Gender Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC 9781407305158, 9781407335025

Table of contents :
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Preface and Acknowledgements
List of Contributors
Introduction
Where have all the men gone?: Sex, Gender and Women’s Studies
Gender identities and cultural identities in the pre-Roman Veneto
Where are they hiding? The invisibility of the native women of Puglia in the fourth century BC
Warriors and weavers: sex and gender in Daunian stelae
Expressions of gender through dress in Latial Iron Age mortuary contexts: the case of Osteria dell’Osa
Textile tools and specialisation in Early Iron Age female burials
United in death: The changing image of Etruscan couples
Isn’t s/he lovely? An investigation of androgyny in Etruscan art
Gender benders
Burning boats and building bridges: Women and cult in Roman colonisation
Women and the Romanisation of Etruria
Ethnicity and the costume of the Roman bride
Livia and the lex Voconia

Citation preview

BAR S1983 2009 HERRING & LOMAS (Eds) GENDER IDENTITIES IN ITALY IN THE FIRST MILLENNIUM BC

B A R

Gender Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC

Edited by

Edward Herring Kathryn Lomas

BAR International Series 1983 2009

Gender Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC

Edited by

Edward Herring Kathryn Lomas

BAR International Series 1983 2009

ISBN 9781407305158 paperback ISBN 9781407335025 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407305158 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

Contents Preface and Acknowledgements List of Contributors

iii v

contextualising the debate

Introduction Edward Herring & Kathryn Lomas

1

Where have all the men gone? Sex, Gender and Women’s Studies Ruth D. Whitehouse

7

gender identities in pre-roman italy: beyond the etruscans

Gender identities and cultural identities in the pre-Roman Veneto Kathryn Lomas

13

Where are they hiding? The invisibility of the native women of Puglia in the fourth century bc Edward Herring

27

Warriors and weavers: sex and gender in Daunian stelae Camilla Norman

37

gender identities in pre-roman italy: etruria and central italy

Expressions of gender through dress in Latial Iron Age mortuary contexts: the case of Osteria dell’Osa Lisa Cougle

55

Textile tools and specialisation in Early Iron Age female burials Margarita Gleba

69

United in death: the changing image of Etruscan couples Marjatta Nielsen

79

Isn’t s/he lovely? An investigation of androgyny in Etruscan art Bridget Sandhoff

97

Gender benders Larissa Bonfante

109

gender in roman italy

Burning boats and building bridges: women and cult in Roman colonisation Fay Glinister

117

Women and the Romanisation of Etruria Vedia Izzet

127

Ethnicity and the costume of the Roman bride Karen K. Hersch

135

Livia and the lex Voconia Bronwyn Hopwood

143

Preface and Acknowledgements This volume originated from a conference on the theme of Gender identities in Italy in the 1st millennium BC which was held at the Institute of Classical Studies in June 2006. The aim of the conference was to explore the role of gender in shaping identities and in particular the formation of female identities in Italian society from prehistory to the early Roman empire. It also sought to facilitate a cross-disciplinary approach to this area of study, by addressing the problems posed by a range of archaeological, art historical, epigraphic and literary evidence. The hugely enthusiatic response to the call for papers, which resulted not only in a much larger event than we had anticipated but also in a programme featuring speakers from Australia, Europe and North America, attests to the importance of this subject and the lively debates taking place within it.

encouraged us to believe that publication of the proceedings would be welcomed. In addition, we would like to thank Dr David Ridgway, Professor Tim Cornell and Professor Ruth Whitehouse, who chaired sessions, and the student volunteers for their invaluable logistical support before and during the conference.

The editors would like to thank all the speakers who took part in the conference on which this book is based, and who helped to make the event such a great success, and all the participants, whose level of engagement

Edward Herring (National University of Ireland, Galway) Kathryn Lomas (University College London)

The members of staff of the Institute of Classical Studies, especially the Director, Prof. Mike Edwards, and the Secretary, Dr Olga Krzyszkowska, deserve particular thanks for their assistance in hosting and organising this event. Finally, we would like to thank the Complex and Literate Societies Research Group and the Social and Cultural Dynamics Research Group of the Institute of Archaeology, University College London, which provided additional financial support.

List of Contributors Professor Larissa Bonfante Professor of Classics Emerita New York University Silver Center #503 New York NY 10003 USA Dr Lisa Cougle School of Archaeology and Anthropology Hope Building #14 Australian National University ACT 0200 Australia. Dr Margareta Gleba Associate Professor and Research Programme Manager The Danish National Research Foundation Centre for Textile Research University of Copenhagen 102 Njalsgade 2300 Copenhagen S Denmark Dr Fay Glinister Honorary Research Associate Department of History University College London 31-34 Gordon Square London WC1E 6BT UK Dr Edward Herring Dean of College of Arts, Social Sciences and Celtic Studies National University of Ireland, Galway Galway Ireland Dr. Karen K. Hersch Assistant Professor of Classics Department of Greek and Roman Classics Temple University 325 Anderson Hall (022-35) 1114 W. Berks Street Philadelphia, PA 19122 USA Dr Bronwyn Hopwood Lecturer in Roman History University of New England The School of Humanities University of New England ArmidaleN.S.W, 2351 Australia

Dr Vedia Izzet Lecturer in Archaeology Department of Archaeology University of Southampton Avenue Campus Highfield Southampton SO17 1BF UK Dr Kathryn Lomas Honorary Senior Research Associate Institute of Archaeology University College London 31-34 Gordon Square London WC1H 0PY UK Dr Marjatta Neilsen Svankaervej 20 DK-2720 Vanlose Denmark Dr Camilla Norman Project Manager The Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens Madsen Building (F09) The University of Sydney NSW 2006 Australia Dr Bridget Sandhoff Assistant Teaching Professor, Department of Art and Art History 507 Lucas Hall University of Missouri - St. Louis One University Boulevard St. Louis, MO 63121-4400 USA Professor Ruth Whitehouse Emeritus Professor of Prehistoric Archaeology Institute of Archaeology University College London 31-34 Gordon Square London WC1H 0PY UK

Introduction Edward Herring and Kathryn Lomas italian archaeology and the study of gender

The study of gender has become an important and in some respects, contentious area in the study of the ancient world. Since the ground-breaking work of Gero and Conkey in archaeology (Gero & Conkey 1991) and scholars such as Pomeroy, Humphreys and others (Pomeroy 1975; Humphreys 1983) in ancient history and in classical archaeology, there has been a vast expansion in studies of women and of gender in the ancient Mediterranean. This has been accompanied by a vigorous theoretical debate about the nature of the subject and methodologies for studying it, which are discussed further below. In particular, there are major differences between prehistoric and classical archaeologists in approaches to gender in this area, and also significant differences between archaeologists from different areas of Europe and North America (Koloski-Ostrow & Lyons 1997: 2–4; Brown 1997). One very striking aspect of the study of gender in antiquity has been the geographical focus. Much of the research has focused on Greek and Roman culture, but with a few notable exceptions, there has been relatively little consideration of gender in Italy outside Rome. Two collections of papers published some years ago (Cornell & Lomas 1997; Whitehouse 1997) took gender in ancient Italy as a central theme. Since then, there have been numerous innovative articles on aspects of the subject, but few attempts to consider gender in early Italy more widely. gender and identity

One of the endlessly fascinating aspects of pre and non-Roman Italy is its diversity. Unlike Greece, which developed an overarching sense of ethnic Greekness by the fifth century BC, Italy remained a region of multiple groups, each with its own distinctive ethnic and cultural identity. Although new methods for studying emerging cultural and ethnic identities have contributed greatly to our understanding of most cultures of non-Roman Italy, these have one notable feature in common – namely that few take into account gender and the ways in which cultural changes may impact on it, or its role in the development of cultural identities. With only a small number of exceptions (particularly the study of women and gender in Etruria), the male perspective has very much remained the norm. For some regions of Italy, this is because evidence which would allow us to examine representations of women and their roles in society is less plentiful and obvious, forcing scholars to read further between the lines. However, there are cultures in Italy in which the social roles and status of women are well-documented. Rome itself is one. Etruria is another, in which the evidence reveals a complex interplay between different viewpoints. For some other regions, in contrast, there is relatively little consideration of gender. In particular, the numerous studies of the cultural impact

of Rome pay very little attention to the possible role of gender in the uptake of Roman culture, and the potential differences between male and female experiences of Romanisation. The stated aim of the conference on which this volume is based was to try to move the study of gender in ancient Italy forward by providing an opportunity to examine gender alongside identity in different regions of Italy and at different periods of its pre-Roman and Roman history. We used the term ‘gender identities’ in the title of the conference and this volume. Although this term has been used in the past to describe individual self-attribution to a specific gender (Conkey & Spector 1998: 24–5), we are using it in a broader sense in this volume. In the context of the conference and this current publication, it is understood to encompass not solely gender as an aspect of personal identity but also the gendered dimensions of ethnic and state identities, and the role of gender in the interplay between individual and group identity. defining gender

A key problem when considering gender identities is the very concept of gender itself. Until relatively recently, there was a tendency to regard it as an uncomplicated male/female polarity, in which gender was largely equated with biological sex (Whitehouse 2007: 29–31, which links gender essentialism with an ethnocentric view of other cultures which imposes modern western norms). Although the overwhelming majority of people fall into the biological category of male or female, the assumption that all cultures observe a binary division that simply maps the cultural construction of gender onto the physical characteristics of sex underplays the complexity of gender in many societies, as well as placing an undue emphasis on biology. Even within biological categories, it is no longer enough to think in terms of only two sexes. Many societies have examples of people who cross this boundary, including inter-sex or trans-sexual individuals, eunuchs, etc. (Joyce 2008: 60–63). It is important, however, to stress that gender categories are not biologically determined, but are social categories which vary from one society to another, change over time, and which may involve more than two gender categories. This issue is neatly encapsulated in the distinction drawn between social gender, which is a cultural construct, and biological sex in Carmen Vida’s landmark paper on the gendering of burial assemblages from Pontecagnano (Vida Navarro 1992: 96, fn 1). Across different societies one may observe examples of multiple gender identities, identities which seem to be deliberately ambivalent, or of individuals who cross gender boundaries and therefore adopt a different social role. An important aspect of gender identities is that they are not static or immutable. They

edward herring

& kathryn lomas:  introduction

may change according to context, personal circumstances or particular stages in the life-cycle of an individual. Some of these complexities are exacerbated by the nature of our evidence and may be distorted by our own perceptions. For instance, Bonfante (this volume) points out that a 19th century painting routinely identified as of a female subject on the basis of the ‘female’ attributes of long hair, flowing garments and an inward-looking and withdrawn pose, is in fact a depiction of the Old Testament scene of Mordechai mourning on the steps of the temple. The problem is exacerbated still further when trying to interpret evidence from very different cultures and over a long time-span. Nevertheless, there is persuasive evidence of complex or multiple gender identities from ancient Italy. Perhaps the most striking example of a visual depiction of ambiguous gender, also cited by Bonfante, is that of the Capestrano warrior. Ostensibly a male figure, carrying numerous weapons and wearing the broad-brimmed hat which was a male status indicator in Iron Age northern Italy, the statue in fact has some strongly female attributes (Berggren 1990; Flemberg 1996). The difficulties in interpreting such an object are exacerbated by the fact that we do not know the original find context or intended function, but it is clear evidence for a distinctly problematic gender identity (Whitehouse & Herring 1999) Problematic or complex gender categories can also have quite specific uses. The androgynous appearance of both the male and female wrestlers depicted on the Praenestine cistae pose questions both of gender representation and the purpose of androgynous figures (Sandhoff, this volume). They hint at female participation in athletic pursuits which are frequently associated with male identities, but in the context of artefacts which are strongly female gendered and associated with marriage – an important rite of passage, especially for women. As Sandhoff suggests, this may imply an association of blurred gender categories with liminality and transitional states, and also imply a possible apotropaic function. The difficulties of assigning and interpreting gender categories are also addressed by Cougle, who tackles the difficult issue of gendering and interpreting assemblages of grave goods. This is particularly problematic if the gender of a burial has to be assigned purely on the basis of grave goods, as is the case where the nature of the mortuary ritual or the state of survival of the skeletal evidence means that biological sex cannot be determined. In cases such as Osteria dell’Osa, however, where there is sufficient skeletal evidence to provide a comparison with the grave goods, we can see the complexities of gender identities as indicated by the presence of various combinations of gendered grave goods, and draw some more secure conclusions about the relationship between sex, gender and grave goods. the invisible woman? gender in the material and written record



The evidence for gender identities in ancient Italy is extremely diverse. Grave goods provide a rich resource for the study of both personal and group identities. However,

they also pose a significant methodological problem, since many studies of burials are undertaken solely on the basis of grave goods, with no corroborating skeletal remains against which to test gender attributions. This can lead to potentially circular arguments, which attribute gender identity to particular grave goods or assemblages of goods with no biological corroboration. There is also the danger, particularly in early studies of cemeteries, that some of the gender attributions are based to some extent on modern stereotypes, which may or may not have validity. In Iron Age Italy, for instance, spinning and weaving equipment is characteristic of female burials and weapons are characteristic of male burials (Robb 1997; Gleba, this volume). This can also, however, lead to some major misconceptions. As Robb points out, examples of élite female burials which contained typical male grave goods such as weapons or chariots are attested. In some areas of Italy, where cremation was the predominant mortuary practice, there is no way round this problem. In other areas, examination of both the grave goods and the physical evidence allows us to test gender attributions against biological sex and is producing some interesting results (Vida Navarro 1992; Bietti Sestieri 1992; Cougle, this volume). An aspect of classical archaeology which is both a great strength and potential weakness is the existence of a large and important body of written sources, both epigraphic and literary, which poses unique methodological challenges. This material is an invaluable resource for understanding Greek and Roman society, but it must be interpreted with care, especially when using it in conjunction with material evidence. Most surviving ancient texts were written by men, mostly of the élite classes. Much of the written record is therefore only partial, documenting only those aspects of society which were significant to the authors (almost exclusively élite males) and reflecting their views, prejudices and cultural attitudes. As a result, women are frequently marginalised or stereotyped, only appearing in narratives in certain acceptable forms and contexts, or when behaving in a way which was regarded as anomalous or unacceptable. Other written sources, such as epigraphic evidence, may also present only a partial record of female activities and status. Females are generally under-represented in funerary epigraphy, for instance, and female attributes mentioned in epitaphs focus on a relatively small and androcentrically-defined range of virtues, such as piety, wifely devotion, etc. (Forbis 1990). Female economic activity is another area which may be under-represented or inaccurately represented (Díaz-Andreu 2005: 31–5). It may not be recorded in the same way as male activities because it is more likely to take place in the context of the home, thus obscuring the role of women in activities such as textile production. The fact that written sources of any variety present only a partial record of the activities, roles and concerns of women, means that there is a risk that they can impose a framework on our interpretation of material culture which excludes other important aspects of the lives of women in ancient societies (cf. Joyce 2008: 39–42 for similar problems

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

in South American archaeology). Nevertheless, written texts of various types can provide valuable evidence of aspects of the lives of women which may not be recoverable from material evidence alone. Literary evidence is particularly problematic for the study of Italian societies other than that of Rome, since Greek and Roman authors were almost invariably describing these from an external viewpoint, and often writing much later than the heyday of the societies concerned. Women in such societies tend to be ‘other’ twice over, by virtue of being non-Roman (or non-Greek) and non-male. They therefore become much less likely to be mentioned in ancient literature, limiting the value of literary evidence for gender identities in areas beyond Rome or the Greek colonies. There are some notable exceptions to this, however, especially the problematic question of the status of Etruscan women (Rallo 1989: 15-32). Most ancient authors who comment on the subject agree that women occupied an unusually prominent place in Etruscan society, but this is presented as a general assertion which gives little insight into the actual roles, status or identities of Etruscan women. It is also used by some authors as means of establishing the otherness and decadence of Etruscan society. For instance, Theopompus, writing in the fourth century BC, describes Etruscan women as promiscuous, vain, immodest, and accustomed to appearing at social events, socialising with people beyond their families and even taking an active part in drinking rituals (Athen. Deip. 12.517 d–518a). This case provides a good – if extreme – example of the complexity of gender identities. The passage clearly reflects the cultural anxieties of a Greek male faced with socially visible women, rather than the realities of female status and behaviour, but it is also a study of otherness which operates at many different levels (Spivey 1991). The behaviour attributed to Etruscan women, which is very different from that of fourth century Athenian women, is a powerful signal of the otherness and barbarism of the Etruscans, and demonstrates an interesting connection between gender and wider cultural identities. Women are, by definition, other, and female behaviour which is incomprehensible or shocking is used to reinforce the more general cultural otherness of the Etruscans.



Literary sources for gender identities in ancient Italy must, therefore, be used with caution. Nevertheless, they cannot be entirely dismissed as evidence. Even Theopompus’ comments on Etruscan women casts some light in gender identities, although in this case they shed more light on that of the Greek male than the Etruscan female. The substance of his description, is also not inconsistent with other written and material evidence for Etruscan women. Shorn of the pejorative rhetoric, he describes a society in which élite women had a high degree of social visibility and were expected to take part in at least some rituals and social events alongside their male relatives. Visual depictions of women in Etruscan art show a society in which women (notably high-status women, as demonstrated by their elaborate dress) moved freely in society, and funerary art and burial evidence show that they were commemorated with honour – either as individuals or as part of a couple. Whether

this translates into actual influence and power, in the form of legal or economic self-determination, or participation in public life is another question entirely, and one on which the literary evidence sheds no light. It has been argued that the balance of probability is that they did not have much formal power or necessarily legal or economic independence (Spivey 1991) but some epigraphic evidence - notably the Cortona tablet (Agostiniani & Nicosia 2000; Bonfante & Bonfante 2002: 178–83) in which a woman appears as party to a land contract - may contradict this. We should also bear in mind that the assumption that women did not exercise direct power in ancient societies may be a case of imposing a modern gender stereotype on the ancient evidence. Although it is unlikely that women routinely exercised political power directly or held positions of direct influence, it is also not impossible that it happened in some cases. Many examples drawn from other areas of archaeology demonstrate that it is dangerous to assume that women did not exercise any legal, economic or political authority (Nelson 1997: 131–48; Wylie 1998: 59–61; Joyce 2008: 73–83). We also encounter similar problems of viewpoint when using visual representations of women. These include a wide range of figurines, statues, frescoes, painted pottery and other forms of representation, which provide evidence for the symbolic representation of gender. However, there are many complexities in interpreting visual representations of gender (Robb 1997: 44–5). Many of these items are from ritual contexts – funerary contexts, sanctuaries, votive deposits, etc. – which may modify their symbolic meanings in ways which are difficult to recover. Representations of women (and also of men) may be subject to different symbolic conventions and constraints depending on whether we are dealing with votive figurines, funerary stelae, or items which have been, until relatively recently, examined mainly as art objects, such as painted pottery. Norman’s study (this volume) of the Daunian stelae reflects the complexities of interpreting them as representations of gender, given the complexity of the decoration and the fact that we know little about the context and function of these monuments. Similarly, Lomas’ paper (this volume) examines the problems posed by representations of men and women in the votive deposits of the Veneto. A powerful critique of gender representation in classical archaeology (Koloski-Ostrow & Lyons 1997) has suggested that one way forward for the study of gender in ancient visual culture is to examine reception of gender and audience response. In this analysis, gender is viewed as a performance rather than a fixed entity, which can be modified and manipulated according to the specific context and the needs of a particular society. This is a potentially powerful tool for examining visual representations of gender, in that it allows us to examine why certain aspects of gender were prioritised over others. However, any consideration of evidence from contexts such as votive deposits and other ritual contexts must take into account the fact that the nature of the representation is circumscribed by specific ritual and symbolic requirements and the values of the burying community.

edward herring

& kathryn lomas:  introduction

From non-Roman to Roman: The impact of Romanisation on gender A key, and relatively neglected, question in cultural history is how did the Roman conquest impact on gender identities and the lives of women in other areas of Italy. There is a vast (and ever-growing) literature on the cultural changes arising from the Roman conquests in Italy and beyond, examining and redefining the process once known as ‘Romanisation’, but until very recently, little of this had taken into account the possible gender differences in terms of the impact of Roman culture and the establishment of Roman forms of government, law, civic life and social mores. Many aspects of the cultural changes that followed the Roman conquest have been exhaustively examined and the underlying processes by which they were transmitted have been re-evaluated (Woolf 1998; Terrenato 2001; Häussler 1997), but the possible impact on women has been relatively unexplored. Female identities in Italian societies before the Roman conquest have attracted attention (cf. Rallo 1989, Cornell & Lomas 1997, Whitehouse 1997), as have their counterparts in the Roman world, but the transition between the two, and the impact of the processes of Romanisation on women have been largely neglected.



Despite this degree of scholarly silence, the impact on women of the changes brought about by the Roman conquest must have been considerable. The transition throughout Italy from states dominated by small, close-knit élites to Romanised forms of civic government based on elected office may have impacted on female visibility and influence in public life. It is doubtful whether women wielded direct power apart from in exceptional circumstances, but there is very little doubt that female members of the ruling élite could exercise a considerable amount of indirect influence on public affairs and decision-making processes via their male relatives (Spivey 1991; Glinister 1997. See above, p. 3 for a further discussion of women and power). Under a Romanised political system which depended on public speaking and ability to stand in elections, however, women were very much less visible and involved. One result of this is that they may have been slower to take up some of the other manifestations of Roman identity such as Romanised dress, personal names, and use of Latin, which were closely linked to the adoption of Roman citizenship and to the demonstration of status in public life. It is possible to identify stronger identification of some symbols of Romanitas with public life, whereas private identities may have been more inclined to preserve elements of preRoman culture (Häussler 2002: 69–73; Woolf 1998: 60–76; Lomas 2006: 457–9. cf. Conkey and Spector 1998: 28–29 on the dangers of assuming a male/public versus female/ private polarity). It would be dangerous to make a simple equation between the public sphere and male identities or between private life and female identities, and the uptake of Roman culture is affected by many other factors such as social or economic status, but it does suggest that gender may modify the uptake of Roman culture in ways which have not yet been adequately explored. However, these are not straightforward issues, and gender identities are particularly problematic in situations of cultural and ethnic

contact. We cannot simply infer that private life and female identities were automatically more culturally conservative or less open to Roman culture. Moreover, we should not underestimate the speed with which individuals can internalise new social customs and behaviours. Glinister (this volume) highlights the important role played by women in transmission of cultures and development of new cultural identities in mixed communities, such as colonies. Studies of Roman colonisation have frequently focused on colonies as an important means of transmitting Roman culture and forms of socio-political organisation, basing their assumptions on the notion of a largely Roman or Romanised population for the colonies from the point of foundation. In fact, it is likely that many of colonies included a significant proportion of population which was drawn from the local area. Those which were founded during the Roman conquest of Italy may have been composed largely of male colonists who intermarried with the existing population of the region, and even those which included significant numbers of families would have had extensive contact with the pre-existing inhabitants, much of which would have been mediated by women. One of the dangers ever-present in studying a region as culturally and ethnically diverse as Italy is overgeneralisation. Each region, and sometimes each community within a region, engaged with, and reacted to, Roman culture differently. As a result, it is vital to maintain an awareness of the complexities of our evidence. Izzet’s examination (this volume) of toilet articles from Etruria demonstrates that female adoption of Roman material culture and customs could vary considerably between different areas and communities within a region, as could continuities and discontinuities of female roles, behaviours and identities. The profile of inscriptions naming women and some types of female-associated material culture vary considerably between settlements in southern Etruria, and these variations show considerable continuity between the Etruscan and Roman periods, suggesting that in this region, local social roles and identities retained considerable strength, even during periods when the region was exposed to significant new cultural influences. Probably the aspect of Romanisation which is least clear is the impact of Rome on the legal status and rights of women in other areas of Italy. Although we can infer a fair amount about some aspects of the lives of non-Roman women, most of our sources for ancient law are Roman in origin and relate only to Roman law. The high status of women in some areas of Italy, notably Etruria and the Veneto, has led to speculation about their level of legal autonomy, rights to own property, etc., but there is no certainty that high visibility and social status for élite women translated into legal independence (Spivey 1991). In the light of this lack of evidence, it is unclear whether the adoption of Roman law throughout Italy in the era after the Social War had implications for women in the form of adding, removing, or modifying legal rights to own property or organise their own legal and financial affairs. What we can say for certain is that by time Roman law was fully established throughout Italy, women were bound by a complex set

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

of laws determining their level of legal independence, property rights, rights to bequeath or inherit property and many other aspects. As Hopwood’s paper (this volume) shows, this extended even to the very highest levels of society. Her analysis of Augustus’ will and his bequests to Livia demonstrates the complexities of balancing legal limitations on female inheritance with the necessary attention to her dignitas as the wife of the Princeps. approaches to the archaeology of gender

The study of gender in antiquity also raises some difficult issues relating to the changing ways in which the subject is studied. A recent collection of essays on women and archaeology (Hamilton, Whitehouse & Wright 2007) poses important questions about the history of the archaeology of women and the way in which gender and women’s studies should be integrated into the discipline. A particular problem is the tendency to elide the study of women with the study of gender. As Whitehouse (2007: 27–8; cf also Hamilton, Whitehouse & Wright 2007: 15–17; Gilchrist 1998) points out, the archaeology of gender and the archaeology of women are not synonymous and the relationship between these two concepts in the development of the subject is problematic. The archaeology of women developed as a significant field of archaeological research as part of a wider emphasis on post-processual archaeology, and on themes such as the study of the individual, the body, gender, and agency in archaeology. This increasing emphasis on the study of gender has had the paradoxical effect of drawing attention away from the archaeology of specifically female identities and experiences, but it has undoubtedly increased an awareness of gender as an important aspect of ancient culture and also opened up some interesting avenues in the ways in which female identities are studied. As Whitehouse’s contribution to this volume points out, a simplistic equation between the study of gender and the study of women runs the risk of marginalising the study of gender roles and identities as a minority female interest. Despite this, there has been some degree of ideological tension between feminist archaeology and the archaeology of women on the one hand, and the archaeology of gender on the other, in both classical and prehistoric archaeology (Brown 1997: 24–26) which has had both positive and negative consequences.



The explicitly feminist critiques discussed by Brown have helped to move classical archaeology, and especially classical art, away from traditional androcentric viewpoints and towards more innovative approaches to ancient societies. Nevertheless, the insistence that archaeologies of gender may be a move back towards more traditional perspectives is not necessarily helpful. One of the important determinants in the way in which social and cultural identities of all kinds develop is by interaction with other social groups. Women are no exception to this; female identities and roles can only be fully understood in the context of a wider study of gender identities. While it is important to continue to study role of gender in ancient societies and to recognise the importance of the female role in society,

it is not possible to understand this fully in isolation.It is essential to relocate study of women in ancient societies into a wider context. To look at the problem from another perspective, the assumption (conscious or otherwise) that the male perspective is the norm, the natural viewpoint from which to examine a given society, also underplays the complexity of the role of men and the gendered aspects of male identity. As Bonfante and Sandhoff both demonstrate in their contributions to this volume, the blurring of gender roles and boundaries can fulfil an important social role at various points in the human life-cycle. This can apply to men as well as women. Gender roles can also intersect with, and be modified by, other social and cultural identities. Age, socio-economic class, legal status, ethnicity and many other factors can interact with gender in a variety of ways. Gender roles and identities may change according to age, with adult males and females adopting different gender identities from those of juveniles or young adults. The gender roles of older people (particularly those of women past the age of childbearing) may have been different from those of younger adults. Children may also have been assigned different gender and consequently, been subject to different rules. The study of gender differences in isolation can potentially create many distortions (cf. Joyce (2008: 48–50), whose re-examination of an early Californian site revealed that an apparent gender difference in grave goods was in fact a difference between age-groups, with only a very weak correlation to gender). To develop our understanding of ancient Italy as fully as possible, we need to consider gender roles and identities in a wider context, including age, ethnicity, male identity and the importance of gender boundaries and interactions, as well as female identities. Ethnicity can also be a powerful modifier of gender identities. As Herring (this volume) notes, visual representations of women in ancient Puglia are, for the most part, identical to those of their Greek neighbours; women are not represented with any markers of ethnicity in dress or ornaments. Men, on the other hand, are usually depicted wearing or carry ethnically-specific items of armour or clothing. In other areas of Italy, such as those discussed by Lomas (this volume), women are far more likely than men to be depicted wearing ethnically-specific items of clothing, particularly during periods of cultural change. The complexity of the relationship between gender and ethnicity is further highlighted by Hersch in her study (this volume) of Roman marriage rituals, in which the bride’s dress and role in the ritual intricately linked various ethnic elements from Rome’s past, in ways which made her the embodiment of the many different female identities embedded in the city’s foundation legends. Although the conference from which this volume arises unapologetically focused on women and female identities as a way of redressing the balance in the study of early Italy, many of the papers illustrate the importance of studying women, their social roles and their cultural identities, in the context of other determinants of identity such as age, social class, legal status, etc., and in the context of other gendered groups in society. However, this is not

edward herring

& kathryn lomas:  introduction

age, social class, legal status, etc., and in the context of other gendered groups in society. However, this is not necessarily incompatible with feminist approaches to the evidence or to the need to move away from the traditional androcentric views of ancient societies. While we do not wish to underplay the importance of the archaeology of women, and recognise that this also has much to offer the subject, the roles and identities of women in early Italy cannot be fully understood in isolation from the wider gender identities present in Italian societies. Equally we do not wish to deny that in the past, as in the present, men exercised power over women. However, as with all power relationships, those between men and women were mediated through a complex series of culturally defined behaviours and values. Women could exercise power over other women in defence of patriarchal social structures. Men sometimes subvert traditional gender roles, albeit for their own purposes. As the poet said, “Quid mirare, meam si versat femina vitam et trahit addictum sub sua iura virum” Propertius, Elegies 3.11.1–2 Bibliography Agostiniani, L. & Nicosia, F. 2002.  Tabula Cortonensis. ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider, Rome. Berggren, K. 1990.  The Capestrano Warrior and the Numana head: a structuralist semiotic interpretation. Opuscula Romana, 18: 23–36. Bietti Sestieri, A.M. 1992.­  The Iron Age community of Osteria dell’Osa: a study of socio-political development in central Tyrrhenian Italy. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Bonfante G. & Bonfante, L. 20002.  The Etruscan Language. An introduction. Manchester University Press, Manchester. Brown, S. 1997.  “Ways of seeing” women in classical antiquity. In A.O. Koloski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds), Naked truths. Women, sexuality and gender in classical art and archaeology: 12–42. Routledge, London & New York. Conkey, M.W. & Spector, J.D. 1998.  Archaeology and the study of gender. In K. Hays-Gilpin & D.S. Whitley (eds), Reader in Gender Archaeology: 11–46. Routledge, London & New York [reprinted from Archaeological Method and Theory, 7 (1984): 1–38. Academic Press, New York]. Cornell, T.J. & Lomas, K. (eds), 1997.  Gender and Ethnicity in Ancient Italy. Accordia Research Institute, London. Diaz-Andreu, M. 2005.  Gender identity. In M. Diaz-Andreu, S. Lucy, S. Babic & D.N. Edwards, The Archaeology of Identity: 13–42. Routledge, London. Flemberg, J. 1996.  The sex of the Capestrano Warrior. Opuscula Romana, 20: 275–6. Forbis, E.P. 1990.  Women’s public image in Italian honorary inscriptions. American Journal of Philology, 111: 493–512. Gero, J. & Conkey, M.W. 1991.  Engendering Archaeology. Blackwell, Oxford. Gilchrist, R. 1998.  Women’s archaeology? Political feminism, gender theory and historical revision. In K. Hays-Gilpin & D.S. Whitley (eds), Reader in Gender Archaeology: 17–56. Routledge, London & New York [reprinted from Antiquity, 57 (1991): 15–35].



Glinister, F. 1997.  Women and power in archaic Rome. In T.J. Cornell & K. Lomas (eds), Gender and Ethnicity in Ancient Italy: 115–128. Accordia Research Institute, London.

Hamilton, S., Whitehouse, R.D. & Wright, K. 2007.  Introduction. In S. Hamilton, R.D. Whitehouse & K. Wright (eds), Archaeology and Women. Ancient and Modern Issues: 13–24. Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA. Häussler, R. 1997.  Ideology, power, and the meaning of Roman culture. Accordia Research Papers, 7: 93–112. Häussler, R. 2002.  Writing Latin – from resistance to assimilation: language, culture and society in N. Italy and S. Gaul. In A.E. Cooley (ed.), Becoming Roman, writing Latin? Literacy and epigraphy in the Roman West: 61–76. Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplement 48. Portsmouth, RI. Humphreys, S.C. 1983.  The family, women, and death: comparative studies. Routledge & Kegan Paul, London & Boston. Joyce, R.A. 2008. Ancient Bodies, Ancient Lives. Sex, gender and archaeology. Thames & Hudson, London. Koloski-Ostrow, A.O. & Lyons, C.L. 1997.  Naked truths about classical art. In A.O. Koloski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds), Naked truths. Women, sexuality and gender in classical art and archaeology: 1–11. Routledge, London & New York. Lomas, K. 2006.  Ostiala Gallenia: Funerary Commemoration and Cultural Identity in North-East Italy. In E. Herring, I. Lemos, F. Lo Schiavo, L. Vagnetti, R. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds), Across Frontiers. Papers in honour of David Ridgway and Francesca R. Serra Ridgway: 429–440. Accordia Research Institute, London. Nelson, S.M. 1997.  Gender in Archaeology. Analyzing power and prestige. AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek, CA, London & New Delhi. Pomeroy, S. 1975.  Goddesses, whores, wives, and slaves: women in classical antiquity. Dorset Press, New York. Rallo, A. 1989.  Fonti. In A. Rallo (ed.), Le Donne in Etruria: 15–32. L’Erma di Breschneider, Rome. Robb, J. 1997.  Female beauty and male violence in early Italian society. In A.O. Koloski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds), Naked truths. Women, sexuality and gender in classical art and archaeology: 43–65. Routledge, London & New York. Spivey, N. 1991.  The power of women in Etruscan society. Accordia Research Papers, 2: 55–67. Terrenato, N. 2001.  Introduction. In S. Keay and N. Terrenato (eds), Italy and the West: comparative issues in Romanization: 1–6. Oxbow, Oxford. Vida Navarro, C. 1992.  Warriors and weavers. Sex and gender in Early Iron Age graves from Pontecagnano. Accordia Research Papers, 3: 67–100. Whitehouse, R.D. (ed.), 1997.  Gender and Italian Archaeology. Accordia Research Institute, London. Whitehouse, R.D. 2007.  Gender archaeology and archaeology of women: Do we need both? In S. Hamilton, R.D. Whitehouse and K. Wright (eds), Archaeology and Women. Ancient and Modern Issues: 27–40. Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA. Whitehouse, R.D. & Herring, E. 1999.  The ambiguous warrior of Capestrano. Unpublished paper delivered at EAA Meeting, Bournemouth, 14–19 September 1999. Woolf, G. 1998.  Becoming Roman: the origins of provincial civilization in Gaul. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Wylie, A. 1998.  The interplay of evidential constraints and political interests: Recent archaeological research on gender. In K. Hays-Gilpin & D.S. Whitley (eds), Reader in Gender Archaeology: 57-84. Routledge, London & New York [reprinted from American Antiquity, 57 (1992): 21–40].

Where have all the men gone? Sex, Gender and Women’s Studies Ruth D. Whitehouse

aim

The aim of this paper is to look at the current state of gender studies in archaeology, to place them in the broader context of Gender Studies and Women’s Studies more generally and specifically in relation to feminist scholarship. I shall identify both what I perceive as the achievements of this field of study and some problems with the way it has developed to date. These are general issues and do not relate in particular to 1st millennium BC Italy, but I shall refer to the papers offered at the conference by way of exemplification. background

It is well known that archaeology was a late starter in the field of Gender Studies, beginning seriously only in the 1990s, with a series of influential edited volumes produced in the first half of the decade and the first textbooks and readers in the second half. In terms of academic theorising, this was well into the era of postmodernism/postprocessualism and in terms of politics it was some twenty years after the main floruit of secondwave feminism, which was responsible for the original establishment of Women’s Studies in universities. This means that there is a significant historical context, both intellectual and political, to archaeological gender studies that is not necessarily known about or acknowledged by current practitioners, but which – like it or not – inevitably influences what we do now. This is why I believe it is relevant to address this issue now. Women’s Studies and Gender Studies Women’s Studies got going in the 1970s, in the context of second-wave feminism, and its aim was explicitly to provide an academic home for feminist academic studies, challenging previous androcentric biases and focusing on women, either absent from or appearing in stereotypical and essentialist roles in earlier studies. Most significantly it took as its basis the study of patriarchy, the subordination of women by men. It started as and remains primarily a North American phenomenon, although in the 1980s and 1990s it became popular also in the UK and some North European countries. As a secondary phenomenon there has been more recently a shift in terminology from ‘Women’s Studies’ to ‘Gender Studies’, a change that has been

and continues to be hotly disputed. The name change corresponds to the emergence of third-wave feminism, which identified problems with the way second-wave feminism had taken ‘women’ as an unproblematic category and subject of study. Gender Studies chooses instead both to concentrate on what are somewhat called the differences ‘within’ (i.e. differences among women) and to include studies of men and masculinity as also varied and constructed (rather than treating ‘man’ as the unitary and undifferentiated oppressor). Some regard it as a positive move, representing a widening-out that recognises that men too are gendered people and that studying both men and women in a more balanced way is indicative of a mature (or at least maturing) discipline. The opposing view, which sees the move as negative, refers to the risk of de-politicising feminist scholarship – separating political action from academic feminism, which can then be allowed to trundle along safely in an obscure corner of the academy, without any danger of it having any influence on anything that matters in the wider world. Even worse, from a feminist perspective, is the risk perceived by some, that the study of gender will be torn from its feminist roots, threatening the achievements of the last thirty-five years in bringing women and women’s standpoints to the forefront in academic research. This difference of opinion is one that is largely internal to academic feminism and forms part of a wider debate about whether feminism should aim to establish itself as a discipline in its own right (a view responsible for the initial impetus to establish Women’s Studies in universities) or whether it should seek to influence scholarship within other particular disciplines. This debate has a strategic as well as a theoretical dimension: how does one trade off ‘strength in numbers’ accompanied by a risk of ghettoisation (the Women’s Studies solution) against the opportunity of influencing the development of a wide range of disciplinary fields, while risking the dilution of the feminist contribution (the ‘integration’ solution)? Although there is far from agreement on this issue, I would say that majority opinion now favours a ‘both/and’ rather than ‘either/or’ answer. The present situation The preceding account represents the debate within academic feminism over the last twenty years or so (greatly over-simplified, it goes without saying, but not

ruth d. whitehouse:  where have all the men gone? sex, gender and women’s studies

I hope misleading). I shall now look at the situation on the ground today, in relation to wider issues of academic politics in different places. For this section I have drawn largely on a recent article by Clare Hemmings (2006), which offers a very useful summary. In terms of the change of name from Women’s Studies to Gender Studies, it would seem that, where there are academic departments or centres devoted to the subject, there has been no real dilution of feminist commitment, whatever the name chosen. Where, however, gender courses are taught within other programmes – which is, of course, generally the case in archaeology – the input of feminist theorising is very variable. What about the fate of the subject as a whole, whether we label it Women’s Studies or Gender Studies? In the United States it remains securely based but primarily at undergraduate level: there are hundreds of major or minor concentrations of undergraduate teaching of the subject, compared to only 10 graduate departments or centres (Boxer 2003, quoted by Hemmings 2006: note 9). In the UK the situation is almost the reverse. The subject flourished at undergraduate level in the 1990s, but declined very rapidly from the later 1990s onwards, mostly as a result of a sharp decline in student numbers. Currently, there are no surviving single honours programmes in the UK and many previously autonomous departments, centres and institutes have either been closed down or had to move into larger departments in order to survive. These problems relate in part to the specific situation of university education in this country (the abolition of grants and the introduction of fees being the factors most often cited as turning students towards subjects considered valuable in the job market and away from those deemed – wrongly, I would say – ‘idealistic’). The problems are compounded, however, by the fact that Women’s Studies/Gender Studies has never really made it into acceptance by national funding bodies in the UK, such as research councils, as a field of enquiry in its own right; this makes it difficult for scholars in the field to gain research funding or to shine in the (in)famous Research Assessment Exercise. In this respect too things have got worse: for the 2008 RAE, the Women’s Studies sub-panel, which existed previously, has been abolished and its remit subsumed under Sociology.1



There is also some good news. Gender Studies is flourishing at postgraduate level in the UK and has an increasingly international appeal. New courses continue to be established. To give one example, University College London and the School of Oriental and African Studies have recently set up a joint Gender Studies MA programme, now in its third year, which attracts students from a variety of countries and academic backgrounds. This has added to existing postgraduate courses in Gender Studies in the University of London taught at the London School of Economics (where there is a Gender Institute), at Birkbeck and at Goldsmiths. Positive news also is that not all countries are sharing in the specific problems of the UK in higher education. There are places where Women’s Studies or Gender Studies are being established for the first time or are expanding; these include Germany, Spain, Portugal and New Zealand.

Men’s Studies There is another – highly controversial and contested – area that needs some discussion here and that is the development of Men’s Studies as an academic field, posited as a parallel to Women’s Studies. This is almost exclusively a North American phenomenon, although I learned from an article in The Guardian newspaper just a few weeks before the conference that gave rise to the present volume that Nottingham Trent University had announced the inception of a Diploma in Men’s Studies, to be taught within the Department of Social Sciences (Education Guardian 30.05.06). In the United States Men’s Studies is a very variable phenomenon. In some cases it represents a hostile response to the establishment of Women’s Studies and may have the express aim of reclaiming a perceived lost or threatened masculinity and can include, as The Guardian article tells us, “David Beckham studies and Wild Men and Drumming workshops”. In other cases Men’s Studies are informed by feminist, queer and other critical gender theorising and are on the same wave-length as Women’s Studies (Hearn & Kimmel 2006). The Nottingham Trent course would appear to fall firmly in this latter category. Jim Wild, the course convener, is quoted as saying “Feminists at our university are OK about it.” He adds “If it was a diploma on ‘Finding the Warrior Within’, I think there would be uproar”. However, there is obviously scope for misunderstanding. The Guardian asked George McCauley, from the anti-feminist UK Men’s Movement, what he thought of the idea. His response was to assume that it was the study of what he called “men’s oppression”. He said: “Women have it all their own way and believe that equality is a one-way street. If women’s studies are going to be elevated to the status of religion, as they are in universities, then we should have men’s studies”. I quote this Guardian article as it summarises quite nicely the problematic nature of the development of separate Women’s and Men’s Studies. At worst it has the potential to return us to the old ‘War of the Sexes’ in a particularly unhelpful form. gender studies in archaeology

So how does gender archaeology fit into this broader picture? As I said at the beginning, gender archaeology was a late starter: there was a precocious early development in the 1970s in Scandinavia, which did not catch on widely outside that area. After that there were a few important articles in the 1980s; it then got going in a big way in the 1990s. There were a number of influential edited volumes early in that decade, e.g. Joan Gero and Meg Conkey’s Engendering Archaeology (1991); Dale Walde and Noreen Willows’ The Archaeology of Gender (also 1991); Cheryl Claassen’s Exploring Gender through Archaeology (1992); and Hilary du Cros and Laurajane Smith’s Women in Archaeology. A Feminist Critique (1993). The first three of these came from North America, the last from Australia. By the latter part of the 1990s we find the first textbooks: Sarah Nelson’s Gender in Archaeology (1997); Roberta Gilchrist’s Gender and Archaeology (1999); and Marie Louise Sørensen’s Gender Archaeology (2000).

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

We also have Kelley Hays-Gilpin and David Whitley’s Reader in Gender Archaeology (1998) and most recently Sarah Nelson’s Handbook of Gender in Archaeology (2006). Of these, the first and last two are American in origin, but the other two emanate from the UK, indicating a widening of the geographical base of those involved in gender archaeology. At the same time and subsequently there has been an outpouring of material in journal articles, in conference volumes and in other edited collections and there is now an impressive bibliography on gender archaeology defined in its widest sense. Gender Archaeology and Feminism How does this scholarship relate to Women’s Studies and to feminism? The first point to make is that, as far as I know, gender archaeology is everywhere taught in Archaeology departments (or Anthropology departments in the US) and not in Women’s Studies or Gender Studies departments, although there are sometimes arrangements that courses can be taken as part of a broader degree. For example, my MA course in Gender Archaeology is basically taught as an option in the MA Archaeology degree in the Institute of Archaeology, but it is also available as an option for those studying for the new UCL/SOAS MA in Gender Studies mentioned above. However, in general it is considered part of Archaeology rather than part of Gender Studies. So, what does this mean in terms of its relationship to feminism? Practice The main point to make here is that it may be labelled ‘Gender Archaeology’ rather than ‘Archaeology of Women’, but in practice it is predominantly the concern of women. All the Gender Archaeology courses that I know of are taught by women and the majority of students taking them are female. On my undergraduate gender course I rarely have more than 20% to 25% male students and anecdotal evidence suggests this is fairly typical. In terms of published works on Gender Archaeology the dominance of female scholars is also very marked. The conference from which this volume derives is an excellent example: the only male speaker – and all credit to him – was Edward Herring, who was one of the joint conference organisers. Another example is provided by Nelson’s Handbook of Gender in Archaeology (2006): of a total of 29 authors, only three are male and two of those appear in relation to chapters co-authored with female scholars (the exception is Benjamin Alberti, writing about men and masculinity). Theory



There is little doubt that gender archaeology, like gender studies in other disciplines, owes its origin to feminist critiques of earlier androcentric scholarship. Beyond that, feminist theorising is apparent in all of the earlier studies and much of the continuing scholarship in gender archaeology. The three authors of textbooks on gender archaeology I mentioned previously – Sarah Nelson, Roberta Gilchrist and Marie-Louise Sørensen – all discuss feminism at some length. Roberta Gilchrist even has a whole chapter

(Chapter 2) devoted to it, entitled: “Strange bedfellows: feminism and archaeology”. However, what is critical here is the kind of feminism invoked. What we find is that there is very little trace of the over-riding concern of secondwave feminism: the analysis of power relations between men and women, specifically male dominance and female subordination – in other words, patriarchy. Issues of power do figure to some extent in Sarah Nelson’s book, but barely appear in Gilchrist’s or Sørensen’s or in the majority of more recent work. What we find instead is characteristic of third-wave feminism: an abandonment of ‘women’ and ‘men’ as unchallenged ‘essential’ categories; instead there is a concern with understanding gender as performed, negotiated or transacted rather than as an essential identity. This change is accompanied by the exploration of issues of androgeny, gender-bendering, multiple genders, etc. There is also a concentration on the ‘differences within’ the categories of women and men and the cross-cutting of gender with other social categories such as those of age, class and ethnicity. There is a tendency to focus on gender representations, ideologies and identities rather than gender roles. There is also an increasing emphasis on embodiment. Difference has replaced power as the focus of study. When power is discussed, it is in typically post-modern and specifically post-Foucault terms: not the monolithic dominance of one gender (or class) over another, but instead a rather diffuse entity, de-centred and located in multiple and shifting places. We also find versions of power that are conceived not in terms of domination but of enabling (‘power to’ rather than ‘power over’, ‘empowerment’ rather than ‘dominance’). I think that all these tendencies can be seen quite clearly in the papers offered at the 1st millennium BC Italy conference and they are in many ways characteristic of gender archaeology today. Before I move on, I should briefly mention one body of work that represents a marked exception to the generalisations I have just made. This is the work of a group of scholars in Spain that draws on a combination of continental feminist theory and Marxism. One example is the study by Trinidad Escoriza Mateu of Spanish Levantine Neolithic rock art (2002). In complete contrast to most of the work that has been conducted under the heading of gender archaeology, she disputes the utility of the concept of gender and insists on the reality of sex, in the sense of differently sexed bodies, as articulated by the French feminist writer, Luce Irigaray. Moreover, she interprets Levantine art as the product of “the patriarchal order”, characterised by representations of women that ignore or diminish the importance of women’s contribution to both production and reproduction. I will not go into this further here, but will just point out that this work draws on one version of current feminist theory, while remaining focused on the traditional concern of secondwave feminism with patriarchy. Whether this approach will be taken up in a wider way and come to challenge the types of study that predominate at the moment, remains to be seen. Another important point to be made – and this is what the title of this paper refers to – is that work in gender archaeology is largely about women. Sometimes, it is true,

ruth d. whitehouse:  where have all the men gone? sex, gender and women’s studies

both women and men are discussed, sometimes even in an equal way. More often men either appear as they used to in second-wave feminist accounts: as the untheorised dominant background, against which the women who are the main subject of study are placed. Sometimes they do not appear in the discussion at all. This is true of much of the literature and again is well exemplified by the papers given at the conference. The motivation for this dominance is clear enough: it lies in the earlier invisibility of women in archaeological accounts of the past, or their appearance in traditional stereotypical roles – and there is no doubt about the need for remedial work to put these wrongs right. Nonetheless it is perhaps surprising that the reactive response that has led to the study of masculinity and masculinities and the establishment of Men’s Studies has made so little impression in archaeology. The only papers I know that addresses this issue directly are Bernard Knapp’s two short articles of 1998, entitled “Boys will be Boys. Masculinist Approaches to a Gendered Archaeology” and “Who’s Come a Long Way, Baby? Masculinist Approaches to a Gendered Archaeology” (1998a; 1998b) and most recently Benjamin Alberti’s very valuable summary paper, “Archaeology, Men, and Masculinities” (2006). Roberta Gilchrist addresses masculinity in the chapter on “Experiencing gender” in her 1999 book. There are a few papers that have specifically considered the construction of masculinity on the basis of archaeological evidence.2 Rosemary Joyce has addressed both female and male gender in several works relating to pre-Columbian central America and has devoted one explicitly to an examination of male sexuality among the Maya (Joyce 2000). John Robb has considered the construction of both male and female gender in prehistoric Italy in two key articles (1994; 1997). There are also two articles relating to European prehistory written by men that address only male gender construction. One is Tim Yates’ 1993 article on an archaeology of the body, which looks at Bronze Age rock art in Scandinavia. He looks at the human figures, which have traditionally been divided into those with a penis shown, equated with men, and those without, assumed to represent women. Yates challenges the straightforward association of the penis with maleness and its absence with femaleness, which he considers a culturally specific Western notion. Instead, he argues that in Bronze Age Scandinavian society, masculine identity had to be guaranteed by signs applied to the surface of the body (the penis, and also weapons, on the human figures; and on the deer representations, antlers). Therefore he argues that the figures lacking penes and weapons are not necessarily female: they could be male children or adolescent boys who had not yet been assigned cultural masculinity. The other example is Paul Treherne’s 1995 paper on “The warrior’s beauty”, in which he argues that the warrior status that emerges in Bronze Age Europe was a lifestyle, believed in and experienced by the men involved. He also suggests that the appearance of the warriors (their “beauty”), as indicated by the grooming equipment such as razors and tweezers which are found in the graves, along with weapons, was as much part of this lived identity (and identity in death) as the military aspect. However, it has to be said that, innovative as these papers are in their consideration of the constructed nature of masculinity, they do both concentrate on one of

the most traditional understandings of men – as warriors. Also, interestingly, these articles are not usually classified (either by their authors or their readers) as part of gender archaeology. And finally, papers of this kind are very few in number. I may have missed a few, but they represent a handful compared to the hundreds devoted to gender archaeology that concentrate on women. Pros and cons There is much to be admired in the work that has been produced within Gender Archaeology to date. Women have been placed firmly within accounts of the past and their roles and identities explored with a range of theoretical approaches and analytical tools, borrowed from many other disciplines, including anthropology, social studies, visual culture studies and in periods for which we also have textual sources (including 1st millennium BC Italy), also literary criticism – all in versions strongly influenced by feminist theory. At the same time the very ‘nature’ of gender has been problematised and discussed, inter alia, in terms of performance (in ideas taken from Judith Butler’s work; Butler 1990, 1993) or transaction (borrowing from Marilyn Strathern’s work on the “Gender of the Gift” in Melanesia; Strathern 1988). This out-pouring of gender research has touched even the more conservative parts of mainstream archaeology and it is rare for gender not to be at least mentioned in general works today.3 However, there are, in my opinion, also problems with gender archaeology as it is practised today. Some of these I have dealt with elsewhere (Whitehouse 2007) and will only mention here. These include the determination to get away from gender essentialism and the accompanying reluctance to recognise ‘women’ and ‘men’ as categories; this has led to the abandonment of the main motivation of second-wave feminism – to identify and analyse male domination and female subordination – and along the way, I would argue, we have lost sight of the continuing importance of this as a subject of study. Secondly I shall mention the neglect of biology, which means that childbirth and motherhood are rarely discussed (except within the problematic framework of the Mother Goddess theory) – again in my opinion a big gap in the research and one that we shall have to return to at some stage. What I shall focus on here, however, is the concentration on studying women. This is problematic in terms of both practice and theory. In practice, the fact that gender archaeology is dominated by women scholars and appears to be mainly about women allows it to be marginalised within the discipline. It can be treated as a specialisation, likely to be of interest mainly to women (and maybe a few rather strange men), rather than the central theme of social archaeology that I imagine all of us involved in the 1st millennium BC Italy conference believe it should be. The theoretical problems are at least as serious. The concentration on women, however understandable in terms of the need for remedial work, ignores one very important fact. Whatever else gender is or is not, it is undoubtedly a system of classification – one that uses the categories of 10

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

femaleness and maleness and any number of variations on them in order to structure the world. A gender classification system uses the categories of biological sex, applicable literally only to living things (actually only to certain parts of the animal kingdom), and applies them not only to people and animals, but sometimes metaphorically to all kinds of other things. These may include material objects, as we find familiarly in languages that have grammatical genders, or, more exotically, essences and parts of people or things, as we find in some societies documented by anthropologists. However, what all gender classification systems have in common is precisely that they are systems, the members of which are defined in relation to each other. Gender systems may take different forms – a traditional binary opposition (with female and male categories only, as in our own society traditionally), a division into a larger number of discrete types (with third, fourth or even more genders, as in native American ‘two-spirit’ societies, or in language terms, in languages that have a neuter as well as masculine and feminine genders) or a spectrum from one extreme to the other (at least hypothetically) and they may allow for fluidity and shifts in the categories. But, whatever the system, we need to study it as a whole to make sense of any part of it. To concentrate exclusively on one category within a gender system, as has tended to happen, is like saying that one is going to study colour in some past society but one is only going to look at the colour red. There may be a case for concentrating on the symbolism of red in some contexts, but one will almost certainly find that it is defined in relation to contrasting colours such as black and white, as well as perhaps being subdivided into different types of red, from scarlet to maroon, which have subtly different uses and meanings. If we divide gender classificatory systems, and the people and properties classified within them, into component parts to be studied separately, we risk losing sight of the overall picture.

Paul Bahn (Renfrew & Bahn 2004). 4   This paper was completed in November 2007 and the information included should be taken to refer to that date. Some things have now changed: I retired in 2008 and currently no gender archaeology courses are taught at the Institute of Archaeology UCL, at either undergraduate or masters level. bibliography

Alberti, B. 2006.  Archaeology, Men, and Masculinities. In S.M. Nelson, (ed.), Handbook of Gender in Archaeology: 401–34. AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek. Boxer, M.J. 2003.  When Women Ask the Questions: Creating Women’s Studies in America. The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore. Claassen, C. (ed.) 1992.  Exploring gender through archaeology. Selected papers from the 1991 Boone Conference. Prehistory Press, Madison (Wisconsin). du Cros, H. & Smith, L. (eds) 1993.  Women in Archaeology. A Feminist Critique. Australia National University, Canberra. Escoriza Mateu, T. 2002.  Representations of women in Spanish Levantine art: an intentional fragmentation. Journal of Social Archaeology, 2: 81–108. Foxhall, L. & Salmon, J. 1998a.  Thinking Men: Masculinity and its Self-Representation in the Classical Tradition. Routledge, London & New York. Foxhall, L. & Salmon, J. 1998b.  When Men Were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity. Routledge, London & New York. Gero, J.M. & Conkey, M.W. (eds) 1991.  Engendering Archaeology. Women and Prehistory. Blackwell, Oxford. Gilchrist, R. 1999.  Gender and Archaeology. Routledge, London. Hays-Gilpin, K. & Whitley, D.S. 1998.  Reader in Gender Archaeology. Routledge, London & New York. Hearn, J. & Kimmel, M.S. 2006.  Changing Studies on Men and Masculinities. In K. Davis, M. Evans & J. Lorber (eds), Handbook of Gender and Women’s Studies: 53–70. Sage, London.

I would argue therefore that both for pragmatic reasons – to rescue gender archaeology from its marginalised position within the discipline – and for theoretical ones – in order to understand gender in terms of holistic systems – we need to study femaleness and maleness together. In terms of the actual people of the past, we need to study those of all genders and none.4

Hemmings, C. 2006.  The Life and Times of Academic Feminism. In K. Davis, M. Evans & J. Lorber (eds), Handbook of Gender and Women’s Studies: 1–34. Sage, London. Joyce, R. 2000.  A Precolumbian Gaze: Male Sexuality among the Ancient Maya. In R.A. Schmidt, & B.L. Voss (eds), Archaeologies of Sexuality: 263–83. Routledge, London & New York.

notes

Knapp, B.A. 1998a.  Boys will be Boys. Masculinist Approaches to a Gendered Archaeology. In K. Hays-Gilpin & D.S. Whitley (eds), Reader in Gender Archaeology: 365–73. Routledge, London & New York.

1   In terms of the details of the RAE, the Sociology panel’s draft guidelines for the 2008 exercise offer the re-assurance that interdisciplinary gender research will be looked at by a sub-panel of experts. However, it is difficult not to agree with Clare Hemmings’ assessment that effectively the status of Women’s Studies/Gender Studies has been undermined by this change in the way it is assessed.

Knapp, B.A. 1998b.  Who’s Come a Long Way, Baby? Masculinist Approaches to a Gendered Archaeology. Archaeological Dialogues, 5.20: 91–106. Koloski-Ostrow, A.O. & Lyons, C.L. (eds) 1997.  Naked truths: women, sexuality and gender in classical art and archaeology: 43–65. Routledge, London.

2   If one widens the remit to include complex societies where textual evidence is also considered, one finds a greater number for works addressing masculinity, e.g. for the Classical world, papers in Koloski-Ostrow & Lyons 1997 and Foxhall & Salmon 1998a and 1998b.

Nelson, S.M. 1997.  Gender in Archaeology. Analyzing Power and Prestige. AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek. Nelson, S.M. (ed.) 2006.  Handbook of Gender in Archaeology. AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek.

3   However, the mentions are often modest: as, for instance, the six pages or so devoted to it in even the fourth edition of the more than 600 page textbook by Colin Renfrew and

Renfrew, C. & Bahn, P. 2004. Archaeology: Theories, Methods and Practice. [4th edn]. Thames & Hudson, London. 11

ruth d. whitehouse: where have all the men gone? sex, gender and women’s studies

of Gender: Proceedings of The Twenty-Second Annual

Robb, J.E. 1994.  Gender contradictions, moral coalitions and inequality in Prehistoric Italy. Journal of European Archaeology, 2.1: 20–49.  

Chacmool Conference of the Archaeological Association of The University of Calgary. University of Calgary, Calgary.

Robb, J.E. 1997.  Female beauty and male violence in early Italian society. In A.O. Koloski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds), Naked truths: women, sexuality and gender in classical art and archaeology: 43–65. Routledge, London.

Whitehouse, R.D. 2007.  Gender Archaeology and Archaeology of Women: do we need both? In S. Hamilton, R.D. Whitehouse

Sørensen, M.L.S. 2000.  Gender Archaeology. Polity Press, Cambridge.

& K.I. Wright (eds), Archaeology and Women. Ancient

Strathern, M. 1988. The Gender of the Gift. University of California Press, Berkeley.

Archaeology, University College, London. Left Coast Press,

and Modern Issues: 27–40. Publications of the Institute of Walnut Creek.

Treherne, P. 1995.  The warrior’s beauty: the masculine body and self-identity in Bronze Age Europe. Journal of European Archaeology, 3.1: 105–44.

Yates, T. 1993.  Frameworks for an archaeology of the body. In C. Tilley, (ed.), Interpretative Archaeology: 31–72. Berg,

Walde, D. & Willows, N.D. (eds) 1991.  The Archaeology

Oxford.

