute money for the use of their home city.’29 What were the forms of public buildings that won their patrons such honour and fame? In North Africa, which during the second century saw both economic prosperity and social mobility, the combination of extensive epigraphic documentation and well-preserved archaeological remains can help us to make connections between the social ambitions of individuals and particular architectural forms.30 At Thugga (Dougga), for instance, which in the middle of the century was not yet a municipium, but consisted of a pagus of Roman citizens and a civitas of peregrini under the jurisdiction of the provincial capital Carthage, we can see, ‘almost step by step’, how local families used monumental architecture to compete for social prestige.31 The ﬁrst known initiative in Pius’ reign was the work of Gabinius Felix, from a local family,

73. Drawing of the epitaph of Molestus, from the cemetery of S. Agnese, Via Nomentana, Rome.

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74. Suburban Baths, Herculaneum: vaulted inner court.

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75. The forum of Dougga (Thugga). (a) View of the forum from the south-east, 1992. (b) Fragment of entablature from the forum colonnade with inscription recording its reconstruction by Gabinianus.

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Roman citizens for about a century, with a tradition of architectural benefaction; his father and grandfather had dedicated a series of temples in Hadrian’s reign.32 His contribution was a monumentalization of the forum (Fig. 75a), with porticoes along three sides, dedicated to the pagus by Quintus Gabinius Felix Faustianus and his children Quintus Gabinius Datus and Gabinia Processa.33 On the frieze of the colonnade an inscription (Fig. 75b) proclaimed both the structural features of the work, the timberwork of the colonnades (contignatio) and the coffering of the ceilings (lacunaria), and its decoration (cultus) along the rear walls.34 The ceilings of Herod’s palace in Jerusalem had similarly been ‘sources of wonder in the length of the beams and the splendour of their ornaments’.35 A decade later, the Gabinii were outdone in aediﬁcatio by a second family, the Marcii. Publius Marcius Quadratus, appointed as an equestrian judge by Antoninus, demonstrated his new high rank by constructing the theatre (Fig. 4a–c).36 The monumental focus of this work, completed under Marcus Aurelius, was an elaborate proscaenium behind the stage and an arcade at the top of the cavea.37 Below the cornice, a large inscription celebrated Quadratus’ achievement and the building’s dedication ‘for the safety of Marcus Aurelius’.38 A similar dedication graced the frieze of a new Capitolium temple, ﬁnanced by Lucius Marcius Simplex and Lucius Marcius Regillianus; raised 4 metres above the forum pavement, on a podium 2 metres high, it towered over Gabinius’ porticoes (Fig. 76a–b).39 Like the contemporary Capitolium at Ostia (Fig. 77a),40 it stood out even above the tall buildings around it. Directly adjacent, Quintus Pacuvius Felix Victorianus commissioned a Temple of Mercury, which, after his death, was undertaken in Commodus’ reign with statues, a portico, and apses by his parents Quintus Pacuvius Saturus, ﬂamen perpetuus and augur of Carthage, and Nahamia Victoria; they increased the amount of the benefaction from 50,000 to 70,000 sestertii.41 These private contribu-

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(a) 76. The Capitolium temple at Dougga. (a) View of the main façade from the south.

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(b) 76. The Capitolium temple at Dougga. (b) View of the temple from the east. (c) Detail of the pediment with remains of a relief showing an apotheosis.

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tions reﬂect a local social context of family competition, manifested physically by the tendency of successive buildings to outdo each other in height. But the range of monumental architectural forms cultivated by these donors to enhance their status and that of their community belong to a wider cultural and, above all, ‘Roman’ context: porticoes with coffered ceilings, a stage-building adorned with columns, an arcade crowning the theatre auditorium, temples with apses. At Gigthis, a ‘painted temple’ with columns off the north portico of the forum was the work of Quintus Servaeus Macer, called to sit in the ﬁve judiciary decuriae by Hadrian.42 Further temples were built by the senatorial family of the Ummidii: in one case by a decurion, with a pronaos and an arch added at the benefactor’s own expense; in the other, a publicfunded project on the initiative of the proconsul Quintus Voconius Saxa Fidus.43 A similar picture emerges elsewhere in the western Empire. In the late Flavian period an equestrian, Caius Sappius Flavus, serving as a local magistrate at the end of a distinguished military career, left a bequest to his community at Vasio (Vaison-la-romaine) in southern

Gaul, which included 50,000 sestertii to decorate a portico in front of the baths (thermae) with marble—the form and material both suitably ostentatious for people to remember him by after his death.44 Some years later another equestrian, also a local magistrate, left money to decorate the proscaenium of the theatre.45 As at Orange (Fig. 8), the ensemble focused on a semicircular niche above the central niche, which probably contained the emperor’s statue; the design here showed a metropolitan inﬂuence.46 At Lepcis Magna in the late 150s, the stage-building of the theatre was renovated and decorated afresh with columns of cipollino and other marbles from imperial quarries, resulting in an elaborate columnar architecture that included tetrastyla , perhaps at the centre of the display, enshrining statues of the ruling imperial family.47 The marble inscription in tabula ansata recalls the theatre at Nemi, near Pius’ villa at Lanuvium, and restored some years earlier by Volusia Cornelia, daughter of the consul of 92.48 A similar stage-building, now even more spectacularly preserved than at Lepcis, was erected a decade later at Sabratha (Fig. 78).49 These theatre stage fronts, furnished with marble columns, were the focus of the public space of the theatre. As objects of private patronage, they signalled the donor’s wealth and fame by their display of marble and columnar decoration; and, in their adornment with imperial statues and images of gods, they suggested both the divinity of the ruling family of Rome and the loyalty of their patrons. By the end of the century such backdrops were a device to declare political loyalty: in 198, when Caracalla became joint Augustus with Septimius Severus, a

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(b) 77. The Capitolium temple at Ostia. (a) Plan of the temple. (b) Restored elevation. (c) Detail of the threshold of the temple cella, consisting of a block of africano marble from Teos.

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78 (below). The theatre at Sabratha, Libya, originally built a.d. c.166– 169. View of the surviving structures, with stage-building to the rear.

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proscen[ium c]um tribunali was dedicated at Bitburg in Belgica in honour of the domus divina and the numina Augusta; the future preservation of this dynastic monument was assured by special funds earmarked for its maintenance.50 New public buildings consolidated the interests of local elites and their ties to the imperial regime. At Narbo (Narbonne), Antoninus’ restoration of the provincial temple of the imperial cult was complemented in 149 by the renovation of the municipal temple of that cult by a local notable, who became its ﬂamen.51 At Lugdunum (Lyon), the capital of the province of Gallia Lugdunensis, a magistrate, Iulius Ianuarius, donated 500 seats for the circus, ‘not much later than Hadrian’.52 The work, carried out at the instigation of a curator appointed by the emperor, probably involved the construction of a central block of seating for the curial elite. This vast public space was a major focus of the imperial rituals associated with the federal sanctuary of the Three Gauls and the provincial centre of the imperial cult. At Dougga, inscriptions on the conical turning-posts at each end of the circus stated that the building had been constructed ‘at the demand of the whole people’, but, in reality, celebrated the authority of the magistrates in answering popular need by funding and dedicating the work.53 At Lepcis, the dedication of the circus in 161/2 was inscribed on a slab of Pentelic marble over 100 Roman feet long, ﬁxed across the startinggates for all to see.54 The use of public architecture to express social relations or cultural identity is even clearer when we turn to the works of patrons lower down the social scale, for whom the patronage of public buildings was a means of social mobility.55 A good example are the augustales, the ‘municipal middle class’ in Italy and the West, who officiated in the imperial cult and were members of a separate order below the aristocratic city council. The status conferred by this order was especially important to freedmen, who were ineligible for the public offices open only to the freeborn members of the city council, but, through the rank of augustalis or sevir augustalis, nonetheless had the opportunity to use their often enormous wealth to make architectural benefactions, for public works like bridges, theatre awnings, and street paving, or for symbols of power like tribunals and podia.56 At Carsulae, a donor celebrated his dedication of an aqueduct with a public reception serving bread and wine.57 Porticoes were common objects of largesse, offering ostentatious ornament and public prominence.58 At Saepinum, an augustalis adorned the market building with columns and marble decoration.59 At Puteoli, a group of augustales paid for the adornment of a temple of Victoria Augusta with ‘entablatures’ (epistylia).60 At Parma, a repaved street was monumentalized by the addition of marble statues and fountains.61 The use of marble to decorate public and private buildings was one of the most spectacular features of Antonine architecture. In the late Republic marble columns had been the luxuries of leading politicians; in the ﬁrst century huge pillars of Phrygian marble and slabs of giallo antico were still decried as signs of extravagance,62 but by the second they were almost commonplace. By the reign of Pius the imperial marble quarries were a large-scale commercial enterprise, responding to huge consumer demand.63 The architecture of the second century was characterized by a ‘marble style’ that affected the taste of patrons from Bridgeness to Bosra.64 The transformation of a building with a marble face was both deliberately ostentatious and an image of monumentality, which conveyed moral credit upon the patron, especially if he was

the ﬁrst to introduce such materials.65 To adorn a public building with marbles was to follow the model of Augustus’ transformation of Rome from brick to marble or, more recently, of Hadrian, who rebuilt the old mud-brick Temple of Apollo at Megara in marble.66 Among the new marble buildings of Ostia added under Hadrian and Antoninus, the Capitolium temple stood out (Figs. 77a–c), with slabs of marble revetment adorning its podium and huge walls of brick-faced concrete surviving to a height of over 16 metres:67 the portico comprised pavonazzetto columns from Phrygia, the pavement of the cella was formed of large slabs of pavonazzetto and giallo antico from Chemtou in North Africa, and the threshold consisted of a single, colossal block of africano marble from the imperial quarry at Teos (Fig. 77c), which is comparable in size and material to the threshold of the Pantheon in Rome.68 Such emphasis on the material value of this part of the building reﬂected its importance as transition between man and god.69 This was the highest manifestation of the ‘marble style’, certainly the product of imperial patronage, but the marble aesthetic was also within the reach of lesser benefactors. In public buildings, columns were the most obvious form that this took.70 At Capua, Satellia Anus adorned a new dressing-room in the public baths with foreign marbles.71 Commemorative inscriptions emphasizing the adornment of public buildings ‘with all ornaments’, ‘columns’, or ‘marbles’ illustrate how marble decoration enhanced a building’s status as a public monument and the moral image of its patron. Naturally, the Roman senatorial class were the greatest architectural patrons. They could afford the largest marble columns and had the political inﬂuence to tap the imperial sources of supply. In Italy, their brickyards served the construction of public, as well as private, buildings. Senators like Fronto inspected architects’ designs for public buildings.72 The consul Publius Tullius Varro began a baths complex at Tarquinii, completed in the 160s by his son Lucius Dasumius Tullius Tuscus, who left further money to extend the project; in this town where Pius himself had recently donated baths it is inconceivable that the emperor’s action was not a model.73 At Novara the former governor of Britain, Caius Valerius Pansa, now serving as priest of the local imperial cult, restored a building, probably a bath, for which his wife had left a bequest of 200,000 sestertii.74 Yet perhaps the most inﬂuential man at Rome after the emperor himself was not of senatorial rank. It was the equestrian, Marcus Gavius Maximus, an Italian from Picenum who, after serving in Mauretania Tingitana, became, perhaps in 138, prefect of the praetorian guard, the office of ‘holding the sword’.75 He held the post for twenty years, an unusually long period in office, allegedly due to his exceptional moral uprightness.76 As an ex officio member of the emperor’s inner council (consilium principis), he was probably the only equestrian in an otherwise senatorial body.77 But by undertaking a major building project he was able to redeem that inferior social status. He had access to imperially owned building materials, and in the praetorians he had a ready supply of skilled labour.78 The work he built at his own expense was not at Rome itself, but at Ostia, and the building type he chose invited comparison with the baths complex already completed there at massive cost by the emperor himself.79 The new ‘Forum Baths’, as they are now known, were begun in a central, but apparently previously undeveloped, part of the town,

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(a) F Frigidarium C Calderium S Service corridor

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79. Forum Baths, Ostia, a.d. c.150–160. (a) Plan of the baths showing the south wing of heated rooms. (b) View of the open area to the south of the baths. (c) Remains of the frigidarium from the west. (d) Male portrait head from a decorative clipeus, perhaps representing the donor of the building, Gavius Maximus.

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probably during the 150s, and their substantial remains are visible today.80 The open court on one side served both as an exercise court and as a public square (Fig. 79b).81 The building materials signalled Gavius’ political standing: brick, manufactured mostly in brickyards owned by the emperor or members of his family, and marble from imperially owned marble quarries, for example, the ornamental screen of giant cipollino columns with white Pentelic capitals fronting the frigidarium

(Fig. 79c). The complex was also notable for its original forms. The hot-rooms bulged forward into the open public square in a series of curves, their tall, south-facing windows divided by columnar screens (Fig. 79a).82 The playful inventiveness of this façade is closer in spirit to the exteriors of some aristocratic coastal villas than to earlier Italian bath-buildings. The Corinthian capitals were of ﬁne white marble, carved by foreign craftsmen of the ‘Aphrodisias School’.83 This was a

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public statement of aediﬁcatio, designed to show the cultivation and social prominence of the patron Gavius Maximus. His portrait, with distinctive short military beard, was displayed in two statues erected at public expense in the city forum and, in the building itself, within a circular medallion (imago clipeata) of yellow-white marble set up in the colonnaded hall off the palaestra, as if to show that this tough soldier was also an aesthete and a successful aediﬁcator (Fig. 79d).84 Although he himself remained an equestrian, his adopted son, Marcus Gavius Appalius Maximus, became the ﬁrst man from the Picene town of Firmum to reach the Roman Senate, attaining the position of suffect consul, and several of his descendants held offices of state.85 With this great public building the family had arrived. There were others too who derived personal acclaim from the expansion of Ostia. Publius Lucilius Gamala restored the older temples of Venus, Castor and Pollux, and Tiberinus pater, of Republican date, the Temple of Bellona, the naval arsenal, and even the baths recently reconstructed by Antoninus Pius.86 He also provided new weights and measures for the market (macellum), probably to mark that building’s splendid restoration with a monumental façade of grey granite columns and Corinthian capitals.87 In the provinces, the senatorial governors had the greatest opportunities for architectural patronage. In Lower Moesia, in the latter years of Antoninus’ reign, Quintus Fuﬁcius Cornutus and Marcus Servilius Fabianus dedicated new public buildings at Tomis, which, according to the scale of their inscriptions, had ‘a certain monumentality’.88 They had access to imperial marble quarries and skilled craftsmen, as we see from the beautiful Corinthian capitals and sculptured pilasters surviving from their buildings. Research has also shown that the Roman army was responsible for many civic buildings in the provinces of Britain and North Africa.89 Buildings such as the huge ‘baths basilica’ at Wroxeter (Viroconium) in Britain (Fig. 80a–b), completed in the 150s,90 or the baths at Thaenae, with their ingenious design of concentric circles and curvilinear room shapes assembled around a central, domed frigidarium (Fig. 81),91 must have reﬂected the personal ambitions of the senators or equestrians who led these, probably military, projects.92 The period of some twenty years over which the basilica at Wroxeter was completed has led some to see a lack of willpower to ﬁnish such buildings.93 In fact, the delay is more likely explained by the sheer scale of such projects, a case, one might say, of the eyes being too big for the stomach. The huge basilica at Lopodunum (Ladenburg) in Germany, planned during the 160s but never completed, and that at Silchester in Britain, also left unﬁnished, may be evidence not of economic failure, but of overpowering architectural ambitions.94 Moreover, Roman buildings depended on the constant additions, repairs, and renovations by successive patrons, so that ‘the very concept of completing a building as of a speciﬁc date . . . is a modern notion’.95 Archaeologists cannot explain why such projects were aborted, but it is as likely to have been because of the fall from power of one magnate and the subsequent abandonment of his work by others, as because of the failure of economic means or the decay of urban ideals. The impact of the great plague in these years may also have been a factor.96 But the erection of monumental buildings or marble decoration also reﬂected as much a state of mind as an economic reality.97 In 144 the town of Sala in Mauretania honoured Marcus Sulpicius Felix, an equestrian officer subordinate to the senatorial gov-

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(b) 80. Roman baths, Wroxeter (Viroconium), a.d. c.120–140. (a) View of the excavated remains of the ‘baths basilica’. (b) Reconstructed aerial view of the Roman city: detail showing the Roman bath complex (upper left).

ernor, for fortifying it ‘with a very great work of walls, but at very little cost’.98 His achievement was parallel to the emperor’s contemporary work at nearby Tipasa.99 At Lambaesis, in Numidia, a military official used a work of architectural originality to assert his rank, although he was not able to claim the credit in the inscription. The sanctuary of Aesculapius (Asclepius) was constructed towards the end of Antoninus’ reign on a virgin site in the upper town, with a long ‘esplanade’ laid out on a ﬂat ridge south of the military camp and the main temple (Fig. 82a).100 It consisted of three separate shrines, at its west end (Fig. 82b). The side shrines pro-

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81. Roman baths, Thaenae, Numidia. Reconstructed plan. Key: 1. Frigidarium; 2. cold pools; 3. Sudarium; 4 and 5 service areas; 6. latrine.

82. Sanctuary of Aesculapius (Asclepius), Lambaesis, a.d. c.162. (a) General plan of the upper town showing location of the sanctuary. Key: 1. Sanctuary of Aesculapius. 2. Camp of Titus. 3. Septizonium. 4. Via Septimiana. 5. Capitolium. 6. Temple of unknown dedication. 7. Olive oil factory. 8. Later Roman buildings. 9. ‘Baths of the Hunters’. 10. Road to Verecunda. (b) Plan of the sanctuary, with the main temple situated at the west end and smaller temples (a-i) located along the esplanade.

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(c) 82. Sanctuary of Aesculapius (Asclepius), Lambaesis, a.d. c.162. (c) Remains of the main temple building viewed from the north.

jected forward from a semicircular surround, while the central one, dedicated to Aesculapius, had a Doric porch in classical Greek style, with ﬂuted columns and no column bases (Fig. 82c). Such a form owed little to traditional building practice on the African frontier, and at ﬁrst sight looks more appropriate for Paestum or Sicily. The order here is surely a symbol of the Dorian origins of the god, and the wish to emphasize in this way the ethnic identity of the cult by contrast with others in the town is easily understood in view of the recent construction in 158 of a sanctuary of Isis and Serapis; the Egyptian identity of the latter was later plain from its juxtaposition with a temple apparently dedicated to Africa and a ‘Septizonium’ with a reservoir from which

channels of water ran into the sanctuary of Isis to simulate the ﬂooding of the Nile.101 Architectural stylization was combined with geometrical inventiveness. The two arcs of steps on either side of the projecting porch were part of the same circle whose centre was at a notional viewpoint on the axis of all three cellas. The two smaller shrines to left and right, dedicated to Jupiter Valens and to Salus and Silvanus, also used circles in their design, which passed through the circumference of the frontal steps and rounded colonnade of each porch. The effect recalls the sanctuary of Bacchus depicted on Antoninus’ coinage (Fig. 21) and, more generally, the construction in Roman houses, villas, baths, and water

patrons and monumentalit y sanctuaries in Italy, Asia, and Africa of semicircular porticoes to create a ‘festive space’ for the celebration of the sacred water believed to bring visitors health or recovery.102 The three shrines were identiﬁed as one project by the inscription across their façades and attributed to the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus.103 But, as we have seen, this did not mean that they were solely responsible for the commission of the building.104 Only the names of the emperors could stand at the head of the inscription, and it simply signiﬁed that the work was paid for from the imperial ﬁscus. The shrines were constructed by the soldiers of the Legio III Augusta stationed at the camp, who since Hadrian’s visit had been actively forming the civilian settlement at Lambaesis into a recognizably Roman civic community.105 The sanctuary of Aesculapius may also have had imperial patronage, as the composition resembles the Dionysiac tholos at Rome (Fig. 21); Antoninus certainly contributed to other projects in the town, such as the Temple of Neptune in 158.106 Whatever the origin of the commission, this did not prevent the man in charge of the work from taking some credit. This was the Italian senator, Decimus Fonteius Frontinianus Lucius Stertinius Rufus, military commander from 159 to 160 and de facto governor of Numidia. He did not have the proconsular or praetorian imperium that gave him authority to dedicate works in his name, and, as he was also not the ﬁnancing benefactor, his name could not appear on the main inscription, even in a subordinate position. Yet he was ultimately responsible for the sanctuary’s execution. In 160 and 161 he dedicated two monuments to Antoninus Pius at the adjacent town of Verecunda, the second one after the emperor’s death, in gratitude for the construction of an aqueduct at imperial cost. In 161 his appointment as consul-designate gave him more authority, and in the ﬁrst half of 162, as suffect consul, although absent from Rome, he dedicated a triumphal arch in honour of the two new emperors at Verecunda.107 At the sanctuary of Aesculapius he left the statement of imperial benefaction, now in the names of the new emperors, since Antoninus had died, but, to show his own contribution, he also dedicated statues in his own name to the subordinate deities Jupiter Valens and Silvanus Pegasianus, in the niches of the two smaller sanctuaries ﬂanking the main temple. This gesture not only suggested his subordination to the emperors, but asserted his authority as military governor of the imperial province, which he justiﬁed on the basis of his consular-designate rank.108 The dedication was sufficient to associate him with the original and distinctive architectural design of the complex. The later history of the sanctuary shows how successive legionary commanders used it to promote their own image. The row of eight smaller rectangular shrines subsequently added to the east of the main temple produced a sequence similar to the great sanctuaries of Greece at Delphi and Olympia. While there the small shrines were the offerings of Greek states and monarchs, those at Lambaesis were the works of individual generals. Dedicated to Apollo, Mercury, Diana, and other deities,109 they turned the sanctuary into a ‘pantheon’ of divinities similar to the sanctuary of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Baalbek or the Dolichenum in Rome. And in so doing they enhanced the monumentality of the whole complex. While the main Doric façade alluded to Epidaurus, the smaller shrines, though lacking such inventiveness of form, invited comparison with other monuments elsewhere in the Empire. In the third shrine from the left, a base, carved in the same

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fashion as the earlier bases, was set up by a later military governor, also consul-designate, perhaps in 167, and inscribed with a hymn to the god Medaurus in Latin verse, which presented this little temple as a miniature version of the legendary ‘monuments of Risinnus in Aeacia’ and the sacred ‘acropolis of Dalmatia’.110 His name, like that of a disgraced emperor, was later partially erased by damnatio memoriae.111 A third consul-designate, Caunius Priscus, dedicated his work in 186 in his name and that of his wife and children to the ‘spa waters’ of distant Sinuessa, from where he presumably came.112 The evocations of Balkan and Campanian monuments showed how the architecture at these healing waters of Aesculapius was, for its patrons, a theatre of memory. Successive legates were supremely conﬁdent of the efficacy of their own buildings, ruthlessly casting aside the sacred offerings of their predecessors, like the altar dedicated by the governor of 123 reused in the masonry of a later shrine.113 A monumental entrance to the sanctuary was provided in the ﬁrst decade of the third century;114 and, when the senatorial governor Marcus Aurelius Cominius Cassianus completed the whole sanctuary shortly afterwards in 211, he added a dedication to the gods of the sanctuary, in his own name and that of his wife, for the safety of the Severan ruling family, the camp, the senate, and their patria.115 As his rank was higher than Frontinianus’, his overall role as dedicator corresponded to the nominal role of the emperors Marcus and Lucius in the construction of the main temple, and, correspondingly, the subordinate dedications successively displayed in the sanctuary were made not by legates as before, but by soldiers of lower rank.116 The forms of public buildings in the eastern provinces had similar potential to express social and cultural meaning. In the East there was a long tradition of private patronage of public architecture.117 Under the Roman Empire such privately funded public buildings were statements not only about the relations between a patron and his community, but also about their relations to Rome itself. Many, like Polemaeanus at Ephesus, who had acquired great wealth and achieved senatorial status or reached high-ranking positions in the imperial government, returned to their home communities to erect great public buildings.118 Others were motivated by hope of future admission to the Senate or of further political advancement and therefore wished to express their loyalty to Rome.119 The works they funded, thoroughly ‘Roman’ in character, were designed to show this. Among the most visible features today of the architecture of Asia Minor under the Roman Empire are the huge theatres, stadia, and, in a few cases, even amphitheatres, with their rows of seating not set on the natural slope of a hillside, but built on artiﬁcial vaulted substructures. Many of the individual sections (psalides) that made up these vaulted structures were paid for by individual officials.120 At Ephesus in the 140s the chief magistrate or prytanis, Dionysius son of Nicephorus, dedicated ‘two vaulted wedges in the stadium and the remaining columns of Docimian marble in the Gymnasion Sebaston’.121 Such buildings were like the ‘monuments of loyalty’ erected by local elites at Pompeii a century earlier.122 Roman vaulted technology and marble from the imperial quarries at Docimium both showed harmony with the tastes of the regime.123 In directing the architectural embellishment of Greek cities according to the imperial tastes of the time, a signiﬁcant contribution was made by personal friends of the emperor. This might involve direct ﬁ-

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83. Theatre at Patara, Lycia (modern Turkey). Dedicatory inscription on the east parodos wall.

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nancial support, the use of materials from imperial estates, or buildings modelled on those of the emperors. The senator Sextus Iulius Maior Antoninus Pythodorus constructed a new council chamber at his home city of Nysa in Lydia.124 He also funded building at the sanctuary of Asclepius in Epidaurus: a bath of Asclepius; the sanctuary of the Epidotai; a temple of Hygieia and Asclepius and ‘Egyptian’ Apollo; restoration of the portico of Cotys, which had collapsed after its roof fell because it had been made of only mud-brick; a new maternity hospital; and a rainwater cistern.125 Like senators in Italy, he manufactured bricks for these projects in his own brickyards, the bricks stamped with his name, in conspicuous contrast to the unﬁred bricks of the old stoa of Cotys.126 A similar ﬁgure is Quintus Vilius Proculus (who later acquired the full name Titus Flavianus Titianus Quintus Vilius Proculus Lucius Marcius Celer Marcus Calpurnius Longus!), who funded a proscaenium in the theatre at Patara and decorated it with statues of Hadrian, Sabina, and the younger Matidia.127 A ‘new man’ from Kalyanda/Patara and governor of Cyprus, he is described as a ‘friend and guest of generals and procurators’ (philos kai xenos he-gemono-n kai epitropo-n). His project was completed in 147 by his daughter Claudia Vilia Proc(u)la, who paid for the construction of the theatre’s awnings, labelled by the Latin term vela.128 To the inhabitants of this region the introduction of this new rooﬁng system was as foreign as the enormous tabula ansata in which the commemorative inscription was set at the entrance to the theatre (Fig. 83).129 As we saw with Gavius Maximus at Ostia, there was a link between public building and the future rise of the family: the benefactress’s brother, Quintus Vilius Titianus Quadratus, later became governor of Achaea, and the two of them later added statues of the Antonine dynasty—Marcus Aurelius, Faustina, and Lucius Verus—to the assemblage set up by their father.130

84. Theatre at Aspendus, Pamphylia. (a) Dedicatory inscription on the rear wall of the stagebuilding. (b) Reconstruction of the stage-building.

patrons and monumentalit y A similar inscription stands high up on the parodos above the entrance to the theatre at Aspendus, commemorating the building’s construction from the will of Aulus Curtius Crispinus, governor of Asia, through his sons (Fig. 84a), perhaps in the 160s.131 The magniﬁcent theatre, with its upper arcade at the top of the auditorium, is still well preserved today: the two-storey stage-building, with alternating segmental and triangular pediments, was originally revetted with marble (Fig. 84b).132 The best-known patron of public buildings in the East was the Athenian rhetor Herodes Atticus, a friend of Pius and tutor to both Marcus and Lucius.133 His interest in architectural patronage was inﬂuenced both by his family’s benefactions in Greece and Asia and by his upbringing in Rome.134 His private architecture on his Triopion estate on the Appian Way, acquired from his Italian wife, Annia Regilla, after her death, vied with the neighbouring villa of his political enemies the Quintilii, from which survives a rotunda 120 feet in diameter.135 His public buildings too show great attention to materials. In the new odeion he built at Athens between 160 and 174 he is said to have used no timber but cedar, a choice presumably derived from the associations of this wood with eternity for the Romans, as the work was built in memory of his wife Regilla.136 Like the senator Antoninus, he organized brickyards in Greece with bricks stamped with his name.137 Using this resource, in the late 150s he built a huge fountain in the Panhellenic sanctuary at Olympia, which took the form of a semicircular water basin against the natural rock of Mount Cronius and was constructed in Roman style from a mortared rubble, with an inner brick facing and an outer marble revetment (Fig. 85).138 The rear wall contained two levels of marble columns, with capitals carved by sculptors of the ‘Aphrodisias School’, resembling those in the Forum Baths at Ostia, and statuary of Antoninus Pius’ and his own families. The vastness of the structure and the exuberance of its ornamentation contrasted with the dedicatory inscription, on which, instead of the fashionable rhetorical language of dedications in Hellenistic and Roman Greece,139 the simple word ‘water’ was carved in archaizing Greek letters on an old-fashioned Argive statue of a bull, which alluded to the birth of Zeus in the grotto of the Idaean Cave in Crete.140 The fourteen statues, with that of Herodes himself, hinted at a correspondence between the patron and the founder of his home city, Theseus, whose sacriﬁce with fourteen youths was a foundation myth of Athens.141 For the rhetor Herodes, architecture had a rhetorical function. Between his own and his wife’s estates at Marathon he constructed an arched gateway in Roman style (Fig. 86).142 On the keystone were inscribed the words ‘immortal concord’ (homonoia athanatos). On a personal level, the inscription marked the harmony between husband and wife; politically, it echoed the concordia between Antoninus and Faustina, which was emphasized on the coinage;143 philosophically, it alluded to the Stoic concept of harmony symbolically expressed by the voussoirs of an arch. For others too, architecture was a suggestive metaphor. For the Stoic Epictetus, a building constructed on weak foundations was an image of people who stubbornly stick to wrong decisions: Don’t you want to set the beginning in place, or rather the foundation, to consider whether your decision is sound or unsound, and then on top of that to build structural tension and security? If the basis for your decision turns out to

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be rotten and falls apart, you will not be building anything, even a little structure (oikodome-mation), but if you lay more materials and stronger ones on top, it just comes down all the faster.144

Epictetus might have been thinking of a building on his own ‘little estate’.145 Similarly, Marcus Aurelius described his own construction of Stoic philosophy, built up with the aid of arguments that were the ‘bars’ and ‘props’ of scaffolding (cf. Fig. 13).146 It was perhaps the similarity, in purpose, method, and effect, between a building’s materials and an orator’s words that encouraged so many rhetors of the Second Sophistic, especially in Asia Minor, to undertake architectural activities. ‘Sophists’ like Nicetes and Antonius Polemo excelled not only in verbal displays and rhetorical performances but also in lavish buildings. But, while their literary interests were uncompromisingly ‘Greek’, their buildings looked unashamedly

85. Restored view of the Nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus, Olympia, a.d. c.160.

86. Restored view of the south side of the ‘Gate of Immortal Harmony’, situated between the villas of Herodes Atticus and his wife Annia Regilla at Marathon, Attica.

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Roman. Their private architecture was as inventive as that of Romans in Campania: the Ephesian Flavius Damianus, a pupil of Aristides, had some villas in the shape of grottoes and others modelled as whole cities.147 Their public buildings were constructed with arches and vaults and decorated with composite capitals and imported marbles. Polemo beautiﬁed his home city of Smyrna with handsome public architecture and persuaded the emperor Hadrian to contribute ﬁnancial support from the imperial treasury.148 Nicetes’ approach road from the Ephesian gates to Smyrna echoes the colonnaded avenue created by Hadrian between Athens and Corinth: only the metaphorical ‘pathways’ he built for Knowledge were ‘more splendid’.149 The writer Antiochus of Aegae did not let his refusal to hold public office prevent him from contributing freely to public-building projects in his home city on the Bay of Issus in Cilicia.150 As a devotee of Asclepius, he perhaps beautiﬁed the Asclepieion there. Certainly, it ranked in this period with the sanctuaries at Epidaurus, newly embellished by the senator Antoninus, and at Pergamon, where the antiquarian Claudius Charax, also governor of Cilicia, Lycia, and Isauria in 145/6 and consul in 147, put his name to a new temple-like entrance, a propylon, to the inner court as part of the substantial renovations during this period (Figs. 87a–c).151 The covered walkway built in the 160s by

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Flavius Damianus, from the Magnesian Gate to the Artemisium, was a vaulted corridor, a marble colonnade the length of a stadium supported by a Roman vault on large limestone foundations; on the inscription it carried the name of his wife. In the sanctuary he built a dining-hall of Phrygian marble, and, following Hadrian and Pius, he volunteered his own funds to the city to restore any public building in need of repair.152 Not only ‘sophists’ made such lavish benefactions. The Lycian magnate Opramoas is particularly well known for his numerous donations to cities over a wide geographical area, recorded on his tomb at Rhodiapolis, built around 153.153 His largesse responded to the earthquake of 143, and his actions mirrored those of the emperor. By reconstruction of some buildings and embellishment of others he demonstrated both ‘ambition’ (philotimia) and the Aristotelian virtue of ‘magniﬁcence’ (megaloprepeia).154 The most notable of his buildings was the theatre at Myra, which was counted as one of seven great buildings in late antiquity and is still admired by tourists today (Fig. 88). Opramoas was only the most lavish of several benefactors in the region, including Jason of Pherae and another whose name has not survived.155 The letters inscribed on Opramoas’ tomb highlight the role of the provincial governor, Quintus Voconius Saxa. Such architectural patronage was not just a matter of ﬁnancial outlay. There is evidence that patrons in the Greek East took real pride in mundane building tasks. During the construction of a stoa in his home town, Dio Cocceianus ‘Chrysostom’ of Prusa boasted that he busied himself measuring, remeasuring, and making calculations, and even made a trip to the local quarries, presumably to obtain marble.156 Plutarch of Chaeronea, in his treatise on civic government, advised that a city magistrate needed to supervise personally works of construction, spending many hours watching the measuring of tiles and the delivery of stone.157 These occupations of Greek patrons in the early second century were almost more obsessive than the activities of Roman politi87. The Asclepieion, Pergamon, propylon building. (a) Detail of the pediment from the exterior façade with clipeus inscribed in the name of Claudius Charax. (b) Reconstruction of the pediment.

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85 87. The Asclepieion, Pergamon, propylon building. (c) Plan. 88 (below). Theatre at Myra, Lycia, a.d. c.143–153. The theatre was built by a donation from Opramoas of Rhodiapolis.

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(c) 89. Sanctuary of Artemis, Jerash, Jordan. Propylon building with stairway leading to the temple, completed a.d. c.145-61. (a) Front view. (b) View from within the sanctuary. (c) Detail of the stairway.

cians in the late Republic, such as the tribune Publius Clodius, whom Cicero had attacked in 52 bc for ‘roaming the villas and horti of many persons with his architects and surveyors’, and, after failing to purchase an island in Lake Prilius, near the coast of central Etruria, transporting ‘timber, lime, rubble concrete, and sand’ to the island in preparation for building anyway.158 As in the West, governors, other Roman officials, and private

90. Remains of the Roman nymphaeum, Jerash, a.d. 191.

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patrons in the eastern provinces helped to ﬁx the shape and pattern of Roman imperial architecture, and not only in new colonies, where Roman building types could be expected.159 They had a major role in the cities of the Levant. We have already noted the contribution of the emperor Pius to the sanctuary at Baalbek, which may be better attributed in practice to officials of his imperial administration. The remains of Jerash, Bosra, Palmyra, and Scythopolis (Beth Shean) also reveal extensive architectural activity during his reign.160 At Jerash, a major development of the city was undertaken by the governors of Syria. The propylon of the sanctuary of Artemis was dedicated in 150 by the governor and consul-designate Lucius Attidius Cornelianus.161 The work stood at the foot of a spectacular monumental stairway leading to the temple, a preparation for the colossal classical architecture at the top, which was hidden from the bottom of the ascent (Fig. 89a–c). In 162/6 Geminius Marcianus, holding the same ranks, dedicated the stagebuilding of the north theatre to the safety of the emperors Marcus and Verus.162 A grand nymphaeum with a half-domed recess and broken pediment was added in Commodus’ reign (Fig. 90).163 In Asia Minor, as we will see in Chapter 7, it was in the chief cities of Ionia that the Roman governing class was most able to leave its mark on urban architecture. But remoter areas, like the upland regions of Caria and Phrygia, also proved fertile for the development of Roman monumental forms. As we have seen, many of the coins depicting an arcuated lintel were minted by cities with a less vigorous Hellenic architectural tradition, and consequently perhaps more susceptible to architectural innovation. The substantial archaeological remains at one of these centres, Hierapolis, reveal three buildings belonging to the develop-

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(b) 91. Roman theatre, Hierapolis, Phrygia. (a) View of the stage-building from the cavea. (b) Detail of the hyposcaenium below the stage.

ment of the city in the second century that show features alien to indigenous building practice. At the beginning of the century a complex of public baths was erected in the south-western quarter of the city: it shows a sequence of spacious rooms with large glass thermal windows, semicircular niches to the sides, and barrel-vaulted ceilings.164 Some years later a basilica hall was constructed outside the city wall to the north-west, entered from a large open square through a columnar arcade. The Ionic central structure was raised about 2 metres from the square by a marble stairway and decorated on each side with large masks, garlands, and columns decorated with sphinxes and ﬁgured capitals.165 A quadriga monument to Antoninus Pius was erected in the square itself. Finally, towards the end of the century the stage-building

of the theatre was rebuilt (Fig. 93a). The lower hyposcaenium, at the level of the orchestra, was composed of shell-niches framed by freestanding columns with spiral ﬂutes and composite capitals (Fig. 93b). Its frieze, in large part attributed to the inventive brilliance of sculptural workshops of the so-called ‘Aphrodisias School’, owed much to architectural ornament introduced at Ephesus and Pergamon earlier in the century and apparently directly inspired by Roman prototypes.166 Behind the stage was a two-storey proscaenium with niches and column displays.167 All three of these buildings show architectural forms inspired by Rome. At Hierapolis little is known about the patrons who chose the forms of these buildings, but there is more evidence for architectural patronage in the nearby conventus of Aphrodisias in south-eastern Caria. The communities of Attouda and Apollonia Salbace, which each minted coins showing an arcuated lintel, lay within this administrative district.168 At Aphrodisias itself several buildings erected during this period have been excavated, notably the Tetrapylon gateway, with arcuated lintels (Figs. 92a–b), and the theatre, and there is abundant epigraphic material. One honoriﬁc inscription, probably dating from the period between the second half of Pius’ reign and the Severan era, records that an arcade was built at the top of the new theatre.169 The patron responsible was Marcus Ulpius Carminius Claudianus of Attouda.170 It is difficult to identify him precisely,171 but coins from Attouda, issued under Antoninus, name ‘Marcus Ul(pius) Carminius Claudianus, son of the demos of Attouda’, and others, issued under Marcus and Verus, mention ‘C[armini]us Claudianus asiarch’, showing that by then the family had reached the highest rank of the provincial imperial cult. Whether these coins refer to the benefactor of the theatre arcade172 or to his father,173 there appears to be a connection here between a local, aristocratic family officiating in the imperial cult and

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89 92. Aphrodisias, Caria. (a) Plan of the excavated area of the Roman city. (b) View of the reconstructedtetrapylon, originally built a.d. c.150.

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the introduction of a Roman architectural form in the Greek East. This connection will be explored in later chapters. Meanwhile, it is worth noting that the arcade that Carminius Claudianus added to the theatre, as part of a donation of 105,000 denarii, is described in the inscription as a ‘winding’ (eile-ma) over the columns. This curious periphrasis indicates how much of a cultural novelty the curved form was, by contrast with the traditional straight entablature more familiar to the local inhabitants. Yet this unfamiliar form was celebrated for posterity as a leading feature of the monumentality of the theatre. It is characteristic of the relation between Roman architecture and Greek culture in eastern cities that the theatre buildings rebuilt at Hierapolis and Aphrodisias, Miletus and Myra, Patara and Aspendus, were used to promote a revival of Greek drama.174 Their architecture nonetheless looked distinctively Roman. It is easy to take for granted

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93. Memorial of Nonius Datus, Lambaesis, commemorating his construction of an aqueduct at Saldae, Numidia, reconstructed in the former main square of Bougie (now Béjaïa), Algeria.

the introduction of forms such as the arch and the vault into traditionally ‘trabeate’ structures such as temples and theatres in the Greek East. For provincial elites building in the East, in Greece, Asia Minor, and Syria, the architectural style of the Roman West was a sign of social and cultural status; its forms demonstrated a ‘Romanness’ that indicated their loyalty to Roman government.

To what extent were these architectural innovations—as they certainly must have seemed to those involved in the building trade and used to traditional construction practices, if not to the inhabitants of these cities in general—perceived as threatening acts of cultural change? The reconstruction of the theatre at Miletus offers a partial answer. The work, which had probably been begun after Hadrian’s visit to the city in 129, involved a substantial transformation of the previous building with many features typical of Antonine construction in Asia Minor: vaulted terraces constructed to support the cavea, balustrades decorated with military reliefs raised over the supporting walls, a lavish new stage-building, grand arched entrances to the auditorium, and, above the uppermost row of seats, an arcade, similar to those at Dougga and Aphrodisias.175 An inscription throws further light on the construction process.176 It records a dispute among the local employees contracted to work on the project. The public official in charge of building work (ergepistate-s) was the priest of Apollo, Ulpianus Heros, from his name apparently a Romanized native.177 The Greek architect Menophilus assigned the task of completing the arcades of the upper storey to a group of workmen who had just completed the columns.178 However, they contested the extent of their brief, in particular, whether they should execute ‘the arcades and the cross-vaults over the columns’.179 After the oracle at the extramural sanctuary of Apollo at Didyma had been consulted, the dispute was settled by the god’s oblique, and tactful, response that it was ‘expedient to follow prudent and expert ways of building and the counsels of the best man with sacriﬁces in supplication to Pallas Tritogeneia [Athena] and mighty Heracles’. Athena here was the goddess of masons and craftsmen, whereas Heracles, by his efforts to support the globe of Atlas, was the deity who represented the strength embodied by the vault; to any citizen of the Roman Empire ‘the best man’ could only be the emperor. Thus, in the face of the resistance of local workmen to the adoption of a characteristically Roman architectural form as part of their building contract, the religious officials—possibly inﬂuenced by the priest Ulpianus—stressed that these apparently novel forms could be accommodated within the realm of the locals’ traditional pagan gods. The inscription, set up at the site of the controversy, served as a reminder for the future that this Roman arcade was sanctioned by the Greek gods.180 The cleverness of this solution, making the arch acceptable in a Greek context, only highlights that ‘paradox’ of Roman culture, ‘its simultaneous incorporability within Greek norms and its insistent refusal to construct itself in those terms’.181

CHAPTER 5

Creating Form: Architects in the Antonine Age architecture and ambition in the second century At Miletus we saw a distinction between the workmen contracted to construct the arcades and the architect who designed them. Ancient building projects were usually dominated by architects, who directed a large number of subordinate workmen. Whereas the workmen sometimes challenged an instruction, the architect at the top identiﬁed more with the project, and his opportunity for social prestige was greater.1 Since Aristotle, architects were considered to be both ‘wiser’ and ‘more valued’ than manual workers, because they knew the ‘causes’ of a building project.2 At Patara it was not only the Velii Proculi as patrons who gained glory from new architectural forms. In the odeion stood a statue to the architect Dionysius of Sardis.3 He is described as ‘skilled in all works of Athena’, which recalls the mention of this goddess at Miletus; but the ‘future fame’ that his statue commemorated was for a work of architecture and engineering of which any Roman would have been proud: the great roof over the odeion itself.4 Another who made a professional reputation for himself beyond his home city was Marcus Aurelius Pericles of Mylasa, who was honoured at Rome for his success in architecture, described as ‘the greatest art of countless people’.5 To understand the monumentality of Roman architecture, then, we need to consider the views of architects. One should bear in mind, however, that the architectural profession in antiquity was very diverse.6 Indeed, there was no idea of a ‘profession’ at all in the modern sense of recognized qualiﬁcations and a relatively stable corporate identity. It is difficult to evaluate the social position of those architects whose names are recorded across the Roman Empire, as the mainly epigraphic evidence for their existence is both diffuse and varied, coming from areas as heterogeneous in social structure as imperial Rome, cities in Asia Minor, villages in late Roman Syria, and military settlements on the north-western frontier.7 In Greece and Asia Minor an individual called an architekto-n might have been either a civic magistrate, with no professional activity in the design process, though sometimes involved with public building; a religious official, with responsibility for the buildings of a sanctuary; or a practising architect, either employed by a city or working independently.8 In Italy an architectus was usually of the last type, although in Magna Graecia some cases of civic magistrates called architecti are known.9 The ranks of the Roman army operating in the western Empire included architecti, whose responsibilities might have included anything from military siege equipment to designing civic public buildings or even whole towns.10 Even the terminology can be misleading; people we would regard today as architects are described

by ancient writers with other names, such as me-chanikoi or geo-metrai, or ‘downgraded’ to mere ‘builders’ (fabri ), perhaps to minimize their responsibility for a design.11 Nonetheless, in many cases ancient architects seem to have had some social ambition when they designed monumental structures. Cicero’s statement that arts such as architecture, medicine, and learning, which require a greater degree of intelligence or have ‘a not insigniﬁcant utility’, ‘are honourable for those whose social rank they suit’, is a somewhat backhanded compliment to the practitioners of these ‘liberal arts’.12 Although to some this suggested that ‘architecture was a proper pursuit for a gentleman’,13 it is clear that Cicero was setting a limit to the social aspirations of architecti. Some were certainly freedmen or even slaves, and many, possibly most, of the documented examples, for what that sample is worth, were freeborn.14 In general, there is an ambivalence about the architect’s standing: most architects, even those freeborn, were of relatively humble social status; but, as we see especially from Vitruvius’ surviving work, some had considerable intellectual pretensions.15 Although aristocratic patrons were often concerned with the design of a building, few were professionally involved.16 The overall evidence is too sparse to conclude much for certain about the interrelations between the different kinds of ‘architect’ or the extent of mobility between them. But in general, even if most architects remained locally based, there seems to have been a degree of movement, and sufficient connections between architects to give room for an interchange of ideas, with architects travelling frequently to Rome or elsewhere to see works by other architects.17 On a papyrus from Ptolemaic Egypt are listed stock features such as the Seven Wonders of the World, the biggest islands, highest mountains, longest rivers, and most beautiful fountains.18 Great architects and engineers (me-chanikoi ) have their place in this catalogue of monumentality, alongside great painters, sculptors, and lawmakers, their fame apparently resting on their association with great buildings or wonders like the Artemisium at Ephesus or the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.19 In the ﬁrst century bc Roman authors of architectural treatises included canonical lists of great architects of the past, models to follow or observe.20 Although public buildings were generally associated with, and named after, their ﬁnancing patrons rather than their architects,21 and architects could dedicate a public building in their own right only as public officials or donors, some architects nonetheless managed to achieve fame for their designs.22 Several architectural ‘signatures’ occur in places of low visibility, perhaps surreptitiously.23 Architects also made their reputation ‘on the back of ’ patrons. As the most acclaimed Greek architects were associated with royal patrons,24 so in the Roman

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world not only emperors25 but other senatorial patrons had their personal architects.26 While patrons’ assertion of control over a building’s design limited the impact that an architect could make,27 architects could appear on commemorative inscriptions of public works or private houses, paired with a patron, but in a subordinate role.28 But whether a building’s monumentality was due to the patron’s aediﬁcatio or the architect’s design was disputed. The satirist Lucian tells the story of Sostratus of Cnidus, architect of the Pharos at Alexandria, who carved his name on the exterior fabric of the building, beneath the surface plaster on which the name of his patron, Ptolemy Philadelphus, was emblazoned.29 In time, the plaster surface ﬂaked away, taking the royal inscription with it and leaving the architect’s own dedication exposed beneath: ‘Sostratus, son of Dexiphanes, of Cnidus, to the saviour gods for those who sail on the sea.’30 The structure thus became a monument not to its royal ‘founder’, but to its architect. The message of Lucian’s story, told as a warning to those recording imperial history, is clear: as far as the monumentality of a building was concerned, it was ultimately the architect who mattered. The architect Sostratus, with his greater knowledge of the reality of buildings weathering with time, was able to exploit the ephemerality of the royal inscription and arranged that he himself would achieve more lasting fame. Lucian’s account recalled a possibly apocryphal tradition that architects’ signatures were concealed in Roman public buildings, such as the rebus of Nero’s architects Batrachus (‘Frog’) and Saurus (‘Lizard’) carved on the columns of the temples in the Portico of Octavia.31 As with Apollodorus and Hadrian, there was always an implicit rivalry between architect and patron. The personal pride of both was at stake in the design of a Roman public building. An aqueduct project of the early 150s on the North African frontier shows how public architecture was a moral commitment or even emotional experience for those involved. The hexagonal memorial at Lambaesis commemorating this work (Fig. 93) is decorated on each face with a portrait bust, below which a small, framed tabula ansata plaque contains a single word referring to a moral virtue.32 The portraits must have been allegorical representations of the virtues embodied by the building of the aqueduct.33 The only three headings that are still legible, ‘patience’ (patientia), ‘courage’ (virtus), and ‘hope’ (spes), are the aristocratic virtues of a noble patron.34 The ambitious project to channel water from the limestone massif of Arbalou to the colony of Saldae, 17 kilometres to the east,35 was under the authority of the equestrian procurator of Mauretania Caesariensis, Titus Varius Clemens, who required assistance from the military governor of Numidia, the senator Marcus Valerius Etruscus, to complete the project. Both men were to enjoy successful political careers.36 Yet it is neither of these two aristocratic ﬁgures, but the librator Nonius Datus, a veteran military architect, whose moral authority is plainest from the long narrative text below, inscribed across all six faces of the monument. Datus apparently wrote this detailed account of the building history himself, ‘in order that my labour in the matter of this aqueduct of Saldae might appear more clearly’. The project had been started by the local community in 144, interrupted because of its lack of success, taken over by the Roman army under the previous governor Porcius Vetustinus, and ﬁnally, after Clemens’ request to Etruscus for skilled assistance, rescued by Datus’ intervention. He came to Saldae to complete the aqueduct, after sur-

viving a dangerous journey, on which he was wounded by bandits, and, taken to inspect the work by Clemens, had found the workmen in tears because of their failed efforts, believing that the job had to be abandoned. By his own forethought and care he ensured that it was brought to a propitious conclusion, eight years after its beginning.37 The fortuitous survival of this document shows just how much emotional capital was invested, for an architect and his workforce, in a building work sometimes regarded as a routine military operation,38 and how much pride could be attached to its successful completion. Both his Latin and his awareness of classical history and culture show that the librator Datus was well educated: his description of the aqueduct’s construction, with two channels dug through the hill from opposite sides, which in the original attempt failed to meet, recalls Herodotus’ account of the architect Eupalinus’ design for a water conduit for Polycrates in Samos in the sixth century bc, which the historian regarded as ‘unsurpassed in the Greek world’.39 For most ancient buildings, of course, the views of the architects themselves have not survived, nor is the identity of the architect even known. One exception from the Antonine period is, therefore, particularly useful, because it throws light on the thinking of an ancient architect on ideas of monumentality. It is the story of Nicon of Pergamon.

‘geometry, queen of the muses’: nicon of pergamon Roman Pergamon in the second century was among the culturally most important cities of the Roman Empire and, with a population perhaps as high as 120,000,40 also one of the largest. Its distinctive character had been shaped by its historical association with the Attalid dynasty, who had erected many of its most important buildings, including a famous library which helped to make this city an important intellectual centre. The city was a centre of many religious cults, headed by that of its sovereign deity Athena Polias, whose sanctuary emphasized the notoriously cone-like appearance of the city, narrowing upwards to the summit of its acropolis. The extramural sanctuary of the healing god Asclepius had been a focus for pilgrims since the Archaic period, and in the 130s was undergoing an exciting renovation. To these religious cults the Attalids had added the Great Altar of Zeus and a sanctuary to the mystery goddess Demeter. More recently, the Traianeum on the acropolis showed both the latest fashions of architectural ornament and design from Rome and local features like the distinctive ‘palm-and-acanthus’ capitals in the surrounding porticoes.41 The choice of Pergamon for its location gave the city an authority which, together with its importance as a meeting-place of the federation of the Roman province of Asia, encouraged its pretensions to be the ‘greatest metropolis in Asia’. In the 120s work began on a stone amphitheatre, rare among cities of the province; later, probably during Antoninus’ reign, an aqueduct was added to bring water to the city from the Caicus river (the modern Bakir Çay).42 Politically important, economically prosperous, architecturally progressive, and spiritually dynamic, Pergamon was a place for monumental architecture. Here, if anywhere, we might understand an architect’s view on the monumentality of Roman architecture in the Greek East.

creating form The architect Nicon attracted unusual interest among Byzantine scholars because he was the father of Galen, the medical writer and doctor of the emperor Marcus Aurelius.43 They describe him as Aelius Nicon, a geometer and architect who practised at Pergamon, presumably in the reigns of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius. He is mentioned several times in his son’s works, but never by name,44 which may indicate that he had a certain fame in his own right, even if, by the twelfth century, John Tzetzes was embarrassed about not being sure of his exact name.45 He has been credited with working on ‘several great buildings’,46 even the Traianeum itself,47 but little speciﬁc consideration has been given to identifying his possible works. It is his father’s moral virtues, rather than his buildings, that Galen emphasizes. Nicon, he acknowledges, taught him to despise honour and glory,48 as well as contributing to his education in the philosophical schools.49 He calls himself fortunate in having a father ‘least prone to anger and exceptionally just, honest, and philanthropic’, contrasting Nicon’s own lack of anger with the irascibility of his wife, Galen’s mother, who used to shout at her female servants. The relationship between Nicon and his wife was thus like that of Socrates and Xanthippe, except that the ﬁghts between them were even worse than those legendary rows.50 Galen observed that ‘the beauties of his father’s works’ (ta kala to-n tou patros ergo-n)—the expression perhaps refers to Nicon’s buildings—were in contrast to the baseness of his mother’s emotions, so that Galen himself welcomed and loved his father’s deeds, but shunned and hated his mother’s. This philosophic model perhaps did not originate with Galen’s depiction, but with Nicon’s own selfperception as a ‘new Socrates’. The general idea of equivalence between moral virtue and technical knowledge originated in the sophistic and artisan culture of classical Athens, above all in the views of Socrates and Plato, for whom, of course, virtue was knowledge. Galen was initially taught by his father, but at 14 attended the lectures given at Pergamon by a Stoic philosopher. Nicon still took a close interest in his son’s education, however, scrutinizing the lifestyle and moral teachings of two new arrivals in Pergamon, the Peripatetic Aspasius, who had come ‘from a long journey’, perhaps from Rome, and an unnamed Epicurean philosopher from Athens. But he was now too busy to teach his son personally, because of his civic responsibilities. The nature of these is unclear, but Galen may have been referring to public architectural projects: he simply comments that his father was the only man who was just (dikaios), incorruptible, accessible (euprositos), and good-tempered (praai os). Such qualities were desirable for a civic architect in charge of public money and a large workforce; but they also have philosophical signiﬁcance. The last term, praai os, though common in classical Greek, is relatively unusual in the imperial period.51 For Plato the word had characterized a wise man as having a personal meekness and friendliness not often emphasized in the Greek world as a virtue of behaviour. Thus in the Republic: ‘And may we not say conﬁdently of man too that he who is to be gentle (praai os) to his friends and acquaintances must by nature be a lover of wisdom and knowledge?’52 This notion of praai ote-s, also privileged by Aristotle in his ethical philosophy,53 governed Nicon’s views of the artist and expert as a source of moral wisdom. As for Nicon’s own education, Galen reports that he had been trained principally in four technical skills: geometry (geo-metria), arith-

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metic (arithmetike-), architecture (architektonia), and astronomy (astronomia).54 These four mathematical sciences were later transformed into the Quadrivium, explicitly named for the ﬁrst time by Boethius in the sixth century, but in existence for centuries previously. That in the late ﬁrst century bc they already played a part in architectural education can be inferred from Vitruvius. Nicon’s programme of education is particularly interesting in that it differs in one small, but highly signiﬁcant, respect from the formal programme of scientiﬁc studies laid down by the Old Pythagorean School. The traditional Pythagorean version consisted of the four branches of mathematics: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. Music here meant the mathematically based theory of music, namely acoustics, the numerical theory of intervals and rhythm, rather than the practice of music as an art. It also helped to understand the revolution of the heavenly bodies, which were believed to be in proportion like musical harmonies.55 Its application to architecture would have consisted in the use of mathematical numbers to calculate the grace and musical rhythm of a building’s parts, the property characterized since late Hellenistic times as eurhythmia.56 Nicon’s own quadrivium substituted ‘architecture’ (architektonia) for music. Although he did not consider it as important as geometry or arithmetic, he considered it to have a distinctive role in his intellectual repertoire. It complemented the other mathematical arts, which dealt with geometrical ﬁgures (geo-metria), numerical proportions (arithmetike-), and celestial movement (astronomia). According to Galen, Nicon advocated the use of drawings for illustrated demonstration, and regarded the highest of the four subjects as geometry and arithmetic. All four together made a complete intellectual ensemble that was a basis for Roman architectural design. Yet designing a building was not the primary aim of these mathematical sciences, or of architecture, even if it was their practical consequence. It was moral improvement. As for other philosophers, the four technical arts, for Nicon, were a route to intellectual education and moral self-development, and, in particular, a means with which to ‘stake a claim’57 to the four cardinal virtues: Bravery (andreia), Temperance (so-phrosune-), Justice (dikaiosune-), and Intelligence (phrone-sis).58 This widely accepted canon, ﬁrst conceived by Nicon’s model Socrates and conﬁrmed by the Stoics, was considered to be the basis for political magniﬁcence, embodied especially in the person of the Roman emperor.59 To some extent the application of moral virtues to architecture was a manifestation of the tendency in the Antonine age for specialists in any ﬁeld to ﬁnd virtue in their own type of expertise. For example, the orator Aelius Aristides argued in his reply ‘To Plato: in defence of oratory’ (Peri Rhe-torike-s) that the good orator displayed the four cardinal virtues.60 But such ideas were also associated with architecture. Allegorical statues of Bravery, Wisdom, Knowledge, and Intelligence adorned the façade of the Library of Celsus (Fig. 5b),61 displaying, as with Nicon, an explicit connection between virtue and knowledge.62 In Celsus’ monument the architecture was a means of displaying a benefactor’s moral excellence, like the cardinal virtues represented on late Renaissance papal tombs. Such allegorical representations of virtues were probably more common under the Empire than is usually acknowledged.63 The anonymous Pinax, or ‘Tabula Cebetis’, purports to describe a picture which includes a group of nine female ﬁgures that turn out to be personiﬁcations of virtues very similar to those cultivated by Nicon.64

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Nicon himself saw mathematics, the theoretical basis of architecture, as the best means of achieving virtue. Underplaying the importance of honour (time-), renown (doxe-), and wealth, he noted that an understanding of arithmetic would assure moral improvement, recalling the mathematical truth that ‘twice two is four’ and encouraging his son to do likewise. This simple sum was signiﬁcant, since, in referring to both the four technical skills of mathematics and the four cardinal virtues, it suggested a connection between both sets. Nicon’s speculations reﬂected the theoretical basis on which other intellectuals of the Antonine period perceived moral virtues in architectural form. Following Plato’s contention that aesthetic beauty was achieved by measure and proportion, which were parts of Temperance, the neo-Platonist Marinus of Neapolis demonstrated that physical beauty was a real manifestation of Temperance.65 Such views would have formed the basis for many intellectuals’ appreciation of public architecture. These ideas on the morality of architecture are paralleled by praise elsewhere in the Antonine period for the moral virtue of builders, as well as their technical prowess.66 In some other cities of the Roman East there is evidence to suggest that this technical skill had come to be regarded as a distinguished social accomplishment. At Sillyon in Pisidia, for instance, a man called Cleon was honoured twice by the popular assembly as ‘a good man commended for his architectural expertise’ (architektosune-). He was awarded a statue, paid for by his brother, although the only achievement mentioned has nothing to do with building, but involved a grant of 500 drachmas to the grain supply.67 Caius Heius Eupaideutos of Corinth was made a citizen of Delphi at some point in the second century, following a career as ‘architect at Delphi’.68 This man, who, it seems, had also won Roman citizenship, was honoured for his ‘noble goodness’ (kalokagathia), a virtue included among the nine allegorical ﬁgures of the Pinax, and, like Cleon, for his architektosune-.69 If ‘architectural skill’ could win a man political distinction, Nicon’s ideas about the ‘virtues’ of architecture cannot have been unique. Nicon is not only known from his son’s writings. Some of his own literary works have survived in inscriptions recovered at Pergamon by German archaeologists at the end of the nineteenth century. They do not bear out Galen’s view of his father as a man who despised honour, but in other ways they conﬁrm the impression of moral correctness given by Galen and extend it further by revealing his own views on architectural monumentality. The ﬁrst text contains a hymn to the Sun (Appendix 2B, no. 1; Fig. 94). The genitive heading—‘Of Aelius Nicon . . . architect’—makes it clear that Nicon is the author.70 But this statement of authorship is also an arithmetical one: Nicon’s name and his description as ‘architect’ are placed on either side of a number written according to the Milesian or Ionian system in which the letters of the alphabet have numerical values.71 This indicates that both his name and the word for ‘architect’, counted by that notation, have the same numerical value of 1,726. This equivalence is what was known in antiquity as ‘isopsephic’. Its apparent point was to establish meaningful juxtapositions between two words or names.72 Nicon used the device to create an illusion of numerological inevitability and hence spatial harmony between his own name and his position as architect. Isopsephisms were often used in a cosmological or geometrical context,73 perhaps because they were felt to reveal an underlying harmony or unity in the universe, and were em-

94. Marble slab from Pergamon, inscribed with a hymn to the Sun by Aelius Nicon. Archaeological Museum, Bergama, Turkey.

ployed to show the power of the Sun and ‘solar’ divinities such as Mithras and Serapis or even the emperor Nero (see Excursus in Appendix 2A). It may be no accident, therefore, that Nicon uses an isopsephism to introduce a hymn to the Sun. The hymn itself imitates a tragic model, from the opening parodos of Euripides’ Phoenician Women, which begins with a formula describing the sun.74 Nicon extends the original description of the sun’s activity to achievements architectural in nature, such as the formation of dromoi as ‘paths of inﬁnite space’. Continuing in this vein, the hymn takes the form of a humnos kle-tikos, which consists generally in providing successive titles and predicates (epikle-seis) for the deity addressed. So Nicon celebrates the Sun’s light and power in making universal order from elemental diversity. For him as architect, the ordered dynamics of the natural world are a model for his own architectural constructions. The language of this hymn is very close to another humnos kle-tikos to the Sun, the eighth Orphic Hymn to Helios, dated to around the later second century ad.75 There the Sun is described as kosmou ton enharmonion dromon helko-n), ‘drawing the harmonic course of the world’. He is kosmokrato-r, ‘ruler of the cosmos’, identiﬁed with Zeus, and described as ‘the encircling eye of the cosmos’ (kosmou to peridromon omma), ‘giving light with his beautiful shining rays’ (lampo-n te kalais aktisi phaeinais), and guardian of Justice. The genealogical emphasis of archaic precedents such as the ‘Homeric’ hymn to Helios (no. 31 Allen) is here reduced to a single phrase. In its place appear scientiﬁc evocations of the sun’s light-bringing and ﬁery nature (ll. 3, 6, 11–15) and its power as regulator of planetary movement in the universe, provider of life-giving energy, and guarantor of moral standards.76 This hymn was inscribed and set up as an offering at the sanctuary of Demeter in Pergamon.77 Nicon’s own hymn resembles it so closely in both content and language that one may wonder whether it was set up there too. This sanctuary was home to a very intense and popular involvement with Orphic and Pythagorean beliefs, and worshippers placed great authority in the celestial and cosmic forces of the universe. In Roman Perga-

creating form mon the idea of monumental architecture was integrated into a religious construct of solar and cosmic theology. For Nicon, the continuing rise each day of the sun, Helios, now frequently identiﬁed by syncretism with Jupiter, Zeus, Mithras, or Serapis, was a pleasing example of the world’s perpetual motion, a natural thauma (‘wonder’) that was the model for every architect aiming to create his own architectural wonder. While the hymn to the Sun shows the contribution of astronomy to Nicon’s formation as an architect, a second inscription (Appendix 1B, no. 2) is devoted to the art of geometry. The most important ingredient in architecture for Nicon, geometry facilitated the analogy between the design of a building and the creation of the world. Although he is mentioned here only as ‘Nicon’ (l. 6), the omission of his nomen Aelius may be to suit the isopsephms used here too, and it is a reasonable inference that this inscription was set up by the same Aelius Nicon, father of Galen. The ﬁrst four lines have the isopsephic value 1,726, which is the same ﬁgure as Nicon’s isopsephic number in the ﬁrst line of his hymn. These lines are separate in sense from the rest of the text, leading some scholars to argue that they belonged to a different inscription. It is difﬁcult to make out the exact sense, but there is a striking use of archaic, particularly Homeric or Hesiodic, vocabulary. The ﬁrst lines speak of akakia, the moral ‘innocence’ associated with early civilization, and allude to ‘the water’. These verses seem to refer to a dedication, ‘set up’ (heis’) ‘for eternity’ (ap(o) aio-nos)78 and ‘in order’ (en kosmo-i); however, the language makes it comparable to the primeval settling of rushing waters at the creation of the world.79 The isopsephisms employed in this text do not simply demonstrate a numerical equivalence between a name and a keyword. The numbers are placed repeatedly and emphatically at the margin of each line, so that successive lines of the same numerical value divide the poem into sections: four lines of dedication (ll. 1–4, value 1,726); three lines of address (ll. 5–7, value 2,156); twenty lines of geometrical exegesis (ll. 8–41, presented as twenty units of value 3,000). This has the effect of suggesting a musical notation, as if each line contained an identical rhythm. In this respect it represents a variation of the earlier isopsephic habit, possibly intended to produce a harmonic structure mirrored by the equal isopsephic value of successive lines.80 The geometrical message of the text has been explained by earlier scholars.81 Nicon expounds the theory that, when a sphere and a cylinder are inserted into a cube, both the volume and the surface area of those three shapes will be in the ratio 22 : 33 : 42.82 This is not of theoretical interest alone. Hadrianic architecture in Italy attests the interest of some contemporary architects in the surface areas of buildings.83 The three shapes mentioned here, especially the sphere and the cone, were, as we have seen in Chapter 3, regarded as the most basic and elemental ﬁgures and divine by nature.84 They were also believed, since earlier Archimedean theory, to be basic to the formation and motion of the universe. But this text went beyond Archimedes. Whereas, even in Cicero’s day, geometry was considered to be a subordinate art, under the Muses’ protection, Nicon now placed geometry on a pedestal as the supreme art, ruling even the Muses themselves, just as he had earlier replaced music with architecture in the Pythagorean curriculum.85 At lines 6–7 it is stated that the text was intended for other architectural craftsmen, perhaps as a model of geometrical knowledge. It is no

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longer possible, though, to be sure where in ancient Pergamon it was set up. Boeckh suggested that it was inscribed at the market portico dedicated by ‘Niko-n neos’ (Appendix 2B, no. 4), as he believed that man to be the same Nicon as the author of the geometrical text.86 As we will see shortly, that assumption is not certain. Earlier suggestions that the inscription was placed on the architect’s tomb or in the city gymnasium, because of its educational value, are purely speculative.87 The third inscription in Nicon’s name (Appendix 1B, no. 3) consists of a single isopsephic verse. It apparently concerns the dedication of a satyr, presumably a sculpture, at his own expense.88 The adjective hilaros suggests that the ﬁgure may have been gilded.89 Although the ﬁgure has not survived and the original context of the inscription is unknown, it invites comparison with the sculptures of satyrs, silens, or atlantes sometimes found crouching in Roman theatres, apparently supporting the stage.90 An example from the mid-second century, from the Theatre of Dionysus at Athens, looks very much like a satyr (Fig. 95).91 Nicon’s dedication too might have been the image of a wise silenus, an aged satyr, surreptitiously squatting in the lower part of a building, but showing the observant viewer that he was holding the structure up as Atlas shouldered the universe. This was an appropriate

95. Marble silenus or satyr-like ﬁgure, 2nd century a.d., reused in the Bema of Phaedrus, Theatre of Dionysus, Athens.

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image for the Antonine architect, whose subordinate place in the public associations of a building did not prevent him from also boasting of his expertise in having brought the construction to fruition. Like Sostratus’ inscription on the Pharos, the ﬁgure was initially less conspicuous than a patron’s dedication, but remained in place at the lowest visible part of a building when the superstructure bearing a monarch’s name had fallen or been removed. Nicon, it seems, saw his job as architect in a self-important and highly metaphorical way. He perceived himself as individually responsible for the structure and endurance of his own work. But that is not the extent of his inﬂuence at Pergamon. Another inscription (Appendix 2B, no. 4) commemorates the construction of a market portico. Its language resembles a dedication by a local magistrate or benefactor. The inscription records his muniﬁcence, and the title of architekto-n may indicate not only his profession, but a public office.92 The text asserts not his art or expertise, the qualities of a technician, but attributes usually associated with civic officials: personal participation in the system of honours of the community (philotimia) and moral excellence (arete- ).93 The architect who made this benefaction is called ‘I. Nicodemus and also young Nicon’. If the ‘I.’ is an abbreviation for Iulius, his full name should be Iulius Nicodemus.94 The singular verb suggests that the phrase ‘and also young Nicon’ refers to the same man, and this is conﬁrmed by a second inscription, also isopsephic, referring to ‘I. Nicodemos and Nicon’ as a ‘good hero’ (Appendix 2B, no. 6). Thus the architect Iulius Nicodemus also called himself ‘young’ or ‘new Nicon’. Boeckh believed that this was the same man as Nicon the author of the geometrical inscription. However, his different nomen and his description as a ‘new Nicon’ in particular make better sense if he was rather a pupil or follower of the architect Aelius Nicon. At any rate, he certainly followed his ‘mentor’ in his isopsephic habit. The numbers in the right-hand margins beside his title of architect (l. 1), his name (l. 4) and the statement in the ﬁnal line (l. 7) show that these lines have ‘isopsephic’ equivalence. In fact, the ﬁgure to which they each add up was perhaps not coincidental. A reader trained in arithmetic would know that 2,186 was 700 times an approximation of the value of π, and so the sum of the areas of seven circles, for example the planets, of radius 10 units.95 The epigram celebrates the consolidation of a portico (he-sphalisato) and its ordering with adornments (kosme-se) (l. 5). This achievement is that of an euergete-s. The monumentality of the structure is presented on the two levels commonly used by building inscriptions, its potential durability and its ornamentation. The building was not only bound fast, to endure like a fortiﬁcation, as implied by the verb asphalizesthai (‘to make safe and secure’),96 but also contained that degree of order in ornament (kosmos) which lent it moral superiority. The moral aspect is clearest in the ﬁnal phrase (l. 7): ergon implies both ‘work of construction’ and ﬁnal moral ‘goal’ in the Platonic or Aristotelian sense; that ‘goal’ is eupoiia, the moral virtue of beneﬁcence or ‘doing well’ to others. This unusual term hints at the tone of high moralistic thinking attested elsewhere in the Antonine period in the Roman East. Thus Opramoas at Rhodiapolis recorded not only his philotimia, but also his eupoiia, among the several virtues manifested by his lavish public benefactions.97 Diogenes Laertius uses the word of the Hellenistic philoso-

pher Epicurus, to express his generosity to others, in particular to his brothers.98 For Lucian the term denotes a kind of well-doing that both is unsolicited and demands no future gratitude or obligation.99 Thus St Paul exhorted the Hebrews to remember ‘beneﬁcence and community of spirit’ (eupoiias kai koino-nias).100 Behind this term lies the beginning of a new mode of thinking in the ancient world, no longer constrained by the expectation of reciprocal honours and reward for benefaction, but an independent will to do good for its own sake. Signiﬁcantly, it is a building, a type of work normally recognized as performed for the sake of ulterior gain and prestige, which is presented here as an instance of disinterested beneﬁcence. Henceforth, architecture was the highest moral accomplishment. By a fortunate coincidence, there are some remains of the market colonnade commemorated by this inscription (Fig. 96a–b).101 The Lower Agora at Pergamon was rebuilt a few centuries after its original construction, apparently after some movement of the walls and subsidence of the ﬂoor, perhaps after an earthquake.102 At some time during the second century the structure was secured by four thick piers, which were built in the north-west corner of the portico, joined to one another by arches, and supported with a domical vault.103 Two piers were erected next to each second column of the north portico as far as ‘Room 4’, and opposite it against the back wall, which were linked by vaulted arches. These arches and vaults, solidly built with lime mortar, formed ﬁrm abutments for the high walls and columns, which were intended to prevent the collapse of the older stoa. Thus the formerly ﬂat-roofed stoa was turned into a vaulted corridor space. In the vaulted structure at the corner of the colonnade was laid a mosaic ﬂoor, with a low platform built upon it. The work done would well ﬁt the statement of the inscription that young Nicon ‘secured and adorned’ the structure. References to the ‘market commissioners’ (agoranomoi ) in other inscriptions found in the agora appear to conﬁrm that this was their official seat.104 In all likelihood this was the agoranomion built by ‘young Nicon’. A second inscription was found with the record of the market portico (Appendix 2B, no. 5). It appears to commemorate a different man from the architect Iulius Nicodemus (a.k.a. the new Nicon), the geometer Aelius Isidotus. However, its similarities with the portico inscription in dimensions, tabula ansata format, and use of isopsephic verses strongly suggest that the two are related to each other and to the architect Nicon. The isopsephic number (1,461), here appended to all ﬁve lines, is just over two-thirds of the number on the inscription of Iulius Nicodemus (2,186).105 Thus the two ﬁgures on these identical blocks are in the approximate ratio 2 :3, much used by architects. Like Iulius Nicodemus, the geometer Aelius Isidotus may have been Nicon’s pupil. His name Isi-dotus (‘Isis-given’) suggests a religious affiliation, and his nomen Aelius may have been acquired from Aelius Nicon. The virtues celebrated here are similar to those on which Galen said that Nicon prided himself, especially his justice (dikaiosune- ) and mildness (praai ote-s), and, as with Nicon, the practice of geometry is assimilated to the moral quality of justice. The concepts emphasized, ‘judgement’ 96. Lower Agora, Pergamon. (a) Plan of the excavated area. (b) Photograph after excavation of the north colonnade of the agora, probably the agoranomion built by ‘young Nicon’.

creating form

(a)

(b)

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98

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(gno-me- ) and ‘measuredness’ (metriote-s), described as ‘beautiful’ (kale- ), like eupoiia in the parallel text, are common to architecture and politics; both involve ‘taking measurements’, in one case to construct geometrical ﬁgures, in the other to evaluate a situation. The connection is reinforced by the play on words between geo-metre-s and metriote-ti, and the name Isidotus, playing on ise- (both morally ‘fair’ and numerically ‘equal’), seems as appropriate for the topic of justice as the name Nicodemus did in the context of popular politics. The texts of Nicodemus and Isidotus represent two sides of the work of a second-century architekto-n: drawing measured ﬁgures as an architect and measuring moral behaviour or justice as a magistrate. Both are seen within a moral framework.106 The correspondence between the two texts would have been even more visible in the original architectural context, with the inscriptions perhaps on opposite sides of the same building, or even on one of the piers of the market portico itself. If the market portico built by Iulius Nicodemus can be identiﬁed with the vaulted colonnade on the side of the Lower Agora, it remains to be asked whether any of the buildings excavated at Pergamon can shed light on the long geometrical writing by Nicon himself. The matter requires more detailed consideration than it can be given here, and indeed may never be fully resolved since, because the inscription was found reused and is now apparently lost,107 it is impossible to identify for certain the structures to which it originally referred. However, it is worth setting out a few possibilities. A ﬁrst approach is to consider whether the isopsephic numbers arranged along the edge of the text might have had any architectural signiﬁcance. The ﬁgures themselves—1,726, 2,156, and 3,000—are not encouraging; but the fact that the largest one is a round number makes it a good ideal measurement. Some simple calculations reveal that the other two numbers are approximate results of the division of 3,000 by 33 and 32 respectively. The ratio between the two smaller numbers is approximately 5: 4. The proportions of 33: 1 and 32 :1 were regularly used in Roman imperial architecture, since 33 is twice the height of an equilateral triangle and 32 the diagonal of a square with sides of 1 unit.108 For example, the planning of Roman amphitheatres used a central equilateral triangle to produce an ellipse with length and width in the ratio 33 :1.109 The amphitheatre at Pergamon might, therefore, explain these isopsephic ﬁgures. It was one of the few such structures in the province, and its suggested date of the ﬁrst half of the second century would ﬁt the period of Nicon’s activity. Indeed, his son Galen was appointed as doctor to the gladiators under the priest of the imperial cult, at whose behest games were held in the amphitheatre. The novelty of the form in the province could provide a reason for Nicon’s wish to give attention to the building’s geometry. In fact, the remains of this building suggest an unusually contracted form, with the length and width of the arena closer to the ratio 32:1.110 Owing to the poor state of the remains and the lack of reliable measurements, the possibility that Nicon’s isopsephic numbers referred to the amphitheatre at Pergamon cannot be pursued much further.111 Moreover, the actual geometrical exegesis of the relations between cone, sphere, and cylinder, and the ﬁrst four lines of the text, which refer more naturally to an aquatic monument, still remain obscure. An alternative approach is to start from the opening lines of the text. Although they are not easily comprehensible, it seems probable that

they are a dedication setting the context for the geometrical thoughts that follow.112 The most obvious complex associated with water basins and springs at Pergamon is the Asclepieion or sanctuary of Asclepius, which goes back to the Archaic period, but was undergoing a substantial reconstruction from the 130s, especially the buildings along its east side (Figs. 97a–b).113 At the centre of the precinct was a well, and several springs also supplied the sacred water, which occasioned Aristides’ visits to the sanctuary. One of these was the ‘god’s ears’ (theou akoai) or ‘springs’ (akoai transliterating Latin aquae) referred to by Aristides.114 This might be identiﬁed with the building in the south-east corner of the complex, the so-called ‘lower round building’, which, because it interrupts the unity of the plan, is believed to be an addition of c.200. There are too many uncertainties here to reach a deﬁnite conclusion, but circumstantial evidence supports the possibility that this text of Nicon was related to the design of a polygonal or circular building as a basin in the complex of the Asclepieion in his home city of Pergamon. The Roman associations of this complex might also explain the use of the word labron in the initial dedication as a Greek version of the term labrum, which appears in architectural dedications in Roman Italy in this period.115 A third possibility is that Nicon’s geometrical exegesis referred to the cult temple of Zeus–Asclepius itself (Fig. 97c). Its design was closely based on that of the Pantheon in Rome, and so its geometrical conception, based on a sphere contained within a cylinder, ﬁts Nicon’s geometrical exegesis. The similarity is historically plausible, as Hadrian visited Pergamon in 123 when already engaged in rebuilding the temple in the capital and may have initiated work on the Asclepieion.116 The temple seems to have been complete by 145.117 However, its design also shows several deviations in detail from that of the Pantheon, which suggests local inﬂuence and reaction to and re-evaluation of the metropolitan building in a provincial context.118 Like the Pantheon (Fig. 71a), the Temple of Zeus–Asclepius is composed of a rectangular colonnaded porch crowned by a pediment,

(c) 97. The Asclepieion, Pergamon. (a) Phased plan of the complex, showing elements of the second-century rebuilding. (b) Restored view of the east side. (c) The temple of Zeus-Asclepius, on the east side of the precinct.

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(b)

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fronting a circular hall. However, the Pergamene building had a much simpler interior than the Pantheon. In its provincial context, the domed interior with alternately round and rectangular niches was the most compelling feature of the design. Unlike those of the Pantheon, the niches were not framed by aedicular forms with columns, but by pilasters; and the central niche at the back of the hall differed from the corresponding niche of the Pantheon in being considerably wider and deeper than the other niches. The different parts of the building were apparently emphasized by differences in the colours of the marble revetment lining the walls. This architectural design was a logical consequence of the implications of the form of the Pantheon itself, drawing out both the centralized and the axial aspects of the design. There too the main niche was emphasized above the other niches, yet this was achieved not only by its axial position within the building, but especially by the two large columns set on either side in front of the niche. In the Temple of Zeus–Asclepius the axial niche was much deeper, which was possible because the wall at that point was buttressed by an outer stair-tower. This change of design affected the position of the rectangular niches, which were no longer, as in the Pantheon, centred on the diagonals of the circular interior. Yet their side-walls were still, as in the Pantheon, slightly inclined, so that they seemed to point towards the centre of the interior circle. This repetition of the centripetal aspect of the form was more prominent here than in some later imitations of the Pantheon around Rome, where the rectangular niches are exactly rectangular and so their side-walls are not coordinated with the radii of the circular space. Moreover, the circularity of the Pergamene structure was even more strongly emphasized by the back walls, which were formed as arcs, concentric with the perimeter inner wall. The dimensions of the interior were modelled on those of the Pantheon, the overall diameter being exactly halved, and the depth of the niches being in virtually the same proportion to the thickness of the wall.119 The latter ratio was of some signiﬁcance to an architect with a Pythagorean background, since it corresponded to the Golden Ratio, which the Pythagoreans devised.120 However, the visual impact of the huge rotunda gave the impression that the main niche was larger than the others. This was actually the case in the Pergamene building, where the wider central niche made the building’s axiality more explicit, whereas the Pantheon showed rather its centrality. Moreover, the effect of making the entrance niche the same size as the back niche, unlike that in the model in Rome, was to reinforce the axis between front and back of the building. At the same time, the form of the entrance niche itself, not strictly rectangular, but with inclined sides, reinforced the centralized aspect of the building and the appearance of the niches as derived from radii of the principal circle. The building at Pergamon is thus the outcome of a provincial architect’s meditation on and modiﬁcation of the prototype in Rome. The architectural characteristics of the temple, indeed, reﬂect the distinctly regional identity of its patronage. The building was ﬁnanced and dedicated not by the emperor Hadrian, but by the wealthy Pergamene senator Lucius Cuspius Pactumeius Ruﬁnus, who became consul ordinarius at Rome in 142.121 Both for contemporaries and in later memory, he was the most celebrated ﬁgure in the building’s design. Aelius Aristides, who came to the sanctuary many times for therapeutic reasons, saw him in a dream standing in the precinct, ‘the author of

its great ornaments and of the temple of many shapes’.122 It was to this consular benefactor, rather than an architect, that Nicon’s son Galen attributed the temple.123 The building stood for the whole surrounding precinct, which later became known in mythic fashion as the ‘Grove of Ruﬁnus’ (Rhouphinion alsos) and was added to the Seven Wonders of the World.124 The date of Ruﬁnus’ dedication is disputed. The ﬁrst excavators ascribed the building to the reign of Pius, but a convincing case has been made for dating it to the Hadrianic period.125 However, Galen writes that when he was studying at Pergamon under Satyrus as late as 149/150 he spent time with Ruﬁnus, who, he says, ‘was building the temple for us’. This does not mean that the temple was built in that year, as had previously been assumed. Yet the present participle used by Galen is puzzling: strictly taken, it would mean that the construction of the temple was still in progress, although its appearance in Aristides’ dreams in 145–7 suggests that it was then complete.126 We should assume, either that the building had only recently been completed, and Galen was vividly presenting it as still under construction, or that, when Aristides dreamed of the temple, he was anticipating its future appearance. The temple of Zeus–Asclepius captivated visitors to the sanctuary. Aristides described it as a building ‘of many forms’ (polueides), and this polymorphism must have made it a suitable setting for the supernatural events occurring in his dreams.127 Its Pantheon-like arrangement evoked the divine universe.128 The strong axiality of the interior suggested a hierarchical monotheism, apparent from Aristides’ dreamed perception of the emperor Hadrian in the temple court,129 and possibly emphasized, as in the Pantheon in Rome, by an arched form over the entrance. This detail offers some explanation of the consequences, if not the original architectural decision, of having the entrance niche as wide as the one at the back. But this cosmic meaning was implied, rather than explicit; the central niche carried a statue of the god Asclepius Soter, who was identiﬁed with Zeus and worshipped at Pergamon in the second century as a monotheistic, universal power.130 Aristides proclaimed, gazing at the sky at the time of the rising of the morning star, towards which the temple was orientated: ‘I look up and I see in the heaven Asclepius, who is enshrined at Pergamon.’131 Partly because the temple was so strongly associated with its ﬁnancing patron, the identity of its architect remains obscure. However, the geometric poems of Aelius Nicon and the possibility that his Roman citizenship was personally bestowed on him by the emperor Hadrian lead one to wonder whether this fascinating round temple of the rebuilt Asclepieion of Pergamon was actually his design. The Roman dome and vault certainly had an impact on his son Galen, who shows a preference for this form in his frequent analogies between buildings and the human body. To him, the composition of the human body was organic like a work of architecture assembled by an architect, using the separate contributions of other craftsmen like bricks manufactured from clay by a maker of bricks.132 In his work On the Usefulness of the Parts of the Human Body he calls the human brain ‘domical and vault-like’, noting that it was the practice of those trained in architecture to call such forms of buildings domes and vaults.133 Later in the same work, Galen applies this analogy also to the spine, noting that ‘its appearance is very similar to those built forms which people call vaults’: of all forms, he observes, this one is often described as the most sensitive and easily damaged.134 The

creating form centrality of these bodily parts to the functioning of the human body mirrored perhaps, for Galen and his architect father, the symbolic importance of the dome and the vault in the buildings of their time. The dome over the Temple of Zeus-Asclepius would also have ﬁtted Nicon’s ideas of architecture. For him, as for other architects, the art of building lay in the cosmological possibilities offered by meticulous design, and the dome was potentially the most perfect cosmic form. Architecture was geometry, and its raison d’être was the creation of a harmonious and eternal cosmos, albeit on a reduced scale. Building was a divine process. Yet the case of Antonine Pergamon shows how public building in the age of the Second Sophistic was the result of a combination of religious belief, mathematical theory, and political pragmatism. To different persons—the worshipper, the architect, the senatorial patron, and the emperor—the same architectural forms were monumental in very different ways. Other Antonine writers on mathematics and architecture held similar views to Nicon’s at Pergamon. The monumental architecture in the cities of the Roman East at this time should be seen in the light not only of the social ambitions of its patrons, but also of the ambitious theoretical statements of its architects. A second example, where the evidence is poorer but still suggestive, is at Gerasa (Jerash) in the province of Arabia (now Jordan). Its very different geographical situation and cultural heritage might suggest that any comparison with Pergamon would be unhelpful. But there is strong evidence that in the sphere of public building, at the levels both of design and patronage, the ideas of Romanized Hellenism found at Pergamon were current here too. The arithmetician Nicomachus, who came from and worked at Gerasa, held views on Greek mathematics and its importance as a means of reproducing cosmic order that owe much to the Platonic and Pythagorean traditions.135 He began his main work, the Introduction to

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Arithmetic, by explaining that its mathematical arguments were ‘stairways and bridges’ to the pure immaterial being, a metaphor effectively visualized by the imposing stairway to the Temple of Artemis (Fig. 89a–c).136 Like Nicon and other contemporary architects, Nicomachus was interested in the quality of proportion (Greek analogia), which he deﬁned as the combination of two or more signiﬁcant ratios in the context of geometrical ﬁgures.137 He saw himself, however, more as an arithmetician than a geometer, since, to him, arithmetic was the pre-eminent discipline which, through the property of number, played the same directing role for built architecture as did ‘cosmic reason’ in Plato’s account of the world’s creation.138 There is no direct evidence for the buildings that Nicomachus or his associates designed in Antonine Jerash. However, the well-preserved archaeological state of the ancient city permits reasonable speculation about the importance of high philosophical ideas for its urban forms. Some of the buildings erected in the Antonine period, such as the temples of Artemis and Zeus and the South Theatre, show signs of sophisticated geometrical design.139 Others suggest cosmological thinking, such as the ‘Oval Piazza’, where the paving was laid radially in concentric rows leading inwards to an altar placed at the centre of the space (Fig. 98).140 The overall planning of the city, especially the new extension begun after Hadrian’s visit in the winter of 128/9, reveals a precise geometrical and astronomical conception.141 The siting of monuments like the South Tetrapylon and the Arch of Hadrian, dedicated in 130, was determined by a geometrical conﬁguration of a principal square constituted by the buildings of the older city and a second adjacent square for the new extension to the south. The arch was oriented to face along the diagonal of the double square, which ran past the stadium and through the Temple of Artemis in the direction of the astronomically important pole star (Fig. 99).142 Thus the situation of the most im-

98. The ‘Oval Piazza’, Jerash. View of the paved area from the south, showing the concentric paving.

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creating form Direction of Polaris (Pole Star)

Axis Mundi

South Tetrapylon

Temple of Artemis

OLD CIT Y

Forum (‘Oval piazza’)

Temple of Zeus

Theatre

Stadium

NEW CIT Y (SOUTHERN EXTENSION)

99. Plan of Roman Gerasa (Jerash). The Arch of Hadrian is shown in block H15, at the lower edge of the plan. (After Watts, ‘The role of monuments’, cited at p. 141.)

creating form portant buildings of the city was directly related to the constellations of the universe. That would have reﬂected the intellectual interests and astronomical expertise of the mathematici responsible for public architecture there. As Nicomachus wrote a theoretical work on astronomy, he was capable of such cosmologically based urban planning. These examples are from the eastern Roman provinces, where Greek language and scientiﬁc culture were dominant. In this region, mathematicians like Nicomachus were not esoteric and remote ﬁgures, but celebrated public men and models of intellectual achievement. Real proof of numerical competence was ‘being able to count like Nicomachus’.143 Although there is less evidence for the diffusion of such ideas in the western Empire, this does not mean that architects in western Roman cities did not have similar interests in mathematical theory and cosmic architecture. Rome itself was full of eastern mathematicians and architects, and its buildings, especially the Pantheon, testify to a diversity of novel forms. A high level of numeracy was a prized part of Roman upper-middle-class education. In 144 the teacher Sextus Aufustius Agreus built a tomb at Ostia for an anonymous 13-year-old pupil. The boy’s epitaph described him as a melior calculator, with powers of memory and mathematical knowledge unsurpassed by others in living memory. What he knew went far beyond the scope of a funerary inscription, but could be written in a book, as the notebooks he had left on his skills reﬂected: he was the ﬁrst to leave such notes and he alone could have equalled them if he had only lived longer.144 This boy had been training to be a calculator, an important junior administrative official of Roman municipia and colonies consulted on numerical matters, just as

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a notarius or librarius was consulted to write down a will or look up official records. At a higher level, this work was a post in the imperial and provincial service.145 Well-trained officials with high mathematical knowledge played an important role in Roman urban administration, and probably also had an effect on the design of public buildings. Outside the cosmopolitan environment of Rome and major provincial cities, the rich curvilinear forms of buildings such as the Temple of Aesculapius at Lambaesis (Fig. 82b–c) or the Nymphaeum at Zaghouane146 imply an elevation of the art of geometry among military architecti. At Wroxeter, the arcades of the frigidarium and the polygonal lobe-like plan of the caldarium in the new baths showed a fascination with curvilinear forms (Fig. 80b).147 Neo-Pythagorean ideas and similar beliefs may have helped to shape the conception of monumental architecture, not only in traditional centres of Greek culture, but also in the cities and military settlements of the West. In North Africa, for example, the signiﬁcance of the new mathematical and cosmological ideas of eastern origin for the meanings of public architecture cannot be ignored. Although these ideas had been expressed in Greek, they were diffused in this Latin-speaking region. The rhetor Apuleius of Madaura translated the musical treatise and the Arithmetic of Nicomachus into Latin, hardly a generation after their original publication.148 Greek geometrical works probably experienced a similar widening of audience. The advances of Greek mathematics did not remain the arcane preserve of the specialist, but were manifested in public buildings across the Empire.

CONCLUSION These considerations help us to understand how architecture was perceived in the Roman world. During the Republic and early Empire, building was viewed in moral terms, as potentially subject to excess and extravagance. Aediﬁcatio was conceived as a game, played by the accumulation of materials, with rules of ephemerality and modesty transgressed by individual arrogance and aspirations to durability. But the conception of architectural form as an ideal mental image, and the understanding of buildings according to analogies with sculpture, the human body, and the cosmos, gave buildings a more serious purpose. The combination of materials was no random juxtaposition of inanimate elements; buildings had a spirit of their own because they were perceived as carefully composed. The morally ambivalent action of aediﬁcatio was dissociated from the utility and beauty of the result, which was edifying for the citizenry. A Roman building acquired an independent existence, and a human identity and authority.

This autonomy of architecture made builders insecure. It was arbitrary to whom a building belonged, yet it was potentially valuable as an expression of wealth or power. Strata of officialdom developed around monumental buildings, and the architect himself, especially in the eastern Empire, was no longer simply a subordinate servant of a magnate, but a ﬁgure of authority and power in his own right by virtue of the uniqueness of the architectural artefact that he created. Rhetors in the Second Sophistic were not only sources of funds; they also saw themselves as creative producers of art. Nicon emphasized both the social and moral signiﬁcance of his private benefactions and the cosmic perfection of his mathematical principles and the buildings which manifested them. Public buildings were not simply objects of show and ostentation; they could teach moral lessons.

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PART II MONUMENTS OF CIT Y AND EMPIRE

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CHAPTER 6

Buildings, Politics, and the Monumentality of Antonine Cities A building is an instrument a polity’s members use for reaching their purposes which are sometimes public, sometimes private, and always coordinated through politics with other purposes. (R. J. van Pelt and C. W. Westfall, Architectural Principles in an Age of Historicism, 65)

We have seen how the forms of individual buildings under the Antonines reﬂected the desires of patrons or architects to achieve what we might call ‘monumentality’, often at the expense of other, less imposing buildings around them. But as these were public buildings they also reﬂected on the dignity of the city. Every town in the Roman Empire was an amalgam of many different single constructions that each represented the aspirations of their builders. So how far did entire Roman cities possess ‘monumentality’ in their own right, and how much did individual monumental buildings contribute to it? Did the monumentality of the city amount to more than the sum of its parts? And to what extent did monumental architecture, which for individual patrons and architects involved self-assertion and rivalry with others, express a spirit of inter-city rivalry that threatened the unity of Empire? Buildings have political meaning in many ways. Various facets of the political aspect of architecture in the ancient world have been set out by Wolfgang Sonne.1 First, the erection of a public building is itself a political and public activity, because it is a highly visible process and involves large numbers of workmen.2 The impact of this factor on popular awareness of architecture is often neglected, but the monuments of contractors employed during the building boom in Flavian and Trajanic Rome suggest that the physical aspects of construction, such as huge cranes and scaffolding structures, had themselves a certain monumentality.3 Second, the visual layout of public architecture can have political implications, especially the relative amounts of space given to public and private buildings and their distribution and size. In this way architecture shows how power is shared in a community.4 Third, some buildings are political in function, not only assemblybuildings like the Roman Curia Julia, but also audience-halls, public precincts, temples, theatres, and amphitheatres housing imperial rituals. Finally, architecture can be used as a medium of political propaganda: for example, public spaces like the Fora of Augustus and Trajan, adorned with deliberately chosen political statuary, or the imperial palaces of Augustus or Domitian.5 Sonne also notes several less direct manifestations of the political aspect of architecture, understood loosely as ‘behaviour directed at the organisation of the community’.6 He notes, following several recent architectural theorists, that buildings are never entirely separate from

political ideas, and that historians inevitably interpret them politically because they are cultural monuments.7 The most direct way in which buildings communicate political meaning is by their decoration with signiﬁcant texts and images, but, as we have seen above, they also do so through their forms. This, of course, is a more complex and less obvious way of producing meaning than word or image. But, like words and images, architectural forms can be bearers of meaning in other contexts, serving as metaphors for social status or political power in painted or sculptured ‘micro-architecture’ and in literary accounts.

the organic ideal of the ancient cit y Historians tend to regard the ancient city as a unity, like an individual building. Such a perspective is encouraged by ancient political theory, but also by modern architectural theory, which since the 1950s has considered cities as architectonic unities. In The Image of the City Kevin Lynch explored the relation between human psychology and city environment, reconsidering cities in terms of the aesthetics of their landscapes and searching for ideal criteria which a city, like any single building, should satisfy in its design.8 Contemporaneously, Lewis Mumford considered cities as units from a social-anthropological perspective, looking at the spirit of place and the different forms produced by different cultural or spiritual patterns.9 Some recent scholars regard such organicism as a feature of ancient urban design. William MacDonald, for example, has written: ‘No building stood alone, not only because of the simple fact of urban density, but also because of formal and symbolic connections with other buildings and their common purpose of framing and accommodating town life.’10 Similarly, Margaret Lyttelton has argued that, ‘in a Roman town the important buildings were not seen in isolation, and as separate independent masses, but rather as parts of a greater whole’.11 Statements like these are based on the apparent unity of archaeological sites of ancient towns, which suggests that buildings and enclosed areas were deliberately linked by colonnades, steps, axial approaches, and even by an intrinsic system of ‘armatures’.12 The discovery of cities like Pompeii, Timgad, and Palmyra in an almost complete state has encouraged such idealized thinking.13

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According to this understanding of urban form, ideas of the uniqueness and completeness of a single building are transferred metaphorically to a whole city, which is itself perceived as an organic architectural structure. As Alberti observed in the Renaissance era, ‘the city is like a large house and the house in turn is like a small city’.14 The architectural analogy implies that political structures are organic. In its ideal form an ancient polis was composed of a number of citizen units, each represented by an appropriate proportion of the city space. Some Romans too had an organic view of the composition of the Republic. It is recorded that Agrippa Menenius Lanatus, consul in 503 bc, regrouped the Roman plebs and gave them solidarity by arguing that the city was a body in which all the limbs had an equivalent function.15 Maximus of Tyre wrote that the city was ‘a thing blended from all cooperating parts’.16 On this logic, a city’s political organicism was expressed spatially by the equal divisions of its architecture. Civic space was segmented into city houses of equal sizes, as can be seen in examples surviving at Olynthus and, from the Roman period, on the slope of Mt Coressus in Ephesus.17 A city often stood out because of its natural site or terrain as a single, monumental unit: perched on a hilltop or on the slope of a hill, or clustered around a bay.18 By its apparent resemblance to natural or man-made features like ﬁr-cones or writing-tablets, it attracted attention and acquired individual identity. It was the potential of a city to be a single icon that inﬂuenced the architect Deinocrates to construct his fantastic sculpture of Alexander the Great on the rocks of Mt Athos holding his new foundation of Alexandria in the palm of his hand.19 The idea, of course, was deliberately excessive, typical of the hyperbole that accompanied perceptions of Alexander. On civic coinage, it was not an image of the whole city, but the cult-statue of a tutelary deity that was traditionally used to represent a city’s collective identity. The sanctuary was often the dominating physical and ritual focus of the city, and outstanding examples like the Heraeum at Samos or the Artemisium of Ephesus were grand political monuments that, since the sixth century bc, had given these cities status in the eyes of the outside world. That these buildings bestowed such prestige may have been partly inﬂuenced by ideas from the East, where architecture had a high symbolic value: at Ephesus, the Lydian king Croesus ﬁnanced a grand restoration of the Temple of Artemis, placing his name on the bases of the columns of the cella. In the 350s the cult-buildings erected by the Carian satrap Mausolus in the sanctuary of Zeus at Labraunda became a symbol of both Hecatomnid dynastic rule and Carian ethnic identity. Around 300 bc the city of Miletus acquired greater authority from the restoration of the extramural sanctuary of Apollo, the Didymaion, by the Syrian king Antiochus I, with an architecture that emphasized the building’s cosmic meaning.20 On Greek coins before the Antonine period, the architectural potential of a cult temple was limited. It was usual to show a deity enshrined within a temple-like surround, which carried the monumental associations of pedimented architecture without being a true representation of that temple’s actual form. Yet architecture, especially the columnar orders, could play a symbolic role. In Italy, the hilltop sanctuary of Fortuna Primigenia at Praeneste, dating from the later second century bc, was just such a statement of civic pride, if not rivalry with Rome herself. The patron goddess stood at the head not only of the pagan gods, but even of the universe itself.21 The arcuated forms and vaulted

terrace of concrete rubble, expressing a degree of monumentality that at that time was barely seen in Rome, asserted the Praenestines’ independent spirit and capability. The different columnar orders arranged across the complex showed a clear progression from the simplest Tuscan on the lowest terrace to Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian above, and the most ornate Italo-Corinthian order at the top, a composite form symbolizing ‘Italic’ cultural identity. The whole architecture of the sanctuary suggested the community’s organic political unity.22 After the fall of independent Praeneste in the Social Wars, Rome absorbed such forms into Roman imperial ideology, with Augustus later developing both the composite capital and the superimposition of orders for ideological purposes of his own.23

the crown of walls No building type in the ancient world expressed the identity and unity of a city more clearly than its outer boundary. That city walls had symbolic as well as practical functions was evident already in prehistoric architecture.24 A poignant example from ﬁfth-century Athens is the reuse of column drums from the old acropolis in the walls built after the Persian sack, recalling the city’s rescue from destruction.25 In the fourth century bc the need for fortiﬁcation raised political, philosophical, and aesthetic issues. Walls laid out on previously formless terrain gave a city kosmos, both ‘order’ and ‘ornament’, and signalled the triumph of art (techne-) over nature (phusis).26 Grand gateways encouraged Greek orators to praise cities for presenting a uniﬁed face to the outside, the ‘façade’ or ‘propylaea’ of a region.27 The metonymic value of circuit walls was not lost on Romans either. At Rome, the names of the consuls, inscribed by official decree of the Senate on the old gates of the Servian Wall, symbolized the Augustan restoration of the city.28 The city walls were sacrosanct, and it was a capital offence to enter the city by any other means than through its gates.29 Nero, who renamed the city after himself, was the only emperor to interfere with these sacred bounds until the later third century.30 But the sprawl of urban buildings had long spread far beyond the walls.31 By the Antonine age the notion of continentia aediﬁcia urbis, or simply continentia urbis,32 helped to give this dense urban sprawl a sense of spatial unity that was consistent with the continued symbolic primacy of a boundary that no longer served a practical use. Ulpius Marcellus, a member of the councils of both Antoninus and Marcus, quoted the earlier jurist Alfenus Varus: ‘ “The city” (urbs) means “Rome”, which is enclosed by the city wall, and “Rome” is where there are continuous buildings: daily usage suggests that Rome is not regarded as limited by a wall, since we say that we go to Rome even if we live outside the city.’33 Marcellus’ contemporary, Terentius Clemens, declared that ‘those born in the continuous parts of the city are deemed to have been born at Rome’.34 In practice, the ‘Servian Wall’, like the pomerium, became less signiﬁcant in the second century: it was even disputed which king had built it.35 The idea of a city spreading beyond its traditional boundaries suited Aristides’ presentation of the Empire as a sprawling cosmic city, in which the provincial towns contained within its suburbs formed a second outer wall; and not wholly detached from such rhetoric was the legal notion of continentes provinciae, the provinces adjacent to Italy, such as Gaul and

buildings, politics, and monumentalit y Sicily, which resembled the suburban continentia aediﬁcia spreading beyond the walls of Rome.36 Yet city walls remained the most important feature in representations of urban form. In the recently discovered fresco from the Oppian Hill, which perhaps adorned the house of the urban prefect, the buildings behind the wall are less prominent than the city wall itself and its gates and towers (Fig. 100). Some major public buildings stand out: the theatre (upper left); a large and imposing temple precinct (upper right); and a smaller temple on a podium between them. But the other buildings are indistinct and hard to identify.37 For smaller towns, the construction or rebuilding of a walled circuit had an important symbolic function. In the late Republic the walls, towers, and gates of colonies and municipia in Italy, Spain, and North Africa were dedicated by the community’s highest public officials, conﬁrming

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its foundation, re-foundation, or attainment of municipal or colonial rank under the authority of Rome.38 The circuit wall was the outermost manifestation of a city’s form, a screen that communicated to the visitor a city’s political identity. Usually the fruit of public expenditure, it was sometimes an object of grand political patronage by the emperor. Augustus granted the colony of Nemausus (modern Nîmes, in France) walls and gates; the new wall at Mauretanian Tipasa, in present Morocco, dedicated in 147, marked the town’s elevation to the same rank.39 For Tacitus, the walls of a colony were ‘bulwarks of servitude’;40 but to the inhabitants of a town they offered security and collective pride. Their ‘utility’ made them an essential element of the repertory of symbols of a Roman town.41 Under the Flavians, Jerusalem was awarded the ius muniendi, the right to city walls, gates, and towers.42 Tacitus, a constant critic of Roman aediﬁcatio, regarded this as a symptom of avaritia, but it gave

100. Detail of city fresco from Rome, ﬁrst century a.d. The fresco was discovered in 1997 in a gallery below the south-eastern exedra of Trajan’s Baths on the Oppian Hill.

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the cities a similar prestige to that bestowed on the inhabitants of a medieval castle by a ‘licence to crenellate’.43 As nineteenth-century political architecture in England and America mimicked medieval castellated features, so in the Roman world the distinctively military T-shaped merlons of the battlements of city walls, which are a common feature of mosaic decoration in the colonies of southern Gaul, openly signiﬁed urban defensive pride.44 The brick ‘Porta Palatina’ at the Augustan colony of Taurini (Turin), with two tall towers on either side of the opening, was plastered white and painted to resemble squared stone masonry, expressing more effectively its solid monumentality.45 The gates at Hispellum (Spello) and Assisium (Assisi), facing each other across the Umbrian hills, symbolized the local rivalry of these municipia. For Herod the Great and his son Herod Antipas, Roman client kings of Judaea, imposing gateways in Roman style with large, round towers frequently named after individuals indicated cultural and political loyalty.46 In the early second century such monumental gateways became a feature of the urban architecture of Asia Minor. Three examples in Pamphylia show how they served local rivalry and civic pride, as well as imperial ideology. At Attaleia (Antalya), a handsome triple gateway was built under Hadrian at the seaward part of the wall, visible to the foreigner arriving by sea. The ostentatious marble façade, with projecting free-standing columns on pedestals and composite capitals, was set between two rectangular towers in rusticated masonry (Fig. 101a–b). Although the gate is structurally secondary to the towers, they were probably all built as part of a single complex, which had no apparent connection with a defensive circuit.47 A text above the gate recorded the structure’s dedication to Hadrian Olympius by the Boule and Demos of the town, while on the architrave letters of gilded bronze proclaimed an individual’s dedication of the gate to Hadrian and the city, ready for the emperor’s visit in 130.48 On the outer face of one tower a smooth plaque inserted within the rusticated surface commemorated its erection by Julia Sancta, daughter of the Roman governor, and she too may have dedicated the gate (Fig. 103c). The whole complex was perhaps a response to a work at Perge around 121 that was aggressively situated on the side towards Attaleia. Between two older round towers, a local dignitary, Plancia Magna, whose father, Caius Plancius Varus, as governor of Bithynia, had earlier built an arched gateway at Nicaea,49 constructed a horseshoe-shaped inner courtyard, culminating in a three-bay arch with free-standing columns on pedestals dedicated to the deiﬁed emperor Trajan.50 Two levels of seven niches on either side contained giant statues of the city’s ‘founders’, which placed her own father and brother among mythical ﬁgures enshrined in the city’s topographical landmarks to express its revived historical identity.51 The revetment of imported coloured marble reﬂected the new wealth of Pamphylia since Trajan’s reign;52 the concentric paving within the court helped to make the complex an enclosed visual unity, with an almost ‘cosmic’ harmony and centredness, which implied that the city’s symbolic centre, the focal point of its civic identity, lay here, at its perimeter.53 But around this time the Hellenistic city walls were abandoned, leaving the gate standing alone, behind the round towers, as an isolated statement of the city’s exterior.54 At Side, along the coast, we ﬁnd a similar pattern: behind the Hellenistic gate with towers, a horseshoe-shaped court, strengthened in the later second century by inner walls with a rich, applied marble

(a)

(b)

(c) 101. Gate and towers of the city wall, Antalya (Attaleia). (a) Exterior view of the gate from the south. (b) Restored view of the gate and towers. (c) Inscription on the east tower recording the dedication by Julia Sancta.

decoration and two levels of statues of divinities placed in niches framed by columns. No identifying inscriptions have survived, but the complex was clearly inspired by the court at neighbouring Perge; one may infer that the statues also represented the city’s ‘founders’. The gate became known as the ‘Great Gate’ (Megale- Pule-), and was depicted on the city’s coinage.55 Other coins show the harbour, which for a mari-

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time city was equally important in creating visitors’ ﬁrst impressions, a hub of commercial and social activity, and therefore its symbolic focal point.56 The ring of jetties, as on Roman coins showing the harbour at Portus, reinforced this centripetal image, just as the curvilinear niche architecture and concentric paving of a gate court presented an image of ‘centred’-ness.57 The motif of city gates had appeared on civic coinages since the early imperial period.58 Bronze and silver coins of the Augustan colony of Emerita (Mérida) in Lusitania showed a city gate with two arched openings, framed by tall towers; schematic walls in the background alluded to the city’s colonial foundation.59 In the second century Greek

(a)

102. Coin of Bizya in Thrace, reverse face, showing city gate.

cities in the Roman East used similar forms to promote their identity to the outside world. The ﬁrst issues of Bizya in Thrace, struck under Hadrian (117–19 and 124–8), show two round towers ﬂanking a gate with a gallery of blind niches and seven statues and crowned by a Nike-like ﬁgure in a quadriga. The image was also employed under Antoninus Pius (Fig. 102) and, together with three pseudo-autonomous issues with Poseidon on the obverse side, may relate to the activity of the governor Orﬁtianus in 155.60 By the 240s the city’s coins showed the whole walled circuit, and some buildings within them, thus forming perhaps the earliest proper cityscape on coins, and showing the potency of the image of city walls as a symbol of the city.61 The gate at Bizya does not survive, but it must have looked similar to the ‘Porta Nigra’, still standing at Trier (Treviri) in Gallia Belgica, framed on both sides by imposing towers (Figs. 103a–b). The latter was part of a grand scheme started around 144/52 and completed by the last quarter of the century to monumentalize the entrance to the city.62 Originally two such gates stood at each end of a new bridge over the River Mosel, from which a broad avenue led to the forum. The view that visitors had from the far bank resembled schematized images of gates, towers, and walls on civic coins. As the 6.5-kilometre perimeter of the city wall was practically indefensible,63 it can have had no serious military value; but it had important social and political functions: to impress the foreign visitor with civic status, to intimidate country-dwellers with conspicuous urbanity, and to bar undesirable elements, like bandits and vagabonds, from the supposedly exclusive, uniﬁed, and organic ambit of the city. We see another aspect of the walled boundary on the ‘Porte Noire’ at Besançon (Vesontio), of c.175, where a relief on the façade shows the legendary ramparts of Ctesiphon in Babylon: alongside traditional, mythological reliefs depicting the battle between the Gods and the Giants, over which a ﬁgure of Jupiter on the keystone perhaps presided, the monumentality

(b) 103. The ‘Porta Nigra’ at Trier. (a) External façade. (b) Internal façade.

of the Antonine city was thus also expressed by contemporary allusion to that of the historic architecture of the East.64 Such lavish entrances to Roman cities are well attested in both the West and the East of the Empire. Outstanding examples can be seen at Jerash, Bosra, Damascus, Timgad, and Lambaesis. The image of city gates and walls was so potent an emblem of civic identity that it was used as an allegorical metonym for the city itself. In the early third century bc the Hellenistic sculptor Eutychides designed a statue of the goddess Fortune (Tyche) as a cult-statue of the tutelary goddess of Seleucid Antioch (Fig. 104).65 This allegorical ﬁgure was shown wearing a mural crown and seated above the River Orontes.66 In Trajan’s reign a new version of the statue was installed in the theatre to mark that building’s restoration and the city’s ‘re-foundation’ after an earthquake. A later Christian writer records that a puriﬁcatory sacriﬁce was performed of a local virgin, Calliope, with a mock bridal procession. A gilded bronze statue in her likeness was set up above four columns at the centre of a ‘nymphaeum’ in the proskenion, representing the Tyche of the city seated above a personiﬁcation of the River Orontes and shown being crowned with a crown of city walls by the city’s founders Seleucus and Antiochus.67

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105. Bronze sestertius of Hadrian from Rome, bearing the legend RESTITUTORI ORBIS (‘restorer of the world’). CREBM iii, Hadrian no. 1211.

Phrygia to Cyrene in North Africa.72 Some were executed in exotic marble and gilded.73 As at Trajanic Antioch, the image of the crown of walls helped to make concrete the image of the city’s ‘restoration’. A Hadrianic coin-type from Rome shows the emperor raising a female allegorical ﬁgure from the ground, making the legend on the coin, RESTITUTORI ORBIS, ‘restorer of the world’, no idle metaphor (Fig. 105).74 Wearing a crown of city walls, she looks up towards her helper; the ﬁgure represents the whole world, not just Rome, because ‘Roma’ is identiﬁed with the world and all the cities in it. In the same way, the walled crown asserted the renewal of ancient cities like Sparta75 and proclaimed the civic identity of little Sillyon in Pamphylia: although her architecture was less grand than that of neighbouring cities, her sacred image of Tyche was

104. Roman copy of the statue of the Tyche of Antioch by Eutychides.

This allegorical image of the ‘Fortune of the City’ crowned with walls was duplicated for other cities across the empire.68 The multiple variations in form show the transformations of this image, which had a range of symbolic connotations from an icon of the Phrygian mother goddess Cybele to the prestigious ‘mural crown’ awarded to the ﬁrst soldier to mount the wall of an enemy town.69 At Nicaea a female ﬁgure is represented on a coin of Antoninus Pius, not with the conventional ring crown but an arcaded structure; to the mainly Greek population it might have suggested the Romanization of their city.70 The rival city of Nicomedia also had sculptures of a tutelary goddess wearing a crown of walls.71 Such heads have been found at Greek cities from Aphrodisias in

106 (left). Marble head of female statue from Italica, wearing a tower crown. 60 cm. high. 107 (right). Crenellated head of Tutela. Found in 1827 in Avenue Carnot (formerly Quai Roussy), Nîmes. 1st or 2nd century a.d.

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gilded with ivory at the extremities, like Phidias’ colossal statue of Zeus at Olympia. At Elis, a colossal statue of Tyche, ‘grand in its grandeur’, was made of gilt wood and white marble.76 Special shrines, ‘Tycheia’, were dedicated to shelter the image of this deity, vital to civic identity, at Corinth in the agora, at Smyrna in the palm grove.77 In the West too cities were idealized through this ‘lofty, turreted ﬁgure’.78 Italica, re-founded by its native Hadrian, was shown, in a variation of the original type, wearing not a crown of walls but a large tower (Fig. 106).79 Elsewhere too, the symbol commemorated a period of actual architectural activity. The Antonine building work at Ravenna was monumentalized by a lifesize ‘Tyche’ statue in Thasian marble.80 The sculpted face of the allegorical ﬁgure could represent personal features of a benefactor regarded as a city’s new ‘founder’. A Tyche statue at Nemausus resembles Antonine and later members of the imperial family (Fig. 107).81 It might be identiﬁed with Plotina, in whose honour a basilica was built under Hadrian, or a local benefactress whose hairstyle followed imperial fashion. At Silchester a similar image decorated the rear apse of the basilica, possibly used as the seat of the town council.82 But at Lepcis a Tyche ﬁgure, with the likeness of an imperial lady, adorned the stage-building of the theatre, recalling the position at Antioch.83 In the main temple at Doclea, in Dalmatia, a ﬁgure holding a cornucopia, identiﬁed as a ‘genius’, may have been a Tyche; or perhaps the iconography was deliberately ambiguous.84 At Dougga, a ﬁgure with walled crown stood in a building near the Capitolium, formerly identiﬁed as a temple of Saturn, but perhaps the meetingplace of the local council.85 Its face appears personalized (Fig. 108), but unusually seems to represent a male ﬁgure, presumably a local notable, whose architectural benefactions it undoubtedly symbolized. Unlike the original from Antioch, most Tyche busts of this period belong to standing ﬁgures. But such allegorical images were sometimes on a smaller scale, notably on the keystones of arches, as on the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ at Ephesus, where it perhaps commemorated Hadrian’s accession.86 A female ﬁgure with mural crown adorned the keystone of an honoriﬁc arch at Lambaesis, confronting visitors from neighbouring Verecunda with the symbol of the city’s identity (Fig. 109).87 The symbol was a powerful one, and its cultural legacy reached as far as India.88

monumental streets and spaces of antonine cities

108. Marble male portrait statue with mural crown from the Temple of Saturn, Dougga.

However, to understand a city more fully one had to look inside its walls. The ancient polis was, even etymologically, an area to be ﬁlled, derived from the verb pimple-mi, ‘I ﬁll’.89 But whether a city consisted of people or buildings was a matter for debate. The former indicated a city’s greatness and ethnic identity, the latter its beauty and permanent fame. Politicians had constantly to remind their audiences, who were inclined to admire their cities as architectonic unities, that it was on the human element that success depended. In the troubled years of the late Republic, Pompey, like Themistocles and Nicias before him, insisted that ‘the res publica does not consist of walls’, but people.90 That these arguments were voiced in desperate circumstances only reinforces the impression that most people saw things differently. Tacitus is, as ever, polemical in the words he puts into the mouth of the imperial pre-

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109. City-gate, Lambaesis, facing towards Verecunda, with ornamental keystone in the form of a head with mural crown.

tender Otho, addressing his equestrian troops in Rome in the year 69: ‘What? Do you really believe that this city consists of houses, buildings, and a pile of stones? Those things are incidental, dumb and lifeless, and readily repaired: the eternity of the world, the peace of nations, and my personal safety, together with your own, are supported not by built structures, but by the inviolability of the Senate.’91 But what most impressed or daunted visitors to large Mediterranean cities was not so much the crowds of people as the monstrous buildings and vast volume of architectural space which swallowed all who entered them.92 Most ancient cities appeared very differently to visitors from the impression of orderly, easily mastered grids that we usually encounter today. When we visit archaeological sites we are directed to the main excavated monuments along broad, often modern, paths that divert our eyes from the unexcavated areas outside these channels. We read in the agrimensores of Roman colonies built around two main broad streets orientated according to the compass directions, cardo maximus and decumanus maximus, and intersecting at a central point deﬁned by the public surveyor at the ﬁrst moment of the colony’s foundation.93 Certainly, some towns were like this. Roman cities were more regulated in their street layout than many Greek ones, although the latter show an increasing tendency to regulate public space from the second century bc.94 But the overriding impression of Roman towns was haphazard, the nature of street space diverse. It was the narrow lanes, passages, and byways of ancient cities, that we do not often see in sites, which controlled public movement and deﬁned neighbourhoods.95 On this rather chaotic reality the more visible, monumental broad av-

enues, colonnaded streets, and open spaces were imposed at different times to give cities an ideal organic form. The city of Rome is no exception. It was only under Augustus that it was ﬁrst formally regulated into the shape described by the later Regionary Catalogues: fourteen districts (regiones), each supervised by a public official, initially a praetor or aedile and later a curator, and subdivided into 265 vici, each with four vicomagistri.96 The individual character of these vici usually determined an area’s architectural and social identity. Rome was still a ‘shapeless metropolis’, enormibus vicis,97 when Nero planned his reconstruction after the great ﬁre of 64.98 Then there was more chance of the city being given an ordered, almost ‘colonial’ character. Three of the Augustan regions were wiped out altogether, seven were substantially demolished, and only four were left untouched. Nero was ambitious to found a new city in his own name, and to reshape the burnt debris of Rome through his architects Severus and Celer.99 The ‘new city’ he built was not haphazard as before, but laid out ‘with measured rows of streets and broad spaces for roads; the height of buildings was restricted, closed precincts were opened up, and porticoes were added to protect the front of the insulae’.100 The new buildings used ﬁreproof Gabine and Alban tufas and included no common walls. There were those who thought the city’s ‘ancient form’ was healthier, since narrow streets and tall buildings offered protection from the sun’s dangerous heat, whereas the new, unshaded spaciousness seemed exposed. But the city of the ‘sun emperor’ went in the face of ancient practice and was designed to be an open, organic cosmopolis.101 Nero’s plan for Rome was never executed. But it reﬂects a conception

buildings, politics, and monumentalit y of urban space that was to inﬂuence city-planning across the Empire for the next century. Broad streets give a city breathing-space and character.102 We see such avenues and boulevards in the stage architecture of Roman plays and the vistas of their stage-buildings.103 This was an ideal city architecture, like that ‘city’ of the universe to which all men belonged, a place where streets and spaces were believed to be wide and open, not mean and narrow.104 Yet to achieve monumental impact a street must not be too broad, and its boundaries need to avoid ‘emptiness’ and lack of direction.105 In Nero’s plan this would be achieved by porticoes alongside the thoroughfares, a model he drew not only from late Republican Roman viae porticatae, but from the Hellenistic East; in Judaea, a generation earlier, Herod the Great built colonnades alongside re-paved boulevards.106 These porticoes served not just to orientate the visitor, but to show organic continuity between the different districts of the city. Thus, during the Jewish revolt of 66 the defenders of Jerusalem tried to destroy the porticoes around the edge, ‘just as, when a body is putrefying, they cut away the limbs that are already diseased to pre-empt its further spread’.107 In the second century such features became broader and more ornate.108 At Antioch the main street and its ﬂanking porticoes were progressively widened between the Seleucid era and the reign of Justinian, especially under Trajan and in the later second century.109 Antoninus Pius brought sandstone from the Thebaid to pave the roadway, erecting a stone plaque at the ‘Gate of the Cherubim’ from which the avenue led. At Hermopolis a spacious square was created at the centre of the city, probably under the governors of Hadrian and Antoninus: from the tetrastyle arch at its centre, dedicated in 176, paved colonnaded avenues led to the new imperial monuments, the ‘Antinoeion’ and ‘Hadrianeion’, and a large bathbuilding (Fig. 110).110 At Aphrodisias a ‘Tetrapylon’ marked the junction of streets leading to the Temple of Aphrodite and the theatre (Fig. 92a).111 These broad streets, and the huge columnar monuments at their intersections, helped to channel the movement of city populations and create a vision of civic unity.112 At times of public ceremonial, or during political assemblies and religious processions, when a city’s overall identity was most prominent, its principal thoroughfares and public buildings became focal points. The main routes formed paths of light and viewing.113 With elaborate gateways at their ends, they directed public processions, suggesting that the whole city walked together in social harmony. And how they walked mattered. As Michel de Certeau has written: ‘The act of walking is to the urban system what the speech act is to language or to the statements uttered. At the most elementary level, it has a[n] . . . “enunciative” function: it is a process of the appropriation of the topographical system on the part of the pedestrian.’114 The gentleman (eleutheros) was distinguished from the crowd because he walked with a ‘rhythm’.115 This mirrored the rhythmical order of street-side porticoes. In the colonnaded streets at Palmyra and Jerash, columns adorned at regular intervals with projecting consoles, originally supporting statues of the imperial family or local deities, gave a regularity and order to public space. At Aphrodisias, the benefactor, Carminius Claudianus, constructed a broad avenue (plateia) with a colonnade ‘on both sides of the street, from its beginning to its end and from the foundations to the cornice’.116 Such a street was ‘treated as a nostalgic artefact, to be restored to an ideal state or simulated to an

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imaginary historical model’.117 Grand avenues, like those built by Damianus at Ephesus or by Nicetes at Smyrna,118 transformed the access roads of these cities into rhetorical showpieces or preludes to a grand theme. In the West too, long, broad avenues at Trier, Doclea, or Lincoln achieved a similar effect, linking the principal buildings to create a formal harmony between them. Without these grand public thoroughfares, every Roman city was potentially amorphous. Where archaeologists see ordered and regular gridded street networks, the ancients saw diversity or formless chaos. In Petronius’ Satyricon the young Giton was so afraid of losing his way in Puteoli that he marked the piers and columns along the streets.119 In the ruins of ancient cities today tourists pass from monument to monument, trying to re-create an easily regulated rite of urban passage. But to contemporaries the cities of the second century were a mass of competing sights. Outsiders travelled to evaluate foreign cities as monuments.120 The foreigner Aristides delivered encomia of Rome, Athens, and Cyzicus; Polemo’s treatise on Rome was an outsider’s view; and Pausanias of Asia Minor assessed the ancient cities and shrines of mainland Greece from a visitor’s perspective.121 The foreigner was well placed to judge both the impact of a city that he did not take for granted and its signiﬁcance in comparison with other cities to which he was more accustomed. Yet a large city was often an unfathomable visual

110. Hermopolis Magna, Egypt. Plan of the central area.

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experience. In Achilles Tatius’ romantic tale Leucippe and Cleitophon, written around the 150s, the hero Cleitophon found himself in central Alexandria, peering down confusing radii of streets leading in different directions:122 Like a ﬂash of lightning, the city’s beauty struck me at once and ﬁlled my eyes with pleasure. A straight plumb-line of columns led on either side from the Gates of the Sun to the Gates of the Moon: they are the city’s porters. In between the columns lies the plain of the city; but the way through the plain is wide and a solitude full of people.

A few hundred yards out of the city he came to ‘Alexander Square’, where he saw the beautiful sights of the city reappear: matching the grove of columns which led into the open space there was another just as long that crossed it at an angle. Dividing my eyes between all the streets, I was a viewer unsated and failed to see the beauty as a whole. I saw some things, I almost saw others, I stretched to see others again, but others still I could not reach. The overall sight was surpassed by the individual objects I could see, but I was distracted by the sights I could expect. I took myself round into all the streets and, desperately in love with the view, said in exhaustion: ‘Eyes, we have been beaten!’

This description is valuable not so much for what it says about the experience of one particular city, as for its evocation of the experience of Antonine cities in general. 123 Viewing architecture in a Roman city was an emotional and uncompletable exercise,124 comparable to the romantic or erotic gazes of lovers.125 Certainly, the character of Achilles Tatius’ description owes much to rhetorical conventions, and in particular to the device of the writer’s inability to describe all he sees (enargeia), which helps to reinforce the impression of its magnitude.126 But the rhetoric itself rests on an assumption about the nature of the actual experience of architecture. Moreover, behind the contrast between the city as architectonic visual whole and its nature as an amalgam of overwhelming sights lay that deeper structural dichotomy, between the urban space of a city and the people that ﬁlled it: But then I saw two new and extraordinary sights, a contest between size and beauty and between people and city (megethous pros kallos hamillan kai de-mou pros polin): the city was larger than a continent, the people more numerous than a nation; and if I looked back into the city I could not believe that any people would ﬁll it with men, or if I stared at the people I was amazed that any city would have room for them: the balance was equal.

In Cleitophon’s experience, Alexandria seemed extraordinarily large, its buildings, including the Gates of the Sun and the Moon, suggesting cosmic proportions.127 The gates and colonnaded streets gave orientation to an otherwise confused and immeasurable urban growth.128 Despite the traveller’s despair at the number of streets and buildings, the city’s supposed organic unity shone through, notwithstanding the divided reality,129 because of the splendour of the principal thoroughfares and open squares. In other cities too, like Smyrna, broad avenues with evocative and magical-sounding names like ‘Golden’ or ‘Sacred’, running ‘from hill to hill and temple to temple’, created a semblance of urban coherence and an aura of divine mystery. But the attempts to order and unify cities

through broad avenues and gateways also contributed to its fragmentation. If archways like the central tetrastyle monument at Jerash directed pedestrian traffic, they were also boundaries. In the early ﬁrst century arches at Pompeii closed off the public, administrative space of the forum from other districts of the city. From the second century such structures deﬁned neighbourhoods and characterized city populations in a much more systematic way. Hadrian’s Arch at Athens divided the old city of Theseus from the supposedly new city of Hadrian.130 At Besançon (Vesontio) in Gaul the single-bay ‘Porte Noire’, erected in the 170s, marked the boundary between the upper and lower parts of the town. Its elaborate combination of projecting and re-entrant aedicules and niches, with composite capitals, produced a ‘baroque’ effect. But its ﬁgural ornament had a moral bearing. The mythological ﬁgures in the archivolts and between the attached columns, of gods and giants, or Daedalus and Icarus, represented paradigms of excess, over which a bust of Jupiter, in the position of honour on the front keystone, upheld order.131 The arch’s immediate purpose was to celebrate imperial conquest, speciﬁcally Marcus Aurelius’ suppression of the revolt of the Sequani in 172/5; its sculptural ornamentation and architectural form taught its audience the Roman virtues of pietas, virtus, and felicitas and the dangers of impiety and revolt.132 We see here a change in the signiﬁcance of Roman free-standing arches. Traditionally honoriﬁc, intended to propagate the memory of an individual, they now served a more collective end, no longer exalting one man in their decoration, but celebrating abstract, moral qualities.133 Even more general was the message promoted on the ‘Porte de Mars’ at Reims.134 This three-bay structure on the north side of the walled circuit resembles the entrance arch of Trajan’s Forum in Rome and the gate of Hadrian at Antalya in composition. Its façade was adorned with imagines clipeatae, apparently images of the gods, and keystones carved with female ﬁgures. The vaults of the passageways depict allegorical representations of the months, with a central, personiﬁed ﬁgure of Annus, the year, holding a cornucopia, and panels showing Romulus and Remus and Leda with the swan. The iconography expressed the moral and political notion of felicitas promoted by the architecture of Antonine cities, the idea that monumentality reﬂected prosperity under Rome. Topographically, arches divided Roman cities into smaller units. Urban form, as modern architectural theorists have shown, is potentially discordant and incoherent.135 A city’s uniqueness lies in its variety. Even today, a successful city image is believed to be the product, not of a continuous organic system, but of separate focal points: Places in the Town should have a strong visual identity: be visually differentiated from other places, recognizable, memorable, vivid. This means that one street should not look like a hundred other streets, nor a residential district be indistinguishable from the square miles of housing round about. Every place cannot be radically different from every other: important centers and avenues may be unique; but most places will vary only subtly. This quality of identity, or as it is often called ‘a sense of place’, is the cornerstone of a handsome environment. Without it, an observer can make no sense of the world, since he cannot distinguish or remember its parts. With it, he can begin to make relations; he has the visible basis for a sense of belonging; he can savour the uniqueness of places and people.136

The intersection of streets at junctions formed little ‘agoras’, which, for

buildings, politics, and monumentalit y visitors like Cleitophon, produced the effect of many smaller cities within. Sacral monuments could give unity to the buildings clustering around a single road artery. Even after Nero’s attempt at overall order, many of the aedicular shrines in Rome’s ancient vici were restored between 83 and 223; with their suitably ‘monumental’ form, they epitomized the identity of a small urban neighbourhood and asserted its historical authority.137 In the provinces too, Roman cities were ‘multifocal’, divided into districts with their own monumental identity highlighted by arches and aediculae.138 These districts were irregular in size, their identity and names determined by commercial or religious activities:139 the ‘slope of the glassmakers’ or ‘region of the incense-makers’ at Puteoli; groups ‘by the temple of Flora’ and ‘by the barbers’ at Velletri (Velitrae), or ‘by the carriage-makers of the Porta Stellatina’ at Cales;140 at the colony of Pisidian Antioch, the names of vici established symbolic contact with Rome.141 Local neighbourhoods created social loyalties, from ‘the residents of the acropolis’ at Pergamon to ‘the porphyry-dyers on 18th Street’ at Thessalonica.142 This multitude of small open spaces gave each Antonine city its peculiar vibrancy. While the agora or the forum was usually its administrative and commercial focus and ‘the place of most sovereign power’,143 reﬂected in its buildings, it was not always regarded as its only focus of monumentality. People also met in many other public spaces. One cannot, therefore, identify a priori the monumental centre of a Roman city. In some cases the theatre or cult temple, even situated on the fringes of a city, might be a better expression of civic identity. At Argos a statue of the legendary founder Danaus was part of an ensemble of portraits of heroes and emperors erected in the Hadrianic baths.144 At Nicaea, formed like a square precinct, with four gates and the main streets at right angles, the central stone was set up not in the agora but in the middle of the gymnasium.145 To gain a better understanding of where the ‘most monumental place’ in a city was located and its civic identity best encapsulated, it is worth considering where local authorities set up their most important monuments, especially honoriﬁc statues and inscriptions. Archaeology reveals a wide variety of such locations: fora, theatres, temple precincts, basilicas, gymnasia, baths, and even, increasingly in the second century, private houses.146 The language of inscriptions is also itself revealing. In Hellenistic and Roman cities the locations of such a monument are characteristically described as special places, in Greek topoi epise-motatoi or in Latin loca celeberrima. These equivalent phrases are used of the same locations, but they reﬂect different notions of monumental space. The Greek one, derived from the word se-ma, ‘monument’, implies that a particular spot chosen as a place of honour was more ‘monumental’ than others, more suited for a memorial, like the ‘great, monumental works’ of Varius at Ephesus, the baths and ‘Temple of Hadrian’.147 On the other hand, the Latin version of the phrase, loca celeberrima, ‘places of great concentration’, implies the high density and volume of the human traffic that congregated there, and so the greater possibility of renown.148 The best way to commemorate an achievement worthy of the entire city was to do so in the city’s most populous and so most ‘city-like’ place.149 These alternative notions of monumentality were combined in the architecture of public spaces in the Roman East. Since the later Hellenistic period, the viewing of urban space was focused on individ-

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ual monuments, se-mata, rather than whole areas.150 Urban ‘monumentality’ was appreciated by intense gazing at single buildings. This principle of ‘optical axiality’ enhanced the ‘town interior as a ﬁeld of vision’.151 Different individual complexes were framed like pictures, and the town could become ‘a number of isolated images of sight’.152 Monumental architectural frames, like proscenia or tetrastyla, enhanced and emphasized the view of important statuary. There was a trend towards closer scrutiny of single objects within the city, which anticipated late antique art; small, framed views brought out symbolic details more clearly.153 Public buildings demanded to be seen one at a time.154 The multi-storeyed façades of gates and fountains in Ionian cities were, like Palladio’s Venetian church façades, ‘scenographic eye-catchers’;155 their accumulated columnar orders had a ‘stage-like monumentality’.156 But these monumental frames were set up in the most densely ﬁlled spaces of Roman cities, in theatres, at city junctions, and other places of celebritas. They focused the attentions of a crowd on the monumentality of urban architecture. At Ephesus, for example, viewers were faced with a combination of conﬂicting visual demands resulting from the individual buildings around the busy space in front of the Library of Celsus. Archaeological investigation of the area has shown its incoherent appearance from the Archaic period, when the religious processional street ran past the site, ﬂanked by simple tombs; in the Roman period a semblance of order was imposed with the remodelling of the market agora below and the creation of its two-storey eastern colonnade in the Neronian period.157 On one side the Augustan gate of Mazaeus and Mithridates led into the agora. To the right the new porticoes masked the difference in level from the upper street, but created another monumental focus. The area was paved under Domitian, when it formed the key point along the ‘wedge’ (Embolos) from the imperial temple to the theatre,158 but only in the early second century did it gain a sense of closure with the creation of the library as a screen façade, west of the gate and almost at right-angles to it. Following the library’s reconstruction in the 1970s, the area now appears uniﬁed, by contrast with the unreconstructed areas around it, and several visual correspondences between the proﬁles of the library and the gate suggested to the excavators that it appeared harmonious to contemporaries. Yet the library, raised on steps, was quite out of proportion to the earlier monument: the lower entablature of its ostentatious columnar façade was the same height as the crowning cornice of the gate’s attic (Fig. 5a). This discordance of scale created tension, not harmony.159 Only later in the second century, when the constant passage of pedestrian traffic made the area a public focus, was it identiﬁed as a monumental unity by an inscription on the gate recording the city’s repaving of the area from the funds of Julia Potentilla.160 The operation was deﬁned in relation to surrounding buildings and described as a sustro-ma, a term suggestive of a closed, especially interior, space.161 This conception reveals a shift from the traditional sense of ‘harmony’ (harmonia) in Greek architectural aesthetics as referring to the inner composition of single buildings, whose parts were structurally joined, to the idea of a harmonious relation between one building and another.162 It corresponded to a development from the monumentality of a single building to the monumentality of a whole space.163 In the West, of course, where colonies especially were more regularly ordered,

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this idea of an enclosed monumental unity was already a feature of fora, characteristically lying at the centres of colonies and regarded as a sign of urban status. From the early Empire onwards, a sense of monumentality arose from the use of inscriptions of bronze lettering laid in the forum paving itself, archetypically at Rome164 and, subsequently, in many Roman colonies modelled on her example.165 The monumentality of such spaces, deﬁned by the presence of high-proﬁle religious and government buildings, was hardly surprising.166 In the colony of Antioch in Pisidia, the plateae Augusti and Tiberii, associated with the imperial temple, had a similar appearance. But the area paved by Potentilla at Ephesus had no such obvious connections; it had developed into a monumental focus outside the main agora of the city, and almost more important, by virtue of pedestrian usage and the stage-like structures around it. (a) On the west the area was bounded by the new ‘Gate of Hadrian’ (Fig. 29), from which a marble avenue led to the theatre. Such arches were not just boundaries between spaces, but provided a visual focus in their own right. The creation of monumental spaces is illustrated by the transformation of the agoras at Athens or Corinth in the Roman imperial period from largely open areas to ones crammed with strategically sited monuments like the Odeion of Agrippa or Temple of Ares, the latter transplanted from its original higher site; the area was as ﬁlled as ever with diverse activities, and the new buildings symbolized this density. On the organic analogy, the agora or forum might have been considered a city’s ‘heart’, linked by arteries to the other parts of the city. But in the Antonine period, especially in North Africa, one might ﬁnd it cut off from the surrounding streets by a walled enclosure. At Sufetula (Sbeitla) the forum was approached by a formal, three-bay gateway with composite columns, enclosed within a high wall, and closed off to the rear by its three temples, distin(b) guished by their columnar orders (Fig. 111).167 At Gigthis the forum was enclosed by a precinct wall and approached by a gateway with Corinthian columns (Figs. 112a–c).168 These enclosed areas are not vast, amorphous spaces; generally much smaller than ﬁrst-century fora, they are also visually more uniﬁed.169 Across the western Empire we ﬁnd a similar striving for monumental deﬁnition of the city centre: in Gallia Belgica ‘a wave of forum-building’ at Amiens, Paris, Trier, and Bavay, ‘each city anxious to comply’;170 in Britain, forum precincts

112. Forum, Gigthis, Tunisia. (a) View of the forum, with detail of lower moulding of precenct wall. (b) East gateway of the forum, detail of pilaster with Corinthian capital. (c) Plan of the forum and surrounding areas.

(c)

111. Forum, Sufetula (Sbeitla, Tunisia). View of the three temples.

at Wroxeter, St Albans, and Silchester; in the Danubian provinces, at Doclea and Nicopolis. As in the East, these enclosed areas were inﬂuenced in conception less by the Roman Forum and more by the imperial fora, bounded by high perimeter walls.171 As these major political spaces became closed off, other open areas were similarly monumentalized. Road junctions, as at Trier, approach roads, and areas outside gates, often the site of street markets,172 became centres of social and commercial activity and symbols of celebritas. At Timgad in 151 a statue was set up to the emperor

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113. Timgad (Thamugadi), Algeria. Plan of the area around the west gate (no. 41), showing the paved area (platea) between the Market of Cosinius (no. 34) and the Temple of the Genius Coloniae (no. 40). This platea was dedicated in a.d. 151.

Antoninus by the military governor of Numidia, Marcus Valerius Etruscus, ‘patron of the colony’, marking his dedication of a newly paved platea.173 This inscription is usually thought to refer to the broad street leading out of the town from the west gate, the so-called ‘Arch of Trajan’, probably constructed a few years earlier. 174 Elsewhere, the term platea certainly refers, in both the West and the East of the Empire, to broad colonnaded streets, especially paved where they had previously been unsurfaced.175 This was the signiﬁcation of the word when it entered Latin from the Greek world, to denote the wide avenues that feature in early second-century bc drama, and the word is still frequently used in this sense in early imperial literature.176 Yet by the ﬁrst century the word started to have another, associated sense, that of an enclosed space or square. Some epigraphic attestations of the term can clearly be identiﬁed from their context as referring to a colonnaded street; but others are more ambiguous: if one instance in North Africa said to be ‘adorned with arches’ was probably a street with arches along its route (although a square is not out of the question), 177 another platea provided with three steps seems more likely to have been a colonnaded space with steps around its sides leading down to the central area, as is often the case with North African fora, than a street with three steps in the middle of its course.178 When it is said only that the platea was paved,179 it is not possible without extraneous archaeological evidence to be clear whether the word refers to a street or a square. At the colony of Pisidian Antioch in Asia Minor, the archaeological context helps us to understand the phrase Tiberia platea as referring to the colonnaded street leading up to the principal temple, but it also suggests that the Augusta platea, by contrast, was the colonnaded open precinct in front of the temple.180 In the example from Timgad, the statue base referring to the platea was found ‘in the immediate neighbourhood’ of the Temple of the Genius Coloniae outside the west gate, which more naturally suggests that the space referred to was the paved ‘piazza’ facing this temple, which was also dedicated in Pius’ honour,

and in front of the Market of Cosinius (Fig. 113).181 The governor’s great work, then, was not the street outside the city gate, but an open place or square, where the density of pedestrian users was focused on a uniﬁed area, rather than extended along a route.182 These extensive ‘plazas’, linked and surrounded by colonnades, often with steps around them, were a familiar feature of second-century urbanism in North Africa and the East.183 By the late fourth century even Trajan’s Forum in Rome had, it seems, become known as the ‘platea Traiani’.184 Spaces like the busy commercial and religious space outside the west gate at Timgad were ﬁlled with crowds and framed by monuments that celebrated both civic and imperial identities. Here we see the origins of a practice common to late antique and early medieval towns and reﬂected in familiar modern derivatives, such as French place, Italian piazza, Spanish plaza, and Greek plateia: these open spaces, within or beyond the walls, served as monumental focal points for the diverse constituents of the town. Thus, although for most towns the forum was still the principal institutional and juridical centre, many other areas of social activity and group identity arose. At Ostia, the best-preserved city of the Antonine period, there is evidence of a growth of alternative monumental centres, with baths, sanctuaries, and other types of public building clustered around compact open spaces.185 The distribution of such buildings at Pompeii shows that the different districts of a ﬁrst-century town already had distinct identities.186 What is new in the second century is not just the growth of open areas around these buildings, but their competition with the forum proper as alternative centres and their connection with particular groups within the city who had separate social and religious identities. Some of these areas were associated with collegia, others had religious affiliations, with cults of Hercules, Serapis, Isis, and Mithras, or with Christianity or Judaism. The disproportionate archaeological attention paid to fora misleadingly suggests that these were always the primary or most important focus of ancient Roman cities. But where investigations have been conducted in less

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central locations, we also ﬁnd important architectural complexes. The numbers of potential loca celeberrima rapidly increased, even in Italy, where urban growth is often thought to have stagnated in this period because of a demographic drift to the countryside. At Luna (Luni) in Etruria a large temple was constructed within a grand, closed precinct during the Antonine period, well away from the old forum, on the site of a long-neglected temple built soon after the colony’s foundation, and it was dramatically transformed by the addition of a deep colonnaded forecourt.187 The cult here is unknown, and the precinct has not been fully excavated, but the area undoubtedly constituted an alternative focus for one of the diverse groups of the city. The Capitolia at Dougga (Figs. 76a–c) and Timgad, one in the centre of the city and one on the edge, were equally symbols of public identity. In many cities early Christian basilicas from the ﬁfth and sixth centuries have been identiﬁed in remoter areas; often these buildings had predecessors, which might have provided a focus for semi-independent groups, based around a private house or a public building. In such developments one might see the origins of the transformation of the centred Roman city into the de-centred and heterogeneous Byzantine one, but hardly a ‘loss of monumentality’.188

public buildings, the ‘ornaments’ of antonine cities This pattern of ‘decentralization’ and the emergence of closed areas reﬂecting the private ideals and aspirations of individuals and their families or exclusive groups has led some historians to see a dichotomy in the urban culture of this age between ‘public’ ideals and ‘private’ instincts.189 Others emphasize the private and individual features, the separations implied by different cults and intellectual circles, rejecting the public aspects as superﬁcial and seeing segregation and exclusivism as deeply rooted in this society. Archaeologists have reinforced this picture of tension by their sociological interpretations of the buildings of the period. They observe a distinct trend in the public architecture of the western provinces towards ‘privatization’ of public space, ‘loss of urbanity’, and ‘de-urbanization’.190 How accurate is this new picture of a society increasingly multiform and privatized? How far did the public buildings of Antonine cities in fact reﬂect a fragmentation or diminishing of ‘public’ responsibilities and an elevation of the private? Within the overall monumental frame of a city, individual buildings, linked by axes and steps, played a role as landmarks. They were the blocks that together deﬁned the identity of the place, the component elements of a city: ‘De même que les murs, les colonnes, etc., sont les éléments dont se composent les édiﬁces, de même les édiﬁces sont les éléments dont se composent les villes.’191 As in Alberti’s image cited earlier, the organic idea of urban composition in this French neo-Classical conception of urban architecture corresponds to an ancient idea that a city’s harmony depended upon individual buildings observing a hierarchy of scale. In the 440s in Athens it was a cause for public concern that some wealthy people possessed their own gymnasia, baths, and apodyteria, which made them no longer dependent on those built by the demos.192 This change amounted to a social and political revolution, since

public buildings of this kind had symbolized the citizens’ sense of community. It was to resist this threat that public orators, from the fourth century bc onwards, emphasized that a city’s public identity lay in its public buildings.193 Demosthenes, in several speeches delivered between 355 and 348 bc, reiterated the theme that the public buildings of Athens, not only the Propylaea and the Parthenon on the Acropolis, but also the docks, porticoes, and the Piraeus, were the pride of the city, ‘undying possessions’ handed down from Athens’ heyday as the public heritage.194 Such rhetoric was required because, in supposed contrast to the modest houses of the great ﬁfth-century Athenian statesmen Themistocles, Cimon, and Aristides, some people in Demosthenes’ time made their own houses more splendid than many public buildings, some of them allegedly buying up more land than everyone else put together. It was to guard against the pretensions of the wealthier class and to maintain their proper place within the organic structure of the whole city that, from the fourth century, public buildings in Greek cities became bigger in scale. By the Hellenistic period it was widely thought in cities of western Asia Minor and the Aegean islands that not only cult temples, but secular public buildings could express a city’s common identity. In 197 bc ﬁve commissioners were appointed at Iasos to construct new civic buildings, the bouleuterion and archeion, dedicated to the city and political Concord (Homonoia); their names were inscribed over the door of the building.195 Slightly later, the new bouleuterion at Miletus, dedicated to the people of that city, displayed the three classical orders at different parts of the building.196 At Rome, unlike in Greek cities, secular buildings could appear on the state coinage. This was a major difference, which, as we have seen, encouraged the symbolism of architectural form. But, because such buildings were associated with individuals rather than the city as a whole, they tended to promote conﬂict as much as unity. Belief in the importance of aediﬁcatio for the patrons’ social image led to outsized private buildings, ‘houses and villas built in the manner of cities’, which, from the late Republic to Nero’s Golden House, were seen as deviations from the normal political order.197 Their status, therefore, continued under the Empire to be ambiguous and sometimes problematic. At Rome, the monopolization of public building by the emperor helped to encourage the myth of the unity of the city’s buildings. The grand scale of buildings constructed by her imperial rulers could be taken to reﬂect Rome’s supreme power and status. Elsewhere, it was believed that the form of public buildings, especially the assembly building of the municipal council, should suit the city’s dignity.198 This meant not that the building should be as lavish as possible, but rather that its size and ornament should correspond to the city’s relative importance. A city had its dignity no less than a man, and in the same way needed buildings to reﬂect its personal glory. But in most towns splendid new public buildings were not easily integrated into the organic order of the city. The supposed coherence of urban planning in most ancient cities is a myth. As we have seen, civic buildings were the products of different benefactors at different occasions, which were designed to compete with one another in the dynamic, tension-ridden process of ‘euergetism’ that dominated ancient civic life.199 Their provision by single patrons did not so much enhance the unity of a city as leave it an even more amorphous collection of individually erected parts. The natural inclination in the

buildings, politics, and monumentalit y Roman world to regard buildings as personally associated with those who had erected them impeded their perception as symbols of a community. They were public in name and function, but served the glory of private individuals who donated them. The monumentality of urban public buildings was, therefore, a marriage of civic dignity and personal display. Any public structure built with private means was primarily perceived as an example of private aristocratic building. When Pompey erected his monumental stone theatre in Rome’s Campus Martius, his own private house in the city was closely adjacent at its west end, following the main building in its wake, ‘like a small boat towed to a larger ship’.200 In other towns public buildings were both personal monuments of their patrons and expressions of the status of a civic community. At Herculaneum, in the middle of the ﬁrst century, a father and son from the rich local family of the Remmii Ruﬁ donated weights and measures, a chalcidicum, and a schola, ‘in accordance with the splendour of the municipium’.201 The decree in their honour declared that ‘they were so liberal in their public services that their monuments were an ornament to the municipium’, and that they ‘did not give themselves to personal ambition or assertion, but contributed to the adornment and decorousness of the municipium’. The works remained the monumental achievement of their builders, but their glory was subsumed into the collective prestige of the city. What kind of public buildings gave cities prestige in the Antonine age? In a well-known passage Pausanias hesitated to call Panopeus in Phocis a polis, because it lacked certain necessary features: ‘if you can use the word polis for people who have no municipal buildings, gymnasium, theatre, or agora or water enclosed in a fountain, but live here in a mountain gorge in doorless shacks like mountain huts’.202 Aristides characterized the provincial cities of Rome’s Empire by a slightly divergent list: ‘all stuffed full of gymnasia, fountains, propylaea, temples, workshops, and schools.’203 Comparison of these two contemporary images of the Antonine city is instructive. The features listed by Pausanias might be equally applied to a Greek city of the Hellenistic period. Aristides’ list serves a sharper rhetorical function. Including not only gymnasia and fountains, but also productive structures, places of education, houses for the gods, and ornamental entrances, these buildings share an implicitly propaideutic purpose, that of addressing the visitor. For Pausanias, the cities of Roman Greece are continuations and reﬂections of an ideal and a historical Greek past; for Aristides, the cities of the Empire are Roman cities, geared to a positive moral purpose and parts of the great metaphorical parkland surrounding Rome. This was, of course, down to presentation. There is little actual difference in the types of buildings mentioned by these two Greeks from Asia Minor: they are the same basic kinds of structure, familiar from the urban landscape of late classical cities.204 But striking is the complete absence from both lists of the buildings of explicitly Roman stamp constructed throughout the Greek East: aqueducts, bath-buildings, and basilicas, whose arched and vaulted forms were so conspicuous to contemporaries.205 Something of the indistinctness presented by the typical Antonine city can be seen in Dio’s Euboean Oration. Dio recalls being shipwrecked in Euboea and befriending a primitive hunter, who described his life on an imperial estate. The herdsmen lived in ‘a few odd tents’

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with a wooden enclosure for their animals in a beautiful valley, which is described by Dio in an ecphrasis that perhaps resembled his lost work on Tempe.206 Dio’s own appearance to the hunter as an effete citydweller is developed in the contrast between this peaceful rural world and the nearby city, which the hunter had once visited. This city is described in a consciously generic and unspeciﬁc manner.207 To the rustic, its features are noticeably unfamiliar. The place is characterized by the size and number of its buildings, but the towers of the city wall are simply called ‘several high structures’ and the harbour is described as a ‘lake’. An official, sneering at the hunter’s tents made of hair and wood, took him to ‘the theatre’, recognizable to the countryman only as a hollow valley, ‘but semicircular, not straight, at either end, and not natural, but built from stone’.208 The description of what seems to be a Roman stadium resembles Calpurnius Siculus’ evocation of a temporary amphitheatre in Rome from the viewpoint of bucolic shepherds.209 To an urban-dweller more accustomed to city architecture, it might have seemed laughable to refer to something so familiar in these terms, but it brought out the habit of distinguishing buildings by their different geometrical shapes.210 Comparison with the countryside also drew attention to the city’s lack of tranquillity: the noise in the crowded theatre resembled a storm or thunder, and the festival, focus of the citizens’ collective self-identity, was like a bestial orgy. Dio writes that ‘a reasonable man’ came forward to point out the townsmen’s decadence: the proastion was a wasteland, and, within the walls, the town became rural, the gymnasium cultivated as farmland, the agora pastured by animals, and the most important public buildings, the bouleuterion and archeia, invaded by sheep: ‘any foreigner coming here would laugh at the city or pity it.’211 Dio’s account reveals an important feature of the monumentality of cities in the Roman Empire, obvious, yet often ignored because of the desolate ruins left today: they depended on fully functioning public buildings and spaces ﬁlled with crowds. Roman cities came to life at religious or other festivals, and it was then that their monumentality reached a height. Gates and avenues thronged with people; theatres, odeia, baths, and open squares were packed with crowds in celebration. This was the ideal of celebritas.212 In many areas of the Empire the second century saw signs of a lessening of public responsibility and aristocratic commitment to urban architecture. In the Italian and Iberian peninsulas, in particular, cities have been thought to show a ‘withdrawal from the public world’ already during the later ﬁrst century, and not just for economic reasons.213 Extensive and lavish villas of the second and third centuries suggest that members of the local ruling class were no longer interested in their cities. But, even if the public building works in these regions had diminished, the new constructions of the second century in the East, North Africa, and elsewhere—temples, arches, porticoes, libraries, and baths, for instance—point not merely to a rise in prosperity and security, but to a fundamental change in lifestyle between the early and middle Empire.214 In Asia Minor and Syria the wealth of preserved examples of civic buildings of this period is staggeringly impressive, the mania for building and the cult of public architecture glaringly apparent.215 Such projects helped to deﬁne a coherent physical image of the city. They also symbolized the idea of ‘togetherness’. The emperor Hadrian is supposed to have used public bath-buildings at the same

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time as everyone else, conversing with veterans and other ordinary citizens.216 Even if this account is apocryphal, it hints at the wider sense of the Roman public that was suggested by these interior spaces, especially the huge vaulted halls of the imperial baths—wider than had ever been possible in the hierarchized exterior spaces of the early imperial forum. If by the third century even a legal hearing could take place in a bath,217 it shows the intensiﬁcation of the ideal of public space and its diffusion to a wider variety of buildings. At Viroconium, the thirdlargest town in Roman Britain, the forum precinct was not the only focus of public life: an equally prominent setting for public gatherings was the grand basilica built across the main road, which was directly entered from the adjacent baths through a triple archway. The secondcentury bath-buildings at Xanten and Trier, each occupying an entire insula near the city’s forum, are comparable to large baths in North Africa or bath-gymnasia in eastern cities. Their situation at the centres of urban life gave them a new meaning that was hardly opposed to the idea of public space. But we need to consider in what sense a building was ‘public’ or ‘private’, and how such deﬁnitions of public and private may have differed from those of a century earlier. These twin concepts were not always polar opposites. A public building was ‘public’, not just because of the source of funds that paid for it, but because of its popular use or civic meaning. At Dougga the circus was built ‘at the demand of the whole people’, while the Capitolium temple gave this pagus a ‘municipal’ status and dignity beyond its actual rank.218 But there were also ‘public’ buildings that were not intended for the whole population. In this category were sanctuaries, used only by their worshippers; yet their architecture was no less intended as public display. Some baths at Ostia were meeting-places for devotees of a cult, like the baths in the sanctuary of Hercules;219 others probably served residents of one city-quarter alone.220 Such buildings were no less public because they were apart from the world of the forum and associated with voluptas, not negotium. The total number of such private gymnasia and meeting-halls gave a city architectural credibility and prestige. A city’s reputation might rest on buildings restricted to a particular group of users, like the mysteries at Eleusis, the Asclepieia at Pergamon and Epidaurus, or the spa complexes at Aachen (Aquae Granni) and Bath (Aquae Sulis). Such buildings, though not used by the whole population, nevertheless display a monumental architecture intended to communicate with the public. As the façade of a building was its public ‘face’,221 it revealed the character and personality of the institution within. This was most obviously the case with sanctuaries like the propyla of Appius Claudius and Marcus Aurelius at Eleusis or, at Pergamon, the entrance to the Temple of Demeter and Charax’s propylon in the Asclepieion; not just the Temple of Artemis at Jerash with its propylaea and huge stairway (Figs. 89a–c), but even the little grotto of Hermes at Canytelis was entered from a ‘propylaion with a colonnade’.222 The role of such monumental entrances was implicitly public, to address the multitude outside: the faithful they welcomed, to the excluded they offered forms to gaze at and admire. They announced the public, monumental aspect of a complex and at the same time created distance and exclusivity. But they also introduced secular spaces. At Nicopolis in Thrace a ‘propylon’, dedicated to Antoninus Pius, led into the forum of the colony.223 Individual buildings shared this aura of monumentality. By contrast

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(c) 114. The Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, Ostia. (a) Reconstructed entrance with pediment and inscription. (b) Restored view of the street outside. (c) Detail of the inner courtyard.

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(a)

with the simpler entrances to buildings along the streets at Pompeii, the streets at Ostia are lined with formal aedicular entrances, with paired columns and pediments that not only emphasize the importance of individual buildings, but also together enhance the town’s overall monumental appearance, as in an eighteenth-century English town.224 As in that case, the proliferation of the ideal of monumentality was made possible by the use of a material, brick, that was affordable and manufactured on an intensive scale. The protruding pediment and halfcolumns of the portal of the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana attract the attention of the pedestrian passing along the street; as he stands before the building, the stuccoed composite capitals and a marble plaque with tabula ansata identify the building and signal its public importance (Figs. 114a–b). Its inner colonnaded courtyard (Fig. 114c) has been likened to ‘a Renaissance palace’, with its labyrinth mosaic ﬂoor comparable to the public reception room of a private house.225 The scholae used by the guilds at Ostia provide a more impressive example of public monumentality.226 Imperial statues and portraits adorned these buildings, celebrating the birthdays of emperors and often presented in architectural form, silver heads held up by a bronze Atlas spreading his hands like the piers of a vault.227 The shipbuilders apparently met in the large, enclosed open space in front of a temple

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(c) 116. The schola of the nautae, Aventicum (Avenches, Switzerland). (a) Inscribed lintel block, possibly from the entrance, recording the dedication of the building. (b) Ornate variant of Corinthian capital from the entrance to the building. (c) Restored plan.

115. The ‘Schola di Traiano’, Ostia, mid-second century a.d. Detail of the curvilinear entrance court.

structure.228 Across the street, the ‘Schola di Traiano’, probably dating to around 145/55, had an ornate entrance adorned with rosy portasanta marble from Chios (Fig. 115), leading to a spacious, axial interior, basilica-like, focused on a semicircular apse with the emperor’s statue.229 Similar was the schola of the river-merchants at Aventicum (Avenches) in modern Switzerland. A marble inscription with outer frame (Fig. 116a), apparently the lintel block of the entrance, which was

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117. S. Maria in Cosmedin, Rome. Plan of the church with outline of the second-century ‘Statio Annonae’ formerly on the site.

marked out with ornate capitals (Fig. 116b), contained the building’s dedication ‘in honour of the divine imperial house’.230 The interior space appeared as an area of public communication: basilical in form, with a colonnaded nave and aisles, and an apse at the far end (Fig. 116c). It could not be more different from the scholae at Pompeii, which are simple semicircular structures facing onto a street; this schola was not the restricted resting-place of a few, but a grand interior for formal gatherings. The Roman building on the site of the church of S Maria in Cosmedin in Rome, the so-called ‘Statio Annonae’, presented a similar picture: an entrance portico of seven tall, ﬂuted columns, ﬁve across an access stairway, and composite capitals; narrower porticoes of three columns provided side entrances into an elongated basilical space (Fig. 117). Although the remains are fourth-century, the capitals are reused from the second century, when the monumental conception of the building perhaps originated.231 The grand public baths at Bulla Regia, begun by Julia Memmia, the wife of the consular Caius Memmius Iulius Albus, in the early third century, seems to have been associated not with the whole city, but with distinct groups within the town, sodales, who cooperated on buildings for their common use and for the tombs of their members. The keystones of the arched niches in the frigidarium carried magical emblems

like ﬁve-pointed crowns and crescents, apparently the icons of various fraternities in the city.232 That of the huge window of the caldarium represented a divinity, a patron god, perhaps Dionysus.233 The frigidarium pavement is decorated with a huge labyrinth, again reﬂecting the private nature of the space.234 But, despite these signs of exclusiveness, Memmia’s statue records that she built the baths for her city (patria) and the ‘welfare of its citizens’.235 In the Antonine period ideas of ‘public space’ were redeﬁned, with ‘private’ complexes developed to reﬂect a ‘public’ sense of monumentality. Honoriﬁc statues to prominent members of a community were increasingly erected in private, as well as public, buildings. While this may imply that their signiﬁcance was limited to a deﬁnite group of addressees, it also shows that supposedly exclusive areas could be invaded by the idea of public space.236 At Cyrene, the home of the wealthy aristocrat Jason Magnus, enlarged in the 160s, was a focus not only for his household, but for a whole urban quarter, containing a public cultplace and gymnasium in the same block as the residential area.237 At the centre of the complex, the peristyle was focused on a shrine to Hermes, in front of which a mosaic pavement inscription identiﬁed the owner. In the peristyle, columns supported ﬁgured capitals representing mythical and historical personalities associated with the city, such as the city’s founder Battus, which closely resemble capitals from the theatre at nearby Sabratha.238 The architectural ambivalence between family symbol and civic identity is expressed in the fact that the public office of gymnasiarch in charge of the gymnasium seems to have been held by Jason Magnus himself and his descendants. In the third century the aspect of the house as a public palace was increased by the erection of a monumental gateway with a ‘Syrian arch’ and Corinthian capitals in front of the peristyle court, which gave it the character of a public sacred precinct.239 A symbol of this paradoxical combination of elite exclusivity and intense public identity was the monumental collective latrine.240 Such structures, usually associated with public baths or gymnasia, were a distinctive feature of second-century urbanism. They represented either an ideal space for a ‘closed society’, suiting the reﬁnement of elites, or a spacious facility available to the wide clientele using public baths.241 Although such amenities had existed earlier, the scale and adornment of latrine architecture in the second century was unprecedented and, given the general reserve and self-consciousness of elites, may occasion some surprise. But personal hygiene was a public, as well as a private, responsibility, taken seriously by contemporary philosophers, who regarded themselves as the civilized heirs to classical Greek traditions of behaviour and comportment.242 Monumental architecture reﬂected this demand for ‘reﬁnement and self-control’.243 Latrines were not sources of embarrassment, but high-status objects of benefaction. At Ephesus, Publius Quintillius Varus, the builder of the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ (Fig. 28), dedicated a latrine, annexed to the baths later known as the Baths of Scholasticia, which were then possibly owned by the Vedii Antonini.244 A monumental inscription on a colonnade at the rear of the gymnasium celebrated the building of the latrine, euphemistically called thakos, literally a throne or council seat,245 and of paidiskeia, brothels, and their ornamentation; all were, like the temple on the other side of the complex, dedicated to Ephesian Artemis, the city, and the emperor.246 At Athens, a latrine for sixty-eight users

buildings, politics, and monumentalit y opened off the Roman Agora, with four columns around an enormous central impluvium.247 A huge latrine for eighty-ﬁve users was built around the middle of the century off the main colonnaded avenue at Apamea, the central basin likewise surrounded by a colonnade.248 In North Africa too, the communal latrines of public bath-buildings are particularly lavish. That in the ‘Seaward Baths’ at Sabratha, of the early second century, was hexagonal, with columns of cipollino marble and Corinthian capitals and marble walls and ﬂoor.249 In the Cyclops Baths at Dougga and the Large Baths at Madauros, latrines were ﬁtted into corner exedras, in the latter case 13 metres in diameter, with some twenty seats and a statue-niche (Fig. 118).250 How do such structures reﬂect the idea of public architecture as ‘monumentalization’? Guido Mansuelli, while not denying the importance of motives of pleasure and politics in public construction, argued that the greater scale of Roman buildings from the Flavian period should be seen above all in relation to increased demographic need: [M]onumentalization did not have a purely rhetorical purpose, as a celebration of great scale, and should be explained rather as an adaptation to demographic reality. In recent times rhetoric has often been connected with the interpretation given of the architectural facts, without understanding those facts in their historical and urbanistic context. One of the largest buildings of the ancient world, the Flavian amphitheatre, is as unrhetorical as can be conceived, especially if one considers the extreme, even ‘modern’, rationality of its construction process.251

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Population growth during the later ﬁrst and second centuries, not only in Rome but in other cities of the Empire such as Ephesus, Carthage, Athens, Apamea, and Antioch, goes some way towards explaining the increase in architectural scale, although this should not be overstated.252 But, even with the Colosseum, the nature of architecture as rhetoric cannot be completely ignored. From the Hellenistic period, population growth, especially the increase in the numbers of people governed by one person, was accompanied by a mental shift towards a view that true beauty lay in objects of great size.253 In Augustan Rome the awareness of the city’s growth from small origins to sprawling metropolis encouraged writers, especially Virgil in his Aeneid, to mirror the city’s increase in scale by the hyperbole of epic,254 and builders to erect colossal tombs and other huge buildings.255 In the second century size was still an important aesthetic criterion.256 Although increased demand may account in part for the size of amphitheatres and baths and the number of seats in latrine facilities, the scale of their monumental embellishment can also be seen in terms of a tendency to reduplicate space in Roman imperial design. The presence of a crowd gave a building monumental celebritas. Enlargement of scale can be interpreted as the architectural expression of ‘an optimistic urban feeling, which was stamped by the desire for demographic growth’.257 As Mansuelli himself had noted earlier, ampliﬁcatio implied rhetorical embellishment as much as physical extension.258 To explain urban development, one needs to look beyond the sim-

N 118. Large Baths, Madauros (Mdaourouch, Algeria). Plan showing the ornamental latrine (D).

Scale 1: 350

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plistic model of ‘continual enrichment’, according to which a city acquired ﬁrst its ‘necessary’ buildings and then added ‘superﬂuous’ extensions leading towards a predeﬁned idea of a civilized lifestyle. Even in the initial, somewhat idealized, phase of an individual city’s foundation, this model must be qualiﬁed by the cultural aims and standards of the founders. It does not explain at all the subsequent development of urban architecture. Behind the erection of each public building in a city was a decision taken in theory by all its inhabitants or referred to them; and this decision was inﬂuenced by a distinct ideological attitude. Yet this does not mean that the form of public buildings was dictated by purely local civic considerations. It may equally have been the consequence of individual choice or cultural factors external to the city concerned. The selection and adornment of structures such as circuitwalls, central temples, or luxurious bath-buildings to express architecturally the identity of an urban community depended on a variety of conceptions. The ‘new architecture’ of the second century was not a natural fur-

ther development of older cities, but the product of particular cultural changes. There were profound shifts in social relationships and attitude, not just at the top of the hierarchy and among the ruling classes, but in the mass of the population. Yet there was no softening of the ideal of celebritas. This quality was no longer manifested only in open public squares, but in grand internal spaces, especially basilicas and baths, ‘open spaces for Roman society’.259 The schematic representation of a fragmented world no longer living up to past ideals of urban public culture cannot adequately explain the devotion with which people in the second century erected buildings of all types in all parts of the Empire, and the success with which embellished nucleated centres attracted rural populations.260 It is misleading to suggest that in Antonine cities more attention was paid to private interests than to public ones. The economic power of the ruling classes was expressed, more than ever, by erections of new buildings and extensions to existing ones, which, together, expressed the monumentality of the city.

CHAPTER 7

The Cities and the Emperor Monumental architecture, then, strengthened a sense of public or civic identity in Antonine cities. But, because a public building could assert the political power of a city and, in so doing, challenge the aspirations of a rival city, it was potentially destabilizing in the context of the Empire as a whole. A balance had to be struck between the development of urban forms that reinvigorated a city’s urban identity and promoted the power of local elites loyal to Rome, and the consolidation of the unity of the Empire. Public buildings were the symbols of their city’s separate identity, but they could also represent the power of Rome and its ruling dynasty. Although provincial public buildings were mainly funded by the largesse of local elites, they could also be the result of imperial initiatives or a combination of local funding and imperial support. How far was this involvement of the emperor and his staff motivated by the attempt to control or ‘harmonize’ the architectural appearance of provincial cities? The following two chapters address the question of how, under the Antonines, supposedly civic buildings became, in effect, ‘imperial architecture’. This chapter examines the role of Antoninus Pius and his successors in two instances, the cities of Ionia in the East and the reconstruction of Carthage in the West; and considers the extent to which new buildings there promoted an imperial, rather than a local, ideology. Chapter 8 explores the characteristics of such ‘imperial architecture’ more generally.

urban benefaction and competition in asia Local civic pride was a strong factor in the architecture of cities in the Roman East. Public buildings were a marriage of civic loyalty and personal desire for fame. Benefactors competed to advance their own architectural projects as of particular importance to a city in her rivalry with her neighbours. When Dio ‘Chrysostom’ Cocceianus paid for the construction of a stoa in Prusa at the beginning of the second century, he was attacked by others for ‘digging up the city’ and creating a desert.1 Later, when he planned to erect another public building for the city, opponents urged that he had brought down ‘monuments and sacred buildings’.2 He defended himself by saying that the ‘monuments of old prosperity’ that he was demolishing were not great monuments like the Athenian Propylaea or Parthenon, the Samian Heraion, the Didymaion at Miletus, or the Artemision at Ephesus, but ‘ugly and laughable ruins’, ‘much lower than sheep pens’: ‘you blushed, or rather were stunned, with embarrassment’, when the Roman governors entered these hovels, so low that ‘blacksmiths worked there with a per-

manent stoop’, and so rickety that they threatened to fall down whenever a hammer was raised.3 Such structures occasioned not civic pride, but laughter and gloating, and Dio mocked his opponents, pained at seeing these ‘signs (se-meia) of former poverty and dishonour’ disappear, and uninterested as the columns and cornices of his new stoa were raised and workshops were erected. When the stoa was complete, he argued that it was already an instrument in Prusa’s rivalry with other cities and could not be pulled down.4 He would not rather have chosen any building other than this stoa to be associated with his name, not even the palaces of Darius or Croesus, nor his own family house, which, he boasted, was really golden, not merely so in name like Nero’s: ‘there is no use, I suppose,’ he observed ironically,5 ‘in a city being given a good appearance, more space and open areas, shade in summer and shelter in winter, and tall buildings worthy of a great city instead of mean, low ones.’ ‘Just as, in young horses, long limbs indicate future height, whereas short, stunted ones, they say, will always stay the same, so it is with our city.’6 Like the new ‘Asiatic façades’ of two or three storeys, his stoa introduced ‘a vertical element into the lower contours of Greek cities’.7 Dio stressed the architectural importance of his benefaction. His stoa would rank with famous porticoes elsewhere in the Empire: the Poikile at Athens, the Persica at Sparta, the golden porticoes at Rome, and the colonnaded streets of Antioch and Tarsus.8 These models are revealing, with Seleucid and Roman works ranked beside earlier Greek ones. Dio was apparently threatening to replace older buildings with works better suited to the city’s contemporary aspirations. One could shape a shoe to ﬁt one’s foot, he said; but one could not adapt a city to suit a mean or puny soul.9 If a privately funded stoa was to show civic pride effectively, it needed the best sculptors and masons available and a style of architectural ornament to match that of public buildings elsewhere in the province.10 The Roman Empire offered a wide framework in which a city could assert itself against its rivals. To win attention in an empire of so many cities, each community needed to present itself as greater than any other polis, as both a self-sufficient architectonic unity and a place of cultural and ethnic diversity, whose fame and inﬂuence were farreaching. Already in the Hellenistic period cities had been perceived as possessing human properties, such as ‘pride in honour’ (philotimia), ‘greatness of spirit’ (megalopsuchia), or ‘virtue’ (arete-).11 But it was under the Roman Empire that the Greek cities of Asia Minor adopted the most portentous titles: ‘the biggest’, ‘the most beautiful’, or ‘the loveliest in all Asia’. These titles seemed vindicated by the grandeur of their buildings. As cities could be said to possess not only ‘esteem’ (axio-ma),

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the cities and the emperor but also physical size (megethos) and beauty (kallos), buildings were vital to their self-representation.12 In second-century rhetoric the terms ‘beauty’ (kallos) and ‘great size’ (megethos) ampliﬁed not only single buildings, but the greatness of a whole town.13 Aristides praised Cyzicus for ‘the beauties of public buildings and the whole construction and size of the city’, and earlier writers had singled out the city for similar qualities.14 The scale and physical beauty of public architecture deﬁned a great city like Syracuse or Alexandria, and could save it from destruction.15 While megethos referred in Achilles Tatius’ description to the large population, it might also indicate the scale of the buildings that housed it. Rival claims to ‘size’ and ‘beauty’ were exacerbated with the incorporation of cities into the Roman Empire.16 Councils and citizen assemblies took seriously the claims of their own city to be the greatest in the province. Not all cities could aspire to this position, but the largest and most inﬂuential—Nicomedia and Nicaea in Bithynia-Pontus, and Ephesus, Smyrna, and Pergamon in Asia—competed to uphold their honour above the others.17 As a city’s greatness seemed reﬂected in the size and conspicuousness of its buildings, architecture played a signiﬁcant part in these exchanges of civic assertion and counter-assertion. Most prestigious of all were declarations of pre-eminence (pro-teia) in the province or of ‘neocorate’ status awarded by the Roman Senate for imperial temples.18 When Rome acquired the Province of Asia from the Attalids in 133 bc the former royal capital of Pergamon was generally regarded as the leading city, but there was no ﬁxed provincial capital. By the 60s bc Ephesus had become established as the governor’s base, but its precedence was not unchallenged.19 It was the focus of political building activity consolidating union between the city and Rome’s ruling dynasty: beside the rebuilt prytaneion and bouleuterion on the Upper Agora was erected a ‘royal stoa’ (Stoa Basileios), a three-aisled colonnade like basilicas in Rome, but named like the ‘royal stoa’ at Athens and dedicated in letters of gilded bronze to Ephesian Artemis, the emperor Augustus, Tiberius Caesar, and the City of Ephesus (Fig. 119a–b).20 Dedications of public buildings in the province for the next two centuries adapted this formula.21 Although the building included no explicit imperial cult, its imperial associations were expressed by overlifesize statues of Augustus and Livia on a podium against the back wall of the east room.22 The provincial temple of Rome and Augustus, however, had been established at Pergamon in 27 bc, because of its former pre-eminence, with lesser imperial temples for Romans in Asia built at Ephesus and Nicaea, ‘the leading cities’ in their provinces.23 In ad 26 Smyrna was chosen as the location of a second temple of the provincial imperial cult. By Nero’s reign all three cities were unofficially described as ne¯okoroi (‘temple wardens’): Pergamon and Smyrna each ‘neokoros of the Sebastoi’, by virtue of their temples of the provincial imperial cult, while Ephesus was called ‘neokoros of Artemis’.24 Domitian elevated the position of Ephesus with an ‘Olympic’ festival there in September 84 to celebrate his German victory of the previous year, and a temple of the imperial cult, built c.90 by the ‘temple-officials’ (neo-poioi) of Artemis, with a large forecourt and caryatid decoration alluding to his conquests.25 It was the culmination of a grand procession of the Koinon of Asia, in which all the cities of the province participated,26 and was complemented by the restoration of

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older buildings in the city, notably the Temple of Artemis, the outstanding symbol of civic identity: as a civic decree announced, ‘the renovation of our old monuments was suited to the great new imperial works while the most fortunate times of the most manifest of gods [Domitian] augured renewal’.27 Coins of the city declared now that Ephesus was now ‘twice neocorate’, once for the temple of the imperial cult and once for its cult of Artemis, although only the ﬁrst was an ofﬁcial title.28 The city’s new status was also promoted by other landmarks in the imperial ceremonial of the city: the columnar stage-building and rows of seating of the theatre (85/6), where the provincial assembly probably met, linked to the imperial temple by a new marble avenue, the ‘Embolos’ (c.94/5);29 and a new gymnasium, the ‘Harbour Baths’ (102/11), dedicated by Tiberius Claudius Aristio, ‘ﬁrst of the Ephesians’, prytanis, secretary, and three times high-priest of Asia; particularly striking are two rooms on opposite sides of the palaestra (Fig. 120, M), which were sumptuously decorated with aedicular façades ﬁlled with statuary, and so have been associated by scholars with the imperial cult.30 In 104 in the ‘Foundation’ of Caius Vibius Salutaris, the city’s Roman connections were displayed not only by the images in the procession, which combined mythological icons with portraits of the imperial family, but by its very route through the city, which tied ancient buildings like the Artemisium and the theatre to Roman monuments like the imperial temple and the stoa basileios.31 A new aqueduct of c.102–14, 210 stades long, further celebrated the city’s neocorate status, culminating in a lavish fountain, the ‘Nymphaeum of Trajan’, dedicated by Aristio, who superintended the Library of Celsus,32 and his wife Lydia Laterana, to Artemis, Trajan, and Ephesus.33 During this period Dio, the patron of the stoa at Prusa, recognized that rivalry in public buildings threatened the harmony of the region. He proposed a relation of homonoia (‘concord’) between the cities, with civic buildings shared by all participating cities, not a source of contention and advantage for one city alone. Speaking at Nicomedia, he envisaged an agreement between Nicaea, Nicomedia, Ephesus, and

120. ‘Harbour Baths’, Ephesus. Plan of the main block.

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Smyrna, urging, by way of example, that ‘the buildings of the people of Smyrna will be common to you’, the people of Nicomedia.34 Under the Roman Empire agreements with other cities, formally expressed in the name of homonoia and publicized on the cities’ coins, were negotiated by Rome.35 Some Greeks lamented the fact that cities could no longer make independent treaties with each other, but Rome’s role was probably limited to encouraging policies which tended towards the unity of Empire and diminished competition between cities.36 By the slogan of homonoia, Dio did not merely wish to reduce the symbolic conﬂict of rival public buildings. The term also implied speciﬁc practical arrangements, such as mutual rights of citizenship (isopoliteia) and property-ownership.37 Under Dio’s proposal, the public buildings at Smyrna would not just be symbolically shared by citizens of all four cities, but used by all.38 There were also speciﬁcally architectural implications. First, building-materials would be more readily available. In seeking a similar agreement of homonoia between the Bithynian cities of Apamea and Prusa, Dio had argued that the Apameans would have easier access to Prusa’s rich resource of buildingtimber from Mt Olympus in Mysia, while Prusa could use Apamea’s harbour to obtain imported marble.39 Second, the number of potential patrons was increased. Under a contract of Homonoia each city had, according to Dio, twice as much philotimia, wealth and ambition of individuals.40 How workable these proposals were may be doubted. None of them came to fruition, probably because of the prevailing rivalry between individual cities. Those who encouraged the governing bodies of their cities to regard themselves as superior, because of size or cultural importance, might have felt that a city had nothing to gain and everything to lose from an arrangement of Homonoia. The idea did not resurface until the Antonine period. Meanwhile, Pergamon and Smyrna countered Ephesus with their own claims for provincial esteem. Around 102 Pergamon was granted the official title ‘ﬁrst neokoros of the Sebastoi’, referring to its precedence in this matter, and twelve years later, with the inauguration of the Traianeum, it became the ‘ﬁrst and twice neocorate city of the Sebastoi’ and, on the temple’s completion in 124, ‘metropolis of Asia’. The monuments erected for Hadrian at Ephesus at the start of his reign, the gate and Varius’ ‘temple’ (Fig. 28), were meant to encourage the emperor to give equivalent status to their own city, the provincial governor’s seat; when Hadrian visited the city in summer 124, the Ephesians set up statues to him as their ‘founder’ (ktiste-s), a word implying the construction of great buildings.41 He had, after all, already responded to the Nicaeans’ request for aid in 120 by rebuilding their city walls and helping to give Nicaea precedence over Nicomedia as chief city of Bithynia.42 Yet this was wishful thinking.43 The orator Polemo persuaded Hadrian to divert his attentions to Smyrna. By the emperor’s gift of 10 million drachmas, allegedly in one day, that city was endowed with ‘the most magniﬁcent gymnasium in Asia, and a temple seen from afar which seems on its promontory to match Cape Mimas opposite’.44 This was a second temple of the imperial cult, in virtue of which Smyrna, like Pergamon, now received the title ‘twice neocorate of the Sebastoi’. The comparison between temple and landscape was signiﬁcant: Cape Mimas, now Kara Burun, is situated at the end of the gulf, on the edge of the Aegean, outside Smyrna’s own territory (Map 5).

