The Socio-Economics of Roman Storage: Agriculture, Trade, and Family 9781108495530, 9781108850216

Table of contents :
Cover
The Socio-Economics of Roman Storage
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Contents
Plates
Figures
Tables
Preface
One - Surplus
Two - Needs/Wants (Matter): Villas in Central Italy
Three - Future (Practice): Silos and Granaries in Gaul and Iberia
Four - Knowledge (Assemblage): Houses in Pompeii and Herculaneum
Five - Control (Flow): Warehouses in the Ports of Ostia and Portus
Six - Reproduction (Scale): Family, State, and Accumulation
Seven - Epilogue
Appendices
Notes
References
Index

Citation preview

The Socio-Economics of Roman Stor age Agriculture, Tr ade, and Family Astrid Van Oyen

THE SOCIO-ECONOMICS OF ROMAN STORAGE

In a pre-industrial world, storage could make or break farmers and empires alike. How did it shape the Roman empire? The Socio-Economics of Roman Storage cuts across the scales of farmer and state to trace the practical and moral reverberations of storage from villas in Italy to silos in Gaul, and from houses in Pompeii to warehouses in Ostia. Following on from the material turn, an abstract notion of “surplus” makes way for an emphasis on storage’s material transformations (e.g. wine fermenting; grain degrading; assemblages forming), which actively shuffle social relations and economic possibilities, and are a sensitive indicator of changing mentalities. This archaeological study tackles key topics, including the moral resonance of agricultural storage; storage as a contested register of future-making during and after conquest; the geography of knowledge in domestic settings; the supply of the metropolis of Rome; and the question of how empires scale up. It will be of interest to scholars and students of Roman archaeology and history, as well as anthropologists who study the links between the scales of farmer and state. astrid van oyen is Assistant Professor of Classics at Cornell University. A recipient of fellowships and grants from the Loeb Classical Library Foundation, the Archaeological Institute of America, and the Stanford Humanities Center, she is the author of How Things Make History: The Roman Empire and its Terra Sigillata Pottery and co-editor, with Martin Pitts, of Materialising Roman Histories.

THE SOCIO-ECONOMICS OF ROMAN STORAGE AGRICULTURE, TRADE, AND FAMILY ASTRID VAN OYEN Cornell University, New York

University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 79 Anson Road, #06–04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108495530 doi: 10.1017/9781108850216 © Cambridge University Press 2020 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2020 Printed in the United Kingdom by TJ International Ltd, Padstow Cornwall A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. isbn 978-1-108-49553-0 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For Jan

CONTENTS

List of Plates

page ix

List of Figures

xi

List of Tables

xiii

Preface

xv

1. SURPLUS

Storage: (In)Variable and (Extra)Ordinary?

1 4

The Stuff of Storage

10

This Book

14

2. NEEDS/WANTS (MATTER): VILLAS IN CENTRAL ITALY

19

The Topos of the Good Farmer: Global, Mediterranean, Roman

19

Architectural Strategies between Ratio and Display

23

Material Mediations

39

The Good Farmer Diffracted

53

3 . F U T U R E ( P R A C T I C E ) : SI L O S A N D GR A N A R I E S I N G A U L A N D I B E R IA

58

Imperialism, Time, and Memory

58

Storage on Shifting Ground

62

Mnemonics of the Past

70

Redefining the Future

74

The Matter of Practice

88

4 . K N O W L E D G E (A SS E M B L A G E ) : H O U S E S I N P O M P E I I A N D HE RC U L A N E U M

92

The Dynamics of Roman House(hold)s

93

A Nested Storage Pattern

96 vii

viii

CONTENTS

How Things Were Made to Forget

111

A Fragmented Knowledge Landscape

116

5 . C O N T R O L (F L O W) : W A R E H O U S E S I N T H E P O RT S OF OSTIA AND PORTUS

122

Free Trade versus the State?

125

Standardization (Resisted)

136

Inside and Outside

144

Bending Space and Time

149

6 . R E P R O D U C T I O N ( S C A L E ) : FA MI L Y , S T A T E , AND ACCUMULATION

158

Storage as Family Business

159

A Kaleidoscopic Empire

166

Accumulation and Its Limits

172

7. EPILOGUE

174

The Stuff of Socio-Economics

176

Storage between Actuality and Potentiality

178

The Shape of Empire

180

Appendices

185

Notes

197

References

229

Index

281

The plate section can be found between pages 142 and 143

PLATES

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Ithaca, NY, self-storage facility I-deal storage Ensérune, Nissan (Hérault), aerial view of Iron Age silo field at area “Chateau d’eau” Ensérune, Nissan (Hérault), section of Iron Age silo from Terrasse Est Vienne, implantation of warehouses in urban fabric Vienne, model of the corridor warehouses on the left bank of the Rhône, immediately south of the city Herculaneum, entrance to the Casa del Gran Portale Ostia, mid-second century ad, warehouses in the urban fabric Ostia, Piccolo Mercato, storage cell built against older back wall in tufa opus quadratum Ostia, Caseggiato dei Doli (I.IV.5), looking east Portus, Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, number XIID painted in red on the Severan brick façade of a warehouse cell Ostia, entrance to Horrea Epagathiana and Epaphroditiana Ostia, Grandi Horrea, colonnade of the central courtyard filled in with bricks, looking northeast

ix

FIGURES

1.1 2.1 2.2 2.3

2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9 2.10 2.11 2.12 2.13 2.14 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 4.1

Pompeii, I.10.7, reconstructed cupboard Map of villa sites in Central Italy discussed in text Auditorium site (Rome), period 1, phase 2 (later sixth century bc) Boscoreale (Campania), Cività Giuliana, second first century bc, with hypothetical haybarn (room 12) and large liminal storeroom (room 13) Boscoreale (Campania), Villa Regina, liminal storeroom leading onto threshing floor, Augustan Fiano Romano (Latium), Volusii Saturnini villa Formia (Latium), Villa Rubino Boscoreale (Campania), Pisanella, Villa delle Argentarie Ansedonia (Tuscany), Settefinestre, plan of the villa and its annexes (granary top-right), first century ad Monte Compatri (Latium), Casaccia, above-ground cistern Gragnano (Campania), Carità Ansedonia (Tuscany), Settefinestre, wine storeroom, first century ad San Rocco (Francolise), villa with freestanding cisterns, 30 bc Capena (Etruria), Giardino, central cistern dividing residential part from terraces Boscoreale (Campania), Villa Regina, dolium sealed with lid Map of Iron Age sites in northeast Iberia and southwest Gaul mentioned in text Map of Roman-period sites in northeast Iberia and southwest Gaul mentioned in text Timeline of relevant historical processes in northeast Iberia during the late Iron Age–early Roman transition L’Olivet d’en Pujol, Viladamat, wine storeroom with dolia, late second century bc Els Tolegassos, Viladamat, villa body and wine storeroom with dolia Vareilles, Paulhan, first half second century ad, two wine storerooms added to original L-shaped cella vinaria Les Prés-Bas, Loupian (Hérault) Ostia, Piazzale delle Corporazioni, detail of mosaic representing the shippers of Narbonne, second century ad Atrium-peristyle house, ideal plan as per Vitruvius

page 5 24 26

27 28 29 30 30 31 33 36 37 45 47 50 63 64 69 75 76 77 78 87 93

xi

xii

LIST OF FIGURES

4.2 Pompeii, plan with indication of the 30 houses included in Penelope Allison’s database 4.3 Herculaneum, wooden chest 4.4 Pompeii, Casa dei Vettii, bronze chest against south wall of front hall 4.5 Herculaneum, reconstructed amphora rack in shop in front of Casa di Nettuno ed Anfitrite (V.6) 4.6 Herculaneum, wooden rack from shop V.12 4.7 Herculaneum, front view of wooden cupboard with double set of doors, from first floor above shop V.17 4.8 Herculaneum, wooden cupboard-aedicula from the Casa del Sacello di Legno (V.31) 5.1 Ostia and Portus in their regional setting 5.2 Portus, plan by Rodolfo Lanciani of the Trajanic basin based on excavations up to 1867 and reconstructions (some now proven wrong) 5.3 Ostia, plan of Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, Horrea I.VIII.2 and Piccolo Mercato 5.4 Ostia, plan of Horrea III.II.6 5.5 Portus, plan of Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano 5.6 Ostia, mosaic from the Aula dei Mensores, third century ad 5.7 Ostia, Isis Geminiana fresco from the via Laurentina necropolis, second to early third century ad 5.8 Ostia, entrance to Portico degli Archi Trionfali and Horrea dell’Artemide from the main street (decumanus maximus), looking south 5.9 Portus, colonnade of white travertine columns in front of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, later filled in with bricks 5.10 Trajanic sestertius commemorating the inauguration of the hexagonal basin at Portus

97 104 104 105 106 107 108 123 132 134 135 137 141 142 146 150 153

TABLES

5.1 Comparison of spatial features and affordances of warehouses at Ostia and Portus page 135 5.2 Comparison of the economic trajectories of storage at Ostia and Portus 150 A1 Central Italy, general purpose storerooms (excluding unequivocally domestic storage) 186 A2 Central Italy, cisterns separate from the main villa building 190 A3 Central Italy, wine or oil storerooms with ceramic jars or dolia 192 A4 Storage implements by room type in a sample of 30 Pompeian atrium houses. Key to room types in atrium houses after Allison 2004: 64, Table 5a 195

xiii

PREFACE

How do you know an empire when you see one? One classic answer to this comparative conundrum is to look at storage facilities. Empires, it is assumed, extract and centralize resources from across their territories, a brute imperialism that finds its expression in massive, central storage complexes and a continuing concern with the circulation of stuff. The dazzling archaeological remains of storerooms at Rome’s ports of Ostia and Portus are testimony that the Roman empire fits this rather restricted bill. But what can storage do beyond this exercise of identification? Storage has more to offer the student of the Roman world: as a topic that is at once at the core of survival and prone to envy, strife, and competition; as a practice that is both grounded in the matter of economics and inhabiting the social imagination; as an acute concern for farmers and rulers alike – storage opens up an inquiry into the very anatomy of Roman socio-economics. Storage invites us to give due diligence to the stuff of socio-economics: the objects on the move, the possessions protected, the crops rotting. The study of ancient economies has a strangely schizophrenic attitude to stuff: while it acknowledges that its field of study essentially hinges on questions of physical survival, resource management, and material thriving, the materiality of these questions is often eclipsed by numbers and models. This book, instead, believes that things should take center-stage in many of the key debates regarding Roman socio-economics, such as the tension between status display and commercial profit, or the interaction between public and private concerns. In realizing this novel approach of materializing socio-economics, it adopts a format tried and tested in material culture studies, namely a case study-based structure that tackles matters of concern starting from the specifics of a particular situation. It is explicit about its partiality: in weaving threads between its case studies, this study seeks to shed light on the variability of the invariable and to bring to the fore the unexpected in the study of the wellknown. This book not only straddles different contexts of past storage practices, it is itself the product of work across several intellectual contexts and their stores of knowledge. (Incidentally, it also lived through three computers, one died of age, the other of tea. Luckily, I was already obsessed with storage at that point.) xv

xvi

PREFACE

Research for this book started while I held a Junior Research Fellowship at Homerton College, Cambridge. As a rather understated, no-nonsense college in the crown of Cambridge University, Homerton provided the ideal breeding ground for thoughts about the rather understated practice of storage. I am immensely grateful for the no-strings-attached trust that Homerton granted me, and for the friendship and collegiality of its fellows, in particular Judy Fonville and Deborah Kronenberg-Versteeg. This book’s birth in Cambridge helped cement its turn to things that I had started cultivating in previous work. The book project then moved with me to Cornell University, where we found an immensely supportive home in the Department of Classics and among colleagues at the Cornell Institute of Archaeology and Material Studies. For this project in particular I am grateful for the intellectual companionship of Kim Haines-Eitzen, Lori Khatchadourian, and Sturt Manning, as well as the graduate students in my Roman Economy seminar. Cornell stimulated me to look increasingly beyond Roman archaeology, and allowed my ideas to mature. Olin Library with its rich collections and its extraordinary service had a hand both in assuring the depth of the research in this book and in stretching its ambitions. Last but by no means least, this book’s journey (not its afterlife, I hope!) concluded at the Stanford Humanities Center, a truly exceptional place for the absolute freedom it grants, for its eclectic and supportive community of fellows, and of course for its Californian climate. At Stanford, I thank Jen Trimble for her patience in sitting through different versions of the same argument, and Justin Leidwanger for being so welcoming. While this study is first and foremost about the Roman world, I hope it breathes the boldly interdisciplinary ethos both of Homerton College and of the Stanford Humanities Center, its start and end marks. Along the way I received help, feedback, critique, and encouragement from many colleagues and friends. I am greatly indebted to Kim Haines-Eitzen, Lori Khatchadourian, Sturt Manning, Martin Millett, Martin Pitts, Paul Van Oyen, and Greg Woolf, all of whom read the entire manuscript in one phase or another of its development. John Patterson and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill contributed their historical acumen to a previous version of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 has a particularly long biography, and was pushed along with the help of Georgia Andreou, Peter Garnsey, Peter van Dommelen, the audience at the Classics Department at NYU, and the participants in a CIAMS workshop at Cornell University, in particular Ben Anderson and Eilis Monahan. I am particularly indebted to Mateo González Vázquez for sharing his detailed knowledge about silos and the archaeology of northeast Iberia, and for challenging my assumptions and pointing me towards relevant literature. Pim Allison’s unparalleled specialist knowledge on the houses of Pompeii proved invaluable for Chapter 3, to which Caitie Barrett and Jess Plant added some important thoughts. The audience at TAG 2017 in Toronto provided helpful

PREFACE

feedback on the Pompeii case study – I thank Carl Knappett for inviting me to participate in his session and in particular Zoë Crossland for thoughtful and enthusiastic comments. If Chapter 5 repeatedly mentions the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus, it is because of the important work done there by Évelyne Bukowiecki and her team, who kindly toured Portus with me, sharing her endless knowledge, while I as a storage geek manically took notes and photographs. I also thank Milena Mimmo for kindly and generously discussing storage in Rome, as well as audiences at Stanford’s Classics Department and Columbia’s Anthropology Department where I road-tested Chapter 5. I hope the reader will appreciate the key role played in this study by its apparatus of figures and illustrations. Stijn Colon drew all plans, patiently following my (sometimes inconsistent) directions. For help with images and permission to use their material, I am grateful to Jan Aldelhof, Pim Allison, Jan-Theo Bakker, Ernesto De Carolis, Agnese Livia Fischetti, Dominique Garcia, Klaus Heese, Michael Heinzelmann, Benoît Helly, Simon Keay, Martin Millett, Stephan Mols, and Fran Stroobants.

xvii

ONE

SURPLUS

O

pen a cupboard in your house or apartment. Peek inside your fridge. Chances are that you will find sugar, tea, flour, juice, and canned beans and chickpeas. A pantry might hold shoe polish, toilet paper, washing-up liquid. In the basement or garage you have lawn mower oil, organic fertilizer, and that two-for-one pack of screws that you thought might come in useful one day. Storage is all around us. It has been part of the human condition at least since people became sedentary thousands of years ago and started producing food, but probably even earlier than that. Yet it is very likely that none of you readers has storage on your mind. In a western world of plenty, we are attuned to supermarkets open around the clock, to one-click online orders, and to immediate consumption. Unless you happen to run the logistics department of a large supermarket chain, or you are actively preparing for the end of the world, you probably store lots of things, but rarely reflect on what, where, why, and how you store. While the current lack of attention to storage proves just how deeply entrenched this field of practice is within a particular historical context and its norms and possibilities, paradoxically it also spawns a myopic view on the possibility that storage may have been articulated very differently in other social and historical contexts. Such myopia risks neglecting the better part of history, including our own recent past. It only takes an ever so slight expanding of horizons to grasp how changes in storage practices can reveal structural shifts in society. An eye-opener for me has been thinking back to my childhood 1

2

SURPLUS

memories of the pantry of my grandparents in Belgium, who lived through the Second World War as children and teenagers. Later in their lives, they stocked so many foodstuffs that my parents used to warn me to check the “use-by” dates of everything that I was served by them. Whatever my grandparents ended up consuming was bound to be far beyond its expiry date. A sense of risk and insecurity was so acutely grafted onto their morality as children that it continued to inform their practices long after historical conditions had shifted from an era of destitution to one of abundance. If read archaeologically, their methodical hoarding, including a special-purpose windowless walk-in pantry, would contrast with the lack of dedicated storage space in my parents’ – baby boomers – house. My guess is that this contrast would translate into a consistently bifurcating pattern at a wider geographical and chronological zoom as well. Meanwhile, the walk-in closet for clothes is becoming a spatially defined, proportionally larger, and increasingly expected addition to bedrooms. What was once a storage container in a room (a wardrobe), is now becoming its own space, a dressing room, a suitable metaphor for an age of boundless consumption and pressure to reinvent oneself, one outfit at a time. Similarly, my recent move from Europe to the United States led me to discover a whole New World of storage. If my American apartment, however small, has (by European standards) a monster of a fridge, then it is because I need it, even as a European immigrant used to different practices of storage and consumption. Relocating to the United States, and especially its rural parts, you will store more foodstuffs because you will be forced to buy large quantities at the local mall. Forget the grocery shopping on a near daily basis – you will buy a minimum of twelve eggs, not six; sausages will come in packs of a dozen, not four; and small-sized jars of yoghurt will be an expensive highend niche, not the affordable norm. Your new storage practices will go hand in hand with a new style of grocery shopping. You will no longer ride your bicycle to the supermarket in town. Instead, you will drive the car and find one of the hundreds of parking spots in front of the megamart at the nearest mall out of town. In addition to my new relation with foodstuffs, mediated by storage, I was puzzled and bewildered by the ghostly “cities” of self-storage facilities for rent along otherwise deserted highways (Plate 1).1 Initially, I struggled to fathom the things that live their dark lives behind the garage door shutters of these storage islands, let alone the human relations which they fuel. In the meantime, I rent a storeroom myself to allow a year-long relocation to finish this book; I hear how storage of families’ memories, photobooks, and childhood toys facilitates a gentle ebbing away from each other of people and their things (or vice versa); and sadly I am reminded that the structural outwashes of society, too, feed on the self-storage phenomenon, from drug dealing2 to school shootings.3

SURPLUS

In Roman times, too, storage articulated society’s hopes and fears. In a muchcited passage, Tacitus recounts how the emperor Nero threw old grain in the Tiber, in order to appease the populace’s unrest over the arrival of the annual grain supply from Egypt: “Moreover, to cloak his uneasiness as to the situation abroad, Nero had the grain for the populace – which had been spoilt by age – thrown into the Tiber, as proof that the corn-supply was not a matter for anxiety.”4 Nero understood the psychology of storage. And this psychology was materially enacted. Rather than a precise calculation of how much grain to get rid of, the tableau invokes a spectacle of bulk goods, and a recategorization – in the doing and in the witnessing – of what counts as “old” grain. The above examples show that storage can get at something ineffable, something approaching the ghostly “mentalities” that are notoriously difficult to grasp archaeologically.5 All too often histories of mentalities are cornered into an ahistorical temporal and spatial register, at a remove from everyday practices. Storage’s meandering between the practical and the rhetorical, the economic and the social, shapes the quest of this book, which sees mentalities as anchored in history, shaped in practice, and materially mediated. More specifically, its question is whether this dialectic took a particular form in the historical trajectory that transformed a society of farmers into a world power: the formation and expansion of the Roman empire. Approaches to storage in archaeology and anthropology have operated at two distinct scales, concerned respectively with farmers and empire. On the one hand, storage has been a notorious identifier of stratification and centralization in socio-political evolution: the institutionalization of storage, epitomized by the presence of large, centralized granaries, typically marks the development of more complex forms of socio-political organization such as chiefdoms and states.6 On the other hand, storage has long been recognized as a key riskbuffering strategy in farming communities.7 Storing surplus can help ward off the danger of the occasional shortfall in harvests, which is expected but cannot be timed or predicted in advance. But between farmer and empire, storage becomes schizophrenic. Socio-political evolution’s charting of storage as a mechanism of stratification associates it with positions of power. As a farmer’s risk buffer, instead, storage emerges as a sign of powerlessness, something of a last resort in the face of external threats. Why do we tend to assume that farmers do “risk,” while elites do “wealth”? Why does storage seem to counteract change among farmers, but to spur change in grand evolutionary schemes?8 Why does storage open up such radically divergent explanatory toolboxes depending on question, paradigm, and scale? Even at the height of its expansion and integration, the Roman empire was still an agrarian empire, dependent on risk-buffering at a larger scale, for example by annually shipping thousands of tons of grain across the Mediterranean from Egypt and North Africa to Rome (Chapter 5). Was the subsistence

3

4

SURPLUS

logic of the cautious farmer simply scaled up? And yet the unabashed creation and display of wealth (Chapter 2), new cash-cropping strategies (Chapters 2 and 3), and large-scale commodity flows (Chapter 5) seem unconstrained by any straightforward notion of risk management. Meanwhile, a substantial share of the Roman empire’s population – including many of the townspeople in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Chapter 4) – were no longer directly involved in agriculture. If storage is a key social, economic, and even moral compass for the farmer,9 then where does it sit in an agrarian empire? How did the society, economy, and mentalité of the Roman empire navigate, negotiate, absorb, and impact the rhythms and demands of storage, and vice versa? STORAGE: (IN)VARIABLE AND ( EXTRA)ORDINARY?

The last decade, long after Geoffrey Rickman’s pioneering Roman Granaries and Store Buildings (1971), has seen a surge of studies on the archaeology of storage facilities. In part, this renewed interest stems from increased attention to rural production, tackling traditional issues of planimetry and functional identification of storage buildings as part of broader questions of agricultural organization.10 The other branch of recent studies of Roman-period storage facilities is concerned with systems of urban supply, in particular the provisioning of Rome.11 Rarely, an interest in storage follows from dedicated study of the material culture of storage, such as storage containers.12 This book is indebted to these recent important studies and to the data they generated, but its aims are slightly different: it problematizes storage as a practice. Past and current work on the archaeology of storage has often left the practices of storage black-boxed. Of course, it tends to be assumed that people in the past would have stored foodstuffs, seed, utilities, and possibly even money. But the place of storage in people’s lives and in societies’ mentalities remains dormant, as do practical choices of crop or the kinds of goods stored, technique, and timing.13 Instead, focus has been on analytical questions of presence/absence and quantity. The question of presence or absence is particularly acute in the study of hunter-gatherer societies: as long as storage is named along with sedentarism and complexity, any evidence of storage among hunter-gatherers threatens to muddy evolutionary models.14 Higher up on the normative evolutionary pyramid, storage’s role as a state-making mechanism of centralization and redistribution is glossed as an issue of quantification: how much surplus could centralized institutions marshal, and how large a share of the population could be fed through redistribution of these extractions?15 Qualitative questions surrounding storage modalities do surface, but play second violin. For example, accessibility and visibility are now standard parameters in analysis of storage facilities.16 And Timothy Earle and Terence D’Altroy’s study of the massive

STORAGE: (IN)VARIABLE AND (EXTRA)ORDINARY?

5

Inca warehouses outside settlements in the upper Mantaro valley in Peru adduced details such as the storage facilities’ degree of centralization, their linear layout, their modular structure, and their focus on accommodating bulk goods to argue that “the kind of storage used can be shown to be characteristic of the institutional form of the exchange.”17 Quantification is not the prerogative of socio-political evolution; studies of storage as a farmer’s risk buffer too have often privileged numbers. “How much was enough” then becomes an estimate of caloric needs, involving calculations based on historical sources (e.g. historically attested food rations) and ethnographic and modern data.18 “Marketable surplus” is calculated based on the size of the farming communities and their subsistence needs, compared with the production potential of fields and facilities,19 or derived from the estimated volume of granaries and other storage facilities.20 For ancient Rome, the grain needs of the city’s population have been a particular favorite for such hybrid historical-cum-physiological guesstimates.21 In this context, questions revolve around the size of the population of Rome, the share of its grain supply that was catered for by particular sources (with a special interest in the proportion of Egyptian grain), how many ships were needed for the overseas transport of the necessary tonnages of cereals, etc.22 Such questions are of course not without interest, but by reducing stored goods to numbers, they bracket a good deal of the complexity of storage, and thus of history. Indeed, instead of a neutral analytical strategy in the present, calculation and calculability might well have been historically situated ways of coping with risk and uncertainty in the past.23 Despite their undeniable contributions to the study of storage, questions of presence/absence and quantification have the insidious side-effect of normalizing the practice of storage, positing it as an ahistorical invariable, susceptible only to evolutionary schisms.24 Consider this cupboard (Figure 1.1). It looks very familiar. With its fine carpentry, visible hinges, and double opening door, it would not be out of place in a modern town house. In reality, the cupboard is a reconstruction of one found in a 1.1. Pompeii, I.10.7, reconstructed cupboard. town house (I.10.7) in Pompeii. Its visual Rome, Museo della Civiltà romana.

6

SURPLUS

familiarity tricks us into black-boxing the practice of storage as an activity in which people of all times, ancient as well as modern, engage(d), but which does not reveal much about the nature of social life in a particular historical context.25 Pictured as an invariable practice and muted by restricted analytical questions of presence/absence and quantification, storage needs to be extraordinary if it wants to be of historical relevance. For instance, storage has entered the history of Pompeii and Herculaneum, cities startled by earthquakes and eventually buried by the eruption of the Vesuvius in ad 79, as a temporary and exceptional removal of things from their primary context of use during refurbishments,26 and as the hoarding of valuables in response to the impending disaster27 – both extraordinary rather than normal social patterns. In order to open up storage as a historically structured and structuring practice, it needs to be approached instead as both ordinary and variable. Julia Hendon has made a persuasive case for storage’s ordinariness: storage was and is a central social fact in a range of contexts, from Neolithic Europe over Mesoamerica to the Trobriand Islands.28 Discussing, worrying about, and engaging with storage are a key social concern across pre-industrial societies, which helps define social roles and moral norms, and often crystallizes in and around the household. In order to acknowledge storage’s ordinariness, this book adopts a deliberately loose definition of storage as “ranging things in a particular place (from a cupboard to the Cloud) with a view to future retrieval and use.”29 But this definition also introduces variability: things, place, and future are all historically variable. It casts the web of storage as wide as possible, including not just agricultural staples but a wide range of objects and contexts. Indeed, storage is defined not by particular things or contexts, but as a particular mode of engaging with the world, which considers it as reserve or potential rather than as actualization. The clause of future “use” in the above definition similarly does not discriminate against certain kinds of uses; it simply posits that the stored objects re-enter the social world. Photo albums cherished to periodically reinvoke memories can qualify, just as barley kept to feed animals throughout winter. But what was storage for? Storage is a point of turnover, a mechanism for reordering people and things. This reordering can have different purposes: 1. To intervene in variability over time; 2. To intervene in variability across space; 3. To take stock.

Storage as a mechanism for managing the distribution of resources over time is epitomized by the concept of delayed return: “storage extends the period of time during which consumption is possible beyond the time in which the resource is actually available.”30 Usually associated with the onset of farming and its future-oriented practices such as sowing and storing,31 the principle of

STORAGE: (IN)VARIABLE AND (EXTRA)ORDINARY?

delayed return was not foreign to hunter-gatherers either, who could also rely on seasonally available resources (albeit not cultivated).32 Hunter-gatherer studies already raise the question to what extent storage acted as a buffer against the capriciousness of food supply, or, conversely, as part and parcel of a cyclical system of resource management that anticipates predictable fluxes in availability.33 In either scenario, storage can work well in conjunction with a mobile lifestyle, structured by the seasonal, repeated revisiting of caches in particular locales.34 Moreover, the study of hunter-gatherer societies underlines that storage is but one among a portfolio of risk management tools, and that its absence need not imply a less stable or less secure life.35 Risk management has been a central preoccupation of studies of storage in farming communities, including in the ancient world. Storage evens out the seasonal or periodic variability in the availability of resources that characterizes most temperate environments:36 for instance, it assures that grain is available not just immediately after the harvest, but throughout the agricultural year and up to the next harvest; or that the sudden arrival of winter rains (or even evening rains) can be released gradually over a series of months (or during the day). But following Marxist peasant studies,37 storage also features at the intersection of agricultural strategies, the politics of supply and famine, and farming communities’ incentives for risk-buffering.38 As one of a series of safety measures alongside product diversification, dispersed landholding, cultivation of crops for consumption rather than for sale, etc., storage protects farmers against structural and environmental uncertainties.39 Here storage acts as a buffer against the unpredictable yet not unexpected bad year, more than as a systematic evening out of resources across the predictable periods of plenty and of scarcity in the seasonal cycle of sowing and harvesting.40 Stocking up grain following a plentiful harvest safeguards against the risk of a bad year in the short- to medium-term future (usually up to two years).41 The need for such multi-year risk-buffering is particularly acute in climates with large inter-annual variability in rainfall patterns, such as the Mediterranean,42 and in societies with large individual differences in access to food and few leveling mechanisms.43 One such leveling mechanism is social storage, drawing on social relations to access material resources (i.e. food) in times of shortage or crisis.44 The particular advantage of social, as opposed to physical storage, is its longer shelf-life: although social relations had to be maintained as well, they were subject to less direct depreciation than physically stored foodstuffs. Underlying such relations would be a moral economy of the type traced by James Scott in Southeast Asia,45 that made subsistence security46 into a moral right. In the classical world, the key moorings of this social and moral matrix were euergetism and patronage47 – the social mechanisms by which the elite’s surplus accumulation was kept in check and through which the poor were drawn into dependency bonds in exchange for (social, economic, legal)

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security.48 As such, the oscillation between glut and dearth that was peculiar to the Mediterranean environment often reinforced power differentials.49 Variability over time often amounts to dealing with scarcity, but it can also extend to the management of abundance. In idealized hunter-gatherer societies, termed the “original affluent society” by Marshall Sahlins,50 natural resources are plentiful and people are willing to move around to meet these riches, so that storage effectively becomes redundant. People need not store, because nature does it for them. But storage can also actively intervene in temporary abundance. Modern states, for instance, will use storage as a welfare mechanism, to keep prices low and protect value. In that sense, storage is akin to destruction of any surplus that could threaten the social order, from the potlatch of the Pacific Northwest to the annihilation of harvests-withoutmarket by modern farmers. Storage is different to destruction, however, precisely in that it anticipates variability in resources. In other words: storage always perceives abundance from the perspective of scarcity, and vice versa. Storage can intervene in the variability of resources not just over time, but also through space. This is the essence of a commercial supply chain: stocks serve as intervening steps linking supply and demand. Port warehouses are emblematic in this regard. But space can enter the narrative of storage already at smaller scales, from household to settlement. Sahlins linked the generation of surplus to households’ inability to be entirely self-sufficient, resulting in the need for exchange and the creation of a supply chain interlocking households.51 At fourth-century bc Olynthos in Macedonia, houses in the so-called Villa Section had storerooms to host agricultural surplus (in pithoi) providing up to a year of a household’s consumption needs, whereas houses in the older, more centrally located North Hill area had no such ample storage facilities, but were more engaged in craft production, processing, and commerce.52 Nicholas Cahill relates the observed clustering of storage facilities to households’ differing economic strategies: original colonists, on the North Hill, would have been allotted plots of land nearby the settlement, allowing them to store their supplies outside of the house, and to engage more in downthe-line trade.53 For inhabitants in the Villa Section, storage was a necessary mediator of space – a step in the supply chain – as it were bringing the more distant fields and their products within reach of the consuming household. Again, the Mediterranean, characterized by chopped-up micro-ecologies,54 posed a particular challenge to the spatial distribution of resources. Such an ecological mosaic could be conducive to community reciprocity and social storage, but it could also give rise to a state apparatus of redistribution. As coined by Karl Polanyi, redistribution denotes the extraction of surplus production by a centralized institution, which collects and redirects those resources to the population at large, resulting (in theory) in an efficient pooling between regions or sectors of society with complementary resources and specializations.55

STORAGE: (IN)VARIABLE AND (EXTRA)ORDINARY?

