The Greeks in Iberia and their Mediterranean Context (Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies) [1 ed.] 9781032470900, 9781032470924, 9781003384533, 1032470909

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
List of Illustrations
List of Contributors
Preface
Introduction
1. Iberia and the Greek world: What role for the Greeks in Iberia?
2. Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula from the eighth to the fourth century BC
3. The merchants of Emporion: Selling (and being) Greek in the Iberian market
4. Some experiential observations on trading, farming and sharing of place in 6th to 2nd century BC Emporion
5. Footprints in the sea: Strabo’s τρία πολίχνια Μασσαλιωτῶν and the Greeks in the Levant
6. Iberian or Greek?: Current debate on the coastal settlement of La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante)
7. The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga: Five centuries of relationships and the trade in the Phoenician West
8. Images in motion: Fourth century BC Athenian pottery from the Iberian Peninsula: Workshops and iconography
9. Piracy and the Western Greek experience
10. Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one: The early 4th century Syracusan Arché as cultural contact zone and food system
11. Cultural memory and cultural change in Hellenistic and Roman Magna Graecia
12. Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts: Funerary case studies from Magna Graecia
Index

Citation preview

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

THE GREEKS IN IBERIA AND THEIR MEDITERRANEAN CONTEXT Edited by Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe

The Greeks in Iberia and Their Mediterranean Context

This volume explores the effects of the Greek presence in the Iberian Peninsula, and how this Iberian Greek experience evolved in resonance with its neighbouring region, the Mediterranean West. Contributions cover the Phocaean settlement at Emporion and its relationship with the indigenous hinterland, the government of the Greek communities, Greek settlement and trade at Málaga, the Greek settlement of Santa Pola, Greek trade in Southern France and Eastern Spain, the implications of imported Attic pottery in the fifth and fourth centuries BC and the conception of Iberia in the eyes of the Greeks. The Iberian Peninsula invites discussion of key notions of ethnic identity, the use of code-switching, cultural geography and the role of society in generating, developing and exploiting social memory in a changing world. The contributions in this volume provide a variety of responses and interpretations of the Greek presence, reflecting the extent of this debate and offering different approaches in order to better understand the range of evidence from the Iberian Peninsula. The Greeks in Iberia and Their Mediterranean Context develops current research on the Greek presence, presenting diverse opinions and new interpretations that are of interest not only to scholars studying the Iberian Peninsula and Greek settlement but also students of identity, cultural geography and colonisation more widely, as well as the applicability of these concepts to the historical record. Jens A. Krasilnikoff is Associate Professor in Greek and Hellenistic history at the Department of History and Classical Studies, Aarhus University, Denmark. He recently published articles on the rural economy of Classical Greece and co-edited volumes on Greek religion and the cultural history of Alexandria. Benedict Lowe is Professor of History at the University of North Alabama. He is the author of Roman Iberia: Economy, Society and Empire and a forthcoming history of Cádiz.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

A Cognitive Analysis of the Main Apolline Divinatory Practices Decoding Divination Giulia Frigerio Processions and the Construction of Communities in Antiquity History and Comparative Perspectives Edited by Elena Muñiz-Grijalvo and Alberto del Campo Tejedor Didactic Literature in the Roman World Edited by T. H. M. Gellar-Goad and Christopher B. Polt Atheism at the Agora A History of Unbelief in Ancient Greek Polytheism James C. Ford The Geographical Guide of Ptolemy of Alexandria An Analysis Duane W. Roller Revelation and Material Religion in the Roman East Essays in Honor of Steven J. Friesen Edited by Nathan Leach, Daniel Charles Smith, and Tony Keddie The Greeks in Iberia and their Mediterranean Context Edited by Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe Making Time for Greek and Roman Literature Edited by Kate Gilhuly and Jeffrey P. Ulrich

For more information on this series, visit: www.routledge.com/Routledge-Monographs-in-ClassicalStudies/book-series/RMCS

The Greeks in Iberia and Their Mediterranean Context

Edited by Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Krasilnikoff, Jens A., editor, author. | Lowe, Benedict, editor, author. Title: The Greeks in Iberia and their Mediterranean context / edited by Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe. Description: New York : Routledge, 2024. | Series: Routledge monographs in Classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2023027803 (print) | LCCN 2023027804 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032470900 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032470924 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003384533 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Greeks--Iberian Peninsula. | Iberian Peninsula--Antiquities, Greek. | Iberian Peninsula--History--To 1500. Classification: LCC DP92 .G74 2024 (print) | LCC DP92 (ebook) | DDC 946/.00048--dc23/eng/20230826 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023027803 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023027804 ISBN: 978-1-032-47090-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-47092-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-38453-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533 Typeset in Times by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

Contents

List of Illustrations List of Contributors Preface Introduction

vii x xii 1

JENS A. KRASILNIKOFF AND BENEDICT LOWE

1 Iberia and the Greek world: What role for the Greeks in Iberia?

18

ADOLFO J. DOMÍNGUEZ MONEDERO

2 Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula from the eighth to the fourth century BC

33

PIERRE ROUILLARD

3 The merchants of Emporion: Selling (and being) Greek in the Iberian market

51

RAYMOND CAPRA

4 Some experiential observations on trading, farming and sharing of place in 6th to 2nd century BC Emporion

70

JENS A. KRASILNIKOFF

5 Footprints in the sea: Strabo’s τρία πολίχνια Μασσαλιωτῶν and the Greeks in the Levant

88

BENEDICT LOWE

6 Iberian or Greek?: Current debate on the coastal settlement of La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) PIERRE MORET

122

vi Contents 7 The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga: Five centuries of relationships and the trade in the Phoenician West

136

EDUARDO GARCÍA ALFONSO

8 Images in motion: Fourth century BC Athenian pottery from the Iberian Peninsula: Workshops and iconography

160

CARMEN SÁNCHEZ FERNÁNDEZ AND DIANA RODRÍGUEZ PÉREZ

9 Piracy and the Western Greek experience

174

JOSHUA R. HALL

10 Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one: The early 4th century Syracusan Arché as cultural contact zone and food system

198

JENS A. KRASILNIKOFF

11 Cultural memory and cultural change in Hellenistic and Roman Magna Graecia

216

KATHRYN LOMAS

12 Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts: Funerary case studies from Magna Graecia

237

JANE HJARL PETERSEN

Index

255

List of Illustrations

2.1 Map of sites mentioned in the text. 34 3.1 Urna de Orejetas perforadas (after López Bravo 2002, figure 1). 60 3.2 Map of distribution of Urna de Orejetas (after López Bravo 2002, figure 6). 61 3.3 Kalathos from Massalia (courtesy of the Musée d’Histoire de Marseille, photo: author). 62 3.4 Map of Kalathoi, third-second centuries BC (after Conde Berdós 1991, fig. 14). 65 4.1 Possible Temple of Artemis (Temple A), Ullastret (photo: Benedict Lowe). 74 4.2 Building 1, Mas Castellar de Pontós (photo: Benedict Lowe). 74 5.1 Map of sites mentioned in the text. 90 5.2 Cerro del Castillo, Denia (photo: author). 91 5.3 Peñón d’Ifach, Calpe (photo: author). 91 5.4 Corinthian amphora from the Peñón de Ifach (Calpe) (courtesy of the Museu d’Historia de Calp). 92 5.5 View of Montgó from Cap Prim (photo: author). 99 5.6 Iberian fortifications, Passet de Segària (photo: author). 100 5.7 The Bay of Portitxol (photo: author). 101 5.8 Punic PE 11 amphora from Cap Prim (courtesy of the Museo Arqueològic i Etnogràfic Municipal ‘Soler Blasco,’ Xàbia). 102 5.9 Etruscan bronze infundibulum from the vicinity of Cap San Martí (courtesy of the Museo Arqueològic i Etnogràfic Municipal ‘Soler Blasco,’ Xàbia). 102 5.10 Tossal de la Cala (photo: author). 104 5.11 Iberian housing, Tossal de la Cala (photo: author). 104 5.12 Illeta dels Banyets (photo: author). 107 5.13 Fragment of Attic pottery with a graffito in Greco-Iberian with the letters ΒΑΛ (photo courtesy of the Archivo del MARQ (Museo Arqueológico Provincial de Alicante)). 108 5.14 Votive figurine with Greek dedication reading Ἀπολόνιος/ ἀνέθεκεν (photo: Clara Muñoz Climent, courtesy of the Archivo del Museu de Prehistòria de València). 109 6.1 Location map of the sites mentioned in south-east Spain. 123

viii  List of Illustrations 6.2 Plans of three coastal settlements in the province of Alicante. (a) La Picola in Santa Pola (after Badie et al. 2000); (b) El Cerro de las Balsas in Alicante (after Rosser Limiñana et al. 2003); (c) Illeta dels Banyets at El Campello (after Martínez Carmona et al. 2007). (Drawing by P. Moret.) 124 6.3 Three hypotheses for the territorial organization in the second half of the fifth century BC between Elche (Ilici-La Alcudia), Santa Pola and the mouth of Segura. (a) According to C. Aranegui; (b) according to I. Grau, J. Moratalla and F. Sala; (c) proposal of the author. (Drawing by P. Moret.) 126 7.1 Map of the bay and city of Málaga: places with Greek objects: (a) The Bay of Málaga between 9th and 4th centuries BC; (b) excavations in the Phoenician Málaka. 138 7.2 La Rebanadilla. Greek Geometric skyphoi. (a) Skyphos of Attic workshop. (b) Skyphos of Euboean workshop. 139 7.3 Cerro del Villar. Greek amphora similar to SOS type. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.) 141 7.4 Cerro del Villar. Sherds of Samian A2 cup with Greek graffito. 144 7.5 Greek potteries found in Málaka. 6th century BC: (a) Dinos from Chios. Buenavista Palace. (b) Aeolian dinos. San Agustín Convent. (c) Early Corinthian arybalos. Duel Painter. Plot 3 Císter St/4 San Agustín St. (d) Attic plate. Plot 3 Císter St/4 San Agustín St. (Photographs courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.) 145 7.6 Potteries from Las Marismas de Guadalmar: (a) Ionian Cup B2 type. Central Mediterranean workshop. (b) Ionian Cup B3. Probably from East Greece. (c) Cup Gravisca V/4 type. (d) Amphora similar to Corinthian B type from South Italic workshop. e) Phoenician imitation of a Greek cup. Local workshop. 148 7.7 Tleson Painter. Cup sherds. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.) 150 7.8 Corinthian helm from Málaga. Tomb of the Warrior, Jinetes St: (a) general view; (b) engraved decoration. Front; (c) right side; (d) left side. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga; drawings courtesy of the Instituto Andaluz de Patrimonio Histórico, Álvaro Hervás Crespo.) 151 7.9 Jar handle. Bronze. Alcazaba Hill, Málaga. Fernández Canivell Collection, Málaga. (Photograph courtesy of the German Archaeological Institute.) 152 7.10 Attic red-figure krater. Buenavista Palace, Málaga. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.) 153 8.1 Out-turned rim bowl from Tomb 176, Baza (Photo: Carmen Sánchez.) 162 8.2 Drawing of the side A of the bell krater MAN 1986/149/205. (Drawing: Carmen Sánchez.) 164

List of Illustrations ix 8.3 Recreation of the tomb 43 of Baza. (Courtesy of the National Archaeological Museum, Madrid.) 166 10.1 Fourth century Syracuse as shared place. 204 10.2 Dionysius’ place-hierarchy. 206 11.1 Plan of Velia. 218 11.2 Plan of Insula II (after Napoli 1966). 221 11.3 Stele of Dionysios son of Euneikos, 4th/3rd century BC. 225 11.4 Stele of Voconia Iucunda and Sextilius Epaphrodeitos, 2nd/1st century BC (after Vecchio 2003b). 225 12.1 Map of Apulia (reproduced from Carpenter, Lynch and Robinson 2014). 240 12.2 Ipogei Lagrasta I (Wikimedia Commons). 242 12.3 Terracotta statuette of a mourning woman, height 97 cm, reportedly from Canosa (Courtesy of the National Museum of Denmark). 243 12.4 Grave-good assemblage from Ipogeo 5 di Via Settembrini, Canosa (reproduced with permission from Corrente 2003: figure 74). 246 12.5 Arpi pinax, drawing (reproduced with permission from Steingräber 2000: Taf. 61, 1). 247

List of Contributors

Raymond Capra, PhD Fordham, is the Program Coordinator of the Classical Studies program at Queens College CUNY. His research and teaching covers antiquity to the Middle Ages. Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero is Professor of ancient history at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. He has worked on Greek colonisation in the Mediterranean, contacts between cultures in the ancient world and studies of historical topography in various Greek territories during antiquity. Eduardo García Alfonso has a PhD in history from the University of Málaga (Spain). He works in the Museum of Málaga. His research focuses on Phoenician and Greek expansion and the repercussions of these processes in the societies of the Iberian Peninsula during the Iron Age. Joshua R. Hall holds a PhD in ancient history from Cardiff University. He has taught at various institutions in the United States and has previously published on Carthage and the history of warfare amongst the Western Greeks. He resides in Salem, Oregon. Jens A. Krasilnikoff is Associate Professor in Greek and Hellenistic history at the Department of History and Classical Studies, Aarhus University, Denmark. He recently published articles on the rural economy of Classical Greece and coedited volumes on Greek religion and the cultural history of Alexandria. Kathryn Lomas is Honorary Fellow in classics and ancient history, University of Durham, UK. Her publications include Rome and the Western Greeks (London, 1993), Roman Italy, 338 BC–AD 200 (London, 1996), and The Rise of Rome: From the Iron Age to the Punic Wars (London, 2018). Benedict Lowe is Professor of History at the University of North Alabama. He is the author of Roman Iberia: Economy, Society and Empire and a forthcoming history of Cádiz. Pierre Moret, Director of Research at the CNRS (France), has led several archaeological projects in Spain. His research focuses on settlement planning in Iron Age Iberia and Southern Gaul and on the history of ancient geography. He is an affiliate member of the Spanish Academy of History.

List of Contributors xi Jane Hjarl Petersen is Associate Professor at the Department of Classical Studies at the University of Southern Denmark. Her research has focused on burial culture in the Greek and Roman worlds. She has conducted fieldwork in the Black Sea region as well as Southern Italy. Diana Rodriguez-Perez is the Research Assistant for the Beazley Archive Pottery Database at Oxford University. She received her PhD from the Universidad de León on The Snake in the Ancient Greek World: Myth, Rite and Image. She is the author of La Cerámica Ática y su Historiografía (2019), Greek Art in Motion (2019), Greek Art in Context (2016), Beazley and Christ Church. 250 Years of Scholarship on Greek Vases (2016) and Serpientes, dioses y heroes. El combate contra la serpiente en el arte y la literature griega antigua (2008). Pierre Rouillard is Emeritus Research Director at the Centre national de la recherche scientifique (CNRS), France. Carmen Sánchez Fernández is Professor of Ancient Art at Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. She was Director of the Department of Art History and Theory (2009/2015) and Deputy Director and Director of the UAM Institute of Antiquity Sciences (2013/2019). She has directed several research projects and curated exhibitions such as “The Greeks in Iberia” (2000-2001) or “Gods, Heroes and Athletes” (2015).

Preface

This volume is the result of a workshop held at Aarhus University during October 10–11, 2013. Thanks to the generous support of the Carlsberg Foundation together with additional financial assistance from the Ancient World and Cultural Dynamics Research Groups at Aarhus University, the workshop was able to bring together academics from France, Spain, Italy, the United Kingdom, Denmark and the United States. A selection of the papers presented in Aarhus are included here together with additional papers that were solicited in the light of discussions at the workshop. The workshop was intended to reflect the diversity of approaches to the experience of the Greeks in the Far Western Mediterranean. By inviting colleagues working on Greek settlement in Southern Italy, we hoped to encourage discussion and to bridge the tendency towards insularity and specialisation that has led to the isolation of the Iberian Peninsula from the broader debates surrounding Greek colonisation. Whilst Iberia has featured in recent volumes on Greek colonisation1 that have done much to address these issues, the editors still feel that much remains to be done. The Iberian Peninsula is exciting precisely because it lies at the boundary of the Greek known world where definitions and relationships are more fluid and open for renegotiation. For much of the Peninsula, the Greeks operated independently without the security offered by control or even settlement creating ambiguity and the potential to reconsider what it meant to be Greek – or part of a “Greek” community – the purpose of exchange and the uses that could be made Greek contacts and artefacts both initially and in succeeding generations whether it be “code-switching” and the expression of identity in the tombs of Canosa, Arpi, Baza, Toya or Piquía, or the manipulation of collective memories in Mainake, Hemeroskopeion or Velia. What the workshop and this volume show above all else is the inadequacy of existing definitions and concepts when faced with the range of Greek contacts and of responses it inspired. The Greeks in the Far West undoubtedly benefited from engagement with the more established networks of Southern Italy and the Central Mediterranean, but by looking from the outside in – from the periphery of the Greek World back towards the colonial heartland – we are encouraged to rethink what it meant to be part of the Greek colonial experience, and even what it meant to be Greek.

Preface xiii The editors would like to thank the participants in the workshop for their contributions to an enjoyable and stimulating event, and to the contributors to this volume for their work and patience over the long gestation of this volume. We would particularly like to thank the Carlsberg Foundation and the Ancient World and Cultural Dynamics Research Groups at Aarhus University without whose generous support the workshop would not have been possible. For her handling of the logistics, the workshop benefited immeasurably from the expertise of Gitte Grønning Munk. The editors would also like to thank Deborah Blake and Marcia Adams for their assistance in bringing this volume to fruition. Benedict Lowe would like to thank Alexia de Fays and Sue Amos for their assistance with the translations. Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe Note 1 We think particularly of Dietler and López-Ruiz (2009), Tréziny (2010), Gailledrat et al. (2018), Lucas et al. (2019), De Angelis (2020).

References De Angelis, Franco (ed.). A Companion to Greeks across the Ancient World. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2020. Dietler, Michael and Carolina López-Ruiz (ed.). Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek and Indigenous relations. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009. Gailledrat, Éric, Michael Dietler and Rosa Plana-Mallart (ed.). The Emporion in the Ancient Western Mediterranean. Trade and Colonial Encounters from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period. Montpellier: Presses Universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2018. Lucas, Jason, Carrie Ann Murray and Sara Owen (ed.). Greek Colonization in Local Contexts: Case Studies in Colonial Interactions. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Museum of Classical Archaeology Monographs 4, 2019. Tréziny, Henri (ed.). Grecs et Indigènes de la Catalogne à la Mer Noire. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne et Africaine 3, 2010.

Introduction Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe

The growing interest amongst modern scholars for the fate and developments of those Greeks at the ends of the Mediterranean – ‘farthest away from home’ – is the primary motivation for choosing this particular geographical perspective. Peripheral locations allow us to explore the fluidity of ancient concepts and definitions. In more than one sense, ancient narratives and modern scholarship share the challenge of reaching across the vast geographical and chronological spaces of the Mediterranean. And the perhaps most challenging ambition is still to explain and reconstruct what happened to Greek ways away from Greece of the East when confronted with the cultural, political and economic realities of the West. Greeks of the frontier societies of the West seemingly chose different and alternative ways to meet the challenges of divergent contexts where several threats to the development of the apoikiai demanded the development of alternative strategies. Recent studies have argued for the development of diverse forms of coexistence, multiethnic engagements and co-living, but despite these efforts, the evidence also points to strands of conflict, emergence of warfare as an economic activity and hegemonic seaborne empires at times testing and threatening communities and communication. Thus, the history of the Greeks in the West is potentially a catalogue of many different responses to an ever-changing complex world where Greeks, Iberians, Celts, Etruscans, Carthaginians, Italiotes and others interacted. Concurrently, the history of the Greeks in the West is also a history of the different cultures with whom the Greeks interacted not only in the Iberian Levant but also with the Greek and Italiote cultures and societies of the central Mediterranean. Needless to state, the latter also formed different societal solutions in response to local and regional and inter-regional challenges. The history of the Greeks in the West evolved in the context of maritime networks connecting people, ideas and economies. Frontiers connected and facilitated political and economic innovation and development on which the Iberian Greeks became indiscriminately dependent in the course of the Archaic through the Classical periods and beyond. Hence, the second part of our book presents some examples of how the central part of the Mediterranean formed a vital regional context for the development of forms of Greek ‘temporality’ in the westernmost part of the Mediterranean. DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-1

2  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe In recent years, scholars have presented numerous studies of Western Mediterranean societal developments of the first millennium BC. Newly published volumes and papers on a variety of subjects elucidate the complexities of how networks and settlements, including the Greek apoikiai of the larger region, emerged and developed in close resonance with other cultures.1 The work of the German Archaeological Institute and others around the Bay of Málaga and excavations at La Fonteta at the mouth of the Río Segura, at Sa Caleta on the island of Ibiza and since 1983 at Lattes have emphasized the important role played by other agents – Phoenicians and Etruscans in particular who preceded the arrival of the Greeks. At times the Phoenicians clashed with the Greeks in fierce competition over territorial hegemony and resources proved in other times and contexts as benevolent collaborators engaged in complex trade networks. Epigraphic evidence from the El Sec shipwreck off the coast of Majorca shows that Punic speaking merchants could distribute Attic pottery (De Hoz Bravo 1987: 626–627). The ‘indigenous’ cultures of the region for instance in the Italian Peninsula, Southern Gaul – apart from the cultures of the Iberian Peninsula – obviously made up important players in these processes, and we are now more observant of the mutuality and interfaces of historical development than hitherto. Consequently, some local cultures and Greeks are more or less absent in this volume, especially those of the southern coast of France, in particular the Phocaean descendants of Massalia, and notable Italiot cultures. Voluminous studies of recent years have elucidated much of their history, and we have chosen to concentrate our effort on a selection of other contacts in the Western Mediterranean such as the cultures of the Italian Peninsula and Sicily. To the ancient Greeks, the Iberian Peninsula represented a land of mystery. Lying at the edge of the Ocean that encircled the world, it lay at the threshold of the Unknown. The realm of the setting sun, it was here that Homer located the entrance to the Underworld (Celestino Pérez and López-Ruiz 2016: 96–97): according to Strabo, Homer equated Tartarus with Tartessos in the valley of the río Guadalquivir (Str. 3.2.12) and it was to the end of the world that Hera came to visit Oceanus and Tethys (Hom. Il. 14.200–201). It was a landscape redolent with monsters: it was on the island of Erytheia – where Cádiz now stands – that Hercules stole the cattle of Geryon (Hesiod Theogony 287–288, 979–980; Apollodorus Library 2.5.10; Euripides The Madness of Hercules 225) and the Golden Apples were stolen from the Hesperides (Hesiod Theogony 215; Diod. Sic. 4.17.1). Homer located the voyages of Hercules and Odysseus in Iberia, and the Peninsula was visited by several of the heroes returning from Troy: Tlepolemus, Teucer, Amphilochus, Menestheus, Aeneas, Antenor, the Henetians, Diomedes, and Menelaus, as well as Antenor’s companion Ocelas who settled in Cantabria (Str. 3.2.13, 3.4.3, 3.1.9; Philostratus Life of Apollonius of Tyana 5.4). Although there are allusions to the Far West in the Iliad, Odyssey and Hesiod’s Theogony, it is not until Stesichorus’ Geryoneis written at the end of the seventh or beginning of the sixth century BC that we get a specific reference to the region. The poem mingles epic geography with the physical realm by juxtaposing the tenth labour of Hercules with the identification of Tartessos as a river opposite the island of Erytheia (PMG 184; Str. 3.2.11; Gómez Espelosín 2018: 288). Tartessos continued to resonate as a paradigm for the liminal

Introduction 3 character of the Peninsula at the boundary of the world (García Fernández 2004: 113; Cruz Andreotti 2015: 276). By transplanting heroes to the Far West and imposing Greek nomenclature, the Greeks appropriated the Peninsula for themselves and defined its place in the Greek Mediterranean. The earliest ‘historical’ contact between Greeks and the peoples of the Iberian Peninsula blurs the boundary between mythology and history. According to Herodotus, the Phocaeans were the first to travel to the Far West where they reached Tartessos and secured the friendship of the local King Arganthonios (1.163). Arganthonios was famed both for his longevity – he ruled for 80 years out of a lifespan of 120 – and his wealth was such that when the Phocaeans rejected his invitation to settle in Iberia, he financed the construction of the city wall of Phocaea. It is to Arganthonios that Anacreon is referring to when he expresses the wish not to rule Tartessos for 150 years (Str. 3.2.14)! The wealth of Tartessos was proverbial: nowhere else was gold, silver, copper or iron found in such good quantity or quality (Str. 3.2.8) and a Euboean talent’s worth of silver could be found in only three days (Str. 3.2.9). Herodotus goes on to contradict himself: he interrupts his account of the foundation of Cyrene to recount the tale of Kolaios, a Samian merchant en route to Egypt who was swept off course, eventually passing through the Pillars of Hercules and reaching Tartessos (4.152). Herodotus is explicit that no previous merchant had reached Tartessos and that Kolaios made so great a profit that upon his return he was able to use a tenth of his profit – amounting to six talents – to dedicate a bronze drinking bowl to Hera in thanks for his safe return. The historicity of Kolaios’ voyage may explain the discovery of three West Phoenician ivory combs in the Heraion at Samos that were perhaps made in Carmona (Freyer-Schauenburg 1966: 95–100). Much has been written about the relationship of Tartessos to the voyages of Kolaios and the Phocaeans and their relationship to the more tangible traces of contact with the Greek world (Alonso-Núñez 1987; Plácido Suárez 1989, 1993; Gómez Espelosín 1993; González de Canales Cerisola 2014; Padilla Monge 2014, 2016). Adolfo Domínguez’s chapter ‘Iberia and the Greek World 1999: What Role for the Greeks in Iberia?’ explores the context within which these early Greek contacts were forged to explain the apparent obliviousness of Kolaios and the Samians to the Greek voyages that had gone before. Domínguez argues that the locating of myths in the Far West reflects the activities of Greek sailors and navigators. Eloquent testimony of this activity can be seen on a fragmentary bronze votive from the Temple of Hera on Samos that depicts the fight between Heracles and Geryon (Corzo Sánchez 1998: 32, 34; Tiverios 1998: 72–73; Álvarez Martí-Aguilar 2008: 96–98). That the artist is drawing upon real experience is shown by the depiction of a Dragon Tree in the background. The Dragon Tree (Dracaena draco L.) is a species of subtropical tree that is found on the Canary Islands, Madeira, Western Morocco and Cape Verde, as well as in the Bay of Cádiz. Philostratus (Life of Apollonius of Tyana 5.5) refers to the tree as being unique to Cádiz and the two of them mark the tomb of Geryon. The activities of individual merchants like Kolaios are insufficient to explain the scope of Greek influence which will have necessitated more sustained contact.

4  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe Integral to the activities of Greek merchants is the applicability of labels such as emporion to the Iberian Peninsula – a question that has been the subject of considerable debate that to date shows little sign of abating. Whilst the use of the term is widespread, its definition is hampered by geographical, demographic and chronological differences that encourage a regional approach. According to Hansen (2006: 3–4), an emporion may be dependent upon a community, or a separate entity in its own right. As such, an emporion could be found within a community that appears indigenous. As Pierre Rouillard has pointed out (1995: 101), whilst the emporion itself may be multi-ethnic, it is perceived as being Greek. Unlike a polis, an emporion lacked a political structure (Hansen 2006: 33–34; Demetriou 2011: 262) and thus did not need the trappings of a distinct identity. Just as the definition of the term itself has proven problematic, the identification of Greek contact or settlement – of whatever kind – within the archaeological record has proven elusive. The relationship of trade, exchange and settlement is notoriously complex and fluid over time entailing not only what may loosely be termed ‘commercial’ activity but also diplomatic and religious ties. This is particularly the case in Iberia where the activities of Greek merchants were largely separate from the establishment of Greek settlements: apart from Emporion – and perhaps Rhode in the third century BC – no Greek poleis can be claimed in the Peninsula. Pierre Rouillard and Raymond Capra explore the character of these ‘exchanges’ – be they products, objects, ideas or the actors engaged therein – through the lens of Greek pottery highlighting the role of the Iberians as agents in this exchange. Foreign merchants would settle in native communities forming emporia such as the Greeks in the Palaiapolis at Empúries and the Phoenicians at La Fonteta-Rabita at the mouth of the Segura. The foundation of Emporion not only fostered the exchange of Greek goods but also gave access to local trade networks reflected in the redistribution of local Iberian kalathoi – known more colloquially as sombreros de copa. The most substantial Greek settlement lay at Emporion – modern Empúries – on the Bay of Rosas that was founded by Phocaeans from Marseilles c. 580 BC. According to Strabo (3.4.8), Emporion consisted of a bipartite city with a mixed population of Greeks and indigenous Indicetans. Strabo describes three stages in the development of Emporion – an initial settlement on an island – the Palaiapolis, followed by the creation of a joint city with the Greek and native inhabitants separated by a wall, and finally a combined city with Greek and native laws. It is not clear if Strabo’s information refers back to the archaic or classical town, or is a representation of a later period – perhaps that of his source – possibly Posidonius writing in the early first century BC. In his account of the Elder Cato’s campaign in 195 BC, Livy refers to the continued existence of the two towns separated by a wall (34.9.1) – although in this case the Greek and native towns appear to be geographically distinct. Although no trace survives of the double wall described by Strabo, the presence of indigenous inhabitants is suggested by the appearance of graffiti bearing Iberian names on Attic pottery (Sanmartí-Grego 1993a: 21; 1993b: 91; Santos Noya et al. 1991: 207–211). Indigenous cremation burials appear alongside the inhumation burials of the Greek colonists in the NE necropolis (Almagro Basch 1955: 359–362; Gailledrat 1995: 52–53) and an indigenous neighbourhood may have been located in the vicinity of

Introduction 5 the SW sanctuary (Plana-Mallart 2012: 163). Excavations of the archaic Palaiapolis beneath Sant Martí d’Empúries have emphasized the mixed population and its continuity from the preceding indigenous settlement (Aquilué Abadias et al. 2010: 68; Plana-Mallart 2012: 161–162; Oller Guzmán 2013: 188).2 The simplicity of the domestic architecture and its similarity to indigenous sites in Aragon and the Ebro Valley have led to the suggestion that they are indigenous in origin (Moret 2001: 385–387; 2002: 344). It may have been a pre-existing indigenous market frequented by Greeks (Plana-Mallart 1994:18; 2018: 107). Almost nothing is known about the political organization of Emporion. The settlement may have developed into a true polis necessitating a significant increase in population, an increase in territory and the creation of a political organization – a process that may have been prompted by the changing status of the Phocaean apoikiai in the West caused by the Persian capture of Phocaea itself in 546 BC and the arrival of large numbers of refugees in the West (Domínguez Monedero 2006a: 476). According to Strabo (3.4.8), the town was governed with mixed indigenous and Greek laws. A possible fragment of a foundation decree for the city was discovered in 1950 dating to the fourth or fifth centuries BC (Pena Gimeno 1992: 140–141; De Hoz 2014: 125–126). At the end of the sixth or beginning of the fifth century BC, the first monumental architecture was constructed in the Neapolis – a cultic area to the north-west of the town and the first buildings in the area of the later Hellenistic agora. The corporate identity of the Emporitai was sufficiently developed for the town to issue coinage – initially uninscribed and later depicting a female figure – Artemis – with the winged Pegasus on the reverse and bearing an inscription identifying the town (Pena Gimeno 1992: 141–142; De Hoz 2014: 150). By the end of the fifth century BC, the hinterland of the Greek settlement was reorganized with the appearance of large numbers of grain storage silos in native settlements situated along the fringe of the coastal plain (Martín Ortega and Plana Mallart 2001: 41–42). Recent work on the hinterland of Empúries showing that the Greeks systematically exploited the hinterland of the colony (Plana-Mallart 2012: 165–167) is throwing doubt upon the dichotomy between apoikiai and emporia as territorial entities. This question lies at the core of Jens Krasilnikoff’s contribution to ‘Some Experiential Observations on Trading, Farming and Sharing of Place in 6th to 2nd century BC Empúries’ that reconsiders the bipolis and the applicability of the notion of a polis to Emporion and its hinterland to focus instead on its role as an entrepôt. The small size of the Greek community meant that it was only through synoikismos with the indigenous population could sufficient demographic growth be achieved to sustain the creation of a distinct urban community. The inclusion of indigenes within Greek settlements is a burgeoning area of research. Whereas earlier scholarship dissociated Greek colonists from their immediate neighbours, the possibility of intermingling is now widely accepted. The evidence of burial practice has been particularly prevalent, although a possibility of a two-way process of exchange to create a ‘middle ground’ or ‘hybrid’ culture makes identifying indigenes problematic. Emporion has yielded epigraphic evidence that testifies to the close interaction of Greeks and locals. During the clearing of the Temple of Asklepios in 1988, a bronze letter was discovered to the west

6  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe of the sanctuary dating to the end of the third century BC. The letter appears to be written by Basirtir to Katulatien on behalf of Neitin requesting that he act on behalf of several individuals with indigenous names: Biuŕ-diki, Ulti-dikan, Eŕte-baś, Bintuŕke and Abadu-tiker (Sanmartí-Grego 1988: 110–111; Velaza 2003: 181). The close interaction of Greek merchants and indigenes is also evident in a document found at Pech Maho (Sigean) written in Ionian Greek and dating to the middle of the fifth century BC (Lejeune et al. 1988: 45–46; Lejeune and Pouilloux 1988: 532–535). Pech Maho was situated at the mouth of the La Berre River to exercise control over the importation of goods – perhaps tied to the consolidation of the oppidum at Montlaurès (Gailledrat 2018: 125). The details of the transaction recorded in the document are disputed but involve the purchase of boats – one from Emporion and three (?) from elsewhere. It involved two Greeks – Kyprios and Heronoioos – and was witnessed by Basigerros, Bleruas, Golo.biur, Sedegon, .auaras and Nalb.n, at least three of whom have indigenous names – Basigerros, Golo.biur and Nalb.n (De Hoz Bravo 1999: 72–73; Velaza 2003: 180–181). The routine interaction of Greeks and natives is clear from a letter discovered in the entrepôt at Lattes dating c. 430 BC. The letter records two transactions – one of fish sauce and olives and the other of olive oil. The latter is fragmentary but involves two Greeks, Kleanax and Kleosthenes, who were resident in Lattes or visiting from elsewhere, perhaps Massalia or Emporion (Bats 2010: 750–752). For much of the Far West, Greek contact was divorced from centres of Greek power and exercised through individual merchants and craftsmen. In Provence, not only did the Massiliots establish a string of secondary settlements – the best known being at Agde – but also Greek merchants took up residence in native communities at La Monédiere, Lattes, Le Caïlar and L’Argentière d’Espeyran (Ugolini 2010: 90–95). In Iberia, the most famous example is the indigenous entrepôt of Huelva. Extending over an area of 20 ha overlooking the confluences of the ríos Odiel and Tinto, the emporium acted as an outlet for the metals found in the south-west of the Peninsula – in particular the silver from the mines of the río Tinto – that attracted the interest of the Phoenicians perhaps as early as the second half of the tenth century BC (González de Canales Cerisola 2018: 68–69). Starting at the beginning of the sixth century BC, imports began to arrive from East Greece. As well as imported wares fabric analysis of Greek pottery from Calle Méndez Núñez has shown that Greek wares were also produced locally (González de Canales Cerisola and Llompart Gómez 2017: 143–144). That there were Greek residents in Huelva seems clear from the presence of Greek graffiti on locally produced pottery: a possible dedication to the Goddess Athena – ΑΘΑ (González de Canales Cerisola et al. 2018: 138); a dedication to Hestia – the Goddess of the Hearth (Llompart Gómez et al. 2010: 7–9); ṆỊḲHΣEI – perhaps a verb signifying ‘I win’ or a dedication to Nike (García Fernández et al. 2009: 98–100; De Hoz Bravo 2013: 47; López de la Orden and García Alfonso 2010: 62); a dedication to Hercules (De Hoz Bravo 2013: 46; López de la Orden and García Alfonso 2010: 60–61). The earliest graffito – and the most westerly example of Classical Greek – was found during rescue excavations on calle Puerto no. 9 and dates to the first half of the sixth century BC. The graffito consists of a dedication to an indigenous deity Neithos – ἀνέθηκε]ν Νιηθωι· – written in Ionian Greek (De Hoz Bravo 2002: 80; 2013: 46; Almagro Gorbea 2004: 201; De Hoz 2014: 348–349).

Introduction 7 In a setting where we might expect to see an assertion of a Greek collective identity through ritual practice, we instead find a mixed community – a ‘Middle Ground’ between Greek and non-Greek expressing an identity that was both indigenous and Mediterranean. In 1991 Richard White coined the concept of a ‘Middle Ground’ to describe the relationship between the French and the Native American peoples of the Great Lakes – the pays d’en haut – in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Despite their military supremacy, common interests – opposition to the Hurons and profits from the Fur Trade – prompted the French to reach a mutually beneficial accommodation with the Algonquin in which both parties modified their behaviour in order to cooperate (White 1991: 50–53). In contrast to the north-east, the Greek presence elsewhere in the Peninsula was more ephemeral taking the form of small emporia or harbours with Greek sailors frequenting native coastal towns. As Pierre Moret points out, despite producing an abundance of Greek pottery and local imitations, sculpture and a writing system based on Greek, the south-east has yielded no unequivocable archaeological evidence for any Greek settlement. Benedict Lowe’s chapter ‘Footprints in the Sea: Strabo’s τρία πολίχνια Μασσαλιωτῶν and the Greeks in the Levant’ takes the recollections of Greek sailors in shaping memories of space to focus upon a specific example, namely Strabo’s account of the settlement of Hemeroskopeion (3.4.6). Lowe argues that the activities of Greek sailors led to the proliferation of Greek toponyms recording the locations of harbours and aids for navigation. These toponyms could persist far beyond their immediate context and be manipulated to define their place within the wider Mediterranean and in particular their relationship to Rome. Whereas Lowe focuses on Hemeroskopeion, Pierre Moret turns his attention to another of the Massiliot towns, namely Alonis, to ask whether or not it was Iberian or Greek. Taking the Greco-Iberian script as evidence of a Greek presence, Moret focuses upon the multi-ethnic emporion of La Picola (Santa Pola) that served as the harbour for the native centre of Elche. Since its excavation in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the site of La Picola is the most Greek of the settlements found in the Iberian Peninsula outside Empúries and Rosas in the Bay of Rosas. Occupied between 430 and 330 BC, the site was laid out on an orthogonal grid with broad streets and rectangular housing that are unprecedented in the indigenous communities of Iberia (Moret et al. 1995: 115–116; 1997: 402). Despite the Greek appearance of the street grid and fortifications, the material culture points to its occupants having been Iberians with a relative scarcity of Greek imports (Moret and Badie 1998: 60–61; Badie et al. 2000: 257–258, 264–265). Greek contact was sufficiently pervasive to necessitate the creation of a Greco-Iberian script derived from Ionian to facilitate communication between Greek and local merchants (De Hoz Bravo 2009: 39–41). Besides the use of Greco-Iberian script, the region also saw the adoption of Greek sculptural forms most notably at Porcuna and Los Villares. In the absence of any indigenous tradition of stone sculpture, its origins are normally attributed to foreign influence. Initially Oriental in inspiration, the sculptures become increasingly Greek in style in the late sixth or early fifth century BC. They were used by the Iberian civic elites of the newly emergent towns as a means to display their power

8  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe and status by adapting Greek artistic forms to fit an Iberian agenda (Domínguez Monedero 2006b: 75). The most famous example is from Cerrillo Blanco de Porcuna where 1486 fragments of smashed up statuary dating from the fifth century BC were found discarded in a ditch around an Orientalizing cemetery. Although the details are difficult to reconstruct, the assemblage depicts warriors and male and female figures representing deities or priests and priestesses, as well as real and mythic monsters. Most scholars have traced their inspiration to Eastern Greece and Ionia in particular (González Navarrete 1987: 22; Blanco Freijeiro 1988: 233; Negueruela Martínez 1990: 302–303; Blázquez Martínez and González Navarrete 1989: 68; Blázquez Martínez 2014: 116–117). One of the sculptures may represent Artemis in the guise of the potnia theron or Mistress of the Animals holding two deers (Blázquez Martínez and González Navarrete 1989: 64–65; González Navarrete 1987: 115–118). Ephesian Artemis was a particular favourite of the Phocaean Greeks with several putative sanctuaries in the Western Mediterranean. Amongst the most elusive and problematic of the Greek settlements is that of Mainake. The ancient sources are contradictory as to its location: following his description of the Straits of Gibraltar, Avienus refers to Menace as the earlier name of Malaka/Málaga (The Sea Coast 425–427). By way of contrast in his description of the coastline running east from the Straits of Gibraltar, Strabo places Mainake to the east of Málaga adding that at the time of Strabo’s writing or that of his source, Mainake was in ruins (3.4.2). According to Ps.-Skymnos (146–149), this was the most westerly Greek city, although no trace now remains. In the absence of definitive evidence, various locations around the Bay of Málaga have been suggested, none of which have proven conclusive (Niemeyer 1979–1980: 301; Aubet Semmler 2005: 200; Domínguez Monedero 2006b: 65–70). Beginning with the earliest Phoenician settlement at La Rebanadilla at the mouth of the río Guadalhorce, Eduardo García Alfonso’s chapter ‘The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga. Five centuries of relationships and the trade in the Phoenician West’ surveys the presence of Greek imports along the Bay of Málaga to reconsider the relationship of Greek and Phoenician merchants and to suggest that the roots of the Greek settlement lay in an enclave – or emporion – within the Phoenician settlement at Málaga. Particularly striking testimony to the presence of Greeks within the Phoenician settlement was the discovery in 2012 of the tomb of a warrior dated to the sixth century BC. The warrior was buried with a Hoplite panoply including a Bronze Corinthian helmet – he was perhaps a mercenary commander from Southern Italy (García González et al. 2013: 283; Quesada Sanz and García González 2018: 219– 220; Domínguez Monedero 2018: 413–415). In the absence of definitive Greek settlements, for much of the Peninsula we are forced to rely upon the evidence of Greek material culture. At least initially during the eighth century and the first half of the seventh century, Greek imports reached the Peninsula in the hands of Phoenician merchants. In the first half of the sixth century, Ionian cups were found in coastal areas before being replaced by Attic Black Figure pottery distributed from Emporion in the second half of the century. Particularly striking was the widespread distribution of Castulo cups that may have been produced specifically for Western markets (Domínguez Monedero

Introduction 9 and Sánchez Fernandez 2001: 445–446). The expansion of Greek imports into the south and south-east of the Peninsula in the second half of the fifth century coincides with the political and economic consolidation of the polis of Emporion. The peak of Athenian imports occurs in the first half of the fourth century BC and is contemporaneous with the appearance of princely tombs and an increasingly complex Iberian society. However, by passing from the hands of the producer/ owner to the consumer, the meaning of these artefacts changes not only through the agents responsible but also through the broader social network within which this exchange takes place. The Iberians chose to acquire or consume a limited range of shapes – principally cups and bell-kraters – with a limited decorative palate mainly consisting of generic Dionysiac and symposiac scenes – perhaps symbolizing an atmosphere or outlook rather than a specific episode. Most were produced by the mediocre artists of the Telos Group of whom the most prolific was the Black-Thyrsus Painter (Sánchez Fernández 1991: 207–208; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernandez 2001: 427–432). Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez’s chapter ‘Fourth Century Athenian Pottery from the Iberian Peninsula: Workshops and Iconography’ focuses on three such princely tombs – tombs 43 and 176 from Baza (Granada) and the chamber tomb at Piquía (Jaén) – to explore why the Iberians favoured such a limited panoply of shapes and decoration and whether the Athenians marketed specific shapes and decorative motifs tailored to the demands of their Iberian clientele. Several colleagues have recently attempted at reconstructing the world of apoikiai, networks and Empires and thus aimed at effectively ‘de-colonize’ the ancient Mediterranean world and to submit this older approach by the alternative of a more open, changing and predominantly peaceful interaction between cultures in a multi-ethnic environment.3 The part of the ancient Mediterranean history, which is a globalized, intercultural world without (much) conflict and ambitions for creating strong bonds of mutuality, innovation and exchange are both visions for our modern as well as for our approaches to the ancient world. The papers of this second part of Greeks in the Far West thus follow these new trends and also aim at reconstructing elements of the Western interacting multi-ethnic oikoumene, which are observant of conflict and of successful attempts of local societies to either ward off or negotiate external cultural and political ‘threats’ by processes of mediation, cultural and social memory and code-switching.4 Hence, a vital addition to the study of societal developments in the Western Mediterranean is the inclusion of papers, which examine the context through which Iberia developed some of its characteristics – and vice versa. Thus, contact, approval, cultural diversity, adoption, adaptation and innovation, but also rejection, conflict, war and exclusion, are (still) key elements for understanding the complex world of Greeks, Iberians, Italiotes, Phoenicians, Gauls and those from the East interacting with those from the West. Joshua R. Hall’s chapter ‘Piracy and the Western Greek Experience’ examines the phenomenon of piracy in the West and offers new insights into the (almost endemic) phenomenon of piracy in a new geographical setting. Previous studies from Ormerod’s study of 1924 to more recent studies by Pierre Brulé, Philip de Souza and Vincent Gabrielsen have mainly focused on the Classical and Hellenistic East,

10  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe and their final clashes with late Roman Republican dignitaries such as Pompey and Julius Caesar (Brulé 1978; De Souza 1999; Gabrielsen 2001, 2013). In this new setting, Hall points to familiar problems of holding piracy at bay, and its close familiarity with other types of brigandage such as leisteia, and of mercenary service. The primary interest of Hall is to ask how and to what effect piracy of the Western Mediterranean influenced new settlements and migrating Greeks in the sixth through the fourth centuries. The heterogeneous evidence is complex and demands clear observance of the context in which piracy unfolds in the written evidence. This points to the inescapable fact that descriptions of piracy are very much in the hands of its adversaries, that is, those individuals and societies targeted by this type of violence. The ‘pirates’ hired by enemies could be tomorrow’s compatriots and thus not ‘pirates’ but ‘allies’. Hall demonstrates the fluidity of the phenomenon of piracy and presents it as an opportunity used by Greeks and non-Greeks, in times of distress, as a secondary means of making ends meet, thus both as a threat and as an opportunity for those in the process of creating new settlements and alliances. Moreover, pirates preyed on the flourishing trade networks of the region and, at times, strong naval powers of the region both countered and exploited this threat. The chapter by Jens Krasilnikoff deals with how the tyrant Dionysius of Syracuse organized and developed a complex order within his realm, thus creating a political and economic regional power in the central Mediterranean. By appliance of a spatial analytic perspective, Jens Krasilnikoff suggests that Dionysius implemented a strategy to counter various external and internal threats, including piracy, and secondly how he played various levels of his realm in order to achieve these goals.5 Thus, the holistic approach of Hall’s chapter corresponds with the following contribution by Krasilnikoff on the spatial order and implications of the realm of Dionysius of Syracuse for the larger region of his arché. Contrary to most modern studies of the fourth century Sicilian tyrant’s or ‘dynasts’ career, Krasilnikoff also ponders the economic implications of Dionysius’ central Mediterranean seaborne empire, extending at some point to the southernmost Italian Peninsula into the Adriatic Sea and west coast of mainland Greece. Thus, concurrently, Krasilnikoff elucidates the nature of the food system, which supported Dionysius’ empire building, including how the many elements of the system evolved in the first half of the fourth century. In this analytic perspective, the food supply itself was essential but its fecundity determined an ever-changing set of conditions for the food system itself. Thus, developments of new and deterioration of older suppliers of food alongside war, piracy and climatic pressure dramatically influenced the food systems of societies and empires. Kathryn Lomas asks how cultural memory developed and culture changed in the course of the Hellenistic through the Roman period in the Phocaean city of Elea, later Roman Velia on the Tyrrhenian Sea in Western Magna Graecia between second century BC and first century AD. Lomas’ focus on Velia offers a particularly interesting case study because other cities in the region developed in very different directions. Lomas discusses examples of Velia’s engagements with its Greek past, and how cultural memory operated to include suitable elements of the past, and what was not. Lomas also engages with questions of agency and

Introduction 11 thus presents a complexity of local origin and wider appeal. Lomas outlines how Velia invested massively in Greek-style public buildings in the third and second centuries BC, only to slow down this development in the two centuries to follow; and even in this period, the Greek tradition seems to have dominated. The city’s acropolis continued to be the centre for the cult of Athena Polias and the place for honouring civic benefactors. Greek probably lived on as an administrative, spoken and epigraphic language well into the Imperial period. Undoubtedly, the city associated itself with Greek philosophy and the healer cult. Thus, Lomas elucidates the ambiguities between Greek continuity and Roman adoptions, and how Velia’s cultural memory pointed to the city’s heritage of conservative and unthreatening Hellenism. In the final chapter, Jane Hjarl Petersen analyses burials from the Apulian locations of Canosa and Arpi, using code-switching to identify ethnic traits in damaged and disturbed funeral material. Code-switching was originally applied by WallaceHadrill and others to tackle the often-complex identity statements inherent in material remains (Wallace-Hadrill 2008; Winther-Jacobsen 2013). Developing these ideas, Petersen expands her previous engagements with burials in the Black Sea region now to deal with the heterogenic grave material from the Apulian context. Petersen follows Carla Antonaccio’s distinction ‘…between ethnicity and cultural identity in order to accentuate the limitations inherent in the definition of ethnicity versus the more flexible and changeable nature of cultural identity’ (Antonaccio 2010: 33). Hence, in this chapter, Petersen designates Greek, Roman and local cultural groupings and tendencies rather than static ethnicities. Thus, codeswitching as an analytic perspective offers new arrays of perceiving processes of cultural complexity because it allows individuals to encompass multiple cultural identities simultaneously. The chapter focus on the hypogeum-type tomb of the region, in Canosa cut out of the bedrock, whereas the hypogea of Arpi were built from stone blocks. Generally, chamber tombs of the Greek homeland, in particular Northern Greece and Macedonia, probably influenced this distinct type of tomb. By analysis of the tombs and of their heterogenic material, Petersen demonstrates how local elites – women and men – of Canosa and Arpi effectively switched between culturally diverse identities in order to attain specific social, political or economic goals. The liminal nature of the Greek presence in Iberia served to crystalize a common Hellenic identity – a commonality further enhanced by the Phocaean dominance of Greek settlement. In contrast to the central Mediterranean, the Greek presence in Iberia was far more fluid and ephemeral. Recent discoveries – for example, the abundance of archaic pottery from Huelva, or the Warrior’s tomb at Málaga – have transformed our understanding by highlighting the importance of archaic Greek trade and the presence of Greeks within the emporia of the south coast. The evidence afforded by the letters from Pech Maho, Emporion and Grau Vell suggests that the Greeks enjoyed close connections with the coastal peoples of the Iberian Peninsula that had a profound impact on Iberian society – either directly through the Greeks themselves or indirectly through the networks into which they tapped. Trade alone, however, cannot explain the important changes wrought by

12  Jens A. Krasilnikoff and Benedict Lowe contact with the wider Mediterranean, changes that must have come about through direct contact and even the implantation of foreigners into multi-ethnic communities along the coasts of the south and east (Domínguez Monedero 2002: 70). A hierarchy of sites ranging from the polis of Emporion to the smaller emporia of the SE acted as agents for the multidirectional movement of goods, people and ideas that transformed the culture and landscape of the Iberian Peninsula. We have avoided imposing a common approach and terminology upon the contributors, to do so would imply a consensus that does not exist and it is in these differences that we hope to foster future avenues of debate and understanding. Notes 1 The bibliography is vast and constantly growing; recent surveys can be found in De Angelis (ed.) 2020. 2 Although Pierre Moret (2010: 330–332) has sounded a cautionary note. 3 Notably Demetriou 2012 and Vlassopoulos 2013. Woolf 2011 on the Roman West. 4 A notion coined by Vlassopoulos 2013: 21–5, 235–243. 5 Developing the analytic principles coined by Yi-Fu Tuan 1977 and Tim Ingold 1993, 2000, 2009.

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Introduction 17 Santos Noya, Manuel, Enric Sanmartí-Grego, Pere Castanyer i Masoliver and Joaquim Tremoleda i Trilla. “Testimonios epigráficos de la presencia de población indígena en el interior de Emporion.” Huelva Arqueologica 13 no. 1 (1991): 203–214. Tiverios, Michalis A. “Hallazgos tartésicos en el Hereo de Samos.” In Los griegos en España. Tras las huellas de Heracles, ed. Paloma Cabrera and Carmen Sánchez, 66–84. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1998. Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1977. Ugolini, Daniela. “Présences étrangères méditerranéennes sur la côte du Languedoc-Roussilon durant l’âge du Fer: de la fréquentation commerciale aux implantations durables.” Pallas 84 (2010): 83–110. Velaza, Javier. “La epigrafía ibérica emporitana: bases para una reconsideración.” Palaeohispanica 3 (2003): 179–192. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. Rome’s Cultural Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. White, Richard. The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Winther-Jacobsen, Kristina (ed.). 2013. Artefact Variability, Assemblage Differentiation, and Identity Negotiation: Debating Code-Switching in Material Culture. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2013. Woolf, Greg. Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011.

1

Iberia and the Greek world What role for the Greeks in Iberia? Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero

The Greeks were present in the Iberian Peninsula for a long time, and this period now seems to stretch further and further into the past with recent findings. In the present chapter, I will focus on certain aspects of their presence, as well as the interactions that took place between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula. Recent pottery findings, which are for the most part Euboean and perhaps Attic in origin, dating back to between the second half of the ninth century and the first half of the eighth century BC (Domínguez Monedero 2013a:16), now allow us to question when the Greeks first arrived in the Iberian Peninsula. Although the discovery of pottery dating back to the first half of the eighth century BC years ago had initially been interpreted as the result of commerce with the Phoenicians, the fact that more has been found suggests that this assumption should be revised. In the same way, the discovery of a seal similar to those of the Lyre-Player Group (Serrano Pichardo et al. 2012), which Boardman convincingly linked with Euboean commerce (Buchner and Boardman 1966; Boardman 1990), also supports this reassessment. However, we should not forget that the oldest Greek literary tradition, the Odyssey, contemplates the existence of mixed commercial enterprises between the Greeks and the Phoenicians: Then there came a man of Phoenicia […] and took me with him, until we reached Phoenicia, where lay his house and his possessions. There I remained with him for a full year. But […] as the year rolled round and the seasons came on, he set me on a seafaring ship bound for Libya, having given lying counsel to the end that I should convey a cargo with him […]. (Od. 14.288–296) Although this passage is replete with the usual signs of distrust towards the Phoenicians found in Homeric poems, I would like to highlight here the possibility that joint commercial enterprises appear to be referred to in the oldest Homeric tradition. Going back to the case of the Iberian Peninsula, there can be no doubt that the signs of the eventual Greek presence in this area appear in archaeological contexts in which the materials of Phoenician origin are most predominant. No one is suggesting, or at least I do not intend to, that there was a strong Greek presence in the DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-2

Iberia and the Greek world 19 area at that time. The eventual presence of Greeks also occurs in places that were frequented by Phoenicians. Despite this, these possible navigations resulted in the introduction into the Greek vision of the world of new concepts arising from personal experience. On occasions, for example, it has been suggested by some authors that the river Oceanus, characterised in the Odyssey as a river whose flow and current are constant (ῥόος), is a direct reference to the Atlantic coastal areas of Cadiz, where such phenomena, practically unheard of in the Mediterranean, are indeed seen (Dion 1960: 34–36). If this were so, this would mean that this phenomenon was witnessed at a moment sufficiently far back in time for the Homeric poems to use the image of Oceanus as a river that ebbs and flows to and from the coast following the rhythm of tides that the Greeks were not yet accustomed to. As we are well aware, centuries later Herodotus (2.23) would question the old idea that Oceanus was a river (Podossinov 2013), suggesting more detailed observations. In the same way, the location of certain myths that took place at the boundaries of areas of contact between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic can also be linked to Greek navigations. Examples of such myths include those of Chronos and Briareus (López Pardo 2004), which alternate, perhaps from a relatively early date, with Heracles, the divine hero with whom the Phoenicians of Tyre would have identified their god Melkart, although for reasons that are not quite clear (Teixidor 1983; López Grande 2002). Despite the fact that certain Greek authors, including Aristotle (fr. 678 Rose), insist that the Pillars of Heracles had been previously named after Briareus and offer an explanation for their change in name, it is certainly possible that we find ourselves faced here with different traditions, arising at different moments in time along with different Greek navigators, each with their own mythical repertoires. Whilst the association with Briareus seems to be a link to Euboean sailors (Gras 1992), the presence of Heracles could also be due to travellers from eastern Greece who may have been making use of different traditions that were perhaps more similar to those of the Phoenicians living in these areas. Whatever the case may be, the first Euboean movements were forgotten by the Greeks who came at a later date, claiming to be the first to reach the lands of Tartessos. This can be the only explanation for Kolaios of Samos insisting when he reached Tartessos that it was a place of commerce that was still pure and not contaminated (ἐμπόριον ἀκήρατον; Hdt. 4.152) – a comment from which it has been inferred that the location was still unknown to the Greeks. However, in the Phocaean logos, Herodotus himself assures, no doubt following the traditions of this origin, that the Phocaeans were the original discoverers (καταδέξαντες) of Tartessos (1.163). The fact that Herodotus did not resolve this contradiction shows how we sometimes generalise when we refer to “the Greeks” as a whole when, at least in the Archaic period, each polis or area develops its own tradition, only for these to all be gathered together as a supposedly coherent tale at a later date. It is thus possible that the Greeks who may have arrived in the Iberian Peninsula between ninth and sixth centuries BC (the Euboeans, the Samians and the Phocaeans, amongst others) scattered the area with different toponyms and impregnated

20  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero the land with different myths. This was not done in a uniform manner, however, and this seems to explain the contradictions present in our sources. We have just mentioned the Samians and the Phocaeans; it is clear that from the last third of the seventh century we enter a new era of Greek presence in the Iberian Peninsula, characterised by an increase in volume and the laying down of various kinds of permanent establishments in different areas. The main direct sources of evidence of this are found in Herodotus, who was writing over 100 years after these movements and the settling of some Greeks in the Peninsula. Before we go into archaeological data, however, there is other information to take into account which relates to this new era of contact in different ways, according to different literary genres. Amongst the authors who refer to this new era are the poets, in particular. In the same way that the oldest Euboean navigations may have left their mark in the reference to Oceanus in Homer’s poems, the new journeys undertaken by the eastern Greeks from the last third of the seventh century onwards provided the poets with new material to geographically position the mythological tales they were working on. One of the earliest of these poets was Stesichorus of Himera, whose floruit would have been around 600 BC (Curtis 2011). This author, who showed considerable interest in myths about Heracles, wrote a work called the Geryoneis, detailing a combat between Geryon and Heracles. Stesichorus was undoubtedly not the creator of the myth of Geryon nor, quite possibly, of many of its details (Blázquez Martínez 1983). However, from what we know at present, he could well have been the first to locate this myth in the Peninsula, as is suggested by his reference to the river Tartessos and its roots of silver (Ταρτησσοῦ ποταμοῦ … ἀργυρορίζους) (Stesich., frag. 7 Page=frag. 14 Curtis). This is not absolutely certain (Cruz Andreotti 1991; Lazzeri 2008: 61–83), and if this were so, it would show how the information and observations passed down from Greek sailors and navigators could have been transmitted to poets and other individuals who then made use of them for their own purposes (Bowie 2014). The positioning of the myth of Geryon in a Tartessian setting would not have been automatically accepted by all Greek scholars, as we see some time later in Hecataeus of Miletus’ (FGrHist 1 F 26) rejection of this idea. This demonstrates the extreme freedom that each author had at his disposal to interpret existing traditions, as well as the existence of other interests, especially when it comes to assigning a particular geographical location. An interesting piece of bronze found in the Heraion of Samos is dated back to the last quarter of the seventh century BC. It may well be a horse’s breastplate showing the fight between Heracles and Geryon and is currently the oldest representation we have of this (Brize 1985; Tiverios 1998). Another important piece of information is that the image shows, according to some researchers, clear evidence that the metal worker of the piece was in possession of precise information on the specific flora of the Atlantic areas of the south-west of the Peninsula (Corzo Sánchez 1998; Álvarez Martí-Aguilar 2008), contributing towards a more believable suggestion that the event took place in Tartessos. The myth of Geryon’s popularity in eastern Greece could be proven if the terracotta representing a warrior with two torsos found in Çatallar Tepe, interpreted by some to be the location of the old

Iberia and the Greek world 21 Panionion, should be of this very myth, as has been highlighted by the excavator (Lohmann 2007: 590; some parallel in Brize 1980: pl. 8.1–2). In any case, the eastern Greeks may have been responsible for assigning a series of mythical traditions in the Atlantic areas of the Peninsula to Heracles. It is difficult to ascertain whether or not this link with Heraclean tradition is related to the identification that the Greeks would have made between Heracles and the Phoenician god Melkart or if, on the contrary, this association may have arisen or gained credibility in the west precisely because of the presence of important centres for the cult of Melkart in these areas, such as the Sanctuary of Melkart in Gadir or the site on the “island sacred to Heracles opposite the city of Onoba in Iberia” (εἰς νῆσον Ἡρακλέους ἱερὰν κειμένην κατὰ πόλιν Ὀνόβαν τῆς Ἰβηρίας; Str. 3.5.5). Finally, to end our discussion of the mythical implications of the Greeks’ presence in the Peninsula, we would like to draw attention to another well-known passage: In Anacreon of Teos, whose floruit dates back to the sixth century BC, the poet assures us that he would not like to reign for a 150 years in Tartessus (… οὔτ' ἔτεα πεντήκοντά τε κἀκατὸν Ταρτησσοῦ βασιλεῦσαι; fr. 16 Page). As we can see, here we have the first reference to King Arganthonios (although not by name), who is also mentioned by Herodotus (1.163). According to Herodotus, this king spent just 80 years on the throne of his 120 years alive. It is unclear whether or not the author was following another tradition that limited the years that the Tartessian king had on the throne or if he tried to reduce this figure to human limits in line with the Ionian logographers. It is indeed interesting, however, that in the Ionian world of the mid-sixth century BC, this king was already well-known and attributed characteristics that situated him somewhere between myth and reality. We have here yet another echo of the contact between the eastern Greeks and the Atlantic coast of the Peninsula. Aside from this, it is noteworthy that the Suda (ss.vv. Ἀγαθώνιος and Ταρτησσός) refers to the Tartessian king as Ἀγαθώνιος and also tells us that there is a mountain called Arganthonios “on the Island of Cios” (Suid., s.v. Ἀργανθώνη: καὶ Ἀργανθώνιον δὲ ὄρος τῆς Κίου νήσου). Clearly, Cios is not an island but a coastal city in Mysia. This mountain seems to be related to another line of traditions of mythical journeys such as that of the Argonauts, in which Heracles also plays a part (Str. 12.4.3; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.1172–1181). Since Cios was originally a Milesian colony, it is of no surprise that the mountain to the north of the city should bear such a name. Not too far from Cios, we also find the Phocaean colony of Lampsacus. The name Ἀγαθόνιος has been discovered in an inscription from the Thermaic Gulf dating back to the fifth century BC, with two letters added at a later date so that it reads Ἀργανθόνιος. Although there may indeed be a link to the Tartessian Arganthonios, it is difficult to establish what this may have been, although Tiverios (1998: 78–79) suggests a relationship of this A(r)ga(n)thonios with the gold of the river Echedoros, in whose mouth this graffito was found. It is probable that the eastern Greeks, who embarked upon journeys in different directions in the seventh century, may have tended to give the same names to different lands and assign them the same characters of doubtful historicity. The parallels that the Greeks may have established between these bordering lands have been observed on occasions (Ballabriga 1986: 246–255) and their diffusion may have

22  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero been due to mythical cycles such as those of Heracles or the Argonauts who create their own geographical framework in which information from real experience is combined with elaborations of mythical traditions that become fixed, perhaps at the same time, in different geographical areas far away. Some authors have already observed certain similarities between the names assigned by the Greeks to peoples living in Pontic and Iberian areas (Antonelli 2008: 73–89; Moret 2006; 2017: 46–68) and this is perhaps the reason behind the existence of two locations called “Iberia” in Antiquity (Domínguez Monedero 1983; 2010). We should not, in any case, assume that there was a meditated and coherent approach to assigning names. On the contrary, interferences must have been at play, as well as new interpretations and even misappropriations between different groups from different cities although they were related. On the other hand, we should not forget that, for a long time in the Archaic period, myths were used to define and interpret the new realities that the navigators faced on their travels. In this way, and despite the fact that we have lost much of the poetry written in the Archaic period, it is interesting that the first time we hear Tartessos mentioned is in the myth of Geryon in Stesichorus’ work, as is the fact that the first mention of Arganthonios (although not by name) is made by a poet from Teos, Anachreon, who states that he does not wish for Horn of Amalthea nor to reign over Tartessos for a 150 years. As usual, we cannot expect historical accuracy from the stories told by poets such as those mentioned, as well as those who go on to build the Heraclean myths and the even more complex tales of the Argo’s travels. Another problem is that scientists and scholars writing at a later date, including those who lived in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, may have wished to extract reliable information from these poetic references, complicating matters considerably. What is indeed interesting from all of the above is that, although it is sometimes difficult to trace the Greeks present in these Iberian lands, such sources, which are found all over Greek territory, do help us to identify these areas. Not all of the information generated by the Greek sailors and navigators came from mythical tales, however. Sailors, due to the nature of their job, needed practical information that was then passed on by mouth from pilot to pilot. In time, longer accounts were built up little by little, and these are known as periploi. None of these oral documents remain but they did give rise to a literary genre that, assuming the same form to a greater or lesser extent, has provided us with information of significant value. One of the oldest documents of this kind is the one that was used as a basis for the Latin poem the Ora Maritima, written by Rufus Festus Avienus. I will not go into too much detail about this work here, although I will say that an impressive number of studies have been carried out on it, with a particular focus on the initial nucleus behind the work. Although there are some authors who deny that an original document even existed (González Ponce 1995), I am of the opinion that the Latin poem originated from an important nucleus of periplographic information that gathers together a panorama of considerable age describing journeys to the coastlines of the Peninsula, based on the personal experience of the sailors as other scholars have suggested (Peretti 1979: 28–38).

Iberia and the Greek world 23 One of the most significant problems posed by this document is related to when it was written and how it was passed down to posterity. The fact that the poem contains a series of terms, in particular toponyms, that are not present in other sources (Peretti 1979: 33–34) suggests that they came from a tradition that did not have many followers and that must have been previous to the generalisation of the toponyms that are most used. For this reason, it is not unlikely that the original document should date back to the sixth century BC, although we cannot be certain when exactly it was created. On the other hand, and despite the fact that it is generally accepted that the document may have been written in Massalia, the poem contains no specific references hinting towards this origin. It could be an eastern Greek periplos that was written down at some point but that went unnoticed for a long time. Whatever the case may be, it represents a different tradition from that followed by other Ionian scholars such as Anaximander or Hecataeus, who would try to “convert” information gleaned from periploi into geographical descriptions. The discrepancies that exist in much of the data handed down to us by archaic sources are due to the existence of an unknown series of information kept by different groups of sailors, almost always orally, some of which may have reached the ears of scholars, such as Hecataeus who then tried to elaborate with it a description of the oikoumene. Debates that have taken place in recent years on the whereabouts of Iberia or Tartessos, for example, have led to opposing views and should be resolved bearing in mind the existence of different traditions that, when developed, do not have one geographical location in mind for certain toponyms and often do not even use the same toponyms as other Greeks also present on the peninsular coastline. It is quite probable that the presence of Greeks in the Iberian Peninsula is not only limited to Samians and Phocaeans, although Herodotus mentions both without relating them to each other. Bearing in mind that the first signs of stable Greek presence seem to be emporic in nature, the arrival of men from different parts of Greece is more than probable. Despite their scarcity, some recent epigraphical discoveries may shed some light on this complex panorama. Five inscriptions have been found on different types of pottery in the excavations of the city of Huelva, which was an important commercial centre for Phoenicians from the ninth century BC onwards, and where a significant Greek presence has been documented between the last third of the seventh century BC and the mid-sixth century BC. The first of these has what seems to be a dedication to Niethos, a name which has been convincingly interpreted as belonging to a local divinity that was not replaced by a Greek equivalent, even though this would have been the norm even in Huelva. The inscription was fashioned on a bowl or lid that, in the absence of more information, is thought to be of Milesian origin, although even today we cannot deny that it may well be a local piece. The type of writing suggests that it is an epigraph written in Ionian Greek and in an alphabet that is compatible with an eastern Greek origin (Fernández Jurado and Olmos Romera 1985). Another two graffiti of particular interest have been found on grey pottery which is clearly local in origin. This is an important finding since it confirms the presence of Greeks in Huelva that made use of their alphabet, although we cannot extract

24  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero much more information on their status. One of these pieces is a dedication to Hestia written as (H)istia, as is common in eastern Greece. The other is a dedication to Nike. Both are written in the Ionian dialect and alphabet; the second piece may even be written in the Chian alphabet. In contrast to the first of the four pieces, these two are Greek adaptations of Tartessian or Phoenician gods that were almost certainly worshipped in the Huelva area. The identification with these Greek gods may be due to different aspects related to their personalities or their iconography. There is also other graffiti, scratched on a Greek cup (a type A2 Ionian cup), which shows a dedication to Heracles written in the Doric dialect and in the Cnidian alphabet (Domínguez Monedero 2013a). The fact that this is the earliest dedication to Heracles in the whole of the far west is of interest, since, as we have seen, this figure was of great importance in the Greek ideological construction of remote territories. Strabo (3.5.5) also wrote of a sanctuary dedicated to Heracles, located in the region surrounding the current island of Saltés, in front of Huelva. Although some scholars have suggested a possible profane context for any of those graffiti (De Hoz 2014: 36–347, 350–351), the evident religious character of the dedication to Heracles suggests that this was the function of all these inscriptions, as I have argued in depth (Domínguez Monedero 2013a). The last of the inscriptions that I will mention here bears other characteristics of interest; it is written on a Greek-type two-handled bowl, locally manufactured, whose surface is covered with red slip and it reads Atha before the break of the sherd. The complete word would be, very probably, Atha(na), a dedication to the goddess Athena, perhaps in Doric dialect (González de Canales et al. 2018: 133–143). The presence of these graffiti, as well as significant amounts of Greek pottery of different origins discovered in Huelva, all dating back to the period between the end of the seventh and the first half of the sixth centuries BC, is evidence of how the Huelva area was at that time a primary commercial hub for the Greek world. A recent advance has been to determine, through X-Ray Powder Diffraction and Neutron Activation Analysis, that an important part of the Greek-type pottery found in Huelva and not belonging to known workshops corresponds, in fact, to local productions (González de Canales and Llompart 2017: 125–145; González de Canales et al. 2018: 133–143). This shows, in a very clear way, the presence of Greeks residing in Huelva, who were the main clients of these productions. This would confirm what some of us had suggested sometimes in the past (Domínguez Monedero 2001–2002: 191, 199; González de Canales 2004: 322). Greeks introduced also a series of different divine personifications, responding to the local or Phoenician gods worshipped in these areas, together with the remnants of others that kept their local names and were perhaps more resistant to adaptation. If the ancient Greek merchants were to be characterised by anything, it would be by their mobility, visiting open emporia in different parts of the Mediterranean, including Egypt and Etruria (Torelli 1982). This mobility led to the rest of the Greek world acquiring mythical, periplographic and geographic knowledge of the Iberian lands, as is recorded in various sources. As I have previously suggested, these different types of information all interlink, and mythical concepts even end

Iberia and the Greek world 25 up becoming geographical concepts. Perhaps one of the most well-known of these references is that of the Pillars of Heracles, as has already been mentioned. As previously discussed, a large number of excavations in the city of Huelva, many of which are not yet published, have unearthed evidence of Greek presence there and the building of an important commercial centre. These locations are characterised by religious areas, some of which have been identified (Osuna Ruiz et al. 2001) and other probable ones whose presence we can infer from the Greek dedications already mentioned. Archaeology also allows us to deduce the existence of other trade centres that were accessible to the Greeks, whether these were Phoenician (Malaga, La Fonteta) (Domínguez Monedero 2006) or founded by local peoples, such as the one in San Martín de Ampurias, which, with time, would grow into a real city whilst continuing to be a centre of commerce. We have seen how the knowledge acquired by the Greeks that reached the coastline of the Iberian Peninsula was passed on and used in other areas of the Greek world by poets (Stestichorus, Anacreon) or by historical or geographical authors (Hecataeus, Herodotus, Herodorus of Heraclea, etc.). In the same way, the chronological period during which this information was used spans several centuries. However, one field that has not been studied in much depth is related to the parts of the Greek world that receive this information and how it was used there. In what follows, I will focus on the Archaic period in particular and will need to refer to sources that are, to a certain extent, indirect. The Greek pottery discovered in the Iberian Peninsula from the seventh and sixth centuries BC comes mainly from the workshops dotted around the Aegean Sea. Alongside pottery from eastern Greece in its widest sense (the north of Ionia, south Ionia, etc.), from the beginning of the sixth century onwards, we also find Attic products in archaeological excavations as well as Corinthian pottery, although these are scarce in number. Despite the lack of exact data, it is thought today that a significant number of the so-called “Ionian cups,” a product that was distributed in different areas across the Iberian Peninsula’s coastline, may have come from the workshops located in Greek centres in either the Italian Peninsula or Sicily. In some cases, we even find evidence of produce manufactured in centres such as Massalia. With regard to Greek amphorae used for transportation purposes, we find examples from eastern Greece and other areas such as Corinth (or at least of Corinthian type), as well as Ionian-Massaliote amphorae whose origins have still not been deciphered although they are surely from Magna Graecia. The origins of these containers naturally depend on the period in question, although we will not go into this here (Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001). Products came into the Iberian Peninsula then from a wide range of different areas. The transportation of such produce was almost certainly not carried out by its producers, but rather by a series of intermediaries who took charge of transport and marketing duties. These transporters developed, from the sixth century onwards, a large network of stop-off points, storage centres and ports for receiving different kinds of produce, as is recorded by some exceptional documents such as the lead tablets of Ampurias and Pech Maho, to name western documents only (De Hoz 2014: 116–122; Decourt 2004: 179–184); to this list, we could add others

26  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero found recently in areas such as Lattes (Bats 2010). The abundance of emporia, which were open to a wide range of merchants of different origins, meant that products could circulate following certain routes. Some products, such as Attic pottery, could therefore be distributed across a wide area throughout the sixth century (Alexandridou 2011), although it is usually thought that Athenians had little or nothing to do with its circulation. Findings made on land do not provide us with much information on the mechanisms and means of distribution, nor the agents or different stop-off points used during transportation. Shipwrecks, however, can provide us with important findings due to their nature as “sealed deposits” made up of the products that were part of their cargo when they sank. Some of the most important shipwrecks in this sense are those of the Pointe Léquin IA and the first Gela wreck. Without going into detail about their cargos, the first of these (Pointe Léquin IA) contains an extremely important collection of Ionian cups (mostly of type B2) and a smaller number of Attic cups, as well as other products. The amphorae for transport mainly come from Miletus or are, to a lesser extent, of the so-called “Lesbos” type, “à la brosse,” “Ionian-Massaliote,” Chian, Samian, B and A Corinthian amphorae, etc. It is thought that the ship sank towards the end of the sixth century, around the year 515 BC (Long et al. 1992; Krotschek 2015). The first Gela shipwreck, which is dated slightly later, between 500 and 480 BC, contains, above all, Attic pottery (various kinds of cups and askoi), as well as colonial Ionian vases and type B2 Ionian cups in particular. Four small altars in painted terracotta of possible Peloponnesian manufacture were also found. The amphorae recovered tend to come from Chios, followed by Corinth (A type), Ionian-Massaliote, Lesbos, Samos and other areas (Panvini 2001). It is interesting to note that, in both shipwrecks, table pottery and amphorae from the east and west are found, although in different amounts. Although products from the Aegean could have been loaded in any port, even in the west, the percentages of eastern Greek amphorae (29% from Miletus in the first and 60% from Chios in the second) allow us to infer that both ships may have completed trips, perhaps in successive seasons, to ports both in the Aegean and the western Mediterranean. Information of interest has also been gleaned from another late-archaic shipwreck excavated in recent years in Cala Sant Vicenç, Mallorca. It is thought that the ship sank between 520 and 510–500 BC. The pottery in its cargo includes Attic and Chalcidian cups, perhaps made in Rhegium, as well as an Attic lekythos. It has been suggested in well-argued studies that these pieces may have in fact belonged to the ship’s crew. The ship was also carrying black glaze pottery from Magna Graecia or Sicily, Ionian cups from Magna Graecia, especially type B2, some pieces probably produced in Massalia and monochrome grey pottery, some of which were perhaps made in Emporion. The majority of the Greek amphorae found are from Magna Graecia, both type B archaic Corinthian and Ionian-Massaliote. Also found, though in much smaller quantities, were type A Corinthian amphorae and others from Chios and the north of the Aegean. The most important section of the ship’s cargo was made up of Iberian amphorae of different shapes that were undoubtedly

Iberia and the Greek world 27 made in the workshops scattered around the eastern coastline of the Iberian Peninsula (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2009). Each of the three shipwrecks mentioned, all extremely close in terms of when they sank, provides us with information on centres of trade between sixth and fifth centuries BC. The situation was, without doubt, a very different one from when the Greeks first arrived in the Iberian Peninsula but, unfortunately, we currently have very little information for that period at our disposal. In any case, I would like to highlight here from what we have seen that, on the one hand, pottery made in Greece was still arriving in the western Mediterranean, particularly Attic items in considerable quantities as other more important centres away from the Iberian Peninsula show, such as Etruria or the large Greek cities of Magna Graecia and Sicily (for example, Gela) (Reusser 2002; Panvini and Giudice 2004). On the other hand, we see that products such as wine are still arriving from the centres of production located in the Aegean (such as Miletus and Chios) but, above all, that on the trading routes, produce from the Greek centres in the west are all mixed together, from table pottery (Ionian cups, for example) to the produce carried in amphorae. We could add here that Greek ships near the Iberian Peninsula, such as the one found in Cala Sant Vicenç, are used to distribute wines produced in Iberia from the second half of the sixth century onwards, adding a local touch to this global scene. Although the emporia become the centres in which the exchange of products is made and, without doubt, where produce from both the east and west Mediterranean are made available to transportation ships, as we have already mentioned, it is also possible that some of the ships had visited, over a period of a number of years, trade points located on both sides of the Mediterranean. Whatever the case may be, I would like to highlight here that these complex trade networks, of which we have only mentioned a few here, grow in significance from the second half of the sixth century BC onwards, which is precisely when our sources begin to document treatises that demarcate trade areas and even control areas of commerce, resorting to the pretext of piracy on some occasions, although I will not go into this here (Domínguez Monedero 2013b). In the second half of the sixth century, the first descriptive and geographical works begin to appear. The first of these is that of Hecataeus of Miletus, followed by the works of other authors such as Hellanicus of Lesbos, all of which were more or less writing at the same time (Fowler 1996). I believe that the descriptive content of these works, together with the theoretical foundations developed by Ionian philosophers, is without doubt the result of the experience of many travellers who acquired a great deal of knowledge from the territories that they visited. How scholars went on to relate this information in their geographical descriptions, which they did not see as a practical tool but rather an idealised recreation of the world, is another matter. In any case, thanks to these works, we find that not only is a theoretical image of the world given out but also a series of toponyms and ethnonyms which, organised in a coherent way in the work of each author, substitute in many ways the less exact works of poets. Anyone reading works such as those of Hecataeus would, whatever their own experience of travelling, be given the most accurate possible image of the known world, its peoples, its toponyms and

28  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero even its general appearance. That this information should spread beyond the Greek world is also evident in the story told by Herodotus (3.134–136) about Democedes of Croton and Great King Darius’ wishes to get to know the areas inhabited by Greeks beyond the Aegean. In my opinion, this tale works from the assumption that literature such as that written by Hecataeus himself should exist. The personal experience of Democedes and his companions would be added to the information given in these works. In the same way, from commercial enterprises such as those attested by the Cala Sant Vicenç wreck (the ship clearly travelled to the coasts of the Peninsula and also to other ports in which it could collect products from Magna Graecia and Sicily), we may deduce that a profound understanding of the coastlines visited existed. The lead tablet of Ampurias also refers to commercial enterprises spanning different areas, including the Greek centre of Emporion and certain eastern coastal localities of the Peninsula (Sanmartí Grego and Santiago Álvarez 1987). These businesses make up the background to periploi such as the one behind Avienus’ Ora Maritima. Attempts have been made to locate many of these places at various known sites, aside from the fact that many of these names are hapax legomena (for instance, Herna, Tyrichae or the Oleum River) (Pena Gimeno 1989, 1993; Icart Leonilla 1993; González Prats 1993; Dupré i Raventós 2006; García i Rubert 2008). Iberia was a peripheral territory within the general imaginary of the Greek world. However, it still had a place in the vision that these people had of their surroundings, as was the case with all of the places visited and frequented by the Greeks. Certain myths that were recounted widely across Greek territory were supposed to have taken place in Iberia, and the riches attributed to the land were echoed in these. Written sources, archaeology and epigraphy all confirm that from the end of the seventh century and during the sixth century BC, Greek presence in the Peninsula became stronger, with trade points or emporia established at different locations along the coastline. These were visited by Greeks from different parts of Greece who interacted with local peoples or with groups of Phoenicians who had already settled and integrated themselves there. The circulation of goods that can be seen from archaeological findings, including shipwrecks, gives us an insight, although indirect, into the circulation of peoples that it implies, as well as their ideas and knowledge. The presence of Greeks in Iberia, which became more and more significant throughout the sixth century, in both emporia and in the city that developed from one of these emporia, now known as Ampurias, means that the first-hand knowledge that was accurate was passed on to different Greek centres in the central Mediterranean and the Aegean. It is a pity that the information at our disposal is so fragmentary. Despite this, however, important differences can be noted in the information on the Iberian Peninsula given by authors such as Hecataeus, and perhaps Hellanicus, Herodorus and Herodotus, amongst others. These differences are due to multiple informants and the amount of information accessible to anyone interested. In the same way, from the ancient documents used for navigation purposes only, their

Iberia and the Greek world 29 tradition, complex and fragmentary, has survived, to then be gathered together in the Ora Maritima which also presents a vision that does not always coincide with that offered by the authors above. I will not extend my analysis past the Archaic period. However, in this chapter, my aim has been to look into not only the information at hand but also the people who were behind this information and who contributed, not always consciously, towards making the lands at the furthermost western shores of the Greek world known. As I have tried to show, the presence of sailors, traders, emigrants and settlers served as a basis for poets, geographers, periplographers and historians to spread their visions of the territory. These are the accounts that, despite their distortions, were of the greatest influence at the time and have reached us, albeit in a fragmentary manner. Bibliography Alexandridou, Alexandra. The Early Black-Figured Pottery of Attika in Context (c. 630-570 BCE). Leiden: Brill, 2011. Álvarez Martí-Aguilar, Manuel. “Los griegos y Gadir: Tarteso, el drago y el bronce de Samos.” In Relaciones interculturales en el Mediterráneo antiguo: Sicilia e Iberia, ed. Piera Anello and Jorge Martínez-Pinna, 83–100. Málaga: Diputación Provincial de Málaga, 2008. Antonelli, Luca. Traffici focei di età arcaica. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2008. Ballabriga, Alain. Le Soleil et le Tartare. L’image mythique du monde en Grèce archaïque. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1986. Bats, Michel. “Une lettre sur plomb à Lattes.” Lattara 21 (2010): 749–756. Blázquez Martínez, José María. “Gerión y otros mitos griegos en Occidente.” Gerión 1 (1983): 21–38. Boardman, John. “The Lyre-Player Group of seals: An encore.” Archäologischer Anzeiger (1990): 1–17. Bowie, Ewen. “Stesichorus’ Geryoneis.” In Hespería. Tradizioni, rotte, paesaggi, ed. Luisa Breglia and Alda Moleti, 99–105. Paestum: Pandemos, 2014. Brize, Philip. Die Geryoneis des Stesichoros und die frühe griechische Kunst. Würzburg: Konrad Trilitsch Verlag, 1980. Brize, Philip. “Samos und Stesichoros. Zu einem früharchaischen Bronzeblech.” Athenische Mitteilungen 100 (1985): 53–90. Buchner, Giorgio and John Boardman. “Seals from Ischia and the Lyre-Player Group.” Jahrbuch des Deutschen ArchäologischernInstituts 81 (1966): 1–62. Corzo Sánchez, Ramón. “El drago de Cádiz en un bronce samio del siglo VII a.C.” Laboratorio de Arte 11 (1998): 27–50. Cruz Andreotti, Gonzalo. “Estesícoro y Tartessos.” Habis 22 (1991): 49–62. Curtis, Paul. Stesichoros’s ‘Geryoneis.’ Leiden: Brill, 2011. De Hoz, María Paz. Inscripciones Griegas de España y Portugal. Madrid: Bibliotheca Archaelogica Hispana 40, 2014. Decourt, Jean-Claude. Inscriptions grecques de la France (IGF). Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée Jean Pouilloux, 2004. Dion, Roger. “Tartessos, l’ocean homérique et les travaux d’Hercule.” Revue Historique 224 (1960): 27–44.