By rivalling this distant headland, the new temple of the imperial cult, associated with a gymnasium like the neocorate temple at Ephesus, claimed monumental signiﬁcance beyond the city’s bounds. Like the Temple of Augustus at Tarragona, the capital of Hispania Tarraconensis, erected by Tiberius and restored by Hadrian himself, it stood out physically as a model for other cities and provinces.45 Smyrna’s agora and the ‘magniﬁcent construction of its buildings’ were also said to be outstanding (lamprunei).46 A marble stele gives details of some of these works, contributed by local benefactors seeking reﬂected glory from Smyrna’s reconstruction by the emperor: the following persons declared promises: Claudius Bassus, agonothete of the Nemeseis, to pave the basilica; Fuscus, to make a work worth 70,000 [drachmas?]; Chersiphron, asiarch, the gardens in the palm-grove (phoineiko-n); Lucius Pompeius for the palm-grove, 50,000 drachmas; Lucius Vestinus, to pave the basilica which is beside the bouleuterion and to make bronze doors; Smaragdus, prytanis, to construct a temple of Tyche in the palm-grove; Claudianus, prytanis, to gild the roof of the anointing-room (alipte-rion) belonging to the gerousia; and the following persons for the thanks-offering (chariste-rion) of young men, a column with coiled base-mouldings (speirokephalo-[n]): Nymphidia, high-priestess, Claudia Artemilla, Claudia Polla, Claudia daughter of Niketus, Theudianus, stephane-phoros for the second time, Flavia Asclepiake, Isidorus, sophist, Antonia Magna, Claudius Aristio; Alvidia Magna: 10,000 drachmas, Claudia Hedeia: 10,000 (drachmas), Claudia Charis: 10,000 drachmas, Claudius Leontion: 10,000 drachmas, Claudia Aurelia: 52 columns of Cymbellite (marble?) with coiled base-mouldings for the palm-grove; the Jewish people: 10,000 drachmas; Metrodorus son of Nicanor [Dikenos?] for the palm-grove 7500 denarii; Murdius Caecilianus: 20,000 drachmas; and all the amount which we have received from Hadrianus Caesar through the help of Antonius Polemo; a second decree of the senate, according to which we have become twice neocorate: a sacred festival, immunity from taxation, prophets, singers of hymns, the sum of 1,500,000 drachmas, columns for the anointing-room: 72 of marble from Synnada, 20 of Numidian marble, 6 of porphyry, and the sun-terrace (heliocaminus) was constructed in the gymnasium by the high-priest Sextus.47

Two separate civic decrees are recorded here. The ﬁrst endorses a list of benefactions, or ‘thanks-offerings’, by private individuals, male and female, by separate groups within the city, like the Jews, and ﬁnally, by Hadrian’s endowments from the imperial treasury. The second celebrates the city’s second grant of neocorate status, its right to hold ceremonies of the imperial cult, and its expression of this status through a public bath-gymnasium adorned with coloured marbles from across the Empire. The emperor’s patronage, complemented by that of local elites, raises the city’s provincial standing. The private works relate to three major civic projects: the paving of one or two basilicas, adjacent to the assembly chamber of the city council;48 the gilding of the roof of the ‘anointing-room’ of the gerousia, the body of city elders; and a grove of palm trees, landscaped and adorned with a colonnade. The decoration of the latter with coiled bases, singled out here, perhaps represented local, ‘Ionian’ ethnic identity;49 the shrine for Tyche, the protecting deity with her crown of walls, was an architectural metonym of the city. As for Hadrian, he supplied marble columns from imperial quarries, including prestigious Egyptian porphyry for the anointingroom, reserved for the civic elders. The high-priest Sextus, who presided over the imperial cult at Smyrna, supervised the building’s

the cities and the emperor decoration: the sun-terrace (heliocaminus), fashionable in aristocratic villas around Rome, shows how Roman private building tastes inspired this provincial project.50 Perhaps conscious of the political jealousies aroused by Smyrna’s new buildings, especially the conspicuous imperial temple, Hadrian visited Ephesus again in spring 129 and perhaps a third time in 131 on his return from Egypt.51 An enormous stoa erected off the lower agora was dedicated by the asiarch Caius Claudius Verulanus Marcellus, his wife Scaptia Firmilla, and their son Claudius Berenicianus, to Ephesian Artemis, Hadrian, and the city.52 Shortly afterwards the provincial capital received its second ‘neocorate’ and the official title, ‘twice neocorate of the Sebastoi and ﬁrst city of Asia’, probably through the agency of Tiberius Claudius Piso Diophantus, high-priest of both imperial temples.53 No second imperial temple corresponding to the new title has been identiﬁed, but it may be the large temple on the site of St Mary’s Church.54 Antoninus’ reign began with the ‘cosmic earthquake’ of 142 in southwestern Asia Minor.55 The orator Aristides heard the news in Egypt and, on his return to Smyrna, stopped at Rhodes to deliver a speech (Or. 25) lamenting the damage caused by the calamity and wishing its councillors fortune in reconstructing it anew.56 The way in which the orator presents the city’s lost architectural heritage is illuminating: ‘The precincts of the gods, temples, and cult statues are so many in number, so great in size, and so ﬁne in beauty, that each would be a worthy thanks-offering for the rest and it is not possible to decide which of them one admires more; just one of them would bring sufficient civic pride (philotimia) to the rest of the city’ (5).57 The buildings ‘are ample and equal and seem to belong not to a city, but to one house; avenues run uninterruptedly from beginning to end, least deserving to be called lanes’ (6). Their benefactors, ‘by adorning the city with their works, were themselves adorned by memory’ (33). The visitor’s view of the city is similar to Cleitophon’s experience of the streets of Alexandria in Achilles Tatius’ novel: ‘a wonder both before and after all this work could not satiate the eye, the circuit of the walls and the height and beauty of the towers placed at intervals, like beacons for those sailing in, so that only at Rhodes did men landing and taking in the view immediately grow in spirit. Finest of all was that this circuit was not separated from the rest of the city, nor was there any empty space in between, but it clung to the city and like a crown encircled its head’ (7). The Tyche image of the city so popular in Antonine Asia is here vividly expressed. The following year Aristides visited Rome and delivered his famous oration ‘For Rome’ (Or. 26), probably in the emperor’s presence, perhaps beside the new symbol of the city, Hadrian’s Temple of Venus and Rome. He presented the imperial capital in even more elevated terms. As the roofs of Rhodes are like a ‘hanging plain’, so the buildings of Rome seem to rise ‘furthest up into the air’, a covering over the city like the snow of a Homeric simile. To describe this vast city, says Aristides, oratory is insufficient: ‘it needs an all-seeing Argos or god to take it all in; from what vantage-point can one see it all? And yet, wherever the visitor goes, he is always at the city’s centre’ (6–9). For the provincial Aristides, the real signiﬁcance of Rome lies in the many cities it commands, like Smyrna, Alexandria, Rhodes. The provinces are its ‘walls’, conceptually distant, but necessary as a buffer of protection against the outsider (79–83). This beautiful and extensive ‘parkland’ around the

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capital added to the glory of the great city at the centre: provincial cities were the trees and arbours of Rome’s suburbia (94, 99). Aristides’ rhetorical conception corresponds to the role of the new public buildings in Antonine Asia. In November 142 the Lycian Federation formally requested imperial aid to restore their cities damaged by the earthquake, and in September 143 the emperor responded by declaring his moral and ﬁnancial support for the benefactions of Opramoas of Rhodiapolis. Antoninus was proclaimed as ‘saviour and builder’ (so-te-r kai ktiste-s), and his legate, Quintus Voconius Saxa, governor of Lycia-Pamphylia (143–7), took charge of the reconstruction.58 Although the extent of direct imperial funding varied across the region, it may seem remarkable today that the character of such private initiatives was apparently controlled by the Roman administration. The rivalry between the three leading cities of the province of Asia was still as bitter as ever. Each refused to recognize the others’ titles. At issue was the right to host the annual provincial assembly and to lead the formal procession of cities to the imperial cult. ‘What counted more—the honourable past of Pergamon, the political clout of Ephesus, or the cultural importance of Smyrna?’59 As proconsul of Asia in 135–8, Antoninus had been well aware of the conﬂict. Although based at Ephesus, he would have visited Smyrna and Pergamon: he certainly went to Tralles, where he received an omen of his future imperial role.60 Once he was emperor, he tried to bring the cities together under the banner of Rome. He wrote to the three leading cities and, by a clever sophistry, promised ‘that he would judge that city to be ﬁnest and best, which voluntarily initiated the concord’.61 He then ﬁxed the titles of the three leading cities of Asia, and the cities ratiﬁed his ruling by decree. At Ephesus the secretary who formulated the decree was Publius Vedius Antoninus, originally called Marcus Claudius Sabinus, but adopted, after 128, by that Publius Vedius Antoninus who, as secretary in 118, had taken charge of the building of Varius’ ‘Temple of Hadrian’. He may have travelled to Rome himself to seek the emperor’s intervention.62 The imperial procurator sent a copy of the Ephesian decree to Pius, who replied in c.140–4, perhaps 143–4: I am satisﬁed that the people of Pergamon have in their letters to you assumed the titles which I pronounced were for the use of your city. I also believe that the Smyrnaeans accidentally omitted these titles from their decree about a common festival, and that they will in future gladly show a courteous spirit if you too remember to use the proper form of address determined for their city in your official correspondence with them.63

The ‘proper form of address’ determined by Antoninus ensured that Pergamon and Ephesus had equivalent, if not exactly the same, titles: Ephesus was ‘the ﬁrst and greatest metropolis of Asia and twice neokoros of the Sebastoi’, Pergamon, ‘the metropolis of Asia and twice and ﬁrst neokoros of the Sebastoi’.64 As Ephesus was ‘neokoros of Artemis’, Pergamon became ‘neokoros of Asclepius’; in the rebuilt Asclepieion a place was assigned to the divine Hadrian in the Temple of Zeus– Asclepius.65 The new amphitheatre at Pergamon accommodated provincial games given by the asiarch.66 Smyrna was raised to equivalent rank, its unofficial title Hadriane- implying a similar cult of Hadrian.67 At the same time, the Temple of Zeus at Cyzicus, associated with Hadrian, also became an ‘imperial temple’, giving that city neocorate status.68 The repetitiveness of these titles, and the apparently ab-

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(a)

(b)

the cities and the emperor surd implication that each of these cities was ‘ﬁrst’ or ‘greatest’, may suggest to modern readers that this outcome was not taken very seriously. Its importance, however, emerges from the civic architecture erected during the following years.

imperial ephesus Shortly after Antoninus’ letter, the son of the secretary Sabinus, Marcus Claudius Publius Vedius Antoninus Phaedrus Sabinianus, initiated building works at Ephesus.69 His benefaction was unusual in the city, as, unlike his father, he probably held neither local office nor state rank.70 It involved two projects in particular, situated at opposite ends of the city: the rebuilding of the city council-chamber, the bouleuterion, on the southern edge of the civic area, and a new gymnasium and baths complex beyond the stadium to the north.71 These proposals, like Dio’s stoa, were controversial. Both sides, Vedius and the city authorities, petitioned the emperor. In 145 Pius intervened, complaining to the Ephesians: The muniﬁcence which Vedius Antoninus [Sabinianus] generously bestows on you I have discovered not from your letter, but from his. For wishing to gain assistance from me towards the embellishment of the public works he promised you, he showed how numerous and splendid are the buildings that he is adding to the city; but you do not appreciate him as you should. I for my part granted him all his requests and recognized that he prefers not to follow the usual manner of civic politicians, who for reasons of immediate fame spend their largesse on shows, distributions, and competitions, but to create something by which he hopes to make the city more digniﬁed (semnoteran) for the future. Your letter was forwarded to me by Claudius Iulianus, excellent proconsul.72

We know of no vested interests of property-ownership with which his proposals conﬂicted, as in Dio’s case, so there were probably other reasons for the dispute. Various personal, political, and economic explanations have been suggested.73 However, the likeliest motive is the nature of the benefaction. Sabinianus’ request for imperial aid shows that he could not meet the full cost himself. But he had to make that request through the city council, where some of his opponents apparently suggested that his largesse should be spent on public shows and distributions.74 He was not an office-holder, so the city had some legal justiﬁcation for determining how his money should be spent. Their complaint to the provincial governor, however, was passed on to Pius himself, who took the benefactor’s side. In general, he appealed to the city’s future dignity and long-term physical improvement.75 But he was also perhaps making thinly veiled reference to a future occasion on which these new works might raise Ephesus’ status in the province. On 1 January 145 Ephesus had been the venue for the annual provincial assembly of Asia, attended by delegates from the various cities of the province, according to an order of rotation. The delegates would have met in the theatre, then the only suitable location for such large numbers, the bouleuterion being large enough for the councillors of the city alone.76 Sabinianus’ project to rebuild the latter would provide an adequate setting for the assembly on the next occasion when it met at Ephesus, in 149.77 Here was a chance to outshine their rivals by showing the size and beauty of their city reﬂected in a purpose-built assembly structure and a further

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lavish gymnasium that delegates could enjoy. From the Roman perspective, the building, adjacent to the stoa basileios, might even be completed in time for the start of Rome’s tenth saeculum in 148. Alluding to this event and to the cachet that the Ephesians would receive from having a new building for the purpose, Antoninus persuaded them to change their mind. Whether they were ﬁnally won over by the attraction of increased dignity at the next assembly, or simply bullied by this imperial intrusion, is difficult to say. But the buildings were completed and adorned with imperial support.78 The new works were dedicated in the name of Sabinianus and his wife Flavia Papiana to Ephesian Artemis, Antoninus Pius and his family, and the city of Ephesus. The gymnasium was completed under the proconsulship of Lucius Antonius Albus, so by July 148 at the latest;79 the bouleuterion, whose more fragmentary dedication is in other respects identical, was probably complete by January 149, when the provincial assembly met at Ephesus. In 150, when the Ephesians reported Sabinianus’ benefaction, the emperor responded drily that he already knew perfectly well about it, especially as ‘he was putting down favours from me for the eternal adornment of the city’.80 He also wrote to the provincial assembly that he had ‘supported [Sabinianus], as he would increase the beauty of the city and the adornment of Asia’.81 The language used to describe Sabinianus’ projects in this correspondence is borne out by their architecture. The council chamber’s situation reﬂected its imperial and civic importance: at the foot of Mt Pion (the Panayir Dag˘ ), half-resting on the hill’s lower slopes, and facing Mt Coressus, the Bübüldag˘ , it lay on the Upper Agora dominated by Domitian’s imperial temple (Fig. 121a), beside the Prytaneion and behind the Stoa Basileios with its similar dedication (Fig. 121b).82 The building’s increased capacity was achieved by adding an upper level on vaulted substructures to produce seating for about 1,500 people, making it one of the largest bouleuteria in the province and well suited to the needs of the provincial assembly (Fig. 121c).83 The governor who presided at the assembly of January 149 was the jurist Quintus Flavius Tertullus, suffect consul in July 133;84 one might imagine him using his rhetorical skills to acclaim the new building. What most indicated the

(c) 121. Council assembly building (Bouleuterion), Ephesus, a.d. c.147-151. (a) View from the ‘Staatsagora’. (b) Detail of the Stoa Basileios (foreground) and Bouleuterion (behind). (c) Site plan.

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city’s rank and future hopes was the decoration, funded, according to the emperor’s letter, by Antoninus himself.85 The building signalled Ephesus’ status as imperial city: the proscenium was adorned, like that of the almost contemporary theatre at Patara,86 with statues of the imperial house,87 to whom the building was partly dedicated,88 and on the marble revetment was inscribed the correspondence relating to Antoninus’ resolution of the conﬂict between the cities and to the construction of the building itself.89 The stage of the new bouleuterion looked very similar to that built around the same time at Nysa in Caria, further east along the Maeander valley (Figs. 122a–b).90 As at Ephesus, the four large podium structures

(a)

(b) 122. Bouleuterion, Nysa, Caria. (a) View of the standing remains. (b) Restored plan.

behind the tribunal supported statues of the imperial family, each framed in an aedicule between two columns: Pius, portrayed in a large cuirass with facing griffins, his sons Marcus and Verus, and Marcus’ wife Faustina.91 Beside this ensemble were statues of the building’s donor Pythodorus, the senator who funded work at the sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidaurus, and his family, suggesting the union between Rome and local elites on which the Empire depended.92 The presence of a portrait of Domitia Faustina, the ﬁrst child of Marcus and Faustina, born in 147 and deceased in 149, seems to imply that the building was erected between these years.93 But the tribunal was originally designed to carry only four statues, and the different style of the inscription on the base of the young girl suggests that her statue was added later.94 The building was thus probably completed between April 145, when Marcus married Faustina Minor, and 147.95 It responded to the recently rebuilt bouleuterion at Iasus to the south96 and in turn inﬂuenced Sabinianus’ building at Ephesus. Unlike the council chamber, the new bath-gymnasium at Ephesus97 was a wholly new building ‘from the foundations’, the formulaic words of the two surviving inscriptions hinting at its symbolic expression of a new beginning under Pius.98 Situated at the other end of the city near the stadium, and called the ‘baths by (Mount) Coressus’ by Aristides, who bathed there,99 it resembles in plan the ‘Harbour Baths’ (Fig. 123a; cf. Fig. 120) and other second-century bath-gymnasia in Asia Minor: the upper section consists of a symmetrical Roman bath, with large, vaulted hot and cold rooms and a swimming-bath (natatio) decorated with prostrate statues of river gods;100 the lower one was given over to an open, colonnaded palaestra court. In construction they were uncompromisingly modern, the large, cross-vaulted halls forming ‘perhaps the most Roman’ spatial group of all the gymnasia at Ephesus.101 The structure’s H-shaped core gave prominence to a room off the west side of the palaestra (Fig 123b), which Josef Keil, the original excavator of the building, identiﬁed as serving a cult of the emperor, of which Sabinianus’ wife Flavia Papiana, co-dedicator of the building, and possibly Vedius himself served as priestly officials.102 This interpretation is actually rather suspect. Keil based his view largely on the presence of a stepped base in front of the central niche of the room, which he reasonably took to be an altar; but his inference that this served a cult of the emperor Antoninus is not supported by any statue of the emperor or other imperial portraits surviving amongst the statuary decoration.103 The site was cleared in 2000, and a subsequent detailed examination of the baths revealed at the south-west corner of the palaestra a colonnaded latrine of the kind that was prevalent in public buildings of the Antonine period, as we have seen in the previous chapter (cf. Fig. 118).104 These buildings of the Vedii are usually seen as an example of private ‘euergetism’. In fact, as we have seen, their ornamentation, at least, depended on imperial support, and perhaps in recognition of this, the dedicators do not seem to have claimed in the inscriptions to have funded the buildings themselves. Antoninus’ letter to the city after the work’s completion implies a certain sensitivity on this issue. The gymnasium was perhaps one of the buildings ‘in Ionia’ that contemporary writers attributed to the emperor. Malalas later records that Antoninus ‘built a bath at Ephesus’,105 and there is no better candidate for this than the ‘Vedius gymnasium’. Adorned with marble columns from the im-

the cities and the emperor

135 123. Bath-gymnasium of Publius Vedius Antoninus Sabinianus, Ephesus, a.d. c.147–151. (a) Plan. (b) The so-called ‘imperial hall’ (Kaisersaal), standing remains in 1991.

(b)

perial quarries in Phrygia, it might have been the ‘imperial gymnasium’ (gumnasion Sebaston) to which a prytanis in the 140s promised ‘the missing Docimeian columns of 25 and a half feet’,106 possibly through the proconsul.107 Or perhaps the building’s imperial name was due to the prominent role played by the emperor in the commission of the building. In either case, the combination of private and imperial benefaction reinforced the city’s exalted rank. Moreover, it was not only the dignity of the city that Sabinianus increased. Some time after the construction of his buildings he became a senator, one of the ﬁrst Ephesians to achieve that rank.108

the ‘basilica stoa’ at thera In the same year (149) that the ‘imperial’ buildings at Ephesus were completed, another project was initiated further away in the province,

which would attract similar attention from the Roman administration. It was decided to restore a stoa on the island of Thera (Santorini), as some of the walls and structures had collapsed, possibly because of the earthquake of 142. The stoa, which had probably been built in the Ptolemaic period, opened off the long west side of the agora in the central area of the city, on a site well chosen for its terrain and accessibility (Fig. 124a).109 It had walls on three sides, made of small broken stones bonded together with mortar, the west one set against a hill behind, an internal axial row of unﬂuted Doric columns running through the whole length of the building, and originally an east colonnade open to the square, beﬁtting its broad civic and administrative functions, which was subsequently walled off (Fig. 124d).110 Several repairs and extensions were later made to this simple stoa building; a bathing complex was added at the south end in the early Roman period, and a doorway made between baths and stoa at the west end of the short south wall.111 In the second half of Trajan’s reign the roof was repaired at the expense of local families, and the building was dedicated ‘on behalf of the health and preservation of the greatest and most manifest of gods, the emperor Nerva Traianus Caesar Augustus Germanicus Dacicus, and on behalf of the concord of the sacred senate and people of the Romans’.112 The restoration of 149 was recorded by two stelae built into the long west wall of the building, almost opposite the present entrance from the agora (Fig. 124b–c).113 The left-hand one, with a pedimented top showing its sacral character, carried a dedication to ‘Good Fortune (Appendix 3, Inscription A). The completion of the building, dedicated on behalf of the imperial house, is dated in both local and Roman styles, by the names of the Roman governor, Mummius Sisenna, and the city magistrates. The original declaration to the city council, by Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, is dated more formally, by the Roman consuls and the annual priest at Thera, 18 July 149.114 The operation he proposed was the standard repair of an urban feature, ‘the stoa existing in the city next to the agora’: since the building ‘has been completely roofed, but some of its walls and structures have in part col-

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(a)

(c) (b)

124. Basilica Stoa, Thera. (a) View of the excavated remains from the south. (b) View of the building from outside the original entrance, with inscribed stelae standing against the back wall of the stoa. (c) Detail of inscribed stelae, recording the decision to rebuild the stoa as a basilica in a.d. 149 (right) and the building’s dedication in a.d. 161 (left). (d) Plan of the excavated state.

lapsed and the remains are corrupt and in danger of coming down to the ground.’ The urgency of this work had been voiced at meetings of the Boule and Ecclesia: ‘there have many times been outcries from all the people for its construction and repair, as the work is necessary for the whole adornment, enjoyment, and extravagance of the city because there is no other work like this at present in the city.’115 Cleitosthenes’ role, then, was to ﬁll a gap in the needs of this small city. The project’s scope, to restore the city’s stoa to good condition, was qualiﬁed by ﬁnancial constraints, personiﬁed as ‘the Fortune of the city’: . . . as no official or private individual has promised to restore the work for the

city, so I promise to erect with this work also the others which are overthrown, in the manner and size as opportunity and the Fortune of the city should allow me, and to construct and return it safe and sound to the city at my own expense together with my son Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus and my son’s son Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus.

Like the benefactors of the earlier roof repair, he promised to leave surplus material to the city for future works, thereby enabling future benefactors to maintain the urban fabric: ‘and since also a very great deal of timber from the fallen roof was still left over, this too I have handed over at my own expense, providing it for anyone intending to do works and giving further payment in addition; and everything that

the cities and the emperor had been left over to me for the restoration of the works I promise to restore as of use to the city.’ In substance, this announcement was a typical civic benefaction on behalf of ‘the most sweet homeland’, such as might have been made centuries earlier.116 Roman ideology appeared only in the dedication, after the heading ‘to Good Fortune’, to the emperor Antoninus, his sons Marcus and Lucius, daughter Faustina, and the imperial house. Although the wording—‘on behalf of the fortune and eternal survival’ of the imperial family—is more pointed than the earlier Trajanic dedication, it seems to be a generic statement of loyalty by the local elites, not very well informed about realities in Rome.117 The right-hand stele is different in character (Appendix 3, Inscription B). It is a secular, civic document, dated only by the name of the city’s chief magistrate, containing a decree honouring Cleitosthenes for his benefaction, said to have been made on the same day as his declaration. The juxtaposition of the two stelae in the building suggests that the decree was regarded as endorsing the dedicated work. It introduces the donor in a wider context, magnifying his signiﬁcance by mentioning his aristocratic background and the popular acclaim for works performed on behalf of the community, whether compulsory liturgies or voluntary largesse.118 He is commended for having adorned the city’s harbour with his ‘construction of bath-buildings’ in the Roman manner, and for his completion ‘with untold extravagance’ of the ‘ancestral work’ of the Temple of Eileithuia, which he preserved as completed, ‘free from damage, for the enjoyment of citizens and resident non-citizens’.119 He is said to have shown himself ‘astute in judicial decisions, sound in taxcollections’, and ‘generous with endowments to the citizens’. After this preamble, the decree mentions the assembly at which Cleitosthenes had announced his promised work on the stoa. However, there is a clear discrepancy between the wording here and that of Cleitosthenes’ statement, as reported in the dedicatory inscription. Instead of describing the building as ‘the stoa in the city next to the agora’, the decree calls the building by a new name, ‘the basilica stoa in the city’. Furthermore, whereas Cleitosthenes’ original statement described his proposed work as a regular act of repair, it is here ambiguous whether the building is to be regarded as his own monument or the city’s, and also whether it is to be regarded as a new construction or a restoration. Both aspects of the project are exaggerated by the language of the decree. On the one hand, it is said that he will ‘construct’ (kataskeuasein) the work at his own expense; on the other hand, he also clearly relies on public resources, in money or in kind; and the nature of the building as a restored work is strongly emphasized: the stoa is called ‘an ancient and distinguished work’, which was like no other ‘decorative façade’ in the city, and ‘which had collapsed already a long time ago’.120 Going beyond Cleitosthenes’ initial promise of the work as an ordinary act of civic euergetism, the decree presents it as an exceptional monument and adornment (prokosme-ma) of the city.121 It was at once a new construction and a restoration of an ancient, long-destroyed, and hallowed building, which indicated the greatness of its city in the same way as a man’s noble birth or renown revealed his virtue.122 The decree shows that the restoration of the stoa was only one of several works undertaken by Cleitosthenes. Others included a bar railing, a Temple of Fortune, and the restoration of the ‘ancient’ Caesareum. The

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latter, also called the Sebasteion, had been constructed, perhaps to replace an earlier Ptolemaion, on the occasion of the visit by Germanicus and Agrippina, who were honoured at the theatre as Zeus Boulaios and Hestia Boulaia; it is probably to be identiﬁed with the temple structure on the terrace above the stoa.123 The decree also notes that these promises were approved by ‘all the people of Thera with one voice’. The text of the ﬁnal section is much damaged, but seems to arrange for the making of a stele, the sending of the decree to the provincial governor, and the installation in the most important places of the city of portraits of Cleitosthenes, his son, and grandson, as well as other, sacred images (agalmata), including, presumably, portraits of the imperial family.124 The term ‘basilica stoa’ recalls the Archaic ‘Stoa Basileios’ at Athens and the Augustan ‘Stoa Basileios’ at Ephesus (Fig. 119b). The change of name is partly explained by the adjustment of public and sacred space in the eastern Empire according to a Roman–Hellenic model. At Palmyra, for instance, porticoes in the sanctuary of Baalshamin, for which the Semitic term ‘MTLT’ had formerly been used, were from the mid-second century dedicated by local citizens as Greek ‘stoas’ (‘STW’) or Roman basilicas (‘BSLK’).125 The change was not only terminological; it was also a physical transformation. In its original state, the stoa at Thera was a civic one, open to the agora, as at Athens and Ephesus (Fig. 124e). However, between the meeting of July 149 and the ﬁnal dedication an east wall was built, propped by a row of interior supports, replacing the outer colonnade on this side and closing the building off from the agora. The building became a self-contained structure, entered from the south side (Fig. 124f ).126 The interior was divided in two, as at Ephesus, but in a remarkably makeshift way, with the removal of the northernmost column of the inner colonnade, its base buried under a new ﬂoor, and its re-erection as part of a new columnar screen dividing the north room from the main hall.127 The intercolumnations were ﬁlled by a temporary railing, perhaps the ‘bar railing’ mentioned as part of this project. In the inner room, as at Ephesus, a podium against the back wall supported a statuary group, which included members of the imperial house and possibly also portraits of the donors.128 The viewer’s impression of the structure was now not of a

(e)

(f )

124. Basilica Stoa, Thera. (e) Restored plan of the original stoa. (f ) Restored plan of the ‘basilica stoa’ rebuilt in 149–161.

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long colonnaded front, but of an axial interior leading to an assembly of portrait statues on a raised platform behind a barrier at the far end. In effect, a Hellenistic stoa was transformed into a Roman basilica. These changes, which represent the decisive phase of the history of the building, can reasonably be identiﬁed with the building work commemorated by the inscriptions: projected in the declaration as a repair and in the decree as both a new construction and a restoration of an ancient work.129 As in other cities of the Greek East, political space was reshaped according to Roman expectations.130 The back room is similar to the small rooms in contemporary bathgymnasia, as at Ephesus, with imperial statuary approached through a screen of columns. The podium display of portraits, presented spatially like the apse tribunal of a western basilica, demonstrated that the stoa served as a monument to several persons at the same time: the family of its builders, the community of the city, and the rulers of imperial Rome. A private group of the family of Cleitosthenes was answered by an imperial group of the reigning Roman dynasty, with a statue of the city’s Tyche, perhaps in the middle.131 This partitioned area at the north end of the building may have been what the decree described as ‘the Temple of Fortune’: it was indeed a shrine to the ‘Fortune’ of the city, on which the benefaction of Cleitosthenes was dependent, and closely associated with the ‘fortunes’ of the imperial dynasty.132 The building was probably also linked with the Caesareion, now reached by a grand stairway ascending from the agora. By comparing archaeology and inscriptions in this way, we can see how the ‘stoa on the agora’ turned into a Roman ‘basilica stoa’. But a conundrum remains: how and under what authority could the name of the building erected by Cleitosthenes change within a single day? The answer lies in the difference between the two inscriptions. The dedication simply restates Cleitosthenes’ original proposal, ‘to rebuild the stoa beside the agora’, because it was a sacred text and was bound to refer to the announcement in the form in which it was ratiﬁed on 18 July 149, without modiﬁcation. On the other hand, the decree issued that day by the Boule and Demos was a secular document and subject to modiﬁcation and amendment before it was ﬁnally inscribed. So, in the interval between that day and the inscription of the decree, something had happened to the terms of the building project, and that change, while not affecting the wording of the dedication, was incorporated in the decree. The ﬁnal section of the decree is fragmentary and difficult to interpret. However, it may have contained the answer to the problem of how the building’s name changed. It seems to refer to the setting up of a stele, probably the stele with the decree, and names the ‘worthy’ governor of the province, Popillius Priscus (procos. 149/50). He was to be sent a copy of the decree, so that he too might know of Cleitosthenes’ generosity. If Priscus was sent a copy of the decree in its original form, he might have responded by demanding a more Roman form of benefaction. On the other hand, as no mention is made of a letter from the governor in which this would have been expressed, it is perhaps more likely that discussions amongst the Boule and Demos themselves led to the rhetorically produced decree as a way of presenting a local project in a distinctively Roman manner to win the governor’s approval. In either case, the name ‘basilica stoa’ was part of the process of negotiation between Boule and Demos and Roman governor. It is thus an in-

stance of the alteration of a local project by at least indirect imperial intervention. The idea of the stele recalls a stipulation in the second, later section of the Foundation of Caius Iulius Demosthenes, commemorating his provision at Oenoanda in Lycia, as prytanis and secretary of the local Boule, for a musical competition and festival. But the terms of the benefaction, it has been argued, were subject to imperial interference.133 Demosthenes’ initial promise, on 25 July 124, was to found the festival in his own name as the ‘Demostheneia’ on behalf of his ‘most sweet homeland’, a phrase identical to Cleitosthenes’ claim of local patriotism. He speciﬁed the terms of its ﬁnancing, the divisions of the prize money, and the arrangements for the election of an agonothete. However, when the preliminary proposal was officially presented by three members of the Boule, almost a year later, on 5 July 125, elements of the imperial cult had been incorporated into the Foundation, including the provision of a golden crown with relief portraits of the emperor Hadrian and the ancestral Apollo, to be worn by the agonothete at the start of the New Year and at meetings of the Boule and Ecclesia. A stone stele was erected to record Demosthenes’ promise, Hadrian’s letter of endorsement, and the decrees of the Boule and Ecclesia. This was not a tension-free preservation of local Hellenic tradition, the sole idea and responsibility of Demosthenes himself, but the result of a process of negotiation between diverse elements: imperial officers, public officials, the Boule and the Demos of the Termessians of Oenoanda, and the surrounding Greek and non-Greek villages.134 The interval between the festival’s initial conception and its ﬁnal implementation reveals how an old local institution was modiﬁed by bargaining between local tradition and imperial power.135 The Foundation of Demosthenes, like that of Salutaris at Ephesus,136 redeﬁned the Greek past in terms of the Roman present. The difference in wording at Thera between the benefactor’s promise and the city council’s decree can be explained in terms of similar intervention from Rome. The fragmentary last lines of the decree may refer to the sending of a version of the text to be inscribed on the stele to the Roman governor, perhaps to secure necessary approval from the Roman imperial government of a project to be dedicated in the emperor’s name. Perhaps at this stage Roman officials in the governor’s office at Ephesus suggested that the stoa be converted into a basilica more in keeping with a Roman city. Or perhaps the change originated from the donors themselves. The joint nature of the ﬁnal dedication and the mention of statues of several family members in the decree may suggest that Claudianus, who had initiated the project, had died and his son Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus taken over the project. Julianus was much more involved with the imperial government at the provincial capital of Ephesus than his father, since, as high-priest of the imperial cult in Asia, it was he who put on the provincial games there.137 There was ample time for this change of conception and the formation of the ‘basilica stoa’ out of the initial project. The building’s dedication under the proconsul Mummius Sisenna occurred, it seems, not in 151, as was formerly believed, but ten years later in 160/1, when Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus held office.138 The eleven- or twelve-year interval between promise and dedication allowed not only for the completion of the project, which required the importation of materials, but also the revaluation of the original project suggested

the cities and the emperor above. The work carried out was more complicated than mere repair, but involved the construction of a new roof, from imported timber,139 statues for the north room, and a substantial new wall to the east, to support the new roof and replacing the outer colonnade. The masonry here looks rough and uneven, but this impression could be due to later alterations, as the project of the 150s must have been executed with some care, in view of the building’s previous history, and cannot have been completed too quickly.140 What had been conceived as the renovation of a stoa, ﬁnished as the foundation of a new Roman basilica. Yet this unique ornament of the whole city, like all Roman monuments, was paradoxically represented as an ‘ancient and distinguished work’. The universalist implications of this grand new building were not lost on the city council and assembly. They erected a statue to Antoninus Pius, proposed by the strategos Gorgosthenes, son of Gorgosthenes. Carved in large, elegant lettering, the inscription on the base celebrated the emperor as ‘the saviour and benefactor of the cosmos’.141

antonine smyrna The ‘basilica stoa’ at Thera was nonetheless modest by comparison with the grand imperial building scheme initiated at Smyrna during these years. There, a large Roman basilica of three aisles was planned on the long north side of the agora. In perhaps 157142 the provincial governor arrived and, in the course of his visit, would have inspected the new public works under construction. Although it is not clear how much of the project had been carried out by this stage, there had certainly been some attempt to develop the layout and decoration of the agora.143 In his honour Aristides delivered his ﬁrst Smyrnaean oration (Or. 17), in which he presented his home city to the governor. He spared nothing in his praises, describing the present city as a single, uniﬁed, and perfectly formed structure, the third city of three which had existed on the site, for which the ﬁrst two had been mere practice models (plasmasin) (4). The present city was the real thing. Aristides declared that the city was not a polis like any other, but an archetype for other cities to follow: ‘if an image of a city (eido-lon poleo-s) had to appear in heaven like Ariadne’s crown’, he wrote, it would be this one, Smyrna, which is like ‘a blueprint of a city (paradeigma poleo-s)’. The exemplary role that Aristides ascribed to the city and its buildings was, of course, partly due to the nature of his addressee, the representative of Rome. As the bouleuterion at Ephesus had been a model and a spur to other provincial cities, so it was no accident that, at the moment of this ambitious plan to construct a characteristically Roman building along the agora of this ancient Greek city, the orator should call the city in the Roman governor’s presence ‘a blueprint for a city’. And because it was so instructive for other communities, Aristides added that it did not need one of its own citizens—such as himself—to praise it in poetry or in any other art, but that it could by itself lure the eyes of all foreign peoples and encourage them to love it (proxenein) (8). With this purpose in mind, he extolled the organic beauty of the city, stretching over the sea like a plant in ﬂower, but with ‘abundance of size as well as beauty’ (megethos kallous periousia), a uniﬁed artifact: ‘not many cities scattered about, but one city with the weight of many, homogeneous in

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complexion, harmonious, and with its parts in agreement with the whole like a human body’ (9). In the rest of his speech, Aristides eulogized the city as a unique place deserving of universal admiration. In his view, it possessed adornments (kosmoi) as ‘numerous, splendid (lamproi), and desirable as any’, which produced an overall effect like clothes embroidered with images (10). One street was said to cross ‘from hill to hill and temple to temple’.144 In short, Aristides continued, there was no single place on which to rest one’s eyes, since each object drew the eye like a necklace (11): ‘Everything down to the coast shines with gymnasia, agorai, precincts, and harbours, natural and man-made beauties in competition.’ The only conﬂict which Aristides emphasized was not between different cities, but between individual elements of this city itself. Its various gymnasia, he wrote, competed with each other for spectators’ attention, while its different streets contested the claim to be the most beautiful, crossing each other four times to receive the sun. As a result, this city was composed of many cities, each a ‘copy’ (mime-ma) of the whole, an impression which, as the orator admits, modiﬁed his earlier observation about the city’s harmony. Aristides’ speech emphasizes the city as a source not so much of civic pride as of aesthetic pleasure. Instead of the noise of boisterous city assemblies pressing arguments against rival cities, the orator invoked the pleasant sounds of the winds, which any visitor to the city would feel on his cheek and which made the city, he said, superior to a painting or a sculpture. Smyrna, the orator announced, was always in the festive state of an ephemeral celebration, ‘beautiﬁed’ by its public and private buildings, so that it appeared more exquisite than the Median tent (12). All tastes were satisﬁed in this city, with its abundance of theatres and places of manufacture and its suitability for both the devotees of pleasure and disciples of philosophy. The best place from which the spectator should admire the city as a work of art was from across the Meles stream, which served as an ornamental propylon of the city (14). From here, Smyrna, ‘as if escorting the viewer, displayed all its beauties to be counted and measured’ (17).145 No one, it seemed to Aristides, could be in too much of a hurry to move on after seeing the view, which drew all like a magnet and insatiably. No viewer, he declaimed, could even change his bodily posture (sche-ma), where he stood viewing the whole city captured in its essence; no prospect, from the city towards the proasteia (suburban districts) or vice versa, could give total satisfaction. For Aristides, looking at Smyrna from this distant outpost was a physically overpowering experience and a very personal one. He described it as like a snake-bite, with a sting so great that only others who have experienced it can sympathize. This was more than a matter of knowledge: it was one of inner religious experience, because, as with sacred buildings, to relate the sight of this city would be to profane it. Yet Aristides proceeded to create a poetic image of the city in human form, with the harbour as its ‘navel’ (omphalos),146 the sea its eye. At the same time, the city formed an ideal geometrical ﬁgure, the acropolis continuing steadily over the top of the whole city, the sea lying at its base. To Aristides, the experience of the city was both aural, with its charm (charis) providing harmony and its ﬁttings all tuned like a lyre’s, and visual, with a sheen (aigle-) like Homeric bronze rising from bottom to top. Only visiting and seeing the place could do justice to such a multi-sensual experience; hearsay was not enough.

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Aristides ‘anchored’ his speech at the gulf of Smyrna, a very ‘bosom’ of softness, utility, beauty, and form, which unfolded into many smaller gulfs like overlapping tablets.147 This location was an appropriate place to moor his rhetorical craft, since the gulf was the entrance for all who visited Smyrna from abroad, including the addressee of this speech, the Roman governor. Although Aristides said nothing about the inhabitants, so that the governor might form his own judgement, he hoped that the city itself would be their best advertisement. His lavish praise of Smyrna portrayed the city as an organic unity, but also a place of great diversity, transcending inter-city rivalries, a universal place of refuge and attraction, like a Panhellenic sanctuary, for all peoples, regardless of origin. But the oration was tailored to ﬁt a context of civic competition, while also to impress the governor, on probably his ﬁrst experience of the city, with Smyrna’s uniqueness. He ignored all other cities that might threaten this uniqueness, such as Ephesus or Pergamon, and dwelt on the attractions of Smyrna itself, as if it were the only city worth visiting in the province. Aristides’ speeches for Smyrna have survived because they were particularly admired by later rhetoricians. Yet many cities may have had an Aristides to vaunt their status and celebrate their buildings at the visit of the Roman governor. To the Roman government, ‘concord’ between cities was still a major political issue. In 161–2, the new joint-emperors, Marcus and Verus, advertised their rule as a ‘Concord of the Augusti ’.148 The issue received serious expression in 163, when unrest on the eastern frontier led to Verus’ Parthian expedition. He stopped at Ephesus in late 162 and in 163. On one of these occasions he was welcomed with gladiatorial games by the elder Vedius Antoninus, Sabinus, holding the office of gymnasiarch at the twilight of his career. The new gymnasium dedicated by Sabinus’ son and daughter-in-law, with its statues of Verus and his brother Marcus, was surely prominent on Verus’ itinerary. At Ephesus he celebrated his marriage, no doubt signalling the ‘concord’ between husband and wife, like that of Antoninus and Faustina. Herodes Atticus alluded to this concept of political homonoia in the ‘gate of immortal harmony’ at Marathon (Fig. 86), as if to indicate through the symbolism of the arch keystone that their marital concord survived his wife’s death.149 The image of Concord also decorated local bronze coinage of towns in eastern Cilicia, such as Olba, Pompeiopolis, Tarsus, Adana, and Hierapolis Castabana, which were the bases for Verus’ Parthian campaign.150 This imperial symbol tied together a number of separate cities at a time of critical strategic need. The war was also the occasion for the foundation of a new city, which expressed the same ideology. Not surprisingly, it was acclaimed by Lucian in terms that parodied the titles claimed by the famous old cities in Asia: ‘Verus had founded a city in Mesopotamia which is the biggest in size and the most beautiful in beauty. But he is still considering whether it should be called City of Victory after the victory, or City of Concord or City of Peace. The issue is still undecided, and this beautiful city is nameless, but it is ﬁlled with loud gossip and historical drivel.’151 In these years, Verus’s co-emperor Marcus, back at Rome, delivered an important speech before the senate, which at the time was regarded as a model of Latin oratory. He drew the Roman senators’ attention to the serious case of the people of Cyzicus, whose great Temple of Zeus, now also dedicated to Hadrian, was apparently still incomplete and

had been further damaged, probably by an earthquake in 160/1. He sought the senate’s support for a huge spending programme from the imperial ﬁscus to complete the temple, which was carried out in the next few years. The decoration of the temple alluded to Verus’ successes in Parthia. In late summer 166 Aristides delivered an oration to celebrate the emperors’ dedication of the temple.152 However, as Behr observed, this speech was ‘not so much in praise of the temple, as the clearly false addition to the original title implies, but . . . directed towards . . . the harmony between the cities of Asia’.153 Following the counsel of a dream experienced at the Asclepieion in Pergamon, itself, as we have seen, an important symbolic site in the province, Aristides used the temple’s recent rebuilding as a springboard to urge a policy of homonoia. Although no stranger to the practice of composing rhetorical hymns in prose, having already written several famous eulogies in praise of the cities of Athens and Rome and the Aegean Sea, he took trouble over this one, stating that it was a consolation for his difficult and delayed journey to Cyzicus that he was able to pay attention to the job of writing his speech.154 The hymn on the temple at Cyzicus (Or. 27) was delivered on the occasion of the religious festival for the temple, which coincided with the Cyzicene Olympiad, so it represented a major event in the city’s national pride. The temple was both an image of the city and, as a location of the provincial imperial cult, a symbol of the Roman union of the province. Aristides emphasized the building’s moral and aesthetic features, above all the ‘harmonies’ (harmoniai) exhibited by this perfectly ordered structure (41), which made it an apt symbol of concord, just as he had argued that the ‘harmony’ of Smyrna helped to make that city an ideal model for a uniﬁed Roman city.155 The orator used his architectural eulogy to launch a spirited appeal to the people of Cyzicus to adopt a policy of homonoia with neighbouring cities. Its architectural qualities made this temple, dedicated to Hadrian and rededicated by Marcus and Verus, not so much a patriotic expression of civic pride and local identity, as an emblem of Roman imperial unity.156 The principal cities of Roman Asia, however, found it harder to resolve their differences. For all the eloquence of Aristides’ speech, its content was uncompromisingly patronizing to other cities, above all to its two principal rivals, Ephesus and Pergamon. Four months after his speech on the temple at Cyzicus, Aelius Aristides put aside his partiality for Smyrna when he made a speech ‘On Concord for the Cities’ (Or. 23) to reconcile all three cities, addressed to the provincial assembly at Pergamon on perhaps 3 January 167.157 His argument took for granted the principle of rivalry. But instead of accepting that one city was superior to another, he transferred that supposed superiority to the union (sustasis) to which they all belonged, the Koinon of Asia, as members of which their representatives had then come to Pergamon. In his words, Asia was superior to all other Roman provinces. It was now the superiority of the whole province, not of one city, that was displayed in its ‘beautiful sights’, the summetria of its seasons, and its ways of life (diaitas) and topographical situation (thesin) (8–9).158 Aristides presented the three cities as triplet colonies naturally belonging to one community and all equally characterized by their impact on approach from elsewhere. Pergamon, the location of Aristides’ speech, deserved to be mentioned ﬁrst. Its acropolis, the orator claimed, ‘ﬂashing lightning from every approach’159 like ‘a common peak of the people of Asia’ (ho-sper

the cities and the emperor koine- tis koruphe- tou ethnous), was where he delivered his speech; his audience was presumably assembled in the theatre on the upper slope, overlooked by the Temple of Trajan. Of the city’s districts, or ‘ornaments’ (kosmoi), he continued, ‘any one is adequate to be an ornament of the whole city, whether they be called parts or little cities (polismato-n)’ (14–15).160 But the ‘most precious’ (timio-taton) of these, he said, was the Asclepieion, cherished ‘in eternal memory’ (dia pase-s aei mne-me-s) and dedicated to the Saviour by the common ‘good fortune’ (agathe-n tuche-n) of mankind; this was the base (horme-te-rion) for the god’s crossing to Asia and so for his association (homilias) with the whole continent. His own personal enjoyment of the sanctuary made it seem to Aristides the most valuable of all the city’s ornaments. The second Greek colony (apoikia) in date, after Telephus from Arcadia, Pergamon was, according to Aristides, still the ‘senior’ one (presbutate- ) in rank (axiaa˛. ) and inﬂuence (dunamei ). Aristides turned next to his own city of Smyrna, and its impressive views on approach from land and sea, which neatly captured it in an oblong form, the base formed by the beach and the top by the upper plain, rising continuously from the valleys.161 The orator’s images simply reproduced those of his earlier speech for Smyrna. So he passed from the exterior to the interior, describing it as even more worth seeing, with its temples, baths, harbours, and race-tracks, which offered the body beneﬁcial relaxation and the mind relief, but left the viewer speechless. His sense of loyalty to his home city ensured that he could not totally deny its claim to supremacy. In the interests of concord he avoided making that claim, but he cleverly left the question open: viewers, he said, would be too captivated by the surfeit of Smyrna’s beauty to spare any time to call it ‘the greatest city’ (19–20). Moreover, he maintained his former insistence on the homogeneity of the city’s landscape, with the sea, rivers, and suburbs all living up to each other and to the city as a whole, as if, he said, they had been allotted to it by vote and not by Fortune (21). In the interests of concord, he turned his attentions away from his favourite to Ephesus, ‘third in sequence, not in rank’. To this city he attributed, with perhaps some regret, the same universal fame across the Mediterranean which was enjoyed by Smyrna: ‘all people who live between the Pillars of Hercules and the River Phasis must believe themselves related to Ephesus by her common harbours and assemblies; everyone travels there as if to their own country; the city is the common treasury and refuge of Asia, providing all human needs’ (23–4). For his mainly Greek, but partly Roman, audience, the identity of these cities was characterized in Aristides’ rhetoric by their belonging to the province of Asia. But it was within the Greek world that their individual status and common union were most meaningful, their fame deﬁned by the limits of the Mediterranean Sea, and the cities themselves portrayed as representatives of an explicitly Greek heritage: Smyrna and Ephesus the colonies (apoikoi ) of Athens (26), itself the ‘façade of all Greek culture’ (prosche-ma pantos tou Helle-nikou),162 and the Pergamenes of Arcadian descent. Inclusion in the Roman Empire had no place here in the orator’s vehement appeal for unity. Ten years later, in January 177, Aristides heard of Smyrna’s destruction by an earthquake.163 He rapidly composed a monody (Or. 18) to lament the city’s loss, repeating the same themes as before for the city which writers had once called ‘the fairest city of all’ (2), but was now a

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plant out of season (ao-rian) (5).164 Aristides again emphasized the city’s architectonic unity, its sights surpassing description (horo-mena kreittodie-ge-seo-s). Recalling his earlier image, the orator described the city’s impact on the visitor as one of ‘lightning ﬂashes of beauty, numbers and measurements of grand scale, and unities as if of a single structure’ (3). As in his earlier speech, he saw the city as an organic entity, a human body with its feet on the shore, its middle rising exactly between the plain and the summit, and its elevated extremity to the south. Inexpressible in words, uncapturable by sight, and elusive, a splendour (ganos) was said to rise over the whole city, feeding and sustaining vision from every side like a statue (5). To Aristides, Smyrna was ‘the fairest form’, never sating mankind with its fountains, theatres, covered and open avenues (dromoi ), the ‘form of an exceedingly splendid agora’ (te-s huperlamprou sche-ma agoras), streets called ‘Golden’ and ‘Sacred’ making every junction into an agora, harbours longing to embrace their city with their arms, beautiful gymnasia, graceful temples and precincts. This city had put all other cities in the shade and was famous at the outposts of the Mediterranean Sea: the Bosporus, the Cataracts of Egypt, Tartessus (Gibraltar), Massalia (Marseilles), and Borysthenes in the Crimea. To Aristides, it was a quintessentially Greek city, loved by all Greeks, however far away they lived, and with a civilizing inﬂuence on all barbarians. Yet it was on its status as a Roman city that Smyrna’s revival depended. Apparently only a day after he had heard of the earthquake,165 Aristides wrote to the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Commodus to ask for their help in reconstructing the city (Or. 19). This time he did not need to mention the architecture. ‘You saw the city. You know the loss’, he wrote (1). Like the Italian cities which Marcus had helped ‘in sickness’ with relief-supplies of grain (10),166 Smyrna too now needed to be reconstructed ‘in its whole form’ and to be reinstated in ‘the catalogue of cities’. The orator’s idea of such a catalogue could only be ﬂattering to Rome, in its suggestion of the extent and homogeneity of Empire. Because of its membership of this body, Aristides continued, ‘the city deserves to be saved not only for its appearance, but for its loyalty to Rome’. The request was successful.167 Aristides sang a palinode after the news, to cancel his previous lament (Or. 20). Smyrna, he said, was not going to die like a mortal human being and lie in ruins after the earthquake, but would rise on greater foundations after reconstruction by the emperors (4). He praised the latter in the strongest terms possible for any benefactor, as famously generous beyond the Pillars of Hercules and the Caucasus (6). Considered in this light, the earthquake seemed to Aristides to have been a blessing in disguise. Because of its former reputation for beautiful buildings, Smyrna had caused mourning everywhere else, as if all Asia had fallen, and had put to good use the tendency of cities to compete with each other. Other communities had striven to outdo one another in taking in the Smyrnaeans as refugees and in helping to restore the city’s monuments. Now (perhaps in 178) Smyrna was recovering its former glorious appearance. Its harbours, wrote Aristides, were starting to ‘embrace’ the city again, its gates opened once more in spring and summer and spread with ﬂowers. Aristides prayed that the reconstruction should prove ‘second attempts better and more secure’ (23). Aristides’ ﬁnal speech on Smyrna was a second oration to the gover-

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the cities and the emperor thority and a leading city of Asia. Aristides recognized that. He saw in the Roman emperors ‘men who would not stand by when the city was in ruins’ (8). But he still insisted on Smyrna’s Greek heritage, and demanded (9) that respect for the people should be added to that for the buildings. Their fortune, he explained, was the improvement of their city: ‘its composition achieved a wonderful excess of beauty as if Poseidon had deliberately struck it to see it more beautiful than before’ (10). This allusion to the mythical creation of the Vale of Tempe was no accident. An over-lifesize relief of Poseidon stood near the west end of the new basilica, beside a similar ﬁgure of Demeter.173 The completion of the basilica after the earthquake was an occasion for renewed civic pride, but Aristides never succumbed to the old temptation to brag at the expense of rival communities in the province of Asia. He claimed sophistically that, whereas Smyrna had previously been superior to other cities, it was now superior to itself. Without dwelling on the new Roman architecture, Aristides concluded by repeating the sentiment that ruin had beneﬁted the city and adding a ﬁnal prayer for its future good fortune. But he had built up the city so much by his own oratory that he was looked upon himself as the city’s ‘founder’.174

(a)

the rebuilding of carthage

125. Basilica, Smyrna (Izmir, Turkey). (a) View of the standing remains in 1991. (b) Restored plan with partial axonometric view.

nor (Or. 21), delivered after the completion in March 179 of the rebuilding initiated by Antoninus Pius. The agora was now completely reorganized, with its new basilica on the long north side supported by a cryptoportico with pitched brick vaults, serving as a covered ambulatory (Fig. 125a–b).168 The interior of this basilica presented a series of arcades, the keystone of the westernmost arch individualized as a female relief portrait head, perhaps representing the empress Faustina.169 The building had a nave with two aisles separated by rounded arcades, their bulky piers supporting half-columns with composite capitals, leading to a raised tribunal at its western end.170 Off the west colonnade was a large building with a mosaic ﬂoor and a wide tripartite entrance, also adorned with composite capitals.171 If this was the new bouleuterion of the city, it might have been here that Aristides delivered his oration.172 This very modern, Roman complex made Smyrna a city of Roman au-

Around 150, or slightly earlier, a ﬁre broke out in Carthage which destroyed most of the upper city, especially the forum, located at the centre of the colony on the site of the present Colline de Byrsa (Fig. 126).175 On a broad terrace below the modern chapel of St Louis are the remains of a row of apsidal structures, which have been interpreted as originally the lower part of a cryptoportico forming the vaulted substructures of a basilica (Fig. 127a).176 The building above ground level was reconstructed as a wide basilical hall of three aisles, separated by two-storey colonnades of eighteen columns, like the Basilica Ulpia in Rome (Fig. 127b).177 The dimensions of capitals surviving from the site suggest a superimposition of orders, as there and in other basilicas at Rome, with a lower Corinthian order and an upper composite one (Fig. 127c).178 The stylistic date of the architectural ornament, of Proconnesian and Pentelic marbles,179 and the location of the structure clearly identify it as the new judiciary basilica of the Antonine city, the site of an assembly hall and principal focus of a new administrative centre reconstructed after the ﬁre. To the contemporary Apuleius, a native of the province, the building was remarkable for its ‘enormous crowdedness’ .180 We see that spaciousness from its dimensions: at nearly 4 metres wide, the intercolumnations of the hall were as large as any in the Roman world, excepting only the great Basilica Ulpia at Rome.181 An allegorical ﬁgure holding a cornucopia stood high up on the façade of the building.182 This probably represented the Roman Felicitas Temporum, the ‘Prosperity of the Age’. Thus the building was a monument of the whole Empire and symbolized a new beginning, under the Antonines. The basilica may not have been dedicated until early in Marcus’ reign, as a colossal head, apparently from a statue of Faustina Minor, was found at the site, which has suggested to the excavators a connection with the imperial cult.183 From topographical references in later Roman literature, it appears that this new public space became known, perhaps even from the Antonine period, as the platea nova of the city.184

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126. Ancient Carthage. Plan of the excavated areas of the city, showing its development in the Antonine period.

Theatre

Baths

Basilica

Harbour

Like other plateae mentioned previously, it was a focus of activity and monumental density. The basilica was not the only building-work of this period. A large baths complex, ‘the Antonine Baths’, was constructed in the eastern part of the city.185 The huge volume of water required for the project was supplied from the ‘Bordj Djedid’ cisterns, ﬁlled by an aqueduct whose monumental arcades are still a striking feature of the landscape today.186 The complex was laid out on a grand scale, occupying no less than six insula blocks of the city, with a symmetrical arrangement of rooms, and a surrounding precinct wall (Fig. 128).187 The date of construction is uncertain; the dedicatory inscription should belong to a year between 146 and 159,188 but a second dedication, ‘for the safety of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus’, was made in 162, apparently to commemorate the donation of additional decorative elements including columns of Numidian marble.189 In addition, the theatre of the town was reconstructed around this time. It had a stage-building decorated with applied orders, and a cavea

of ‘Vitruvian’ form.190 It was apparently complete by the 160s, when Apuleius delivered a speech there. As with the basilica, its crowdedness signalled its monumentality: ‘You have come in such great numbers to listen, that I should rather congratulate Carthage on having so many friends of learning than make excuses for being a philosopher and for not refusing to speak. For the size of the gathering suits the scale of the city, and the place of the gathering has been chosen for its size.’191 All three of these major public buildings of Antonine Carthage, the basilica, baths, and theatre, were located at important nodal points in the city (Fig. 126). What we have seen of contemporary urbanism suggests that they were linked by broad streets of monumental character, perhaps with colonnades, as at Timgad, and certainly, as at Trier, creating major routes and axes between them. At Carthage, however, there was no attempt to rebuild the city walls.192 Since its conquest in 146 bc the existence of walls at Carthage had been a major political issue. Although circuit walls and gates were a regular feature of Roman colonies, it was considered appropriate punishment for

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(a)

(b)

127. The judiciary basilica, Carthage, c.a.d. 147-160. (a) Plan of the site on the Byrsa hill in 1981, indicating squaring and vegetation. Modern walls and buildings are indicated in outline; the perimeter wall of the basilica is marked in bold; and underlying internal structures are lightly hatched. Scale: 1:600. (b) Restored east-west section of the basilica. (c) Hypothetical reconstruction of the two interior architectural orders (with Composite capitals above, Corinthian below).

(c)

the cities and the emperor Carthage’s Punic past and her hostility to Rome that her walls should be dismantled and none rebuilt. In the absence of imposing city gates, therefore, an alternative ‘entrance’ to the city was constructed. The harbour was made into a grand ‘baroque’ entrance court. Already before the Roman conquest, each of the ship-sheds was screened by two Ionic columns, so that the whole harbour seemed to be enclosed by porticoes like a forum;193 now the circular island in the centre of the harbour was also surrounded by an Ionic colonnade which looked like an entrance screen to the harbour and the city (Fig. 129a–b).194 At the entrance from the causeway to the mainland a tetrastyle arch with three openings on each side was fronted by free-standing columns, like the city arches mentioned in the previous chapter, adorned with composite capitals. This scheme was perhaps not completed until the end of the century, but it might already have been conceived or even initiated as part of the grand scheme of the 150s. Basilica, baths, theatre, streets, harbour: this major scheme of reconstruction resembles projects carried out in Asia Minor. But here the urban manifestations of the indigenous culture had been suppressed since the destruction of Punic Carthage, and the imperial administration had an opportunity to re-create the city according to its own image of a monumental centre. That image was not simply a product of current political considerations. It looked back to a preced-

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ing ‘monumental’ model, one which existed not in built form, but as literary heritage. To educated Latin readers of the mid-second century one image of Carthage stood out above all others, the account in Virgil’s Aeneid of Queen Dido’s reconstruction of the city.195 The operation, already in progress when Aeneas arrived at the site, is extensively described by

(a) 128. Antonine Baths, Carthage. Ground plan of the main bathing block.

129. Harbour structures of Roman Carthage. (a) Plan of the second-century rebuilding, completed c. a.d. 200. (b) Reconstruction of the entrance façade.

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Virgil from the viewpoint of his hero. The scene he observes is a transformation, or ‘monumentalization’, from an earlier primitive architecture (magalia quondam, 1.421) to a new splendid city, which is of obvious signiﬁcance for Aeneas himself in his journey to found Rome. Among the aspects of Dido’s new Carthage that come to his attention are several of the features identiﬁed in the last chapter as components of the monumental city: an elevated site (425), a citadel (424), circuit walls (423), gates and streets (422), and public buildings, including a basilica, senate-house, and theatre (426–7). The presence of Roman building types in general, so out of place in a strictly accurate account of the building of Punic Carthage, and the allusion to particular monuments of Augustan Rome196 have suggested that Virgil had in mind the Augustan reconstruction of Rome itself.197 While the rebuilding of Carthage in Augustus’ reign also includes many of the urban features emphasized by Virgil,198 it has not previously been noticed that Virgil’s description of Dido’s rebuilding of Carthage is remarkably similar to the reconstruction initiated under Antoninus Pius. In his eponymous pietas to his adoptive father Hadrian, Antoninus modelled himself on Rome’s founding father, ‘pius Aeneas’. Gold and bronze coins, struck at Rome after Antoninus’s third consulship (140–4), depict Aeneas carrying Anchises on his shoulders out of Troy and leading Ascanius by the hand (Fig. 130).199 Although this type had earlier precedents,200 it had particular signiﬁcance for the Antonines: Antoninus as a new ‘pious Aeneas’, supporting his ‘father’ Hadrian on his shoulders and leading forward his ‘son’ Marcus, represented a new dynasty that echoed the model Trojan one. A bronze medal, struck during the same period, shows Aeneas and

130. Gold coin (aureus) of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the arrival of Aeneas in Latium.

Ascanius arriving in Latium, a sow suckling its young, and, in the background, a round temple and two altars as symbols of a newly founded city.201 We have seen in Chapter 2 how the buildings constructed or restored by Antoninus at Rome promoted a particular image of monumental architecture, linked to the memories of Augustus and Hadrian. As the follower of ‘pius Aeneas’, Antoninus was also inﬂuenced by a model of the monumental city, reﬂected in the buildings included by Virgil in his account of ‘Punic Carthage’: the basilica and senate-house, artiﬁcial harbour, and theatre with scaenae frons are the principal components of the reconstruction of Carthage in the 150s. Together with the architecture described, Virgil’s language highlights certain principles of monumentality. The ‘deep foundations’ of

the theatre indicate that building’s future size, as the commentator Servius noted.202 Servius also observed that Aeneas’ reaction in ‘looking up’ at the building projects (suspicit, l. 438) amounted to a gesture of admiration.203 Even the words spoken by Aeneas may be considered signiﬁcant: O fortunati, quorum iam moenia surgunt! (437).204 The idea that the fortune of the citizens was visible in its monumental buildings was particularly highlighted in the Antonine period by images of city ‘Fortunes’ or, as in the basilica at Carthage, of the ‘Prosperity of the Times’. Even the simile with which Virgil closes his account of the construction of Dido’s new buildings seemed apt. The extended comparison of the Carthaginian builders to bees recalls the conception of grand-scale aediﬁcatio as miniature nidiﬁcatio and the monumentalization of architecture through apparently trivializing images (Appendix 1). The performance of these industrious workers has a political meaning, since ‘apiculture lies at the very heart of the ideology that justiﬁes the modern state’.205 But this is not only a metaphor for social organization: the Roman arch shows un uncanny resemblance to the parabolic curve formed by bees working together to create their honeycomb; the hexagonal honeycomb, later a symbol of productivity or social union,206 is curiously echoed in the unusual design of the main sequence of bathing-rooms in the Antonine Baths (Fig. 128). This reconstruction of Carthage, probably begun after the ﬁre of 150, was the responsibility of successive governors, who took the opportunity to claim credit for their own contributions. To one such proconsul the Carthaginians erected an equestrian statue at his home town of Volsinii (Bolsena) in Italy as ‘patron of the colony’.207 But, as elsewhere, the activity of provincial governors could also be interpreted as the work of the emperor himself. Antoninus was directly credited with the rebuilding at Carthage during his own reign.208 While the works at Carthage were still in progress, Fronto delivered a speech of thanksgiving (gratiarum actio) in the Roman Senate on behalf of the Carthaginians, probably during the later 150s.209 He compared the reconstruction of Carthage by the direct intervention of Antoninus to his ‘founding’ Rhodes after its destruction by the earthquake of 142.210 Quintus Voconius Saxa, the proconsul who presided at the official dedication of the Antonine Baths in 162, had personal experience of that catastrophe, since, as governor of Lycia and Pamphylia, he had dealt with the needs of those cities in the emergency.211 The new judiciary basilica and baths at Carthage gave an explicitly Roman aspect to this great provincial capital and revitalized the city. The buildings recalled Carthage’s own history, but did so in such a way as to overlay any idea of ‘Punic’ culture by the impression they gave of a ‘Roman’ city. Buildings of Roman style helped to impose order and a sense of loyalty on provincial cities, and to uphold memories and myths associated with Rome’s own past, rather than indigenous forms. Virgil’s description of Dido’s buildings at Carthage helped to promote the myth of a Roman architectural past and to suggest that buildings like the basilica, the theatre with its scaenae frons, and the harbour were emblems of the city’s heritage. At the same time, those buildings highlighted Roman cultural features and ﬁtted the emperor’s image as a new Aeneas. The effect of the Antonine rebuilding of Carthage was both to restore the cultural memory of the city through its architecture and to show that that cultural memory was Roman. In other cities in the western Empire urban features seemed to ex-

the cities and the emperor press the same sense of ‘Roman’ memory. For a wide community of Roman cities, the reality of Empire and the preservation of the institutions of the res publica in provincial communities ensured that Rome was the model urbs and ‘the incarnation of the concept’ of the city.212 This was certainly not new to the second century, but it received new signiﬁcance. Aulus Gellius, writing in the middle of the century, expressed the concept explicitly when he wrote of the shared sense of identity among Rome’s colonies: But there is another bond between colonies: they do not come into a citizen community from outside, nor are grown from the roots, but they have been reproduced, as it were, from cuttings and have all the laws and institutions of the Roman people, not those of their own discretion. But although this status is more subservient and less free, it is nonetheless considered better and more preeminent because of the scale and majesty of the Roman people, of which these colonies seem to be almost small likenesses and representations, and also because the laws of municipia are obscure and forgotten and, because of ignorance, can no longer be used.213

The accuracy of Gellius’ description of colonies as ‘likenesses’ is dubious.214 But in the context of the Antonine period his remarks are revealing. He did not only refer to colonies stricto sensu, to which groups of Roman citizens were sent by the state as settlers. The term colonia was now an indication of rank, applied especially as a ‘promotion’ from the status of municipium. It denoted not simply a colonial settlement, but an affiliation to Roman imperial ideology awarded to cities considered sufficiently important and closely associated with the capital or the emperor himself to possess this privileged title. The signiﬁcance of the concept is shown by the most extreme case. The last emperor of the Antonine dynasty, the megalomaniacal Commodus, apparently had a design to make the city of Rome itself an imperial colony. Rome would henceforth be known as Roma Aeterna Colonia Aurelia Commodiana.215 The name revealed the paradoxical nature of this ‘refoundation’. It was ambiguous, suggesting both an eternal archetype for all Roman colonies and municipia, ‘Roma Aeterna’, ‘the immortal, fortunate colony of the whole earth’,216 with which the rest of the Empire could identify, yet also a single colony henceforth to be associated by name with one emperor. That Commodus could plan such an idea even in jest, much as Nero had done, but in a more recognizably military language, suggested how decentralized the Empire had become, with Rome reduced to a colonial settlement theoretically like any other. But it also revealed that the award of this distinction of colony was an object of civic ambition. Rome’s sovereignty and superiority to other cities remained unchallenged. In this period it was considered the ‘Epitome of the Civilised World’, including every nation and deserving all their individual titles: whereas Antioch, Alexandria, and Nicomedia could only be called by epithets ‘beautiful’, ‘golden’, or ‘exceedingly beautiful’, Rome had more cities than the days in the year.217 In contemporary rhetoric Rome, therefore, was not ‘the city of the Romans’, like an ethnic city, but ‘the Uranopolis of the Romans’, implying a cosmopolitan population and a cosmic identity.218 After Rome’s fall, Jerusalem replaced it for Christians as the ‘Uranopolis’, its twelve gates symbolically decorated with precious stones.219 Rome, the city ‘of a hundred gates’,220 was eternal, as Commodus’ paradoxical title admitted, and a symbol of the whole inhabited

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world, far superior to provincial cities, whose importance could only be local or regional. The Stoic Marcus Aurelius resisted this conception of the peculiarly cosmic nature of Rome, as distinct from other cities. ‘As Antoninus,’ he wrote, ‘my city and country is Rome, but as a human being it is the universe.’221 He explained this observation by analogy. ‘Because the universe is like a city’,222 all the cities of the world were like ‘the houses of one city’.223 Yet it was perhaps easier for him to form this view because he lived in the ‘cosmopolis’ of Rome. We have seen how Greek cities in this period constructed buildings that celebrated their cultural memory. In the Latin West the memory of Rome was an equally powerful force of cultural identity. The monuments of the Roman Forum provided a symbolic model for colonies and municipia in Africa and Spain. The central area of the Forum was marked by a statue of Marsyas,224 so the imitation of this statue in a colonial forum made that town look, in Gellius’ words, like an ‘effigy’ of Rome. This symbol was well chosen. Its original purpose had been connected with the foundation of a city.225 The statue shows Marsyas surveying the sky in an act of exauguratio, the purpose of which was to free a consecrated area from all other religious claims.226 Such liberatio was used not just in the case of religious buildings, but also for the augural templum in the sky, the urbs Roma, and the ancient ager Romanus. Romulus had used the same rite in founding Rome. The statue at Rome was surrounded by an open enclosure,227 situated beside the rostra228 and the ﬁg tree (Fig. 131a–b).229 The pavement inscription of the praetor peregrinus Surdinus placed beside it in the Augustan

(a)

(b) 131. Statue of Marsyas at Rome. (a) Plan of the central area of the Roman Forum, showing probable location of the statue (no. 7). (b) Relief from the amphitheatre at Capua, showing preparation for the ﬂaying of Marsyas.

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the cities and the emperor

period was, as we have seen, also imitated in colonial fora; and, by a process of association, the augural liberatio, of which Marsyas was originally a symbol, became interpreted as signifying political libertas for foreigners. This interpretation was facilitated because under the Empire a raised hand signiﬁed the adlocutio of the emperor.230 The gesture indicated that nothing was lacking to a city or people, and that the emperor had ensured its well-being.231 The statue stood in the area where people gathered to hear the emperor, opposite the Augustan and Republican rostra. It appears in the background of the two Hadrianic ‘Anaglypha Traiani’ reliefs (Fig. 13), which were found in this part of the Forum and may have been erected on the ends of the imperial rostra to represent imperial liberalitas and Trajanic alimenta.232 So the statue became not only an augural ﬁgure, but a symbol of a city’s debt to the emperor. Colonies in East and West appropriated the Marsyas statue for their own fora and their own coins, his posture now looking more like that of an imperial address than the proper augural position with a hand raised above his head. We see him ﬁrst like this on the Hadrianic coins of the Pisidian colony of Cremna, famous for its Caesareum. The diecutters probably never saw the original in Rome, although it was still standing there,233 but a schematic idea of its pose, attributes, and dress sufficed. The only surviving example in the round, a bronze statue from Paestum, which was found at the edge of the central area of the colony’s forum, corresponds to the early, augural version.234 It is dated accordingly between the third and the early ﬁrst centuries bc, which may suggest that the Marsyas statue was chosen to give Roman status to the colony, drastically remodelled out of the older Greek centre of Posidonia. Unfortunately, it is impossible to be sure whether it was actually set up at the time indicated by its style or was an older image, or archaizing version, erected in the imperial period.

By the late fourth century these copies of the Marsyas statue with his gesture of liberatio were misinterpreted as an ‘indication of liberty’, because some of the cities that had them were liberae civitates.235 Marsyas was regarded as a symbol of the ius Italicum, even though cities without that privilege might have a Marsyas.236 But the antiquarian Claudius Charax, consul at Rome in 142, offered a different interpretation. He drew attentions to the bonds around Marsyas’ legs: ‘The Italians also took care to honour the cities which they inhabit by erecting there a sort of supernatural being, a sort of old man similar to a Silenus, in order that the community of worship should be one more bond. As for the shackles one put on him, they symbolize the state of subjection, the cities which have statues of this type being chained to him.’237 In the period when Charax wrote, the image was popular in Italian and provincial cities. At Capua a relief of the slaying of Marsyas (Fig. 131b) was carved over the entrance to the amphitheatre, completed under Antoninus;238 other reliefs from the building implied a more local identity.239 In Africa the device was used to indicate municipal, as well as colonial, status. At Furni the erection of a statue of Marsyas by the ﬂamen perpetuus and his son, marked by theatre games and a banquet for the decurions, apparently celebrated the community’s new rank as a municipium.240 A statue of Marsyas dedicated in 188 ‘in the forum’ at El Ust by a public priest of Caelestis and Aesculapius was part of a programme of works that included an arch and a statue of Ianus Pater; it was also celebrated by games and a banquet.241 At Althiburos a similar statue, donated ob honorem by the municipal aedile, prompted the ﬁrst privately given games in that town.242 Its base, still in situ, shows how the Roman image was deliberately placed in the centre of the forum (Fig. 132).243 The statue remained popular with colonies in the later second and third centuries, for example in Thrace and Asia Minor, where bronze issues show it on the

132. Forum at Althiburos. General view, showing the base of the statue of Marsyas in situ in the centre of the paved area.

the cities and the emperor reverse.244 In the Severan period it indicated the status of provincial cities in Africa and Asia granted ‘Italic rights’ by the new regime.245 Marsyas was not the only visual evidence of cities’ Roman identities. When Trajan restored the Tyche statue at Antioch, a relief showing Romulus and Remus suckled by the she-wolf was carved above the city’s ‘Middle Gate’. To Malalas later, the purpose of this statuary group was clear, ‘because it was recognized that the building (ktisma : literally ‘foundation’) was Roman’.246 The wolf was a symbol of Rome’s own foundation, and its juxtaposition with the Tyche after Antioch’s ‘refoundation’ by Trajan after the earthquake showed that this city had a Roman, as well as a Seleucid, identity.247 In the West it frequently betokened a city’s juridical Roman status.248 A relief on the amphitheatre of the colony of Nemausus (Nîmes) showed the wolf and twins.249 The image also appeared on Antoninus’ coinage.250 At Gigthis in Africa Quintus Servaeus Macer dedicated a bronze group of the wolf and twins which ‘he had promised as an ornament of the municipium’, following his own promotion by Hadrian and the city’s elevation to municipal status under Antoninus.251 Family, community, and Roman identities were here intertwined. A benefactor in Baetica donated a ‘Wolf and Infants’ for the ‘beneﬁt’ of acquiring a site for his son’s statue.252 Later, a Severan duumvir of the municipium Aurelia Vina used his summa honoraria to erect a ‘statue of the Wolf, with his own insignia’, commemorating his own advancement and the town’s new status.253 The erection or restoration of public buildings was often designed to reﬂect the elevation of a city’s status to the rank of municipium or colony. But the dating evidence is vague, and in some cases the reverse seems true, that the settlement’s administrative and judicial status was increased after building-work: at Dougga, for example, the erection of a theatre and Capitolium preceded the town’s elevation to the rank of municipium.254 In that respect, for cities as for individual patrons, monumental architecture expressed less a political reality than an aspiration to higher status and a construction of a desired image.

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By the early Severan period the Roman government had come to regard public buildings as potentially subversive. The jurist Aemilius Macer ruled that ‘a new construction did not require the emperor’s authorization, unless it pertained to rivalry with another city or offered material for sedition’.255 It is not clear whether this was the restatement of an earlier ruling or reﬂected a new awareness at Rome of the possible dangers of public architecture. But it had important implications for the character of provincial building. In effect, the administration encouraged or approved only those public works that were considered to be consistent with the unity of Empire or the maintenance of Roman rule, in other words, those that looked ‘Roman’. Nonetheless, the potentially conﬂicting motives of civic loyalty and personal fame seemed still as effectively reconciled as a century earlier. At Canatha in Arabia the dedication of a ‘theatre-like odeion’, probably the assembly of the city council, combined personal and civic values.256 The text recorded the benefactor’s loyalty (philotimia) to his ‘most sweet’ home city in building, but the huge lettering around the orchestra made the building look more like his own monument. At Lepcis Magna a builder was honoured for ‘performing everything in accordance with the splendour of his family birthright and the dignity of our colony’, and because, ‘not content with these instances of liberalitas’, he ‘decorated a room in the baths with Numidian marbles and mosaic’.257 But the language of civic pride and competition was now harnessed to Roman imperial ideals. For instance, several blocks of basalt, imported from Asia Minor, were consigned, by order of the praetorian prefect Fulvius Plautianus, to the ‘most splendid colony of Lepcis Magna’.258 Such a title, more familiar in the region from which they came, might once have seemed extravagant for an African colony. But these materials were destined for the new basilica and forum, with its rounded arcades, granite columns, Corinthian and lotus-and-acanthus capitals, and a spaciousness comparable to Trajan’s Forum and Basilica Ulpia at Rome.259 Now a city was ‘splendid’ if its architecture conformed to the Roman imperial style.

CHAPTER 8

Imperial Architecture From ancient Egypt to the present day, the colossal size of buildings has been considered to reﬂect political power.1 For Herodotus, architecture was an expression of dominion;2 the Periclean monuments of Athens seemed visibly to encourage the Athenians to reclaim their Aegeanwide political ascendancy, since, as Isocrates remarked, ‘democracy had so adorned the city with temples and sacred images that even today visitors think it is worthy to rule not only the Greeks, but also all other peoples’.3 The Circus Maximus, rebuilt by Trajan, was ‘a seat worthy of the nation that conquered the world’.4 The correspondence between Trajan and the younger Pliny, his appointed legate in Bithynia, reveals the ideological purpose of provincial architecture. Pliny pointed out such meanings, although Trajan himself modestly affected to address only practicalities. For instance, Pliny remarks that a proposed canal near Nicomedia was ‘worthy of your greatness and your concern’. Architecture was as important in constructing imperial ideology as an emperor’s portraits or the legends and images on his coins; it legitimated his regime by promoting a particular ideal that commanded respect.5 It is generally agreed that buildings continued to play this role under Hadrian. The preceding discussion of Antonine buildings in the province of Asia now provides grounds to modify the view that, during the middle of the century, festivals or shows replaced public buildings as the major indicator of imperial ideology.6 One should, of course, be wary of using modern labels like ‘message’, ‘persuasion’, ‘propaganda’, or ‘ideology’ to describe the purpose of ancient forms.7 But in the present context the term ‘ideology’ seems particularly appropriate. As J. B. Thompson deﬁnes the concept, it highlights: the ways in which meaning is mobilized in the service of individuals and groups, that is, the ways in which the meaning constructed and conveyed by symbolic forms serves, in particular circumstances, to establish and sustain structured social relations from which some individuals and groups beneﬁt more than others, and which some individuals and groups have an interest in preserving while others may seek to contest.8

The use of architecture in the cities of the Antonine Empire corresponds closely to this ‘critical’ understanding of ‘ideology’, implying its imposition by a dominant group. Provincial public buildings can be called ‘culture’ in several senses of that term. In the ‘anthropological’ conception, ‘the culture of a group or society is the array of beliefs, customs, ideas and values, as well as the material artefacts, objects and instruments, which are acquired by individuals as members of the group or society’.9 In that sense buildings like the bouleuterion and gymnasium at Ephesus or the basilica stoa at Thera, or the theatres at

Aphrodisias and Carthage, were settings for the practices of their societies and reﬂected their leading values. They also correspond to the symbolic conception of ‘culture’, held by Clifford Geertz and others, as ‘the pattern of meanings embodied in symbolic forms . . . by virtue of which individuals communicate with one another and share their experiences, conceptions and beliefs’.10 Moreover, in expressing relations of power, such public buildings reﬂect a ‘structural conception’ of culture as the ‘social contextualization of symbolic forms’, the latter being ‘constructions which typically represent something, refer to something, say something about something’.11 As Thompson’s work on modern culture considers ‘how symbolic forms serve, in speciﬁc circumstances, to establish and sustain relations of domination’,12 so the present study illustrates that the forms of Roman architecture not only had ‘symbolic’ meanings, but were adopted by groups and individuals in provincial cities or the Roman administration to present the relationship of those cities to Rome. In the theatre at Miletus or the bouleuterion at Ephesus, as we have seen, this ‘symbolic culture’ was contested by others outside those groups. Finally, in understanding the buildings of the Antonine Empire, one must not neglect their cultural role according to the ‘classical conception’ of that term, namely in ‘developing and ennobling the human faculties’.13 Through their reﬁned and stimulating decoration, they were designed to conﬁrm and energize the spiritual well-being of the cultivated viewer.14 The symbolic forms of Roman architecture, then, established and sustained relations of domination between elites and non-elites or between the ruling dynasty of Rome and the cities of the Empire. But to what extent were the ‘ideologies’ represented by imperial architecture uniformly imposed in the sense, implied by Eric Wolf, of ‘uniﬁed schemes or conﬁgurations developed to underwrite or manifest power’?15 In the three societies considered in Wolf ’s study—the Kwakiutl, the Tenochka Aztecs, and National Socialist Germany—an extreme ideology had the speciﬁc function of responding to increasing stress or ‘tensions posed by ecological, social, political, or psychological crises’.16 In particular, the inclusion of cosmological aspects within their ideologies helped to ‘explain and justify the aspirations of particular claimants to power over society’.17 The politics of the Antonine age mirrors these structural tensions. The consolidation of the senatorial order around an artiﬁcially ‘dynastic’ conception of the family of the adoptive emperors and the enforcement of a rigid division between ‘honestiores’ and ‘humiliores’ reﬂects in certain ways the insecurity of the highest echelons of Roman society at a time of great social change. The real military threats to the Empire on its borders, already evident in the ﬁnal years of Pius’ reign and inten-

imperial architecture siﬁed under his successors, the unstable rivalries in urban architecture between the leading cities of Asia Minor, and the shift of economic power from Italy to Africa were developments that endangered the harmony of Empire. There was thus a need for the overriding rule and continuing validity of Roma aeterna to be reasserted within the political framework of the Antonine dynasty. The construction of Antoninus’ power according to a cosmological framework encouraged the use of certain architectural manifestations, such as the tetrastyle, the arch, and the dome, which suggest a ‘vision of cosmic order’ required ‘to organize power’, as in the societies considered by Wolf. Such functionalist explanations of symbolic architecture can never fully explain their complex meanings. But Pliny’s letters from Bithynia imply an interest in using provincial buildings to impose imperial ideologies that should be explored further. To contemporaries, the uniformity of speciﬁc ‘Roman’ forms in different cities across the Empire was one of the most striking features of second-century public architecture. But to categorize this uniformity in terms of homogeneous ‘inﬂuence from the centre’, whether the centre was Rome or a provincial capital, is clearly an oversimpliﬁcation. Prototypes from Rome itself or neighbouring cities certainly inspired builders, but the dissemination of Roman imperial architecture was no mechanical process of copying. Like the dissemination of imperial portraits, the spread of architectural forms was subject to provincial variation; in each case, the transmission of certain signiﬁcant symbolic features was more important than producing a faithful mirror image.18 There were varying reasons why the new forms appealed to the benefactors and population of cities in the outlying regions of the Empire, and individual buildings expressed the status of the builder and his city, as well as their affiliation to a common Roman heritage. Consequently, such buildings varied in many details. The forms now regarded as hallmarks of Roman culture were frequently established in the provincial cities themselves. Tacitus’ famous observation on the introduction of Roman architecture to Flavian Britain shows this subtle process of acculturation, which implies several of the notions of ideology and culture discussed above: The following winter was consumed by very salutary schemes, for, so that people dispersed and uncivilized and thus ready for war might grow used to peace and leisure through pleasures, [Agricola] encouraged them privately and assisted them publicly to build temples, fora, and houses, by praising those quick to respond and chiding the lethargic: thus in place of coercion there was competition for honour. Indeed, now he would train leaders’ sons in liberal arts and prefer British talents to Gallic passions, so that those who recently used to reject the Roman tongue began to yearn for eloquence. After that even our dress was an honour and the toga was common, and gradually there was a regression to the attractions of vices: porticoes, baths, and the elegance of dinner parties. And among the ignorant this was called civilization (humanitas), though it was a part of subjection.19

The process described here by Tacitus indicates not only a ‘minimum standard of urbanization’,20 but also the growth of Roman religious cults (templa), political institutions (fora), and private manners (domus). The pursuit of honour gradually led to a desire for porticoes and baths, hallmarks of humanitas. Two other points here are worth noticing: ﬁrst, the rise of porticoes and baths is presented as a secondary feature, not so much of a town’s development, as of the mentality of

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its inhabitants; second, the Roman governor’s role, initially in the form of ‘help’ or ‘encouragement’, is soon overshadowed, as porticoes and baths are introduced by local elites. Yet this independent spirit is not entirely reﬂected in second-century benefactions. In the early second century the procedures of public decisionmaking relating to the erection of public buildings across the Empire were generally similar to the pre-imperial system in the Greek East. Individual office-holders or benefactors announced voluntary contributions, as at Thera, at civic assemblies, which resulted in formal, recorded public statements and undertakings.21 But these procedures were now closely scrutinized, either by the emperor himself or by the provincial governor and his staff, who kept an eye on cities’ accounts. Decrees passed by local councils in honour of a benefactor were brought to the attention of the emperor or governor, who would conﬁrm the decree officially by means of a rescript or letter expressing approval of the project. The monument of Opramoas was adorned with twelve such rescripts from Antoninus Pius and eighteen letters from various governors, authorizing the decrees passed in Opramoas’ honour between 136 and 153 by the individual cities and collective federation (Koinon) of Lycia. The case of the Ephesian Vedius was passed on to the emperor himself, who intervened as a personal favour to his friend to override the Ephesians’ opposition.22 In the second century the main problem of the imperial government was to encourage the people of the Greek East not only to contribute to the well-being of their cities, including their architectural embellishment, but to be motivated in doing so not by local patriotism alone, but also by loyalty to Rome. The political reasons for this have been well studied.23 But there were also particular architectural implications. As long as a benefactor was seen to be constructing a building on behalf of one city and out of pride for that city, his motivation might be perceived as parochial and negligent of his loyalties to the Roman state. By advancing the status of his own community, he appeared to challenge other communities within the province. But as a citizen both of his city and of Rome, he could have a loyalty to both which did not subvert the unity of the Empire. His buildings should not only be monuments of his city, but monuments of Rome. The major cities under Antoninus Pius were adorned with a recognizable ‘architecture of the Roman State’ reﬂecting this increasingly centralized control, buildings like the judicial basilica at Carthage and Antonine baths, or Vedius’ bouleuterion and gymnasium at Ephesus. In most evaluations of imperial Roman architecture the role of the emperor is understated. His inﬂuence on architectural taste is implicitly denied by those who see him as a distant ﬁgure in Roman provincial administration, little concerned with the particular projects of individual cities. The evidence of buildings ﬁnanced by the imperial exchequer is sometimes belittled as exceptional. Fergus Millar, for instance, regarded imperial involvement in provincial building projects as ‘occasional’ in all spheres save the construction of aqueducts, and they are usually considered as objects of functional utility rather than as examples of architectural style.24 This laissez-faire image should be modiﬁed. First of all, the direct epigraphic evidence of projects bearing the emperor’s name does not represent the totality of imperial ﬁnancial involvement. As the example of the ‘Vedius gymnasium’ at Ephesus shows, the emperor sometimes

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played an active role even when he was not mentioned as the agent in a building’s dedication. The mere absence from an inscription of a positive indication of imperial ﬁnance is no proof that a project had not been supported by the imperial treasury.25 The emperor was neither as able nor as inclined as local benefactors to insist that the source of ﬁnance was mentioned. Besides, emperors could inﬂuence the ﬁnancing of a public building in much more indirect ways, whether by direct personal gift or by using imperial funds to help others to maintain their civic commitments.26 On the other hand, the appearance of the emperor’s name in the nominative at the head of a building project is a statement of direct initiative by the Roman authorities, not simply the authorization of a project devised by others, which would not have been so expressed.27 The true extent of imperial involvement in provincial architecture was probably much greater than is suggested by the epigraphic record. There is a clear disparity, for instance, between the unambiguous statements of the ancient historians that Hadrian ‘built some building in almost every city’ or ‘built innumerable public buildings in all places’ and the relatively paltry evidence of inscriptions.28 The increasing delegation of public building to officials such as the curatores rei publicae appears to be evidence for the reduction in direct imperial involvement in provincial public architecture. In fact, the creation of this institution in the second century reﬂects the wish of emperors to be more, not less, directly involved in local urban affairs. The curator rei publicae, found throughout the Empire from Trajan’s reign onwards, was an ad hoc appointment, made independently of the regular political cursus honorum and without regard to the social rank of the appointee. Without going fully here into the complex problem of its local responsibilities and the implications for relatively more centralized control of provincial ﬁnances, I should brieﬂy stress the significance of this office for Roman architectural patronage. The earliest known curator rei publicae of secure date is Curiatius Cosanus, who held this office at Caere in the reign of Trajan. An inscription records that the magistrates and decurions of this city wrote to Cosanus in 113 to ask his consent for the imperial freedman Marcus Ulpius Vesbinus’ project to build a phetrium for the augustales, probably a place of assembly, in the corner of the portico of the basilica.29 As the site was unoccupied and unproﬁtable, the decurions themselves had already approved the proposal. The inscription records Cosanus’ reply: ‘It is my duty not only to consent to your intention, but also to congratulate anyone who adorns our res publica. And so I approve your motion not as curator, but as one from the ordo, since such honourable examples should be encouraged by honoriﬁc adornment.’ In this eloquent reply Cosanus adopted the posture of regarding Caere as his own community, approving the city’s public architecture as if he were one of its leading citizen members.30 In fact, as curator he was an independent arbiter of the city’s activity, who owed his responsibilities not to municipal law, but to imperial appointment.31 This was true for all curatores rei publicae, not just in Italy, but in all provinces.32 That the benefactor at Caere, Vesbinus, was an imperial freedman hints that his explicitly political building project had imperial favour.33 In the East too, curatores of cities appeared from the reign of Trajan, under the name of logistai or epimele-tai,34 likewise of both senatorial and equestrian rank.35 Some were introduced from overseas to superintend building in a region, like Arrius Antoninus of Cirta in North Africa, who was ap-

pointed curator for Nola, Ariminum, and the cities along the Aemilia.36 During the course of the century the office became less a special mission by a man of high status and more the everyday business of a functionary. Individual cities began to choose their own curatores, and selected men of lower social rank. The overall numbers of known curatores increased signiﬁcantly in the second half of the century and the numbers of senators holding the office declined, especially in those inscriptions which indicate some form of activity which they carried out. These duties included responsibility for public building, making public property available for private building by the procedure of assignatio, dedicating buildings for public use, and ensuring that ruined buildings were repaired by their owners.37 Such tasks correspond to the preoccupations of the emperors themselves. By the middle of the century, however, the office of curator rei publicae was still not very widespread.38 A large role in controlling provincial architecture and in overseeing the architectural projects of local elites was, therefore, played by provincial governors and their legates. The governor’s approval was needed for all important public buildings erected in the Roman Empire.39 Governors were required to protect a donor’s name and to ensure that a public building bore only the name of its donor or the ruling emperor;40 they insisted that promises were kept by donors, and their approval was required for important works.41 The governor also had the power to ensure that benefactors of public buildings and their heirs were held to their undertakings. If an heir was bound to realize a public work, and the date of completion was not speciﬁed, the provincial governor had to ﬁx a date for completion of the work, with interest payments mounting thereafter.42 Inscriptions reveal their role in overseeing private projects; in public works they were even more visible as the dedicators of buildings.43 In Italy individual cases were referred to the senatorial iuridici appointed by Marcus Aurelius.44 As iuridicus of Transpadane Italy, Caius Arrius Antoninus, a high-ranking senator at Rome and friend of the former emperor Pius, had to check that public building contracts were properly executed; one patron, Baburiana, bowed to his decision, rather obsequiously, as reﬂecting the senator’s humanitas.45 Some years later Arrius Antoninus intervened again, with another senator, to ensure that a donor’s heirs executed a promised legacy for building a bath at Tifernum Tiberinum.46 Intervention was also necessary in 166 to ensure the completion of a proscaenium promised by a benefactor at Gabii.47 The difficulty in getting heirs to fulﬁl such testamentary promises suggests how closely the initial promise by a benefactor was linked to his own self-image and grandiose architectural aspirations, not necessarily shared by his heirs who had to face the ﬁnancial reality. The emperor had an overriding role in the patronage of public buildings, even where he was not directly responsible for initiating the project. The governors frequently referred to the emperor himself. Ennius Proculus, for instance, proconsular governor of Africa between 143 and 157, received a letter from Pius about immunities from munera, perhaps a response to a previous question to the emperor in regard to ensuring that public officials in provincial towns carried out their responsibilities in contributing to the funding of public buildings.48 By the Antonine period public building in the Empire was strictly regulated. The erection of public buildings required the prior permission of the emperor. It was ‘not lawful for any other name to be inscribed on a

imperial architecture public building in the Empire than that of the emperor or of the man by whose money it was built’.49 Certain types of private project were forbidden, namely those buildings which were intended ‘in competition with another citizen’ or assembly buildings that might incite sedition, such as circuses, theatres, or amphitheatres. The construction of such buildings was, therefore, closely monitored by the emperor and his staff. It was the task of the proconsuls to ensure that a building by a private benefactor that met with imperial approval was carried through if there was local opposition. A pragmatic approach to the issue of provincial imperial architecture has been offered by Ramsey MacMullen in a celebrated article.50 MacMullen gathered a range of evidence from across the Empire for projects which he regarded as sponsored or authorized by the emperor, and interpreted this abundance as a sign of Roman military activity in the urban development of provincial cities. It is certainly likely that such large-scale building-works were made possible by the labour resources of the Roman army. However, MacMullen did not consider the explicitly architectural aspects of such projects, and neglected to comment on sources of design. The evidence of imperial ﬁnance of Roman public buildings often cannot be separated from the element of an emperor’s personal aesthetic choice. The younger Pliny, for example, mentioned Augustus’ benefaction of a bath building at Hispellum (Spello) in Umbria as motivated by architectural aesthetics.51 This imperial balineum was no mere functional ‘amenity’, but a manifestation of watery amoenitas offered by the Umbrian spring of Clitumnus. Why did the construction of public architecture in provincial cities matter so much to the emperor at Rome? Cassius Dio, at the end of the century, provides part of the answer, in the speech he puts into the mouth of Maecenas, advising Augustus on the government of empire. Maecenas, referring to the Augustan renovation of Rome, argued that, because it was appropriate that the Romans as rulers of the world should exceed everyone in everything, their buildings ought to inspire ‘respect’ in their allies and, in their enemies, awe and ‘terror’ (kataple-xis).52 This statement makes particular sense in a later second-century context, when the Roman frontiers were insecure and the need for allies’ loyalty and enemies’ intimidation greater than ever. It suggests that architecture helped to construct an extreme ideology based, in Wolf ’s terms, on a desire for political domination resulting from economic and psychological tensions. The pattern is mirrored, above all, in the architecture of the National Socialist regime, where an ideal of ‘monumentality’ was used to reinforce its ideology. The emphasis on buildings of great size as supposedly reﬂecting the eternity of the regime seems to recall the ‘eternal buildings’ of Ephesus and Thera, notably the explicit planning of public buildings from the perspective of how they would look in a future ruined state.53 But we should recognize the limits of this comparison.54 The ideal of celebritas, ‘density’, did not always mean that the areas developed in imperial Roman cities were huge spaces for the gathering of crowds as in Nazi Germany. They were smaller, more focused, and often enclosed spaces. The second-century rebuilding of Agrippa’s Odeion at Athens, which halved its capacity, epitomized not, as at Nuremberg, the rallying of masses or the relation between ‘Führer’ and ‘Volk’, but the consolidation of the loyalty of a relatively small provincial elite to the Antonine dynasty. Provincial cities were increasingly ﬁlled with signs of the emperors’

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presence: statues, inscribed dedications, and simply civic coins, on which they were now often shown on both sides.55 These signs did not mean that those emperors had personally visited the cities in question, but cities in the East in particular found it more and more necessary to include the personalities of the imperial family in their expressions of civic identity. Public buildings were a lasting token of an emperor’s one-time presence, whether on a personal visit or by official letter. City gates were built to receive an emperor on a state visit, and remained long afterwards as a record of the occasion. The Harbour Gate at Ephesus was built in association with the Harbour Baths to receive the emperor Domitian.56 At Antalya, Phaselis, Perge, and Ephesus lavish gateways were built to welcome Hadrian on his visits in the 120s.57 Imperial entry to a provincial city was accompanied by a ceremony in which leading officials and citizens received their imperial guest and his entourage in a lavish architectural setting, often newly built for the occasion.58 As we will see in the next chapter, the renovation of a city’s public structures was one way of expressing the historic importance of an emperor’s reign. In the West too, the grand gateway into the forum at Sbeitla may have been designed to receive an official visit, if not of the emperor himself, Antoninus Pius, who never left Italy, perhaps of his representative, the governor based at Carthage. This attention to grand ceremonial venues is paralleled by other formal settings which were designed to receive the Roman emperors in the event and privilege of an imperial visit. At Ephesus, one of the three metropoleis of Asia in the Antonine period, two sections of seats in the stadium, perhaps marked out by a canopy of Docimian marble columns, were provided by the prytanis Dionysius, with other columns assigned to the ‘Gymnasium Augustum’, perhaps the nearby Baths of Vedius (IEph. 661). The structure, which may have looked similar to the tetrastyle at Bovillae, perhaps anticipated an imperial visit that never came to fruition. The way in which the manifestations of central Roman imperial power were incorporated into the religious architecture of the cities of Asia Minor, through the reshaping of temples to local deities to include elements of the imperial cult, has been well studied and needs no reiteration here.59 These temples occupied a variety of locations, but were always in prominent positions within civic space. They were built either in the centre of the city or on artiﬁcial terraces constructed at the edge of the central area, and their iconography was deliberately ambiguous, as for example at Cyzicus, where the Temple of Zeus was crowned with a pediment containing a statue of Hadrian directly beside the traditional image of Zeus.60 The public precincts surrounding these temples were formalized with long ranges of porticoes in an attempt to regularize and control the previously looser space of the Greek city and insert its traditional local values into a general imperial and Roman context. Temples at Pergamon, Side, Sagalassus, and Ephesus were enclosed by expansive precincts. The intrusion of the emperor in the Greek city culminated in the erection of the Antonine Altar at Ephesus, with its openly dynastic and godlike associations. These formal architectural settings were not always explicitly religious in function, in that they accommodated a sacred ritual, but were designed to show by their grandeur a city’s personal relation with the emperor himself. Yet in some cases the benefactor of the building concerned acted in his public office as priest of the imperial cult, and this

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role, perhaps reﬂected in the dress or posture of his full-length portrait erected in the building, must have been prominent during the public dedication ceremony. Here sacriﬁces were offered subsequently on important state occasions such as the emperor’s birthday. The temples, forecourts, gates, and colonnades associated with the emperor were said to stand out above all other buildings in a city.61 They did so especially because of their greater size. But their ideological purpose was also promoted by the display of imperial statues. A notable characteristic of several of the Antonine complexes discussed above is their decoration with statuary ensembles of portraits of the emperor and his family.62 Similar, it seems, was the new bouleuterion of Lucius Flavius Sulpicianus Dorion at Hierapytna.63 The curia at Timgad, dedicated after its renovation in 152, contained a similar ensemble, including a portrait of Lucius Verus wearing a cuirass. These buildings were thus ‘monuments’ to the Antonine dynasty. But in most of these cases individuals outside the imperial family also appear to have been represented: at Thera, Olympia, Nysa, and perhaps also at Ephesus and Hierapytna, statues of the donor and his family shared prominence with the ﬁgures of the imperial family. These imperial and aristocratic statues in the governmental buildings of provincial cities,

framed within a stage-like aedicular architecture, celebrated not only the new Roman saeculum in 147/8 and the good fortune heralded by the Antonine dynasty, but also the emperors’ contract with the ruling class of provincial cities. At Apollonia in Illyria, a public assembly building, consisting of an inner chamber with semicircular banks of seating around an orchestra, was erected by a civic official, Quintus Villius Crispinus Furius Proculus. He held the ranks of prytanis and agonothete, superintendent of the public games (Fig. 133a). The building looked across an open square, perhaps the civic agora, towards an earlier assembly building, the ‘odeum’. Its elegant temple front of Corinthian columns had architectural ornament of excellent workmanship (Figs. 133b–d). The ﬁnely cut inscription on the frieze and upper fascia of the architrave declared that the building was in memory of his brother, Villius Valentinus Furius Proculus. Togate statues found in the inner chamber and the front portico of the building may reasonably be inferred as representing the brothers. The decoration also included statuary of the imperial family. Again, the combination expressed the solidarity of imperial family and local elites. The gymnasium and baths-building built at Miletus by Faustina

(a)

(b)

(c)

(d) 133. Assembly building of the ago¯nothe¯tai, Apollonia in Illyria, Albania. (a) View of the building from the rear. (b) View of the façade, reconstructed in 1935. (c) Detail of the entablature of the façade with memorial and dedicatory

inscription and one of the Corinthian capitals. (d) Detail of the raking cornice of the pediment of façade.

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(a) (cii) 134. Baths of Faustina, Miletus, Ionia (Turkey). (a) Reconstructed plan of the building. The frigidarium is room 9 on the plan, and the ‘Hall of the Muses’ is room 2. (b) Restored view of the ‘Hall of the Muses’ (c) Elevation of the arched entrance to the ‘Hall of the Muses’ with ﬁgured keystone.

Minor presents a variation on this formula (Fig. 134a). In the frigidarium the region’s local identity was celebrated by two huge prostrate statues of the river god Maeander.64 In a room near the entrance, known as the ‘Hall of the Muses’, statues of the emperor Marcus, his wife Faustina, and probably other members of the imperial family formed a similar composition, arranged around the semicircular apse

to the rear and ﬂanked by ﬁve round headed niches above a dado with statues of the Muses and Apollo Citharodos (Fig. 134b).65 The statues were set in a stage-like columnar architecture, as in the assembly buildings of Ephesus and Nysa discussed in the previous chapter, and in the following century achieved more prominence when set upon a raised stage.66 An ideal female head looked down on the

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visitor from the keystone of the arched entrance to the room (Fig. 134c); her identity is unclear, but in her spatial position she metaphorically played the role of guarantor of harmony.67 The integration of arched forms with columnar structures carried a clear ideological message: the architecture of the Roman East was a hybrid, combining both the traditional trabeated structures of the region and the newer forms of arch and vault introduced into such buildings under Roman rule. The ‘Hall of the Muses’ in the Baths of Faustina at Miletus is one of a group of lavishly decorated rooms in the imperial bath-gymnasia of Asia Minor, which shares a particularly close association with the imperial family. One of the earliest appears in the ‘Harbour Baths’ at Ephesus, where two similar rooms faced each other across the palaestra (Fig. 120): the better-preserved northern one was separated from the court by a screen of marble piers with engaged double columns; its inner walls were adorned with superimposed marble columns and aediculae on a continuous high podium with smaller niches for statuary, and at the centre of the room a semi-domed apse sheltered the principal statue under a broken pediment. This room, which the excavators supposed to have had a wooden truss roof, bears the same relation to the palaestra as the ‘youth-rooms’ (ephe¯beia) of earlier Greek gymnasia.68 Likewise, in the East Baths, the western of two rooms on opposite sides of the palaestra was decorated with similar aedicular architecture.69 Further examples occur in bath-gymnasia elsewhere in Asia Minor.70 In Vedius Sabinianus’ gymnasium at Ephesus, and in the later ‘marble court’ of the Severan baths at Sardis, the formula is slightly varied, in that this room is placed on the side of the palaestra nearest to the baths complex and on the main axis of the whole building.71 In 1929 Josef Keil characterized this and similar rooms in bathgymnasia in imperial Asia Minor as a ‘Kaisersaal’, a name followed by Yegül, who suggested that it should be taken ‘perhaps in the same sense as the famous Kaisersaal of the early eighteenth-century Episcopal Palace in Würzburg’.72 This comparison is problematic. Whereas the ‘Kaisersaal’ at Würzburg is a huge space, designed as an audience chamber for the bishops of Würzburg, covered by a ceiling fresco by Tiepolo that made allusions to the Holy Roman emperors,73 these Roman halls are small, enclosed spaces, focused on their statuary decoration, which may or may not have included imperial portraits.74 They also differ from the Episcopal Palace in the presence of an explicitly religious element. In the room off the palaestra of the ‘Vedius gymnasium’ at Ephesus, an altar was set in front of the central apse (Fig. 123a–b).75 Although this altar can no longer be regarded for certain as a location of the imperial cult,76 the special attention that such rooms received was nonetheless due to the fact that they served a ritual function, even if it is a matter of dispute whether all such rooms formerly known as ‘Kaisersäle’ had an actual cultic purpose. As testiﬁed by the large marble slab with moulded border, which was originally ﬁxed on a pier on the right side of the Apodyterium (room IIIA, on ﬁg. 123a), plain to all visitors as they entered, the gymnasium as a whole was dedicated to the Ephesian Artemis, the emperor Antoninus and his household, and the ‘twice neocorate’ city of Ephesus, ‘the ﬁrst and greatest metropolis of Asia’.77 This kind of dedication is common for public buildings of all kinds in the cities of Asia Minor, which helps us to understand that even structures as profane to

our own minds as a latrine, workshops, or the paving stones of a street were considered as objects worthy of association with the gods;78 and those gods now included the imperial house of Rome. Of course, the fact that a building was dedicated, inter alia, to the imperial family cannot be considered proof that it served a directly religious function.79 In Vedius’ gymnasium at Ephesus the original position of the imperial statues within the building is not certain, their character may not be devotional, and their relation to the purpose of the altar has been questioned.80 Nonetheless, the speciﬁc arguments about the inscription and the imperial statues do not reduce the impression of the strongly religious character of this building and others like it. It is clear that the character of many Roman gymnasia and bath buildings under the Empire was profoundly religious. A wide variety of cults was celebrated there: those associated with gymnasia, such as Heracles and Hermes; those germane to baths, such as Asclepius and Hygieia; deities of general appeal, such as Tyche (Fortune); those with local sanctuaries such as Zeus, Artemis, or Apollo; but, in all cases, also the ruling imperial family.81 The lavish architectural contexts of these so-called ‘imperial halls’ suited such sacral associations. The statuary of the west hall of the East Baths included a male ﬁgure dressed as a priest, wearing a crown adorned with ﬁfteen small busts (Fig. 135).82 It was formerly identiﬁed with the benefactor Flavius Damianus,83 but has recently been thought to be a member of the Vedii, perhaps even Vedius Antoninus Sabinianus, the builder of the bouleuterion and the baths-gymnasium near the stadium,84 although this identiﬁcation too has been disputed.85 The crown has been regarded as a distinctive feature of the imperial cult, although it is now believed that other priests and officials wore such crowns.86 Whoever it actually represented and whatever his office, however, the ﬁgure reiterates the religious associations of the building, even if these were activated only on the occasion of a particular festival. The miniature busts on the crown appear to be images of the gods, among whom are included ruling or deiﬁed emperors.87 It can be compared to another head, now in the Art Museum at Princeton University, also wearing a crown and which also originated from Asia Minor; this head is dated stylistically to the second quarter of the second century (Fig. 136).88 The crown is similar to the one from the Vedius gymnasium and has also been suggested to have represented a priest of the imperial cult. That interpretation is more likely in this case, since the small portrait busts around the crown, which are half-length ﬁgures and appear to be in Roman dress, most probably represent Roman emperors; moreover, they are placed in an architectural context, with each head set between two columns and beneath a segmental pediment. The whole portrait itself had belonged to an architectural context, as it is carved on the same block as an abacus and originally perhaps formed part of a caryatid pier. In the ‘imperial hall’ of Sabinianus’ gymnasium at Ephesus the aedicular forms surrounding the statues were combined with architecture of a more Roman appearance. As in the Harbour Baths, the room was separated by a columnar screen of double engaged columns (Figs. 123a–c). The bulky piers used here suggest that, instead of a straight entablature, the columns were surmounted by rounded arches, at least at the central bay, to form a composition similar to the façade of Varius’ ‘Temple of Hadrian’ (Fig. 28) or Antoninus’ reservoir at Athens (Fig. 26b). The capitals of the half-columns set into either side of each

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Lydia to Antoninus Pius by the leading magistrate of that community.90 A special aptness may have been seen in the dedication of a ‘sunfurnace’ to an emperor idealized at nearby Tralles as the Sun.91 Architectural ornament is usually regarded today as of secondary importance, simply offering archaeologists and historians a dating criterion in combination with inscriptions. Yet in the ancient world it was considered an integral part of classical architecture, which could be used to indicate the status and rank of the builder. Vitruvius’ use of the term preserves its etymological sense (ornamentum from ornare = ordinare, equivalent to Greek kosmos), demonstrating famously in Book IV the structural aetiology of horizontal architectural elements. In the same way, military or political ornamenta played a metaphorical role in Roman society, as not simply ‘decorations’ in the modern sense, but deﬁning ‘marks of rank’, discrimina ordinis. Architectural ornament is not only beautiful, but necessary: it shows not just ‘charm’ (venustas), but also ‘functionality’ (utilitas).92 The most conspicuous discrimen in architectural ornament was the capital. Vitruvius’ famous anthropomorphic characterization of the Doric and Ionic orders centres on the appearance of this element, the ‘head’ (caput) of the humanized column. The third order, the Corinthian, though not regarded as so anthropomorphic as the others, was the one most frequently used to distinguish sacred monuments, as its application in the Pantheon makes especially clear.93 Under the early Empire, its characteristic decoration based on the acanthus plant was associated with Augustus himself and his patron deity Apollo.94 But in the ‘imperial halls’ of the bath-gymnasia at Ephesus and Miletus a different form is used for the columnar screens set at their entrances, a

135. Marble portrait statue of a male priest of the imperial cult, from the west hall of the Baths-Gymnasium of Vedius, possibly the donor Publius Vedius Antoninus Sabinianus.

pier did not belong to any of the Greek orders, even the most popular Corinthian or the locally important Ionic, but were composite capitals, themselves a hybrid of the Ionic volute and ovolo with the Corinthian acanthus leaves. Affiliation to imperial Rome was expressed in provincial architecture not only through the dedication of a building in the name of the emperor and his family or the presence of their statues, but also through the building’s very structure and ornamentation. Architectural forms derived from Rome and Italy became associated with the emperor himself. In 154/5 a heliocaminus, such as we ﬁnd in Pliny’s ingeniously conceived Laurentine villa and the gymnasium at Smyrna,89 partly sponsored by the emperor Hadrian, was dedicated at Maeonia in

136. Head of a priest of the imperial cult, from an unknown architectural context, possibly a votive pillar. 2nd quarter of the 2nd century a.d. Height 48.5 cm. The ﬁgure wears a crown bearing imperial images with segmental pediments.

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composite capital combining Corinthian acanthus leaves with Ionic volutes, but, unlike western examples, with lotus leaves replacing the upper part of the calathus.95 We have already seen it in the Library of Celsus at Ephesus (Fig. 5a); it also appears in the lower storey of the nearby Gate of Hadrian (Fig. 29). If this particular form was characteristic of architectural workshops in western Asia Minor, in conception the composite capital was an Italianate hybrid. Its origin is to be found in the Italo-Corinthian forms of central and southern Italy from the late Republic, for example the capitals adorning the round temple at the top of the sanctuary of Fortuna Primigenia at Praeneste.96 The apparently Augustan composite capitals reused in the church of S Costanza at Rome have suggested that the ﬁrst emperor adopted the form as an ‘Italic’ order.97 As no individual Augustan buildings with this form are known, this hypothesis remains unproven. On the other hand, it was under the adoptive emperors of the second century that the composite order came into its own. It is used from the Flavian period in a programmatic way in the most important imperial arches of Italy, such as the Arch of Titus in Rome, the Arch of Trajan at Beneventum, and, later, the Arch of Severus in Rome. From the reign of Trajan the composite capital was adopted by individual wealthy aristocrats in provincial cities to adorn public buildings constructed in the imperial name in a Roman and ‘imperial’ style. These structures were not only dedicated to the reigning emperor. New structures such as the ‘Nymphaeum of Trajan’, dedicated by Aristio, the ‘imperial hall’ of the Harbour Baths, and, in its lower storey, the Library of Celsus (Fig. 5a), proclaimed the style of Rome by the composite orders adorning their façades.98 Under Hadrian we ﬁnd composite capitals placed at equally strategic locations, decorating the grand gateways possibly built to receive the emperor, at Antalya, Ephesus, and Miletus. In the West, the gateway and central temple of the forum at Sbeitla (Fig. 111) and the upper gallery of the basilica at Carthage (Fig. 127c) show that the capital, used as part of an order, had a comparable symbolic function in Antonine architecture. Buildings dedicated to the emperors were made of superior materials and workmanship, reﬂecting the principle, familiar from monarchist literature, that a royal body might consist of the same matter as any other body, but made by a better artist.99 The effect of the revolutionary changes in architectural style at the neocorate cities of Ephesus and Pergamon during the early years of the century was to make manifest this idea.100 While the decoration of grand works erected under the Flavians in Ephesus and elsewhere had been exuberant, it seemed nonetheless ‘provincial’ and out-of-date by comparison with the developments in Rome. From the reign of Trajan, the buildings of the capital became a formative stylistic inﬂuence on the great works of benefactors in the cities of Asia. Trajanic buildings in Ephesus, Pergamon, and other cities achieved an impact because of their novel and supposedly Roman appearance, inﬂuenced, in plan and ornamentation, by the imperial monuments of Rome.101 When private buildings like Poleites’ stoa at Labraunda102 shared this new visual culture, adherence to previous local conventions seemed stubborn, introspective, and parochial. This may have been an illusion, insofar as the sculptors and masons who produced such works were probably provincial, but the element of architectural choice came, not from these mostly anonymous ﬁgures, but from their Roman patrons.

The metropolitan inﬂuence on provincial architecture continued in the following reigns. The Traianeum at Pergamon, completed in 124, provided a model for subsequent buildings in both Rome and Asia Minor, in its distinctive architectural ornament and two-fascia architrave.103 If the artists were provincial, their huge inﬂuence was the result of imperial Roman patronage.104 It was retained by Antoninus, as a grand ‘State’ style, with new and highly decorated ornamental forms, both at Rome, in the Hadrianeum and Tomb of Hadrian, and in Asia Minor, in the ‘Gymnasium of Vedius’.105 The most important public buildings erected in the provinces between 120 and 160, not only in Asia Minor but also in Greece and the Balkans, Italy, North Africa, and further west, show a remarkable homogeneity in their architectural decoration. Recent excavations in Turkey have provided information about great Antonine monuments previously little known. The Serapeum at Ephesus, excavated from 1991, was completed in the 140s and located high up on a terrace approached by an almost baroque sequence of stairways;106 the Temple of Antoninus Pius at Sagalassus, surveyed from 1986 and excavated since 1990, shows an exceptional ﬁnesse of ornament, which is similar to buildings elsewhere of the same period, such as the Baths of Gavius Maximus at Ostia, the basilica at Carthage, the temples and forum arch at Sbeitla, and even the ‘Hall of the Agonothetes’ at Apollonia.107 Common to these buildings are their public role and intended grandeur in their communities and their connections, in dedication and statuary, with the imperial family. Such similarities over so wide an area are best explained as different manifestations of a desire among members of the senatorial order and provincial administration to express the ideology of imperial rule. This architectural ornament was predominantly of marble. Marble decoration had a particular association with imperial power. Suetonius described Augustus’ transformation of Rome from brick to marble as ‘in accordance with the majesty of the Empire’.108 Scholars have recognized how the use of coloured marbles from across the Empire to decorate complexes such as the Forum Augustum, the Basilica Aemilia, and the Pantheon could symbolize Rome’s dominion and her rulers’ imperial ideology.109 In Ancient Egypt expensive materials regarded as imperishable were a medium of ‘monumental image communication’.110 The use of coloured marble was a similar determinant of monumentality in the eastern Empire. But what was valued even more highly in these buildings than their marble capitals and entablatures was their polychrome revetment. The inscribed dedication of the Stoa of Verulanus at Ephesus referred not only to the building’s construction, around 130, but also to its sumptuous inlaid marble decoration, which it described by the term skoutlo-sis.111 This text was itself inscribed on slabs of coloured marble, which belonged to the surface of the building near the main entrance from the agora into the palaestra. The marble can be identiﬁed as the white marble with purple veins known as pavonazzetto (‘peacockstyle’), which came from the Docimian quarries of Phrygia to the north-east of the city. In the past the term skoutlo-sis has sometimes been interpreted as referring to mosaic decoration, because of the implication that the pieces of material are cut up into lozenge shapes or squares.112 But technically the term denotes only the lozenge-like shape, into which revetments of marble were also cut.113 The ﬁrst occasion of its use was for a mosaic pavement commissioned for the great

imperial architecture Capitoline Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus at Rome in 149 bc.114 The building and the circumstances of its construction, at the start of the Third Punic War, suggest that the pattern was considered appropriate for the very highest religious authority and military power of Rome. Under the Empire, its translation from mosaic ﬂoors to marble walls continued these grand associations. In the Baths of Titus, for example, there have been found pieces of marble revetment cut into diamond shapes of alternating red and green colour, which would originally have covered the interior walls of this grand imperial structure.115 It was thus an expression of the joint cult of the city deity and the Roman emperor to dress the walls of a building dedicated to them in such a shining and costly revetment. As well as the structure itself, its marble decoration too was an object of dedication. At Sagalassus, the walls of the Temple of Apollo Clarius and the Dii Augusti, originally constructed perhaps under Augustus, were clothed in this diamond patterning of marble slabs in the early years of Antoninus Pius.116 Such marble dressing was, where possible, total, covering both interior walls and ﬂoors. The rhomboid forms of the marble pavement of the new Capitolium at Ostia are recognizably a variety of the same skoutlo-sis.117 At Aphrodisias the stage-building of the theatre was decorated by Tiberius Claudius Zelus, in his official ceremonial role as high-priest of the state imperial cult and priest of the local city cult of Aphrodite. The recently rediscovered inscription described this decoration as including not only columns and entablatures, but also marble inlay on the walls.118 The new stage-building of a theatre at Olbia in Pontus had similar decoration.119 Likewise, an exedra off the stoa of the gymnasium at Stratoniceia was named after Antoninus and adorned with this skoutlo-sis from ﬂoor to roof;120 an exedra off the gymnasium at Myra, built by the benefactor Opramoas, probably before 153, and a hall in the Hadrianeum at Thyateira, called the oikobasilikos, were adorned with similar, lozenge-shaped marble revetment.121 At Sardis one Aelius Theodorus was commemorated shortly after 212 for his contribution to the construction and skoutlo-sis of the oikobasilikos; and at Termessus a building for the cult of Artemis and the Dii Augusti was dedicated in the Antonine period, ‘with its kosmos and skoutlo-sis’.122 The sacred and imperial meaning of these buildings depended as much on the patterning of their surface ornamentation as on their formal structures.123 This material became a fundamental ingredient in the imperial meaning of the Graeco-Roman city, as at Ephesus, where Tiberius Claudius Secundus, an official in the imperial service who held the posts of viator tribunicius, accensus velatus, and lictor curiatius, yet is also described as a ‘lover of the Ephesians’ (philephesius), adorned the city with ‘monumental works’ including the oikos: the stoa leading to it was revetted with skoutlo-sis.124 A statue was set up in his honour in the sanctuary of Artemis. The exact material used for this decoration is not usually speciﬁed by the inscriptions, but it seems to have been important that the marble was coloured and veined (poikilos).125 Indeed, the Docimian marble used for Verulanus’ stoa may have been preferred. Its purple veins expressed an imperial meaning and suggested the ‘eternal’ endurance of the work. The purple dye brought back from Persia by Alexander caused amazement because it had retained its shine and freshness for nearly two centuries.126 It was natural, then, that buildings in this colour should be considered a hallmark of an imperial architectural style. The association between purple clothing-dye and purple-veined

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marble is not fanciful. The lower order of the stage-building of the theatre at Hierapolis, dedicated to Severus and Caracalla, the city, and its patron deity, had a distinctive marble inlay.127 The revetment was considered almost as important as the construction itself, as the dedication, inscribed on the lower fascia of the architrave, speciﬁes it in detail: 653 feet of Docimian marble contributed by the corporation of purpledyers for the soffits of the ﬁrst and second storeys of the proscaenium. Here at least the purple streaks of this Docimian marble revetment were an explicit image for the real purple dye that expressed royal status. Like the emperor’s robes, the marble of his buildings was both an ornament and a discrimen, a statement of rank. The monumentality of Antonine architecture, then, lay not only in its imposing bulk, but also in its shiny marble surface. Without this ornament it was formless and defaced. In this respect, the great buildings dedicated to emperor and city god were no exception to the general rule. On a tomb of this period at Athens the builder, Antonia Socratica, added the familiar curse against those deﬁlers of her husband’s tomb who might ‘strip the building of its kosmos or skoutlo-sis or disturb it in any way whatever’.128 The same lozenged patterning in purple-veined marble was adopted for private tombs of the later Empire, as for example at Ephesus, where the ‘buildings’ (oike-mata) around a tomb and the sarcophagus within are described as revetted with ‘Synnadic skoutlo-sis’, indicating again the use of Docimian marble from Synnas.129 Such diamond forms (scutuli ) are attested on the opus sectile pavements and wall revetments of imperial buildings.130 The wall revetments are certainly much rarer survivals from ancient architecture than the ﬂoors, as one might expect, but they are still visible in exceptional and restored cases like the Pantheon in Rome and in the inherited forms of Byzantine buildings, such as Hagia Soﬁa in Istanbul.131 The earliest official buildings of Roman Christianity, such as the church of S Andrea, adapted from the basilica of Junius Bassus on the Esquiline in Rome, reproduce similar patterned decorations, which directly inﬂuenced the interior walls of later buildings at Constantinople and Ravenna. Indeed, inscriptions recording the much later renovation of older buildings dedicated to the emperors continued to emphasize their skoutlo-sis, as, for instance, in the ﬁfth-or sixth-century re-dedication of the ‘Marble Court’ of the bath-gymnasium at Sardis.132 A fourth-century building outside the Porta Marina at Ostia provides a parallel for how the distinctive rhomboid forms of skoutlo-sis might originally have appeared (Fig. 137a–c).133 Jewish inscriptions from the late antique Greek East reveal a similar concern, as at Sardis, where it seems to have resulted from Roman imperial inﬂuence and the pattern’s overwhelming visual power.134 Following Ward-Perkins’ view that the ‘marble style’ and the construction of vaulted buildings with a concrete rubble aggregate were both local features of the architecture of imperial Asia Minor,135 others have played down the inﬂuence of Rome on the design of buildings on this region as ‘only one of many’.136 It is certainly true that the availability of local materials was an important factor in shaping the evolution of architectural form; one cannot say that Roman forms were simply imported wholesale.137 A large part of the ‘Roman contribution’ to provincial architecture lay in the ‘distribution’ of forms originating in one region to another: thus we ﬁnd a barrel-vault of cut stone, a feature

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(a)

(b)

(c) 137. Wall of brick-faced concrete from ‘the building outside the Porta Marina’, Ostia, incorporating marble opus sectile decoration of small squares, similar in layout to a diamond skoutl¯osis pattern. (a) View of the whole ensemble. (b)-(c) Details of the marble squares laid out diagonally.

imperial architecture of the eastern Mediterranean,138 in the ‘Temple of Diana’ at Nîmes (Fig. 42), or a ‘convex frieze’, typical of Syria and Asia Minor, in both the Temple of Hadrian at Rome and the ‘Gymnasium’ theatre-temple complex at Syracuse, of the later Antonine period.139 But it goes too far to claim that ‘there was no conscious attempt to “adapt” a western standard of building form’, or that ‘Rome and the West had ceased to be the overarching architectural reference for the cities of Asia’.140 The use of the convex frieze visible in, for example, the Temple of Zeus Lepsynus at Euromus in Caria gained its relevance and effectiveness because of its high proﬁle and exemplary employment in the Hadrianeum at Rome,141 just as the stone-cut barrel-vault at Nîmes, in a complex associated with the imperial cult, was a meaningful form because of its use in the Temple of Bacchus at Baalbek.142 In the same way, the facing of opus reticulatum, formerly introduced from Italy to regions as far apart as Sicily and Cilicia or the Levant, was used, not in provincial building generally, but in projects—the amphitheatre at Syracuse, the baths at Elaioussa-Sebaste ‘given’ by Augustus to the Cappadocian king, Antiochus I, and Herod’s palace at Jericho143—associated with the very nerve-centre of Roman power. The ‘marble style’ and vaulted buildings only gained favour in East and West because they were associated with Rome itself.144 Certain visual features of Antonine buildings associated with the Roman emperors characterized them as ‘imperial architecture’.

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A royal and palatial stage architecture, adorned with statues of both ruling dynasty and local elites, distinguished not only the new ceremonial settings of theatres, but also political assembly buildings and halls in bath-gymnasia associated with the ruler cult. This essentially trabeate style was combined with Roman arcuated elements to produce a cultural hybrid, which reﬂected the integration of Roman culture and Hellenism. In the crowns of the imperial priests and the arched façades of the imperial halls, focused on the emperor’s image within a semi-domed apse, this curvilinear architecture highlighted the divinity of the ﬁrst man of the Empire and of his family. The composite capitals on this screen façade announced that the space within was imperial and Roman. Imperial buildings were dressed in a revetment of geometrical patterns and coloured marble, especially with purple veins, that proclaimed a royal appearance. The origin of these forms is often associated with Hadrian, regarded as ‘the emperor who did most in the second century to give places of the imperial cult their dignity and splendour’.145 Yet, in the light of this evidence of Antonine attention to imperial buildings, that view should be reevaluated. Such features showed the wealth and cultivation of the ruling family to whom the principal buildings of the cities owed their inspiration, and seemed to contemporaries to augur the beginning of an eternal prosperity.

CONCLUSION Modern architectural theorists stress the need for diversity and individuality in the architecture of the city. In the Roman Empire, however, monuments by individual benefactors risked compromising a city’s potential organicity. Cities, therefore, emphasized structures and symbolic forms, like the Tyche ﬁgures with crowns of walls, which enhanced the completeness of a city as a monumental artefact. Public buildings not only promoted the honour of the families that built them, but also represented the community as a whole. They also disseminated imperial values: in the East, Roman architectural forms were integrated with Hellenic ones; in the West, symbolic statuary and building types showed new colonies and municipia as embedded in Roman culture and modelled on the archetype of Rome. In the West provincial and military governors played a decisive role in implementing this process of acculturation; the reconstruction of Carthage was symbolically important to Antoninus Pius. In the East there was opposition to the new architecture, which was resolved by an active involvement of the Roman imperial administration, sometimes the emperor himself, and a process of negotiation with local elites sympathetic to Rome. Comparative studies of ideological expression in architecture in other cultures may suggest why such values were promoted. They

reﬂect not so much real prosperity as assertions of unity and stability at times of conﬂict or crisis. The Empire was threatened by unrest on many sides; the great cities of Asia were engulfed by internecine rivalries and overwhelmed by natural disasters; even the pre-eminence of Italy over its provinces seemed questioned. In such contexts, monumental architecture encouraged a belief that the stability and unity of the Empire had been enhanced by a new prosperity under the divine Antoninus Pius. That seemed reﬂected in its dazzling ornamentation. Proconnesian marble, used in the temples of Venus and Rome and of Hadrian at Rome, marked provincial works like the new basilica and baths at Carthage or the Nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus at Olympia. This architecture did not simply refer to the present time. Its monumentality emerged more strongly because it was viewed in a long-term chronological context. The ideological importance of imperial architecture depended on its use of history: on the one hand, its revival of the past; on the other, an expectation that the new buildings of the reign would be monuments of the future. This dual perspective, characteristic of the architecture and culture of the Antonine age, is the subject of the following section.

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PART III MONUMENTS AND MEMORY

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CHAPTER 9

Preserving the Monuments of the Past monuments in ancient egypt and the greek world As old as the human instinct to build is the desire to preserve a building as one’s own memorial. The intention of passing on something of oneself to posterity as a memory makes a building a ‘monument’, an artefact which can endure into the potentially inﬁnite future. But, as Alois Riegl observed, much greater social importance is attached to buildings that are ‘monuments’ in a second sense, those valued by subsequent generations as traces of the past.1 Although Riegl believed that the ancient world recognized only ‘intentional monuments’, interest in ‘unintentional monuments’ is also widely attested in antiquity. But the two conceptions are clearly interdependent. Different cultures have varied considerably in their commemorative ambitions and their acceptance of the potential of buildings to commemorate. This chapter will examine some of these differences and the contribution made in the age of the Antonines towards attitudes to monuments. Monuments commemorate many things. Most obviously, they perpetuate the memory of individuals. Mortal human beings can be given a form of immortality by establishing a link between them and posterity, either on a private level, as family ancestors, or on a public level, as models for a nation or community. Such monuments serve as moral examples for the future: what is commemorated is both the personal memory of the deceased and the abstract ideal or virtue that they symbolize. Linked to this kind of commemoration of persons is a second object of commemoration, the record of an event, especially a military encounter or a decisive political occurrence; here too, the monuments present a connection between the present and the past. However, these human meanings with which one associates monuments today have not always been the only or most important object of monumentality. In classical antiquity the most impressive and ‘monumental’ structures were those situated in the dimension furthest removed from the world of human experience, the realm of the divine. The great temples of the prehistoric Aegean, regarded as the gods’ permanent, terrestrial homes, reﬂected not simply the religious loyalty of their builders and worshippers, but a profound sense of the monumental.2 Although buildings from the earliest times of human existence have always had the potential to be monuments, the buildings of Ancient Egypt are deservedly notable. When the designers of state buildings in Nazi Germany tried to create a monumental architecture to present the ‘conceptual image’ (Sinnbild ) of their community’s collective memory, they looked back to this Egyptian paradigm.3 Ancient Egypt offers the earliest and most explicit evidence that the commemorative purpose of buildings reﬂected not only individuals’ intentions, but also general

cultural values. Yet one should distinguish between the subsequent use of Egyptian monuments as archetypes and the commemorative meanings recognized by the ancient Egyptians themselves. The Egyptians attached cultural importance to the word for ‘monument’, mnw, derived from the stem mn, ‘to stay’ or ‘last’. The related syllable men, meaning ‘ﬁrmness’ or ‘stability’, was represented in pictorial, hieroglyphic form by an obelisk.4 The Egyptians regarded the ‘erection of enduring monuments’ (jrt mnw) as a holy duty. A monument could not only commemorate a secular person, living or deceased, but was conceived as the exact preservation of an idea from the beginnings of time. The way in which the pyramids survived virtually intact throughout antiquity testiﬁes to their continued, widespread acceptance as ‘monuments’. As the historical memory of their original culture faded, these once precise and recognizable symbols became enigmatic icons of an inaccessible monumental time. Perceptions of these structures did not remain as static as the objects themselves. The ideas about the pyramids held by later generations are an indication of changes in notions of monumentality in general. The Greeks regarded the pyramids as ‘monumental’ not as sacred ideas, but as memorials for the dead, a perception perpetuated in their later imitation by Roman tombs. Their meaning no longer depended on detailed measurements or the circumstances of their erection, but on their temporal and geographical remoteness. Awareness of these culturally alien symbols depended less on personal knowledge, and more on the monuments’ reputation that developed around them.5 For Herodotus in the ﬁfth century bc, the buildings’ visible state was a reminder of their construction by forced labourers dragging stones from the Arabian hills to the Nile and then to the Libyan hills.6 Yet for Diodorus, in the late ﬁrst century bc, the memory of the pyramids was reduced to a legend that ‘the stone was conveyed over a great distance from the Arabian quarries’, and the elder Pliny, almost a century later, states merely that ‘the largest pyramid is made of stone from the Arabian quarries’.7 This progressive loss of historical understanding reﬂects a weakening in the mnemonic power of the pyramids, although they continued to be well known and much visited, indeed far more so in the Roman period than in Herodotus’ day. Successive interpretations show a ﬁltering of historical memory, as monuments once speciﬁc to a single age disappeared into the unmeasured horizons of time. For Herodotus, the physical line of pyramids stretching across the Egyptian desert still told a historical narrative, with its scale of descending size, from the huge pyramid of the great Cheops to the smaller ones of his brother Chephren and his son Mycerinus; but by the ﬁrst century bc this diachronic history had become an undifferentiated line.8 When the emperor Nero visited the pyramids—as recorded in the inscription of

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his governor Tiberius Claudius Balbillus, set up near the Sphinx—he took pleasure in their ‘grandeur and supernatural size’ and in the vastness of the surrounding sand, itself a ‘spectacle’ that resembled an inﬁnite length of time.9 The immeasurable distance separating the Cheopian past from the Neronian present was indistinct, expressed only by the uncountable grains of sand that covered the desert surface. By the sixth century these massive structures had become the ‘storehouses of Joseph’, where he put the corn from the seven years of plenty.10 The progression towards increasing conceptual distance between the pyramids and their later viewers contrasts with Ancient Egyptian views of a monument being always in contact with the present and linked by a continuum of time. The pyramids were not the only monument of late dynastic Egypt which reﬂected this desire to preserve the past through the monumental persistence of its visual artefacts.11 The complex plan of a temple was ﬁxed and ‘canonical’, the setting for the religious rites at the basis of Egyptian life and thought. Plato admired the Egyptians for their superior ability to remember: a temple at Thebes preserved 345 statues of priests over successive generations, whereas Greek genealogies went back only about sixteen generations to an original god or demigod. To the Egyptians, monuments were never so remote that their meaning became lost and legends formed about them; their inscriptions remained legible, their language still current, and the interval of time between their origin and the present deﬁnitely measurable. For Plato, therefore, the Egyptians were witnesses of their own past, having created a monumental architecture linked by a chain of historical continuity to the context of the present. He interpreted the temple in its late dynastic form as a codiﬁcation of Egyptian cultural grammar, a structure frozen in form, whose system of rules in its plan retained the history of its society, like a book fallen from heaven. Such monuments were sacred and expressed the identity of a nation. Greek notions of monumentality were related more to individual persons. Their monuments emphasized links between the living and the dead or the mortal and the divine. Two alternative, but never mutually exclusive, ideas of a monument prevailed: ﬁrst, as a se-ma, a ‘sign’ at a ﬁxed location, conspicuous in the landscape of a city or its territory; second, as a mne-ma, a ‘memorial’ designed to communicate and to help remember the past, above all the dead.12 Whereas a se-ma is differentiated from its surroundings,13 a mne-ma is related to the living and arouses patterns of memory. One cannot say that either of these concepts came before the other. There was a progression in Archaic Greek culture towards monuments as mne-mata, prompting the growth of an extensive culture of remembrance, especially in Athens, but the sense of monuments as se-mata never completely disappeared. Both notions inﬂuenced the conception of funerary markers and of memorials erected elsewhere than at the site of burial: while the function of the memorial as mne-ma increased its importance as a form of social communication, a commemoration of the deceased within the community, that of se-ma encouraged its visibility and exclusivity. At the same time, the development of these notions was itself a response to the monumentality of Egyptian culture. The commemorative and ‘mnemonic’ aspect of monuments as mne-mata corresponded to the sacred capacity of Egyptian mnw to preserve a collective cultural memory, whereas the votive aspect of se-mata as religious offerings

(anathe-mata) bore a resemblance to the Egyptian’s sacred duty to erect a monument. But a monument’s continued validity depended on the survival of the family to maintain it. Within a few generations it might be meaningless. The ideal was to create a se-ma which would refer in the future to a distant past beyond the period covered by written records, but in practice there was an unbridgeable gulf between the capacity of human memory and the course of monumental time. The function of a se-ma was to communicate, and in Hellenic culture the most effective way to do this was through words and images. However, by contrast with the Egyptian idea of monumentality, Greek portraits and texts were fundamentally temporary. Once the portrait of the deceased no longer looked familiar or the name inscribed meant nothing to passing readers, a monument’s power as a memorial ceased. Monuments to Greek persons lived in a ‘human’ time framework, limited to the few generations of the Greeks’ extended family, the angkhisteia. Funerary monuments in Greek cemeteries usually lasted no longer than that. Their meaning depended on continued recognition of their visible signs, the sculpted image of the deceased and the writing on the funerary marker. This human time framework was sharply distinguished from the monuments of the gods, the temples, which seemed ﬁxed in a landscape for eternity, designed both to reach back to the beginnings of time and to last for ever into the future. Monumental time transcended the limitations of human memory and was applicable only to the world of the gods. The great temples and their cult ﬁgures had no signatures or inscriptions that made their meaning accessible.14 A sacred building was already ‘monumental’ in itself, simply because of its apparently permanent place in the geophysical landscape.15 Its monumentality could scarcely be enhanced by writing, a device of little endurance and appropriate only for short-term memorials ﬁxed within the briefer, shifting bounds of ‘human time’. Even the dedication on the Treasury of the Cnidians at Delphi, commonly seen as the earliest Greek example of a monumental inscription, was not a statement meant to endure for a long time, but a short-term record of a donation.16 The Greek viewer had no easy access to the zone of ‘monumental time’ between such a monument’s origin and his own present. That required the divine inspiration of a poet, who would invoke the presence of Mnemosyne, goddess of memory and mother of the Muses.17 In return, the Muses assured monumentality to a man and his work. Poetry and history were the greatest guarantors of fame for Greeks, but sculpture and architecture achieved a comparable effect in the language of forms. The arts of the Muses had the potential, even if subject to the gods’ permission, to bridge the gap between monumental and human levels of time. All buildings had a temporal dimension, not only the explicitly commemorative. Thus one may reasonably ask whether societies of Archaic and Classical Greece used architecture to write their long-term histories. Again, there was a distinction between buildings of the distant past and those of recent memory. The vast ruins of the former had a mythological identity in themselves. The Pelasgian walls at Athens represented the city’s distant Mycenaean origins in form and name. The ‘Cyclopaean’ walls at Tiryns, as Pausanias called them, conveyed that city’s mythic origins to the imperial reader and viewer: ‘The wall, which is the only part of the ruins still standing, is a work of the Cyclopes

preserving the monuments of the past made of unwrought stones, each stone being so big that a pair of mules could not move the smallest from its place to the slightest degree. Long ago small stones were so inserted that each of them binds the large blocks ﬁrmly together.’18 Perhaps this passage, with its hyperbolic and Homeric description of blocks of enormous size,19 suggested a connection between the physical ruins at Tiryns and the mythical past of the labours of Heracles and the grandson of Zeus who gave the place its name.20 Even before such walls fell into a ruined state, they had performed a symbolic role as a monument to a city’s mythical foundation, which was separated from the present by an ‘unhistorical’ void. At Athens, a cleft in the rock of the Acropolis showed where the last waters of the ﬂood had drained after the rescue of Deucalion; and, if there was any physical indication of the palace of Erechtheus on the site of the Temple of Athena, it was only a mark, a vague and mysterious se-meion, which invited the association, not a purpose-built memorial.21 Pausanias’ perception of the walls at Tiryns as a monument to the superhuman personalities of a past age was a frustrated reaction to earlier Greek indifference. The Greeks, he observed, tended to see more wonder in foreign sights than in their own; although they had described the pyramids of Egypt in minute detail, they did not make even the briefest mention of the walls at Tiryns or other buildings which he himself saw as ancient monuments, like the Treasury of Minyas at Orchomenus.22 Greeks of the Classical period regarded the monuments of Egypt as superhuman, dating from a divine past, and far surpassing in scale the buildings of the Greek present: the divinity of the enormous statues at Memphis and Thebes could be inferred from their complete transcendence of human scale. From early on, Greeks noted that the peoples of the Near East, from the Egyptians to the Arabs, venerated stone as something divine. Awareness of foreign monuments contributed to a greater memorialization of the recent past in Classical Greek cities, especially Athens. The city could become a locus for the memory of historical events which were covered equally by literature: the agora was characterized by almost ‘purpose-built’ historical monuments like the Stoa Poikile, which, with its paintings of the battles at Marathon and Oinoë alongside those against the Amazons and the conquest of Troy, helped to blur the distinction between recent history and the mythical past.23 The ‘Monument of Eponymous Heroes’, set up under Pericles, celebrated the founders of the tribes and provided a foil for later honoriﬁc statues. In this way, ‘commemoration was an act of citizenship. To remember was to affirm community, to assert its moral character, and to exclude from it those values, groups, or individuals that placed it under threat.’24 These manifold individual monuments of the past recorded particular, discrete events and individuals. They did not present a city’s continuous past through its urban fabric. The creation of memorials never carried the classical city completely from a world of static traditions to one of dynamic history.25 Its monuments never formed a readable historical sequence. Their object was less to make visible the process of history than to give an exemplary status to events and persons of the past. Greek writers felt ambivalence towards the architecture of the past. On the one hand, the greatness of its makers was acknowledged. The colossal size of the buildings of Egypt reﬂected its political importance and domination over others.26 Herodotus explained that he ‘dwelt the longer on the affairs of the Samians, because three of the greatest works

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in all Greece were made by them’, the water conduit of Eupalinus tunnelled through the mountain, a harbour mole, and ‘the largest of all the temples known to us’, the Heraion designed by the architect Rhoikos.27 On the other hand, Thucydides was sceptical about the historical significance of ancient buildings. While for recent events of the Peloponnesian War he had the beneﬁt of personal memory, for knowledge of even a few generations back he was dependent on fragmentary ‘signs’, se-mata or se-meia. Further back, little remained of the buildings of Mycenae, although it was obvious that it had once been a prosperous and powerful city. But Thucydides even doubted whether architecture was an accurate reﬂection of power. He offered a parallel from his own day: Suppose, for example, that the city of Sparta were to become deserted and that only the temples and foundations of buildings remained, I think that future generations would, as time passed, ﬁnd it very difficult to believe that the place had really been as powerful as it was represented to be. . . . If, on the other hand, the same thing were to happen to Athens, one would conjecture from what met the eye that the city had been twice as powerful as it actually is.28

This was a fundamentally different attitude from that of Pausanias later, who saw the ruins of Tiryns as not merely ‘signs’, but monuments of ancient greatness, though their appearance was hardly more impressive in his day than they had been for Thucydides. Thucydides’ observation about the disharmony between physical remains and written accounts of Mycenae’s past ascendancy anticipates the dilemma of modern archaeology. He was thinking in new, more imaginative ways about historical memory than Greeks had previously done. He emphasized oral and written material, because as a historian he was writing a literary work as ‘a possession for ever’. He, therefore, elevated the credibility of the written account above the mere hints and suggestions afforded by art and architecture. But in his own time the architecture of the city reﬂected a wider belief that buildings could preserve memories of human life, as well as the divine. Thus he presents Pericles as arguing a contrary view, in his funeral oration, that the buildings of Athens gave the Athenians reason for conﬁdence in their present power and past achievements.29 To Thucydides’ Athenian reader, Sparta’s lack of monumentalized public space or of buildings inspiring memories of its recent past would have seemed surprising. He might have been perturbed by Thucydides’ scepticism because he expected to see historical truth in the buildings he saw. For some modern historians the catastrophe of the Peloponnesian War was a turning-point, after which the Athenians ceased to erect monumental politico-religious symbols and their great monuments became petriﬁed relics of the city’s past. But it was then that pride in the memory of success really emerged. In the fourth century bc the people of Athens celebrated the achievements of individuals with memorials to the generals Conon and Chabrias, choregic monuments to Lysicrates and others, ranged along the road from the prytaneion to the theatre, and the reconstruction of the Theatre of Dionysus itself as a monumental backdrop to statues of the leading tragedians of the previous century. From this time onwards architecture became increasingly a frame for images of memory. New porticoes or shrines were created with an explicitly memorial function. As Thucydides’ history used techniques of tragedy and epic to exalt his subject above the status of recent event to that of monumental myth, the architectural frame did

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likewise. Instead of encouraging the perception of an ongoing historical scenario, the use of memorial architecture projected the personalities of the present back into the time-frame of the distant past. In the Hellenistic period memorials in Greek cities mythologized the politics of the present. In the second and ﬁrst centuries bc private individuals started to construct their own small-scale monuments as part of civic architecture.30 They occupied a prominent position, integrated with existing sacred architecture: the Exedra of Midas, at the rear of the precinct of the Syrian gods at Delos, or the propylon of Appius Claudius, at the entrance to the sanctuary of Eleusis. Moreover, they declared their memorial purpose through an aedicular, or temple-like, architecture: columns supporting a pediment, with a personal inscription on the architrave. The monumentality of the aedicular form depended on its suitability to shelter a statuary image, as with the choregic monuments, whose later versions showed a greater width, underlining the frame of the opening and increasing its visibility to the viewer. This tomb-like structure, echoed in many intercolumnar tomb-monuments across late Republican and early imperial Italy and elsewhere in the Mediterranean, was used in towns and sanctuaries to indicate a se-ma, a sign of the person commemorated. Thus the monumentality of the Greek city was increasingly shaped by aesthetic criteria previously regarded as acceptable only for the divine, above all that of great size. The buildings of the Hellenistic monarchs, in particular, were praised for their beauty and extraordinary dimensions.31 They were inscribed in prominent, square lettering, to indicate the names of their builders for future generations.32 Their spatial contexts changed: in contrast to earlier monuments assembled around an open and disorganized public space, the buildings of the Hellenistic rulers were monuments intended to dominate their surroundings.33 They were se-mata and provided a topos epise-motatos, ‘a site of high monumentality’, in the visual semiotics of the city. Some areas of the eastern Mediterranean retained an idea of monumentality close to the Egyptian. For example, the laws and codes of Israel were handed down through texts, which had the role of monuments in establishing a permanent collective identity for the Jewish people. These texts were read actively, either personally and aloud to be memorized, the reader stamping his own presence on the text, or mediated by the commentaries of the Rabbinic class. In this way the distant past was remembered because it was still used and ﬁlled with meaning.34 The Semitic peoples also had a strong idea of personal commemoration which is clearly visible in the conspicuous tower-monuments of the Phoenicians and the Punic settlers of North Africa, made of thick stone blocks on solid foundations and inscribed with their builders’ names. The legacy of this idea to the Antonine period can be seen in the Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium, to which we shall return in Chapter 10. First, we should consider the ideas of monumentality that developed at Rome itself.

the concept of M O N U M E N T U M in ancient rome The Roman idea of the monument, monumentum, was substantially different from Greek and other views. Like the Greek concept, it had primarily human rather than divine associations. But when Romans regarded buildings as monuments to an individual or a family, they did

not, like Greeks, see them only in terms of the recent past, but assumed a vast conceptual distance between the age of the monument itself and the lifetime of anyone who might see it in the future. Yet, paradoxically, despite this distance, a monument’s greatest effectiveness was not when it was decaying and scarcely recognizable, but when it was as new as possible. The Romans preserved their past monuments by restoration, so that an ancient building, conceptually separated from the present, nonetheless appeared pristine. Roman monuments looked old and new at the same time. Etymologically, the Roman conception of a monument (monumentum) had a didactic function: it drew attention to itself and warned (monere) viewers of a moral lesson to be learned. Roman ‘monuments’ were intended to provide exhortation and admonishment to those who saw them and to record a message for posterity in the form of words or images. Great Romans were remembered for their achievements (res gestae), and their monumenta were ‘designed . . . to preserve res gestae from oblivion’.35 The elder Cato used the word monumentum in this openly political sense, of the gloriﬁcation of the Spartan Leonidas after Thermopylae, interpreting his ‘monuments’ as the ﬁgurative or written means of representing his achievement to posterity: ‘monuments: in other words, images, statues, elogies, histories, and other things.’36 By the Antonine period, however, the word was explicitly deﬁned by buildings as well: ‘A monument is both what has been built for the dead and anything that has been made in someone’s memory, such as shrines, porticoes, written texts, and lyric hymns.’37 The distinction later made by John Ruskin between ‘those which are intended to recall the memory of life, properly called monuments; and those which are intended to induce veneration of death, properly called shrines or sepulchres’,38 did not exist. Because the term monumentum is, in the vast majority of cases, used on tomb epitaphs, it has been argued that it always referred to places of burial.39 But tombs for the dead were not the only buildings regarded as ‘monuments’. To apply this label to a tomb was not a denotative, but a connotative use of the term.40 In other words, to call a structure a monumentum was not to identify it as a particular building-type, but to say that it had a memorial function, just as a spoken elegy of praise might have, or a commemorative inscription or a portrait statue. Monumenta ‘admonished’ the viewer. In the case of a tomb, the warning related to human mortality, not only the mortality of the deceased in the tomb, but also that of living passers-by. This message was more important than the actual presence of a buried body.41 The same aspect of directing a warning was also what made texts, whether written or performed, ‘monuments’. As Varro wrote: ‘So for monuments (monimenta) which are on tombs; and they are situated along the road for that reason, so they may admonish (admoneant) the passers-by, that they were, and those passers-by are, mortal. For that reason all other things that have been written or made for memory are called monuments.’42 Mortality was not the only message that a Roman monument could communicate. Republican Roman Italy was ﬁlled with conspicuous monuments commemorating the exempla of former heroes.43 As in the Greek world, written words and portrait images were the most usual forms of communication. But these were also family memorials. Likewise, public buildings, named after their builder and associated

preserving the monuments of the past with his descendants, were perceived as monumenta. The great road and aqueduct constructed by Appius Claudius, each leading to Rome from the south, were known as the ‘Via Appia’ and ‘Aqua Appia’ already from their construction in the late fourth century bc. This continued as a pattern for the naming of Roman buildings, which was almost unknown in Greece. At ﬁrst, the right of a Roman noble to live on through the name of the buildings he had paid for or arranged as a public magistrate does not seem to have been questioned. But in 179 bc there was strong opposition to the intention of the censor Cato to have the new public basilica that he was building in the Roman Forum named the ‘Basilica Porcia’ after his family gens, the Porcii. What rankled in this case was not only the siting of this structure in the political centre of the city, the Forum Romanum, but the building type itself, the basilica, with its unpleasantly royalist overtones:44 that one family could have such a monument and in so central a position suggested a dynasticism unacceptable in the Republic, whose origins and justiﬁcation lay in the overthrow of the kings. Yet the name of the Basilica Porcia survived and so did others without meeting such disapproval: the Theatrum Pompeianum, the Forum Iulium, and the later buildings of the emperors. Naming a public building after its builder became an accepted feature of Roman life. It signalled the fame of its patron and it served a didactic function. The exemplary quality of buildings came from the circumstances of their erection. For example, the victory temples of mid-Republican Rome, the ﬁnancial responsibility of the victorious general, were each constructed as a monument to the general himself. The arrangement of such temples in mutual juxtaposition and their active ceremonial context along the route of the triumphal procession, in the southern Campus Martius or the Forum Boarium, encouraged their interpretation as readable signs of the city’s past. In a few cases these individual exempla could interact with one another to produce a dynamic picture of Roman history: for example, in the Forum Holitorium, where we ﬁnd Caius Atilius Caiatinus’ temple of Spes located in the 250s bc beside Caius Duillius’ temple of Janus of only a few years earlier. But this image of a sequence of the victories could only be enjoyed for halfa-century: in 197 bc the temple of the Lanuvine goddess of Juno Sospita was erected between them.45 What made Roman monuments so memorable was the compact form of their architectural frames, which mirrored the individual aedicular monuments being erected in the Greek world. This is apparent from the Rhetorica ad Herennium, written in the early ﬁrst century bc. The author is unknown, but it may have been the rough work of a Roman noble for his own use, summarizing rhetorical techniques reported to him by a Greek rhetor.46 One well-known passage of the work discusses how an orator might memorize extended written passages by imagining them visually as framed by a variety of architectural images (loca). The most memorable forms were held to be schematic architectural forms, such as small temple structures, aediculas, intercolumnations, and arches: here the capacity of columns, usually with a pediment above, to frame an idea made them a valuable visual rebus or shorthand for an entire sentence.47 For a Roman, who typically did not ﬁnd it as natural as a Greek to memorize large chunks of written text, architectural forms were more innately memorable. That was because of the important cultural role of buildings in Roman society. Of course,

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the memorability of each form depended on its individuality: the treatise adds that such architectural frames will lead to confusion if there are too many identical forms, such as intercolumnar spaces. By the time of Quintilian’s treatise in the Flavian period, the practice had been modiﬁed to emphasize places of great spaciousness, such as a large house with many rooms and recesses, a public building, or city walls.48 Roman family monuments differed from Greek memorials because they were not simply ‘signs’ indicating the worth of particular individuals, but part of a longer-term sequence, which perpetuated the memory of a whole family. The monuments went back many generations, because Roman notions of the family went further back than Greek ones. In Plautus’ Persa, of the early second century bc, the parasite Saturio looked back on his forebears as far as his great-great-greatgreat-grandfather. Even this was abbreviated shorthand for the whole family dynasty since its deepest origins.49 The descendants of a Roman family were regarded as ‘branches’ (rami ) or ‘offshoots’ from the ‘root’ (stirps) of their lineage. This view of time was enshrined in the institution of the family imagines, the funeral masks of the deceased ancestors kept in the cupboards of the atrium of the family house.50 At family celebrations of the deaths of the ancestors (maiores), the imagines were brought out; they symbolized the continuity of the family, linked together by written family trees (stemmata, literally ‘wreaths’, from Greek stemma).51 In their physical arrangement, they presented the temporal line of ancestors as a spatial distance, with a recognized beginning and a deﬁnite end.52 This notion of family descent is retained in our own image today of the family tree, with its ‘branches’ and ‘stemmata’. Buildings played a large part in deﬁning the Roman’s conception of time, not just because their relative age gave him an awareness of history, but because, on a daily basis, they made him conscious of the passage of the hours. The increasing subdivision of the Roman day during the Republic was deﬁned architecturally: a subordinate official (apparitor) of the consuls announced sunrise when he saw the sun appear between the Rostra and the Graecostasis in the Forum, and the start of the last hour before sunset when the shadow of the Maenian column pointed to the state prison; such spatial manifestations of the passing of time became more explicit after the creation of public sundials in the city in the third century bc.53 The concept of time as a continuum reaching back to a notional beginning was of fundamental importance for Roman perceptions of buildings. The foundation of a public building required a religious rite, which was annually commemorated. Legendary stories about the origins of foundation blocks lent awe and mystery to the building itself. A building’s fabric, however, was susceptible to wear and decay; so, in order to sustain the memories that it offered to posterity, it needed to be restored. For that reason, Tacitus viewed construction as a recurring event, rather than a single historic act. The later history of a building consisted of successive threats to and reinstatements of its existence, destructions and damage, repairs and restorations. Restoration atoned for an intervening period of neglect or destruction by reviving a building’s appearance, not simply as it had originally looked, but with materials of the present age. Its object was to eliminate signs of decay or of ageing (vetustas). Inscriptions commemorating the repair of buildings, even those constructed only a few years earlier,

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present vetustas as an insidious power, causing collapse, corruption, and the general devaluation of the structure.54 Yet this conception of ‘age’ as an interval between construction and restoration, to be transcended by the restorer, also gave buildings the authority of a distant antiquity.55 The barrier of this dark void had to be overcome, if a building was to be part of an uninterrupted historical sequence. The repetition of the original form preserved a conceptually ancient memory. In its plan the precinct (templum) of a Roman public temple, divinely sanctioned and ‘inaugurated’ by a priest, was sacred. When the building was restored, it had to replicate the ‘ancient form’. In elevation, though, an entirely new face and superstructure could be imposed, according to contemporary style and values, as expressed in architectural materials and ornament.56 The new superstructure made it more of a monument, not less. The Capitoline Temple, for example, founded by the Tarquins in 508, was ﬁrst restored on the original foundations by Quintus Lutatius Catulus, whose name was inscribed over the entrance, and later by Vestinus, on behalf of Vespasian after the ﬁre of 69. Vestinus followed an elaborate consecration ritual to ensure that the building’s ‘ancient form’ was preserved.57 But after that it was just a memory, no longer visible: the foundation stone was covered by the foundations of the new temple. The newness of the architecture, whose restoration stood for the revival of the res publica in the new Flavian dynasty, contrasted with, but did not obliterate, the centuries of history of which the building was a symbol.58 Romans, like ourselves, thought of the past as lying physically ‘behind’ them and of the future as something lying ‘ahead’ of them.59 When they erected public buildings, patrons claimed to look forwards, towards the future, with ‘foresight’ (providentia). This way of thinking was a teleological one, which saw human actions as directed towards future goals and assumed that men were always on the path towards an end, which they constantly needed to keep within their sights. It was exactly the opposite of conventional Greek views of time. Greeks looked ‘forwards’ towards a past that was visible because it had already happened and lay, so to speak, ‘in front of ’ them, whereas the future was ‘behind’ them, unseen and unpredictable.60 As far as architecture was concerned, that meant that Greeks tended to look towards the origin of a building, rather than towards its potential as a monument in the future. With the end of the Republic and the beginning of the Principate, Romans looked back at the past and forward to new monuments of the future. Dionysius of Halicarnassus tried to trace the earliest events of Roman history through the meagre remains of objects and memorials that survived in the late ﬁrst century bc.61 He saw their antiquity reﬂected in their decay and unrecognizability. But the number and preservation of the monuments he found reﬂected a society far more aware of the value of monuments than most Greek cities. Contemporary writers in Latin showed similar interest in monumenta of the Roman past: Livy presented the actions of past Romans as a monument and example for his Augustan readers; Virgil in his Aeneid famously created an epic monument to Rome’s Trojan past, expressed physically in the parade of Roman heroes in the sixth book, laid out before Aeneas’ eyes from the monumental perspective of a tumulus. Above all, the concern with monuments of the past was reﬂected in the renovation of public buildings of Rome by Augustus: not only

Romulus’ hut, but the public aqueducts and eighty-two temples, monuments of Republican statesmen. Restoration of the past was complemented by a desire to create monuments for the future. The assumed reception of Augustus’ own works of public and private architecture is unambiguously expressed in Vitruvius’ famous preface: ‘I have noticed that you have built and are building much and for the rest of time too will have concern for public and private buildings, in accordance with the scale of your achievements so that these may be passed on to posterity in memory . . .’62 Seen in this way, architecture was a memorial to the past, a monument (monumentum) recording accomplishments (res gestae) for posterity. To a later generation, its stylistic features would incorporate meanings associated with bygone ages or persist as exempla.63 When Germanicus Caesar inspected the ruins of Thebes in ad 18, he took their barely legible hieroglyphic inscriptions as ‘embracing a past opulence’.64 History was something that a good Roman architect needed to learn. Buildings, like annals, passed on the achievements of the past, but did so by their ‘solidity’ (ﬁrmitas) and ability to stand the test of time. In the same way, the written treatises of architects were themselves handed down to posterity.65 The historical importance of Roman buildings was expressed in their physical grandeur. This aesthetic, which had been shared by monarchs in Egypt, Persia, and Assyria, inﬂuenced the later buildings of Greek rulers of the Hellenistic period, which were praised in epigrams for their gigantic scale.66 Private buildings were compared with mountains; like those natural features, they aspired to a permanence in the landscape which had previously only been achieved by the temples of the gods.67 In Classical Greece public space had been open, but in Hellenistic times it was dominated by monuments of the rulers.68 The desire to build structures of superhuman size was, however, seen as a human weakness, especially by Hellenistic poets, who, like their predecessors, were inclined to see words as better vehicles for perpetuating human fame than structures, which were vulnerable to the elements and to human envy.69 But, while the poet Horace claimed that his poetry was a more lasting monumentum, for most Romans the most effective forms of memorials were not verbal, but visual.70 Just as grand scale was a mark of monumentality in literature,71 so great size was what made architecture most worth remembering.72 In the Greek cities of the Empire, buildings were regarded as monuments by virtue of their sheer scale alone. The Temple of Domitian at Ephesus and the imperial buildings associated with it were ‘new works of scale to suit the old masterpieces’ of the Artemisium.73

monuments of the greek past and the roman present under the empire Architecture in the Classical Greek city did not produce a coherent, continuous historical picture for posterity. Instead, each separate monument embodied a human and a divine element, which referred, respectively, to the ongoing present and the remote past. The Greeks in the Roman Empire clung to the idea that some buildings of the past were not so much memorials to their builders in the Roman way, but had an autonomy that corresponded to their sacred place within Greek

preserving the monuments of the past culture. These ideas found clearest expression in the ideals of the Second Sophistic, which generated a desire to relive the classical past. Buildings took on a renewed meaning, no longer merely decaying remnants of a great age, but as new as they had been in their heyday. They expressed a paradoxical ideal, being both buildings of the past and living in the present, as Plutarch described the monuments of Periclean Athens: ‘In beauty each was immediately at that time ancient, whereas in vigour it is up to the present day recent and fresh. So a kind of novelty is always in bloom, preserving its appearance untouched by time, as if the monuments had an evergreen breath and an ageless life suffused within them.’74 These Periclean monuments were not made monuments through the mediation of representational forms, inscribed writing or sculpted images, so much as because their very architecture, like the aedicular frame of the independent civic monument, brought with it historic associations and cultural identity, equivalent to those perceptible in the pyramids and just as irrepressible. They were, one might say, ‘already’ monumental from their ﬁrst beginnings. In this respect Plutarch’s attitude to the Periclean buildings resembled the Roman assumption that a building’s historic identity must be visible from the ﬁrst moment, not only recognizable in retrospect. The consequence of this view of architectural monumentality was that Greeks under the Roman Empire saw ancient buildings as relics of an ancient tradition. The older Greek view that the temples of the gods were more monumental than the memorials of mankind persisted into the second century. To Dio of Prusa, ‘the monuments of the prosperous past’ were the Propylaea and Parthenon at Athens, the Heraion at Samos, the Temple of Apollo at Didyma, and the Artemision at Ephesus.75 Their claim to stand above other buildings as monuments of the past rested on their sacred character. Only a very few secular structures had this status, for example the Stoa Poikile in Athens, which crossed the boundary between the recent and the distant past by endowing historical events with the quality of myth. Some Greek writers reacted to the increasing scale of Roman buildings and their monumental expectations by reasserting the division between the human and the divine. They claimed that the striving for the immortality and permanence of architectural forms was appropriate only to the sacred possessions of the gods; the desire to give permanence to human memorials was a Roman trait, which was anathema to Greek tradition. The belief that monuments of human fame should have only a limited duration was most clearly expressed in ideas held about military trophies. The traditional view of the Greek trophy was that it was a temporary structure, made out of perishable materials and usually taking the form of a mannequin, constructed from the arms of the defeated attached to a wooden stump.76 It was designed to have immediate impact as a se-ma, signalling the place of victory, but was not lasting in the Roman sense of a monumentum. Romans retained this conception of the ephemeral nature of trophy architecture under the Republic and even into the Empire (Fig. 138),77 even if elsewhere they continued to aspire to immortality of monuments to themselves and their families. Cicero, who devoted such attention to erecting a shrine (fanum) to his daughter Tullia to secure her immortality, recalled the Theban victory-monument set up after the battle of Leuctra in 371 bc: ‘When the Thebans defeated the Spartans in war, they set up a trophy in bronze, although it was almost a tradition for the Greeks, that, when

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138. Bronze sestertius of Marcus Aurelius, reverse face, showing a Roman victory trophy being decorated by a winged Victory.

they fought a war among themselves, the victors should set up a trophy on the boundary simply to announce the victory for the present and not so that the memory of the war remained for ever.’78 For Cicero it seemed natural, perhaps inevitable, that the trophy should be of a worthy material like bronze, the only reason for its ephemerality being the nature of the war between Greeks, which one would not want to remember.79 This, he recalled, had been the issue at Delphi, where the Thebans were called to account by the Amphictyon assembly of Greek states: the Thebans claimed that they had wanted to leave eternal signs (insignia) of their virtue in war to their own posterity (posteris nostris); the Amphictyons replied that it was not permitted for Greeks to set up a monument to a victory over other Greeks.80 Cicero glossed over Greek views about monuments in general, stating that they had ‘almost a tradition’ of making such monuments as claims to fame. But for the Greek Plutarch, a century-and-a-half later, the fact that the trophy was of bronze was in patent contradiction to the convention of ephemerality appropriate to human memorials.81 He treated the Theban victory monument as a ﬁrst, fatal act of ‘monumentalization’: ‘Why of all things dedicated to the gods are military spoils alone trusted to be overlooked as they fade with time and not moved or repaired?’82 The reason, Plutarch continued, was that a temporary trophy marked an event; to conserve the memory of an occasion in more permanent materials such as stone or bronze, as a monument to the excellence of the leader who had won the victory, would arouse envy and hatred: Is it so that, in thinking at ﬁrst that they will leave fame, they always seek to bring some fresh memorial to their virtue? Or rather because, as time causes the traces of the conﬂict with the enemy to fade away, it is invidious and gratuitously sadistic to recover and renew them? After all, among Greeks, the fame of the ﬁrst men to set up a trophy of stone or bronze is not respected.83

The earliest Roman trophy was likewise a temporary structure, not expected to survive for long the moment of victory. But the urge to create a lasting monument was irresistible. In 65 bc Julius Caesar, as curule aedile, had arranged for the restoration of the trophies of Caius Marius, originally part of the latter’s victory celebration over the Cimbri in 102 bc.84 This reconstruction, a generation later, elevated their status from temporary memorials of the battle to historic monuments of Roman military success and of Marius himself. From now on Roman victory memorials sought permanence, like the stone imitations of a victory

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139. The ‘Tropaeum Traiani’, Adamklissi, Romania, victory monument of the emperor Trajan, a.d. c.114. Restored view.

mannequin set up at St Bertrand de Comminges.85 On a larger scale, Augustus’ huge tumulus structure at La Turbie celebrated his conquest of the Alpine Gauls, while Trajan’s celebration of victory in the Dacian Wars at Adamklissi was a round, stone, mausoleum-like building (Fig. 139).86 These works were clearly monumental in their huge size, their bulky, block-like form, and the large inscriptions blazoned around their podia, creating a similar effect to Robert Venturi’s post-modern creation (Fig. 140);87 yet, on the summit of each, a stone image of the conventional temporary trophy mannequin showed that they followed an ephemeral model. Nowhere was the tension between the ideal of a temporary trophy and the wish to create lasting monuments more apparent.88 For Plutarch, the monuments of past men could not continue to

140. A post-modern monument, as conceived by the American architect Robert Venturi.

present a face of newness long after their original dedication. What struck him most about the ancient bronze statues dedicated as sacred offerings, and still in his day on show at the sanctuary of Delphi, was their patina. The action of the elements upon the bronze, and particularly of oxidization by the air, demonstrated the process of time: the patina, being the effect of this process, was a token of the statues’ antiquity.89 But the monuments of the Romans were different. Despite their great size, they managed to survive the ravages of time and human envy. They did so because of their ‘Fortune’. Plutarch did not think of chance as an accident, as we do today, but as something more akin to ‘providence’, a supernatural and dominant force over which men had no control, but which was responsible for the outcome of their actions. ‘Chance’ or ‘Fortune’ (Tyche), in Plutarch’s view, not only presided over the Romans’ achievements in war and politics; she also protected their buildings and appeared to guarantee their endurance. The goddess Fortuna had a special relation to the city of Rome, where she had several temples, the ﬁrst of them founded by Ancus Martius in the regal period. She warded off the onslaughts of oblivion and envy, which threatened the works of the people of Rome.90 The Fortune that watched over Roman actions was not neutral. To Plutarch she seemed inherently ‘good’ and always favourable to the Romans. Two-and-a-half centuries earlier the Greek historian Polybius had insisted that, although the rise of Rome was the greatest miracle ever brought about by Fortune, its primary cause was not pure ‘luck’, but the virtues of the Romans themselves. Polybius’ claim reﬂects contemporary attitudes in the Hellenistic world towards Tyche and daimones as supernatural powers, whose decision was arbitrary and could not be challenged.91 But with the rise of the Roman Empire came the belief that the successes of individual emperors and of Rome herself occurred because Rome had her own, protecting fortune. For Plutarch, the rise to power of Romulus and Remus was no arbitary drama, subject to the vagaries of chance, but the result of a conscious design. He suggests that, ‘when we see what great structures Fortune builds’, the expansion of Roman power could be interpreted as the construction of a monumental building by the goddess Tyche.92 From at least the third century bc, Greek civic decrees, especially honoriﬁc ones promoting an individual’s fame, were sanctiﬁed by a prefatory dedication to ‘Good Fortune’ (Agathe-i Tuche-i ). This was designed to counter the detrimental effects of envy or hubris, to which every boast of success was vulnerable. Under the Roman Empire the formula was increasingly used to guarantee permanence not just to any kind of social achievement, but especially to buildings, erected by Romans, in the Roman name or in the honour of the Roman emperors. The Ephesian decree which recorded the construction of the Temple of Domitian and the restoration of the Artemisium was headed by an initial dedication ‘to Good Fortune’, and this ‘fortune’ was connected with ‘the most fortunate times of renewal of the emperor Domitian, most manifest of gods’, under whom the buildings were completed.93 In other words, the dual monumental architecture of restored past and colossal future, which characterized the neocorate Ephesus, was assured by the divine protection of Domitian and the ‘fortune’ that was said to attend his reign.94 This ideology of monumentality survived Domitian’s damnatio

preserving the monuments of the past memoriae. Pliny remarked to Trajan that the public baths at Prusa needed to be rebuilt to suit ‘the dignity of the city and the splendour of [his] reign’.95 ‘Looking at the scale of your fortune and your spirit,’ he wrote, ‘I think that there should be displayed buildings which will suit your eternity as much as your fame and will have as much utility as beauty.’96 An abortive aqueduct at Nicomedia was rebuilt with stone and brick arches so that its utility and beauty were ‘most worthy of your age’.97 At Claudiopolis, Trajan, in his ‘indulgence’, constructed a bath on the site of an old house, once ‘beautiful, I hear, but now formless and in ruins’.98 This house had been given to the emperor Claudius by an imperial freedman and decorated with a temple to the imperial cult in the peristyle, but had collapsed, partly from vandalism and partly through neglect. As it belonged to the emperor, it called for the highest kind of munus, and Pliny proposed to build a bath in the empty space, ‘an elegant work worthy of your name’; through this building ‘the city’s very ugly face would be adorned and the city itself ampliﬁed, without removing any buildings, but reinvigorating those fallen from age’.99 Trajan’s monuments would show the superiority of his reign to preceding eras: in the new forum at Nicomedia a ‘very ancient temple of the Magna Mater’, symbol of local Phrygian identity, was overshadowed by the tall Roman buildings beside it.100 Out of tune with contemporary grandeur (sublimitas), it had to be rebuilt or moved; Trajan suggested the latter policy would be more respectful of the past.101 A canal planned near Nicomedia highlighted Trajan’s own ‘eternity’, in contrast to past kings of Bithynia who had been prevented by death or failure from bringing the project to completion.102 Likewise, Hadrian’s completion of the Olympieion at Athens, retaining the ancient plan of the Pisistratid project, not only symbolized the revival of Athens in his reign,103 but his own success and fortune by comparison with earlier rulers whose attempts to ﬁnish the enormous temple had proved abortive.104 Under Antoninus Pius, who, like Trajan and Hadrian, owed his imperial position to adoption, Fortune was presented as a historical force that was responsible for imperial success and guided great building projects to completion. At Aphrodisias, the ‘eternal works’ of Carminius Claudianus included a colonnaded plateia, which, it was hoped, ‘with good Fortune would last’.105 The restored basilica stoa at Thera was dedicated ‘on behalf of the fortune and eternal preservation’ of the emperor and his family. Cleitosthenes had also promised ‘to erect other works . . . in manner and size as opportunity and the Fortune of the city should allow me’. A prominent place was given to ‘the Temple of Fortune’, perhaps, as I have suggested, at the end of the basilica, where, as in other cities, the allegorical statue of the city’s Fortune with mural crown occupied a dominant position. These considerations help us to understand better the requirement of monumentality which governed the design of Antonine buildings: why, for example, the Temple of Zeus at Baalbek was as high as the Pantheon in Rome, or why Antoninus Pius strongly supported Vedius Antoninus’ scheme for new buildings at Ephesus. These enormous structures played an important ideological role as historical monuments already in their own time and statements that the Antonine age was as worthy as any previous one. For Pius, the superiority of public architecture at Ephesus to ephemeral shows and handouts derived from their potential as ‘ornaments for the future’. The eternal works at

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Thera and Ephesus point to an ideology of dynastic architecture more familiar from older works of Near Eastern rulers, whose enduring future reigns were regarded as signalled by the supposed durability of the materials of their buildings. Thus, at the Temple of Marduk in Babylon the rebuilt tower of Etemenanki is inscribed with the prayer of King Nabupolassar (625–605 bc): ‘as the bricks are ﬁxed for ever, may the foundations of my throne last for distant days!’106 The dedication by Antiochus I of Commagene of the colossal sanctuary of Nemrud Dagˇ, ‘for eternal time’, was manifested in its unmovable foundations.107 In the Roman world the erection of new architecture also looked forward to its future endurance. The works of the emperors, above all those constructed with their aid or designed to serve their cult, were ‘buildings for eternity’, believed to last for ever and so to herald an enduring ‘golden age’ of prosperity. Monuments of the Antonine age reveal an expectation that they would last forever. This was the supposed consequence of their enormous size. When Justinian restored the ‘Antonine Baths’ at Nicomedia in the sixth century, after the most important part of the building had collapsed, it was commented that ‘because of the great size of the work it was not expected that it would be rebuilt’.108 There was also a belief that the emperor’s buildings had a place in the passage of history. The Hadrianic gateway at Athens separated the old ‘city of Theseus’ on one side from the new ‘city of Hadrian’ on the other. In Italy likewise, the sanctuary of Juno Gabina on the Via Praenestina east of Rome had a marble balustrade with inscriptions on both sides: on one, the original dedication of the temple by the municipium of Gabii; on the other, its restoration by Hadrian. At Capua, the amphitheatre was presented, like the aqueduct at Athens, as the completion of work begun by Hadrian; but that project was itself a restoration of an earlier civic project initiated by the colony.109 Thus the Antonine inscription presented a sequence of three stages of architectural history. The perception of public buildings as monuments to imperial rule may have been more general. Early in Antoninus’ reign the word monumentum was used explicitly for a structure other than a tomb.110 An inscription of 139 recording a work dedicated to the new emperor by the city of Egara in Hispania Citerior uses the abbreviation ‘M’ for ‘monument’ (monumentum) familiar from epitaphs.111 It cannot refer to a funerary monument. This was a ‘monument’ to the new emperor, expressing the loyalty of the Spanish town. In the western Empire this kind of statement later became a more formal element of the state imperial cult. In rural Aquitania, a ‘monument’ was dedicated to the ‘divine power’ of the ruling emperors (numina augustorum) by three individuals; it probably represents a more widespread practice.112 It is not certain what these ‘monuments’ looked like. But, even if they were statues rather than whole buildings, the statue they commemorated was just an ornament and emblem of the structure where it appeared. In its original context, the inscription indicated that the whole space was a ‘monument’ to the Roman emperor. An interesting example of a monument that presented the historical and dynastic pedigree of Antoninus Pius is revealed by a fragmentary inscription from Ostia (Fig. 141).113 Although only the left side of the stone is preserved, it gives a good idea of the original monument. In the top line the surviving letters ‘Ab urbe con[dita——]’ begin an unusual example of a year dated from the foundation of Rome in 753 bc.

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preserving the monuments of the past routes in an arc from the main city to what is now Trastevere (Fig. 142).116 The last of these, which does not survive today, was said to have been the city’s ﬁrst bridge over the river, allegedly built by Numa. Unlike the others, which were subsequently rebuilt in stone, it remained built entirely of wood, without the use of any metal; this was due to a religious taboo and the potential need to dismantle it in wartime, as evident in the famous story of Horatius Cocles, revived on Antoninus’ coins.117 Its name, derived from sublica, a Volscian word for a wooden beam, appeared in the hymns of the ancient order of Salian priests, the

141. Fragment of an inscribed marble slab from Ostia, apparently recording a date AB VRBE CONDITA (‘from the foundation of Rome’).