In archaeology, redistribution quickly became the flagship explanatory process for the emergence and soldering of leadership and stratification.56 Models of social evolution linked centralized storage (as a precondition for redistribution) and stratification (as a consequence of redistribution), in a benign reading of redistribution as extending the benefits of stratification and incumbent state formation to all (the so-called consensus model).57 Large centralized storage complexes spoke to processes of early state formation, for instance in the Bronze Age Near East and Aegean.58 This somewhat romantic vision of redistribution eventually had to cede place to mobilization: the notion that the ruling elites and centralized authorities skimmed off a surplus primarily for their own betterment rather than that of society at large (the so-called conflict model).59 Storage helped the state take care first and foremost of itself, a grim reality perhaps best known from Soviet collectivization, where storage and hoarding were both tools of control and loci of resistance.60 Moreover, as the sources of power are multiple and not a priori correlated,61 attempts at centralization are usually partial, in sharp contrast to the all-seeing, all-controlling models of, for instance, the Mesopotamian temple-state. Such a less rosy conflict model of redistribution has been applied to chiefdoms and early states across the globe and throughout human history, often directly responding to the flaws of the consensus model.62 More than a model of risk-buffering and evening out of resources over space, the conflict model of redistribution draws attention to a third purpose of storage, as taking stock. “Taking stock” refers to storage’s role as a claim to power and as a value-making practice. In this sense, storage encompasses notions of thesaurization or treasure,63 credit, and inventory. The storage of surplus becomes a direct source of power,64 and more specifically of economic power, which can then be transformed into currency that can be staked for other power mechanisms, including military power (the ability to mobilize military force), political power (the managerial oversight of a political apparatus and administration), and ideological power (the proverbial winning of minds and souls).65 Surplus thus entangles chiefs, aggrandizing actors, and the elites of early states and empires in a strategic power game. As “having and holding,”66 storage is closely related to ownership and property. Moreover, stored stuff seems to beckon more stuff, spurring a drive towards accumulation.67 As storage takes stock, surplus becomes a stand-alone reserve, like credit, potentially transformable into (and exchangeable for)68 other things and processes, but not beholden to any of them. Such a curation of value without determined end-use need not imply state-making. Indeed, as we will see in Chapter 5, stocks of foodstuffs could serve as pledge to receive loans or financial credit for commercial transactions.69 Similarly, a recent study of Pueblo villages in the ninth-century ad American Southwest charts the size of storage space as proxy evidence for the concentration of wealth within and

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between households.70 But the prime mechanism of storage as stock-taking was undoubtedly taxation. Taxation could even out resources over time (as a risk buffer), or across space (weaving a supply chain between the loci of production and consumption, e.g. Roman Gaul and the army on the northern limes). But it was also an act of self-standing stocking up, of claiming and of surveilling.71 It inventoried and reordered people and things, redefining them as subjects subject to taxation. Storage takes stock: it orders and it values. As it intervenes in the world and its organization, storage becomes an ontological project as much as a question of resource management.72 Ultimately, storage is a mechanism of reproduction. At a basic level, storage provides food for tomorrow, seed corn for the next year, and fodder for animals, so that people can reproduce themselves and their family. People store what they think they need to live their lives. But storage also underpins an existential sort of reproduction: through storage, people articulate their place in a social web, their membership of society, their worries and their dreams – in short, their very social being. Both senses of storage’s reproductive capacity are materially mediated, as the next section explores. In sum, storage is both ordinary in its omnipresence and variable in its purposes and in its articulations. As an ordinary, yet variable practice, storage beckons analysis beyond mere presence or absence, and beyond questions of quantity. This book advocates a qualitative, multi-context approach to storage, which can both draw out the historical specificity (i.e. what was Roman about storage in the Roman empire?) and increase the comparative potential (i.e. what was imperial about storage in the Roman empire?) of storage in the Roman empire. THE STUFF OF STORAGE

A recent account of surplus in archaeology argues that “[s]urplus is more than storage.”73 Surplus, or “how much is enough,” is no mere calculation but a “state of mind,” linked to, but transgressing its physical articulation, storage. This book turns the table, claiming that storage is more than surplus, but it does so with much the same purpose: a more holistic understanding of mediations between the world of people and things, between mentalities and matter. It is not just that storage provides for needs and their reproduction as well as, or before, providing for surplus over and above those needs.74 The problem is more fundamental: surplus is too bland and unspecific a lens for the subtle and supple historical mentalities that storage practices elicit. “Surplus” epitomizes the restricted role that material culture has come to play in the archaeology of storage. It features as an immaterial, abstract, and ahistorical stand-in for a range of very different phenomena: both power and risk, both needs and wants.75 Moreover, surplus unduly curbs the reach

THE STUFF OF STORAGE

of storage, limiting it to agricultural staples. As “immaterial matter,” surplus rubs shoulders with that other chimera of stuff: commodity. Commodities (or staples) are the 99 percent “other” of the object world, forever in the shadow of prestige goods or strategic objects, the 1 percent that warrants qualitative description.76 This book seeks to extend this privilege of qualification more democratically across the object world, diffracting the notion of surplus into a motley assortment of stuff. In other words, to release its full potential as a prism for the anatomy of a society’s socio-economics, the study of storage needs to be uncoupled from the concept of surplus.77 On the one hand, the object world of storage ought to be extended to stuff beyond agricultural products; on the other hand, agricultural staples too deserve the same qualitative approach as any other kind of material culture.78 Storage should be studied not just as a form of gastro-politics,79 but as a kind of thing-politics.80 Such an approach can only be activated through analytical questions that ask not only what is stored and in which quantities, but also how it is stored. Archaeology by definition is the study of stuff,81 but only during the last decades has material culture no longer merely been analyzed as a source of information about the past, but also recognized as having contributed to the making of that past.82 Things and their qualities shape historical possibilities, actions, and causality. Things affect how people think: our cognitive capacities are at once stimulated by, and offloaded onto, material props, from an abacus to a smartphone.83 Our material environment, channeled through our bodily experience, also steers how we feel, as phenomenology has long intuited.84 This can have very practical consequences, as neuro-marketeers who devise strategies to influence people’s buying habits with scents, colors, packaging, etc., know all too well. Interaction with the material world even redesigns our cognitive map, the very categorization of self and world (“ontology”) that underpins our actions and attribution of causality. Things are more than the meanings which humans attribute to them. They are not blank canvases that we can color as we please. They come with their own texture that guides our interaction with them. An as yet underexplored, and long-avoided, part of this “texture” is matter.85 It is tempting to trace a theoretical avoidance of physicality to a deep-rooted unease about any form of essentialism. Things, like people, are not always and everywhere the same; instead they can be reinterpreted, recontextualized, redefined. Storage is a prominent context of redefinition: through storage, things change location, assemblage, packaging, direction, size; as well as ownership, value, category, etc. But they also often change physically. Things’ mutability is easier to fathom with regard to social relations (i.e. changing “meanings”) than in relation to physical properties, whose durability seems to resist endless redefinition.86

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But slowly, the material turn is catching up with matter.87 Under the rubric of “vibrant matter,” political theorist Jane Bennett traces the physical transformations of food on its journey from meal through consumption and digestion, sketching “vital materialisms” from the perspective of their ethical and political implications,88 and with attention to a variety of case studies (food, trash, metal, etc.).89 What is still needed, however, is a greater specificity, and, in particular, historicity, in our accounts of matter,90 “as opposed to a generic analogy to ‘life’ that could be described as a metaphysics”91 – a reading of material vibrancy as some kind of transcendent force or energy. Matter is always matter in context. With its material and diachronic basis, archaeology is very well placed to account for the specificity of different kinds of matter, their enrollment in historically situated processes, and the social, economic, and political boundaries that resulted.92 The challenge of theorizing matter is particularly acute with regard to the topic of storage. Indeed, storage is all about stuff: it is a particular point in space and time where and when people are primarily concerned with the physicality of goods. It entails a close monitoring and protection of, and intervening in, physical stuff and its circulation. A farmer does not want their carefully collected stock of grain to be infested and spoilt. A vintner spends time, money and resources to spur fermentation in the wine stored in large ceramic jars, so as to be able to fetch a higher price, but has to be careful not to let this material change flip too far, when the wine turns sour (Chapter 2). Someone storing precious goods is constantly on guard against any possible theft or damage. And the manager of a port warehouse needs to keep track of the goods cycling through the facility (Chapter 5). It should strike us as all the more puzzling, then, that the study of storage in archaeology has paid scarce attention to the types of goods stored, their circulation pattern, their physical transformation, and any differences therein. At best a kind of crude physicality is invoked, noting for instance that “the physical character of the matter means that it can be concentrated and defended against others.”93 The tide is changing though. The diversity in types of maize, each seen as suited for specific registers of exchange and consumption, emerges as a key parameter in considering the mobilization of surplus in pre-Aztec Mexico.94 A study of Neolithic Çatal Höyük contrasts plant storage, hidden inside the house compound, with animal feasting, displayed publicly on walls through auroch horns.95 The celebration of shared feasting on animal meat helped mitigate the social stress which presumably followed in the wake of the new possibilities for private accumulation through plant storage. But the physical properties of these two different categories of stuff and their temporalities enter into the equation too: large carcasses of meat, difficult to preserve, lent themselves particularly well to feasting practices.96 More generally, the

THE STUFF OF STORAGE

limited shelf-life of meat often fueled feasting and social storage, whereas more storable crops fed a normal surplus.97 In storage, differences in matter add up to differences in time and temporality: the rhythm of turnover; the speed of degradation; the creation of value over time.98 Paying due attention to the stuff of storage thus requires salvaging matter’s temporalities from a narrow notion of evolutionary time. From Stone Age to Iron Age, periodizations of archaeological epochs have been rooted in matter and material change at least since Thomsen’s Three-Age System.99 In contrast to evolution, history tends to be grafted on formal change: whether the object of historical analysis is cultural change, economic connections, or social identities, it is objects’ styles, not their materials, that are mined for signs of change.100 The underlying assumption seems to be that material change happens at a different, slower rhythm than formal change. This is precisely the structure of Fernand Braudel’s influential three-scale model of time. Both shortest-term scales, the histoire événementielle (e.g. political protagonists coming and going; battles lost and won) and the conjonctures of social, economic, and cultural history (e.g. the rise and fall of empires), belong to the realm of culture and society, and are traced archaeologically through formal change.101 The highest temporal scale, the longue durée, in turn, is constituted by the environment and its scarcely perceptible processes of material change (e.g. the formation of land masses). The problem with such a multi-scalar history is that different scales and the processes they harbor seem to be made of different stuff, operating according to ontologically distinct principles: material causes for the long-term, social causes for the mid-range, and political events and individual decisions for the short term.102 Empirical refutations abound: as we come to realize all too well in our current world of climate change, many environmental processes, such as earthquakes, can be extremely sudden and short-lived.103 The practice of storage is not just concerned with matter, it is all about time, too: not just the timing of when and for how long to store, but also the anticipation of a future and its needs. But this temporal dimension has been imagined on two distinct scales: the evolutionary time of the development of complexity, states, and empires; and the short term of farmers’ individual decisions. History, as the time of practice,104 where mentalities and matter meet, disappears somewhere in the crevice between individual choices and evolutionary order. Storage is a point of turnover, of redefinition, rerouting, pausing. As stuff degrades, ferments, or preserves, it shapes socio-economic possibilities. And as storage gathers, disperses, and realigns things, it assembles people as well as the material world through, and on, which they act. Storage’s material temporality is thus at once transformational (matter transforming: Chapters 2 and 3) and organizational (things circulating: Chapters 4 and 5). This book will pay particular attention to the distinct temporalities enacted in

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storage practices and the material changes that these spurred or curated, with the goal of untangling how they structured and were structured by the history of the Roman empire. THIS BOOK

The capacity for storing surplus is a central parameter in anthropology’s ranking of socio-political formations on a hierarchical scale, with empire at the apex. With its large-scale ports and massive warehouses, the Roman empire easily fits this bill. At the same time, as one of world history’s agricultural empires, stretching across an area with a fickle climate and geographical microvariations, the Roman empire was also a world of farmers, for whom storage was a crucial risk-buffering mechanism. For both models, at two scalar extremes – the individual farmer and the institutionalized empire – storage is key. Yet these two approaches result in a conceptual and explanatory schizophrenia, between farmer and state, between risk and surplus, and between power and powerlessness. In addition, both models restrict storage to questions of presence and quantity. Did peasants or polities practice storage or not, and on what scale? This book charts storage practices across contexts and scales in the Roman empire, with each chapter developing a different case study. In order to retrieve the subtle but far-reaching mediations between people and things that fall through the cracks of current approaches to storage, it defines storage broadly, as a point of turnover implicating time and matter. Storage’s material-cum-temporal transformations (e.g. wine fermenting; grain degrading; the turnover of objects in cellars and warehouses) actively shuffle social relations and economic possibilities. A focus on practices – activated through analytical “how” questions – hones storage as both ordinary and variable, and draws out its role as a sensitive indicator of historical mentalities. Chapter 2 inquires into storage’s role in shaping, modifying, or restraining the moral trope of the “good farmer” precisely at the time when the traditional values and practices of farming were put under pressure by an elite savoring the possibilities of empire (second half of the first century bc). An analysis of villa storage technologies for three main staples – grain, water, and wine – suggests that storage was indeed activated as a means of exploring and contesting the reality of empire, but that different processes of material transformation (namely the degradation of grain, the inertia of water, and the fermentation of wine) enabled divergent social stances and economic opportunities within a changing world. Chapter 3 extends the analysis chronologically, geographically, and socially: it asks what the role of storage was in formulating, enabling, and negotiating different futures in a shifting world. It traces continuities and changes in storage

THIS BOOK

practices of grain and wine between the later Iron Age and the early Roman period in the northwest Mediterranean, focusing on the modern regions of Catalonia, Languedoc, and Provence. Chapter 3 shows the machinations of empire at work, imposing a new temporality, and controlling the flow of goods. But it also highlights the inevitable partiality of such imperial projects, and thus poses an exciting challenge to the comparative study of socio-political formations. Chapter 3 also balances a long-standing archaeological fascination with memory – the past in the past – with a focus on past futures. Chapter 4 continues this perspective on anticipations of and interventions in the future, but on the more intimate scale of the household and its social relations. By analyzing how things were stored in the atrium houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum, it highlights the constant shuffling of assemblages of things through storage, and shows that social relations as well were reconfigured in the process. The nested storage practices that surface in Chapter 4 – with material order created not just spatially but temporally – infuse Roman household studies with dynamism and reveal a fragmented landscape of knowledge and power in these houses. Moreover, by following the circulation of a range of household paraphernalia, Chapter 4 extends the study of storage to the object world beyond foodstuffs and subsistence. Having opened a window on a context that is often labeled “private life,” this book shifts to the big scale, and more specifically the long-standing scholarly quest to untangle the share of public and private agencies in the supply system of the Roman empire. The city of Rome in particular represented a black hole that was in constant need of feeding. The massive warehouse structures of Ostia and Portus, Rome’s ports at the mouth of the river Tiber, responded to this need. Questions of agency (state-driven or free trade?) have reigned in this domain, and are linked all too easily to a scalar division (e.g. between large and small warehouses). Chapter 5 shifts inquiry from who held control and over which share of the supplies, to the question of how control of storage was enacted, following which logic. Following a similar methodology to Chapter 4, it traces the flow of goods through the warehouses of Ostia and Portus, finding structural resonances between the fragmented knowledge landscapes of storage respectively at Ostia and in the houses discussed in Chapter 4. Moreover, it appears that such distinct economic trajectories as funneled through storage facilities at Ostia and Portus respectively could both be organized on the basis of a shared rationale of family and estate management. Within this rationale, different agencies emerged from storage practices with different rates of turnover: short-term opportunistic trade, and longer-term speculation and patronage. Chapter 6, finally, moves from a quantitative assessment of scale to a qualitative inquiry into scalability. It finds that a template of the family as unit

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of storage could accommodate very different socio-political realities and spur distinct economic trajectories. Looking back to the rest of the book, Chapter 6 reads the Roman world as a kaleidoscopic empire, in which the articulations between different registers and interests were weak, yet elastic, in contrast to pyramidal models of scale and state. With its focus on reproduction and scale, Chapter 6 comes full circle to the dilemma that started this book: what happens when a farmer turns citizen of an agrarian world empire? How to join such different scales as farmer and state, both concerned with storage and reproduction, but each captive of a different tradition of study? The case studies informing each chapter are “usual suspects” of Roman archaeology, especially the villas of Central Italy in Chapter 2, the houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum in Chapter 4, and the ports of Ostia and Portus in Chapter 5. This is a deliberate choice. While much of the corresponding data has been collected early in the history of the discipline, and can be found wanting from the perspective of modern best practices and analytical possibilities, it has the key advantage of critical mass. Paradoxically perhaps, such critical mass can be more important than an extremely high data resolution in responding to qualitative questions, more so than is the case for quantitative issues. After all, questions of quantity often revolve around “highs” and “lows” deduced from single instances, whereas practices can only be traced on the basis of regularity – the variability in an ordinary practice. This is not to say that new, fine-grained data are not badly needed in the study of storage: not only would systematically recorded and published palynological data for example greatly enhance our understanding of storage practices, but so would greater attention to the mere consideration of storage as a field of practice during excavation and reporting. Arguably the greatest lacuna of this narrative, and of scholarship as a whole, is the absence of small farms, their farmers, and their socio-economic realities. Recent archaeological research is making important headway in this regard, but we are nowhere near to having a sufficient quantitative, and especially qualitative, dataset.105 This book can thus be reproached for a certain elitist perspective on the Roman past. But it hopes to phrase this positively as a call for greater use of the rich datasets which the discipline is privileged to have: these may appear stale and worn out by endlessly repeated examples and themes, but new questions can do more than rejuvenate them. As a true assemblage, this book aims to be more than the sum of its parts. By design, the focus on storage provides a snapshot of longer trajectories of human–thing entanglements, zooming in on a point of turnover across different contexts, rather than tracing an entire network or trajectory outwards from a single context.106 Yet the research has a built-in dynamism because of the way the different case studies are welded together, in a thematic and chronological sequence. The book moves from social and economic changes in the

THIS BOOK

late Republic (esp. first century bc) (Chapter 2), over the negotiation of different versions of the future and their social and economic resonances in a context of imperialism, with a particular focus on the first century ad (Chapter 3), to the articulation of the social relations of storage “at home” in the third quarter of the first century ad (Chapter 4) and at the scale of empire, in the later first and second centuries ad (Chapters 5 and 6). It starts at a time when the Roman world was at the brink of formally becoming an empire, and ends when this empire reaches its maximum extent. Even in its most traditional sense, then, this book presents a history – albeit a partial one – of storage during and under the Roman empire. It does not quite do so “in” the Roman empire, though: for the sake of consistency, its geographical focus is limited to Italy (Chapters 2, 4, and 5), with a foray into northeast Spain and southern France (Chapter 3), which, however, is closely thematically tied to contemporary goings-on in Roman Italy. As an archaeology of storage, this book forsakes representativity, but hopes to shine new light on old debates and present exciting new opportunities for further research. Aside from the question of storage among the rural poor, mentioned above, other notable omissions concern military storage and supply,107 and a whole list of potentially highly significant stored goods and contexts, including libraries and archives,108 slaves as stores of human capital,109 coin hoards,110 and cattle and animals more generally.111 Geographically, the eastern Mediterranean, including Egypt with its rich papyrological and archaeological evidence on storage, remains outside the scope of this book.112 The conceptual unfolding of this book is more latent but no less important: it is signaled by the key terms that follow each chapter title in between brackets. These concepts start from the problems and opportunities identified regarding histories of matter in this chapter, and build on one another: each chapter acts as a conceptual, as much as a thematic or historical, building block. Chapter 2 (matter) is preoccupied with diversifying the material temporalities regarding different staples: grain, water, and wine. Chapter 3 (practice) takes this lead, but refines it by specifying that there is no such thing as matter an sich: matter – and its temporality – is always already historically articulated. The key to unlocking such historically embedded material temporalities and their social and economic consequences is to consider practice. Chapter 4 (assemblage) follows on from this realization that matter is never not relational: it thinks less about the intrinsic composition of stored goods, and more about their articulation in relational assemblages. Material temporalities are not just articulated by processes of decay and transformation, but also by literally shifting the components of assemblages. Moreover, Chapter 4 moves away from the focus on agricultural storage to consider a wide variety of stuff. Chapter 5 (flow) scales this idea up, while focusing more closely on a recurrent characteristic of Imperial Roman assemblages: standardization. It traces the preconditions and results of

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creating standardized flows of goods through storage, but also explores what is at stake in not standardizing. Finally, Chapter 6 (scale) recasts the Roman empire as a kaleidoscopic empire, with different scales and registers linked at their fringes by shared concerns or “boundary objects” – in particular a notion of storage as family business – instead of neatly enveloping one another. While setting out with a rather traditional notion of empire as socio-political unit, this book thus builds towards a novel, partial, and bottom-up description of empire as seen through the practice of storage, in all its messiness. The ultimate end goal is to weave subtle and supple threads and recompose a crucial sequence in the DNA of Roman socio-economics: how a collection of farmers turned empire grappled with itself and the world, all while creating this very world. While the bookends of Chapters 2 and 6 engage the traditional arenas of farmer and empire, the rest of the book explores the leakage between these foci – other actors, different dynamics, and, especially, the missing masses of storage.

TWO

NEEDS/WANTS (MATTER): VILLAS IN CENTRAL ITALY

THE TO POS OF THE GOOD FARMER: GLOBAL, MEDITERRANEAN, ROMAN

The good farmer stores seed corn to pass on the vitality of growth to the next sowing season. The good farmer stores grain to protect their family from food shortages. The good farmer does not waste. The good farmer “stores up for himself; he stores up for others. He cares for his assets; he saves for others . . . he saves for the future.”1 The last predicate belongs to a collection of Aztec knowledge curated by the sixteenth-century Franciscan friar Bernardino de Sahagún. But it would equally well describe the bonus agricola as idealized by Cato in his second-century bc De Agri Cultura, which elevates the good farmer to a general template for the good man (vir bonus).2 And it is not as far removed as its date may suggest from Hesiod’s seventh-century bc Works and Days,3 or from Xenophon’s fourth-century bc Oeconomicus, in which Socrates’ interlocutor begs him to explain how to generate a large surplus from a patrimony, given Socrates’ apparent ability to save or “store” even based on the little he owns.4 From Hesiod over Cato to Sahagún, from the Greeks and Romans to the Aztecs, the topos of the good farmer – storing and saving – was inextricably interwoven with the moral landscape of agricultural societies. But unlike the Aztecs, the Greeks and the Romans inhabited an environmental and climatological niche specific to the Mediterranean, with its pattern of micro-ecologies and -geographies and marked intra- and inter-annual 19

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variability in rainfall.5 Always expecting a bad year, but unable to predict it, the Mediterranean farmer relied on storage as a risk buffer.6 And inhabiting a specific locale in a fractured landscape, the Mediterranean farmer manipulated storage to exchange for products from elsewhere. The Mediterranean farmer was at pains to engineer stability, and if possible growth, under inherently unstable conditions. Today’s windfall could turn into tomorrow’s dearth.7 But today’s windfall could also amount to sudden profit. Profit-seeking and risk-buffering emerge as two sides of the same coin of Mediterranean agriculture.8 This duality framed a careful balance between needs and wants, between frugalitas and luxuria.9 The good farmer (always male in the moral sermons) curates his family and estate’s needs, assuring both their physical survival and their social wellbeing into an uncertain future,10 in sharp contrast to the urban masses who “saw to their sustenance on a day-today basis.”11 The wasteful farmer, instead, spoils both his dependents and his farm by squandering the fruits of their labor, spending more than gaining, and flaunting his wealth. The boundary between the necessary and the desired was under constant scrutiny. Its transgression and adjustment were both social and economic issues, but also had profound moral resonance. And this boundary was surveilled in and through storage: as needs turn into wants, stored goods transform from the physical stuff of reproduction into the social currency of surplus. As storage takes stock, so too does society. Storage does not simply contain surplus, it defines surplus – it defines what is enough by materializing more than enough.12 When Cato urges his readers to sell the surplus of wine and grain from their farms, he speaks about “quod supersit,” that which remains or survives – at once a relative description and a materialization of presence.13 Needs and wants are both biologically anchored and socially constructed, and surplus is only ever “relative” or “experienced,” never absolute.14 Even if needs were to be restricted to strict biological survival – which they are not, including instead social standing and wellbeing – they would always already be social as well. Not only do different bodies need different calorific intakes – children for instance go through unequal growth spurts – but these bodies are also socially defined – for instance what it means to be a child, at what age one starts working or having children.15 As a locus for the expression and the monitoring of needs and wants, storage historicizes the apparently timeless topos of the good farmer. In a Mediterranean context, the choreography of needs and wants came with a particular temporality, defined by the suddenness and immediacy of windfalls and dearth, of success and failure. Sudden change in conditions disrupted the cyclical seasonality of agriculture, like a pendulum swung out of its rhythm.16 The peculiarity of the Roman case, however, is that this pendulum was swung so far out that it struggled to regain its momentum, creating acute anxiety over social conditions and economic opportunities.

THE TOPOS OF THE GOOD FARMER

In particular, in Late Republican Roman Italy a new world of opportunity dawned on agriculture and on the needs and wants it fostered, a world triggered by conquest and the tributary and commercial interests this spurred.17 From the fourth century bc onwards, Rome expanded its hold over Italy, and started meddling in Mediterranean political geography, leading it into haphazard battles and coups that kick-started its history of conquest. The three Punic Wars during the third and second century bc helped assure Rome’s dominance in the western Mediterranean (see Chapter 3), while in the east it focused on Alexander’s legacy from the second century bc onwards.18 Conquest of the east in particular brought home both wealth and new styles for consuming that wealth. Among those new styles was a different template for power, modeled on the autocracy of the diadochs, Alexander’s former generals whose military prowess eventually yielded them territorial states and monarchic dynasties. However sensitive the subject of monarchic rule was in Rome, this cocktail for power constituted by military success, territorial expansion,19 and dictatorial execution provided a close parallel for the reality of the Late Republic, when Rome’s political stage became dominated by wealthy generals, a model that reached its apogee with Pompey and Julius Caesar in the first century bc. The social backlash too became palpable in the first century bc. As the traditional model of Republican power with its checks and balances was eroded, the anxieties surrounding the new models and riches from conquest seeped into elite debate and behavior.20 While Rome was expanding its territories in the Mediterranean, unrest arose amongst its Italian allies, eventually leading to the extension of Roman citizenship across Italy by the end of the Social War (88 bc). As a result, rich nobles from other Italian cities could hold office in Rome, and vie for magisterial power there, in direct competition with the Republic’s old aristocratic family lineages. Meanwhile, a new world of economic opportunity took root.21 As Italy drew in riches from its conquests, so it started exporting its agricultural products – especially wine and oil – to its newly annexed territories in the last two centuries bc.22 Export peaked in the first century bc, as reflected in the extraordinarily wide distribution of Dressel 1B wine amphorae from Italy (from 70 bc onwards).23 The landscape of production in Central Italy was focused on the villa, an agricultural estate with a sizable output and investment in permanent production facilities. As is clear from this relative definition, the archaeological cut-off point between “villa” and “farm” is arbitrary,24 and is sometimes taken to reflect patterns of consumption rather than production.25 The archaeological history of the villa in Central Italy is fraught with ideological overtones, stemming in particular from an Italian Marxist narrative linking the expansion of estates, the production of cash crops for export (in particular wine), and the influx of cheap slave labor.26 Small farms were thought to have become

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absorbed by the large cash-cropping estates, supposedly as men had to leave their farms for military service, Hannibal left a trail of devastation across Italy in the Second Punic War, and the rich scooped up both the small properties of the poor and public land.27 Meanwhile, it is clear that even those estates jumping on the profit-oriented export train – with Settefinestre28 as the paradigmatic example – maintained a mixed cultivation strategy, producing not just cash crops but also grain, fruits, etc. And the reliance on a slave workforce has been nuanced as survey archaeology highlights the continued importance of small farms.29 Villas and small farms were complementary rather than exclusive categories, as villas relied on seasonal labor from independent farmers or dependent tenants.30 From a historical angle, in turn, the impact of military conscription and mortality on the supposed “demise” of the small farmer has been questioned,31 as has the role of the ager publicus in the Gracchan land reforms of the later second century bc.32 In addition, the geography of production was regionally diverse. Coastal sites benefited from the ready access to maritime export routes towards the western provinces, while the estates in the Roman suburbium tapped into the large urban market, supplying not just staples but also perishable fruits, vegetables, flowers, game, etc. that could survive the short distance to the metropolis.33 In other parts of Central Italy, in particular in the more remote and fractured inland areas, economic opportunities and settlement patterns were different still, with the creation of “peasant” landscapes.34 In sum, more and more large production facilities or “villas” dotted the coastal plains of Campania, Latium, and southern Tuscany, with a peak in the first century bc, in a symbiotic relationship with smaller sites and their workforce. While the archaeology of villas speaks to their embracing of the new opportunities created by conquest, the writings of the agronomists show how the topos of the toiling, wise farmer, caring for his land – both property and country – was activated as a form of “imagined nostalgia,” nostalgia for a cultural construct rather than for a lived reality, but every bit as powerful.35 A model was found in Cincinnatus, a fifth-century bc patrician who was called on as a dictator, and having led Rome to victory, laid down his privileges and returned to his farm.36 From a Late Republican and Early Imperial perspective, the tale of Cincinnatus served to criticize those who weltered in their extraordinary powers and succumbed to the lure of eastern luxuries. Columella for instance, writing in the first century ad, dwells on Cincinnatus in the preface to his De Re Rustica to criticize how “yesterday's morals and strenuous manner of living are out of tune with our present extravagance and devotion to pleasure (luxuriae et deliciis nostris).”37 A century earlier, Varro too bemoaned how the toiling farmer of yore had been replaced by countrymen dwelling in luxurious villas on the Hellenistic model.38 Even in their most practical passages, stipulating what kind of property to buy, how

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to schedule the cultivation cycle, how many wine presses to maintain, etc., the writings of the agronomists were as much about elite self-representation as they were about how to run a farm.39 The questions defining elite morality – the vir bonus as bonus agricola – revolved largely around legitimizing or condemning behavior40 – what kinds of foods could (not) be eaten, what kind of clothing could (not) be tolerated, which pastimes were (in)appropriate – as the actual sources of wealth and power and the reality of an expanding political constituency could neither be denied nor reversed. Various sumptuary laws were passed, which “were not directed against wealth, but against certain types of expenditure.”41 Making profit was not a bad thing, if done and channeled in the right way – i.e. as a good farmer.42 The Roman take on this Mediterranean topos was shaped by the historical reality of conquest, along with its peculiar stresses and opportunities. Much had changed, and the practices conjured up by imagined nostalgia did not always map onto reality. But both in imagination and in reality, storage was the very mechanism articulating needs and wants, and policing the boundary between frugalitas and luxuria. Even in the Early Empire, storage remained a loaded moral mechanism: in throwing old grain in the Tiber to demonstrate his confidence in the grain supply and its annual renewal of stocks, Nero may have mistaken an act of conspicuous spillage (and thus luxury) for good “farming” (sensu caring for his land and people).43 Bryson Arabus, whose first-century ad text on estate management, probably written in Greek in Rome, is known from an Arabic and a partial Hebrew translation, was little concerned with farming, describing instead how a man seeking to manage and increase his wealth ought to decide.44 Yet while farming sensu stricto had receded to the background in this Early Imperial account, saving or “preservation” continued to be the order of the day, and more particularly, the advice was still that revenues should top expenditure, as with a “developing and growing” body, in part to accrue capital, in part to guard against “the possibility of an accident, a disaster, or commercial losses.”45 But what had changed with the intervening creation of empire? ARCHITECTURAL STRATEGIES BETWEEN RATIO AND DI SPLAY

The construction of villas in Central Italy (current regions of Toscana, Umbria, Lazio, and Campania) boomed in the first century bc (Figure 2.1).46 The Roman elite had never been so rich, never so cosmopolitan, and never so far removed from the world of the Republic (or from its nostalgic imagination of this world). The villa – at once working farm and canvas for display – became a prime stage for the anxieties and opportunities of the Late Republic, in particular revolving around the question of when profit-making and display tipped over into intolerable luxuria.47 Storage defined this very question.