30  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Los términos ‘Iberia’ e ‘iberos’ en las fuentes grecolatinas: Estudio acerca de su origen y ámbito de aplicación.” Lucentum 2 (1983): 203–224. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo and Carmen Sánchez Fernández. Greek Pottery from the Iberian Peninsula. Archaic and Classical Periods. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Cerámica griega en la ciudad ibérica.” Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad de Murcia 17–18 (2001–2002): 189–203. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Fenicios y griegos en el Sur de la Península Ibérica en época arcaica. De Onoba a Mainake.” Mainake 28 (2006): 49–78. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Las dos Iberias: La Cólquide y Tartessos.” In El oro de los Argonautas. Tesoros del Museo Nacional de Georgia, ed. Martín Almagro-Gorbea, 51–57. Madrid: Fundación Duques de Soria, 2010. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Los primeros griegos en la Península Ibérica (s. IX-VI a.C.): mitos, probabilidades, certezas.” In El Oriente griego en la Península Ibérica. Epigrafía e Historia, ed. María Paz de Hoz and Gloria Mora, 11–42. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2013a. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Piratería en Magna Grecia y Sicilia: mecanismos de prevención y contención.” In Piratería y seguridad marítima en el Mediterráneo Antiguo, ed. Alfonso Álvarez-Ossorio Rivas, Eduardo Ferrer Albelda and Enrique García Vargas, 67–86. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2013b. Dupré i Raventós, Xavier. “Un santuario foceo junto al río Oleum: la antefija arcaica del Hospitalet de l’Infant (Vandellós, Tarragona).” In El concepto de lo provincial en el mundo antiguo. Homenaje a la Profesora Pilar León Alonso, vol. I, ed. Desiderio Vaquerizo and Juan Francisco Murillo, 55–88. Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 2006. Fernández Jurado, Jesús and Ricardo Olmos Romera. “Una inscripción jonia arcaica en Huelva.” Lucentum 4 (1985): 107–113. Fowler, Robert L. “Herodotos and his contemporaries.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 116 (1996): 62–87. García i Rubert, David. “Tyrichae al riu Sénia. Rellegint l’Ora maritima d’Aviè.” Saguntum 40 (2008): 79–108. González de Canales, Fernando. Del Occidente mítico griego a Tarsis-Tarteso. Fuentes escritas y documentación arqueológica. Madrid: Editorial Biblioteca Nueva, 2004. González de Canales, Fernando and Jorge Llompart. “Producción de cerámicas griegas arcaicas en Huelva.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 90 (2017): 125–145. González de Canales, Fernando, Adolfo J. Domínguez, Jorge Llompart and Aurelio Montaño. “A new group of Archaic Greek Pottery (‘Group H’) manufactured in Tartessos (Huelva, SW of Spain).” Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid 44 (2018) 133–143. González Prats, Alfredo. “Quince años de excavaciones en la ciudad protohistórica de Herna (La Peña Negra,. Crevillente, Alicante).” Saguntum 26 (1993): 181–188. González Ponce, Francisco Javier. Avieno y el Periplo. Écija: Gráficas Sol, 1995. Gras, Michel. “La mémoire de Lixus. De la fondation de Lixus aux premiers rapports entre Grecs et phéniciens en Afrique du Nord.” In Lixus, 27–44. Rome: École Française de Rome, 1992. Icart Leonilla, Joaquim. “Cal.lípolis fou Tàrraco.” Faventia 15 (1993): 79–89. Krotschek, Ulrike. “Pointe Lequin 1A: Wine cups and economic networks in the Western Mediterranean.” Ancient West & East 14 (2015): 169–189. Lazzeri, Massimo. Studi sulla Gerioneide di Stesicoro. Naples: Arte Tipografica, 2008.

Iberia and the Greek world 31 Lohmann, Hans. “The discovery and excavation of the archaic Panionion in the Mycale (Dilek Dağlari).” In 28 Kazi Sonuçlari Toplantisi, 2, 575–590. Ankara: Ministry of Culture of Turkey, 2007. Long, Luc, Jordi Miró and Giuliano Volpe. “Les épaves archaïques de la pointe Lequin (Porquerolles, Hyères, Var). Des données nouvelles sur le commerce de Marseille à la fin du VIe et dans le première moitié du Ve s. av. J.C.” In Marseille Grecque et la Gaule, 199–234. Aix-en-Provence: Université de Provence, 1992. López Grande, María José. “Rashap en la tradición antigua de la equiparación HeraclesMelqart. Las fuentes egipcias.” In EX ORIENTE LUX: Las religiones orientales antiguas en la Península Ibérica, ed. Eduardo Ferrer Albelda, 77–86. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2002. López Pardo, Fernando. “Crono y Briareo en el umbral del Océano. Un recorrido por la historia mítica de los viajes al confín del Occidente hasta los albores de la civilización.” In La navegación fenicia. Tecnología naval y derroteros, ed. Victoria Peña, Alfredo Mederos and Carlos González Wagner, 1–42. Madrid: CEFYP, 2004. Moret, Pierre. “La formation d’une toponymie et d’une ethnonymie grecques de l’Ibérie: Étapes et acteurs.” In La invención de una geografía de la Península Ibérica. I. La época Republicana, ed. Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti, Patrick Le Roux and Pierre Moret, 39–76. Málaga and Madrid: Diputación de Málaga and Casa de Velázquez, 2006. Moret, Pierre. Des noms à la carte. Figures antiques de l’Ibérie et de la Gaule. Alcalá de Henares and Sevilla: Universidad de Alcalá and Universidad de Sevilla, 2017. Nieto Prieto, Javier and Marta Santos Retolaza. El vaixell grec arcaic de Cala Sant Vicenç Monografies del CASC 7. Barcelona: Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya, 2009. Osuna Ruiz, Manuel, Juana Bedia García and Ana María Domínguez Rico. “El santuario protohistórico hallado en la calle Méndez Núñez (Huelva).” In Ceràmiques Jònies d’època arcaica: Centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani Occidental, 177–188. Barcelona: Museu d’Arquéologia de Catalunya, 2001. Panvini, Rosalba. La nave greca arcaica di Gela (e i primi dati sul secondo relitto greco). Palermo: Salvatore Sciascia Editore, 2001. Panvini, Rosalba and Francesco Giudice. TA ATTIKA. Veder greco a Gela. Ceramiche attiche figurate dall’antica colonia. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2004. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Avieno y las costas de Cataluña y Levante. I.- Tyrichae: *Tyrikaì, ¿’la Tiria’?” Faventia 11 (1989): 9–21. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Avieno y las costas de Cataluña y Levante (II). Hemeroskopeion-Dianium.” Faventia 15 (1993): 61–77. Peretti, Aurelio. Il periplo di Scilace. Studio sul primo portolano del Mediterraneo. Pisa: Giardini, 1979. Podossinov, Alexander V. “Das Schwarze Meer in der geokartographischen Tradition der Antike und des frühes Mittelalters, IV. Odysseus im Schwarzen Meer? Okeanische Fahrten der griechischen Helden und archaisches Weltbild der Griechen.” Ancient West and East 12 (2013): 205–236. Reusser, Christoph. Vasen für Etrurien. Verbreitung und Funktionen attischer Keramik im Etrurien des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts vor Christus. Zürich: Akanthus, 2002. Sanmartí Grego, Enric and Rosa Aracelia Santiago Álvarez. “Une lettre grecque sur plomb trouvée a Emporion. (Fouilles 1985).” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 68 (1987): 119–127. Serrano Pichardo, Leonardo, Fernando González de Canales, Jorge Llompart and Aurelio Montaño. “Scaraboid seal of the ‘Lyre-Player Group’ at the Huelva Museum.” In Actas

32  Adolfo J. Domínguez Monedero do V Encontro de Arqueologia do Sudoeste Peninsular, 279–288. Almodovar: Municipio de Almodovar, 2012. Teixidor, Javier. “L’interprétation phénicienne d’Héraclès et d’Apollon.” Revue de l’histoire des religions 200 (1983): 243–255. Tiverios, Michalis A. 1998. “Hallazgos tartésicos en el Hereo de Samos.” In Los griegos en España. Tras las huellas de Heracles, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Carmen Sánchez Fernández, 66–84. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1998. Torelli, Mario. “Per la definizione del commercio greco-orientale: il caso di Gravisca.” La Parola del Passato 37 (1982): 304–325.

2

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula from the eighth to the fourth century BC Pierre Rouillard

The Far West of the Mediterranean was an actor in all of the Mediterranean exchanges of the archaic and classical periods with a set of characteristics that essentially consist of four facts that we can summarize in a few sentences. The Iberian Peninsula has hosted both Phoenician (and Punic) and Greek communities, a phenomenon shared with Sicily, but on this island Phoenicians and Greeks are neighbours. These communities established on the coast of the Peninsula are of modest size, whether Phoenician or Greek, with the very likely exception of Cádiz. The Peninsula, according to ancient sources, was attractive for its metals, even if this attraction is not exclusive. Moreover, the integration of the Iberian Peninsula into Mediterranean politics and conflicts occurs late, at the time of the Second Punic War. Two traits characterize these exchanges, taking as a starting point the distribution of Greek pottery between the arrival of the first imports in the second half of the eighth century and the fourth century BC. The first is the geography of the Iberian Peninsula, a land mass that is compact, thick and wide; the exchange of products generally considered “Mediterranean” affects the coastline and the valleys of the rivers that flow into the Mediterranean or on the southern Atlantic littoral – the Ebro and the Segura especially – that gives access to the rich mines of Upper Andalucia – the Guadalquivir, but this does not apply to the Tinto and Odiel flowing into the Atlantic at Huelva, which nonetheless provides an outlet for the products of the mines of the Sierra Morena (Figure 2.1). The second trait, although difficult to assess accurately, is the low volume of goods traded from east to west, which seems to be lower than in most Mediterranean regions, particularly the Italian Peninsula or Sicily. What is expected of us is to “follow” the Greek vase in its “diffusion” across the Iberian Peninsula. The word “exchanges” always arouses multiple readings and various questions presented by Jean-Paul Morel (Morel 1983): exchanges of products, objects “cultural” exchanges (models, techniques, iconographic elements); then the questions of the agents and partners are brought up, their geography and their social or political situation (think, for example, of the person who acquires the vase of Vix or the one who deposits some Greek vases at the foot of the monument at Pozzo Moro or the one whose burned bones are deposited in a terracotta urn covered with a black glaze Attic bowl), places of exchanges and modalities. DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-3

34  Pierre Rouillard

Figure 2.1  Map of sites mentioned in the text.

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 35 The Greek vase is privileged here in this reflection on the exchanges, because it is more accessible to an archaeologist and a historian, although we know that it alone cannot be sufficient to define the exchanges. This object, however, remains a privileged dating tool, a means, when mapped, to fix the main routes of circulation (without neglecting the existence of a random trade), and when it is quantified (in relation to all the objects from the same context) to measure an aspect of the dynamism of trade. However, the question of usage, which is often asked at the end of the research, is in fact essential to understanding the social group that acquires these objects. The Greek vases are there to help identify the major phases of trade, to try to recognize the circuits of these exchanges. In the case of the Peninsula, good chronological indicators are also provided by the Phoenician imports and we can therefore identify two major periods, from the second half of the eighth century to the end of the seventh century, then from the period around 600, the date of the establishment of the Phocaean Greeks in Marseille and Empúries, a date which marks the beginning of a sharp increase in Greek imports on the entire Mediterranean coast of the Peninsula. The exchanges between the populations that we call by extension of the label and for convenience (not to enter a historiographic debate) of Iberians and their Mediterranean partners – Greeks, Phoenicians and Punic – are in a system of multiple and interconnected exchanges (Sanmartí 2000), in the general framework of emporia-based trade, as evidenced in the long term by shipwrecks such as that of Giglio on the coast of Tuscany (around 600/580) and to remain centred on the Iberian Peninsula, that of Bajo de la Campana (Murcia) dated between sixth and fifth centuries, that of the Cala de San Viçenc (Mallorca) dated from the end of the sixth century or that of El Sec (Mallorca) dated around 375–350 BC. The terms of the exchanges, as seen in the texts, on commercial letters written on lead or as can be discerned in the testimonies provided by the excavations of the settlements, where at the time of their foundation, from the Palaiapolis of Empúries (Girona) to La Fonteta-Rabita (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) – whether there is presence of Greeks or Phoenicians – have as a common character of involving both the Iberians and their partners in the eastern Mediterranean. In the period of discovery of the western Mediterranean, as presented to us by Herodotus (I, 163), when the makrai nautilai concerned the Adriatic, Tyrrhenian, Iberia and Tartessos, the practice of hospitality with barbarian kings was the rule; and the same Herodotus, in the same passage, gives as an example Arganthonius who said he was ready to welcome the Phocaeans (Lepore 1970: 22, 32; Rouillard 1991: 95; Bats 2012: 146). Imperceptibly, and probably at the same time – this is the case at least in the Peninsula – we pass from personal links to a more organized trade with places of exchange where the foreigners settled among the natives, as on the site of the Palaiapolis, on an islet south of Bay of Roses (Aquilué i Abadías et al. 1999). We find such a pattern with the Phoenicians as a partner, which we were able to study at La Fonteta-Rabita, south of the mouth of the Segura (Rouillard et al. 2007): in this case, in the last third of the eighth century, a group of Phoenicians settled among the native Iberians who, in the space of three or four generations, absorbed

36  Pierre Rouillard their eastern partners. So, in light of these parallel examples, I have proposed to recognize a Hispanic model of Emporion (Rouillard 2009a: 135, 145; Rouillard and Moret 2012: 152–153). Iberian partners, Iberian trade actors too: this is the conclusion that can be reached when reading the commercial lead tablets from Emporion-Empúries (late sixth century BC) or Pech Maho (second quarter of fifth century BC) (most recently and with bibliography, De Hoz Bravo 2013). In open places, where brokers and merchants intersect, an Iberian like Basped acts as a trader (Emporion tablet), while others (Pech Maho tablet) participate in the control of trade at least as witnesses. For our point, but not only for this, we suffer from a lacuna: these two texts are silent on the content of the exchanges. The data provided by the circulation of ceramics is useful for recognizing the geography of trade and its rhythm. The resources mentioned by the texts, the few places of exploitation and production and the processing centres that have been identified, the shipwrecks recognized on the Iberian or Mallorcan coasts – Mazarrón, Bajo de la Campana, Cala de San Viçenc, El Sec – are all data that even together constitute a very unbalanced dataset. The question of the driving force behind the trade remains open, and I share the idea that this élément moteur du commerce antique a généralement été le besoin de se procurer des produits indispensables à la communauté et non d’écouler des excédents de production – that the “driving force of ancient trade has generally been the need to obtain products essential to the community and not to sell surplus production” – as Yvon Garlan and André Tchernia recently recalled (Garlan 2000: 187, taken up by Tchernia 2011: 170–171). Minerals cannot only be understood as return freight, the gift offering providing access to the resources which are the real object of demand and exchange (Etienne et al. 2010: 17, 371). Our task here is to try to find out what external demands – Phoenicians from Phoenicia, or the Phoenician regions of the Central Mediterranean, Greeks from Greece or Southern Italy and Sicily – the Iberian Peninsula was able to provide (for literary sources: Mangas and del Mar Myro 2003) and that the “others” “could” acquire. Indeed, much of the data is lacking to be certain of the future of these products in the central or eastern Mediterranean, for example, since what Ezekiel’s prophecy teaches us (27) – if indeed the Tarsis of the Old Testament is the Tartessos of Iberia – the merchants of Tyre came there to seek silver, iron, tin and lead. At the same time, it is important to know who controlled the production, exploitation and the process of exchange, with the understanding that all communities, Iberian, Phoenician and Greek, are present and associated in ways that evolve over time and space (Garcia 2000: 73–75; Sanmartí 2000). All these questions begin with the issue of the products that the Peninsula was likely to provide. Metals Lead and silver are extracted from the south-west of the Peninsula and also from the south-eastern region, particularly around Cartagena and Mazarrón (Domergue 2008: 84). Strabo (3.2.14), for example, reports the astonishment of the

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 37 Carthaginians who claimed to see in Turdetania barrels of silver. Gold, especially in Roman times, came from the north-west, but in the archaic period gold nuggets were collected in Extremadura (Domergue 2008: 83). Copper mines were located in the south-west, in the Sierra Morena (Domergue 2008: 88), and tin came from the north-west (several places of the Atlantic littoral being possible) and from Extremadura (Domergue 2008: 89–90). Iron, on the other hand, was more widely distributed. The rather sketchy survey that can be compiled from the texts prompts the archaeologist to specify the destination of these products: local use, regional distribution, peninsular or further afield. There is little data on the areas of circulation. At Empúries, it does not appear that metallurgical installations have been recognized, which is the case (for silver, bronze, iron) in Phoenician settlements, from the eighth century, in Morro de Mezquitilla, at Cerro del Villar (Málaga) or La Fonteta-Rabita (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) (Aubet Semmler 2006); however, it seems that in all these cases production was destined for a local market. A single shipwreck, dated to the seventh century, Mazarrón 2, west of presentday Murcia (Negueruela Martinez et al. 2000), tells us about the circulation of metals – of lead ingots, but this boat of an estimated length of 6/8 m is more likely to be suitable for coastal traffic and therefore regional. To address the issue of metal trading on a larger scale, we have only limited data. In a text analyzed by Claude Domergue (Domergue 2004: 138), Diodorus (5.34.4) tells us that the Phoenicians exchanged their anchors made of lead for anchors fashioned in silver; this exchange could also be described as “technological” in that lead was needed to extract silver from the south-west iron sulphates, according to a method confirmed later by analyzes (Hunt Ortiz 2003: 394); then, in Roman times, some of the lead will have come from the mines of Carthago Nova. The text of Ezekiel (27:12), which relates to the archaic period, mentions the merchants of Tyre: should we, or can we trace the journey of silver to the East where the King of Assyria raised a tribute on the Phoenician cities? In fact, the information on trade remains meager, but it could be even smaller: apart from the assumption of the Assyrian tribute, what do we know about the destiny of Tartessos’ silver, the tin of the Atlantic, and Claude Domergue notes that the gold of Africa has also faded (Domergue 2004: 151). The products of the land and the sea The same questions about the destinations of metals also concern agricultural products and the sea. Surpluses are then needed to enable long-distance trade but only in a few cases can we recognize facilities proving their existence, whether production or storage facilities. For the most part, our information is that we can know the content of amphorae, a complex subject, especially for the beginnings of Phoenician or Greek installations. For the eighth and seventh centuries, it is generally accepted that Phoenician amphorae produced on the coast of Andalucia contained olive oil, and especially wine or seafood. Of course, it is essential that the food product being transported

38  Pierre Rouillard can be precisely identified. Certainly, fishing activities were commonplace in Phoenician settlements (Sáez Romero 2014: 162–163) but this does not tell us about any long-distance trade. This is the case with amphorae from the first half of the seventh century that contained agricultural products and fish (Aubet Semmler, 1997: 203; 2006) found in shops along a wide street in Cerro del Villar (Málaga). But we also have an example of regional trade: in Acinippo (Ronda la Vieja, Málaga), in the mountain range of the Sierra de Ronda, in a hut dating to the end of the Bronze Age, one of these amphorae contained fish remains (Aguayo de Hoyos et al. 1991: 570–571). Apart from the products of the sea, there is some meager data. For the amphorae of this period, in the analysis that I had made from fragments of amphorae of Toscanos (Málaga) and Cerro del Prado (Carteia, Cadiz), collected on the surface, I identified olive oil (Rouillard 1991: 59, note 132). At Morro de Mezquitilla (Málaga), the amphorae produced on site at the beginning of the settlement (mid-eighth century BC) would have contained wine (Ramon Torres 2006: 194). It is necessary to supplement this evidence by what the “stores” teach us, or do not teach us: thus, those of Toscanos (Vélez-Málaga, Málaga) contained amphorae with unspecified contents and we do not know whether or not they were containers intended for long-distance trade; the establishment of Aldovesta (Tarragona), at the mouth of the river Ebro, must have operated between the middle of the seventh century and the beginning of the sixth century as a transit or relay shop for oil and wine, stored in Andalusian-type amphorae, for the surrounding region (Aubet Semmler 2006: 43; Mascort et al. 1991). For this period of the eighth and seventh centuries, the contents of amphorae are very varied (Tresserras Juan and Matamala 2004), and research is essential because only then are we able to explain the foundations of Mediterranean trade, especially to the central Mediterranean as we see below. Moving forward in time, we have some additional data. Certainly, the precise destination of the cereals accumulated in the silos around Empúries – a thousand have been counted is still a hypothesis. Strabo (3.4.9) reports the quality of the surrounding land and other nearby areas suitable for the cultivation of esparto grass. Once the silos are recognized, the role of the Emporitanians in the exchanges can be imagined from the reading of the commercial lead tablet of Empúries, keeping in mind that this lead records trade at the end of the sixth century and that the apogee of silo development only begins a century later (Burch i Ruis et al. 2010). Empúries was also able to be a relay point (with boats equipped in fixed stations, Empúries not having produced amphorae in its own right) towards Athens or towards Marseilles, which the reading of the Against Zenothemis suggests (Rouillard 1991: 214). We would have here a connection with large-scale commerce or longdistance trade (Garcia and Isoardi 2010: 403). The case of the wine produced in Alt de Benimaquia (Alicante) must be questioned: important production facilities have been uncovered dated to the seventhsixth centuries BC. The on-site storage was carried out in the amphora model known at that time (the amphora Rachgoun type 1), but the excavators note that

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 39 they “do not know the local circulation of amphorae of the Alt de Benimaquia” (Guérin and Gómez Bellard 2000: 383). Archeology today provides new data by attesting to traffic from the Iberian Levant to Marseille in the sixth and fifth centuries: long considered “Punic” a series of amphora without collars or necks are now recognized to have been produced on the Iberian coast. These pitchless amphorae, except at the level of the mouth, had to contain oils, and Jean-Christophe Sourisseau – in view of the production of aryballoi in Marseilles – suggests that it would be an oil for body care. Arles, with its community of Greeks, consumed this same product that has to date not been found in the surrounding native settlements. This is a specialized exchange between specific social groups (Sourisseau 2004). Still in the context of the movement of products from the Peninsula to the East, the Far East this time, there are the products of the sea (Rouillard 1991: 210–211). A file fed by several data, a text and realia. Aristophanes, among other problematic texts (García Vargas and Ferrer Albelda 2012), mentions a “Tartessian moray” (The Frogs, v. 475), in a sentence that is part of a fantastic fuelled episode of the journey of Dionysus into hell; is it then only a horrible monster with uncertain location, or can we suggest that Aristophanes and the Athenians had a clear perception of its provenance?1 The realia file consists of the amphorae of the fifth century BC Punic Amphora Building in Corinth (Williams II 1979), containing remains of tuna and sea bream, of a type attested in Andalucia, in the region of the Straits of Gibraltar and by the salt factories of Las Redes (Puerto de Santa Maria, Cadiz) (De Frutos Reyes et al. 1988; Ruiz Gil 1991; Sáez Romero 2010, 2014: 167). Sometimes, by taking the risk of gathering information of various origins, one can try to recognize major axes, given that the products which leave from the Peninsula do so to various scales. One can estimate, always with caution, that the metals (silver, tin, lead), then the salted fish and the cereals are present in long-distance exchanges. The place of the Phoenicians, in their navigations between east and west, is undoubtedly decisive if one follows the mentions of De mirabilis auscultationibus (135), Pseudo Scylax (112) or Strabo (3.5.11): the silver from Tartessos would be exchanged for oil and “junk” (De mirabilis auscultationibus 135). Shipwrecks In fact, there is a gap between the identified resources of the Peninsula, with its regional circulation, and what in other periods, some wrecks, uncovered on routes in the central and eastern Mediterranean like those of Cape Gelydonia (Bass 1967) or Ulu Burun (Nantet 2012), from the end of the second millennium, loaded with tin and copper ingots whose exact provenance remains unknown (Cyprus?), can teach us; or later, the Giglio wreck (around 600/580) in which, alongside amphorae from eastern Greece and Etruria (and a Phoenician amphora), there are copper and lead ingots, also of undetermined origin (Cristofani 1996).2

40  Pierre Rouillard The wreck of Cala San Vicenç (Pollensa, Mallorca) (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2009) from the end of the sixth century BC had a heterogeneous cargo: mostly wine amphorae produced in Magna Graecia (probably Calabrian coast), next to some Greek amphora (Corinthian type “A,” Chian or North Aegean), and a lot – equivalent in number to the amphorae from Magna Graecia – of amphorae manufactured in the Iberian Peninsula, by various workshops, and whose contents (oil, wine, other food or fish sauce) is to be specified; next to that, the dishes (especially “B2” type cups) and the lamps come mainly from Magna Graecia and Marseille, as well as a little Attic pottery. The case of the wreck of Bajo de la Campana (Murcia) (Mederos Martín and Ruiz Cabrero 2004; Pinedos Reyes and Polzer 2012; Polzer 2012) from the sixth century BC is another example of the modalities of archaic trade. The wreck includes Phoenician amphorae from Andalucia (one containing salted fish), but mostly tusks of North African elephants, some with Phoenician inscriptions; in this Western Phoenician environment, there is also a stone pedestal, high-quality bronze pieces (bed bases, two thymiateria) whose parallels are to be found in the central and/or eastern Mediterranean. This cargo also includes raw materials, tin ingots (Atlantic, no doubt), copper and a wide range of “precious” objects, ivory handles, ostrich eggs, alabaster vases and amber. Two centuries later, dated the second quarter of the fourth century BC, the wreck of El Sec, in the bay of Palma Mallorca (Arribas et al. 1987a, 1987b), has a similarly varied cargo, with Greek amphorae, especially but not exclusively from Samos, a large batch of Attic tableware (kraters by the Black Thyrsus Painter, cups of the Vienna 116 Group, skyphoi of the Fat Boy Painter, all from or near the workshop of the Telos Painter) and bronze cauldrons; the equal presence of Greek and Punic graffiti gives rise – in addition to the presence of Greek products of various origins – to ongoing debates to recognize if this is a case of an itinerary from east to west marked by a series of loading and unloading, or rather a redistributive trade previously gathered in a large port of the eastern or central Mediterranean before making multiple ports of call. There, a new debate is opened with the content of this wreck: as much of the repertoire of the Attic pottery that it carries is present in the Iberian sites, the Greek amphorae it contains are almost absent on the coast of the Peninsula. The geography of the exchanges Drawing up geography of the exchanges, and precisely of their contents, according to the eras can be envisaged by relying on some precise cases and by formulating questions, and knowing how much this enterprise must be considered “in progress.” For the late eighth and seventh centuries, we must always question the content of amphorae produced in numbers on the Andalucian coastline and found on the coast of the Iberian Peninsula, from the mouth of the Tagus in the Gulf of Lyon, and also in Carthage, but not further to the East it seems (Docter 2007: 616–662; Sourisseau 2012: 184–189, 191–192).

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 41 Such data, precisely for Carthage, does however not fail to raise new questions when recent studies point to the absence of amphorae from these same Iberian regions, from the fifth and fourth centuries in Carthage (Bechtold 2007: 663), especially when – at least for the end of the fifth century and the fourth century – there is a certain kinship of Greek imports attested in Carthage, western Sicily and the Peninsula. We can discern a series of exchanges in which Marseille plays an important role: pseudo-Aristotle (De mirabilis auscultationibus, 87) asserts that the Massaliots had derived an immense income from Spanish silver, the use of which escapes us. Archeology shows us a trade in oil from the Levantine coast of the Peninsula towards the Greek communities of Marseille and Arles, and next, in the same geographical area, there would be a possible trade in cereals from Empúries, the wine of Marseille being then a product of exchange towards the west, but almost exclusively on the Catalan coast. In areas of comparable geographical size, within the western basin of the Mediterranean, the boat submerged in the Cala de San Viçenc (Mallorca) seems to have had a radius of activity between Magna Graecia and the Iberian Peninsula even though the wreck has some pottery from mainland Greece (tableware for the crew?). The wreck of Bajo de la Campana also shows a traffic that develops between North Africa and Andalucia, but it also contains prestigious objects whose parallels are to be found in the Central or eastern Mediterranean. On a smaller scale are the wrecks of Mazarrón, for trade between Andalucia and the coast of the Spanish Levant, including amphora and lead ingots. The networks appear fragmented, shared by different actors – Phoenician, Greek and Punic. Do they fit into the others? To grasp the “connectivity” between the East and the West of the Mediterranean remains a delicate task as we lack the milestones. It should be remembered, however, that the ship stranded near the islet of Giglio could come from East Greece and that the boat of Bajo de la Campana has a cargo that features alongside products from the central and western Mediterranean (elephant tusks and amphorae) bronze pieces produced in the East. The wreck of El Sec, meanwhile, carried amphorae from eastern Greece. We do not know of a homogeneous cargo from these times when the networks were fragmented, at least in the central and western Mediterranean, and it is probable that there was none (the only case of Mazarrón 2 is located in a regional circuit). Shipwrecks are a sign of emporia-based commercial activity, and this issue should encourage the reflection upon likely points of concentration. What do the Greek vases tell us? The perception of the exchanges is different from the study of the distribution of the Greek vases. Overall, the dominant impression in Iberia is of a steady progression in time and space with a sudden break in the third quarter of the fourth century. Such a study reflects the pace of imports, their geography and their intensity and can, from what we know of the places of discovery, testify to the form of these

42  Pierre Rouillard exchanges in a given social context. The Greek vase alone does not fix all the exchanges because it is necessary, beyond the analysis of the exchanged products, to specify the types of supply: tableware and/or containers. As we know, and the study of shipwrecks shows, the Greek amphora is the great absence from Iberian sites whilst eating and drinking vessels abound. In addition, the knowledge of the uses, when one tries to specify them, makes it possible to determine some traits of the society that acquired these vases. A global approach constitutes the first step. Let us remember the major phases of Greek imports (considered here in all the sites of the Peninsula, but excluding the Greek sites of Empúries and Rosas, Ibiza and the material of the wreck of El Sec) with the eighth and seventh centuries accounting for 1.5% of the total vases imported between the eighth and the fourth century, compared to 2.3% in the sixth century, 24% in the fifth century and 72.2% in the fourth century (Rouillard 1991: 110). Taking into account the same set of sites in the Peninsula and the same set of imported Greek vases, we note that a city was imposed with its workshops, namely Athens: it provides 97.7% of Greek vases and we find the same progression over time, techniques and styles: 0.1% for geometric pottery, 3.7% for Black Figure pottery, 36.7% for Red Figure pottery and 52% for Black Glaze, which stands out from the last third of the fifth century BC (Rouillard 1991: 129). The data provided by recently excavated and published sites does not change this overall impression. Some examples from different perspectives better characterize the types of imports of Greek pottery. Let us first evaluate the place of Greek pottery in relation to other ceramics in the case of Catalonia: according to location and date, Greek ceramics represent (in individuals) between 1% and 8% of the pottery (Asensio i Vilaró et al. 2000; Sanmartí et al. 2002). At La Bastida de les Alcuses (Mogente, Valencia), an Iberian settlement, black-glazed pottery represents 83% of the total number of Attic vases (Rouillard 1991, inventory: 452–461; Bonet Rosado and Vives-Ferrandiz Sánchez 2011: 181). Further south, in La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante), the port of the city of La Alcudia (Elche), the share of Attic vases – the only Greek vases imported – of the whole of the dishes represents 3.5% of the fragments and 10% of the food vases; the percentage of Greek amphorae is less than 1% of the total amphorae. The rate of imports is very representative of the situation across the Peninsula: 0.75% of total imports between 500 and 450, 33% between 450 and 400 and 66% between 400 and 330 (Badie et al. 2000: 173–180). The necropolis of Cabezo Lucero (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) offers this peculiar feature of having yielded, in a hundred tombs, 696 Greek vases (all Attic) and 1,042 Iberian vases in the following percentages: 3.6% between 500 and 450, 21.3% between 450 and 400, 75.1% between 400 and 330, with the peak between 375 and 350; Black Glaze vases account for 78.3% of the Attic pottery (Aranegui Gascó et al. 1993: 87–94). In each period, a use dominates, a context is privileged and over the centuries the workshops vary; all the elements that feed the debates on the partners of the exchanges. In the second half of the eighth century, the first Greek imports are attested in the native settlements in the south of the Peninsula (and a single fragment of a cup from Thapsos at La Fonteta-Rabita, Guardamar del Segura, Alicante

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 43 (García Martín 2000: 210–211)), all in connection with the Phoenician merchants. The most explicit case is Huelva where Attic pottery of the Middle Geometric II and Euboean-Cycladic pendant semicircle cups are found (González de Canales Cerisola et al. 2004: 82–91; Rouillard and Sourisseau 2010). Some Attic fragments of the Middle Geometric II have been found at La Rebanadilla, north of Malaga (Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno et al. 2012: 75). In both cases, this material, always made up of drinking or eating vessels – with the exception of the great Huelva pyxis, is associated with abundant Phoenician material, but also Sardinian (and also Cypriot and Villanovan in Huelva). Such a panorama does not fail to revive the debate on direct or indirect trade (which we will not do here), insofar as we find the Phoenicians reputed to be on the lookout for metals, the Euboeans who we know were participants and present in Southern Italy, the East and Sardinia – another region that was rich in metals. At the turn of the eighth to the seventh century and in the first half of this century, there is ample evidence in Corinth’s workshops of skyphoi (a few dozen at most) in particular found in a tomb of Almuñecar (Granada) (the first evidence of a Greek offering in a tomb of the Peninsula, a Phoenician tomb) (Pellicer Catalán 1962) and in settlements including Toscanos (Málaga) (Maass-Lindemann 1982: 82–83). Then, according to an evolution found throughout the Mediterranean, the vases – always drinking – of eastern Greece arrive in larger quantities (Cabrera Bonet 2000; Kerschner 2004). Two Iberian regions see significant arrivals of vases from eastern Greece. The Andalucian coast, on some Phoenician sites, but especially Huelva, where the Eastern Greek and Attic imports date to a short period from 590 to 540/530 BC, when there is a sudden interruption. This is not the case for Empúries where imports do not stop, quite the opposite. From the beginning of the sixth century, the actor of the exchanges is Phocaean, as we have already seen. Phocaeans established themselves in various points across the extreme west, from the Provençal coast to Andalucia, from Massalia, to Emporion and towards Mainake (Strabo, 3.4.2) which remains an unknown. The interruption observed, around 540/530, in Andalucia, is due to the breakdown of relations with the Tartessian populations whereas they deepen in Marseilles and Empúries. Questions remain, especially about Huelva, the outlet of the minerals of the Sierra Morena: a Greek quarter has never been found in what we perceive as an emporion, but there are many Greek inscriptions on vases, even on native vases from this site (Llompart Gómez et al. 2010; De Hoz Bravo 2013: 46–47). Axes are drawn from east to west, providing some additional data from our first observations. The rhythms are different from site to site: interruption in Huelva, and steady progression in Empúries (Rouillard 1991: 272–273). Another difference in the repertoires of imported vases, which reinforces the idea of broken ​​ circuits, or rather fragmented networks: the range of products from East Greece offers a greater variety in Huelva than in Empúries or Marseille (Cabrera Bonet 2000: 170–171). On the coast of the Spanish Levant, the spread of imports from eastern Greece concerns only a few coastal sites and estuaries, including La Fonteta-Rabita (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) (García Martín 2000) in a Phoenician environment and the Iberian site of La Luz (Murcia) (Rouillard 1995–1996). We can also recall the

44  Pierre Rouillard presence of a Little-Masters cup in Medellin (Badajoz) (Almagro-Gorbea 1970), a case of redistribution to be analyzed in the context of individual relations. With the fifth century, the evolution of trade is initially insensible. The real breakthrough, marked by a very strong increase in the arrival of Greek pottery, takes place in the middle of the century with the massive arrival of Attic Black Glaze tableware for eating and drinking. Certainly, there are some type “C” cups in Catalonia at the beginning of the century, but the form that best demonstrates the attraction and taste for Greek vases from 450/430 BC is the stemless cup, better known under the name of “Castulo Cup,” a qualifier which is due to its strong presence in the mining region of Upper Andalucia, the limit of its distribution to the centre of the Peninsula. These cups, and those of the last quarter of the fifth century, that of the “Delicate Class,” are found indiscriminately in settlements and necropolises. In the fourth century, during which more than 70% of the Greek vases – all Attic – are imported into the Peninsula, the repertoire of forms is limited: kraters, drinking vessels, skyphoi, cups (most often without stem), bolsals, dishes and cups are most common. There are then “combinations,” notably that of the krater and the stemless cup – which I ventured to call an “Andalusian service,” as it is present in the necropolises of Upper Andalucia, vases produced in Athens of a very similar style, coming from workshops that were very close or even from the same workshop (as for the kraters of the Telos Group and the cups of the Vienna 116 Group); this is to be taken into account when characterizing the terms of exchange. Present in the necropolises (either as an offering, or, for the black-glazed dish, as the lid of an Iberian urn, or, for the bell-shaped krater, as an ossuary), and present in the settlements, the Greek vase is the object of a choice. In this form of exchange, the Iberian is also an actor, even if the choice is undoubtedly conditioned partly by the constraints of transport and partly by a knowledge – through traders – of the tastes and choices of a distant user. The mastery of Iberian customs was to be very fine, and depending on the region, there are nuances in the Greek repertoire: in the southeastern region, black-glazed vases, bowls, skyphoi, kantharoi predominate, and in the southern region and Upper Andalucia, the crater and the cup (Rouillard 2008, 2009b). Establishing the importance of the Iberian Peninsula would entail a quantification carried out according to similar modalities in several Mediterranean regions; a utopia, no doubt. It should be noted, however, that at the mere sight of the museum collections, and also publications, the volumes imported into the Iberian Peninsula are lower than into the sites in Magna Graecia or Sicily. In particular, large accumulations are rare, even exceptional, as can be seen in Los Villares (Hoya Gonzalo, Albacete) (Blánquez 1990: 222–266), Cancho Roano (Zalamea de la Serena, Badajoz) (Gracia Alonso 2003), or Zacatin, Granada (Rouillard and de la Torre Castellano 2014). Other characteristics peculiar to Greek imports in the Peninsula are to be noted. Greek amphorae (from eastern or mainland Greece) are only really present in the Phoenician sites and at Empúries in the archaic period; then they are absent, the Peninsula producing wine, oil, fish sauce or beer using a type of amphora whose form is of Phoenician descent. This trade has yet to be supplemented with two data already briefly mentioned: the Peninsula exported its own products and the most common Greek amphora (and still found almost exclusively on the Catalan coast)

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 45 comes from Marseille. We note the differences with Magna Graecia, Sicily or the south of Gaul – regions of apoikiai, when the Peninsula is a region of emporia. This is one of the reasons, the other being an early adoption of the Phoenician model of amphora, because the Peninsula did not, as Marseilles did, develop a model of amphora of Greek descent. The reduced repertoire of exported forms and their standardization is another characteristic of the arrivals. In tableware, stackable vases clearly predominate, and on many sites the presence of series is noted (Rouillard 1991: 181–184). The Iberian can be an actor in the exchanges, but as regards Greek tableware, he is a consumer: Empúries had only a small production of Greek-style dishes (and no amphorae) (Rouillard 1991: 260; Asensio i Vilaró 2010: 727–729), unlike Marseille, which produced amphorae and vases made in light paste and black glaze, or unlike the Southern Italian or Sicilian cities which saw large workshops of painted vases. The Iberian Peninsula also did not generate “in return” Attic productions taking an Iberian form, unlike Etruria with the Nikosthenian amphorae or unlike the Magna Graecia with the Nestoris. The system of emporia offers the opportunity at many points on the coast to accommodate merchants and boats. La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) is an example of this, which adopted Greek architectural models in the late fifth century. The immediate presence of the natives, from Empúries to La Fonteta-Rabita or La Picola, who participate fully in this system of emporia and the multitude of possible points of exchange corresponding both to the content of wrecks and fragmented networks of exchange. Notes 1 I summarize here a debate opened by Paul Demont, reporting my thesis (Rouillard, 1991) in REG, CV, 1992, p. XXXIX-XL and I thank Michel Casevitz for his lexical analysis. 2 The “Tanit” and “Elissa” wrecks off the coast of Haifa (Stager 2003), loaded homogeneously with oriental Phoenician amphorae containing wine, dated between 750 and 700 BC participated in a regional circuit along the coast of the Levant and Egypt.

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46  Pierre Rouillard Arribas, Antonio, Gloria Trías de Arriba, Damián Cerdá and Javier de Hoz. El barco de El Sec (Costa de Calvia, Mallorca), Estudios de los materiales. Majorca: Gráficas Miramar, 1987a. Arribas, Antonio, Gloria Trías de Arriba, Damián Cerdá and Javier de Hoz. “L’Épave del Sec.” In Grecs et Ibères au IVe siècle avant Jésus-Christ, Commerce et iconographie, ed. Pierre Rouillard and Marie-Christine Villanueva-Puig, 15–146. Bordeaux: Revue des Études Anciennes 89, 1987b. Asensio i Vilaró, David. “Evidencias arqueológicas de la incidencia púnica en el mundo ibérico septentrional (siglos VI-III A.C.). Estado de la cuestión y nuevos enfoques.” Mainake 32 no. 2 (2010): 705–734. Asensio i Vilaró, David, Marc Guàrdia i Llorens, Ascar Sala Navas, Conxita Ferre i Alvarez and Joan Francés Farre. “La ceràmica àtica del Turó de Can’Olivé (Cerdanyola del Vallès, Barcelona): Comerç i distribució de vaixella finz importada a la Catalunya Central (Segles V i IV AC).” In III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, 369–380. Valencia: Saguntum-Plav, Extra-3, 2000. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “Un lugar de mercado en el Cerro del Villar.” In Los Fenicios en Málaga, ed. María Eugenia Aubet Semmler, 197–213. Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1997. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “El sistema colonial fenicio y sus pautas de organización.” Mainake 28 (2006): 35–47. Badie, Alain, Éric Gailledrat, Pierre Moret, Pierre Rouillard, María José Sánchez and Pierre Sillières. Le site antique de La Picola à Santa Pola (Alicante, Espagne). Paris-Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2000. Bass, George F. “Cape Gelydonia: A bronze age shipwreck.” Transactions of American Philosophical Society, 57 no. 8 (1967): 1–177. Bats, Michel. “Les Phocéens, Marseille et la Gaule (VIIe-IIIe s. av. J.-C.).” In Les diasporas grecques du VIIIe à la fin du IIIe siècle av. J.-C., ed. Laurianne Martinez-Sève, 145–156. Toulouse: Pallas 89, 2012. Bechtold, Babette. “Tranportamphoren des 5.-2. Jhs.” In Karthago, Die Ergebnisse der Hamburger Grabung unter dem Decumanus Maximus, ed. Hans Georg Niemeyer, Roald Docter, Kari Schmidt and Babette Bechtold, 662–701. Mainz: Hamburger Forschungen zur Archäologie 2, 2007. Blánquez, Juan José. La formación del mundo ibérico en el sureste de la Meseta. Albacete: Instituto de Estudios Albacetenses, 1990. Bonet Rosado, Helena and Jaime Vives-Ferrandiz Sánchez. La Bastida de les Alcusses, 1928-2010. Valencia: Museu de Prehistòria de València, 2011. Burch i Ruis, Josep, Josep Ma. Nolla i Brufau and Jordi Sagrera. “Le système de stockage en silos sur le territoire ibérique aux environs d’Emporion.” In Grecs et indigènes de la Catalogne à la Mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 391–401. Paris: Bibliothèque d’archéologie méditerranéenne et africaine 17, 2010. Cabrera Bonet, Paloma. “El comercio jonio arcaico en la Península Ibérica.” In Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: centres de producció i commercializació al Mediterrani occidental, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Marta Santos Retolaza, 165–175. Barcelona: Monografies emporitanes 11, 2000. Cristofani, Mauro. “Un naukleros greco-orientale nel Tirreno.” In Etruschi e altre genti nell’Italia preromana. Mobilità in età arcaica, ed. Mauro Cristofani, 21–48. Rome: Bretschneider, 1996. De Frutos Reyes, Gregorio, Genaro Chic García and Nerea Berriatúa Hernández. “Las ánforas de la factoría prerromana de salazones de ‘Las Redes’ (Puerto de Santa María, Cádiz).” In Actas 1er Congreso Peninsular de Historia Antigua: Santiago de Compostela,

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 47 1-5 Julio 1986 1, ed. Gerardo Pereira Menaut, 295–306. Santiago de Compostela: Universidad de Santiago de Campostela, 1988. De Hoz Bravo, Javier. “El comercio en época arcaica y clásica: los grafitos y las cartas de plomo.” In El Oriente griego en la Península Ibérica, Epigrafía e historia, ed. María Paz De Hoz and Gloria Mora, 43–60. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2013. Docter, Roald F. “Archaische Transportamphoren.” In Karthago, Die Ergebnisse der Hamburger Grabung unter dem Decumanus Maximus, ed. Hans Georg Niemeyer, Roald Docter, Kari Schmidt and Babette Bechtold, 616–662. Mainz: Hamburger Forschungen zur Archäologie 2, 2007. Domergue, Claude. “Les mines et la production des métaux dans le monde méditerranéen au Ier millénaire avant notre ère. Du producteur au consommateur.” In L’artisanat métallurgique dans les sociétés anciennes en Méditerranée occidentale. Techniques, lieux et formes de production, ed. Anne Lehoërff, 129–239. Rome: Collection de l’Ecole Française de Rome 332, 2004. Domergue, Claude. Les mines antiques, La production des métaux aux époques grecque et romaine. Paris: Picard, 2008. Garcia, Dominique. “Économie et réseau urbain protohistorique dans le nord-est du monde ibérique (Roussillon et Languedoc occidental), (VIe-IIe s. av. J.-C.).” In III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, 69–79. Valencia: Saguntum-Plav, Extra-3, 2000. García Martín, Josep Miquel. “El comercio de cerámicas griegas en el sur del País Valenciano en época arcaica.” In Ceràmiques jònies d’època arcaica: centres de producció i commercializació al Mediterrani occidental, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Marta Santos Retolaza, 207–223. Barcelona: Monografies emporitanes 11, 2000. García Vargas, Enrique and Eduardo Ferrer Albelda. “Mas allá del banquete: el consumo de las salazones ibéricas en Grecia (siglos V y IV A. C.).” In Sal, pesca y salazones fenicios en Occidente: XXVI Jornadas de arqueología fenicio-púnica (Eivissa, 2011), 85–121. Ibiza: Treballs del Museu Arqueologic d’Eivissa e Formentera, 2012. Garcia, Dominique and Delphine Isoardi. “Variations démographiques et production des céréales en Celtique méditerranéenne: le rôle de Marseille.” In Grecs et indigènes de la Catalogne à la Mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 403–424. Paris: Bibliothèque d’archéologie méditerranéenne et africaine 17, 2010. Garlan, Yvon. Amphores et timbres amphoriques grecs, de l’érudition à l’idéologie. Paris: Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres 21, 2000. González de Canales Cerisola, Fernando, Leonardo Serrano Pichardo and Jorge Llompart Gómez. El emporio fenicio precolonial de Huelva (ca. 900-770 a. C.). Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2004. Gracia Alonso, Francisco. “Las cerámicas áticas del Palacio-santuario de Cancho Roano.” In Cancho Roano, VIII, 1, ed. Sebastián Celestino Pérez, 21–194. Mérida: Junta de Extremadura, 2003. Guérin, Pierre and Carlos Gómez Bellard. “La production du vin dans l’Espagne préromaine.” In Els productes alimentaris d’origen vegetal a l’edat del ferro de l’Europa occidental: de la producció al consum, ed. Ramon Buxó and Enriqueta Pons, 379–387. Gerona: Sèrie Monogràfica del Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya 18, 2000. Hunt Ortiz, Mark A. Prehistoric Mining and Metallurgy in South-West Iberian Peninsula. Oxford: BAR Int. Series, 1188, 2003. Kerschner, Michael. “Phokäische Thalassokratie oder Phantom-Phokäer? Die frühgriechischen Keramikfunde im Süden der Iberischen Halbinsel aus der Ägäischen Perspektive.” In Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean, ed. Kathryn Lomas, 115–148. Leiden: Brill, 2004.

48  Pierre Rouillard Lepore, Ettore. “Strutture della colonizzazione focea in Occidente.” La Parola de Passato 25 (1970): 19–54. Llompart Gómez, Jorge, Elena María Orta García, Francisco Javier Garrido and Fernando González de Canales Cerisola. “Discusión en torno a la lectura y soporte de una inscripción en griega arcaica con dedicatoria a la diosa Hi/estia hallada en Huelva.” Huelva en su historia 13 (2010): 3–14. Lombardo, Mario. “Émporoi, Emporion, Emporitai: forme e dinamiche delle presenza greca nella Penisola Iberica.” In Hispania, terris omnibus felicia. Premesse ed esiti di un processo di integrazione, 73–86. Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2002. Lowe, Benedict. “Between colonies and emporia. Iberian hinterlands and the exchange of salted fish in eastern Spain.” In Hellenistic Economies, ed. Zofia Archibald, John Davies and Graham Oliver, 175–200. London: Routledge, 2001. Maass-Lindemann, Gerta. Toscanos 1971. Berlin: Madrider Forschungen 6, 1982. Mangas, Julio and Maria del Mar Myro, eds. Testimonia Hispaniae Antiqua III (THA III), Medio físico y recursos naturales de la Península Ibérica en la Antigüedad. Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 2003. Mascort, Maria Teresa, Joan Sanmarti and Joan Santacana. El jaciment protohistòric d’Aldovesta (Benifallet) i el comerç fenici arcaic a la Catalunya meridional. Tarragona: Publicacions de la Diputació de Tarragona, 1991. Mederos Martín, Alfredo and Luis Alberto Ruiz Cabrero. “El pecio fenicio del bajo de la Campana (Murcia, España) y el comercio del marfil norteafricano.” Zephyrus 57 (2004): 263–281. Morel, Jean-Paul. “Les relations économiques dans l’Occident grec.” In Modes de contacts et processus de transformation dans les sociétés anciennes, 549–580. Rome: Collection de l’Ecole Française de Rome 67, 1983. Nantet, Emmanuel. “Les épaves du VIIes.: un témoignage sur les échanges maritimes à l’époque archaïque.” In La Méditerranée au VIIe siècle av. J.-C. (essais d’analyses archéologiques), ed. Roland Etienne, 96–109. Paris: Travaux de la Maison René-Ginouvès, Archéologie et Ethnologie 7, 2010. Nantet, Emmanuel. “L’épave d’Ulu Burum.” Revue Egypte, Afrique et Orient 64 (2012): 29–40. Negueruela Martinez, Iván, Ana Miñano Domínguez, José Santos Barba Frutos, Juan Pinedo Reyes, Monica Gómez Bravol and Inmaculada Arellano Gañán. “Descubrimiento de dos barcos fenicios en Mazarrón (Murcia).” In Actas de IV Congreso Internacional de Estudios Fenicios y Púnicos 4, ed. Manuela Barthélemy and Maria Eugenia Aubet Semmler, 1671–1679. Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, 2000. Nieto Prieto, Xavier and Marta Santos Retolaza. El vaixell grec arcaic de Cala Sant Vicenç Monografies del CASC 7. Barcelona: Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya, 2009. Pellicer Catalán, Manuel. Excavaciones en la necrópolis púnica «Laurita» del Cerro de San Cristóbal (Almuñecar, Granada). Madrid: Excavaciones Arqueologicas de España 17, 1962. Pinedo Reyes, Juan and Mark E. Polzer. “El yacimiento subacuatico del Bajo de la Campana.” In Actas de las Jornadas de ARQUA 2011, 90–95. Madrid: Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, 2012. Polzer, Mark E. “Iron Age Phoenician shipwreck excavation at Bajo de la Campana, Spain: Preliminary report from the field.” In Between Continents. Proceedings of the Twelfth Symposium on Boat and Ship Archaeology, ed. Nergis Günsenin, 27–36. Istanbul: Ege Yayinlari, 2012.

Exchanges between the Greek world and the Iberian Peninsula 49 Ramon Torres, Joan. “La proyección comercial mediterránea y atlántica de los centros fenicios malagueños en época arcaica.” Mainake 28 (2006): 189–212. Rouillard, Pierre. Les Grecs et la péninsule Ibérique du VIIIe au IVe siècle avant JésusChrist. Paris: Publications du Centre Pierre Paris 21, 1991. Rouillard, Pierre. “Un vase archaïque de Ionie du Nord à La Luz (Murcie, Espagne).” Anales de Prehistoria y Arqueología 11–12 (1995–1996): 91–94. Rouillard, Pierre. “Les céramiques grecques dans le Sud-est de la péninsule Ibérique.” In Ier Congreso Internacional de Arqueología Ibérica Bastetana (Baza, 2008), ed. Andrés Ma Adroher Auroux and Juan Blánquez Pérez, 73–92. Madrid: Universidad Autonoma, Serie Varia 9, 2008. Rouillard, Pierre, Éric Gailledrat and Feliciana Sala Sellés. Fouilles de la Rábita de Guardamar II, L’établissement protohistorique de La Fonteta (fin VIIIe-fin VIe siècle av. J.-C.) Madrid: Collection de la Casa de Velázquez 96, 2007. Rouillard, Pierre. “Greeks and the Iberian Peninsula: Forms of Exhange and Settlements.” In Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia, ed. Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz, 131–151. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009a. Rouillard, Pierre. “Le vase grec entre statut et fonction: le cas de la péninsule Ibérique.” In Shapes and Uses of Greek Vases (7th-4th centuries B.C.). Proceedings of the Symposium held at the Université de Bruxelles, 27-29 April 2006. Études d’Archéologie 3, ed. Athena Tsingarida, 365–376. Brussels: Centre de Recherches en Archéologie et Patrimonie, 2009b. Rouillard, Pierre and Immaculada de la Torre Castellano. “Les coupes à tige attiques de Zacatín (Grenade); premières réflexions sur un lot de vases du IVe s. av. J.-C.” Bastetania 2 no. 1 (2014): 1–14. Rouillard, Pierre and Immaculada de la Torre Castellano. “Las cerámicas áticas de figuraas rojas de Zacatín (Granada, España).” Archivo Español de Arqueología 90 (2017): 271–298. Rouillard, Pierre and Pierre Moret. “Diasporas grecques: le cas de la péninsule Ibérique.” In Les diasporas grecques, Du détroit de Gibraltar à l’Indus (du VIIIe s. av. J.-C. à la fin du IIIe s. av. J.-C.), ed. Sophie Bouffier, 149–160. Paris: Editions Sedes, 2012. Rouillard, Pierre and Jean-Christophe Sourisseau. “Entre chronologies et chronologie: le VIIe s.” In La Méditerranée au VIIe siècle av. J.-C. (essais d’analyses archéologiques), ed. Roland Etienne, 27–38. Paris: Travaux de la Maison René-Ginouvès, Archéologie et Ethnologie 7, 2010. Rouillard, Pierre, Éric Gailledrat and Feliciana Sala Sellés. Fouilles de la Rábita de Guardamar II, L’établissement protohistorique de La Fonteta (fin VIIIe-fin VIe siècle av. J.-C.). Madrid: Collection de la Casa de Velázquez 96, 2007. Ruiz Gil, José-Antonio. “Cronología de las factorias de salazones púnica de Cádiz.” In Atti del II Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici 3, 1211–1214. Rome: Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, 1991. Sáez Romero, Antonio M. “La producción alfareria y la economia salazonera de Gadir: balance y novedades.” Mainake 32 no. 2 (2010): 885–932. Sáez Romero, Antonio M. “Fish processing and salted-fish trade in the Punic West: New archaeological data and historical evolution.” In Fish and Ships, Production et commerce des salsamenta durant l’antiquité, ed. Emmanuel Botte and Victoria Leitch, 159–174. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’archéologie méditerranéenne et africaine 17, 2014. Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno, Vicente Marcos, Lorenzo Galindo San José, Mar Juzgado Navarro and Miguel Dumas Peñuelas. “El asentamiento fenicio de la Rebanadilla a fines del

50  Pierre Rouillard IX A.C.” In Diez años de arqueología fenicia en la provincia de Málaga, ed. Eduardo García Alonso, 67–85. Seville: Consejería de Cultura y Deporte, 2012. Sanmartí, Joan. “Les relacións commerciales en el món ibèric.” In III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, 307–328. Valencia: Saguntum-Plav, Extra-3, 2000. Sanmartí, Joan, David Asensio and Aurora Martín. “Les relacions comercials amb el món mediterrani dels pobles indígenes de la Catalunya sudpirinenca durant el període tardoarcaic (ca. 575-450 AC).” Cypsela 14 (2002): 69–106. Sourisseau, Jean-Christophe. “Les amphores ibériques et phénico-puniques en Provence et dans la basse vallée du Rhône (VIe-Ve s. av. J.-C.).” Documents d’archéologie méridionale 27 (2004): 319–346. Sourisseau, Jean-Christophe. “Documents archéologiques et réseaux d’échanges en Méditerranée central.” In Mobilités grecques. Mouvements, reseaux, contacts en Méditerranée, de l’époque archaïque à l’époque hellénistique, ed. Laurent Capdetrey and Julien Zurbach, 179–197. Bordeaux: Ausonius Editions, 2012. Stager, Lawrence. “Phoenician Shipwrecks in the Deep Sea.” In Ploes … Sea Routes… Interconnections in the Mediterranean (16th-6th c. BC), ed. Nicholas Chr. Stampolidis and Vassos Karageorghis, 233–247. Rethymnon: University of Crete, 2003. Tchernia, André. Les Romains et le commerce. Naples: Centre Jean Bérard, Études 8, 2011. Tresserras Juan, Jordi and Juan Carlos Matamala. “Los contenidos de las ánforas en el Mediterraneo Occidental. Primeros resultados.” In La circulació d’àmfores al Mediterrani occidental durant la Protohistòria (segles VIII-III aC): aspectes quantitatius i anàlisi de continguts, ed. Joan Sanmarti, 283–291. Barcelona: Arqueo Mediterrània 8, 2004. Williams II, Charles Kaufmann. “Corinth 78: Forum Southwest.” Hesperia 48 no. 2 (1979): 105–124.

3

The merchants of Emporion Selling (and being) Greek in the Iberian market Raymond Capra

To state that the Greeks of Iberia had been active as merchants is of course no great claim, as the mercantile journeys attributed to Kolaios of Samos and then the Phocaeans served as the primum mobile for the foundation of Greek cities in the far western Mediterranean (Hdt. Hist. I.163).1 The range of Greece’s commerce along the Mediterranean coast of Iberia beginning in the sixth century BC was extensive, to say the least, and part of a much larger pan-Mediterranean system.2 Trade was the raison d’être for the Greeks of Emporion; the name of the settlement is a testament to this as well as the name that the inhabitants took for themselves, Emporitai. The terms emporitai and emporion themselves have the earliest attestation for other trading sites from the inscriptions of the fifth century (Hansen 1997; Lombardo 2002). These Greeks’ engagement in commerce, in large part the distribution of goods and artifacts of other peoples, was a central aspect of their culture and with the passage of the centuries became a significant manifestation of their Hellenic identity in a diverse and multicultural world, both within the hinterland of Iberia and without, by way of various peoples passing through the port and marketplace of Emporion. This chapter will seek to create a composite sketch of the Emporitai Greeks’ identity as demonstrated by a variety of evidence, including contemporary written documents, their own commercial production, and the distribution of both foreign and native Iberian goods. However, the traditional language of Greek “colonization” hardly even suffices to explain the development and experience of Emporion. As a result, scholarship has adopted the more appropriate term “presence” to describe the Greeks’ activities in these western settlements (Domínguez 2006). This word more accurately describes the standing of the Greeks in Iberia, as Emporion, as well as Rhode and other trading posts along the Mediterranean coast of Iberia, were coastal communities, and port settlements whose sphere of activity was primarily the sea. Moreover, Emporion was small, certainly so during its first century, and accordingly hardly had the population to cause great cultural change upon the native peoples. Their presence was felt by the Iberians, but the Greeks did not overwhelm the native culture and the extent of their influence is a subject of considerable debate (Cabrera Bonet 1998; Domínguez 1999). Also, it needs to DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-4

52  Raymond Capra be emphasized that the foundation of such a residence at Emporion was more of an opportunistic appropriation of the potential for trade with the Iberian communities by Phocaean Greeks that a permanent settlement offered than it was part of a greater scheme to exploit the resources of the region. The Phocaeans already had some experience with the favorable market of the Empordan during the course of their voyages to the Atlantic Ocean. They had come to this part of Iberia prior to the foundation of Emporion and engaged in trade though without a seemingly permanent presence (Rouillard 2002). The pottery remains from the very onset of the Greeks’ appearance at San Martí d’Empúries constitute the traces of the small-scale contact and trade that existed prior to the foundation of the palaiopolis. Convergence at this point was influenced by the sea currents which make the bay of Roses an easy point of arrival for ships sailing from Andalusia to the bay of Lyons (Ruiz de Arbulo 1990). Thus, the site that was to develop into Emporion was part of the natural reach of Greek traders in their westward expansion. The foundation of Emporion offered the Iberian groups of the northeast a steadier contact with whom to exchange goods, and certainly the permanent presence of the Emporitans made various types of luxury ceramics readily available. Of greater importance was the constant demand for Iberian products, primarily of an agricultural nature, that the permanent establishment of the “market town” created. The Greeks were dependent on the Iberian harvest for their own success and for the supplies to meet their daily needs in this settlement endeavor in the far west. After the establishment of Emporion, those items of Greek origin which did penetrate into the interior often arrived through the mechanisms of local trade networks. This importation happened with greater frequency in the later part of the sixth century, the era in which fine wares become the privileged ceramics present in northern Iberian sites, while before the foundation of Emporion amphorae were the vast majority of imports. Moreover, the increased importation of Greek ceramics also indicates an Iberian community, such as that of Puig de Sant Andreu (Ullastret), asserting itself and using foreign ceramics as luxury items for themselves and in their own trade as a supplement to the wine contained in the amphorae. Emporion served as a further stimulus to greater cohesion of effort on the part of the Iberian communities in the hinterland (Sanmartí and Santacana 2005: 66–73). For example, the site of Mas Castellar de Pontós had a development during the Iron Age that was much influenced by pressures put on the Empordan by the Greek city. The active port nearby, too, allowed their cereals, honey and the like to sail aboard Emporitan ships, and those of other merchants, for points across the Mediterranean, and this continuous link with the greater trade network of the sea helped to solidify these routes of commerce and systems of exchange in northeastern Iberia during the centuries prior to Roman hegemony in the peninsula. The establishment of Emporion also served to accelerate the process of urbanization in a region which at the beginning of the seventh century contained settlements that were relatively small, most consisting of a few collected family

The merchants of Emporion 53 groups. This is significant in that in spite of Phoenician trade with the indigenous inhabitants at Sant Martí d’Empúries and the surrounding region from at least the middle of the seventh century, evidenced particularly by the importation of amphorae into coastal communities from the south of the peninsula, the Phoenicians’ commercial presence didn’t coincide with the Iberian’s cultural flourishing in quite the same manner as did the Greeks’ during the sixth and fifth centuries. Perhaps the lack of a permanent Phoenician presence was the greatest factor for the foundation of a Greek town along the Catalan coast. The settlement entered into a very favorable situation as there was much cultural potential to react to the catalyst of the Greek settlement and its importation of a multitude of foreign cultural products. The changes in the lifestyle of Iron Age Iberians during this period due to Greek influence were manifold (Sanmartí and Santacana 2005). For example, the incorporation of new methods of domestic building at Puig de Sant Andreu in the middle of the sixth century and the construction of a fortification wall by the end of the century reveal some part of the distinctive cultural exchange proffered by the Greeks, as such architectural changes reflect their influence at least in terms of the importance of monumental architecture as an aspect of the conception of a city. The building techniques used at Puig de Sant Andreu had some degree of Greek influence (Sanmartí and Santacana 2005). The connection between the Greeks and Iberians in these two settlements, as both developed into larger communities, was very important for both the Greeks in terms of the hinterland markets it connected them to, especially as the Iberian town functioned as a dispersion center for wares which came through the market of Emporion, and for the Iberians in strengthening their own control of some aspect of this trade. The two functioned as partners in a network of trade within the northeastern part of the peninsula which was developing as a growing participant in the trade of the greater Mediterranean. Again, the most visible aspect of this trade was the importation of Greek pottery, which arrived into Iberia in the seventh century BC and then in significant quantities in the subsequent centuries. Emporion was one of the main entryways for goods from Massalia and beyond into the interior of the Catalan coast. Pottery is, of course, the most studied aspect of Greek mercantile activity in Iberia, but it is only part of the greater and more varied exchange between these peoples. The archeological record demonstrates both the changing tastes and production capability of Iberian communities during the centuries after the permanent establishment of a Greek presence in the bay of Roses; for example, the gradual disappearance of gray monochrome ware from Puig de Sant Andreu that coincides with an increasing presence of Emporitan or indigenous adaptations of Greek ceramics (Casas i Genover and Soler i Fusté 2013). Successful merchants would adapt to these desires though and, in the case of the Emporitai, begin to supplement wares imported from the eastern Hellenic world with those manufactured in the ateliers of their own polis, as with Emporitan gray monochrome pottery (Demetriou 2012). This demonstrates the flexibility of merchants and the always changing nature of trade. However, a further layer is

54  Raymond Capra a disconnection between merchants and the products they transport; that is, the provenance of the cargo was often not the same as that of the sailors. This is the same for those who brought products to inland markets. The presence of Greek vases does not necessarily indicate that Greek traders brought them beyond the coastal entry points or even beyond the city of their production. Likewise, the dispersal of Iberian pottery was not solely the trade and work of the Iberians. It is in this middle ground that Emporion thrived, in this space securely linking the greater Mediterranean system with the trade network of the Iberian hinterland. Therefore, it is important to consider the sphere of influence in which the small city’s trade was conducted, and the range of Emporion’s commerce has been traditionally surmised as being concentrated between Massalia to the east and the region of Contestania to the southwest along the coast. Emporion served as an important node in the greater Mediterranean network (Malkin 2011). It is from this continued emphasis on the facilitation of trade that its particular mercantile culture evolved. Well documented are the salt, salted fish, and olive oil exported from Andalusia; this is an exchange in which the Emporitai had a share. Equally, the traffic in products from the Iberian communities to the south which they transported northward to other Iberian centers as well as also exported out of Iberia was a significant part of their activity. Many of these were certainly goods with a less pronounced presence in the archaeological record: not only the mineral wealth of the peninsula but also the diverse grains cultivated in sites such as Mas Castellar de Pontós (Pons i Brun 1993; Moret 1994). The growth of Emporion came about with the further development of trade connections between the Empordà and Contestania. To be underscored again is the economic capacity of the Iberian partner, for the communities of the Levant such as Alt de Benimaquia reveal an increasing collection of wealth by the local aristocracies in the fifth and fourth centuries, on a greater degree than that of Puig de Sant Andreu in Catalonia. This former site was involved in the trade of salt from the bay of Cadíz (Lowe 2001). This may signify that the Iberian communities of Contestania benefited from their position between the Phoenician and Greek spheres of activity. Evidence for the salt trade, combined with the Attic wares used in aristocratic commensal and funerary assemblages, points to the two aspects of Greek trade along the Mediterranean coast of Iberia – the importation of foreign, luxury goods to coastal communities and the equally important exportation of native products. The Emporitan Greeks facilitated the Iberians’ connection to the Greek network and also intensified the connections between the Iberian communities themselves. As the small city’s commercial relations with the emergent, indigenous culture grew, to the benefit of both, the unique position, geographically and culturally, allowed it to develop into a regional nexus of trade. In regard to Emporion and its role in the Mediterranean world, Irad Malkin (2011: 164) has remarked, “It is perhaps the most interesting site to illustrate the complexities of colonial middle grounds and maritime regions.” One such complexity is the seeming ease

The merchants of Emporion 55 with which the Emporitai engaged with the Iberian world, economically and socially, while maintaining and creating a distinct ethnic identity on the furthest edge of the Hellenic world. There was always a delicate balance between the western Greeks’ acculturation with the native peoples and the maintenance of their Hellenic identity (Domínguez 2004). This cultural and spatial liminality served to crystallize Greek cultural commonalities together with a predominately mercantile way of life. In order to assess this Emporitan identity, that is to say their way of being, first the issue of “Hellenic” identity must be defined for the Greeks living in Iberia, since it was considerably different in the “colonies” than in the Aegean, as well as an examination of the available direct evidence which pertains to their mercantile activity, such as inscriptions and coins, is necessary in order to elucidate an Emporitan way of life forged through an intense interaction with the Iberians. As such relations with the natives were an essential part of the life of all the Greek colonies (Domínguez 2004). For the Emporitai, this was an even greater aspect of their daily lives. The Greeks who had travelled to and set up shop in Iberia, so to speak, whether in seasonal comptoirs or settlements with a more permanent outlook, engaged in frequent, if not constant, interaction and exchange with Iberian peoples. With the mythological history of the “cup of Glyptis” and the foundation of Massalia as an illustrative example, the establishment of relationships on an intimate level was part of Phocaean trade. The myth is found in Justin XLIII 3.4–4.2. This seems to be the case with Emporion as the palaiapolis was founded within or adjacent to an Iberian settlement and thus the obvious origin of Emporion as a seasonal trading post that later developed into the small Greek polis on the mainland. While the status of Emporion is not the point of this chapter, it suffices to say that the Emporitai thought of Emporion as a polis, as per the inscriptions in addition to the centuriation of the land surrounding the city (Plana Mallart 1994). Such a settlement indicates a few important aspects of the Phocaeans’ relationship with the Iberians: that there was an established trade and interaction between the native populations and merchants prior to the foundation; that the apparently shared inhabitation of the palaiopolis, itself a precursor to the development of the neapolis, was the result of close connections made between the two groups; and that Greek merchants were active in the bay of Roses before a demonstrable record of Greek imports. Exactly how the Greeks of Emporion viewed the Indiketes and other surrounding tribes is unknown, certainly as different, though surely not as “barbarians” in the fifth century conception of the word - as we have been rightly warned by Edith Hall. As for the identity of the Greek peoples in the seventh and sixth centuries, many scholars have questioned the validity of the Hellenic and barbarian (indigenous) dichotomy that has been a persistent frame superimposed upon the analysis of the period of colonization (Hall 1997). In line with Edith Hall’s critiques, in a study on the identity of early Greeks in the west, Jonathon Hall remarks in particular that the term Hellene is, to a great extent, a product of the early fifth century and the conflicts against the Persians; instead in earlier

56  Raymond Capra centuries the ethnic conceptions of Dorian, Ionian, and the like dominated and thereafter persisted. This was of particular importance in the center of the Greek world where the nuances of ethnicity had a bearing on internal politics; for example, the Argives’ claim to the leadership of the allied Greek forces during the Persian invasion (Hdt. 1.148), though on the edges of the oikoumene, these differences would be of less value, even in the sixth century, as there was little opportunity for contrast between Hellenes who hailed from different cities or regions and much greater chance for commonality (Domínguez 2004; Malkin 2011). Likewise, Jonathon Hall notes that the poet Alcman (Page fr. 77) in the late seventh century uses “Hellas” to unambiguously refer to all of Greece, and during the sixth Simonides in his poetic construction of identity used the term “PanHellenic,” which signified not a singular cultural identity so much as a “pluralistic aggregate” (Hall 2004). Thus, even in the archaic age, there was a burgeoning sense of Hellenic identity alongside the ethnic distinctions and all that they denoted. This is significant for our understanding of identity in Emporion, since in the atmosphere of Iberia during the period of the Greek presence, there was some elasticity of self-conception as the Phocaean identity became the Emporitan, which had some aspect of this aggregate, Pan-Hellenic identity. The Phocaeans who sailed throughout the Mediterranean as merchants were already men on the edge of Hellenic society by virtue of their occupation. This functioning on the edge was to be the permanent situation for the Emporitan Greeks, surrounded as they were by the Iberian world. The mercantile activity of these Greeks and their interactions with their Iberian neighbors are evidenced in the epigraphical record. There are two pertinent lead letters, one from Emporion and one from Pech Maho that offer a better understanding of the Emporitans’ integration and involvement in the regional network. The first of the two is the well-known letter (SEG 37, 838) dated by some scholars as from the first half of the sixth century BC and found in Emporion (Santiago 2013). This letter details a mercantile transaction in which an individual with the name Βασπεδ-, certainly not a Greek appellation and most likely Iberian, was to serve a significant role in a mercantile transaction involving the city of Saiganthe (Saguntum) and some Emporitans (Ἐ̣μππορίταισιν line 1.2). The context of the letter indicates the economic activity involving Emporion and the region, in particular the close mercantile relationship the Greeks have established with non-Greeks. Most importantly, the letter demonstrates that Emporion, within a generation or so of its foundation, served as an intersecting point in the trade networks of Iberia. The use of ἐμπορῖται in the letter, the earliest attestation of the name for the city inhabitants, and in the letter from Pech Maho, is testament to the identity of the inhabitants of this small, mercantile community for themselves. The name proclaimed their identity as merchants as much as an “ethnic” community (Sanmartí-Grego and Santiago 1987; Demetriou 2012). The lead tablet from Pech Maho, about 15 miles southwest of Narbonne on the east of the Pyrenees, provides further testimony of the Emporitan’s commerce with Iberians. This letter is from the middle of the fifth century BC. Pech Maho was a

The merchants of Emporion 57 site of much exchange between the local populations with Greeks, Etruscans, and Carthaginians (Lejeune et al. 1988; Gailledrat and Rouillard 2003). Though problematic in allowing for an exact reading, the content of the letter is a significant indication of an Emporitan civic identity expressed in trade with the hinterland communities (cf. Malkin 2011; Chadwick 1990). Three of the six non-Greek names in the text are clearly Iberian (Βασιγερρος, Γολο.βιυρ, and Ναλβε.ν), and the involvement in the transaction of the Emporitans is perhaps related to their role as boat merchants. The text demonstrates a high degree of integration in the economic activities of the Greeks and their neighbors, and a hundred years after the previous letter it opens a window into the well-established relationships between the Greeks and neighboring peoples. This level of involvement between the populations is one of the hallmarks of the Greeks’ activity and commerce in the Iberian Levant (Oller Guzmán 2013). This interaction was from the onset heavily commercial, though the seemingly constant sharing of urban space of the Emporitai and Iberians suggests contact on every possible level. Alongside this interconnectedness was the Emporitans’ self-perception as Greeks and ideological connection to a mother culture which was bolstered by their constant interaction with non-Greek peoples, among whom they were often a minority. The common interest of commerce that stimulated the interaction between all the peoples near Emporion created prosperity that allowed the Emporitans to foster and maintain their Greek identity. Furthermore, as we are talking about a port of trade in Emporion with a fair number of Greek merchants passing through and perhaps settling there, the similarities of Greeks to one another, linguistically and culturally, would immediately set them apart from the non-Greeks, as was the case in the Greek cities in southern France with a seeming mix of Hellenic origins among the population (cf. Bats 1992; Malkin 2011: 161). While the ethnic background of the Emporitai was to a great degree of Phocaean stock, itself an ethnicity with a complicated origin, their Emporitan identity would come to be based upon the existence of common Hellenic associations and institutions in their cultural consciousness, most certainly the cult of Ephesian Artemis in its Massaliot manifestation, but also the more distant PanHellenic celebrations such as the Pythian games and the attendant religious institutions and mythological history (cf. Domínguez 2004; Demetriou 2012). Such a conception of the Emporion’s identity is in accord with J. Hall’s definition of identity as “the operation of socially dynamic relationships which are constructed on the basis of a putative shared ancestral heritage” (1997: 16). More forceful a factor in the development of this identity would be the distance from the rest of the Greek world in general and from Phocaea in particular, for most inhabitants, their mother city would exist solely in their memory; this would be true for all after the capture of the city by the Persians in 546 BC. The aspects of Hellenic culture that continued to find their way to the port of Emporion were also of mixed ethnic origin and this would further diffuse such delineations. Besides, the proliferation and diffusion of poetry by traveling Homeric rhapsodes and lyric poets, with an artificial poetic language crafted to speak to all the children of Zeus, surely brought an additional sense of Pan-Hellenism to the Greeks in the far west (Malkin 2011). Demetriou writes that

58  Raymond Capra “new levels of collective identity. Larger than civic identity, developed in emporia” (2012: 238). The particular factors which contributed to the Emporion identity are an outstanding example of the formation of a new identity, based on a common Hellenic background and shaped by the common activity of the city’s market and port. What must be underscored is that identity is as much a product of praxis as it is of belief, and the habitual, mercantile practice of the Emporitai was a principal influence on their self-conception. The activity of the merchant was a central aspect of the Phocaean way of life from at least the seventh century, and theirs was a particular type of commerce that centered on the acquisition, transport, and redistribution of products from various points of origin (Lepore 1970; Sanmartí 1989: 390–392). The mother city’s early use of electrum coinage in Asia Minor is one indication of its acumen and primacy as a mercantile people, the coinage no doubt improved upon and replaced an earlier, well-developed system of barter, credit, and exchange. Though late in terms of the “age of colonization,” the establishment of emporia in the far west was their magnum opus, a testament to the Phocaeans’ adventurous spirit and commercial vigor. As the site of Massalia was selected primarily for its promise as a harbor and commercial port, so was the case with the foundation of Emporion in the bay of Roses (Sanmartí 1989). All this western expansion aimed toward further developing the trade with Tartessos and the mineral riches of Iberia (Sanmartí 1989; Domínguez 2004). Herodotus’ tale of the great friendship the Phocaeans established with King Arganthonios (1.163) is emblematic of their mode of commerce. They were sailors of great distances and successful tradesmen, able to cultivate relationships and initiate exchange with foreign peoples, for this was the basis of any effective trade, both for the acquisition of native resources and the importation of luxury items for the indigenous aristocrats, thus creating a prosperous network of exchange that, between Lampsacus and Iberia, spanned the east and west of the Mediterranean. Such a cultural heritage and primary function directed Emporion’s development. At Emporion, the Greeks’ encounters with the Iberians while fostering cultural exchange also served to reaffirm their identity because of the immediate cultural differences between the native peoples and those who spoke Greek. From the beginning of the presence of Greeks in the peninsula, trade initiated and dictated the roles of both Iberian and Greek within the framework of this cross-cultural interaction (Domínguez 2004, 2006). The “long voyages” of the Phocaean Greeks from the onset had been initiated in the interest of finding new markets and expanding their range of commerce, and this predominantly mercantile way of life remained a significant motivation for the Emporitai as the “market town” became a small city (Rouillard 1991). The activity of mercantile exchange that had served as the foundation for the “market town” from the beginning also became so for those Iberians who had extensive contact with them or even shared in the inhabitation of Emporion, as the literary sources indicate (Strabo 3.4.8; Livy 34.9). Of the many commodities that arrived in the hulls of merchant ships, wine,

The merchants of Emporion 59 olive oil, pottery, and votive statuary which provided further stimulus for the developing plastic arts of Iberians, one important product the Emporitan Greeks possessed was trade itself. Trade denotes not only the importation of products to the Iberian market but also the capacity to create markets, import and export goods, and establish ξενία with foreigners. This cultural activity on the part of the Greeks may have been an important motivation for the material production of surrounding Iberian communities, the possibility of exporting goods to unseen markets through the agency of the Emporitan Greeks. Not that this was impossible while the Phoenicians were engaged in commerce in the region of Catalonia, but the permanent settlement and as a result effective cooperation of the Greeks offered greater opportunities. This commercial interaction is demonstrated, on the individual level, most evidently by the lead letter from Pech Maho, which cites Emporitan Greeks, Iberians, and non-Iberians as participants in a business venture. De Hoz Bravo (1999) notes that two of the six non-Greek names are certainly not Iberian (cf. Lejeune and Pouilloux 1988; Chadwick 1990). This record of business demonstrates the level of interaction between the Emporitai and the indigenous communities in the century following the foundation of the town; the one example preserved for posterity surely represents the norm in the Greeks’ trade in both directions along the coast. While the distribution of Greek ceramics along the Levantine coast and in the Gulf of Lyon provides some understanding of the commercial activity of the Emporitan Greeks, I would now like to consider how the distribution of Iberian products, in particular pottery, provides another such assessment of this commerce. As scholarship has mainly focused on the Iberians as a unique culture, the dispersal of Iberian goods is becoming better understood and can be considered in concert with the mercantile activity of the Emporitan Greeks. The culmination of this trade was one of the most well-known and well-dispersed of Iberian ceramic forms, the sombrero de copa, originating in the third century and found its greatest success in the second and first centuries BC. However, this discussion will return to the sombrero in a few centuries and begin with an earlier form, the urna de orejetas (Figure 3.1). This latter ceramic has its origin in the sixth century in La Peña Negra and by the end of the fifth century spread as far south as the area near the river Segura and as far east as the Languedoc (López Bravo 2002). Now this geographical range includes a fair number of Iberian populations with common cultural traditions (Figure 3.2), but the rapid dispersion of this pot is due to its becoming part of the goods carried eastward along the Mediterranean shores by Greek traders. This is one way in which the Iberians were active manipulators of the Mediterranean trade networks as a means to accomplish their own methods of exchange and used these networks to cultivate their cultural koine (SanmartíGrego et al. 1982). Now, as with most ceramic forms, local imitations may soon have supplemented or replaced imports, but the transport of Iberian pottery to various non-Greek communities along the coasts of Iberia and the Gulf of Lyon as Emporion increased in size and stature was a viable aspect of its mercantile industry.