Beneath this date the names of deceased, deiﬁed emperors were arranged in reverse chronological order from Hadrian to Titus or Vespasian, suggesting that the monument was designed to celebrate the supposed continuity of the dynasty of adoptive emperors. The structure to which this inscription belonged was probably a podium at ground-level containing a row of statues of these emperors, rather than the attic of an arch as might at ﬁrst seem probable;114 and, as the slab was found reused in the Forum Baths, the monument presumably stood in the vicinity, either within that building, in the forum itself, or beside the nearby Temple of Augustus. The actual date is lost. But the unusually formal dating suggests that it might have celebrated the beginning of Rome’s tenth saeculum, her 900th anniversary in 147/8. That anniversary, as we have seen, inﬂuenced building activity at Rome in the early 140s, in the repairs to the Pantheon, the Colosseum, and the Temple of Venus and Rome, all monuments associated with the festival of 147/8 or with Antoninus’ assertion of dynastic continuity. But it also prompted him to restore much older buildings. In 154–6 he consolidated his claims of libertas by celebrating the 400th anniversary of the dedication of the Aventine Temple of Diana in 246 bc.115 He restored three of Rome’s bridges across the Tiber: the Pons Agrippae in 147, the Pons Cestius in 152, and the Pons Sublicius, providing three

142. Course of the river Tiber through ancient Rome, with bridges marked. The plan, from J. Le Gall, Le Tibre (Paris 1953), includes some details now known to be inaccurate (eg. Porticus Aemilia).

preserving the monuments of the past carmina Saliorum.118 On this sacred bridge ceremonies continued to be held up to the second century, according to the same, allegedly ‘archaic’ rites; the structure was preserved intact and, each time it had to be repaired, was reconstructed with the same technique.119 Its restoration by Antoninus can be seen in the context of the emperor’s revival of images from the regal period and his self-presentation as a new ‘Numa’, whose sanctuary at Cures Sabini he probably restored with his son Marcus.120 During his reign Pius issued a formal rescript ordering that those who wanted to spend money on building should use their resources to restore old buildings rather than to construct new ones.121 Although this rescript is not precisely dated and has a general similarity with the concern of previous emperors over neglected buildings,122 it can be placed in the context of the saeculum of 147/8 by a parallel with the previous one of a century earlier. Then the emperor Claudius had declared that the ‘face’ of the new Italy of that age should not be marred by the presence of unsightly buildings in ruin or disrepair. A similar motivation governed the edict of Pius, who, we recall, was also presented as the ‘restorer of Italy’ (restitutor Italiae). The need for reconstruction after the earthquake of 142 in Asia occasioned the spirit of renovation to be extended more widely. The focus on restoration, however, did not diminish the extent of new building. Rather it increased it, because the best way of respecting the Roman architectural past was by building anew.123 As in the Domitianic decree from Ephesus, new buildings and old both had a place in the architecture of Roman cities, as complementary components of renewal. We see the same duality of old and new at Anagnia, south-east of Rome, near which the emperor Marcus Aurelius had a villa, the so-called ‘Villa Magna’. His friend and tutor Fronto described how, on a visit to the emperor’s estate, he had once enjoyed inspecting the ancient buildings of the town nearby, especially its religious ‘monuments’ (monumenta), ‘precincts, shrines, and temples’.124 His letter shows an awareness of historic monuments familiar to any cultural tourist today. Yet here the antique aspect of the town was validated by the construction of new public buildings, which were themselves presented from a historical perspective as the restoration of older structures. In the later Antonine period the public baths of the town were rebuilt due to the efforts of two freed persons, Marcus Aurelius Sabinianus, signum Euhodus, and Marcia Aurelia Ceionia Demetrias.125 As a freedman of the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, Sabinianus would have been closely involved with court life and attitudes at the imperial villa.126 Ceionia, in turn, was presumably his daughter; later, as the concubine of Commodus, she orchestrated the latter’s murder in 192 and was herself killed the next year on the orders of Didius Iulianus.127 Their perceptions of the issue of restoring old buildings can be taken as representative of those expressed within the circle of the imperial court. The dedicatory inscription jointly in the names of both benefactors does not survive, so evidence of their involvement is limited to the inscribed pedestals, which carried statues of father and daughter. These statues were erected at public expense by the local community and presumably stood in the building itself.128 The language of the inscriptions points clearly to a new attitude of restoration under the Antonines, which was to last for the rest of the imperial period. On his statue base Sabinianus was presented in a conventional manner as performing the loyal and timely service of a ‘patron of the civic community (civitas) of

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Anagnia’, acting ‘out of love for his home town and fellow citizens’ in restoring at his own expense the public baths (thermae) which had been ‘neglected by long disregard’.129 Such language could have been written seventy years earlier. However, the ideas incorporated on the statue base of his daughter, who apparently carried out the dedication of the restored building begun by her father, suggest a novel emphasis.130 This Roman matron (stolata femina) was commended for ‘the dedication of the baths which after a long period of time the local council and people of Anagnia restored at their own expense to its former appearance (ad pristinam faciem)’. The inconsistency with the father’s base regarding funding is unsettling. It seems that the restoration had been begun by Sabinianus, perhaps at the instigation of his imperial masters in the nearby Villa Magna, but that he had died, leaving the building to be completed at public expense. However, the family connection was preserved, in that his daughter Ceionia performed the official ceremony of dedication.131 We shall see further examples of Antonine public buildings presented as family monuments in the next chapter. But it is remarkable that Ceionia, who could not be commended in the same conventional language as her father, as civic benefactor and patron, was praised for having ‘restored the building to its original appearance’, in the spirit of Antoninus Pius’ rescript. On her base the restoration of the building was perceived as a revival of the structure’s historic origins, almost as if its antiquity was similar to that of the town’s ancient religious shrines, rather than, as on her father’s base, simply as a continuation of the building’s civic functions.132 This kind of language, unfamiliar in earlier rebuilding inscriptions, became more common in the following century.133 The vigorous efforts by members of the Antonine imperial court to evoke the past through architecture was also a more widespread part of the culture of the age. It was not only in Rome and the neighbouring region of Latium that a general historical consciousness inﬂuenced the way in which people looked at buildings, old and new. During this period of the ‘Second Sophistic’, intellectuals of the Greek-speaking part of the Roman Empire took a lively interest in the culture of their Hellenic past, which they aspired to relive, in their literature, their manners, their dress, and their art. These movements have been interpreted under various names—‘archaism’, ‘Atticism’, ‘classicism’, ‘Hellenism’, ‘the Greek Renaissance’ are examples—but can all be seen as components of a wider phenomenon of a taste for the past which took many forms.134 That the buildings of the time should have been affected by this climate of conservatism and nostalgia for the heyday of Classical Greece of the ﬁfth and fourth century is hardly surprising. The interest of Fronto and Marcus Aurelius in the sacred buildings of ancient Latin cities was an architectural manifestation of the tendency of Roman writers and thinkers to feel nostalgia for Rome’s own Latin roots. We have seen how the statue of Dionysus at the round temple of ‘Tor di Nona’, shown on Pius’ medal, repeated an archaic Greek type. The new propylon at the sanctuary of the Mysteries at Eleusis, rebuilt by Marcus after the raid of 163, was apparently modelled on the Athenian Propylaea of Mnesicles.135 But, while the design pointed back to the Athenian past, the decoration placed the present era in this monumental context: on the pediment a clipeus bearing a portrait of Marcus, sprouting from an acanthus base, promoted his memory for posterity.136

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preserving the monuments of the past The Fountain of Peirene at Corinth was reconstructed in the Antonine period with elaborate polychrome marble surfaces around the inner courtyard (Figs. 145a–b).137 It was part of both historic Greek culture and Roman modernity: the existing openings to the six chambers from which the water ﬂowed were embellished with marble pilasters and arched architraves; two huge apses were added on either side of the court to create a trefoil or three-lobed plan suggestive of the most inventive private building schemes current around Rome; and an arcade was constructed in Roman style.138 But the centrepiece of the courtyard was the statue of the nymph Peirene, seated on a rusticated block of local poros limestone made to look like part of the timeless natural bedrock. This contrasted with the modern architecture around it. The official dedication of the work was in Latin,139 but the visitors’ grafﬁti were in Greek. No treatment of the perception of buildings in the Antonine age as monuments of the past is complete without considering the contribution of the writer Pausanias in his Description of Greece, begun early in Pius’ reign and published in the 170s after several revisions. This is not the place for a detailed discussion of this important text, which has been much studied in recent years.140 However, it is worth drawing attention in the present context to certain features of his presentation of a landscape of memory in mainland Greece. His passion to recover the historical Greek past made him keenly interested in monumental architecture, monumenta, especially religious structures, such as temples, shrines, cult images, and altars, but also secular buildings. Moreover, his personal religiousness made the act of seeing the ruins of sacred buildings an internal religious experience, as well as an external cultural memory.141 The perception of architecture involved privileged access to hidden secrets, which could never be divulged in full. Pausanias’ account presents the monuments of the Greek past to the readers of the imperial Roman present, especially perhaps those in Asia Minor, such as Aelius Aristides, who, in spite of the prominence of the Roman present, looked for ways to identify with their original Greek mother cities. These monuments expressed the cultural identity of classical Hellenism; their interpretation in Pausanias’ lengthy digressions, often with the help of comparisons, shows that the religious and cultural features of the classical past were still seen as meaningful parts of Greek culture in the imperial period. Signs of ancient masonry or construction stood out in contrast to modern style.142 But they also revealed the extent of disconnection of the past from the present, which was visibly suggested by the abundance of ruined, rooﬂess temples across the mainland, signs of the end of the heyday of these Greek cities.143 Pausanias’ treatment of the theatre buildings of Greece may be taken as an instance of the criteria he uses in judging monumental architecture. Theatres were among the most characteristic monuments of an ancient Greek polis ; they were also, with their ornate aedicular stagebuildings, a highlight of modern Roman architecture. The most singular examples were those built of more permanent materials, like the theatre at Sparta praised by Pausanias for its white marble, rather than those theatres built on mounds of earth; Pausanias regards the fourthcentury stone theatre at Epidaurus as the most perfect example.144 Acknowledging that Roman theatres were superior in decoration and the Hellenistic theatre at Megalopolis (‘Big City’) in Arcadia was, ap-

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propriately, larger in scale, he sees the excellence of the example at Epidaurus in its ‘beauty’ and the perfection (harmonia) of its stonework, for which its architect, Polyclitus, was unrivalled. Pausanias uses classical Greek criteria of aesthetics to assess classical Greek monuments in terms of sculptural qualities. It is surely no accident that he hints at a possible confusion on the reader’s part between this fourthcentury architect Polyclitus and the ﬁfth-century sculptor famous for the proportions of human parts in his Canon. However, this historic Greek monument only served to introduce the buildings of Roman Epidaurus, built in Pausanias’ own lifetime by the senator Antoninus.145 Pausanias apparently saw no inconsistency in turning from an account of monuments of Greek cultural identity to this list of new Roman works. The latter contributed to ancient Greek heritage as a positive force, because new building was seen as the best means of validating the old. Likewise, his description of the ancient monuments of Athens included the new works of the emperor Hadrian, including his Library, with its splendid precinct mimicking the Temple of Peace at Rome, and his ‘Pantheon’, with a hundred columns and a grand inscription listing all the temples of the Greek world that he had restored. The inventiveness of the present enhanced the importance of the past. Pausanias’ ideas about monumentality and the historical perspective of his account are also illustrated by his description of the remains at Megalopolis. This city had been founded in 369 bc as a federal agglomeration of several older Arcadian settlements in the region, and, because of its early history and military successes as the capital of the Arcadian League, it was a paradigm for Greek writers of the Second Sophistic who looked back to older days of Hellenic political power.146 By the second century ad the city had been reduced to a settlement of minimal size, although in 93/4 Domitian’s restoration ‘from the foundations’ of a stoa damaged by ﬁre suggested something of a revival of its past fortunes. This rebuilding was commemorated in a huge bilingual inscription in Latin and Greek framed within a monumental tabula ansata.147 As at Ephesus, the Greek past was revalidated by the Roman present, but unlike Ephesus, this architectural restoration was not matched by a political one. For Pausanias, the ruins of Megalopolis were a monument to a lost prosperity. Above all, in the southern part of the city, across the River Helisson, the ‘theatre, the largest in Greece, offered itself as a monument’.148 Pausanias used the word ‘monument’ (Greek mne-ma) in a deliberate sense. He did not see the ruins of the theatre here as Thucydides had seen the ruins of Mycenae, as meaningless fragments of a history irrecoverable through archaeology, although the difference in timeperiod between past and present amounted in each case to some 500 years. To Pausanias the buildings of Megalopolis lived on, despite their ancient and neglected state. In the theatre, ‘an ever-ﬂowing fountain of water’ seemed, he observed, to symbolize the eternity of the city’s Hellenic past. Further on, ‘not far from the theatre there survive some foundations of the bouleuterion, which had been built for the ten thousand Arcadians’. Pausanias does not mention Domitian’s new portico: to him the substructures of the old building were more important as a monument. Other buildings of Megalopolis provoked similar observations. Near the bouleuterion Pausanias noticed a building which seemed to be a private house and had, he said, been built ‘in the

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beginning’ for Alexander the Great, son of Philip II of Macedon. This was apparent from the image of Ammon, like a square herm, with ram’s horns on its head. As with the theatre, in the sanctuary of the Muses, Apollo, and Hermes ‘a few foundations offered themselves as a monument’; again, meaning was supplied to the meagre structural remains by the cult image surviving as a herm. Of the sanctuary of Aphrodite, ‘all that remained was the pronaos and three cult images’. Pausanias’ view of the monumentality of the past differed from earlier, more limited Greek ideas of monuments. Instead of lasting for only a few generations, buildings now attained the conceptual distance of monumental time. For example, at one end of the stadium was a temple of Dionysus, which ‘was said to have been struck by lightning two generations before my time, and a few ruins of it have survived to the present day’. Although the obliteration had occurred quite recently, the monument appeared no less fragmentary than others that had been destroyed much longer ago, like the Temple of Heracles and Hermes, which ‘was no more, the gods having only an altar left to them’. The monuments contributed to the mythology of the place: in the Temple of Asclepius Pais bones were kept that were too large for a human being, so were believed to be the remains of one of the giants who had fought together with Hoplodamus to save the goddess Rhea. To Pausanias the architectural monuments of Megalopolis were not without historical signiﬁcance, but were a warning of the change of fortune to which this city had been subject. Founded by Arcadians, ‘with all enthusiasm and with the greatest hopes of the Greeks invested in it’, he observed, the city ‘had lost all its order and ancient prosperity, and most of it is in ruins at the present time’. Such a transformation seemed to be the result of a providence not dissimilar to the historical force perceived by Plutarch earlier: ‘I did not regard this as any wonder (thauma), because I know that the supernatural power (to daimonion) tries to produce changes all the time and Fortune (Tyche- ) transforms everything alike, the strong and the weak, things born and things that die, and leads with powerful necessity as it stands beside the city.’ Megalopolis was not alone in this respect: the great cities of Mycenae, Nineveh, and Thebes, Pausanias remarked, were all desolate now, each reduced by the vagaries of fortune from an extensive city to an acropolis and a few inhabitants. The evidence presented by Pausanias was the same as that which Thucydides had seen earlier: but whereas the Athenian historian dismissed the ruins as a sign of the failure of archi-

tecture to reveal the truths of history, the sophist of the Antonine Empire saw them as expressive statements of historical change. Behind Pausanias’ attempt to reclaim his Greek cultural past lay the Roman concept of monumentum.149 Architectural forms helped to perpetuate the memories of individuals. There was, for example, in the Greek and Roman world a notable interest in identifying houses associated with famous historical ﬁgures such as Pindar or Simonides.150 The ruins of Pindar’s house outside the Neistan Gate at Thebes were identiﬁed by the images of Pentelic marble at the adjacent sanctuary of Cybele, which he had dedicated, opened for public inspection on only one day in the year. Aulus Gellius knew of the ‘ﬁlthy and dismal cave’ where Euripides had written his plays: its shabby architectural remains vividly conveyed the historicity of this monument to Classical Athenian tragedy.151 As Vitruvius earlier identiﬁed the house of Romulus by its mos vetustatis, so Pausanias recognized the house of Alexander the Great from its distinctive construction. The house of Alexander at Thebes was identiﬁed, as at Megalopolis, by the herm with ram’s horns in front of the building, which referred to Alexander as the son of Zeus Ammon.152 But the monumentality of this Hellenic architectural exemplum could also be seen in imperial Roman Italy. An undated inscription from Patavium (Padua) records the dedication of a ‘temple façade with rams’ heads and herms’.153 The combination of ram’s heads and herms makes obvious sense in the light of Pausanias’ remarks on Alexander’s house. Nothing remains of the building that this inscription once adorned, but, as the size of the plaque on which this inscription is carved is fairly small and there is no dedication to any divinity, the building was probably not an actual place of cult. The sense of templum here may have been metaphorical, applied to a building constructed in imitation of an archetypal monument. The peculiar appearance of this building must have stood out in Roman Padua as something alien and symbolic surrounded by familiar north Italian forms. Its nature and function are no longer clear, but one wonders whether its meaning was even then comprehensible to all the members of this north Italian community, or just the means of expression of a few learned souls. It was presumably the monument to an individual, family, or group, celebrating a particular cultural identity for reasons that we cannot know today.

CHAPTER 10

Building the Monuments of the Future the monuments of the past as archet ypes for future design The preservation of ancient structures like the house of Alexander at Thebes not only reinforced Romans’ sense of the passing of time, but also encouraged them to aspire to make their monuments last as long or even longer as legendary examples of the past. But the primary inﬂuence of historical archetypes was not on monuments’ precise architectural design, but on their identiﬁcation as monuments by name and the implication of this for their memorializing function. This can be seen most clearly through those buildings that preserved the remains of human beings for future generations, in other words, tomb structures.1 It has often been argued that the purest form of building is funerary architecture, intended to commemorate and to endure, and not distracted by any social functions. This was the view of the early twentieth-century Moravian architect Adolf Loos, who wrote in his 1910 essay ‘Architektur’ that: ‘Nur ein ganz kleiner Teil der Architektur gehört der Kunst an: das Grabmal und das Denkmal. Alles andere, alles, was einem Zweck dient, ist aus dem Reiche der Kunst auszuschliessen.’2 In the Roman world, tomb monuments had more complex functions for the living as well as the dead: they were not only a setting for ritual funerary processions and banquets in commemoration of the deceased, but also a backdrop to a wide range of economic and social activities in the suburbia of Roman cities, such as trade, market-gardening, and new construction.3 Yet the Antonine age also shows an interest in funerary buildings as a pure form of architecture in their own right. As Loos commented later in the same essay: ‘Wenn wir im Walde einen Hügel ﬁnden, sechs Schuh lang und drei Schuh breit, mit der Schaufel pyramidenförmig aufgerichtet, dann werden wir ernst, und es sagt etwas in uns: Hier liegt jemand begraben. Das ist Architektur.’4 Potentially cut off from the functions of everyday life, the tomb monument expresses an ideal architecture. Tomb buildings had always been conspicuous monuments in the ancient world, and the biggest and most famous ones inspired others to follow their example. Evocative architecture and identiﬁcatory inscriptions aroused visitors’ curiosity about a person’s importance, a society’s culture, or, above all, the sheer physical effort involved in the construction. The tomb of Alyattes, like the pyramids, astonished Herodotus by the sheer size of the workforce stated by the Persian inscription to have been employed in building the monument.5 Alexander the Great could hardly avoid visiting the tomb of Cyrus at Pasargadae, because he now regarded the former king of Persia as his own predecessor. When Arrian in the Antonine period described Alexander’s visit to Pasargadae, his description was written from the point of view of the Roman who loved

to travel to see the monuments of the past, and was constantly inspired by the characteristics of the old to create something even more lasting in the present. His account includes many of the features of monuments which have been remarked on already: its location in a garden with trees; the long grass around it, a sign of its deterioration from age and neglect; the sacral dignity and solid authority of the squared stone podium;6 and, above, a chamber with a Persian inscription on the outside, a stone roof and a low, narrow door, and, inside, a golden sarcophagus and many expensive carpets and possessions. During the Hellenistic period the choice of monuments that people visited or admired from a distance was formalized in the canon of the Seven Wonders of the World.7 Among the monuments in this list, all in the eastern Mediterranean, were not only the great Temple at Artemis, whose symbolic importance, we have seen, was enhanced by the imperial buildings of Domitian’s reign, but also funerary structures, the pyramids of Egypt and the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus. During the Roman period travellers frequently visited the Ancient Egyptian monuments. For example, during his journey to Thebes in ad 18 Germanicus was inspired, like a modern tourist, by the sheer antiquity and remoteness of the period when these stones had been erected.8 The hieroglyphic inscriptions still barely legible on these ruined piles ‘embraced their past opulence’.9 The colossal Ancient Egyptian statues there became the object of Roman graffiti, and most of the religious and other messages scratched on the various limbs of the Colossus of Memnon belong to the second century.10 Writing on the monument ensured one’s own fame, and the Egyptian pyramids, above all, inspired Romans to seek their own immortality.11 Many recorded visits to these sacred monuments by scratching their names into the stone: through writing upon structures known and believed to be the model of endurance, they aimed to perpetuate their own existence. One touching example is a poem inscribed under Trajan by an aristocratic Roman lady. Her verses convert this alien and historic symbol into a personal monument to her brother who had not lived to see these famous monuments with her: Vidi pyramidas sine te dulcissime frater et tibi quod potui lacrimas hic m[a]esta profudi et nostri memorem luctus hanc sculpo querelam sit nomen Decimi Centanni pyramide alta pontiﬁcis comitisque tuis Traiane triumphis, lustra sex intra cens[eba]s consul is esse[t]: I saw the pyramids without you, dearest brother, And forlornly here shed tears for you, as I could, And I carve this lament in memory of our grief: May the name of Decimus Centannus be on this tall pyramid,

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building the monuments of the future Pontiff and comrade in your triumphs, Trajan; You deem[ed] he might be consul before the age of thirty.12

The deceased Decimus was a Roman noble with a successful but short career: after accompanying Trajan in the Dacian Wars, he had reached the rank of suffect consul at a remarkably young age. But his premature death made a cruel irony of his cognomen Centannus, meaning ‘a hundred years long’; that epithet could only truly be vindicated by its appearance on this age-old, surrogate tomb monument. Seeing the pyramids determined the shape of the Romans’ own monuments.13 At Rome the Augustan pyramid of Caius Cestius is well known.14 It stood at the angle of two ancient streets below the Aventine hill, near the later Protestant cemetery, rising to 27 metres, in concrete bonded with brick and faced with marble over a travertine base. Cestius’ name was inscribed on one face, and his heirs, including Agrippa, added bronze statues on pedestals at the corners.15 In the second century ad the interior was decorated with painted stucco.16 But though it strived to be unique, it was not. The ‘Meta Romuli’, which was later demolished, was probably even taller, also faced with marble.17 Outside Rome, at Siga in Numidia, in an area with a strong tradition of grand princely tumuli or tower tombs, a freedman of the emperor Gaius (‘Caligula’) claimed special attention with his ‘monument named pyramid’.18 In the second century to build a pyramid was no longer so extraordinary, and no longer the prerogative of the highest social ranks. Miniature brick pyramids less than half-a-metre high, were used as tomb memorials for persons of lower status, but equal pretensions, in the cemetery of Portus Romae, on the Isola Sacra. The pyramid was now not simply an exotic curiosity, but deﬁnitively established as an archetype. For a tomb to be called a pyramid it clearly needed to possess that shape, so ‘pyramids’ were still relatively unusual in Roman cemeteries. A more widespread conceptual model for Roman monuments of the dead was another ‘wonder of the world’, the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Already soon after its construction it inspired other monuments in western Asia Minor, such as a temple portico on a square podium of the third century bc surviving at Belevi near Ephesus. Another creative imitation of Mausolus’ tomb was erected at Mylasa in Caria, with a tetrastyle main storey of two columns between piers and Corinthian capitals and a beautiful coffered ceiling: it is now known as the Gümüskesen (Figs. 144a–b). This one is dated to the second century, and one may suspect a precise historicist motive behind the design, as Mylasa was Mausolus’ birthplace.19 Because of its status as a wonder of the world, the Mausoleum was admired by Vitruvius and Strabo and described with measurements by the elder Pliny.20 However, its real legacy for Roman tombs was not its form, but its name, which has lasted to the present day as a general denomination for funerary structures. The ﬁrst tomb other than Mausolus’ certainly called by this name was that of Augustus in the Campus Martius at Rome.21 Until then the word ‘Mausoleum’ had its natural meaning, referring to the tomb of Mausolus alone. But in the ﬁrst century bc Roman builders started to transfer names like this, which had speciﬁc topographical associations, to other structures as generic descriptions. To use a building’s name in this way implied that the original had the status of an archetype, which could deﬁne other

144. Tomb at Milas (ancient Mylasa), south-west Turkey. (a) View of the monument. (b) Detail of the interior with ornamental ceiling.

buildings in terms of function. It seems natural today to apply the name of one building to label others, but at the time it was a remarkable move. Cicero, for instance, noticed how Publius Clodius Pulcher had transferred the name ‘Propylaea’ from the authentic structure of that name on the Athenian Acropolis to his new building at Eleusis; following this example, he himself even more daringly imported other Athenian toponyms such as ‘Lyceum’, ‘Academy’, or ‘Museum’ into his own Italian villas, a practice, followed by the emperor Hadrian,22 which was probably more common than the meagre sources suggest. The generic use of the term ‘Mausoleum’ is part of this phenomenon of using the names of older structures to give new works a status as monuments. It may seem inappropriate that Augustus should have borrowed the name of a tyrannical Carian satrap’s monument for his own tomb. Some scholars have suggested that the term ‘Mausoleion’ had already been transferred, well before the time of Augustus, to the tomb of Alexander the Great in Alexandria and entirely lost its associa-

building the monuments of the future tion with Mausolus; they argue that Augustus was more likely to have copied the name of Alexander’s tomb, which was perhaps closer in form anyway to his own, than that of the satrap Mausolus.23 But this ingenious solution is unnecessary.24 The monument at Halicarnassus had sufficient standing in its own right as a wonder of the world in Augustus’ day, as conﬁrmed by Vitruvius and Strabo. As with the pyramids and the Athenian monuments, the fame of the building itself, not of the ruler with whom it was associated, explains its adoption as an archetype. And to follow the exemplum of Mausolus’ monument a tomb did not need to resemble its wedding-cake appearance. Augustus’s tumulus was different in form from the original Mausoleum, but the name alone helped to bestow the status of monumental architecture. When Pausanias described the tomb of Aepytus in Arcadia, ‘a small mound of earth, surrounded by the circular form of a stone podium’, it caused him to mention the tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus, although there was little visual resemblance.25 The latter, he says, was so big and visually stunning in construction that the Romans in admiration call their own most famous monuments ‘Mausoleia’. It is clear from his remark, ﬁrst, that the application of the name was due to the fame of the monument itself, rather than the reputation of its builder, and second, that it was a habit practised by Romans in particular. Pausanias himself was outraged, much as Cicero had been earlier over Pulcher’s ‘Propylaea’ at Eleusis, by the apparent absurdity of calling tombs ‘Mausoleia’, or ‘tombs of Mausolus’, when they were supposed to commemorate someone else. However, the fact that a round tumulus ringed by a stone wall made him think of Mausolus’ rectilinear temple-tomb with its ornamental sculptures suggests that, in his own mind, he did not regard the name ‘Mausoleum’ as so rigidly ‘nontransferable’.26 The name of the monument no longer needed to evoke its particular architectural form. The building was an archetype primarily because of its function, as a dynastic family tomb. But it was only in the western half of the Empire that builders actually used the label ‘mausoleum’ on their tombs (Table 3). The word does not occur in the extensive tomb vocabulary of Asia Minor.27 It is restricted to Italy, southern Gaul, the Iberian peninsula, and western North Africa, and in these places it is used with some pretentiousness. For instance, a cippus from Nîmes, marking the boundary of a tomb precinct, deﬁnes the monument in an exaggerated manner, using both mausoleum and monumentum in a loose, rhetorical style: ‘this monument and mausoleum built to be a monument.’28 To the right of this text, tools apparently used in the leather currying trade are represented in sculpted relief, as a memorial to the livelihood of the deceased. In death, as in life, he was concerned to ensure durability. The habit of calling a monumental tomb a mausoleum does not seem to have been restricted by social class. The earliest cases, in the ﬁrst century, concerned tombs of high-ranking ﬁgures in a locality, including ofﬁcials of the imperial cult who might have intended a link in name between their own tomb and that of the emperor at Rome.29 For instance, Caius Sergius Respectus, high-priest (ﬂamen) of the cult of Rome and Augustus, had his tomb near Nemausus (Nîmes) described as a mausoleum in an inscription contained within a ﬂorid decorative frame of acanthus scrolls, characteristic of the ﬁner art of the region.30 But throughout the second century lesser individuals employed the word to dignify their monuments, especially a family memorial, like

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both Mausolus’ and Augustus’ tombs. Even if the structure itself looked comparatively modest, they made their mausoleum seem great by giving an idea of the large ﬁnancial cost of the monument. Just as great physical size could be evoked without mention of exact dimensions, so imprecise phrases like ‘with an abundance of money’ (superﬂuenti pecunia) or ‘at no modest expense’ (non modicis sumptibus) were deemed sufficient to arouse admiration.31 By the third century the name alone could glamorize rather humble tombs.32 Its spelling became increasingly variable, as speakers of western Latin dialects proved unable to handle the peculiar spelling of this Carian name, especially the unusual diphthong ‘-au-’ (Table 3). The word had now almost completely lost its association with Mausolus, and instead was taken vaguely to refer to the family tomb monument of any person of whatever rank. The model in these cases might almost have been the Mausoleum of Augustus, rather than the tomb of Mausolus. Nonetheless, the latter was still standing in the Antonine era, and its size and imposing form of accumulated layers, decorated with columns and military statues, continued sometimes to have an impact. In one of his Dialogues of the Dead Lucian makes Diogenes the Cynic belittle Mausolus’ fortune to be commemorated by such a tomb. He sympathizes with this dead dynast because he must feel great physical pain, weighed down by this inﬁnite mass of soldiers on horseback trampling over his corpse.33 Tombs, like all monumental buildings, are gross piles of material, layer upon layer, and Lucian plays ironically on the notion of the poor suffering corpse under the earth. He does not call the tomb Mausoleion, but an ‘almighty monument’ (mne-ma pammegethes), because of its incredible size. But Lucian’s choice of Mausolus for this short dialogue suggests that his monument continued to be an important archetype in the Roman world. We have already seen that Diogenes was in some sense a foil to the Antonine aristocracy, notably in his description of good birth and wealth as ‘ornaments’ not of virtue, but of vice.34 Here too, the form he attributes to the Mausoleum had particular relevance to the monuments of the Antonine dynasty. The tumulus of Augustus’ ‘Mausoleum’ showed similarities with the conception of Mausolus’ tomb only in its superimposed layers, which, according to recent reconstructions, lacked columnar decoration, and was adorned by a single statue of Augustus on the summit.35 In form it resembled Augustus’ military memorial at La Turbie more closely than the structure at Halicarnassus.36 Formally, the tomb built for Hadrian and his family, on the opposite bank of the river, was modelled on Augustus’ Mausoleum, its core consisting of a bulky cylindrical tumulus drum.37 However, this was enclosed within a massive square podium,38 with marble statues at its four corners and a white marble facing (Figs. 16a–b); the upper levels, obliterated by the building’s complex later history and rebuilding as the Castel Sant’Angelo (Fig. 16c), seem to have resembled the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, adorned with marble groups, according to Procopius’ sixth-century description.39 On its summit was not a single statue, as on Augustus’ Mausoleum, but an enormous bronze four-horse chariot, echoing the archetype at Halicarnassus. Dio describes the monumental scale of this statue group with striking hyperbole: ‘so large . . . that a very fat man would be able to pass through the eye of each horse, but men on the ground still think the horses and statue of Hadrian very small because of the extreme height of the construction.’40 The military images described by Lucian’s Diogenes ﬁt this monument almost as well as the original Mausoleum. Whether or

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145. Consecration coin. Bronze sestertius of Marcus Aurelius, showing consecration of the deiﬁed emperor Lucius Verus (died a.d. 169).

not Hadrian’s tomb was actually called ‘Mausoleum’, like Augustus’, is disputed; visually, at any rate, it certainly evoked this archetype. Its situation in the city landscape is comparable to the strategic position described by Vitruvius at Halicarnassus.41 Its probable height of over 50 metres surpassed all other buildings in the vicinity, including Augustus’ tomb and the Pantheon, and made it, as Boatwright has remarked, as dominating a landmark for visitors to Rome from the north as St Peter’s was later to become.42 The Pons Aelius, which provided an axial approach to the structure from central Rome and the Campus Martius, was decorated, according to its depiction on medallions struck in the last years of Hadrian’s reign, with four statues carried on columns along each side. If these represented portraits of the imperial family from Nerva onwards, as has been suggested, they would have reinforced the impression of a dynastic monument.43 The dynastic purpose of Hadrian’s ‘Mausoleum’ seems to be conﬁrmed by the fact that neither Pius nor any of his immediate successors constructed a separate tomb for himself, suggesting that they were buried with Hadrian. Nonetheless, Pius was still able to use the Mausoleum symbol for his own monuments. A series of coins struck in celebration of the consecrations of the principal members of the Antonine imperial family—Faustina Maior, Antoninus Pius, Lucius Verus, and Faustina Minor—shows certain vast, tower-like structures, consisting of several superimposed podia, which have been plausibly interpreted as representing the huge wooden pyres constructed at their funerals in the Campus Martius (Fig. 145).44 Their embellishment on several levels reproduced the spirit, if not the appearance, of Mausolus’ tomb. Although these pyre monuments were fundamentally works of temporary duration, their sites were memorialized by the construction of grand altars, formerly interpreted as ustrina.45 It was here, just to the south of the Augustan complex of Mausoleum and Ara Pacis with gnomon and sundial, that the Column of Marcus Aurelius was later erected by Commodus, with a spiral frieze in imitation of Trajan’s Column, to celebrate the philosopher-emperor’s consecration and commemorate his military victories.46 This originally must have stood near the smooth granite column erected by Marcus and Verus for Antoninus Pius, and was perhaps aligned with a temple for the deiﬁed Marcus built to the west, which now no longer survives. Between the Hadrianic mausoleum across the river to the north-west and the temples of

Hadrian and Matidia, the Pantheon, and Trajan’s Column to the south-east, these new monuments of Commodus’ reign completed an extensive memorial precinct for the Antonine dynasty (Fig. 146).47 It was not only funerary monuments that achieved archetypal status. Another of the ‘Seven Wonders’, the lighthouse (Pharos) at Alexandria, was a model for Roman public buildings. Strategically erected off the coast of the Ptolemaic capital, the lighthouse was the work of King Ptolemy I Soter, and soon became not only a monument to his reign, but a symbol of architectural excellence. Up to the late Hellenistic period it was known simply as ‘the tower’ (purgos).48 But Strabo referred to the structure by the name of the island, Pharos, on which it stood.49 He also compared it with other structures, like the lighthouse built by the Roman Caepio on the promontory at the mouth of the River Baetis in southern Spain.50 Like the Mausoleum, the Alexandrian monument was an object of comparison not just because of its function, but because it was ‘a construction marvellous from below and against all reason’.51 Its monumentality derived from its enormous height, created from a succession of superimposed levels, with which all towers were inevitably compared. Herod’s tower of Phasael was said to be ‘as big as the Pharos’.52 When Claudius created the grand harbour at Ostia and needed an appropriate lighthouse structure to guide ships, the Pharos of Alexandria was the model to which he turned.53 Consequently, the lighthouses of other Roman coastal cities, and even at inland Capua, were deﬁned by the term pharus.54 By the Severan period it was a well-established convention to use the word pharos in Greek or Latin of any lighthouse, and in the plural of any kind of multistorey tower, not just of the original archetype at Alexandria.55 Even in Egypt, the word ‘pharos’ in a graffito at Abu-Sîr ap5. Altar to Marcus Aurelius (site of ) 6. Column of Antoninus Pius (site of ) 7. Altar of Antoninus Pius (site of ) 9. Column of Marcus Aurelius 10. Hadrianeum

146. Area of the Campus Martius, Rome. Plan of ancient buildings overlaid on modern street plan, showing monuments of the Antonine dynasty (nos. 5–7, 9–10).

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Sostratus of Cnidus, in which the royal dedication in plaster was replaced by the architect’s own memorial carved beneath it, reveals a contemporary concern with ensuring that one’s name would last.60 Such a tradition might also have motivated the architect Caius Sevius Lupus from Aeminium to inscribe his vow to ‘Mars Augustus’ on the natural rock beside the lighthouse near La Coruña, a tower of several storeys similar to the Alexandrian archetype.61 His dedication to the Roman god of war may reﬂect the military role of this tower in safeguarding the supply-route for Roman troops in Britain.62 But, as an architect, the object of his homage was the creation of a monument modelled on the archetype of a wonder of the world.

147. Bronze sestertius of Antoninus Pius, reverse face, showing the rebuilt lighthouse (‘Pharus’) at the Claudian harbour (Portus) near Ostia.

parently refers not to the lighthouse of Alexandria, but to one at Taposiris on the Taenia bank near Lake Mareotis.56 Among the works of Antoninus Pius listed in the Historia Augusta is his ‘restoration of the Pharus’, without any indication of location. This phrase has often been taken as referring to the original monument at Alexandria, but it is now clear that, even by Antoninus’ reign, let alone the date of this text, this was not the only building in the Roman world called by that name. Just as a second-century Roman might naturally have interpreted the term ‘Mausoleum’ as referring to Augustus’ tomb in Rome, or even Hadrian’s, rather than to Mausolus’ monument in distant Caria, so for inhabitants of Rome, where the Historia Augusta’s source probably originated, the obvious pharus was no longer Ptolemy’s at Alexandria, but Claudius’ at Ostia. The form shown on reverses of sestertii from Antoninus’ reign recalls the mosaic depictions of that structure (Fig. 147).57 But the image also makes clear the building’s resemblance to the Alexandrian archetype. One of its chief functions, expressed by the legend Annona Aug(usta) Felix on some of these coins, which refers to the public grain supply distributed as a dole to the free population of Rome,58 was to guide the huge freighters carrying imported grain to feed the vast population of the capital. As the chief source of this grain was the fertile plains of the Nile and the port of Alexandria, the name pharus at Ostia reinforced the similarity of the monuments standing at the starting-point and destination of this long sea-voyage. Modelled on the archetype of Ptolemaic Egypt, the newly restored lighthouse at Ostia appeared as a new ‘wonder of the world’. It was a monument that commemorated not only the restoration of Italy, but also the emperor’s guarantee of food for Rome and the future prosperity promised by Pius’ reign. At the end of the Antonine period the emperor Commodus again used the Pharus of Ostia as an emblem on his coins.59 But in this case, just as his restoration of the city of Rome was presented as a personal memorial, so the Pharus was not a symbol of the restoration of Italy, but a monument to his own decennalia, the celebration of the ﬁrst ten years of his reign. The legend votis felicibus, which we see today on the later Arch of Constantine, recalls the message of prosperity propagated by Antoninus Pius. Like the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, the Pharos at Alexandria inspired Lucian’s wit. As we have seen, his story of the building’s architect,

striving for immortalit y: building a pl ace of permanent rest Interest in the monuments of the past stimulated the obsession with fame and with the potential endurance of the achievements of mankind. The physical survival of memories of others encouraged the living generation too to strive passionately for immortality. Romans tried to compete with the model of the past by leaving a worthy and admirable record of themselves. It was taken for granted that the higher the rank of a person, the bigger would be his tomb and the more prominent the records of his accomplishments inscribed upon it. Exceptions to this rule showed personal modesty (modestia), but also sometimes historical insigniﬁcance. The emperor Otho, for example, whose brief reign lasted only a few months in 69, was buried at Brixillum in northern Italy in a tomb that was the inversion of the Roman norm: ‘not made an object of envy by either the size of the memorial (megethei se-matos) or the puff of the inscription (epigraphe-s ongko-i ).’63 Most Roman aristocrats, however, did not refrain from vast scale, either in physical structures or verbal boasts, when they left a record of themselves for the future. In the second century rising social mobility and a higher sense of individualism led to a notably increased awareness of the commemorative purpose of private tombs, or, in other words, their ‘monumentality’. As in the Greek world, many monumental tomb inscriptions now explicitly stated their function to prolong memory.64 In Gaul and Germany it became commonplace to refer to the ‘eternal memory’ (memoria aeterna) of the deceased.65 In fact, the word memoria became so central to conceptions of the Roman funerary monument that it was not only used in dedicatory formulas to indicate the function of a tomb dedication, ‘to the memory’ of the deceased, but soon became a form of shorthand for the tomb itself. The cult of the Roman dead involved the continuation of their memory through building and writing.66 The Roman’s tomb was considered to be his eternal resting-place.67 In Roman funerary epigraphy of the imperial period the dead man’s tomb was frequently called his ‘house’.68 Even the less affluent could take comfort from this principle because of the supposed monumentality of the tomb structure: the home of the dead was considered to have far greater permanence than the house of the living. In that sense, there was a feeling that a funerary monument built for the future was more worthwhile and enduring than buildings constructed for the use of the living. A verse inscription from Rome, now in the collection of

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antiquities at Castle Howard, suggests that a monumentum is a wiser thing to build than an aedes, the object of aediﬁcatio, because one is temporary, but the other is permanent: Aedis aediﬁcat dives, sapiens monumentum. Hospitium est illud corporis, hic domus est. Illic paulisper remoramus, ad hic habitamus. A rich man builds a building, a wise man a monument. The ﬁrst is the lodging of the body, the second is its home. At the former we linger for a little while, at the latter we live.69

Memorials to the deceased satisﬁed a personal feeling of loss of those most beloved. The bereaved wore talismans or jewellery carrying the portrait of the deceased as a consolation in death.70 But such intimate reminders to oneself of the lost one were not enough. Romans also sought to perpetuate their own memory and that of their loved ones for posterity and in a more public context. This ambition is clearest in the careful provision they made for their own funerary buildings in their wills, which explicitly anticipate a function as memorial. They imply how each person wishes to see to the establishment of a monument to himself and, at the same time, that other members of the family have a responsibility to build the memorial. Not only the highest or wealthiest members of society aspired to these ideals. In perhaps the 120s one Gallus Lingo, a member of the Romanized people of the Lingones in south-eastern Gaul, stipulated in his will the construction of particular architectural features, which he hoped would guarantee the eternity of his name. He asked for the completion of a funerary chamber (cella), ‘which I have built (aediﬁcavi) for memory (memoriae)’; according to the plan or sketch (exemplar) that he left, there was to be an exedra containing a seated statue made out of ‘the ﬁnest possible overseas marble or bronze’ and at least 5 feet high.71 Like monuments of the past, this memorial for the future is not described in exact detail. Gallus’ will mentioned only generic monumental features that he wanted to be incorporated, leaving it open for members of his family to show their piety in deciding the exact form of the tomb. Uncertainties could arise from such a practice, when those carrying out the construction of a tomb requested by testament were unclear about what the deceased had meant. One man’s will at Rome stipulated only that his tomb should be ‘as splendid as the monument of Publius Septimius Demetrius on the Via Salaria’, leaving the lawyers unable to identify exactly which tomb he had meant. In the event, they decided on a safe, generic speciﬁcation, that his monument should be consistent with his ‘substance and dignity’.72 These terms implied that the tomb monument did not only serve family needs, but was a public example. Although the speciﬁc nomenclature of tombs across the Empire owed much to local usage, from Asia Minor in the East to Gaul in the West, such language was never purely formulaic, but emphasized the memorial function of the complex and the place of burial itself, around which other buildings had a subordinate function. The tomb itself was intended to appear sacred and monumental. Most famous in this period is the Christian shrine of St Peter, now under the great basilica in Rome, which had an aedicular and tetrastyle form, from which Bernini’s baldachino in the present church was ultimately derived. But other features of tombs might be emphasized to convey the sacrality of the resting-place of the deceased.73 At Salona, for instance, a tomb was

provided with a ‘stylobate’ (stilibata [sic]), a raised step on which any person could stand and look at the home of the deceased.74 This kind of viewing was known as ‘contemplation’, and was taken very seriously as a form of communication between living and dead. Tombs frequently addressed passers-by with inviting messages such as: You are a human being: stop and contemplate my tomb.75

The verb contemplari here was connected with templum by etymology and association and through the Roman religious practice of augury, which consisted of the inspection of the sky before any temple’s foundation.76 It implied a close link between the priest and the consecrated site that he laid out: ‘contemplari meant “to be alone with the temple”.’77 Analogously, when the imagined viewer of a Roman tomb monument, sacred to the spirits of the dead (Dis Manibus), is said to ‘contemplate’ the building, he is supposed by the act of sight to create a link between himself and the ‘temple’ he sees, or, in other words, a link between the viewer and the sacred.78 The human response of ‘contemplation’ made a private monument into a public ‘temple’ and sacred object of viewing.79 Consequently, among all the ostentatious kinds of funerary architecture adopted in the Antonine era throughout the Roman Empire, the dominant form was the temple-tomb. Although there were many variations, they were mostly derived from a standard, classicizing version, emphasizing certain features, such as a high podium and an aedicular front of columns beneath a pediment. They were designed to look like temples to the sacred spirits of the dead. The most important feature of both temples and temple-tombs was the pediment. It was associated with apotheosis, as, for instance, in the Capitolium at Dougga or the Pantheon at Rome, where the pediments bear images of the eagle that carries the dead person’s soul to immortality. This function is alluded to on a pediment at Side, probably from a tomb monument, which contains the outstretched wings of an eagle, a visual pun referring to the Greek word for ‘eagle’ and ‘pediment’ (aetos) (Fig. 148). On private tomb monuments the pediment more often carries a portrait of the deceased. For example, on the tomb of the Haterii (c.100) is shown a grand temple on a podium with frontal steps and, in the pediment, a portrait of the deceased, with, along the sides, clipeatae imagines identifying the tomb as a house of the dead (Fig. 149).80 Although apparently already complete, the building is also shown still under construction, with cranes operated by small putti, to emphasize

148. Pediment from Side, Turkey, probably from a funerary monument. The relief of an eagle suggests a visual pun on the Greek word aetos.

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circular clipeus, and showing a bearded male in heroic pose with bare chest and a cloak hung from his shoulder. On either side there was a text describing the memorial complex constructed in his honour by his daughter Quadratilla according to the provisions of his will.83 He had apparently requested that there be ‘a consecrated funerary garden’ (hortum consacratum) and a funerary monument with a brick cella, as well as a guarantee of future protection (custodiam) to ‘conserve his name’ and prevent sacrilege. A monument from the western suburbs of Rome, found just near the Vatican Museums, shows a more idiosyncratic use of the pediment form.84 It is a tall white marble stele in memory of a shoemaker (sutor), Caius Iulius Helius, whose workshop was situated at the Porta Fontinalis on the other side of the Tiber (Fig. 151).85 Most of the stele is taken up with a half-length sculpted portrait of the deceased, a bald

149. Funerary relief from the tomb of the Haterii, Via Labicana, Rome, late ﬁrst or early second century a.d., showing the construction of a temple-tomb.

150. Fragmentary pediment of white marble from a funerary monument, with male portrait within a clipeus. Mid 2nd century a.d. Height 47 cm.

the role of architecture in creating a monument.81 On a memorial of the Antonine period from Tivoli (Fig. 150), text and image are used together within the tympanum to present the fame of the deceased.82 Only the right half of the small pediment of ﬁne white marble is preserved, but it gives an idea of the effect achieved by the original monument. In the centre is a portrait of the deceased, enclosed within a

151. Epitaph from the tomb monument of the shoemaker Gaius Iulius Helius, Rome.

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man with side-whiskers, and below his image an inscription in his memory is carved within a tabula ansata.86 The top of the stele is semicircular, but within this rounded gable was a peculiar attempt to create a stylized version of the conventionally triangular form of a temple pediment. It is comprised of two objects relating to the trade of the deceased, both boot-trees with handles, one of them in use holding a shoe: back to back, these two identical forms, each with the shape of a right-angled triangle, produce the image of a triangular pediment, and on either side are the letters D M (Dis Manibus : ‘to the divine spirits of the dead’). The professional identity of the deceased in the shoemaking trade was memorialized in the emblem of a sacred temple.87 It is no accident that many tombs of the Antonine period in the West and East of the Empire looked very similar, if smaller in scale, to public temples of the gods constructed during the same era. At Side in Pamphylia and Termessos in Pisidia two grand temple façades of funerary monuments survive, the former enclosed in an outer precinct, the latter with an arcuated lintel.88 In Syria ‘there appears, hardly before the second quarter of the second century and often slightly later, a handsome funerary architecture, linked to the existence of rich, “romanised” local notables’, many of which resemble miniature temples.89 In North Africa the type is very common. The three adjacent temples in the forum at Sbeitla, with a classicizing composition of Corinthian or, in the centre, Composite pilasters in shallow relief at regular intervals across the sides and back and pronaos of four columns, offer a formal parallel for the composition of many Roman temple-tombs in the region.90 For example, a tomb at Henschir Guergour in Tunisia has a temple porch structure of squared stone set on a podium with engaged Corinthian half-columns around the sides and back of the tomb.91 In Gaul and Spain several wealthy family monuments have forms very similar to public shrines.92 An unusual variation is the mausoleum of the Atilii at Sadaba in north-eastern Spain. Its façade looks almost like an enlarged columnar sarcophagus, comprising six Corinthian columns framing three aedicules, with three dedications, one under each pediment, inscribed on the frieze of the entablature continuing across the façade (Fig. 152).93 In each of the ﬁve intercolumniations a garland sculpted in relief, recalling the funerary garlands on the main relief of the tomb of the Haterii (Fig. 149), represented in a durable, monumental form the occasion when the tomb was consecrated by the family of the deceased by covering the structure with garlands of ﬂowers.

The tomb of Atilia Pomptilla, at Carales (Cagliari) in Sardinia, belongs to this period. Hewn from the rock in a manner recalling the rock-tombs of Caria, Pisidia, or Nabataea to the east, its façade was like a temple, distyle in antis with Corinthian columns (Fig. 153a). The architrave contained a monumental dedication, its exact wording now elusive and partially illegible, but certainly dedicated to the ‘sacred memory’ of the deceased (Fig. 153b).94 This was expanded in a further text below, to the left of the entrance.95 Within the funerary chamber, the tombs of Atilia Pomptilla and her husband Lucius Cassius Philippus were surrounded by niches (loculi) in the walls to house the remains of their two freedmen, who built the tomb for their ‘parents’, and their descendants. One of the verse inscriptions carved like graffiti on the walls (Figs. 153c–d) exploited the viewer’s impression that this family monument is a temple: Quod credis templum, quod saepe, viator, adoras Pomptillae cineres ossaq(ue) parva tegit. Sardoa tellure premor comitata maritum proq(ue) viro fama est me voluisse mari. What you think a temple, traveller, what you often adore, protects the ashes and little bones of Pomptilla. Pressed by the earth of Sardinia, I accompany my husband, and for my man and husband his fame is to have wanted me.96

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152. Tomb of the Atilii, Sadaba, near Zaragoza, Spain.

153. Rock tomb of Atilia Pomptilla (‘la Grotta della Vipera’), Cagliari (Carales), Sardinia. (a) View of the tomb. (b)-(c) Details of the entablature over the entrance, with inscribed dedication of the tomb. (d)-(e) Details of verse inscriptions carved on the rock inside the tomb.

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The ﬁnest tomb-temples were those constructed in memory of the emperors and their family. The early years of Pius’ reign produced several monuments commemorating the imperial dynasty. In the sanctuary of Juno Gabina at Gabii, which Hadrian had recently restored, a new shrine (aedes) was added in 140. As its dedicatory inscription inscribed on the entablature signalled—the part covering the frieze enclosed within a tabula ansata—the building was ‘in honour of the memory of the family (domus) of Domitia Augusta, daughter of Domitius Corbulo’.97 This lady had been the wife of Domitian, later divorced by him, and a participant in the conspiracy that led to his death. Her rehabilitation, therefore, consolidated the claims of the dynasty of the adoptive emperors. The initiative for the building was due to two of her freedmen, Polycarpus and Europe. Receiving permission to build on the site from the local council, they constructed the temple, adorned it ‘with statues and other things’, and placed it in custody of the res publica of Gabii in perpetuity. It served as a tomb, a place of private and public memory, where each year Domitia’s birthday on 10 February would be celebrated in front of the decurions of the town. Another temple was dedicated nearby in 169 by Aulus Plutus Epaphroditus, a freedman and silk-merchant who held the office of accensus velatus at the imperial court, using this sacred, public, and imperial context to celebrate his own family’s memory. With a bronze statue of Venus, other statues arranged in niches with bronze doors, a bronze

altar, and other adornments of cult, it was to be a setting for the annual celebration of the birthday of his daughter Plutia Vera on 27 September. For the donors, Polycarpus and Europe and Epaphroditus, the res publica of Gabii was ‘eternal’. Yet they did not trust their monuments entirely to its survival: each of their declarations includes a stipulation that if the res publica of Gabii should cease to exist under the same conditions as it did at the time of their dedication, then the money for upkeep of their monuments should be immediately transferred to the neighbouring municipium of Tusculum. The eternity of the family was now worth more than local patriotism. It is not known what these temples looked like, as both inscriptions were found in reused contexts, although they might be identiﬁed with the small structures along the edge of the precinct behind the Temple of Juno Gabina. The Temple of Faustina in the Roman Forum, by contrast, is one of the most conspicuous monuments of that site (Fig. 19a). Dedicated after her deiﬁcation in 141, and re-dedicated also to Pius after his own deiﬁcation in 161, it combined antiquity in form with newness of materials.98 It was set on a podium in traditional Etruscan and Roman style. Its walls of peperino tufa from the Alban hills, constructed in squared stone courses, have been seen as a deliberate archaism,99 but from the front its original appearance was impressively modern: a brick stairway revetted with white marble led up to a pronaos of six unﬂuted, monolithic cipollino columns 40 feet tall

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(11.80 m), standing on white marble bases and supporting white marble capitals (Fig. 18b).100 The stairway was interrupted at the centre by a platform, originally closed by a low barrier, which perhaps contained a pulvinar dedicated to Antoninus and Faustina. Statues stood on pedestals at the upper corners of the stairs, and were later joined by those of other Romans honoured for their services to Rome and the imperial court. The frieze of the entablature carried the bronze letters of the dedicatory inscription at the front, with Antoninus’ name and the conjunction et, while Faustina’s name followed subordinately in the second line, but there was no distinction between frieze and architrave in the inscription as the inscribed panel was an interruption in the normal sequence of the entablature (Figs. 18d–e);101 along the sides ran a relief of griffins, candelabra, and foliage (Fig. 18c). Fragments of the marble reliefs of the pediment were found at the foot of the temple in the 1540s, but were later used as material for the entrance stairway of St Peter’s. According to Pirro Ligorio, the pedimental relief showed Antoninus seated in a chariot drawn by horses and Faustina in one drawn by elephants, which recalls triumphalist iconography on the summit of Hadrian’s mausoleum.102 This imagery of apotheosis was repeated on the base of the commemorative column erected in the Campus Martius after Pius’ death, in the paired ﬁgures of husband and wife carried upwards on the wing of the winged genius, in a composition remarkably reminiscent of earlier funerary monuments of much lower social level;103 and it is also echoed outside Rome on the pediment of the Capitolium at Dougga (Fig. 76c).104 In its topographical situation, the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina suggested a personal and imperial meaning. Situated on the ancient Sacra Via, it faced and could be seen directly from the imperial residence, the ‘Domus Tiberiana’, on the Palatine, and, as with tombs on aristocratic estates, embodied a family relationship in the link between memorial and house. These monuments at Rome and Gabii show how the previously strong public associations of a space could be overridden by private family memories. Certainly, as we have seen in the previous chapter, the identity and memory of the individual had always been prominently promoted by the architecture of ancient cities. But now there was an important difference. While burials conducted at public expense and within the city walls are attested earlier as a particular privilege, subsequent celebrations of a funerary cult had always been the private affair of the family of the deceased. Now at Gabii, the civic councillors were to take part in a public ceremonial designed to celebrate the eternity of one family. At Rome, the previous spatial division of public and private imperial space between the Forum and the Palatine was obliterated by the establishment of a memorial to Antoninus and Faustina which created a link to the imperial palace across the intervening public buildings. The classical city was not being disintegrated and fragmented, as different family groups retired to different parts of the city. On the contrary, the affairs of the leading aristocratic families were now incontestably in the public domain. It was not that the public world was made private, but that the private world was made public. The very form of Antonine funerary monuments presented the identity of noble families in a historic Latin cultural context. The aristocracy of the imperial court did not just pursue an interest in the antiquities of Gabii and Anagnia, matching by their architectural

interests the study of Rome’s Latin language and religious customs by men like Gellius and Claudius Charax. Even their funerary monuments re-created the ways of ancient Latium, and appeared to commemorate an ancient aristocratic heritage. In the area of the suburbia of imperial Rome several temple-tombs stand out, built of plastered and painted brick and decorated with meticulous terracotta revetments. They form a distinct typological group, which demonstrates the elevation of the deceased by a combination of aedicular and vaulted architecture.105 A ﬁne example is the Tomb of the Nasonii on the Via Flaminia, which was excavated in the early nineteenth century and is dated to the second half of the second century.106 Its brick façade is unmistakably temple-like, with ﬂuted Corinthian pilasters and a pediment, which contained the funerary inscription of Quintus Nasonius Ambrosius and Nasonia Urbica.107 Behind this portico lay an inner room, which contained seven painted niches for funerary urns and was used on days of tomb cult by the family of the deceased. The lower storey, lying within the temple podium, contained a vaulted burial chamber, in which were placed the sarcophagi of the dead.108 One of the ﬁnest and most individual works of this type is the socalled ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’ on the Via Appia (Fig. 154). It consists of a temple portico, with engaged composite columns of buff-coloured terracotta around the back and sides, superimposed on a podium base. It may possibly have been the heröon of Annia Regilla, the wife of Herodes Atticus, who died in 160.109 The ‘Triopion’ poems of Marcellus of Side, found close by on the Via Appia, indicate that there was a building on the Triopion estate of Herodes Atticus which served a religious cult in honour of both the traditional Graeco-Roman agricultural goddess Demeter, or Roman Ceres, and the New Demeter, the deiﬁed wife of Antoninus Pius, Faustina Maior Augusta. The poet Marcellus associates the building, however, also with Regilla, for whom, he says, it was ‘neither like a temple, nor a tomb’, but something in between.110 As Regilla was actually buried in Greece, this building, if it has any association with her at all, can only have been a heröon. It should be recalled that Herodes Atticus’ ownership of the Triopion es-

154. ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’, Via Appia, Rome. View from the rear of the monument.

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building the monuments of the future tate at Rome was only due to his wife’s inheritance: it was, in fact, her family estate. If, therefore, the ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’ was a memorial to Regilla, it must have been, by virtue of her already being buried in Greece, a monument to her Latin origins. The thoroughness of the execution of the terracotta ornamentation of all the intricate details of the classical mouldings, perhaps highlighted by the painting of the surface, would have been an appropriate emblem of Regilla’s Italic identity. The poems present the building as a part of the public culture of the region, not just a private monument of the family, but open to all.111 The ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’ is only the most perfect surviving rendition of this type. The easy reproduction of terracotta forms through the reuse of moulds enabled the creation of a similar original appearance in several other buildings around the periphery of Antonine Rome. Close to the monument connected with Regilla was the so-called ‘Temple of Fortuna Muliebris’, also on the Via Appia, which now no longer survives, but, because of its ideal temple form, was much drawn by Renaissance artists. Due to its later destruction its date is not known, but is probably similar to that of the Regilla monument. The architectural ornament was created out of ﬁne terracotta brick, produced from moulds, a well-attested tradition of decoration in Italy.112 However, the elaborateness of the decoration of the tombs of Antonine Rome resembles in spirit the very meticulous ornamentation of Italic temples of the ﬁfth and fourth centuries bc, for example at the Etruscan centres of Veii and Tarquinii. The relative suddenness of the reintroduction of such a technique in this highly ornamental form raises the possibility that its use in the Antonine period by members of the aristocracy of the Rome and its environs was the result of a desire on their part to emulate the Italic temples of the past and to re-create Rome’s indigenous culture. The recent reconstruction of another similar temple-tomb, found at Grottarossa on the Via Flaminia, gives a further insight into the form and meaning of the terracotta decoration.113 In addition to part of a well-executed terracotta brick pediment, similar to those that remain on the tombs mentioned above, excavations also produced fragments of a marble parapet, which has been plausibly reconstructed as having stood on top of the terracotta pediment (Fig. 155a–b).114 Not only is the terracotta pediment again highly decorated, but the upper parapet resembles the similar features which stood on archaic Italic temples, as scholars have reconstructed them from remains found at Veii and other sites. Yet not only at Etruscan Veii, but in the Latin cities too, such as Ardea, Fidenae, Praeneste, and Lavinium, there was an outstanding local tradition of temple decoration in terracotta.115 The re-creation of this architecture in Antonine temple-tombs made them a monument to their occupants’ ethnic identity and the historical culture of their families. Although the temple-tomb had been known as an architectural form since the Hellenistic period, in the Antonine period it was transformed.116 The most important formal feature of monuments like that of the Nasonii was the existence of two levels, a lower storey used as a burial chamber for the deceased and an upper ceremonial level where, for example, funerary banquets would take place, not only for members of the family, but for public officials of the city as well.117 Its twofold division was a visual manifestation of its private and public

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(b) 155. Fragment of terracotta pediment and marble parapet from Grottarossa, Via Flaminia, north of Rome. (a) View of the reconstructed ensemble in the Antiquarium del Malborghetto. (b) Detail of the ornament of the pediment.

functions. The so-called ‘Barberini tomb’ on the Via Latina, of the late Antonine period, consisted of two upper storeys above the podium, which are distinguished by the form of their terracotta capitals, composite for the upper storey and Corinthian below (Figs. 156a–d). We recall that the façade of the Library of Celsus at Ephesus, which comprised public rooms above an underground vaulted chamber containing Polemaeanus’ sarcophagus, was similarly divided by capital form, although the disposition of the orders was reversed (Fig. 5a).118 The division was perhaps a reﬂection of a long-standing Roman conception of the temple form. Roman architectural language seems to have distinguished the base or podium (substructio) of a temple from the superstructure placed on top.119 Early Italian votive models of temples represented just the superstructure, without a podium, and the latter is also omitted from Vitruvius’ account of the Tuscan temple.120 It appears that at an earlier stage the podium had been ‘an artiﬁcial rise, not formally deﬁned, successively geometrized, and only later assimilated in architectural value with the adoption of cornices’.121 Indeed, it has been recently suggested that the Temple of Venus Genetrix in the

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(b) 156. The ‘Barberini tomb’, Via Latina, Rome. (a) View of position on the Via Latina. (b) Rear view of the tomb. (c) Detail of the terracotta decoration of the lower order of the rear façade. (d) Detail of the upper order at the rear corner of the building.

Forum Iulium at Rome was built on top of a podium cut out of the natural tufa of the hill.122 The dominance of the temple as a form of commemoration was true also for examples in miniature. The small aedicula, as its name suggests, was a reduced version of the temple (aedes) and could evoke a similar sacred monumentality. The main elements of both are framing columns and a crowning pediment (fastigium). An aedicula could also be simply a niche, enclosed by such features, an aedicule in the modern sense. The effectiveness of this form depended on its resemblance to real temples, even if they were simply façades in miniature without spatial depth: Vitruvius scorned illusionistic, painted aediculae because they pretended to be temples without any volumetric form.123 Yet similar pretensions appeared in the peaked niches containing cinerary urns (aediculae) within second-century tombs (aedes).124 In the Museo Nazionale Romano is a small pediment with entablature, which records an aedicula on its architrave (Fig. 157).125 It is grandly dated by the names of the consuls to the year 130, and commemorates the construction of a centurion of the fourth cohort for his century at his own expense: a marble aedicula with bronze doors (valvae);126 another centurion paid for the pavement. The full architectural context of this inscription is irrecoverable, but the pediment presum-

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157. Pediment with inscribed cornice, probably from a small, shrine-like structure in Rome.

ably crowned a pair of columns, forming itself the image of an aedicula. In the tympanum of the pediment two victories are spread out, holding a circular wreath as a token of this military regiment’s fame. This was one of several similar ‘pedimented’ inscriptions from Rome: another identiﬁed an aedicula belonging to the ﬁfth cohort of Vigiles on the Caelian hill.127 Squeezed into the pediment was an inscribed dedication, which unravelled the building history of this aedicula. It was constructed in 111, with a statue of the Genius by Gresius Facundus, b(eneﬁciarius) trib(uni), a low-ranking military officer; after it had ‘decayed with age’, it was in 156 ‘embellished anew’ by the centurion of the cohort ‘out of the bran-money’ (ex pecunia furfuraria), with porphyry columns, bronze doors, and marble ornament. The dates of the aedicula’s construction are identiﬁed by the names of the consuls, praetors, tribunes, and centurions of each year, a solemn historicism reﬂecting the desire to maintain this building in future memory by placing it formally in the annals of historical time. The aesthetic primacy of the temple form as a building type was also visible among funerary monuments at a lower social level. The streets outside Roman cities had always been lined with tombs of various shapes, but in the second century there was a proliferation of monuments that presented a characteristic temple form in miniature. Simpler than the fully developed temple-tomb form with columnar porches and peripteral pilasters, these squat rectangular structures with gabled roofs, pediments, and rectangular cellas could suggest the temple form.128 In place of columns, they had pilasters slightly projecting or painted onto the exterior walls. Although the temple was by nature a hierarchical form suited to the propagation of the memory of one individual above all others, this principle did not prevent the massed display of many similar temple-tombs all in one cemetery. An impressive instance of this can still be seen today in the remains at the ‘Isola Sacra’, the necropolis used by the inhabitants of the Roman port of Ostia (Portus).129 Here many such monuments competed for monumental attention. Their similarity to one another does not mean that secondcentury Romans of lesser wealth or status did not want to make an impression of individual monumentality just as much as the builders of larger, more distinctive tombs.130 In each case the treatment of the inscription and the personal identiﬁcation it supplied were sufficient to give the tomb individuality. Over the entrance of one a framed marble plaque commemorated Marcus Antonius Agathias’ construction of an aediculam puram ex sepulchro.131 A grander example is the splendid

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Hadrianic monument of Julia Apollonia, whose name is commemorated on a marble plaque encased within a beautiful decorative frame of patterned, polychromatic brick and stone (Fig. 158).132 In general, the second century shows a tendency towards greater ﬁnesse and greater variety in the execution of inscriptions and their aesthetic surrounds;133 the epigraphic ﬁeld is enclosed by decorative mouldings,134 and lettering becomes ﬁner, with words separated by interpunct marks, especially ivy leaves (hederae).135 The form of written messages on tombs became increasingly diversiﬁed, as an enhanced sense of individual religiousness towards commemoration of the dead pervaded all social levels.136 But the outer frame of this inscription at the Isola Sacra deserves special mention. The triangular ends of the tabula ansata stood out as a particularly effective vehicle for perpetuating memory. We have seen it already on many of the monuments described in this book, from the theatres at Lepcis Magna, Patara, and Aspendus to the smaller texts of architects at Pergamon. A more austere example is the inscription on the ‘Orange Mausoleum’ at Haidra (Ammaedara), also temple-like in its façade of Corinthian columns (Fig. 159). Here the name of the deceased is no longer roughly inscribed over the stonework

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(b) 158. Tomb monument of Julia Apollonia in the Isola Sacra, the necropolis of Portus. (a) General view of the tomb. (b) Detail of the main façade with ornamental funerary inscription.

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building the monuments of the future scriptions throughout the Roman world from the late ﬁrst century and especially in the later second and third centuries. There are examples in almost every major archaeological museum with Roman material. Yet the form was no less meaningful on the grand scale, simply for being frequent in microcosm. Moreover, its original military meaning persisted. In the third century, when it was already commonplace, the symbol was effectively used on the tomb of Vibius Marianus, the socalled ‘Tomba di Nerone’ on the Via Cassia, hidden from a modern road in the northern suburbs of Rome behind an untidy grove of cypress trees (Fig. 162a).139 This colossal marble sarcophagus mounted on a trapezoidal brick podium would have been more familiar in southern

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159. The ‘Orange Mausoleum’, Haidra, Tunisia.

of the podium, as on earlier tombs like that of Bibulus in Rome (Fig. 160a–b), but brought to attention within the outline of a tabula ansata.137 The name tabula ansata is a modern one, but the form itself was highly signiﬁcant in antiquity. Its likeliest origin is believed to be as a more durable version of the placards displayed in military triumphs, as shown in the depiction of the Jewish Triumph on the Arch of Titus in Rome (Fig. 161). Although this representation is rather later than literary sources referring to wooden tituli of unspeciﬁed shape carried in triumphs, it is probably a reliable image. However, the signiﬁcance of the form did not remain purely military. A tabula ansata was an effective form for emphasizing any public political message. Its use on public buildings as a vehicle for the fame of the builder, without any overtly military connontation, is well attested. But it also framed other public statements. For instance, the agrarian inscription from Saepinum, containing a letter of 169/72 from the praetorian prefects Marcus Bassaeus Rufus and Marcus Macrinius Vindex, was enclosed in a tabula ansata on the right side of the north gate of that town facing the road from Boianum.138 The choice of form might here be related to the military status of these officials, as praetorian prefects, but the distinctive outline became associated with the purpose of commemoration in general. The tabula ansata was very frequently used to frame funerary in-

(b) 160. Tomb of the tribune of the plebs Caius Poblicius Bibulus (died 209 b.c.), Rome, possibly rebuilt in the early ﬁrst century b.c. (a) View of the standing remains, adjacent to the Vittoriano in central Rome. (b) Restored view of the façade.

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161. Passageway relief from the Arch of Titus, Rome, showing the triumphal procession at Rome after the conquest of Jerusalem in a.d. 70. Attendants and soldiers carry memorial placards shaped as tabulae ansatae.

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(b) 162. The ‘Tomba di Nerone’, Via Cassia, Rome. Early 3rd century a.d. (a) General view. (b) Detail of the main side with inscription.

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163. Epitaph of Sertoria Festa, from Lyon, shaped as a tabula ansata. The texts in the ansae allude both to Roman military prayers and to the Christian belief in the Resurrection. Note the small axes (asciae) carved above the ansae.

Asia Minor. The armed ﬁgure in relief on each side, framed by acroteria representing eagles and serpents and large reliefs of pegasi below, shows that it is a soldier’s tomb. But the central focus of the tomb’s main south face is a tabula ansata containing the funerary dedication to the deceased (Fig. 162b).140 It is placed between two ﬂuted pilasters with lotus-leaf Corinthian capitals and simple Attic bases, and ﬂanked by a pair of heroic warriors, naked except for their hoods and each holding a spear in one hand and the bridle of his horses in the other. In the acroteria above, winged victories kneel to ﬁx armed trophies in place, alluding to the tomb’s function as monument. The handsome epitaph of Sertoria Festa (Fig. 163) from the extensive Christian cemetery under the church of St Irenaeus at Lyon shows that the tabula ansata was also adopted in a Christian context.141 The text alludes to the original military Roman meaning. The two triangular ‘handles’ of the frame carry the legends ‘May you go safely’ (salvi eatis), on one side, and ‘May you return safely’ (salvis redeatis), on the other. This was a clear reference to the conventional Roman prayer for the safe departure and safe return of Roman soldiers leaving for war— salvos ire, salvos redire—but here given an overtly Christian connotation, a prayer for the salvation of the faithful at their death and resurrection. In this context the shape of the frame might have been signiﬁcant, as an image of the cross of Christ. So, if this distinctive frame with triangular ends originally had military associations, it came to be interpreted differently by different groups. A third possible meaning is suggested by the resemblance of the ends of the tabula ansata to a double-headed axe. This is supported by the inscription’s formulaic reference to the ascia rite. Such rites are frequently referred to on tomb inscriptions from the western Empire, either, as here, in the actual text, or in visual form, through painted or carved reliefs of an axe (ascia) on the base of the tomb. The practice, which cannot be dated very precisely, but was especially current during the second and third centuries, has often puzzled interpreters, who have arrived at many different solutions, both pragmatic and symbolic.142 The axe was a carpenter’s tool, used especially for giving a smooth ﬁnish to worked wood, but also for stone and lime. However, as we have seen, the symbols of architectural workmanship were not meaningful only to men professionally involved in the

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trades of carpentry or stonemasonry, but were moral metaphors for the life and death of all men.143 The use of an axe to smooth a wooden pyre had been forbidden in the Twelve Tables.144 In the present context, its signiﬁcance was not as a foundation rite, for it was also applied to tombs of brick, nor as a guarantee of safe burial, as this formula was also applied to tombs with cinerary urns. It was a ritual act which took place after the completion and dedication of a tomb, even one still rough and unﬁnished, to give the monument moral and spiritual protection.145 It was common in Gaul, where belief in the immortality of the soul was widespread, encouraged by the dispersal of Pythagorean ideas: the shape of the axe resembled the Pythagorean ‘Y’, which symbolized human choice in life. If only the richest and most powerful could take practical measures for the protection of their tombs, smaller memorials were able to take refuge in such symbolic gestures. A helpful example of the role of architecture in propagating the memory of the deceased is an aedicular temple-tomb formerly at Géligneux, in the province of Gallia Lugdunensis. It is known from an unpublished sixteenth-century drawing, without measurements, in the manuscript ‘Antiquitates’ by Philibert Pingon, baron du Cusy (1525–82), now in the Archivio di Stato in Turin (Fig. 164).146 Pingon describes the tomb as ‘conspicuous for its antiquity, elegance, and the size of its stone blocks’ (et antiquitate et elegantia et saxorum magnitudine conspicuum), and notes macabrely that it was found with the re-

164. Drawing of a Roman tomb at Gélignieux, southern France, from the manuscript Antiquitates by Philibert Pingon, Baron du Cusy (1525–1582).

mains of a large female corpse inside. His drawing shows a rectangular cella in squared stone masonry, surmounted by a cornice with simple cyma and pediment. The drawing reveals that there were two inscriptions on the tomb façade, each in a tabula ansata frame, a smaller one inside the pediment and a larger one over the door.147 The upper dedication identiﬁed the monument as dedicated ‘to the eternal memory’ (memoriae aeternae) of the deceased; the lower one described the architecture of the building and its surrounds—an aedic(u)la, vineyard, and precinct wall—ending with the formula, ‘this work is under the axe’ (hoc opus sub ascia est). As Jérôme Carcopino noted, the ascia formula was unusually common in the province of Gallia Lugdunensis, especially the region around the city of Lugdunum (Lyon), accounting for over 40 per cent of that town’s epigraphic record. Outside the province, it was not conﬁned to Graeco-Roman paganism, being employed in both Jewish and Christian catacombs in Rome and elsewhere.148 As most of the tomb inscriptions from Lugdunensis that bear this formula belong to the last quarter of the second or ﬁrst half of the third century, Carcopino plausibly associated the symbol with the large Christian community at Lugdunum, then the centre of Christianity in Gaul, and their efforts to come to terms with the persecution of 177/8. St Irenaeus, bishop of the Christian community, noted in his writings the resemblance of the cross-shaped ascia to the Word of God and, in his answer to the Gnostics’ inclination towards pagan ideas, may well have propagated the adoption of this pagan symbolic form as a coded symbol of Christian identity.149 It is not hard to see the force of the symbol in two funerary portrait stelae in the Musée de Châteauroux, where the deceased are shown solemnly clasping the Y-shaped ascia to their breasts like a Christian cross (Fig. 165a–b).150 There are several indications, then, that during the second century the diverse social groups of the Roman Empire developed particular interest in the perpetuation of memory through monumental tombs. The architectural form itself, whether referring to a grand legendary structure or to the generic sacrality of a classical temple front, was the most important demonstration of this. But there were also other means, both in the language of the inscriptions and their very forms, which allowed less wealthy people to aspire to the same degree of durability without such conspicuous physical symbols.151 The ﬁnal dedicatory rite of the ascia was one such method, which attained a wide level of popularity throughout the western Empire and especially in some regions where belief in the immortality of the soul had deep cultural roots. Its adoption by the Christian community of Lugdunum shows how private family memories could be a means of communicating public and collective identities. Elsewhere, the emphasis was on the private fame of the individual. It was now perceived to be in the power of architecture to carry the memory of a human being beyond the limited span of a few generations and to sustain it for eternity. This had a major effect on the values of the Romans, not only on their sense of endurance of the institution of Empire, but also on the nature of a faith like Christianity in which the individual’s signiﬁcance was considered to be everlasting. In reality, the ‘eternity’ of a Roman’s tomb lasted only as long as their family continued the funerary cult and preserved the building.152 The construction of tomb monuments in the Antonine age reﬂected the

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est ranks, like the heröon of Annia Regilla, to the smallest markers threatened the passer-by with punishment for violation or desecration. It is possible that Romans borrowed the idea of such tomb-penalties from the Greeks, although some sort of punishment was included in their own Twelve Tables; but it seems to have been particularly common during the second century to set up inscriptions threatening sanctions against those who did not respect a tomb monument.154 An emphatic example from Smyrna included provision for a sealed copy of the inscription, as well as the version inscribed on the stone of the monument, and took the unusual step that the ﬁne for disrespect should be paid to the Roman state treasury.155 In some cases arrangements were made for a custodian to live on the property to prevent such disrespect, and for a house to be built within the precinct in which he would live. As Cyrus’ tomb at Pasargadae, almost in the manner of a public shrine, had a small house beside it to serve as a cottage residence for the Magi

(a) 165. (a) and (b) Funerary portrait stelae found in 1909 at Saint-Ambroix (Cher) near Bourges, France, second century a.d.

conviction that memorials, however timeless in conception, needed to be preserved, since every monument was only as ‘eternal’ as its preservation. Thus, according to the benefactions of the freedmen Polycarpus and Epaphroditus, Gabii had the title r(es) p(ublica) aeterna, but, despite that, their benefactions were carefully framed to make provision for the duration of their monuments in the event of this res publica aeterna ceasing to exist. The same idea comes across from a passage on the monumentality of the house of Goethe in Weimar, written by Stefan Zweig in 1916: . . . denn mehr als ein Denkmal ist es, ein starres, das sie schaffen, die tat in Weimar gilt im letzten der Erneuerung seiner realen Existenz [!!], einem sichtlichen Symbol seiner inkommensurablen Persönlichkeit. Dort, wo es körperlich verloschen ist, sein Leben, baut es sich geistig aus seinen eigenen Elementen wieder auf, und in dem Masse, als er durch die Zeit, die fühllose, ferner wird, macht ihn sorgliche Hingabe und werktätige Liebe wieder nah.153

The requirement for protection (custodia) was a familiar means of ensuring the survival of a monument. Tomb memorials from the high-

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who looked after the tomb, so in Antonine Rome a ‘hut’ was built for the ‘procurator of the column of the deiﬁed Marcus’ according to his pleasure; it was placed next to the column itself, which, like Trajan’s Column, contained Marcus’ tomb in its pedestal.156 From at least the second century, if not earlier, the Mausoleum of Augustus was put under the authority of a procurator Mausolei, who presumably stood at the head of a hierarchy of offices relating to the custody of the monument. Even a smaller mausoleum of a local aristocrat at Nemausus (Nîmes) was controlled by a board, who appointed a curator annually; whatever this official did, it was still necessary to appoint an additional person, one of the deceased’s own freedmen, to take charge of the keys to the tomb. These well-protected tomb structures became important markers in the monumental landscape of the city and helped to determine the placing of future memorials. For example, in 155, when Arrius Alﬁus waited for permission to build a monumental tomb for his wife and son on the Via Flaminia outside Rome, its precise location, between the second and third miles from Rome, was deﬁned by its proximity to known monuments such as the warden’s house (custodia) of the monument of Flavius Thymele and the mausoleum (maesolaeo) of Marcus Silius Orcilius.157 This case is also interesting because it reveals the kind of procedure that might be involved in commemorating the dead. Alﬁus had deposited the remains of his wife and son in a clay sarcophagus and sent a request to a friend, Velius Fidus, a former imperial legate in Syria Palestina, who was a member of the college of priests at Rome, for them, and in due course himself, to be buried in a marble vessel. Fidus forwarded it to a colleague in the pontiﬁcal college, Iubentius Celsus, who was promagister for that year; Celsus authorized the tomb by a formal decree signed on 5 November. Celsus’ decree and Fidus’ letter to his colleague were both inscribed and presumably set up on the eventual tomb, as an official endorsement of its monumentality.158 It is striking that Alﬁus needed ﬁrst to bury his relatives in a temporary clay sarcophagus, and that its replacement by a grander one of marble required official action. But the case may be less typical than at ﬁrst appears. The inscription which preserves this episode for us—a beautiful book-like plaque with a moulded frame found by the Via Flaminia159—records that Alﬁus had been personally known to Velius Fidus ‘for a long time since early childhood’ (ex longo tempore primae iubentutis), which suggests that his cause would already have been favourable to Fidus. Moreover, he was the freedman of Arria Fadilla, the mother of the emperor, and had already put this request to Pius himself; as a result of the emperor’s response, he had written his letter to the pontiﬁces. It is noteworthy that Pius wanted to show no special favour, but encouraged Alﬁus to go through the official channels. However, given Alﬁus’ connection with the imperial family and the fact that the emperor had already become involved, Fidus had little choice but to ensure that no time was lost on his account and give his authorization. For Alﬁus it was a personal coup, but others may not have been so fortunate. The greater prestige of marble as a material for funerary monuments and sarcophagi was partly due to its use for public temples and its association with greater sanctity. The greater availability of marble in the second century led to its more widespread use for tomb memorials, especially as a revetment to cover the surface of a tomb building and for

166. Sarcophagus of Claudia Aulonia from Melﬁ, Basilicata, Italy.

the sarcophagi placed in its vault. But the formal process in Arrius Alﬁus’ case, and the special circumstances that probably inﬂuenced its successful outcome, suggest that the use of a marble sarcophagus to bury the family dead was a jealously guarded privilege. One can imagine that those examples, usually of white Proconnesian marble, which were executed by the craftsmen of the ‘Aphrodisias School’ were particularly prestigious. These artists were also responsible for the architectural ornament of public and imperial buildings, above all the decoration of stage-buildings throughout Asia, where the emperor’s image was conspicuous. The most ornate of their sarcophagi of the Antonine and Severan periods reproduced the aedicular forms of the theatres to bestow a theatrical and ‘royal’ setting, with pediments and columns, for the burial of the dead. It became a fashion for the wealthiest and highest-ranking officials of the Antonine period to be buried in sarcophagi decorated in this extravagantly architectural manner. Thus the funerary vessel, like the tomb buildings in which it was stored, resembled a house of the dead. But their ‘micro-architecture’ was the architecture of a theatre, a court such as at Perge, or perhaps a nymphaeum, not of a temple. Along their sides rows of ﬁgures were enshrined beneath triangular or segmental ornate pediments. The overall appearance is similar, on a smaller scale, to the tomb at Sadaba. And, as in larger monuments, the power of columns to frame an image was emphasized by spiral ﬂutes running in

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opposite directions on either side of the ﬁgure between them. Two spectacular examples, at either end of the Antonine period, are the sarcophagus from Velletri, dated to the 140s, and that of Claudia Aulonia from Melﬁ, of the 160s (Fig. 166).160 The aedicules of these vessels enclosed, or, like an aedes, ‘housed’, sculptural images, which might portray the deceased or mythologize him by showing instead mythical exempla for the virtues of his life, especially the labours of Hercules or the seasons.161 Such miniature representations of ‘royal’, stage-like architecture attached the deceased and their family to the ideology of buildings like the theatre at Aspendus, the bouleuteria at Ephesus and Nysa, or the ‘imperial halls’ of the ‘Vedius gymnasium’ and other baths of Asia Minor—in short, to the culture and power of the emperor. The temple tombs of Latium and the richly adorned columnar sarcophagi were monuments of the very highest and wealthiest elites of Rome. But the architectural values that they represent, the enshrinement of an image in an aedicular surround, beneath a pediment, and within a curvilinear recess, were also espoused at a lower social level. In Chapter 3 we saw how vaulted niches placed beneath a temple pediment were used to enclose religious images of many minor cults on the fringes of the Roman Empire, and in the same way the vault became an important element of funerary architecture across the Empire at many levels, which complemented the temple form. In Roman Lycia sarcophagi were placed within vaults hollowed out of the natural rock, roughly decorated, and set within crude pedimented mini-temples.162 (a) In North Africa, besides the grander tomb-temples on podia, were many smaller tomb memorials, each with a pedimented peak and an inner, semi-domed shell-niche. The diverse collection of such memorials in the courtyard of the museum at Timgad testiﬁes to the appeal of this monumental form to venerate the dead. The role of buildings, with their presumed solidity and durability, in suggesting eternity was nowhere more apparent than in the words inscribed on a remarkable tower tomb in the border country of North Africa. Erected around the middle of the century, perhaps in the years between 150 and 160, this construction is considered separately in the next section.

the tomb of the ﬂ avii at cillium This tomb is situated on the edge of the township of Cillium (Kasserine, Tunisia), near the border colony of Theveste.163 It is the memorial to Titus Flavius Secundus, probably an auxiliary of local origin, who had completed a long period of military service during the ﬁnal third of the ﬁrst century and, after achieving Roman citizenship, lived in relative prosperity on his estates until his death around 150.164 Constructed by his son, the tomb is built in local style, taking the form of a tower on three levels: a podium with a verse inscription, a principal storey bearing the inscribed names of the deceased within a circuit of Corinthian pilasters, and an upper storey with a niche originally ﬁlled by a statue of the deceased and surrounded by engaged columns probably of marble, with a pyramidal roof (Figs. 167a–b). The architectural ornament was executed by local craftsmen using the Punic foot, but, despite its tendency to idiosyncratic details, resembles the classical idiom of contemporary public buildings in the region.165 The names of

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(c) 167. Tomb of the Flavii, Kasserine (Cillium), Tunisia. (a) Present state of the monument.(b) Restored view of the monument’s original appearance. (c) Detail of the ﬁrst storey with memorial inscription.

the family members and their ages at death occupy the central focus of attention (Fig. 167c): Titus Flavius Secundus, son, built this for Titus Flavius Secundus, devoted father: he served as soldier for 33 years and lived for 110 years: here he lies. And for Flavia Urbana, devoted mother: she lived for 105 years: here she lies. And for Flavia Secunda, devoted sister: she lived for 20 years: here she lies. And for Titus Flavius Martialis, devoted brother: he served as soldier for 12 years and lived for 35 years: here he lies. And for Flavia Sperata, devoted sister: she lived for 36 years: here she lies. And for Aemilia Pacata, daughter of Sextus, devoted wife, priestess of the imperial cult in perpetuity: she lived for 53 years: here she lies. Titus Flavius Secundus, son of Titus, of the Roman tribe Papiria, himself, priest of the imperial cult in perpetuity: here he lies.

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For Flavia Pacata, daughter of Titus, priestess of the imperial cult in perpetuity for the colony of Theveste, devoted daughter, Flavia Libera, mother, placed a statue: she lived for 15 years and 10 months: here she lies. Flavia Libera, devoted wife of Titus Flavius Secundus, lived for 88 years: here she lies.166

This is a very clear statement of a family united in death.167 Other names were added to the right side of the tomb after the younger Secundus’ second wife became sole heir around 160 and was able to bury her own nieces of different descent in the tomb.168 Yet Secundus was still considered the builder of the monument: his name alone appears among the epitaphs without the epithet pius; all the other persons are deﬁned by their family relationship to him. The centrality of the elder Secundus is also apparent from the text below on the podium, where on the ‘Orange mausoleum’ the actual epitaph appeared: three columns of Latin verses, ninety hexameters and ten pairs of elegiacs, which establish this structure among other monumental tombs.169 Early travellers, like the Englishman Thomas Shaw and the Frenchman Victor-Hugo Guérin, criticized the inscription as clumsily carved, since the third column, with only six lines, is much shorter than the other two (Fig. 167d).170 Modern scholars have agreed with this verdict and explained the layout as a fault occurring in the gap between composition and inscription, using the signs of paragraph markings carved at the left margins of some lines to show that the two poems were originally intended to be engraved in sections on a separate plaque, either of marble or of bronze, to be attached to the monument.171 This interpretation, however, does not explain the whole story. Not all shared the modern assumption that an inscription should be presented as neatly as possible. In this case, it was an important part of the effectiveness of the poems in commenting on the monument and communicating its meaning as a perpetuation of the memory of the dead that they were inscribed directly onto the stonework of the podium. Likewise, the stonecutter ignored the paragraph divisions and carved the verse inscription in continuous sequence, so that the reader would be able to appreciate the poems in their appearance as a scroll, an ancient book, just like the scroll from which he had himself copied the text onto the stone. The passer-by was confronted with an open book, imprinted onto the surface of the monument and ready to be read.172 The initial hexameters, the most prestigious and ‘monumental’ poetic metre, product of the Muse of epic poetry, Calliope, are an outstanding example of a well-attested tradition of sepulchral verse inscriptions in North Africa.173 They give the monument a literary authority, which is redoubled by the following elegiacs. The whole poetic ensemble is given in Appendix 4. Several important themes emerge from this poem which relate to the issue of monumentality. Its opening lines (1–4) concern the conventional worry of human mortality and brevity of life. The adjectives emphasizing the shortness of man’s span (exiguae, parva), familiar from earlier Roman funerary poetry, establish the basis for a contrast with the size of the monument built to ensure afterlife.174 Men’s answer to transience (5–8) is the ‘image of consoling reason’ (blandae rationis imago), by means of which they may survive in longer remembrance (memoratio). The poet means that men manage to perpetuate ‘through inscriptions’ (per titulos), which like triumphal placards

(cf. titulos, 49 below) bestow fame on their subject.175 In the next lines (9–20) it is suggested that the lasting glory and praise from posterity which will accrue to Secundus’ father from the monument his son has built for him are also deserved by his son for the ‘ﬁlial devotion’ (pietas) with which he builds his father’s tomb. This thought is clariﬁed in the following lines, which show that the glory of the dead depends on the architectural quality of his monument. The praise of the monument is a means of praising the dead because of the longstanding Roman view of an analogy between human persons and their buildings: the monument is proxy for the man.176 Yet there is some circularity here in the ideas about the nature of architectural criticism. As we shall see later, it is not clear whether a building owes its greatness more to its own intrinsic merits or to its rhetorical praise by an orator or poet.177 In this poem, the indispensability of the mechanism of poetic praise to the monument’s effectiveness is conveyed by the punning symmetry of cum laude meretur (10) and fortunae melius laudanda facultas (17). A major theme of the poem is the relative capacity of architecture and poetry to promote the memory of the dead. The building itself is remarkable for its columns and isodomic stonework. They are the physical means of giving height which brings the monument up to the level of the sky. Yet the architecture excites wonder for its artistry and ﬁnesse as well as its size: the columns have a marvellous rhythm, and the yellowness of the local limestone is compared to wax. The building is also a monument to the nobilitas of the family. From their non-Roman auxiliary origins, the Flavii have now become an established family of Cillium, older than the parvenu Aelii, and both the younger Secundus and his wife were officers of the imperial cult.178 Their monument, therefore, symbolized their attainment of high social status.179 It was a marvellous ‘work’ (opus) because it seemed to represent the pouring of the family’s money not into temporary luxuries of high living, but into a durable and monumental form.180 This identiﬁcation between a monument and the money that creates it leads into the next section (21–37), another commonplace, now concerning the ephemerality of material wealth. This does not undermine the previous thoughts, but is employed to emphasize the distinctiveness of this particular use of wealth and its consequent superiority in lasting value. While worldly forms of materialism lead one to question human durability and so ‘to measure man by his own shortness’ (hominemque laboret metiri brevitate sua, 34–5), permanence can only be achieved by the ‘strength of time’ (viribus aevi, 36). The metaphorical measurement (metiri, 35) of man’s life devoted to worldly goods is contrasted with the real measurement of a monumental tomb. The form of the structure makes this more evident, since its courses of masonry and three storeys are visibly piled on top of one another; the central pilasters, like columns, indicate human scale, on either side of the human names of the deceased; Secundus senior is heroized by the statue in the niche above; and the bird at the summit represents the highest form of heavenly immortality (Fig. 167b). When the poet’s own persona ﬁnally appears (38), it is without speciﬁc identiﬁcation. It cannot be the builder Flavius Secundus or his dead father, as the former is addressed and the latter referred to in the next few lines. It is the voice of a poet who speaks to Flavius Secundus, the son and builder of the tomb.181 It is signiﬁcant that the poet’s per-

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167. Tomb of the Flavii, Kasserine (Cillium), Tunisia. (d) Detail of the podium with inscribed verse text.

sona is introduced at the point where the monument starts to be contemplated as aesthetic architecture. The encomiastic role of the hexameter poet is equivalent to the built monument on the ground. Yet a monumental building is not just a personal matter between the commissioning relative and the commemorated deceased; it is a public concern, which assumes the aesthetic consciousness of an outside audience. The ancestral home of the deceased, or ‘citadel’, as it is poetically described, is visible from the tomb (60).182 The private, familial associations of the tomb intrude into the public environment. The description of the building identiﬁes the architectural features that were considered monumental. Its ﬁrst aspect is the façade, the ‘face’ of Secundus’ tomb and a survival of the deceased, which, as Plutarch wrote of the Periclean buildings of Athens, is ‘perpetually new’. The novelty contrasts with the age and timelessness of monumental tombs (tantam faciem superesse sepulchri perpetua novitate sui, 41–2). Its new look (novitas, 42; cf. novatur, 46) is paradoxically ‘everlasting’ (perpetua). This shine is produced by the stones, whose ordered courses are organically uniﬁed (sic stare nitentes consensus lapidum). This surrogate monument of the deceased seems to show biological growth: its steps are ‘raised from the roots’ of the foundations and their development improves towards the top (sic de radice levatos in melius crevisse gradus).183 Yet this harmony of details reveals also the art of the structure, which, although of imposing size and scale, at the same time exhibits the opposing qualities of ﬁneness and artistic subtlety, ‘so that even every corner is so drawn as if by a thread of softened wax’ (ut et angulus omnis sic quasi mollitae ductus sit stamine cerae, 44–5). The ‘stem’ (stamen) of the tomb’s construction monumentalizes the ‘thread of life’ allotted to Secundus by the Fates.184 The choice of wax in particular for this image is signiﬁcant. Besides expressing the yellowness of the stone’s tinted local limestone,185 wax is also a conventional image of ﬁne poetry and ﬁne art. Despite its achievement of height and ‘mouvement ascen-

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sionnel’,186 the tomb also lays claim to visual subtlety. It is like the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus, which to Aristides was remarkable not only for its great size, but for the harmoniai of its elements.187 The building’s delicate, small-scale art is shown by the decorative carving (scalptura) of the statue in the upper niche (46).188 This is also its most human feature. Like other statues in monumental contexts, it is imagined to be alive and in motion (mobilibus); and the sculpture shows it in cheerful (hilaris) mood. Here too it is clear that different kinds of analogy are employed together, since such characterization resembles the distinction between rhetorical moods in oratorical theory. Hilaris is opposed to tristis, and each is constructed physically on the orator’s face.189 So the rhetoric of this monument is like that of the orator who eulogizes the dead. The statue is in good spirits, not in mourning (tristis), because it relishes the prospect of the deceased’s ensuing fame. To recall Ruskin’s words quoted in the Introduction of this book: ‘the honour of the monument rejoices, the honour of the sepulchre mourns’. It is a conﬁdent image of freshness (cf. novatur, 46), which wins the approval of the passing crowd’s keen glances (assidue probet, 47).190 They are impressed by the level rhythm and yellow glow of the pilasters (lucentes stupeat pariter pendere columnas, 48). Secundus himself and his placards recording military fame offer the same pleasures in death when given by his son to the gods of the dead, as Secundus himself gave to the place in the past. In his life he had made his mark on the land, planting vines and restoring a spring in a woodland grove (51–3). Now the poet asks leave of the Fates and the gods of the dead to break the secret and tells the young Secundus that his father must already, like Annia Regilla in the Triopion, be considered immortal and to have left the house of Dis below, whose ‘grim’ (tristem, 57) mood contrasts with the cheer of the funerary statue. His immortality will last ‘while for all of time he prefers to follow these monuments and to live with names inscribed across the face of time (scriptis . . . per aevom [sic]), to stay in familiar groves’ (57–9). The site of his monument is the place where he refreshed the spring and grew the vines; from here he looks keenly and affectionately on both his ancestral city and his family home (60–1). The poet admits the danger of ‘presages of a death to come too soon if any, while he lives, plants monuments for future times’ (si quis dum vivit ponat monimenta futuris temporibus, 64–5). Yet he has no fear, believing, like the writer of the Chatsworth epigram, that men are untroubled who choose to build an ‘eternal home’ and solidly erect walls of a life which will never collapse (66–8).191 The Fates are as sure as the monument is solid (certa via, 69; cf. certo . . . rigore, 67) and the destiny in their threads, like the tomb’s ﬁne composition (stamina; cf. stamine, 45), will not change. Time and the monument are inseparable. So the poet tells the young Secundus that he is not damned to a premature death, but assured of long life, because he has already built his family tomb, and that his own heirs need not worry to build so (sic aediﬁcet, 75), because this tomb will serve for generations. The poet now returns to the tomb. Care of this construction (cura operis) is his poetic duty, but it also puns on the attention that a built monument must receive from its guardians (curatores).192 The building’s elevated ornaments (celsi . . . decores) ennoble the deceased with their great height.193 It is the honour (honor) awarded him and stands aloft (sublime) in high-ﬂown epic and rhetorical sublimity (Greek hupsos).194 It ‘knocks at its neighbours, the clouds’ (vicina . . . nubila pulsat), chal-

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lenging the moralizing modesty of Horace, who deterred his patron Maecenas from raising ‘a pile near the high clouds’ (molem propinquam nubibus arduis). Antonine aesthetics were less restrained.195 The tomb is a marker within the whole cosmos, which ‘measures the sun’s path’. Its monumentality is seen from its place in the landscape, as the poet encourages the viewer to discover for himself, at each level of the monument: ‘If the eyes should choose to join the mountains behind, these hills are surpassed all in a line; if you look at the ﬁelds, the earth lies hidden beneath the monument’ (Si iungere montes forte velint oculi, vincuntur in ordine colles, si videas campos, infra iacet abdita tellus, 79–81). This is a remarkable statement on the monument’s domination of the surrounding natural landscape. Yet it is true of the land seen behind the tomb even today: if the viewer joins the lines of the hills on the horizon, he will see that the tomb rises well above; if he looks at the ﬁelds in the background, they are submerged below the level of the steps. The insertion of architecture within the ancient landscape is a well-known feature of the ancient world.196 It was an aspect of archetypically colossal monuments, the obelisks in the middle of the Circus in Rome, the colossus of Nero, lately re-erected by Hadrian through the architect Decrianus, and the Pharos.197 But for the poet this tomb surpasses all these monuments. It is a great achievement, the work of ‘learned’ pietas. A ﬁnal vignette of this hexameter encomium emphasizes how the tomb will remain a centre of life. Pierced with openings in the stone, it encourages bees to hurry inside and make nests of wax, which leads this ‘house’ to ‘sweat’ with nectar, as the bees produce honey. The image is not arbitrary, but recalls the earlier comparison of this tomb’s ﬁne structure to the thin thread of wax (cerineos, 88; cf. cerae, 45) and the model industriousness of bees for Antonine architecture, notably in the reconstruction of Carthage. The tomb’s attraction (cf. blandas, 87) to the bees is like the ‘attractive prospect’ (blanda . . . imago, 5) of immortality for the deceased. However, this poem is immediately succeeded by twenty further elegiacs (Appendix 4B).198 They serve to make the total number of lines up to 110, the age to which the deceased had supposedly lived (2). Thus number cements the poem of the monument even closer to the person, just as in Nicon’s isopsephic verses. This second poem openly declares the monument’s sacrality. It calls on Pietas to ‘raise adoring hearts’, to match the raising of the tomb (erige), and declares that the young Secundus ‘gave not a monument, but a new temple to his father’ (non monimenta patri sed nova templa dedit, 94). In these elegiacs the poet is inspired by the epic Muse, Calliope, to retrace his steps around the tomb. This addition is a foil to the preceding hexameters. While, on the one hand, the poet acknowledges that the ﬁrst part was a ‘description of a great work’ (operis descriptio magni),199 speaking of ‘blocks smoothed at their joints’ (iunctis saxa polita locis),200 grove precincts, running water, and bees producing honey, nonetheless the poet’s art had proved incomplete in one respect. No single praise of a monumental building will cover all its details.201 These ﬁnal elegiacs make good the omission: the ﬁnal culminating detail on the summit of the tomb’s pyramidal roof, ‘a cock’s ﬂuttering wings, which I think ﬂies higher than the furthest cloud’. It reaches the realm of heaven, so that ‘if nature had given its body a voice, it would force all the gods to rise each morning’. This weathervane is no mere decorative detail. It is the highest point of the monument’s sublimity and puts the monument in touch with the divine world. Its immortality is recogniza-

ble from the names solidly written on the tomb’s ﬁrst storey; the dead man’s life is seen, trusting in its own tituli. The length and quality of the text and the insistence on the persona of the poet and on the power of his Muse makes the reader wonder whether the conceptual monument presented by the poems is perhaps more important architecturally than the real one on the ground.202 The poems are indeed not exact descriptio or conventional laudatio, because they do not emphasize the sacrality of the monument or its static durability in stone, so much as the living human qualities, its perpetua novitas.203 However, there is a fundamental difference here from the Augustan poets’ view according to which, as for Thucydides, literature, rather than architecture, holds the key to memorability and monumentality. Whereas Horace believed that poetry had the capacity to be a monumentum itself, taking the place of more conventional memorials in stone and bronze, in the case of these poems literature was only a secondary endorsement of the building’s own architectural powers, and this was apparent from its ﬁnal appearance carved onto the stone, rather than added in the form of a plaque. The monument’s ‘perpetual newness’ was part of its living power as architecture, appearing, as the Periclean buildings of Athens had seemed to Plutarch, to be forever in their original new state. The poems point continually not only to the immediate presence of the monument ‘here’ (41), but to the continuing event of its construction by the younger Secundus. As on the Haterii monument, the moment of building is perpetuated for future generations, so that the image of its newness is always retained, always as new as it was on completion. This conﬁdence is passed on to the younger Secundus, the builder of the tomb. The earlier fear that the man who builds a tomb for himself in his own lifetime will be condemned to a premature death is now forgotten. The poet prays ﬁnally that Secundus will live on in happiness for many years and, as the greatest boon of all, will be able to read the monument he has made.

conclusion: eternit y and personal fame in roman architecture As we have seen in the previous chapter, the Roman concept of monumentum was sufficiently wide that it did not apply solely to tomb monuments, designed exclusively as places to bury the dead. Public buildings too could be memorials to their founders, bringing them immortality. The Roman client-kings on the fringes of the Empire were, as in other matters, the most obvious exponents of this Roman view. Early in the ﬁrst century King Herod of Judaea ‘did not neglect to leave memorials of himself ’ in the area under his control, like the Herodium fortress a few miles outside Jerusalem.204 In this case, the status of buildings as ‘memorials’ was recognizable from their names. In the same region, over two centuries later, the emperor Philip the Arab founded a city, modern Shahba, which he exceptionally awarded colonial privileges from its inception and named ‘Philippopolis’ as a memorial to himself.205 Cities had long been named after their founders, not only the colonies of Philip II and Alexander the Great of Macedon, but also those of the Roman emperors. Even where the city’s name did not bear the name of the emperor, its colonial or municipal title included

building the monuments of the future the name of the emperor who had awarded that right as a basic memory. But Roman naming of buildings and cities amounted to more than assertion of political power. The identity of the builder of a single public building soon became as important a matter as that of the ﬁrst settler of a whole city. Exemplary status was attached to patrons of new public buildings as ‘founders’ of cities. Particularly in the traditional heartland of Hellenic culture, in mainland Greece and Asia Minor, the completion or restoration of one or more public buildings through the aid of an emperor or provincial governor led to the whole city being regarded as a ‘foundation’ (ktisma).206 It was a short step to regarding each new monument as a new ‘foundation’ in its own right. From the late ﬁrst century it was common in Palestine and Egypt to use the terms ktisma and ktiston of individual buildings.207 Such usage had become normal by the fourth and ﬁfth centuries, even in the western Greek regions, and colours, for example, Malalas’ presentation of the architectural projects of Trajan and Antoninus Pius.208 Herod’s city monuments in Judaea were also like tomb monuments in that they were personal memorials to his family and friends. At Jerusalem he dedicated a very beautiful monument to his brother Phasael, a tower in the city walls which served ‘not only as a part of the city’s defences, but as a memorial to the dead man because of his name’.209 He built other monuments in memory of his father and mother.210 With other buildings he commemorated his friends: the ‘Drusion’, named after the stepson of Augustus, and the gateway to the Temple at Jerusalem, over which he had the name of Agrippa carved in Roman fashion, and presumably in Latin, out of a feeling of close friendship.211 The clearest model for these acts of naming was the public architecture of the city of Rome. Buildings such as the basilicas Porcia, Aemilia, Sempronia, and Julia were not only named after the public official who had built them, but continued to be regarded as the property and living emblems of the builder’s family, who carried the responsibility of ensuring their maintenance. This tradition of ‘public muniﬁcence’ on the part of the Roman senatorial elite was remarkably resilient. When the emperor Tiberius restored the Theatrum Pompeianum, he only intervened because there were no surviving heirs from Pompey’s own family to undertake the restoration.212 The practice of naming public buildings as a family monument in memory of their founder became a prominent feature of Antonine urban life. At Fanum (Fano), ‘a bath building built by the popular tribune Lucius Rufellius Severus and later rebuilt anew by the res publica had been largely destroyed by ﬁre and restored and extended’ at the expense of Titus Varius Ruﬁnus Geganius Facundus Vibius Marcellinus, who held the prestigious office of the public horse (equus publicus), in his own and his son’s names.213 Ruﬁnus seems to have been a descendant of the Rufellius who built the original bath, and his work an elaboration of an older core (operibus ampliatis). In 138/45 Cornelius Laetus restored a public portico at Mustis in North Africa because it had been built by one of his ancestors (porticum avitam), but had ‘decayed because of age’; he added further columns as an elaboration of the old.214 As ﬂamen of the imperial cult, he aimed at more than simply the perpetuation of his family’s name. He set up religious images in the city: a bronze statue to Pluto Frugifer and a portico of four columns in the Temple of Caelestis in the emperor’s name. In the 160s Caius Julius

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Crescens Didius Crescentianus built a basilica at Cuicul (Djemila) in Numidia, which was named after him.215 The building would now be called ‘Basilica Julia’, like Julius Caesar’s monument in Rome, but it was the family of this Romanized local, rather than the head of the imperial Julian family, to whom the name referred. Originating perhaps from neighbouring Cirta (Constantine), he had been raised to equestrian status at the end of a military career, probably by the emperor Antoninus Pius, and adopted Cuicul as his civitas. Inside there were statues not only of the two emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, set up by the founder of the building, but also of Didius himself, erected by his daughter Didia Cornelia, ‘a woman of distinguished memory’ (clarissimae [memoriae f]eminae), which suggests that she belonged to the senatorial order. The new basilica can be seen not only as a work to adorn Didius’ new home city and pay homage to the ruling imperial dynasty, but also as a monument to the mobility of his own family. Public buildings erected under the Antonines had explicitly personal associations. Like tombs, they were monuments that elevated the status of the dead. Thus the agonothetes’ assembly building at Apollonia in Illyria (Fig. 133a–d) was built by Villius Proculus, a high-ranking equestrian official, in memory of his brother, who was of much lower rank, probably only a military commander.216 Further up the Adriatic coast, at Doclea in Dalmatia, Marcus Flavius Fronto and his wife Flavia Tertulla erected a civic basilica in the name of their son Marcus Flavius Balbinus, who had died at the age of 15.217 Situated beside the enclosed forum of the town (Fig. 168a), the building was advertised as a private monument by an inscription repeated on the entablatures of both interior and exterior arcades (Fig. 168b).218 Stone slabs from the front face of a statue base found in the pavement suggest that the interior had contained an appropriate display of family statuary. At Iader (Zadar) in the same province a marble arch, now destroyed, which separated the harbour quarter from the centre of the city was a woman’s monument

168. Forum and basilica, Doclea, Dalmatia (modern Duklja, Montenegro). (a) Plan. (b) Restored view of the interior of the basilica.

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168. Forum and basilica, Doclea, Dalmatia (modern Duklja, Montenegro). (b) Restored view of the interior of the basilica.

to her husband.219 The arch carried generic reliefs concerned with the sea, including the image of a triton, which evoked the city’s proximity to the great Ocean and its sea-based prosperity. According to a seventeenth-century drawing (Fig. 169), the arch was a single-bay structure with engaged Corinthian columns and an inscription in two lines spread across the frieze: ‘Melia Anniana left orders in her will that the emporium be paved and an arch built and statues placed on top in memory of her husband Quintus Laepicus Bassus, son of Quintus, of the tribe Sergia, at a cost of 600 sestertii after a twentieth had been deducted for the Roman people.’220 Thus the arch, which, through its topographical position and decorative reliefs, was a symbolic civic boundary, became with its visible monumenta, the attic statuary and the inscription, a personal memorial. Another temple front from Italy shows how a building’s iconography expressed its memorial function. At Misenum on the Bay of Naples a meeting-place of the local order of Augustales was restored in

169. Drawing of the arch at Iader, Dalmatia (Zadar, Croatia), built by Melia Anniana in honour of her husband.

the Antonine period in spectacular fashion.221 The back of the main building was hollowed out of the natural rock, but the front was a columnar porch with capitals of a combined lotus-and-acanthus form most unusual in Italy.222 The Egyptian lotus had long-standing intimations of undying growth, while the Corinthian acanthus had strong funerary associations in ancient Greece; so the combination of a lotus ﬂower sprouting out of an acanthus leaf would have implied that this monument was forever.223 On the entablature an inscription recorded the donation of this ‘pronaos with columns and entablatures’ by Cassia Victoria, priestess of the Augustales, in her own name and that of her husband Lucius Laecanius Primitivus. In the centre of the pediment crowning the temple front was a round clipeus portrait bust, inside a wreath of oak leaves, of a bearded man and woman, clearly the donor and her husband, being carried aloft to immortality supported by winged ﬁgures (Fig. 170). It resembled the image of Marcus on the new propylon at Eleusis in form and meaning.224 The association of Roman buildings with the memory of individuals was not always expressed by representational means. The ancients also recognized signiﬁcance in numerical correspondence between the architecture and the years to which a person had lived. As the monument of Flavius Secundus at Cillium reﬂected the age of the deceased in the 110 verses inscribed on the podium, so the seventy-six columns of Augustus’ temple of Quirinus of 16 bc were recognized as equal to the number of years he lived (from 63 bc to ad 14).225 Absurd as it may seem, some people believed that this had been done by deliberate choice, rather than by chance: which shows how easily personal associations arose after a building’s completion. This chapter began with a Trajanic poem inscribed on the great pyramid of Cheops in memory of a lost brother. An almost contemporary poem from the opposite end of the Empire shows how new buildings also were conceived as outstanding monuments. Like Nicon of Pergamon and Dionysius of Sardis, the architect Julius Lacer in Lusitania sought fame from his design of a bridge over the River Tagus at Alcantara.226 Across the centre of this bridge a commemorative arch proclaimed the official dedication in 105/6 to the emperor Trajan. On the panels of its four piers, of which only one now survives, it was stated that the bridge was completed through the contributions of the municipal communities of Lusitania, named individually. They may well

170. Monument of the augustales, Misenum, Campania, Italy. Detail of the pediment showing the memorial clipeus.

building the monuments of the future have been inspired by Apollodorus’ new bridge in Dacia.227 On one side of the bridge was a temple, similarly built of local granite, with a front of Tuscan pilasters, which was restored in the seventeenth century.228 On the temple front could be read a marble inscription, recording a dedication to the emperor, and below, twelve elegiac verses:229

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Templum in rupe Tagi superis et Caesare plenum ars ubi materia vincitur ipsa sua Quis quali dederit voto fortasse requiret cura viatorum quos nova fama iuvat. Ingentem vasta pontem qui mole peregit Sacra litaturo fecit honore Lacer.

terial’ (materiam superabat opus).232 As for the second question, the nature of the religious occasion for the construction, it was the purpose of the temple to commemorate the sacral dedication and to represent this otherwise purely utilitarian project as something that entered the divine sphere.233 The ‘monumentality’ of the bridge and temple together depended both on the former’s solid construction from local granite and on the latter’s association with the gods and emperors of Rome.234 Made of the same stone, bridge and temple were a single unit and a monument to Trajan’s Dacian triumph; it was the bridge which, because of its greater size, gave the town its eventual Arab name (Al Qantarat, ‘the bridge’).

Pontem perpetui mansurum in saecula mundi fecit divina nobilis arte Lacer. Qui pontem fecit Lacer et nova templa dicavit (scilicet et superis munera sola litant) Idem Romuleis templum cum Caesare divis constituit: felix utraque causa sacri.

Cities and monuments built of stone are rock-solid if you compare them with our own lives; if you subjugate them to Nature’s standard, which demolishes everything and restores it to where it came from, they are transient. After all, what immortal thing have mortal hands made? The Seven Wonders and any wonders far more wondrous than those, which the ambition of years to come constructs, will one day be seen levelled to the ground.235

A temple on Tagus’ cliff full of gods and Caesar, Where art itself is surpassed by its own material, Interested travellers enjoying its new fame perhaps May ask who gave it and with what prayer. The man who did the bridge, vast in great bulk, Lacer built the shrine with sanctifying honour.

These reﬂections of Seneca are, on the face of it, a pessimistic realization of the transience of human monuments. Yet the ﬁnal sentence here betrays not only the fact that the Seven Wonders of the World have endured, but also the expectation that they might one day be transcended by greater works of the future. To contemporaries the buildings of the Roman imperial period were as memorable as those of the past. They stood the supreme test of moral excellence, comparison with the works of the golden age of classical Athens. In his Comparison of the Lives of Pericles and Fabius Maximus, Plutarch put the Periclean buildings on a par, not with the works of Fabius Maximus, should there have been any worth recording, but with the structures of imperial Rome:

A bridge to stay for ages in the eternal world, Was built by Lacer, ennobled by his divine art. Lacer who made the bridge also dedicated new temples, (men have only gifts to offer even to the gods), He also founded a temple to Roman gods including Caesar: fortunate in each cause of sacredness.

While the temple’s worth is due to its being ﬁlled with the divine presence of the gods of Rome and the numen of the Roman emperor, the secular bridge owes its value to its monumentality, namely, the intention that it will last because of its material durability as part of the eternal universe. The poem anticipates the interest of future travellers in this building, as in the pyramids, pleased by its ‘new fame’ (nova fama) as an addition to the catalogue of monuments. The visitor’s principal interest is perceived to be in who created the building and what the sacral objective was of its construction. The answer to the ﬁrst question was Lacer, ‘ennobled by his divine art’ (4), presumably an architect in the service of Trajan.230 The architect’s ‘nobility’ (nobilitas) was an important factor in his claim to fame; this did not mean that he was of senatorial rank, but he must certainly have been an equestrian. A parallel is the ‘noble’ architect Julius Africanus, who later claimed to have personally designed the Pantheon Library in Rome for the emperor Alexander Severus.231 But the expertise of the architect, his ars, is represented as less impressive than the imperial and divine connection and especially the material of the architecture itself, just as in the poem at Cillium the stonework is considered more worthy of admiration than the humble personality of the artist who did the work. The sentiment that ‘the art itself is surpassed by its own material’ (ars . . . materia vincitur ipsa sua, line 2) can be contrasted with Ovid’s description of the Palace of the Sun, where it is claimed that ‘the work surpassed the ma-

The grand scale of public works and temples and the construction of buildings, with which Pericles adorned Athens, do not deserve to be compared with the ambitious works (philotime-mata) of Rome before the Caesars, but it is the grandeur of enterprise (megalourgia) and majesty (megaloprepeia) of the emperors which has held the ﬁrst place exceptionally and incomparably with the Periclean monuments.236

Likewise, the only Roman buildings that Pausanias mentioned as on a par with the monuments of Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic Greece were recent Roman ones, above all the buildings of Trajan in Rome, of Hadrian in Athens, of Pius across the Empire, and of the senator Pythodorus at Epidaurus. By late antiquity Roman buildings had found a place in the canon. When a Byzantine poem compared the extraordinary new polygonal building called ‘Chalce’ in the emperor Anastasius’ palace at Constantinople with the greatest works of the past, it placed ahead of those traditional ‘wonders’, the pyramids, Colossus of Rhodes, and Pharos of Alexandria, three monuments unavoidably imperial and unmistakably Roman: the Capitoline Temple in Rome (ll. 11–12), restored by Vespasian and symbol of the new Flavian dynasty; the Asclepieion at Pergamon, ‘shining grove of Ruﬁnus’ (13–14); and the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus, restored after the earthquake of 142 (15–16).237 The fame of the Antonines had lasted into the catalogue of great architecture.

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CONCLUSION To call a building a ‘monument’ was to identify a particular response of viewers towards any type of structure, rather than to assign it to a speciﬁc typological category. The main attribute of a monument in this sense was its commemorative function, preserving the values of a conceptually distant time from the debilitating effects of an insidious process of ageing (vetustas). Monuments were autonomous forms, standing in a temporal and spatial landscape within a period of pronounced nostalgia for the past, and which needed to be protected and preserved, despite their supposed age, in a pristine state of newness. But, if a family memory required individuality of form, Antonine monuments often displayed the reverse characteristic. They adhered to monumental archetypes that were easily recognized and admired. The most common form, in both East and West, was that of a temple, because tombs were the sacred repositories of the deceased. In the West, the

Mausoleum of Halicarnassus became a model as a dynastic monument, not just for the emperor and officials of the imperial cult, but for persons of lesser status. For Christians at Lyon, the ascia symbol was a route to monumentality, interpreted to suit their religious identity. The Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium, compared to the great monuments of Rome and the world, claimed lasting status in the surrounding landscape. Such ideals also applied to public architecture. Civic buildings had an explicitly memorial function, perpetuating the memory of family relations as much as tombs. For Antoninus Pius, the restoration of monuments of the past was a necessary counterpoint to the monuments of the future that would commemorate his reign and dynasty. Like the two Demeters of the Triopion or the two districts of Athens separated by Hadrian’s arch, Antonine monumentality was a duality of the old and the new.

PART IV RESPONSES TO MONUMENTS

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CHAPTER 11

Experiencing and Responding to Architecture Up to now, this book has been concerned with the attitudes of builders and architects towards architecture, and with the political, religious, social, and cultural factors that helped to form those attitudes. The desire to present a political or family identity through architectural form led builders to create monuments which were intended to have an effect on those who used or observed them. To achieve this effect, however, the forms of buildings had to have meaning for the individuals who experienced them. ‘Monumentality’ in architecture required the possession of certain qualities that appealed to the viewer. To study this concept fully, we therefore need to take into account, not only the intended meanings of buildings, but also their aesthetic impact. In the Roman world, response was an important component of ‘monumentality’ in two respects: ﬁrst, the monumentality of large public spaces such as baths and theatres lay in their celebritas, or ‘density of use’, which means that they required a substantial audience; second, each separate monument invited ‘contemplation’ by individual viewers; its monumentality depended on their reactions. The ﬁnal two chapters, therefore, will ask how individuals experienced and responded to Roman buildings. Archaeologists rarely address such questions, perhaps because to discuss the character of buildings as aesthetic experiences seems to introduce an unwanted subjectivity. But Roman monuments had a strong aesthetic pull, and, if we are to understand what they meant to ancient viewers, we must look at them also from this perspective.

experience of architecture in the ancient world How an individual in ancient Ephesus or Carthage perceived a building, and the particular emotions generated by those perceptions, can no longer be recovered today. Viewers, no doubt, articulated their sensations to others and discussed their reactions, but such ancient conversations have vanished without trace. To reconstruct ancient experience of architecture, therefore, the historian has to rely either on anecdotal evidence or on those explicit reports of the experience of a building which have survived in literary texts. These written sources are problematic, and cannot be taken as direct accounts of what an ancient person saw. However, they have some historical value, and, together with more general ancient theories of perception, can help to illuminate the ways in which someone in antiquity experienced architecture. Early inscribed accounts listing the decorations of palaces and temples reveal the kind of objects that attracted particular attention. In

Ancient Egypt there was an emphasis on ﬁnancial outlay and rareness of decorative materials, features which also seem to have been an aesthetic focus in Chinese monumentality.1 The eleventh-century bc accounts from the Assyrian palace at Nineveh itemize the remarkable and expensive materials with which the palace interior was adorned: obsidian, lapis lazuli, and alabaster.2 The earliest attested writing in the Greek world, the Linear B tablets, serves an analogous purpose. The inventories contained there reveal the Mycenaean palaces to have been treasure-houses of wonderful precious objects, which invited reactions of awe and admiration.3 In the Homeric poems the poetic word daidaleos distinguished beautiful objets d’art as clever creations of a supreme artist worthy of the legendary Daedalus, and objects of great size or cost were presented as ‘wonders to behold’ (thauma idesthai ).4 When, in the Odyssey, Telemachus and Nestor’s son, Peisistratus, visited Menelaus’ palace in Sparta, ‘they marvelled at the sight as they passed through the palace of the king, fostered of Zeus; for there was a gleam as of sun or moon over the high-roofed house of glorious Menelaus’.5 This last formulaic phrase reappears later in the work to describe Alcinous’ palace in Phaeacia, where, before crossing the threshold, Odysseus stopped to admire the surroundings: ‘his heart pondered much before he reached the threshold of bronze; for there was a gleam as of sun or moon over the high-roofed house of great-hearted Alcinous.’6 What initially attracted the interest of the heroic viewers was the dominant architectural setting of these ‘high-roofed halls’; but the ensuing description of the palace reveals that the real objects of their amazement were, ﬁrst, its precious materials—bronze walls ‘stretching this way and that from the threshold to the innermost chamber’, ‘a cornice of lapis lazuli all the way round’, and golden doors with silver doorposts—and, second, the artistic ﬁnesse of the works inside: lifelike ‘gold and silver dogs cast by Hephaestus to guard the palace, immortal and ageless for ever’, golden statues of young men holding torches, and embroidered robes spread over the seats along the walls. The impact of the monumental on an individual depends on aesthetic criteria. In his treatise On Sensation, Aristotle identiﬁed four principal areas as ‘the common perceptible characteristics’ (ta koina . . . aisthanesthai ) of human experience: shape (sche-ma), size (megethos), number (arithmos), and movement (kine-sis).7 These properties formed the basis of ancient Greek visual theories on sculpture and architecture and continued to govern the language of Antonine aesthetic experience. They are all measurable qualities and, therefore, appear to be objectively veriﬁable, but, at the same time, their recognition depends on the viewer’s subjective impressions. The ﬁrst of these criteria, shape, has been discussed earlier.8 This is

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the quality that guides a viewer’s recognition of architecture.9 To philosophers, patrons, and architects, a structure’s beauty lay primarily in its form: it was natural for Cicero to discover the form of the world by ﬁrst asking which was the most beautiful shape. In late Republican Rome, the optical illusion of colonnades seen in perspective stimulated the interest of philosophers and villa-owners, who adorned their principal reception rooms with inventive, trompe l’œil architectural backgrounds.10 The impression of beauty in a ﬁnished building was produced by the transformation of a natural raw material to a new, more perfect form. Pausanias wrote of a quarry of green porphyry marble at Croceae in Laconia, in the province of Achaea: ‘It was one rock, compact, if not continuous, and rocks are quarried which resemble river pebbles in shape; in other respects they are difficult to work, but if they have been worked to a ﬁnish, they might add to the ornament of even gods’ sanctuaries and they contribute especially to the beauty of swimming-pools and springs.’11 But the ability of architectural shape to produce an emotional response was carried further by the new vaulted spaces employed in Antonine architecture. In rounded niches, semicircular apses, and the curvilinear outlines of barrel- or cross-vaults we see ‘the capacity of their concave shapes to induce an impression of expanding or rising hollowness’; with such spaces, the observer was unavoidably involved in the geometry of a room.12 Sheer size, the second characteristic of perception mentioned by Aristotle, is the most obvious criterion of monumental architecture. As it indicated a building’s prominence, it is what observers of monuments from the Classical period usually noted. While artistic ﬁnesse was praiseworthy, physical grandeur excited wonder. The immensity of objects observed and admired in the natural world was explicitly contrasted with the technique, versatility, and accuracy exempliﬁed in art.13 While in art the Colossus was thought artistically inferior to Polyclitus’ Doryphorus, in nature what caused amazement was the grandeur of mountains, of great rivers, and of momentous events like earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.14 Claudius Charax challenged an older view that ‘lofty Ida’ was so called because of its visibility and forested summit.15 The visual impact of natural phenomena depended on their not being part of everyday experience. As the Sceptic Sextus Empiricus noted, when one sees a comet, an earthquake, the sea, a beautiful human body, or the effect of water against gold, one’s excitement comes from seeing such things for the ﬁrst time.16 The colossus of Jupiter erected on the Capitoline hill by the consul Spurius Carvilius Maximus in 293 bc, in apparent rivalry with the more famous Colossus of Rhodes, was visible from the Latin sanctuary on Mons Albanus (Monte Cavo) 15 miles away and seemed to enhance the ritual link between the two natural landmarks.17 The divinity of the enormous statues at Memphis and Thebes was expressed by their complete transcendence of ordinary human scale.18 Monumental architecture imitated the extraordinary dimensions of great natural objects.19 The Pharos of Alexandria was archetypal because of its towering, ‘irrational’ conspicuousness.20 For Aristides, the experience of grand architecture at Smyrna or Pergamon was like the sensation of a thunder-ﬂash or lightning-bolt. So the ﬁrst two of Aristotle’s criteria correspond to the attributes of ‘beauty’ and ‘size’, kallos and megethos, which, we have seen, were identiﬁed as the principal features of the great cities in western Asia Minor

and, for Pausanias, were the most important qualities of the monuments of Greece.21 For Romans, these two categories were easily reconciled. To Pliny, in his Natural History, colossal statues, while examples of ‘audacity’ in art, were objects of beauty as well as of grandeur. The ‘beauty’ of the 50-foot-high Tuscan Apollo in Augustus’ Palatine Library was, he observed, as remarkable as the bronze material itself. Such taste for the colossal was manifested in private villas, by huge ﬁgures or by minute statuary, which could achieve the effect of colossality by phantasia.22 What mattered with such ﬁgures was their overwhelming scale. Colossal seated statues were chosen for Hadrian’s Olympieion in Athens and Temple of Venus in Rome. The former invited comparison with the Colossus of Rhodes and Nero’s colossus in Rome, newly reinstalled by Hadrian;23 the latter prompted Trajan’s architect Apollodorus to object that these statues were too tall for the space, since, if the divinities they represented were to rise, their heads would hit the roof.24 Apollodorus’ objections were in the best tradition, not only recalling Vitruvius’ perception of the statues of a temple as living beings, which seem to conduct sacriﬁces themselves, but also exactly repeating Strabo’s criticism of the prototype of colossal statuary, Phidias’ Zeus at Olympia.25 His observation was less a denigration of gigantism per se than an oblique belittlement of the enormous temple designed by Hadrian, which he suggested was too diminutive for the gods it housed. From physical size it is a natural step to the third of Aristotle’s ‘perceptible qualities’, ‘number’, or in other words, measure. The importance to architects like Nicon of the branches of mathematics—geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, and music—gives a clue to the signiﬁcance of this quality in architectural perception. Famous monuments like the Tomb of Lars Porsenna at Clusium or the walls of Babylon could be portrayed as extraordinary monuments through a rhetoric of unbelievable ﬁgures. Great buildings were measured not only in feet, cubits, and other units of measure but in terms of land mass, mountains, cosmic distances, and by comparison with human scale. On the other hand, it was the mark of a truly enormous monument that its exact height was vague.26 Monumental buildings looked almost indeﬁnitely large. The elder Philostratus, for instance, described the portico of a picture gallery as built ‘on four, I think, or even ﬁve terraces’.27 Observers were moved to consider structures monumental simply because of the solidity of their construction and the general impressiveness of their height. ‘Number’ in this context does not mean only absolute dimensions. By Nicon’s time a long development of aesthetic theories had produced a ready supply of key words into which to translate visual experience.28 There was the notion of symmetria, literally ‘shared measure’, which was based on the imitation of nature and the Pythagorean philosophy of number; it referred to proportion in measure of the parts, not only of a man or a statue, but also of a building. Calculation of such relative measure determined not only the frequent resort to modular design, but also the ancient viewer’s experience of monumental scale in architecture. In classical Greek aesthetics, the concept of symmetria declined in importance as the development of ideas of illusion made the representation of true proportion less signiﬁcant. By the end of the fourth century bc symmetria had been largely replaced by the concept of

responding to architecture eurhythmia, which was based on the material concept of matter to be formed. Although symmetria continued to be useful as a working principle for artists, it became less prominent in Hellenistic and Roman aesthetics. For Vitruvius, probably following an Ionian source of around 100 bc such as Hermodorus of Salamis, it amounted only to the even distribution of numbers of atoms, the embate-res.29 Eurhythmia, however, became central to the appreciation of buildings under the Empire. Although established in solid laws of measurement, it had nothing to do with giving measurement. It was not, like symmetria, the optical production of the appearance to the spectator of due proportion in a building, but a more dynamic quality of spatial experience. In short, it encapsulated the ﬁnal one of Aristotle’s four perceptible qualities, movement. The term eurhythmia implied movement along or within a building, which, in Greek architecture, meant above all movement along the line or axis of a colonnade. It was this property which was believed to give a building its charm or ‘grace’. Unlike symmetria, eurhythmia did not refer to mathematically exact measure or to representation of nature, but was directed at the stimulation of the senses. Certainly, to achieve this visual effect artists consciously calculated effects of symmetria. But, as for other ﬁne artists, the architect’s goal was to communicate with the viewer through his work. Early Hellenistic artistic theory emphasizes the person of the artist, his personal ‘rhythm’ (rhythmos), and his handiwork. Strabo, for example, praises the eurhythmia of the Artemisium at Ephesus, rebuilt in the fourth century bc to the design of Hermogenes. Vitruvius explains this quality as asperitas intercolumniorum, the raw rhythm of the building’s wide, shady colonnades. It was this ‘rhythm’ that the poet at Cillium saw in the columns of the monument of the Flavii.30 In later Hellenistic theory, the relative measure of symmetria and the movement of eurhythmia combined to achieve a complete aesthetic effect. The ‘rhythm’ of colonnades was not the only manifestation of ‘movement’ in architecture. Movement was also present in the perception of colour, and shifting colours were sources of visual fascination. The Peripatetic work On Colours followed in a sceptical tradition that stressed the eye’s incapacity to categorize nature. A dove’s neck was seen to change into a thousand different shades; an object that appeared blue in direct sunlight became green when it was in shadow.31 Ancient terminology reveals a sensitivity to colour difference: the colour ‘yellow’ could be broken down, in Latin as well as in Greek, into many different shades and complexions.32 Likewise, the colours of buildings, evident from their materials, could alter in different conditions, especially in different lights. It was this principle of movement in colour that made bronze roofs look like gold, and it was for this reason too that coloured marble made such an impact. The architecture of the secondcentury ‘marble style’ was not only the result of the politics of display. It was related to a particular aesthetic. By contrast with rougher kinds of building-stone, marble had an attractive shine and an apparent softness that offered a potential for deception and concealment. If the pure, translucent glow of white marble was appealing, the greens, yellows, purples, and dark blues of coloured marbles were even more so. The rich tints of their veins, or ‘stains’ (maculae), offered to the Roman eye an image-like allure that alluded metaphorically to seascapes or landscapes. The green cipollino revetments of nymphaea, like the ‘Ninfeo di Egeria’ in the Triopion of

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Herodes Atticus, resembled the moss of natural grottoes. By the colours with which they enlivened buildings, polychrome marbles might also have more profound intellectual meanings. Shades of black, white, red, or yellow in human complexions were considered by Galen to reveal physiological humours, corresponding to the four elements; Theon of Smyrna associated red, blue, green, and yellow with the elements—ﬁre, air, water, and earth respectively—with the seasons, and with geometrical shapes, the pyramid, octahedron, icosahedron, and cube; for Antiochus of Athens, they also corresponded to the signs of the zodiac.33 For Claudius Charax, the colour-coded circus factions embodied a cosmic struggle, situated within the circus that was a microcosm of the universe.34 With such vivid imaginations at work in interpreting the signiﬁcance of colour, it took the cynical wisdom of the Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius to remind one that these impressive natural materials were, in reality, raw matter: marble was ‘an incrustation of earth’ and gold and silver simply ‘sediments’.35 But, to the rhetoricians, the colours of veined and brecciated marbles provided buildings, statues, and even inscriptions with their ‘diversity’, or poikilia. Docimian marble, known to Romans as ‘Synnadian’, was initially quarried in small, precious lumps, like lead ingots or gold nuggets. However, under imperial management the output of these quarries took the form of bulky columns and slabs for revetment. To Greek eyes this increase in scale was a sign of Roman poluteleia, devaluing the material from past reﬁnement to modern commonplace. Typically, the rationale for the Roman view is underrepresented in literary sources, but can be elicited from certain comments. Strabo, for example, suggests that the large monolithic columns of Docimian marble used in grand Roman buildings were chosen for the material’s diversity of colour (poikilia), which made it resemble alabaster. Such columns and slabs were ‘amazing in size and beauty’.36 As we have seen, the imperial associations of Docimian purpleveined marble owed something to its visual resemblance to purple dye, itself a wonder of nature as well as a sign of royalty. So, later, porphyry columns seemed ‘dyed by nature with the colour of imperial raiment’.37 When textiles were brought back from Persia after Alexander’s conquests, the rich patterning of purple and gold caused amazement.38 The purple dye that had kept its shine and freshness for nearly two centuries gave these garments a ‘brilliance’ (lamprote-s).39 The presence also of water from those monumental wonders of nature, the Nile and Danube, showed both the size of the king’s empire and the elevation of his thinking. These four qualities identiﬁed by Aristotle—shape, size, number, and movement—were the basis of ancient experience of architecture. Looking at monumental buildings meant seeing something of outstanding scale or recognizing a particular shape, the symmetry or rhythmic harmony of its parts, or the changing colours of its materials in different lights. In ancient philosophy and aesthetics, sight and hearing were considered to have a primacy over the other senses in conveying knowledge; they were, for Aristotle, the ‘outer senses’, whereas taste and touch were ‘inner senses’, with smell somewhere in between.40 In experiencing buildings, hearing seemed to the ancients less important than sight, but it still played a signiﬁcant role, as is clear from the attention paid to acoustics in Vitruvius’ work. The resonance of sounds within a building was a valuable guide to appreciating its spaciousness,

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and, as vaulted architecture became more common, so sound had an increased potential to produce a sense of monumentality. As in any era, the forms and materials of buildings were not only perceived with the eyes or ears. A complete experience requires the use of other senses too. Buildings are ‘tangible’, as when a user walks through a space or up a stairway and feels the texture of a pavement or the height of a stair-tread with his feet. Smells also played a role in determining reactions to architectural spaces. Whether they arose from a building’s use, such as sacriﬁcial scents or incense in temples, calculated to instil a greater sense of the divine,41 sweat and steam in baths, and human smells of massed bodies in theatres or amphitheatres, or from the architectural materials themselves, such as the fresh wood of beams, platforms, and furniture, the polish applied to marble features, or bronze ceilings and statues, which were regularly greased with oil as a precaution against rust,42 they could make buildings memorable.43 In religious buildings, as in later periods of history, the effect of smell in bestowing a sense of monumentality upon a building could be as important as that of sight.44 Lucian describes how a visitor to the Temple of the Syrian Goddess at Hierapolis was not just visually dazzled by its porch with golden doors, its golden sanctuary, and its gilded roof, but overwhelmed nasally by a scent from the roof which can only be described as ‘monumental’: ‘There breathes from it an ambrosial odour, like the one supposed to come from the land of Arabia, and as you approach from a distance it strikes you with a gorgeous perfume. It never fades even when you depart: your garments long retain a whiff of it and you will remember it forever.’45 As modern anthropologists have shown, although Plato and Aristotle were right that smells cannot be recalled as such, but only recognized, they nonetheless have a symbolic potential, which establishes a link between the thing observed and the inner state of the observer.46 The Epicurean Lucretius argued that smell had equal empirical status to the other senses, and so was as good a guide to life and experience. But not all smells were positive. If the provision in a charter from Lusitanian Vipasca, to clean out the bronze water-vats every month with fresh animal fat, was typical, Roman bath-buildings must have been ﬁlled with strong, lingering odours.47 However, by contrast with sight and sound, touch and smell receive little attention in ancient architectural descriptions. In antiquity, the importance of a spectator’s movement within a space was primarily visual, to obtain new and different views for the eyes. Likewise, the texture of built fabric was usually something to be seen, rather than to be touched. As, in the early inventories, extravagant and precious materials seem to have had value because of their visual qualities of dazzling light and colour, so Roman writers highlight the appearance, not the feel, of architectural surfaces. From shiny marble faces to the ‘roughened rocks’ of tufa, the irregularity of travertine, ‘eaten away by black water-snakes’, or the corroded volcanic pozzolana of Campania, used in Roman concrete rubble aggregate,48 building materials stood out for their visual appearance. The rustication of Claudian buildings in Rome was a rejection of the glitzy architecture associated with Gaius, and, for Claudius’ detractors, it was a visible sign of an ‘unﬁnished’ monster. The inner and outer façades of city gates, the former representing the civilization of the city, the latter the uncultivated roughness of the countryside, expressed a similar, essentially visual contrast.49

Impressions of roughness or smoothness can ultimately only be veriﬁed by actually touching the material, but, for most observers, that was something never actualized. The precious materials of a private palace, a temple, or a public building were often physically inaccessible, as with a gilded ceiling, and, if they were not, to lay hold of them was considered taboo.50 Surface texture, therefore, remained something visible, not tangible. Likewise, in accounts of architecture smells are rarely mentioned. For Plato and Aristotle, smell lacked the scientiﬁc value that sight was held to possess, because different smells lacked recognizable names and were distinguished only by the pleasure or pain that they aroused. Monumental architecture in antiquity was, above all, a visual experience. But it became increasingly recognized as a subjective one. Sextus Empiricus pointed to the relativism of aesthetics: different impressions could be acquired of the same objects, according to the state and age of individual viewers, or to the circumstances in which the objects appeared. Patches of Taenarum marble, which, on their own, looked white when polished, might be perceived as yellow when viewed in the context of a whole column.51 The colour of buildings could change, as the position of the sun seemed to shift or the viewer moved around a space.52 Towers appeared both round and square, according to the angle or distance from which they were seen.53 As what one saw became increasingly relative, the absolute form of the object became less important, and more weight was placed on the reaction by the individual viewer. The most outstanding sights had the characteristic of ‘brilliance’ (lamprote-s). This term did not refer merely to a static illumination, but to a more dynamic brightness, which varied in intensity at different times. ‘A blaze from afar’, it was associated, above all, with the light of the sun, and in direct sunlight buildings achieved their greatest impact.54 Such ‘brilliance’ was primarily a visual quality, but it had effects on other senses too: the reﬂection of the sun from a building’s gleaming white façade created, especially in summer, an oppressive feeling of heat, such as that to which the wide open spaces of Nero’s new Rome were exposed.55 In the second century the experience of such dazzling light had a spiritual and theological aspect, with the movement of light regarded as reﬂecting the activity of divine powers. In the oracular texts of Julian the Chaldaean and his son Julian the Theurgist, bright light was something religious, evidence of divine power and presence; the sun was the hub of the cosmos and its ‘brilliance’ (lamprote-s) an element of God.56

responses to architecture The effect of such dazzling architecture was overwhelming. The Stoic thinker Chrysippus wrote: ‘As heat confuses touch, brilliance (lamprote-s) confuses sight.’57 In written sources, the most frequently attested response to buildings of exceptional appeal is that of ‘wonder’ (thauma). The unfamiliar, the fantastic, and even the paradoxical caused amazement. However, ‘wonder’ encompasses a wide variety of speciﬁc, physical reactions reﬂecting either positive feelings of awe, amazement, and even adoration, or negative ones such as shock, horror, and intimidation. One might simply stand and gape at a building, open-mouthed or

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171. Wall painting from a Roman house on the Esquiline hill in Rome, c.50-40 b.c. Section 6 of the mural, showing a scene from the twelfth book of the Odyssey, in which Odysseus visits the palace of Circe.

not, too awestruck, intimidated, appalled perhaps, or simply too tired (for the approach to a monumental building often involved an arduous climb) to investigate further; or one might move around with an adventurous curiosity to explore all its parts or to see all its corners. One might want to stop and discuss the building’s size or beauty with a companion, to study its ornaments or paintings, to feel the inviting materials of its surfaces, or test its acoustics by shouting out, to evaluate its prospect by looking out from a high point, or, perhaps involuntarily, sniff its peculiar smells. Such forms of wonder are physical reactions, affecting posture, movement, or speech, which leave no trace and cannot be directly documented. But they are not entirely lost to memory, as some written accounts record how ancient buildings were experienced, especially when visited for the ﬁrst time, and how they were admired or reviled. The verbal responses to architecture in the speeches of Aristides and others should be understood in the context of a long tradition, going back to Homer. The arrivals of Telemachus at the house of

Menelaus or of Odysseus in the gardens of Alcinous prompt appropriate expressions of admiration from the strangers entering these new worlds. Their appreciation of the architecture showed their respect for the status and culture of the owner who had built or adorned such a scene. But that did not mean actual praise. Telemachus and his companion simply ‘marvelled at the sight’ of Menelaus’ palace, while Odysseus just ‘stood and gazed, marvelling in his heart at all things’, before passing quickly over the threshold.58 By standing in silent amazement before precious or beautiful objects, the visitor expressed his respect for the owner’s wealth and good taste and his own inferiority to them. Such epic models were canonical in the Antonine period. The appearance of Homeric themes in earlier wall-paintings of houses on the Esquiline in Rome,59 alongside images of the myth of the building of Rome,60 suggests the importance of the Homeric archetype in shaping perceptions of aristocratic Roman architecture. In one scene Odysseus is shown entering Circe’s palace (Fig. 171). The representation of the

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latter by a Doric portico screening a semicircular court with two levels of engaged orders behind and a central tholos with a pediment recalls the temple architecture of the Antonine medal (Fig. 21).61 That the account of Odysseus’ amazement at the palace and garden of Alcinous was taken seriously by aristocratic builders as a model, is illustrated by an inscribed poem from the prestigious area of Tusculan villas, which presents the garden of one Varus as a ‘work of Alcinous’; the same image is used of a house in the Trachonitis.62 In addition, the descriptions, in Book 9 of the Odyssey, of the grotto of the nymphs and, in Book 3, of Nestor’s polished marble throne offered important standards for evaluating modern buildings. Such Homeric models justiﬁed the idea that the viewing of private architecture was a privilege; no one was allowed to pass comment. To the paterfamilias, the interior ornaments were the anathe-mata of his sanctum. Even the emperor was not permitted to respond to another’s house with any other reaction than silent amazement. Once, while visiting the house of a certain Homullus and admiring its porphyry columns, Antoninus Pius asked after their provenance, suspecting perhaps that they came from his own imperial quarries. He was told by his host that ‘when you enter someone else’s house you must be deaf and dumb’.63 This man was presumably the consul ordinarius of 152, Marcus Valerius Homullus, who came from an established Italian consular family and was patron of the colony of Capua.64 He had apparently tried to counsel Pius against the supposed ambitions of his son Marcus, who was being pushed by his mother Faustina.65 Like other patrons, Homullus had a competitive pride in his personal architectural accomplishments. For the emperor to question or criticize his work was to challenge his political and aristocratic authority. In this, perhaps, lies a form of the modern view of a right to privacy and a contrast with earlier attitudes.66 In public architecture great scale, combined with beauty and visible expense, induced in the viewer a sense of ‘shock’ or ‘consternation’ (ekple-xis) similar to that aroused by grandiose natural phenomena.67 Lucian imagines the terror of the Scythian sage Anacharsis on ﬁrst seeing the architecture of classical Athens, a ‘barbarian’ supposedly intimidated by such signs of superior culture: When I ﬁrst settled in your city, I was terriﬁed (kateplage-n) as soon as I saw its vastness and its beauty, the size of its population, and all its general authority and splendour, so I was dumbfounded by all this for ages and could not take in how amazing it all was, the same way the young man from the island felt towards Menelaus’ house.68

As an archetypal response to urban architecture on a grand scale, Lucian’s words were undoubtedly informed by the response of his own contemporaries to the buildings of imperial Rome. Anacharsis’ reaction recalls that awe and terror (kataple-xis) which, according to Cassius Dio’s speech of Maecenas, the Romans’ buildings should inspire in their enemies, by contrast with the reverence felt by their allies.69 Both extremes have become part of later responses to Roman buildings, and to architecture generally. For Tobias Smollett in 1766, the amphitheatre at Nîmes ‘strikes the spectator with awe and veneration’.70 These responses raise the question of the ‘intended audience’ of Roman public buildings. It has even been suggested that they were not intended to have an audience at all, and that building for its own sake

or to intimidate others mattered more than communicating to a distinct public. Thus Paul Veyne remarked that Roman buildings ‘spoke in order to speak, rather than to be heard’.71 Yet the ideals of magniﬁcence (megaloprepeia) and greatness of mind (megalophrosune- ), which, as we have seen, lay at the heart of aristocratic architectural ambitions in the Roman East, imply the existence of an audience to be impressed by such behaviour. A great man’s magnanimous gestures had to be observed by a deﬁnite public. As expressions of the patron’s political and social interests, they might be addressed to a city’s entire population or simply to particular groups. In Italy and North Africa, building schemes are described as carried out for the citizens, for the members of a municipium, or for the non-Roman local residents (incolae). Alternatively, when Dio Chrysostom told the people of Prusa that ‘you too could share the buildings of Smyrna with its people’, he implied that great public monuments might be enjoyed by others, not by the inhabitants of their cities alone.72 Not all architectural spaces were visible to all viewers to the same degree. A very public and open view of a structure was frequently expected to produce only shock and silent awe. The more unfamiliar the experience, the more the creator of the building seemed to the viewer to be an exponent of the extraordinary. Yet there were other buildings, in particular the sacred and the private, where close viewing seemed prurient and was therefore taboo. And, as Dio’s speech of Maecenas implies, even public architecture did not have the same effect on everyone. Response depended on political and social circumstances. Tonio Hölscher, for example, comparing the two great imperial fora of Augustus and Trajan in Rome, distinguished their appeal to different sorts of Roman viewers.73 Whereas the Forum of Augustus was a restricted and intimate precinct, with an allusive range of iconographic messages relying on proper historical and mythological knowledge, the Forum of Trajan was rather more open, involving a more direct and wider-based kind of imagery. For example, the series of named statues of Roman legions, arranged around the upper storey of the forum colonnades, implied a greater possibility of identiﬁcation by the varied ethnic groups that in the early second century made up the city of Rome and its legions, by contrast with the more local, aristocratic or royal images adorning Augustus’ Forum. Likewise, the allegorical images of provinces around the precinct of the Hadrianeum offered a focus of identiﬁcation for the diverse ethnic groups that now comprised Rome. In the provinces, the Fountain of Peirene at Corinth attracted a distinctive cultural audience to engage with its architecture, while the Asclepieion at Lambaesis was a complex accessible to soldiers of all ranks and wide ethnic backgrounds. Trajan’s Forum was a completely open public space,74 whereas these last examples were partially closed, and others were accessible only to a small and privileged group. A feature of domestic architecture was the variability of levels of ‘public’ and ‘private’ within a single building, in other words, the relative accessibility of different areas. In public architecture different parts of a complex were also distinguished architecturally according to the level of audience to which they were directed. In the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana at Ostia, for instance, the outer entrance portal, with its pediment and composite capitals (Fig. 114a), made a statement of monumentality to all who passed it, even those with no business in the interior; the architecture beyond was

responding to architecture enjoyed only by a more limited group, a restriction reﬂected in its labyrinth decoration (Fig. 114b). So there was a tension between the open and the enclosed elements of monumental architecture of the second century. Anyone might be impressed by the grandeur of a forum or a temple front, but the enjoyment of the enclosed precincts that lay behind the façades was reserved for the privileged. This was especially the case with religious architecture. An inscription over the entrance of the Asclepieion at Epidaurus read: ‘Pure must be he who enters the fragrant temple; purity means to think nothing but holy thoughts.’75 A striking example of what such ideas meant for the architecture itself is the huge sanctuary at Pergamon known as the ‘Red Hall’ (Kizil Avlu), which dates to the mid-second century.76 To an outsider, nothing was visible except the intimidating high stone walls which surrounded the precinct and the marble entrance façade on the west, its three entrances arranged in a ‘baroque’ effect of recessed and projecting bays. The interior, of gigantic proportions, maintained the sense of overawing grandeur, while also providing increasing stages of intimacy and involvement: ﬁrst, an enormous forecourt, some 200 metres long, at the end of which the three main buildings loomed behind a marble colonnade with propylon; and, behind this colonnade, inner courts with water basins lined by porticoes with Egyptianizing caryatid ﬁgures leading to two domed tower structures; these ﬂanked the central hall, of immense height, huge roof-span, bright marble decoration, and lit by large clerestory windows; at the rear of this hall, without windows, was the podium with the colossal cult statue, in front of another rich column display, in mysterious semi-darkness. Those who related their experience of sacred complexes showed an acute awareness of the building’s sanctity, which demanded full attention, respectful silence, and awe, and prevented the viewer from divulging in full the characteristics of the building to others. For Pausanias, religious considerations often dictated that he could not inform his readers of a sanctuary’s internal details, as at Eleusis, where he was an initiate.77 His silence was ‘itself a ritual act, the result of a mentalité of taboo and retribution’.78 But it also reﬂected his own feeling of inadequacy in confronting this monumental architecture. The same excuse and failure to divulge appear in Aelius Aristides’ Sacred Discourses on the Asclepieion at Pergamon and in his speech of eulogy of the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus.79 The monumentality of these sacred buildings imposed a limit on how far they could be described. When pilgrims visited ancient religious sites, they stopped on entering them, to contemplate the grandeur or beauty of the surroundings. They were sometimes guided by ‘periegetes’, who would explain the meanings of ancient structures, just as, in the Near East, experts ‘showing the way’ (hode-ge-tai) expounded canonical religious texts.80 Pausanias’ Periegesis, the only literary work related to this function which survives in full, can hardly, of course, be regarded as a simple compilation of what the guides would have said. It is a literary work, intended for an audience as likely to be ‘touring’ Greece through the works of Homer and the Greek poets as by actual travel. It shows clearly how the process of writing creates distance from the monuments it purports to describe. To understand the meaning or effect of a building, there was no substitute for experiencing it. For Pausanias and his readers, visiting ancient sacred buildings was an internal religious act, as

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well as an external source of cultural memory.81 He could not reveal all the secrets to which he had privileged access; his message to the reader was simply: ‘visit yourself, and you shall be rewarded too.’ An element of surprise about the exact nature of a complex had to be retained, so that future visitors would respond with wonder and awe. In imperial palaces and public buildings, too, visitors stopped to take in their delights, but here their gaze had a more political purpose. Yet they were careful not to be distracted by the architecture. Petitioners to the emperor had to avoid being overawed by the surroundings. In the late 170s Athenagoras addressed the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Commodus in his Embassy : Nor do those of your subjects who come to you neglect to pay obeisance to you, their lords and masters, from whom they make and gain their requests, and turn rather to the splendour of your dwelling; but rather, while they admire the beautiful adornments of the royal palace as they happen to observe them, it is you who are in every way uppermost in their minds.82

There was a real dilemma in reacting to monumental buildings in the Antonine age. The interiors were so imposing and the column displays so ornate that visitors were stunned into silence, but to value this monumentality properly and to give credit to its patrons, they needed to open their mouths and voice their appreciation. The more privileged a viewer felt in being able to enjoy a building, the more he desired to express his approval. It seemed mean-spirited not to grant praise to objects whose merit deserved it. It was even believed that praise of something could enhance its beauty. Marcus Aurelius challenged this view: ‘Does an emerald become worse than it was if it is not praised? Or does gold, ivory, purple, a lute, a sword-blade, a ﬂower bud, or a little plant?’83 Far from being arrogant statements, which took little account of popular reaction, public buildings in an Antonine city needed to be appreciated. Popular approval was the supreme criterion to judge their worth. A case in point is the improper reaction of the maverick cynic Peregrinus to the newly built Nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus at Olympia. Instead of celebrating this lavish fountain and its ornamentation, Peregrinus showed his meanness of spirit, his isolation from elite circles, and his lack of taste in responding to public architecture by condemning this structure and arguing that visitors should suffer from thirst rather than be pampered by this new supply of water.84 It was the work’s conspicuous expense and ostentatious size and decoration next to the more austere ancient monuments of Olympia that aroused his scorn. But his criticism provoked a violent counter-reaction, with his audience stoning him for his words and forcing him to take refuge in the fountain itself. Accordingly, as the monument had now become the means of his own salvation, he changed his mind and delivered a palinode and encomium on the fountain.

describing architecture Architectural description had a long history in ancient literature. The different literary genres that refer to buildings do so with a wide range of treatments and emphases: factual inventories of the contents of a building; poetic ecphrases in epic; allegorical presentations in lyric and

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tragedy; statements of foundation or extensive descriptions in historical writing; copious encomia in oratorical performances or rhetorical exercises; and lapidary epigrams or dedications. In addition, letters provide an insight into the nature of what was certainly the most regular form of evaluation of architecture, in antiquity as today, namely ordinary conversation, not only in retrospect, but especially when viewing or entering the building itself. The ﬁrst of these, the list, is a simple but effective medium, which communicates accumulation and abundance. It is found not only in the ancient inventories of Nineveh and Mycenae, of Egypt and Persia, but also in imperial Rome, in the list of temples in Augustus’ Res Gestae, inscribed on the provincial temples of his cult, or in the inscription of the Pantheon at Athens, which recorded the buildings restored there by Hadrian. By its nature, a catalogue suggests monumental scale: from the Iliadic catalogue of ships to Hellenistic lists of the Seven Wonders or of great architects of the past, the register of words or names was a monumental construction, an accumulation of details piled layer upon layer. One can imagine the impact of this on audiences taking in a catalogue of entrancing details. As Homer’s catalogue shows, the device was a powerful ingredient of poetic recitals. The early inventories of palace treasures hint at the existence of an oral tradition of admiration in Mycenaean culture using exaggerated and embellished language similar to Homeric or later literary ecphrasis; describing human works as ‘daedalic’ (daidaleos), the uplifting songs and poetic recitals once heard in a great Mycenaean palace presented the greatness of a master craftsman expressed in the wonder of his art.85 The Homeric poems were the heir to that oral tradition. Epic, therefore, was the favourite genre in which to report monumental architecture. It was itself a ‘monumental’ genre, both in scale, in its presentation as the product of Mnemosyne (‘memory’), daughter of the Muses, and in its social purpose of communicating the ‘fame of men’ (kleos andro-n) to posterity. As we have seen from Hadrian’s speech at Lambaesis,86 epic language was considered to have a special suitability for describing monumental architecture. Although Greek lyric exploited architectural images from Pindar’s temple fronts to Horace’s monumentum, it provided less opportunity for extensive architectural description. The role of such images was often metaphorical, to provide an illusion of grandeur which rubbed off on the self-image of the lyric poet. In tragedy too, detailed observations on visual art are rare. Where they occur, as in the choral ode on the sculptures of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi in Euripides’ Ion, they focus on the message of the images, especially the mythological content of the reliefs, rather than on the monumentality of the architectural setting itself. Although lavish palace or temple architecture was a feature of the Greek stage from Aeschylus onwards, it usually served as a backdrop, providing exits, entrances, and barriers between the open stage and the unseen interior, rather than as an object of aesthetic interest.87 The two-dimensional, painted wooden stage buildings were overshadowed by the ‘impressive towers of words’ of Aeschylus’ art, itself seen as a ‘squaring off of verses with the mason’s rule’.88 Seldom was an audience’s attention drawn to architectural details, as in Aeschylus’ satyr-play Spectators at the Isthmian Games, where the satyr chorus climbs the façade behind the stage representing the Temple of Poseidon and nails its masks to the building like a row of terracotta anteﬁxes.

Classical Greek orators rarely tried to seduce their audiences with extensive accounts of buildings. Certainly, Demosthenes pays homage in passing to the Periclean Acropolis of Athens as social heritage. But, in his speech On the Crown, replying to Aeschines’ ridicule of his claim to have fortiﬁed Attica ‘with walls of bronze and adamant’ by the alliance with Euboea and Thebes, he argued that actual walls of brick or stone were less valuable than metaphorical architecture: That fortiﬁcation of mine which you mocked, and its entrenchment, I judge to be worthy of gratitude and praise, and why not? But I think them far less than my political achievements. I did not fortify the city with bricks or stones, nor am I proudest of these things; but if you want to consider my fortiﬁcation fairly, you will ﬁnd weapons, cities, and military posts, harbours, ships, horses, and many men defending them.

For Plato too, despite his analogies with the artist as a model of expertise, the real architecture of Athens was less important than the set-piece description of the mythical Atlantis or the allegorical account of the human body as a building.89 The attribution of extraordinary building materials to the heavenly Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation also had more value as metaphor than as plausible description.90 History writing, however, like epic, had a more positive attitude to actual architectural works. Herodotus singled out objects of great size and wonder (thauma): the sanctuary of Isis at Memphis with its colossi, the palace at Saios, a huge stone formed into a whole temple, a labyrinth, or the Fayyum, the so-called Lake of Moeris.91 These passages established certain conventions for describing buildings, which later writers inevitably followed. Notable is an equal interest in buildings and natural features and an emphasis on physical size, or grandeur, usually illustrated by measurements or comparison with human scale. Accounts of precious materials or unusual decorations reinforced the sense of exceptional worth. By the late ﬁrst century bc these aesthetic priorities had developed into the extensive descriptions in Diodorus’ universal history of works of unbelievable scale and cost, such as the works of Queen Semiramis at Babylon or the altars of Alexander the Great at the River Indus. Strabo too, believing architectural grandeur to be appropriate to his colossal theme, digressed on the Temple of Artemis at Magnesia, showing more awareness of contemporary artistic theory than Diodorus. The buildings of Hellenistic monarchs, intended to dominate their public contexts,92 were likewise praised in epigrams for their beauty and great size.93 Frequently inscribed on the buildings they described, these poems conferred a sense of monumental permanence, while, at the same time, their diminutive form seemed designed to ensure that the verbal descriptions should not distract from the grandeur of the architecture. Josephus’ account of Jerusalem as rebuilt by Herod the Great followed in this tradition. After giving the proportions of the towers of the city wall, he adds that the site makes them appear even larger. He singles out their remarkable construction, . . . for they are not composed of large, haphazard blocks or of stones that men can carry, but of cut white marble. Each was 20 cubits long, 10 wide, and 5 deep, but they are so well ﬁtted to each other that each tower seems to be one natural block, polished by masons’ hands into shapes and angles; in this way the bonding in the structure was barely visible.94

responding to architecture This account of monumental scale is a prelude to the greater wonder, Herod’s palace itself. Josephus singles out the variety (poikilia) of the marbles used, the ‘ceilings amazing in the size of their beams, and the brilliance of their ornaments, the number of rooms, and the thousands of different shapes around them’.95 But, he concludes, his description cannot do justice to the architecture itself. In Republican historical annals the dedications by Roman magistrates of temples, basilicas, and other public buildings were regularly recorded; however, it was usual simply to state the fact of foundation without further description or comment. This reﬂected partly a less developed rhetorical tradition and partly a wish to let the architecture speak for itself. These were monumenta, a fact that seemed adequately conveyed by the annalistic record alone. When architecture appeared at greater length in Roman prose, it was to convey moral ideas, as in Cicero’s accounts of his villas or Seneca’s description of Scipio’s austere villa at Liternum as a counterpoint to the alleged moral degeneracy of the modern generation.96 As with later Humanist evaluation of painting and sculpture,97 Latin rhetorical language, which followed Greek Hellenistic precedents, predisposed critics of architecture to adopt moral and rhetorical concepts not directly related to visual experience. Lise Bek has shown how Roman texts on architecture, from Vitruvius to Pliny the younger, used the rhetorical tool of antithesis to characterize villas or public buildings, for example, as combining the poles of ‘art’ and ‘nature’.98 Above all, buildings were judged in terms of the moral criterion of ‘seemliness’ or ‘appropriateness’ (decor): they were approved for their suitability to their function or to the status and image of their owners, for using proper materials, and for showing moderation, while suggestions of excess or inappropriateness were criticized.99 The notion of decor, and Vitruvius’ related term distributio, were primarily concerned with function and morality and determined aesthetic judgements accordingly.100 The word decor, however, as its modern European derivatives suggest, had a secondary sense, that of ‘ornament’.101 During the ﬁrst century there was increasing ambiguity between architectural materials as superﬁcial decoration and as fundamental structure.102 This ambiguity was particularly clear for the columnar orders, which, as we have seen, served as architectural ornament (ornamentum) that was considered an integral, distinguishing feature of a building.103 The orders represented a building’s functional structure, its skeletal frame, but were also increasingly used in a purely ornamental role.104 In the Antonine age the applied orders, used on stages of theatres and assembly buildings, as well as gateways, fountains, and other ornamental façades, had an authority because of the illusion that they propped up larger structures. But they might also appear as superﬁcial trappings of a building. This ambiguity inﬂuenced whether they were perceived as ‘useful’ or merely ‘ornament’.105 The tension between ideals of propriety and a desire for decoration was exacerbated during the later ﬁrst century, as architectural literature focused not only on the moral worth of forms and materials, but also on their visual effects. Buildings now stood for more than the personality of their owner. A reader of Cicero, Vitruvius, or Seneca might be forgiven for thinking that the main symbolic purpose of a building was to represent a man, its builder. By the younger Pliny’s time, however, buildings seemed to mean something more to both their designers and

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their spectators; architectural descriptions now embraced both the older Greek practice of evoking wonders and new philosophical ideas of allegory and symbol. This was a consequence both of the new possibilities of meaning suggested by more elastic and ﬂexible structural techniques and more dazzling materials, and also of the ambition of the language used to describe it. A building was now, in rhetorical terms, a synecdoche, an object representing a wider category of thought.106 As orators began to conjure up indirect symbols of things (signa), as well as direct representations of them (imagines),107 a building, presented as a ‘construction’ or ‘contrivance’ (kataskeue-), had a greater intellectual value. Whether it was the image of the heavens, like the Pantheon, an intimation of abstract virtues, like the Library of Celsus, an allegory of science, like Nicon’s works at Pergamon, or a statement of divine or terrestrial power, like a public temple, architecture looked beyond its immediate concrete form to a higher abstraction. From the later ﬁrst century, writers on architecture became more concerned to use the richness of their language to re-create the visual grandeur of building materials and forms. ‘For,’ Philo wrote of describing the architecture of the cosmos, ‘just as even the tiniest seal, when it has been engraved, is able to contain the representations of things with colossal dimensions, so it may be that the overwhelming beauties of the making of the cosmos . . . even if they bedazzle the souls of readers with their brightness, can be elucidated with delineations on a smaller scale.’108 Silver Latin poetry communicated architecture’s magical effects in transporting, or even deluding, the viewer. Describing Cleopatra’s palace at Alexandria, Lucan highlights the surface ornamentation of marble slabs and thick gilt concealing raw wooden beams.109 Statius’ accounts of the baths in the villa of Claudius Etruscus or the equestrian statue of Domitian in the Roman Forum reﬂect the fashion for extensive architectural set-pieces.110 The visual impact of grand scale or rich ornament was increasingly stressed by such descriptions, so that the emotions stimulated by the buildings seemed more signiﬁcant than the moral qualities that they represented. In prose too, buildings were portrayed in more individualized ways for the wondrous effect of their material and form. In his Natural History, ‘hauling’111 marbles of all sorts from across the Empire as raw materials from quarries to building site, and from the building to the text itself, the elder Pliny catalogued astonishing colossal statues and eulogized grandiose monuments of Empire, such as the Basilica Aemilia or the Temple of Peace. Pliny’s interest in architecture is in remarkable material and outstanding construction: he records the enormous roof-span of Agrippa’s Diribitorium, and celebrates the ‘largest tree in the world’, that massive larch beam brought from the forests of Central Europe, which was ﬁrst exhibited in Augustus’ Naumachia, then displayed at the Temple of Mars Ultor, and ﬁnally incorporated in the fabric of Nero’s amphitheatre.112 There was opposition to this tendency of hyperbolic architectural writing. In veiled criticism of Pliny, Tacitus claimed that it did not suit the dignity of the Roman people to ﬁll historical works with eulogies of ‘beams and foundations’, but only with ‘glorious events’.113 History should be about acts or themes of grand scale.114 Yet the period that Tacitus wrote about provided singularly few examples of the latter, centred, as it was, on a city whose history was now inglorious.115 Such grandeur, on the other hand, was clear in the vast size of Rome and its

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public buildings. Despite Tacitus’ protest, buildings loom large in his history writings.116 But, when they do so, they are interpreted negatively.117 For Tacitus, the monumentality of architecture was illusory. The piles of arches or amphitheatres he records were fragile signs of human vanity, subject to the vagaries of Fortune; he emphasized their cracks and fault-lines, not their stability and solidity. ‘If posterity’s verdict is hatred, works piled in stone are despised like tombs.’118 To ﬁll history with admiration of such buildings would be to turn the supposedly straightforward and objective genre of annales into partisan laudatio. Rhetoricians, writing for the present, not the future, seemed untroubled by such thoughts. The famous letters in which the younger Pliny extensively described the layout of his Tuscan and Laurentine villas are a highly personal example of the new trend of ﬂorid writing on architecture.119 As in his official correspondence to Trajan, where he emphasized the rhetorical qualities of public buildings,120 Pliny’s letters on his villas employ a copious and direct visual language to express the captivating aesthetic effects of an architecture re-creating natural grandeur. Even so, it required an effort from the reader’s imagination to visualize his villa’s ‘immense amphitheatre, such as only Nature can fashion’. Such ‘fulsome, but not unsubtle, seigneurial-cum-estate-agent hype’ was tailored to the writer’s self-presentation,121 but it also stressed, more than for Cicero earlier, the pleasure (voluptas) and the passion (amor) that buildings could entail, by the prospect from a hill, or simply spending time in a space.122 The ‘diversity’ (varietas) and ‘description’ ‘refresh the eyes wherever they turn’. Such enjoyment of architecture was not mere ‘delight’, but sensual pleasure. That was not true only for letter-writers like Pliny describing country estates or ‘pleasure grounds’ (villae voluptuariae), as opposed to places of production; even at Rome, in the austere administrative prose of the inscription arranging for the protection of Marcus’ Column, the procurator Adrastus was allowed ‘to build himself a lodging according to his pleasure (voluptas)’.123 Such human responses are at the basis of much language subsequently applied to monumental architecture: in the eighteenth century, the Maison Carrée at Nîmes was found ‘chaste and elegant’ or ‘ravishingly beautiful’.124 But ﬂamboyant architectural descriptions brought their own problems. Architectural grandeur now required, or was even dependent on, extensive verbalization. Pliny modelled his literary ekphrasis on Homer’s archetypal account of the ‘Shield of Achilles’ in the Iliad. He compared his letters on his villas to Aratus’ description of the stars, protesting that it was the villa he described which was extensive, not the letter describing it.125 Conversely, the implication that the architecture was more important than the writing that evoked it provided a challenge to the orators, when such vivid descriptions were themselves the product of vibrant activity in rhetorical schools. Rhetorical literature, like architecture, was absorbed by the opposition between respect for monumental antiquity and the pursuit of modernity. Tacitus and others claimed that rhetoric lacked the vigour of the past and was composed of superﬁcial bombast. Whatever the truth of such statements, they helped, like modern debates on ‘monumentality’, to enliven the rhetorical practitioners. For such men, silence was not an adequate reaction to public architecture. To men of paideia or eugeneia, a great building invited an oral response. Using words within a monumental building suggested a

higher and nobler degree of involvement than mere perception, since the excellence of human nature lay in the performance of the ‘word’, or ‘reason’ (logos), not in dumb staring or animal grunts of delight. It manifested the educated man’s search for inquiry, his desire to praise, and his feelings, almost literally, of sympatheia with the architecture. The second century saw a ﬂourishing of epideictic oratory, delivered as virtuoso public performances in speciﬁc architectural contexts.126 It offers direct evidence of contemporary reaction to architecture, particularly when these speeches actually concerned buildings. Earlier, Quintilian had suggested that buildings should be praised for their ‘honour’, ‘utility’, ‘beauty’, and ‘their author’.127 The rhetorical handbook attributed to Menander Rhetor provides more extensive guidelines on composing speeches in praise of a building or a city.128 It is assumed throughout that the audience will have the architecture referred to before their eyes or, if it is not visible, be familiar with it, so that the orator’s chief task will be not to describe it as such, but to suggest metaphors and associations to help the audience to interpret what they see or know well. The individual peculiarities of a building will be expressed by the variation in rhetorical ﬁgures used by the orator, in order to reveal the uniqueness of the audience’s visual experience. On praising a city, he suggests—adding that it is very rare that a city cannot be praised—that, if it lies at the beginning of its territory, it should be compared to a face, and so, because it thereby protects its territory, also to the propylaion of a single building; if in the middle, it can be described as like a palace, the boss of a shield (as Aristides describes Corinth),129 recalling the imagery of the Peri kosmou, or the centre of a circle;130 if at the end, the speaker can always use the line that it is like a beloved escaping its pursuing lovers. Above all, orators should use human and natural analogies to arouse personal feelings in their audience. The earliest known formal encomium of architecture is the oration delivered at Hadrian’s dedication of the Olympieion in Athens in 131/2 by the sophist Polemo.131 The occasion marked the temple’s completion ‘after 560 years’ and the inauguration of the Panhellenion; Polemo, who had shown his rhetorical talents on behalf of Smyrna in 123 and was now a member of Hadrian’s personal retinue, was commissioned by Hadrian to deliver a hymn of praise (humnos kle-tikos) at the dedicatory sacriﬁce.132 The oration was apparently intended as a hymn to Zeus Olympios, composed in prose rather than verse.133 Prose hymns were a common part of the rhetor’s repertoire at this time, which primarily served the purpose of encomium and were similar to Latin laudes.134 Although not a word of this speech, ‘doubtless the high-point of Polemo’s public fame’, has survived, Philostratus gives an idea of its character. He reports that Polemo ‘ﬁxed his eyes, as always, on the ideas already in his mind, delivered himself to the oration, and, from the stylobate (kre-pis) of the temple, expounded on many wonderful things (polla kai thaumasia)’.135 Although the temple was his subject, he was not to be distracted by the beautiful architecture behind him: he ‘looked’ only at his rhetorical conceits, and the wonders of the building were matched by those of his own speech. In his prelude (prooemium), we are told, he stated that the stimulus for his speech came to him ‘not without divine aid’. As for the details, we can mostly only guess.136 One theme he certainly pursued was the long interval between the temple’s original foundation and its ﬁnal dedication: Hadrian’s eventual termi-

responding to architecture nation of the project was, he declared, ‘like a great contest of time’.137 Polemo’s reputation as a speaker on architecture became so great that, when he died before being able to deliver a further appeal for increased privileges for Smyrna’s imperial temple, Antoninus Pius insisted anyway on hearing the speech he had composed, and was so won over by its evocation of architectural beauty that he granted the city’s request. The practice of epideictic speeches on location continued throughout the Antonine period and, arguably, became so common that few stood out sufficiently to survive in transmission. Some that did were those of Aristides, whose prose hymns on Smyrna and Cyzicus have already been mentioned.138 His speech on the temple at Cyzicus was singled out in the treatise attributed to Menander Rhetor, and modern scholars agree that it is a ‘model of sophistic ecphrasis’.139 The manner in which it describes the building’s architecture, therefore, deserves attention here. Like Polemo’s oration, Aristides’s speech marked the temple’s recent dedication, yet it was delivered not at the dedication ceremony, but in the city bouleuterion from where the temple was not directly visible. He, therefore, did not rely on drawing his audience’s attention to the architecture or on exploiting its effects on the viewer, but spoke as if the building was familiar. Conceding nothing to his audience, Aristides introduces the temple from the start with characteristic hyperbole as ‘the greatest work ever seen by man’ (1).140 But this is not his only excuse for speaking: his patron god Asclepius has instructed him to speak, to show that his body is strong and he is not intimidated by the ‘size of the subject’; God, he says, quoting Pindar, has shown him a beginning (2). ‘The greater the objects, the more they produce fear’, impeding the orator’s verbal improvisation (4). Strengthened by citations of Homer and Thucydides’ praise of Sicily, he takes stock: ‘As for beauties of public buildings and the overall construction and size of the city, no one is so resourceless in words that he cannot praise them nor so competent in speaking that he can easily make a show’ (13). Aristides focuses on the present moment of the religious festival, when ‘the temple stands out so much in the city, that one would not be ashamed to call it the chorus leader’. The temple, he continues, was now a natural feature: ‘where sailors used to witness the peaks of the islands . . . now the temple makes up for the mountains’ (17): thus the former natural mountain of marble on Proconnesus, quarried for the temples and public buildings of Rome and other Antonine cities,141 seemed to have been replaced as a landmark by this new marble temple.142 Aristides stresses its extraordinary size and impressively complicated system of construction (kataskeue-): You might say that each of its stones took the place of a whole temple, that the temple took the place of a whole precinct, and that the temple precinct was big enough to enclose a city. If you want comforts and luxuries, then instead of houses with three storeys and galleys with three banks of oars you can look at the largest temple, many times bigger than the rest and tripartite in genesis. Part of it is a subterranean spectacle, part of it a rooftop one, and the rest is the traditional one: passages both underground and hanging in the air, extending through it, as if not built as an addition, but to be a fundamental part. I should not elaborate these things at all in speech, but leave it to the surveyors and specialists and, among them, to those who are good at their work and able to measure so large an achievement; personally, I fear that it might not be possible to ﬁnd an accurate measurement of all these elements. And if anyone should stand back from making statements about the temple, it is enough to be amazed by

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the devices and supports, which the temple’s need invented because they did not previously exist in human society. (19–21)

The temple’s remarkable tripartite structure, with underground passages and upper gallery as well as the usual temple section (Fig. 25c), reinforces the sense of unity and solidity of the whole temple; it is like the world itself, composed of heaven, earth, and underworld.143 The underground passages (dromoi ) are presented, not as additions to a basic structure, but as necessary to the basic conception.144 The building also surpasses all other buildings in size. Elsewhere called ‘the biggest and most beautiful temple of all temples’,145 it is so big that it deﬁes normal categories of scale. Aristides’ claims that each stone is big enough to be a building in itself, the building large enough to be a precinct, and the precinct equal to a city, follow a rhetorical topos echoing Herodotus’ account of the palace of Saios and also popular in the Roman imagination.146 But they were also believable in view of the scale of contemporary architecture. The trilithon at Baalbek, brought into Roman architectural consciousness by Antoninus’ benefactions, was so enormous that each of the three colossal blocks forming one course in the podium of the Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus (Fig. 172) is comparable in dimensions to many cult buildings in the Hellenistic and Roman East.147 The image of a temple as big as a precinct found a recent parallel in Hadrian’s Pantheon in Rome, where the temple rotunda was built over the space formerly occupied by the precinct of Agrippa’s temple (Fig. 71a).148 Finally, the enormous precincts at Baalbek and of the ‘Red Hall’ at Pergamon were, at around a hectare or more in area, large enough to contain a small settlement. What is known of the Cyzicus temple shows comparable transcendence of scale. Yet what most enhances the impression of the temple’s monumentality is Aristides’ avoidance of exact dimensions, which he leaves to those capable of adequately measuring the work.149 Aristides’ description of the temple had originally been incidental to his political purpose of encouraging homonoia, which occupies the rest of the oration. His emphasis on the building’s harmonia serves as a

172. The Trilithon (“Three Stones”) of Baalbek. The Trilithon can be seen here in the three colossal blocks, each weighing over a thousand metric tons, lying in the ﬁfth course up on the west side of the foundation terrace of the Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus.