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2.1. Map of villa sites in Central Italy discussed in text. Dots: villas; triangles: cities; stars: ports. Drawn by author. Legend: 1: Auditorium; 2: Quarto Cappello del Prete; 3: Fiano Romano; 4: Formia; 5: Boscoreale; 6: Settefinestre; 7: Colonnacce; 8: Ventotene; 9: Francolise; 10: Centroni; 11: Grottacce; 12: Albano; 13: Boscotrecase; 14: San Giustino; 15: Tivoli; 16: Capena; 17: Gragnano; 18: Pompeii; 19: Herculaneum; 20: Rome; 21: Ostia; 22: Portus; 23: Puteoli.

Nowhere is the tension between economic rationalization and expressive display as pronounced as in modern commentaries, echoing a divide between formalist and substantivist readings of the Roman economy.48 As the epitome of substantivism, Finley argued that ancient economic action was curbed by overriding status concerns.49 Modern economic principles of profit and investment are of little value in studying the past, as they were always secondary to, and in pursuit of, an essentially moral self-positioning. In the Late Republic, the Italian elite invested in land primarily to comply with the moral principle

ARCHITECTURAL STRATEGIES BETWEEN RATIO AND DISPLAY

of the “good farmer”50 – any profit was derivative and limited by the dominant social intentions of the owner. What we would expect to see when considering Late Republican villa storage through a substantivist lens is an emphasis on display and a parading of storage as part of the moral economy of the bonus agricola. Formalists countered Finley’s wariness about the reality of basic economic principles in the Roman world.51 In archaeology, this has devolved into an argument about quantities, with increasing archaeological evidence testifying to the scale of production and export and to the uptake of technical innovations, fitting a modernist account of the Roman economy.52 Whatever concerns with identity and status elite authors may communicate, these did not significantly hinder rational economic decision-making and profit-seeking.53 The trope of the good farmer discussed in the preamble to this chapter would have been, at most, a matter of discourse, perhaps even the modern analyst’s chimera. An investigation of villa storage facilities in Late Republican Italy is thus expected to yield evidence for a heightened rationalization of storage that enabled villa owners to tap into new and larger markets. Can an empirical examination of the architectural imprint of villa storage facilities in Late Republican Central Italy help decide on this question? Many villas in Central Italy were excavated in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, sometimes by private owners with at best superficial oversight and reporting by archaeologists (as in the Vesuvian area by Matteo Della Corte). As a result, dating is often decided on the basis of masonry styles rather than stratigraphy, and functional interpretation of spaces largely derives from planimetric evidence. More recent excavations are thus important in providing comparanda, while archaeobotanical study of both legacy and new data adds much-needed texture to functional identifications.54 The following analysis is based on a sample of villas with storerooms included in the catalogues by Marzano (2007), de Franceschini (2005), and Carrington (1931).55 The catalogues’ original numbering was maintained,56 with a letter denoting the region: T for Tuscany, L for Latium, and C for Campania. The datedness of Carrington’s list for Campania is countered by inclusion of a selection of recently excavated villa sites,57 including the so-called Villa Regina at Boscoreale (C39),58 Posto (C40), and San Rocco (C41) in Francolise,59 two sites in Terzigno (C42 and C43) on the southern slopes of the Vesuvius,60 Gragnano, Via dei Sepolcri (C44),61 and Ponticelli (C45) southeast of Naples and west of the Vesuvius.62 Pellegrino (2017) provides a more recent catalogue of storage (barns and granaries) and processing (threshing floors) facilities for the villas in the Vesuvian area. Appendix Tables A1–A3 respectively list all general-purpose storerooms (excluding unequivocally domestic storage)63 (Table A1; n = 42), cisterns separate from the villa body (Table A2; n = 26), and wine or oil storerooms

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(cellae vinariae or oleariae) (Table A3; n = 46) included in the above catalogues. The resulting data crisply demonstrate the chronological clustering of villa storage facilities in the first century bc, when a disproportionate share of storerooms was constructed.64 The first century bc was also the historical conjuncture of villa building, and of the novel economic opportunities presented by a growing Roman metropolis and an increased export to now formally controlled provinces. Study of the plans and structures of the storage facilities sheds more light on the architectural strategies deployed to position storage amidst the crises and opportunities of the Late Republic, between imagined nostalgia and new realities, between needs and wants.

Diversification Combined with study of floor plans, diachronic evaluation of the villa storage facilities in Appendix Tables A1–A3 shows that the conjuncture of the first century bc not only led to an increase in the construction of storage facilities, but also to a notable diversification in their types. The origin of the villa phenomenon is debated,65 but while earlier residential-cum-productive large structures such as the Auditorium site (L195) no doubt had storage facilities, it is difficult to label specific architectural features or spaces as such (Figure 2.2). Room 10 in the first period (ca. 550–500 bc) of the Auditorium site has been identified as a storage space for staples, possibly even a barn, but the room itself is an entirely hypothetical reconstruction.66 The adjacent Room 9, whose walls are preserved, yielded some fragments of dolia or large ceramic storage containers and might indeed have had a primary storage function. Generic storerooms in the sample under study are regrettably of uncertain date (e.g. Quarto Cappello del Prete in Latium (L173)). The earliest types of spaces that can confidently be associated with storage are rectangular rooms, often with a central row of piers or pillars (possibly to accommodate internal divisions and/or a first floor or mezzanine), 2.2. Auditorium site (Rome), period 1, phase 2 and frequently in a liminal position in the (later sixth century bc). Black: preserved remains; building so as to facilitate outside comgrey: reconstruction. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Carandini, D’Alessio and Di Giuseppe 2006: 87, munication either for the export of proFig. 41. duce and/or for the import of supplies

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2.3. Boscoreale (Campania), Cività Giuliana, second first century bc, with hypothetical haybarn (room 12) and large liminal storeroom (room 13). Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Della Corte 1921: 424.

(Figure 2.3).67 Often these spaces communicated both with a threshing floor oriented outwards and with the villa’s internal production areas (Figure 2.4). The sample under study includes examples from at least the second century bc onwards (Appendix Table A1). The first century bc, instead, witnessed a remarkable diversification of storeroom types, with new architectural solutions, often in response to more narrowly circumscribed functions. Many of these novel forms multiplied the basic unit of a storage cell and adjusted the layout and organization of these cells to local needs. For example, storage cells could be ordered around a courtyard, as in the lavish villa of the Volusii Saturnini (L106) at Fiano Romano (Figure 2.5).68 Or, in an alternative model, storerooms were multiplied and assembled into warehouse structures in private villa harbors, as at Villa Rubino (L114) at Formia (Figure 2.6). Before the first century bc, most villas stored water underneath the main courtyard, or beneath another part of the villa body.69 Dating of such structures is difficult,70 but water storage would have been needed even in the earliest villa buildings, and subterranean cisterns were a feature of villas well before the first century bc.71 As observed for generic storerooms, the first century bc also witnessed the development of new forms of water storage, including above-ground cisterns, multi-naved cisterns, and other variants (e.g. Quarto Cappello del Prete (L173)) (Appendix Table A2).72

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2.4. Boscoreale (Campania), Villa Regina, liminal storeroom leading onto threshing floor, Augustan. Photo by author.

Alongside new types of storage facilities came increasing spatial and organizational differentiation of storage functions. Where grain storage in the earliest stages of the villa phenomenon probably happened in the generic all-purpose storerooms integrated in the villa building, specialized granaries appear in the first century bc. While in many cases those granaries clearly still did more than just storing cereals, they increasingly muted the multi-purpose nature which they had inherited from the preceding practices of villa storage73 by spatially separating out different goods and functions. The “multi-purpose” granary (room V) in the Villa delle Argentarie in Boscoreale (C13), integrated in the villa body and communicating with a threshing floor, contained carbonized remains of hay, chickpeas, and beans mixed against its northeast wall (Figure 2.7).74 In the freestanding granary at Settefinestre (T3), only the relatively small room A134 (ca. 6  3 m) in marginal position yielded the kinds of raised floors that are positively indicative of grain storage (Figure 2.8).75 Seeds of different types of cereals (wheat, barley, oat) were found in the central, pillared space (room A136), but legumes were also attested.76 The find of stone weights in this same central area77 highlights its role as a bottleneck: redefining and perhaps partially processing the produce brought in in terms of standardized units and framing it in anticipation of its future trajectory (e.g. sale). But four rooms were excluded from the circuit of the main granary

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2.5. Fiano Romano (Latium), Volusii Saturnini villa. Black: Late Republican; grey: Augustan. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Sgubini Moretti 1988: 23, Fig. 21.

and had a separate access on the north side. Because of the ample width of the thresholds, the excavator labeled these rooms as stables or “garages” for carriages and tools.78 This diversification of storage facilities and the attendant practices created an imperative of choice for what had previously been decided through unspoken

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2.6. Formia (Latium), Villa Rubino. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Coarelli 1982: 365.

2.7. Boscoreale (Campania), Pisanella, Villa delle Argentarie. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Pasqui 1897, Tavola XIV.

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2.8. Ansedonia (Tuscany), Settefinestre, plan of the villa and its annexes (granary top-right), first century ad. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Carandini 1985a: 140, Fig. 139.

tradition and implicit knowledge – where and how to store one’s staples.79 The very range of options necessitated a choice, which was always also an intervention into the discourse of needs and wants. Even if the result was to continue using a multi-purpose storeroom integrated in the villa body as had been common before, this would no longer have been glossed over as the normal practice, but instead would suddenly have become a loaded decision, perhaps read as reflecting deliberate conservatism. Storage was thus morally activated. But it also became economically more complex and robust. Indeed, the architectural and functional novelties of the first century bc proved longlasting, remaining in use for as long as the villa phenomenon itself. All of the above types of storage facilities include at least one example constructed in the second century ad or later (Appendix Tables A1–A2). Freestanding granaries

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or barns in particular continued to be erected into the Later Imperial period (Via Gabina, Site 10 (L372); Fiano Romano, Baciletti (L102)).

Disconnection Another architectural strategy deployed in the construction of storage facilities from the first century bc onwards was disconnection: many of the new types of storerooms became dislodged from the main villa building. One phenomenon of disconnection was the appearance in the first century bc of freestanding granaries, often buildings on a large scale. The granary at Settefinestre (T3) measured ca. 20  25 m, with a central, pillared space surrounded by smaller side rooms (Figure 2.8). What had previously been multi-purpose storerooms integrated in the main villa body (e.g. Castel di Guido, Colonnacce (L60)) were now separate, visible buildings. Patterns of access remained largely the same, especially as compared to those storerooms that had been in a liminal position in villa buildings, with wide, direct entrances facilitating turnover of the storeroom’s contents, and often leading directly onto a threshing floor (e.g. Villa Regina, Boscoreale (C39), Figure 2.4). The Settefinestre granary was installed on the highest point of the sloping terrain of the villa site, making it nothing less than a landmark, both for inhabitants of the estate, and for travelers and passers-by approaching along the nearby road.80 Its orientation was slightly off-axis compared to the rest of the estate’s buildings – a visual strategy that would have made the granary stand out even more conspicuously (Figure 2.8). These Late Republican architectural tropes subsequently became stock building techniques. Already in the second half of the first century bc, for example, Vitruvius recommended that granaries be built at a distance from the main farm building.81 At the same time, the freestanding position of the granary at Settefinestre was no doubt due to motivations of security. The lack of joining walls with the villa structure reduced the acute risk of fire spreading,82 and few entrances and small, elevated windows discouraged rodents while maximizing the airflow.83 Optimal conditions of preservation would equally have been the motivation behind the granary’s location on the highest point of the slope, assuring natural drainage, and maximizing sunshine. Moreover, its separation from the villa body opened up space for the addition of apartments for live-in custodians.84 Once disconnected, the storage space thus became more easily controllable. Water storage, in turn, had been a standard but invisible feature of villas in Central Italy before the first century bc: most examples had one or more underground cistern(s) as part of the villa body, often installed underneath the central court.85 As a result, a villa’s water storage capacity remained physically inconspicuous and socially mute. From the first century bc onwards, some cisterns became disconnected from the villa body. Many freestanding cisterns

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2.9. Monte Compatri (Latium), Casaccia, above-ground cistern. Valenti 2003: 374, Fig. 399, courtesy of Massimiliano Valenti.

were only semi-interred or situated entirely above ground, which added to their striking visible impact (Figure 2.9).86 Much like granaries, the freestanding cisterns too became real landmarks in an estate’s layout. But as cisterns were no longer tied to the villa body, their position could be selected more strategically. Moreover, above-ground cisterns were easier to maintain and allowed water to be tapped and channeled more efficiently. Freestanding cisterns thus at once increased the communicative potential of water storage and enabled site management to take advantage of suitable locations, often points of higher elevation, to rationalize the supply of water to all parts of the villa. The warehouse complexes installed in private harbors had a similar visible impact, especially on those arriving by boat, because of their disconnection from the main villa body and their installation on a lower level, near the waterfront. At the Villa Rubino in Formia (L114), a square courtyard dated to the first century bc was surrounded on all sides by series of rectangular (store) rooms (Figure 2.6). The warehouse-like construction was installed near the private harbor of the villa, whose main buildings were situated a little more than 100 m to the east.87 At the site of Ventotene on the Pontine Islands (L168) ruins including fishponds and a large cistern reveal the presence of a maritime villa. A harbor was constructed in a small inlet east of these ruins, and flanked by a series of rectangular storerooms. Such warehouses in private villa harbors presented visitors with an impressive memento of the estate’s (and its owner’s)

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command of resources and their flows, but also made for more convenient (un) loading of ships.88 Disconnection as an architectural strategy not only made storage facilities more visible as separate buildings in the villa complex, it also defined and even paraded them as storerooms. Storage became a feature to be put on view, in its multiple, increasingly diversified, guises. The connection between storage and visibility is one that was at play in other societies as well: with regard to Maya sites, for instance, Julia Hendon notes that “the difference in more and less visible formal storage space [. . .] relates to differences in the application of an ethic of storage that varies in conjunction with the need to define and validate social status.”89 Social status had become a hot topic in Late Republican Rome, and storage a prime arena for its affirmation and display. But as an architectural strategy, disconnection from the main villa body also made storage facilities more adaptable to the new economic horizons that dawned on Central Italy.

Monumentalization A final strategy affecting the different kinds of villa storage facilities was monumentalization: storerooms were built on an increasingly grand scale, with architectural and decorative techniques aimed at emphasizing their monumentality. Monumentality first and foremost concerned size. The freestanding granaries that made their appearance in the first century bc were generally larger than the preceding all-purpose storerooms integrated in the villa body. Examples range from 14.5  3.7 m (San Rocco, Francolise (C41)) to 20  12 m or even 28  22 m (Settefinestre, Ansedonia (T3) (Figure 2.8), respectively central space and whole granary building). This overall scalar increase reflects increased production output in the midst of a (for Italy) felicitous economic horizon. But true monumentalization demands more than mere size. The granary at Settefinestre, constructed with stone elevations and beaten earth floors, presented the image of a tall, closed-off façade, interrupted only by small windows, and communicating at once inaccessibility and control. Visitors would have been struck by the overwhelming scale of the volume – both of the building and of the presumed reserves within – while not being in a position to examine or evaluate either the quantity or the quality of the actual goods stored within. In addition, no investment was spared on construction of a long, wide brick ramp on the granary’s south side, providing direct access to the (reconstructed) first floor, which has been read as rationalization of the granary’s management.90 The ramp’s width of about 3 m and its gentle slope would have allowed easy access for carts. As a consequence, a laborious step in the workflow – hauling the cartloads of grain from the

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lower to the upper floor in order to dry – could be eliminated. But other than facilitating access, the ramp also presented a massive volume, and in combination with the granary building itself the visual impact was that of a true bastion. Cisterns, in turn, echoed the monumentalizing mechanisms applied to granaries. A correlation existed between the disconnection of cisterns from the villa body and a significant increase in their volume (Appendix Table A2).91 The largest varieties of these cisterns often had multiple internal naves, supported by thick walls, entirely or partially above ground (e.g. Quarto Cappello del Prete (L173)). The dramatic expansions in size were made possible by the development of opus caementicium or Roman concrete, especially its hydraulic variant that was used for port construction as well,92 and responded to opportunities offered by the demand for horticultural products of an ever-expanding Roman metropolis.93 The effect of the concrete constructions, as with the granaries, was that of a closed volume dominating the landscape. In the case of Posto (Francolise, Campania (C40)), for instance, the excavators characterized the three-naved cistern as a “flat-topped box-like structure.”94 Once more, it was sheer size and volume that dazzled the onlooker, not a precise calculation or a qualitative assessment of stored products. Another new rendering of water storage that made its appearance in the Late Republican period were cisterns worked into substructures and terraces, often into the basis villae itself – the podium that served as foundation for the main villa body.95 Generic storerooms too could be conveniently integrated within such substructures, as was probably the case at Boville, Centroni (L43). At Grottacce, San Marinella (L179) cisterns were possibly converted into storerooms. Access to storerooms of this kind proceeded from the main part of the villa. To the outside, they would have presented a similar monumental impression, parading a massive volume without enabling the onlooker to differentiate or evaluate contents. A rather different take on monumentality was offered by the storerooms ordered around a central courtyard, as at Ercolano, Albano (L3), the Villa “della Standa” at Fiano Romano (L104), or the Volusii Saturnini villa (L106), also at Fiano Romano (Figure 2.5). Interpretation of the courtyard at the latter site has been particularly contentious, as some scholars identified the layout of the complex as slave quarters.96 The villa at Gragnano, Carità (C34)97 (Figure 2.10) and the imperial-run villa at Boscotrecase, Rota (C31) also had courtyards surrounded at least on one side (in the case of Carità) by small, undecorated cells of more or less equal size (measuring respectively ca. 3.7  3 m and 2.6  1.5 m). The find of iron shackles in both of these cases seems to make their role in the confinement of slaves more likely,98 and thus places them within the “slave mode of production” of an economically incentivized Central Italy,99 even if this does not rule out the use of some of these cells for

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2.10. Gragnano (Campania), Carità. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Della Corte 1923: 276, Fig. 3.

what we tend to see as more “common” stored products (foodstuffs, tools, etc.). Regardless of the actual content of the storerooms, however, the effect of being surrounded by a courtyard boasting resources acted as a powerful form of display. At the Volusii Saturnini villa (Figure 2.5), the onlooker’s gaze would have first been drawn by the focal point of the family shrine, installed at the courtyard’s center, and then diffracted by the multiplication of surrounding rooms, which communicated abundance in a different guise than the monolithic volume of granaries and cisterns. Wine storerooms or cellae vinariae were not reinvented in type or organization to the same extent as granaries or general storerooms, but many examples

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2.11. Ansedonia (Tuscany), Settefinestre, wine storeroom, first century ad. Drawn by author, after Carandini 1985a: 110, Fig. 180.

show a similar dramatic increase in size around the first century bc. Alongside a more standard size range appeared some considerably larger examples (e.g. 44  4 m at Ansedonia, Settefinestre (T3) (Figure 2.11); 40  4 m at San Giustino, Colle Plinio (U23)) – no doubt as a response to the new opportunities for export. Increase in size, closed-off façades, new building techniques, axiality, and carefully managed viewsheds, all of these mechanisms at once responded to the new economic reality of the Roman heartland and served to monumentalize the activity of storage and its locales. As storage facilities went from being mere practical spaces to true monuments, their potential for communication changed accordingly, and they became tools consciously manipulated in articulating needs and wants, or, in Nicholas Purcell’s words, in the romance of storage.100

Towards a Morality in Action In the Late Republic, and more specifically around the first century bc watershed, villa storage found itself at the nexus of all that created a heightened awareness of and concern with needs and wants: the influx of wealth from conquest; new architectural models and styles that came with a Rome expanding its horizons; and the increase in Italian export of cash crops such as wine and oil. Rather than an active discourse on storage as representational

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mechanism, the moral debate surfaced as a by-product of mobilizing storage in a new world, with new social realities and new economic opportunities. In other words, rational resource management and deliberate showing off went hand in hand. While this relation between economic opportunities and moral messages may have been pictured as a paradox in modern scholarship, culminating in the formalist versus substantivist stalemate, it was an inextricable one in Late Republican Central Italy. And it was enacted through the new storage facilities with which villa estates were being equipped, as discussed throughout this section. In particular, the first century bc witnessed the sudden development of a variety of new types of storage facilities: warehouses in private villa harbors; cisterns and storerooms worked into the massive bases and substructures on which villa buildings were built; entire courtyards devoted to storage. This diversification forced villa owners – even those untainted by the prevailing anxiety – to make a conscious choice about practices that had hitherto been unspoken routines, such as where to store one’s grain or how to organize water supplies. In addition, the generalization of concrete or opus caementicium expanded the range of possible building materials.101 Disconnection of storage units from the main villa body increased their visibility, and made a mere choice about how to organize storage into an explicit statement, seen and judged by peers, dependents, and passers-by. Storage was not only put on view through disconnection of freestanding granaries, cisterns, or harbor warehouses, but also framed by the monumentalization of these buildings. Massive volumes, closed-off façades, multiplication, and other architectural strategies all grappled with abundance and control. But what precisely was the message communicated by the changes in villa storage facilities in first-century bc Central Italy? As monuments, storage facilities put production on a pedestal: their message was one of conspicuous production.102 Production was at once message and means, both content and form. Put differently, the specific architectural strategies affecting villa storage facilities operated both as symbolic statements and as real-world interventions in a historically specific discourse on conspicuous production that was spurred by the particular conditions of a nascent empire and its economic impact. In comparative anthropology, storage tends to be foregrounded as an area of social competition especially in political formations without a formalized hierarchy.103 It is therefore all the more telling that these strategies were echoed in Late Republican Central Italy. Much like in the contentious “chiefdoms,” traditionally seen as far removed from the Roman state on the brink of becoming an empire, social roles and political hierarchies were increasingly dissolved, fluid, and uncertain in the first century bc. The discourse of conspicuous production in which villa storage facilities participated bloated a general Mediterranean propensity to guard against the

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risk and the uncertainty associated with volatile ecological conditions and large inter- and intra-annual variability,104 and made it the core of an imaginary Roman identity. Storage is where new opportunities for profit-making were realized, but also scrutinized. This is one answer to the question of why storage occupied so prominent a position in the villas of first-century bc Central Italy. It is not the only one, though. Another, compatible, answer to questions about the centrality of storage in this specific time and place requires a different view on material culture, and, indeed, on matter. It sees the material world – in casu storage buildings and the goods they contained – not merely in analogy to a canvas on which culturally and historically specific values were being painted. Instead it necessitates a closer look at the actual processes affecting and enacted by stored goods, processes largely ignored by current socio-economic debates. Indeed, Finley’s substantivism posited concerns with status as so determining as to override actual practice. For Finley, morality is situated in the mind, and all action is ultimately reduced to “psychology” and “thought-processes.”105 His critics implicitly conceded Finley’s take on morality as a matter of the mind, but resituated the ideational as irrelevant to, rather than determining of, practice. Whatever elite authors like Cato or Cicero professed about the ideal landowner did not keep them and their peers from engaging in profitoriented, market-driven production and trade. In recent anthropology and philosophy, instead, morality is reclaimed as a matter of practice.106 Morality in action describes an attention to how practices intervene in, and comment on, a given socio-economic landscape. Moral “debate” is no longer restricted to discourse, but is waged through real-world actions. It is time, then, to examine the practices associated with the new storage facilities of Late Republican Central Italy. MATERIAL MEDIATIO NS

The architectural strategies analyzed in the preceding section put storage center-stage in the Late Republican redefinition of needs and wants. The statements made by villa storerooms could be at once bold and ambivalent, as in the massive freestanding granary at Settefinestre speaking both to increasing rationalization of workflows and resources and to ostentatious display of produce and power. Such a narrative as sketched so far in this chapter attributes plenty of communication power to storage, but it does not really grant it any way of influencing action. Moreover, this communication seems to revert to the same sliding scale of conspicuous production – from rationalization to luxury – regardless of the kind of storage facility, and, more importantly, of the nature of the practices revolving around it or of the goods stored within it. This section, instead, will explore how the general architectural strategies of

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diversification, disconnection, and monumentalization interacted with the material practices of storage to create distinct historical possibilities. Grain, water, and wine were products with fundamentally different material properties, which responded in specific ways to storage, and therefore each led to a unique take on the dialogue of conspicuous production.

Grain and Ownership As a general rule, grain threatens to become spoilt with storage.107 Technologies of grain storage therefore tend to focus on immobilizing grain’s physical properties – the (at that time proverbial) “freezing in time” of stored goods.108 In Roman-period Italy, the technological strategy adopted was to store grain above ground while maximizing air circulation.109 Despite measures of temperature and humidity control,110 protection against weevil attack and insect infestation,111 and other ad hoc preservation strategies,112 grain stored in this way, however, did not keep for very long, and a fast turnover was needed in order to minimize losses from storage.113 Admittedly, Columella wrote that grain can be laid away “for a term of years” (in annos).114 In addition, two passages in the Historia Augusta recount how the emperor Septimius Severus on his death left seven years’ worth of tribute as surplus in his granaries for the Roman people.115 But aside from the technical difficulties in historicizing this passage116 and the peculiar scale at which tribute and its storage operated, the structural difficulties of Rome’s supply117 render it unlikely that this amount of grain had actually been, or could be, held in storage for seven years. (In other words, the “seven years” functions here as a generic amplifier, not as a specific measure of time.) Both archaeobotany and ethnography suggest that one- to two-year preservation was probably the generally prevailing upper limit for above-ground grain storage, depending on humidity and temperature, with real storage times probably well below that limit.118 Moreover, extra manipulations, such as repeated shoveling up of grain, had to be performed to enable preservation. Both such additional processing and a fast turnover were facilitated by gathering the stored grain as much as possible in a central place, from which it was easily accessible and a constant flow of stocking up and releasing grain could logistically be assured. Above-ground grain storage thus lent itself to centralization. In addition, the necessity to allow grain to “breathe,” as well as the regular required shoveling and processing, privileged storage in loose heaps or large bins.119 This could be accommodated by internally undifferentiated spaces, as recognized both in the pillared and liminal storerooms integrated in the villa body that continue throughout the history of villas and in the freestanding granaries that make their appearance in the first century bc. One can imagine such large spaces having been subject to ad hoc subdivisions in organic

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materials to separate out for example the grain that was already weighed, or that part of the stock that was ready for trade; in order to facilitate shoveling a heap from one side of the granary to the next; or to separate different types of stock, such as wheat, lentils, etc. The main space of the granary at Settefinestre (Figure 2.8), which yielded evidence of weights and measures, is also hypothesized to have had wooden screens for such ad hoc alterations of space and circulation.120 Without this kind of variable micro-management, however, one sack or shovelful of grain would have been qualitatively identical to the next – a lack of differentiation characteristic of bulk storage and emphasized by the architectural space of granaries, but also spurred by grain’s physical qualities. Indeed, grain was either good for sale and consumption, or it was not. Whatever sliding scale or grey zone existed, was extremely constrained, and consisted mostly of different degrees of processing and refinement before consumption.121 Different types of cereal were cultivated throughout antiquity, including in Roman Italy, and were differentiated in qualitative terms. The Roman world had a general preference for white bread wheat, at least for human consumption.122 Such bread wheat or triticum was a naked wheat, which needed to be threshed before milling, and was suitable for the production of bread.123 As a husked grain, emmer (Latin far), a traditional staple in Rome’s history,124 was more resistant to storage, did not need to be threshed before storage (if ears only were reaped),125 and by the Late Republic likely provided for consumption by lower class populations and for the urban market. Millet was both a widespread lower-rank human staple food and a source of fodder.126 Other cereals such as (hulled) barley were produced primarily as animal fodder.127 This ranked categorization could be relaxed somewhat under conditions of stress, when it was not unimaginable that for example cereals otherwise classified as animal fodder could be consumed by humans.128 But within any of these crop species little maneuver space existed for differentiation of qualities. While bread wheat, for instance, was regarded as superior, no higher or lower qualities of white bread wheat existed.129 The sliding scale between spoilt grain and grain ready for consumption was very narrow indeed.130 In contexts of crisis, of course, “old” grain, in storage for a year or longer, could be consumed. As mentioned above, Tacitus recounts how Nero sought to soothe the populace and its anxieties about the grain supply by throwing grain that had been spoilt by age in the Tiber, thus demonstrating that there was no need to resort to inferior, old grain.131 But no evidence hints at “fresh” and “old” grain being marketed differently, and the material depreciation of grain imposed an inescapable use-by date. The one key parameter for valuing grain was its weight per volume: under optimal storage conditions, grain would dry and its density would increase.132

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The architectural formula accommodating the necessity of fast turnover and the nature of bulk goods was to store grain in a single, centralized granary. As storerooms were disconnected from the villa body in the course of the first century bc, the resulting architectural form had to manage the material properties of grain and the practices of its storage technology. The result was the typical large, freestanding granary such as the iconic example at Settefinestre (Ansedonia (T3)) (Figure 2.8). This architectural rendering of granaries created a specific effect on the visitor or onlooker. The massive, closed-off buildings would have exuded symbolic overtones of control and ownership. While the granary as such spoke to ideals (never realities) of self-sufficiency,133 its success paradoxically depended on networks of allies, peers, tenants, and passers-by who would see and be impressed by the building and were expected to recognize their relative positioning in relation to it.134 But as granaries’ disconnection from the main villa building emphasized their visibility, their actual contents would have remained invisible. Visitors were not in a position to evaluate, let alone calculate, the actual content of these closed bastions. Any visceral reaction would probably have been translated into abstract superlatives – “big” or “large” – even if the granary in question was actually empty! Hendon describes how higher-status families on Maya sites would emphatically conceal their stored goods with closed stone-built façades, as opposed to the perishable storage units used by other groups on the same site.135 By making the contents invisible, the stone walls would have naturalized and reinforced awareness of the inequality of knowledge and power within the community. The closed façades of granaries might similarly have created and legitimized disparities in knowledge, and thus in power, between those who knew what was stored inside and those who could only guess.136 Such claims would have been facilitated by the granary’s singularity and centrality, a response to grain’s need for fast turnover. More specifically in Late Republican Central Italy, the single freestanding granary lent itself to emphasizing traditional values of ownership, defining the world according to a binary division between haves and have-nots, between the elite and the non-elite. Its vocabulary was a rather conservative one of belonging and exclusion in a world of social fluidity and economic opportunities. The conservatism associated with grain fits well with its role as the ultimate staple food of classical antiquity, catering for as much as 70 75 percent of the average diet.137 It is not unlikely that the granary would gain in symbolic leverage at a time when Rome especially was increasingly dependent on external grain supplies, even if it is generally agreed that this same dependency did not apply to most Italian communities, especially those situated inland.138 Precisely where the grain stored in granaries such as Settefinestre was eventually consumed is difficult to pin down archaeologically.