12

Gender identities and cultural identities in the pre-Roman Veneto Kathryn Lomas

One of the many distinctive aspects of the archaeology of the Veneto is the unusually high visibility of élite women in the material, epigraphic and iconographic record. This feature is highlighted in almost all works on the subject.1 Despite this, however, studies of female roles in the region are scarce. Nevertheless, there is a huge quantity and range of evidence for female identities which would well repay more detailed study in the light of recent work on gender in archaeology. The aim of this paper is to review this evidence for female identities in Venetic society from the sixth century BC to the period of Roman conquest, and to draw some preliminary conclusions about the social roles and identities of women in this region, how these were represented in various fields of activity, and how they may have changed over time. Probably the most significant aspect of the Veneto as a case-study for female identities is the enormous range of evidence available. Votive deposits in many of the major sanctuaries point to an important role played by women in the ritual life of Venetic communities, and the proportion of female burials is higher (and in the case of élite women, richer) than is the case in many other areas of Italy. There is also a rich iconographic tradition, represented in both votive contexts and on non-ritual prestige objects, which includes numerous visual representations of women (Pascucci 1990: 59–92; Zaghetto 2003). In addition, the strong epigraphic tradition of the Veneto, which dates back to the late seventh century BC, provides a wealth of evidence. There is evidence of a close link between women and literacy, and an unusually high number of dedications by women have survived, particularly from the sanctuary of Reitia at Baratella, near Este, where writing objects such as bronze models of writing tablets and styluses were dedicated as votive objects.2 There is also a larger than usual number of funerary inscriptions from the Veneto which commemorate women. In addition to its other implications, this has preserved a large corpus of female personal names, which allow us to examine changes in family structures and draw some conclusions about the role of women in the family (Lejeune 1974; Untermann 1961; Doettinger & Hickman 2003). Perhaps surprisingly, given the alleged prominence of women in Venetic society, there are relatively few references to them in written sources. Greek and Roman writers – especially Greeks – described the role of women in some other Italian societies in which they were prominent, notably that of Etruria, in some detail. The higher visibility

of women seems to have become symbolic of the otherness and in some contexts, the decadence, of Etruscan society (Spivey 1991). There are, however, few comments on the role, status or behaviour of Venetic women, despite the regular contacts between Greeks and the Veneto.3 One caveat is that all this evidence principally relates to the social roles and identities of high-status women, and therefore the focus of this paper must inevitably be on gender roles and identities within the élite. Much of our evidence comes from the burials of members of the élite, or from votive or funerary dedications made of prestige materials such as bronze. This is not to underplay the significance of women outside the élite group, but due to constraints of space, they must remain outside the scope of this paper. Another is that some of the most important sites in the region, notably that of the sanctuary of Reitia at Baratella (Este), were first investigated in the 19th century, and therefore there are some problems associated with the recording and publication of finds.4 Finally, the predominant mortuary ritual in the region during the period in question was cremation. The gender attribution of many graves can only be determined by the assemblage of grave goods and – where they exist – by inscriptions, rather than by examination of skeletal remains. This leaves us with no reliable means of testing the gender identity suggested by grave goods against the biological sex of the deceased. It raises the possibility of circularity of argument in attributing gender, and also limits the possibilities for exploring gender ambiguities.5 state and society in the veneto

Urbanisation begins at a relatively early date in the parts of the Veneto. The southern Veneto, comprising the lowlying regions of the Po plain and the area around the head of the Adriatic, the Euganean hills and the foothills of the Alps, begins to acquire urban-type settlements from the sixth century BC (Fig.1. Chieco Bianchi 1981: 49–53; Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 1992: 45–51; Capuis 1993: 114–21, 163–5; Balista, Gambacurta & Ruta Serafini 2002: 105–126), although of a rather different type from the Greek polis or the Roman city. By the end of the seventh century BC, established centres begin to grow in size and a much larger number of rural settlements appear for the first time, indicating a growth in both population and settlement density. Alongside this increasing number of sites, there is a significant growth in both the size, and in the complexity of internal structure and organisation

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in   the veneto

The larger settlements established sanctuaries around the edge of the inhabited area to mark the edges of the city, or out in the countryside to mark edges of the territory controlled by the community (Fig. 2). Further north, in the mountainous areas of the northern Veneto, sanctuaries were usually established in rural areas away from population centres and in locations marked by significant geographical features rather than by association with a particular settlement. In many cases, these seem to have been located on major routes of communication and probably acted as a focus of communal activity for the people living in the surrounding area (Pensaventa Mattioli 2001). In all cases, each sanctuary seems to have been dedicated to a cult with a set of votive offerings and associated iconography specific to the individual sanctuary. Deities also seem to be specific to individual sanctuaries, and we do not find much evidence of worship of the same deity in different parts of the region. Cemetery evidence indicates the emergence of a dominant élite and a growing level of social and political complexity. Most Venetic settlements had clearly demarcated cemetery areas on their peripheries. Early burials (sixth–fourth centuries BC) were a mixture of inhumations, burials or cremations placed in dolia and burials in stone-lined tombe a cassette. Different types of burial with different levels of grave goods, indicating different social status, are often found grouped together in ways that suggest a family group, with an élite family buried alongside lower-ranking members of their household. The Ricovero cemetery at Este, for instance, consisted of clusters of burials either in individual tombs or interred in communal burials under earth tumuli (Balista & Ruta Serafini 1992: 115–20). Each tumulus or group of tombs seem to have been set within their own area, with a boundary demarcated by stone slabs (Balista & Ruta Serafini 1992). Some also appear to have had a stone grave marker placed by the entrance to the

Fig. 1  Map of the Ancient Veneto

of space in a number of the larger settlements of the region, notably those at Padua, Este and Vicenza, Altino and Oderzo.6 This is accompanied by the first signs of activity on many of the major ritual sites, richer burials, more complex layout of cemeteries and settlements, and a material culture indicating an increasingly wealthy and dominant élite (Capuis 1993: 114–39; Balista & Ruta Serafini 1992; Boaro 2001; Balista, Gambacurta & Ruta Serafini 2002). These changes are all features associated with proto-urban developments and a move towards urbanisation, and also suggest that these sites were establishing themselves as the dominant sites in the area, on which many others were dependent. By the sixth century, the major Venetic centres at Este, Padua and Vicenza began to show features characteristic of urbanisation, such as the existence of an organised street layout, evidence for economic complexity and a defined social hierarchy, and complex settlement patterns in the surrounding territory (Bianchin Citton 2002). They all seem to have developed their own distinctive local identities within the region, and there appears to have been a lively degree of competition for regional influence, especially between Este and Padua, which developed into the two largest and most powerful settlements of the southern Veneto. Settlements have a similar basic structure, with clusters of houses dating to the sixth–fourth centuries, ringed by areas of burials and strategically-placed religious sanctuaries which mark the urban area and the boundaries of the territory controlled by these settlements (Chieco Bianchi 1981: 49–53; Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 1992; Boaro 2001: 154–64; Fig 2). The processes of urban growth continue at all the sites in the south of the region during the fourth-second centuries BC. This is marked by the development of fully nucleated settlements with complex street layouts and public buildings during the course of the third century, and then by the adoption of Hellenistic and Roman-style architecture and public buildings in the late second-first cent (Bosio 1981: 231–7; Baggio Bernardoni 1992: 305-20; Tosi 1992: 400–418).

Fig. 2  Este: Plan of the Venetic settlement (after Balista, Gambacurta and Ruta Serafini 2002) 14

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Fig. 3  Este: Votive bronze plaques from Caldevigo and Baratella (after Pascucci 1990)

tomb or enclosure, taking the form of a carved stone stele at Padua, plain stele at Altino, and obelisk-shaped cippus at Este, (Scarfì 1972; Fogolari 1988: 99–105; Prosdocimi 1988: 247–9).

votive evidence

There are rich sources of evidence for the social status and roles of élite women in Venetic society from the seventh–third centuries BC from a number of sanctuaries. Many sanctuary sites have yielded substantial deposits of votives, including bronze figurines, bronze laminae embossed with human or animal figures, model body parts, pottery and loom weights. The nature of the votives varies considerably between sanctuaries, and some types are very locally specific. For instance, the rural sanctuary at San Pietro Montagnon has a predominance of minature pots and loom weights, along with figurines of horses and mounted warriors; votive deposits at Padua contained a high proportion of small figurines and minature pottery, along with bronze objects such as knives, ladles and palettes, probably implements used in various rituals; those of Lagole in the Northern Veneto, are characterised by warrior figurines, bronze lamina, and bronze ladles.

Grave goods also indicate a shift from a society dominated by a small and very dominant aristocracy to one in which social and political power rested with a wider and more modest, although still wealthy, ruling élite. From end of the fourth century, there was a trend towards less outwardly impressive burials, and large-scale tombs intended for an entire clan or extended family were replaced by smallerscale tombs for individuals or a nuclear family (Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 1992: 87–90). Most burials were cremations with the ashes interred in pottery urns, sometimes inscribed with the name of the deceased (Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Es76–Es114), and accompanied by substantial quantities of grave goods. The development of the northern Veneto follows a rather different trajectory. Here, urbanisation is largely the result of the Roman conquest during the late 1st century BC (Augustus RG 26; Plin. HN 3.24), and is driven mainly by colonisation in the late first century BC and first century AD. The pre-Roman settlement pattern is one of smaller settlements or individual farms scattered throughout the Alpine valleys. Religious sanctuaries, many of them isolated and well away from centres of habitation, seem to provide a focus for much of the communal activity which takes place in cities elsewhere (Pensaventa Mattioli 2001). At Lagole, for instance, a small but significant number of votives are inscribed as dedications by the teuter, or community,7 rather than by individuals. However, the region remained largely one of scattered settlement patterns, with little sign of development towards urbanisation until the Roman conquest.

At Este, each of the five sanctuaries so far excavated has distinctive patterns of votives. At Meggiaro, these include bronze laminae, fibulae, pendants and pottery; at Morlungo, they include ceramic or bronze anatomical votives, and at Baratella, they include pottery, bronze figurines, bronze laminae, anatomical votives, loom weights, spindle whorls and writing implements. Many sanctuaries at – especially those at Este, Altino, Treviso, Vicenza and several other sites – included embossed bronze tablets with a distinctive iconography suggesting cults relating to different groups in society (Pascucci 1990; Maggiani 2002). Meggiaro (Este), for instance, produced a majority of warrior figures suggesting a predominantly male cult, while Baratella and others had a high number of votives depicting mature women and another had a predominance of groups of young girls (Fig. 5; Pascucci 1990: 59–92; Zaghetto 2002; Fig. 3). However, there cult activity is not segregated by gender. Both male and female laminae are found, even sites 15

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in the veneto

 

25

20

15

10

Writing tablets

Discs

Non-fig.

Misc.

Anatomical

Women

Warriors

Horsemen

0

Animals

5

Table 1  Typology of Votive Tablets (after Pascucci 1990)

50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10

Table 2  Typology of Votive Figurines (after Pascucci 1990)

16

Other

Anatomical Votives

Animals

Women

worshippers

warriors

0

Horsemen

5

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

and a heavy bronze belt. Examples of all of these items have been attested from female tombs.8 The key difference between the depictions of women and that of male figures on lamina, is that representations of men vary considerably in typology of dress, armour, weaponry etc – all of them precise ways of indicating rank and status (Pascucci 1990: 152, 156–7). Depictions of women, however, are far less nuanced, and only two main types are found – the single richly dressed female figure and groups of young girls, often walking in procession.9

Amongst female burials, there are a number of notably rich tombs such as Benvenuti tomb 126, dating to the late seventh or early sixth century BC (Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 2006: 320–31). The complexity of some of the issues surrounding gender and funerary evidence is illustrated by the fact that it is a double deposition but the grave goods are predominantly female, including glass-paste beads, bronze pendants and bronze discs with gold-leaf, fish-hooks, spindles, a pottery ossuary and the famous Benvenuti situla. In addition, a small number of items usually associated with male burials – namely three serpentine fibulae – were also found. This may indicate a secondary deposition, but it may also indicate a problematic gender category. The tomb seems to be an example – probably the most spectacular but certainly not unique – of a rich burial commemorating a woman of élite family and the predominance of female grave goods also points to an honouring of the woman in her own right, rather than as a secondary deposition to a male relative, but the presence of some male-gendered items may point to woman who held some sort of special or anomalous role in the community.

These differences in depictions of various types of women – richly dressed mature women versus groups of younger women – possibly reflect the use of the sanctuaries by different groups within society. Adult men and women at predominate in the iconography from Caldevigo, young men at Meggiaro, and both young women and mature ones at Baratella (Pascucci 1990: 148–52; Maggiani 2002). The dating of the laminae is problematic, given that they mostly come from unstratified deposits, but stylistic criteria point to dates between the sixth and late fourth century BC for most of them. The issue of whether these are depictions of goddess figures, priestesses or ordinary women is a thorny one, but recent studies have argued – based on correspondences between this iconography and that found in other contexts – that these are intended to represent the dedicators of the votives and thus actual women rather than deities.10

From the early sixth–early third centuries BC, funerary practice remains relatively stable. The characteristic form of funerary pottery for both men and women was a locally-produced red and black ware. Grave goods associated with female burials included specific types of fibula, spindles and spindle whorls, bead necklaces, and one or more bronze pieces – aes rude, of a weight roughly consistent with the Greek obol. Male depositions included axes, knives, large pins, serpentine fibulae, horse-bits and bronze laminae, but did not include any examples of aes rude. During this period, another characteristic high-status female burial artefact is a large bronze belt clasp or plate, usually occurring in pairs, with one deposited amongst the grave goods and another incinerated in the ossuary and presumably placed on the corpse before cremation. These are shown in many visual depictions of women as an item of high-status female dress. However, they may have come to have a symbolic value as an indicator of female status. In many tombs, the surviving belt is too large to be functional, and is found wrapped around the container for the ossuary.11 It is therefore strongly associated with élite women as a mark of both gender and rank.

funerary evidence

The funerary evidence nature is also revealing. The large number of cemetery excavations at the main Venetic settlements in the past two decades gives us a significant insight into the gendering of burial practices. The cemeteries of Este, which have been particularly thoroughly explored, contained a significant number of female burials, but in the earliest phases (eighth–seventh century) they seem less likely than males to have individual burials, as a significantly smaller number of female than male burials have been found. They also seem to more likely than men to share a tomb, often with children. However, it is notable that in the seventh century BC, most of the wealthiest burials are those of women rather than men (Chieco Bianchi 1988: 39). There is a clear division of funerary assemblages which is usually thought to reflect gender. In early archaic period (eigth-seventh century) bronze situlae are found exclusively in male burials but from mid seventh century, these are used as containers for ossuaries in a number of notably high-status female burials (Chieco Bianchi 1988: 44–61; Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 1992: 71–85). From the late seventh century, males are typically buried with serpentine fibulae, knives, pins, arm-rings, and drinking vessels similar to the Greek kylix in bronze or fine pottery, while female tombs contain bronze and bead jewellery, bronze discs and other ornaments, spindles, loom weights, and skyphoi (Capuis & Chieco Bianchi 1992: 71–85). Textile manufacture and wool-working seems to have been an integral part of the gender and status identities of élite women, since most female burials contained loom weights, spindles or spindle whorls.

The general trend from the end of the fifth century is towards less lavish grave goods, fewer extremely rich burials, and the disappearance of large groupings of burials suggesting burial in kinship groups. Instead, burial was in smaller individual or family tombs. Burial assemblages remain gendered, but both male and female burials begin to contain a large number of items connected with banqueting, such as sets of cups, ladles and jugs, and cooking implements such as knives and spits, suggesting that ritual feasting had become an important element in élite identity and in funerary rites. The most extravagantly wealthy example of an élite female commemoration is Ricovero tomb 23, attributed as the tomb of Nerka Trostaia on the basis of inscription, dates to the third century and contained a very rich assemblage (Capuis 17

 

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in the veneto

Fig.4.1  Grave stele with Venetic inscription. Este, fifth-fourth century BC.

Fig.4.2  Grave stele with Venetic inscription. Padua, fourth century BC.

& Chieco Bianchi 1992: 90–91). This included an inscribed bronze situla containing the ossuary, jewellery and items of dress, a bronze belt, and two complete banqueting sets of imported pottery and bronze vessels, one with a skyphos – characteristic of female burials – which was probably a grave offering, and another with kylix (characteristic of male grave goods) which was probably used in funerary banquet. The tomb itself was laid out elaborately, with one corner set out as part of a house, with model loom and work-bench. The tomb contained several inscribed artefacts from which we know the probable name of the deceased, but also others with additional names which are all female.12 It is clear both that this is an exceptionally lavish burial of a clearly high-status woman, but the interpretation of it is not straightforward. Many of the grave goods are of characteristic female type, and the prominence of equipment for textile production emphasises a typically female sphere of activity which was also associated with high status (Gleba, this volume). However, the presence of a set of tableware of a type more usually associated with male burials adds a complicating factor. It may be a funerary gift from a male relative, but it may also indicate that Nerka had a status of social role in the community which included some traditionally male functions. Without corroborating evidence, we can only speculate, but at the very least, it illustrates the complexity of gendering burials on the basis of grave goods alone.

offerings by men rather than women (Scarfi & Tombolani 1985; Prosdocimi 1988: 246; Marinetti 1999b). This presence of high-profile women in the funerary record is not, however, an unproblematic indicator of female status and identity throughout the region. Evidence for high status female burials is much more prominent at Este than elsewhere, and there is a particular disparity between Este and Padua, which has produced much less evidence of highprofile women in the funerary record. This partly reflects the bias of excavation, but this does not entirely explain the larger number of commemorated and/or spectacularly wealthy female burials from Este. Funerary evidence for female identity therefore reinforces the idea that a small number of élite women held a very prominent position in Venetic society, but very much as part of a social hierarchy which placed a strong emphasis on the role of the family or kinship group. Their status and identity is therefore defined and celebrated in terms of their membership of a dominant family, not necessarily as an individual. If other evidence, such as the instances of female representation in funerary inscriptions and iconography is considered, things become still more complicated. There are no iconographic funerary monuments from Este. The local commemorative custom until the end of the fourth century was to set up a cippus, probably outside the tomb and close to its entrance rather than directly above it, inscribed in the first person with the name of the deceased (Fogolari 1988: 99–105; Prosdocimi 1988: 247–9; Balista and Ruta Serafini 1992; Malnati 2002).13 Thereafter, the main epitaph was an inscription directly onto the ossuary itself, and there are no surviving external grave markers.

The tomb of Nerka Trostaia seems to be a single burial, unlike other, later, examples of prominent female commemorations from the Fornasotti cemetery at Altino. Fornasotti Tomb 1, which dates to the second or first century BC, is a large tomb with an impressive assemblage of pottery, mostly drinking vessels and tableware, but it seems to be a joint tomb shared by a high-status woman, Ianta Pannaria Otna, and a male relative, Pletuvios Pannarios, and many of the inscribed grave goods as

At Padua, however, there is a very different pattern of gender distribution in funerary commemoration. Grave markers took the form of a rectangular stele which 18

19

0

10

20

30

40

50

60

70

80

90

Funerary Stele

Grave goods

Votive

Table 3  Gender distribution and typology of Venetic inscriptions

Funerary urn

Settlement

Male Female Not Known

State/Public

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

 

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in the veneto

Fig. 5  Este: Votive writing tablet from Baratella (John Wilkins, after Prosdocimi 1983)

surviving epigraphic record. From the third–first centuries, however, epitaphs commemorating women form almost half of the surviving corpus of funerary inscriptions in Venetic. There are 40 surviving epitaphs commemorating men dating to the sixth-fourth centuries, as against 17 epitaphs commemorating women and 7 which are too fragmentary to attribute a gender. For the third-first centuries, the balance is much more even, with 31 epitaphs commemorating men, 29 commemorating women and 14 unattributable. One feature which is very clear, however, is that the geographical distribution of female epitaphs is very uneven. The majority come from Este, with smaller numbers from Altino and the eastern Veneto. Only a small number come from Padua, and none at all from the northern Veneto.

writing tablets are complex objects, inscribed with the Venetic alphabet, a syllabary and a grid containing the vowels, as well as the dedication, and may have functioned as a teaching tool (Fig. 5). At least two writing tablets are dedicated by women,19 but the rest of those with a surviving dedication (which are a minority, since most survive only as small fragments) are dedicated by men. The female bias of the styluses is even more marked. Writing styluses form a significant proportion of the votives from Baratella. Many are uninscribed, undecorated and appear to be functional objects, but 175 have incised decoration, and 25 are larger than the functional styluses and are inscribed with dedications to Reitia (Fig. 6. Lejeune 1954; Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Es40–Es63; Ghirardini 1888, 28–37). Most are dedications using a first person formula similar to that of the male figurines and writing tablets.20

Women are also well represented in the votive inscriptions from the region but, as with funerary inscriptions, they feature more prominently at Este than elsewhere. This may be partially due to the fact that the largest concentration of inscriptions comes from Baratella, but it is notable that the second largest concentration of inscriptions, that from the sanctuary at Lagole, includes no surviving dedications by females at all, something which is also true of other sanctuaries in the northern Veneto.17 There are approximately 100 objects with fully alphabetic inscriptions from Baratella, but there is a substantial gender divide in the inscribed votives from this site. Inscriptions only appear to be added to items which are, in themselves, gender-neutral, rather than those which visually represent men or women. The votive deposits include a large number of more obviously gendered items such as male and female figurines and laminae, anatomical votives, and objects associated with female activities such as loom weights, but the inscriptions are confined to only three classes of votive – stone plinths designed to hold figurines (all male dedications), bronze writing tablets (mostly but not exclusively male) and bronze styluses (all female).18 The

The significance of the gendering of the tablets and styluses is not clear, but it does strongly suggest a perceived connection between women and the practice of writing which is one of the central characteristics of the sanctuary. There is clearly a link between writing and the implements for it, and female votive behaviour, which in turn implies a possible connection between women and literacy.21 It has been argued that the sanctuary at Baratella has a central role in the control and dissemination of writing and the teaching of literacy, and if it was indeed a centre for the teaching of literacy, this may imply that women held an important role in this process (Prosdocimi 1983; Pandolfini & Prosdocimi 1990: 244–88; Whitehouse & Wilkins 2006). However, we have little information about religious hierarchies and practices in the region, or about the role of Baratella in the teaching process, to corroborate this. It may be significant that women dedicate the simpler styluses whereas men (with a small number of exceptions) dedicate the more complex tablets, which have a much clearer connection with the teaching process. This may possibly indicate that women have a different relation to the use and dissemination of 20

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Fig. 6  Este: Votive bronze stylus from Baratella (after Prosdocimi 1983)

literacy to that of men, and were less integrated into the processes of teaching and learning than the predominantly male dedicators of the writing tablets. However, with no conclusive evidence of the role of women in the teaching of literacy, this must remain speculation.

whether it was customary for a married woman to adopt a gamonymic, derived from the name of her husband, as a second element (Lejeune 1965–66). It is possible that there was a chronological shift, with change from gamonymic to patronymic and then to Roman-style gentilicial name (Doettinger & Hickman 2003). Whatever the precise details and chronology, however, the identification of a women by both personal and family name may indicate that female identity was more bound up with family identity and less with a personal one.

Most Venetic inscriptions are simple in structure. A small number of longer and more complex examples survive, but most consist of a personal name, sometimes with a funerary or votive formula, and often expressed in the first person (Agostiniani 1982: 49–59). This has preserved a valuable corpus of onomastic data which may provide an insight into family structures, gender identities and female status. The structure of Venetic names appears to include a personal name, often accompanied by a patronymic, and later a personal name and gentilicial name (Untermann 1961). Most personal names, therefore, were compound names indicating some form of family affiliation and identity as well as a personal identity. If the form of personal names is analysed on the basis of gender, however, women are slightly more likely than men to have a compound name with two elements, where as men are more likely to have a personal name only (Table 4). The significance of this is not entirely clear, not least because the statistical differentce is relatively small and the exact structure of female names is uncertain. The use of a compound name by Venetic women has sometimes been taken as an indicator of high status, in contrast to Roman women, many of whom had no personal name and were known by the female form of the family name, thus totally subsuming their identity into that of their family. This, however, may be an unhelpful analogy. Since the single name, for both men and women, in the Veneto appears to be a genuine personal name rather than a derivation from a family or gentilicial name, a single-element name may represent a stronger assertion of personal identity. Therefore, rather than demonstrating the personal identity and importance of Venetic women, the use of compound female names may in fact signal that their identity is more bound up with the identity of the family and less personalised than that of men. One of the areas of uncertainty is in the precise form of the second element of Venetic female names. Whereas men consistently use the form name + patronymic until a relatively late date when the Roman custom of using gentilicial names begins to make an impact, female names seem to have undergone a change over time and there is considerable debate over whether the second element of the female name is a patronymic, drawn from the name of the father (Untermann 1961) or

conclusions

Even on a very brief review of the evidence, it seems that the question of the social role, status and gender identity of élite women in the Veneto is a complicated issue. Given that the evidence of votives, funerary practices and epigraphy all address broadly ritual areas of activity, and that evidence for female activities and identities is lowest from settlement contexts, we can only hope to arrive at a series of snap-shots of possible gender identities in this region. Perhaps the most significant factor revealed by this evidence is geographical variation and differences between communities in the Veneto. There are major differences between representations of women and female visibility in different areas of the region. The most notable is the much higher level of female visibility in the epigraphic, votive and funerary records at Este than in some other areas of the Veneto. Conversely, there is a very low level of evidence for female visibility in the northern part of the region, and also some parts of the southern Veneto, notably Padua. Some of this may be accounted for by variations in patterns of excavation and survival, but most of the major centres are now sufficiently well explored to indicate that there are genuine differences between different parts of the Veneto in the role and status of women within the community, and in female identities. There are especially marked differences in levels of female representation in the archaeological record between Este and Padua, and between the southern Veneto and the alpine areas. This may imply, in turn, that there were major cultural differences between communities within the region, which included differences in gender identity.22 Within Este itself, much evidence for female identity comes from Baratella, which may imply that the Reitia cult was central to female identity and to the role of élite women in the community. 21

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in the veneto

2 Elements

2 + Elements

Frag.

Male Names

42%

48%

5%

5%

Female Names

32%

60%

4%

4%

 

Single Name

Table 4: Distribution of onomastic forms

One aspect which needs to be considered is that of agency. It is unclear to what extent evidence for women and their lives was generated by women themselves, and therefore controlled by them, and how far it was determined by other factors. The votive laminae and figurines were presumably commissioned by the women who dedicated them, or their families, but they are static and circumscribed by convention. The high number of offerings associated with women (whether iconographic laminae or figurines or items associated with female activity, such as loom weights) indicate that women were active participants in important cults, but nevertheless, we must not lose sight of the fact that female votives are still in a minority, and are also concentrated into a small number of locations. It is likely that élite women enjoyed considerable status, and that they may have played important role in religious life, but lack of information about the social, political and religious hierarchies, of the Veneto, about the physical structure of sanctuaries, and about the nature of religious practices, means that it is difficult to draw firm conclusions about whether they were simply participants in a cult or had a role in religious organisation. One particular problem, given the geographical distribution of our evidence, is whether women were generally active in cult activities throughout the Veneto, or whether they were confined to particular sanctuaries, notably those at Baratella and at Treviso.

This strong connection between the identity of élite women and that of the families to which they belonged is underlined by the onomastic evidence, whether in epitaphs or other types of inscription. Whereas men can be referred to by a personal name only, placing emphasis on personal identity, women are far more likely to be referred to by a compound name, placing emphasis on her descent, membership of a family group, and family identity. The fact that the family element of a woman’s name may have changed on marriage, at least at some points in Venetic history, is a further indication that the norm was for female personal identity to be subsumed within that of the family to which she belonged, whether this was her birth family (as would be the case if the second element of her name is interpreted as a patronymic) or her marital family (if it is assumed to be a gamonymic). If the assumption that this changed over time is correct, it may indicate wider changes in Venetic society and the role of women within the family, but the basic structure of the name still places a major emphasis on family identity. This emphasis on family identity is one which is characteristic of highly-stratified and hierarchical societies such as those of early Italy. In such societies, the most important determinant of status and identity is membership of an élite family group, and this is true for women just as much as for men. Although women are very unlikely to have played a role in public life or have had any direct power, the nature of the social structure enables women from a limited social group to exercise significant influence. Women of élite families are likely to have considerable influence and a considerable status within the community (Spivey 1991; Glinister 1997), but this derives from their membership of a particular group, not from their individual status, and their individual levels of self-determination may have been limited by the wishes and aims of their male relatives. In the archaic period, therefore, female identity amongst the Venetic élite seems to be closely entwined with that of the family.

Turning to the funerary evidence, attributing agency and untangling various levels of identity is a particularly complex task. It is very unclear how far female funerary commemorations represent the personal and individual identity of the deceased and how far commemoration is determined by the wider group, such as the family or kinship group to which she belonged. The selection of grave goods could be determined in part by significant objects actually owned by the dead person, but was also clearly determined in part by convention, by the demands of the funerary ritual, and by the family of the deceased. The wealthy female burials of the seventh–fourth centuries may therefore be a demonstration of family wealth and status as much as (or more than) a celebration of the status of the individual as an important female member of the community. Some of the prestige personal objects, such as the decorated belt clasps, found in such burials are closely linked both to gender identity and to social rank as they appear to be markers of high-status dress, and therefore represent an intersection between gender identity and a broader social identity based on membership of a dominant group. It is also notable that many of the items particularly associated with female burials and also with some female votives are particularly associated with the domestic sphere. Wool-working and textile production seems to be an important part of female social identity.23

How far this changed over time is more difficult to assess. The third-first centuries BC are marked by social and political changes within the region. Although Venetic communities are still dominated by wealthy élite families, the socio-political hierarchy appears to be less steeply stratified than it was in the archaic period, and in the southern part of the region, the emerging urban centres develop into more fully-evolved cities. If élite female identity is closely linked to, and dependent on, the identity and influence of the wider family group, if may be expected that these changes my diminish the influence of élite women. In some respects, however, women attain their highest visibility during the Hellenistic period. The 22

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

number of female epitaphs and commemorations in Venetic datable to the third–first centuries is almost equal to that of male funerary inscriptions – something which is unusual in the ancient world.

dialogue between different levels of identity and the close intertwining of gender identity with other types of identity such as social status, ethnic identity, age and many other factors.

Iconographic representations of women are fewer than for the earlier period. Votives of this date are more likely to be items of daily use, and the bronze lamina of the earlier periods disappear from the votive record (Pascucci 1990). However, the representations of women of the Hellenistic and Roman periods which have survived – mainly from grave stelae – seem in general more conservative and rooted in local culture than those of men. In particular, the women depicted on the Paduan stelae of the first century BC are depicted in a very traditional manner, wearing the dress of Venetic women of rank, complete with belt, disc headdress and full, long-sleeved dress. Their male counterparts, in contrast, are depicted in wearing Roman dress, probably a toga (Lomas 2006). There is some evidence (see above, 00-00) that some of these items, notably the belt, had come to have symbolic value rather than forming part of daily dress as early as the sixth century BC, but by depicting the woman in traditional ceremonial Venetic dress, the stele makes a powerful point about the persistence of cultural identity and in particular, about the association of female identity with indigenous cultural traditions.

notes

1    cf. Fogolari 1988: 149–92; Barfield 1997. 2    The inscriptions are collected in Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967, with updates in Prosdocimi 1988, and Marinetti 1999a and 2004. For a more detailed discussion of the linguistic aspects of the votive writing implements and their possible role in the development and teaching of literacy, see Prosdocimi 1983 and Pandolfini & Prosdocimi 1990: 244-88. The role of the objects in the votive assemblage is discussed by Pascucci (1990: 211– 14). see also, Lomas, forthcoming a 3   Ancient descriptions of the Veneti focus mainly on supposed Greek legends associated with the region, such as that of Phaethon, or on Greek foundation legends attributed to various Venetic communities. The fascination with the origins of the Veneti and a possibly connection with Troy began early (Hom. Il. B 851–2) and is picked up by numerous later authors including Euripides (Hipp. 228– 31), Herodotos (1.196, 5.9), Livy (1.1, 5.33.10, 10.2.4–15), Pliny (HN 3.130–1), Strabo (Geog. 5.1.4–5), Vergil (Aen. 1.242–9) etc. Polybios (2.17–23) comments on the region, observing that by third and second centuries the culture of the region was similar to that of the Celts but that the language remained different. For a collection of sources on the Veneto, see Voltan 1989.

This raises the additional issue of whether changes to the wider ethnic and cultural identities of the region also had an impact on gender identities. From the fourth century onwards, there is evidence of significant Celtic influence, and possible Celtic migration, and Greek cultural influences played an important role in the development of Paduan identity (Bandelli 2004). From the second century, contact with Roman culture also becomes influential. Women are sometimes seen as possible vectors of cultural change. If they intermarry with men from a different ethnic or cultural group, they can become the conduit for cultural or linguistic contact and transmission (Hodos 1999). However, female identities are also shaped by the distinction between public and private life, something which may have become more formalised as Venetic communities moved away from domination by a small élite and towards the more formal structures of city-state government which were in place by the 1st century. This would, by definition, have excluded women, even those of high social status, as they could not, by definition stand for public office or participate in the public life of the city. Therefore, there was a stronger imperative for men in the community – particular those who aspired to public office and influence – to adopt the visual attributes of a Roman identity, as these were closely linked with the high status culture of Rome, and after 49 BC, with Roman citizenship.

4   In particular, there is an element of gender-stereotyping associated with the identification and attribution of some objects. For instance, many of the items now identified as writing styluses were initially assumed to be dresspins or hair-pins on the basis of female dedicatory inscriptions (Ghirardini 1888). 5   For the problems inherent in attributing gender on the basis of grave goods, and the questions raised about unusual or blurred gender identities by funerary assemblages, see Weglian 2001. 6   The date of earliest activity on some of the sites of the eastern Veneto, notably Altino, has recently been revised in the light of new (and as yet unpublished) excavations which have uncovered signs of occupation as early as the eleventh century BC at Altino. 7   For interpretations of teuter, see Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: 264–8, and Rix 2000. 8   For instance, Benvenuti tomb 126 contained fragments of an elaborate bead necklace, a bronze disc, and possible fragments of a belt. Fogolari 1988: 156–69; Chieco Bianchi 1988: 36-–9 and 85–6. 9   A similar pattern has been observed for situla art (Barfield 1997), in which men are not only represented much more frequently than women, but are individualised and differentiated to a much greater degree, and represented undertaking a much wider range of activities. 10   Pascucci 1990: 156–7; Zaghetto 2007. The identification with a deity has been suggested particularly in the case of the Treviso laminae, which depict a female figure sometimes identified as a local version of the Greek Potnia Theron (mistress of the animals). Fogolari (1956) connection between representations with a disc headdress and a specific cult role, see Folgolari 1975: 174

Women, in contrast, had no such imperative, and therefore it is possible that some elements of female identity may have remained more closely linked to traditional Venetic culture. Although there can be little doubt that Venetic cultural identities in general, and gender identities in particular, must have changed significantly over time, the evidence from all periods illustrates the complex 23

kathryn lomas: gender identities and cultural identities in the veneto

santuari, necropoli. In G. Tosi (ed.), Este antica: dalla preistoria all’età romana: 305–56. Zielo, Padua.

has suggested on the basis of these, that female figures on laminae may have represented goddesses rather than actual women. For the connection between representations with a disc headdress and a specific cult role, see Folgolari 1975: 174  



Bagnasco Gianni, G. 1999.  L’acquisizione della scrittura in Etruria: materiali a confronto per la ricostruzione del quadro storico e culturale. In F. Cordano & G. Bagnasco Gianni (eds), Scritture mediterranee tra il IX e il VII secolo a.C: 85–106. Edizioni ET, Milano.

11   In some tombs, such as Este, Nazari tomb 161, traces of fabric have been found on the ossuar, which may imply that it was draped in either a ceremonial shroud or an item of clothing, then enclosed within the belt, in a manner similar to some of the canopic urns found in Etruscan tombs. Chieco Bianchi 1988: 85-6

Balista, C. & Ruta Serafini, A. 1992.  Este preromana. Nuovi dati sulle necropoli. In G. Tosi (ed.), Este antica: dalla preistoria all’età romana: 111–23. Zielo, Padua. Balista, C., Gambacurta, G. & Ruta Serafini, A. 2002.  Sviluppo di urbanistica Atestina. In A. Ruta Serafini (ed.), Este preromana: Una città e i suoi santuari: 105–126. Canova, Treviso.

12   Prosdocimi 1988, 247-55; Chieco Bianchi 1987. Three of the pottery cups are inscribed with a probable female personal name, Efa, while two bronze vessels are inscribed with the name of Nerka Trostaia (ego nerka trostaiai and ego trostaiai).

Bandelli, G. 2004.  La ricerca sulle élites della Regio X nell’ultimo ventennio. In M. Cébeillac-Gervasioni, L. Lemoine & F. Trément (eds), Autocélebration des élites locales dans le monde romain: contextes, images, textes (IIe s. av. ������ J.-C. ��/ ������������ IIIe s. ap. ������ J.-C.): 77–102. Presses ����������������������� Universitaires Blaise-Pascal, Clermont-Ferrand.

13   The inscriptions are all commemorations in the 1st person, in the form X ekupetaris ego (“I am to/of X the ekupetaris”). On the possible meanings of ekupetaris and its function as a status indicator, see Marinetti 2003. 14   Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Pa1, Pa4, Pa 5 and Pa6; Prosdocimi 1988: Pa24; Zampieri 1986–7; Fogolari 1988: 100. Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Pa3 depicts a chariot with two figures but it is too worn to determine the gender of the passenger.

Barfield, L. 1997.  Gender issues in north Italian prehistory. In R.D. Whitehouse (ed.), Gender and Italian Archaeology: 143-56. Accordia Research Institute, London. Bianchin Citton, E. 2002.  Le origini di Este: Da communità di villaggio a centro Veneto. In A. Ruta Serafini (ed.), Este preromana: Una città e i suoi santuari: 89–104. Canova, Treviso.

15   Fogolari 1970–71; Prosdocimi 1964–5; Lomas 2006. 16   For the transmission of the alphabet, see Pandolfini & Prosdocimi 1990. The inscriptions are collected in Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967 and Lejeune 1974.

Boaro, S. 2001.  Dinamiche insediative e confini nel Veneto dell’età del Ferro. Padusa, 37: 153–197.

17   There are a small number of inscribed votives from Auronzo and Gurina (Marinetti 2001, 2004) which are also all male dedications.

Bosio, L. 1981.  Padova in età Romana. Organzzazione urbanistica e territorio. In L. Bosio (ed.), Padova Antica. Da communità paleoveneta a città romano-cristiana: 231–48. Pauda, Trieste.

18   Ghirardini 1888; Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967. 19   Attributing gender to the votive writing tablets can be difficult, as many survive only in a very fragmentary state and frequently without the dedication. However, at least two have definitely identifiable female names, Ebfa Baitonia and Frema Fremaistna (Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Es23 and Es 32), and a third very fragmentary example has a possible female name (Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Es35). However, the majority of surviving inscriptions from tablets contain male names.

Capuis, L. 1993.  I Veneti. Longanesi, Milan. Capuis, L. & Chieco Bianchi, A.M. 1985.  Este. 1, Le necropoli Casa di Ricovero, Casa Muletti Prosdocimi e Casa Altonsi. Giorgio Bretschneider, Rome. Capuis, L. & Chieco Bianchi, A.M. 1992.  Este preromana. Vita e cultura. In G. Tosi (ed.), Este antica: dalla preistoria all’età romana: 41–108. Zielo, Padua. Capuis, L. & Chieco Bianchi, A.M. 2006.  Este. 2, La necropoli di Villa Benvenuti. Giorgio Bretschneider, Rome.

20   For instance Pellegrini & Prosdocimi 1967: Es41 (Fremaistna doto Reitia – ‘Fremaistna gave this/me to Reitia’). However, it has been suggested that some are more complex dedications by one woman on behalf of another.

Chieco Bianchi, A.M. 1981. La documentazione archeologica. In L. Bosio (ed.), Padova Antica. Da communità paleoveneta a città romano-cristiana: 49–53. Pauda, Trieste. Chieco Bianchi, A. M. 1987.  Dati preliminari su nuove tombe di III secolo da Este. In D. Vitali (ed.), Celti ed Etruschi nell’Italia centro-settentrionale dal V sec. a.C. alla romanizzazione: 191-236. University Press, Bologna.

21   This has also been argued for other areas of Italy, notably Etruria (Bagnasco Gianni 1999). 22   For a parallel case from Etruria, see Izzett, this volume. Tarquinia seems to have a very different pattern of gender commemoration from those of neighbouring cities, with a much stronger emphasis on female commemoration. On the cultural difference between different communities and areas within the Veneto, see Lomas, forthcoming b.

Chieco Bianchi, A.M. 1988.  I Veneti. In AA.VV. Italia: Omnium terrarum alumna: La civiltà dei Veneti, Reti, Liguri, Celti, Picaeni, Umbri, Latini, Campani e Iapigi: 398. Libri Scheiwiller, Milan. Díaz-Andreu, M. 2005.  Gender Identity. In M. Díaz-Andreu, S. Lucy, S. Babic & D.N. Edwards, The Archaeology of Identity: 13–42. Routledge, London.

23   The Veneto was noted for its wool production and textiles until well into the Roman period, and the quality and hardwearing qualities were noted by several ancient writers. Plin. HN 8.191, Mart. Epig.14.155, Juv. Sat. 3.170.

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Zaghetto, L. 2003.  Il santuario preromano e romano di Piazzetta S. Giacomo a Vicenza. Le lamine figurate. Museo Naturalistico Archeologico di Vicenza, Vicenza

 

Voltan, C. 1989.  Le fonti letterarie per la storia della Venetia et Histria. Istituto veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti, Venice. Weglian, E. 2001.  Grave goods do not a gender make: A case study from Singen an Hohentwiel, Germany. In B. Arnold & N.L. Winkler (eds), Gender and the Archaeology of Death: 127–58. Altamira Press, New York and Oxford.

Zaghetto, L. 2007.  Iconography and language: The missing link. In K. Lomas, R. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds). Literacy and the State in the Ancient Mediterranean: 171–84. Accordia Research Institute, London

Whitehouse, R.D. & Wilkins, J.B. 2006.  Veneti and Etruscans: issues of language, literacy and learning. In E. Herring, I. Lemos, F. Lo Schiavo, L. Vagnetti, R.D. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds), Across Frontiers. Papers in honour of David Ridgway and Francesca R. Serra Ridgway: ����������������� 511–27����������� . Accordia Research Institute, London.

Zampieri, G. 1986-87.  Un’altra stele paleoveneta patavina ritrovata presso Camin. Atti e Memorie dell’Accademia Patavina, 99: 133–155 Zampieri, G. 1994.  Il Museo Archeologico di Padova. Electa. Milan.

Zaghetto, L. 2002.  Le lamine figurate. In A. Ruta Serafini (ed.), Este preromana: Una città e i suoi santuari: 142–9. Canova, Treviso.

26

Where are they hiding? The invisibility of the native women of Puglia in the fourth century BC Edward Herring

background

This paper focuses on evidence from Puglia, Southeast Italy, which, during the period under discussion, was populated both by indigenous (Italic) peoples and Greeks: the latter first settling the region in the late eighth century BC. In time the Greeks established major settlements at Tarentum and also Metapontum, which despite being in modern Basilicata is geographically close enough to be relevant to this case-study (Fig. 1). In discussing the non-Greek populations, I shall lump them together under the generic terms ‘native’ or ‘indigenous’, even though ancient literary and historical sources refer to a number of different ‘tribes’, including Daunians in Northern Puglia, Peucetians in Central Puglia, and Messapians in the South. There are a number of theoretical objections to the use of these names, which have been well rehearsed elsewhere (notably in Whitehouse & Wilkins 1985); the only one that needs reiteration here is that these sources derive from Greek and Latin writers and, therefore, offer an external (or etic) perspective of native identity. In addition, there is a very sound practical reason for lumping the various populations together for present purposes, as the class of evidence under discussion does not permit the recognition of different groups. the evidence

The principal evidence under consideration is iconographic. The artistic traditions of the native populations tend not to be figurative, at least in terms of material that survives. Although exceptions exist, they are few. For example, there are occasional painted vases from the fifth and fourth centuries BC that seem to have been inspired by Greek figured pottery – a couple of which are mentioned below. Where there is a more substantial figurative tradition – such as the Daunian stelae, which date between the later seventh and the early fifth centuries BC – it is not of a realistic type. Thus, there are very few broadly naturalistic self-images of native people. However, in the late fifth century BC we start to get images of these populations on South Italian vase-painting. Such images might be regarded as an outsider’s perspective, as it is normally argued that the South Italian red-figure industry was established by Greek craftsmen (probably from Athens) moving to the region. This argument is probably correct, because of the

technical complexities of producing such vessels (Noble 1988). The production centres of the Apulian industry are not well established, but it has long been assumed that there were workshops in native areas as well as the Greek cities (RVAp II: 451). Nevertheless, the artistic idiom is essentially Greek. Moreover, the fact that the technical process does not seem to have spread widely throughout native areas suggests that workshops were owned or run by Greek (or at least Greek-trained) masters. Vases decorated with scenes featuring the native population were a small but consistent part of the output of the Apulian industry, which traditionally was dated from the late fifth to the end of the fourth century BC, but is now believed to have continued in production in the first quarter of the third century BC (Trendall 1971; SchneiderHerrmann 1996; Freilinghaus 1995; Carpenter 2004). The depiction of local people is in no sense pejorative. Indeed, it can be reasonably argued that the vases in question were made specifically for use by the native population in their tombs; as such the client may have had a more significant level of input into the imagery than is usually the case with vase-painting. So many Apulian vases have been excavated illegally (Elia 2001) that it is impossible to be completely certain of their normal context of usage. However, it is safe to assume that the overwhelming majority of those vessels which survive intact or almost so, came from tombs. If we accept that these vessels were produced for the natives and that the images were meant to represent them, it seems reasonable to conclude that their depiction was reasonably faithful. While it is undeniable that their representation will have been subject to artistic conventions, idealisation, and so on, the consumers must have recognised themselves. Otherwise the scenes would simply have been allegorical; and a standard (i.e. Greektype) image would have served just as well. Native men are clearly visible in Apulian red-figure, being depicted in distinctive patterned tunics, which set them apart from other men shown naked or in Greek dress. When it comes to women the situation is different. A comparison may be drawn with equivalent red-figure pottery from the western side of Italy. Campanian red-figure also depicts the local indigenous population. Here too men are instantly recognisable by their patterned tunics and armour, but women are equally visible by virtue of their distinctive costume, though they are depicted less frequently than

 

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Fig. 1  Map of South Italy showing prominent Greek and native sites. Insert: the modern regions of Italy with Puglia in black.

Fig. 2  Campanian hydria (Louvre K277), attributed to the Libation Painter. Photograph courtesy of the Musée du Louvre.

men.1 Campanian women are often shown honouring men, who tend to be cast as warriors; scenes of departure for or return from combat are particularly common (v. numerous examples in Schneider-Herrmann 1996). Some of these scenes may depict actual rituals that were practised. If correct this would suggest a significant social and religious role for women, albeit one defined in terms of relationships to male power. The hydria (Louvre K277; LCS 3/301) attributed to the Libation Painter, now in the Louvre, is a typical example (Fig. 2). A woman is shown welcoming a warrior by offering a libation. The most distinctive element of her costume is the headdress, but also noteworthy are the broad belt, cape and extra piece of drapery wrapped around the back of the skirt, which seems to be inspired by the Greek himation (Schneider-Herrmann 1996: 95).

women’s dresses on vase-painting could be indicators of status rather than ethnicity. Whatever the meaning of the patterned borders, it is clear that Apulian women are not visually signified in vase-painting by a recurring set of dress items. There may be occasional ethnic indicators but not a full native costume. Thus, Apulian women, if they are depicted at all, are treated differently from their male associates and their Campanian counterparts. Before moving on to discuss what this might mean, it be should noted that although earlier iconographical representations are few, there are enough to indicate that women from Puglia had once worn costumes that seem broadly related to those shown on Campanian vases. For instance, a small number of Ofanto Subgeometric IIB vessels have protomes in the form of female figures (Fedder 1976: 85, 320–21, nos 80–84). One example is a fifth century askos, now in the Bari Museum (Bari 1458) (Mayer 1914: 130–140, Taf. 1, no. 2 & Taf. 8, no. 4) (here Fig. 4). Although some of the decorative features seem exaggerated, as is typical on these human figures, there is a clearly discernible headdress. In addition, there are two painted vessels from Gravina in Central Puglia that support the existence of a distinctive female costume in fifth century BC. The first, a fragmentary globular urn, comes from a tomb dating to second quarter of the fifth century. Although fragmentary, it clearly shows a woman in dark costume with a headdress (Herring 2000: 167–72, figs 97–99) (Fig. 5). The second is a lekythos dated

On Apulian vases, indigenous women, as already mentioned, are noticeably less visible. Native men are commonly depicted with women, but the women themselves seldom display signs of their ethnic affiliation. Occasionally they have a broad belt (Fig. 3) or what appears to be some form of pendant ornament suspended from their belts, but normally their costume is the same as that worn by Greek women. Some of the women wear dresses with patterned borders. This could be another ethnic indicator. However, Gleba (this volume) argues that patterned borders were the most labour intensive part of Verucchio mantles to weave and that they were highly prized. Therefore, the patterned borders on the 28

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Fig. 3  Apulian column-krater (BM 174), attributed to the Sisyphus Painter. Photograph courtesy of the British Museum. © The British Museum.

to the end of the fifth century (Cooperativa Petra Magna [n.d.]: 84–5) (Fig. 6). The scene shows a woman offering a victor’s wreath to a warrior and is evidently related to the kinds of scenes we see on Campanian vase- and tombpainting. Again the upper part of the woman’s costume is dark and she wears a headdress. The same basic costume is depicted on the famous tomb-painting from Ruvo (now in the Naples Archaeological Museum), which is dated to the second half of the fifth century BC (D’Andria 1988: 698–9, figs 689–691) (Fig. 7).

costume changed in Puglia in ways that it did not in Campania. This line of argument would run that in Puglia women went over to wearing Greek-style costumes, even when depicted in ritualised and/or idealised scenes, with only the occasional small concession being made to ethnic origin. This would imply that native women are visible on Apulian red-figure pottery but are indistinguishable from Greek women. In other words, it might be reasonable to assume that the women depicted with native men are most likely to be of similar origin, but only on the rare cases where their belts, pendant ornaments and perhaps the decorated borders of their dresses give them away, is it possible to be certain. The logical conclusion of this view is that ethnic affiliation was not a significant (or visually stressed) aspect of female identity. This seems somewhat surprising given that the vases in question were used in funerary contexts, where elements of identity are likely to have been emphasised. More significantly, it is clear that ethnic identity still mattered in male costume. That there may have been different significance attached to male and female costume is not of itself a problem. A lack of interest in female ethnicity could perhaps be explained by the practice of exogamy: the idea being that a person derived their ethnicity via the male line only. However, the fact that there had once been a distinctive female costume in the area suggests that exogamic marital customs are not the answer.

Clearly in the fifth century there existed a female costume in Puglia, which was normally dark in colour and had some form of headdress. It should be noted, however, that all the evidence presented above comes from Central and Northern Puglia. In general terms, Apulian women seem to be depicted in similar clothing to their Campanian counterparts of the fourth century, except that the latter’s costume was normally light in colour and showed some Greek influence, which is not surprising given the level of cultural mixing and the use of a Greek artistic medium. The obvious question that presents itself is, ‘what happened to make Apulian women much less visible in the fourth century?’. possible explanations

The simplest explanation, and one that would relegate this paper to the level of the completely trivial, is that female 29

 

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of maidens, refusing for bridegrooms men adorned with locks such as Hector wore, but with defect of form or reproach of birth, they will embrace my image with their arms, winning a mighty shield against marriage, having clothed them in the garb of the Erinyes and dyed their faces with magic simples. By those staff-carrying women I shall long be called an immortal goddess”. (Lycophron, Alexandra, ll. 1128–1140. Loeb translation by A.W. Mair) The costume of the Erinyes, which was dark in colour, would been familiar to Lycophron’s readership through productions of tragic plays. The date of the Alexandra is disputed; it could be as early as the early third century or as late as the early second.2 The date of composition is not of concern to us, as even the earliest proposed date is later than the period under discussion. Similarly, the late pseudo-Aristotelian work, De Mirabilibus Auscultationibus (109), states that among the Daunians and neighbouring tribes both men and women wore black garments (πάντες δὲ οἱ Δαύνιοι καὶ οἱ πλησιόχωροι αὐτοῖς μελανειμονοῦσι, καὶ ἄνδρες καὶ γυναῖκες, διὰ ταύτην, ὡς ἔοικε, τὴν αἰτίαν). There is little independent evidence for dark costume being worn by men, however. Turning back to the Lycophron passage, the scholiast cites Timaeus (the later fourth–third century historian from Taormina in Sicily) as the source for an assertion that Daunian women wore dark dresses, broad ribbons as girdles, and some sort of high-leg sandals or boots reaching the calves of their legs. This costume sounds remarkably like that depicted on some of the images discussed earlier. However, it should be noted that he also says that the women carried wands and coloured their faces with red dye.3 Assuming that the citation is faithful, Timaeus, a contemporary source, who can be expected to be reasonably well informed about South Italy, suggests that among the Daunians, at least, there was a distinctive female costume.

Fig. 4  Ofanto Subgeometric IIB askos (Bari 1548) with female protome, no provenance, dated to the fifth century BC. Photograph courtesy of the Soprintendenza Archeologica di Puglia.

The idea that female costume had changed is further undermined by literary evidence. In Lycophron’s Alexandra, Daunian women are referred to as wearing the costume of the Erinyes while participating in a bizarre marriage avoidance ritual. The passage in question reads as follows:

One way that the evidence from vase painting could be reconciled with that from literary sources would be to suggest that the iconographic evidence depicts the situation in Southern Puglia or Messapia. The fifth century images discussed earlier and the literary evidence all relate to Central and Northern Puglia. Therefore, it is possible that the situation was different further south. It could be argued either that it had ever been thus or that the situation in the South had changed by the fourth century, though only with respect to female costume. There is a problem with seeing the vase-painting evidence as relating exclusively to the south of the region, however. It has long been argued that one of the major workshops for Late Apulian red-figure was in native territory, probably at Canosa in Northern Puglia (RVAp II: 451). Moreover, both Tom Carpenter (2004) and I (Herring 2006: 226 and note 1) have suggested, for different reasons, that the Prisoner Painter’s workshop may have been based in Central Puglia.4 Thus, the problem of the lack of visibility of Apulian women remains.

ναὸν δέ μοι τεύξουσι Δαυνίων ἄκροι Σάλπης παρ᾿ ὄχθαις, οἵ τε Δάρδανον πόλιν ναίουσι λίμνης ἀγχιτέρμονες ποτῶν· κοῦραι δὲ παρθένειον ἐκφυγεῖν ζυγὸν ὅταν θέλωσι, νυμφίους ἀρνούμεναι τοὺς Ἑκτορείοις ἠγλαϊσμένους κόμαις, μορφῆς ἔχοντας σίφλον ἢ μῶμαρ γένους, ἐμὸν περιπτύξουσιν ὠλέναις βρέτας, ἄλκαρ μέγιστον κτῶμεναι νυμφευμάτων, Ἐρινύων ἐσθῆτα καὶ ῥέθους βαφὰς πεπαμέναι θρόνοισι φαρμακτηρίοις. κείναις ἐγῶ δηναιὸν ἄφθιτος θεὰ ῥαβδηφόροις γυναιξὶν αὐδηθήσομαι. “But the chiefs of the Daunians shall build for me a shrine on the banks of Salpe, and those also who inhabit the city of Dardanus, beside the waters of the lake. And when girls wish to escape the yoke

A second possible explanation for the invisibility of 30

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Fig. 5  Figurative painted globular urn/olla from Gravina di Puglia, Tomb 9, dated to the second quarter of the fifth century BC (Herring 2000: 167–172). Photograph by Dr John B. Wilkins.

Apulian women is that they are not depicted accurately on vases. This would involve one accepting the idea that the women depicted with native men are meant to be of local origin but that their costumes are inaccurately rendered. Obviously this is possible, but it is difficult to reconcile with the argument that men are accurately portrayed. Vase-painting is not a simple depiction of reallife. It is subject to all manner of artistic conventions and idealisation. Nevertheless, the ethnic identity of men seems to be significant on these vases, probably because of the funerary context in which they were used. Therefore, if one is to argue that men and women were treated differently in this respect, a compelling explanation is required; otherwise it is simply a case of ‘special pleading’. Thus, it is difficult to sustain this interpretation in a way that is methodologically sound.

their Campanian counterparts?’. The last two possibilities, viz. that women were not depicted accurately or that they were seldom depicted at all, if correct, have similar implications for society. They might suggest that native society secluded its women: in other words, that women were kept away from vase-painters (or foreigners perhaps) or that it was not deemed appropriate that they be depicted in art. This might suggest a society that was repressive of women. In this context it is worth noting that in the corpus of Messapic inscriptions female personal names are comparatively rare compared with most of the other Italic languages (Lomas, pers. comm. 2006). Indeed, the only coherent group of Messapic inscriptions that seems to be about women is the tabara inscriptions, which purportedly commemorate priestesses (De Simone 1982: Herring 2007). Normally these inscriptions do not record the name of the tabara. Traditionally this has been seen as related to the secrecy surrounding certain cults, e.g. the cult of Demeter, but perhaps one should think about it rather in terms of the seclusion of women, including religiously prominent women.

A third explanation would be that Apulian women are simply rarely depicted in vase-painting. To sustain this view one would need to argue that the majority of women depicted with native men are, in fact, Greeks and that only those with clear indicators of ethnicity (e.g. the broad belt, etc.) are natives. While this would remove any inconsistency in the evidence, it would beg the question, ‘why are Apulian women depicted less frequently than

That there seemingly was a change in terms of the visibility of women between the fifth and the fourth 31

 

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Fig. 6  Figurative painted lekythos from Gravina di Puglia, dated to the end of the fifth century BC (Cooperativa Petra Magna [n.d.]: 84–5. The detail (right) clearly shows the woman’s costume.

century demands explanation. One could speculate that the change was due to the imposition or adoption of Greek values. Perhaps Apulian vase-painters, many of whom would have been Greek, felt that native women should not be given prominence, but this seems unlikely, as their Campanian contemporaries had no such qualms. Alternatively, it could be that native communities had begun to adopt the values of their Greek neighbours. It has long been argued that indigenous societies ‘internalised’ Greek values. This could be cited as evidence for ‘hellenisation’, which was once a widely held assumption about South Italian cultural development, though such views have been extensively critiqued, not least for their implied passivity on the part of the native population (e.g. Whitehouse & Wilkins 1985; Herring 1991; Hall 2002; Hodos 2006: 11–16). It could be that part of the social élite had appropriated foreign social mores alongside their appreciation of the physical trappings of Greek culture, such as red-figured vases. Ancient Greek society was quite repressive towards women, Athens notoriously so.5 By contrast, Sparta was considered to be unusually open in its attitudes for a Greek state, to an extent that scandalised Athenian writers.6 The main Greek settlement in Puglia, Tarentum, was considered a Spartan foundation. Therefore, its social attitudes might be expected to mirror those of its metropolis, at least to some extent. Though it should be noted that it is now accepted that the historical tradition about the foundation and origins of the western colonies is not a reliable narrative (Herring 1991: 35–36; Osborne 1998: 265–67); the origin stories are better seen as charter myths for the Greek communities of South Italy and Sicily. The wealth of some Tarentine female

tombs from the fourth century suggests that women enjoyed a degree of social prominence. Thus, if Apulian society had become more repressive of women, it does not seem that especially likely that it was taking its lead from the Tarentines. Moreover, in the ancient sources Tarentum is seen as the implacable enemy of its native neighbours – Diodorus Siculus (8.21.3) and Strabo (6.3.2) claim that the Delphic oracle prophesied that Tarentum was destined to become a bane to the Iapygians.7 This is clearly an example of an origin story being designed to reflect contemporary perceptions of identity, as Tarentine hostility towards its neighbours is given divine sanction. Although it might be reasonable to ask whether it is normal to borrow social practices from one’s enemies, there was, in fact, a good degree of social interaction (at least in the form of trade, but probably also in terms of intermarriage and other connections) between Greeks and natives in ancient Puglia. There were other Greek settlements in the vicinity, such as Metapontum, in modern Basilicata, but little is known of its attitudes towards women. Thus, an argument for the spread of Greek social values can be made but it is not hugely compelling. Moreover we might expect such customs to spread more rapidly and thoroughly to the native communities in the immediate vicinity of the area controlled by the Greeks on the coast, rather than deep into the far South, and into Central and Northern Puglia. conclusion

First, to summarise the problem: in the fourth century BC native women in Apulia were not depicted in an 32

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Fig. 7  Detail of a tomb-painting, showing women in local costume, from Ruvo di Puglia (tomb 11), dated to the second half of the fifth century BC. Photograph courtesy of the Museo Nazionale di Napoli.

elaborate local costume as they had been in earlier times, and as their contemporaries in Campania were. However, there is sufficient literary evidence to suggest that such costumes were still in use, at least in Northern Puglia, if not elsewhere.

not supposed to be Greek, it must be conceded that native women commonly wore Greek-style costume, sometimes with a nod to ethnic affiliation. The full female costume must have been reserved for certain occasions, which were either not witnessed or not deemed suitable for depiction by vase-painters. However, such costumes were sufficiently distinctive to have entered the literary consciousness. This brings us back to Lycophron, who discusses the costume in the context of a specific – and decidedly female – ritual. Whether this suggests that the costume was reserved either for predominantly female cult activity or for the rituals marking significant points in women’s lives is highly debatable. However, it can certainly be argued that the vases are more about men than women. So perhaps there is a paper to be written on male identity and how it is idealised on Apulian vasepainting.

While it can be argued that social values had changed resulting in women being more secluded, the evidence is not compelling. Although there are comparatively few attestations of women in Messapic inscriptions, funerary archaeology indicates that women could still be honoured with the trappings of wealth and may have performed significant ritual roles. While neither wealth nor religious duties need be incompatible with seclusion, they do suggest that some women enjoyed a degree of social standing. It is, of course, possible that wealth and status were acquired by virtue of family or marital affiliations and that there were no independently powerful women.8

Having come this far, there is one further issue that arises as a consequence of this phenomenon. This concerns the use of vase-painting as a source of evidence. In this case the impression created by vase-painting is either wrong or misleading because it is incomplete. Of the alternatives, I favour the latter. This point underlines something that perhaps is, or ought to be, self-evident – that vase-painting is not a straightforward depiction of life. Even though it is a broadly realistic medium, it is highly selective and idealising in terms of who was depicted, how they were depicted and in what contexts. Who was making these

With the evidence as it stands, it is impossible to be unequivocal about the meaning of the relative invisibility of women. However there are some very pertinent issues that the phenomenon raises. If the assumptions that vase-painting offers a faithful depiction of native costume and that the literary sources for female costume both stand, there can only be one conclusion: that the contexts in which the full female costume was worn were not depicted in Apulian vase-painting. Furthermore, provided that the women depicted with native men are 33

 

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choices and why are matters for further conjecture. This means that just because native women were largely invisible in Apulian vase-painting does not necessarily mean that they were socially invisible. After all, it was their ethnicity that was hidden, not their gender.

tend to use Sparta as a moral paradigm and, therefore, are not neutral in their selection and presentation of material. In other words, our image of women may be part of the ‘Spartan mirage’. Equally it should be noted that their perceived freedom is only relative compared with Athenian women. They were still under the control of their male relatives.

notes

7   Strabo cites the late fifth century historian, Antiochus of Syracuse, as his source.

1   Schneider-Herrmann (1996: 95) suggests that women may have worn Greek-style dress much of the time and that the native costume was restricted for use on certain ritual occasions. This might imply that many of women wearing Greek-style costume depicted with Campanian men were of the same origin. Alternatively, the less frequent depiction of women may reflect social and artistic conventions – that men were regarded as more important.