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metaphor for this purpose.150 But it was for the architectural encomium that the speech was remembered, and its later title reﬂects this. Rhetorical passages on architecture were certainly more widespread than the surviving evidence suggests, and this speech is useful in identifying what were probably common terms in the contemporary rhetoric of architectural description. Thus Aristides hails the temple for its ‘grandeur’ (megethos) and ‘dignity’ (semnote-s). The meaning of these two terms was not just architectural. While megethos is self-explanatory and corresponds to Aristotle’s emphasis on size as a key feature of perception, the word semnote-s is more interesting. It is primarily associated with the gods and their constructions, suggesting a divine aura or something ‘august’, ‘solemn’, or ‘stately’.151 It implies closeness to the gods, a contrast to lowness,152 and something inspiring respect or even fear.153 Aristides uses the term here to introduce a tone of high religious solemnity, which is developed in the rest of his oration. In Classical Greece, semnote-s was a property of religious buildings, considered inappropriate in a secular context.154 Aristides too uses the word elsewhere of temples,155 but the word could also exemplify secular Antonine projects associated with the emperor. When Antoninus Pius wrote that the works of Sabinianus would make the city of Ephesus ‘more august’ (semnoteran),156 he used a phrase which, in the rhetoric of Isaeus in the fourth century bc, had been derogatory, as a positive quality of public buildings.157 Even where the subject-matter of epideictic oratory was not explicitly architectural, the speeches often reﬂect the orator’s immediate experience of the setting. Unlike a text read in the schoolroom, a rhetorical address had to take full account of visual and acoustic surroundings. Orators studied the proper posture and the correct manner of walking, made appropriate bodily gestures, and wore clothes, which, like the architectural decoration, were beautiful without being distracting or ostentatious.158 The acoustics of the building determined the tone of the speaker’s delivery and the success of his speech. He either stood out in the location and was remembered, or he proved unworthy of the architectural grandeur and, like Peregrinus, was mocked for miserable failure. Imperial rhetorical texts are relatively well studied, but rarely considered in the context of the places where they were originally performed. These settings varied in audience and purpose. Public civic speeches were delivered to large crowds in the city’s theatre, whose principal function had changed from ritual to oratorical performances;159 standing on the stage platform, the orator would have seemed dwarfed beneath an ornate columnar façade of two or more storeys. At Ephesus, where up to 2,000 persons might gather to hear an orator, a third columnar order was added under Antoninus Pius; although its detailing was less sharp than that of the other orders below, its striking ornamentation raised the stakes of oratorical performance. There was also a vast number of smaller auditorium buildings for city assemblies, decurial gatherings, and public performances of poetry and epideictic oratory. The Asclepieion at Pergamon was provided with several places in which to look and listen: the Temple of Zeus–Asclepius (Fig. 97c), where a perfect symbolic reproduction of cosmic order could be studied; the small theatre in the corner of the precinct for public performances; and, at the opposite end of the north colonnade, a small square room, probably a library, with a statue of Hadrian in the central back

niche.160 In this beautiful chamber, visitors to the sanctuary sat or stood, listened, gazed, or, like the sick Aristides, simply dreamed. Although the evidence is poorer than for the East, epideictic speeches in praise of architecture were also a feature of the western Empire. Civic basilicas and theatres offered grand settings for public speeches, while beautiful curia buildings, exuberantly decorated with marbles, were a more intimate alternative. Smaller groups, deﬁned by household, business, or religious affiliations, or by the common intellectual ambitions of the schoolroom, met in private audience halls, temple precincts and interiors, scholae, fountain-buildings, or lecture-rooms in the imperial baths. Around the spacious precincts of the Templum Pacis or the baths of Nero, Titus, and Trajan in Rome were many such rooms, where orator and architecture might be experienced, ideally in close symbiosis, but, more likely, in competition for the audience’s attention. A western parallel to the orations of Polemo and Aristides is the collection of public speeches delivered by Apuleius at Carthage, probably mostly during the 160s, which are preserved as excerpts in his Florida.161 The venues where he declaimed these works included the theatre, public library, and civic council chamber (curia), which, as at Thera, was probably a small room at the end of the basilica.162 He also spoke in the basilica at Oea.163 When Apuleius gave his oration in the theatre,164 he seemed to draw his audience’s eyes over the architecture of the building, lingering on its richly ornamented features: the marble pavement, the beams of the proscaenium, the columns of the stage, the height of the roofs, the shine of the coffers, and the ring of seats in the cavea.165 His language strikingly recalls the dedication of the contemporary stage-building at Lepcis. But all this was only by way of prelude to claiming that the audience should be looking, not at any of these features or at theatrical performers, but at ‘the speaker’s oration and the account of appropriate things’.166 His interest in the surrounding architecture was thus a rhetorical trick to help create a new setting of his own. Just as ‘Plautus asks for a very small part of your great and pleasant walls with which he may compare Athens without the help of architects’, Apuleius implores his audience to imagine a different scene. Yet the setting he required was not ‘a distant city across the sea’, but the senate house or library of Carthage itself. And he insisted that his speech would prove worthy of it. His own rhetoric was constructed to parallel the structure of the building, accentuating the contrast between the upper and lower planes of the stage and the antithesis of their materials, marble below and coffered timberwork above, by the balance of his own verbal phrases.167 Both architecture and literature can be seen as compositions of elements, either material or linguistic, designed to produce a message, and this assimilation still inﬂuences the way in which we speak about language today.168 The analogy between the two media was well established in ancient rhetorical theory, where building and writing were represented as similar processes.169 Already present in the early Classical period in Pindar’s metaphors for poetry,170 it was explicitly used by Cicero to characterize the construction of oratory and historiography: ‘built up’ like a structure, history seemed more capable of achieving its function to provide a monument for the past. Dionysius of Halicarnassus also compared the composition of a speech to the construction of a building, which needed to produce a ‘harmony’ (harmonia) of parts.171 In the Flavian period Quintilian’s comparison of literary composition to ‘the

responding to architecture structure of unﬁnished stones’ or ‘rough stone blocks’ had a special relevance, as it recalled the rusticated podium of the new Temple of Claudius or the heavy travertine blocks used in contemporary works such as the restored Capitoline temple or the Colosseum.172 Similarly, Hadrian’s speech at Lambaesis achieved rhetorical impact from the analogy between the ‘huge, heavy blocks’ of the wall it described and the weighty asyndeton of the language itself.173 In epideictic oratory, the parallels between words and buildings introduced a potential rivalry. When the buildings where speeches were declaimed were presented as ‘performances’ (epideixeis) in brick or stone, or spectacular ‘constructions’ (kataskeuai ), they naturally encouraged orators to produce similar ‘performances’ or ‘constructions’ in words. The delivery of a set speech was a visual and oral performance, and its effectiveness depended on how the orator appeared in the physical setting. He needed to make an audience listen with their ears and think with their minds as well as look with their eyes. His greatest fear was that the building that he sought to praise or in which he spoke might distract the audience from the speech, which, his own selfrespect demanded, should retain their attention. The rhetorical treatise on ‘the sublime’ attributed to Longinus illustrates the links perceived between architecture and literature around this time. The term he uses, to hupsos, means literally ‘the high’, and, like Apuleius, he presents spoken language as something visual. At the start of the work he remarks that, ‘when we examine’, or literally ‘look up at’ (anaskopoumenois), his predecessor Caecilius’ earlier treatise on the ‘sublime’, it appears ‘lower (tapeinoteron) than the subject-matter’, almost a ruin by comparison with the monumental, high above.174 This was not just an ironic play of words, but central to the notion of monumental literature. As grandeur in natural phenomena caused wonder, so in literature, ‘because words were the nature of mankind, the search should be for that which rises above human scale’.175 The merit of Strabo’s Geography lay in its overall impression, not in the accurate presentation of detail;176 and, for the Latin writers Tacitus and Pliny also, grandeur was a mark of monumental literature.177 Thus, although the title Peri Hupsous is generally translated as ‘On the sublime’, the subject of the treatise has less in common with that inaccessible, transcendent nature which writers today take as characteristic of the sublime,178 and more with the notion of ‘monumentality’.179 The architectural metaphors are so prominent that one begins to wonder whether the writer is more interested in buildings than texts. The effect of ‘consternation’ (ekple-xis) caused by the ‘sublime style’ in literature was comparable to the impact of monumental architecture.180 Many of the features described as characteristic of to hupsos apply as much to architecture as to rhetoric. The ‘pre-eminent’ characteristics of the grand rhetorical style correspond to the ornamental architectural features with which Apuleius competed in his oration. The analogy in the treatise of ‘Longinus’ was more effective because, by the second century, the overlap in critical terminology employed in architecture and literature enhanced the competition between them. Michael Baxandall, drawing attention to the ‘classical habit of metaphorical interchange between the critical terminology of literary and art criticism’, has stressed the lack of proper ﬁt between the two areas.181 Earlier, Goethe had recognized this problem with the analogy between literature and art: ‘To cross to the visual arts from anything lit-

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erary, even the highest art concerned with word and language, is difficult, even impossible.’ There is, of course, a fundamental difference between oratorical language used to direct the audience’s reaction and the visual impressions produced by a building. Although Vitruvius had deliberately used literary terminology to describe architecture, he did not claim that one could speak about architecture in the same way as about poetry and history, but used the parallel only to explain his subject and, indirectly, to legitimate his own art. ‘The essential understanding of productive activity and a programmatic clariﬁcation of terms were not important to him, as they would later be to Goethe.’182 The basic critical terms used in Antonine rhetoric can be traced back to older Greek literary theory. Many of them mirror the terms applied to monumental architecture. The term semnote-s, for example, was applied by Aristotle to poetic language; Isocrates considered it a means to achieve grandeur (megethos), which parallels its meaning in architecture.183 It was also used by Dionysius to characterize literary style, although the connection between such critical terminology and his architectural metaphors for verbal composition remained only implicit.184 By contrast, in the second or third century ad Hermogenes explicitly asserted that the purpose of these qualities in literature was to achieve ‘grandeur’: ‘the types [of style] that produce grandeur, majesty, and dignity are these: solemnity (semnote-s), abundance, harshness, brilliance (lamprote-s), ﬂorescence, and vehemence’.185 At Cyzicus Aristides builds up his own speech by using the semnote-s of Homeric quotation to achieve a grandeur to match that of the temple.186 In a rhetorical treatise ascribed to the same author, semnote-s is, like the temple, presented as a threefold conception, enhancing its potential grandeur.187 For Demetrius, the periodic style was like the stones holding together a vaulted roof.188 During the ‘Second Sophistic’ there was even more concern with literature and architecture as parallel forms of construction. Many protagonists of this movement were exponents of both activities, not only rhetors, excelling in verbal performance, but also builders, aiming at architectural display. We recall, for example, the sophist Nicetes of Smyrna, whose construction of an approach road from the Ephesian gates to Smyrna was said to be surpassed only by the metaphorical ‘pathways’ that he built for Knowledge.189 For Philostratus, his architectural commissions and literary achievements exhibited the same quality of ‘brilliance’ (lamprote-s). The parallel in usage between earlier rhetorical and artistic theory was now explicit. Likewise, in the treatise of ‘Longinus’, for statesmen (andres politikoi ) like the addressee Postumius Terentianus, occupied with building projects and public speeches alike, the homology was not coincidental but made real sense. Of course, there were essential differences between the two media. An architectural description made a fundamental transition from the perception of a building to its literary or rhetorical representation. Literary descriptions of buildings use rhetorical language, in order to make them meaningful and accessible to a reader more familiar with linguistic than architectural conventions.190 As texts, they are bodies of material which use a language of words to express certain ideas. They give shape to otherwise purely perceptual reactions. They can elucidate, making ‘sense’ of what is ‘sensed’, but can also sometimes obfuscate, because they use rhetorical categories of description not

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necessarily analogous to the categories of experience within which things are seen. Whereas the brilliance (lamprote-s) of Nicetes’ architectural work consisted in visual qualities such as radiance and intensity produced by shining white marble, that of his verbal displays was an aural quality. Like poetry, said to ‘endure over time only because of its sounds’, rhetoric was spoken literature, whose monumentality came from what was heard. Consonants were the ‘mortar’ or ‘clamps’ that held the sounds together.191 For Hermogenes, the diction appropriate for solemnity (semnote-s) consists of broad sounds that make us open our mouth wide when we pronounce them. We are thus forced by the nature of the words themselves to speak expansively . . . Long a’s and o’s elevate and broaden speech, especially if they occur in the ﬁnal syllables of the words, as in Plato’s phrase, ho men de- megas he-gemo-n en ourano-i Zeus, ‘Zeus, the great leader in heaven’.192

Through such broad sounds, aided, as here, by a suitably elevated content, the spoken word audibly competed with architecture. Broad syllables, uttered within an enclosed building, a roofed interior or colonnade, or a hollowed theatre, produced a more effective sound. Architects like Vitruvius were concerned to maximize the beauty of sounds spoken in theatres. Poets in early imperial Rome enjoyed exploiting the acoustic potential of a building to practise their own verse. For Horace, ‘an enclosed place resounds sweetly with the voice’.193 The vaults of Roman bath-buildings offered particular potential for the boorish habit of singing in the bath, increasing the poet’s sense of his poetry as a ‘monument’.194 In the Antonine world the image

had real resonance, as orators practised the monumental sounds of their oratory within the setting of monumental architecture. At the same time, however, by encouraging an aural appreciation of a building’s three-dimensional space, they enhanced its monumentality. The Stoa of Echo at Olympia was renowned for producing such aesthetic experiences.195 Verbal appraisals of buildings, spoken in situ, were not just the most direct way of expressing their value, but were linked to the very nature of the building as ediﬁce. The idea that buildings ‘speak’ later became a trope of the European Enlightenment.196 When Nicon identiﬁed architecture with music, he claimed something of this aural power. The analogy between architecture and literature, followed in educated circles, dictated that, because a building ‘spoke’ to its viewers, cultivated spectators should not just look, but also listen and engage in dialogue. The encouragement of greater intimacy with a building ensured that someone experiencing a more private part of a building would enjoy a more eloquent and personalized reaction. But, as more public areas too required praise, the viewer’s best means of showing his pleasure in a building was not merely to stare at it in amazement, but to respond in a human and articulate manner. The mere fact of admission to the building was a privilege, which made him a member of an elite; a superior kind of reaction was more appropriate than vulgar speechlessness or inarticulacy. When the orator directly referred to architectural features immediately visible to his audience at the same time as they listened to the spoken words, a kind of symbiosis was created between the words and the building, which produced pleasure in his spoken words and reinforced their pleasure in the architectural sights.

CHAPTER 12

The Architectural Descriptions of Lucian of Samosata In addition to public speeches, rhetors of the second century also composed shorter, less formal exercises, ‘introductions’, prolaliai, or, more generally, dialexeis, ‘discourses’, as initial remarks on a topic or substitutes for longer orations.1 One writer who favoured this medium was the sophist Lucian, who ﬂourished during the 160s and 170s.2 But his examples of the genre are not straightforward, since, as John Dryden observed, ‘[n]o man is so great a master of irony as our author’.3 Even that may be an oversimpliﬁcation. Perhaps more accurate is the recent claim, about one of Lucian’s works, that it ‘treads along a knife-edge line between sincerity and irony’.4 Because of the satirical position he adopts, Lucian’s works provide a valuable source of contemporary social attitudes.5 On repeated occasions in his dialogues and stories, this Hellenized Syrian, sufficiently detached from the assumptions of Greek and Roman sophistic culture to be able to offer an independent perspective,6 observes how individuals regarded as innately superior could provoke speechless awe (thauma) in their ignorant audiences, whether at wonderful objects, like the possessions of the rich,7 or at abstract concepts and admirable philosophical principles, like the prize of happiness, political proposals, poetic ﬁctions, or intellectual ideas.8 The amazement often rests on the achievement of a paradox.9 Architecture too was an object of wonder. The science of geometry, on which architects like Nicon prided themselves, seemed ‘miraculous’ to the ignorant.10 Nicon’s model Socrates was the archetype of these shaman-like characters, who, after creating aporia as a result of an impressive paradox, left their companions expressing disbelief.11 In matters of philosophy, science, religion, or higher culture, the layman could only address the expert as ‘O wondrous one’ (o- thaumasie).12 The satirical Lucian sees through such conventions, which are invariably betrayed by hypocritical behaviour, but this did not prevent their being taken seriously by contemporary audiences. In short, the picture that Lucian paints of these performances by sophists and sensationalists is one of an elite group or culture using their superior education or supposed access to hidden secrets to pull the wool over the eyes of those outside their group. Once the mystique was broken, this elite was exposed to ridicule. The two works of Lucian examined in this chapter are of particular value in showing how these attitudes applied to architecture in the Antonine period.13 Both are rhetorical prolaliai, probably composed during the 160s. Until recently, neither has been the subject of extensive discussion.14 The ﬁrst, entitled Hippias e- balaneion (‘Hippias, or the Bath-building’), is an account of a bath-building built by Hippias, which the author claims to have experienced. It provides evidence, coloured by a subtly satirical tone, of the criteria used to evaluate a sub-

stantial building project. In the second work, Peri tou oikou (‘On the Hall’), the description is delivered within the building that it describes. It shows clearly how important the immediate experience of monumental architecture was for public orations, but also the tensions involved in praising buildings through speech.

‘hippias or the bath-building’: account of an architectural masterpiece Although some scholars have excluded it from the corpus of Lucian’s works, ‘Hippias, or the Bath-building’ should probably be regarded as an authentic work of the 160s or 170s, because of the many features of language and style, motifs and ideas that it shares with Lucian’s other works. Its particular interest lies in the fact that it is the only surviving detailed description of a Roman bath-building, a type that was so common throughout the Roman world. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that, since at least the seventeenth century, architects and architectural historians have turned to this work, often trying to reconstruct the building’s original appearance on the basis of Lucian’s detailed description.15 Common to all such attempts has been an urge to relate this literary instance to archaeologically known baths. To neo-Classical architects, the building seemed to possess the grandeur of the imperial thermae they admired: for Charles Cameron, it provided a case of a half-axial type, with accretions from the Greek gymnasium (Fig. 173); for Friedrich Weinbrenner, the building was composed of huge formal courts and massive vaulted halls according to the ‘monumental style’ of his contemporary designs (Fig. 174).16 In the last century archaeologists have eschewed the idea that the building described by Lucian was a famous imperial structure and, reckoning from the number of rooms rather than the language of adulation, have come up with more modest interpretations. When the small baths discovered in excavations in 1886 under the new music hall at Athens were thought to be of second- or third-century date, archaeologists suggested that these might be the baths associated by Lucian with Hippias. There was little more basis for the identiﬁcation than the discovery of an elongated room of elliptical shape and statues of Asclepius and Hygieia. Recent archaeologists have been more sober in their speculations. Fikret Yegül, while involved in the excavations and reconstruction of the Roman-period ‘bath-gymnasium complex’ at Sardis, presented a further assessment of these literary baths.17 He too was keen to see the building as a deﬁnite instance of a particular type of bath, namely what

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173. Reconstructed plan of Lucian’s baths by Charles Cameron, 1772.

174. Reconstructed plan of Lucian’s baths by Friedrich Weinbrenner, 1822.

he classiﬁed as a ‘small city-bath’, but recognized that it did not necessarily correspond with a known physical structure and resisted the temptation to connect it with his own site. He sees its importance as illuminating the relationship between Greek gymnasia and Roman baths, and between thermae and balinea, which had always been ‘an interchange, rather than an evolution’. Like his predecessors, Yegül undertook ‘a schematic and hypothetical reconstruction of the building’, providing two more accurate plans of the succession of rooms described by Lucian, based on ground-plans of archaeologically attested baths (Fig. 175a–b). However, he leaves unanswered important questions about the perception of the type. There is still a need to consider Lucian’s piece in the light of aesthetic reactions to Roman baths and, in general, to monumental architecture in the Roman Empire. The title of the work, ‘Hippias or the Bath-building’, shows its ambiguity: is it an encomium of a bath-building, or is it about Hippias? The ﬁrst part of the title alludes to Plato’s dialogue the Hippias Maior, which referred to the ﬁfth-century sophist Hippias of Elis, the second to a major physical symbol of the contemporary Roman world. Yet the idea of bathing was also part of the Platonic tradition and a potent symbol of Hellenic culture. Because of such associations, baths were prominent in the literary culture of the imperial court under Hadrian and his successors. Before Lucian, the eunuch Favorinus of Arles, whose promotions of Ephesus had competed with Polemo’s advocacy of Smyrna, had composed an oration ‘On Bath-buildings’. This speech does not survive, but, given Favorinus’ other speeches on Roman subjects, it perhaps aimed to demonstrate the relation of this Roman buildingtype to Hellenic culture. More revealing is a dialogue between the emperor Hadrian and the philosopher Epictetus, preserved in a late Latin

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(a)

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(b) 175. (a) and (b) Reconstructed plans of Lucian’s baths by Fikret Yegül, 1979.

copy, in which the philosopher explains how a bath-building can be an analogue of the human condition: Hadrian: What is man? Epictetus: Man is like a bath-building. The ﬁrst room is the warm-water room for anointing oneself: the newborn child is anointed. The second room, the sweating-room, is childhood. The third room, the dry sauna, is youth. The fourth room, the cold-water room, is old age. So the saying is true at all stages.18

By contrast with Hadrian’s enthusiasm for bathing, his successor Antoninus Pius was, his own adopted son recalled, ‘not one to bathe at odd hours’.19 This characteristic was part of Pius’ alleged frugality, which Marcus mentioned next to his alleged lack of fondness for private building. But his outspoken approval of the bath-gymnasium of Vedius at Ephesus shows that he strongly endorsed the public bathing culture favoured by others, like Fronto, in the imperial court. He would not have shared the disapproval of Artemidorus, who wrote that ‘today the public bath is nothing but a way to wantonness’.20 According to the antithetical style of presentation beloved by the Greek sophistic tradition, Hippias’ bath is presented as an achievement of both word and action, claim and reality, logos and ergon. The opening maxim almost parodies this dualism: ‘Personally, I think those sorts of technicians deserve praise who don’t just offer clever words for every situation, but also honour their promises with appropriate actions’ (1). To their admiring audience, architects and builders were ‘clever’ men, sophoi, like the protagonists of the Second Sophistic. A work of architecture was both an intellectual achievement and a social accomplishment, a pragma or ergon. In this respect, the technician resembles the typical local magnate who promises a building project to the city council as decurial obligation or in anticipation of subsequent honours. Lucian supports his argument by underlining the importance of both theory and practice in other occupations, such as medicine, music, and military leadership. These were standard Socratic examples

of publicly valued expertise, but also chosen for their analogy to architecture. Medicine, regarded from the late Republic as a ‘liberal art’ (ars liberalis), was to the human body what architecture was to buildings; music, we have seen, was not only a necessary part of an ancient architect’s education, because of its rhythms and harmonies, but even equated with architecture by Nicon; and the architect resembled a good general, not only in marshalling (tattein) his teams of labourers,21 but also in being himself at the front and ‘exhibiting works of hand’.22 But for the ﬁnal analogies Lucian moves from practical skills to the heroic, citing Achilles and Agamemnon, Alexander and Pyrrhus as models for the good technician. ‘What is the point of saying all this?’, Lucian asks rhetorically (2). He answers that ‘it is worth admiring (thaumazein) those engineers (me-chanikoi ), who were brilliant (lamproi ) in theory and have also left behind both monuments of their art’ (mne-mosuna te-s techne-s) and great ‘accomplishments’ (pragmata)23 for the beneﬁt of posterity. It is signiﬁcant that Lucian introduces his subject with the term me-chanikoi, like the mechanicus who promised to ship some large columns to the Capitoline temple for the emperor Vespasian,24 rather than architektones, ‘architects’. To these masters of technology, the appropriate response was amazement (thaumazein).25 Like the previous examples of other skills, they combined excellence in theory and practice, recalling the ancient distinction between fabrica and ratiocinatio as the dual elements of an architect’s work:26 ‘Those practised (eggegumnasmenoi ) in words alone could more reasonably be called sophists (sophistai ) than clever men (sophoi ).’ This conventional sentiment aptly characterizes the tendency of second-century ‘sophists’ to practise both architectural patronage and literary performance, and the participle eggegumnasmenoi anticipates the theme of bath-gymnasia (gumnasia). To illustrate this principle, Lucian cites historical prototypes: the mathematician Archimedes; the architect Sostratus of Cnidus, designer of the Pharos at Alexandria and also a geometer; and the Presocratic philosopher Thales of Miletus, who designed the bridge to take Croesus’

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army across the Halys and, although ‘not a proper me-chanikos, was clever at devising and most persuasive in understanding’.27 Like Archimedes to Hieron and Sostratus to Ptolemy, Thales served King Croesus as the genius behind the throne: his achievement was one in which patrons gloried as much as architects, for example, the second-century magistrate Toves from Laertes who was honoured for his bridging of the River Melas in Rough Cilicia, near Lucian’s own homeland. The models given by our narrator are, at best, ambiguous: there is a hint of irony in the theoretical nature of their talent and the portrayal of Thales as ‘persuasive’, and we recall that Lucian elsewhere presented Sostratus as a cunning manipulator of dedicatory inscriptions. The ﬁnal archetype is hardly morally admirable: the legendary builder Epeius, who not only designed the Trojan Horse, but even got inside it with the other Greeks. On this insidious note, the name of Hippias is introduced only incidentally. His name recalls the Elean sophist in Plato’s dialogues, and the ﬁrst account of him sounds remarkably like that philosopher: . . . a man as well practised in words as any of his predecessors, with a quick understanding, and a very clear expositor; but his presented works (erga) are far better than his words, and he lives up to the promise of his art, not in the sort of ﬁelds in which his predecessors were successful, but, to use a geometrical phrase, putting a triangle on a given line.

Parts of this description recall the other me-chanikoi, for instance his noted understanding (suneinai) and verbal gymnastics (logois . . . gegumnasmenou); but his speed in grasping concepts and clarity of exposition are features of the ﬁfth-century sophist.28 The statement that he prospers in new kinds of material reverses the latter’s claim to make new discourse out of old matter.29 Lucian continues with a parody of the dictum familiar from Vitruvius, that the architect must have knowledge of many different arts and sciences: ‘And yet all the others cut off one branch of knowledge and have supposed esteem in that ﬁeld, whereas he seems to be among the best at engineering and geometry, and also harmonics and music, and still performs each one as perfectly as if he was an expert only in that’ (3).30 But the ideas presented here are also very close to Apuleius’ almost contemporary description of the sophist Hippias: ‘Who would not praise a man multitalented in so many arts and sciences, outstanding in so many branches of knowledge, and expert in the application of so many instruments?’31 Hippias was, indeed, an appropriate role-model for Antonine architects: like Nicon, he taught ‘geometry, astronomy, music, and rhythms’.32 Passing over a quantum of theoretical scientiﬁc achievements by his own Hippias—‘it would not be a short job to praise his reﬂections on rays, refraction, and mirrors, and his astronomical work too, where he made his predecessors seem like infants’—Lucian turns to one in particular: ‘I won’t be afraid of telling you of those works of his that struck me when I saw them recently.’ Like anything seen for the ﬁrst time, these ‘works’ (erga) arouse an initial reaction of awe: our narrator was at ﬁrst ‘mesmerized’ (kateplage-n), but, like Aristides, he ‘plucked up the courage’ (ouk okne-so- ) to give his description.33 Here the antithesis between word and action reappears, as his own words (eipein) answer the building’s construction (ergon). The two seem analogous, with the architectural achievement presented as a splendid rhetorical trick, a ‘miraculous’ (thaumaste-) scheme out of ‘commonplace material’ (koine. . . hupothesis). Lucian’s words identify a paradox in the architecture of

Roman baths: a seemingly ordinary and functional service, ‘the construction of a bath-building’ (balaneiou kataskeue-), can become something extraordinary and fabulous. Later in the text, the ordinariness of Roman baths as koina—Latin publica, the ‘public baths’—undermines the description of this allegedly extraordinary complex. Hippias’ ‘intelligence and subtlety in this common ﬁeld are astonishing’.34 Like his me-chanikoi models, he is a successful sophist. The description of this ordinary, almost everyday, construction is rather special. It begins with an ecphrasis typical of poetic architectural description: ‘The site was not ﬂat, but on a big slope and steep . . .’ Structure and language—‘there was a place’ (topos men e-n)—are typical of ecphrasis.35 The character of the site gives this bath-building the moral aspect of the principal sanctuary of a Greek city, as Aristotle had prescribed in his Politics: ‘The site (topos) should be on an eminence conspicuous enough for men to look up and see goodness enthroned and strong enough to command the adjacent quarters of the city.’36 The impressive prominence of position, which gave an air of moral authority or even sacrality to temples like that of Athena Polias at Priene, dedicated by Aristotle’s pupil Alexander, is manifest in Hippias’ Roman bath.37 In the West too, Roman capitolia were often reached by climbing uphill, requiring a deliberate effort from the worshipper, who was rewarded when he reached the top.38 The uneven natural site added a particular Roman ﬂavour to Lucian’s presentation of the achievement of Hippias, who was a clever engineer as well as a monumental architect. The levelling of terrain to create a terrace or platform for the complex itself from a previously irregular surface was an idiom of Roman architecture. But such major, costly works of engineering were a feature, not of small local bath-buildings, but of large-scale, imperial projects, like Trajan’s baths in Rome, built on a terrace levelled over Nero’s Golden House on the Esquiline hill, or provincial works modelled on that, such as the ‘Barbarathermen’ at Trier.39 Hippias’ performance of the same engineering feat is expressed in terms of similar grandeur: ‘. . . he found the site excessively low on one side, but made it level with the other side, putting down the ﬁrmest of bases for the whole project, guaranteeing the stability of the superstructure by laying foundations, and securing the whole with high and remarkably sheer terraces, running the full length of the building for solidity’ (4). The operation, attributed to Hippias’ own personal labour, is described here in three stages—terrace base, built foundations, and ‘sheer heights’ continuing up to the top of the building—which recall Aristides’ threefold division of the temple at Cyzicus.40 The building is thus presented, in the style of some architectural inscriptions, as a monumental accumulation of levels, like contemporary tower tombs and imperial funerary pyres.41 But, despite the tripartite form, there is also an antithesis between top and bottom (kre-pida men . . . hupsesi de), which helps to exaggerate the size and grandeur of the complex.42 The terminology applied to the building’s foundation also contributes to this effect. The terrace base is described as a kre-pis, a word with distinctly sacral associations. It is commonly used for the base of a tomb, temple, or altar, in other words as the solid, visible foundation of a religious monument.43 At the oracle of Trophonius near Lebadeia in Boeotia, the term is ritually signiﬁcant.44 When the terrace base of Hippias’ bath-building is called a kre-pis, it is given the sanctity and historic importance of a religious monument. But this assimilation is subverted by a hint that the complex may not be a real one, but only a

lucian of samosata literary construct. The unusual combination kre-pida . . . balomenos echoes a phrase from Pindar’s fourth Pythian Ode, balleto kre-pida sopho-n epeo-n (‘he put down a base of wise words’) used as an elaborate periphrasis for the opening of a speech.45 The context of Pindar’s poem, which also mentions the traditional sacral emblem of a ‘new-laid hollow of altar stones’ (neoktiston litho-n bo-moio thenar),46 is transferred to Hippias’ baths in such a way that it raises the question of whether these too, whose reality is awesome and of which we have here only a description, are in fact no more than ‘clever words’, subverting the antithesis between words and reality introduced earlier in the text. The building’s structure has a clearly literary and metaphorical ﬂavour, which goes back to the Platonic world suggested by the name Hippias. The builder Hippias plays the role of a divine creator, ‘mastering the universe’ (to holon kratunamenos) in the cause of human security (asphaleia).47 In short, the foundations and structure of Hippias’ baths present two different images of ideal architecture, the sacred monument and the global village, juxtaposed to create a plausible aesthetic beauty. Our author does not leave it at that. The site has an aesthetic importance for the building: ‘the superstructure (ta epoikodome-thenta) is in proportion to the scale of the site, very ﬁtting to the organization of the building, and attentive to the principle of lighting.’ Lucian’s words here observe moral ideas about spatial extent in architecture and longstanding axioms of ancient architectural theory. He follows the expectation that the building’s size must be moderate, not excessive, according to the principle of decor, and in harmony with the site. His language parodies Roman architectural terminology, as known from Vitruvius, with allusions to symmetria, harmonia, and, in the phrase to-i eulogo-i kataskeue-s, decor operis.48 The foundations described by Lucian show what kind of building this is. This balaneion is no ordinary bal(i)neum, but lays claim to the spatial grandeur and monumental setting of the imperial thermae. Such posturing suggests how the sort of ‘interaction’ and ‘exchange’ observed by Yegül could work at a local level. The difference between balineum and thermae was not just in size and function; the former was clearly perceived as architecturally inferior.49 In the second century large bathing establishments in the provinces ﬁnanced by the emperor were called thermae, as in Rome.50 Under Pius, thermae did not need to be imperial works. The name, as opposed to the older balineum, simply reﬂected the ambition and modernity of a project, in East and West.51 It is misleading, therefore, to infer that the baths built by a private individual ‘were normally balnea, while the state and the town stood for the construction of the prestigious thermae’. The bath-gymnasia of symmetrical plan in Asia Minor are attempts to elevate the local, Hellenic gymnasium tradition to a ‘Roman’ ideal of architectural monumentality based on the imperial thermae. Hippias’ ‘commonplace’ construction parodies this competitive search for elevation of aesthetic status. Similarly, the entrance of the building is no ordinary door to a bathbuilding, but a pulo-n (5). This word is typical of descriptions of houses in Hellenistic Egypt, which might suggest that it described a doorway without pretensions, like those of houses excavated in Egypt and Cyrenaica. But in architectural literature the word has rather more importance. It often refers not just to the doorway, but to the whole vestibule area to which it gave access, which might be of great extent or elaboration. The Hellenistic historian Callixinus mentions a pulo-n

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‘with four doors’, and Diodorus records one 200 feet long.52 The word suggested not just a secular gateway, but something sacred and monumental. Plutarch records the omen of pulo-nes of a temple at Hadranum opening spontaneously. The plural form used here was equivalent to Latin valvae, which, if not a separate entity, certainly suggested royal or religious architecture. In the Peri kosmou the palace of the Persian kings, presented as a sacral monument, has several entrances (pulo-nes). It is not only Lucian who applies the term to a bath-building: in the early third century a bath-gymnasium at Hermopolis had a pulo-n at its entrance. Visual parallels can be seen in the doorways and entrances of Egyptian temples or Roman temples in the East, most strikingly in the gateway to the Temple of Artemis at Jerash (Fig. 91a), with inclined jambs, or in the symbolic tower-entrances in Roman painted landscapes. These impressions of grandeur are reinforced by the description of the pulo-n of Hippias’ bath as ‘high’ (hupse-los),53 and its approach from ‘a broad ﬂight of steps deeper than they are high for the comfort of people ascending’. The image here of a stairway with deep treads and low risers is that important ingredient of Antonine monumental architecture, of worshippers ascending the wide, low steps of a temple, of which the Temple of Artemis at Jerash (c.160) is again an extreme instance (Fig. 89c). Such gradients ‘encourage us to employ a more leisurely gait, permitting us to linger longer on the stair, to pass more slowly, and to spend more time in sensing the nature of the stair’s setting and its spatial and decorative qualities’.54 The steps are part of the pulo-n itself, which ‘enters’ the building and is ‘received’ by a ‘public room of good size’ (oikos eumegethe-s).55 The ambiguity of koinos, between ‘public’ and ‘commonplace’, problematizes the reading of this space. Said to be ‘of a good size’, the room has ‘adequate space for servants and attendants’. It is, then, truly public and common. But on the left side of the room are ‘the apartments equipped for high living’ (ta es truphe-n pareskeuasmena oike-mata). The inclusion of luxury, a prerequisite of elite architecture, is problematic for such a ‘common’ building, and our author draws attention to this dilemma by ironically calling these apartments ‘particularly suited to a bathing establishment’.56 A further paradox completes these ambiguous rooms, oscillating between beauty and utility: they are ‘elegant retreats, lit by profuse light’ (chariessai kai pho-ti pollo-i katalampomenai hupocho-re-seis). Thus the common practice of lighting the inner rooms of imperial bath-buildings by skylights or ‘thermal windows’ on raised vaults was conceived as a cosmic space. The verb katalampein, used especially of sunlight and contrasting notably with hupocho-re-seis, conveys the ‘luxury of light’ as a visual sensation.57 Given the optical expertise of this me-chanikos, the effect of dazzling brightness (lamprote-s) might have been reinforced by mirrors. These concerns with light and space recall earlier moralizing complaints about modern baths and parody the medical prejudice that baths should be taken ‘in a room as high, light, and spacious as possible’.58 In the second century Roman bath-buildings claimed increasingly large proportions of urban space and, in their attempts to appear lavishly decorated and attractive, could cross the boundaries of what was considered strictly functional. Lucian takes full satirical advantage of this paradox. The room adjacent to these luxury apartments is even more clearly incongruous, described, in Lucian’s typical tone of ironic

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praise, as ‘spacious (perittos), as for the bath, but also constricted (anangkaios), as for the reception of the elite (eudaimonesteroi)’.59 Although this observation sounds counter-intuitive, it is explained by contemporary ideas about architecture and social space: the room satisﬁes both an expectation that baths should be spatially extensive and the elite moral code of decor and moderation, which requires a modest, functional space. It might be identiﬁed with the monumental collective latrine fashionable in the Roman East, which corresponded to both these ideals.60 After the entrance and the public hall with luxury apartments off it, the bathing complex itself leads to the apodyteria: ‘an adjacent hall next’ and ‘then, on either side’, the undressing rooms, ‘service-rooms adequate for people to get changed in’.61 The issue of space is again central. The tendency to consider the undressing rooms, which because of their mundane function are described as simply ‘store-rooms’, or even ‘cupboards’ (apotheseis),62 as an element of the builder’s monumental invention is paralleled by dedicatory inscriptions, which make this unprepossessing element a high-point of a bath-building’s monumental appearance.63 They were a feature already of the classical Greek gymnasium, prominent in Platonic dialogues, and subsequently adopted by Cicero and Varro in Roman villas. The ‘central hall’ (mesos oikos) seems a ﬁtting culmination to this sequence, achieving maximum effect in the two areas, height and light, already identiﬁed as the specialities of this building (‘highest in height, lightest in light’: hupsei te hupse-lotatos kai pho-ti phaidrotatos). The superlatives used here and elsewhere in the text are not just an inevitable feature of eulogy; they exhibit a ‘language of excellence’ appropriate to the cosmos, its maker, and the perfect model on which it is based: the prototype is Plato’s account of the world’s creation in the Timaeus.64 It is also the ﬁrst room to attract attention for its decoration and ﬁttings: three pools of cold water;65 revetments of Laconian marble, its green hue familiar from contemporary water architecture;66 and white marble copies of older statues of Hygieia and Asclepius, a combination typical of bath-buildings. The appearance of old statues in a modern bath-building, which makes this, like other baths, serve as a museum of ancient art,67 recalls the ﬁfth-century sophist Hippias’ claim to make new discourse out of old matter. At the same time, it reinforces the analogy between the building and Lucian’s text, in which old authors, Homer, Pindar, and Plato, are reused as emblems (eikones) of the past, placed in a new context. The next room that receives the visitor68 is described as ‘a slightly warmed room, which does not meet you with a brutal heat’ (6).69 This must be the tepidarium. In plan, it is both ‘oblong’ (epime-ke-s and ‘rounded at each end’ (amphistrongulos), a combination that recalls the fascination with buildings that look round and square at the same time. But the exact form referred to requires more consideration. Yegül argued that it reﬂects a form characteristic of bath-buildings, of ‘rooms with apses at each end’, ‘too numerous to mention’ (Figs. 175a–b, no. 6). As examples, he cites the small baths at Thaenae in North Africa and the large baths of Caracalla at Ankara. The ﬁrst is rather a squat form, which does not suit very well the description as ‘elongated’, but the second ﬁts well the description as both ‘oblong’ and ‘rounded at each end’, a long, narrow hall with curved ends laid on the side of the main bathing-block nearest the palaestra.70 The shape is an interior ver-

sion of the canonical hairpin form of Roman circuses and stadia. The shape of the example at Ankara resembles those of the frigidarium pool there and of two rooms arranged symmetrically on either side of the Antonine tepidarium in the gymnasium-baths at Sardis, while the forms of pools in the Baths of Vedius and the East Baths at Ephesus are similar. However, it is not as widespread as supposed, since it is rare outside stadia. Rather than immediately suggesting a type of ornate gallery in bath-gymnasia in the form of a long hall with an apsidal end, Lucian’s formulation corresponds to the marrow-like shape of stadia and hippodromes and a few imperial bath-buildings. But the description of another sort of marrow adds a different association, which casts doubt on the reality of this construction of Hippias. The combination of the words epime-ke-s and amphistrongulos recalls Plato’s image of the creation of the mortal part of the soul by the divine architect, who ‘divided up shapes at the same time round and elongated (hama strongula kai prome-ke-) and called them all marrow’.71 So, as the foundations of the baths resembled the construction of the universe, this stadium-like hall resembles the vital element in the formation of human beings. The human analogy is triumphantly retained in the mood of allusive eulogy, although the fantasy makes the reader think again about whether this great public work is fact (ergon) or merely words. The hairpin-shaped hall is followed by another ‘very well lit’ room,72 which emphasizes the paradoxical ideal that, the deeper we intrude into the labyrinth of these baths, away from the outside, the brighter the rooms become. Like the apodyterium, it is identiﬁed only by periphrasis, as ‘offering smooth anointment’ (aleipsasthai prose-no-s parexomenos), but this distinguishes it as serving the function of an aleipterion. In fact, this room is not the only part of the building that involves associations with anointment, as the next one shows similar properties. The ﬁrst room functions as an anteroom to the anointing area proper, like a propylon, ‘with entrances on either side beautiﬁed with Phrygian marble, to receive the people coming in from the palaestra’. The palaestra, of course, is the area where bathers go after being anointed, and so forms a unity with the aleipterion. The space that Lucian gives to this area accords with the symbolic importance of this space within Roman bath-gymnasia in the Greek East. As Yegül noted, the term’s use to describe the ‘marble court’ at Sardis, dedicated in 211/12, provides a good analogue. While it may go too far to argue, as he does, that this space did not actually serve as an anointing-room (whatever that might have looked like!), the attention devoted to it suggests that it was regarded as a symbolic centrepiece and synecdoche of the whole baths. It was ostentatiously decorated with local marble, with imported giallo antico used for the spirally ﬂuted columns of the ﬁrst storey, which bear composite capitals, and for the central four columns supporting the upper level of the pedimented gate. The court has a prominent position within the complex, analogous to that of the imperial hall in the gymnasium of Vedius at Ephesus, and, like the aleipterion of Hippias’ baths, had direct access both to the palaestra and to the bathing-rooms. The spread of imagery of greasing and anointing from this specialized area to other rooms in Hippias’ baths is, therefore, no accident. Anointing was the central image of the Graeco-Roman bath-gymnasium, the linchpin of Hippias’ conﬂation of two monumental traditions. It fused the

lucian of samosata Homeric tradition of rubbing oneself down with oil after bathing with the classical habit of putting on oil in preparation for the gymnasium. The aleipterion proper is called ‘the most beautiful of all the rooms’.73 Described as ‘really smooth to stand and sit in’ (ste-nai te kai engkathizesthai prose-nestatos), which recalls the smoothness of the anointment (prose-no-s) of the preceding room, this room appears to be the visual high-point of the complex. It meets Vitruvian criteria of venustas, ﬁrmitas, and utilitas, being ‘very attractive to sit in, very safe to linger in, and very useful to roll around in’.74 These activities are signiﬁcant for the reception of Roman architecture. It is assumed that some time should be spent here to appreciate the architecture, ‘standing and sitting’, ‘lingering’, or looking up to admire the diffusion of Docimian gloss ‘into the roof ’. But the verb embradunai means not so much to ‘linger’ as to ‘cling’, like a leech, implying a halting of mental activity.75 Such lingering viewing is proﬁtless and self-indulgent, and subverts the exaggerated Vitruvian tone. The other unusual verb here, engkulisasthai, has a similar nuance. Referring literally to horses or other animals rolling in the mud, it suggests getting involved in a futile love affair or physically entangled with another person. We will see such negative implications borne out in Lucian’s second architectural text, the Peri tou oikou.76 But the term may also have a particular meaning in a bathing context. An inscription from Tripolitania commemorated the construction from the foundation of a sweating-room and the establishment of ‘a cylisterium’.77 No archaeological evidence can illuminate what this term referred to, but the unusual verb instituit (‘established’) draws attention to the term, which is unattested elsewhere, as a possible neologism.78 Lucian was perhaps alluding to a speciﬁc area in contemporary Roman baths in the same indirect way in which he alludes to the aleipterion. The aleipterion also ﬁts modern aesthetics, ‘glowing right up to the ceiling in Phrygian’ (Phrugiou . . . eis orophe-n akran apostilbo-n). The verb apostilbein here, like prose-nestatos, evokes the grease applied to marble to keep it polished, but also the glowing bodies of athletes within the gymnasium, smeared with oil. The ambiguity of the word suggests a humorous use of the human analogy, since the room thereby takes on the attributes of its users. Even the purple-veined pavonazzetto is suited to this context, as the region of its Docimian quarries was celebrated for athletic festivals. Aesthetics is personality. The rather archaic verb apostilbein adds another nuance to this spectacular room. It recalls a famous Homeric context, where Nestor leaves his house and sits on the judgement seat, built of white stones anointed as a mark of sanctity, ‘glowing with polish’ (apostilbontes aleiphatos).79 The present context of grease helps to make this reference stick to the new building, bestowing on it mock-Homeric authority. In Lucian’s description, the room that ‘glows’ with its marble decoration is a sacred monument, the aesthetic focus of the whole building, and the sanctum of the shrine signalled earlier by its pulo-n and temple-like stairway. The hot corridor follows next, continuing the idea of succession between the rooms (eche-s . . . hupodechetai). This ‘passageway morticed together with Numidian marble’ (Nomadi litho-i diakekolle-menos) is conceived as a huge, inking ‘monolithic’ column of giallo antico. It leads to and props up the inner room, which,ike the other main rooms, is described with a superlative (ho de endon oikos kallistos). The latter trumps even the previous splendours. Filled with great light, like those before, despite its inner position, it is decorated naturalistically (dienthismenos, ‘in ﬂower’)80 with purple porphyry, the highest material

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possible for architecture.81 After such a climax it creates bathos to add the practical detail that ‘this room also offers three hot pools’ (treis kai houtos thermas puelous parechetai ). The three marbles named in this building, Docimian pavonazzetto with purple streaks in the aleipterion, green porphyry from Mt Taygetos in the frigidarium, and yellow Numidian giallo antico in the hot corridor, form a celebrated thermal triad. It was columns of these three marbles that Hadrian donated to the aleipterion of the bath-gymnasium at Smyrna. In Statius’ description of the Baths of Claudius Etruscus, Thasian marble, Euboean cipollino, onyx, and serpentine are purposefully excluded; there remained ‘only shining porphyry from Numidia’s golden yellow quarries, only the marble that Attis stained with bright drops in a hollow cave in Synnas in Phrygia, with hardly a place for the Eurotas river, a long green strip of contrast with Synnas’.82 For Martial, describing the same baths, onyx and serpentine admittedly had a place; but his emphasis was on the same three marbles: ‘the quarries of Taygetus are green and the stones cut more deeply by the Phrygian and the Libyan rival them in variegated decoration.’83 Likewise, in the thermae of Tucca, although cipollino heads the list, it is overshadowed by ‘the marbles sent by Synnas in Phrygia, Numidia in Africa, and washed by the Eurotas in his green spring’.84 The aesthetic primacy of these marbles derived from their high-proﬁle imperial ownership and use;85 but they also helped to achieve grandeur in architecture because of their resemblance to natural wonders, purple dye, golden sun and sand, and pastoral green.86 Moreover, the reﬂection of sunlight from the marble, not to mention whatever mirrors are arranged in the building—we recall that our Hippias is an expert in the science of reﬂection87—intensiﬁes the impression of radiantly abundant light.88 At this point in Lucian’s account the bathing sequence is regarded as complete.89 This rapid dismissal of the functional role of the public bath reﬂects the writer’s impatience to get out of this labyrinth. Yet he is still preoccupied with the implicit need for imperial bath-buildings to create a superﬂuity of space: ‘You have the option of not going back through the same sections, but taking the quick route through the slightly heated room directly to the cold area.’ The luxury of not having to repeat one’s journey is a feature of palace architecture, which is ultimately related to the symbol of the labyrinth on which much Roman conceptual house design was based.90 It is appropriate to the notion of architectural thauma, because, to achieve maximum impact, each room should be unfamiliar. The interest in ﬁnding a new route for the homeward path mirrors the writer’s constant search for rhetorical variatio. The route itself allows the reader to reﬂect on the overall aesthetic effect of the baths. The exit path is bathed in light and creates an impression of daylight inside the building. The relation of rooms to one another illustrates the principles of eurhythmia and decor: ‘their heights are appropriate to their functions, and their breadths are in proportion to their lengths.’91 But Lucian turns from precise mathematical ideas to the realms of imagination and romance. He mimics Vitruvian structure, but makes the content sound more poetic: ‘everywhere Grace and Love are in full ﬂower.’92 Such intrusion of romantic elements into the world of the bath is an elegiac presentation of a world that also brought danger and moral condemnation. It is the language of imperial Roman epigrams, like that written by ‘Junior’ on a statue of Venus from the

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baths at Sinuessa, which praises the baths as a temple of Venus, once natural springs and now heated by Cupid and conﬁrming the goddess’s link with the Ocean and the Nymphs. Architecture helped make baths places in which to seek pleasure (voluptas, or Greek apolausis) and romance.93 Lucian’s description makes further imaginative moves to unmask the literary and architectural pretence of these baths of Hippias. He explains that, ‘in the ﬁne words of Pindar, you must make the face of a work glow at its beginning’.94 The quotation became a commonplace for rhetorical descriptions of great architecture.95 Here the passage, ironically cited on the way out from these baths, repeats the basic human metaphor of architecture, but its original context also bears on the present one. Pindar’s image, which later inﬂuenced the Augustans, described his own poetry as a temple.96 Thus earlier hints are conﬁrmed that Lucian’s bath is both envisaged as a temple and also a work of the rhetorical imagination, founded on sophistic antitheses and literary models. The quotation also restores the emphasis on the brightness of the baths, which is developed by an exaggerated, tautologous rhetorical tricolon: ‘[the building’s glowing face] could be contrived above all from the glow, the shine, and the guiding lights (to-n pho-tago-go-n).’97 The speciﬁc term pho-tago-go-s adds an air of mystery to the building’s brightness, re-creating the spiritual atmosphere, which may lead to revelation. Although Lucian uses the term elsewhere of windows,98 it refers primarily to ‘a magical process of supernatural illumination’.99 These are no ordinary baths. The ﬁnal word of this phrase, meme-chane-menon (‘engineered’), returns to the theme of me-chanikoi elaborated at the start of the work. It is explained by the following sentence: ‘For the truly wise Hippias built the cold-room100 to face north, but not without a share in the southern sky.’ The keyword sophos, now heavy with irony, suggests ‘sophist’ in its pejorative sense. The sophist’s liking for antithetical solutions, the theme of the introduction, reappears in this construct of a room that faces north and south at the same time. Such positioning, in itself no contradiction, combines the practical convention that a frigidarium should lie on the north side of a building to keep it cool, with the aesthetic ideal of facing south towards the sun. Since, as Lucian adds, the other unheated rooms were built to face south, east, and west, the building by itself obeys the prescriptions of Vitruvius for a city, with its layout determined by the directions of the different winds. The northfacing cold-room is thought to be good for the inhabitants of a town, because, ‘when the north wind blows, people [made sick by the south wind] are restored to health’.101 But Lucian’s phrase ‘the southern sky’ has a particular, cosmic connotation. For the ancients familiar only with the northern hemisphere, the southern region of the sky, the Tropic of Capricorn, was assigned to Saturn and believed to be ‘for the immortals’, whether for gods or for the ascent of immortal souls to heaven.102 These special baths provide a route to immortality. Lucian soon tires of the joke on these baths, but brings it to an end in appropriate fashion. In standard rhetorical manner he adds a praeteritio to cover his omissions. ‘Why should I go on to tell you of the palaestras, and the common cloakroom constructions, which offer quick, unmediated access to the bath for utility and safety?’103 Such a quick way out of his construction of words emulates the quick way out of the building he

describes. The repetition of motifs from earlier parts of the description (the quick way out, the pairing of utility and safety) reinforces the lack of rhetorical need to extend his description to greater length.104 As with other contemporary encomia of architecture, the speech must mirror the actual viewing of and visit to the building.105 Lucian completes his work by balancing the section that began it, on the general theme of encomium and miraculous achievement. In this way he captures these baths within a frame of rhetorical controversia and literary form. He plays on Aristides’ praise of the temple at Cyzicus, where the orator suggests the bigness of the building by magnifying the scale necessary for a worthy encomium.106 The speech must be on a scale suited to the size and importance of the building. ‘And so’, writes Lucian, emphasizing again the antithesis between ‘word’ (logos) and ‘work’ (ergon), claim and reality, ‘let no one insinuate that I have taken a small work as my theme and intend to embellish it with my speech’ (8). But now the builder Hippias’ achievement is also described in terms of a rhetorical performance: I believe the invention in commonplaces of novel shows of ﬁnery to be a matter of no small intelligence, like this work that the amazing Hippias has displayed (epedeixato) to us, which has all the virtues of a bath-building, utility, convenience, bright light, proportion, appropriateness to the site, the possibility of safe use, and, what’s more, has been embellished with further subtlety, with two opportunities for necessary relief, many doors to get out by, and two clocks to show the time, one that works by water and has a moo for a chime, the other using the sun.

Now ironically called thaumasios like other miracle-workers and suspected fraudsters exposed by Lucian, Hippias is here applauded for a work that sounds almost rhetorical. The ﬁnal whimsical details, which allude to devices constructed by the me-chanikos Ctesibius and even attributed to Plato,107 demonstrate the potential of the building to exceed the reach of its eulogist.108 The invention of new shows of novelty out of commonplaces, especially with the strongly theoretical sense of epinoe-sai, suggests the successful orator, and this indicates what sort of sophistry is meant by sophia here. Not only does the verb epedeixato suggest a rhetorical epideixis, but even the nature of the epideixis, ‘all the virtues of a bath-building’ (pasas . . . tas balaneiou aretas), sounds like a typical sophistic theme. This phrase, virtually a deﬁnition of encomium, restates the human analogy of architecture: buildings, like men, have their ‘virtues’, especially those buildings, like this one, that are closely identiﬁed with individual persons. Those virtues summarize the ideals presented throughout the text. Together, they offer a rudimentary architectural theory along the lines of Vitruvian theory, but amended and presented as a wonderful rhetorical performance by the great sophist Hippias: ‘utility’ (to chre-simon) has classical and Hellenistic precedents, followed by Vitruvius’ Latin utilitas;109 to eukairon is Vitruvian commoditas,110 which recalls the relative use of space by the practical and luxury parts of the baths; to euphenges reiterates the constant theme of light; to summetron is symmetria; and to to-i topo-i he-rmosmenon corresponds to distributio, the sixth part of ‘architecture’, which Vitruvius deﬁnes as copiarum locique commoda dispensatio.111 Despite, or perhaps because of, its satirical tone, then, Lucian’s text provides evidence that precepts familiar from the sole surviving text of

lucian of samosata Vitruvius were still followed in the Antonine age. Indeed, it would be surprising if such tenets had been forgotten altogether, since they recur in the third and fourth centuries in the writings of Faventius and Palladius and continued to feature in building inscriptions of that period.112 However, there were also differences from Vitruvius. In the freely spending age of the Antonines, for example, the economic correlate of distributio, ‘thrifty temperance in public building in accounts of cost’ (parca . . . in operibus sumptus ratione temperatio), is missing.113 The criterion of safety, to te-n chreian asphale- parechomenon, is that of Vitruvian ﬁrmitas, but it has the added perspective of Tacitus on Fidenae’s collapsed amphitheatre and Juvenal on Rome’s rickety apartment blocks. Finally, the detail of clever decoration, te-i alle-i perinoiai kekosme-menon, replaces Vitruvian decor with imperial indulgence. This last ideal is celebrated in inscriptions, which highlight the extravagant and superﬂuous trappings of fountain-houses, tombs, and other ornamental buildings. Monumentality depends not only on the great size or overall effect of a structure, but also on the extraordinary details lying within it.114 Lucian ends by reasserting the inevitability of praise for a splendid building. Not to praise it would not just be stupidity, he says, but ungrateful meanness. He proudly claims to have discharged his duty as a rhetor: ‘Well, at least I have made my verbal answer to the work and to the artist and workman.’ Hippias is now for the ﬁrst time identiﬁed, as we suspected, not as the ﬁnancing patron, but as the architect, a technite-s and de-miourgos. But this combination of terms reminds the reader again of the divine creator of the cosmos, the supreme architecture, and thus makes Hippias himself godlike. Like Plato, Lucian applies the ‘language of excellence’ not only to the creation, but also to its maker.115 Moreover, Hippias’ ‘divinity’ is not simply a rhetorical trick to conﬁrm the thauma of his building, but becomes a necessary precondition for our belief in the existence of the building itself. The restatement of the classical logos–ergon antithesis used subversively so often in this work anticipates the ultimate dismissal: ‘If God ever (pote) grants the chance actually (kai) to bathe there, I am sure that I shall have many who will join me in my praises.’ Only a miracle, it seems, perhaps another sophistic wonder created by the ‘divine’ Hippias, could make real the experience of these baths, which remain an ambiguous and sometimes paradoxical literary construct. Yet this ﬁnal prayer by Lucian reveals that his description served another purpose. For those many viewers who had never had the opportunity to see the building for themselves, Lucian’s text offered the possibility to share the aesthetic experience. The suitability of a bath-building to reﬂect the aesthetic possibilities of all Roman architecture helps to explains its frequency across the Roman world in the second century. ‘This century was the one in which most baths were built’ in the Roman period, with over ﬁfty recorded in the eastern provinces alone.116 Further evidence of the perceived importance of baths as aesthetic centres is provided by the numerous verse poems, inscribed or published in anthologies, which describe bathbuildings at some length.117 The poems of Statius are an antecedent for this genre, but differ in kind from later varieties of laudatory texts, which, being inscribed in situ, encourage the emotional response of viewers, now readers as well. The hymn of Marcellus of Side inscribed at Herodes Atticus’ Triopion, addressed to Athena, included a conven-

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tional ecphrasis topou (‘exposé of site’) which encouraged visitors to participate in the religious life of the place and admitted them into the beauties of its architecture.118 Later poems contain more detail and are more direct, often inscribed on the buildings to which they refer. In Rome a stone pillar was inscribed in the fourth century with Greek verses in praise of the baths of Caius Caeionius Ruﬁus Volusianus, signo Lampadius, prefect of the city in 365/6. An elegiac epigram on the baths at Baiae, built by one Bellator, survives as part of the Latin Anthology, but was clearly copied from its original context on the building itself, as allusions in the text make clear. The genre had become quite elaborate by the sixth century, when the baths of the empress Eudocia at Hammat Gader in Israel were described in a eulogistic epigram.119 By that time the desire to answer a building with words had turned into a demand to subject it to an aesthetic trial. The poet Choricius presented St Stephen’s Church at Gaza as ‘tried’ in a lawcourt against the most famous temples of the world.120 Experts and connoisseurs from different ﬁelds, painting and mosaic, marble architectural ornament, roofs, and gold decoration, in which ‘deﬁciency and excess are both errors of taste’, came to give their judgment. The columns were a source of honour to the cities that sent them,121 and their admirers praised the donor. And one of the best-known and most extensive and extravagant architectural descriptions is that written on Justinian’s rebuilt church of Hagia Sophia by Procopius, who frequently uses the same rhetorical effects as Lucian’s description.122 These architectural descriptions reﬂect the wish and ability of rhetors to direct the emotions and the gaze of the viewer. Even in the abbreviated form of an epigram, they are indications to the Roman viewer of a building’s importance and distinctive aesthetic claims. By their sustained and emotive evocations of a building’s charm, they suggest to successive visitors how they might respond correctly to the wonderful spectacle.

‘on the hall’: reaction to an architectural experience While the Hippias simply reports great architecture, the De Domo or Peri tou oikou, ‘On the Hall’, shows how orators and spectators might have reacted to the immediate experience of a building. The title is unspeciﬁc, and no further details appear in the text about the name, character, or location of the building, which might be either public or private; it is generally assumed to be a public hall, possibly for declamation, and this is how Weinbrenner reconstructed the building (Fig. 176a–c).123 Lucian’s term oikos, usually translated as ‘hall’, is general enough to mean a private ‘house’ or any public ‘building’.124 So the content of the work reﬂects on visual responses to buildings in general. At the beginning of the work a comparison is made between the wish of Alexander the Great to bathe in the River Cydnus for therapeutic reasons and the spectator’s response to the building (1). The attraction of the river was so great that even knowledge of the sickness he was to contract would not have made Alexander resist the river’s appeal. In the Roman world this story, told by the historians Quintus Curtius and Arrian,125 recalled the affair of the emperor Nero, who became sick after bathing in the sacred spring of the Aqua Marcia out of his ‘excessive

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lucian of samosata bathing has lessons for the over-indulgent viewing of buildings. This one is dangerously enchanting. Anyone, writes Lucian, who sees it and is trained in the arts of rhetoric would surely have an equal longing ‘to make a speech in it, ﬁll it with shouting and become himself a part of its beauty’, rather than looking it all over, feeling amazed, and leaving, as if deaf and dumb, without a word to anyone.128 As in the Hippias, the building is characterized by a ‘language of excellence’, referring to scale, beauty, light, material, and decoration:129 it is ‘very spacious in size, very ﬁne in beauty, very radiant with light, very splendid with gold, and truly blossoming with paintings’.130 The viewer has only two possible responses, either to use the space by making a speech there and become himself a part of the architectural experience, or, alternatively, simple dumb astonishment. The writer at this point appears clearly to prefer the former. Lucian here suggests that there are two responses to beautiful buildings, that of ordinary people and that of the educated. For the former, ‘the common experience is adequate, just seeing and looking around and leading the eyes about, and holding the head back to look up at the roof, and making an expansive gesture with the hand in approval, and being quietly contented, afraid of not being able to say anything worthy of the things seen’ (2). Lucian’s description of the normal response to architecture is a remarkably modern-sounding statement, identifying a sequence of increasingly involved stages of perception, ending only in complete inability to comment.131 This kind of response, which for Lucian shows a lack of sophistication, taste, and culture,132 depends entirely on sensation and remains essentially a physical experience. The cultivated viewer, however (hostis de meta paideias horai ta kala, ‘the man who sees beautiful objects with paideia’), is able to answer the aesthetic demands of beauty: ‘[he] would not, I think, be satisﬁed with getting his pleasure from mere seeing and would not tolerate being a voiceless viewer of beauty, but would try as best he could to get involved (endiatripsai ) and to respond to the sight by speech’. It has been suggested that Lucian’s statement that, when it came to looking at beauty, there was one ‘rule’ (nomos) for ordinary viewers and another for educated ones may have alluded to the Stoic distinction between ‘expert’ and ‘non-expert’ impressions of objects (phantasiai ).133 Alternatively, this description of two different ways of seeing may have hinted at something more concrete in the society of the time. Contemporary ethics considered the viewing of art to be a prerogative of the citizen, of which slaves were not properly worthy. In the latter part of the century the jurist Venuleius stipulated that for slaves to watch not just games but also ‘paintings in a concentrated way’ was a fault, and a ‘fault of mind’, not of body.134 However, it was not just the content, but the manner of this verbal response which mattered:

(a)

(b)

(c) 176. Reconstruction drawings of Lucian’s Hall by Friedrich Weinbrenner, 1822. (a) Front elevation. (b) Side elevation. (c) Floor plan.

longing for luxury’.126 Alexander’s ‘longing’—Lucian’s language is clearly a parody of the recent Arrian127—is gratiﬁed with such success that the great general ﬁnds it difficult to tear himself away from it. As Lucian points out, the destructive consequence of Alexander’s

The response is not just a eulogy of the hall—it was perhaps appropriate for the young islander in this way to be bowled over by Menelaus’ house and to compare its gold and ivory to the beauties in heaven, as he had seen no other beautiful thing on earth—but actually speaking in it and assembling all the best men and making a display (epideixin) of words would itself be a part of the eulogy. (3)

As we have seen, the Homeric prototype of Telemachus’ admiration of the palace of Menelaus was a touchstone for architectural perception. But here Lucian emphasizes the ‘primitive’ character of his epic

lucian of samosata model. It cannot be an accurate standard for present behaviour, since modern architecture is at once more sophisticated and more beautiful than ancient buildings. Moreover, because beautiful buildings are now more commonplace than in Homer’s time, the educated Antonine viewer will know that a naive encomium of a building is no longer sufﬁcient on its own, but that the beauty of the encomium itself should add to that of the architecture. The reason is given at once. Once ‘the ﬁnest of halls’ is ﬁlled with encomium and ﬁne speaking,135 it echoes like a grotto and follows the words, stretching out the last syllables of each phrase and lingering on the last words of each period. This reﬂects a harmony between building and viewer: as the building seems by its echo to prolong the speaker’s words, so the viewer lingers on the details of the building’s interior architecture.136 ‘Like an educated listener’ (ho-s tis eumathe-s akroate-s), the building remembers the words, praises the speaker, and gives a perfectly respectable speech in reply. This, the author continues, is like the discourse between shepherds’ pipes and mountain peaks, sounds passing back and forth between them, so that simple people think that a young girl lives in the cliffs and answers the shepherds’ music.137 The whole passage is an elaborate summary of certain aesthetic assumptions of the Antonine age. The conception of a locus amoenus existing in the decorative ambit of the hall interior and ﬁlled with living spirits ﬁnds parallels in inscriptions of this period.138 But this is no passive locus amoenus. The building itself has a humanity, which enables it to engage in dialogue with the human viewer. This interaction of the building with the educated person is analysed in terms of a Platonic theory of the transmission of beauty through perception: ‘for something beautiful virtually ﬂows through the eyes into the soul, then adorning the soul in its own manner it releases the words’ (4). As the subsequent reference to Socrates conﬁrms, this conception of a direct communication between a person and a beautiful object is derived from Plato’s Phaedrus, where it refers to the physical transmission of beauty into a lover’s soul from his beloved whom he sees.139 This reference implies that in the present case a viewer’s relation with the building is basically erotic.140 Such a conceit was not untypical of contemporary aesthetics. It was commonplace for rhetors to compare a city situated at the end of its territory to a beloved taking refuge from pursuing lovers.141 The whole analysis of the soul in Plato’s Phaedrus was favoured by second-century writers as a model of literary dignity (semnote-s).142 They used it to emphasize the profound eroticism of the experience of ‘unspeakable and immortal’ aesthetic beauty, through which they got nearer to the sublime beauty of the cosmos.143 Buildings were beloved above all because they were a feast for the eyes. That assumed that they had human qualities, which enabled a dialogue between building and viewer. It may be true to say, with one recent scholar, that ‘it was the viewer’s identity itself which was at stake in the act of interpreting a work of art’.144 But, when this was a building, the supposed humanity of a work of architecture was also involved. So the educated viewer’s perception of this hall differed from ordinary amazement (thauma) at alienating objects like that conventional source of wonder, the Persian king’s legendary golden plane tree, so different from the ‘shapely’ one on the Ilissus beloved by Socrates (4–5). Such wonder was only the result of the material expense of the gold, with no addition of art (techne-), beauty (kallos), pleasure (terpsis),145

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harmony of measurement (to summetron), or proportion (to eurhuthmon). The sight is a vulgar, ‘barbarian’ one (barbarikon . . . theama), prompting a reaction similar to that of Anacharsis on seeing Athens. It involves money in the creation, envy in the viewers, felicitation or selfcongratulation (eudaimonismos) in the owners, but nowhere eulogy. According to Lucian, Achaemenid architectural display was more like the kind in which builders set out only to stun the spectator into silence and which demanded no response: ‘the Persian kings were not interested in beautiful things or in making their displays (tas epideixeis) for the pleasure of the viewer, nor did they care whether or not the viewers praised them, but only that they would be struck dumb (ekplage-sontai ).’ Antonine architecture, though, was different. The beauty of this contemporary building could not be properly seen with barbarian eyes (6). It needed ‘a viewer of good ﬁgure’, mirroring the object viewed, or perhaps ‘of noble birth’ (euphuous theatou), someone whose judgment is not only in their vision, but who also applies a certain reasoning (tis kai logismos) accompanying the things they see. This passage characterizes the mode of observing architecture that was typical of Lucian’s own society. There was a distinction in Roman architectural viewing between wonder (thauma) and praise (epainos).146 Sympathy between the viewer and the building, calculation, and rational judgment were all considered necessary to assess the beauty of a work of architecture. Moreover, the best impression comes only at the right time. Thus the beauty of this hall emerges in the light of dawn, when the ﬁnest and most desirable part of the day begins, and when the doors swing open and the interior is ﬁlled with light: like a temple, this hall clearly faces east.147 Then you see ‘the proportion (eurhuthmon) of length to breadth and of both of these to height’. The full volumetric potential of the space emerges when it carries the light from outside: ‘how could all this not be pleasing and deserving of praise?’ The aesthetic of the building sounds like a parody of the critical principle of eurhythmia;148 but it also requires a combination of emotion and rationality, which, in antiquity, was regarded as best provided by ‘a viewer of noble birth’ (euphue-s theate-s). One should remember, however, that, in the Antonine age the Roman nobility was an open, not a closed, class and there were many who laid claim to the rank of ‘noble’.149 Once inside, the spectator’s attention turns to the building’s ceiling (Fig. 178d). Like the Persian king’s plane tree, it is made of gold, but it also has additional qualities: You would be amazed also at its lack of excess in its ﬁneness of form (en to-i eumorpho-i to aperitton) and at its unattainability in properness of order (kan to-i eukosmoi- to anepile-pton) and the symmetry of the gold in terms of its ﬁne appropriateness (to tou chrusou es to euprepes summetron), not superﬂuously invidious (me- para tas chreias epiphthonon), but what would suffice for a modest and beautiful woman to make her beauty more monumental (epise-moteron) (7).

The restraint of the ceiling decoration, then, achieves true monumentality without vulgar excess or deception, like a moderately dressed woman by contrast with an overdressed tart.150 This commonplace analogy distinguishes between the addition of beautifying decor to an already beautiful object and the vulgar attempt to create a bogus beauty by applying decoration to ugly forms. It depends on conceptions of form and ornament that we have discussed earlier:

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the modest lady uses gold in moderate quantities and only as much as is necessary, but her beauty would not, I think, be a source of shame, even should she appear naked. So too the ceiling of the hall, or rather its head, fair of face (euproso-pos) by itself, has been adorned with gold, to the same effect as the sky at night when thoroughly lit up by the stars at intervals, and blooming here and there with the ﬂowers of their ﬁre. If it were all ﬁre, it would not be beautiful, but terrifying. Here in this ceiling you can see gold, neither gratuitous nor scattered about for pleasure alone, but glowing with a delightful blaze and colouring the whole hall with its redness; when the setting sun hits it and mixes with the gold, they make a common lightning and shine in a redoubled splendour of redness (8).

So the building’s beauty is not static, but alters with the turning of the day. As in the Pantheon,151 the changing view at different hours of the day and the conspicuous presence of time and of the higher order of the universe beyond make the space cosmic. At several points in this passage our author touches on profound issues of contemporary perception discussed earlier in this book: the human analogy of the hall’s ceiling explicitly applies to buildings contemporary physiognomic theory about the human body; the cosmic imagery exploits contemporary beliefs in the architectural ‘dome of heaven’.152 This work, then, conﬁrms the currency of this issue in second-century architectural thought. That Lucian singles out the roof as a sign of the cosmic architecture of the hall is no accident, since a building’s cosmic nature was most apparent in this supreme example of an architect’s skill or a builder’s power.153 The beautiful, shining summit of this building alludes to ‘monumental’ Homeric architecture, Helen’s ‘high-roofed bedchamber’, Menelaus’ and Alcinous’ towering palaces, and even lofty Olympus itself.154 The unimpeachable literary status of Homeric reference enhances the ‘monumental’ nature of the interior: this hall, Lucian adds, needs a Homer to do it justice with praise.155 For emphasis, the orator introduces a third Homeric image, when he compares the interior with its other decoration, wall-paintings and bright colours, and ‘the clarity, precision, and genuineness of each part’ to ‘a vision of spring and to a meadow in ﬂower’.156 Plutarch used a similar metaphor of his Pylaea at Thermopylae: ‘like other plants taking root beside healthy ones, the Grand Gateway too shares the vigour of the buildings at Delphi and feeds with them on the profusion of this place, taking shape and form and receiving the adornment of temples, assemblies, and waters, such as it had never received in the last thousand years.’157 Lucian’s image is of a pasture, not a grove, appropriate to the sacred site, but he goes a step further than Plutarch. This interior is like a meadow which: ‘never withers or fades or changes or loses its beauty, but here is a perpetual spring, an unfading meadow and undying bloom touched by sight alone, which reaps the pleasure of the view’ (9). In great architecture, the naturalistic is exaggerated to become the unimaginable. What is man-made and material becomes eternal and natural in the viewer’s mind. The eulogistic viewer is implicated in the architect’s ﬁght against the declining process of time. Accordingly, Lucian reiterates the need to enjoy good architecture by direct participation: ‘Who would not be delighted by such a place, or wish to speak in it, conscious of the shame in falling short? Seeing beautiful things is a great seduction not only among men; even a horse would surely run with greater pleasure in a smooth, soft ﬁeld’ (10). The horse’s response is elaborated in some detail (10–11), because its theatrical behaviour is clearly analogous to the comportment of the viewer as described

above.158 The effect of the echo is doubly subversive: on the one hand, by animalizing the ideal viewer in his response to architecture, it questions his claim to rationality (logismos); on the other hand, it presents this more sophisticated manner of reacting to ﬁne buildings in the naive terms of the simple, uncultured viewer previously despised. The image of a meadow in spring also invites comparison with a peacock, which ‘appears more wonderful (thaumasio-teros) when its colours shift in the light and subtly change, turning into a different kind of beautiful form (heteron eumorphias eidos)’ (11).159 As an object of thauma, the building’s perfect form becomes more conspicuous when a low light enters the interior.160 The concord between light and the object viewed is like the temptation of a calm sea, even to a ‘landlubber’, whose response is described in stages of increasing involvement, as he tries ‘to get on board, to sail round the coast and to push far out from the shore’ (12).161 The text returns to the building, now described for the ﬁrst time as ‘this building’. This is the ﬁrst explicit indication that the speech is being delivered in this very hall. The speaker reiterates the observation that the building’s beauty is: ‘a sufficient peroration for a speech, and sufficient to arouse the speaker and invest him with every kind of authority’ (13). With this assertion of the building’s immediate presence and of the conﬁdence that it gives to the orator speaking inside it, the latter’s persona is, at last, emphatically exposed. The speaker affirms that: ‘I myself have and have long had faith in these matters and I came into this building to make a speech, as if I had been attracted by a iungx or the beauty of a siren.’ His hope, he claims with measured bravado, is that his words, even if rather ugly by themselves, will be transformed and appear more beautiful when ‘adorned in the ﬁne clothing of the hall’. At this point, ‘a second, not ignoble, but even rather noble logos (‘account’) enters the scene (14).162 The idea is immediately recognizable as a parody of Socrates’ omnipresent daimo-n, which often interrupts Plato’s dialogues to turn the argument from dialectic exchange to Socratic assertion.163 In this case, though, the subversive element had been continually interrupting the speaker, trying to ‘undercut’ (diakoptein) his argument, and: ‘now that I have ﬁnished, it tells me that I have been telling a pack of lies and says that it is amazed (thaumazein) that I argue that a building’s beauty embellished with painting and gold is more conducive to rhetorical display; it thinks that quite the opposite is the case.’ As in Plato’s dialogues, the ﬁrst speaker invites the second voice to defend this counter-intuitive proposition about the effect of great architecture, as if before a jury consisting of the audience and Lucian’s readers. As in sophistic dialectic, the new logos argues that architectural economy (euteleia) and ugliness (amorphia) are more advantageous to an orator than beauty and embellishment, since a building’s ﬁne decoration and attractive appearance have a negative effect. That the logos had indeed been continually making its presence felt during the ﬁrst oration will have been noticed by the careful reader, due to the number of subversions already made of the basic point. Thus, as we have just seen, the analogy with the horse implied similarities to the wrong sort of viewer, and elsewhere too the principal idea of a superior kind of architecture and aesthetic response is undermined. Even the orator’s ﬁnal hope that his words would be improved by the hall, because,

lucian of samosata even if initially formless, they would be embellished by ﬁne dressing, merely recalls the kind of architecture that he had previously condemned, the superﬁcial manner of adornment analogous to ugly prostitutes in showy ﬁnery. The second speaker reverses that hope, remarking that his predecessor had already made ‘a grand and lengthy eulogy of this building’ and ‘embellished it by his own discourse’. In his own turn he will make no criticism of the architecture, but only add those points that the other had left out. Addressing the audience and readers of the work, he outlines his claim that: ‘the more beautiful the building seems to you, the more it will prove to be subversive to the interest of the man who speaks there’ (15). He concentrates at ﬁrst on the nature of decoration and its impact on the appreciation of architectural form. Repeating the human analogy of beautiful women, he argues that rich decoration does not improve their form, since anybody looking at them would be so dazzled (ekplageis) by the gold and expensive jewellery that, instead of praising the lady’s complexion, her eyes, neck, arm, or ﬁngers, he would overlook those features and devote his attention to the exotic gem, emerald, necklace, or bracelet she was wearing, making the girl, quite naturally, rather depressed about being passed over for her own decor, since her viewers had no time for eulogizing her, but made her ornaments the real spectacle. I think that anyone who puts on a show of words in such ﬁne public works has to go through the same thing; because the content of the speech gets lost in the grandeur of the beautiful sights, is overshadowed and overrun, like adding a candle to a bonﬁre or putting an ant on an elephant or a camel. The speaker has to watch out for this, and also that he does not get worried by his own voice when talking in such a harmonious and resonant building; the building, in fact, makes counter-shout, counter-cry, counter-assertion, and, worse, hides your shout, like a trumpet drowning a ﬂute when they play together or the sea with people shouting orders to their rowers . . . megalophony dominates and obliterates lesser noise. (15–16)

Monumental architecture is, therefore, a threat to human dignity. Its size and beautiful decoration, rather than creating an artistic ambit in which the perfect relation between viewer and building is attained, are presented as negative factors, the latter oppressing the human speaker, the former diminishing the humanity of the architecture. The previous speaker’s claim that a beautiful building invites and encourages oratory is answered: it actually does the opposite, since it overawes (ekple-ttei ) and terriﬁes him, confuses his thoughts, and makes him more pathetic from reckoning that it is the most shameful thing of all that his words are shown up in a place of such excellent form to be less ﬁne. This is the clearest proof, like putting on a handsome suit of armour and then running away ahead of everyone else, more visibly pathetic as a result of the arms. I think that orator in Homer was thinking of this when he said he did not care much for physical beauty, but made himself look like a complete idiot so that the beauty of his words would come more unexpectedly in comparison with his ugliness.164 This is especially true when there is every likelihood that the speaker’s own mind must concentrate on the sight and dilute the potency of his intellect, because his eyes take control, demand attention, and do not let him get on with his speech. No trick can stop him talking less when his spirit is involved with the praise of the visible. (17)

With such irresistible demands on the audience’s concentration, even the performance of the greatest orator was impaired:

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I might add that even the audience become viewers rather than listeners when they enter a building like this, and no one who declaims to them is such a Demodocus, Phemius, Thamyris, Amphion, or Orpheus that he can tear their focus away from the spectacle; each person has only to cross the threshold and he becomes completely mesmerized by the beauty. (18)

In the grandest Roman buildings the extravagance of the ornamentation was often so overpowering that it undermined their very purposes. The libraries of imperial Rome, for instance, were said to be so dominated by gilded coffered ceilings and shiny marble ﬂoors that the previously pale-coloured parchment became illegible in the profuse reﬂection of light and had to be made darker. In this hall too, the audience of an oration were at the mercy of their environment. Only if a hearer was blind or if the session was held at night, like the council of the Areopagus, could he avoid becoming completely at the mercy of the visible beauty.165 The idea allows the second speaker to elaborate on the allusion to the Sirens, adding also the analogous myth of the Gorgons: the former took over their listeners, the latter stunned their viewers and turned them to stone ‘as a result of the wonder’ (apo thaumatos) (19).166 The pleasure (to terpnon) of the peacock too is in its visual appearance, not its voice. Sight, indeed, is far more dominant than sound, as Herodotus can testify (20).167 ‘The eyes are more trustworthy than the ears’:168 whereas sounds disappear, sight is always present, lingering and seducing the viewer. If a building is so beautiful and demanding of attention (peribleptos), it must be a difficult adversary for the orator (21). However, the second speaker reserves his strongest argument for last, when he addresses the audience directly, who, listening to an oration held in this very building, are themselves also viewers of this building: You too, the jury, even while I have been talking, have been turning away to look at the roof, gazing in admiration at the walls, and examining the paintings in turn. And yet don’t be ashamed! You’re forgiven, it’s a human thing to do, especially when the material is so handsome and colourful. The ﬁneness of the technique and the moral of the message, as well as its antiquity, is something really attractive, which needs cultivated viewers.169

Here the new speaker ironically alludes to the central premise of his adversary, but corrects it: such sophistication (paideia) lies not in speaking back to the hall, but in the viewing itself. He proposes to ‘paint’ these pictures for the audience in words: ‘because I think you will enjoy hearing what you are amazed to see; you might even praise me and prefer me to my adversary, because I have put on a display myself and doubled your pleasure. Note the difficulty of the task, putting together these images without colours, shapes, or position; painting with words has no instruments.’170 The moral of the scenes in the paintings arranged along the sides of the building (Fig. 176e) is indeed instructive, since they ﬁt the arguments against the distracting beauties of architecture.171 The ﬁrst image of destructive beauty has already been used of the hall’s effect on its viewers: On the right as you enter, an Ethiopian scene has been conﬂated with a story about Argos: Perseus kills the sea-monster and rescues Andromeda and will soon marry her and return home with her; this is a diversion in his ﬂight after the Gorgons. But the artist has shown a lot in a little space, the girl’s shame and fear—watching the ﬁght from the rock above—and the young lover’s boldness

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and the unapproachable sight (opsin aprosmachon) of the monster; the latter attacks, bristling with thorns and terrifying with its open mouth, while Perseus holds out the Gorgon with his left hand and attacks it with a sword in his right; as for the monster, any part of it that has seen the Medusa is already stone, while any part that is still alive is hacked by Perseus’ scimitar (22).

potentially debilitating visual distraction, the subject of the painting acts as an emblem of the building itself.172 This subversive nature of viewing buildings had, of course, already been signalled by the story of Alexander at the start of the oration. The ensuing paintings make further allusions to this theme. The next one, following a tragic theme, shows Orestes and Pylades entering the palace by stealth and killing Aegisthus; Clytemnestra is already dead and lies half-naked on a couch, and all her servants are there, devastated by the murder, some represented as shouting, others as trying to run away (23). Despite the apparently different subject-matter, this famous tragic scene is tied to the theme of viewing architecture by similar language: the servants are all ‘terriﬁed’ (ekpeple-gmenoi ) at this work (ergon), like a crowd amazed by a great building, and, in response, some shout (like the orator or applauding audience, inviting monstrous echoes from the hall’s acoustics) and others look around (like the curious viewer) to ﬁnd a way out of this nightmare. Thus the paintings themselves mimic the ‘primitive’ reactions to architecture of the audience who view them and their architectural surroundings. The paintings become a metaphor for the viewing of the building: ‘The painter imagined something serene (semnon), showing only the impiety of the crime and bypassing it as something that has already happened, yet making the young men linger (embradunontas) over the murder of the adulterer’ (23). As the picture possesses the serenity (semnote-s) of the hall, so its ﬁgures seem to ‘linger’ like the viewers.173 The next paintings too echo the same theme, though their scenes do not explicitly concern buildings. For example: ‘Then we have Perseus again and his adventures before the sea-monster, Medusa with her head cut off, and Athena protecting Perseus: he has done the deed, but not seen his work, except for the Gorgon’s reﬂection in his shield, because he knows the penalty of seeing the real thing’ (25). The architectural import of this is suggested by the following image, a statue of Athena in an architectural surround, which appears to be situated on the axis of the entrance (Fig. 176f ): ‘In the middle of the wall opposite the door and higher up,174 a temple of Athena has been constructed, with the goddess in white marble, not in military style, but as appropriate for a war goddess at peace’ (26). Again we are reminded of the ambiguity of the hall’s blinding light: ‘Another Old Master is next, showing Orion, blind, leading Cedalion, and the other, riding on a chariot, showing him the way to the light, and the sun appears and cures Orion’s blindness, while Hephaestus observes the act from Lemnos’ (28–9). And ﬁnally: ‘The last painting is of Medea, boiling with envy, looking meanly at her children and planning something terrible: she is already holding the sword, anyway, and the poor things are sitting down laughing, not knowing anything of what is going to happen to them, even though they can see the sword in her hand’ (31). Each painting represents an act and its observation like a great work of construction, which parallels the behaviour of the listening audience and their own visual distractions within the hall: ‘Don’t you see how all this diverts the listener and draws him to what he sees, leaving the man who is talking all on his own?’ (32). But, despite his insistence on the detrimental effects of interior architecture and ornamentation, the second speaker makes a ﬁnal apology:

By highlighting the difficulty of carrying out an action in the face of a

I have gone over all this, not to make you think that the other speaker had been

(d)

(e)

(f ) 176. Reconstruction drawings of Lucian’s Hall by Friedrich Weinbrenner, 1822. (d) Plan of the ceiling level. (e) Section of the long side. (f ) Section of short side.

lucian of samosata brash and over-zealous for having exposed himself to such an uninterested audience, and to make you hate and despise him for that and leave him to his words, but so that you would support his performance (sunago-nise-sthe) and, shutting your eyes, listen to what he said as compliantly as possible, thinking about the difficulty of the performance; in that way, with you as supporters rather than jurors, it would be pretty difficult for him not to be thought worthy of the building’s expense. Don’t be surprised that that’s what I ask on behalf of an adversary, because it is by loving the building and the person who speaks within it, whoever he may be, that I should like to be successful.

Lucian’s second speaker, then, emerges as also an aesthete. After his effective parody of a sophisticated mode of architectural appreciation, it is the dual humanity of the building and its occupant, a conceit ﬁrst

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demonstrated by the previous speaker, which is most important.175 That humanity must be recognized and answered by the human response of love. The successful understanding of a work of architecture is that which comes from an acceptance of the building’s superiority and attraction and of the complicity and weakness of its viewers. This has implications for Antonine architectural perception. The Peri tou oikou makes sense only in a context of a perceived relationship between building and viewer. The form of this relationship can vary, between direct equality, harmonious coexistence, and emotional dependence, but in each case it makes visual and spatial demands on behaviour.

CONCLUSION The monumentality of a Roman building was judged by the response to it. That response was primarily visual, but other senses such as smell, touch, and hearing contributed to produce the impression of monumentality. In the search for grandeur, visitors’ eyes were drawn to certain recognizable features: a propylon with columns, an imposing exterior height; exuberant decoration and, above all, a brilliance (lamprote-s) that dazzled the eyes and stunned the body with the reﬂected heat of the sun; an inner moral message; and, within, a cosmic sense of spaciousness, which made viewers lift their eyes and had an equally uplifting effect on their spirits. No wonder that contemporary orators were inspired by monumental buildings to achieve monumentality in their own texts.

However, the relation between architecture and text was ambivalent: on the one hand, buildings depended on the eulogy of the orator to be recognized for their greatness: a great building ‘needed a Homer to do it justice with praise’, and the grandeur of a new work was enhanced by recalling parallels with the settings of epic; on the other hand, there was a sense of competition between the work of the architect and the performance of the orator. The architectural surroundings could distract from an orator’s speech, and the orator’s desire to achieve rhetorical grandeur risked belittling that of the building. Texts that were inscribed on the building at least did not contain the distraction of sound. They both enhanced the ornamentation of the architecture and served as a tool for its mental evaluation.

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GENERAL CONCLUSION monumentalit y and modernit y Lucian’s architectural descriptions reveal the moral and cultural pressures that were exerted on new building in the age of the Antonines. Legendary archetypes such as the Persian king’s golden plane tree and the palaces of Homeric epic offered a yardstick by which the monumentality of future buildings could be measured. But they also warned builders of the limits to be avoided. On the one hand, to make its mark in history, monumental architecture needed to exhibit a grandeur, exuberance, and brilliance that would inspire spectators with awe; on the other hand, there was perceived to be something ‘uncivilized’ about buildings which set out only to impress and which reduced viewers to irrational beings. Antonine architecture wanted to be seen as more ‘cultivated’ than that, and to appeal to viewers’ humanity and culture. There was a real dilemma here, one which has preoccupied many subsequent periods of architectural history: if the architecture of the past set the standard of monumentality, how truly ‘monumental’ could the buildings of the modern age be? Older works seemed ‘larger’ than new ones because they inspired more noteworthy memories. To Marcus Piso in the late Republic, the new Sullan senate-house seemed, despite its greater height, ‘smaller’ than its ancient predecessor, the Curia Hostilia, which, when he looked at it, brought him visions of famous senators of the past.1 Modern buildings, which, by deﬁnition, lacked associations, could, it seemed, only make an impression by being more imposing and on a scale too large to invite direct comparison; but, in that, they ran the risk of appearing inhuman. For example, the very ﬁrst work of Antoninus Pius’ reign, the Tomb of Hadrian, produced a clear impression of monumental scale. The bronze chariot on the summit was said to be ‘so large . . . that a very fat man would be able to pass through the eye of each horse, but, to men on the ground, the horses and statue of Hadrian still look very small, because of the extreme height of the construction’.2 The hyperbole used here to convey a feeling of dominating height, by allowing the reader to imagine the scale of the whole body on the basis of the size of one of its smaller parts,3 was considered an essential ingredient in the rhetorical ‘sublime’.4 It also transcended what Ruskin would later describe as ‘that degree of magnitude which is the lowest at which sublimity begins, rudely deﬁnable as that which will make a living ﬁgure look less than life beside it’.5 However, as Ruskin notes in another context, hyperbolic monumental scale can be alienating: statues of this size are almost always awkward; and people are apt to joke upon them to speculate upon the probable effect of a blow from their ﬁsts, or a shake of their hand, etc., and a monument should never induce feelings of this kind. In the case of the statue of San Carlo Borromeo [above Lago Maggiore], which is 72 feet high without the pedestal, people forget to whom it was erected, in the joke of getting into its skull, and looking out [from] its eye. . . . In all monuments of this kind, there is generally some slight appearance of affectation; of an effort at theatrical effect, which, if the sculptor has thrown dignity enough

into the ﬁgure to reach the effect aimed at, is not offensive; but, if he fails, as he often will, becomes ridiculous to some individuals, and painful to others.

These effects of colossal buildings diminish their potential monumentality, turning the sublime into the ridiculous. In the same way, Lucian’s sympathy for the dead Mausolus, forever trampled by a parade of sculpted horsemen,6 undermines the grandeur of this mausoleum and of imitations like Hadrian’s monument at Rome. If colossal size was self-defeating, a huge building had to be seen to possess other qualities more consistent with humanity. For Ruskin, who ranked Hadrian’s tomb or, as it was then, the Castel Sant’ Angelo, alongside the Venetian Doge’s Palace in its achievement of a sublime effect, its monumentality lay not so much in its size as in its formal qualities: the broad expanse of wall surface; the uninterrupted situation; unbroken bonding lines; and a shape which seemed, almost literally, to square the circle.7 These features were all just as plain on its original completion, around 139. Moreover, they mirrored the characteristics of the literary sublime: with its sheer face and accumulation of layers, the building combined the ‘abruptness’ of Demosthenes’ oratory with the ‘build-up’ of that of Cicero.8 In addition, its original marble decoration had that dazzling brilliance (lamprote-s) valued in architecture and literature alike. The two peacocks adorning it—now presented in the Cortile della Pigna of the Vatican (Fig. 177)—exuded a radiance and beauty exhibited also by Lucian’s hall.9 Discussions of monumentality in modern architecture frequently founder on the assumption that such a quality belonged to the architecture of the past and is either unattainable or undesirable for buildings of the future. The ‘loss of monumentality’ is often lamented.10 A similar preoccupation was found in the late ﬁrst and second centuries, as writers asked: can modernity ever be truly monumen-

177. Copies of the bronze peacocks that originally decorated the Tomb of Hadrian, now in the Belvedere Courtyard of the Vatican Museums.

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tal or sublime?11 The question, usually with an implied denial, was particularly raised in a rhetorical context, at the end of the treatise on ‘the sublime’ by ‘Longinus’. However, the abundance of architectural imagery in this work makes it worth asking whether such debates had relevance also for buildings. The ﬁnal chapter introduces the contention of ‘a certain philosopher’ that modernity can never be sublime: ‘Like probably many others, I wonder how it comes about that in our age there are highly persuasive and political types, ﬁerce and eager, and very gifted in verbal pleasures, but no longer extremely elevated and colossal ones, unless by exception. So great and universal a failure in words attends our lives.’12 Past rhetorical heights are attributed to political freedom and democracy: Should we then believe the popular view that democracy is a good nurse to greatness, and that clever speakers have lived and died with it alone? For freedom, they say, is capable of feeding the ideas of men of great spirit, of inspiring hope, and also of arousing eagerness for mutual rivalry and for ambition for precedence. Besides, because of the prizes offered in republics, the mental superiorities of orators are constantly practised, sharpened, and polished, and in politics naturally stand out, brilliantly free.13

The metaphor of polished marble brings out the similarity with the buildings of Athens, the achievements of democracy,14 ‘fresh in vigour up to the present day’ and ‘always in bloom . . . untouched by time’.15 By contrast, the philosopher attributes the failure of contemporary literature to rival that of the past to political change: Today we seem to be educated from childhood in a just servitude, virtually wrapped in the swaddling-clothes of the same customs and practices from the time when our thoughts are still tender, and never tasting the fairest and most fertile source of eloquence, freedom, I mean, he added; and so we turn out as nothing but high-spirited ﬂatterers. This is why, he maintained, although household servants have other faculties, no slave ever becomes an orator. For the deprivation and imprisonment of freedom of speech, always oppressed by habit, boils over: ‘The day of subjection,’ as Homer says, ‘removes half our virtue.’16

Does this mean that the modern age is not capable of producing ‘sublime’ or ‘monumental’ architecture any more than sublime literature, because there is no political freedom? The argument that absence of political freedom can make large-scale architecture less admirable is certainly a familiar one. In Lucian’s ‘Hall’, the buildings of the Persians were allegedly inferior because they intimidated and alienated spectators. Modern architects too have argued that the associations of buildings of vast dimensions with undemocratic governments or imperialistic ideas discredit the ideal of monumentality altogether, even suggesting that ‘the word monumentality should . . . be eliminated from the architectural vocabulary as a characteristic desirable for buildings in a democratic society’.17 Such considerations should imply that the monumental buildings of the Roman Empire were not worthy of praise.18 But the response of ‘Longinus’ to the popular view is surprising. ‘It is easy,’ he says, ‘and peculiar to mankind, to ﬁnd fault with the present.’ Perhaps, then, sublimity is not only achieved by monuments of the distant past. Despite his focus on ancient Greece, Pausanias singled out the fora of Augustus and Trajan at Rome, the latter ‘worth visiting for its decoration, especially the bronze ceiling’.19 For Plutarch too, the only Roman buildings com-

parable to those classical Athenian ‘monuments of evergreen breath and ageless life’ belonged not to the Republic, but to the Empire: The grand scale of public works and temples and the construction of buildings, with which Pericles adorned Athens, do not deserve to be compared with the ambitious works (philotime-mata) of Rome before the Caesars, but it is the grandeur of enterprise (megalourgia) and majesty (megaloprepeia) of the emperors which has held the ﬁrst place exceptionally and incomparably with the Periclean monuments.20

Likewise, the only Roman buildings that Pausanias mentioned alongside the monuments of ancient Greece were recent Roman ones: those of Trajan in Rome, of Hadrian in Athens, of Antoninus across the Empire, and of the senator Antoninus at Epidaurus. ‘Longinus’ replies to the philosopher by offering a moral, rather than a political, explanation for the decline in monumental grandeur: not military oppression by the Roman army bringing ‘world peace’, but ‘this war that controls our desires’ and ‘the passions garrisoning and completely ransacking our lives’. Love of money and of pleasure . . . makes us slaves. . . . as soon as [wealth] opens the entrances of cities and buildings, extravagance enters and resides in them. These things endure in time and make nests in men’s lives . . . and breed affectation, greed, and luxury, not as bastards, but as its legitimate offspring. If one lets these children of wealth come to maturity, they immediately engender in our souls implacable masters: arrogance, lawlessness, and shamelessness. These things occur inevitably: people no longer look upwards, nor there is any consideration for future fame, but the ruin of such lives is gradually completed, and mental grandeurs wither and fade and become unenviable, as men wonder at their own mortal destinies and neglect to increase immortal ones.21

So, ‘Longinus’ asks, ‘amid such pestilential corruption in life, do we still have left a free, impartial judge of what is great or of what lasts for eternity, uncorrupted by desire for gain’?22 His answer is hard to reconcile with views of him as an upholder of democratic values in an age of imperial decadence: No, for men like ourselves, it may be better to be ruled than free, since our appetites, if utterly let loose upon our neighbours like beasts from a cage, would ﬂood the world with harm. . . . the frivolity characteristic of modern men is an extravagance, which affects the lives of all but a few of us, working or engaging only for praise or pleasure, and never for utility that is truly worthy of honour and pride. ‘But enough of such speculation.’23

After the prevailingly negative tone earlier in the chapter, this passage raises a glimmer of hope that the sublime or ‘monumental’ (to hupsos) can be achieved. It would be based not on the absence of practical function, as ‘monumentality’ is interpreted today, but on the quality of utility. This revelation may sound surprising, as the author’s earlier description of to hupsos had concentrated on features apparently designed to delight and impress the hearer, rather than to serve him. But that is precisely the catch. Most modern men, wanting to impress their audience, are motivated exclusively by desire for pleasure or praise, rather than the general beneﬁt. This is not a wholesale dismissal of modernity. By the words ‘except a few’ (ple-n oligo-n), he suggests that there are still some people living in his time who can reach the height.

general conclusion To hupsos, then, is not ‘an impossible Thing’, as modern critics call the ‘Sublime’, but something achievable, based upon a search for utility, not just for praise or pleasure. This recalls the focus on practicality in earlier architectural literature: for Vitruvius, public buildings should combine ‘solidity’ (ﬁrmitas) and ‘attractiveness’ (venustas) with ‘utility’ (utilitas); for Cato the Elder, practical need was an important counterweight in villa architecture to the moral degeneration of aediﬁcatio, a view perhaps indebted to Socratic teachings that the beauty of an object lay in its utility.24 The idea, we have seen, is reiterated in Lucian’s ‘Hippias’. However, as Josephus remarked in criticism of the projects of the emperor Gaius, truly ‘royal’ works should beneﬁt posterity, as well as the present.25 In the Antonine Baths at Carthage, a marble plaque commemorated the aqueduct dedicated to Antoninus Pius as ‘water that will be of great use to the baths’.26 Even the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus was not only a colossal monument, but possessed utility in ‘the devices and supports, which the temple’s need invented because they did not previously exist in human society’.27 ‘Longinus’’ ﬁnal chapter can thus be read as a rejection of the view, commonly held by nostalgic critics, that the monumental is impossible in the modern age.28 But, he says, the truly ‘monumental’ should not be exclusively concerned with arousing pleasure or inviting praise. For the same reason, the architectural monumentality that Adolf Loos sought in the early twentieth century involved elevation without distracting ornament. But, while, for Loos, monumentality was the very absence of a function, in Antonine architecture the opposite was the case. As ‘Longinus’ claimed that it was possible to achieve a greatness in rhetoric that ‘no longer falls outside utility and beneﬁt’, so too monumental buildings transcended natural grandeur because of their practical value. While in nature it was the dramatically different, rather than the everyday, which possessed grandeur worthy of amazement, in public architecture it was structures of practical daily use and of high density (celebritas) that had greatest monumentality. And, as with great works of literature that outlasted their age, that monumentality seemed to endure into the future. The date of On the Sublime is unknown. But a reasonable case can be made, based on its language and ideas, that it was written in the Antonine period. At this time, the claim that a public building was built ‘for eternity’ had particular resonance. It pointed not only to the future fame to which a patron or architect aspired, but to a quality that the architecture itself was believed to possess: ‘monumentality.’

dilemmas of st yle? The continued recourse to propositions emphasized by Vitruvius, almost two centuries previously, suggests that the elements of architectural theory had not changed very much by the Antonine period. However, the major developments in construction techniques and in the range of forms available to designers of Roman buildings necessitated some signiﬁcant modiﬁcations. In particular, the concern with light and space, which in the ﬁrst century was presented as a disturbing and avoidable trend, had become, a century later, an important criterion of aesthetic success. Imported coloured marbles, which earlier had

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seemed a symbol of extravagance, were now valued for the meaningful colours that they brought to architectural forms. The columnar orders had become both more and less important than in Vitruvius’ treatise. On the one hand, aesthetic choice was no longer governed by only the three columnar forms described there. Composite capitals, which are entirely absent from Vitruvius and in his lifetime had barely been conceived, had considerable symbolic prestige, not only in rooms of imperial cult in the bath-gymnasia of Asia Minor or in the upper order of the basilica at Carthage, but in entrances to scholae, horrea, and a range of minor public buildings, as well as in private tombs. Doric columns too, on the rare occasions when they were used in the Antonine age, were chosen, as in the Asclepieum at Lambaesis, not in automatic adherence to a pattern-book, but deliberately for their cultural associations. There was also greater diversity in forms and scale of the orders, with giant and miniature adaptations adopted in monuments of all sizes, from theatre façades to sarcophagi, and variety in the materials used, in the form of capitals, and in the treatment of column shafts, whether smooth marble, twisted ﬂutes, or with ‘peopled scrolls’. On the other hand, the columnar orders were less decisive in determining overall architectural design. They were balanced by curvilinear forms, which made the rectilinear orders seem static and secondary in structural and functional signiﬁcance: arcades, arcuated lintels, segmental pediments, and apses were all more expressive ways of deﬁning a space. Columns often served purely as a background, less visually noteworthy than huge panels of lettering, painted or mosaic vaults, sculptures, or wall-paintings. They played their greatest role at the entrances to buildings, or in architectural set-pieces like a theatre stage or the backdrop of a fountain, but often seemed more effective doubled up either side of a pier, as in Vedius’ baths at Ephesus, or superimposed, as in the market gate at Miletus or the gateway at Jerash. In interiors, their details were increasingly less noticed than the vast volumes of space enclosed and the colourful materials that adorned them; commonly, they were not structural members in their own right, but superimposed on bulky concrete piers that supported a vault. In the new ‘basilica stoa’ at Thera, the role of the orders is reduced to the columnar screen introducing the back room; in the main hall of the building they have a minimal role, wholly alien to classical and Hellenistic Greek stoas. It is striking that in neither of Lucian’s two extensive architectural descriptions are columnar orders even mentioned. The sheer range of formal possibilities and the known involvement of patrons like Fronto in selecting the design of public buildings suggest that the second century must have been a time of considerable architectural debate. But, by comparison with the fraught architectural discussions of later periods, notably the nineteenth century, which resembled the Antonine period in both its vigorous reuse of established idioms and its search for a new style, literary sources barely scratch the surface of stylistic controversy. Only occasionally, as with the writings of the two contemporaries Tacitus and Pliny the younger, is there an opportunity to read between the lines, in order to discern the outlines of a deeper disagreement on architectural aesthetics.29 But controversy certainly existed, as we have seen in this book, not only from Dio’s plans for beautifying Prusa, but also from projects such as the basilica stoa at

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Thera, Vedius’ baths and bouleuterion at Ephesus, and the theatre at Miletus. The absence of an architectural literature from second-century sources can be contrasted with the extensive debates on literature and rhetorical practice which from this period were becoming a fashion. Because of the widespread analogy between architecture and literature, these can offer some insights into contemporary views on architectural style. In most cases the parallel does not go far beyond a general search for ‘grandeur’, or for other essential qualities like ‘solemnity’ (semnote-s) and ‘brilliance’ (lamprote-s). In ‘Longinus’’ treatise, though, the architectural metaphor is so ingrained in his literary criticism as to suggest more speciﬁc evaluations of built form and their relationship with his ideal of utility. An earlier passage in ‘Longinus’’ treatise throws light on how one may recognize true hupsos in architecture, as well as in literature: In life, nothing is great which it is great to despise. For example, riches, honours, distinctions, tyrannies, and everything else that possesses in abundance the external trappings of the stage (to exo-then prostrago-idoumenon), will not seem, to the intelligent man, to be supreme blessings, since the very contempt of them is no simple good; at any rate, those who could have them, but disdain them out of magnanimity, are more admired than those who have them. So too with sublimity in poems and prose writings: we must consider whether some supposed examples have an illusion (phantasian) of greatness, to which much is added, moulded on top to no purpose, but when opened up they are found to be merely frivolous things, to despise which is nobler than to admire. For our soul is somehow naturally uplifted by the true sublime and, reaching a splendid height, is ﬁlled with joy and vaunting, as if it had itself produced what it heard.30

The language in which these ‘illusions of grandeur’—wealth, honour, kingship—are described, ‘sculpted on top to no purpose’, suggests how the principle might be applied to architecture. Equivalent to these ‘trappings of the stage’ were the costly marbles and gilding, columns and pediments, ‘ornaments of the tragic stage’, according to Vitruvius,31 which frequently adorned theatres,32 but also fountains, gateways, and other buildings of the Antonine period: although intended to produce monumentality, they risked presenting only an illusion of greatness, not true grandeur. Like Vitruvius, Seneca had attacked the adornment of bathbuildings with ‘columns supporting nothing and placed as an ornament for the sake of expense’.33 Peregrinus’ attack on Herodes Atticus’ lavish fountain at Olympia perhaps sprang from distaste at so many ornaments, ‘moulded on top to no purpose’. Ruskin later saw something of this contrast between a false monumentality and a purer sublimity: while the pride of many a stately palace, and the wealth of many a jewelled shrine, perish from our thoughts in a dust of gold, there will rise, through their dimness, the white image of some secluded marble chapel, by river or forest side, with the fretted ﬂower-work shrinking under its arches, as if vaults of latefallen snow; or the vast weariness of some shadowy wall whose separate stones are like mountain foundations, and yet numberless.34

Ruskin’s architectural sublime resembles ‘Longinus’’ rhetorical version in its effect both on the mind and on the eye, and its overall bodily unity dependent on formal characteristics and impressions of mass and light. However, there are some important divergences. First, the relation-

ship between architecture and the natural wonders of the cosmos is conceived quite differently. Ruskin regarded architecture as a creative act, which responded to and should respect the wonders of the natural world: ‘the material which nature furnishes, and the form which she suggests, will always render the building most beautiful, because the most appropriate.’35 Yet in Roman imperial architecture builders strove to improve on natural forms. Standing out against the landscape, and asserting human superiority to nature, was not considered to be a fault in structures like the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus or the Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium. Second, for Ruskin the architectural sublime was like the eighteenth-century sublime, in that the response of those who see it is a feeling, not of pleasure, but of pain. Although ‘Longinus’ argues against being governed by pleasure alone, he nonetheless stresses that the response to rhetorical hupsos is one of joy. In that sense, it is much closer to what Ruskin said of the monument, which, unlike the sepulchre, does not ‘mourn’, but ‘rejoices’. Finally, while Ruskin’s architectural sublime appears cut off from human activities, for Longinus hupsos is achieved by seeking something ‘useful that is truly worthy of honour and pride’. Such preoccupations may be visible from the forms adopted by the Antonine emperors. In comparison with buildings designed by local elites, the imperial monuments of Rome show restraint in their ornamentation: the Hadrianeum and Tomb of Hadrian show a ‘Hadrianic classicism’ that contrasts with the exuberance of late Flavian works; the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina is similarly austere, with ornamental meaning focused on a few key details, such as the cipollino columns, the altar on the steps, the griffins of the side frieze, and the inscription on the front. This restraint helped to avoid distraction from the overall, archetypal temple form and its imposing size and situation. On non-imperial monuments, however, the decorative detailing is signiﬁcantly richer, both in the elaborate terracotta cornices of temple-tombs and in the ‘baroque’ forms of marble, aedicular sarcophagi. In public buildings too, there was often greater exuberance of ornament the more remote a building was from the centres of power. This was not simply, as in Syria, the result of alternative architectural traditions, which encouraged greater decoration. At Apollonia the ‘monument of the agonothetes’ has an entablature and cornice comparable to examples from Asia Minor and North Africa, but more ornate than in contemporary imperial buildings. Such forms, which also expose the limitations of architectural decoration as a dating method,36 imply a desire to display the ‘trappings of the tragic stage’ without sharing ‘Longinus’’ concerns about their vanity. Similar perhaps was the upper composite order of the basilica at Carthage: although the initiative for this project was imperial, such a design, which is uncharacteristic of basilicas at Rome, might have resulted from an enthusiastic governor’s desire to achieve maximum grandeur. The lack of explicit second-century views on such questions prevents one from discovering more about the debates that undoubtedly preceded the appearance of such forms. However, the contrast with the abundance of nineteenth-century architectural opinions may not be simply a question of the survival of sources. Roman architects were less concerned than their successors to make their ideas explicit. The writings of Nicon had the effect of obfuscating the nature of his art. Rhetors like Lucian, Polemo, and Aristides rose to the challenge of talking about buildings, but most people had to be content with the

general conclusion common physical reactions, because public buildings had become so mystiﬁed that their ‘virtues’, like those of Hippias’ bath, could not easily be discussed by the layman. Whereas Publius Rutilius Rufus, in the Augustan period, had spoken authoritatively in the Senate ‘on the manner of buildings’, Aristides balked at such technical knowhow, and the speeches of Fronto and Marcus on public buildings seem to have emphasized moral and political rather than practical issues. Such a change did not imply that architectural form was less important to the Roman governing classes. On the contrary, buildings were now crucial, not just as physical structures, but for their symbolic power.

the power of architecture: transition to l ate antiquit y Aristides claimed that the scale of the temple at Cyzicus enhanced the greatness of its imperial builders, ‘sharing themselves in the greatest things’.37 But, unlike the Persian kings who were believed to ‘see and hear twice as much as other men’, the emperors Marcus and Lucius ‘became eyes and ears for each other and doubled the utility provided by nature, making protection of the Empire not someone else’s affair, but truly done from home, sharing in everything’. Theirs was a wonderful monarchy of one judgement founded on two bodies and two souls, like a harmony extending through all the chords. What better music might there be than this? What melody dearer to Apollo and the Muses? What harmony more common to the human race? The music of Amphion and Zethus went so far as to build the towers of Thebes . . . but these emperors have shared in all cities and all peoples and sing their music the same, taking their song from their fathers and their ancestors, but making it more brilliant in every respect.38

This image recalls Nicon’s identiﬁcation of architektonia with music in the Pythagorean quadrivium. By the end of the Antonine era architecture, previously regarded as just another technical skill, was for many the crown of intellectual achievement. Buildings, especially in the eastern Empire, were celebrated in appropriately adulatory language. In the early third century the epitaph of the architect Harpalus at Hermopolis Magna praised him, like Lucian’s Hippias, as ‘the most multitalented man in the science of Daedalus’. His powers were almost magical: he had created long perimeter walls of temples and colonnades, using ‘poles of scaffolding as thin as matchsticks’; like the Antonine emperors, he resembled Amphion and Orpheus in his ability to move stones without effort by his music of architecture.39 It was this supernatural aspect of architecture (architektosune-) which made people of many religious affiliations in late antiquity attach such importance to it. The architect Pericles of Mylasa, praised on his epitaph for the ‘virtue of architecture’ exhibited in the buildings he had created at Rome, may have designed one of the many pre-Constantinian Christian churches there.40 In the revival of Platonism anticipated by Lucian, Nicon, and other second-century writers, architecture occupied a central and symbolic niche. The enigmatic four lines preceding Nicon’s long geometrical inscription appear to be concerned with the creation of the world. As for Ruskin, architecture was able to re-create these wonders of nature, but

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for Nicon they could be reproduced intellectually by geometrical theories that were capable of raising man to the level of God. Plato’s Timaeus, still the standard account of the creation of the world, raised new architectural questions. The analogy of God’s construction of the primal order to the foundation of a city according to architectural plans was taken for granted by later Platonists, but also seen to contain many uncertainties which, from the second century, the conﬂicting theories of Middle Platonism set out to resolve. In particular, who was the designer that created the world, and what was the model on which the world was based? According to Iamblichus, the latter was ‘Being itself ’,41 but he also believed there to be something called ‘the One’ (to hen), the origin of which went even further back than that. Porphyry identiﬁed Plato’s Demiurge with indivisible Soul, and his model with the Intellect; Proclus, however, later argued that this was the reverse of what Plato had intended, since Plato had called the Demiurge an intellect and his model the Intelligible. Theodorus, in his turn, conceived of a ‘Demiurgic Triad’, of which the last element, the Living itself, would be the model followed by the Demiurge. In the mid-third century Plotinus suggested that the prototype and creative stimulus for the universe lay in the Demiurge himself, rather than in something before or after him. Syrianus, head of the Academy in the 430s, proceeded from this step to ask whether the Demiurge followed directly after the One, or whether there were other intelligible classes between the Demiurge and the One, preferring the latter solution. For Proclus himself, Syrianus’ pupil, ‘Intellect’ (nous) was ‘the designer (technites) of the ﬁery kosmos’.42 All these subsequent modiﬁcations of Plato’s theory of creation reﬂected and reinforced the practice of building in the Roman imperial world. The architectural metaphors to which philosophers had constant recourse, and their assumptions of the creativity of the builder himself, were far more explicit than Plato had originally envisaged. They presupposed a view of architecture, not as a banausic craft, but as a powerful creative force. In his own solution to the philosophical problem of the origin of the world, Porphyry imagined an ideal place, which existed before the Demiurge constructed the world and on which he modelled it. As the universe was regarded as the most beautiful and the best architectural creation, the pre-cosmic ‘cave of the Nymphs’ showed perfection of form. The philosophers who cherished this concept followed the most revered literary model, as the oldest and most authoritative source for the nature of this perfect space: the grotto of the nymphs in Homer’s Odyssey.43 Later Roman commentators speculated at length on the nature of this ideal microcosm of the world.44 For Porphyry, Homer’s description was an allegorical, not a factual, one: the grotto, he explained, was a symbol of the cosmos. Like other caves, its cosmic meaning resulted from its form: because caves are mostly self-generated and compacted with the earth, surrounded by a uniform rock, of which the inside is hollow, while the outside is lost in the boundlessness of the earth; whereas the cosmos is self-generated and naturally compacted with matter, which [the ancients] used to intimate was stone and rock because of its inert quality and resistance to form, considering it inﬁnite by virtue of its formlessness. But, as matter is ﬂuid and in itself lacking the form through which it is shaped and made visible, they took the wetness, dankness, darkness of caves, and what Homer called their ‘mist-like’ quality, as

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a symbol of things added to the cosmos because of matter. So, because of matter, the cosmos is mist-like and dark, but, because of the weaving and arrangement (diakosme-sis) of form, which gave the cosmos its name, it is beautiful and beloved. Therefore, it might properly be called a cave that is pleasant for one as soon as one confronts it because of its share in form, but seems mist-like as one examines its foundation and enters it with one’s mind: and so the exterior is superﬁcially pleasing, while the interior is mist-like in depth.45

However, the ‘grotto of the Nymphs’ was not merely a cerebral concept. As Porphyry himself notes, its adoption as a model for sanctuaries of Mithras allegedly went back to the Persian Zoroaster. Indeed, the ambition to create a perfect, cosmic, grotto-like space based on the Homeric prototype is visible in several Antonine buildings and takes many forms: from the sunken mithraeum in the ‘Palazzo Imperiale’ at Ostia, which seems intended to create a feeling of being at one with one’s ‘cosmic roots’;46 to the decorated well at Buthrotum (Butrint) in Epirus, dedicated by Julia Ruﬁna, ‘friend of the Nymphs’.47 Architecture could improve on nature in creating such ideal forms: at the fountain-house of Glauce in Corinth, the porch, cut out of the bedrock, was fashioned in the shape of a barrel-vaulted roof.48 Even more generally, the progression from a ‘superﬁcially pleasing’ exterior to a dark, misty, and profound interior was a compositional principle embodied in the public architecture of the later Empire. The architectural readings of the creation of the world gave buildings a special place in ancient philosophical debates about the character of natural and artiﬁcial forms. The argument ran along familiar Platonic lines: ‘If particular buildings had particular forms, was there a general Form, “Building”, possessed by all buildings?’ Plato had raised the possibility, but ultimately rejected it, excluding buildings from his elaborate theory of forms, and Aristotle did likewise. Because architecture was the man-made reuse of natural materials, there was no philosophical credibility to its claims to have some relation to eternal forms. Yet later philosophers, not only Platonists but also the sceptic Sextus Empiricus, continued to raise the possibility that a building might have an existence beyond the materials with which it was made. These thinkers never completely overturned the negative verdict of their classical forebears. Syrianus still ﬁrmly denied the possibility that particular buildings could be the imitations of a general archetype, arguing, like others before him, that each building was the product of an individual artist’s working reﬂections, which were speciﬁc to the circumstances of the brief.49 But the recurrence of the issue tells one something about the status of architecture in later antiquity. Although the philosophers were reluctant to endorse it, it is hard to escape the conclusion that the ancients believed that their buildings were exempliﬁed by some general life-form. The ideas of Middle and later Platonism pervaded the whole Mediterranean, not just Athens, where the school had begun, but Asia Minor, Syria, Rome, and even Carthage, where Apuleius studied.50 Throughout this ‘Platonist diaspora’51 there was much thinking about building-forms. Moreover, reﬂections on architectural cosmology were not the preserve of elite philosophical schools, but inﬂuenced popular beliefs, especially through Pythagoreanism. In the ‘Chaldaean Oracles’, which inﬂuenced popular attitudes in the East, the Platonic image of the origins of the world was architecturally explicit.52 As

Proclus later wrote, ‘the oracles referred to the Demiurge of the universe by the name of “designer of works” (ergotechnite-s)’.53 This term was based on the analogy of officials in charge of public buildings (ergepistatai ) in the Roman East, but also, through its root techne-, emphasized the element of design.54 It was the product of a world in which people believed that the universe had been created by a supreme architect and that worldly buildings were inferior imitations of this model. Followers of Plato and Aristotle, such as Cicero and Philo, had used the analogy of architecture as a proof for the existence and greatness of God, arguing that if one sees a well-designed house, one cannot avoid attributing the design to a divine aediﬁcator.55 By Porphyry’s time such a god was considered much more of a universal force, shared by different religions.56 But such an argument encouraged architectural patrons to see their own achievements as manifesting divine qualities. By the fourth and ﬁfth centuries it was common for provincial governors to present their building-works as exhibiting the virtue of ‘wisdom’ (sophia), in the manner suggested by the allegorical statuary on Celsus’ Library (Fig. 5b).57 Although this quality might refer only to pragmatic resourcefulness or political judgement, it could also imply speciﬁcally architectural features, such as the cleverness of the design or the speed of the work.58 Typically, the governor was admired for his restoration of a city’s walls;59 such achievements put him alongside Apollo and Poseidon, or Isis.60 One cannot always be speciﬁc about the inﬂuence of such philosophical beliefs upon the patrons of Roman public architecture. But there are sometimes suggestive correspondences. There is reason to believe, for example, that Plotinus inspired the views and artistic patronage of the third-century emperor Gallienus.61 In Athens, where the revival of the Academy had been encouraged by Marcus Aurelius’ establishment of philosophical chairs,62 we see how a Platonist conception of form inﬂuenced ideas of public representation. When an Athenian statue to a Roman called Epictetus—not necessarily the famous philosopher—was replaced around 270 by one of the contemporary Roman historian Publius Herennius Dexippus, the verses inscribed below made explicit the action of the marble statue in turning a real human ﬁgure into a stone object: ‘Widespread in Hellas is the recent fame that his history has given Dexippus. For this reason his sons jointly erect this statue, formed (morphaenta) from stone, for their father.’63 From the strangeness of the Doric dialect in the word morphaenta used here,64 learned Athenians would have recognized a distinctive literary quotation from archaic Greek lyric, which implied by its context that this sculpture, despite its lifeless stone material, represented an ideal and still-living human body.65 This fundamental interest in likeness of form was not restricted to the eastern Empire. The philosophical ideas nurtured in the East were disseminated in the West, as Roman senators going to Gaul, Britain, and Germany brought their own philosophers with them.66 The teachings of Epictetus, the Stoics, and Pythagoreanism had a wide popular impact.67 A sarcophagus from Aquae Sextiae (Aix-en-Provence) in Gaul portrayed in relief a ﬁgure of the deceased, Proclus, as a successful orator, with a Greek inscription in Homeric diction declaring it be a ‘perfect likeness and a form one might think appropriate for Italian orators’.68 For others, Greek myths provided archetypes of human form: Nireus as the model of beauty, and Thersites as that of ugliness; yet just as many responded to this ex-

general conclusion pectation of greater merit due to ﬁner form by asserting that all suffered alike in Hades.69 The notion of form as a model became entrenched in later imperial Roman architecture. The repair of public buildings was increasingly presented as a restoration of their original ‘form’.70 By the ﬁfth century the metaphor of sculptural form could be expressed unambiguously, as at the ‘Achillian Baths’ in Catania in Sicily, restored according to ‘the ancient casting of their shape’ (ar[ch]aias diatupo-seo-s).71 Such ideas, promoted through architecture under the Antonines, inspired the range of theological and political symbolism that is such a feature of ‘late antiquity’. The understanding of buildings in terms of archetypal forms encouraged the perception of certain architectural structures as having symbolic signiﬁcance.72 The city gate and towered façade, the cosmic dome, ciborium, and baldachin canopy, had almost canonical associations with divine power in imperial iconography and ceremonial between the third and the sixth centuries.73 In early Christianity the legacy of Antonine ideas about monumental architecture was particularly apparent. Christians placed particular faith in architectural symbols as metaphors of the moral life.74 The virtues they emphasized, such as ‘beneﬁcence’ and ‘incorruptibility’, are those exalted in Nicon’s architectural texts.75 As we have seen with the Christians of Lyon, architectural form was important for Christian self-deﬁnition. St Paul portrayed himself as a ‘wise architect’ who ‘laid the foundation’ of the church.76 The conception of this ‘House of God’, present already in the Gospels, went back to earlier Hebrew associations of architectural form.77 But it was also shaped by Roman and Hellenic ideas. Thus Paul declared: ‘For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.’78 This metaphor was followed by Christian writers of the later Antonine period, such as Origen and Clement of Alexandria,79 and later favoured by the church historian Eusebius and the theologian Athanasius.80 By the sixth century the term ske-nos was deﬁned in Photius’ Byzantine encyclopaedia as simply ‘the body and heavenly building not built by human hand’.81 Yet the familiarity of the notion of the ‘body of the church’ as an evocation of ideal architectural form should not overshadow the fact that it was, and continued to be, a pagan idea, applied equally to non-Christian architecture. An inscribed poem from Er-Rajib in Jordan describes the construction of a temple as ‘this living, stone body of Zeus’.82 Buildings had a conceptual existence and an ideal form beyond the tangible realities of their material presence. Christians envied the ‘pleasant, high’ positions of pagan temples,83 and their churches too followed pagan ideals. Jerome wrote of ‘the round forecourt of a temple, a shape which among all shapes (sche-mata) is accepted as more beautiful by philosophers of this age too.’84 The symbolism of the cross-vault, carried by four supporting ﬁgures at the corners, which in the Antonine era had been used to promote civic or group identities, was later adopted to present ideas of Christian community. In ﬁfth- and sixth-century vault mosaics at Rome and Ravenna, angels and the four Evangelists are presented as holding aloft the sign of Christ on the dome of a tomb or chapel.85 In illustrated manuscripts the portraits of the Evangelists are framed in the aedicular surrounds earlier used for imperial statuary.86 The Apostles were presented in the New Testament as ‘columns’ of the church; and this conception

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lay behind the decoration of actual columns in early churches of Rome with composite and other capitals placed at ritually signiﬁcant places.87 On a Romanesque capital from southern France Samson is shown lifting the gates of Gaza, in an image that recalls the signiﬁcance of Hercules as an emblem of architectural strength.88 The importance attached to the cornerstone in Christian architecture as a symbol of Christ was eventually replaced by the Roman notion of the keystone: in the seventeenth century the theologian John Jackson echoed the Stoic image of Seneca when he declared that ‘Christian Society is . . . like stones in an arch, . . . Christ himselfe [sic] being the keystone’.89 The legacy of Antonine architecture did not lie only in imperial palace architecture or in church buildings. This book has mostly been about intellectual or political elites, who had the ﬁnancial means or cerebral motivation to build monuments and develop ideas about them. However, there were implications for those of a lower social level. The growth in the use of marble in the Antonine age was not simply a hallmark of imperial architecture or of elite wealth in a community; marble also became a ‘controlling image’ of Roman culture, with a re-

178. Proposed design by Daniel Libeskind for Ground Zero Memorial Garden and Liberty Tower, New York, 2004.

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general conclusion

demptive value like that of gold in the sixteenth century,90 which is evident from its prominence in simple epitaphs.91 The associations attached to particular monuments or to the formal architectural vocabulary of imperial works enabled both military veterans of Cillium and shoemakers in Rome and Milan to demonstrate architectural aspirations and achieve immortal fame (Figs. 151, 167a–b).92 In Britain, a tombstone from South Shields set up by the Palmyrene Barates for his wife Regina, with inscriptions in Latin and Aramaic, has attracted scholars’ attention as an example of how Barates used language, in an area where Aramaic was not spoken, to keep ‘an aspect of his identity’;93 but even more visually striking is the vaulted shell-niche that frames the portrait of the deceased. This had a cultural complexity of its own. Certainly, it is similar to funerary sculpture from Palmyra or in Asia Minor;94 however, the forms there expressed acculturation to Rome as much as local tradition.95 The form also had separate associations in the northern Empire, it was also a surround for altars of mother goddesses and other local deities (Figs. 54–5), and such contexts would have given it sacral connotations. The monumentality of Antonine architecture continues to leave its legacy. Most recently, the concept has acquired new prominence following the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City on 11 September 2001 and the redevelopment of this area, subsequently known as ‘Ground Zero’. The design of the architect Daniel Libeskind,

due for completion by 2009, offers a ﬁtting epilogue to this book (Fig. 178). Many of the concepts we have seen here reappear in this work, albeit modiﬁed according to cultural changes. In his intention to create a monument, Libeskind was troubled, like the Antonines, by a duality between remembering the tragic past and looking in hope towards the future. The monumentality of his project is based on the meanings of the site, a durable wonder of nature and engineering, made sacred by the ‘footprints’ of the towers, which can be viewed from an elevated walkway; the buildings around the memorial open spaces, the Path of Heroes and the Wedge of Light, are arranged so that the sun will shine without shadow each year on 11 September between the hours of the two attacks. Urban need and utility make this not just a memorial place, but, ﬁlled with hotels, offices, malls, restaurants, and theatres, a symbol of celebritas. The former importance of the towers in the city skyline, monuments of the city, is replicated by a 1,776-foot high spire, the Freedom Tower. Its cornerstone, a twenty-ton granite block, was laid in a formal ceremony on 4 July 2004. The tower’s height is signiﬁcant, not just for national ideology, but for the architect and his values. As with the second-century Pergamene architect Aelius Nicon, it represents an isopsephism: in feet, the number is twice that of the Greek spelling for Jesus; in metres, it corresponds to the name Israel in Hebrew.96

MAPS

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maps

map 1. The Roman Empire (western provinces)

247

248

B l a c k

S e a

maps

map 2. The Roman Empire (central and eastern provinces)

249

Mi se nu m

maps

map 3. Roman Italy

250

maps

map 4. The ‘Restoration of Italy’ by Antoninus Pius

maps 251

map 5. Roman Asia Minor

252 maps

map 6. Roman Africa

APPENDICES

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appendix 1 Nidiﬁcatio and the Motif of Labyrinths in Private Houses In a small, secluded room off the peristyle of an aristocratic domus at Gigthis in southern Tunisia a painted graffito running along the wall reads: Nunc tibi in opere s[ignino] nidiﬁcas (‘now you build yourself a nest in opus s[igninum?]’).1 The inscription appears to be a parody of grand aediﬁcatio. The text is an imitation of a line attributed in antiquity to Virgil.2 The ‘Virgilian’ model and its imitation here both allude to a concept of nidiﬁcatio (‘nest-building’) as a playfully diminutive, personal, and self-disparaging version of normal, ‘monumental’ aediﬁcatio. The verse expresses the point of view of the owner of the house.3 Even the form of the inscription, painted in red minium on a small band of white stucco along the upper part of a vermilion wall, seems to parody a monumental inscription along a frieze. This apparently trivial example of Roman aediﬁcatio illustrates that monumentality in Roman architecture was not always associated with great size. What seems to be a rather playful text has a serious point. The domus, labelled by its excavators as the ‘villa suburbaine’, probably belonged to one of the leading families in this prosperous coastal city, which had been elevated to the rank of Roman municipium under Hadrian.4 In the private context of his urban home the builder, perhaps a veteran of the Roman army, was proud of having built himself, as one might say today, ‘a nest-egg’ for his retirement.5 The monumentality of his work arises in spite of, or even because of, its affected miniature scale. Like the aediﬁcatiuncula of Cicero’s brother at Laterium,6 the diminutive paradoxically enhances the degree to which this house stands out to be noticed among others. But that is not the only way in which the image expresses an idea of monumentality. The metaphor of nidiﬁcatio can have a very speciﬁc philosophical meaning. It was a microcosm of the ultimately Stoic principle that the construction of a building manifested the tendency of all things to union. Marcus Aurelius remarked how in the animal kingdom social identity was established through architectural construction, by building hives or making nests (neossotrophia).7 Similarly, the eighteenth-century English naturalist Gilbert White was to write of the ‘nidiﬁcation’ and ‘different degrees of architectonic skill’ of several birds, including the wren, observing ‘that rotundity and compactness so remarkable in the ediﬁces of that little architect’.8 The aviary of Varro, crafted into the form of a tablet, was a literary man’s version of such nidiﬁcatio. In the Antonine age Aelian observed architectural creativity among ants,9 and later Gregory of Nazianzus developed the trope, writing of birds’ nests ‘built with a view to both security and beauty’, and the love of work and art shown by bees and spiders. The latter, he wrote, exceeded Euclid and Phidias in their skills of geometry and sculpture, with their meticulous webs: ‘What harmonious Cnossian dance of Daedalus, executed for a girl, surpasses them in beauty, what Cretan labyrinth hard to exit and hard to unravel, to speak poetically, with its clever art?’10

The labyrinth of Daedalus encapsulated both the artistry and the privacy of the Roman’s home. Although in the schematic form of a meander it served as an icon in religious architecture of the Hellenistic period,11 its greatest expression as an image of monumental architecture was a decorative pattern in Roman houses, above all on mosaic ﬂoors (Fig. 72). Although the symbolism of the motif has been frequently discussed,12 its role as a metonym for architectural space is perhaps not sufficiently emphasized. It is especially common in the colonies of northern Italy and southern Gaul in the ﬁrst century BC and ﬁrst century ad, where it usually appears in the atrium, the building’s and owner’s most public face, often within a frame imitating city fortiﬁcations. To the veteran soldiers choosing this image, the enclosure of a maze within military defences reﬂected a perception of the owner’s home both as an exclusive and impregnable monument and as a statement of social rank, anticipating the familiar sentiment that ‘a man’s home is his castle’.13 The same complex of associations is present in the mock towers in the enclosure wall of the villa at Setteﬁnestre and in Seneca’s description of the villa of Scipio Africanus at Liternum, ‘built of squared stone’, with ‘towers raised on all sides to defend the villa’ and ‘a cistern . . . which could satisfy the needs of an army’.14 The monumentality of the labyrinth expressed an ideal of defensive security. It also suggested an exclusivity, especially when it appeared in projection, giving an illusion of three-dimensional space. Most exclusive of all was the fully threedimensional example on a grand scale in the emperor Domitian’s private palace on the Palatine in Rome, the Domus Flavia, where the octagonal well in the inner peristyle had a complicated labyrinthine structure.15 Despite the negative associations this gave the palace after Domitian’s death and disgrace, as a tyrant’s lair ﬁlled with dark, impenetrable corridors,16 wealthy house-owners in the Antonine period continued to display the image on their ﬂoors in many parts of the western Empire. For example, the image is used in a Roman villa on the island of Giannutri in the Tuscan archipelago and the ‘House of the Labyrinth’ in the Hadrianic quarter of Italica in Baetica.17 At Conimbriga in Lusitania two mosaics show a labyrinth inside a square circuit of city towers, the earlier one dated to the second half of the second century.18 A slightly later example from El-Djem is enclosed in a round frame, alluding perhaps to the cosmic symbolism of the circle and suggesting that the house was a miniuniverse.19 The labyrinth motif is not restricted to private houses. In North Africa two huge examples survive from public bath-buildings ﬁnanced by private benefactors. Both were laid out on the pavements of a frigidarium hall, one at Mactar, built under Trajan, the other in the baths of Julia Memmia at Bulla Regia, probably begun under Commodus.20

appendix 2 Epigraphical Dossier Relating to the Architect Nicon A.

EXCURSUS ON ISOPSEPHISMS

Although isopsephisms may have existed in a more basic form at an early date,1 the earliest ﬁrm evidence for the use of these ‘numbered words’2 dates to the ﬁrst century, when they became prominent under the emperor Nero. He may have learned the device from his interest in astronomy or from the Armenian king Tiridates, who attached religious signiﬁcance to the name of the god Mithras, whose letters in Greek added up to the magical number 365.3 One of the ﬁrst exponents of the art was Leonidas of Alexandria, who started as an astronomer and became a poet, writing several epigrams, many of them isopsephic, for Nero.4 Leonidas probably derived the idea from mathematicians in Alexandria, perhaps especially from among the Jewish community.5 During the emperor’s travels in Egypt and the eastern provinces, he adopted the title of agathos daimo-n (‘good god’), and Leonidas composed an appropriate isopsephism on the occasion of his and Agrippina’s anniversary showing the numerical equivalence of the words agathos and theos.6 Nero’s opponents preferred a more sinister isopsephic statement derived from the emperor’s name.7 Leonidas’ performance of this art apparently remained popular after Nero’s death, as he probably wrote more such verses for Vespasian and even managed to persuade him to exclude astrologers from his decree expelling mathematici from Rome.8 His work was known at Pompeii and circulated perhaps at a wide social level on illustrated scrolls; magical isopsephisms were written in Greek graffiti in the years just before the earthquake of 79.9 In second-century Rome books circulated among the Roman literary elite that set out to prove that certain lines in Homer’s Iliad were isopsephic.10 Documents from Egypt, ‘probably written in the ﬁrst half of the second century AD’, show further isopsephic correspondences between words, some of them explicitly architectural, like the cynical ‘builder: a risk’, or the curious, but incomplete ‘Rome: foreign city. . .’.11 These isopsephisms often have a religious or mystical purpose. The Sibylline Oracles took this form, and one pagan theologian used it, like Nicon here, for a hymn to the Sun. In Egypt isopsephisms occur in the Egyptian cults of Sarapis and Isis.12 They also ﬂourished in the fertile cross-currents between Hellenism and Judaism. The letters of the Hebrew alphabet acquired, perhaps from the Talmudic period after 100, a numerological value almost identical to their Greek equivalents, which formed the basis for certain mystic revelations of this kind.13 In Hebrew the persecutor Nero’s isopsephic number was 666, corresponding to the beast of the Revelation.14 Christians, especially the Gnostics, used the isopsephic technique to reinforce the homogeneity of their religion by pointing to the variety of signiﬁcant Christian words and expressions whose numerological value, in Greek, was identical, a practice of ‘gematria’ later attacked by Hippolytus.15 As for the Armenian Tiridates, isopsephisms were an important device of Mithraism in the later Roman world.16 Encouraged by popular versions of neo-Pythagoreanism, isopsephisms also found their way into Orphism.17

B.

TEXTS

(For commentary on the inscriptions given below, see Chapter 5.)

i.

inscriptions probably set up by aelius nicon

1. Hymn to Helios H. Hepding, ‘Die Arbeiten zu Pergamon 1904–1905. II. Die Inschriften’, MDAI (A) 32 (1907), 356–60, no. 115, with photo at ﬁg. 9 = IGRom 4.506. Found 1904–5 in front of ‘Room E’ in the Hagiasma of St Cyriacus. Now ﬁxed to a wall of the courtyard of the archaeological museum, Bergama. Inscribed on a framed plaque of white marble, preserved almost intact, with a ﬂat peak in the middle and an acroterion in the top left corner (Fig. 94). Akot Mejxmo| AWJ* a$qvisjsomo| ‘_kie, hoa| ppoirim ekrrxm uk ca,

| pamsekg& hmgsori sg& s se c’ g
4

L ~E A

[ O] l mom e$m a$mhqpoiri uamesai jakm a$md]q.a*ri se heom seqpmm e| rxsgqam, s$a*jor]la jkera| e| e<m| j rlot rvrim, [——] g qgra| lomoot&ms’ a$e [symbol] [———] a$ * patrsom e$jsekei&m dq lom.

8

12

L ~E A

Of Aelius Nicon, 1,726, architect: O Sun, turning your ﬂame with your swift mares, that day when you sent your rays absolute to mankind, making courses of sun and quickly bringing the inﬁnite land and ﬂoods of water and air and ﬁre.

4

15,000 He alone makes the beautiful visible to humankind and divine pleasure for the safety of men, closing things unordered into the shape of one order, [——] conserving things in harmony for ever [———] to complete an unstoppable course.

8

12

15,000 2. Possible dedication of a fountain and geometrical text M. G. A. Florent, Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier, Voyage pittoresque de la Grèce, 2 (Paris, 1809), 171–6, with notes by Delambre; < Eqlg* | koco|, 63–4;Turner, Itinerary, 272–3; E. M. Cousinéry, Mémoire sur un petit monument de bronze trouvé à Pergame, dans la Mysie (Paris, 1821); F. G. Osann, Sylloge Inscriptionum

257

appendix 2. the architect nicon Antiquarum Graecarum et Latinarum (Leipzig and Darmstadt, 1834), 385; CIG 3546; M. Fränkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. Alterthümer von Pergamon, 8.2 (Berlin, 1890), 245–6, ad no. 333; IGRom. 4.503. Found in the courtyard of the Greek church at Pergamon (Turner, Cyrillus), perhaps the same as the Hagiasma of St Cyriac, where the Hymn to the Sun was found (no. 1, above), or in the Greek cemetery (Villoison). It had disappeared by the time of the German excavations of the 1890s and is known only from a transcription by E. Pridik of the diary of Magnus Otto von Stackelberg, written on his travels to Greece and Asia Minor in 1810–14. It was kept in the library of Tartu University (as MS 649) until 1943, when it was lent out to the Posen (Poznan) State and University Library. In 1999 the manuscript was reported to have been taken to Moscow.18 The text is written in a very poor Greek, which cannot be linked with known Attic, Peloponnesian, or Thessalian linguistic forms.19 (traces of other lines above) a$jaja d e$pivqglasirl| da dg+ dia+ s t%dxq hrei er’ a’p() ax&mo| ja ka*bqom a% la er’ e$m j rl{. 5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

e$p’ a$caha+ soi&| sevmsai| sg+m diasqibg+m e$pogre Mejxm e$mpeqoi| a$ sg&| lmg* lg| va*qim. hei&a jah kot, ut*rex| a% la g< dea| a$e ¡ jx&mo|, g< ruai&qa, ¡ jt*kimdqo|. e jt*kimdqo| peqikalba*moi a$lu seqa hcla g<dey e$pau©, e>rsai ruaqa| a$ * moicla g< dia* lesqo| i>rg pa&rim e$mjtjkoi| dialsqoi|, a$kka+ dy dg+ ja t% weri. a% likka ¡ k co| ja e$m rseqe{& e$rsi pqojopg+ a- b c- . cemmijg+ hea si| e$nrxri|, a$kka+ ja rtlpaha sx&m rseqex&m k co| a- b c-. jaka+ d ja hatla*ria ei>g a/ m rseq a sqa rvg* lasa. a$ϊdg ca+q k com i>rom poiei ja rseqeo| ja ˆkai| e$piuamai| ¡ jt*bo| ja e e$maql foi jt*kimdqo|, a$kka+ dy ja hea ruaqa, — a% parim g%cgla jt*bo| l m lb, — — jt*kimdqo| d kc, ruaqa d jb da soi |de sot*sxm eg k co|, hei&o| ja e$m rseqe{& a% la ja e$m s© ˆkz d’ e$piuamey. cmo| si ja a$ * kko g%deiom ot$d m e$m b{ e$hat*lara

| j rlot a% la* e$ pidqol© a$ * kejsom a$ϊjeimgram ja sot& g a% pari ja fuoi| ja cemg* larim. L[o]trx&m a$ * qnei cexlesqa.

a/wjß a/wjß a/wjß a/wjß b/qmß b/qmß b/qmß C / C / C

/

C

/

C

/

C

/

C C / /

C C C /

/

/

C

/

C C / /

C

/

C

/

C

/

C C / /

C / C /

Innocence a further gain (?) individually, because of the water, I set it in position for eternity and also settled its fury in order (?). 5 For the beneﬁt of artists Nicon made his theory, for experts to remember. Quite divine, and of sweet nature, always the cone, the sphere, the cylinder. 10 If a cylinder encloses the other two shapes, at a tangent in sweet contact, the aperture of the sphere will be equal to all the concentric diameters, but 15 also to their heights. The principle is a disharmony and in solids a ratio 1 : 2 : 3, a noble, divine equivalence, but also a harmony 20 of the solids, always in the ratio 1 : 2 : 3. They should be beautiful and wonderful, the three solid shapes, because the cube makes an equal ratio for all time for solids and surface areas, 25 and if a cylinder ﬁts inside a cube, and especially if a divine sphere does, the cube is the guiding principle for all shapes, at 42, the cylinder 33, and the sphere 22. Such must be the ratio for these shapes individually, 30 divine both in volume and in total surface area. No other sweeter family have I ever in my life looked on with wonder as, in the running of the universe, 35 an indescribable perpetual motion and with the sunrise a sweet motion, for ever opposite to them, and also indeed a good light surer than all others for all plants 40 and animals and beings. Geometry shall rule the Muses.

1726 1726 1726 1726 2156 2156 2156 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000

3000 3000

3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000 3000

Textual commentary (ll. 1–4). 1 a$jaja Cf. Polemo, in Diog. Laert. 4.19; Plut. Demetr. 1.4. e$pivqglasirl | A hapax. Cf. Syll.3 704, H24: e$pivqglasfx, ‘make a further decree’. vqglasirl | is normally ‘negotiation’ or ‘decree’ (LSJ, ad loc.), but, with o’mola*so| can mean ‘use of a name’: U. Wilcken, ‘Aus der Strassburger Sammlung’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung, 4 (1907–8), 122, col. v, l. 7. 2 da Cf. Pl. Resp. 8, 558C: s| soiot+so| dF (‘what manner of man the individual is’, tr. Jowett,3 1892, iii. 265, or literally ‘what such a person is individually’); s ldxq Cf. Jones, ‘On the Water at Pergamon’. 3 er’ Aorist of fx, ‘place, enthrone; set up, dedicate’; cf. Hom. Il. 23.359. a$p[] ax&mo| The [o] is added to complete the isopsephism. 4 ka*bqom Cf. Hom. Il. 15.624–6, etc.

3. Dedication of a satyr Fränkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 250, no. 339 = IGRom. 4.502. Ai>k. Mejxm kaqm dz ra*stqom Aelius Nicon (made) a bright satyr at his own (expense).

bt. / 402

258

appendix 2. the architect nicon

ii.

inscriptions rel ated to the architect nicon

4. Consolidation of a portico by I. Nikodemos, a.k.a. young Nikon CIG 3545 = Fränkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 246, no. 333 = IGRom. 4.504a. In tabula ansata. A $ qvisjsxm bqp| / hoi| sevmesai| eqo| $ I. Meij dglo| a$cah|, a% la dg+ ¡ ja Mejxm mo|, bqp| / 5 g$ruakraso ja j rlgre a% pari a$coqam liom peqpasom dg uikoseilgi. e$m b{ d jakm e>qcom e% m l mom et$poia. bqp| / Architect, to the gods, ever sacred artists, I. Nicodemus the good, and also young Nicon, 5 secured and adorned in all details a colonnaded market-office by his own love of honour. In life only one goal is ﬁne: beneﬁcence.

2186

2186

2186

5. Honoriﬁc inscription for the geometer Ael. Isidotus CIG 3544 = Fränkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 246, no. 333 = IGRom. 4.504b. In tabula ansata. Block of similar size to no. 4 above.

5

Diasacera dg cmlg. Ak. \Irdoso|, pqy&o| dF cexlsqg| dz d i>rz jak© lesqi sgsi e$silg* hg s© Dijaiort*mz.

5

With personally arranged resolve Ael(ius) Isidotus, the personally mild geometer; and individually with equal fair measuredness was honoured for Justice.

a/tna a/tna a/tna a/tna a/tna 1461 1461 1461 1461 1461

6. Honoriﬁc inscription for I. Nikodemus, a.k.a. young Nikon Fränkel, Die Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 370, no. 587 = IGRom. 4.505. A block of white marble from the area of the theatre. Identiﬁed as a tomb marker by

Donderer, Architekten, 148 (on A52), but the provenance suggests rather a public monument. $ I. Mij dglo| ja Mjxm

auic

/

a$cah| eμem a/m g%qx|. I(ulius) Nicodemus, also Nicon,

1513

might be a good hero.

iii.

fragments

7. Fragment 1 von Prott and Kolbe, ‘Inschriften’, 140–1, no. 179. ——] ICEQXM a$ kgheg BQ [?—— ——] EIM vq m{ ——?aca]hot& lahgsg+| d[ ] 8. Fragment 2 von Prott and Kolbe, ‘Inschriften’, 141, no. 180. ——?]qni| [—— da d a$c[—— jajg&| a$pkgu[—— ja sko| a$lir[h—— a$miria pqoac[—— x| em [—— dixi [—— 9. Fragment 3 von Prott and Kolbe, ‘Inschriften’, 141, no. 181. ——] JKGR [—— ——] OT JAQ [—— ——] OR RTM [—— ——] XLAS [—— 10. Fragment 4 von Prott and Kolbe, ‘Inschriften’, 141, no. 182. ——] GQIBOK [——

auic. 1513

/

appendix 3 Translations of the Inscriptions from the ‘Basilica Stoa’ at Thera Inscription A. Dedication 3

IG 12.3.325 = SIG 852. (Pedimented top of stele.)

it for anyone [intending] to do works and giving further payment in addition; and (50) [everything that had been left over] to me [for the rest]oration [of the works I promise] to [restore as] of use [to the city]. Inscription B. Decree in honour of Cleitosthenes

to good fortune On behalf of the fortune and eternal preservation of our sovereign the emperor Caesar Titus Aelius Hadrianus Antoninus Augustus Pius and Verus Caesar (5) and Lucius Caesar [sic] and Augusta Faustina and all their house. In the proconsulship of Mummius Sisenna and the magistracy of Tiberius Julius Cleon and colleagues, I, Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes (10) Claudianus, with my son Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus and his son Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus and daughter Flavia Claudia Demetria Aeliana, constructed the works according to the declaration1 which I made to the sweetest (15) homeland, Thera, and dedicated them at my own expense, exactly as the announcement subjoined contains, and also the decrees. In the consulship of Lucius Sergius Scipio Orﬁtus and Caius Sosius Priscus [AD 149], on the day XV Kal. Aug. [18 July], and, in the Theran style, in the priesthood of Philometor (20) son of Philometor, six days from the end of the month of Hyacinthius, during a lawful assembly, on behalf of the fortune and eternal preservation of the emperor Caesar Titus Aelius Hadrianus Antoninus Augustus Pius and Verus Caesar and Lucius Caesar [sic] and Augusta Faustina and their whole house, (25) I, Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, made a declaration2 before the council and people to the magistrates in office with Aristodamus son of Cartidamas, submitting the following documents: since the stoa existing in the city beside the agora (30) has been completely roofed, but some of its walls and structures have in part collapsed and the remains are corrupt and in danger of coming down to the ground, and there have many times been outcries from all the people for its construction and repair, (35) as the work is necessary for the whole adornment, enjoyment, and extravagance of the city because there is no other work like this at present in the city, and as no official or private individual has promised to restore the work for the city, (40) so I promise to erect with this work also the others which are overthrown, in the manner and size as opportunity and the Fortune of the city should allow me, and to construct and return it safe and sound to the city at [my own expense] together with my son Flavius Cleitosthe[nes Julianus] (45) and my grandson Flavius Cleitosthe[n]es [Claudianus]; and since also [a very great deal of ] timber from the fallen [roof ] was [still] left over, this too I [have handed over at my own] expense, providing

IG 12.3.326 = SIG3 852a.

(Two dolphins in relief, the civic emblems of Thera, back to back.)

Decree of the council and people, proposed by the ﬁrst archon of the city of Thera, Aristodamus son of Cartidamas, and seconded by Hestiaeus son of Thrasyleon, also appointed (5) ﬁrst archon for the next year. Since Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, a man distinguished by nobility of family and acclaimed for his services to his home city, on the one hand having adorned the city’s port with constructions of bath-buildings, (10) and on the other hand maintaining also the Temple of Eileithuia, an ancestral work completed with untold extravagance to be free from damage for the enjoyment of citizens and those foreigners who are among the people, a man who has proven astute in judicial decisions, sound in taxcollections, fair in office as archon (15) and as strate-gos, generous with endowments to the citizens—since he came forward during an assembly held on this day and announced to the council and people that he would construct at his own expense the basilica stoa in the city, an ancient and distinguished work and like no other (20) decorative façade ([p]r[o]kos[me-]ma) of the city, which had collapsed already a long time ago, and do so in the manner indicated by the declarations inscribed by him and given to the strate-goi colleagues of Aristodamus the son of Cartidamas; and that from the remaining supply of timber he (25) would construct the bar railing which had itself collapsed and make it over with the Temple of Fortune and the ancient Caesareum, as the whole people of Thera applauded his announcements:3 so the council and people have decreed that he be publicly (30) praised and approved... a stele... of the worthy governor of our province Pop[ill]ius Priscus, so that the man’s benevolence and generosity may be made plain to him too; (35) and that [portaits (andriantas)] too be set up..... (40)..... [and of his grandson Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus and his son Titus Flavius Julianus] and his son Titus Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, and cult images (agalmata) in the most monumental places (epise-motatois . . . topois) of the city, with which..... (45)..... Flavius Cleitosthenes..... having been made, of the people..... (50)..... of the state revenues, Cleitosthenes stood up ﬁrst and promised that he would spend money from his own resources. Proposed by Aristodamus the son of Cartidamas, archon. Seconded by Hestiaeus the son of Thrasyleon. (Name) Inscribed by.... the younger ephor.

appendix 4 Text and Translation of the Verse Inscription from the Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium (Kasserine, Algeria) (Col. 1)A Sint licet exiguae fugientia tempora vitae parvaq(ue) raptorum cito transeat hora dierum, mergat et Elysiis mortalia corpora terris adsidue rupto Lachesis male conscia penso, iam tamen inventa et blandae rationis imago, per quam prolatos homines in tempora plura longior excipiat memoratio multaq(ue) servet secum per titulos mansuris fortius annis. Ecce recens pietas omni placitura favore (10) ingentem famae numerum cum laude meretur exemplo iam plena novo, quam Flavius alto more Secundus agens patrio signavit honore. Quis non iam pronis animi virtutibus adsit, quis non hoc miretur opus fusasq(ue) videndo divitias stupeat tantos se cernere census, per quos aetherias surgunt monimenta per auras? Haec est fortunae melius laudanda facultas, sic sibi perpetuas faciunt impendia sedes, sic immortales scit habere pecunia mores, (20) aeterno quotiens stabilis bene ﬁgitur usu. Viderit ille furor nimio qui ducitur auro, quem trahit argenti venalis sanguine candor, viderit et fusae vanis in amoribus errans gloria luxuriae peregrinas quaerere magno quae didicit vestes gemmasq(ue) nitore placentes aut ab Aeruthreo venientia munera ﬂuctu, quam laedunt gentes vario certamine rerum, Graecia cum pueris, Hispania Pallados usu, venatu Libyae tellus, orientis amomo, (30) Aegyptos Phariis levitatibus, artibus actis Gallia semper ovans, dives Campania vino: haec cito deﬁciunt et habent breve munus amoris momentis damnata suis set si quis ad omnes respiciat vitae casus hominemque laboret metiri brevitate sua, tunc credere discet nil aliut melius ﬁeri nisi viribus aevi quot possit durare diu sub honore deorum. Nunc ego non dubitem tacitis Acherontis in umbris, si post fata manent sensus, gaudere parentem (40) saepe, Secunde, tuum reliquas et spernere turmas quod sciat hic tantam faciem superesse sepulchri perpetua novitate sui, s[i]c stare nitentes consensus lapidum, sic de radice levatos in melius crevisse gradus, ut et angulus omnis sic quasi mollitae ductus sit stamine cerae. Mobilibus signis hilaris scalptura n[ov]a[t]ur, et licet atsidue probet hos vaga turba [dec]ores lucentes stupeat pariter pendere columnas. Quit cum militiae titulos ipsumque parentem

Although the times of a tiny life may be ﬂeeting and the short hour of stolen days may quickly pass, and Fate may drown mortal bodies in Elysian lands, maliciously conniving, her thread assiduously broken, yet now the image of consoling reason is found, by means of which a longer remembrance can catch men prolonged for further times and conserve much with it, as the years will last more bravely through inscriptions. Look! a recent piety that will win all favour (10) deserves a huge list of fame with fulsome praise now by new example, which Flavius Secundus acting in high style sealed in his father’s honour. Who would now be there without virtues of mind inclined, who would not admire this work and, seeing wealth poured out, would not be stunned to see so much wealth, by means of which the monument rises through the etherial air? This is the most praiseworthy means of showing fortune, this is how expenses make themselves eternal homes, this is how money can have immortal ways, (20) whenever it is well ﬁxed and stable in eternal investment. Let that rage see which is drawn by too much gold, which silver’s venal glow lures with blood, and let the glory of luxury poured forth look on, straying in vain loves, which learns to seek at high cost foreign fabrics and gems pleasing with shine or gifts coming from the Red Sea tide, which nations hurt by diverse competition of stuffs, Greece with her boys, Spain with Pallas’s fruit, Libya’s land with the hunt, the East with balsam, (30) Egypt with triﬂes of Pharos, Gaul always jubilant in the work of her arts, Campania rich in wine: these things soon fail and have short reward of love damned by their own weight, but if one reﬂects on all life’s accidents and troubles to measure man by his own shortness, then one will learn to trust that nothing better is done but what might last long by the strength of time under the honour of the gods. Now I cannot doubt that in the silent shades of Acheron, if sensations linger after death, your father is happy (40) often, Secundus, and spurns the other legions of the dead because he knows that here a tomb’s great face survives with everlasting newness, his tomb, that shining so stand harmonies of stones, so raised from the roots the steps have grown for the better, so that even every corner is so drawn as if by a thread of softened wax. The cheerful sculpture is renewed by images alive, and the passing crowd may keenly approve these ornaments and may be stunned at glowing columns hanging in balance. Why, you have given inscriptions of war service to the gods

appendix 4. the architect nicon

261

(50) numinibus dederis haec gaudia saepe videntem quae quondam dedit ipse loco, dum munera Bacchi multa creat primasq(ue) cupit componere vi[t]es et nemus exornat revocatis saepius undis. Permittant mihi [Fa]ta loq[ui n]octisq(ue) Timendae regnator Stygius: sic immortalis haberi iam debet pater ecce tuus Ditisq(ue) relicti tristem deseruisse domum, dum tempore toto mavolt haec monum[e]nta sequi scriptisq(ue) per aevom [v]ivere nominibus, solitis insistere lucis, (60) [ads]idue patrias hinc cernere dulciter arces (Col. 2) quosq(ue) dedit natis prope semper habere penates. Forsitan haec multi vano sermone ferentes venturae citius dicant praesagia mortis si quis dum vivit ponat monimenta futuris temporibus. Mihi non tales sunt pectore sensus, set puto securos ﬁeri quicumque parare aeternam voluere domum certoq(ue) rigore numquam lapsuros vitae deﬁgere muros. Fatis certa via est neque se per stamina mutat (70) Atropos: ut primo coepit decurrere ﬁlo, crede, Secunde, mihi pensatos ibis in annos. Set securus eris, set toto pectore dives, dum nulli gravis esse potes nec plena labore testamenta facis, tuus hoc dum non timet heres, ut sic aediﬁcet. Iam nunc quodcumq(ue) relinques, totum perveniet, tua quo volet ire voluntas. Sed revocat me cura operis celsiq(ue) decores. Stat sublimis honor vicinaque nubila pulsat et solis metitur iter. Si iungere montes (80) forte velint oculi, vincuntur in ordine colles, si videas campos, infra iacet abdita tellus. Non sic Romuleas exire colossos in arces dicitur aut circi medias obeliscus in auras, nec sic sistrigeri demonstrat pervia Nili dum sua perspicuis aperit Pharos aequora ﬂam(m)is. Quid non docta facit pietas? Lapis ecce foratus luminibus multis hortatur currere blandas intus apes et cerineos componere nidos, ut semper domus haec Thymbraeo nectare dulcis (90) sudet ﬂorisapos, dum dant nova mella, liquores.

(50) and your father himself often seeing these pleasures which he once gave himself to the place, creating many gifts of Bacchus, longing to plant ﬁrst vines, and adorning the grove more often with waters revived. May the Fates allow me to speak, and dread night’s Stygian governor: now your father, look, is to be held immortal so and is to leave the grim house of Dis behind, while for all of time he prefers to follow these monuments and to live with names inscribed across the face of time, to stay in familiar groves, (60) and assiduously to watch lovingly from here his ancestral citadel (Col. 2) and to hold always close the home gods he gave his children. Perhaps many referring to these things in casual conversation may speak of presages of a death to come too soon if any, while he lives, plants monuments for future times. I have no such feelings in my breast, but think those are free from care who want to prepare an eternal home and to ﬁx walls of life with secure strength that will never fall. The way for the Fates is ﬁxed and Atropos does not (70) change her weaving: once the thread begins to run, trust me, Secundus, you will reach the years spun. But you will be without care, rich in all your heart, as long as you can burden none nor make a will full of work, as long as your heir does not fear this, to have to build so. Whatever more you leave now, will come complete, wherever your desire points. But care of the work calls me back, and the ornaments on high. Honour stands sublime and knocks at its neighbours, the clouds, and measures the sun’s path. If the eyes should choose by chance (80) to join the mountains behind, these hills are surpassed all in a line; if you look at the ﬁelds, the earth lies hidden beneath the monument. Not so is the colossus said to reach the heights of Rome or the obelisk in the circus middle into the sky, nor so does Pharos show the ways of sistrum-bearing Nile while it reveals its seas with visible ﬂames. What can learned piety not do? See, the stone pierced with many windows encourages soothing bees to run inside and build nests of wax, so that this house always sweet with Thymbraeus nectar (90) distils drops tasting of ﬂowers, giving new honey.

B Huc iterum, Pietas, venerandas erige mentes et mea quo nosti carmina more fove. Ecce Secundus adest iterum, qui pectore sancto non monimenta patri sed nova templa dedit. Quo nunc Calliope gemino me limite cogis, quas iam transegi, rusus adire vias? Nempe fuit nobis operis descriptio magni, diximus et iunctis saxa polita locis, circuitus nemorum, currentes dulciter undas (100) atque reportantes m[ell]a frequenter apes. Hoc tamen, hoc solum [n]ostrae puto defuit arti, dum cadis ad multos, ebria Musa, iocos: in summo tremulas galli non diximus alas, altior extrema qui puto nube volat. (Col. 3) Cuius si membris vocem natura dedisset, cogeret hic omnes surgere mane deos. Et iam nominibus signantur limina certis,

This way once more, Piety, raise adoring hearts and cherish my poems in the way you know. Look, here’s Secundus again, who with soul devout, gave not a monument, but a new temple to his father. Where does Calliope force me now, on a second path, to approach again roads which I have already done. Yes, ours was a description of a great work, and we spoke of blocks smoothed at their joints, surrounds of woods, waters sweetly ﬂowing, (100) and bees busily bringing honey. But one thing, just one, I think our art missed, as Thou, drunken Muse, fall on many jokes: on top, we did not say, are a cock’s ﬂuttering wings, which I think ﬂies higher than the furthest cloud. (Col. 3) If nature had given its body a voice, it would force all the gods to rise each morning. And now the lines are marked with names assured

262

appendix 4. the architect nicon cernitur et titulis credula vita suis. Opto, Secunde, geras multos feliciter annos (110) et quae fecisti tu monimenta legas.

and a life is seen trusting in its inscriptions. I wish, Secundus, you may live many years happily (110) and read the monument which you have built.

TABLES

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265

table 1. roman provincial coins Table 1. Summary description of Roman provincial coins showing arcuated lintels and similar forms No.

Province (Region)

City (ancient name)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Hispania Ulterior Macedonia Achaea Asia (Caria) Asia (Caria) Asia (Caria) Asia (Caria)

Abdera Edessa Corinth Antioch on the Maeander Aphrodisias Apollonia Salbace Attouda

8 9

Asia (Caria) Asia (Ionia)

10 11 12 13

Date span of issues (where known)

Cult deity (or image)

Architectural character*

Source

157–268 193–250

Sun? Dionysus Artemis the Huntress Tyche Aphrodite Leto, Apollo, and Artemis Cybele

PT 7 PT 125 PT 176 PT 333 PT 337 I-B, i, 121 no.9; PT 342 PT 346, BMC 29

Harpasa Koinon of Ionia

222–35 139–44

Athena Kore of Sardis

Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, AL, spiral ﬂutes Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL, spiral ﬂutes Temple, arched lintel, spiral ﬂutes Temple, AL Temple, AL

Asia (Ionia) Asia (Ionia) Asia (Ionia) Asia (Lydia)

Metropolis Miletus Samos Blaundus

193–211 238 222‒68 244–9

Ares Apollo of Didyma Hera Apollo

14 15

Asia (Lydia) Asia (Lydia)

Dioshieron Hypaepa

193–211 193–260

Zeus Artemis Anaitis

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Asia (Lydia) Asia (Lydia) Asia (Lydia) Asia (Lydia) Asia (Lydia) Asia (Mysia) Asia (Mysia) Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia)

Nysa Philadelphia Saitta Thyateira Tralles Lampsacus Lampsacus Aezani Amorium Ancyra Cadi

27

Asia (Phrygia)

28 29 30 31 32 33 34

202–5 238–68

244–9 238–53

Men Kamareites Artemis Ephesia Aphrodite Roma Zeus Priapus Zeus Zeus Zeus Tyche Zeus

Cadi

241–4

Artemis Ephesia

Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia) Asia (Phrygia) Bithynia-Pontus Bithynia-Pontus Bithynia-Pontus

Hierapolis Metropolis Synnada Tiberiopolis Amaseia Calchedon Nicaea

244–9 249–51 253–68 238

177–92

Apollo Citharoedus Zeus Nicephorus Modius of corn Artemis Ephesia Tyche Apollo Tyche

35 36

Bithynia-Pontus Bithynia-Pontus

Prusa Zela

205–17

Zeus and river-gods Anaitis, Omanus, Anadates

37 38 39 40 41

Bithynia-Pontus Galatia Pisidia Pisidia Pamphylia

Zela Ancyra Conana Sagalassus Side

98–117 254–68 249–70 253–8

Tyche Men Tyche Tyche Apollo

161–235 218–68 222–35 161–8 244–9 161–75

Temple, AL Naiskos of temple, AL Shrine with altar, AL Temple, arched lintel, spiral ﬂutes Temple, AL Temple, arched lintel, spiral ﬂutes Temple, arched lintel Temple Temple, AL, spiral ﬂutes Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel, spiral ﬂutes Temple, arched lintel, spiral ﬂutes Temple, AL, spiral ﬂutes Temple, AL Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, AL

Temple, AL Temple, AL, portico with gateway Temple, AL Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel

PT 402 J. Gillespie, Revue Belge de Numismatique 102 (1956), 30–53 PT 436 PT 440 PT 482 PT 348 PT 374 PT 411 PT 449 PT 471 PT 481 PT 513 PT 516 PT 417 PT 418 BMC 113 PT 327 PT 331 PT 350 PT 351 PT 405 PT 438 PT 511 BMC 19 PT 235 PT 275 W. Waddington, E. Babelon, T. Reinach, Receuil général des monnaies grecques d’ Asie Mineure (Paris, 1904–12), 278 (2) PT 306 PT 255 PT 257 PT 524 PT 552 PT 565 PT 598 (continued )

266

table 1. roman provincial coins

Table 1. (continued ) No.

Province (Region)

City (ancient name)

42

Pamphylia

Side

43 44 45 46

Cyprus & Cilicia Cyprus & Cilicia Cyprus & Cilicia Cyprus & Cilicia

Aegeae Anazarbus Anemurium Cyprus Koinon

222–35 218–60 211–17

Asclepius Tyche Tyche Tyche

47 48

Syria (Coele Syria) Syria (Coele Syria)

Antioch on the Orontes Damascus

249–58 193–249

Tyche Astarte and Tyche

49

Syria (Coele Syria)

Heliopolis (Baalbek)

198–211

Zeus Heliopolitanus

50

Syria (Commagene)

Zeugma

244–9

Zeus Katabaltes

51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia)

Berytus Botrys Byblos Caesarea of Lebanon Dora Orthosia Ptolemais-Ace

218–22 219–22 177–222 218–20 218–22 198–222 218–22

‘Marsyas’ Astarte Astarte Astarte Astarte Astarte or Tyche Nymphs or Tyche

58 59 60

Sidon Tyre Gaba

218–22 238–68 138–61

Sepphoris-Diocaesarea

68

Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Phoenicia) Syria (Palaestina: Galilee) Syria (Palaestina: Galilee) Syria (Palaestina: Judaea) Syria (Palaestina: Judaea) Syria (Palaestina: Judaea) Syria (Palaestina: Judala) Syria (Palaestina: Samaria) Syria (Palaestina: Samaria) Arabia (Decapolis)

69

70 71

61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Date span of issues (where known)

Cult deity (or image)

Architectural character*

Source

Tyche

PT 603; Fig 49; above

Astarte and Marsyas Astarte and Marsyas Tyche

Round shrine, arched lintel, conical roof Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel Temple, spiral ﬂutes Temple, AL, semicircular court Temple, arched lintel Temple, arched lintel, with shell in pediment Propylaeum with AL and towers Temple , AL, colonnaded precinct with grove Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, arched lintel Temple, AL Temple, AL Sanctuary (nymphaeum) with temple, AL and portico Temple, AL Temple, AL Temple, AL

138–61

Tyche

Temple, AL

BMC 21–5

Aelia Capitolina

138–69

Tyche or Astarte

Temple, AL

BMC 40–2

Anthedon

218–22

Tyche

Temple, AL

BMC 1

Eleutheropolis

193‒211

Tyche

Temple, AL

PT 793

Gaza

199–215

Tyche

Temple, AL

BMC 130–1

Caesarea Maritima

98–161

Astarte or Tyche

PT 778

Neapolis

193–222

Astarte or Tyche

Temple, AL, with colonnade and altar Temple, AL

Abila

161–9

Tyche

Temple, AL, city-gate and towers

Arabia (Decapolis)

Capitolias

161–9

Tyche

Temple, AL

Arabia (Decapolis) Uncertain

Dium Uncertain

198–211 138–217

Not speciﬁed Tyche or Astarte

Gate with altar, AL Temple, arched lintel

H. Herzfelder, Rev. Num. (1936), 293 no.2 A. Spijkerman, The Coins of the Decapolis and Provincia Arabia (Jerusalem, 1978), 7–9 PT 765 Berlin (Lobb)

PT 607 PT 623 PT 624 PT 669 PT 625 PT 699 PT 705 PT 672 BMC 192–205 BMC 1–2 PT 714 BMC 6–10 BMC 43 PT 719 PT 727

PT 731 PT 743 BM

PT 784

Note:* AL = arcuated lintel. Sources: PT=Price and Trell, Coins and their Cities (London, 1977), followed by the number in their catalogue; I-B = Imhoof–Blumer, Kleinasiatische Münzen, 2 vols, Sonderschriften des österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien, 1 and 3 (Vienna, 1901–2); W=W. H. Waddington (ed.), Recueil général des monnaies grecques d’Asie Mineure (Paris, 1904); Cambridge= Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge; BM =British Museum, London; BN=Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris.

Table 2. Architects in the Roman Empire in the second century c.100–200 Number

Name

Locations and Oeuvre

Date

Sources

Comments

1

Apollodorus

Damascus; Rome (Trajan’s Forum); Danube bridge

ﬂ. c.105–25

Military architect?; attached to emperor Trajan; quarrel with Hadrian

2 3 4 5

Apollonius Aristenetus? Alexandrus [? Ber]nicianus

Alexandria; Mons Claudianus Cyzicus (Temple of Zeus/Hadrian) Palmyra Oum-el-Awamîd (Stipes?)

ﬂ. c.98–117 ﬂ. c.139 1st or 2nd cent. 2nd or 3rd cent.

6

Cleon

Sparta

2nd cent.?

7

Cleon

Sillyon

2nd cent.?

8

L. Cocceius

Antium

ﬂ. c.117–38

Dio 69.4; Apollodorus, Poliorcetica; cf. Ridley, Athenaeum, 67 (1989), 551–65 CIG 4713 e–f IGRom. 4.140; SEG 19.730 SEG 7.155; Pearse, no. 76 Dain, Inscr. grecques du Louvre, 122–3 CIG 1458; IG 5.1.690; Pearse, no. 42 G. Radet and P. Paris, BCH 10 (1886), 500–1, no. 1 Piombi antichi, i., pl. ii, 1–2

9 10 11 12

Decrianus [?——]ius Dio Dionysius C. Iulius Epagathus

Rome (re-erection of Colossus of Nero) Capena (Temple of Ceres) Sardis; Patara (Odeion) Ephesus

ﬂ. c.120 early 2nd cent.? 2nd cent. 2nd or 3rd cent.?

13 14

Rome Macedonia (public building or temple)

ﬂ. c.117–38 ﬂ. c.138–61

15 16 17

Ti. Claudius Eutychus L. Eiuleius Phurmus (= Firmus?) P. Granius Asiaticus C. Heius Eupaideutus Heracleides

Miletus Corinth; Delphi Mons Claudianus

2nd cent.? 2nd cent. ﬂ. c.98–117

18 19 20 21 22

Hippias Aelius Isidotus? C. Iulius Lacer T. Aelius Martialis Mustius

c.160–70? c.140–70? ﬂ. c.98–117 c.138–61 or later c.98–117

23 24 25

Narcissus Iulius Nicodemus Aelius Nicon

? (public bath-building) Pergamon (market portico, lower agora?) Alcantára (bridge and temple) Rome Comum (repaired Temple of Ceres on Pliny’s estate) Lepcis Magna Pergamon (market portico, lower agora) Pergamon (fountain? amphitheatre? temple of Zeus–Asclepius?)

AE 1905.222 BÉ 1951.122 Bingen, Mons Claudianus. Ostraca graeca et latina, i (1992), 39–55 Lucian, Hippias Appendix 2B, no. 5 CIL 2.761 CIL 6.3182 Plin. Ep. 9.39 IRT 656 Appendix 2B, no. 4 Chapter 5 and Appendix 2B, passim

City architect? Public official? Descendant of Coccei, redemptores in Augustan era Engineer? Signature? on entablature Verse eulogy ‘Architect of the goddess’ (Artemisium) Name added to tomb monument Name appended to dedicatory inscription City architect (heröon) Mil. architect; official at Delphi Official in granite quarries Eulogy of building by Lucian Geometer. Pupil of Aelius Nicon? Poem inscribed on work Tombstone (eques singularis ) Worked for Pliny the younger

table 2. architects in the roman empire

2nd cent.? c.140–70? ﬂ. c.120–60

SHA, Hadr. 19.12 Brunn, Gesch. Gr. Künstler, ii. 239 TAM 2.417 Knibbe, Staatsmarkt, FiE 9.1, 60 D5 CIL 6.9151 IG 10.2.133

Attached to emperor Trajan Ambiguous whether architect or patron ‘Architect of the god Bel’ Subordinate?

Imperial freedman; tombstone Geometer. Pupil of Aelius Nicon? Freedman of Hadrian?; father of Galen; isopsephic and geometric verses (continued )

267

268

Number

Name

Locations and Oeuvre

Date

Sources

Comments

26

Nonius Datus

Saldae (aqueduct)

ﬂ. 144–52

CIL 8.2728

27 28 29 30

Opponius Iustus Praxiteles Sempronius Valens C. Sevius Lupus

Bonn Amorium; Dorylaeum (bridge) Troesmis, Dacia Flavia Brigantiorum (La Coruña)

ﬂ. c.100–10 2nd cent.? Discharged 134 Early 2nd cent.?

31

Abonuteichus (public building) Baiae

1st half of 2nd cent. ?

32

P. Aelius Funisulanus Tryphon Vitruvius [? ——]io

CIL 13.8082; BJ 149 (1949), 334–5 BÉ 1941.138a CIL 3.6178.5 CIL 2.2559; Le Roux, MGR 15 (1992), 133–45 Hirschfeld, Sitzber. Akad. Berlin (1888), 888, no. 60 CIL 10.3393

Surveyor (librator ); monument at Lambaesis Friend’s tomb; dedication to Nemesis Signature? Military veteran Dedication of vow to Mars at lighthouse

Marble plaque; authenticity disputed

33

Zeno

Aspendus (theatre)

CIG 4342d

City architect; awarded gardens

Late 1st or early 2nd cent.? ﬂ. c.161–9 ?

Signature? on architrave

table 2. architects in the roman empire

Table 2. (continued )

269

table 3. mausolea in the roman world Table 3. Known Mausolea in the Roman world Catalogue Place number

Area

Sources

Personal Details

Spelling

Mausolus (†352 BC) and wife

Mausoleion

Alexander the Great (†323 BC)

Mausoleum

Augustus (†14) and family

Mausoleum

Arrius Alﬁus and family (†155)

Mausoleum Mesolaeum (made of silver)

1

Halicarnassus

Caria

2

Alexandria

Egypt

3

Rome

Italy

4

Rome

Italy

5

Verona

Italy

Vitruv. 2.8.11, 7. pr.12; Strab. 5.3.8 (236); Paus. 8.16.5 CIL 8.8934; 13.1808 (proc., under Ant. Pi.) Strab. 5.3.8 (236); Suet. Aug. 100; cf.CIL 6.8686 = ILS 1577 (proc.) CIL 6.2120 + 32398a = ILS 8380 (cur.) CIL 5.3801

6

Lisbon

Lusitania

CIL 2.214

7 8

Faro Tarragona

CIL 2.5144 = ILS 8100 CIL 2.4174

9

Villar, west of Saguntum Nîmes (Nemausus)

Lusitania Hispania Citerior Hispania Citerior Gallia Narbonensis

on the estate (praedia) of Valerius Ianuarius Fabius Iusti f. Gal. Rufus, Cluniensis, and his wife Caecilia Scapulae f. Gemina L. Attius Nisus († aged 52) soldier from Samestriaria

CIL 2.4020

[no name preserved]

10

CIL 12.3619 = CLE Built by Hostilia L. f. (for father 579 = Espérandieu, Le Musée or husband?), showing Lapidaire de Nîmes workman’s tools (1924), 123, no.523 CIL 12.3861 = ILS no name, but names of 8378 = Espérandieu, Musée nine freedmen appended Lapidaire, 121, no. 509 P. Wuilleumier ‘Un notable C. Sergius Respectus gallo-romain de Nîmes’, (ﬂamen) REL 49 (1971), 262–5

11

Nîmes

Gallia Narbonensis

12

found at Beaucaire (Ugernum); perhaps from Nîmes? Valence (Valentia) Lyon

Gallia Narbonensis

Gallia Narbonensis Gallia Lugdunensis

CIL 12.1751

Chemtou (Simitthus) Mograwa, near Mactar Dougga

Africa Proconsularis Africa Proconsularis Africa Proconsularis

CIL 8, p. 4613 = ILS 6825 CIL 8.688 = ILS 8099 CIL 8.1523

Henschir Mabrek near Sbiba

Africa Proconsularis Africa Proconsularis Numidia

CIL 8.10712

Namphamus Homulli ﬁl. L. Iulius Felix Cupitianus and his wife (nobisque vivis posteritatique nostrae et in memoriam . . . patris et . . . matris ) Aelia Materna se viva

ILTun 391

Q. Aeli[us] Saturnin[us]

CIL 8.2841 = ILS 8097

Ti. Cl. Firmus prin. leg. III Aug.

CIL 8.2451

Pinarius Processianus aedelicius (sic) IIviralis et augur, and brother and brother’s son

13 14

15 16 17

18 19 20 21

Lambaesis (tomb at Rome) Zaouia des BeniNumidia Barbar, Jebel Aures (Saltus Aurasius)

CIL 13.2181 = ILS 8098

Q. Iulius Aper (sevir augustalis, civis Lugduni, sevir Valentiae) Julia Heliadis ( ﬂaminica Romae et Augusti ) [Caeles]tia

Maesolium (built by Rufus’ mother Sempronia Ruﬁna) Misolio Mesoleus Mausoleum (superﬂuenti pecunia) Maesoleum

Maesoleum

Mausolaeum. Decorated with ornate frame, cf. Sauron, ‘Les Cippes funéraires’ 84, no.V.08, 85, ﬁg.21 Mesoleum (mater fecit ﬁlio dulcissimo) Maesolaeum (ab urbe adferri curaverunt et sarcophagu(m) intre Maesolaeum condiderunt) Mesuleum Moesoleum Hoc Maesolaeum

Musuleum (aeterna domus) Mosoleum (non modicis sumptibus) Maesolaeum Mauso[le]um

(continued )

270

table 3. mausolea in the roman world

Table 3. (continued ) Catalogue number

Place

Area

Sources

Personal Details

Spelling

22

Msid Sidi Aischa

Numidia

CIL 8, p.19929 = ILS 8101

23

Tipasa

Mauretania Caesariensis

CIL 8.9293 = ILS 8095

Q. Caecilius P. ﬁl. Quir. Victorinus (qui patris carissimi (sic) paruit et . . .) Cornelia Flora, tomb consecrated by husband L. Marcius Ferox

24

Auzia

Mauretania Caesariensis

CIL 8.9109 = ILS 8096

Q. Gargilius Campanus, built by his wife

25

Volubilis (found at Kasba des Ait Khalifa (Annoceur))

Mauretania Tingitana

IAM 537 = AE 1922.13; cf. M. Euzennat, BAM 4 (1960), 400, no. 2, 403, ﬁg. 3 (Batha Museum, Fez)

C. Apronius Bracarus

Mesoleum (cum tribunal. et aralibus) Mausolaeum (in solo quod ei splendidissimus ordo concessit ) Mausoleum (operae (sic) quadratario . . . a solo . . . extruxit) Mesoleum

Table 4. Principal public buildings in the Roman Empire of the Antonine Age, AD 138–192 New buildings are given in bold, restorations in ordinary type. Emperors’ names are capitalized; social status of senators and equestrians is given in bold in brackets after the name. Numbers given in the ‘References’ column refer to page numbers in the present book, where further details and bibliography can be found. For those works not mentioned elsewhere in the book, bibliographical citations are given in abbreviated form; full details can be found in the Bibliography. This list is not intended to be comprehensive. I.

ROME

No. Regio

Building

Date

Patronage

Select architectural features

References

Peripteral Corinthian temple, precinct with province ﬁgures (possibly added later) Hexastyle prostyle temple, columns of green cipollino marble, Corinthian capitals, griffin frieze, steps with stair podia, and central altar

32, 34, Figs. 17a–c and 19a 32, 187‒8, Figs. 18a–f

IX

Hadrianeum

c.139–145

ANTONINUS PIUS

2

VIII

Temple of Antoninus and Faustina

c.140–5; rededicated 161

Senate

3

XIII

c.138–50

Private? (civilian)

4

III

191

Private

Tetrastulum nymphaeum

68

5 6 7 8

IX VIII VIII III

Temple of Jupiter Dolichenus, Aventine Temple of Jupiter Dolichenus, Equiline Temple of Bacchus Graecostadium Temple of Deiﬁed Augustus Colosseum

c.138–61 c.138–61 c.159? c.138–61

ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS

36‒7, Fig. 21 35 35 26,34

9 10

IX IX

Pantheon Tomb of Hadrian

c.138–61 c.139

ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS

11

IX

Column of Antoninus Pius

c.161

12

IX

c.180

13

-

c.172/3

MARCUS AURELIUS

14

XIV

by c.176 ?

Private?

15

IX

Column of Marcus Aurelius Temple of Mercury or Thoth ? Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus (‘Syrian Sanctuary’), Janiculum Statio Annonae

MARCUS and LUCIUS VERUS COMMODUS

Domed tholos with surrounding colonnades Colonnade and platform Octastyle façade Unknown, possibly rebuilding of attic storey with Composite pilasters and repair of vomitoria Extent of repair unknown, possibly inner decoration Tumulus core, marble podium, with marble statuary, and quadriga on summit Plain granite column with apotheosis relief on base

II.

ITALY AND SICILY

No. Town 1 2

Ostia Ostia

2nd cent.?

?

Building

Date

Patronage

Capitolium Basilica

c.140? 152

City?

?

63‒4, 67

34, Fig. 19b, 68‒9 31‒2, Figs. 16a–c 67

Column with spiral reliefs

51

Tetrastyle with segmental pediment, herms instead of columns [location unknown, possibly not an actual temple] Axial plan, central court, inner sanctum, imperial statuary, and Egyptianizing/Syrian reliefs

51, Figs. 43a–b

Nave and aisles, entrance with composite capitals

124, Fig. 117

Select architectural features

References

Large brick cella, threshold block of africano marble No details known

76, Figs. 77a–c Fasti Ostienses , ed. L. Vidman

48, 64

271

(continued )

table 4. principle public buildings

1

II.

272

Table 4. (continued ) ITALY AND SICILY

No. Town

Building

Date

Patronage

Select architectural features

References

Curvilinear façade, vaulted halls, cipollino columns, Corinthian capitals (Pentelic marble), imago clipeata of benefactor? Mosaic with image of personalized groin-vault Marble decoration

76‒8, Figs. 79a–d

Ostia

Forum Baths

c.157–60?

Gavius Maximus (Eq), praetorian prefect

4 5

Ostia Ostia

‘Terme dei Cisiarii’ Neptune Baths

c.120–40 c.138/9

6

Ostia

Horrea

c.140–50?

7

Ostia

‘Schola di Traiano’

c.145–55

Private? ANTONINUS PIUS (promised by Hadrian) Epagathus and Epaphroditus (Fr) ?

8 9 10 11 12 13

Tarquinii Novara Antium Terracina Caieta Lanuvium

c.138–61 c.138–61 c.138–61 c.138–61 c.138–61 c.130–40

ANTONINUS PIUS C. Valerius Pansa (S) ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ?

14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Portus Ravenna Augusta Praetoria Bononia Placentia Scolacium Assisium

c.138–61 c.138–61 c.140–5 c.140–5 c.140–5 c.138–161 mid-2nd cent.?

ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS Two freedmen

21 22 23

Capua Capua Tarquinii

Baths Baths Aqueducts Harbour Harbour Tetrastyle of Diana and Antinous Pharus Harbour, civic centre Arch Arch Arch Aqueduct Tetrastyle of Castor and Pollux Baths Amphitheatre Baths

24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Puteoli Luna (Luni) Carsulae Saepinum Parma (Ceutrones) Beneventum

Temple of Victoria Augusta Temple Aqueduct Market Street Roads, temples, and baths Baths

? c.160? ? ? ? 163 c.191

mid-2nd cent.? c.161–7

Satellia Anus ? Begun by P. Tullius Varro pater (S), completed by L. Dasumius Tullius Tuscus (S) augustales ? augustalis augustalis augustalis MARCUS AURELIUS COMMODUS

Entrance with Composite capitals; courtyard with labyrinth mosaic Entrance with portasanta marble, axial hall with apse housing imperial statue No details known ” ” ” ” ” Tower of 3–4 stepped storey

” ” ” Brick podium in forum with four columns at corners enclosing statuary New apodyterium with foreign marbles No details known ”

Entablatures Rebuilt with deep forecourt Columns and marble decoration Repaved with marble statues and fountains added After ﬂoods

58‒60, Fig. 53 35, 43 123, Figs. 114a–c 123, Fig. 115 35 76 36 36 36 68 36, 183, Fig. 147 36 35 35 35 279 n. 74 68, Fig. 70 76 173 76

76 120 76 76 76 51 281 n. 216

table 4. principle public buildings

3

III. 1

c.140–50?

2 3

Thugga Thugga

Theatre Capitolium

c.160–70? c.160–70?

4

Thugga

Temple of Mercury

c.170–90?

5

Thugga

6 7 8

Thugga Thugga Carthage

Council house ? (‘Temple of Saturn’) Circus Cyclops Baths Antonine Baths

c.150s

9

Carthage

Basilica

c.150s

10

Carthage

Harbour?

completed c.200

11 12 13

Theatre? Forum temples and arch Capitolium

150s? c.138–61? 169

14 15 16 17

Carthage Sufetula Thuburbo Maius Gigthis Gigthis Gigthis Gigthis

Forum gateway Temple off forum Temple of Concordia Panthea Temple of Apollo

2nd cent.? c.140? c.150? 162

18

Lepcis Magna

Theatre

19 20 21

Lepcis Magna Sabratha Sabratha

Circus Theatre ‘Seaward Baths’

22

Madauros

Large Baths

IV. 1 2 3 4

NUMIDIA Thamugadi Thamugadi Thamugadi Thamugadi

Library Capitolium? West gate Platea

? ? ?

Timberwork of colonnades, coffered ceilings, decoration

73, Figs. 75a–b

Cavea, proscaenium, arcade in summa cavea High podium, raised position, pediment relief of apotheosis

73‒4, Figs. 4a–c 73, Figs. 76a–c

Statues, portico, apses

73

Tyche image

113

(city magistrates)

Inscriptions on conical turning-posts Latrine Symmetrical imperial bath-building with central hexagonal room Nave and aisles, with superimposed orders (Corinthian and Composite); colossal head of Felicitas Temporum Ionic colonnades, arches with Composite capitals

76 125 143, 146, Fig. 128

145, Figs. 129a–b

Rebuilt proscaenium with applied orders and niches Composite capitals High podium, marble columns, Corinthian capitals

143, 146 118, Fig. 111 7, Fig. 3

Corinthian capitals Painted temple with columns Pronaos and arch

118, Fig. 112c 74 285 n. 43 285 n. 43

Stage-building, cipollino columns and other marbles, tetrastyla, Tyche statue Large inscription of Pentelic marble Stage-building with three levels of columns and niches Hexagonal latrine with cipollino columns, Corinthian capitals, marble walls and ﬂoor Latrine

74

ANTONINUS PIUS/ provincial governors (S) ANTONINUS PIUS

161/2 c.160s early 2nd cent.? ?

152 ? 149 151

Q. Gabinius Felix Faustinianus and children (Eq?) P. Marcius Quadratus (Eq) L. Marcius Simplex and L. Marcius Regillianus (Eqq) Q. Pacuvius Felix Victorianus ?

Initiated by ANTONINUS PIUS? ? ? P. Salvius Iulianus and M. Didius Iulianus (S) ? Q. Servaeus Macer (Eq) Ummidius (decurion) Q. Voconius Saxa Fidus (S), Ummidius Provincial governors (S) Private ? ? ?

ANTONINUS PIUS? M. Valerius Etruscus (S)

Three-bay arch, with segmental pediments over side bays Paved piazza in front of Temple of Genius Coloniae

142‒3, Figs. 127a–c

76 74, Fig. 78 125

table 4. principle public buildings

AFRICA PROCONSULARIS Thugga Forum porticoes

125, Fig. 118

120 111, 119 118‒19, Fig. 113 (continued )

273

274

Table 4. (continued ) IV.

NUMIDIA

No. Town

Building

Date

Patronage

Thumagadi Lambaesis Lambaesis

Temple of Genius Coloniae Temple of Neptune Temple of Aesculapius

c.138–61 158 c.159–62

8

Lambaesis

after 128

9 10

Lambaesis Lambaesis

Column of Hadrian, auxiliary camp Arch/gate Aqueduct monument

c.180–92 152

? (Nonius Datus, librator)

11 12 13

Verecunda Thaenae Saldae

Aqueduct Baths Aqueduct

c.160/1 later 2nd cent.? 144–52

ANTONINUS PIUS ? T. Varius Clemens (Eq), aided by M. Valerius Etruscus (S)

Fortiﬁcations Fortiﬁcations

c.140–7 c.140–4

ANTONINUS PIUS M. Sulpicius Felix (Eq)

c.140

ANTONINUS PIUS (Begun by HADRIAN) Herodes Atticus (S) ?

c.130–70 (?)

Private donor (perhaps Herodes Atticus (S) ?) Unknown

after 170

MARCUS AURELIUS

c.150

Antoninus Pythodorus (S)

late 150s

Herodes Atticus (S)

V. 1 2 VI. 1

MAURETANIA Tipasa Sala GREECE Athens

2 3 4 5

Athens Athens Athens Corinth

Aqueduct, reservoir, and nymphaeum Odeion Latrine, Roman agora Theatre of Dionysus Peirene court

6

Corinth

‘Captives’ façade’

7 8

Corinth Eleusis

9

Epidaurus

Tycheion, agora Telesterion and outer propylaea Asclepieion

Olympia

Nymphaeum

10

c.160–74 mid-2nd cent. mid-2nd cent. c.150–80?

ANTONINUS PLUS MARCUS AURELIUS and LUCIUS VERUS Leg III Aug, under Fronto Frontinianus (S)

Three shrines of curvilinear plan, with Doric order

Column on base with inscribed orations of Hadrian Keystone with ﬁgure of Tyche Hexagonal pier with allegorical busts of virtues and inscription on building project Curvilinear rooms around domed frigidarium Tunnelling through mountain; problems overcome through librator Nonius Datus

City walls

Tetrastyle façade with arcuated lintel; basilical hall with apsidal end No wood but cedar; vaulted space; room with domical mosaic Four columns around central impluvium Stage with satyr ﬁgures below Trefoil plan Two-storey, six-bay façade with caryatids in upper storey and entablature broken at centre by an arch Telesterion rebuilt; new precinct wall; new outer gateway with clipeata imago of Marcus in pediment Bath of Asclepius, Sanctuary of Epidotai, Temple of Hygieia and Asclepius and Egyptian Apollo, maternity hospital, rainwater cistern, restoration of Stoa of Cotys Two levels of marble columns with Pentelic Corinthian capitals and imperial portraits and statues of donor’s family, water basin with statue of bull and archaic inscription

References 119 81 78‒81, Figs. 82a–b

27‒8, Figs. 14a–c 113, Fig. 109 92, Fig. 93 81 78, Fig. 81 92

46 78

40‒1, Figs. 26a–b 60, 83 124‒5 95, Fig. 95 52, 177, Figs. 143a–b 51‒2, Fig. 44 113 51, 175 82

83, Fig. 85

table 4. principle public buildings

5 6 7

Select architectural features

VII. ASIA MINOR 1 Ephesus

2 3 4

Ephesus Ephesus Ephesus

5 6 7

Ephesus Ephesus Ephesus

8

Ephesus

Baths Gymnasium of Vedius 145–9

Vedius Antoninus [S]

So-called ‘imperial hall’ with composite capitals

(‘Gymnasion Sebaston’?) Bouleuterion Stadium ‘Antonine Altar’

145–9 c.140–50 c.138/9

Dionysius (prytanis) Vedius Antoninus [S] Dionysius (prytanis) ?

140s c.160s? c.160s?

? Flavius Damianus Flavius Damianus

Columns of Docimian marble Vaulted substructures, marble ‘stage building’ with inscriptions Two new vaulted wedges of seating Large square marble altar structure with dynastic and mythological reliefs Constructed on several terraces with stairways Dining-hall with columns of Phrygian marble Vaulted colonnades with marble facing

late 2nd cent.

Julia Potentilla

Paving of area

117

c.140s?

Clipeus with inscription in pediment Imitation of Pantheon in Rome

84, Figs. 87a–c 92 98‒101, Fig. 92b

Barrel-vault

98 96‒8

Cryptoportico, arcade with ﬁgured keystones

84 142, Figs. 125a-b

Pergamon Pergamon Pergamon

12 13

Pergamon Pergamon

14 15

Smyrna Smyrna

16

Aspendus

Theatre

c.160s

17 18

Maeonia Patara

Heliocaminus Theatre

154/5 c.140–60

19

Patara

Odeion

20

Side

Great Gate

c.170?

A. Claudius Charax (S) Flavia Melitene L. Cuspius Pactumeius Ruﬁnus (S) ? I(ul.) Nicodemus, architekton Nicetes ANTONINUS PIUS, completed by MARCUS AURELIUS A. Curtius Crispinus, governor of Asia (S) Calligenes Q. Vilius Proculus (S), and Vilia Procula Architect Dionysius of Sardis ?

21

Side

Temple of Tyche (?), agora

mid-2nd cent.

Private?

22 23

Mytilene Cyzicus

Various buildings Temple of Zeus/Hadrian

mid-150s ? c. 130–67

ANTONINUS PIUS Begun by HADRIAN, completed by ANTONINUS PIUS, rebuilt by MARCUS and VERUS

c.123–50 c.120–50? c.120–50 c.140s? c.157–79

?

Three-level stage-building with columns and niches, arcade in summa cavea

158 84 84

83, Figs. 84a–b

Proscaenium with columns and niches. Awnings (vela)

157 82, Fig. 83

Rooﬁng

91

Horseshoe-shaped court, inner marble walls, two levels of statuary Round peripteral temple with dome, perhaps oculus, and zodiac band Reconstruction after earthquake Underground passages, peripteral temple, decastyle, Corinthian order, arcades

110

table 4. principle public buildings

9 10 11

Serapeum Sanctuary of Artemis Road from Magnesian Gates to Sanctuary of Artemis Area in front of Library of Celsus Asclepieion: Propylon Asclepieion: Library Asclepieion: Temple of Zeus–Asclepius Amphitheatre Market portico, Lower Agora Avenue from Ephesian Gates Basilica

133–5, 156‒8 Figs. 123a–b 81, 134 133‒4, Figs. 121a–c 81 31, Fig. 15b

57‒8, Figs. 49a–j 39 39‒40, Figs. 25a–e

(continued )

275

276

Table 4. (continued ) VII.

ASIA MINOR Building

Date

Patronage

Select architectural features

References

24

Miletus

Theatre

after 129

Vaulted terraces, military reliefs, stage-building, arched entrances, arcade in summa cavea

89‒90

25

Miletus

Baths of Faustina

after 161?

ANTONINUS PIUS? (Ulpianus, priest of Apollo, ergepistates) FAUSTINA MINOR

26

Nysa

Boulenterion

c.140–7

Vaulted bath halls; Hall of Muses; keystone with bust of Faustina Vaulted auditorium and aedicular stage-building with imperial statuary

154‒6, Figs. 134a–c 134, Figs. 122a–b

27 28 29 30 31

Stratoniceia Rhodes Myra Hierapolis Hierapolis

Various buildings Various buildings Theatre Baths Basilica and square

after 142 after 142 c.139–60 early 2nd cent.? c.130–60

38 38, 131 84, Fig. 88 88 88

32

Hierapolis

Theatre

later 2nd cent.

33

Aphrodisias

Theatre

c.150–95?

Grant in aid of 1 million sestertii. No contemporary remains General reconstruction after earthquake Greek theatre with stage-building and vaulted substructures Vaulted rooms, thermal windows Basilical hall, with arcaded entrance from square, with Ionic columns, masks, sphinxes, ﬁgured capitals; monument to emperor Hyposcaenium with shell-niches, composite capitals, spirally ﬂuted columns; proscaenium with niches and columns Arcade in summa cavea

34 35

Aphrodisias Aphrodisias

Tetrapylon Avenue (‘platea’)

? c. 150–70

Spirally ﬂuted columns, marble decoration Colonnades

88, Fig. 92b 115

36 37

Sillyon Sagalassus

Temple of Antoninus Pius

161

Gilded Tyche Architectural ornament, including composite capitals

112‒13 158

Precinct surrounded by exedras with giant orders of granite, gateway with arcuated lintel Ornamental reliefs of Bacchus, granite columns, Corinthian capitals, baldachin-like adyton Monumental stairway

46‒7, Figs. 38a–b and 39 46‒8, Figs. 40a–e

Stage-building Half-domed recess, broken pediment

87 87, Fig. 90 111 101, Fig. 50a 101 101 115

VIII. SYRIA AND ARABIA 1 Heliopolis Precinct of Jupiter Heliopolitanus 2 Heliopolis Temple of Bacchus

Sex. Iulius Maior Antoninus Pythodorus (S) ANTONINUS PIUS ANTONINUS PIUS Opramoas of Rhodiapolis ? ?

?

M. Ulpius Carminius Claudianus (Eq) M. Ulpius Carminius Claudianus (Eq) ?

c.138–61

ANTONINUS PIUS

c.138–61

ANTONINUS PIUS L. Attidius Cornelianus (S), governor and cos. des. Geminius Marcianus (S) ?

3

Gerasa

Temple of Artemis: Propylon

150

4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Gerasa Gerasa Gerasa Gerasa Gerasa Gerasa Antioch

North Theatre Nymphaeum North Gate Temple of Zeus South Theatre ‘Oval piazza’ Colonnaded streets

c.162–6 191

after 128/9 ANTONINUS PIUS

Porticoes and roadways widened; paved with Thebaid stone; inscription at Gate of Cherubim

88, Figs. 91a–b

88‒9

87, Figs. 89a–c

table 4. principle public buildings

No. Town

VIII. SYRIA AND ARABIA 13 Bostra West Gate 14 Neapolis, Temple of Zeus Hypsistos, Samaria Mt Gerizim 15 Niha Temple (A)

? completed c.138/9? late 2nd cent.

HADRIAN/ ANTONINUS PIUS ?

Stairway of 1,500 steps Inner baldachin shrine with steps and limestone model of adyton Vaulted cella (?) arctuated lintel with meander frieze

111 50 63, Figs. 58a–d

Aere

Temple of Tyche

192

?

17 18

Phaena Scythopolis

Temple of Zeus Phaenesius Nymphaeum

168/9 mid-2nd cent. (?)

? ?

Cella with cross-vault Two-storey façade with central semicircular bay covered by half-dome and arctuated lintel

56, AJArch. 13 (1909), 417‒28 56, Fig. 47 87; Segal, From function to monument, 157‒60

19 20

Palmyra Apamea

Temple of Bel: propylaea Latrine

174 2nd cent.

?

Central basin

125

Imperial statuary Peristyle, ﬁgured capitals

154 124

Colonnaded avenues

115

Part of complex of provincial imperial cult

39 76

Proscaenium, with marble and columnar ornament Cf. Tyche head Rectangular chamber with stone-cut barrel-vault, aedicula architecture; part of Augusteum complex around spring Keystones, Daedalus and Icarus reliefs, aedicular niche architecture, Composite capitals, Ctesiphon reliefs Addition of 500 seats Nave and aisles, lintel inscription

74 50, 113 50, Fig. 42

Gates with niche architecture, bridge, avenue to forum Symmetrical plan

111, Figs. 103a–b

IX. CRETE AND CYRENAICA 1 Hierapytna Bouleuterion 2 Cyrene House and gymnasium X. EGYPT 1 Hermopolis XI. GAUL (South) 1 Narbo 2 Narbo

L. Sulpicius Dorion Jason Magnus

Tetrastyle

176

after 145 149

ANTONINUS PIUS (local notable, ﬂamen)

c.140–50 c.140–50

Unknown ANTONINUS PIUS?

c.157 or 170s ?

? Private Private

3 4 5

Vasio Nemausus Nemausus

6

Vesontio

Baths Municipal temple of imperial cult Theatre Basilica? Nymphaeum (?) (‘Temple of Diana’) Gate (‘Porte Noire’)

7 8

Lugdunum Aventicum

Circus Schola of the nautae

c.140s mid-2nd cent.

Gate (‘Porta Nigra’) Baths (‘Barbarathermen’) Forum

c.144–52 to c.200 c.144–52

XII. GAUL (Belgica) 1 Treviri 2 Treviri 3 Treviri

? ?

111, 116

table 4. principle public buildings

16

76 123‒4, Figs. 116a–c

118 (continued )

277

278

Table 4. Continued XII.

GAUL (Belgica)

No. Town Bagacum Samarobriva Lutetia Durocortorum

XIII. SPAIN 1 Flavia Brigantiorum XIV. GERMANY 1 (Borders of Upper Germany and Raetia) 2 Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Cologne) 3 Lopodunum (Ladenburg)

Date

Forum Forum Forum Gate (‘Porte de Mars’)

Patronage

?

Select architectural features

?

Three-bay gateway, ﬁgured keystones, reliefs of seasons and Romulus reliefs

References 111 111 111 116

Harbour

mid-2nd cent.

ANTONINUS PIUS (Roman army)

Lighthouse and harbour quays, arcaded wharves

36

Frontier fortiﬁcations

c.140–55

ANTONINUS PIUS, Legate C. Popillius Carus Pedo (S)

Forts rebuilt in stone; inscription in garland

46

Public building (unknown)

c.138–61

ANTONINUS PIUS

Basilica

160s

XV. NORTH-EASTERN PROVINCES 1 Bizya Fortiﬁcations

155

2 3

Nicopolis Tomis

Forum and propylon Public buildings

c.145–61 156/7, 161/2

4

Doclea

Forum basilica

late 2nd cent.?

5

Apollonia

‘Hall of the Agonothetes’

mid-2nd cent.

?

ANTONINUS PIUS, C. Iulius Commodus Orﬁtianus, governor (S) ? Q. Fuﬁcius Cornutus, M. Servilius Fabianus, governors (S) M. Flavius Fronto and Flavia Tertulla Q. Villius Crispinus Furius Proculus

46

Uncompleted basilical hall

78

‘towers’

46, 111, Fig. 102

122 78

201, Figs. 168a–b Pronaos with marble entablature and inscription, assembly structure

154, Figs. 133a–d

table 4. principle public buildings

4 5 6 7

Building

XVI BRITAIN 1 -

Antonine Wall

c.139–42

2 3 4 5

Baths basilica Baths Forum Forum and basilica

150s

Viroconium Viroconium Viroconium Calleva Atrebatum

? ? ?

ANTONINUS PIUS, Q. Lollius Urbicus (S) ? ? ? ?

Distance slabs with architectural reliefs

43‒6

Basilical hall, arcades Frigidarium arcades, polygonal lobe-like caldarium

78, 122, Fig. 80a 103, Fig. 80b 118 78, 113

Tyche image in apse

table 4. principle public buildings 279

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NOTES Notes to the Introduction E. Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776), vol. I, ch. 3, ed. J. B. Bury (London, 1905), i. 78. 2 H.-J. Schalles and H. von Hesberg, ‘Einleitung’, in H.-J. Schalles, H. von Hesberg, and P. Zanker (eds.), Die römische Stadt im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. Der Funktionswandel des öffentlichen Raumes. Kolloquium in Xanten vom 2. bis 4. Mai 1990 (Cologne and Bonn, 1992), 11. For Italy, see M. E. Blake, Roman Construction in Italy from Nerva to the Antonines, edited and completed by Doris Taylor Bishop (Philadelphia, 1973). The best general accounts are P. Gros, L’Architecture romaine du début du IIIe siècle av. J.-C. à la ﬁn du haut-empire, 2 vols. (Paris, 1996 and 2001), and the earlier, more concise version by P. Gros and M. Torelli, Storia dell’ Urbanistica. Il mondo romano (Rome and Bari, 1988). M. Colledge, ‘Art and Architecture’, in CAH 2 xi, 966–83, ‘reads like a list of buildings with little analysis or explanation’: B. Campbell, ‘Siting the Palatine by the Potomac’, THES, 6 Dec. 2002. 3 See particularly J.-P. Adam, La Construction romaine: matériaux et techniques (Paris, 1984), translated as Roman Building: Materials and Techniques (London, 1994); J. Delaine, The Baths of Caracalla: A Study in the Design, Construction, and Economics of Large-scale Building Projects in Imperial Rome, JRA suppl. 25 (Portsmouth, RI, 1997); L. Lancaster, Concrete Vaulted Construction in Imperial Rome (Cambridge, 2005); M. Wilson Jones, Principles of Roman Architecture (New Haven and London, 2000); R. Taylor, Roman Builders: A Study in Architectural Process (Cambridge, 2003). 4 J. B. Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture (Harmondsworth, 1981), 97–120; W. L. MacDonald, The Architecture of the Roman Empire, i. An Introductory Study, rev. edn. (New Haven and London, 1982), passim. L. F. Ball, The Domus Aurea and the Roman Architectural Revolution (Cambridge, 2003), stresses the reign of Nero as the most signiﬁcant phase of the ‘revolution’. 5 H. Bloch, ‘I bolli laterizi e la storia edilizia romana’, Bull. Com. Arch. 64 (1936), 141–225; 65 (1937), 83–187. 6 A matter of architectural know-how as much as of the concrete material used: H. Dodge, ‘The Architectural Impact of Rome in the East’, in M. Henig (ed.), Architecture and Architectural Sculpture in the Roman Empire, Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Monograph, 29 (Oxford, 1990), 108–20, at 113. 7 W. L. MacDonald, The Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. An Urban Appraisal (New Haven and London, 1986). 8 H. Wölfflin, Renaissance and Baroque, tr. K. Simon (London, 1964); M. Lyttelton, Baroque Architecture in Classical Antiquity (London, 1974), 9–16; MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 221–47. 9 J. McKenzie, ‘Alexandria and the Origins of Baroque Architecture’, in Alexandria and Alexandrianism: Papers Delivered at a Symposium Organized by the J. Paul Getty Museum . . . April 22–23, 1993 (Malibu, Calif., 1996), 109–25, at 116. 10 G. M. A. Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine: The Cities of Western Asia Minor and Their Arts in Greek and Roman Times, Jerome Lectures, 10 (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1975), 49. 11 McKenzie, ‘Alexandria and the Origins of Baroque Architecture’, 119–20. 12 Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 300. 13 P. Gros, ‘La Fonction symbolique des édiﬁces théâtraux dans le paysage urbain de la Rome augustéenne’, in L’Urbs. Éspace urbain et histoire, CÉFR, 98 (Rome, 1987), 319–46; J.C. Balty, Curia Ordinis. Recherches d’architecture et d’urbanisme antiques sur les curies provinciales du monde romain (Brussels, 1991). 14 E. Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik und Baufürsorge in den römischen Provinzen des kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien, Asia Minor Studien, 20 (Bonn, 1996). 15 Schalles, von Hesberg, and Zanker (eds.), Die römische Stadt im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. 16 W. Trillmich and P. Zanker (eds.), Stadtbild und Ideologie: die Monumentalisierung hispanischer Städte zwischen Republik und Kaiserzeit. Kolloquium in Madrid vom 19. bis 23. Oktober, 1987 (Munich, 1990). Further colloquia of the ‘Kommission zur Erforschung des antiken Städtewesens’: P. Zanker and H. von Hesberg (eds.), Römische Gräberstrassen (Munich, 1987), and M. Wörrle and P. Zanker (eds.), Stadtbild und Burgerbild im Hellenismus (Munich, 1995). 17 J. Bodel, ‘Monumental Villas and Villa Monuments’, JRA 10 (1997), 5–35. 18 See Riegl (n. 31, below). 19 Of the 21 uses of the word there, 18 are in its traditional etymological sense (11 times referring to a funerary monument, and 7 times used more generally). F. Choay, ‘Alberti: The Invention of Monumentality and Memory’, in Monumentality and the City, Harvard Architecture Review, 4 (Spring 1984), 99–105. 20 Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise (Paris, 1694), s.v. ‘monument’; cf. Le Grand vocabulaire françois, xviii (Paris, 1771), s.v. ‘monument’. Dictionnaire universel (Paris, 1690), s.v. ‘Monument’. 21 S. Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language (1755; London, 1979), s.v. ‘monumental’. 1

22 J. Guillerme, ‘Notes sur la genèse du concept de monumentalité’, Revue de Synthèse, 108 (1987), 75–89, at 78. 23 L.-P. Baltard, Discours d’ouverture du cours de théorie de l’architecture (Paris, n.d. [1819]), 14. 24 Dictionnaire alphabétique et analogique de la langue française, ed. P. Robert, Supplément (1972), gives a ﬁrst occurrence of the word in 1845: Guillerme, ‘Notes sur la genèse’, 79, n. 14. 25 F. Choay, The Invention of the Historic Monument, tr. L. M. O’Connell (Cambridge, 2001), esp. 82–116. 26 G. Hersey, The Monumental Impulse: Architecture’s Biological Roots (Cambridge, Mass., 1999). 27 R. F. Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning on the Athenian Acropolis (Cambridge, 1995), 6. 28 Guillerme, ‘Notes sur la genèse’, 84–9. 29 Choay, Invention of the Historic Monument , 40–81. 30 J. Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture (1849), ch. 3, para. V, in The Works of John Ruskin, ed. E. T. Cook and A. D. O. Wedderburn, i (London and New York, 1903), viii. 105; cf. Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning, 6: ‘inhuman scale.’ 31 A. Riegl, Der moderne Denkmalkultus. Sein Wesen und seine Entstehung (Vienna, 1903), repr. in G. Dehio (ed.), A. Riegl, Konservieren, nicht restaurieren: Streitschriften zur Denkmalphlege um 1900 (Braunschweig and Wiesbaden, 1988) = ‘The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin’, tr. K. Forster and D. Ghirardo, Oppositions, 25 (Fall 1982), 21–51, at 21–3, 38. See below, Ch. 9. 32 e.g. in Une Maison—Un Palais (1928), he describes a bench with ‘a deﬁnitive place on the beach’ or a ‘ﬁg-tree’ planted at the same time as a house beside it as ‘monuments indisputable in their place’. 33 K. D. Murphy, ‘The Villa Savoye and the Modernist Historic Monument’, JSAH 61: 1 (Mar. 2002), 68–89. 34 H.-U. Thamer, ‘Faszination und Manipulation. Die Nürnberger Reichstage der NSDAP’, in U. Schultz (ed.), Das Fest. Eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Munich, 1988), 352–68, esp. 364. 35 Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning, 6. 36 AA. VV., ‘In Search of a New Monumentality’, Architectural Review, 104: 621 (Sept. 1948), 117–28. 37 Ibid. 120. 38 H. H. Reed, ‘Monumental Architecture or the Art of Pleasing in Civic Design’, Perspecta, 1 (Summer 1952), 42. 39 R. Venturi, Learning From Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 50, and 55, ﬁg. 53. 40 J. Assmann, ‘Die Macht der Bilder. Rahmenbedingungen ikonischen Handelns im Alten Ägypten’, in Visible Religion, 7, Genres in Visual Representations (Leiden, etc., 1990), 1–20, at 5–8 (here, 5). 41 Ibid. 8–10. 42 Wu Hung, Monumentality in Early Chinese Art and Architecture (Stanford, Calif., 1995), 6–7. 43 For full details, see F. S. Kleiner, ‘The Trophy on the Bridge and the Roman Triumph Over Nature’, Ant. Class. 60 (1991), 182–92; C. O’Connor, Roman Bridges (Cambridge, 1993), 143. 44 Coins: CREBM iii, Trajan 847–52 and 914. Column: scene XCVIII–XCIX (F. Lepper and S. Frere, Trajan’s Column: A New Edition of the Cichorius Plates (Gloucester, 1988), pl. lxxii; detail shown in Lancaster, Concrete Vaulted Construction, 24, ﬁg. 11). Cf. also a mid2nd-cent. mosaic in the ‘Piazzale delle Corporazioni’ at Ostia: G. Becatti, Scavi di Ostia, iv. Mosaici e pavimenti marmorei (Rome, 1961), 74–6, no. 108; J. R. Clarke, Roman Black-andWhite Figural Mosaics (New York, 1979), 83–4. Apollodorus’ treatise: Procop. Aed. 4.6.13. 45 Dio Cass. 68.13.1; cf. 69.4.1. 46 Roman consciousness of Darius’ bridge over the Bosphorus and Xerxes’ bridge of boats over the Hellespont: Plin. HN 4.75–6; Dio Cass. 59.17.11. Gaius’ decadent bridge of boats between the pleasure resorts of Baiae and Puteoli: cf. Suet. Calig. 19.1–3; Dio Cass. 59.17.1–11. Domitian’s bridge over the Volturnus, with triumphal arch over the Via Domitiana, opened in 95: Stat. Silv. 4.3.95–100. Later, one might compare the 5th-cent. bridge of boats at Arles (Auson. Op. 11.10) and Justinian’s great bridge over the river Sangarius (Procop. Aed. 5.3.8–11), on which see M. Whitby, ‘Justinian’s Bridge Over the Sangarius and the Date of Procopius’ De Aediﬁciis ’, JHS 105 (1985), 129–48. 47 Plin. Ep. 8.4.1–2. 48 B. G. Trigger, ‘Monumental Architecture: A Thermodynamic Explanation of Symbolic Behaviour’, World Archaeology, 22: 2 (Monuments and the Monumental ) (Oct. 1990), 119–32, at 119. 49 Vitr. De Arch. 1.1.11 (my trans.). 50 H. von Hesberg , ‘Bemerkungen zu Architekturepigrammen des 3. Jahrhunderts v. Chr.’, JDAI 96 (1981), 55–119, at 56.

282

notes (pp. 5–17)

Ibid. 58, 92. G. Woolf, ‘Monumental Writing and the Expansion of Roman Society in the Early Empire’, JRS 86 (1996), 22–39; J. K. Davies, ‘Greek Archives: From Record to Monument’, in M. Brosius (ed.), Ancient Archives and Archival Traditions: Concepts of Record-keeping in the Ancient World (Oxford and New York, 2003), 323–43, at 335, on ‘monumentalization’ as a ‘widespread tendency to create a document which was also a monument, often of some artistic quality’. 53 R. Bradley, ‘The Birth of Architecture’, in W. G. Runciman (ed.), The Origins of Human Social Institutions, Proc. Brit. Acad. 110 (Oxford, 2001), 69–92. 54 Woolf, ‘Monumental Writing’, 30–1, 38. 55 J. Williams and A. Meadows, ‘Moneta and the Monuments: Coinage and Politics in Republican Rome, JRS 91 (2001), 27–49. 56 Ibid. 48. 57 Gibbon, Decline and Fall , ed. Bury, i. 78. 58 For a nuanced picture of the various identities of one region, see F. G. B. Millar, The Roman Near East (Cambridge, Mass., 1991). 59 T. B. Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions (New York, 1899). Applied to the ancient world by M. I. Finley, The Ancient Economy (Cambridge, 1973) and, more critically, A. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Social Structure of the Roman House’, PBSR 56 (1988), 43–97, at 47–8; id., Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Princeton, 1994), 6. 60 The proportion of senators of provincial origin increased from 23% in Domitian’s reign at the end of the 1st cent. to 42% by the middle of the 2nd cent.: M. Hammond, ‘Composition of the Senate A.D. 68–235’, JRS 47 (1957), 74–81, at 77. 61 G. Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand unter den Antoninen: prosopographische Untersuchungen zur senatorischen Führungsschicht (Bonn, 1977), 61–94. 62 P. R. C. Weaver, Familia Caesaris: A Social Study of the Emperor’s Freedmen and Slaves (Cambridge, 1972); G. Boulvert, Domestique et fonctionnaire sous le haut-empire romain: la condition de l’affranchi et de l’esclave du prince (Paris, 1974). 63 Paus. 2.3.5; CIG 2740–1. 64 O. Hirschfeld, Sitzungsberichte der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften von Berlin (1888), 888, no. 60; cf. O. Salomies, Adoptive and Polyonymous Nomenclature, Commentationes humanarum litterarum, 97 (Helsinki, 1992), 62, n. 8. 65 Not. Scav. (1889), 9 = AE 1889.99 = ILS 886 (... quod primus ad thermas publicas marmora et columnas (de)derit), on a statue pedestal now in the courtyard of the Castello degli Orsini, Bracciano. Agathoclianus perhaps won his citizenship because of his benefaction. Note how these municipal baths are called thermae, like those of emperors in Rome: cf. Ch. 12, below. 66 P. R. C. Weaver, ‘Social Mobility in the Early Roman Empire: The Evidence of the Imperial Freedmen and Slaves’, Past & Present, 37 (1964), 3–20 = M. I. Finley (ed.), Studies in Ancient Society (London, 1974), 121–40. 67 For an example where different ranks take credit from a project, see Ch. 5, below, on the aqueduct at Saldae. On the diverse social character of the military in general, see W. Eck, ‘Aristokraten und Plebs: die geographische, soziale und kulturelle Herkunft der Angehörigen des römischen Heeres in der Hohen Kaiserzeit’, in H. von Hesberg (ed.), Das Militär als Kulturträger in römischer Zeit (Cologne, 1999), 15–35. 68 M. K. Hopkins, ‘Elite Mobility in the Roman Empire’, Past & Present, 32 (1965), 12–26 = Finley (ed.), Studies in Ancient Society, 103–20; T. D. Barnes, ‘Who Were the Nobility in the Roman Empire?’, Phoenix, 28 (1974), 444–9. 69 W. Eck, ‘Römische Grabinschriften. Aussageabsicht und Aussagefähigkeit im funerären Kontext’, in Zanker and von Hesberg (eds.), Römische Gräberstrassen, 61–83. 70 ILTun. 1281 = ILBardo 411 (with photo); cf. C. Saumagne, BAC (1932–3), 293–4; A. Beschaouch, ‘Sur la localisation d’Abitina, la cité des célèbres martyrs africains’, CR Acad. Inscr. (1976), 255–66. 71 P. Veyne, Bread and Circuses: Historical Sociology and Political Pluralism, English abridgement, tr. B. Pearce with an introduction by O. Murray (Harmondsworth, 1990). 72 ILTun. 699 = ILBardo 339 (with date; Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand , 209, prefers 168); cf. I. M. Barton, ‘Capitoline Temples in Italy and the Provinces (especially Africa)’, ANRW ii.12.1 (Berlin and New York, 1982), 259–342, at 312–13. 73 CIL 8.26606. See below, Ch. 4. 74 ILAfr. 521. 75 H. Halfmann, Die Senatoren aus dem östlichen Teil des Imperium Romanum: bis zum Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts n. Chr., Hypomnemata, 58 (Göttingen, 1979), 71–81. 76 V. M. Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen der stadtrömischen und kleinasiatischen Architektur unter Trajan und Hadrian’, MDAI(I) 38 (1988), 291–307. Previously, D. E. Strong, ‘Late Hadrianic Architectural Ornament at Rome’, PBSR 21 (1953), 118–51, had argued that the inﬂuence was in the other direction. 77 W. Wilberg, Die Bibliothek, Forschungen in Ephesos, i (Vienna, 1909); Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 288–90; H. Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame: urbanisme et commanditaires en Asie Mineure romaine, Ausonius Scripta Antiqua, 11 (Paris, 2004), 88–9 and 93. For the date, V. M. Strocka, ‘Zur Datierung des Celsusbibliothek’, in Proceedings of the Xth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, Ankara-Izmir, 23–30/IX/1973, ed. E. Akurgal (Ankara, 1978), ii. 893–900. 78 Plin. Ep. 6.31.3. 79 Wilberg, Die Bibliothek, 47–57; cf. P. C. N. Stewart, Statues in Roman Society: Representation and Response (Cambridge, 2003), 169. 80 P. Barresi, ‘Province dell’Asia Minore: costo dei marmi, architettura pubblica e committenza, Studi archaeologica, 125 (Rome, 2003), 377–80. 51 52

The column shafts are 24 Roman feet high, whereas those of the upper order are 17 feet. Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen,’, 296; P. Liljenstolpe, ‘The Roman Blattkelch Capital: Typology, Origin and Aspects of Employment’, Opuscula Romana, 22–3 (1997–8), 91–126, at 104. For the associations, cf. H. Baumann, Greek Wild Flowers and Plant Lore in Ancient Greece (London, 1993), 169–76., and the shrine of the Augustales at Miseunum, discussed in Ch. 10 below. 83 Palace Tomb: J. McKenzie, The Architecture of Petra, British Academy Monographs in Archaeology, 1 (Oxford, 1990), 162–5. Cf., in Italian architecture, e.g. Temple of Vespasian, Pompeii; Porta dei Borsari, Verona; Markets of Trajan, Rome: Lyttelton, Baroque Architecture in Classical Antiquity, 67–8; MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 237. 84 Perhaps an imitation of the Forum of Trajan, where Trajan was to be buried in the base of his Column, between two library buildings; see S. Settis, ‘Biblioteche e sepolcri’, in id. (ed.), La Colonna Traiana (Turin, 1988), 60–75. 85 D. Cannadine, In Churchill’s Shadow: Confronting the Past in Modern Britain (London, 2002), 1–25. 86 R. Tittler, Architecture and Power: The Town Hall and the English Urban Community, c.1500–1640 (Oxford, 1991). 87 Vitr. De Arch. 5.2.1. 88 Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning , 5. 89 For this fundamental change in the Early Empire: A. D. Nock, Conversion: The Old and the New in Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo (Oxford, 1933); J. North, ‘The Development of Religious Pluralism’, in J. Lieu, J. North, and T. Rajak (eds.), The Jews Among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire (London, 1992), 174–93. 90 Aristid. Or. 26.104–5. Cf. S. J. Frieden, Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (Leiden, 1993), 151–2. 91 J. B. Rives, Religion and Authority in Roman Carthage from Augustus to Constantine (Oxford, 1995), 76–85. 92 Nock, Conversion ; M. Goodman, Mission and Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire (Oxford, 1994). 93 Origen, C. Cels. 5.41; cf. G. Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Princeton, NJ, 1993), 37–50, esp. 39. 94 P. R. L. Brown, The Making of Late Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass., 1978), 1–26. 95 H. Stiller, Das Traianeum, Alterthümer von Pergamon, 5.2 (Berlin, 1895); Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 71–3. 96 Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’. For the two-fascia architrave, by contrast with the three fascias generally appearing in monumental architecture up to that time, see P. Liljenstolpe, ‘The Vatican Procession Relief in Rome: Trajan Re-dedicating the Temple of Quirinus?’, Arch. Anz. (1996), 527–38. 97 P. León Alonso and P. Rodríguez Oliva, ‘The Hispano-Roman Town in Andalusia’, in The Hispano-Roman Town, ed. M. Bendala Galán (Barcelona, 1993), 12–53, at 39 (ﬁg.); M. T. Boatwright, ‘The Traianeum in Italica (Spain) and the Library of Hadrian in Athens’, in D. Buitron-Oliver (ed.), The Interpretation of Architectural Sculpture in Greece and Rome (Washington, DC, 1997), 193–217. 98 E. L. Bowie, ‘The Greeks and Their Past in the Second Sophistic’, Past & Present , 46 (1970), 3–41, reprinted in Finley (ed.), Studies in Ancient Society, 166–209. 99 D. A. Russell, ‘Introduction: Greek and Latin in Antonine Literature’, in id. (ed.), Antonine Literature (Oxford, 1990), 1–17. 100 H. Blumenberg, ‘Paradigmen zu einer Metaphorologie’, Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte, 6 (1960), 7–142; P. Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor: Multi-disciplinary Studies of the Creation of Meaning in Language, tr. R. Czerny (London, 1978), 62–4, 303–13. 101 E. H. Gombrich, The Sense of Order: A Study in the Psychology of Decorative Art (Oxford, 1979; 2nd edn. 1984), 244. 102 P. R. Hardie, The Epic Successors of Virgil: A Study in the Dynamics of a Tradition (Cambridge, 1993), 1. 103 N. Pevsner, An Outline of European Architecture 6 (Harmondsworth, 1970), 7. 104 P. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, tr. R. Nice (Cambridge, 1990); Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class. 105 M. W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, 1995), p. xxi (quote); T. Schmitz, Bildung und Macht. Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit (Munich, 1997); S. C. R. Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, AD 50–250 (Oxford, 1996). 106 J.-J. Flinterman, ‘The Self-portrait of an Antonine Orator: Aristides, or. 2.429 ff.’, in E. N. Ostenfeld (ed.), Greek Romans and Roman Greeks: Studies in Cultural Interaction, Aarhus Studies in Mediterranean Antiquity, 8 (Aarhus, 2002), 198–211. 107 But, for the late Republic, see G. Sauron, Quis deum? L’Expression plastique des idéologies politiques et religieuses à Rome à la ﬁn de la République et au début du principat , BÉFAR, 285 (Rome, 1994). 81

82

Notes to Chapter 1 1 B. Sipek, ‘Architektur als Vermittlung. Semiotische Untersuchung der architektonischen Form als Bedeutungsträger’, Ph.D thesis, Technische Hogeschool Delft (1979), esp. 27, 43, 49. 2 G. Fuchs, Geographische Bilder in griechischen Ortsnamen (Erlangen-Bruck, 1932), 3–9, 17–23; U. Finzenhagen, Die Geographische Terminologie des Griechischen (WürzburgAumühle, 1939), 74.

notes (pp. 17–20) 3 ophrus (‘eyebrow’), of a wall: e.g. SEG 2.545 (Mylasa); for the distortion of metope(‘metope’) into meto-pon (‘brow’) and, generally, the metaphorical use of proso-pon (‘face’) of building façades, see A. K. Orlandos and J. N. Travlos, Lexikon archaio-n architektoniko-n horo-n Architektoniko-n (Athens, 1986), 224. 4 Contra, L. Callebat, ‘Dénominations métaphoriques dans le vocabulaire de l’architecture’, in id. (ed.), Latin vulgaire, latin tardif. IV. Actes du 4 e colloque international sur le latin vulgaire et tardif. Caen, 2–5 septembre 1994 (Hildesheim, 1995), 633–42. 5 G. Hollier, Against Architecture: The Writings of Georges Bataille, tr. B. Wing (Cambridge, Mass., 1989), 35. 6 Xen. Mem. 1.4.6; cf. Diego da Sagredo, on which N. Llewellyn, ‘Two Notes on Diego da Sagredo’, JWI 40 (1977), 292–300. 7 Fuchs, Geographische Bilder, 12–14, 115–17; D. Kurth, Den Himmel stutzen (Brussels, 1975); M. L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford, 1997), 137–50. 8 E. Baldwin Smith, Architectural Symbolism of Imperial Rome and the Middle Ages (Princeton, 1956); H. P. L’Orange, Art Forms and Civic Life in the Late Roman Empire (Princeton, 1965). 9 Exceptions are H. Drerup, ‘Architektur als Symbol. Zur zeitgenössischen Bewertung der römischen Architektur’, Gymnasium , 73 (1966), 181–200; A. Demandt, ‘Symbolfunktionen antiker Baukunst’, in Mitteilungen der Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung, 38 (1980), 18–26, and ‘Symbolfunktionen antiker Baukunst’, in D. Papenfuss and V. M. Strocka (eds.), Palast und Hütte. Beiträge zum Bauen und Wohnen im Altertum von Archäologen, Vor-und Frühgeschichtlern (Tagungsbeiträge eines Symposiums der Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung Bonn–Bad Godesberg veranstaltet vom 25.–30. November 1979 in Berlin) (Mainz, 1982), 49–62; A. Bammer, Architektur und Gesellschaft in der Antike 2 (Vienna, 1985). 10 The following section is based on E. V. Thomas, ‘The Creation of Monumental Architectural Form in the Ancient World’ (forthcoming). 11 Names such as ‘House of the Mountain’, ‘Mountain of the Storm’ demonstrate that such structures were ‘intended not merely to resemble, but to be, mountains’: H. Frankfort, The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient (Harmondsworth, 1954), 6; cf. M. W. Meister, ‘Mountain Temples and Temple-Mountains: Masrur’, JSAH 65 (2006), 26–49. 12 M. Clarke, ‘Gods and Mountains in Greek Myth and Poetry’, in A. B. Lloyd (ed.), What Is a God? Studies in the Nature of Greek Divinity (London and Swansea, 1997), 65–80, esp. 70–2. 13 B. Fehr, ‘Kosmos und Chreia. Der Sieg der reinen über die praktische Vernunft in der griechischen Stadtarchitektur des 4. Jhs. v. Chr.’, Hephaistos, 2 (1980), 155–85; von Hesberg, ‘Bemerkungen zu Architekturepigrammen’, 93–4. For the redating of the Hekatompedon at Samos to the 7th century BC, see A. Mallwitz, ‘Kritisches zur Architektur Griechenlands im 8. und 7. Jahrhundert’, Arch. Anz. (1981), 599–642, at 624–33. 14 A. Schmidt-Colinet, Antike Stutzﬁguren: Untersuchungen zur Typus und Bedeutung der menschengestaltigen Architekturstütze in der griechischen und römischen Kunst (Frankfurt-amMain and Berlin, 1977), 12; H. Kyreleis, Throne und Klinen. Studien zur Formgeschichte altorientalischer und griechischer Sitz-und Liegemobel vorhellenistischer Zeit (Berlin, 1969), 69–70. 15 Lancaster, Concrete Vaulted Construction, 6–10 with ﬁg. 2. 16 Anaximander B 5, in DK i. 90; Hippol. Haer. i. 6. 3, in Kirk–Raven–Schoﬁeld, Presocratic Philosophers, 133–4; Aët. 3.10.2, 4 (tumpanoeides, ‘drum-like’); cf. J. P. Vernant, The Origins of Greek Thought (Ithaca, NY, 1982), ch. 8; R. Hahn, Anaximander and the Architects (Albany, NY, 2001). 17 Aesch. Ag. 897–8; Eur. IT 47–57, esp. 50. Cf. P. Vielhauer, Oikodome. Das Bild vom Bau in der christlichen Literatur vom Neuen Testament bis Clemens Alexandrinus, InauguralDissertation, Heidelberg (1939), 26. 18 Pind. Ol. 6.1–5. For a later history of this image, see H. Flasche, ‘Similitudo Templi (Zur Geschichte einer Metapher)’, Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, 23 (1949), 81–125. 19 Pind. Pae. 8, fr. 52i.62–79 Maehler. Tr. P. J. Parsons, ‘New Texts and Old Theories’, in T. P. Wiseman (ed.), Classics in Progress: Essays on Ancient Greece and Rome (Oxford, 2002), 39–57, at 45. 20 H. von Hesberg, Formen privater Repräsentation (Cologne, 1994). 21 Ibid. 5 and pl. 30. 22 T. D. Boyd, ‘The Arch and the Vault in Greek Architecture’, AJArch. 82 (1978), 85–100; R. A. Tomlinson, ‘The Architectural Context of the Macedonian Vaulted Tombs’, ABSA 82 (1987), 305–12. 23 J. Onians, ‘From the Double Crown to the Double Pediment’, in Alexandria and Alexandrianism (Introduction, above, n. 9), 127–39. For a different approach, emphasizing the development of Greek models above Egyptian ones, see H. von Hesberg, ‘Zur Entwicklung der griechischen Architektur im Ptolemaischen Reich’, in H. Mähler and V. M. Strocka (eds.), Das ptolemäische Ägypten. Akten des internationalen Symposions 27.–29. September 1976 in Berlin (Mainz, 1978), 137–43. 24 G. Rodenwaldt, ‘Die letzte Blütezeit der römischen Architektur’, Forschungen und Fortschritte, 15: 19 (Berlin, 1 July 1939), 244–5. See further Ch. 3, below. 25 Chrysippus, fr. 349, in SVF, ii. 111–66; cf. also [Arist.], De Mundo 399 b 29. See W. L. Lorimer, Some Notes on the Text of Pseudo-Aristotle ‘De Mundo’ (London and New York, 1925), 98–9; G. Rudberg, Forschungen zu Poseidonios (Uppsala, 1918), 217; E. G. Schmidt, ‘Bemerkungen zu den Gedichten des Ausonius’, Studii Clasice, 3 (1961), 413–20; id., ‘Antike und mittelalterliche Schlusssteinsymbolik’, Das Altertum, 14 (1968), 31–7; J. P. Mau and E. G. Schmidt (eds.), Isonomia. Studien zur Gleichheitsvorstellung im griechischen Denken (Berlin,

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1964). See further E. V. Thomas, ‘Arches, Keystones, and the Balance of Power in Imperial Rome’ (forthcoming). 26 H. Lauter, Die Architektur des Hellenismus (Darmstadt, 1986), 59–62, 296–7. 27 B. Wesenberg, ‘Die Entstehung der griechischen Säulen-und Gebälkformen in der literarischen Überlieferung der Antike’, in E.-L. Schwandner (ed.), Säule und Gebälk. Zu Struktur und Wandlungsprozess griechischer-römischer Architektur. Bauforschungskolloquium Berlin 1994, Diskussionen zur archäologischen Bauforschung, 6 (Mainz, 1996), 1–15. 28 Sanherib: H. C. Rawlinson, The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, 5 vols. (London, 1861–84), i., pl. 37–42, at 41 (Col. V, l. 20); Old Testament: E. Sellin, Theologie des alten Testamentes (Leipzig, 1933), 37–40; Vielhauer, Oikodome, 11–15. 29 Cf. Psalms 118: 22, a key passage for rabbinic interpreters. 30 Thgn. 805–6, Simon. 542.3 Page; cf. Pl. Prt. 339a–b. E. Pottier, Vases antiques du Louvre (Paris, 1922), iii., pl. 135 (Louvre G 318). 31 Macho fr. 2 (Epistula), in Edmonds, FAC iii A, 288–9 (‘foundation of the art’); Epicurus, Ep. Pyth. 89, in Epicurus: The Extant Remains, ed. C. Bailey (Oxford, 1926), 60–1: ‘the foundations [of the universe] laid below.’ 32 Eur. IT 30. 33 Arist. Eth. Nic. 7.11.4, 1152b14–15; Gal. Ad Thrasybulum liber utrum medicinae sit an gymnastices hygieine, 27, in Claudii Galeni opera omnia , ed. C. G. Kühn, 20 vols. in 22 (Leipzig, 1821–33), v (1823), 854–6. 34 Arist. Protrepticus, fr. 6 Ross; An. Post. i. 7, 75b17–19; cf. Pl. Plt. 259e. For Greek design: A. Petronotis, Zum Problem der Bauzeichnungen bei den Griechen (Athens, 1972); J. J. Coulton, Greek Architects at Work: Problems of Structure and Design (London, 1977), 51. 35 Hesberg, ‘Architekturepigrammen’, 93–4. 36 Pl. Criti. 116d. 37 For similar ambivalence towards size in Renaissance architecture, see C. Smith, Architecture in the Culture of Early Humanism: Ethics, Aesthetics, and Eloquence 1400 –1470 (Oxford and New York, 1992), 40–53. 38 IStratoniceia 310.39 (c.303/15 BC); IG 2 2.1.1326.25 (Athens, c.176/5 BC). 39 Arist. Eth. Nic. 1.4, 1122a34–5; cf. D. T. D. Held, ‘Megalopsuchia in Nicomachean Ethics IV’, Ancient Philosophy, 13 (1993), 95–110; D. P. Fowler, ‘Horace and the Aesthetics of Politics’, in S. J. Harrison (ed.), Homage to Horace: A Bimillenary Celebration (Oxford, 1995), 248–66, at 252–3. 40 Fehr, ‘Kosmos und Chreia’, 163. 41 H. Malay, ‘Three Decrees from Kyme’, Epigraphica Anatolica , 2 (1983), 1–16, at 2: Decree 1, ll. 9–10. 42 L. Haselberger, ‘Architectural Likenesses: Models and Plans of Architecture in Classical Antiquity’, JRA 10 (1997), 77–94, esp. 91–4. 43 Vitr. De Arch. 1.2.2; cf. Pl. Resp. 10, 596–7; Phd. 247. For the convergence of Platonic and other philosophical ideas in Vitruvius’ treatise, see P. Fancelli, ‘Vitruvio e l’estetica’, in G. Ciotta (ed.), Vitruvio nella cultura architettonica antica, medievale e moderna. Atti del convegno internazionale di Genova, 5–8 novembre 2001 (Genoa, 2003), i. 104–24. 44 Vitr. De Arch. 1.1.4. 45 The existence of an ideal form ‘building’, distinct from particular buildings, continued to be debated by Aristotle and later commentators: Arist. Met. 3.4.6, 999b19–20; W. Kroll (ed.), Commentaria in Aristotelem graeca , vi.1, Syriani in Metaphysica commentaria (Berlin, 1902), 38–9. 46 Arist. Met. 3.3.13, 3.5.8. 47 Ibid. 1.1.1. 48 N. Goodman and C. Z. Elgin, Reconceptions in Philosophy and Other Arts and Sciences (Indianapolis, 1988), 36–8. 49 Vitr. De Arch. 1.4.3. 50 Cic. Mil. 86; Columella, Rust. 7.8.7, 12.15.5. 51 Cic. Rep. 5.2. 52 Cic. Tusc. 1.45; Red. Pop. 4. 53 Plin. Ep. 5.6.7. 54 Stat. Silv. 1.3.13–19. 55 Livy 37.31.8. Cf. G. E. Bean, Aegean Turkey (London, 1966; rev. edn. 1979), 95, ﬁg. 22. 56 Sall. Iug. 18.8. 57 For the shape, see A. T. Hodge, Roman Aqueducts and Water Supply (London, 1992), 97, ﬁg. 49a–b. 58 CIL 11.6016. 59 Livy 41.28.10: set up in 174 BC, the map commemorated the campaign of Ti. Sempronius Gracchus. 60 Philo, De Opiﬁcio Mundi 4.17–18. 61 Ibid. 20. 62 D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses (Leiden, 2001), 140–1; id., Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (Leiden, 1986), 165–9. 63 Cic. Timaeus 7, translating Pl. Ti. 29a. 64 Arist. De Philosophia fr. 13 Ross = Cic. Nat. D 2.95–6; Philo, Leg. Alleg. 3.97–9, De praem. et poen. 7.41–3, De Spec. Leg. 3.185–94. This was a recognized proof of God’s existence: A. H. Chroust, ‘A Tentative Outline for a Possible Reconstruction of Aristotle’s Lost Dialogue On Philosophy’, Ant. Class. 44 (1975), 553–69, at 565. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus, 168, n. 30. 65 For a list of passages applying the image of a house or city to the cosmos, see P. Wendland, Philos Schrift über die Vorsehung: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der nacharistotelischen Philosophie (Berlin, 1892), 10, n. 27.

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notes (pp. 20–4)

Cic. Nat. D 1.19. Atticus Fragments, ed. E. des Places (Paris, 1977), fr. 4.12 (oikodomos); Apul. De Dog. Plat. 1.7, 194: illo aediﬁcatore mundi deo. 68 Pl. Ti. 69c–72b; cf. Sen. Ep. 82.5: in insuperabili loco stat animus . . . et arce se sua vindicat. For the origins and later history of this metaphor and its associations with ideas such as defence or sanctity, see D. Cowling, Building the Text: Architecture as Metaphor in Late Medieval and Early Modern France (Oxford, 1998), 23–82. 69 e.g. CIL 9.3018 = ILS 5761, for the ‘head’ (caput) and ‘arms’ (bracchia) of an aqueduct. 70 Vitr. De Arch. 3.1.1–4, 4.1.1–8; Ionic column: 4.1.7; cf. P. Gros (ed.), Vitruve, De l’Architecture, Livre IV (Paris, 1990), ad loc. 71 Joseph. BJ 5.171. 72 Cic. Verr. 2.2.87. 73 Vitr. De Arch. 3.1, on proportio (Greek analogia) applied to a temple as a whole body. For Polyclitus’ Canon, see J. J. Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminology (New Haven, 1974), 14–22; T. Visser-Choitz, ‘Zu Polyklets Kanon’, in M. Schmidt (ed.), Kanon. Festschrift Berger, Antike Kunst , Beihefte, 15 (1988), 127–33; H. Philipp, ‘Zu Polyklets Schrift “Kanon” ’, in Polyklet. Der Bildhauer der griechischen Klassik. Ausstellung Frankfurt am Main (Mainz, 1990), 135–55. 74 Cat. 37.10, obscenely playing on the ambiguity of frons (‘façade’ or ‘face’). 75 Kassel–Austin, PCG iv, 159–60, fr. 74. I. N. Svoronos, ‘He¯ skilla ho schinokephalos Perikles kai he¯ stege¯ tou Oideiou autou’, Kaocqaua, 7 (1923), 137–76 argued that the odeion roof actually was this shape. For an insightful analysis of the building’s meaning and its resemblance, not to the Persian King’s tent (as Paus. 1.20.4), but to the hypostyle architecture of Persepolis, see M. C. Miller, Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century BC: A Study in Cultural Receptivit y (Cambridge, 1997), 218–42, who argues that ‘its purpose appears to have been purely semiotic’ (at 240). Cf. Tobias Smollett on the Maison Carrée at Nîmes: ‘An Italian writer, perceiving a small part of the roof repaired by modern French masonry, tore his hair, and exclaimed in rage, “Zounds! What do I see? Harlequin’s hat on the head of Augustus!” ’ (Travels Through France and Italy (1766), World’s Classics (London and New York, 1907), 90. 76 G. Scott, The Architecture of Humanism: A Study in the History of Taste (London, 1914). 77 Plaut. Mostell. 91. 78 N. Harris, Building Lives: Constructing Rites of Passage (New Haven and London, 1999). 79 Gal. De Constitutione artis medicae ad Patrophilum liber, 10, ed. Kühn, i (1821), 257–8; cf. 303; Cic. Off. i. 151; F. Stok, ‘La medicina nell’enciclopedia latina e nei sistemi di classiﬁcazione delle artes dell’età romana’, in ANRW ii.37.1, ed. W. Haase (Berlin and New York, 1993), 393–444, at 397. Cf. ‘sick-building syndrome’: Harris, Building Lives, 128–30. 80 Plin. Ep. 6.30.2. 81 Bodel, ‘Monumental Villas and Villa Monuments’, 5. 82 Theophr. Char. 2.12. 83 Cic. Nat. D 2.47; cf. Q. fr. 3.1.2. 84 Plut. Pomp. 42.4. 85 Suet. Iul. 31.1. 86 Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 364. 87 Cic. Scaur. 45, quoted at Orat. 227; Tac. Ann. 3.37. 88 J. E. G. Whitehorne, ‘The Ambitious Builder’, Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association, 31 (1969), 28–39; L. T. Pearcy, jr., ‘Horace’s Architectural Imagery’, Latomus, 36 (1977), 772–81. For the moral arguments: C. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome (Cambridge, 1993), 137–72; E. Romano, ‘Dal De Officiis a Vitruvio, da Vitruvio a Orazio: il debattito sul lusso edilizio’, in Le Projet de Vitruve: objet, destinataires et réception du De Architectura. Actes du colloque international organisé par l’École Française de Rome, l’Institut de recherche sur l’architecture antique du CNRS et la Scuola normale superiore de Pise, CÉFR 192 (Rome, 1994), 63–73. 89 Cic. Dom. 121, 133; Livy 2.8; cf. later consecration ceremonies: Harris, Building Lives, 11–14. 90 For aediﬁcatio as a vice: Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Social Structure of the Roman House’, 44. 91 Cic. Pis. 48. 92 Columella, Rust. 1.4.8. 93 E. H. Gombrich, The Sense of Order: A Study in the Psychology of Decorative Art 2 (Oxford, 1984). 94 Rhet. ad Her. 3.16–24. See Ch. 9, below, with references. 95 Plaut. Curc. 472. For the late 3rd-century BC atrium regium in the Roman Forum as the prototype of the Roman basilica, see M. Gaggiotti, ‘Atrium regium—basilica (Aemilia): una insospettata continuità storica e una chiave ideologica per la soluzione del problema dell’ origine della basilica,’ ARID 14 (1985), 53–80, and for its identiﬁcation with the basilica mentioned in Plaut. Curc. 472 and its inspiration in the reception halls of Hellenistic royal palaces, see K. Welch, ‘A New View of the Origins of the Basilica: The Atrium Regium, Graecostasis, and Roman diplomacy’, JRA 16 (2003), 5–34. 96 J. Russell, ‘The Origin and Development of Republican Forums’, Phoenix, 28 (1968), 304–36, at 317; P. Gros, Architecture et Société à Rome et en Italie centro-méridionale aux derniers deux siècles de la République, Collection Latomus, 156 (Brussels, 1978), 16; A. NünnerichAsmus, Basilika und Portikus. Die Architektur der Säulenhallen als Ausdruck gewandelter Urbanität in später Republik und früher Kaiserzeit (Cologne, 1994). 97 Plut. Cato Min. 5.1–2. 98 Vitr. De Arch. 5.1.7. 99 R. Delbrück, Hellenistische Bauten in Latium (Strasburg, 1912), i. 23–46; A. Boëthius, Etruscan and Early Roman Architecture 2 (Harmondsworth, 1978), 93–4: identiﬁed with the 66 67

Basilica Opimia by N. Purcell, ‘Atrium libertatis ’, PBSR 61 (1993), 125–55, at 151, n. 109, but see below, Ch. 3. 100 See further below, Ch. 9. 101 Accordingly, the word for a free-standing arch changed from fornix, with its embarrassing, salacious associations (cf. ‘fornication’) to ﬁrst ianus, and then arcus (‘a bow’). See A. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Roman Arches and Greek Honours: The Language of Power at Rome’, PCPS 216 (NS 36) (1990), 143–81. 102 Cic. De Or. 3.180. 103 Flor. 2.13.91. S. Weinstock, Divus Iulius (Oxford, 1971), 276–81 leaves open the idea of divinity implied by the pediment. 104 e.g. Calp. Ecl. 7.23–24 on Nero’s amphitheatre in Rome. 105 Ov. Fast. 1.608; Suet. Aug. 7. 106 Vitr. De Arch. 1 pr. 2; P. Gros, ‘L’auctoritas chez Vitruve. Contribution à l’étude de la sémantique des ordres dans le De Architectura’, in H. Geertman and J. J. de Jong (eds.), Munus non ingratum (Leiden, 1989), 126–33. 107 For the modular framework of design in Roman architecture, see Wilson Jones, Principles, 149–51. 108 See n. 19 above; also Paus. 10.5.9–13. 109 Vitr. De Arch. 2.1.2. Not explicitly associated by Vitruvius with the origins of columnar architecture, but distorted by Filarete, Laugier, and others into the myth of trabeate architecture based on trees: W. Herrmann, Laugier and Eighteenth Century French Theory (London, 1962), 46–8, 215–16. See Appendix 1 for ‘Nidiﬁcatio ’. 110 Vitr. De Arch. 2.1.4–5. 111 The casa Romuli on the Palatine is referred to by Varro, Ling. 5.54.1; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.79.11; Plut. Rom. 20.4; Dio Cass. 53.16.5; Solin.; and later by the Curiosum , Notitia , and St Jerome, while that in the area Capitolina only by Vitr. (prev. note), Verg. Aen. 8.652–4, Conon, Narr. 48.8 (FGrH i. 209–10, no. 26), Sen. Controv. 2.1.5, Val. Max. 2.8, 4.4.11, and Sen. Helv. 9.3. Thus A. Balland, ‘La Casa Romuli au Palatin et au Capitole’, Rev. Ét. Lat. 62 (1984), 57–80 suggests that the latter was ‘invented’ under Augustus for political motives. For the opposition between primitive structures and the ‘golden temples’ of Augustus: Prop. 4.1.5–8; Tib. 2.5.23–6; cf. P. Gros, Aurea Templa: recherches sur l’architecture religieuse à Rome à l’époque d’Auguste, BÉFAR 231 (Rome, 1976), 41. Vitruvius’ reference to Phrygian building practice should perhaps be seen in relation to the Temple of the Phrygian Magna Mater on the Palatine, beside the Casa Romuli and now outshone by Augustus’ new Temple of Apollo, and to the supposedly Phrygian origins of the Trojan Aeneas. 112 For the supposedly primitive beginnings of monumental architecture, cf. the conversion of the cottage of Baucis and Philemon to a gilded temple at Ov. Met. 8.699–702 ( furcas subiere columnae, stramina ﬂavescunt, aurataque tecta videntur caealataeque fores, adopertaque marmore tellus), on which see E. J. Gowers, ‘Talking Trees: Philemon and Baucis Re-visited’, Arethusa, 38 (Fall 2005), 331–65. 113 Verg. G. 3.16, with Serv. ad loc. 114 Dio Cass. 56.30.3–4. 115 H. Berthold, ‘Die Metaphern und Allegorien vom Staatsschiff, Staatskörper und Staatsgebäude in der römischen Literatur der ausgehenden Republik und frühen Kaiserzeit’, in J. Burian and L. Vidman (eds.), Antiquitas graeco-romana ac tempora nostra (Prague, 1968), 95–105; A. Demandt, Metaphern für Geschichte. Sprachbilder und Gleichnisse im historischpolitischen Denken (Munich, 1978); D. Peil, Untersuchungen zur Staats-und Herrschaftsmetaphorik in literarischen Zeugnissen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Munich, 1983), 596–699. For later allegories on this theme, see Cowling, Building the Text, 83–108. 116 For comparison of Varro’s lost De Architectura with Vitruvius’ surviving treatise, see F. Canali, ‘Il corpus del De agricultura e la trattatistica architettonica vitruviana’, in Ciotta (ed.), Vitruvio nella cultura architettonica antica, medievale e moderna, i. 75–87 (above, n. 43). 117 Cic. Fam. 9.2.5. 118 Val. Max. 2.8 pr. The word used here, columen, refers to the ‘ridgepole’ at the top of a temple roof: Vitr. De Arch. 4.2.1, with Gros (ed.), Vitruve IV, 96–7 and works mentioned there. 119 Vell. Pat. 2.131.1–2. 120 Cf. Pliny HN 36.104–6 on Rome’s sewers, which stand ﬁrm despite the hauling of great masses of masonry (moles) above them and are thus a symbol of Rome’s enduring power; on this, see E. J. Gowers, ‘The Anatomy of Rome from Capitol to Cloaca’, JRS 85 (1995), 23–32, esp. 24–5. 121 J. Beranger, Recherches sur l’aspect ideologique du principat (Basel, 1953), 175–83. For the Basilica Pauli, see Plin. HN 36.102, with R. M. Schneider, Bunte Barbaren. Orientalstatuen aus farbiger Marmor in der romischen Reprasentationskunst (Worms, 1986), 115–25. 122 Suet. Aug. 44; E. D. Rawson, ‘Discrimina ordinum: The Lex Julia Theatralis’, PBSR 55 (1987), 83–114, repr. in Roman Culture and Society: Collected Papers (Oxford, 1991), 508–45. For social divisions in the Augustan theatre at Pompeii, M. Bieber, The History of the Greek and Roman Theater 2 (Princeton, 1961), 173. I shall pursue this argument more fully elsewhere. 123 Gros, ‘La Function symbolique des édiﬁces théatraux’, 336–8. The term porta regia used for this central niche is modern, based on Vitr. De Arch. 5.6.8: mediae valvae ornatus habeant aulae regiae (‘(so that) the central doors have the adornments of a royal hall’). It is not explicitly mentioned by F. B. Sear, Roman Theatres An Architectural Study (Oxford, 2006), 8, and has recently come under some suspicion: see B. Burrell, ‘False Fronts: Separating the Aedicular Façade from the Imperial Cult in Roman Asia Minor’, AJArch 110 (2006), 437–69, at 452. Despite his earlier insistence on the term, Gros omits it from his detailed plan of theatre parts shown in L’Architecture romaine, i. 273, ﬁg. 320. 124 Sen. Clem. 1.26.5; Suet. Claud. 17.

notes (pp. 24–9) 125 Vitr. De Arch. 5.6.9; R. B. Ulrich, The Roman Orator and the Sacred Stage: The Roman Templum Rostratum, Collection Latomus, 222 (Brussels, 1994), 17–18. 126 CREBM ii, Domitian, p. 407. However, the authenticity of the coin has been challenged: see I. Carradice, ‘Coins, Monuments and Literature: Some Important Sestertii’, in T. Hackens and R. Weiller (eds.), Actes du 9 ème Congrès International de Numismatique, Berne, Septembre 1979 (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1982), i. 371–83, at 379–80, 383. 127 Livy 3.35.9, 27.19.6, 38.52.11; cf. Vell. Pat. 2.30.3, 40.4 on Pompey’s rise to power. 128 Tac. Ann. 2.84, 3.56; cf. 13.17. 129 e.g. Arch of Augustus at Rimini, the triumphal arch at Orange, the ‘Arco dei Borsari’ at Verona, the ‘Arch of Trajan’ at Mactar, and the arcus in sacra via summa shown on the monument of the Haterii: photos in MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 75–99, ﬁgs. 62, 75–6, 80, and 93. 130 For this argument in more detail, see E. V. Thomas, ‘Arches, Keystones, and the Balance of Power’ (forthcoming). 131 F. S. Kleiner, The Arch of Nero in Rome: A Study of the Roman Honorary Arch Before and Under Nero, Archaeologica, 52 (Rome, 1985). 132 This point is well made by J. Elsner, ‘Constructing Decadence: The Representation of Nero as Imperial Builder’, in J. Elsner and J. Masters (eds.), Reﬂections of Nero: Culture, Body and Representation (Chapel Hill, NC, 1994), 112–27. 133 Zosimus Alchemista 138.7. Cf. also Juba, Similitudes, in Ath. 4.170e; Mart. 10.48.15; Juv. 5.120, 11.136; CIL 6.33470 (Epaphroditus, Domitian’s structor a cybo [sic]). For ‘heaps’ of food, symbolizing ‘the Romans’ uncontrolled appetite for power’, see E. J. Gowers, The Loaded Table: Representations of Food in Roman Literature (Oxford, 1993), 19. 134 B. Bergmann, ‘Playing with Boundaries: Painted Architecture in Roman Interiors’, in C. Anderson (ed.), The Built Surface, i. Architecture and the Pictorial Arts from Antiquity to the Enlightenment (Aldershot and Burlington, Vt., 1995). McKenzie, ‘Alexandria and the Origins of Baroque Architecture’, 118, argues that such painted architecture reﬂected Alexandrian architecture rather than contemporary Roman forms. 135 Cf. the intrusion of ‘sacral’ pediments into the ‘civic’ architecture of the triumphal or honoriﬁc arch, e.g. in the Arch of Augustus at Rimini, on which see S. De Maria, ‘La porta augustea di Rimini nel quadro degli archi commemorativi coevi’, in Studi sull’ arco onorario romano (Rome, 1979), 73–91, at 80. 136 J. Onians, ‘Quintilian and the Idea of Roman art’, in M. Henig (ed.), Architecture and Architectural Sculpture in the Roman Empire (Oxford, 1990), 1–9, at 4; T. S. Thiis-Evenson, ‘The Cross-axis in Roman Architecture: A Symbolic Motif?’, Acta A Art Hist 6 (1975), 15–24. 137 Lancaster, Concrete Vaulted Construction, 59–60, and, for the social impact of these technological changes, her comments at 172–4. 138 R. Meiggs, Trees and Timber in the Ancient Mediterranean World (Oxford, 1982), 240–54. 139 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, i. 145–54 (quote at 154). 140 Sen. Ep. 50.6. 141 Mart. Spect. 2.2. A. Boëthius, ‘Et crescunt media pegmata celsa via (Martial’s De Spectaculis 2,2)’, Eranos, 50 (1952), 129–37; E. Rodriguez-Almeida, ‘Marziale in Marmo’, MÉFRA 106:1 (1994), 197–217. 142 Rodriguez-Almeida, ‘Marziale in Marmo’, 213–14. 143 J. E. Packer, The Forum of Trajan: A Study of the Monuments, California Studies in the History of Art, 31 (Berkeley, 1997); id., The Forum of Trajan in Rome: A Study of the Monuments in Brief (Berkeley and London, 2001). 144 CIL 6.960 = ILS 294: ad declarandum quantae altitudinis mons et locus tan[tis ope]ribus sit egestus; Lepper and Frere, Trajan’s Column, 203–7; D. Nardoni, ‘Ad declarandum quantae . . . (CIL VI, 960)’, Studii Clasice, 26 (1989), 45–55, and 27 (1991), 61–70. For the geometrical lettering of the inscription, which enhanced its effect as epideixis (Dio Cass. 68.16.2), see R. Grasby, ‘A Comparative Study of Five Latin Inscriptions: Measurement and Making’, PBSR 64 (1996), 95–138, at 98–103. A parallel for the vertical measurement of such engineering works is the Via Appia cutting at Pesco Montana near Terracina: see photo in T. W. Potter, Roman Italy (London, 1987), 139. 145 For this rhetorical structure, ﬁrst noticed by Charles Bruston, see G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Osservazioni sull’iscrizione della Colonna Ulpia’, Epigraphica, 31 (1969), 124–38. Although it is rejected as a primary meaning of the text by Lepper and Frere, Trajan’s Column, 204, the structure of quantae . . . tantis . . . (prev. note) inﬂuenced Dio’s paraphrase: jasrjawe sorosom ˆrom jxm a$mrvei. 146 For this topos, see Z. Pavlovskis, Man in an Artiﬁcial Landscape: The Marvels of Civilization in Imperial Roman Literature, Mnemosyne Supplement, 25 (Leiden, 1973) and Fehr, ‘Kosmos und Chreia’, 159–60. For its importance in Trajanic architecture, cf. the bridge at Alcantára, on which see below, Ch. 10. 147 F. E. Brown, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’, in L. F. Sandler (ed.), Essays in Memory of Karl Lehmann (New York, 1964), 55–9, at 57; cf. 55. 148 SHA, Hadr. 20.7–11. 149 See below, Ch. 12. 150 SHA, Hadr. 19. 2 (In omnibus paene urbibus et aliquid aediﬁcavit et ludos edidit ) and 9 (opera ubique inﬁnita fecisset). 151 A. C. G. Smith, ‘Hadrianic Architecture in the Eastern Roman Empire’, Ph.D thesis, Cambridge (1980); W. L. MacDonald and J. A. Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa and its Legacy (New Haven and London, 1995), 78–116. 152 Dio Cass. 69.4 (books 68–9 are preserved only in the 12th-century summary by Xiphilinos). Discussed by MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, i. 133–6; the story’s

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veracity is questioned by R. T. Ridley, ‘The Fate of an Architect: Apollodoros of Damascus’, Athenaeum, 67 (1989), 551–65. 153 Cf. Cratinus’ criticisms of Pericles’ odeion (above, n. 75). 154 Brown, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’, 56 –7. 155 Lancaster, Concrete Vaulted Construction, 46–7. Hadrian died at Baiae, in Antoninus’ presence, on 10 July 138: SHA, Hadr. 25.5–6; cf. MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa, 100. 156 H. Stierlin, Hadrien et l’architecture romaine (Paris, 1984), 78. 157 R. Syme, ‘Journeys of Hadrian’, ZPE 73 (1988), 159–70, at 160 = Roman Papers, vi (Oxford, 1990), 346–57, at 347; D. Kienast, ‘Zur Baupolitik Hadrians in Rom’, Chiron , 10 (1980), 391–412. The date of the temple’s inauguration is derived from a coin issue celebrating Hadrian’s institution of circus games in A.U.C. DCCCLXXIIII, but this is not necessarily connected with the temple. 158 Strab. 8.3.30 (C353– 4). 159 Ridley, ‘The Fate of an Architect’, 551, admits that the anecdote is anything but trivial, although he draws negative conclusions about its authenticity. 160 But Wilson Jones, Principles, 192–3 revives earlier suggestions that Apollodorus may have designed the Pantheon (R. Martin, ‘Apollodorus of Damascus’, in Encyclopedia of World Art (New York and London, 1959–83), i (1959), 511–14, at 512; W.-D. Heilmeyer, ‘Apollodorus von Damascus, der Architekt des Pantheon’, JDAI 90 (1975), 317– 47), observing that the articulation of ‘simple plan-forms in complex ways’ in the Pantheon reﬂects Apollodorus’ ‘school’, by contrast with the ‘geometrical sophistication’ of Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. For the symbolism of the Pantheon’s form, see Ch. 3, below. 161 H. Bloch, ‘The Serapeum of Ostia and the Brick Stamps of 123 A.D.: A New Landmark in the History of Roman Architecture’, AJArch. 63 (1959), 225– 40. 162 Epit. de Caes. 215. The language is perhaps explained by the dominance of military elements in late antique culture; cf. Cassiod. Var. 7.5.5 (to Aloysius): ‘Then that great building army comes running to your decision’ (Tum magnus ille fabrilis exercitus ad tuum recurrit iudicium). 163 House of Ti. Claudius Socrates, 127: SIG 3 837 = IGRom. 4.1156a; cf. L. Robert, ‘Lettres d’Hadrien à la ville d’Hadrianopolis-Stratonicée en l’an 127’, Hellenica (Paris 1948), vi. 80–4. For the typically Roman sentiment, see E. V. Thomas and C. W. Witschel, ‘Constructing Reconstruction: Claim and Reality of Rebuilding Inscriptions from the Latin West’, PBSR 60 (1992), 135–77, at 140–9. 164 CIL 8.2532 B b = 18042 + BAC (1899), cxci–cxciii, ccxi–ccxv = ILS 2487 = Text 5 of J.-F. Berthet et al., ‘Les Inscriptions’, in Y. Le Bohec (ed.), Les Discours d’Hadrien à l’armée d’Afrique: Exercitatio (Paris, 2003), 87; A. Heronde Villefosse, ‘Nouveau fragment daté des allocutions d’Hadrien à l’armée de Namide’, in Festschrift zu Otto Hirschfelds sechzigsten Geburtstage (Berlin, 1903), 192–7. Hadrian addressed the troops in order of status: ﬁrst, on 1 July 128, the senior soldiers of the Legio III Augusta, the pili, and then the various auxiliary units; cf. A. R. Birley, Hadrian: The Restless Emperor (London, 1997), 219. 165 Various reconstructions: A. Héron de Villefosse, ‘Sur la forme matérielle d’un monument de Lambèse’, Strena Helbigiana sexagenario obtulerunt amici (Leipzig, 1900), 122–8; L. Leschi, Études d’épigraphie, d’archéologie et d’histoire africaines (Paris, 1957), 158–78; J.-M. Gassend and M. Janon, ‘La Colonne d’Hadrien à Lambèse’, BAA 7 (1977–9), 239–58; Y. Le Bohec, ‘L’Armée d’Afrique an temps d’Hadrien’, in id. (ed.), Les Discours d’Hadrien, 41–51, esp. 46–51. Commentary by L. Cantarelli, ‘Gli scritti latini di Adriano imperatore’, Studi e documenti di storia di diritto, 19 (1898), 113–70, at 133–48. 166 Wölfflin, ‘Epigraphische Beiträge’, Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie (1886), 282–7, at 286, compares Accius fr. 438 Ribbeck: hinc manibus rapere raudus saxeum grande et grave; cf. Cantarelli, ‘Scritti latini’, 141–2. For Hadrian’s preference for archaic Latin, see SHA, Hadr. 16.6. For such ruggedness as a feature of the sublime style, see below, Ch. 11. 167 Apul. De Deo Soc. pr. 3; cf. Flor. 18. For similar architectural metaphors, see below, Ch. 11.

Notes for Chapter 2 1 e.g. W. Weber, ‘The Antonines’, in CAH, xi. The Imperial Peace AD 70 –192 (Cambridge, 1936), 325–92, at 326: ‘the sharpest contrast to Hadrian, in character and historical effect’; A. Scheithauer, Kaiserliche Bautätigkeit in Rom. Das Echo in der antiken Literatur (Stuttgart, 2000), 174: ‘stark rückläuﬁg’. A. R. Birley, ‘Hadrian to the Antonines’, in A. K. Bowman, P. Garnsey, and D. Rathbone (eds.), CAH 2 xi. The High Empire A.D. 70 –192 (Cambridge, 2000), 132–94, at 149–56, also underplays Pius’ building-projects. But B. Rémy, Antonin le Pieux. Le Siècle d’or de Rome (Paris, 2005), 221, notes the contrast between Antoninus’ reputation and real activity as a builder. For older discussions of Pius’ reign, see G. Lacour-Gayet, Antonin le pieux et son temps. Essai sur l’histoire de l’empire romain au milieu du deuxième siècle, 138–161 (Paris, 1888; repr. Rome, 1968), W. Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, 2 vols. (Prague, 1933–6). 2 S. Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor (Oxford, 1993), i. 220. 3 Dig. 50. 10. 7. pr.; cf. 8. 7. See further Ch. 9. 4 Thomas and Witschel, ‘Constructing Reconstruction’, 149–51. 5 So Weber, ‘The Antonines’, 326: Antoninus had ‘no taste for splendour or pride’. 6 Dio Cass. 56.40.5; Tac. Ann. 3.72; cf. Scheithauer, Kaiserliche Bautätigkeit, 90–4. 7 CIL 6.1252 = ILS 205, inscribed on the travertine arch at Via del Nazareno, 14; Suet. Claud. 20.1: lapideo opere in urbem perduxit; cf. E. S. Ramage, ‘Denigration of Predecessor under Claudius, Galba, and Vespasian’, Historia, 32 (1983), 201–14, at 205–6. 8 Other rusticated works associated with Claudius, besides the arch at Via del Nazareno, are the ‘Porta Maggiore’ of the Aqua Claudia and Anio Novus, a portico of the new harbour

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notes (pp. 29–36)

at Ostia, and the unﬁnished facing of the podium of the Temple of Claudius in Rome. R. H. Darwall-Smith, Emperors and Architecture: A Study of Flavian Rome, Collection Latomus, 231 (Brussels, 1996), 33, argues that this was a personal style with ‘Claudius’ full consent’. Alban Lake emissarium: Blake, Roman Construction, 85, with Claudian date; cf. CIL 14.2623 (Tusculum): emissarium lapide Tiburtino. 9 P. Liljenstolpe, ‘Rustication and decor in Roman architecture’, Opuscula Romana, 25–6 (2000–1), 45–72, esp. 63–5. 10 G. B. Giovenale, ‘Simboli tutelari su porte del recinto urbano e altri monumenti dell’ antichità’, Bull. Com. Arch. 57 (1929), 183–268, at 220–5. 11 G. Marchetti-Longhi, ‘Il più monumentale ingresso dell’ Urbe: Porta Maggiore’, Capitolium, 30 (1955), 318–25, at 320–1. 12 R. Coates-Stephens, Porta Maggiore, Monument and Landscape: Archaeology and Topography of the Southern Esquiline from the Late Republican Period to the Present, Bull. Com. Arch. suppl. 12 (Rome, 2004), 43–6, at 45; for Claudius and the Sanctuary of Hercules Victor at Tivoli, cf. Sen. Apocol. 7.3, Suet. Claud. 34; and for the plan, compare Boëthius, Etruscan and Early Roman Architecture, 167, ﬁg. 157, with G. Carettoni (ed.), La pianta marmorea di Roma antica: forma urbis Romae (Rome, 1960), pl. 16. 13 Coates-Stephens, Porta Maggiore, 46, comparing Sid. Ap. Carm. 11.27–8 and 22.223–6. 14 Sen. Apocol. 5 (novi generis faciem); cf. Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 49–51. 15 Ball, Domus Aurea, 262. 16 Elsner, ‘Constructing Decadence’ (above, Ch.1, n. 132). 17 Vespasian: J. E. Packer, ‘Plurima et amplissima opera: Parsing Flavian Rome’, in A. J. Boyle and W. Domynyk (eds.), Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text (Leiden, 2003), 167–98. Colosseum: L. C. Lancaster, ‘The Process of Building the Colosseum: The Site, Materials, and Construction Techniques’, JRA 18 (2005), 57–82, esp. 59. Market: G. Pisani Sartorio, in LTUR iii. 201–3. 18 Plin. HN 36.163: used for the rebuilding of a Temple of Fortune allegedly founded by King Servius Tullius and enclosed within Nero’s Golden House. 19 Palace: Stat. Silv. 4.2.10–35; Martial 7.56, 8.36; P. Zanker, ‘Domitian’s Palace on the Palatine and the Imperial Image’, in A. K. Bowman et al. (eds.), Representations of Empire: Rome and the Mediterranean world , PBA 114 (Oxford, 2002), 105–30. Porticoes: Suet. Dom. 14.4, with D. Fredrick, ‘Architecture and Surveillance in Flavian Rome’, in Boyle and Domynyk (eds.), Flavian Rome, 199–227, esp. 208–14. Arches: Suet. Dom. 13.2. Capitolium: ibid. 5, 8.5; Plut. Publicola 15.3–4. Midas-like: Plut. Publicola 15.5. In general, see DarwallSmith, Emperors and Architecture, 101–252. 20 Plin. Pan. 51. Cf. Galen’s encomium of Trajan’s road-building (x. 632–3 Kühn). 21 A. U. Stylow, ‘Libertas und Liberalitas. Untersuchungen zur innenpolitischen Propaganda der Römer’, Thesis, Ludwig Maximilians Universität, Munich (1972), 58–65. 22 Dio Cass. 69.5.2–3. 23 SHA, Ant. Pius 1.8; for ﬁgured capitals from the estate at Lorium, see Ch. 10 below. On the villas at Lorium and Lanuvium, cf. Fronto, Ep. 2.11.3, ed. van den Hout, 31; M. Aur. Med. 1.16.27; SHA, Ant. Pius 1.8. 24 SHA, Ant. Pius 8.2–3: ‘the temple of Hadrian, the Graecostadium restored after a ﬁre, restoration of the amphitheatre [i.e. Colosseum], the tomb of Hadrian, restoration of the temple of Agrippa [i.e. Pantheon] and pons Sublicius, restoration of the pharus [at Ostia], the harbour at Caieta, restoration of the harbour at Terracina, a bath-building at Ostia, aqueduct(s) at Antium, and temple(s) at Lanuvium.’ Details of these projects are given below and in later chapters. 25 For the building industry at Rome, see, for aspects of construction and design, W.-D. Heilmeyer, Korinthische Normalkapitelle: Studien zur Geschichte der römischen Architekturdekoration, MDAI(R) Erganzungshefte, 16 (Heidelberg, 1970), 176–7, and, for administrative aspects, A. Kolb, Die Kaiserliche Bauverwaltung in der Stadt Rom: Geschichte und Aufbau der cura operum publicorum unter dem Prinzipat (Stuttgart, 1993). 26 SHA, Ant. Pius 1. For his family background and early career, see Rémy, Antonin le Pieux, 67–85. 27 SHA. Hadr. 24.1–2; Ael. 6.8–10; the ceremony also featured the marriages of Lucius to Antoninus’ sole surviving child, Faustina, and of Marcus to Lucius’ sister, Ceionia Fabia; these arrangements were altered after Hadrian’s death, with Marcus marrying Faustina: Birley, ‘Hadrian to the Antonines’, 148, 151. 28 C. C. Vermeule, Roman Imperial Art in Asia Minor (Cambridge, Mass., 1968), 95–123, with convincing arguments for the date; the excavators, however, had dated the monument to the 160s. 29 SHA, Hadr. 24.3; Ant. Pius 2.3–8, with various explanations for the name. 30 M. T. Boatwright, Hadrian and the City of Rome (Princeton, NJ, 1987), 161–81, following the view of S. R. Pierce, ‘The Mausoleum of Hadrian and the pons Aelius’, JRS 15 (1925), 75–103, at 83, n. 4, 97, n. 2, that it was begun in Hadrian’s reign, perhaps in 132; however, this date is based on brickstamps of 123 and later, which only give a terminus post quem, as they were probably still being used in building-works of Pius’ reign: Bloch, ‘I bolli laterizi’ (1937), 121–4. The Hadrianic medallions showing the Pons Aelius (M. Pensa, ‘Rappresentazioni di monumenti sulle monete di Adriano’, RIN 80 (1978), 27–78), if genuine, might point to the project’s conception under Hadrian, but the tomb could have been mostly, if not wholly, constructed after his death; his body was initially buried at Puteoli: SHA, Hadr. 25.7; Ant. Pius 5.1. 31 See below, Ch. 10. 32 SHA, Verus 3.1; cf. issues of 145 inscribed’ liberalitas IV’ (CREBM, iv. lxiv–lxxvii.). 33 L. Cozza (ed.), Tempio di Adriano (Rome, 1982), 16, ﬁg. 12; M. Sapelli (ed.), Provinciae Fideles. Il fregio del tempio di Adriano in Campo Marzio (Milan, 1999).

Strong, ‘Late Hadrianic Architectural Ornament’ (above, Introduction, n. 76). See below, Ch. 10. 36 Wilson Jones, Principles, 151 and Tables 1–2 at 222–5. 37 Ibid. 147, ﬁg. 7.24. 38 V. Hankey, ‘A Marble Quarry at Karystos’, BMB 18 (1965), 53–9: cf. the crocodile at Hadrian’s Canopus and a palm-tree column in Istanbul Museum. 39 Pantheon: brickstamps 422 and 617, provenance unstated: Bloch, ‘I bolli laterizi’ (1937), 112. Noack’s dating of the portico to the Antonine period is rejected by K. de Fine Licht, The Rotunda in Rome (Copenhagen, 1968), 287, n. 137. For symbolism of the Pantheon, see below, Ch. 3. 40 See above, Ch. 1, n. 157. 41 Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, i. 173–7. The village of Pallantion in Arcadia became an autonomous city, with immunity from state taxes, and received the ‘renovated’ temple of Heros Pallas: Paus. 8.43.1, 44.5; Serv. ad Verg. Aen. 8.51, 54. 42 J. Gagé, Recherches sur les jeux séculaires (Paris, 1934), 100; as the building was probably dedicated in 128, 148 was also the year of its vicennalia. 43 The splendid celebration (miriﬁce) is mentioned at Epit. de Caes. 15.4, but not included in the Fasti Ostienses for 147 (Inscr. Ital. 13.1, 207; the entry for 148 is incompletely preserved), so this presumably occurred in 148 to coincide with Pius’ decennalia; cf. Gagé, Recherches, 102, n. 1; A. R. Birley, Marcus Aurelius, rev. edn. (London, 1987), 136. 44 SHA, Ant. Pius 10.8–9; G. B. Pighi, De Ludis Saecularibus populi romani Quiritium 2 (Amsterdam, 1965), 90; Birley, ‘Hadrian to the Antonines’, 154. For the new saeculum , see also below, Ch. 10. 45 F. Coarelli, ‘Graecostadium’, in LTUR, ii. 372. 46 Carettoni, La pianta marmorea, fr. 18e, pl. 21. 47 G. Lugli, Monumenti Minori del Foro Romano (Rome, 1947), 89–100. 48 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 85–6, pl. iv. 336, 347. 49 Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 126, calls this the most substantial restoration project of the reign. 50 The lack of any new bath-building may also reﬂect Pius’ priorities in monumentalizing Rome. G. G. Fagan, Bathing in Public in the Roman World (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1999), 123, notes that imperial thermae belong to dynastic or political shifts. For Antoninus, the Baths of Trajan, ‘made by my divine grandfather’ (IG 14.1055b.10–11), already served this dynastic purpose. 51 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 131. 52 Stylow, ‘Libertas und Liberalitas’, 66. 53 CREBM iv, pp. lv and lxxxv. 54 Paus. 1.42.5; 1.36.3. 55 Bononia: CIL 11.805 = ILS 343; Placentia: CIL 11.6939; Augusta Praetoria: A . M. Cavallaro and G. Walser, Iscrizioni di Augusta Praetoria (Aosta, 1988), 26–7, no. 4. The title restitutor Italiae had apparently been adopted by Trajan, in the context of his alimentary schemes: T. Schäfer, ‘Ein neues Denkmal zur Alimentarstiftung Traians’, Arch. Anz. (1983), 247–52, at 248. Antoninus may have extended these schemes in some places, but nothing is known of a general policy of alimenta in his reign nor are speciﬁc schemes attested in these three towns: W. Eck, Die staatliche Organisation Italiens in der hohen Kaiserzeit (Munich, 1979), 151–2. 56 The fragment from Aosta, the right half of a large marble plaque found in the foundations of the cathedral in 1985, clearly belonged to an imposing monument: Cavallaro and Walser, Iscrizioni, 27. 57 Plin. HN 3.43. Only a symbolic boundary of course, as the road continued past Aosta to the border. 58 Cf. the Arch of Augustus at Ariminum, the termination of the Via Flaminia, which Augustus restored as a sign of his authority in Italy. 59 CIL 11.6664, from Rimazzano, S. of Pisa. 60 Tarquinii: ibid. 3363; for the scarce archaeological remains, see M. Torelli, Etruria (Bari, 1985), 133–7; Pisa: CIL 11.1425 = Inscr. Ital. 7.1.29. 61 SHA, Ant. Pius 8.3; Scavi di Ostia, i. 148; Fagan, Bathing in Public, 234–5, no. 6.; P. Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia tra la ﬁne del I e I primi decenni del III secolo: lo studio dei marmi e della decorazione architettonica come strumento d’indagine’, MEFRA 114 (2002), 181–324, at 229–244. 62 CIL 14.98: adiecta pecunia quanta amplius desiderabatur item marmoribus ad omnem o[rnatum]. 63 D. Vaglieri, ‘Ostia. Nuovi ediﬁci rimessi a luce pressole Terme e la Caserma dei Vigili, e sculture marmoree quivi rinvenute’. Not. Scav. (1909), 164–82, at 172–82; Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 232. 64 Pace H. Manderscheid, Die Skulpturenausstattung der kaiserzeitlichen Thermenanlagen (Berlin, 1981), 37. 65 For the athletics scenes, see Z. Newby, Greek Athletics in the Roman world: Victory and Virtue (Oxford and New York, 2005), 50–1. 66 Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 233–6. 67 Ibid. 236–44. 68 For the Capitolium, the Forum Baths, and the works funded by Gamala, see below, Ch. 4. 69 V. Kockel, ‘Ostia im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. Beobachtungen zum Wandel eines Stadtbilds’, in Die Römische Stadt (cited in Introduction, n. 2), 99–117; R. Mar, ‘Una ciudad modelada por el comercio: la construcción del Foro’, MEFRA 114 (2002), 111–80; Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 251–2. 70 See below, Ch. 10. 71 CIL 10.1640 (= ILS 336); cf. 1641. 34 35

notes (pp. 36–40) 72 SHA, Ant. Pius 8.3; see also N. Purcell, ‘Alla scoperta di una costa residenziale romana: il litus Laurentinum e l’archeologia dell’otium’, in A. J. Claridge (ed.), Castelporziano, iii. Campagne di scavo e restauro 1987–1991 (Rome, 1998), 11–32. For a possible celebration of the new saeculum in this area, see below, Ch. 9. 73 G. Bermond Montanari, ‘I bolli laterizi di Ravenna e Classe’, Studi Romagnoli, 24 (1973), 33–58, esp. 57. 74 CIL 10.103 = ILS 5750; cf. Herodes Atticus’ aqueduct at Canusium: Philostr. VS 2.1, 551. 75 P. Le Roux, ‘Le Phare, l’architecte et le soldat: l’inscription rupestre de la Corogne (CIL II, 2559)’, in Miscellanea Greca e Romana 15 (1992), 133–45; for Carthage, see below, Ch. 7. 76 F. Gnecchi, I medaglioni romani (Milan, 1912), ii. 23, no. 118, pl. 55.9. 77 Mart. 1.70.9. 78 G. Gatti, Bull. Com. Arch. 27 (1899), 147–8; E. Nash, Pictorial Dictionary of Ancient Rome (London, 1961–2), i. 165–7, ﬁgs. 179 and 181. The identiﬁcation is supported by F. Coarelli, ‘I monumenti dei culti orientali in Roma. Questioni topograﬁche e cronologiche’, in U. Bianchi and M. J. Vermaseren (eds.), La soteriologia dei culti orientali nell’impero romano (Leiden, 1982), 33–67, at 34–9, and by Rémy, Antonin le Pieux, 356, n. 96. 79 D. Marchetti, ‘Di un antico molo per lo sbarco dei marmi riconosciuti sulla riva sinistra del Tevere’, Bull. Com. Arch. (1891), 45–60. Diameter of the temple structure c.20 m. and of the aedicula c.4 m. For the identiﬁcation with the Antonine medal, E. Rodriguez Almeida, ‘Bacchus (Hercules?), Reg. IX’, in LTUR , ii. 154–5. 80 F. Azzurri, ‘Due singolari capitelli scoperti presso la ripa del Tevere’, Bull. Com. Arch. (1892), 175–8. 81 The navalia are last mentioned by Festus, p. 187 Lindsay. G. Cressedi, ‘I porti ﬂuviali in Roma antica’, Rend. Pont. 25–6 (1951), 53–65, at 62–4. Marchetti, ‘Di un antico molo’, 46, suggests it was only built in the later 3rd cent., but the decoration indicates an earlier date. 82 MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa , 59, ﬁg. 50: housing a copy of Praxiteles’ statue of Venus, the ‘Aphrodite of Cnidus’. 83 SHA, Ant. Pius 8.4. 84 Aristid. Or. 26.107: Antoninus as archo-n megas (‘great ruler’); cf. Pl. Phdr. 246e (ho megas he-gemo-n en ourano-i , ‘Zeus the great leader in heaven’). 85 Paus. 8.43.4. 86 For the projects at Cyzicus and Athens, begun by Hadrian, and Baalbek, where several emperors were involved, see below; for Antoninus’ role at Carthage, see Ch. 7. 87 R. MacMullen, ‘Roman Imperial Building in the Provinces’, Harv. Stud. 64 (1959), 207–35; S. Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building in the Eastern Roman Provinces’, in S. Macready and F. H. Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World (London, 1987), 18–25; Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 67–93. 88 Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building’, 333; Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 3–4. 89 Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building’, 344; MacMullen, ‘Roman Imperial Building’, 210; M. Horster, Bauinschriften römischer Kaiser. Untersuchungen zu Inschriftenpraxis und Bautätigkeit in Städten des westlichen Imperium Romanum in der Zeit des Prinzipats (Stuttgart, 2001), 39–43. 90 For the increasingly blurred distinction between these two funds and the controversy about which was used for public expenses such as buildings, see F. G. B. Millar, JRS 53 (1963), 29– 42; 54 (1964), 33– 40, and the reply by P. Brunt, JRS 56 (1966), 75–91 = Brunt, Roman Imperial Themes (Oxford, 1998), ch. 7. 91 Even cases where the emperor’s name appears in the nominative with verbs such as iussit, fecit, or restituit may not be such direct examples of ‘kaiserliche Baupolitik’ as Winter suggests (Staatliche Baupolitik, 4), but simply a legal statement about a source of funding. 92 SHA, Ant. Pius 4.8. His father, Aurelius Fulvus (cos. ord. 89: PIR 2, A 1510 and 1513), who died when Antoninus was young, left him great wealth, and he acquired more when he married Annia Galeria Faustina, the daughter of the fabulously rich M. Annius Verus (cos. III ord. 126). 93 The res privata is attested by the 170s, so its attribution to Severus by the Historia Augusta must be wrong: see H. Nesselhauf, ‘Patrimonium und res privata des römischen Kaisers’, in Historia-Augusta-Colloquium Bonn 1963, Antiquitas. Abh. z. Alten Gesch. 4.2 (Bonn, 1964), 73–93; Birley, ‘Hadrian to the Antonines’, 150. 94 SHA, Ant. Pius 4.8. 95 Ibid. 9.1; Paus. 2.7.1, 8.43.4; Aristid. Or. 24.3, 52–6; cf. Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, ii. 38–9. The earthquake preceded the Lycian federal assembly’s decree of 7 Nov. 142, thanking Opramoas for his offer of help (TAM 2.3.905, xiii.53; cf. A. Balland, Inscriptions d’époque impériale du Létôon, Fouilles de Xanthos, 7 (Paris, 1981), 173–224), and Aelius Aristides heard the news in Egypt, where he was from May 141 (C. A. Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales (Amsterdam, 1968), 15–16, n. 44); Magie, Rom. Rule Asia Min., ii. 1491–2, suggested that the earthquake may have occurred as early as 139, but the benefactions of Opramoas referred to in Antoninus’ letters to Myra and Tlos (TAM 2.3.905, xiii.37–8) are better explained as unprompted. 96 I. Stratonikeia 1029 (without speciﬁc date). This ﬁrst earthquake of Pius’ reign is dated to 139 by Magie and to c.142–3 by Hüttl, Antoninus, ii. 38–9; Behr, Aelius Aristides, 15–16. But no signiﬁcant architectural material from the Antonine period has yet been found at the site: I. H. Mert, ‘Untersuchungen zur hellenistischen und kaiserzeitlichen Bauornamentik von Stratonikeia’, Ph.D thesis, Cologne (1999), 42. For similar action by earlier emperors, notably Tiberius and Hadrian, see L. Robert, ‘Documents d’Asie Mineure V. Stèle funéraire de Nicomédie et séismes dans les inscriptions’, BCH 102 (1978), 395–408, at 401–2; Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building’, 351–2. 97 kosmikos seismos: TAM 2.3.905, xiii.35. For beliefs in a ‘cosmic catastrophe’, G. Traina, ‘Tracce di un’ immagine: il terremoto fra prodigio e fenomeno’, in E. Guidoboni (ed.), I terremoti prima del Mille in Italia e nell’ area mediterranea: storia, archeologia, sismologia

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(Bologna, 1989), 104–13, at 111. IGRom. 3.483 (Oenoanda: so-te-ra kai euergete-n tou kosmou, ‘saviour and benefactor of the kosmos’), 504 (Araxa: ton so-te-ra tou kosmou, ‘the saviour of the kosmos’). Similar statues at Pinara, Cyaneae, Rhodiapolis, and Phaselis (IGRom. 3.575, 701, 734, 761) are not necessarily connected with the earthquake; that at Cyaneae was probably connected with an earlier dedication of a bath-building (c.140–2, under the governor Proculus) to Mars, Eleutheria, Zeus, and the emperor. 98 Aristid. Or. 49.38: ‘under the proconsul Antoninus Albus’; for the date of his proconsulship as 147/8 (pace Behr, Aelius Aristides, 74–6), see Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, ii. 48–9, and Ch. 7 below. 99 IGRom. 4.90 = IG 12.11.215, dated to ‘Year 140+’ (after the apotheosis of Augustus in AD 14). A third earthquake was experienced in Dura Europus on 27 Oct. 160: AE 1931.114. 100 SHA, Ant. Pius 8.3; CIL 12.4342 = ILS 5685. 101 M. Gayraud, Narbonne antique: des origines à la ﬁn du IIIe siècle, Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise, suppl. 8 (Paris, 1981), 386. 102 Ibid. 274–8 (amphitheatre), 384 (colonnades and baths); plan of the area at 277, ﬁg. 44. 103 SHA, Ant. Pius 1.2. Paternal grandfather: Aurelius Fulvus (PIR 2, A 1509); maternal grandfather: Arrius Antoninus, cos. 69 (PIR 2, A 1086). Cf. Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, i. 27–8. 104 A. Schulz and E. Winter, ‘Historisch-archäologische Untersuchungen zum Hadrianstempel von Kyzikos’, in E. Schwertheim (ed.), Asia Minor Studien, i. Mysische Studien (Bonn, 1990), 33–82; J. Delaine, ‘The Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus and Roman Attitudes to Exceptional Construction’, PBSR 70 (2002), 205–30. 105 IGRom. 4.140 = SEG 19.730. T. Reinach, ‘Lettre à M. le commandeur J. B. de Rossi au sujet du Temple d’Hadrien à Cyzique’, BCH 14 (1890), 517– 45, at 532; B. Ashmole, ‘Cyriac of Ancona and the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus’, JWI 19 (1956), 179–91, at 188; J. L. D. Pearse, ‘The Organization of Roman Building During the Late Republic and Early Empire’, Ph.D thesis, Cambridge (1974), 186. 106 aphthonie-i cheiro-n (‘with abundance of hands’); cf. Plut. Per. 13 –14. It is again ambiguous whether this refers to imported labour or amalgamated funds. At this time of civic competition (below, Ch. 7), it is unlikely that the temple was paid for by voluntary contributions from all the Asian cities, rather than the revenues of the Roman province; as this text was probably not the actual dedication, the omission of the emperor’s or governor’s name is no obstacle to its referring, in poetic manner, to provincial revenues. 107 Although it is generally assumed that Aristenetus was the architect (e.g. Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 47), the adjective dios (‘good, noble’) and the mention of funds are more appropriate for a patron than an architect. On the ambiguity, see E. V. Thomas, ‘The Monumentality of Roman Architecture A.D. 98–192’, D.Phil. thesis, Oxford (1994), 84. 108 But the temple was not certainly dedicated to Hadrian: S. R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge, 1984), 153–5, 251–2. See also below, Ch. 7. Private benefaction and imperial muniﬁcence were often complementary: Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building’, 362. 109 W. W. Wroth, Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Mysia (London, 1892), 47, no. 218, pl. 12.14. 110 Aristid. Or. 27.22 (delivered in 166) refers to the ‘name of the best emperor up to that time’; if the dedication was to ‘the god Hadrian’, then the ‘best emperor up to that time’ cannot be Hadrian (as Behr, Aristides: Complete Works, ii. 381, n. 33), since this would be an insult to Antoninus, whom Aristides describes anyway as ‘the best of emperors’ in 167 (Or. 23.73). 111 Ashmole, ‘Cyriac of Ancona’, 185–6, pl. 36; M. Lyttelton, ‘The Design and Planning of Temples and Sanctuaries in Asia Minor in the Roman Imperial Period’, in Macready and Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World, 38–49, at 45. 112 The so-called ‘Arco di S Tomio’: A. Frova and G. Cavalieri Manasse, ‘La basilica forense di Verona alla luce dei nuovi scavi’, in X. Lafon and G. Sauron (eds.), Théorie et pratique de l’architecture romaine: la norme et l’expérimentation. Études offertes à Pierre Gros (Aix-enProvence, 2005), 179–201, at 184 with ﬁg. 4.2 (there was a ‘Syrian arch’ at the entrance to the main apse: ibid. 190, with 4.1). 113 P. Sticotti, Die römische Stadt Doclea in Montenegro (Vienna, 1913), ﬁg. 64; see below, Ch. 10. 114 J. B. Ward-Perkins, The Severan Buildings of Lepcis Magna: An Architectural Survey; with a contribution by G. B. Jones and R. J. Ling; ed. P. M. Kenrick (London, 1993). 115 As suggested by A. J. Spawforth and S. Walker, ‘The World of the Panhellenion. I. Athens and Eleusis’, JRS 75 (1985), 78–104, at 97–8. 116 CIL 3.549. 117 S. Leigh, ‘The “Reservoir” of Hadrian in Athens’, JRA 10 (1997), 279–90. 118 Ptolemais: (i) ‘Roman villa’: C. H. Kraeling, Ptolemais: City of the Libyan Pentapolis (Chicago, 1962), 129 (ﬁg. 48) and 137–8, suggesting a date c.50–75; (ii) ‘Palazzo delle Colonne’: G. Pesce, Il ‘Palazzo delle Colonne’ in Tolemaide di Cirenaica (Rome, 1950), 23–5 and 100 (possibly ﬁrst century). Oplontis: see above, Ch. 1, n. 134. The Augustan ‘Stoa Basileios’ at Ephesus (below, Ch. 7) is reconstructed with a similar form on the short side by E. A. Fossel-Peschl, Die Basilika am Staatsmarkt in Ephesos (Graz, 1982), pls. 15, 17–18; W. Alzinger, Augusteische Architektur in Ephesos, ÖAI Sonderschriften, 16 (Vienna, 1974), 24–5, 31, ﬁg. 160. 119 H. Lauter, ‘Ptolemais in Libyen. Ein Beitrag zur Baukunst Alexandriens’, JDAI 86 (1971), 149–78, at 172, suggests an Egyptian origin for the motif; however, these examples were all works of Roman patrons, and the column-plus-arch fornix motif, which also combines arcuated and trabeate forms (e.g. in the ‘Tabularium’ at Rome), is of Roman origin. 120 J. Harris and J. Lever, Illustrated Glossary of Architecture 850–1830 (London, 1966), 72, and ﬁg. 136.

288

notes (pp. 41–6)

121 F. Miltner (†), ‘XXII. Vorläuﬁger Bericht über die Ausgrabungen in Ephesos’, JÖAI 44 (1959), Beibl., 243–314, at 273–8; plan at 271–2, ﬁg. 125. 122 Against D. Knibbe, RE, Suppl. xii (1970), cols. 281–4, and H. Engelmann, ZPE 9 (1972), 91–6, see Wörrle, ‘Zur Datierung’, 471–6; E. L. Bowie, ‘The “Temple of Hadrian” at Ephesus’, ZPE 8 (1971), 137– 41; id., ‘The Vedii Antonini and the “Temple of Hadrian” at Ephesus’, Proceedings of the Xth International Congress in Classical Archaeology 1973 (Ankara, 1978), ii. 867–80, at 874 App. B; Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 92–3. 123 IEph 429 (the dedication of the shrine, or naos); 500 (dedication of the bath-building) and 455 (dedication of the latrine); 712b, from a statue probably erected outside the baths, gives Var(i)us’ career. 124 See the plan in Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 93, ﬁg. 16. Bowie, ‘Vedii Antonini’, 874, suggests that the structure was intended to be a cultic street-side frontage for his new bathgymnasium, similar to the so-called Kaisersäle of other gymnasia in Ephesus. 125 Bowie, ‘Vedii Antonini’, 874; E. Fontani, ‘I Vedii di Efeso nel II secolo d.C.’, ZPE 110 (1996), 227–37. 126 Fundamental discussions: D. F. Brown, ‘The Arcuated Lintel and its Symbolic Interpretation in Late Antique Art’, AJArch. 46 (1942), 389–99; L. Crema, ‘La formazione del “frontone Siriaco” ’, Scritti di Storia dell’Arte in onore di Mario Salmi, i (Rome, 1961), 1–13. See also P. Hommel, ‘Giebel und Himmel’, MDAI(I) 7 (1957), 11–55, at 20–6; E. Weigand, ‘Propylon und Bogentor in der östlichen Reichskunst’, Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, 5 (1928), 71–114, at 81–5; Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 282–3; H. Thür, Das Hadrianstor in Ephesos, Forschungen in Ephesos, xi/1 (Vienna, 1989), 79–81, with examples, stressing structural differences. 127 Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 56. 128 Dio Cass. 69.2.1. 129 IGRom. 4.349 = Syll.3 831 = Smallwood, Docs. . . .Nerva 61 = Oliver 58B. C. Curtius, ‘Inschriften aus Kleinasien’, Hermes, 7 (1873), 28–46, at 37–9, no. xi. For the Temple, see Introduction above, n. 95. 130 e.g. Antalya (below, Ch. 6), Phaselis (J. Schäfer (ed.), Phaselis. Beiträge zur Topographie und Geschichte der Stadt und ihrer Hafen (Tübingen, 1981), 141–3, 151– 4, 169–72), and perhaps the north gate to the South Market at Miletus (H. Knackfuss, Milet i.7. Der Südmarkt und die benachbarten Baunalagen (Berlin, 1924)) re-dated to the 120s (ready for Hadrian’s visit in 129) by V. M. Strocka, Das Markttor von Milet (Berlin, 1981), 47. 131 Thür, Hadrianstor, 133–6, allows a date-span between 113/4 and 127/8. For the possible ceremonial purpose, H. Halfmann, Itinera principum: Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich (Stuttgart, 1986), 130–2. 132 Cf. Library of Celsus (Fig. 5 above, Introduction, n. 77). 133 Thür, Hadrianstor, 82 argues that for this reason the gate must have preceded the ‘Temple of Hadrian’, but the typology cannot be chronologically divided so rigidly. The solution used in the gate was possibly inﬂuenced by the Augustan ‘Stoa Basileios’. 134 Brown, ‘Arcuated Lintel’, 389–99; Crema, ‘Frontone Siriaco’. 135 Dushara temple at Si’: H. C. Butler, Syria: Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria in 1904–1905 and 1909, ii, B Architecture. Northern Syria (Leiden, 1920), 322 (noting an inscription of c.50–100), and 334–40; ibid., ii, Architecture. Southern Syria (1916), 365–6, 385–9, pl. 335; dated to between 33 BC and AD 50 by Crema, ‘Frontone siriaco’; cf. Millar, Roman Near East, 394–6. 136 L. W. King, Bronze Reliefs from the Gates of Shalmaneser King of Assyria (London, 1915), 25 (9th cent. BC), pls. 25–6, 30. 137 R. Koldewey, Das Ischtar-Tor in Babylon: nach den Ausgrabungen durch die Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft (Leipzig, 1918), 49–52, pl. 9. For the identiﬁcation: Brown, ‘Arcuated Lintel’, 393. Cf. also the gate at Dur-sharakin: E. Bell, Early Architecture in Western Asia: Chaldaean, Hittite, Assyrian, Persian; A Historical Outline (London, 1924), 143, ﬁg. 138 Weigand, ‘Propylon und Bogentor’, 112–14; G. Hornbostel-Hüttner, Studien zur römischen Nischenarchitektur (Leiden, 1979), 199–201. 139 Dio Cass. 68.27–30 (= epitome by Xiphilinus, 238–40), esp. 30.1. 140 Koldewey, Ischtar-Tor, 52. 141 Miltner, ‘XXII. Vorläuﬁger Bericht’, 274, ﬁg. 126. For the ‘fortune’ of a new reign, see below, Ch. 9. 142 V. Tran Tam Tinh, Essai sur le culte d’ Isis à Pompéi (Paris, 1964), 34–5, pl. i.4 (date c.62–79). 143 R. Amy et al., L’Arc d’Orange, Gallia suppl. 15 (Paris, 1962), 19–56 (date c.20). 144 Ibid. 30, pl. 21. 145 Cf. MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa, 50. 146 Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 231. 147 See below, Ch. 7. 148 Cf. Smith, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’. A true ‘arcuated lintel’ perhaps designed by Hadrian himself appears in the portico surrounding the Canopus pool in his villa at Tivoli. 149 The location of forts along the wall was probably determined by the praesidia ﬁxed by Agricola 60 years earlier: G. Macdonald, The Roman Wall in Scotland 2 (Oxford, 1934), 396. 150 The Legio II (‘Augusta’), based at Caerleon, the Legio VI (‘Victrix’), stationed at York, and the Legio XX (‘Valeria Victrix’), based at Chester. 151 Fronto, ‘Speech on the War in Britain’, excerpt from Eumenius, Panegyricus Constantii, 14 (in The Correspondence of Marcus Cornelius Fronto, ed. C. R. Haines (London, 1919–20), ii. 250–1).

152 R. G. Collingwood and J. Myres, Roman Britain and the English Settlements (Oxford, 1936), 140–8. His argument is cited as an example of how archaeological evidence can be used to present an interpretation of subjective intent by I. Hodder, Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology2 (Cambridge, 1991), 101–3. 153 See above, Ch. 1, n. 164. 154 L. J. F. Keppie, Roman Distance Slabs from the Antonine Wall: A Brief Guide (Glasgow, 1979); id., Roman Inscribed and Sculptured Stones in the Hunterian Museum University of Glasgow, Britannia Monograph Series, 13 (London, 1998). 155 Macdonald, Roman Wall, 394. 156 Ibid. 362. 157 Triangular ansae: ibid., nos. 4, 5, 10, 16; peltae: nos. 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 11, 12, 14; framing ﬁgures: no. 6; winged victories: no. 11. Two inscriptions (nos. 9 and 15) are simple rectangular slabs without ansae, of which one (no. 15) records the opus valli; another (no. 13) is also of rectangular form, but has a slight triangular peak reminiscent of a pediment. 158 Collingwood-Wright, RIB 2139 = Macdonald, Roman Wall, no. 1. 159 Cf. Trajan’s Column, scenes viii and liii: Lepper and Frere, Trajan’s Column, 58, 157. 160 Clearly the sense of the dative case here, rather than ‘In honour of ’, as Macdonald, Roman Wall, 363. 161 Collingwood-Wright, RIB 2208 = Macdonald, Roman Wall , no. 17 = Keppie, Roman Inscribed and Sculptured Stones, 88–9, no. 16. Size: 0.69 m. high by 0.73 m. wide by 0.12 m. deep. Found before 1684 at Ferrydyke on the N. bank of the River Clyde. MacDonald, Roman Wall , 391, regards it as ‘certain’ that it came from the western extremity of the limes and belonged to the sixth and last of its lengths, between Castlehill and the Clyde. Keppie sees the Victory’s reclining posture, characteristic of a river god, as alluding to the nearby River Clyde. 162 Macdonald, Roman Wall , 393. 163 AE 1971.225; Keppie, Roman Inscribed and Sculptured Stones, 81–2, no. 9. Found March 1969 on Hutcheson Hill, Bearsden, Dumbartonshire. 164 LIMC 3.1, 167–9 (M. Henig); Keppie, Roman Inscribed and Sculptured Stones, 82. 165 A. S. Robertson, ‘Distance Slab of the Twentieth Legion Found on the Antonine Wall, at Hutcheson Hill, 1969’, Glasgow Archaeological Journal , 1 (1969), 1; M. W. C. Hassall, ‘Wingless Victories’, in J. Munby and M. Henig (eds.), Roman Life and Art in Britain: A Celebration in Honour of the Eightieth Birthday of Jocelyn Toynbee, BAR, 41 (Oxford, 1977), 327–41, at 338. 166 Collingwood-Wright, RIB 2163; Macdonald, Roman Wall, 401–2, no. 20, pl. lxxi.2. First published by J. Skinner, ‘Drawings and a Dissertation Respecting Some Roman Antiquities, Discovered on the Line of Antonine’s Vallum, Since the Publication of General Roy’s Work’, Archaeologia , 21 (1827), 455–68, at 458–9. Since 1922, in the National Museum of Antiquities, Edinburgh. 167 Skinner’s drawing (prev. note, ﬁg. 1) curiously omits the arch and shows a continuous straight entablature! 168 Cf. the walls of Babylon, described by Ctesias: Diod. 2.7.4. 169 Aristid. Or. 26.83. 170 Ibid. 84; cf. Hom. Il. 16.212–15. 171 P.-M. Duval, Cherchel et Tipasa (Paris, 1946), 154–63; J. Barajez, ‘Les Nouvelles fouilles de Tipasa et les opérations d’Antonin le Pieux’, Libyca , 2 (1954), 89–148; P.-A. Février, ‘Enceinte et colonie (De Nîmes à Vérone, Toulouse et Tipasa)’, in Omaggio a Fernand Benoît, Rivista di Studi Liguri, 35 [1969] (Bordighera, 1972), iii. 277–86, at 280–4. 172 F. Vollmer (ed.), Inscriptiones Baivariae Romanae, sive Inscriptiones provinciae Raetiae adiectis aliquot Noricis Italicisque (Munich, 1915), nos. 258, 263, 276, 278; H.-J. Kellner, ‘Raetia und die Markomannenkriege’, Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter, 30 (1965), 154 –75, at 168–9, ﬁg. 2; H. Schönberger, ‘The Roman Frontier in Germany: An Archaeological Survey’, JRS 59 (1969), 144–97, at 167–71. Dedication in garland: D. Baatz, ‘Eine neue Inschrift vom Odenwald-Limes’, Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter, 31 (1966), 85–9, ﬁgs. 1–2. 173 ILS 8973; Schönberger, ‘The Roman Frontier in Germany’, 170: serving as a demarcation-line, not a bulwark; W. Eck , Die Statthalter der germanischen Provinzen vom 1.-3. Jahrhundert (Cologne and Bonn, 1985), 60–2; cf. also 171–2 (L. Octavius Cornelius Salvius Iulianus Aemilianus); cf. G. Alföldy, ‘Caius Popilius Carus Pedo und die Vorverlegung des obergermanischen Limes’, Fundberichte aud Baden-Württemberg , 8 (1983), 55–67 = id., Römische Heeresgeschichte. Beiträge 1962–1985, Mavors, 3 (Amsterdam, 1987), 394– 409; Birley, ‘Hadrian to the Antonines’, 155. 174 Schönberger, ‘The Roman Frontier in Germany’, ﬁg. 20 opp. p. 176. 175 G. Mihailov, ‘La Fortiﬁcation de la Thrace par Antonin le Pieux et Marc Aurèle’, Studi Urbinati, 35 (1961), 8–9. 176 Arch. Anz . 56 (1941), 278–80; V. Velkov, ‘Die thrakische Stadt Bizye’, in Studia in honorem V. Besˇevliev (Soﬁa, 1978), 174–81, at 176. For coins showing the city walls, see below, Ch. 6. 177 AE 1995.1113. 178 Malalas, Roman History xi, 280.12–13; cf. A. Moffat, ‘A Record of Public Buildings and Monuments’, in E. Jeffreys (ed.), Studies in John Malalas (Sydney, 1990), 87–109. For the cult, see Y. Hajjar, La Triade d’Héliopolis-Baalbek: son culte et sa diffusion à travers les textes littéraires et les documents iconographiques et épigraphiques, 3 vols. (Leiden, 1977–85), with the comments of Millar, Roman Near East, 281–5. 179 G. Downey, ‘The Work of Antoninus Pius at Antioch’, C Phil. 34 (1939), 369–72. 180 T. Wiegand (gen. ed.), Baalbek: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen und Untersuchungen in den Jahren 1898 bis 1905, i: B. Schulz and H. Winnefeld, Baalbek (Berlin and Leipzig, 1921), pl. 16.

notes (pp. 46–54) 181 F. Ragette, ‘Die Monumentalität römischer Architektur’, in M. von Ess and T. Weber (eds.), Baalbek im Bann römischer Monumentalarchitektur (Mainz, 1999), 59–65. 182 Schulz and Winnefeld, Baalbek, i. 117–26, pls. 72–3, 91–5. For similar, arched niches, cf. the ‘Temple of Zeus’, Hossn Suleiman, and an unidentiﬁed temple at Medjdel Andjar: D. Krencker and W. Zschietzschmann, Römische Tempeln in Syrien: nach Aufnahmen und Untersuchungen von Mitgliedern der Deutschen Baalbekexpedition 1901–1904, Denkmäler antiker Architektur, 5 (Berlin and Leipzig, 1938), pls. 33, 76. 183 Schulz and Winnefeld, Baalbek, 110–16, pls. 130, 133– 4. 184 Its dimensions of 36.60 m. by 62.20 m., or approximately 120 by 200 Roman feet, make it larger than the two temples at Jerash, of Artemis and Zeus. K. S. Freyberger, ‘Im Licht des Sonnengottes. Deutung und Funktion des sogenannten “Bacchus-Tempels” im Heiligtum des Jupiter Heliopolitanus in Baalbek’, Damaszener Mitteilugen, 12 (2000), 95–133, at 97, n.12. 185 Ibid. 121. 186 Cf. S. Bahe, ‘Karl Friedrich Schinkel und Baalbek?’, in von Ess and Weber (eds.), Baalbek im Bann römischer Monumentalarchitektur, 95–104, at 97–8, ﬁgs. 94–5 and 96a–b. 187 Freyberger, ‘Im Licht des Sonnengottes’, 122–4. 188 Wiegand, Baalbek, ii (1923), 29–45, pl. 17. 189 Freyberger, ‘Im Licht des Sonnengottes’, 111–13. The capitals of the propylon of the Temple of Artemis at Jerash are the closest stylistic comparison. 190 IGLS 6.2791; Freyberger, ‘Im Licht des Sonnengottes’, 132. 191 IGRom. I.70. 192 Migne, PG ciii. 1283. R. J. Bull and G. E. Wright, ‘Newly Discovered Temples on Mt Gerizim in Jordan’, Harv. Theol. Rev. 58 (1965), 234–7. 193 BMC Palestine, 48–9, nos. 20–1, pl. v.14; M. J. Price and B. L. Trell, Coins and Their Cities: Architecture on the Coins of Greece, Rome, and Palestine (London, 1977), 172–5, ﬁg. 302. 194 Marinus of Neapolis, quoted by Damascius, Vit. Isid. vi, 97A, in P. Athanassiadi, Damascius: The Philosophical History (Athens, 1999), 237; Epiphanius, De Gemmis, in Migne, PG xliii. 364; Procop. Aed. v.7.1–7. The ‘Bordeaux Pilgrim’ of AD 333 mentions 300 steps: F.M. Abel, Géographie de la Palestine, i (Paris, 1933), 365. 195 Cf. a coin of Pella in Syria, showing a temple on an arcaded platform on the summit of the acropolis: Price and Trell, Coins and their Cities, 172, ﬁg. 56. 196 H. Holtzinger, Timgad und die römische Provinzialarchitektur in Nordafrika, Die Baukunst, 3rd ser., 1 (Berlin and Stuttgart, 1906), 5–6, pl. 5. 197 R. Naumann, Der Quellbezirk in Nîmes, Denkmäler antiker Architektur, 4 (Berlin and Leipzig, 1937), 2–29, esp. 14–15, ﬁgs. 7–8, ﬁg 9 (Jean Poldo d’Albenas’ section drawing of 1560), pl. 16. 198 P. Gros, ‘L’Augusteum de Nîmes’, Revue Archéologique de Narbonnaise, 17 (1984), 123–34, at 128, interpreting the ‘south temple’ as a monumental entrance to the complex. 199 U. W. Gans, ‘Der Quellbezirk von Nîmes. Zur Datierung und zum Stil seiner Bauten’, MDAI(R) 97 (1990), 93–125, argues for an Augustan date, but the stone vault hardly ﬁts such a conclusion; cf. Gros, ‘L’Augusteum’, 128, who notes the coffering and proportions of the building. A. L. F. Rivet, Gallia Narbonensis: Southern France in Roman Times (London, 1988), 165, is non-committal regarding the date. 200 SHA, Hadr. 12.2. J. C. Anderson, jr., ‘Anachronism in the Roman Architecture of Gaul: The Date of the Maison Carrée at Nîmes’, JSAH 60: 1 (Mar. 2001), 68–79. 201 Dio Cass. 72; SHA, Marc. 11.1. 202 SHA, Verus 8.8. 203 Fronto, Principia Historiae 11, ed. van den Hout, 209. 204 P. V. Hill, The Monuments of Ancient Rome as Coin Types (London, 1989), 37, ﬁg. 53. 205 Mattingly, in CREBM iv, p. cxxxix. M. Sordi, ‘Le monete di Marco Aurelio con Mercurio’, Annali dell’ Ist. Ital. di Numismatica, 5–6 (1958–9), 41–55. 206 Dio Cass. 71.8. For its ‘Egyptianizing’ assocations, see Onians, ‘From the Double Crown’. 207 See below, Ch. 4. 208 SHA, Marc. 8.4–5. 209 CIL 12.107 = ILS 5868. 210 A. von Gerkan and F. Krischen, Milet, i.9. Thermen und Palaestren (Berlin, 1928), 50–125; see below, Ch. 8. 211 G. E. Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries (Princeton, NJ and London, 1961), 162–5. 212 SHA, Comm. 17.5. At Rome there were monuments to Marcus, including the famous column and a temple associated with it (perhaps also an arch), the underground passage between the Colosseum and Ludus Magnus, and the baths, later attributed to the praetorian prefect Cleander, of which no trace survives (Hdn. 1.12.4; Cassiod. Chron., sub anno 184; Euseb., Chron. attributing them to 183); cf. Fagan, Bathing in Public, 114. Sources: A. DaguetGagey, Les opera publica à Rome (180–305 ap. J. C.) (Paris, 1997), 258–64. 213 LTUR, i. 302–5. For the Column as monumentum, see below, Ch. 9. 214 Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 268–79. 215 Malalas 12.1, 283; cf. the nymphaeum at Jerash (below, Ch. 4); many projects bearing the name of Severus may have been begun by Commodus, e.g. East Baths at Mactar (dedicated 199); cf. restoration of the Hadrianic Baths at Lepcis Magna: J. C. Fant, ‘IRT 794b and the Building History of the Hadrianic Baths at Lepcis Magna’, ZPE 75 (1988), 291– 4. 216 e.g. the dedication of baths at Beneventum, marked by gladiatorial games: CIL 9.1665; Fagan, Bathing in Public, no. 195; amphitheatre, Lambaesis: AE 1955.135, 137 (restorations in 177–80 and 194).

289

217 R. Stillwell, R. L. Scranton, and S. E. Freeman, Corinth, i.2. Architecture (Cambridge, Mass., 1941), 55–88. 218 Ibid. 61, ﬁg. 40: reconstruction by H. D. Wood, based on the ﬁnd of a curved entablature block from the upper order (ibid. 78–9, no. 32, ﬁg. 54). 219 Severan: C. C. Vermeule, ‘Figural Pillars: From Asia Minor to Corinth to Rome’, in M. A. Del Chiaro (ed.), Corinthiaca: Studies in Honor of Darrell A. Amyx (Columbia, Miss., 1986), 71–80; reuse of Augustan work: H. von Hesberg, ‘Zur Datierung der Gefangenenfassade in Korinth. Eine wiederverwendete Architektur augusteischer Zeit’, MDAI(A) 98 (1983), 215–38. 220 H. N. Fowler and R. Stillwell, Corinth, i.1. Introduction, Topography, Architecture (Cambridge, Mass., 1932), 185–6, 191. 221 Stillwell, Scranton, and Freeman, Corinth, i.2, 87, compare the market gate at Miletus, originally dated to c.155, but now redated to the 120s (see above, n. 130). 222 F. P. Johnson, Corinth, ix. Sculpture 1896 –1923 (Cambridge, Mass., 1931), 101–7, nos. 217–26. Coins: Fowler and Stillwell, Corinth, i.1, 185. 223 MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa, 103–8 (‘arcaded triclinium’); an Antonine private fountain at Ostia: L. Crema, L’architettura romana (Turin, 1959), 433. See below, Ch. 9, n. 137. 224 H. S. Robinson, Corinth: A Brief History of the City and a Guide to the Excavations (Athens, 1964), ﬁg. 2, plan ii. 225 M. Aur. Med. 1.16.

Notes to Chapter 3 Origen, in Migne, PG xii. 101. R. Gordon, ‘The Real and the Imaginary: Production and Religion in the Greco-Roman World’, Art History, 2 (1979), 5–34; J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Roman Art from the Pagan World to Christianity (Cambridge and New York, 1995). 3 R. Krautheimer, ‘Introduction to an “Iconography of Mediaeval Architecture” ’, JWI 5 (1942), 1–33, at 9. 4 L. Hautecoeur, Mystique et architecture. Symbolisme du cercle et de la coupole (Paris, 1954), pp. vii–ix. 5 Clem. Al. Strom. 5.8, 46, ed. O. Stählin (Leipzig, 1906), ii. 357. 6 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 3–5; cf. Gordon, ‘The Real and the Imaginary’, 8. 7 See above, Ch. 1, nn. 102–3. 8 For these observations, see R. Osborne, ‘Archaic and Classical Greek Temple Sculpture and the Viewer’, in K. Rutter and B. A. Sparkes (eds.), Word and Image in Ancient Greece (Edinburgh, 2000), 228–46, esp. 230. 9 For examples (basilica at Pompeii, amphitheatre at Nîmes), see above, Ch. 1. 10 Rhet. Her. 3.16–24; F. Preisshofen and P. Zanker, ‘Reﬂex einer eklektischen Kunstanschauung bei Auctor ad Herennium’, Dial. di Arch. 4–5 (1970–1), 100–19. For the ancient ‘art of memory’, see F. A. Yates, The Art of Memory (London, 1966), 17–41, J. P. Small, Wax Tablets of the Mind: Cognitive Studies of Memory and Literacy in Classical Antiquity (London and New York, 1997), 95–116; Cowling, Building the Text, 109–38, esp. 121–3. 11 Cic. De Or. 3.180. 12 T. Piscitelli Carpino, ‘Dignitas in Cicerone. Tra semantica e semiologia’, Bollettino di Studi Latini, 9 (1979), 253–67. 13 For these terms, see H. Raymond, ‘Commuter et transmuter: la sémiologie de l’architecture’, in Sémiotique de l’espace, Communications, 27 (1977), 103–11. 14 Plin. Ep. 5.6.44. 15 Pl. Ti. 33b–34b. 16 Cic. Nat. D 2.48. 17 Ibid. 2.47. 18 G. Seure and C. des Anges, ‘La Volière de Varron’, Rev. Phil. 58 (1932), 217–90; Sauron, Quis Deum?, 137–67. 19 Sauron, Quis Deum?, 135–7. 20 Ov. Fast. 6.265–8: forma iam templi, quae nunc manet, ante fuisse dicitur et formae causa probanda subest, Vesta eadem est quae terra; subest vigil ignis utrique, signiﬁcant sedem terra focusque suam. 21 Sauron, Quis Deum?, 83–98. 22 A. S. Pease (ed.), M. Tulli Ciceronis De Natura Deorum (Cambridge, Mass., 1955–8), ii. 200; Kirk–Raven–Schoﬁeld, Presocratic Philosophers, 133– 4. 23 e.g. the Meta Sudans fountain at Rome, the turning-points (metae) of the Circus Maximus, and the ‘Tomb of the Horatii and Curiatii’ in Latium. 24 Arist. Cael. 3.5, 304a14 –15. 25 Plut. De Def. Or. 32, 427c; De E apud Delph. 11, 390a. 26 Fuchs, Geographische Bilder, 122–9; cf. West, The East Face of Helicon, 148–9. The exact location of these supporting piers was disputed: in the West, the ‘Pillars of Hercules’ or Mount Atlas, kio-n ouranou (‘column of the sky’: Hdt. 4.185; cf. Hom. Od. 1.52); in the North, the island of Uxisama, north of Britain, ste-le- boreios (‘pillar of the north’: GGM i, 188), the ‘columns of Hercules’ north of Germany (Tac. Germ. 34.1), or perhaps the Caucasus mountains; in the East, the ‘altars of Alexander’ (Ptol. 3.5.26) or the ‘columns of Dionysus and Heracles’ (Strabo 3.171; Dionys. Per. 64; Eust. 623, 1164), perhaps the Himalayas; in the South, the ‘columns of Proteus’ (Verg. Aen. 11.262), possibly Mt Kilimanjaro; and, in the centre, Mt Etna (Pind. Pyth. 1.40) or the Alpine ‘column’ (Steph. Byz. 13, 122). For ‘columns of Hercules’, cf. Claudius Charax, fr. 35, in O. Andrei, A. Claudius Charax di Pergamo. Interessi antiquari e antichità cittadine nell’età degli Antonini (Bologna, 1984), 98–9. 1 2

290 27

319.

notes (pp. 54–60) H. D. Jocelyn (ed.), The Tragedies of Ennius: The Fragments (Cambridge, 1967), 141, l.

28 Cic. De Or. 3.40–1, Orat. 24; Suet. Gram. 10; Lucr. 4.171; Varro, Ling. 5.20. Cf. J. Masson, Lucretius Epicurean and Poet: Complementary Volume (London, 1909), 3–13; L. Deschamps, ‘L’Harmonie des sphères dans les Satires Ménippées de Varron’, Latomus, 38 (1979), 9–27. 29 Numa xii, in Suda 7.449. 30 See above, Ch. 1, n. 99. 31 Sauron, Quis Deum?, 169–248; cf. Pl. Phdr. 246e. Cf. the arcade beside the Forum Holitorium, Rome, which may have supported the roof of the Triumphal Way. On the formal composition of these fornix units of arch and columns, see H. Büsing, Römische Militärarchitektur in Mainz (Mainz, 1982), 60–4; Wilson Jones, Principles, 121–2. 32 P. L. Tucci, ‘ “Where high Moneta leads her steps sublime”. The “Tabularium” and the Temple of Juno Moneta’, JRA 18 (2005), 7–33; cf. Williams and Meadows, ‘Moneta and the Monuments’, 28–9. 33 R. Arnheim, The Dynamics of Architectural Form: Based on the 1975 Mary Duke Biddle Lectures at the Cooper Union (Berkeley, 1977), 245. For the motif of ascent as an image of fame, see below, Chs. 10–11. 34 Miltner, ‘XXII. Vorläuﬁger Bericht’, 308, ﬁgs. 147–8. 35 R. Fleischer, Artemis von Ephesos und verwandte Kultstatuen aus Anatolien und Syrien (Leiden, 1973); for smaller versions, cf. J. Elsner, ‘The Origins of the Icon: Pilgrimage, Religion and Visual Culture in the Roman East as “Resistance” to the Centre’, in S. E. Alcock (ed.), The Early Roman Empire in the East, Oxbow Monograph, 95 (Oxford, 1997), 178–99, at 187–9. 36 Schmidt, ‘Antike und mittelalterliche Schlusssteinsymbolik’. For more on the symbolism of the arch, see Thomas, ‘Arches, Keystones, and the Balance of Power’. 37 Suda 1.3830. 38 G. E. Bean, ‘Inscriptions in the Antalya Museum’, Belleten, 22 (1958), 22–91, at 42–3, no. 40. 39 Chrysippus derived the Greek term for an arch, hapsis, from the verb hapto- in the sense of sunapto- (‘contact’): SVF ii, 864 (= Poseid. F 193 Kidd); Poseid. F 284 Kidd (= FGrH T53, 106); Sen. Ep. 95.53; cf. Varro, Ling. 10.59. 40 Max. Tyr. Diss. 15.105–10 (74r), ed. M. B. Trapp (Stuttgart and Leipzig, 1994), 129–30. 41 Sen. Ep. 95.53; cf. W. Theiler, Die Vorbereitung des Neuplatonismus (Berlin, 1930), 121. 42 Arist. [Mund.] 399a–b. For the identiﬁcation of the dedicatee with Ti. Claudius Alexander, the leading Jewish official in Nero’s reign, who served as procurator of Judaea from 46 to 48 and prefect of Egypt after 67, see J. Bernays, ‘Über die fälschlich dem Aristoteles beigelegte Schrift Peq Jórlot’, in Gesammelte Abhandlungen von Jacob Bernays, ed. H. Usener (Berlin, 1885), ii. 278–82, followed by T. Mommsen, Römische Geschichte 9 (Berlin, 1903–4), v. 494, 566, n. 1. 43 Arist. [Mund.] 399b30. 44 For the date, S. J. Harrison, Apuleius: A Latin Sophist (Oxford and New York, 2000), 179–80. 45 Apul. Mund. 27. 46 [Arist.] Mund. 398b2. 47 Apul. Mund., 24, 350. 48 J. Beaujeu, La Religion romaine a l’apogée de l’Empire, i. La Politique religieuse des Antonins (96–192) (Paris, 1955), 388; M. P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion, ii2 (Munich, 1961), 273. 49 Apul. De Dog. Plat. 1, 205.15; Asclep. 41. Cf. F. Cumont, ‘Jupiter summus exsuperantissimus’, Archiv fur Religions-Wissenschaft, 9 (1906), 323–36. 50 Fowden, Empire and Commonwealth, 37–50. For the later attempt of Trajan Decius (in 249) to establish a ‘universal religion’ for all inhabitants of the Roman Empire, see J. B. Rives, ‘The Decree of Decius and the Religion of Empire’, JRS 89 (1999), 135–54. 51 Apul. De Dog. Plat. 1.12; cf. De Deo Soc. 1; Hippol. Haer. 4.1.8, 5.2.13; Cumont, ‘Jupiter summus exsuperantissimus’, 330–1. 52 CIL 9.948; ILS 3094. 53 Beaujeu, Politique religieuse, 117–18. 54 J. Beaujeu (ed.), Apulée, Opuscules Philosophiques (Du Dieu de Socrate, Platon et sa doctrine, Du Monde) et fragments (Paris, 1973), 334 ad loc. (my translation). 55 e.g. citations of Virgil, Ennius, and Sallust, pseudo-etymology of Juppiter (370.3), and ‘romanizing’ the officials of the Great King (347.13). 56 Rodenwaldt, ‘Die letzte Blütezeit’, 244–5. 57 S. Gibson, J. Delaine, and A. Claridge, ‘The Triclinium of the Domus Flavia: A New Reconstruction’, PBSR 62 (1994), 67–100. 58 Rodenwaldt, ‘Die letzte Blütezeit’, 245. 59 E. Weigand, ‘Das sogenannte Praetorium von Phaena-Mismije’, in Würzburger Festgabe Heinrich Bulle dargebracht zum siebzigsten Geburtstag am 11. Dezember 1937 (Stuttgart, 1938), 71–92. 60 Above all, bath-buildings: e.g. baths of Cn. Vergilius Capito, Miletus (von Gerkan and Krischen, Milet, i.9, 23–49), ‘Hunting Baths’ at Lepcis Magna ( J. B. Ward-Perkins, ‘The Hunting Baths at Lepcis Magna’, Archeologia, 93 (1949), 165–95, at 167, noting that this ‘medley of domes and barrel-vaults must have conveyed a startling impression of modernism to eyes that were accustomed to the digniﬁed rhythms of Hellenistic classicism’), and baths at Bosra and Philippopolis (Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 384).

61 K. Lehmann, ‘The Dome of Heaven’, Art Bulletin, 27 (1945), 1–27, repr. in W. E. Kleinbauer (ed.), Modern Perspectives in Western Art History: An Anthology of Twentiethcentury Writings on the Visual Arts (New York, 1971), 227–70. 62 D. Metzler, Ziele und Formen königlicher Innenpolitik im vorislamischen Iran, Habilitationsschrift, University of Münster (Münster, 1982), 165. 63 e.g. F. Bartoli, Le pitture antiche delle grotte di Roma e del sepulchro de Nasonii (Rome, 1706), with G. Worsley, Classical Architecture in Britain: The Heroic Age (New Haven and London, 1995), 146, 151, ﬁg. 176. Bartoli’s drawing probably inspired the ceiling design of the Red Drawing Room at West Wycombe Park, c.1750 (Country Life, 6 Sept. 1990). 64 Interior of tomb in Rue Tigrane Pasha, Alexandria (Graeco-Roman Museum): illustrated in R. J. Ling, Roman Painting (Cambridge, 1991), 184, ﬁg. 200. 65 R. Wood, The Ruins of Palmyra, otherwise Tedmoor, in the Desert (London, 1753; reprinted Farnborough, 1971), pl. xix. H. G. Gundel, Zodiakos. Tierkreisbilder im Altertum: kosmische Bezuge und Jenseitsvorstellungen im antiken Alltagsleben (Mainz, 1992), 104–5 no. 44, ﬁg. 50. 66 F. Beaufort, Karamania, or a brief description of the South Coast of Asia-Minor and of the remains of antiquity (London, 1817), 155; E. Petersen, in Graf K. von Lanckoronski, Städte Pamphyliens und Pisidiens, i. Pamphylien (Vienna, 1890–2), 135–7, identifying the building as a horologium; A. M. Mansel, Die Agora von Side und die benachbarten Bauten (Ankara, 1956), 31–7; id., Die Ruinen von Side (Berlin, 1963), 102–7, ﬁgs. 173–83. 67 K. Tancke, Figuralkassetten griechischer und römischer Steindecken (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1988), 101–3 cat. 42, with pl. lxvi.1–2. 68 An inscription recording the restoration of the deipnisterion of the gerousia, while Cn. Arrius Cornelius Proculus was governor of Lycia-Pamphylia in 139/40, was found reused in a later city gate: IGRom. 3.700; G. Bean, ‘Inscriptions’, in Mansel, Die Agora von Side, 79–98, at 83–5, no. 51. Cf. F. A. Cooper and S. P. Morris, ‘Dining in Round Buildings’, in O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion (Oxford, 1990), 66–85. 69 Gundel, Zodiakos, 138, 257, no. 185, ﬁg. (date: c.250). 70 For a slightly different use of the term omphalos at the entrance to Christian gravechambers at Corycus in Lycia, e.g. MAMA 3.402, 712. 71 Sen. Ep. 118; cf. E. G. Schmidt, Der 118. Brief Senecas, Inaugural-Dissertation (Leipzig, 1958), 105–17. 72 See above, Ch. 2. For other examples, cf. H. Sitte, ‘Römerbrücke bei Imrohor,’ Arch. Anz. (1929), 478–9, and the basilica at Smyrna (below, Ch. 7) and Baths of Faustina at Miletus (below, Ch. 8). 73 J. Seigne, Syria, 57 (1985), 289–91. For the ambiguity whether ‘architect’ here refers to a technician or an administrative official, see W. Eck, ‘Auf der Suche nach Architekten in der römischen Welt’, JRA 10 (1997), 399–404. 74 Tert. De Idololatria 8; cf. J. H. Waszink and J. C. M. van Winden, Tertullianus, De Idololatria: Critical Text, Translation, and Commentary (Leiden, 1987), ad loc. 75 Tert. Spect. 8.9. 76 ‘Abodah Zarah’ (‘Idolatry’), 1. 7. H. Danby, The Mishnah (Oxford, 1933), 438. The translation ‘public baths’ is from the reading demoseoth instead of the variant bemoseoth, ‘theatres’ or places of public amusement. 77 Vielhauer, Oikodome, passim. 78 Cf. N. R. M. de Lange, ‘Jewish Attitudes to the Roman Empire’, in P. D. A. Garnsey and C. R. Whittaker (eds.), Imperialism in the Ancient World (Cambridge, 1978), 255–81. 79 For discussion of this possibility, see Thomas, ‘Arches, Keystones, and the Balance of Power’. 80 F. B. Sear, Roman Wall and Vault Mosaics, MDAI (R), Ergänzungsheft, 23 (Heidelberg, 1977), 25–9; e.g. Forum Baths, Ostia: ibid. 116 no. 111. 81 Room IV. B. M. Felletti-Maj, Le pitture delle Case delle Volte Dipinte e delle Pareti Gialle, Mon. Pitt. Ant., iii, Ostia, i/ii (Rome, 1961), 11–17, ﬁgs. 6–7, pl. iii. 82 N. Davey and R. Ling, Wall Painting in Roman Britain, Britannia Monograph Series, 3 (London, 1982), 117–19. 83 Naumann, Der Quellbezirk in Nîmes, 25, ﬁgs. 84 J. R. Clarke, ‘Kinesthetic Address and the Inﬂuence of Architecture on Mosaic Composition in Three Hadrianic Bath Complexes at Ostia’, Architectura, 6 (1975), 1–17. Some of the brickstamps are Hadrianic, but most date probably to the later 3rd cent., suggesting that the structures of the baths underwent a major reconstruction then: cf. Bloch, Bolli laterizi, 147, 279; F. H. Wilson, PBSR 13 (1935), 77–87, esp. 82; G. Becatti, Gli Scavi di Ostia, i. Topograﬁa generale (Rome, 1953), 219. 85 Clarke, Roman Black-and-White Figural Mosaics, 24. 86 For the frigidarium as the social focus of a bath-building, where statues were frequently erected, cf. I. Nielsen, Thermae et balnea: The Architecture and Cultural History of Roman Baths (Aarhus, 1990), i. 154. The image of the baths as a cosmic space can be compared with Aristides’ allusion to the Asclepieion as a kosmos (‘ornament’ or ‘world, microcosm’) of Pergamon: see below, Ch. 7. 87 Clarke, ‘Kinesthetic Address’, and The Houses of Roman Italy, 100 B.C.–A.D. 250: Ritual, Space and Decoration (Berkeley, 1991), ch. 3. 88 J. Travlos, Pictorial Dictionary of Ancient Athens (London, 1971), 378, ﬁg. 499. 89 J. M. Luzon Nogué, ‘La roseta de triangulos curvilineos en el mosaico romano’, in Homenaje a Garcia Bellido, 5, Gerion, Anejos, 1 (Madrid, 1988), 213–41. E.g. a Roman villa at Dar Zmela, in Tunisia: P. Gauckler, BAC (1904), 380, pl. xxxvii. 90 S. Aurigemma, Le terme di Diocleziano e il Museo Nazionale Romano 5, (Rome, 1963), pl. civ (with Hadrianic date); M. E. Blake, Roman Construction in Italy from Nerva through

notes (pp. 60–6) the Antonines (Philadelphia, 1973), 82, pl. 14. For the Pantheon comparison, see W. L. MacDonald, The Pantheon: Design, Meaning, and Progeny (Cambridge, Mass., 1976), 74 with ﬁg. 85. 91 R. Paribeni, ‘Nuovi monumenti del Museo Nazionale Romano’, Bollettino d’Arte, 7.12 (1913), 157–72, noting ‘l’impressione della convessità’ (163) and the central medusa ﬁgure; Blake, ‘Pavements’, 115. 92 Eust. Il. 1155.2. For the cosmic signiﬁcance of the Shield of Achilles in antiquity, see P. R. Hardie, ‘Imago mundi: Cosmological and Ideological Aspects of the Shield of Achilles’, JHS 105 (1985), 11–31, and Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium (Oxford, 1986), 336–76, esp. 366–9. 93 Cf. D. Ogden, Greek and Roman Necromancy (Princeton and Oxford, 2001), 25–8. 94 A. Vogliano, ‘La grande iscrizione bacchica del Metropolitan Museum’, AJArch.2 37 (1933), 215–70, at 258–60. The priestess was Pompeia Agrippinilla, wife of M. Gavius Squilla Gallicanus (cos. 150). 95 e.g. the ‘alea, hollowed into the doorway, and vaults’, mentioned in the decree of a thiasus of Dionysus at Callatis in Thrace in the 3rd century BC, interpreted as a ‘vaulted baldachin above the entrance door and vaults of the nave’ by P. Boyancé, ‘L’Antre dans les mystères de Dionysos’, Rend. Pont. 33 (1960–1), 107–27. 96 Hornbostel-Hüttner, Studien, 18. 97 For the term ‘micro-architecture’: L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui, 328 (June 2000), Micro-architectures. 98 Corinium Museum. The term ‘umbrella vaults’ is used by F. B. Sear, Roman Architecture (London, 1982), 78–9. 99 P. Stuart and J. E. Bogaers, Nehalennia. Römische Steindenkmäler aus der Oosterschelde bei Colijnsplaat (Leiden, 2001). Of over 80 attested examples of such altars, there are only 5 precisely dated examples, ranging between 188 and 227. 100 A. Hondius-Crone, The Temple of Nehalennia at Domburg (Amsterdam, 1955). 101 Brown, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’. 102 Price and Trell, Coins and their Cities (above, Ch. 2, n. 193), 195–7, ﬁgs. 361–76. 103 Table 1, 6. 104 e.g. Cadi (Table 1, 25). 105 e.g. Apollonia Salbace (Table 1, 6): Price and Trell, 26, ﬁg. 27. 106 e.g. Temple of Zeus, Dioshieron; Temple of Artemis, Hypaepa: T. Drew-Bear, ‘Representations of Temples on the Greek Imperial Coinage’, ANSMN 19 (1974), 27–63; A. Burnett, ‘Buildings and Monuments on Roman Coins’, in G. M. Paul and M. Ierardi (eds.), Roman Coins and Public Life Under the Empire: E. Togo Salmon Papers II (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1999), 137–64, at 147–8. 107 Meadows and Williams, ‘Moneta and the Monuments’ (see above, Introduction, n.55). 108 T. L. Donaldson, Architectura Numismatica, or architectural medals of classic antiquity . . . explained (London, 1859), 86–7, nos. 22–3. The illustration by J. Rykwert, The Dancing Column: On Order in Architecture (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1996), 261 wrongly identiﬁes one coin as from Magnesia and says nothing about the different forms of the temple representations. 109 P. Gros and R. Amy, La Maison Carrée de Nîmes, Gallia suppl. 38 (Paris, 1970), 111–23. 110 V. Chabot, La Colonne torse et le décor en hélice dans l’art antique (Paris, 1907), 114–23 (coins, including this one: 118, ﬁg. 137) and 123–35 (built architecture). E.g. street colonnades at Apamea: Butler, Syria, ii. Architecture, 55. 111 See above, n. 35. For the cultural importance of classical form, compare the rebuilding of the Theatre of Miletus, Ch. 4 below. 112 e.g. gate at Comana (Pontus) with pediment broken by an arch: Price and Trell, Coins and Their Cities, 195, ﬁg. 364 (dated to 198). 113 Syria: e.g. West Gate, Bosra (A. Segal, From Function to Monument: Urban Landscapes of Roman Palestine, Syria and Provincia Arabia, Oxbow Monograph, 66 (Oxford, 1997), 90, ﬁgs. 90–3); west gate of outer court, sanctuary of Jupiter, Damascus (ibid. 113–15, ﬁgs. 127–8); Atil (H. C. Butler, Architecture and Other Arts (New York, 1903), 345, ﬁg. 121). Asia: e.g. tombtemples, Termessus (Lanckoronski, Städte Pamphyliens und Pisidiens, ii. Pisidien, 84 –8 (‘Corinthian temple’) and 112–15 (tomb of Mamastis); arcaded stadium gateway, Miletus, attributed to the late Roman period, but perhaps earlier (A. von Gerkan, Milet, ii.1. Das Stadion (Berlin and Leipzig, 1921), 32–7 with pl. v); arched gateway, Anazarbus, Cilicia (M. Gough, ‘Anazarbus’, Anat. St. 2 (1952), 85–150, at 110–13, ﬁg. 3, pl. xi A). 114 Price and Trell, Coins and their Cities, 19. 115 Wilson Jones, Principles, 55 ﬁg. 3.11. 116 CIL 8.2680 + 18221 = ILS 4311a = P. Merlat, Répertoire des inscriptions et monuments ﬁgurés du culte de Jupiter Dolichenus (Paris and Rennes, 1951), no. 286. At least 16 Syrian veterans of the Legio III Augusta are recorded around that time: CIL 8.18084; M. P. Speidel, The Religion of Iuppiter Dolichenus in the Roman Army (Leiden, 1978), 66. 117 G. MacDonald, ‘Notes on the Roman Forts at Old Kilpatrick and Croy Hill and on a Relief of Jupiter Dolichenus’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 66 (1931–2), 219–76, at 268–76; MacDonald, Roman Wall in Scotland, 415–17, no. 32, pl. XLVII.1. 118 It was discovered in 1935 under the present Via di S Domenico and partially excavated; the date is suggested by brickstamps dated between 116 and 138, probably from the brick revetment of the structure, and by dedicatory inscriptions, including an altar to Sol and Luna of 150 (see below). The building was originally an open court with a back room, perhaps for cult, approached from the side. Few architectural elements survive, and there is no evidence of an arcuated lintel, but it cannot be ruled out for the entrance to the court. See P. Chini, ‘Le

291

Dolocenum de l’Aventin: interprétation des structures’, in Orientalia Sacra Urbis Romae: Dolichena et Heliopolitana: recueil d’études archeologiques et historico-religieuses sur les cultes cosmopolites d’origine commagénienne et syrienne, ed. G. M. Bellelli and U. Bianchi (Rome, 1996), 320–47; ead., ‘Iuppiter Dolichenus, Templum’, in LTUR, ii. 133–4. 119 M. Mele and C. Mocchegiani Carpano (eds.), L’area del “santuario siriaco” del Gianicolo: problemi archeologici e storico-religiosi (Rome, 1982); eid., in LTUR, iii. 138–43. 120 Hadad: Mele and Mocchegiani Carpano (eds.), L’area, 21 ﬁg. 5; cf. A. Pasqui, ‘Roma. Nuove Scoperte nella città e nel suburbio’, Not. Scav. (1909), 389–410. Cronos: PlatnerAshby, 294–5. Aion: M. Leglay, ‘Sur les dieux syriens du Janicule’, MÉFRA 60 (1948), 129–5. Osiris: A. Roullet, The Egyptian and Egyptianizing Monuments of Imperial Rome (Leiden, 1972), 41. Adonis/Aion: U. Bianchi, in Mele and Mocchegiani Carpano, L’area, 89–105. 121 Museo Nazionale Romano, inv. 60922. Mele and Mocchegiani Carpano, L’area, 17 ﬁg. 1; G. Nicole and G. Darier, ‘Le Sanctuaire des dieux orientaux au Janicule’, MÉFRA 29 (1909), 1–86 (Serapis); N. Goodhue, The Lucus Furrinae and the Syrian Sanctuary on the Janiculum (Amsterdam, 1975) (Baal); Hajjar, La Triade d’Héliopolis-Baalbek, i. 357–89; Leglay, ‘Sur les dieux syriens’ (Aion). 122 L’Orange, Art Forms and Civic Life, 70–6; cf. Smith, Architectural Symbolism ; cf. late 2nd/3rd cent. ‘Sacchetti relief ’ (A. J. B. Wace, ‘Studies in Roman Historical Reliefs’, PBSR 4 (1907), 229–76, at 263–70, pl. xxxiv). 123 G. Niemann, Der Palast Diokletians in Spalato (Vienna, 1910), pls. 14 and 20; cf. preJustinianic portico of Santa Sophia: A. M. Schneider, ‘Neue arbeiten an der Hagia Sophia’, Arch. Anz. (1935), 305–11, at 309–10, ﬁg. 2; silver dish of Theodosius, Madrid. Cf. K. Weitzmann (ed.), The Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century: Based on the Catalogue to the Exhibition, Age of Spirituality, The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 1977), cat. nos. 64, 74–6. 124 K. S. Painter, ‘The Cyprus Treasures’, in J. P. C. Kent and K. S. Painter (eds.), Wealth of the Roman World: Gold and Silver A.D. 300–700 (London, 1977), 102–15, with bibliography. 125 Ibid. 105–8, cat. nos. 180–3 (representing 1 Sam. 16–18). The ﬁrst three plates are all in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 126 For the iconographic difference of these scenes from the secular representation of Theodosius’ power to the biblical basis of the later scenes, despite their stylistic continuity, see Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, 267–8, with ﬁgs. 68–70. 127 H. P. L’Orange, Studies on the Iconography of Cosmic Kingship in the Ancient World (London and Oslo, 1953), 28–34. For the distinction between the semi-divinity suggested at the centre of the room and the historical narrative along the sides, see Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, 173–6. For the possible evidence of ritual, F. K. Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography: Kaisersaal and the Imperial Cult’, Art Bulletin, 64 (1982), 7–31. 128 Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’, overstates the signiﬁcance of the aedicular façade in itself for the imperial cult, as is now recognized by Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, passim. 129 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 128. 130 Most recently, Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 448–50. 131 For such arguments against Smith, Architectural Symbolism, after the book’s initial denigration by Jocelyn Toynbee (CR, NS 8 (1958), 177–8), see T. Mathews, The Clash of Gods: A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art (Princeton, 1999), 3–22 and Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, 268, and ‘Frontality in the Column of Marcus Aurelius’, in J. Scheid and V. Huet (eds.), La Colonne Aurélienne (Turnhout, 2000), 251–64, at 260–1. 132 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, p. vii. 133 Ibid. 38–44. 134 Ibid. 44–51. 135 Ibid. 119. 136 Ibid. 137 Plut. Alex. 34. 138 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 118. Pompeii: apses in the Forum Baths; Herculaneum: a fresco with skene baldachin over a sphere and griffins. The Alexandrian origin of such motifs is suggested e.g. by tomb ceilings from Ipsium showing Egyptian griffins around the edge of a painted canopy of heaven. 139 Ibid. 121, ﬁg. 113. 140 Dionysiac ritual: H. W. Pleket, ‘An Aspect of the Emperor Cult: Imperial Mysteries’, Harv. Theol. Rev. 58 (1965), 331–47, esp. 338–41; Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’, 28. Hadrian: GIBM 3.2.600; SEG 6.58; Pleket, ‘An Aspect’, 336. 141 See above, Ch. 2. 142 Vogliano, ‘La grande iscrizione bacchica’, (above, n. 94), 222–4. 143 Price, Rituals and Power (above, Chapter 2, n. 108); A. Chaniotis, ‘Der Kaiserkult im Osten des römischen Reiches im Kontext der zeitgenössischen Ritualpraxis’, in H. Cancik and K. Hitzl (eds.), Die Praxis der Herrscherverehrung in Rom und seinen Provinzen (Tübingen, 2003), 3–28; B. Burrell, Neokoroi: Greek Cities and Roman Emperors, Cincinnati Classical Studies, NS 9 (Leiden, 2004), 359–71. 144 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 160, nos. 360, 1191, pl. xv; cf. 342–3; CREBM, iv, 135 no. 915. 145 Against Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 127, D. Brown, Temples of Rome as Coin Types, Numismatic Notes and Monographs, 90 (New York, 1940), 20–1, no. 19; F. Canciani, ‘Senatus’, in LIMC 7 (1994), 727–30, at 728. 146 A. B. Cook, Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion (Cambridge, 1914–40), ii. 362, ﬁgs. 255–6, 259–60; Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 127, ﬁg. 101. Cf. also Fourth Style Pompeian frescos. 147 Ibid., Smith, Architectural Symbolism, ﬁg. 120.

292

notes (pp. 66–71)

148 Lydus, Mens. 4.2. J. Rykwert, The Idea of a Town: The Anthropology of Urban Form in Rome, Italy and the Ancient World (Princeton, 1976; repr. Cambridge, Mass. and London, 1988), 139–42. The vaulted niches presumably housed statues of the 12 gods. 149 Fronto, De Feriis Alsiensibus 3.5, ed. van den Hout, 228: divinus ille vir, providentia . . . pietate sanctimonia. 150 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 57, nos. 150 and 972 = CREBM, iv, lxv, 84, 269 nos. 1666–7. 151 Later repeated by Caracalla and Geta: P. Riewald, De imperatorum cum certis dis et comparatione et aquatione, Inaugural-Dissertation, Halle (Halle, 1912), 314–15. 152 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 100–1, nos. 447, 1262, 1266. 153 Cf. the decoration of the new basilica at Carthage (below, Ch. 7). 154 BMC Lydia, 340–1, nos. 94–7, pl. lxxxv.7 (either Domitian or Antoninus Pius). Beaujeu, Politique religieuse, 325, suggests that the Tralles coinage reﬂects Antoninus’ personal inﬂuence. 155 Corinth: G. MacDonald, Catalogue of Greek Coins in the Hunterian Museum, (Glasgow, 1901), ii. 104, no. 139, pl. xxxvi.26; Prusias and Nicaea: C. Bosch, Die kleinasiatischen Münzen der römischen Kaiserzeit, ii. Einzeluntersuchungen, 1. Bithynien (Stuttgart, 1935), 114–15; cf. BMC Gal., 238, no. 8, pl. xxvii.10 (Emesa). 156 Beaujeu, Politique religieuse, 325. 157 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 57, 130, no. 578 = Gnecchi, Medaglioni romani, ii, pl. 50.6. 158 For the temple, see below, Ch. 10. For facing griffins on portraits of Pius (Dresden, Philippeville, and Vatican Museo Chiaramonti) and on coins of 140–2 and 144, see M. Wegner, Die Herrscherbildnisse in antoninischer Zeit, Römische Herrscherbild ii.4 (Berlin, 1939), 150. 159 The sun and moon also appear on Bithynian coins: Bosch, Die kleinasiatischen Münzen, i. 280, no. 188. 160 Speidel, Iuppiter Dolichenus, 65. A fragmentary coffered panel from the ‘Captives’ façade’ at Corinth (above, Ch. 2), adorned with ﬁgures of the Sun and the Moon (Stillwell, Corinth, i.2, 72, ﬁg. 48), could be read in the same way. The ceiling was originally decorated with 36 such panels, which possibly displayed further astral symbolism. 161 Fronto, Ep. ad Marc. Caes. 2.1, ed. Naber, 26: Antoninum vero ut solem, ut diem, ut vitam, ut spiritum amo, diligo, amari me ab eo sentio. Cf. Hor. Carm. 4.6.5–8: lucem redde tuae, dux bone, patriae. Instar veris enim voltus ubi tuus adfulsit populo, gratior it dies et soles melius nitent. 162 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 123. 163 Ibid., ﬁgs. 114–15. 164 ‘Caesar’s tholus’: Mart. 2.59; banquets: Stat. Silv. 4.2. 165 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 126, ﬁg. 118; but note the controversy over the authenticity of this coin: see above, Ch. 1, n. 126. 166 Augustus moved Pompey’s statue from the Curia Pompeia and placed it in regiam in the Theatre of Pompey. Later, the proscaenium of the theatre at Orange had a large apsidal niche above the central opening, the ‘Porta Regia’, which probably housed a statue of Augustus, similar to the colossal statue of which fragments were found in the theatre at Arles: L. Chatelain, Les Monuments romains d’Orange (Paris, 1908), 101–2 and n.1; A. Grenier, Manuel d’archeologie gallo-romaine, iii.2 (Paris, 1958), 758–9; Gros, ‘La Fonction symbolique’, 337–43. 167 J. Scheid, Commentarii Fratrum Arvalium qui supersunt. Les Copies epigraphiques des protocoles annuels de la confrerie Arvale (21 av.–304 ap. J.-C.) (Rome, 1998), 234, no. 79, ll. 9–10 ([in tetrastylo consederunt] et ex sacriﬁcio epulati sunt), 14 (discumbentes in tetrastylo); 237, no. 80, ll. 34–5, 41–2. 168 Ibid. 140, no. 53, Col. I, ll. 6, 14 (restored); 148–9, no. 55, Col. II, ll. 23, 33 (in t[etr]astylum desciderunt, ibiq(ue) in triclinio discumbentes epulati sunt ad magistrum C. Iulium Silanum, dated 87); 155, no. 57, l. 60 (dated 89), 165, no. 59, Col. II, l. 7 (dated 91, similar). Followed by Trajan in 105 (186–7, no. 64, Col. II, ll. 11, 18), 109 (190, no. 65, ll. 6, 9), and Hadrian in 118 (204, no. 68, Col. I, l. 63), 120 (211, no. 69, ll. 37–8, 42) and 133 (221, no. 74, l. 6). After Antoninus it is used under Marcus (255, no. 90, l. 3), Commodus in 183 (265, no. 94, Col. II, l. 23), Caracalla in 213 (283–4, no. 99a (below no. 80 of 155), ll. 1, 5), Elagabalus in 218 (294, no. 100a, ll. 18–22; 296, no. 100b, ll. 2–3) and 219 (303, no. 101, ll. 7–8), Severus Alexander in 237 (320, no. 107, Col. II, l. 9 ([in] tetrastulu[m (!) Genio d. n. Severi Alexandri Aug. t(aurum) a(uratum), item Divis n. XX verb(eces) n. XX]); cf. 324, no. 111, l. 5), and Gordian in 240 (333, no. 114, Col. II, ll. 2, 5, 10, 14, 43). The tetrastylum is drawn by Pirro Ligorio: Scheid, loc. cit. (n. 167 above). 169 Lanuvium: CIL 14.2112 = ILS 7212; Esquiline: CCID, 264–5, no. 408. 170 See above, Ch. 2, n. 109. 171 For the compromised design of the Hadrianic Pantheon, see Wilson Jones, Principles, 177–213. 172 E. V. Thomas, ‘The Architectural History of the Pantheon in Rome from Agrippa to Septimius Severus via Hadrian’, Hephaistos, 15 (1997), 163–86; Wilson Jones, Principles, 179–82. 173 E. R. Leach, ‘The Gatekeepers of Heaven: Anthropological Aspects of Grandiose Architecture’, Journal of Anthropological Research, 39 (1983), 243–64, esp. 256. 174 L. Crema, ‘Il pronao del Pantheon’, in M. Renard (ed.), Hommages à Albert Grenier, Collection Latomus, 58 (Brussels, 1962), 457–61; L. Cozza, ‘Le tegole di marmo del Pantheon’, in K. de Fine Licht (ed.), Città e architettura nella Roma imperiale. Atti del seminario del 27 ottobre 1981, Copenhagen, ARID suppl. 10 (Odense, 1983), 109–18; MacDonald, The Pantheon, 63. 175 L. Haselberger, ‘Ein Giebelriß der Vorhalle des Pantheon. Die Werkrisse vor dem Augustusmausoleum’, MDAI(R) 101 (1994), 279–308.

176 For the building’s architecture and history: de Fine Licht, The Rotunda in Rome ; F. Lucchini, Pantheon (Rome, 1996). For its cosmic symbolism: MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, i. 118–21; id., The Pantheon, 76–92; W. C. Loerke, ‘A Re-reading of the Interior Elevation of Hadrian’s Rotunda’, JSAH 49 (1990), 22–43; I. K. McEwen, ‘Hadrian’s Rhetoric, I: The Pantheon’, Res, 24 (1993), 55–66; Wilson Jones, Principles, 182–4; G. Sperling, Das Pantheon in Rom: Abbild und Mass des Kosmos, Horrea, 1 (Neuried, 1999). 177 Hautecoeur, Mystique et architecture (above, n. 4), 167; T. S. Thiis-Evenson, Archetypes in Architecture (Oslo and Oxford, 1987), 313–15. For the dome’s construction: Taylor, Roman Builders, 190–211. 178 Philostr. VS 2.12. 179 Lehmann, ‘Dome of Heaven’; W. R. Lethaby, Architecture, Mysticism and Myth (London, 1892). 180 Dio Cass. 53.27.3; cf. J. Hahn, Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft: Selbstverständnis, öffentliches Auftreten und populäre Erwartungen in der hohen Kaiserzeit (Stuttgart, 1989), 28. 181 Leach, ‘Gatekeepers of Heaven’, 249. 182 The ‘Round Temple’ at Ostia, attributable to the reign of Severus Alexander (222–35): Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 280–300; the ‘Tor de’Schiavi’ on the Via Praenestina: Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 424–6; and the Tomb of Maxentius’ son, Romulus, on the Via Appia. See, in general, MacDonald, Pantheon, 95–104, and for Christian imitations, 104–8. 183 Arcade: A. Frazer, ‘The Porch of the Tor de’Schiavi at Rome’, AJArch. 73 (1969), 45–8; arcuated lintel: Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 425, ﬁg. 288; cf. the mausoleum in the Western Necropolis at Side, of similar date (Frazer, ‘The Porch’, ﬁg. 11). For the arcuated lintel, cf. ﬁgs. 62–5 above. 184 See Ch. 5, below.

Notes to Chapter 4 1 T. P. Wiseman, ‘Conspicui postes tectaque digna deo: The Public Image of Aristocratic and Imperial Houses in the Late Republic and Early Empire’, in L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire, Collection de l’École Française de Rome, 98 (Rome, 1987), 393–413; Bodel, ‘Monumental Villas’. 2 W. Eck, A. Caballos, and F. Fernández, Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre (Munich, 1996), 46–7, ll. 106–8, with commentary at 207–11; also C. Damon and S. Takác (eds.), The Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre: Text, Translation, Discussion (Baltimore, Md., 1999). 3 For Cicero’s awareness of the political uses of private houses, see now S. Hales, The Roman House and Social Identity (Cambridge, 2003), 40–60. 4 Sen. Ep. 86.4; the ‘cistern big enough for an army’ suggests monumental scale; cf. the mock towers in the enclosure wall of the villa at Setteﬁnestre. 5 Set out by Sir Edward Coke, Reports (1613), v, 91b (Semayne’s case) and in Institutes (1644), 3, ch. 73: ‘for a man’s house is his castle, et domus sua cuique est tutissimum refugium’; id., Semayne’s Case, 5 Rep. 91b: ‘Primerunt que le meason de chescun est a luy come son castle et fortres.’ C. H. L. Coulson, Castles in Medieval Society: Fortresses in England, France, and Ireland in the Central Middle Ages (Oxford, 2003), 31. 6 See Appendix 1 below. 7 Strabo 15.1.37. 8 Plin. Ep. 2.17 (Pliny’s amor for structures quae . . . ipse inchoavi aut inchoata percolui ). B. Bergmann, ‘Visualizing Pliny’s Villas’, JRA 8 (1995), 406–20 (with prev. lit.); J. C. W. Henderson, Pliny’s Statue: The Letters, Self-Portraiture and Classical Art (Exeter, 2002), 15–20. For a parallel mosaic inscription naming patron and architect, see M. Pagano and J. Rougetet, ‘La casa del liberto P. Confuleius Sabbio a Capua e i suoi mosaici’, MÉFRA 99 (1987), 753–65, esp. ﬁg. 8. 9 E. M. Steinby, ‘I senatori e l’industria laterizia urbana’, in Epigraﬁa e Ordine senatorio, Tituli, 4 (Rome, 1982), i. 227–37. 10 J. E. G. Whitehorne, ‘The Ambitious Builder’, Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association, 31 (1969), 28–39; J. A. Freeman, ‘ “The Roof that was Fretted Gold” ’, Comparative Literature, 27 (1975), 254–66; C. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality, 137–72. 11 Hor. Carm. 1.1; Sen. Ep. 86.6–7. 12 Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Social Structure of the Roman House’, 47–8, noting the limitations of this model. 13 Diog. Laert. 6.72. The Magi forbade the wearing of personal ornaments (prokosme-mata): ibid. 1.7. 14 Cf. T. Aelius Alcibiades of Nysa, honoured at Ephesus as ‘adorned (kekosme-menos) with all virtue’: IEph 1a.22.10–11. 15 Cf. Apul. Flor. 23. 16 E. C. Evans, ‘The Study of Physiognomy in the Second Century A.D.’, TAPA 72 (1941), 96–108; Gleason, Making Men, 76–81. 17 Polemo, in Förster (ed.), Scriptores physiognomici (Leipzig, 1893), 1, lxxvi–lxxviii); [Arist.] 814a. 18 W. Deonna, ‘Ex-voto Déliens’, BCH 56 (1932), 410–90. 19 e.g. CIL 3.2833, 9786, 14998, 15005; 13.5209 (the tomb of a legionary structor). Cf. AE 1954.119 = A. Betz, ‘Aus dem Museum Carnuntinum’, ÖJh 40, Beibl. (1953), 207–12. 20 CIL 6.33930 = ICUR 8.21201 (with ﬁg.); M. Armellini, Il cimiterio di S. Agnese (Rome, 1880), 219, pl. xv.7. For a similarly propaideutic use of builder’s tools, compare Gori, Inscr. etr., iii. 357 no. 32 (Florence). Against the tendency to see reliefs of architectural tools as always a sign of the deceased’s profession, see Deonna, ‘Ex-voto Déliens’, 456.

notes (pp. 71–7) e.g. Espériandieu, Recueil général, vii. 357, no. 5858; x, 48, ﬁg. (Mainz). MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, i. 46, pls. 35–6; J. J. Deiss, Herculaneum: A City Returns to the Sun (New York, 1968), 118–19, with ﬁg. opposite 117. 23 PIR 2 N 129; for the hypothesis and internal connection between the house and the baths, see Deiss, Herculaneum, 44–5, 118. 24 For these officials—2 duoviri ‘for general politics and jurisdiction’, 2 aediles ‘for internal administration’, and 2 quaestores for ﬁnance—see H. Galsterer, ‘Local and Provincial Institutions and Government’, in CAH 2 xi, 344–60, at 350. 25 P. Garnsey, ‘Honorarium decurionatus’, Historia, 20 (1971), 309–25; C. Briand-Ponsart, ‘Summa honoraria et ressources des cités d’Afrique’, in Il Capitolo delle Entrate nelle ﬁnanze municipali in occidente ed in oriente. Actes de la X e rencontre franco-italienne sur l’épigraphie du monde romain, Rome, 27–29 mai 1996, Collection de l’École Française de Rome, 256 (Rome, 1999), 217–34. 26 Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 101–56. 27 Dig. 50.10.2.pr. For public buildings as personal monumenta, see further Ch. 10 below. 28 Ibid. 50.10.3 pr. 29 Ibid. 12.1.6.7; cf. G. W. Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford, 1969), 34; Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 207. 30 H. Jouffroy, La Construction publique en Italie et dans l’Afrique romaine (Strasbourg, 1986), 201–37 gives a helpful survey of public building in Africa under the Antonines, though incomplete and not always reliable. 31 M. Khanoussi, ‘Thugga: epigraphie et constructions publiques’, in M. Khanoussi and L. Maurin (eds.), Dougga (Thugga): études epigraphiques (Paris, 1997), 117–25, at 117. For public buildings expressing the aspirations of a community, see below, Chs. 6–7. 32 CIL 8.26467–9. V. Brouquier-Redde and S. Saint-Amans, ‘Epigraphie et architecture réligieuse de Dougga: l’exemple des templa Concordiae, Frugiferi, Liberi Patris, Neptuni ’, in Dougga: études epigraphiques, 175–99 identify the templa Concordiae with the theatre-temple complex in the SE quarter. 33 The forum was paved towards the end of Tiberius’ reign by L. Postumius Chius (ILAfr 558; cf. ILTun 1498), but must have originated earlier and perhaps lay on the site of an earlier Numidian market-place. 34 CIL 8.26524 = ILAfr 521. 35 Joseph. BJ 5.4.4 (hatlarsa d’ qoua ljei se dojx&m ja kalpq sgsi pqojorlgla*sxm). 36 R. P. Duncan-Jones, ‘Equestrian Rank in the Cities of the African Provinces under the Principate: An Epigraphic Survey’, PBSR 35 (1967), 147–88, at 173, 184, no. 102. 37 For porticus in summa gradatione, Vitr. De Arch. 5.6.4 (then with a ﬂat entablature). 38 CIL 8.26527–8. The letters are 1 Roman foot high, as in other imperial works, e.g. the Temple of Mars Ultor, Rome. 39 CIL 8.15513–14. 40 See below, n. 67. 41 CIL 8.26482–6. If, as the form of the patron’s name makes possible, he was a descendant of Gabinius Felix, subsequently adopted by the Pacuvii, the family competition through architecture was continued. 42 CIL 8.22698 = ILBardo 5, with photo; 22699 = ILAfr 16; 22736; cf. Duncan-Jones, ‘Equestrian Rank’, 179, no. 178; H.-G. Pﬂaum, ‘Les Juges des cinq décuries originaires d’Afrique romaine’, Ant. af. 2 (1968), 153–95, at 162–3, no. 11, M. G. Jarrett, ‘A Study of the Municipal Aristocracies of the Roman Empire in the West, with Special Reference to North Africa’, Ph.D thesis, Durham (1958), 86–8; M. Corbier, ‘Les Familles clarissimes d’Afrique Proconsulaire (Ier–IIIe siècle)’, in Epigraﬁa e ordine senatorio, ii, Tituli, 5 (Rome, 1982), 685–754, at 718. 43 Temple of Concordia Panthea by M. Ummidius Sedatus: CIL 8.22693 = ILTun 19 = ILBardo 3, with photo. Temple of Apollo, dedicated 162 by M. Ummidius Annianus Quadratus: CIL 8.22691 = ILBardo 1, with photo. 44 CIL 12.1357 (praefectus of the Iulienses); C. Goudineau and Y. de Kisch, Vaison-laRomaine (Paris, 1991), 48 with photo and date of c.80 or later. Possibly identiﬁed with the ‘Thermes du Nord’, which was decorated with imported marbles from Africa, Greece, Italy, and the Pyrenees: ibid. 101–5. 45 CIL 12.1357 (portico); 1375 (proscaenium: aedilis of the Vocontii and twice praefectus of the Vasienses). 46 J. Sautel, Vaison dans l’antiquité, i. Histoire et Description de la cité. Supplement: Travaux et Recherches de 1927 à 1940 (Avignon, 1941), 42, compares the theatre at Corinth. 47 A. di Vita, ‘L’iscrizione sulla frontescena del teatro di Leptis Magna’, Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosoﬁa dell’ Università di Macerata, 22/3 (1989/90), 827–32. For the building in general, see G. Caputo, Il teatro augusteo di Leptis Magna, Monograﬁe di archeologia libica, 3 (Rome, 1987). 48 AE 1932.68; L. Morpurgo, ‘Nemi. Teatro ed altri ediﬁci romani in contrada “La Valle” ’, Not. Scav.6 7 (1931), 237–305, at 292; R. Hanslik, ‘Volusius (21)’, in RE, Suppl. ix (Stuttgart, 1962), 1864. 49 G. Caputo, Il teatro di Sabratha e l’architettura teatrale Africana, Monograﬁe di archeologia libica, 6 (Rome, 1959), 29–32, pl. 61. 50 CIL 13.4132, dedicated by L. Ammius Gamburio. Similar monuments for later emperors were erected here in 245 (CIL 13.4131) and 253 (H. Nesselhauf and H. Lieb, ‘Dritter Nachtrag zu CIL. XIII. Inschriften aus den germanischen Provinzen und dem Treverergebiet’, BRGK 40 (1959) [1960], 120–229, at 125–6, no. 8). 51 Sext. Fadius Secundus Musa: M. Gayraud, ‘Temple municipal et temple provincial du culte impérial à Narbonne’, in Omaggio a Fernand Benoît (above, Ch. 2, n. 171), iii. 304–16. 21 22

293

52 CIL 13.1805; for the date and interpretation of the nature of the benefaction, J. Humphrey, Roman Circuses: Arenas for Chariot Racing (London, 1986), 398–9, with photo of inscription, ﬁg. 186. 53 CIL 8.26549–50; Humphrey, Roman Circuses, 322, 325–7, with ﬁgs. 54 G. di Vita-Evrard, ‘Les Dédicaces de l’amphithéâtre et du cirque de Lepcis’, Libya Antiqua, 2 (1965), 33–7; Humphrey, Roman Circuses, 52. 55 Cf. inscriptions: Woolf, ‘Monumental Writing’, 38. 56 A. Abramenko, Die munizipale Mittelschicht im kaiserzeitlichen Italien. Zu einem neuen Verständnis von Sevirat und Augustalität, European University Studies, series 3: History and Allied Studies, 547 (Frankfurt-am-Main, Berlin, and Bern, 1993), 144–53 and 165, comparing the meagre donations in N Italy, where augustales were mostly freeborn, with more substantial ones in central and S Italy, where more were freedmen. Bridge: Not. Scav. (1921), 70 (Cereatae, cost 2,000 HS); awnings: CIL 10.1217 (Abella, cost 10,000 HS); street paving: CIL 9.2476 (Saepinum); tribunal: AE 1981.269 (Sipontum); podium: AE 1969/70.165 (Vibinum). 57 CIL 11. 4582. 58 CIL 5.781 (Aquileia), 9.1618 (Beneventum), 14.404 (Ostia). For a portico costing 4,000 HS, R. P. Duncan-Jones, The Economy of the Roman Empire: Quantitative Studies 2 (Cambridge, 1982), 161, no. 486. 59 CIL 9.2475. 60 CIL 10.1887, 1891. 61 CIL 11.1062. Cf. Agrippa’s monumentalization of Rome: Frontin. Aq. 1.10. 62 Plin. HN 36; Strabo 12.8.14 (poluteleia); Sen. Ep. 86.6–7 (eo deliciarum pervenimus). 63 J. C. Fant, ‘The Roman Emperors in the Marble Business: Capitalists, Middlemen or Philanthropists?’, in N. Herz and M. Waelkens (eds.), Classical Marble: Geochemistry, Technology, Trade (Dordrecht, Boston, and London, 1988), 147–58. 64 J. B. Ward-Perkins†, ‘Nicomedia and the Marble Trade’, PBSR 48 (1980), 23–69, reprinted in id., Marble in Antiquity, ed. H. Dodge and B. Ward-Perkins (London, 1992), 61–105. 65 For particular regions in the East, see M. Fischer, ‘Marble, Urbanism and Ideology in Roman Palestine’, in A. Raban and K. Holum (eds.), Caesarea Maritima: A Retrospective after Two Millennia (Leiden, 1996), 251–61; Barresi, Province dell’Asia Minore, passim. 66 Suet. Aug. 28.3; Paus. 1.42.5. 67 Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 244–53; C. Albo, ‘Il Capitolium di Ostia. Alcune considerazioni sulla tecnica edilizia ed ipotesi ricostruttiva’, MEFRA 114 (2002), 363–90. The height was c.70 ft. high from the podium base to the apex of the pediment, raising it above surrounding houses of up to 50 ft. high: R. Meiggs, Roman Ostia 2 (Oxford, 1973), 241. 68 G. A. Guattani, Monumenti antichi inediti, ovvero Notizie sulle antichità e belle arti di Roma (Rome, 1805), pp. cv–cxi; Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 73; Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 251. For the export of marble from Teos to Italy, see J. C. Fant, ‘Poikiloi lithoi : The Anomalous Economics of the Roman Imperial Marble Quarry at Teos’, in S. Walker and A. Cameron (eds.), The Greek Renaissance in the Roman Empire: Papers from the Tenth British Museum Classical Colloqium (London, 1989), 206–17. 69 Leach, ‘The Gatekeepers of Heaven’, 256. 70 P. Barresi, ‘Il ruolo delle colonne nel costo degli ediﬁci pubblici’, in M. De Nuccio and L. Ungaro (eds.), I marmi colorati delle Roma imperiale (Venice, 2002), 68–81. 71 CIL 10.3817. Cf. IRT 533 (Lepcis Magna, fountain basin decorated with marbles, columns, and Cupids, probably after 144); ILS 886 (above, Introduction, n. 65). 72 Gell. NA 19.10.2. The proposed cost, between 300,000 and 350,000 HS, suggests a public building; cf. baths at Corﬁnium (352,000 HS in 122–50: CIL 9.3152–3 = ILS 5676) and Tarquinii (next note). The ﬁgure of 300,000 HS left by Fl. Catullus for baths at Epamanduodurum in Upper Germany (CIL 13.5416–17) is better understood as meant for construction (e.g. [ad aediﬁca]ndum balineum), rather than decoration as the usual reading ([ad marmora]ndum balineum) suggests. 73 CIL 11.3366 (cost over 350,000 HS). It is simplest to identify Varro with the consul of 127 and Tuscus with the consul of 152: Fagan, Bathing in Public, 292–3, no. 176. For Pius’ baths, see above, Ch. 2. 74 CIL 5.6513; Fagan, Bathing in Public, 257–8, no. 84. For his career and inﬂuence, see S. Frere, Britannia 3 (London, 1987), 187. Baths were also erected by local ﬂamines at Aubuzza in Pius’ reign (CIL 8.16368) and at Corﬁnium in 180 or later (Suppl. Ital. 3 (1987), 144–5 no. 8). 75 H.-G. Pﬂaum, Les Carrières procuratoriennes équestres sous le haut-empire romain (Paris, 1960–1), i, no. 105 bis; A. Donati, ‘Ricerche su M. Gavio Massimo’, RSA 1 (1971), 127–44. From an old Republican family at Firmum Picenum; cf. CIL 9.5358–60. On his office, Millar, Emperor, 123–31. 76 SHA, Ant. Pius 8. 7 (vir severissimus); Fronto, Ep. ad Ant. Pium 4. 2, ed. van den Hout (1988), 164 (clarissimum et nobis observandum virum). 77 Millar, Emperor, 94–7. 78 A. Passerini, Le coorti pretorie (Rome, 1939), 300. 79 CIL 14.39 (1,000,000 HS); see above, Ch. 2. 80 Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 411–15; P. Cicerchia and A. Marinucci, Scavi di Ostia, xi. Le Terme del Foro o di Gavio Massimo (Rome, 1992), 22; Fagan, Bathing in Public, 239; Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 253–67. Brickstamps, mostly from features laid at an early stage, e.g. hypocausts, drains, and pavements, suggest a date c.157 (Cicerchia and Marinucci, Scavi di Ostia, 217–18). Gavius Maximus’ name appeared on the lead waterpipes supplying the baths (ibid. C 109); the baths were still named after him when restored in 385/9: AE 1955.287.