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All types and sizes of farms probably produced cereals to provide for their own subsistence and the maintenance of their workforce. Grain storage would have been too risky to allow pluri-annual speculation,139 even if that does not rule out production on large estates of grain surpluses for the market.140 The speculation that is attested based on landowners hoarding grain (or better, refusing to release stored grain) was probably not so much looking to drive up prices above average, as avoiding sale of the best part of a year’s harvest at rockbottom prices.141 With regard to grain, “speculation” could only exploit price variability throughout the year, following every harvest cycle, not so much inter-annual variation in yield.142 The contrast with the “have-nots,” the poorer farmers, was stark because of structural reasons: small farmers were in a less favorable position to store significant grain surpluses, not just because they lacked the facilities or the funds to invest in them, but especially because they did not have the financial and productive leeway to hold off on selling their grain until prices peaked.143 In other words, once prices to sell grain were profitable – right before the next harvest – small farmers likely had eaten their way through their own surpluses. Grain storage’s entanglement with the structural constraints of the agricultural cycle and its temporality led to its reinforcing of a conservative, binary divide between rich and poor, elite and non-elite. In sum, grain’s rapid physical change necessitating quick turnover interacted with the contemporary historical conditions and their architectural vocabulary to promote ownership and control, through massive, centralized buildings. But not all storage facilities that partook in Late Republican conspicuous production would have taken their owners down the same path.

Water and Opportunity Water storage was a standard feature of agricultural estates in Central Italy, but before the first century bc it was invisible both physically and socially: water was generally stored in one or more underground cisterns often installed underneath the central courtyard; and questions of where or how it was appropriate to store water were not posed. From the first century bc onwards, some cisterns were disconnected from the villa body and became increasingly larger, often equipped with multiple internal naves. Much like granaries, the freestanding cisterns too were monumentalized and became real landmarks in an estate’s layout. Alternatively, cisterns were integrated in increasingly monumental substructures and terraces supporting the villa body, as discussed in the previous section. In close analogy with granaries, cisterns provided large, undifferentiated spaces for bulk storage: little or no qualitative difference existed between one bucket of water and the next, just as one sack of grain was similar to another.144 The effect of these architectural features would have

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been the same overwhelming incalculability as described in the previous section for granaries: a volume so large that it exceeds calculation, and indeed, mere grasping. But key differences in the process of material change and its temporal implications meant that a similar architectural vocabulary opened up rather different possibilities for water storage than it did for grain storage. In contrast to grain, water does not go bad with time. Water does not transform physically within the temperature range expected in Central Italy during most of the year. Any contamination that did occur – especially with cisterns left uncovered – would not jeopardize most anticipated uses of the stored water, for irrigation, production, or horticulture.145 In marked contrast to aboveground grain storage, then, there was no pressure whatsoever on the speed of turnover of stored water. Neither the substance nor the value of water would be depreciated over time. As a result, no forces countered storage’s general adagio that keeping more for longer is better: given the inter- and even intraannual variability in rainfall in the Mediterranean climate, having an ample stock of water would almost certainly be rewarded come the next drought.146 While cisterns partook in the same architectural vocabulary of diversification, disconnection, and monumentalization that affected all villa storage facilities in Late Republican Central Italy, these mechanisms created distinct possibilities for water storage. Disconnection meant that cisterns could be dislodged from their traditional sunken and invisible position under the villa’s central courtyard. At first glance, the resulting monumentalized freestanding cisterns echo the emphasis on ownership and volume communicated by the contemporary granaries. But the lack of pressure on the speed of turnover of stored water did away with the urgency of centralization that defined aboveground grain storage: water did not have to be used or distributed quickly, hence there was no practical need to assemble it all in one place. Distribution logistics stressed the same affordances: the water from cisterns was to be used on the estate itself, while for some of the grain at least centralization would have facilitated distribution beyond the estate. As a result, once disconnected from the main villa body, cisterns could multiply and disperse across the estate. An estate’s water store no longer needed to be confined to a single location in space. Instead, a villa could now have multiple cisterns. Moreover, multiplicity meant that cisterns’ location could be targeted directly to where the water was needed. The cases of Posto and San Rocco (Francolise (C40 and C41)) illustrate these processes of disconnection and multiplication. Posto was a moderately sized agricultural establishment founded in the later second century bc. From the start on, its main courtyard was installed with a well that tapped into three galleries dug into the tufa substrate in search for access to water levels.147 In a major rebuilding phase dated to ca. 30 bc – squarely within the chronological

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horizon of the first century bc – the villa’s water management was drastically altered. A new well was constructed, maintaining its link with the tufa galleries. In the same phase a three-nave freestanding cistern connected to an aqueduct was installed north of the villa and slightly off-axis, increasing its visibility.148 The more lavish nearby site of San Rocco had boasted terraces with two cisterns since its foundation at the very start of the first century bc.149 At the same time as at Posto – around 30 bc – a phase of major rebuilding saw the replacement of previous water storage facilities with two freestanding cisterns of much larger capacity (Figure 2.12).150 The largest one with three naves communicated with an aqueduct and was installed directly north of the residential part. A second cistern with two naves stood in close relation to a newly constructed production area within the villa body.

2.12. San Rocco (Francolise), villa with freestanding cisterns (cross-hatched), 30 bc. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Cotton and Métraux 1985: 39.

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The case study of the transformations at Posto and San Rocco shows that the remodeling of water storage did not just respond to the prevailing historical conditions in the Late Republic, but actively intervened in them by creating distinct opportunities. More specifically, the generic architectural strategy of disconnection combined with water’s physical inertia to allow multiplication of cisterns, which in turn enabled water to be stored much more closely to where it was needed. Water no longer had to be carried or guided to its place of use, and as a result, new opportunities for production could be explored, scaled up, and invested in. The production nucleus in the villa of San Rocco is but one example of such a new initiative facilitated through the multiplication of cisterns. It is particularly interesting that some of the cisterns at Posto and San Rocco were fed by aqueducts. The ability and permission to tap directly from an aqueduct to provision one’s villa were not just matters of convenience, but also of prestige.151 The quibbles recorded by Frontinus in the first century ad speak to the pervasive abuse that was made by farmers and landowners establishing unauthorized connections between their estates and state-maintained aqueducts.152 Award of an official permit for aqueduct use was a recognition of one’s status as serious landowner and as a virtuous member of the res publica. Running water from taps, lavish fountains, and dining in well-irrigated gardens paraded this status marker to the outside world. But aqueducts might seem to radically overturn the logic of storage, as their constant access to fresh water (in theory) rendered local surplus superfluous.153 In a way, the continuous supply which they prophesied was the ultimate way of mitigating shortfalls and risk, and sublimated storage.154 But instead, the ability to tap into aqueducts did not reformulate existing practices, whether of display or of production.155 The examples of Posto and San Rocco show that only when linked to storage – in casu cisterns – did the water supply from aqueducts create new opportunities that redefined the normative templates of villa practices. Aqueducts in and of themselves did not in any way aid or reinforce water’s potential for multiplication, which, harnessed by cisterns, was the real driver of change. In addition, water storage could exploit its specific combination of monumentalization (like granaries) and multiplication (unlike granaries). The data listed in Appendix Table A2 attest to a correlation between a disconnection of cisterns from the villa body and their significant enlargement: 10 out of 20 recorded cisterns for which approximate measurements are available exceed a volume of 300 m3, while the smaller examples do not lag far behind, clustering between 100 and 200 m3 (e.g. 193.62 m3 at Tivoli, Guidonia (L288)).156 Andrew Wilson has linked the presence of freestanding cisterns with a volume surpassing 300 m3 (based on a modest estimate of 2 m depth) to villas tapping into the horticultural potential near Rome in the lower Tiber Valley, developing smallto medium-sized vegetable plots.157 At the villa of Capena, Giardino (L49), for example, an elongated cistern divided the residential part from two lower

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terraces, which – based solely on their planimetry and size – might have catered for horticulture (flowers, vegetables), pastio villatica (including aviaries and fishponds), and intensive vineyards (Figure 2.13).158 With few exceptions (e.g. L87 and L111), most villas listed as possessing such large cisterns in Appendix Table A2 were in a position for their fresh produce to reach Rome relatively fast, by road and especially via river transport.159 Thus fulfilling the conditions for marketoriented horticulture, they would have seized the opportunity offered by the expanding urban population at Rome and the demand for produce and specialty goods.160 But this was only enabled by the multiplication of cisterns: intensive horticulture needs abundant water supply close to the allotments. In sum, because of the differences in the material changes taking place in water storage and in above-ground grain storage, the same architectural vocabulary that led to centralization in the latter case facilitated multiplication in the former case. Multiplication of cisterns in turn 2.13. Capena (Etruria), Giardino, central cistern helped create, identify, and realize new dividing residential part from terraces. C: cisterns. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Jones 1962: 1984, Fig. 19. needs and opportunities and tap into economic niches, as illustrated by the new productive nucleus installed at the villa of San Rocco, or by the development of intensive horticulture in the Roman suburbium and the Tiber Valley. Despite the structural parallels between the large, freestanding granaries and the large, freestanding cisterns, the latter created a rather different world than the granaries’ binary division between haves and have-nots. More specifically, cisterns fostered a world of economic buzz and targeted investment, in which new economic opportunities could be identified, nurtured, and exploited.

Dry Goods and Niches Storage facilities for dry and packed goods – an often elusive category spanning anything from cured meats and cheeses to dried fruit, packaged goods (e.g. oil),

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or even slaves – were subject to a notable diversification in the first century bc (Appendix Table A1). Whereas the large, freestanding granaries continued the range of dimensions of the earlier all-purpose storerooms (ca. 20  10 m; in a 3:1 to 2:1 ratio), the other novel types listed in Table A1 were all structured around small building blocks of cells averaging ca. 6  4 m to 14  6 m (in a ratio of ca. 2:1 to 1:1).161 The actual content of most of these facilities remains elusive, but a 2:1 ratio is optimal for air circulation in storerooms conserving staples. The smaller surface size of the cells in the second register (closer to a 1:1 ratio), in turn, suggests storage of goods that were portable, subdivided in small units, and with a relatively extended longevity, not unlike today’s canned goods.162 Before the Late Republican diversification in villa storage facilities, these products had probably been stored alongside bulk goods such as grain in the typical pillared or liminal storerooms inside the villa body. Subject to the architectural strategies of the first century bc, the cell-based unit and its corresponding products were separated out. Its smaller surface size made this unit easy to multiply and to combine in a variety of arrangements. The result was heightened flexibility in view of a diverse series of topographical, social, and economic constraints and needs. A first type of arrangement is represented by the private harbor storerooms discussed above as a notable example of the diversification of storage facilities. Rows of cells faced the shore (e.g. Ventotene on the Pontine Islands (L168), ca. 12  6 m in a 2:1 ratio), or were organized around a corridor or courtyard (e.g. Formia, Villa Rubino (L114), Figure 2.6), much like proper warehouses.163 The harbor storerooms are perhaps the clearest example of how multiplication of a basic cell-unit allowed making the most of environmental affordances and micro-ecologies – in this case the direct access to water transport. Unfortunately, the recorded examples do not inform us in great detail about any other activities in which the associated villa complexes were engaged, the nature of the stored goods, or even the directionality of the flow of goods (import and/or export). Structural features give some clues about circulation patterns: at the Villa Rubino in Formia (L114), a square courtyard dated to the first century bc was surrounded on all sides by series of rectangular (store)rooms (on a 3:1 width: length ratio ca. 10  3.5 m), variously opening up to the inside, to the outside, or both. Such a layout suggests that the storage complex both channeled goods for import and export and managed circulation of goods on the estate itself. Second, the small cell-based unit could also be integrated in the massive substructures of villa platforms, just like cisterns (e.g. San Marinella, Grottacce (L179)). Access to these storerooms would have been difficult, carefully channeled via the villa body through narrow corridors (e.g. Boville, Centroni Villa (L43)), suggesting preferential use of these rooms for long(er)term storage.164 The overall impression on the visitor would have been that

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of a monumental structure, as for the cisterns equally worked into the basis villae. But from the perspective of the temporal arc of stored goods, the relatively long preservation span of dry and packaged goods resonated with the inherent flexibility of the cell-based unit to allow responding to a particular micro-ecology, in casu a sloping landscape necessitating (or, conversely, allowing) the use of substructures. Effects were at once monumental and practical, mediated by communication as much as by possibilities for action. A final variety of multiplied cells are the storerooms organized around a central courtyard in the villa body. Regardless of the debates on whether or not these functioned as slave quarters,165 particular conditions of visibility and specific possibilities for action pertained. As discussed above, visibility was at once highly structured through an often single, narrow entrance to the courtyard (especially marked in Gragnano, Carità (C34), Figure 2.10) and a central axis, and diffracted through the multiplication of cells. The shallowness of the small cell-based template allowed the inspecting gaze to reach the full depth of the cells (if left open) and to scan the entire extent of their contents. Combined with a close integration with the pars urbana (e.g. L3 (Albano, Ercolano), L104 (Fiano Romano, Villa “della Standa”), L106 (Fiano Romano, Volusii Saturnini villa, Figure 2.5), C34 (Gragnano, Carità)) – the residential quarters of the villa – such a layout hints at control and display of valuable goods in their “final” state for immediate or frequent use. The architectural strategies of diversification and disconnection created the cell-based template. The latter’s structural flexibility intersected with the relatively long preservation span of dry and packaged goods to allow seizing another specific micro-ecology: that of a rich estate with a large variety of valuable goods to differentiate and store. This chimes with the newly arising consensus in scholarship that the slave-run estate was not a universal model, but one amongst many possible adaptations to the micro-ecologies of Roman Italy.166 The trajectory of storage facilities for dry and packaged goods reads not unlike that of cisterns. In particular, the new architectural strategies of the first century bc allowed multiplication of storage units, and both water and dry goods generally shared an extended preservation arc. But unlike water storage, storage of dry and packaged products did not always concern bulk goods. As a result, there was both a greater need and an increased potential for adaptation to niches specific to a certain villa and its micro-ecology. The smaller cell-based unit further increased flexibility. Sloping terrain? Put the monumentality of terracing works to use for longer-term storage. Wealthy estate attracting visitors? Use the visibility and ordering imposed by rooms around a courtyard to impress visitors while keeping your valuables close and tightly controlled.

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Wine and Socio-Economic Spectrum Wine is a fundamentally different type of product than water or grain, for the simple fact that wine does not exist as such but for storage. The fermentation taking place through storage is an essential stage in the becoming of wine. Where storage’s concern centered on preservation in the cases of grain and water, wine storage is all about transformation, a temporally and materially complex process.167 Various stages of treading and pressing of the grapes followed the harvest, in order to separate different types of must. The must was left to settle in tanks, before being stored in large ceramic containers, so-called dolia, for fermentation. In some cases (e.g. Villa delle Argentarie, Boscoreale, Pisanella (C13), Figure 2.7) pipelines channeled the must directly from the pressroom to the storeroom. Elsewhere the juices from pressing had to be transferred manually to the ceramic jars in the storerooms, with the aid of the ceramic or bronze jugs sometimes found in the pressrooms168 and the ladles prescribed by Cato.169 While such manual decanting no doubt was a labor-intensive process, it would also have allowed a close evaluation of the quality and quantity of the produce, at the crucial stage before fermentation. The ceramic containers for fermentation (dolia) were often partially dug into the ground (dolia defossa) for the purpose of temperature control during the hot Mediterranean summers, and were carefully sealed with a lid and a cover (Figure 2.14).170 The jars were hosted either in designated rooms or in halfopen courtyards. Wine storerooms (cellae vinariae) tended to be spatially integrated with the relevant productive facilities, confirming that storage was perceived as an integral part of the wine-making process and provided a suitable theatre for conspicuous production. The material transformation of wine from grapes followed a segmented production process, which could be interrupted at various stages to deliver products of varying quality.171 Ancient authors describe how the residue from the press-beds could be mixed with water to provide a cheap, ad hoc drink for the farm’s workforce.172 The cheapest, low-quality wines were probably never stored at all, but used or exported directly upon pressing (cf. the Phoenician-Punic tradition of having wine ferment in amphorae or transport containers),173 or 2.14. Boscoreale (Campania), Villa after a first, short (so-called tumultuous) fermentaRegina, dolium sealed with lid. Photo by tion in an open basin or lacus (as at the Catalan site author.

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of Baetulo).174 A relatively short-lived phenomenon peaking around the first half of the first century ad skipped storage in cellae vinariae altogether by having the wine ferment in fixed dolia installed on board of special tanker-style ships.175 Thus merging storage and transport was a means to economize on the production chain of cheap wines, with a short fermentation process. A similar strategy probably prevailed for shorter-distance transport of cheap wines, as plausibly suggested by the neatly ordered and cleaned amphorae found arranged in different groups in the pressroom at the Villa delle Argentarie in Pisanella, Boscoreale (C13), waiting to be filled with juices straight from the press or collection basins.176 In addition to unfermented or briefly fermented cheap wines, further qualitative differences could be generated by separating the must from the first and second pressings, via systems of tanks, plugs, and tubes. The material properties of wine and the wine-making process thus lent themselves to the creation of socially sanctioned qualitative differences: the longer and the more segmented the production process – including fermentation through storage – the higher the quality and value of the resulting product.177 Qualitative value is essentially based on difference,178 and the written sources echo this phenomenon by differentiating between various regional “brands” of wine, with famous vintages such as the “Falernian” and low-rate products such as Cretan wine.179 In the context of retail and direct consumption wine’s propensity for qualitative differentiation created scope for marketing, as seen in a graffito on the wall of a bar at Pompeii advertising different qualities of wine, sold at different prices.180 In Diocletian’s edict “old” wine (vinum vetus) fetched double the price of new pressings,181 and ancient authors report aging of up to 25 years as a standard feature of highly prized vintages, whose value more than tripled.182 Storage fed into this process of qualitative differentiation. Wine storerooms were not subject to the same dramatic architectural interventions as granaries or cisterns, but from the first century bc onwards some examples expanded in surface size and capacity as a result of increased demand, often with a tendency towards narrow, elongated spaces. The cella vinaria at San Giustino, Colle Plinio (U23), for instance, installed around the turn of the millennium, measured 40  4 m (Appendix Table A3). Settefinestre (Ansedonia (T3)) again provides a classic example, with a narrow, elongated semi-subterranean space measuring 44  4 m and containing no fewer than 56 sunken dolia (Figure 2.11).183 At Settefinestre, the maneuver space in between the vessels did not exceed 25–50 cm. As a result, transferring wine in and out of the dolia would have been even more laborious than usual, and was probably not a regular activity. The layout and organization of the storeroom promoted long (er)-term storage, in particular for the least accessible groups of dolia. This would have underwritten the creation of qualitative differences through the

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segmented process of production and storage: some dolia would have held their wine for a longer period than others, creating aged wines of high value and commensurate prices. Hamish Forbes and Lin Foxhall’s observation on managing the temporality of storage rings particularly true in the case of wine: “Decisions on taking produce out of storage are as much part of storage behaviour as decisions on putting produce in store.”184 The agronomists were well aware of the economic potential of wine storage’s flexible, and value-adding temporality. Varro has Stolo remark with regard to Cato: “I imagine he fixed the numbers of cullei so high in order that the farmer might not be forced to sell his wine every year. For old wine brings a better price than new, and the same wine a better price at one time than at another.”185 Pliny, too, understood that the strategy of producing higher quality wines through fermentation was only possible given sufficient storage capacity.186 This notion that storage in itself acted as a value-creating mechanism is echoed by considering capacities in Settefinestre’s wine production chain. Upon pressing and before storage in the dolia, the grape juice was led into a large basin for initial fermentation, the lacus vinario with a capacity of ca. 20,000 liters.187 With an average volume of ca. 1,000 liters per dolium, the capacity of the entire cella vinaria at Settefinestre has variously been estimated at 100,000 liters by Andrea Carandini,188 and at 75,000 liters by Jean-Pierre Brun,189 who discounts hypothesized additional storage in amphorae. Exactly how these figures should be interpreted depends on the estate’s size and yield, but also on the number of times one expects the lacus vinario to have been filled during a single harvest season. The pressed must is hypothesized to have settled in the lacus for a week before having been transferred to dolia for further fermentation.190 Given the general emphasis on speed of action in the writings of the agronomists, the three wine presses at Settefinestre catered for speed and quality of processing as much as (or perhaps more than) reflecting the size of the harvest.191 This hypothesis finds support in a later enlargement of the upper basin or lacus, but not of the lower one – the result would have been increased speed of pressing, but not a larger overall processing capacity. A similar argument could be extended to the storage facilities. In view of the spatial affordances of the elongated storeroom, it seems likely that each year’s harvest would not have completely filled the available dolia. Instead, a more gradual schedule of turnover can be envisaged, with the new harvest being added to the storeroom, where some jars still contained previous years’ produce in various stages of fermentation. The specific form that the architectural strategy of monumentalization took in the case of cellae vinariae – manifested in the enlarged, elongated storerooms at Settefinestre (T3) (Figure 2.11) and Colle Plinio (U23) – facilitated extended

THE GOOD FARMER DIFFRACTED

storage times for part of the harvest, thereby articulating wine’s inherent propensity for qualitative differentiation. The result was the creation of a niche for prized, aged wines, but also a more general adaptability and economic shrewdness, enabling landowners to exploit price fluctuations. Storage capacities in these newly monumentalized cellae vinariae were sufficient to hoard wine at a time of glut awaiting more favorable conditions for sale or even to artificially drive up prices. While wine’s characteristic qualitative spectrum is familiar from past writings and recognizable through the lens of today’s gamut from table wines to prized vintages, it tends to be interpreted as a result of deliberate human decisionmaking and intervention, often in a neoclassical cost–benefit analysis, with clever estate managers molding market demands. Wine itself features as passive matter in this economic game. What is overlooked is how wine’s material properties and their manipulation through the process of production (including storage) actively mobilized the discourse of conspicuous production, and in turn redefined the sliding boundary between needs and wants. While wine storerooms were subject to a similar architectural strategy of monumentalization as granaries and cisterns in the first century bc, this combined with the material properties of the wine-making process to create wines of different qualities, social status, and economic value. If grain storage spurred an ethic and aesthetic of permanence and sameness (one shovelful of grain ought to be the same as the next), wine storage articulated an ethic and aesthetic of change and difference.192 The temporal maneuver space of wine storage generated a landscape of choice and possibility in which fine-grained differences existed between products and their socio-economic position, along a spectrum ranging from mass-production of cheap wines to specialization in selected high quality wines. Wine storage created clever landowners and enabled shrewd economic calculation, in a way not possible through the storage of grain or water. THE GOO D FAR MER DIFFRACTED

The practice of storing and the phenomenon of villa construction coalesced around the social and economic changes spurred by Rome’s imperialist expansion. The influx of new wealth and styles of consumption, the rise of the general-king model, the extension of citizenship and widening of the top ranks of society, and the opportunities for export to newly annexed provinces presented a dazzling world of options to the reigning elite, whose temptation to explore these new possibilities put into sharp relief the general Mediterranean topos of the good farmer. Villa storage embodied at once an exuberant embracing of the luxury resulting from conquest, and an explicit return to the artificially (re)constructed values of farming ancestral land.

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During the first century bc, options for villa storage expanded dramatically: where previously most staples were stored in a single, undifferentiated general-purpose storeroom at the fringe of the main villa building, suddenly new solutions forced a dictate of choice on the landowners. Water could be stored either inconspicuously under the main courtyard, which had been its designated location for ages, but also anywhere else on the estate in new, freestanding cisterns, or worked into the monumental platforms that served at once as substructure and pedestal for villas. Other formulas appeared for dry and packaged goods, from storage-courtyards to private harbor warehouses. Such diversification turned as innocuous a question as “how to store one’s staples” into a potentially explosive statement on having and not-having. But it also allowed villa owners to exploit the expanded economic horizon of the first century bc. Joined architectural strategies of disconnection – separating storage facilities from the main, integrated villa building – and monumentalization paraded the statements made by the construction of storage facilities, but at the same time were necessary to increase the scale of agricultural enterprises, in response to the growth of overseas markets, and to diversify or specialize portfolios, to cater for the demands of the Roman metropolis. These architectural interventions can be framed within a narrative of “conspicuous production” – with a nod to Veblen’s conspicuous consumption193 – as played out in other parts of the villas as well. At Tor Angela along the Via Praenestina, for instance, an oil-settling vat was found inscribed with the consular data of its installation,194 a style of commemoration turning a mere functional device into a true monument. Storage as conspicuous production marries seemingly incompatible substantivist and formalist readings of the Roman economy, as it turns the very pursuit of productivity into the substance of moral discourse and action. The vocabulary of architectural “strategies” conjures a conscious manipulating of material objects and the built environment, on a par with the carefully orchestrated artificiality of, say, a Cato or a Varro. And this was indeed the case: not just the scale of investment in the construction of new storage facilities, but especially the heightened awareness of options would have meant that any intervention was a conscious, deliberate choice, heavy in symbolic baggage. Where the Mediterranean good farmer was forever redefining needs and wants as a response to a fickle environment and its quick oscillations between profit and scarcity, the Roman bonus agricola of the Late Republic was performing this same balancing act but now with higher stakes – the losses and gains from conquest – and right on the center-stage of history. The archaeology of villa storage confirms what John D’Arms had argued almost four decades ago based mostly on epigraphic evidence, that the Late Republican Roman elite was both invested in its attitudes of dignitas supported by the

THE GOOD FARMER DIFFRACTED

trope of agriculture, and that this very same trope need not have precluded the active pursuit of commercial opportunities.195 But this is only part of the story. Ending the analysis here would make the changes in villa storage facilities interchangeable with any other domain in which conspicuous production was being paraded, or indeed with any other aspect of Late Republican elite competition.196 On such count, the actual interventions on and in the material world are not granted any effect on the contestation of needs and wants. While this struggle is being fought in the material arena, its content is defined elsewhere – in the minds and thoughts of its participants, or so it seems. In order to move beyond a moral discourse defined by producing and putting production on show, material properties need to be taken seriously as actively shaping possibilities for display and action, and, eventually, the course of history. This shows particularly clearly in and through storage, where the material changes in stored goods are the focus of action, whether induced or counteracted by storage practices. Unfortunately, the “nitty gritty” of technical production detail, from screw presses to wine fermentation, is often relegated to historians of technology, with only limited impact in wide-angled social and economic histories. Attention to the actual material properties of the staples stored in the new villa storage facilities of the Late Republic allows pushing beyond the generic discourse of conspicuous production, and diffracts the topos of the good farmer. It turns out that storage of grain, water, wine, or dry goods could send the bonus agricola down markedly different historical pathways.197 Depending on their material properties, storage of these different goods created different temporalities: from the strong pressure on speed of turnover for grain in above-ground granaries, over the open-ended preservation of water, to the artificially segmented turnover of wine.198 A first theoretical cue to take from this is that not every thing – including staples that perhaps push the bounds of material culture, as seemingly formless matter199 – can be ranged and compared under economic history’s favored umbrella term, “commodity.” “Commodity” proves too blunt a tool for a historical analysis that takes things seriously, reducing things to passive matter, at best imbued with arbitrary economic value.200 Economic anthropology qualified commodities as one of the many forms that things can take in exchange, operating as alienable goods that can be sold and traded without the need for fostering durable social ties.201 In that sense, the question is not what is a commodity, but when is a commodity – “commodity” refers not to specific kinds of things, but to particular stages and articulations in objects’ biographies.202 The point that arises from the above analysis of villa storage is different, though. The distinct behavior of wine, water, and grain in storage shows that even if things are defined similarly “as commodities” – as alienable

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goods subject to economic calculation – at a similar stage in their biographies, they did not all function “as commodities” in the same way. Grain, water, and wine could not be made comparable and did not all create the same kinds of socio-economic roles and relations, not even while occupying the same register of villa storage. In other words, grain, water, and wine storage did not so much occupy different regimes of value,203 as shuffle the possibilities of a particular regime of value, with consequences for its social and economic resonance. A second consequence is historical in nature and emphasizes the different social and economic roles and opportunities generated by the material dynamics of the stored staples.204 Grain, water, and wine resonated differently with the general architectural strategies of diversification, disconnection, and monumentalization deployed in villa storage facilities of the first century bc, resulting in fundamentally divergent historical trajectories and concomitant roles. Grain’s rapid degradation enforced centralization in massive, monumental granaries, in a powerful message of ownership and control that reinforced (or, rather, artificially recalled) a traditional divide between haves and havenots. Water and some types of packaged dry goods similarly lent themselves to bulk storage, but their material and temporal stability allowed close targeting of multiple cisterns or storerooms to the estate’s needs, actively fostering the development of new productive niches and investment in, for instance, private harbors or intensive horticulture. Wine’s necessary but open-ended process of material transformation through storage could be segmented to differentiate products of varying qualities, generating a fine-grained spectrum of social and economic valuation of products and their consumers – an ethic and aesthetic of change and difference. Villa storage did not just arbitrarily occupy a sliding scale between luxuria and fructus, as did the other parts of the villa building and its architectural and decorative vocabularies.205 And the bonus agricola was more than a historically anchored Roman take on a Mediterranean template of the good farmer responding to fractured environments and volatile conditions, which itself was an ecologically defined variant of a cross-cultural paradigm of the agriculturalist. The bonus agricola was all of the above, but, importantly, was also diffracted through the material practices of storage into a spectrum of dispositions and agencies: conservative owner (grain), avant-garde investor (water/ dry goods), or speculative entrepreneur (wine). People and things are coconstituted.206 Different forms of personhood crystallize, occupying a spectrum of socio-economic agency somewhere between Pierre Bourdieu’s “man of good faith” and his “shady dealer.”207 We are a long way from descriptions of monolithic states and their elites, which, with Norman Yoffee, “seem to have borrowed their vocabulary from modern Western business schools’ notions of how to run a firm,”208 and in which people are all too often made

THE GOOD FARMER DIFFRACTED

to passively enact the codes of the particular evolutionary type in which they happen to have been born. Being a good farmer meant storing, and thus nurturing the past while looking to the future. The nature of that future, however, could take different forms. While the Aztecs described by Bernardo de Sahagún would have agreed with a Cato on the moral and economic importance of storage, not only did they inhabit a different niche than the Mediterranean, they would have stored maize, not grain or wine, which led them down a radically different historical path.