60  Raymond Capra

Figure 3.1  Urna de Orejetas perforadas (after López Bravo 2002, figure 1).

As seen with the letter from Pech Maho, the prominent role of Iberians and others in the conditions of the contract demonstrates how they involved themselves in the mechanisms of Hellenic trade. The text may be in Greek, but the cast of characters are predominantly Iberian. Coupling this with the geographical range of the urna de orejetas and the reference to boats from Emporion in the lead letter, one is led to think not only of Emporitan Greeks loading their boats with Iberian wares for transport from one Iberian community to another but also of Iberian potters or merchants contracting transport among Iberian communities with their Greek comrades; for it is much easier to ship ceramics by boat to the Languedoc than to haul them over the Pyrenees in carts or on the backs of donkeys. It has already been mentioned that both of these letters reference the employment of boats which is fairly good evidence to indicate that the Emporitai maintained a small shipping industry. Such an infrastructure would be necessary to make possible and foster their trade with the inland communities of Iberia, particularly along the Catalan coast, and of southern France.

The merchants of Emporion 61

Figure 3.2  Map of distribution of Urna de Orejetas (after López Bravo 2002, figure 6).

62  Raymond Capra Around 300 BC, the amount of imported Greek pottery vastly diminishes and Iberian pottery begins to reach its artistic heights (Coll Conesa 2008). The former may well be due to the rise of Carthage in the south of Iberia, the Hellenistic kingdoms that found their wealth in Egypt and Mesopotamia and produced art for different reasons, the rise of the southern Italian workshops, to name a few of the conditions of the Mediterranean, but the latter, the advances in Iberian pottery, are not due to negative constraints but rather the flowering of a culture’s artistic sensibility. For, though the market conditions had changed, there were still producers of ceramics and there was still a demand for them, and as they had been doing for centuries, the Emporitan Greeks were central in the distribution of these items, in this case between Iberian peoples. Now the discussion may return to the Iberian kalathos, the sombrero de copa, so known because of its hat-like shape (Figure 3.3). From the third century, this ceramic begins to appear, first in Iberian contexts but eventually as far as southern Italy. Again, these pots originated from the areas where the Emportai engaged in trade. First from the region of Contestantia in which there were many Iberian oppida with whom the Greek merchants of Emporion were engaged in

Figure 3.3 Kalathos from Massalia (courtesy of the Musée d’Histoire de Marseille, photo: author).

The merchants of Emporion 63 trade. From the founding of the city, Emporitai had developed a complex web of contacts with these peoples (Plana Mallart 1994, 2018. The rapid distribution of the sombrero de copa can be understood in the same manner as that of the urna de orejetas, Iberian cultural products as aided by Greek boats. It should be noted that Greek ceramics, even the drinking cups which appear in greater numbers in the fourth century, played only a supporting role in the assembly of Iberian grave goods; this is another indication that the Iberians were a culture with their own strong sense of ethnic identity. The Greek influences, particularly in the northern Levant, were mild and allowed the native culture to prosper more than be directed. Sombreros were being imported to southern France from Catalonia during the first and second centuries BC (Guérin 1993). While this is after the Roman victory in the Second Punic War, the Greeks of Emporion were now working as merchants in a fully Roman sphere of influence. A number of sombreros were excavated in the necropls of Enserune, east of Pech Maho, which demonstrates the distribution of these Iberian vessels over a relatively large area within which Greek merchants plied their trade, to emphasize that the Greeks were involved in the movement of these vessels within the Iberian world. This so-called Gallic town in southwestern France near the Greek river port town of Agathe Tyche (modern Agde) was an importer of varied ceramics, Greek and otherwise, and was a true crossroads of cultures in the Mediterranean west. The hill town and its necropolis contained a variety of ceramics and cultural trappings: Greek, Etruscan, Iberian, southern Italian, and Gallic. The urna de orejetas and the sombrero de copa represent the breadth of Emporitan commerce and involvement with the Iberians as well as sharing the period of the small Greek city’s history as an independent entity. The Emporitan Greeks were catalysts of Iberian culture perhaps more through mercantile networks than through their cultural influence, that is to say, the Greeks’ distribution of both Iberian and Greek wares supported the spread of Iberian modes of communication and thought. The Emporitans’ importation of Greek goods was first balanced by the exportation of Iberian raw materials and then finished goods, and it is through this activity, the exchange of goods, that these Greeks of the far west continued to be Greek, to exercise and to signify their Greek identity. This was particularly true during the third and second centuries when southern Italian goods began to appear in Iberia in great numbers and the dominant idiom of the art in Emporion was no longer Greek. The Greeks of Emporion not only distributed Greek pottery but also had begun quickly to acquire and trade in Iberian ceramics, a trade which was expanded to include the Roman world in the second and first centuries BC when Iberian pottery increasingly appears in sites on the western coast of the Italian peninsula.3 The Romans’ exposure to this pottery was likely first mediated by the Greek merchants of Emporion between Iberia and Massalia. A reference to the Romans has brought this discussion beyond the scope of our discussion of the Greeks of Emporion and their commercial culture. However, it is important to underscore that the Romans’

64  Raymond Capra economic and trade expansion into the western Mediterranean was into preexisting Greek networks. The Emporitai Greeks had a long history of involvement with the local networks of trade and cultural interaction. This shows them not only as the traditional bearers of a superior culture but frequently also as the conveyors of “other” cultures’ wares and so, as in the case of Iberian pottery in general and in particular the sombrero de copa, of the other’s artistic expression. Javier de Hoz (2004) has demonstrated the limited use of Greek in the peninsula in contrast to Iberian writing and suggested that Iberian was the vernacular used even by Greek merchants in northeastern Iberia. The Emporitai who manned the merchant ships and shops and had for generations traded in imported Greek wares found, as the centuries passed, a market for increasingly Iberian wares. The shifting nature of imported goods into the Iberian settlements from the middle of the sixth century until the Second Punic War and the advent of the Romans could perhaps be another indication of the capability and variability of Emporitan merchants (cf. Sanmartí 2009). They were able to adapt to changing sources of production and so found a cultural imperative that directed their civic identity. As the polis was situated between the Phoenicians to the mineral-rich south of Iberia, the native communities of the peninsula along the Mediterranean coast, and the Massaliot and Etruscan worlds to the west, the Greeks of Emporion found that their route to long-term success was to get involved with all of these markets. The Emporitans’ ability to maneuver between cultural paradigms as merchants became the most prominent vestige of their identity. A way of life that served them well as they increasingly moved into the role of merchants functioning in the space between rising empires, Carthage and Rome, and then within an increasingly Romanized world. It is after Emporion becomes Roman Emporiae that Iberian ceramics reached an even greater distribution. The Iberian kalathos, the sombrero de copa, achieved a diffusion even greater than the urna de orejetas. The ceramic was found in Celtic contexts, such as the site of Entremont destroyed by the Romans in 123 BC and in sites with Roman connections such as Taromina (Muscolino 2006). The city of Emporion produced and distributed its own ceramics of this type with a wide diffusion (Figure 3.4). These economic and social ties allowed the city to keep its independence until Caesar converted it into a Roman municipium and enlarged it with the installation of veterans (Livy 34.3). With this frame of reference, the story told by Strabo of an Emporion inhabited by a combination of Greeks and Iberians mingling their customs represents the cultural climate of northeastern. For, during the first two centuries BC, the Emporitans seemed to maintain a sense of Greek identity, as the bilingual dedicatory inscription to Serapis would indicate. Their ability to function as merchants and their knowledge of and relationship with the Iberian oppida would have been invaluable to the Roman garrison at Emporion.

The merchants of Emporion 65

Figure 3.4  Map of Kalathoi, third-second centuries BC (after Conde Berdós 1991, fig. 14).

66  Raymond Capra Notes 1 See the chapter by Domínguez in this volume. 2 Braudel first championed this perspective of the Mediterranean as a “vast, complex expanse” in which many cultures mingled over the centuries in La Méditerranée et le Monde Méditerranéen à l'Epoque de Philippe II. Casson’s popular The Ancient Mariners, first published in 1959, offers a vivid portrait of ancient sailors and the boats they plied upon the sea. 3 Lamboglia 1954: 108. In a 1969 dig conducted by Rutgers University, a sherd of an Iberian ‘sombrero de copa’ was discovered in the Roman city of Salona, present-day Solin (Clairmont 1970: 191; Del Chiaro 1973: 65–66).

Bibliography Bats, Michel. “Marseille, les colonies massalièts et les relais indigènes dans le traffic le long du littoral méditerranée gaulois (VIe-Ier s. av. J.-C.).” In Marseille Grecque et la Gaule, Actes du Colloque international d’Histoire et d’Archéologie et du Ve Congrès archéologique de Gaule méridionale (Marseille, 18–23 novembre 1990) ed. Michel Bats, Guy Bertucchi, Gaëtan Congès and Henri Tréziny, 263-278. Lattes/Aix-en-Provence: Études massaliètes 3, 1992. Blázquez Martínez, José María and Juan González Navarrete. “The Phokaian sculpture of Obulco in southern Spain.” American Journal of Archaeology 89 (1985): 61–69. Cabrera Bonet, Paloma. ‘Greek Trade in Iberia: the Extent of Interaction’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 17 no. 2 (1998): 191–206. Casas i Genover, Josep and Victòria Soler i Fusté. “Algunes consideracions sobre la ceràmica grisa monocroma de l’assentament ibèric de Saus.” Annals de l’Institut d’Estudis Empordanesos 44 (2013): 333–349. Casini-Marco Tizzoni, Stefania. “Kalathoi iberici e loro imitazioni nella Mediolanum celtica.” Notizie Archeologiche Bergomensi 18 (2010):165–178. Chadwick, John. “The Pech-Maho lead.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 82 (1990): 161–166. Clairmont, Christoph. “Rutgers University—Douglass College Excavations in Salona, Yugoslavia.” American Journal of Archaeology 74 (1970): 191. Coll Conesa, Jaume. La Cerámica Valenciana (apuntes para una síntesis). Available at: http://www.avec.com/historia_de_la_ceramica_valenciana.asp (consulted 10/3/2018). Conde Berdós, María Josep. “Les produccions de Kálathoi d’Empúries i la seva difusió mediterrània (segles II-I a.C.).” Cypsela: revista de prehistòria i protohistòria 9 (1991): 141–168. De Angelis, Franco. “Ancient Greek colonization in the 21st century: Some suggested directions.” Bolletino di Archeologia online I Volume Speciale (2010): 18–30. De Hoz Bravo, Jesús Javier. “Los negocios del señor Heronoiyos. Un documento mercantil, jonio clásico temprano, del sur de Francia.” In Desde los poemas homéricos hasta la prosa griega del siglo IV d.C. Veintiséis estudios filológicos, ed. Juan Antonio López Férez, 61–90. Madrid: Estudios de Filología Griega, 1999. De Hoz Bravo, Javier. “The Greek man in the Iberian Street: Non-colonial Greek identity in Spain and southern France.” In Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean. Papers in Honour of Brian Shefton, ed. Kathryn Lomas, 411–427. Leiden: Mnemosyne Supplementum 246, 2004. Del Chiaro, Mario. “An Iberian sherd in Yugoslavia.” American Journal of Archaeology 77 (1973): 65–66.

The merchants of Emporion 67 Demetriou, Denise. Negotiating Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean: The Archaic and Classical Multiethnic Emporia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Dietler, Michael. Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010. Domínguez, Adolfo. “Hellenisation of Iberia?: The reception of Greek products and influences by the Iberians.” In Ancient Greeks West and East, ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, 301–330. Leiden: Mnemosyne Supplementum 196, 1999. Domínguez, Adolfo. “Greek identity in the Phocaean colonies.” In Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean. Papers in Honour of Brian Shefton, ed. Kathryn Lomas, 429– 456. Leiden: Mnemosyne Supplementum 246, 2004. Domínguez, Adolfo. 2006. “Greeks in the Iberian Peninsula.” In Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, vol. 1, 429–505. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Gailledrat, Éric and Pierre Rouillard. “Pech Maho aux VIe-Ve s. av. J.-C. Une place d’échange en territoire élisyque.” Revue archéologique de Narbonnaise 35 (2003): 401–410. García y Bellido, Antonio. “Nuevos datos sobre la cronología final de la cerámica ibérica y sobre su expansión extrapeninsular.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 25 (1952): 39–45. Guérin, Pierre. “Le Sombrero de Copa: quelques résultats récents.” Documents d’Archéologie Méridionale 16 no. 1 (1993): 88–92. Hall, Edith. Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-definition through Tragedy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989. Hall, Jonathan. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Hall, Jonathan. “How ‘Greek’ were the early western Greeks?” In Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean. Papers in Honour of Brian Shefton, ed. Kathryn Lomas, 35–54. Leiden: Mnemosyne Supplementum 246, 2004. Hansen, Mogens Herman. “Emporion. A study of the use and meaning of the term in the archaic and classical periods.” In Yet More Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis, ed Thomas Heine Nielsen, vol. 2, 83–105. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1997. Lamboglia, Nino. “La ceramica iberica negli strati di Albintimilium e nel territorio ligure e tirrenico.” Rivista di Studi Liguri 20 (1954): 83–125. Lejeune, Michel and Jean Pouilloux. “Une transaction commerciale ionienne au Ve siècle à Pech Maho.” Camptes Rendus de I’Academie des Inscriptions 132–133 (1988): 526–536. Lejeune, Michel, Jean Pouilloux and Yves Solier. “Etrusque et ionien archaïques sur un plomb de Pech Maho (Aude).” Revue archéologique de Narbonnaise 21 (1988): 19–59. Lepore, Ettore. “Strutture della colonizzazione focea in Occidente,” La Parola de Passato 25 (1970):19–54. Lombardo, Mario. “Émporoi, Emporion, Emporitai: forme e dinamiche delle presenza greca nella Penisola Iberica.” In Hispania, terris omnibus felicia. Premesse ed esiti di un processo di integrazione, 73–86. Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2002. López Bravo, Fernando. “La urna ibérica de orejetas perforadas.” Complutum 13 (2002): 97–116. Lowe, Benedict. “Between colonies and emporia. Iberian hinterlands and the exhange of salted fish in eastern Spain.” In Hellenistic Economies, ed. Zofia Archibald, John Davies and Graham Oliver, 175–200. London: Routledge, 2001. Malkin, Irad. A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Martin Ortega, María Aurora. Excavacions arquelógiques a l’Illa d’en Reixac (1987-1992). Girona: Monografies d’Ullastret 1, 1999.

68  Raymond Capra Martin Ortega, María Aurora, Ferran Codina Falgas, Rosa Plana Mallart and Gabriel de Prado. “Le site ibérique d’Ullastret (Baix Empordà, Catalogne) et son rapport avec le monde colonial méditerranéen.” In Grecs et Indigènes de la Catalogne à la mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 89–104. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’Archéologie méditerranéenne et Africaine 3, 2010. Moret, Pierre. “Alguns aspects del desenvolupment de l’hàbitat organitzat a l’àrea ibèrica.” Cota Zero 10 (1994): 19–26. Muscolino, Francesco. “Kalathoi iberici da Taormina. Aggiornamento sulla diffusione della ceramica iberica dipinta in Sicilia.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 79 (2006): 217–224. Oller Guzmán, Marta. “Griegos e indígenas en Empórion (siglos VI-IV a.C.): un estado de la cuestión.” In Contacto de poblaciones y extranjería en el mundo griego antiguo, ed. Rosa-Araceli Santiago Álvarez and Marta Oller Guzmán, 187–202. Barcelona: Universitat Autònoma, 2013. Plana Mallart, Rosa. La Chora d’Emporion. Paysage et structures agraires dans le nord-est Catalan à la période pré-romaine. Besançon: Université de Franche-Comté, 1994. Plana Mallart, Rosa. “La présence grecque et ses effets dans le Nord-Est de la péninsule Ibérique (VII e  début du IV ͤ siècle av. n. è.).” Pallas 89 (2012): 157–178. Plana-Mallart, Rosa. “Emporion and the North-Eastern Coast of the Iberian Peninsula.” In The Emporion in the Ancient Western Mediterranean. Trade and Colonial Encounters from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period, ed. Éric Gailledrat, Michael Dietler and Rosa Plana-Mallart, 103–114. Montpellier: Presses Universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2018. Pons i Brun, Enriqueta. “L’expansió septentrional del món ibèric: el jaciment de Mas Castellar-Pontós (Alt Empordà).” Laietania 8 (1993): 105–128. Puig i Cadalfach, Josep. “El forn ibèric de Fontscaldes.” Anuari de l’Institut d’Estudis Catalans 1915-1920 6 (1920): 602–605. Quesada Sanz, Fernando. “From quality to quantity: Wealth, status and prestige in the Iberian Iron Age.” In The Archaeology of Value, ed. Douglass Bailey and Steve Mills, 70–96. Oxford: BAR International Series 780, 2012. Rodríguez Villalba, Alicia. La ceràmica de la costa catalana a Ullastret. Ullastret: Museu d’Arqueología de Catalunya, 2003. Rouillard, Pierre. Les Grecs et la peninsula ibérique de VIIIe au IVe siècle avant JésusChrist. Paris, Publications de Centre Pierre Paris, 1991. Rouillard, Pierre. “Modalités et lieux d’échanges dans la péninsule ibérique aux époques archaïque et classique (VIIe-IVe s. av. J.-C.). Poursuite d’un enquête dans le pays Valencien.” In Pont-Euxin et commerce: la genèse de la "route de la soie, ed. Murielle Faudot, Arlette Fraysse and Évelyne Geny, 37–43. Besançon: Institut des Sciences et Techniques de l’Antiquité, 2002. Rouillard, Pierre. “La ceramica griega en la necropolis de Cabezo de Lucero.” In Guardamar del Segura. Arqueología y museo, 114–121. Alicante: Fundación MARQ, 2010. Ruiz de Arbulo, Joaquín. “Emporion y Rhode. Dos asentamientos portuarios en el Golfo de Roses.” Arqueología Espacial 4 (1984): 115–40. Ruiz de Arbulo, Joaquín. “Rutas marítimas y colonizaciones en la Península Ibérica. Una aproximación náutica a algunos Problemas.” Italica. Cuadernos de Trabajos de la Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueologia de Roma 18 (1990): 79–115. Ruiz de Arbulo, Joaquín. “Emporion. Ciudad y territorio (s. VI–I a.C.). Algunas reflexiones pre-liminares.” Revista d’Arqueologia de Ponent 2 (1992): 59–74. Sanmartí, Joan. “Colonial relations and social change in Iberia.” In Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia, ed. Michael Dietler and Carolina López-Ruiz, 49–88. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009.

The merchants of Emporion 69 Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Les influences méditerranéennes au Nord-Est de la Catalogne àl’époque archaïque et la réponse indigene.” Parola del Passato 37 (1982): 281–303. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Emporion, port grec a vocation ibérique.” In La Magna Grecia e il lontano Occidente. Atti del ventinovesimo convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia. Taranto, 6-11 ottobre 1989, 389–410. Taranto: Istituto per la Storia e l’Archeologia della Magna Grecia, 1990. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Massalia et Emporion: une origine commune, deux destins différent.” In Marseille Grecque et la Gaule, Actes du Colloque international d’Histoire et d’Archéologie et du Ve Congrès archéologique de Gaule méridionale (Marseille, 18–23 novembre 1990), ed. Michel Bats, Guy Bertucchi, Gaëtan Congès and Henri Tréziny, 27–41. Lattes/Aix-en-Provence: Études massaliètes 3, 1992a. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Nuevos datos sobre Emporion.” In Griegos en Occidente, ed. Francisca Chaves Tristán, 173–184. Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1992b. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Els Íbers a Emporion (segles VI-III A.C.).” Laietania 8 (1993): 87–101. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric. “Recent discoveries at the harbour of the Greek City of Emporion (L’Escala, Catalonia, Spain) and in its surrounding area (quarries and iron workshops).” In Social Complexity and the Development of Towns in Iberia. From the Copper Age to the Second Century A.D., ed. Barry Cunliffe and Simon Keay, 157–174. Oxford: Proceedings of the British Academy 86, 1995. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric and Rosa Santiago Álvarez. “Une lettre grecque sur plomb trouvée à Emporion (Fouilles 1985).” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 68 (1987): 119–127. Sanmartí-Grego, Enric, Josep Barberà i Farràs, Felip Costa and Pere García. 1982. “Les troballes funeràries d´época ibèrica arcaica de la Granja Soley (Santa Perpètua de Mogoda, Vallès Occidental, Barcelona).” Ampurias 44 (1982): 71–103. Sanmartí, Joan. “Les importacions d’àmfores i ceràmiques communes del poblat ibèric del Molí d’Espígol (Tornabous, Urgell).” Crónica del XIX Congreso Arqueológico Nacional 2, 1989, 341–352. Sanmartí, Joan and Joan Santacana. Els Ibers del Nord. Barcelona: Delmau, 2005. Santiago Álvarez, Rosa Araceli. “La inseguridad en el tráfico commercial: politicas públicas para asegura y fomenter el comercio exterior. Templos y comercio.” Faventia extra 2, 2013, 233–266.

4

Some experiential observations on trading, farming and sharing of place in 6th to 2nd century BC Emporion Jens A. Krasilnikoff

Introduction The political systems of egalitarian citizen-states of the Classical period have received much attention since 19th century scholars made Athens the benchmark of scholarly treatments of Ancient Greece. We have been accustomed to ponder the societal order of the Eastern Greeks in the Archaic through the Classical periods as controlled by collective and exclusive civic authority mainly exercised through political and socio-religious institutions, and the Classical citizen-male is continuously cast as the farmer, militia amateur and political being devoted to safeguarding the polis territory and its civic ideology.1 Moreover, members of the civic collectives – the citizens – executed authority over oikoi comprising of family members and slaves; and with free foreigners – metoikoi – on the side.2 What is more, the acker-bürger – a tenet of Max Weber – still influences our perception of the proper roles for farmer-citizens within the ancient economy, and Moses Finley’s notion of the consumer-city continues to infatuate us (Weber 1991; Finley 1985: 138–139). Some modern studies of Greek (ethnic) identity insist on the importance of the alleged Eurocentric approach of the Greeks to barbarians (Edward Said’s ‘Orientalism’) or celebrate the emergence of multi-ethnic societies throughout Greek, Hellenistic and Roman periods. The main features of this rather square outline are clearly in conflict with the discussions, which followed the publication of the important edited volume of Bresson and Rouillard on the meaning of emporia 30 years ago.3 The communio opinis among scholars seems to be that the founding of Emporion commenced in the early 6th century BC and no later than the 5th century, it transformed into a polis.4 The results of older as well as recent scholarship, however, challenge the idea that Emporion became a ‘normal’ polis compared to most poleis of the eastern and central Mediterranean. Among the cruxes are how to understand the nature of the co-existence of Greeks and indigenous people allegedly syncretized at some level presumably around the beginning of the 4th century BC into the bipolis of Greeks and ‘barbarians’ cohabiting the urban area of the ‘new city’. In addition, scholars have envisioned the development of an economic symbiosis in the course of the Classical period between the Emporitans and the socalled Indiketans allegedly living both at Emporion proper and in and at the rim DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-5

Some experiential observations 71 of its chora. Scholars disagree, however, on the nature of this symbiosis. Whereas some focused on the symbiosis between trading Emporitans and farming Indiketans, others have focused on the cooperation between Greeks and the Iberians in trade operations whom Strabo of the Roman period named ‘Indiketai’.5 Moreover, the economic geography of Emporion suggests that the Emporitans traded the agricultural produce of the Indiketans of Emporion’s hinterland and imported among other things Attic ceramics for local as well as more distant Iberian ‘consumers’ (Domínguez 2013: 32). Thus, apparently, if these hypotheses were correct, the social and economic implications and importance of Emporion’s chora to the Emporitans would be quite different from that of other known poleis, with the possible exception of Massalia.6 Previously, colleagues have successfully applied analytic perspectives, which include spatial terminology.7 However, recent developments in cultural geography and human orientation offer new perspectives on this complex issue. Especially the introduction of the ‘spatial turn’ has had considerable influence on strategies for cultural analysis of human societies, past and present.8 First, by the deconstruction of the evidence for Emporion’s history in the 6th through the 2nd century BC, this chapter seeks to clarify the implications of the creation of a ‘Greek Iberia’ and in particular Emporion as a polis. Ostensibly, one must deduce that the elevation of Emporion to the status of polis meant that from its very beginning Emporion transformed into a meaningful identity-of-place for inhabitants in need of nourishing a distinct Greek identity. In the language of modern cultural geography and environmental psychology, identity-of-place denotes those political, cultural, religious and social institutions of a community which cause the development of individual and collective place-identities. The obvious challenge is to decide whether this remained a constant element in time and space – in other words, whether it is meaningful to evaluate the character of the Emporion of the West employing defining notions of the contemporary East, especially from Athens. Hence, secondly, in comparison with other (eastern) poleis, we should expect the formation of civic place-identities associated intimately with the civic order to develop amongst the Emporitai. In other words, the issue is whether ‘Greeks’ or people of Greek descent developed distinct Greek identities within the socio-political and economic orders, which evolved at Emporion in the Classical through the Hellenistic periods. Moreover, traits of indigenous Iberian culture such as writing and burial customs suggest that the cohabitation of Greeks and Iberians in a ‘multi-ethnic’ milieu of shared places – nonetheless – did not prevent the development of different place-identities Iberians and Greeks alike. Moreover, the evidence seems to suggest that the Emporitai acted as facilitators and active partners in multifaceted trade operations and at the same time retained control of their asty and chora for economic as well as political and socio-religious purposes. Hence, this chapter asks how the Emporitai and the Indiketai of the Archaic through the Hellenistic period effectively combined the control of two vital economic activities – trade and farming – to form its most important socioeconomic basis and pivotal place-identities of the polis.

72  Jens A. Krasilnikoff Greek identity in the West As already indicated, one pivotal question to address is the implications of the existence of an alternative polis ‘model’ and thus whether we should expect to find an entirely different (Greek) world in the west compared to that of the east. On the one hand, written and material evidence suggests the existence of well-known ‘classical’ political and socio-religious institutions at Metaponto, Herakleia, Syracuse, Gela and other locations.9 On the other hand, in comparison, it is difficult to escape the impression that communities of Phokaian and Massaliote descent, notably Massalia, Emporion, Rhode and probably also the many smaller communities founded or influenced by ‘Iberian’ Greeks settled along the northeast coast organized societies differently in the farthest west.10 Presumably, in hindsight, Strabo (3.4.8) alluded to the unique example of Emporion’s ‘Greeks’ and ‘barbarians’ who: ‘In time’ … ‘united together in the same constitution, mixing some barbarian and some Greek customs, as has happened in many other cases’. In recent decades, multiple studies have expounded how Greeks and Greek societies in context interacted and developed beyond the Greek ‘homeland’ of the Mediterranean east. More recent meeting-of-culture studies have tended to cast Greeks as relativists engaged in coexistence with indigenous populations and sometimes involved in (quasi)urban development and multi-ethnic interaction.11 These studies, however, casting Greeks and ‘Greekness’ in pluralistic societal developments seldom escape the paradoxes of modern cultural relativism, which bypasses the fact that nothing remains untouched by cultural impetus or interaction (Redfield 1988). Besides, we tend to ignore that Eastern Greek literary treatment of Greek engagements with the non-Greeks of the Mediterranean world continued to underpin social constructions ‘at home’ in the Greek East.12 Ethnic identity and its derivate forms remain a widely employed analytic category applied in modern studies of societal and cultural developments in Greek Antiquity. Continuously, critics have scrutinized the ethnic constructs of various indigenous peoples of the ancient Mediterranean world, and scholars have studied developments of Greek ethnicities per se or in contact with non-Greek cultures. Mediterranean geographic subdivisions such as the Aegean have been identified as meaningful entities for the study of traits of an alleged uniform urban culture, and more recently multiple studies seek to embrace ‘Mediterraneanism’ in variously defined types of social, economic and cultural networks.13 Some of the appeals of these approaches are highlighted in other contributions of this volume. Thus, although archaeologists and philologists have long discussed the ethnicities expressed in the material culture and language, back in the late 1990s Jonathan Hall and others revealed some profound weaknesses and flaws of previous studies. Hall maintained ethnicity as a mental construction intended for the sake of bolstering group identities vis-à-vis opposing societies of ‘other’.14 Also, and this is most important in this context, Hall argued convincingly that ethnicity as an analytic category makes sense only when the phenomenon was expounded as notions of common ancestry combined with tempo-spatial belonging to a specific territory and its related history (Hall 1997: 25). Recently, Robin Osborne pondered along

Some experiential observations 73 these lines but against the idea that mutual recognition of ethnic belonging to territories and shared ancestry meant that civic communities actually believed that they shared ethnic identity with neighboring civic communities (Osborne 2012). Ostensibly, the question is whether ethnic identity remains a meaningful analytic category for cultural studies, and if so, how and when can we identify the phenomenon ‘in action’ in the Iberian context, so to speak.15 The solution to this problem lies with how the Emporitans (eventually with the Indiketans) choose to organize Emporion as a polis. I. Emporion as polis and its implications The older assumption that Emporion was ‘founded’ as an emporion – a trade station – before transforming into a polis rests on the etymology of its name and probably also on the fact that Emporion allegedly remained heavily engaged with trade throughout its history. Moreover, although we are almost in the dark as to the circumstances, which initiated the re-casting of Emporion as a polis sometime in the late Archaic age, new studies nonetheless suggest that Emporion was a polis from its very beginning sometime in the 6th century.16 According to the Inventory of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, the Iberian Emporion of the Classical period and onward was a polis and as such one must expect Emporion to have had a more or less clearly defined territory and state boundaries (Hansen 2004: 70–73). These boundaries are, however, difficult to reconstruct and it is by no means clear how these boundaries varied over time. The recent studies by Plana-Mallart, Domínquez, Demetriou and others have pondered Emporion’s territory presumably along the lines of de Polignac, which took to liminal identification based on the sanctuary to Ephesian Artemis supposedly established at Ullastret (Figure 4.1) and the establishment of a line of indigenous oppida, both in concert marking Emporion’s territory (de Polignac 1995; Demetriou 2012: 37–39, 60–61). However, in the context of the Greek presence at Mas Castellar, Andrés Adroher et al. identified building 1 of the excavation as a temple on the basis of a Pentelic marble altar similar to that found at the Temple of Asklepios in the Neapolis in Emporion (Adroher Auroux et al. 1993: 45) (Figure 4.2). Adroher et al. also suggest that the layout of the building is similar to sanctuaries at Gravisca and the North and South Sanctuaries at Morgantina (Adroher Auroux et al. 1993: 46); another group of archaeologists interpreted the content of silo no. 101 as deposits of a chthonic deity, possibly Demeter and Kore (Pons i Brun and Rovira Hortalà 1997: 55–56). Hence, this suggests that the region’s settlement history and economic development toward concentration on cereal cultivation (and flax production on the side) were accompanied by the demarcation of the border zone with sanctuaries and religious activity.17 Demetriou recently pondered the definitions of the Copenhagen Polis Centre and Mogens Herman Hansen’s previous study to discuss Emporion’s ‘constitutional’ status and development from the Archaic to the Roman periods (Hansen 2006; Demetriou 2012: 33–4). However, the Polis Centre’s fundamental definition of a polis in its Inventory from 2004 suggests that 5th century Emporion qualified

74  Jens A. Krasilnikoff

Figure 4.1  Possible Temple of Artemis (Temple A), Ullastret (photo: Benedict Lowe).

Figure 4.2  Building 1, Mas Castellar de Pontós (photo: Benedict Lowe).

Some experiential observations 75 as a polis, thus having walls, hinterland, coinage and a civic government. Demetriou developed Hansen’s conclusions about Emporion to suggest that ‘distinctions between agrarian and commercial colonies are artificial’. She furthermore suggests that Emporion was ‘a self-governing polis whose main function was to facilitate cross-cultural trade, in accordance with Hansen’s definition of emporia, as well as Emporion’ extensive relations with its hinterland, so as to demonstrate that the distinction between colonies with or without hinterland is no longer helpful’ (Hansen 2004: 39–46; Demetriou 2012: 33). Domínguez has recently repeated the older position that Emporion began as a trade station and developed into a polis when the local indigenous population (the future indiketans) somehow accepted the Greek newcomers and condoned of their ambitions for initiating the socio-political development toward the formation of a polis (Domínguez 2013). The fundamental fact that Greeks were intimately connected with their landscapes – chora and polis-territory – and with the histories and mythologies of how territory was lost or won runs through most literary evidence from the Archaic through the Hellenistic periods. Presumably, the Emporitans defined their ethnic identity as the product of both the ‘exodus’ from Phokaia and the process that eventually gave birth to the sovereign citizen-state of the Emporitans. Likewise, we should expect the indigenous people – the Indiketans – of Emporion and its hinterland to develop parallel and possibly even partially overlapping mythologies of how they became part or gained access to rule the bipolis of Emporion. This (slightly altered) observation inspired by Jonathan Hall’s definition of ethnic identity and its components concerning the intimate relationship between identityformation and a community’s adherence to a specific ‘territory’ calls for a short survey of the history of Emporion’s territory. Alternatively, the possibility exists that the Greeks somehow managed to uphold exclusive control of Emporion’s political and economic vitalities, visualized and ‘translated’ into the Emporitai as stated on the coins of the 5th to 2nd century BC. In this perspective, one would expect the Emporitans to supervise old and new religious and socio-political institutions of the polis (cults, political institutions, social networks, etc.). By constant supervision of religious, social and political activities, they partially prevented foreign or perhaps more correctly unauthorized intrusion.18 Thus, as multiple examples demonstrate, the power of the demos rested on its ability to ‘police’ the socio-political and religious institutions or places of the polis. Concurrently, in this manner the civic community administered its own most important ideological framework for building of individual and collective identities. In the language of cultural geography, these institutions constituted the key elements or places from which the citizen collective created its most important identities. Thus, adherence to sanctuaries and active participation in the political institutions with their specific status of identity-of-place gave impetus for the creation of individual and collective civic place-identities.19 Undoubtedly, no later than the 5th century, the demos of Emporion named itself Emporitai on coinage, and this obviously more than implies the existence of a civic government and collective capable of making decisions.20 Ostensibly, to be reckoned among the Emporitans, some kind of qualification was needed, which may have included descent from a

76  Jens A. Krasilnikoff line of Emporitans or landholding in Emporion’s chora. These features are, however, unknown about the Emporitans. We can take this further, still. Clearly, Greeks ‘at home’ in the east were most observant of the tension between eusebeia and asebeia, that is, between piety and ungodliness in matters of religion.21 Moreover, this had a direct impact on negotiations of borders, boundaries and interference from neighbors as in the famed case of the controversy over the Hiera Orgas between Athens and Megara immediately before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war (Thucydides 1.139.1–2; Rhodes and Osborne 2003: 272–281). Thus, one would expect Greeks to be most observant of maintaining mental and physical boundaries – especially those impinging on religious matters – as a means of protection against ‘foreign’ intrusion. The 4th century Athenian examples of trials against unauthorized religious activity – the cases against Socrates and the so-called priestesses being the most prominent examples – illustrated how the Athenian polis carefully safeguarded their monopoly of authorization of new cult (Parker 1996; Krasilnikoff 2015). The evidence for religious activity at Emporion is somewhat heterogenic but some features appear to have been quite similar to other Greek citizen-states. First, one should expect the inhabitants of Emporion to be equally observant of safeguarding the physical boundaries of its polis. Following the tenet of Hall (and before him, Barth), the Emporitans would need a chora – and more precisely control of its history – in order to be able to formulate a distinct ethnic identity. Moreover, the chora itself constituted a central element in the identity-of-place and placeidentity dichotomy. This also served the important purpose for the Emporitans of constructing an exclusive identity by adherence to the chora, which enabled them to claim their origin from Phokaia – and not Massalia – as recently suggested by Domínguez (2013). This construction is important because it allows the ‘new’ polis of Emporion to become free from demands and claims, which compromised its independency from Massalia. Moreover, and this is of course mere speculation, the same logic allowed for the indigenous people of Emporion’s environs to share an equal claim to Emporion’s political synoikismos and future – because they and the Greek newcomers defined, shared and safeguarded a common history of Emporion’s chora. At the end of the day, based on previous contemplations, we are thus able to accept that the chora controlled by the Emporitans and with the Indiketans from the early 4th century agrees with approaches to territoriality in other parts of the Greek world – further to the east. II. Emporion as entrepot and as a farming polis Trade and agriculture in the West

The geography of ‘Greek Iberia’ consisted of a number of poleis and several smaller settlements and emporia – trade stations – stretching from Massalia in the east, along the eastern coastline of the Iberian Peninsula to its southernmost coastline (Domínguez 2004: 158, 161). Recently, Rouillard introduced the useful category of the ‘Hispanic emporia’ suggesting that trade stations of Greek and/or

Some experiential observations 77 Phoenician origin and influence remained important and remarkably uniform in their outline and function throughout the later Iron Age. Commercial interaction with indigenous communities remained the primary function of these locations, which never held substantial numbers of Greeks.22 The only Greek settlement to develop beyond these basic characteristics of the ‘Hispanic emporia’ was Emporion, undoubtedly a polis from the 6th century onward – and ‘…the strata…’ of Rhode in the Hellenistic period.23 As for the nature of the trade activities of the region, most scholars continue to see the Hispanic emporia as involved with either Massalia or Emporion in the so-called ‘Phokaian trade network’ (Domínguez 2004: 157–171; Demetriou 2012: 28–30). Ostensibly, the name of the network alludes to its Phokaian and/or Massaliote origin in the Archaic period, but the material evidence of the Classical and Hellenistic periods clearly points to the fact that the extent of the trade network went beyond the ‘Phokaian’ region of the western Mediterranean (Rouillard 2009:144– 145). The idea that the network reflected a state of ‘diaspora’ (in the Archaic age?) is probably quite impressionistic (Demetriou 2012: 24), whereas ideas of combined trade activities of local, regional and international character also run through many recent studies.24 Iberian resources and Emporion

Development of trade routes at and around Iberia would have involved key commodities of the peninsula itself as well as goods from outside intended for the local market, the Iberian recipients in the region or goods in transit for other destinations. The main attractions of the urbanized locations of the eastern Iberian coast were undoubtedly their capacity for delivering agricultural produce, forest products and manpower.25 Some experts in Emporion’s material culture agree that cereals, vines and olive production took place in its chora whereas others downplay its role, suggesting that control of Emporion’s hinterland was of little importance to its trading activities. Moreover, Buxó (2009) argued that the introduction of olive and wine production during late Archaic and Classical periods primarily saw interest from the region’s elite (Buxó 2009; Demetriou 2012: 31–44) and thus probably did not make up a larger element in the ‘Phokaian’ trade network in quantitative terms. However, some studies have considered the possibility that farming by ‘Greeks’ played a role (or might even have constituted an important element) in the Iberian-Greek economy of the region.26 To other scholars, the agricultural element of Emporion’s economy depended on collaboration with indigenous and local Iberians – Indiketans – in charge of farming and other forms of ‘primary’ production (Domínguez 2013; Plana-Mallart 1994). Clearly, we must assume that most of its agricultural produce found its way to the populations of Emporion for local consumption. Moreover, this allocation of roles – trading citizenry and farming ‘natives’ – is potentially in defiance of the dominant principle known from most other poleis farther to the east. Here, landownership and practical farming were confined to and defined the citizenry as the political elite of the polis. It is difficult to find comparative examples

78  Jens A. Krasilnikoff remotely resembling the socio-economic order suggested by modern scholars for Emporion. Even in Classical Corinth and some of the Euboean poleis, so heavily engaged with overseas trading, local farming remained an important part of local economies and ideological framework.27 Indeed, the close relationship between agriculture and religion runs through most modern discussions on societal prospects and identity formation (Isager and Skydsgaard 1992: 160–198). Surely, in other poleis, some allocation of economic roles took place to specific socio-economic classes such as the Spartan system of helotage and the perioikoi (not exclusively allocated at the rim of Laconia or Messenia). Held against the extant fragments of Emporion’s socio-economic order, these examples make, however, no sense as comparative examples of integrated socio-economic relationships between a Greek polis-collective and its indigenous counterpart. Timber, fuel and Iberian manpower

Throughout antiquity, the heavy demand for timber and fuel placed heavy strains on the woodlands of the Mediterranean region (Horden and Purcell 2000: 118, 337–338). Woodland products formed an important commodity throughout Mediterranean history, and presumably timber and pitch were important commodities for the Phokaian trade network in antiquity – as it had been for the previous Phoenician trade (Meiggs 1982: 470 and now Treumann 2009). Seaborne trade networks depended on access to timber for construction and maintenance of ships and harborfacilities, and additional wood products in order to keep the trade fleet operational. Clearly, for the Emporitans, access to timber, pitch and cordage must have been vital to their command of maritime technology, building and maintenance of ships, and thus vital to the economy of the community. It seems as if ‘Phokaian’ traders had no second thoughts about intruding into established predominantly Phoenician networks (Plana-Mallart 2012). Demographic developments from the 6th to the 3rd century are difficult to contemplate and only very general assessments are possible. Greeks of Phokaian descent remained few in number, only making themselves distinct at Emporion and Rhode. This raises the fundamental question of how all of what the Greeks brought to Iberia of societal innovation could develop without engaging local populations. Clearly, the manpower needed for operating trade fleets (and perhaps even more so with navies) is both a quantitative and a qualitative demand. In his book on maritime traders, Reed examined the predominantly 4th century Athenian evidence and from this he cast Greek traders as ‘mainly poor and foreign’, whereas Rouillard (2009) reviewing evidence from shipwrecks of the western Mediterranean points to the complexities of nautical interaction including ‘…the origins of sailors: Phoenicians, Greeks, Etruscans, or Carthaginians’.28 From an early date, the heterogenic evidence, the two lead inscriptions from Emporion and the one from Pech-Maho present glimpses of the ‘cross-cultural trade’, which took place with Emporion as its focal point. This and additional material and literary evidence make it clear that Iberians and/or indiketans of Emporion took an active part in sailing as well as in trading – alongside Greek-speaking counterparts and with Etruscans and

Some experiential observations 79 Phoenicians involved as well (Demetriou 2012: 41–44). This suggests that the relative success of the Greeks at Emporion rested intimately on the Indiketans willingness to develop cooperative enterprises and exchange of knowledge, and to place that pallet of services, infrastructure and knowledge at the disposal of external partners. In some periods, recruiting officers from Sicily, Magna Graecia and later on Rome traveled the grounds of the western Mediterranean region including the Iberian Peninsula and the Balearic islands in order to hire the coveted Iberian and Celtiberian mercenaries and Balearic slingers (Krasilnikoff 1996). Clearly, in the minds of Greek states in Sicily, Iberia constituted a rich ground for the recruitment of mercenaries capable of fighting in skirmish types of warfare as light-armed troops.29 Hence, it is an attractive idea to ponder the Greek and Phokaian trade network as a convenient and perhaps even necessary precondition for recruitments of indigenous Iberians for mercenary service in Sicily and other parts of the central Mediterranean region and equally so for Greek recruitments in Gaul in the postClassical periods (Krasilnikoff 1996). Studies in recent decades of the ‘rationale’ of mercenary recruitment and employment suggest that apart from its obvious military objective, admission to ‘markets’ or recruitment grounds formed important elements of international diplomacy (Trundle 2004: 163–164). Mercenaries were recruited through alliances and international contact, and we know that ‘Iberian’ mercenaries were employed by Sicilian tyrants in the 5th through the 3rd century BC. Moreover, the heavy expansion of Dionysius’ early 4th century military capacity to counter the threat from the Phoenicians of western Sicily also involved the recruitment of smiths and others capable of producing and maintaining ‘barbarian’ weaponry (Krasilnikoff 1995: 176). Although more work has to be done, for example, to determine the presence of material evidence for Iberian mercenaries in Sicily, and the possibility to determine their Iberian origin in more detail, it is a distinct possibility that human resources formed an important part of the ‘commodities’ facilitated by Emporion as port-of-trade or entrepot.30 The ‘Emporion-type’ of settlement as entrepot At the end of the day, the challenge continues to exist explaining what took place at Emporion during the Classical period. Many of the presentations in this book demonstrate various degrees of direct and indirect Greek influence and Iberian reactions to this on the coastline of the Gulf of Rosas, and to some degree in the hinterland as well. One pivotal question remains, however, what the implications of these influences are for our understanding of the nature of Greek presence, encounters and exchange with the indigenous inhabitants of the region and at Emporion in particular – and vice versa. First, it appears that a hallmark of the various peoples – indigenous and newcomers – in the 6th through the 2nd century Iberia was their receptiveness toward other cultures. This does not imply, however, that we shall understand Greek trade in Iberia as the result of a conscious and superior force in play. For instance, at one end of the spectrum, scholars have argued against the traditional opinion that Greek culture (and its physical expression such as Athenian

80  Jens A. Krasilnikoff pottery) was actively used by Greeks to advance and create demands for Greek culture and in particular luxury commodities. Rather, as Robin Osborne recently argued for with examples from the Italian peninsula, demand for Athenian ceramics arose beforehand by knowledge of Greek culture.31 Presumably, Osborne’s argument has validity for early Iron Age Iberia as well and agrees well with Cabrera Bonet (1998) to suggest that Greek colonists or traders did not impose Greek material culture upon the indigenous populations in the first place. Returning to the notions of cultural geography, one way of advancing the discussion of the nature of Emporion in the Classical through the Hellenistic period is to rethink its status neither as an emporion – as a trade station without a hinterland – nor as an apoikia, a ‘colony’. This somewhat older and artificial ‘quarrel’ (who did what to whom and when?) is difficult to solve and a more rewarding perspective would be to focus on multicultural exchange and facilitation concentrated in the entrepot of Emporion.32 ‘Entrepot’ as an economic phenomenon is most often associated with early modern mercantile long-distance seaborne trade, being essentially a port, city or trading post where goods are concentrated, traded and subsequently exported. This seems to fit rather well with the nature of Emporion’s trade activities. Developing the ideas of Horden and Purcell in 2000 and recently repeated by Demetriou in 2012, it seems plausible that Emporion evolved along two lines of development, one involving control and exchange with its hinterland and the other strand heavily engaged with overseas trading and exchange, where the entrepot – element of Emporion – played a central role.33 In the language of cultural geography, the development of Emporion’s dual ‘Greek’ perspective, involving one economic space, dominated by contact with local indigenous communities primarily engaged with agriculture, and contacts with Greek and Iberian communities farther away, presumably capable of supplying other commodities distributed by the Emporitans. The other spatial entity or commercial and cultural space, in which the Emporitans engaged, was the Phokaian trade network, and the latter became effective from the very beginning of Emporion’s existence as an entrepot focused on economic and cultural exchange between the locale, its region and trans-Mediterranean entrepreneurs. Concluding remarks: Emporion as polis and as shared place As one ventures into the heterogenic evidence for the history of the western Greeks and their counterparts on the Iberian Peninsula, new questions tend to emerge. Apart from Massalia and Rhode, Emporion remained the only polis on the long coastline stretching from Southern France to Andalusia. Most other settlements, trade stations or fortified strongholds remained small in size and inhabitants. Overall, the number of ‘Greeks’ on the Iberian coastline was never great, and the 1st generation Emporitans must have been small in numbers. Not until the positive demographic development, which was a direct consequence of the synoikismos of ‘Emporitans’ and ‘Indiketans’ in the course of the 5th and 4th centuries did Emporion reach ‘a critical mass’ for sustainable development as a polis. Hence, one mutual explanation exists of why the Greeks of Phokaian descent chose to

Some experiential observations 81 join in with the local Iberian society to form a regular polis with coinage, laws (we must assume), farming citizens (to some degree), development of an exclusive civic community, patron deity, etc. The Greeks would need a hinterland to support the construction of the key elements of a polis ideology, whereas the indiketans would gain access to the attractions of urban life as well as to the benefits from its economic status as entrepot. Size matters! Returning to Strabo’s short narrative on the development of the cohabitation of Emporitans and Indiketans, it becomes apparent that the legal element of Greek polis-culture played a central role. Here, Strabo (3.4.8) explicated how Greek and Iberian nomoi merged to form a common politeuma – ‘constitution’– capable of ordering relations between the two cultural and ethnic elements of the bipolis. The mutual benefit of joining in a civic collective, administering law, sanctuaries and protecting a chora would be quite necessary for engagements with the ‘international’ entrepreneurs of the Mediterranean to the east and south. Obviously, given the nature of the evidence, we cannot know whether all the elements of this outline are correct, but it might explain why both Emporitai and Indiketai constantly worked throughout more than four centuries to create and adjust their special version of what contemporary Greeks – neighbors and trade partners – would have recognized as a polis. Notes 1 This perception runs through most modern research: Hanson 1999 argues for the explicit connection between ‘farming and fighting’. See the introduction and the many divergent contributions in Kagan and Viggiano 2013 for a recent but inconclusive discussion on the nature and chronology of hoplite warfare in the Archaic through the Classical period. Civic ideology and its communication between ‘elite’ and ‘mass’ is expounded by Josiah Ober 1989 as an attractive explanation of the durability of Athenian democracy in the Classical period. See now Steinbock 2013. 2 Nevett 2010 and Krasilnikoff 2019 for the various definitions of ‘oikos’ and ‘family’ and Gallant 1991 especially on the demographic development of the oikos. 3 Bresson and Rouillard 1993. The impact of this first comprehensive treatment is admirably presented in the introduction of Gailledrat et al. 2018: 11–16, followed by apt discussions in the same volume especially by Rouillard 2018; Demetriou 2018; Dietler 2018 and Plana-Mallart 2018. See Bresson 2016: 306–338 on emporia and markets. 4 Recently summarized in Demetriou 2012: 28–63, and Domínguez 2013, passim for different positions regarding Emporions’ ‘constitutional’ development and its implications for identity formation. 5 Strabo 3.4.8. Demetriou 2012: 28, 49 focuses on the trade encounters between Greeks and Iberians whom the late source Strabo names Indiketai, and Plana-Mallart 1994 and Domínguez 2013: 28–29, 32 focus on the symbiosis between trading emporitai and farming Indiketai. Rouillard 2009 rejects Emporitan involvement in agriculture. 6 The latter must be the implication of Domínguez 2013: 33. 7 See, for example, Morgan 2003: 45–106. 8 See Krasilnikoff 2015: 198–199 and Kristensen and Krasilnikoff 2017: 49–51 for elaborated outlines of the analytic perspective. Tuan 1977 and Ingold 2009 and see also Massey’s 2005 apt insistence on maintaining a distinction between space and place in order to clarify relationships of power between individuals and social groups. Ingold 1993 for his temporality–notion. Cresswell 2004. Proshansky 1978 and Proshansky et al. 1983 on place-identity.

82  Jens A. Krasilnikoff 9 Jones 1987 remains fundamental but ignores Massalia and the ‘Iberian’ Greek settlements. See now Domínguez 2004: 157–171. 10 The notion ‘Iberia’ is problematic. For changes of meaning and outline in the course of time, see Domínguez 2004: 158, 161. 11 The research output is massive – for in-depth treatment of previous research in the field, see introductions in Morgan 2003: 1–15; Hinge and Jens Krasilnikoff 2009: 9–17; Demetriou 2012: 1-23; and Osborne 2012. 12 For the pitfalls of eurocentrism and cultural relativism in modern studies of Greek and Roman ethnography, see Redfield 1988. However, Redfield’s treatment of ‘Herodotus as tourist’ has had little impact on recent treatment of ancient ethnography; see Woolf 2011 and Vlassopoulos 2013. 13 Braudel 1966 remains fundamental but see now Horden and Purcell 2000 for critical remarks. See now the various contributions in Harris 2005 on the many questions of Mediterranean studies. See further Morris 2003; Malkin 2003; Foxhall 2003, Vlassopoulos 2007a; and Demetriou 2012, esp. 1–23. As for regional studies, the ‘Insularityapproach’ advocated by Constantakopoulou 2007 and others is promising. The problems of the study of ethnic identity undoubtedly raises from the fact that different scholarly traditions – notably those of Classical archaeology and ancient history – often clash in questions regarding the validity of the sources for the study of identity. The recent book by Jonathan Hall 2014 elucidates some of these cruxes but takes little interest in the potential of recent advances in cultural history. 14 Hall 1997: 24 subscribed extensively to the works of Frederik Barth 1969 on the ‘boundaries between ethnic groups’. 15 Reservations against ‘ethnicity’ as an operational analytic category are legion; see, for example, Morpurgo Davies 1987 on linguistics, Hall 1997, passim, and idem 2004. Anson 2009. Luraghi 2010 re-introduced the idea that language can denote ethnic boundaries. 16 Demetriou 2012: 33 on Emporion as polis from its founding. 17 For the complexity of the region’s development from the late Archaic to the Hellenistic period, see Lowe 2009: 40–42. 18 Parker 1996: 162–163, 214–217. For the integration of Parker’s observations on authorization in the perspective of cultural geography, see Krasilnikoff, forthcoming. 19 The theoretical and methodological framework for the study of commemoration in a social context has vastly increased since the mid-20th century. The works of Maurice Halbwachs 1980, Benedict Anderson 2006, Jan Assman 1995, 2006, and Paul Connerton 1989 remain central. On the mentalité of public (democratic) discourses, rhetoric and communication in Classical Athens, see Ober 1989 and now Steinbock 2013. 20 On Archaic Emporitan coinage, see now Ripollès and Chevillon, 2013. 21 Bruit Zaidman 2002 remains fundamental; see Mikalson 1983 for the phenomenon in the context of what he calls ‘popular religion’. 22 Rouillard 2009: 144–145. On Phoenician societal development in the region, see Quinn and Vella, 2014. 23 Rouillard 2009: 134. Domínguez 2004: 161 continues to view Emporion as the only polis on the Iberian coast. 24 Raymond Capra in this volume subscribes to Malkin’s (2003) idea of a large Greek trade network. See also Foxhall 2003 and Vlassopoulos 2007a and 2007b. 25 Buxó Capdevilla 2009 on the region’s agricultural products and Treumann 2009 on timber. Lowe 2009: 40–42 adds the importance of flax and metals. 26 Notably Plana-Mallart 1994 and 2012. 27 Pettegrew 2016: 30 on Corinth and Walker 2004: 6–7, 12–14 on Euboean Eretria. 28 Reed 2003: 70 with notes 50–55 discusses briefly the late Archaic developments at Massalia and the western Mediterranean but pays little attention to the complexities of Iberia and Emporion, Rouillard 2009: 139.

Some experiential observations 83 29 Cf. Pritchett 1991; Krasilnikoff 1995: 176–178 on recruitment of Iberian and other ‘barbarian’ mercenaries in Syracuse and the rest of Sicily; Trundle 2004 on Greek mercenaries obviously has little to say on mercenaries of non-Greek origin. 30 Tagliamonte 1994 has a few remarks, but see now Graells i Fabregat 2014 on the archaeological evidence for Iberian mercenaries. 31 Osborne 2007 on Greek engagements with communities on the Italian peninsula; idem 2008 on Olbia at the Black Sea. 32 Osborne and Wallace-Hadrill 2013 mentions ‘entrepot’ but gives little information on how to understand this notion in a Greek and/or Roman context. 33 Horden and Purcell 2000: 395–400 ponders quite a few Mediterranean harbors along these lines.

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Some experiential observations 85 Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell. The Corrupting Sea. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000. Ingold, Tim. “The temporality of the landscape.” World Archaeology 25 no. 2 (1993): 152–174. Ingold, Tim. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London: Routledge, 2000. Ingold, Tim. “Against space: Place, movement, knowledge.” In Boundless Worlds: An Anthropological Approach to Movement, ed. Peter Wynn Kirby, 29–44. New York: Berghahn Books, 2009. Isager, Signe and Jens Erik Skydsgaard. Ancient Greek Agriculture: An Introduction. London: Routledge, 1992. Jones, Nicholas. Public Organization in Ancient Greece: A Documentary Study. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1987. Kagan, Donald and Gregory Viggiano. “Introduction.” In Men of Bronze: Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece, ed. Kagan, Donald and Gregory Viggiano, xi–xxi. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. Krasilnikoff, Jens. Forthcoming. “The Ancient City as Shared Place: Some reflections on Religion and Authority in the Eastern Mediterranean of the Late Classical through the Hellenistic Period.” Krasilnikoff, Jens. “The power base of Sicilian tyrants.” Acta Hyperborea 6, Ancient Sicily (1995): 171–184. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Mercenary soldiering in the West and the development of the army of Rome.” Analecta Romana Instituti Danici 23 (1996): 7–20. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Alexandria as Place: Tempo-spatial traits of royal ideology in early Ptolemaic Egypt.” In Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot, ed. George Hinge and Jens Krasilnikoff, 21–41. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2009. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Tradition and innovation in Classical Athens: The case of the Athenian Acropolis as place and history.” In Tradition: Transmission of Culture in the Ancient World, ed. Jane Fejfer, Mette Moltesen and Annette Rathje, 195–212. Copenhagen: Acta Hyperborea 14, 2015. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “The farming Oikos as place – Reflections on economy, social interaction and gender in Classical Attica.” In Family Lives: Aspects of Life and Death in Ancient Families, ed. Kristine Bøggild Johannsen and Jane Hjarl Petersen, 15–35. Copenhagen: Acta Hyperborea 15, 2019. Kristensen, Karen Rørby and Jens Krasilnikoff. “Dress, code, and identity-of-place in Greek religion. Cases from Classical and Hellenistic Athens.” In Textiles and Cult in the Mediterranean Area in the First Millennium BC, ed. Cecilie Brøns and Marie Louise Nosch, 49–57. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2017. Lowe, Benedict. Roman Iberia. Economy, Society, Culture. London: Bloomsbury, 2009. Luraghi, Nino. “The local scripts from nature to culture.” Classical Antiquity 29 no. 1 (2010): 68–91. Malkin, Irad. “Networks and the emergence of Greek identity.” Mediterranean Historical Review 18 no. 2 (2003): 56–74. Massey, Doreen. For Space. London: Sage Publications, 2005. Meiggs, Russell. Trees and Timber in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1982. Mikalson, Jon. Athenian Popular Religion. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983. Morgan, Catherine. Early Greek States Beyond the Polis. London: Routledge, 2003. Morpurgo Davies, Anna. “The Greek notion of dialect.” Verbum 1 (1987): 7–28.

86  Jens A. Krasilnikoff Morris, Ian. “Mediterraneanization.” Mediterranean Historical Review 18 no. 2 (2003): 30–55. Nevett, Lisa. Domestic Space in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Ober, Josiah. Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens: Rhetoric, Ideology, and the Power of the People. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. Osborne, Robin. “Early Greek colonization? The nature of Greek settlements in the West.” In Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, ed. Nick Fisher and Hans van Wees, 251–270. London: Classical Press of Wales, 1998. Osborne, Robin. “What travelled with Greek pottery?” Mediterranean Historical Review 22 no. 1 (2007) 85–95. Osborne, Robin. “Reciprocal strategies: Imperialism, barbarism and trade in Archaic and Classical Olbia.” In Meetings of Cultures in the Black Sea Region: Between Conflict and Coexistence, ed. Pia Guldager Bilde and Jane Hjarl Petersen, 333–46. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2008. Osborne, Robin. “Landscape, ethnicity, and the polis.” In Landscape, Ethnicity and Identity in the Archaic Mediterranean Area, ed. Gabriele Cifani and Simon Stoddart, 24–31. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2012. Osborne, Robin and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill. “Cities of the Ancient Mediterranean.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cities in World History, ed Peter Clarke, 49–65. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Parker, Robert. Athenian Religion: A History. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. Pettegrew, David. The Isthmus of Corinth: Crossroads of the Mediterranean World. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016. Plana-Mallart, Rosa. La chora d’Emporion. Paysage et structures agraires dans le NordEst catalan à la période pré-romaine. Besançon: Annales Littéraires de Université de Besançon 544, 1994. Plana-Mallart, Rosa. “La présence grecque et ses effets dans la Nord-Est de la péninsule Ibérique (VIIe – début de IVe siècle av. n.è.).” Pallas 89 (2012) 157–178. Plana-Mallart, Rosa. “Emporion and the north-eastern coast of the Iberian Peninsula.” In The Emporion in the Ancient Western Mediterranean: Trade and Colonial Encounters from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period, ed. Éric Gailledrat, Michael Dietler and Rosa Plana-Mallart, 103–114. Montpellier: Presses universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2018. Pons i Brun, Enriqueta and Maria Carme Rovira Hortalà. El dipòsit d’ofrenes de la fossa 101 de Mas Castellar de Pontos un estudi interdisciplinari. (Estudis arqueològics Universitat de Girona, 4). Girona: Universitat de Girona, 1997. Pritchett, William Kendrick. The Greek State at War, Vol. V. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. Proshansky, Harold. “The city and self-identity.” Journal of Environment and Behavior 10 (1978): 147–169. Proshansky, Harold, Abbe Fabian and Robert Kaminoff. “Place-identity: Physical world socialization of the self.” Journal of Environmental Psychology 3 (1983): 57–83. Quinn, Josephine Crawley and Nicholas Vella. The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Redfield, James. “Herodotus the tourist.” Classical Philology 80 no. 2 (1988): 97–118. Reed, Charles. Maritime Traders in the Ancient Greek World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.

Some experiential observations 87 Rhodes, Peter and Robin Osborne. Greek Historical Inscriptions 404–323 BC. Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentaries. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Ripollès, Pere Pau and Jean-Albert Chevillon. “The Archaic coinage of Emporion.” The Numismatic Chronicle 173 (2013): 1–21. Rouillard, Pierre. “Greeks and the Iberian Peninsula: Forms of Exchange and Settlements.” In Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations, ed. Michael Dietler and Carolina Lopez-Ruiz, 131–151. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009. Rouillard, Pierre. “The Emporion: Some uses of the term.” In The Emporion in the Ancient Western Mediterranean: Trade and Colonial Encounters from the Archaic to the Hellenistic Period, ed. Éric Gailledrat, Michael Dietler and Rosa Plana-Mallart, 19–24. Montpellier: Presses universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2018. Rudhardt, Jean. “The Greek attitude to foreign religions.” In Greeks and Barbarians, ed. Thomas Harrison, 172–185. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000. Said. Edward. Orientalism. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978. Steinbock, Bernd. Social Memory in Athenian Public Discourse: Uses and meaning of the Past. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013. Tagliamonte, Gianluca. I figli di marte. Mobilità, Mercenariato italici in Magna Grecia e Sicilia. Rome: G. Bretschneider, 1994. Treumann, Birgitte. “Lumbermen and shipwrights: Phoenicians on the Mediterranean Coast of southern Spain.” In Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations, ed. Michael Dietler and Carolina Lopez-Ruiz, 169–190. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009. Trundle, Matthew. Greek Mercenaries: From the Late Archaic Period to Alexander. London: Routledge, 2004. Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1977. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. “Between East and West: The Greek poleis as part of a worldsystem.” Ancient West and East 6 (2007a): 91–111. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. “Beyond and below the polis: Networks, associations, and the writing of Greek history.” Mediterranean Historical Review 22 no. 1 (2007b): 11–22. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Walker, Keith. Archaic Eretria: A Political and Social History from the Earliest Times to 490 BC. London: Routledge, 2004. Weber, Max. “Die Stadt. Eine Soziologische Untersuchung.” Archiv für Sozilawissenschaft und Sozialpolitik 47 (1920–1921): 621–772, repr. in Wilfried Nippel Max Weber Gesamtausgabe 22.5. Tübingen, 1991. Woolf, Greg. Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011.`

5

Footprints in the sea Strabo’s τρία πολίχνια Μασσαλιωτῶν and the Greeks in the Levant* Benedict Lowe

The geographer Strabo refers to the existence of three very small towns – τρία πολίχνια Μασσαλιωτῶν – established by the Massiliots south of the río Sucro (3.4.6). Strabo only names one of the towns – Hemeroskopeion. Since the sixteenth century, antiquarians and scholars have sought to identify the location of Hemeroskopeion (Martín 1968: 12–24). This chapter reconsiders Strabo’s account in the context of his source material and the character of the Greek presence in the Marina Alta to suggest a reappraisal of Strabo’s description and a possible explanation for the Massiliot town of Hemeroskopeion. According to Strabo, three small Massiliot towns were located along the east coast between the río Sucro and Cartagena (3.4.6). Strabo only names Hemeroskopeion, which he says had a temple of Ephesian Artemis situated on a promontory. Strabo appears to equate this with a base used by Sertorius – χαλειται δε [χαι] Διάνιον, οιον Άρτεμίσιον (3.4.6) – ‘that is also called Dianion or Artemision.’ The site of Dianion was a fortified location visible to approaching ships over a considerable distance (Cic. Ver. 5.146, 154; Sall. Hist. 1.124; Str. 3.4.10). Iron-works were located nearby, as well as two small islands – Planesia and Plumbaria, and a seawater lake 400 stadia in circumference. Strabo goes on to contradict himself by placing Hemeroskopeion in the vicinity of Ilerda and Osca (3.4.10). In addition to Strabo’s account, Hemeroskopeion is referred to in several other sources. The fourth century AD, The Sea Coast by Rufius Festus Avienus also refers to Hemeroskopeion (472–480): Avienus places Hemeroskopeion between Ilerda and the Sicana river and adds that in his own time the site was no longer occupied – nunc iam solum vacuum incolarum languido stagno madet – ‘now the land is empty of inhabitants and is drenched by a sluggish lagoon.’

* I would like to thank the following for their generosity and assistance in writing this chapter: Joaquim Bolufer Marqués of the Museu Arqueològic i Etnogràfic Municipal “Soler Blasco”; Manuel Olcina Doménech of the Museo Arqueologico de Alicante; Maria Amparo González, Museu d’Historia de Calp; María Jesús de Pedro Michó of the Museu de Prehistòria de València; Niels Bargfeldt for creating the map; and Paz Navarro Rubio for letting me see the antiquities in her home and garden.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-6

Footprints in the sea  89 Hemeroskopeion is also mentioned in the Ethnica of the sixth century writer Stephanus of Byzantium. Stephanus adds little except to say that Hemeroskopeion was a city in Iberia and was a colony of the Phocaeans (302.1; Stiche 1856: 203). The discrepancy between Stephanus’ assertion that Hemeroskopeion was a Phocaean city and Strabo’s comment that it was founded by the Massiliots need not cause concern and may stem from the fact that at the time of writing the two were considered synonymous (Pena Gimeno 1993: 64–65; Badie et al. 2000: 249). Since the sixteenth century, scholars and antiquarians have offered a plethora of hypotheses for the location of Hemeroskopeion (Martín 1968: 11–44) (Figure 5.1). The initial consensus has been to locate Hemeroskopeion at Dianium, modern Denia. This connection is based on Strabo’s linking of the two towns – χαλειται δε [χαι] Διάνιον, οιον Άρτεμίσιον (3.4.6). Denia, however, has yielded little evidence of early occupation. The Roman town was situated in the vicinity of the Hort de Morand where the earliest occupation dates to the middle of the Augustan period (Gisbert Santonja 1983: 136). The early settlement seems to have been located on the east slope of the hill upon which the castle now stands (Figure 5.2). Although there is evidence of human occupation going back to the third millennium BC, no structural remains predate the late Republic/Augustan period. In 1984, excavations in the vicinity of the later Islamic fortifications and the Torre del Mig uncovered a piece of Attic red figure pottery dating to the fifth century BC (Gisbert Santonja 2007: 63; Pena Gimeno 1993: 75). In the absence of evidence from Denia, various other locations have been suggested as the site of Hemeroskopeion. Rhys Carpenter suggested Calpe as the location citing the Peñón d’Ifach as an ideal watchtower – rising to a height of 332 m, it is visible as far afield as Santa Pola and Ibiza (Carpenter 1925: 20–22; Martínez y Martínez 1928: 767–768) (Figure 5.3). Excavations on the northern and western slopes of the Peñón have revealed evidence of occupation dating back to the Bronze Age together with constructions dated to the second half of the fifth century BC and imported pottery including a Corinthian Koehler A amphora dating to the fifth or fourth centuries BC (Aranegui Gascó 1973: 52–53; 1986: 53; González Martínez 2009: 44) (Figure 5.4). Several authors have suggested situating Hemeroskopeion at Jávea (Piles 1942: 62–65; Senent Ibañez 1947: 241–243). Frequently cited in this regard is a fragmentary relief of a horseman and soldier. The relief is now lost and known only from photographs making dating and further analysis difficult. First published in 1886 (Chabas 1886: 31), the relief was presented at the meeting of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres on 24 February 1911 when the consensus was that it was Greek dating to the fourth century BC (Albertini 1911: 165–169) although subsequent to Antonio Garcia y Bellido’s monumental Hispania Graeca scholarship has favoured a Roman date (García y Bellido 1948: 129; Martín and Serres 1970: 11–12; Martín 1968: 47–49; 1970: 143). The circumstances of its discovery are unknown, although it has been suggested that it comes from a funerary monument (Figueras Pachero 1945: 8–9) – perhaps having

90  Benedict Lowe

Figure 5.1  Map of sites mentioned in the text.