294

notes (pp. 77–83)

81 AE 1955.176; 1971.65; cf. R. Mar, ‘La formazione dello spazio urbano nella città di Ostia’, MDAI(R) 98 (1991), 81–109, at 97–103, esp. 103. 82 For Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 76 and 144, these curvilinear forms ‘strike a new note’, in contrast to earlier rectilinear planning. 83 P. Pensabene, Scavi di Ostia, vii. I capitelli (Rome, 1973), 94 nos. 332–4, pls. xxxi–xxxiii. Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 265, notes that, while the marble is of Attic origin, the style of the capitals is of Asiatic type, implying a link with imperially owned workshops, and (at 261) observes the contrast in the frigidarium of columns and capitals of Attic workmanship with entablatures in Proconnesian marble of western, ‘metropolitan’ style. 84 Cicerchia and Marinucci, Le Terme del Foro, 155 no. A 26 (Inv. 48), ﬁg. 86. Ht. 28.7 cm. Although the identiﬁcation has been doubted, the Antonine date is suggested by the pointed form of the eyebrows, the summary working of the hair, and the treatment of the ears. 85 P. Lambrechts, La Composition du sénat romain: de l’accession au trône d’Hadrien à la mort de Commode (117–192) (Antwerp, 1936), 102, no. 551. An imperial brickstamp from Firmum (CIL 9.6078a) may reﬂect Gavius’ inﬂuence: Horster, Bauinschriften römischer Kaiser, 305–6; but cf. also imperial work there (CIL 9.5333). 86 CIL 14.376 = Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 558, no. 2, with 493–501; Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 303–7. 87 Pensabene, ‘Committenza edilizia a Ostia’, 308–9. 88 G. Bordenache, ‘Attività edilizia a Tomi nel II secolo dell’e.n.’, Dacia, NS 4 (1960), 255–72, at 266–7: Q. Fuﬁcius Cornutus (156/7); M. Servilius Fabianus (161/2). 89 Africa: Y. Le Bohec, ‘L’Armée et l’organisation de l’espace urbain dans l’Afrique romaine du Haut-Empire’, L’Africa Romana, 11 (Ozieri, 1996), iii. 1391–401; Britain: G. R. Stephens, ‘Military Aqueducts in Roman Britain’, Arch. Journ. 142 (1985), 216–36; T. F. C. Blagg, ‘Architectural Muniﬁcence in Britain: The Evidence of Inscriptions’, Britannia, 21 (1990), 13–31. 90 P. Barker et al., The Baths Basilica Wroxeter: Excavations 1966–90, English Heritage Archaeological Report, 8 (London, 1997), 49–52, 221–3; the date is established by a thorough study of the ceramics. 91 A. Schulten, ‘Archä ologische Funde im Jahre 1905: Nordafrika’, Arch. Anz. (1906), 143–68, at 157–8 ﬁg. 7; generally dated to the Severan period (Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 384; Jouffroy, Construction publique, 273 (‘Thermes de la Rotonde’); F. K. Yegül, Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity (New York and London, 1992), 246–7), but the excavations were unreliable (J. Thirion, ‘Un ensemble thermal avec mosaiques a Thina (Tunisie)’, MÉFRA 69 (1957), 207–45, at 208), so the building might have been erected at any time after the city’s elevation to colonial status under Hadrian. 92 e.g. CIL 3.1006: on completing a bath at Apulum, the senator P. Aelius Gemellus, presumably serving with the army (PIR 2 A 180), made a dedication to Fortune. 93 M. Millett, The Romanization of Britain: An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation (Cambridge, 1990), 78–85; Blagg, ‘Architectural Muniﬁcence in Britain’, above (n.89); cf. Barker, Baths Basilica, 222. 94 C. S. Sommer, ‘Die städtischen Siedlungen im rechtsrheinischen Obergermanien’, in Schalles et al. (eds.), Die römische Stadt, 119–41, at 130; cf. Hesberg and Schalles, ‘Ausblick’, in ibid. 395. 95 Harris, Building Lives, 13; cf. Hadrianic Baths at Lepcis (above, Ch. 2, n. 215). 96 R. P. Duncan-Jones, ‘The Impact of the Antonine Plague’, JRA 9 (1996), 108–36. 97 For a similar interpretation of the ‘epigraphic habit’, see Woolf, ‘Monumental Writing’, 31. 98 S. Gsell and J. Carcopino, ‘La Base de M. Sulpicius Felix et le décret des décurions de Sala’, MÉFRA 48 (1931), 1–39, at 15–17: maximo murorum opere minimo sum(p)tu. 99 See above, Ch. 2. 100 M. Janon, ‘Le Temple d’Esculape’, Archeologia, 201 (Apr. 1985), 42–9; id., ‘Recherches à Lambèse III: essais sur le Temple d’Esculape’, Ant. af. 21 (1985), 35–102. 101 S. Agusta-Boularot, M. Janon, and J.-M. Gassend, ‘In Lambaesem deﬂuxit Nilus’, in Théorie et pratique de l’architecture romaine (above, Ch. 2, n. 112), 117–31; for the ‘African’ identity of the Septizodium, see E. V. Thomas, ‘Metaphor and Identity in Severan Architecture: The Septizodium between Reality and Fantasy’, in J. Elsner, S. J. Harrison, and S. C. R. Swain (eds.), Severan Architecture: Festschrift for Ewen Bowie (Cambridge, 2007, 323‒63). 102 Plin. Ep. 2.17. 4 on the festiva area enclosed by a D-shaped portico at his Laurentine villa. Cf. Janon, ‘Recherches à Lambèse III’, 84–102. A similar façade at Anguillara Sabazia, usually identiﬁed as belonging to a villa (R. Vighi, ‘Architettura curvilinea romana. La villa ad esedra dell’ Acqua Claudia’, Palladio, 5 (1941), 145–60; M. Zarmakoupi, ‘Villa Anguillara Sabazia’, in B. S. Frizell and A. Klynne (eds.), Roman Villas Around the Urbs: Interaction with Landscape and Environment. Proceedings of a Conference at the Swedish Institute in Rome, September 17–18, 2004 (Rome, 2005), 151–8), might rather have been part of a water sanctuary, near the source of the Aqua Alsietina, like that at Zaghouane at the source of the aqueduct for Carthage (rebuilt under Hadrian and perhaps completed under Antoninus Pius: F. Rakob, ‘Das Quellenheiligtum in Zaghouan und die römische Wasserleitung nach Karthago’, MDAI(R) 81 (1974), 41–89). 103 CIL 8.2579, in the order b, a, c, seen from left to right. 104 See above, Ch. 2; cf. Horster, Bauinschriften römischer Kaiser, 39–40, 424–5. 105 The sanctuary is dated by brickstamps from 123 onwards: Le Bohec, ‘L’Armée’, 1399; for such stamps and the difficulty of interpretation, see Horster, Bauinschriften römischer Kaiser, 117–20. 106 CIL 8.2653 = ILS 3282. 107 Already cos. desig. in 161 (cf. BAC (1932/3), 432), he was appointed suffect consul for the

ﬁrst half of 162, though absent from Rome: Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 176–7, 248, 276. 108 CIL 8. 2579d–e. 109 Ibid. 2580, in smaller letters than the main dedication. 110 Ibid. 2581. 111 For the date, G. Wilmanns, ad loc. (CIL 8, p. 304). Cf. P. J. E. Davies, ‘What Worse Than Nero, What Better than His Baths? Damnatio memoriae and Roman Architecture’, in E. R. Varner (ed.), From Caligula to Constantine: Tyranny and Transformation in Roman Portraiture (Atlanta, Ga., 2000), 27–44. 112 CIL 8. 2583; cf. 2697, not necessarily the same man; also 2582, statue-base of the military governor and consul designate [A.] Iulius Pompilius A. f. (tribu Cornelia) Piso T. Vib[ius——Laevillus] Berenicianus, Xvir stlitibus iudicandis. 113 CIL 8.2591. 114 AE 1967.571, credited to a legate, of whose name only the gentilicium Pontius is preserved. The date could be any year between 202 and 211: B. E. Thomasson, Senatorische und ritterliche Amtsträger in den römischen Provinzen Nordafrikas von Augustus bis Diokletian (Stockholm, 1996), 179, no. 54. 115 CIL 8.2585. 116 An inscribed door-jamb (ibid. 2586) of the 220s, lists offerings by cornicularii, commentarienses, speculatores, beneﬁciarii consularis, quaestionarii, beneﬁciarii tribuni sexmestris, and a haruspex; cf. 2750, 2742. The temple contained altars to Jupiter Depulsor and the genius loci (2621, dedicated by the governor M. Valerianus Maximianus under Commodus), and by later governors to Aesculapius and Hygia, the diis bonis Pelusii (2588–90), Jupiter (2614–15), Medaurus (2642, 2581), Mercury (2643), Silvanus (2672–4), and other gods (2678). 117 Esp. prytaneis, grammateis, gymnasiarchs, stephanephoroi, agoranomoi: F. Quass, Die Honoratorienschicht in den Städten des griechischen Ostens: Untersuchungen zur politischen und sozialen Entwicklung in hellenistischer und römischer Zeit (Stuttgart, 1993), 212; S. Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus für die Finanzierung städtischer Aufgaben in der Provinz Asia’, Ph.D thesis, Cologne (2001). For an official called time-te-s (Roman censor) building a plateia, see IGRom. 3.60 = I Prusias ad Hypium 9. 118 For the economic basis of senatorial wealth in Asia, see Halfmann, Senatoren, 52–70. 119 Plut. Mor. 470c. Cf. Halfmann, Senatoren, 18, 26–7; Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 212–13. 120 e.g. at Ephesus the prytanis Hieron Aristogeiton ‘built the vault from his own money and dedicated it to the demos’ (IEph 4.2033) and at Antalya (Iulius Sanctus). 121 IEph 3.661. 122 P. Zanker, Pompeji. Stadtbilder als Spiegel von Gesellschaft und Herrschaftsform (Mainz, 1988), 31–2. 123 ISmyrna 697.40–2. Cf. Robert, Opera Minora Selecta, vii. 79–128. 124 Halfmann, Senatoren, no. 89. For the council chamber (bouleuterion), see below, Ch. 7. 125 Paus. 2.27.6. That the senator Antoninus, rather than the emperor Antoninus Pius, is meant was shown by H. Comfort, ‘The Date of Pausanias, Book II’, AJArch. 35 (1931), 310–18. For inscriptions from the site on his buildings and in his honour, cf. IG 42.1.454, 514, 715/6. 126 e.g. IG 42. 1. 715/6 (Epidaurus). Pace R. Ginouvès, Le Théâtron à gradins droits et l’odéon d’Argos (Paris, 1972), 217. S. Walker, ‘Roman Nymphaea in the Greek World’, in Macready and Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World, 60–71 suggests (at 69) that, as most bricks ﬁred in Roman Greece were for local use, ‘there was no need to advertise their origin and quality’. But the purpose of brickstamps was linked to production and distribution from the workshop: J. P. Bodel, Roman Brick Stamps in the Kelsey Museum (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1983), 1–5. 127 IGRom. 3.664 = TAM 2.2.408 = CIG 4283 = Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, ii. 317, no. 621; for Vilius, cf. IGRom. 3.513 = TAM 2.2.667–8 and Halfmann, Senatoren, no. 91a. 128 TAM 2.2.409. For this family, see RE iii. 2900, no. 451; viii A 2, 2142.18–27 (R. Hanslik); PIR 2 C 1043 (Claudius Titianus); M.-T. Raepsaet-Charlier, Prosopographie des femmes de l’ordre sénatorial (I er–II e siècles) (Louvain, 1987), 230–1, no. 257 (Claudia Vilia Procula). 129 G. C. Izenour, Roofed Theaters of Classical Antiquity (New Haven and London, 1992). For the tabulae ansatae, cf. the distance slabs of the Antonine Wall (above, Ch. 2), and see Ch. 10, below, pp. 191–4. 130 TAM 2.2.419. 131 IGRom. 3.803 = CIL 3.231 (sons A. Curtius Crispinus Arruntianus and A. Curtius Auspicatus Titinnianus: PIR 2 C 1611, 1609a). Although the dedication to Domus Augustorum need not point to a date of 161/9 (E. Meyer, ‘Augusti’, Chiron, 5 (1975), 393– 402, at 400–1), a funerary altar from Praeneste dedicated by Crispinus for the doctor P. Aelius Pius (ILS 7788) may support a construction date in the 160s. 132 D. de Bernardi Ferrero, Teatri Classici in Asia Minore (Rome, 1970), iii. 161–74: ﬁgs. 182–3 and pl. xxxii (arcade); ﬁgs. 165–70, 189–90 (stage-building). 133 P. Graindor, Un milliardaire antique: Hérode Atticus et sa famille (Cairo, 1930), 179–230; W. Ameling, Herodes Atticus (Hildesheim and New York, 1989); J. Tobin, Herodes Attikos and the City of Athens: Patronage and Conﬂict Under the Antonines (Amsterdam, 1997). 134 Cf. F. G. B. Millar, ‘Introduction’, in Macready and Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World, pp.ix–xv, at xiii: ‘When a senator like Cassius Dio Cocceianus ﬁnally went home to Nicaea in Bithynia, in A.D. 229, after an adult lifetime spent largely in Rome or at his villa in Capua, did he bring any ideas about architecture with him?’ 135 G. Ghini, ‘La Villa dei Quintilii a Monteporzio’, Arch. Laz. 8 (1987), 227–34: 3 lead

notes (pp. 83–91) pipes dated to 151. For Herodes’ rivalry with the Quintilii, Philostr. VS 2.1, 559. 136 Philostr. VS 2.1, 551; cf. Plin. HN 13.53. 137 W. Dittenberger, ‘Inschriften aus Olympia’, Archäologische Zeitung, 34 (1876) [1877], 47–59, at 59, no. 15, inscribed Attikou He-ro-dou. 138 R. Bol, Das Statuenprogramm des Herodes-Atticus-Nymphäums, Olympia Forschungen, 15 (Berlin, 1985). For the date (c.157–61), see S. Settis, ‘Il ninfeo di Erode Attico a Olimpia e il problema della composizione della Periegesi di Pausania’, ASNP 2 37 (1968), 1–63. 139 e.g. Roman baths at Argos, supplied by ‘water brought down from above’: BCH 102 (1978), 784 E 92, 782, ﬁg. 19. Walker, ‘Roman Nymphaea in the Greek World’, 64, calls this ‘arch Antonine language’, but a 3rd-cent. BC parallel is the dedication at Sparta in honour of a magistrate who ‘brought down the water’: W. Peek, ‘Artemis Eulakia’, in Mélanges helléniques offerts à Georges Daux (Paris, 1974), 295–302. 140 For similar bronze votive cows from Argos, cf. GIBM 4.948 (3.25 in. long, inscribed Lakos anetheke Herai ) and C. Waldstein, The Argive Heraeum (Boston, 1902–5), pl. lxxv. 141 G. W. Elderkin, ‘The Natural and the Artiﬁcial Grotto’, Hesperia, 10 (1941), 125–37, at 132–5. For the ritual signiﬁcance of Graeco-Roman nymphaea, see S. Settis, ‘Ninfei romani e ninfei greci’, RFIC 96 (1988), 111–20, at 116. For Peregrinus’ response to the fountain, see below, Ch. 11. 142 A. Mallwitz, ‘Homonoias athanatou pule’, MDAI(A) 79 (1964), 157–64, pl. 3. 143 Esp. c.149–52: Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 114–17. 144 Epict. Diss. 2.15.8–9, ed. Schenkl, 151. Cf. Vielhauer, Oikodome, 25–6. For oikodome-mation, cf. Cic. Q fr. 3.1.6? (aediﬁcatiuncula), and Appendix 2. 145 kte-seidion: Epict. Diss. 1.1.10, ed. Schenkl; cf. 1.2.37, 19.4; cf. Hahn, Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft, 79. 146 M. Aur. Med. 3.11 (paraste-mata), 9.3.2 (parape-gmata), with A. S. L. Farquharson, The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Antoninus (Oxford, 1944), note on 3.11. For the speciﬁc reference of this metaphor, see Rodríguez-Almeida, ‘Marziale in marmo’, 213–17, ﬁg. 9, and Fig. 13 in Ch. 1, above. 147 Philostr. VS 2.23, 606. 148 Ibid. 1.25, 531; see below, Ch. 7. 149 Ibid. 1.19, 511 (lamproteras). 150 Ibid. 2.4. Antiochus also wrote a work entitled Agora (Phrynichus (ed. Lobeck), 196) and, like the emperor Hadrian, was a pupil of the sophist Dionysius of Miletus. I. Avotins, ‘Prosopographical and Chronological Notes on Some Greek Sophists of the Empire’, CSCA 4 (1971), 67–71. 151 C. Habicht, ‘Zwei neue Inschriften aus Pergamon’, MDAI (I) 9–10 (1959–60), 109–27, and Die Inschriften des Asclepieions, 142, no. 141; Andrei, A. Claudius Charax di Pergamo (above, Ch. 3, n. 26). For the Asclepieion, see below, Ch. 5. 152 Philostr. VS 2.23, 605. J. Keil, Ephesos: ein Führer durch die Ruinenstätte und ihre Geschichte 2 (Vienna, 1930), 143; Bowersock, Greek Sophists, 28. For a reconstructed view, see Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 106, ﬁg. 19. 153 IGRom. 3.739, cap. 63, xviii.60–xix.30 = Abbott-Johnson, no. 87; R. Heberdey, Opramoas. Inschriften vom Heroon zu Rhodiapolis (Vienna, 1897); E. Löwy, in Petersen and F. von Luschan, Reisen im südwestlichen Kleinasien, ii. Reisen in Lykien, Milyas und Kibyratis (Vienna, 1889), 76–103; E. Frézouls, ‘Les Ressources de l’evergétisme: le cas d’Opramoas de Rhodiapolis’, in P. Leveau (ed.), L’Origine des richesses dépensées dans la ville antique: actes du colloque organisé à Aix-en-Provence par l’U.E.R. d’Histoire, les 11 et 12 mai 1984 (Aix-enProvence and Marseilles, 1985), 249–54; Balland, Inscriptions d’époque impériale du Létôon (above, Ch. 2, n. 95); M. Wörrle, in Götter, Heroen, Herrscher in Lykien (Vienna, 1990), 93, ﬁg. 45. 154 IGRom. 3.739, i. 68–70; cf. Arist. Eth. Nic. 1.4, 1122a34–5. For the distinction between reconstruction and embellishment, cf. Paus. 1.5.5 on the temples built by Hadrian in Athens. 155 J. J. Coulton, ‘Opramoas and the Anonymous Benefactor’, JHS 107 (1987), 171–8. 156 Dio Chrys. Or. 40. 7; C. P. Jones, The Roman World of Dio Chrysostom (Cambridge, Mass., 1978), 112. 157 Plut. Prae. Ger. Reip. 811b–c. 158 Cic. Mil. 74. 159 e.g. Antioch in Pisidia, where a magistrate used a harvest surplus to erect a wooden amphitheatre: AE 1926.78; S. Mitchell and M. Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch: The Site and its Monuments (London, 1998), 224–5 no. 7 (1st cent.). 160 For a survey of urban architecture in this region, see Segal, From Function to Monument. 161 C. H. Kraeling, Gerasa, City of the Decapolis: An Account Embodying the Record of a Joint Excavation Conducted by Yale University and the British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem (1928–1930), and Yale University and the American Schools of Oriental Research (1930–1931, 1933–1934) (New Haven, 1938), 402–3, no. 60; I. Browning, Jerash and the Decapolis (London, 1982), 153–9. 162 Kraeling, Gerasa, 405, no. 65; remains: Browning, Jerash, 175. 163 Kraeling, Gerasa, 406–7, no. 69 (dated to 191); Browning, Jerash, 143–7, noting the use of cipollino marble for the lower walls and niches. Cf. the nymphaeum at Beth Shean: Segal, From Function to Monument, 153–68. 164 Hierapolis di Frigia 1957–1987 ([Milan], 1987), 62–3. 165 Ibid. 53–8. 166 Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’. 167 Hierapolis, 38–48 (and cover photo). 168 W. M. Ramsay, The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia: Being an Essay of the Local History

295

of Phrygia from the Earliest Times to the Turkish Conquest (Oxford, 1895–97; repr. New York, 1975), 37, 166–7. See above, Ch. 3. 169 CIG 2782.30–2 = Laum, Stiftungen, ii, no. 108. 170 PIR 2 C 433. For the uncertain identiﬁcation, see ibid. 443; Halfmann, Senatoren, no. 144A; A. Stein, Der römische Ritterstand: ein Beitrag zur Sozial-und Personengeschichte des römischen Reiches, Münchener Beiträge zur Papyrusforschung und antiken Rechtsgeschichte, 10 (Munich, 1927), 315, 400; J. Deininger, Die Provinziallandtage der römischen Kaiserzeit: von Augustus bis zum Ende des dritten Jahrhunderts n. Chr., Vestigia, 6 (Munich, 1965), 51. 171 He was probably the father of a ‘[M. Ulp. Car]minius [Claudianus ne]oteros’ honoured at Aphrodisias or Attouda: M. Clerc, ‘Inscriptions de la Vallée du Méandre’, BCH 11 (1887), 346–54, at 348, no. 5. 172 A. D. Macro, ‘A Conﬁrmed Asiarch’, AJPhil. 100 (1979), 94–8, at 98, with improbable emendation of the text. 173 Ramsay, Cities and Bishoprics, 166. 174 C. P. Jones, ‘Greek Drama in the Roman Empire’, in R. Scodel (ed.), Theater and Society in the Classical World (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1993), 39–52. 175 T. Wiegand, ‘Dritter vorläuﬁger Bericht über die von den Königlichen Museen begonnenen Ausgrabungen in Milet’, Sitzungsberichte der königlich preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 3 (1904), 72–91, esp. 78–9, ﬁg. 4. For the new stage-building, E. Altenhöfer, ‘Das erste Bühnengebäude des Theaters von Milet’, in W. Müller-Wiener (ed.), Milet 1899–1980. Ergebnisse, Probleme und Perspektiven einer Ausgrabung. Kolloquium Frankfurt am Main 1980 (Tübingen, 1986), 165–73, and, for the porticus post scaenam, id., ‘Die Theaterhalle von Milet’, in Mélanges Mansel (Ankara, 1974), i. 607–18. 176 Wiegand, ‘Dritter vorläuﬁger Bericht’, 83. W. H. Buckler, ‘Labour Disputes in the Province of Asia’, in W. H. Buckler and W. M. Calder (eds.), Anatolian Studies Presented to Sir William Mitchell Ramsay (Manchester, 1923), 27–50, esp. 34–6. 177 For the name, cf. CIG 2.2842. 178 Cf. ergodotei (l. 4), of distributing tasks to a team: H. Cuvigny, ‘Inscription inédite d’ un ergodotes dans une carrière du Mons Claudianus’, in C. Décobert (ed.), Itinéraires d’Égypte. Mélanges offerts au père M. Martin (Cairo, 1992), 73–88, at 80. 179 The term perieilein refers to spanning an arch and tetraeta to a cross-vault with four triangular surfaces. 180 It was found in situ, ‘on a limestone block at the entrance to the upper ambulatory, on the south side of the uppermost steps of the western section of the cavea’. Size: 60 cm. high, 78 cm. wide. T. Wiegand, ‘Dritter vorläuﬁger Bericht über die Ausgrabungen der Königlichen Museen zu Milet’, Arch. Anz . (1904), 2–10, at 8. 181 M. Beard, ‘Looking (Harder) for Roman Myth: Dumézil, Declamation and the Problems of Deﬁnition’, in F. Graf (ed.), Mythos in mythenloser Gesellschaft: das Paradigma Roms (Stuttgart, 1993), 44–64, at 63.

Notes to Chapter 5 1 Cf. Gal. In Hippocratis librum vi epidemiarum commentarii vi, v. 512, in C. G. Kühn (ed.), Claudii Galeni Opera omnia, xvii.2 (Leipzig, 1829), 229; E. Wenkebach (ed.), Galeni in Hippocratis sextum librum epidemiarum commentaria i–vi, in Corpus medicorum Graecorum v.10.2.2 (Leipzig, 1940), 280. 2 Arist. Metaph. 1.1.11–12, 981a30–b6. 3 TAM 2.417 = CIG 4286 (idrin Athe-naie-s panto-n ergo-n) = Epigr. Gr. 412. Cf. ‘Dionysius (157)’, RE, v. 999. 4 Cf. The remarkable design by Valerius of Ostia for a roofed theatre for L. Scribonius Libo’s games at Rome in c.50 BC (Plin. HN 36.102). 5 IMylasa 468; the interpretation of J. Nollé, ‘Perikles von Mylasa, Architekt des Venusund-Roma-Tempels in Rom?’, Chiron, 25 (1995), 299–303, is preferable to that of W. Burkert, ‘Perikles von Mylasa, Architekt des Tempels der Venus und Roma’, in H. Froning, T. Hölscher, and H. Mielsch (eds.), Kotinos. Festschrift für Erika Simon (Mainz, 1992), 415–17. See also General Conclusion, below. 6 The best modern account is J. L. D. Pearse, ‘The Organization of Roman Building during the Late Republic and Early Empire’, Ph.D thesis, Cambridge (1974); for a broader coverage, see W. Müller, Architekten in der Welt der Antike (Zurich, 1989). M. Donderer, Die Architekten der späten römischen Republik und der Kaiserzeit. Epigraphische Zeugnisse, Erlanger Forschungen, A, Geisteswissenschaften, 69 (Erlangen, 1996) is a generally complete collection of epigraphic evidence, but inconsistent in its analysis; see the cautionary remarks of Eck, ‘Auf der Suche nach Architekten’. 7 Eck, ‘Auf der Suche nach Architekten’, 404. 8 Civic magistrates: e.g. Cleon at Sillyon; religious officials: e.g. C. Iulius Epagathus; ‘architect of the god’: Table 3, no. 12; city architect: ibid., no. 15. 9 e.g. at Grumentum (43 BC): CIL 10.8093 = ILS 5539 = Pearse, ‘Organization’, no. 27; perhaps also at Concordia (CIL 5.1886 = ILS 5378 = Pearse, no. 16) and Pompeii (CIL 10.807, 841). 10 Table 3, nos. 1, 16, 21, 26, 27 and 29; cf. M. Euzennat and G. Hallier, ‘Les Forums de Tingitane. Observations sur l’inﬂuence de l’architecture militaire sur les constructions civiles de l’Occident romain’, Ant. af. 22 (1986), 73–103. 11 me-chanikoi: Suet. Vesp. 44; Lucian, Hippias 1; geo-metrai: cf. Ael. Isidotus (this chapter, below); fabri: Gell. NA 19.10.1–4. 12 Cic. Off. 1.151.

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notes (pp. 91–4)

13 M. L. Clarke, ‘The Architects of Greece and Rome’, in Architectural History, 6 (1963), 9–22, at 10. 14 e.g. Rome and Italy in the Late Republic and Early Empire: Pearse, ‘Organization’, 188 gives 33 architects, of whom 10 were freeborn, 12 freedmen, and 3 slaves, but the 8 of uncertain status could tip the balance of this small sample either way. E.g. P. Aelius Funisulanus Tryphon, whose name has suggested a freed status to some (Donderer, Architekten, 72), may well have been freeborn. 15 W. L. MacDonald, ‘Roman Architects’, in S. Kostof (ed.), The Architect: Chapters in the History of the Profession (Oxford and New York, 1977), 28–58, at 37. 16 Cf. P Oxy. 412, ed. Vieillefond (1970), 291: the nobilis Julius Africanus on the Pantheon library in Rome (he-n autos e-rchitektone-sa to-i Sebasto-i: ‘which I designed myself for the Augustus [i.e. the emperor]’). But the verb normally implies the work of an architect: e.g. Bito, in Poliorcétique des Grecs: traités théoriques; récits historiques, ed. C. Wescher (Paris, 1867), 51–2; Vitr. De Arch. 1.1.12, 7 pr. 15; Nepos fr. 36 (ed. Malcovati). 17 Cf. C. Sevius Lupus (Table 2, no. 30), whose dedication after a vow at the ‘pharos’ of La Coruña may suggest that he had visited it to inspect its design; Eck, ‘Auf der Suche’, 403. 18 H. Diels, ‘Laterculi Alexandrini aus einem Papyrus ptolemäischer Zeit’, Abhandlungen der Königlich preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-hist. Kl. (1904), ii. 1–16. 19 Ibid. Architects: Cheirisophos (architect of the Artemision at Ephesus), Deinocrates (foundation of Alexandria), Pythius (Mausoleum at Halicarnassus); me-chanikoi: Epicrates (siege engines at Rhodes), Polyidus (at Byzantium and Rhodes), Harpalus (bridged Hellespont for Xerxes), Diades (served with Alexander). 20 Vitr. De Arch. 7 pr. 11–14; Varro’s ‘hebdomad’ of 7 great architects (preserved in Auson. Mos. 300–17) presumably came from his De Architectura. 21 D. G. Favro, ‘Was Man the Measure?’, in R. Ellis and D. Cuff (eds.), Architects’ People (Oxford and New York, 1989), 15–43, at 18. An exception, noted by Paus. 5.15.6, is the ‘Stoa of Agnaptus’ at Elis; not necessarily the same as the architect Agnamptus in the building accounts of the Asclepieion at Epidaurus, pace M. Mitsos, in Praktika tou A’ Sunedriou Êleiako-n Spoudo-n, Pyrgos 23–26 Noem. 1978 (Athens, 1980), 63–4. 22 Exceptions: Valerius of Ostia, theatre roof (above, n. 4); Polyclitus, theatre at Epidaurus (Paus. 2.27.5); Sostratus of Cnidus, Pharos of Alexandria (below, n. 30). 23 e.g. Zeno at Aspendus: CIG 3.4342d, carved on a small console from the theatre at Aspendus. 24 e.g. Pythius and Deinocrates under Alexander; Biton and Philo; Sostratus of Cnidus and Ptolemy Philadelphus. Cf. Vitr. De Arch. 7 pr. 15 (‘architecti Pisistrato’) and the me-chanikoi listed in the Ptolemaic catalogue (Diels, ‘Laterculi’, col. 8). 25 Nero and Severus and Celer: Tac. Ann. 15.42.1; Trajan and Apollodorus: Dio Cass. 69.4.1; architecti Augusti: CIL 6.8724 (= ILS 7733), 33763; AE 1953.57; CIL 10.1757 = ILS 2057 (military architects, from praetorian cohorts); Pearse, ‘Organization’, 59–60. 26 e.g. G. Molisani, ‘Lucius Cornelius Quinti Catuli Architectus’, Rend. Linc. 26 (1971–2), 41–9; ‘Corumbus Balbi’: Cic. Att. 14.3.1; Pliny and Mustius: see next note. 27 For such ‘patronal assertion’, e.g. Plin. Ep. 9.39.3; cf. Apollodorus and Hadrian: Dio Cass. 69.4. Cicero, though, shows deference to Kurou paideia (‘the education of Cyrus’) and respect for Corumbus’ reputation: Att. 2.3.2, 14.3.1. 28 e.g. CIL 3.6588 = ILS 5483a = OGIS 656 = IGRom. 1.1072, dedication of obelisk at Alexandria, 13/12 BC, architectante Pontio; cf. IG 10.2.31 (Thessalonica, temple of Divus Iulius); Table 2, no. 14. Houses: e.g. AE 1975.266 (Paestum); M. Pagano and J. Rougetet, ‘La casa del liberto P. Confuleius Sabbio a Capua e i suoi mosaici’, MÉFRA 99 (1987), 753–65, ﬁg. 8. 29 Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 62 (ton epi te-i Pharo-i purgon, megiston kai kalliston ergo-n hapanto-n, ‘the tower on Pharos, greatest and most beautiful of all works’). 30 So-stratos Dexiphanous Knidios Theois so-te-rsin huper to-n plo-izomeno-n; cf. Strab. 17.1.6 (C791): Sostratus, ‘friend of the kings’ (philos to-n basileo-n), ‘dedicated’ (anethe-ke) the work ‘for the safety of those who sail on the sea’ (te-s to-n plo-izomeno-n so-te-rias charin). 31 Vell. Pat. 1.11.3; Plin. HN 36.42. This story led some scholars to interpret the two tiny rings, or ‘eye-glasses’, between the dentils on Flavian entablatures in Rome, e.g. in the Domus Augustana, as a ‘signature’ of Rabirius (Bull. Com. Arch. (1918), 35–6). But see J. M. C. Toynbee, Some Notes on Artists in the Roman World (Brussels, 1975), 12, n.4. 32 CIL 8.2728. 33 Cf. CIL 6.1783 = ILS 2948 = AE 1971.24 (monumenta virtutum suorum), for Nicomachus Flavianus under Theodosius, erected in Trajan’s Forum at Rome. 34 For patientia as an aristocratic Roman virtue, cf. AE 1917/18.72, Lambaesis (cf. E. Schallmeyer, Der römische Weihebezirk von Osterburken, i (Stuttgart, 1990), 596, no. 768): insignis patientiae et admirabilis integritatis ac summorum virtutum M. Aurelio Cominio Cassiano leg. Aug[g] pr. pr ; AE. 1990.438 (C. Cassius Manilianus c.v., Lilybaeum). The other virtues might have been ‘diligence’ (diligentia), ‘toil’ (labor), and ‘reason’ (ratio). 35 P. Leveau, ‘Saldae,’ in Die Wasserversorgung antiker Städte: Mensch und Wasser, Mitteleuropa, Thermen, Bau/Materialien, Hygiene, ed. the Frontinus-Gesellschaft (Mainz, 1988), 215–18, showing the route of the aqueduct at 215, ﬁg. 1; cf. Mélix, Recueil de Constantine (1865), 23, pl. II. 36 Clemens: procurator of Mauretania Caesariensis in 151–2, he later became secretary (ab epistulis) to the emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, perhaps during the Parthian War of 165, and ended up a senator and member of the emperor’s council (consilium principis): Pﬂaum, Les Carrières procuratoriennes équestres, i. 368–73, no. 156, and Supplément (1982), 44, no. 156; AE 1971.534 (Tabula Banasitana). Etruscus: legate of the Legio III Augusta in 151–2, probably 150–3, and suffect consul in 154: Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 164–5.

37 Cf. the intervention of Roman technicians to complete an aqueduct at Nicomedia: Plin. Ep. 10.41–2, 61–2. 38 Stephens, ‘Military Aqueducts’ (above, Ch. 4, n. 89). 39 Hdt. 3.60. Archaeological evidence conﬁrms that this project too was begun simultaneously from each end of the mountain, with the two galleries meeting, slightly inaccurately, in the middle: H. J. Kienast, ‘Der Tunnel des Eupalinos auf Samos’, Architectura, 8 (1977), 97–116. 40 Gal. De propriorum animi cuiuslibet affectuum dignatione et curatione, ed. Kühn, v. 49; W. de Boer (ed.), Galeni de propriorum animi cuiuslibet affectuum dignatione et curatione, in Corpus medicorum Graecorum v.4.1.1 (Leipzig, 1937), 32. Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 83 and n. 206 suggests a lower ﬁgure of 40,000, arguing that Galen’s ﬁgure of 120,000 would have included the extensive countryside around Pergamon. 41 Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’. For variants of the Blattkelch capital form on Roman monuments, involving either palm or lotus leaves in combination with acanthus, see P. Liljenstolpe, ‘The Roman Blattkelch Capital: Typology, Origin and Aspects of Employment’, Opuscula Romana, 22–3 (1997–8), 91–126, at 94, classifying the Trajaneum capitals as Type I.1. Cf. above, Introduction. For the use of similar lotus-and-acanthus capitals at Misenum in Italy, see below, Ch. 10, p.202. 42 Aristid. Or. 53, with C. P. Jones, ‘Aelius Aristides, “On the Water in Pergamon” ’, Arch. Anz. (1991), i. 111–17. For details of the aqueduct’s source and capacity Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 82–3. 43 Suda, s.v. ‘Galenos’; Tzetz. Chil. 397, xii.1–8; PIR 2 G 24; cf. H. Schöne, ‘Galeniana’, in Schedae Philologae Hermanno Usener a sodalibus seminarii regii Bonnensis oblatae (Bonn, 1891), 88–93. 44 H. Diller, ‘Nikon (18)’, RE xvii.1 (Stuttgart, 1936), 507–8. 45 Tzetz. Chil. xii.2–3. There is some doubt about his family name (gentilicium), as his son Galen is considered to have been called Claudius, but Nicon himself is called Aelius in inscriptions nos. 1 and 3 (Appendix 1B). 46 Bowersock, Greek Sophists, 60. 47 Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 47. 48 Gal. De propriorum animi cuiuslibet affectuum dignotione et curatione, ed. Kühn, v. 43; de Boer (ed.), in Corpus medicorum Graecorum v.4.1.1, 29. 49 Gal. De libris propriis 11, ed. Kühn, xix. 40; in G. Helmreich, J. Marquardt, and I. Müller (eds.), Claudii Galeni Pergameni scripta minora, ii (Leipzig, 1891; repr. Amsterdam, 1967), 117. 50 Ibid., ed. Kühn, xix. 41. For the mythic status of Socrates’ marriage at this time, cf. M. Aur. Med. 1. 28 (a more familiar story in these circles than suggested by R. B. Rutherford, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius: A Study (Oxford, 1989), 24). 51 Cf. LSJ, ad loc., which cites only the compound praiopatheo-, used by Philo, ed. Mangers i. 547.18. 52 Pl. Resp. 2, 376b–c. 53 Arist. Eth. Nic. 4.5; Eth. Eud. 3.3; [Mag. mor.] 1.22. 54 Gal. De rebus boni malique suci 1, ed. Kühn, vi, 755; ed. G. Helmreich, in Corpus medicorum Graecorum v.4.2 (Leipzig, 1923), 395. 55 M. L. West, Greek Music (Oxford, 1992), 251–2. 56 On eurhythmia, see F. W. Schlikker, Hellenistische Vorstellungen von der Schönheit des Bauwerks nach Vitruv (Berlin, 1940); Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Art, 169–81; H. Philipp, Tektonon daidala. Der bildende Künstler und sein Werk in vorplatonischen Schriftum (Berlin, 1968), 46. Cf. Strabo 14.1.40 on the Temple of Artemis at Magnesia-on-theMaeander, and, for the Tomb of the Flavii at Cillium, Ch. 10 below, pp. 197–200. 57 The language here (antipoioumenon) is ﬁrst attested in the early 4th cent. BC (e.g. Pl. Meno 90d, 91c for laying a claim to knowledge and techne-; cf. Isocr. 6.7 for making a claim to virtue) and was widespread by Nicon’s time. 58 Gal. De propriorum animi cuiuslibet affectuum dignatione et curatione, ed. Kühn, v. 42–3. 59 H. F. North, ‘Canons and Hierarchies of the Cardinal Virtues in Greek and Latin Literature’, in L. Wallach (ed.), The Classical Tradition: Literary and History Studies in Honor of Harry Caplan (Ithaca, NY, 1966), 165–83; A. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Emperor and His Virtues’, Historia, 30 (1981), 298–323, esp. 300–1. Cf. Xen. Ages. 4–6 for King Agesilaus’ manifestation of these virtues; for individual virtues: SVF iii. 63–72, nos. 262–94. The Latin version of the four virtues (modiﬁed by Augustus on his Golden Shield) was fortitudo, temperantia (or continentia), iustitia, and prudentia (or sapientia): cf. J. Martin, Antike Rhetorik: Technik und Methode (Munich, 1974), 177–210. 60 Aristid. Or. 45.96. 61 Wilberg, Die Bibliothek, 47–57. See above, Introduction, pp. 8–10. 62 Episte-me- (‘intelligence’) was earlier regarded by some Stoics, including Chrysippus (SVF iii. 95), as a general virtue, of which the four cardinal virtues were individual forms; during the Empire, however, it was regarded as speciﬁc to teachers in the classroom; cf. Max. Tyr. Orat. 25 (vi. 304 Hobein); North, ‘Canons and Hierarchies’, 178. 63 H. F. North, From Myth to Icon: Reﬂections of Greek Ethical Doctrine in Literature and Art (Ithaca, NY, 1979), 178, n. 3, minimizes this aspect, but see A. Brinkmann, Rh. Mus. 66 (1911). 64 Tabula Cebetis 20.3. 65 Pl. Phlb. 64e; Marinus, Vit. Proc. 6, in Essays and Fragments of Proclus, the Platonic Successor, tr. T. Taylor [originally published in The philosophical and mathematical Commentaries of Proclus . . . on the ﬁrst book of Euclid’s Elements, and his life by Marinus, trans. T. Taylor (London, 1788)], Thomas Taylor series, 18 (Frome, 1999), 219. Cf. O. Schissel von

notes (pp. 94–101) Fleschenberg, Marinus von Neapolis und die neoplatonischen Tugendgrade (Athens, 1928); North, ‘Canons and Hierarchies’, 180. 66 Cf. esp. Lucian’s Hippias (see below, Ch. 12). 67 G. Radet and P. Paris, ‘Inscriptions de Pisidie, de Lycaonie et d’Isaurie’, BCH 10 (1886), 500–1, no. 1, ll. 2–3 (andra agathon epainethenta architektosune-s heneken, ‘a good man praised for his architectural skill’). Not the same as the Spartan Cleon, son of Pericleidas, for whose signature on the Temple of Lycurgus at Sparta (IG 5.1.690.3) see M.-Ch. Hellmann, ‘Les Signatures d’architectes en langue grecque: essai de mise au point’, ZPE 104 (1994), 151–78, at 153. 68 FD iii, fasc. iv.2, 96 = BÉ (1951), no. 122. The Heii probably settled in Corinth with the Caesarian veterans (cf. Corinth, viii.3, nos. 150–1; Robert, Hellenica, ii. 10–11) and produced other architects trained in the military, e.g. C. He[ius] [Ma]nsu[etus] at Mainz in the Flavian period: AE 1979.430. 69 R. Flacelière, ‘Inscriptions de Delphes de l’époque impériale’, BCH 73 (1949), 467, no. 2. 70 Cf. IG 14.1389.1 (poems by Marcellus of Side from the ‘Triopion’ of Herodes Atticus). 71 S. Cuomo, Ancient Mathematics (London, 2001), 11, with Table 1.1. G. Flegg (ed.), Numbers Through the Ages (Basingstoke, 1989), 92, 96, suggests that such alphabetic numeration is of Semitic origin, although the allocation of letters to these speciﬁc numerical values is Greek. 72 F. Dornseiff, Das Alphabet in Mystik und Magie 2 (Leipzig and Berlin, 1925), 98–104, 181–2. 73 For Greek isopsephisms from Pompeii, associated with mathematics and the ideal of harmonia, cf. CIL 4.4839. 74 Eur. Phoen. 3–5. 75 W. Fauth, Helios Megistos. Zur syncretistischen Theologie der Spätantike (Leiden, 1995), 218, no. 93 for the text and 1–5 for discussion; for the date, R. Merkelbach, Die Hirten des Dionysus: die Dionysos-Mysterien der römischen Kaiserzeit und der bukolische Roman des Longus (Stuttgart, 1988), 30. L. Brisson, ‘Orphée et l’Orphisme à l’épôque impériale: témoignages et interprétations philosophiques, de Plutarque à Iamblique’, in ANRW ii.36.4 (Berlin and New York, 1990), 2867–931, repr. in id., Orphée et l’Orphisme dans l’antiquité gréco-romaine (Aldershot, 1995). These epigraphic parallels do not prove the Pergamene origin of the hymns: A.-F. Morand, Études sur les Hymnes Orphiques (Leiden, 2001), 285. 76 Fauth, Helios Megistos, 2. 77 O. Kern, ‘Das Demeterheiligtum von Pergamon und die orphischen Hymnen’, Hermes, 46 (1911), 431–6. 78 This phrase, used by Hesiod, is more common in a biblical and Christian context. 79 See Appendix 2B, with commentary, and Conclusion, below. 80 Polara, ‘Isopsephi’, 247. 81 M. G. A. Florent, Comte de Choiseul-Gouffier, Voyage pittoresque de la Grèce, ii (Paris, 1809), 171–6. 82 The surface area of a cube of side ‘a’ is 24a2, that of the sphere contained inside it 4pa2, and that of the cylinder which surrounds the sphere and is enclosed by the cube 6pa2. These areas are in the ratio 2 : 3 : 12/p, which, assuming an approximation of 22/7 for the value of p, is identical to 2 : 3 : 42/11 or, more simply, 22 : 33 : 42. The surface area of the cone enclosed inside the cylinder is a very complex ﬁgure (p.(1 + 35).a2). (I am grateful to Dr Paul Tod of St John’s College, Oxford, for assistance with these calculations.) 83 Wilson Jones, Principles, 94. 84 Cf. Cic. Nat. D 2.47–8; Pease (ed.), M. Tulli Ciceronis De Natura Deorum, ii. 649–54. 85 Appendix 2B, no. 2, l. 41. Note that, when this geo-metre-s retired, it was away from the architecture-associated city to the country, because he was philogeo-rgos (Gal., De rebus boni malique suci 1, ed. Kuhn, vi. 755–6), which suggests a not un-Roman enjoyment of space (ge-). 86 Boeckh, in CIG, p. 860. 87 Choiseul-Gouffier, Voyage pittoresque, ii. 172, with references. 88 idie-i refers in the style of a dedicatory formula to the work being the result of Nicon’s own craft or expenditure (IGRom., ad loc.: sua pecunia aut arte (?) effectum satyrum dono dederat). Schöne, ‘Galeniana’, 93 suggests that this Aelius Nicon was not Galen’s father, but another relation of Galen. 89 For hilaros of imitation gold, cf. PLeid. x.17 (3rd–4th cent.); cf. Latin hilaris, of buildings’ mood (Ch. 10, below). 90 Schmidt-Colinet, Antike Stützﬁguren (above, Ch. 1, n. 14): e.g. the ‘theatrum tectum’ at Pompeii. Cf. also the satyr-ﬁgures on the Velletri sarcophagus, supporting the upper scenes (below, Ch. 10, p. 197). 91 Travlos, Pictorial Dictionary, 551, ﬁg. 689 (Hadrianic or Antonine). 92 For philotimia meaning the erection of a public building, or ‘architectural benefaction’, cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 38.41. 93 The epithet idios (‘one’s own’, Latin sua) recalls the emphasis placed in inscriptions of benefactors on their personal resource and commitment. 94 Schöne, ‘Galeniana,’ 92, arguing that Galen’s father was called Iulius Claudius Nicodemus, rather than Aelius Nicon. 95 For approximations of p in ancient architecture, expressed most simply as 22/7, but often further modiﬁed, see B. L. van der Waerden, Erwachende Wissenschaft: ägyptische, babylonische und griechische Mathematik (Basel, 1956), 51–2, 120, 133–40, 147. 96 Cf. TAM ii.1–2.437.7–8, for e-sphalisato of a Roman tomb at Patara. 97 IGRom. 3.739, sec. I, ll. 6–9; see above, Ch. 4. 98 Diog. Laert. 10.10.

297

Lucian, Abdicatus 24–5. Heb. 13: 16. 101 W. Dörpfeld, ‘Die Arbeiten zu Pergamon 1900–1901: Die Bauwerke’, MDAI(A) 27 (1902), 10–43. 102 Ibid. 19, 29; pl. V. 103 The date is suggested by the material and form of the rebuilding. 104 H. von Prott and W. Kolbe, ‘Die 1900–1901 in Pergamon gefundenen Inschriften’, MDAI(A) 27 (1902); for agoranomoi, cf. L. de Ligt, Fairs and Markets in the Roman Empire: Economic and Social Aspects of Periodic Trade in a Pre-industrial Society, Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology, 11 (Amsterdam, 1993), 42–5, 258–9. 105 2/3 is actually 1457.33. 106 For other fragments found with the above inscriptions also emphasising moral issues, see Appendix 1, B 7 (‘student of the good’) and 8 (‘ truth’ and ‘moral ambition’). 107 Appendix 1B, no. 2. 108 Wilson Jones, Principles, 90–1. 109 Ibid. 88, ﬁg. 5.3. 110 Arena approximately 51 by 37 m., so sides in the ratio 1.378378 : 1. (The overall structure measures 136.20 by 107.40 m.): J.-C. Golvin, L’amphithéâtre romain: essai sur la théorisation de sa forme et de ses fonctions (Paris, 1988), i. 203, no. 177. 111 If Nicon’s large isopsephic ﬁgures refer to actual measurements, they can only relate to the smallest unit of digiti, each being 1/16 of a Roman foot (pes): the interior dimensions of 51 m. and 37 m. can thus be expressed as 3,000 and 2,156 digiti of c.1.7 cm. The resulting value of 27.458 cm. for the Roman foot is rather lower than usual. If we follow the standard size of the Roman foot (between 29.4 and 29.7 cm.), the given dimensions of 51 m. and 37 m. would represent deviations of 6.5 − 7.5% from the ‘ideal’ dimensions of the arena, namely 3,000 digiti, or 55.125 m., and 2,156 digiti, or 39.6165 m. Such deviations might be explained by the fact that the given measurements of 51 and 37 m. are only approximate or by some distortion of the original ﬁgures involved in setting out the design. 112 Cf. Boeckh, CIG 3, p. 860 (‘Quattuor priores versus, quos ad aliam pertinuisse inscriptionem monitum in varia lectione, in physico versantur argumento: ceterum intelligi non possunt’); but the opening lines belong to the same copy as the rest of the text and ought naturally to be taken together with it; cf. Fränkel, Inschriften, ii. 246. 113 For the date of the start of the project, see C. Habicht, Die Inschriften des Asclepieions, Alterthümer von Pergamon, viii.3 (Berlin, 1969), 9–11. 114 Aristid. Or. 47.13. It is unclear whether akoai means ‘ears’ (as Behr, Complete Works, ad loc. after e.g. CIL 3.986: auribus Aesculapii ), or is a transliteration of Latin aquae, as in IG 4.1.126.10 (eis hudo-r apobrexai, pros tais akoais en ba/[la]neio-i prostribesthai to-i toicho-i; cf. U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Isyllos von Epidauros (Berlin, 1886), 118), but absent from H. Hofmann, Die lateinische Wörter im Griechischen bis 600 n. Chr., Inaug. diss. (Erlangen and Nuremberg, 1989), 13 s.v. ‘ajoa?’. 115 CIL 14.2119, Lanuvium: labrum [ae]neum cum salientibus [r]ostris navalibus tr[ibu]s; labron is omitted by Hofmann, Die lateinische Wörter im Griechischen, 225, who cites only labra, ‘lips’ (Plut. Mor. 726). However, labron could be interpreted differently: see Appendix 2B, no. 2. 116 Habicht, Inschriften, 10; O. Ziegenaus, Das Asklepieion, 3. Die Kultbauten aus römischer Zeit an der Ostseite des heiligen Bezirks, Altertümer von Pergamon, 11 (Berlin, 1981), 68. 117 See below, n. 122. 118 A. Hoffmann, ‘Zum Bauplan des Zeus-Asklepios-Tempels im Asklepieion von Pergamon’, in Bauplanung und Bautheorie der Antike (Berlin, 1984), 95–103. 119 Diam.: 75, rather than 150 feet; niche-depth: 1.6 : 1, rather than 1.58 : 1. 120 The value of ∋ is approximately 1.618. 121 PIR, i. 488, no. 1337. 122 Aristid. Or. 50.28 (Keil, ii. 432); cf. secs. 43, 83–4, 107. 123 Gal. De anatomicis administrationibus i.2, ed. Kühn, ii. 224–5. 124 Anth. Pal. 9.656.13 – 4. See below, Ch. 10, p. 203. 125 Habicht, Inschriften, 10. 126 Aristid. Or. 50.28, 43, 107. 127 Ibid. 50.28 (with MSS); cf. A. J. Festugière, ‘Sur les discours sacrés d’Aelius Aristide,’ Rev. Ét. Grec. 82 (1969), 117–53, at 143; M. Le Glay, ‘Hadrien et l’Asklépieion de Pergame’, BCH 100 (1976), 347–72, at 369–70 n.64. H. Hepding, ‘Qotumiom kro|’, Philologus 88 (= NF 42) (1933), 90–103, 92, n. 12 unnecessarily emends this reading to poluede-s, which is accepted by C. A. Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales (Amsterdam, 1968), 259 and Habicht, Inschriften, 12. 128 Sauron, Quis deum?, 95, takes this as unambiguous, assuming that the seven niches here and in the Pantheon held statues of the seven planetary divinities. 129 Aristid. Or. 50.106; cf. Fowden, Empire and Commonwealth, 43. 130 LeGlay, ‘Hadrien et l’Asclépieion’; minimized by Habicht, Inschriften, 13. 131 Aristid. Or. 50.56. 132 Gal. De Semine ii.3, ed. Kühn, iv (1822), 618–19. 133 Id. De Usu Partium viii.11, ed. Kühn, iii (1822), 667–8; G. Helmreich (ed.), Galeni de usu partium libri xvii, i (Leipzig, 1907; repr. Amsterdam, 1968), 350. See further J. Rocca, Galen On the Brain: Anatomical Knowledge and Physiological Speculation in the Second Century AD (Leiden, 2003). 134 De Usu Partium xii.15, ed. Kühn, iv (1822), 63 (duspathestaton). 135 He also wrote a Life of Pythagoras and works on music and astronomy. Burkert, Lore and Science, 98–100. 99

100

298

notes (pp. 101–10)

Nicomachus, Introduction to Arithmetic 7.21. Ibid. 1.21.2. 138 Ibid. 1.4.2. 139 H. Kalayan, ‘The Symmetry and Harmonic Proportions of the Temples of Artemis and Zeus at Jerash; And the Origin of Numerals as Used in the Enlargement of the South Theatre in Jerash’, in A. Hadidi (ed.), Studies in the History and Archaeology of Jordan, i (Amman, 1982), 243–54. For similar mathematical conceptions at nearby Baalbek, see ead., ‘The Temple of Bacchus and its Geometry of Proportion and Symmetry’, BMB 24 (1971), 57–60. 140 Browning, Jerash and the Decapolis, ﬁg. 68. 141 C. M. Watts and D. J. Watts, ‘The Role of Monuments in the Geometrical Ordering of the Roman Master Plan of Gerasa’, JSAH 51 (1992), 306–14. 142 Ibid. 313, ﬁg. 14. Note that the orientation of buildings in antiquity was determined not, as today, by the geomagnetic directions of the compass, but by the slightly divergent directions of the stars: ibid. 313 and n. 20. 143 [Lucian], Philopatris 12. Addressed to the Christian Triephon, the text may date to the 10th cent. (S. Reinach, ‘La Question du Philopatris’, Rev. Arch. (1902), i. 79–110), but this proverb surely had much older roots. 144 CIL 14.472. The teacher paid homage to his pupil’s computational skills by dating the tomb’s dedication from the foundation of the city, A.U.C. DCCCXCVII. For a contemporary interest in such dates, see below, Ch. 9. 145 Cf. CIL 5.3384 (Verona, P. Caecilius Epaphroditus, VIvir Augustalis); 8.12902 (Carthage, a young imperial servus who died aged 30). Equivalent in rank to a notarius, nomenclator, or librarius, cf. Mart. 10.62.4; Ulp., in Dig. 38.1.7.5, 50.13.1.6. For their social level, from arriviste freedmen to ambitious freeborn persons like the architect Vitruvius, see N. Purcell, ‘Apparitores: A Study in Social Mobility’, PBSR 51 (1983), 125–73. For their relative wealth, cf. rates of pay given in the colonial charter of Urso in Spain in the Caesarian period (FIRA i. 177–98, lxii). 146 F. Rakob, ‘Das Quellenheiligtum in Zaghouan und die römische Wasserleitung nach Karthago’, MDAI(R) 81 (1974), 41–89. 147 Cf. R. White and P. Barker, Wroxeter: The Life and Death of a Roman City (Stroud, 1988), 88, ﬁg. 46 (restored plan). 148 Cassiod. Inst. 2.4.7 (R. A. B. Mynors (ed.), Cassiodori Senatoris Institutiones (Oxford, 1937), 140); Isid. Etym. 3.2. Cf. M. Cantor, Vorlesungen über Geschichte der Mathematik 2, i (Leipzig, 1894), 428–9. 136 137

Notes to Chapter 6 1 W. Sonne, ‘Der politische Aspekt von Architektur’, in W. Höpfner and G. Zimmer (eds.), Die Griechische Polis: Architektur und Politik (Tübingen, 1993), 11–16. 2 Demandt, ‘Symbolfunktionen antiker Baukunst’, in Papenfuss and Strocka (eds.), Palast und Hütte, 49–62, at 49. 3 e.g. monuments of the Haterii in Rome and of a redemptor proscenii at Capua. The minimalist view of G. Bodei Giglioni, Lavori pubblici e occupazione nell’antichità classica (Bologna, 1974) is excessively dependent on literary sources; as H. Beister, Gnomon, 50 (1978), 550–4, notes (at 552), the employment motive for public building projects is rarely stressed by ancient writers because buildings were usually perceived teleologically, in terms of their future function. See above, Ch. 1, and, for the perception of buildings in the light of their future role, Ch. 10 below. 4 H. D. Laswell, with M. B. Fox, The Signature of Power: Buildings, Communication, and Policy (New Brunswick, NJ, 1979), 99–100. 5 On this aspect, see the work of P. Zanker, esp. in Arch. Anz. (1970), 499–544, on Trajan’s forum; Forum Augustum: das Bildprogramm, Monumenta Artis Antiquae, 2 (Tübingen, 1970); The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, tr. A. Shapiro (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1988); and ‘Domitian’s Palace’. 6 Sonne, ‘Der politische Aspekt’, 14. 7 Cf. van Pelt and Westfall, Architectural Principles (opening quote); Demandt, ‘Symbolfunktionen’, 49. 8 K. Lynch, The Image of the City (Cambridge, Mass., 1960). 9 L. Mumford, The City in History: Its Origins, its Transformations and its Prospects (London, 1961), with R. Castillo, ‘Lewis Mumford and the Organicist Concept in Social Thought’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 53 (1992), 91–116. 10 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 253. 11 Lyttelton, ‘The Design and Planning of Temples’, 47. 12 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 30–1. 13 I owe this suggestion to Nicholas Purcell. 14 L. B. Alberti, De Re Aediﬁcatoria 1.9, 14; cf. 5.2, 70v. 15 Cic. Rep. 2.58–9; Brut. 54. 16 Max. Tyr. Or. 7.2, 42v. For more on the ‘body politic’, see M. W. Gleason, ‘Mutilated Messages: Body Language in Josephus’, in S. Goldhill (ed.), Being Greek Under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire (Cambridge, 2001), 50–85, esp. 70–4; and below, n. 107. 17 W. Höpfner and E.-L. Schwandner, Haus und Stadt im klassischen Griechenland 2 (Munich, 1994). Cf. early houses on the Palatine in Rome: A. Carandini, ‘Domus et insulae sulla pendice settentrionale del Palatino’, Bull. Com. Arch. 91 (1986), 263–78. 18 L. Bek, ‘Venusta species : A Hellenistic Rhetorical Concept as the Aesthetic Principle in

Roman Townscape’, ARID 14 (1985), 139–48. Thus Croton’s monumentality is revealed at Petron. Sat. 116.1–2: haud procul impositum arce sublimi oppidum cernimus . . . urbem antiquissimam et aliquando Italiae primam; cf. J.-H. Michel, ‘L’Image de la ville chez les Anciens’, in G. Viré (ed.), Synthèses romaines: études publiées en hommage au professeur J.-H. Michel, Collection Latomus, 240 (Brussels, 1998), 68–89. 19 Vitr. De Arch. 2 pr. 1–4. The story forms a regular part of the Alexander tradition and is also reported by Val. Max. 1.4.1, Solin. 32, 40, Ammian. 22.16, and Jul. Val. De Rebus Gestis Alexandri 1.21. Other authors give the architect different names: Deinochares (Plin. HN 5.62, 7.125; Auson. Mos. 312); Timochares (Plin. HN 34.148); Cheirocrates (Strab. 14, C641); Stasicrates (Plut. Alex. 72, De Alex. Virt. 335c); Hermocrates (MS reading of [Callisthenes] 1.31); and Diocles (Eustath. on Il. 6.229, p. 980R). Cf. W. Körte, ‘Deinokrates und die barocke Phantasie’, Die Antike, 13 (1937), 289–312; G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Contributo a Deinokrates’, in Alessandria e il mondo ellenistico-romano. Studi in onore di Achille Adriani, i (Rome, 1983), 78–90; H. Meyer, ‘Der Berg Athos als Alexander. Zu den realen Grundlagen der Vision des Deinokrates’, Rivista di Archeologia, 10 (1986), 22–30. 20 Sauron, Quis deum?, 51–62. 21 Ibid. 99–135; J. Champeaux, Fortuna. Recherches sur le culte de Fortune à Rome et dans le monde romain des origines à la mort de César, i. Fortuna dans la religion archaïque, CÉFR 64 (Rome, 1982), 146–7. 22 A. Ley and R. Strauss, ‘Gegenarchitektur: das Heiligtum der Fortuna Primigenia als Symbol der politischen Selbstbehauptung Praenestes’, Hephaistos, 4 (1982), 117–38. For the assertion of ‘Italian’ identity in the years before the Social War, see M. Pobjoy, ‘The First Italia’, in E. Herring and K. Lomas (eds.), The Emergence of State Identities in Italy in the First Millennium, Accordia Specialist Studies in Italy, 8 (London, 2000), 187–211. 23 For superimposed orders, see above Ch. 1 (p. 23) and, in general, P. Liljenstolpe, ‘Superimposed Orders: The Use of the Architectural Orders in Multi-storeyed Structures of the Roman Imperial Era’, Opuscula Romana, 24 (1999), 117–54. For composite capitals, see Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 42–8. 24 R. Bradley, The Signiﬁcance of Monuments: On the Shaping of Human Experience in Neolithic and Bronze Age Europe (London, 1998). 25 Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning, 32–3, ﬁg. 19. 26 Arist. Pol. 7, 1331a10 ff. (sevg . . . pq| j rlom e> vei s© p kei). Cf. Fehr, ‘Kosmos und Chreia’, 161, 173–4. 27 This convention is best attested under the Empire; cf. Men. Rhet. 349.7–9; Aristid. Or. 17.14, 21.15; and, later, e.g. Rutilianus and Ausonius. But, for its roots, see O. Schroeder, De laudibus Athenarum a poetis tragicis et ab oratoribus epidicticis excultis, Diss., Göttingen (1913); C. J. Classen, Die Stadt im Spiegel der Descriptiones und Laudes Urbium in der antiken und mittelalterlichen Literatur bis zum Ende des zwölften Jahrhunderts (Hildesheim and New York, 1980). 28 Two examples survive, on the Porta Trigemina beside the Forum Boarium (P. Cornelius Lentulus Scipio and T. Quinctius Crispinus Valerianus, suff. coss. AD 2) and Porta Caelimontana (near S Maria di Navicella; Dolabella and Silanus, coss. 10). Although now usually called ‘arches’, these structures were originally gates (pace Richardson, Topographical Dictionary, 25, 27). 29 Rykwert, The Idea of a Town, 135–7; Pomponius (2nd cent.): W. Seston, ‘Les Murs, les portes et les tours des enceintes urbaines et le problème des “res sanctae” en droit romain’, in R. Chevallier (ed.), Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire offerts à A. Piganiol (Paris, 1966), ii. 1489–98; cf. Remus’ crime: R. Schilling, ‘Romulus l’élu et Rémus le réprouvé’, Rev. Ét. Lat. 38 (1960), 182–99, at 189, repr. in R. Schilling, Rites, cultes, dieux de Rome, Études et Commentaires, 92 (Paris, 1979), 103–20, at 109. 30 Suet. Nero 16.1. Recognizing the economic importance of Claudius’ new harbour at Ostia, he planned to extend the old walls to there, a gesture which would have turned Rome into a maritime city with ‘long walls’ like classical Athens. 31 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 4. 32 Dig. 50.16. 33 Dig. 16.87. 34 Ibid. 147 (Terentius Clemens). The expression remained standard legal parlance into the Severan period: ibid. 2.pr. (Paulus), 139.pr., 173.1 and 199 (Ulpian), 154 (Macer). Cf. also 39.3.1.20 and 48.22.14.1 (Ulpian). 35 Flor. Epit. 1.2.9 attributed it to the ‘aediﬁcator ’ Ancus Martius. 36 Dig. 50.16.99.1 (Ulpian). 37 E. La Rocca, ‘L’affresco con veduta di città dal colle Oppio’, in E. Fentress (ed.), Romanization and the City: Creation, Transformations, and Failures. Proceedings of a Conference Held at the American Academy in Rome to Celebrate the 500th Anniversary of the Excavations at Cosa, 14–16 May, 1998, JRA Suppl. 38 (Portsmouth, RI, 2000), 57–72; cf. the ‘Torlonia relief ’: MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 50, ﬁg. 45. 38 Municipia in Italy: e.g. Spoletium, Assisium; Spain: Barcino, Emporiae, Saguntum; Africa: Curubis (ILLRP 394, c.49/6 BC, under Pompey; ILLRP 580, 45 BC, under Caesar, with more formal wording, emphasizing also the squared stone material). G. Brands, Republikanische Stadttore in Italien, BAR Int. Series, 458 (Oxford, 1988), 75–7. 39 CIL 12.3151 (portas murosque coloniae dat); AE 1935.60, 1955.30; cf. Février, ‘Enceinte et colonie’ at 277 and 280–4. 40 Tac. Hist. 4.64: muros coloniae munimenta servitii. 41 Quint. Inst. 3.7.27: utilitas muris. 42 Tac. Hist. 5.12. 43 C. L. H. Coulson, ‘Structural Symbolism in Medieval Castle Architecture’, JBAA 132 (1979), 73–90; id., Castles in Medieval Society, 199–200.

notes (pp. 110–15) 44 R. Rebuffat, ‘Propugnacula’, Latomus, 43 (1984), 3–26. Mosaics: Orange (1st cent.), Carpentras, Auriol, Nîmes, Fain-lès-Montbord, Chusclon, Verdes (2nd cent.); Orbe (Severan); Cormerod (c.200–25); Avenches, ‘mosaic of the winds’ (c.250); cf. Appendix 1. For a later parallel, cf. R. M. Fogelson, America’s Armories: Architecture, Society and Public Order (Cambridge, Mass., 1989): e.g. the Armoury of the 12th Regiment (1886) on New York’s Upper West Side (M. King, King’s Handbook of New York: An Outline History and Description of the American Metropolis 2 (Boston, Mass., 1893), 494–5) or the castellated County Hall at Oxford and prison at Norwich. 45 M. R. M. Henry, ‘Architectural Terra Cotta in Rome and Latium: Studies in Decorative Revetment in the Second Century A.D.’, Ph.D thesis, Berkeley (1984), 55–82. 46 e.g. at Samaria-Sebaste, Caesarea, and Tiberias (the gateway framed on both sides by free-standing columns on bases adjacent to the towers). 47 Smith, ‘Hadrianic Architecture’, 210–13. There is an Augustan precedent for the triple gateway type at Pisidian Antioch: Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch (above, Ch. 4, n. 159). 48 Lanckoronski, Städte Pamphyliens und Pisidiens, i. 20–4, pls. v–viii (on a grand scale, with capitals 2 Roman ft. high): some bronze letters are preserved in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. The dedication to the city is restored, but paralleled by other dedications elsewhere. 49 A. M. Schneider and W. Karnapp, Die Stadtmauer von Iznik, Istanbuler Forschungen, 9 (Berlin, 1938), 22–3, 45, no. 11. 50 A. M. Mansel, ‘Bericht über Ausgrabungen und Untersuchungen in Pamphylien in den Jahren 1946–1955’, Arch. Anz. (1956), 104–20; M. E. Özgür, Perge: A Travel Guide 2 (Istanbul, 1990), 30; M. T. Boatwright, ‘Plancia Magna of Perge: Women’s Roles and Status in Roman Asia Minor’, in S. B. Pomeroy (ed.), Women’s History and Ancient History (Chapel Hill and London, 1991), 249–72. 51 Gods: e.g. Dioscuri, Aphrodite, Hermes, Apollo, Pan, and Heracles. Mythical ‘founders’ (ktistai): Mopsus, Rixus, Calchas, the Lapith Leonteus, Machaon, Minyas, and Labos. Topographical links: e.g. the Temple of Zeus Machaonios on the acropolis, or the strange ‘foot of Rixos’. 52 Boatwright, ‘Plancia Magna’. 53 Mansel, ‘Bericht 1946–1955’, 102–3; cf. ‘Oval Piazza’, Jerash: Browning, Jerash, 131–3. 54 A new outer entrance court was created under Septimius Severus, which was shut off altogether in the 4th century by an outer gate inserted in an enlarged rebuilding of the city walls. The remains visible today reﬂect several successive, analogous attempts to create a grand exterior for the city. 55 A. M. Mansel, E. Bosch, and J. Inan, Vorläuﬁger Bericht über die Ausgrabungen in Side im Jahre 1947 (Ankara, 1951), 54–5, n.10; coins: F. Imhoof-Blumer, Zur griechischen und römischen Münzkunde (Genf, 1908), 180, nos. 7, 11 (Gallienus). 56 Harbours of Side and Ostia: Price and Trell, Coins and Their Cities, 40–1, ﬁgs. 57–62 (straight colonnaded jetties); 220, ﬁgs. 480–4 (curved colonnades). S. Kostof (†), The City Assembled: The Elements of Urban Form Through History (London, 1992), 39–46; cf. Aristid. Or. 17.17, on Smyrna’s harbour as its omphalos (Ch. 7, below). 57 Cf. allegorical ﬁgures of the harbours of Lechaeum and Cenchreae ‘embracing’ each other: BMC Corinth, 75, no. 594, pl. xix.15. 58 Price and Trell, Coins and Their Cities, 223–4, ﬁgs. 496–505. 59 Ibid. 228, ﬁg. 521; Donaldson, Architectura numismatica, no. 86. 60 J. Jurukova, Griechisches Münzwerk. Die Münzprägung von Bizye, Akademie der Wissenschaften der DDR, Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur der Antike, 18 (Berlin, 1981), 7, 39, though she assumes a pre-Roman origin (10). Ps-auton. issue: ibid. 16. Issue nos. 135–7 (reign of Philip the Arab) show a whole view of the city behind the gate. For Orﬁtianus, see above, Ch. 2, n. 176. 61 Price and Trell, Coins and Their Cities, 24, ﬁg. 24; cf. the neighbouring city of Marcianopolis (ﬁg. 25). 62 E. Gose (ed.), Die Porta Nigra in Trier, Trierer Grabungen und Forschungen, 4 (Berlin, 1969); H. Cüppers, ‘Die römische Stadtmauer und das nördliche Gräberfeld bei der Porta Nigra’, Trierer Zeitschrift 36 (1973), 133–222. The quarry-marks are identical to those found in the contemporary ‘Barbarathermen’ and the ‘Porta Nigra’. 63 Wightman, Gallia Belgica, 87. 64 H. Walter, La Porte Noire de Besançon: contribution à l’étude de l’art triomphal des Gaules (Paris, 1986); R. Ghirshman, ‘La Porte Noire de Besançon et la prise de Ctésiphon,’ ANRW ii.9 (Berlin, 1976), 215–18. Cf. Aristid. Or. 26.83 on Rome’s new frontier fortiﬁcations (above, Ch. 2). 65 T. Dohrn, Die Tyche von Antiochia (Berlin, 1960); E. Simon, ‘Götter- und Heroenstatuen des frühen Hellenismus’, Gymnasium, 84 (1977), 351–4; LIMC, i (Zurich, 1981), 840–51 s.v. Antiocheia (J. C. Balty); E. Schneider-Hermann, ‘Göttin mit Mauerkrone’, BABesch. 40 (1965), 72–4. For the role of this statue in the construction of images of the ideal city, see also V. Vercelloni, Atlante storico dell’idea europea della città ideale (Milan, 1994). 66 J. M. C. Toynbee, The Hadrianic School: A Chapter in the History of Greek Art (Cambridge, 1934), 131–3. For the emblem as a Seleucid attempt to harmonize Greek and oriental groups, see B. Fehr, ‘Lectio Graeca—Lectio Orientalis. Überlegungen zur Tyche von Antiocheia’, in Genres in Visual Representations: Proceedings of a Conference Held in 1986 by Invitation of the WernerReimers-Stiftung in Bad Homburg, Visible Religion, 7 (Leiden, 1990), 83–97. 67 Malalas, Chron. 11.9 (276). 68 e.g. Thasos: SIG 3 1155. Cf. the generic term ‘Mausoleum’ (below, Ch. 10 and Table 3). 69 Cybele: LIMC, viii. 744–66, esp. 754–5, 760–2, nos. 50–4, 58–9, 94, 97–8, 113–16, 120;

299

corona muralis: V. A. Maxﬁeld, The Military Decorations of the Roman Army (London, 1981), 76–9, with 73, ﬁg. 6. 70 Price and Trell, Coins and Their Cities, 223, ﬁg. 496; cf. a surviving stone statuette: G. Mendel, Catalogue des Sculptures grecques, romaines et byzantines (Mus. Imp. Ottomans) (Istanbul, 1912), ii. 74, no. 311 (787). 71 Mendel, Catalogue, ii. 121, no. 395 (132); cf. also 89, no. 331 (1105) (from Durazzo). 72 Five different marble heads, resembling Antonine portraiture, found SE of the Caesareum: E. Paribeni, Catalogo delle Sculture di Cirene: statue e rilievi di carattere religioso (Rome, 1959), 147, nos. 425–9. 73 e.g. G. M. A. Hanfmann and N. H. Ramage, Sculpture From Sardis: The Finds Through 1975, Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Report 2 (Cambridge, Mass. and London, 1978), 112, no. 128 with ﬁgs. 259–60; stylistic features point to the second half of the 2nd cent. 74 Toynbee, Hadrianic School, 24–5. 75 A marble head of Tyche (2nd-cent.): Sparta Museum, inv. 7945. O. Palagia, ‘Tyche at Sparta’, Yale Bulletin (1994), 65–75, with ﬁgs. 35, 39–43; A. Cohen, ‘Art, Myth and Travel in the Hellenistic World’, in S. E. Alcock, J. F. Cherry, and J. Elsner (eds.), Pausanias: Travel and Memory in Roman Greece (Cambridge, 2001), 93–126, at 115, ﬁg. 10. 76 IGRom. 3.800; Paus. 6.25.4 (lechei lca). 77 Corinth: C. M. Edwards, ‘Tyche at Corinth’, Hesperia, 59 (1990), 529–42; Smyrna: ISmyrna 697.14–16. 78 Sil. Pun. 13.13 (turrita celsa ﬁgura). 79 Archaeological Museum, Seville (60 cm. high). The Hispano-Roman Town, 20–1, ﬁgs., and 263, cat. no. 1. 80 G. Bermond Montanari, ‘Divinità con corona turrita da Ravenna’, Aquileia Nostra, 45–6 (1974–5), 383–90; ead. (ed.), Ravenna e il porto di Classe: venti anni di ricerche archeologiche tra Ravenna e Classe (Imola, 1983), 11. For building activity, see above, Ch. 2. 81 E. Espérandieu, Catalogue des Musées archéologiques de Nîmes, ii. Sculptures antiques. Première partie: Musée de la Maison Carrée (Nîmes, 1920), 12–15, no. 12. 82 G. E. Fox and W. H. St. John Hope, ‘Excavations on the Site of the Roman City of Silchester, Hants.’, Archaeologia, 53 (1893), 540–59, at 558–9. 83 G. Caputo and G. Traversari, Le sculture del Teatro di Leptis Magna (Rome, 1976), 50, no. 29 (pl. 27). 84 Sticotti, Doclea, 72. 85 C. Poinssot, Les Ruines de Dougga 2 (Tunis, 1983), 65; for the identiﬁcation, J.-C. Balty, Curia Ordinis. Recherches d’architecture et d’urbanisme antiques sur les curies provinciales du monde romain (Brussels, 1991), 98–9. 86 See above, Ch. 2. 87 S. Gsell, Les Monuments antiques de l’Algérie (Paris, 1901), 158–9 with pl. xxxi. 88 For its use in the classical-inspired art of Gandara, as a crown for the Indian goddess Hariti, cf. J. Boardman, The Diffusion of Classical Art in Antiquity (London, 1994), 135 and 334, n. 200. In Constantinople two temples, built c.323/30, contained statues of Rhea Silvia and of the Tyche of Rome, the latter represented as ‘surveying and holding sway over the city’ (Zos. 2.31). Constantinople thus became both a helmeted New Rome and a turreted Anthousa. At her foundation rites on 11 May 330 a gilded statue of a Tyche was carried from the curia to the hippodrome: Chron. Pasch. I, 529–30 (Migne, PG, xcii. 710D, 712B). 89 Philostr. Imag. 2.27. Cf. J. Onians, Art and Thought in the Hellenistic Age: The Greek World View, 350–50 B.C. (London, 1979), 52. 90 Cic. Att. 7.11.3; cf. App. B Civ. 2.37. Themistocles: Hdt. 8.61.2; Cic. Att. 10.8.4; Plut. Pomp. 63.1; Nicias: Thuc. 7.77.7; cf. 1.143.5. The same sentiment is later expressed by St Augustine (Migne, PL xxxviii. 505). 91 Tac. Hist. 1.84.4. 92 Chariton 1.11.5; Ach. Tat. 5.1; Xen. Eph. 5.13.2. 93 Rykwert, Idea of a Town, 41–72. 94 See esp. A. von Gerkan, Griechische Städteanlagen: Untersuchungen zur Entwicklung des Städtebaues im Altertum (Berlin, 1924) and F. Castagnoli, Orthogonal Townplanning in Antiquity, tr. V. Caliandro (Cambridge, Mass., 1971). For politico-cultural explanations of this tendency, see Onians, Art and Thought, 169–78; H.-J. Schalles, ‘Die hellenistische Umgestaltung der Athener Agora im 2. Jh. v. Chr.—Ausdruck von Rationalität oder Entpolitisierung?’, Hephaistos, 4 (1982), 97–116. 95 J. André, ‘Les Noms latins du chemin et de la rue’, Rev. Ét. Lat. 28 (1950), 104–34; Kostof, City Assembled, 218. 96 O. F. Robinson, Ancient Rome: City Planning and Administration (London, 1992), 9–13; D. G. Favro, The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge, 1996). 97 Tac. Ann. 15.38. Cf. T. Banerjee, K. Lynch, and M. Southworth (eds.), City Sense and City Design: Writings and Projects of Kevin Lynch (Cambridge, Mass. and London, 1990), 65: ‘The Visual Shape of the Shapeless Metropolis’. 98 Tac. Ann. 15.38–43; cf. Suet. Nero 16.1. The ﬁre, which began on the anniversary of the Gallic sack in 390, resembled a military assault: houses and temples were defenceless, and women tore their hair. 99 Tac. Ann. 15.40. 100 Ibid. 43. 101 Cf. P. Zanker, ‘The City as Symbol: Rome and the Creation of an Urban Image’, in Romanization and the City, 25–41. 102 Arnheim, Dynamics of Architectural Form, 80. 103 André, ‘Les Noms latins’, 130–3. 104 Epict. Diss. 4.1.106 (s rsemovxqei& | sm j rlom;).

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notes (pp. 115–18)

Arnheim, Dynamics of Architectural Form, 80. Rome: Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 313; Herod: Joseph. BJ 1, 422. 107 Joseph. BJ 6 (164). Gleason, ‘Mutilated Messages’, 71, describes this action as ‘what amounts to prophylactic surgery on the architecture of the body politic’. 108 Segal, From Function to Monument, 5–53. 109 13 m. wide under Seleucus; 27.50 m., including porticoes and shops, under Herod and Tiberius; 36 m., with porticoes as wide as the roadway itself and less deep shops, under Trajan and Justinian: J. Lassus, ‘Antioch, histoire d’une rue’, Urbi, 3 (Mar. 1980), pp. lxxxvii–xcix. 110 D. M. Bailey, Hermopolis Magna: Buildings of the Roman Period, Excavations at El-Ashmunein, 4 (London, 1991), 29–31; R. Alston, The City in Roman and Byzantine Egypt (London, 2002), 240–1. 111 U. Outschar, ‘Zur Baudekoration und typologischen Stellung des Tetrapylons’, in C. Roueché and R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers, 3 (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1996), 127–48. 112 One might compare how obelisks in Rome direct the journey and eyes of visitors and inhabitants. 113 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 5–110. For modern comparisons, S. Anderson, ‘People in the Physical Environment: Urban Ecology of Streets’, in S. Anderson (ed.), On Streets (Cambridge, Mass., 1978), 1–9; J. Rykwert, ‘The Street: The Use of its History’, ibid. 15–26; Kostof, City Assembled, 189–243; N. R. Fyfe, ‘Introduction: Reading the Street’, in N. R. Fyfe (ed.), Images of the Street: Planning, Identity and Control in Public Space (London and New York, 1998), 1–10. 114 M. de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley, 1984), 97 (original emphasis). 115 Ath. 1.21d. For earlier walking habits, see A. Corbeill, ‘Political Movement: Walking and Ideology in Republican Rome’, in D. Fredrick (ed.), The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body (Baltimore and London, 2002), 182–215. 116 CIG 2782.18–19; similarly, Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 225–6, no. 8: parietem . . . [usque ad] mutulos extsruxit. For Carminius, see Ch. 4, above. 117 Z. Çelik, D. G. Favro, and R. Ingersoll (eds.), Streets: Critical Perspectives on Public Space (Berkeley, 1994), 6. 118 See above, Ch. 4, nn. 147 and 149. 119 Petron. Sat. 79. 120 e.g. Aemilius Paulus’ tour of Greek cities in autumn 168 BC (Livy 45.27.1–28.5); cf. J.L. Ferrary, Philhellénisme et impérialisme: aspects idéologiques de la conquête romaine du monde hellénistique, de la seconde guerre de Macédoine à la guerre contre Mithridate, BÉFAR 271 (Rome, 1988), 554–60; F. Coarelli, ‘La cultura ﬁgurativa’, in Storia di Roma, 2. L’impero mediterraneo, 1. La repubblica imperiale (Turin, 1990), 648–56; F. de Angelis, ‘La Periegesi di Pausania’, Tesi di Laurea, Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa (1992), 86–101. 121 Cf. Pindar’s dithyrambs in honour of cities as proxenos. 122 Ach. Tat. 5.1. On this passage, see esp. H. Morales, Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ ‘Leucippe and Cleitophon’ (Cambridge, 2004), 100–6. 123 Cf. S. Saïd, ‘The City in the Greek Novel’, in J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore and London, 1994), 216–36, at 236: ‘What is depicted by Achilles Tatius is the idea of the city, not its concrete individualised form.’ 124 The unsatisﬁed nature of Cleitophon’s observation is stressed by Morales, Vision and Narrative, 102–3. 125 For such comparisons, see ibid. 106 and S. Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye: Visual Stimulation and Cultural Conﬂict’, in Goldhill (ed.), Being Greek Under Rome, 154–94, at 167–70; cf. also A. Walker, ‘Eros and the Eye in the Love-letters of Philostratus’, PCPS 38 (1992), 132–48. For the observer of a building/city as its ‘lover’ (an image traced back to Pericles’ funeral oration, Thuc. 2.43.1), see below, Ch. 11, on Men. Rhet. 349–50, and Ch. 12, on Lucian’s De Domo. 126 e.g. Aristides on the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus (see Ch. 11, below) and, later, Procop. Aed. 1.1.49 on Justinian’s rebuilt Church of Santa Sophia: ‘although they turn their attention in every direction and nod their brows on every detail, people are unable to grasp the art, but always go away from there overwhelmed by their inability to take it all in.’ 127 For the perception of cities as cosmic spaces, cf. G. Dareggi, ‘I mosaici con raffigurazione del labirinto: una variazione sul tema del “centro” ’, MÉFRA 104 (1992), 281–92. Cf. the city of Uranopolis founded by Alexarchos in Chalcidice in 316 BC (Plin. HN 4.10.17): the founder called himself He-lios (‘the Sun’) and its inhabitants He-liokrateis (‘sun rulers’) (Plut. De Is. et Os. 37, 366e; Heraclides Lembus, in FGrH 3, no. 169 = Ath. 3, 98e, where g
Savantes, Reims 1970, Section d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’Art, i (Paris, 1974), 59–73. 135 Banerjee, Lynch, and Southworth (eds.), City Sense and City Design, 65–86. 136 Ibid. 295. 137 ILS 3617–21, esp. under Trajan; examples are documented for the 3rd, 6th, 8th, and 13th regions. 138 For this ‘multi-focal’ character, Alston, The City, 177–84. 139 R. MacMullen, Roman Social Relations, 50 BC to AD 284 (New Haven and London, 1974), 129–37. 140 Eph. Epigr. 8.365; CIL 15.7172, 10.4660. 141 Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 8–9, 222, no. 4: Venerius, Velabrus, Aedilicius, Patricius, Cermalus, Salutaris, and Tuscus; other examples: Thomas, ‘Monumentality’, 205. 142 Fränkel, Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 280, 298; L. Robert, Études anatoliennes: recherches sur les inscriptions grecques de l’Asie mineure (Paris, 1937), 535, n. 3. 143 Cf. the sophist Dionysius, buried where he died, in the agora, ‘at the most sovereign part of Ephesus’ (jasa+ s jtqisasom sg&| $Eurot): Philostr. VS 1.22, 526. 144 W. Vollgraff, ‘Novae inscriptiones Argivae’, Mnemos. 47 (1919), 160–70, at 165–6, no. xii. 145 Strabo 12.4.7 (C566). All four gates could be seen from it. 146 W. Eck, ‘Ehrungen für Personen hohen soziopolitischen Ranges im öffentlichen und privaten Bereich’, in Schalles et al. (eds.), Die römische Stadt, 359–76. 147 IEph 712B, ll. 19–20; cf. Thuc. 2.43, of worldwide fame as the ‘most monumental tomb’ (sa*uo| e$pirgl saso|). 148 e.g. an equestrian statue of Nonius Balbus at Herculaneum, in celeberrimo loco (AE 1947.53 = 1976.144); cf. AE 1907.196 = CIL 8.25943 = AE 1908.30, 78, 184, 194, 228, 288, from Aon-el-Djemada (Tunisia), Hadrianic, referring to a letter published celeberrimis locis; AE 1984.250, from Trinitapoli (Canusium?), found reused nearby: a decree ad perpetuitatem provisionis et gratiae celeberrimis [in] locis u[rbiu]m singularum tabulis id (a)eris incidat. 149 e.g. IKios 6 (golden crown and statue to Deinarchus to be erected in the gymnasium). Cf. AE 1899.159 (a negotiator celeberrimus at Castel Giubileo, Dalmatia); 1974.123bis (Ostia). 150 H. Drerup, ‘Bildraum und Realraum in der römischen Architektur’, MDAI(R) 66 (1959), 147–74. 151 L. Bek, ‘Venusta species: A Hellenistic Rhetorical Concept as the Aesthetic Principle in Roman Townscape’, ARID 14 (1985), 139–48, at 140, following John White’s notion of ‘view planning’ applied to late medieval Italy. 152 Ibid. 146. Cf. P. Zanker, ‘Drei Stadtbilder aus dem augusteischen Rom’, in L’Urbs. Espace urbain et histoire, 475–89. 153 M. Roberts, The Jeweled Style: Poetry and Poetics in Late Antiquity (Ithaca, NY, 1989); Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer. 154 The principle of the wide city view became again a factor in Byzantine view-planning; e.g. Procop. Aed. 1.1.27 (a view of all Constantinople from Santa Sophia, like a watchtower). 155 D. E. Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (Beckenham, 1984), 128. 156 Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 49. 157 F. Hüber, ‘Der Embolos, ein urbanes Zentrum von Ephesos. Skizzen zur Entstehungsgeschichte und zur Gestaltung eines antiken Ensembles’, AW 15 (1984), 4, 3–30. 158 IEph 3008; cf. 1300, 3059, and Ch. 7, below; for embolos of porticoes, cf. M.-C. Hellmann, Recherches sur le vocabulaire de l’architecture grecque, d’après les inscriptions de Délos, BÉFAR 278 (Athens, 1992), 125; cf. CIG 4662b (Jerash); Heliod. Aeth. 2.26. Cf. Fuchs, Geographische Bilder, 11. 159 Pace Hüber, ‘Der Embolos’, 22, seeing a ‘Harmonie’; but note his ﬁgs. 12–13 at pp. 12–15. 160 IEph 3009 (inscribed on the left one of the two central piers of the gate, just below the capital, on the side facing the square): ‘To Good Fortune. The city constructed the pavement in front of the auditorium and the Library of Celsus out of the funds of the inheritance of Julia Potentilla.’ 161 For rt*rsqxla (sustro-ma) of the interior paving of single structures, e.g. IG 22 1668.61, 72 and, probably, 7.4255.24. By contrast, the Domitianic inscription (above, n. 158) refers only to sg+m rsqx&rim so $Emb kot. 162 Paus. 8.41.8 (of the Temple of Apollo at Bassae). 163 Cf. Aristid. Or. 18.3; 17.9, 19; see below, Ch. 7. 164 CIL 6.1468 + 37068, in the name of the praetor peregrinus L.Naevius Surdinus, of 11/10 BC; cf. P. Zanker, Forum Romanum: die Neugestaltung durch Augustus (Tübingen, 1970), 24; dated to 15 BC by D. R. Dudley, Urbs Roma: A Source Book of Classical Texts on the City and its Monuments (London, 1967), 96–7. 165 In Italy: Veleia (CIL 11.1184), Paestum (Annali della Facoltà di Lettere dell’Università di Perugia, 18 (1980/81), 105–15), Saepinum (AE 1959.276), Terracina (CIL 10.6306), Assisi (CIL 11.5399–5400), Ferentinum (CIL 10.5847), Pompeii, Atina Lucana and Juvanum; in Spain: Saguntum (C. Aranegui, in Trillmich and Zanker (eds.), Stadtbild und Ideologie, 248); in Africa: Lepcis Magna (IRT 520); Hippo Regius (P. Romanelli, Topograﬁa e archeologia dell’Africa romana (Turin, 1970), 102–3). In the East: Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 221, no. 3 (bronze letters ﬁxed to a round clipeus). 166 R. Martin, ‘Agora et Forum’, MÉFRA 84 (1972), 903–33; Balty, Curia Ordinis, passim; cf. R. Chevallier, ‘Le Forum dans la mentalité collective romaine: l’espace-temps de la cité’, in R. Martin (ed.), Forum et Plaza Mayor dans le monde hispanique: colloque interdisciplinaire, Casa de Velázquez, Madrid, 28 octobre 1976 (Paris, 1978), 27–32. 167 N. Duval and F. Baratte, Les Ruines de Sufetula: Sbeitla (Tunis, 1973); Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 47–8.

notes (pp. 118–24) 168 L.-A. Constans, Gigthis: étude d’histoire et d’archéologie sur un emporium de la petite syrte, extr. from Nouvelles archives des missions scientiﬁques, fasc. 14 (Paris, 1916), 41–4. 169 Romanelli, Topograﬁa e archeologia, 101–2; Balty, Curia Ordinis, 357; cf. P. Gros on fora in Africa. 170 Wightman, Gallia Belgica, 82; see further D. Bayard and J. L. Massy, ‘Le Forum d’Amiens antique au Haut-Empire, 1973–1978: six années de recherches au square Jules Bocquet et au Logis du Roy’, Cahiers archéologiques de la Picardie, 6 (1979), 131–52. 171 e.g. Pisidian Antioch (Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 147–54) and the Trajaneum at Pergamon: Lyttelton, ‘The Design and Planning of Temples’, 42, 47. Cf. Hadrian’s Library in Athens and the Trajaneum at Italica, each modelled on the Temple of Peace at Rome: Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 269; P. León Alonso and P. Rodríguez Oliva, ‘The Hispano-Romano Town in Andalusia’, in The Hispano-Roman Town, 12–53, at 39, ﬁg. 172 de Ligt, Fairs and Markets, 117–28, 211–29, 250–6. 173 BAC (1898), clvii–clviii = ILS 5351. For Etruscus, see above, Ch. 5, n. 36. 174 Cf. CIL 8.304: [?opus pla]teae novae [de]rectae a porta milit[ari], at Haidra (Ammaedara), 166. 175 West: e.g. Saepinum, Italy (CIL 9.2476 = ILS 5353: plateam a tervio ad tervium); East: Ephesus: IEph 422a ([te-]s plateias te-s apo tou propulo[u], ‘the plateia (leading) from the propylon’), with Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 91; Aphrodisias: CIG 2782.18–19 (above, n. 116); in general, Robert, Études anatoliennes, 532–6; id., A travers l’Asie Mineure: poètes et prosateurs, monnaies grecques, voyageurs et géographie, BÉFAR 239 (Athens and Paris, 1980), 127–8, 155–9. 176 e.g. Diod. Sic. 17.52.3; Plin. Ep. 10.98.1; Plut. Thes. 27.4; Sext. Emp. Pyr. 1.188; OGIS 491.9; cf. André, ‘Les Noms latins du chemin et de la rue’ (above, n. 95); W. Bauer (ed.), A Greek–English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature 5, tr. and rev. by F. W. Gingrich and F. W. Dasker 2 (Chicago, 1979), 666. 177 CIL 8.2723 = 18120 = AE 1987.1061 ([ad ex]ornandam plateam arcus). 178 CIL 8.23291 = AE 1898.48 (opus plateae . . . cum gradib(us) III pe[r]fecerunt). 179 CIL 10.7516 = ILS 5352 (Sulci, Sardinia: plateam quae strata non erat stravit); CIL 8.4878 = AE 1903.97 = ILAlg. 1.1773 = ILS 2943 (Thubursicu Numidarum: plateam v[e]terem [omni] lapid[e] spoliatam . . . constravit, dated to 324). 180 Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 147–54, 219–21, pace H.-U. Wiemer, AS 47 (1997), 195–216; cf. the exhibition ‘Building a New Rome: The Imperial Colony of Pisidian Antioch’, organized by the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, 13 Jan. to 24 Feb. 2006, which can now be viewed online at http://www.lsa. umich.edu/kelsey/antioch/. 181 C. Courtois, Timgad. Antique Thamugadi (Algiers, 1951), fold-out plan at rear: the ‘piazza’ is located between nos. 21, 39, 40 and 41. 182 Melito, Peri Pascha, l. 704; Hesych. s.v. pkaseai| q
301

Use and Abuse’, in Sources for the Ancient Greek City-state, Symposium August 24–27 1994. Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, 2 (Copenhagen, 1995), 326–44, and L. Rubinstein, ‘Pausanias as a Source for the Classical Greek polis’, in M. H. Hansen and K. Raaﬂaub (eds.), Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis (Stuttgart, 1995), 211–17. 203 Aristid. Or. 26.97. 204 Cf. also Philo, De Opiﬁcio Mundi 4.17 (perhaps based on Alexandria): ‘temples, gymnasia, public offices, agora, harbours, shipyards, streets, construction of walls, and other public and private buildings.’ 205 Aristides may have been thinking of the recent Hadrianic rebuilding of his home town of Smyrna, which included new grain warehouses, a gymnasium ‘among the most magniﬁcent in Asia’, and a large, hilltop temple (Philostr. VS 532), although, if so, he ignored the basilica. 206 D. A. Russell, Dio Chrysostom: Orations VII, XII, XXXVI (Cambridge, 1992), 115. 207 Jones, Roman World of Dio Chrysostom, 58, suggests Carystos, but note Russell, Dio Chrysostom, 116. 208 Dio Chrys. Or. 7.24. 209 Calp. Ecl. 7.30–4 (noted by Russell, Dio Chrysostom, 117). Cf. esp. qualiter haec patulum concedit vallis in orbem . . . sic ibi planitiem curvae sinus ambit harenae with rpeq ua*qacn joi&kom pkg+m o lajq m. 210 Cf. Lucian, Hippias 6, distinguishing a room by its shape (see below, Ch. 12). Conversely, for the recognition of architecture in nature, cf. Philostr. Imag. 6: ‘the trees of a grove create a theatre enclosure for Orpheus, so birds may sit on them and he can work his music in their shade.’ 211 Dio Chrys. Or. 7.38–9. 212 Cf. CIL 10.3714, of the thermae Severianae at Puteoli. 213 P. Zanker, ‘Einleitung’, in Schalles et al. (eds.), Die römische Stadt, 23 (‘Rückzug aus der Öffentlichkeit’). 214 Schalles and Hesberg, ‘Ausblick’, ibid. 391–8. 215 The East was conspicuously absent from the scope of the Xanten colloquium: ibid. 395: ‘because of its different cultural traditions [the East] should remain beyond consideration’ (my translation). 216 SHA, Hadr. 17.6–7. 217 Schalles and Hesberg, ‘Ausblick’. 218 CIL 8.26549–50; 15513–14. See above, Ch. 4. 219 Mar, ‘El teatro de Tarragona’. 220 V. Kockel, ‘Ostia im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. Beobachtungen zum Wandel eines Stadtbilds,’ in Schalles et al. (eds.), Die römische Stadt, 99–117. 221 Dion. Hal. Rhet. 256–7 (U.-R.); Men. Rhet. 349.7; cf. D. A. Russell and N. G. Wilson (eds.), Menander Rhetor (Oxford, 1981), 251. See below, Ch. 11. 222 IGRom. 3.1353 = OGIS 2.625 (dated 150). Cf. also the Hadrianic Olympieion at Athens, approached off axis by a tetrastyle porch: Willers, Hadrians panhellenisches Programm. 223 AE 1926.92 (dated to 145–61). 224 Meiggs, Roman Ostia, pl. xi. The best example of such a harmonious appearance is the well-preserved Broad Street in Ludlow (cf. N. Pevsner, Shropshire (Harmondsworth, 1958), 187: ‘one of the most memorable streets in England’). 225 G. Becatti, ‘Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana’, Not. Scav. (1940), 32–40; Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 76 (quote) and 277, with pl. xi, a. 226 B. Bollmann, Römische Vereinshäuser: Untersuchungen zu den Scholae der römischen Berufs-, Kult- und Augustalen-Kollegien in Italien (Mainz, 1998), 169–73. 227 ILS 5327–8; G. Calza, Epigraphica, 1 (1939), 28; Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 325–7. 228 Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 327–8. 229 Bollmann, Römische Vereinshäuser, 323–7. 230 CIL 13.5096; G. T. Schwarz, ‘Les Scholae et le Forum d’Aventicum’, Bulletin de l’Association Pro Aventico, 17 (1957), 13–74, at 25–8. 231 Nash, Pict. Dict. Rome, ii. 392–4. 232 Y. Thébert, ‘Les Sodalités dans les thermes d’Afrique du Nord’, in Les Thermes Romains. Actes de la table ronde organisée par l’École Française de Rome (Rome, 11–12 novembre 1988), CÉFR, 142 (Rome, 1991), 193–204, esp. 195–7. 233 Ibid. 199–200; H. Broise and Y. Thébert, Les Thermes memmiens: étude architecturale et histoire urbaine, Recherches archéologiques franco-tunisiennes à Bulla Regia. II. Les architectures, CÉFR, 28.2 (Rome, 1993), 70. 234 See above, Ch. 4; cf. mosaics with labyrinthine meander friezes in private baths in Italy, e.g. at Villa Prato, Sperlonga: X. Lafon, ‘Les Bains privés dans l’Italie romaine au IIe siècle av. J.-C.’, in Les Thermes romains, 97–114, ﬁgs. 2–3, 5–7, 10, 12–16. 235 ILAfr. 454; Broise and Thébert, Thermes Memmiens, 347–51. 236 W. Eck, ‘Ehrungen für Personen hohen soziopolitischen Ranges im öffentlichen und privaten Bereich’, in Die römische Stadt, 359–76. For ‘public’ aspects of earlier private houses, see A. Wallace-Hadrill, Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Princeton, NJ, 1994), 17–37. 237 P. Mingazzini, L’Insula di Giasone Magno a Cirene (Rome, 1966), 105–9. 238 Ibid. 57, 87 with pls. xxvi.3, xxxix. 239 Ibid. 96–102 with pls. xxxv–xxxvi. 240 R. Neudecker, Die Pracht der Latrine: zum Wandel öffentlicher Bedürfnisanstalten in der kaiserlichen Stadt (Munich, 1994). 241 Ibid. 45. Cf. rows of seats reserved for philosophical discussion: A. von Salis, ‘Imagines

302

notes (pp. 124–30)

illustrium’, in Eumusia. Festgabe für Ernst Howald zum sechzigsten Geburtstag am 20. April 1947 (Erlenbach, 1947), 11. 242 Gleason, Making Men, 84–7, on the ‘askesis culture’. 243 e.g. Mart. 11.98; [Plut.], De Liberis Educandis; Epict. Diss. 3.2.3–4; M. Aur. Med. 1.9, 1.15. Brown, Body and Society, 17–25. See Neudecker, Prachtlatrine, 21–31, esp. 28–31 for this new interest in ‘souci de soi’, and M. Foucault, The History of Sexuality, iii. The Care of the Self (Harmondsworth, 1990). 244 As suggested by Bowie, ‘The “Temple of Hadrian” ’, 140, n. 12, noting that his daughter’s name was V(a)rilla (Ot$qkkg). 245 The word is of a high literary register, with parallels from Homer and Greek tragedy, e.g. Il. 8.439 (‘seats of the gods’). 246 ÖJh 44 (1959), Beibl., 265, no. 40. 247 Neudecker, Prachtlatrine, 157, no. 9, with literature. 248 Ibid., no. 8 (restored in 5th or 6th cent.). Cf. similar structures at Corinth and Salamis. 249 P. Ward, Sabratha: A Guide for Visitors (Harrow, 1970), 37 and ﬁg. 11. 250 The type continues into the 3rd cent. at Thubursicum, the Summer Baths at Thuburbo Maius (225), Aïn Doura, and Dougga; cf. also Kom el-Dikka baths, Alexandria. 251 G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Forme e signiﬁcati dell’ architettura in Roma nell’età del principato’, in ANRW II.12.1 (Berlin and New York, 1982), 212–32, at 225 (my translation). 252 B. W. Frier, ‘Demography’, in CAH 2 xi (Cambridge, 2000), 787–816, at 813, suggests that the population of Rome grew slightly from over 750,000 in AD 14 to a million by the 2nd cent., while Alexandria, Antioch, and later Carthage ‘numbered only a few hundred thousand’; he estimates that the whole Empire attained a peak of c.60 million by 164. 253 Onians, Art and Thought, 121–6; Hesberg, ‘Architekturepigrammen’, 68 (epigrams on large buildings are addressed to large groups of people). 254 Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 246. 255 e.g. Tomb of Caecilia Metella; Theatre of Marcellus: LTUR iv. 31–5. 256 MacMullen, Roman Social Relations, 58; see Ch. 11, below. 257 Neudecker, Prachtlatrine, 41. 258 G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Aspetti della programmazione architettonica provinciale nel carteggio bitinico di C.Plinio Cecilio Secundo,’ in uika*| va*qim. Miscellanea di studi critici in onore di Eugenio Manni, iv (Rome, 1980), 1377–85, at 1381, n. 20. 259 R. Neudecker, ‘Basilika und Thermen. Offene Räume für die römische Gesellschaft’, Daidalos, 21 (1986), 44–53. 260 For the ‘attractions of nucleation’, see S. E. Alcock, Graecia Capta: The Landscapes of Roman Greece (Cambridge, 1993), 93–128.

Notes to Chapter 7 1 Dio Chrys. Or. 40.8 jasarja*psx sg+m p kim: cf. Plin. Ep. 10.39.5, against the Claudiopolitans (defodiunt plus quam aediﬁcant), or, as ‘razing to the ground’, cf. Hdt. 7.156; Soph. Phil. 998; Thuc. 4.109; Syll.3 344.7 (Teos); Plut. Publicola 10; a$ma*rsasom pepogja: cf. Plin. Ep. 6.16.13; Tac. Agr. 30.6. 2 Dio Chrys. Or. 47.16. 3 Id. Or. 40.8–9: arvqa+ ja jasackarsa e$qepia; cf. ILS 6043, l. 9; Plin. Ep. 10.70.1; pokt+ sapeim seqa: cf. ibid. 49.1 (the old temple at Prusa, overshadowed by the new architecture). 4 Dio Chrys. Or. 47.13–15. 5 Ibid. 14. The deletion, after Emp., of the manuscript reading ot$ d m, misses the irony of these lines. 6 Ibid. 15. 7 Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 49. 8 Dio Chrys. Or. 47.17. 9 Id. Or. 40.11. 10 For a contemporary, privately funded stoa with architectural ornament inﬂuenced by metropolitan Roman style: P. Liljenstolpe and P. von Schmalensee, ‘The Roman Stoa of Poleites at Labraynda: A Preliminary Report on its Architecture’, Opuscula Atheniensia, 21 (1996), 125–48. 11 uikosila: Syll.3 409.56; IPriene 104.16; lecakοwtva: IMagnesia 92b7; a$qesg+: OGIS 234.19. 12 a$nxla: IAssos 8.8; lceho|: IG 12.9.4.6. 13 Single buildings: de Angelis, ‘La Periegesi di Pausania’, 213–62; whole city: Men. Rhet. 422, in speeches Peri stephano-tikou; Dion. Hal. Rhet. 6 (Protreptikos athle-tais, 5). 14 Aristid. Or. 27.13 9 (‘the beauties of public buildings and the whole construction and size of the city’); 23.30 (‘beauties of public buildings and the size of precincts’). Cf. Strabo 12, 575c (‘the city rivals the leading cities in Asia in size, beauty and discipline in peace and war’). 15 Syracuse: Xen. Eph. 5.1 (‘the large and beautiful city of Syracuse’); Flor. 1.22.34 (saved by the ‘beauty’ of her architecture from destruction by M. Claudius Marcellus in 212 BC). Alexandria: Plut. Ant. 80 (spared by Octavian, ‘as he admired the size and beauty of the city’). Cf. Cremona: Dio Cass. 64.15.1: ‘this disaster was no less than the most terrible events, since the city had been ﬁlled with buildings of great size and beauty.’ 16 On these disputes, see L. Robert, ‘Documents d’Asie Mineure’, BCH 101 (1977), 43–132, at 130; id., A travers l’Asie Mineure, 422–6; id., ‘La Titulature de Nicée et de Nicomédie. La Gloire et la haine’, Harv. Stud. 81 (1977), 1–39; R. Merkelbach, ‘Der Rangstreit der Städte Asiens und die Rede des Aelius Aristides über die Eintracht’, ZPE 32 (178), 287–96.

17 In the 2nd cent. Pergamon had a population of c.120,000 (above, Ch. 5), Smyrna c.100,000, and Ephesus perhaps 200,000. Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 49. 18 Dio Chrys. Or. 34.48, 51; Dio Cass. 52.37.10. U. M. Kampmann, Die HomonoiaVerbindungen der Stadt Pergamon, oder der Versuch einer kleinasiatischen Stadt unter römischer Herrschaft eigenständige Politik zu betreiben, Saarbrücker Studien zur Archäologie und alten Geschichte, 9 (Saarbrücken, 1996), 20. 19 R. Haensch, Capita provinciarum. Statthaltersitze und Provinzialverwaltung in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Kölner Forschungen, 7 (Mainz, 1997), 312–15. For assizes in other cities, see C. Habicht, ‘New Evidence on the Province of Asia’, JRS 65 (1975), 64–91, and G. P. Burton, ‘Proconsuls, Assizes and the Administration of Justice Under the Empire’, ibid. 92–106. Even by 132–5, there was no ﬁxed governor’s residence: cf. Philostr. VS 1.25, 534–5. 20 Prytaneion (a cult building, not a municipal office in the modern sense): Alzinger, RE, Suppl. 12 (1970), 1646–8; bouleuterion (possibly Augustan): IEph 740b; W. Alzinger, ‘Die Lokalisierung des hellenistischen Rathauses von Ephesos’, in H. Büsing and F. Hiller (eds.), Bathron. Beiträge zur Architektur und verwandten Künsten für Heinrich Drerup (Saarbrücken, 1988), 21–9; stoa basileios: IEph 404 (in the names of C. Sextilius Pollio, his wife Ofellia Bassa, son C. Ofellius Proculus, and possibly other children). 21 Aqueduct: IEph 3092; Gate of Mazaeus and Mithridates: ibid. 3008. The origin of this dedicatory practice is wrongly dated to Nero’s reign by M. Dräger, Die Städte der Provinz Asia in der Flavierzeit. Studien zur kleinasiatischen Stadt- und Regionalgeschichte, Europäische Hochschulschriften, ser. 3, 576 (Frankfurt-am-Main., etc., 1993), 160–1 and 155, n. 12. 22 Building: W. Alzinger, RE Suppl. xii (1970), 1634–6; id., Augusteische Architektur (Vienna, 1974), 26–37; JÖAI 50 (1972–5), suppl. 87–9, 258–80; ANRW 2.7.2 (1980), 817; statuary: J. Inan and E. Alföldi-Rosenbaum, Römische und frühbyzantinische Porträtplastik aus der Türkei. Neue Funde (Mainz, 1979), nos. 3 and 5; Price, Rituals and Power, 140, 255, Cat. 30. 23 Pergamon: Kampmann, Die Homonoia-Verbindungen, 14–19; Haensch, Capita provinciarum, 314; Ephesus and Nicaea: Dio Cass. 51.20.6–7. 24 Ephesus: Acta Ap. 19.35. 25 A. Bammer, ‘Elemente ﬂavisch-trajanischer Architekturfaßaden aus Ephesos’, JÖAI 52 (1978–80), Hauptblatt, 67–90; Dräger, Die Städte, 136–43. 26 Merkelbach, ‘Der Rangstreit’, 288–9; S. J. Friesen, Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia, and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (Leiden, 1993), 50 ff.; Dräger, Die Städte, 143–50. 27 IEph 449, ll. 11–14 (so| moi| sx&m Rebarsexm e> [q]cxm lecherim ja g< sx&m pakaix&m jsirla*[sx]m a$mamxri| e> pqepem); D. Knibbe, ÖJh 50 (1972–5), Beibl., 33–5, no. 3 with photo at 34, ﬁg. 3; AE 1975.788; cf. L. Robert, ‘Sur des inscriptions d’Ephèse’, Rev. Phil.3 51 (1977), 7–14, at 13–14; G. Petzl, ‘Epheso-Smyrnaicum’, ZPE 31 (1978), 227–8. Date: A. Martin, La Titulature épigraphique de Domitien, Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie, 181 (Frankfurt-amMain, 1987), 106–7. 28 J. Keil, ‘Die erste Kaiserneokorie von Ephesos’, Numismatische Zeitschrift , 52 (1919), 115–20; Dräger, Die Städte, 292–3, nos. 112–13. 29 Theatre: IEph 2034–5; Embolos: ibid. 3008; ‘Harbour Baths’: ibid. 427; Frieden, Twice Neokoros. A second aqueduct was added in 92/3: IEph 413, 415–16, 419). For an overview of Domitianic building in Ephesus, see Dräger, Die Städte, 151–64. 30 Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’ (above, Ch. 3, n. 127); but see Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 447. 31 G. M. Rogers, The Sacred Identity of Ephesus: Foundation Myths of a Roman City (London, 1991). 32 Ibid. 427 (baths); 5101, 5113 (library). 33 IEph 424– 424a. 34 Dio Chrys. Or. 38.47. D. Kienast, ‘Zu den Homonoia-Vereinbarungen in der römischen Kaiserzeit’, ZPE 109 (1995), 267–82. 35 The treaty between Plarasa-Aphrodisias, Cibyra, and Tabae was dedicated to Zeus Philios, Homonoia, and Roma; cf. Kampmann, Die Homonoia-Verbindungen, 25–34. 36 Plut. Prae. Ger. Reip. 805a. Although some historians conclude from this passage that Greek cities under the Empire had no independent ‘foreign policy’ (e.g. Price, Rituals and Power, 126; Quass, Honoratiorenschicht, 149), this was not strictly the case: Kienast, ‘Homonoia-Vereinbarungen’, 279. 37 Kienast, ‘Homonoia-Vereinbarungen’. 38 For the less likely possibility that Dio here refers to shared private buildings, the result of mutual rights of property-ownership, now possible under such arrangements of mutual citizenship after the Lex Pompeia in Bithynia had lapsed, see D. Kienast, ‘Die Homonoiaverträge in der römischen Kaiserzeit’, Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte, 14 (1964), 51–64, at 60. 39 Dio Chrys. Or. 23 [40].30; cf. Jones, The Roman World of Dio Chrysostom, 91–2; Kienast, ‘Homonia-Vereinbarungen’, 269. 40 Dio Chrys. Or. 38.41: uikosila here refers as much to ‘the erection of public buildings through the political service of individual citizens’ as to ‘office-holding’, as argued by Kienast, ‘Homonoia-Vereinbarungen’, 270, n. 20. 41 IEph 272, 274; cf. IG 2.2.3297. S. Follet, ‘Hadrien ktistès kai oikistès: lexicographie et realia’, in F. Létoublon (ed.), La Langue et les textes en grec ancien: actes du colloque Pierre Chantraine (Grenoble, 5–8 septembre 1989) (Amsterdam, 1992), 241–54. 42 Anth. Pal. 15.6; INikaia 1; Halfmann, Itinera Principum, 198–9; R. Merkelbach, Nikaia in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Opladen, 1987), 33–4. 43 The epistatai in IEph 276 and 278–9 were not in charge of building works, but only statues, pace Follet, ‘Hadrien ktistès’, 250. There is evidence for Hadrianic work on the harbour, but not for imperial funding.

notes (pp. 130–4) Philostr. VS 2.25, 531, also mentioning a new market. Tac. Ann. 1.78.1; SHA, Hadr. 12.3; cf. C. Calpurnius Flaccus, appointed curator templi (RIT 264) just before Hadrian’s visit in 122/3. 46 Philostr. VS 2.25, 532. 47 Arundel Collection, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. ISmyrna 697 = IGRom. 4.1431 = CIG 2.3148 = R. Chandler, Marmora Oxoniensia (Oxford, 1763), 78, no. 48. 48 The distinction between ‘paving the basilica’ and ‘paving the basilica next to the bouleuterion’ may or may not refer to two different buildings. 49 Cf. an inscribed base of the Temple of Artemis, Sardis: W. H. Buckler and D. M. Robinson, Greek and Latin Inscriptions, Part I, Sardis, Publications of the American Society for the Excavation of Sardis, 7 (Leiden, 1932), 143–4, no. 181. 50 Cf. Plin. Ep. 2.17.20; Dig. 8.2.17. Pliny uses the word of a structure in his favourite room of his Laurentine villa, the diaeta, which looks partly towards the covered terrace (xystus) and partly towards the sea, but in both cases faces the sun; R. Förtsch, Archäologischer Kommentar zu den Villenbriefen des jüngeren Plinius (Mainz, 1993), 56–7, refers incorrectly to this inscription as ‘CIL XIV. 3148’. 51 Halfmann, Itinera Principum, 128, 208. 52 IEph 430; total length almost 900 m. But the decoration may have been completed later: R. Heberdey, JÖAI 7 (1904), Beiblatt, 38–43. 53 IEph 428. 54 S. Karwiese, Erster vorläuﬁger Gesamtbericht über die Wiederaufnahme der archäologischen Untersuchung der Marienkirche in Ephesos (Vienna, 1989), 10–11, 14–15, 40–2. The old view that it was Varius’ ‘Temple of Hadrian’ is no longer tenable: see above, Ch. 2. 55 See above, Ch. 2. 56 Considered spurious by B. Keil (ed.), Aelii Aristidis Smyrnaei quae supersunt omnia, ii. Orationes XVII–LIII continens (Berlin, 1898), ii. 73, it is believed to be genuine by C. P. Jones, ‘The Rhodian Oration Ascribed to Aelius Aristides’, CQ 40 (1990), 514–22, who adduces mainly stylistic reasons. Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, i. 333, n. 31 doubts whether the speech refers to this earthquake. 57 For the image of ‘thanks-offerings’, cf. ISmyrna 697 (above, n. 47). 58 For a monument to Saxa at Phaselis, apparently occasioned by his building activity, see Schäfer (ed.), Phaselis, 154–9. 59 Kampmann, Die Homonoia-Verbindungen, 24 (my translation). 60 SHA, Ant. Pius 3.3. 61 Aristid. Or. 23.73. 62 IEph 728; cf. Fontani, ‘I Vedii di Efeso’, 234–5, with stemma of the family at 237; Bowie, ‘Vedii Antonini’, 874. 63 Syll.3 849 = Abbott-Johnson, no. 100. 64 IEph 21, 2040. Granted c.138/43: Dräger, Die Städte, 115. 65 Habicht, Die Inschriften des Asklepieions, 32 no. 10; BÉ 1971.539; LeGlay, ‘Hadrien et l’Asklépieion’; Dräger, Die Städte, 118. 66 For these buildings, see above, Ch. 5. 67 Smyrna’s exact title is unknown: Kampmann, Die Homonoia-Verbindungen, 31, n. 259, pace C. J. Cadoux, Ancient Smyrna: A History of the City from the Earliest Times to 324 A.D. (Oxford, 1938), 263, Dräger, Die Städte, 118. The name ‘Hadriane’ may not have survived Pius’ reign. 68 Price, Rituals and Power, 252. 69 I follow Bowie, ‘Vedii Antonini’, 867–74; cf. M. Steskal, ‘Zu den Stiftungen des M. Claudius P. Vedius Antoninus Phaedrus Sabinianus und ihrem Echo in Ephesos’, Tyche, 16 (2001), 177–88. Fontani, ‘I Vedii ’, 233 allows for both possibilities, ‘Vedius II’ or ‘Vedius III’. 70 Unlike his father, Sabinianus was probably never asiarch; IEph 728 probably refers to his father (Fontani, ‘I Vedii’, 234), pace M. D. Campanile, ‘Contese civiche ad Efeso in età imperiale’, SCO 42 (1994), 215–23. 71 Until then, the city had 2 or at most 3 gymnasia: (1) the Hellenistic ‘upper gymnasium’ by the upper agora (cf. IEph 2113, 4123, l. 8); (2) the Domitianic ‘Harbour Baths’, including the porticoes of Verulanus; and (3) Varius’ baths, which may or may not have been a rebuilding of (1). 72 IEph 1491 = Syll.3 850 = Oliver 138 = Abbott-Johnson 423, no. 101, ll. 7–18. Tr. in N. Lewis, Greek Historical Documents: The Roman Principate (1974), 89, no.26i. This inscription was also inscribed at the bouleuterion. 73 Personal rivalry between Sabinianus and the unknown builder of the ‘East Gymnasium’: P. Scherrer, ‘The City of Ephesos: From the Roman Period to Late Antiquity’, in H. Koester (ed.), Ephesos Metropolis of Asia: An Interdisciplinary Approach to its Archaeology, Religion, and Culture, Harv. Theol. Stud. 41 (Valley Forge, Pa., 1995), 1–25, followed by Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 104–5; price-rises caused by the new buildings: H. Engelmann, ‘Archäologie und Epigraphie in Ephesos’, in H. Friesinger (ed.), 100 Jahre österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos. Akten des Symposions Wien 1995, Archäologische Forschungen, 1 (Vienna, 1999), 157–60; or dominance of the Vedii in the provincial priesthood: Campanile, ‘Contese civiche’, 220–1. 74 For this issue as the main objection to the building plans, see Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 192. 75 See also Chs. 8 and 11. 76 In 104 the Boule used one block (Greek rki|), equivalent to Latin cuneus) of the theatre: IEph 27.157; cf. Rogers, Sacred Identity, 158; Balty, Curia Ordinis, 514. 77 Behr, Aelius Aristides, 63, n. 14. In the following years the provincial assemblies proba44 45

303

bly met at: Laodiceia ad Lycum (148); Ephesus (149); Pergamon? (150); Smyrna? (151). Sabinianus may have wanted to complete the project for the 145 assembly, but been prevented by his opponents’ obstruction. 78 As Antoninus’ letter of 145/6 was inscribed in the bouleuterion, it can reasonably be seen as relating to that project too, and, as it apparently refers only to the addition of decoration, the work could have been completed within two years. 79 For Albus as suffect consul in late 132 or early 133 and proconsul of Asia in 147/8, W. Eck, ‘Die Laufbahn des L. Antonius Albus, Suffektkonsul unter Hadrian’, Epigraphische Studien, 9 (1972), 22–3; Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 213; Behr, ‘Studies’, 1187–93. Neither 148/9 nor 160/1 (proposed by Bowersock) is possible for his proconsulship. Cf. C. A. Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales (Amsterdam, 1968), 75, n. 49. 80 GIBM 492 = IEph 1492 = Oliver 139.11–15 (after 10 Dec. 149). 81 IEph 1493 = Oliver 140.14–16, dated to the proconsulship of Popilius Priscus (149/50). 82 R. Meinel, Das Odeion. Untersuchungen an überdachten antiken Theatergebäuden (Frankfurt-am-Main, Bern, and Cirencester, 1980), 125–9; Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 191–4; L. Bier, ‘The Bouleuterion at Ephesos: Some Observations for a New Survey’, in P. Scherrer, H. Täuber, and H. Thür (eds.), Steine und Wege. Festschrift für Dieter Knibbe, Sonderschriften des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts, 32 (Vienna, 1999), 7–18. For the identiﬁcation as a bouleuterion, Balty, Curia Ordinis, 512–14. If Sabinianus were descended from the builders of the stoa basileios, C. Sextilius Pollio (perhaps through the Augustan C. Vedius Pollio) or his wife Ofellia Bassa (through his mother Ofellia Phaedrina), the juxtaposition would also have had a personal signiﬁcance. 83 Balty, Curia Ordinis, 514. Only the new bouleuterion at Aphrodisias is of comparable size in Asia Minor. 84 AE 1981.845; cf. K. Dietz, ‘Die beiden P. Mummii Sisennae und der Wiederaufbau der Basilike Stoa von Thera’, Chiron, 23 (1993), 295–311, at 297, with bibliography at n. 24. 85 Not by Vedius himself, as W. Eck, ‘Administrative Dokumente: Publikation und Mittel der Selbstdarstellung’, Die Verwaltung des römischen Reiches in der hohen Kaiserzeit: ausgewählte und erweiterte Beiträge, 2 (Basel, 1998), 359–81, at 369–71, and Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 193. 86 See above, Ch. 4. 87 Bases of statues of Faustina Minor and the young Lucius Verus (L. Aelius Aurelius Commodus) survive (IEph 285a and 1505); for one of Marcus, attested in the papers of the excavator J. T. Wood, see A. Kalinowski and H. Täuber, ‘A New Antonine Inscription and a New Imperial Statue-group from the Bouleuterion at Ephesos’, JRA 14 (2001), 351–7, at 353, ﬁg. 2. 88 Although this is not directly conﬁrmed by the fragmentary inscription (IEph 460; cf. Heberdey, ÖJh 15 (1912), Beibl., 172), the wording otherwise repeats the gymnasium inscriptions, so the full dedication was probably identical, i.e. to Artemis, Antoninus Pius and his house, and the city. 89 IEph 1489, 1491–3; also 1487–8 (Hadrianic). For documents inscribed on the walls of bouleuteria in general, see H. Müller, ‘Bemerkungen zu Funktion und Bedeutung des Rats in den hellenistischen Städten’, in Stadtbild und Bürgerbild im Hellenismus (above, Introduction, n. 16), 44–5. A second copy of Antoninus’ letter resolving the conﬂict (IEph 1489a–1490) was perhaps displayed in the new baths-gymnasium: Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 194, n. 751. 90 Sometimes called the ‘geronticon’: K. Kourouniotis, ‘$Amarja*uai e$m Mt*rz s© e$p Laia*mdq{’, Aqv. Deks. 7 (1921–2), 42–77 and 227–41; Meinel, Odeion, 541–2. Identiﬁed as a bouleuterion by Balty, Curia Ordinis, 448–53. 91 Kourouniotis, ‘$Amarja*uai e$m Mt*rz’, 68–76. According to the ﬁndspot of the base, the statue of Marcus occupied the second position from the left, as seen from within the chamber; to its left was presumably that of Pius; for the identiﬁcation of this torso (Izmir Museum, Inv. no. 564; A. Aziz, Guide du Musée de Smyrne (Istanbul, 1933), 69) with an early type of Pius as imperator (above, Ch. 3, n. 158), see K. Fittschen, reviewing H. G. Niemeyer, Studien zur statuarischen Darstellung der römischen Kaiser, Monumenta Artis Romanae, 7 (Berlin, 1968), in BJ 170 (1970), 541–52, at 546, against Niemeyer, Studien, 31, n. 193. The absence of Faustina Maior dates the building’s dedication to after 141. 92 Kourouniotis, ‘$Amarja*uai e$m Mt* rz ’. Balty, Curia Ordinis, 449 argues that these were added subsequently. 93 As Balty, Curia Ordinis, 450. Faustina III: b. 30 Nov. 147; cf. Birley, Marcus Aurelius, 247. 94 Kourouniotis, ‘$Amarja*uai e$m Mt*rG’. 95 Fittschen (above, n. 91), 546 dates the statuary to 146. 96 D. Levi, ‘Gli scavi di Iasos’, ASAA 31–2 (1969–70), 544–52; identiﬁed as a bouleuterion by Balty, Curia Ordinis, 444–7. A portico in the agora was dedicated c.135/6 (Levi, ‘Iasos. Le campagne di scavo 1969–70’, ASAA 31–2 (1969–70), 487–8), but the bouleuterion could have been built before or after that date. 97 An unusually abundant literature exists on this building, of which the most important works are: J. Keil, ÖJh 21–2 (1922–4), 105, ibid. 23 (1926), suppl., 250–6, ibid. 24 (1929), suppl., 5–68, ibid. 25 (1930), 5–52, ibid. 27 (1932), suppl., 5–72, and 39 (1952), 42–6; R. Maccanico, ‘Ginnasi romani ad Efeso’, Arch. Class. 15 (1963), 32–60; Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’; A. Farrington, ‘Imperial Bath Buildings in South-west Asia Minor’, in Macready and Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World, 50–9, at 54–6; Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 162–4; M. Steskal and M. La Torre, ‘Das Vediusgymnasium in Ephesos’, ÖJh 70 (2001), 221–44 (M. Steskal, ‘Die Geschichte der archäologischen Erforschung des Vediusgymnasiums und seines Umfeldes’, 221–34; M. La Torre, ‘Neuaufnahme der Bauforschung am Vediusgymnasium in Ephesos’, 234– 44); Newby, Greek Athletics, 230–46; Burrell, ‘False Fronts’ (above, Ch. 1, n. 123).

304

notes (pp. 134–40)

98 IEph 438 (from the marble revetment of room IIIA: Steskal and La Torre, ‘Das Vediusgymnasium’, 223, n. 15, 243–4, ﬁg. 19; this room identiﬁed as the apodyterion: ibid. 227); 431 (more fragmentary, on an architrave from the palaestra). For the expression ‘from the foundations’ of Carminius’ street at Aphrodisias, see above, Ch. 6; for the language more generally, see Thomas and Witschel, ‘Constructing Reconstruction’, 141. 99 Aristid. Or.; cf. Keil, ÖJh 21–2 (1922–4), 105. 100 Steskal and La Torre, ‘Das Vediusgymnasium’, 227. 101 F. Fasolo, L’architettura romana di Efeso (Rome, 1962), 53. 102 Keil, ÖJh 24 (1929), suppl., 33–54, and 25 (1930), 21–38; Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’, 11–13. 103 For the altar, see Keil, ÖJh 24 (1929), suppl., ﬁgs. 16–17; the assumption that there were imperial statues is followed by H. Manderscheid, Die Skulpturenausstattung der kaiserzeitlichen Thermenanlagen, Monumenta artis Romanae, 15 (Berlin, 1981), 43–5, but this is doubted by Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 446–7, because of the lack of surviving imperial statuary; for the implications of this for the reading of the building as ‘imperial architecture’, see below, Ch. 8. 104 Steskal and La Torre, ‘Das Vediusgymnasium’, 225. 105 Malalas 280, 7–9, ed. Schenk von Stauffenberg, 313–17. Also one at Nicomedia (Aur. Vict. Caes. 16.12 attributes this to Marcus), perhaps reﬂecting its own contested status as ﬁrst city in Bithynia. 106 IEph 661. The 25.5-ft. size, probably the shaft, over three times those of the upper order of the Gate of Hadrian (Thür, Hadrianstor, 50), suggests a major building; for comparable sizes (e.g. altar court, Baalbek; nymphaeum, Scythopolis), Wilson Jones, Principles, 223. A gumnasion sebaston is also mentioned in IEph 633 (ﬁrst half of 2nd cent.); both inscriptions might also refer to the ‘Harbour Baths’ (cf. Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung des Euergetismus’, 290), or the name could be generic and used of both the ‘Harbour Baths’ (at IEph 633) and ‘Vedius’ Gymnasium’ (at IEph 661). However, Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 101, identiﬁes the sebaston gumnasion with the Harbour Baths. 107 J. C. Fant, ‘Ideology, Gift and Trade: A Distribution Model for the Roman Imperial Marbles’, in W. V. Harris (ed.), The Inscribed Economy: Production and Distribution in the Roman Empire in the Light of the Instrumentum Domesticum, JRA Suppl. (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1993), 145–70, at 156, n. 73. For the signiﬁcance of the material, see below, Ch. 8. 108 Halfmann, Senatoren (above, Introduction, n. 75), 168–9. 109 J. W. Sperling, Thera and Therasia (Athens, 1973), 78–80. 110 Balty, Curia Ordinis, 391–3; contra, Dörpfeld, in F. Hiller frhr. von Gaertringen (ed.), Thera: Untersuchungen, Vermessungen und Ausgrabungen in den Jahren 1895–1898, i (Berlin, 1899), 218–19, 230–1, restoring a full wall to the east, broken by 2 or even 4 doorways, and followed by Sperling, Thera and Therasia, 78–80, ﬁg. 29. Following this reconstruction, J. J. Coulton, The Architectural Development of the Greek Stoa (Oxford, 1976), 6, n. 1, observes that the building is not strictly a stoa. Hiller von Gaertringen and Dörpfeld had speculated that an earlier building stood on approximately the same site. 111 Sperling, Thera and Therasia, 79, ﬁg. 29 (nos. 4–5): ‘Perhaps the bath was considered part of the luxury attributed to the stoa by one of the above-mentioned inscriptions.’ Cf. Dörpfeld, in Thera, i. 218, 236–7; iii. 132. 112 IG 12.3.324 (a Doric column found in the northern part of the stoa). The benefactors were Agathopous son of Eutyches and Polyouchos and Aristodamos the sons of Cartidamas. 113 Found in situ in 1896; cf. Sperling, Thera and Therasia, 79: ‘The inscriptions had been inserted in the interior face of the rear wall in such a way as to catch the eye of a person coming in the front door.’ 114 18 July was the ancient Dies Alliensis, or, more recently, the day of the Great Fire of Rome in 64. 115 Cf. Dio Chrys., Or. 40.18: ‘you keep shouting out: “Let the building be put up, or let what has been put up be pulled down!” ’ Jones, Roman World of Dio Chrysostom, 112. 116 For the concept of patria in the Roman world, see E. Doblhofer, Exil und Emigration: zum Erlebnis der Heimatferne in der römischen Literatur (Darmstadt, 1987). 117 Lucius is inaccurately called ‘Caesar’, probably because of his inclusion in the statuary. He did not actually become ‘Caesar’ until 154: M. Hammond, ‘Imperial Elements in the Formula of the Roman Emperors during the First Two and a Half Centuries of the Empire’, MAAR 25 (1957), 19–64, at 31. 118 IG 12.3.326 = SIG 3 852a, ll. 7–8: ‘a man distinguished by nobility of family and acclaimed for his services to his home city’ (Appendix 3, Inscription B). 119 Ibid., ll. 8–13. 120 Ibid., ll. 19–21. 121 Cf. [Longinus], Subl. 43.3 (pqojorl*glasa presented to the Persian King, ranging from gold plate and tapestries to salted meats); Joseph. BJ 5.4.4 (ceilings of Herod’s palace in Jerusalem, ‘wonderful for the splendour of its ornaments’, hatla*rsai . . . kalpq sgsi pqojorllasxm); Diog. Laert. 1.7 (personal ornaments, pqojorllasa, forbidden by the Magi). 122 Cf. Diog. Laert. 6.72: Diogenes the Cynic presumably reversed a popular trope, when he ridiculed ‘good breeding and reputations and everything like that’ (et$ cemea| ja d na| ja sa+ soiat*sa pa*msa) as ‘ornaments of vice’ (pqojorl*glasa jaja|). 123 Thera, iii. 258–9; cf. IG 12.3.1392–3. For this identiﬁcation of the terrace sanctuary, Balty, Curia Ordinis, 393; cf. Thera, i. 237–46. 124 On cult statues in Roman public buildings, see P. Stewart, Statues in Roman Society: Representation and Response (Oxford, 2003), 25–7. 125 Inv. v. 8 (‘STW’, 129); iv. 9 (‘STW’, 149); ix. 25 (‘BSLK’, 175); v. 3 (‘BSLK’, 179). C. Dunant, Le Sanctuaire de Baalshamin à Palmyre, iii. Les Inscriptions, Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana, 10 (Rome, 1971), 13.

126 The interior is 41.50 m. long [c.140 Roman feet] and 10.10 m. deep [c.34 Roman feet]; the inexact dimensions in Roman feet imply that the space was already formed by the earlier Greek design. The extant doorway, 2 m. wide, asymmetrically placed in the east wall, and raised above the agora, is a later, clumsy addition, which shows that the building later partially regained its former link with the agora. 127 Later replaced by a wall. 128 Thera, i. 221–2, 233. Three portraits found were related to this dedication by Wolters, ibid. 226–7, but only his identiﬁcation of the young man with Lucius Verus is possible and even this may represent a private individual (J.-C. Balty, AK 20 (1977), 107, n. 58; Vermeule, Roman Imperial Art, 269); the bearded man shown with veiled head cannot be either Marcus or Hadrian (cf. M. Wegner, Hadrian: Plotina, Marciana, Matidia, Sabina, Das römische Herrscherbild, 2.3 (Berlin, 1956), 43–4, 66, 114, and pl. 31a–b, pace K. Fittschen and P. Zanker, Katalog der römischen Porträts in den Kapitolinischen Museen und den anderen kommunalen Sammlungen der Stadt Rom, i. Kaiser- und Prinzenbildnisse (Mainz, 1983), 54, n. 2, no. 51), so presumably represents a private individual, perhaps T. Flavius Cleitosthenes himself; the female portrait, which is alien to the iconography of Antonine empresses and princesses, may be his wife: Balty, Curia Ordinis, 391, n. 638. 129 Sperling, Thera and Therasia, 80: ‘One may reasonably suppose that some of the changes were introduced in connection with the repairs carried out [in the mid-2nd cent.]; for the inscriptions tell us that the roof had collapsed and other parts of the stucture were on the verge of crumbling.’ 130 e.g. in Athens: S. E. Alcock, Archaeologies of the Greek Past: Landscape, Monuments, and Memories (Cambridge, 2002), 55–8. 131 A head with mural crown was found in the excavations: Balty, Curia Ordinis, 393. 132 Cf. Silchester (Ch. 6, above); Balty, Curia Ordinis, 259, n. 22. The dimensions of this room, 7.38 by 10.10 m., are too small for a curia, as suggested by Balty, ibid. 393, even for a reduced ordo, as imposed under Trajan (cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 45.7; Kübler, in RE, iv.2, s.v. ‘decurio’, 2323–4). 133 G. M. Rogers, ‘Demosthenes of Oenoanda and Models of Euergetism’, JRS 81 (1991), 91–100. 134 Ibid., against M. Wörrle, Stadt und Fest im kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien. Studien zu einer agonistischen Stiftung aus Oenoanda (Munich, 1988), 257–8. 135 Rogers, ‘Demosthenes of Oenoanda’, 96. Cf. Price, Rituals and Power, 1–2. 136 Rogers, Sacred Identity. 137 IEph 671.3–9 138 See Dietz, ‘Die beiden P. Mummii Sisennae’ (above, n. 84). The proconsul Mummius Sisenna mentioned in the dedication is unlikely to have been the suffect consul of 133 (as Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 214, and R. Syme, ‘The Proconsuls of Asia Under Antoninus Pius’, ZPE 52 (1983), 271–90 = Roman Papers, iv. 325–46, at 332), as he is otherwise unknown to have been proconsul and, if he had held this office in 151, would have assumed it 17 years after his consulship, rather than the more usual 14–15. 139 Thera had meagre supplies of its own: Thera, i. 138–9; Dietz, ‘Die beiden P. Mummii Sisennae’, 309–10. 140 The masonry of the front wall varies in quality; the other walls use small, irregular stones with an earth mortar. During the Roman period pilasters of brown volcanic rock were placed against the inner face of the walls, symmetrically with the interior columns except for the pilaster south of the entrance; the walls were thickened between some pilasters, perhaps to shore up weak spots. 141 IG 12.3.1396. 142 Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales, 91–2. 143 The architectural ornament excavated at the site falls into two main groups, which indicate building activity in the 150s and later 170s: see R. Naumann and S. Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna: Bericht über die in den Jahren 1932–1941 auf dem Friedhof Namazgâh zu Izmir von der Museumsleitung in Verbindung mit der Türkischen Geschichtskommission durchgeführten Ausgrabungen’, in Kleinasien und Byzanz. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Altertumskunde und Kunstgeschichte (Berlin, 1950), 69–114, at 109. This conception of the agora probably originated with Hadrian in 124, as a reference to ‘the basilica next to the bouleuterion’ (sg+m barikijg+ m . . . sg+m pqo| s{& botketseq{) suggests (ISmyrna 697). 144 This street has been tentatively identiﬁed with the 10 m. wide and 210 m. long stretch of paved road, which perhaps led from the Degirmentepe hill and the Temple of Zeus in the west of the city to an unidentiﬁed hill with a temple in the east. See W. M. Calder, in ‘Smyrna as Described by the Orator Aelius Aristides’, in W. M. Ramsay (ed.), Studies in the History and Art of the Eastern Provinces of the Roman Empire: Written for the Quatercentenary of the University of Aberdeen by Seven of its Graduates (Aberdeen, 1906), 95–116, at 104; Naumann and Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna’, 72. 145 Interestingly, this also implies that the propyla of individual building complexes served to offer views of an architectural ensemble. 146 Cf. the symbolic importance of omphaloi in the Peri kosmou (above, Ch. 3, nn. 42–3). 147 Aristides’ language resembles that used in the modern critique of Bean, Aegean Turkey, 20: ‘Smyrna is among the pleasant places of the earth. Its sheltered position at the head of a long gulf, at the seaward end of an easy route from the interior, marks it out to be the site of a ﬂourishing port . . . to this are added natural beauty, fertile soil, and an excellent climate.’ For harbours and natural features as ‘bosoms’ (j kpoi) or ‘breasts’, see Fuchs, Geographische Bilder, 5–6. 148 Imperial aureae of 161 and 162.

notes (pp. 140–7) 149 For the gate, see above, Ch. 4, and, for the keystone’s symbolism, Ch. 3 above; also Thomas, ‘Architecture and the Balance of Power’. Note that, in a television interview in 1995, the then Israeli chief-of-staff compared peace between Israel and Syria to the keystone of an arch. 150 Robert, A travers l’Asie Mineure, 425. 151 Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 30. Cf. Robert, A travers l’Asie Mineure, 423. 152 Aristid. Or. 51.16, recalling the occasion. However, Schulz and Winter, ‘Historischarchäologische Untersuchungen,’ 55 assign the speech not to the rededication, but to a different occasion. 153 C. A. Behr (ed.), The Complete Works: P. Aelius Aristides, ii (Leiden, 1986), 379, n. 1. 154 Aristid. Or. 51.16. 155 Ibid. 34.30. Cf. Paus. 8.41.8 on the temple of Apollo at Bassae and above, Ch. 6. 156 For further discussion of Aristides’ description of the temple, see below, Ch. 11. 157 Merkelbach, ‘Der Rangstreit der Städte Asiens’; Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales, 105; id., Complete Works, ii. 365. 158 The eulogy of Asia is expressed in language conventional for praise of individual cities: Men. Rhet. 346–51. 159 The phrase a$rsqa*psotra a$p pa*rg| er dot recalls the description of Alexandria in Ach. Tat. 5.1.6 (above, Ch. 6); for the verb a$rsqa*pseim, cf. Aristid. Or. 18.6 (above). 160 Cf. Or. 17.10 above. 161 For a description of the region, see Bean, Aegean Turkey, 31–44. 162 A conventional metaphor for the separation of Greek culture from the barbarian world: e.g. Hdt. 5.28 (Miletus, sg&| ’Ixma| pq rvgla); Polyb. 3.15.3; Strabo 10.2.3, 11.1.1; Plut. Alex. 17. 163 Behr, Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales, 112. 164 Cf. Strabo 14.1.37 (C646) (ja*kkirsg sx&m parx&m). 165 Aristid. Or. 21.2. 166 Cf. SHA, Marc. 11.3. 167 Philostr. VS 2.9, 583. 168 Naumann and Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna’, 69–114; Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 287–8 with reconstruction, ﬁg. 186. For western parallels, e.g. Arles and Aeminium (Coimbra), see Staccioli, ‘Gli ediﬁci sotterranei dell’agora di Smirne e, ancora, sui criptoportici forensici’, Latomus, 16 (1957), 273–92; Les Cryptoportiques dans l’architecture romaine (École Française de Rome, 19–23 avril 1972) (Paris, 1973); MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 117. 169 Naumann and Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna’, 102–3 and pl. 38. 170 Arcade and ﬁgured keystone: ibid., pl. cxi. For the prevalence of this three-aisled form in Roman architecture, see MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 238; the closest parallels in the East are the basilica at Aspendus and the basilical hall of the Caesareum at Cyrene. For the composite capitals, see Ch. 8 below. 171 Naumann and Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna’, 89–90 (‘Mosaiksaal’). 172 For this identiﬁcation, see Balty, Curia Ordinis, 552–3, supported by the Hadrianic inscription referring to ‘the basilica next to the bouleuterion’ (ISmyrna 697, above, n. 47). The excavation only went a few metres inwards from the façade, so the room’s layout is unknown. Aristides mentions the bouleuterion several times (Or. 18.8, 31.13, 51.31–4, 38–9); cf. Boulanger, Aelius Aristide et la sophistique dans la province d’Asie au II e siècle de notre ère, BÉFAR 126 (Paris, 1968), 51. 173 Naumann and Kantar, ‘Die Agora von Smyrna’, 91–3, no. 1, pls. 29–31. 174 Philostr. VS 2.9, 582. 175 SHA, Ant. Pius 9.2. The approximate date of the ﬁre is deduced from the probable date of the reconstructions: P. Gros, Byrsa, iii. Rapport sur les campagnes de fouilles de 1977 à 1980: la basilique orientale et ses abords, Collection de l’École Française de Rome, 41 (Rome, 1985), 50. 176 Excavated by the French mission at Carthage. Gros, Byrsa, iii. 45–62. 177 Ibid. 68. 178 Ibid. 69–105, 109–10. 179 Ibid. 110–11. For Proconnesian, cf. the Hadrianeum and Temple of Venus at Rome (above, Ch. 2) and the ‘Capitolium’ and Forum Baths at Ostia (above, Ch. 4). 180 Apul. Apol. 53.2. 181 Intercolumniations: 3.65/3.70 m. (cf. Basilica Ulpia, Rome: over 5 m.): Gros, Byrsa, iii. 99–100. 182 Gros, Byrsa, iii. 57–9. 183 P. Gros, ‘Le Culte imperial dans la basilique judiciaire du forum de Carthage’, Karthago 23 (1995): Hommage à Gilbert et Colette Picard, 45–56. 184 Victor de Vita, Hist. Persec. 2.13 (dated to 486); cf. Gros, Byrsa, iii. 49–50. 185 Fagan, Bathing in Public, 258, no. 86, with other literature. 186 A. I. Wilson, ‘The Water Supply of Ancient Carthage’, in Carthage Papers, JRA Suppl., 28 (Portsmouth, RI, 1998), 65–102, at 81–4. The aqueduct is of uncertain date, but may be Hadrianic or Antonine (cf. the nymphaeum at its source at Zaghouane: F. Rakob, ‘Das Quellenheiligtum in Zaghouan und die romische Wasserleitung nach Karthago’, MDAI(R) 81 (1974), 41–89), by analogy with that at Athens (Ch. 2, above). 187 A. Lezine, Carthage. Utique. Études d’architecture et d’urbanisme (Paris, 1968), 1–75. 188 CIL 8.12513. 189 G. C. Picard, ‘Fouille des thermes d’Antonin a Carthage’, BAC (1946–9), 217–22, at 219–21 no. 1. 190 K. E. Ros, ‘Vitruvius and the Design of the Carthage Theater’, in L’Africa Romana, xi.2 (1997), 897–910, esp. 903–4.

305

191 Apul. Flor. 18, ed. Helm, 33–4. Dated to the ‘mid- to late 160s’ by S. J. Harrison, Apuleius: A Latin Sophist (Oxford and New York, 2000), 123. For more on this speech, see below, Ch. 11. 192 F. Rakob, Karthago, i. Die deutschen Ausgrabungen in Karthago (Mainz, 1991), plans 37–9. 193 For this impression, cf. App. Pun. 96. 194 H. Hurst, ‘Excavations at Carthage 1977–8: Fourth Interim Report’, Ant. Journ. 59 (1979), 19–49, at 25–36. 195 Verg. Aen. 1.418–493. 196 e.g. the Curia Julia and rebuilt Basilica Julia, Theatre of Marcellus, and the rebuilt or rededicated gates of the Servian Wall. The absence of temples and aqueducts from Virgil’s description, though prominent in Augustus’ own Res Gestae, not to mention the Mausoleum, is equally conspicuous. 197 P. Gros, ‘Le Premier Urbanisme de la Colonia Julia Karthago—mythes et réalités d’une fondation césaro-augustéenne’, in L’Afrique dans l’Occident Romain, CÉFR 134 (Rome, 1990), 547–73. 198 F. Rakob, ‘The making of Augustan Carthage’, in Romanization of the City, 73–82. 199 Mattingly-Sydenham, RIC i. 19, pl. 615; Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 69, no. 69; CREBM, iv. 36, no. 237, pl. 6.5 (aureus); 203, no. 1264; 207, no. 1292, pl. 30.5 (bronzes); cf. D. H. E. Whitehead (ed.), Roman Coins in the McGill University Collection (The McGill University Collection of Greek and Roman coins, ed. M. Woloch, i) (Amsterdam, 1975), 41, no. 6 (bronze). 200 e.g. contorniate medals of Nero and Trajan. 201 Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 70, no. 539; Gnecchi, Medaglioni, ii. pl. 54.9. 202 Serv., Comm. ad Verg. Aen. 1.427: alta theatri fundamenta hinc futura magnitudo cognoscitur. 203 Ibid., ad 1.438: fastigia nunc operis summitates, alibi ima signiﬁcat, ut forsitan et scrobibus quae sint fastigia quaeras. suspicit miratur, ut e contrario ‘despicit’ contemnit signiﬁcat. On the physiology of viewing buildings, see Ch. 11. 204 ‘O fortunate people, whose walls now are rising!’ 205 J. A. Ramírez, The Beehive Metaphor: From Gaudí to Le Corbusier, tr. A. R. Tulloch (London, 2000), 18. 206 Ibid. 38–9. E.g. the French Revolution shield at Bordeaux, 1793, and Peter Behrens’ design for the AEG logo (ibid. 22, ﬁg. 6; 100, ﬁg. 104). 207 Pompeius Vopiscus C. Arruntius Catellius Celer Allius Sabinus (procos. 155/6): P. Gros, ‘Une dedicace carthaginoise sur le Forum de Bolsena’, MÉFRA 92 (1980), 977–92; id., Byrsa, iii. 145. For governors as ‘patrons’ of cities, L. Harmand, Le Patronat sur les collectivités publiques, des origines au Bas-Empire (Paris, 1957), 290–1. 208 Paus. 8.43.4. 209 Frontonis Epistulae, ed. van den Hout, 256–8. Gros, Byrsa, iii. 143, suggests a date after 155. 210 Frontonis Epistulae, 257.9: . . . <si>cut Rhodum [cond]idisti). 211 Fasti Ostienses, ed. Vidman, 50; TAM, 2.3.905, 5.36. Cf. Hüttl, Antoninus Pius, ii. 111–12; Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 257. See above, n. 57, and Ch. 4. 212 Bek, ‘Venusta species’, 139. 213 Gell. NA 16.13.9. 214 See e.g. E. Bispham, ‘Mimic? A Case Study in Early Roman Colonisation’, in Herring and Lomas (eds.), The Emergence of State Identities, 157–86, at 157–8: ‘If Gellius’ views do reﬂect Roman ideology, it is that of the Augustan and later principates, not of early Rome.’ 215 M. A. Levi, ‘Roma Colonia e Commodo “Conditor” ’, in Religione e città nel mondo antico, Atti, Centro Ricerche e Documentazione sull’Antichità Classica, 11 (NS 1) (1980–1) [1984], 315–20; O. Hekster, Commodus: An Emperor at the Crossroads, Dutch Monographs in Ancient History and Archaeology, 23 (Amsterdam, 2002), 95; cf. Nero’s Rome as Neropolis (Suet. Nero 55). 216 Dio Cass. 73.15.2. 217 Ath. 1.20b. Cf. Aristides’ image of Smyrna as an amalgam of other cities, above. For the number of days of the year applied to cities and buildings, see Lethaby, Architecture, Mysticism and Myth, 195–209, esp. 205 for Rome itself. 218 Ath. 1.20c; for Alexarchus’ Uranopolis, see above, Ch. 6, n. 127. 219 Clem. Al. Paedagogus 2.12. For the number 12, Lethaby, Architecture, Mysticism, and Myth, 196–7. 220 IG 14.1389, ii.3. 221 M. Aur. Med. 6.44. 222 Ibid. 4.3.2; cf. Stob. Flor. 4.7.62. 223 M. Aur. Med. 3.11. For the architectural metaphors of this section, e.g. paqarslarim (‘supports’), see Ch. 4, n. 146; cf. also ibid. 5.22, 10.2: jam me| (‘architect’s rods’). 224 Nash, Pict. Dict. Rome, i. 397. 225 It is as an augural symbol, rather than as propaganda for Marian libertas, that Marsyas is shown on the denarii of L. Marcius Censorinus (82 BC), beside the Sibyl, She-Wolf, and Twins: RRC 377–8, no. 363; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 4.62.5–6; cf. Livy 25.12; Plin. HN 34.20, 22. The iconography was perhaps intended to commemorate Sulla’s ‘restoration’ of Rome after his victory at the Colline Gate. 226 J. P. Small, Cacus and Marsyas in Etrusco-Roman legend (Princeton, NJ, 1982), 68–92. The statue, perhaps inspired by Myron’s group including a satyr on the Acropolis at Athens (Plin. HN 34.57), may date to the 4th or 3rd cent. BC. The Paestum ﬁgure (see below) ﬁts the 3-ft. height of Republican statuary given by Plin. HN 34.24 (cf. Vitr. De Arch. 3.7); the Roman original should be earlier.

306

notes (pp. 147–52)

Cf. Hdt. 7.26: his wineskin was hung up in the agora at Apamea-Celaenae. This is probably what ps.-Acron means by in rostris. 229 Varro, Ling. 7.8–9, suggestive of (but not the same as) the ﬁcus Ruminalis. 230 R. Brilliant, Gesture and Rank in Roman Art: The Use of Gestures to Denote Status in Roman Sculpture and Coinage (New Haven, 1963), 65–9; Horace jokes that the hand is raised because Marsyas cannot bear the sight of the younger Novius’ face (Sat. 1.6.119–21). (A hand raised to denounce Novius could not be confused with an adlocutio: cf. Quint. Inst. 11.3.120.) 231 Brilliant, Gesture and Rank, 165–70. 232 Richardson, Topogr. Dict. Ancient Rome, 292–3, s.v. ‘Plutei Traiani’; Nash, Pict. Dict. Rome, ii. 176–7; M. Torelli, Typology and Structure of Roman Historical Reliefs (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1982), 89–118; Rüdiger, Antike Plastik, 12 (1973), 161–74. 233 ps.-Acron and Porphyrion, ad Hor. Sat. 1.6.120–1, saw it still standing. 234 Ht. 1.035 m. Brendel, ‘Funde’, Arch. Anz . (1933), 639–42. 235 The ﬁgure’s raised hand was thought to signify that nothing was missing in that city: Serv. ad Aen. 3.20; 4.58. 236 P. Veyne, ‘Le Marsyas colonial et l’indépendence des cites’, Rev. Phil. 35 (1961), 87–98. 237 Claudius Charax, ap. Etym Magn., s.v. jokmeia; cf. Veyne, ‘Le Marsyas colonial’, 89. 238 Museo Nazionale, Naples (73 cm high, 78 cm wide, 13.5 cm thick). CIL 10.3832. G. Pesce, I rilievi dell’ anﬁteatro Campano (Rome, 1941), 29, no. 43, pl. xviiia; H. von Hesberg, ‘Denkmäler zu den römischen Göttergestalten’, ANRW ii.17.2 (Berlin and New York, 1981), 1173, pl. 51a. 239 Towered city-goddesses and ﬁgured keystones, perhaps representing Diana Tifatina and the River Volturnus: Pesce, Rilievi dell’ Anﬁteatro Campano, nos. 17–20. 240 Veyne, ‘Le Marsyas colonial’, 92–3, no. 28 = Small, Cacus and Marsyas, 140, no. 1. 241 CIL 8.16417. 242 Ibid. 27771. 243 A. Merlin, Forum et maisons d’Althiburos, Notes et Documents publiés par la direction des antiquités et arts, 6 (Paris, 1913), 6–22. Cf. also Lambaesis (colony or municipium), Timgad (colony: CIL 8.17841) and Verecunda (municipium : CIL 8.4219). 244 Small, Cacus and Marsyas, 132–8, lists 21 cities from Macedonia to Arabia, of which 19 were colonies (also one municipium and one civitas libera). 245 Sherwin-White, Roman Citizenship 2, 275–87; F. Jacques, Le Privilège de liberté. Politique impériale et autonomie municipale dans les cités de l’Occident romain (161–244), CÉ FR, 76 (Rome, 1984). 246 Malalas, Chron. 9, 275; cf. G. Downey, ‘Imperial Building Records in Malalas’, Byz. Zeitschr. 38 (1938), 1–15, 299–311, on Malalas’ use of jsfeim as ‘to build’. 247 Cf. L. Moretti, ‘Chio e la lupa Capitolina’, Riv. Fil. 108 (1980), 33–54. 248 Veyne, ‘Le Marsyas colonial’, 95–7. 249 Lassalle, The Amphitheatre of Nîmes, 22, ﬁg. 250 Strack, Reichsprägung, 70, nos. 72–4, 588a. 251 CIL 8.22699 = ILAfr. 16; Pﬂaum, ‘Les Juges’, 162; above, Ch. 4. Municipal status: CIL 8.22707. 252 CIL 2.5063 = ILS 6912. I. Bachofen, ‘La Lupa romana su monumenti sepolcrali dell’impero’, Ann. Ist. 39 (1867), 183–200 compares the appearance of the she-wolf on private tombs. 253 CIL 8.958 + 12438 (Henschir el-M’den): shown as a vicus on the tabula Peutingeriana and called a civitas in the Antonine Itinerary. The donor also dedicated a group to the Numen Augustorum and gave theatre games ‘at popular demand’. On the summa honoraria in Africa, Duncan-Jones, Economy of the Roman Empire, 82–8, 108–10, nos. 345–80; cf. 147–55, 215–16, nos. 1310–17a (Italy). Cf. CIL 8.12220 (Henschir el-Hanâria): a ‘Wolf and Twins’ paid for by a summa honoraria. 254 See above, Ch. 4. 255 Dig. 50.10.3: ad aemulitatem alterius civitatis, mistranslated by A. Watson (ed.), The Digest of Justinian, Translation (Philadelphia, Pa., 1998), ii. 925. 256 IGRom. 3.1235 = Le Bas and Waddington 2341. 257 IRT 601. 258 Ibid. 530a–b: i[n sp]lendidissimam coloniam Leptim Magn[a]m. Plautianus became the father-in-law of Caracalla in 202. This consignment antedates his fall from grace in 205. 259 This physical resemblance would be particularly striking if the Severan basilica of this building programme was that called Basilica Ulpia in a 4th-cent. inscription (IRT 543 = AE 1983.949) and perhaps so named after Trajan’s Basilica Ulpia in Rome. 227 228

Notes to Chapter 8 1 J. Assmann, Das Kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich, 1992), 146. 2 Hdt. 7.24, on Polycratean works in Samos, the three greatest buildings in Greece. 3 Isocr. Areop. 66; Thuc. 2.41; cf. D. Metzler, ‘Demokratie als Bauherr. Ideologische Aspekte der Architektur der Klassik’, Praktik tou XII Diethnos Sunedríou Klasike-s Archaiologías, 4 (Athens, 1988), 129–33. But for Thucydides’ own view, see below, Ch. 9. 4 Id. Pan. 51.3: digna populo victore gentium sedis. 5 Plin. Ep. 10.61.5: Est enim res digna et magnitudine tua et cura. See below, Ch. 9. Coins: A. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Image and Authority in the Coinage of Augustus’, JRS 76 (1986), 66–87. 6 S. Mitchell, ‘Festivals, Games, and Civic Life in Roman Asia Minor’, JRS 80 (1990), 183–93, at 189; cf. Rogers, ‘Demosthenes of Oenoanda’, 93, 100. For a view highlighting the ideologies of imperial architecture, see Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 28–34.

7 B. Levick, ‘Messages on the Roman Coinage: Types and Inscriptions’, in Roman Coins and Public Life under the Empire, 41–60, at 50–1; of imperial architecture, Darwall-Smith, Emperors and Architecture. 8 J. B. Thompson, Ideology and Modern Culture: Critical Social Theory in the Era of Mass Communication (Cambridge, 1990), 73. 9 Ibid. 129. 10 Ibid. 132. 11 Ibid. 143, 147. 12 Ibid. 320. 13 Ibid. 126. 14 See below, Ch. 11. 15 E. R. Wolf, Envisioning Power: Ideologies of Dominance and Crisis (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, 1999), 4. 16 Ibid. 274. 17 Ibid. 290. 18 C. Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley, 2000). 19 Tac. Agr. 21. 20 F. Kolb, ‘Bemerkungen zur urbanen Ausstattung von Städten im Westen und im Osten des römischen Reiches anhand von Tacitus, Agricola 21 und der Konstantinischen Inschrift von Orkistos’, Klio 75 (1993), 321–41. 21 B. Laum, Stiftungen in der griechischen und römischen Antike. Ein Beitrag zur antiken Kulturgeschichte (Leipzig, 1914), i. Darstellung, 118–20; Quass, Honoratorienschicht, 373. 22 Quass, Honoratorienschicht, 160. 23 See esp. Millar, Emperor, passim; Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty. 24 Millar, Emperor, 192. For a similar picture, see Mitchell, ‘Imperial Building’. 25 Cf., on road-building, Eck, Staatliche Organisation, 74, pace Millar, loc. cit., with n. 21. 26 e.g. CIL 14.2101 = ILS 5686, concerning the rebuilding of the municipal baths at Lanuvium in Latium as imperial thermae, paid for ex quantitatibus quae ex indulgentia dominorum n(ostrorum) principum honorariarum summarum sacerdotiorum adquisitae sunt, which probably amounted to imperial gifts to help magistrates to pay the necessary fees on entering office at Lanuvium. The building was dedicated to the emperors Septimius Severus and Caracalla. This complex case is hardly, however, a ‘clear example’ of imperially sponsored building work, as claimed by Eck, Staatliche Organisation, 17, n. 34. 27 Pace Eck, loc. cit., who infers direct imperial initiative in the above case despite the inscription’s dative heading. 28 SHA, Hadr. 19.2, 19.9. Pace B. Isaacs, The Limits of Empire: The Roman Army in the East (Oxford, 1990), 352–9, whose minimizing argument is based on the limited nature of the epigraphic record. 29 CIL 11.3614 = ILS 5918a. Sherk, Translated Documents of Greece and Rome, 6, 126. The site corresponds to that commonly chosen for curia buildings; cf. Balty, Curia Ordinis, 127–36. 30 Cosanus sent his letter from Ameria, about 40 miles away, where he owned brickworks. 31 Eck, Staatliche Organisation, 198–205, also noting (at 207) that res publica here has no strictly ﬁnancial sense as either ‘public wealth’ or, more concretely, ‘city treasury’. 32 Pace D. Nörr, Imperium und Polis in der höhen Prinzipatszeit, Münchener Beiträge zur Papyrusforschung und antiken Rechtsgeschichte, 50 (Munich, 1966), 20; L. Caesennius Sospes, curat(or) colonior(um) et municipior(um) (CIL 3.291 + 6818 = ILS 1017 = JRS 14 (1924), 191, no. 12), although honoured at Pisidian Antioch, probably undertook his mission of wide scope in Italy; he was not curator under Domitian, pace Magie, Roman Rule, ii. 1455, n.13, but probably under Trajan, perhaps in 105 (F. Jacques, Les Curateurs des cités dans l’occident romain de Trajan à Gallien. Études prosopographiques (Paris, 1983), 19–22). 33 The four-month delay between Vesbinus’ initial benefaction on 13 April 113, solemnized in the porch of the Temple of Mars, and the application on 13 August to the town council to build the phretrium, may point to intervention regarding the nature of the project, as suggested above for the basilica stoa at Thera. 34 M. N. Tod, ‘Greek Inscriptions from Macedonia’, JHS 42 (1922), 167–83, wrongly states at 172 that e$pilekgsg* | is a rare substitute for kocirsg* |. 35 OGIS 492 (Hadrianic, from Trapezopolis in Phrygia); for the dubiousness of Philostr. VS 1.19.3 as evidence of an earlier curator, cf. Magie, Roman Rule, 1454–5, n. 13. 36 ILS 1119. 37 Paulus, in Dig. 39.2.46: ad curatoris rei publicae officium spectat, ut dirutae domus a dominis extruantur. 38 G. Camodeca, ‘Curatores rei publicae’, ZPE 35 (1979), 225–36. 39 Cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 40.6, 45.15; Dig. 50.8.7.1, 50.10.7. 40 Dig. 50.10.2.2; 50.10.3.2. 41 Dio Chrys. Or. 40.6, 45.15; Dig. 50.8.7.1, 50.10.7. 42 Ulp. Lib. sing. de off. cur. r. p., in Dig. 50.10.5.pr. 43 e.g. Temple of Apollo, Gigthis; Antonine Baths, Carthage. 44 Jacques, Les Curateurs des cités; W. Simshäuser, ‘Untersuchungen zur Entstehung der Provinzialfassung Italiens’, in ANRW 2.13 (Berlin and New York, 1980), 401–52, at 426–33; Eck, Staatliche Organisation. 45 Front. Ep. ad Amicos 2.8, ed. Naber, 199 (dated c.164). For Arrius’ career, cf. CIL 5.1874; ILS 1119. 46 CIL 11.5939 = ILS 5678: 150,000 HS left by Arruntius Granianus, c.170. 47 Dig. 50.12.8.

notes (pp. 152–8) Dig. 50.6.6.1. Dig. 50.10.3.2 (Aemilius Macer). 50 MacMullen, ‘Roman Imperial Building’. 51 Plin. Ep. 8.8.6, cited by Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 192, n. 20 as an instance of the emperor’s ‘occasional’ response to the immediate needs and requests of provincial communities. 52 Dio Cass. 52.30.1, 3; cf. M. Hammond, ‘The Signiﬁcance of the Speech of Maecenas in Dio Cassius, Book LII’, TAPA 63 (1932), 88–102. Responding to such an attitude, the captive British chieftain Caratacus asked why, with such great buildings of their own, the Romans should be interested in his ‘little tents’ (Dio Cass. 60.33.3c). 53 Thamer, ‘Faszination und Manipulation’, 364. 54 For similar reservations, see T. Hölscher, ‘Augustus und die Macht der Archäologie’, in La Revolution romaine après Ronald Syme: bilans et perspectives: sept exposés suivis de discussions, Vandœuvres-Genève, 6–10 septembre 1999, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité Classique, 46 (Geneva, 2000), 237–73; A. Hoffmann, ‘Macht der Architektur—Architektur der Macht’, in E.-L. Schwandner and K. Rheidt (eds.), Macht der Architektur—Architektur der Macht. Bauforschungskolloquium in Berlin vom 30. Oktober bis 2. November 2002, veranstaltet vom Architektur Referat des DAI (Mainz, 2004), 4–12. 55 K. W. Harl, Civic Coins and Civic Politics in the Roman East, A.D. 180–275 (Berkeley, 1987). I am grateful to Volker Heuchert for discussion of these coins. 56 Frieden, Twice Neokoros. 57 Thür, Das Hadrianstor. 58 Halfmann, Itinera Principum, 129–33; Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 19–44. Contra, Price, Rituals and Power, 136, n. 12. 59 Price, Rituals and Power. 60 Malalas, p. 172, ll. 7–10. 61 Philo, Leg. 149–50; cf. Price, Rituals and Power, 136, 169; Vermeule, Imperial Art, pp. vii–viii; Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 41. 62 e.g. nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus at Olympia (above, Ch. 4), bouleuterion and gymnasium at Ephesus, basilica stoa at Thera, and bouleuterion at Nysa (above, Ch. 7). 63 Balty, Curia Ordinis, 549–50 (Hierapytna), 476–80 (Apollonia). 64 S. Klementa, Gelagerte Flußgötter des Späthellenismus und der römischen Kaiserzeit (Cologne, 1993), 109–13, G 1–2 (one found in situ on the N. side of the frigidarium, the other reused in the nearby Turkish cemetery). 65 von Gerkan and Krischen, Thermen und Palaestren, 50–88; Manderscheid, Skulpturenausstattung, 44, ﬁg. 14. The design appears as an architectural equivalent to literary preoccupations of the Second Sophistic, such as Amphion of Thespiae, ‘On the Shrine of the Muses on Helicon’, which was probably composed for reasons of local Boeotian patriotism (FGrH 388, but Bowie, ‘The Greeks and Their Past’, 19, notes that this work may be Hellenistic), or the exiled Hadrianic rhetor Cephalion, whose world history, modelled on Herodotus, was divided into nine books, each named after a muse: Photius, Bibliotheca 34a16, ed. R. Henry (Paris, 1959); FGrH 93; cf. Bowie, ‘Greeks and Their Past’, 12. 66 C. Schneider, Die Musengruppe von Milet, Milesische Forschungen, 1 (Mainz am Rhein, 1999), 50–4. 67 von Gerkan and Krischen, Milet, i.9, 59–60. 68 e.g. Delphi (4th cent. BC); cf. Vitr. De Arch. 5.2.2. 69 Cramme, ‘Die Bedeutung’, 160. 70 e.g. Large Baths, Hierapolis; Baths of Caracalla, Ankara. 71 F. K. Yegül, The Bath-Gymnasium Complex at Sardis, Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Report 3 (Cambridge, Mass. and London, 1986). 72 J. Keil, JÖAI 24 (1929), suppl., 36; Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’, 10. 73 R. Sedlmaier and R. Pﬁster, Die fürstbischöﬂiche Residenz zu Würzburg (Munich, 1923). 74 Assumed by Manderscheid, Skulpturenausstattung, 43–5; however, Newby, Greek Athletics, 238, and Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 446–7, stress that no imperial statues were found in the room. 75 Keil, loc. cit. 76 Yegül, ‘A Study in Architectural Iconography’. 77 IEph 438 (above, Ch. 7, n. 98); a reconstructed view of the inscription, over a metreand-a-half long, is shown by Steskal and La Torre, ‘Das Vediusgymnasium’, 244, ﬁg. 19. 78 IEph 443 (workshops), 455 (latrine, cited above, Ch. 2, n. 123), 3008; for a fuller list of buildings at Ephesus where such dedications have been found, see Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 442. 79 A. D. Nock, ‘Synnaos Theos’, in Essays on Religion and the Ancient World, ed. Z. Stewart (Oxford, 1972), i. 202–51, at 227. 80 Price, Rituals and Power, 141. 81 J. Delorme, Gymnasion: étude sur les monuments consacrés à l’education en Grèce (des origines à l ’Empire Romain), BÉFAR 196 (Paris, 1960), 337–52; P. Aupert, ‘Les Thermes comme lieux de culte’, in Les Thermes romains (above, Ch. 6, n. 232), 185–92. For the presence of such cults within the experience of a bath-gymnasium, see below, Ch. 12, for the ‘Baths of Hippias’. 82 Archaeological Museum, Izmir. F. Miltner, Ephesos, Stadt der Artemis und des Johannes (Vienna, 1958), 74–8, ﬁg. 67; Inan and Rosenbaum, Roman and Early Byzantine Portrait Sculpture, no. 151, pl. 87.1–2. 83 Damianus: Philostr. VS 605. Identiﬁcation with Damianus: J. Keil, JÖAI 27 (1932), suppl., 39–44 (statue no. 3), with ﬁgs. 23–5, and in ibid. 28 (1933), suppl., 10; L. Robert, ‘Nouvelles remarques sur l’édit d’Eriza’, BCH 54 (1930), 262–7; Hanfmann and Ramage, Sculpture From Sardis, nos. 93 and 101; Manderscheid, Skulpturenausstattung, 14–15, 26–7, 34–5, 92 (nos. 200–1). 48 49

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84 S. Dillon, ‘The Portraits of a Civic Benefactor of 2nd-c. Ephesos’, JRA 9 (1996), 261–74, followed by R. R. R. Smith, ‘Cultural Choice and Political Identity in Honoriﬁc Portrait Statues in the Greek East in the Second Century A.D’, JRS 88 (1998), 56–93, at 81–2, who places the statue within the development of 2nd-cent. portraiture, and Newby, Greek Athletics, 240. 85 Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 448, n. 45, disputes the identiﬁcation as Sabinianus and suggests that the ﬁgure could be an unidentiﬁed gymnasiarch or an agonothete officiating at the Ephesian festival of Olympian Zeus. However, her argument is undermined by an apparent error over the provenance of the statue, which she states came from the East BathsGymnasium, confusing it with the Severan statue (Izmir Museum, inv. no. 648; Keil, ÖJh 27 (1932), suppl., 40–2). 86 J. Rumscheid, Kranz und Krone: zu Insignien, Siegespreisen und Ehrenzeichen der römischen Kaiserzeit (Tübingen, 2000); Chaniotis, ‘Der Kaiserkult im Osten’, 8–9. 87 Keil, ÖJh 24 (1929), suppl., 39, no. 3; Dillon, ‘Portraits of a Civic Benefactor’; Burrell, ‘False Fronts’, 448, with 449, ﬁg. 10 (the most detailed published photograph of the crown), suggests that the largest bust represents, not an emperor (as Keil argues), but a male Greek ﬁgure, whom she identiﬁes as Zeus, and the other busts are gods, including ‘Augusti’. 88 ‘Acquisitions of the Art Museum 1990’, Record of the Art Museum Princeton University, 50:1 (1991), 60 with ﬁg.; J. M. Padgett (ed.), Roman Sculpture in the Art Museum Princeton University (Princeton and Chichester, 2001), 56–60, no. 13. 89 ISmyrna 697 (above, Ch. 7, n. 47); cf. Plin. Ep. 2.17.20. 90 TAM 5.1.517.3, dedicated by Calligenes, pqso| a/qvxm; cf. P. Herrmann, Denkschrift der Österreichischen Akademie Wien, 80 (1962), 11, no. 5. 91 See above, Ch. 3. 92 P. Gros, ‘La Sémantique des ordres à la ﬁn de l’époque hellénistique et au début de l’Empire. Remarques preliminaries’, in Splendida civitas nostra. Studi archeologici in onore di Antonio Frova (Rome, 1995), 23–34. He explored this idea further in a seminar paper given at Oxford in June 1996, ‘Ornamentum chez Vitruve. Une illustration des débats sur le décor architectural à la ﬁn de l’époque hellénistique’. 93 Vitr. De Arch. 4.1.1–10. 94 G. Sauron, ‘La Promotion apollinienne de l’acanthe et la déﬁnition d’une esthétique classique à l’époque d’Auguste’, in L’Acanthe dans la sculpture monumentale de l’antiquité à la Renaissance (Paris, 1993), 75–97. 95 Liljenstolpe, ‘The Roman Blattklech Capital’, 96 (his type III). 96 V. Ziino, ‘Introduzione al capitello composito’, Palladio, 5 (1941), 97–111; for Praeneste, see above, Ch. 6. 97 Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 42–8. 98 IEph 5101, 5113. 99 Ecphantus, Peri basileias, ed. Thesleft (1965), 80, ll. 1–4. 100 Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’. 101 H. Thür, ‘Ephesische Bauhütten in der Zeit der Flavier und der Adoptivkaiser’, in Lebendige Altertumswissenschaft. Festgabe zur Vollendung des 70. Lebensjahres von Hermann Vetters (Vienna, 1985), 181–7. 102 See above, Ch. 7, n. 10. 103 e.g. Temple of Venus and Rome; Searpeion, Ephesus; Asclepieion, Pergamon: Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’; Liljenstolpe, ‘The Vatican Procession Relief in Rome: Trajan Rededicating the Temple of Quirinus?’, Arch. Anz. (1996), 527–38. 104 Strocka, ‘Wechselwirkungen’, 298–9. 105 Strong, ‘Late Hadrianic Architectural Ornament’, 131–3; Thür, ‘Ephesische Bauhütten’, 181–7. 106 Lyttelton, ‘The Design and Planning of Temples’, 46, ﬁg. 11; for details of the excavations undertaken since 1990, see Halfmann, Éphèse et Pergame, 101, with bibiliography at n. 253. 107 For the results of recent work at this site, see the reports of the excavations undertaken by the Catholic University of Leuven since 1990: M. Waelkens (ed.), Sagalassus 1. First General Report on the Survey (1986 –1989) and Excavations (1990 –1991) (Leuven, 1993); M. Waelkens and J. Poblome (eds.), Sagalassos. 2. Report on the Third Excavation Campaign of 1992 (1993); eid., Sagalassos 3. Report on the Fourth Excavation Campaign of 1993 (1995) and Sagalassos 4: Report on the Survey and Excavation Campaigns of 1994 and 1995 (1997); M. Waelkens and L. Loots (eds.), Sagalassos 5: Report on the Survey and Excavation Campaigns of 1996 and 1997 (2000). For the architectural decoration, see L. Vandeput, The Architectural Decoration in Roman Asia Minor: Sagalassos: A Case Study (Leuven, 1997). 108 Suet. Aug. 28.3. 109 Forum Augustum: Zanker, Forum Augustum, 8, 10, 12; Basilica Aemilia: R. M. Schneider, Bunte Barbaren. Orientalenstatuen aus farbigem Marmor in der römischen Repräsentationskunst (Worms, 1986), 115–25, 149–52; Pantheon interior: F. Rakob, reviewing MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, i, in Gnomon 40 (1968), 190. 110 Assmann, ‘Die Macht der Bilder’, 5; cf. Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 29. 111 ÖJh 7, suppl., 42; IEph 2.430. 112 P. Tannery, Rev. Arch. (1897), i. 78–80; Robert, Études anatoliennes, 410, n. 3; J. Kubinska, Les Monuments funéraires dans les inscriptions grecques de l’Asie Mineure (Warsaw, 1968), 27. For skoutlosis as marble slabs, see Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 51. 113 Vitr. De Arch. 7.1.4 (si sectilia sint, nulli gradus in scutulis aut trigonis aut trigonis aut quadratis seu favis extent); ps.-Censorinus, De Die Natali, 7.4 (scutula id est rhombos quod latera paria habet nec angulos rectos). Cf. Ernout-Meillet, Dict. étym. de la langue latine, 606–7; Fränkel, Inschriften 341 = Syll.4 3.1124; D. Gioseffi, ‘La terminologia dei sistemi di

308

notes (pp. 158–69)

pavimentazione marmorea e una pagina della Naturalis Historia’, Rend. Linc. 10 (1955), 572–95, at 583; P. Bruneau, ‘Philologie mosaïstique,’ Journ. Sav. (Jan.–June 1988), 3–73, at 37 and 53–5. 114 Plin. HN 36.185. Cf. A. Rouveret (ed.), Pline l’Ancien: Histoire Naturelle: Livre XXXVI (Paris, 1981), 239, ad loc. 115 F. Corsi, Delle pietre antiche 2 (Rome, 1833), 154; C. Napoleone (ed.), Delle pietre antiche di Faustino Corsi romano (Milan, 2001); cf. R. Gnoli, Marmora romana 2 (Rome, 1988), 259, n. 3. 116 IGRom. 3.342 (c.140–2); for the building itself, cf. n. 107 above. 117 Meiggs, Roman Ostia, 448. 118 J. Reynolds, Aphrodisias Papers, 2 (1991), 26, no. 1 = AE 1991.1521 = BE 1977.459. 119 IPE 12.174.7. 120 G. Cousin, ‘Inscriptions du sanctuaire de Zeus Panamaros (1)’, BCH 28 (1904), 20–53, at 45–6 no. 30. I now believe that this decoration was marble, not mosaic, as I stated in Thomas, ‘Monumentality’, 19. 121 IGRom. 3.739, xix.14–15; 4.1290 (Eroglu). 122 Ibid. 3.424. 123 Cf. I. Iasos ii.248.2–3, a marble base recording a donation of marble skoutlosis by C. Caninius Synallasson; I. Didyma 248.2–3. 124 IEph 1545.12; cf. ibid. 3065.9, 11 (honorary statue for Hesychus, whose works included rjotskx&ra[i sot+|] sovot| rjot* s[kG] q a$porjotskrei g> e$ si ja e%seqom lesajimg*rei g> at$ s| g> di’ a/kkot jsk. (‘if anyone will remove the ornament or skoutlosis from this heröon or move anything else either directly or through another person . . .’). 129 IEph 2524.2 (from the tomb of Flavia Au[. . .] and Menecrates). Cf. R. Heberdey and W. Wilberg, ‘Grabbauten von Termessos in Pisidien’, ÖJh 3 (1900), 177–210, at 206–7 (rxlasohg*jgm . . . peqierjot* [skx]rem). 130 Gnoli, Marmora romana, 18–19. Several unassigned fragments of coloured marbles in a chequered pattern, of imperial date, are stored in the Magazzino della Horrea Epagathiana at Ostia. 131 Hagia Soﬁa: ibid. 22, ﬁg. 181. 132 SEG 36.1099.11; cf. Yegül, Bath-Gymnasium Complex, 171–2, no. 8, photo. 133 G. Becatti, Gli Scavi di Ostia, vii. Ediﬁcio con opus sectile fuori Porta Marina (Rome, 1969), 125. 134 CIJ: Judaica 751a(4).1 (Sardis, c.350/400). 135 Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 300; above, Introduction. 136 Dodge, ‘Architectural Impact’, 118. 137 Ibid. 112–18. 138 Ibid. 114. 139 R. J. A. Wilson, ‘Roman Architecture in a Greek World: The Example of Sicily’, in Henig (ed.), Architecture and Architectural Sculpture, 67–90, at 85–6. 140 F. K. Yegül, ‘Memory, Metaphor, and Meaning in the Cities of Asia Minor’, in Fentress (ed.), Romanization of the City, 133–53, at 143. 141 Euromus: M. U. Anabolu, Euromos (Ayakli) tapinagi (Istanbul, 1964); Hadrianeum: Cozza (ed.), Tempio di Adriano, 18; M. Sapelli (ed.), Provinciae Fideles. Il fregio del tempio di Adriano in Campo Marzio (Milan, 1999). 142 See above, Ch. 2, n. 197. 143 Wilson, ‘Roman Architecture in a Greek World’, 77; Dodge, ‘Architectural Impact’, 112. 144 Marble: Dodge, loc. cit.; vaults: Wilson, ‘Roman Architecture in a Greek World’, 79. 145 Gros, ‘L’Augusteum’, 128.