8   Family ties seem to have been very important in South Italy. This is suggested by the collective burials in chamber tombs that date from the period. In addition, there is evidence that wealth was connected to family status. Some child burials, male and female, are well endowed with grave goods. It is difficult to imagine how children could have become independently ‘wealthy’ or ‘powerful’ except by virtue of family connections. The case for religious authority being linked to family is more tenuous. However, the close association of certain families with particular cults is well documented in the Greek world (for example, the Eumolpidae and the Ceryces, who dominated the Eleusinian Mysteries). A similar situation could easily have obtained in South Italy.

2   The dating problem centres around some verses that mention the foundation of Rome and prophesy the city’s future greatness. The issue is that Lycophron is believed to have worked at Alexandria; a person working at the Ptolemaic court in the early third century BC is unlikely to have spoken about the Romans in such terms, because Rome was not yet a significant power in the Eastern Mediterranean. This has led some scholars to claim that the name Lycophron has become associated with two Hellenistic writers. According to this view, the Alexandra was written by a later author who used Lycophron’s name and perhaps some of his work: the original bearer of the name being Lycophron of Chalcis, the early third century writer. Other authorities have simply suggested that the problematic verses were later interpolations into the early third century text. It is argued that the verses in question must have been written after T. Quinctius Flamininus’ victory over Philip V of Macedon at Cynoscephalae (i.e. 197/8 BC) and the Roman conquest of Greece. More recently Erskine (2001: 155–6) has proposed an alternative resolution to the problem that retains both the authenticity of the lines and the traditional authorship of the poem. He argues, based on the entry in the Suda, that Lycophron had family links with Rhegium. The perception of Rome’s power in the early third century to a person with South Italian links would have been very different from that prevailing in Ptolemaic Egypt.

abbreviations

LCS  Trendall, A.D. 1967. The Red-Figure Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily. Clarendon Press, Oxford. RVAp I  Trendall, A.D. & Cambitoglou, A. 1978. The RedFigure Vases of Apulia. Volume I: Early and Middle Apulian. Clarendon Press, Oxford. RVAp II  Trendall, A.D. & Cambitoglou, A. 1982. The RedFigure Vases of Apulia. Volume II: Late Apulian. Clarendon Press, Oxford. RVAp Suppl. I  Trendall, A.D. & Cambitoglou, A. 1983. First Supplement to The Red-Figure Vases of Apulia. BICS Supplement 42. Institute of Classical Studies, London. RVAp Suppl. II  Trendall, A.D. & Cambitoglou, A. 1992. Second Supplement to The Red-Figure Vases of Apulia. BICS Supplement 60. Institute of Classical Studies, London. bibliography

3   These aspects of their appearance would have further recalled the appearance of the Furies from the tragic stage.

Carpenter, T.H. 2004.  The native market for Greek vases and its implications. Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, 48: 1–24.

4   The Prisoner Painter is significant as he depicts native men on six of the twenty vases attributed to him (Herring 2006: 227). These men are shown in combat scenes and are, therefore, not associated with women.

Cooperativa Petra Magna [n.d.]  Gravina in Puglia. Alla Ricerca del Passato. College Company, Gravina. D’Andria, F. 1988.  Messapi e peuceti. In AA.VV., Italia omnium terrarum alumna. La civiltà dei Veneti, Reti, Liguri, Celti, Piceni, Umbri, Latini, Campani e Iapigi: 653–715. Libri Scheiwiller, Milan.

5   For instance, it was considered improper to name respectable women in legal cases at Classical Athens, as to do so was to imply that their moral virtue was compromised (Schaps 1977: 323): the idea being that a respectable woman’s name would only be known to her family. The same kind of thinking might explain the comparative lack of female names among the Messapic inscriptions. Another indication of Athenian attitudes occurs in Thucydides’ account of the Periclean funeral oration, which famously claims that a woman’s greatest glory lies in not being talked about by men, whether in praise or criticism (Thuc. 2.45).

De Simone, C. 1982.  Su tabaras (femm.-a) e la diffusione di culti misteriosofici nella Messapia. Studi Etruschi, 50: 177– 197. Elia, R. 2001.  Analysis of the looting, selling, and collecting of Apulian red-figure vases: a quantitative approach. In N. Brodie, J. Doole & C. Renfrew (eds), Trade in Illicit Antiquities: the Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage: 145–153. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

6   However, it should be recognised that because our sources for Sparta are usually either Athenian or written long after Sparta had ceased to be a major power, they cannot be taken at face value. Athenian writers may have misunderstood or misrepresented Spartan customs in order to conform to their readership’s expectations and prejudices. Later writers

Erskine, A.W. 2001.  Troy between Greece and Rome. Local tradition and imperial power. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Fedder, D. 1976.  Daunisch-Geometrische Keramik und ihre 34

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Werkstätten. Rudolf Habelt, Bonn.

Age Mediterranean. Routledge, London.

Freilinghaus, H. 1995.  Einheimische in der apulischen vasenmalerei. Ikonographie im Spannungsfeld zwischen Produzenten und Rezipienten. Köster Bln, Berlin.

Mayer, M. 1914.  Apulien vor- und während Hellenisierung mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Keramik. Teubner, Berlin & Leipzig.

Hall, J. 2002.  Hellenicity. Between Ethnicity and Culture. University of Chicago Press, Chicago.

Noble, J.V. 1988.  The Techniques of Painted Attic Pottery. [Rev. edn]. Thames & Hudson, London.

Herring, E. 1991.  Socio-political change in the south Italian Iron Age and Classical periods: an application of the peer polity interaction model. Accordia Research Papers, 2: 31–54.

Osborne, R. 1998.  Early Greek colonization? The nature of Greek settlement in the West. In N. Fisher & H. van Wees (eds), Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence: 251–269. Duckworth, London.

Herring, E. 2000.  Local pots from Tombs 8, 9 and 12. In R.D. Whitehouse, J.B., Wilkins and E. Herring, Botromagno. Excavation and Survey at Gravina in Puglia, 1979–1985: 145–183. Accordia Research Institute, London.

Schaps, D. 1977.  The woman least mentioned: etiquette and women’s names. The Classical Quarterly, 27.2: 323–330. Schneider-Herrmann, G. [ed. Herring, E.] 1996.  The Samnites of the Fourth Century BC as depicted on Campanian Vases and in other sources. BICS Supplement 61, Accordia Specialist Studies on Italy 2. Institute of Classical Studies & Accordia Research Centre, London.

Herring, E. 2006.  Age, time, nudity, ethics and economics: conventions in the work of the Prisoner Painter. In E. Herring, I. Lemos, F. Lo Schiavo, L. Vagnetti, R.D. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds), Across Frontiers: Etruscans, Greeks, Phoenicians and Cypriots. Studies in honour of David Ridgway and Francesca Romana Serra Ridgway: 225–235. Accordia Research Institute, London.

Trendall, A.D. 1971.  Gli Indigeni nella pittura Italiota. Arte Tipografica, Naples.

Herring, E. 2007.  Priestesses in Puglia? An archaeological perspective on the Messapic tabara inscriptions. In K. Lomas, R.D. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds), Literacy and the state in the ancient Mediterranean: 129–147. Accordia Research Institute, London.

Whitehouse, R.D. & Wilkins, J.B. 1985.  Magna Graecia before the Greeks: towards a reconciliation of the evidence. In C. Malone & S. Stoddart (eds), Papers in Italian Archaeology IV. The Cambridge Conference. Part iii. Patterns in Protohistory, 89–109. BAR International Series 245. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford.

Hodos, T. 2006.  Local Responses to Colonisation in the Iron

35

Warriors and weavers: sex and gender in Daunian stelae Camilla Norman

The Iron Age inhabitants of northern Puglia (Daunia) left an archaeological record that is largely devoid of figurative art. This is most conspicuous on their pottery, which is still decorated with geometric designs at a time when the pottery of the Greek and Italic groups with whom they were in contact is regularly figured. Likewise, we could expect to find figured architectural terracottas but for the most part do not. There is one startling exception to this pattern: an enigmatic group of stone stelae of anthropomorphic form which bear incised decoration, some of it figured and apparently narrative in scope. These scenes offer the prospect of reconstructing something of undoubted richness of Daunian social life, which we could otherwise hope to study only in rather general terms. However, there is little beyond the iconography of the stelae themselves which can aid in their interpretation. The Daunians came very late to literacy, and the inscriptions which were made before the region was engulfed by Latin are short and few in number; mentions of Daunia in ancient literature are also limited and uninformative on the subject of social life. Furthermore, contextual information for the stelae is virtually absent. Very few have recorded find-spots, and of those only two are reported to have been found in their primary contexts.1 That very slim evidence underpins the general belief that the stelae were grave monuments.

which the stelae have been divided. The first, ‘stelae with ornamentation’ (pl. 1), are typically shown wearing a necklace, up to three fibulae, elbow-length gloves, and an ‘apron’ slung from a belt. Pendants of various shapes are often strung from the fibulae, frequently a larger and more elaborate pendant on the lowest fibula. Circular and pomegranate-shaped pendants may also be suspended on long strings from the belt. At times there is a circular pendant on the right hip (Norman 2008). A small ‘tattoo’ in the form of a cross, diamond, swastika or starburst is sometimes visible just above the elbow (Herring 2003). Stelae with ornamentation usually have high shoulders, cut three-dimensionally from the slab itself, and occasionally bear a plait, incised or in relief, running down the centre of the back and terminating between the shoulder blades. The heads are conical, indicating the presence of a pointed headdress of a type seen on a number of the figures in the secondary iconography. The second group, ‘stelae with weaponry’ (pl. 2), have no gloves or jewellery but are instead shown wearing a double axe-shaped cardiophylax, with a short sword slung at the waist and a large circular shield covering the back. Their shoulders are always flat. The heads of the stelae with weaponry, carved from a separate piece of stone, are spherical and sometimes show traces of added helmet apparatus such as a plume.

The stelae are cut from single rectangular slabs of limestone and are incised to show the arms, hands, robes, and accoutrements of a human figure (the ‘primary iconography’). Heads are either conical in shape and carved directly from the same piece of stone, or spherical and added to the body by means of a dowel. The arms of each figure are arranged symmetrically, bent at the elbows with the hands almost meeting in the centre, palms flat against the ribcage. Clothing is typically represented, on both the front and back of the slab, by a border of geometric patterning at the collar, the hem, and down each edge. The sides of the slab itself are sometimes also incised with simple geometric designs. The overall impression given by this patterning is of an elaborate garment. It is in the panels created by the geometric borders of the robes that figurative scenes are sometimes portrayed (the ‘secondary iconography’). Traces of colour indicate that the incised elements were further picked out, most probably in red, white/ochre, and black.

From the Neolithic period onwards, a steady evolution of gender hierarchy can be traced, the outwards signs of which are manifest in art. Further simplifying a scheme already acknowledged as simplistic, by both the author (Robb 1997: 56–57) and in a subsequent critique (Whitehouse 2001: 51), the general trend runs thus: when mankind began representing themselves pictorially, biological sex was indicated by anatomical features. During the Neolithic period, for males, the phallus was covered and his sex symbolized by weaponry associated with hunting. Over the Copper and Bronze Ages the weaponry shifted to martial types and during the Iron Age martial weaponry was cemented as the primary male signifier. Females, on the other hand, remained naked up until the Iron Age, the only additional symbol of their sex being the necklace. Then they too were shown clothed so that their anatomical features were obscured, their sex instead marked by ornamentation and the possession of weaving and spinning paraphernalia (Robb 1997: 45–51). This progression can also be traced in burial assemblages. The implication for the Daunian stelae is that those with ornamentation represent females and those with weaonry

Based on the form of the slab and the accoutrements depicted upon the figure, there are two basic classes into

 

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

pl. 1  Stele with ornamentation. 99 x 41 x 9cm. Inv. nos. 1207, 1395 (SD 949).

represent males. However there are two reasons why this is problematic. Firstly, there are many more stelae with ornamentation than stelae with weaponry, a pattern which does not follow the norm for the Iron Age stelae traditions of Italy, with representations usually being predominantly or even exclusively male. Secondly, based on our knowledge of artefacts from Iron Age Italic burials, it is patently dangerous to assume the sex of an individual based on the presence of jewellery alone. This situation has led Nava to eschew sex-based labels for the two classes in favour of the more descriptive terms ‘stelae with ornamentation’ and ‘stelae with weaponry’ which is generally used today (Nava 1980: 14).

the identification of stelae with ornamentation because the surface area covered by the accoutrements specific to them is greater, but even in the unlikely event that all unclassified fragments come from stelae with weaponry, those with ornamentation would still outnumber them. Because the function of the stelae in antiquity is uncertain, it is difficult to determine a reason for this disparity. If, as the limited evidence suggests, the stelae were grave markers it may be that the figure portrayed was intended to represent the deceased to whom the stele was erected, or an ideal of that person.3 The careful positioning of the hands upon the ribcage and the elaborate nature of the garb has prompted speculation that the portrayal is that of the deceased laid out for burial. While few Italian necropoleis have been analysed from the point of view of gender, and certainly none from Iron Age Daunia, there is nothing to suggest differing burial practices based on the sex of the deceased beyond the deposition of specific grave goods. It is unlikely the Daunians erected stelae to

In her catalogue, Maria Luisa Nava classifies 520 fragments as stelae with ornamentation, 83 as stelae with weaponry, and leaves 529 unclassified (Nava 1980). My own numbers – 642, 118, and 411 respectively2 – reflect much the same ratio of stelae with ornamentation to stelae with weaponry. It is true there is a slight bias favouring 38

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

their women and, for the most part, honoured their men in an alternate fashion.

when attempting to “sex” a grave from its contents without osteological data; and that the sex of an individual does not a priori reflect their gender as understood by themselves and/or within their own society. The ramifications for attributing sexes to the Daunian stelae are clear. Because some�������������������������������������������������� jewellery���������������������������������������� and other (mainly metal) ornamentation are not the exclusive prerogative of females, without further sex-related symbols it cannot unequivocally be assumed that a stele with ornamentation represents a female. Additionally, if the Daunians’ concept of gender differed from our own it would not necessarily follow that the two groups represented by the stelae can be divided solely on the basis of sex. One only has to look a little north to the famous ‘Capestrano Warrior’ statue-stele of the same period to see the confusion it has caused us today. The Capestrano Warrior is armed with both offensive and defensive weapons, yet has wide, rounded hips and the suggestion of female genitalia (Holland 1956; Berggren 1990; contra Bonfante, this volume). A consensus has never been reached on its sex.

Much has been said in the past fifteen years about the belated consideration of gender theory in archaeology and its even later application in the field of Italian prehistory. As Whitehouse asserts, scholars in this field “either make no distinction between biological sex and social gender or assume an uncomplicated one-to-one equivalence; they show no knowledge of the possibility of third or multiple genders; they make no distinctions between different aspects of gender, such as roles, relations, ideologies and identities; they assume gender to be fixed, rather than something to be negotiated, transacted or performed” (Whitehouse 2001: 50). Analyses by Judith Toms of Villanovan cemeteries at Veii and Tarquinia (Toms 1998), Anna Maria Bietti Sestieri of the tombs at Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992) and Carmen Vida Navarro of the Picentino cemetery at Pontecagnano (Vida Navarro 1992) indicate that correlation between biological sex and social gender is not necessarily straightforward. The contrast between male ‘warriors’ and female ‘cloth-makers’ as outlined by Robb (1997: 50–51) is certainly evident, but it does not complete the picture. In a significant proportion of the burials studied at these sites no gender markers were present, while in a few both male and female markers were present, and a lack of homogeneity for gender markers was observed from one region to another. The serpentine fibulae of Picentino and Veii, for example, proved to be male markers (Vida Navarro 1992: 77–86; Toms 1998: 166–167), while at Tarquinia they were only preferentially so with a number also being found in tombs with spinning/ weaving equipment (Toms 1998: 167), items which are exclusively associated with females. A handful of tombs from the Villanovan cemeteries contained both a razor and spindle whorls (Toms 1998: 166). The clay helmets of Picentino, long thought to belong to the male sphere, are according to Vida Navarro inconclusive markers (Vida Navarro 1992: 86).

Nava has posited that while the Daunian stelae with weaponry����������������������������������������������� correspond to males, those with ornamentation may represent both females as well as men who were not part of the warrior class (Nava 1979: 11; Nava 1988: 179– 180). What follows is an attempt to investigate Nava’s hypothesis by ‘gendering’ the Daunian stelae, along similar methodological lines to those used by Vida Navarro for the graves at Pontecagnano. To avoid extrapolating ideological information from different contexts and thereby overlooking cultural diversity, her classification of objects from the grave as either ‘female’, ‘male’ or ‘inconclusive’ was built up using internal evidence only. She began with two initial groups of artefacts that were never deposited together in the one grave; weaving implements and weaponry. By tabulating the contents of these graves Vida Navarro then identified further objects exclusive to either males or females, which in turn were used to determine the gender of further graves, and so on (Vida Navarro 1992: 76–77). Although heavily criticized by Gastaldi (1993), who, with D’Agostino, published the material on which her study is based, this particular methodology is attractive when dealing with the Daunian stelae, irrespective of Vida Navarro’s precise application of it. With no contexts for the Daunian stelae, and cultural parallels scarce, the self-referential nature of this type of analysis is ideal.

Ethnographic studies have confirmed that gender is not always strictly aligned with biological sex and that many factors may contribute to an individual’s perceived gender within a community, such as their age, role, status and relationship to others in the group. In a recent study of gender differentiation in Archaic cemeteries of the Abruzzo, Luttikhuizen strove to take this into account (Luttikhuizen 2000). Not only were the grave goods studied, but the type of graves, orientation and distribution of the tombs and demographics of the deceased. With limited osteological data available for reference, it is hard to confirm if Luttikhuizen was able to tease gender from biological sex, but the author believes

By breaking down the secondary iconography of the stelae into individual figure and scene types and tabulating their occurrence, frequency and position on each stele, patterns of association and contrast emerge. It can be shown that certain motifs are exclusive either to the stelae with ornamentation or the stelae with weaponry, or are at least overwhelming/preferentially associated with a single class. Furthermore, it can be seen that certain motifs typically occur together on a single stele and that that there exists more than one such grouping of associated motifs for both the stelae with ornamentation and the stelae with weaponry. Whether these groupings in fact reflect complex gender constructs rather than simply the deceased’s age or role within the community is open to debate.4

gli evidenti elementi di differenziazione riscontrabili tra le diverse tombe esamiate lasciano intravedere che abbiamo a che fare comunità dalla struttura sociale differenziata, nella quale, in linea generale, le differenze di gender venivano fortemente evidenziate (Luttikhuizen 2000: 143). The work by these scholars highlights two issues: that there is a severe risk of circular arguments developing 39

 

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

pl. 2  Stele with weaponry. 115 x 43 x 7cm. Inv. nos. 0972-0974 (SD 748).

It should be mentioned that type variation of the accoutrements on the Daunian stelae is not great and unlikely to illuminate gender differentiation. Any variation in, for example, fibula types is more likely to be linked to regional preferences or chronological change. This is endorsed by the two typologies that have been put forth for the stelae. The classic typology is that of Nava. Outlined in 1980 (Nava 1980: 14-30) and later expanded upon (Nava 1988: 180-198), it divides the stelae into groups based on form, technique of incision, and the development of the ornamentation and weaponry shown upon them. Nava has been able to suggest a linear progression for the stelae, putting forward a credible relative chronology. Without context, the dating of these groups is extremely difficult and has been based largely on comparison of the

objects depicted on the stelae with excavated material, in particular the fibulae, the fibula pendants, and the swords. For additional information Nava compared the geometric patterning on the stelae with that seen on the contemporary Daunian matt-painted pottery, the absolute chronology of which is somewhat more secure. Nava has thus dated the stelae from the late 7th to the late 6thearly fifth century BC. The second typology, Salmone’s, is based not only on morphological and technical aspects of the stelae, and the type of ornamentation depicted upon them, but also takes into consideration the figurative scenes used, as well as the combinations and spatial distribution of all incised elements across the face of the stelae (Pontrandolfo, Mugione and Salmone 1996: 283-318). Patterns concerning the secondary iconography are thus treated as integral to the development 40

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

pl. 3  Stele with ornamentation. 46 x 36 x 5cm. Inv. no. 1008 (SD 775).

of the typology, rather than as a by-product of it. Salmone’s typology is defined by three individual ‘systems’, each of the typology, rather than as a by-product of it. Salmone’s typology is defined by three individual ‘systems’, each with five internal ‘grades’ (the last grade corresponding to the stelae with armsweaponry of each system). Rather than reflecting the evolution of new styles over time, Salmone’s systems appear to be based on regional variation. The idea has merit, but the final construct is ungainly and needs refinement.

should not be taken as concrete. The decision to include individual figure types, which naturally overlap with scene types, was made because not only are figures sometimes portrayed alone (possibly as a shorthand) but because, due to the fragmentary nature of the stelae, many of the scenes are incomplete and their nature cannot be immediately deduced. Certain figure types also appear in more than one scene. The descriptions given below are that of the most common form of the figure/scene but are intended also to cover slight variations on the same the motif.

Silvio Ferri, the father of studies on Daunian stelae and the man responsible for the recovery of so many fragments, concentrated on the figurative iconography of the stelae seeing at once the unique, if cryptic, testament it offers into the lives and beliefs of an Italian Iron Age populace. In the 1960’s he published, amongst other papers, a series of articles on this theme in the Bollettino d’Arte, later beautifully reproduced in Le Stele della Daunia (Nava 1988).5 Ferri’s writings laid the foundations for what was to come, but his interpretations are on occasion overly complex, his arguments circular, and his focus tended to be on the minutiae of individual, often eccentric scenes. For the purposes of this analysis I chose to take a wider view and have attempted to suspend examining the meaning of specific scenes until their relationships to one another became clear.

Figure Types The divisions for the individual figure types analysed are as follows: pot-bearer Figure wearing a long, unbelted tunic with a tress of hair down the back, bearing a vase upon the head. E.g. inv. nos. 1207, 1395 (SD 949) (pl. 1): back, upper panel. figure with conical headdress Egs. inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3): front, below right arm; inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): front, four left–most figures of upper panel. figure with ‘lyre’

The scene and figure types used in this study come in part from Nava (1980: 30–36) and are in part defined by the author. The labels in inverted commas derive from past interpretations by Ferri or Nava and their meaning

Figure, sitting or standing, holding an object with vertical striations. E.g. inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3): front, figure below right hand; inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): front, centre of upper panel and left of lower 41

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

stelae with weaponry & secondary iconography

unclassified stelae with secondary iconography

total with secondary iconography

total corpus

    4    15     2

   28    72    19

   52    133    29

   18    43    0

    8    10     0

    2     2     0

   28    55     0

   51    146    95

   17    38    11

Type I Type II Type II/III Type III Type IV

Type V

    7    19     6

 

stelae with ornamentation & secondary iconography

% of total corpus with secondary icongraphy    54%    54%     65.5%    55%

   38% ­   0%

Table 1  Stelae and stele fragments with secondary iconography in relation to Nava’s typology.

figure on horseback

panel. Note: Ferri has interpreted this object as a lyre. For reasons outlined below, I do not agree.

E.g. inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): back, lower panel.

‘fromboliere’

horse and chariot

Figure with short, belted tunic holding a long thin object above the head. Often shown in motion. E.g. inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): back, left of lower panel. Note: this figure has been interpreted by Nava as a bird-catcher.

E.g. inv. no. 0972–974 (SD 748) (pl. 2): front, lower panel. Note: chariots are either shown drawn by one horse or two, however a biga is more than likely intended at all times. When only a single horse is evident the presence of a second horse is probably to be understood directly behind the first. This is sometimes indicated by a vertical line running the length of each of the horse’s legs, giving the impression of double-vision or a shadow horse. E.g. inv. no. 821 (SD 631): front and back. See also inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): front, lower panel, where the head is also shadowed.

figure with spear Figure with short, belted tunic holding a spear at rest vertically. E.g. inv. nos. 1207, 1395 (SD 949) (pl. 1): front, right-most figure of lower panel. warrior with no helmet Figure, typically armed with a circular shield and spear, with no helmet. E.g. inv. no. 0186 (SD 175): back, left of lower panel.

figure/animal in foetal position E.g. inv. no. 0717-20 (SD 593): front, above each hand.

warrior with crested helmet

horse

Figure on foot or horseback, armed with a circular shield and spear/sword, wearing a crested helmet. E.g. inv. no. 0814 (SD 624): front and back, lower panel.

E.g. inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): front and back. cow/bull E.g. inv. no. 0800 (SD 610): lower image.

warrior with horned helmet Figure on foot or horseback, armed with a circular shield and sword/spear, wearing a helmet with two horns, either with or without plumage. E.g. for plumed horns see inv. nos. 1083-4 (SD 846) (pl. 5): front; for bare horns see inv. no. 1311 (SD 1023): back, right of lower panel.

dog

warrior with unknown helmet type

goat

E.g. inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): back, upper panel. deer E.g. inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): back.

Figure on foot or horseback, armed with a circular shield and sword/spear, where the type or presence of helmet is unclear due to a break in the stele. E.g. inv. no. 0464 (SD 429).

E.g. inv. no. 0805 (SD 615): back, right of upper panel. hare

E.g. inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): front, right of lower panel.

E.g. inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): back, upper panel (above the bird in the lower left corner).

seated figure

boar

Figure seated on a chair or stool, excluding those at a loom. E.g. inv. no. 0800 (SD 610): upper image. Note: an incomplete seated figure may also be identified by their chair, which is often quite ornate.

quadruped of uncertain type

ithyphallic male

E.g. inv. no. 1010 (SD 774): back, right of lower panel.

E.g. inv. no. 24 (SD 20): back, upper panel. 42

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

fish

in avanti – e un animale; a destra due uomini in piedi pestano il grano o fanno girare la macina” (see Nava 1988: 21). Nava writes of “personaggi in sequenza erotica [e] due personaggi che macinano grano” (Nava 1980: 163). While ��������������������������������������������������� there is no argument that the two figures at far right are at work with a mortar and pestles in much the same fashion as is depicted, for example, on Attic figured pottery (Niels: figs. 4.2 and 4.6) the figure second from left is, in my opinion, not engaged in a sexual act but bent over milling at a saddle quern (Ferri’s putative animal). Precisely what the so-called ithyphallic male at far left is doing remains unclear. The figure, with raised arms, is seemingly naked but that he has an erection is debatable as the incision begins not at the groin but from just above the knee of the rear leg and could denote any number of objects. Plus all the figures in the scene, and that below it, appear to be in a similar state of undress. This is clearly not intentional but due rather to the awkward medium. The entire scene is similar to a wall-painting from the Twelfth Dynasty tomb of Antefoker in Thebes (Kemp 1989: 123, fig. 43) which shows a woman operating a saddle quern at the left and two men with pestles and a mortar at the right. In between them is a woman sieving. Like her, it is more likely that the figure in question on our Daunian stele is engaged in the general activities of grain processing rather than an erotic act.

E.g. inv. nos. 950–1 (SD 737): back, lower panel. birds E.g. inv. nos. 1207, 1395 (SD 949) (pl. 1): front, upper and lower panels. Note: birds are ubiquitous, often seeming to be used as ‘fillers’ for empty space. polymorphs A fantastic creature, usually combining the attributes of two or more animals. E.g. inv. no. 1068 (SD 831): front, above each hand; inv. no. 1008 (SD 775): front, above right hand; inv. nos. 0972-0974 (SD 748) (pl. 2): above right had. ‘Trecaranus’ Humanoid figure with three horns. E.g. inv. no. 261 (SD 248): back, lower panel; inv. no. 810 (SD 621): front, right of lower panel at break. Note: this figure was first identified by Ferri (see Nava 1988: 85–87), and later expanded upon by Walter Burkert as a mytho-religous character deriving from the same euroasiatic root as Herakles; an archetypal master of animals and slayer of beasts whose actions ultimately result in the protection of a community and the provision of its food (Burkert 1979: 78–98). Scene Types

weaving

The divisions for scene types analysed are as follows:

One or more figures seated or standing in front of a tall, thin, vertical object from which a band decorated with a meander hangs down the full length of either side. E.g. Inv. nos 699-700 (SD 585) (pl. 7): front, above right arm and back, upper panel. Note: surprisingly, although Nava twice mentions it as a possibility (Nava 1980: 155 no. 722, 159 no. 748 [pl. 2]: front, below right arm), it is not until recently that this vertical object was definitively published under its correct title: a standing loom (D’Ercole 2000: 329337. For alternate interpretations previously offered by Ferri and Nava see D’Ercole 2000: 331–332, ns 30–33).

facing couple Two figures wearing long, unbelted tunics with a tress of hair down their backs, with or without vases upon their heads, facing one another. E.g. inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): front, left and right of lower panel. procession Two or more figures wearing long, unbelted tunics with a tress of hair down their backs, with or without vases upon their heads, in single file. ��������������������������������������� E.g. inv. nos.������������������������� 1207, 1395 (SD 949)������ (pl. 1): back, upper panel. Note: the procession is often towards a figure with ‘lyre’.

sparring

‘farewell’

Two armed figures with raised sword/spear facing one another. E.g. inv. no. 190 (SD 182): back, lower panel.

Figure with long, unbelted tunic and a tress of hair down the back facing a figure with a short, belted tunic. A satchel is often being held over the shoulder of the latter figure, or being passed between the two. E.g. inv. nos.��������������� 1207, 1395 (SD 949)��������������������������������� (pl. 1): front, above right arm.

jousting Two armed figures on horseback with raised sword/spear facing one another. E.g. inv. nos 0972-0974 (SD 748) (pl. 2): front, lower panel, just below sword.

erotic A scene in which an ithyphallic male is shown in direct association with another figure. Note: of the four possible ithyphallic males on Daunian stelae, only one falls into this category: inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3): back, left two figures of upper register. Although the scene is always referred to as ‘erotic’ there is a basic misunderstanding of its content. ��������������������������� Ferri, in the first of his Bollettino d’Arte articles, describes “una catena erotica di due personaggi – un vecchio con le mani alzate, un gigante nudo piegato

martial A scene involving multiple armed figures, on foot, horseback or in a chariot, either engaged in fighting or in parade, and not described by the previous two categories. E.g. inv. nos. 1083-4 (SD 846) (pl. 5): front; inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): front. hunting

43

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

 

SD 565 SD 1114 SD 869 SD 1102 SD 513 SD 724 SD 585 SD 630 Geneva 1 SD 722 SD 578 SD 748 SD 591 SD 620 SD 775 SD 785 SD 949 SD 1122 SD 337 SD 759 SD 621 Tratturo Mezzana Sansone IP 1001, 1005 Salice SD 154 SD 222 SD 153 SD 263 SD 510 SD 715 SD 987 SD 1185 SD 501 SD 742 SD 42 SD 282 SD 445 SD 592 SD 615 SD 635, 745 SD 859 SD 883 SD 895 SD 1022 SD 1159 SD 1173 SD 721 SD 187 SD 1113 SD 508 SD 629 SD 682 /

* * * / * /

* / / /

/

* *

*

* / * * * *

* * / * * *

* *

* *

* * * * * *

/ = whole, * = small frag

x x ? x x x x x x x x x

weaving

x x x x x

x x x x x x x x x

x

x

x

figure with ‘lyre’

x x x x x x x

x x x x x x x x

x

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

procession

x

x x

x

x

x x

?

x x x x x

facing couple x x

x x x

x x x x x x x

x

x x x x x x x x

x x x x x

pot-bearer

x

x

x

x

x x

conical headdress x

x

x

x

fish

x x

x

marine/fishing production

x

x

‘fromboliere’

x

x

x

x

x

x

quadruped (not horse)

x

x

horse

x

x

x

x

x

?

x

x

x

x

x

x

x x

x x

x

? x

pastoral

hunting x x

?

chariot jousting sparring

x

x

warrior-crested helmet

?

x

x

warrior-horned helmet warrior-no helmet warrior-unknown helmet x

x

x

x

x

figure with spear

x

x

?

x

farewell x

x

x

seated figure

x

ritual/cultic ?

x

x

x x

mythological x

x

x

x x

‘Trecaranus’/polymorph x

foetal figure/animal

x x x

x

x

x x x

x x

x x

x

x

x

x

x x x x x x x

x

x x x x

birds

Table 2  Stelae and stele fragments with ‘female’ secondary iconography. See Note 7. Stelae not otherwise referenced in text: Sansone IP 1001, 1005 (Nava 1988: 48).

44

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

SD 772 SD 518 SD 568 Geneva 2 SD 986 SD 846 SD 631 SD 151 SD 736 SD 742 SD 261 SD 621 SD 987 SD 248 SD 592 SD 720 Sansone IP 11, 520 Berne 1 SD 706 SD 1124 SD 748 SD 527 SD 582 SD 884 SD 970 SD 826 *

* * / /

/

* * /

/ = whole, * = small frag

x

weaving x

figure with ‘lyre’ x ?

x

x

x

procession facing couple

x

x

pot-bearer conincal headdress x x

x

x

x

fish marine/fishing production

?

pastoral

x

x x

x

x

‘fromboliere’

x x x x x x x

x x x x x x x x

x

x x x x

x

quadruped (not horse)

x x x x x x x x x x

x

x x

x

x x x x x x x x x

horse

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

x

x x ?

chariot

x x x x x x

hunting

?

x ?

x

?

jousting

x

sparring

x x

x

x

x

warrior-crested h.

x x x

x

?

x

x

warrior-horned h.

?

warrior-no helmet x

x

warrior-unknown h.

?

?

x

x

x

x

figure with spear farewell

x

mythological

x x

?

x x x

x

ritual/cultic

x x x

x x x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

seated figure

‘Trecaranus’/polymorph

x x x

x

x x

x x

x

x

birds

x

?

foetal figure/animal

Table 3  Stelae and stele fragments with ‘male’ secondary iconography. See Note 7. Stelae not otherwise referenced: Geneva 2 (Chamay 1993: 370-371).

45

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

 

SD 394 SD 435 SD 637 SD 615 SD 690 SD 884 SD 1075 SD 621 SD 624 SD 625 SD 623, 732 SD 782 SD 182 SD 1123 Budapest SD 617 SD 208 Geneva 2 SD 986 SD 518 SD 846 Berne 1 SD 592 SD 1124 SD 1023 SD 721 SD 395 SD 984 Mariemont Ac.85/15 SD 567 SD 349 SD 742 Sansone IP 11, 520 SD 175 SD 1165 SD 970 SD 780 SD 268, 849, 871 SD 1168 SD 429 * *

*

*

*

*

/

* * *

* * *

* *

* *

/ = whole, * = small frag weaving

x

figure with ‘lyre’ x

x

x

x

procession

x

?

facing couple pot-bearers

x

x

x

fish

x

x

x

conical headdress

x

marine/fishing production x

x

x

x

x

‘fromboliere’

x

x x

x x x x x x x

x

quadruped (not horse)

x

?

x

x

pastoral

x x

x

? x

x x x x x x x x x x x

x x

x

x ? x x

x

horse

x

x x x x x x ?

x

x

hunting x

x x x x

x

x

chariot

?

?

jousting

x x x x x x x x x x

x

x x x x

x x x

x x

x

x x x x x ? x

sparring warrior-crested h.

x

x x x x x x x x x

x

x x ?

warrior-horned h.

?

x x

warrior-no helmet x

x

x x

x

x x

warrior-unknown h. figure with spear

?

x

farewell

x

mythological

X

X

?

ritual/cultic

x

x

X

X

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

seated figure

‘Trecaranus’/polymorph

x

foetal figure/animal x x

x

x

x x

x

x

x

?

x

x

x

birds

Table 4  Stelae and stele fragments with warriors. Boxed areas indicate ‘female’ and ‘male’ secondary iconography. See note 7. Stele not otherwise referenced: Budapest (Sammarco 2006).

46

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

pl. 4  Stele with ornamentation. 49 x 36 x 5cm. Inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122).

Figure with offensive weapon(s) on foot or horseback, sometimes accompanied by a dog, pursuing an animal (typically a deer, boar or hare). E.g. inv. no. 1257 (SD 986) (pl. 6): back.

inv. no. 803 (SD 613): front. ritual/cultic A scene not described elsewhere that involves a figure or figures engaged in activities of an apparently ceremonial nature. The most common scene is that of two figures on either side of a tripod cauldron. E.g. for a figure seated in an elaborate chair before a tripod cauldron and across from a standing figure with raised mace who holds out a vase see inv. no. 1013 (SD 781): back, upper panel; for two figures seated at a long table being served by two standing figures see inv. no. 810 (SD 621): front; for two figures with raised staffs, elaborate, unbelted robes and elaborate hairstyles flanking a figure in an elaborate, belted robe see inv. no. 717–20 (SD 593): back, upper panel.

production A scene of domestic or industrial production. E.g. inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3): back, upper image (see explanation under erotic above). pastoral A scene involving human figure(s) and animal(s) in which no animal is being hunted. E.g. for a figure leading a cow/bull (possibly equipped with plough equipment) see fragment P5 (Nava 1988: 48 fig. 49): back, lower panel. A scene in which a human is about to cull a bird or hare

The delineation between this and the next category – mythological – is necessarily hazy as many ritualized activities stem from a culture’s beliefs about their distant past. In one unfortunately incomplete instance of the tripod cauldron scene, for example, a small figure with upraised arms is shown hovering close to the knee of the enthroned figure (Mattinata, Coll. Sansone IP 348), conjuring associations with the legend of the birth of Dionysos. It is equally possible, as suggested by Ferri, that the diminutive figure represents a servant (see Nava 1988: 71, fig. 91). The scene could either be interpreted as mythological or ritual. In general terms, I have categorized as ritual/cultic those scenes that are of a static, self-contained nature, whilst those that seem to depict a moment in time of a

E.g. inv. nos. 0972–0974 (SD 748) (pl. 2): back, beneath shield. A scene of animals without a human present E.g. for a group of frolicking animals see inv. no. 1438 (SD 1122) (pl. 4): back, upper panel. The dog in this scene may indicate that a hunter is not far away. marine/fishing Scenes involving boats and/or the catching of fish. E.g. for a sailing boat see inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3): back, lower image; for a figure spearing a large fish see 47

 

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

pl. 5  Stele with weaponry. 53 x 44 x 9cm. Inv. nos. 1083-1084 (SD 846).

larger story I have categorized as mythological. Scenes including a polymorph were immediately placed under the mythological banner.

clusters or lacunae that could point to biases in further analyses. That the numbers fall across Nava’s typology relatively smoothly is comforting as it indicates that the use of secondary iconography was more than a simple fad and not related to the waxing and waning of fashion.

mythological Any scene involving ‘Trecaranus’ or a polymorph. E.g. inv. no. 810 (SD 621): front.

Three basic groupings of secondary iconography can be identified. One group, comprising scenes and figures of weaving and procession, is found only on stelae with ornamentation. The group is almost mutually exclusive, with other figure and scene types rarely depicted on the same stelae. A second group, encompassing iconography relating to hunting and horsemanship, is found only on stelae with weaponry. There is a marked correlation between this group and images relating to war and war/ funerary games, however the warrior figure itself is also seen on stelae with ornamentation and it does not appear that martial imagery can be considered a autonomous set. A third group, roughly characterized by scenes of the production, gathering and processing of food,6 is distributed almost equally across stelae with ornamentation and stelae with weaponry. There is also a possible fourth group, that of ritual/cult and mythology. This is a more problematic group because, due to the vast diversity of scenes, many of which are idiosyncratic, the relationship of these images to other scene types, both within the group and outside it, is less clear-cut. Scenes of ritual/cult and mythology can be found on both stelae with ornamentation and stelae with weaponry. Only the first two groups will be dealt with in this paper.

A scene not described elsewhere of an apparently narrative nature. E.g. for two armed figures holding between them a third person upside down see inv. nos. 953–6 (SD 742); for a figure being chased by a large boar see inv. no. 1010 (SD 774): back; for a ithyphallic male seated in front of what appears to be an architectural structure see inv. nos. 1061– 1067 (SD 826): front, centre of lower panel at break. Analysis The current study is an ongoing one and space does not allow for a full report on the ‘gendering’ of the secondary iconography upon the Daunian stelae. Instead this paper is aimed at outlining the major trends and exploring some of their consequences. The more delicate investigations, where we might more readily expect to find multiple or sliding genders, will have to wait. It should also be noted that the following analyses comprise only a portion of Daunian stelae, as not all examples carry secondary iconography. In fact of the 1171 stelae and stele fragments logged only 238 are decorated with it. The pattern that emerges when looking at the stelae with secondary iconography in relation to Nava’s typology (table 1) suggests that the use of secondary iconography was remarkably stable over time, tailing off quickly towards the end of stele production when the tradition went out of practice altogether. The sample used in this count is small, however, as many fragments, especially those without secondary iconography in the first place, have never been placed in the typology. The purpose behind this quick excercise was not to produce significant statistical results but to check for potential

Scenes of weaving appear on twelve stelae (table 2),7 eleven of which are stelae with ornamentation.8 The most important scene on a stele with ornamentation is usually shown on the upper back panel because it is the one area always left vacant by the primary iconography. Of the eleven stelae with ornamentation, to carry the weaving scene, seven times it is carried in this position of prominence. Besides the ubiquitous bird, the only other motifs found consistently on these stelae are the figure 48

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

pl. 6  Stele with weaponry. 86 x 49 x 7.5cm. Inv. no. 1257 (SD 986).

with ‘lyre’, the pot-bearer, the procession and the facing couple. Looking at the top of table 2, where all figure and scene types occurring on stelae with ornamentation with the weaving scene are charted, it can be seen that there are very few motifs besides those just listed. There is a single seated figure from an as yet unidentified scene, a very worn scene of a figure with animals, a figure with spear, a ‘farewell’ scene and a pair of figures in the foetal position. The ‘farewell’ scene and foetal figures are on a stele in Geneva (Geneva 1 [Chamay: 368–369]) of questionable authenticity. The figure with spear is, in this instance (inv. no. 1430 [SD1114]), also the figure who holds the ‘lyre’. Only the seated figure and animal scene remain.

It is safe to say that the weaving scene can be thought of as a ‘female’ image. That it appears almost exclusively on stelae with ornamentation gives reason to believe this set of monuments are intended to represent women. When the net is widened to include stelae carrying the secondary iconography that is typically found in conjunction with the weaving scene – pot-bearers, figures with ‘lyres’, processions and facing couples – it can be seen these too occur overwhelmingly on stelae with ornamentation (table 2). When surveying the secondary iconography on all stelae displaying the figure with ‘lyre’ an image which has been puzzled over in the past, on inv. no. 1114 (SD 869) (pl. 8), comes to attention. In the upper register of the back, upper panel, of which only the right side is preserved, there is a blank, roughly rectangular object with a pointed end stretched out from a vertical post decorated with a meander. The post extends above the rectangle and is crowned with five short spikes. Above the rectangle and to the left of the post is a bird. Ferri writes that the scene is “une reta, per caccia grossa … al di là del quale, in alto, appare un animale – cerbiatto?, cane?” (see Nava 1988: 53). I propose the scene not to be a net for catching large game, but a piece of cloth stretched out from a standing loom. All the facts fit what we now understand of the distribution of the weaving scene: directly below the scene are two figures in

The one occasion when weaving appears on a stele with weaponry, inv. no. 972–974 (SD 748) (pl. 2), it is in its most simplified form, found in a subsidiary position (beneath the right arm) and is just one of many scenes. The main activity, which for a stele with weaponry is shown on the lower front panel, is of war games: a joust complete with umpire and a chariot scene. It is known from the deposition of spinning and weaving implements in female graves, and from iconographic sources, that the production of textiles is closely aligned to the female sphere in Iron Age Italy (Gleba 2007: 72). 49

 

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

pl. 7  Stele with ornamentation. 79 x 40 x 6.5cm. Inv. nos. 699-700 (SD 585).

procession towards a figure with ‘lyre’; apart from birds, there is no further identifiable secondary iconography on the fragment; and it is on a stele with ornamentation.

predominantly on stelae with ornamentation, where they are usually together, and only sporadically and inconsistently with other figure and scene types, with the exception of weaving. It is only when these motifs appear on a stele with weaponry that further secondary iconography is typically seen, precisely because they then do not form part of the central theme.10 This is reflected also in the motif’s relative simplicity and its subsidiary location on the stele.

There are eighteen figures with ‘lyre’;9 only three are on stelae with weaponry. As was the case for the single weaving scene on the stele with weaponry, these three instances of the figure with ‘lyre’ are in its most simplified form, being depicted either in isolation or in the company of a single opposing individual. They are in subsidiary positions on the stelae and, with the exception of that on the stylistically unique and somewhat troubling ‘Tratturo Mezzana’ stele (Nava 1988: 192 figs. 207, 207), are dwarfed by the surrounding activity. Conversely, when seen on a stele with ornamentation, the figure with ‘lyre’ is principally shown as part of a fuller procession, in a position of prime importance, commanding attention.

In my opinion these motifs all refer, either directly or obliquely, to a more elaborate procession which is depicted in its entirety only twice on the stelae (inv. no. 1008 [SD 775] [pl. 3]; inv. no. 1438 [SD 1122] [pl. 4]). Ferri interpreted this scene as “the Ransom of Hector’, first publishing the version from inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (see Nava 1988: 21) on which is shown a meeting of seven figures wearing elaborate headdresses, four on the left and three on the right, filing towards the centre. The leading figure on the left holds, or holds out, an object which Ferri initially referred to as a cesta but later described as Achilles’ lyre. It is the focal point of the scene. It also becomes the focal point of Ferri’s identification of this scene type as the

The nexus between the figure with ‘lyre’, pot-bearers, the procession, the facing couple and to a lesser extent the figure with conical headdress (of which there are only a few occurrences) is immediately discernable. They are found 50

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

pl. 8  Stele with ornamentation. 27 x 16 x 5cm. Inv. no. 1114 (SD 869).

‘Ransom of Hector’. In this and all subsequent depictions of the object, it is roughly rectangular in shape, with the long sides approximately one and a half times that of the short, and with a rounded base. It is held upright and has three to seven parallel vertical lines distributed evenly across the upper half to two thirds. Although it does resemble known depictions of the phorminx in antiquity, observation of the scenes in question alongside a full reading of Ferri’s line of reasoning, interlaced throughout his Bolletino d’Arte articles, leaves one with no great confidence in his interpretation of this object as a lyre, nor of the procession scene it is undoubtedly a shorthand for as Hector’s ransom.

Athena during the Panathenaic procession, as depicted on the Parthenon frieze, and by the Ladies of Troy in the Iliad book 6. There is evidence of such a cult, contemporaneous with the Daunian stelae, at the temple of Athena on the Timpone della Motta at Francavilla Marittima (Maaskant-Kleibrink 1993). Finds from the site include terracotta plaques showing a procession of females, terracotta pinakes with a seated female (Athena Eilenia?) holding a folded peplos in her lap and votive loomweights and spindle whorls. If the ‘lyre’ is thought of as a mantle draped vertically over the forearm it too could read as a piece of cloth. Yet the ‘lyre’ on both inv. no. 809 (SD 620) and 1430 (SD 809) has an additional object perched atop, perhaps a handle or ball of yarn, suggesting either a handloom or basket. Excavations from the necropoleis at Alianello di Aliano have brought to light the remains of a handloom (Bottini 2000: 273–275) and Bottini has also suggested, in regards to an image on a matt-painted askos from Ripacandida (Basilicata), that the figure holds a handloom (Bottini & Guzzo 1986: 198, pl. Xla). The object is very similar to the so-called lyre on the Daunian stelae.

Because the group of motifs related to the procession has a close and exclusive connection with both the weaving scene and stelae with ornamentation, they can be considered markers of the female sphere. This is also unlikely context for the Ransom of Hector tale. If the object is not Achilles’ lyre, is it a lyre at all, and if not what? The object is usually being passed between two people, probably as an offering, and is never held in a manner to suggest that it is being played. In fact the figure’s arms are often truncated, as though inside the object. Given that the procession of which the object is the focus is only ever seen with weaving, the so-called lyre is more likely to be something associated with the production of textiles. Religious processions during which a peplos was dedicated to a goddess are well known in antiquity, the most famous instances being to

No other scene types emerge as exclusive or preferential to the stelae with ornamentation. On the other hand three scenes emerge as exclusive to stelae with weaponry – hunting, the horse and chariot and jousting11 – all known occurrences of which are listed in table 3. The prevalence of the horse and other quadrupeds in this group is striking, yet common sense dictates it: they are figure types indicative 51

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

of Italy, and is tied specifically to the native populations. It is known in the archaeological record not only on the Daunian stelae but, for example, by the bronze horned helmet from Chiaramonte (Bottini 1993: 71–73) and on warriors from wall paintings in the Tomba di via Crocifisso at Nola (Capini & Nista 2000: 36). There is a link between this type of helmet, with two horns, and the crested helmet with horns which can be seen also on the wall-paintings at Nola, as well as on depictions of natives on South Italian red-figured pottery, such as that on a krater by the Libation Painter from Montesarchio, tomb 1005 (Capini & Nista 2000: 31). Actual examples of helmets with brackets for three attachments across the crown have been found, for example, at Satriano and Montescaglioso (Bottini 1993: 117–119, 187–189). It is possible that both the twohorned helmet and crested helmet with horns hark back to the mythical three-horned ‘Trecaranus’ who can be seen on the Daunian stelae and as far back as Neolithic times in the cave paintings at Porto Badisco (Burkert 1979: 92, fig. 8). When ‘Trecaranus’ appears on the stelae he is either engaged in battle, usually with a large animal (e.g. inv. no. 810 [SD 621]), or hunting (e.g. inv. no. 261 [SD 284]). One manifestation of the warrior with horned helmet sees him on horseback, where he should possibly be described as a hunter instead (inv. no. 373 [SD 349], inv. no. 1131 [SD 1023] and Berne 1 [Chamay 1993: 373]). The hunter on inv. no. 261 (SD 248) also wears a headdress which appears to have, not quite a crest, but three protrusions at the front. The most popular representation concerning warriors with horned helmets on the Daunian stelae is of many warriors, some on foot and some in chariots, in the thick of battle, such as that on the front of inv. nos. 1083–4 (SD 846) (pl. 5). At times other charioteers on the stelae sport a headdress with three long protrusions (e.g. inv. no. 1257 [SD 986]). We have already met the warrior with triple spiked helmet on the stele in the Royal Museum of Mariemont (n. 12). The connection between ‘Trecaranus’, hunting, warfare, and the horned helmet is strong and many-layered. The possibility that when a warrior with horned helmet is present the scene depicted is that of a native Italian myth, or an individual engaged in a rite evoking a native myth, must be considered. Two possible myths involving ‘Trecaranus’ are apparent: a great battle and the slaying of certain beasts to feed or protect the community.

 

of the activities depicted. Although animals appear in other contexts as well, it can be said that the uniting factor in these particular scenes is a display of horsemanship. Jousting and driving a chariot demand more than a little skill with the horse, and the hunting concerned is customarily done on horseback and in pursuit of large game (usually deer but sometimes boar). We know from the deposition of horse gear in ‘princely’ tombs from the mid eigth century onwards that horses were associated with the élite in this region of Iron Age Italy. It has been suggested, given the relative scarcity of the stelae, their complexity and the man hours that would have been required to produce one, that the Daunian stelae were intended for the élite classes. The association with horsemanship on these stelae reinforces the argument. The connection of horses, hunting, chariot driving and jousting to the male sphere is also well attested in antiquity, and because the images here fall almost exclusively on stelae with weaponry, I put the motifs forward as ‘male’ markers. Of the twenty-seven stelae in this group only two are stelae with ornamentation, both of which have already been recognized as outside the norm (n. 10). Of the six unclassified fragments with scenes of this type all but one (inv. no. 821 [SD 631], a fragment from the centre of the stele) can arguably be classified as stelae with weaponry on the basis of their primary iconography alone. Stelae with arms do not always have the geometric border down the sides of the front (e.g. inv. nos. 0972-0974 [SD 748] [pl. 2]) and these five fragments all lack a border on the side of the slab. It was already tempting to class them as stelae with weaponry. That they are decorated with overtly ‘male’ secondary iconography confirms their status. Leaving aside the categories of ritual/cultic and mythological representations for the time being, the only connection of any significance between the scenes from this group and other figure and scene types is with the warrior. However, when looking at all the stelae with warriors incised upon them, it is not until they are broken down by the type of helmet worn by the warrior that any real pattern emerges (table 4). At this point it can immediately be seen that the connection with the horsemanship group is predominantly, almost exclusively, through warriors wearing horned helmets.12 On just two occasions out of ten, when a hunt scene and warrior(s) appear on the same stele, are warriors with horned helmets not involved. The warrior on one of these stelae, Sansone IP 11, 520 (Nava 1988: 44–45, figs. 41–43), has been identified only as a possible warrior with no helmet.

For the stelae depicting warriors with crested helmets, it is a completely different pattern. There is very little further secondary iconography on these stelae and only one motif appears repeatedly: sparring (see table 4, top half). In fact on only one occasion out of twelve sparring scenes13 is the helmet worn perhaps not of the crested variety. In this instance, inv. no. 807 (SD 617), the top half of the warriors has been lost due to a break in the stele. Of the eighteen stelae with warriors with crested helmets, seven are stelae with ornamentation, ten are stelae with weaponry and one is unclassified. Of the ten on which the crested warriors are sparring, five are stelae with weaponry and five stelae with ornamentation. The spread is unusually balanced and without further secondary iconography few conclusions can be drawn,

There are a total of thirteen stelae and stele fragments known to have the warrior with horned helmet, eleven of which are stelae with weaponry. The two stelae with ornamentation in this group display no ‘female’ iconography. A further possible instance of the warrior with horns occurs on inv. nos. 953–6 (SD 742), a stele with ornamentation wellknown to us now for its ‘male’ secondary iconography. It seems safe to consider the warrior with horned helmet a ‘male’ marker also. The helmet with horns has a interesting history in this part 52

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

except that sparing partners wore crested helmets. It is possible a separate sector of society is represented here however, because the stelae with ornamentation which have warriors with crested helmets have almost no ‘female’ secondary iconography and the stelae with weaponry which have warriors with crested helmets have almost no ‘male’ secondary iconography.

Unless otherwise stated, all stelae are held in the National Museum of Manfredonia (FG). For ease of reference, where applicable, inventory numbers are followed by their corresponding catalogue number from Stele Daunie 1 (Nava 1980).

Initial results for gendering the Daunian stelae based on their secondary iconography are mixed. Although definite groups can be identified, they do not corroborate Nava’s theory that while the stelae with weaponry correspond to males, those with ornamentation may represent both females as well as men who were not part of the warrior class. Nor do the results contravene this statement. A group of females represented by ‘weaving and the procession’ is visible, as is a group of males represented by ‘hunting and horsemanship’. The members of other groups, such as those represented by ‘food gathering’ and ‘sparring’, could either be comprised of males and females, or all male. Perhaps in these cases we are seeing gender groups that are not defined by biological sex, but at this stage it is wisest to think of the secondary iconography as reflecting not the gender of the deceased to whom the stele was erected, but as emphaising an aspect of their position in society, as dictated by choice, personal experience, role, age, family ties and/or status.

1   Three fragments are known to have been picked up near Arpi: inv. 812 (SD 623); inv. 941–2 (SD 732); and inv. 808 (SD 618). In recent decades a small number of new pieces have been found, although never in their original contexts. See for example those from the Melfese (Tagliente 1989; Tocco 1971: 116). What are said to be the only published fragments discovered under excavation conditions, found re-used in the wall of a later tomb, were found at Ordona (Mertens 1965: 64; Iker 1967: 35). The first stele ever published (Mariani 1909), now inv. 1007 (SD 773), was found lying horizontally over a fossa tomb during agricultural work near Salapia. Another fragment is purported to have been found in connection with a grave from contrada Cupola (Tiné Bertocchi 1975: 279–80).

Notes

2  ������������������������������������������������������� Total numbers differ as I have also taken into account those fragments held outside the National Museum of Manfredonia and those that have been discovered since the publication of Nava’s catalogue in 1980. Conversely, fragments that have been joined since 1980 have been included as a single unit in my own count. Individual numbers differ because, in addition to the new pieces, I have been able to classify or re-classify a number of fragments on such grounds as the identification of the ‘hip-pendant’ and the ‘cardiophylax ribbons’ (Norman 2008). Finally, some fragments in Nava’s catalogue are visibly either stelae with ornamentation or weaponry but were not explicitly stated as such and these, even if indicated within the description, I have left as unclassified for Nava’s count. Heads have been disregarded in both counts as, with only one instance where a head can be joined to its body (inv. no. 235 [SD 222]), the relationship between head type and the body type is not sufficiently clear for current purposes.

Breaking the secondary iconography down into scene types and figure types to see how each correlates to the other motifs, as well as to the class of the stelae, does seem a very useful exercise. First, it allows for informed decisions to be made as to the class of a number of fragments that would otherwise remain unidentified. This is of great importance when working with the Daunian stelae because, with no contexts or parallels, every clue helps aid their interpretation. Secondly, the analysis has, already in these early stages, led to a greater understanding of the figurative iconography. The correct meaning of certain figure and scene types has become clear, both at the general and individual levels. Ultimately it is the secondary iconography of the Daunian stelae that commands our interest, as it is this that is so unique in the archaeological record of Daunia and this that will hopefully reveal something of Daunian social life, agricultural practices, mythology and religious beliefs.

3  �������������������������������������������������������� Barfield argues that the anthropomorphic statue-menhirs of Europe are representations of venerated ancestors (Barfield 1995: 16), which is not outside the realm of possibilities for the Daunian stelae. 4   An additional aim of the study was to see if any unclassified fragments could be assigned a class based on their secondary iconography. This has now been achieved for a number of pieces, some of which are discussed below.

Acknowledgements

5   For a full list of Ferri’s publications on the Daunian stelae see Nava 1988: 216.

My sincere thanks to Maria Luisa Nava for granting me access to the Daunian stelae and for sharing her invaluable insights with me, and to Ginevra D’Onofrio and the staff of the National Museum of Manfredonia for their many kindnesses. Thanks are due also to Jean-Paul Descœudres, who has long supported my study of south east Italy, and especially to Ted Robinson, for finding time in a hectic schedule to read earlier drafts of this paper. I extend my gratitude also to the editors, for encouraging me to publish in the current volume although I was unable to attend the conference. Part of the study for this article was carried out whilst in Italy on an AFSI grant.

6  ���������������������������������������������������������� Scenes of fishing and the catching and hunting/culling of birds and hares are included in this group. 7   In tables 2, 3 and 4, white rows denote stelae with ornamentation, light grey rows denotes stelae with weaponry and dark grey rows denote unclassified stelae. Those with only dark grey cells in the first column have been classified with the help of their secondary iconography, as outlined in the main text. / denotes a complete stele and * denotes a stele fragment which preserves little of the secondary iconography. 8   Inv. no. 699–700 (SD 585) has weaving on both the front and back. The identification of a weaving scene on inv. no. 1114 (SD 624) is not certain. See discussion below. 53

camilla norman: warriors and weavers: sex and gender in daunian stelae

9   There are two instances of the figure with ‘lyre’ on the front of inv. no. 1008 (SD 775) (pl. 3).  

Specialists to Workshops. In C. Gillis & M.-L. B. Nosch (eds.) Ancient Textiles. Production, Craft and Society: 71-76. Oxbow, Oxford

10   Inv. nos 953–6 (SD 742) and 1261 (SD 987), stelae with ornamentation with hunting and mythological scenes as their focus, are the exceptions to this rule. The latter preserves the lower half of the stele only.

Holland, L.A. 1956.  The Purpose of the Warrior Image from Capestrano. American Journal of Archaeology, 60: 243–47. Herring, E. 2003.  Body art and the Daunian stelae. In J. B. Wilkins & E. Herring (eds.), Inhabiting Symbols. Symbol and image in the ancient Mediterranean: 121–36. Accordia Research Institute, London.

11  ������������������������������������������������������ Of the six instances of the joust (see table 3), four are uncertain, three of these because the scene is incomplete. All three almost certainly depict the joust. The forth uncertain instance is that on the only stele with ornamentation in the group, inv. nos. 953–9536 (SD 742). The scene is complete but it is difficult to ascertain whether or not the two facing horsemen hold weapons. Irrespective of the small sample size I consider the joust as a ‘male’ signifier because the single instance of it on a stele with ornamentation is on one of only two already identified as having ‘male’ secondary iconography, i.e. inv. nos. 953-6 (SD 742).

Iker, R. 1967.  Tombes dauniennes à herdonia. In J. Mertens, Ordona II: 31–88. Institut historique belge de Rome, Brussels. Kemp, B.J. 1989.  Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization. Routledge, London. Luttikhuizen, C.J. 2000.  Differenze di gender nelle necropoli arcaiche della zona medio-adriatica italiana. BaBesch, 75: 127–46. Mariani, L. 1909.  Di una stele sepolcrale Salapina. Rendiconti, 18: 407–416.

12  �������������������������������������������������������� The helmets on the warriors depicted on Berne 1 (Chamay 1993: 373) and Mariemont Ac.85/15 (Van Compernolle 1986: 50–55) are of a slightly different kind. Instead of two horns extending from either side of the helmet, two and three sprout respectively directly from the top. These helmets could arguably be described as crested but the evocation of ‘Trecaranus’, with whom I believe the horned warriors to be associated (see below), and the longer, flowing nature of the plumage on the typical crested helmets have caused me to include them with the horned helmets instead.