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FUTURE (PRACTICE): SILOS AND GRANARIES IN GAUL AND IBERIA

A

s Central Italy was coming to terms with the new reality of empire and articulating its place in it, storage was firmly on the center-stage of Roman history. This chapter investigates where storage fits in the narrative of an expanding empire and of cultural, social, and economic change, with a geographical focus on southwest Gaul and northeast Iberia. In order to fully lend texture to the diachronic changes, its analytical focus is restricted to two types of staples: grain and wine, the two main cultivated crops in the area under study. Such a targeted analysis will allow refining the conceptual underpinnings of writing matter into history. IMPERIALISM, TIME, AND MEMORY

The moral debate traced in the previous chapter was spurred in no small part by Rome’s territorial expansion, and by the influx of wealth and the changing power dynamics resulting from it. While conquest of the eastern provinces resonated more profoundly with questions about needs and wants,1 bold territorial claims in the west such as Caesar’s annexation of Gaul contributed to the Late Republican stress about Roman identity and Rome’s place in the world. But territorial expansion in the western provinces, ongoing at the height of the moral debate, in particular shuffled the landscape of economic opportunities. From the Second Punic War onwards, Southern Gaul became a strategic bridgehead connecting Roman Italy to Iberia. With Rome’s victory over the 58

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Carthaginians, it effectively took hold of their former Iberian territories, a claim formalized with the creation of two provinces (Hispania Citerior and Ulterior) in 197 bc.2 This was but the start of a slow and gradual process of consolidation involving military skirmishes as well as internal Roman conflicts (with their apogee in the Civil Wars of the first century bc), until an allencompassing administrative reorganization under Augustus. Roman interests in Gaul crystallized with the foundation of the colony of Narbonne (Narbo Martius) in 118 bc, a political move that was closely intertwined with trade dynamics as represented by the increasing export of wine and tablewares from Italy to Gaul, discussed in Chapter 2.3 But again it was not until the second half of the first century bc that territorial organization was formalized. A surge of new colonial foundations clustered in the strategic Rhône valley (e.g. Arles, Orange), and in the northeast Iberian Peninsula a colony was founded in Barcino (Barcelona) (15/13 bc). Meanwhile, Gaul and Iberia initiated production of their own wine and tablewares on new farms and villa estates, heralding a reversal of the trade flows in the Western Mediterranean that would come to characterize the first two centuries ad. Colonization led to the influx of new people – veterans, traders, and fortune-seekers. It is this question of human agency – “who” – that has typically had primacy as a lens for the study of colonial change. In economic terms, this leads to a quest to tease out what part of the Early Imperial estate owners in the northwest Mediterranean, who made good money out of export to the new provincial cities and to Central Italy, were Italian colonists.4 And, conversely, to what extent could local elites co-opt new opportunities? On the one hand, a wider social web – extending to export regions – and access to knowhow would have given colonists a competitive edge in expanding initially modest plots into successful estates.5 The equestrian P. Baebius Tuticanus from northern Italy, for instance, was involved in vine cultivation and in packaging and transport of wine on the Maresme littoral north of Barcelona.6 The Italian7 P. Usulenus Veiento, attested in Narbonne in the second half of the first century bc, had wine amphorae and bricks in northeast Catalonia stamped with his name.8 His relative M. Usulenus owned an estate and brickworks in the territory of Narbonne.9 Two freedmen, linked to both Usuleni, were among the magistri of a pagus west of Narbonne, where they put up a dedication at a local shrine. Italian immigrants thus constructed their family-mazes and tightened their grip on local resources and administration. From the Augustan period onwards, Italian presence becomes even clearer. One of the largest and earliest (early first century ad) wine-producing estates in the Languedoc, Saint-Bézard at Aspiran, was probably owned by an Italian named Q. Iulius Pr(. . .).10 On the other hand, the absorption of local elites into imperial power structures, and their manipulation of them, is a well-known phenomenon across the empire.11 Returning to the dedicatory inscription in

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the sanctuary west of Narbonne, one of the other magistri named along with the Usuleni freedmen, and in fact the first, most prominent name on the stele, is a certain T. Valerius Senecio, a figure with a distinctly provincial name.12 In the absence of epigraphic evidence,13 the problem, as phrased by Philippe Leveau, is that: the same sites [i.e. farms/villas] have permitted two types of interpretations: first, an interpretation in terms of discontinuity – a Roman has taken the place of a local aristocrat; families have concentrated the properties, and alternatively in terms of continuity: the increasing wealth of an individual family finds expression in the construction of more and more luxurious buildings.14

While useful in developing hypothetical scenarios of agricultural development and investment, too strict a “who” question risks stalling discussion, or worse, reifying arbitrary distinctions. One such potentially malicious assumption distinguishes between local landowners and colonists in temporal terms. In that sense, colonists’ connections and knowledge of innovations grants them an outlook towards the future, whereas local farmers, landowners, and potential investors are trapped in a world of the past.15 It is especially in social and cultural terms, however, that “who” has had pride of place as analytical focus. This tradition of study has a longer history, swirling around the Romanization debate, which even in its later, most nuanced versions attempted to find cultural identifiers for old and new objects and practices.16 Neo-imperialist models that saw an imposition of Roman mores and a subsequent eradication of all things native in the wake of Roman conquest17 were replaced by narratives of resistance,18 mixture,19 creolization,20 and discrepant identities.21 But the question of “who” remained paramount throughout (as did its variant “whose material culture”). The historical issue, along these lines, becomes whether imperialism and its material apparatus were imposed onto, bought into by, or even actively fueled by local stakeholders; and how extensively and intensively conquered populations took part. In this debate, and in attempts to complexify Roman/native dichotomies and to redeem local agency, the “who” question is once more imbued with a temporal dimension, which has crystallized around the study of memory.22 Greg Woolf, for instance, identified a deliberate forgetfulness of pre-Roman Gallic history in Roman times.23 As Gauls bought into a Roman worldview, their past was rebranded as barbarian, and thus outside of the scope of history proper, which began with Caesar’s conquest of Gaul. Material mnemonic interventions in the past, in turn, are often sought in large-scale, strategic, and highly symbolic modifications of monuments, landscapes, and burials,24 as in Susan Alcock’s study of the transformation of the Athenian agora into a memory theatre under Roman domination.25 In southern Gaul and the

IMPERIALISM, TIME, AND MEMORY

northeast Iberian Peninsula, the new colonies were similarly equipped with stock types of monuments – temples, theatres, amphitheatres – whose location and iconographic program often fleshed out the crude ambivalence of imperialism.26 At Nîmes, for instance, the Augusteum – hypothesized center of the imperial cult – appropriated a sacred spring, focal point of the Iron Age settlement: memory was at once regurgitated and subverted by the imperial project.27 The agency behind the construction of the Augusteum might well have been local, but as long as temporal agency under colonialism is reduced to memory – i.e. looking to the past – it remains devoid of an essential part of what makes us human: the future.28 Taking seriously the future in the past – and, in the process, giving dues to indigenous communities and practices – requires a different approach to time and its material apparatus. Studies on memory tend to emphasize discourse, whether enacted through text or through things. The things that are selected as “speaking” to memory are usually the monumental, the big, the symbolic. Not included are the everyday, the ordinary, the mundane, and, indeed, the agricultural, material worlds. The future can be similarly cast as a discursive imaginary, a symbolic extension of past and present. The topic of the calendar, for instance, has enjoyed quite a lot of attention at the intersection of time and imperialism. The exact place of the calendar in the Roman imperial project is unclear, but as a new timing device, it structured life and its experience around astronomical phenomena and a set of Roman legends, rituals, and holidays.29 Much as it might have had an implicit impact on the rhythm of life, the calendar was a symbolic and discursive construct. The future, however, is not exhausted by its imaginary. It is unfolding here and now – then and there – in practice, through technologies of living. While imperialism shuffles collective memory and its discourse – in different ways – its role in introducing new technologies is far less straightforward. And yet it is these technologies and the concomitant practices that have the most profound impact not just on mythologies of time but on the very structuring of time.30 Good to think with here are modern parallels such as “railroad time,” the development of a standard time around the introduction of railways in Europe and its exigencies as a technology;31 or “factory time,” the division of life between work and leisure.32 The potential for archaeology here is enormous, and has started to be tapped. Chris Gosden, for example, reads “complex continuities as well as changes” in the temporal use and perception of landscape before and after the Roman conquest of southern Britain, on the basis of the alignment and relative cutting of large-scale landscape features.33 From changes in the turnover rate of everyday artifacts, Andrew Gardner deduced that “the structures of the empire created opportunities and constraints which meant that life was more subject to variations in tempo.”34 Yet the impact of these variations on everyday practice and experience still eludes us, and most changes

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were probably generational, as explored in detail by Martin Pitts for the objectscapes of the northwestern provinces.35 Pitts’ work clearly decouples the changes in the object world – and the resulting temporal changes – from the historical fact of Roman conquest. In a similar vein, Alicia Jiménez has proposed to conceive of the synchronous material developments across multiple repertoires that emerge across the western provinces in the Augustan period as a temporal phenomenon: “standard time.”36 Recent work thus hints at the possibility of studying the intersection between time, imperialism, and material change without a priori banning native and Roman, local and colonist, to separate temporal registers. More is to be done, however, on diffracting the resulting “material times” – while the creation of a “standard time” is worthy of study, no temporal organization is all-encompassing. This chapter will thus look both for standardization and for diffraction of temporalities. Moreover, in order to truly decolonize the Roman past, memory politics need to be coupled with a study of how various practices project into different futures. The below analysis starts with a rather traditional analysis of such memory politics, only to show their limitations and inconclusiveness and shift 180 to considering the future in the past. The vantage point of storage has the benefit of drawing attention to the practical consequences of the creation of empire, instead of the cultural content of a priori postulated identities. As a fundamentally temporal practice, storage comes with the analytical potential to trace the impact of new technologies on the organization of time and on the relation between past, present, and future. As a quintessentially material practice, storage can do so in a way that does justice to the material constitution of time. It bears stressing that storage is by definition a predictive device relying on foresight: one only stores if one envisions future need, however implicit this need may be.37 All storage mechanisms order the future so that its rhythm can be anticipated, but based on their differential patterns of material change, various storage practices do so differently. This chapter will investigate grain and wine storage practices in the northwest Mediterranean (Figures 3.1 and 3.2), with a focus on the regions of Catalonia in Spain (and more specifically the coastline from Emporion to Barcelona) and Languedoc and Provence in France, in order to trace how and on which terms they articulated the future in a period of profound political, economic, and cultural change. STORAGE ON SHIFTING GROUND

Storing the Iron Age World What was the place of storage in the world into which Roman traders and colonists entered in the northwest Mediterranean? Later Iron Age communities

STORAGE ON SHIFTING GROUND

3.1. Map of Iron Age sites in northeast Iberia and southwest Gaul mentioned in text. Drawn by author. Legend: 1: Mas Castellar de Pontós; 2: Montjuïc; 3: Els Cortals (Cervera): 4: El Bosquet; 5: Burriac; 6: Nissan (Ensérune).

inhabiting the perched settlements or oppida as well as dispersed lower-lying sites38 along the coastal strip between Emporion and Marseille had built up a complex exchange system centered on sporadic but recurrent contact with Phoenician, Punic, Etruscan, Greek and Massaliote,39 and later – from the third century bc onwards – Roman traders. Such foreign traders introduced Iron Age communities to the social and psychotropic powers of wine consumption, leading to articulation and transformation of local tribal hierarchies and feasting practices.40 Literary sources and consumption contexts alike speak to a disjuncture between regimes of value in these moments of exchange, informing the Roman stereotype of the Gauls as irrational barbarians, drinking undiluted

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3.2. Map of Roman-period sites in northeast Iberia and southwest Gaul mentioned in text. Drawn by author. Legend: 1: Els Tolegassos (Viladamat); 2: Olivet d’en Pujol (Viladamat); 3: Cabrera de Mar; 4: Els Cortals (Cervera); 5: El Bosquet; 6: Tiana; 7: Can Bonvilar; 8: Mataró; 9: Can Feu (Sabadell); 10: Viladecans; 11: La Salut (Sabadell); 12: Veral de Vallmora (Teià); 13: Mas Manolo (Caldes de Montbui); 14: El Morè (Sant Pol de Mar); 15: Hostal Nou (Balaguer); 16: La Burguera (Salou); 17: La Moleta del Remei (Alcanar); 18: Tarraco; 19: Saint-Bézard (Aspiran); 20: Les Prés-Bas (Loupian); 21: Vareilles (Paulhan); 22: La Domergue (Sauvian); 23: Arles; 24: Le Grand Loou (La Roquebrussanne); 25: Le Molard (Donzère); 26: Vicarie (Rians); 27: La Grande Chaberte (La Garde); 28: Pardigon; 29: Fréjus; 30: Lyon; 31: Vienne; 32: Panossas; 33: Barcelona; 34: Narbonne; 35: Nîmes; 36: Perpignan; 37: Lodève; 38: Orange; 39: Marseille; 40: Cavaillon.

wine which they acquired at disproportionate cost.41 Encounters and negotiation took place in coastal redistribution nodes such as Agde, where contact between indigenous people, representatives of Greek colonies in the northwest Mediterranean, and traders from overseas is attested. Such trading posts

STORAGE ON SHIFTING GROUND

occupied the intersection between a Mediterranean-oriented exchange system and an inland network of production knitting together oppida and their hinterlands.42 More elusive are the products traded in exchange for wine, traditionally listed as metals, slaves, and grain. Storage was crucial for at least one of those: grain. Both archaeobotanical and isotopic evidence indicate at once an intensification and an expansion of cereal cultivation in the Second Iron Age of the northwest Mediterranean.43 Prevailing winds restricted most exchange to the seafaring season, which ran approximately from March to October or November.44 Most cereals would have been harvested in early summer, between June and August at the latest, and partly used or traded immediately, partly stored for future use.45 A prerequisite for generating the surplus underpinning both trade and local political hierarchies, long-term storage of grain was catered for by subterranean silos: bag-shaped or ovoid cavities dug straight into the subsoil, sometimes structurally reinforced,46 and hermetically sealed by a stopper of clay or dried materials or by a stone slab.47 Even if the technique of hermetic storage is highly sensitive to micro-variations in geology and climate,48 it had a long history in the northwest Mediterranean, with silos traditionally seen as becoming commonplace in Catalonia and Languedoc during the fifth century bc,49 but possibly used as far back as the Neolithic.50 Small-scale silos measuring ca. 1.50 m or less in diameter might have stored grain for direct consumption, seed corn, and possibly a range of other foodstuffs.51 In addition, some settlements had large-scale “silo fields” along their edges (e.g. Ensérune, Nissan (Hérault, Languedoc) (Plate 2), Mas Castellar de Pontós and Montjuïc (Barcelona, Catalonia)),52 with an aggregate storage volume exceeding local needs.53 At Ensérune, the silos of the Terrasse Est measure between 1.20 m and 3 m in diameter and up to 2.87 m in depth (Plate 3).54 The grain stored in such silos served various purposes: a local risk-buffering strategy warding off the potential harm of failed harvests; food and resources for large-scale feasting to alleviate socio-political tensions in the tribe; and exchange with Mediterranean traders during the seafaring season.55 More tentatively, based on historical parallels from North Africa, it has been proposed that silos hid unsupervised stores of grain and thus supported a semi-mobile lifestyle associated with transhumance on either side of the Pyrenees.56 Both Varro and Columella described how the technique of hermetic underground storage relied on keeping the level of moisture and the temperature low, and this has generally been repeated – with some experimental and historical basis – in recent studies.57 Once a silo was filled entirely and closed off, oxygen would quickly be depleted and the grain on the outsides would germinate and form a protective harness. As this exterior shell of grain used up oxygen, it released carbon dioxide, which created an inhospitable environment for any bacteria or pests that could infect the stock. The remaining grain

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passed into a state of dormancy in which heating, and hence degradation, were slowed down.58 In this way, cereals could be stored for relatively long periods of time, at very low maintenance costs.59 Upon opening, however, the contents of a hermetically closed silo start to degrade rapidly, imposing a high speed of turnover on the massive volume of grain stored inside.60 As a result, this storage system would have enabled ad hoc exchange of large volumes of grain, while also, to a lesser extent, reinforcing the punctuated rhythm of local feasting practices, including the brewing of beer, a product that could not be stored in antiquity.61 While palynological and macro-botanical data are increasingly available on a site-specific basis, they are rarely associated with individual silos.62 In general, though, a large variety of grain species were cultivated in the later Iron Age northwest Mediterranean, and could thus have been stored in the silos.63 Often even multiple types of cereals were stored together in a single silo, a practice which would have increased volume efficiency, as mixing of different grain sizes reduces void intergranular space.64 An increasing preference for naked over hulled wheats during the later Iron Age could relate to a milder climate, but also to naked wheats’ propensity for flour and bread production, and to their greater density per stored volume.65 Among the macro-remains from the late Iron Age port town of Lattes (Hérault, Languedoc), no fewer than seven cereal species are attested in phases dated between the fifth and third centuries bc, dominated by barley (Hordeum vulgare) and bread wheat (Triticum aestivum/durum), but also including emmer (Triticum dicoccum), einkorn (Triticum monococcum), and millet (Panicum miliaceaum and Setaria italica).66 Oats also make their appearance in the later Iron Age.67 This system of cultivation of diverse grain crops, and optimal rather than maximal harvests, would have created flexibility and enabled adjustment to contextual variation. Possible seasonal differences in the sowing and harvesting of different crops – in particular the difference between most grains, sown in autumn and harvested in summer on the one hand and on the other hand millet, with a short growing season in spring – would have sharpened the template of temporal flexibility.68 Alongside silos, large ceramic jars fulfilled complementary storage functions throughout the Iron Age in Mediterranean Gaul.69 These tend to be called dolia after their Roman equivalent, but large ceramic containers were introduced already as locally rooted multi-purpose jars in the sixth century bc, following Greek and Massaliote, and perhaps even Etruscan, practices.70 By the fifth century bc the use of dolia – first imported, then locally produced – was generalized across Mediterranean Gaul, largely replacing previous handmodeled large urns.71 Only in Catalonia were dolia generally absent during the Iron Age and did not make their entrance in large numbers until the second to first century bc.72

STORAGE ON SHIFTING GROUND

Dolia appear either individually, often installed within a domestic unit, or in small groups and catered for shorter-term storage. They could be hermetically sealed, like (some) silos, or they could be left open for easy access but shortterm preservation. No firm evidence exists to support either usage, but it is likely that both occurred. Moreover, dolia could contain either dry goods, including grain – like silos – as attested in a couple of instances by botanical remains,73 or liquids, such as water. Carpological study and the presence of pitch on some fragments hint at an earlier start for wine or oil storage in dolia than previously thought, possibly around the fourth century bc.74 Wine production in the northwest Mediterranean probably started in the late Iron Age but remained localized, clustering especially around Marseille and Emporion.75 Some dolia on later Iron Age settlements carried stamped impressions of grapes as well as (tentatively) wheat ears,76 but the wider corpus of stamps, including such representations as columns, render a direct correlation with the content stored unlikely.77 Storage thus occupied a central position in the northwest Mediterranean of the later Iron Age. In the absence of true communal buildings and with status identifiers such as differentiation in domestic architecture still developing,78 significant investment was subsumed by the construction of settlement walls and the creation of silo fields (Plate 2).79 Literally and symbolically redirecting to the edges of the community resources and gains (i.e. the content of the silos) that could otherwise be claimed by a central power, storage liquefied rigid hierarchies and shaped internal power relations.80 Moreover, interplay between generally increasing81 household storage in ceramic and perishable organic containers (or more exceptionally in small-scale silos) and communal storage in silo fields defined the relation between the household and the community. Finally, as necessary facilitator of the exchange system, storage shaped the relation between the community and outside groups of traders. In sum, as a sort of control chamber, storage fueled, articulated, and held together the constitutive relations of the late Iron Age world in the northwest Mediterranean.82

An Imperial Order Initially Roman traders enrolled in the same sporadic exchanges initiated centuries earlier by Punic, Phoenician, Etruscan, Greek, and Massaliote traders, but the Second Punic War imbued these commercial interests with a distinctly political and territorial aura.83 Rome undoubtedly exploited local cereal production during its military interventions in the Iberian Peninsula (Livy ascribes the phrase bellum se ipsum alet or “the war feeds itself” to Cato the Elder’s campaigns in Iberia).84 But just how Rome’s new territorial interest relates to the gradual changes in settlement pattern observed along the northwest

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Mediterranean littoral remains unclear.85 Some scattered early initiatives cannot be ruled out,86 but even the extent to which foundation of new colonies went hand in hand with a process of land allocation and its impact on local populations remain unclear and were probably highly variable.87 Despite a disjuncture of about a century between Catalonia on the one hand and Languedoc and Provence on the other, the macro-scale changes in settlement unfolded along the same sequence on both sides of the Pyrenees (Figure 3.3). In combination with these regions’ close cultural affiliation in the later Iron Age,88 this warrants considering them as one when tracing changes in storage practices and their temporal implications.89 Most notably, settlement in the lower-lying coastal plains gradually expanded (Catalonia: third to second century bc; Languedoc and Provence: second to first century bc), but the pattern was far from generalized and followed local dynamics.90 Data on settlement in these plains is scant, although the available evidence suggests habitations similar to those on previous and contemporary oppida, but now appearing as dispersed sites. New nucleated sites too emerged, in the plains or on slopes, larger than previous hilltop settlements and probably exploiting the surrounding agricultural land.91 Occupation on other sites continued, including oppida – some of them reaching their maximum expansion in the Late Republican period92 – and on some of the nucleated settlements that had already inhabited the littoral plains since the Iron Age.93 Some of the dispersed habitations developed into larger agricultural estates (a conversion that explains their archaeological visibility).94 With a ground plan reminiscent of contemporary Italian examples, early farms and “villas” (the earliest dated to the later second century bc in Catalonia), whether evolved from Iron Age sites or not,95 nevertheless were rather modest in their construction techniques and amenities (both mortar-bound stone construction and decorative elements such as mosaics only appear in later phases).96 About two centuries after the changes in settlement pattern (second half of the first century bc to early first century ad for Catalonia; second half of the first century ad to second century ad for Languedoc and Provence), a wave of investment affected many villas, scaling up and formalizing agricultural production, either in the form of new facilities, drastic rebuilding, or the construction of ex novo sites.97 As mentioned above, wine may already have been produced in the northwest Mediterranean of the later Iron Age: in Catalonia wine storerooms with dolia and amphora sherds are attested from the second half of the second century bc onwards, both on Iberian settlements and on new, small-sized rural sites.98 Local production of amphorae started in the second quarter of the first century bc (Figure 3.3), with shapes of “extra-local” currency (Dressel 1; Lamboglia 2; Pascual 1) demonstrating both a knowledge of global standards and a desire to tap into new markets.99 But the large-scale investment touching the littoral villas

3.3. Timeline of relevant historical processes in northeast Iberia during the late Iron Age-early Roman transition. Southern Gaul followed a similar sequence, but with about a century of delay. Drawn by author.

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represented a threshold in local wine production, marked by the switch to Dressel 2-4 amphorae.100 As in Central Italy, the landscape was open, markedly anthropogenic, and a mixed agricultural strategy was generally maintained, including cereal production, horticulture, arboriculture, and, in many cases, animal husbandry, as indicated both by archaeological and botanical evidence.101 Yet within this diversity, spheres of action hitherto separate increasingly encroached upon one another, as vineyards expanded onto previous arable lands beyond the coastal strip, where later Iron Age communities had grown the cereals that underpinned their mode of existence.102 By the middle of the first century ad, the northwest Mediterranean saw itself once again in the position of exporter of agricultural produce. The grain of the Iron Age, however, had ceded place to wine as the prime export product. Changes in settlement had been gradual and inconsistent, but added up to a significant pattern over the span of three centuries: from a landscape of arable land, pasture, and small sites interspersed with perched nucleated oppida and connected with the Mediterranean through coastal exchange centers to a network of cities and estates clustered near the littoral. While the large-scale archaeological trends are clear, questions of origin and ownership (the “who” questions) remain unanswered. Where should archaeology turn to tell the sequel of this story of change? The following section extends traditional studies of memory politics to the seemingly banal arena of storage practices, revealing continuities and changes in agricultural practices to be potentially as meaningful as grand monuments, if addressed through a lens of practice, not symbolism. But even when addressing the everyday and the non-discursive, studies of memory only scratch the surface of temporality, and the next section turns to look forward to the futures articulated by the new and old storage practices under study. MNEMONICS OF THE PAST

The place to start our inquiry into the temporal reverberations of storage practices is the silo, the structural hallmark of the later Iron Age world. On the dispersed sites in the lower-lying areas, alongside features such as pits, postholes, and ditches, appear small-scale silos. At the site of Le Grand Loou (La Roquebrussanne, Var, Provence) the first traces of occupation consisted of various kinds of (post)holes and ditches and a few tracts of unbound stone walls, dated between the middle of the first century bc and the middle of the first century ad.103 Identification of some of these larger pits as silos remains contentious.104 A similar assemblage of ditches, postholes, and pits characterizes the first phase (second to first centuries bc) of occupation at Les Prés-Bas (Loupian, Hérault, Languedoc). Among these structures, the excavators identify two probable but highly damaged dug-out silos, and hint at technical

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continuity with the later Iron Age.105 A silo whose initial use was dated to the second century bc is testimony to the presence of an early agricultural site in the low-lying stretch of land that would later be occupied by the wineproducing villa of Els Tolegassos (Viladamat, Alt Empordà, Catalonia).106 Many of the second- to first-century bc known dispersed sites in Catalonia were equipped with anything from one to thirty (at Can Bartomeu, Cabrera de Mar, Maresme, Catalonia) silos.107 A tentative scenario suggests that small groups, perhaps families or households, continued or replicated their previous ways of living, including their trusted storage technique, as they moved away from a nucleated site. In any case, the sites’ scattered location likely entailed a “privatization” of storage and the agricultural production it indexed.108 These silos on the dispersed sites were generally abandoned during the next occupation phases, by the middle of the first century bc in Catalonia and a century later in South Gaul, when the sites’ layouts were restructured. As the Iron Age world transformed, one register of its storage practices seems to have continued – short-term provisioning of stocks, seed corn, and fodder in smaller silos, while the other register disappeared – the silo fields thought to have provided long-term storage for exchange and feasting. What did this continued use of smaller-scale silos mean in a changing world? Did it signal an explicit statement of belonging and tradition? Was it simply a tacit continuation of anchored ways of doing? Or was it, instead, the result of a cost–benefit analysis of available storage techniques? From a pragmatic point of view, after all, silos were an economic, low-maintenance way to preserve grain, which would have continued to make up a substantial share of the agricultural produce.109 Even the Roman military seems to have toyed with the idea of constructing new silos for grain storage, if we can read a couple of short-lived examples cut into bedrock just north of the Roman forum at Emporion as storage facilities in relation to an army camp there.110 Silos would have remained foci of attention in the agricultural landscape for some time after Roman conquest. At the site of Els Cortals (Barcelona, Catalonia), a Roman-period villa was installed at the edge of a silo field constructed in the third century bc and filled in before the mid first century bc.111 A winery dating to the late first century bc at El Bosquet (Barcelona, Catalonia) flanked a field of silos constructed in the middle of the second century bc and abandoned by the end of the first century bc.112 Why would villa sites of the Early Imperial period deliberately position themselves at the edges of abandoned ancient silo fields? The presence of pre-existing silos might have been known or even visible when new estates were founded, especially when the silos had not been fully filled in yet. But more compelling than suggesting a discursive relation between old and new is to note that the co-location of Iron Age silos and Early Imperial villas would have been a matter of convenience, both preferring fertile agricultural land.