Notes to Chapter 9 Riegl, ‘The Modern Cult of Monuments’, 21–3. Bradley, The Signiﬁcance of Monuments (above, Ch. 6, n. 24). B. Miller Lane, ‘Architects and Power: Politics and Ideology in the work of Ernst May and Albert Speer’, in R. I. Rotberg and T. K. Rabb (eds.), Art and History: Images and Their Meaning (Cambridge, 1988), 283–310. 4 G. Perrot and C. Chipiez, The History of Art in Ancient Egypt, tr. W. Armstrong (London, 1883), ii. 170; Lethaby, Architecture, Mysticism and Myth, 160. 5 J. Elsner, ‘From the Pyramids to Pausanias and Piglet: Monuments, Travel and Writing’, in S. Goldhill and R. G. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture (Cambridge, 1994), 224–54. 6 Hdt. 2.124. 7 Diod. Sic. 1.63.6; Plin. HN 36.78. 8 Hdt. 2.127–134; Strabo 17.1.33. 9 OGIS 666, now in the reserve of the British Museum, London. I am grateful to Dr Lucilla Burn of the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities for permission to examine the stone. 1 2 3

Gregory of Nazianzus, in Migne, PG 38.534. J. Assmann, ‘Stein und Zeit. Das “monumentale” Gedächtnis der altägyptischen Kultur’, in J. Assmann and T. Hölscher (eds.), Kultur und Gedächtnis (Frankfurt, 1988), 87–114; id., Das Kulturelle Gedächtnis. 12 C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Reading’ Greek Death: To the End of the Classical Period (Oxford, 1995), 136–47. 13 Cf. the punning ascetic motto rx&la rg&la, which implied that the body was a tomb of the soul. 14 L. Foxhall, ‘Monumental Ambitions: The Signiﬁcance of Posterity in Greece’, in N. Spencer et al. (eds.), Time, Tradition and Society in Greek Archaeology: Bridging the ‘Great Divide’ (London, 1995), 132–49, at 141–4. 15 Rhodes, Architecture and Meaning, 16. 16 The potential monumentality of early Greek inscriptions was strictly limited; cf. R. Thomas, Orality and Literacy (Cambridge, 1992), 84–8. Contrast the ‘monumentalization’ from the 5th cent. BC onwards: Davies, ‘Greek Archives’, 335–7. 17 J.-P. Vernant, Myth and Thought Among the Greeks (London, 1983), 75–105; Foxhall, ‘Monumental Ambitions’, 135. 18 Paus. 2.25.8; cf. 2.16.5, 7.25.6. 19 Cf. Hom. Il. 5.302–14, 20.281–2; Verg. Aen. 12.896–912, with S. Budick, The Western Theory of Tradition: Terms and Paradigms of the Cultural Sublime (New Haven and London, 2000), 62–70. 20 As suggested by Elsner, ‘From the Pyramids to Pausanias and Piglet’. On such colossal size as an element of the sublime, see J. I. Porter, ‘Ideals and Ruins: Pausanias, Longinus, and the Second Sophistic’, in Alcock, Cherry, and Elsner (eds.), Pausanias, 63–92, at 72. 21 T. Hölscher, ‘The City of Athens: Space, Symbol, Structure’, in A. Molho, K. Raaﬂaub, and J. Emlen (eds.), City-States in Classical Antiquity and Medieval Italy: Athens and Rome, Florence and Venice (Stuttgart, 1991), 355–80. 22 Paus. 9.36.5. 23 Hölscher, ‘The City of Athens’. 24 J. M. Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge, 1995), 80, on the erection of war memorials in western cities after August 1914. 25 Pace Hölscher, ‘The City of Athens’, 372. 26 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis, 146. 27 Hdt. 7.24. 28 Thuc. 1.10.1–2. 29 Ibid. 2.41. 30 Hesberg, Formen privater Repräsentation (above, Ch. 1, n. 20). 31 von Hesberg, ‘Architekturepigrammen’. 32 H. Schaaf, Untersuchungen zur Gebäudestiftungen der hellenistischen Zeit (Cologne, 1992). 33 T. Kraus, ‘Platz und Denkmal’, MDAI(R) 81 (1974), 115–30. 34 Assmann, Das Kulturelle Gedächtnis, describes the Israelite past in this sense as ‘semiotisiert’. 35 Wiseman, ‘Monuments and the Roman Annalists’, in I. S. Moxon, J. D. Smart, and A. J. Woodman (eds.), Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing. Papers Presented at a Conference in Leeds, 6– 8 April 1983 (Cambridge, 1986), 87–100, at 89. 36 Cato fr.83 P = Gell. NA 3.7.19. 37 Festus, 123 L. 38 ‘Whether works of art may, with propriety be combined with the sublimity of nature . . .’ [1839], in Works, ed. Cook and Wedderburn, i. 247–64, at 249. 39 Y. Burnand, ‘La Documentation épigraphique sur la construction architecturale dans les “cités” gallo-romaines des Leuques et des Médiomatriques’, in Y. Burnand (ed.), Études d’architecture gallo-romaine (Nancy, 1983), 13–37, at 14–15. 40 For this distinction, see S. Baker, ‘The Hell of Connotation’, Word and Image, 1 (1985), 164–75, noting the corollary that intended connotations are indistinguishable from unintended ones. 41 Cic. Ep. II ad Caes., in Non. 32.16: non signiﬁcabant ibi sepultum, quod cenotaphia erant multa monumenta. 42 Varro, Ling. 6.45. 43 e.g. Livy 38.56.3–4, on the tomb of the Scipiones outside the Porta Capena: ‘Everywhere are displayed monuments and statues . . .’ 44 See above, Ch. 1, nn. 95–7. 45 L. Crozzoli Aite, Mem. Pont. 13 (1981), 118–19. 46 As suggested to me by Christoph Leidl. 47 See above, Ch. 3, n. 10. On the signiﬁcance of this text for Roman ideas of memory, see S. Carey, Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture: Art and Empire in the ‘Natural History’ (Oxford, 2003), 146–8. 48 Quint. Inst. 2.2. 49 Plaut. Pers. 53–61. 50 The key passage on Roman imagines is Pliny, HN 35.6–7, on which see Carey, Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture, 148–56. For fuller discussions of the imagines, see F. Dupont, ‘Les Morts et la mémoire: le masque funèbre’, in F. Hinard (ed.), La Mort, les morts et l’au-delà dans le monde romain (Actes du Colloque de Caen, 20–22 novembre 1985) (Caen, 1987), 167–73, and H. I. Flower, Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture (Oxford, 1996). 10 11

notes (pp. 169–75) 51 On stemmata, see M. Bettini, Anthropology and Roman Culture: Kinship, Time, Images of the Soul, Eng. tr. (Baltimore and London, 1991), 174–82, and Carey, Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture, 149. 52 S. Mazzarino, ‘L’intuizione del tempo nella storiograﬁa classica’, Il pensiero storico classico (Bari, 1966), iii. 412–61, n. 555. 53 Pliny, HN 7.212, with F. Coarelli, Il Foro Romano, i. Periodo arcaico (Rome, 1983), 138–60; cf. 213–15 on sundials. The date of the erection of the ﬁrst sundial was disputed, Fabius Vestalis arguing for 292, Varro for 264 BC. 54 For the nature of restoration as applied to Roman building projects, see Thomas and Witschel, ‘Constructing Reconstruction’, 149–64, and, for vetustas, 137–49. 55 Cf. Riegl, ‘The Modern Cult of Monuments’, 24: for a building to be a monument, a considerable time had to have elapsed since it was new. 56 e.g. in the Largo Argentina at Rome, where the foundations of an earlier building are preserved below the latest podium structure of Temple C (probably the Temple of Juturna). This principle is conﬁrmed, not contradicted, by the Pantheon in Rome: see Thomas, ‘Architectural History’. 57 Tac. Hist. 3.72. Cf. Harris, Building Lives, 13, of medieval consecrations: ‘Embedded in these ancient ceremonies were notions of purpose and dominion; purpose was indicated not only by prayer service but by actual insertion of sacred objects, dominion by the transfer of keys.’ 58 Cf. J. R. Hale, ‘The End of Florentine Liberty: The Fortezza da Basso’, in N. Rubinstein (ed.), Florentine Studies: Politics and Society in Renaissance Florence (London, 1968), 501–32: ‘Foundation stones were not laid lightly in the Renaissance.’ Harris, Building Lives, 22. 59 For Roman views of time, Bettini, Anthropology and Roman Culture, 113–93. Cf. Juv. 13.16: ‘behind his back he has left sixty years.’ 60 e.g. Schol. ad Il. 18.250; cf. Bettini, Anthropology and Roman Culture, 157; Hor. Sat. 2.3.299. The Greek terms pq rx (‘forward’) and prx (‘back’) are both spatial and temporal. 61 e.g. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.34.4 (the archaion ichnos of the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius, restored by Augustus, of which Romulus was supposed to be the original founder; cf. Nep. Att. 20.3; Livy 4.20.7; Mon. Anc. 19.1. 62 Vitr. De Arch. 1 pr. 3: quod animadverti multa te aediﬁcavisse et nunc aediﬁcare, reliquo quoque tempore et publicorum et privatorum aediﬁciorum, pro amplitudine rerum gestarum ut posteris memoriae traderentur, curam habiturum. 63 Vitruvius interprets the Athenian ‘Caryatids’ in this way: De Arch. 1.1.5. 64 Tac. Ann. 2.60.4 (priorem opulentiam complexae). 65 Ibid. 1.1.17. For the treatment of buildings in history-writing, see below, Ch. 11. 66 von Hesberg, ‘Architekturepigrammen’. 67 e.g. ibid. 70 no. 13: Archimelus compares Hiero’s ship to Mt Etna. 68 Kraus, ‘Platz und Denkmal’. 69 Cf. Theoc. Id. 7.45–6, on the builder of a house higher than Mt Oromedon. 70 P. R. Hardie, ‘Ut pictura poesis? Horace and the Visual Arts’, in N. Rudd (ed.), Horace 2000: A Celebration (London, 1993), 112–39. 71 Cf. Cic. De Or. 2.60–4; Malissard, ‘L’Histoire: écriture ou vérité? (A propos de Pline (Ep., 6, 16 et 20) et de Tacite (Ann., 14, 3–9) )’, in M.-M. Mactoux and É. Geny (eds.), Mélanges Pierre Léveque, v. Anthropologie et société (Paris, 1990), 227–43. Strabo’s Geography was a literary work on the grand scale whose merit lay in its overall impression, not in the accurate presentation of detail: Strab. 1.1.23 (C13–14), pr. The work is suitably framed by an image of a colossal statue (kolossourgia): K. Clarke, Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford, 1999), 315. Similarly, [Longinus], Subl. 36.3 distinguishes between a$jqibea (‘precision’) and lecho| (‘scale’); Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 27 distinguishes between great and small events. 72 For these aspects, see de Angelis, ‘La Periegesi di Pausania’, 218–62, noting the antithesis in Roman imperial views of art between the over life-size and impressive works of Phidias (also, though, capable of art of ﬁner degree) and the proportioned sculptures by Polyclitus (so ‘accurate’ that it became an ideal form, removed from real bodies). 73 IEph 18b2, 19b4 (Artemision); 449 (Domitian) (see Ch. 7, above). 74 Plut. Per. 13.3. 75 Dio Chrys. Or. 47.16: sa+ t<polmg* lasa sg&| pakaa| et$ dailoma|. 76 G. C. Picard, Les Trophées romains. Contributions à l’histoire de la religion et de l’art triomphal de Rome (Paris, 1957), 16–36. 77 Ibid. 270–1; Picard’s reconstruction is based on coins such as Fig. 138 shown here (CREBM iv, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, no. 1302). 78 Cic. Inv. Rhet. 2.23.69. 79 For the site of the Theban trophy, behind the Spartan line, at the most signiﬁcant point of their advance, see D. Musti, La Storia Greca: linee di sviluppo dall’età micenea all’età romana (Rome, 1989), 551, pl. 61. 80 Cic. Inv. Rhet. 2.23.70. 81 Probably an unstated convention, although Picard, Les Trophées romains, 17, infers that a religious law existed until the late 5th cent., stipulating that trophies be made from perishable materials. 82 Plut. Quaest. Rom. 273b. 83 Ibid. 273c–d. 84 Id. Caes. 6.1–4. 85 Picard, Les Trophées romains, 270–1. 86 La Turbie: J. Formigé, Le Trophée des Alpes (La Turbie), Gallia, suppl. 2 (Paris, 1949); cf. MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 157; Carey, Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture,

309

43–61. Adamklissi: F. B. Florescu, Das Siegesdenkmal von Adamklissi: Tropaeum Traiani (Bucharest and Bonn, 1965); M. I. Finley, Atlas of Classical Archaeology (London, 1977), 140. 87 Cf. Venturi, Learning From Las Vegas, 100 ﬁg.: a huge banner erected upon a square block of masonry with the label ‘This is a monument’. 88 Pace N. Hannestad, ‘Rome—Ideology and Art: Some Distinctive Features’, in M. T. Larsen (ed.), Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (Copenhagen, 1979), 361–90, esp. 364. 89 Plut. De Pyth. Or. 395b. This aspect refers to all the statues of the sanctuary, not just to the monuments of the navarchs, as sometimes thought: see M. Jouanna, ‘Plutarque et la patine des statues à Delphes (Sur les oracles de la Pythie, 395b–396c)’, RPhil 3 49 (1975), 67–71. 90 On Plutarch’s providential view of Fortune, see R. H. Barrow, Plutarch and His Times (London, 1967), 119–31; S. C. R. Swain, ‘Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History’, AJP 110 (1989), 272–302. On the grand theory of Plutarch’s De Fortuna Romanorum, see R. Flacelière, ‘Plutarque, “De Fortuna Romanorum”’, Mélanges d’archéologie, d’épigraphie et d’histoire offerts à Jérôme Carcopino (Paris, 1966), 367–75; Swain, ‘Plutarch’s De Fortuna Romanorum’, CQ 39 (1989), 504–16. 91 M. P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion 2, ii (Munich, 1961), 200–18. 92 Plut. Rom. 8.9. Tacitus presented a negative version of this view: see below, Ch. 11. 93 IEph 449; see Ch. 7 above. 94 Note also fragment 1, which seems to refer to a ‘further restoration’ ([e$p]am qh[xrim]) and to the passing of time (vq mx[——]). 95 Plin. Ep. 10.23.1–2. 96 Ibid. 41.4–5. 97 Ibid. 37.3. 98 Ibid. 70.1. 99 Ibid. 70.4. 100 Ibid. 49.1. 101 Ibid. 50. The famous and controversial re-siting of the Temple of Ares at Athens might have been justiﬁed similarly: H. A. Thompson, ‘Itinerant Temples of Attica’, AJArch 66:2 (1962), 200; H. A. Thompson and R. E. Wycherley, The Athenian Agora, xiv. The Agora of Athens (Princeton, NJ, 1972), 162–5; T. L. Shear, jr., ‘Athens: From City-state to Provincial Town’, Hesperia 50:4 (1980), 356–77, at 362. Cf. M. Holland McAllister, ‘The Temple of Ares at Athens: A Review of the Evidence’, Hesperia, 28:1 (1959), 1–64, at 64: ‘it should be stressed that there must have been a compelling reason for the transference of a large and elaborate temple from the sacred ground where it had stood for four hundred years’; see also Alcock, Archaeologies of the Greek Past, 55–8. 102 Ibid. 61–2. 103 Willers, Hadrians panhellenisches Programm, 35–6. The old form was embellished with a precinct of Corinthian order; otherwise, there was little change from the Hellenistic rebuilding by Antiochus IV Epiphanes, save the addition of a columned propylaion on the W side of the precinct. 104 Cf. Schol. ad Lucianum, ed. Jacobitz 3, 57, ed. Rabe 107, ad Icaromenippus 24, remarking that the Olympieion ‘would not have been completed if the emperor Hadrian had not contributed to the undertaking of the work with state funds’. Polemo’s dedicatory oration played further on this theme: below, Ch. 11. 105 CIG 2782.18 (e| axmxm e>qcxm jasarjeta*|). See Chs. 4 and 6, above. 106 C. Butterweck and O. Kaiser (eds.), Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, ii. Religiöse Texte, ed. M. Dietrich et al., 3. Rituale und Beschwörungen II (Gütersloh, 1988), 493. 107 D. H. Sanders (ed.), Nemrud Dag˘ı: The Hierothesion of Antiochus I of Commagene: Results of the American Excavations Directed by Theresa B. Goell (Winona Lake, Ind., 1996); cf. Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, 24–6. 108 Procop. Aed. 5.3.7. 109 CIL 10.3832 = ILS 6306. 110 This extension of usage had already been in the potential of the word, as argued above; cf. CIL 6.260 (= ILS 5448), 9.3305 (= ILS 932), 10.829 (= ILS 5706). 111 CIL 2.4494: Imp. Caesari . . . d.d.m.f. Egara. 112 Ibid. 13.1355–6, 1446. 113 Ostia, Galleria Lapidaria, Inv. 6044. Cf. Cicerchia and Marinucci, Le Terme del Foro, 210 C 92, ﬁg. 139 (after H. Bloch, ‘Ostia—iscrizioni rinvenute tra il 1938 e il 1939’, Not. Scav. (1953), 248–50, no. 16). For a Julio-Claudian parallel, see E. V. Thomas, ‘AB URBE CONDITA TRI[...]: A New Commemoration of the Imperial Tribunician Powers from the Imperial Vicus (Castleporziano)’, in Claridge (ed.), Castelporziano, iii. 137–49. 114 For a similar monument, see F. de Caprariis, ‘Un monumento dinastico tiberiano nel Campo Marzio settentrionale’, Bull. Com. Arch 95 (1993), 93–114, at 100–6. 115 Stylow, Libertas und Liberalitas, 66. 116 Fasti Ostienses, ed. Vidman, 51; SHA, Ant. Pius 8.3. 117 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 9.68.2; Horatius swimming the Tiber: Strack, Reichsprägung, iii. 75, no. 533. 118 Festus 374L (CGL ii. 185.22); Serv. ad Aen. 2.166. 119 Varro, Ling. 5.83; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 3.45.2; Plut. Numa 9.6. 120 Eph. Epigr. 8.204; as suggested by Hüttl, Antoninus, i. 172. 121 Dig. 50.10.7.pr; cf. 50.8.7. 122 e.g. Plin. Ep. 10.70.2 (ruined house at Prusa); SIG 3 837 = IGRom. 4.1156a. 123 Later imperial legislation, esp. in the 360s, repeated the priority to rebuild old structures: C. Kunderewicz, ‘La Protection des monuments d’architecture antique dans le Code Théodosien’, in Studi in onore di Edoardo Volterra, iv (Milan, 1971), 137–53; J. Alchermes,

310

notes (pp. 175–81)

‘Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire: Legislative Rationales and Architectural Reuse’, DOP 48 (1994), 167–78. 124 Fronto, Ep. ad Marc. Caes. 4.4, ed. Naber: templa, fana, aedes. 125 CIL 10.5917–18 (below). No remains of the baths survive: M. Mazzolani, Forma Italiae, i.6. Anagnia (Rome, 1969), 83–5, no. 51; Fagan, Bathing in Public, 294, no. 179. 126 PIR 2 E 117. He cannot have been the same Euhodus Aug. lib. who was tutor to Caracalla and later murdered by that emperor; cf. Dio Cass. 76.3.2, 6.1; 77.1.1. 127 PIR 2 M 261. Cf. Dio Cass. 72.4.6; Epit. de Caes. 17.5; SHA, Comm. 8.6, 11.9, 17.1. 128 There is little basis for Mazzolani’s view (Anagnia, 83–4) that the statue stood in the town forum. The baths were perhaps those indicated by structures once seen in the area of the ancient town above the Arcazzi, but since destroyed; cf. F. Coarelli, Lazio (Rome and Bari, 1984), 180. 129 CIL 10.5917 = ILS 1909. He was quaestor of the collegium Caplatorum, but the wording here suggests that the benefaction was intended for the whole town, rather than a single group. 130 Ibid. 5918 = ILS 406. 131 For Roman women continuing the fame of their fathers, see J. P. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family (Princeton, NJ, 1984), e.g. 339, noting Tacitus’ attitude to the elder Agrippina. 132 The verb restaurare recalls Tacitus’ account of the restoration of the Temple of Venus on Mt Eryx in Sicily, where the principal motive for restoring the building was its historic origins: Tac. Ann. 4.43.4: et Segestani aedem Veneris montem apud Erycum, vetustate dilapsam, restaurari postulavere, nota memorantes de origine eius et laeta Tiberio. 133 For the expressions in pristinam faciem and in pristinum statum in rebuilding inscriptions, see Thomas and Witschel, ‘Constructing Reconstruction’, 172 and n. 235. 134 For Greek and Latin revivals in language and culture, see Bowie, ‘Greeks and Their Past’, and Walker and Cameron (eds.), The Greek Renaissance in the Roman Empire (above, Ch. 4, n. 68). 135 The gateway stood on the site of a 5th-cent. BC predecessor, perhaps erected by Cimon. 136 H. Jucker, Das Bildnis im Blätterkelch. Geschichte und Bedeutung einer römischen Porträtform, Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana, 3 (Olten, 1961), i. 91–2; ii, pl.35. 137 B. H. Hill, The Springs: Peirene, Sacred Spring, Glauke, Corinth, i.6 (Princeton, 1964), 93–103. 138 Arcades: cf. Hadrian’s Panhellenion and the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus (Ch. 2, above); Lyttelton, Baroque Architecture in Classical Antiquity, 278–9, compares the Agoranomion of the Roman Agora at Athens and the 1st-cent. basilicas at Corinth. Trefoil plan: above, Ch. 2, n. 223. 139 J. H. Kent, The Inscriptions, 1926 –1950, Corinth, viii.3 (Cambridge, Mass., 1966), 135–6, no. 337; the likely ending of the dedicator’s name (‘-mius’) suggests that the dedicator was not Herodes Atticus, as proposed by Hill, Corinth, i.6, 103. But the fragmentary nature of the stone, its uncertain provenance, and the presence of a statue of Annia Regilla, ‘an image of so-phrosune- [Prudence]’, mean that one cannot deny this possibility as conﬁdently as Walker, ‘Roman Nymphaea’, 69. 140 See esp. de Angelis, ‘La Periegesi di Pausania’, passim; Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, 125–55; K. W. Arafat, Pausanias’s Greece: Ancient Artists and Roman Rulers (Cambridge, 1997); Alcock, Cherry, and Elsner (eds.), Pausanias. 141 J. Elsner, ‘Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim in the Roman World’, Past & Present, 135 (May 1992), 3–29, at 20, repr. in R. Osborne (ed.), Studies in Ancient Greek and Roman Society (Cambridge, 2004), 260–85. Pausanias was an initiate at Eleusis, like the emperor Hadrian (SHA, Hadr. 13.1). 142 For ergasia or kataskeue- archaia, e.g. Paus. 6.24.2 (agora, or ‘hippodromos’, Elis: built sq p{ s{& a$qvaiosq{, ‘in more ancient style’); contrast 7.26.5 (temple of Iphigeneia, Helice: svmg g< e$u’ g
153 CIL 5.2864 (1st or 2nd cent.): frons templi cum vervis et hermis. C. Promis, in Atti dell’Accademia di Torino (1886) could not decide whether vervis meant ‘rams’ heads’ (from vervae) or ‘stakes’ (from verus); but, as the latter should be veribus, ‘rams’ heads’ must be intended here.

Notes to Chapter 10 1 There is a wide literature on Roman tombs of all shapes and sizes. For the most upto-date surveys of tombs across the empire, see H. M. Colvin, Architecture and the Afterlife (New Haven, 1991), chs. 2–5; Hesberg, Römische Grabbauten (Darmstadt, 1992); Gros, L’Architecture romaine, ii. 379–467. 2 ‘Only a very small part of Architecture belongs to Art: tomb monuments and communicative monuments. Everything else, in other words everything that has a function, should be excluded from the realm of Art.’ A. Loos, Sämtliche Schriften, ed. F. Gluck (Vienna, 1962), i. 315. 3 For this world of the tomb, see N. Purcell, ‘Tomb and Suburb’, in Zanker and Hesberg (eds.), Römische Gräberstrassen, 25–41. 4 ‘When we ﬁnd a mound in the forest, 6 feet long and 3 feet wide, with the paddle erected in the form of a pyramid, then we become serious, and something inside us says: Here someone lies buried. This is architecture.’ Loos, Sämtliche Schriften, i. 317. 5 Hdt. 1.93.2. 6 Arr. Anab. 6.29.4–5. 7 P. A. Clayton and M. J Price, The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (London, 1988); P. Jordan, The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (Harlow, 2002); for ancient sources, see K. Brodersen (ed.), Reiseführer zu den Sieben Weltwunder: Philon von Byzanz und andere antike Texte (Franfurt-am-Main, 1992). For Hellenistic versions of this canon, see above Ch. 5, n. 18. 8 See above, Ch. 9, p. 170. 9 Tac. Ann. 2.60.4 (priorem opulentiam complexae). 10 A. and E. Bernand, Les Inscriptions grecques et latines du Colosse de Memnon (Cairo, 1960). 11 L. Casson, Travel in the Ancient World (London, 1974); D. Hunt, ‘Travel, Tourism and Piety in the Roman Empire’, Echos du Monde Classique, 28 (1984), 391–417. For Roman visits to the pyramids, see E. Bernand, ‘Pélérinage au grand Sphinx de Gizeh’, ZPE 51 (1983), 185–90. 12 CIL 3.21; cf. CIG 4699-4701. The earlier reading for line 6 (censoris consulis esse: ‘censor and consul in thirty years’) does not seem plausible. 13 Note, however, the comments of Carey, Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture, 93 on Pliny’s account of the Egyptian pyramids (HN 36.82); she notes that Pliny undermines his own ‘hierarchy of wonderment’ ﬁrst by stating that the greatest wonder is the smallest of the pyramids, and then by expressing wonder not for the architecture so much as for the wealth of the prostitute Rhodopis that built it. 14 F. Sanguinetti, Palladio, 11 (1961), 165–70. 15 CIL 6.1374–5 = ILS 917–917a. 16 T. Kraus, Das Römische Weltreich, Propyläen der Kunstgeschichte, 2 (Berlin, 1967), 207, ﬁg. 44; W. Ehrhardt, Stilgeschichtliche Untersuchungen an römischen Wandmalereien: von der späten Republik bis zur Zeit Neros (Mainz, 1987), 53–4, pl. 25; Richardson, Topographical Dictionary, 354. 17 Nash, Pictorial Dictionary, ii. 59–60; Richardson, Topographical Dictionary, 252–3. The monument is known only from Renaissance drawings, but its location N of the Tiber near Hadrian’s mausoleum, in an area not developed before the early 2nd century, points to an Antonine or later date. 18 CIL 8.19174 = ILS 8102 (monimentum quod appellatur pyramis, set up by Gaius Aug. libertus). 19 Colvin, Architecture and the Afterlife, 38 ﬁg. 33; cf. Vitr. De Arch. 2.8.11. For the date, E. Akurgal, Ancient Civilizations and Ruins in Turkey from Prehistoric Times until the end of the Roman Empire 6 (Istanbul, 1985), 248; Colvin, Architecture and the Afterlife, 39 (cautiously). The rare front of columns and piers is similar to the ‘Temple of Hadrian’ at Ephesus; cf. Lyttelton, Baroque Architecture in Classical Antiquity, 270, pl. 179. 20 For a summary of its history, see Colvin, Architecture and the Afterlife, 30–6. Pliny’s measurements cannot easily be made to ﬁt the remains at Bodrum. 21 Table 3, no. 3; cf. Strab. 5.3.8 (236). 22 SHA, Hadr. 26.5. Not all have been identiﬁed in the remains of the villa: see MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa and its Legacy for individual cases. 23 F. Coarelli and Y. Thébert, ‘Architecture funéraire et pouvoir: réﬂexions sur l’hellénisme numide’, MEFRA 100 (1988), 761–818, at 791, n. 48, putting the invention of the term a stage back. 24 Vitr. De Arch. 2.8.11. Richardson, Topographical Dictionary, 351, suggests that the name was coined ‘by some wit’. As the evidence that Alexander’s monument was called ‘Mausoleion’ comes only from Latin inscriptions of the western Empire of the Antonine period, the name may have been used only by Romans: cf. Table 3, no. 2. But it is not even certain that it was Alexander’s mausoleum referred to there, nor what Alexander’s tomb looked like; it did not necessarily resemble Augustus’. 25 Paus. 8.16.3. 26 The similarity of Aepytus’ monument to Augustus’ perhaps made Pausanias think of ‘Mausolea’ here. 27 Kubinska, Les Monuments funéraires (above, Ch. 8, n. 112). 28 hoc monimentum maesoleumque monimentorum caussaque paratum: Table 3, no. 10.

notes (pp. 181–6) Cf. Table 3, nos. 12, 13, 14. Table 3, no.12; cf. G. Sauron, ‘Les Cippes funéraires gallo-romains à décor de rinceaux de Nîmes et de sa region’, Gallia, 41 (1983), 59–110, esp. 84, no. V.08. 31 Table 3, nos. 9, 19. 32 Table 3, nos. 7–8. 33 Luc. Dial. Mort. 29.1. 34 See above, Ch. 4. 35 H. von Hesberg and S. Panciera, Das Mausoleum von Augustus: der Bau und seine Inschriften, Abhandlungen der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophischhistorische Klasse, NF 108 (Munich, 1994). 36 For La Turbie, see above Ch. 9, n. 86. 37 The resemblance is underplayed by Boatwright, Hadrian and the City of Rome, 175; however, the location, dynastic function, and inner tumulus make Hadrian’s imitation of the basic concept of Augustus’s tomb virtually certain. 38 The ‘ideal’ size of 300 ft. is transferred from the diameter of the drum base in Augustus’ tomb, to the width of the square podium base in Hadrian’s: Wilson Jones, Principles, 80, 214–15. 39 Procop. Goth. 1.22.14. Blake, Roman Construction, 56, refers to archaeological evidence of marble, though, as even the remains of architectural ornament attributed to the podium has been doubted (Strong, ‘Late Hadrianic Ornament’), this cannot be regarded as certain; cf. Boatwright, Hadrian and the City of Rome, 171. 40 Dio Cass., Exc. Salm. fr. 114 Müller, between books 69 and 70 (Loeb edn., ed. Cary, viii. 466–7). 41 Vitr. De Arch. 2.8.11, with drawing by Howe and Rowland, 185, ﬁg. 34. 42 Boatwright, Hadrian and the City of Rome, 176. 43 Pensa, ‘Rappresentazioni’, 66–9; C. C. Vermeule, Greek Sculpture and Roman Taste (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1977), 104. 44 A. K. Frazer, ‘The Pyre of Faustina Senior’, in G. Kopcke and M. B. Moore (eds.), Studies in Classical Art and Archaeology: A Tribute to Peter Heinrich von Blanckenhagen (Locust Valley, NY, 1979), 271–4, pace J. Arce Martínez, Funus Imperatorum: los funerales de los emperadores romanos (Madrid, 1988), 125–51. 45 Arce Martínez, Famus Imperatorum, 125–51; E. La Rocca, La riva a mezzaluna: culti, agoni, monumenti funerari presso il Tevere nel Campo Marzio occidentale (Rome, 1984), 101–14. 46 For details, see J. Scheid and V. Huet (ed.), La Colonne aurélienne. Autour de la Colonne aurélienne. Geste et image sur la colonne de Marc Aurèle à Rome, Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, section des sciences et religieuses, 108 (Turnhout, 2000). 47 For possible visual relations between the Column of Marcus and neighbouring monuments, see R. Brilliant, reviewing La Colonne aurélienne (previous note), in JRA 15 (2002), 499–506, at 501–2. 48 H. Thiersch, Pharos: antike Islam und Occident (Leipzig, 1909); M.-H. Quet, ‘Pharus’, MÉFRA 96 (1984), 789–845, esp. 814–15 on the question of linguistic usage. 49 Strabo 17.1.9 (C 794). 50 Ibid. 3.1.9. 51 Ach. Tat. 5.6. 52 Joseph. AJ 16.144. 53 Suet. Claud. 20. 3 (congestisque pilis superposuit altissimam turrem in exemplum Alexandrini Phari); cf. Val. Flacc. Arg. 7.84–5. 54 Suet. Tib. 74 (Capua). 55 Cf. Anth. Pal. 11.117 (attributed to Strato or Nicarchus), ed. R. Aubreton (Paris, 1972), 115; Hdn. 4.2.8 (of towers of three or four storeys). 56 Thiersch, Pharos, 26–31, esp. 30, ﬁg. 48. 57 CREBM, iv. 267, no. 1655, pl. 40.1, lxxxvi. 58 RIC, iii, no. 757, pl. V.112. 59 Gnecchi, Medaglioni romani, ii. 172, pl. 89.6–8 (with the legend votis felicibus). 60 Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 62; see above, Ch. 5, nn. 29–30. 61 CIL 2.2559; Table 2, no. 30. 62 S. Hutter, Der römische Leuchtturm von La Coruña (Mainz, 1973), 12; P. Le Roux, ‘Le Phare, l’architecte et le soldat: l’inscription rupestre de la Corogne (CIL II, 2559)’, in Miscellanea Greca e Romana 15 (1992), 133–45. 63 Plut. Otho 18.1. 64 For the use of memoria in Latin inscriptions see R. Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana, Ill., 1962), 245–6 and n. 244. Cf. the Greek phrases a$ei* lmarsom lmale&iom (‘ever-remembered memorial’), e.g. at Pharsalus, 4th century BC, and lmg* lg amio| or dio| (‘eternal memory’). 65 J. Carcopino, Le Mystère d’un symbole chrétien. L’ascia (Paris, 1955), 38–9. 66 A. Brelich, Aspetti della morte nelle iscrizioni sepolcrali dell’ impero romano (Budapest, 1937). 67 Cf. G. Sanders, ‘La Tombe et l’éternité’, in J.-M. Leroux (ed.), Le Temps chrétien de la ﬁn de l’antiquité au moyen âge: III e–XIII e siècles: Paris, 9–12 mars 1981: actes du colloque; organisé par le Centre de recherche Lenain de Tillemont pour le christianisme ancien (Paris, 1984), 185–218. 68 For the interchangeability of sepulchrum and domus, cf. e.g. E. Engstroem, Carmina Latina Epigraphica, post editam collectionem Buechelerianam in lucem prolata (Goteborg, 1912), no. 54.1–2 (Hispal); AE 1933.24 (Mertola). 69 CIL 6.27788 = CLE 1488; B. Borg, H. von Herberg, and A. Linfert (†), Die antiken Skulpturen in Castle Howard, Monumenta Artis Romanae, xxxi (Wiesbaden, 2005), 144 no. 91, pl. 77.1. 70 Lattimore, Themes, 245. 29 30

311

71 CIL 13.5708 = ILS 8379. See Y. le Bohec (ed.), Le Testament du Lingon. Actes de la Journée d’Étude du 16 mai 1990, organisée au Centre d’Études Romaines et Gallo-romaines de l’Université Lyon III, Collection du Centre d’Études Romaines et Gallo-romaines, NS 9 (Lyon and Paris, 1991), esp. the article by A. Buisson, ‘Le Tombeau du Lingon. Étude du cadre architectural et archéologique’, 63–72. 72 Dig. 35.2.27.5 (substantia ac dignitas). 73 Kubinska, Monuments funéraires; N. Blanc, ‘Vocabulaire technique et vocabulaire Vitruvien dans les inscriptions de Lyon et de Vienne’, in La Langue des inscriptions latines de la Gaule. Actes de la table-ronde tenue au C.E.R.G.R. les 6 et 7 octobre 1988, Université Lyon III (Lyon and Paris, 1989), 73–84, esp. 77. E.g. ILTG 255, from late antique Lyon: sarcophagum cum basilica et fabrica. In Republican Italy some attention had been given to the naming of tombs; cf. the late 2nd-century BC punning tomb inscription of a Claudia, apparently one of the Claudii Puchri: Heic est sepulcrum hau pulcrum pulcrai feminae (CIL 12.1211 = A. Ernout, Recueil des textes latins archaiques (Paris, 1947), 77–8, no. 133); cf. F. Ahl, Metaformations: Soundplay and Wordplay in Ovid and Other Classical Poets (Ithaca, NY, 1986), 43. 74 CIL 3, Suppl. 9302 = CLE 1588 (D. M. L. Publicius Trophimus heres institut(us) ab Val(eria) Philete uxore mea in memoria karae coniugis et mi posui stilibatam causa arae viatorib(us). Bene concordes vivite; dated to 2nd cent. by Hirschfeld from lettering). 75 Homo es: resiste et tumulum contempla meum. 76 Varro, Ling. 7.9. 77 S. Weinstock, ‘Templum,’ MDAI(R) 47 (1932), 95–121, at 101, n. 3. 78 Cic. Verr. 2.4.79. 79 Cf. Ruskin, ‘Whether works of art . . .’, in Works, ed. Cook and Wedderburn, i. 255: ‘the public monument is perpetually desecrated by the familiarity of unfeeling spectators, and palls gradually upon the minds of even those who revere it, becoming less impressive with the repetition of its appeals; the secluded monument is unprofaned by careless contemplation, is sought out only by those for whom alone it was erected, and found where the mind is best prepared to listen to its language.’ 80 For the fullest and most recent discussion of this relief, see F. Sinn and K. S. Freyberger, Die Ausstattung des Hateriergrabes (Museo Gregoriano Profano ex-Lateranense. Katalog der Skulpturen, eds G. Daltrop and H. Oehler, 1, Die Grabdenkmäler, no. 2), Monumenta Artis Romanae, 24 (Mainz, 1996), 51–9 (cat. no. 6), with pl. II and 136, ﬁg. 6; cf. also the older discussion by A. Giuliano, ‘Documenti per servire allo studio del monumento degli “Haterii”’, MAL8 13.6 (1968), 449–82, cat. no. 8, pl. vii, ﬁgs. 13–14. Sinn and Freyberger date the monument to c.120, slightly later than earlier scholars, on the basis of the treatment of the child ﬁgures. 81 The second principal relief from the tomb, which shows several recent public constructions of the city, including the Temple of Vespasian and the Amphitheatrum Flavium, makes it possible that this was the tomb of the building contractor Q. Haterius Tychicus redemptor (CIL 6.607, Domitianic, although unconnected with these ﬁnds) and also celebrated his personal building activity in Rome; this suggestion was made by C. Cavedoni, ‘Annotazioni al tomo XXI degli Annali’, Bull. Inst. (1850), 156‒60, followed by F. Castagnoli, ‘Gli ediﬁci rappresentati in un relievo del sepolcro degli Haterii’, Bull. Com. Arch. 69 (1941), 59‒69 and F. Coarelli, ‘La riscoperta del sepolcro degli Haterii . . .’, in Studies in Classical Art and Archaeology (above, n. 44). 82 Z. Mari, Tibur. Pars Quarta, Forma Italiae, 35 (Florence, 1991), 315–16 no. 15, ﬁg. 8, dating the fragment for stylistic reasons ‘al periodo traianeo-antoniniano’; M. Fuchs, in Padgett (ed.), Roman Sculpture in the Art Museum Princeton University, 47–51, no. 11, giving a Hadrianic date (c.130–40). 83 Cf. ll. 1–2:—— Quadratilla / —— Aphthoneti patris ——. No more is known of the prosopographical details of the deceased. 84 Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, Galleria no. 29 (inv. no. M.10471). H. Stuart Jones (ed.), A Catalogue of the Ancient Sculptures Preserved in the Municipal Collections of Rome: The Sculptures of the Palazzo dei Conservatori (Oxford, 1926), 93, no. 29 with pl. 33. Discovered outside the Porta Angelica near the present Via Leone IV, the monument probably stood beside the Via Triumphalis: G. Gatti, ‘Il monumento sepolcrale di un sutor a Porta Fontinale’, BCom 15 (1887), 52–6 with pl. III. The material is probably Pentelic marble (Stuart Jones, loc. cit.), rather than Carrara marble (as Gatti, p. 52). Stylistic criteria suggest a date in the late Flavian or Trajanic period (Stuart Jones), but the style of lettering might suggest a later date. 85 A sutor was a generic term referring to both makers of shoes and cobblers: Gatti, ‘Il monuments’, 53. For the form of the monument, cf. W. Altmann, Die römischen Grabaltäre der Kaiserzeit (Berlin, 1905), 248, ﬁg. 194. 86 CIL 6.33914. Stuart Jones (above, n. 84) sees in the portrait ‘the shrewd, hard face of the tradesman, occupied with his small gains and worldly success’. D. Freedberg, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago and London, 1989), 213–14 with ﬁg. 113, notes the ‘overt concern with verisimilitude, as a means of ensuring an adequate record for posterity’; however, this is not the monument’s sole concern, as shown below. 87 A similar effect was achieved in a portrait monument for a bootmaker (sutor caligarius) from Milan: CIL 5.5919; C. M. Grivaud de la Vincelle, Arts et métiers des anciens, représentés par les monuments (Paris, 1819), pl. xlv, no. 8. 88 e.g. Pergamon, Side, and Ephesus. 89 M. Sartre, L’Orient romain (Paris, 1991), 327, gives many examples, both in the region of Qalat Seman and in the plain of Sarmada: tomb of Alexandrus at Sarmada (c.132–41), tomb of Isidotus at Sitt al-Roum (152), a tomb at Dana (181–2), tombs of Aemilius Reginus and the veteran T. Flavius Iulianus at Qatura (195, and c.200). For details, see G. Tchalenko, Villages

312

notes (pp. 186–94)

du Syrie antique du Nord, i (Paris, 1953), 37, n. 2, 117–18, 122, 141, 190–1, and the Tchalenko Archive, Institute of Archaeology, Oxford. 90 M. H. Saladin, ‘Rapport sur la mission faite en Tunisie de novembre 1882 à april 1883’, Archives des Missions Scientiﬁques, 3rd ser., 13 (1887), 64–83. The resemblance is also noted by Kammerer-Grothaus, ‘Der Deus Rediculus’ (below, n. 105), 167, n. 171. Other examples are at Thuburbo Maius, Dougga, and Timgad. 91 R. Cagnat, Explorations épigraphiques et archéologiques en Tunisie (Paris, 1886), 110, no. 1, with photograph at pl. v. 92 J. Sanmartí, ‘Els ediﬁcis sepulcrals romans dels Països Catalans, Aragó i Múrcia’, Fonaments, 4 (1984), 87–160, esp. 90–106. 93 J. Menendez Pidal, ‘El mausoleo de los Atilios’, Arquivio de Archeologia España 43 (1970), 89–112; Gros, L’Architecture romaine, ii. 433. The Augustan date of von Hesberg, ‘Bauornamentik’, in Stadtbild und Ideologie (above, Introduction, n. 16), based on style of ornament, seems much too early. For columnar sarcophagi of this period, see below. 94 O(pus) i(nstitutum) o(blatum)q(ue) s(acrae) memoriae Atiliae / L(uci) f(iliae) Pomptillae Benedictae m(aritus) s(ua) p(ecunia). C. Albizzati, ‘Osservazioni sopra la “Grotta della vipera”’, Annali della Facolta di Lettere e di Filosoﬁa della Reale Universita di Cagliari (1926–7) [Bologna, 1928], 7–13; G. Coppola, ‘L’Heroon di Atilia Pomptilla in Cagliari’, RAL6 7 (1932), 388–437. 95 D.M. / Atiliae L.f. Pomptillae mamm[ae o]ptimae / L.Cassio Phili[p]po tat[ae pa]rentib[us] sanctis / L.Atilius Felix [——] et [L.Ati]lius / Eutychus lib. [f ]ec[er. si]bi posterisq. suis. 96 Inscription C = Coppola, ‘L’Heroon’, 408–10. 97 CIL 14.2795. For a full account, see E. Q. Visconti, Monumenti Gabini della Villa Pinciana (Rome, 1797), pt. iii, 107–46. The inscription is now in the collection of the Département des Antiquités Grecques et Romaines of the Musée du Louvre, Paris (formerly in the ‘Salle du Tibre’: cf. Catalogue sommaire des marbres antiques (Paris, 1922), 36). 98 Originally dedicated to Faustina after her death in 140 and subsequent deiﬁcation, rededicated also to Antoninus after his death in 161 by Marcus Aurelius. There seems now no basis for the old view that the present temple was a new one reconstructed by Marcus Aurelius in place of an original one built after 140 (as Lacour-Gayet, Antonin le pieux, 289). 99 Ibid. 290, who suggests that the material had not been used at Rome since the Augustan period, in the Theatre of Marcellus. However, it was probably made invisible by white plaster and, although it was certainly no longer used as frequently in the 2nd century as travertine or other tufas, peperino (or the similar Gabine stone) had been used for the enclosure walls of the Templum Pacis and Forum of Trajan. 100 For a drawing of the porch, see esp. Vignola’s drawing in his treatise. The lower diameter of the columns is 1.46 m., or 5 Roman ft. 101 CIL 6.1005 (Divo Antonino et / Divae Faustinae ex S.C.). The frieze, 3.25 m. high, consists of 3 adjacent blocks, each an intercolumniation wide and containing architrave, frieze, and cornice. Antoninus’ name perhaps appeared ﬁrst ‘because there is greater dignity in the male sex’ (quia maior dignitas est in sexu virili; cf. Ulp. Dig. 1.9.1, cited by Lacour-Gayet, Antonin le Pieux, 290). 102 Ligorio, cited by R. Lanciani, Bull. dell’ Ist. (1871), 263 and id., Storia degli Scavi, ii. 193–5. A similar scene is shown on a bronze medal of Faustina (Donaldson, Architectura Numismatica, 12, no. 4 = Cohen, Faustine, no. 173): at the corners of the pediment a victory stands upright, supporting a shield, and at the top of the pediment is a four-horse chariot in which Faustina rides. 103 L. Vogel, The Column of Antoninus Pius (Cambridge, Mass., 1973); for the comparison with earlier monuments, see D. E. E. and F. S. Kleiner, ‘The Apotheosis of Antoninus and Faustina’, Rend. Pont. 51–2 (1978–80), 389–400. 104 See above, Ch. 4, n. 39. 105 H. Kammerer-Grothaus, ‘Der Deus Rediculus im Triopion des Herodes Atticus. Untersuchung am Bau und zu polychromer Ziegelarchitektur des 2. Jahrhunderts n.Chr. in Latium’, MDAI(R) 81 (1974), 131–251. For the terracotta decoration, Henry, ‘Architectural Terra Cotta’. 106 Building (found 1674 and now almost destroyed): F. Coarelli, Dintorni di Roma (Rome and Bari, 1984), 201; G. Messineo, La Via Flaminia da Porta del Popolo a Malborghetto (Rome, 1991), 96–8, ﬁgs. 117–23. For the interior paintings, partially preserved in the British Museum, see B. Andreae, Studien zur römischen Grabkunst, MDAI(R), suppl., 9 (Heidelberg, 1963). 107 CIL 6.22882. 108 Interestingly, cremation and inhumation were here practised side by side. 109 Kammerer-Grothaus, ‘Der Deus Rediculus’. 110 IG 14.1389. 111 Cf. P. Gros, ‘Un décor d’époque Antonine et sa signiﬁcation: les stucs du “temple de Cérès et de Faustine”’, MÉFRA 81 (1969), 161–93, at 193, on the poems of Marcellus, which he ascribes, however, to the temple-tomb rebuilt as the church of S Urbano della Caffarella, although this building is probably later in date (cf. Henry, ‘Architectural Terra Cotta’, 531): ‘au tombeau est venu s’ajouter un temple, que ses dimensions, sa situation, désignent comme un édiﬁce public, où les actes de culte, si l’on en croit les poèmes de Marcellus, ne sont point réservés à quelques familiers, mais ouverts à tous, du moins en principe.’ 112 e.g. the Augustan ‘Porta Palatina’ at Turin: Henry, ‘Architectural Terra Cotta’. 113 M. L. Bruto and C. Vannicola, ‘Grottarossa. Sepolcro “a tempietto”’, Bull. Com. Arch. 90 (1985), 153–63; Messineo, La Via Flaminia, 130–4. 114 Only the left corner of the pediment is preserved, but one can estimate an original height of c.1.60 m., or c.2.12 m. together with its marble parapet.

115 G. Colonna, ‘I templi del Lazio ﬁno al V secolo compreso’, Archeologia Laziale, 6 (1984), 396–411; C. J. Smith, Early Rome and Latium: Economy and Society c.1000–500 BC (Oxford, 1996). 116 Examples of older temple-like memorial architecture in von Hesberg, Formen privater Repräsentation. Matz, ‘Hellenistische und römische Grabbauten’, Die Antike 4 (1928), 285–304, at 285–6, noted the conversion here of the old Hellenistic heröon type to ‘etwas ganz anderes’, implying ‘eine geistige Wandlung von tiefgehender Art’; unlike older tombs with basement storeys like the monument of Bibulus preserved beneath the Vittoriano in Rome, Antonine temple-tombs are noteworthy for the public image implied by their podia with frontal steps and splendid interiors. 117 That such funerary banquets were public occasions, not simply private family matters, is clear from inscriptions, e.g. in the case of the temple for Domitia Augusta at Gabii (above). 118 See above, Introduction (p. 10). 119 G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Su alcune testimonianze epigraﬁche per lo studio dell’architettura romana’, Rivista storica dell’antichità, 6–7 (1976–7), 119–28. 120 Note the absence of the podium in Etrusco-Italic temple models (R. Staccioli, Modelli di ediﬁci etrusco-italici, i modelli votivi (Florence, 1968), with Mansuelli’s review in Studi Etruschi, 38 (1970), 411–13). Vitruvius describes the Tuscan temple and its podium separately (De Arch. 4.7.1, 3.4.4). 121 Mansuelli, ‘Su alcune testimonianze epigraﬁche’, 127–8 (‘un rialzo artiﬁciale non formalmente deﬁnito, successivamente geometrizzato e solo più tardi assimilato nel valore architettonico con l’adozione delle cornici’); cf. P. Marceni, ‘Girgenti. Ricerche ed esplorazioni’, Not. Scav. (1926), 93–148, at 112. 122 By Albert J. Ammerman. I owe this information to Nicholas Purcell. 123 Vitr. De Arch. 7.5.3. 124 e.g. the tomb of Nasonii above, or various tombs on the Via Latina. 125 CIL 6.219. Museo Nazionale Romano, inv. no. 33996. A. Giuliano (ed.), Museo Nazionale Romano: le Sculture, i, 2 (Rome, 1981), 164–7, with photo. The content is neatly arranged according to the three fascias of the architrave, the ﬁrst with the date, the second the dedication, and the third the pavement. 126 For these elemental features of a monument, cf. CIL 11.4123 (Narnia, Umbria): valvas / ahene[as ——]s et superlimen [la] / pide[um ——] et fastigium / [?purpuriti]cum (consular date of 56), where superlimen is a hapax and even perhaps a neologism. 127 CIL 6.222 = ILS 2161. 128 This conception of the temple is retained in the probably 4th-cent. illustrations of the Vatican Codex Virgilianus (Vat. Lat. 3225): e.g. fols. viiv, xviir, xviiiv, xxivv, xxviir, xlvv. See D. H. Wright, The Vatican Vergil: A Masterpiece of Late Antique Art (Berkeley and Oxford, 1993). I am grateful to the Revd Leonard Boyle, former Prefect of the Vatican Library, for permission to consult this famous and magniﬁcent manuscript. 129 G. Calza, La necropoli del porto di Roma nell’ Isola Sacra (Rome, 1940). 130 Pace W. Eck, ‘Römische Grabinschriften. Aussageabsicht und Aussagefähigkeit in funerären Kontext’, in Zanker and Hesberg (eds.), Römische Gräberstrassen, 61–83, at 65, referring to ‘Reihenausgräben’. 131 Calza, La necropoli del porto, 333, no. 76, with photo, 71, ﬁg. 22. 132 Ibid., no. 97. 133 J.-C. Bessac, ‘Note sur les techniques du support épigraphique’, in Les Inscriptions latines de Gaule Narbonnaise. Actes de la table ronde de Nîmes 25–26 mai 1987, Bulletin Annuel de l’École Antique de Nîmes, numéro spécial, 20 (Nîmes, 1989), 119–35. 134 J.-N. Bonneville, ‘Le Monument épigraphique et ses moulurations’, Faventia, 2 (1980), 75–98, and ‘Le Support monumental des inscriptions: terminologie et analyse’, in Epigraphie Hispanique: problèmes de méthode et d’édition (Talence and Paris, 1984), 117–56. 135 P. Saenger, ‘The Separation of Words and the Order of Words: The Genesis of Medieval Reading’, Scrittura e Civiltà, 14 (1990), 49–74, at 55, n. 27, dates this tendency to the late 1st or early 2nd century. For hederae distinguentes at Cirta (CIL 8.6872), see J. E. Sandys, Latin Epigraphy: An Introduction (Cambridge, 1919), 54. 136 A. Petrucci, Le scritture ultime: ideologia della morte e strategie dello scrivere nella tradizione occidentale (Turin, 1995), esp. 23–33. 137 Saladin, ‘Rapport’, 187, with ﬁg. 326 (rectangular podium 5.15 m. by 4.10 m.; tabula ansata 4.43 m. by 2.38 m., so perhaps 15 by 8 Roman feet). The memorial function of the tabula ansata here was repeated in an interesting modern imitation of this tomb, the early 20thcent. war memorial at Sousse in Tunisia, built by the French architect Sergent and subsequently, it appears, destroyed. 138 CIL 9.2438. On the signiﬁcance of the form of the inscription, see Pani, ‘Segno e immagine’, 439; and, for the historical and economic signiﬁcance of the text, M. Corbier, ‘Fiscus and Patrimonium: The Saepinum Inscription and Transhumance in the Abruzzi’, JRS 73 (1983), 126–31. 139 Colvin, Architecture and the Afterlife, 88–9, ﬁgs. 80–1. 140 The rear, north side, is plain. 141 Carcopino, Le Mystère d’un symbole chrétien, 81–2 and pl. 6.1. 142 For a survey of previous views, see B. Mattsson, The Ascia Symbol on Latin Epitaphs (Göteborg, 1990). 143 See above, Ch. 3. 144 Cic. Leg. 2.23.59. 145 Carcopino, Le Mystère d’un symbole chrétien, 21. Two inscriptions (from Rome and Liternum) combine the phrase ab ascia with the expression a solo common in building inscriptions, signifying that the tomb in question was built upward from the ground, as well as being ritually complete.

notes (pp. 194–201) 146 Archivio di Stato, Turin, MS. Pingon, fol. 172r; CIL 13.2494: Memoriae aeternae M. Ruﬁus Catullus curator n. R(hod.) vivus sibi et R(uf.) Ruﬁano f. Ruf. Pupae ﬁl. et Ruﬁae Saciratae ﬁl. defunctae annor. XXII (new inscription begins) aediclam (sic) cum vinea et muris ad opus consummandum et tutelam eius et ad cenam omnibus tricontis ponendam xii in perpet. sic ut PETRUDECAMETO (sic) consumatur hoc opus sub ascia est haec o. s. l. h. n. s. [text as CIL]. Blanc, ‘Vocabulaire technique’, 76, suggests that the building referred to was ‘une petite chapelle avec toit’. For a detailed study, see A. Buisson, ‘Le Mausolée de Marcus Ruﬁus Catullus, curateur des nautes du Rhône’, in Actes du 112ème Congrès national des sociétés savantes, Lyon, 1987 (Paris, 1988). 147 According to Pingon’s drawing, the text is continuous across the two inscriptions, with the second simply continuing from the ﬁrst in mid-sentence. 148 Carcopino, Le Mystère d’un symbole chrétien, 28–9, citing Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne, i. col. 2962, ﬁg. 1009 (fragment of an epitaph with ascia relief from the Jewish catacomb at Vigna Cimarra, not in CIJ ) and CIJ, nos. 61–3 (three Jewish uses of the ascia at Lyon, presumably inﬂuenced by pagan or Christian practice). 149 Iren. Adv. Haer. 4.17.3–4. 150 Carcopino, Le Mystère d’un symbole Chrétien, 21, pl. 1; C. Méry-Barnabé, ‘Exercices de stèles de Saint-Ambroix’, Berry Magazine, no. 59 (Autumn 2001), 8–16. 151 e.g. CIL 8.26783 (Thugga) = AE 1988. 1113 = Revue du Nord, 30, no. 276 (1988), 175–82; cf. J. Prieur, Mort (1986). For tomb symbolism in general, see F. Cumont (1942); H. I. Marrou, Journal des Savants (1944), 23–37, 77–86; Turcan, ANRW ii.16. 2, 1700–35; Brendel, The Visible Idea: Interpretaions of Classical Art (Washington, DC, 1980), 7–25. 152 J. P. Jacobsen, Les Mânes (Paris, 1924), i. 104–7. 153 ‘. . . for what they make is more than a sterile monument: the act at Weimar is ultimately about the renewal of his actual existence, a visible symbol of his incommensurable personality. In the very place where his physical life was extinguished, it rebuilds itself in a spiritual form from its own constituent parts; and, just as unfeeling time makes him more distant, care, careful devotion, and restless love bring him closer again.’ S. Zweig, ‘Goethes Leben im Gedicht’, in Begegnungen mit Büchern: Aufsätze und Einleitungen aus den Jahren 1902–1939 (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1983), 33. 154 B. Keil, ‘Über Kleinasiatische Grabinschriften’, Hermes, 43 (1908), 522–77, at 577. 155 GIBM 3.1026. 156 CIL 6.1585b = ILS 5920. 157 Ibid. 2120 + 32398a = ILS 8380. 158 The precise provenance is unknown, since it came to light in a collection of antiquities in the Palazzo Alberini. 159 A drawing of the inscription is given by Pirro Ligorio, ‘Antichità Romane’, vol. 15 R, Archivio di Stato, Turin, fol. 79r. 160 Velletri: B. Andreae, Studien zur cömischen Grabkunst (Munich, 1963), p. 451, n. 3; Melﬁ: ibid. 100. 161 Cf. G. M. Hanfmann, The Seasons Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks (Cambridge, Mass., 1951). 162 e.g. TAM 2.3.438 (Patara), 590, 750 (Termessos); Kubinska, Les Monuments funéraires, 115. 163 For a deﬁnitive publication, see the work of the Groupe de Recherches sur l’Afrique Antique (G.R.A.A.), Les Flavii de Cillium. etude du mausolée de Kasserine, CÉFR 169 (Rome, 1993); id., ‘La Culture latine des citoyens romains d’Afrique d’après les poèmes du mausolée des Flavii à Cillium’, in L’Afrique dans l’Occident romain. Ier siècle av. J.-C. – IV e siècle ap. J.-C., CÉFR, 134 (Rome, 1990), 49–61. 164 J.-M. Lassère, ‘La Famille des Flavii’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 220–1. 165 G. Hallier, ‘Étude architecturale’, in ibid. 37–56, at 52, compares the temples of the forum at Rougga, the nymphaeum at Zaghouan, and the Antonine Baths at Carthage. 166 CIL 8.211. Cf. J.-M. Lassère, ‘Les Epitaphes’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 61–4. 167 Lassère, ‘La Famille’; G.R.A.A., ‘La Chronique des Flavii de Cillium’, ibid. 251–7. 168 CIL 8.214–6. For Flavia as sole heir, cf. Lassère, ‘La Famille’, 223. 169 CIL 8.212; 213 = CLE 1552. This is the longest poem in African epigraphy: D. Pikhaus, ‘La Poésie épigraphique latine, quelques points de vue nouveaux’, in F. Decreus and C. Deroux (eds.), Hommages à Jozef Veremans, Collection Latomus, 193 (Brussels, 1986), 228–37. 170 T. Shaw, Travels or Observations Relating to Several Parts of Barbary or Levant (Oxford, 1738), 204, who gives only the ﬁrst four verses, adding that this ‘Specimen, short as it is, may convince us, that as the Inscription contains in It nothing material in point of History, so It has no Title to be inserted on account of any poetical Excellence’. He adds that the name of the modern Arab settlement, Kasserine, apparently derived from the presence of the Roman mausolea there looking like many ‘towers’. V.-H. Guérin, Voyage archéologique dans la régence de Tunis (Paris, 1862), i. 313, no. 77. For more details on these travellers, see J.-M. Lassère, ‘Les Premiers Voyageurs (1724–1883)’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 13–24. 171 P. Force, ‘Étude paléographique’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 87–110. 172 For the invitation to ‘read’ a tomb, cf. Lattimore, Themes, 232–3. 173 D. Pikhaus, ‘Le Carmen de Cillium et l’épigraphie versiﬁée de l’Afrique romaine’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 131–51. 174 For this idea, cf. Lattimore, Themes; H. Häusle, Das Denkmal als Garant des Nachruhms: Beiträge zur Geschichte und Thematik eines Motivs in lateinischen Inschriften, Zetemata, 75 (Munich, 1980); H. Lavagne, ‘Le Tombeau, mémoire du mort’, in F. Hinard (ed.), La Mort, les Morts et l’au-delà, 159–65. For the ﬁrst line (exiguae fugientia tempora vitae) cf. the funerary cippus of Claudia Toreuma from Patavium (CIL 5.2931, ll. 5–6: exiguo vitae spatio feliciter acto): G. Zampieri, Il Museo Archeologico di Padova: dal Palazzo della ragione al

313

Museo agli eremitani: storia della formazione del Museo civico archeologico di Padova e guida alle collezione (Milan, 1994), 142–4, ﬁg. 209. 175 Hence the advertisements for tombstones by stonecutters (Lattimore, Themes, 19); cf. the use and signiﬁcance of the tabula ansata on tombs of this period (above, section ‘Striving for Immortality’). 176 See above, Ch. 1. 177 See below, Chs. 11–12. 178 Cf. G.R.A.A., ‘La Chronique’, 254. 179 Similar in this respect was the monument of the Julii of Glanum in southern Gaul, built a century-and-a-half earlier: P. Gros, ‘Le Mausolée des Julii et le statut de Glanum’, Rev. Arch. (1986), 65–80. 180 For the achievement of monumental status by unlimited expenditure, cf. Table 3, no. 19 (Sbiba, with the phrase non modicis sumptibus); also CIL 2.4020 (Saguntum). 181 Cf. parentem . . . dederis (49–50); pater . . . tuus (56); crede, Secunde, . . . (71‒6). 182 Cf. Lassère, ‘La Culture latine’, 50. 183 For the biological metaphor, see above, Ch. 1, and P. Steadman The Evolution of Designs: Biological Analogy in Architecture and the Applied Arts (Cambridge, 1979). 184 Cf. Lattimore, Themes, 159–61. 185 For wax as an image of yellowness (cereus, cerinus), see J. André, Étude sur les termes de couleur dans la langue latine (Paris, 1949), 128–61, esp. 157–8. Yellow was regarded highly in this period, both because it resembled gold and because its lighter shade gave it a certain mystery: Gell. NA 12.26. 186 Lassère, ‘La Culture latine’, 56. 187 Aristid. Or. 27.41; cf. de Angelis, ‘Il Periegesi di Pausania’, 244–8. 188 Used often of gems, e.g. Plin. HN 37.104, 173; Suet. Galb. 10; Vitr. De Arch. 2.9.9, 3.3.10, 4.1.2. 189 Cf. Quint. Inst. 8.3.49, 12.10.28 and esp. 11.3.79: the orator’s eyebrows must be frowned tight (deductis) or slackened (remissis) to produce a happy or sad expression respectively. 190 [Hon]ores (note the description of the tomb as honor, l. 78) is also possible at the worn part of the stone (47, ﬁn.: [lab]ores). 191 For aeterna domus of a tomb, or house of the dead, cf. Lattimore, Themes, 165–7. 192 See above. 193 Decores for decoris, genitive, as Temple. 194 Cf. [Longinus], Subl. 36.3; see below, Ch. 11. 195 Hor. Carm. 3.29.10. 196 Most famously, in the Sacra Via, Rome, which leads the augur’s line of sight (spectio) from the Capitol through the Roman Forum to the Alban Mount: F. Coarelli, ‘L’orientamento e il signiﬁcato ideologico della pianta marmorea severiana di Roma’, in Théorie et pratique de l’architecture romaine (above, Ch. 2, n. 112), 61–8, ﬁg. 4, who notes that this link also determines the orientation of the Severan marble plan (ibid., ﬁg. 2). 197 For the possibility that the lighthouse at Ostia, rather than the famous one of Alexandria, is meant here, see below. 198 Cf. Catull. 68.1–40, answered by 41–160. 199 Operis . . . magni has both senses of ‘great epic’ and ‘large construction’. 200 The stones themselves (cf. consensus lapidum), not ﬁnely polished phrases, are the object of diximus. 201 Cf. Lucian, Hippias 8 (below, Ch. 12). 202 Cf. CIL 8.8234 + 19978 = CLE 1246 (Colonia Milevitana): [Esse]t si, genitor, nobi[s sub]stantia larga, [in]sita iam pietas redd[eret] obsequium [et t]ibi magniﬁca struer[et, ve]nerande, sepulcrha (sic) ex auro fulvo et solid[o] ex ebore [sublim]esque tibi st[atu]a[s——]; CIL 6.15225 (Rome): si pro virtute et animo fortunam habuissem, magniﬁcum monimentum hic aediﬁcassem tibi nunc quoniam omnes mortui idem sapimus satis est. 203 See the interpretation along these lines, diminishing the respect that the poet has for architecture and emphasizing his literary ideal, by J.-N. Michenaud, ‘Perpetua novitas’, in Les Flavii de Cillium, 191–215. 204 Joseph. BJ 1.419–21; cf. 1.265; AJ 14.359–60, 15.323–5. 205 Zonar. 12.19, ed. Burn, ii. 625B; cf. Balty, Curia Ordinis, 441: ‘respondant à un programme de commémoration et de prestige.’ 206 Cf. Callim. Aet. 77 (of a colonial foundation); Strabo 5.3.6 (a Spartan colony), 7.5.5 (a Parian colony). For the appearance of individual Roman ‘founders’, e.g. in the Claudian period, the ‘foundation of the city’ (ktismos poleo¯s) of Cibyra by Q. Veraulius, governor of Lycia and Pamphylia, after the earthquake of 23 (IGRom. 4.914). 207 Joseph. BJ 2.6.1 (of a temple); P Fayum 117.23. Cf. Papiri greci e latini, i. no. 84 (4th or 5th cent.), l. 8. 208 On Malalas and Antoninus, see above, Ch. 2. 209 Joseph. AJ 16.144. Herod also founded the city of Phasaelis in the Jericho valley in his brother’s memory (BJ 1.418). 210 Joseph. BJ 1.417–18 (the city of Antipatris, named after his father; the fortress of Cypros, after his mother). 211 Ibid. 412 (Drusion), 416 (Agrippa’s name). 212 Tac. Ann. 3.72. The phrase nemo e familia restaurando sufficeret, manente tamen nomine Pompei contrasts the absence of living members of the family with the survival of Pompey’s name on the building; it does not mean that there were surviving members of the gens Pompeia who were unequal to the task, as implied by Church and Brodribb’s translation. 213 CIL 11.6225: T.Varius T.f. Pol. Ruﬁnus Geganius Facundus Vibius Marcellinus equo publ. quinquennalic. nomine suo et T.Vari Longi ﬁlii sui balineum a L.Rufellio Severo p.p.tr. factum

314

notes (pp. 201–10)

quod res publica a novo refecerat incendio ex maxima parte consumptum operibus ampliatis pec(unia) sua restituit. 214 AE 1968.595 = A. Beschaouch, ‘Mustitana. Recueil des nouvelles inscriptions de Mustis, cité romaine de Tunisie’, Karthago, 14 (1967–8), 117–224, at 176–9, no. 6 (but wrongly identifying the stone bearing the inscription as an altar; it seems to be rather a pedestal or cippus and can still be seen, reused in the substructure of the inner tower ﬂanking the gate into the Byzantine citadel). 215 R. Cagnat, ‘C. Julius Crescens Didius Crescentianus fondateur de la Basilique Julia, à Djemila (Algérie)’, Rev. Ét. Anc. 22 (1920), 97–103. 216 See above, Chs. 7 and 8. 217 This is later than the ﬁrst dedication, to the deiﬁed Titus, since the magistrate’s title is now IIvir, not IVvir, which may reﬂect the bestowal of the Latin right on the municipium, probably rather later than elsewhere. If the arch was dedicated under Trajan, the forum and basilica could belong to the middle decades of the 2nd century. 218 The interior order is reconstructed as an arcaded colonnade by Sticotti (ed.), Die römische Stadt Doclea, although this is questioned on grounds of chronology by WardPerkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 253, 479, n. 36. 219 G. Wheler, A Journey into Greece (1682); cf. M. Pekic, ‘Whelerovo videnje Zadra 1675. godine’ [‘Zadar en 1675 vu par Sir George Wheler’], Diadora, 10 (1988), 219, Sl. 2. 220 CIL 3.2922 (Melia Anniana in memor. Q. Laepici Q. f. Serg. Bassi mariti sui ⎪ emporium sterni et arcum ﬁeri et statuas superponi test. iuss. ex HS DC d. XX p. R.). 221 A. de Franciscis, Il sacello degli Augustali a Miseno (Naples, 1991); for an analysis of this shrine in its historical context, see S. A. Muscettola, ‘Miseno: culto imperiale e politica nel complesso degli Augustali’, MDAI(R) 107 (2000), 79–108. 222 de Franciscis, Il sacello degli Augustali, 37–43, pl. 1, 43–4, 50–3, 57–8. The form of the capitals may be explained by the close association between the Augustales of Misenum and Corinth, where several capitals of this type are found until late antiquity. The only other attested capitals of this type in Italy are from Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli and the amphitheatre at Lecce (Roman Lupiae), where such capitals may have adorned the arcade at the top of the cavea: Liljenstolpe, ‘The Roman Blattkelch Capital’, 117. 223 T. Homolle, ‘L’Origine du chapiteau Corinthien’, Rev. Arch. (1916), ii. 17–60; F. Kempter, Akanthus. Die Entstehung eines Ornamentmotivs (Leipzig, 1934); K. Schonenburg, ‘Zur Symbolik unteritalischer Rankenmotivs’, MDAI(R) 64 (1957), 198–221; G. Roux, L’Architecture de l’Argolide aux I ve et III e siècles avant J.-C. (Paris, 1961), 196. Cf. Baumann, Greek Wild Flowers, 169–76. 224 See above, Ch. 9. Cf. a late Antonine portrait from Smyrna: Jucker, Das Bildnis im Blätterkelch, 52; B. Andreae, Gnomon, 37 (1965), 510. 225 Dio Cass. 54.19.4. 226 E. Hübner, ‘Il ponte d’Alcántara’, Ann. Ist. 35 (1863), 173–94. For more recent descriptions, see A. Blanco Freijeiro, El puente de Alcántara en su contexto histórico (Madrid, 1977); J. Liz Guiral, El puente de Alcántara. Arqueologia e historia (n.p., 1988). 227 See above, Introduction. 228 For the stone construction of the bridge, see C. Callejo Serrano, ‘El puente romano de Alcantara, en seco’, Arch. Esp. Arq. 43 (1970), 213–18. 229 CIL 2.761 (my trans.). In the layout of the inscription I follow Hübner, ‘Il ponte d’Alcántara’, 189. 230 For another epigram in this format of question and answer, cf. Anth. Pal. 9.471. The text inscribed beneath the verses (C. Iulius Lacer h(oc) s(acellum) f(ecit) et dedicavit amico Curio Lacone Igaeditano) seems to be a 17th-century invention by Pedro Barrantes Maldonado, together with several other inscriptions from the temple (cf. Hübner, ‘Il ponte’, 191–4). 231 J. R. Vieillefond, Les ‘Cestes’ de Julius Africanus. Étude sur l’ensemble des fragments avec édition, traduction et commentaires (Florence and Paris, 1970), 291. P Oxy. 412, ed. Vieillefond (1970), 291 (sg&i e$m pamheoi rirkiohjei ja*kei m at$s| qvisejsomg* ra sx&i Rebarsx&i). But Viellefond, 65 surely exaggerates in calling this ‘l’oeuvre d’un maniaque’. 232 Ov. Met. 2.5. 233 From ll. 7–12 it is clear that the bridge is the real architectural object, impressive for its durable material, while the temple is a complementary feature, added for the offering of sacred rites to dedicate the bridge (ll. 8, 10). 234 Hübner, ‘Il ponte’, 189–91 rightly rejects the false explanation of Morales that the temple was built out of natural bedrock, but wrongly seeks a metaphorical meaning for materia here. 235 Sen. Ad Polyb. 1. 1 (Urbes ac monumenta saxo structa, si vitae nostrae compares, ﬁrma sunt; si redigas ad condicionem naturae omnia destruentis et unde edidit eodem revocantis, caduca sunt. Quid enim immortale manus mortales fecerunt? Septem illa miracula et si qua his multo mirabiliora sequentium annorum extruxit ambitio aliquando solo aequata visentur.) 236 Plut. Comp. Per. et Fab. Max. 3.7. 237 Anth. Pal. 9.656: jqt* wom a$lesqg* sxm leca*qxm rseimot* lemom at$ka|. Cf. Hepding, $ ‘Qotu*imiom A > kro|: lgd samtpket*qoirim a$qgq sa, Jt*fije, psqoi| ⎪ Adqiamo& t barikg&o| a$lelua mgm a$erei|.

Notes to Chapter 11 Assmann, ‘Die Macht der Bilder’; Wu Hung, Monumentality, 6. A. K. Grayson (ed.), Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Wiesbaden, 1972), ii. 33. Cf. J. B. Onians, ‘ “I wonder. . .” A Short History of Amazement’, in id. (ed.), Sight and Insight: Essays on Art and Culture in Honour of E. H. Gombrich at 85 (London, 1994), 11–33. 1 2

3 A. Hurst and F. Bruschweiler, ‘Descriptions d’objets à Pylos et dans l’Orient contemporain’, in E. Risch and H. Mühlestein (eds.), Colloquium Mycenaeum: Actes du sixième Colloque international sur les textes mycéniens et égéens tenu à Chaumont sur Neuchâtel du 7 au 13 septembre 1975 (Neuchâtel and Geneva, 1979), 65–80. 4 R. A. Prier, Thauma idesthai: The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek (Tallahassee and London, 1989). 5 Od. 4.43–6. 6 Od. 7.82–5. 7 Arist. De Sensu 437a9. 8 Above, Ch. 1. 9 Arnheim, Dynamics of Architectural Form. 10 e.g. Lucr. 4.421–4. Cf. Tybout, Aediﬁcia, 301–15; Bergmann, ‘Playing with Boundaries’. 11 Paus. 3.21.4. 600 ‘piccoli massi’ of this material were found in the marble emporium below the Aventine in Rome: L. Bruzza, ‘Iscrizioni dei marmi grezzi’, Ann. dell’ Inst. 42 (1870), 202; M. Maischberger, Marmor in Rom: Anlieferung, Lager-und Werkplätze in der Kaiserzeit, DAI Rom Palilia, 1 (Wiesbaden, 1997), 71. Cf. G. Borghini (ed.), Marmi antichi (Rome, 1989), 279–81. 12 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, 176–9. 13 For the debate in Roman imperial art criticism between the grandeur of Phidias and the accuracy of Polyclitus, see de Angelis, ‘La Periegesi di Pausania’, 233–57. For the importance of human scale, see above, Ch. 1. 14 [Long.] Subl. 35.4, 36.3, distinguishing between a$ jqibe*ia and lecho|. 15 Andrei, A. Claudius Charax di Pergamo, 117; others explained the Homeric phrase t%wgkg ’ Idg as derived from t%kg (‘forest’) and dεm (‘to see’). 16 Sext. Emp. Pyrr. Hyp. 1.141–4. 17 Plin. HN 34.43. The Colossus of Rhodes (ibid. 41) is reported to have been begun in the same year. However, Carvilius’ colossus is strangely omitted from Livy’s account of his triumph (10.38–46). 18 Bernand, Les Inscriptions grecques et latines. 19 Id. Adv. Math. 7.107, of the Colossus of Rhodes; cf. A. P. McMahon, ‘Sextus Empiricus and the Arts’, Harv. Stud. 42 (1931), 79–137, at 125–7. 20 Ach. Tat. 5.6; see above, Ch. 10, n. 51. 21 For these aspects, de Angelis, ‘Il Periegesi’, 218–62. 22 Stat. Silv. 4.6.12–13, 22–4 (cf. Mart. 9.44.7–12), 1.3.47–50, 2.2.65–6 (colossi); 4.6.44–9 (tableware); cf. K. M. Coleman (ed.), Statius’ Silvae, Book Four (Oxford, 1988), 185; H. Cancik, ‘Größe und Kolossalität als religiöse und aesthetische Kategorien. Versuch einer Begriffsbestimmung am Beispiel von Statius, Silvae I 1: Ecus Maximus Domitiani Imperatoris’, in Genres in Visual Representations: Proceedings of a Conference Held in 1986 by Invitation of the Werner-Reimers-Stiftung in Bad Homburg, Visible Religion, 7 (Leiden, 1990), 51–68. 23 Paus. 1.18.6. 24 Dio Cass. 69.4; Tzetzes Chil. 2.82–3. 25 Vitr. De Arch. 4.5.1; Strabo 8.3.30 (C353–4). 26 Cf. Paus. 5.11.9 (criticizing the published measurements of Phidias’ statue of Zeus only as too low). 27 Philostr. Imag. 1 pr. 4; see, in general, E. W. Leach, ‘Narrative Space and the Viewer in Philostratus’ Eikones’, MDAI(R) 107 (2000), 237–51. 28 See esp. Schlikker, Hellenistische Vorstellungen. 29 Vitr. De Arch. 1.2.4. 30 See above, Ch. 10. 31 J. Gage, Colour and Culture: Practice and Meaning from Antiquity to Abstraction (London, 1993), 13–14. 32 Gell. NA 12.26. 33 J. Seznec, The Survival of the Pagan Gods: The Mythological Tradition and its Place in Renaissance Humanism and Art, tr. B. F. Sessions, Bollingen Series, 38 (New York, 1953), 47. 34 Andrei, A. Claudius Charax di Pergamo, 49; the 12 carceres gates represented signs of the zodiac, and the 7 spatia represented movements of the planets: Wuilleumier, ‘Cirque et astrologie’, MÉFRA 44 (1927), 184–209. 35 Rutherford, Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, 243. 36 Strabo 12.8.14, C 537. 37 Choricius, Laudatio Marciani 36, in C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire, 312–1453: Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs, 1972), 68–72. 38 Diod. 17.70. 39 Plut. Alex. 36.2–3. 40 Ar. De Sensu. 41 W. Burkert, Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical, tr. J. Raffan (Oxford, 1985), 62. 42 Cato, Agr. 107 [98].2; Plin. HN 15.34, 34.99. See J. Linderski, ‘Aes olet: Petronius 50.7 and Martial 9.59.11’, Harv. Stud. 94 (1992), 349–53, who notes that true Corinthian bronze (rarely used as an architectural material) needed to be greased less often. For polished marble, compare the ‘Baths of Hippias’ described by Lucian (below, Ch. 12). 43 Cf. A. Corbin, The Foul and the Fragrant: Odour and the French Social Imagination (Leamington Spa, 1986). 44 J. Kügler, Die Macht der Nase: zur religiösen Bedeutung des Duftes: Religionsgeschichte, Bibel, Liturgie (Stuttgart, 2000). 45 Lucian, De Dea Syra 30; tr. J. L. Lightfoot, Lucian: On the Syrian Goddess (Oxford and New York, 2003), 269; for imitation of Hdt. 3.113.1, ibid. 432, and, of Herodotus generally, ibid. 91–221.

notes (pp. 210–16) 46 D. Sperber, Rethinking Symbolism, tr. A. L. Morton (Cambridge and New York, 1975), 115; B. Martin, A Sociology of Contemporary Cultural Change (Oxford, 1981), 249, n. 9; G. L. Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-pedagogy from Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys (Baltimore, 1985), 94–7. 47 CIL 2.5181 = ILS 6891, ll. 25–6; Linderski, ‘Aes olet’, 351. 48 Prop. 4.5.77; Verg. Geo. 2.214; Calp. Sic. Ecl. 6.63. 49 Gates: e.g. Porta Nigra, Trier. The same difference can be observed in the forum at Sbeitla. 50 To write on a building was to break that taboo. I shall discuss this issue further in Words on Buildings: Architecture and Inscription from Antiquity to the Present Day (forthcoming). 51 Sext. Emp. 1.130. 52 Gage, Colour and Culture, 26–30. 53 Sext. Emp. 1.118, 7.208. Cf. Plut. Adv. Col. 25. 54 J. F. Boissonade (ed.), Herodiani partitiones (London, 1879), 133; H. Dürbeck, Zur Charakteristik der griechischen Farbenbezeichnungen (Bonn, 1977), 61–7. 55 Tac. Ann. 15.43; above, Ch. 6. 56 H. Lewy, Chaldaean Oracles and Theurgy: Mysticism, Magic and Platonism in the Later Roman Empire (Cairo, 1956), esp. 192–3, 399 ff. Cf. also Origen, C. Cels. 5.10; Fragmenta in Psalm. 1–150, Ps. 89: 17. 57 Chrysippus, Fragmenta Logica et Physica 430, in SVF, ii. 141. 58 Od. 4.43–6; 7.134–6. 59 P. H. von Blanckenhagen, ‘The Odyssey Frieze’, RM 70 (1963), 100–46; F. Coarelli, ‘The Odyssey frescos of the Via Graziosa: a proposed context’, PBSR 66 (1998), 21–37; for comparisons between the rhetorical narratives of the paintings and the poems of Virgil and Homer, see E. W. Leach, The Rhetoric of Space (Princeton, 1988), 29–72. 60 J. P. Adam and P. Varène, ‘Une peinture romaine répresentant une scène de chantier’, Rev. Arch. (1980), 213–38; R. Capelli, ‘Il fregio dipinto dell’ Esquilino e la propaganda augustea del mito delle origini’, in M. Sapelli (ed.), Museo Nazionale Romano. Palazzo Massimo delle Terme (Milan and Rome, 1998), 51–8. 61 For the magical effect of this entrance on Odysseus and the viewer, see Leach, Rhetoric of Space, 44–6. 62 CIL 14.2773 = ILS 6029; Epigr. Gr. 1056. 63 SHA, Ant. 11.8. 64 CIL 10.3863. Alföldy, Konsulat und Senatorenstand, 101, 307, suggests he was related to C. Valerius Severus (cos. suff. 124) or L. Valerius Flaccus (cos. suff. 128). 65 SHA, Marc. 6.9. 66 A. M. Riggsby, ‘ “Public” and “Private” in Roman Culture: The Case of the Cubiculum’, JRA 10 (1997), 36–56, at 54–5, citing Apul. Apol. 85. 67 [Longin.] Subl. 35.4 (e$jpkgss leha). 68 Lucian, Anacharsis 9. 69 Dio Cass. 52.30.1, 3; see above, Ch. 8. 70 Smollett, Travels through France and Italy, 88. 71 Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 365. 72 Dio Chrys. Or. 38.47–8. See above, Ch. 7. 73 T. Hölscher, Staatsdenkmal und Publikum: vom Untergang der Republik bis zur Festigung des Kaisertums in Rom (Konstanz, 1984), 10–11; id., The Language of Images in Roman Art: Art as a Semantic System in the Roman World, tr. A. M. Snodgrass and A. M. Künzl-Snodgrass (Cambridge, 2003). 74 However, whether it was equally ‘open’ at all times may be doubted; there were probably occasions throughout the year when the image of openness was more or less desirable. 75 Clem. Alex. Strom. 5.1.13. 76 R. Salditt-Trappmann, Tempel der ägyptischen Götter in Griechenland und an der Westküste Kleinasiens (Leiden, 1970); Radt, Pergamon, 228–39, with further literature. 77 Paus. 1.38.7; cf. Elsner, ‘Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim’, 22. 78 Elsner, loc cit. 79 Contrast the openness with which Aristides describes the public space of Rome and Smyrna; for Achilles Tatius, the streets of Alexandria offer even too much to be taken in (Ch. 6, above). 80 Assmann, Kulturelle Gedächtnis. 81 Elsner, ‘Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim’, 20. He was an initiate at Eleusis, like the emperor Hadrian (SHA, Hadr. 13.1). 82 Athenag. Leg. 16.2, in W. R. Schoedel, Athenagoras: Legatio and De Resurrectione (Oxford, 1972), tr. Millar, Emperor, 564. 83 M. Aur. Med. 4.20. 84 Lucian, De Mort. Peregr. 19; cf. Settis, ‘Il ninfeo di Erode Attico’. 85 Morris, Daidalos, 73–4. 86 See above, at end of Ch. 1. 87 N. G. L. Hammond, ‘The Conditions of Dramatic Production to the Death of Aeschylus’, GRBS 13 (1972), 387–450, at 429–30, 434–46; O. Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus: The Dramatic Use of Entrances and Exits in Greek Tragedy (Oxford, 1977), 457–8. The use of stage-sets in performance was limited: A. L. Brown, ‘Three and Scene-painting Sophokles’, PCPS 210 (1984), 1–17. 88 Ar. Ran. 956, 1004. Cf. Pherecrates, fr. 100 (94), in Kassel–Austin, PCG, vii. 150. For the appearance of early Greek stages, see Moretti, ‘Les Entrées en scène’. 89 Dem. 18.299; Pl. Ti. 69c–72b. 90 Rev. 21: 18–21. For its metaphorical importance, see L. R. Muir, ‘The Abbey and the City: Two Aspects of the Christian Community’, Australian Journal of French Studies, 14 (1977), 32–8.

315

91 Memphis: Hdt. 2.176.2; Saios: 2.163.1; temple: 2.155.1, 156.1; labyrinth: 2.95.4, 148.1 f.; sea: 2.149.1. Cf. Assmann, Kulturelle Gedächtnis, 299–300; H. Drexler, Herodot-Studien (Hildesheim and New York, 1972), 27–9. 92 See above, Ch. 6. 93 Cf. Hesberg, ‘Architekturepigrammen’. 94 Joseph. BJ 5.1.4 (174–5). 95 Ibid. (176–80). 96 Sen. Ep. 86. 97 M. Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators: Humanist Observers of Painting in Italy and the Discovery of Pictorial Composition, 1350–1450 (Oxford, 1971). 98 L. Bek, ‘Antithesis: A Roman Attitude and its Changes as Reﬂected in the Concept of Architecture from Vitruvius to Pliny the Younger’, in K. Ascani (ed.), Studia Romana in honorem Petri Krarup (Odense, 1976), 154–66. 99 Cic. Off. 2.56, following Panaetius’ notion of s pqpom. For prescriptions of ‘proper building’, e.g. Cato, Agr. pr. 14–17; Varro, Rust. 1.11.1. 100 Distributio: Vitr. De Arch. 1.2.8–9, with L. Kantor-Kazovsky, ‘Distributio (Oeconomia) and the Graeco-Roman Dispute on Beauty Within De architectura 1.2’, in Ciotta (ed.), Vitruvio (above, Ch. 1, n. 43). Decor: A. Horn-Oncken, Über das Schickliche: Studien zur Geschichte der Architekturtheorie, Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, Philosoph-Historische Klasse, 3rd ser., 70 (Göttingen, 1967), 92–117; Schlikker, Hellenistische Vorstellungen, 96–112. 101 There was often ambiguity between moral and ornamental senses of decor: e.g. Cic. Mil. 86, on ancestral imagines bringing decor to the house. 102 e.g. Luc. 10.117–19, on the ebony piers of Cleopatra’s palace: hebenus Mareotica vastos non operit postes, sed stat pro robore vili, auxilium non forma domus. 103 See above, Ch. 8. 104 Horn-Oncken, Über das Schickliche, 112. 105 For the later history of this debate, pursued by Barbaro and Scamozzi and culminating in Galiani’s distinction between columns as ‘ossatura’ and as ‘ornamento’ and Goethe’s understanding of the orders as enrichment without structural function, see ibid. 112–13; A. A. Payne, The Architectural Treatise in the Italian Renaissance: Architectural Invention, Ornament, and Literary Culture (Cambridge, 1999), 35–41; and for the moral interpretation of the orders in 16th-century Italy, cf. Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 310–30. 106 For gardens as synecdoche, cf. J. C. W. Henderson, ‘Columella’s Living Hedge: The Roman Gardening Book’, JRS 92 (2002), 110–33, at 123. 107 Onians, ‘Quintilian and the Idea of Roman Art’. 108 Philo, De Opiﬁcio Mundi 1.6. 109 Luc. 10.113 (crassum . . . trabes absconderat aurum). 110 Stat. Silv. 2.2.33, cf. 150, of Claudius Etruscus’ baths; cf. Darwall-Smith, Emperors and Architecture. 111 Note Pliny’s use of the verb tractare in HN 36. 112 Ibid. 16.200. 113 Tac. Ann. 13.31.1, with H. Furneaux (ed.), The Annals of Tacitus, ii (Oxford, 1891), 349. 114 Cf. Lucian, Hist. Conscr. 27. 115 On this theme, see K. Clarke, ‘In arto et inglorius labor: Tacitus’s Anti-history’, in Bowman et al. (eds.), Representations of Empire, 83–103. 116 A. Rouveret, ‘Tacite et les monuments’, in ANRW, ii.33.4, ed. W. Haase (Berlin and New York, 1991), 3051–99, distinguishes three uses of architecture in the narrative: digression (rare), annalistic report (despised), and ironical asides casting doubt on the notion of monumenta. 117 For Tacitus’ negative and ‘paradoxical’ use of architecture in his history, see A. Malissard, ‘Incendium et ruinae. À propos des villes et des monuments dans les Histoires et les Annales de Tacite’, in Présence de l’architecture et de l’urbanisme romains. Actes du colloque des 12, 13 décembre 1981 (Paris Académie d’Architecture). Hommage à Paul Dufournet, ed. R. Chevallier (Paris, 1983), 45–55. For the contrast with his contemporary the younger Pliny, see E. V. Thomas, ‘Fortune’s Piles or Magniﬁcent Monuments? Attitudes to Architecture of Tacitus and Pliny the Younger’ (forthcoming). 118 Tac. Ann. 4.38. 119 Plin. Ep. 2.17, 5.6; B. Bergmann, ‘Visualizing Pliny’s Villas’, JRA 8 (1995), 406–20. 120 See above, Ch. 8. 121 Henderson, Pliny’s Statue, 17–18. 122 Plin. Ep. 5.6.13: magnam capies voluptatis. 123 CIL 6.1585b = ILS 5920, ll. 18–21: . . . Adrasto procuratori columnae divi Marci, ut ad voluptatem suam hospitium sibi exstruat . . .. See above, Ch. 10. 124 A. Young, Travels in France and Italy during the years 1787, 1788 and 1789, Everyman’s Library (London, 1915), 44; Smollett, Travels through France and Italy, 90. 125 Pliny, Ep. 5.6.43–4. 126 Martin, Antike Rhetorik, 177–210. 127 Quint. Inst. 3.7.27. 128 Men. Rhet., ed. Russell and Wilson, 346.27–350.10; cf. 351–2, for praises of harbours, bays, and acropoleis. 129 Aristid. Or. 46.20. Aristides is also cited as a model at 349.23–4 for praising Athens for its poijik*ia (Panath. 22–3) and at 350.9–10 for calling Athens the ‘watchtower’ of its territory; cf. Procop. Aed. 1.1.27. 130 For a later parallel, cf. Reinier Anslo’s poem dedicated to the burgomasters of Amsterdam on the laying of the foundation-stone in 1648: ‘Were the Netherlands a ring you,

316

notes (pp. 216–21)

O city, would be the diamond stone.’ Quoted by K. Fremantle, The Baroque Town Hall of Amsterdam (Utrecht, 1959), 5; cf. M. ‘t Hart, ‘The Glorious City: Monumentalism and Public Space in Seventeenth-century Amsterdam’, in P. K. O’Brien et al. (eds.), Urban Achievement in Early Modern Europe: Golden Ages in Antwerp, Amsterdam and London (Cambridge, 2001), 128–50. 131 Philostr. VS 1.25, 533. For the date, based on a dedication made at Epidaurus ‘in Year 3 of the dedication of Zeus Olympius and the foundation of the Panhellenion and Year 10 of the era of Hadrian’ (IG 42.1.384 = Oliver, Marcus Aurelius (1970), 119–20, no. 38) and conﬁrmed by several dedications to Hadrianus Olympius in 131/2 (Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien (Paris, 1934), 40, 50–1), see W. Weber, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Kaisers Hadrianus (Leipzig, 1907), 208, 268–71, and Willers, Hadrians panhellenisches Programm, 35. 132 Bowersock, Greek Sophists, 18, 45, 48–9, 120–3. Philostratus’ term e$jketre (‘commanded’) (previous note) shows that the speech was a commission, rather than an ‘invitation’, as argued by Willers, Hadrians panhellenisches Programm, 36, and Bowersock, Greek Sophists, 48. For Polemo’s career, see W. Stegemann, ‘Antonius Polemon (= Polemon 10)’, RE, xxi (Stuttgart, 1952), 1320.64–1357.22. 133 Boulanger, 55; R. Wünsch, ‘Hymnos’, in RE, ix.2 (Stuttgart, 1916), 140–83, at 173.23. 134 Wünsch, ‘Hymnos’, 173. 135 Philostr. VS 1.25, 533. Stegemann, op. cit., 1341–2 and Willers, op. cit., 36 assume that the speech was made in Hadrian’s presence. 136 For a reconstruction, see H. Jüttner, De Polemonis rhetoris vita operibus arte, i, Breslauer philologische Abhandlungen, 8.1 (1898), 20–37, esp. 29. 137 Philostr. VS 1.25, 527: x%| vq mot lca a$cmirla, probably a direct quotation from Polemo’s oration. See above, Ch. 9 and, for the relation between the ﬁrst neocorate temple at Ephesus under Domitian and the archaic Artemision, Ch. 7. 138 Above, Ch. 7. D. A. Russell, ‘Aristides and the Prose Hymn’, in id. (ed.), Antonine Literature, 199–219. Aristides presents his hymn to the Aegean Sea unambiguously as a hymn of praise: Or. 44.2 (sude A$icaxi s uekgla a$podrolem ja clmg* rolem: ‘we shall give our due to the Aegean and sing a hymn of praise’); cf. Wünsch, ‘Hymnos’, 173. 139 Boulanger, Aelius Aristide, 344. 140 Cf. Procop. Aed. 1.1.27 on the church of Hagia Sophia, which ‘has become a beautiﬁed spectacle, extraordinary to those who see it, but completely incredible to those who hear of it’. 141 Gros, Byrsa, iii. 110–11. See examples above, Ch. 2, 4, and 7. 142 Cf. Procop. Aed. 1.1.27 (rising to the height of the sky and looking down on the other buildings of the city) and 38 (its piers are comparable to mountain peaks). 143 On tripartite conceptions of the cosmos, see West, The East Face of Helicon, 137–9. 144 Schulz and Winter, ‘Historisch-archäologische Untersuchungen’, 71–8. 145 Dio Cass. 70.3.4 (monolithic columns 4 cubits thick and 50 cubits high). Dio too regards the details as ‘more to be admired than praised’. 146 Hdt. 2.155.1, 156.1 (above). Roman use of the topos: Sall. Cat. 12; Ov. Fast. 6.639; Sen. Controv. 5.5.1; Joseph. BJ 1.421; Olympiodorus fr. 43; Rut. Namat. 1.224; see N. Purcell, ‘Town in Country and Country in Town’, in E. Blair MacDougall (ed.), Ancient Roman Villa Gardens: Dumbarton Oaks Colloquium on the History of Landscape Architecture, 10 (Washington DC, 1987), 187–203, at 198, nn. 49–51. 147 E. Will, ‘Du trilithon à Baalbek’, in M. L. Bernhard (ed.), Mélanges offerts à Kazimierz Mikhailowski (Warsaw, 1966), 725–9. One of the trilithon blocks measures 19.34 m., whereas e.g. Temple L at Epidaurus is around 18.50 m. long from the bottom of the stylobate (Lauter, Die Architektur des Hellenismus, ﬁg. 63). 148 Loerke, ‘Georges Chédanne and the Pantheon’, 42–8; Thomas, ‘Architectural History of the Pantheon’, 167–73; Wilson Jones, Principles of Roman Architecture, 180–2. 149 Aristid. Or. 21; Schulz and Winter, ‘Historisch-archäologische Untersuchungen’, 54–6. Likewise, Procopius balks at exact dimensions, calling the Church of Hagia Sophia ‘very long’ (peqilg*jg|) and ‘unusually wide’ (et$qea ot$j a$ posq pot) (Aed. 1.1.28). 150 Aristid. Or. 41; see above, Ch. 7. 151 LSJ, 1591 ad loc.; e.g. Pind. Nem. 1.72 (temple of Apollo). Cf. I. Rutherford, Canons of Style in the Antonine Age (Oxford, 1998), e.g. 101–2, 136–7 (‘solemnity’). For semnote-s as a term applied to rhetoric, see below. 152 Eur. fr. 688. 153 Eur. IA 996; Andoc. 4.18. 154 For criticism of semnote-s in a secular context, see Dem. 3.26, 29, comparing the modest houses of past statesmen with the ostentatious ones of modern statesmen responsible for Athenian decline. 155 e.g. Aristid. Or. 34.30 (above, Ch. 7). 156 See above, Ch. 7, n. 71. 157 IEph 1491, ll. 16–17 (e$ kpfei? r]elmo[sqam po]greim; for Sabinianus’ buildings, see above, Ch. 7); Isae. 5.45 (relmosqam sg+m p kim e$pogra|), ‘in the beaten track of rhetorical conventions’, according to W. Wyse, The Speeches of Isaeus (Cambridge, 1904), 479). The secular translation of P. Roussel, Isée. Discours (Paris, 1923), 102 (‘pour accroître le prestige de la ville’) misses both religious and negative connotations. 158 Gleason, Making Men, 155. 159 Hanfmann, From Croesus to Constantine, 53. 160 For the identiﬁcation as a library, see Ziegenaus, Asklepieion, 8; Radt, Pergamon, 263. I have found no evidence for the statement by Schulz and Winter, ‘Historisch-archäologische

Untersuchungen’, 57, n. 215, that Aristides spoke at the opening of the Temple of ZeusAsclepius. 161 R. Helm (ed.), Apulei Florida (Leipzig, 1959), pp. xviii–xx. These ‘best pickings’ (Florida) were probably selected by an African, which accounts for the dominance of passages with a local ﬂavour, e.g. at the end of Flor. 9 and in Flor. 16. 162 Apul. Flor. 4.18.85. For this interpretation, see Gros, Byrsa, iii. 151, n. 86. 163 Apul. Apol. 53.2. 164 See above, Ch. 7. 165 Apul. Flor. 18 (ed. Helm, 33–4): pavimenti marmoratio, proscaenii contabulatio, scaenae columnatio, culminum eminentia, lacunarium refulgentia, and sedilium circumferentia. 166 Ibid.: convenientium ratio et dicentis oratio. 167 Contabulatio: Caes. BG 5.40.6, 7.22.3, of boarding with wooden planks for an upper storey; BC 2.9.4, of towers, the highest level using tiles. Marmoratio: CIL 2.1066 (antam marmoravit), 13.5416 (ad marmorandum balneum), 14.4314. 168 Onians, ‘Architecture, Metaphor, and the Mind’. 169 For later parallels, see G. Goebel, Poeta Faber: erdichtete Architektur in der italienischen, spanischen und französischen Literatur der Renaissance und des Barock (Heidelberg, 1971); E. E. Frank, Literary Architecture: Essays Toward a Tradition: Walter Pater, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Marcel Proust, Henry James (Berkeley, 1979); Cowling, Building the Text (above, Ch. 1, n. 68). 170 Pind. Ol. 6.1–5; Nem. 8.46–8; fr. 194 Mähler-Snell; see above, Ch. 1, and below, Ch. 12. 171 Dion. Hal. Comp. 6; 22. 172 Quint. Inst. Or. 8.6.63, 9.4.27. 173 See Ch. 1, above. 174 [Long.] Subl. 1. 175 Ibid. 36.4. 176 Strabo 1.1.23 (C13–14), pr. 177 Cf. Cic. De Orat. 2.60–4 ; Malissard, ‘L’Histoire: écriture ou vérité?’ (above, Ch. 9, n. 71). 178 e.g. S. Zizek, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London, 1989), 71; S. Budick, The Western Theory of Tradition: Terms and Paradigms of the Cultural Sublime (New Haven and London, 2000). 179 For this argument in more detail, see E. V. Thomas, ‘On the Sublime in Architecture: Longinus and Monumentality under the Roman Empire’ (forthcoming). For an alternative view, associating ‘Longinus’ with an aesthetic of ruins, see J. I. Porter, ‘Ideals and Ruins: Pausanias, Longinus, and the Second Sophistic’, in Alcock, Cherry, and Elsner (eds.), Pausanias, 63–92. 180 [Long.] Subl. 12.5, 22.4. 181 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators (above, n. 97). 182 Horn-Oncken, Über das Schickliche, 157–8. 183 Arist. Poet. 22; Isocr. 58.4. 184 Most explicit in Dion. Hal. Comp. 22: the austere style ‘likes expansion’ (lgjt*merhai) with long words placed over a wide space. 185 Hermog. Id. 1.5 (trans. adapted from C. W. Wooten, Hermogenes’ On Types of Style (Chapel Hill, NC, 1987), 18). 186 Aristid. Or. 8 (Homer); cf. 2–4 (challenge posed by the temple’s grandeur). 187 [Aristid.] Rhet. 1.1: rtmrsasai sqivT jasa+ cmlgm jasa+ rvg&la ja jasa+ a$paccekam (L. Spengel (ed.), Rhetores Graeci, ii (Leipzig, 1854), 459). 188 Dem. Eloc. 13. 189 Philostr. VS 511. See above, Ch. 4. 190 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, passim; Bek, ‘Antithesis’, 154–5. 191 Crates of Mallos, in Phld. On Poems 1 col. 83, ed. Janko; PHerc. 994, col. 34.5–11. I owe these quotations to a paper by Jim Porter, ‘Texts to “Monuments” ’, given at Oxford in March 2003, which developed this issue more fully. I am very grateful to him for subsequent discussion. 192 Hermog. Id. 1.6, 247–8 (trans. adapted from Wooten, 22). 193 Hor. Sat. 1.4.76. 194 Sen. Ep. 56.2; Petron. Sat. 73.3: diduxit usque ad cameram os ebrium. An earlier Greek parallel, where the architecture is less stressed, is Theophr. Char. 4.13; cf. Mart. 3.44.12. 195 Pliny, HN 36.23 (arte mirabili modo); Paus. 5.21.17; Lucian, De Mort. Peregr. 40. Cf. W. Koenigs, Die Echohalle, Olympische Forschungen, 14 (Berlin, 1984), 63–4. 196 L. C. Sturm, ‘Vorrede’, in N. Goldmann, Civilbaukunst (1698), (repr. Baden-Baden, 1962); J. J. Winckelmann, Anmerkungen über die Baukunst der Alten (Leipzig, 1762), 50: ‘Zierde in Schriften und Gebäuden’; J. W. Goethe, Italian Journey, tr. R. R. Heitner (Princeton, NJ and Chichester, 1994), entry for 12 Oct. 1786; Horn-Oncken, Über das Schickliche, 157.

Notes to Chapter 12 A. Stock, De prolaliarum usu rhetorico, diss. (Königsberg, 1911), esp. 98 ff.; cf. Wunsch, 173. H. G. Nesselrath, ‘Lucian’s Introductions’, in Russell (ed.), Antonine Literature, 111–140. 3 ‘Life of Lucian’, in The Works of John Dryden, ed. W. Scott, rev. G. Saintsbury (Edinburgh, 1893), xviii. 76. 4 J. Elsner, ‘Describing Self in the Language of Other: Pseudo (?) Lucian at the Temple of Hierapolis’, in Goldhill (ed.), Being Greek Under Rome, 123–53, at 149. 5 Hahn, Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft, 27–8. 6 For Lucian as outsider, see S. Saïd, ‘Lucien ethnographe’, in A. Billault (ed.), Lucien de Samosate: actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’études romaines et gallo1 2

notes (pp. 221–7) romaines les 30 septembre–1er octobre 1993, Collection du Centre des Études Romaines et GalloRomaines, 13 (Paris, 1994), 149–70. 7 Lucian, Harmonides 2; Saturnalia 29–33; cf. Apologia 5, on Cleopatra’s monkey. 8 Id., Hermot. 2 and 7; Apologia 4; Dial. mort. 5.1–2. 9 Id., Her. 5, Prometheus es in verbis 5, Zeuxis 5 (with the ampliﬁcatory term t< peqhatla*ferhai of an extreme fantasy). 10 Id., Hermot. 74. 11 Ibid. 79; Dial. mort. 6.5. 12 Id., Hermot. 81 (philosophy); Navigium 11 (religion); cf. Dial. mort. 19.3. Based on e.g. Pl. Resp. 435c. 13 References to these two works are given in brackets in the main text. 14 Signiﬁcant earlier discussions were only: J. Bompaire, Lucien écrivain. Imitation et création (Paris, 1958), 713–21; S. Bartsch, Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius (Princeton, 1989), 166. Since the ﬁrst composition of this chapter, however, three important studies of Lucian’s ‘On the Hall’ have been added to the previously rather paltry bibliography: Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye’, 160–7; Z. Newby, ‘Reading Programs in Greco-Roman Art: Reﬂections on the Spada Reliefs’, in D. Fredrick (ed.), The Roman Gaze (Baltimore, 2002), 110–48, esp. 116–30; and ead., ‘Testing the Boundaries of Ekphrasis: Lucian on the Hall’, in Ramus 31: 1–2 (2002), The Verbal and the Visual: Cultures of Ekphrasis in Antiquity, ed. J. Elsner (Bendigo North, Australia, 2002), 126–35. There is also an Italian edition: S. Maffei, Luciano di Samosata. Descrizioni d’Arte (Turin, 1994), with introductory remarks at pp. xxxviii–lxxxvi. 15 It was known e.g. to Inigo Jones (below, n. 30). 16 C. Cameron, The Baths of the Romans explained and illustrated (London, 1772); F. Weinbrenner, Entwürfe und Ergänzungen antiker Gebäude (Carlsruhe and Baden, 1822), 18–22, pls. I–VI. 17 F. K. Yegül, ‘The Small City-bath in Classical Antiquity and a Reconstruction Study of Lucian’s “Baths of Hippias” ’, Archeologia Classica, 31 (1979), 108–31. 18 Disputatio Adriani. Aug. & Epicteti philosophi, appended to Sigismund Gelen (ed.), Notitia utraque cum Orientis tum Occidentis ultra Arcadij Honirijque Cæsarum tempora (Basel, 1552). 19 M. Aur. Med. 1.16. 20 Artem. 57–8; cf. R. Pack, ‘Artemidorus and his Waking World’, TAPA 86 (1955), 280–90, at 289; J. Zellinger, Bad und Bäder in der altchristlichen Kirche (Munich, 1928), 4–7. 21 For similar language, cf. Epit. de Caes. 215 (quoted above, Ch. 1). 22 Cf. Aristenetus’ work at Cyzicus, a$ uhomG veiqx&m: Table 2, no. 3. 23 Following the MS. reading, rather than Rothstein’s emendation paqadeclasa, accepted by Macleod in his Oxford edn. and by the Loeb edn., which produces a less natural word-order. 24 Suet. Vesp. 18; Vespasian gave the man ‘no mean reward’ (though he chose not to go ahead with the work, asking to be allowed to feed ‘the little plebs’ instead), and he likewise lavishly rewarded the man who restored Nero’s colossus. For the real difficulty of transporting columns and hoisting them into place (a 50-foot column might weigh as much as 100 tons), see Wilson Jones, Principles, 209–10, and Taylor, Roman Builders, 115–32. 25 Against older views that technology was frowned upon in antiquity, see A. I. Wilson, ‘Machines, Power, and the Ancient Economy’, JRS 92 (2002), 1–32, esp. 4. 26 See above, Ch. 1. 27 Lucian, Hippias 2: rou| d ja e$pimog&rai ja rtνemai pihamsaso|. 28 P. Woodruff (ed.), Plato: Hippias Major (London, 1982), 123–4. 29 Clem. Al. Strom. 6.15 = DK, 331, no. 6. 30 Cited by Inigo Jones in an annotation to his copy of Daniele Barbaro’s 1567 commentary on Vitruvius (Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth House), p. 22: ‘Architecture among sciense as I have exprest above. For this . . . the greatest argument is that Hipas Eliata [sic] knows all arte, as Lucian . . .’ I am grateful to Mr Peter Day, Keeper of Collections at Chatsworth, for permission to consult this book. 31 Apul. Flor. 9. Cf. Jones, Culture and Society in Lucian, 155. 32 Philostr. VS 1.11, 495. 33 Lucian, Hippias 4; cf. Aristid. Or. 27.4. For new experiences, cf. Sext. Emp. Outlines of Pyrrhonism 1.141–4; above, Ch. 11. 34 Lucian, Hippias 4: g< peqmoia d ja e$m su joimu sot*sxi rt*meri| hatlarsg* . 35 Cf. Latin Est locus . . . 36 Arist. Pol. 7.12, 1331a25. 37 Cf. also Lucian, De Dea Syra 30, on the temple of the Syrian goddess Atargatis, ‘resembling temples in Ionia’ and raised on a podium ‘two fathoms high’. 38 MacDonald, Architecture of the Roman Empire, ii. 69–71. 39 Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, 446. 40 Aristid. Or. 27.21. 41 G. A. Mansuelli, ‘Su alcune testimonianze epigraﬁche per lo studio dell’architettura romana’, Rivista storica dell’antichità, 6–7 (1976–7), 119–28. 42 I follow the manuscript reading, t%weri, rather than the alternative reading, a<wri, ‘vaults’, suggested by Du Soul and followed by Macleod in his Oxford Classical Text edition. 43 e.g. Paus. 6.25.1, of a podium supporting a bronze statue of Aphrodite on a goat in the precinct near her temple at Elis. 44 Ibid. 9.39.4–9. At the end of a long ritual, the person consulting the oracle goes there wearing a cloth shirt, tied with ribbons, and thick ‘local boots’ (jqgpde|, 8); the oracle itself is encircled by a podium (jqgp|, 9) of white stone. He then enters an artiﬁcially constructed pit within the circle, about 10 feet in diameter and barely 20 feet deep, lying on the ground

317

and descending, feet ﬁrst, by a ladder. A ritual importance is attached to the punning analogy between the special boots (jqgpde|) worn and the podium (jqgp|) marking the entrance to the oracle: on the human analogy of Roman buildings, the latter is the ‘foot’ of the sanctuary, although paradoxically also the ‘head’ of the oracle itself. 45 Pind. Pyth. 4.138; cf. 7.3. 46 Ibid. 206. 47 Note that this is the same objective as for Nicon’s market portico (above, Ch. 5, and Appendix 1B, no. 4, l. 5 g
318

notes (pp. 227–32)

beauty beyond beauty’: J. Dillon, ‘Plotinus and the Chaldaean Oracles’, in Gersch and Kannengiesser (eds.), Platonism in Late Antiquity, 131–40, at 135–6. 82 Stat. Silv. 1.5.36–41. 83 Mart. 6.42.11–13. 84 Id. 9.75.7–9. 85 Robert, Opera Minora Selecta, vii. 79–128; above, Ch. 8. 86 Cf. Pavlovskis, Man in an Artiﬁcial Landscape: The Marvels of Civilisation in Roman Imperial Literature, Mnemosyne suppl., 25 (Leiden, 1973). 87 Lucian, Hippias 3 (quoted above). 88 A similar emphasis is achieved by the description of Hagia Sophia: Procop. Aed. 1.1.30. 89 Lucian, Hippias 7: kotralmH, ‘having washed’. 90 See below, Appendix 2, ‘Nidiﬁcatio’. 91 t%wg pq| sot* soi| a$mak ca ja pka*sg so| lg* jeri rt* llesqa. Cf. Vitr. De Arch. 1.2.3: Eurythmia est venusta species commodusque in compositionibus membrorum aspectus. Haec efﬁcitur, cum membra operis convenientia sunt altitudinis ad latitudinem, latitudinis ad longitudinem, et ad summam omnia respondent suae symmetriae. 92 pamsavo pokkg+ va*qi| ja A $ uqodsg e$pamhe. 93 Anth. Pal. 9.605–40, 680, 783–4, 814–15; 16.280–1; Anth. Lat. 1. Robert, Hellenica iv. 9–10, 75–86, 129–32; K. Dunbabin, ‘Baiarum grata voluptas: Pleasures and Dangers of the Baths’, PBSR 57 (1989), 6–46, at 12–18. Prayers for a$p katri| (‘enjoyment’): MDAI(A) 29 (1904), 165–7 no. 6; BÉ 1951.227, 870. 94 jasa+ ca+q sm jakm Pmdaqom a$qvolmot e>qcot pq rxpom vqg+ hlem sgkatc|; the reference is to Pind. Ol. 6.4. 95 Cf. Procop. Aed. 1.1.18–19. 96 Verg. G. 3.16; see above, Ch. 1. 97 soso d’a/m ei>g e$j sg&| at$cg&| la*kirsa ja so uccot| ja sx&m uxsacxcx&m lelgvamglmom. 98 Lucian, Symp. 20; De Domo 6. 99 LSJ, ad loc. Cf. LXX, 4 Macc. 17: 5 (planets); Aët. De Placitis Reliquiae, p. 286 (sun’s rays); Orig. C Cels. 2.71; Clem. Alex. Protrepticus 4.53, 6.67, 11.113, 12.120; id., Paedagogus 1.9, 83 (of God); Epistle to Barnbas 18.1c, l.2 (of the angels). 100 The word wtvqod vo| (sc. oμjo|) is a Greekism for frigidarium: Ginouvès, Balaneutiké, 135. 101 Vitr. De Arch. 1.6.1: cum septentrio [ﬂat, homines] restituuntur in salubritatem. 102 Porph. De Antr. Nymph. 21–3. 103 Lucian, Hippias 8. 104 For the quick way out, cf. the lightly warmed rooms above (saveam sg+m e$p . . . , 7); for safety and utility, cf. the hall of Phrygian marble, a$bkabrsaso| ja . . . #uekilsaso|, 6). 105 The inscribed poem at Kasserine (above, Ch. 10) also mirrors the construction of the tomb it praises. 106 Aristid. Or. 26; cf. Pliny, Ep. 5.6.44 (quoted in Ch. 11, above). 107 Vitr. De Arch. 9.8.3 (water clock with sound), 8–10 (sundials); Ath. 4.174; cf. Anth. Pal. 7.641. See J. D. Meerwaldt, ‘De Trimalchionis, Ctesibii, Platonis automatis’, Mnemosyne, 49 (1921), 406–26. 108 Cf. the second part of the Cillium tomb poem, added to supply the detail of the cockerel weathervane on the top (see above, Ch. 10). 109 Cf. Fehr, ‘Kosmos und Chreia’. 110 Vitr. De Arch. 1.2.2: Ordinatio est modica membrorum operis commoditas. 111 Ibid. 1.2.8. 112 e.g. CIL 8.18328 = ILS 5520 (AD 379/83), Lambaesis: an aqueduct rebuilt ad usum uitlitatemque (sic) eiusde(m) urbis. 113 Vitr. De Arch. 1.3.8. However, this ideal sometimes appears; e.g. at Sala, 144: Gsell and Carcopino, ‘La Base de M. Sulpicius Felix’, 15–17 (above, Ch. 4, n. 98). 114 Cf. Procop. Aed. 1.1.48 for the details of Hagia Sophia, which together make up the ‘outstanding harmony’ of the work, yet, however attractive and irresistible, do not allow the viewer to linger over any one of them. 115 Runia, ‘The Language of Excellence’, 20. Cf. Hippias 2 (pihamsaso|). 116 Nielsen, Thermae et Balnea, 98 with n. 19, listing 53 in the East: 15 in Achaea, 15 in Asia, 5 in Syria, at least 3 in Dalmatia, 3 in Moesia Inferior, 2 in Arabia, and only a few in Cyrenaica or in Lycia, Pamphylia, and Cilicia. 117 e.g. Anth. Pal. 9.478, on baths at Smyrna. 118 IG 14.1389 = Epigr. Gr. 1046b. See above, Ch. 10. 119 Codex Salmasianus (MS. Paris 10318), in Anth. Lat. i, ed. D. R. Shackleton Bailey (Stuttgart, 1982), 99; J. Green and Y. Tsafrir, ‘Greek inscriptions from Hammat Gader. A poem by the Empress Eudocia and two inscriptions’, Israel Exploration Journal 32 (1982), 94–6; Y. Hirschfeld, The Roman Baths of Hammat Gader (Final Report) (Jerusalem, 1997), 237–40. 120 Choricius, Laudatio Marciani 28–54, quoted in Mango, Art of the Byzantine Empire, 68–72. 121 Cf. the columns of the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus in the epigram of Aristenetus. 122 Procop. Aed. 1.1.17–78; some parallels with Lucian are given in the footnotes here. 123 So Bompaire (above, n. 14); Weinbrenner, Entwürfe und Ergänzungen antiker Gebäude, 18–22, pls. I–VI. Newby, ‘Testing the Boundaries of Ekphrasis’, 115, likewise suggests a hall ‘speciﬁcally designed for rhetorical displays’; Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye’, 166, notes that the building, which he interestingly calls ‘the house’, is ‘strikingly . . . not named’. 124 Cf. MAMA 6.4 (Laodicea-ad-Lycum) = L. Robert, in J. des Gagniers (ed.), Laodicée du Lycos: le nymphée; campagnes 1961–1963, Université Laval Recherches Archéologiques, ser. 1, Fouilles (Quebec and Paris, 1969), 253–4: ’Οkt* lpijo| Sqxkot s a$keipsg* qiom ja sm pq at$so oμjom su Dg*lH.

125 Curt. 3.4.8–10, 3.5.1; Arr. Anab. 2.4.7. Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye’, 160, notes that the story of Alexander was particularly favoured during the Second Sophistic. 126 Tac. Ann. 14.22.6. 127 Lucian, De Domo 1: e$peht* lgrem and e$pihtlg* reie, emphasizing the parallelism of the two situations, as noted by Newby, ‘Testing the Boundaries of Ekphrasis’, 127; cf. Arr. Anab. 2.4.7 e$pihtlg* ramsa, and for Arrian’s frequent reference to Alexander’s ‘longing’ (p ho|: 1.3.5, 2.3.1, etc.) P. A. Brunt (ed.), Arrian, History of Alexander and Indica, Loeb edn. (Cambridge, Mass. and London, 1976), i. 469–70 (App. V.3). Arrian’s work is normally thought to be Hadrianic, but A. B. Bosworth, From Arrian to Alexander: Studies in Historical Interpretation (Oxford, 1988), 27–37 dates it as early as the late Trajanic period. 128 For the expectation of being struck dumb by a beautiful statue, cf. Lucian, Imag. 1, with Newby, ‘Testing the Boundaries of Ekphrasis’, 133. 129 Cf. Hippias 4, 6. 130 Again, overloaded with superlatives: oμjom . . . lechei lcirsom ja ja*kkei ja*kkirsom ja uxs uaidq sasom ja vqtru rsikpm sasom ja cqaua| a$mhgq sasom. 131 As Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye’, 161 notes, however, Lucian’s language recalls the inarticulate responses of guests to the arrival of the beautiful young man Autolycus at Xen. Symp. 1.9: sx&m qmsxm ot$de| ot$j e> parv si s'm wtv'm t
notes (pp. 232–42) 158 Compare the phrase e$pirsquei com e
| a$kghx&| ja pepaidetlmxm heasx&m dolemom: ‘an extraordinary concluding paragraph’ (Goldhill, ‘The Erotic Eye’, 166). 170 As Goldhill notes (ibid. 165), the matter is complicated by the fact that the visual terms used by Lucian here (vqxla*sxm ja rvgla*sxm ja s pot) can equally well be applied to the style of a speech, which suggests that the phrase g< cqaug+ sx&m k cxm is ambiguous and the paintings in the hall may be only a means to show off Lucian’s own verbal images. 171 For more detailed discussion of the paintings and their verbal description here, see Newby, ‘Reading Programs in Greco-Roman Art’, who stresses the contrast between Lucian here, who highlights connections between paintings, and Philostratus’ Imagines, where the moral power of individual paintings is stressed. 172 The analogy between painting and building is encouraged by the repeated image of the Gorgon, used earlier at De Domo 19. 173 For semnote-s, see above, Ch. 11, and, for e$lbqadt* meim of remaining in a room to appreciate its every detail, cf. De Domo 3 above and Hippias 6. 174 The text here is disputed (cf. Macleod’s apparatus criticus ad loc.), but it seems to refer to a temple structure constructed above the a$msiht* qa or a$msiht* qom (the ‘anti-door’, i.e. the door-like structure opposite the door) and enclosing a marble statue of Athena; this architectural frame would correspond visually to the entrance opposite. (Weinbrenner’s reconstruction shows the a$msiht* qom (here Fig. 178f ), but not the architectural setting of the statue.) For the layout of paintings within the hall, see Newby, ‘Reading Programs in Greco-Roman Art’, 120, ﬁg. 4.1. 175 Goldhill emphasizes the success of the speaker and even appears to doubt the reality of the building, asking whether it is simply ‘a brilliant construction of Lucian’s enargeia’ (‘The Erotic Eye’, 167).

Notes to General Conclusion Cic. Fin. 5.1.2. Dio Cass., Exc. Salm. fr. 114 Müller, between books 69 and 70 (Loeb edn., ed. Cary, viii. 466–7). 3 Cf. Phlegon, Mir. 14.4, on a giant body reconstructed by the geometer Pulcher for the emperor Tiberius from an over-size tooth. 4 [Longinus], Subl. 38; for the role of the imagination in ideas of the colossal, cf. Porter, ‘Ideals and Ruins’, 72: ‘their only true measure is in the imagination.’ 5 Ruskin, Seven Lamps, III.v, in Works, viii. 6 See above, Ch. 10. 7 Ruskin, Works, viii. 103. 8 [Longinus], Subl. 12.4, on which see Thomas, ‘On the Sublime in Architecture’. 9 Lucian, De Domo 11 (above, Ch. 12). For the spring season and peacocks as images of colourfulness, cf. Lucian, Nigr. 13. 10 Cf. Introduction, above; e.g. Reed, ‘Monumental Architecture or the Art of Pleasing’, 42. 11 Cf. esp. Tac. Dial. and Petr. Sat. 1–3. 12 [Longinus], Subl. 44.1. 13 Ibid. 2–3. 14 Isocr. Areop. 66; quoted above, Ch. 8. 15 See above, Ch. 9. 16 [Longinus], Subl. 44.3–5, quoting Hom. Od. 17.322. 17 Gregor Paulsson, in ‘In Search of a New Monumentality’, 120 (above, Introduction, n. 36). 18 Cf. Tac. Agr. 21: Romano-British porticoes and baths are ‘part of subjection’; above, Ch. 8, n. 19. 19 Paus. 8.46.4; 5.12.6. 1 2

319

Plut. Comp. Per. et Fab. Max. 3.5. [Longinus], Subl. 44.6–8. 22 Ibid. 44.9. The argument here ‘is not special to the case of eloquence. It will apply to any ﬁeld wherein men ﬁnd fault with the present’: Russell, Longinus, 186. 23 Ibid. 44.10–11, quoting Eur. El. 379. 24 Xen. Mem. 3.8–10; cf. Oec. 3.1. 25 Joseph. AJ 19.2.5. 26 CIL 8.12513 = ILTun. 890 = ILS 345 = ILBardo, App. 9: [aquam magno u]sui futuram thermis. 27 Aristid. Or. 26.21. 28 See e.g. Porter, ‘Ideals and Ruins’, 81: ‘modernity is never sublime.’ 29 Thomas, ‘Tacitus and Pliny’ (forthcoming). 30 [Longinus], Subl. 7.1–2. 31 Vitr. De Arch. 7.5.2. 32 L. Vandeput, ‘The Theatre-façade at Sagalassos’, Anat. St. 42 (1992), 91–117. 33 Sen. Ep. 86.7; cf. Vitr. De Arch. 7. 34 Ruskin, Seven Lamps, III.i, in Works, viii. 35 Id., in Works, i. 37. Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape, 248. 36 See e.g. L. Vandeput, in Waelkens and Poblome (eds.), Sagalassos 3, 129–36. 37 Aristid. Or. 27.28. 38 Ibid. 30–1. 39 W. G. Waddell, in S. Gabra (ed.) Rapport sur les fouilles d’ Hermoupolis ouest (Touna elGebel), Université Fouad, 1er Publication, 23 (Cairo, 1941), 107–9; revised by T. C. Skeat, ‘An Epitaph from Hermopolis’, JEA 28 (1944), 68–9: daidakg| roug| sm poktsevm sasom. 40 W. Luppe, ‘Das Grabepigramm auf den Architekten Perikles von Mylasa’, in M. Wacht (ed.), Panchaia. Festschrift für Klaus Thraede (Münster, 1995), 156–9, at 159, rightly rejecting the identiﬁcation by Burkert, ‘Perikles von Mylasa’, 415–17, with the architect of Maxentius’ restored Temple of Venus and Rome; but his correction to l. 6 (a$(qvisejsort*mg[|] a$qes©) is unnecessary. 41 Procl. Comm. in Timaeum 321.27. 42 Ibid. ii. 57, 30 (Kroll 13). 43 Hom. Od. 13.102–12. 44 Procl. 334, ed. Festugière, ii. 192–3. 45 Porph. De Antr. Nymph. 5–6. 46 G. Bachelard, La Poétique de l’espace (Paris, 1957), 40; Thiis-Evensen, Archetypes in Architecture, 75–83. 47 N. Ceka, Butrint: A Guide to the City and its Monuments (London, 1999), 57. Cf. Boyancé, ‘L’Antre dans les mystères’. 48 C. K. Williams, II, ‘The Refounding of Corinth: Some Roman Religious Attitudes’, in Macready and Thompson (eds.), Roman Architecture in the Greek World, 26–37, at 34. 49 Arist. Metaph. 7.8.6; Syrianus, In Metaphysica Commentaria, ed. W. Kroll (Berlin, 1902), 38–9. 50 J. Glucker, Antiochus and the Late Academy, Hypomnemata, 56 (Göttingen, 1978), 134–46. 51 For this phrase, see Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus, 49–50. 52 H. Lewy, Chaldaean Oracles and Theurgy: Mysticism, Magic and Platonism in the Later Roman Empire, ed. M. Tardieu (Paris, 1978), 113–14. 53 Procl. In Tim. II, 89, 25 (Kroll 19). 54 e.g. IGRom. 4.580 (‘several times’), 861; MAMA 8.473; and above, Ch. 4, n. 77. 55 Arist. De Philosophia, fr. 13 Ross: above, Ch. 1, n. 64. 56 Fowden, Empire and Commonwealth, 39, citing August. De Civ. D. 10.32. 57 e.g. Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, 227–8, no. 11, prob. from a public fountain. 58 e.g. at Laodiceia (L. Robert, ‘Les Inscriptions’, in J. des Gagniers, Laodicée du Lycos: le nymphée, 339–40, no. 15, ll. 2–3, of Skylakius, either a provincial governor or praetorian prefect: set* nem e> paqvo| e$m veqi rouT s de )qcom ˆkoi| dt*o ja dja lg[rm], ‘he completed this work as commander with wise hand in twelve full months’; Inv. 1785). 59 L. Robert, Hellenica, iv (Paris, 1948), 107, n. 1; Rev. Ét. Gr. (1966), 740–1, 760: e.g. Antylios (pa*mrouo|), proconsul of Asia, end of 4th cent., walls of Smyrna (Rev. Arch. (1886), 1, 155 = Grégoire, Inscr. Gr. Chr. As. Min., i. 65); cf. A. Raubitschek, ‘Iamblichus at Athens’, Hesperia (1964), 63–8 (‘adorned the city with wisdom and raised the strong wall’); A. Cameron, Athenaeum (1966). 60 Cf. the ‘Isis aretalogy’ at I. Kyme 41.47: $ E c peqib kot| p kexm e> jsira. J. Bergman, Ich bin Isis (Uppsala, 1961), 238–9. 61 S. Settis, ‘Did the Ancients Have an Antiquity? The Idea of Renaissance in the History of Classical Art’, in A. Brown (ed.), Language and Images of Renaissance Italy (Oxford, 1995), 27–50, esp. 31–44. 62 Glucker, Antiochus and the Late Academy, 142–6. 63 IG 3.719 = 2/32.3669 = Epigr. Gr. 878 = P. Graindor, Album d’inscriptions attiques d’époque impériale (Ghent, 1924), 72, no. 105. Cf. D. S. Potter, Prophecy and History in the Crisis of the Roman Empire: A Historical Commentary on the Thirteenth Sibylline Oracle (Oxford, 1990), 74–5 (his trans. is followed here). The original statue inscription is IG 22.3625. 64 Correctly printed by Potter, Prophecy and History, 75, n. 20. Despite the reading of loqug* emsa printed at IG 3.719, loqua*emsa is clearly correct in view of the photograph of the squeeze in Graindor, Album, pl. lxxxiii. 65 Pind. Isthm. 7.22: rhmei s’ e> jpacko| dem se loqua*ei| a’* cei s’ a$qes +am ot$j a$rviom uta&|, with G. A. Privitera (ed.), Pindaro, Le Isthmiche (Milan, 1982), 219 ad loc.: ‘il rarissimo 20 21

320

notes (pp. 242–8)

loqua*ei|’; cf. Melanippides fr. 1.1–2 = Page, PMG, 392 no. 757: loqua*em e*do|; conjecture of Dobrée, favoured by Page and more likely in view of the context of the fragment than the unsatisfactory emendations of M. L. West, Philologus, 110 (1966), 157, no. 30 and P. H. J. LloydJones, ibid. 112 (1968), 119. 66 e.g. ILS 7776 (Cologne). Cf. Hahn, Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft, 15, 144, n. 36; Champlin, Fronto and Antonine Rome, 34. 67 Cf. Orig. C. Cels. 6.2. Cf. D. J. O’Meara, Pythagoras Revived: Mathematics and Philosophy in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 1989), 9. 68 GIBM 4.1106.5–6. 69 Lucian, Dial. Mort. 25; Welcher, Syll. 67. 70 e.g. CIL 6.29706: balneas . . . [ad] pristinam formam rest[itue]runt; 34561: monumentum . . . ad pristinam novitatis formam reﬁciendum curavit. 71 IG 14.455 (Museo Biscariano, Catania); for diastpri| of rhetoric, cf. [Longinus], Subl. 20.1. 72 Drerup, ‘Architektur als Symbol’. 73 Smith, Architectural Symbolism, 145–51; S. G. MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and London, 1981). 74 e.g. F. Cabrol and H. Leclercq, Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie (Paris, 1924–53), s.v. ‘Cheval’, 1290, 1296, ﬁg. 2776; s.v. ‘Equerre’, 345. 75 See above, Ch. 5, and Appendix 1B, nos. 2 and 4. 76 1 Cor. 3: 9–16. For ‘building the church’, cf. esp. Matt. 16: 18–19, 21: 42–3, following Ps. 118: 22. 77 e.g. John 14: 2, Matt. 25: 14, Mark 13: 34, Luke 14: 16; cf. Vielhauer, ‘Oikodome’. The Apostles as columns: Gal. 2: 9. 78 2 Cor. 5: 1. Cf. Cowling, Building the Text, 27. 79 Clem. Alex. Strom. 4.26 (165.3.1), 5.5 (29.2.1), 5.14 (94.3.2) [referring to Plato], 6.9 (75.3); Eclogae Propheticae 56.2; Origen, C. Cels. 7.32. 80 Euseb. Praep. Evang. 13.13.13; 14.26.10 (rjgmopoex, for a ‘tall, upright, well-rhythmed, well-seen, well-made’ body); id., Hist. Eccl. 7.16.1. 81 Phot. Bibl. 297a (rjg&mo| s rx&la ja a$veiqopogsom e$m ot$qamo| ojam); cf. 297b. 82 SBF, LA 38 (1988), 253–65: kaϊmm e> lwtvom rja&mo| s de Do|. 83 Jer. In Jerem. 1. 2. 20 (ed. Vall., iv. 849); Hilar. Pictav. Psalm 14. 5 (p. 302, 4). 84 Jer. In Ezech. 12, p. 498 Vall.: per rotundum . . . ascendimus templi cenaculum, quae ﬁgura inter omnia schemata a philosophis quoque huius saeculi pulchrior approbatur. 85 Lethaby, Architecture, Mysticism and Myth, 57. Ravenna: e.g. Mausoleum of Galla Placidia (evangelists) and Archbishop’s chapel (angels); G. Bovini, Ravenna und seine Mosaiken (Munich, 1962), ﬁgs. 6 and 17. Rome: chapel of S Zeno in S Prassede, Rome; B. Brenk, ‘Zum Bildprogramm der Zenokapelle in Rom’, ArchEspArq 45–7 (1973–4), 213–21, at 214; G. Mackie, ‘The Zeno Chapel: A Prayer for Salvation’, PBSR 57, NS 44 (1989), 172–99, esp. 172–5. 86 A. M. Friend, ‘The Portraits of the Evangelists in Greek and Latin manuscripts’, Art Studies, 5 (1927), 115–47; 7 (1929), 3–29. 87 Onians, Bearers of Meaning, 59–70. 88 C. Smith, ‘Human Architecture and Architecture Made by Human Hands’, in C. Smith and J. Ackerman, Before and After the End of Time: Architecture and the Year 1000 (Cambridge, Mass., 2000), 29–65, at 38, with ﬁg. 28. 89 J. Jackson, The True Evangelical Temper (London, 1641), iii. 182; for the messianic meaning of the cornerstone, see P. Pius Sciascia, Lapis Reprobatus (Rome, 1959), 25–7. 90 Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape, 165–9. 91 Lattimore, Themes. 92 See above, Ch. 10. 93 RIB 1065, pl. xv; J. N. Adams, Bilingualism and the Latin Language (Cambridge, 2003), 255; cf. 30–40. 94 e.g. TAM 5.1.207, 296–7, 480. 95 A. Schmidt-Colinet, ‘Aspects of “Romanization”: The Tomb Architecture at Palmyra and its Decoration’, in Alcock (ed.), The Early Roman Empire in the East, 157–77. 96 D. Libeskind, Breaking Ground: Adventure in Life and Architecture (New York, 2004). As with Nicon, the architect’s name may be signiﬁcant: the ﬁgure for Jesus, 541, is the sum of an isopsephism of the architect’s name in Roman letters (‘Daniel Libeskind’ = 135) and the value of the Hebrew letter Tau (406); cf. Le Corbusier’s ‘Modulor’, 226 cm. high, equivalent to the value of the name Charles Éduard Jeanneret. In fact, the numerical value of the letter Taw in post-classical Hebrew is 400: F. Brown (ed.), A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament based on the Lexicon of William Gesenins (Oxford, 1907), 1060.

Notes to Appendix 1 1 CIL VIII. 22754a; P. Gauckler (ed.), Catalogue du Musée Alaoui (Supplément) (Paris, 1910), 101, no. 1065. Constans’ reading (nunc tibi in opere s[uo? ——] nidiﬁcas) makes no clear sense. 2 Sic vos non vobis nidiﬁcatis aves: Donat. Vita Vergilii 17. 3 This is implied by the similarity with aediﬁcatores. Constans, Gigthis, 103. 4 Ibid. Municipal status: J. Gascou, La Politique municipale de l’empire romain en Afrique proconsulaire de Trajan à Septime-Sévère, CÉFR, 8 (Rome, 1972). The date of the villa is unclear: the style of the building’s construction, its capitals, and mosaics are conﬁdently asserted by Constans to be no earlier than Severan, but the decoration in stucco bas-reliefs suggests an earlier date. 5 Cf. Vitr. De Arch. 2.1.2, describing swallows’ nests as nidos et aediﬁcationes earum.

Cic. Q. fr. 3.1.5. M. Aur. Ant. Med. 9.9. 8 Gilbert White, The Natural History of Selborne, Letter 100, in G. White, The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, ed. F. Buckland (London, 1883), 239. 9 Aelian, On the Characteristics of Animals 6.43. 10 Greg. Naz. Secund. Theol. Or. 28.25. 11 e.g. on the side walls of the cella of the Temple of Apollo at Didyma, rebuilt c.300 BC by Antiochus I: Sauron, Quis deum?, 52–62, esp. 53–6. For symbolism of the meander motif, see M. A. Fraser, ‘A Purposeful Meander’, Caerdroia, 30 (1999), 39–41. 12 For general symbolism, see above all H. Kern, Labirinti: forme e interpretazioni. 5000 anni di presenza di un archetipo. Manuale e ﬁlo conduttore (Milan, 1981), revised and updated as Through the Labyrinth: Designs and Meanings over 5,000 years, eds. R. Ferré and J. Saward (Munich and London, 2000); J. Saward, Labyrinths and Mazes: The Deﬁnitive Guide to Ancient and Modern Traditions (London, 2003); P. Reed Doob, The Idea of the Labyrinth from Classical Antiquity through the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 1990). For an early example, see S. Lundén and J. Kraft, ‘A Labyrinth Mosaic at Mieza, Macedonia: A Missing Link’, Caerdroia, 28 (1997), 13–16. For medieval and Renaissance labyrinths, see C. Wright, The Maze and the Warrior: Symbols in Architecture, Theology, and Music (Cambridge, Mass. and London, 2001). 13 This expression appears ﬁrst properly established, with a legal connotation, by Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634), in La neufme part des reports de Sr. Edvv. Coke, Chiualier, Chiefe Iustice del Banke: des diuers resolutions & iugements . . . Reports (London, 1613), v, 91b (Semayne’s case) and in The third part of the Institutes of the laws of England: concerning high treason, and other pleas of the crown, and criminal causes . . . (London, 1644), ch. 73: ‘for a man’s house is his castle, et domus sua cuique est tutissimum refugium’; id., Semayne’s Case, 5 Rep. 91b: ‘Primerunt que le meason de chescun est a luy come son castle et fortres.’ 14 Sen. Ep. 86.4. 15 Kern, Labirinti, 101, ﬁg. 96; S. Lundén, ‘The Palatine Labyrinth’, Caerdroia, 34 (2004), 7–14. 16 Cf. Pliny, Pan. 48–9. 17 Kern, Labirinti, 109, ﬁgs. 114 and 116. 18 Ibid. 106, ﬁg. 107. 19 Ibid. 107, ﬁg. 111. 20 Broise and Thébert, Les Thermes memmiens (above, Ch. 6, n. 232), 252–3, ﬁg. 246. 6 7

Notes to Appendix 2 1 For the ‘isopsephic’ equivalence between the divine ‘breath (pmela) from which the Milesian Anaximenes believed the world to have been created and the ruaqa (‘sphere’) that his predecessor Anaximander saw as the form of the world, see R. Eisler, Weltenmantel und Himmelszelt: religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Urgeschichte des antiken Weltbildes (Munich, 1910), ii. 675. According to the simpler Attic counting system, the numerical values of the letters in both words add up to 67. There are several resemblances in Anaximenes’ thought to Orphic ideas, e.g. that of the ‘air-like cavern’ of Chaos: Eisler compares Orphic fragment no. 84 (ed. Abel). 2 Spartanus, in Epigr. Gr. 806: eraqhloi| e> perim. 3 E. Cizen, Néron (Paris, 1982), 89–90. 4 Meineke, Utriusque Leonidae carmina (Leipzig, 1791); Piccolomini, ‘De Leonida Alessandrino, de’ suoi epigrammi e della isopsephia’, Rend. Linc. 3 (1894), 357–81; P. Perdrizet, ‘Isopséphie’, Rev. Ét. Gr. 17 (1904), 350–60; G. Polara, ‘Gli isopsephi’, Vichiana, 11 (1982), 242–53. 5 The Greek Anthology also contains a number of mathematical poems. Cf. Cantor, Vorlesungen über Geschichte der Mathematik, i. 126–7, 461–2. 6 The letters in the words a$cah | and he | each add up to 284. 7 Suet. Nero 39.2: Meqm. + Idam lgsqa a$pjseime (‘Nero: he killed his own mother’). Cf. F. Bücheler, ‘Me wguom,’ Rh. Mus. 61 (1906), 307–8. 8 Cf. Anth. Pal. 9.349.1, written perhaps as late as November 72/3, on the waters of ‘Cotyleia’, Roman Cutiliae, a spa town in the Sabine hills NE of Rome, where Vespasian, who came from nearby Reate, spent each summer (Suet. Vesp. 24). 9 Leonidas’ epigram, Anth. Pal. 6.13, is reproduced as a caption to a fresco from the Casa dei Epigrammi: Epigr. Gr. 1104; K. Schefold, Die Wände Pompejis (Berlin, 1957), 65; R. Herbig, Pan (Frankfurt, 1949), 45–6, pl. xviii.1. For the suggestion of illustrated scrolls, see O. Longo, ‘Leonid. AP VI e la sua fortuna (cacciatori, uccellatori, pescatori)’, Museum criticum, 21–2 (1986–7) [Bologna: Istituto di ﬁlologia classica dell’Università di Bologna], 277–302, at 277. Isopsephisms appear in CIL 4.4839, 4861, both from the western part of the town, near the Temple of Apollo; 4839, on an exterior house wall along the ‘Vico degli Augustali’; 4861, inside on a wall of an atrium; cf. also *12 without indication of location: see M. Gigante, Civiltà delle forme letterarie nell’antica Pompei (Naples, 1979), 46, with n. 13. 10 Gell. NA 14.6.4. Perhaps Hom. Il. 7.264–5 (each line with a value of 3,498) and 19.306–7 (a value of 2,848): E. S. Stamatis, ‘History of Mathematics: I. The Mathematics of Homer. II. Origins of Greek Culture and Geometry’, Euclid (Mathematical Society of Greece) (Athens, 1970), 3–14. 11 T. C. Skeat, ‘A Table of Isopsephisms (P.Oxy. XLV.3239)’, ZPE 31 (1978), 45–54, at 48: o[jo]d lo|. paqa*bok[o|] (554); Qlg· nemg p ki| [——] (948 = 133 + 390 + ...). 12 e.g. CIG 3.5113 at the Temple of Isis and Sarapis at Hieran Sycaminon (modern Meharrakah) in Nubia, on the edge of the Roman Empire; this isopsephic equivalence of the

notes (pp. 248–51) two gods’ names was written by one Maximus, probably the same as the Maximus who wrote the isopsephism CIG 3.5119 from the same site, and perhaps also identical with the decurion Maximus who composed the acrostic from the Temple of Mandulis at Kalapsche (E. Rohde, ‘Metrische Inschrift aus Talmis’, Philologus, NF 8 (1895), 11–15, acrostic in ll. 1–22). 13 E. Jenni, Lehrbuch der Hebräischen Sprache des Alten Testaments 2 (Basel, 1981), 18, gives a table of the numerological values of the Hebrew alphabet, noting that this system is only attested in the period after the Old Testament was compiled; D. K. Psychoyos, ‘The forgotten art of isopsephy and the magic number KZ’, Semiotica 154 (April 2005), 157–224. 14 To maintain the isopsephism in Greek the Christian Irenaeus changed the offending name to Latinus. 15 Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies, 1.2; cf. Perdrizet, ‘Isopséphie’, 352–6; C. Bonner, ‘Magical amulets’, HThR 39 (1946), 25–54, at 39. However, S. R. Llewelyn, ‘SD, a Christian Isopsephism?’, ZPE 109 (1995), 125–7, denies the isopsephic signiﬁcance. 16 F. V. M. Cumont, ‘Mithras et l’Orphisme’, Rev. Hist. Rel. 109 (1934), 63–72.

321

17 For isopsephisms as Pythagorean symbols, see J. G. Frazer, Folk-lore in the Old Testament: Studies in Comparative Religion, Legend and Law (London, 1918), i. 144 ff. 18 I owe this information to correspondence with Dr Mare Rand, Head of Department of Manuscripts and Rare Books, Tartu University Library, Estonia. 19 As Georg Löschke noted: Fränkel, Inschriften von Pergamon, ii. 245.

Notes to Appendix 3 1 The noun eracceka (Inscription A, line 14, and Inscription B, line 28) and the verb eracckkeim (Inscription A, lines 26–7) seem to refer here to a public ‘declaration’ by a private individual, rather than, as in Classical Greek, to a state prosecution or impeachment; it must have acquired this meaning by the second century, for which there seem to be no parallels. 2 See n. 1 above. 3 See n. 1 above.