Maaskant-Kleibrink, M. 1993.  Religious activities on the ‘Timpone della Motta’, Francavilla Marittima – and the identification of Lagaría. BABesch, 68: 1–47. Mertens, J. 1965.  Ordona I. Institut historique belge de Rome, Brussels. Nava, M.L. 1979.  Stele Daunie. Vita culti e miti nella Puglia protostorica. Edizioni&, Milan. Nava, M.L. 1980.  Stele Daunie I. G. C. Sansone Editore Nuova, Florence. Nava, M.L. 1988.  Le Stele della Daunia. Electa, Milan.

13   Inv. no. 814 (SD 624) and inv. no. 815 (SD 625) have the sparring figures on both the front and back.

Norman, C. 2008.  Hip Pendants and cardiophylax Ribbons: Towards a Better Understanding of Daunian Stelae. Mediterranean Archaeology 21: 9-22.

Bibliography

Pontrandolfo, A., Mugione, E. & Salmone, F. 1996.  Alcuni esempi figurativi dell Italia antica. In R. Olmos Romero & J. A. Santos Velasco (eds.), Iconographía Iberica, Iconografía Itálica: propuestas de Interpretación y lecture: 283–318. Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Madrid.

Barfield, L. 1995.  The context of statue-menhirs. Notizie Archeologiche Bergamensi, 3: 11–20. Bietti Sestieri, A. M. 1992.  The Iron Age Community of Osteria dell’Osa. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Robb, J. 1997.  Female Beauty and Male Violence in Early Italian Society. In A.O. Kolinski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds.), Naked Truths. Woman, sexuality , and gender in classical art and archaeology: 43–65. Routledge, London and New York.

Berggren, K. 1990.  The Capestrano Warrior and the Numana Head. Opuscula Romana, 18.2: 23–36. Bottini, A. & Guzzo, P. G. 1986.  I popoli indigeni fino al VI sec. In C. Ampolo, A. Bottini & P. G. Guzzo, Popoli e civiltà dell’Italia antica, vol. 8: 151–251. Biblioteca di Storia Patria, Rome.

Sammarco, F. 2006.  Una Stele Dauna a Budapest. www. manfredoniaeventi.it/cultura/stele.htm (accessed 12/10/06) Tagliente, M. 1989.  Frammenti di Stele Daunie dal Melfese. Bolletino d’Arte, 74: 53–56.

Bottini, A. 1993.  Armi. Gli strumenti della guerra in Lucania, Edipuglia, Bari.

Tiné Bertocchi, F. 1975.  Formazione della civiltà daunia del X al VI secolo A.C. In Atti del Colloquio Internazionale di Preistoria e Protostoria della Daunia: 271–285. Istituto Italiano di Preistoria e Protostoria, Florence.

Bottini, A. 2000.  Kestos himas poikilos. Ostraka, 9: 273–9. Burkert, W. 1979.  Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual. University of California Press, Berkeley–Los Angeles–London.

Tocco, G. 1971.  Leonessa. In D. Adamesteanu et al., Popoli anellenici in Basilicata: 111–116. La Buona Stampa, Naples.

Capini, S. & Nista, L. 2000.  Italia dei Sanniti. Electa, Rome.

D’Ercole, M. C. 2000.  Immagini dell’Adriatico arcaico. Su alcuni temi iconografici delle stele daunie. Ostraka, 9: 327–50.

Toms, J. 1998.  The construction of gender in Early Iron Age Etruria. In R.D. Whitehouse (ed.), Gender and Italian Archaeology. Challenging the Stereotypes: 157–81. Accordia Research Centre, London.

Gastaldi, P. 1992.  M. Carmen Vida Navarro, ‘Warriors and weavers: sex and gender in Early Iron Age graves from Pontecagnano’. Annali dell’Istituto universitario orientale di Napoli. Dipartimento di studi del mondo classico e del mediterraneo antico. Sezione di archeologia e storia antico), 15: 341–344.

Van Compernolle, T. 1986.  La civilization duanienne dans les Collections du Musée Royal de Mariemont. Cahiers de Mariemont, 17: 25–57. Vida Navarro, M.C. 1992.  Warriors and Weavers: Sex and gender in Early Iron Age Graves from Pontecagnano. Accordia Research Papers 3: 67–100.

Gleba, M. 2007.  Textile Production in Proto-historic Italy: from

Whitehouse, R.D. 2001.  Exploring Gender in Prehistoric Italy. Papers of the British School at Rome 69: 49–96.

Chamay, J. 1993.  L’Art des Peuples Italiques 3000 à 300 avant J.-C. Hellas et Roma, Geneva.

54

Expressions of gender through dress in Latial Iron Age mortuary contexts: the case of Osteria dell’Osa1 Lisa Cougle Introduction Dress and personal ornament are integral to construction of a gendered image in death. The direct association of dress to sexed bodies highlights the complexity of gender structures, and alludes to identities that meld biological sex, age, status and behaviours. The material construction and maintenance of gender identities in the central Italian Iron Age is clearest in burial contexts, where mutually exclusive relationships between biologically sexed individuals and types of personal ornament attest to a well-defined gender system. This system held biological difference as its fundamental tenet, but built a more complex structure around a range of social identities. This study explores the construction of these identities using data from the Latial Iron Age cemetery of Osteria dell’Osa, located twenty kilometres east of Rome. Six hundred cremations and inhumations dating from Latial Phases II to IV (c.900–580 BC) have been excavated, but the associated settlement has not yet been identified (Bietti Sestieri 1992b: 78). The detailed publication of an extensive range of data from this site (Bietti Sestieri 1992a) supports contextual study of mortuary dress and ornament that is usually not possible from other excavations. Osteria dell’Osa provides an opportunity to explore the viability of inferring sex from artefact patterning where biological data are of poor quality. In many cases it has not been possible to identify the sex of buried individuals with complete confidence (Becker & Salvadei 1992), but there exists a sufficient sample of confidently sexed burials to establish a control group for the exploration of exclusive relationships between sex and ornament type. Such patterning can then be used to strengthen identifications made on the basis of more tenuous diagnostic traits, or even to infer sex in the complete absence of biological data. The first part of the current analysis confirms relationships between sex and artefact type using a sample of securely sexed individuals, and then uses these as a basis for inferring the sex of a larger group. Such inferences must, of course, be taken with caution, but can still greatly increase the value of analysis by significantly broadening the sample of available subjects. The mortuary record is valuable for social reconstruction, but is neither an objective nor complete account of social organisation. The obvious problem of material decay combines with the unknowable agenda of the burying

group to present us with a puzzle that can be difficult to decipher. Incomplete – and possibly ideologically distorted – mortuary records present an image in which real social organisation may scarcely be recognised. Ideological distortion, however, is not the sole preserve of extinct societies: our own interpretive framework can hide social realities, or create chimeras. In exploring gender in archaeology, one of the most important considerations is the identification of the assumptions that underlie our delineation of gender categories. reading gender

It is now generally accepted that there is not necessarily a complete correspondence between biological sex and social gender (see Blackwood 1984; Arnold 2002; Suthrell 2004). Despite this, the relationship between them is frequently characterised as a simple dichotomy in archaeological contexts. Inferring the biological sex of individuals from graves merely by the presence of assumed ‘male’ or ‘female’ objects has lost support over recent years in favour of a process that explores artefact association with individuals of known biological sex, drawing more cautious inferences from such patterning. Vida Navarro’s (1992) study of gender patterning at Pontecagnano in southern Italy employs rigorous statistical testing to establish social gender in the absence of reliable evidence for biological sex. The dichotomous patterning she reveals is taken to correspond to social gender, but she readily concedes it could easily relate to a different aspect of social identity (Vida Navarro 1992: 83). In the absence of clear correspondence with sex, some uncertainty accompanies gender patterning. Gender identities are difficult to identify in the mortuary record. Gender is traditionally defined as the cultural interpretation of sexual difference (Gilchrist 1999: xv), and presents greater complexity than immutable biological sex. Modern theories of gender go beyond traditional concepts of ‘maleness’ and ‘femaleness’ to reconcile a range of behaviours with the rigid dualism of biological sex, but we cannot assume that multiple gender structures were acknowledged in ancient societies, even if they could be justified by observed behaviours. It is usually assumed that difference in biological sex was acknowledged socially (Chapman & Randsborg 1981: 7),

lisa cougle:  expressions of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

and thus materially, but we cannot assume that gender, as we understand it, transcended biological sex to provide a more expansive category of social identity. Conversely, we should not assume that dimorphic material patterning corresponds to a lack of complexity in gender structures.

the lived experiences of the individuals that constitute it. dress and gender

Examination of dress is essential to understanding gender in mortuary contexts. The importance of clothing in life – and the fact that it is gender specific in most societies – elevates its diagnostic usefulness over the more impersonal accoutrements of burial, such as pots or knives. Clothing can be seen as an extension of the body, and as such should reasonably reflect social identities that are grounded in physicality, such as gender or age. Traditionally gender is considered to be the fundamental criterion by which clothes are characterised (Arnold 2002: 241). It is usually assumed that gender provides the basis for binary divisions identified in categories of clothing and ornament. Dress and personal ornament are the primary means of visually communicating identity, and allow observers to pass immediate judgment on an individual’s gender and other social identities (Roach & Eicher 1979: 11).

In archaeological contexts, gender cannot be read without making assumptions about the evidence that pre-empts conclusions. If gender dimorphism and its accompanying funerary material patterning are assumed, we have a framework in which we cannot deal with unexpected artefact associations. Inconsistencies such as spindle whorls with biologically identified males, or weaponry with females, will be treated as anomalies rather than alternative gender identities, and thus pose no threat to entrenched stereotypes (Weglian 2001: 140). The methodological comfort derived from the assumption of a binary gender system is often maintained in the face of obvious contradictions, with competing gender constructs dismissed as exceptions to the rule. A male wearing women’s clothes will be misidentified as a woman, or dismissed as an anomaly under this scheme, rather than be considered in the context of a system of multiple genders.

The practice of dressing the deceased clearly transcends the needs of the individual, to become a material means of communicating messages that satisfy other social agendas. In fact, communication is identified by Fowles as the ‘cardinal function’ (1974: 344) of clothing.

On the other hand, if we assume a gender system that transcends biological sex difference, we risk misidentifying other social identities as manifestations of gender. If, for example, we find male children buried with spindle whorls we might conclude they were gendered female, when in fact they may have simply assisted in the task of weaving. The realities of gender might therefore be easily obscured by either a misplaced concept of gender complexity, or conversely, a failure to acknowledge gender identities on a spectrum between the two absolute categories of male and female.

Dress is, perhaps unsurprisingly, one of the most difficult classes of archaeological evidence to read, both physically and symbolically. The interpretation of dress is subject to all of the complexities that bedevil the study of gender in mortuary data (v. supra). Thus, the problem of material decay is compounded by the distorting effect of social imperatives dictating burial form. This presents us with an incomplete, and possibly misleading, picture of society. It is likely that unsanctioned behaviours, or unusual identities, that threaten ideal structures will be denied mortuary expression (Arnold 2002: 253). Arnold (2002: 253) argues that behaviours such as transvestism are unlikely to be archaeologically identifiable unless they constitute normative social behaviour. Therefore, unless there is ideological recognition of gender categories beyond the standard masculine/feminine dichotomy, we should expect that the gender aspect of social identity will be made to fit the traditional categories. Thus a transvestite male might be buried in men’s clothing, but his failure to adhere to ideologically expected behaviours may be manifested in otherwise differential treatment, such as burial outside the main group.

We cannot assume that a society’s ideal structure was inclusive of all gender behaviours in a way that will be archaeologically clear, but we can assume there were normative structures that reconciled the complex relationship between sex and its social manifestations. It is important to note that gender behaviours will not be acknowledged unless they are embraced by a society’s structural norms. They will be invisible if social orthodoxy only recognises dichotomous male and female identities. If mortuary ritual is contrived to reinforce the ideal social structures behind everyday organisation, as proposed by scholars including Goody (1962) and Morris (1987), then ‘rogue’ behaviours will not be permitted. Such behaviours will not be promoted to the status of identities that can be legitimately expressed in corporate ritual. This effectively renders marginalised identities invisible. To acknowledge an identity through the material symbolism of burial is to accept it as orthodox — mortuary ritual is thus active in structuring social ideals. This has obvious implications for attempts to read the realities of gender in an archaeological context. Although this restricts our capacity to comprehend the actual workings of society, it can help us understand how its structure was promoted at an ideal level, and what gender identities were considered normative and appropriate. Mortuary dress is therefore potentially more instructive about the structural ideals of a society than about

It is important to recognise, however, that ‘aberrant’ behaviour is entirely contextual. Whilst transvestism is considered to fall outside certain contemporary expectations for gender behaviour, it is entrenched in others. Crossgender identities manifested in transvestism and same-sex marriage are institutionalised through culturally accepted practice in a number of observed ethnographic contexts. Blackwood (1984: 32) describes how cross-gender females in a range of Native American contexts observe a sanctioned ‘social fiction’ over physiological function to create a new gender identity based on role. Such identities can be accommodated in a gender system that is not sharply 56

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

dichotomised (Blackwood 1984: 33), and are therefore likely to be expressed through burial.

commonly understood symbols to recreate the ideal social identities upon which continuity of social structure depends. Such a process can obfuscate real behaviours, including alternative gender identities, which do not fit the ideal paradigm: making complete knowledge of the actual organisation of society impossible but, at the same time, providing a window on to the structural principles which inform it. This apparent limitation, however, has analytical advantages: rigid observation of structural ideals at the expense of acknowledging subtle social differences means that the burial record is less likely to be influenced by the potentially confusing forces of individual agency or emotional reaction. These strict ritual parameters create a cultural uniformity that validates a statistical approach to the data.

Maintenance of gender structures is inextricable from the material world; although it is widely debated whether artefacts are active in constituting culture or simply reflect existing structures (see Sørensen 1991: 121). It is, however, possible to argue that appearance, as constituted by material elements of clothing and ornament, can be manipulated to suggest adherence to orthodox social norms. The notion of two gender categories as binary opposites is maintained through a collective understanding of what constitutes the correct appearance for males and females. Such an understanding can be characterised as doxa, a concept described by Bourdieu (1977: 164) as the unquestioned and taken-for-granted beliefs that provide the basis of social systems. These are maintained only through common understanding, which in turn requires an easily grasped paradigm – social identities need to be categorised unambiguously to be reproduced. In reality gender identities may have existed along a whole spectrum of permutations, but these cannot find material expression in a dimorphic regime. Clothing is thus integral to maintaining ideal social structures – rather than faithfully representing the deceased’s social identity, it may project an ideology perpetuated by the burying group.

dress in burial: the data

The following analysis explores the evidence for dress and personal ornament at Osteria dell’Osa in Latial Phase II (c.900–770 BC). By limiting analysis to Phase II it is hoped that social variability can be more easily separated from change through time, although some examination is undertaken of short-term changes from Phase IIA (c.900– 830 BC) to Phase IIB (c.830–770 BC). Phase III marks a watershed in Latial protohistory and cannot be considered as a single cultural unit with Phase II – material changes that accompanied urban and social developments in the mid-eighth century BC require a discrete study which falls outside the scope of this paper.

We cannot assume that the dress of the deceased reflects everyday garb, but it is reasonable to imagine that there was some similarity. The value of mortuary ritual symbolism is diminished if it does not establish strong visual links with the living. Thus, although the appearance of the deceased was contrived in a ritual context, it is reasonable to suppose that at least some elements of burial dress were worn in life.

Analysis was undertaken in two stages: the first involved identification of material patterning within a control group of securely sexed adults, and the second used these results to infer gender in a wider sample. Adult burials were only included in the initial phase if they contained skeletal remains that Becker and Salvadei (1992) were able to sex with confidence, and if they had elements of dress or personal ornament amongst their grave goods. Individuals were sexed with varying degrees of confidence by Becker and Salvadei (1992), but only determinations without any expressed level of uncertainly were included. Sub-adults of identifiable age were included, but their sex was not considered. Despite published sex determinations for many sub-adult individuals at Osteria dell’Osa, a more conservative approach was justified by the cautionary stance of more recent biological anthropologists. Mays and Cox (2000), for example, have dismissed the diagnostic usefulness of tooth-size dimorphism as an indicator of sex – a prominent criterion in Becker and Salvadei’s determination of sub-adult sex.

There is evidence from Osteria dell’Osa that elements of dress and ornament were not exclusive to mortuary contexts. Many objects, especially fibulae, show signs of wear and repair, suggesting everyday use over a significant period. Re-attached pins on fibulae from tombs 508 and 544 suggest these items were not only well-used, but also highly valued. These examples attest to ritual clothing sharing elements with everyday dress. The connection is logical: if we accept that the funerary ritual is a means of reinforcing normative social structure, then the visual aspect should rationally establish links with established orthodoxy. The elements of dress and personal ornament that survive in mortuary contexts offer us an incomplete picture of the appearance of the deceased. It is likely that hairstyles, tattoos, fabric patterning and other perishable means of distinction were widely used. The presence of razors in many adult male graves at Osteria dell’Osa suggests that care of the body itself was integral to maintenance of social identities, but no extant contemporary artistic sources can corroborate this.

The examination of a limited sample of graves imposes another level of restriction on analysis already impeded by severe problems of material preservation (see Becker 1984 for a discussion of the environmental processes responsible for the poor level of preservation). This approach restricts our capacity to explore the full range of social identities within the Osteria dell’Osa community by excluding individuals who were interred without grave goods. In the case of the most poorly preserved burials, however, it is

The value of burial dress and ornament lies in its capacity to inform our understanding of how the deceased was situated within an ideal social structure. The funerary ritual employs 57

lisa cougle:  expressions of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

not possible to establish whether absence of ornament in a grave is due to deliberate omission or decay: identities that may be deliberately marginalised will remain invisible. This approach also excludes the majority of cremation burials, as the state of the skeletal remains usually precludes a confident sex determination.

spindle whorl amongst the grave goods. Sex identification, however, seems to have been made on the basis of unusually large teeth (Becker & Salvadei 1992: 155) – a feature generally not considered to be a reliable sex indicator in the absence of a contemporary regional control group (see Brace & Ryan 1980; Macchiarelli & Bondioli 1986; Molleson et al. 1993: 23; Mays & Cox 2000: 123). In light of the questionable reliability of dental diagnostics and the nature of this individual’s grave goods, it is suggested that the sex identification of this individual is uncertain. If this individual is in fact male, his grave goods indicate female, or other gendering.

One hundred and sixty-six confidently sexed burials were considered in the first stage of the current analysis. Individuals were grouped broadly according to age: subadults are divided into infants (aged 1–5 years), children (6–10 years) and juveniles (11–14 years). Adults were more broadly categorised: the general adult group included all individuals aged 15–50 years, and the old adult group comprised all those aged above 50 years. Within this control group we were able to infer relationships between aspects of dress and social identities grounded in the somatic attributes of age and sex. Establishment of these confident associations provided a basis for the consideration of individuals for whom the biological data were less secure.2

Suspension rings, which are usually found attached to fibulae, are present in two other male graves. ������ Adult male grave 483 contains a single suspension ring (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 689). This ���������������������������� is not associated with the serpentine fibula on the deceased’s chest, but is to the right of the body, near the northern limit of the grave. The fact that this highly unusual burial saw the repositioning of the body to make space for a dolium containing the cremated remains of burial 482 invites the possibility that the suspension ring is intrusive – possibly associated with the later deposition. Male burial 134 has a less ambiguous association with the three suspension rings, but they are in unusual positions (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 134). Two of the rings are placed anomalously in the position occupied by hair rings in many female burials, and the third is placed on the face. However, the determination of the biological sex of this individual was not straightforward. The skeleton exhibits traits such as female pelvic morphology and a generally gracile appearance, but was nevertheless identified as male. After significant deliberation Becker and Salvadei (1992a: 131) made their determination on the basis that other males in the Osteria dell’Osa population exhibit gracile skeletal traits. Even if we choose not to accept this identification and regard sex as undetermined, we must consider the apparent contradictions in the grave goods – the ‘female’ suspension rings are accompanied by a ‘male’ serpentine fibula. Interestingly, another male characterised by Becker and Salvadei (1992a: 127–8) as ‘gracile’ (grave 110) has a ring associated with a serpentine fibula. It is tempting to speculate that the gender identities of these individuals were connected to their relatively delicate physical statures, but such conclusions await the support of more certain sex determinations.

the evidence

Poor preservation of organic material at Osteria dell’Osa means that residual patterning (pseudomorphs) on corroded fibulae and suspension rings provides the most direct evidence for textiles. Information on dress and personal appearance must therefore be derived primarily from the bronze and iron ornaments that comprise the majority of surviving non-ceramic grave goods. These include fibulae, suspension rings, beads, pendants, chains, finger rings and hair rings. Distribution of these types within the analysis group is detailed in Table 1.

The scope of this paper does not extend to a comprehensive analysis of all elements of dress and ornament. Fibulae and finger rings have been selected for their strong association with females and are examined in some detail in relation to sex, age and possible gender identities. The abundance of fibulae in Phase II graves allows meaningful analysis in the control group of 166 burials. Finger rings, however, are less widely distributed, and although an exclusive relationship with females and sub-adults can be determined, their numbers within the control group are insufficient to allow meaningful analysis. A larger group was thus created that used demonstrated associations of ornaments with known females to infer a female gender

Table 1  Phase II distribution of ornaments in adult burials

Table 1 clearly illustrates the association of most ornament types with females, and serpentine fibulae and razors with males. Percentages indicate the distribution of each ornament type within the graves of the 86 adult females and 47 adult males included in the current analysis. Subadults are not included in this summary due to the difficulty of confidently identifying their sex. Secondary inhumation 317 is the only identified adult male in the current sample with an arch bow fibula, a bead, hair rings, suspension rings and a pendant. There is also a 58

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Fig. 1  Distribution of fibulae in Phase IIA

Fig. 2  Distribution of fibulae in Phase IIB

in a further 66 individuals (Table 2) whose biological sex was established with some degree of doubt by Becker and Salvadei (1992).

inhumations are accompanied by one or more fibulae and 91 per cent of males have a single fibula. No male has more than one fibula. The number of fibulae per female appears to have a connection to the age of the deceased. Throughout Phase II the presence of more than two fibulae is exclusive to females between 15–50 years of age, suggesting exaggerated display in this demographic group for reasons that remain unclear. The fact that very few women have more than two fibulae rules out symbolism of social identities that might reasonably be expected to be relatively common – such as motherhood – and suggests signification of privilege. This suggestion is reinforced by the otherwise relatively rich set of grave goods belonging to these women. It is not clear why such privilege would not extend into the old adult age group, but we might simply be misled by the limited sample size. There is a general increase in fibulae per burial between Phase IIA and Phase IIB, especially in the sub-adult and old adult female groups (see fig. 2).

fibulae Fibulae are the most familiar and widely studied of Iron Age Italian ornaments. They are frequently used as a basis for the gendering of individuals where biological data are insufficient. As a general rule, arch bow fibulae are considered to be ‘female’ artefacts, and serpentine fibulae ‘male’. However, Vida Navarro (1992: 75) cautions against untested application of this rule, pointing out that female costumes of the seventh century BC in Este and S. Lucia included serpentine fibulae. Such cases contradict the strong gender patterning established for southern Italian sites, such as Pontecagnano. It is essential to establish independent local patterning within a biologically-sexed sample rather than accept generalisations about gender patterning.

Double and multiple fibulae throughout Phase II are linked to increased levels of all other ornament types except

Throughout Phase II (c.900–770 BC) 92 per cent of female 59

lisa cougle:  expressions of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

Fig. 3  Association of fibulae with other ornament types in Phase IIA

Fig. 4  Association of fibulae with other ornament types in Phase IIB

finger rings, suggesting a ritual purpose that is connected to the display of privileged social identity rather than horizontal social roles. Fig. 3 clearly illustrates the increase in incidence of other ornaments in Phase IIA when fibula numbers rise. Fig. 4 illustrates how this relationship is even stronger in Phase IIB. Inclusion of spindle whorls in these charts indicates that the increased material wealth of these graves is not limited to items of personal adornment.

to denote privilege, or more specifically, female privilege. The significant differences between male and female grave goods suggest there was no independent notion of status that was not predicated on gender. Whilst the quantity of fibulae appears to relate to wealth or status, fibula style potentially offers insights into how gender was structured in Latial Phase II to transcend biological sex difference. Association of arch bow fibulae with females, and serpentine fibulae with males, is well documented (see Table 1), but their relationship with different age groups might reveal a more complex gender structure.

The basis for these privileged identities is difficult to determine from a relatively small sample that is not necessarily representative of the living community. We can assert, however, that the identities are either exclusively female, or are signified in a unique way for females – the fact that no male in Phase II has more than one fibula suggests that gender was at the basis of these identities. However, although multiple fibulae are exclusive to biological females, their limited distribution precludes them as actual symbols of gender. They seem

In the earlier part of Phase II sub-adults are associated exclusively with arch bow fibulae. It is only from Phase IIB that children as young as seven years of age have serpentine fibulae amongst their grave goods. These individuals (burials 51, 446 and 588) are identified by Becker and Salvadei (1992: 52ff.) as male, but such determinations 60

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Table 2  Females introduced to analysis on basis of ornament association

must unfortunately remain uncertain. In any case, the more widespread distribution of serpentine fibulae in Phase IIB marks a change in the mortuary treatment of sub-adults. We might speculate that the serpentine fibulae in the later sub-adult burials show that social identities are evolving towards a more inclusive ‘adult male’ identity. However, in light of the identified difficulties in determining sub-adult sex, we cannot exclude the possibility that sub-adult males were simply absent from the Phase IIA burial group.

Arch bow fibulae in the sub-adult graves are accompanied by other ornaments commonly associated with adult females, such as hair rings, pendants and suspension rings. These are also similarly placed in relation to the body, suggesting a feminine appearance, even in hairstyle. It is unfortunately impossible to determine whether these were all females, or if sub-adults of both sexes were gendered in a similar way in Phase IIA. 61

lisa cougle:  expressions of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

Fig. 5  Finger rings by age group in Phase IIA

Fig. 6  Finger rings by age group in Phase IIB 62

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gender identit es in italy n the first millenn um bc

Fig. 7  Finger ring type and age in Phase IIA

Location of fibulae in relation to the body is not revealing. In both female and male inhumations most are located on the trunk, either on the chest or abdomen. Occurrence of fibulae outside this zone usually appears to be the result of disturbance. The very high incidence of secondary burial undoubtedly affects the situation of grave goods, and strengthens the possibility that these fibulae are not in positions that reflect how they would have been worn in life. In any case, the absence of contemporary artistic representations makes the dress of the living unknowable — it is therefore difficult to assert similarities between mortuary dress and the dress of the living. Two Phase IIA male burials (166 and 426) have fibulae located at the shoulders, suggesting a less common style of garment than that associated with the majority of fibulae located on the trunk, but we cannot undertake detailed reconstruction with the available data.

group for the subsequent examination of finger rings. Any cases where Becker and Salvadei (1992) had expressed a degree of uncertainty in their determination of biological sex were initially excluded from analysis – a precaution that provided greater confidence in the identification of relationships between sexed individuals and artefact types. On the basis of these associations the tentative sex identifications of a further 66 females (adults and old adults) were cautiously accepted. The ornament associations that provided the basis on which the inference of sex was taken are detailed in Table 2. None of the burials accepted on this basis have any apparent contradictions that might weaken the inference of gender. Burials were only accepted at this stage if their gender could be identified through association with ornament types already considered. With the exception of four burials (numbers 40, 304, 339 and 465) the gender assessment is made on the basis of the presence of at least two diagnostic ornaments. In all cases Becker and Salvadei’s (1992) skeletal or dental examination resulted in a female identification, but with differing levels of certainty.

finger rings The preceding analysis demonstrates that there are meaningful relationships between ornament type and the biological sex of the deceased. The overwhelmingly strong connection of arch bow fibulae, hair rings, beads, pendants and suspension rings with securely identified females, and the exclusive association of females with finger rings and double or multiple fibulae, allows cautious inference of biological sex in certain cases. On the basis of the patterning highlighted in the first part of the current analysis further individuals were accepted into the sample

Finger rings are restricted to burials of females and subadults in Phase IIA, but their association with specific age groups is not strong (fig. 5). In Phase IIA they are found amongst the grave goods of females of all ages, and all subadults older than five years of age. Graves with more than two finger rings are exclusively adult or old adult, with a greater frequency in the graves of older women.

63

lisa cougle:  expressions of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

Fig. 8  Finger ring type and age in Phase IIB

In Phase IIB multiple finger rings occur more frequently in adult and old adult burials (fig. 6). Finger rings start to appear amongst the grave goods of infants for the first time, either singly or in pairs, but no other sub-adult age group has burials with more than one ring at this time. This forms part of a wider patterning that suggests exaggerated wealth display of certain individuals of privilege. There is a clear association of finger rings with females, but their distribution is not easily explicable by reference to gender roles, despite some older females being distinguished by multiple rings. Females with more than two finger rings generally have other ornaments in greater numbers than the rest of the mortuary population.

Strap rings are almost exclusive to adult and old adult females in Phase IIA (fig. 7), but are more widely distributed in Phase IIB (fig. 8) following the virtual disappearance of spiral rings. Throughout Phase II wire rings are found with both adults and sub-adults. There are two main locations for finger rings: on the hands (predominantly the left hand), or attached to fibulae and positioned on the trunk. Figs 9 and 10 reveal an interesting connection between the style and location of finger rings. In both Phase IIA and IIB the decoratively modest wire ring is the most common type found associated with the left hand, suggesting a more functional use than the decorative types more commonly attached to fibulae. The spiral rings on the hands are likewise of a plain type, unlike those attached to fibulae. In Phase IIB wire finger rings continue to have a strong association with the left hand.

Finger rings as a class of object do not seem to denote social identities related to the age or gender of the individual. Their distribution seems to be determined by factors outside biologically determined social identities. Examination of the type and the position of finger rings reveals patterning that suggests these are identities that may not be primarily connected with wealth.

There are no anomalous features to suggest that finger rings worn on fibulae were not designed for wearing on the hand, in spite of their generally more decorative nature. Indeed, any features that restricted their functionality would presumably have resulted in them being classified as something other than finger rings. There is no strong connection between the size of a ring and its location. Rings on the trunk have a higher median diameter than those on the hands, but the overlap in size with rings located on the hands is significant, so they could easily have been worn on fingers.

There are three broad classes of finger ring amongst the grave goods of Osteria dell’Osa: spiral rings, which are thin ribbons of bronze looped several times; wire rings, which are simple bands with a round section; and strap rings, which have a broader, flatter profile and are often decorated. 64

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Fig. 9  Finger ring type and location in Phase IIA

Fig. 10  Finger ring type and location in Phase IIB 65

lisa cougle:  express ons of gender through dress at osteria dell’osa

do not universally characterise these groups. It is clear that gender is more complicated than a simple equation of biological sex with social identity, but may be informed by age, social status and potentially other vertical and horizontal roles. Multiple fibulae, for example, were found to be exclusive to biological females, but they were not associated with all females. This suggests they might relate to another aspect of female identity, not gender per se.

A single infant (grave 586) is the only sub-adult in the analysed sample with a finger ring on the left hand, but the ring is of the same style and dimensions as wire rings found on the left hands of two contemporary adults (graves 480 and 334). The unavailability of contemporary anthropometric data makes it difficult to assess whether the ring could have been comfortably worn by the infant, or would simply have been placed loosely in position for burial.

If we accept that an individual’s social identities are materially reconstituted through mortuary ritual, then we must accept that material variation in burials will reflect a range of social identities. The dress and ornaments of the deceased provide the best opportunity to read variation between burials. Because the form of these is determined by the corporate ritual rather than particular choices made by the individual, they will display the social identities of the deceased, as they were perceived, or perhaps more accurately, acknowledged by the living.

i

There is some correlation between finger ring size and age, although it is not entirely consistent. As a group the finger rings of sub-adults are slightly smaller than adults with a median diameter of 1.7cm, compared to 1.9cm. However, within this group infants have the highest mean size with a median diameter of 1.8cm. This might suggest that rings were not made for wear by infants, but were adult goods bestowed upon them in death.

conclusion

It is clear from the differences between infants and old adults that there was no all-encompassing code of appearance characterising ‘femaleness’. The visual identity of women appears to have been determined by a range of other factors that might have included age, kinship and other aspects of social identity that are unknowable to us from the mortuary record.

Inferences about the social structure of the entire community of Osteria dell’Osa cannot be drawn from this limited analysis. Exclusion of graves without suitably diagnostic grave goods potentially renders a section of the mortuary community invisible. We must remain mindful of this limitation, but it cannot be avoided in this group of burials with varied levels of material preservation. The value of the analysis is found in the relationships identified between material culture and individuals of confidently determined biological age and sex. Further analyses that encompass the entire population can draw on such patterning to inform cautious inferences about social gender of individuals of uncertain sex determination.

Women and men were characterised by multiple identities that included age and social status, but these were fundamentally shaped by gender. There was no uniform material indicator of wealth, for example, but a combination of ornaments, and probably styles of garment, proclaimed a female or male of wealth. Then, as now, women and men could not be understood in a single dimension.

It is recognised that the patterns identified in this analysis may not reflect the range of gender identities in the living community of Osteria dell’Osa. Mortuary ritual reinforces ideal social identities, and will not acknowledge deviations from structural norms. The material patterning identified in this study suggests that there was fundamentally a dichotomous division of gender identities, but these did not necessarily correlate neatly with biological sex. The presence of only arch bow fibulae in sub-adult graves in Phase IIA suggests all children were gendered female, but until we can determine their biological sex with certainty, we cannot test this assumption. We cannot exclude the possibility that burial was reserved for biologically female sub-adults in this phase.

notes

1   I would like to thank Dr Kathryn Lomas and Dr Edward Herring for the opportunity to present this paper at the ‘Gender Identities in Italy in the first millennium BC’ conference at Institute of Classical Studies, University of London in June 2006. This �������������������������������� paper presents ��������������������� preliminary results of my Ph.D. research at the Australian National University. My research programme is undertaken with the support of an Australian Postgraduate Award, and a travel grant from the School of Archaeology and Anthropology at the Australian National University for research in Italy. The support of my principal supervisor Dr Penelope Allison is gratefully acknowledged along with the valuable contributions of Dr Marc Oxenham and Mr Ian Farrington. Special thanks are due to Dr Anna Maria Bietti Sestieri of the Soprintendenza Archeologia di Roma and Maria Pia Malvezzi of the British School at Rome for generously sharing their time and vast expertise.

The association of suspension rings with serpentine fibulae in graves 134 and 110 contradicts the otherwise mutually exclusive nature of these ornaments, and invites the possibility of the existence of other, rare gender identities between the two absolutes of male and female. The nature of such identities cannot be understood from isolated examples, but they suggest that gender at Osteria dell’Osa was not immutably linked to biological sex.

2    A more detailed analysis that considers data from the entire cemetery is currently being undertaken as part of my Ph.D. research at the Australian National University under the supervision of Dr Penelope Allison and Dr Marc Oxenham.

The results of this analysis suggest that there are particular elements of dress and ornament that are almost exclusively associated with biologically sexed males and females, but

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Mortuary Ritual. In S. Milledge Nelson & M. Rosen-Ayalon (eds), In Pursuit of Gender: Worldwide Archaeological Approaches: 239–56. AltaMira, California.

Routledge, London & New York. Goody, J.R. 1962 Death, property and the ancestors: a study of the LoDagaa of West Africa. Tavistock, London.

Becker, M.J. 1984. Osteria dell’Osa: a preliminary report on the analysis of the human skeletal remains. In A.M. Bietti Sestieri (ed.), Preistoria e protostoria nel territorio di Roma: 186–95. De Luca, Rome.

Macchiarelli, R. & Bondioli, L. 1986. Morphometric changes in permanent dentition throughout the Neolithic: a microregional analysis. 1. Upper dentition. Homo 37: 239–56. Mays, S. & Cox, M. 2000. Sex determination in skeletal remains. In M. Cox & S. Mays (eds), Human Osteology in Archaeology and Forensic Science: 117–30. Greenwich Medical Media, London.

Becker, M.J. & Salvadei, L. 1992. Analysis of the human skeletal remains from the cemetery of Osteria dell’Osa. In A.M. Bietti Sestieri (ed.), La necropoli Laziale di Osteria dell’Osa: 52– 191. Quasar, Rome.

Molleson, T., Cox, M., Waldron, A.H. & Whittaker, D.K. 1993. The Spitalfields Project. Volume 2. The Anthropology: The Middling Sort. Council for British Archaeology, London.

Bietti Sestieri, A.M. (ed.) 1992a. La necropoli Laziale di Osteria dell’Osa. Quasar, Rome. Bietti Sestieri, A.M. 1992b The Iron Age Community of Osteria dell’Osa. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Morris, I. 1987. Burial and Ancient Society. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Blackwood, E. 1984. Sexuality and Gender in Certain Native American Tribes: the case of cross-gender females. Signs, 10 (1): 27–42.

Roach, M.E. & Eicher, J.B. 1979. The Language of Personal Adornment. In J.M. Cordwell & R.A. Schwartz (eds), The Fabrics of Culture: the anthropology of clothing and adornment: 7–21. Mouton, The Hague.

Bourdieu, P. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge

Sørensen, M.-L.S. 1991. The construction of gender through appearance. In D. Walde and D.E. Willows (eds), The archaeology of gender: proceedings of the twenty-second annual conference of the Archaeological Association of the University of Calgary: 121–9. Archaeological Association of the University of Calgary, Calgary.

Brace, C.L. & Ryan, A.S. 1980. Sexual dimorphism and human tooth size differences. Journal of Human Evolution, 9 (5): 417–35. Chapman, R. & Randsborg, K. 1981. Approaches to the Archaeology of Death. In R. Chapman & K. Randsborg (eds) The Archaeology of Death: 1–24. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Suthrell, C.A. 2004 Unzipping gender: sex, cross-dressing and culture. Berg, Oxford & New York.

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Vida Navarro, M.C. 1992. Warriors and weavers: sex and gender in Early Iron Age graves from Pontecagnano. Accordia Research Papers, 3: 67–99.

Gilchrist, R. 1999. Gender and Archaeology: contesting the past.

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Textile tools and specialisation in Early Iron Age female burials Margarita Gleba Textile production is one of the oldest specialised crafts that involved both amateurs and professionals. Archaeological, representational and literary evidence indicates that, in many societies, spinning and weaving were practised primarily by women (Barber 1991: 283– 98). In Italy, starting at the end of the Bronze Age, textile craft became a symbol of the female sphere of life, and women’s contribution to the community as textile workers was expressed by the deposition of spinning and weaving implements in their burials. This paper examines some implications of this practice for our understanding of the social and economic role played by women in the Early Iron Age communities of Italy. gender

One of the primary aspects of an individual that is expressed by burial rites is gender. Textile implements in general, and spindle whorls in particular, traditionally have been regarded as indicators of female depositions just as weapons have been associated with male burials. However, sex determinations made on osteological grounds are rare, often because the bones are not sufficiently well preserved, a situation especially common in the case of cremation burials.1 Further, in many old excavations, bones were not collected, or were discarded. Thus, in published analyses, sex-typing has frequently been based on the types of burial goods that are found with remains of the deceased. Although the orthodox view that textile production was an exclusively female activity can be questioned in some cases, this pattern is evident in Italian finds from the Early Iron Age on, and is confirmed by the material for which osteological determinations are available. For instance, at the Iron Age cemetery of Osteria dell’Osa in Latium, where the bones were analysed in order to determine the sex and age of the deceased, “a single faceted spindle whorl occurred in the majority of female graves” (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 108). Judith Toms (1998: 166) has argued convincingly that, for the Villanovan necropoleis of Tarquinia and Veio, spinning/weaving equipment and weapons/armour form distinct groups, which are independent of chronology and wealth. The absolute majority of burials containing spinning and weaving implements are female.2 Iconographic sources also confirm the strong association of women with the textile craft. One of these is the wooden throne found in Tomb 89 at Verucchio. The throne, extraordinary for its state of preservation, has been dated to the end of the eighth – beginning of the seventh century BC (Eles 2002). The intricately carved scenes, shown on

the inner side of the back depict women in the process of spinning and weaving (Fig. 1) (Gentili 1987; Torelli 1997: 63–86; Kossack 1999: 64–8; Eles 2002: 268–72; Gentili 2003: 28). The structure identified as loom is quite high and operated by women seated on elaborate chairs. Another object, bearing one of the most important representations of textile production in the ancient world, is the late seventh century BC bronze tintinnabulum found in tomb 5 of the Arsenale Militare necropolis in Bologna. It features four scenes depicting various stages of textile manufacture (Fig. 2) (Morigi Govi 1971; Kossack 1999: 67–8). The bottom scene of side A illustrates two women seated in throne-like chairs dressing their distaffs for spinning. The top scene of side A shows a standing woman spinning. The bottom scene of side B most likely represents the weaving of the starting border necessary for the warp-weighted loom (Stage 1985: 56; Barber 1991: 116). Such a loom appears in the last scene; moreover, it is two-storied and is the only such representation known from antiquity. Here, it is operated by a woman seated high up in a throne and assisted by another woman standing at ground level. What these scenes also suggest is a high status for the women depicted and of the craft that they are involved in. Textile tools in burials seem to indicate the same. status

Implements used for spinning and weaving were generally made of fired clay, wood, or bone, and have little intrinsic value. They were meaningful only to the person who used them and therefore carried symbolic value when placed in tombs (Barber 1991: 299). It was the symbolic value associated with spinning and weaving implements that led to their manufacture in precious materials. Finds of spinning implements made of bronze, glass, silver, amber and ivory, support the notion that spindle and distaff were not only gender indicators but also important status symbols for women in the highest social classes.3 There is a clear contrast between the majority of relevant tombs that contain a single spindle whorl and the significantly smaller number of tombs with distaff and/or spools in addition to the whorl. The latter combination is frequently found in the richest burials. Distaffs made in valuable materials, such as bronze, silver, amber, glass or ivory, were particularly important markers of élite female status during the ninth–seventh centuries BC (Bartoloni 1989; Nielsen 1998: 74; Jannot 2004). Being impractical and probably too precious to be used for spinning, they

margarita gleba:  textile tools and specialisation in early iron age female burials

Fig. 1  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Wooden throne of Verucchio, Tomba del Trono, Verucchio, c.700 BC (Kossack 1999: Fig. 44).

Fig. 2  Bronze tintinnabulum, Tomba degli Ori, Bologna, late seventh century BC (© Bologna, Museo Civico Archeologico).

must have been made purely for display purposes.

frequently found deposited near the head of the deceased5 or directly on the body with larger end up.6 Forked distaffs were often placed alongside the body of the deceased, with the forked end near the head.7 All types of distaffs are frequently associated with spindle whorls, suggesting that a spindle complemented the spinning set.8 Bologna’s Benacci-Caprara Tomb 56 provides evidence for this practice: there, a distaff was deposited with a bronze model of a spindle (Fig. 4) (Brizio 1889: 329 n. 51; Tovoli 1989: 188 n. 51).

It should be noted that a considerable amount of confusion exists in the literature regarding the identification of distaffs, which are tools used to fix the fibre on during spinning process. They come in a variety of shapes (Fig. 3). Handheld distaffs are typically held up in the left hand near the shoulder; longer varieties can be fixed in the belt and lean on the shoulder. Frequently, bronze hand-held distaffs are identified as spindles (Amann 2000: 27). Occasionally, they have been called a symbolic staff (Müller-Karpe 1974: 93). My identification of these implements as distaffs is based on their shape, location and association with other textile implements in burials.4 Thus, bronze distaffs are

The tools themselves symbolised the prowess of the deceased woman in textile craft and, hence, her social role in the family and community (Bietti Sestieri 1979: 142), 70

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Fig. 3  Distaff types: a. Bronze, Tomba HH 11–12, Quattro Fontanili, Veio (Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: fig. 54); b. Bronze, Tomba 47, Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992b: fig. 3a.403 no. 10); c. Bronze, Tomba AA 12A, Quattro Fontanili, Veio (Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: 71 fig. 12); d. Amber, Tomba 47, Rocca Malatestiana, Verucchio (Forte 1994: 79); e. Wood and bronze, Tomba JJ 17–18, Quattro Fontanili, Veio (Close-Brooks 1963: fig. 93).

while the precious materials of which they were made expressed her status as a wealthy and high-ranking member of that society (Baldoni 1994: 264). Although distaffs disappear from grave good assemblages after the seventh century, their symbolism continues well into the Roman period, when brides carried a spindle and a distaff during wedding processions (Plin. HN 8.194; Torelli 1984: 131, 133). Varro records that the distaff and wool of Tanaquil, wife of Tarquinius Priscus, the first Etruscan king of Rome, was displayed for centuries in a temple of Sancus erected in Rome, according to tradition, in 466 BC (ap. Plin. HN 8.194; Plut. Quaest. Rom. ���� 30). Status is most certainly indicated by the deposition of precious textile implements, such as the bronze distaffs, in infant burials. The symbolic character of these objects is especially clear when they are miniaturised, and thereby lose their functional aspect (Bergonzi 1981: 289). Miniaturised versions of tools are known from Latial infant burials, such as Tomb 5 at Le Caprine (Guidonia), which contained a miniature kit for textile production: a distaff, a spindle, a spindle whorl and four spools (Guidi & Zaraffini 1993: 191; Damiani et al. 1998: 206).9 specialisation

Fig. 4  Bronze spindle, Tomba 56 Benacci Caprara, Bologna, 7th century BC (© Bologna, Museo Civico Archeologico).

Gender and status, however, are not the only aspects of the 71

margarita gleba:  textile tools and specialisation in early iron age female burials

Fig. 5  Spools, Murlo, seventh–sixth century BC (Reproduced by permission of Anthony Tuck).

deceased demonstrated by the textile implements. It is also theoretically possible to differentiate the degree of skill or ‘specialisation’ in spinning and/or weaving that their dead owner possessed. Based on the material from the Early Iron Age Osteria dell’Osa, Bietti Sestieri has proposed a differentiation between ‘spinners’, defined by a single spindle whorl that originally must have been associated with a wooden spindle and, sometimes, a distaff, and ‘weavers’, whose burial assemblages included several spindle whorls and numerous spools, the latter being more complex or ‘specialised’ than the former (Bietti Sestieri 1979: 110, 143; 1992a: 102; Bartoloni 2000: 273). Such an interpretation necessitates separation of spinning and weaving in textile production and singles out weaving as its more complicated operation. Nevertheless, weaving is not necessarily more complex than spinning and although these tasks were technologically separate stages and required different tools, the production of textiles in Italy was considered a single process, as documented by both archaeological and iconographic material. For instance, the various textile production implements found in primary, settlement contexts usually occur together, indicating that spinning and weaving took place in the same areas. The scenes on the Bologna tintinnabulum and the Verucchio throne also illustrate continuity of the production process.

differentiation. The tombs containing spools and multiple spindle whorls are few in comparison to those with just one spindle whorl. Assuming that a greater number of such implements deposited with the deceased symbolises that individual’s skill in textile craft, we can see that such skill was far from common. The tools in these burials, then, express the specialisation of their owner in textile craft. Multiple spindle whorls, usually present in the ‘specialist’ burials, often vary in weight and shape, two of the parameters that affect the quality of yarn: this suggests a production of various types of yarn for different kinds of textiles. Quattro Fontanili Tomb R 3–4 at Veio had an astounding 96 biconical whorls, some of which were elaborately decorated (Fabbricotti et al. 1972: 310 fig. 80, 313 nos 1–3). Tomb XVIII at Cuma, dated to the end of the eighth century, had at least 27 impasto spindle whorls (Tocco Sciarelli 1985: 95 fig. 17.10, 96). The seventh century Tomb 3 of Caselle di San Lazzaro at Villanova di Castenaso contained nineteen spindle whorls (Forte 1994: 243–4, 245 pl. VI nos 27–45). Tomb 1 at Populonia San Cerbone also contained sixteen spindle whorls (Torelli 2000: 582 no. 129). Seventeen spindle whorls, ranging in shape from globular to truncated conical, were among the burial goods of Quattro Fontanili Tomb Z 11–12 at Veio, which also ������������������������������������������� included thirteen spools and a bronze distaff�������������������������������������������������� (Falconi Amorelli 1967: 213 no. 6, 214 fig. 75). Fornaci Tomb 363 at Capua had fourteen spindle whorls (Johannowsky 1983: 136–7 nos 53–66, pl. XXXI). Seven spindle whorls were found in Tomb 328 and eight in Tomb 9 at Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992b: 707 no. 9–15, fig. 3a.310, 746 nos 5–11, fig. 4a.387). Many more examples of burials with between two and ten implements

I believe it is more likely that the whorl simply defined the deceased as female based on her economic role within household, while the presence of spools and other textile tools signified that this particular individual was a more skilled textile worker involved in a more specialised kind of production. Iron Age burials provide indirect evidence for such 72

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

can be cited.

borders on the mantles of Verucchio, probably added to the garments when the base textile was already finished, was extremely laborious and time consuming. The result was a highly prized product, indicating that such mantles were a status symbol not only for those who wore and deposited them in graves but also for those who made them (Stauffer 2002: 208 and 212).14

Multiple spindle whorls are frequently associated with spools (bobbins, rocchetti), as in the case of Tomb 1 at Populonia (Torelli 2000: 582 no. 129). In most cases, spools occur in multiples. The numbers range from 1–3 to over 40. In one extraordinary case, the Isis Tomb at Polledrara necropolis in Vulci, dated to the seventh–sixth century BC, 130 rocchetti have been found (Haynes 1977: 29).10

The vast majority (although not all) of the burials containing spools are quite rich, thereby suggesting that only élite women possessed the skill and/or the right to use these tools to make special ceremonial garments with tablet-woven borders. Moreover, these textiles must have served as indicators of social rank or ‘ceremonial’ clothes, with the border functioning as the distinguishing element characterised by technique, pattern and colour (Stauffer 2002: 194, 208). Such borders are well illustrated in the later representational material, such as the Etruscan tomb paintings of Tarquinia, the terracotta statues of Murlo and Veio and bronze figurines.15 Production of these textiles not only required highly specialised raw materials and skills, available only to the members of the élite classes of society, but also was in itself an exclusively élite female occupation marked at death by the deposition of the associated tools in the grave.

The function of spools has been widely debated since the first examples of these clay objects were found (Fig. 5). No representations exist to aid in understanding the purpose of the object. For the most part, scholars have agreed that spools are in some way associated with textile production and most, in fact, believe that they functioned as modern spools – for the storage of yarn. In my opinion, this was only their partial function. Most spools have only very slight taper and would not have provided an efficient way of storing yarn. Made of terracotta, they are also heavy and prone to break easily. Their production requires the expenditure of time, energy and resources that are not readily justifiable by their function as spools. In her study of textile implements from a later, fourth–second century BC site of Cetamura del Chianti, Lauren Hackworth (1993: 47) suggested the possibility that rocchetti were used as lighter loom weights for more delicate fibres, such as cotton and silk. However, the use of either fibre is highly unlikely in Early Iron Age Italy, but fine wool would be a good candidate and the suggestion seems to me probable, albeit with some modifications.

Ræder Knudsen’s interpretation of the spools’ function explains the occurrence of spools in multiples in tombs: as weights for tablet weaving they were used in sets. This is further confirmed by the fact that, in the majority of cases, spools found in burials occur in sets of similar weight and size, and often bear the same decoration, as for example in the case of 34 spools from the late seventh century Tomb A of Castelnuovo Berardenga, all of which have the same size, fabric, and stamped decoration (Mangani & Pacciani 1992: 71 nos 206–238).16 Furthermore, in some cases, tombs contain several different sets of spools. Thus, in tomb 215 at San Vitale necropolis of Bologna, dated to the eighth century BC, 14 small and 15 large rocchetti were found (Pincelli & Morigi Govi 1975: vol. I 154–55, vol. II pls 130–131). In the relatively rare cases in which only one spool is found, this could be a token number representing a set that was lost or remained in the home. The larger the set used, the wider and more complex the resulting tablet band or border will be and the more skill it will require to make. The width of such border may have indicated the social level of the bearer, akin to the purple borders of later Roman costume tradition.

I have argued elsewhere that spools were, in fact, used as small weights (Gleba 2000: 79).11 Lise Ræder Knudsen (2002: 228–9) has demonstrated quite convincingly that spools could have been utilised as weights for the sets of threads passing through the tablets used to make the borders on the Verucchio mantles (Fig. 6). The weights of spools found in Verucchio burial assemblages support such an interpretation. A sample from Verucchio varied between 8g and 55 g with concentrations around 20–30g and 35–45g (Ræder Knudsen 2002: 228). At Murlo, over 580 spools had a range of 8–112g, with a mean around 50g and median at 48g. Each such spool would thus provide the optimal amount of tension for four fine threads passing through a tablet – 10–20g of tension per thread depending on its fineness.12 The Verucchio finds are probably the most spectacular Iron Age textiles discovered to date in Italy. The recent publication of the Tomba del Trono provided the first glimpse of the variety, complexity and sophistication of the early textile technology in Italy (Eles 2002). This richly appointed cremation burial of an important male personage contained many textile fragments that were preserved by the cremation process, as well as two mantles and a possible tunic, which survived almost intact.

To come back to the relative scarcity of burial assemblages containing spools: in cases when an entire necropolis has been published, the material can be subjected to simple statistical analyses. Six ��������������������������������������������� Iron Age necropoleis have been selected: Este/Casa di Ricovero (Chieco Bianchi & Calzavara Capuis 1985), Verucchio/La Rocca (Gentili 2003), Veio/Quattro Fontanili (Close-Brooks 1963; Cavalotti Batchvarova 1965; Falconi Amorelli 1967; Franco et al. 1970; Fabbricotti, Buchanan & Paton 1972; Bedello & Fabbricotti 1975; Toms 1998), Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992a; 1992b), Pontecagnano/Picentino (d’Agostino & Gastaldi 1988) and Torre Galli (Pacciarelli 1999). In ��������������� the case of Osteria dell’Osa, the number of female burials is based on

Both mantles have elaborate borders featuring a triangle motif and 3 horizontal lines made by the tablet weaving technique, in this case utilising 36 tablets with 4 holes each (Ræder Knudsen 2002: 222–5).13 The weaving of the 73

margarita gleba:  textile tools and specialisation in early iron age female burials

Fig. 6  Tablet weaving of a garment border using spools (Reproduced with permission of Lise Ræder Knudsen). 74

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

Table 1  Statistical analysis of spool (R) numbers in selected Iron Age necropoleis Site

Date

Total no. of burials

Este – Casa di Ricovero

8–5th c.

171

Verucchio – La Rocca

9–7th c.

190

No. of female burials (% of total)

No. of female burials with R (%)

Burials with 1 R (%)

60

13

4

(35)

(22)

(31)

N/A

39

5

Range in nos of R

1–31

1–62

(13) Veio – Quattro Fontanili

9–7th c.

651

N/A

32

6

1–56

(19) Osteria dell’Osa Pontecagnano – Picentino Torre Galli

9–7th c. 9–7th c. 9–8th c.

595 99 277

258

24

6

(43)

(9)

(25)

34

13

3

(34)

(38)

138

37

5

(50)

(27)

(13)

1–13 1–16 1–13

Mean no. of R per burial (*) [**]

Median no. of R per burial (*) [**]

Standard error (*) [**]

7

2

2.82

(10)

(4)

(3.72)

[3]

[2]

[1.06]

13

10

2.19

(15)

(12)

(2.37)

[8�]

[8]

[1.06]

12

6

2.51

(15)

(8)

(2.85)

[6]

[6]

[0.92]

4

4

0.62

(5)

(4)

(0.66)

7

7.5

1��� .34

(9)

(8)

(1.3)

5

5

0.48

(5)

(5)

(0.48)

* Recalculated with burials with one R removed from the sample. ** Recalculated with burials with more than 20 R removed from the sample osteological analysis, in which 545 individuals were studied, of which 99 had undetermined sex (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 99). In other cases, the numbers are based on sex attribution through burial assemblage analysis.

burials also contained single spindle whorls.17 One spool is present in over 10 per cent of female burials at each site, reaching 30 per cent at Este. Removal of burials with just one spool from the sample raised both the mean and the median number of spools per burial, especially in the cases where the range was high, although the increase was not significant given the standard error values. Removal of the burials with high numbers of spools (over twenty), on the other hand, lowered significantly the mean and the median, while resulting in much lower standard error.

Although it was not always possible to calculate the total number of female burials, the percentage of female burials containing spools at these sites ranges between 9 and 38 per cent. At Este, where 60 of 171 burials were identified as female, 13, or 21 per cent, contained spools. All of the burials with spools also contained spindle whorls, often more than one, although given that the multiple depositions were also common, a more careful examination is necessary to correlate the data on the co-occurrence of these two types of textile implements. The data from Verucchio/La Rocca indicate that at least 39 female burials had spools among their burial goods, complemented by spindle whorls, usually multiple examples. At Veio, 32 of the total 651 burials yielded spools. Only about half of these burials also included spindle whorls, which in three cases were associated with bronze distaffs. At Osteria dell’Osa, 24, or 9 per cent, out of 258 female burials contained spools. Twenty of these burials also contained spindle whorls, multiple examples in the majority of cases, ranging between two and fifteen in number. Pontecagnano yielded 34 burials identified as female out of 99, of which 13 contained spools, comprising the highest percentage among the examined necropoleis, 38 per cent. At Torre Galli, 138 out of 277 burials were identified as female and 37 of these, or 27 per cent, contained spools. 29 of these

More complex analysis is necessary to see the correlation of textile tools with other objects of the corredi (i.e. wealth) and chronology, although superficial observation suggests that burials of earlier date contain fewer spools, as shown by the ranges in the earlier necropoleis of Osteria dell’Osa and Torre Galli.18 Frequently, in addition to spindle whorls, several other textile tools are associated with spools in the same burial, further evidence to reinforce the specialist identification. Thus, Quattro Fontanili Tomb HH 11–12 at Veio had 34 spools, a bronze distaff and a clasp. At the Casa di Ricovero necropolis at Este, spools are often associated with numerous spindle whorls and loom weights, as in the case of Tomb 143, which contained twelve spools, five spindle whorls and seven loom weights. Benacci Tomb 490 at Bologna had six spools, three spindle whorls and two distaffs. In Pontecagnano, Pagliarone Tomb 2066 had 75

margarita gleba:  textile tools and specialisation in early iron age female burials

sixteen spools, eight spindle whorls and a bronze distaff. There are other examples.

notes

1   For the reasons, see Toms 1998: 170. The recent methodologies are discussed in Eles 2002: 277–81. For the analysis of skeletal remains from Osteria dell’Osa and Borgo le Ferriere (Satricum), see Becker 1984: 186–95; 1996: 186–8. For the summary of bone analysis of some Veio material, see Toms 1998: 170–71. For the discussion of cremated osteological material from Verucchio in general and Tomba del Trono in particular, see Eles 2002: 281–90.

One could argue that objects deposited in graves belong to a symbolic universe and do not reflect the daily reality of Iron Age Italy. I believe, however, that differences in the numerical and chronological distributions of spindle whorls, distaffs, spools, loom weights and other textile tools and their combination in a given context reflects to some extent the textile production process and justifies the use of grave material as a source for the reconstruction of the organisation of society. Differences in numerical and chronological distributions of textile tools are significant reflections of social and economic changes that began in Italy during the seventh century BC.

2   While in a few cases textile implements have been found in male burials, it is the aim of this paper to look at general patterns, not exceptions to the rule. 3   Another object connected to spinning that may have expressed the high status of its owner may be a cista to keep raw wool; see Bartoloni 2000: 274–5. Bronze cistae and situlae, frequently found in rich female burials may have served for this purpose, as demonstrated by the situla from Este’s Casa di Ricovero Tomb 23, which contained a spindle, a distaff and two wool combs; Chieco Bianchi 1987: 213 n. 13, 212 fig. 32, reconstruction in fig. 58.

During the Early Iron Age in Italy, cloth consumed by small households was produced by women of that household (Barber 1991: 288). The ‘spinners’ did weave, and the ‘weavers’ spun so much that not one but several spindle whorls were often included in their burials in addition to the spools. Spinning rather than weaving became symbolic of the female sphere in my view for two reasons: first, because, effectively, more time was spent on this task than on weaving. And second, because unlike a large, heavy and stationary loom, a spindle and a distaff were small and portable, thus enabling women to perform the task practically anywhere and making it more ‘visible’. This daily visibility made distaff and spindle universally recognisable objects, which could easily be reproduced in precious materials and transformed into tangible symbols of female social roles. I suggest then, that the whorl simply defines the deceased as female. The presence of multiple implements and especially spools signifies that the deceased was a specialist textile worker and not just a woman.

4   For arguments in favour of identifying the discussed implements as distaffs, see Brizio 1895: 152–3; Bartoloni 1989: 43. 5   Veio: Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: 67 fig. 9; Capodimonte: Paribeni 1928: 435; Capena: Stefani 1958: 91 fig. 23. 6   This position is common in Veio tombs; see Close-Brooks 1963: 237 fig. 195; Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: 124 fig. 48; Falconi Amorelli 1967: 211 fig. 73. 7   Veio: Close-Brooks 1963: fig. 90; Falerii: Baglione & De Lucia Brolli 1997: 158 n. 29; Nazzano: Stefani 1911: 437 fig. 5; Narce: Barnabei & Pasqui 1894. 8   See, for example, Tomb AA12A at Veio-Quattro Fontanili (Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: 67 fig. 9), where a spindle whorl was found near the lower end of a distaff. 9   Objects of normal size may have been offerings from the mother. On miniaturisation and its cultic significance, see Bietti Sestieri, De Santis & La Regina 1991.