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Some instances of continued use of silos in the Early Imperial period, however, transcend parameters of coincidence and convenience. At the site of Sentromà (Tiana, Maresme, Catalonia), eleven silos are dated around the late first century ad based on stratified finds from the layer that was cut in order to sink the silos.113 The silos were arranged in four rows in a rectangular room (11  7.5 m) south of a courtyard. Only the lower parts of the silos have been preserved, which complicates volume estimates, but with bases not exceeding a diameter of 1.5 m, the silos at Tiana conformed to the smaller size range of the Iron Age spectrum. Tiana provides a rare securely dated example of silos newly constructed (rather than (re-)used) on a villa site as late as the end of the first century ad, almost two centuries after villas boomed in Catalonia. Their use was short-lived, a couple of decades at most, spanning perhaps a single generation. At Can Bonvilar (Terrassa, Vallès Occidental), both silos and a large wine cellar with dolia were newly constructed and functioned alongside each other in the course of the Early Imperial period (first to third centuries ad).114 The nearby site of Torrebonica, too, combined silos and dolia in the first and second centuries ad, but at much smaller scale.115 Other farms in Catalonia were equipped with silos in the Roman period, but dating is less secure and precise than at Tiana.116 Two separate sites at Mataró (Maresme, Catalonia) yielded silos in relation to (largely unexplored) agricultural establishments: Sant Cugat and San Martín de la Mata.117 The ovoid silos – five and three respectively – had been excavated in the granite subsoil with a maximum internal diameter between 1.30 m and 1.95 m. Based on the total absence of Iron Age material in the fill, which contained Roman and medieval artifacts, construction and use of the silos has been dated to the Roman period. Two connected silos at Sant Cugat have similarly been dated to the Roman period on the basis of the materials in their bottom fill layer.118 Unfortunately, arguments dating the construction and use of a silo by reference to its infill are inherently fragile.119 The same method was used to date a series of silos in the plain around Perpignan (Roussillon, Languedoc) between the second century bc and the second century ad.120 Silos at Can Feu (Vallès Occidental, Catalonia), associated with a basic rectangular farm, were dated to the first half of the first century ad.121 Many of the silos functioned side by side with installations for wine and oil production.122 Philippe Cayn and colleagues read their presence as representing a localized need for storage as a result of large cereal harvests but limited sale opportunities, and, more plausibly, link two larger examples of silos dated to the second half of the first century ad to the storage of barley (palynologically attested) as cattle fodder (supported by other evidence for cattle herding). In any case, the technique of silo storage persisted for some time after the Roman conquest, even on sites that were part of the new agricultural

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regime. The silo phenomenon eventually petered out by the second century ad, only to pick up again in Late Antiquity.123 Its very persistence through several centuries of political, economic, and social change is remarkable. It is not surprising that what had been a key lubricant of late Iron Age practices continued to provoke attention. Even if constructing and using silos was simply a (continued or adopted) matter of convenience, it was also an act of getting to grips with one’s place in a changing world.124 It evoked a practical memory, a memory that is activated tacitly and often unconsciously, in the doing, before (or without) becoming discursive. Practical memory, I argue, is where personal and collective memory flow into one another.125 It is a type of social memory, grafted on personal experience, yet transferred across generations through recurrent material practices (in this case: how to use a silo for storage).126 Practical memory is embodied, and in enacting what it remembers, the body weaves its past into the future. But it also involves a systemic reordering; it is the recycling and refitting of practices past, present, and future. But memory does not equal endless stasis and repetition. By placing that which it remembers in a different context, memory always redefines.127 So too for practical memory. A silo on an early Roman villa site does not act in the same way as its formal ancestor on an Iron Age oppidum. With an average diameter around 1.50 m, the Roman-period silos conformed to the smaller end of the Iron Age size range.128 These were not the large containers of the silo fields, but the smaller sizes aimed towards the preservation of seed corn, of grain for small-scale trade or domestic risk management, or of fodder (and maybe even of different products altogether). Despite these discrepancies in size, the Roman-period silos adopted the concept of multiplicity from the Iron Age silo fields (Plate 2). Once a silo is opened and its hermetic seal is broken, its contents will degrade quickly and will need to be used at once. Reducing the size of silos while retaining their multiplicity allows for a staggered rhythm of turnover and/or a catering for smaller portions; especially since not all smallerscale silos were hermetically sealed. More generally, a higher rhythm of turnover suggests a closer residential association with the place of construction of the silos. Indeed, silos were now a feature of individually owned villas. At Tiana, the silos were even structurally integrated within the villa body, as part of what appears to have been a multiroom storage wing. This explicit integration and appropriation might have been similar to the smaller-sized silos of the later Iron Age, but differed from the silo fields established at the edges of oppida, where claims of ownership might have been more communally negotiated. Part of what we see, then, is the individualization of surplus – a phenomenon celebrated in nineteenthcentury liberal evolutionary thought.129 Having been so central a building block of the world of the later Iron Age, storage became a potentially powerful field of practice through which to

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invoke a real or imagined past. Its mnemonic potency was first and foremost mobilized in the doing, as practical memory. Moreover, its scalar bifurcation in the later Iron Age – between small and large sizes, individual and community – seems to have facilitated its continued activation: as one register faltered (community), the other (household) continued to invoke the practical memory of silo storage and made it slot into a changing world with new challenges and opportunities. This practical memory, tacit, and at once systemic and embodied, resonated for as long as two centuries, during which the affordances of silos and dolia were renegotiated. But storage also actively nurtured future possibilities. This future-shaping role of storage is what the next section will explore, which will at once debunk any straightforwardly evolutionary interpretations that may have simmered in this section on memory. REDEFINING THE FUTURE

From Silos to Dolia: An Open-Ended Future On the hilltop settlements of the later Iron Age, storage in large ceramic containers – so-called dolia – for short-term preservation and domestic needs had complemented silos. The changes set in motion by Roman expansion and colonization put the large ceramic jar center-stage in the storage system of the northwest Mediterranean. From a role as backing vocal in the later Iron Age, the dolium became the cornerstone of the new socio-economic dynamics, centered on the mass-production and export of wine as a new cash crop.130 As mentioned above, already in the later Iron Age dolia had become multipurpose storage containers,131 which were occasionally enrolled in the production and storage of wine, as attested for example by a storeroom with 15 dolia seats at the oppidum of Burriac (Cabrera de Mar, Maresme, Catalonia), dated between 150 and 50 bc.132 Not just the hilltop settlements, but also sites in the lower-lying areas show early traces of wine production geared towards export and facilitated by fermentation and storage in dolia.133 Although contextual evidence for these earlier instances is scant, the technological shift in both storage container and stored product can be reconstructed in analogy to a late replacement of first-century ad silos by dolia at Sentromà (Tiana) in Catalonia, a site discussed above, around the beginning of the second century ad.134 The four bases preserved in situ indicate that both the dolia’s sunken position below floor level and their dimensions physically echoed the preceding silos. And much like the silos, the use of dolia at Tiana was short-lived, not exceeding a generation. On other sites, however, the use of dolia for wine fermentation and storage – following the Italian model (see Chapter 2) – was embraced enthusiastically and with great success. Large cellae vinariae made their appearance in coastal

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Catalonia from the second century bc onwards, and in Mediterranean France in the first century ad. Storerooms with as many as 100 or even 200 individual jars were no exception, their sheer scale being indicative of export-oriented surplus production.135 Local amphora production equally scaled up to meet the packaging needs of sea transport.136 The large villa estate was not an all-encompassing model though, and smaller operations existed as well. North of Béziers, in the mid-Hérault valley around Lodève (Languedoc), wine production occurred in smaller units with wine cellars with up to 20 jars each, separate or grouped together in agglomerations.137 At Viladecans (Catalonia) 19 dolia imprints were ordered in a double row.138 Despite their small scale, each of these establishments probably wielded a wine press – strictly speaking unnecessary for wine pressing – an investment showing their production of sizable surpluses and their integration into the same regional and supra-regional markets for wine into which larger sites tapped.139 But most storerooms were larger (containing in the order of 70 to 200 dolia), and some very large indeed. The early site of Olivet d’en Pujol (Viladamat, Baix Llobregat, Catalonia; late second century bc) consisted of a small unit equipped with a large, open air storage yard which yielded the imprint of 75 dolia in addition to amphora sherds (Figure 3.4).140 Tellingly, the ceramic jars were installed directly on top of silos abandoned in the course of the fourth century bc but in all likelihood still visible at the time of repurposing of the area. It is unclear whether Olivet d’en Pujol acted as an independent production node or as a satellite to the nearby villa of Els Tolegassos.141 The latter was equipped with a 690 m2 large storeroom containing about 400 dolia (Figure 3.5). The luxurious villa at La Salut (Sabadell, Vallès Occidental, Catalonia; first to third century ad) commanded a wine storeroom with 68 jars with an average diameter of 1.30–1.50 m.142 The capacity of the two cellae vinariae of the Augustan winery at Veral de Vallmora (Teià, Maresme, Catalonia) increased during the last quarter of the first century ad, to keep up with the export boom.143 The scale of further examples is equally dazzling. At Mas Manolo (Caldes de Montbui, Vallès Oriental, Catalonia), a wine storeroom dated to the late first century ad was enlarged 3.4. L’Olivet d’en Pujol, Viladamat, wine storeroom with dolia, late second in the second century ad and occupied by no fewer century bc. Drawn by Stijn Colon, than 200 dolia.144 The wine storeroom of the large after Casas 1989: 22, Fig. 4.

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productive complex at El Morè (Sant Pol de Mar, Maresme, Catalonia) in turn would have measured 1000 m2.145 The flurry of wine production even spread to the Ebro Valley, traditionally a cerealgrowing area and not in as convenient a position for Mediterranean trade as its coastal neighbor Catalonia. The storeroom at Hostal Nou (Balaguer, Lleida) saw the installation of more than 40 dolia in the later first century ad.146 While coming later to large-scale wine production, Mediterranean Gaul was no less prolific than Catalonia. A recent catalogue by Charlotte Carrato demonstrates that most villas with wine or oil storerooms in Narbonensis had a cumulative capacity of between 50 and 150 dolia each.147 But the number of jars and com3.5. Els Tolegassos, Viladamat, villa body and wine storeroom with dolia. Black: phase 1, mid first century mensurate volume of wine produced ad; grey: phase 2, beginning of second century ad. could be even more staggering: 270 dolia Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Casas and Soler 2003: 11. at Le Molard (Donzère, Drôme, Provence; second century ad); 200 ceramic jars at Vicarie (Rians, Var, Provence).148 One of the earliest large-scale wine storerooms in Gaul, dated to the early first century ad, belongs to the villa of Saint-Bézard at Aspiran (Hérault, Languedoc), with about 300 dolia adding up to a storage capacity of ca. 4000 hectoliters.149 Constructed around ad 50 70, the L-shaped wine storeroom at the Vareilles villa at Paulhan (Hérault, Languedoc) counted no fewer than 350 jars (Figure 3.6).150 The villa of La Domergue at Sauvian in the territory of Béziers (Hérault, Languedoc) had multiple storage facilities, with at least three rooms containing tanks and/or dolia, one of which (ca. 200 m2) with around 60 vessels.151 Whether through conversion or addition, storage capacity for wine was expanded in response to lucrative opportunities, with construction of new facilities booming between the mid first century ad and the mid second century ad.152 The impressive storage capacity at Vareilles (Paulhan, Hérault, Languedoc) continued to be expanded with the construction of three additional wine storerooms during the first quarter of the second century ad.153 In the second century ad, Vareilles could have stored up to 9000 hectoliters of wine.154 Le Grand Loou (La Roquebrussanne, Var, Provence) had been one of the early sites in the plains in the first century bc, complete with silos, which had to cede place to a villa in the first century ad. By the end of that

REDEFINING THE FUTURE

3.6. Vareilles, Paulhan, first half second century ad, two wine storerooms added to original L-shaped cella vinaria. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Mauné 2003: 319, Fig. 10.

same century or around the early second century, wine presses, tanks, and a storeroom with 10 to 12 dolia were installed.155 A little later, a second, much larger storeroom was added, containing in the order of 60 to 72 jars. All of this took place only about a century after the construction and use of silos on site. Also in the Var (Provence), the wine storeroom at La Grande Chaberte (La Garde) more than doubled in size between its first phase soon after the middle of the first century ad and its second phase in the late first/early second century ad.156 Similarly, at the site of Les Prés-Bas (Loupian, Hérault, Languedoc), silos were in use until the late first century bc, and a large storeroom with a tank and 92 to 94 attested dolia was constructed by the later first century ad – less than a century later (Figure 3.7).157 The role of opportunistic speculation is more evident still in the ex novo constructions, such as a fully equipped villa at the site of Pardigon 1/3 with

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3.7. Les Prés-Bas, Loupian (Hérault). Drawn by Stijn Colon, after Buffat and Pellecuer 2001: 97, Fig. 44.

tanks, pressing facilities and a wine storeroom measuring 410 m2 and containing an estimated 100 to 139 dolia (Cavalaire, Var, Provence; third quarter of the first century ad), which may have acted as the satellite of an older estate (Pardigon 2).158 While Pardigon 2’s occupation history dates back to the first phase of expanded settlement in the plains, Pardigon 1/3 was constructed on virgin ground. Establishments such as Pardigon 1/3 were designed as profitoriented installations, with a layout established in one go, and showing limited expenditure on construction, as illustrated by the poor quality of concrete and coatings used. Such ad hoc investment might hint at a different source of capital – perhaps from fortunes made outside agriculture – than the more gradual expansion of the estates discussed in the previous paragraph. By the Early Imperial period, the northwest Mediterranean had adopted the system of production and storage developed in Late Republican Central Italy, complete with the architectural strategies highlighted in the previous chapter. Wine storerooms, often (semi-)detached (e.g. Pardigon 1/3159; La Domergue160), became true monuments, with a gigantic capacity, and a striking visual impact paralleling and emulating that of the imposing store buildings of Central Italy.161 But despite a shared vocabulary, the socio-economic reality of the Early Imperial northwest Mediterranean was different to that of Late Republican

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Central Italy. Similar architectural strategies now served the interests of a new class of provincial estate owners (whether local elites or colonists). Moreover, the estates from Catalonia to Provence took the Italian template of wine production to a whole new level, with storerooms whose capacity easily surpassed even the largest of wine cellars in Campania (which generally did not exceed 100 or even 50 dolia).162 In Italy, the norm was one wine press per estate, with a maximum of three at Settefinestre.163 The villas in Mediterranean Gaul, instead, regularly had up to six presses.164 They were not constrained by the same scalar limit as were their Italian counterparts. Part of the explanation is to be found in differential pressures on landownership. In Italy, land was fragmented and at a premium because of the requirement to hold land in the peninsula to be eligible for offices.165 The estates of even the largest landowners tended to be discontinuous and scattered. In the absence of similar political machinations, and with colonization providing something of a tabula rasa for landownership in the northwest Mediterranean, it proved easier to establish larger, continuous estates. From a purely functional standpoint, the general relation between silos and dolia seems to amount to the replacement of one agricultural system by another, and of one product for trade and export (cereals) with another (wine). Rare examples, however, caution against an unequivocal association of dolia with wine production, even in the Roman era.166 More generally, both structural and conceptual continuity can be discerned amidst the overall shift in socio-economic system. The replacement of silos by dolia at Tiana is perhaps the most explicit testimony to a continuity of layout and organization, in part enabled by a convergence in size between silos and dolia. The silos that were dug on the dispersed lower-lying sites after the changes in settlement pattern matched the smaller size range of the Iron Age. Meanwhile, the dolia on sites in Mediterranean Gaul – and introduced in northeast Spain by the second century bc – increased in volume from the third to second century bc onwards, with an average diameter up to 1.50 m.167 Moreover, both silos and storage jars were (partially) sunken below ground level. What had been merely a practical device for temperature management in the wine cellars of Italy became an important meeting point between old and new practices in the northwest Mediterranean. Finally, use of both the “mini-silos” and the “maxi-dolia” occurred in multiples – they functioned as groups or assemblages. There was never just one silo on the individual agricultural estates after the changes in settlement pattern, just like dolia were always installed in groups. The notion of multiplicity as applied to dolia in storerooms therefore did not require a conceptual shift, but it was taken to a new level, in cellars of up to 100 or more jars. The shift from silos to dolia as prime storage mechanism does not appear as the rupture one might expect if approached not with a view to contents but in

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the context of material practices. Both silos and dolia were already enrolled in storage practices from the later Iron Age onwards. More specifically (and at the risk of pointing out the obvious), both silos and dolia were associated with a logic of “placing resources in an underground cavity with a view to future use.” Parameters of size, multiplicity, and sunkenness helped make one type of cavity (silos) comparable to another type (dolia). Through this structural resonance, and the practical memory it would have invoked, the dolia of the Early Imperial northwest Mediterranean could have cultivated a mnemonic link to the silos of the later Iron Age, which preceded the various possible cultural meanings (opportunism; nostalgia; resistance; domination) attached to it. But it is possible to go further than interpreting the material dialogue between silos and dolia as the activation of practical memory. In the case of both silos and dolia, the practice of storage not only came with comparable facilities, but also with an anticipated future use that was not fixed in time. The later Iron Age silos would be opened up in the case of failed local harvests, socio-political tensions calling for large-scale feasting, or demand from Mediterranean traders. All of these needs and their underlying causes – from climatic conditions to tribal developments and the harvests of Greek colonies – were variable and highly context-dependent. While not institutionalized, the seafaring routes, timings, and contacts supporting Mediterranean trade would in all likelihood be established on a recurrent basis.168 Yet the nature, timing, and amplitude of the need for cereals stored in subterranean silos varied from year to year. By turning grain into a state of dormancy in which it could be kept materially stable for periods of time of undefined length, the technique of hermetic storage resonated with an open-ended future. The sudden release of large quantities of grain, anchored both in the properties of grain and in its system of storage, profoundly shaped historical possibilities and characterized the punctuated nature of trade and feasting, for example. Fermentation of wine in the dolia of the large estates of the first century ad was open-ended as well: the material changes of fermentation had no fixed end point.169 There was no defined point in time at which the wine would have to be taken out of storage, and this temporal flexibility opened a new window of decision-making: wine improved with time through fermentation, but was also at risk of turning sour. The value-adding potential of fermentation would have been harnessed to an even greater extent by the storerooms in Catalonia and Gaul, which, as mentioned above, were larger than their Italian counterparts. The larger the storage capacity, the less pressure there would have been on pinning down the future trajectory of the stored wine and on turning over the entire storeroom’s content at every new harvest. Calculations for Les Prés-Bas (Hérault, Languedoc; second half of first century ad, Figure 3.7), for example, indicate that its storerooms could contain the produce of about two harvests,170 creating ample opportunity for production of

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high-quality aged wines. Of course, such calculations are fraught with difficulties; but the order of magnitude gives an indication of the maneuver space available to turn out products along a qualitative spectrum. The geography of the coastal strips would have aided this process of qualitative differentiation, with mass-production in the plains and selected high-quality vines on the slopes.171 An inscription on an amphora found in Rome’s Monte Testaccio and dating to the early second century ad even identifies a five-year old wine from Béziers.172 Moreover, a variety of grape morphotypes has been attested for various sites in the territory of Béziers throughout the first to third centuries ad.173 More tentatively, exceptionally fragmented grape pips found in a well at a small agricultural site near Béziers might result from “a second pressing of the marc to obtain the last dregs of the juices, which added to water, were given to the slaves (lora),”174 yet another indication that the spectrum of qualities to which wine production and storage gave rise was fully exploited and actively manipulated. Whether the wine was exchanged via embedded social networks – e.g. between different estates owned by a single landowner – or sold via market mechanisms, the material practice of wine fermentation in dolia and its openended future thus allowed playing with a supply/demand balance: in case of glut, the estate owner could choose to keep the wine in storage for longer, awaiting more favorable sale prices, targeting a niche of high-quality products, or even artificially driving up the price.175 Choice, negotiation, and adjustment to variable contextual factors were paramount. As was the case for grain storage in silos. Grain and wine come with very different material properties and their storage in silos and dolia respectively required distinct technical knowledge. The socio-economic systems through which they were channeled differed greatly, as were the attendant patterns of ownership, with surplus increasingly becoming individual property. The way capital was controlled and invested changed dramatically, and the reality and perception of risk as well. In particular, it bears stressing that planting vines represents a significant up-front investment, in particular in comparison with cereals. But as boasted by Augustus in his Res Gestae, conditions were apparently stable enough to capitalize on large-scale maritime export of cash crops. Despite all these differences between production systems of wine and grain, zooming in on the social and economic possibilities fostered by the material changes in storage tells a different story. Grain storage in silos (in the late Iron Age) and wine fermentation in dolia (in the early Roman period) would have similarly articulated an open-ended future, which was not fixed in time and which was based on a material stasis (dormant grain in silos) or on material change (fermenting wine in dolia) that could be extended (relatively) indeterminately. Both storage systems were predicated on the punctuated release of produce, and would have fostered

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flexible, ad hoc economic decision-making. While the actors in the change from silos to dolia remain unidentified (the “who” question), the relation between humans and resources, and the possibilities for action, continued to revolve around the management and activation of an open-ended future. More than a labeling of particular groups (which tends to define those groups based on what they did in the past), a decolonized past is a past in which different futures are allowed to unfold.

From Silos to Granaries: A Controllable Future While wine production expanded dramatically, grain was still a significant local crop in the northwest Mediterranean.176 Archaeology is largely left in the dark, however, as to the share and modalities of this grain production on the Mediterranean estates. Freestanding granaries were characteristic of Roman farms in the more temperate Gallic provinces,177 and occur sporadically in Iron Age and Roman settlements south and west of Catalonia.178 The rural node of La Burguera (Salou, ager Tarraconensis) had a granary with raised floor in the second century bc,179 as did the site of La Moleta del Remei (Alcanar) a little further south possibly already from the late fifth century bc onwards,180 but other granaries in the Iberian Peninsula are both dated later and situated well outside of Catalonia, such as the villa of Veranes (Asturia).181 Similar examples are rare for the Mediterranean strip from Catalonia to Provence (in contrast, Roman-period granaries are well-known in Central, North, and East Gaul).182 A few separate buildings on agricultural estates, dating from the late first century ad, and sometimes supported by pillars, have been tentatively identified as granaries. Volume reconstructions are difficult, especially given the potential importance of a first floor, but their surface imprint is generally small (e.g. 24 m2 at Gasquinoy (Béziers, Hérault, Languedoc)) to medium-sized (e.g. 78 m2 at Mas de Boudan (Nîmes, Gard, Languedoc)).183 So-called grenierstours attested across Gaul and Iberia, including in Narbonensis and Catalonia (a single example at El Morè (Sant Pol de Mar, Maresme, Catalonia)), are towers, separate or integrated within the villa body, which might have served grain storage, especially on their first and second floors, but in any case combined other functions such as habitation.184 Other granaries integrated in villa estates have been identified on the basis of plan (buttresses; raised floors), and exceptionally due to the presence of botanical macro-remains (e.g. transformation of the southwest corner of the wine storeroom at Les Prés-Bas (Loupian, Hérault, Languedoc) for grain storage combined with wine fermentation).185 Hydraulic mills for grinding flour have been found on some of the wine-exporting estates and in relation to cities from the Julio-Claudian period onwards,186 an investment suggesting the frequent processing of large quantities of grain for direct consumption by the estates’ inhabitants and workforce

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and by the expanding urban populations (flour does not preserve well so grain is usually ground near its place of consumption).187 While both the quantity and the nature of grain storage in the villas along the northwest Mediterranean coastal strip are only just beginning to be studied, it is clear that cereals were now stored above ground, through aeration, following Italian practice. For more explicit evidence of grain storage after the turn of the millennium in the northwest Mediterranean we turn to the new strategically implanted nodes that were military and urban sites. In the northeast Iberian Peninsula most evidence stems from the middle Ebro Valley, a region traditionally geared towards cereal cultivation. The earliest examples of large above-ground granaries have been excavated in army camps (Renieblas and Castillejo/ Valdevorrón) near the inland Iron Age oppidum of Numantia, dated respectively to the late second and first centuries bc, and have been linked to the turmoil first of the siege of Numantia and later of the Civil Wars.188 At Renieblas two horrea or warehouses measured 28 30  17.40 m and 29.10  19.60 m and were engineered on a massive scale, with thick, buttressed walls. At Castillejo a single construction was divided into three more narrow horrea of 17.80 m length and respectively 5.60, 6.80 and 6.10 m wide. Granaries were also put to work in army camps in Mediterranean France, as the example of Fréjus (Var, Provence) shows, dated to the first half of the first century ad, measuring 48.40  17.30 m, and equipped with pillars/walls to support a raised floor.189 Structurally, these granaries showed an unparalleled engineering feat within the region, while organizationally, they introduced a new type of centralized storage. Dedicated granaries also became a standard accoutrement of Early Imperial cityscapes. The proliferation of urban granaries and the close proximity (generally ca. 5 20 km) of those Roman agricultural sites equipped with granaries to urban centers suggests channeling – and probably also administration – of grain through urban nodes.190 At Tarraco (Catalonia) two large stone-built horrea with evidence of characteristic raised floors were found, dating to the late first century ad.191 The city of Caesaraugusta (Zaragoza) in the Ebro Valley was founded as a colony by Augustus in the last quarter of the first century bc. Continued settlement up to the present day hampers archaeological research, and no traces of warehouses or storage facilities have yet been found. Two of the few epigraphic documents from the town, however, relate to urban horrea,192 multi-purpose storage facilities.193 The first renders a dedication or offering to the protective genius of the horrea, the second is a funerary epitaph recording a horrearius, a warehouse employee.194 Mediterranean Gaul has yielded fragmentary archaeological evidence of large-scale urban grain storage: at Marseille,195 Arles, Lyon, and Vienne. At Saint-Romain-en-Gal, a neighborhood of ancient Vienne (Isère) in the Rhône Valley, a two-story courtyard structure dating to the second half of the

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first century ad had floors equipped with ventilation devices in the form of built-in amphorae, which suggests grain storage.196 A concentration of corridor warehouses on the left bank of the Rhône at Vienne (first half first century ad) comprised no less than 4 6 ha, with identical cells measuring at least 30 m in depth suited for bulk storage (Plates 4 and 5).197 The entire area of the warehouses, including access roads, resulted from a single urbanization event, which underlines the top-down agency looming behind construction. The leap to imperially administered grain storage is not too big to make, and can be seen in conjunction with the supply of the army on the northern frontier.198 Finally, at the site of Panossas, between Vienne and Lyon, an exceptionally large granary (min. 52  18 m) dates to the early second century ad.199 Its plan with a central hall and two wings with pier supports finds its closest parallels in military horrea,200 but the site’s interpretation remains unclear (large villa site? role in military/urban supply?),201 as does the provenance of the grain it stored, which was probably drawn from a wide area given the granary’s capacity. The massive granaries would have echoed their Italian predecessors’ parading of ownership and control. This visual impact stood in sharp contrast to the subterranean silo fields of the later Iron Age, which not only tended to be installed at the periphery of a settlement, but also did not lay claim to space in any way: once silos are sealed, the area in which they are positioned can be used for other activities.202 Indeed, concealment has been singled out as a key characteristic of silo storage.203 While silo fields actively worked to sublimate claims to sole power and ownership, this very political and economic reality was the backbone of above-ground granaries. Meanwhile, grain stored above ground would have degraded fairly rapidly (cf. Chapter 2), despite provisions for air circulation. The practical necessity of a regular turnover would have spurred centralization of stored grain in the new nodes of communication of the Roman administration: cities and military bases. More importantly perhaps, centralization allowed the authorities to administer and ration the flow of grain. In contrast to silos, grain stored in granaries would have been accessible at any time: smaller quantities could be brought into, and especially taken out of, the warehouse when and as needed.204 Constant circulation and access to stored goods in turn facilitated control. The smaller quantities taken from the stock would have lent themselves to measuring (e.g. weighing) and would have made the supply chain more easily accountable.205 Accountability and regular circulation of small quantities: these were the structural conditions of the Roman taxation system. An Italian practice described in the previous chapter, the technique of grain storage above ground became part of an imperial program of administration and taxation. Taxation in the Roman provinces was aimed at individuals and landowners, who were subject to both a poll-tax and a tax on land.206 Part of

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the latter at least would have been paid in kind, as a share of the produce, and most often in grain,207 and would provision cities in the region, Rome, or the armies on the frontiers.208 From a farmer’s perspective, the Iron Age and Roman organizations might have similarly demanded a contribution to centralized storage, be it community-based storage in silo fields or city-based collection in granaries. But whatever continuity may have been perceived in the act of contributing to a social whole, the timing and economic outcomes were radically different, and this difference was channeled through the mechanism of storage. Direct taxes on land would generally have requisitioned a relatively small surplus, but would have done so repeatedly, every year or even a couple of times a year. The need for frequent turnover would make storage in silos highly impractical: silos required a large surplus to be made available at once (because silos were filled in a single moment and sealed hermetically) and to be similarly released in a single instance (once opened, the grain would deteriorate). Above-ground granaries, instead, were the ideal solution for frequent access to the stored grain, thus centralizing surplus for taxation, direct consumption, trade, and risk-buffering.209 Collection of taxes was the responsibility of the local authorities and magistrates, and the actual modalities were largely at their whim,210 although imperial freedmen and others with close ties to the imperial household were often closely involved. In the Iberian Peninsula, taxation was probably ad hoc in the early second century bc and possibly remained so well into the Late Republic.211 Livy recounts episodes in the second quarter of the second century bc during which Spanish landowners sent an embassy to the Roman senate to complain about being forced to sell their grain at bottom prices to Roman magistrates.212 In the course of the second century bc, regular taxation might have had a hand in spurring local surplus production, as evidenced by the increase in farms discussed above.213 Just how Republican taxation worked, and in particular how the levied grain was channeled, remains unclear. On current evidence, the aggregate storage capacity of Late Republican granaries in the Iberian Peninsula seems not to have been very significant. In addition, such Late Republican granaries were often situated in the center of towns, hinting at an acute worry about control, in contrast to their Early Imperial successors which tended to be located on the urban fringes, maximizing logistical efficiency, and perhaps enjoying rather more stable political conditions.214 Both factors suggest that it was not until the Early Empire that an institutionalized system of taxation was effectively linked to the management of grain storage. Indeed, the Augustan period saw a reorganization and a formalization of taxation in the area under study here,215 and as Walter Scheidel notes, “[m]onitoring of the collection effort was a critical variable”216 even then. New censuses laid the groundwork for taxation.217 The accountability afforded by above-ground grain storage provided

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receptive grounds for such close monitoring, and one might even suggest that this storage technique was locally implanted and developed in response to such needs. But it came at a significant cost, in particular with regard to the labor required for aeration, cleaning, shoveling, and general maintenance of warehouses and their content.218 One of the unknown variables is that of warehouse ownership.219 At least some of the urban warehouses and/or granaries were probably in private hands, with units possibly rented out on an ad hoc basis, as suggested by the inscription from Zaragoza naming Hyacynthus as horrearius of a certain Sura.220 In any case, the likely existence of a parallel “private” economy alongside imperially orchestrated taxation should not detract from the latter’s reality and impact.221 Later evidence traces the continuation of this system of taxation, grain storage, and trade in and from the northwest Mediterranean. An inscription on a bronze plaque of the later second or early third century ad mentions a dispute between the imperial authorities and corporations of shippers from Arles, a colony in the Rhône Valley, who would have been involved in the annona, the state-organized grain supply of Rome, and threatened to strike.222 Further proof for the direct involvement of the colonies in Gaul (and in the Iberian Peninsula) in the provisioning of Rome comes from the Piazzale delle Corporazioni at Ostia, one of Rome’s two main ports (see Chapter 5). Several small rooms subdivided the portico around the square behind the theatre. Each of these rooms was fronted by mosaics – dated to the late second century ad – depicting trade symbols (ships, grain measures, wheat-ears) and naming the organization to which they referred. Narbonne is represented among the areas whose traders and goods frequented the port (Figure 3.8), in all likelihood to provision the imperial capital, albeit not necessarily as part of the official annona.223 Narbonne’s memorialization on the Piazzale delle Corporazioni among a majority of African grain suppliers underscores the continued importance of its role as a maritime hub involved in the supply of Rome at the end of the second century ad.224 The supplies from the horrea in Vienne and the granary in Panossas (Isère), situated between Vienne and Lyon, in turn, were in all likelihood directed northwards towards the military stationed along the limes, rather than being sent to Rome.225 But the famous water mills at Barbegal, near Arles, prove that grain was also milled and consumed locally, for the benefit of the new urban communities.226 While we are in the dark about the ownership and operations of the Barbegal mills (the two current hypotheses imagine private landowners joining forces or a municipal project organized by the city of Arles), the scale of investment which they reflect suggests some form of administrative oversight.227 Finally, an extraordinary piece of evidence completes this selection of examples: a small amphora dated to the second half of the second or early third century ad, with painted

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3.8. Ostia, Piazzale delle Corporazioni, detail of mosaic representing the shippers of Narbonne, second century ad. Photo by author.

inscriptions identifying its contents as the sample of a cargo of 1500 modii of barley from the territory of the Cavares in the Rhône Valley around modern Cavaillon (hordeum Cavar[um]).228 Found in Marseille, the amphora and the cargo for which it functioned as a pars pro toto index a pattern of regional urban supply. Palynological and macro-botanical data on the specific cereal types cultivated in the northwest Mediterranean are steadily increasing.229 North Africa and Egypt shipped predominantly white bread wheat – the type valued most highly for human consumption and most amenable to the production of white flour – to Rome in the Early Imperial period, and this might well have been the standard for the annona.230 In general, the grain species cultivated in the northwest Mediterranean in the Early Imperial period would have been more targeted to regional differences in soil, climate, and needs, in order to move from optimal to maximal harvests.231 Indeed, carpological studies – mostly of non-sealed contexts – at the port town of Lattes (Languedoc) indicate a notable decrease from seven attested cereal species in the later Iron Age (fifth to third century bc) to four in the second century bc and only three in the Early Imperial period (first centuries bc and ad): barley (Hordeum vulgare), bread wheat (Triticum aestivum/durum), and emmer (Triticum dicoccum).232 Based on data from third- to second-century bc levels at Lattes, Pech Maho, and Le Cailar, Núria Rovira and Natàlia Alonso conclude that “[h]ulled barley and

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free-threshing wheat become the predominant taxa, naked barley disappears and emmer decreases.”233 Similar results pertain to sites with palynological data from Roman-period Catalonia (e.g. Lleida).234 Species such as millet, with its different growing and harvesting cycle, fall by the wayside in the Early Imperial period.235 A smaller diversification in cereal types, at least within any one (micro-)region,236 would have greatly facilitated the controllability of the flow of grain, allowing concerns with surveillance and quantity to prevail over qualitative differentiation, and temporally aligning cycles of accumulating and releasing stock.237 The constancy of the flow of grain was predicated upon the continuous, structural need for cereals, of a gigantic urban population at Rome entirely dependent on imports, of nucleated communities in the region’s new cities, and of a constant professional military presence in the provinces and in particular on the northern frontiers. This contrasted with the punctuated needs to which Iron Age cereal storage catered, which were largely reliant on contextual variables. Taken together, these conditions meant that the frequent turnover enabled by granaries prevailed over the synchronous release of large quantities of grain as with silos – even admitting that part of the taxes levied in kind entered commercial trade.238 The new authorities thus appropriated surplus grain production and administered it via a new network of communication routes and urban and military nodes.239 In the process, they claimed the potential of above-ground grain storage, and of its material and temporal dynamics, for centralization in a new network of power. This claim to power went beyond the imposition of taxation and extraction of surplus as such. Key here was the mutual articulation between grain’s relatively quick spoilage and the Italian tradition of constructing above-ground granaries that relied on aeration for preservation. The changed modality of grain storage fostered a radically different kind of future: a future that was defined in time, and hence both controllable and accountable. This was at odds not only with what came before – the openended future of grain storage in Iron Age silos – but also with what was going on contemporaneously in different registers of practice – the manipulation of an open-ended future for commercial gain through wine storage. THE MATTER OF PRACTICE

Storage was a central arena for the changes that enveloped the northwest Mediterranean between the second century bc and the second century ad. It offered a mechanism for reordering the world with intricate ramifications spreading far beyond subsistence and supply, to the very articulation of the future. The role of colonists and provincials in this reordering has been the subject of much debate, both economic and cultural, with a tendency to

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picture the latter as passively trapped in a past long-gone.240 Clifford Ando, for instance, sketches the tableau as follows: “Forcibly deprived of contact and connection with the social fabric that had constituted and nurtured their identities, provincials found themselves reassigned to new and different places in the social and geographic reality of the Roman empire.”241 The economic landscape, too, changed radically with the introduction of new cultivars (in particular the domesticated vine), linked to a history of Phoenician, Greek, and Roman colonization.242 New storage containers, and in particular the dolium, are held to materialize the intensification that accompanied these new agricultural practices.243 The past was gone, the future Roman, or so it seems. But exactly how was this future articulated? Posing this question at once redistributes agency beyond a native/Roman divide, and reveals a complex mosaic of changes and continuities, of continuity-in-change and change-incontinuity. Grain storage and its material token – the silo – had held together a late Iron Age world characterized by an open-ended future, a punctuated model of exchange, and a fluid hierarchy. As this world shifted both before and after Roman conquest, the silo came to do some memory-work: it possibly became a mnemonic device for getting to grips with one’s position in relation to a re-imagined past and future. Small-scale silos reminiscent of storage practices on Iron Age hilltop settlements were installed on settlements in the lower-lying areas. The memory of once potent silo fields was cultivated, whether accidentally or on purpose, through the positioning of new agricultural estates at their very edges. As the keystone of the later Iron Age world order, storage would have been a prime locus of intervention, variously claimed, tamed, or perpetuated by activating its mnemonic potential. But this potential was first and foremost a practical memory – the redefinition of ways of doing anchored in, and materialized through, embodied practices that preceded any symbolism ascribed to it. As practical memory, storage reordered the boundaries of individual and community, and mediated the social and economic changes traditionally linked to imperialism and its “who” questions. Practical memory of the silo helped render it comparable to the dolium – a large sunken storage jar. This material dialogue enabled the latter to become the centerpoint of a new regime of cash-cropping vine cultivation. Aspects of multiplicity, dimensions, and sunkenness played out structural resonances between silos and dolia. But beyond storage facilities’ mnemonic load – which will always be difficult to prove archaeologically – the new socio-economic system also more fundamentally recycled the notion of an open-ended future: much as grain in silos triggered a system of punctuated release, wine could be left to ferment in dolia for indefinite periods of time, which allowed exploiting price fluctuations and other contextually variable factors.