Footprints in the sea  91

Figure 5.2  Cerro del Castillo, Denia (photo: author).

Figure 5.3  Peñón d’Ifach, Calpe (photo: author).

92  Benedict Lowe

Figure 5.4 Corinthian amphora from the Peñón de Ifach (Calpe) (courtesy of the Museu d’Historia de Calp).

come from the necropolis at Muntanyar or in the vicinity of Duanes (Bolufer Marqués 1992: 152; Arasa 2010, 335). Several other sites have yielded evidence of oriental contact. The earliest contacts are with the Phoenicians via the Phoenician ‘colonies’ at La Fonteta and Cabezo Pequeño del Estaño at the mouth of the río Segura. From the middle of the sixth century, there is a steady increase in the quantity of Greek imports prompted by the foundation of Emporion (modern Empúries) by Phocaeans from Massilia c. 575–550 BC. Particularly striking is the concentration of sites on the slopes of Montgó. A fortified orientalising site was situated at Alt de Benimaquía on the western slope. Dated between 625 and 550 BC, excavations have revealed a strong connection with the Phoenician colonies in Andalucia with evidence of viticulture and both imported and locally produced Vuillemont R1 amphorae (Gómez Bellard et al. 1993a: 20–21; 1993b:382–388; 1994: 14–16). Contemporaneous with L’Alt de Benimaquía is the site of Plana Justa lying on the SE slope of the mountain between 220 and 280 m above sea level. The most numerous imports are amphorae: Vuillemont R1 vessels from Southern Spain, Ebusitanian PE 13 and the rim of a Massiliot Py 3 (Bolufer Marqués and Vives-Ferrándiz Sánchez 2003: 73). Besides amphorae, there are also three sherds of Attic Black Glaze pottery including fragments of a Castulo cup (Bolufer Marqués and Vives-Ferrándiz Sánchez 2003: 81).

Footprints in the sea  93 In the spring of 1891, 16 Greek coins were found at Coll de Pous – the so-called ‘tesoro del Montgó’ (Llidó Vicente 1986: 12; Martín 1968: 49–50; Figueras Pachero 1945: 6–7; Dupré Ollivier and Gisbert Santonja 1991: 55; Castelló Marí and Costa Cholbi 1992: 8; Castelló Marí 2015: 147–148; Aranegui Gascó 2015: 159– 160). The site lies on the western slopes of Montgó extending over an area of 2.5–3 ha and was occupied from the sixth to the third centuries BC. The site has also yielded a range of imported pottery: fragments of Vuillemont R1 amphorae, Campanian A and a fragment of Attic Black Glaze pottery dating to the fourth century BC (Castelló Marí and Costa Cholbi 1992: 10–17). Recently – in 1999 – a hoard of three gold torques and a pendant were discovered nearby at Penya de l’Àguila. The small size of the torques suggests that they may have been worn by girls and given as offerings (Aranegui Gascó 2015: 167–170). The site lies on the western side of Montgó and is defended by three lines of fortifications dating from the third to first or second centuries BC (Schubart et al. 1962: 23–27; Dupré Ollivier and Gisbert Santonja 1991: 59–60; Castelló Mari 2015: 149–151). In 1904, a ceramic vessel containing a hoard of gold and silver jewellery was discovered at La Lluca (Paris 1906: 424–425; Martín 1968: 50–52). The most impressive piece is a gold diadem decorated in fine filigree with diamonds, rosettes and scrolls or volutes similar to the diadem from Aliseda (Cáceres). The jewellery dates to the second half of the fourth century and may have been produced by a Greek or Southern Italian craftsman operating somewhere in the Marina Alta (Aranegui Gascó 2015: 160–164). The difficulties with Strabo’s account have led to a wealth of scholarship with several increasingly ingenious explanations being offered to resolve the problems. Most succinctly María José Pena Gimeno (2002: 23) calls them ‘phantoms’ preferring instead to see Hemeroskopeion merely as a geographical feature with the purported Greek colony being an invention of Artemidorus (Pena Gimeno 1993: 76). Francisco Fernández Nieto has suggested that ‘hemeroskopeion’ does not refer to a settlement or town, but to a watchtower or ‘thynnoskopeion’ used by tunny fishermen (2002: 233–234). Luciano Pérez Vilatela (1991: 39) applies ‘hemeroskopeion’ to the heights of Montgó that was widely visible from the sea and served as a watchtower for the Cilician pirates operating from Denia. Recently Carmen Aranegui has noted the concentration of treasures in the vicinity of Montgó to suggest that the mountain is the promontory described by Strabo with a sanctuary at Penya de l’Aguila (2011–2012: 421–424). Martin Miller has suggested that there is a lacuna in Strabo’s text between προσπλέουσι and καλειται (3.4.6) covering the coast from Calpe to the Mar Menor and that Hemeroskopeion was located on the Cabo de Palos (2011: 58). Strabo’s description offers little tangible information with which to identify the location: a temple of Artemis situated on a promontory, a harbour, a natural stronghold used by pirates, and is visible over considerable distances, with iron mines, two islands and a large salt lagoon in the vicinity. Strabo alludes again to Hemeroskopeion in his discussion of Marseille (4.1.5) where he states that the Massiliots established towns in Iberia as strongholds against the natives and taught

94  Benedict Lowe them the rites of Ephesian Artemis – ἀφ’ἧς καὶ τὰς πόλεις ἔκτισαν, ἐπιτειχίσματα τὰς μὲν κατὰ τὴν Ἰβηρίαν τοῖς Ἴβηρσιν, οἷς καὶ τὰ ἱερὰ τῆς Ἐφεσίας Ἀρτέμιδος παρέδοσαν τὰ πάτρια, ὥστε ἑλληνιστὶ θύειν. The existence of a temple of Artemis can be discarded: only Strabo refers to its existence and no trace has been found. Strabo also refers to temples at Rosas and Empúries for which there is no evidence either (3.4.8).1 In the absence of any other evidence, it may be that Artemidorus assumed the presence of a temple of Artemis in all the Phocaean colonies (Pena Gimeno 1993: 65–66) – a change in emphasis that may have come about due to the increased importance of Ephesus following the revolt of Aristonicus (134/3 BC) and before the fall of the city to Mithridates VI in 89–88 BC when the Ephesians were able to invent a tradition highlighting their role in the western colonies at the expense of the disgraced Phocaeans (Pena Gimeno 2016: 980). Strabo’s reference to iron-works may be echoed by Pomponius Mela (2.91) who refers to the existence of a promontory between the Bay of Sucro and Illci called ‘Ferraria’ – presumably on account of iron resources in the area. It is clear that Strabo never visited the Iberian Peninsula (2.5.11) and instead relied upon several earlier sources (Lowe 2017: 71–75). Strabo mentions several sources in his description of the east coast (3.4.3): Posidonius, Artemidorus and Asclepiades; in addition, he cites Eratosthenes and Artemidorus in his account of Ebusus (3.4.7) – although it is not clear which source forms the basis of his account (Roller 2018: 150). His source for Hemeroskopeion is likely to have been Artemidorus of Ephesus (Pena Gimeno 1993: 64–65; 2016: 971–972). Artemidorus’ interest in sanctuaries of Ephesian Artemis has recently been stressed by Giambattista D’Alessio (2009: 35–36): Artemidorus may have chosen to begin his description with Massalia – as opposed to the more usual practice of starting with the edge of the oikumene in the far west (i.e. Iberia) – in order to highlight the importance of the Goddess. That Artemidorus had an abiding interest in the cult of the Goddess may explain Strabo’s citation of Artemidorus in his description of the temple of Artemis of Ephesus (14.1.22). Stephanus of Byzantium is explicit that Artemidorus is his source for Alonis (Meineke 1849: 80). Little is known of Artemidorus or his oeuvre: he wrote a description of the world c. 104–101 BC (Marcianus Epitome peripli Menippri I.3, Geographi Graeci Minores 1: 566; Kramer 2001: 119 n. 6; 2006: 97–98; Dueck 2012: 57; Engels 2012: 142–143). Stylistically Artemidorus appears to have followed the tradition of sailors’ manuals or periploi by starting with the coastline before proceeding inland. Until recently Artemidorus’ Geography was only known from citations not only by Strabo but also by Diodorus Siculus, Velleius Paterculus, Pliny, Stephanus of Byzantium and as an epitome by Marcianus of Heracleia. A significant advance in our understanding of Artemidorus came about in 1999 with the publication of the so-called Artemidorus papyrus. The papyrus consists of approximately 50 fragments divided into three sections: section a consists of three columns of prose singing the praises of the study of geography perhaps from the prolegomenon of the work; section c consists of a large map and two columns of text consisting of the beginning of the description of the Iberian Peninsula; and section b consists of a small section of map. The attribution of the papyrus to Artemidorus is clear: the first 14 lines of column IV match fragments

Footprints in the sea  95 of Artemidorus preserved elsewhere (Stihle F21; Kramer 2006: 99–100). The description takes the form of a periplous (V.15–16) covering the coast of the Iberian Peninsula from the Pyrenees to Galicia. Artemidorus’ knowledge of the Iberian Peninsula was based on first-hand experience and he was the first geographer to take advantage of the Roman conquest of the Peninsula (Berger 1903: 525; Kramer 2001: 116): Strabo refers to Artemidorus having visited the westernmost part of the Peninsula, the ‘Sacred Cape’ – Cabo de São Vicente – and describing it as being shaped like a ship (3.1.5). Strabo’s account may also derive from Posidonius (Pena Gimeno 1993: 66–67). A philosopher from Apamea, Posidonius wrote three geographical works: Strabo cites his work On the Ocean on several occasions (2.2.1; 1.1.9; 1.3.12) and he is cited in Strabo’s discussion of the movement of tides along the coasts of Iberia and Maurusia (3.3.3). Posidonius showed considerable interest in the Peninsula although his direct experience seems to have been concentrated in the south-west: he spent time in Cádiz (Str. 3.5.9), visited Ilipa and the mines of the Río Tinto (Str. 3.2.9; Posid. F218) and may even have gone as far as Cartagena (Posid. F241) (Kidd 1988: 16–18). Strabo also makes use of Asclepiades of Myrleia in his description of the Temple of Athena at Odysseia (3.4.3) which he situates in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada overlooking Abdera. A Bithynian, Asclepiades was a grammarian who settled in Turdetania and published an account of the tribes in the region as well as commentaries on Homer, Theocritus and Aratus and a local history of Bithynia (Dueck 2000: 141). Strabo also cites Polybius: he refers to Polybius’ description of the silver mines at Carthago Nova (3.2.9) and refers to Polybius’ explanation of the civility of the Celts being due to their proximity to the Turdetanians (3.2.15) and in his discussion of the location of the Pillars of Hercules (3.5.5). Strabo’s reference to Dianion as Sertorius’ base must have come from a later source – perhaps from Tanusius Geminus’ account of Sertorius’ campaigns. Nothing is known of Tanusius’ background although Suetonius refers to him as having written a history (Iul. 9). Reliance of Tanusius may explain the relative frequency of Latin terms in Strabo’s description of Iberia and the detailed account of Sertorius’ activities (Dueck 2000: 94). Strabo may also have made use of the accounts of sailors traversing the east coast and whose narratives were preserved as periploi or Coastal Pilots – either directly or via his sources such as the periplous preserved by Artemidorus. Strabo explicitly cites Artemidorus and others using the testimony of the merchants from Gadir (Cádiz) (3.4.3) with respect to the Land of the Lotus-Eaters. Although the Mediterranean is generally clement, local variations in climate and topography presented challenges to ancient mariners. According to Hesiod, the 50 days of July and August were prime sailing weather (Works and Days 55.663-5, 678–684) although the end of March to the beginning of October was acceptable. Outside of these months, travel by sea was to be avoided not only because of winter storms but also because of the hazards of navigating in poor visibility. These hazards could be mitigated by knowledge of defined routes or access to secure anchorages that were recorded in navigation manuals or periploi. Several periploi survive: the most valuable is that falsely attributed to the geographer Scylax of Karyanda that

96  Benedict Lowe probably dates to the fourth century BC. They provide practical information about the route to be followed with details of harbours, anchorages, landmarks, watering points and some give distances. Although Strabo does not specifically cite periploi, it is clear that he made use of them as a source of information: in his description of Acarnania, he compares himself with Ephorus for using the sea coast as his measuring line (8.1.3). Strabo’s use of a periplous is evident from his choice of terminology: describing the regions by following the line of the coast or by giving distances in terms of sailing time. Small ships will have been able to follow the coastline taking advantage of the protection and markets afforded by the harbours and anchorages along the coast. The size of Greek merchant vessels will have meant that they regularly had to make landfall to resupply with drinking water as well as to escape unfavourable winds. At its most basic, these needs could be met by an enclosed bay affording protection and access to a supply of fresh water – although additional concerns such as facilities for the ship and its cargo or available markets quickly became important (Mauro 2019: 25–26). One such example of a ship engaged in coastal tramping was discovered at Cala Sant Vicenç (Pollença, Mallorca) in the summer of 2002. The wreck is dated c. 530–520 BC and carried a heterogeneous cargo including at least 60 amphorae both from Southern Italy (Archaic Corinthian B and IonianMassaliot amphora) and Greece from Corinth, Chios and Thasos (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2007: 173–174; 2009: 125–149). The most numerous are Iberian amphorae that account for 65% of the cargo (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2009: 163–183). In addition to amphorae, the vessel also carried bronze goods: a helmet, kyathos; iron tools; a tin ingot; millstones; a mould, as well as black figure, black glaze and grey fine ware pottery. Such a diverse cargo fits well with this form of indirect coastal tramping (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2009: 324). The ship probably originated in Empúries before following the coast to the south where it may have picked up some of the Iberian amphorae before crossing to Mallorca. The vessel probably moored at Cala Sant Vicenç deliberately to engage in trade (Nieto Prieto and Santos Retolaza 2009: 321). Ancient harbours and anchorages have attracted little attention in scholarship due to the paucity of archaeological evidence and the imprecise use of terminology in the literary sources ranging from natural anchorages to artificial harbours enhanced by man-made breakwaters and jetties. The simplest harbours were simply beaches or estuaries that afforded some protection from the elements. From the sixth century BC, artificial breakwaters began to be constructed initially to supplement the protection provided by natural features such as islands or promontories and later to construct completely artificial harbours (Mauro 2014: 19). Despite the increasingly elaborate harbour facilities that were constructed from the third century BC onwards, beaches or anchorages remained the norm across much of the Mediterranean wherever coastal tramping was the dominant form of commercial transaction. Several terms are used to describe a harbour or anchorage: λιμήν, ὅρμος, ναύσταθμον, σαλος or ὕφορμος. The distinctions between the terms are not clear but appear to be based on the scale of amenities. A λιμήν designates a harbour: Trygaeus uses the term λιμήν to describe the facilities of the Piraeus

Footprints in the sea  97 (Aristophanes Peace 145) and Herodotus describes the elaborate harbour facilities constructed by the tyrant Polycrates on Samos in 530 BC (3.60). The earliest references to harbours occur in the accounts of the voyages of the Homeric heroes: λιμήν is used by Homer to describe the double harbour of the Phaeacians (Od. 6.262–269). More elaborate harbours included facilities for the maintenance and storage of vessels during winter: Herodotus describes the facilities constructed by the Carians and Ionians in the Nile Delta (2.154.5): ἐξ ὧν δὲ ἐξανέστησαν χώρων, ἐν τούτοισι δὲ οἵ τε ὁλκοὶ τῶν νεῶν καὶ τὰἐρείπια τῶν οἰκημάτων τὸ μέχρι ἐμεῦ ἦσαν. A ὅρμος denoted a roadstead or anchorage (Il. 1.435; Theocritus 13.30). Herodotus uses the term to describe Xerxes’ anchorage at Aphetae (7.193). Σαλος or ὕφορμος signifies an open roadstead: Polybius (1.53.10) uses the term σαλος to refer to an open roadstead used by the Roman fleet as opposed to the larger λιμήν: οἱ δὲ νομίσαντες οὐκ ἀξιόχρεως σφᾶς αὐτοὺς εἶναι πρὸς ναυμαχίαν, καθωρμίσθησαν ρός τιπολισμάτιον τῶν ὑπ᾽ αὐτοὺς ταττομένων, ἀλίμενον μέν, σάλους δ᾽ ἔχον καὶπροβολὰς περικλειούσας ἐκ τῆς γῆς εὐφυεῖς. Whereas the larger λιμήν possessed facilities for the maintenance of ships or the storage of cargoes, an ὅρμος or σαλος lacked any such facilities and is characterised only by a scatter of cargo lost overboard or abandoned anchors. Ancient mariners relied upon a complex interplay of memories, landmarks and travel times in order to determine their route (Dueck 2000 40–41; Arnaud 2014: 40–41; Morton 2001: 186). Seen from the sea, the shoreline is bi-dimensional – only elevations and colours are visible whilst morphological features such as gulfs or capes are invisible beyond a certain point. Sailors relied upon landmarks such as towers or temples to determine their location (Arnaud 2014: 58). Whilst this could be achieved by natural means such as promontories or offshore islands, it is likely that at least from the sixth century BC (if not before) the visibility of a harbour could be enhanced artificially by the construction of towers (Mauro 2019: 60–62). At their most basic, this can have been achieved by the use of signal fires at prominent locations along the shore. Several towers are known from the island of Thasos. In the late sixth century, Akeratos, son of Phrasierides, erected a circular marble tower on the headland overlooking Potamia bay. That the tower was explicitly intended to function as a signpost for ships is clear from the dedicatory inscription: [Ἀ]κηράτω ε[ἰ]μὶ μνῆμα τ̣ῶ Φ[ρασ]ιηρ̣ίδ̣ω· κεῖμα̣ι δὲ ἐπ̣’ [ἄ]κρω ναυσ[τ]ά[θ]μω σοτ̣ήρ[ι]ων νηυσίν τε κα[ὶ ν]αύτησιν· ἀλλὰ χαίρετε̣ (IG XII.8.683; Osborne 1986: 169; Mauro 2019: 61). That Akeratos was a figure of some importance is clear: shortly after 520, he erected a dedication to Herakles in which he boasts that he was the only man to have been archon in both Thasos and Paros (IG XII Suppl. 412) and his name appears on a Thasian archon list discovered in the Agora in 1922 indicating that he was archon in about 520 (Pouilloux 1954: 269 n. 31). Coastal temples could have served a similar function: Aelius Aristides (Orat. 27.17) eulogises the temple of Cyzicus has, having superseded the need for beacons, signal fires or towers to guide ships to port. According to Apollonius of Rhodes, Lycus promises to raise a temple to the sons of Tyndareus – the Dioscuri – on the Acherousian height that will be visible to sailors far across the sea (Argon. 2.806–808). Similarly, tombs offered a recognisable landmark that could be used by passing

98  Benedict Lowe sailors. Homer (Od. 24.80–84) has the tomb of Achilles and Patroclus sited on a headland in the Hellespont to that it might be seen from afar, whilst the tomb of Elpenor serves not only to commemorate his death but also to mark the spot for future voyagers (Od. 11.71–78). Strabo’s description of the coastline of Contestania focuses on features visible to passing shipping: Hemeroskopeion is singled out for the prominent position of the temple of Artemis, its natural stronghold and its visibility to sailors (3.4.6): τούτων δ᾽ ἐστὶ γνωριμώτατον τὸ Ἡμεροσκοπεῖον ἔχον ἐπὶ τῇ ἄκρᾳ τῆς Ἐφεσίας Ἀρτέμιδος ἱερὸν σφόδρα τιμώμενον, ᾧ ἐχρήσατο Σερτώριος ὁρμητηρίῳ κατὰ θάλατταν: ἐρυμνὸν γάρ ἐστι καὶ λῃστρικόν, κάτοπτον δὲ ἐκ πολλοῦ τοῖς προσπλέουσι. Similarly, the name of Akra Leuke (Diod. Sic. 25.10.3) – the ‘white headland’ – may derive from the frequent use of white coasts as landmarks in ancient seafaring (Morton 2001: 190). The Marina Alta has produced little evidence of harbour installations. The coastline is dominated by the Cordilleras Béticas that extend to the coast at Cabo de la Nao and Punta de Moraira. The coast is rugged and easily accessible from the sea with settlements from the Bronze Age onwards located on rocky outcrops overlooking the sea such as El Castell (Denia), Cap Prim (Jávea), Peñón de Ifach (Calpe), Cap Negret (Altea) and Tossal de la Cala (Benidorm). The rocky outcrops alternate with alluvial plains like that of the río Gorgos that provided access inland and suitable conditions for settlement along the immediate shoreline. The rugged coastline created many small bays or inlets but few provided protection from the winds – especially the Levant. To the north of the río, Gorgos stands the outcrop of Montgó that rises to a height of 753 m and affords views as far afield as Ibiza (Figure 5.5). Montgó isolates Jávea from Denia and the valley of the río Girona to the north. Although several valleys link the coast with the Valle de Alcoy, the rugged terrain caused the Via Heraklea to skirt inland from Denia avoiding the stretch of coastline containing Hemeroskopeion. According to the Ravenna Cosmography, the road skirts inland from Portum Sucro – with an offshoot to Dionio (Denia) – to avoid the rugged terrain of the Sierra de Bernia before rejoining the coast at Lucentum (Tossal de Manises).2 The rugged coastline created many small bays or inlets but few provided protection from the winds – especially the Levant. To the south, the valleys of the Vinalopó and the Segura provided access to the interiors of Valencia and Murcia, respectively. Several sites have been singled out as possible emporia frequented by both Phoenicians and Greeks: El Oral and La Escuera (San Fulgencio), Tossal de les Basses (L’Albufereta, Alicante), Tossal de Manises (Alicante), Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello), La Picola (Santa Pola) and Peñón de Ifach (Calpe) (Ferrer Carrión 2013: 40–43). The earliest anchorages will have left little trace archaeologically and it is only with the construction of more substantial facilities in the Roman period that definite harbours can be identified. The best protected natural harbour was at Denia where the Bays of El Blancar, El Guitarró, L’Androna and El Cavall afforded protection (Espinosa Ruiz and Gómez Bravo 1995: 65; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2004: 25–27; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 31; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2007: 314; Lajara Martínez 2013: 47–48). Several locations were used as anchorages: the first lay off the beach of Les Rotes that appears to have been in use during the medieval and modern

Footprints in the sea  99

Figure 5.5  View of Montgó from Cap Prim (photo: author).

periods; the anchorage of La Caldera; an anchorage dating to the first century BC off the beach of Les Marines to the north-west of the modern harbour where the Bay of El Cavall and the Punta del Raset offered limited protection; and the canal entering the port by the Republican town which with a depth of 7 m will have been suitable for the docking of boats. Excavations along the Avinguda de las Industrias uncovered three warehouses constructed c. AD 40 that may be associated with the harbour area and the anchorage at Les Marines (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 32–33; Dupré Ollivier and Gisbert Santonja 1991: 62). The protection afforded by the harbour at Denia led to its use as a naval base by Sertorius in the 70s BC (Str. 3.4.6; Sala Sellés et al. 2013: 203). It was at Ilerda, Osca, Calagurris, Tarraco and Hemeroskopeion that Strabo tells Sertorius fought his last battles (3.4.10). According to Appian (Mith. 67), Sertorius dispatched Lucius Magius and Lucius Fannius to negotiate with the Pontic King Mithridates. That they embarked from Dianium may be indicated by Cicero’s comment (Verr. 2.1.87) that they were to rouse the enemies of Rome from Dianium to Sinope. Contrary to Appian, Plutarch (Sert. 23) has the initiative come from Mithridates sending envoys to Sertorius – although Plutarch does not name their port of arrival in the Peninsula – and Cicero confirms that Mithridates dispatched envoys as far afield as Spain (Leg. Man. 9). Although making no reference to its use as a naval base, Cicero refers to Denia several times as the point of departure for Sertorius’ followers after the death of their leader (Verr. 2.5.146, 151 and 154).

100  Benedict Lowe Several other locations along the coast may have been connected with the activities of Sertorius: excavations on calle Colón in Villajoyosa have revealed a section of a defensive ditch dating to the first half of the first century BC that is perhaps associated with a Roman camp constructed during the Sertorian war (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2008: 201–205). It has recently been suggested that a string of fortifications were established on promontories overlooking the sea – at Cap Negret (Altea), Peñón d’Ifach (Calpe), Punta de la Torre (Teulada), Passet de Segària (Benimeli) (Figure 5.6) and Penya de l’Àguila (Denia) – affording protection, control of the coastline and ready access to the Iberian communities of the interior (Sala Sellés et al. 2013: 192–194; 2014: 89). A number of possible harbours or anchorages have been suggested along the coast of Jávea. An important anchorage was located in the lee of Cabo de San Antonio at Pope/Tangó that was in use from the seventh century BC onwards (Lajara Martínez 2013: 48–49; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2004: 28; 2006: 35). The anchorage may be associated with the neighbouring site of Duanes dating from the second century BC or first century BC at least until the fourth or fifth centuries AD where finds of hypocaust and architectural decoration suggest the existence of the pars urbana of a villa – perhaps engaged in the production of olive oil (Ivars Baidal et al. 1994: 22; Garrigós i Albert 2005: 274). The beach of L’Arenal in Jávea provided a shallow bay suitable for small vessels: remains of a harbour wall constructed out of reused masonry have been reported at La Fontana (Martin and Serres 1970: 46; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 36); however, no trace now remains. A second anchorage lay at the southern end of the Bay

Figure 5.6  Iberian fortifications, Passet de Segària (photo: author).

Footprints in the sea  101

Figure 5.7  The Bay of Portitxol (photo: author).

of Jávea at La Caleta beside Cap Prim where an anchorage was located that was most frequented in the Imperial period (Lajara Martínez 2013: 49; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2003: 170). Further south a possible ὅρμος or anchorage was located in the Bay of Portitxol to the south of Cap Prim (Figure 5.7). Whilst no systematic excavations have taken place on the island, agricultural work in the nineteenth century covered remains of pavements, wall foundations and a column base dating to the Late Imperial period (Ivars Baidal et al. 1994: 22–23; Martin and Serres 1970: 95–96; Crespo Ruano 1986: 153–154). The finding of a fragment of early Campanian A dating to the third or second centuries BC may indicate earlier occupation (Martin and Serres 1970: 97; Crespo Ruano 1986: 154). Segarra Llamas (1947, 71; Crespo Ruano 1986: 152) reported finding a significant number of amphorae. The existence of an anchorage is clear from the quantity of finds recovered offshore. Several amphorae have been found: a Vuillemont R-1 amphora, Ebusitanian PE 11 (Figure 5.8) and PE 17/Mañá E, and a Tunisian Mañá C1B reused as a water filter. Besides amphorae a fragment of an Etruscan bronze infundibulum was found in the vicinity of Cap San Martí dating to the first half of the sixth century BC (Vives-Ferrándiz Sánchez 2007: 161) (Figure 5.9). Several anchors have been recovered as well as a quantity of copper ingots. Not enough work has yet been done to determine how many vessels were here or any details of their route or cargo.

102  Benedict Lowe

Figure 5.8 Punic PE 11 amphora from Cap Prim (courtesy of the Museo Arqueològic i Etnogràfic Municipal ‘Soler Blasco,’ Xàbia).

Figure 5.9 Etruscan bronze infundibulum from the vicinity of Cap San Martí (courtesy of the Museo Arqueològic i Etnogràfic Municipal ‘Soler Blasco,’ Xàbia).

Footprints in the sea  103 The rugged coastline to the south contained several bays or inlets that provided refuge to small boats traversing the coastline. The Punta de Moraira provided protection to the anchorage at El Portet associated with the Iberian settlement on the headland (Ahuir Domínguez 2012: 117; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2013: 37). Pottery from the Iberian period onwards has been recovered from various locations offshore of Calpe and the Peñón de Ifach provided protection for anchorages at el Racó and La Fossa associated with the Iberian settlement on the slopes of the Peñón (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 37–38; Lajara Martínez 2013: 52). In the Bay of Altea, there are several locations that may have been used by boats (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2004: 28–29). Morro de Toix and Punta de Galera offered protection from winds of the west and the north-east. More important was the anchorage protected by the small island of La Olla (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 38) – perhaps connected with the sanctuary at Cap Negre (Lajara Martínez 2013: 53–54). In Late Antiquity, a small harbour may have been located at Garganes (Altea) between the río Algar and the stream of Clot de Mingot. In the second half of the fourth century AD, several buildings associated with quantities of amphorae were constructed over the remains of an earlier villa. The buildings may have been commercial in function (Frías Castillejo 2010: 129; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 39). Further south a possible anchorage may be connected with the Late Imperial necropolis and villa at Racó de l’Albir (Alfaz del Pi) dating from the end of the second to the fifth centuries AD (Morote Barberá 1986: 57–60; Lajara Martínez 2013: 54; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 39). At the southern end of the Bay of Altea, an anchorage was located at El Rincón de Albir and a possible wreck off the Cala de la Mina. A Greco-Italic amphora of the second century BC was recovered offshore in front of the Peñas de Albir (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 40). To the west of the Bay of Benidorm, an anchorage was situated at Rincón de Loix beside Punta de Pinet, and a second anchorage took advantage of the protection offered by the Island of Benidorm with large quantities of finds being recovered by divers in the area (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 41). The promontory of Tossal de la Cala (Benidorm) provided protection for ships anchoring off the beach of Finestrat (Figure 5.10). The site stands on a promontory 103 m high and when first excavated in the 1940s, the existence of an open-air sanctuary to Tanit-Demeter was suggested by the discovery of seven thymateria dating to the fourth-third centuries BC (Bayo Fuentes 2010: 116–122). The earliest evidence of occupation dates to the fourth century BC with finds of imported Attic Black Glaze pottery (García Hernández 1986: 55–56; Bayo Fuentes 2010: 61–65) (Figure 5.11). At the foot of the promontory, finds of amphora recovered from the bay suggest that Cala de Morales was used for the offloading and beaching of vessels. Excavations along the beach in 2004 uncovered buildings dating to the Late Iberian period that may be associated with the commercial activities of the anchorage (Espinosa Ruiz and Sáez Lara 1993: 230–231; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 41). Further south in the Marina Baixa, the coast is more expansive and low-lying formed by the alluvial deposits of the ríos Montnegre, Vinalopó and Segura. Extending from Punta d’Alcocó to Punta del Río, the beach of La Vila (Villajoyosa) provided a suitable anchorage for ships supplying the Roman municipium – although

104  Benedict Lowe

Figure 5.10  Tossal de la Cala (photo: author).

Figure 5.11  Iberian housing, Tossal de la Cala (photo: author).

Footprints in the sea  105 its use extended back further at least to the second century BC if not as far as the seventh century (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2006: 42–43). Amphorae have been recovered extending in the area over 0.2 km2 and ranging in date from the second century BC (Mañá C2a and b, and Greco-Italic vessels) to the second half of the fifth century AD (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 1995: 32). In 2001, a wreck – Bou Ferrer – was discovered 1 km off the coast carrying a cargo of 274 Dr 7-11 amphorae (de Juan Fuertes et al. 2007: 276; 2011: 185–186). Possible harbour buildings in the Plaça de Sant Pere may be associated with the establishment of the municipium in the first century AD (Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2007: 318). The existence of a market is indicated by an inscription of the second century AD that records the reconstruction of a macellum by Marcus Sempronius Hymnus and Marcus Sempronius Reburrus (CIL II 3570; ILS 5586; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2014: 190). Occupation at Villajoyosa goes back to at least the end of the seventh century BC when orientalising necropoleis were situated at Les Casetes and Poble Nou. First discovered in 1959, the necropolis of Les Casetes extends to the north of the Old Town: 25 cremation burials were discovered to the west of calle Pianista Gonzalo Soriano, with a further 40 burials excavated the following year on plaza de Juan Carlos I – Sector Creueta – and in 2014–2015 six burials dating from the end of the seventh-six centuries BC were excavated in Sector Jovada. The burials have yielded a range of wealthy orientalising grave goods including Attic black figure and black glaze pottery, decorated ostrich eggs, jewellery, steatite and glass amulets decorated with Egyptian motifs and a yellow faience flask decorated with Egyptianising images. The shoulders of the vessel are decorated with two inscriptions invoking the Saite creator-goddess Neith and the Memphite god Ptah (García Gandía 2003: 219–220; 2002–2003: 355–356; 2009: 111–116; Ruiz Alcalde and Marcos González 2011: 102–110; Grau Mira and Ruiz Alcalde 2021: 316–322). In the middle of the sixth century, the necropolis was expanded to the south-west in the vicinity of Vial Nou d’Octobre where excavations since 1995 have uncovered a variety of wealthy orientalising graves containing gold jewellery, a steatite necklace depicting Egyptian deities, an Etruscan bronze strainer and three Attic black figure cups of the Haimon Painter dating to the beginning of the fifth century BC (Espinosa Ruiz 2006: 235; Ruiz Alcalde and Marcos González 2011: 101–102). Metalworking furnaces have been excavated on calle Pianista Gonzalo Soriano and calle Canalejas, as well as pottery kilns at La Jovada and El Xarquet, dating between the third century BC and the first half of the second century BC (Ruiz Alcalde and Marcos González 2011: 115–116). The most important urban centre was at Tossal de Manises – the Roman Lucentum. Occupied since the end of the fifth century or early fourth century BC, the town became a municipium under Augustus (Olcina Domènech et al. 2014: 205–207). A harbour was located at the Cala de l’Albufereta. The bay opens to the south with Cap de les Hortes providing protection from the winds to the north-east and east. During the Iberian period, the lagoon was open to the sea and provided a safe haven for boats. From the fifth-fourth centuries BC onwards, the lagoon was increasingly frequented by ships serving the neighbouring settlements of Tossal de les Basses and Tossal de Manises – the Roman Lucentum. Earlier

106  Benedict Lowe harbour facilities may have been constructed out of wood (De Juan Fuertes 2009: 136) and remains of a later Roman harbour wall dating to the first-second centuries AD has been found at the mouth of the channel. Between June 2001 and November 2002, excavations conducted along the course of the drainage channel uncovered an industrial quarter to the east of the acropolis of the Iberian settlement of Tossal de les Basses dating from the fifth to the third century BC. Several ceramic kilns and metalworking furnaces were found, together with a large warehouse and a possible harbour wall rising to a height of 1 m and extending for 26 m in length (Rosser Limiñana and Fuentes 2007: 53–58; 2008: 25–29; Ortega Pérez et al. 2003: 149–150; Ferrer García and Blázquez Morilla 2007: 328–329; Ferrer García et al. 2005: 139–141). Although the bulk of the evidence for harbours and anchorages pertains to the Roman period, the incidence of Greek and Phoenician imports together with epigraphic evidence suggests that the same trade routes were used by the Greeks. Although recent scholarship has emphasised the role of Phoenician merchants from the vicinity of the río Segura, it seems clear that the east coast was frequented by Greek sailors: a small fragment of black glaze pottery lost offshore of the harbour at L’Albufereta bears a graffito in Greek recording a dedication to the Kabeiroi – chthonic deities worshipped at Lemnos and Thebes (De Juan Fuertes 2009: 135; De Hoz 2014: 282–283). In July 1985, a lead inscription was discovered at Empúries dating to the second half of the sixth century BC or the beginning of the fifth (Sanmartí Grego and Santiago Álvarez 1987; Santiago Álvarez 1990: 125–129). The text is written in Ionian Greek – as used by the Phocaean settlers of Empúries – and records the purchase of a shipment of wine from Saiganthe (modern Sagunto) by an Iberian merchant by the name of Besped [… and using a ship suitable for coastal tramping (line 5). A second bronze letter found at Grau Vell (Sagunto) and written in Iberian may also record a commercial transaction of some kind (Albelda Borrás 2015: 93–94; Ballester 2006: 103–104).3 That Greeks were not confined to the vicinity of Empúries and Rosas in the north-west is evident from an embassy sent by the Saguntines to Rome requesting aid against Hannibal (App. Iber. 7 (25)) that explicitly distinguishes the Greeks resident in Empúries and Saguntum from those from elsewhere in the Peninsula: Ζακανθαῖοι δέ, ἄποικοι Ζακυνθίων, ἐν μέσῳ τῆς τε Πυρήνης καὶ τοῦ ποταμοῦ τοῦ Ἴβηρού ὄντες, καὶ ὅσοι ἄλλοι Ἕλληνες περί τε τὸ καλούμενον Ἐμπόριον καὶ εἴ πῃ τῆς Ἰβηρίας ᾤκουν ἀλλαχοῦ, δείσαντες ὑπὲρ σφῶν ἐπρέσβευον ἐς Ῥώμην – ‘the Saguntines, a colony of the island of Zacynthus, who lived about midway between the Pyrenees and the river Iberus [Appian is in error – Saguntum lies south of the Iberus], and the other Greeks who dwelt in the neighborhood of Emporia and other Spanish towns, having apprehensions for their safety, sent ambassadors to Rome’ (trans. H. White). As well as traces of commercial activity, the survival of Greek toponyms suggests that the region was frequented by Greek sailors traversing the shore. The toponyms are commonest along the coasts of Alicante and Valencia (ancient Contestania) and less frequent in Castellón and the South. Σπαρταάριον πεδίον (3.4.9) refers to a plain of esparto grass which Strabo places to the north of New Cartage where the campo de Cartagena is situated today (Jacob 1985: 250; Roller 2018: 157).

Footprints in the sea  107 Near Saguntum is the town of Cherronesus (Str. 3.4.6; Av. OM 491) from χερρόνησος signifying a promontory or headland. Avienus (446) refers to a promontory trete – derived from the Greek τρήτη ἄκρα meaning ‘penetrated headland’ – presumably referring to caves (Jacob 1985: 251). Avienus also refers to an island called strongyle (453) – the feminine form of the Greek στρογγύλος meaning ‘round’ – perhaps Isla Grosa (Jacob 1985: 250). Crabasia is referred to by both Stephanus of Byzantium (380 M) and Avienus (483) and may be derived from the Greek κράβος or ‘seagull’ (Jacob 1985: 263–264). According to Leonard Curchin, 19% of the toponyms along the coast south of the Sucro are Greek in origin – indicating the landmarks used by Greek merchants as they traversed the coastline (Curchin 2009: 71–73). The presence of Greeks along the coast is indicated by finds of Greek graffiti. Although it is difficult to determine the precise function of graffiti either as indications of ownership or commerce, several such graffiti have been found from locations in Contestania. Several such graffiti have been found at La Bastida de les Alcuses dating to the fourth century BC: a fragment of Attic pottery – perhaps the base of a kylix – bears a graffito reading: ] ΔΔΔ/]ina+ [ perhaps signifying a transaction or number whilst an Attic black glaze bowl reads ]? Δ̣ΔΔΔΠ (De Hoz 2014: 266–267; De Hoz Bravo 2011: 224–225). The site of Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello) (Figure 5.12) has produced considerable quantities of Greek pottery, several of which carry that appear to be commercial graffti. The most notable is a bilingual graffito giving the lot or price, the sign of a cross perhaps signifying the merchant and the letters ΒΑΛ – perhaps the Iberian name Balciadin or balkebiur

Figure 5.12  Illeta dels Banyets (photo: author).

108  Benedict Lowe

Figure 5.13 Fragment of Attic pottery with a graffito in Greco-Iberian with the letters ΒΑΛ (photo courtesy of the Archivo del MARQ (Museo Arqueológico Provincial de Alicante)).

(De Hoz 2014: 285) (Figure 5.13). A possible indication of ownership is found on a kantharos from Punta dels Llops that reads Ἔρω̣τος – perhaps a genitive meaning ‘of Eros’ (De Hoz 2014: 263; Bonet Rosado et al. 1981: 118–119). A fragment of an Attic black figure cup dating to the sixth or fifth century BC found at Cabezo Lucero carries a bilingual graffito that reads Λέων followed by the Iberian ‘il’ or ‘ika’ (De Hoz 2014: 284). These graffiti reflect surely reflect the presence of Greek merchants, rather than their transmission at second-hand (De Hoz Bravo 2002: 80). The frequency of commercial contact with Greeks led to the development of a Greco-Iberian script that is unique to Contestania being found almost exclusively in Alicante. It is an alphabetic script consisting of 16 characters derived from the Ionian alphabet. It was only in use for a short period during the fourth century BC before it was replaced by the Iberian language prevalent along the east coast (De Hoz Bravo 2009: 32–34). Most of the examples consist of short graffiti on pottery – principally 36 examples from Illeta dels Banyets (García Martín 2003: 113–119) – perhaps denoting ownership or commercial marks (De Hoz Bravo 2009: 35). The site of La Serreta (Alcoy) has yielded five lead inscriptions written in the Greco-Iberian script (I, II, III, VIII and IX) (MLH G.1.1, G.1.3, G.1.7,

Footprints in the sea  109

Figure 5.14 Votive figurine with Greek dedication reading Ἀπολόνιος/ἀνέθεκεν (photo: Clara Muñoz Climent, courtesy of the Archivo del Museu de Prehistòria de València).

G.1.8 and G.1.9), as well as three written in the Iberian of the east coast (IV, V and VI) (Grau Mira and Martí 1994: 118–121; Llobregat Conesa 1972: 120–124). The lead inscriptions consist of a sheet of lead inscribed on both sides and are similar to the Iberian lead inscriptions found along the east coast. Typically they are considered to have been economic in function (De Hoz Bravo 1991: 254–255; 2009: 38).4 In addition to signs of commercial contact, the Greek merchants may also have left votive offerings such as the bronze male figure of unknown provenance that is preserved in the Museu de Prehistòria de València. The figurine bears a dedication written in Euboean or Attic Greek of the mid-fifth century BC (De Hoz Bravo 1976; Fletcher Valls 1974: 333–334; De Hoz 2014: 238) (Figure 5.14). Whilst larger harbours – such as Tarraco and Carthago Nova along the east coast – have dominated the archaeological record, the corollary of coastal tramping is the existence of a hierarchy of secondary harbours and anchorages that were situated not only to take advantage of local markets and centres of population but also places of refuge for ships frequenting the coast. Lacking the need for elaborate harbour facilities, these leave little trace in the archaeological record, often little more than a scatter of anchors or discarded cargo. But they could survive for longer in the mental mind-map both of the sailors themselves and the local populations with whom they came into contact. The incidence of imported amphorae and ceramics testifies to the transactions of oriental merchants frequenting the east coast. That

110  Benedict Lowe these merchants included Greeks is shown by the exchange between the merchants of Emporion and Saiganthe and by the development of the Greco-Iberian script. The concentration of hoards in the vicinity of Montgó at the end of the fourth century BC may suggest a period of instability caused by the intrusion of external merchants into the indigenous landscape. Greek sailors determined their location by reference to topographical details – both natural such as the white headland at Akra Leuke and man-made such as watchtowers or temples. Recollections of these contacts could in turn be fostered or manipulated in response to current needs: as the communities of Contestania and the Marina Alta sought to come to terms with their incorporation in the Roman World, their shared Greek heritage provided the mechanisms through which to define their position. Thus, Asclepiades of Myrleia’s description of the shields and ship’s prows that decorated the Temple of Athena at Odysseia confirmed the wanderings of Odysseus (Str. 3.4.3). More egregious was the case of Rhode – modern Roses – situated on the northern shore of the Bay of Roses 15 km north of Empúries.5 According to Strabo (14.2.10), it was founded by Rhodians many years prior to the foundation of the Olympic Games in 774 BC and later taken over by the Massaliots. Thus, Rhode would be exceptional both for its early date and also because of it being a Rhodian settlement rather than Phocaean. Unfortunately, the sources are contradictory about the circumstances of its foundation: elsewhere Strabo (3.4.8) states that it was an Emporitanian town, although originally settled by the Rhodians – ἐνταῦθα δ᾽ ἔστι καὶ ἡ Ῥόδη πολίχνιον, Ἐμποριτῶν κτίσμα, τινὲς δὲ Ῥοδίων φασί – whilst PseudoSkymnos (202–206) says that it was a Rhodian foundation that was later settled by Phocaeans from Marseilles (Santiago Álvarez 1994: 56–59; Pena Gimeno 2000: 109–111; 2006: 41–42). To date, Roses has yielded no archaeological evidence to support such an early date: the site does not seem to have been occupied during the early Iron Age and the earliest Greek pottery on the site dates to the end of the sixth or fifth centuries BC (Martín Ortega et al. 1979: 326–327). It is not until the fourth century that structural remains were found with the urban area being substantially remodelled with the construction of a temple, a residential area and artisans quarter producing Black Glaze pottery and a new harbour area to the south – a redevelopment that coincides with the town issuing its first coinage both silver drachmas and small denomination bronzes imitating those of Rhodes (Puig Griessenberger 2010: 83–85; Vivó 1996: 112–113). Rhode was perhaps one of a string of fortified sites – together with Agde and Olbia – that were established to defend the territory of Marseilles (Strabo 4.1.5; Pena Gimeno 2006: 48–49). It seems like the story of Rhode’s foundation by Rhodians was an invention in the Hellenistic period either by the Rhodians to gain them a halo of prestige and mystery as one of the first colonisers of the far west (Pena Gimeno 2006: 45–47) or by the inhabitants of Rhode itself to lend lustre to their history at a time when the town sought to assert her independence from her neighbours in Marseilles and Empúries (Domínguez Monedero 1990: 22; Santiago Álvarez 1994: 63; Aquilué i Abadías and Ayensa i Prat 2018: 88–89). By taking the activities of Greek merchants and expanding upon them, the Iberians were able to reshape their history: whilst Saguntum has afforded no evidence of Greek occupation to support its Zacynthian foundation, its purported

Footprints in the sea  111 origins were expounded by the Massiliots in order to shift the onus for the outbreak of the Second Punic War on to the Carthaginians (Jacob 1985: 266–268; Santiago Álvarez 1990: 133; 1994: 52–53; Pena Gimeno 2002: 31–32). The inclusion of stories enabled the teller to define his place within the wider Mediterranean world (Woolf 2011: 27) – the inclusion of Greek elements enabling the source to place themselves within the Mediterranean koine and in turn the incorporation of local places and elements into the broader narrative history of the Mediterranean confirmed these existing narratives. That the memory of these contacts could continue to circulate for a considerable time is shown by an altar erected by Iulius Secundus in honour of his 39-year-old wife Cornelia Tyche and their 11-year-old daughter Iulia Secunda (CIL VI.20674).6 The inscription consisted of a poem in dactylic hexameter that recorded the fate of his wife and daughter: that they were deprived of their life on the Phocaean shore by the violence of the sea – litore Phocaio pelagi vi exanimatas. The poem does not specify where the litore Phocaio lies: previous scholarship has suggested the coast of Southern France (Courtney 1995: 372–373: Pena Gimeno 2013: 351–352). However, this is contradicted by the inscription itself: the poem specifies the area of the Tagus and the Ebro: illic, unde Tagus et nobile flumen Hiberus/Vorsum ortus, uorsum occasus fluit alter et alter,/Stagna sub Oceani Tagus et Tyrrhenica Hiberus – ‘there where the Tagus and the noble Ebro flow, one to the west, the other to the east, the Tagus to the waters of the Ocean and the Ebro to those of the Tyrrhenian’ (lines 7–12). This in turn presents further problems as the sources of the Tagus and Ebro are nowhere near each other: the Ebro at Fontibre in Cantabria and the Tagus at Fuente de García in the Sierra de Albarracín. Jérôme Carcopino sought to resolve this discrepancy by the suggestion that the Hiberus refers not to the Ebro but to the Jucar (1960: 341; Rouillard 1991: 284–286). Ἡμεροσκοπεῖον provided a point of reference for Greek sailors traversing the coastline with a temple of Artemis prominently situated on a headland and associated with one of the small harbours frequented by the Greeks that dotted the coastline of Contestania. Notes 1 Justin Epitome 43.3–4 makes no reference to a temple of Ephesian Artemis in his account of the foundation of Marseille. 2 On the route of the Via Heraklea, Llobregat Conesa 1983: 230–232; Espinosa Ruiz et al. 2014: 193. 3 The tomb of one such merchant – Bododas – may have been discovered during agricultural work at Orleyl in August 1972. Three bronze inscriptions were found along with scales, weights and Attic pottery which led the publishers to suggest that the deceased was a merchant (Lazáro Mengod et al. 1981: 32–34); however, although the grave goods are wealthy, there is little to indicate the profession of the deceased (Melchor Monserrat et al. 2010: 52; Rodríguez Pérez and Sánchez Fernández 2017: 315). 4 The language of the texts is repetitive with frequent anthroponyms and numerals. The Greco-Iberian inscription discovered at El Cigarralejo (MLH G.13.1) differs significantly from other lead inscriptions and may have carried a religious or literary text, De Hoz Bravo 2009: 36–38. For a review of the various interpretations of the Serreta I inscription, see Fletcher Valls and Silgo Gauche 1992: 17–31.

112  Benedict Lowe 5 It has recently been suggested that the name should read Rode rather than Rhode, Aquilué i Abadías and Ayensa i Prat 2018: 93. 6 On the longevity of toponyms, Curchin 2011: 301.

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118  Benedict Lowe Ivars Baidal, Josep Antoni, Jaime Molina Vidal, José Manuel Mora Chacón and Octavio Vicent Velasco. “El poblamiento de época romana en Javea y Teulada.” Xàbiga 7 (1994): 20–64. Jacob, Pierre. “Notes sur la toponymie grecque de la côte méditerranéenne de l’Espagne antique.” Ktema 10 (1985): 247–271. Kidd, Ian. Posidonius II. The Commentary vols. I & II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Kramer, Bärbel. “The earliest known map of Spain (?) and the geography of Artemidorus of Ephesus on Papyrus.” Imago Mundi 53 (2001): 115–120. Kramer, Bärbel. “La Península Ibérica en la Geografía de Artemidoro de Éfeso.” In La invención de una geografía de la Península Ibérica. I. La época republicana, ed. Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti, Pierre Le Roux and Pierre Moret, 97–114. Málaga: Diputación de Málaga, 2006. Lajara Martínez, José. “El patrimonio arqueológico subacuático de época romana (ss. II a.C.-VII d.C.).” In Guía del patrimonio arqueológico subacuático de Alicante, ed. Rafael Azuar Ruiz, 45–70. Alicante: Museo Arqueológico de Alicante, 2013. Laugier, Pierre and François Carrazé. “Le mouillage de la anse de la fontaine de Javea.” Cahiers d’archéologie subaquatique 5 (1976): 99–103. Lazáro Mengod, Abilio, Norbert Mesado Oliver, Carmen Aranegui Gascó and Domingo Fletcher Valls. Materiales de la necropolis ibérica de Orleyl (Vall d’Uxó, Castellón). Valencia: Trabajos Varios del Servicio de Investigacion Prehistorica 70, 1981. Llidó Vicente, Ramon. El Tesoro Iberico de Javea. Alcoy: Caja de Ahorros de Alicante y Murcia, 1986. Llobregat Conesa, Enrique. Contestania Iberica. Alicante: Instituto de Estudios Alicantinos, 1972. Llobregat Conesa, Enrique. “Relectura del Ravennate: dos calzadas, una mansion inexistente y otros datos de la geografía Antigua del País Valenciano.” Lucentum 2 (1983): 225–242. Llobregat Conesa, Enrique. “L’Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello, Camp d’Alacant) ¿Fou un empòrion?” In La Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello, Alicante). Estudios de la Edad del Bronce y época Ibérica, ed. Manuel Olcina Doménech, 13–20. Alicante: Museo Arqueológico Provincial de Alicante Serie Mayor 1, 1997. Lowe, Benedict. Roman Iberia: Economy, Society and Culture. London: Duckworth, 2009. Lowe, Benedict. “Strabo and Iberia.” In The Routledge Companion to Strabo, ed. Daniela Dueck, 69–78. London: Routledge, 2017. Marcos González, Amanda and Diego Ruiz Alcalde. “Las necrópolis de Poble Nou y de Casetes (sector Creueta). Dos yacimientos ibéricos excepcionales de Villajoyosa.” In I Jornades sobre l’actualitat del patrimoni arqueològic i etnogràfic a la Marina Baixa, ed. José Miguel García León and Antonio Espinosa Ruiz, 83–80. Elche: Universidad Miguel Hernández de Elche, 2005. Martín, Gabriela. La supuesta colonia griega de Hemeroskopeion: estudio arqueologico de la zona Denia-Javea. Valencia: Papeles del laboratorio de arqueología de Valencia 3, 1968. Martín, Gabriela. Dianium. Arqueologia Romana de Denia. Valencia: Instituto de Estudios Romanos, 1970. Martin, Gabriela and Maria Dolores Serres. La Factoria Pesquera de la Punta de l’Arenal y otros restos romanos de Javea (Alicante). Valencia: Trabajos Varios del Servicio de Investigacion Prehistorica 38, 1970. Martín Ortega, Aurora, Javier Nieto Prieto and Josep Nolla Brufau. Excavaciones en la Ciudadela de Roses (Campaña 1976 y 1977). Girona: Diputació Provincial, 1979.

Footprints in the sea  119 Martínez y Martínez, Francisco. “Hemeroscopeio e Ifach.” Boletin de la Real Academia de la Historia 92 (1928): 751–775. Mauro, Chiara Maria. “Λιμενες griegos: estrategias para el estudio de los puertos. Desde los puertos naturales hacia las grandes obras portuarias (siglo VIII a.C.-479 a.C.).” Antesteria 3 (2014): 9–22. Mauro, Chiara Maria. Archaic and Classical Greek Harbours in the Greek World: A study based on the Aegean and Ionia Sea Contexts Oxford: Archaeopress, 2019. Meineke, Augustus. Stephani Byzantii ethnicorum quae supersunt Berlin: G. Reimeri, 1849. Melchor Monserrat, José Manuel, Juan José Ferrer Maestro and Josep Benedito Nuez. “El enterramiento ibérico de la ‘Crátera de la Grifomaquia’ de Orleyl.” Millars: Espai i historia 33 (2010): 39–54. Melida Alinari, José Ramón. “El tesoro ibérico de Jávea.” Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas y Museos ser. 3(13) (1905): 366–373. Miller, Martin. “Along the coast of Ancient Spain: The Ancient Greek colonies and a lacuna in Strabo.” The Ancient World 45 (2011): 51–63. Morel, Jean-Paul. “L’expansion phocéene en Occident: dix années de recherches (1966-1975).” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellenique 99 (1975): 853–896. Moret, Pierre. “La formation d’une toponymie et d’une ethnonymie grecques de l’Ibérie: étapes et acteurs.” In La invención de una geografía de la Península Ibérica. I. La época republicana, ed. Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti, Pierre Le Roux and Pierre Moret, 39–76. Málaga: Diputación de Málaga, 2006. Morote Barberá, Guillermo. “El Albir.” In Arqueologia en Alicante 1976-1986, 57–60. Alicante: Institut d’Estudis «Juan Gil-Albert», Diputación Provincial de Alicante, 1986. Morton, Jamie. The Role of the Physical Environment in Ancient Greek Seafaring. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Nieto Prieto, Javier and Marta Santos Retolaza. “El barco de Cala Sant Vicenç (Pollença, Mallorca), en el contexto del comercio griego en occidente.” In Comercio, redistribución y fondeaderos. La navigación a vela en el Mediterráneo, ed. Jose Pérez Ballester and Guillermo Pascual, 169–184. Valencia: Actas V Jornadas Internacionales de Arqueología Subacuática (Gandía, 8 a 10 de noviembre de 2006), 2007. Nieto Prieto, Javier and Marta Santos Retolaza. El vaixell grec arcaic de Cala Sant Vicenç Monografies del CASC 7. Barcelona: Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya, 2009. Olcina Doménech, Manuel and Josep Miguel Garcia Martín. “Síntesi arqueològica.” In La Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello, Alicante). Estudios de la Edad del Bronce y época Ibérica, ed. Manuel Olcina Doménech, 21–46. Alicante: Museo Arqueológico Provincial de Alicante Serie Mayor 1, 1997. Olcina Doménech, Manuel and Rafael Pérez Jiménez. La Ciudad Ibero-Romana de Lucentum (El Tossal de Manises, Alicante) Alicante: Museo Arqueologico Provincial de Alicante, 2001. Ortega Pérez, José Ramón, Marco Aurelio Esquembre Bebia, Josep Castelló Marí and Francisco Molina Mas. “Una pieza singular: la terracotta de una birreme del poblado ibérico del Cerro de las Balsas (La Albufereta, Alicante).” Saguntum 35 (2003): 147–157. Osborne, Robin. “Island towers: The case of Thasos.” Annual of the British School at Athens 81 (1986): 167–178. Paris, Pierre. “Le trésor de Jávea.” Revue Archéologique ser. 4(8) (1906): 424–435. Parker, Anthony John. Ancient Shipwrecks of the Mediterranean and the Roman Provinces. Oxford: BAR International Series 580, 1992. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Avieno y las costas de Cataluña y Levante (II). Hemeroskopeion-Dianium.” Faventia 15/1 (1993): 61–77.

120  Benedict Lowe Pena Gimeno, María José. “‘ΕΠΙ ΣΩΤΗΡΙΑΙ ΤΩΝ ΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝ’ Encore sur la colonisation rhodienne de Rhodé.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 133 (2000): 109–112. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Colonies et comptoirs grecs archaïques de l’est de la Péninsule ibérique: légendes et réalité.” In Pont Euxin et commerce: la genèse de la “route de la soie”. Actes du IXe Symposium de Vani, 23–36. Besançon: Institut des Sciences et Techniques de l’Antiquité, 2002. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Fuentes literarias sobre la colonia griega de Rhode (Iberia).” In La colònia grega de Rhode (Roses, Alt Empordà), ed. Anna Puig Griessenberger and Aurora Martín Ortega, 41–52. Girona: Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya, 2006. Pena Gimeno, María José. “Litore phocaico pelagi vi examimatae (CIL VI 20674 = CLE 436).” In Ex officina. Literatura epigráfica en verso, ed. Concepción Fernández Martínez, María Limón Belén, Joan Gómez Pallarès and Javier del Hoyo Calleja, 339–358. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2013. Pena Gimeno, María José. “El culto a Artemis Efesia en Massalia y las costas de Iberia. ¿ Una leyenda tardía con trasfondo político? Análisis crítico de las fuentes literarias.” Latomus 75 (2016): 960–984. Pérez Ballester, José, Pilar Carmona González, Albert Ribera Lacomba and Guillermo Pascual Berlanga. “Puertos y fondeaderos en la costa valenciana: dinámica costera, tipología de asentamientos e interacciones económicas y culturales.” Bollettino de Archeologia On-line. Volume Speciale: Roma 2008 – International Congress of Classical Archaeology. Meetings between Cultures in the Ancient Mediterranean, 1 (2010). www.archeologia.beniculturali.it Pérez Vilatela, Luciano. “Denia entre Sertorio, Pompeyo y los piratas.” Anales de la Real Acadèmia de Cultura Valenciana 69 (1991): 33–62. Piles, Leopoldo. “Investigaciones arqueológicas en busca de Hemeroskopeion.” Saitabi 1 no. 4 (1942): 62–65. Pouilloux, Jean. Recherches sur l’histoire et les cultes de Thasos 1. Paris: Études Thasiennes 3, 1954. Privitera, Santo. “Poleis Massalias: da Artemidoro di Efeso a Eustazio di Tessalonica.” Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome 119 (2007): 41–49. Puig Griessenberger, Anna Maria. “Rhodé (c.375-195 av. J.-C.).” In Grecs et Indigènes de la Catalogne à la Mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 79–88. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne et Africaine 3, 2010. Ramón Torres, Joan. Las Anforas Punicas de Ibiza. Eivissa: Trabajos del Museo Arqueológico de Ibiza 23, 1991. Ribera Lacomba, Alberto. Las Anforas Prerromanas Valencianas (Fenicias, Ibericas y Punicas). Valencia: Servicio de Investigacion Prehistorica, Diputacion Provincial de Valencia, Series de Trabajos Varios 73, 1982. Rodríguez Adrados, Francisco. “Topónimos griegos en Iberia y Tartessos.” Emerita 68 (2000): 1–18. Rodríguez Pérez, Diana and Carmen Sánchez Fernández. “La tumba de L’Orleyl. La elección de un ajuar ático.” In Homenaje a Glòria Trias Rubiés. Cerámicas griegas de la Península Ibérica: cincuenta años después (1967-2017), ed. Xavier Aquilué, Paloma Cabrera and Margarita Orfila, 308–317. Barcelona: Centro Iberia Graeca, 2017. Roller, Duane. W. Through the Pillars of Herakles. Greco-Roman exploration of the Atlantic. London: Routledge, 2006. Roller, Duane. W. A Historical and Topographical Guide to the Geography of Strabo. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Romer, Frank. Pomponius Mela’s Description of the World. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1998.

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6

Iberian or Greek? Current debate on the coastal settlement of La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) Pierre Moret

The stretch of coastline between Cape Nao and Cape Palos, in the provinces of Alicante and Murcia, is the region of the Iberian Peninsula that has been most profoundly marked by its trade with the Greeks, much more than the native hinterland of the Greek colony of Emporion (Figure 6.1). Better than Strabo’s allusion to the presence in this sector, between the Júcar and Cartagena, of “three small towns of Marseilles” (3.4.6), a statement which remains difficult to interpret, due to its geographical and historical imprecision, archaeological evidence clearly demonstrates this fact. It is indeed in this region, and not around Emporion, that for a little more than a century, between the end of the fifth and the beginning of the third century BC, a writing system based on the Greek alphabet emerged (De Hoz Bravo 2010), while in the rest of the Iberian world the Palaeohispanic languages were written using a semi-syllabary that derived ultimately from Phoenician. Insofar as it implies the existence of bilingual scholars, this attempt is indisputable proof of a Greek, and more specifically Ionian, presence in this part of Iberia. It is also here that the principal masterpieces of Iberian sculpture are produced, which, together with oriental features, betray a knowledge of the processes and a certain number of motifs of Greek sculpture, from the end of the sixth century (Olmos Romera and Rouillard 1996) to the fifth century, in La Alcudia de Elche in particular (Truszkowski 2003). One could also mention the abundance of Greek ceramics found on the settlement sites and necropoleis of the provinces of Alicante and Murcia (Rouillard 1991), and the many imitations of Greek vases made in local workshops (García Cano 2014). What is lacking, on the other hand, are the archaeological remains of undeniably Greek settlements, whatever the name they are given: colonies, emporia or trading posts. This is the paradox of Alicante: a region where Greek models are known, imitated and reinterpreted more than anywhere else in Spain, but without the proven presence of a Greek settlement. With one exception, perhaps: the coastal site of La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) which has fuelled, in recent years, the debate on the nature of the Greek presence in south-eastern Iberia. Twenty years after the publication of the monograph devoted to this site (Badie et al. 2000), the passage of time is sufficient for us to attempt to take stock of the reactions and debates that DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-7

Iberian or Greek? 123

Figure 6.1  Location map of the sites mentioned in south-east Spain.

this excavation has generated.1 Let us first recall what conclusions we reached at the end of this study. La Picola is a very small port facility (3,000 m2 intramural), with complex fortifications: walls, towers, moat and escarpment wall (Figure 6.2a). The strictly regular layout which governs its almost square plan and the layout of streets and houses is without parallel in Iberia at this time. It reveals the systematic use of a measurement of 6 ft of 29.6 cm whose origin is probably Greek. The overall appearance is reminiscent of the epiteikhismata of Marseilles, small colonies-forts which guarded the coast (Bats 2004), but the analogy is only formal. Indeed, everything suggests that the inhabitants of La Picola were Iberians: the objects of daily life, especially table and kitchenware, and certain practices, such as the burial of infants under the floor of houses, prove it. 10% of the tableware consists of Attic vases: it is lower than the proportions expected in a Greek establishment, but it is much more than in the Iberian settlements of the region. La Picola seems therefore to be a hybrid site, mixing native and Greek traits. These peculiarities make sense when we place the site in its geographical context.

124  Pierre Moret

Figure 6.2 Plans of three coastal settlements in the province of Alicante. (a) La Picola in Santa Pola (after Badie et al. 2000); (b) El Cerro de las Balsas in Alicante (after Rosser Limiñana et al. 2003); (c) Illeta dels Banyets at El Campello (after Martínez Carmona et al. 2007). (Drawing by P. Moret.)

Iberian or Greek? 125 This very small coastal settlement is only 12 km from the Iberian town of Ilici (the site of La Alcudia, next to the current Elche), without a doubt the most important of the region (Figure 6.3). At such a small distance from such a powerful neighbour, it is inconceivable that La Picola could have had an autonomous existence. The site of La Picola must therefore be seen as the natural outlet to the sea of Elche, in a quasi-organic dependency relationship. Its commercial function is also unmistakable, given its coastal position, in a sheltered bay, and the presence of fortifications to protect stored goods. From these elements, two hypotheses were formulated in 2000: 1 La Picola is a Greek foundation, tolerated by the Iberians of Ilici, and occupied by a mixed community. 2 La Picola is founded by Iberians from Ilici, with Greek skills, and functions, under Iberian control, as a commercial staging-post; it can therefore be considered the emporion of Elche. The first hypothesis stumbles on a difficulty: could a Greek community become immersed in the indigenous environment to the point of not using Greek kitchenware, Greek lamps, Greek currency, or Greek-style houses? The second hypothesis agrees better with the evidence of the excavation, and that is why we opted for it in the conclusions of the monograph published in 2000. “Wanted by the Iberians, this foundation could not fail to interest the Greeks who found there several advantages: a fixed staging-post rationally organized; security insurance for stored assets; a powerful partner, therefore solvent, who could take over the redistribution of goods inland. As for the function of the enclosure, it must have been to protect the commercial interests of the city of Elche, either against its neighbors and native rivals, or against pirates of any origin” (Badie et al. 2000: 264). In this hypothesis, the intervention of a Greek master builder (or trained by Greeks) remains possible. But a permanent presence of Greeks was not necessary: La Picola was able to host itinerant traders, working with intermediaries or Iberian representatives, in a type of organization that the commercial letters of Pech Maho and Empúries (Rodríguez Somolinos 1998: 336–339, 350–353) give us an overview. These were our conclusions 20 years ago. They were reinforced shortly afterwards by the publication of excavations carried out between 1994 and 1998 in the Palaiapolis of Emporion (Aquilué i Abadias et al. 2002). These excavations revealed, for the phase of occupation which begins around 540 BC, the existence of a rectilinear street bordered by rectangular houses whose plan inevitably reminds us of La Picola, especially as the regular layout of the site follows the same modular relationship between the width of the street and that of the living quarters (Moret 2001, 2010). This parallel gave a firmer basis to the hypothesis of the Greek origin, and more precisely the Phocaean origin, of the scheme implemented at La Picola. As a counterpoint, it is now possible to compare La Picola’s plan with that of two other contemporary or slightly more recent coastal sites in the province of Alicante

126  Pierre Moret

Figure 6.3 Three hypotheses for the territorial organization in the second half of the fifth century BC between Elche (Ilici-La Alcudia), Santa Pola and the mouth of Segura. (a) According to C. Aranegui; (b) according to I. Grau, J. Moratalla and F. Sala; (c) proposal of the author. (Drawing by P. Moret.)

Iberian or Greek? 127 (Figure 6.2b): El Cerro de las Balsas in Alicante (Rosser Limiñana et al. 2003) and Illeta dels Banyets at El Campello (Martínez Carmona et al. 2007). The differences are obvious. These are small establishments, but even compared to them, La Picola stands out for its small size. Moreover, whereas Illeta dels Banyets displays a fairly regular organization of housing and streets, it is not orthonormal and standardized as in La Picola which, from this point of view, remains an isolated case in south-eastern Iberia, with the only parallel, further north, of the Phocaean colony of Emporion. In this increasingly well-known regional context, our proposals have been discussed several times over the last 20 years. Some authors have accepted most of our conclusions (Jaeggi 1999: 108; Blech 2001: 284; Lowe 2001: 140; Bresson 2002: 480–482; Ruiz de Arbulo 2003: 172; Abad Casal 2004: 74; Rosser Limiñana et al. 2003: 238, 243; Molina Vidal 2005: 97–98; Gracia Alonso 2008: 526–527; Almagro Gorbea 2009: 19; Miró i Alaix and Santos Retolaza 2014: 20). Some oscillate, from one article to another, between the two hypotheses that we had proposed: Adolfo Domínguez Monedero suggests (2002: 84) that “some Greeks may have resided in La Picola. In such a scenario a foreign minority may have controlled the settlement in order to carry out their trading activities.” In more recent syntheses, however, it is Elche that controls La Picola, “a fortress from which the authorities of Elche defended the port area, supervised exchanges in this emporic area and stored and protected part of the items that were objects of the exchange” (2007: 365; the same idea in Domínguez Monedero 2010: 36). There were also different interpretations. The objections focused on three points: the role of the fortification, the port and commercial function of the establishment and its connection to Elche. Several authors have emphasized, more than us, the defensive and even military role of the settlement. Teresa Chapa sees in La Picola “a military base that warned of possible dangers that arrived by sea, while also performing service tasks in relation to the port” (Chapa 2001: 209). According to her, it is therefore a fort protecting a port located in the immediate vicinity. The defensive function is also put forward by other authors (Grau Mira and Moratalla Jávega 2004: 114; Sala Sellés 2006: 138; Aranegui Gascó 2010: 694), given the importance of the fortifications of La Picola. These judgments must be nuanced, following the analysis of Fernando Quesada, who made some very accurate observations on La Picola’s defences (2007: 77–80). This author first observes that the place occupied by the fortifications in relation to the rest of the buildings, in volume and area, may be reminiscent of a fort, and he recognizes that the only possible parallels are Greek: “the architect – of Greek training – was inspired by complex models of central Mediterranean fortifications.” But he rightly insists that the very small size of the enclosure greatly diminishes the scope of the comparisons we have made with urban fortifications. Indeed, given its small size, even provided with a ditch, a curtain wall and an escarpment, the defences of La Picola could in no way resist the attack of an army or a well-organised siege. The threats they were responding to could only be of low

128  Pierre Moret intensity. F. Quesada here addresses a crucial point, that of the role of the fortification, which is at the heart of the alternative interpretations proposed by several researchers from the Universities of Valencia and Alicante. To summarize the state of the question in broad strokes, two alternative scenarios have been proposed. Both share one observation: La Picola’s plan and architecture set this site apart, but what is debatable is its function. The first scenario was proposed by Carmen Aranegui Gascó (2010, 2012). La Picola was a Massiliot foundation, “typologically comparable to the one at Olbia in Provence”; it would be a fort built on this coast to oppose Carthaginian incursions in an area that was disputed between the two powers (Aranegui Gascó 2010: 694, 696; 2012: 425). There was thus no connection with Elche, whose port would be located further south at the mouth of Segura (Figure 6.3a).2 This hypothesis does not stand up to scrutiny for three reasons. In the first place, the finds and cultural features of the inhabitants of La Picola are not Greek, or only very slightly. Secondly, as F. Quesada has shown, and as we have just recalled, the defences are not as powerful as one might think at first glance. Finally, the local context is incompatible with the Greek notion of epiteikhisma. As well defined by Michel Bats (2004: 53–54), a Massiliot epiteikhisma is an advanced stronghold, isolated in enemy or potentially hostile territory, and therefore completely dependent on the supply it receives from the city that founded it: it is in a way a projection of the latter. In the case of La Picola, the distance to Marseille – or even to Emporion – is far too great for such a relationship to be considered. The second alternative scenario is stronger and requires careful consideration. I will first try to summarize the arguments put forward in several publications by Jesús Moratalla, Ignasi Grau and Feliciana Sala (Grau Mira and Moratalla Jávega 2004: 114–115; Moratalla Jávega 2005: 103-4; Sala Sellés 2006: 138). They are arranged in three points: 1) the fortification of La Picola is too important for a commercial establishment, so it cannot be anything other than a fort; 2) throughout the Iberian period, from the sixth to the third century BC, the place where imported goods were exchanged and received remained the mouth of the Segura, while the bay of Santa Pola was occupied by La Picola only on an occasional and finally ephemeral basis, for less than a century, to defend Elche against pirates supposedly using the island of Tabarca (the ancient Planesia) as a base for incursions; 3) Attic imports are numerous in La Picola, but very scarce in La Alcudia: to seek to identify an arrival point for Greek trade, directly linked to this Iberian city, would not, therefore, be relevant reasoning. In short, La Picola would be a foundation of the Iberians of Elche, but for a strictly defensive function, faced with the supposed threat posed by pirates installed on the nearby island of Tabarca (Figure 6.3b). Let’s go back point by point. In this hypothesis, as in that of C. Aranegui, the prevalence of the military function is overestimated. While it is true that the part occupied by the defences is very important, this proportion is mechanically explained by the small size of the establishment, as we saw above, and it does not imply an unusual military capacity. On the other hand, it is irrelevant

Iberian or Greek? 129 to create two diametrically opposed and exclusive categories: that of the open emporia and that of the defensive strongholds. From this point of view, J. Ruiz de Arbulo (2003: 172–174) introduces an interesting nuance by noting that an emporion of the end of the fifth century, as La Picola could be, must have been very different from the mixed communities of the archaic period: it belonged a time of military clashes between Greeks and Carthaginians in the central Mediterranean, which probably resulted in the generalization of the model of the fortified port, a place where commercial transactions could be controlled and recorded thanks to the spread of the practice of writing. The questioning of La Picola’s commercial role is also irrelevant: the proportion of imports, compared to the total number of ceramics found, is greater than in the other two coastal sites in the area that were occupied in the fifth century and for which quantitative data are available: El Oral in San Fulgencio (Abad Casal and Sala Sellés 1993; Abad Casal et al. 2001) and El Cerro de las Balsas near Alicante (Rosser Limiñana et al. 2003). According to these publications, taking into account the total amount of pottery (amphoras and tableware), the proportion of imported fine tableware amounts to 9.5% in La Picola, as against 6% in Cerro de las Balsas and 1.2% in El Oral. Greek and Punic amphoras account for 10.6% of the same total at La Picola, as against 2% at Cerro de las Balsas and 4.5% at El Oral. Secondly, geographical logic imposes, it seems to me, an organic link between La Picola and Elche. Santa Pola is today the port of Elche and it is the closest point of the coast to the Iberian city, with no natural obstacle to cross. In addition, as stated by a geographer, “during the Iberian period the coastline formed a marked inward bend immediately to the south of the dome of Santa Pola, giving rise to a natural cove sheltered from the northeast winds. These favourable conditions, which were maintained throughout the Roman period, explain the location of the Portus Ilicitanus in this section of the coast” (Ferrer García 2005: 127). On 150 km of coast between the capes of Nao and Palos, Cape Santa Pola is one of the few coastal features that shelter boats from the swell created by the prevailing northeasterly winds. Moreover, coasting was necessarily through the Tabarca canal, as close as possible to the coast (ibid.). In short, from a geographical point of view, the site of La Picola offered all the advantages for the inhabitants of Ilici: proximity, good anchorage and an obligatory crossing point for navigators. If the site was never occupied before the middle of the fifth century, it was not because it was not attractive, but because it was only then that the Iberian city of Elche acquired enough power to engage in a commercial development project and acquire attractive port structures, the security offered by the fortification being part of this attractiveness. The existence of centres of redistribution active at the same time in Lower Segura does not exclude the association of La Picola and Elche, since the Iberian cities of the fifth century probably did not control very large territories and there is no evidence that the territory held by La Alcudia extended as far as the Lower Segura, as J. Molina Vidal (2005: 97–99) pointed out, and as Mercedes Tendero

130  Pierre Moret also suggests: “these two foci, on the one hand L’Alcudia-La Picola and on the other La Escuera, shared control over and increasingly large and complex territory” (Tendero Porras 2005: 315). Did the fortified settlements of Cabezo Lucero (1.5 ha, Moret 1996: 484) and La Escuera (between 1 and 3 ha3), relatively big for the region, depend directly on Ilici (between 3 and 6 ha in the fifth century4)? It is unlikely. Consequently, the existence of very active commercial traffic in the Lower Segura during the entire period considered, between the probable port of Las Dunas del Rebollo (Guardamar del Segura), immediately north of the mouth of the river,5 and the hillforts staggered on its lower course, on the north shore (La Escuera) and the south shore (Cabezo Lucero), does not in any way exclude the emergence, a little further north, of another pair formed by a coastal site and a site from the nearby hinterland. Third point: even if it was not very well known for this period, La Alcudia de Elche was undoubtedly an important centre of power, despite the doubts expressed by F. Sala Sellés (2006: 138), given the small quantity of Attic vases of the fifth century found there. Actually, this apparent anomaly is the consequence of a lack of knowledge, due to the very particular conditions of archaeological exploration of the site until the end of the twentieth century: ancient levels rarely reached, stratigraphy sometimes misinterpreted, insufficient publications, finds very partially known. The studies of Jesús Moratalla Jávega (2004) and Mercedes Tendero Porras (2005) show that even after all the corrections required by the excavators’ publications from the 1950s to the 1990s, and even reducing the area of the oppidum to less than 6 ha in the fifth century, La Alcudia remains “the only great [Iberian] city in all of Contestania” (Moratalla Jávega 2004: 103). Evidence of this is the continuity of its occupation since the first Iron Age, the diversity and the often exceptional nature of imports – despite their small number –, the presence of satellite sites such as the potter’s workshop at El Arsenal and the two necropoleis of Vizcarra and Hacienda Botella (Moratalla Jávega 2005: 103) and, of course, the absolutely exceptional character of the set of sculptures that made the site famous. Mercedes Tendero Porras (2005) brought elements of the greatest interest to the evolution of local pottery at La Alcudia. Firstly, two rare forms of Iberian fine ware which characterize La Alcudia’s productions, the amphoroid urn and the dish with handles, are also present at La Picola. This assemblage in common confirms the close link between the two sites. Tendero’s study also shows that the site was gaining importance from the middle of the fifth century, after a virtual absence of imports in the sixth and the beginning of the fifth century, and that this rise in power, this “birth” to resume her term, coincides with the abandonment of El Oral, a little further south in the Lower Segura (Tendero Porras 2005: 314–315). This finding is important. In the middle of the fifth century, La Alcudia was no longer an Iberian village among others; it became a political centre, soon a city, which structured its territory and which, in order to develop better, established a port, in the nearest sheltered bay, that of Santa Pola. Since any change in the territorial and commercial balance of power is necessarily a source of conflict, it was normal that this new port, competing with that or those at the mouth of the Segura, should be

Iberian or Greek? 131 equipped with strong defences: this is the meaning and context of the foundation of La Picola. On the other hand, if we were to assume that La Picola was a mere coastal defence fort, and if at the same time we said that all commercial traffic continued to pass through the mouth of Segura, it would be hard to understand why the government in Elche suddenly took the initiative, between 450 and 425, to invest massively in the construction of a costly fortification, obliging itself to maintain in La Picola a garrison – probably a strong one consisting of several dozens of people – to defend a bay which until then was “uninhabited” and “ignored” and through which no goods passed. Let us add that if the goal of the Iberians of Elche had been to monitor the islet of Tabarca (probably deserted at this time),6 a simple watch tower would have been enough. No trace of a pirate base has been identified in Tabarca. A settlement like La Picola is oversized for a function that, as has been proposed (Grau Mira and Moratalla Jávega 2004: 114; Sala Sellés 2006: 138), would have been limited to monitoring the coast. What is in fact behind this idea is the anachronistic image of the castle-fortress of Santa Pola, built to defend against the Barbary pirates who skirted the Valencian coast and sometimes used the islet of Tabarca as the base of operations (Sánchez and García Mas 1990). But the geopolitical situation in the sixteenth century AD has nothing to do with that of the fifth century BC. To conclude, the scenario that seems to me to best agree with all the archaeological data currently available is the one that postulates a privileged link between the fortified port and the Iberian city (Figure 6.3c). Other specialized settlements similar to La Picola were to exist along the Mediterranean coast of Spain. Their existence was based on a contract (tacit or formalized) between a local authority, which was committed to ensuring the security of trade and their compliance with common rules,7 and the actors in maritime trade. Under this deliberately vague and generic term of actors, I include various nationalities (Greeks from Marseilles, Emporion or elsewhere, Carthaginians, Phoenicians from Ibiza or the south of Spain, and also Iberians from other cities or other regions) and also various statutes ranging from the captain of a passing boat, wishing to sell part of its cargo, to the magistrates of an allied city which would have maintained privileged commercial relations with Ilici. Archeology is generally unable to differentiate between these cases, but what it observes in the case of Ilici and La Picola is that this pattern made Elche, between the fifth and the fourth century, a privileged gateway for techniques and modes of representation from the Greek world. Conversely, the absence in the north of the Ebro of similar relations between a city and its commercial port, and more generally the rarity in north Iberia of marketplaces specifically dedicated to maritime trade (Gorgues 2016), may explain the absence of similar transfers, despite the proximity of a Greek colony. We understand, therefore, why it was in southeastern Iberia that a script was invented using the Greek alphabet to express the Iberian language, and not in Catalonia, and why it was in Elche that a workshop of sculptors trained with Greek masters was developed, when no quality Iberian sculpture is known within a radius of 200 km around the colony of Emporion.