Despite the high degree of specialisation characterising this type of textile production in the Early Iron Age, it remained confined to the household level, as indicated by the regular finds of small quantities of textile instruments in settlement sites. By the second half of the seventh century BC, however, a new production mode seems to come into play, with the appearance of sites where enormous quantities of tools were concentrated in small areas or specific structures, such as at Murlo (Gleba 2000) and Acquarossa (Nylander & Pelagatti 1986). The size, shape, material and, often, decoration of the tools themselves show increasing standardisation, and they were most likely produced by specialists. What we seem to have now is something more akin to workshop mode of production. This change coincides with the specialisation and professionalisation of other crafts, most notably metallurgy and ceramic production (Nijboer 1998). It also coincides with disappearance of precious distaffs and spools from female burial assemblages. Was this an expression of a shift in the social and economic organisation of the communities and, if so, were the first female professionals of Italy replaced in the seventh century BC by slave labour and/or male craftsmen?

10   The material is located in the British Museum. I thank Judith Swaddling for giving me the opportunity to examine it. 11   The possibility has also been previously suggested by Dohan (1942: 17): “that these objects are weights, not spools, is probable because similar specimens have a central perforation”. 12   In fine textiles, the optimal tension should be about 10 grams per thread; personal communication by Anna Nørgård, 23 March 2003. 13  ������������������������������������������������������� One of the fragments of the third garment found in the burial had tablet-woven border of a simpler kind, created using 13 tablets. 14   Time spent on production however, does not necessarily translate into monetary value; see Ciszuk 2007. 15   Borders were a typical element of Etruscan clothing; see Bonfante 1975: 15. 16   This rich princely tomb has been dated to the end of seventh–beginning of sixth century BC, and contained two burials. The spools are associated with the second cremation burial. 17   None of the Torre Galli burials had more than one spindle whorl.

76

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

18   The larger numbers could also be culturally conditioned as it is the Villanovan sites of Verucchio and Veio, which yielded the largest numbers of spools per tomb.

Brizio, E. 1889.  Scavi dell’arcaica necropoli italica nel predio già Benacci, ora Caprara, presso Bologna negli anni 1887–88. Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità, 6: 288–333.

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Toms, J. 1998.  The construction of Gender in Early Iron Age Etruria. In R.D. Whitehouse (ed.), Gender and Italian Archaeology: Challenging the Stereotypes: 157–79. ����������������� ��������� Accordia Specialist Studies in Italy 7. ����������������������������� Accordia Research Institute, London.

Müller-Karpe, H. 1974.  Beiträge zu italienischen und griechischen Bronzefunde. �������������������������� Prähistorische Bronzefunde 20.1. C.H. Beck, Munich. Nielsen, M. 1998.  Etruscan Women: A Cross-Cultural Perspective. In L. Larsson Loven & A. Strömberg (eds), Aspects of Women in Antiquity: 69–84. P. ��� Åströms ���������������� Förlag��, Jonsered.

Torelli, M. 1984.  Lavinio e Roma. Edizioni Quasar, Rome. Torelli, M. 1997.  “Domiseda, lanifica, univira”. Il trono di Verucchio e il ruolo e l’imagine della donna tra arcaismo e repubblica. In M. Torelli, Il rango, il mito e l’immagine. Alle origini della representazione storica romana: 52–86. Electa, Milan.

Nijboer, A.J. 1998.  From Household Production to Workshops. PhD thesis,����������������������������� Rijksuniversiteit Groningen. ���������� Nylander, C. & Pelagatti, P. 1986.  Architettura Etrusca nel Viterbese. Ricerche svedesi a San Giovenale e Acquarossa 1956-1986. Leonardo Arte, Rome

Torelli, M. (ed.) 2000.  Gli Etruschi (Catalogo della Mostra tenuta a Palazzo Grassi). Bompiani, Milan. Tovoli, S. 1989.  Il sepolcreto villanoviano Benacci Caprara di Bologna. Gratis Edizioni, Bologna.

Pacciarelli, M. 1999.  Torre Galli. La necropoli della prima età

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United in death: The changing image of Etruscan couples Marjatta Nielsen

Images of wives and husbands, reclining together on the lid of their sarcophagi or cinerary urns, are among the most widely known creations of Etruscan funerary art.1 Yet, the number of such monuments is rather restricted – only about forty – from a period of half a millennium (c. 520–50 BC).2 That means that these double monuments were almost always exceptions: they had to be made to order, and ‘re-invented’ from time to time. Neither the commissioners (the couples themselves, or their families), nor the sculptors had necessarily seen anything of the kind before, since sarcophagi and urns were kept inside closed tombs. However, many chamber tombs were in continuous use through generations (cf. Nielsen 2002b), and that must have helped in keeping alive the idea of uniting married couples in death. Of course we have to bear in mind that artistic representations cannot be taken as a direct evidence for facts, but at least indirectly, art reflects ideals and mentalities of the period in question. This is even more so in the case of funerary art, the purpose of which is to leave a lasting memory for posterity. This gives us an opportunity to follow the changing ideals regarding this basic social unit – the married couple – through time. In the following, I shall give a sketch of the main trends, by choosing also some less-known examples of such monuments, ranging from the heyday of Etruscan civilization in the late sixth century BC, almost to its end in the first century BC. Already in the proto-historic period, images of couples do appear in funerary contexts, but it is difficult to judge whether the incised or plastically rendered figures on Villanova urns represent husbands and wives, or whether such representations correspond to double burials.3 At the outset, it has to be stressed that a common burial did not presuppose a simultaneous death of the spouses. Nor did a sarcophagus portraying a couple necessarily contain the burials of them both – that may have been the intention, but something may have prevented it.4 On the other hand, there were also many other ways of uniting couples in death, without images or common sarcophagi.5 the merry banqueters of the archaic period

The first examples of couples reclining together on top of their sarcophagi are the very well known terracotta statue groups from Caere, from the end of the sixth century. By that time, the institution of the banquet was well rooted in

Etruria, first with seated (Tuck 1994), then with reclining banqueters, and non-funerary representations also show women reclining together with men on couches (Rathje 1989). From Caere, three small-sized terracotta urns with couples are known, as well as two large sarcophagi.6 The inside volume of the ‘sarcophagi’ might permit two light-weight individuals to be fitted in, but the legs of the couches are too fragile to carry their weight, unless reinforced by wooden, metal or stone supports. As an alternative, they may have contained the decomposed corpses, or the ashes, as the two small-sized terracotta couples probably did. A third possibility is that both the small and the large statues only served as empty memorials placed in the tombs. Regrettably, the find circumstances are not sufficiently well documented to solve the problem of their precise function. The first monument of this type was found in pieces in Pietro Campana’s excavation in 1845–46, probably in the outskirts of the Banditaccia necropolis. He got the Pennelli brothers to reassemble the fragments and add some heavy paint. Together with the sale of the enormous Campana collection, the couple came to the Louvre in 1863.7 They were much admired, and their slanting eyes were considered to confirm the Lydian origin of the Etruscans. Even so, about a hundred years ago, not all believed that the group represented a married couple: they quite obviously had too much fun together. Encouraged by the success of Campana and the Penelli brothers, Alessandro Castellani provided the British Museum with an even more ‘libertine’ Caeretan terracotta sarcophagus, depicting a naked, bearded man together with a lively woman clad in 19th-century underwear. In order to facilitate the exportation, the group was sent to London in fragments (believed to have been stolen from Ruspoli’s excavations),8 and they were reassembled by the Pennelli brothers there. That must have been an easy task, since the group proved to be entirely Pietro Pennelli’s own creation.9 In 1881 one more couple turned up at Caere, again in hundreds of pieces.10 These were kept for a long time in Prince Ruspoli’s storerooms, where the competing archaeologists, Wolfgang Helbig, Felice Barnabei and Luigi Adriano Milani, saw them. Each of them believed himself to be the only one to realize that the ‘mucchio

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Fig. 1 Map of Etruria with sites with double burials, and rations of male and female burials (adapted from Nielsen 1989a: 55, fig. 1).

di rottami’ belonged to a couple “similar to the ones in Paris and London”. They all wished to acquire them for their respective museums, but chose to wait so that the Majordomo of the Ruspoli House would lower the price. Finally, the pieces, which had been moved to the Palazzo Ruspoli in Rome, were confiscated by the Italian state in 1896. According to Helbig, they proved to come from excavations on the wrong side of the fence, belonging to the Roman hospital of Santo Spirito. As a result, in 1898 the Villa Giulia museum became the new home for the couple, and Barnabei won the battle.11

The Villa Giulia group12 was undoubtedly produced in the same workshop as the Louvre couple. Here, too, the spouses appear to enjoy each other’s company, and the husband looks amused and proud of his wife’s social talents. With elegant gestures she might have been dripping perfumed oil on his hand, and perhaps she has held a garland in the other hand, as we can see from other representations. The eyes would have had inlays, probably of glass paste, which must have further enhanced their lively expressions. 80

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Fig. 2 Caere, the “Campana couple”, terracotta, c. 520–500 BC. Paris, the Louvre, Cp 5194 (from Martha 1889: fig. 202).

Fig. 3 Caere, the “Ruspoli couple”, terracotta, c. 520–500 BC. Rome, Museo Etrusco di Villa Giulia, inv. 6646 (from AAVV, Les Étrusques et l’Europe. 1992: 234).

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Fig. 4 Asciano, Molinello, pietra fetida, c. 520–500 BC. Asciano, Museo Archeologico (photo Soprintendenza Archeologica per la Toscana, Florence, neg. 34735).

Fig. 5 Città della Pieve, Bottarone, Chiusine alabaster, 400–350 BC. Florence, Museo Archeologico, inv. 73577 (photo M. Nielsen).

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The husband is represented as a banqueter clad in a mantle in the Greek manner, which leaves his upper body and feet nude, while the wife is fully clad, in mantle, tunic, tutulus and boots. The folds of their garments are neatly arranged to form a unit. The cushions also refer to banquet: they are shaped as wine skins, folded double, although the anatomical details of the animal (the cut-off neck and legs) are not as clearly indicated as in the case of the Louvre couple. In all these Caeretan groups, the bodies themselves constitute the ‘lid’, while the couch, mattress and cushions form the supporting unit. For technical reasons, both the upper and lower part were made in two halves.

contemporary Tarquinia, tomb paintings likewise show wives sitting on their husbands’ couches.18 In the case of several other couples from the Chiusine area, it was not enough to let the woman sit: she was also represented as a winged deity. From the very rich necropolis of La Pedata at Chianciano comes a winged female figure, who is sitting at the foot end of the man’s couch and holding an open book-scroll, the book of fate, at which the man is pointing.19 The heads of both figures are carved separately and inserted into sockets in the chest. The cavities in the chests are often believed to have contained the ashes, but they are somewhat too shallow for that. The heads were probably carved separately in order to save material. At any rate, although the wings and the book identify the woman as the female demon of death, Vanth,20� she must not be understood only as an allegorical addition to the effigy of a deceased man, but as an idealized – if not deified – image of the wife. Her winged figure corresponds to cinerary statues of single women, sitting on thrones.

From Tarquinia there are no double sarcophagi, but there are more banqueting couples on wall paintings in tomb chambers, for example the white-haired husband and his tutulus-clad wife in the Tomba del Vecchio.13 To the late sixth century also belongs a cinerary urn of pietra fetida, stinking limestone, excavated in 1960 in the burial mound of Molinello at Asciano, near Siena. The pieces were believed to belong to at least two funerary statues, but when they were put together in 1980, they proved to belong to yet another couple.14 The lid fragments fitted together, and their inner surface formed two saddle-roofed cavities, as if in houses. Here too, the broad-shouldered husband is reclining to the right, showing a protective or even possessive attitude towards his wife, who is placed in front of him. She has elegant sleeves, and is holding a garland. Regrettably, the heads are missing.

Other winged women, without book scrolls, might as well be understood as Lasa. These were Etruscan female deities with many functions, but were often associated with love (de Grummond 2006: 168–172). The woman thus being identified as a deity, the banqueting husband, in spite of his unchanged iconography, may have changed identity as well, into a heroized, Dionysiac figure at an eternal banquet. What makes the precise identification of these Chiusine figures of the soft pietra fetida difficult is that many of them are results of heavy 19th-century restorations and oversculpting. When modern laboratories have removed the unoriginal parts, not much is left (Cristofani 1975). This has happened for example to a group kept at the Louvre,21 to another one in Berlin,22 and to one which remained at Chiusi.23 We may note that the small-sized, winged women are sitting upon the reclining male figures, perhaps to avoid cutting her legs off. They may still represent the ‘spirit’ of a predeceased wife, unless their small size has to be taken literally, referring to children.

At Asciano, the custom of burying husbands and wives together continued down to the first century BC, but – with only two exceptions (Mangani 1983: 56, 63) – in cinerary urns without figures on the lids. Only the inscriptions reveal that the ratio of double burials is the highest in all of Etruria (Nielsen 1989a: 56–57, 59 no. 9). As we have seen, Greek authors were right in claiming that Etruscan women participated in banquets reclining together with men. They were scandalized: decent women were not supposed to attend Greek drinking parties. Etruscan women may even be represented holding drinking vessels on architectural friezes and on single women’s funerary monuments (Nielsen 1990: 62–64), but, when both sexes are shown together on Etruscan funerary monuments, the drinking cups are reserved for men.15

One more problematic pietra fetida group from Chiusi is the one acquired from Canon Antonio Mazzetti by the Archaeological Museum of Perugia.24 The figures are reassembled from many pieces and hollowed out; they may have served as ash containers themselves, if we accept their being genuine at all. The reclining man is accompanied by a kneeling, particularly nasty looking, winged woman. At the present, only plaster additions of the female figure’s torso have been removed as modern, but also both heads look very strange: the furrows on their faces are suspiciously sharp and precise for a badly preserved piece like this. Such grimaces with visible teeth are else best known from representations of satyrs or wounded warriors. The woman’s diadem is formed of snakes. Her nose is like a bird’s beak, which makes her look like a Harpy, rather than Vanth, the customary companion to the dead. Her hideous features might have been reworked from a Vanth’s beautiful face, but her regular nose would hardly have been able to provide material enough for such a beak – unless a considerably larger head was reused for the purpose. One

from human beings to deities

In the fifth and fourth centuries BC, the Etruscans made an effort to adapt their etiquette to Greek conventions. While husbands maintained their identities as half-reclining banqueters, the wives were now sitting at the foot end of his couch. This is the case with the large cinerary urn from Bottarone at Città della Pieve, in Chiusine territory.16 The woman is unveiling herself with the conventional gesture of a bride,17 while her footstool has the shape of an Etruscan altar. Here the lid comprises the figures themselves as well as the cushions and the mattress. As a consequence, the woman’s legs were cut off just below her knees, and the lower portions were carved in one piece with the chest. In 83

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Fig. 6 Chianciano, La Pedata, pietra fetida. C. 450-350 BC. Florence, Museo Archeologico, inv. 94352 (photo M. Nielsen).

Fig. 7 Chiusi, heavily restored group of pietra fetida, acquired from the Campana collection. After the removal of the modern parts, only the reclining man (without head and fan) and the sitting, winged female figure (without head), remain. Paris, the Louvre, MA 2348 (from Martha 1889: fig. 234).

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Fig. 8a The Mazzetti couple from Chiusi, as it was restored in the mid-19th century. Pietra fetida. Perugia, Museo Archeologico, inv. 322 (from Annali dell’Instituto 1860: pl. N).

Fig. 8b The Mazzetti couple in 2005 (photo M. Nielsen).

Fig. 8c Head of the female figure (photo M. Nielsen).

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Fig. 9 The lid of the sarcophagus of Larth Tetnie and Thanchvil Tarnai, Vulci. Alabaster or limestone, late fourth century. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, inv. 86.145 (from Martha 1889: fig. 239).

Fig. 10a The lid of the sarcophagus of Ramtha Visnai, also depicting her husband Arnth Tetnies. Nenfro, late fourth century BC. Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, inv. 1975.799 (from Nielsen 1990: 52, fig. 5).

Fig. 10b The front of the sarcophagus of Ramtha Visnai (from Martha 1889: fig. 245).

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Fig. 11 Chiusine couple, local alabaster, about 300 BC. Palermo, Museo Archeologico (from Colonna 2005, 2.2: 1477).

of her hands is placed on the man’s wrist, the other one on his toes. In a letter to the museum, Mazzetti suggests that she would be checking his pulse.25 Or is she supposed to represent a Harpy, who takes a firm grip of him in order to carry him to the afterlife?

as single lid figures were depicted lying down in beds in the same period. One of the two, the famous Vulcian couple in Boston, Larth Tetnie and Thanchvil Tarnai, are embracing each other naked, under a shared blanket.26 Significantly, both parents of both of the spouses are mentioned in the inscription as those who had given birth to them: the element of reproduction is explicit both in image and script. The style and iconography are influenced by Greek, LateClassical art. The symbolism of the common blanket was part of nuptial custom, in Etruria as well as elsewhere.27 If the sculptor was indeed trained in the Greek world, he did not produce this monument for an ‘open market’, but for a precise Etruscan commission: such double monuments did not exist anywhere else.

What makes the categorization of the ‘Mazzetti Harpy’ within Etruscan funerary iconography even more complicated is that there are some strange infernal creatures in the Chiusine and Volsinian areas, little known elsewhere. The latest find is the red-haired, infernal charioteer with tusks, which turned up in Alessandra Minetti’s excavations of the painted Tomba della Quadriga Infernale in the Pianacce necropolis at Sarteano in 2003 (Minetti 2006; Prayon 2006: 81–84). Nasty creatures may appear on the path to the Underworld, which the deceased had to pass in order to join the eternal banquet together with their predeceased family members (cf. Roncalli 2001). However, I prefer to leave open the question, to which degree the ‘ugly Mazzetti couple’ is authentic. The ancient quarries of pietra fetida have not yet been localised, but that has not prevented 19th-century Chiusine ‘restorers’ from mending fragmentary statues, perhaps by reusing bits and pieces of other, destroyed sculptures, and giving them a ‘fresh’ surface treatment.

The battle-scenes on the sarcophagus show a strong contrast to the intimate atmosphere on the lid. Below the husband are shown fighting Amazons and Greeks, and below the wife a series of duels between male warriors. I suspect that the lid has been turned into a wrong direction at some moment of its history. The second Vulcian sarcophagus in Boston28 is much narrower, and the inscription confirms that only the mother of the young couple’s husband was buried in it. What happened? Perhaps not only the young couple but also her own husband were already dead and buried, but the mother, Ramtha Visnai, liked the idea of the embracing couple so much that she wished such a monument for herself. Here the style and quality of stone are, however, purely local, and the spouses are represented as middle-aged. The woman

couples in matrimonial beds

In the late fourth century BC, yet another conceptual innovation took place in representations of Etruscan couples: now they were laid down in matrimonial beds, just 87

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Fig. 12 Couple found in the ramparts of Todi in 1516. The urn represents the death of Oinomaos: on its short sides, Vanths. Alabaster, early second century BC. Vatican, the Museo Gregoriano Etrusco, inv. 13887 (from Gori 1737:1: pl. 135). 88

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Fig. 13 A Henry-Moore-like couple from Volterra. Tufa, third century BC. Volterra, Museo Guarnacci, inv. 601 (photo M. Nielsen).

Fig. 14 An old couple from Volterra. Terracotta, c. 100 BC. Volterra, Museo Guarnacci, inv. 613 (photo M. Nielsen).

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Fig. 15 A couple from the tomb of the Cai Carcus, Ponticello di Campo. Travertine, late second century BC. Perugia, Museo Archeologico (photo M. Nielsen).

under the blanket is clad in tunic and wearing rich jewelry.

first century BC. Now couples only appear in the North Etruscan areas, where the Etruscan cultural identity was still vigorous. From Monteriggioni we have an intermediate type:31 the woman is still placed behind her husband, as if in a matrimonial bed, but she sticks her head up in order to be seen. From the front, the man seems to wear a mantle, which leaves his upper body nude, but it also serves as the blanket, which covers the wife’s back. The urn, divided into two compartments inside, is shaped as an elaborately carved piece of furniture.

The reliefs on the three sides of the chest are so interesting with regard to nuptial and funerary symbolism that an analysis of them would easily fill several pages. Therefore, I only mention that there is a perfect symmetry between the female procession arriving from the left and the male one from the right, and that they meet with a handshake in the centre. My conviction is that this hand-shake was imagined as taking place at three different moments: as a dextrarum iunctio at their wedding, as a farewell when the first of them died, and – not least – at their reunion in the afterlife.

Elsewhere, female figures turn back to the same position as in the Archaic period, to the left of their husband and in front of him. His arm is resting on her shoulder, and she is often – but not always – turned towards him.

The idea of the matrimonial bed also appears in the border areas of the Arretine and Chiusine territories, in quite explicit forms. At Bettolle, a naked couple is shaking hands in the bed, as a contraction of two different moments at the wedding. Also the wife’s rich jewelry must refer to her wedding outfit.29

An outstanding example of this Hellenistic type of urn was discovered at Todi as early as in 1516, which makes the find the first of its kind.32 Todi lies on the Umbrian side of the Tiber, but the town had close relations with Etruria, as also testified by this urn: the block of alabaster comes from the Volterran area, while the sculptor in question has left traces of himself at both Perugia, Chiusi and Volterra. On the lid, the wife turns enchanted towards her husband – we cannot tell why, since his head and shoulders are missing. He holds a high-footed, fluted kantharos of the so-called ‘Todi type’. The urn was already documented in a clumsy drawing in the 16th century, but it was first published by Anton Francesco Gori in 1737, in an engraving, which also shows the reliefs on the three sides. Many of the same elements are seen in the Perusine travertine urn reliefs of Larth Hamphna, which now happens to support a lid with a couple which was not part of the original.33

A Chiusine couple now in Palermo30 shows no emotion, although the husband is caressing the naked breast of his wife, who turns both her back and face towards him. Perhaps her uncomfortable position serves as a reference to the sleeping Ariadne. In that case the husband might be identified with Dionysos – another possible case of assimilation with deities. back to the banquet

After this period of experimentation, in the third century BC both single and double lid figures returned to the half-reclining banqueting postures and remained so to the 90

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Fig. 16 Thania Veltsnei kissing her husband Luesna. Travertine, early first century BC. Perugia, Museo Archeologico (photo M. Nielsen).

At Volterra and in its territory six such groups are known,34 the first of them being the above-mentioned urn from Monteriggioni. Another third century group shows two cursorily carved figures affectionately clinging together,35 while reclining figures from San Gimignano are more easily recognizable as human beings.36

on the part of the sculptor: the figure was modelled separately before being placed in front of the male figure. When looking at the old couple from different angles and light-settings, their expressions and power balance seem to change. The sculptor certainly intended to create an atmosphere of intimacy between the spouses. The wife’s missing right hand may well have been raised in order to caress her husband’s cheek, but now she really looks as if she were about to slap his face.

The most famous Volterran couple, known since 1743, is made of terracotta.37 Since the two elderly people resemble Hellenistic statuary types depicting ‘old destitutes’, they have had the fate of being described in literature as poor peasants or artisans. Instead, they should be understood as the older generation in the context of a family tomb, probably deposited by their middle-aged son. Regrettably, the context is not known, but I suspect the piece of being stolen from the tomb of the Pupaini, found about the same time: Sethre Pupaini looks very like our old man.38 The hollow figures may have served as ash containers, without an urn.

As to the frequency of urns with couples, Perugia is now at the forefront.39 There, also, urn reliefs and gabled lids show reclining couples.40 An exceptional piece is a twopart urn with double gabled lids, portraying the faces of a man and a woman, Arnth Velchei Velimna and his wife Thana Acei.41 Several other couples are reclining together on the lids. Three such couples are made of terracotta. One small terracotta urn shows them almost sitting and embracing each other on the lid, but sitting on separate chairs on the urn relief.42 Another terracotta couple is quite wellknown because of the interesting relief scene,43 while of a third couple only the female figure has survived, with the man’s hand on her shoulder (Nielsen, In press).

As an alternative interpretation, it has often been suggested that the woman would be another case of a female death demon, like the ‘Mazzetti Harpy’ from Chiusi (Nielsen 1992: 97–98). However, this idea has to be abandoned: there is no other evidence for this concept being known at Volterra, and – first and foremost – she shows no traces of wings. Her small size is probably due to a miscalculation 91

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Of the many travertine urns from Perugia, the following may be mentioned: a charming couple from the tomb of the Cai Carcus (Nielsen 1992: 129 no. 33). The wife, who is affectionately turned towards her husband, is holding a fan, and he a drinking bowl. From the tomb of the Tite Petruni come two couples in successive generations.44 They are both reclining on couches, which were brightly painted and gilded. The bigger urn belonged to the father and mother, while the son and his wife were buried in a smaller urn with lower lid figures.

1993). However, the Etruscan representations appear unequalled as to the emphasis on affection. At times the husband may look rather indifferent, but the wives appear the more active in creating an atmosphere of intimacy and closeness between the spouses. NOTES 1    It is hardly possible to open any book or exhibition catalogue on the Etruscans or ancient art without encountering at least some of these couples. Here, the references to single monuments only aim at identification and to add some recent literature. The old illustrations serve as a protest against prevailing publication costs and conditions. On Etruscan couple monuments in general, see e.g. Bonfante 1981; Nielsen 1989a: 6773, 1992: 115–24, 127–9 (a preliminary list); Bonfante 1996; Haynes 2000: passim; Nielsen 2002a, In press.

The last in the line – both at Perugia and in all Etruria – is the couple found at Casaglia near Perugia in 1985. The woman, Thania Veltsnei, is pressing herself to her husband and almost kissing him. Her loving figure may have been designed to compensate the absence of her husband in the tomb, which seems to have contained the burials of four women in four generations. Perhaps Thania was persuaded to follow her paternal aunt’s tradition for women’s tomb.45

2    For a quantification of male, female and double burials in the last three-four centuries BC, see Nielsen 1989a: 56–73, 1989b: 124–30.

The couple reclining on the lid was also represented in the relief. The husband is clad in a toga exigua and boots similar to those of the famous bronze statue, the ‘Arringatore’, portraying Aule Meteli. Here the husband is shaking hands with his wife, and behind him, a servant is waiting with a ‘pilgrim bottle’ tied as a knapsack on his back: the two men are ready for a journey. Behind the wife, a servant girl is carrying a square box. This representation was certainly made to a special order. It is hardly a coincidence that in the tomb, a bone beauty-box containing a comb, perfume bottles, and other toilet articles was also found (Cenciaioli 2002). There was also the shaft of a fan, of the type we see in Thania’s hand on the relief. Thania’s hair is set up both on the relief and on the lid in a rather big chignon at the back of her head.

3   Although Villanovan burials were normally laid in individual pits, secondary and double burials do occur. Possible representations of ‘couples’ on the incisions of Villanova urns from 9th to 8th centuries BC: Amann 2000: pl. 10d; Donati 2005. The couple of ‘monsters’ on the lid of a cinerary urn from Pontecagnano (c. 800 BC): Amann 2000: pl. 9a; Camporeale 2004: pl. 137. An embracing couple (at times interpreted as wrestlers) on a Chiusine lid of a cinerary urn of impasto (eighth century BC): Amann 2000: pl. 8f; Torelli 2000: 408; Camporeale 2004: pl. 253; Maggiani & Paolucci 2005: 2, fig. 1. A probably mythological couple painted on a crater from Monte Abatone, Caere, Tomb 297 (ca. 675–650 BC): Amann 2000: pl. 15a; Haynes 2000: 54; Colonna 2005, vol. 2.2: 1227, pl. 3.1–2, 1447, fig. 21; de Grummond 2006: 3, fig. 1.3. 4   Some examples are given below, but skeletal analyses would undoubtedly reveal more cases like that in the future; to my knowledge, no bones are preserved from the old finds of double Etruscan sarcophagi. Cf. the recent find in Rome: Musco & Iannacone 2006.

changing concepts, changing images

This survey of representations of married couples has shown constant changes in the basic concepts, although the idea of portraying the spouses and burying them together remained unaltered. From the happy banqueters of the sixth century they change to grave-looking ancestors, or to deities operating in the Underworld, and further, to lovers in bed. Then they return to more or less affectionate banqueting couples of all ages, to whom the family owed their continuity.

5   E.g. in the Tomba della Pulcella at Tarquinia, a niche in the wall was designed as a matrimonial bed, with painted, ‘embroidered’ blankets and pillows, and with two Erotes holding a blanket; the corpses were wrapped in cloth and laid down in the niche: Weber-Lehmann 2002: 7 fig. 17. For a discussion on the separate, gender-differentiated beds in the rear chambers of some Caeretan tomb chambers, see Amann 2000: 39–40. 6   Briguet 1988, 1989; Amann 2000: pl. 33; Torelli 2000: 587, no. 142, 615 no. 245.

In the Roman Imperial period, kline monuments and sarcophagi of the Etruscan, recumbent, type (both single and double) were reintroduced, a short time after they had vanished from Etruria together with the Etruscan civilization.46 They won wide geographical distribution and acceptance, especially in the uppermost circles of the society. Among the lower classes, couples (and entire family groups) appear as busts on funerary reliefs, but they seldom show any emotion towards each other.

7   Inv. Cp 5194: Briguet 1988, 1989; AAVV ������������������ 1992: ������������� 351–3, 411 no. 539; Panofsky 1993: pl. 86; Bonfante 1996: 251, fig. 8.5; Haynes 2000: 134, 214–5; Colonna 2005, vol. 2.2: pl. 1.2 (after p. 1505); vol. 4: 2484, fig. 3; Prayon 2006: 56. 8   According to Wolfgang Helbig, in a letter of 15th June 1893 to Carl Jacobsen, the owner and director of the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen. 9   Barnabei 1991: 215 n. 38; ���������������������� AAVV ����������������� 1992: 348, 438–9.

During the last thousand years, common funerary monuments for couples have continued to find new forms and messages, together with the changing concepts regarding both death and matrimonial ideals (Panofsky

10   Helbig 1881; another report was published in Notizie degli Scavi 1881: 166ff. Yet, in 1889 Helbig wishes to wait “for the grass to grow” on the site. 11   Wolfgang Helbig’s letters to Carl Jacobsen, from 1889 92

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

to 1893, and in 1906; cf. Savignoni 1898; Christiansen 1995: 50–4. For Barnabei’s version of the story, Barnabei 1991: 197–9, 215 n. 33.

Vérilhac & Vial 1998: 325; Amann 2000: pl. 37; Haynes 2000: 248. For another line of interpretation, Jannot 2004. 28   MFA, inv. 1975.799: Nielsen 1990: 52–3; WeberLehmann 1997: no. 19; Haynes 2000: 287–91; Nielsen 2002b: 106, fig. 11.

12   Inv. 6646: Briguet 1988: 61–33; AAVV ������������������ 1992: ������������� 234–5; Panofsky 1993: pl. 85; Torelli 2000: 24; Camporeale 2004: pl. 86.

29   Now lost (any information of its whereabouts would be most welcome): Paolucci 1996: 19, 116–18, no. 33.

13   Steingräber 1986: 355; cf. 354 (Tomba dei Vasi Dipinti); fig. 39 (Tomba della Caccia al Cervo); 45 (Tomba della Caccia e Pesca, rear chamber); 95 (Tomba del Guerriero), 105 (Tomba dei Leopardi); 166 (Tomba del Triclinio); Amann 2000: 145–55, pls. 22–5.

30   Nielsen 1989a: 71, 1992: 128, no. 14; Maggiani 1993: 159, pl. 7; Haynes 2000: 298, fig. 240; Colonna 2005, vol. 2.2: 1477, fig. 51. 31   Florence, Museo Archeologico, inv. 80944: Nielsen 1989a: 67, fig. 11. The urn was also shown in the exhibition Gli Etruschi di Volterra. Capolavori da grandi musei europei, Volterra 2007.

14   Maggiani 1986, 1993: 150, pls. 1b-2 (tentatively placed on fragments pertaining to a flower-decorated kline); Maggiani & Paolucci 2005: 15, fig. 31; for the context, Mangani 1993: 421–8.

32   Vatican, Museo Gregoriano Etrusco, inv. 13887: Sannibale 1994: 30–5, no. 2; Haynes 2000: 366, fig. 288; Colonna 2005, vol. 2.2: pl. 5 (after p. 1505); de Grummond 2006: 225, fig. 10.20.

15   For a discussion on ancient sources and archaeological evidence for Etruscan banquets and wine-drinking women, latest Amann 2000: 109–14, 176–9, 202–3; Haynes 2000: 96–7; Zaccaria Ruggiu 2003: ch. 3–6; Camporeale 2004: 177–81; for Etruscan banquets, see also Rathje 1990; Cristofani 2001, vol. 1: 253–258. Generally on Greek attitudes towards their own and others’ banquets, Bruit & Schmitt-Pantel 1986.

33   Berlin, Sk 1275-1276/E.37–38: Heres 1988: 322–3. 34   Nielsen 1992: 128–9, nos. 16–21, 23, 35. On no. 19 (Casole d’Elsa, Orli, tomb IV), now also Cianferoni 1996: 40, fig. 14. 35   Volterra 601: Nielsen 1989b: pl. 50:1, 1992: 128, no. 16.

16   Florence, Museo Archeologico, inv. 73577: Cristofani 1975: no. 19; Maggiani 1993: 160–2, pl. 8; Torelli 2000: 603, no. 194; Rastrelli 2000: 124, fig. 130. To the previously known examples may perhaps be added the terracotta fragments of a reclining male and a female figure with erect bust, which were found in a fifth-century context in Tomb 302.1–2 in the necropolis of Palazzina at Sarteano: Minetti & Rastrelli 2001: 98–9.

36   San Gimignano, inv. 15, from Bucciano: Merli 1991: 44, fig. 47. 37   Volterra, Museo Guarnacci, inv. 613: Nielsen 1992; ���� AAVV 1992: 152, no. 225; Panofsky 1993: pl. 74; Haynes 2000: 368, fig. 290; Nielsen 2002a, 2002b: 107, fig. 12; Colonna 2005, vol. 2:2: pl. 15 (after p. 1269). 38   Leiden, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden, inv. H III E: Nielsen 2002a: 75, fig. 87; 2002b: 107, fig. 13. On the other hand, even such realistic, portrait-like images were produced in workshops on large scale, cf. Nielsen 1992: 100–109.

17   Scheid & Svenbro 1996: 63–4; Vérilhac & Vial 1998: 304. 18   Steingräber 1986: 146–146 (Tomba dei Scudi), while another couple of ancestors in the same tomb both are sitting (Steingräber 1986: pl. 145); cf. Haynes 2000: 310– 11. In Tomb 5513 the male banqueters are talking with standing women: Steingräber 1986: pls. 174–7. There is, however, considerable chronological overlap between the different ways of representing couples at banquets.

39   Nielsen 1992: 128–9, nos. 22, 28–34, 36; Nielsen, In press. 40   E.g. Nielsen 1989a: 73; Camporeale 2004: pl. 129. 41   Perugia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 178, found at Montevile in 1932: Buonamici 1936: 409–10, no. 1a–b.

19   Florence, Museo Archeologico, inv. 94352: Cristofani 1975: no. 12; Paolucci 1988: 67–99, fig. 44, site 85; AAVV 1992: 149, no. 211; Weber-Lehmann 1997, no. 45; Rastrelli 2000: 122–3, fig. 129; Torelli 2000: 378–9; Camporeale 2004: pl. 102.

42   Perugia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 407: Nielsen 1992: 128, no. 22, probably to be dated to the first century BC. 43   Perugia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 157/367: Nielsen 1992: 128, no. 29, 2002a: 76, fig. 88; de Grummond 2006: 14, fig. 1.12.

20   de Grummond 2006: 220–5; for the discussion, whether the Chiusine male figures with winged women represent couples or not, Maggiani 1993: 161–3.

44   Perugia, Antiquarium dell’Ipogeo dei Volumni, inv. 58, and 59: Nielsen 1992: 129, nos 31–32.

21   MA 2348: Cristofani 1975: no. 27; Briguet 1986: 95, fig. IV–3, before and after restoration.

45   Nielsen 1999: 101-103, no. 3, 133, fig. 41; Cenciaoli 2002.

22   Sk 1261/E.33: Cristofani 1975: pl. IV.a; Heres 1990: 187–8, pl. 31.

46   The lapse between the last Etruscan and the first Roman recumbent sarcophagus figures and kline monuments is shorter than generally supposed (e.g. by B. Andreae, in AAVV�������������������������������������������������� 1992: ������������������������������������������������� 237. One of the most recent discoveries of couple sarcophagi in Rome proved to contain only the skeleton of a 25–30 years old man, while the other ‘adult’ sarcophagi from the tomb were used for children’s burials: Musco & Iannacone 2006: 291–2, no. II.401.

23   Museo Archeologico, inv. 2610: Cristofani 1975: no. 18. 24   Museo Archeologico Nazionale dell’Umbria, inv. 322: Cristofani 1975: no. 25; for Mazzetti’s activities, see Maggiani 1993: 153–4, n. 30. 25   I thank Mafalda Cipollone for this information, and Dorica Manconi for letting me examine the Perusine material. Also thanks to Anna Eugenia Feruglio and Luana Cenciaioli.

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27    Cf. Guarducci 1928; Scheid & Svenbro 1996: 53, 63, 66; 93

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Guarducci, M. 1928.  Il conubium nei riti del matrimonio etrusco e di quello romano. Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica del Comune di Roma, 55: 205–224. Haynes, S. 2000.  Etruscan Civilization: a Cultural History. British Museum Press, London.

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Briguet, M.-F. 1989.  Le sarcophage des époux de Cerveteri du Musée du Louvre (Monumenti Etruschi 4). ������������������������� Leo S. Olschki, Florence.

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Buonamici, G. 1936. Rivista Epigrapfica Etrusca. Studi Etruschi, 10: 409–410. Camporeale, G. 2004.  Gli Etruschi. Storia e civiltà (2nd edn). UTET, Torino.

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Cenciaioli, L. 2002.  Perugia Casaglia. In M. Scarpignato (ed.), I trucchi e le essenze. Cosmesi e bellezza nell’Umbria antica: 66-69. Quattroemme, Perugia.

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Cianferoni, G.C. 1996.  La Valle dell’Elsa. In G.C. Cianferoni & A. Bagnoli (eds.), Museo Archeologico e della Collegiata di Casole d’Elsa: 19–60. Studio ������������������������������������� per edizioni scelte, Florence. Colonna, G. 2005.  Italia ante romanum imperium. ����������� Scritti di antichità etrusche, italiche e romane (1958-1998), vol. 1–5. Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, Pisa & Rome.

Musco, S. & Iannacone,A. 2006.  Via di Tor Cervara. In M.A. Tomei (ed.), Roma. Memorie dal Sottosuolo. Ritrovamenti archeologici 1980-2006: 291–293. Electa, Milan.

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Rastrelli, A. (ed.) 2000.  Chiusi etrusca. Edizioni Luì, Chiusi. Rathje, A. 1989.  Alcuni considerazioni sulle lastre di Poggio Civitate con figure femminili. In A. Rallo (ed.), Le donne in Etruria: 75–84. L’Erma ����������������������������� di Bretschneider, Rome

Nielsen, M. 1999.  Common Tombs for Women in Etruria: Buried Matriarchies? In P. Setälä & L. Savunen (eds.), Female Networks and the Public Sphere in Roman Society (Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 22)�������������������� : 65–136.����������� Instituti Romani Finlandiae, Rome. �����

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Isn’t s/he lovely? An investigation of androgyny in Etruscan art Bridget Sandhoff

In the past few decades, gender has become a significant construct in the interpretation of the visual and material culture of the ancient Mediterranean. As part of the discourse, the gendered body has comprised an important thread in the scholarship. However, gender does not necessarily follow the simple categories of biological sex – male and female – but proves to be more fluid and unstable (Kampen 1996). Despite a seemingly rigid polarisation of the sexes in Classical antiquity, a closer examination reveals a transgression of gender boundaries, which often manifests itself in an androgynous appearance (Brisson 2002). The study of androgyny typically focuses on gender ambivalent characters such as Hermaphroditos, Eros and Dionysos, but also examines initiation rites involving transvestism and role-reversal rituals. The geographical scope of the research, however, is limited to ancient Greece and Rome, excluding another significant culture – that of the Etruscans. A brief review of the whole corpus of Etruscan art demonstrates a deluge of ambiguous imagery on painted vases, bronze utensils, bronze statuettes, engraved bronze mirrors and Praenestine cistae. The last two objects deserve particular mention because they possess the most androgynous representations. Despite the prominence of androgyny in Etruscan art, very little research has been conducted on this phenomenon. Thus the purpose of this investigation is to address the dearth in the scholarship by briefly examining androgyny in Etruscan art and by considering the implications that this imagery holds for our understanding of Etruscan culture. Temporal considerations confine this examination to an analysis of one category of object: Praenestine cistae.1 Part of a cista’s decoration, along with the engravings, included cast bronze figures that served as the handles for the lids. The typically male-female pairs often appear androgynous and whose poses echo one another. The couples appear to have “donned” elements of the opposite sex in which the man looks effeminate and the woman looks masculine. This synthesis of the sexes will be the central concern for this paper. While the crux of my analysis is to posit various interpretations of the ambiguous imagery, we must begin by defining the term androgyny, briefly discussing cistae and how androgyny manifests itself in specific examples. Then we can turn our attention to three interpretations of these figures such as a protective device, symbolic representation or evidence of Etruscan fashions/trends.

definition

An essential component of this analysis is a clearer understanding of the term androgyny.2 The word is composed of two Greek terms meaning man (andros) and woman (gyne), suggesting an amalgamation of the sexes. As it is understood in this paper, androgyny refers to an appearance or behaviour that contradicts one’s given sex. In other words, androgynous men and women assume the guise and/or conduct of the opposite sex, in a way that seems to challenge the polemic of gender A transformation of gender can assume various shapes and degrees from extreme alterations to more subtle variations. The simplest alteration can be achieved by wearing specific types of clothing or jewellery that hold gender-specific connotations. Other techniques include the styling of hair into certain coiffures, the wearing or lack of make-up, and the posturing of the body in certain ways. Less pliable to manipulation is the human physique itself. One naturally can have a body that defies society-driven ideals of the male and female form, but it is also possible to transform the human body. This usually involves physical exercise (i.e. lifting weights) or lack thereof. If we utilize these terms as a model, a closer inspection of the art of Etruria reveals a provocative fluctuation of gender. The males represented on the cistae are less susceptible to major transformations and typically are shown in an effeminate stance or sporting a feminine hairstyle. Females, however, seem to embrace a more athletic, muscular appearance that includes broad shoulders, large arms, flat defined abdominals, slim hips and well-shaped legs. Androgyny manifests itself in many ways in Etruscan art; on these cistae, the male-female couples seem to ‘work together’ and craft an intriguing visual oscillation between the sexes.3 cistae

One of the primary objects noted for these ambivalent bodies is the Praenestine cista. It should be noted that the cista is not Etruscan but Praenestine. Praeneste was a city in Latin territory (near Rome) that had a distinctive local style and busy bronze industry. However, Etruscan influence on Praeneste and its art cannot be underestimated. The Etruscan population in the area and the trade routes that traversed the city, assuredly had a strong stimulus on the city and its art. Indeed, Praenestine art is often categorised under the rubric of Etruscan art (Murphy 2001: 17; Brendel

bridget sandhoff:  isn’t s/he lovely? an investigation of androgyny in etruscan art

Fig. 1  Front view: Cista handle, probably from Praeneste (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 24825).

Fig. 2  Rear view: Cista handle, probably from Praeneste (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 24825). 98

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1995: 334–6, 353–9; Paggi 2005: 18, 135–7). Though not fully understood, cistae are generally believed to be storage receptacles for female toiletries such as combs, mirrors, jewellery, perfume and make-up. Many of the Etruscan storage containers were probably made of perishable materials, such as wood, leather and wicker. As one can imagine, these ephemeral materials deteriorated through the course of time. While the Etruscans were making their cistae, the skilled artists of Praeneste were creating metal versions based on earlier Etruscan prototypes (Paggi 2005: 37–9). Praenestine cistae joined the assemblage of utilitarian items beginning in the early fourth century BC, and by mid-century, the vessel evolved from an oval form into a larger, cylindrical shape (a few examples survive that are rectangular). Their cistae have survived today either complete or only with the feet or handles remaining Based on visual evidence and archaeological finds, Praenestine cistae seem to have been used by women and the use of metal suggests their status as luxury items.4

Conversely, her male partner seems reduced in stature by comparison. Indeed, looking at the two from behind, it is difficult to distinguish their sexes (Fig. 2). He has a comparable muscled body, but it is not overtly masculine. His hip-shot pose and breast-like pectorals make him appear effeminate. Even his swept-back ponytail imitates his female consort. He is only recognisable as a male because of his exposed genitals. Thus, this unusual couple deviate from typical gendered appearances and seem to share aspects of the opposite sex.. This intermingling of the sexes can be witnessed in the wrestling figures too. Again in the Villa Giulia, one Praenestine example of these grapplers (c.350 BC) portrays a man and a woman engaged in a match.6 The couple, nude except for her perizoma, confront each other, but their bodies face outward (Fig. 3). Both have an arm resting on the opponent’s back while their heads touch. The inside leg, bent toward the opponent, bears all the weight while the other leg acts as a balance. The free hands rest away from their bodies and are locked into fists. The couple appear as mirror reflections of each other, imitating both pose and physique. They have well-muscled bodies but the female appears slightly larger than her male partner and is the more ambiguous of the pair. Her torso has abundant width and girth, and the abdominal muscles are more articulated than the male. Her key feminine attribute – her breasts – is diminished by her masculine form. She also sports strong quadriceps and calf muscles. In addition, her deltoid muscles are more pronounced than her opponent’s, and the deep spine hollow indicates more ample muscle (Fig. 4). Again, viewing the couple from behind illustrates the difficulty in determining the sexes based entirely on their pose and analogous hair styles. Though the man does not appear nearly as effeminate, the woman seems more virile by imitating his form and engaging in a male activity – providing an unusual complement to her partner.

The Praenestine cista is a notable object because it could be embellished in various ways. The body could be engraved with large impressive scenes, as if imitating wall painting. The attached, cast feet were a combination of relief and three-dimensional sculpture. The most significant element of a cista, especially for this discussion, is the solid cast humans and mythological characters that served as the handles for the lid. Early cista handles consisted of acrobats, nude pairs fighting or wrestling and two warriors carrying a deceased body, presumably off a battlefield. Eventually, the subjects began to change during the peak of their production (c.350-300 BC) in which more nudes and more Dionysiac-themed groupings dominated the lids – a shift that coincides with developments in Greek art. It is from this time period that semi-nude or nude androgynous malefemale pairs became the primary decoration on cista lids. A closer inspection of the handles shows that the standing human male-female pairs, standing satyr-maenad couples and male-female wrestlers are the most ambiguouslyinclined. This investigation will briefly analyse two human handles that serve as a general matrix for these categories and another more unusual type.

One factor that discriminates the sex of these wrestlers, other than the genitals, is the garment that the females often wear. Rather than being represented completely nude, the females wear a perizoma, a piece of clothing similar to underwear. Interestingly, the clearly defined perizoma was a garment used by males, particularly athletes, but seems to have also been appropriated by female ‘athletes’. The perizoma can be worn alone or paired with a breast band, creating a bikini-like ensemble (Bonfante 2003: 19–29, 172).

In the Villa Giulia, a fine example of an ambiguous couple can be seen on a detached handle, c.350 BC that probably comes from Praeneste.5 The brawny couple, nude except for their shoes and her bracelet, stands an arm’s length apart but are joined together by their entwined extended arms (Fig. 1). The back of their opposite hands remain on their cocked-out hips. They bear all of their weight on the outside leg while the other relaxes. Immediately, one can see a difference in size between them. While both sport rather hefty, muscular bodies, overall the female has a larger physique and demeanor. Her torso is carefully modeled, indicating a strong abdominal region, and she has strong, well-formed legs, especially her calves. In addition, she sports an amply muscled back as well as large, shapely buttocks. Also her outside arm shows a tremendous amount of bulk that makes her resemble a male boxer rather than a woman. Any notion of her femininity is downplayed by her physique, even her breasts barely register.

This athletic paradigm can also be viewed in a unique Praenestine cista handle depicting winged creatures (Figs 5–6).7 The late fourth century BC work probably portrays Lasas, a collective group of supernatural beings that typically served as attendants for the female toilet (Rallo 1974; De Puma 1985; Lambrechts 1992). Lasas are complex characters because of their multivalent nature. A few are labelled but even the inscribed Lasas reveal great variety: female or male; winged or without wings; clothed or nude; with attributes or without. The lack of uniformity makes these creatures difficult to understand but typically, a major component of their imagery is an androgynous appearance. This gender ambiguity pervades the engraved 99

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Fig. 3  Front view: Praenestine cista handle (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13145).

Fig. 4  Rear view: Praenestine cista handle (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13145). 100

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Fig. 5  Front view: Praenestine cista handle (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13135).

Fig. 6  Rear view: Praenestine cista handle (Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13135). 101

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bronze mirrors more regularly, but this handle seems to follow this trend too. The winged figures stand angled towards each other, both in a parallel contrapposto stance. They are nude except for their low shoes and the bracelets encircling the female’s wrists. Their beautifully crafted wings stretch out from their backs, providing a grand frame for their bodies. The male holds an alabastron in his left hand, as if offering it to his companion. Strangely, he raises his right hand in a pointing gesture above his head. The female reacts to her partner and reaches for the vessel with her right hand. This atypical scene matches their atypical body types. The nude male Lasa (on the left) has an athletically modelled body, yet his masculine physique is underscored by feminine attributes. His pectoral muscles resemble petite breasts, and he wears a female hairstyle with the hair rolled around his head and fastened at the nape. He also rests in an effeminate stance hip cocked to the side. The female’s body imitates her male consort with a similarly muscled build. Although her body is slimmer, it has been rendered like that of an athlete with a well-defined abdomen (including a clearly articulated iliac crest), shapely legs and bulky arms. Her small, pointed breasts are diminished by her toned build. She, too, wears the same hair style as her partner but it appears tightly pulled back, almost windswept. Her angular and virile facial features contrast with the soft roundness of his face. Indeed, their backsides are nearly identical with prominent but muscled buttocks. The female, in particular, closely resembles her male companion from the back. The overall impression creates an image of gender ambivalence in which each respective sex appears to alternate between male and female. In short, while all the figures possess the physique of athletes, the emphasis on certain traits, such as the abundance of muscle on the women and the minimised musculature and feminising attributes on the men, implies a resistance of accepted gender behaviour and physical appearance. atalanta and peleus

If we address the aforementioned handles, one will notice the prevalence of the athletic female body, especially with the wrestler handle. The idea that the wrestler handles represent athletes may not be pure speculation. It has been noted by several scholars that these grapplers evoke a famous couple from Greek mythology: Atalanta and Peleus. (I agree with this assessment, and I am tempted to include the standing pairs too.) The two were sparring partners in a wrestling match at the funerary games of Pelias. Atalanta’s subversive behaviour, such as wrestling, was an anomaly in a society noted for its clearly defined gender roles and patriarchal hierarchy. Although she was born female, she hunted and exhibited warrior-like conduct. Thus, she naturally venerated Artemis and preserved her virginity by evading marriage (Barringer 1996). Along with the wrestling match, she was also a major character in the Calydonian boar hunt and the famed foot race, which promised her hand in marriage to the victor.

Though all three events were illustrated in Greek art, the wrestling match was a particular favourite among artists, who represented her engaged in combat with Peleus; she typically was portrayed wearing the distinctive perizoma (like the female wrestlers on the cista lids) with a breast band or exposed breasts. In addition to her skimpy outfit, artists seem to have exaggerated her physique, making her a comparable and capable opponent. Peleus’ masculinity fades in these images, which corresponds nicely with the figures on the cista lids (Barringer 1996: figs 18–27). Atalanta is noted for her virility in literature too. Several ancient writers mention her manly demeanor and often label her as “man-like” (Eust. Il. 2.88.13, 4.240.20–21) “anti-male” and a “match for men” (Nonnus, Dion. 35.82). Despite these masculine epithets, she was still desired by men and portrayed in early writings as an attractive young woman (Scanlon 2002: 176–7, 181–2). Based on the visual and literary evidence, we are left to question whether masculinity in women equated beauty and if so, these muscular females seem well-suited to embellish the Praenestine cistae. By her actions, Atalanta was clearly not the epitome of female etiquette. Her overt masculine conduct cloaked her femininity, even though she was biologically a woman. Despite her virile actions and physique, she was not anatomically a man but a woman. Therefore, we can view Atalanta as occupying a liminal state, a disruptive third sex/gender. She does not fall neatly into either polarised category of the sexes and falls into the muddled area in between. Thus, she possesses an ambiguous gender (Garber 1992: 9–13). In fact, Thomas Scanlon considers her somewhat androgynous because she occupies both realms of the sexes, synthesising female allure and masculine brawn (Scanlon 2002: 196). And to a certain degree, we can apply the same logic to Peleus, who, despite his maleness, is reduced in stature, spars with Atalanta and is ultimately defeated by her. When considering the multiple dimensions of the imagery – the androgynous manner of depiction, the perizoma, the combination of nudity and semi-nudity, the wrestling stance and Atalanta’s beauty – the evidence seems to support the interpretation of these ambiguous couples, particularly the wrestling pairs, as Atalanta and Peleus. Although Atalanta was a Greek character, she was popular in Etruria. This is not unusual because it was commonplace for the Etruscans to adopt and buy anything Greek, especially pottery, in which the figure of Atalanta was a featured character. Further evidence of this preference can be seen in the images of Atalanta found in Etruscan art.8 One beautiful example of Atalanta and Peleus can be seen on a finely engraved bronze mirror from Vulci, c.400 BC.9 It shows Atalanta bent over and wearing an exercise cap and a perizoma embellished with a rosette. A nude Peleus mirrors her pose, standing hunched over and ready to wrestle. Atalanta sports a rather heavy and toned body, analogous to Peleus’. She bears no overt feminine attributes; her breasts are hidden, with only a slim portion of her left breast revealed. However, this breast seems more closely modelled after the right pectoral of Peleus.

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This scene appears to be an exact replica of one found in Attic vase-painting. A red figure kylix (c.490 BC) by Oltos, found in a necropolis near Bologna, portrays the pair in nearly identical postures (van der Meer 1995: 35; Barringer 1996: fig. 23). The couple are reversed in the painting, but both are hunched over to wrestle and they have a tight hold on each other’s wrists. Atalanta even dons an exercise cap and perizoma. Therefore, Atalanta is not unusual for an Etruscan context, but rather appears fully assimilated into Etruscan culture. interpretations

After having surveyed a few examples, the question remains why this type of ambiguous representation was regarded as appropriate for and became popular on a female luxury item. One might expect a conventionally feminine, lavishly-embellished woman paired with a virile, muscular man to decorate the cista lids. Instead, during the fourth century BC, the handles primarily take the shape of androgynous couples that appear to redefine the boundaries of sex. Rather than fulfilling their stereotypical roles, both the male and female strayed into vague territory and thus making it complicated to determine their biological identity. The interpretation of these scenes has long lacked a clear answer, in large part due to the dearth of written sources. This situation makes it difficult to know exactly how the Etruscans perceived androgyny. Despite these complications, I will briefly outline three theories based on the art objects, their contexts, related topics and the writings of foreign authors. Apotropaic Suit One school of thought interprets androgynous imagery as possessing magical or apotropaic powers. This approach examines the function of cistae in all aspects of an aristocratic lady’s life, from the moment she receives the receptacle until her death. Cistae were probably used in the everyday lives of women as part of their daily beauty rituals. Upon a woman’s death, the object was placed in the tomb and continued to serve her in the afterlife. In short, cistae performed dual roles: pragmatic object and funerary gift. With this function in mind, the androgynous figures cannot be considered as mere decoration, but may have served as protective mechanisms for the living and deceased. Generally, androgyny functions as an apotropaic device, and it does not seem unreasonable to assume that these figures are imbued with the same power. Research indicates that androgynous characters in the ancient Mediterranean, particularly Hermaphroditos, Eros and Priapos, were used as protective figures. Fertility usually came under their protection whether it was human, animal or plant. The conflation of male and female traits made them natural defence mechanisms, and statues of these characters were often placed in areas where humans were vulnerable to the evil eye (Ajootian 1997: 1990; Delcourt 1961).