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Meanwhile, a radically different technique of above-ground grain storage was introduced and helped maintain imperial control by facilitating centralization and a steady, predefined material turnover. The controllable time of the granaries with their regular and visible throughput of small, accountable quantities of produce resonated with the imposition of a taxation system. This responded to the constant, structural need for cereals spurred by a large non-producing population in the new cities in the region, in Rome, and in the armies at the empire’s frontiers. An open-ended time thus vied with the controllable time of imperial administration. Storage emerges as a powerful but ambivalent mechanism, where memory and pragmatism meet: it actively curates the past, yet is by definition future-oriented. In studying the intersection between time and imperialism, it is important not to fall into the structuralist trap of portraying pre-conquest time as cyclical and post-conquest time as regulated, or, in other words, of linking a particular “how” (practice) to a particular “who” (agent).244 The imperial system of administration came with a more controllable time, based on well-defined units and frequent turnover, which accompanied, and was facilitated by, the standardization of the material environment (in this case, of the ratios of taxation). But life is never structured by a single temporal organization. Alongside the shift to a more controllable future enacted through grain storage and reverberating with new power structures, other registers of practice activated different articulations of time and the future. In particular, the material changes of wine fermentation created an open-ended future that could be manipulated to make the most of the mechanisms of market exchange. In these structural negotiations of the future we can discern regimes of value meeting, if not merging, a phenomenon previously documented for other fields of practice, such as coin circulation or dining habits.245 Finally, the analyses in this chapter push for further theoretical refining of how materials and matter are written into history. In the previous chapter, the various temporalities of grain, water, and wine may have come across as a mild form of material determinism: the material properties of different staples were powerful enough to shape radically divergent economic possibilities and even social actors, or so it seemed. And yet the patterns of (dis)continuity traced in this chapter defy simple classification by either material or functional category. Continuity crossed differences in technology and materials (grain and wine), while ruptures occurred in functionally identical practices (storing grain). Merely charting rhythms of change in predefined material categories (e.g. ceramics) or practices (e.g. dining) proves insufficient to unlock the practical, non-discursive organization of time. While different rates of degradation bestow different temporalities on material culture,246 this only goes part of the way towards understanding material culture’s role in organizing time and historical change. Following on from the

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material agencies of the different staples of the previous chapter, this chapter has clarified that there is no such thing as either a material impact or a temporality of grain “in and of itself” (or wine, or water). Instead, the temporality of any kind of matter emerges only through the relational threads spun in practice. It is necessary to examine which possibilities processes of material change created for the practices in which they operated.247 The material changes, and hence the temporal organization, of grain stored in hermetically sealed silos were very different indeed to those of grain stored in above-ground granaries, and these differences helped shape history. It is not “grain” itself that modeled time, but “grain stored in silos.” And it was not its slow physical degradation in silos that shaped history, but the relations between humans and resources, enacted by this pattern of material change, and spun in practice. This chapter has put storage center-stage as a nexus of social and economic change in the context of Roman conquest. In moving from the ad hoc socioeconomic possibilities of storage techniques discussed in the previous chapter to a broader template of the various futures embedded in different storage practices, this chapter enters the psychosocial domain of hopes, anticipations, and expectations. To what extent could people aspire to know the future, or even intervene in it, and how was storage mobilized in these processes? Moreover, this chapter has started to investigate alternative modes of writing traditionally underrepresented groups into history – in this case, the indigenous voices. Can we further diffract archaeology’s group-thinking? These questions are addressed in the next chapter.

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torage is not just about having, but also about knowing. If storage manages the dynamics of having – enough, more-than-enough, too much – it does so too for the politics of knowing. This chapter follows on chronologically where the previous one left off, and returns the narrative to Italy, and more specifically to the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum, buried by the volcanic eruption of the Vesuvius in ad 79, to investigate the knowledge landscape of storage on the intimate scale of repeated interactions in the house. Storage’s landscape of knowledge is potentially wider than that of ownership, and thus better suited to an analysis of the Roman “houseful,” cross-cutting social groups and vertical and horizontal power relations. The stored goods discussed in this chapter concern household objects, from dining vessels and toiletries to religious paraphernalia; not the amorphous staples that have featured in this book so far. Houses, ports, and granaries, and the grain, wine, jewelry, and tablewares they stored (amongst other things), are rarely considered together, but as will emerge in the following chapter, the practices and mentalities that underpinned them might well have resonated. But more generally, non-agricultural stuff lends itself to thinking in terms of assemblage: each object is at once a bounded unit in and of itself, and part of an assemblage of objects that gives it its identity but from which it can be severed. The dynamics of such assemblage-forming put a different spin on the time–matter nexus of storage than the emphasis on physical degradation or change foregrounded in the previous chapters.

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But before broaching these questions, a brief methodological note is necessary. Much like the previous chapters, the choice to analyze storage in Vesuvian houses – i.e. town houses preserved by the Vesuvian eruption of ad 79 in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Figure 2.1), two provincial cities on the Bay of Naples1 – is based on the best available data to support the research question. More than the previous datasets, however, the cases of Pompeii and Herculaneum come with interpretive ballast. The atrium houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum – organized around the two focal points of atrium (first courtyard) and peristylium (colon- 4.1. Atrium-peristyle house, ideal plan as per naded garden) – have long been taken Vitruvius. Allison 2004: 12, courtesy of Pim Allison. Legend: a: vestibulum; b: fauces; c: taberna; d: atrium; to represent “the Roman house plan” e: cubiculum; f: ala; g: tablinum; h: triclinium; i: andron; (Figure 4.1).2 The increasingly diverse j: culina; k: peristylum; l: exedra; m: triclinium. repertoire of residential buildings attested in Italy (including at Pompeii and Herculaneum)3 and in the provinces effectively debunks this myth.4 Moreover, the architectural forms of Roman houses did not map onto the social values of privacy, leisure, and family that a modern western perspective might take for granted.5 As well as being a place of eating, sleeping, reproducing – in short, a “dwelling” space6 – Roman houses were the stage for the ceremonial enactment of relations of dependency (the salutatio),7 for business transactions, for craft activity, etc. Storage cross-cut all of these activities. THE DYNAMICS OF ROMAN HOUSE( HOLD)S

Chapter 1 defined storage as “ranging things in a particular place (from a cupboard to the Cloud) with a view to future retrieval and use.” This chapter expands the kinds of “things” considered under the rubric of storage to include not just agricultural products such as grain or wine, but an assortment of objects in use in the context of the house. Moving beyond agricultural staples shows that storage is just as much about existential worries as it is about economic concerns of subsistence. Things make demands on us, they draw us into their needs as much as we use them to satisfy ours.8 Such symbiotic and even parasitic relations between humans and things, however, have been filtered out by a long western tradition of approaching objects from a utilitarian standpoint.9 And yet to avoid drowning in a sea of things, and succumbing

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to their constant signals, humans need ways of mediating their relations with things. Storage provides one such mechanism for managing the cycling of stuff. As anyone knows who has ever been forced to part ways with a sentimental but defunct object, or who has had to help a family member move and downsize, such mediation is more than a trivial project: it orders social relations between humans as well as between humans and things, and it can be constitutive of identity (of things as well as people). In addition to stretching the category of “things,” the present chapter will complicate the spatial positioning of storage – the notion of keeping things “in a particular place.” So far, this “place” has been well-defined and rather static: a silo, a granary, a wine cellar. But a house has multiple loci of storage, from niches and cupboards to dark corners under stairs, and things cycle through those spaces in a constant process of re-assemblage. The shell of standing architecture at Pompeii and Herculaneum might seem to suggest otherwise, but Roman houses were dynamic organisms. The static picture painted by Vitruvius’ De architectura, with neatly defined spaces and corresponding functions, does not map onto contextual analyses of finds and plans.10 Instead, space in the Vesuvian houses was multifunctional.11 Functionally rigid spaces were the exception, limited perhaps to kitchens and other rooms with necessary fixed features such as hearths, although portable braziers could even have made the activity of “cooking” more mobile than expected.12 Such variable use of space chimes with the vocabulary in ordinary Latin discourse – removed from the crafted style of a Vitruvius13 – which featured a series of generic room labels such as camera and conclavia indicating multi-purpose spaces.14 Multifunctionality, moreover, was temporally structured.15 The function of certain rooms would change, for instance, between morning salutatio, daytime craftwork, and evening dinner parties.16 The mapping of space and activity occurred at the intersection of various nested temporal scales: a daily rhythm, seasonal changes, structural repairs, change of ownership, repurposing, etc.17 Along this spectrum of temporal rhythms, archaeology has arguably focused on the episodic changes such as rebuilding – not least because of their greater visibility – whereas the more frequent, short-term changes unfolding over days and months may well have had an equal, if not greater, impact on the occupants of ancient houses.18 In addition, multifunctionality often added up to a model of temporal gendering, whereby certain temporally segregated activities were performed by and for distinct genders.19 Indeed, if Roman houses were dynamic organisms, so too were their occupants. Long-gone are the days when the Roman house was studied exclusively from the vantage point of its (usually male) owner;20 the complexity of the atrium house’s social make-up is now well established.21 The Roman familia was more elastic than our modern nuclear

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family: not limited to relations of kinship, and including slaves and dependents, it challenges the boundaries of the “household,” whether defined by relations of production, or by co-residence.22 Andrew Wallace-Hadrill recommended thinking of the inhabitants of Pompeian atrium houses in terms of a “houseful” (i.e. co-residence),23 and based on the spatial distribution of cooking facilities, water supply, and latrines (i.e. relations of production), Jens-Arne Dickmann reconstructs “up to six different household centres” in the Casa del Menandro.24 This parallels what in other contexts have been labeled “nested” households: for example, when a co-residential group is split – often fluidly – into different sub-groups focused around defining activities (typically food production and consumption, and reproduction).25 But how to document and understand the dynamics of the Roman houseful? Textual evidence has been found wanting in its exclusive elite male perspective on what happened (or ought to happen) in the context of the house, excluding the life worlds of women, children, and slaves.26 In the archaeology of households more generally, peopling the house was a reaction to mostly processual studies which saw the household as a collective, a homogeneous, faceless unit behaving as a black-boxed entity.27 But foregrounding traditionally underrepresented groups, such as women or slaves, turns out to be a methodological quagmire,28 which all too often amounts to a static linking of particular artifacts or visual or material contents to particular identity groups.29 In Roberta Gilchrist’s words, the threat that “bodies become sexed artefacts suspended in time” looms large.30 Instead of mapping particular functions and particular groups of people on the floorplans of Roman houses, third wave feminism encourages exploration of local power dynamics and knowledge differentials. It is less interested in identifying a pre-defined category of “women” and more in tracing different historical articulations of gender categories (e.g. how femininity or masculinity are defined in different contexts).31 Methodologically, third wave studies replace a representational strategy, which tries to attribute particular artifacts or spaces to particular kinds of people, with an emphasis on the recursive performance of gender.32 People are what they do and how they do it, a theoretical premise that complicates direct correspondence between objects and people. Storage provides a unique lens through which to examine the dynamics of Roman house(hold)s. First, as a gatekeeper of the flow of goods – an assemblage-making mechanism storage is by definition dynamic and temporally structured. In particular, storage occupies the register of repeated, shorter-term actions and changes that often escape the archaeological lens. And second, storage speaks directly to third wave feminist concerns with knowledge differentials. Julia Hendon makes the case that storage conceals, reveals, and intervenes in a community’s “mutual knowledge,” which is its

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basis for reproduction, and it does so in the doing.33 As Hendon has it, “[k]nowledge itself becomes a way of differentiating people.”34 Indeed, in Roman archaeology too, the study of household storage has brought to light agencies other than the elite male. Based on textual sources (e.g. Columella’s De re rustica) and historical analogies, Ria Berg identifies women, and in particular the matronae of elite households, as the literal and symbolical custodians of the Roman house, controlling the circulation of valuables and domestic goods in and out of storage.35 While analyses such as this break important ground, the aim should not be merely to carve up social domains according to the people involved in them, but to explore their inner workings and the resultant social effects. The challenge is to trace the specific, situated knowledge landscape fostered through storage in the atrium houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and its effect on social relations. A NESTED STOR AGE PATTERN

Where and how did people store things in the houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum? The following analyses draw on data extracted from Penelope Allison’s Pompeian Households database,36 complemented with scattered excavation reports and a range of general discussions and specialist studies of houses, furniture, and their contents. The Pompeian Households database includes finds and fixtures recorded in 30 Pompeian atrium houses – by definition restricted to the higher end of the market – selected for reasons of data availability (Figure 4.2).37 Instead of such random sampling, Wallace-Hadrill preferred singling out contiguous blocks or insulae to assure a cross-section of architectural forms and social practices.38 But such a strategy ignores inter-neighborhood variation, and compromises consistent resolution in its block-by-block comparison, given sites’ idiosyncratic excavation and recording histories. In addition to Allison’s dataset, finds of wooden furniture at Herculaneum or of legal dossiers at Pompeii give a glimpse of what is missing and caution that the idea of a “living sample” is an illusion even for the Vesuvian cities. One caveat regarding the Roman Households database is that it was compiled on the basis of the old excavation reports and inventories alone, not (consistently) in combination with analysis of the actual artifacts recovered.39 The resulting analytical limitations – which include partial recording and lack of stratigraphic information – are well rehearsed in the context of Pompeii and elsewhere.40 Moreover, Allison’s definition of room types remains based on the plan of an idealized atrium-peristyle house reminiscent of Vitruvius (Figure 4.1). But spatial descriptions of room types replace the problematic interpretive labels derived from Latin nomenclature (Appendix Table A4): for

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4.2. Pompeii, plan with indication of the 30 houses included in Penelope Allison’s database. Drawn by S. Colon, after www.stoa.org/projects/ph/townplan.html Numbers indicate houses mentioned in text: 1: Casa dei Vettii; 2: Casa di Giuseppe II; 3: Casa dei Quadretti Teatrali; 4: Casa del Sacello Iliaco; 5: Casa del Fabbro; 6: Casa del Menandro.

example, what used to be interpreted as bedrooms after Vitruvius’ label cubiculum, are now potentially multi-purpose “small closed rooms” off the side of either the front hall (room type 5) or the garden (room type 12). Of course, the possible uses of rooms would be circumscribed by their spatial affordances (circulation, access, dimensions, light, etc.)41 and steered by decorative and architectural programs,42 but this would only ever be suggestive, not restrictive. One can imagine distinctions between for instance a closed-off, dark, rectangular room and a large, open room with a view in terms of the kinds of activities these spaces could facilitate, without pinning down the function of the former as “bedroom” and the latter as “reception hall.” The sample that forms the basis of Allison’s database is small and imperfect, but offers the most rigorous, consistently categorized dataset available. It informs analyses in the first sub-section below, while the subsequent observations fill in gaps based on other available evidence, if often in an impressionistic way. This chapter thus continues the book’s mission to demonstrate the potential of legacy data, even with regard to the most well-worn of case studies, such as Vesuvian houses. Where and how did the inhabitants of the 30 atrium houses under study store things, which containers did they use, and what did they store?

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Location The difficulty of mapping function onto space in the Vesuvian atrium houses extends to storage: specific storerooms, on a par with today’s garages or pantries, were rare.43 Latin terminology for storerooms in domestic contexts affords a certain degree of precision: cella ostiaria (storeroom near the entrance), cella penaria (storeroom for provisions),44 apotheca ((wine) storeroom), or even oporotheca (fruit storeroom). But such differentiations based on location or on the type of goods stored prove difficult to translate archaeologically. A handful of spaces can be identified specifically as storerooms, either on the basis of their finds (e.g. Room 12 in house I.10.8 in Pompeii),45 or because of structural features.46 To the last category belong a series of attics at Herculaneum (V.9–12 (Casa dell’Apollo Citarede); IV.3–4 (Casa dell’Alcova); Or. II.15) with evidence for bulk storage of dry foodstuffs (wheat, barley, and beans are attested), some even equipped with tanks coated with hydraulic mortar.47 Some alae – open spaces off the atrium or central hall – were (partially) converted into walk-in closets in the course of their use lives, often through the addition of fittings and fixtures.48 Other criteria sometimes marshaled to identify (subterranean) Roman storerooms include size, absence of decoration, and/or occurrence of niches, holes for suspension, or other features (e.g. at Pompeii, in the Casa del Criptoportico (I.6.2–4), or a proper “cellar” in the Casa del Labirinto (VI.11.8 10)).49 Spatial patterning of finds, too, has a role to play in identifying storerooms. A straightforward analysis of the number of finds per room in a selection of Pompeian houses allowed Berg to confirm the generally held assumption that most artifacts are found in places where they were stored, not used, but also to demonstrate that houses tended to have a “principal deposit room” or a main storeroom – typically a small, closed-off room off the atrium – which hosted the kinds of valuable artifacts that were preferentially recorded in older excavation reports.50 Such rooms were thus defined as storerooms in practice, but not architecturally distinguished in any specific way. Allison’s database offers potential to further explore such spatial patterning of storage, across the sample of 30 Pompeian atrium houses.51 The database classifies artifacts and features by broad functional categories, and six such categories relate to storage: 1. Storage furniture (chests, cupboards, and chest/cupboard fittings); 2. Storage furniture or structural fitting (keys and door/chest/cupboard fittings); 3. Storage fixtures (shelving/mezzanine/suspension nails, niches, recesses, and built-in cupboards); 4. Water collection/disposal (impluvia, puteals, cistern heads, tanks, and drain/pipe/ tap/cesspits);

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5. Storage and transport vessels (generally closed ceramic shapes and glass containers); 6. Small storage/transport container (generally small wooden, metal, or textile containers).

The database can be queried for each of the above categories, to show all artifacts ranged within this category, and the results have been sorted according to room type (defined spatially, not functionally, as explained above). Appendix Table A4 shows the outcome of this database search.52 Each column has two data points: first, the number of entries or attested artifacts for a certain category in a certain room type; second, the number of houses across which these entries are spread. Figures in bold indicate disproportionately high numbers: high numbers in the “entries” column need to be calibrated by reference to the corresponding numbers in the “houses” column. Many entries across few houses demonstrate exceptional concentrations of storage; whereas a large number of entries spread across many houses points to a more normative, common storage pattern in elite Vesuvian houses. The limited sample size renders any more advanced statistical analysis unfounded. The categories themselves are not a perfect match for activities relating to storage. First, some of Allison’s categories conflate functionally different objects and activities. Water collection (e.g. puteal), for instance, relates to water disposal (e.g. cesspit) when studied as part of a hydraulic management system, but from the perspective of storage these respective activities are rather different in scope. Any such confusion can be clarified by referring back to the actual objects represented by the numbers in Appendix Table A4. More insidious are artifacts that are themselves ambiguous in their function. Except where detailed contextual information is on offer, the keys and fittings ranged under the heading of “storage furniture or structural fitting” can belong either to actual doors, closing off a space, or to the hinges and doors of cupboards or chests. Similarly, niches can serve for storage or for display, and to make things more complicated the two activities often went hand in hand. Some level of uncertainty is unavoidable (and might, in the case of doors and hinges, point to meaningful conceptual associations in the past, as explored below). Cross-referencing of Appendix Table A4 with excavation reports is necessary but not always sufficient. For this exercise in charting basic spatial patterning of storage features and fixtures, the fact that Allison’s sample is restricted to upmarket atrium houses might actually be a methodological benefit. Indeed, while the plans of different atrium houses are by no means equal, higher status and wealth tended to find their expression in more elaborate spatial differentiation in the house plan (although not necessarily, as we have seen, increased spatial specialization). For smaller houses with less articulated floorplans, an even more concentrated version of multifunctionality could cloud comparison of artifact distributions.

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A final issue is the phenomenon of ad hoc storage in response to the earthquakes that afflicted the Vesuvian towns in the years before the final eruption, at least from ad 62 onwards.53 Many houses and spaces in these towns were in the process of being restructured, repurposed, refurbished, and/ or redecorated. The “abnormality” of such interventions remains difficult to gauge in the absence of a “normal” pattern with which to compare.54 The advantage of Allison’s random selection of houses is to establish something of a pattern against which outliers can be assessed. Where possible, such outliers will be signaled in the below discussion. With 168 out of 458 (35 percent) attestations, storage furniture was concentrated in the front halls or atria (room type 3)55 and in the colonnaded gardens or peristylia (room type 9), both open areas and important foci for circulation in the house (Appendix Table A4).56 At first sight, this is a logical space for storing items with rapid turnover – as a temporary halting place for objects that were needed on a regular basis in any of the rooms communicating with these open spaces. But anything left within these spaces would also have been visible and accessible to many different kinds of users, affecting the knowledge landscape within the house.57 How regular a feature was storage in these open spaces? The high number of attestations of storage furniture in front and back courts (atria and peristylia) are scattered across relatively few houses – although still amounting to 50 percent of the total sample in the case of front halls. The fact that separate entries probably belonged to a single item of furniture (e.g. multiple metal fittings of a single chest or cupboard) does not thwart this picture, as this distortion would affect all houses equally.58 As a consequence, storage furniture would not have been “out of place” in front halls and colonnaded gardens, but neither would it have been a standard accoutrement of those spaces. Instead it was disproportionately emphasized in a couple of houses whose occupants chose to put several chests and cupboards on view.59 The front halls of the Casa del Fabbro and of the Casa dei Quadretti Teatrali, for example, yielded a minimum of respectively three and four such containers, and chests were on show in the Casa dei Vettii.60 This pattern betrays a conscious choice for positioning storage furniture in these spaces, one that was in part informed by practical considerations (easy access), but no doubt also by the communicative potential of the area’s high visibility.61 As such, one can understand why storage furniture found its place in front and back halls, spaces of communication and circulation par excellence.62 Small rooms off the halls (room type 4; cubicula), central open rooms (room type 7; tablinum), and (often small closed) rooms on the first floors (room type 22; cenaculum)63 yielded fewer traces of storage furniture, but these were spread over comparatively more houses (Appendix Table A4). The occurrence of storage furniture there was thus more of a regular feature: these spaces would frequently host an item of storage furniture, but generally only one rather than

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a series of them. As a consequence, storing in these spaces would have been less notable an activity, and less geared towards communicating an outward message. Moreover, objects stored especially in the small, decorated rooms were likely destined for use in that same space.64 The presence of storage furniture can also be reconstructed through its negative imprint. Such features are included in the category of “storage fixtures,” including niches, recesses, or traces of suspension for shelving – although not all of these relate unequivocally to storage.65 Storage fixtures are abundantly present in the small closed rooms leading either off the front halls (room type 4; 28 percent) or off gardens or terraces (room type 12; 15 percent) (Appendix Table A4). Traditionally identified as bedrooms, it is now recognized that these rooms included both decorated and undecorated examples and catered for a wide variety of functions.66 They share a small size and closed nature, which would have made their use more intimate, ruling out activities involving a large number of people. Storage fixtures occur both in decorated and undecorated examples of the small closed rooms, although they cluster in undecorated rooms off the front hall.67 Not surprisingly, the “principal deposit rooms” identified by Berg based on artifact distributions tend to be of this type.68 Like storage furniture, water collection and storage in the form of impluvia (basins for rainwater catchment), cisterns, and puteals (well-heads) were highly focused in the atria, with 49 out of 124 entries (40 percent) (Appendix Table A4).69 By definition, all atrium houses in the sample contained an impluvium in their front halls:70 the impluvium would gather rainwater and channel it to a cistern. More generally, however, the very architectural link between atrium and impluvium points to an embedded standard of practice, whereby a water store was seen as a universal good in need of centralization.71 In that regard, it is notable that the introduction of piped water in the Vesuvian cities was geared towards feeding fountains and decorative installations, but did not replace the use of either the impluvium or the linked underground cisterns for utilitarian purposes.72 This observation betrays a deep-rooted responsibility of catering for one’s own water stores, used for almost all activities taking place within the house (if not drinking),73 instead of relying on the municipal stores that fed the pipe system, or on communal fountains. The contrast with apartments and poorer urban dwellings is underscored by Juvenal, who praises access to “a shallow well from which you can easily draw water, without need of a rope” as the greatest benefit of leaving the hustle of Rome for provincial towns.74 Puteals and cistern heads, instead, were rather rare in front halls.75 Puteals were most common in the ambulatories and open areas of peristyle gardens,76 indicating that water storage in those areas was geared more towards outward presentation than was the case for the front hall. The location of other, minor concentrations of implements for water collection seems to have been prompted by functional considerations: they are found either in open areas in

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which rainwater could easily be collected (cistern heads in gardens (room types 9 and 18)), or in spaces where water was disproportionately needed (kitchens (room type 14)). Moreover, calibration by number of houses shows that these minor concentrations, like the stock impluvia, reflect a standard pattern (Appendix Table A4). Because of their cumbersome dimensions and their structural anchoring to floors and walls, neither items of storage furniture or shelving nor water storage implements would have been moved around the house frequently.77 (Their content, of course, would have circulated.) The portability of storage and transport vessels, instead, no doubt helps explain their wider distribution across rooms. Concentrations of vessels nevertheless occur in front and back halls (respectively 12 percent and 13 percent of 506 entries), and especially on upper stories (room type 22), while kitchens or rooms with a hearth (room type 14) have fewer but consistent numbers (Appendix Table A4). The central, open spaces again reveal themselves as the switchboards of circulation and activity within the house,78 through which supplies were brought in (or in some cases perhaps exported) and redistributed. As long as such supplies were stored in the atrium or peristylium, their further destination and eventual use remained open-ended, and they could be claimed for activities and needs as these arose. Recalling the examples of separate storage rooms at Herculaneum installed on first floors, these emerge as spaces for stocks of goods that were not needed on a regular basis.79 Upon redistribution via the circulation spaces, a majority of these stocks (probably foodstuffs) would be ranged out of the way on the first floor. Finds of amphorae and other large containers on the landing of staircases provide traces of the physical moving of supplies to and from these “larders” on the first floor.80 Smaller subsets (the contents of an amphora poured into smaller containers, or a single amphora out of a set of amphorae) could then be moved to more specific activity spaces as and when needed. Transvasing to such smaller vessels would already result in a re-categorization of stored goods: “small storage/ transport containers” could just as well contain water drawn from an impluvium as olive oil tapped from an amphora. The modest but widespread numbers of these smaller vessels across rooms therefore indicates storage closer to the products’ envisioned use, not in the least in areas where cooking would take place (whether on fixed hearths or portable braziers).81 Numbers for the category of “small storage/transport container” in Allison’s database, however, are too low and the types of associated finds too diverse to allow much in the way of an analysis, largely because excavators did not record coarse wares.82 The 14 entries for this category of finds in room type 7 (central open rooms opposite entrance; tablinum), spread over four houses, provide the only significant pattern (Appendix Table A4). All items belonged to boxes or caskets, some implements were decorated or inlaid with precious materials

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(ivory, silver, and bronze casket fittings), and some had locks. One small container from House VI.16.26 contained needles. All of this speaks to smaller-scale storage of specialist items or valuable goods. Here storage was on selective display to visitors, as various mechanisms for closing entranceways would have curbed and channeled the central and open nature of these rooms’ position.83 Finally, the relatively high number of entries for both storage furniture and small storage/transport containers in room type 16 begs explanation (Appendix Table A4). Allison coined this room type to group a series of “extra” rooms that do not neatly conform to the axial layout of atrium houses. The recorded finds for these two categories of storage in rooms of type 16 represent rare instances rather than standard practice. In fact, the Casa del Menandro alone accounts for this anomaly. Moreover, one room in particular largely dominates the picture: the so-called room B, part of a subterranean cellar complex, which included traces of various chests, storage containers, and ceramic and glass vessels.84 One large wooden chest, decorated with silver sheets, contained glass beads and 118 neatly ordered silver objects, alongside a smaller casket.85 The latter in turn yielded jewelry and coins – including some dating to ad 78 79, which suggests hoarding or ad hoc storage, perhaps during rebuilding works in response to earthquakes before the final eruption.86

Container Before interpreting these rough distribution patterns of storage in Pompeian atrium houses further in terms of the assemblage-making they index, it is necessary to get a clearer view of how things were being stored. As discussed above, the presence of storage furniture often derives from proxy evidence, such as finds of metal or bone hinges, fittings, or holes and recesses in walls. While these kinds of data allow for approximate reconstructions of spatial patterns, they give only limited clues as to the actual nature of the containers themselves. Two exceptional but small datasets offer more fine-grained insight: a series of evocative casts of storage furniture based on negative imprints in the volcanic deposits encountered during excavations at Pompeii, and the 15 examples of wooden chests, cupboards, and racks preserved at Herculaneum.87 The result is a more impressionistic, yet denser tableau – a necessary compromise to probe the depth of ancient storage practices. Both in shape and execution, storage furniture, niches, and recesses were highly variable. Not only was there a sheer diversity in the nature of storage containers and in the actions they enabled, single “types” of container also lacked standardization. The six wooden cupboards preserved at Herculaneum all present a different form and technique, and show only slight resemblance to the casts of cupboards documented at Pompeii.88 For the four wooden aediculae (miniature temples-cum-cupboards) in the sample, Stephan Mols

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4.3. Herculaneum, wooden chest. Mols 1999, Fig. 167, courtesy of Stephan Mols.