132  Pierre Moret Notes 1 In this chapter that is limited to archaeological aspects, I will not address the question of the ancient toponyms Alonis, Alônai and Allon and their possible link with the site of Santa Pola (on this subject, one will find divergent positions in Badie et al. 2000, Bresson 2002 and Espinosa Ruiz 2006). 2 The proposal of Carmen Aranegui has been taken up by Eduardo Ferrer who completes it by asking, as a conjecture, if “La Picola could be a phrourion of Massaliot origin, that is, a pirate base similar to those mentioned in the Roman-Carthaginian treaties” (Ferrer Albelda 2013: 120). 3 Approximate size: cf. Moret 1996: 486 (3 ha) and Moratalla 2005: 105 (1 ha). 4 It is currently assumed that during the Early Iberian Period, the site of La Alcudia occupied an area of about 3 ha, rising to about 6 ha in the Middle Iberian (Moratalla 2004: 93; 2005: 105). 5 Gutiérrez et al. 1999: 33. This site, still poorly known, but whose importance seems beyond doubt and which is clearly related to the necropolis of El Molar, is inexplicably forgotten in all the regional studies or syntheses recently published. 6 There is no occupation prior to the imperial Roman era (Pérez Burgos 2001). 7 On this fundamental point, see Gorgues 2016.

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Iberian or Greek? 133 Bresson, Alain. “Quatre emporia antiques: Abul, La Picola, Elizavetovskoie, Naucratis.” Revue des Etudes Anciennes 104 no. 3–4 (2002): 475–505. Chapa, Teresa. [Review of] “A. Badie, E. Gailledrat, P. Moret, P. Rouillard, M. J. Sánchez et P. Sillières, Le site antique de La Picola à Santa Pola (Alicante), Paris-Madrid, 2000, 380 pp.” Trabajos de Prehistoria 58 no. 1 (2001): 208–209. De Hoz Bravo, Javier. “L’écriture gréco-ibérique et l’influence hellène sur les usages de l’écriture en Hispanie et dans le sud de la France.” In Grecs et indigènes de la Catalogne à la mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 637–657. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne et Africaine 3, 2010. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo. “Greeks in Iberia: Colonialism without colonization.” In The Archaeology of Colonialism, ed. Claire Lyons and John Papadopoulos, 65–95. Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2002. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Los griegos en Iberia.” In Protohistoria y antigüedad de la Península Ibérica, I: las fuentes y la Iberia colonial, ed. Eduardo Sánchez Moreno, 319–402. Madrid: Ed. Silex, 2007. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo J. “Greeks and the local population in the Mediterranean: Sicily and the Iberian Peninsula.” In Archaic Greek Culture: History, Archaeology, Art & Museology. Proceedings of the International Round-Table Conference, June 2005, St-Petersburg, Russia, ed. Sergey Solovyov, 25–36. Oxford: BAR International Series 2061, 2010. Espinosa Ruiz, Antonio. “Sobre el nombre de la ciudad ibérica y romana de Villajoyosa y la ubicación del topónimo Alonís/Alonai/Allon.” Lucentum 25 (2006): 223–248. Ferrer Albelda, Eduardo. “La piratería en los tratados entre Cartago y Roma.” In Piratería y Seguridad Marítima en el Mediterráneo Antiguo, ed. Alfonso Álvarez-Ossorio Rivas, Eduardo Ferrer Albelda and Enrique García Vargas, 95–125. Sevilla: SPAL Monografías 17, 2013. Ferrer García, Carlos. “Asentamientos portuarios históricos del litoral meridional valenciano.” Méditerranée. Revue géographique des pays méditerranéens 104 (2005): 119–128. García Cano, José Miguel. “Las imitaciones ibéricas de vajilla ática en el Sureste peninsular. Ejemplos de Murcia.” In El problema de las imitaciones durante la protohistoria en el Mediterráneo centro-occidental, ed. Raimon Graells i Fabregat, Michal Krueger, Samuel Sardà Seuma and Gabriella Sciortino, 149–167. Berlin and Madrid: Iberia archaeologica 18, 2014. Gorgues, Alexis. “Trade in a liminal zone: commercial encounter and transformation in the Iron Age north-west Mediterranean.” In Cultural encounters in Iron Age Europe, ed. Ian Armit, Hrvoje Potrebica, Matija Črešnar, Philip Mason and Lindsey Büster, 167–210. Budapest: Archeolingua Series Minor 38, 2016. Gracia Alonso, Francisco. “Comercio, colonización e interacción griega en la Península Ibérica entre los siglos VIII y II a.C.” In De Iberia a Hispania, ed. Francisco Gracia Alonso, 475–552. Barcelona: Ariel, 2008. Grau Mira, Ignasi and Jesús Moratalla Jávega. “El paisaje antiguo.” In Iberia, Hispania, Spania. Una mirada desde Ilici, 111–118. Alicante: Caja de Ahorros del Mediterráneo, 2004. Gutiérrez, Sonia, Pierre Moret, Pierre Rouillard and Pierre Sillières. “Le peuplement du Bas Segura de la protohistoire au Moyen Âge (prospections 1989-1990).” Lucentum 17–18 (1999): 25–74. Jaeggi, Othmar. Der Hellenismus auf der Iberischen Halbinsel: Studien zur iberischen Kunst und Kultur: das Beispiel eines Rezeptionsvorgangs. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1999.

134  Pierre Moret Lowe, Benedict. “Between colonies and emporia. Iberian hinterlands and the exchange of salted fish in eastern Spain.” In Hellenistic economies, ed. Zosia Archibald, John Davies, Vincent Gabrielsen and Graham Oliver, 175–200. London: Routledge, 2001. Martínez Carmona, Adoración, Manuel Olcina Domenech and Feliciana Sala Sellés. “Un posible sistema defensivo de época ibérica en la Illeta dels Banyets (el Campello, Alicante).” Anales de Arqueología Cordobesa 18 (2007): 47–66. Miró i Alaix, Maria Teresa and Marta Santos Retolaza. “The Greek presence on the east coast of the Iberian Peninsula: Colonial establishments and rhythms of trade with Iberian societies.” Catalan Historical Review 7 (2014): 9–28. Molina Vidal, Jaime. “La cetaria de Picola y la evolución del Portus Ilicitanus (Santa Pola, Alicante).” In III Congreso Internacional de Estudios Históricos. El Mediterráneo: la cultura del mar y la sal, ed. Jaime Molina Vidal and María José Sánchez, 95–112. Santa Pola - Elche: Ayuntamiento de Santa Pola, 2005. Moratalla Jávega, Jesús. “La Alcudia ibérica: una necesaria reflexión arqueológica.” Lucentum 23–24 (2004): 89–104. Moratalla Jávega, Jesús. “El territorio meridional de la Contestania.” In La Contestania ibérica, treinta años después, ed. Lorenzo Abad Casal, Feliciana Sala Sellés and Ignasi Grau Mira, 91–117. Alicante: Universitat d’Alacant, 2005. Moret, Pierre. Les fortifications ibériques, de la fin de l’âge du bronze à la conquête romaine. Madrid: Collection de la Casa de Velázquez 56, 1996. Moret, Pierre. “Emporion et les mutations de l’architecture ibérique au premier âge du fer.” Zephyrus 53–54 (2001): 379–391. Moret, Pierre. “La diffusion du village clos dans le nord-est de la péninsule Ibérique et le problème architectural de la palaia polis d’Emporion.” In Grecs et indigènes de la Catalogne à la mer Noire, ed. Henri Tréziny, 329–332. Aix-en-Provence: Bibliothèque d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne et Africaine 3, 2010. Olmos Romera, Ricardo and Pierre Rouillard (eds.). Formes archaïques et arts ibériques. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 1996. Pérez Burgos, José María. “La isla de Nueva Tabarca (Alicante): un recinto fortificado del siglo XVIII. Intervenciones arqueológicas en torno a su sistema defensive.” Castillos de España 123 (2001): 53–61. Quesada Sanz, Fernando. “Asedio, sitio, asalto… Aspectos prácticos de la poliorcética en la Iberia prerromana.” In Paisajes fortificados de la Edad del Hierro. Las fortificaciones protohistóricas de la Meseta y la vertiente atlántica en su contexto europeo, ed. Luis Berrocal and Pierre Moret, 75–98. Madrid: Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 28, 2007. Rodríguez Somolinos, Helena. “Inscriptiones graecae antiquissimae Iberiae.” In Testimonia Hispaniae Antiqua IIA, ed. Julio Mangas Manjarrés and Domingo Plácido Suárez, 333–362. Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 1998. Rosser Limiñana, Pablo, Josette Elayi and José Manuel Pérez Burgos. El Cerro de las Balsas y El Chinchorro: una aproximación a la arqueología del poblamiento prehistórico e ibérico de la Albufereta de Alicante. Alicante: LQNT, Monográfico 2, 2003. Rouillard, Pierre. Les Grecs et la Péninsule Ibérique du VIIIe au IV e siècle av. J.-C. Paris: Publications du Centre Pierre Paris 21, 1991. Ruiz de Arbulo, Joaquín. “Santuarios y fortalezas. Cuestiones de indigenismo, helenización y romanización en torno a Emporion y Rhode (s. VI – I a.C.).” Cuadernos de Prehistoria y Arqueología de la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid 28–29 (2003): 161–202. Sala Sellés, Feliciana. “Les fortificacions a la Contestània: entre la representació social i la defensa del territori.” In Arquitectura defensiva. La protección de la población y del

Iberian or Greek? 135 territorio en época ibérica (Benicarló, 3-4 de febrero 2005), ed. Artur Oliver Foix, 123– 165. Castellón: Sociedad Castellonense de Cultura, 2006. Sánchez, María José and Alfredo García Mas. Historia del castillo-fortaleza de Santa Pola (s. XVI-XX). Santa Pola: Ayuntamiento de Santa Pola, 1990. Tendero Porras, Mercedes. “La cerámica del período ibérico antiguo en La Alcudia (Elche, Alicante).” In La Contestania ibérica, treinta años después, ed. Lorenzo Abad Casal, Feliciana Sala Sellés and Ignacio Grau Mira, 305–316. Alicante: Universitat d’Alacant, 2005. Truszkowski, Elisabeth. “Réflexions sur la sculpture funéraire et votive du Sud-Est de la Péninsule Ibérique.” Madrider Mitteilungen 44 (2003): 311–332.

7

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga Five centuries of relationships and trade in the Phoenician West Eduardo García Alfonso

Until the middle of the 20th century, the presence of Greeks in the extreme West was based on literary sources. Even the appearance of place names in various texts referring to the south and east of the Iberian Peninsula, such as Mainake, Alonis and Hemeroskopeion, was interpreted as indicative of the existence of Greek colonies, which should be a reflection of what Archaeology had been learning in Emporion since 1908. For the coast of Málaga, it was the discovery of the archaic Phoenician presence from 1964 that began to change this view of things. The excavation of the settlement of Toscanos by the German Archaeological Institute, initially motivated to follow the trail of Adolf Schulten in search of the Greek Mainake, soon after prompted work on the nearby sites of Morro de Mezquitilla and Trayamar. Almost in parallel, excavations began in the Cerro del Villar and extended somewhat later to the city of Málaga itself. All these works highlighted the importance of the Phoenician world on the Málaga coast and allowed the development of the first interpretive models of the colonial establishment. With this, the Greeks were relegated to the background, even denying their presence on the coast of Málaga. Mainake became the simple Hellenized version of a Semitic place name (Warning-Treumann 1979–1980) and the Greek pottery that appeared in the settlements was considered the exclusive result of Phoenician commercial action. However, since the 1980s the discovery of a significant amount of Greek pottery from the late 7th century and the first half of the 6th century BC in Huelva and Málaga has researchers rethink this question (Olmos Romera 1986; Cabrera Bonet 1988–1989). Currently, the increase in archaeological information in the last 25 years has caused substantial changes in the explanatory models previously in force (García Alfonso 2012; García Alfonso 2018). In the 6th century BC, Málaka appears as an authentic city-state, generated after a long process of Phoenician implantation on the Málaga bay, which lasted two and a half centuries from the second half of the 9th century BC. In this enormously changing context, Greek activity would be inserted on this coastline over five centuries, of which today we can offer a new assessment more in line with what is known in other parts of the Mediterranean. DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-8

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 137 The geometric imports at La Rebanadilla and their significance Since the end of the 20th century, the application of calibrated carbon-14 dating in the Phoenician settlements of the West has determined that some of them were founded in the second half of the 9th century BC. The idea was overcome that had prevailed since the 1960s of dating the first Phoenician colonization during the 8th century BC, in which geometric Greek pottery that appeared at that time in the earliest levels of the settlements played an essential role, whose chronology ca. 800–760 BC was established by Coldstream (2008: 327–330). For the south of the Iberian Peninsula, we currently have radiocarbon dating for the city of Huelva (González de Canales et al. 2004: 199; 2008: 642), La Rebanadilla (Málaga) (Arancibia Román et al. 2011: 130; Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno et al. 2012), Alcorrín (Manilva, Málaga) (Marzoli et al. 2010: 171–175) and El Carambolo (Sevilla) (Fernández Flores and Rodríguez Azogue 2007: 103–104). In the first two of these places, in strata dated before 800 cal. BC, we find various Attic and Euboean Middle Geometric II pottery and Euboean Subprotogeometric III wares. Because of this, various authors have been in favor of raising the dates of these Greek wares to the first half of the 9th century BC (Trachsel 2004: figure 109; Brandherm 2008: 100–101) or, in a more moderate proposal, to the interval between 825–775 BC (Mederos Martín 2005: 329, table 13). At the beginning of the first millennium BC, the ancient mouth of the Guadalhorce River formed a wide and swampy estuary. When the Phoenicians began to frequent the Bay of Málaga, several river bars had already appeared inside this wetland, constituting various islets of silt and sand, formed by the joint action of the river and the sea (Figure 7.1). On one of these bars – La Rebanadilla – there was a first occupation in the second half of the 9th century BC, consisting of several irregular oval structures excavated in the ground, which contained ashes, animal bones, ceramics and remains of metallurgical activity. These findings were interpreted as evidence of the existence here of a foundry workshop (Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno et al. 2011: 189–190). While waiting for the complete publication by the team that carried out the excavation, for my part I think that this type of structure may be related to temporary activities on the old islet. The place could serve at this time as a point of contact between local groups and the first Phoenician navigators – La Rebanadilla, Phase IV – A similar example can be found in El Carambolo, in the old Guadalquivir estuary, on the Andalusian Atlantic coast (Delgado Hervás 2014: 286). I consider that these large bonfires and other material elements may be signs of ritual celebrations coinciding with certain calendar dates, similar to the festivals that we know in the archaic Greek world, which involve the presence of itinerant artisans and foreign and local merchants, offering their services and products. In this type of event, the banquet plays a special role as a social practice to facilitate agreements between the different elites. The place must be neutral, somewhat marginal and under divine protection. The pottery found in this Rebanadilla IV phase also points to the presence of multiple groups, with a majority of handmade vases linked to the Late Bronze Age tradition of Málaga, accompanied by Phoenician ceramics and to a lesser extent some Sardinian, Greek and Cypriot vessels.

138  Eduardo García Alfonso

Figure 7.1 Map of the bay and city of Málaga: places with Greek objects: (a) The Bay of Málaga between 9th and 4th centuries BC; (b) excavations in the Phoenician Málaka.

Within the Greek ceramics of this first phase, we find a fragmented Mid-Geometric II skyphos decorated with interlocking meandering hooks (Sánchez SánchezMoreno et al. 2012: 75, figure 12). This motif is common in Attic, Euboean, and Cycladic workshops, but we have not found any exact parallel in composition. The characteristics of the fabric, glaze and brushstroke make us consider that it is an Attic production (García Alfonso 2018: 451) (Figure 7.2a).

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 139

Figure 7.2 La Rebanadilla. Greek Geometric skyphoi. (a) Skyphos of Attic workshop. (b) Skyphos of Euboean workshop.

The second phase of the settlement – Rebanadilla III – dates from the last quarter of the 9th century and the beginning of the 8th century BC. The settlement was consolidated at this time, with several buildings of the Phoenician type, some with residential function and others for religious use. The archaeological materials are very similar to the previous stage. Among the imported merchandise, we find another Greek skyphos, with very lost “chevrons” decoration and signs of repair using clamps (Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno et al. 2011: 191; 2012: 75 and 79, figures 12 and 17). It is also a piece from the late Mid-Geometric II. Its fabric and firing would indicate that it came from a Euboean workshop (García Alfonso 2018: 451–452) (Figure 7.2b). The Greek skyphoi of La Rebanadilla are similar to those we know from Eretria (Euboea) (Verdan et al. 2008: 151, no. 57–58), Veii (Lazio) (Ridgway 1997: 161–165), Pontecagnano (Campania) (Bailo Modesti and Gastaldi 1999: pl. 1, no. 4–5; 2, no. 3; 3, no. 1–2 and 4–7) and Huelva (González de Canales et al. 2004: 82–84), all of them dated before the founding of the Euboean colony of Pithecusae on the island of Ischia, or contemporary to the earliest phase of that colonial settlement, without wanting to enter into the chronological debate. For some time, it has been pointed out (Domínguez Monedero 2013: 14–18) that the presence of these

140  Eduardo García Alfonso materials, documented in very similar contexts, could reflect a collaboration between Phoenicians and Euboeans in these first voyages to the West. The Euboeans would have distributed their own pottery, as well as Attic and Cycladic wares. The elements that identify these relationships appear from the 10th century BC, both in Euboea itself and in the ports of Syria-Palestine. The Euboeans could initially coincide with the Phoenicians in Cyprus and in the ports of the Levant and later in places of Crete such as Kommos. In this regard, we must not forget Homer’s references to the association between Phoenicians and Greeks for some commercial enterprises, although without expressly mentioning the Euboeans (Odyssey 14.287–296). Judging by the existing archaeological material, it seems that the Euboeans, like the Sardinians, must have played a subsidiary role in these navigations, but the experience gained could be decisive for later undertakings, such as their establishment in Pithekoussai. Possibly, the Euboean participation in this “joint-venture” with the Phoenicians was the only source of information that the Greeks had about the extreme West until the late 7th century BC. On the other hand, the proliferation of place names with the suffix “-oussa” linked to islands and continental coastal regions of the Iberian Peninsula and the Tyrrhenian Sea could be explained by these early voyages (García Alonso 1996: 120). New business partners After this first group of geometric imports, there is a lack of Greek materials in the Iberian Peninsula until the last third of the 8th century BC. Euboea continues as the main partner of the Phoenicians in the Aegean, but it is very possible that the events in which this island was involved have a lot to do with this hiatus. The foundation of Pithekoussai ca. 770 BC according to the traditional chronology, and the growing rivalry between Chalcis and Eretria, which led to the outbreak of the Lelantine war (ca. 730–700 BC) could diminish the interest of the Euboean poleis by the extreme West so that the Phoenician networks had to seek other providers in the Aegean. The result was the consolidation of relations with emerging states, such as Corinth, Athens and the cities of Eastern Greece. This new period, which began ca. 740–730 BC, is characterized by the arrival to the Peninsula of a few products that were already in decline, such as the Euboean skyphoi of the Late Geometric and some Thapsos cups, but these are not present in Málaga for the moment. Around 730 BC, new forms were beginning to appear, such as early proto-Corinthian kotylai, Corinthian amphorae, and SOS-type amphorae. The Greek amphorae of these times are mainly linked to the olive oil trade, concentrated in Toscanos – 30 km away to the east of Málaga – and most of the imports of this origin continue throughout the 7th century BC, in much greater numbers than on the Bay of Málaga in this chronology (García Alfonso 2014–2015). Cerro del Villar The oldest specimen of an SOS-type amphora known in the Bay of Málaga comes from Cerro del Villar, at the mouth of the Guadalhorce River, 1.5 km downstream

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 141

Figure 7.3 Cerro del Villar. Greek amphora similar to SOS type. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.)

from La Rebanadilla and with better conditions for a harbour. This Phoenician settlement was founded in the second half of the 8th century BC and it soon became the centre for Phoenician control of the Bay of Málaga, probably through pacts with the indigenous elite. Its great urban development and its active commerce continued until the beginning of the 6th century BC, when the seat of Phoenician power was moved to nearby Málaka. The Cerro del Villar SOS-type amphora is an almost complete piece, measuring 67 cm high, which must be dated ca. 700 BC or very early in the 7th century BC (Aubet Semmler 1999a: 90). The shape of the container imitates the Attic amphorae, but its clay is not of that origin, presenting its surface covered with black varnish that has almost disappeared (Figure 7.3). This has motivated several proposals about its origin: Chalcis or Italy (Cabrera Bonet 1994: 102; 2003: 66), or the Aegean Islands (Vegas 1999: 136). For his part, R. Docter (2000: 71) has pointed out the similarity that exists between this amphora from Cerro del Villar and a series of fragments from Toscanos, attributing to the set a possible origin in Eastern Greece, an opinion that is shared by M. E. Aubet Semmler (1999b: 44–45). Also in Cerro del Villar, three cubic weights of lead have been found which, according to M. P. García y Bellido (2000: 96–99), respond to a Phocaean metrological

142  Eduardo García Alfonso pattern. No details have been published about the stratigraphy and exact context of these pieces, which have been claimed to date from the transition between the 8th and 7th centuries BC, although the “shopping street” in which they appeared was dated to the early 7th century BC (Aubet Semmler, 1997: 200). It will be prudent to wait for more complete information, as it is striking that in such an ancient date a system of Phocaean weights was used in the Bay of Málaga. It would be more appropriate for this to occur at the end of the 7th century and the beginning of the 6th century BC. Another possibility that we have worked on is that these weights – or at least some of them – that do not find accommodation in the Phoenician system correspond to a Rhodian pattern, which would be more in line with the early chronology used for these pieces (García Alfonso 2022). In any case, the use of a Greek metrological system in Cerro del Villar only confirms that we are in a marketplace where agents of this origin are regular operators. Málaka The earliest occupation of the site of Phoenician Málaka took place in the first half of the 7th century BC, apparently as an extension of the metallurgical activities that were carried out in Cerro del Villar. From ca. 650 BC, the new settlement shows signs of vitality and prosperity, announcing its future splendor. During the second half of this century, a series of large-scale constructions were built on the southern slope of the same, which have been detected in the excavations that were carried out between 1998 and 2002 in the old central building of the Post Office that is today converted into the Rectorate of the University of Málaga. These structures can be interpreted as fortifications or, perhaps, more likely, as terraces to facilitate the use of this area (Suárez Padilla et al. 2020). Among the sediment used to fill the clearings to prepare the natural rock of these constructions, several fragments of an Attic amphora of the SOS type appeared, dated to the second half of the 7th century BC, which is the oldest Greek piece documented at the moment in the city of Málaga itself. This find indicates that the content of these containers, whether it was wine, or more likely, quality olive oil, was already in demand by certain social groups that resided in the recently founded Málaka (García Alfonso 2020). The expansion of Phocaean commerce The first literary account of a Greek trip to the Iberian Peninsula with a historical basis is that of Kolaios of Samos (Hrt. 4.152), who, mediating a series of circumstances, reached Tartessos, a place that the Greeks had located in the Atlantic. The Samians made substantial profits from this trip, which must have occurred ca. 640–630 BC. Kolaios’ story, whether truth or exaggeration, acted as a stimulus for other Greeks in Ionia to try to reach the rich western markets, controlled by the Phoenicians. In another passage, Herodotus (1.163) indicates that the Phocaeans were the “discoverers” of Tartessos, as well as other regions, which contradicts what he says about the journey of Kolaios. In

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 143 any case, Phocaea, an ally of Samos and with similar activities overseas, was well informed about the extreme West and very interested in lucrative longdistance trade. The history of the friendship between the Phocaeans and the “king” of Tartessos Arganthonios (Hrt. 1.163) is well known and scholars have made many interpretations of it. Beyond the literary text, archaeological excavations reveal a significant increase in Greek material in two places in the south of the Iberian Peninsula since the end of the 7th century BC: Huelva and the Bay of Málaga. This has suggested a Phocaean horizon in both places, whose emergence took place in the first half of the 6th century BC. The settlement of Huelva, whose Phoenician or indigenous nature has been discussed in recent years, presents a greater quantity, quality and variety of Greek imports. Even in recent years, the existence of a permanent Greek community living in Huelva has been determined, with its own ceramic productions (González de Canales and Llompart Gómez 2017). For its part, in the 6th century BC, the Bay of Málaga contained the Phoenician settlements of Cerro del Villar, already very much in decline at this time that will lead to its abandonment around 580/560 BC, and the city of Málaka, now a stronghold and centre for international maritime trade, which became the main centre before the crossing of the Strait of Gibraltar. However, the extent of archaeological exploration of Phoenician Málaga is much lower than that of Huelva, so the amount of Greek material found in both is not comparable, being much less in Málaga at the moment. For the most part, the imports that appear in both cities are Greco-Oriental ceramics, followed in number by others from Attic, Corinthian and Laconian workshops, but which always present very low percentages compared to the dominant Phoenician products. Judging by the archaeological documentation and the texts, this Greek trade must have started from the poleis of Asia Minor, mainly from Phocea. In no case should this Greek activity have been alien to the Phoenician interests or of some indigenous groups, since the Phocaeans or other Ionian Greeks had to have the collaboration with the local dominant groups to participate in the business of the extreme West. The Ionian cup is the most widely represented form in this set of materials, in its various variants, whether manufactured in Samos, in workshops in Asia Minor or in the central Mediterranean. Greek pottery of this date appears in the cities of Huelva and Málaga, but not in the nearby areas, with some rare exceptions. This is a sign that they were not imported products for trade with the indigenous people but for use in these ports. Therefore, I think that they were everyday objects used for drinking by Greeks who lived in these places and, perhaps, by some of their Phoenician hosts. This would also explain the presence of dinoi and kraters, necessary for the ritual of mixing wine and water. Wine is consumed in Greek cups and according to Greek custom, was a symbol of ethnic identity. Likewise, both in Huelva and in Málaga, a certain number of Greek graffiti have been documented on these cups, which indicates a connection with people of this origin and the dedication, at least in part, of these vessels to non-commercial purposes.

144  Eduardo García Alfonso Cerro del Villar The greatest amount of Greek materials in Cerro del Villar corresponds to a time between the end of the 7th century and the first years of the 6th century BC (Cabrera Bonet 1994: 103–108) which could last until ca. 580/560 BC, coinciding with the abandonment of the Phoenician settlement (Curià 1999: 278–279). So far, eight examples of Ionian type A2 cups made in Samos have been documented. One of these cups has an inscription in the Ionic alphabet, which seems to refer to some kind of gift. The text preserves seven signs, among which we find one of the oldest known representations of the omega letter (De Hoz Bravo 1994) (Figure 7.4). Likewise, some B2 cup fragments have been documented, which are slightly later, perhaps after 580 BC, whose origin may be Samos. Other forms also present are hydriai, closed cups and little jugs, all of them also coming from Samos. We have also found some fragments of Aeolian bucchero. The documented Greek amphorae correspond mainly to Samian pieces, while other fragments are Attic, although it is difficult to distinguish whether they correspond to the SOS or “à la brosse” type (Cabrera Bonet 1994). Málaka The Greek materials found in Málaga over the past 30 years have made this city the third benchmark for Greek trade in the Iberian Peninsula for the final phase of the archaic period, after Sant Martí d’Empúries and Huelva. The area where the Phoenician city of Málaka was located occupied a small peninsula located on the eastern shore of the paleoestuary that formed the ancient mouth of the Guadalmedina. This promontory extended towards the west, from the hill of the Alcazaba to the place

Figure 7.4  Cerro del Villar. Sherds of Samian A2 cup with Greek graffito.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 145 where the Cathedral of Málaga stands today. In this area, the oldest levels have been reached in different excavations: the upper area of the Roman Theater of Málaga (Gran Aymerich 1991), the courtyard of the Convent of San Agustín (Recio Ruiz 1990), the basement of the Palacio de Buenavista – currently the Picasso Museum – (Arancibia Román and Escalante Aguilar 2006), a building on Císter 3 - San Agustín 4 streets (Arancibia Román and Escalante Aguilar 2010) and the building of the Rectorate of the University of Málaga (Chacón Mohedano and Salvago Soto 2005) (Figure 7.1b). However, only a very small area of the Phoenician city has been investigated, due to problems of urban archeology and the existence of an important sequence from Roman and medieval times. Furthermore, an important part of these works has only been published in a partial way, which does not allow us to know most of the materials or the contexts in detail. At the moment, one of the oldest Greek pieces found in Málaga is a fragment of a vase from the Palacio de Buenavista similar to the Wild Goat Style, but which shows part of a religious or mythological scene already with human figures (Figure 7.5a). It would be dated at the end of the 7th century or very early in the 6th century BC (Arancibia Román and Escalante Aguilar 2006: 46,

Figure 7.5 Greek potteries found in Málaka. 6th century BC: (a) Dinos from Chios. Buenavista Palace. (b) Aeolian dinos. San Agustín Convent. (c) Early Corinthian arybalos. Duel Painter. Plot 3 Císter St/4 San Agustín St. (d) Attic plate. Plot 3 Císter St/4 San Agustín St. (Photographs courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.)

146  Eduardo García Alfonso figure 7; Domínguez Monedero, 2006: 64; Arancibia Román and Mora Serrano 2011: 179). In my opinion, this piece is a dinos produced in Chios, both for the characteristics of its fabric and glaze and for the link between the decorative motifs it presents with the characteristic Grand Style of this island (García Alfonso 2018: 468). Somewhat later, already from the beginning of the 6th century BC, is the dinos from the Convent of San Agustín (Recio Ruiz, 1990: 145), corresponding to the late Wild Goat Style. It is an Aeolian product included in the London Dinos Group (Figure 7.5b) (Domínguez Monedero, 2006: 64). For the period of the maximum expansion of the Phocaean trade in the West, between 600 and 540/530 BC layer 23 of section 21 of the Palacio de Buenavista is the one that offers us the most complete published sample of Greek material from Málaga. It is a level located next to the city wall, built in the first half of the 6th century BC. Greek ceramics constitute 8.8% of the total material, among the majority of Phoenician products. Most of the vessels come from Eastern Greece, followed by Attic productions, although there is also a much lesser quantity of Corinthian, Laconian and Massaliot vessels (Cisneros García et al. 2000: 200; Cisneros García 2006: 83). The presence of Ionian B2 and B3 cups stands out, of which a significant percentage must be Samian, although some of them can be attributed to workshops in the central Mediterranean, which would correspond to a later dating than the previous ones (Cisneros García et al. 2000: 193–194). Among the decorated Attic materials of this stratum 23, we must highlight fragments of a Tyrrhenian amphora, an oinochoe, lekanides, and band cups (Cisneros García et al. 2000: 197–198, figures 5 and 6). The Greek amphorae from stratum 23 are used mainly for the importation of olive oil and, to a lesser extent, wine. The presence of Attic pieces of the SOS and “à la brosse” type stands out, followed by products from Corinth, Samos and Laconia, as well as a small sample of containers from Lesbos and Clazomenae (Cisneros García et al. 2000: 194 and 196–198). This shows the diversity of suppliers that the Greek networks had that supplied the Málaka market. In this circle, the Etruscan world must also be taken into account, whose products are also present in Huelva (Olmos Romera 1986: 594–595; Casadevall et al. 1991). Finally, at this time there is no shortage of ceramics to contain products of a certain luxury or restricted domestic use, such as those that appeared in the excavation of Císter 3 - San Agustín 4 streets (Martín Ruiz 2007: 39–40; Arancibia Román and Mora Serrano 2011: figures 1 and 2). The presence of a fragment of arybalos stands out, which, in my opinion, corresponds to the Early Corinthian (620–590 BC) and is close to the Duel Painter (Figure 7.5c). Another piece from the same excavation is an Attic plate decorated with owls in a Corinthian style (Figure 7.5d). The Attic provenance of the clay is certain, so I think it is a piece produced by some of the Corinthian artisans who moved to Athens in the early 6th century BC (García Alfonso 2018: 469). The late archaic horizon in the Bay of Málaga and the problem of Mainake The small settlement of Las Marismas de Guadalmar is located 500 m south of Cerro del Villar, but separated from it by an old branch of the Guadalhorce,

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 147 in the swampy environs of the estuary. The site was occupied during the second half of the 6th century and the first decades of the 5th century BC, once the administrative and commercial functions of Cerro del Villar were already abandoned. Despite this secondary role, the partial excavation of the site carried out in 2010 has yielded some finds of Greek pottery (Florido Esteban et al. 2012: 162–165). The most abundant Greek form is the Ionic cup, with three individual pieces and fragments of a few more. We find B2 (Figure 7.6a), B3 (Figure 7.6b) and Gravisca V/4 (Figure 7.6c) type cups (Boldrini 1994: 173–174, pl. 18, no. 450). The B3 cup could perhaps be attributed to a workshop in Eastern Greece, but the rest of the material clearly comes from the central Mediterranean. A Corinthian Koehler B type amphora was also documented but its clay corresponds to a South Italic Greek workshop, perhaps in Calabria (Figure 7.6d). Some very interesting objects found in Las Marismas de Guadalmar are the Phoenician imitations of Greek vases, which are easily detectable by their local fabric. In addition to a skyphos that could be included in the Toscanos I form (Briese and Docter 1998: 177, 194–196), a cup stands out that is very similar to the Droop type and Bloesch Attic type C (offset lip), but with a foot whose shape is similar to the cups of Siana and Gordion (Figure 7.6). This indicates that these Greek cups must have been known to the Phoenicians in the Bay of Málaga, although at the moment no original specimen has been documented in the area. While the Siana and Gordion cups are dated to the first half of the 6th century BC, those of the Droop type and the Bloesch Cs date from the second half of that century, the latter type lasting until the first years of the 5th century BC. Their imitation by a Phoenician potter – with an eclectic idea of a Greek cup model – reveals that they were certainly valued products, but in this case intended for a less affluent public than the original Attic ones. Las Marismas de Guadalmar allows us an approximation of the moment in which the “westernization” of Greek trade in Málaga takes place. The abandonment of Cerro del Villar ca. 580/560 BC is before the completion of the “Phocaean horizon” on the Andalusian coast. In the excavations of Málaka, we can begin to see a change in this trade, although we do not have a clear vision of what happens from the middle of the 6th century BC due to the alteration of these strata by later structures. Some of the Ionian-type cups found in the Roman Theater in Málaga (Gran Aymerich, 1988: 204, no. 11–23) and recently in Martiricos, an outside área of the Phoenician town, must be products of workshops in the central Mediterranean. The same occurs in the Palacio de Buenavista, where there are also some rare ceramics from Massalía (Cisneros García et al. 2000: 194, 199) and amphorae of the Corinthian Koehler A and B typology from the central Mediterranean (Arancibia Román et al. 2011: 134). All these data indicate to us that the progressive substitution of the authentic imports of Eastern Greece by their western imitations was a reality before the middle of the 6th century BC. In Huelva we can see very clearly the decline of the Eastern Greek trade since the middle of the 6th century BC. From ca. 560/550 BC, Huelva

148  Eduardo García Alfonso

Figure 7.6 Potteries from Las Marismas de Guadalmar: (a) Ionian Cup B2 type. Central Mediterranean workshop. (b) Ionian Cup B3. Probably from East Greece. (c) Cup Gravisca V/4 type. (d) Amphora similar to Corinthian B type from South Italic workshop. e) Phoenician imitation of a Greek cup. Local workshop.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 149 (Cabrera Bonet 1988–1989: 69, 74–75) shows a significant decrease in imports, which especially affects vessels from Eastern Greece. From ca. 540/530 BC, Greek ceramics became very scarce in Huelva and products from Asia Minor stopped arriving. It is possible that imports from Eastern Greece disappeared in Huelva at the same time as in Málaga, but in the latter the arrival of Greek ceramics continued, but now from the central Mediterranean, arriving only sporadically in Huelva, along with some Massaliot pottery, but in very small quantities (Cabrera Bonet 1988–1989: 63–64, 72, 75). These different situations are indicative of a major change in the Greek commercial networks operating in the extreme West. For this reason, throughout the second half of the 6th century BC, the Phoenician city of Málaka gradually became the new centre of Greek trade in southern Iberia, already highly westernized. Meanwhile, Huelva was relegated to the background and finally totally abandoned by the Greeks. This change could be caused by a concatenation of factors: the conquest of Phocaea by the Persians, the difficulties that the Phocaeans had with Etruscans and Carthaginians in the Tyrrhenian Sea and the consolidation of Massalía, which became the great focus of the Western Greek world. Neither should the decline in mining that has been observed in the Sierra Morena de Huelva be ignored (Aubet Semmler 2009: 345–346), which would reduce the interest of Greeks in the Andalusian Atlantic coast and force them to rethink their strategies of relationship with the Phoenician World from the south of the Peninsula. In this context, the mentions of Mainake in ancient texts make sense (Avienus, Ora Maritima 425–431; Ps-Scym. 146–149; Str. 3.4.2). Currently, we can reject the presence of a Greek colony on the Andalusian coast, but in recent years we have begun to understand how the problem can be interpreted in light of the archaeological record and the historical context it draws. We understand that Mainake is a place on the Andalusian Mediterranean coast where certain Greeks do business, having their status guaranteed by the local power. Its location is a long-running debate in Spanish archaeology with various hypotheses having been offered including among others places: Toscanos (Niemeyer 1979–1980), Cerro del Villar (Aubet Semmler 2000) or the vicinity of Gibraltar (Antonelli 2008: 99). However, the Phoenician city of Málaka is the place that has the most obvious characteristics to accommodate this type of port open to a small community of foreign commercial agents. This identification was already proposed in its day by A. Recio Ruiz (1990: 166), Gran Aymerich (1991: 136–139) or Domínguez Monedero (2006: 70), having been developed more widely in a recent work by ourselves (García Alfonso 2018: 60–62;). This idea is supported not only by the phonic similarity of both names and some data from the sources but also by the archaeological record that we know of in Málaga itself, which became an emerging city-state since the first half of the 6th century BC. The Greek material that appears in Málaka shows its continuity throughout the second half of the 6th century BC. Among them, there are some objects that go beyond what we would consider the product of a simple trade, but show a prominent involvement of the population of that origin in the life of the city

150  Eduardo García Alfonso

Figure 7.7  Tleson Painter. Cup sherds. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.)

and its surroundings, which started from earlier moments. Thus, habitual objects that show continuity cups in the style of the Tleson Painter in Málaga itself (Figure 7.7) or of the Agora Painter 1241 in the nearby settlement of Cerro del Castillo de Fuengirola, all of them dated in the third quarter of the 6th century BC. Likewise, the distribution of Ionian cups from a central Mediterranean workshop in secondary places in the Bay such as Las Marismas de Guadalmar or Martiricos confirms how common this tableware was in the area, as well as the guarantee of its supply. On the other hand, local imitations of Attic forms from the second half of the 6th century BC like the Droop or Bloesch C cups, which we interpret as an indication of the existence in Málaga of potters attentive to trends that could interest a potential clientele. These intense connections that Málaga maintained with the Greek world during the second half of the 6th century BC have been revealed again by the excavation of a monumental tomb in Jinetes street in 2012. It is an isolated grave, located 500 m to the northwest of the city wall and built in the Phoenician manner. This grave contains the burial of a warrior heavily armed with elements of Greek panoply, among which a Corinthian helmet of possible South Italian manufacture stands out, accompanied by a rich trousseau of objects of eastern origin (García González et al. 2018) (Figure 7.8). Similarly, a bronze jug handle of a comparable date, with the main container now lost, appeared in 1906 in the demolitions of the Alcazaba hill in Málaga. This piece has been considered as Etruscan – from Vulci – or Greek from southern Italy – from Taranto – but recently it has been hypothesized that it is the product of a site possibly located

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 151

Figure 7.8 Corinthian helm from Málaga. Tomb of the Warrior, Jinetes St: (a) general view; (b) engraved decoration. Front; (c) right side; (d) left side. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga; drawings courtesy of the Instituto Andaluz de Patrimonio Histórico, Álvaro Hervás Crespo.)

in Marseille or Emporion (Hiller 2013) (Figure 7.9). Regardless of its specific origin, the presence in Málaga of a luxury object like this reveals the access of the city – and its elite – to the main centres of the Western Greek world until the end of the 6th century BC. The transformations of the fifth and fourth centuries BC The presence of Greek material in the city of Málaga during the 5th and 4th centuries BC is a subject to which very little attention has been paid, due to the poor knowledge of this chronological horizon in the bay. In other areas of the south and east of the Iberian Peninsula, there is a lack of these imports during the first decades of the 5th century BC, which also seems to occur in Málaga. The return of Greek materials after a time of absence is a sign of a total reorganization of this trade. The research has attributed this new stage to the activity of Emporion (Sánchez Fernández 2003: 134). We are facing a new circuit, which moves mainly Attic wares to Iberia and some oil shipments in Corinthian amphorae or in their Corcyraean,

152  Eduardo García Alfonso

Figure 7.9 Jar handle. Bronze. Alcazaba Hill, Málaga. Fernández Canivell Collection, Málaga. (Photograph courtesy of the German Archaeological Institute.)

South Italian and Sicilian imitations. Meanwhile, the same network channels Western Phoenician fish sauce packed in amphorae of this origin to the Greek world, as we see in Corinth, Olympia and Athens (Zimmermann Munn 2003: 212–215; Sáez Romero et al. 2020). However, in the 4th century BC, without prejudice to the role of Emporion, it seems that the distribution of Attic ceramics and other Greek products in the south-east of the Peninsula and the Strait of Gibraltar area became more complex, as revealed by the wreck of El Sec, in Mallorca (Cabrera Bonet and Rouillard 2004: 128–130). In this last stage, there seems to be a network with Eastern Greek and South Italian suppliers, Punic traders and Western Phoenician and even Iberian distributors. Excavations in the upper area of the Roman Theater in Málaga yielded some Greek material from the 5th and 4th centuries BC, that was very fragmentary (Gran Aymerich 1988: 206–209). They consist of black glaze products, as we see in other Phoenician cities in the West, with shapes such as Cástulo cups, plain rim cups, delicate class cups and some specimens of lagynoi, Vicups, bolsals, skyphoi, fish plates and lamps.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 153

Figure 7.10 Attic red-figure krater. Buenavista Palace, Málaga. (Photograph courtesy of the Museo de Málaga.)

In the excavations of the Palacio de Buenavista, it is worth highlighting the presence of a fragmented red-figure krater, of which its specific archaeological context has not been published (Figure 7.10). It is very similar to the style of the BlackThyrsus Painter, dating from ca. 375–350 BC. Given the rarity of this type of decorated Attic pottery in Western Phoenician environments, we interpret this krater as an object destined for trade with the Iberian communities of the surrounding interior, supplied with these imported products through the port of Málaka (García Alfonso 2018: 476–478) as we see in nearby places such as Cerro de la Tortuga (Muñoz Gambero 2009: 202) and Cártama (Caballero Cobos 2008: figure 9; García Alfonso 2017: 183–185). These data corroborate the circulation of Greek products in the 4th century BC. In the extreme West, it is a selective trade, of small distributors and with particular objects directed to specific social sectors, a dynamic that would continue until its disappearance throughout the second half of the century. This retail and local character could explain the great shortage in Andalusia of Greek amphoras from the 4th century BC, which contrasts with the variety of these containers that we see in the El Sec wreck. Even in a port as active as Málaka, we do not know of any Greek amphora of these moments, unless it is published. In these transformations, we cannot ignore the irruption of new powers and economic concepts, which seek the creation of exclusive commercial zones, expelling

154  Eduardo García Alfonso from them any competitor. Those were the intentions of the Carthaginian oligarchy with the signing of successive treaties with Rome (ca. 509–507 and 348 BC) and its policy of diplomatic relations with Athens. We do not know to what extent the Phoenician city-states of Iberia were interested in this policy, which could have been imposed on them. Furthermore, the peripheral position of the extreme West further favored its disconnection from the main Mediterranean axes. This local economic situation could explain the late incorporation of this area into the monetary economy. Cádiz and Ibiza are the first to start their minting at the beginning of the 3rd century BC, while the rest of the Phoenician cities of Iberia, Málaga included, did not begin to issue until practically the beginning of the Second Punic War (Mora Serrano 2011: 177–178). This shows that having currency was not a pressing need, as exchanges were at the local level or within a regional circuit where this means of payment was not used. Therefore, Málaka, despite being the main port on the Mediterranean coast closest to the Strait of Gibraltar, was only one more stopover point, whose function would be to dispatch cargo in transit to other places and the distribution of goods for itself and its next area, a simple link in this network. The long-distance movement of goods was now in the hands of agents who operated within the framework of “treaties,” signed by the different state powers, thus ensuring the construction of their hegemonies. Only some ports maintain a certain cosmopolitan character, such as Emporion, Ibiza, Carthage itself and, perhaps, further south, Baria – Villaricos, Almería. These places act as connecting nodes between different commercial networks. Therefore, the Phoenician cities of southern Iberia had no choice but to join this policy of alliances to guarantee their access to the Mediterranean markets (García Alfonso 2017; 2018: 483–487). Bibliography Antonelli, Luca. Traffici focei di età arcaica. Dalla scoperta dell’Occidente alla battaglia del mare Sardonio. Hesperìa, 23. Roma: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 2008. Arancibia Román, Ana and María del Mar Escalante Aguilar. “Génesis y consolidación de la ciudad de Malaka.” In Memoria Arqueológica del Museo Picasso Málaga desde los orígenes hasta el siglo V d.C., 41–78. Málaga: Museo Picasso Málaga, 2006. Arancibia Román, Ana and María del Mar Escalante Aguilar. “Aportaciones a la arqueología urbana de Málaga, de la Málaga fenicia a la Málaga bizantina a través de los resultados de la excavación de C/. Císter 3 – San Agustín 4.” Anuario Arqueológico de Andalucía 2006 (2010): 3636–3656. Arancibia Román, Ana and Bartolomé Mora Serrano. “Malaka, de enclave colonial en las puertas del Estrecho a polis fenicia occidental en el sur de Iberia.” In Gadir y el Círculo del Estrecho revisados. Propuestas de la arqueología desde un enfoque social, ed. Juan Carlos Domínguez Pérez, 176–186. Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, 2011. Arancibia Román, Ana, Lorenzo Galindo San José, Mar Juzgado Navarro, Miguel Roger Dumas Peñuelas and Vicente Marcos Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno. “Aportaciones de las últimas intervenciones a la arqueología fenicia de la bahía de Málaga.” In Fenicios en Tartesos: nuevas perspectivas, ed. Manuel Álvarez Martí-Aguilar, 129–149. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series 2245, 2011.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 155 Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “Un lugar de mercado en el Cerro del Villar.” In Los fenicios en Málaga, ed. María Eugenia Aubet Semmler, 197–213. Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1997. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “Los materiales. La secuencia diacrónica del corte 5.” In Cerro del Villar-I. El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del río Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, ed. María Eugenia Aubet Semmler et al., 86–127. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1999a. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “La secuencia arqueo-ecológica del Cerro del Villar.” In La cerámica fenicia en Occidente: centros de producción y áreas de comercio, ed. Alfredo González Prats, 41–68. Alicante: Generalitat Valenciana and Diputación Provincial de Alicante, 1999b. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “Mainake, la primera Malaka.” In Tuvixeddu. La necropoli occidentale di Karales. Atti della Tavola Rotonda Internazionale «La necropoli antica di Karales nell’ambito mediterraneo», 27–42. Cagliari: Edizioni della Torre, 2000. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. “Notas sobre tres pesos fenicios del Cerro del Villar (Málaga).” In Da Pyrgi a Mozia. Studi sull’archeologia del Mediterraneo in memoria di Antonia Ciasca, ed. Maria Giulia Amadasi Guzzo, Mario Liverani and Paolo Matthiae, 29–40. Roma: Università di Roma “La Sapienza,” 2002. Aubet Semmler, María Eugenia. Tiro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente. 3rd ed. Barcelona: Bellaterra, 2009. Bailo Modesti, Gianni and Patrizia Gastaldi. Prima di Pithecusa. I più antichi materiali greci del golfo di Salerno. Naples: Comune di Pontecagnano Faiano, 1999. Boldrini, Sabrina. Gravisca. Scavi nel santuario greco. Le ceramiche ioniche. Vol. 4, Bari: Edipuglia, 1994. Brandherm, Dirk. “Vasos a debate. La cronología del Geométrico griego y las primeras colonizaciones en Occidente.” In Contacto cultural entre el Mediterráneo y el Atlántico (siglos XII-VIII ane). La precolonización a debate, ed. Sebastián Celestino Pérez, Nuria Rafel Fontanals and Xosé-Lois Armada, 93–106. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2008. Briese, Christoph and Roald Docter. “El skyphos fenicio: la adaptación de un vaso griego para beber.” In Cartago fenicio-púnica. Las excavaciones alemanas en Cartago, 1975-1997, ed. Mercedes Vegas, 173–220. Barcelona: Cuadernos de Arqueología Mediterránea 4, 1998. Caballero Cobos, Alejandro. “La necrópolis ibérica de Arroyo Judío (Cártama, Málaga).” In Ier Congreso Internacional de Arqueología Ibérica Bastetana, ed. Andrés Adroher and Juan Blánquez, 347–357 Madrid: Universidad de Granada and Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 2008. Cabrera Bonet, Paloma. “El comercio foceo en Huelva: cronología y fisionomía.” In Tartessos y Huelva, ed. Jesús Fernández Jurado, 41–100. Huelva: Huelva Arqueológica 10–11 no. 3, 1988–1989. Cabrera Bonet, Paloma. “Importaciones griegas arcaicas del Cerro del Villar (Guadalhorce, Málaga).” In Iberos y griegos. Lecturas desde la diversidad, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet, Ricardo Olmos Romera and Enric Sanmartí i Grego, 97–121. Huelva: Huelva Arqueológica 13 no. 1, 1994. Cabrera Bonet, Paloma. “Cerámicas griegas y comercio fenicio en el Mediterráneo occidental.” In Contactos en el extremo de la oikouméne. Los griegos en Occidente y sus relaciones con los fenicios, ed. Benjamín Costa and Jordi H. Fernández, 61–86. Eivissa: Treballs del Museu Arqueològic d’Eivissa i Formentera 51, 2003.

156  Eduardo García Alfonso Cabrera Bonet, Paloma and Pierre Rouillard. “El pecio de El Sec en la bahía de Palma de Mallorca (mediados del siglo IV a.C.).” In El vaso griego y sus destinos, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet, Pierre Rouillard and Anni Verbanck-Piérard, 125–131. Madrid: Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 2004. Casadevall, Jordi, Elisendra Curià, Mercedes Párraga, Ana Delgado Hervás, Apen Ruiz Martínez and Daniela Fieber. “El bucchero etrusco del Cerro del Villar (Guadalhorce, Málaga).” In La presencia de material etrusco en la Península Ibérica, ed José Remesal and Olimpio Musso, 383–398. Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona, 1991. Chacón Mohedano, Cristina and Leticia Salvago Soto. “Actividad arqueológica en la antigua Casa de Correos y Telégrafos. Integración de los restos excavados en la sede del Rectorado de la Universidad de Málaga (1998-2002).” Anuario Arqueológico de Andalucía 2002 no. 3, 2 (2005): 18–28. Cisneros García, María Isabel. “Las cerámicas griegas del Museo Picasso Málaga.” In Memoria Arqueológica del Museo Picasso Málaga desde los orígenes hasta el siglo V d.C., 79–92. Málaga: Museo Picasso Málaga, 2006. Cisneros García, María Isabel, José Francisco Mayorga Mayorga, José Suárez Padilla and María del Mar Escalante Aguilar. “Cerámicas griegas arcaicas en la bahía de Málaga.” In Céramiques jònies d’època arcaica: centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani Occidental, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Marta Santos Retolaza, 189–205. Barcelona: Monografies Emporitanes 11, 2000. Coldstream, John Nicholas. Greek Geometric Pottery: A Survey Often Local Styles and Their Chronology. 2nd ed. Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press, 2008. Curià, Elisenda. “Las importaciones griegas y etruscas.” In Cerro del Villar-I. El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del río Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, ed. María Eugenia Aubet Semmler et al., 278–280. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1999. De Hoz Bravo, Javier. “El grafito griego de Guadalhorce.” In Iberos y griegos. Lecturas desde la diversidad, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet, Ricardo Olmos Romera and Enric Sanmartí i Grego, 122–125. Huelva: Huelva Arqueológica 13 no. 1, 1994. Delgado Hervás, Ana. “Cultura material, etnicidad y contacto en la arqueología tartésica.” In Movilidad, contacto y cambio. Actas del II Congreso de Prehistoria de Andalucía, ed. Eduardo García Alfonso, 279–291. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 2014. Docter, Roald. “East Greek fine wares and transport amphorae of the 8th – 5th century BC from Carthage and Toscanos.” In Céramiques jònies d’època arcaica: centres de producció i comercialització al Mediterrani Occidental, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Marta Santos Retolaza, 63–88. Barcelona: Monografies Emporitanes 11, 2000. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo. “Fenicios y griegos en el sur de la Península Ibérica. De Onoba a Mainake.” Mainake 28 no. 1 (2006): 49–78. Domínguez Monedero, Adolfo. “Los primeros griegos en la Península Ibérica (siglos IX-VI a.C.): mitos, probabilidades, certezas.” In El Oriente griego en la Península Ibérica. Epigrafía e Historia, ed. María Paz de Hoz and Gloria Mora, 11–42. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2013. Fernández Flores, Álvaro and Araceli Rodríguez Azogue. Tartessos desvelado. La colonización fenicia del Suroeste peninsular y el origen y ocaso de Tartessos. Córdoba: Almuzara, 2007. Florido Esteban, Daniel David, Eduardo García Alfonso, Verónica Navarrete Pendón, Nieves Ruiz Nieto and Miguel Ángel Sabastro Román. “Varar y comerciar en la marisma. Guadalmar y el entorno de la bahía de Málaga en época tardoarcaica.” In Diez años de arqueología fenicia en la provincia de Málaga (2001-2010), ed. Eduardo García Alfonso, 137–170. Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía, 2012.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 157 García Alfonso, Eduardo. “La arqueología fenicia en la provincia de Málaga en los albores del siglo XXI. Breve balance de una década (2001-2010).” In Diez años de arqueología fenicia en la provincia de Málaga (2001-2010), ed. Eduardo García Alfonso, 25–48. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 2012. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Toscanos y la importación del aceite griego en la costa malagueña durante el periodo fenicio arcaico.” Mainake 35 (2014–2015): 137–156. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Málaka y las importaciones griegas del siglo IV a. C. Un mercado cautivo.” In Homenaje a Glòria Trias Rubiés. Cerámicas griegas de la Península Ibérica: cincuenta años después (1967-2017), ed. Xavier Aquilué i Abadías, Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Margarita Orfila Pons, 179–189. Barcelona: Centro Iberia Graeca, 2017. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Mercados y alianzas en el Occidente fenicio: cinco siglos de comercio griego en Málaga.” In De Huelva a Malaka. Los fenicios en Andalucía a la luz de los descubrimientos más recientes, ed. Massimo Botto and Collezioni di Studi Fenici, 48, 445–498. Rome: Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Istituto di Studi sul Mediterraneo Antico, 2018. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Málaka en los siglos VII-VI a.C. Los orígenes de una ciudad fenicia occidental.” In La Tumba del Guerrero. Un enterramiento excepcional en la Málaga fenicia del siglo VI a.C., ed. David García González, Sonia López Chamizo and Eduardo García Alfonso, 25–74. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 2018. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Un ánfora ática procedente de las excavaciones del Rectorado de la Universidad de Málaga.” Spal, 29 no. 2 (2020): 65–80. García Alfonso, Eduardo. “Phoenician trade and Rhodian connection, origin of the Ionian emporíe in the south of the Iberian Peninsula.” In Ionians in the East and West. Proceedings of an International Conference ‘Ionians in East and West’, Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya-Empúries, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October, 2015, ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, 567–592. Leuven: Peeters, 2022. García Alonso, Juan Luis. “Nombres griegos en –ουσσα en el Mediterráneo occidental. Análisis lingüístico e histórico.” Complutum 7 (1996): 105–124. García Gonzalez, David, Sonia López Chamizo and Eduardo García Alfonso, ed. La Tumba del Guerrero. Un enterramiento excepcional en la Málaga fenicia del siglo VI a. C. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, Consejería de Cultura, 2018. García y Bellido, María Paz. “Los primeros testimonios metrológicos y monetales de fenicios y griegos en el sur peninsular.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 75 (2000): 93–106. González de Canales, Fernando and Jorge Llompart Gómez. “Producción de cerámicas griegas en Huelva.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 90 (2017): 125–145. González de Canales, Fernando, Jorge Llompart Gómez and Leonardo Serrano Pichardo. El emporio fenicio precolonial de Huelva (ca. 900-770 a.C.). Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2004. González de Canales, Fernando, Leonardo Serrano Pichardo and Jorge Llompart Gómez. “The emporium of Huelva and Phoenician chronology: Present and future possibilities.” In Beyond the Homeland: markers in Phoenician chronology, ed. Claudia Sagona, 631–655. Leuven-Paris-Dudley: Peeters, 2008. Gran Aymerich, Juan. “Cerámicas griegas y etruscas de Málaga. Excavaciones de 1980 a 1986.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 64 (1988): 201–222. Gran Aymerich, Juan. Málaga phénicienne et punique. Recherches franco-espagnoles 1981-1989. Paris: Editions Recherche sur les Civilisation, 1991. Hiller, Hilde. “Griechisch oder etruskisch? Der anthropomorphe Kannelhenkel von Málaga.” Madrider Mitteilungen 54 (2013): 203–241.

158  Eduardo García Alfonso Martín Ruiz, Juan Antonio. “La cultura material fenicia malacitana: restos de un pasado milenario.” In Los orígenes de la ciudad. Málaga fenicia, ed. Ana Arancibia Román, 21–47. Málaga: Ayuntamiento de Málaga, 2007. Marzoli, Dirce, Fernando López Pardo, José Suárez Padilla, Carlos Wagner, Dirk Paul Mielke, César León Martín, Luis Alberto Ruiz Cabrero, Heinrich Thimeyer and Mariano Torres Ortiz. “Los inicios del urbanismo en las sociedades autóctonas localizadas en el entorno del Estrecho de Gibraltar: investigaciones en Los Castillejos de Alcorrín y su territorio (Manilva, Málaga).” Menga. Revista de Prehistoria de Andalucía 1 (2010): 152–182. Mederos Martín, Alfredo. “La cronología fenicia entre el Mediterráneo oriental y el occidental.” In El Periodo Orientalizante. Actas del III Simposio Internacional de Arqueología de Mérida: Protohistoria del Mediterráneo occidental (I), ed. Sebastián Celestino Pérez and Javier Jiménez Ávila, 305–346. Mérida: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2005. Mora Serrano, Bartolomé. “Ponderales, moneda y mercado en la Málaga tardopúnica: la primera monetización de Malaca y su territorio.” In Barter, money and coinage in the ancient Mediterranean (10th-1st centuries BC), ed. María Paz García y Bellido and Laurent Callegarín, 169–184. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2011. Muñoz Gambero, Juan Manuel. El Cerro de la Tortuga. El templo y la necrópolis iberopúnica de Málaga (1). Málaga: Fundación Málaga, 2009. Niemeyer, Hans Georg. “A la búsqueda de Mainake: el conflicto entre los testimonios arqueológicos y escritos.” Habis 10–11 (1979–1980): 279–302. Olmos Romera, Ricardo. “Los griegos en Tarteso: replanteamiento arqueológico-histórico del problema.” In Homenaje a Luis Siret (1934-1984), 584–600. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1986. Recio Ruiz, Ángel. La cerámica fenicio-púnica, griega y etrusca del sondeo de San Agustín (Málaga). Málaga: Diputación Provincial de Málaga, 1990. Ridgway, David. El alba de la Magna Grecia. Pitecusa y las primeras colonias griegas de Occidente. 1st Spanish ed. Barcelona: Crítica, 1997. Sáez Romero, Antonio M., Tatiana Theodoropoulou and Ricardo Belizón Aragón. “Atunes púnicos y vinos egeos en una taberna de la Grecia clásica. Resultados iniciales del Corinth Amphora Building Project.” In International Congress of Phoenician and Punic Studies, ed. Sebastián Celestino Pérez and Esther Rodríguez González, II 817–836. Mérida: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2020. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “Los griegos en España en los siglos V y IV a.C. Ibiza y su papel en la distribución de los materiales griegos de Occidente.” In Contactos en el extremo de la oikouméne. Los griegos en Occidente y sus relaciones con los fenicios, ed. Benjamín Costa and Jordi H. Fernández, 133–143. Eivissa: Treballs del Museu Arqueològic d’Eivissa i Formentera 51, 2003. Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno, Vicente Marcos, Lorenzo Galindo San José, Mar Juzgado Navarro and Miguel Roger Dumas Peñuelas. “La desembocadura del Guadalhorce en los siglos IX y VIII a.C. y su relación con el Mediterráneo.” In Gadir y el Círculo del Estrecho revisados. Propuestas de la arqueología desde un enfoque social, ed. Juan Carlos Domínguez Pérez, 187–197. Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, Cádiz, 2011. Sánchez Sánchez-Moreno, Vicente Marcos, Lorenzo Galindo San José, Mar Juzgado Navarro and Miguel Roger Dumas Peñuelas. “El asentamiento fenicio de La Rebanadilla a finales del siglo IX a.C.” In Diez años de arqueología fenicia en la provincia de Málaga (2001-2010), ed. Eduardo García Alfonso, 67–85. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 2012.

The Greeks and the Bay of Málaga 159 Suárez Padilla, José, Joan Ramon Torres, Bartolomé Mora Serrano, Leticia Salvago Soto and Cristina Chacón Mohedano. “La cronología fundacional de la Malaka fenicia: investigaciones en el solar del Rectorado de la Universidad de Málaga.” Spal, 29 no. 1 (2020): 41–77. Trachsel, Martin. Untersuchungen zur relativen und absolute Chronologie der Hallstattzeit. Bonn: Habelt, 2004. Vegas, Mercedes. “El ánfora griega del estrato V.” In Cerro del Villar-I. El asentamiento fenicio en la desembocadura del río Guadalhorce y su interacción con el hinterland, ed. María Eugenia Aubet Semmler et al., 136. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1999. Verdan, Samuel, Anne Kenzelmann Pfyffer and Claude Léderrey. Eretria XX. Fouilles et Recherches. Céramique géométrique d’Érétrie. Gollion: École Suisse d’Archéologie en Grèce, 2008. Warning-Treumann, Brigitte. “Mainake, originally a Phoenician place-name?” Habis 10–11 (1979–1980): 303–306. Zimmermann Munn, Mary Lou. “Corinthian trade with the Punic West in the Classical Period.” In Corinth 20, ed. Charles K. William II and Nancy Bookidis, 196–215. Athens: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2003.

8

Images in motion Fourth century BC Athenian pottery from the Iberian Peninsula: Workshops and iconography Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez

Greek pottery overseas It is a well-known fact that the majority of Athenian painted pots that scholars study nowadays as direct evidence of Athenian society have been found abroad. Athenian pottery travelled far and in large quantities, and trade and distribution patterns of Athenian vases have therefore been studied extensively already from the 1930s, and very particularly since the 1970s,1 on the solid background of Beazley’s attribution lists (Beazley 1956, 1963, 1971). As Vladimir Stissi (1996: 90) has rightly pointed out,2 the recent debate on the pottery trade was sparked off, most famously, by Gill and Vickers’s controversial view of Athenian pots being transported as mere space-fillers – ‘saleable ballast’ – in antiquity, dependent on other, more profitable cargoes (Gill 1988, 1991; Vickers and Gill 1994). Nevertheless, their theories have met with fierce opposition (Cook 1987; Boardman 1988b, 1988a, 1996) and were sometimes invalidated by new discoveries, such as in the case of the Ponte Lequin wreck (Long et al. 1992: 323, 846; Parker 1992; Jubiere 2003). Nowadays, it is widely acknowledged that pottery was not mere ballast but was traded as a commodity in its own right (Rouillard 1991: 186). Once the issue of the importance of the pottery trade was more or less settled, scholars have turned to discuss the social significance of decorated pottery in the export market and the meaning of figured scenes more generally. Underlying the discussion is the question of intentionality, i.e. if vase painters in the Attic workshops were aware of the markets where their vases would be shipped and consciously altered the iconography accordingly to please the potential consumers of their works and to make them more saleable abroad, or if, on the contrary, trade in painted pots made in Athens was ‘blind’, their consumers ‘admiring and accepting’ (Beazley 1959: 57) whatever was shipped to them. These two views lead, in turn, to two opposing ways of looking at the images painted on the pots: 1) to ignore the client and treat the image as a solely Athenian cultural artefact and thus as documentation of Athenian social and cultural attitudes (e.g. much of the Parisian-Lausanne School) and 2) to focus solely on the consumers of the pots, trying to link the iconography of the vases to specific groups of consumers, quite often in a rather abstract way. Research questions are of two sorts: DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-9

Images in motion 161 those connected to the point of view of the producers, the Athenian craftsmen (e.g. was the potter/painter aware of the destiny of his production and adapted his product accordingly?), and those focusing on the other end of the chain, the consumers of the pottery in the distant lands of the east and west (e.g. how did Greek pottery function in the receiving – Etruscan, Iberian, the Black Sea, etc. – society?).3 These questions are paired with methodological issues such as whether it is legitimate to treat the image as a solely Athenian cultural artefact and whether its provenance bears implications for our understanding of the scenes (Lewis 2003: 176), or the more fundamental question of who used Greek vases and when (Lynch 2009: 158). The two ways mentioned above of understanding the iconography on Athenian vases are not and should not be mutually exclusive though. In fact, much of current scholarship seems to have reached a more convenient middle ground in which Athenian pots are seen as not created solely with Athenian topography or mythology in mind (Langridge-Noti 2013: 61 n. 1). That is to say, while acknowledging that images on Athenian pots, created by Athenian craftsmen, can be seen as an Athenian cultural creation, it is also acknowledged that there are cases when it is possible indeed to claim for a specific production of specific shapes and, probably, images for particular consumers.4 Etruria has traditionally been a privileged field of study to assess this question (Paleothodoros 2002, 2007a,b, 2009; Reusser 2002). The Tyrrhenian and Nikosthenic amphorae and the production of the Perizoma group are usually brought into the discussion (Rasmussen 1985; Shapiro 2000; Osborne 2007), as they are well-known examples of the existence of a directional, targeted trade. Furthermore, that the trade in Athenian pots was not random had already been proved by Johnston’s (1979) investigation of trademarks on pots, which demonstrates the existence of such a directional trade, i.e. certain workshops regularly exporting pots to specific areas,5 and that many pots were exported in batches, thus invalidating Webster’s second-hand market theory (Webster 1972; Johnston 1979: 29–30, 40–41). The existence of trade conducted in batches to the Iberian Peninsula was also demonstrated by one of us some time ago (Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001: 453). In less straightforward cases, arguing that a particular scene was intended for the export market is not always easy. It has been long recognized that for a claim like that to be made some requisites must be met, such as the existence of a relevant number of particular scenes which are relatively poorly represented at home or of single vases which were clearly bespoke for a particular place or occasion (Boardman 1979: 35). Close engagement with archaeological contexts and a good knowledge of the role of middlemen and the information networks functioning at the time are crucial in order to assess possible cases of direct trade or commissions. Individual studies of specific iconographies together with well-defined questions and careful analysis of find-spots have been successful in casting the shadow of doubt on some – considered – ‘quintessentially Athenian’ iconographies. Sian Lewis’ (2002) study on the ‘Athenian woman’ and Kathleen Lynch’s (2009) consideration of images of heterosexual intercourse are excellent examples in this regard. What recent scholarship is showing is that we are very far away from monolithic solutions. The trade in Athenian vases was a multifaceted and highly complex

162  Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez phenomenon, and a variety of market strategies can be recognized in the archaeological record. More than global patterns and bold statements, individual case studies are preferred, treating each ceramic assemblage as unique (Lynch 2009; Paleothodoros 2009: 58; Langridge-Noti 2013). In this line, our contribution to this volume will offer three short case studies that will allow us to explore some of the questions raised in the previous lines. Our research focuses on the Iberian Peninsula, a much less known case in English-speaking scholarship than Etruria but which offers, as we shall see, very remarkable and distinctive examples of the consumption of Greek pots in a foreign context. The chronological framework is the 4th century, a time of rather mediocre, repetitive and simple productions, which adds an extra difficulty to the already complex task of unravelling how Athenian iconography may have acquired meaning for their foreign consumers. Case study 1: Tomb 176 from Baza (Granada) The tomb 176 from Baza contained a large assemblage of Athenian material, including five big bowls with out-turned rims of unusual dimensions, between 29 and 34 cm in diameter in the lip (Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001: 197–198, numbers 66–70) (Figure 8.1) Among the pottery from the Athenian

Figure 8.1 Out-turned rim bowl from Tomb 176, Baza. (Photo: Carmen Sánchez.)

Images in motion 163 Agora, there are no examples of a comparable size. The five bowls were associated with five bell kraters decorated by the Black-Thyrsus Painter, which also occurs in other tombs, such as the number 112 from Galera and the 106 from Baza. It was customary among the Iberians to cremate their dead, using urns covered by plates to receive the ashes. For that aim, they used local pottery (Chapa Brunet and Pereira 1986: 376) and also imported vases, more specifically, as archaeology suggests, figured bell kraters and bowls with out-turned rims, which distinguished its rich owner from those who did not have access to these costly products. The new use for which the bowls served – as lids for the kraters-urns – is the most plausible explanation for the unusual dimensions of the examples found in the Peninsula, which seem to have been designed to fit the bell kraters (their diameters are coincident). In fact, it seems likely that both the bowls and the kraters with which they are associated (painted by the Black-Thyrsus Painter) were produced in the same workshop which modified the size of the vases to some extent to suit their new function in their final destination. On other occasions, the opposite phenomenon to what we find in Baza is attested: the cargo of El Sec shipwreck contained unusually small – for the Athenian standards – bell kraters, all by the Black-Thyrsus Painter, whose diameter seems to coincide with that of the smaller bowls transported by the ship (Arribas et al. 1987: Cabrera Bonet and Rouillard 2003). The peculiarities of the bowls from the tomb 176 do not stop here. The tomb context gives a date for the bowls closer to the mid-4th century but their overall look is ‘archaizing’, e.g. they feature rather elaborate floral patterns stamped on the inside consisting of motives of linked palmettes surrounding bands of eggs. The bottoms are decorated with alternating glazed and reserved bands and the foot joins the bowl in a right angle. Such decoration and shape are typical of at least one generation earlier. The excellent state of preservation, where even the fragile layer of miltos on the resting surface has been preserved, excludes the possibility that they had been circulating and in use for some decades before reaching the tomb. In other words, they are brand new bowls still decorated in an ‘archaizing’ fashion made to fit the kraters with which they were possibly shipped off (Sánchez Fernández 2000: 43; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001: 454). This first case study is an excellent example that shows how 4th century Athenian potters/painters adapted their productions to the requirements of the export market on some occasions, modifying the traditional dimensions of some shapes to suit a specific demand. Case study 2: Athletic scenes One defining characteristic of the 4th century iconography is the tendency towards vague, open-ended scenes, the so-called process of de-mythologization, i.e. nonnarrative references to myth. What matters now is not so much the identification of a particular scene within a cycle but the symbolic value of the image and the connotations and second readings that it may trigger, a subject largely explored by Metzger (1951) long ago. This tendency is particularly obvious in one of the commonest iconographic cycles of the 4th century, that of Dionysos, specially the

164  Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez thiasos and the encounter of the god with Ariadne. The significance of this type of scene in the Iberian Peninsula, which acquire meaning in funerary terms, has also been explored (Sánchez Fernández 1992b, 1998; Cabrera Bonet and Rouillard 2003). Thus, our second case study will focus not on Dionysos and his entourage but on athletic scenes, which offer another perspective on the ‘de-mythologization’ phenomenon referred to above. In 1908 a remarkable chamber tomb was discovered in Toya (Peal de Becerro, Jaen) (Cazabán 1915, 1926, 1928). The tomb caused much interest on the part of scholars since its discovery because of its architecture and the quality of its gravegoods. But unfortunately, most of its material was dispersed into several private collections that subsequently merged into a number of museums. Some of the material was lost or mixed with goods from other contexts and collections, which makes it difficult to identify some of the items as coming from the Toya tomb. A list of grave-goods originally contained in the tomb has been published (Madrigal 1997). The krater that we bring into discussion is nowadays in the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid (inv. number 1986/149/205), was attributed to the Toya Painter by Smith and is dated to the mid-4th century or a bit earlier (Trias Rubiés 1967: 469–470; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001: 249–250) (Figure 8.2). It is said to come from one of the burials of the necropolis of Toya, but most likely did not belong to this chamber tomb. On the side A of the vase, Nike stands in the centre, facing forward with head to the left, a cloak covering part of her body, an arm and one hand. Next to her right, there is a naked youth seated on his cloak turning towards Nike. Beside him, there

Figure 8.2 Drawing of the side A of the bell krater MAN 1986/149/205. (Drawing: Carmen Sánchez.)