Another central issue concerning androgynous figures is the lack of clothing or nudity. Larissa Bonfante has done extensive work on the use of nudity in antiquity, especially the way in which it acts as a costume (Bonfante 2000: 286– 7; 1996; 1993). In her work, she denotes seven types of nakedness, one of which is apotropaic nudity. Apotropaic nudity, as it implies, wages war against the evil eye. Naked male and female bodies with exposed genitals, including androgynous figures, were potent weapons against magical powers intent on destroying the living. The cista couples may have been doubly potent because of their nudity and conspicuous appearance. Consequently, these male-female pairs may have been purposely utilised to defend the cista’s owner throughout her life Although cistae served rather ordinary roles in an aristocratic woman’s life, these elegant containers probably held a more noteworthy value. Beauty and adornment appear to have been emblems of status or rank within Etruscan society (de Grummond 1982: 180–2). Ivory combs, bronze mirrors, hair pins, ribbons, opulent jewellery, cosmetics and the lavishly decorated containers demonstrated the wealth of the woman. Moreover, these items beautified her appearance that made her subject to the praise and envy of her peers. Ironically, her stylish appearance could incur the wrath of the evil eye, and it is for this very reason that these figures may have been utilised The cultivation of female appearance in this way must be understood within the context of marriage. In other words, one’s appearance assisted in procuring an advantageous union between a woman and man. During the marriage, a wife’s beauty and grace served as a natural complement to her husband’s honour, which was realised through military, civic or religious service (D’Ambra 2000: 102, 110–11). The emphasis on adornment, beauty, make-up, expensive toiletries and cultus was not an illustration of vanity and luxurious living by Etruscan women but served a higher purpose. All these aspects underscored the assurance of matrimonial bliss and, consequently, the continuity of the familial clan. A solid marriage would produce healthy children, who would carry on the family name into future generations. Numerous works of art depicting happy couples, mothers with their babies, and votives of children attest to the primacy of the husband, wife and child – the family being the essential component of Etruscan society (Nielsen 1998: 285–6). Votive offerings also indicate that female fertility was a major concern of the Etruscans. While childbirth was (and still is) a painful endeavour, a fit, healthy body could better endure the pains of labour, and one possible protective device during childbirth was the apotropaic charms of the androgynous couples. Consequently, the ambiguous pair would protect the wife from the pains of birth and the fecundity of the couple. The shock of their unusual appearance would divert the evil eye or destructive powers away from the human couple and onto themselves, where no harm could ensue. The androgyny protected not only the individual female but, in the greater scheme of things, also protected the longevity of the Etruscan people. Once her child-bearing years were over, the androgynous

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couples would continue to bless their owner in her old age, possibly defending her life. But once death was inevitable, these ambiguous pairs came to her aid, assisting her transition into the afterlife and protecting her from the perils to come. Initiation An alternate line of inquiry focuses on a more symbolic interpretation of the figures that concentrates on initiation or rites of passage. Nudity, again, plays a key role because an androgynous appearance often reveals itself in an unclothed body. Another category of nudity, outlined by Bonfante, is funerary nudity, which corresponds nicely with this particular analysis. The most significant transition for a woman or any person was death, and Bonfnate notes that nudity was a special costume that illustrated this momentous occasion. She believes that an intimate bond between nudity and death existed and mentions several Etruscan artworks to support this idea: erotic scenes in the Tomb of the Bulls, the Venus of Cannicella and the François Tomb (Bonfante 2000: 287–8). While this type deals exclusively with burial, I am compelled to expand this category to encompass all significant moments of passage in a person’s life, which I would like to refer to as ‘transitory nudity’. Falling under this definition is not only death, but also transitions into adulthood (e.g. marriage) or life changes (e.g. childbirth). Boundaries and the physical demarcation of space were held in high regard in Etruria, both physical and metaphorical (Haynes 2000: 382–4; Edlund-Berry 2006). Though the precise social context of Praenestine cistae remains elusive, it is believed that these containers were given as gifts to young women, probably by their parents or betrothed on the occasion of their wedding (Nielsen 2003; Dohrn 1972). Though cistae are gynocentric objects, males are still integral to the understanding of these pieces as gifts given by men, but also the handles represent the man and woman standing together, supporting each other. Marriage for women (and men) in antiquity often symbolised the transition from child to an adult. The ultimate ‘initiation rite’ for an Etruscan woman would have been a joyous marital union. However, she was at a critical stage in her life, on the slippery slope of liminality. Her liminal and vulnerable state was indicated by these androgynous figures whose nudity and androgyny signalled that a change in her status had taken place. The same reasoning can be applied when a woman has a child. Equally important, an Etruscan woman’s death was another prominent transition. Moving from the world of the living into the realm of the dead would have been a momentous crossing of boundaries. And a special mode of dress, namely the androgyny worn by the couples, was necessary to signal her move from living to deceased. This idea of transition or liminality is strengthened even more if the cista handles actually represent Atalanta and Peleus. Judith Barringer (1996: 49) interprets Atalanta as the “embodiment of ambiguity and liminality”. Atalanta was a blending of both male and female traits but more

specifically she lived her life as a male. She participated in activities that were part of the initiatory rites of male ephebes – hunting, running and wrestling. Indeed, ‘athletic competitions’ for females in Greece were available but restricted to pre-marital girls. They also lacked the magnitude of the male versions, i.e. the gaining of kleos. Instead, the competitions were initiation rituals that prepared girls for marriage (Scanlon 2002: 98). Usually, the contest was a footrace, which alludes to ideas of pursuit and capture by the suitor. Scanlon (2002: 105–6) suggests that running embodies the unrestrained and unchecked nature of girls before they are snared and domesticated by marriage. Such was the fate of our heroine Atalanta who, wild and untamed, was ultimately subdued into marriage after her defeat in a footrace against Hippomenes or Melanion (Barringer 1996: 71). Generally, the roles of men and women were clearly defined in antiquity. But during moments of initiation into adulthood, the world was inverted; boys and girls tended to swap roles, which included transvestism and participation in activities reserved for the opposite sex. While the origins of this subversive behaviour vary, its execution was necessary for the initiate to achieve the desired state of existence.10 Peleus, an ephebe, and Atalanta, a ‘female ephebe’, stood at the crossroads of adulthood and thus were visual symbols of transition and liminality (Barringer 1996: 49–51). Therefore, these characters seem to be appropriate decoration for such items as cistae. Androgyny and Taste However, a different theory abandons the prior interpretations and instead focuses on an issue of ‘popular culture’ – that is, androgyny as fashion. Was it popular to have an androgynous appearance? Androgyny occurs most frequently in Etruria during the fourth century BC, the same time as it gained popularity in Greece. Greek visual imagery during this time illustrates a surge in the depictions of effeminate males, such as Apollo, Dionysos and Eros. More than likely, androgynous images of Etruscan men were influenced by Greek models. It is not an unlikely scenario since the Etruscans fully embraced Hellenic culture: they adopted Greek modes of dress, assimilated Greek deities and myths, imitated Greek artistic styles and voraciously imported Greek pottery (Osborne 2001). However, androgyny seems to have been limited to men in Greece and eventually in Rome, but this was not the case in Etruria. Both sexes were represented in a sexually ambivalent manner. This type of parity among the sexes probably occurs because of the importance of the wedded couple but also the higher regard for women in Etruria. Unlike their counterparts in Greece and Rome, Etruscan women had more freedom within and outside the home. For instance, the wealthy women of Etruria were educated, banqueted with their husbands, enjoyed public life, owned property, could choose from a wide array of clothing options, maintained their names and identities and seemed to have held positions of power, for instance as queens and priestesses.11 An Etruscan woman’s relative autonomy,

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underscored by the significance of marriage, probably allowed for androgynous representations of women and men together. While images of effeminate males in antiquity are commonplace, masculine women were not as prevalent. What is the source of such an appearance? Inept artists may play a factor but more intriguing possibilities— female athletes or Greek influence—may account for these athletic images. As the prior examples illustrate, the women from the Praenestine cista handles have rather muscular bodies. This body type can also be observed on mirrors and bronze utensils such as thymiateria and patera handles. Based on this evidence, one might conclude that Etruscan women exercised or participated in athletic ‘competitions’. Though limited, archaeological and literary evidence provides some support for this statement. Numerous strigils, a shoehorn-shaped athletic instrument used to scrape grime off the body, have been found in female burials.12 The literary support comes from foreign writers (Juv. 6.246–253), in particular Theopompos, a fourth century BC Greek author. His now notorious and malicious words about Etruscan culture survive in The Deipnosophists (12.517D–518B), by Athenaeus of Naucrautis (c.200 AD): “…these (Etruscan) women take great care of their bodies and exercise bare, exposing their bodies even before men, and among themselves: for it is not shameful for them to appear almost naked …” Scholars often dismiss his comments as contemptuous gossip; however, it is not unreasonable to believe that such activities took place considering the relative freedoms of Etruscan women (Bonfante 1986: 235–6; Thuillier 1985: 529–34). Organised sport for women seems far-fetched, but simple exercise does not seem unreasonable. The Etruscans surely knew the benefits of a trim, healthy body not only for physical well-being but for reproductive purposes. Fertility was a paramount concern for the Etruscans, and a physically-fit body was better suited for childbirth (Nielson 2003). As a result of such exercise, Etruscan females presumably would have achieved toned and lean bodies, not unlike the women adorning the cista lids. These images may be reflections of what Etruscan artists saw in everyday life. Another possibility is that these athletic figures may be the result of cultural influence from Greece again: the Spartans. In Sparta, girls and boys were educated equally under similar circumstances for the good of the state to produce strong soldiers and mothers (who could produce such warriors) (Pomeroy 2002). Beauty and cultus were essential features of their culture in which physical appearance was often scrutinised. Thus, athleticism was closely associated with Spartan aestheticism. And so it seems an attractive Spartan female would have been muscular, possessing a hint of masculinity in her physical nature (Scanlon 2002: 126–7). Ancient authors often spoke of the beauty of Spartan women, for example Aristophanes in his play, Lysistrata. The main character, Lysistrata, mentions the attractiveness but also the virility of a Spartan woman named Lampito. She takes note of her toned body:

Lysistrata:  Greetings, Lampito, my very dear Spartan friend! My darling, how vivid your beauty! What rosy cheeks, what firmness of physique! You could throttle a bull! Lampito:  It’s true, I think, by the Twin Gods. I do take exercise, and I jump-kick my butt. Calonice:  And what a fine set of tits you’ve got! (Aristophanes, Lysistrata, ll. 78–83. Loeb translation by J. Henderson) This attitude can also be seen in a series of bronzes (small bronze statuettes, mirrors, and votive statues) from the sixth and fifth centuries BC that Thomas Scanlon (2002: 127) believes come either from Laconia or are influenced by Laconian models. The so-called ‘Spartan’ girls exhibit typically masculine traits: firm muscled bodies and nudity (or semi-nudity). These figures closely resemble the women on the Praenestine cistae. The likelihood of Spartan influence seems possible due to trade relations with Greece and contact with Greek colonists in southern Italy. Indeed, a few of the Laconian bronzes were found in Italy and a few others of Etruscan/southern Italian manufacture display Laconian influence (Scanlon 2002: 136–7). When considering these ideas, it would not be unusual for the Etruscans to embrace an athletic aesthetic and ideals. Much of their own ethos is imbued with issues of beauty, fertility, reproduction and the family. In addition, Helen and her twin brothers (paragons of male beauty) were favourite Greek characters in Etruscan art. The likelihood that fashion/ beauty trends popularised androgyny seems legitimate for Etruria, as a result of either direct influence from Greece or the popularity of Etruscan female ‘athletes’. conclusion

Unfortunately, the popularity of androgynous imagery in Etruria probably will never be fully understood. The complexities of the works and the paucity of literature create a less than desirable situation. Despite these problems, the proposed theories provide tantalizing possibilities into the function of androgynous imagery on the Praenestine cistae. One likelihood is that androgyny was utilised as a prophylactic image, defending the cista’s owner (and to a lesser degree, her husband) as she travelled through her life and crossed over into death. Another layer of meaning pertains to the symbolic aspect of an androgynous appearance. These gender ambivalent figures may have functioned as visual signs of transition in a female’s life whether it is through marriage, child-birth or death. A final line of inquiry explores the notion of androgyny as fashion. Greece is a strong impetus for images of effeminate males and masculine females (Sparta). Another prospect for these athletic women is the possible Etruscan regard for physical exercise or female athletes; a fit body helped maintain a beautiful exterior as well as create a physique better suited for childbirth, which was of vital importance to the Etruscans. However, we must come to a cautious conclusion. These theories lack definitive evidence and can be too challenging to accept. Nevertheless, I cannot reconcile

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why artists embellished the Praenestine cistae with male-female couples that defy stereotypical gendered appearances. Indeed, artists can play a factor with the lack of skill or using a similar body matrix for both the male and female. But what can account for the large number of androgynous couples? It would not seem too difficult to accentuate the genitals in order to make the sexes more distinguishable. Yet traditional male-female imagery is conspicuously absent on the lids and suggests that these figures had a greater significance either as a prophylactic suit or a symbolic representation. Based purely on the visual evidence, images of large, virile women paired with effeminate men do not appear to flout Etruscan norms. Moreover, it seems commonplace and co-exists nicely with more conventional male-female couples that pervade Etruscan art too and illustrates a general vacillation that seems characteristic of Etruria. notes

*   I want to thank Dr. Kathryn Lomas and Dr. Edward Herring for accepting my paper into the Gender Identities conference as well as their editorial guidance. Their hard work is greatly appreciated. 1   See the seminal series on Praenestine cistae: Bordenache Battaglia & Emiliozzi 1979; 1990; Jurgeit 1986; and Coppola 2000. 2   I use the term androgyny not only because of its familiarity but also because of its ability to encompass both sexes. It, however, does not assume that those labelled as androgynous are hermaphrodites, which are related but quite different in comparison. Hermaphrodites look androgynous but their ambivalent appearance is not limited to the surface but entails a biological component as well. 3  ����������������������������������������������������� Three generalisations about androgyny can be made in Etruria: first, androgynous figures often are nude or seminude; second, androgynous figures occur most often on mirrors and Praenestine cistae in the fourth century BC; third, certain characters tend to be androgynous-looking, such as Dionysos, Eros and Lasas, as do the male-female couples that adorn the cista lids. 4   Archaeological evidence is scant but cistae in substantiated contexts seem to indicate that they were primarily used by women; they were found with female toiletries such as mirrors, combs and perfume vessels or in burials with such items. Also, depictions of cistae on mirrors and on the cistae themselves portray the object in female adornment or bathing scenes. See Murphy 2001: 12–15; Serra Ridgway 1998: 406; Nielsen 2003: 39–40. 5   Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 24825 (Sincere thanks to the Villa Giulia for allowing me to publish photographs of the Praenestine cistae in their collection). 6   Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13145. 7   Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Rome, inv. no. 13135. Based on Rallo’s research, I use the term ‘Lasa’ cautiously. This couple is not labelled, but their wings, beautiful appearance and the alabastron makes me conclude that they probably represent Lasas. 8  ������� In the LIMC (Boardman & Arrigoni 1984), there are a total of 15 extant Etruscan artworks that represent her in various ways: two Caeretan hydriae (11–12), one cinerary urn (21),

one scarab engraving (61), one stamnos (28), one wall painting (93), and six mirrors (29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 79). Most notable for this project is listing no. 80; it is a cista handle of a male and female wrestler, now at Vassar College, that has been classified as Atalanta and Peleus. This seems unusual because the other wrestler handles have not been identified as these two, but only suggested. 9   Museo Gregoriano Etrusco, Vatican, inv. no. 12247. 10  ������������������������������������������������������������ Leitao 1995: 137–8. Two major theories explian the function of cross-dressing in initiation rites. Structuralists see the inversion of gender as a marker that delineates the marginal status of the initiates as neither girls nor boys. They are androgynous beings in a liminal state. The psychological standpoint considers cross-dressing or role reversal as an attempt to appropriate some element of the opposite sex in order to appreciate and achieve a total perspective on their social roles. For more on this topic, see Vidal-Naquet 1986; Frontisi-Ducroux & Lissarrague 1990; and Miller 1999. 11  �������������������������� Female literacy among the élite ���������������������������� has been deduced from objects found in female burials that have dedicatory inscriptions: pottery, funerary monuments, sarcophagi and especially engraved bronze mirrors. Numerous representations of husbands and wives together occur in Etruscan art. The most famous images are the couple sarcophagi from Cerveteri, now in the Louvre and the Villa Giulia. (See Brendel 1995: 230, figs 158–159). In addition, two incredible sarcophagi, now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, show a pair of couples carved on the lids; they embrace each other and gaze lovingly into each others’ eyes, a striking testament to the importance of the married couple but also the love between them (see Haynes 2000: 288, fig. 232a; 290, fig. 233). Happy couples are also prominently displayed in the famed tomb paintings of Tarquinia. For examples, see Steingräber 1986: figs 41, 45, 105, 145–147, 166 and 196. In contrast with Roman women, the females of Etruria enjoyed the double onomastic formula – an individual name and a family name. 12  ������������������������������������������������������� The most prized example is a rather large strigil, too cumbersome to be functional, with a handle in the shape of a female, who is naked except for shoes (British Museum, London, inv. no. 73.8–20.2). She uses a strigil herself that she holds against her upper left thigh while her right hand comes to her forehead. See Haynes 1985: 228, fig. 176. However, a few scholars dismiss this claim, noting that a strigil in a burial does not mean the occupant was necessarily an athlete. They simply may have been prized objects or regularly used in bathing. See Scanlon 2002: 191–3 and Massa-Pairault 1991 for a fuller discussion. bibliography

Ajootian, A.������� 1990.  s.v. ��������������������� ‘�������������������� Hermaphroditos’. In Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 5: 268–85. Artemis Verlag, Zurich. Ajootian, A.��������������������������������������������� 1997.  �������������������������������������������� T������������������������������������� he Only Happy Couple: Hermaphrodites and Gender. In A.O. Koloski-Ostrow & C.L. Lyons (eds), Naked Truths: Women, Sexuality and Gender in Classical Art and Archaeology: 220–42. Routledge, London. Barringer, J.M. 1996.  Atalanta as Model: The Hunter and the Hunted. Classical Antiquity, 15.1: 48–76. Boardman, J. with Arrigoni, G. 1984.  s.v. ‘Atalanta’. In Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 2: 940–50. Artemis Verlag, Zurich. Bonfante, L. 1986.  Daily Life and Afterlife. In L. Bonfante (ed.), Etruscan Life and Afterlife: 232–78. Wayne State University Press, Detroit.

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‘Anakreontic’ Vases. In D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler & F.I. Zeitlin (eds), Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World: 211–56. Princeton University Press, Princeton.

Bonfante, L. 1993.  Etruscan Nudity. In L. Bonfante (ed.), Essays on Nudity in Memory of Otto Brendel: 47–55. Special issue, Source. Notes in the History of Art, 12.2. Bonfante, L. ��������������������������������������������������� 1996.  Etruscan Sexuality and Funerary Art. In N.B. Kampen (ed.), Sexuality in Ancient Art: 155–69. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Bonfante, L. 2000.  Classical Nudity in Italy and Greece. In D. Ridgway, F.R. Serra Ridgway, M. Pearce, E. Herring, R.D. Whitehouse & J.B. Wilkins (eds), Ancient Italy in its Mediterranean Setting: Studies in Honour of Ellen Macnamara: 271–93. Accordia Research Institute, London. Bonfante, L. 2003.  Etruscan Dress. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore. Bordenache Battaglia, G. & Emiliozzi, A. 1979.  Le Ciste Prenestine: 1.1. Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome. Bordenache Battaglia, G. & Emiliozzi, A. 1990.  Le Ciste Prenestine: 1.2. Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome. Brendel, O.J. 1995.  Etruscan Art. Yale University Press, New Haven. Brisson, L. 2002.  Sexual Ambivalence: Androgyny and Hermaphroditism in Graeco-Roman Antiquity. [Trans. J. Lloyd]. University of California Press, Berkeley. Coppola, F. 2000.  Le Ciste Prenestine: 1.3. Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome. D’Ambra, E. 2000.  Nudity and Adornment in Female Portrait Sculpture of the 2nd Century AD. In D.E.E. Kleiner & S.B. Matheson (eds), I, Claudia II: Women in Roman Art and Society: 101–114. University of Texas Press, Austin. Delcourt, M. 1961.  Hermaphrodite: Myths and Rites of the Bisexual Figure in Classical Antiquity. [Trans J. Nicholson]. Studio Books, London. de Grummond, N.T. 1982.  The Usage of Etruscan Mirrors. In N.T. de Grummond (ed.), A Guide to Etruscan Mirrors: 166– 86. Archaeological News, Tallahassee. De Puma, R.D. 1985.  An Etruscan Lasa Mirror. In F. McGill (ed.), Muse. Annual of the Museum of Art and Archaeology, 19: 44–55. University of Missouri-Columbia, Columbia. Dohrn, T. 1972.  Die fikoronische Ciste in der Villa Giulia in Rom. Gebr. Mann Verlag, Berlin. Edlund-Berry, I.E.M. 2006.  Ritual Space and Boundaries in Etruscan Religion. In N.T. de Grummond & E. Simon (eds), The Religion of the Etruscans: 116–31. University of Texas Press, Austin. Frontisi-Ducroux, F. & Lissarrague, F. 1990.  From Ambiguity to Ambivalence: A Dionysiac Excursion through the

Garber, M. 1992.  Vested Interests: Cross-dressing and Cultural Anxiety. Routledge, New York. Haynes, S. 1985.  Etruscan Bronzes. Harper & Row, London. Haynes, S. 2000.  Etruscan Civilization. J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles. Jurgeit, F. 1986.  Le Ciste Prenestine: 2.1 Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome. Kampen, N.B. 1996.  Gender Theory in Roman Art. In D.E.E. Kleiner & S.B. Matheson (eds), I, Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome: 14–25. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. Lambrechts, R. 1992.  s.v. ‘Lasa’. In ��� Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 6: 217–25. Artemis Verlag, Zurich. Leitao, D. 1995.  The Perils of Leukippos: Initiatory Transvestism and Male Gender Ideology in the Ekdusia at Phaistos. Classical Antiquity, 14: 130–63. Massa-Pairault, F.-H. 1991. �������������������������������� Strigiles féminins et idéologie funéraire (IVe–IIIe siècles av.n.è). Nikephoros, 4: 197–209. Miller, M.C. 1999.  Re-examining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens: The Zewadski Stamnos. American Journal of Archaeology, 103: 223–53. Murphy, D. 2001.  The Praenestine Cistae Handles. Röll, Dettelbach. Nielsen, M. 1998.  Etruscan Women: A Cross-Cultural Perspective. In L. Larsson Lovén & A. Strömberg (eds), Aspects of Women in Antiquity: 69–84. Paul Åströms��������� ���������������� Förlag, Jonsered. Nielsen, M.������������������������������������������������� 2003.  Fit for Fight, Fit for Marriage: Fighting Couples in Nuptial and Funerary Iconography in Late Classical and Early Hellenistic Periods. In L. Larsson Lovén & A. Strömberg (eds), Gender, Cult, and Culture in the Ancient World from Mycenae to Byzantium: 38–53.������ Paul Åströms������������������� Förlag,����������� Sävedalen. Osborne, R. 2001.  Why Did Athenian Pots Appeal to the Etruscans? World Archaeology, 33.2: 277–95. Paggi, M. 2005.  Four Praenestine Cista and the Society and Workshops of Praeneste. New York University dissertation. Pomeroy, S. 2002.  Spartan Women. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Rallo, A. 1974.  Lasa: iconografia e esegesi. Sansoni, Florence. Scanlon, T.F. 2002.  Eros and Greek Athletics. Oxford

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Gender benders Larissa Bonfante The identification of human figures represented in art as male or female is generally fairly straightforward. We can usually recognise the figures’ genders according to their way of dressing and their sexual characteristics. There are cases, however, where our identification and the intention of the artist are less than certain, or at least the subject of controversy. It may be instructive to look at a few examples of recent controversies. These stories illustrate certain modern preconceptions about gender, and what they imply about the way we look at art. I have chosen three examples from classical antiquity and one from the Renaissance. The first example is from the pediment of the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi (Fig. 1). Dating from c.525 BC, it represents the struggle of Herakles and Apollo for the Delphic tripod. The burly, heavy-thighed Herakles is carrying off the tripod, while a more slender and refined Apollo grasps one of the tripod’s legs from behind. The tripod was associated with Apollo’s oracle at Delphi, and according to the myth Herakles tried to steal it so he could set up his own oracle. When Apollo tried to stop Herakles from despoiling the temple and carrying away the tripod, there was an impasse, and Zeus threw a thunderbolt to separate the two gods (Apollod. Bibl. 2.6.2; Paus. 10.13.8; Gantz 1993: 437–9). This is a myth better known from art than from literature. The subject was very popular in art, nowhere more so than in Athens, where it appeared on Attic black- and even more in red-figure vases from c.525 to 475 BC. It was one of the most common Heraklean scenes illustrated by Athenian potters (Carpenter 1991: 43–4). A red-figure vase painting by the Andokides Painter, contemporary with the pedimental sculpture, shows the standard four-figure composition for vases. The two struggling brothers in the centre are flanked on either side by two female figures, Athena, ever the champion of Herakles, and Apollo’s loyal twin, Artemis (Carpenter 1991: fig. 73; Woodford 2002: 218–19, fig. 182). Based on this and similar examples of Attic vases, the heavily draped figure in the centre of the pediment of the Siphnian Treasury was identified as Athena. Though the head is missing, the long hair and the long chiton, reaching down to the ankles – though not as long as the trailing, Ionian robes of Artemis – were recognised as the standard costume for the martial, active goddess. Nor would the muscular build be unsuitable for Athena. As the central figure, the goddess would thus be walking behind Herakles; the two would, as on the vases, be balanced by the figures of Apollo and Artemis on the left. But the four figures are not of equal size, nor are they strictly parallel, like the group on the vases. Here, the burly Herakles

charges ahead, followed at close range by the much larger, central figure, whose head, now missing, filled the top of the triangular space; Apollo, striding purposefully behind, his hand on the tripod; and finally Artemis, who stands behind her twin brother holding on to his arm. Several problematic aspects of the earlier identification had led Brunilde Ridgway to look more closely at the iconography, and at the sculpture itself, and in 1965 she published an article in which she correctly identified the central figure, not as Athena, but as the male god, Zeus (Ridgway 1965: 1–5). According to the literature, it was Zeus who intervened to settle the dispute. On the pediment, though he does not throw a thunderbolt, he stands between Apollo and Herakles and thus effectively separates them. While it seemed strange that Athena should tower above the other figures, such a difference in scale is perfectly appropriate for the supreme divinity, father of gods and men. The dignified garment reaching to the ankles is appropriate for the older god. Clinching the argument was the fact that a closer examination revealed that traces of a beard, similar to Herakles’, could still be seen on the god’s shoulder. Why did it take so long to find the true identity of this figure? A pro-Athenian bias had clearly led earlier scholars to assume that it was Athena, the goddess who, on Attic vases, regularly appeared on the scene. But though Athena was the principal goddess in her city, Athens, she was not necessarily as important at Delphi, or among the citizens of Siphnos who paid for the Treasury. The bias also involves believing that Attic vases presented a view of religion and daily life that was universal, whereas in fact they belonged to special contexts, and reflected for the most part a private, specifically Athenian world. Comparisons with the vases are therefore not always valid for such a public, religious medium as architectural sculpture (Marconi 2006). Finally, modern scholars tend to assume that a certain costume, or body type, regularly identifies an ancient figure as male or female. My next example comes from Italy, and illustrates this last point. Outside of Greece, the monumentality of the kouros inspired local artists, who created strange transformations of the original models. The discovery of the over-life size Capestrano Warrior (Fig. 2) created a sensation when it was excavated in 1934 in the mountain region of Picenum, in the Abruzzzi region, near the Adriatic coast of Italy. An inscription, a funerary dedication in the dialect of Picenum, incised on one of the supporting side pillars, identifies the statue as an image of the deceased (Morandi 1982: 70–71). The impressive sixth century limestone statue, today in the Chieti Museum, represents a fully armed warrior,

larissa bonfante:  gender benders

Fig. 1a  Photograph of the pediment of the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi, c.525 BC (Ridgway 1965: fig. 1)

Fig. 1b  Reconstruction of part of the pediment of the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi showing the central figure as Zeus (Ridgway 1965: fig. 4) 110

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Fig. 2  The Capestrano Warrior (Colonna 1992: fig. 15)

with sword and axe. It is conspicuous by its height, over two metres, its powerful thighs, and the crested helmet with enormous brim. Instead of being nude, like a kouros, this large-scale stone statue is fully armed, and wears a perizoma or short pants. This is not surprising, since nonGreeks rejected Greek nudity in real life and accepted it only reluctantly in art. In spite of its large size, the type is by way of the small Etruscan bronze ‘skirted kouroi’ blown up, as it were, to its present large size (Brendel 1995: 100–102). Though its monumentality is Greek, its provincial style is a far cry from the archaic stylisation of the Greek kouros. It was hailed as unique, and thought to represent a substitute for the devotio, or self-sacrifice, described in Roman history

(Livy 8.4–13). The earlier discovery of a female bust in a similar style (his wife) and other fragments of statues and flat stelae, chronologically and geographically close to the Warrior and related in form and decoration, showed even at the time that the warrior was not unique. But in the wake of the sensation this extraordinary image created, the smaller, less impressive pieces were all but forgotten. Later excavations have brought out a number of other large-scale statues carved in a variety of local styles from elsewhere in Italy, in Etruria and Sardinia, and from the Celtic world in Germany (Bonfante 1981: 66–71; Frey 2002). All of them were a response to the Greek innovation of the monumental kouros, and all came from funerary contexts. They have clarified the significance of the Warrior as a funerary

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Fig. 3  Torso of a female statue from Capestrano (Cianfarani 1969: Cat. 181, pl. 86)

marker, once placed on the mound over his grave as an awesome reminder of his heroic, élite status. The Capestrano Warrior’s peculiar proportions, in particular the wide thighs, have recently attracted the attention of scholars, who have suggested that they had a special significance. In an article published in a medical journal, entitled “Madelung’s Disease: Inherited from an Ancient Mediterranean Population?” (Feliciani & Amerio 1999: 1481), two doctors illustrate the photograph of the Warrior next to one of a patient with Madelung’s disease. A rare condition characterised by adipose, fatty deposits in the neck, upper trunk, and arms and legs, it affects mainly men, and has a higher incidence in the Mediterranean area. Most striking is the resemblance of the extremely broad, thick hips on both the ancient statue and the modern patient. The similarity might represent a genetic relation, though it could be coincidental. Chiefly because of the heavy hips, the Warrior of Capestrano has been said to be “ambiguously sexed” (Whitehouse 2001: 90–91). Kristina Berggren (1990: 23–36) has even suggested that the Warrior was in fact a woman. The heavy hips, the lack of any bulge indicating the male penis, a line she takes to indicate the rima, or female sexual organ, and the position of the arms, in her opinion all speak to an identification of the large figure as female, rather than male. Some of the observations, however, assume that we can read this image as transparent documentation, a realistic picture of what the Warrior looked like. It is wearing a perizoma, so the line at the groin is not the female rima we see on nude female figures such as the Cannicella Venus (Bonfante 1993: 49). Other images wearing the perizoma like that of the Warrior, furthermore, for example the small-scale bronze ‘skirted kouroi’ that inspired the artist who created it, do not have a bulge suggesting the presence of a penis.

Certain bodily characteristics, like dress fashions, distinguish male and female in artistic renderings, but these change in different periods, as artists and their clients make different choices. The dark colour of male skin, on Egyptian and Minoan-Mycenaean painting, on Greek vases and in Etruscan painted tombs, regularly distinguishes male figures, like an epithet, as being tanned from their life outdoors. In sharp, colourful contrast, images of women in classical antiquity are light-skinned because they spend their life indoors, like Scarlett O’Hara, protected from the sun. Other bodily characteristics have widely different meanings. In many societies, ancient and modern, the wide hips of female figures foretell easy deliveries, and are taken as a sign of fertility in both art and life. But in the archaic Greek ideal of manliness, heavy, muscular thighs are a sign of strength and mature male beauty. When Odysseus throws off his rags to compete with Irus the beggar, this is the part of his body that reveals his strength (Hom. Od. 18.67.74). In archaic art, we saw that the heavy thighs of Herakles in the pediment of the Siphnian Treasury warrior identify him as a mature, powerful heroic figure. For the archaic Capestrano Warrior, too, his armour, his weapons and his sturdy thighs signify his heroic male strength. Perhaps even the heavy thighs of the Kroisos kouros from Anavyssos in Attica indicate the heroic status of a mature man. His funerary epitaph states he died fighting in the vanguard, as promachos, and so he must have been a heavy-armed infantryman or hoplite, over twenty years old, no longer an ephebe (Stewart 1997: 66, fig. 38, pl. IIIA; Steiner 2001: 2133–214). Nor is the Capestrano Warrior any longer uniquely strange. He has relatives. Two large-scale stone statues recently

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found in Germany are definitely male: the ‘Mickey Mouse’ from Glauberg, so called because of the large leafy crown that looks like huge ears, and the Hirschlanden Warrior. The first is fully armed, like the Capestrano warrior. The second is nude, like the Greek kouroi, but unlike the kouroi, he is aggressively ithyphallic. Both have huge, muscular thighs, like archaic Greek male figures and the Capestrano warrior. We have been looking at some impressive figures of male warriors. What did the related female figures look like? Though no related female figures have so far been found to accompany the Glauberg or the Hirschlanden statues in this northern area, we know what the female figure accompanying the Capestrano warrior looked like (Fig. 3). Only the torso has been found, one-third life size, but this is enough to show that she was richly dressed. The fibulas on the front of her garment and the thick braid in back were archaic fashions in Italy denoting the status of female figures. The back braid, an Etruscan fashion of the seventh century, was adopted in various parts of Italy, for example on the Daunian stelae, on which similar fibulas also appear. (Bonfante 2003: 70–71, 99, 219–221: Nava 1988: 30–31, 34–35, 77–78, cat. nos 279, 321, figs 31–32, 35–36, pl. LIII). Etruscan art provides a rich source of images of gender. A number of these are frankly puzzling, in some cases because they reflect a peculiar feature of Etruscan religion, the absence of a set iconography for a number of divinities: Tina can be a youthful god, and divinities like Achvizr, Thalna and Lasa Sitmica can change gender, appearing now as female, now as male figures. The frequent lack of a stable iconography for these and other divinities implies that their Etruscan character did not agree with that of the Greek deity (de Grummond 2006: 21, 100–103). The unGreek appearance of some other female figures in Etruscan art can also seem puzzling to modern viewers used to classical Greek iconography.

Fig. 4  The Canicella Venus (Photograph: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Rome

An example is the Venus from the Cannicella necropolis in Orvieto (Fig. 4) (Bonfante 1989: 566; 1993: 49–50). This controversial nude figure, dating from the mid sixth century, was found in situ in Orvieto, the site of the ancient sanctuary of Volsinii. It has been much discussed since its publication (Andrèn 1967a: 19; 1967b: 84–5). The statue, which is monumental, even though it is only about half life-size, served as a cult statue in a sanctuary within the necropolis. It is made of Greek island marble, and was repaired in antiquity: the legs were in part replaced, and the surviving breast was reattached. The nudity of a large-scale figure such as this is unique in Etruscan art, and it is a fascinating exercise to try to account for its unusual features. Some of these are due to the fact that the Etruscans evidently required a cult statue of a naked goddess to fulfill a religious need, and turned to a Greek artist to provide them with such an image. Since Greek art had no model for a female nude figure within its rigid division of naked kouros and richly dressed kore, the artist used a kouros as a model – and indeed the head looks like that of an archaic kouros. Did the statue then undergo a sex change operation, which changed a kouros into a female figure (Bianchi Bandinelli 113

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Fig. 5  Mordecai Lamenting as the Gate of the King by Botticelli, commonly known as “La Derelitta” (Wind 1940: pl. 29a)

1968: 296–7)? Or was it actually meant to be androgynous, in order to represent this aspect of the Etruscan divinity? Torelli (1986: 183–4) has suggested that it was originally created as female from the waist down and male from the waist up, and that the breasts were a later addition, made when the local religious aspect of the image, meant to represent a hermaphroditic Aphrodite, had been lost or forgotten. Perhaps, more simply, necessary repairs were made on the statue by local Etruscan craftsmen not used to working on marble statues. On the Monteleone Chariot, the laced boots of one of the two kouroi contrast with the naked feet of the other; this difference is to be explained as a clever way of executing a repair when one of the legs was broken off, and has no particular symbolic significance. (Bonfante 2003: 61–2; Emiliozzi 1999: 180, pl. XIV). As a final exmple, it will not be out of place to mention

in this context the remarkable story of a much later work of art. A painting showing a female figure sitting in front of a closed door, long known as “La Derelitta”, “The Abandoned Woman”, by Botticelli and his school, was recently featured in the news, when the public was finally allowed to view it for three days, in June 2005 (Fig. 5). Since 1816 it has been hidden away in the private collection in the Palazzo Pallavicini in Rome, which was briefly opened to the public. At the time the painting was bought it was attributed to Masaccio, and the figure was identified as a female character from Roman mythology: Rhea Silvia, mother of Romulus and Remus. In 1910 it was realised that it belonged with other small panel paintings, scattered in various museums and private collections, forming a series of scenes from the Book of Esther. The weeping figure is not a woman at all. It represents Mordecai, the Babylonian Jew who, when he

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learned that king Ahasuerus had ordered the destruction of all the Jews, tore off his clothing, and moaning loudly, went to sit in front of the gate of the King. “When Mordecai perceived all that was done, Mordecai rent his clothes, and put on sackcloth with ashes, went out into the midst of the city, and cried with a loud and bitter cry; And came even before the king’s gate: for none might enter the king’s gate clothed with sackcloth.” (Esth. 4.1–2). The desolate figure at the gate, barefoot, with long, disheveled hair and garments strewn on the ground around it, is then not a woman at all, but a man, dressed in the garments of a past age (Wind 1940: 114–17, with past bibliography). When one looks more closely at the figure, one can recognise the strong shoulders and sturdier proportions of a male body. And in the context of the other narrative panels, the original viewers would have easily recognised the meaning of the image. What was the reason for the mistaken attribution? The isolation of the panel from the others had caused its original meaning to be lost, and reinforced the power of the lonely, grieving image. This power is further reinforced by the space that surrounds the faceless figure and provides the setting for the painting. For, unlike the sculptures we have looked at so far, the figure is immersed in an architecture as mysteriously empty as a de Chirico piazza, filled with a brooding atmosphere. The reactions of two modern artists to the picture’s mood, illustrate contemporary ways of looking at the image, and capturing the power of its ambiguous gender. The first, a psychological reading, sees the space as deeply sexualised. “In the painting of Mordecai Lamenting as the Gate of the King, the architectural space surrounding the figure suggests an ambiguous, or integrated, quality of gender. The contour of the vertical archway may be read as phallic, while the opening of the archway may be read as vaginal. The architecture is represented in a frontal, almost iconic, manner calling attention to the archway’s spatial play between the positive and negative shapes, solid and void, as if the male and female are held simultaneously in the same form. The strewn drapery, limp and delicate, dramatizes the monumentality and rigidity of the architecture. Drapery, as a metaphor for skin or flesh, also furthers a sexualized reading of the space.” (Sjovold, forthcoming). A nineteenth century view of art lies behind another reading of this picture. In his strikingly emotional “Cassandra” (1942–43), the Surrealist painter Eugene Berman, influenced by Botticelli’s mysterious painting, places the prophetess in front of a broken arch, as silken folds like human hair slither down from the flat surface of a wall on the front plane. Cassandra’s red hair and clothing reflecting the fiery sky above the ruined city before her, an apocalyptic vision of Troy as well as of the smoldering cities of war-torn Europe. Many of the sexual ambiguities of the Renaissance painting are present. Even the way we see her is ambiguous. At first sight it looks as if a cloth covers the face and hands of a woman. Only later do we

realise that the broad-shouldered figure is turning its back to us, supporting its elbows on the wall, hands held out in horror, and that the red folds on its head are long hair, not cloth. Eugene Berman was part of a group of artists working in Paris in the late 1920s and ’30s often referred to as the neoRomantics. Though the Neo-Romantic feeling of “sublime dejection, disillusionment and world-weary introspection” (Ebony 2006) would have been completely alien to the view of a Renaissance artist or his patron, in choosing Cassandra as a subject, Berman does capture the sense of foreboding and impending danger of the Biblical story, and carries the sense of the original into our own post-AIDS world. The stories behind such cases of mistaken identities, misunderstandings and misattributions of male and female genders show how time constantly transforms the meaning of a human image, and how our own acceptance of their significance depends on assumptions rooted in our own experiences, expectations, and emotional reactions, and those of the world in which we live. bibliography

Andrèn, A. 1967a.  Marmora Etruriae. Antike Plastik, 7: 10–24. Andrèn, A. 1967b.  Il santuario della Necropoli di Cannicella ad Orvieto. Studi Etruschi, 35: 41–85. Basile, J.J. 1993.  The Capestrano Warrior and Related Monuments of the Seventh to Fifth Centuries B.C. Revue des Archéologues et Historiens d’Art de Louvain, 26: 9–31. Basile, J.J. [n.d.].  Livy VIII, 10, 12 and the Warrior from Capestrano: A Re-Evaluation. Brown University website [http://www.brown.edu/Departments/Classics/bcj/1004.html]. Berggren, K. 1990.  The Capestrano Warrior and the Numana Head. Opuscula Romana, 18.2: 23–36. Bianchi Bandinelli, R. 1968.  Rassegne, recensioni e notizie. Dialoghi di Archeologia, 2: 230–3. = Bianchi Bandinelli, R. 1982. L’arte etrusca: 292–7. Editori Riuniti, Rome. Bonfante, L. 1981.  Out of Etruria. Etruscan Influence North and South. BAR International Series 103. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford. Bonfante, L. 1984.  The Women of Etruria, In J. Peradotto & J.P. Sullivan (eds), Women in the Ancient World: The Arethusa Papers: 229–39. State University of New York Press, Albany. Bonfante, L. 1986a.  Introduction. In L. Bonfante (ed.), Etruscan Life and Afterlife, A Handbook of Etruscan Studies: 1–17. Wayne State University Press, Detroit. Bonfante, L. 1986b.  Daily Life and Afterlife. In L. Bonfante (ed.), Etruscan Life and Afterlife, A Handbook of Etruscan Studies: 232–78. Wayne State University Press, Detroit. Bonfante, L. (ed.) 1986.  Etruscan Life and Afterlife, A Handbook of Etruscan Studies. Wayne State University Press, Detroit. Bonfante, L. 1989.  Nudity as Costume in Classical Art. American Journal of Archaeology, 93: 543–70. Bonfante, L. 1993.  Etruscan Nudity. In L. Bonfante (ed.), Essays on Nudity in Antiquity in Memory of Otto Brendel: 47–55. Special issue, Source. Notes in the History of Art, 12. New York. Bonfante, L. 1996.  Etruscan Sexuality and Funerary Art. In N.

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Kampen (ed.), Sexuality in Ancient Art: 155–69. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge & New York.

Glaube – Mythos – Wirklichkeit. [Catalogue of the Glauberg Exhibition]. Theiss-Verlag, Stuttgart.

Bonfante, L. 1998.  Grecia antica ed Italia antica: il nudo nell’arte. In R. Gendre, (ed.), Lathe Biosas. Ricordando Ennio S. Burioni: 31–3. Edizioni dell’Orso, Alessandria.

Gantz, T. 1993.  Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore

Bonfante, L. 2003.  Etruscan Dress. [Updated edn; 1st edn 1975]. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore. Brendel, O.J. 1995.  Etruscan Art. [Prepared for press by E. Richardson. Originally published by Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1978]. Yale University Press, New Haven. Carpenter, T.H. 1991.  Art and Myth in Ancient Greece: A Handbook. Thames & Hudson, London. Cianfarani, V. ed. 1969. Antiche e civiltà d’Abruzzo. De Luca, Rome. Colonna, G. 1992.  La statuaria medio-adriatica. In AA.VV. La civiltà picena nelle Marche. Studi in onore di Giovanni Annibaldi: 92–127. Maroni, Ripatransone. Colonna, G. 1999.  La scultura in pietra. Piceni: 104–9. Colonna, G. & Franchi Dell’Orto, L. (eds) 2001.  Eroi e regine. Piceni, popolo d’Europa. [Exhibition catalogue, Chieti & Rome]. De Luca, Rome. Cristofani, M. 1987.  La ‘Venere’ della Cannicella, Annali Faina, 3: 27–39. D’Ercole, V. 2001.  La necropoli di Capestrano. In G. Colonna & L. Franchi Dell’Orto (eds), Eroi e regine. Piceni, popolo d’Europa: 104-109. De Luca, Rome. de Grummond, N.T. & Simon, E. (eds) 2005.  The Religion of the Etruscans. The University of Texas Press, Austin. de Grummond, N.T. 2006.  Etruscan Myth, Sacred History, and Legend. University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, Philadelphia. Ebony, D. 2006.  The Melancholy Gang: Eugene Berman and his Circle. Art in America, 94.3: 126–31. Emiliozzi, A. 1999.  Principi etruschi e carri da guerra. “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, Rome. Feliciani, C. & Amerio, P. 1999.  Images in Clinical Medicine. Madelung’s disease: inherited from an ancient Mediterranean population? The New England Journal of Medicine, 340.19: 1481. Frey, O.-H. 2002.  Das Raetsel der Kelten vom Glauberg.

Herring, E. 2003.  Body Art and the Daunian Stelae. In J.B. Wilkins & E. Herring (eds), Inhabiting Symbols. Symbol and image in the ancient Mediterranean: 121–36. Accordia Research Institute, London. Izzet, V.E. 2005.  The Mirror of Theopompus: Etruscan Identity and Greek Myth. Papers of the British School at Rome, 73: 1–22. Marconi, C. 2006.  Temple Decoration and Cultural Identity in the Archaic Greek Word: The Metopes of Selinus. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge Morandi, A. 1982.  Epigrafia Italica. Biblioteca Archeologica 2. L’Erma di Bretschneider, Rome. Nava, M.L. 1988.  Stele Daunie. Dalle scoperte di Silvio Ferri ai più recenti studi. Electa, Milan. Ridgway, B.S. 1965.  The East Pediment of the Siphnian Treasury: A Reinterpretation. American Journal of Archaeology, 69: 1–5. Sjovold, E. forthcoming.  My View of Art. Steiner, D.T. 2001.  Images in Mind. Statues in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature and Thought. Princeton University Press, Princeton. Stewart, A. 1990.  Greek Sculpture. Yale University Press, New Haven. Stewart, A. 1997.  Art, Desire, and the Body in Ancient Greece. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Torelli, M. 1986.  La religione. In G. Pugliese Carratelli (ed.), Rasenna. Storia e civiltà degli Etruschi: 158–237. Scheiwiller, Milan. Whitehouse, R.D. 2001.  Exploring Gender in Prehistoric Italy. Papers of the British School at Rome, 69: 49–96. Wind, E. 1940.  The Subject of Botticelli’s “Derelitta”. Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 4: 114–17. Woodford, S. 2002.  Images of Myths in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

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Burning boats and building bridges: Women and cult in Roman colonisation Fay Glinister Aeneas named the city after Rhome, one of the Trojan women. Tired of wandering, she encouraged the other women and together they set fire to the ships. Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.72.7 According to an early tradition known to Dionysius of Halicarnassus, it was the intervention of the women accompanying Aeneas, tired of rootless drifting, that ultimately led Rome’s Trojan ancestor to colonise Latium.1 The emphasis on their participation is a far cry from the modern picture of Roman colonisation – with its stress on strategic placement and military functions of colonies, and on male colonists – within which there is little place for or interest in women. Partly, the lack of consideration of the role of women in colonies stems from the nature of the surviving written evidence.2 But if women are absent from ancient literature, they are very much present, in the realm of ritual, in the archaeological record. The bulk of surviving votive offerings at sanctuaries in Hellenistic Central Italy comprises terracotta ex-votos, principally anthropomorphic statuettes and anatomical forms, although other types, such as animals, are common too. Even though many of these votives are characterised by a strong female element, their spread is thought to be promoted by state-controlled processes of (Roman) colonisation.3 Taking as a starting point the issues surrounding these offerings, the aim of this paper is to explore how the apparent emphasis on females fits this ‘masculine’ context, and how the questions posed by these votives illuminate both the role of women in society and cult, and the religious dimension of the interactions between Romans and other peoples of Italy. There still endures an assumption that women in these societies were marginal to, and marginalised by, religion. Analysis of women’s religious activity has typically focused on so-called ‘women’s deities’, and ‘traditionally feminine’ aspects, fertility and healing above all, as if women could have no concerns beyond the domestic realm.4 Only in fairly recent years have scholars (e.g. Dorcey 1992; �������� Schultz ������������ 2000, 2006; ��������������������� Flemming 2007�������� ) begun to reassess these matters in depth, and to demonstrate that in reality female interests were far from restricted to the family, just as those of men were not limited to the public sphere. Issues such as the state’s foreign or economic policies, for example, touched society as a whole, and the ‘women’s cults’ which we know to have addressed these problems were anything but peripheral. Votive terracottas offer abundant material to feed into this widening debate:

from the late fifth to the first century BC they constitute one of the chief sources for ritual activity in Italy, and provide clues about demographic groups largely overlooked by ancient authors, and poorly represented by epigraphy, such as women and the lower social classes.5 Some anatomical votives were offered to gods (among them Aesculapius, Hercules, and Dionysus), but most of the divinities known to receive them are female (Juno, Minerva, and Diana stand out). While quantification is difficult, the sheer numbers of female heads, statues, statuettes, and body parts found in deposits of votives is striking (within Greece, similarly, the presence of women worshippers in significant numbers at sanctuaries of goddesses is noted by Forsén 1996: 161–74). It may be, of course, that the emphasis on female dedicants and deities is illusory. As almost none of the offerings are inscribed, we cannot make assumptions about either donors or gods. We cannot presume, for instance, that statuettes of women were dedicated by women. Moreover few attributions of deities to sanctuaries are secure. Several deities sometimes shared a cult site, making it problematic to recognise the identity or even the gender of the divine recipients of offerings. Despite these cautions, and whether or not the surviving ex-votos show that female worshippers predominated, they certainly point towards greater female participation in cult than is often acknowledged, and invite contemplation of the implications of this for female roles in the wider social context. Votives in context (1) The cults Included among ex-votos of the ‘Etrusco-LatialCampanian’ group (a classification devised by Comella 1981) are large numbers of votive breasts, reproductive organs, swaddlings, and nursing females. As a result, they are widely held to signal healing shrines, and have frequently been identified as evidence of an ‘obsession’ with health and fertility.6 Although thanks (or requests) for a cure are the likely purpose of many categories of anatomical, the practice of medicine proper is highly unlikely at the hundreds of sanctuaries (mostly tiny) where such votives have been recovered (Turfa 2006).7 Very few gods, moreover, can be specifically classed as healing gods. The worship of Aesculapius is often connected with the spread of anatomical votives (e.g. Pensabene 2001: 111–2, De Cazanove 2000), but the god

fay glinister:  women and cult in roman colonisation

is barely attested in Central Italy during this period.8 He was officially worshipped at Rome only from 291 BC.9 The fanum at Antium mentioned by ����������������������� Valerius Maximus 1.8.2 (cf. Vir. Ill. 22.3) for 291 BC, and Livy ������������������� 43.4.7 for 170 BC��, perhaps belonged to Aesculapius’ father Apollo (Ovid, Met. 15.722); the anatomical dedications found at Fregellae (a Latin colony of 328 BC) certainly pre-date Aesculapius’ temple there (Coarelli 1986; cf. Cristofani 1985); the deity to whom they were offered is unknown. The Roman deity Salus, who in or by 180 BC came to be assimilated to Asklepios’ daughter Hygieia,10 was not prior to that a deity of healing as such, but associated with the safety and wellbeing of the state.11 Her temple on the Quirinal, dedicated in 302 BC in the context of the Samnite wars (Livy 9.43.25; 10.1.9) and probably monumentalising an earlier cult, focused divine attention on protecting the security of the state during that dangerous period.12 The appeal to Salus/ Hygieia in 180 BC and their assimilation at this point, occasioned by a number of deaths, is nominally healingrelated; but the deaths in question occurred as a result of a suspected poisoning conspiracy, and the dead men – a consul and praetor, among others – were representatives of the state and its (now compromised) safety. On these grounds, it seems reasonable to extend the interpretation of certain categories of terracotta votives – such as statuettes of worshippers, but also anatomical elements such as heads or hands, for example – beyond simple ‘healing’, and to view them as an expression of a more generalised desire for welfare deriving from divine protection.13 The more neutral term ‘well-being’ usefully implies – like the Latin salus – a healthy, contented, or prosperous condition – importantly, including moral as well as physical welfare, both individual and (as we shall see) communal.14 (2) The worshippers Votive deposits are scarcely mentioned in the literary sources.15 For this reason, and partly too because terracottas are perceived as low-value, mass-produced objects, it is often taken for granted that both dedicants and deities were ‘plebeian’.16 But deities such as Diana were rarely popular solely with the lower classes, nor did that segment of the population alone take an interest in family and community well-being. Clearly, the custom of offering terracotta exvotos was not restricted to the poor: votive production was not free from cost, nor was terracotta itself regarded as an inherently low-grade or lower-class medium (on the contrary, it was regularly used for prestige objects, including divine statues, and for decorating temples). Moreover, the greatly-varying quality of votives points to their use across the social classes. These offerings are characteristic of all kinds of sanctuaries, from great public temples to tiny rural shrines (and these, we should remember, were not necessarily ������������������������������������������������ the preserve of the poor alone, but could enjoy the patronage of ��������������� local elites). ���������������������������� Finally, it is not the case that the colonies which are supposed to have disseminated these votives were populated solely by plebeians: these settlements were designed as hierachical communities, their political and religious institutions rapidly establishing new

colonial elites. (Later on, after the Second Punic War, the differing sizes of plots received by settlers must also have encouraged the development of different social statuses). While we should not assume that the public and private religious spheres were entirely separate, the form that the votives took (more often likely to represent worshippers rather than deities) suggests that they were primarily private in nature. How therefore can they be connected with any conscious ideological push on the part of the Roman state? Indeed, before the second century BC, Rome was rarely concerned with public, let alone private religious activities in Italy. The changing socio-political realities facing the peninsula do not clearly emerge before the sc de Bacchanalibus in 186 BC, with its peremptory address to the whole of Italy, including quei foideratei esent (perhaps: “to those who are allied with us”),17 forbidding the Bacchic cult to Roman citizens, Latins and allies alike, “unless they have appeared before the urban praetor and he has given permission”. Down to the Social War, the political and social impact of Rome on the everyday behaviour of most inhabitants of Italy remains largely obscure. The long-term perspective of course proves Rome to be the dominant factor in the history of Central Italy, but for individual communities the Urbs may have been a distant and only intermittently-active presence. This is especially true of the fourth and to a lesser extent the third century BC, that is, precisely when anatomicals are thought to have begun to be spread through the agency of Rome. The assumption that dedicants of terracottas were predominantly lower class is closely bound up with the belief that these offerings can be identified as a Roman religious form, whose spread is directly linked to the foundation from the mid fourth century BC of the colonies that secured Roman control over Italy (e.g. ��������������������������� Torelli 1999b: 8–9; cf. De Cazanove 1991, 2000). Terracotta votives do indeed appear in colonial contexts (most famously Luceria’s Belvedere deposit), and undoubtedly colonial infrastructures assisted their spread, particularly as roads linked up once-remote areas, and mixed colonial populations (see below) provided a medium for cultural and religious interactions.18 But they are not yet documented at all colonies, and more significant is the fact that they can be found in areas far removed from the direct influence of Roman colonisation (for instance, southern Abruzzo: examples in Glinister 2006). Typologies also show that many forms spread from city to city without reference to Rome itself. At Minturnae, for instance, although “the whole nature of the sanctuary changed after the Auruncan period”, the locally-made votives imitated not Roman objects so much as imports from Cales, Capua and Teanum (Livi 2000: 112–3). More importantly, these votives are neither characteristically Roman, nor Roman in origin. They seem to have their roots in southern Etruria, and to have spread further afield during the period of the Roman conquest of that region, as Etruscans came into the Roman orbit – and in some cases became eligible for Roman colonisation schemes. After the fall of Veii in 396 BC, for example, Rome distributed part of its territory (viritane) to settlers, including Veientines who

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had supported Rome (Livy 6.4.4). Veii’s shrines continued to attract cult (the Portonaccio sanctuary, for example, was in use until the second century BC: Colonna 2002; Moretti Sgubini 2001), and it is implausible to consider the offerings here as the dedications of Roman incomers alone, when the area was still inhabited by Etruscans for whom this was an existing form of worship. What seems to have occurred is the adoption of terracotta votive forms by new settlers, alongside, and inspired by, the existing inhabitants. But what were the pathways along which these religious influences spread? A similar question could be posed in analogous colonial situations, for across the peninsula the evidence points to continuity of cult in areas subject to colonisation.19 In the territory of Caere, for example, the archaic temple at Punta della Vipera was rebuilt following the foundation of the Roman colony of Castrum Novum in 264 BC, and in use until the first century BC (Comella 2001). Amongst the Aurunci (conquered in 314 BC), the sanctuary of the goddess Marica, operating in monumental form at least as far back as the sixth century BC, continued in use after the Roman maritime colony of Minturnae was built in 295 BC, with a major restoration attested in the second century BC (Livi 2000: 112–3). It is unlikely that existing cults in colonial areas were wholly taken over by incomers, to the exclusion of indigenes. Although we must remember that when it chose, Rome sometimes deported or even wiped out indigenes,20 recent scholarship has rightly emphasised the inclusion of local peoples as founding members of both Latin and Roman colonies.21 (Roman citizens are however likely to have formed a majority of the initial colonial population.) At Antium, Livy (8.14.8) explicitly says that the Antiates were, if they wished, permitted to enrol as citizens in the Roman colony of 338 BC. Many of these would have been of Volscian origin. (There was a precedent for this: the colony founded in 467 BC at Antium was so short of men that Volscians were drafted in: Livy 3.1.7.) Much evidence suggests the presence of non-Romans/Latins in colonies. For example, at Ariminum (a Latin colony of 268 BC), the use of a non-Roman weight standard suggests the incorporation of substantial, and influential, elements of the existing population into the colony, and even in Strabo’s day the city could be described as an Umbrian settlement (5.1.11; Bradley 2006: 173–4). The presence of a non-Roman, decimal, monetary system at the Latin colonies of Venusia (291 BC), Luceria (314 BC) and Hadria (c. 289 BC) has similar implications (Crawford 1985: 15). In some colonies, including Sinuessa (296 BC) and Venusia, we even find magistrates with indigenous names, undoubtedly members of the native elite (CIL 12 3119a; ILLRP 690–692). Outside Italy, place names such as Italica and Osca (both in Spain) suggest large Italic elements in ‘Roman’ settlements. Other incomers joined colonies at various points in their history, like the four thousand Samnite and Paelignian families who swelled the population of the Latin colony of Fregellae, years after its original foundation (they were ordered back to their homelands in 177 BC: Livy 41.8.8).22

The presence of these populations in colonies could have an impact on the development of cults, as favourite deities accompanied colonists to their new homes. In Cisalpine Gaul, for example, the Latin colony of Cremona (218 BC) possessed an extra-mural temple of Mefitis (Tacitus, Hist. 3.33), widely worshipped amongst the Lucanians, Volscians and Samnites. (Was she imported to the Po valley by such colonists because of her association with malaria?) And at Ariminum, a vicus was named after Diana (CIL 11.379), undoubtedly the Latin Diana Nemorensis to whom the chief magistrate of Ariminum dedicated at Nemi pro poplo Arimenesi, c. 250–230 BC, not long after the foundation of the colony (CIL 12 40 = ILLRP 12 77). Scheidel, properly asking “how the presence of colonists affected their neighbours”, argues that ‘Romanization’ was engendered by the arrival of “large numbers of organised privileged settlers” with ‘packages’ of material culture that these incomers would wish to cling to “in an unfamiliar and latently hostile ‘frontier’ environment” (2004: 23). But it is important to remember that colonists were a disparate lot. Not all were from Rome, or even from Latium; many probably spoke Latin imperfectly. The cultural ‘package’ each brought served to diversify cultural outcomes in each colonial situation.23 who built the bridges?

Colonies thus differed greatly according to site and size, remoteness, and status; the ethnic background of primary (or subsequent) colonists (Romans; Latins; allies of one kind or another); the exclusion or inclusion of indigenes, and the status of any admitted (with or without citizen rights). Smaller-scale movements of people occurred during the lifetime of the colony,24 for example as community members intermarried or otherwise acquired links with nearby settlements. The outcome of the interactions between the various groupings was a gradual merging of religious traditions and ritual patterns, generating hybrid identities, unique to each colonial situation.25 It was the ritual and other activities of women, both local and migrant, I would argue, that played a significant role in helping to generate these new identities.26 Although little work has been undertaken in this area in regard to Roman colonisation, the question of the role of women, native and otherwise, is a significant area of research in studies of Greek colonisation during the Orientalising and archaic periods (e.g. Coldstream 1993; Shepherd 1995; 1999; 2000; 2005). There is some literary evidence for the presence of Greek women in colonies. Herodotus 1.164–166 notes the presence of women (and children) as colonisers among the Phocaeans, and Pausanias 10.10.6–7 reports that the Spartan founder of Tarentum, Phalanthus, was accompanied by his wife. Graham (1980–81; 1995) has argued on the basis of such material that Greek women accompanied their menfolk to act as priestesses in new colonies. It is also generally believed that marriage with local women was a regular feature of Greek colonies (e.g. Dougherty 1993: 61–80). The primary evidence for intermarriage in Orientalising-period Magna Graecia is funerary (e.g. fibulae with Italic typologies at

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Pithecusae and Cumae, possibly indicating the presence of native wives: Hodos 1999), and obviously hazardous to interpret. As Shepherd points out, “the incorporation of the indigenous population, whether by intermarriage or other means, is very difficult to detect archaeologically” (2005: 130). Literary accounts exist of colonists marrying indigenes (discussion in Shepherd 1999), but these are relatively rare and often set in the distant past, as in the case of the Phocaeans at Massalia, where Petta, daughter of the Segobrigian king Nanos, marries the Ionian immigrant Euxenos (“good guest”; Aristotle, Ath. 576ab = frag. 549 Rose; Justin 43.3.4). The evidence for women – native or otherwise – in the context of Roman colonisation is far more limited, but it is worth noting that in two founding myths of the Roman state colonists are portrayed as marrying local women. The first is that of Trojan Aeneas and Latin Lavinia (Livy 1.1.9; their respective peoples follow suit: Dion. ����������� Hal. 1.60.1). The �������������������������� second is that of the Sabine ������������������� women (Livy 1.9; cf. 1.13.1–5). Romulus requests from his neighbours societas (alliance) and the right of intermarriage, but is refused, and so goes about acquiring wives for his colonists by violence. Significantly, the outcome is successful: “the transfer of women … establishes a familial connection that erases cultural difference and ultimately determines future political relationships” (Dougherty 1993: 68). Such myths served to emphasise the inclusiveness of Roman society, so admired by Dionysius of Halicarnassus: “they raised themselves from the smallest nation to the greatest … not only by their humane reception of those who sought a home among them, but also by sharing citizenship rights with everyone conquered by them in war after brave resistance” (1.9.4). The earliest phases of Roman colonisation may well have resembled the archaic Greek model, with relatively small numbers of mostly male settlers. In this scenario, the very survival of the settlement depended on intermarriage with locals (whatever the formal legal constraints on this; see below). Later on, during the middle and late Republic, it is assumed that colonists were accompanied by their families, but little is known about these kinfolk.27 Most often the literary sources state simply colonia deducta, “a colony was sent out” (e.g. Livy 8.22.2, 10.21.9), or refer to homines (‘men’, or ‘people’). But Livy (5.30.8) mentions that at Veii seven iugera were given not just to patresfamiliae, but to every settler, including children, as an encouragement to enrolment (on enlistment, see e.g. Gargola 1995: 64–7); and in a slightly different context, as we saw above, it was Samnite and Paelignian familiae who settled at Fregellae in the second century BC, not males alone. It seems probable that settlers were accompanied only by their immediate family, which meant leaving behind extended kin such as grandparents or cousins, very likely never to be seen again in the case of families migrating to far-distant colonies. By this separation, “the autonomy of the nuclear family would have been strengthened” (Scheidel 2004: 24), and the importance of the new community of which they formed part would have been enhanced. Morel too notes as a regular feature of the ‘colonial phenomenon’

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the development of solidarity among colonists and an emphasis on family and community, perhaps evoked in a painted inscription on a late fourth century BC kantharos found at Ardea: [... ]omo.fameliai. donom.28 Permanent separation from the extended family in a new, remote settlement also enhanced womens’ importance, among other things as providers of children to increase family and community numbers. Children were crucial economic assets, contributing to the family’s labour force and supporting their parents in old age, and so there was strong pressure on colonists to reproduce. Levels of reproduction in new colonies would have been affected for several decades by the demographic profile of settlers. Put simply, colonists in their mid 30s or 40s with teenage children provided a source of marriage partners within the new community (whether widowed adults or maturing offspring). But as Rosenstein points out (2006: 231; cf. Saller 1987), men usually married about the age of thirty (to women in their late teens), and legionaries were typically recruited from the under-thirty age bracket. If men entered colonies soon after discharge from army service, they are likely to have been either unmarried and childless, or else married but with small children (or none). In that case, the pool of potential spouses from the colony would have been (temporarily) limited, and reproduction rates lowered.29 This, and high rates of mortality, could well have forced unmarried or widowed settlers to look beyond the colony for helpmates to raise families and maintain their farms. We might envisage brides (or indeed husbands) being sent out from Rome or some other homeland, but communities neighbouring the colony provided a more convenient source for them.30 Some of these consequent relationships may have been informal, but there is evidence for the development of conubium, the right of legal marriage between colonists and indigenous populations.31 The full extension of conubium is not precisely known. It was possessed by the Latins and by some Italian allies,32 and may have been granted more widely. Cicero writes that conubium “is accustomed to be awarded to other states” (Rep. 2.63: quae diiunctis populis tribui solent conubia), while Livy describes it as “custom­ arily granted to neighbours and foreigners” (4.3.4: quod finitimis externisque dari solet). Tacitus explicitly says that Cremona increased its population through “kinship and intermarriage with the surrounding peoples” (Hist. 3.34.1: adnexu conubiisque gentium adolevit floruitque), and Diodorus speaks of Roman and Italian soldiers sharing rights of intermarriage at the time of the Social War (37.15). In this striking passage, the recognition by soldiers on the opposing sides of oikeioi (friends, relations) and suggeneis (kinsmen, cousins) with shared rights of intermarriage (epigamia) encourages the Roman and Marsic commanders Marius and Pompaedius to come to terms. According to Livy, the Campanians’ right of intermarriage had “united many illustrious and powerful families with the Romans” (23.4.7: conubium vetustum multas familias claras ac potentes Romanis miscuerat), creating bonds which made them hesitant to revolt in 216 BC.33 Marriage was one way in which the boundaries between differing statuses (citizen,

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

citizen sine suffragio, Latin, ally) could be crossed,34 and the existence of conubium played an important role in creating mixed communities.35 (That the right of intermarriage was recognised as a powerful tool for social cohesion and inter-city integration is demonstrated by the way the Roman state applied it to reward or punish communities during the fourth and third centuries BC.)36

likely that other towns in Italy had women’s associations of this kind: co-operative organisations, but also competitive arenas in which status could be contested.44 Competition for status could also be expressed via euergetism: inscriptions (again, later than our period) show benefactresses particularly targeting religious sites, founding or repairing temples and financially supporting priests.