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INDEX OF PL ACE NAMES Aachen (Aquae Grannae), Germany 122 Abdera, Spain 265 Abila, Arabia 266 Abitinae, Africa Proconsularis 7 Abonuteichus, Pontus 268 Abu-Sir, Egypt, graffito at 182–3 Achaea, Roman province 35 Acheron, river in Epirus, associated with the Underworld 60 Adamklissi (Tropaeum Traiani), victory monument of Trajan 5, 172, ﬁg. 139 Adana, Cilicia 140 Aeg(e)ae, Cilicia 266 Asclepieion 84 Aegean Sea: encomium of 140 in prehistoric period 165 Aelia Capitolina, see Jerusalem Aeminium, see Coimbra Aere (is¸-S‚aname-n), Syria, Temple of Tyche 56, 277 Aezani, Phrygia 265 Aïn Doura 302 n. 250 Aix-en-Provence (Aquae Sextiae), France 242 Al Qantarat, see Alcantara Alban hills, tufa quarries 187 Alban Lake, emissaria 29 Alban Mount, see Monte Cavo (Mons Albanus) Albano, ‘Tomb of the Horatii and Curiatii’ 289 n. 23 Alcantara (Arab Al Qantarat), Spain, bridge 202–3, 267, 285 n. 146 Alexandria, Egypt 18, 27, 67, 129, 147, 256, 267, 300 n. 128, 301 n. 204 Alexander Square 116 foundation of 296 n. 19 Gates of the Moon 116 Gates of the Sun 116 Kom el-Dikka baths 302 n. 250 obelisk 296 n. 28 palace 215 Pharos 92, 182–3, 200, 203, 208, 223, 296 n. 22 tomb 56 Tomb of Alexander (‘Sema’, ‘Mausoleum’) 180–1, 269 Alexandria, urban experience at 116, 131 Althiburos, forum 148, ﬁg. 132 Amaseia, Pontus 265 Ameria, Umbria, Italy 306 n. 30 Amiens (Samarobriva), France, forum 118 Ammaedara, see Haidra Amorium, Phrygia 265, 268 Amsterdam, foundation 316 n. 130

Anagnia, Latium, Italy: baths 175 temples 175, 188 ‘Villa Magna’ 175 Anazarbus, Cilicia 266 gateway 291 n. 113 Ancyra, Galatia, see Ankara Ancyra, Phrygia 265 Anemurium, Cilicia 266 Anguillara Sabazia, ‘villa’ 294 n. 102 Ankara (Ancyra), Galatia 265 Baths of Caracalla 226, 307 n. 70 Antalya (Attaleia), Pisidia 55, 294 n. 120 city wall 110 gate of Hadrian 110, ﬁgs. 101a–b, 116, 153, 158 tower of Iulia Sancta 110, ﬁg. 101c Anthedon, Judaea 266 Antioch, Pisidia, names of streets 117 Augusta platea and Tiberia platea 118, 119, 301 n. 171 forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 triple gateway 299 n. 47 wooden amphitheatre 295 n. 159 Antioch on the Maeander, Caria 265 Antioch on the Orontes, Coele Syria 18, 41, 43, 147, 266 Cherubim Gate 115 colonnaded streets 115, 127, 276 ‘Middle Gate’ 149 theatre 111 Antipatris, Judaea 313 n. 210 Antium 36, 50, 267, 272 Antonine Wall, Britain 43–6, 50, 279 Aon-el-Djemada, Tunisia 300 n. 148 Aosta (Augusta Praetoria), Italy 35, 36, 272 Apamea, Bithynia 130 Apamea (formerly Celaenae), Phrygia, agora 306 n. 227 Apamea, Syria: colonnaded streets 125, 291 n. 110 latrine 125, 277 Aphrodisias, Caria 88–90, ﬁg. 92, 265 bouleuterion 303 n. 83 colonnaded street (plateia) 115, 173, 276, 301 n. 175 Temple of Aphrodite 115 Tetrapylon 88, 115, 276 theatre 88–9, ﬁg. 92b, 90, 115, 150, 159, 276 Apollonia, Illyria: agora 154 assembly building (‘Hall of the Agonothetes’) 154, ﬁgs. 133a–b, 158, 201, 240, 278 odeum 154

Apollonia Salbace, Caria 61, 88, 265 Apulum, baths 294 n. 92 Aquae Sextiae, see Aix-en-Provence Aquitania 173 Arausio, see Orange Araxa, Lycia 39 Arcadia, ‘Tomb of Aepytus’, see Cyllene, Mt Ardea, Latium, Italy 189 Argos, Greece, Roman Baths 117, 295 n. 139 Ariminum, see Rimini Arles (Arelate), France: theatre 292 n. 166 cryptoporticus 305 n. 168 Aspendus, Pamphylia, theatre ﬁgs. 84a–b, 83, 191, 268, 275, 296 n. 23 Assisi (Assisium), Umbria, Italy 298 n. 38 city gate 110 forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 tetrastyle of Castor and Pollux 68, ﬁg. 70, 272 Assyria, ideas of grandeur in 170 Athens, encomium of 140 Athens, remembering at 166–7 Athens 212, 218, 238, 242 Academy 180, 242 Acropolis 11, 18, 167, 180, 214 Acropolis walls 108, 166 Agora 22, 118 Aqueduct 40, 274 Arch of Hadrian 43, 116, 173, 177, 204, 238 Areopagus 233 Erechtheum, Caryatids 301 n. 63 Library of Hadrian 12, 203, 238, 301 n. 171 Lyceum 180 memorials to Conon and Chabrias 167 ‘Monument of Eponymous Heroes’ 167 Monument of Lysicrates 167 Museum 180 Odeion of Agrippa 118, 153 Odeion of Herodes Atticus 60, 83, 274 Odeion of Pericles 21, 199 Olympieion, see Temple of Zeus Olympius ‘Palace of Erechtheus’ 167 Pantheon 40, 177, 214, 238, 302 n. 132 Parthenon (Temple of Athena Parthenos) 48, 120, 127, 150, 171, 199 Propylaea 120, 127, 171, 175, 180, 199 nymphaeum and reservoir 40–1, ﬁgs. 26a–b, 43, 61, 156, 266 Roman Agora, agoranomion, 310 n. 132 latrine 124–5, 274 Roman baths 221 Stoa Basileios (‘royal stoa’) 129, 137 Stoa Poikile 127, 167, 171 Temple of Ares 118, 309 n. 101

344 Athens (Continued ) Temple of Athena 167 Temple of Zeus Olympius (‘Olympieion’) 173, 208, 216–17, 301 n. 222 Theatre of Dionysus 95, ﬁg. 95, 167, 274 Tomb of Antonia Socratica 159 Atina Lucana, Italy, forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Attouda, Caria 88, 265 Aubuzza, Africa, baths 285 n. 74 Augusta Praetoria, see Aosta Aurelia Vina, Africa Proconsularis, statue of Roman She-Wolf 149 Auriol, France, mosaic 298 n. 44 Auzia, Mauretania Caesariensis 270 Avenches (Aventicum), Switzerland: ‘mosaic of the Winds’ 298–9 n. 44 schola of the river-merchants 123–4, ﬁgs. 116a-c, 277 Avernus, Italy 60 Baalbek (Heliopolis), Lebanon 266 Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus 37, 46, 47, 50, 55, 62, 64, 81, 87, 217, 276 altar court 304 n. 106 trilithon 217, ﬁg. 172 ‘Temple of Bacchus’ 46–8, 50, 66, 161, 276, 298 n. 139, 318 n. 147 Babylon 42, 214 Achaemenid palace 56 city walls 208 Ishtar Gate 42–3 Temple of Marduk, Tower of Etemenanki 173 Baetis, river, Spain 182 Bagacum, see Bavay Baiae, Campania, Italy 277 n. 155, 31, 268 baths of Bellator 229 ‘Temple of Venus’ 26 Balawat, Iraq, bronze gate 42 Barcelona (Barcino), Spain 298 n. 38 Baths (Aquae Sulis), England 122 Bavay (Bagacum), France, forum 118, 270 Beirut, see Berytus Belevi, near Ephesus, Turkey 180 Beneventum, Campania, Italy: Arch of Trajan 158 baths 272, 289 n. 216 Berytus, Phoenicia 266 Besançon (Vesontio), France, ‘Porte Noire’ 111, 116, 277 Beth Shean (Scythopolis), Israel, nymphaeum 87, 277, 295 n. 163, 304 n. 106 Bithynia-Pontus, province 151 Bizya, Thrace: city gate 111, ﬁg. 102 city wall 46, 278 Blaundus, Lydia 265 Bologna (Bononia), Italy 35, 272 Bolsena (Volsinii), Italy 146 Bonn (Bonna), Lower Germany 268 Bononia, see Bologna

index of pl ace names Borysthenes, fame reaching to 141 Bosporus, fame reaching to the 141 Bosra (Nova Traiana Bostra) 87 West Gate 111, 277, 291 n. 113 Botrys, Phoenicia 266 Bovianum, Samnium, Italy 192 Bovillae, sanctuary of Dea Dia, tetrastyle 68, 153 Brescello (Brixillum), Italy, tomb of Otho 183 Bridgeness, Scotland 44–5 Britain, Roman buildings in 151 Brixillum, see Brescello Bulla Regia, Tunisia, Baths of Memmius 124, 255 Buthrotum, see Butrint Butrint, Albania, nymphaeum 242 Byblos, Phoenicia 266 Cadi, Phrygia 265 Caere, Etruria, Italy: basilica 152 phetrium 152 Temple of Mars 306 n. 33 Caesarea Maritima, Samaria 266 city gate 299 n. 46 temple 42–3, 61 Caesarea of Lebanon, Phoenicia 266 Cagliari (Carales), tomb of Atilia Pomptilla 186, ﬁgs. 153a–e Caicus river (Bakir Cˇay), Mysia 92 Caieta, see Gaeta Calcedon, Pontus 265 Cales, Campania, Italy, Porta Stellatina 117 Calleva Atrebatum, see Silchester Canusium, Apulia, Italy 300 n. 148 Campania, pozzolana from 210 Canatha, Arabia, ‘odeion’ 149 Canytelis, Cilicia, grotto of Hermes 122 Cape Mimas (Kara Burun), Ionia 130 Capena, Italy, Temple of Ceres 267 Capitolias, Arabia 266 Capua, Campania, Italy 212 amphitheatre 148, ﬁg. 131b, 173, 272 baths 76, 272, 317 n. 63 house of P. Confuleius Sabbio 296 n. 28 lighthouse 182 theatre, proscenium 298 n. 3 villa of Cassius Dio 294 n. 134 Carales, see Cagliari Carpentras, France, mosaic 298 n. 44 Carsulae, Umbria, Italy, aqueduct 76, 272 Carthage 37, 71, 127, ﬁg. 126, 207, 218, 242 rebuilding of 142–6, 200 Antonine baths 37, 143, ﬁg. 128, 146, 151, 161, 239, 273 aqueduct 143, 239 basilica 37, 142-3, ﬁgs. 127a–c, 146, 151, 158, 161, 218, 239, 240, 273, 292 n. 153 citadel 146 city walls 143, 145, 146 Colline de Byrsa 142 Bordj Djedid cisterns 143

forum 142 harbour 145, ﬁgs. 129a–b, 273 library 218 platea nova 142, 301 n. 184, 305 n. 184 senate house 146, 218 site 146 streets 143, 146 theatre 143, 146, 150, 218, 273 Carystos, Euboea, marble quarries 34, 301 n. 207 Castel Giubileo, Dalmatia 300 n. 149 Castle Howard, North Yorkshire, England 183–4 Catania, Sicily, ‘Achillian Baths’ 243 Cataracts, Egypt, fame reaching to the 141 Caucasus, fame reaching beyond the 141 Cenchreae 299 n. 57 Ceutrones, people in northern Italy 51, 272 Châteauroux, France 194 Chemtou (Simitthus), Tunisia 269 China, ancient, ideas of monumentality in 207 Chiusi, see Clusium Chusclan, France, mosaic 298 n. 44 Cillium, see Kasserine Cirencester (Corinium), England, Corinium Museum 60–1 Cirta, see Constantine Claudiopolis, Bithynia, baths 173 Clusium (Chiusi), Italy, Tomb of Porsenna 208 Cnossus, Crete 255 Colijnsplaat, Netherlands 60 Coimbra (Aeminium), Portugal, cryptoporticus 305 n. 168 Cologne (Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium), Germany 46, 278 Conana, Pisidia 266 gate 291 n. 112 Como (Comum), Italy 267 Conimbriga, Portugal, Roman houses 255 Constantine (Cirta), Algeria 201 Constantinople (Byzantium, Istanbul): curia 299 n. 88 Hagia Sophia (Santa Sophia) 159, 229, 300 n. 126, 300 n. 154, 316 n. 140, 316 n. 149, 318 n. 114, 319 n. 156 hippodrome 299 n. 88 Palace of Anastasius, ‘Chalce’ 203 Corinth 216, 265 agora 118 basilicas 310 n. 132 ‘Captives’ Façade’ 51–2, 274, 292 n. 160 Fountain of Glauce 242 Fountain of Peirene 52, ﬁgs. 143a–b, 177, 212, 274 harbours, see Cenchreae, Lechaeum latrine 302 n. 248 mint 67 theatre 293 n. 46 Tycheion 113, 274 Cormerod, Switzerland, mosaic 298–9 n. 44 Corycus, Lycia 290 n. 70

index of pl ace names Cos: earthquake at 38 Asclepieum, Roman baths 317 n. 70 Cremna, Pisidia, Caesareum 148 Croceae, Laconia, quarry of green porphyry 208 Croton, Italy 298 n. 18 Croy Hill, Scotland 44–6, 61, 62–3 Ctesiphon, Parthia 111 Cuicul, see Djemila Cures Sabini, Italy, sanctuary of Numa 175 Curubis, Africa Proconsularis 298 n. 38 Cydnus, river, Cilicia 229 Cyllene, Mt, Arcadia, ‘Tomb of Aepytus’ 181 Cyme, Aeolis, Asia Minor 19 Cypros, Judaea 313 n. 210 Cyprus, Koinon of 266 Cyrenaica, houses in 225 Cyrene: Caesareum 299 n. 72 House of Jason Magnus 124, 277 Cyzicus, Mysia 129, 217 Temple of Zeus and Hadrian 37, 39–40, ﬁgs. 25–e, 50, 131, 140, 153, 199, 203, 213, 217–18, 219, 224, 228, 239, 240, 241, 267, 275, 300 n. 126, 310 n. 132 Dalmatia, ‘acropolis of ’ 81 Damascus, Coele Syria 266 East Gate 111 Damascus, sanctuary of Jupiter 291 n. 113 Dana, Syria, tomb 311–12 n. 89 Danube bridge, built by Trajan, at Dropeta, Rumania 4–5, 203, 267 Danube, river 4, 209 Delos, Sanctuary of the Syrian Gods, Exedra of Midas 168 Delphi: sanctuary of Apollo 171, 172, 232, 267 Temple of Apollo 18, 22, 214 Treasury of the Cnidians 166 Didyma, Ionia, sanctuary of Apollo (Didymaion) 90, 108, 127, 171, 320, Appendix 1 n. 11 Diocaesarea, see Sepphoris-Diocaesarea Dioshieron, Lydia 265 Dium, Arabia 266 Djemila (Cuicul, Numidia), Basilica Julia 201 Docimium (Synnas), Phrygia, marble quarries 158, 159, 227 Doclea (Dalmatia) 113 basilica 40, 201, ﬁg. 168b, 201, 278 forum 118, 201, ﬁg. 168a streets 115 Domburg, Netherlands 61 Dora, Phoenicia 266 Dorylaeum, Phrygia 268 Dougga (Thugga, Africa Proconsularis): Capitolium temple 73, ﬁgs. 76a–c, 120, 122, 149, 184,188, 273 circus 76, 122, 273 curia (‘Temple of Saturn’) 113, 273

Cyclops baths, latrine 125, 273, 302 n. 250 forum porticoes 7, 73, ﬁgs. 75a–b, 273 ‘mausoleum’ at 269 Temple of Mercury 73, 273 theatre 7, ﬁgs. 4a–c, 73–4, 90, 149, 273 tomb 312 n. 90 Durrës (formerly Durazzo), Albania 299 n. 71 Durocortorum, see Reims Edessa, Macedonia 265 Edinburgh, Scott Memorial 2 Egara, Hispania Citerior, monument 173 Egypt, Pharaonic, ideas of monumentality in 4, 165–6, 167, 168, 170, 207, 214 Egypt, Ptolemaic, ideas of monumentality in 4, 51, 170, 225 Egypt, temple doorways in 225 El-Djem, mosaics from 255 El-Ust: arch 148 forum 148 Elaioussa-Sebaste, baths 161 Eleusis, Attica, sanctuary of the Eleusinian Mysteries 51, 122, 168, 175, 213 Inner Propylaea (of Appius Claudius Pulcher) 51, 122, 168, 180, 181 Outer Propylaea 51, 122, 175, 202, 274 Telesterion 51, 274 Eleutheropolis, Judaea 266 Elis 113 Agora, or ‘hippodrome’ 310 n. 142 Stoa of Agna(m)ptus 296 n. 21 Emerita, see Mérida Emporiae, Spain 298 n. 38 Epamanduodurum, Upper Germany 293 n. 72 Ephesus, provincial capital of Asia 39, 43, 88, 129–35, 140–1, 158, 175, 177, 207, 267 agora 117, 292 n. 143 Antonine Altar 31, 153, 274 aqueduct 302 n. 29 Baths Gymnasium of Vedius Antoninus (‘baths by Mount Coressus’) 37, 133–5, ﬁgs. 123a–b, 140, 150, 151–2, 153, 156–8, 173, 218, 223, 226, 239–40, 275, 307 n. 62 Baths of Scholasticia, latrine 124 Bouleuterion 37, ﬁgs. 119a–b, 129, ﬁgs. 121a–c, 133–4, 139, 150, 151, 154, 155, 173, 218, 240, 275, 307 n. 62 Church of St Mary 131 colonnaded street (plateia) 301 n. 175 East Baths 156, 226 Embolos 117, 129 Fountain (Nymphaeum) of Trajan 41, 129, 158 Gate of Hadrian 42, ﬁg. 29, 118, 130, 153, 158 Gate of Mazaeus and Mithridates 117 Gymnasium Sebaston 81, 134, 153 ‘Harbour Baths’ 129, ﬁg. 120, 130, 153, 156, 158 Harbour Gate 153

345 houses at 108 Library of Celsus 8-10, 42, 93, 117, 129, 158, 189, 215, 242 Lower Agora (Market Agora) 117, 131 oikos and stoa 159 Prytaneion ﬁg. 119b, 129, 133 second temple of the imperial cult, suggested site of 41, 131 Serapeum 158, 275, 307 n. 103 stadium 81, 133, 275 Stoa Basileios ﬁgs. 119a–b, 129, ﬁgs. 121a–b, 133, 137 Stoa of Verulanus 131, 158–9 Temple of Artemis (Artemision) 54, 62, 84, 91, 108, 127, 129, 170, 172, 179, 209, 275, 296 n. 19 Temple of Domitian (ﬁrst temple of the imperial cult) ﬁg. 119b, 129, 130, 153, 170, 172, 179 ‘Temple of Hadrian’ 41–3, ﬁg. 28, 46, 58, 61, 113, 117, 124, 130, 131, 156, 310 n. 19 theatre 129, 133, 218 tomb 159 Upper Agora (‘State Agora’) ﬁgs. 119a–b, 129, 133 Epidaurus, Asclepieion 81, 82, 84, 122, 134, 203, 213, 238, 274, 296 n. 21 bath of Asclepius 82 cistern 82 maternity hospital 82 north propylon 18 portico of Cotys 82 sanctuary of Epidotai 82 ‘Temple L’ 316 n. 147 Temple of Asclepius and Hygieia 82 theatre 177, 296 n. 22 Er-Rajib, Jordan, temple 243 Eryx, Mt, Sicily, Temple of Venus Erycina 310 n. 132 Etna, Mt, Sicily, comparison of buildings with 309 n. 67 Euboea 214, 227 Euboea, rural landscape of 121 Euromus, Caria, Temple of Zeus Lepsynus 161 Eurotas, river, Laconia 227 Fain-lès-Montbord, France, mosaic 298 n. 44 Fanum Fortunae, see Fano Fano (Fanum Fortunae, Umbria), Italy: basilica 22 baths 201 Fayyum (‘Lake of Moeris’), Egypt 214 Ferentinum, Latium, Italy, forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Fidenae, Latium, Italy 189, 302 n. 149 amphitheatre 229 Firmum Picenum, Italy 78, 294 n. 85 Flavia Brigantium (La Coruña, Spain) 36, 183, 268, 278, 296 n. 17 Forum Clodii (Bracciano), Italy, baths 6 Furni, Africa Proconsularis 148

346 Gaba, Galilee 266 Gabii, Latium, Italy: historic buildings at 188, 310 n. 149 sanctuary of Juno Gabina 173, 187, 188, 312 n. 117 proscaenium 152 Gadebridge, Britain, Roman villa 58, 60 ﬁg. 52 Gaeta (Caieta), Italy, harbour 36, 272 Gandara, India 299 n. 88 Gaza, Judaea 243, 266 Church of St Stephen 229 Géligneux, tomb at 194, ﬁg. 164 Giannutri, island off Tuscany, Roman villa 255 Gigthis, Africa Proconsularis (Tunisia): forum 118, ﬁgs. 112a–c, 273 ‘painted temple’ 74, 273 Roman house 255 statue group of wolf and twins 149 Temple of Apollo 74, 273, 293 n. 43 Temple of Concordia Panthea 74, 273, 293 n. 43 Giza, Egypt: Pyramids 165–6, 167, 171, 179, 202, 203 Sphinx 166 Glanum, see St Rémy-de-Provence Greece, monuments of 166–7, 171, 177-8 Grottarossa, Italy, tomb at 189, ﬁgs. 155a-b Grumentum, Lucania, Italy 295 n. 9 Hadrian’s Wall, Britain 44 Hadranum, temple 225 Haidra (Ammaedara), Tunisia 301 n. 174 ‘Orange Mausoleum’ 191–2, ﬁg. 159, 198 Halicarnassus, Mausoleum (tomb of Mausolus) 91, 179, 180–2, 204, 269, 296 n. 19 Halys, river, Anatolia 224 Hammat Gader, Israel, Baths of Eudocia 229 Harpasa, Caria 265 Heddernheim, Germany, silver plaque from 62, 64 ﬁg. 59 Helice, Achaea, Temple of Iphigeneia 310 n. 142 Heliopolis, see Baalbek Helisson, river, Arcadia 177 Hellespont, bridge over 296 n. 19 Henschir el-Hanaria, Tunisia 306 n. 253 Henschir el-M’den, Tunisia 306 n. 253 Henschir Guergour, Tunisia, tomb 186 Henschir Mabrek, Tunisia 269 Heraclea Pontica, Black Sea coast 60 Herculaneum, Italy, chalcidicum and schola 121 equestrian statue of Nonius Balbus 71, 300 n. 148 fresco from 291 n. 138 House of Telephus 71 Suburban Baths 71, ﬁg. 74 Hermopolis Magna, Egypt 241 Antinoeion 115 baths 115, 225 Hadrianeion 115 honoriﬁc column 27, 28 ﬁg. 14c tetrastylon 115, ﬁg. 110, 277

index of pl ace names Hierapolis 87–8 Hierapolis, Phrygia 265 basilica 88, 276 Large Baths 88, 276, 307 n. 70 Temple of the Syrian Goddess (Atargatis) 210 theatre 88, ﬁgs. 91a–b, 159, 276 Hierapolis Castabana, Cilicia 140 Hierapytna, Crete, bouleuterion 154, 277 Himera, Sicily 21 Hippo Regius, Africa Praconsularis, forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Hispellum, see Spello Hutcheson Hill, Scotland, distance slab from 45–6, ﬁg. 36 Hypaepa, Lydia 265 Iader, see Zadar Iasus, Caria: archeion 120 bouleuterion 120, 134 Idaean Cave, Crete 83 Indus, river, altars at 214 Ionia, Koinon of 265 ‘Isola Sacra’, Portus, Italy 180, 191 Istanbul, see Constantinople Isthmia, Temple of Poseidon 214 Italica, Baetica (Spain) 113 ‘House of the Labyrinth’ 255 Temple of Trajan (Traianeum) 12, 301 n. 171 Italy, Antonine 35–6 Italy, Augustan 22 Italy, form of 20 Jerash (Gerasa, Arabia) 87, 101–3, ﬁg. 99 Jerash: Arch of Hadrian 101 colonnaded streets 115 North Gate 111, 239, 276 North Theatre 87, 276 nymphaeum 87, ﬁg. 90, 276 ‘Oval Piazza’ 101, 276, 299 n. 53 Sanctuary of Artemis, propylon of 87, ﬁgs. 89a–c, 101, 122, 225, 276 Sanctuary of Zeus 58, ﬁg. 50a, 101, 276 South Tetrapylon 101 South Theatre 101, 276 Jericho, Palace of Herod 161 Jerusalem (Aelia Capitolina), Judaea 266 as ‘Uranopolis’ 147 city wall 21, 109, 214 Drusion 201 Herod’s palace 73, 215 Herodium 200 Jewish temple: bronze doors from 48 gateway to 201 porticoes 115 Tower of Phasael 182, 201 Judaea, city walls 110 Judaea, streets 115

Juvanum, Italy, forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Kalapsche, Egypt (Nubia), Temple of Mandulis 321, Appendix 2 n. 12 Kasserine (Cillium), Tunisia, Tomb of the Flavii 168, 197–200, ﬁgs. 167a–d, 202, 203, 204, 209, 240, 244, 260–2, 296 n. 56 Kios, gymnasium 300 n. 149 Labraunda, Caria: sanctuary of Zeus 108 Stoa of Poleites 158, 302 n. 10 Laconia, marble from 226 La Coruña, see Flavia Brigantium Ladenburg (Lopodunum), Upper Germany, basilica 78, 278 Lago Maggiore, statue of S. Carlo Borromeo 237 Lambaesis, Numidia 214, 219, 261, 296 n. 34, 306 n. 243 auxiliary camp 27 column of Hadrian 27–8, ﬁg. 14a–c, 274 memorial of Nonius Datus ﬁg. 93, 92, 274 Sanctuary of Aesculapius (Asclepius) 78–81, ﬁgs. 82a-b, 103, 212, 239 Sanctuary of Isis and Serapis 80 Septizodium 80 Temple of Neptune 81, 274 Verecunda Gate 111, 113, ﬁg. 109, 274 Lampsacus, Mysia 265 Lanuvium: baths 306 n. 26, 319 n. 63 fountain 289 n. 115 Tetrastyle of Diana and Antinous 68, 264 Villa of Antoninus Pius 29, 36, 74 Laodicea ad Lycum 295 n. 77, 311 n. 58 Laterium, Latium, Italy 255 Latium, monuments of 175, 188-91, 197 La Turbie, war memorial of Augustus 172, 181 Laurentine villa of Pliny 157 Lavinium 189 Lebadeia, Boeotia, Oracle of Trophonius 224 Lecce (Lupiae), amphitheatre 314 n. 222 Lechaeum 299 n. 57 Leiden, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden 61 Leominster (Herefordshire), Grange Court (old Town Hall) 11, ﬁg. 6 Lepcis Magna: circus 76, 267, 273 forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 fountain 293 n. 71 Hadrianic baths 149 Severan forum and basilica 40, 149 theatre 74, 113, 191, 218, 273 Leuctra, war memorial at 171 Lilybaeum 296 n. 34 Lincoln, cathedral 12 Lincoln (Lindum), streets 115 Lisbon (Olisipo) 269

index of pl ace names Liternum, Italy, villa of Scipio 70, 215, 255 London, Houses of Parliament 10 Lopodunum, see Ladenburg Lorium, Villa of Antoninus Pius 29–30, 35 Ludlow, Shropshire 301 n. 224 Lugdunum, see Lyon Luni (Luna), ‘il grande tempio’ 120, 272 Lusitania, municipalities of 202 Luxor, sanctuary of Amenophis III, hall of the imperial cult 65 ﬁg. 63 Lycia: Koinon of 151 earthquake in 38–9 Lyon (Lugdunum): Christians at 194, 204, 243, 269 Church of St Irenaeus 193 circus 76, 277 federal sanctuary 76 mint of 67 Macedonia, vaulted architecture 19 Mactar (Mactaris, Africa Proconsularis): Arch of Trajan 285 n. 129 Large Baths 255 Madauros, Large Baths 125, ﬁg. 118, 273 Maeonia, Lydia, heliocaminus 157, 275 Magnesia-on-the-Maeander, Ionia, Temple of Artemis 214, 296 n. 56 Marathon, arch between the villas of Herodes Atticus and Annia Regilla 83, ﬁg. 86, 140 Mareotis, Lake, Egypt 183 Massalia (Marseilles), fame reaching to 141 Mainz (Moguntiacum), Arch of Dativius Victor 56 Marcianopolis, Thrace 299 n. 61 Megalopolis, Arcadia 177–8 bouleuterion 177 ‘House of Alexander’ 177–8 Sanctuary of Aphrodite 178 Sanctuary of the Muses 178 stadium 178 stoa 177 Temple of Dionysus 178 Temple of Heracles and Hermes 178 theatre 177 Megara, Temple of Apollo 35, 76 Meharrakah (Hieran Sycaminon), Egypt (Nubia), Temple of Isis and Serapis 320, Appendix 2 n. 12 Melas, river, Rough Cilicia 224 Melﬁ, Italy, sarcophagus 197 Membressa, Tunisia, baths 317 n. 63 Memphis, Egypt: colossal statues 167, 208 Sanctuary of Isis 214 Mérida (Emerita), Spain, city-gate 111 Metropolis, Ionia 265 Metropolis, Phrygia 265 Milan 244 Milas (Mylasa), tomb (‘Gümüskesen’) 180, ﬁgs. 144a–b

Miletus, Ionia 108, 265, 267; see also Didyma Miletus: Baths Gymnasium of Faustina Minor 51, 154–6, ﬁgs. 134a–c, 157-8, 276 bouleuterion 120 market gate 158, 239 nymphaeum 10 stadium 291 n. 113 theatre 89-90, 150, 240, 276, 291 n. 111 Misenum, Campania, Italy, ‘sacello degli Augustali’ 202, ﬁg. 170, 296 n. 41 Mismije, see Phaena Moeris, Lake of, see Fayyum Mogrowa, Tunisia 269 Moguntiacum, see Mainz Mons Albanus, see Monte Cavo Mons Claudianus, Egypt, granite quarries 46, 267 Monte Cavo (Mons Albanus), Italy 208 Mount Coressus (Bübüldagˇ ), near Ephesus 108, 133, 134 Mount Gerizim, Jordan, Temple of Zeus the Highest 48, 50, ﬁg. 41, 55 Mount Olympus, Mysia 130 Mount Oromedon, Cos, comparison of buildings with 309 n. 69 Mount Pion (Panayir Dagˇ ), near Ephesus 133 Msid Aicha, Algeria 270 Mustis: portico 201 Temple of Caelestis 201 Mycenae 167, 177, 178, 207, 214 Mylasa, see Milas Myra, Lycia: gymnasium 159 theatre 84, ﬁg. 88, 276 Mysia 39, 130 Mytilene (Lesbos), earthquake in 39, 275 Mytilene (Lesbos), theatre 21 Narbo (Narbonne, France): baths 39, 277 temples of the imperial cult 76, 277 Neapolis, Samaria: Temple of Zeus Hypsistus 50, 277 coinage of 50, ﬁg. 41, 266 Nemausus, see Nîmes Nemrud Dagˇ, sanctuary 173 Nemi, theatre 74 New York: Armory of the 12th Regiment 298–9 n. 44 ‘Ground Zero’ memorial, Freedom Tower 244 Pennsylvania Station 3 World Trade Center 244 Nicaea, Bithynia 129–30 city gate 110 city walls 130 coinage of 67, 112, 265 gymnasium 117 Nicomedia, Bithynia 112, 129–30, 147 Nicomedía:

347 aqueduct 173, 296 n. 37 Antonine Baths 173 canal 150, 173 forum 173 Temple of Magna Mater 173 Nicopolis, Thrace, forum 118, 122, 278 Niha, Temple A 62–3, ﬁgs. 58a-d, 277 Nile, river 80, 165, 209 Nîmes (Nemausus), France 113 amphitheatre 25, ﬁg. 12, 39, 149, 212, 289 n. 9 Basilica of Plotina 50, 113, 277 city wall and gates 109 ‘Maison Carrée’ 50, 216 ‘mausolea’ at 181, 196, 269 mosaic 298 n. 44 ‘Temple of Diana’ (nymphaeum?) 50, ﬁg. 42, 161, 277 Nineveh, Assyria 178, 207, 214 Nola, Campania, Italy 152 Noricum 46 Norwich, prison 290–1 n. 44 Novara (Novaria), Italy 76, 272 Numidia, marble from 227 Nysa, Lydia 265 bouleuterion (council chamber) (‘geronticon’) 82, 134, ﬁgs. 122a–b, 154, 155, 276, 303 n. 90, 307 n. 62 Oenoanda, Lycia 39, 138 Olba, Cilicia 140 Olbia, Pontus, theatre 159 Old Kilpatrick, Scotland, distance slab from 45, and ﬁg. 35 Olisipo, see Lisbon Olympia: Nymphaeum of Herodes Atticus 83, ﬁg. 85, 154, 161, 213, 240, 274, 307 n. 62 Statue of Zeus 26, 113, 208, 314 n. 26 Stoa of Echo 220 Temple of Zeus 26 Olynthus, Chalcidice, houses at 108 Oplontis (Torre Annunziata), “Villa of Poppaea” 25, 40 Orange (Arausio), France: mosaic 298 n. 44 theatre 23, ﬁg. 8, 74, 292 n. 166 triumphal arch 43, ﬁg. 32, 68 Orbe, Switzerland, mosaic 298–9 n. 44 Orchomenus, Treasury of Minyas 167 Orthosia, Phoenicia 266 Ostia 35–6, 50, 76, 103, 300 n. 149; see also Portus basilica 263 Baths of Gavius Maximus, see Forum Baths ‘Baths of the Carriage-drivers’ (‘Terme dei Cisiarii’) 58–60, ﬁg. 53, 272 ‘Building outside Porta Marina’ 159–60, ﬁgs. 137a–c Capitolium temple 36, ﬁgs. 77a–c, 76, 159, 271, 305 n. 179

348 Ostia (Continued ) dynastic monument 173–4, ﬁg. 141 forum 174 Forum Baths (Baths of Gavius Maximus) 76–8, ﬁgs. 79a–d, 158, 174, 272, 305 n. 179 harbour, see Portus Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana ﬁgs. 114a–c, 123, 212–13, 272 House of the Painted Vaults 58, ﬁg. 51 market building 78 naval arsenal 78 ‘Neptune Baths’ 35, 43, 76, 78, 272 ‘Palazzo Imperiale’ 242 ‘Round Temple’ 292 n. 182 Sanctuary of Hercules, baths of 122 ‘Schola di Traiano’ 123, ﬁg. 115, 272 Temple of Augustus 174 Temple of Bellona 78 Temple of Castor and Pollux 78 Temple of Tiberinus Pater 78 Temple of Venus 78 theatre 51 Oum el Awamid, Syria 267 Oxford, County Hall 298–9 n. 44 Padua (Patavium), Italy ‘temple with ram’s heads and herms’ 178 Paestum (Posidonia), Italy 296 n. 28 forum 148 Palestrina (Praeneste), Italy 189, 292 n. 131 Temple of Fortuna Primigenia 108, 158 Palmyra, Syria 87, 107, 244, 267 colonnaded streets 115 Sanctuary of Baalshamin, porticoes 137 Temple of Bel 56, ﬁg. 48 Propylaea 277 Panopeus, Phocis 121 Paris (Lutetia), forum 118 Parma, street 76, 272 Pasargadae, Persia, Tomb of Cyrus 179, 195–6 Patara 313 n. 162 odeion 91, 267, 275 theatre 82, ﬁg. 83, 134, 191, 275 tomb 297 n. 96 Patavium, see Padua Pergamon, Mysia 88, 92, 129–31, 140–1, 158, 191, 208, 215, 256–8 as ‘metropolis of Asia’ 92 acropolis 140–1 acropolis, residents of 117 amphitheatre 92, 98, 267, 275 aqueduct 92 Asclepieion 37, 84, 92, 98–101, ﬁg. 97a, 122, 131, 140, 203, 213, 218, 307 n. 103 ‘library’ 218, 275 ‘lower round building’ 98, ﬁg. 97c Propylon of Charax 84, ﬁgs. 87a–c, 122, 275 Temple of Zeus Asclepius 69, 98–101, ﬁg. 97b, 131, 218, 267, 275, 316 n. 160

index of pl ace names theatre 218 city districts 141 Great Altar 92 Greek cemetery 257 Greek church 257 gymnasium 95 Hagiasma of St Cyriacus 256–7 library 92 Lower Agora 96, ﬁgs. 96a–b market portico 96–8, 258, 267, 275 Sanctuary of Athena Polias 92 Sanctuary of Demeter 92, 94 propylon of 122 Temple of Dionysus Kathegemon 12, 66 Temple of Rome and Augustus 129 Temple of Serapis (Serapeum) (Kizil Avlu, ‘The Red Hall’) 213, 217 Temple of Trajan (Traianeum) 12, 42, 92, 130, 141, 153, 158, 301 n. 171 theatre 141 Upper Agora 22 Perge, Pamphylia, foot of Rixus 299 n. 51 gate court of Plancia Magna 110, 153, 196 Temple of Zeus Machaonius 299 n. 51 Persia: ideas of grandeur in 170, 214 purple dye from 209 Pesco Montana, cutting of Via Appia, near Terracina, Italy 285 n. 144 Petra, Jordan, Palace Tomb 10 Phaena (Mismije), Syria, Temple of Zeus Phaenesius (‘Praetorium’) 55 ﬁg. 47, 56, 277 Pharos, Egypt, see Alexandria, Pharos Pharsalus, Thessaly 311 n. 64 Phasaelis, Judaea 313 n. 209 Phaselis, gate of Hadrian 153 Phasis, river, Atmenia 141 Philadelphia, Lydia 265 Phocaea, Asia Minor, shape of 20 Piacenza (Placentia), Italy 35, 272 Pillars of Hercules 141 Piraeus, Attica 120 Pisa (Pisae), Italy 35 Pisidian Antioch, see Antioch, Pisidia Placentia, see Piacenza Pompeii 70, 81, 107, 256 arches 116 basilica 22, 289 n. 9 forum 116 forum, paving inscription 300 n. 165 Forum Baths 291 n. 138 graffiti 297 n. 73 House of Apollo 37, ﬁg. 24, 66 Sanctuary of Isis 43 Temple of Apollo 320, Appendix 2 n. 9 theatrum tectum 297 n. 90 ‘Vico degli Augustali’ 320, Appendix 2 n. 9 Pompeiopolis, Cilicia 140 Portus 36, 111, 180, 182, 298 n. 30, 299 n. 56; see also ‘Isola Sacra’

lighthouse (‘Pharus’) 36, 182–3, ﬁg. 147, 272 Priene, Temple of Athena Polias 224 Prilius, Lake, Etruria, Italy 87 Proconnesus, island, source of marble 217 Prusa, Bithynia 212, 266 baths 173 Stoa of Dio 127, 130, 133, 239 Prusias, Bithynia, coinage of 67 Ptolemais, Cyrenaica, villas 40, 41 ﬁg. 27, 42 Ptolemais-Ace, Phoenicia 266 Puteoli, image of, in the Satyricon 115 Puteoli, names of urban districts 117 Puteoli: baths (thermae Severianae) 301 n. 212 harbour 36 Temple of Victoria Augusta 76, 272 Qatura, Syria: Tomb of Aemilius Reginus 311–12 n. 89 Tomb of T. Flavius Iulianus 311–12 n. 89 Raetia, frontier fortiﬁcations 46, 278 Ravenna 36, 50, 113, 159, 243, 272 Archbishop’s chapel 320 n. 85 Mausoleum of Galla Placidia 320 n. 85 Reims (Durocortorum), France, Porte de Mars 116, 278 Rhodes 296 n. 19 rebuilding of 38, 131, 146, 276 city walls 131 Colossus 203, 208, 314 n. 17 Rhodiapolis, tomb of Opramoas 84, 151 Rimini (Ariminum), Italy 152 Arch of Augustus 285 n. 129, 285 n. 135 Rome: architects in 267 as colony of Commodus 147 as ‘Neropolis’ 108 as ‘Uranopolis’ 147 encomia of 115, 140 ﬁre of A.D. 64 at 304 n. 114 vault mosaics at 243 buildings: amphitheatre of Nero 215 Amphitheatrum Flavium, see Colosseum Anio Novus 29 Appian Way, see Via Appia Aqua Alsietina 294 n. 102 Aqua Appia 169 Aqua Claudia 29 Aqua Marcia 229 Aqua Virgo 29 Ara Pacis Augustae 48, 182 Arch of Constantine 183 ‘Arch of Janus’ 66, 67 ﬁg. 66 Arch of Severus 158 Arch of Titus 158, 192, ﬁg. 161 Area Capitolina 22 Atrium Regium 22 ‘Barberini tomb’, Via Latina 189, ﬁgs. 156a–d

index of pl ace names Barracks of the 5th Cohort of Vigiles, Caelian hill 191 ‘Basilica Aemilia’, see Basilica Paulli Basilica Julia 201, 305 n. 196 Basilica of Junius Bassus 159 Basilica Paulli (‘Basilica Aemilia’) 23, 26, 158, 201, 215, 284 n. 121 Basilica Porcia 22, 169, 201 Basilica Sempronia 201 Basilica Ulpia 55, 142, 149, 306 n. 259 basilicas 129 Baths of Agrippa 25 Baths of Lampadius 229 Baths of Nero 218 Baths of Titus 159, 218 Baths of Trajan 25, 218, 224 Caelian hill 26, 29, 191 Campus Martius 26, 31, 36, 66, 121, 169, 180, 182, ﬁg. 146, 188 dynastic monument in 309 n. 114 ‘Casal Morena’ villa, Via Latina 71 Catacombs 194 Catacombs of S. Agnese 71 city gates 108, 147 Circus Maximus 150, 200, 289 n. 23 Colosseum (Amphitheatrum Flavium) 26, 34, 50, 125, 174, 219, 271, 311 n. 81 Colossus of Jupiter 208 Colossus of Nero 200, 208, 267 Column of Antoninus Pius 67, 182, 271 Column of Marcus Aurelius 51, 182, 196, 271 Column of Maenius 169 Column of Trajan 5, 26, 182, 196 Curia Cornelia 237 Curia Hostilia 237 Curia Julia 107, 305 n. 196 Curia Pompeia 292 n. 166 Diribitorium 215 Dolichenum on the Aventine 63–4, 67, 81, 271 Dolichenum on the Esquiline 68, 271 Domus Aurea, see Rome, Golden House of Nero Domus Publica 22 Domus Flavia (Domus Augustana) 29, 67, 255, 296 n. 31, 320 ‘Domus Tiberiana’ 188 Esquiline house, Via Graziosa 211, ﬁg. 171, 315 n. 59 Forum Augustum (Forum of Augustus) 107, 158, 212, 238 Forum Boarium 169 Forum Holitorium 290 n. 31 Forum Iulium 169; see also Temple of Venus Genetrix Forum of Trajan 10, 12, 26, 107, 116, 119, 149, 212, 238, 267, 296 n. 33, 312 n. 99 Forum Romanum, see Rome, Roman Forum Gardens of Sallust, see Horti Sallustiani Golden House of Nero 29, 56, 67, 120, 127, 224

Graecostadium 35, 271 Graecostasis 169 Hadrianeum (Temple of Hadrian) 32, ﬁgs. 17a–c, 34, ﬁg. 19a, 50, 158, 161, 182, 212, 240, 271, 305 n. 179 Horti Sallustiani (Gardens of Sallust) 26 House of Augustus 23–4, 107 House of Pompey 121 Hut of Romulus in the Area Capitolina 22 Hut of Romulus on the Palatine 22, 170, 178 imperial fora, inﬂuence on provincial fora 118 insulae (apartment blocks) 229 libraries 233 Macellum Augusti (of Nero) 67 Maenian Column, see Column of Maenius Mausoleum of Augustus 32, 68, 180–1, 196, 269 ‘Meta Romuli’ 180 Meta Sudans 289 n. 23 Museo Nazionale Romano 60, 190 Naumachia of Augustus 215 ‘Ninfeo di Egeria’ 209, 317 n. 66 Oppian Hill 26, 109 Palatine, see Domus Flavia and ‘Domus Tiberiana’ Palatine houses, of early date 298 n. 17 Palatine Library 208 Pantheon 26, 32, 34, ﬁg. 19b, 48, 50, 60, 68–9, ﬁgs. 71a–d, 76, 98, 100, 158, 159, 174, 182, 184, 217, 232, 271, 285 n. 160, 309 n. 56 Pantheon library 203, 296 n. 16 Parthian Arch of Nero 24 ﬁg. 11, 25, 58 plateae Antoninianae 301 n. 184 Pons Aelius 32, 36, 182 Pons Agrippae 174 Pons Cestius 174 Pons Sublicius 174–5 Porta Caelimontana 298 n. 28 Porta Fontinalis 185 ‘Porta Maggiore’ 29 Porta Trigemina 298 n. 28 Portico of Octavia 92 porticoes 114–15, 127 Pyramid of Caius Cestius 180 Roman Forum 22, 24, 32, 35, 118, 147–8, ﬁg. 131a, 169, 215 paving of 118, 147 Rostra, republican and imperial 147, 148, 169 Sacra Via (Sacred Way), see Via Sacra St Peter’s Basilica 182, 184, 188 S. Andrea (Esquiline) 159 S. Costanza 158 S. Prassede, Zeno chapel 320 n. 85 S. Urbano della Caffarella 312 n. 111 Servian Wall 108 ‘Sette Bassi’ villa 71 Shrine of St Peter 184 Statio Annonae (S. Maria in Cosmedin) 124, ﬁg. 117, 271

349 Statue of Domitian, equestrian 215 Statue of Marsyas 147–8, ﬁg. 131b Syrian sanctuary on Janiculum (Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus) 48, 64, 271 Tabularium 22, 54, ﬁg. 45 ‘Tempio del Dio Redicolo’ 188 ‘Temple C’, Largo Argentina (Temple of Juturna?) 309 n. 56 Temple of Antoninus and Faustina 32, ﬁgs. 18a–f, ﬁg. 19c, 50, 187–8, 240, 271 Temple of Apollo Palatinus 284 n. 111 Temple of Augustus 35, 50, 271 Temple of Bacchus, Tor di Nona ﬁg. 21, 36–7, 50, 66, 80, 175, 271 Temple of Capitoline Jupiter 22, 29, 53, 54, 158–9, 170, 203, 219, 223 Temple of Castor 34 Temple of Claudius 219, 285–6 n. 8 Temple of Diana, Aventine 174 Temple of Fortuna huiusce diei 53 ‘Temple of Fortuna Muliebris’, Via Appia 189 Temple of Fortune, founded by Servius Tullius 286 n. 18 Temple of Fortune, founded by Ancus Martius 172 Temple of Hadrian, see Rome, Hadrianeum Temple of Janus 169 Temple of Juno Moneta 54 Temple of Juno Sospita 169 Temple of Jupiter Dolichenus, see Dolichenum Temple of Jupiter Feretrius 309 n. 61 Temple of Jupiter Heliopolitanus, see Syrian sanctuary on Janiculum Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, see Temple of Capitoline Jupiter Temple of Juturna, see ‘Temple C’, Largo Argentina Temple of Magna Mater, Palatine 284 n. 111 Temple of Mars Ultor 215, 293 n. 38 Temple of Mater Matuta 20 Temple of Matidia 182 Temple of Mercury (or Thoth) 51, ﬁgs. 43a–b, 271 Temple of Peace 12, 29, 177, 215, 218, 301 n. 171, 312 n. 99 Temple of Quirinus 12, 202 Temple of Spes 169 Temple of Trajan 34 Temple of Venus and Rome 26, 32, 34, 50, 55–6, 131, 161, 174, 208, 305 n. 179, 307 n. 103, 319 n. 40 Temple of Venus Genetrix 189–90 Temple of Vespasian 32, 311 n. 81 Temple of Vesta 53 Theatre of Marcellus 23, 68, 302 n. 255, 305 n. 196, 312 n. 99 Theatre of Pompey (Theatrum Pompeianum) 121, 169, 201, 292 n. 166 Tiber river 31, 36, 51, 174, ﬁg. 142, 309 n. 117 Tomb of Bibulus 191–2, ﬁgs. 160a–b

350 Rome (Continued ) Tomb of Caecilia Metella 302 n. 255 Tomb of Hadrian (later Castel Sant’Angelo) 31–2, ﬁgs. 16a–c, 36, 50, 158, 181–2, 188, 237, 240, 271 Tomb of Maxentius, Via Appia 292 n. 182 Tomb of the Claudii Pulchri 311 n. 73 Tomb of the Haterii 184–5, 186, ﬁg. 149, 200 Tomb of the Nasonii, Via Flaminia 188, 189, 312 n. 124 Tomb of the Scipiones, Via Appia 308 n. 43 ‘Tomba di Nerone’, Via Cassia 192–3, ﬁgs. 162a–b ‘Tor de’Schiavi’ 69 Triopion estate, Via Appia 83, 188–9, 199, 204, 209, 229, 297 n. 70 Triumphal Way (Via Triumphalis) 290 n. 31 Trophies of Marius 171 Vatican Museums 185, 237 Velia ridge 26 Via Appia 169, 188–9 Via Cassia 192 Via Flaminia 188, 196 Via Latina 189 Via Praenestina 29 Via Sacra 36, 188, 313 n. 196 Via Salaria 184 Sabratha: Seaward Baths, latrine 125, 273 theatre 74, ﬁg. 78, 124, 273 Sadaba, Spain, tomb of the Atilii 186, ﬁg. 152, 196 Saepinum, Italy: forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 market building 76, 272 north gate 192 street 301 n. 175 Sagalassus, Pisidia 266 Temple of Antoninus Pius 153, 158, 276 Temple of Apollo Clarius and the Dii Augusti 159 Saguntum, Spain 298 n. 38 forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 St Bertrand de Comminges 172 St Rémy-de-Provence (Glanum), France, Monument of the Julii 313 n. 179 Saios, Egypt, palace 214, 218 Saitta, Lydia 257 Sala, Mauretania, city walls 78, 274 Salamis, latrine 302 n. 248 Saldae, Numidia, aqueduct 92, 268, 274 Salona, Dalmatia 184 Salonica, see Thessalonica Salus Aurasius, Numidia 269 Samaria Sebaste, Palestine, city gate 299 n. 46 Samarobriva, see Amiens Samos, Ionia: aqueduct 92, 167, 298 n. 2 coins of 62, ﬁgs. 57a–b, 265 harbour 167

index of pl ace names Temple of Hera (Heraeum) 108, 127, 167,171 Sardinia, map of 20 Sardis, Lydia: baths gymnasium 156, 159, 221, 226 oikobasilikos 159 synagogue 159 Temple of Artemis 303 n. 49 Sarmada, Syria, Tomb of Alexandrus 311–12 n. 89 Sbeitla (Sufetula), Tunisia, forum 118, ﬁg. 111, 153,158, 186 Sbiba, Tunisia 269 Scolacium, Lucania, Italy, aqueduct 272 Scythopolis, see Beth Shean Selinus, see Traianopolis Sepphoris-Diocaesarea, Galilee 266 Sestino (Sestinum), Umbria, Italy 62 Setteﬁnestre, Etruria, villa 255, 292 n. 4 Seville, Archaeological Museum 299 n. 79 Shahba (Philippopolis), Arabia 200 Sicily, praise of 217 Side, Pamphylia 266 Great Gate 110, 275 harbour 110–11, 299 n. 56 round temple in agora (Temple of Tyche?) 56, 57–8 ﬁgs. 49a–j, 153, 275 tomb, pediment from 184, ﬁg. 148 tomb, Western Necropolis 186, 292 n. 183 Sidon, Phoenicia 266 Siga, Numidia 180 Silchester (Calleva Atrebatum), basilica 78, 113, 279 Silchester, forum 118 Sillyon, Pisidia 94, 112–13, 267, 276 Simitthus, see Chemtou Sinuessa, Compania, Italy, baths 227–8 healing waters 81 Sitt al-Roum, Syria, Tomb of Isidorus 311–12 n. 89 Smyrna, Ionia 39, 84, 116, 129–31, 139–42, 208, 212, 216, 217, 222, 301 n. 205 agora 130, 139, 141, 142, ﬁg. 125a anointing-room (alipterion) 130 basilica(s) 37, 130, 139, 142, ﬁgs. 125a–b, 275 bouleuterion 130, 142 city walls 319 n. 59 ﬁrst temple of the imperial cult 129 fountains 141 gardens in the palm-grove 130 gymnasia and baths 130, 139, 141, 157, 227 harbours 139, 141, 299 n. 56 palm-grove 130 road to the Ephesian Gates 84, 219, 275 second temple of the imperial cult 129 stadia 141 streets 139, 141 sun-terrace (heliocaminus) 130–1 Temple of Tyche (Tycheion) 113, 130 Temple of Zeus 304 n. 144 temples 141

theatres 141 tomb at 195 views of 141 Sousse, Tunisia, war memorial 312 n. 137 South Shields, Britain, tombstone from 244 Sparta 112,167, 207, 267 Persica stoa 127 Temple of Lycurgus 297 n. 67 theatre 177 water supply 295 n. 139 Spello (Hispellum), Umbria, Italy: baths 153 city gate 110 Spring of Clitumnus 153 Split (Spalato), Diocletian’s Palace 64, ﬁg. 60 Spoleto (Spoletium), Umbria 298 n. 38 Stratonicea, Caria 38, 276 gymnasium 159 Sufetula, see Sbeitla Sulci, Sardinia 301 n. 179 Synnada/Synnas 265; see also Docimium Syracuse, Sicily 129 amphitheatre 161 ‘Gymnasium’ 161 Syria, Seleucid, ideas of sacrality in 18 Taenarum, Laconia 60, 210 Tagus, river 202 Taposiris, lighthouse 182–3 Tarquinii, Etruria, Italy 189 Baths of Antoninus Pius 35, 50, 272 Baths of Tullius Varro 76, 272 Tarragona (Tarraco), Spain 269 Temple of Augustus 130 Tarsus, Cilicia 140 colonnaded streets 127 Tartessus (Gibraltar), fame reaching to 141 Taygetos, Mt, as source of green porphyry 227 Tempe, Vale of 121, 142 Termessus, Pisidia 313 n. 162 cult of Artemis and Dii Augusti 159 tombs 186, 291 n. 113 Terracina, Italy 36, 50, 272 forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Tertullian 58 Thaenae, Numidia, baths (“Thermes de la Rotonde”) 78, ﬁg. 81, 226, 274 Thasos 299 n. 68 marble from 227 Thamugadi, see Timgad Thebes, Boeotia 214, 241 ‘House of Alexander’ 178 ‘House of Pindar’ 178 Neistan Gate 178 Sanctuary of Cybele 178 Thebes, Egypt 166, 167, 178, 179 Colossus of Memnon 179, 208 Thera, agora 135, 138 ‘Basilica Stoa’ 135–9, ﬁgs. 124a–f, 150, 151, 153, 154, 173, 218, 239–40, 259, 307 n. 62 Caesareum (Sebasteion) 137

index of pl ace names Ptolemaion 137 Temple of Eileithuia 137 Temple of Fortune 137, 138, 173 theatre 137 Thermopylae, battle of 168 Pylaea 232 Thessalonica, neighbourhoods 117 Thessalonica, Temple of Divus Iulius 296 n. 28 Theveste, Roman colony, Africa Proconsularis 197 Thrace, colonies 148–9 frontier fortiﬁcations 46 Thuburbo Maius, Africa Proconsularis (Tunisia), Capitolium 7, ﬁg. 3 Summer Baths 302 n. 250 tomb 312 n. 90 Thubursicu Numidarum (Khamissa), Africa Proconsularis 301 n. 179, 302 n. 250 Thugga, see Dougga Thyateira, Lydia 265 Temple of Hadrian (Hadrianeum) 159 Tiberias, city gate 299 n. 46 Tiberiopolis, Phrygia 265 Tibur, see Tivoli Tifernum Tiberinum, Italy, bath building 152 Timgad (Thamugadi, Numidia) 107, 306 n. 243 Capitolium temple 120, 273 Curia 154 library 273 Market of Cosinius 119 platea 118–19, ﬁg. 113, 273 streets 143 tombs 197, 312 n. 90 Temple of the Genius Coloniae 119, 274 west gate (“Arch of Trajan”) 50, 111, 119, 273 Tipasa, Mauretania Caesariensis, city wall 46, 78, 109, 270, 274 Tiryns, ‘Cyclopaean walls’ 166–7 Tivoli (Tibur), Hadrian’s Villa 26, 30, 56, 314 n. 222

Canopus 286 n. 38 Doric temple 37, ﬁgs. 23a–c Temple of Hercules Victor 29 tomb, fragment of pediment from 185, ﬁg. 150 Tomis, Lower Moesia 78, 278 Torre Annunziata, see Oplontis Trachonitis, Syria 212 Traianopolis (formerly Selinus), Cilicia 41 Tralles 131, 157 coins of 67, ﬁg. 68, 265 Trapezopolis, Phrygia 306 n. 35 Trier (Treviri, Belgica), ‘Barbara baths’ 122, 224, 277, 299 n. 62 forum 118, 277 Porta Nigra 111, ﬁgs. 103a–b, 277, 299 n. 62 streets 111, 115, 143 Trinitapoli, Italy 300 n. 148 Tripolitania, inscription from 227 Troesmis, Dacia 268 Tropic of Capricorn 228 Turin, Archivio di Stato 194 Turin (Taurini), Porta Palatina 110, 312 n. 112 Tusculum, Latium, Italy 60, 66, 187 Tyre, Phoenicia 266 Upper Germany, frontier fortiﬁcations 46, 278 Uranopolis, Chalcidice 300 n. 127 Urso, Spain, colonial charter 298 n. 145 Vaison-la-Romaine (Vasio), France, portico of baths 74 theatre 74, 270 “Thermes du Nord” 293 n. 44 Valence (Valentia), France 269 Vallis, Africa Proconsularis, Temple of Caelestis 7 Veii 189, 310 n. 149

351 Veleia, Italy, forum paving inscription 300 n. 165 Velletri (Velitrae), Italy, names of urban districts 117 sarcophagus 197, 297 n. 90 Venice, Doge’s Palace 237 Verdes, France, mosaic 298 n. 44 Verecunda, Numidia 306 n. 243 aqueduct 81, 274 triumphal arch 81 Verona, Italy 261 ‘Arco dei Borsari’ 285 n. 129 basilica 40 Verulamium (St. Alban’s), forum 118 Via Aemilia 35, 152 Via Aemilia Scauri 35 Via Clodia 51 Via Flaminia 286 n. 58 Via Postumia 35 Via Praenestina 173 Villar, Spain 269 Vipasca, Lusitania 210 Viroconium, see Wroxeter Volsinii, see Bolsena Volturnus, river, Campania, Italy 306 n. 239 Volubilis, Mauretania Tingitana 270 Weimar, house of Goethe 195 Wroxeter (Viroconium), Shropshire: baths basilica 78, ﬁgs. 80a–b, 122, 279 baths 103, 279 forum 118, 279 Würzburg, Episcopal Palace, ‘Kaisersaal’ 156 Xanten, Germany, baths 122 Zadar (Iader), Croatia, arch 201–2, ﬁg. 169 Zaghouan(e), Tunisia, nymphaeum 103, 294 n. 102 Zara, Mauretania 27 Zela, Pontus 61, 266 Zeugma, Commagene 266

INDEX OF ANCIENT PERSONAL NAMES Achilles Tatius, writer 116, 129, 131 Adrastus, procurator of Column of Marcus Aurelius 216 Aelian (Claudius Aelianus), writer 255 Aelia Materna, ‘mausoleum’ of, in North Africa 269 Aelii, of Cillium 198 Aelius Agathoclianus, P. 6 Aelius Aristides, P. 11, 37, 38, 46, 93, 98, 100, 108, 115, 121, 129, 131, 134, 139–42, 177, 208, 211, 213, 216, 217–18, 219, 224, 228, 240–1, 300 n. 126 Aelius Verus, L. 31 Aelius Funisulanus Tryphon, P., see Tryphon Aelius Gemellus, P. 294 n. 92 Aelius Hadrianus, P., see Hadrian Aelius Isidotus, geometer 96–8, 267 Aelius Martialis, T., architect in Rome 267 Aelius Nicon of Pergamon, architect 92–101, 200, 202, 208, 215, 220, 223, 224, 240–1, 242, 243, 244, 256–8, 267, 297 n. 94 Aelius Pius, P., doctor 294 n. 131 Aelius Saturninus, Q., ‘mausoleum’ of, in Africa 269 Aelius Theodorus, benefactor at Sardis 159 Aemilia Pacata, ﬁrst wife of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 197 Aemilius Lepidus, M. (cos. 187, 175 B.C.) 35, 301 n. 187 Aemilius Macer, jurist 149 Aemilius Paulus, L. 300 n. 120 Aemilius Scaurus, M. (aedile 58 B.C.) 68 Aeneas, arrival in Carthage 145–6 Aeneas, Phrygian origins of 284 n. 111 Aeschines, orator 214 Aeschylus, dramatist 214 Agnamptos, architect 296 n. 21 Agrippa, see Vipsanius Agrippa, M. Agrippa Menenius Lanatus (cos. 503 B.C.) 108 Agrippina, see Vipsania Agrippina (‘the elder Agrippina’) and Iulia Agrippina (‘the younger Agrippina’) Alexander the Great 18, 66, 108, 159, 179, 200, 209, 214, 223, 224, 229–30, 269, 296 n. 19, 296 n. 24, 298 n. 19 supposed houses of 177–8 Alexander Severus (emperor), see Aurelius Severus Alexander, M. Alexandrus, at Palmyra, architect 267 Alexarchus 300 n. 127 Alfenus Varus 108 Alvidia Magna, benefactress at Smyrna 130 Alyattes, tomb of 179 Ammius Gamburio, L. 293 n. 50 Amphion of Thespiae, writer 307 n. 65

Anacharsis, of Scythia 212, 231 Anaximander, philosopher 54 Ancus Martius, king of Rome 172, 298 n. 35 Annaeus Seneca, L. (Seneca the younger) 55, 70, 203, 215, 240, 243, 255 Annia Regilla, wife of Herodes Atticus 83, 140, 188–9, 195, 199, 310 n. 139 Antiochus I, king of Cappadocia 161 Antiochus I, king of Commagene 173 Antiochus I, king of Syria 108 Antiochus of Aegae, sophist 84 Antiochus of Athens, astrologist 209 Antius A. Iulius Quadratus, C., cos. 94 and 105, procos. Asiae 109/10 12 Antonia Magna, benefactress at Smyrna 130 Antonia Socratica, builder of a tomb at Athens 159 Antoninus Pius (T. Aurelius Fulvus Boionius Arrius Antoninus), emperor A.D. 138–161 6, 71, 127, 131–5, 137, 140, 148, 150, 151, 152, 153, 157, 161, 173, 182, 187,196, 204, 212, 217, 218, 223, 225, 239 accession of 30–1 adoption of 31 architectural interests of 29–30, 50, 175 assimilated to the Sun 67 buildings of 31–41, 43-50, 76, 78, 81, 115, 134–5, 142–6, 156, 158–9, 173, 175, 183, 187–8, 201, 203, 217, 237, 238, 294 n. 102 character of 29 coins and medals of 32, ﬁg. 18f, 35, ﬁgs. 20–1, 36, 66–7, ﬁg. 64, ﬁg. 67, 146, ﬁg. 130, 174, 175 comparison with Hadrian 29 governor of Asia (AD 132–5) 30–1, 43 restoration of Italy 35–6, 50, Map 4 signiﬁcance of name Pius 31–2 statues of 83, 118–19, 134, 139 vicennalia of 66 Antoninus, ‘the senator’, benefactor at Epidaurus see Iulius Maior Antoninus Pythodorus, Sext. Antonius Agathias, M., tomb of, at ‘Isola Sacra’ 191 Antonius Albus, L., proconsul of Asia 133 Antonius Polemo, M., sophist 71, 83–4, 115, 130, 216–17, 218, 222, 240 Apollodorus of Damascus, architect 5, 26, 92, 203, 208, 267, 296 n. 25 Apollonius of Alexandria, architect 259 Apronius Bracarus, C., ‘mausoleum’ of, at Volubilis 270 Apuleius of Madaura 28, 55, 58, 103, 143, 218–19, 224 Aratus, poet 53, 216

Archimedes 95, 223–4 Aristenetus, at Cyzicus 39, 267 Aristides, see Aelius Aristides, P. Aristides, Athenian statesman 120 Aristio, see Claudius Aristio, Ti. Aristotle 19, 20, 53, 54, 91, 93, 207–9, 210, 224, 242 Arnuphis, Egyptian magician 51 Arria Fadilla, mother of Antoninus Pius 196 Arrian (L. Flavius Arrianus), writer 229–30 Arrius Alﬁus, tomb built by 196, 269 Arrius Antoninus, C., of Cirta, curator in Italy 152 Artemidorus, writer on dreams 223 Aspasius, Peripatetic philosopher 93 Athanasius, theologian 243 Athenagoras of Athens, Christian apologist 213 Atilia Pomptilla, tomb of, Cagliari 186 Atilius Caiatinus, C. 169 Attalus II, king of Pergamon 137 Attidius Cornelianus, L., governor of Syria 87 Attius Nisus, L., soldier from Samestriaria 269 Aufustius Agreus, Sext., teacher in Ostia 103 Augustus (C. Octavianus Caesar Augustus) (emperor 27 BC-AD 14) 22, 23-4, 29, 39, 53-4, 67, 68, 76, 108, 114, 129, 146, 153, 161, 170, 172, 202, 269, 309 n. 61 Golden Shield of 296 n. 59 Aurelius, Marcus (born M. Annius Verus) (emperor AD 161-180) 6, 64, 66, 67, 73, 83, 87, 93, 137, 140-1, 142-3, 147, 152, 175, 209, 212, 213, 223, 241, 242, 255, 296 n. 36 adoption of 31 buildings of 50–1, 81, 175, 312 n. 98 marriage of 134 portraits and statues of 82, 83, 134, 140, 155, 175, 201, 202 views on Antoninus Pius 29 villa of 175 Aurelius Pericles, M., of Mylasa, architect 91, 241 Aurelius Sabinianus, M., signum Euhodus 175 Aurelius Severus Alexander, M. (emperor AD 222–35) 203 Baburiana, building patron in Italy 152 Balbus, architect 296 n. 26 Barates, Palmyrene in northern Britain 244 Bassaeus Rufus, M., praetorian prefect 192 Batrachus, architect 92 Battus, founder of Cyrene 124 Baucis and Philemon 284 n. 112 Bellator, builder of baths at Baiae 229 Bernicianus (?), architect 267 Biton 296 n. 24

index of ancient personal names Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus (cos. 510), philosopher 93 Caecilius, contemporary of ‘Longinus’ 219 Caecilius Epaphroditus, P., sevir augustalis 298 n. 145 Caecilius Victorinus, Q., ‘mausoleum’ of in Numidia 270 Caeionius Rufus Volusianus, C., signo Lampadius 229 Caelestia (?), builder of a ‘mausoleum’ at Simitthus 269 Caepio, builder of lighthouse in Spain 182 Caligula, see Gaius, emperor Calliope, young girl of Antioch 111 Callixinus, historian 225 Calpurnius Siculus, poet 121 Caninius Rufus, friend of Pliny the Younger 5 Caracalla (M. Aurelius Antoninus) (emperor AD 198–217) 74, 159, 292 n. 151 Carminius Claudianus, see Ulpius Carminius Claudianus, M. Carvilius Maximus, Sp. (cos. 293 BC) 208 Cassia Victoria, priestess of the Augustales at Misenum 202 Cassius Dio, senator and historian 153, 181, 212, 294 n. 134 Cassius Manilianus, C., c.v. 296 n. 34 Cassius Philippus, L. 186 Cato, see Porcius Cato, M. Catullus, poet 21 Caunius Priscus (cos. desig. 186) 81 Celer, architect 114 Celius Saturninus, C., builder at Vallis 7 Centannus, see Decimus Centannus Cephalion, rhetor 307 n. 65 Cestius, C. 180 Chabrias, Athenian general 167 Cheirisophus, architect 296 n. 19 Cheirocrates, see Deinocrates Cheops 165–6 Chephren, brother of Cheops 165 Chersiphron, asiarch at Smyrna 130 Choricius, poet 229 Chrysippus of Soli, Stoic philosopher 18, 210 Cicero (M. Tullius Cicero, cos. 63 BC) 20, 21, 22, 91, 95, 171, 180, 181, 208, 215, 218, 226, 237, 242, 292 n. 3; see also Tullia; Tullius Cicero, Q. Cimon, Athenian statesman 120 Claudia, daughter of Nicetus, of Smyrna 130 Claudia Artemilla, of Smyrna 130 Claudia Aulonia 197 Claudia Aurelia, benefactress at Smyrna 130 Claudia Charis, of Smyrna 130 Claudia Hedeia, of Smyrna 130 Claudia Polla, of Smyrna 130 Claudia Vilia Procula, benefactress at Patara 82 Claudianus, prytanis at Smyrna 130 Claudius (Ti. Claudius Nero Germanicus) (emperor AD 41–54) 175

buildings of 49, 210 Claudius Aristio, Ti., of Ephesus 8, 129, 158 Claudius Aristio, benefactor at Smyrna, possibly the same as Ti. Claudius Aristio (q.v.) 130 Claudius Atticus Herodes, Ti. 52, 83, 140, 188, 209, 297 n. 70, 310 n. 139 Claudius Balbillus, Ti., prefect of Egypt 166 Claudius Bassus, agonothete at Smyrna 130 Claudius Berenicianus, son of C. Claudius Verulanus Marcellus 131 Claudius Caecus, Ap. (cos. 312 BC) 169 Claudius Charax (cos. AD 147) 84, 148, 188, 208, 209 Claudius Cyrus 42 Claudius Etruscus, villa of 215, 227 Claudius Firmus, Ti., ‘mausoleum’ of, at Lambaesis 269 Claudius Iulianus, proconsul of Asia 133 Claudius Leontion, benefactor at Smyrna 130 Claudius Piso Diophantus, Ti., high-priest at Ephesus 131 Claudius Secundus, Ti., imperial official at Ephesus 159 Claudius Socrates, Ti. 285 n. 163 Claudius Verulanus Marcellus, C., asiarch at Ephesus 131 Claudius Zelus, Ti., high-priest at Aphrodisias 159 Cleitosthenes, see Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, T. (I), Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus, T., and Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, T. (II) Clement of Alexandria, Christian writer 53, 243 Cleon, ‘architect’, honoured at Sillyon 94, 267 Cleon of Sparta, son of Pericleidas, ‘architect’ 267, 297 n. 67 Clodius Pulcher, Ap. (cos. 54 BC) 180 Clodius Pulcher, P., tribune of the plebs 58 BC 87 Cocceius, L., architect at Antium 259 Columella, L. Iunius Moderatus, agricultural writer 21 Cominius Cassianus, M. Aurelius, governor of Numidia AD 211 81 Commodus (L. Aurelius Commodus) (emperor AD 180–192) 48, 55, 64, 66, 68, 141, 175, 213 buildings of 51 Commodus, and Rome 147 Confuleius Sabbio, P., of Capua 296 n. 28 Conon, Athenian general 167 Cornelia Flora, mausoleum of, at Tipasa 270 Cornelius Dolabella, P. (cos. AD 10) 298 n. 28 Cornelius Fronto, M. 51, 66, 67, 76, 146, 175, 223, 239, 241 Cornelius Laetus, benefactor at Mustis 201 Cornelius Lentulus Scipio, P. (suff. cos. AD 2) 298 n. 28 Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P. (cos. 205, 194 BC) 70, 215, 255 Cornelius Sulla Felix, L., ‘restoration’ of Rome by 305 n. 225

353 Corumbus, architect 296 n. 26 and n. 27 Cratinus, Athenian comic poet 21, 285 n. 153 Crispinus, see Curtius Crispinus, A. Croesus, king of Lydia 108, 127, 223–4 Ctesibius, of Alexandria, mathematician 228 Curiatius Cosanus, curator rei publicae at Caere 152 Curtius Crispinus, A., governor of Asia 83 Curtius Rufus, Q., historian 229 Cuspius Pactumeius Ruﬁnus, L. (cos. 142) 100, 203 Cyrus, architect 296 n. 27 Cyrus, king of Persia 179, 195 Darius, king of Persia 5, 68, 127 Dasumius Tullius Tuscus, L., at Tarquinii 76 Decimus Centannus, consul 179-80 Decrianus, architect at Rome 200, 267 Deinarchus, benefactor at Kios 300 n. 149 Deinochares, see Deinocrates Deinocrates (a.k.a. Cheirocrates, Deinochares, Diocles, Hermocrates, Stasicrates, and Timochares), architect 108, 296 n. 19, 296 n. 24, 298 n. 19 Demetrius, writer on literary style 219 Democritus, philosopher 55 Demosthenes, Athenian orator 19, 120, 214, 237 Demosthenes, of Oenoanda, see Iulius Demosthenes, C. Dexippus, see Herennius Dexippus, P. Diades, me-chanikos 296 n. 19 Didia Cornelia, daughter of C. Iulius Crescens Didius Crescentianus, of Cuicul 201 Didius Iulianus, M., legate of Africa and emperor 7, 175 Dio Cassius, see Cassius Dio Dio Cocceianus (‘Chrysostom’) of Prusa 84, 121, 127, 129–30, 133, 171, 212, 239 Diocles, see Deinocrates Diodorus, son of Zebedas, architect 58, 59 ﬁg. 50 Diodorus Siculus, historian 165, 214, 225 Diogenes Laertius 55, 96 Diogenes the Cynic 71, 181, 304 n. 122 Dionysius of Miletus, astrologer 68, 295 n. 150 Dionysius, son of Nicephorus, of Ephesus 81 Dionysius, sophist 300 n. 143 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writer 170, 218 Dionysius of Sardis, architect 91, 202 Dolabella, see Cornelius Dolabella, P. Domitia Augusta, wife of Domitian 187 Domitia Faustina, daughter of Marcus Aurelius 134 Domitian (T. Flavius Domitianus) (emperor AD 81–96) 24, 29, 35, 62, 67, 68, 129, 133, 153, 172-3, 175, 177, 255 Domitius Corbulo, Cn. (cos. AD 40) 187 Duillius, C. (cos. 260 BC) 169 Eiuleius Phurmus, C. (Firmus?), architect in Macedonia 267 Empedocles, philosopher 53

354 Ennius Proculus, proconsul of Africa 152 Epagathus, architect, see Iulius Epagathus, C. Epeius, legendary designer of the Trojan Horse 224 Epicrates, me-chanikos 296 n. 19 Epictetus, honorand at Athens 242 Epictetus, philosopher 83, 222-3, 242 Epicurus, philosopher 96 Euclid, mathematician 255 Eudocia, empress 229 Euhodus, see Aurelius Sabinianus, M. Eupaideutus, see Heius Eupaideutus, C. Eupalinus, architect at Samos 92 Euripides, dramatist 19, 94, 214 Euripides, supposed cave of 178 Europe, freedwoman of Domitia Augusta 187 Eurycles, see Ulpius Eurycles, M. Eusebius, church historian 243 Eustathius, Homeric scholiast 60 Eutychides, sculptor 111 Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, Q., ‘Cunctator’ (cos. 233, 228, dictator 221, 217 BC) 203 Fabius Rufus of Clunia, ‘mausoleum’ of, at Olisipo 269 Fadius Secundus Musa, Sext. 293 n. 51 Faustina Maior (the elder), wife of Antoninus Pius 32, 38, 46, 67, 137, 140, 182, 187–8, 212 as ‘new Demeter’ 188 Faustina Minor (the younger), wife of Marcus Aurelius 51, 182 buildings of 51, 154–6 marriage of 134 statues of 82, 134, 142, 155, 303 n. 87 Faventinus, M. Cetius, writer 229 Favorinus of Arles, sophist 222 Firmus; see Claudius Firmus, Ti., or Eiuleius Phurmus, C., architect Flavia Asclepiake, at Smyrna 130 Flavia Libera, second wife of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 198 Flavia Pacata, daughter of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 198 Flavia Papiana, wife of M. Claudius P. Vedius Antoninus Phaedrus Sabinianus (III) 133, 134, 140 Flavia Secunda, sister of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 197 Flavia Sperata, sister of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 197 Flavia Tertulla, wife of M. Flavius Fronto 201 Flavia Thymele, tomb of, at Rome 196 Flavia Urbana, wife of T. Flavius Secundus the elder 197 Flavius Balbinus, M., son of M. Flavius Fronto 201 Flavius Catullus, benefactor in Upper Germany 293 n. 72 Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, T. (I), benefactor at Thera 135–8, 173, 258

index of ancient personal names Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus, T., son of T. Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus (I) 136, 138, 258 Flavius Cleitosthenes Claudianus, T. (II), son of T. Flavius Cleitosthenes Julianus 136, 258 Flavius Damianus, sophist 84, 115, 156 Flavius Domitianus, T. , see Domitian Flavius Fronto, M., benefactor at Doclea 201 Flavius Iosephus, see Josephus Flavius Martialis, T., brother of T. Flavius Secundus the younger 197 Flavius Secundus, T., the elder 197–9 Flavius Secundus, T., the younger 197–200, 202 Flavius Sulpicianus Dorion, L., benefactor at Hierapytna, Crete 154 Flavius Tertullus, Q. (cos. AD 133), jurist 133 Flavius Vespasianus, T. , see Vespasian Fonteius Frontinianus L. Stertinius Rufus, D., military governor of Numidia A.D. 159–60 81 Frontinianus, see Fonteius Frontinianus L. Stertinius Rufus, D. Fronto, see Cornelius Fronto, M. Fuﬁcius Cornutus, Q. governor of Moesia 78 Fulvius Plautianus, praetorian prefect 149 Fuscus, benefactor at Smyrna 130 Gabinia Processa, daughter of Gabinius Felix 73 Gabinius Felix Faustinianus, Q., of Thugga 7, 71, 73 Gabinius Datus, Q., son of Gabinius Felix 73 Gaius (C. Iulius Caesar Germanicus) (‘Caligula’) (emperor AD 37–41) 29, 35, 67, 180, 210, 239 Galen, medical writer and son of Nicon 93, 98, 100–1, 297 n. 88 Galen, Nicon’s views on 93 Gallienus (P. Licinius Egnatius Gallienus, emperor AD 253–68) 242 Gallus Lingo, tomb of 184 Gargilius Campanus, Q., ‘mausoleum’ of, at Auzia 270 Gavius Appalius Maximus, M. 78 Gavius Maximus, M. (praef. praet. AD c.138–158) 76-8, 82 Gellius, A., writer 147, 178, 188 Geminius Marcianus, governor of Syria 87 Germanicus, see Iulius Caesar, Germanicus Geta (P. Septimius Geta, emperor AD 211) 292 n. 151 Gorgosthenes, son of Gorgosthenes, strategos at Thera 139 Granius Asiaticus, P., architect at Miletus 267 Gregory of Nazianzus, Christian writer and bishop of Constantinople 255 Gresius Facundus, soldier at Rome 191 Hadrian (P. Aelius Hadrianus) (emperor AD 117–138) 5, 6, 7, 26–8, 29–37, 39–43, 66, 76, 81, 84, 90, 92, 98, 100, 112, 113, 121-2, 130, 138, 140, 146, 150, 153, 158,

174, 180, 200, 208, 214, 219, 222, 255, 295 n. 150 accession of 41-3 buildings of 26–8, 29, 32, 34, 35, 40, 43, 44, 48, 68–9, 98, 130–1, 152, 157, 161, 173, 177, 203, 214, 216–17, 227, 238, 294 n. 102, 295 n. 154 death of 30 portraits or statues of 39, 82, 138, 153, 218, 237 Harpalus, architect in Roman Egypt 241, Harpalus, mechanikos, working for Xerxes 296 n. 19 Haterii, tomb of 298 n. 3 Hecaton of Rhodes, Stoic philosopher 18, 55 Heius Eupaideutus, C., of Corinth, architect at Delphi 94, 267 He[ius Ma]nsu[etus], C., architect 297 n. 68 Heracleides, architect at Mons Claudianus, Egypt 267 Heraclius, Byzantine emperor (610–641) 64 Herennius Dexippus, P. 242 Hermocrates, see Deinocrates Hermodorus of Salamis, architect 209 Hermogenes, architect 209 Hermogenes, rhetor 220 Herod the Great, King of Judaea (c. 40–4 BC) 21, 110, 115, 200, 214 Herod Antipas 110 Herodes Atticus, see Claudius Atticus Herodes, Ti. Herodotus, historian 92, 150, 165, 167, 214, 217, 233, 306 n. 2, 307 n. 65 Hieron II, tyrant and king of Syracuse 224 Hieron Aristogeiton, prytanis at Ephesus 294 n. 120 Hippias, architect 221–9, 241, 267 Hippias of Elis, sophist 222, 224 Hippolytus, bishop of Portus and Christian writer 256 Homer 207, 211–12, 213, 214, 216, 217, 219, 226–7, 230–1, 232, 235, 237, 241, 256 Homullus, see Valerius Homullus, M. Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), poet 170, 200, 214, 220 Hostilia, builder of a ‘mausoleum’ at Nemausus 269 Irenaeus, St, bishop of Lyon 194, 320, Appendix 2 n. 14 Isidorus, sophist at Smyrna 130 Isidotus, see Aelius Isidotus Iulia, see Julia Iulius Africanus, Sext., of Aelia Capitolina, Christian philosopher 296 n. 16 Iulius Aper, Q., sevir augustalis at Valentia 269 Iulius Aquila Polemaeanus, Ti. 8 Iulius Caesar, C., dictator, see Julius Caesar Iulius Caesar, Germanicus (formerly Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus) 24, 137, 170, 179

index of ancient personal names Iulius Celsus Polemaeanus, Ti. 8–10, 81, 89 Iulius Claudius Nicodemus, see Iulius Nicodemus Iulius Commodus Orﬁtianus, C., governor of Thrace 46, 111 Iulius Crescens Didus Crescentianus, C., benefactor at Cuicul 201 Iulius Demosthenes, C., prytanis at Oenoanda 138 Iulius Epagathus, C., architect at Ephesus 267, 295 n. 8 Iulius Felix Cupitianus, L., ‘mausoleum’ of, at Thugga 269 Iulius Helius, C., epitaph of 185–6, ﬁg. 151 Iulius Lacer, C., architect at Alcantara, Spain 202–3, 267 Iulius Maior Antoninus Pythodorus, Sext. (‘the senator Antoninus’) 82, 84, 134, 177, 203, 238 Iulius Nicodemus, architect 96–8 Iulius Philippus, M. (‘Philip the Arab’, emperor AD 244–9) 200 Iulius Pompilius Piso T. Vib[ius ... Laevillus] Berenicianus, [A.], military governor of Numidia 294 n. 112 Iulius Sanctus, benefactor at Attaleia 294 n. 120 Iunius Silanus, C. (cos. AD 10) 298 n. 28 Jason of Pherae 84 Jerome 243 Joseph, ‘store-houses of ’ 166 Josephus (Flavius Iosephus) 214, 239 Julia Agrippina (‘the younger Agrippina’), mother and virtual co-regent of Nero 256 Julia Apollonia, tomb of, at ‘Isola Sacra’ 191, ﬁgs. 158a–b Julia Heliadis, at Lyon 269 Julia Memmia, at Bulla Regia 124 Julia Potentilla, at Ephesus 117 Julia Ruﬁna, at Buthrotum 242 Julia Sancta, at Attaleia 110 Julian the Chaldaean, philosopher 210 Julian the Theurgist, philosopher 210 Julianus, jurist, see Octavius Cornelius P. Salvius Iulianus, L. Julius Caesar, C., dictator 5, 21, 23, 53, 68, 171, 298 n. 38 Junior, epigrammatist at Sinuessa 227-8 Justinian, Byzantine emperor 173 Juvenal, satirist 229 Lacer, see Iulius Lacer, C. Laecanius Primitivus, L., benefactor at Misenum 202 Laepicus Bassus, Q., of Iader 202 Lampadius, see Caeionius Rufus Volusianus, C. Lars Porsenna, tomb of 208 Leonidas, king of Sparta 168 Leonidas of Alexandria, astronomer and poet 256 Licinius Pompenna Potitus Urbanus, M., priest of Jupiter Heliopolitanus at Baalbek 48

Livia Drusilla, wife of Augustus 129 Livy (T. Livius), historian 20, 170 Lollius Urbicus, Q., governor of Britain 139–42 44 ‘Longinus’ 219, 238–40 Lucan, poet 215 Lucilius Gamala, P., at Ostia 78 Lucian of Samosata, writer 92, 96, 181, 210, 212, 221–35, 237, 238, 239 Lucius Verus, see Verus, Lucius Lucretius, poet 210 Lutatius Catulus, Q. (cos. 78 BC) 54, 170 Lydia Laterana, wife of Ti. Claudius Aristio 129 Macrinius Vindex, M., praetorian prefect 192 Maecenas, ‘speech to Augustus’ of 153, 212 Malalas, John, Byzantine historian 46, 48, 134, 149, 201 Marcellus of Side, poet 188, 229, 297 n. 70 Marcia Aurelia Ceionia Demetrias, benefactress at Anagnia 175 Marciana (Ulpia Marciana Augusta), sister of Trajan and mother of Matidia 32 Marcius Censorinus, L., moneyer 82 B.C. 305 n. 225 Marcius Quadratus, P., ﬂamen, from Thugga 7, 73 Marcus Aurelius, see Aurelius, Marcus Mariamme I, wife of Herod the Great and queen of Judaea 21 Marinus of Neapolis, philosopher 94 Marius, C., consul 107, 104-100 BC 171 Martial, epigrammatist 26, 36, 227 Martialis, architect, see Aelius Martialis, T. Matidia (Salonia Matidia Augusta), mother of Sabina 32, 230 Mausolus, ruler of Caria 180–1, 237, 269 Maxentius (emperor 306–312) 55–6 Maximus of Tyre 108 Melia Anniana, benefactor at Iader 202 Memmius Iulius Albus, C. 124 Menander Rhetor 216, 217 Menophilus, architect 90 Messius Quintus Decius Traianus, C. (‘Trajan Decius’) (emperor AD 249–251) 62, 290 n. 50 Metrodorus of Scepsis, rhetor 26 Metrodorus, son of Nicanor, benefactor at Smyrna 26 Mnesicles, architect 175 Mummius Sisenna, P. (cos. AD 133) 138 Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus, P., proconsul of Asia 135, 138 Murdius Caecilianus, benefactor at Smyrna 26 Mustius, architect at Comum 267, 296 n. 27 Mycerinus, son of Cheops 165 Myron, sculptor 305 n. 226 Nabupolassar, king of Babylon 173 Naevius Surdinus, L., praetor peregrinus 11/10 BC 147–8, 300 n. 164

355 Namphamus, ‘mausoleum’ of, near Mactar 269 Narcissus, architect at Lepcis Magna 267 Nasonia Urbica, tomb of, at Rome 188 Nasonius Ambrosius, Q., tomb of, at Rome 188 Nero (Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, emperor AD 54–68) (formerly L. Domitius Ahenobarbus) 25, 29, 67–8, 92, 94, 108, 114–15, 127, 147, 165–6, 210, 229–30, 256 Nerva, M. Cocceius (emperor AD 96–98) 182 Nicetes, sophist 83–4, 115, 219, 220 Nicias, Athenian general 113 Nicodemus, see Iulius Nicodemus Nicomachus of Jerash, mathematician 101–3 Nicomachus Flavianus, Virius, Roman senator 296 n. 33 Nicon, see Aelius Nicon Nonius Balbus, M. (procos. Cret. et Cyren. ) 71, 300 n. 148 Nonius Datus, librator at Saldae 92, 268 Numa, Pompilius, legendary second king of Rome 54, 174–5 Nymphidia, high-priestess at Smyrna 130 Octavius Cornelius P. Salvius Iulianus, L., proconsul of Africa and jurist 7 Opponius Iustus, architect in Germany 268 Opramoas of Rhodiapolis 84, 96, 131, 151, 159 Orﬁtianus, see Iulius Commodus Orﬁtianus, C. Orestes, son of Agamemnon (myth.) 19 Origen, Christian writer 243 Otho (M. Salvius Otho) (emperor AD 69) 113–14, 183 Ovid (P. Ovidius Naso), poet 203 Pacuvius Felix Victorianus, Q., of Thugga 73 Pacuvius Saturus, Q., father of the above 73 Palladius, Rutilius Taurus Aemilianus, writer 229 Paul, St 96, 243 Pausanias ‘the Periegete’, writer 115, 121, 166–7, 177–8, 181, 203, 208, 213, 238 Peregrinus, of Parium, Cynic philosopher 213, 218, 240 Pericles, Athenian general 21, 167, 292 n. 125 Pericles, ‘buildings of ’ 150, 171, 199, 200, 203, 238 Pericles of Mylasa, architect, see Aurelius Pericles, M. Petronius, writer 115 Phidias, Athenian artist 26, 55, 113, 208, 255 Philip II, king of Macedon 200 Philip the Arab (emperor), see Iulius Philippus, M. Philo of Alexandria, philosopher 20–1, 215, 242, 296 n. 24 Philostratus, the younger, writer 208, 216, 219, 319 n. 171 Photius 243 Pinarius Processianus, ‘mausoleum’ of, in Numidia 269

356 Pindar, Greek poet 18, 22, 178, 214, 217, 218, 225, 226, 228, 300 n. 121 Pisistratus, tyrant of Athens 296 n. 24 Piso, M. Calpurnius (cos. 58 BC) 237 Plancia Magna, benefactress at Perge 110 Plancius Varus, C., governor of Bithynia 110 Plato, Athenian philosopher 18, 20–1, 53, 93, 94, 101, 166, 210, 214, 220, 222, 226, 228, 229, 231, 232, 241–2 Plautus, comic dramatist 21, 169, 218 Pliny the Elder (C. Plinius Caecilius) 165, 208, 215 Pliny the Younger (C. Plinius Caecilius Secundus) 5, 8, 20, 29, 150–1, 153, 157, 173, 215–16, 219, 239, 296 n. 27 Plotina, wife of Trajan 35, 50, 113 Plotinus, philosopher 242 Plutarch of Chaeronea, writer 54, 84, 171–2, 178, 199, 200, 203, 225, 232, 238 Plutia Vera, daughter of Plutus Epaphroditus, A. 187 Plutus Epaphroditus, A., at Gabii 187 Polemaeanus, see Iulius Celsus Polemaeanus, Ti. Polemo, sophist, see Antonius Polemo, M. Polybius, historian 172 Polycarpus, Cn. Domitius, freedman of Domitia Augusta 187, 195 Polyclitus, architect at Epidaurus 177, 296 n. 22 Polyclitus, of Argos, sculptor 177, 208 Polycrates, tyrant of Samos 92, 306 n. 2 Polyidus, me-chanikos 296 n. 19 Pompeius, L., benefactor at Smyrna 130 Pompey the Great (Cn. Pompeius Magnus, 106–48 BC) 21, 53–4, 113, 298 n. 38 Pompilius Numa, see Numa Pontius, architect 296 n. 28 Popillius Carus Pedo, C., military governor of Upper Germany 46 Popillius Priscus, proconsul of Asia 138 Porcius Cato, M., ‘the Censor’ (cos. 195 BC, aed. 184 BC) (‘the Elder’) 22, 168–9, 239 Porcius Cato, M., of Utica, praetor 54 BC 22 Porcius Vetustinus, governor of Mauretania 92 Porphyry, philosopher 241–2 Posidonius of Apamea, Stoic philosopher 18, 55 Postumius Terentianus, addressee of ‘Longinus’ 219 Praxiteles, architect at Dorylaeum 268 Praxiteles, fourth-century BC sculptor 287 n. 82 Proclus, philosopher 241–2 Procopius of Caesarea (Palestine), late Roman historian 181, 229 Ptolemy II Philadelphus, King of Egypt 92, 182, 296 n. 24 Pyrrhus of Epirus 223 Pythagoras, philosopher 208 Pythius, architect, of Priene 19, 296 n. 19, 296 n. 24 Pythodorus, see Iulius Maior Antoninus Pythodorus, Sext.

index of ancient personal names Quadratilla, tomb at Tivoli built by 185 Quinctius Crispinus Valerianus, T. (suff. cos. AD 2) 298 n. 28 Quintilian, writer 169, 216, 218 Quintilii, family, rivals of Herodes Atticus 295 Quintillius Valens Varius, P., of Ephesus 41–2, 117, 130, 156 Rabirius, architect 296 n. 31 Regina, wife of the Palmyrene Barates 244 Romulus, founder of Rome 309 n. 61 Rufellius Severus, L., benefactor at Fanum 201 Ruﬁnus, see Cuspius Pactumeius Ruﬁnus, L., or Varius Ruﬁnus Geganius Facundus Vibius Marcellinus,T. Rutilius Lupus, M., praef. annon. under Trajan 36 Rutilius Rufus, P. 241 Sabina, wife of Hadrian 32, 35 Sabina, statues of 82 Sabinianus, benefactor at Anagnia, see Aurelius Sabinianus, M. Sabinianus, benefactor at Ephesus, see Vedius Antoninus Phaedrus Sabinianus, M. Claudius P. (III) Sabinus, M. Claudius, see Vedius Antoninus, M. Claudius Sabinus P. (II) Sallust (C. Sallustius Crispus), praetor 46 BC, historian 20 Salutaris, see Vibius Salutaris, C. Salvius Iulianus, see Octavius Cornelius P. Salvius Iulianus, L. Sappius Flavus, C., at Vasio 74 Satellia Anus, at Capua 76 Saurus, architect 92 Scaptia Firmilla, wife of C. Claudius Verulanus Marcellus 131 Scipio Africanus, see Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P. Scribonius Libo, L. (aed. 63 BC) 295 n. 4 Semiramis, queen of Babylon 214 Sempronius Valens, architect at Troesmis 268 Seneca the younger, see Annaeus Seneca, L. Septimius Demetrius, P., tomb of 184 Septimius Severus, L. (emperor AD 193–211) 74, 159, 299 n. 54 Sergius Respectus, C., ﬂamen at Nemausus 181, 269 Sertoria Festa, epitaph of, at Lyon 193, ﬁg. 163 Servaeus Macer, Q., of Gigthis 74, 149 Servilius Fabianus, M. 78 Servius, grammarian and commentator 146 Servius Tullius, king of Rome 286 n. 18 Severus, architect 114 Sevius Lupus, C., of Aeminium (Coimbra), architect 183, 268, 296 n. 17 Sextus (unknown nomen and cognomen), high-priest at Smyrna 130–1 Sextus Empiricus, Sceptic philosopher 208, 210, 242

Silanus, see Iunius Silanus, C. Silius Orcilius, M. 196 Simonides, Greek poet 178 Smaragdus, prytanis at Smyrna 130 Socrates, philosopher 231, 232, 296 n. 50 representation of individuals as 93 Sostratus of Cnidus, architect 92, 96, 183, 223–4, 296 n. 22, 296 n. 24, 296 n. 30 Stasicrates, see Deinocrates Statius (P. Papinius Statius), poet 20, 215, 227, 229 Strabo, geographer 181, 208, 209, 214, 219 Sulpicius Felix, M. 78 Syrianus, philosopher 241–2 Tacitus (P. Cornelius Tacitus), historian 21, 24, 61, 109–10, 113–14, 151, 169, 215–16, 219, 229, 239 Terentius Clemens, jurist 108 Terentius Varro, M. 22, 54, 168, 226, 296 n. 20 Thales of Miletus 223–4 Themistocles, Athenian general 113, 120 Theodorus, philosopher 241 Theodosius 64, 296 n. 33 Theon of Smyrna, Platonist philosopher 209 Theudianus, stephane-phoros at Smyrna 130 Thucydides, historian 167, 200, 217 Tiberius (Ti. Iulius Caesar Augustus), emperor 14–37 29, 129, 130 Timochares, see Deinocrates Tiridates, king of Armenia 248 Toves, of Laertes, Rough Cilicia 224 Trajan (M. Ulpius Traianus), emperor AD 98–117 4-5, 12, 26, 29, 32, 41–2, 110, 135, 149, 150, 152, 158, 172, 173, 201, 202–3, 216, 238, 296 n. 25 Trajan Decius, see Messius Quintus Decius Traianus, C. Triephon, a Christian 298 n. 143 Tryphon (P. Aelius Funisulanus Tryphon), architect 6, 268, 296 n. 14 Tucca, baths of 227 Tullia, daughter of Cicero 171 Tullius Cicero, M., see Cicero Tullius Cicero, Q., brother of Cicero 255 Tullius Varro, P. (cos. 127) 76 Ulpianus Heros, priest of Apollo 90 Ulpius Carminius Claudianus, M., of Attouda 88, 115, 173 Ulpius Carminius Claudianus neo-teros, M. 295 n. 171 Ulpius Eurycles, M., of Sparta 6 Ulpius Marcellus, jurist 118 Ulpius Vesbinus, M., imperial freedman 152 Ummidius Annianus Quadratus, M. 74, 293 n. 43 Ummidius Sedatus, M. 74, 293 n. 43 Valerius Etruscus, M., governor of Numidia 92, 119 Valerius Homullus, M. (cos. 152) 212

index of ancient personal names Valerius Ianuarius, estate of, at Verona 269 Valerius Maximianus, M., military governor of Numidia 294 n. 116 Valerius Maximus, writer 22 Valerius of Ostia, architect 295 n. 4, 296 n. 22 Valerius Pansa, C., governor of Britain 76 Varilla, daughter of P. Quintillius Valens Varius 302 n. 244 Varius Clemens, T., governor of Mauretania Caesariensis 92 Varius (in Ephesus), see Quintillius Valens Varius, P. Varius Ruﬁnus Geganius Facundus Vibius Marcellinus,T., equus publicus 201 Varro, writer, see Terentius Varro, M. Vedius Antoninus, P., elder (I) 41, 43, 131 Vedius Antoninus, P., younger (II), formerly M. Claudius Sabinus, 37, 43, 131, 133, 140 Vedius Antoninus Phaedrus Sabinianus, M. Claudius P. (III), the ‘euergete’ 133–5, 140, 151, 156–7, 173 Velius Fidus, legate of Syria Palaestina 196 Velleius, companion of Cicero 20 Velleius Paterculus, historian 22–3 Venuleius Saturninus, jurist 230

Verulanus, at Ephesus, see Claudius Verulanus Marcellus, C. Verus, Lucius (formerly L. Ceionius Commodus) (emperor AD 161–169) 6, 31, 51, 87, 137, 140, 143, 175, 182, 241, 296 n. 36 buildings of 51, 81 consecration of 182 statues of 82, 134, 140, 201, 303 n. 87 Vesbinus, see Ulpius Vesbinus, M. Vespasian (T. Flavius Vespasianus), emperor 69–79 12, 29, 71, 203, 223, 256 Vestinus, restorer of the Capitoline Temple under Vespasian 170 Vestinus, L., benefactor at Smyrna 130 Vibius Marianus, tomb of, at Rome 192–3, ﬁgs. 162a–b Vibius Salutaris, C. of Ephesus 129, 138 Vilius Proculus, Q. (T. Flavianus Titianus Q. Vilius Proculus L. Marcius Celer M. Calpurnius Longus), governor of Cyprus 82 Vilius Titianus Quadratus, Q., governor of Achaea 82 Villius Crispinus Furius Proculus, Q., prytanis at Apollonia in Illyria 154, 201

357 Villius Valentinus Furius Proculus, brother of the above 154 Vipsania Agrippina (‘the elder Agrippina’), daughter of Agrippa and wife of Germanicus 137 Vipsanius Agrippa, M. 180, 201 buildings of 68, 118, 153, 215, 217, 293 n. 61 Virgil (P. Vergilius Maro), poet 22, 125, 145–6, 170, 255 Vitruvius, architect and writer 5, 11, 19–21, 22, 91, 157, 170, 178, 181, 182, 189, 190, 208, 209, 215, 219, 220, 224, 227, 228–9, 239, 240, 298 n. 145 Vitruvius [—]io, architect at Baiae 268 Voconius Saxa Fidus, Q., governor of Lycia, proconsul of Africa 74, 84, 131, 146 Volusia Cornelia 74 Xenophanes 53 Xerxes, king of Persia 5, 68, 296 n. 19 Zeno, architect at Aspendus 268, 296 n. 23 Zoroaster 242

INDEX OF MODERN PERSONAL NAMES Abel, John, architect 11 Ackerman, James 3 Alberti, Leon Battista 2, 3, 108, 120 Anslo, Reiner 316 n. 130 Balty, Jean-Charles 2 Barrantes Maldonado, Pedro 314 n. 230 Baxandall, Michael 219 Beaujeu, Jean 55 Bek, Lise 215 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo 184 Bodel, John 2 Boeckh, August 95, 96 Borromeo, S. Carlo, statue of 237 Bourdieu, Pierre 13 Bradley, Richard 5 Bruston, Charles 285 n. 145 Butler, Howard Crosby 66 Cameron, Charles 221 Carcopino, Jérôme 194 Certeau, Michel de 115 Coke, Sir Edward 320, Appendix 1 n. 13 Cyriac of Ancona 39 Dryden, John 221 Geertz, Clifford 150 Gibbon, Edward 1, 6, 13–14 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 195, 219 Giedion, Siegfried 3 Gombrich, Ernst 12, 21–2 Goodman, Nelson 19 Gros, Pierre 2, 5, 284 n. 123 Guérin, Victor-Hugo 198 Harbison , Robert 1

Hersey, George 2 Hesberg, Henner von 5 Hölscher, Tonio 212 Jackson, John 243 Jeanneret, Charles Éduard (‘Corbusier, Le’) 3, 320 n. 96 Johnson, Samuel 6 Jones, Inigo 317 n. 30 Keil, Josef 134, 156 Krautheimer, Richard 53 ‘Le Corbusier’, see Jeanneret, Charles Éduard Libeskind, Daniel 244 Ligorio, Pirro 188, 313 n. 159 Löschke, Georg 321, Appendix 2 n. 19 Loos, Adolf 179, 239 Lynch, Kevin 107 Lyttelton, Margaret 1, 2, 107 MacDonald, William 1, 2, 107 MacMullen, Ramsay 153 Mansuelli, Guido 125 Meadows, Andrew 5–6 Michelet, Jules 2 Millar, Fergus 151–2 Milton, John, poet 2 Mitchell, Stephen 37 Mumford, Lewis 107 Palladio, Andrea 4, 117 Pevsner, Nikolaus 12, 301 n. 224 Pingon, Philibert, Baron du Cusy 194 Reed, Henry Hope 3 Reilly, C. H. 3

Rhodes, Robin Francis 2, 11 Riegl, Alois 3, 165 Rodenwaldt, Gerhalt 55 Ruskin, John 2, 3, 199, 237, 240, 241 Scott, Walter, memorial to 2 Shaw, Thomas 198 Smith, Earl Baldwin 66 Smollett, Tobias 212 Sonne, Wolfgang 107 Speer, Albert 3 Thompson, J. B. 150 Toynbee, Jocelyn 291 n. 131 van Pelt, R. J. 107 Veblen, Thorstein 6, 13 Venturi, Robert 3, 4, ﬁg. 1, 172, ﬁg. 140 Veyne, Paul 21, 212 Ward-Perkins, John 1–2, 159 Weigand, Edmund 56 Weinbrenner, Friedrich 221, 229 Weinstock, Stefan 4 Westfall, C. W. 107 White, Gilbert 255 White, John 300 n. 151 Wilberg, Wilhelm 10 Williams, Jonathan 5–6 Winter, Engelbert 2 Wolf, Eric 150–1, 153 Yegül, Fikret 221, 226 Zanker, Paul 2, 298 n. 5 Zweig, Stefan 195

INDEX LOCORUM

A. GREEK AND L ATIN LITERARY TEXTS ACHILLES TATIUS 5.1: 116, 129 5.6: 182 AELIAN NA 6.43: 255 ANAXIMANDER B 5 (DK i, 90):18 Anth. Lat. i, 99 S-B: 229 Anth. Pal. 9.656.13–14: 100, 203

26.6–9: 131 26.79–83: 131 26.83–4: 46 26.94: 131 26.97: 121 26.99: 131 26.107: 37 27: 217–18 27.8: 219 27.21: 224, 239 27.28: 241 27.30–1: 241 27.41: 140, 199 27.139: 129 34.30: 218 45.96: 93 46.20: 216 47.13: 98 50.28: 100 50.43: 100 50.56: 100

APULEIUS Apol. 53.2: 142 De dog. Plat. 1.12: 55 Flor. 9: 224 18: 143, 218 Mund. 24: 55 Mund. 27: 55

[ARISTIDES] Rhet. 1.1: 219

ARISTOPHANES Ran. 956: 214 1004: 214

ARRIAN Anab. 2.4.7: 229 6.29–45: 179

ARISTOTLE Cael. 3.5, 304a14–15: 54 De Philosophia fr. 13Ross: 20 De Sensu 437a9: 207–9 Metaph. 7.8.6: 242 Poet. 22: 219 Pol. 7.12, 1331a10–25: 108, 224

ARTEMIDORUS 57–8: 223

[ARISTOTLE] Mund. 398b2: 55 399a–b: 55 ARISTIDES Or. 17: 139–40 18: 141 19: 141 20: 141 21: 141–2 23: 140–1 23.73: 131 24.3: 38 24.52–6: 38 25: 131

ATHENAEUS 1.20b–c: 147 1.21d: 115

[KM1]

349 von A: 18 430 von A : 210 CICERO Att. 7.11.3: 113 Brut. 54: 108 De or. 3.40–1: 54 3.180: 22, 53 Fam. 9.2.5: 22 Fin. 5.1.2: 237 Inv. Rhet. 2.23.69–70: 171 Mil. 74: 87 Nat. D. 1.19: 20 2.47: 21 2.47-8: 53 2.95–6: 20 Off. 1.151: 91 Orat. 24: 54 Q. fr. 3.1.2: 21 3.1.5: 247 Rep. 2.58–9: 108 5.2: 20 Scaur. 45: 21 Timaeus 7: 20 Verr. 2.2.87: 21 CLAUDIUS CHARAX (FGrH 103) fr. 31: 148 fr. 34: 208 fr. 54: 209

CALLIXINUS fr. 1: 225

CLEMENS ALEXANDRINUS Strom. 5.8.46: 53 5.1.13: 213 6.15: 224

CALPURNIUS Ecl. 7.30–4: 121

COLUMELLA Rust. 1.4.8: 21

CATULLUS 37.10: 21

CRATINUS fr. 74 (PCG iv, 159–60): 21

ATHENAGORAS Leg. 16.2: 213

CATO fr. 83P: 168 CELSUS Med. 1.1: 225 CHORICIUS Laudatio Marciani 28–54: 229 CHRYSIPPUS Frag. Log. Et Phys.

CURTIUS 3.4.8–10: 229 DEMOSTHENES Olynthiac 2: 19 3.29: 120 13.28–9: 120 18.299: 214 23.207–8: 120 24.184: 120

index locorum

360 DEMETRIUS Eloc. 13: 219 Digest of Justinian 12.1.6.7: 71 21.1.65: 230 35.2.27.5: 184 50.6.6.1: 152 50.10.3 (Aemilius Macer): 149 50.10.7 pr: 29, 175 50.16.87 (Ulpius Marcellus): 108 50.16.147 (Terentius Clemens): 108 DIO CASSIUS 52.30.1–3: 153, 212 53.27.3: 68 56.30.3–4: 22 68.27–30: 42 69.4: 26, 208 70.3.4: 217 in Exc. Salm. fr. 114 Müller: 181, 237 DIO CHRYSOSTOM Or. 7.24: 121 7.38–9: 121 23.30: 130 38.41: 130 38.47–8: 212 40.7: 84 40.8–11: 127 47.13–17: 127 47.16: 171 DIODORUS SICULUS 1.47: 225 1.63.6: 165 DIOGENES LAERTIUS 6.72: 71 DIONYSIUS OF HALICARNASSUS Comp. 6: 218 22: 218, 219 Rhet. 256–7: 121 Disputatio Adriani et Epicteti: 223 DONATUS Vita Virgilii 17: 247 ECPHANTUS On Kingship 80.1–4T: 158 ENNIUS trag. fr. (Jocelyn 141.319): 54 EPICTETUS Diss. 1.1.10: 83 2.15.8–9: 83 Epitome de Caesaribus 215: 27 EUMENIUS Panegyricus Constantii 14: 44 EURIPIDES El. 379: 238 Iph. Taur. 30: 19

Phoen. 3–5: 94 EUSTATHIUS Il. 1155.2: 60 FESTUS 123L: 168 FRONTO De Feriis Alsiensibus 3.5: 66 Ep. ad Marc. Caes. 2.1: 67 4.4: 175 Ep., ed. Van den Hout 256–8: 146 Principia Historiae 11: 51 fr. (Haines ii, 250–1): 44 GALEN De libr. prop. 11: 93 De rebus boni malique suci 1: 93 De usu partium 8.11: 100 12.15: 100 GELLIUS NA 3.7.19: 168 15.20.5: 178 16.13.9: 147 GREGORY OF NAZIANZUS Secund. Theol. Or. 28.25: 247 (Migne, PG 38.534): 166 HERODOTUS 1.93.2: 179 2.95.4: 214 2.124: 165 2.127–34: 165 2.148.1–2: 214 2.155.1: 214 2.156.1: 214 2.163.1: 214 2.176.2: 214 3.60: 92 7.24: 150, 167 HERMOGENES Id. 1.5: 219 1.6: 220 HIPPIAS fr., in Clem. Al. Strom. 6.15: 224 HIPPOLYTUS Refutation of All Heresies 4.14: 248 HOMER Od. 3.408: 227 4.43–6: 207, 211, 230–1 7.82–5: 207, 211 13.102–12: 241 HORACE Carm.

3.29.10: 199–200 3.30.1–2: 170 Sat. 1.4.76: 220 Hymnae Homerici 31.3-15 Allen: 94 Hymnae Orphici (Fauth, Helios Megistos, 2): 94 IRENAEUS Adv. Haer. 4.17.3-4: 194 ISOCRATES Areop. 66: 150, 238 58.4: 219 JEROME In Ezech. 12, 498 V: 243 In Jerem. 1.2.20: 243 JOSEPHUS AJ 16.144: 182, 201 19.2.5: 239 BJ 1.419–21: 200 5.1.4, 174–80: 214–15 6.164: 115 JULIUS AFRICANUS Cest. (Vieillefond 291): 203 LIVY 3.35.9: 24 27.19.6: 24 37.31.8: 20 38.52.11: 24 41.28.10: 20 [LONGINUS] Subl. 1: 219 7.1–2: 240 12.4: 237 12.5: 219 22.4: 219 36.4: 219 44.1–11: 238 LUCAN 10.113: 215 LUCIAN Anacharsis 9: 212, 231 De Domo: 229–35 De Dea Syra 30: 210 De Mort. Peregr. 19: 213, 240 Dial. Mort. 29.1: 181 Hippias: 221–9 Hist. Conscr. 30: 140 62: 92, 183 [LUCIAN] Philopatris 12: 103 LUCRETIUS 4.171: 54

index locorum MALALAS Rom. Hist. 11.9, 275: 149 11.9, 276: 111 11.10, 280.7–9: 134 11.10, 280.12–13: 46 12.1, 283: 51 MARCUS AURELIUS Med. 1.16: 52, 223 3.11: 83, 147 4.3.2: 147 4.20: 213 6.44: 147 9.3.2: 83 MARINUS Vit. Proc. 6: 94 MARTIAL 1.2.2: 26 1.70.9: 36 6.42.11–13: 227 9.75.7–9: 227 MAXIMUS OF TYRE Or. 7.2: 108 MENANDER RHETOR 346.27–350.10: 216 349.7–9: 121 NICOMACHUS Intr. Arith. 7.21: 101 OVID Met. 2.5: 203 PAUSANIAS 1.36.3: 35 1.38.7: 213 2.25.8: 166–7 2.27.5: 177 3.14.1: 177 3.21.4: 208 8.16.3: 181 8.43.4: 37 9.36.5: 167 9.39.4–9: 224 10.4.1: 121 10.32.1: 177–8 PETRONIUS Sat. 79: 115 PHILO De opiﬁcio mundi 1.6: 215 4.17–18, 20: 20 Leg. Alleg. 3.97–9: 20 PHILOSTRATUS Imag. 1 pr. 4: 208 VS 1.11, 495: 224 1.19, 511: 84, 219 2.25, 533: 216–17

2.25, 531–2: 130 PHOTIUS Bibl. 297a: 243 PINDAR Ol. 6.1–5: 18, 228 Pae. 8, fr. 52i.62–79M: 18, 22 Pyth. 4.138: 225 4.206: 225 PLATO Phdr. 251a–b: 231 Resp. 2, 376b–c: 93 Ti. 29a: 19 33b–34b: 53 69c–72b: 21, 214, 225 73d: 226 PLAUTUS Mostell. 91: 21 Pers. 53–61: 169 PLINY THE ELDER HN 3.43: 35 16.200: 215 36.78: 165 PLINY THE YOUNGER Ep. 2.17.20: 70–1 5.6.7: 20 5.6.13: 216 5.6.35: 70–1 5.6.43–4: 53, 216 6.30.2: 21 8.8.6: 153 10.23.1–2: 173 10.37.3: 173 10.41.4-5: 173 10.49.1: 173 10.50: 173 10.61.5: 150 10.70.1–4: 173 Pan. 51: 29 51.3: 150 PLUTARCH Cato Min. 5.1–2: 22 Comp. Per. et Fab. Max. 3.5–7: 203, 238 De def. or. 32, 427c: 54 De E apud Delph. 11, 390a: 54 De Pyth. Or. 395b: 172 409a: 232 Otho 18.1: 183 Per. 13.3: 171, 199–200 Pomp. 40: 121 42.4: 21 Prae. ger. reip. 811b–c: 84 Quaest. Rom. 273b–d: 171 Rom. 8.9: 172

361 PORPHYRY De Antr. Nymph. 5–6: 241–2 21–3: 228 PROCLUS Comm. in Timaeum 321.27: 241–2 334: 241 PROCOPIUS Aed. 1.1.17–78: 229 5.3.7: 173 Goth. 1.22.14: 181 QUINTILIAN Inst. 2.2: 169 3.7.27: 216 8.6.63: 218–19 9.4.27: 218–19 Rhetorica ad Herennium 3.16–24: 169 SALLUST Cat. 12.3: 120 Iug. 18.8: 18 SENECA Ad Polyb. 1.1: 203 Apocol. 5: 29 Ep. 50.6: 26 86.4: 70, 215, 255 86.7: 240 95.53: 55 SEXTUS EMPIRICUS Pyrr. Hyp. 1.141–4: 208 SCRIPTORES HISTORIAE AUGUSTAE Ant. Pius 4.8: 38 8.2-3: 30 8.3: 35 8.4: 37 11.8: 212 Hadr. 12.2: 50 17.6–7: 121–2 Marc. 8.4–5: 51 Verus 8.8: 51 STATIUS Silvae 1.3.13–19: 20 1.5.36–41: 227 2.2.33: 215 STRABO 1.1.23 (C13–14): 218 3.1.9: 182 8.3.30 (C 353–4): 26 12.8.14 (C 537): 208–9 17.1.9 (C 794): 182

index locorum

362 1.3830 : 55 SYRIANUS In Metaph. Comm. 38–9 K: 242 Tabula Cebetis 20.3: 93 TACITUS Agr. 21: 151 Ann. 1.84.4: 113–14 2.60.4: 170 2.84: 24 3.37: 21 3.56: 24 4.38: 216 13.31.1: 215 14.22.6: 229–30 15.38–43: 114 4.64: 109 5.12: 109

B. RELIGIOUS TEXTS: A) O L D Testament: Genesis 2.22: 19 B) N E W T E S TA M E N T : 1 Cor. 3.9–16: 243 2 Cor. 5.1: 243 Rev. 21.18–21: 214 C) J E W I S H M I S H N A H : Abodah Zarah, l. 7 (Danby, 438): 58

C. GREEK AND L ATIN INSCRIPTIONS: A) G E N E R A L C O R P O R A : CIG 2782.18–19: 115, 173 2782.30–2: 88–9 3148: 130 3544: 96–8, 258 no. 5 3545: 96, 258 no. 4 4286: 91

TERTULLIAN De idololatria 8: 58 Spect. 8.9: 58 THUCYDIDES 1.10.1–2: 167 2.41: 167

IG 2/32.3669: 242 3.1423.7–8: 159 12.3.324: 135 12.3.325: 135–7, ﬁg. 124c, 173, 259 12.3.326: 137, ﬁg. 124c, 259 12.3.1396: 139 12.11.215: 39 14.455: 243 14.1389: 188–9, 229

TZETZES Chil. 2.82–3: 208 12.1–8: 93 ULPIAN, see Digest of Justinian VALERIUS MAXIMUS 2.8 pr.: 22 VARRO Ling. 5.20: 54 6.45: 168 VELLEIUS PATERCULUS 2.131.1–2: 22–3 VIRGIL Aen. 1.418–93: 145–6 G. 3.16: 22 VITRUVIUS De Arch. 1 pr. 2: 22 1 pr. 3: 170 1.1.1: 19 1.1.11: 5 1.1.4: 19 1.2.2: 19 1.2.4: 209 1.4.3: 20 1.6.1: 228 2.1.2: 22 2.1.4–5: 22 3.1.1–4: 21 4.1.1–8: 21, 157 4.5.1: 208

8.958: 149 8.2532: 27–8, 214 8.2581: 81 8.2583: 81 8.2728: 92 8.12348: 149 8.12513: 143, 239 8.18042: 28 8.19174: 180 8.22698: 74 8.22699: 74, 149 8.22736: 74 8.22754a: 255 8.26482–6: 73 8.26524: 73, ﬁg. 75b 8.26527–8: 73 8.26549–50: 76, 122 9.948: 55 9.2438: 192 10.1453: 121 10.1887: 76 10.1891: 76 10.3832: 173 10.4660: 117 10.5917–18: 175 10.7563–4: 186–7, ﬁgs. 153b–c 10.7565: 186–7, ﬁg. 153d 10.7567: 186–7, ﬁg. 153e 11.805: 35 11.3614: 152 11.4582: 76 11.6016: 20, ﬁg. 7 11.6225: 201 11.6939: 35 12.1357: 74 12.3619: 181 13.1805: 76 13.4131–2: 76 13.5096: 123–4, ﬁg. 116a 13.5708: 184 14.98: 35 14.472: 103 14.2112: 68 14.2773: 212 14.2795: 187–8, 195 15.7172: 117

5.1.7: 22 7.5.2: 240 7.5.3: 190

Suda

CIL 2.761: 202–3 2.4040: 181 2.4494: 173 2.5063: 149 2.5181.25–6: 210 3.21: 179–80 3.2922: 202, ﬁg. 169 3.13691: 177 5.2864: 178 6.219: 190–1, ﬁg. 157 6.222: 191 6.960: 26 6.1005: 187–8, ﬁgs. 18d–e 6.1252: 29 6.1585b.18–21: 196, 216 6.2120: 196 6.22882: 188 6.27788: 183–4, 199 6.32398a: 196 6.33914: 32–3, 185-6, ﬁg. 151 6.33930: 71 8.212–13: 197–200, ﬁg. 167d, 203, 252–4 8.214–16: 197–8, ﬁg. 167c

ILS 205: 29 294: 26 343: 35 345: 143, 239 406: 175 1909: 175 2161: 191 3094: 55 5351: 118–19 5616: 121 5918a: 152 5920.18–21: 196, 216 6029: 212 6306: 173

index locorum 6891.25–6: 210 6912: 149 7212: 68 8102: 180 8379: 184 8380: 196 Eph. Epigr. 8.365: 117 B) R E G I O N A L A N D S I T E C O R P O R A : GREEK EAST: IGRom. 3.424: 159 3.739.i.68–70: 84 3.1235: 149 3.1353: 122 4.90: 39 4.140: 39 4.502: 95, 257 no. 3 4.503: 95, 256–7 no. 2 4.505: 96, 258 no. 6 4.506: 94–5, ﬁg. 94, 256 no. 1 4.1431: 130–1

iii, iv.2, 96: 94 Grayson (ed.), Assyr. Royal Inscr. ii.33: 207 C) R E G I O N A L A N D S I T E C O R P O R A : L AT I N W E S T : ICUR 8.21201: 71 ILAfr 16: 74, 149 454: 124 521: 73, ﬁg. 75b ILBardo 5: 74 App. 9: 143, 239 ILTun. 890: 143, 239

TAM 2.2.409: 82, ﬁg. 83 2.2.417: 91 2.3.905, xiii.35: 38–9 OGIS 625: 122 666: 166

412: 91 1056: 212 Laum, Stiftungen ii.108: 88–9 F) S O U RC E C O L L E C T I O N S : Abbott-Johnson 100: 131 101.7–18: 133, 218 Oliver 138: 133, 218 139.11–15: 133 140.14–16: 133 G) A N N U A L S : AE 1926.92: 122 1950.127: 227 1968.595: 201 1971.225: 45–6, ﬁg. 36 1991.1521: 159

IRT 530a–b: 149 601: 149 RIB 1065: 244 2139: 45, ﬁg. 34 2208: 45, ﬁg. 35 2163: 46, ﬁg. 37

Syll.3 849: 131 850: 133, 218 852: 135–7, ﬁg. 124c, 259 852a: 137–8, ﬁg. 124c, 259

363

SEG 19.730: 39 36.1099.11: 159

Cavallaro-Walser, Iscr. di Aug. Praet. 4: 35

H) P E RO D I C A L S :

Cicerchia-Marinucci, Terme del Foro 210C92: 173–4

AJArch. 37 (1933), 258–60: 60

Mari, Tibur (Forma Italiae 35) no. 15: 185, ﬁg. 150

BCH

D) M U S E U M C O L L E C T I O N S :

IEph. 272: 130 274: 130 404: 127 430: 158 438: 156 449.11–14: 127, 170, 172 661: 81, 135, 153 712b.19–20: 117 1491: 133, 218 1492–3: 133 1545.12: 159 2524.2: 159 3008–9: 117 IMylasa 468: 91, 241 IPergamon: Inschr. des Asklepieions 141: 84, ﬁgs. 87a–b ISmyrna 697: 130

Butterwick-Kaiser, Texte ii.3.493: 173

FD

Epig. Gr.

GIBM 443: 120 492: 133 1026: 195 1106.5–6: 242 E) S P E C I A L I S T C O R P O R A :

CCID 408: 68 CIJ

10 (1886), 500–1, 1.2–3 : 94 Belleten 22 (1958), 42–3 no. 40: 55 Epigr. Anat. 2 (1983), 2, no. 1.9–10: 19 JEA 28 (1944), 68–9: 241 MDAI(A) 79 (1964), 157–64: 83, ﬁg. 86, 140 MÉFRA 48 (1931), 15–17: 78 ÖJh 44 (1959), Beibl. 265 no. 40: 124 REL 49 (1971), 262–5: 181, 269

Judaica 751a(4.1): 159

Rev. Ét. Anc. 2 (1920), 97–103: 201

579: 181, 261 1488: 183, 199 1552: 197–200, ﬁg. 167d, 203, 260–2

SBF, LA 38 (1988), 253–65: 243

CLE

Sitzber. Preuss. Akad. Wiss. 3 (1904), 83: 90

INDEX OF L ATIN TERMS abditus 200 accensus velatus 159, 187 adlocutio 148 admirabilis 296 n. 34 admonere 168 aedes 21, 184, 187, 190, 197 aedic(u)la 37, 117, 190–1, 194 aedicula pura 191 aediﬁcare 29, 184, 293 n. 72 aediﬁcatio 21, 22, 25, 26, 27, 29, 38, 51, 70, 71, 73, 78, 92, 103, 109, 120, 146, 184, 239, 255, 284 n. 90 aediﬁcatiuncula 255, 295 n. 144 aediﬁcator 20, 21, 26, 78, 242, 276 n. 67, 298 n. 35 aemulitas 306 n. 255 aeneus 297 n. 115 aerarium 38 aeterna (domus) 313 n. 191 aeterna (memoria) 183, 194 aeterna (res publica) 187, 195 aeterna (Roma) 151 aevum 198, 199 ager Romanus 147 alimenta 148 altitudines perpetuae 22 amoenitas 153 amor 216, 292 n. 8 ampliare 201 ampliﬁcatio 125 angulus 199 annales 216 Annus 116 anta 37 antiquitas 194 antithesis 215 apodyterium 76, 226 apparitor (pl. –es) 169, 298 n. 145 aqua 98, 297 n. 114 architector 296 n. 28 architectus 91, 103 arcus 284 n. 101, 301 n. 177 arduus 200 ars 203 ars liberalis 223 ascia 194 asperitas 209 assiduus 199 assignatio 152 auctoritas 22 augere 22 augustalis 76, 152 augustus (pl. –i) 173 aures 297 n. 114 avaritia 109 avitus 201

bal(i)neum 153, 222, 225, 293 n. 72 basilica 22, 169 basilica stoa 136–9 beata loca 20 beneﬁciarii consularis 294 n. 116 beneﬁciarii tribuni 191 beneﬁciarii tribuni sexmestris 294 n. 116 blandus 198, 200 bracchia 284 n. 69 brevitas 198 caelum 54 caementa 25 caespes 28 calculator 103 campus 200 Canon, see Index of Transliterated Greek Terms, Kano-n Capitolium 224 caput 157, 284 n. 69 cardo maximus 114 carmina Saliorum 175 cavea 90, 143, 218 caverna 54 cavus 54 celeberrimus 117, 300 nn. 148–9 celebritas 117, 118, 121, 125–6, 153, 207, 239 cella 184 celsus 199 cenotaphia (pl.) 308 n. 41 censor 294 n. 117 cera 199, 200 cereus, cerin(e)us 200, 313 n. 185 certus 199 chalcidicum 121 circumscriptio 20 civitas 71, 148, 175, 201 clipeus 175 collis 200 colonia 298 n. 39–40 colonia splendidissima 306 n. 258 columna 199 commoditas 228 commodus 228 concordia 83 consensus lapidum 199 conspicuus 194 consterno 301 n. 179 contemplari 184 contignatio 73 continentes provinciae 108–9 continentia 296 n. 59 continentia (aediﬁcia) urbis 108–9 convivium (pl. –a) 21 cornicularii 294 n. 116 crescere 199

cultus 73 cura 199 curator 114, 152, 196, 199 curator rei publicae 152 custodia 195, 196 cylisterium 227 damnatio memoriae 173 dare 200, 298 n. 39 decor 199, 215, 225, 226, 227, 229 decumanus maximus 114 decus 2 deformare 19 deformatio 19 derectus 301 n. 174 descriptio 19, 200 digitus 297 n. 111 dignitas 2, 11, 22, 53 dignus 53 diligentia 296 n. 34 Dis Manibus (‘D. M.’) 184, 186 discrimen (pl. –ina) 157, 159 dispensatio 228 distributio 215, 228–9 domus 151, 184, 187, 301 n. 197 ducere 199 duovir, duumvir 71, 149 elegantia 194 enormis 114 epistylia 76 eques singularis 267 equus publicus 201 erigere 200 eurhythmia, see Index of Transliterated Greek Terms, eurhuthmia exaediﬁco 301 n. 197 exauguratio 147 exedra 184 exemplar 184 exemplaria 19 exemplaria picta 19 exemplum 168, 170, 178, 197 exercitus 285 n. 162 exiguus 198 exornare 301 n. 177 exsuperantissimus 55 faber 91 fabrica 19, 223 fabricatio 20 fabrilis 285 n. 162 facere (fecit) 287 n. 91 facies 175, 199 facultas 198 fama 203

index of l atin terms fanum 171 fastigium 22, 24–5, 53, 68, 190, 305 n. 203 felicitas 116, 142 ﬁgura 299 n. 78 ﬁrmitas 170, 227, 229 ﬁscus 38 ﬂamen 181 ﬂamen perpetuus 148 forma 19–20 fornix 54, 284 n. 101 fortitudo 296 n. 59 fortuna 198 forum (pl.–a) 151 frigidarium 226, 227, 228 futurus 199 genii cucullati 60 genius 191 genius Augusti 58 genius loci 294 n. 116 genius Senatus 66 gens 169 gentilicium 296 n. 45 gloria 2 grandis 28 gradus 199, 301 n. 178 gratiarum actio 146 gravis 28 haruspex 294 n. 116 hedera (pl. –ae) 191 heliocaminus 130–1, 157 hilaris 199, 297 n. 89 homo 198 honor 199 honorem, ob 148 humanitas 151 hyposcaenium 88 iacere 200 ianus 284 n. 101 imago 20, 198, 200; imagines 169, 215, 308–9 n. 50 imperator 31, 67 inaequalis 28 incola 212 indulgentia 35 insignia 149, 171 instituere 227 insula 114 integritas 296 n. 34 intercolumnia (pl.) 209 ire 193 iubentus, see iuventus iubere (iussit) 287 n. 91 iungere 200 iuridicus 152 ius Italicum 148 ius muniendi 109 iustitia 296 n. 59 iuventus labor 296 n. 34 laborare 198

labrum 98, 297 n. 115 lacunaria 73 lavacrum 35 lapis 28, 199, 301 n. 179 laudare 198 laudatio 200, 216 laus (pl. laudes) 2, 198, 216 levare 199 liberae civitates 148 liberalitas 29, 32, 35, 148, 149 liberatio 147–8 libertas 35, 148, 174 librarius 103, 298 n. 145 librator 92 lictor curiatius 159 liniamenta 20 loculus 186 locus (pl. –a) 167, 169, 200, 228 locus amoenus 231 locus celeberrimus 117, 120, 300 n. 148 lucere 199 maculae (pl.) 209 maesolium, see mausoleum magalia 146 magniﬁcentia 29; see also publica magniﬁcentia magnitudo 194 magnus 200 maiestas 26 maiores 169 marmorare 293 n. 72, 316 n. 167 materia 203 mathematicus 103, 256 maesolaeum, see mausoleum mausolaeum, see mausoleum mausoleum (and variant spellings) 181–2, 196, 269–70 mechanicus 223 meditatio 19 memoratio 198 memoria 2, 173, 183–4, 194 memoria clarissima (?) 201 mesolaeum, see mausoleum mesoleum, see mausoleum mesoleus, see mausoleum mesuleum, see mausoleum metiri 198 misolio, see mausoleum mobilis 199 modestia 183 modicus 181 moenia 146 moesoleum, see mausoleum moles 200 mollire 199 mollis 28 monere 168 monimentum, monumentum 2, 5, 22, 168–78, 184, 199, 200, 214, 215, 296 n. 33 mons, pl. montes 200 mos vetustatis 178 mosoleum, see mausoleum munus (pl. –era) 152, 173

365 municipium 11, 71, 121, 147–9, 173, 212 munimentum 298 n. 40 murus 298 n. 39, n. 40 and n. 41 musuleum, see mausoleum mutulus 300 n. 116 natatio 134 negotiator 60, 300 n. 149 negotium 122 nidiﬁcare 255 nidiﬁcatio 146, 255 nitere 199 nobilis 296 n. 16 nobilitas 198, 203 nomenclator 298 n. 145 notarius 103, 298 n. 145 novare 199 novitas 199, 200 novus 200, 203 nubes 200 nubila (pl.) 199 numen (pl. –ina) 173, 203 oculus 200 operibus ampliatis 201 opus 194, 198, 199, 200, 201, 203, 225, 229, 255, 301 n.178, 312 n. 199 opus reticulatum 161 opus sectile 159 opus signinum 255 opus tectorium 317 n. 63 ordinare 157 ordo, pl. ordines 152, 157, 200 ornamentum (pl. –a) 71, 157, 215 ornare 157 pacator orbis 67 pagus 71, 122 parcus 229 paries 300 n. 116 pariter 199 parvus 198 pater 200 patientia 92, 296 n. 34 patria 304 n. 116 patrimonium 38 pecunia 181 pecunia furfuraria 191 pendere 199 peregrini 71 perennitas 2 perﬁcio 301 n. 178 perpetuus 199, 200 pes 289 n. 111 phetrium 152 pietas 29, 39, 43, 50, 116, 146, 198, 200 pius 29, 31, 146 planus 28 platea 118–19, 143, 301 nn. 174–5 and 177–9 platea nova 142 platea Traiani 119 politus 200 ponere 199

366 pontifex 196 pontifex maximus 22, 34 porta 298 n. 39 porta militaris 301 n. 174 porta regia 68 porticus 201 porticus in summa gradatione 293 n. 37 posteri 171 praefectus 293 nn. 44–5 praetor peregrinus 147 princeps 35 pristinam faciem, ad 175 probare 199 procurator 92, 131, 216 prooemium 216 propinquus 200 proportio 284 n. 73 propugnacula (pl.) 298 n. 44 procurator Mausolei 196 prosc(a)enium 73, 76, 133–4, 152, 218, 298 n. 3 providentia 170 prudentia 296 n. 59 publica magniﬁcentia 29 publicus 224 pulsare 199 purgatorium 43 quadrifrons 66, 67 ﬁg. 66 quaestionarii 294 n. 116 quondam 146 radix 199 ramus 169 ratio 19, 21, 198, 229, 296 n. 34 ratiocinatio 19, 223 redemptor 267, 298 n. 3 redire 193 regia, see porta regia regio 114 res gestae 168, 170 res privata 38 res publica 113, 147, 152, 170, 187, 195, 201 restituere (restituit) 287 n. 91 restitutor Italiae 35, 175 restitutor orbis (terrarum) 69, 112, ﬁg. 105 rigor 199

index of l atin terms rostra 147–8 rostra navalia 297 n. 115 ruina 2 saeculum 34, 52, 67, 154, 174–5 salientes 297 n. 115 salvus 193 sapientia 296 n. 59 saxum 194, 200 scaenae frons 146 scalptura 199 schola 121, 123–4 scribere 199 scutula 159, 307–8 n. 113 sepulc(h)rum 191, 199 signum 25, 215 simulacrum 21 situs 20 sodales 124 speculatores 294 n. 116 spes 92 spolio, –are 301 n. 179 stamen 199 sterno, –ere, stravi, stratum 301 n. 179 stibadium 70 stilibata (sic) 184 stirps 169 stolata femina 175 structores 25 stupere 199 sublica 174 sublimis 199 sublimitas 173 substructio 189 suburbium 131 summa honoraria 71, 149 summus 55 sumptus 181, 229 superare 203 superesse 199 superﬂuens (pecunia) 181 surgere 146 suspicere 146 sutor 311 n. 85 suus 297 n. 93 symmetria, see Index of Transliterated Greek Terms, summetria

tabula ansata 177, 187, 191–4, 250 tecta 36 tellus 200 temperantia 296 n. 59 temperatio 229 templum 3–4, 68, 147, 151, 170, 178, 186, 200 tempus (pl. –ora) 142, 199 tempus longum 196 tepidarium 226 tervium 301 n. 175 tetrastylum 68 thermae 39, 74, 175, 222, 225 titulus 198, 200 toga virilis 32 topia 27 tristis 199 tumulus 170 turritus 299 n. 78 umbra 20 urbs 108, 147 urbs Roma 147 usus 19 utilitas 53, 157, 227, 228, 239, 298 n. 41 valvae 190 varietas 216 vela 82 venustas 157, 227, 239 vetus 301 n. 179 vetustas 2, 169–70, 204; see also mos vetustatis via porticata 115 viator tribunicius 159 vicinus 199 vicomagistri 114 vicus 114 videre 200 villa voluptuaria 216 vincere 200, 203 virtus 92, 116, 296 n. 33 and n. 34 vis, pl. vires 198 visus 20 vivere 199 voluptas 122, 216, 228, 318 n. 145

INDEX OF TRANSLITERATED GREEK TERMS agalma (pl. –ata) 137, 259 Agathe- Tuche- 141, 172 agathos 256, 297 n. 67 agathos daimo-n 256 agora 141 agoranomion 96 agoranomos (pl. –oi) 96, 294 n. 117, 297 n. 104 aigle- 139 aio-n 95 aisthanesthai 207 akakia 95, 257 akoa 98, 297 n. 114 akroate-s 231 akros 227 aleipha 227 aleipsasthai 226 al(e)ipte-rion 130, 226, 227 alsos 100 amorphia 232 amphistrongulos 226 analogia 101, 284 n. 73 anangkaios 226 anaskopeisthai 219 anatithenai (anethe-ke) 296 n. 30 anathe-ma 166 andreia 93 andrias 259 anepile-ptos 231 ane-r politikos 219 angkhisteia 166 antipoieisthai 296 n. 57 antithuron 319 n. 174 antrophulakes 60 ao-rios 141 aperittos 231 apoikia 141 apoikos 141 apolausis 228 aporia 221 apostilbein 227 apothesis 226 aprosmachos 233 archaios 243 archeion 120, 121 architektonein 296 n. 16 architektonia 93 architektosune- 94, 241, 297 n. 67 architekto-n 91, 96, 98, 223 archo-n 259 archo-n megas 287 n. 84 arete- 10 ﬁg. 5b, 96, 127, 228 arithmetike- 93 arithmos 207 asphaleia 225 asphale-s 229 asphalizesthai 96, 297 n. 96

astronomia 93 aule- basilike- 22 aphthonie- cheiro-n 287 n. 106 axios 141 axio-ma 127 balaneion 221, 224, 225, 228, 297 n. 114 ballomai 225 barbarikos 231 bouleuterion 120, 121 bo-mos 225 Canon, see Kano-n chariessos 225 charis 139 chariste-rion 130 chreia 231 chreios 229 chre-matismos 257 chre-simon 228 chrusos 231 daidaleos 207, 214 daimonion, to 178 daimo-n (pl. –ones) 172, 232, 256 de-miourgos 19, 229 de-mos 116, 294 n. 120 diaita 140 diakolleisthai 227 diakoptein 232 diakosme-sis 242 diatupo-sis 243 dianthizesthai 227 die-ge-sis 141 dikaios 93 dikaiosune- 93, 96, 258 dios 287 n. 107 doxe- 94 dromos (pl. –oi) 94, 141, 217 dunamis 141 duspathe-s 297 n. 134 eidos 19, 232 eido-lon 139 eiko-n 226 eile-ma 89 eisangelia 313, Appendix 3 n. 1 ekphrasis topou 229 ekple-ttein 231, 233, 234 ekple-xis 212, 219 eleutheros 115 emble-ma 60 embolos, enbolos 300 n. 158 and n. 161 embradunein 234 enargeia 116 endiatribein 230

endon 227 engkathizesthai 227 engkulisasthai 227 enharmonios 94 epainein 297 n. 67 epainos 231 ephe-beion (pl. –a) 156 epholkion 301 n. 200 epichre-matismos 257 epichre-matizein 257 epideixesthai 228 epideixis 219, 228, 230, 231, 285 n. 144 epigraphe- 183 epikle-sis (pl. –eis) 94 epimele-te-s 152 epime-ke-s 226 epinoein 228 epiphthonos 231 epise-mos 117, 231, 300 n. 147 epistate-s 302 n. 43 episte-me- 10, 296 n. 62 epitropos 82 epoikodomein 225 epos 225 ergepistate-s 90, 242 ergon (pl. –a) 93, 96, 223, 224, 228, 229, 234, 295 n. 3, 296 n. 29 ergodotein 295 n. 178 ergodote-s 295 n. 178 ergotechnite-s 242 ethnos 141 eudaimonismos 231 eudaimo-n 226 euergete-s 287 n. 97 eugeneia 216 eukairos 228 eukosmos 231 eulogos 225 eumathe-s 231 eumegethe-s 225 eumorphia 232 eumorphos 231 euphenge-s 228 euphue-s 231 eupoiia 96, 98, 258 euprepe-s 231 euprositos 93 euproso-pos 232 eurhuthmia (Lat. eurhythmia) 93, 209, 227, 231, 296 n. 56 eurhuthmos 231 euteleia 232 ganos 141 geo-metre-s (pl. –ai) 91, 98, 297 n. 85 geo-metria 93

368 gerousia 130 gno-me- 96-8 grammateus (pl. –eis) 294 n. 117 gumnasion 223 gumnasion Sebaston 134 gumnazomai 223, 224 harmonia 117, 140, 177, 199, 217, 218, 225, 297 n. 73 heis(a), aorist, see hie-mi Helle-nikon, to 141 hen, to 241 he-gemo-n 82, 220 he-liokrate-s 300 n. 127 he-liokreis 300 n. 127 he-lios 300 n. 127 he-ro-s 258 hienai 95 hilaros 297 n. 89 holon 225 homilia 141 homonoia 83, 120, 129, 140, 217 hora-n 141, 230 ho-de-ge-te-s 213 ho-rme-te-rion 141 hubris 172 hudo-r 249, 297 n. 114 humnos kle-tikos 94, 216 huperlampros 141 huperthaumazesthai 317 n. 9 hupodechesthai 227 hupothesis 224 hupocho-re-sis 225 hupse-los 225, 226 hupsorophos 318 n. 154 hupsos 199, 219, 224, 226, 238–9, 240 idea 19 idios 257, 297 n. 88, 297 n. 93 idris 295 n. 3 isopoliteia 130 kai 229 kallos 116, 129, 139, 208, 231 kalokagathia 94 kalos 93, 98, 227, 230, 296 n. 29 Kano-n 177 katalampein 225 kataplagesthai 212, 224 kataple-xis 153, 212 kataskeuazein 137 kataskeue- 215, 217, 219, 224, 225 kine-sis 207 kio-n ouranou 289 n. 26 kleos andro-n 214 koino-nia 96 Koinon 129, 151 koinos 141, 207, 224, 225 kolumbe-thra 317 n. 65 koruphe- 141 kosmein 96, 229 kosmokrato-r 67, 94

index of transliterated greek terms kosmos 55, 94, 95, 96, 108, 139, 141, 159, 287 n. 97, 298 n. 26, 299 n. 104 kratunasthai 225 kre-pis 216, 224–5 kte-s(e)idion 295 n. 145 ktisma 149, 201 ktiste-s 130, 131 ktiston 201 ktizein 46 kurios 300 n. 143 labra 297 n. 115 labron 98, 257, 297 n. 115 lampein 94 lampros 139, 223 lamprote-s 209, 210, 219–20, 225, 235, 237, 240, 293 n. 35 lamprunein 130 lithos 225, 227 logismos 231, 232 logiste-s 152 logos 216, 223, 224, 228, 229, 232 mausoleion 181, 261 megalophrosune- 212 megaloprepeia 19, 84, 203, 212 megalopsuchia 19, 127 megalourgia 203 megaron 18, 43 megas 220, 296 n. 29, 299 n. 76 megethos 116, 129, 139, 183, 207, 208, 218, 219, 299 n. 76 mesos oikos 226 metriote-s 98, 250 me-chanein 228 me-chanikos (pl. –oi) 91, 223–4, 225, 228, 296 n. 19, 296 n. 24 me-kunesthai 316 n. 184 mime-ma 139 mne-ma 166, 177, 181 mne-me- 141 mne-mosunon 223 morphaeis 242 neossotrophia 255 neo-koros 129 neo-ktistos 225 neo-poios 129 nomos 230 oike-ma 159, 225 oikia 19 oikobasilikos 159 oikodomein 19 oikodome-mation 83 oikodome-sis 19 oikodomia 19, 21 oikodomos 276 n. 67 oikos 159, 225, 226, 227, 229 oknein 224 omphalos 55, 56, 139, 290 n. 70, 299 n. 56 ongkos 183

opsis 233 orexis 258 orophe- 227 ouranos 220 o-deion 91 i

paideia 216, 230, 233, 296 n. 27 pammegethe-s 181 paradeigma 19, 139 parape-gmata 295 n. 146 paraskeuazein 225 paraste-mata 295 n. 146 parechesthai 226, 227, 229 parodos 83 peribleptos 233 perieilein 295 n. 179 perinoia 229 periousia 139 perittos 226 phaidros 226 phantasia 208, 230, 240 pharos 182 philephesius 159 philoge-orgos 297 n. 85 philos 82, 296 n. 30 philotime-ma 203 philotimia 84, 96, 127, 130, 131, 149, 297 n. 92, 302 n. 40 phoineiko-n 130 pho-s 225, 226 pho-tago-gos 228 phrone-sis 93 phusis 108 pimple-mi 113 plasma 139 plateia 115, 119, 173, 294 n. 117, 301 n. 175 plo-zomai 296 n. 30 i pneuma 320, Appendix 2 n. 1 poikilia 209, 215 poikilos 159 polis 113, 116, 121, 127, 139, 177 polisma 141 politikos, see ane-r politikos poluede-s 297 n. 127 polueide-s 100 polus 216, 225 poluteleia 209 pote 229 pothos 230 pragma 223 praos 93 i praopathein 296 n. 51 i praote-s 93, 96 i presbus 141 proast(e)ion 121, 139 prokosme-ma 137, 259, 293 n. 35 prolalia 221 prome-ke-s 226 pronaos 74, 178 propulaion 216 propulon 226, 301 n. 175 prosche-ma 141

index of transliterated greek terms prose-nos 226, 227 prostribesthai 297 n. 114 proxenein 139 proxenos 300 n. 121 pro-teia 129 prytanis (pl. –eis) 129, 294 n. 117, 294 n. 120 psalis 55, 60, 81 psuchrodochos 318 n. 100 puelos 227 pulo-n, pl. pulo-nes 225, 227 purgos 182, 296 n. 29 rhuthmos 209 sche-ma 60, 139, 141, 207 sebastophante-s 66 semnos 46, 133, 218, 234 semnote-s 218, 219, 220, 231, 234, 240, 316 n. 154 se-ma 117, 166–8, 171, 183 se-meion 127, 167 ske-nos 243 ske-nopoiein 320 n. 80 skoutlo-sis 158–60 sophia 10, 228, 242 sophiste-s 223 sophos 223, 225, 228 so-phrosune- 93 so-te-r 131, 287 n. 97, 296 n. 30 so-te-ria 296 n. 30 speirokephalos 130 sphaira 320, Appendix 2 n. 1 stemma (pl. –ata) 169

stenocho-rein 299 n. 104 stephane-phoros (pl. –oi) 130, 294 n. 117 ste-le- boreios 289 n. 26 ste-nai 227 stoa basileios 129, 133 strate-gos 259 strongulos 226 stro-sis 300 n. 161 summetria (Lat. symmetria) 140, 208–9, 225, 228 summetros 228, 231 sumpatheia 216 sunago-nizesthai 235 suneinai 224 sustasis 140 sustro-ma 117, 300 n. 161 tapeinos 219 taphos 300 n. 147 tattein 223 techne- 108, 223, 231, 242, 296 n. 57 technite-s 229 teichos 298 n. 26 telamo-n 60 terpnos 233 terpsis 231 thauma 95, 178, 210, 214, 221, 227, 231, 233 thauma idesthai 207 thaumasios 216, 221, 228, 232 thaumastos 224 thaumazein 223, 232 theama 231

369

theate-s 231 thenar 225 theophante-s 66 theos 256 theou akoai 98 thermos 227 thesis 140 time- 94 time-te-s 294 n. 117 timios 141 toichos 297 n. 114 topos 224, 228 topos epise-motatos 117, 168, 259, 300 n. 147 topos kurio-tatos 300 n. 143 truphe- 225 Tuche- 178 xenos 82

WORDS FROM OTHER EASTERN LANGUAGES PALMYRENE: bslk 137 mtlt 137 stw 137 E G Y P T I A N H I E RO G LY P H I C : jrt mnw, ‘to erect enduring monuments’ 165 mn, ‘to stay, to last’ 165 mnw, ‘monument’ 165–6

GENERAL INDEX acanthus leaves, and imperial architecture 10, 158 accession monuments 41–2 adyton 48, ﬁgs. 40d–e, 62, ﬁgs. 58b–c aedicular architecture 10, 18, 117, 123, 190–1, 196–7 aediles, and public building 22, 71 Aeneid, of Virgil 145–6, 170 aerarium (treasury of the Roman state) 38, 195 aesthetics of architecture 3–4, 12, 116, 117, 125, 153, 207–8, 239–41 age, signs of, on buildings 172, 204 Aion 64 alimenta, schemes for food provision; see also handouts 286 n. 55 allegory 93; see also images, allegorical altars 31, 37, 81, 178, 214, 294 n. 131 amphitheatres 25, 34, 39, 92, 98, 107, 161; see also Rome, Colosseum design of 98 temporary 121, 295 n. 159 ancient novels, image of cities in 115–16 animal architecture 255 anniversaries 34, 52, 66, 174 Anthousa 299 n. 88 antiquities, interest in 175 antithesis, as tool to describe art or architecture 215, 223, 229, 309 n. 72 Antonines, age of 1, 6 Aphrodisias School, of sculpture 77, 83, 88 Aphrodite, see Venus apodyteria 76, 120 Apollo 11, 37–8, 61, 63, 81, 90, 299 n. 51 apses 18, 65, 124 aqueducts 20, 29, 36, 40, 76, 81, 92, 143, 294 n. 102 arcades 22, 40, 50, 83, 88–90, 103, 143, 201, ﬁg. 168, 292 n. 183 arcades, images of 112 archaeological remains, interpretation of 12 Archaic Greek 242, 257 Archaic Latin 174, 285 n. 166 archaizing style in art and architecture 36, 83, 175 archaizing style in literature 28, 95, 175 archeia 120; see also town halls arches 18, 35, 40–1, 45–6, 46, 55, 58, 61, 71, 83, 84, 90, 96, 100, 110; see also arches, freestanding; keystones; vaults freestanding 22, 25, 58, 35, 56, 74, 81, 110, 116, 118, 158, 202, ﬁg. 169 role of, in urban space 116 symbolic meanings of 13, 25 archetypes, see monuments, as archetypes architects 5, 6, 19, 21, 26, 39, 58–9, 90, 91–103, 202–3, 223–4, 228–9, 244,

267–68; see also inscriptions, naming patron and architect together authority of 103 city 295 n. 8 education of 93 fame of 91–2, 202–3, 241 imperial 296 n. 25 magistrates called 91, 94, 96 metaphorical 19, 20, 21, 22 military 91, 92, 103, 297 n. 68 mobility of 91 paired with patrons 91–2, 203 ‘signatures’ of 58–9, ﬁgs. 50a–c, 70–1, 91–2, 95–6, 296 n. 31, 297 n. 67 skills needed by 5, 19, 93–4, 224 statues of 91 status of 91–2, 93 temple 295 n. 8 tombs of 95 architectural competitions 19 architectural drawing 26, 93 architectural form, as vehicle for ideas 21–2, 53–5, 103, 107, 120 architectural ideas, transmission of 294 n. 134 architectural innovation 90, 92, 98, 100 architectural ornament 8, 10, 32, 35, 48, 50, 88, 92, 117, 157–8, 170, 215, 240, 296 n. 31; see also brick and terracotta decoration architectural meaning 12–13 architectural metaphor, see metaphors, architectural architectural symbolism 13–14, 17, 53–69, 108, 193 architectural terminology 17, 89, 137, 219, 227, 228–9, 310 n. 153, 310 n. 24 architecture: and cultural change 89–90 and social status 91, 94 as emotional practice 92 as ﬁeld for aristocratic competition 71, 73–4, 83, 107 as language of communication 53 as obsession 21, 26, 29, 51, 84–5, 121, 230 as science 93, 223–4, 241, 317 n. 30 beauty of 94, 129, 139–41, 168 power of the 233 deﬁnition of 12, 91 descriptions of 12 experience of 12, 207–10, 230–5 parentage of 19 perception of 12 political meanings of 107 rhetorical function of 83 architecture, urban: in the eastern empire 81–90, 92–103, 274–5, 278

in the western empire 71–81, 92, 103, 271–4, 277–8, 279 arcuated lintels and ‘Syrian arches’ 40–3, 45–6, 50, 52, 61–3, 64–5, 68, 87, 88, 124, 156, 265–6, 292 n. 183 arithmetic 93, 101 armatures 107 army, and public building 6, 76, 78–81 arsenal, naval 78 Artemis of Ephesus 41, 54, 62, 124 Arval Brethren 68 ascent, as image of fame 15, 50, 290 n. 33 ascia rite 193–4 Asclepius (Aesculapius) 11, 78–81, 84, 100 and Hygi(ei)a 156, 221, 226, 294 n. 116 ‘ears of ’ 297 n. 114 Asia, Roman province, federation of 92 Asiatic style, of architectural ornament 12 assembly buildings 120, 133–4, 177 Astarte 61 astronomy 93, 94–5, 101–3, 224, 297 n. 135 Athena (Minerva) 11, 55, 90, 91, 234 Atlantis 19, 53 atrium 68 audience halls 312 audiences of architecture 50, 212–13, 230 augustales 76, 298 n. 145 augustea 50, 68 augury and architecture 147 augurs 73 austerity in architecture 29, 32 authorship, shown in inscriptions 94 auxiliary troops 27, 285 n. 164 axiality in design 100 Baal 55, 64 Babylonian culture 18, 19 Bacchanalia 60 Bacchus (Dionysus) 36, 66, 124 baldachin, or ciborium 66, 67–8 balustrades 90 banquets 21, 68, 148 ‘baroque’ style, in architecture 1, 10, 46, 116, 213 barrel–vaults 32, ﬁg. 17b, 46, 50, ﬁg. 42, 55–6, 88, 159, 161 barriers in buildings 137, 188 basilicas 22, 39, 40, 71, 78, ﬁg. 80a, 88, 124, 135–8, 142, 169, 201, 218; see also tribunals baths 6, 25, 26, 35, 39, 41, 43, 58, 60, 74, 76–8, 88, 119, 121–2, 124, 134–5, 154–6, 161, 173, 175, 201, 243, 255; see also frigidarium, natatio descriptions of 221–9 private 120

general index Beaux Arts school, French 2–3 bees, as image of monumental builders 146, 199–200 Bendis 60 bequests for buildings 38, 71, 74, 76 bestiality of architectural viewers 232 body, resemblance of architecture to 17, 21 resemblance of natural features to 17 Bona Dea 60 Bonus Eventus 35 bouleuteria, see assembly buildings breasts, applied to natural features 17 brick and terracotta decoration ﬁg. 114, 123, 188–91, ﬁgs. 155a–b, ﬁg. 156c brick architecture 36, 46, 55, 123, 173; see also brick and terracotta decoration; mud–brick architecture brick industry 27, 71, 76–7, 82, 83 brick stamps 35, 82, 83, 293 n. 80, 294 n. 85, 294 n. 105 purpose of 294 n. 126 bridges 4–5, 11, 32, 36, 76, 111, 174–5, 202–3, 223–4, 296 n. 19 as metaphor 101 resemblance of natural features to 17 British victory 43–6, 66–7 bronze, use of in architecture 17, 18, 22, 68, 209, 297 n. 115, 317 n. 63 use of in architecture of the universe 17 Bronze Age, architecture of the 5 bronze doors 42, 48, 68 bronze letters of inscriptions 110, 118, 299 n. 48, 300 n. 165 builder’s tools 71, ﬁg. 73, 193 building, ludic nature of 21, 103 building contracts 90 building industry 27, 30, 107 ‘building of state’ 22–3 building work, involvement of patrons in 84–5 scenes of 26, ﬁg. 13, 184–5, ﬁg. 149 building workers 13, 58, 71, 90, 91, 107, 193–4, 311 n. 81 bulls 62 burial in agora 300 n. 143 Cage Painter 19 Chalcas 299 n. 51 caldaria 103, 124 Canon of Polyclitus 21 canons 4, 91, 93, 203 capitals, Blattkelch type 10, 92, 149, 202, 296 n. 41, 314 n. 222 ﬁgured or ornamental 37, 88, 124, 286 n. 23 reused 124 Capitolia 7, ﬁg. 3, 36, 73, ﬁgs. 76a–c, ﬁgs. 77a–c, 76, 120, 122; see also Index of Place Names, s.v. Rome, Temple of Capitoline Jupiter captives, images of 23, 45, ﬁg. 36, 51–2, ﬁg. 44 Cardinal Virtues, see Virtues, Cardinal

caryatids, see also support ﬁgures castellation 110 castles, medieval 110; see also house, like castle Castor and Pollux, see Dioscuri catacombs 194 cedar wood 83 ceilings 17, 56, ﬁg. 48, 58, ﬁgs. 51–2, 67, 68, ﬁg. 71, 71, 73, 231–2, 292 n. 160; see also coffering ceremonial architecture 64–6, 67–8, 115 Ceres (Demeter) 11, 60, 142, 188 Ceutrones, people of northern Italy 51 ‘Chaldaean arts’ 68 chapels, Christian 69 Chinese art 4 Christ, image of 66 Christians 11, 53, 58, 96, 119, 193–4, 243, 298 n. 143; see also catacombs churches, early Christian, origins of 120 ciborium, see baldachin circle, as shape of the universe 17, 19, 53, 68–9; see also sphere beauty of 19, 53 circuses 76, 122 cities: ambiguity whether people or buildings 113–14, 116 analogy to single buildings 108, 120 as monumental unities 107–9, 115, 120 beauty of 141 component elements of 120, 121 cosmic 108, 114–15, 116, 147, 300 n. 127 dignity of 107, 120, 173 fame of 141 ideal 114–15, 299 n. 65, 300 n. 123 image of, presented to outsiders 110–11, 115 images of 60, 109, ﬁg. 100, 111, 139, 299 n. 60 legal conceptions of 108 ‘multi–focal’ character of 300 n. 138 noise of 121 organic 107–8, 115, 116, 120 shapes of 20, 139 spatial organization of 107, 108 views of 131, 139, 141, 292 n. 153 villas shaped as 84 within cities 116–17, 120, 141 citizenship, Roman 6 city councils 71 city goddesses 42–3, 111–13, 130, 306 n. 239 city gates 66, 71, 108, 110–11, 116, 192 images of 111, ﬁg. 102, 243 visibility of from outside the city 110 visibility of from within the city 300 n. 145 city titles 127–8, 147 city views, see cities, images of city walls 71, 78, 108–10, 143, 299 n. 54; see also mural crowns of statues sacrality of 108 symbolism of 60, 70, 108–13, 319 n. 59 civic pride, architecture as statement of 108, 110, 124, 127–42, 143

371 civic rivalry 110, 140–1 classical orders, the 8, 10, 11, 17, 18, 23, 32, 34, ﬁg. 19, 50, 108, 157–8, 239 classicism 32 clipei, see imagines clipeatae closure, in architectural description 228 Cnidian Aphrodite 287 n. 82 coffering 56, ﬁg. 48, ﬁg. 49h, 68, 73, 180, ﬁg. 144b, 292 n. 160 painted imitation of 58, ﬁg. 52 coins and medals 146, ﬁg. 130 architecture on 4–5, 5–6, ﬁg. 2, 22, 32, ﬁg. 18f, 35, ﬁg. 20, ﬁg. 21, 24, ﬁg. 10, 36–7, 39, 42–3, ﬁg. 31, 48, 50, ﬁg. 41, 51, ﬁg. 43, 52, 61–2, ﬁgs. 56–7, 66, ﬁgs. 64–5, 67–8, ﬁg. 69, 108, 110–11, ﬁg. 102, 112, 120, 183, ﬁg. 147 coins and medals, architecture on, accuracy of 62 collapse of buildings 82, 259, 317 n. 74 as metaphor 21 collegia 119 colonies, Roman 70, 71, 118, 147 foundation of 114 colonies, status of 109–10, 111 colonnaded streets, see streets, colonnaded colossal statues 39, 68, 113, 208, 213, 215, 237, 292 n. 166 colour, use of, in architecture 34, 100, 158–9, 199 column drums 18, 29 column ﬂutes 21, 124; see also spiral ﬂutes columnar architecture, principle of 17–18, 239–40 columns 71, 74, 76, 90, 115, 116, 223 anthropomorphism of 17, 19, 21, 243 commemorative 26, 27–8, ﬁgs. 14a–c, 51, 182 dedication of 7 free–standing, in façades 110 gigantic 46, 68 hoisting of 317 n. 24 in design of arches 25 ‘invisibility’ of 239 like trees 17, 115, 300 n. 119 number of 202 obsession with 21 of the world 17, 54, 289 n. 26 stability of 18 symbolic meanings of 13, 18–19, 22, 23, 54 upward movement of 17–18, 54 with granite shafts 35, 43, 46, 48, 68, 78 commemoration 2, 13, 167–9 composite capitals 10, 42, 48, 84, 88, 108, 110, 116, 118, 123, 124, 142, 157–8, 186, 240, 298 n. 23; see also Italo–Corinthian order concealment of inscribed reliefs 44 concord, notions of 83, 120, 127, 129–30, 131, 140–1, 217 concrete, Roman 1, 25–6, 76, 83, 87, 108 cones 54 cities shaped like 92 consilium principis 76, 108, 296 n. 36 consoles, projecting, of colonnaded streets 115

372 ‘conspicuous consumption’ 71 ‘conspicuous leisure’ 13 contemplation 3–4 contributions to funding of public buildings 81 conversion 11 convex frieze 161 Corinthian order 10, 18, 23, 32, 33, ﬁgs. 19a–c, 42, 46, 48, 50, 65, 77, 78, 108, 118, 124, 125, 154, 157, 186 cornices, resembling the human face 17, 19 cornucopia 67 corona civica 23–4 cosmic harmony 94 cosmic symbolism, of architecture 13, 17, 53–5, 60, 66, 68–9, 94–5, 100, 101, 103, 108, 116, 150, 215, 218, 225, 232, 241, 255, 300 n. 127 cosmology 18 cost of buildings 4, 73, 76, 78, 89, 293 n. 56, 293 n. 58, 293 n. 72, 293 n. 73, 293 n. 79; see also monumentality, deﬁned by cost creation literature 18–19 creation of the world, analogy with architecture 19, 20–1, 95, 101, 225–6, 241–2 crenellation, licences for 110 crocodile, marble 286 n. 38 Cronos 64 cross–axes 25 cross–cultural links 18 cross–sections of buildings 20, ﬁg. 7 cross–vaults (groin–vaults) 55, 58, 60, 90 crowns of statues, see statues, crowns of cryptoporticoes 142 cubes 54, 68, 95, 257, 297 n. 82 ‘culture’, symbolic conception of 150 curator of temples and public buildings (curator aedium sacrarum publicarumque), office at Rome 10 curatores, officials in charge of city districts 114 officials in charge of public buildings 10, 51, 76 curatores rei publicae 152 curvilinear architecture 18, 21, 36–7, 50, 78, 80, 100, 103, 111, 161 Cybele, see Magna Mater ‘Cyclopaean’ masonry 166–7 cylinders 54, 68, 95, 98, 257, 297 n. 82 Cynics 71, 181–2 Dacian Wars 4, 5 Daedalus 116 damnatio memoriae 51, 70, 81 Danaus, legendary founder of Argos 117 dating of buildings, archaeological and epigraphic 50, 52, 100, 240, 286 n. 30, 286 n. 39, 291 n. 118, 293 n. 80, 294 n. 90, 294 n. 91, 294 n. 105, 295 n. 138, 297 n. 103, 297 n. 113, 303 n. 78, 304 n. 143, 311 n. 111, 320 Appendix 1 n. 4 dating system, from foundation of Rome 173–4, ﬁg. 141, 298 n. 144

general index David Plates 64–5, ﬁg. 62 dead, commemoration of 11 declamation 12, 13 decadence, urban, ideas of 121 decay of buildings, actual or potential 169, 232 decoration of buildings 12, 56, 156–61 decuriae, judiciary 74 decurions, responsibility for public building projects 71, 74 dedication of buildings 7, 22, 32, 81, 156, 166 defacement of architecture 159; see also damnatio memoriae Demeter, see Ceres demiurge 19, 20–1 denigration of predecessor, by emperors 29 dentils 296 n. 31 descriptions of architecture 12–13, 37, 213–35; see also ecphrasis design of buildings 19, 21, 78, 81, 91, 98, 184 design, modular 22 destruction of monumental architecture 14, 244 Diana (Artemis) 63, 81; see also Artemis of Ephesus dictionaries, deﬁnitions of monuments and the monumental 2 Dido 146 dignity: of buildings 161, 218; see also cities, dignity of of individuals 184 dimensions: in cubits 316 n. 145 in Punic feet 197 in Roman feet 32, 39, 83, 293 n. 38, 293 n. 67, 297 n. 111, 297 n. 119, 299 n. 48, 304 n. 106, 311 n. 38 vagueness of 208, 217; see also measurement, as criterion of monumental architecture dining rooms 56, 84 Dionysus, see Bacchus Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux) 63, 68, 299 n. 51 Dioscurides 66 distance slabs 44–6 distraction of monumental architecture 213, 216, 232–5 districts, urban: names of 117 of provincial cities 116–17 districts (vici) of Rome 114 dithyrambs 300 n. 121 Docimium, see marble, Phrygian dome, as image for the human brain 100–1 ‘dome of heaven’ 56, 68, 232 domes 13, 26, 36, 37, 56, 60–1, 62, 66, 67, 68, 78, 96, 100–1 suggested by ﬂoor mosaics 60 Domus Augustorum 294 n. 131 door jambs, inscribed 294 n. 116 Doric order 80, 108 dramatic festivals 89 duoviri 71

durability, as a constituent of monumentality 4, 44, 96, 103, 170, 195, 198, 203 dynastic monuments 31, 50, 74–6, 82, 286 n. 50, 309 n. 114 eagles 46, 68, 184 earthquakes, as natural phenomena 208 damage of buildings by 38, 39, 84, 96, 111, 141 economic constraints on building 51 ecphrasis 121, 213–16, 221–9 education, Greek and Roman; see architects, education of; Quadrivium Egyptian architecture 4, 55, 65, 66, 165–6 Egyptianizing 43, 80 elevations, architectural 19 élites, seating for 76 emotional responses to monumental architecture 12, 116, 233 emotions, attributed to buildings 21, 199 emperor’s friends, role played in provincial architecture 43, 81–3 emperors: architectural patronage of 29–30, 32, 34, 35–6, 37–41, 44, 46–8, 50–1, 52, 151–2 as model for other benefactors 27 as sponsors of the people 29, 34, 50 attribution of buildings to 37–9, 40, 44, 46, 51, 81, 285–6 n. 8 images of 39, 58, 66, 67, 68 monuments to 81 responsible for physical appearance of Rome 30 encomia: as enhancement of beauty 213 of buildings 216–20; see also speeches in buildings of cities 115 engineering 26 as metaphor for creation of the world 20 entasis 21 envy, protection of monuments from 159, 172 ephemeral architecture 103 epic, Akkadian 18 epic poetry, analogy with monumental architecture 2,11, 12, 28 Epicureanism 20, 93 epigrams 55, 214, 229, 302 n. 253 epigraphic habit 294 n. 97 equestrians 6, 23, 71, 73, 74, 76, 78, 92 era of Rome 34 eternity, relation of architecture to ideas of 10, 11, 13, 83, 153, 173, 200, 202–3 Etruscan antiquities, interest in 29 euergetism 120–1, 127, 158, 173, 259; see also patronage of architecture decline in 121 opposition to 127, 133, 161, 240, 303 n. 73 exclusivity of monumental architecture 13, 120, 122, 124 exedras 46, 125, 168 existence of God, proof of 283 n. 64

general index experience of architecture, see architecture, experience of experimentation in architecture 43 extensions to buildings 76 eyebrows, applied to architecture 17 fabric, of buildings 19 façades of buildings 6, 18, 22, 40, 41, 51–2, 77, 81, 110, 117, 212, 215 as ‘faces’ 122, 284 n. 74 ‘façades’, metaphorical 108, 228 face, applied to architecture 17 fame: as a ‘tomb’ 300 n. 147 associations of monumental architecture with 166, 171, 200–4, 306 n. 2 family memorials 168–9, 179–80, 187–8, 197–8, 201–2 family trees 169 festivals 41, 121, 138 ﬁnancing of public buildings, see public buildings, ﬁnancing of ﬁrmament, of the universe 17 ﬁres: damaging buildings 29, 39, 54, 114, 142, 177 like military attacks 299 n. 98, 304 n. 114 ﬁscus (imperial treasury) 38, 81, 151 ﬂamines, building projects of 7, 73, 76 ﬂoods, damaging buildings 51 focal points in cities 116–17, 119–20 fora 117–18, 122, 151, 301 n. 169 paving of 118 fora, alternatives to 117, 119–20 form: architectural 13, 15–28; see also architectural form, as vehicle for ideas hybrid 43 schematic sense of 13, 17, 19–20 sculptural, applied to architecture 243 urban 114–15 forma of aqueducts 20 fortiﬁcation, right of 109 fortiﬁcations 27–8, 43–6, 78, 96 images of 60, ﬁg. 53, 70 political and aesthetic issues arising from, 108 Fortuna (‘Fortune’) 35, 43, 172; see also Tyche fortune, of emperors 172–3 foundation stones 18 foundations: as metaphor 83 of buildings 18–19, 46, 92, 224–5 of cities, and refoundations 38, 83, 109, 111, 114, 296 n. 19 foundations of cities, as ritual acts 291 n. 88 founders of cities 142, 200–1; see also statues and other images of city founders fountains 71, 76, 83, 117, 293 n. 71 fragility of architecture 216, 229 framing of architecture 117 freedmen 6, 175, 186–7, 196 frigidarium 35, 43, 77, 78, 124, 228

frontiers 46 funerary stelae 185–6, ﬁg. 151, 194, ﬁgs 165a–b, 244 furnaces 20 future, concern of monumental architecture with the 13 games, gladiatorial 34, 51, 98, 148 gardens, villa, and horti 70–1, 87, 212 garlands, decorating buildings 186 gates, of the universe 17 gateways 66, ﬁg. 66, 108, 158, 225; see also arches, city–gates; gateways, triple gateways, triple 299 n. 47 genii 58, 60, 66 geometry 19, 53, 80, 93, 95, 98, 101, 224, 257 gestures in viewing architecture 146, 218, 230 giant orders 22, 46, 48 gigantomachy 111, 116 gilding: of architectural ornament 240 of statues 95, 112–13 of roofs and ceilings 130, 209, 215, 231–2, 233 globe: as symbol of cosmic sovereignty 53–4, 66 of Atlas 90 gods, relationship with 11 gold, use of in architecture 29, 71, 127, 284 n. 111, 276 n. 112; see also gilding of statues Golden Ratio 100 gothic style, and democracy 10 graffiti 182–3, 256, 320 Appendix 2 n. 9 ‘grand style’, the 1, 239–41 granite, see columns, with granite shafts Greek language 12 Greek style of architecture 80, 90 griffins ﬁg. 18c, ﬁg. 19c, 67, 134, 291 n. 138 grottoes 60, 84, 122, 241–2 guides, to buildings 213 gymnasiarchs 124, 294 n. 117 Hadad 64 handouts, of food, wine or oil 76 hanging gardens, image of 131 harbours 36, 141, 145, 182–3 images of 110–11, 121 Hariti, Indian goddess 299 n. 88 harmony: ethnic 299 n. 66 in urban architecture 46, 95, 101, 117, 140, 297 n. 73 of individual buildings 199, 217–18, 310 n. 114 Haterii, reliefs from the monument of 285 n. 129 head: applied to architecture 21, 232 applied to natural world 17 headdresses 54, ﬁg. 46, 62 health of buildings 21

373 height of buildings 48, 50, 73, 76, 207, 226, 232 Helios 11, 67, 94–5, 300 n. 127; see also Sol Helios, Neos 67 Helios Sebastos 67 Hellenism 13 hekatompeda 17 Hera 61, 62; see also Juno Hercules (Heracles) 37, 63, 90, 119, 122, 299 n. 51 heritage, architectural, concept of 120, 146–7, 175, 177–8 Hermes, see Mercury herms in architecture 51, 178 Hesiod, echoes of 95, 297 n. 78 hexagons in architecture 125 Historia Augusta 35, 36, 37 historic architecture, allusions to 111 historiography, role of architecture in 215–16 Homer: echoes of 95, 207, 211–12, 214, 216, 217, 223, 230–1, 232, 240–1, 318 n. 154 isopsephic value of lines of 256 Homonoia, see concord, notions of honestiores 7 honour and reputation, supposed lack of interest in 52, 94 house, like castle 70, 255, 320 Appendix 1 n. 13 houses, urban 70–1, 108 as personal monuments 178, 255 as public monuments 70 human analogy of architecture 21, 26, 100–1, 103, 115, 122, 141, 157, 222–3, 231–3, 243, 317 n. 44 humiliores 7 hygiene, personal 124 hymns: in prose 216–17 in verse 81, 94–5, ﬁg. 94, 256 hyperbole, and monumentality 125, 181, 215–17, 237 iconography 66, 291 n. 126 ideal values in building dimensions 98 identity: civic 111–13, 115, 117, 120, 122, 124, 147–9 cultural 74, 80, 89–90, 108, 142, 212, 244 ethnic 74, 108, 212, 244 Italian 298 n. 22 family 6–7, 71–4 local 62, 114, 116, 119–20, 124, 244 political 5, 10–11, 13 public 120 social 70, 74, 255 regional 100 religious 11–12, 13, 58 ideology, imperial 108, 110, 151, 153, 156–61, 173 idols, see religious images images, allegorical 10, 32, 35, 45–6, 51–2, 66, 67, 80, 92, 93, 111–13, 116, 173, 242, 299 n. 57

374 imagines 20, 169 imagines clipeatae ﬁg. 79d,78, 116, 175, 185, ﬁg. 150, 202, ﬁg. 170 immortality 11, 67, 83, 198 ‘immortality’ of monumental architecture 141 imperial authority, buildings associated with 34, 81 imperial building in the provinces 35, 37–9, 46–9, 50–1, 109, 151–3 imperial building projects, contrasts between 29 imperial cult 7, 12, 35, 39, 64–5, 66, 68, 76, 88, 98, 107, 130, 134, 153–4, 156, 181 imperial grants for buildings 38, 84, 306 n. 26 ‘imperial halls’ 129, 134, 156–7, 197 imperial household and administration 6, 103 imperial ideology, see ideology, imperial imperial images 68, 74, 82, 123, 134, 138, 154–6, 292 n. 166 imperial journeys, see monuments of imperial journeys imperial letters 131, 153 imperial officials 152, 159 imperial palaces 26, 29–30, 64–5, 66 imperial permission for public building projects 71 imperial portraits and statues 6, 30 ﬁg. 15a, 35, 39, 134, 138, 153, 174; see also imperial images imperial rescripts 29 imperial rule, deﬁned by architectural forms 22–3 imperial secretary (ab epistulis) 296 n. 36 imperial speeches 27–8, 67, 140, 148 individuals’ responses to buildings 12–13, 230–5, 311 n. 79 inﬂuence: of individual buildings on other buildings 69, 98–100, 175, 180, 183, 306 n. 259 of Rome on provincial architecture 5, 8–10, 74, 87–90, 98, 100 innovation in architecture, see architectural innovation inscriptions 5, 19, 26, 27–8, 35, 36, 37, 39, 40, 42, 44–5, 46, 52, 60, 70–1, 73, ﬁg. 75b, 76, 78, 81, 84, 88–9, 90, 92, 94–8, 108, 119, 120, 123–4, ﬁg. 116a, 135–7, ﬁg. 124c, 159, 168, 170, 173–4, ﬁg. 141, 178, 186–7, ﬁgs. 153b–e, 191–4, 197–8, 259–62; see also bronze letters on inscriptions; door jambs, inscribed; epigraphic habit; inscriptions, carving of; inscriptions, frames of; inscriptions, paired; lead pipes, inscriptions on; mosaic inscriptions; verse inscriptions beneﬁts of for patrons 71 carving of 191, 198 formulaic language of 297 n. 88 frames of 44–5, 196; see also inscriptions, frames, tabula ansata frames, tabula ansata 74, 82–3, ﬁg. 83, ﬁg. 84a, 96,191–4, ﬁg. 158b, ﬁg. 159, ﬁg. 160b, ﬁg. 164

general index naming patron and architect together 70–1, 292 n. 8, 92 of Nicon 94–8, 256–58, Appendix 2 paired, on buildings 173 rhetorical language of 83, 295 n. 139 visibility of 73, 76, 82–3, 90, 98, 156, 168, 300 n. 160 intercolumniations 209, 305 n. 181 interior space, public spaces perceived as 117 interiors 13, 18, 31, 46, 48, 55–6, 62, 122, 124, 126, 188, 212–13, 290 n. 63, 290 n. 64 inventories 207, 214 Ionic order 18, 21, 23, 40, 62, 88, 108, 145 Isis 11, 61, 63, 119 isopsephisms 94, 95, 96, 98, 244, 256–58, 297 n. 73 Italo–Corinthian order 108 Italy, regions of 20 Janus 66 Jewish revolt (A.D. 66) 115 Judaism 11, 19, 119, 159, 168 Juno Moneta 5, 54 Juno Regina 62 Jupiter 54, 55, 95, 111, 116, 294 n. 116; see also Zeus Jupiter Depulsor 294 n. 116 Jupiter Dolichenus 55, 62–4 Jupiter Heliopolitanus 46, 48, 55, 64 Jupiter Optimus Maximus 54 Jupiter Valens 80, 81 justice 93, 94, 96 keys, to buildings 196 keystones 25, 43, 58, ﬁgs. 50b–c, 83, ﬁg. 86, 111, 113, 116, 124, 140, 142, 155–6, ﬁg. 154c, 306 n. 239 as metaphor 55–6, 243, 305 n. 149 ‘kinesthetic address’ 60 Labos, mythical founder of Perge 299 n. 51 labyrinths 70, ﬁg. 72, 123, 124, 227, 255, 301 n. 234 lakes, and architecture 29 landscape, architecture rivalling 11, 26, 200, 217, 232 landscape, form of 20 late antiquity, art and architecture of 14, 66, 117, 119, 120 Latin language 12; see also Archaic Latin latrines, monumental 124–5 layout, of bath buildings 25 lead pipes, inscriptions on 293 n. 80, 294 n. 135 legacies, see bequests for buildings Legio II Augusta 44–5 Legio III Augusta 62, 81, 285 n. 164, 296 n. 36 Legio VI Victrix 44, 46 Legio XX Valeria Victrix 44, 45–6 legions 44–6 length of building elements 46, 73 Leonteus (Lapith) 299 n. 51

letters 196; see also imperial letters Lex Julia Theatralis 23 Liberalia 32 liberality 29, 32, 37; see also liberalitas libraries 8–10, 218, 233 light, in architecture 210, 228, 231–2 lighthouses, see pharoi lighting of buildings 12, 68 lightning, comparison of architectural experience to 140–1, 208 literacy 53 literary models for built architecture 145–6, 241–2 literary terminology 219 Logos, divine 20 ‘long walls’ 298 n. 30 lotus and acanthus capitals, see capitals, Blattkelch type love of buildings 116, 227, 231, 292 n. 8, 300 n. 125 Luna (the Moon god) 63, 67, 292 n. 160 luxury 27, 225 Machaon 299 n. 51 Magi, Persian 195–6 magistrates, role in public building projects 71, 84 Magna Mater (Cybele) 11, 60, 112, 173 magniﬁcence 19, 29, 93 maintenance of buildings 21, 34, 76, 78, 136, 169–70 Marble Plan of Rome, Severan (Forma Urbis Romae) 35 marble style 1–2, 71, 76, 88, 158–61, 196–7, 199 marble: Chian (‘portasanta’) 123 Euboean (‘cipollino’) 34, 70, 74, 77, 125, 295 n. 163 from Teos (‘africano’) 76 Laconian, see porphyry, green Numidian (‘giallo antico’) 76, 143, 149, 227, 293 n. 44 Pentelic 76, 142, 303 n. 84 Phrygian or Docimian (‘pavonazzetto’) 10, 23, 76, 81, 84, 158–9, 226–7 Proconnesian 142, 294 n. 83 Thasian 113 marbles: demand for 76, 243–4 used as metaphor 238 ‘redemptive value’ of 244 use of in public buildings 1–2, 5, 6, 10, 22, 29, 35, 39, 43, 68, 74, 76, 77, 83, 84, 100, 110, 158–9, 214, 227 Marduk, Babylonian god 18 market porticoes 96–8, 258 market weights and measures, as object of benefaction 121 markets 29, 67, 76, 78, 118–19 Mars Ultor 67 Marsyas, statues of 147–9

general index materials: cost or value of 4, 76, 207, 215 durability of 4, 27–8 role of, in creating monumentality 12, 83 supply of 38, 84, 87 symbolic meanings of 76, 83, 158–61 translucent 29 mathematics 223, 256 as route to virtue 94 ‘mausolea’ 69, 180–2, 269–70, 292 n. 183, 299 n. 68; see also Halicarnassus, Mausoleum measurement, as criterion of monumental architecture 208–9 Medaurus 81, 294 n. 116 Medusa, the Gorgon 60, 233–4 megaron buildings 43 Meleager 66 memory, cultural 147 memory: perpetuation of 2, 71, 83, 165–9, 183–7, 194–6, 198–202 prompted by monumental architecture 81, 167, 179–80, 237 ‘mental buildings’ 12, 103 Mercury (Hermes) 51, 81, 124, 294 n. 116, 299 n. 51 metaphor, builder’s tools as 71, ﬁg. 73 metaphor for society, buildings as 5, 11, 70 metaphors, architectural 5, 12, 17, 18, 19, 20–1, 22–3, 26, 55, 83, 101, 218–20, 238–9, 243 ‘micro–architecture’ 60, 107, 112–13, 196–7 mint, at Rome 5, 22 Middle Platonism 20, 241–2 military camps, architecture of 27 Minyas 299 n. 51 mirrors, Etruscan 66 Mishnah 58 missorium of Theodosius 64, ﬁg. 61 Mithraism 11 Mithras 63, 94, 95, 119 mnemonics 25, 26, 53, 166, 169 mobility 93; see also architects, mobility of of Roman officials 2 social 5, 6–7, 71, 76, 296 n. 36, 298 n. 145 models, architectural 19, 20 modernity, potential of, for monumental architecture 237–9 monotheism 11, 55, 58, 100 ‘Monument’, ‘M for’ 173 monumental architecture: analogy to sacred buildings 13, 45, 108, 184–91, 202–3, 307 n. 81 comparison with the epic genre in literature 2, 12, 28, 167–8, 178, 198–200, 214–15, 218, 240–1 competition with older buildings 3, 216–17, 237–9 deﬁned as exceeding practical requirements 5, 165, 239 deﬁned by arched forms 40, 45–6, 89–90, 142

distraction of; see distraction of monumental architecture impact of 139–41, 153, 207, 212, 233 living quality of 200, 243 military associations of 27, 44–5, 81, 110, 159, 167, 169, 191, 192, 212 symbolism of 14, 53–69, 94–5, 100 transcending verbal description 217 utility of, see utility of monumental architecture visibility of 182 monumental entrances, see propyla and propylaea, temple porticoes monumental space in cities, notions of 116–26, 137–46 monumentality: and civic rank 149 and purity of form 3, 165 and regime change 31, 50, 71 and social mobility of families 6–7, 71–4, 78, 82, 183, 198 and social rank 73, 76, 78, 78–81, 88–9, 181 and stone masonry 77–8, 110, 166–7, 177 and the imagination 3, 207, 218 as a reminder to posterity 6, 92, 165–78 as alternative to ‘propaganda’ 5–6, 62, 150 as evidence of the past 1, 2, 14, 165–8 as social or political statement 5, 35, 70, 78–81, 107, 173 as suggesting continuity or stability 5–6, 161 debates on 3, 216, 237–40 deﬁned by: changes in architectural form 62 commemorative purpose 168 cost 181, 209 entrances 122–4 imposing effects 3, 208; see also height of buildings ornament 76, 96, 157–61, 239 precision of workmanship 199, 208, 215 scale 3, 4, 17, 22, 46, 70, 116, 120, 125, 168, 178, 208, 214–15, 219, 237, 292 n. 4 stability 96, 228–9 meaning of 2–6, 4, 101, 117 notion of since antiquity 2–4 of cities 107–26 of public spaces 117–20 origin of the term 2–3 realised at festivals 121, 133 recognized through columnar forms 8, 17–18, 32–4, 45, 54, 89–90, 108 recognized through vaulted forms 18, 19, 40, 54–6, 108 related to economic prosperity or revival 35–6, 116 rhetorical aspects of 125 monumentalization 2, 22, 73, 76, 111, 158, 171–2, 196, 293 n. 61 meaning of 125–6 monuments: aesthetic value of 2–3

375 as archetypes 179–83 as expression of family identity 7, 10 as producing emotional effects 2, 92 character of ﬁg. 1, 32, 165–204, 172 cultural 107, 165 durability of; see durability, as a constituent of monumentality Egyptian attitudes to 165–6 Greek attitudes to 166–8, 170–2, 177–8 ‘intentional’ or ‘unintended’ 2, 3, 165, 308 n. 40 of art 223 of foreign cultures, interest in 42, 165–6, 170 of imperial visits or journeys 41–2, 43, 51, 66, 110, 153 of neighbourhoods 116–17 on private estates 2, 83 references on buildings to other 81 relation of, with individuals 3, 12–13, 184, 230 religious 32, 53, 54, 55, 60–1, 68 Roman attitudes to 168–78 Moon, see Luna Mopsus 299 n. 51 morality 19 and architecture 19, 20, 27, 71, 92, 93–4, 96, 98, 103, 121, 233–4 mortality 11, 141, 168 mortar, as metaphor 220 use of, in buildings 96 mosaic inscriptions 124, 296 n. 28 mosaics 35, 39, 60, 70, ﬁg. 72, 96, 110, 123, 124, 142, 149, 158–9, 243, 301 n. 234 moulds 20 mountains: anthropomorphism of 17, 54 applied to architecture 67, 102, 217, 231, 283 n. 11, 308 n. 142 movement, as criterion of architectural experience 209; see also walking mud–brick architecture 82 municipia 71, 109–10, 148–9, 298 n. 38 mural crown (corona muralis), military award 112 mural crowns of statues 111–13 Muses 60, 95 music, and architecture 93, 224, 241, 297 n. 135 musical notation 95 mythic quality of monumental architecture 167, 171 naming: of buildings 22, 110, 169, 180–1, 201, 296 n. 21 of cities 108 practice of, Roman 6, 96, 98, 296 n. 45 natatio, as feature of Roman baths 35 natural features, resemblance of architecture to 17, 108, 301 n. 210 navel, metaphorically, of the world 17 of cities 139

376 necks, applied to natural features 17 Nehalennia, mother goddess 60–1, ﬁg. 55, 66 neighbourhoods, see districts, urban, of provincial cities Neolithic architecture 5 Neptune (Poseidon) 11, 111, 142 nest building, as paradigm for architecture 22, 255 niches 45, 48, 60, 62, 66, 81, 88, 100, 110 depth of 297 n. 119 vaulted 61–2, 244 nucleation 302 n. 260 numeracy, ancient 103 numeration, systems of 94 Numidian houses 20 nymphaea 40, 43, 60, 68, 83, ﬁg. 85, 87, ﬁg. 90, 111, 242 ritual signiﬁcance of 295 n. 141 obelisks 200, 296 n. 28, 300 n. 112 oblong shape 20 oculus 56, 68, ﬁg. 71c odeia 91 oil, for bathing 227 old and new, monumental architecture as duality of 171, 204 Old Testament 19 opus sectile 159 oracles 90, 210 oratory 12–13,22, 25, 53, 279; see also mnemonics, rhetorical performances analogy of, with architecture 83–4 Orestes 19 organic analogy, applied to urban space 108, 115, 118 orientation, of buildings 68, 100, 101–3, 298 n. 142 of visitors within a city 115–16 Orpheus 301 n. 210 Orphism 94 Osiris 64 Paideia, as basis for architectural viewing 230 painting: architectural (Second Pompeian Style) 25 Fourth Pompeian Style 43, 66 paintings 93, 109, 211–12, 233–4 of buildings 109, ﬁg. 100, 211–12, ﬁg. 171, 312 n. 128 palm and acanthus capitals, see capitals, Blattkelch type Pan 299 n. 51 Panhellenion, established by Hadrian in Greece 40 panoramic settings 46 pantheon, Graeco–Roman 11, 68, 81 Parilia 26, 34 Parthian expeditions 41, 51, 296 n. 36 past, attitudes towards the 12, 13, 29, 170–1 patina, on bronze statues; see age, signs of, on buildings

general index patronage of architecture 19, 21, 29–30, 34–5, 37–9, 58, 70–90, 121, 127, 130–1, 133–9, 151, 201–2, 241 patrons, of colonies 146 pavements, marble 68 paving, stone 101, 110, 115, 117, 118 pediments: as a sign of monumentality 50, 53, 123, 184–6, ﬁg. 148, ﬁgs. 150–1, 188, 191, ﬁg. 157, 212 broken 87 segmental 10, 18, 50, ﬁg. 42, 51, ﬁg. 43, ﬁg. 49e, 83 symbolic meanings of 13, 18, 23–4, 25, 53, 60, 68, 108 Syrian, see arcuated lintels Pelusii, dii boni 294 n. 116 peristyles 124 Persian king’s golden plane tree 231 personalization of city goddesses 113 perspective views 19, 115 pharoi (lighthouses) 36, 92, 182–3, 296 n. 17, 296 n. 22 phengite 29 philology 12 Phrygians, ‘primitive’ architecture of 22 physiognomy 71 pi, approximations of in ancient mathematics 297 n. 95 Pinax (‘Tabula Cebetis’) 93, 94 plague 78 planets 53, 55, 68, 93, 94, 96 plans, architectural 19, 21, 26, 68, 76 platforms 96 Plato and Platonism 101, 226, 231, 232; see also Middle Platonism; Platonic forms Platonic forms 60 applied to architecture 241–2 play, notion of applied to architecture 21 Pliny’s villas 20, 53, 60, 70–1, 292 n. 8, 294 n. 102 podia, see temple podia; tomb monuments, podia of political allegiance, expressed through public architecture 74, 76, 81, 90, 109–10 pomerium, of Rome 108 pontifex maximus, Roman office of 22, 34 popular demand for buildings 76, 122 popularity of buildings 29, 306 n. 253 population, rise in 125 populations, urban, estimates of 296 n. 40, 302 n. 252, 302 n. 17 porch, as metaphor 18 porphyry, green (Laconian marble) 227 porta regia of theatres, so–called 23, ﬁg. 8, 68, 284 n. 123 porticoes 7, 29, 32, 34, 70, 73, 74, 76, 81, 92, 115, 117, 120, 124, 168, 201; see also market porticoes; stoas; temples, porticoes of Poseidon, see Neptune

posterity: building for 13, 311 n. 86 verdict of 1, 14, 29 posture, of orators 218 power, buildings as expression of 107, 117, 120 Praefectus Annonae, office of 36 praetorian guard 6 praetorian prefects 76–8, 149, 192, 289 n. 212 precincts, public 107, 117–20 precious stones 29, 54 ‘primitive architecture’, relation to monumental architecture 22, 230–1, 307 n. 52 private architecture 21, 25, 120, 124; see also villas; Pliny’s villas ‘privatization’ of public space 120 processions 115, 130, 138 proconsuls, dedicating temples 7 professions, commemorated by monuments 185–6, ﬁg. 151 promises of public building work 35, 130, 137 propaganda, architecture as 107, 150; see also monumentality, as alternative to ‘propaganda’ property, acquisition of 120 proportions 94, 98, 100, 101, 227, 231, 297 n. 82, 297 n. 110; see also design, modular propyla and propylaea 18, 46, 51, 81, 84, ﬁgs. 87a–c, 87, ﬁgs. 89a–c, 122, 175, 180, 309 n. 103 metaphorical, cities as 108, 139, 216 prosc(a)enia 73, 74, 76, 82, 88, 111, 117, 152 provincial assembly, of Asia 133 provincial governors, responsible for public buildings 6–7, 12, 44, 51, 74, 78–81, 84, 87, 152 provincial revenues 39 provision for future maintenance 136 proxenoi 300 n. 121 prytaneia 129, 302 n. 20 psychology, and experience of architecture 107 public architecture: notion of 13 relation of, to private architecture 120 public buildings 1–2, 6, 29, 120–6, 271–9 and civic identity 11 and family identity 201–2 as focal points of civic identity 115, 120–1 as social statement 70–6 associated with patrons 91–2, 120–1 decision making about 126 dedicated to Roman emperors 6, 12, 110, 124, 156, 294 n. 131 design of 103 ﬁnancing of 19, 71, 120, 151–2, 295 n. 159 functional aspect of 298 n. 3 ‘swallowing’ people 114 symbolic meaning of 10–11 viewing of 117, 208–10, 229–35 visual relationship between 117 public space 2, 117, 122–4; see also urban space ‘decentralization’ of 120 redeﬁnition’ of 124

general index public squares: closed off 119 spatial deﬁnition of 22, 73, 77, ﬁg. 79b, 88, 101, 117–19 pumpkins 26, 61 puriﬁcation rites 45 purple dye 159, 209 pyramids 54, 165–6, 180, 200 pyres, funerary 182 Pythagoras, Life of 297 n. 135 Pythagoreanism 93, 95, 100, 101, 103, 194, 208, 242 Quadi, campaign of Marcus Aurelius against 51 quadrigae 67, 88, 111 Quadrivium 93, 95 quarries 46, 76, 77, 78, 84, 158, 165 rain miracle 51 ratios, use of, in architecture, see proportions recitals, see rhetorical performances reconstruction of Rome 114 reconstructions, of buildings from literary descriptions 221–2, ﬁgs. 173–5, 229, ﬁgs. 176a–f regional styles of architecture 1–2, 240 Regionary Catalogues 114 regions, Augustan, of Rome 114 reliefs 36, 53, 61, 90, 111, 116; see also distance slabs religion, Roman 11–12, 55–64, 68–9, 290 n. 50; see also imperial cult religions, ‘inclusive’ 63 religious cults 11–12, 36–7, 60–4, 67; see also festivals, temples religious identity 11, 58 religious images 58 relocation of buildings 118 renovation, notion of 78, 169–70, 175, 243, 295 n. 154 reputation, interest of builders in 52 responses to architecture 4, 13, 53, 115–16, 121, 207–35 oral 229–35 physical 230, 234 written 211–20, 221–9 restoration of buildings 29, 30, 34, 35, 36, 38–9, 51, 74, 76, 78, 82, 84, 92, 98, 111, 117, 159, 174–5, 244; see also maintenance of buildings; renovation, notion of restoration, of cities 108, 112 of Italy 35–6, 175, Map 4 restraint, in architecture 226, 231 revision of building projects 137–9, 306 n. 33 Rhea Silvia 299 n. 88 rhetoric, compared with architecture 28, 228, 237–41 rhetorical performances 13, 27–8, 214; see also speeches in buildings rhetorical schools 12, 216 rhythm, in architecture 93, 115, 208–9 Risinnus, ‘monuments of ’ 81

rivalry between architect and patron 91–2 rivers, as natural wonders 209 Rixus 299 n. 51 roads (outside cities), maintenance of 35, 51; see also streets Roma 299 n. 88 Roma Aeterna 147 Roman style of architecture 13, 50, 52, 62, 74, 81, 83, 89–90, 91, 121, 137–8, 142 Rome: identiﬁed with the world 112 symbolic allusion to 117 Romulus and Remus, images of 116, 149 rooﬁng of buildings 91, 96, 251; see also ceilings roofs, marble 68 rostra 148 decorating a bronze basin in baths 317 n. 63 rotundas 68–9, 83; see also tholoi royalty, associations of buildings with 22, 24, 66, 158, 196 ruins 167, 173, 175, 177–8, 302 n. 149 rural landscape, contrasted with cities 121 rustication 29, 110, 210, 285–6 n. 8; see also stonework, unworked sacriﬁce 36, 45, 48, 68, 111 safety of the emperor, buildings dedicated for 73, 81, 87; see also Salus Salus 80 salvation, notion of 11, 38–9 sanctity, notion of deﬁned by architectural form 60 Sarapis, see Serapis sarcophagi 186, 193, ﬁgs. 162b and 163, 196–7, ﬁg. 166, 189, 196, 242, 297 n. 90 Sardinia, form of 20 satyrs, images of 95–6, ﬁg. 95, 297 n. 90 scaenae frons 23, 74, ﬁg. 78, 82–3, ﬁg. 84b, 87, 88, ﬁg. 91a, 159, 196, 218, 239–40; see also porta regia, proscaenium scaffolding 83, 107 scale, see monumentality, deﬁned in terms of scale schola buildings 121, 123–4 sculpture, analogy with architecture 103 seals 215 seating, for philosophical discussion 301 n. 241 Second Sophistic 13, 83–4, 101, 103, 219 sedition, architecture and 149 Senate, Roman 6, 22, 24, 25, 29, 31, 44, 66 senators 6–7, 22, 23, 42, 70–1, 74, 76, 78, 81, 82, 92, 100, 296 n. 36 senatusconsultum de Cn. Pisone patre 292 n. 2 Sennacherib 19 sense of place 116 Sequani, revolt of (A.D. 172–5) 116 Serapea 158, 213; see also Tivoli, Hadrian’s Villa Serapis 11, 63, 64, 94, 95, 119 Serliana, window form 40 sevir augustalis, see augustales 76 sewers of Rome 284 n. 120 shape of the world or universe 17, 18, 19, 21, 53–4

377 shapes, elemental 53–4, 95 of buildings 19–20, 21, 100, 121, 207–8, 226 shields, vault–like 55, 60 ships, comparison of buildings to 121 sick–building syndrome 284 n. 79 sickness, after viewing buildings 229–30 siege engines 296 n. 19 silence, as response to architecture 211–13, 230 Silvanus (Pegasianus) 63, 80, 81, 294 n. 116 sites, of buildings 199, 224 of cities 108, 141 size, as a constituent of monumentality 2–3, 4, 19, 22, 73, 125–6, 129, 172, 208, 215; see also monumentality, deﬁned in terms of scale size and beauty, as correlates 116, 125, 129, 208, 218 skene 66, 67 slaves 230, 298 n. 145 smell, of monumental architecture 210 social mobility in Roman society 6–7, 231 Social Wars 108 Sol (the Sun god) 63, 67, 292 n. 160; see also Helios solar crowns 43, ﬁg. 32, 66–7, ﬁg. 67 sophists, building projects of 83–4 sounds, of architecture 121, 209–10, 220, 231, 233 spaciousness 115, 227, 315 n. 79 spas 122 speeches: in buildings 13, 131, 140, 143, 213, 216–17, 229–35 of thanksgiving 146 spheres 95, 98, 257, 297 n. 82 as shape of the world 320 Appendix 2 n. 1; see also circle symbolism of 53–4, 68–9 spiral ﬂutes 62, 88 springs, architecture at 50, 52, 80–1, 98; see also spas stadion, as architectural measurement 19 stadium buildings 52, 121 stage architecture 115, 119, 134, 214 stage buildings of theatres, see scaenae frons stairs, resemblance of natural features to 17 stairways 50, 87, ﬁgs. 89a–c, 88, 107, 124, 224–5 as metaphor 101 statues: and other images of city founders 110, 111, 117, 124 colossal; see colossal statues crowns of 156, ﬁgs. 135–6; see also mural crowns of statues divine 54, ﬁg. 46, 60, 62, 64, 68, 81, 100, 259; see also colossal statues, imperial images: equestrian 71, 300 n. 148; see also quadrigae honoriﬁc 78, 94, 124, 138 honoriﬁc, locations of 117, 300 n. 149 of benefactors 138, 154, 199, 259 political signiﬁcance of 107

378 steps: around public spaces 119 between public buildings 120 stoas 22, 82, 96, 137, 239, 259, 296 n. 21 Stoicism 18, 20, 54–5, 83, 93, 230, 242, 296 n. 62 stones, size of, used in architecture 27–8, 166–7, 194, 214, 217 stonework 27–8, 46, 50, 199, 298 n. 38 painted imitation of 110 unworked 28, 29 streets 76, 113–16, 119 breadth of 114–15 colonnaded 84, 107, 114–16, 119 dimensions of 300 n. 109 modelled on Rome 300 n. 141 names of 116, 117 stucco 123 sublime, the, and monumental architecture 199–200, 219, 238–41, 308 n. 38 substructures, vaulted 25–6, 54, 81, 90 subterranean architecture 217 Sun, see Sol superimposed orders ﬁg. 5, 10, 23, 42, 48, 108, 117, 143, 298 n. 23 support, principle of 17–18, 22–3, 46, 90, 123 support ﬁgures 11, 23, 51–2, 60, 95, ﬁg. 95, 243, 297 n. 90, 309 n. 63 surveyors, Roman (agrimensores) 114 ‘symbolic capital’, notion of 13 symbolism 13, 53; see also architectural symbolism solar 66–7, 256 symmetry 71 syncretism 95 Syrian pediments, see arcuated lintels tabula ansata, see inscriptions, frames, tabula ansata Tabula Banasitana 296 n. 36 Tabula Cebetis, see Pinax technological change, social impact of 285 n. 137 Tellus 67 Temperance 93 ‘temple of architecture’ 5 temple entrances, as mediation between man and god 68, 76 temple podia 26, 62, 73, 76, 109, 187, 189–90; see also tomb monuments, podia of temple tombs 184–94 temple architecture 11–12, 18, 21, 32–4, 37, 39–40, 41–2, 46–50, 53–4, 55–5, 62–4, 68–9, 76, 78–81, 158, 169, 170; see also Capitolia, hekatompeda, tholoi temples: as public spaces 119–20 building of 21 dedication of 7, 12, 22, 170 dominating position of 108 octastyle 32, 35, ﬁg. 20, 40, ﬁgs. 25b–c peripteral 18, 32, 39–40, 46–50, 56 political function of 107, 153 porticoes of 32, 68, 74, 153–4 prostyle 32

general index templum rostratum 24, ﬁg. 9 tent, celestial 66 terraced substructures 46, 54, 71, 208 terracotta decoration, see brick and terracotta decoration tetrastyle structures 68, 74, 88, ﬁg. 92b, 115, ﬁg. 110, 117, 145 texts, as evidence for architecture 12 thatched roof 67 theatres 7, ﬁg. 4, 23, ﬁg. 8, 68, 73, 82–3, 88–90, 107, 177; see also proscaenium, scaenae frons awnings of 76, 82 social divisions in 284 n. 122 Theseus, myth of 83 thresholds 76, 207 tholoi 18, 36, 292 n. 164 thymelai, see tholoi timber for building 26, 73, 136, 259 time, notions of 166–7, 169, 199, 232 tomb monuments 4, 10, 11, 56, 69, 71, 84, 103, 125, 165–6, 168, 179–204, 291 n. 113, 292 n. 183; see also ascia rite; funerary stelae; ‘mausolea’ as houses 183–4 podia of 186, 188–90, 192 protection of 187, 194–6 topiary 70–1 tower tombs 186, 191, 197–200 towers 46, 70, 110, 121, 182, 201; see also fortiﬁcations images of 109, 113, ﬁg. 106, 255, 306 n. 239 town halls 10–11, ﬁg. 6; see also archeia trade, overseas 36, 50, 60 tragedy, architecture in 214 travel, dangers of 92 travel, to see monuments 51, 177, 179, 213 travertine 29, 285 n. 7 trefoil plans 52, ﬁg. 143a, 177 trials, of buildings 229 tribunals 22, 76; see also platforms tribunician power 31 trilithon of Baalbek 46 tripartite architecture 217 trophies, military 171–2, ﬁgs. 138–9 tufas, as building materials 114, 187, 312 n. 99 tumuli 18, 170, 172, 181 Tuscan–Doric 23 ‘Tuscan temples’ 189 Tyche 41–3, 48, 111; see also city goddesses ‘Tyche’ of Rome 299 n. 88 Tycheia 113, 130 unﬁnished projects 78 unsightliness of buildings 175, 232 universe, analogy to architecture 17, 283 n. 65 urban density 107, 108, 117, 118, 119, 121, 142–3, 207, 244 urban development, models of 125–6 urban population, stagnation in 120 urban praetor (praetor urbanus) 109 urban space: division of 108, 116

experience of 114, 115–16 utility of monumental architecture 29, 103, 109, 228, 238–9 Varro’s aviary, Casinum 53 vault: as analogy for society 55 as element of profane or sacred architecture 54–60 as image for the human spine 100–1 as image of the universe 54–5, 56, 60, 68–9 vaults 18, 54–61, 70, 81, 84, 96, 108, 142, 188; see also arches, barrel vaults, cross–vaults Venus (Aphrodite) ﬁg. 37, 46, 63, 291 n. 51 verse inscriptions 179–80, 184, 186, ﬁgs. 153d–e, 198–200, 203, 214, 229, 260–2 victories, images of 45, ﬁg. 35 victory trophies, see trophies, military ‘view planning’ 300 n. 153 viewers: of art 230–1 of buildings 230–1 as lovers 231, 300 n. 125 of monuments, interaction with monument 232–3, 237 viewing architecture 116, 117, 233 social distinctions in 230 villas 2, 20, 21, 51, 58, 70–1, 77, 80, 83, 84, 87, 121, 215, 216, 255; see also Pliny’s villas; Varro’s aviary villas, like cities 120 virtues 10, 55, 71, 92, 93–4, 96, 98, 116 virtues: cardinal 93, 296 n. 59, 296 n. 62 of buildings 228 voluntary donations 71, 84 votive animals, bronze 83, 295 n. 140 walking 115; see also movement, as criterion of architectural experience water architecture 80, 98 water basins 35, 43 wax, image of 199 wealth of benefactors 8–10, 19, 38, 71, 74, 76, 294 n. 118, 298 n. 145 wells 98 windows 77, 88, 225 Venetian, see Serliana Wisdom 10 women, as benefactors of public architecture 51, 74, 76, 82, 110, 117, 124, 175 wonder 50, 95, 178, 207–9, 210–12, 221, 227, 239, 310 n. 13 wonders of the world 84, 91, 100, 203, 214 wooden beams, size of 215 Zeus 11, 61, 83, 94, 95 Zeus Philios 12, 302 n. 35 ziggurats 17 zodiac 56, ﬁg. 48, 67