Images in motion 165 stands another beardless and naked youth with his himation over one shoulder and a ribbon hanging from his arm. To the left of Nike sits one naked youth holding a staff to whom a fourth one (partially preserved) seems to be offering a fillet. Two of the youths carry strigils and all but one, whose head is adorned with ribbons, wear high-pointed crowns, probably metal, of the sort of the ones worn by the participants in a famous Athenian competition: the torch race or lampadedromia. This was a very demanding relay race held in various Attic festivals, including the Panathenaia (Deubner 1932: 211; Simon 1983: 53–54), and was commonly represented in art in the classical and late classical periods (Froning 1971: 78–81, 96, 118–119). Nevertheless, the interpretation of such races in vase painting as alluding to a certain cult is difficult. The image from Toya has very little to do with the standard iconography for the race. There are three main types of scenes alluding to this event: images of the race itself, with an emphasis on the moment of the relay (e.g. BAPDN 4466, 29545, 31349, 215457)6; images of the victory, where Nike is crowing the victor (e.g. BAPDN 217462, 217577, 218093); and images showing the subsequent sacrifice of an ox by the victorious tribe (e.g. BAPDN 217591). The common attribute to all the runners is the peculiar metallic crown, customized according to the tribe. The strigil is another recurring attribute and it alludes to the much-needed training in the palestra required for such a demanding race. Our scene shows a number of oddities, mainly the absence of a very characteristic and never missing attribute: the torch. A small number of contemporary vases can be put into relation with our vase. One is a bell krater auctioned by Sotheby’s in 1989 (BAPDN 41571) that bears a very similar scene, although in this case one of the youths holds the torch that is missing in our vase. Likewise, a 4th century bell krater in Berlin (inv. number V.I.4982,44) carries a very similar iconography, and this time the torch is only missing but the scene is only partially preserved. Beazley attributed the fragment to the Painter of Louvre G502, who decorated kraters which, on morphological grounds, are earlier than the production of the Toya painter but which show some remarkable iconographic affinities with the works of this painter. The absence of the torch in our vase can be explained on stylistic grounds: it is a clear example of what can be considered a ‘trademark’ of the Toya Painter. He seems to consciously ‘forget’ to include the main attribute of his figures in the scene, precisely the attribute which would clarify the identification of the scene. In this case, it is the torch; on other occasions, it is, e.g. the club, which would identify the main figure of the side A of a krater from the Toya chamber tomb as Herakles (Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional 1986/149/2). The torch race vase is one of the clearest examples of the ‘open-ended’ iconographies mentioned above. By omitting the key element that would enable an (Athenian) viewer to understand the scene as an allusion to one of their more prestigious competitions, the Toya Painter produces a ‘delocalized’ message easy to be understood by the consumers of these images in the Far West.7 The Iberians may have never heard of this typical Athenian race8 but were indeed able to grasp the overall message of the image through their own cultural filters as alluding to heroization and apotheosis, and quite appropriately placed the vase in a tomb. We are

166  Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez not arguing for the existence of a specific iconography for the Peninsula, though. Much on the contrary, the specificity of the images that reached those lands is, precisely, their vagueness. Fourth century Attic workshops were by and large producing a highly versatile iconography prone to be interpreted from the perspective of the consumers, whoever they may be. Case study 3: The tomb 43 from Baza and the ‘princely tomb’ from Piquía In radical opposition to these vases, there are a number of bell kraters from the first half of the 4th century, mainly arising from the Plainer Group,9 which bear a rather specific and ‘innovative’ iconography. Among these, two groups of vases stand out: those from the tomb 43 from Baza, Granada (Sánchez Fernández 1997) (Figure 8.3), and those from a chamber tomb from Piquía, Jaen, discovered a few years ago (Olmos Romera et al. 2012). Both complexes are extraordinary in many ways. They include brand new vases by a quality painter who never again appears in Andalusia, the Oenomaos Painter.10 The kraters in both tombs are huge, more than 40 cm in height. They are singular pieces that complement each other. An Amazonomachy, a banquet, and the return of Apollo to Delphi were the images selected for the triple cremation burial at Baza.11 In Piquía too, the kraters are unusually big, around 40 cm in height, with the exception of a smaller one decorated with a feminine bath (33 cm). The subjects are

Figure 8.3 Recreation of the tomb 43 of Baza. (Courtesy of the National Archaeological Museum, Madrid.)

Images in motion 167 related to each other; they are unusual and unique, not only for the Iberian standards but also to the repertoire of the Athenian vase painters of the time. A scene of Herakles riding a centaur in the context of his wedding is attested only once more: on a krater by the Filottrano painter (BAPDN 218250). The vase that we attribute to the Oinomaos Painter has an uncommon iconography: maybe Apollo’s wedding. The insistence on Apollo and Dionysos and very particularly on the nuptial theme is clear, what is particularly meaningful in the particular context of this tomb. This very special burial, containing a remarkable assemblage of material of varied origins, has been convincingly dated to the 1st century BC and explained as a conscious act of re-foundation of a princely lineage in the turbulent years following the Second Punic War (Olmos Romera et al. 2012). In this context, the reuse of Attic bell kraters three centuries old and bearing a coherent iconography revolving around the nuptial theme is meaningful. This extraordinary discovery raises many questions: where were these kraters deposited in the first place? Did they all come from the same earlier context, presumably another tomb of a claimed ancestor? In this case, their coherence and the painters whose hands we have been able to identify are indicative that these kraters, as well as those from Baza 43, would have been especially commissioned for the tomb and came as a batch, being later reused in the Piquía burial. It follows from here that the Iberian customer understood at least the basic lines of Athenian iconography and demanded very particular pots for a number of relevant tombs. Yet, it is possible to think of one more – less likely – possibility to explain the Piquía assemblage: that each of these kraters had a different origin and were only later united as a coherent group in the 1st century BC burial, what would evidence an unusual understanding of Athenian images three centuries after their creation. Unfortunately, we do not know much about how commissioning could have worked in the 4th century BC. Dyfri Williams (2013: 50) has pointed out that ‘while the production of vessels with suitable subjects for tombs must have made commercial sense, special commissioning was unlikely given the speed of burial required by nature and custom’. In the case of long-distance trade, direct commissioning to the Attic workshops at the moment of the death must of course be ruled out. But given the social significance of figured Athenian vases among the Iberians, we must also consider the possibility that some of the vases could have been commissioned during the deceased’s lifetime. Nevertheless, this hypothesis does not agree well with the extraordinary state of conservation of the vases from Baza, for example, which, as mentioned above, were most likely never used before the burial. A third hypothesis must be borne in mind as well, and that is the active role of the middlemen and the efficacy of their information networks. As Williams (2013: 48) has put it, the profit for the potters and vase painters was all about understanding their possible purchasers and anticipating their needs and wishes. This also applies to middlemen and traders. In the Spanish case, it seems likely that what looks like a direct dialogue between the Attic workshops and the Iberian customers is the result of a number of well-informed middlemen active in the area of Murcia and the Alta Andalucia.12 The trade patterns attested in this area in the first

168  Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez decades of the 4th century are very different from those observed in other parts of the Peninsula, such as Empúries, and even differ to the type of trade directed to the same area a few decades later, when the poor quality vases of the Telos Group start to massively reach the Peninsula. The vases from these selected tombs we have brought into the discussion are of a rather good quality, painted by members of the Plainer Group who were also catering for the needs of the Boeotian customers, for whom they were simultaneously painting red-figure kalyx kraters. We hope that these three case studies serve to prove that Athenian potters and painters did not ignore the preferences of their westernmost clients. Much on the contrary, they catered for their needs in various ways. In the Iberian Peninsula, as in Etruria, there are indeed some tombs whose particular characteristics reveal that a conscious choice has taken place,13 such as we propose in the case of Baza and Piquia. Sometimes, the preferences of the Iberian customers originated changes in the Athenian workshops, as it had happened more than one century before when a number of workshops were responding to very specific demands of their Etruscan customers. On other occasions, it is precisely the generic quality of the iconography that matters, its potential to address a wide group of consumers. This is by large the most common strategy attested in the Iberian Peninsula, best exemplified by the ubiquitous scenes of the Dionysian thyrsus but also by a number of ‘delocalized’ athletic scenes. In sum, we hope to have demonstrated that, as Juliette de la Genière (2006: 10) rightly put it, ‘le role determinant du client n’est pas necessairement annulé par la distance’. Notes 1 The long bibliography list includes, among others, Payne 1931; Bailey 1940; Villard 1960; Trias Rubiés 1967; Tronchetti 1973; Giudice 1978; Boardman 1979; Johnston 1979; Olmos Romera and Garrido Roiz 1982; Jully 1982; Giudice 1983; Cabrera Bonet 1987; Tronchetti 1989; Hannestad 1989, 1992; and Sánchez Fernández 1992a. 2 Cf. Stissi’s publication for a comprehensive introduction to the scholarship on aspects of production, circulation and consumption of Greek pottery in the archaic period. 3 Cf. Olmos Ricardo et al. 1992; Sánchez Fernández 1994; Olmos Romera and Sánchez Fernández 1995; Cabrera Bonet and Sánchez Fernández 2000; Osborne 2001; Domínguez Monedero and Sánchez Fernández 2001; Paleothodoros 2002; Rouillard and Verbanck-Piérard 2003; De la Genière 2006; Paleothodoros 2009; Tsingarida and Viviers 2013. 4 See Lynch’s (2009: 160) characterization of the relationship between painter and consumer from the painter’s perspective. The idea of the ‘Middle Ground’ is important because it allows more complex readings of images, whose meaning is not fixed and immutable anymore; it permits choice on both ends, the Athenian producers and the final consumers, which do not necessarily need to match. In this regard, cf. Langridge-Noti 2013: 65, with bibliography. 5 Scheffer (1988) also discovered distinctive patterns of distribution for individual blackfigure workshops by correlation of workshop and find-spot, which suggests that the export trade was not random and that painters and potters would have had a good idea of where their products would end up. 6 BAPDN stands for Beazley Archive Pottery Database Number. See http://www.beazley. ox.ac.uk/xdb/ASP/default.asp

Images in motion 169 7 Cf. Rodríguez Pérez (2014) for an analysis of how the iconography of the chariot driven by Nike and carrying either Herakles or an apobates as its passenger changed in the 4th century BC, drifting to a highly non-narrative scene with remarkable funerary nuances. 8 Their knowledge of Greek mythology was probably not as deep as that of the Etruscan elites, who did develop a very good understanding of the Greek myths as a result of intensive and long-term contacts with the Greek population. On the use of Greek mythology by the Etruscans, cf. Hampe and Simon 1964. Besides understanding the Greek myths, the Etruscans were also capable of selecting those aspects of them which better suited their particular circumstances, providing their own local versions of well-known Greek stories (Paleothodoros 2002: 148). 9 Beazley divided the early fourth century pot painters between the Plainer Group and the group of the Early Krater Painters but such a division is awkward. Their styles are not easy to isolate and both groups may have worked in a same big workshop as Kathariou (Kathariou 2000: 16–20) has suggested. 10 Kraters 43-B and 43-C from Baza (García Cano and Gil González 2009: 120–125) and one of the kraters from Piquía that we attribute to this same painter. 11 From a morphological point of view, the krater with the Amazonomachy scene (43-A) may be dated some decades later than the remaining two kraters (to the mid of the 4th century). In Etruria, there are some tombs where vases of two different generations appear together, but it is assumed that the oldest ones were in use before ending up in the tomb (some show ancient repairs) (Paleothodoros 2002: 143). The Spanish case is nonetheless different: as in the case of the bowls with out-turned rims, a use prior to the tomb cannot be assumed for the kraters from Baza because they still preserve the fragile protective layer of miltos. 12 De la Genière (2006: 11) has pointed out that some middlemen may have had depots in the places where they were trading. In this sense, the interpretation of the room A of the Iberian coastal settlement of La Loma del Escorial de Los Nietos (Cartagena, Murcia) as a depot from which pottery would be redistributed inland is meaningful (García Cano and García Cano 1992: 31). 13 Some of the best known Etruscan examples are the so-called ‘Brygos Tomb’ (Beazley 1945, Williams 1992), the tomb 128 from Valle Trebba, Spina (Arias 1994) and the tomb 180 de la Certosa, Bologne (Zannoni 1876: pl. 69, tomb 180).

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Images in motion 171 Hannestad, Lisa. “Athenian pottery in Corinth c. 600-470 BC.” Acta Archaeologica 2 (1992): 151–163. Johnston, Alan. Trademarks on Greek Vases. Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1979. Jubiere, Cécile. “L’épave archaïque IA de la Pointe Lequin: Une épave hors du commun.” In Le vase grec et ses destins, ed. Pierre Rouillard and Annie Verbanck-Piérard, 118–124. Munich: Biering and Brinkmann, 2003. Jully, Jean Jacques. Céramiques grecques ou de type grec et autres céramiques en Languedoc méditerranéen, Roussillon & Catalogne: VIIe-IVe s. avant notre ère, et leur contexte socio-culturel. Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1982. Kathariou, Kleopatra. O εργαστήριο του Ζωγράφου του Μελεάγρου και η εποχή του: Παρατηρήσεις στην αττική κεραμική του πρώτου τετάρτου του 4ο υ αι. ττ.Χ. Thessaloniki: University of Thessaloniki, 2000. Langridge-Noti, Elizabeth. “Consuming Iconographies.” In Pottery Markets in the Ancient Greek World (8th-1st Centuries BC). Proceedings of the International Symposium held at the Université Libre de Bruxelles, 19–21 June 2008, ed. Athena Tsingarida and Didier Viviers, 61–72. Brussels: CReA-Patrimoine, 2013. Lewis, Sian. The Athenian woman: an iconographic handbook. London: Routledge, 2002. Lewis, Sian. “Representation and reception: Athenian pottery in its Italian context.” In Inhabiting Symbols. Symbol and Image in the ancient Mediterranean, ed. John Wilkins and Edward Herring, 175–192. London: Accordia Research Institute, 2003. Long, Luc, Jordi Miró and Giuliano Volpe. “Les épaves archaïques de la pointe Lequin.” In Marseile grecque et la Gaule. Actes du colloque international d’histoire et de archéologie et du Ve congrès archéologique de Gaule méridionale, Marseilles, novembre 1990, ed. Michel Bats, 199–234. Aix-en-Provence: Lattes, 1992. Lynch, Kathleen. “Erotic images on Attic vases: Markets and meanings.” In Athenian Potters and Painters II, ed. John Oakley and Olga Palagia, 158–164. Oxford: Oxbow, 2009. Madrigal, Antonio. “El ajuar de la cámara funeraria ibérica de Toya (Peal de Becerro, Jaén).” Trabajos de prehistoria 54 no. 1 (1997): 167–181. Metzger, Henri. Les représentations dans la céramique attique du IVe siècle. Paris: E. de Boccard, 1951. Olmos Romera, Ricardo and Juan Pedro Garrido Roiz. “Cerámica griega en Huelva. Un informe preliminar.” In Homenaje a Sáenz de Buruaga, ed. Javier Arce, 243–64. Badajoz: Diputación de Badajoz, 1982. Olmos Romera, Ricardo and Carmen Sánchez Fernández. “Usos e ideología del vino en las imágenes de la Hispania prerromana.” In Arqueología del vino. Los orígenes del vino en Occidente, ed. Sebastián Celestino Pérez, 105–136. Jerez: Consejo regulador de las denominaciones de origen de Jerez-Xeres-Sherry y Manzanilla Sanlucar de Barrameda, 1995. Olmos Romera, Ricardo, Carmen Rueda Galán, Arturo Ruíz Rodríguez, Manuel Molinos Molinos, Francisco Gómez Cabeza and Carmen Rísquez Cuenca. “Imágenes para un linaje: vida, muerte y memoria ritual en la cámara principesca de Piquía (Arjona, Jaen).” In Meixis. Dinamiche di Stratificazione culturale nella periferia greca e romana. Atti del Convegno Internazionali di Studi "Il sacro e il profano, ed. Simonetta Angiolillo, Marco Giuman and Chiara Pilo, 89–104. Rome: Bretschneider, 2012. Olmos Ricardo, Romera, Trinidad Tortosa Rocamora and Pilar Iguácel de la Cruz. La sociedad ibérica a través de la imagen. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1992. Osborne, Robin. “Why did Athenian pots appeal to the Etruscans?” World Archaeology 33 no. 2 (2001): 277–295.

172  Carmen Sánchez Fernández and Diana Rodríguez Pérez Osborne, Robin. “What travelled with Greek pottery?” Mediterranean Historical Review 22 no. 1 (2007): 85–95. Paleothodoros, Dimitris. “Pourqoui les étrusques achetaint-ils des vases attiques?” Les Études Classiques 70 (2002): 139–160. Paleothodoros, Dimitris. “Commercial networks in the Mediterranean and the diffusion of early Attic red-figure pottery (525-450 BCE).” Mediterranean Historical Review 22 no. 2 (2007a): 165–182. Paleothodoros, Dimitris. “Dionysiac imagery in Archaic Etruria.” Etruscan Studies 10 no. 15 (2007b): 187–201. Paleothodoros, Dimitris. “Archaeological contexts and iconographic analysis: Case studies from Greece and Etruria.” In The World of Greek Vases, ed. Vinnie Norskov, Lisa Hannestad, Cornelia Isler-Kerényi and Sian Lewis, 45–62. Roma: Quasar, 2009. Parker, Anthony. Ancient Shipwrecks of the Mediterranean and the Roman Provinces. Oxford: BAR International Series 580, 1992. Payne, Humfry. Necrocorinthia: A Study of Corinthian Art in the Archaic Period. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1931. Rasmussen, Tom. “Etruscan shapes in Attic pottery.” Antike Kunst 28 (1985): 33–39. Reusser, Christoph. Vasen für Etrurien: Verbreitung und Funktionen attischer Keramik im Etrurien des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts vor Christus. Zürich: Akanthus, 2002. Rodríguez Pérez, Diana. “¿La apoteosis de Heracles o una escena de apobates? A propósito de una cratera de campana procedente de La Loma del Escorial de Los Nietos (Cartagena, Murcia).” Archivo español de arqueología 87 (2014): 59–74. Rouillard, Pierre. Les Grecs et la péninsule ibérique du VIIIe au IVe siècle avant JésusChrist. Paris: De Boccard, 1991. Rouillard, Pierre and Annie Verbanck-Piérard. Le vase grec et ses destins. Munich: Biering and Brinkmann, 2003. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. El comercio de productos griegos en Andalucia oriental en los siglos V y IV a.C: estudio tipológico e iconográfico de la cerámica. Unpublished PhD. Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 1992a. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “Imágenes de Atenas en el mundo ibérico: análisis iconográfico de la cerámica ática del siglo IV a.C. hallada en Andalucía Oriental.” Anuario del Departamento de Historia y Teoría del Arte 4 (1992b): 23–34. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “El comercio de cerámica ática en las áreas periféricas. Pintores y vasos en el siglo IV a.C.: una aproximación comparativa entre el entorno póntico y la Península Ibérica.” In Coloquio Hispano-Ruso de Historia, 151–61. Madrid: Fundación Cultural Banesto, 1994. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “Imágenes de la muerte en una tumba ibérica. El ajuar ático de la tumba 43 de Baza (Granada).” Boletín del Museo Arqueológico Nacional 15 (1997): 37–48. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “Dioniso en el paraíso o el privilegio de la muerte.” In En los límites de Dioniso: actas del simposio celebrado en el Museo Arqueológico Nacional: Madrid, 20 de junio de 1997, ed. Paloma Cabrera Bonet and Carmen Sánchez Fernández, 105–18. Madrid: Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 1998. Sánchez Fernández, Carmen. “Los pintores del Grupo de Telos.” In La céramique attique du IVe siècle en Méditerranée occidentale. Actes du Colloque International, ed. Brigitte Sabattini, 35–46. Naples, Aix-en-Provence: Centre Jean Bérard, 2000. Scheffer, Charlotte. “Workshop and trade patterns in Athenian black-figure.” In Proceedings of the 3rd Symposium on Ancient Greek and Related Pottery. Copenhagen,

Images in motion 173 August 31-September 4 1987, ed. Jette Christiansen and Torben Melander, 536–546. Copenhagen: Copenhagen Nationalmuseet, 1988. Shapiro, Alan. “Modest athletes and liberated women: Etruscans on Attic black-figure vases.” In Not the Classical Ideal: Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, ed. Beth Cohen, 315–337. Leiden: Brill, 2000. Simon, Erika. Festivals of Attica: An Archeological Commentary. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1983. Stissi, Vladimir. “Production, circulation and consumption of Archaic Greek Pottery (sixth and early fifth centuries BC).” In The Complex Past of Pottery: Production, Circulation and Consumption of Mycenaean and Greek Pottery (sixteenth to early fifth centuryies BC). Proceedings of the ARCHON international conference held in Amsterdam, 8-9 November 1996, ed. Jan Paul Crielaard, Vladimir Stissi and Gert Jan van Wijngaarden. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1996. Tsingarida, Athena and Didier Viviers (ed.) Pottery Markets in the Ancient Greek World (8th – 1st centuries B.C.). Brussels: CReA-Patrimonie, 2013. Trias Rubiés, Gloria. Cerámicas griegas de la Península Ibérica. Valencia: William L. Bryant Foundation, 1967. Tronchetti, Carlo. “Contributo al problema delle rotte commerciali arcaiche.” Dialoghi d’Archeologia 7 (1973): 5–16. Tronchetti, Carlo. “Le importazioni di ceramica attica a figure nere in Etruria.” In Atti del secondo congresso internazionale etrusco (Firenze, maggio-giugno 1985), 1083–93. Roma: Bretschneider, 1989. Vickers, Michael and David Gill. Artful Crafts: Ancient Greek Silverware and Pottery. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994. Villard, François. La céramique grecque de Marseille (VIe-IVe siècle): essai d’histoire économique, Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athénes et de Rome. Paris: E. de Boccard, 1960. Webster, Thomas. Potter and Patron in Classical Athens. London: Methuen, 1972. Williams, Dyfri. “The Brygos tomb reassembled and 19th-century commerce in Capuan antiquities.” American Journal of Archaeology 96 no. 4 (1992): 617–636. Williams, Dyfri. “Greek potters and painters: Marketing and movement.” In Pottery Markets in the Ancient Greek World. Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at the Université Libre de Bruxelles, 19–21 June 2008, ed. Athena Tsingarida and Didier Viviers, 39–60. Brussels: CReA-Patrimoine, 2013. Zannoni, Antonio. Gli scavi della Certosa di Bologna. Bologna: Regia tipografia, 1876.

9

Piracy and the Western Greek experience Joshua R. Hall

Introduction Piracy is a complicated topic to discuss when looking at the ancient world. Instances of it are common enough throughout the literary evidence but understanding their meaning and the nature of the “piracy” involved requires a close reading. It also requires a careful review of the terminology used by ancient authors and their perceptions of what this meant. While modern scholars have debated the role of piracy in Mediterranean society for a very long time, and have created an interesting picture of it, revisiting these core issues is essential for progressing our knowledge of the practice in the central Mediterranean. Thus, this study begins with a review of the terminology used to talk about this issue in our sources, who are predominantly Greek, with an eye toward this region. It will then discuss the practice of piracy in the central Mediterranean and the reaction of the peoples in this region to it. Three words were used by the ancient Greeks to denote pirates: λῃστής, πειρατής, and καταποντιστής. Of these, only the first two are common, with few authors using the third (de Souza 1999: 2–12). The first of these is the oldest attested, in use since Homer, and is related to a verb which means to seize booty or plunder (LSJ s.v. λῃστεία). Thus, a λῃστής is most literally someone who plunders (de Souza 1999: 3). This is very broad, however, and the term was not used exclusively to denote those who plunder by the sea. It also was used to describe land-based raiders more typically called bandits in English. By reading the word in context, however, it is usually easy to determine what kind of plunderer is being described. The latter two terms noted above appear later than λῃστής, with καταποντιστής being most widely used by the third century AD author Cassius Dio, though appearing as early as Isocrates (Paeng. 115; Panath. 12, 226) (de Souza 1999: 9–11). Most of the instances of piracy discussed in this chapter are based on instances of λῃστής where the reading is unmistakably about the sea. But how do we talk about pirates? Clarifying our language is important. The term “pirate” generally has a negative connotation in modern English. This is because the practice is predicated on violence – or the threat of violence – which is abhorred throughout much of the modern world (Anderson 2001). Nevertheless, views on pirates can range from felonious parasites to libertarian heroes.1 DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-10

Piracy and the western Greek experience 175 A person’s worldview certainly shapes how they view these figures. If someone claims to be an anarchist, it would be fitting that they heroize pirates, while someone with a Weberian view of the state and the good it can do would almost certainly condemn them. For the purposes of this chapter, whenever I use the word “pirate,” I mean it without judgment. It should be read as a neutral term simply denoting someone who practices banditry on/via the sea (this is also how the concept should be read in many of our sources). The importance of this is shown in the final section of my discussion. In this chapter, examples of “piracy” are sought beyond those labeled as such by our sources. A number of events are portrayed as acts of piracy but carried out by “non-pirates.” From a modern view, these should be studied alongside the activities of people called λῃστής by our sources.2 However, the importance of recognizing that these people were not labeled as pirates in our ancient sources is essential for understanding the nature of sea-borne predation in this era. When the Greeks began migrating to the central Mediterranean, they entered into a world already inhabited by a multitude of peoples. While many of their early interactions may have been peaceful, as scholars have tended to argue in the past few decades, the seas sound more chaotic. Pirates, merchants, and migrants all shared the liquid highway. Of course, this was not a completely new situation for the Greeks. A high level of human mobility had been the norm in the eastern Mediterranean since the Bronze Age.3 This ranged from traders plying the waves to Greeks serving in the armies of foreign states (Luraghi 2006; Hale 2013). Among these were pirates, with the Ionians perhaps developing a reputation for this practice with the peoples of the Near East (Luraghi 2006: 30–35). Whether or not this reputation was well deserved, it is important to look at how the Greeks themselves thought of piracy, a practice in which at least some of them were certainly engaged. In the earliest “Greek world” preserved in the literary tradition, we find plenty of references to pirates and piracy. Although the dating of Homer and the associated poems is still controversial, if we accept an eighth or seventh century BC date for their compilation, then they could reflect the Greek world at the height of westward migration.4 In this world, pirates seem to have been looked down upon, although their actions were not dissimilar from those of heroes (de Souza 1999: 17–21; Casson 1959: 43–57). But it is significant that Homer does not label any Achaean hero a pirate, and there must have been a difference in status between what heroes did and what pirates did, with the latter being of a lower status, thus perhaps less legitimate.5 Even if it was not highly regarded, though, piracy was so common that newly arrived guests were regularly asked whether they were traders or pirates (Hom. Il. 9.328, 11.328–331; Od. 3.71–73, 14.39–44, 17.286–289; Hom. Hymn Apoll. 452–455). Equally revealing of how common piracy was, claiming to be a pirate was a believable enough premise on which to build an important cover story for Odysseus (Hom. Od. 14.245–272).6 Fittingly, the famous Aristonothos krater provides a beautiful juxtaposition of a well-known Homeric story, the blinding of Polyphemus by Odysseus and his crew, and the real-life practice of piracy. On the side of the vase opposite the attack on the cyclops, a Greek ship is depicted

176  Joshua R. Hall attacking an Etruscan vessel.7 Although this does not prove a direct connection between the Homeric world and piracy, it comes very close. If piracy was common in the “Homeric” world, its practice continued into the sixth century. According to the Digest (47.22.4) (compiled in the sixth century AD), piratical fraternities were protected like others under the laws of Solon, so long as their agreements and behaviors did not otherwise violate the laws of the state (Jackson 1993: 69). Sea-borne brigandage was still being practiced by 450, as reflected in a treaty between the Locrian towns of Oeanthea and Chaleum (IG IX 12, 717).8 But, by Thucydides’ time, piracy had fallen out of common practice in the Aegean and it was disapproved of by many Greek communities (Thuc. 1.5).9 Thucydides implies that the perception of piracy as being either “good” or “bad” varied from community to community. Even then, though, some Greeks were still raiding sea-lanes and probably held the profession in high regard. Figures like the Athenian, Macartaus, may have used privately owned ships to practice piracy into the mid-fourth century (Isae. Hagnias 11.48).10 Whether or not piracy was being readily practiced by Greeks in the east after this period is not entirely clear, or at least how widespread it might have been is not. If we look to two of Socrates’ students, we can see that it was at least a divisive issue. Xenophon admired pirates for the hard work in which they engaged to earn a living (Eq. mag. 8.8). However, his contemporary, Plato, had a much different view of practitioners of this profession. In painting an interesting picture of the effects of greed on different people, he claimed that it could turn those with a quiet nature into traders, ship-owners, and servants, while of the bold it could make pirates, burglars, temple-robbers, fighters, and despots (Leg. 8.831d–832a). The juxtaposition of pirates with temple-robbers, one of the most despised archetypes in ancient Greece, leads me to believe that Plato had an extremely low opinion of the former.11 The difference in opinion between these two authors may be evidence that they lived in a period of transition for piracy, and its public perception, going from a relatively respected activity to one of disrepute and, perhaps consequently, less often practiced. Although, at least in the context of the Peloponnesian War, piratical tactics were regularly used (de Souza 1999: 31–36). Thus, in the period that Greeks began migrating west, through to the Classical period, piracy was a regular occurrence and, importantly, it was not a universally detested activity. From an a priori stance, it seems probable that pirates and their actions influenced Greek settlement in the west. The aim of this chapter is threefold. Firstly, to examine how piracy played a part in the settlement pattern of the Greeks in the central Mediterranean. Secondly, it will look at how they responded to indigenous piracy and the effects that had on the “Western Greek experience.” Thirdly, after assembling the evidence of piracy in the central Mediterranean, I explore the question of who pirates were in this region. Ultimately, I hope to add to our knowledge of Greek settlement overseas and clarify how we should view piracy in the central Mediterranean in the period from the eighth to fourth centuries BC.

Piracy and the western Greek experience 177 Piracy in the central Mediterranean Direct correlations between piracy and the inhabitants of the central Mediterranean stretch back to pre-historic periods. Diodorus repeated a story that in the “earliest times” the Sicani built their towns up in the hills on account of the pirates around Sicily (Diod. Sic. 5.6.2). Similarly, Strabo preserves a fragment of Ephorus which states that in the period before the settlement of Messene, Tauromenium, Catana, and Syracuse, Greeks avoided the region because they “were so afraid of the bands of Tyrrhenian pirates” (Strabo 6.2.2). Though this may have been the case, scholars have tended to view these notices as lacking historical value.12 Archaeological evidence suggests that the first of these statements may have some merit. Coastal abandonment has been noted for the Early Iron Age on Sicily, which may have been a defensive response. Similarly, Thucydides records that the ancient cities of Greece were settled away from the sea because of the prevalence of piracy (Thuc. 1.7). But Robert Leighton noted that “the more complex, multi-faceted sites” on Sicily “were probably those at certain coastal locations” (Leighton 1999: 190–191). The situation is complicated, though, and even if some coastal abandonment happened, the centralization of settlements in Sicily’s interior may have been motivated by other things than piracy (De Angelis 2016: 53–54, n. 152 and 153). The memory that piracy discouraged settlement in the central Mediterranean is probably a fabricated one. Later conflicts between Greeks and others in the region likely infiltrated the historical record. But early trading between Greeks and nonGreeks in the region points to a positive relationship in general. The first Hellenic settlement in Italy, on the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples, would have been exposed to and easily cut off by this rampant piracy, if it existed. As shown by the archaeological evidence for the flourishing town of Pithekoussai, at least by 750, a successful settlement existed which exemplified the harmonious interaction of different peoples that characterized this era (Ridgway 1992; Donnellen 2016). In fact, all of the early Greek settlements were positioned on the sea. Like Pithekoussai, the Phoenician town of Motya and the original foundation of Syracuse were on islands.13 Interestingly, the historical tradition also remembered Greeks as early aggressors, supposedly driving earlier Phoenician settlers to the west of Sicily (Thuc. 6.2.6) and forcing natives off Ortygia in the foundation of Syracuse (6.3.2). But, again, modern approaches to these notices, and recent archaeological data concerning inhabitants in cities throughout Sicily, cast doubt on how aggressive Greek settlers were in driving off earlier dwellers from this land.14 Looking at the positions of the early foundations, though, makes it seem as though piracy was either not so destructive as to prevent them from being established or the Phoenicians and Greeks were simply capable of defending themselves. But if piracy was not a great deterrent to the Greeks settling in the central Mediterranean, it was a factor in the pattern in which they did. A number of settlements are claimed to have been inhabited primarily by pirates. The earliest of these we know of is Zancle. According to Thucydides (6.4.5), Zancle was originally founded by pirates from Opician Cumae.15 His account is followed by Pausanias (4.23.7), who claims that they fortified the bay to be used as a base for raids.16 Zancle’s

178  Joshua R. Hall position was well-suited to this type of activity as it controlled a protected bay on the most narrow part of the straits between Sicily and Italy. Based here, pirate ships would have a better chance of interdicting shipping than if they were sailing from a harbor in the Bay of Naples, which may explain why the inhabitants abandoned their old homes there. An alternative explanation to that given by Thucydides is that Zancle and Rhegion (on the Italian side of the Straits) were founded as part of a Euboean defensive program “to safeguard their enterprise at the Bay of Naples” (Tandy 1997: 78). Even readers who are convinced of this view must concede that it is itself evidence that piracy was a factor which shaped Greek settlement patterns in the region. But, if this was the case, the memory of Zanclians as pirates does not necessarily have to be discarded. Laura Michetti has proposed that the imposition of taxes imposed on vessels sailing past Caere may have contributed to that city’s reputation for piracy in antiquity.17 Given Zancle’s position, this is a possible explanation for their being called pirates.18 That this would be considered piracy is supported by Alain Bresson’s conclusion that “levying transit fees on the waters of a maritime channel was not within the accepted norms” of Greek society, though it must be conceded that his evidence is later than our period (Bresson 2016: 297). Indeed, his argument that there was a notion of “territorial waters” (though in his discussion only regarding fishing rights) that we can date back at least to Plato may contradict this to some extent (Bresson 2016: 181–184). However, there may be another reason why Zancle was labeled as a polis of pirates. The goal of piracy is economic gain. To create this gain in the ancient world, pirates must first seize cargo or enslave people and then sell it or them. Selling their captive commodities is the point on which the entire endeavor hinges. Thus, ensuring that there was a market for goods taken in this way was essential. This may not have always been a problem. Strabo, in discussing Delos in the second century, implies that once a pirate landed and entered the market, they became a merchant (Strabo 14.5.2; Gabrielsen 2001: 391). Delos itself seems to have been a base for pirates, though whether it was actually Delians practicing this or not is unclear (SIG3 582; de Souza 1999: 86–92). However, the use of Delos as a launching point for raids – and perhaps as a market for seized goods and persons – would open them up for counter-raids, as Philip de Souza has pointed out (de Souza 1999: 89). Zancle could be an earlier example of this happening, both playing host to pirates and welcoming them in their market.19 Having a port like this was important because not all would be open to pirates. For instance, Athens used treaties to close the ports of Mytilene (IG I3 67) and Halieis (IG I3 75) to pirates while leaving them open to Athenian ships.20 Similarly, the second treaty between Rome and Carthage forbade the sale of enslaved persons from the allied territories of either party in friendly ports (Polyb. 3.24). Zancle was not the only Hellenic foundation that was renowned for pursuing the piratical life. In 580, a group of Cnidians and Rhodians, led by Pentathlus, attempted to settle a colony on Sicily, either at Cape Pachynos in the east (Paus. 10.11.3) or more probably in the west near the Phoenician city of Lilybaeum (Diod. Sic. 5.9.3).21 Their choice of location in the west was strategic, sitting on the sea

Piracy and the western Greek experience 179 route between North Africa, Sardinia-Corsica, and Italy, which was heavily trafficked (Dunbabin 1948: 326). Their intention from the outset could have been to take advantage of this and launch raids against the ships passing by.22 Pentathlus was killed and the expedition was driven out of the area before they could establish themselves and ended up settling on Lipara, a small island north of Sicily. They seem to have begun raiding Etruscan shipping rather quickly, as Diodorus notes that after organizing their new settlement “they defeated the Tyrrhenians in many sea-fights, and from their booty often made notable dedications at Delphi” (Diod. Sic. 5.9.5). For this, their new island home was excellently positioned (Dunbabin 1948: 332). A specific instance of Liparian piracy can be found in the early history of Rome. After Marcus Furius Camillus’ successful siege of Veii, traditionally dated to 396, a tithe from the spoils was sent to Delphi.23 The embassy conveying it was intercepted by ships from Lipara (Livy 5.28; Diod. Sic. 14.93.3).24 While we know of this specific instance, it would be unfair to represent the Liparians as the only antagonists in their part of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The ancient tradition prominently portrays them as actively combating Etruscan piracy (Diod. Sic. 5.9). Undoubtedly, there were aggressors on both sides, which is probably what led to a program of competitive display between Lipara and Caere at Delphi (Colonna 1984; Scott 2010: 91–93). This could be part of what some scholars have seen as the Liparians asserting their place in the wider Greek world as protectors against Tyrrhenian aggression (Scott 2010: 92). It would be wrong, however, to think this was universally accepted among Hellenes, as all of Etruria – including Caere – was open to Greek traders and settlers. It is inappropriate to see here, or elsewhere, the specter of bloc politics. That is, Greeks and Etruscans were not “natural enemies” that operated in political blocs delineated by racial, ethnic, or linguistic boundaries. Liparian efforts to fight pirates emanating from Italy are no more evidence that these political units existed than was the Deinomenid attempt to portray their victories at Himera (480) and Cumae (474) as a Syracusan effort to protect the wider Greek world (Pind. Pyth. 1.71–78).25 Another group of Greek settlers notorious for their piracy in the central Mediterranean came from Phocaea, in Ionia. Around 565, a group left their homeland in the Aegean and settled at Alalia, on Corsica. Although it had a poor harbor, its hinterland was extremely valuable, potentially productive enough to support a population as large as Phocaea itself (Malkin 2011: 149). The original settling seems to have been made by a rather small group, but 20 years later, in the face of Persian aggression, a large number of Phocaeans emigrated to the town (Hdt. 1.165). For five years after arriving, these immigrants vigorously raided the sea-lanes of the Sardinian Sea (Hdt. 1.166). This was so pervasive and effective that the Carthaginians and Caeretans sent a combined fleet to put down the pirates.26 This confrontation ended in a Cadmean victory for the Greeks, though they were forced to withdraw from Corsica, eventually settling at Hyele, in Campania.27 The refugees had supposedly decided to flee to Alalia because of the earlier group sent thither from their city. But this may not have been the only reason for their choice. Given that the city had a poor harbor for anchorage, it seems unlikely

180  Joshua R. Hall that they would have stayed there with the expectation of establishing a mercantile regime. Rather, the town’s position facing toward Etruria, and thus into the Tyrrhenian Sea, meant that it was an ideal base from which to launch raids against shipping. This would have required a less-developed port than extensive trading activity would have. My suspicion is supported by the legacy of Dionysius, another Phocaean who fled from further Persian hostilities. In the aftermath of the Ionian Revolt, the Persians attempted to reassert control of the region. When the combined army and fleet of reconquest began moving toward Miletus, the seat of the revolt, the Ionians decided to make a stand on the sea. The combined Greek fleet was defeated by the Persians at the Battle of Lade in 494 (Hdt. 6.11–12). Dionysius of Phocaea was the overall commander of the fleet, although he only had three of his own ships. In the wake of their defeat, he and his squadron sailed to Phoenicia and began preying on commercial ships. However, they eventually left the Levant and settled on Sicily, once again practicing piracy. Interestingly, Herodotus tells us that they then only preyed on Carthaginian and Tyrrhenian ships, leaving the Greeks alone (Hdt. 6.17). This may provide us with an interesting insight into the minds of some pirates in the central Mediterranean. It may also be an anachronistic insertion on the part of a patriotic Hellenic historian who did not think that it would be noble for a fellow Greek to attack his own kind when there were barbarians around on whom to prey. This fits with the general picture that ancient Greek writers tried to paint of this region being a “barbarian vs. us” war zone (described above).28 We find Phocaeans again practicing piracy – most likely – out of Massalia. Justin’s epitome of Pompeius Trogus describes this activity as the core of the settlement’s success (along with fishing and trading) (Epit. 43.3). A notice like this is absent from Strabo’s account (4.1.5) of the city’s foundation and is not found anywhere else in descriptions of Massalia. A later passage of Justin hints at a conflict between the Greeks of this city and the Carthaginians over some fishing boats, though it is difficult to determine if this corroborates the earlier description or not (Epit. 43.5).29 Greeks were not the only peoples associated with piracy in the central Mediterranean. Perhaps as far back as the so-called Sea Peoples, inhabitants of this region were associated with sea-borne raiding (Wainwright 1959; Tykot 1994; Broodbank 2013: 460–472). Piracy is most regularly associated with the Etruscans. An early Greek myth about Dionysus tells of his capture by Tyrrhenian pirates whom he later turned into dolphins, thus escaping captivity.30 Palaephatus rationalized the myth of Scylla to reflect the pervasiveness of Etruscan piracy, arguing that the monster’s name came from one of their ships which supposedly captured Odysseus (De incr. 20).31 We can read these two cases in tandem with a notice in Strabo (6.2.2) which claims that in the early days, Greeks were discouraged from coming to the central Mediterranean because of Etruscan piracy and one in Cicero’s De re publica (2.9) which claims the Etruscans were one of the earliest seafaring people and their express purpose in this was piracy. But their activity was not limited to this region. Tyrrhenian pirates were also remembered as preying on the Aegean in such events as a raid on Samos in the fifth or fourth century (Athen. 15.12 = Menodot. FGrHist 541 F I) and Brauron in Attica (schol. Hom. Il. 1.594 with Plut.

Piracy and the western Greek experience 181 De mul. vir. 8, Quaest. Graec. 21).32 There is archaeological evidence to support that it was indeed people from Italy committing these incursions (Gras 1976). By the middle of the fourth century, the Adriatic was considered unsafe by some because of the threat of Etruscan pirates, and toward the end of the century the Athenian proposed founding a colony there to protect against the threat (IG II2 1629.217–33). Even before this, though, Dionysius II of Syracuse established two bases in the Adriatic to deal with Apulian piracy (Diod. Sic. 16.5.3). The bias that the Greek sources have toward identifying Etruscans as pirates has been readily taken up by many modern historians and is to be found in almost every synthesis on ancient Etruria.33 Romans and Carthaginians are both also implicated in practicing piracy. The first two treaties between these powers imply that persons from each did so, perhaps raiding both land and sea from their ships (Polyb. 3.22, 24).34 It was perhaps a Carthaginian reputation for piracy which explains a notice in Strabo that they would drown anyone who sailed to Sardinia or to the Pillars of Hercules (17.19). Phoenicians already had a reputation for being pirates in the eastern Mediterranean, and this was probably transmuted to the Greek view of those who settled in the central part of the sea.35 Thus, we find a story preserved by Zenobius (1.54) which relates that the original oikists of Gela were killed by a Phoenician pirate, though we do not find it in any earlier source. Antiate pirates were active at least by 491 (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.37.3), and despite having 22 of their ships confiscated by the Romans in 467 (Livy 2.63; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 9.56.5–6), they seem to have kept raiding the seas for a number of years after. When Rome took the city for the final time in 338, they burned some of the ships they found there and removed others to the Tiber docks at Rome (Livy 8.14). While this should have been the end of Antiate piracy, complaints were sent to the Romans about their piratical behavior through to at least 287 by rulers in the east (Strabo 5.3.5).36 As all of this evidence makes clear, piracy was quite common among many different peoples in the central Mediterranean. This is further corroborated by evidence such as the arrowheads and helmet onboard the Giglio Campese shipwreck which “may point to security concerns on the part of the crew, perhaps involving pirates” (Peña 2011: 188). But how does this impact the way we think about Greek settlement in the region? To answer this, we must look at the nature of the known pirates, starting with the Greeks themselves. Almost all of the instances of Greek piracy that we have encountered involve people who have left their homeland and were then known as pirates. This is true of the second wave of Phocaeans to settle at Alalia, Dionysius and his crews after the Battle of Lade, and the inhabitants of Zancle after founding their settlement. And though not described as such in nearly so explicit terms, the settlers of Lipari should probably be considered alongside the other examples. In the case of the Phocaeans – including Dionysius – they were exiles from their homeland. After the Persians put down the Ionian Revolt, they were essentially Greeks without a polis. Comparing their situation to that of similar groups in the fourth century, it is unsurprising that they ended up practicing piracy. As Paul McKechnie has shown,

182  Joshua R. Hall as polis loyalties and the importance of citizenship for individuals deteriorated in this century, there was a marked rise in both mercenary and piratical activity, which he links together (McKechnie 1989). The central Mediterranean in the Archaic and Classical periods would have been a hotbed for this type of behavior if this was the case. Social mobility between poleis in Magna Graecia was the norm and may have encouraged people to think in more individualistic – and less communal – terms.37 And it is perhaps similar conditions in Etruscan and Italic Italy which led to the piratical activities which emanated from there. Although I do not want to downplay the importance of community in Etruria and early Rome too far, there is strong evidence that warbands practiced a similar type of predation on land throughout the Archaic period.38 What this tells us about Greek settlement in the central Mediterranean, though, is that individualistic reasons influenced many immigrants to come to the region. This supports Robin Osborne’s view that “private enterprise” was probably the driving force behind immigration to this region (Osborne 1998). This is almost certainly true of the group who followed Pentathlus to Sicily and settled on Lipari after his death, as well as of the Phocaeans who settled at both Alalia and Massalia. This is further evidence against the notion that Greek settlements in the west were primarily deliberate foundations organized by a metropolis. Indeed, the power of piracy in this regard was recognized by Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell who noted its power “to wed the movement of materials and the mobility of people” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 388). The richness of the trade between the eastern and western Mediterranean already in the eighth century was probably enough encouragement to draw in would-be pirates to the region.39 But we should not completely divorce piracy here from what may be described as more “legitimate” trade. There is a popular cliché which says that “one man’s pirate is another man’s trader,” which is important to consider. We have seen briefly in this chapter’s introduction that in the Homeric world (whatever that might be) visitors from the sea were asked if they were pirates or traders. The distinction is likely quite arbitrary. I noted in this section that at least in some instances, once a pirate entered the market to sell their goods, they were no longer a pirate but simply a merchant, and it is hard for us to tell the difference sometimes. Indeed, Jacques Heurgon concluded about this that the term pirate “really means ‘adventurer’ [and] indicates the jealous disposition of rivals who looked upon all competition as disloyal” (Heurgon 1989: 12–13). Even more pessimistic was Ellen Semple’s belief that “the blend of piracy and trade among early Phoenicians, Greeks, and Etruscans belonged to a primitive, undeveloped period when warfare was chronic, when stranger meant enemy” (Semple 1916: 134). Dealing with piracy If piracy was a draw for some to the central Mediterranean, dealing with it was a necessary part of life for the Greeks who settled here. This took many different forms, all of which affected life in the poleis of Magna Graecia. Some of these influenced important aspects in the political development of this region.

Piracy and the western Greek experience 183 In one political community, we know that one-half of the population was specifically dedicated to fighting pirates, but this notice is about the Liparians (Strabo 6.2.10). We saw above that they themselves practiced piracy, so it is unclear what exactly this means. Did half of their population patrol the seas around their islands on the lookout for ships they believed to be piratical? Or were these people stationed around the islands’ shores? There is no simple answer to this. However, because the Liparians were themselves known as pirates at least to some, it is probable that their method of suppressing piracy looked itself much like piracy. It would not be unprecedented if the Liparians took an active defense against pirates. This is not unusual and was certainly not unique to them. Thucydides believed that the Corinthians were among the first to do so (Thuc. 1.13), but the historicity of this brief notice is questionable (de Souza 1995: 189–193, 1999: 23). We are on more firm historical grounds with a Syracusan leader named Phayllus who led a fleet northward from the city to suppress Etruscan piracy in the first half of the fifth century (Diod. Sic. 11.88.4). This force sacked Elba but was ultimately unsuccessful in their original goal and Phayllus was exiled. A second expedition was sent out which attacked Etruscan settlements on Corsica and once again struck at Elba (Diod. Sic. 11.88.5). This sortie was more successful and returned to Syracuse with a considerable amount of plunder.40 Dionysius I of Syracuse undertook a similar operation in 384 which aimed to put down Etruscan piracy by raiding Pyrgi and Corsica (Diod. Sic. 15.14.3–4; Strabo 5.2.8).41 He was able to seize around 1,500 talents worth of valuables and captives.42 It is quite possible that Dionysius had no intentions of attacking pirates and from the beginning this was intended simply as a piratical raid.43 But if the public-facing statement was that his intentions were to put down piracy, it means that this was still a viable and generally understood method for doing so. Thus, we see another way that piracy affected life in Magna Graecia. Even if we want to be skeptical about the veracity of Etruscan piracy in this era, Dionysius’ ability to effectively use it as a specter to legitimize his own plundering activity proves its prominence and importance in the contemporary zeitgeist. This type of behavior was so fruitful that Richard Evans has described it as allowing “Dionysius I to pose as a super-power” (Evans 2020: 51). And it was important to maintain an air of legitimacy in doing this. We see similar circumstances in Hellenistic Rhodes which expected to profit from expeditions against pirates and negotiated means of dividing the booty with their allies.44 So by the simple existence of people who could ostensibly be called pirates, poleis like Syracuse – and Lipari – were able to legitimately accumulate wealth they otherwise would not have had. It is possible that this type of behavior continued into at least the middle of the fourth century when we hear of Greek fleets preying on the coast near Antium, Laurentum, and the mouth of the Tiber (Livy 7.25).45 Attacks of this kind were not a new problem for Latium and Rome in 349. At the dawn of the Republic, traditionally dated to 509, the Romans agreed to a treaty with Carthage which was mainly concerned with commerce and piracy.46 Four clauses of this governed what Punic raiders could and could not do on the coast of Latium (Polyb. 3.22.11–13). These are typically numbered as clauses four, five,

184  Joshua R. Hall six, and seven. They prohibited the Carthaginians from harming Ardea, Antium, Lavinium, Circeii, Tarracina, or any other Latin town over which Rome claimed power.47 They were also to avoid other Latin towns, but if one is accidentally taken, it and the loot shall be handed over to the Romans. Carthaginians were also prohibited from building fortresses in Latium or even spending the night there. The Carthaginians were also concerned for their lands (contra Hoyos 2010: 44–45). The first clause of the treaty prohibits Romans and their allies from sailing south beyond Cape Bon, but if they do so accidentally, they are not allowed to purchase anything nor take anything except what is necessary for repairs to their vessel(s) or for performing a sacrifice (Polyb. 3.22.5–6).48 Two aspects of the treaty make me think that piracy was one of the concerns being addressed in this clause. First, the verb that Polybius uses for “take,” λαμβάνω, implies that Roman ships were not allowed to seize anything without payment. If one takes something without purchasing it, is that not theft? This would equate to piracy. It is true, though, that the prohibition on purchasing items, ἀγοράζω, is almost certainly out of Punic concerns over smuggling. The second aspect of the treaty which leads me to my conclusion is Polybius’ explanation of the treaty. Here, he notes that the Romans were forbidden to sail with warships, μακραί νῆες, beyond Cape Bon because this region was so fertile (Polyb. 3.23.1–3). In his Loeb edition of Polybius, William Paton read “μακραί νῆες” back into the first clause (3.22.5–6) (Paton 1922: 54–55). Although Frank Walbank rebuked this, decrying Paton as having “no warrant” to do it, explaining that the comment was because Polybius had “read later conditions into” his explanation of the treaty (Walbank 1957: 345). This conclusion needs to be reconsidered in light of recent discussions on how involved Rome was with the sea in the early Republic.49 I believe that we should read into this clause that Carthage was concerned with protecting its vulnerable and wealthy agricultural lands from Roman – or otherwise Italian – raiders and that this is evidence of their existence. The second treaty between these two powers, generally thought to have been enacted in 348, included additional restrictions on piracy.50 The first clause prohibits Romans from passing Cape Fair or Mastia-in-Tarsis for the purposes of piracy,51 trading, or colonization (Polyb. 3.24.4–5).52 By the bounds of the second clause, Carthaginians could raid settlements in Latium so long as they then handed the town itself over to the Romans (Polyb. 3.24.5–6).53 Interestingly, the third clause prevents anyone taken captive by Carthaginians or Romans who is subject to the other power from being brought into – and sold – in that power’s ports (Polyb. 3.24.6–7).54 These treaties are evidence for another means of dealing with piracy which Greek poleis may have taken advantage of – diplomacy. Although we may be inclined to see this happening more often between Greek cities, some may have engaged in similar pacts as the Romans did with the Carthaginians. In 480, around 30 years after the first Roman-Punic treaty, we find that Carthage was allied to the exiled tyrant of Himera, Terillus, and the tyrant of Rhegium, Anaxilaus.55 Although this was to organize an invasion (Hdt. 1.165), it is reasonable to assume that similar agreements could have been struck by Greek leaders with the Carthaginians to

Piracy and the western Greek experience 185 prevent predation on their lands. The evidence of the Pyrgi tablets shows that the treaties with Rome were not the only diplomatic relations that Phoenicians had with non-Phoenician settlements in the Tyrrhenian Sea.56 One final way that the peoples who lived around the Tyrrhenian Sea tried to mitigate piracy was through fortification of the landscape. Thucydides implied that towns built directly on the coast had to be walled to protect against piracy and that “the isthmuses [were] occupied for the purposes of commerce, and defense against a neighbor” (1.7). His fellow Athenians had used naval outposts to guard against piracy since at least the fifth century and even proposed establishing a colony to protect friendly shipping in the Adriatic in the fourth century.57 Among the inhabitants of the central Mediterranean, we hear of Anaxilaus of Rhegium building fortifications on the Scyllaeum peninsula to counter Etruscan piracy sometime in the fifth century (Strabo 6.1.5). It is unclear how effective this was, but Strabo notes it prevented the pirates from passing through the Strait of Messina. Naval stations like this must have been able to deter piracy to some extent as Dionysius II of Syracuse established two bases in the Adriatic to deal with Apulian piracy (Diod. Sic. 16.5.3). The Carthaginians employed a system of strategic fortifications and watchpoints to protect their territory from naval raids. This network included positions such as Kelibia and Ras ed Drek, dating at least to the fifth century.58 Similarly, Roman maritime colonization could have served to protect again piratical raids, though there is also a strong argument that it afforded colonists the opportunity to themselves become sea-borne raiders (Armstrong 2016: 271–272, Roth 2020).59 We know that there were pirates preying on the Latial coast in the fourth century, so this is possible.60 Fortifying positions on the coast would have provided a number of types of protection against piracy. Ships launched from these would have been able to intercept potentially hostile vessels, which may have been their most direct use. However, land-based defenses were practical because they were a means of preventing pirates’ ships from landing at night, a necessity for ships in the ancient world (Gomme 1933; Rankov 1996; IG I3 75.6–10 with de Souza 1999: 32). Philip de Souza’s conclusion that “the most effective way” to combat piracy “is by denying them the bases from which to operate” encompasses this strategy of territorial expansion and protection (de Souza 1999: 39). This fits well with the observation made by Arthur Eckstein in the context of the First Samnite War that “in a system of militarized interstate anarchy there is no contradiction between protecting security interests and expanding one’s power and influence. It is part of a normal search, under pressure and threat, to gain more resources and strategic depth, and to deprive rivals of both” (Eckstein 2006: 144). Unfortunately, the extent to which Greek poleis in the central Mediterranean occupied coastal territories for defensive measures is unclear.61 Reflecting on piracy in the central Mediterranean The survey of evidence in the first two sections of this chapter showcases what we know about piracy in the central Mediterranean through the fourth century. There

186  Joshua R. Hall are some things that immediately pop out through this. Primarily, it is certainly time to end the focus on Etruscan piracy as a major – or perhaps unilateral – force in the region. Its uniqueness was certainly a “romance” to paraphrase Spivey and Stoddart, and scholars must avoid the “irony” of highlighting it (Spivey and Stoddart 1990: 139).62 Many instances of piracy we hear of were perpetrated by Greeks, and a substantial amount of what we read about Etruscan piracy belongs to a nebulous, and in some instances certainly fictitious, existence. That is not to say Etruscans did not engage in this activity, but it is folly to say they were the sole or chief practitioners in the Tyrrhenian Sea. But this raises the question of how we should talk and think about piracy in this region. The starting place for this must be in the question of “who were pirates?” In the introduction to this chapter, I discussed the terminology used by the Greeks to describe piracy. As they are the most significant authors of our sources for this period, this is important. However, we are also presented with an incredibly biased view of piracy because we lack many other contemporary voices. The evidence that we have from Rome, however, does complicate the issue. Neither the first nor the second treaty between the Romans and Carthaginians uses the term “pirate” (Polyb. 3.22, 24). Instead, they speak broadly of plundering. And there is no universal condemnation of this. In fact, the practice seems to be perfectly acceptable when leveled against parties not affiliated with either Rome or Carthage. Similarly, when Livy tells us that Greek fleets infested the sea off Latium, he does not use “pirate” as a descriptor (7.25). This problematizes our own use of “piracy” to describe it. We run into a similar problem when discussing the use of sea-borne raiding by Syracusan leaders as a means of revenue generation. Our sources offer no condemnation of this, and as I noted in the discussion above, this was not unique to the Western Greeks. So, who was a pirate in the central Mediterranean? The glib answer is “anyone,” but the answer is dependent on the writer’s perspective. From the ancient Greek point of view, non-Greeks who practiced sea-borne raiding were pirates, while political leaders like Apelles and Dionysius I were not. At the same time, we have no contemporary evidence for the Carthaginians, Etruscans, or Romans calling anyone a pirate. What emerges instead is a picture of the region in which all cultures committed raids via the sea, and it was only if you were the victim or it was conducted by “the other” that it was a problem. This exemplifies Jacques Heurgon’s maxim quoted above that it was the jealousy of rivals that earned someone the label of “pirate.” Thus, modern scholarship must be careful in its use of this term. Because of the generally pejorative use of “pirate” and “piracy” today, it is best that these be avoided because they do not reflect the ancient reality. Instead, a less loaded term such as sea-born raiding – while more cumbersome – risks less confusion when discussing this anarchic state of affairs.63 This terminology should not downplay the importance of this type of behavior for the Greeks and others in the central Mediterranean. It was not only an avenue for acquiring personal or small-group wealth but also could have been a driving force in state formation for the poleis here. Robert Carneiro’s foundational – if not universally accepted – explanation of the emergence of social hierarchy (including

Piracy and the western Greek experience 187 states) is founded on warfare as a mechanism of state formation (Carneiro 1970, see also Tilly 1985). But the consequences of sea-borne raiding were not the type of circumscribed conquest that is usually envisioned within this framework.64 To some extent, acquiring new lands and settling new colonies to combat piracy (or indeed practice piracy) fits into this. But this phenomenon also contributed to other types of power centralization. At a very basic level, it was a means by which political leaders or entities could accumulate wealth. Lipari provides us with a more concrete example of creating a type of centralized authority through organized defense against piracy. This emerged out of a presumably less organized group of migrants following Pentathlus. Even though pirate-like behavior had the potential to spur on state formation, it also had the power to bring different communities together. This is proved by the first two treaties between Rome and Carthage. With both citystates wanting to mitigate the behavior of citizens or subjects of the other, they were pushed toward cooperation. Although we do not know that this particular relationship amounted to any concrete action, a similar relationship between Carthage and Caere (and possibly other Etruscan cities) came to fruition in the Battle of Alalia. This type of intercommunity alliance was not unusual as we can see in the Anaxilaus-Hamilcar-Terillus axis or the later alliances of Greek poleis against Carthaginian aggression. But this was the political manifestation of a much broader phenomenon in which peoples of various backgrounds all intermingled in the settlements of the central Mediterranean. These were polyethnic centers of exchange and there is no trace of the supposedly tense situation between different groups as is presented by the ancient discourse surrounding pirates.65 Despite their reputation for piracy, the Etruscans served as an important conduit between the other peoples of the Mediterranean and continental Europe (Bonfante 2011). Greeks were present in Etruria both transiently (such as at Gravisca) and permanently.66 Evidence for a Hellenic presence is found in other places throughout the central Mediterranean.67 Even the poleis of Magna Graecia were multiethnic settlements (de Angelis 2016: 161–167). We should not conclude from the narratives about piracy that there were major rivalries or conflicts on the high seas between different ethnic groups. This would, however, make us question the information suggesting that Dionysius the Phocaean supposedly only prayed on Greek ships. Although it could be a historical anomaly, to me it is more likely an anachronism inserted into the historical record at a time when certain groups would not want to have been associated with piracy. This is supported by the seemingly positive relationship that the Latin or Roman pirate called by our Greek sources Postomion had with the Syracusans in the middle of the fourth century (Diod. Sic. 16.82.3).68 Although he was executed by the new regime, he had been expecting a warm welcome in the Greek polis. For the western Greeks and the other inhabitants of the central Mediterranean, sea-borne raiding was a part of life. It impacted their lives, drove the development of their political communities, and was a source of wealth. However, it should not be seen in the negative way that we generally view piracy today. This behavior

188  Joshua R. Hall was acceptable and practiced by people from every ethnic background. I echo Ed Bispham’s insistence that mentions of piracy in our sources for this region should “come with a health-warning,” and I hope this chapter serves as such (Bispham 2012: 235 n. 30). Notes 1 Pennell 2001 provides a good introduction to how the modern image of the pirate was shaped. 2 See below and Evans 2020. 3 The literature is exhaustive, but in general see Broodbank 2013: esp. 462–464. 4 All dates are BC unless otherwise stated. I generally accept this range for their compilation, and the literature is vast. For an overview, see Raaflaub 1998, though I tend toward the views of West 2005. For a more skeptical view of the usefulness of “Homer,” Snodgrass 1974 is still relevant. 5 On raiding in Homer generally, see Jackson 1993. 6 Though this was a lie, lies are told to be believed; Rawlings 2007: 104. 7 Bonfante 2016: 65. This is a jejune reading, though, and is complicated by a number of factors, including an almost identical scene depicted on a late eighth century BC fibula from Sparta, Crielaard 2000: 504–506; Dougherty 2003. 8 Commentary on the treaty in Tod 1946: 63–66, no. 34. 9 The approval of piracy has been tied by some scholars to the evolution of the state in Greek poleis (e.g., Garlan 1975: 31–37), but the problems of this evolutionary – and Webarian – view are discussed in Gabrielsen 2013 and in this chapter. 10 On this episode and its dating, see Trundle 2020: 27–34. 11 Temple-robbers were akin to traitors in Athenian law, the punishment for both being execution, a prohibition on the convicted person’s burial in Attica, and confiscation of their property by the state (Xen. Hell. 1.7.22). Temple-robbing is a trait that Xenophon associated with tyrants, though whether or not they were punished for their actions, or even judged poorly for them, is unclear (Xen. Hier. 4.10–11). Ties between temple-robbing and tyrants go beyond philosophical musings, and there is considerable evidence of this presented by Pritchett 1991: 163–165. The treatment of temples in Greek antiquity is a tricky subject, though, as their sacrosanctity is often assumed by modern scholars, even if there were exceptions to the rule, such as in war. See in general Parker 1983: 144–190; Rung 2016; Hall 2018. 12 Ormerod 1924: 153, for instance, believed that the latter “statement is probably little more than an inference.” Likewise, Ridgway 1988: 635 saw little strength in it. 13 For Syracuse, see Thuc. 6.3.2. 14 De Angelis 2016 in general, and at 39 regarding Thuc. 6.2.6. The mention of a Sicilian slave in Homer (Od. 24.211–212, 386–389) may be evidence that early Greek contacts with the island were violent, or even piratical, in nature; Rihll 1993; Lane Fox 2008: 121–123. 15 We do not have a secure date for its foundation, but on the chronology see Morakis 2011: 475–476. A late eighth century date is possibly correct. Some scholars suggest that the settlers would have actually come from Pithekoussai, see D’Agostino 2006: 221. 16 Two other versions of the town’s foundation are preserved in Strabo (6.2.3) and PseudoScymnos (283-286), neither of which mentions piracy. Both of these attribute Zancle’s original settlement to Naxos. Scholars tend to view Thucydides and Pausanias as having more historical strength, with Dunbabin 1948: 11 going so far as to claim that “it is hard to see what ground” the other “authors could have.” The later re-founding of Zancle by Rhegion, and its renaming to Messina, may be the source of the confusion (e.g., Thuc. 6.4.6).

Piracy and the western Greek experience 189 17 Michetti 2016: 73. In a similar vein, Ormerod 1924: 151–152 bluntly proposed that it was simply “the advantageous position of the town on the Straits” that earned Zancle’s inhabitants the title of “pirate.” This type of behavior was not unique to the Straits and in the third century Byzantium caused a war between itself and Rhodes because of tolls they were exacting on shipping passing through the Bosporus (Polyb. 4.47-52). 18 I find it unlikely that Thucydides would have described the founders as pirates unless he had good reason to, as he had a clear idea of what – to him – characterized a pirate (Thuc. 1.5). This is, of course, only speculation. 19 Pirates seem to have been welcome in Syracuse at least until 339/8 as demonstrated by Postomion sailing into the city expecting a warm welcome (Diod. Sic. 16.82.3). 20 These both probably date to the fifth century and were part of a wider Athenian effort to reduce mercantile costs and encourage trade, Woolmer 2016: 74–76. 21 The latter is preferred by modern commentators but there are dissenters; see Krings 1998: 23, with bibliography. 22 Burn 1967: 150 believed that the expedition had been a coordinated effort along with the Greek city of Selinus, which was at war with the Elymian city of Segesta. This is suggested by Diodorus. I am unconvinced that we should read too much into this and find it more likely that Pentathlus and his companions ended up caught in the middle of this conflict by accident. If they had been brought in by the Selinuntes, why would the survivors of the expedition not have settled there after their defeat? 23 The historicity of Camillus’ legend should not lead us to think that this tithe is fictitious. On the Camillus story, see Smith 2019. The tithe’s historicity is supported by the survival of the Roman dedication’s base in the ancient period (though it does not survive today). Appian (Ital. fr. 8.3) preserves an associated memory of this dedicatory base with the Liparians who escorted the Roman ships which seems to have been in the popular zeitgeist when Rome annexed Lipara in 252. 24 Plutarch’s version (Cam. 8.8) is slightly different as he does not describe the Liparians as pirates, but rather says they intercepted the Roman vessels thinking that they were pirates. He cites Livy earlier in the Camillus (6.2) and so was probably aware of his version of the story. It is interesting, then, that the Romans have become the suspected pirates in Plutarch’s narrative. It is unclear where his version may have originated, and whether or not it is more reliable than those preserved by Livy and Diodorus. Instinctively, I am inclined to argue that the latter two should be trusted, although it is entirely possible that they originate from a tradition that would not have wanted to implicate them as suspects in piracy. 25 This point is made in much more detail by Prag 2010. See also Dietler 2010. 26 Although we lack a detailed description of the ships involved, their designs have been theorized: Wood 2012: 38–44. We may also note that the specific city-states involved may not be accurately reflected in our sources. Carthage and Caere were well-known in the Greek world of Herodotus’ day and may simply be shorthand for “Phoenicians” and “Etruscans,” respectively. 27 Though Alalia was not abandoned and still had a Greek population who lived alongside Etruscans, Phoenicians, and Coriscans: Malkin 2011: 150. The historiography of the battle has been complicated by modern scholars, and it is worth comparing their accounts: Gras 1972, 1987; Turfa 2016; Wear 2016. Jehasse 2017: 1644 suggests that the withdrawal of the Phocaeans from the island, after retrieving their possessions, indicates “a genuine negotiation, and a great treaty between the different protagonists” which “allowed the Phocaeans to gather their goods and choose a new destination.” 28 If this notice is genuine, though, it could mean that Dionysius and his men were more connected to the Greek communities of the central Mediterranean than other piratical groups. They would thus have been integrated into the Hellenic “trust network” of one or more poleis and their targeting of non-Greek ships would be an example of Charles Tilly’s 2005: 84 observation that “some trust networks have preyed preferentially on other trust networks.”

190  Joshua R. Hall 29 Discussions in Ameling 1993: 127–130; Krings 1998: 139–143. 30 The earliest literary attestation is in the longest Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (= HH 7 Allen), but it was popular in ancient literature: Eur. Cyc. 10–22; Apollod. Bibl. 3.5.3; Ov. Met. 3.564–691; Hyg. Poet. astr. 2.17, Fab. 134; Nonnus Dion. 31.86–91; recent commentary in Paleothodoros 2012. It is beautifully illustrated on an Attic blackfigure kylix painted by Exekias, dated to 530, now in the Staatliche Antikensammlungen, Berlin (inv. 8729). Bruni 2013: 764 argues for a fourth century date for the Homeric Hymn, though I am skeptical. Regardless, the myth itself should be dated at least to the sixth century based on the vase by Exekias. 31 See also Eur. Med. 1342, 1359. 32 The earliest notice calls the pirates “Pelasgians,” but the later ones refer to them as Tyrrhenians. It is a complicated connection, see Briquel 1984. 33 But, as Jean Turfa 2016: 88 points out, “it is ironic that the Etruscans should have been branded as pirates by historians when the best literary documentation of piracy in this period is linked to intrusive Greeks.” See also Cherici 2006. Not all wide-ranging works support this topos, of course, for instance, Spivey and Stoddart 1990: 139, concluded that “the reputation that the Etruscans have amongst Greek writers for piracy looks like romance.” 34 These treaties are discussed in more detail below. 35 Ameling 1993: 121–127. This was certainly not a universal image, and it is important to remember the positive portrayals of Phoenicians in Homer, Herodotus, and other Greek authors, Gruen 2011: 116–122. It is worth noting that Cicero (Rep. 2.9) knew of a tradition in which the Phoenicians were the first to take to the sea for trade and the Etruscans to do so for piracy (noted just above). The value of this notice is questionable, with de Souza 1999: 150 arguing that “piracy is an activity which Cicero associates with Rome’s past enemies, contrasting the honourable and civilized nature of the Romans with the dishonourable and barbarous practices of other peoples.” 36 I agree with Bispham 2012: 239–240, who reasons that the monarchs sending complaints should be identified as Alexander the Great and Demetrius Poliorketes, thus giving a range from 336 to 287 for their delivery. But it contrasts with the views of Beek 2015: 45–49. 37 Generally, see De Angelis 2016: 134–179. 38 The literature on this is now quite large, but see Jannot 1985 and Armstrong 2016. Compare these to comments in Hall 2016. 39 A good description of this trade based on shipwrecks can now be found in Hodos 2020: 116–122. 40 Evans 2016: 84–86 questions the veracity of these events, noting their similarity to both the first Athenian expedition against Sicily in the 420s and Dionysius I of Syracuse’s raid on Etruria in 384. While I sympathize with this position, similarity in events should not be considered strong evidence of anachronism. That the expeditions of Apelles and Dionysius both consisted of 60 ships may give us need to worry, though it could simply mean that Syracuse was not building many – if any – new ships in this period. But the overall character and events of the expeditions almost certainly look the same because it was a good strategy for Syracusan leaders to accumulate wealth. I do not think we need to see in these events a problematic “historical doublet.” It seems that Evans has changed his mind on this issue as he recently used these raids as evidence in a chapter, Evans 2020: 44. 41 Diodorus Siculus is the only source to present suppression of piracy as a reason for the expedition. Strabo (5.2.8), pseudo-Aristotle ([Oec.] 1349b), Polyaenus (Strat. 5.2.21), and Aelian (VH 1.20) all omit this justification. 42 On the development and prosperity of Caere’s ports, see Michetti 2016. 43 Caven 1990: 190–191 described it as “a massive piratical foray into Etruscan waters.” This was not an unprecedented tactic for Dionysius, who supposedly funded Illyrian raids on Epirus in the 390s and 380s (Diod. Sic. 14.92, 15.13.2).

Piracy and the western Greek experience 191 44 Sources and discussion in Gabrielsen 2013. 45 Livy’s sources were enough to convince him that these attacks were carried out by Sicilian tyrants (7.26.15). It is possible that these raiders were Phoenician/Carthaginian, though (see comments below on the treaties between Rome and Carthage). 46 The bibliography on this and the second treaty is now massive. I accept a dating to the first year of the Republic or thereabouts. For a discussion and early bibliography, see Walbank 1957: 339. More recent discussions can be found in Scullard 1989: 520–526; Serrati 2006: 115–116; and Burgeon 2018: 68–71. 47 Roman claims to control over this area is generally accepted, see for instance Cornell 1995: 210–214 and Bradley 2020: 274–278. 48 I follow the idea that the “Beautiful Promontory” of Polybius is to be identified with Cape Bon rather than Cape Farina; Lancel 1995: 86–87. Though cf. Walbank 1957: 341–342. 49 For example, Steinby 2007; Armstrong 2016: 271–272; Roth 2020: 89–91, 94–95 n. 25. See Burgeon 2018: 122–128. 50 On the dating of this treaty, see Diod. Sic. 16.69.1, Livy 7.27.2, and Walbank 1957: 345–346. 51 The verb is ληίζομαι, and strictly speaking it simply means “to plunder” or “to despoil.” I translate it here as piracy because the implication is via the sea. 52 For Mastia-in-Tarsis, see Walbank 1957: 347 and Maras 2007. 53 Walbank 1957: 347–348. Serrati 2006: 119 proposed that Rome may have initiated this treaty after the raids near the mouth of the Tiber which Livy ascribed to Greek tyrants from Sicily (7.25–26). 54 Similarly, Hellenistic states in the eastern Mediterranean made treaties which regulated the sale of each party’s citizens as slaves, Pritchett 1991: 313. 55 Whether or not this was a proper political alliance or simply an alliance between these two tyrants and Hamilcar, a Carthaginian, is unclear. This hinges in particular on Hamilcar’s political role in Carthage, which is not precisely known. See Ameling 1993: 50–51, 65; Krings 1998: 316–317. Pilkington 2019: 33–37 does not believe that Carthage was involved in the conflict at all, suggesting instead that it was a Phoenician settlement (or settlements) independent of Carthage. I do not agree with his arguments, though his case is compelling. 56 Heurgon 1966. The direct correlation between these and Carthaginian-Etruscan relations has been problematized by modern interpretations of the Phoenician inscriptions which point to a non-Carthaginian origin, Pilkington 2019: 31–32. There are as many problems with the reasoning found here as with blindly accepting them as evidence for Carthaginian diplomacy in the region. Notably, I do not think we can entirely dismiss the possibility that a non-Carthaginian scribe could have created the plaques on the initiative of Carthage or of a Phoenician hegemony led by the Carthaginians. 57 For the fifth century, IG I3 61. For the fourth century, IG II2 1629.217–33. Woolmer 2016: 74–76. 58 Lipiński 2004: 372–373, n. 183, cf. Lancel 1995: 265–269, Rawlings 2010: 262–265. Pilkington 2019: 144–145 argued that Ras ed Drek served as a navigation beacon for the area rather than serving a defensive role, though its importance for both seems obvious to me. There is too little evidence to argue that it only served one of these purposes. 59 For a broader overview of Roman colonization, see Stek 2018. 60 I also noted above that Zancle could have been founded as part of a Euboean defensive program, which would be a further example of this, though I am not confident in this theory. 61 Even the militarization of the landscape more generally is only problematically understood, Jonasch 2020. 62 For “irony,” see Turfa 2016: 88. 63 Eckstein 2006 for the anarchic nature of the region.

192  Joshua R. Hall 64 Raiding can spur significant cultural developments, however, as is seen in the development of the Oaxaca Valley. Note especially the development of writing which may have been the result of this behavior, Redmond and Spencer 2006: 381–382. 65 On the nature of Greek apoikia and emporia, see Demetriou 2013 and Vlassopoulos 2013. 66 For Gravisca, see Demetriou 2011. On more permanent settlement of Greeks in Etruria, see for instance Winter 2017. 67 For instance, in Carthage, Fantar 1998. 68 His true name was probably Postumius, and he was probably a Latin, de Souza 1999: 51, Bispham 2012: 236 n. 36. He could have been a Roman, Harris 1990: 500. Though I do not know if I agree with Thierry Piel’s 2008: 84–85 conclusion that he had simply arrived “décidément trop tard.” The later history of Syracuse complicates this. It was more likely than not the prevailing perception of the city’s new Corinthian ruler, Timoleon, that piracy was a heinous crime, and not necessarily reflective of Western Greek views more generally.

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Piracy and the western Greek experience 193 Carneiro, Robert. “A theory of the origin of the state.” Science 169 (1970): 733–738. Casson, Lionel. The Ancient Mariners: Seafarers and Sea Fighters of the Mediterranean in Ancient Times. New York: MacMillan, 1959. Caven, Brian. Dionysius I: War-Lord of Sicily. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990. Cherici, Armando. “Talassocrazia: aspetti tecnici, economici, politici con un brevissimo cenno a novilara, nesazio e ai feaci.” Annali della Fondazione per il Museo «Claudio Faina» 13 (2006): 323–366. Colonna, Giovanni. “Apollon, les Étrusques et Lipara.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome Antiquité 96 (1984): 557–578. Cornell, Tim. The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000-264 BC). London: Routledge, 1995. Crielaard, Jan Paul. “Honour and valour as discourse for early Greek colonialism (8th-7th centuries B.C.).” In Die Ägäis und das Westliche Mittelmeer, ed. Friedrich Krinzinger, 499–506. Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2000. Cristofani, Mauro. “Il testo di Pech-Maho, Aleria e i traffici del V secolo a. C.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome Antiquité 105 (1993): 833–845. D’Agostino, Bruno. “The first Greeks in Italy.” In Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, vol. 1, 201–237. Leiden: Brill, 2006. De Angelis, Franco. Archaic and Classical Greek Sicily: A Social and Economic History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. de Souza, Philip. “Greek Piracy.” In The Greek World, ed. Anton Powell, 179–198. London: Routledge, 1995. de Souza, Philip. Piracy in the Graeco-Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Demetriou, Denise. “What is an emporion? A reassessment.” Historia 60 no. 3 (2011): 255–272. Demetriou, Denise. Negotiating Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean: The Archaic and Classical Greek Multiethnic Emporia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Dietler, Michael. Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010. Donnellen, Lieve. “‘Greek colonisation’ and Mediterranean networks: Patterns of mobility and interaction at Pithekoussai.” Journal of Greek Archaeology 1 (2016): 109–148. Dougherty, Carol. “The Aristonothos Krater: Competing stories of conflict and collaboration.” In The Cultures Within Ancient Greek Culture: Contact, Conflict, Collaboration, ed. Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke. 35–56. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2003. Dunbabin, Thomas. The Western Greeks: The History of Sicily and South Italy from the Foundation of the Greek Colonies to 480 B.C. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1948. Eckstein, Arthur. Mediterranean Anarchy, Interstate War, and the Rise of Rome. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Evans, Richard. Ancient Syracuse: From Foundation to Fourth Century Collapse. London: Routledge, 2016. Evans, Richard. “Piracy and pseudo-piracy in Classical Syracuse: Financial replenishment through outsourcing, sacking temples and forced migrations.” In Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity: Appropriation and the Ancient World, ed. Richard Evans and Martine De Marre, 38–59. Abingdon: Routledge, 2020. Fantar, Mhamed. “À propos de la présence des Grecs à Carthage.” Antiquités africaines 34 no. 1 (1998): 11–19.