At least initially, most indigenes were probably low-ranking, but as we saw above, they did infiltrate the colonial elites. We might seek to compare the progress up the social scale of the children of mixed marriages with that of the descendants of freed slaves, who penetrated “in formidable numbers into the ranks of municipal elites in Italy” (Weaver 1991: 173). But for the children of mixed marriages, the Roman citizenship granted to the freed slaves of citizens would not have been theirs to help them along that path. Children born of a relationship without conubium, where the mother was the foreigner (probably the norm), took her peregrine status, and could neither obtain citizenship, nor inherit from a citizen father (Gaius, Inst. 1.78, Tit. Ulp. 8-9). In practice, the rules were probably largely ignored, especially by the poorer members of the community with little to bequeath;37 the necessity for the Lex Minicia de conubium, which established that ��������������������������������������� the child of a Roman man and a foreign woman took the status of the foreign parent, clearly implies that the children of mixed marriages had in practice been assuming citizen status.38 Nevertheless, the precise nature of colonist-indigene unions not only had important implications for the status and inheritance rights of any children (see e.g. Gaius, Inst. 1.56; Tit. Ulp. 5.8–9), but for those of the non-citizen parent. Women in formally-sanctioned marital relationships no doubt possessed the highest rank within the community, and their children were more likely to progress up the social scale. Furthermore the particular status of local women in colonies is likely to have affected their role in and potential influence on cult and cult practice.

We know of dedications by matronae at colonies such as Cosa (CIL 12.1994 = 11.2630; Cosa inv. CB 580/693, second–first centuries BC), but female activities in the colonial ritual sphere are best represented at Pisaurum in the ager Gallicus. Here an extra-urban sanctuary housed not only anatomical terracottas and votive heads, but a group of inscriptions revealing the ties of their dedicants (mostly women) to western Central Italy.45 The majority are addressed to female deities, among them Diana, Mater Matuta, Marica, Feronia, Juno Lucina, and Salus. Most significant is a dedication to Juno Regina by the matronae Pisaurenses, probably acting in an official capacity, perhaps in rituals serving to reinforce community cohesion. Coarelli sees an official ordo matronarum, with the deities named representing a ‘plebeian pantheon’ (Coarelli 2000: 201). A date around the foundation of the Roman colony in 184 BC seems likely; although the shrine is sometimes considered to have belonged to pre-colonial viritane settlers, such an association may have developed more naturally in an urban environment.46 (The sacred area itself certainly predates any colonisation in the area, and thus provides another example of cult continuity from the pre-Roman to the Roman period.) On either scenario, the inscriptions suggest that female participation in cults might be important to early colonists and in ongoing processes of cultural assimilation. Pisaurum is undoubtedly representative of wider trends.

women, colonies and cult

We have stressed the increased importance of women, for practical and personal reasons, in colonising contexts. In the ritual context, too, there is good evidence for the significance of the female role. Women played a formal role in civic religious lives, serving as priestesses (usually matronae, freeborn married women)39 and as cult officials in the day-to-day running of sanctuaries (magistrae and ministrae, more likely to be libertae or slaves).40 At Rome, we know of many occasions when women (often matronae) were also required to act collectively, for example in expiations and supplicationes.41 Perhaps this is the sort of context in which we can place the mysterious assembly (curia mulierum) mentioned in an inscription (albeit of the imperial period) at Lanuvium as receiving the benefaction of an epulum duplum (double banquet: CIL 14.2120 = ILS 6199).42 Imperial Rome also had a conventus matronarum or matronalis which met on the Quirinal for sollemnia (rituals on fixed days), apparently at least as far back as the early imperial period. It is described (derisively?) as a senaculum, id est mulierum senatum (SHA, Elagabalus 4.3), but the senior members were state priestesses.43 It is very

Although at Pisaurum native women are not explicitly attested, the inscriptions do emphasise the participation in collective colonial cults of women of shared matronal status.47 If we can draw an analogy with the situation at Rome, matrons possessed, if not legal power, then informal authority and practical control over the household, its profitable management and its general well-being. Their dedications were addressed to goddesses with connections to the matronal realm, but, significantly, with much wider civic interests. Salus is not merely healing personified, but a deity associated with the well-being and continuing security of the state (as we saw above), and might be viewed in this context as a patron of communal well-being.48 Diana is the ancient federal deity of the Latins; ‘Regina’, an unusual cult title for Juno, points firmly to the political as much as the feminine realm (Hänninen 1999). A joint offering by the settlers’ households, each matron representing and symbolising the family unit she headed, could explain the connection between matronal and public arenas, as in Rome. conclusion

This paper has highlighted the clearly vital (if little known) social, civic and religious roles and organisations of women in colonies between the fourth and second centuries BC. The evidence points to sanctuaries as

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known) social, civic and religious roles and organisations of women in colonies between the fourth and second centuries BC. The evidence points to sanctuaries as stages on which female ideologies, identities and status hierarchies were acted out, and to the wide social and political significance of the cults women patronised. Particular roles obviously differed according to women’s marital status and the social and economic position of their families. But the importance of female procreative and mediative roles, among others, contributes an explanation for the emphasis on women’s well-being suggested by the Hellenistic votive material. The accent on the individual so central to modern notions of health and well-being was perhaps less prominent in ancient Italy, where the well-being of the individual ultimately contributed to communal success. Religion often centred on group activities; religious identities were expressed through shared rituals performed by representatives of the entire society, or by groups (household, gens, guild, matrons, and so on) whose activities ensured divine protection for the people concerned, and by extension benefited the community also. Here we have noted only the importance of groups articulating the religious identity of matrons (mothers or potential mothers),49 many in new environmental settings whose remoteness from old homelands and extended families enforced a focus on the nuclear family, the community, and the immediate hinterland. Even so, it is clear that the emphasis on women’s health and reproductive success shown by many Hellenistic-period votives symbolised not (or not only) narrow and private issues, but the well-being of the household in the context of, and as an integral part of, the wider community. The ritual contexts in which these votives were dedicated helped contribute to cultural interchanges and ultimately the development of a shared sense of identity in and around new civic entities.50 The social and ideological transformations reflected in visible cultural changes such as the spread of terracotta votives were not imposed by Roman settlers on natives, and there were enduring consequences for Roman culture as well as for the Italian communities from Rome’s conquest of the peninsula.51 The ‘Romanisation’ of Italy also meant the assimilation of Romans and Latins into the existing populations, and the culture of Romans and Italians alike was profoundly changed as Romans and Italians together adopted new modes of ritual. The Bacchic cult in particular points to the degree of unification in Italy by this date, and shows how the communities of Italy were capable of adopting and sharing externally-derived cultural and religious institutions radically at odds with what had gone before. It shows too that Rome itself was not exempt from this process: there was no unidirectional acculturation (‘Romanisation’), but rather a cultural melange that affected all sides. Notes 1 ­  Dion. Hal. 1.72.7 (cf. Dion. Hal. 1.52.4, Virgil, Aen. 5.604– 63); the tradition apparently goes back to the fifth century BC Greek author Hellanicus, FGrHist 4 F 84. The actual burning of the ships is said to have taken place on Sicily.

2   Literary references to women in colonial religion are almost non-existent. We can only guess at the ritual importance of the woman called ‘Petreia’ (after a defect in the quality of land), “who, leading a procession in colonies or in municipia, used to imitate a drunken old woman” (Paulus Festus 281.4: Petreia vocabatur, quae pompam praecedens in colonis aut municipiis imitabatur anum ebriam, ab agri vitio, scilicet petris, appellata[m]; Festus 278.33L is fragmentary). Was this a ritual undertaken in connection with the centuriation of new lands, or the ritualised memory of such a process? 3   It also occurs, of course, within a more general trend towards urbanisation, as a result of both organised and (far less well understood) private migration. 4   E.g. Edlund-Berry 1994: 32, who comments that “women were in control of those aspects of religion which concerned procreation and health”, mostly addressing female deities; and that “women considered certain deities and cults their particular domain, to the partial or complete exclusion of male worshippers and of priests”. But it is important to remember that in general really very few Roman cults were entirely gender-exclusive. Even Bona Dea received dedications from men, e.g. CIL 6.75 = ILS 3508 (preAugustan), CIL 12 972 = ILS 3491. 5  For a good recent discussion of the possible conclusions to be drawn from this material, see Söderlind 2002. For some examples of female-oriented votives, see e.g. Bonfante 1986, 1997. 6  ����������������������������������������������������������� Note that the importance of women dedicants and the stress on fecundity are documented prior to the Hellenistic period, while categories of offering unrelated to fertility exist in bulk at a number of sanctuaries (notably the thousand-plus eye-votives of Ponte di Nona: Potter 1989: 41–43). Fertility was just one possible reason among many for a dedication. 7  �������������������������������������������������������� Claims of medical specialisation are also unconvincing: very few sites seem to have attracted offerings in just one or two categories, even places like Gravisca, where large concentrations of fertility-related items – uteri, swaddled infants – have been found in situ (Comella 1978). 8   However he does appear in Magna Graecia, and the Latin version of the name Aesculapius, which derives from an earlier form of the Greek name, may indicate prior knowledge of the god at Rome. Cf. Wickkiser 2003: 206– 7. See Tiussi 1999 on evidence for the cult of Aesculapius and Hygieia in the northern Adriatic, notably at Aquileia, probable focal point for the spread of the cult to adjacent regions. On the god in Rome, see Graf 1992. 9  ������������������������������������������������������� Orlin 1997: 107 places his arrival in the context of a politico-religious appeal to the cities of Magna Graecia, identifying it as “a signal that the Romans sought to enter the world of Greek culture rather than to impose their own Italic customs on southern Italy”. 10  �������������� In 180 BC the Sibylline ������������������������������������� books prescribed offerings to Apollo, Aesculapius and Salus. This triumvirate is thoroughly Greek, as were the supplicationes decreed by the decemvirs (Livy 40.37.1–3), carried out not only in the City, but in all fora and conciliabula (small market communities of citizens, administered directly by Rome). 11   On Salus (also commonly associated with Victoria and Valetudo), see Marwood 1988 and Winkler 1995. As the cult developed in the imperial period and came to be closely associated with the person of the emperor, the formula pro salute (especially when used by soldiers) was associated with conspiracies against the emperor – i.e. his political as much as his physical health (Fishwick 2004: 353).

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12    Given the existence of both a porta and a collis Salutaris – and the inclusion of the cult in the list of Argei in Varro, LL 5.52 – Salus’ worship is likely to predate the temple. 13   Cf. King 2005 on modern definitions of ‘health’ implying general physical and social well-being and contentment, not simply the absence of sickness. 14  ������������������������������������ Relatively early texts confirm that salus implies more (personal and/or communal) safety and security than health, e.g. of Caesar’s De Bello Civili 3.14 (the safety of the army: totius exercitus salus) and 3.26 (Caesar’s personal safety: pro salute Caesaris). It is worth noting too the desire for well-being enshrined in the traditional Latin formulae of greeting and farewell, salve/salvete and vale/valete, terms also used in addressing the gods. 15   But see Aulus Gellius, NA 2.10.3 and Paulus Festus 78.10L on favisae; and Paulus Festus 93.21L and Festus 398.28L/ Paulus 399.1L on the mysterious ipsullices and subsilles, evidently some kind of offering. 16   E.g. Turfa 1994: 224–25; Torelli 1999a: 29. Pensabene (e.g. 2001: 70) connects dedications of votive heads by (he believes) the peasantry with the rise of oligarchy, and with agitation for popular participation in politics. 17   The meaning of foiederatei is controversial. Note also Bacas vir nevis adiese velet ceivis Romanus neve nominus Latini neve socium quisquam ...: “let no man, whether a Roman citizen or someone of the Latin name or one of the allies ...” (CIL 12.581 = ILLRP 511). Cf. Livy 39.14.7: Edici praeterea in urbe Roma et per totam Italiam edicta mitti. 18   See ���� Scheidel �������������������������������������������������� 2004 on the staggering level of mobility brought about by colonisation. In the (for us) key period from 338 BC to 263 BC, alongside large scale viritane settlement, some nineteen Latin colonies were founded, in which Scheidel (10) estimates around 60–80,000 adult male citizens, were resettled, not counting their families, or indeed other, non-Roman settlers. 19   Often, the Romans respected the gods of other peoples, even in time of war. In 210 BC, for example, following the revolt of Capua, the pontifical college was called upon to decide whether statues (signa) captured from the enemy were sacred or profane (Livy 26.34.12). 20   Livy 9.25.8–9 says that when the three Auruncan settlements (Minturnae, Ausona and Vescia) were captured, because no general was present to prevent a massacre, the population was wiped out (deletaque Ausonum gens); probably hyperbole. For the case of Cosa, see Carandini 2002: 108–110. 21   Torelli 1999a: 1–13; Bradley 2006; Crawford, forthcoming. 22  ����������������������������������������������������� Colonies could also have non-Italians as (temporary) inhabitants, like the Carthaginian hostages held at Norba and later moved to more comfortable quarters at Signia and Ferentinum (Livy 32.2.4). 23   Conversely, there is good evidence for broadly similar ritual structures and practices across Central Italy. Augury, for example, was practised by Etruscans, Sabines, Umbrians, Romans and Latins; and during the archaic period, votive types such as sheet metal figurines, bronze figurines and miniaturistic pottery are widely attested. Such shared cultural traditions form the background to the assimilation in the Hellenistic period of deities and religious ideas (on both the native and colonial side), and help explain why continuity of cult was common in conquered areas. This backdrop made possible the spread of the votive religion that employed, among other offerings, anatomical

terracottas. 24   The permeable nature of colonies was a fact of life, but not always something desired by colonists, who at times jealously guarded their status: hence Livy 32.2.6 reports deputations to Rome from Narnia complaining that their colony was short of numbers and that people of inferior status had infiltrated the colony, and were behaving as if they were colonists (et inmixtos quosdam non sui generis pro colonis se gerere). 25   �������������������������������������������������������� Such hybrid identities could encompass a single family: consider the poet Ennius (239–169 BC), from the town of Rudiae in Calabria, whose talents helped him acquire Roman citizenship. As his sister, a non-citizen, married a man from Brundisium (where her son, the poet Pacuvius, was born), the Latin colony evidently shared reciprocal rights with neighbouring communities (cf. Brunt 1988: 115). 26   Under discussion here are relations of a relatively harmonious nature, but it is as well to remember that interactions between males and females in a colonial setting were often characterised by violence: cf. Herodotus 1.146 on the colonisation of Miletus by the Athenians (who slaughtered the male inhabitants and married the women), or Polybius 1.7.2–4 on the fate of Messana in 288 BC, when Campanian (Mamertine) mercenaries occupied the city, killed the menfolk and married the women. 27   ���������������������������������� For the imperial period, Tacitus (Ann. 3.33) reports an old custom that magistrates should not take wives out to their provinces (the contrary was evidently current practice), but this seems to exclude the Italian peninsula. There is some consideration of this question in Rosenstein 2004. 28   CIL 12. 358. Morel 1988: 61, reading domo familiae donum (with domo an archaic dative); see Torelli 1973: 70 for a different interpretation. 29  Family size would also have been restricted by high infant and maternal mortality and high rates of miscarriage, and possibly by prolonged lactation combined with poor nutrition. It is hazardous to compare Roman Italy with other colonial situations, but as an example, in the American colonies there were more men than women, and the harsh climate meant that infant and maternal mortality was high. Studies on New England cited by Westerkamp 1999: 29 suggest that as many as 20% of women died in childbirth. 30   Roman marriage patterns tended towards the creation of fairly young widows (of older husbands) as much as widowers (of wives dead in childbirth) – and neither were expected to remain celibate. New spouses must have come from somewhere; why not from the local population? As Brunt 1988: 115 comments, “we should not underrate the actual mixing of populations”. 31  ����������������������������������������������������� Patterson 2006 usefully discusses intermarriage, but primarily from an elite perspective; my interest here is more its place in relationships of non-elite persons. 32  For example, a member of an allied community (or indeed a Roman citizen) who entered a Latin colony on its foundation acquired Latin citizenship and other rights, including conubium. We know little about the relationships they thereafter maintained with their former homes and families.

ag

When Capua was recaptured by the Romans in 211 BC, some Campanians (wives and children included) were deprived of Roman citizenship (Livy 26.34.6-9). In 188 BC some successfully gained permission from the Senate to marry Roman women and others who were already married to Roman women were allowed to keep

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33   When Capua was recaptured by the Romans in 211 BC, some Campanians (wives and children included) were deprived of Roman citizenship (Livy 26.34.6–9). In 188 BC some successfully gained permission from the Senate to marry Roman women and others who were already married to Roman women were allowed to keep their wives (Livy 38.36.5–6). In other words, Campanian men deprived of Roman citizenship had continued to marry women of Roman status regardless of the technical illegality of the marriage contracts. 34  Sometimes to great advantage: thus Capuan women who had married into other communities escaped the enslavement that befell some of their parents and siblings in 210 BC (Livy 26.34.3). 35   It is worth observing that the rights which these people held or aspired to, and the complex interactions between communities which such rights created, were Rome-oriented, and imposed by Rome as they created their own organisation for Italy during the course of the third century BC. 36  ��������������� The removal of conubium was a key method for splitting the Latin and Hernican federations (divide and conquer). In 338 BC some Latin communities were (temporarily) deprived of conubium, commercium and concilia (the right to trade together and hold common councils: Livy 8.14.10). Commercium was important because it permitted ownership and inheritance of property in another community, and of course “inheritances were likely to accrue as a result of conubium” (Brunt 1988: 511). After the Hernican revolt of 307–6 BC, loyal Hernican communities rejected the offered Roman citizenship sine suffragio in favour of retaining autonomous rule and – explicitly mentioned – their (existing) right of intermarriage. By contrast rebellious Anagnia was punished with enforced citizenship sine suffragio and the loss (probably temporary) of the right of intermarriage with other Hernican communities (Livy 9.43.23–4). 37   Although the events surround the foundation of Carteia in Spain (171 BC) suggest that the legal niceties were desirable even for those far from Rome: Livy 43.3.1–3 reports that over 4,000 descendants of Roman soldiers and Spanish women petitioned the Senate for a home; even though technically these people were illegitimate Spaniards, the Senate settled them (and their freed slaves) at Carteia and gave it the status of a Latin colony. 38   Moreover the principal aim of this lex (of uncertain date, but possibly 120s BC: Cherry 1990: 249–50) was to restrict access to Roman citizenship, at a time when that citizenship had come to be regarded as more valuable; in the third and early second century BC, when citizenship was less desired, how far would these concerns have affected people? 39  Some priestesses are likely to have been appointed at the foundation of a colony by ��������������������������� colonial commissioners. It is possible that some were financially supported by the colony, as was the case at Rome with the Vestals’ stipendium (see Guizzi 1968 on Vestal lands and revenues): we know that priests and temples could be funded from the revenues of leased-out ager publicus assigned to them (e.g. Hyginus 1 82.6–9, 4.14–17; cf. ���� for Rome e.g. Dion. Hal. 2.7.4, Festus 204.24 s.v. Obscum), although the assignatio of ager publicus to colonies is not attested before the late second century BC. 40  For a summary of the inscriptional evidence for women as priests and cult officials, see Schultz 2006: 47–93. Notably, women were magistrae, and only a woman could be a sacerdos (sacerdos nequis vir eset), in the Bacchic cult of the early second century BC.

41   The importance of collective female worship is also highlighted, for instance, by the way Vitruvius 3.3.3 in his analysis of temple layouts casually refers to matrons at the temple of Fortuna Equestris: they ought to go up the steps arm in arm to supplicate the deity, but the intercolumniations prevent this and so they were obliged to enter one by one. (The cult, by the way, was one with military associations, vowed in 180 BC by Q. Fulvius Flaccus following his victory over the Celtiberi with the aid of the equites.) 42   Curia was also one of the terms applied to a colonial senate. The ‘Curia’ of CIL 12..2.379 from Pisaurum appears to be a female personal name: Matre Matuta dono dedro matrona. M’. Curia Pola Livia deda (possibly: “The matrons gave this gift to Mater Matuta. Mania Curia and Pola Livia gave this”). 43   Div. Aurel. 49.6 senatum sive senaculum matronis reddi voluerat, ita ut primae illic quae sacerdotia senatu auctore meruissent. See Hemelrijk 1999: 13–14 (with further references). A conventus matronarum (an official gathering?) watched Galba’s mother-in-law slap Agrippina for attempting to entice him (Suet. Galba 5); the conventus was at Rome, or possibly at Tusculum, where Galba passed his summers (Suet. Galba 3). 44  ������������������������������������������� Later the religious functions of the Roman conventus were sidelined and it became largely a medium for establishing and enforcing social precedence via rules pertaining to dress, display of jewellery, and so on (SHA, Elagabalus 4.4). 45   Votives: De Luca 1984. Inscriptions: CIL 12.368–81 = CIL 12.2, pp. 878–9; ILLRP 12 13–26 = ILS 2970–83 (selected). See e.g. Wachter 1987: 432–7; Vine 1993; Coarelli 2000; Harvey 2006. (Aulus Gellius, NA 18.6 defends the meaning of matrona as a married woman, whether a mother or childless.) 46  So Harvey 2006: 128. Coarelli 2000: 196, 202 argues for the association with viritane settlers focused on a conciliabulum. Would viritane colonists be more, or less, likely to participate in and be influenced by native cults? 47  For another possible instance of collective female religious activity in Italy, note the late fourth/early third century BC funerary inscriptions from the Tomb of the Inscriptions at Vulci which refer to the hatrencu, perhaps a college of priestesses or religious officials “central to the city’s political and civic well-being” (Lundeen 2006: 58; cf. Defosse 2007 for another possible female religious collegium). 48   An ambiguous remark of Catullus’ hints at the possibility that Pisaurum was an unhealthy site (81: praeterquam iste tuus moribunda ab sede Pisauri / hospes inaurata palladior statua). Certainly in the early modern period the town had a reputation for a poor climate, and was malarial in the eighteenth century, until nearby marshes were drained. 49  Further study may show how females in other stages of life, such as unmarried daughters, fitted into colonial religious structures. 50  Schultz (2006: 146) emphasises “the importance of ritual in simultaneously strengthening social distinctions and integrating different groups into society as a whole”. 51  For important new discussions of the level of integration and/or ‘fragmentation’ in Republican Italy, see Jehne & Pfeilschifter 2006.

Abbreviations CIL  Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Berlin. ILLRP  Degrassi, A. 1957. Inscriptiones Latinae liberae rei

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gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

publicae. La Nuova Italia, Florence. ILS  Dessau, H. 1892. Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae. Berlin, Weidemann.

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& C. Smith (eds), Religion in Archaic and Republican Italy: 71–6���������������������������������������� . �������������������������������������� Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh. De Luca, M.T. 1984.  Il lucus Pisaurensis. In M.R. Valazzi (ed.), Pesaro nell’antichità: 71–84. Marsilio, Venice. Dorcey, P. 1992.  The Cult of Silvanus. A Study of Roman Folk Religion. Brill, Leiden. Dougherty, C. 1993.  The Poetics of Colonization. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Edlund-Berry, E. 1994.  Whether goddess, priestess or worshipper: considerations of female deities and cults in Roman religion. In B. Alroth (ed.), Opus Mixtum. ������������ Festschrift in Honor of Gösta Säflund: 25–33. Acta Instituti Romani Regni Sueciae, Stockholm. Fishwick, D. 2004.  The Imperial Cult in the Latin West 3.3. Brill, Leiden. Flemming, R. 2007. Festus and the role of women in Roman religion. In F. Glinister & C. Woods (eds), Verrius, Festus, and Paul. Lexicography, Scholarship, and Society. BICS Supplement 93: 87–108. Institute of Classical Studies, London. Forsén, B. 1996.  Griechische Gliederweihungen. Papers and Monographs of the Finnish Institute at Athens, Helsinki. Gargola, D.J. 1995.  Lands, Laws, and Gods: Magistrates and Ceremony in the Regulation of Public Lands in Republican Rome. University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill. Glinister, F. 2006.  Reconsidering “religious Romanization”. In C.E. Schultze & P.B. Harvey, Jr. (eds), Religion in Republican Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33: 10–33. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Graf, F. 1992.   Heiligtum und Ritual. Das Beispiel der griechisch-römischen Asklepieia. In A. Schachter (ed.), Le sanctuaire grec: 159–99. Fondation Hardt, Geneva Graham, A.J��������������������������������������� . 1980-81.   Religion, women, and Greek colonization. In AA.VV, Religione e città nel mondo antico. Atti centro richerche e documentazione sull’antichità classica, 11: 293–314. Graham, A.J. 1995.  The Odyssey, history, and women. In B. Cohen (ed.), The Distaff Side. Representing the Female in Homer’s Odyssey: 3–16. Oxford University Press,Oxford. Guizzi, F. 1968.  Aspetti giuridici del sacerdozio Romano: il sacerdozio di Vesta. Pubblicazioni della Facoltà giuridica dell’Università di Napoli LXII, Naples. Hänninen, M.-L. 1999.  Juno Regina and the Roman matrons. In P. Setälä & L. Savunen (eds), Female Networks and the Public Sphe������������������� re in Roman Society. Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 22: 39–52. Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, Rome. Harvey, P.B. 2006.  Religion and memory at Pisaurum. In C.E. Schultz & P.B. Harvey, Jr. (eds), Religion in Republican Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 117–36. Hemelrijk, E.A. 1999. Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Elite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London: Routledge. Hodos, T. 1999. ‘Intermarriage in the Western Greek colonies’ in: OJA 18: 61–78. King, H. 2005. ‘Introduction. What is health?’ in H. King (ed.), Health in Antiquity. London: Routlege, 1–11. Livi, V. 2000. ‘Religious locales in the territory of Minturnae:

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Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33: 117–36. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Hemelrijk, E.A. 1999.  Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Elite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. Routledge, London. Hodos, T. 1999.  Intermarriage in the Western Greek colonies. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 18: 61–78. Jehne, M. & Pfeilschifter, R. (eds).  Herrschaft ohne Integration? Rom und Italien in Republikanischer Zeit. Verlag Antike, Frankfurt am Main King, H. 2005.  Introduction. What is health? In H. King (ed.), Health in Antiquity: 1–11. Routlege, London. Livi, V. 2000.  Religious locales in the territory of Minturnae: aspects of Romanization. In C.E. Schultz & P.B. Harvey, Jr. (eds) Religion in Republican Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33: 90–116. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Lundeen, L.E. 2006.  In search of the Etruscan priestess: a reexamination of the hatrencu. In C.E. Schultz & P.B. Harvey, Jr. (eds), Religion in Republican Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33: 34–61. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Marwood, M.A. 1988. The Roman Cult of Salus. BAR International Series �65. BAR Publishing, Oxford. McGinn, T.A.J. 1998. Prostitution, sexuality and the law in ancient Rome. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Morel, J.-P. 1988. Artisanat et colonisation dans l’Italie romaine aux IVe et IIIe siècles av. J.C. Dialoghi di Archeologia, 6: 49–63. Moretti Sgubini, A.M. (ed.). 2001.  Veio, Cerveteri, Vulci. Città d’Etruria a confronto. L’Erma di Bretschneider, Rome. Orlin, E.��������� M. 1997.  Temples, Religion, and Politics in the Roman Republic. Brill, Leiden. Patterson, J.R. 2006.  The relationship of the Italian ruling classes with Rome: friendship, family relations and their consequences. In M. Jehne & R. Pfeilschifter (eds) Herrschaft ohne Integration? Rom und Italien in Republikanischer Zeit.: 139–53 Verlag Antike, Frankfurt am Main. Pensabene, P. 2001.  Le terrecotte del ����������������������� Museo Nazionale Romano 2. Materiali dai depositi votivi di Palestrina: Collezioni ‘Kircheriana’ e Palestrina. Studia ������������������� archeologica 112. L’Erma di Bretschneider, Rome. Potter, T.W. 1989.  Una stipe votiva da Ponte di Nona. De Luca, Rome. Rosenstein, N. 2004.  Rome at War. Farms, Families, and Death in the Middle Republic. University of North Carolina Press,Chapel Hill and London. Rosenstein, N. 2006.  Recruitment and its consequences for Rome and the Italian allies. In M. Jehne & R. Pfeilschifter (eds), Herrschaft ohne Integration? Rom und Italien in Republikanischer Zeit: 227–41. Verlag Antike, Frankfurt am Main. Saller, R.P. 1987.  Men’s age at marriage and its consequences in the Roman family. Classical Philology, 82: 21–34.

Shepherd, G. 1995.  The pride of most colonials: burial and religion in the Sicilian Greek colonies. In T. Fischer-Hansen (ed.), Ancient Sicily. Acta Hyperborea 6: 51–82. Shepherd, G. 1999. Fibulae and females: intermarriage in the Western Greek colonies and the evidence from the cemeteries. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ancient Greeks East and West: 267–300. �������������� Brill, Leiden�. Shepherd, G. 2000.  Greeks bearing gifts: religious relationships between Sicily and Greece in the archaic period. In C.J. Smith & J. Serrati (eds), Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus: . Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh. Shepherd, G. 2005.  Dead men tell no tales: ethnic diversity in Sicilian colonies and the evidence of the cemeteries. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 24: 115–136. Söderlind, M. 2002.  Late Etruscan Votive Heads from Tessennano. Production, Distribution, Sociohistorical Context. Studia Archaeologica 118. L’Erma di Bretschneider, Rome. Tiussi, C. 1999.  Il culto di Esculapio nell’area nord-adriatica. Quasar, Rome. Torelli, M. 1973.  L’area sacra di S. Omobono. In Roma medio repubblicana. Aspetti culturali di Roma e del Lazio nei secoli IV e III a.C.: 100-104. Assessorato antichità, belle arti e problemi della cultura, Rome. Torelli, M. 1999a.  Tota Italia. Essays in the Cultural Formation of Roman Italy. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Torelli, M. 1999b.  Introduzione. In G. Baggieri (ed.), L’antica anatomia nell’arte dei donaria. 2nd edn., ‘Speranza e sofferenza’ nei votivi anatomici dell’antichità: 8–9. Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali, Rome. Turfa, J.M. 1994.  Anatomical votives and Italian medical traditions. In R.D. De Puma & J.P. Small (eds), Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria: 224– 40. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, Wisconsin. Turfa, J.M. 2006.  Was there room for healing in the healing sanctuaries? Archiv für Religionsgeschichte, 8: 63–80. Vine, B. 1993.  Studies in Archaic Latin Inscriptions. Institut für Sprachwissenschaft, Innsbruck. Wachter, R. 1987.  Altlateinische Inschriften. Peter Lang, Bern. Weaver, P.R.C. 1991.  Children of freedmen (and freedwomen). In B. Rawson (ed.), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome: 166–190. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Webster, J. 2001.  Creolizing the Roman provinces. American Journal of Archaeology, 105: 209–25. Westerkamp, M.J. 1999.  Women and Religion in Early America, 1600-1850. Routledge, London. Wickkiser, B. 2003.  The Appeal of Asklepios and the Politics of Healing in the Greco-Roman World. Phd, University of Tex������������� as at Austin. Winkler, L. 1995.  Salus. Vom Staatskult zur politischen Idee. Eine archaeologische Untersuchung. Archaeologie und Geschichte, Band 4. Verlag Archaeologie und Geschichte, Heidelberg.

Scheidel, W. 2004.  Human mobility in Roman Italy, I: the free population. Journal of Roman Studies, 94: 1–26. Schultz, C.E. 2000.  Modern prejudice and ancient praxis: female worship of Hercules at Rome. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 133: 291–7. Schultz, C.E. 2006.   Women’s Religious Activity in the Roman Republic. Chapel ill: University of North Carolina Press. Schultz, C.E. and P.B. Harvey, Jr. (eds) 2006.  Religion in Republican Italy. Yale Classical Studies 33. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. 126

Women and the Romanisation of Etruria Vedia Izzet introduction

I would like to discuss some toilet objects from Tarquinia within the context of the social, political and cultural changes that are commonly grouped together under the heading of Romanisation. I intend to use these objects to examine this process of change through looking at ideas of the body and the presentation of the self. Of course, in Etruria, we do not have any bodies to examine, but we do have a large number of objects relating to the things that Etruscans did to their bodies. These include mirrors, and also a range of instruments such as probes and dippers, pots and jars, etc. It is my contention here, put very simplistically, that we can read back from these objects to the processes that they were used for, and thus to the mental frameworks that developed those processes. This is not something new in archaeology. My work on archaic Etruscan mirrors was based, to a large extent (though framed in a different way), on these principles (Izzet 2007: 43–86), and the last 10–15 years have seen the refinement of theories of the body developed in the social sciences, and in archaeological enquiries into ancient views of the body (e.g. Shilling 1993). Studies in other areas of what was to become the Roman Empire, where the role of the body in mediating Romanisation has been considered, have provided stimulating parallels for Etruria. The first part of this paper will examine the basis and results of these studies. It will look at examples from pre-Roman Iron Age Britain, Roman Britain and Gaul, in order to see how changes in assemblages of toilet instruments, (the so-called technology of the self), have been interpreted in terms of Romanisation. The second part of the paper will examine a small group of tombs from Tarquinia that contained mirrors and other toilet instruments. I hope that these groups will help set the process of bodily adornment and transformation within the context of the cultural changes Romanisation implies. Finally, in an attempt to contextualise the results from these tomb groups, I will examine some recent studies that focus on the nature of cultural change in Etruria during this period. To begin, the first of many caveats: though I have used the term Romanisation several times so far, the term itself has come under almost as much scrutiny as the process it (no longer?) describes. Led by studies in Britain and Gaul, the nature and extent of the transformation of the worlds of the Mediterranean and Northwestern Europe that took place during the centuries immediately before and after the turn of the millennium has come under, first, extreme critique, and then reconsideration and reformulation. The result is that it is now impossible to use the word Romanisation without inverted commas, and it is with those commas

implicit, that I use it here (see for example, Millett 1990; Mattingly 2002). Second, the title of this paper contains the word women. At the risk of disappointment, I will not examine women specifically. I will examine the wider concept of changing attitudes towards the body, both male and female. Mirrors are generally associated with women, and it is commonly stated that when they are found with suitable skeletal evidence, they are generally found with female skeletons. However, in different ways Nigel Spivey and Bouke van der Meer have argued for the male use of mirrors (Spivey 1991: 62; Van der Meer 1995: 13–27), and the results of the excavations at Tarquinia provide increasing evidence of male depositions containing mirrors. The objects are therefore entangled not only in the distinction between male and female (in which they play an undoubtedly significant part) but they are also integrated into approaches to the body more broadly. 1. 

technologies of the self

The term ‘technologies of the self’ is derived from Foucault, who had a much wider purview for it than the narrower sense of toilet equipment in which I use it here (Foucault 1984). As in most disciplines in the Humanities, the work of Foucault has penetrated archaeological studies, both explicitly and implicitly, to such an extent that discussing him is now rather old hat. However, it is still worth remembering why he has been so fundamental for archaeologists, and for students of the body in particular. The most relevant aspect of his work here is that explored by Julian Thomas in his discussion of the ‘constitution of the subject’ (Thomas 1989). That is the acknowledgement that the self is not an objective thing, created by external factors or self-generated; it is rather a subjective notion or an act of interpretation. In other words, the sense of who one is emanates from many interpretations and re-assessments of oneself in the light of the world around us. In this Foucault follows Lacan – the subject becomes aware of itself by inserting itself into the play of creating meaning (Lacan 1977). What Foucault adds is the importance of time in this process: Foucault insists that this play in the creation of meaning takes place within a temporal framework – the discourse of the self – and is thus open to transformation and transfiguration. The ‘other’ against which, and with which, the individual is re-interpreting itself, is, in turn, in the process of reinterpreting itself. The way that individuals do this is through the use of a set of media that can transform the self – the ‘technology of the self’. They transform their bodies, the way that they think, feel, and experience the world. Technologies of the self include education, theories of morality, religion, hygiene, sexual behaviour, as well as

vedia izzet:  women and the romanisation of etruria

the more obvious technologies of transforming the outside of the body. If the development of the self is carried out through changing technologies of the self, then changes in the technology of the self are related to changes in the development of the self. This is how Foucault argues his history of sexuality, so that (what he considers) the Classical Greek model is characterised by ‘care of the self’, where the self is seen as a thing of beauty that can be worked on to improve its beauty further by a series of techniques such as listening to argument, practising restraint, etc. The Christian model, by contrast involves the ‘renunciation of the self’, with a new technology of the mortification of the flesh, the development of the monastic ideal, etc. In the last, modern, model, the key to the self is no longer associated with religion, but is hidden, waiting to be revealed by techniques such as psychoanalysis (Foucault 1985).

gives one of the most evocative accounts of these objects that I have come across in the archaeological literature, and it is worth giving you his words rather than mine: “These objects would have been used in a range of delicate tasks involving the careful cleaning or preparation of different parts of the human body, especially the hands, and face. Small tweezers could have been used for plucking the hair from ears, eyebrows, beard or moustache. Nail cleaners had a small flat, notched blade for removing grime from under finger and toe nails. The ear scoops/ picks… are related to a range of similar probes, spatulae and ligulae which… could be used in a wide range of activities… All could also have been used with the end wrapped in wool or similar material for removing or applying cosmetics, or for applying medicinal remedies to the ears or eyes. The ends of such objects could have been used to push back cuticle, to clean wax from the ears, or to extract cosmetics from their narrow containers” (Hill 1997: 98).

Though this reading of Foucault is necessarily oversimplified, and many of the ‘key’ characteristics of the development of the self have been challenged on an individual, historical, basis, the importance of this work endures in highlighting the changing nature of how individuals consider the world and their place within it – stating the obvious now perhaps, but that is testimony to the way in which Foucault’s work has suffused work in the Social Sciences. It is now a given that ideas of the body, the presentation of the body and the self, ideas of the world, religion and morality are part of a constantly changing interplay between individuals and the world around them; as a result they are slippery, mutable and contingent.

Other objects he lists include shears (some 10cm long) for trimming beard and hair, ‘pestle’ and ‘mortar’ sets for mixing and applying very small quantities of cosmetics, and polished bronze mirrors. All these objects, which are considered by Hill to be part of the ‘technology of the body’, are newly represented in burial during and after the period of Roman conquest. They formed part of new activities connected with the management, maintenance and improvement of at least some people’s bodies. Following Foucault, he argues that these activities related to changing ideas of how people should present their bodies, and that these were linked to wider changes in individuals’ lifestyles, aspirations and identities. The daily actions and practices of the care and presentation of the body were thus part of a dynamic sense of the self and the self in society. Importantly, these practices were not simply for display; instead they were incorporated into the daily, unthinking, actions of individuals in the way they constituted themselves. Conversely, cleaning your ears may not be noticeable, but the practice was part of a complex ‘package’ of changing notions of hygiene, dirt, pollution, etc., which are linked to a far broader view and categorisation of the world.

These ideas have been used to question the nature of the individual in the past. Their relevance here is more specific, and more literal, in the impact that they have had on the way archaeologists have examined changes in the treatment of the body, and concurrent changes in mindset or subjectivity. This approach has had a particularly profound influence in J.D. Hill’s study of the role of toilet objects in the process of Romanisation in Britain (Hill 1997). Hill distinguishes between the macro-scale approaches to Romanisation that concentrate on core-periphery interaction, macroscale economic changes, social transformations, etc., and smaller, more mundane, everyday micro-changes, such as housing, dress, food and drink, hygiene, etc. Importantly, he argues that is too easy to see these micro-changes as the effect of the larger, ‘more important’ macro-scale changes, rather than as essential elements in the changes overall. In this he draws on the work of Ferris, Meadows and Hingley in showing that, respectively, brooches and dress, ceramic repertoire, and dining and building form were all central to the wider process of cultural transformation known as Romanisation (Ferris 1994; Hingley 1990; Meadows 1995). Turning to toilet equipment, he notes that it is extremely rare to find such objects in Iron Age Britain, and that such objects only become common as part of ‘Romanisation’, when a class of objects, hinting at the range of delicate activities to do with the care of the body, such as applying make-up, trimming or plucking hair, or cleaning nails, appears in the archaeological record. Hill

These differently presented bodies of the post-conquest period were, according to Hill, not the result of the civilising influence of Rome, but rather formed part of what it was to live in Britain after the conquest. Romanisation was not only a process of social or political transformation, but also a change in notions of the self. The body of the individual at this time was the locus for the linking of the minute practices of personal adornment with the largescale re-organisation of power. Put more simply, it was the locus of becoming Roman. Which neatly brings me onto my second example. Greg Woolf’s discussion of the role of terra sigillata in the process of becoming Roman may well be familiar to many 128

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

readers (Woolf 1998). Less familiar perhaps is a short discussion by him of the Gallo-Roman body and its role in the cultural conflict that often resulted from the Roman presence in Gaul (Woolf 2001). He sets his study within the wider context of the Romanisation of Gaul, and the widespread changes typical of that phenomenon: the importance of the local élite in brokering Roman culture, new settlement patterns, new styles of monumentality, new religious forms (such as the imperial cult) and new tastes. To this he adds a new notion of the body. His data are the representations of Gallo-Roman individuals on the trophies and monumental arches set up in the first century AD, in which he sees a sharp contrast between the representation of barbarians and Romans. The ‘civilised body’ is represented as clean-shaven, with short hair, and restrained gestures. What is important here is not that this is a biased Roman view of the world (which, of course, it is), but that these differences in body image were ones that were significant and elaborated in the emergent GalloRoman world. What is particularly interesting about this example (and here it fits in well with other discussions that stress the mediating role of the élites) is that this difference is drawn by Gallo-Romans themselves. In other words they portray themselves according to the same notions of bodily civilisation as the Romans did, with limbs held close to the body in restraint, wearing a toga, with closecropped hairstyles, and, notably, they lack the display of wealth in heavy jewellery of their ancestors. Taken together, this, Woolf argues, is a sign of the internalisation by Gallo-Romans of the Roman ideals of body image. A final aspect of this is the heavy expenditure on baths, bathing complexes, and the infrastructure necessary to support them, that took place in Gaul. Bathing in the Roman style would have involved huge expenditure on building materials and the transportation of water, not to mention fuel to heat the water, and olive oil for lighting and for rubbing into the body. Thus significant aspects of what we would consider landscape and infrastructure were remodelled in order to create a new body image. Furthermore, the practices of Roman bathing, with its strict temporal constriction (according to class or gender or both) would have had an impact on the rhythm of Gallo-Roman days – the importance of bathing before dinner, and thus separating business (in the morning) from pleasure (dining in the evening) by protracted attention to the body.

survival of the bifid form is unique to Roman Britain, and thus they argue it is evidence of a distinct regional type that survived the conquest and was part of a peculiarly Romano-British toolkit of body maintenance. They also argue that nail cleaners, along with other toilet instruments were suspended from the body on chatelaine rings. Though this area is relatively unexplored by the authors, such a suggestion would highlight the process of selfrepresentation and the transformation of the body, by bringing it from the domestic and quotidian to the public arena. The effect would not only have been visual: the instruments would have jangled against each other if, as the authors suggest, the chatelaines were suspended from a belt, bringing themselves to the attention of others both visually and aurally. If we apply the arguments of Hill and Woolf, this unique toolkit would have been part of the equally unique Romano-British sense of self. The high visibility and audibility of this distinct set of instruments could be read as a loud statement of that individuality. Whatever the potential for this line of enquiry, more important here is the work of Eckardt and Crummy in highlighting the differential impact of Romanisation on local populations and their attitudes towards their bodies. They do not go as far as telling us whether late RomanoBritons, in contrast to Woolf’s Gallo-Romans, an even Hill’s late Iron Age Britons, maintained an indigenous conception of the body and how it should look, but this is surely a theoretical possibility at least. 2. 

tarquinian assemblages

The aim of the next section of this paper is to see whether, and to what extent, the conception and presentation of the self changed in Etruria during the time of Romanisation. In order to do this, my starting point was my previous work on mirrors. There I took the sudden appearance of mirrors in the burial record as part of precisely the kind of change in conceptions of the self that Hill, Woolf, and Eckardt and Crummy argued for in their respective studies. That study focused on the late-sixth and fifth centuries. Now I would like to turn to the period from the fourth century to the time of Augustus, in order to see how toilet equipment (including mirrors) were drawn into and constituted the cultural process of changed called Romanisation. The Calvaro area of the Monterozzi cemetery at Tarquinia formed part of the Lerici excavations of the 1960s and 70s. The publication of the results have been in several stages: Lucia Cavagnaro and Francesca Ridgway published the tomb groups that contained red-figure vases in 1989, and to these were added a further seven tombs from the same zone by Cavagnaro in 1996 (Cavangaro & Serra Ridgway 1989; Cavagnaro 1996). It is this latter publication that forms the basis of the following discussion. Of the 26 published tombs in the zone, only 10 contained mirrors (though some contained more than one mirror). From these tombs, I collected material that was relevant to the presentation of the body. This included, of course, the mirrors, and also unguentaria, lekythoi, probes, etc. I have followed the dating in Cavagnaro in dividing the contents of the tombs into different phases if this was possible, and this results in

My final example is Helle Eckardt and Nina Crummy’s analysis of late Roman nail-cleaner strap-ends from Britain (Eckardt & Crummy 2006). Here again, despite the mundane nature of the function of these objects, they are, as artefacts involved in self-representation, involved in many different aspects of identity. However, what Eckardt and Crummy stress is the regional specificity of responses to Romanisation. The nail-cleaner strap-ends (– there is ambiguity over their function) date from the Late Empire – from the late-third and fourth centuries AD. The form – a bifid tip (J.D. Hill’s ‘notched blade’) – survived the Roman conquest in Britain, but on the Continent it was replaced by a single pick. A further peculiarity of the Romano-British assemblages is the presence of cosmetics grinders. Eckardt and Crummy argue that the 129

vedia izzet:  women and the romanisation of etruria

14 assemblages (see Appendix). These appeared to form three chronological clusters: the first from the mid fourth to the third century (eight assemblages); the second from the late-third to the second century (three assemblages); and the third that comprised the first century BC (three assemblages). Table 1 summarises the distribution of objects according to these clusters. Date (centuries)

4-3

4-3?

3-2

3-2?

1

1?

6

1

4

0

0

1

10

22

9

6

4

5

probes, etc

0

4

0

1

0

1

strigils

0

9

0

4

0

4

pyxis

0

1

0

1

0

1

mirrors unguentaria, etc.

the first chronological cluster covers almost twice as much time as the other two, and that there are (possibly as a result) over twice the number of assemblages in the cluster. In fact, if the figures for the first cluster are simply halved and allotted to a century each there would be a peak in the second cluster for mirrors and unguentaria at least. So we have a gradual diminution of the numbers of objects, but the retention of the whole range of object types. So, what can we say about the changing patterns of toilet objects from this sample at Tarquinia? How can we see the cultural transformations associated with Romanisation played out in the assemblages relating to the representation of the self? It does not appear to me that the changes in the data are particularly patterned or structured. The decrease in number of toilet objects over time (if we can really argue for one) corresponds with a decrease in the number of objects deposited in the grave in general, and the retention of the general panoply of toilet objects suggests that these objects carried similar functions and meanings in the fourth and the first (or at least second) century BC.

Table 1  Numbers of types of object according to chronological cluster Cluster 1:  mid fourth–third century

Disappointingly, the repertoire of toilet objects, in this sample from Tarquinia at least, does not appear to show a major change in its composition, and thus in the representation of the self as a result of Romanisation.

For ease of description the objects in this cluster can be grouped according to their function. There are at least six mirrors (or handles of mirrors) in this group, and possible a seventh. One is decorated with an image of a satyr. There are 10 bottles or jars for oil, perfume or ointments (unguentaria, lekythoi, alabastra), and a further 22 associated with this cluster but not certainly dating from it. Of the material associated with this cluster there are four probes, or other toilet instruments, nine strigils, and one pyxis or cosmetics box. As Cavagnaro notes, strigils have not been the subject of the detailed study that they deserve, and thus we are without chronological pegs for this type of object, though there is a tendency to place bronze ones earlier than iron ones.

Before going on to discuss the implications of this, and to contextualise this result (or lack or it) with studies of the Romanisation of Etruria more widely, I would like to highlight some of the problems with the data, and to suggest ways of making the results more robust in future work. First, the sample size is, of course, pitiful. Second, the selection of the original sample bears little relation to the research question asked here – it is the result of making do with what we have. In the future, consultation of Ridgway’s less selective and more methodical publication of the Scataglini excavation reports would provide a better data-set than the publication of Cavagnaro (Ridgway 1996). As a result of a better-selected and larger sample size, it should then be possible to interrogate the data in further ways. For example, it should be possible to test whether the fall off in toilet objects is matched proportionally by the fall off in other objects. It should also be possible to re-distribute the objects in cluster 1 (at least numerically) in order to get a better weighting of any trends in the data. Finally, it should be possible to test whether objects that remain in the deposited sample are deposited in association, or whether they are spread across the burying sample and may be acting totemically, rather than as part of a group of associated objects. Furthermore, it would be interesting to introduce data from other sites within the territory of Tarquinia in order to see whether there are any changes between the large urban centre and smaller towns. Colonna and Colonna’s publications of Castel d’Asso and Norchia might provide the appropriate starting point for such a study (Colonna di Paolo & Colonna 1970; 1978). A problem that would in most part persist regards chronology. Toilet objects are some of the most difficult to date, so they tend to float over large

Cluster 2:  late third–second century This cluster contains four mirrors, and nine cosmetics bottles, with a possible further six. There is one probe associated with the cluster, four strigils and one (the same!) pyxis. Cluster 3:  first century Only one mirror, and it is only associated with this cluster. There are four cosmetics bottles, with a possible further five, one implement, four strigils and, again, the undated pyxis! Patterns In trying to find patterns in the data, there appears to be little change in the object types represented in each cluster. In other words all object types are found in all chronological periods. Moving from looking at absence/presence to numbers, there does appear to be a general decrease in the number of objects deposited, so that the individuals buried in some of the later tombs are not being buried with some of the objects. However, it should be borne in mind that 130

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

chunks of time. This is particularly a problem in disturbed tombs (all too common in Etruria) and in tombs in which the depositions span several generations – without intact tombs and meticulous excavation recording (both of which are not absent at Tarquinia) it is impossible to assign the toilet objects to a particular deposition or time.

and social organisation of the Etruscan élites, and a pattern that this élite was at great pains (successfully) to maintain despite the ‘Romanisation’ of the region. The cultural continuity suggested by the continuity in the settlement pattern has been echoed in the excavation of a small farmstead in the valley. The site of San Mario shows conservatism in architecture, landscape exploitation and tenancy from the fourth century BC until the fifth century AD. The use and re-use of certain building types, methods of production and modes of land control were therefore ways in which these institutions were re-inscribed on the lives of Etruscans and their descendants.

However, with all that said, we have to work with what we have. Given that so far, we have found little indication of a significant impact of Romanisation on the way Tarquinians thought of their bodies, let us now turn to studies of Romanisation elsewhere and using other sorts of data. 3. 

In the same period, ceramics were incorporated into the negotiation of issues of cultural change and conservatism. In his study of the so-called ‘black-glaze’ pottery of the region Roth has elaborated the role that pottery style, technique and use played both in maintaining social and economic stability for non-élites, and in the retention of political and cultural power by the élites of Volterra (Roth 2007).

romanisation and etruria

The traditional picture of the Romanisation of Etruria as a dramatic upheaval involving numerous bloody military encounters not far short of ethnic cleansing has been rejected for some time, and this is due in no small part to the work of Terrenato in the territory of Volterra (Terrenato 1998). In an analysis of a field survey project that investigated settlement evidence of the Cecina Valley, the changing number of settlements between the ‘Hellenistic’ and Republican periods was described as an ‘anticlimax’ (Terrenato 1998: 96). Terrenato compared the number and type of settlements before and after the Roman conquest – the third and second centuries BC with the late first century BC and early first century AD – and saw a far slighter change in the pattern than conventional accounts of Romanisation would suggest. There was only a modest decline in the number of sites in this period traditionally characterised as one of dramatic change in the region. This result has been echoed elsewhere in Etruria – for example in the results of the Civitela Cesi survey, which showed a similarly minimal disruption of the existing pattern of settlement size and distribution, and the apparently undramatic assimilation of Roman settlers within the Etruscan landscape (Hemphill 1993; 2000).

Finally, Revell’s work on the Latin epigraphy of the region has produced interesting and parallel results (Revell 2005). Revell’s starting point is the now well-established position that though epitaphs are not an accurate reflection of the demographics of death, yet they are subject to cultural bias nevertheless. Epitaphs that record age are biased towards those who die at socially significant ages or points in the life-course. When analysed in terms of age and gender, the epitaphs therefore give an indication of the structure of Italian society under Rome. Revell divided her central Italian sample according to the Augustan Regions. She treated Regions 4–6 (Samnium, Picenum and Umbria) together, but the different nature of the epitaphs from Region 7 (Etruria) was so immediately apparent that she treated it alone; furthermore, for the same reason, the examples from Tarquinia were a separate sub-category again. Her analysis shows a clustering of commemorations in the first 30 years of life in all regions, indicating an important transition from one life stage to another at about 30 or 40 years of age. The most popular ages for commemoration for males were 25, 21 and 17. These roughly match the historical evidence for the different stages in a man’s career: the change from boy to iuvenis, and the swapping of the toga praetexta for the toga virilis at age 14–15; the beginning of military service at roughly age 18, and the beginning of a political career at about 25 years of age. For females, girls became women on marriage in their mid to late teens, an age supported by both the epigraphy and the historical data.

In fact, the most significant change in the occupation pattern of the landscape of Etruria appears to have been in the earlier period. The late sixth century evidence from different surveys in Etruria (South Etruria, Albegna Valley, Tuscania, Civitella Cesi and Cerveteri) suggests an intensification of landscape exploitation in a wide chronological penumbra ranging from the late-seventh century to the fifth century; the earliest evidence from the Cecina survey fits in well at the later end of this range, in suggesting that a significant increase in the occupation of the landscape took place in the Hellenistic period, evinced by a massive increase in the number of small rural sites (small scatters of 100–2,000m2) that were widely distributed throughout the area surveyed (Izzet 2007: 199–202).

However, Revell’s analysis of Region 7 (Etruria), shows the difference between this Region and the others clearly. There are no peaks in the late teens or twenties, and instead a peak in the late twenties, followed by consistent commemoration up to the age of about 50. The approach to commemoration and the life-course diverges from that of Regions 4–6 even more markedly in the data for Tarquinia alone. Unlike Regions 4–6, and 7 (excluding Tarquinia), where men are twice as likely to be commemorated as

What is very striking about the Cecina data is the absence, as Terrenato points out, of villa sites except along the periphery of Volterran territory. These villas did not disrupt the rural landscape of the region in the way previously postulated for Southern Etruria, and for the Ager Cosanus in particular. Instead, these rural villas appear to fit into, and leave largely unchanged, the pre-existing, Etruscan settlement pattern, a pattern that was integral to the landownership structures 131

vedia izzet:  women and the romanisation of etruria

women, in Tarquinia, women were more likely to be commemorated than men – with a 55/45 per cent female/ male split. In addition there is a marked emphasis on later life, with peaks for men and women in their 60s and 70s. From this Revell deduces that there was a very different age and gender structure in Tarquinia.

Tarquinia (27.8 for both men and women); whereas Tarquinia has a startlingly different figure of 41 for women and 40 for men in the Etruscan epitaphs, and 44 for women and 45 for men in the later ‘Romanised’ examples. This appears to be another aspect of age structure that continues between the Etruscan and Roman phases of Tarquinian history. Revell’s findings have recently been augmented by one of her students, who carried out similar analysis of the regions of Cisalpine Gaul. This confirmed the peculiar nature of epitaphs in Roman Etruria within the Italian context north of Rome (Taylor 2007).

Further peculiarities in the data can be seen in the discussion of epitaphs from Region 7 (excluding Tarquinia), which show a preference for the early decades, but that women dominate until age 30, then men from then on. In the data from Tarquinia there is no early peak, but there is a preference for commemorating females aged 1–10, followed by equal numbers of commemorations, followed by a preference for men.

4. 

conclusion

The picture that emerges form these studies is that Romanisation was not as dramatic a feature of the second half of the first millennium BC as traditional accounts would suggest. In the structure of the landscape and in the age and gender structure of the region, there appears to be minimal impact from the process of Romanisation, so dramatically conjured up in the past. The data from the toilet equipment at Tarquinia appears to fit into such a picture.

This analysis presents a very high-grained interpretation of the epigraphic data. It presents clear differences in commemoration between different groups in Roman Italy. The relevance of this for the Romanisation of Etruria is evident when these figures are compared with Nielsen’s work on the Etruscan epigraphy of South Etruria and Volterra. The picture of age and gender structuring in the later Latin epitaphs are an echo of the earlier Etruscan picture (Nielsen 1989).

Interestingly, Terrenato’s work suggests that the major change in the organisation of the landscape took place between the seventh and fifth centuries. It would be interesting to explore whether this corresponds to a similarly impressive change in the nature of funerary commemoration. However, it certainly does coincide with a significant change in the composition of toilet objects: the sudden appearance of mirrors in burials from the late sixth century.

Nielsen’s data show peaks in Etruscan commemoration between the ages of 20 and 30 (where it is more noticeable for men) and 50 and 60 (where it is more noticeable for women). This has been correlated with the points at which a man may become a magistrate, and a woman a grandmother or great-grandmother. However, interestingly, differences between Nielsen’s and Revell’s data-sets indicate differences in the impact of Romanisation. The material from Volterra and Tarquinia suggest that new customs were adopted (such as the increased emphasis in Revell’s data on ages 20–30), yet the earlier Etruscan respect for older women is retained throughout the Roman period. Similarly when the most common ages at death are compared, Rome has the lowest (24 for men, 21 for women), then Region 7 without

Acknowledgements I am grateful to K. Lomas and E. Herring for inviting me to participate in the original conference and the publication of its proceedings. Two readers, Matthew Johnson and Robert Shorrock, made very helpful comments, as did audiences in London and Southampton.

132

gender identities in italy in the first millennium bc

appendix: chronological clusters of grave goods, calvario, tarquinia

G =group Datable objects = i.e. objects that conform to the date of the tomb Undatable objects = objects also found in the tomb (I) = phase within a tomb Shaded area = undated objects that may belong to a later phase of the tomb BG = Black Glaze Cluster 1:  4th-3rd centuries BC (200 years) G

Tomb no.

Date

Datable objects

Undatable objects

Notes

1

3459

L4

Mirror Unguentarium

Iron strigil

2

842.1593

4–Aug

Lekythos 2hlf4 Mirror L3-E2

10 unguentaria in fragments Tip of mirror handle Iron strigil? 4 alabastra Bone mirror handle Bone spatula (102mm) Probe (170 mm; hand at end)

Impossible to phase

3

5612 (I)

M4–M3

3 unguentaria

Mirror (in 5 fragments) Iron strigil Bone listello di rivestimento

(see no. 13, below)

4

752 (I)

L4–M3

Mirror (satyr)

Bronze strigil Iron strigil Alabastron Tiny lekythos

(see nos 11 & 12, below)

5

5654

L4–M3

6

5434

L4–3

7

1786 (I)

L4–3

8

1686

L4–E2

Mirror 2 iron strigils Small vase with narrow neck Mirror + handle

2 unguentaria in fragments Iron strigil Glass unguentarium Bone probe? BG Pyxis 3 unguentaria Iron strigil

5 Unguentaria Mirror handle

(see no. 10, below)

Iron strigil fragment Alabastron

Cluster 2: late 3rd-2nd Century BC (over 100 years) G

Tomb no.

Date

Datable objects

Undatable objects

9

6093

L3–E2

2 box mirrors 3 unguentaria

Small vase with lid Iron tweezers Iron strigil

10

1786 (II)

L3–1

mirror

BG Pyxis 3 unguentaria Iron strigil

(see no. 14, below)

11

752 (II)

L3–2

Mirror 6 unguentaria

Bronze strigil Iron strigil Alabastron Tiny lekythos

(see, no. 12, below)

133

Notes

vedia izzet:  women and the romanisation of etruria

Cluster 3:  1st century BC (100 years) G

Tomb no.

Date

Datable objects

Undatable objects

12

752 (III)

1

Unguentarium

Bronze strigil Iron strigil Alabastron Tiny lekythos

13

5612 (II)

1–Aug

3 unguentaria

Mirror (in 5 fragments) Iron strigil Bone listello di rivestimento

14

1786 (III)

1–Aug

Notes

BG Pyxis 3 unguentaria Iron strigil

Bibliography

Lacan, J. 1977.  Ecrits, A Selection. Tavistock, London.

Cavagnaro, L. & Serra Ridgway F. 1989.  Vasi etruschi a figure rosse. Dagli scavi della Fondazione Lerici nella necropoli dei Monterozzi a Tarquinia. Studia Archaeologica 51. “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, Rome.

Mattingly. D. 2002.  Vulgar and weak ‘Romanization’, or time for a paradigm shift? Journal of Roman Archaeology, 15: 536–41.

Cavagnaro, L. 1996.  Tombe tarquiniense di età ellenistica. Catalogo di ventisei tombe a camera scoperte dalla Fondazione Lerici in località Calvario. Studia Archaeologica 82. “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, Rome.

Meadows, K. 1995.  You are what you eat: identity and Romanization. In S. Cottam, D. Dungworth, S. Scott & J. Taylor (eds), Proceedings of the Fourth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference: 133–40. Oxbow Books, Oxford.

Colonna di Paolo, E. & Colonna, G. 1970.  Castel D’Asso. Le necropoli rupestri dell’Etruria Meridionale, vol. 1. Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome.