194  Joshua R. Hall Gabrielsen, Vincent. “Economic activity, maritime trade and piracy in the Hellenistic Aegean.” Revue des Études Anciennes 103 no. 1–2 (2001): 219–240. Gabrielsen, Vincent. “Warfare, statehood and piracy in the Greek world.” In Seeraub im Mittelmeerraum: Piraterie, Korsarentum und maritime Gewalt von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit, ed. Nikolas Jaspert and Sebastian Kolditz, 133–153. Paderborn: Wilhem Fink/ Ferdinand Schöningh, 2013. Garlan, Yvon. War in the Ancient World: A Social History. London: Chatto and Windus, 1975. Gomme, Arnold Wycombe. “A forgotten factor of Greek naval strategy.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 53 no. 1 (1933): 16–24. Gras, M. “Marseille, la bataille d’Alalia et Delphes.” Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 13 no. 1 (1987): 161–181. Gras, Michel. “A propos de la «bataille d’Alalia».” Latomus 31 no. 3 (1972): 698–716. Gras, Michel. “La piraterie tyrrhénienne en mer Egée: mythe ou réalité?” In L’Italie préromaine et la Rome républicaine. I. Mélanges offerts à Jacques Heurgon, 341–370. Rome: École française du Rome, 1976. Gruen, Erich. Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011. Hale, John. “Not patriots, not farmers, not amateurs: Greek soldiers of fortune and the origins of hoplite warfare.” In Men of Bronze: Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece, ed. Donald Kagan and Gregory Viggiano, 176–193. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. Hall, Joshua. The Tyrrhenian Way of War: War, Social Power, and the State in Central Italy (c. 900 – 343 BC). Unpublished PhD thesis, Cardiff University, 2016. Hall, Joshua. “As they were ripped from the altars: Civilians, sacrilege and Classical Greek siege warfare.” In Civilians under Siege from Sarajevo to Troy, ed. Alex Dowdall and John Horne, 185–206. London: Palgrave, 2018. Harris, William. 1990: “Roman warfare in the social and economic context of the fourth century B.C.” In Staat und Staatlichkeit in der frühen römischen Republik, ed. Walter Eder, 494–510. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1990. Heurgon, Jacques. “The inscriptions of Pyrgi.” Journal of Roman Studies 56 (1966): 1–15. Heurgon, Jacques. Daily Life of the Etruscans. London: Phoenix Press, 1989. Hodos, Tamar. The Archaeology of the Mediterranean Iron Age: A Globalizing World c. 1100-600 BCE. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020. Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell. The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford and Malden, Ma.: Blackwell Publishers, 2000. Hoyos, Dexter. The Carthaginians. London: Routledge, 2010. Jackson, Alastar. “War and raids for booty in the world of Odysseus.” In War and Society in the Greek World, ed. John Rich and Graham Shipley, 64–76. London: Routledge, 1993. Jannot, Jean-René. “Les cités étrusques et la guerre. Remarques sur la fonction militaire dans la cité étrusque.” Ktema 10 (1985): 127–141. Jehasse, Olivier. “Corsica.” In Etruscology, ed. Alessandro Naso, 1641–1651. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Jonasch, Melanie. “The military landscape of Greek Sicily.” In The Fight for Greek Sicily: Society, Politics, and Landscape, ed. Melanie Jonasch, 183–212. Oxford: Oxbow, 2020. Korenjak, Martin. “The Etruscans in ancient literature.” In Etruscology, ed. Alessandro Naso, 35–52. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Krings, Veronique. Carthage et les Grecs c. 580-480 av. J.-C. Textes et histoire. Leiden: Brill, 1998. Lancel, Serge. Carthage: A History. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 1995.

Piracy and the western Greek experience 195 Lane Fox, Robin. Travelling Heroes: Greeks and Their Myths in the Epic Age of Homer. London: Penguin, 2008. Leighton, Robert. Sicily Before History: An Archaeological Survey from the Palaeolithic to the Iron Age. London: Duckworth, 1999. Lejeune, Michel, Jean Pouilloux and Yves Solier. 1988. “Etrusque et ionien archaïques sur un plomb de Pech Maho.” Revue archéologique de Narbonnaise 21 (1988): 19–59. Lipiński, Edward. Itineraria Phoenicia. Leuven: Studia Phoenicia 18, 2004. Luraghi, Nino. “Traders, pirates, warriors: The proto-history of Greek mercenary soldiers in the Eastern Mediterranean.” Phoenix 60 no. 1/2 (2006): 21–47. Malkin, Irad. A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Maras, Daniele Federico. “La posizione della Sicilia nel secondo trattato romanocartaginese.” Annali della Fondazione per il Museo «Claudio Faina» 14 (2007): 405–429. McKechnie, Paul. Outsiders in the Greek Cities in the Fourth Century BC. London: Routledge, 1989. Michetti, Laura Maria. “Ports: Trade, cultural connections, sanctuaries, and emporia.” In Caere, ed. Nancy Thomson de Grummond and Lisa Pieraccini, 73–86. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2016. Morakis, Andreas. “Thucydides and the character of Greek colonisation in Sicily.” Classical Quarterly 61 no. 2 (2011): 460–492. Ormerod, Henry. Piracy in the Ancient World: An Essay in Mediterranean History. Liverpool: University Press of Liverpool, 1924. Osborne, Robin. 1998: “Early Greek colonization? The nature of Greek settlement in the West.” In Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, ed. Hans van Wees and Nick Fisher, 257–269. London: Classical Press of Wales, 1998. Paleothodoros, Dimitris. “Dionysus and the Tyrrhenian pirates.” In Le origini degli Etruschi. Storia archeologia antropologia, ed. Vincenzo Bellelli, 455–485. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2012. Parker, Robert. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. Paton, William. Polybius: The Histories. With an English Translation, vol. 2. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1922. Peña, Theodore. “State formation in Southern coastal Etruria: An application of the KippSchortman model.” In State Formation in Italy and Greece: Questioning the Neoevolutionist Paradigm, ed. Nicola Terrenato and Donald Haggis, 179–198. Oxford: Oxbow, 2011. Pennell, Richard: “Introduction. Brought to book: Reading about pirates.” In Bandits at Sea: A Pirates Reader, ed. Richard Pennell, 3–24. New York: New York University Press, 2001. Piel, Thierry. “Des contingents étrusques en Méditerranée occidentale: mercenaires ou forces d’intervention civiques?” In Figures et expressions du pouvoir dans l’Antiquité: Hommage à Jean-René Jannot, ed. Thierry Piel, 75–91. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2008. Pilkington, Nathan. The Carthaginian Empire: 550-202 BCE. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2019. Prag, Jonathan. “Tyrannizing Sicily: The despots who cried ‘Carthage!’.” In Private and Public Lies: The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Andrew Turner, James Kim On Chong-Gossard, and Frederik Vervaet, 51–71. Leiden: Brill, 2010.

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Piracy and the western Greek experience 197 Tandy, David. Warriors into Traders: The Power of the Market in Early Greece. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Tilly, Charles. “War making and state making as organized crime.” In Bringing the State Back In, ed. Peter Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer and Theda Skocpol, 169–191. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1985. Tod, Marcus Niebuhr. A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century B.C. Second edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946. Trundle, Matthew. “The limits of nationalism. Brigandage: Piracy and mercenary service in fourth century BCE Athens.” In Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity: Appropriation and the Ancient World, ed. Richard Evans and Martine De Marre, 27–37. Abingdon: Routledge, 2020. Turfa, Jean MacIntosh. “Prisoners and plagues: The battle over Alalia.” In Caere, ed. Nancy Thomson de Grummond and Lisa Pieraccini, 87–93. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2016. Tykot, Robert. “Sea peoples in Etruria? Italian contacts with the eastern Mediterranean in the Late Bronze Age.” Etruscan Studies 1 (1994): 59–83. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Wainwright, Gerald. “The Teresh, The Etruscans and Asia Minor.” Anatolian Studies 9 (1959): 197–213. Walbank, Frank. A Historical Commentary on Polybius. Volume I, Commentary on Books I – IV, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957. Wear, Gregory. “Alalia and the aftermath.” Journal of Ancient History and Archaeology 3 no. 3 (2016): 5–12. West, Martin. “Odyssey and Argonautica.” Classical Quarterly 55 no. 1 (2005): 39–64. Winter, Nancy. “Traders and refugees: Contributions to Etruscan architecture.” Journal of Etruscan and Italic Studies 20 no. 2 (2017): 123–151. Wood, Adrian. Warships of the Ancient World 3000-500 BC. Oxford: Osprey, 2012. Woolmer, Mark. “Forging links between regions: Trade policy in Classical Athens.” In The Ancient Greek Economy: Markets, Households and City-States, ed. Edward Harris, David Lewis and Mark Woolmer, 66–89. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016.

10 Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one The early 4th century Syracusan Arché as cultural contact zone and food system Jens A. Krasilnikoff Introduction Most modern studies mainly confine rule ‘outside the law’ by tyrants to the Eastern Mediterranean of the archaic age, and the traditional view has been to see the phenomenon as an intermediate form of government in the early immature polis and in the context of social struggle within the city state.1 In this view, before the 5th century, tyrannies were subsequently ‘ousted’ to ‘the geographic margins of the Greek World’, including some of the Greek communities in the West, Northern Greece and Asia Minor.2 In this context, Sicilian tyrants partially continue to be evaluated against the paradigm of the archaic tyrants of the east – especially Cypselus and Periander of Corinth, and the Peisistratids of Athens.3 Presumably, this peculiarity originated in the fact that contemporary historians and philosophers casted Dionysius as an archetypical tyrant with a special ability of acting ‘cruel’ to his surroundings. As Westlake pointed out in his review of Caven’s Dionysius monograph, this repetition of Dionysius’ ‘bad press’ is surely due to the complicated and heterogenic evidence for his reign (405–367 BC), which, for most parts, was written by Athenian historians and philosophers focused on casting Dionysius and subsequent autocrats as negative examples of rule-by-one, and the heterogenic narratives of Diodorus.4 It has now become clear that tyrannies, including those in Sicily, emerged as responses to local and regional developments, and some recent studies now confine Sicilian tyrants to a category of their own.5 Thus, Sicily had a long, continuous tradition for rule-by-one before and after Dionysius, which undoubtedly originated in the endemic problems with the Phoenicians, and challenges with how to develop societies vis-à-vis local ethnicities.6 It might, therefore, be more profitable to look for these local conditions, and one ongoing tendency seems to have played a significant role in societal development in all its many guises. In the course of the 6th–2nd centuries BC, one might see Sicily as a conglomerate of cultural contact zones fought over for centuries by Greeks, Phoenicians, indigenous populations and finally the Romans with a steady influx of manpower with a Celtic, Italiote and Iberian origin.7 Although one might suspect that every Greek society would have had to balance the challenges of demographic developments with the practical DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-11

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  199 function of the type of rule in question, it seems clear that this problem was pivotal to everyone who wished to rule a civic society on the island, or the entire island for the matter. It is true that Cleisthenes, the 6th century tyrant of Sicyon, manipulated with the phylae of Sicyon in one none-Doric ruler and three ‘animal’ phylae, which exposed his intention of subduing one socio-ethnic group within the polis.8 This radical but still local and confined order was, however, nothing compared to the complex and long-lasting nature of ethno-demographic developments, which took place in Sicily and which made the autocratic rule on the island considerably different from her eastern namesake. Previous studies suggest that the demos would lose its autonomy when a tyrant seized governmental control.9 The evidence for this contention is weak, at least if one cares to focus on the fact that many civic institutions continued after the ascendancy of the tyrant. Some civic institutions were even reformed rather than abolished, as was the case with the 6th century reforms of Cleisthenes in Sicyon and, as we shall see, the civic institutions of Syracuse under Dionysius. Brian Caven’s biography of Dionysius reflects the uncertainty of the evidence naming him in turn: ‘Tyrant’, ‘autocrat’, ‘despotés’, ‘dynast’, ‘monarch’, ‘archon’, ‘hegemon’, ‘Strategos Autokrator’ and ‘General Plenipotentiary’. Moreover, Caven surmised that Dionysius’ response to the ‘mutiny’ by the demos following the year after his succession to power in 404/3 meant that he took control of foreign affairs and left the civic business to the demos.10 First, it is pertinent to decide whether this, in fact, holds some merit and actually became a permanent arrangement lasting throughout Dionysius’ reign. Secondly, it is important to decide what this implies for our understanding of the nature of Dionysius’ rule and the arché he founded. For several reasons, the military perspective on its own does not offer a satisfactory analytical frame for reconstructing the relationship between socio-economic and political orders, respectively, to evolve between Dionysius, the Syracusans, and the Greek and indigenous communities of the island.11 At first, if Caven was right in his assessment of the relationship between Dionysius and Syracuse, this seems to offer an alternative insight into a case of the ‘fate’ of the demos in instances of a tyrannical revolution. It appears, following Caven’s outline, that the tyrant was actually part of the civic framework, of which the demos retained some control. If this was indeed the case – Caven did not present a detailed proof of this – one pertinent question must be to clarify the implications of this for our understanding of the nature of later Classical Sicilian tyranny. Thus, whereas previous studies have focused on the military dimension of Dionysius’ merits and, more recently, on Dionysius’ monastic aspirations, I choose to focus on the local and regional context in a spatial perspective, which he engaged with and subsequently transformed in order to meet the requirements of his empire.12 Hence, in this piece, I shall discuss the elements of the socio-political developments in 4th century Syracuse in order to expound the relationship between Dionysius, Syracuse and the rest of his empire. Thus, in order to chart these complexities and developments, I intend to give some examples of how the employment of modern tenets of cultural geography (‘the spatial turn’) as an analytical tool may

200  Jens A. Krasilnikoff contribute to elucidate this complexity. In particular, I intend to focus on the vexed question of how (and even if) the civic community of Syracuse was able to develop its ideology and authority in the period of autocratic government from 405 to 367 BC. In addition, it is a secondary aim of this chapter to consider the relationship and nature of contacts between Syracusan Sicily and the larger Western Mediterranean world, including the Iberian Peninsula in the 5th through the 4th centuries BCE. This is not meant to be a near-comparative study of Emporion and Syracuse, a ‘Tale-of-two-cities’ – a type of endeavor, pondering the fates of both locations in a revolutionary milieu. Rather, this is an attempt to suggest that Dionysius partially owed his success to overseas engagements with the food systems of the western Mediterranean. The spatial turn As demonstrated in my first contribution to this volume, multiple modern cultural geographers and historians have pondered the relationship between space and place, and the two remain contested categories.13 Thus, developing Tim Ingold’s notion of taskscape, the totality of religious and socio-political activities of the polis constituted an event-scape overseen by the demos in most poleis. The challenge of elucidating the relationship between the demos of Syracuse, Dionysius and his arché is to identify the two spatial orders operated by the demos and Dionysius, respectively. First, in order to acknowledge whether the Syracuse citizencollective retained some degree of autonomy, we should – just as with the situation in Emporion – look for evidence of its ability to control the identity-formation, which took place within the religious symbol system through authorization or decline of religious innovation and adaptation. Concurrently, the citizens should continue to exercise control over political institutions, naturalization processes, legal action, etc.14 Thus, in this perspective, we should expect the demos to continuously supervise religious and socio-political institutions of the polis (cult, precincts, religious innovation, political institutions, etc.), and in effect the demos would create and maintain an authorized event-scape of religious, social and political activities, which was carefully guarded against unauthorized intrusion. Thus, the power of the demos rested with its ability to ‘police’ the socio-religious institutions or places of the polis; and concurrently, the civic community administered its own most important ideological framework for building of collective identities. Part 1: Dionysius and Syracuse Syracuse as civic place

Apparently, Dionysius managed to establish an autocratic rule, which rested on the division of civic authority, reserving military power and international affairs exclusively to himself, but leaving some domestic affairs with the demos and the assembly.15 What is the precise meaning and implication of this?

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  201 First, Thucydides gives a sketchy impression of the political culture of Syracuse prior to the Athenian onslaught of 415 BC.16 A group of influential aristocrats or wealthy citizens served in the board of generals and the demos oversaw lawmaking and exercised power through decision-making in the assembly. The demos had introduced ‘petalism’ – presumably a counterpart to the Athenian ostracism, supposedly allowing the demos to get rid of ‘wanna-be’ tyrants and other threats to the civic order.17 Dionysius’ succession to power in 405 inaugurated some fundamental changes to this. Following the revolt against Dionysius in 404, it appears that the citizens of Syracuse forced Dionysius to acknowledge their position as a political community – and, it seems, allowed for civic authority and the political system to continue partially intact. Occasionally, however, Dionysius ‘disrupted’ this order by interfering directly with the city’s identity-formation, placing special demands for revenues or when the rare occasion of military mobilization of the demos was on the agenda.18 As for the religious activity of the Syracusans, the sources are less explicit. It appears that the demos continued to oversee the city’s cults, including those for Apollo, Zeus, Demeter and Kore, and Asclepius.19 Consequently, we can see the city’s cultic landscape – the Pantheon of the city – as a manifest collection of entities representing Syracuse as a place for the Syracusans throughout Dionysius’ reign. That is, the ‘identity of place’ of Syracuse consisted of the amassed identity of places, represented by the totality of authorized cults in the city. Yet, the Syracusans as attendants of individual cults would have generated specific ‘place identities’ by participating in and interacting with, e.g., the cult of Demeter and Kore and Apollo as place.20 Yet again, this way of displaying the religious landscape of Syracuse is crucial to understand the function and authority of the civic body of most Greek cities in the Classical period. Some years ago, Robert Parker argued that civic control of religious innovation in Athens was not a matter of hostility toward foreign gods but functioned against unauthorized religious activity instead.21 This observation points toward the fundamental qualities and properties of Greek polytheistic religion and its understanding of the divine as an omnipresent entity, whose fecundities were interpreted differently from place to place, as Jean Rudhardt elucidated.22 Clearly, this remained a fundamental element of any civic government in Classical Greek antiquity, disregarding the precise type of government (democracy, oligarchy, etc.), but it is not borne out of the evidence that the demos remained in total control of this important activity. Moreover, and for what it is worth, even though Dionysius would have needed the formal approval from the demos to become subjected to personal worship (authorization), the sources are silent about the details of this. Nevertheless, it must be a distinct possibility that the demos installed the cult after pressure from Dionysius or someone who acted on his behalf.23 Allegedly, Dionysius compromised this order most often when he was in financial distress. Tyrants are often styled as destructive and sacrilegious rulers, and several references accuse Dionysius of plundering the temples of Syracuse.24 Among others, he should have sheared ‘the golden locks of Apollo’, seized the robes of Zeus and ‘ordered’ the archons to sell the treasures of Asclepius. The author of

202  Jens A. Krasilnikoff pseudo-Aristotle’s treatise Oikonomika expounded how Dionysius got around financial difficulties or improved his fiscal potential by instructing the females of Syracuse to deposit their ornaments in Demeter’s temple, retrieved later by him. According to the same treaties, he allegedly plundered all temples, furniture, vessels, etc.25 These anecdotes display Dionysius as an archetypical ungodly tyrant and suggest that he exploited the pious Syracusans to meet his financial ends.26 The accusation of asebeia against Dionysius is, however, potentially in conflict with the known fact that he paid homage to Apollo at Delphi and numerous other gods.27 Undoubtedly, if these anecdotes carry any historical truth, we can point to numerous examples where other Greek communities borrowed from the gods in times of need – the Peloponnesian war would have lasted a very short while if this was a no-go area. Dionysius and subsequent tyrants created their own ‘spatial logic’ in order to design a power base that ensured their firm economic and social control of the urban societies of their realm. This left the citizen-collective of Syracuse in a situation where they were forced to accept adjustments of their formal political power, but, apparently, they retained some control of the socio-religious elements and parts of the political and legal power of civic authority. Thus, a situation emerged where the established order was based on military force and policing of the territory of the polis. And to a very large extent, Dionysius oversaw the societal order of the military colonists, immigrant ‘new-comers’, mercenaries and the occasional large contingent of specialized craftsmen who took up residence in the city for shorter periods. Thus, a necessary addition to Dionysius’ rule was the continued existence of a civic community, which retained its ability to exercise some fundamental functions, including some degree of authority, especially in matters related to socioreligious spheres and institutions. Syracuse as shared place

Dionysius’ relationship with Syracuse was complex.28 As De Angelis recently pointed out, Dionysius allied with the broader demos against the elite of Syracuse.29 Generally, as previously stated, scholars agree that Dionysius’ arché and his power base rested on the control of violence – foremost against external enemies (the Phoenicians) and internal threats (the Syracusan elite, indigenous communities and – presumably – the vast number of xenoi installed after 405 BC).30 Large populations from other Sicilian poleis such as Leontini and Italian Kaulonia merged into the City, whereas some ‘imported’ xenoi from Italy, Balkan and the western part of the Mediterranean remained outside the civic structure of Syracuse and others somehow managed to create a livelihood and settled within the arché.31 This included presumably a substantial number of foreign artisans, which is borne out of the continuation of foreign artistic traditions to live on in the following centuries.32 The newcomers connected to Syracuse via Dionysius – and in that sense, Dionysius became their ‘benefactor’ because he effected their admission into the civic collective.33 Dionysius, thus, policed the inner and outer rims of his arché, but by remolding and redefining this structured power base, he took Syracusan tyranny in new directions.

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  203 First, a vital element of Dionysius’ relationship with Syracuse was the construction of a fortified palace, a refuge on the island Ortygia at the harbor, where Dionysius apparently kept a fleet (up to 200 ships) and a considerable bodyguard of several hundred mercenaries.34 Also, prior to the 2nd Sicilian war, which began in 397, Dionysius greatly expanded the fortifications of the city, including the greater area of Epiploae.35 Previous studies have insisted that the radical reconstruction of Syracuse obviously served as a physical manifestation of Dionysius’ newly won power and as a (necessary?) precaution against revolt (as the one in 404 BC) and external threats by land and sea. Additionally, the reconstruction or re-founding of Syracuse aligned Dionysius with the role of oikist of the city, and he probably inaugurated a cult to support his claim of divine nature, as the city’s founder-hero.36 Additionally, in the course of time, the civic collective celebrated him as the successful founder of his dynamic arché and as a benefactor of the polis.37 Thus, on the one hand, in these particular ways, Dionysius’ achievements became associated with Syracuse and contributed to her transformation into the focal point or place. Clearly, Syracuse became Dionysius’ place in the sense that it was there he was born, and here he unfolded his monastic aspirations and established his arché.38 Sicily as Syracusan place-hierarchy

In the case of the relationship between Dionysius and Syracuse, one obvious solution is to focus on how Dionysius managed to bypass the apparent paradox of creating control of the civic authority in Syracuse and other poleis, and at the same time, it appears, the demos retained some degree of autonomy after all. First, and subscribing to the current interpretations of Sicilian tyranny, the military potential retained by Dionysius would – all things equal – carry its weight in any type of conflict with the citizens of Syracuse. This is hardly a new observation; it is, however, pertinent to recognize the fact that Dionysius actually allowed for considerable civic latitude. One can argue that this stance simply reflected a state of affairs where Dionysius did not bother to interfere except in matters of vital interest to his rule. Alternatively, we may acknowledge Dionysius’ screwed contemplation of a bilateral relationship where he allowed the demos to exercise a fair deal of freedom within the ‘traditional’ confines and spheres of the polis. At the same time, however, he gained what was unusual compared to the earlier eastern versions of tyranny, an order, which allowed tyrant and polis to co-exist within the same socio-economic and political entity. In this perspective, Syracuse remained the common ground or focal point where dynast, citizens and xenoi would meet and share the attractions of belonging to a civic state. Thus, by re-casting Syracuse as a shared place, Dionysius operated an entity, which legitimized his rule and aspirations toward monarchy and provided the Syracusans with enough control of civic institutions to allow them a sense of autonomy. The prospects of naturalization also provided the xenoi with a keen interest in supporting this overall strategy for maintaining this unique balance of the state (Figure 10.1).

204  Jens A. Krasilnikoff

Figure 10.1  Fourth century Syracuse as shared place.

Part 2: Dionysius and His Arché Dionysius and Sicilian tyranny

Apart from ruling the great polis of Syracuse, Dionysius included a seaborne element in his arché in the years from his accession in 405 to his death in 367 BC.39 This included the struggle for maintaining a geographic space, which eventually consisted of several local and overseas regions of varying importance over time. Dionysius remained focused on Sicily throughout his lifetime, including the prospect of taking control of parts and later the whole of the island. Thus, he devoted much attention to the many opportunities emerging initially in the easternmost part of Sicily and later on in the western part of the island controlled by Carthage.40 Throughout the lifetime of his arché, Dionysius managed to take control of the indigenous Sicels and Elymians, the region at the strait of Messina, and control of the southernmost part of Magna Graecia.41 As mentioned above, Dionysius needed a strong military force to meet these ends, a flexible and maneuverable army resting on a steady influx of foreign Greek and non-Greek mercenaries. Also, Dionysius’ seaborne arché expanded beyond Sicily by the creation of a fleet capable of taking on the naval forces of Carthage and others, as well as supporting the expansion beyond the Messina strait and into the Adriatic, where he allegedly founded three colonies.42 It is of little surprise that a capable fleet would need specialists and rowers, and therefore made it imperative for Dionysius to keep up good relations with the demos of Syracuse in order to maintain this local recruiting ground for the navy as well as foreign reservoirs for recruitment.43 From a wider perspective, Dionysius mingled with the eastern Greek world, inaugurated diplomatic contacts with Sparta, Corinth and Athens in the early 4th century and established networks with Italiote and Celtic communities of southern Europe and probably also the Iberian Levant.44 Sicilian history from the tyrant Gelon of the early 5th century to Hieron II at the end of the 3rd century was deeply influenced by the general problematic situation of the islands. The external pressure of the Carthaginian presence and

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  205 dominance of the western part of the island primarily caused the repeated emergence of tyrannies in this long period.45 This, however, created a unique development and prompted alternative solutions in the Greek communities of the island to counter this threat. The recruitment of large numbers of mercenaries was due to the necessity of matching the huge mercenary armies raised by the Carthaginians.46 It is difficult to follow the idea that Dionysius partially failed in his ambition of conquering Sicily because he had to rely on mercenaries – all things equal, the Carthaginians faced the same problem. Instead, what we know is that the mercenaries of Dionysius proved useful as a demographic resource for the repopulation of deserted regions and cities resulting from the prolonged fighting of the early 4th century, as well.47 Thus, Dionysius invited contingents of strong foreign – meaning non-Greek – contractors to the island with long-lasting results. Not only mercenaries but also artisans became an important ingredient in a ‘multiethnic’ minded context, where interest in their special skills was pivotal to the general alertness toward the external threats from the West. Foreign mercenaries needed special types of weaponry in order to perform their specialized forms of warfare – a role for which the employers hired them in the first place.48 Dionysius’ Arché as place-hierarchy

Due to the nature of the extant sources, it is quite a challenge to contemplate the spatial order established by Dionysius and the polis of Syracuse. Previous scholarship has surmised that Dionysius saw to Sicilian history to find inspiration for building his power base. Apart from the early tyrants of Syracuse (of whom we know very little), the early 5th century tyrants Gelon, the champion of the battle of Himera in 480, and his son, Hieron, emerged as instigators of a series of administrative instruments, which lived on in the following centuries. Allegedly, some of these continued during the so-called ‘Democratic’ government of the later 5th century and were reinforced under Dionysius, who, according to Caven, held the ambition to match Gelon in every possible way (this seems to be borne out of the evidence).49 To sum up, what we actually know about the nature of Dionysius’s power base is this: one vital element was for Dionysius to grant privileges to close associates, to large contingents of mercenaries and other associated groups of skilled foreigners, who acted on his personal initiative. Dionysius made way for the pre-405 Syracusan elite who went into exile and installed his own supporters and protégées in new offices. Some of these eventually formed the core of new settlements in the northeastern part of the island. This order kept the citizens of Syracuse apart from the newly founded communities of mercenaries and others at Catania, etc. In short, Dionysius operated and controlled – although in different manners – separated communities or spheres, that is, Syracuse and the various geographic entities of his arché, only to draw upon them in concert when threatened or when the armed forces mobilized to meet threats or went on the offensive (Figure 10.2). Moreover, despite the negative press of our extant evidence (predominantly Diodorus), the glimpses of a closer interplay of Dionysius with the demos

206  Jens A. Krasilnikoff

Figure 10.2  Dionysius’ place-hierarchy.

occasionally slip through in the writings of Diodorus and others. The establishment of this dual order meant that Dionysius could control the military capacity of the community and at the same time – with the same military – police the internal affairs of the polis – keeping social unrest or stasis at bay. The effectiveness of this division was not demonstrated after the Syracusans revolted against Dionysius in the earliest phase of his reign (in 404), and thus the important observation to be made is the agreement, which was reached on this occasion apparently leaving internal civic ‘business’ to the Syracusans but with Dionysius lurking on the sideline.50 Consequently, this order made room for Dionysius – via his personal citizenship – to continue as strategos and he upheld his personal citizenship, which – in effect – prevented the polis of Syracuse from retaining control of its political sovereignty, including any influence on foreign affairs.51 Clearly, to me and partially developing Caven’s idea, Dionysius’ succession to power came about as a gradual process, in which he effectively played the Syracusan demos, and took control of the board of generals, that is, the democratic/egalitarian card allowing Syracuse to continue in the guise of a civic government with Dionysius as the ‘first among equals’ – ‘primo inter pares’. Dionysius’ food system

Alongside this, Dionysius managed to develop a personal network of contacts with other Sicilian communities – Greek and non-Greek, and with individuals in and outside the island from which he was able to retrieve resources, develop diplomatic relations and, most important, to nourish and maintain access to recruiting grounds for mercenaries and other foreign specialists. He elegantly, it seems, played an

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  207 extended network of states and individuals, and his recruiting officers were able to attract vast numbers of mercenaries, first by the promise of good conditions of service and subsequently by the close observance of a generous patronage system, including allocation of land and civic status for service.52 The recent study by Franco De Angelis clearly displays the complexity of the Sicilian and Syracuse rural economy, and he demonstrated how the island’s rich agricultural resources made up a necessary precondition for the development of poleis on the island.53 When reversing the perspective outward – toward the central and western Mediterranean in particular, it is compelling to consider the relationship between the socio-economic development in the 4th century Syracuse and the eastern Sicily, and the already existing food systems of the western Mediterranean, which Dionysius subsequently expanded and came to rely upon. Although eastern and central Sicily held considerable agricultural potential, the development of Dionysius’ arché aimed at ensuring external trade routes, resources of various kinds and, as stated above, a steady flow of manpower.54 It makes little sense to hire mercenaries if you cannot feed them and pay them. Therefore, a well-contemplated mercenary system of recruitment, payment and service conditions is of little value without a well-ordered food system to support it.55 The communities of nearby Magna Graecia would have provided a rich and diversified range of stable foods, which had the advantage of being more outside the reach of the endemic Sicilian turmoil, including the large-scale encounters with Carthage. Recent studies of Calabrian foods in a historical Mediterranean context demonstrate the importance of the Greek communities of the region for the spread of domesticated wine/vine from Greece, proper, extending it further to the western parts of the Mediterranean including Iberia during the Classical period.56 The region’s capacity for grain cultivation in antiquity is borne out of the evidence – we always associate Sicily (probably due to its history in the Roman period) with the ability to supply grain, but the same was undoubtedly the case for the communities of Magna Graecia.57 Control of parts of Magna Graecia, colonization of islands in the Adriatic and establishment of footholds on the Illyrian coast secured access to the recruitment of Celtic tribes, timber, metals and near-secure lines of communication with mainland Greece, where Dionysius continued to expand contacts with Athens and Sparta. According to a long-held contention, Dionysius continued the Syracusan tradition of accompanying the recruitment of mercenaries with issuing of high-quality coinage in large denominations (tetra and decadrachms).58 Although it is tempting to think of the impressive line of minting by Dionysius and other tyrants as a response to the monetary demands of mercenary service, it is not clear how and why this allegedly fitted with the actual demands of mercenaries. The question remains, I think, how to explain the large denominations and high-quality coinage as the logical solution to the endemic challenge of paying large contingents of mercenaries on a regular basis.59 Dionysius hired both ‘Greek’ and ‘barbarian’ mercenaries and it seems quite impressionistic to ponder the high-quality minting for both these categories of xenoi – why make the effort? Rather, I will suggest that the impressive coinage of Syracuse must find its rationale as part of the overall cultural

208  Jens A. Krasilnikoff ‘program’ of the early tyrants (Gelon and Hieron) and the ‘democracy’ governing before Dionysius (462–405 BC). The change of strategy from gold/silver to bronze sometime after 395 by Dionysius seems to me to be more in agreement with mass payments of large contingents of foreign hired forces and artisans. Concluding remarks This ‘spatial’ deconstruction of Dionysius’ relationship with Syracuse displays some new features and explanations to the somewhat awkward symbiosis of Dionysius and Syracuse. A positive conclusion is that Dionysius and Syracuse created a practical partnership. This allowed Dionysius to draw on a polis community, which styled him as a Greek ruler of a Greek civic community – an advantage in relation to other Greek communities. Moreover, the citizens of Syracuse could maintain and uphold the military element of their civic-identities by participation in Dionysius’ wars. It is, however, unclear how often Syracusans took part in Dionysius’ military campaigns, but it retained its capacity to take the field. From the Syracusan point of view, over the years Dionysius’ arché represented economic prosperity, security and, above all, a certain amount of freedom to organize local politics and to continue the traditions and nourish the identities of the citizen-collective. It is unclear to what extent the egalitarian or democratic elements of the pre-405 constitution were allowed to function and he allowed important individuals to assert considerable influence on the internal affairs of the city. In fact, trouble with Dionysius really first began when he died and Dionysius II assumed the title. In conclusion, the reason why the relationship between Dionysius and Syracuse remained rather good was that he acknowledged the right of the Syracusans to retain civic authority. The possibility exists, however, that the relationship between the two assumed two different guises: one that directly supported the demos’ rights to rule Syracuse; the other version cast Dionysius as the (re)-founder – the oikist – of Syracuse, by which the relationship between Dionysius and Syracuse assumed a religious element. In addition, he remained the founder – oikist – of his (personal) arché, its colonies and possessions, and as such, he administered a complex set of networks and patronage relations. Finally, the spatial order of Dionysius’ arché also prompted the emergence of areas of contact between various social, cultural and ethnic groups – and it is possible to see Syracuse as a vital shared place – where this contact could commence under the authority of the ‘free’ citizens of the city. Dionysius’ expansion outside Sicily ensured control of vital lines of communication and commerce, including access to recruiting grounds for mercenaries and other specialists. Concurrently, Dionysius ensured control of the food system to support this expanded Sicilian arché. Undoubtedly, this expanding arché with its food system calibrated to support the army and navy and potentially capable of maintaining Syracuse in times of trouble was vital to the overall success of Dionysius’ long reign from 405 to 367 BC. For what it is worth, there are some similarities between the strategic fecundities of Dionysius’ arché (naval power and fortification of Syracuse) and Pericles’

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  209 response to the Spartan landed warfare in the Archidamian war of 431–421 BC. Here, as we all remember, the Athenian population took refuge inside the walls of Athens and Pericles ensured that the city was supplied from the sea. At the end of the day, the all-apparent fact that Emporion and Syracuse of the Classical period were two different worlds, it is rewarding to ponder their possible relationships, and how they were important to one another, directly or indirectly. The development of Greek Iberia depended on contact with the eastern Greeks via the cultural conglomerate of the central Mediterranean with its many ethnicities and different societal developments. Sicilians knew Iberian mercenaries and Dionysius’ recruiting officer might have toured the harbors of the Iberian Levant to hire fresh manpower. These possible contacts, I believe, are not difficult to contemplate; the future challenge is rather to understand the evolving food systems of the 5th and 4th centuries of the central and western Mediterranean – and how both Emporion and Syracuse subscribed to these intertwined economic systems in the classical period and beyond. Notes 1 For example, Pomeroy et al. 1999: 108–109 relies on Aristotle, Pol. 1310b 12–17, for the deterministic understanding of the role of tyrants in the constitutional development of the archaic age. 2 Andrewes 1956; Kinzl 1979; Cawkwell 1995 and this view still dominates most recent studies (see, for example, Fleck and Hanssen 2013). Lewis 2006: esp. 6–9 clarifies the historiography of the field. 3 Caven 1990: 154 placed ‘Dionysius … in the tradition of Sicilian tyrannies…’. For the semantics of ‘tyrannos’, see Parker 1998. 4 Westlake 1991: 139–140. However, Westlake in his 1991 review of Caven’s monograph seems to place Dionysius among the classical ‘tyrants’. A parallel scenario offers inspiration in the opposite direction, suggesting that Dionysius inspired the subsequent development of ruler-cult in the east (e.g., Sanders 1987, Sanders 1991). Price 1984: 26 already defied this but see now Kindt 2009. 5 See now De Angelis 2016: esp. 122–126, 167–171 for a more nuanced analysis acknowledging the ‘local’ nature of Archaic and Classical Sicilian Tyranny. 6 De Angelis 2016 but especially 6–30, 41–61. 7 On the Phoenicians, see now Quinn and Vella 2014 and the broader framework employed by Vlassopoulos 2013: esp. 105–113. 8 Ogden 1993 for an apt approach to Cleisthenes’ ’reforms’ (Herodotus 5.67-8). 9 For example, Zambron 2006, 78–79. 10 Caven 1990: 82–83. Caven implies that Dionysius studied the reign of Peisistratus as an example of the ‘good’ tyrant not assuming formal power by titles but through an intermediary whom he trusted. The evidence does not show this as a fact, and the idea is somewhat in conflict with the Diodorus’ information of Dionysius’ many titles. 11 Caven 1990 analyzed primarily Dionysius’ rule from a military perspective. 12 Thus, this chapter will be more in resonance with the recent monograph by Franco De Angelis’ socio-economic study of the island (2016). 13 Cresswell 2004 remains a good introduction. See further Tuan 1977; Ingold 1993, 2009 and Massey 2005. 14 Kristensen and Krasilnikoff 2017: 49–57. 15 This resembles the state of affairs between the Hellenistic kings of the 3rd century BC and the poleis of the Eastern Mediterranean – which several scholars have pointed to throughout the years. For example, Chaniotis 2005: 68–72.

210  Jens A. Krasilnikoff 16 For a recent study of Syracuse’s political and cultural development, see Evans 2016 and the reign of Dionysius, idem, 147–162. 17 Diodorus 11.87. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to elaborate further on the possible mismatch of semi-aristocratic rule and petalism/ostracism prior to Dionysius’ accession to power. On the nature of 5th century Syracusan ‘democracy’, see Thucydides, 6.34– 41; Aristotle, Pol.1315b35-9; 1316a30–34; 1304a18–29; Diodorus, 11.67–68, 72–73, 76, 86–87. 18 McKechnie 1989; De Angelis 2016: 125–126 on military expenditure. 19 Caven 1990: 164–165. 20 Kristensen and Krasilnikoff 2017 and see Krasilnikoff 2015 for parallel examples from the Athenian Acropolis. 21 Parker 1996. 22 Rudhardt 1992. 23 Sanders 1991 ponders elements of Dionysius’ ruler cult and its meaning of this for the subsequent development of ruler cult in Greece. Zambron 2006 mainly focused on the alleged dynastic developments from Agatocles onward. Serrati 2008 on Hellenistic ‘ruler cult’. Kindt 2009 on tyrants and their material contributions to cult. 24 See now Evans 2020 on Dionysios’ ‘politics’ of plunder. 25 Aristotle Oec. 2. 1353b. 26 Caven 1990: 165, with note 10. 27 Bruit Zaidman 2002 remains fundamental for the study of the eusebeia-asebeia dichotomy. 28 Lomas 2006 and Table 7.1 to clarify the extent of Dionysius’ demographic relocations compared to other Sicilian tyrants. 29 De Angelis 2016: 212–213. 30 See above, p. 308 with note 7. 31 Diodorus 14.15.4; 14.106.3. See further Fischer-Hansen et al. 2004: 225–226. 32 See Holloway 1991. De Ligt 2007 argues convincingly for the existence of Celtic graffiti on a fifth or fourth century cup from Centuripe presumably belonging to a Celtic mercenary. See p. 38 for translation. 33 See references to Diodorus note 37, below. 34 On military expenditure, see De Angelis 2016: 126. On the ethnicity of Dionysius’ mercenaries, see Krasilnikoff 1995; Trundle 2004, 157 2006. 35 Mertens 2006: 424–432 on the archaeology of the site. De Angelis 2016: 124–130 on the fortification of Syracuse under Dionysius. 36 See note 10, above. On this intriguing subject, see further Serrati 2008. 37 Dionysius as the protector and beneficiary of the demos, e.g., Diodorus 14.7.2–5. See further Mitchell 2003: 131–132; De Angelis 2016: 213. Tokarczuk 2015 argues that Dionysius acknowledged (authorized?) the local Sicel God Adranos and later elevated him to cult status. This idea agrees well with the basic principle of religious innovation envisioned by Garland 1992 and Krasilnikoff 2015. 38 See Harrell 2002 on private alters for Sicilian tyrants. 39 Finley 1978 gives a short account of Athenian and Roman imperialism and of how to understand the notion of ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’ in these two contexts. He also presented a short typology of empires (p. 6). 40 On Phoenician engagements in Western Sicily, see Helas 2011; Quinn and Vella 2014; van Dommelen 2006. 41 Caven 1990: 131–149. On the nature of the Italiote League, see now Wonder 2012. 42 Caven 1990: 149–153. 43 Diodorus 14.41.3–43.4 unfolds Dionysius’ large recruitment program prior to the second Punic war in 397 BC. On the nature of Dionysius’ new fleet, see Caven 1990: 95–96. 44 De Angelis 2016: 215.

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  211 45 From 467 to 405 BC, after the Syracusan demos managed to expel the tyrants, it introduced a democracy or perhaps shared a ‘politeia’, as Aristotle seems to suggest (Aristotle Pol. 1304a18–29). Scholars are divided as to the nature of the government; see, for example, Berger 1992: 36–40 and Robinson 1997: 120–122; 2000. 46 Diodorus 13.44.2,6 on Carthaginian recruitment of mercenaries from Iberia, Libya and Campania in the aftermath of the Athenian expedition to Sicily in 413 BC – the Campanians were previously associated with its allies against Syracuse. 47 Berger 1992: 36 on Mercenaries and foreigners as demographic reservoir before 467 BC, during the tyranny of Thrasybulus. 48 Diodorus 14.41.3–43.4. Krasilnikoff 1995, 1996; Tagliamonte 1994 on the material evidence, and see now Graells i Fabregat 2014. 49 Caven 1990: 51–52, 249. 50 Diodorus 14.10.2–3. 51 Caven 1990: 82–83. 52 Trundle 2004 on recruitment of Greek mercenaries. 53 De Angelis 2016: esp. 222–318. 54 Harris 2018: 407–408 offers new insight into the demographic potential of marginal land, but offers little discussion of this phenomenon in Sicily. The ‘marginal land’ issue pursued by Harris would have benefited from reflections on the importance of military expansion and establishment of an arché such as that of Dionysius to compensate for problems of land and resources in Classical Sicily. On the economic attractions, limitations and prestige associated with exploitation of marginal land in Classical Attica, see Krasilnikoff 2008, 2010, 2014. 55 It is beyond the limits of this chapter to present an in-depth discussion of the potential definitions and analytical limitations on the food system notion here. 56 Buxó Capdevila 2009: 160 on the El Sec shipwreck from about 375 BC carrying ‘ready-to-plant vine stocks’ from Greece via Italy/Sicily. See further De Lorenzis et al. 2019. For the gathering and wild plants, see Nebel et al. 2006 and Nebel and Heinrich 2009. 57 Garnsey 1988: 110, 129 with note 20 on ‘Italian’ grain for late 4th century Athens. Recently supported by the apt treatment of the region’s food resources in Lentjes 2016. 58 For example, Holloway 1991: 125, 135, 137 on coinage and mercenaries. Most recently repeated in Hoover 2012: 341, 342–343, and Fischer-Bossert 2017: 20 with note 111. 59 The literature on mercenary service is massive. Cf. Trundle 2004 on Greek mercenary service. The service conditions of non-Greek mercenaries has not received focused attention, however. It is tempting to see the change in Dionysius’ minting strategy partly as a response to general difficulties with expenditure, partly as a response to the fact that the Carthaginian demand for mercenaries in effect created a ‘system’, with two neighboring and warring states sometimes appealing to the same recruiting grounds.

Bibliography Andrewes, Antony. The Greek Tyrants. London: Hutchinson, 1956. Berger, Shlomo. Revolution and Society in Greek Sicily and Southern Italy. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1992. Bruit Zaidman, Louise. Le commerce des dieux. Eusebeia, essai sur la piété en Grèce ancienne. Paris: La Découverte, 2002. Buxó Capdevila, Ramon. “Botanical and archaeological dimensions of the colonial encounter.” In Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations, ed. Michael Dietler and Carolina Lopez-Ruiz, 155–168. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009.

212  Jens A. Krasilnikoff Caven, Brian. Dionysius I: War-Lord of Sicily. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990. Cawkwell, George. “Early Greek tyranny and the people.” Classical Quarterly 45 (1995): 73–86. Chaniotis, Angelos. War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005. Cresswell, Tim. Place. A Short Introduction. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2004. De Angelis, Franco. Archaic and Classical Greek Sicily: A Social and Economic History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. De Ligt, Luuk. “The inscription from Centuripe: Language, meaning and historical background.” Glotta 83 (2007): 30–42. De Lorenzis, Gabriella, Francesco Mercati, Carlo Bergamini, Maria Francesca Cardone, Antonio Lupini, Antonio Mauceri, Angelo Raffaele Caputo, Loredana Abbate, Maria Gabriella Barbagallo, Donato Antonacci, Francesco Sunseri and Lucio Brancadoro. “SNP genotyping elucidates the genetic diversity of Magna Graecia grapevine germplasm and its historical origin and dissemination.” BMC Plant Biology 19 no. 7 (2019): 1–15. Evans, Richard. Ancient Syracuse: From Foundation to Fourth Century Collapse. London: Routledge, 2016. Evans, Richard. “Piracy and pseudo-piracy in Classical Syracuse: Financial replenishment through outsourcing, sacking temples and forced migrations.” In Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity: Appropriation and the Ancient World, ed. Richard Evans and Martine De Marre, 38–59. Abingdon: Routledge, 2020. Finley, Moses. “Empire in the Greco-Roman world.” Greece and Rome 25 no. 1 (1978): 1–15. Fischer-Bossert, Wolfgang (edited by Ute Wartenberg). Coins, Artisans, and Tyrants: Syracuse in the Time of the Peloponnesian War. Numismatic Studies no. 33. New York: The American Numismatic Society, 2017. Fischer-Hansen, Tobias, Thomas Heine Nielsen and Carmine Ampolo. “Sikelia.” In An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis: An Investigation Conducted by the Copenhagen Polis Centre of the Danish National Research Foundation, ed. Mogens Herman Hansen and Thomas Heine Nielsen, 172–248. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Fleck, Robert K. and F. Andrew Hanssen. “How Tyranny Paved the Way to Democracy: The Democratic Transition in Ancient Greece.” The Journal of Law & Economics 56 no. 2 (2013): 389–416. Garland, Robert. Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion. London: Gerald Duckworth, 1992. Garnsey, Peter. Famine and Food Supply in the Graeco-Roman World: Responses to Risk and Crisis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Graells i Fabregat, Raimon. Mistophoroi Ex Iberias. Una aproximación al mercenariado hispano a partir de las evidencias arqueológicas (s. VI-IV a. C.). Venosa and Mainz: Osanna Edizioni, 2014. Harrell, Sarah. “King or private citizen: Fifth-century Sicilian tyrants at Olympia and Delphi.” Mnemosyne 55 no. 4 (2002): 439–464. Harris, William. “Marginal land and population pressure in the Ancient Mediterranean, 800 BC to 600 AD.” Historia 67 no. 4 (2018): 390–417. Helas, Sophie. “Der politische Anspruch Karthagos auf Westsizilien.” In Krise und Wandel: Süditalien im 4. und 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Internationaler Kongress anlässlich des 65.

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  213 Geburtstages von Dieter Mertens, Rom 26. bis 28. Juni 2006, ed. Richard Neudecker, 175–191. Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2011. Holloway, Ross. The Archaeology of Ancient Sicily. London: Routledge, 1991. Hoover, Oliver. Handbook of Coins of Sicily (Including Lipara): Civic, Royal, Siculo-Punic, and Romano-Sicilian Issues. Sixth to First Centuries BC. The Handbook of Greek Coinage Series, Volume 2, with a foreword by Wolfgang Fischer-Bossert. Lancaster, Pennsylvania and London: Classical Numismatic Group, 2012. Ingold, Tim. “The temporality of the landscape.” World Archaeology 25 no. 2 (1993): 152–174. Ingold, Tim. “Against space: Place, movement, knowledge.” In Boundless Worlds: An Anthropological Approach to Movement, ed. Peter Wynn Kirby, 29–44. New York: Berghahn Books, 2009. Kindt, Julia. “On tyrant property turned ritual object: Political power and sacred symbols in ancient Greece and in social anthropology.” Arethusa 42 no. 3 (2009): 211–250. Kinzl, Konrad. Die ältere Tyrannis bis zu den Perserkrieg. Beiträge zur griechischen Tyrannis. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1979. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “The power base of Sicilian tyrants.” In Ancient Sicily, ed. Tobias Fischer-Hansen, 171–184. Copenhagen: Acta Hyperborea 6, 1995. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Mercenary soldiering in the West and the development of the army of Rome.” Analecta Romana Instituti Danici 23 (1996): 7–20. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Attic φελλεύς. Some observations on marginal land and rural strategies in the Classical Period.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 167 (2008): 37–49. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Irrigation as innovation in ancient Greek agriculture.” World Archaeology 42 no. 1 (2010): 108–121. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Innovation in ancient Greek agriculture: Some remarks on climate and irrigation in Classical Attica.” Classica et Mediaevalia 64 (2014): 95–116. Krasilnikoff, Jens. “Tradition and innovation in Classical Athens: The case of the Athenian acropolis as place and history.” In Tradition: Transmission of Culture in the Ancient World, ed. Jane Fejfer, Mette Moltesen and Annette Rathje, 195–212. Copenhagen: Acta Hyperborea 14, 2015. Kristensen Karen Rørby and Jens Krasilnikoff. 2017. “Dress, code, and identity-of-place in Greek religion. Cases from Classical and Hellenistic Athens.” In Textiles and Cult in the Mediterranean Area in the First Millennium BC, ed. Cecilie Brøns and Marie Louise Nosch, 49–57. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Lentjes, Daphne. Landscape and Land Use in First Millennium BC Southeast Italy: Planting the Seeds of Change (Amsterdam Archaeological Studies 25). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2016. Lewis, Sian. “Introduction.” In Ancient Tyranny, ed. Sian Lewis, 1–14. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006. Lomas, Kathryn. “Tyrants and the polis: Migration, identity and urban development in Sicily.” In Ancient Tyranny, ed. Sian Lewis, 95–118. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006. McKechnie, Paul. Outsiders in the Greek Cities in the Fourth Century BC. London: Routledge, 1989. Mertens, Dieter. Città e monumenti dei Greci d’Occidente: Dalla colonizzazione alla crisi del V secolo a.C. Rome: L´Erma di Bretschneider, 2006. Mitchell, Lynette. The Heroic Rulers of Archaic and Classical Greece. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013.

214  Jens A. Krasilnikoff Nebel, Sabine and Michael Heinrich. “Ta Chòrta: A comparative ethnobotanical-linguistic study of wild food plants in a Graecanic area in Calabria, Southern Italy.” Economic Botany 63 no. 1 (2009): 78–92. Nebel, Sabine, Andrea Pieroni and Michael Heinrich. “Ta Chòrta: Wild edible greens used in the Graecanic area in Calabria, Southern Italy.” Appetite 47 (2006): 333–342. Ogden, Daniel. “Cleisthenes of Sicyon, Λευστερ.” Classical Quarterly 43 no. 2 (1993): 353–363. Parker, Robert. Athenian Religion: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Parker, Victor. 1998. “Τύραννος. The semantics of a political concept from Archilochus to Aristotle.” Hermes 126 no. 2 (1998): 145–172. Pomeroy, Sarah, Stanley Burstein, Walter Donlan and Jennifer Tolbert Roberts. Ancient Greece: A Political, Social, and Cultural History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Price, Simon. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Quinn, Josephine Crawley and Nicholas Vella. The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Robinson, Eric. The First Democracies. Early Popular Government Outside Athens. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1997. Robinson, Eric. “Democracy in Syracuse, 466-412 BC.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 100 (2000): 189–205. Rudhardt, Jean. “Les attitudes de Grecs a l’égard des religions étrangères.” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 209 (1992): 219–238. Sanders, Lionel Jehuda. Dionysius I of Syracuse and Greek Tyranny. London, New York, Sydney: Croom Helm, 1987. Sanders, Lionel Jehuda. “Dionysius I of Syracuse and the Origins of the Ruler Cult in the Greek World.” Historia 40 no. 3 (1991): 275–287. Serrati, John. “A Syracusan private altar and the development of ruler-cult in Hellenistic Sicily.” Historia 57 no. 1 (2008): 80–91. Stroheker, Karl Friedrich. Dionysios I. Gestalt und Geschichte des Tyrannen von Syrakus. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1958. Tagliamonte, Gianluca. I figli di marte. Mobilità, Mercenariato italici in Magna Grecia e Sicilia. Rome: G. Bretschneider, 1994. Tokarczuk, Ryszard. “Builder of the cities. Dionysius and Sicels.” Prace Historyczne 142 no. 1 (2015): 13–24. Trundle, Matthew. Greek Mercenaries: From the Late Archaic Period to Alexander. London: Routledge, 2004. Trundle, Matthew. “Money and the Great Man in the fourth century BC: Military power, aristocratic connections and mercenary service.” In Ancient Tyranny, ed. Sian Lewis, 65–76. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006. Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place. The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1977. Van Dommelen, Peter. “Punic farms and Carthaginian colonists. Surveying Punic rural settlement in the central Mediterranean.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 19 (2006): 7–28. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

Dionysius I of Syracuse and the spatial order of rule by one  215 Westlake, Henry Dickinson. “Dionysius I, Military Leader. Review of Brian Caven, Dionysius I, War-Lord of Sicily. New Haven and London 1990.” The Classical Review 41 no. 1 (1991): 139–140. Wonder, John. “The Italiote League: South Italian alliances of the fifth and fourth centuries BC.” Classical Antiquity 31 no. 1 (2012): 128–151. Zambron, Efrem. “From Agathocles to Hieron II: The birth and development of basileia in Hellenistic Sicily.” In Ancient Tyranny, ed. Sian Lewis, 77–92. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006.

11 Cultural memory and cultural change in Hellenistic and Roman Magna Graecia1 Kathryn Lomas

The development of cultural identities and the intricate relationship between Greek and Roman cultures in the late Republic and early Empire have been intensively studied, but research on this important topic has focused principally on Greece and the eastern Mediterranean. The Greek cities of the western Mediterranean, however, pose a different and fascinating set of problems. In Italy, where Greek communities fell under Roman control during the 3rd century and were formally absorbed into the Roman state in 89 BC, there is a high degree of variability in their relationship with their Greek past. Hellenism remains an important part of civic culture in some communities until well into the Early Empire, but almost entirely disappearing from the record in others. The factors which determine the persistence or disappearance of Hellenism (and, conversely, the adoption of aspects of Roman culture) are still very unclear, as is the significance of the Greek past for later inhabitants and their agency in perpetuating and shaping that past. One possible way into the problem is by approaching it as a study of cultural memory and how communities in Roman Magna Graecia used selective aspects of their history to define their contemporary identity and relationship with Rome. This chapter examines the ways in which cultural memory may have shaped the interaction between Greek and Roman culture in the period between 2nd century BC and 1st century AD in one particular community – the Greek city of Elea, later Roman Velia, which offers a particularly interesting case study because its development in the Roman period contrasts with that of other cities of Magna Graecia. Relatively, little is known about Velia’s early relationship with Rome. It probably opposed Rome during the 3rd Samnite war and was conquered in 293 BC (Livy 10.44.8–45.11). It became a Roman ally until 89 BC and then a municipium until the foundation of a veteran colony there in AD 71. Surprisingly, given the clear evidence for Hellenism at Velia (Bowersock 1992), it is omitted from Strabo’s comment that: νυνὶ δὲ πλὴν Τάραντος καὶ Ῥηγίου καὶ Νεαπόλεως ἐκβεβαρβαρῶσθαι συμβέβηκεν ἅπαντα καὶ τὰ μὲν Λευκανοὺς καὶ Βρεττίους κατέχειν τὰ δὲ Καμπανούς, καὶ τούτους λόγῳ, τὸ δ᾽ ἀληθὲς Ῥωμαίους: καὶ γὰρ αὐτοὶ Ῥωμαῖοι γεγόνασιν. DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-12

Cultural memory and cultural change  217 with the exception of Tarentum, Rhegium and Neapolis, the Greeks have become barbarians; some have been captured and held by the Lucanians and Bruttians, and by the Campanians - in name, that is, but in reality, by the Romans. For these have themselves become Romans. (Strabo, Geography 6.1.3)2 Despite this, Velia in the late Republic and early Empire shows a lively degree of engagement with its Greek past, but in a manner which differs from that of Naples and Rhegium, raising some interesting questions about what factors influenced engagement with the pre-Roman past in early imperial Italy, what this says about cultural memory and forgetting and where the agency for these decisions lay. Cultural memory, defined as the operation of the past in the present and/or the present in the past, has been identified as an important element in the creation and maintenance of group identities, whether of states or of sub-groups within them.3 It is, by definition, a collective rather than an individual memory, which can encompass various registers such as the perpetuation of myths and rituals about the distant past, the selective commemoration of more recent events or even the creation of entirely fictive traditions.4 Spatial approaches to cultural memory have been highly influential in archaeology (Halbwachs 1992; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 3–4), but it may be more helpful to take a broader approach, viewing cultural memory as embodied and transmitted through a variety of media – for instance, rituals and other regular events, written documents, or even ritualised forms of personal behaviour, gesture and dress, as well as in spatial layout and the built environment.5 An important factor, however, is that cultural memory is invariably selective, requiring choice about which aspects of a community’s past should be preserved and, conversely, which should be downgraded or suppressed. The act of selective forgetting is also essential in shaping cultural identities and can have both positive and negative consequences, acting as either a tool for suppression or a means of allowing a society to move forward depending on viewpoint and context.6 This makes it particularly significant in situations of conquest and Empire, in which there are unequal power relations and subordinate groups must negotiate identities and roles in relation to dominant groups (Connerton 1989: 14–21; Alcock 2001: 323–325). Although social memory is always collective, it is also fluid and can change over time, or vary between different groups and memory communities (Connerton 1989: 35–38; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 2–3; Assmann 2006: 1–9). It is a particularly powerful tool for ancient historians, as the Romans themselves viewed history as essentially the preservation of memories (Cic. De Orat. 2.36). Given the prominence of the Greek past in the culture of some parts of Roman Magna Graecia, an examination of this as a case study in cultural and social memory may be a useful way to understand the development of these communities in the Roman Empire. Memory and space: Hellenism in the urban landscape Many studies of cultural/social memory posit a close connection between space and memory, with monuments and locations serving as what Alcock has termed

218  Kathryn Lomas ‘theatres of memory’ (Alcock 2001: 325–335), to remind inhabitants of their past and its significance. This phenomenon is evident in many Italian communities in the 1st century BC and 1st century AD, marked by public building programmes which reflected the transition from an independent state to a Roman municipium or colony and new Roman norms of urban life and culture (Gabba 1971; Jouffroy 1986; Lomas 2002). Walls and gateways were rebuilt in Roman styles, public space was monumentalised and new types of building such as theatres and amphitheatres, many of which had political significance, were constructed. In these instances, the emphasis seems to be on making change and Roman culture rather than using urban space to preserve cultural memory. At Velia, however, we can see a rather different pattern (Figure 11.1). Here, there was massive investment in public buildings in the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC. The southern quarter of the city expanded rapidly, a new gateway, the Porta Rosa, was constructed and the road leading to the acropolis was redeveloped. On the acropolis itself, there were changes to the theatre, and the agora acquired more monumental architecture, and a major new building which may have been an Asklepieion.7 Many of the elite houses built during this period are very similar to those found on Delos, suggesting that the rapid redevelopment may be connected with Velia’s apparent successful exploitation of commercial connections with Delos and the

Figure 11.1  Plan of Velia.

Cultural memory and cultural change  219 eastern Mediterranean in the Hellenistic period.8 This was also a period in which the civic authorities of Velia retained a clear Greek identity. Many of the tiles and bricks used for these buildings were produced by workshops which stamped their output with the names of the craftsmen, most of which were Greek, or the abbreviation ΔΗ (demosion), indicating that they were produced for state contracts.9 This use of Greek for products associated with activities of the state suggests that Greek was still the official language and Greek culture the dominant culture in Velia until the 1st century BC (Cicala and Vecchio 2017). During the 1st century BC and 1st century AD, development slowed down, and Velia appears to change much less than many neighbouring communities in Campania and Lucania, where there are stronger signs of adoption of Roman culture in the built environment. Investigations on the acropolis demonstrate that it remained an important ceremonial centre and retained a strongly Greek character, with continuity of Greek building types and styles and Greek commemorative customs. Much of the Greek theatre was obliterated and it was reconstructed in Roman semi-circular form (Daum 1980; Krinzinger 2003, 2005: 171–172). Building programmes which involved rebuilding important civic structures in Roman style were common in central and southern Italy at this date (Gabba 1971; Lomas 2002), but the chronology of the theatre at Velia is problematic. Although it was modified in the Augustan/Julio-Claudian period, the Greek structure survived largely intact and the major rebuilding may be as late as the 3rd century AD (Daum 1980; Bencivenga Trillmich 1994). Other evidence supports the continued importance of the acropolis for the cultural and civic identity of Velia. A fragmentary Greek inscription of the 1st century BC/AD (SEG 32.1074) found near the theatre has been reconstructed as a dedication to Athena Polias and therefore intimately connected with Greek civic identity as well as a demonstration that the cult was still prominent (Ebner 1964, 1965; Miranda 1982: 163–165; Vecchio 2003a: 64–65).10 The acropolis was still used as a context for honouring civic patrons and dignitaries. A statue base with a bilingual inscription, set up in the propylon of the acropolis in the 1st century AD, honoured G. Julius Naso:11 ἡ σύ]νκλητος καὶ ὁ δῆμος | Γάϊον Ἰούλιον Γαΐου υἱὸν Νάσωνα | ἀρετῆς καὶ εὐεργεσίας ἕνεκα senatus ∙ et ∙ populus ∙ Veliensis | C(aio) ∙ Iulio ∙ C(ai) ∙ f(ilio) ∙ Nasoni ∙ honoris | et ∙ virtutis ∙ causa The Senate and People of Velia. To C. Julius C.F. Naso in recognition of his honour and virtue These honours for Julius Naso are presented in Greek form, as a decree of the synkletos and demos. The Greek text also takes precedence over the Latin version in the layout of the inscription although the Latin text is written in somewhat larger characters than the Greek, so it is not entirely clear which language is dominant

220  Kathryn Lomas and which subordinate. It has been suggested that this is evidence both for the continuation of Greek as the main language of public business and of a Greek civic administration (see below), but both these points are debatable12 and Greek seems to be used here as a language of honour, something underlined by the placement of Naso’s statue in a location which was the ceremonial centre of the Greek city. However, both the Greek and the Latin pose problems. Latin honorific inscriptions which had been erected honoris causa are not unusual, although relatively few reference virtus as well as honos. The Greek version, however, is more problematic as it is neither a direct translation of the Latin nor a common Greek formula.13 Greek language and forms, therefore, seem to have been an active choice for honouring a civic benefactor, even well into the Roman period, but the form that this took was not that of contemporary Greek honorific decrees, but used a form heavily influenced by Roman epigraphy. Adaptation of Greek language and forms therefore seem to reflect a deliberate choice for honouring a civic benefactor in this most traditionally Greek area of the city, and the acropolis seems to be an area where an effort was being made to recall and reinforce Greek identity, even well into the Roman period, but the forms that these honours took were heavily influenced by contemporary Roman epigraphic practices. Some of the strongest evidence for the manipulation of cultural memory of the Greek past is found in the southern quarter of the city, which expanded rapidly as a residential area during the 1st century BC–1st century AD. Some Hellenistic houses continued in use with little modification while others were significantly remodelled or replaced by new structures. Probably the best documented structures are a group of three insulae located just inside the Porta Marina Sud, of which Insula 1 and Insula 1A both contained a fairly typical mixture of houses and commercial properties. Insula II, however, was a public building, dating to the late 1st century BC/early 1st century AD but with some changes and refurbishment in the 2nd century AD (Figure 11.2) (Napoli 1966: 222–226; Johannowsky 1980; Fabbri and Trotta 1989; Cicala, Fiammenghi and Vecchio 2005: 44–5; Cicala 2005: 248–56). It was a substantial structure (c.71 x 37 m) occupying the entire block and constructed of reused Hellenistic masonry. It was approached by a set of steps flanked by tabernae and consisted of three main areas. The first room (or possibly courtyard) was on a lower level while the second room was reached by a further set of steps and an entrance ornamented with pilasters and semi-columns and had a basement room beneath it. The inner room was finely decorated with stucco and Third Style painting and lined with exedrae which contained numerous portrait statues, busts and herms, arranged in a carefully assembled decorative scheme. These fall into two groups, one consisting of the members of the imperial family, including Augustus (or possibly Marcellus), Livia and Octavia, along with other close relatives and possible successors – Gaius and Lucius Caesar, Agrippa Postumus, Drusus the younger, Antonia the younger, Agrippina the younger and Julia the younger (Napoli 1966: 222–226; De Franciscis 1970; Fabbri and Trotta 1989; Vecchio 2012: 595–597). The other consists of portrait busts and herms of various literary and philosophical figures. These include a portrait herm of the Eleatic philosopher Parmenides, inscribed Πα[ρ]μ̣ενείδης Πύρητος Οὐλιάδης φυσικός

Cultural memory and cultural change  221

Figure 11.2  Plan of Insula II (after Napoli 1966).

(SEG 38.1020.1: ‘Parmenides Pyretos, Ouliades, natural philosopher’). This gives the name of the philosopher, Parmenides son of Pyres, and describes him as a physikos,14 possibly best translated as a natural philosopher or natural scientist, but it also includes the term ouliades, the precise meaning of which is unknown, although there is probably a connection with the local healing cult of Apollo Oulios.15 This group also includes three other herms and statues, all in a similarly restrained and classicising style. All have inscriptions, identified by Vecchio (2003a) as from the same workshop and possibly even in the same hand: Οὖλις Εὐξίνου Ὑελήτης ἰατρὸς φώλαρχος ἔτει τοθʹ ‘Oulis son of Euxinos of Elea, doctor, Pholarchos, in the year 379’ Οὖλις Ἀρίστωνος | ἰατρὸς φώλαρχος | ἔτει σπʹ ‘Oulis son of Ariston, doctor, Pholarchos, in the year 280’ Οὖλις Ἱερωνύμου | ἰατρὸς φώλαρχος | ἔτει υμϛʹ ‘Oulis son of Hieronymos, doctor, Pholarchos, in the year 456’16

222  Kathryn Lomas All share the same basic format of name, patronymic, titles (‘iatros’, ‘pholarchos’) and date. The repetition of the name Oulis has variously been interpreted as evidence that the role of Pholarchos was hereditary and restricted to certain families or that this was a sacred name or title adopted on taking office. As Morel (2005: 40–43) has pointed out, however, Oulis is not uncommon as a personal name around Olbia and Massalia, which were also areas of Phocaean settlement, and its recurrence here may be an indication that it was a personal name favoured by families associated with the medical college because of its links with the foundation of the city as well as its character as a theonym (Ebner 1962; Pugliese Carratelli 1963, 1970; Nutton 1970; Musitelli 1980; Leiwo 1982; Morel 2005). The meaning of the dates is unclear, as they do not seem to correspond to any known significant dates in the history of Velia, such as the foundation of the city, but it has been suggested that they may relate to the foundation of the Askelpieion or of a medical guild/ school (Vecchio 2003a: 93). The role of the pholarchos (discussed further below) has likewise been a matter of debate although the link with a healing cult or medical school seems fairly secure.17 Setting aside the difficulties posed by the inscriptions and questions about the purpose of the building, however, it seems that the building and its decorations form a coherent group and are meant to be viewed and interpreted as a whole. Irrespective of whether Insula II was constructed as the meeting house of a guild of doctors or as a centre for the imperial cult, it seems to function as a repository of cultural memory, referencing important aspects of the city’s history through their choice of subject, their style and the form and language of the inscriptions. Its statues and epigraphy showcase the importance of philosophy, and especially Parmenides and the Eleatics, to the culture of Velia, and recall the city’s fame as a centre for medical knowledge and healing cults.18 Additionally, it creates an association between these aspects of the city’s past and the imperial cult, especially the family of Augustus. The decorative scheme seems to specifically select aspects of Velia’s past that might appeal to Romans, reinforcing its intellectual traditions, its Greek history and the city’s image as somewhere rather austere and devoted to healing. One of the difficult aspects to understand, however, is the audience for the cultural memories embodied by Insula II, as it is impossible to know with any certainty who was admitted to the building. If it was the meeting place of a religious cult or the headquarters of a medical school or collegium, access may have been restricted to a relatively small number of initiates or guild members, which raises important questions about whether it was intended to act as a repository of cultural memory for a fairly small and select group or act as a reminder of the city’s Greek past for a wider cross section of the community. It was located in a prominent position, situated on a major arterial street just inside the Porta Marina and close to the baths, but the entrance appears fairly modest and so the extent to which it was outwardly distinctive or noticeable is unclear. Whatever the building’s practical use, however, the architecture and decoration of Insula II were culturally significant in associating a traditional Greek cult (Apollo Oulios/Asklepios) and philosophical school with

Cultural memory and cultural change  223 the imperial cult and, in so doing, using Greek heritage and culture to affirm loyalty to the new regime. There appears, then, to be considerable ambiguity in the development of Velia in the late Republic and early Empire, between continuity with Greek styles of public and domestic architecture and use of space, and adoption of new Roman elements. This is particularly evident in the southern area of the city, where house styles seem to have become a mixture of Greek and Roman and where Insula II developed as a public building in the Julio-Claudian period. Elsewhere in the city, there seems to have been a high degree of continuity in public space – the major reorganisation of the city predates (or is roughly contemporary with) the Roman conquest, and the city seems to have retained much of its Greek character until the 1st century AD. Civic organisation and Hellenism The traces of the Greek past were not confined to the urban landscape but also survived in other areas of civic life. The dedication to Julius Naso was made by the boule and demos and Greek offices continue to occur as part of cursus inscriptions until the middle of the 1st century AD (SEG 53.1114, AE 1966: 108; Ebner 1970, 1978). It seems unlikely, however, that this represents the survival of a Greek constitution in Roman Italy, as suggested by Sartori (Sartori 1953: 105–107; Lomas 1993: 151–157; Cappelletti 2011: 18–22). Latin cursus inscriptions such as those of Cornelius Gemellus (Mingazzini 1954), Valerius Caepio (L'Année épigraphique, AE 1966: 108) and Gabinius Menander (AE 1978: 260; Ebner 1978: 65) indicate a civic government based on the usual Roman magistracies of quaestor, aedile and quattuorvir iure dicundo.19 It is also notable that the only reference to the boule, the decree honouring Julius Naso, appears to be a Greek translation of a Roman honorific decree by the senate and people (discussed above). The use of Greek language and traditional titles for the council and assembly of the Velian people in some circumstances implies that Hellenism remained an important symbol of identity to the people of Velia, but the form of the decree itself is typical of those found elsewhere in Roman Italy. Two Greek offices, those of gymnasiarchos and pholarchos, did survive into the Roman period. Cornelius Gemellus and Valerius Caepio both apparently held the post of gymasiarchos, and the post of pholarchos was held as part of the municipal cursus by Caepio and the honorand of another fragmentary inscription found near Insula I (AE 1974: 293; Vecchio 2003a: 72–76). However, they were held alongside the usual cursus of municipal magistracies and by people who were not of Greek origin, which has given rise to suggestions that the nature of the pholarchos had changed from priesthood to magistracy although this remains debatable.20 What does seem clear is that both of these offices were held alongside magistracies as part of a civic career and to have conferred honour on the holders, possibly because of their Greek past. There are parallels in this with Naples, where Greek magistracies and priesthoods seem to have become part of the civic cursus by the early Empire. There, Greek offices such as those of gymnasiarchos and laukelarchos continued into the

224  Kathryn Lomas 2nd century AD alongside the usually municipal magistracies, often held by important Romans as well as by local notables (Lomas, forthcoming). In both cases, the Greek civic offices which survived into the Roman period are those which are unique to the community and closely connected with the cultural identity of the city. They appear to be largely honorific – possibly more so because of their Greek character and connections with the past – rather than evidence for the survival of a Greek constitution. Language and cultural memory One aspect of the urban landscape which may have acted as a powerful form of cultural memory is the presence of Greek inscriptions.21 The survival of Hellenism is most prominent in the epigraphic evidence from Velia, not just in the choice of language for epigraphic purposes but also in the form of inscribed monuments selected. A substantial number of Greek inscriptions have survived from the 3rd century BC to the 1st century AD demonstrating that Greek was still in use, at least as a monumental written language and probably also as a spoken one.22 However, the epigraphic evidence is uneven in its distribution and presents some contextual difficulties. Civic inscriptions are limited in number and confined largely to the items already discussed. Most of the surviving inscriptions are funerary (Vecchio 2003a: 97–148). However, the cemeteries of Velia are less well-explored than the settlement itself. Recent excavation of a cemetery outside the Porta Maria Sud has uncovered many Roman burials but these date to the period after the foundation of the Flavian colony and many of the dead are probably colonists and their families (Cicala et al. 2005: 55–59). Most of the Greek funerary inscriptions and monuments of the 4th–1st centuries BC were found during 19th century excavations. As a result, many do not have a securely documented context and cannot be associated with specific burials or funerary assemblages (Vecchio 2001, 2003b, 2005). The style of the monuments with Greek inscriptions is for the most part very plain, and the form of inscription used is very simple. In the 3rd–2nd centuries, plain cippi of local sandstone predominate, decorated only with a rudimentary ionic capital and, in some cases, an akroterion (Figure 11.3; Vecchio 2001, 2003a: 97–148). The inscriptions are equally simple, consisting only of a personal name and patronymic with no additional funerary formulae. Typical examples include the epitaphs of Dionysios, son of Euneikos and Nika and daughter of Zoilos.23 This very plain type of monument and basic form of inscription persists, but during the 2nd–1st centuries, marble stelae were introduced as an alternative and slightly grander and more elaborate form of monument. These take the form of simple naiskos stelae with a pediment and columns framing a central panel or panels on which the text is inscribed, but little other decoration. A late 2nd/1st century BC marble stele is typical of this new style (Figure 11.4).24 Although rather worn, it is clear that this consists of a rectangular stele with a plain pediment and columns framing the inscription. Decoration is restricted to two leafy branches, possibly laurel and olive, in low relief. The epitaph, commemorating Voconia Iucunda and

Cultural memory and cultural change  225

Figure 11.3  Stele of Dionysios son of Euneikos, 4th/3rd century BC.

Figure 11.4 Stele of Voconia Iucunda and Sextilius Epaphrodeitos, 2nd/1st century BC (after Vecchio 2003b).

226  Kathryn Lomas Sextilius Epaphrodeitos, consists only of the personal names and family associations, with no additional formulae.25 Both the cippi and the later marble monuments present a striking contrast with other examples of Greek funerary epigraphy from Hellenistic Italy. Stelae of similar date (late 2nd century BC–early 1st century AD) inscribed with Greek epitaphs are found at both Naples and Ancona, but these are much more elaborate in style. The Neapolitan stelae are of the naiskos type, with framing columns and pediment, but they carry figured scenes in low relief, depicting the deceased either seated or standing, or a dexiosis scene of the dead bidding farewell to their relatives (Papadopoulos 1985: 295–297; Leiwo 1994: 117–125: Miranda 1996: 30–35, 75–120; Lomas 2003; Antonelli et al. 2016). Those from Ancona are very similar in type although with some local variations (Colivicchi 2000: 136–140). In both cases, the epitaphs take the form of a personal name and patronymic, along with the well-known funerary formulae chaire or chreste chaire. These stelae are of a type, both in form and decoration, which is very familiar to examples from the Hellenistic world, and stylistically related to contemporary Cycladic and Attic examples. Those from Velia, in contrast, retain local traditional forms of monument and inscriptions of an extremely simple form which is very different from contemporary Greek funerary monuments and also differs from contemporary Italian examples. Some studies have regarded the survival of the Greek language and culture as essentially a matter of demographics, arguing that they persisted while the population remained largely Greek and disappeared fairly swiftly when the population was fundamentally changed by the settlement of a colony of naval veterans in AD 71 (Leiwo 1994: 49–58, 165–172; Adams 2003: 9–18). However, the relationship between language and ethnicity is not straightforward. Many personal names preserved on brick stamps are Greek, indicating that there was still a substantial Greek (and Greek-speaking) population at Velia in the 3rd–1st centuries BC. However, Campanian names, such as Pakia and Bruttios, and Latin ones, such as Voconius, Gabinius and Sextilius, demonstrate that the population was already ethnically mixed by the 3rd century, and the Greek language is used to commemorate people with non-Greek names (Vecchio 2001, 2003b, 2005). Rather than Latin replacing Greek as a consequence of ethnic change, it seems likely that the languages coexisted at least until the late 1st century AD. In a multilingual community, there is inevitably an element of choice in selecting a particular language for a particular purpose, and the choice of language had cultural significance. The persistence of Greek as an epigraphic language is significant because the use of Latin as a formal written language, particularly in inscriptions, is an important marker of Roman culture (Woolf 1996). In many other areas of Italy, the adoption of Latin for inscriptions such as civic decrees, building inscriptions and other inscriptions set up by the elite is a demonstration of the use of Roman cultural forms as a means of demonstrating status, either by individuals or groups. Non-Latin languages, where they persist, are more often found in inscriptions of a more private nature, such as ownership inscriptions and graffiti on objects (Häussler 2002). At Velia, however, Greek persists as an

Cultural memory and cultural change  227 epigraphic language until the end of the 1st century AD, and this raises some important questions about Velian culture in the early Empire. Writing is a powerful means of transmitting cultural memory (Connerton 1989: 74–77), not just in the content and meaning of a text but also by its appearance. In societies such as that of Roman Italy in which a significant section of the population would have had no literacy, or only a limited ability to read,26 the visual appearance of a text can be as important, if not more, as the content. The continued use of the Greek language and alphabet, particularly for prominent official inscriptions such as the honours to Julius Naso, would have had an immediate visual impact, reminding the viewer of the Greek past. For those who could read, it firmly underlined the difference between Velia and even its neighbours, drawing attention to both the Greek past and the continuing Hellenism of the present. Even for those who could not read an inscription, the use of a different alphabet and the visual difference between Greek and Roman inscriptions might have acted as a reminder of difference and drawn attention to past history. Greek was, of course, widely spoken by the Roman and Italian elites, and its high status as a language was undoubtedly a factor in its survival in parts of Magna Graecia (Leiwo 1994: 49–58, 165–172; Adams 2003: 9–18). Its use as a written language for certain types of inscription, however, seems to represent a deliberate choice designed to emphasise Greek aspects of local culture. This is perhaps less clear-cut at Velia, where most of the evidence is funerary, than it is at Naples, where there are also numerous public inscriptions in Greek, but the honours granted to Julius Naso demonstrate that Greek was still used for public documents as well as for epitaphs. The continued use of Greek as an epigraphic language would have operated on two levels – as a source of cultural memory and as a way of gaining civic prestige by drawing attention to Velia’s Greek heritage. The nature of cultural memory in Magna Graecia: Tradition or appropriation? Hellenism at Velia after its absorption by Rome shows a considerable degree of continuity with the Greek past, but, at the same time, it is highly selective. Some studies of cultural memory emphasise the urban landscape as a repository of cultural memory to remind people of key episodes of their history or features of their culture and thereby keep those elements as important parts of contemporary culture and in many respects, this model works well for Velia. The continued focus on the acropolis, the continuity of traditional Greek building styles and the showcasing of the Greek medical and philosophical tradition in Insula II are instances of the physical preservation of selective aspects of the city’s Greek past. The continuity with the Greek past can also be traced in the preservation of some Greek civic institutions and the continuity of the Greek language, epigraphic styles and funerary monuments. In many respects, Velia appears to have maintained a considerable level of Hellenism in important aspects of civic life throughout the period of municipalisation and well into the Empire. Brick stamps in Greek language and idiom show that the city’s official identity was still Greek in the period immediately before the Social

228  Kathryn Lomas War, and even during the late Republic and early Empire, it placed a considerable emphasis on cultural memories of its Greek past. If viewed in the context of other cities of Magna Graecia, however, Velia shows some very interesting differences in how its Greek history was commemorated and how the Greek elements of its culture developed in the Roman period. Naples, which also had a high degree of engagement with its Greek past, provides an interesting point of comparison. Here, there was a marked degree of Roman influence in the development of both private housing and public building from the Augustan period onwards, and in this respect is far more typical of Roman Italy than Velia. In other areas of civic life, Naples shows an even higher degree of engagement with Hellenism, with evidence of Greek magistracies and priesthoods, Greek phratries, Greek civic decrees and Greek games, as well as the persistence of the Greek language until well into the 2nd century AD (Lomas 1993: 172–187; Lomas 2015). On closer inspection, however, it is clear that Hellenism at Naples is not just a survival from the pre-Roman period but also a carefully constructed cultural identity in which certain institutions and rituals may have gained new meanings or greater importance in the Roman period. It is also notable that Hellenism at Naples is very much a contemporary Hellenism which engaged with the present as much as with the past. Greek public epigraphy is modelled closely on the forms current in the Hellenistic east, and Greek funerary monuments draw on contemporary Cycladic and Aegean styles and iconography, while the Greek games have only a tenuous link with the traditional festival of Parthenope (Papadopoulos 1985; Leiwo 1994: 116–117; Lomas 2015). Instead, they are reinvented in the honour of Augustus and closely modelled on the contemporary Olympic games.27 Many aspects of Neapolitan tradition are subsumed into a more contemporary Hellenism and many of the participants in Greek rituals are Roman notables, not the local elite.28 The significance of Hellenism seems to have been twofold – as a form of cultural memory to preserve the past history of the city and remind the contemporary population of it, and also a means of enhancing the city’s status with the Roman elite who frequented the Bay of Naples (Lomas 2015). Velia, in contrast, seems to have been much more conservative in its adoption of Roman styles and forms of building, suggesting that the urban landscape may have changed less to accommodate Roman norms and have retained more of its Greek character. Since Velia seems to have flourished economically in the Hellenistic period and early Empire, this must be a cultural choice rather than a matter of lack of means to invest in new civic infrastructure, and is in stark contrast to other areas of Italy, where there was a large amount of building and rebuilding in more Roman style in the period after the Social War. Continuity is something which also seems to have been stressed in epigraphic styles and funerary monuments. The style of the sculptures of Insula II, the styles of inscriptions and the forms of the funerary monuments of the early Roman period are all traditional and conservative in form – certainly, when compared to contemporary examples from Naples. It is also notable that the Greek offices which survive are not those responsible for the dayto-day administration but are those which have a strong cultural connection with the city’s past and, in the case of the pholarchos, one which appears to be unique to

Cultural memory and cultural change  229 Velia. The survival of Greek honorific decrees, at least one dedicated to a Roman, also suggests that Greek decrees were used as a ‘language of honour’ which added extra distinction to the honours conferred (Lomas 1993: 172–185; Woolf 1996). This raises interesting questions about the significance of Hellenism for the people of Roman Velia, and also about agency in determining which cultural memories should be preserved.29 The elements of Greek culture which are emphasised in the archaeological and epigraphic record relate to selective aspects of the city’s past, especially those connected with Eleatic philosophy and the tradition of Velia as a centre of healing and medical expertise. These aspects of local Greek culture are consistent with the image of Velia offered by Roman sources. It enjoyed a reputation as a centre of learning and especially of medical expertise and also had a somewhat austere reputation.30 It was, for instance, noted as a spa which specialised in cold water treatments, particularly after Augustus was cured by using cold-water therapy, and Horace (Epist. 1.15.1–2, 14–15) specifically contrasts it with Baiae as health-giving but austere and less enjoyable. By perpetuating memories of Velia’s philosophers, doctors and healing cults, the city created a cultural identity which was rooted in the Greek past, but which was also palatable to contemporary Romans. The Oscan origins and culture of some of the population and Velian resistance to Rome during the Samnite wars were quietly sidelined and Velia could present itself as the centre of health and morality, in a way which preserved a sense of Hellenism and difference in a suitably unchallenging manner. There may have been several reasons why these aspects of Velian identity were the ones which survived. Although the area was not as fashionable as the Bay of Naples, many Romans owned villas near Velia.31 Survivals of Hellenism were not; therefore, the result of isolation and engagement with the Roman elite is likely to have been part of the process. The use of Greek to add extra kudos to honours granted to Roman notables demonstrates the way in which Hellenism could be used both as a form of cultural memory and as a way of engaging with the Roman elite. However, these aspects of Velian identity may also have other roots. According to Greek tradition, Velia was settled by refugees from Phocaea in the 6th century BC, and the Phocaean colonies of the west maintained a strong sense of shared Phocaean identity throughout their history (Morel 1999; Domínguez 2004). This seems to persist into the Roman period. The Phocaean foundation of Massilia, for instance, shares many cultural traits with Roman Velia. Public building in the early Empire seems to deliberately adopt traditional Greek styles over contemporary Roman ones, and writers such as Strabo, Cicero and Tacitus all emphasise its role as a philosophical and intellectual centre, its austere moral character and its preoccupation with health.32 Many aspects of the cultural identity of Roman Velian appear to preserve cultural memories of its Phocaean past and link with other Phocaean settlements (Morel 1999, 2005; Domínguez 2004; Lomas 2004). In many respects, the emphasis on austerity, tradition and conservatism in Greek culture at both Velia and Massilia demonstrates the recursive nature of cultural identities. Cultural aspects prized by one social group – the Roman elite – fed back into local culture, which then echoed and emphasised those same aspects. The driving force seems to be a mixture of a deep-rooted sense of Greek

230  Kathryn Lomas (and specifically Phocaean) identity and an interaction with elite Romans who formed a ready audience for this particular type of conservative and unthreatening Hellenism. Cultural memories of an austere Phocaean past thus served to reinforce the Velians’ own sense of identity and, at the same time, could be used to create an identity palatable to Rome. It also contrasted with the Hellenism of other parts of Magna Graecia, and especially that of Naples, allowing Velia to retain a unique local identity. Notes 1 Revised versions of this chapter were given as a Classics research seminar at the University of Durham in 2014 and as visiting lectures at the Universities of Bielefeld and Osnabruck in 2019. I would like to thank the participants in the conference and in addition Prof. J. Haubold, Dr P. Horky, Dr A. Russell, Prof. M. Sommer, Dr E.V. Thomas and Prof. U. Walter for their comments and suggestions. 2 This passage is problematic for a number of reasons. Strabo’s reference to the people of Magna Graecia becoming ‘barbarised’ by adopting Campanian, Lucanian or Bruttian culture seems odd as a comment on the Augustan period, and opinions are divided about whether he is quoting from a 4th or 3rd century source, such as Artemidoros or Poseidonios or than describing the contemporary culture of the region (Lasserre 1967: 10–20; Musti 1988). His use of ekbebarbarōsthai echoes Aristoxenos’ famous comment on the barbarisation of Paestum suggesting Aristoxenos as another possible source (Athen. Deip. 14.31 631a; Bowersock 1992). However, the assertion that the Greeks have ‘become Roman’ may refer to more recent history, and the passage may be a conflation of an earlier source with Strabo’s view of the region in his own day. 3 For this definition, see Alcock 2001: 323–325; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 3–7. On various other definitions of social or cultural memory, see Connerton 1989, 2008; Halbwachs 1992; Fentress and Wickham 1992; Assmann 2006; Erll and Nünning 2008. Cultural memory is, however, controversial and there is considerable debate about what it consists of, how it is transmitted and how it differs from similar concepts such as tradition (Erll and Nünning 2008; Radstone 2008). However, the decision by societies to selectively promote and memorialise some aspects of their past at the expense of others must be significant. 4 Halbwachs 1992; Connerton 1989: 20–22. On the definitions of collective memory and how or if different types can, or should, be distinguished, see Assmann 2006: 5–29; Erll and Nunning 2008. 5 Connerton 1989: 39–40, 72–74; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 4–6. As Alcock and Van Dyke note, these are not mutually exclusive, as many archaeological artefacts such as burials and votives are the material evidence of rituals and ceremonies, from which we can deduce something about embodied memories. Cf also Rowlands 1993. 6 Connerton 1989: 20–22. Connerton (2008) develops this further, arguing that forgetting (mostly seen as a failing in contemporary culture) can have positive benefits and is an essential tool in shaping cultural memory and cultural identities. Selective forgetting or editing of cultural memories limits the effects of vendettas and grudges, allows unhelpful events and actions to be downplayed and permits societies to move on and develop new identities. The negative side is that this may also assist the process of political and social suppression by removing traces of opponents or rendering topics or people unmentionable and preventing a society from coming to terms with traumatic episodes. 7 De Franciscis 1970; Leiwo 1982; Greco 1999; Tocco Schiarelli 1999; Krinzinger and Gassner 1997; Cicala 2005. Although these developments are usually dated to the early 3rd century BC, studies of the Porta Rosa have suggested that it should be dated no earlier than the end of the 3rd century and possibly as late as the 1st century BC (De Magistris 2008).

Cultural memory and cultural change  231 8 Inscriptions from Delos demonstrate that Velian merchants were involved in the trade in olive oil and garum, and there is circumstantial evidence that they may also have been involved in the slave trade (Leiwo 1985). 9 This was a common practice in Magna Graecia, as it was throughout the Greek world, with similar stamps being found at Naples, Hipponion, Pithekoussai and other sites (Cicala and Vecchio 2017: 287-90), but Velia is notable for its particularly high quantity of bricks with official stamps. 10 [— —]ενι[— — — — —] | [— —]ν Ἀθηνᾷ Π̣ [ολιάδι] | [— — κ]αθιέρωσ[εν]. Despite the fragmentary nature of the text, the attribution to Athena Polias seems plausible, as the cult of Athena was an important one at Velia. Athena’s head appears on the obverse of pre-Roman coinage (Rutter 2001: 117–122), including some of the post-conquest issues, and there was an important extramural sanctuary dedicated to the cult (Ebner 1965; Vecchio 2003a: 64–65). 11 SEG 18.417; Leiwo 1994: 32; Lomas 1993: 153, 171; Ghinatti 1996: 118; Vecchio 2003a: 67–72. The honorand, G. Julius Naso, has been tentatively identified with a man of the same name who held the post of Praefectus tesserariarum navium, was honoured by Tenos in the late 1st century BC and also with a friend of Pliny the Younger (IG 12. 5.941; Plin. Epist. 4.6, 6.6), although there is no certainty that he is the same person as either of these. His connection with Velia is unclear. 12 It is notable that although the Greek is given pride of place, normally denoting the dominant language, the Latin text is carved in slightly larger letters. 13 Only three other examples of the use of ἀρετῆς καὶ εὐεργεσίας ἕνεκα as an honorific formula are known, from Delos and from Olymos in Caria (Insc.D. 1699, Insc.Myl. 868 and 872), all of which are of Hellenistic date. 14 Both the form of name as given in the inscription and the term physikos are problematic (Gigante 1964; Masson 1988). In this context, physikos may be best translated as ‘natural philosopher’ but a bilingual inscription in Latin and Greek from the Vallo di Diano uses it as a Greek translation of the Latin medicus, suggesting that it may also have healing connotations (Vecchio 2004: 21–22). 15 Ouliades is found as a personal name in the eastern Aegean and it may denote ‘son of [Apollo] Oulios’, by analogy with the name/epithet Asklepiades (‘son of Asklepios’) and the cult of Apollo Oulios is known from Athens and from Delos, Kos, Rhodes and Miletos (Strabo, Geog. 14.635, Macrob. Sat. 1.17.21, Blinkenberg 1941, nos 228, 282, SEG 18.328; Masson 1988: 173–175; Morel 2005: 31–33). Both have a strong association with Ionia and are not found elsewhere in Italy or Sicily. 16 SEG 38.1020, 2–4; Ebner 1962, 1964, 1965; Musitelli 1980; Vecchio 2003a: 72–96; Morel 2005. 17 The nature of the pholarchos has been much debated. Various possibilities suggested include a priest or sanctuary treasurer of the cult of Apollo Oulios, the leader of a healing cult meeting in a cave or underground chamber, or a title for the head of a medical school or guild of doctors. In all cases, there seems to be a strong connection with the healing cult of Apollo. Whatever the original role, the nature of the office may have changed over time and by the Roman period, it seems to have been absorbed into the Roman civic career structure, Leiwo 1982; Lomas 1993: 157, 176–178; Morel 2005; Cappelletti 2011: 19–21. 18 As well as the cult of Apollo Oulios, a cult of Asklepios was also well-established at Velia from the 3rd century. A building in the area of the Agora has been identified as a possible Asklepeion (Tocco Schiarelli 1999) and an inscription of 242 BC (SEG 12.378) documents connections between Velia and the sanctuary of Asklepios on Kos. In this respect, it was part of a wider culture of interest in medicine in Magna Graecia, a region where many cities had medical guilds or schools, publicly funded doctors or philosophical traditions with a medical slant (Vecchio 2004). 19 All of these inscriptions can be dated to the 1st century BC or 1st century AD and all pre-date the foundation of the Flavian colony.

232  Kathryn Lomas 20 For contrasting views, see Leiwo (1982) who sees it as a civic magistracy and Cappelletti (2011: 19–21) who rejects this view. 21 Quite literally an example of Connerton’s inscribed memory, Connerton 1989: 74–79. 22 Although epigraphic statistics run the risk of reflecting patterns of survival rather than giving a true picture of types of inscriptions, language use, etc., it is worth noting that the number of Greek inscriptions of this date (19–20 texts, not including instrumenta) is higher than that of Latin inscriptions from the same period. The relationship between epigraphic and spoken language is complex and there is no way of knowing how widely Greek was spoken at Velia. 23 SEG 28.820: Διονυσίου | τοῦ Εὐνείκου (To Dionysios, son of Euneikos); IG XIV 659: Νίκας τῆς Ζωΐλ[ου] (To Nika, daughter of Zoilos). 24 This item was found in the Diocesan Archive of Vallo della Lucania and unfortunately has no known context, Vecchio 2003b. 25 SEG 53.1135; Vecchio 2003b: Οὐο[κωνίας] | [Ἰ]ουκούν̣[δας] | τῆς Σε[ξτιλί] |ου Ἐπαφ̣ρ̣[οδεί] | του Πυρρ̣[ία] | [Σεξ]τιλίου | [Ἐπαφρ]οδείτ[ο] | [υ Π]υρρία (To Voconia Iucunda (wife?) of Sextilios Epaphrodeitos, son of Pyrrhos | To Sextilios Epaphrodeitos, son of Pyrrhos). 26 Harris 1989: 3–24; cf Horsfall (1991) and Hopkins (1991) for the debate about levels and dissemination of literacy. 27 IvO 56; Lucian, de Salt 32; Suet. Aug. 98, Vell. Pat. 2.123, Strabo Geog. 5.4.7, Dio 55.10.9, 56.29, Statius Silv. 3.5.91-2. For a discussion of the origins and organization of the games, see Di Nanni 2008. 28 For instance, recent excavations during work on the new Naples Metro system have uncovered a complex which may be a temple of the imperial cult and part of the gymnasium, complete with inscriptions listing agonothetai (Di Nanni 2008; Miranda 2010). This suggests both a close connection between games and imperial cult, and that in the 1st century, many of the presiding magistrates were visiting Roman dignitaries or members of the imperial family – perhaps a case of appropriated cultural memory. 29 Given the presence of non-Greek population even in pre-Roman Velia, and the evidence for Roman families such as the Voconii and Sextilii even before the veteran settlement of 71 AD, it seems unlikely that this was simply a process of ethnic and demographic change. 30 Hor. Epist. 1.15.1–2, 14–15, Athen. 537e, Dio. 44.6.4, Suet. Aug. 70.1; Nutton 1970; Vecchio 2004. 31 Aemilius Paulus was advised to retire to the area to benefit from the peace and quiet (Plut., Aem. Paul. 39.1) and Cicero and his friends seem to have owned property and had commercial connections with Velia (Cic. Att. 7.13, 7.19, 7.20, 16.7, Phil. 1.4, 10.4). 32 Strabo, Geog. 4.1.5, Tac. Agr. 4.3.4. Val. Max. 2.6.7b-8, Athen. Deipn 10.33.26. The majority of Roman – and later Greek – sources emphasise the cultural austerity of the city. Women were strictly controlled, conservatively dressed and forbidden to drink wine, and there were strict sumptuary laws governing dowries, marriages and funerals. Massalia enjoyed a reputation as a peaceful and cultured seat of learning to which the sons of the Gallo-Roman nobility could be sent to acquire a Greek education, and its reputation for strict morality seems to have contributed to this. Tacitus describes the general tenor of life at Massalia as one of parsimonia.

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12 Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts Funerary case studies from Magna Graecia1 Jane Hjarl Petersen Introduction Assessing archaeological material to determine identities has been the concern of many studies on ancient cultures, especially in recent decades. The wide range of potential topics within identity studies has yielded contributions on diverse aspects of identity such as ethnicity, gender, age and social identities and has incorporated political and economic as well as religious and cultural aspects (Diaz-Andreu and Lucy 2005). The various theoretical points of departure for these quests for tools to understand and decode ancient identities – cultural or ethnic identities in particular – have included middleground theory, creolisation, hybridisation and diaspora theories, just to mention a few (Guldager Bilde and Petersen 2008: 9–12; Lomas 2013: 97 with references). These studies have profoundly changed the ways in which ancient identities are perceived in the modern scholarly literature by moving away from the traditional culture-historical perception of bipolarity and cultural hierarchisation. Instead, the reciprocal dynamics of cultures and their mutual impact on each other have been brought to the fore, so enabling a much more nuanced understanding of how identities change and are reformulated in a constant dialogue with surrounding social and cultural contexts. Meanwhile, in 2008 Andrew Wallace-Hadrill challenged classical archaeologists and ancient historians by suggesting that the linguistic model of code-switching should be considered a serious means by which to tackle the often complex identity statements inherent in material remains,2 and in recent years a number of scholars have taken up his challenge (Mullen and James 2012; Mullen 2013; Winther-Jacobsen 2013). However, the practical application of the theory to empirical data is in its early stages of development and it remains to demonstrate fully how best to address the problems inherent in equating language to material culture. How can we restore the syntax of incomplete and fragmented archaeological assemblages and thus make them meaningful within and beyond the boundaries of a linguistic model? I have previously explored how the concept of code-switching could work in the context of funerary material from the Black Sea region (Petersen 2013). In that study, I proposed equating the closed archaeological context of a burial with the structural framework of verbal communication. The burial as a potential visual speech event would thus accommodate a platform for code-switches of various DOI: 10.4324/9781003384533-13

238  Jane Hjarl Petersen social and cultural constellations depending on the specific cultural and material contexts. It is precisely the intentionality of burial complexes, their temporally restricted context and the communicative nature of their composition that make them appropriate candidates for this exercise. Along these lines, it is also implicit that not all types of archaeological assemblages and contexts are necessarily suitable for the application of code-switching theory. While code-switching does present a means by which to conceptualise culturally complex identities and their situated use, and allow us to break away from the inadequate ‘either/or’ of bounded ethnicities, one of the conclusions of my previous study is that to equate a burial assemblage with a speech event may require some specific demands on the part of the archaeological material: ideally, the context must be intact, otherwise the communication is fragmentary and thus not fully intelligible; plundered or destroyed burials are therefore less obvious candidates and, to use a linguistic analogy, we can compare them with a phone conversation undertaken with very poor reception. Burial complexes which have a long use-life, encompassing multiple burials from different chronological periods, pose another difficulty unless the chronological sequence of burials is clear and the individual burials and their grave goods are clearly separated in the find situation. If this is not the case, the speech events are difficult to individualise; i.e. it is difficult to determine who is talking and when. But does this mean that we cannot study archaeological material which does not meet these standards of ideal preservation and assemblage composition? The present chapter will take a closer look at the limitations and possibilities of using fragmented and plundered material with a long period of use to assess and map identities. For this exercise, burial complexes from one of the most extensively looted parts of southern Italy, Canosa and Arpi in Apulia, have been selected. The approach taken to assess the looted and thus fragmentary tombs under scrutiny here is painfully simple: we cannot speculate and argue ex silentio as to the nature of what has been destroyed and removed; we can, however, study and interpret the material that remains, which has been left behind in more or less complete condition. While we would wish to have a comprehensive picture of these tombs and their contents, an attempt to make them speak should not be dismissed out of hand on the grounds of their miserable state of preservation. By piecing together the evidence from the various tombs, bit by bit, and studying the general features as well as the individual details, these tombs can still provide valuable, if fragmented, testimony to the identities which were at play in this region during the Hellenistic and early Roman periods. The present chapter distinguishes between ethnicity and cultural identity in order to accentuate the limitations inherent in the definition of ethnicity versus the more flexible and changeable nature of cultural identity. The following definitions, formulated by Carla Antonaccio, form the point of departure: Ethnicity is an identity that uses criteria in the form of kinship or descent (real or contrived) and territorial homeland to articulate its specific boundaries. While it may be seen as a kind of cultural identity, it is not the same thing as cultural identity per se. Cultural attributes that may articulate ethnicity, on the other hand, constitute its indicia. But culture need have nothing

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  239 to do with the distinctive identity that is ethnicity … Cultural identity differs from ethnic identity in that it transcends characteristics such as gender, class, age, sex, and so forth. (Antonaccio 2010: 33) The traditional concepts of Greek, Roman and various local cultures are used as elements to describe cultural groupings and cultural tendencies rather than static ethnicities. The presence of such artefacts or elements in any given context is not necessarily a sign of an ethnic affiliation, although it may be. It may also reflect specific (collective or individual) relations to cultural identity which can be shared and utilised regardless of ethnicity. Traditional studies of cultural diversity in classical antiquity have often relied on the dominating concepts of Hellenisation and Romanisation.3 This has often resulted in a top-down cultural-hierarchy model, leading to the assumption that the Greeks or Romans brought civilisation to local ‘barbarians’ of very low and crude cultural levels (Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 12). The model of code-switching offers an alternative means by which to perceive the processes of cultural complexity in that it allows for individuals encompassing multiple cultural identities simultaneously. If we accept the concept that ‘one identity does not exclude another’, it follows that a burial context with evidence of burial customs and objects from different cultural backgrounds can contain more complex identity expressions at various levels than a traditional simplistic interpretation of ‘Greek, Roman or local’ enables.4 Case study – The changing identities of Hellenistic and early Roman southern Italy: Funerary evidence from Canosa and Arpi The cultural landscape(s) of ancient Apulia (Figure 12.1) drew on a multitude of cultural influences. From the very beginning of the region’s contact with the wider world, the populations of the area comprised numerous local tribes, Greek colonisers, Illyrian neighbours and merchants from all over the Mediterranean who benefitted from the region’s excellent harbour facilities; later, close contacts with Macedonia, Epirus and the eastern Mediterranean, including Alexandria, brought both sophisticated intellectual and material impulses into the region. When Roman supremacy became a reality in the early third century BC, the region once again faced a new wave of cultural influences, this time in combination with a strong political agenda.5 While there were distinct local differences in the ways in which the various cities of the region were affected over time by the many cultural influences (such as the Greek colony of Taras, which kept a distinctly ‘Greek’ outlook in its burial customs, versus native Canosa, where local customs of old mixed with influences from Hellenistic trendsetters), there can be no doubt that this region, the gateway to the East, was a cultural melting pot, at least from the late fourth century BC onwards. Here, people from all over the Mediterranean world settled, married, traded, fought, negotiated and cultivated social and political contacts. The skills to navigate such diverse cultural waters would have been essential for anyone of a higher social status and with ambitions to match. Such skills would encompass

240  Jane Hjarl Petersen

Figure 12.1  Map of Apulia (reproduced from Carpenter, Lynch and Robinson 2014).

not only the ability to master several languages but also, and equally important, the ability to fit into a specific social context and master the culture-specific behavioural patterns of such a specific situation. Thus, the successful individual would need to be adept in the art of social adaptation and cultural readjustment. The multilinguistic aspect of this situation is amply attested in the epigraphic and literary sources relating to the region (Lomas 1993: 174–184; Yntema 2006; 2013: 237). While the linguistic characteristics of this culturally complex region constitute an important element in our assessment of its cultural constructions, the material evidence represents another major factor. The region’s rich archaeological heritage has led to an abundance of material for research, albeit also to extensive looting activities (Cassano and Corrente 1992: 145; Mazzei et al. 1995: 11–15; Yntema 2013: 4). This is indeed the case for the locations which this chapter considers, Canosa and Arpi. Both cities played prominent roles in the ancient region known as Daunia, and Canosa, ancient Canusium, was the chief city of the region (Pliny Natural History 3.104). While retaining a strong local Daunian identity, Canosa also had strong and influential contacts with the Greek world, as we shall see later, and became a Roman ally in 318 BC. The city revolted against the Romans during the Social War but became a municipium after 89 BC. It was situated on the later Via Traiana and was renowned for its wool production, as described by numerous ancient sources.6

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  241 Arpi (Argos Hippion or Argyrippa) shared a similar situation, especially during the Hellenistic period, perhaps as a consequence of a treaty made with Rome in 326 BC (Livy 9.13). During the second century BC, it went into decline, possibly as a reaction to the loss of its port when the Romans founded Sipontum in 194 BC. The necropolis areas of the two cities have yielded an impressive number of tombs and especially extensive are the burial areas of Canosa dating from the late fourth century BC onwards. A feature that seems to be a local peculiarity is the spatial design of the necropoleis in relation to the habitation areas; unlike the vast majority of contemporary Greek and later Roman necropoleis, there does not seem to have been a clear distinction between areas of habitation and areas designated for burial. Urban structures and tombs were thus integrated into the overall plan of the settlement’s spatial design, implying a very different attitude towards aspects of impurity and stigmas of disposal and death (Cassano and Corrente 1992: 146–148).7 The architectural features of the grander tombs, the so-called hypogea, are mainly well preserved and can be studied in detail thanks to the preservation programme of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici della Puglia. However, the deposits of grave goods, of the hypogea in particular, are much harder to pin down. Many of the hypogea were discovered and crudely excavated by landowners in the nineteenth century, while others have been looted, and their contents have been dispersed to both private collections and the major museums of Europe and the USA (Cassano and Corrente 1992: 145). The highly valuable collection of synopses of the Canosan hypogea edited by Raffaella Cassano (1992a, 1992b) highlights the problematic nature of much of the information on the tombs which derives from very superficial accounts of archival material. This stems from archival reports of the earliest discoveries of the tombs and at times objects are only mentioned in passing or described in very general terms, making a proper classification or even identification impossible. However, these obstacles should not deter an attempt to assess the tombs and their patrons. While the circumstances do not permit a detailed analysis of each tomb complex, the following study will pick out various elements from different tombs and carefully piece them together in order to create a fuller picture of the cultural situation of the tombs of Canosa and Arpi during the late fourth to the first century BC. The hypogea are probably the most striking feature and certainly the most common central focus of discussions of the burial culture of ancient Canosa. The hypogeum-type tomb is well represented in Apulia and many variations of the type can be seen throughout the region (Steingräber 2000: 89–93; Yntema 2013: 199–204). The basic elements of a hypogeum complex comprise a dromos, a vestibule and one or more (at Canosa up to nine!) underground chambers of rectangular design. The hypogea of Canosa are characterised by being cut out of the bedrock, while hypogea built from cut stone blocks are found in locations such as Arpi (Steingräber 2000: 89; 2014; also Mazzei et al. 1995). Another important feature is the architectural décor of both exterior and interior, which often features elaborate architectural designs based on Greek Doric and Ionic elements (Figure 12.2), alongside rock-cut klinai, benches and footstools (Steingräber 2000: 89). While it is suggested that the early hypogea of the Campanian area were influenced by Etruscan predecessors,

242  Jane Hjarl Petersen

Figure 12.2  Ipogei Lagrasta I (Wikimedia Commons).

the Archaic hypogea of Apulia stem from ancient Taras (Taranto) but have no obvious Italic models; they seem rather to have been influenced by chamber tombs of the Greek homeland. However, the later Hellenistic hypogea of Apulia, notably those of Canosa and Arpi, have been observed to have close structural and stylistic connections to northern Greece and Macedonia, and also to Asia Minor and perhaps Alexandria (Steingräber 2000: 61–77, 91–92; 2014). A peculiar feature of the hypogea is the figural capitals of some columns, such as those from the Ipogeo della Medusa at Arpi and from a sacral context at Canosa, the temple at San Leucio (Dally 2000; Steingräber 2000: 20). These capitals seem to be regionally connected to Apulia and Campania in terms of their origin, and their popularity in the Hellenistic period spreads as far as Etruria (Steingräber 2000: 20–24 with references). Taras is suggested as the major production centre of these capitals, but the northern Apulian examples are not of Tarantine manufacture; according to Stephan Steingräber, they feature local characteristics and were thus produced locally (2000: 24). Some hypogea feature elaborate wall paintings depicting mourning women in procession, riders, warriors, birds and animals, and even a scene featuring Cerberus.8 A highly interesting pinax from the Ipogeo della Medusa at Arpi

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  243

Figure 12.3 Terracotta statuette of a mourning woman, height 97 cm, reportedly from Canosa (Courtesy of the National Museum of Denmark).

(Figure 12.5) depicts a horseman and a togatus in an intriguing scene to which we shall return later (on the pinax, see De Simone 1995: 211–212; Mazzei et al. 1995: 112–113; Steingräber 2000: 28–33; Colivicchi 2011: 123–124). The motif of female mourners depicted in the wall paintings is a theme that is mirrored in freestanding terracotta statues, busts and vase appliques found in the grave-good assemblages (Figure 12.3). The iconography of these so-called orantes is fairly standardised; they feature himation-clad women often depicted with their hands raised in what has been interpreted as a gesture of grief and mourning or prayer. In total, some 50 freestanding terracotta statues,9 some up to 1 m in height, are known from a very constricted area around Canosa, where they seem to have been a local speciality (Dodson and Jeammet 2014: 19). Minor versions are known as statuettes and appliques on the local polychrome pottery of Canosa, and these examples are broadly dated to the Hellenistic period or the third to second century BC, contemporary with the polychrome pottery production (Jeammet 2003: 256; Colivicchi 2011: 117). The statues are all connected to tomb contexts, but our knowledge of their specific function in the funerary sphere is very limited as the vast majority is found in museum collections without detailed information on original contexts

244  Jane Hjarl Petersen and find situations.10 It has been suggested that the larger statues, which frequently display pierced holes in the lower areas of their garments, were fixed to some kind of platform on which they would have been carried in funerary processions (Dodson and Jeammet 2014: 19). Their subsequent deposition in the tomb could point to an understanding of these statues as embodiments of real-life female mourners partaking in the funeral rituals and thus symbolically prolonging the proximity of mourning relatives to the deceased beyond the grave and into the afterlife. While studies of the production techniques and painting methods applied to the terracotta mourning figures point to strong inspiration from Hellenistic Greek production centres such as Tanagra and, closer, Taras, the statues themselves are a decidedly local phenomenon, as is their role in the funerary rites and tomb cult of the local indigenous elite population of Canosa (Jeammet 2003: 279). The strong focus on these draped females in various media – wall paintings, statues and pottery – points to an active and central role of women in the funerary sphere, and a quote by Livy has led to the suggestion of a well-established local tradition for the women of Canosan elite society to hold wealth and influence. Livy tells the following story about Roman troops who managed to escape imprisonment by Hannibal: Those who escaped to Canusium were aided by an Apulian woman of birth and fortune named Busa. The townspeople had merely afforded them the protection of the walls and shelter, but she provided them with corn, clothing, and money for the way, in return for which munificence she was afterwards, on the conclusion of the war, voted honours by the Senate. (Livy 22.52) A further take on the story is provided by Valerius Maximus who claims that the woman supplied about 10,000 Romans with food without putting her fortune at risk (4.8.2). An interesting element to the story is the fact that Busa supplied the men with clothing. The grave-good assemblages contain examples of spinning implements as well as the remains of textiles and gold thread (e.g. from Ipogeo Lagrasta I, chambers 3, 5 and 6; Cassano 1992a); and, as already mentioned, Canosa was famed for its production of fine-quality wool (Volpe 1990: 72–75, 77, 268–270). Furthermore, it might be suggested that the prominent geometric decorative schemes of the local Listata ware could have close links to the designs and patterns of woven textiles.11 As to the wealth of these elite women, there is certainly no shortage of elaborate gold and silver jewellery and female accessories in the grave-good assemblages of the hypogea,12 although it is not certain these pieces of jewellery necessarily indicate female burial. Furthermore, it is likely that there would have been much more jewellery in the tombs pre-plundering; such objects would, of course, be particularly desirable to looters. Another luxury class of grave goods comprises the many imported alabastron made of alabaster,13 which most likely served as containers for perfumed oils and perhaps other types of cosmetics. While we can only speculate on the precise role and status of elite women in Canosan society, these scraps of evidence are certainly intriguing, even in their

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  245 fragmentary state, as they point to a prominent class of influential women who played a vital role in the sphere of elite society – both living and dead. While local indigenous traditions are reflected in the terracotta statues, other iconographic elements, traditionally labelled ‘Greek’, also have a prominent place in the burial assemblages. Smaller terracottas often depict Greek myths such as Ganymede,14 whose story, with its abduction theme, could have been central to an understanding of death as an abductor who steals loved ones (for a better fate in the afterlife?). The Greek Medusa iconography, so popular on Canosan polychrome ware and as architectural decoration on tomb facades (e.g. Ipogeo della Medusa at Arpi), is probably another feature with a Greek origin that has been adapted into media of a distinctively local character (e.g. the local polychrome ware and the hypogea). The apotropaic qualities of the Medusa head and its ability to serve as a tomb guardian make the gorgoneion an obvious choice for protection in the liminal space between the world of the living and the world of the dead which the tomb represents. It is highly interesting to observe that polychrome ware draws heavily on themes from Greek mythology in combination with local Daunian elements such as the orantes and the rider/warrior figures, which feature prominently both as painted versions on the vases and as plastic decorations for which polychrome ware is so well known.15 In general, the local polychrome ware displays inspiration from both Greek Hellenistic painted terracottas and a Greek iconographical repertoire, in combination with a very strong local tradition in terms of the shapes (olla, askos) and overall designs of the pottery. The large sizes of the vessels as well as the fragile nature of the applique technique and the tempera painting naturally speak against everyday use and underline their place in the funerary context. Fabio Colivicchi (2011: 114) highlights the preference for eschatological themes borrowed from Greek mythology in the pottery iconography, the terracottas and the wall paintings from the tombs (e.g. Ganymede, the Niobids and Cerberos/Hermes). The motivation for this is explained in terms of influence from Taras and other Italic poleis as well as strong ties with the ruling classes of Macedon and Epirus. This is indeed a plausible conclusion and it sits well with the observations of Steingräber and others regarding the inspiration for the architectural development and peculiarities detailed above. In addition, however, the strong local features of the mourning women and the riders/warriors and the distinctively local shapes of the pottery point to a strong indigenous agency in the adaption of specific elements from surrounding Greek/Macedonian culture and mythology. The fourth century BC saw the manufacture of grand Apulian red-figure vessels depicting scenes of Athenian tragedy and Greek myths specifically for the elite tombs and perhaps with a pre burial function as ‘illustrations’ for funerary orations; these vessels reflect a well-established local familiarity with details of the myths presented by the Greek tragedians (Giuliani 1996; Carpenter 2009, 2014). There seems to be evidence here to suggest that this adaption or ‘borrowing’ was modified and perhaps reformulated into a more restricted circle of motifs by the Canosan elite in the third and second centuries BC. As Colivicchi (2011: 118–119) has convincingly demonstrated, this more distinctive local take on things can also be recognised in the Listata C pottery

246  Jane Hjarl Petersen which emerged during the third and second centuries BC. Here, old traditional shapes were redesigned (e.g. the askos was redesigned with two or three mouths) and decorated with local geometric patterns; these, on the one hand, are a testimony to ‘the olden days’ – a distant past – and, on the other, also incorporate contemporary patterns and designs of Hellenistic pottery such as floral garlands, etc. (De Juliis 1977; 1992d; Curti 2005: 7–9). The Listata C group also encompasses local variants of large thymiateria, double situlae and kernoi in this distinctive geometric style as well as more traditional ‘Greek’ shapes such as amphoriskoi, kraters and stamnoi (Curti 2005: 8). The Listata C ware thus encompasses strong elements of diverse cultural origins and points to a very specific local use pattern and conspicuous consumption – Colivicchi suggests that the situla, askos and thymiaterion may have constituted a ‘ritual set’ (2011: 119) – by well-established local elite patrons.16 The taste of this elite also included elaborate weaponry and other warfare equipment, horse equipment and wine amphorae of Greek origin,17 vast amounts of banqueting ceramics, black-glossed and other typical Hellenistic wares (often jugs, plates, lekanai, bowls and cups of various shapes) and ivory appliques for furniture decoration as well as luxury imports of glass vessels from the eastern Mediterranean area (Figure 12.4).18 Furthermore, the ceramic assemblages always include local ceramics of various non-decorated or banded types and often distinctively local shapes, such as the olla, situla and vessels of the so-called kantharoid shape. Recently, Colivicchi (2014: 216–217, 232–233) has made a convincing case for a well-established pre-Greek wine tradition in southern Italy, and the frequent presence of these ‘simple’ wares and distinctive shapes could point to an indigenous

Figure 12.4 Grave-good assemblage from Ipogeo 5 di Via Settembrini, Canosa (reproduced with permission from Corrente 2003: figure 74).

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  247 wine-consuming practice which was preserved and practised alongside the ‘Greek’ banquet tradition. The strong emphasis on warrior and horseman identities is mirrored in various media, including actual weaponry and elaborate horse equipment deposited in the burials as well as iconographical representations on pottery and in wall paintings.19 There can be no doubt that this aspect of the local indigenous male identity played a vital role in the self-understanding of the Daunian elite as fierce warriors and fine horsemen.20 The sheer size of the grave-good assemblages, some encompassing hundreds of catalogue entries, as well as the exotic and luxurious nature of many of the objects, has prompted Douwe Yntema to describe the Canosan hypogea as ‘oozing opulence and power’ (2013: 203). These tomb complexes are clearly incredibly strong manifestations of an elite who not only created an identity from contemporary local as well as Greek and Italiot environments but also had strong ties and identifications with the politically important and culturally advanced trendsetters of the northern Greek and eastern Mediterranean worlds. The eastern Mediterranean links are established not only through luxury imports and the consumption of Greek wine from eastern Mediterranean localities but also from the epigraphic evidence of proxeny inscriptions mentioning Apulian noblemen (Colivicchi 2011: 120–121; Yntema 2013: 240–241). During the second and first centuries BC, another influence made its presence felt in the Daunian tombs, albeit on a very subdued scale, namely the Romans. At Arpi, the Ipogeo della Medusa features the pinax mentioned earlier. It is an intriguing painting with an equally intriguing inscription (Figure 12.5). The scene depicts two figures. At the front right, a male stands dressed in a toga and boots with a

Figure 12.5 Arpi pinax, drawing (reproduced with permission from Steingräber 2000: Taf. 61, 1).

248  Jane Hjarl Petersen scroll in his hands. To the left behind him, a warrior equipped with a helmet and shield is holding a horse.21 Above the scene, an inscription reads Artos pinave – ‘Artos painted’. While the name Artos shows Greek influence, the verb pinave is Messapic (De Simone 1995; Adams 2003: 150). Here is a clear example indeed of a code-switch between two different languages within the same sentence. But it could be argued that the visual part of the pinax also shows diverse cultural affiliations and perhaps a code-switch; the values of the traditional local warrior and horseman are combined with the values of Roman urban administration and learning.22 Perhaps we even see the same person represented twice: as a young man in his warrior attire and, at a later stage in life, retired to administrative civic life. In terms of code-switching, the pinax gives a very precise picture of a culturally complex situation in which various identities could be at play simultaneously to constitute a coherent representation of a person in various social constellations. The ability to switch between culturally diverse identities in order to attain specific social, political or economic goals might be presented to us in this pinax as an indicator of a Roman presence that not only was felt but was also an integrated part of local elite life in second century BC Arpi. A similar interpretation has been proposed for a marble statue, ‘draped as a senator’, reportedly found in the Ipogeo Lagrasta II, chamber 1, but lost already in the nineteenth century (Cassano 1992a: 204–205; Colivicchi 2011: 125). The appearance and date of this ‘senator’ statue is, of course, impossible to ascertain from such superficial information. However, more precise evidence of Roman influence can be seen in the Ipogeo Lagrasta I, chamber 1. The tomb contains two inscriptions,23 one of which is dated to 67 BC: Medella Dasm(i) f(ilia) Sita an(te) d(iem) III K(alendas) Ianu(arias) C. Pisone M´. Acilio co(n)s(ulibus) While previous funerals in the Lagrasta complex involved burial, Medella was cremated and her remains were placed in an urn, much in keeping with contemporary Roman practice. It is, however, highly interesting that this very ‘Roman’-looking interment, with its Latin inscription, was placed in a tomb complex which was so deeply rooted in the local history of the indigenous elite and its relations with the Macedonian and eastern Greek worlds – Medella and her father, Dasmus (the Latin version of the Messapic name Daz), must have had strong incentives, such as close family ties with this elite, to choose interment in this specific complex. It should, of course, be no surprise to encounter Roman names and Latin inscriptions after Canosa became a municipium in 89 BC, but this statement of obvious adherence to Roman naming practice, a Messapic name for the father and a Roman-style cremation, all embedded in a local Daunian tomb complex with deep respect for earlier burials and the original architectural layout, is an excellent example of the culturally complex reality of the Canosan elite in the first century BC. This was a reality in which identities were actively and constantly negotiated and shaped according to cultural context and social goals; it was one in which adherence to various cultural

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  249 backgrounds could be brought to the fore and where the connection with the past played a vital role in a new world order under Roman rule.24 So what can we gain from the identity statements expressed through the funerary material from Canosa and Arpi? While we may rightfully hold reservations as to whether individual archaeological contexts which are heavily plundered can provide us with a firm foundation for assessing identities through the theoretical framework of code-switching, there are still important general observations to be made. The burial assemblages have yielded information on a group of highly visible and probably quite influential elite women, whose identities were displayed through various media such as terracotta statues, wall paintings, jewellery and textiles. In general, the tombs put on an impressive display of wealth and power, not just in terms of the economic ability required to acquire the luxurious and exotic grave objects, but also in terms of their acquisition through diplomatic ties via local, regional and supra-regional elite networks, and in terms of them representing the ability to form and maintain these networks through shifting political and social circumstances. The political landscapes of ancient Apulia in this period have been described as ever-changing and narrowly centred on local affairs, and it has been suggested that this could have been a central factor in the region’s failure to resist a Roman takeover (Herring 2014: 32–33). The members of the local Daunian elite were active agents – they were not passive subjects awestruck by civilised manners and luxury objects. They built sophisticated and impressive funerary architecture by utilising the best techniques and materials; they made intellectually conscious choices concerning religious imagery and iconography by reformulating various cultural impulses to fit a specific local agenda; they switched between various cultural identities in order to navigate and negotiate their way through politics and trade; they looked back at older symbols and motifs whilst reformulating them in new contexts and statements of identity. Furthermore, they held on to tradition in their long-term use of (family?) tombs and commemoration over centuries; they were part of a Mediterranean elite culture which enabled contact with the wider world beyond Apulia and Magna Graecia; they maintained a local pride and identity in horsemanship and warfare whilst simultaneously taking an active part in the urban civic life of the new Roman administration.25 In many ways, the picture that emerges from the Daunian hypogea depicts a narrative of local, regional and supra-regional/Mediterranean identities simultaneously at play and concurrently negotiated. The patrons of these tombs were successful individuals who were proficient in the arts of social adaption, cultural readjustment and code-switching. Notes 1 I am very grateful to Stephan Steingräber for permitting me to reproduce his drawing of the Arpi pinax (Figure 5) and for kindly sending me a copy of his most recent article on the Ipogeo della Medusa. I am also very grateful to Edward Herring for kindly and promptly sending me a copy of his most recent article on Hellenistic Puglia. 2 Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 27–28. Code-switching has its roots in an empirically and theoretically based linguistic model used to explore diverse coexisting cultural systems.

250  Jane Hjarl Petersen Traditionally, it has been defined as ‘an individual’s use of two or more language varieties in the same speech event or exchange’ (Woolard 2004: 73–74; Myers-Scotton 2011: 159; see also Nilep 2006 for an introduction to the many and varied sub-fields within linguistics and related disciplines working with code-switching and the various definitions of the term). Within the field of linguistic anthropology, there is general agreement that code-switching is ‘skilled communicative behaviour that can be socially meaningful and can help accomplish interactional functions or goals’ (Woolard 2004: 74–75). Code-switching rejects the traditional belief in cultural superiority and hierarchy and focuses instead on the set of choices and practices by which a group constructs, interprets and reproduces its own identity whilst in simultaneous coexistence with diverse cultural systems (Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 63–64). Thus, in practice, the term ‘code-switching’ refers to the ability to use knowledge of two or more languages or cultures and to switch between them to best communicate a message depending on the situation. Within the field of classical studies, scholars such as James N. Adams (2003: 754–757) convincingly demonstrate that individuals of, for instance, the late Republican period negotiated multiple identities by code-switching between Latin, Greek and Oscan. 3 According to these concepts, Greek and the later Roman cultures were superior to local cultures, and, acknowledging this cultural superiority, local populations were willing to become Hellenised or Romanised. Consequently, Hellenisation and Romanisation, and similar concepts, are asymmetrical acculturation processes in which one culture develops under the influence of a superior culture, resulting in greater homogeneity (Kroeber 1938). 4 However, along these lines, it is fruitful to keep in mind Joseph Skinner’s remark (2012: 152): ‘This is not to say that the populations in question did not encounter cultural difference but rather that it is unlikely to have equated to a neat Greek-barbarian polarity’. 5 An excellent introduction to the region has recently been published by Alistair Small (2014). 6 For sources on wool production and textile manufacture, see Volpe 1990: 268–270. 7 For a through survey and presentation of tomb types, see Cassano and Corrente 1992; for a wider geographical survey of Apulian tomb types during the Hellenistic period, see Steingräber 2000: 88–109. 8 Examples of such motifs can be found in the following hypogea: Ipogeo sant’Aloia (mourning women in procession; De Juliis 1992a), Ipogeo del Cerbero (mourning women in procession, riders and warriors, and Cerberos; De Juliis 1992b); Ipogei Lagrasta (birds and animals; Cassano 1992a). 9 For a comprehensive catalogue, see Jeammet 2003. 10 There are, however, reports of terracotta statues having been found in the following hypogea: Tomba degli Ori, Ipogeo Barbarossa and Ipogeo Lagrasta I (Colivicchi 2011: 117 with references). A terracotta statue was allegedly found placed in a niche of the façade of the Ipogeo Lagrasta I (Cassano 1992a: 204). 11 This theory has been put forward in connection with Greek geometric pottery. For a survey of this topic, with ample references, see, for instance, Donohue 2005: 76–79. 12 Elaborate jewellery and female accessories are, for instance, reported from Ipogeo Barbarossa (Mazzei 1992), Ipogeo Lagrasta I (Cassano 1992a) and, famously, La Tomba degli Ori (De Juliis 1985; Corrente 1992). 13 For example, from Ipogeo Barbarossa (Mazzei 1992), Ipogeo Lagrasta I and II (Cassano 1992a) and Ipogeo di Via Mercadante (Cassano 1992b: 403-17). The gender affiliation of the alabstra is tentative as they could have been used for both genders during the prefuneral anointment of the body. 14 For example, the Ipogeo di Ganimede at Arpi (Mazzei et al. 1995). 15 See, for instance, the polychrome pottery from Ipogeo Scocchera B (De Juliis 1992c: 233) and the highly detailed polychrome vase reliefs now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (accession nos. 12.236.4; 12.232.10; 12.235.5; 12.236.4; 12.236.5:

Assessing identities in culturally diverse archaeological contexts  251 http://metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/248735, accessed December 2014). 16 Examples of Listata ware were initially conceived as being ‘poor men’s vessels’, but this perception has long been rejected as the find contexts of the ware encompass both the elaborately equipped hypogea and more modestly equipped graves (Curti 2005: 10). 17 Such as many of the amphorae found in the vestibule of the Tomba della Anfora at Arpi (Mazzei et al. 1995: 158–61; Volpe 1995: 231–240). 18 For example, in the Ipogeo Lagrasta I and II (Cassano 1992a), Ipogeo Barbarossa (Mazzei 1992) and Tomba degli Ori (Corrente 1992). See also Colivicchi 1999. 19 For example, from Ipogeo Lagrasta II, chamber 3 (Cassano 1992a), Ipogeo di Via Mercadante (Cassano 1992b: 403–417), La Tomba degli Ori (Corrente 1992), Ipogeo dell´Oplita, fourth century BC (Labellarte 1992), Ipogeo Scocchera A (De Juliis 1992e), Ipogeo Socchera B (De Juliis 1992c) and Ipogeo del Cerbero (De Juliis 1992b). From Arpi: Ipogeo della Medusa, Ipogeo di Ganimede and Ipogeo delle Anfore (Mazzei et al. 1995). See also Colivicchi 2009; 2011 on the conservatism that these deposits of weapons represent. 20 Weaponry and horse equipment are distinctively absent from the burial record of Taras for the same periods (Graepler 1997; Hempel 2001: 67; Hoffmann 2002). 21 The second, lightly sketched horse is not actually present on the pinax (Steingräber 2000: Taf. 61, 1). 22 Colivicchi (2011: 125) sees the ideal of Roman urbanitas reflected in the recurring deposits of styli, knucklebones, gaming pieces and coins during the second century BC. 23 The second inscription is no longer legible but was reported as: C. Er[—]; this may refer to the name Herennius which is attested in other inscriptions from Canosa (Cassano 1992a: 215). 24 Similar observations have been made by Lomas (2013) in a study of funerary monuments from Naples and other southern Italian localities from the same period. 25 A similar interpretation has been put forward by Yntema in his 2009 article on plural identity in a grave complex from Mesagne.

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Index

Note: - Page references in italics denote figures and with “n” endnotes. abbreviation ΔΗ (demosion) 219 Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 89 Adroher Auroux, Andrés María, 73 agriculture/agricultural: products 37–39, 71, 77; and religion 78; in West 76–77 Akeratos, son of Phrasierides 97 Aldovesta (Tarragona) 38 Alonis (Massiliot town) 7, 94, 132n1, 136 Amazonomachy 166, 169n11 amphorae/amphora 39, 105; Andalusian-type 38; Attic 141; of Cerro del Prado (Carteia, Cadiz) 38; Corinthian 140, 151; Emporion 52; Greek 25–26, 40, 42, 44–45, 140, 144, 146, 246; Iberian 26–27, 96; IonianMassaliote 25; from Magna Graecia 40; Nikosthenian 45; Nikosthenic 161; Phoenician 37–38, 40, 45n2; pitchless 39; SOS-type 140; of Toscanos (Málaga) 38; Tyrrhenian 146, 161 anchorage 95–96, 103; Ancient 96; of La Caldera 99; at Les Marines 99; natural 96; and Roman period 106 antiquity 72, 103; classical 239; grain cultivation in 207; Phokaian trade network in 78; piracy in 178; saleable ballast 160 Antonaccio, Carla 238 apoikiai 1–2, 5, 9, 45 Apollonius of Rhodes 97 Appian 99, 189n23 Apulia 11, 181, 185, 239, 240, 241–242, 244–245, 249 Apulian piracy 181, 185

Aranegui Gascó, Carmen 93, 128, 132n2 Aratus 95 archaeological contexts 237–249 archaeological evidence 7, 96, 110, 122, 177, 181 archaeology 25, 39, 41, 131, 136, 141, 145; Classical 82n13; Spanish 149 archaizing fashion 163 arché as place-hierarchy 205–206 Arganthonios, king of Tartessos 3, 21–22, 58 Argonauts 21–22 Aristophanes 39 Aristotle 19, 211n45 Arpi 239–249, 247 Arpi pinax 247, 249n1 Artemidorus 93–95 Artemis of Ephesus 94 Artos pinave 248 Asclepiades of Myrleia 95, 110 asebeia 76, 202 Athena, Goddess 6 Athenian Agora 162–163 Athenian craftsmen 161 Athenian cultural artefact 161 Athenian cultural creation 161 Athenian iconography 167 Athenian pots 161 Athenian potters/painters 160–168; athletic scenes 163–166; case study 162–168; and Greek pottery 160–162; ‘princely tomb’ from Piquía 166–168; tomb 43 from Baza 166, 166–168; tomb 176 from Baza (Granada) 162, 162–163 Athenian social and cultural attitudes 160

256 Index Athenian topography/mythology 161 Athenian vases 160–162 Athenian woman 161 Athenian workshops 168 athletic scenes 163–166 Attic lekythos 26 Attic pottery 26, 40, 43, 107; Black Figure pottery 8, 105, 108; Black Glaze pottery 44, 92, 93, 103, 105; and Euboean Middle Geometric II pottery 137; with graffito in GrecoIberian 108; of Middle Geometric II 43 Aubet Semmler, M. E. 141 Augustan/Julio-Claudian period 219 Avienus, Rufus Festus 8, 22, 28, 88, 107 Bajo de la Campana (Murcia) wreck 35–36, 40–41 BAPDN (Beazley Archive Pottery Database Number) 165, 167, 168n6 Barbary pirates 131 Bats, Michel 128 Battle of Alalia 181 Battle of Himera 205 Battle of Lade 180, 181 Bay of Altea 103 Bay of Benidorm 103 Bay of Málaga 137, 140; Greeks and 136–154; late archaic horizon in 146–151; and problem of Mainake 146–151 Bay of Naples 177–178, 228–229 Bay of Portitxol 101, 101 Beazley, John 160, 165, 169n9 bell krater 163, 164, 165–166 bipolarity 237 bipolis 5, 70, 75, 81 Bispham, Ed 188 Black Glaze pottery 110 Black-Thyrsus Painter 9, 153, 163 Boardman, John 18 Bresson, Alain 178 Bronze Age 89, 98 Brulé, Pierre 9 burials 11, 71; Canosa and Arpi 11; Indigenous cremation 4; practice 5 Cala Sant Vicenç wreck 26–28, 40, 41 Camillus, Marcus Furius 179, 189n23 Canosa 239–249 Carcopino, Jérôme 111 Carneiro, Robert 186 Carpenter, Rhys 89

Carthaginian oligarchy 154 Carthaginians 111, 129, 149 Cassano, Raffaella 241 Castulo Cup 8, 44, 92, 152 Caven, Brian 190n43, 198–199, 205, 206, 209n10 Celts 1, 95 central Mediterranean 176, 177–182, 185–188; in Archaic 182; in Classical periods 182; inhabitants of 187; piracy in 177–182, 185–188 Cerro del Castillo 91 Cerro del Villar 136, 140–142, 141, 144 Chalcidian cups 26 Cicero 99, 180, 190n35, 229, 232n31 Cilician pirates 93 Cios 21 cippi 224, 226 civic organisation 223–224 coastal abandonment 177 code-switching 9, 11, 237–239, 248–250n2, 2; concept of 237; linguistic model of 237; pinax in terms of 248; theoretical framework of 249 Coldstream, John Nicholas 137 Colivicchi, Fabio 245–246 communio opinis 70 Copenhagen Polis Centre 73 copper mines 37 Cordilleras Béticas 98 Corinthian amphora 92 Corinthian helm from Málaga 151 Corinthian Koehler A amphora 89, 147 Corinthian Koehler B amphora 147 Corinthian pottery 25 Cornelius Gemellus 223 cultural change in Hellenistic and Roman Magna Graecia 216–230 cultural diversity 9, 239 cultural exchanges 53, 58, 80; Greek and Iberian Peninsula 34; Greek vases 34 cultural geography 71, 75, 80, 199 cultural hierarchisation 237 cultural identities 11, 56, 216–217, 228–229, 230n6, 239, 249; and ethnicity 11, 238–239; of Roman Velian 229 cultural koine 59 cultural memory 10, 216–230; civic organisation 223–224; collective 217; defined 217; Hellenism in urban landscape 217–223; and language 224–227; nature in Magna Graecia 227–230; selective 217; and space 217–223; Velia 11

Index  257 Curchin, Leonard 107 Cypriot vessels 137 Cypselus 198 D’Alessio, Giambattista 94 De Angelis, Franco 202, 207 De Hoz Bravo, Javier 59, 64 De mirabilis auscultationibus 40 Democedes of Croton 28 demos 75 de-mythologization 164 de-mythologization process 163–164 de Souza, Philip 9, 185 Dio, Cassius 174 Diodorus Siculus 37, 94, 177, 179, 189n22, 190n41, 198, 206 Dionysius II of Syracuse 181, 185 Dionysius I of Syracuse 10, 183, 190n40, 198–209; and arché 204–208; arché as place-hierarchy 205–206, 206; food system 206–208; overview 198–200; as political community 201; and Sicilian tyranny 204–205; spatial turn 200; and Syracuse 200–203 Domergue, Claude 36–37 Domínguez, Adolfo J. 75 Dragon Tree 3 Early Iberian Period 132n4 early Roman southern Italy 239–249 Eastern Greek trade 147 Ebusitanian PE 11 101 Eckstein, Arthur 185 economic symbiosis 70–71 Elche 7, 125, 127–131 Elissa wreck 45n2 El Sec (Mallorca) wreck 34, 36, 40, 42 emporion 27–28, 44; based trade 36; defined 4; as entrepot 76–79; establishment of 53; as farming polis 76–79; Greeks and locals interaction 5; to Iberian Peninsula 4; and Iberian resources 77–78; merchants of 51–65; as polis 71, 73–76, 80–81; political organization of 5 emporitai 51, 53–55, 57–59, 71; Greeks 52, 64; and market town 58 Emporitans 70–71; gray monochrome pottery 53; importation of Greek goods 63 Empúries 4–5, 35, 36–38, 43, 44 entrepot: as economic phenomenon 80; emporion as 76–79;

‘emporion-type’ of settlement as 79–80 Ephesian Artemis 8, 57, 73, 88, 94, 111n1 epiteikhisma 128 epiteikhismata of Marseilles 123 Ethnica (Stephanus of Byzantium) 89 ethnicity/ies 82n15; and cultural identity 11, 238–239; material culture and language 72 Etruria 161–162, 179, 180, 187, 190n40; Hellenistic period 242; Iberian Peninsula in 168; importance of community in 182; tombs in 169n11 Etruscan bronze infundibulum 102 Etruscan pirates 181 Etruscans 1–2, 57, 78, 149, 169n8, 179–182, 186–187, 189n26, 189n27, 190n33, 190n35 Etruscan vessel 176 Euboean 18–20; commerce 18; defensive program 178, 191n60; Middle Geometric II pottery 137; movements 19; navigations 20; poleis 78, 140; sailors 19; skyphoi 140; Subprotogeometric III wares 137; voyages to the West 140; workshop 138–139, 139 Euboean Subprotogeometric III wares 137 eusebeia 76 Extremadura 37 Ezekiel 36–37 Fannius, Lucius 99 Ferrer, Eduardo 132n2 Filottrano painter 167 Francisco Fernández Nieto 93 fuel 78–79 Gabrielsen, Vincent 9 García y Bellido, Antonio 89 García y Bellido, M. P. 141 Garlan, Yvon 36 Gela shipwreck 26 Geography (Artemidorus) 94 geography of exchanges 40–41 geometric Greek pottery 137 geometric imports: at La Rebanadilla 137–140; significance of 137–140 German Archaeological Institute 2, 136 Geryoneis (Stesichorus of Himera) 2, 20 Giglio wreck 40 Gill, David 160 gold 3, 21, 37, 93, 208

258 Index graffiti 107, 108, 143 Gran Aymerich, Juan 149 Grau, Ignasi 128 grave-good assemblages 243–244, 246, 247 Great King Darius 28 Greco-Iberian script 7, 110 Greco-Oriental ceramics 143 Greek(s) 98, 122–131, 140; amphorae 40–41, 42–43, 44, 141; antiquity 72, 188n11, 201; and Bay of Málaga 136–154; civic identity 219; colonisers 239; colonization 51–52; commemorative customs 219; cult 222; culture 110, 223, 226, 227; funerary monuments 228; graffiti/ graffito 6, 24, 107, 143; heritage 110, 223, 227; history in West 1; honorific decrees 220; and Iberian Peninsula 33–45; iconographical repertoire 245; identity 57, 63–64, 71–73, 219–220; language 220, 226, 227; in Levant 88–111; material culture 8–9; mythology 169n8; polytheistic religion 201; presence in Iberian Peninsula 6–7; public epigraphy 228; sailors 3, 7, 20, 22, 106, 110–111; sculpture 122; settlements 122; toponyms 7, 106; vases 33, 35, 41–45, 161; vessels 137; in West 72–73 Greek ceramics 42, 52–53, 59, 63, 122, 138, 146, 149 Greek imports 7–9, 35, 41–42, 44, 55, 92, 143 Greek Mainake see Mainake Greek Medusa iconography 245 Greek merchants 4, 55–57, 64, 88, 107–110; of emporion 63; and indigenes 6; mobility 24; vessels 96 Greek pottery 4, 7, 24–25, 33, 42, 44, 53, 62–63, 110, 136, 160–162; found in Málaka 145; geometric 137 gymnasiarchos 223 Hall, Edith 55 Hall, Jonathan 72 Hannibal 106, 244 Hansen, Mogens Herman 4, 73, 75 Hecataeus of Miletus 27 Hellanicus of Lesbos 27 Hellene 55–56 Hellenic: associations and institutions 57; culture 57; identity 11, 51, 55–56; settlement in Italy 177; society 56; trade 60; trust network 189n28

Hellenisation 239, 250n3 Hellenism: and civic organisation 223–224; persistence/disappearance of 216; in urban landscape 217–223; at Velia 216–218, 218, 227 Hellenistic Magna Graecia 216–230; see also Magna Graecia Hemeroskopeion 88, 89, 136 Heracles 3, 19–22, 24–25; Cnidian alphabet 24; Doric dialect 24 Heraion of Samos 20 Hercules 2, 3, 6, 95 Herodotus 3, 12, 19–20, 23, 25, 28, 35, 97, 142 Hestia (Goddess of the Hearth) 6 Heurgon, Jacques 182, 186 Hiera Orgas 76 Hispania Graeca (Garcia y Bellido) 89 Homer 2, 20, 95, 98 honoris causa 220 Horden, Peregrine 80, 182 Huelva 6, 23–24, 33; Attic pottery 43; Greeks in 23–24 hypogea 241–242, 250n8; of Arpi 11; Canosan 247; Daunian 249; grave-good assemblages of 244 Iberia/Iberian 122–131; amphorae 26; fortifications 100; housing, Tossal de la Cala 104; pottery 54, 60, 62–64; sculpture 122, 131 Iberian Levant 1, 39, 57, 204, 209 Iberian Peninsula 94, 95, 122, 136, 137, 140, 142, 160–168; cultures of 2; emporion to 4; exchanges between Greek world and 33–45; geography of 33; Greek communities 33; Greek pottery 24–25, 33; Greek presence 6–7, 18–29; Greek ships 27; and Magna Graecia 41; metals 36–37; Phoenician (and Punic) communities 33; products transported to 25–26 identities: in culturally diverse archaeological contexts 237–249; of early Roman southern Italy 239–249; of Hellenistic 239–249 identity-of-place 71, 75–76 Iliad (Homer) 2 Illeta dels Banyets (El Campello) 98, 107, 107–108, 127 indigenous cremation burials 4 Indiketans 70–71, 75, 77, 81 Ingold, Tim 200

Index  259 institutions: civic 199, 203, 227; cultural 71; Hellenic 57; political 71, 200; religious 57, 71, 75; socio-political 75; socio-religious 70, 72, 200 Insula I 223 Insula II 220, 221, 222–223, 227, 228 intercommunity alliance 187 Ionian cups 8, 25–27, 143, 148, 150 Ionian Greeks 143 Ionian Revolt 181 Ipogei Lagrasta I 242 iron 37 Iron Age 110, 130 Johnston, Alan 161 Julius Naso, G. 219, 223, 227 kalathos 62, 62, 64 kantharoid shape 246 Kolaios of Samos 3, 19, 51, 142 La Alcudia 125, 128–130, 132n4 La Fonteta-Rabita (Guardamar del Segura, Alicante) 4, 35, 37, 42–43, 45 lampadedromia torch 165 La Picola (Santa Pola, Alicante) 7, 42, 45, 98, 122–131 La Rebanadilla 137; geometric imports at 137–140; Greek skyphoi of 139, 139 Las Marismas de Guadalmar 146–147; potteries from 148 late archaic horizon in Bay of Málaga 146–151 Late Bronze Age tradition of Málaga 137 Late Iberian period 103 Late Imperial period 101 Leighton, Robert 177 Levant: Greeks in 88–111; Iberian 1, 39, 57, 204, 209; northern 63; Spanish 41, 43 Lewis, Sian 161 linguistic analogy 238 Livy 4, 186, 189n24, 191n45, 244 London Dinos Group 146 Lynch, Kathleen 161 Magius, Lucius 99 Magna Graecia 10, 25–27, 41–40, 79; black glaze pottery from 26; communities of 207; cultural memory in 227–230; funerary case studies from 237–249; Greek cities of 27; Hellenistic 216–230; and Iberian Peninsula 41; Ionian cups from 26; nature of cultural memory

in 227–230; poleis of 182, 187; Roman 216–230; Western 10; wine amphorae in 40 Mainake 136; in ancient texts 149; late archaic horizon in Bay of Málaga 146–151 makrai nautilai 35 Malaka/Málaga 142, 144–146; Greek potteries found in 145; map of the bay and city of 138; Phoenician settlement at 8 Malkin, Irad 54 Marcianus of Heracleia 94 Marcus Sempronius Hymnus 105 Marcus Sempronius Reburrus 105 Marina Alta 98 market town 52, 58 Marseilles 41, 43, 45 Mas Castellar de Pontós 53–54 Massaliots 41, 110 Massiliots 6, 41, 89 Massiliot towns 88 Maximus, Valerius 244 Mazarrón 2 shipwreck 37 McKechnie, Paul 181 Melkart (God) 19, 21 merchants of emporion 51–65 metals 36–37 metalworking furnaces 105, 106 Metzger, Henri 163 Michetti, Laura 178 Middle Geometric II (Attic pottery) 43 Middle Ground 7, 168n4 Miller, Martin 93 Mithridates VI, King of Pontus 94, 99 Montgó 92–93, 98, 99, 110 Moratalla Jávega, Jesús 128, 130 Morel, Jean-Paul 34, 222 Morro de Mezquitilla 136 Morro de Toix 103 municipium 105 myth/mythology: about Heracles 20; Archaic period 22; of Chronos and Briareus 19; in Far West 3; of Geryon 2–3, 20, 22; Greek 169n8, 180, 245; Heraclean 22 National Archaeological Museum in Madrid 164 neapolis 55 necropolis of El Molar 132n5 Neithos (indigenous deity) 6 Nikosthenic amphorae 161

260 Index non-Latin languages 226 “non-pirates” 175 Odyssey (Homer) 2 Oenomaos Painter 166 Oikonomika 202 oikoumene 9, 23, 56 Oinomaos Painter 167 Olympic games 228 On the Ocean (Posidonius) 95 Ora Maritima (Avienus) 22, 28–29 orantes 243 Osborne, Robin 72–73, 80, 182 Ouliades 221, 231n15 Palacio de Buenavista 145–147, 153 Palaeohispanic languages 122 Palaiapolis of Emporion 125 palaiopolis 4, 52, 55 Palma Mallorca 40 Pan-Hellenic identity 56 Parker, Robert 201 Paton, William 184 Pausanias 177, 188n16 Pech Maho 6, 11, 25, 36, 56, 78 Peisistratids of Athens 198 Peloponnesian War 176 Pena Gimeno, María José 93 Peñón d’Ifach (Calpe) 89, 91, 100 Pérez Vilatela, Luciano 93 Periander of Corinth 198 periploi or Coastal Pilots 22–23, 95 periplous 95 Perizoma group 161 ‘phantoms’ 93 Philostratus 2–3 Phocaean colonies 94 Phocaean commerce, expansion of 142–143 Phocaeans 3–4, 19–20, 110, 149; adventurous spirit 58; Iberian Peninsula 43–44; from Massilia 92; as primum mobile 51; relationship with Iberians 55 Phoenician amphorae 37–40, 45n2 Phoenician ceramics 137 Phoenician colonization 137 Phoenician merchants 106 Phoenicians 18–19, 23, 33, 98, 137; in Cyprus 140; exchange of lead and silver anchors 37; fishing activities 38 Phoenician West: Cerro del Villar 140–142, 144; geometric imports at La Rebanadilla 137–140; late archaic horizon in Bay of Málaga 146–151;

Mainake problem 146–151; Málaka 144–146; new business partners 140; Phocaean commerce, expansion of 142–143; Phoenician Málaka 142; relationships and trade in 136–154; transformations of fifth/fourth centuries BC 151–154 Phokaian trade network 77 pholarchos 222–223, 228, 231n17 physikos 221 Picasso Museum 145 Pillars of Heracles 19 Pillars of Hercules 3, 95, 181 pinax 247, 248 piracy: in antiquity 178; Apulian 181, 185; in central Mediterranean 177–182, 185–188; dealing with 182–185; juxtaposition of 176; overview 174–176; in the West 9; and western Greek experience 174–188; of Western Mediterranean 10 Piraeus 96 pirates 10, 175, 189n18, 189n19, 189n24, 190n33; antiate 181; Barbary 131; Cilician 93; denoting 174; Etruscan 181; expeditions against 183; juxtaposition of 176; “non-pirates” 175; Tyrrhenian 177, 180; Xenophon admiring 176; and Zancle 177–178 place-identities 71, 75–76 Plainer Group 166, 168, 169n9 Plana-Mallart, Rosa 73 Planesia 88, 128 Plato 176 Pliny 94 Plumbaria 88 Plutarch 99 Pointe Léquin IA 26 poleis 70–71; of Asia Minor 143; development of 207; Euboean 78, 140; Greek 4; Greek Iberia 76 polis 5; defined 73–75; emporion as 73–76, 80–81; farming, emporion as 76–79; of Syracuse 205 Polybius 95, 97 Pomponius Mela 94 Ponte Lequin wreck 160 popular religion 82n21 Posidonius 4, 94–95 pottery: Attic see Attic pottery; Corinthian 25; Greek see Greek pottery; Iberian 54, 60, 62–64; from Las Marismas de Guadalmar 148; trade 160

Index  261 ‘princely tomb’ from Piquía 166–168 private enterprise 182 products of sea 37–39 Pseudo Scylax 40 Pseudo-Skymnos 110 Ps.-Skymnos 8 Puig de Sant Andreu (Ullastret) 52–54 Punic Amphora Building 39 Punic PE 11 amphora 102 Punta de Galera 103 Punta de Moraira 103 Purcell, Nicholas 80, 182 Quesada, Fernando 127–128 quintessentially Athenian iconographies 161 Ravenna Cosmography 98 Recio Ruiz, A. 149 relationships in Phoenician West 136–154 religion: and agriculture 78; Greek polytheistic 201; piety and ungodliness in 76; popular 82n21 religious: activity 73, 76; areas 25; innovation 200, 201, 210n37; institutions 57, 70–72, 75; matters 76; supervision of 75; symbol system 200; totality of 200 Revolt of Aristonicus 94 Rhodians 110, 178 Romanisation 239, 250n3 Roman Magna Graecia 216–230; see also Magna Graecia Roman municipium 103 Roman supremacy 239 Roman Theater of Málaga 145, 147, 152 Rudhardt, Jean 201 Ruiz de Arbulo, J. 129 Sala Sellés, F. 128, 130 Sardinians 140 Sardinian vessels 137 Sartori, Franco 223 Scheffer, Charlotte 168n5 Schulten, Adolf 136 Scylax of Karyanda 95 seaborne trade networks 78 The Sea Coast (Avienus) 88 Sea Peoples 180 Second Punic War 33, 63, 64, 111, 154, 167 Secunda, Iulia 111 Secundus, Iulius 111 Semple, Ellen 182 Sertorian war 100 shipwrecks 26–28, 35–37, 39, 41

Sicilian tyranny 199, 203, 204–205 Sicilian war 203 Sicily as Syracusan place-hierarchy 203 Sierra Morena 33, 37, 43 skyphoi 43 skyphos 139, 139 social mobility 182 socio-political developments 199 socio-religious elements 202 socio-religious institutions 70, 72, 200 Socrates 176 sombreros de copa 4, 63, 64 Sourisseau, Jean-Christophe 39 Spanish archaeology 149 Spanish Levant 41, 43 spatial logic 202 spatial turn 71 Steingräber, Stephan 242, 245, 249n1 Stephanus of Byzantium 89, 94, 107 Stesichorus of Himera 2, 20 Stissi, Vladimir 160 Strabo 2, 4–5, 7, 8, 37, 38–43, 64, 88–111, 122, 177–178, 180–181, 185, 188n16, 216, 229, 230n2, 232n32 Straits of Gibraltar 39 Suetonius 95 synoikismos 5, 76, 80 Syracuse: as civic place 200–202; demos of 204; and Dionysius I of Syracuse 200–203; as shared place 202–203, 204; Sicily as Syracusan placehierarchy 203 Tanit wreck 45n2 “Tartessian moray” 39 Tartessos 2–3; discovery of 19; silver 38 Tartessos Arganthonios 143 Tchernia, André 36 Temple of Asklepios 5, 73 Temple of Athena at Odysseia 110 Temple of Hera 3 temple-robbers 176, 188n11 Tendero Porras, Mercedes 129–130 territorial waters 178 theatres of memory 218 Theocritus 95, 97 Theogony (Hesiod) 2 thiasos 164 Thucydides 176, 177, 201 ‘thynnoskopeion’ 93 timber 78–79 tomb 43 from Baza 166, 166–168 tomb 106 from Baza 163 tomb 112 from Galera 163

262 Index tomb 176 from Baza (Granada) 162, 162–163 torch race vase 165 Torre del Mig 89 Tossal de la Cala 104 Tossal de Manises 105 Toya Painter 164–165 trade in Phoenician West 136–154 transformations of fifth/fourth centuries BC 151–154 Trayamar 136 Turfa, Jean 190n33 Tyche, Cornelia 111 Tyrrhenian amphora 146, 161 Tyrrhenian pirates 177, 180, 190n32 Tyrrhenian Sea 10, 140, 149, 179–180, 185–186 Tyrrhenian ships 180 urna de orejetas 59–60, 60, 63–64 Valerius Caepio 223 Vecchio, Luigi 221 Velia 10–11, 216–219, 218, 224, 226–230 Velleius Paterculus 94 Vickers, Michael 160 Vidal, J. Molina 129

Vuillemont R-1 amphora 92–93, 101 Walbank, Frank 184 Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew 237 Weber, Max 70 Webster, Thomas 161 West: agriculture/agricultural in 76–77; Greek identity in 72–73; trade and agriculture in 76–77; see also Phoenician West Western Greek experience 174–188 Western Mediterranean 51, 64, 77–79, 182, 200, 207, 216; discovery of 36; piracy of 10; societal developments 2 westward migration 175 White, Richard 7 Wild Goat Style 145–146 Williams, Dyfri 167 wine 27, 38, 40; Marseille 41; viticulture 92 woodland products 78 Xenophon 176 Yntema, Douwe 247 Zenobius 181