Millett, M. 1990.  The Romanisation of Britain. An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Colonna di Paolo, E. & Colonna, G. 1978.  Norchia. Le necropoli rupestri dell’Etruria Meridionale, vol. 2. Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Rome. Eckardt, H. & Crummy, N. 2006.  ‘Roman’ or ‘native’ in Britain: the evidence of late Roman nail-cleaner strap-ends. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 25.1: 83–103. Ferris, I. 1994.  Shopper’s paradise: consumers in Roman Britain. In P. Rush (ed.), Proceedings of the Second Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference: 132–40. Avebury, Aldershot. Foucault, M. 1984.  Technologies of the self. In L. Martin, H. Gutman & P. Hutton (eds), The Technologies of the Self. A Seminar with Michel Foucault: 16–49. Tavistock, London.

Nielsen, M. 1989.  Woman and family in a changing society: a quantitative approach to Etruscan burials. Analecta Romana Instituti Danici, 17–18: 53–98. Revell, L. 2005.  The Roman life course: a view from the inscriptions. European Journal of Archaeology, 8.1: 43–63. Ridgway, F. 1996.  I corredi del Fondo Scataglini a Tarquinia. Comune di Milano, Raccolte archeologiche e numismatiche, Milan. Roth, R.E. 2007.  Styling Romanisation. Pottery and Society in Central Italy. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Shilling, C. 1993.  The Body in Social Theory. Sage, London.

Penguin,

Spivey, N.J. 1991.  The power of women in Etruscan society. Accordia Research Papers, 2: 55–67.

Hemphill, P. 1993.  The Romans in the San Giovenale area. Opuscula Romana, 19: 45–53.

Taylor, G.  2007. Why call them back from heaven? Unpublished undergraduate dissertation, Archaeology, School of Humanities, University of Southampton.

Foucault, M. 1985.  The Harmondsworth.

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Hemphill, P. 2000.  Archaeological Investigations in Southern Etruria, Vol. 1: The Civitella Cesi Survey. Acta Instituti Romani Regni Sueciae, series prima in 4º, XXVIII. The Swedish Institute at Rome. Paul Åstroms Förlag, Rome. Hill, J.D. 1997.  The end of one kind of body and the beginning of another kind of body? Toilet instruments and ‘Romanization’ in southern England during the first century AD. In A. Gwilt & C. Haselgrove (eds), Reconstructing Iron Age Societies. New Approaches to the British Iron Age: 96–107. Oxbow Monograph 71. Oxbow Books, Oxford. Hingley, R. 1990.  Domestic organisation and gender relations in Iron Age and Romano-British households. In R. Samson (ed.), The Social Archaeology of Houses: 125–49. Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh. Izzet, V. 2007.  The Archaeology of Etruscan Society. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Terrenato, N. 1998.  Tam firmum municipium. The Romanization of Volterrae and its cultural implications. Journal of Roman Studies, 88: 94–114. Thomas, J. 1989.  The technologies of the self and the constitution of the subject. Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 8: 101–107. Van der Meer, B. 1995.  Interpretatio Etrusca. Greek Myths on Etruscan Mirrors. J.C. Gieben, Amsterdam. Woolf, G. 1998.  Becoming Roman. The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Woolf, G. 2001.  The Roman Cultural Revolution in Gaul. In S. Keay & N. Terrenato (eds), Italy and the West. Comparative Issues in Romanization: 173–86. Oxbow Books, Oxford.

134

Ethnicity and the costume of the Roman bride Karen K. Hersch Vergil famously identifies the toga as the national emblem of the Romans par excellence in the first book of the Aeneid as Jupiter gives empire without end to the “masters of the human race, the people who wear the toga” (...rerum dominos gentemque togatam, 1.282). While Jupiter’s pronouncement prophesies not only the future might of the Romans, but also the future emblem of that might, his words neatly cut from this inheritance of power half of the adult Roman people, the ones who do not wear the toga, adult Roman women. Roman literature makes clear that the components of the Roman matron’s costume – the stola, palla, and vittae­ – were immediately recognisable to other Romans (cf. Ovid, Pont. 3.3.52-53; Tr. 2.247-248). The head covering and long dress marked the matron as chaste while at the same time were meant to protect and conceal her matronly chastity. The costume of the bride also symbolises chastity, but in addition was connected to the very ‘foremothers’ of the Romans: antiquarians placed particular emphasis on the ways in which the bride’s costume and the events surrounding her reflected the blend of ancient Italian cultures which would merge to become the Roman people. The false stealing of the bride from her mother, the spear which parted the bride’s hair, the wedding-cry T(h)alassio, the torches which accompanied her as well as the ritual by which the bride was helped over the threshold of her new home were said to be of Sabine origin.1 The first tunica recta, the bride’s dress, was woven by the great Etruscan queen Tanaquil, and the Latinised name of Tanaquil was spoken by the bride as she promised herself to her new husband. This heavy-handed emphasis on the great antiquity and Italian provenance of the garments and events of the Roman wedding appears at times a determined effort by Roman authors to pre-empt even the suggestion that any part of the Roman ceremony owed its origin to Greek wedding ritual, although some similarities are too obvious to be ignored, for instance, the prominence of the bridal veil and the torches in the procession. (cf. Oakley and Sinos 1993; Oakley 1995: 63-73). If the antiquarians were right, the Roman bride on her wedding day wore garments that represented the blending of Sabine, Etruscan and Roman cultures as well as highlighted the unique role of women in the combining of the three. The wedding-day was the one day on which the average Roman woman was expected to be the centre of public attention: it was for the Roman girl the analogy of the assumption of the toga virilis for the Roman boy. In this respect, a Roman girl was first considered a

functioning adult on her wedding day. As the bride walked forth carrying the symbols of great women of past and present,2 did her costume proclaim her role in creating, and her share of, the empire without end Vergil insists that Jupiter promised to her people? Or did her dress symbolise something different altogether? The story of Rome’s incorporation of Sabine and Etruscan cultures comprises much of the history of the Regal period, and as is well known, ancient historiographers claimed that the kings of Rome themselves neatly represented this cultural blending: two Sabine, two Etruscan, and two “native” Roman kings ruled over Rome. It may be no surprise that Roman antiquarians claim that the infusion of Sabine and Etruscan blood into the Roman citizen body in the Regal period is commemorated at the Roman wedding, by definition a ceremony which celebrates the mixing of ancestries. What does seem surprising – given that historians like Livy and Dionysius present the (male) kings as patent symbols of the blending of Sabine, Etruscan and Roman bloodlines – is that later antiquarians identify the transmission of this tripartite Italian ancestry in the wedding with the bride alone. The simplicity of the groom’s costume stands in contrast to the elaborate detail and symbolism of the bride’s. We might wonder why, while Vergil tells us that the Trojan blood brought to Italian shores was almost exclusively brought by men, the groom’s garments did not commemorate this Trojan contribution. When Roman authors mention the appearance of the groom, their descriptions imply that the groom’s garb differs little from that which he would wear on any other day;3 to my knowledge, detailed descriptions of the groom’s actual dress are unattested in Roman literature. We assume then that a groom, perfumed and garlanded, would likely wear the cleanest toga he could afford, and perhaps that an impecunious or slave groom would wear a tunic alone. Here the evidence from Roman art may be instructive: Roman grooms on sarcophagi from the classical period are routinely togate (Koch and Sichtermann 1982 passim). While wedding scenes on sarcophagi surely present an ideal view of the wedding, there seems little reason to doubt that the sculptors of these wedding scenes reproduced costumes worn by actual Roman brides and grooms. Finally, it is worth noting that while some ancient authors claim that the toga was Etruscan in origin (Bonfante Warren 1973; Bonfante 1978; Stone 1994), they do not do so in connection to the wedding. We will first investigate the Sabine and Etruscan elements in the costume of, and events surrounding, the bride and

karen k. hersch:  ethnicity and the costume of the roman bride

then examine the ways we might interpret the symbolism of these elements. For it seems that two related conclusions may be drawn: on the one hand, Roman authors describe the ideal Roman bride as a virgin who proudly bore on her person the weight of history as she paraded before her community as a paragon of uniquely Roman virtues. By the end of her wedding day she had become a Roman matron who, living by the virtues displayed in the symbols of the wedding, would henceforth be given the respect due this new title. On the other hand, it seems equally true that many rites of the Roman wedding focus on liminality not just because the bride is between the states of virgin and matron, but because she was about to enter a kind of lifelong liminality as a married woman. Ethnicity plays a key role in the presentation of the new wife as an outsider: the bride’s costume bore symbols of mixed ancestry, while the groom’s seems to have proclaimed Roman citizenship alone. This obvious difference may have driven home to onlookers the message that the bride was, and would continue to be as a matron, an outsider in her new family’s home. Since Arnold Van Gennep coined the term ‘rites of passage’ to describe rituals by which initiates move from one stage of life to another (Van Gennep 1909), rituals of weddings in every culture have been dissected to fit Van Gennep’s categories of separation, transition and incorporation. The Roman wedding is no different (cf. Rage-Brocard 1934). But in fact the symbols of ethnicity in the Roman bride’s costume tell us that her incorporation into her new clan was expected to be an incomplete or ambiguous one. Sabines Both Greek and Roman authors insist that some rituals of the Roman wedding were connected to an event that took place in the shadowy past of Rome: namely, the notorious abduction of the Sabine women. If Festus, writing in the second century AD, is correct, at some point in the wedding there occurred a fictitious stealing of the bride that was meant to re-enact Romulus’ abduction of women (Festus does not explicitly identify the women as Sabine here). At the wedding, someone pretended to wrest the bride from the arms of her mother or a close relative, because a real stealing of brides “had turned out so well for Romulus” (...quod videlicet ea res feliciter Romulo cessit, Fest. 364L, 365L). While other authors speak of the bride snatched from her parents, to my knowledge Festus is the only author to connect this “theft” to the Regal period (cf. Catull. 61.56-60). Perhaps the best attested of the items connecting Sabines to brides was the spear which dressed the bride’s hair.4 In the Roman Questions 87 (=Mor. 285B) Plutarch confirms implicitly that the spear plays a part in Roman weddings at the time of his writing (the latter half of the first century AD), for he speaks of it in the present tense, asking why the Romans part brides’ hair with its point. In his explanation he calls the spear a symbol of the way the “first women” (τὰς πρώτας) married, by force and war, wondering if it is used at the wedding because it suggests that the marriage can only be ended by iron. Plutarch asks if the ritual is

connected to Juno, who is represented as leaning on a spear, and who is called Juno Curitis (Quiritis) because the ancient Romans called a spear a curis, and Romulus is called “Quirinus”. Later in his Life of Romulus (15) he names the girls Sabines, saying that the spear symbolises the warfare that surrounded their marriages. By the end of the second century the spear had become thing of the past, for Festus asserts that Romans “used to arrange” (comebatur) the bride’s hair with it (Fest. 55L). He makes the startling claim that the spear must come from the body of a dead gladiator; the union of the spear and the corpse, he says, symbolises the togetherness of bride and groom. Most importantly Festus too connects the spear to Juno Curitis, adding that the Sabine word for spear is curis (cf. Fest. 43L) and that matrons are in the care of this manifestation of Juno. He also wonders if the use of the spear assures that the women will bear strong men; or because women are under the power of their husbands “by nuptial law” (nuptiali iure). While these two authors disagree about the origin of the word curis, Plutarch asserting a Roman origin, Festus asserting a Sabine one, what is common to the explanations of both authors is a husband’s power over his wife. Of all the bridal accoutrements connected to ethnicity, the spear is perhaps worth the closest examination. For we might wonder why, for example, since our two antiquarians speculate at such length about the spear’s origins, Festus never discusses the very name of the spear, caelibaris or “unmarried”. We saw that Plutarch connected the spear to the stealing of the Sabine women and their forced marriage to Roman men, and so therefore the spear is connected to violence done to innocent women. If we accept Festus’ explanation that the application of the spear to the bride’s head was symbolic of the subjugation of the bride by her husband (and perhaps also symbolic of the bride’s impending defloration)5 then the spear would have been another symbol that reminded the onlookers and the bride of her new position as obedient wife, willing sexual partner and eventual mother. Was the adjective meant to refer to the unmarried girl, the groom, or to the spear itself? Indeed we know little about what happened to the bride in this ritual of the spear. We are told only that spear was somehow applied to the girl’s head. In fact Festus says nothing about hair, and describes the process simply as caelibari hasta caput nubentes comebatur which we should probably translate as “the heads of brides were beautified by the unmarried spear”. On the other hand Plutarch’s τὴν κόμην διακρίνουσιν (“Why) do they part the hair” implies that the spear was run along her scalp in order to part the hair. In any case, it seems impossible to ignore the sexual imagery in such a ritual: the spear as a phallussubstitute literally rules over the bride’s head. If we assume that the spear parted the bride’s hair, then anyone might easily see in this ritual the conflated themes of human and agricultural fertility well-known to Greeks and Romans alike: the spear can be viewed as both phallus and plough, the bride as fertile field. T(h)alassio, the ritual cry at the wedding, was said to have its origin at the moment the Romans laid hands on

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the girls. In Livy’s famous account (1.9.11), we learn that during the abduction of the Sabines, the most choice Sabine maiden was snatched up by a youth in order to be brought unharmed to an official named Thalassius. The youth bringing the maiden shouted ‘For Thalassius!’ in the dative, hence Romans shout the word ‘Thalassio’ at weddings.. In his Life of Romulus 15 (cf. Pompey 4.3), Plutarch tells a slightly different tale, but does identify the name ‘Talasios’ as the origin of the cry. He says that the ‘Talasio’ is sung, not cried out, and he claims that because Talasios’ marriage was happy, Romans invoke Talasios at weddings, as Greeks invoke Hymenaeus. He claims he follows his predecessors in connecting the cry to woolworking, for the Greek word for woolworking is talasia. In Romulus 15 and the Roman Questions 31 (=Mor. 271F), Plutarch claims that Talasio may have been a signal given by Romulus to his men, but also suggests that the word is cried out to commemorate a pact between the Romans and the Sabines that the stolen girls would be compelled to do no other task than woolworking. Festus too (Fest. 478, 479L) tells of a man named ‘Talassius,’ but Festus also cites Varro, who claimed that the ‘Talassio’ was a basket used in woolworking. Servius (Aen. 1.651) like Plutarch compares the Greek Hymenaeus to the Roman ‘Thalassius’ to show how Greeks and Romans have different gods and songs at their respective weddings – and that Hymenaeus and Thalassius saved the virginity of innocent maidens. At each Roman wedding, presumably, the cry ‘Thalassio’ would have reminded the guests that the present bride was as choice as the Sabine stolen long ago, and that she is ready to assume the most important job of a matron, woolworking. The Sabine girls were also commemorated by a special material used to make wedding torches, spina alba. Pliny the Elder (HN 16.75) claims that the shepherds who stole the Sabines used it, and for this reason the wood is a most auspicious material for wedding torches. Pliny says nothing about the qualities of the spina alba that caused the shepherds to choose it. Torches were an indispensable feature of both Greek and Roman weddings, and we may suspect here that Pliny wishes to show above all that the Roman wedding torch was distinct from the Greek, and that Romans would not deign to use the wood of any tree but one native to Italian soil. Finally, a ritual involving the threshold of the groom’s house connected Roman brides to their Sabine ancestors:6 Plutarch (Rom. 15, Quaest. Rom. 29=Mor. 271 D) says that those leading the bride forth actually lift her over it. In trying to explain the ritual, Plutarch focuses on the force used on the bride. He suggests first that the custom might have its origins in the stealing of the Sabines, and then muses that perhaps the women wish to seem unwilling to lose their virginity, and finally he surmises that the Romans want to make it seem as though a woman will leave her new home only by force, because she entered it by force. We have seen that when antiquarians mention the Sabine origins of the bride’s gear, they connect these items to the mere fact of the abduction of the Sabine women with very rare mention of the resulting marriages; for example, Festus

briefly notes that Romulus’ marriage was happy, Plutarch Thalassius.’ We might imagine that these authors used the phrase “the abduction of the Sabines” for the sake of brevity, and perhaps assumed that their audience did not require a reiteration of a well-known tale. But we have seen that brevity does not seem to have been a concern for Plutarch and Festus when writing on other bridal accoutrements, for example taking such pains to glean from earlier sources every possible explanation of the spear used to arrange the bride’s hair.7 It should also strike us as curious that (apart from the beauty of the one girl meant for T(h)alassius) the antiquarians say little about what good luck is meant to proceed from these nuptial rituals and clothing, or tell us any of the unique qualities (besides presumptive virginity) the Sabine women possessed that the bride is meant to assume or attempt to imitate. Did the reference to the Sabine abduction at the wedding bring good luck simply because it was the first (mass) Roman marriage, and that each marriage was long lasting? The antiquarians’ silence on these points is unexpected, because elsewhere we do learn the good fortune symbolised by other bridal accoutrements. For example – even if he is here providing a rather suspicious explanation – Festus (79L) claims that brides wear a flammeum like the one worn by the Flaminica, and they do so precisely because the Flaminica cannot divorce. Curious too is that when we do have an extended description of the unique deeds of the Sabine women in historical sources, no mention of these deeds is made in the antiquarians’ explanations of Sabine items in the wedding. For example, Livy tells us that the Sabine women, overcome by the blandishments of their captors, eventually accepted and even rejoiced in their collective fate, and later stood between the warring Sabine and Roman men. Yet this happy resolution – the incorporation of the women into their new tribe, the fusion of blood represented by the babies the women bore, or even their heroic bravery as they stopped their families from killing one another – does not have a place in antiquarians’ descriptions of bridal items. Roman antiquarians emphasise capture and even woolworking when they speak of the Sabine elements in the wedding, yet in no description of the Sabine women in historical accounts do we learn that they were especially talented at woolworking. And, as we shall see below, the historians on whose work these antiquarians drew make clear that the girls were from many different communities. But antiquarians assert that the bridal items were connected to the Sabine women alone. Etruscans We are told that Roman brides were the symbolic heirs of the great Etruscan queen Tanaquil, as they dressed in special bridal tunics first woven by her and spoke her name at the wedding. We begin with Tanaquil’s tunica recta or regilla. Both Festus and Pliny the Elder connect the bride’s assumption of a special tunic at the wedding to a boy’s assumption of the toga of manhood. Pliny (HN 8.194) calling the garment a tunica recta or ‘straight tunic’

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claims that the wool basket and spindle of Tanaquil, wife of the fifth king of Rome, were preserved in the temple of Sancus – so said Varro; a toga regia was also woven by Tanaquil, who was the first to have woven a tunica recta of the sort that tirones and new brides wear. So at least according to Pliny, the bride wore a dress that was originally woven by an Etruscan woman. Festus explains that brides on the day before their weddings donned royal tunics, regillae tunicae (Fest. 364L). While Tanaquil is not named in his explanation, it may be that her name is meant to be understood in the title ‘royal.’ It is probable that the brides themselves wove the garments, but Festus says only that the tunics were woven by ‘those standing.’ Festus connects this dress to that of tirones as well. If Pliny and Festus were right, and both brides and boys becoming men wore the same type of tunic, then the Romans viewed these two rites as one in the same: both were rites of passage to adulthood. Next, we have the only phrase known to have been spoken at the wedding, the phrase translated into Latin as Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia. Plutarch, our sole source for the phrase, asks why brides say, when led to their new homes “Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia” (ὅπου σὺ Γάιος, ἐγώ Γαϊα), Quaest. Rom. 30 =Mor.271E). Plutarch speculates that the phrase means, ‘Where you are Master (κύριος), I am Mistress (κυρία)’. Finally he suggests that Gaius is the ancient equivalent of ‘Everyman’, or ‘John Doe’, and that Gaia derives from Gaia Caecilia, who, Plutarch says, was the wife of Tarquin’s son, to whom a statue was dedicated in the shrine of Sancus; her sandals and spindle were put there as signs of her domestic skills. According to the Roman sources, Plutarch is wrong: Valerius Maximus, Festus and Pliny (above, HN 8.194) assert that Gaia Caecilia was the Romanised name of Tanaquil, the wife of L. Tarquinius Priscus, not the name of Priscus’ daughter in law. Valerius Maximus (10.7 de praenominibus) claims that when she arrived at her new home, the bride was asked her name, to which she replied, ‘Gaia’; he says that this custom arose from the fame of Gaia Caecilia, the wife of Tarquinius Priscus, known for her excellence in woolworking. Festus reminds his readers that Gaia Caecilia was once called Tanaquil, and that she was of such great virtue and had such skill in woolworking that brides “often use the name for the good omen” (Fest. 85L). Once again the theme of woolworking resurfaces in descriptions of Etruscan bridal items. Roman authors connected the bridal tunic and the formula translated into Latin as ubi tu Gaius ego Gaia with Tanaquil, the great queen from Etruria, and her woolworking prowess. Pliny saw this very tunic worn in his day by both brides and tirones, and Festus’ explanation may suggest that brides weave the tunics they wear at their weddings. We are, and the ancient reader was, fully aware that weaving was the responsibility of Roman women, and their skills in this area constituted a large part of the estimation of their worth (Larsson Lovén 1997; Treggiari 1976). If Roman brides routinely created their bridal tunics, then these completed garments would serve as obvious proof that they were already able to fulfill their wifely duties. And

yet while this particular tunic symbolises both men and women’s transitions to a new stage of life, Pliny and Festus (in contrast to the generalities about woolworking we saw connected to the Sabines) take pains to emphasise the particular women who create the tunica recta or regilla. We have also seen that the bride pronounced herself Gaia, and that this name was said to commemorate Tanaquil’s Latin name. Livy tells us that, far from being a silent partner in her marriage, Tanaquil persuaded her husband Lucumo to move to Rome (1.34), correctly interpreted the omens of his impending kingship (1.35) and, after his death, placed a successor to her husband on the throne (1.41). And yet according to the antiquarians, Tanaquil’s presence in the Roman wedding ceremony recalls neither the equal partnership she shared with Lucumo nor skill in augury, but rather is distilled into a description of her skills in woolworking. conclusions

Important differences in the presentation of the Sabine and Etruscan origin of bridal gear surface when the two are held up for comparison. The first notable difference is that the passive participation of the bride is connected to Sabine items, and her active participation is connected to Etruscan. The second difference is what I will call “commemoration versus replication.” Perhaps not surprisingly, the items and events connected to the Sabine women are received by, or acted upon, the bride rather than enacted by her: the bride may have been torn from her mother’s arms in a pretended abduction; someone else combs her hair with the spear; T(h)alassio is shouted by the crowd to emphasise that she is as choice as the loveliest of the Sabine girls; torches of spina alba were carried at one time because the ragtag Romans used it to light their way while stealing the women; finally, the bride apparently cannot even lift her foot over the threshold by her own power, and she is lifted by attendants over the threshold, to commemorate the first marriage in which women were carried in by force. Since the items connected to the captive Sabine women so clearly represent the passivity and subjugation of women, they also symbolise the might of the Roman men. In contrast, the items said to be of Etruscan origin are created by the bride. We may assume that the bride wove a garment that was just like the one made by the great Tanaquil. The bride calls herself Gaia, perhaps the Roman name of Tanaquil, as she promises herself to her groom. Second, the Sabine items at the wedding are commemorations, the Etruscan replications. The items connected to Sabine territory commemorate an event rather than replicate any actual Sabine cultural artefacts, while the ones from Etruria may well have been made or used by Etruscans in the ancient past. That is, the spear, the cry T(h)alassio, torches made of spina alba and the rites of the pretended abduction or the threshold do not replicate any objects or rites used or performed by any actual Sabine people before they came in contact with Romulus and

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his band: rather, they commemorate the rough treatment visited on this culture by the earliest Romans. On the other hand, we are to imagine that the Etruscan items replicate those used by actual Etruscans: Tanaquil gave her clothes and even her name to the wedding. Finally, we must also note that none of these bridal items or rituals commemorate or replicate any particular wedding garb or rites used in either culture in antiquity. That is, no author claims that in dressing in clothes commemorating their Sabine and Etruscan foremothers, contemporary Roman brides are enacting ancient Sabine or Etruscan wedding rites. Yet elsewhere historians and antiquarians labour to record the debts that contemporary Roman rites and customs owed to the rituals and ceremonies of the Sabines and Etruscans. While these ancestors did much to shape the religion of later Rome, the figure of the bride is not explicitly said to commemorate these contributions. Instead, our sources craft a separate and different view of Roman history altogether, one that we might call a Roman woman’s marital history. The antiquarians who write on the wedding wring from the garments and accoutrements of the bride any intimation of the unique talents of the Sabine and Etruscan women we may find in historical sources, and leave in their place symbols which can only be read as predictions of her impending married life: the bride is heir to the Sabine women’s acceptance of their subjugation, rather than their skills in mediation; the bride’s inheritance from a great Etruscan queen is skills in weaving, rather than mastery of auspices. The bride will become a captive weaver in her new home. We know that at least ostensibly, the Roman matron’s position as a perpetual outsider was suggested by the fact that her name did not change upon marriage. A matron was forever identified with her natal family. Still, how we can account for the differences in the way Sabine and Etruscan foremothers are commemorated by the figure of the bride? It may be that we can find our answer from archaeology and in depictions of Sabine and Etruscan women in the historical sources in non-nuptial contexts. In the case of the Etruscan women, the literary and archaeological evidence can be complex or contradictory. After comparing both types of evidence, Larissa Bonfante sensibly concludes that of all the accusations levelled against the Etruscans by their ancient contemporaries, ‘perhaps only the extraordinary freedom of the women’ was accurate (1986: 235). Perhaps surprisingly, Etruscan grave goods suggest that at least within the sphere of domestic arts, the expectations for Etruscan women were not so different from their Greek and Roman counterparts. Marjatta Nielsen notes the prevalence of woolworking tools in the burials of Etruscan women of all classes, a fact which belies Livy’s portrait (1.57.9) of the idle Etruscan princesses relaxing at a banquet while the hardworking Lucretia spun wool. Nielsen proposes that “textile production as a woman’s field of competence may especially have referred to their preparing their trousseau before the wedding, and once married, to dedicating themselves to domestic life” (1998: 70). It may be then that the presence at the Roman wedding of Tanaquil and her woolworking skills combines these two aspects of multifaceted Etruscan women: invoking

Tanaquil by her Latin name and donning the type of dress first made by her both confers a hope that the present bride will be as a matron as helpful to her groom as Livy tells us Tanaquil was to Lucumo and serves to assimilate Tanaquil within a Roman framework of the proper activities of the ideal Roman woman. And what of the Sabine women? The antiquarians’ brief portraits of the Sabines tell us almost as much about these women as the similarly brief descriptions in the historical sources of the women as nameless victims of the Romans’ political or biological needs. Gary Miles in his examination of the main sources of the legend convincingly argues that accounts of the myth reflect above all the inequalities of Roman marriage. Miles carefully parcels the events of the Sabines’ abduction into the stages of a rite of passage as defined by Van Gennep, concluding that the Roman wedding may be included among “traditional wedding ceremonies’ that ‘may be understood as strategies to domesticate a potentially disruptive outsider upon her incorporation in to a new household” (1992: 163). More recently, Robert Brown re-examined the same sources and concluded that Livy alone focuses on the paramount importance of the concordia brought by the Sabine women. Livy’s account, Brown shows, reinforces the notion that Roman marriage, and indeed Roman society in general, could only succeed with the equal collaboration of men and women (1995: 292). Brown points out that Plutarch, Dionysius, Cicero and Ovid ignore or gloss over the happy resolution Livy assures us was chiefly due to the intervention of the Sabine women (1995: 306-310). While they differ about the implications of the myth, both Miles and Brown make clear that the majority of the sources emphasise the passivity of the women. It should then perhaps be no surprise that the antiquarians who wrote on the bride’s costume point up the fact of the women’s capture and no more. If the antiquarians Pliny, Plutarch, Festus and Servius tell us little about the Sabine women, the historical sources leave us in doubt as to who the ‘Sabine women’ were. Antiquarians’ distillation of the main sources for the legend refer unequivocally to the stolen girls as Sabine, but Livy and Dionysius in their extended descriptions maintain that the girls were from many communities. At Ant. Rom. 2.30, Dionysius describes how Romulus desired intermarriage between his community and the people ‘of the great nations’ (ἐθνῶν μεγάλων) surrounding his fledgling community, and does not name the Sabines until after the abduction, at Ant. Rom. 2.32 when a number of the injured cities petition the Sabines to aid them in their fight against the Romans (Caenina, Antemnae, Crustumerium). Livy too (1.9) first describes the girls simply as stolen, as virgines raptae, delaying his identification of the various peoples until after his account of the theft. In later writings the various towns and people were merged into one, and the abduction of maidens was said to have been of Sabines alone. In fact the identification of Sabines as a group has never been secure. In her study of the ancient peoples of the central Appenines, Emma Dench pinpoints the source of the confusion: “The problem is that the Roman tradition tends to treat the Sabines as a block, and it is hard to

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know exactly which Sabines are being referred to in the context of the early history of Rome” (1995: 205). So who were these stolen girls, present in the wedding ceremony exclusively as Sabines? We should note too that ancient historians seem in doubt about the very character of the people they called Sabines: for example at Ant. Rom. 2.38 Dionysius calls them “as luxury-loving as the Etruscans”, a far cry from the paragons of austerity we find in some other Roman sources. Finally, I will return briefly to the costume of the groom, for the ancient sources say next to nothing. We know only that he was garlanded and perfumed and probably wore a toga, and although as I have said, while various sources claim that the toga is Etruscan in origin, this origin is not mentioned by any author in connection to the toga’s use at the wedding. We can only assume from the sources’ silence about the groom’s garb that the average ancient onlooker saw in the groom’s costume the same symbols a modern viewer would: the toga is a formal garment that marks the groom as a Roman citizen. I could find no suggestion from ancient (or modern) authors that the costume of the groom itself signifies any radical changes for the man, or that the state of ‘groom’ like ‘bride’ is in any way associated with liminality. In fact what little we know of the groom’s experience is derived from the idealised depictions crafted by Catullus and Statius. In their epithalamia, they describe marriage for a man in terms of a limited sexual transformation, which only serves to point up the grooms’ lovemaking prowess – that is, one groom must give up numerous sexual partners (Catull. 61. 134-143), while the other merely looks forward to his wedding night with his new bride (Stat. Silv. 1.2.209-218). On the day of her wedding, then, a girl ceased to be fully Roman as she exchanged a garment symbolic of Roman citizenship, the toga (praetexta of her youth) for garments which Roman antiquarians assure us were symbolic of conquered and assimilated peoples. Only one type of adult woman wore a toga: a prostitute (cf. McGinn 2004). When worn by a man a toga was a proud symbol of Roman citizenship; when worn by a woman, the toga must have in part suggested that she was too independent, too manly to marry. The prostitute’s garb may help us better understand the symbolism of the bride’s: the only woman worth marrying was one who wore garments that announced to all her full acquiescence to her new position as foreigner, as captive woolworker. And so, while the Roman bride held the unique position of proud bearer of the mixed ancestry that produced Roman culture, at the same time her garments proclaimed her future as a captive woolworker, not as fully Roman as the groom beside her who wore an unadorned toga, a symbol of his power over her and the conquered people she represented. The motifs of ethnicity, submission and value are inextricably intertwined: the only worthy Roman bride is one who comes to her new household bearing patent symbols of her willingness to become a non-person in the new clan, dressed to invoke her foremothers from the Regal period, whose own submission to, or assimilation within, the Roman fold strengthened the Roman race.

Indeed Roman history assures us that the only women fit to be wives in the Regal period were not born in the city of Rome. The bride’s clothes serve as a distinct reminder that during these crucial formative years only foreign women or those outside of Rome helped to make the city thrive (the Sabine women, Etruscan Tanaquil, Lucretia in Collatia); the too-independent Roman-born Tarpeia and Tullia brought only disaster. The elements of the bride’s costume were an ephemeral, yet lasting, reminder that the bride must imitate her excellent foremothers; the groom’s toga suggested that little or no improvement on his part was needed, he was already fully Roman. And so instead of receiving the promise of ‘empire without end’, a Roman woman at her wedding herself promised to renew the labors of her ancestors. For women, ‘what an effort it was to found the Roman race’ (tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem, Verg. Aen. 1.33).

notes

1 ������������������������������������������������������ Other items and events in the Roman wedding were said to be Sabine or Etruscan in origin, (e.g. the so-called Fescennine verses) but here I discuss only those connected explicitly to the bride. 2 ������������������������������������������������������ In a forthcoming article I discuss the ‘purely Roman’ elements of the brides’ gear, those that connected her to the Vestal Virgins and the Flaminica. 3 ������������ In Plautus’ Casina, the groom Olympio walks about ‘with a crown, dressed in white, all cleaned up and decked out’ vilicus is autem cum corona, candide/ vestitus, lautus exornatusque ambulat. (Cas. 767-768). But he is a slave, and probably wearing a tunic. The antithesis of the expected appearance of the groom is Cato’s squalid mien as he remarries Marcia at Lucan 2.372ff. The groom in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is perfumed and garlanded (Met. 4.27); no mention is made of his garb. 4 ������ Ovid (Fast. 2.557-562) Tertullian (de virg. veland. 12), Arnobius (Adv. Nat. 2.67), and Claudian (Epithal. 10.284285) mention this spear, but only Plutarch and Festus connect it to the Sabine people. 5 ������������������������������������������������������ Would Romans have associated the use of this spear to defloration? We may have a parallel in a ancient Greek ritual: young girls at in the rites of Artemis at Brauron may have re-enacted a myth in which a young girl was scratched by a bear, which some have interpreted as a symbol of the loss of virginity (Reeder 1995: 321-22). 6 ��������� Servius (Ecl. 8.29) connects the threshold to virginity, but in claiming that brides in deference to Vesta must take care not to step on it, he never makes mention of the Sabines. 7 ������� Pliny (HN 15.119) discussing types of myrtle trees in Rome, includes a long digression about the forging of peace between Sabines and Romans, but he makes clear that the Sabine women had no hand in it.

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Bonfante, L. 1978.  The Language of Dress: Etruscan Influences. Archaeology, 31.1: 14-26.

Oakley, J. 1995.  Nuptial Nuances: Wedding Images in NonWedding Scenes of Myth. In E. Reeder (ed.), Pandora: Women in Classical Greece: 63-73. Trustees of the Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore.

Bonfante, L. (ed.) 1986.  Etruscan Life and Afterlife: A Handbook of Etruscan Studies. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.

Oakley, J. & Sinos, R. 1993  The Wedding in Ancient Athens. The University of Wisconsin Press, Madison.

Brown, R. 1995.  Livy’s Sabine Women and the Ideal of Concordia. Transactions of the American Philological Association, 125: 219-321.

Rage-Brocard, M. 1934.  Rites de Mariage: La deductio in domum mariti. Domat-Montchrestien, Paris.

Dench, E. 1995.  From Barbarians to New Men: Greek, Roman, and Modern Perceptions of Peoples of the Central Apennines. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Koch, G. & Sichtermann, H. (eds) 1982.  Römische Sarkophage. C. H. Beck, München. Larsson Lovén, L. 1998.  Lanam Fecit: Woolworking and Female Virtue. In L. Larsson Lovén & A. Strömberg (eds), Aspects of Women in Antiquity: Proceedings of the First Nordic Symposium on Women’s Lives in Antiquity: 85-95. P. Åströms Förlag, Jonsered. McGinn, T. 2004  The Economy of Prostitution in The Roman World: A Study of Social History and the Brothel. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor.

Reeder, E. 1995.  Pandora: Women in Classical Greece Trustees of the Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore. Stone, S., 1994.  The Toga: From National Dress to Ceremonial Costume. In L. Bonfante & J. Sebesta (eds), The World of Roman Costume: 13-45. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison. Treggiari, S. 1976.  Jobs for Women. American Journal of Ancient History, 1: 76-104. Van Gennep, A. 1909.  Les rites de passage : étude systématique des rites de la porte et du seuil, de l’hospitalité, de l’adoption, de la grossesse et de l’accouchement, de la naissance, de l’enfance, de la puberté, de l’initiation, de l’ordination, du couronnement des fiançailles et du mariage, des funérailles, des saisons, etc.. É. Nourry, Paris.

Miles, G. 1992.  The First Roman Marriage and the Theft of the Sabine Women. In R. Hexter & D. Selden (eds), Innovations of Antiquity: 161-196. Routledge, New York. Nielsen, M. 1998.  Etruscan Women: A Cross-Cultural Perspective. In L. Larsson Lovén & A. Strömberg (eds),

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Livia and the lex Voconia1 Bronwyn Hopwood At 3pm on 19th August AD 14, Augustus died. According to Cassius Dio 56.32.1, Livia was instituted as heir to onethird of Augustus’ estate in the will. While Dio notes that the amount of property women were able to inherit as heirs was limited by law, he does not specify which law imposed this limit. Dio merely informs us that the inheritance Livia received from Augustus exceeded the limited amount of property Roman women were permitted to inherit under the law. The passage deserves to be cited in full: ...τὰς διαθήκας αὐτοῦ ὁ Δροῦσος ἐκ τῶν ἀειπαρθένων τῶν τῆς Ἑστίας ἱερειῶν, αἷς παρετέθειντο, εἰληφὼς εἰς τὸ συνέδριον εἰσήνεγκε, καὶ τὰς σφραγῖδας οἱ κατασημηνάμενοι ἐπεσκέψαντο, καὶ ἀνεγνώσθησαν ἐν ἐπηκόῳ τοῦ συνεδρίου...τὰς διαθήκας αὐτοῦ Πολύβιός τις καισάρειος ἀνέγνω ὡς μὴ πρέπον βουλευτῇ τοιοῦτόν τι ἀναλέγεσθαι. κατελέλειπτο δὲ ἐν αὐταῖς τὰ μὲν δύο μέρη τοῦ κλήρου τῷ Τιβερίῳ, τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν τῇ Λιουίᾳ, ὥς τινες λέγουσιν· ἵνα γάρ τι καὶ ἐκείνη τῆς οὐσίας αὐτοῦ ἀπόνηται, παρὰ τῆς βουλῆς ᾐτήσατο τοσοῦτον αὐτῇ καὶ παρὰ τὸν νόμον καταλιπεῖν δυνηθῆναι. κληρονόμοι μὲν δὴ οὗτοι ἐγεγράφατο· “Drusus took the will from the Vestal Virgins, with whom it had been deposited, and carried it into the senate. Those who had witnessed the document examined the seals, and then it was read in the hearing of the senate…Polybius, an imperial freedman, read his will, as it was not proper for a senator to pronounce anything of the sort. It showed that two-thirds of the inheritance had been left to Tiberius and the rest to Livia, as some say. For in order that she also should receive some part of his property, he had secured permission from the senate to leave her so much, even contrary to law. These two, then, were named as heirs…” the legal problems of livia’s inheritance

The challenge to determine which legislative enactment Dio had in mind has attracted significant attention.2 Only three laws are known to have expressly restricted the inheritance rights of Roman women as heirs. They are the lex Voconia, the lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus, and the lex Papia Poppaea. In 169 BC the lex Voconia was passed prohibiting anyone registered in the first census class from instituting a woman as heir (Gaius Inst. 2.274). The law also provided that no one, male or female, was to take a legacy greater in value than the portion received by the heir or heirs (Gaius Inst. 2.226). Together, these provisions ensured that no woman could receive more than half of an estate from someone registered in the first census class.3 Importantly, the law

only restricted the ability of women to be instituted as heirs – that is it restricted their testamenti factio passiva.4 In 18 BC the lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus and in AD 9 the lex Papia Poppaea (together commonly known as the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea) enacted a series of penalties and rewards for the purpose of encouraging marriage and procreation. The most important provisions for our purposes are: i) that every woman between the ages of twenty and fifty should marry; ii) that women between the ages of twenty and fifty who remained unmarried could not take any inheritances or legacies left to them under a will; iii) that those who were married with up to two children were permitted to take only half of anything left to them under a will; and finally, iv) that those who had three children of more (whether married or not) received the right of three children – the ius trium liberorum – enabling them to take all inheritances and legacies in their entirety, and freeing the woman from tutela (Ulp. 13–16; Gaius Inst. 1.145, 1.195, 2.111, 2.286–286a). Special provisions existed with regard to inheritance rights between spouses. Under the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea spouses were entitled to take one-tenth of each other’s estate on account of their marriage, and a further tenth for each of their children up to a maximum of threetenths of the estate. For there to be complete freedom of testation between spouses solidi capacitas was required. Solidi capacitas was acquired between spouses when the law remitted the penalties for failing to marry or bear a sufficient number of children. These penalties were remitted if one of the spouses had not yet reached the minimum age at which marriage was required, or where both spouses were beyond the maximum age at which marriage was required, or where both spouses belonged to a class of personae exceptae who were exempt from the law, or where a case of rei publicae causa absentia existed (Ulp. 15–16). A controversial passage at Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani 16.1a suggests the final grounds upon which spouses were to have complete freedom of testation between them: Libera inter eos testamenti factio est, si ius liberorum a principe impetrauerint, aut si filium filiamue communem habeant, aut quattuordecim annorum filium uel filiam duodecim amiserint, uel si duos trimos uel tres post nominum diem amiserint, ut intra annum tamen et sex menses etiam unus cuiuscumque aetatis impubes amissus solidi capiendi ius praestet. Item si post mortem uiri intra decem menses uxor ex eo pepererit, solidum ex bonis eius capit. “The testamenti factio is unrestricted between them if they have obtained the ius liberorum from

bronwyn hopwood:  livia and the lex voconia

the Princeps, or if they have a son or daughter in common, or if they have lost a son fourteen years old or a daughter twelve years old, or if they have lost two three year olds, or three after the naming day, or if still within a year and a half of the loss of a single child of whatever age the right to take possession of the whole is retained. Also if within ten months after the death of the husband the wife has given birth by him, she takes the whole sum out of his goods.” Importantly, the provisions of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea only restricted the ability of women to accept inheritances and legacies – that is it restricted their ius capiendi (right to take). Traditionally, scholars have approached the case of Livia’s inheritance by asking from which of these laws does Dio 56.32.1 claim Livia needed to be exempted.5 Two reasons are given for seeing the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea as the law against which Livia’s inheritance transgressed. First, it appears that Dio 56.32.1 refers to the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea because this law alone had permitted women to inherit a certain amount of property restricted according to their marital status and the number of their children, whereas the lex Voconia had flatly prohibited women from inheriting as heirs at all. Second, having given birth to only two children, Tiberius and Drusus, Livia was only eligible under the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea to receive three-tenths of Augustus’ estate, less than the third for which she was in fact instituted. But challenging this reasoning is the evidence of Dio 55.2.5-7. Dealing with the events of 9 BC, this passage tells us that ἡ δὲ δὴ Λιουία εἰκόνων τε ἐπὶ παραμυθίᾳ ἔτυχε, καὶ ἐς τὰς μητέρας τὰς τρὶς τεκούσας ἐσεγράφη. οἷς γὰρ ἂν τὸ δαιμόνιον, εἴτ᾿ οὖν ἀνδρῶν εἴτε γυναικῶν, μὴ δῷ τοσαυτάκις τεκνῶσαι, τούτων τισὶν ὁ νόμος, πρότερον μὲν διὰ τῆς βουλῆς νῦν δὲ διὰ τοῦ αὐτοκράτορος, τὰ τῶν τρὶς γεγεννηκότων δικαιώματα χαρίζεται, ὥστε σφᾶς μήτε τοῖς τῆς ἀπαιδίας ἐπιτιμίοις ἐνέχεσθαι καὶ τὰ τῆς πολυπαιδίας ἆθλα πλὴν ὀλίγων τινῶν καρποῦσθαι.

to be exempted by senatus consultum from the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea if she already possessed the right of three children? There is no evidence to support the contention that an honorary award of the ius trium liberorum somehow failed to exempt its recipients from the penalties of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea. On the contrary, Dio 55.2.57 is quite clear that an honorary award of the ius trium liberorum freed the recipient from all of the penalties imposed for childlessness, and the enduring desirability of the honorary ius trium liberorum for men like Pliny and his friends is indicative of its continuing effectiveness (Pliny Ep. 2.13.8, 7.16.2, 10.2, 10.94, 10.95). Two further reasons exist for rejecting the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea as the law from which Augustus sought to have Livia exempted. They are the age of Augustus and Livia in AD 14, and the type of capacity Augustus requested the senate to give to Livia. It is worth noting that at the time of his death in AD 14, Augustus had already attained the age of seventy-five and Livia herself was seventy years old. Thus both Livia and Augustus were already beyond the scope of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea which only applied to women aged twenty to fifty, and men aged twenty-five to sixty.6 Concerning the request Augustus made of the senate, Dio 56.32.1 states that Augustus secured permission from the senate to leave so much of his estate to Livia. The suggestion of the passage is that Augustus asked for the right to leave property to Livia – that is for the right of testamenti factio passiva to be given to Livia so that he could institute her as his heir – and the only law known to have restricted the testamenti factio passiva is the lex Voconia. For this reason several scholars believe that it was the lex Voconia and not the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea from which Livia needed to be exempted.7 But was it? Only a little earlier at 56.10.2 Dio notified his readers that:

“Statues were voted to Livia by way of consoling her and she was enrolled among the mothers of three children. For in certain cases, formerly by act of the senate, but now by the emperor’s, the law bestows the privileges which belong to the parents of three children upon men or women to whom the gods have not granted that number of children. In this way they are not subject to the penalties imposed for childlessness and may receive all but a few of the rewards offered for large families” Dio 55.2.5–7 informs us that Livia was awarded the ius trium liberorum in 9 BC as a consolation on the death of her son Drusus. According to the provisions of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea, women awarded the ius trium liberorum were exempted from the penalties imposed by this law. Thus Livia ought to have been exempt from the penalties imposed by the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea on women’s inheritances. This begs the question why would Livia need 144

Τότε μὲν τοιαῦτα ἀμφοτέροις αὐτοῖς διελέχθη, μετὰ δὲ δὴ τοῦτο τοῖς μὲν τὰ τέκνα ἔχουσι τά γέρα προσεπηύξησε, τοὺς δὲ γεγαμηκότας ἀπὸ τῶν ἀγύνων τῷ τῶν ἐπιτιμίων διαφόρῳ διεχώρισε, καὶ ἐνιαυτὸν ἑκατέροις ἐς τὸ τοὺς πειθαρχήσαντάς οἱ ἐν τῷ χρόνῳ τούτῳ ἀναιτίους γενέσθαι προσεπέδωκε. τῶν τε γυναικῶν τισι καὶ παρὰ τὸν Οὐοκώνειον νόμον, καθ᾿ ὃν οὐδεμιᾷ αὐτῶν οὐδενός ὐπὲρ δύο ἥμισυ μυριάδας οὐσίας κληρονομεῖν ἐξῆν, συνεχώρησε τοῦτο ποιεῖν· καὶ ταῖς ἀειπαρθένοις τάνθ᾿ ὅσαπερ αἱ τεκοῦσαι εἶχον ἐχαρίσατο. κἀκ τούτου ὅ τε Πάπιος καὶ ὁ Ποππαῖος νόμος ὑπό τε Μαρκου Παπίου Μουτίλου καὶ ὑπὸ Κυίντου Ποππαίου Σεκούνδου, τῶν τότε ἐν μέρει τοῦ ἔτους ὑπατευόντων, ἐτέθησαν. “Such were [Augustus’] words to the two groups at that time. Afterwards he increased the rewards to those who had children and in the case of the others made a distinction between married men and the unmarried by imposing different penalties;

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furthermore, he granted a year’s time to those who were remiss in either respect, in which to obey him and thus escape the penalties. To some of the women, contrary to the lex Voconia, which permitted no woman to inherit property above two and a half myriads (one hundred thousand sesterces), he permitted them to do this; and he granted the Vestal Virgins all the privileges enjoyed by women who had borne children. Later the lex Papia Poppaea was framed by Marcus Papius Mutilus and Quintus Poppaeus Secundus, who were consuls at the time for a part of the year.” If Dio (56.10.2) is correct,8 it is important to establish whom these “some women” were, why they were exempted, and if Livia was one of them. On this point the scholarship is divided. Hartmann (1865: 254–5) and Mommsen (1905: 192–3) pointing to Dio 56.10.2, and Van der Meer (1996: 125–38) drawing on Ulpian 16.1a, argue that the ius trium liberorum was sufficient to exempt women from the lex Voconia and therefore that the “some women” of Dio 56.10.2 must be those women who were awarded the ius trium liberorum. Unfortunately Mommsen (1905: 192–3) does not explain why Livia, who had already received the ius trium liberorum in 9 BC, was not thereby exempted from the lex Voconia. Hartmann (1865: 254–5, 255 n. 54), simply notes that the roles of the ius trium liberorum and ius communium liberorum cannot be fully reconstructed from the ancient sources, and speculates that Augustus’ testament may have been designed so that Livia actually received less than three tenths of the estate once the debts had been taken into account. Hartmann also suggests, without exploring the idea, that honour rather than money may have motivated Augustus’ testamentary provisions. This suggestion has been ignored in subsequent scholarship. Van der Meer, who also believes that the “some women” of Dio 56.10.2 were those who possessed the ius trium liberorum, tries to resolve the problem by arguing that it was the type of ius trium liberorum given to Livia that explains her incapacity. Van der Meer (1996: 132, 137–8) argues that both the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea and the lex Voconia had their own forms of ius trium liberorum. It is her contention that only the ius trium liberorum of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea could be given as an honorary award, whilst only by fulfilling the obligation of actually bearing three children could the ius trium liberorum of the lex Voconia be attained. So while Livia possessed the ius trium liberorum of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea, she did not have the ius trium liberorum of the lex Voconia, thereby leaving her vulnerable to the Voconian prohibition on women’s inheritances. Unfortunately, there is no evidence that different forms of ius trium liberorum existed for the different inheritance laws. Van der Meer’s thesis is pure speculation.9 Jors (1882: 33–45), Csillag (1976: 119–27, 149–55, 153 n. 582), and Weishaupt (1999: 143–57, esp. 149–50), on the other hand, dispute that the ‘some women’ exempted by Augustus were those with the ius trium liberorum.

Pointing to a very different reading of Ulpian 16.1a these scholars contend that two separate passages of Ulpian’s text dealing with the very different rights of testamenti factio passiva and solidi capacitas (or ius capiendi) have been contracted, causing the description of these rights to become confused. They further argue that the ius liberorum mentioned at Ulpian 16.1a was not the ius trium liberorum but the ius communium liberorum – that is the right of having a child in common. Their argument is that only once a couple had a child in common did they receive the testamenti factio passiva overcoming the restrictions of the lex Voconia. Since Livia and Augustus did not have a child in common this would explain why Livia was not exempt from the lex Voconia and therefore required a senatus consultum to grant her this right. Although this is an ingenious solution, it is not satisfactory. The argument forwarded by Jors, Csillag, and Weishaupt fails to take into account the nature of the Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani. The Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani is in fact an epitome of Ulpian’s extensive commentaries on Roman law. The point of the epitome was to produce a competent handbook for those unfamiliar with the law. Like Justinian’s Institutiones, which was designed to introduce students to the first principles of the law, the Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani was designed to provide a useful summary of the law based on Ulpian’s work. As such, the epitome needed to be sound if it was to provide the reader with a simple yet accurate account of the law. Any substantial errors in the epitome would have rendered the work unreliable and ultimately useless for its stated purpose. It is difficult, therefore, to accept the contention that such a serious error as the confusion of the rights of testamenti factio passiva and ius capiendi has been made in the epitome. Indeed the preservation of this epitome, and its representation of the legal rules pertaining to the right of children, suggests that the Tituli ex corpore Ulpiani proved itself to be a reliable summary of the law (Tellegen-Couperus 1990: 134–6). Be that as it may, a more serious objection is to be drawn from Ulpian 16.1a. According to Ulpian 16.1a, for freedom of testation to exist between spouses (that is the right to institute each other as heir) the testamenti factio passiva was required. The ways by which the testamenti factio passiva could be obtained are then listed. Notice that the ius liberorum and ius communium liberorum are both mentioned as separate and different rights. That is, having a child in common (ius communium liberorum) is listed as sufficient grounds for spouses to enjoy complete freedom of testation between themselves, and so too is the right of children (ius liberorum). Thus the ius liberorum mentioned at Ulpian 16.1a cannot refer to the ius communium liberorum, as Jors, Csillag, and Weishaupt argue, but must refer to the ius trium liberorum. In short, Ulpian 16.1a is evidence that between spouses both the ius communium liberorum and the ius trium liberorum served to exempt spouses from the lex Voconia, and that the “some women” of Dio 56.10.2 refers to those women in possession of either the ius trium liberorum or the ius communium liberorum. Furthermore, Ulpian 16.1a is evidence that Livia ought to have been exempt from the

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lex Voconia as well as the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea since she had been awarded the ius trium liberorum in 9 BC. This returns us to the original problem – why was a senatus consultum required to enable Livia to take her inheritance from Augustus? The answer, I suggest, lies in the timing of Augustus’ request. Two assumptions so far have prevented this solution from being identified. First, it is generally assumed that the exemptions Augustus granted from the lex Voconia mentioned at Dio 56.10.2 were extended under the lex Papia Poppaea. Second, it is assumed from the wording of Dio 56.32.1 that the senatus consultum granting Livia an exemption from the restrictions placed on women’s inheritances was requested and passed some time after the introduction of the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea, close to the time when Augustus’ will was drawn up in AD 13. These assumptions do not hold up. In the first instance, Dio 56.10.2 clearly mentions that the lex Papia Poppaea was promulgated after the introduction of these exemptions and not before. In the second case, Dio 56.32.1 merely states that Augustus asked for the right to leave Livia part of his estate at some unspecified time in the past. The use of the aorist at Dio 56.32.1 (commonly rendered in English translations as Augustus “asked” or “had asked”) does not specify when the request was made; it merely locates the request at an imprecise point in the past.10 It is possible, therefore, that at 56.32.1 Dio refers to a request made by Augustus much earlier in his lifetime, before writing his will in AD 13, and before the lex Papia Poppaea was introduced in AD 9. Indeed, it is entirely possible that Dio 56.32.1 recalls the original request Augustus made in 9 BC for Livia to be awarded the ius trium liberorum on the death of her son Drusus. the political and constitutional significance of livia’s inheritance

The conflation at Dio 56.32.1 of the laws affecting women’s inheritance rights and the award of the ius trium liberorum to Livia in 9 BC is a clear indication that, in his account of Augustus’ will, Dio was not particularly interested in either Rome’s inheritance laws or the amount of property transferred to Livia.11 If Dio had been interested in Rome’s inheritance legislation, we would at least expect the relevant laws affected to have been named, as the lex Voconia is named at 56.10.2. Likewise, since the amount of property Augustus actually left to Livia was far less than the amount she could legally receive under either the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea or lex Voconia (by means other than heirship – for example half of the estate by legatum partitionis; the whole estate by fideicommissum; or the whole estate for her lifetime by usufructus), something more is at stake at Dio 56.32.1 than the amount of property being transferred.12 Certainly one-third of Augustus’ estate is not so much greater than three-tenths, that it was the difference between Livia’s ability to ‘pay-her-bills’ or not.13 The value of the property left to Livia is simply not the issue at stake. Instead Dio’s comment is squarely focused on his interest in the constitutional and socio-political development of

the Principate. Dio’s point is two-fold. First, Dio informs his audience as to how the newly established Principate and its leading family negotiated their status within the Roman constitution. Dio tells us that despite his political supremacy, Augustus chose to establish the rights and position of the imperial family by negotiation with the senate rather than by the imposition of his auctoritas. Augustus’ request was made to the senate not from a want of power to award Livia whatever rights and benefits she wished, but out of his desire to negotiate those rights with due respect for tradition, the constitution, and the law. Augustus was careful to utilise the politics of negotiation, and Dio 56.32.1 stresses how important to the early development of the Principate the politics of negotiation, which had all but disappeared in his own time, had been. Second, Dio’s point clarifies the grounds upon which Livia’s position in the state was to be negotiated, and how as a member of the imperial family she was viewed within the political milieu of her time. On Augustus’ death Livia was adopted into the Julian family as Augustus’ daughter. As a Julian, Livia became the daughter and widow of the deceased Princeps, the sister and mother of the next Princeps, matriarch of the imperial family, patron and benefactress of the Roman people, priestess of the god Augustus, and herself the Augusta14 As such Augustus and the Julio-Claudian family could not afford for anything about Livia’s inheritance to have appeared in the least bit shady, or for her position to have remained open to question and doubt. Her position had to be legally precise and unassailable. But this alone was not sufficient. Livia’s share in Augustus’ estate had also to be commensurate with her honour, position, title, and role within the imperial family and wider Augustan society. Her pivotal role in the Julio-Claudian family and sociopolitical organisation of the Principate required that Livia be granted a level of honours commensurate with her dignitas.15 Livia’s honour and position within the Roman state was such that only the position of heir could match her dignity. Securing Livia’s freedom of inheritance was essential to acknowledging her superior dignitas, and only by exempting Livia from the laws restricting inheritances could Augustus and the senate convey the dignitas of Livia’s position. In this light, Livia’s inheritance reveals interesting evidence about her position in relation to Tiberius. It is clear that Augustus could not give Livia half of his estate for two reasons. The first is that Livia’s position and dignitas could not be allowed to rival the position and dignitas of Tiberius as the next Princeps. If Augustus had instituted Livia as heir to an equal share in the resources of his estate, the undesirable impression could be given that Livia was to take an equal role in the running of the state or honours to be awarded to Tiberius. Second, Augustus could not afford to entail the significant property and resources of his estate away from Tiberius who would require them as the next Princeps for the running of the state. Only by allotting his property using the neat formula of ‘two-parts-to-one’

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was Augustus able to balance Tiberius’ need as the next Princeps for sufficient funding and unrivalled dignitas, with his own desire to augment Livia’s dignitas. Since Roman estates were traditionally divided and bequeathed in testamentary twelfth-portions,16 the division of Augustus’ estate into two portions of eight-twelfths and four-twelfths (two-thirds and one-third respectively) was a mathematical necessity. That is, Livia had already earned the right under the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea to receive at least three-tenths of Augustus’ property on account of her marriage and two children. So, if Livia’s dignitas was to be celebrated beyond what any ordinary woman in the same circumstances would have received, Livia had to be given a portion greater than three-tenths of Augustus’ estate.17 Only by dividing the property into two-thirds and onethird respectively could Augustus in one and the same act establish the superiority of Tiberius’ dignitas to Livia’s, provide Tiberius with sufficient funding to undertake the role of Princeps, and still augment Livia’s dignitas beyond what her own efforts already permitted her to inherit under the law. Thus the senatus consultum of 9 BC which permitted Livia to inherit as Augustus’ heir was as much a matter of dignitas and politics, as it was a matter of law. notes

otherwise); or, (iii) that the verb is pluperfect. 11   The conflation of sources in Dio’s history has long been recognised. For example, at 45.18–47 Dio provides a synthesis reducing Cicero’s Philippics into a single speech. 12   Iust. Inst. 2.23. ��� On legatum partitionis, fideicommissa, and usufructus see Buckland & Stein 1966: 353, 353–60, and 269–75 respectively. 13  �������������������������������������������������������� One-third of the estate was 50,000,000 HS; Three-tenths was 45,000,000 HS. To put this in context, the census rating of a senator under Augustus was 1,000,000 HS. See Suet. Aug. 41.3; Dio 55.13.6; Nicolet 1984: 161–4; and, Nicolet 1988: 227–38. 14   See Purcell 1986: 78–105 for a detailed analysis of Livia’s position. 15  ����������������������� The acknowledgement of dignitas was at least as important for the Romans as the actual property assigned by will. This can be seen clearly in Suetonius’ criticism of the legacy Augustus left to Claudius, which consigned the future Princeps to a status equivalent to an equestrian. See Suet. Claud. 4.7, Champlin 1989: 162, and Champlin 1991: 13–28. 16  ����������������������������������������������������� A reminiscence of the original division of the Roman pound and Roman coinage into twelve parts called unciae. Yet portions in tenths are not uncommon. See Buckland & Stein 1966: 299–300 and Crawford 1974: 6. 17   One-third or eight twenty-fourths is 33.3%; three-tenths is 30%; seven twenty-fourths is 29.17%.

bibliography

1   I wish to thank Martin Stone and Kathryn Welch for their invaluable advice in the preparation of this paper. 2   See for instance Hartmann 1865: 219–55; Jors 1882; Kahn 1884: 57–72; Schiller 1935: 227–32; Astolfi 1973: 187– 238; Csillag 1976; Champlin 1989; and Manthe 1992. 3   For a detailed discussion of the provisions of the lex Voconia see Hopwood 2005: 35–87. 4   Testamenti factio passiva is the right to be instituted in a will. Anyone lacking this right could not be instituted as an heir. Ius capiendi is the right to take under a will. Anyone lacking this right might still have testamenti factio passiva (they could be instituted as heir), but they could not take anything left to them in the will. See Buckland & Stein 1966: 290–4. 5  ������������������������������������������������� Champlin 1989: 156 n. 7 assumes that Dio 56.32.1 refers to the lex Voconia. 6  ��������������������������������������������������������� Ulp. 16.1–3. Buckland & Stein 1966: 293 n. 1 pointing to Ulp. 17.1 suggests that the law continued to apply to those persons still in default at the time they reached these age limits. Contra Csillag 1976: 84–5. 7  ���������������������������������������������������� See Hartmann 1865; Jors 1882; Mommsen 1905; Csillag 1976; Van der Meer 1996; and Weishaupt 1999. 8   The dispute concerning the reliability and translation of Dio 56.10.2 (and Xiphilinus’ epitome) is protracted; see Hopwood 2005: 59–63. 9  �������������������������������������������������������� Tellegen-Couperus & Tellegen (1998: 85) go so far as to accuse Van der Meer of inventing this argument to save her theory: “Nous avons l’impression que M. a dû inventer tout ce système d’exemptions afin de sauver sa théorie sur la reprise de la loi Voconia en combinaison avec la loi Papia.’ 10  ������������������������������������������������������� While Tellegen-Couperus & Tellegen (1998: 79–81, 86–7) note that Dio’s account may record an earlier request for the ius trium liberorum, I cannot agree with their view that Dio 56.32.1 discusses: (i) the lex Iulia et Papia Poppaea; (ii) an actual case brought before Augustus (theoretical or

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