4.4. Pompeii, Casa dei Vettii, bronze chest against south wall of front hall. Photo by Pim Allison, authorized by the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali.

remarks that a “wide variation was possible in the detail.”89 The functional similarities in the chest and cupboard fittings used in Allison’s database hide the unique execution of each hinge, lock plate, etc. The excavation notes for Herculaneum record many chests, now lost, of widely varying sizes.90 For chests, the spectrum from plain wooden examples (Figure 4.3)91 to elaborately decorated “strongboxes” (Figure 4.4)92 was perhaps the largest. The shape and dimensions of recesses – wall depressions accommodating pieces of furniture – were varied to such an extent that it is impossible to create a typology to match functional categories (e.g. were narrow, long recesses meant for beds or low cupboards?).93 And even the standardization of vessels such as amphorae

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became largely irrelevant in contexts of storage in the Vesuvian cities, where stores mixed different vessel types, and the likelihood of reuse caused any correspondence between types and original contents to lose much of its predictive capacity.94 Amphora racks installed in shops in Herculaneum were provided with semi-circular notches of differing depths to cater for containers of various sizes (Figure 4.5), echoing the qualitative spectrum of products on offer (cf. Chapter 2).95 Variability was paramount not only between but also within storage containers. The three lower shelves subdividing the sole surviving example of a standing wooden rack from Herculaneum are more or less evenly spaced (ca. 40 cm apart), but 4.5. Herculaneum, reconstructed amphora rack in are topped by two narrower ones (each shop in front of Casa di Nettuno ed Anfitrite (V.6). ca. 22 cm high) (Figure 4.6).96 The upper Photo by author. shelves were in turn divided into three square compartments each. All surviving cupboards have one or more outside doors (Figure 1.1) and internal shelving. The capricious organization of shelves and doors created various nested compartments within each cupboard: space between shelves would be variable, shelves alternated with drawers,97 panels sometimes flanked doors so that only a central part of the cupboard could be opened,98 or a single shelf could be closed off by small double doors in addition to the outer doors covering the entire height of the cupboard (Figure 4.7).99 Chests, too, could come with irregular subdivisions. A chest found in Room B of the ad hoc modified cellar complex in the Casa del Menandro at Pompeii was divided into two horizontal levels.100 The top level in turn contained a smaller casket with bone inlays, creating something of a Russian doll effect. Similarly, a highly decorated chest from Villa B in Oplontis was subdivided into no less than nine compartments, seven of which held a single glass flask.101 The irregular subdivisions of storage containers thwarted calculability: one could not gauge the volume or nature of the contents of a cupboard or chest at a glance, not even when its doors or lid would be opened. Meanwhile, the different compartments enforced qualitative differences between the stored goods: by storing different kinds of things in separate compartments or on separate shelves, their difference would be emphasized. But the other way around, by allowing qualitatively distinct goods to be brought together in a single

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container, compartmentalization also facilitated a conceptual rapprochement. The point is neatly made by an example of a cupboard mounted by a so-called aedicula, a miniature temple associated with domestic cultic practices (Figure 4.8).102 The aedicula contained, amongst other objects, “[a] bronze statuette of Hercules and a marble statuette of a goddess, possibly Venus,” and “[o]rdinary household articles were found in both parts of the piece, most of them in the bottom section, which also contained a terracotta statuette of a lion, bone dice, jewelry and bronze coins.”103 Beyond a mere “economic use of space” as Mols has it,104 the cupboardaedicula shows how “storage” of household gods and “storage” of other objects could be brought together at least in part through the variability and compartmentalization of storage furniture.105 Put dif4.6. Herculaneum, wooden rack from shop V.12. ferently, there was never an expectation Mols 1999, Fig. 154, courtesy of Stephan Mols. that functionally or semantically similar things would be stored together, in a designated storage container, within the Vesuvian houses.106 The nested nature of storage furniture and its closing devices not only thwarted calculability, but also more directly affected visibility. Some sets of cupboard doors opened only as far as half the width of the shelves (Figure 4.7). Examples of large niches with built-in shelving were closed off with wooden frames or curtains.107 And a double wooden trellis screen in lattice pattern shielded a cupboard from Pompeii (I.10.7) (Figure 1.1).108 These different closing devices created various degrees of (in)visibility,109 undermining any simple argument about storage as a functional “hiding from view,”110 but instead hinting at a complex negotiation of knowledge differentials within and beyond the household (see further below).111 Indeed, visibility barriers – such as walls and their various precedents and derivatives (e.g. tapestries and curtains), act at once as political boundaries, defining property (with Rousseau) and as anthropological devices, creating a “sacred” internal space as a precondition for the development of humanity (with Gottfried Semper).112 These different shades of having, knowing, and being come together in the practice of storage. Such mechanisms of hiding and closing as operated through storage containers echoed the doors and screens marking room boundaries and entrances.

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Houses’ few external doors were often decorated or architecturally marked on the outside, framed by pilasters for example,113 yet provided with extensive locking devices on the inside:114 drawing people in while emphasizing the boundary represented by the threshold.115 The owners of Pompeii’s Casa delle Vestali went to great lengths to monumentalize its entrance on the Via Consolare in the first half of the first century ad with the creation of a four-column portico.116 The height of the entrance to the Casa del Bicentenario in Herculaneum, for instance, distinguishes it from adjacent wide shop entrances and narrow staircases.117 A pair of brick pillars, in turn, flanks the rather narrow doorway to the Casa del Gran Portale at Herculaneum (Plate 6).118 The northern entrance to the Casa del Menandro at Pompeii had two rectangular pilasters on either side, 4.7. Herculaneum, front view of wooden cupboard mounted by Corinthian capitals.119 with double set of doors, from first floor above shop Wooden external doors often carried V.17. Mols 1999, Fig. 160, courtesy of Stephan Mols. decorations in the form of bronze or iron appliqués, as in the Casa di Loreio Tiburtino at Pompeii.120 Such carefully framed entryways worked hard to lure passers-by, but could just as easily and emphatically keep them out. The house-as-container thus co-opted strategies used for other storage containers, or vice versa. Inside the house, access to and visibility between spaces were channeled in much the same way as for storage: curtains hung from wooden bars or ropes in the spaces between columns (intercolumnia) in the garden area, and various types of wooden and metal shutters terminated internal passageways.121 Exactly what these idiosyncratic, compartmentalized storage containers reveal will be unpacked further below, but not before gathering the available, again mostly anecdotal, data on the content of storage containers in Vesuvian houses.

Content Despite issues of preservation122 and partial recording,123 some observations can be made regarding the contents of storage furniture. Any correspondence

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between vessel type and content that was upheld in production lost its validity in the context of storage. For example, one of the few examples of a dolium with known contents to have been excavated in the Vesuvian cities – in a shop at the back of the Casa del Priapo (IV.17) at Herculaneum – contained nuts, not the wine or oil that would be expected in a production context.124 Similarly, the likelihood of recycling makes it impossible to extrapolate the contents of amphorae found at Pompeii or Herculaneum based on their typology or even on painted inscriptions relating to a prior process of distribution.125 What stands out regarding the contents of storage containers is their heterogeneity. Both cupboards and chests could generally contain a mix of ceramic and glass tableware, lamps, jewelry ranging 4.8. Herculaneum, wooden cupboard-aedicula from from glass beads on a string to examples the Casa del Sacello di Legno (V.31). Mols 1999, in precious metals, small statuettes, and Fig. 139, courtesy of Stephan Mols. foodstuffs.126 A cupboard and chest127 in the atrium of the Casa del Bell’Impluvio (I.9.1 2) in Pompeii, for instance, included “a silver mirror, a silver jug, a silver crochet-hook, a gold ring, two gold bracelets, two silver-plated bronze bowls, three bronze casseruole, a bronze plate, two terra sigillata plates and a bowl, two glass beakers, a glass jug, a glass bottle, a bronze bucket, two pairs of tweezers and four glass perfume-bottles.”128 Also present was “a hoard of 298 silver coins and three gold coins.”129 Other items deemed of little interest by the excavators might have gone unrecorded, but already from this exceptionally precious assemblage the sheer variety of objects stored together emerges. While cupboards tended to include a range of items in smaller quantities, chests seem to have contained sets of material. Storage of foodstuffs, for instance, could take place both in chests and cupboards. But whereas the sole surviving chest from Herculaneum (Figure 4.3) was entirely filled with a kind of flour or cake, a cupboard on the first floor of the Casa del Bicentenario in Herculaneum (V.15) contained only some figs in addition to “two terracotta lamps, a bone dice and a glass,” and another cupboard in the Casa del Sacello Iliaco (Pompeii) held a vessel containing fish bones.130 Eggs were stored in

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the Casa della Caccia Antica (Pompeii), possibly in a chest along with a marble weight and bronze objects.131 Similarly, the chests in the subterranean room B in the Casa del Menandro in Pompeii discussed above yielded a complete but dysfunctional silverware set, with handles and feet stored separately, “arranged in series and wrapped in heavy cloth,” in contrast to the more singular examples of tableware retrieved in cupboards.132 An even more extreme example of the link between chests and sets of stored goods are the examples of personal archives: wax tablets contained in chests in small, closed rooms on first floors.133 A room on the first floor of building V.22 at Herculaneum held three chests with wax tablets, alongside a bed, precious stones, and a ceramic lamp. The archive of L. Caecilius Iucundus in Pompeii (V.1.26), containing thin wooden tablets with writing either inscribed directly with black ink or scratched into a wax layer, was similarly discovered in a degraded wooden chest on the first floor.134 Other examples are three adjacent houses (including the Casa del Bicentenario, where a chest with 150 wax tablets was found) in Insula V at Herculaneum in which legal dossiers were retrieved.135 Without broaching discussions about literacy,136 much like the architecture of the houses in which they were found, these archives relate to the upper class of Pompeii. Nevertheless, Jean Andreau’s study of the archive of the “banker” (coactor argentarius) Iucundus, which included records of sales at auctions between third parties and of payments made by Iucundus to the city of Pompeii, concludes that the action range of Iucundus remained rather modest. Both financially and socially, Iucundus’ business did not escape the remit of the provincial town that was Pompeii.137 More important for the purpose of this chapter is the question of why, in the case of Iucundus’ archive, the chest ended up containing the set of documents it did: the records show wide discrepancies in the sums of money and the date of the transactions, as well as in the people involved, either as sellers or as witnesses. Why was this particular selection stored? Two hypotheses exist.138 The first sees the assemblage as a conscious selection made by Iucundus for the affective response or memories sparked by specific cases or people, such as for instance (and hypothetically) Iucundus’ first transaction. Others read the selection as an accident, as what happened to survive of a larger archive after the earthquake of ad 62. What informed the composition of this specific assemblage is likely to remain somewhat elusive, but more can be said about the possibilities for action in its final state. Stored in a chest, in a tiny, dark space off the corridor on the first floor,139 the tablets were difficult to access. They were thus likely “filed” cases, kept either as general archiving practice or for specific reasons, but not needed on a regular basis, if at all. The example of Iucundus’ archive highlights how different types of storage furniture created different temporal dynamics. Based on the examples from Herculaneum, Mols concludes that cupboards featured in “living rooms” but

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not in “storerooms,” as opposed to chests.140 Given the difficulty of pinning down room functions for houses in the Vesuvian cities, however, this interpretation is untenable. While chests and cupboards often operated together (e.g. in the front halls), their organization afforded different uses. As Mols rightly suggests, cupboards “were mainly used for items in daily use,”141 whereas chests proved suitable for the storage of goods with a slower rate of turnover. The difference between the contents reported for the two cupboards and two chests retrieved in the front hall of the Casa dei Quadretti Teatrali at Pompeii is subtle but illustrative: items that were clearly in use were found in cupboards (e.g. a hoe, a “smoothener” for marble and mosaic tesserae with traces of use), whereas the chests contained series of objects (e.g. five lead and bronze weights) or objects that were not immediately usable at the moment they entered storage (e.g. two broken knives).142 The vertical organization of cupboards with shelves facilitated overview and accessibility of the stored goods (Figures 1.1 and 4.7). Their height – with contents on the lower and middle shelves generally reaching eye level – strengthened these affordances in relation to the adult body. Only the top shelf of tall cupboards would have been more difficultly accessible, suggesting storage of goods used less frequently, or possibly out of sight and reach of children.143 Chests installed on ground level, in contrast, forced users to bend forward.144 Their contents were visible and accessible only from the top of a sometimes multi-layered stack. All of this fits with a pattern of slower turnover, or longer-term storage for chests as compared to cupboards. Such ergonomic differences cannot be reduced to pest control strategies: first, as already noted, the storage modality did not affect the type of things stored (in particular perishable foodstuffs versus non-perishable artifacts), but only the nature of the assemblage; second, evidence suggests that most storage facilities tended to be elevated from the floor for isolation and protection.145 Moreover, these differences in the nature of the assemblages stored in chests and cupboards respectively do not invalidate their similar appearance when closed. Seen from the outside, both chests and cupboards presented as closable (through doors or lids) volumes with invisible but suggestive contents. Such a discrepancy between outside appearance and inside workings explains why a container can seem out of sync with its contents, as in examples of lockable chests or “strongboxes” containing “mere” foodstuffs for longer-term storage.146 As a result, spaces could be used multifunctionally: at times of display, for instance during the morning salutatio in the atrium, a closed chest communicated control and wealth; at times of work, such as when meals were being prepared in the neighboring kitchen, the same chest in the atrium was opened up to reveal its sometimes “mundane” contents such as foodstuffs.147

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The small storage containers, in particular caskets, which clustered in tablina and on first floors, parallel the larger chests. A database query based on Allison’s Pompeian sample similarly suggests contents with a slow rate of turnover for such small containers, such as a set of needles in the tablinum of house VI.16.26. A small container in the tablinum of the Casa del Fabbro at Pompeii held a writing or painting set, consisting of implements in cylindrical and flat, rectangular boxes.148 In these cases the slow rate of turnover seems linked to storage of specialized goods, for activities with relatively low frequency. Racks, as cupboards without doors (both are labeled armarium), echo the faster turnover and immediate overview and access afforded by cupboards (Figure 4.6). Again, these structural possibilities went beyond the actual nature of what was being stored: in the Casa del Salone Nero at Herculaneum, the freedman L. Venidius Ennychus stored a legal dossier of 50 wax tablets, documenting that he fulfilled special requirements which allowed him to become a Roman citizen.149 The fact that the documents were stored on shelves (affording direct access and overview) rather than in a chest (suited for longer-term storage) suggests that they were not “filed” yet, but could still be needed – in contrast to the other archives discussed above. Perhaps the case was not settled yet, or L. Venidius felt too uncertain to trust that he might not have needed the tablets any time soon, and kept them within reach – quite like a present-day passport, kept at hand when needed (e.g. during travel), but otherwise stowed away. HO W THINGS WER E MADE TO FORGET

So far, the analysis has traced a dispersed storage pattern, with some preferred storage locations, but lots of circulation of goods between them; compartmentalized storage containers thwarting calculability; and heterogeneous contents targeted to certain containers based on frequency of use rather than on kind. What follows gathers these observations in order to interpret storage as a dynamic assemblage (this section), and the social landscape articulated through its assembling (next section).

Storage as a Biographical Activity Space in the Vesuvian houses was multifunctional, and its use was temporally structured: one and the same room could accommodate craft activity in the morning and a dining party in the evening. But how was multifunctionality achieved in practice? How does a functionally underdetermined space become a setting specific to a certain activity and its participants? Storage, I will argue in this section, helped enable and control this recursive redefinition of spaces, activities, and, ultimately, of the people involved.

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Current accounts of the multifunctional use of Roman domestic space over time stop short at the problem of linking artifacts to activities. In order to trace a temporal sequence of activities archaeologically, it would appear that a linked sequence of (functionally) distinctive artifact types is needed – the fallacy of a too rigid “function follows form” maxim.150 Even for such items with a clear primary function as cooking implements, this is a reductive stance: a spoon, for instance, can be used in activities as different as cooking, dining, applying cosmetics, or playing games.151 Traditionally, this is when the notion of context is called upon: the alternative to imposing a static, essential function or meaning on artifacts is to let that function or meaning be determined by the finds context, i.e. the other objects or features with which it was associated.152 A tacit compromise exists between the recognition that artifacts are designed to fulfill a certain purpose, but can be redefined according to context and throughout their biographies.153 It is this redefinition, however, that remains obscure. Artifacts come with certain affordances that can neither endlessly nor automatically be redefined. How, then, is such redefinition triggered and steered? How are different affordances activated or negated? This is where what I label “biographical activities” come in. Biographical activities are points in an artifact biography at which objects are redefined, but without regard for their function: for example, cleaning, discarding, repairing, recycling, and indeed, storing. Such activities are well-known to archaeologists: they tend to be subsumed under the category of “C-transforms,” the cultural formation processes of the archaeological record.154 But this categorization threatens to deny their historical relevance, seeing such activities as less socially relevant than, or even as obfuscating, other “functional” activities in which the focus is on enacting a specific function, such as cooking, eating, weaving, studying, etc. Of course, storage as an activity is also marked and facilitated by objects with a primary storage function, such as cupboards and shelves. And in storage, things – foodstuffs, jewelry, plates – are defined as stored goods (storage as a functional activity), but this definition never exhausts their potential. As Hendon states, storage is “part of the social landscape that [. . .] had the potential to hold the entire spectrum of objects that symbolized a household’s coherence and identity.”155 Put differently: anything that circulates in a household, regardless of its function or of its users, can be stored at some point in its biography. Storage, then, is both a functional and a biographical activity. Storage takes things temporarily out of circulation, with a view to future use. Storage shapes the transition between what things have been or have done and what they can be or can do, between past and future in artifact biographies. In reframing the potential of the things it assembled, storage played a crucial role in enabling and channeling the multifunctional use of space in Vesuvian houses.

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Disentanglement In order to effectively use a certain space multifunctionally, it has to be repeatedly re-created into a setting suitable for any or more of those functions.156 As a corollary, it has to be freed from associations with other functions which it may have at other points in time. Storage acted as a mechanism of “disentanglement” of spaces as well as objects. Archaeology has recently become infatuated with the term “entanglement,” which denotes how objects come with associations and practical demands that draw humans into dependencies with them.157 Objects do not merely provide a neutral background to human decisions, but actively shape perception, action, and judgment.158 Things tend to drag their histories along with them, which then guide their possible uses in a cumulative way: something of things’ definition in previous contexts sediments and shapes their functions and meanings in future contexts.159 More generally, whether through their design, biography, or context, objects are supposed to “know” what they are meant to do, and users are meant to read off “what the object wants.”160 In the Vesuvian towns, in contrast, putting objects in storage freed up action space from those objects’ entanglements. For example, after an episode of offering, the associated ritual objects could be ranged into a cupboard so that the room in question could function without the need to keep observing certain religious dictates. Put differently, through storage, objects in the Vesuvian houses were made to forget their previous histories and associations. This forgetting did not happen automatically, but was facilitated by the specific storage practices in the Vesuvian houses. The flow of storage vessels such as amphorae through the house is revealing of the process of disentanglement. Spatial patterning for storage and transport vessels showed a dispersed distribution across the house. The previous section hypothesized temporal stocking of storage vessels on the first floor, with ad hoc redistribution of (part of ) their contents to relevant spaces.161 The front halls and colonnaded gardens funneled the influx (or outflow) and secondary redistribution of staples. Storage of vessels in front halls (short-term) and on first floors (longer-term) served to redefine them as part of the domestic assemblage. From these new “zero points” in their biographies, then, storage vessels, or (part of ) their content, could be redistributed to spaces and activities as and when needed. Considering the unwieldy volume of many of these containers – a disincentive for haphazard relocation – the pattern of movement that emerges is one in which only the next destination was premeditated (e.g. from front hall to first floor; from first floor to kitchen). In other words, if one would already need for instance olive oil in the kitchen when the latest amphora of oil is brought into the house, there would be no point in carrying it up to the first floor, only to haul it back down immediately. As such, the pattern of storage clusters on first floors points to a practice of open-ended

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“stocking.” Another possible hypothesis is that (slave) labor was so cheap as to defy such logics of labor investment. But if the amphora in the previous scenario were to be carried up anyway, the role of storage as a necessary channeling mechanism and stage of redefinition would have been even more prominent. Put differently, no matter what the cost, things had to go through storage first in order to be “domesticated” and become part of the house’s assemblage. In either hypothesis, storage features as a key biographical activity. In addition, compartmentalized storage furniture enabled storing together qualitatively distinct kinds of objects, such as in the composite cupboard/ aedicula discussed above (Figure 4.8). Even mixtures of foodstuffs have frequently been noted in storage, and in any case no particular mode of storage was specific to a certain type of foodstuff.162 But as it brought such qualitatively distinct objects together, storage also downplayed their differences by silencing objects’ relations to certain activity frames. Therefore, a summary of the contents of the cupboard/aedicula as a list including a “goddess” statuette and “[o]rdinary household articles”163 only tells part of the story: such a distinction privileges a functional over a biographical definition of artifacts. Instead, compartmentalized storage containers respected the contextual function of objects as they entered a cupboard, chest, or container, but also prepared those objects for the possibility of acquiring new associations upon leaving storage. Distinct kinds of things could be stored on different shelves for instance, but still ended up in the same cupboard as any other possible object, and many of these would be visible together, as a single assemblage, upon opening of the cupboard. What entered a cupboard as a dining implement, stored on a different shelf than ritual objects, might well be taken out of storage for use in offering, and re-enter the same cupboard as a ritual object itself. All biographical activities intervene in the flow of things, but some do not alter things’ biographies in any meaningful way. The organization of storage at Pompeii and Herculaneum, however, was such that it not only took objects out of circulation, but also re-assembled them within heterogeneous sets of material, in nested storage furniture, and in spaces which did not necessarily provide a functional or semantic anchor. Not all biographical activities triggered disentanglement, but storage organized in this way did, making objects forget their associations, diffracting their biographies, and opening up alternative trajectories.164 As a result, there was a constant composing, de-composing and recomposing of assemblages, as selections of things were taken out of or moved into storage.165 The “same” cups could be selected from a storage assemblage as drinking cups to be used during dinner, or, together with statuettes of household gods, as libation devices for ritual events.166 The very act of moving objects in and out of storage involved selection and choice, and made this into a meaningful moment. As assemblages in storage did not map onto assemblages

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framing particular kinds of activities, and as the latter needed to be constantly re-created, there was scope for redefining activities and norms. According to Andrew Riggsby, privacy in the Roman house worked to create secluded settings where transgressive behavior could be contained, with normative activities instead concentrated in visible spaces.167 But storage served not just to hide away what did not fit the norms, but more fundamentally, contributed to opening up those norms for redefinition. As such, what it meant (socially and materially) to “do business,” to “impress visitors,” or to “study” was not set in stone but remained open for tweaking and contestation, precisely because the corresponding settings were constantly being recreated. Storage helped redefine the material and social correlates of functional activities. Ian Hodder, too, has recently coined the term “disentanglement” to mitigate one of the shortcomings of his concept of entanglement, namely the fact that even in a relational world, relations are cut as well as soldered.168 Hodder sees moments of disentanglement as grounds for creativity. In a way, this is not dissimilar to my metaphor of a “zero point,” a biographical reset, in Hodder’s words, “an opening out, a resolution, a release.”169 But my definition is concerned more with the practicalities of making and remaking assemblages. In this analysis, disentanglement is the process by which spaces, things, and people can be disinvested from the relations defining them; and the process by which a world of ever-increasing, ever-denser relations becomes an inhabitable, graspable world. Instead of a defined “moment of creativity,” marked as solving a problem, it is recursive, part of the flux of activity, and allowing for constant micro-changes. Once storage in the Vesuvian houses is understood as a recursive process whereby objects were made to forget their associations, it becomes easy to understand the interpretive conundrum of studies trying to decipher discrete activity patterns based on the distribution of artifacts. The functions and meanings that archaeologists try to make artifacts remember are precisely what these artifacts were forced to forget in their ancient contexts of use. To recapitulate, storage is one among a series of biographical activities, activities that do not functionally define the objects they engage. The definition of stored goods is not exhausted by their enrollment in storage. Biographical activities, however, do not necessarily entail disentanglement, a temporary loosening and diffracting of objects’ associations. Instead, such disentanglement was a product of the particular assemblage created through storage in the Vesuvian houses: heterogeneous, nested,170 and dispersed. As a result of this particular framing of the biographical activity that was storage, assemblages were constantly made and undone; they were ad hoc and temporally framed. It might be worth thinking similarly about other biographical activities, as more than C-transforms blurring the link between archaeological and systemic contexts, as loci whose assembling left its mark on things and their social

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resonances. Recent work has shown that a similar logic of continuous assemblage (re-)formation as observed for storage might extend to discarding, and in particular to refuse dumps171 and construction fills: the building history of Pompeii is characterized by a series of major rebuilding phases which drew upon supplies of “infill-assemblages.”172 What was garbage at one point in time, could be “stored” and then rebranded as construction material, and in the process assemblages were reformed and defined as wholes rather than as the sum of their parts (i.e. of the constituent artifacts). Once discarding is recognized as a biographical activity, intervening in things’ biographies, it becomes possible to investigate the patterning of its (re-)assembling, and evaluate whether we find the same parameters of heterogeneity, nested organization, and dispersed patterns to suggest that it too might have triggered disentanglement. In sum, the “particular place” that features in this book’s definition of storage is more than a locational referent. The spatial seclusion of stored goods shaped their biographies and articulated the very topology of the activityscapes in the Vesuvian houses. Meanwhile, even if this chapter deals less explicitly with matters of preservation and degradation than the previous ones, time is still paramount. On the one hand, time operates as an external factor impinging on the material artifacts stored: for example, as the day passed from morning to afternoon, different settings might have been created in the Vesuvian houses. On the other hand, as in the preceding chapters, time emerges from matter, and in particular from the material changes orchestrated through the constant recomposition of assemblages. The transformation of assemblages and settings, mediated through storage, would have instilled a sense of time and temporal order in the inhabitants of the atrium house, to whom we now turn. A FRAGMENTED KNOWLEDGE LANDSCAPE

With the exception of Iucundus the banker and his archive, people have been rather absent in the narrative so far. This section argues that storage not only assembled things, but also people. More specifically, as it made things forget, storage increased the stakes in people’s knowledge landscape. A comparison can help put the historicity of the Vesuvian houses’ social geography into relief; a comparison not with storage practices in ‘real’ modern western houses, but with their idealized template that has haunted studies of the Roman house for so long.173 This notional template, which still gets propagated today through anything from architects’ plans and estate agents to doll houses, prescribes a more or less precise mapping of space and function. As a result, anyone could enter a stranger’s house – or play with a doll house – and still be able to find for instance a toothbrush (in the bathroom), pots and pans (in the kitchen), or books (in the living room or study).174 This is not to say that the western storage pattern is static while its ancient counterpart was

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dynamic. Rather, it shows that in the former case, functions and meanings are signaled spatially and materially. Storage helps in providing standardized, normative settings. In the idealized yet recognizable western house, spoons and plates tend to be stored in the kitchen; toothbrushes can be found in the bathroom; and sofas and tables frame the living room. Artifacts are very unlikely to ever forget their associations, precisely because they are constantly reminded of them by their settings of storage and use, which overlap neatly.175 This lifts the burden from people – whether those inhabiting these spaces or those merely passing through (albeit embedded in the same cultural vocabulary) – to remember where things are stored, or what they might be for. Settings and the attendant practices tend not to be fundamentally reorganized except during major changes – renovations, change of ownership, etc. As a result, there is less scope for contesting or tweaking norms and social relations. Analysis of the modalities of storage suggests that it would be rather more difficult for people living in Pompeii or Herculaneum in the first century ad to enter someone else’s house and navigate one’s way through spaces and assemblages than in the modern example. While a recurrent pattern emerged from the analyses above – at least for atrium houses – the very patterning resides in variability. As a result, the pattern as such would no doubt be “normative” and recognizable to outsiders, and indeed a comparison of Trimalchio’s house and Pompeian plans does suggest the existence of shared spatial understanding,176 but its nested organization and lack of functional correspondences meant that the specifics of what was stored and where remained black-boxed. Not only were things not necessarily stored in the rooms in which they were used. Circulation through spaces could also be redirected temporally in a variety of ways, from suggestive curtains and screens to massive doors, as could access to goods stored for instance in locked chests or cupboards with various nested sets of doors.177 Access, control, and ownership thus came in various shades, mediated by the affordances of the different devices for closing off storage containers and domestic spaces more generally. Solid wooden doors could be either open or closed. Wooden shutters could be slid in and out of place, but, when closed, provided a substantial barrier. Doors and shutters in lattice-pattern, attested both for cupboards and doorways (Figure 1.1), would have created other possibilities than the two extremes of “open” or “closed”: depending on light and viewpoint, they would provide a teasing glimpse of what was behind. Curtains would have further nuanced this spectrum of visibility: in a suggestive play, they would reveal shapes and sounds, blowing open at a little wind. As a result, each space had a constant potential for transformation into a different place, with different affordances and circumscribed by different norms. And, again, this transformation was temporally orchestrated.178 The closed nature of storage furniture played an important role. Cupboards – as racks that could be closed off – purportedly were a Roman

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novelty (Figure 4.7).179 But this “closability” played out differently in relation to either of the two spatial registers of storage furniture described above. Installed very visibly in an open hall, storage furniture with locking devices communicated social and economic credit and credibility – “taking stock” as discussed in Chapter 1.180 The contents of chests and cupboards were not visible, but their doors or lids, locking devices, and decoration would suggest possessions worth “storing,” i.e. worth “hiding away.” The elaborate decorative schemes of some chests with metal appliqués, bone inlays, and even painted plaster,181 heightened their communicative potential (Figure 4.4). When located in a small, closed space, instead, the lockability of storage furniture would have done more to emphasize the personalized nature of the belongings than to send a message to visitors. But regardless of these different registers and their potential meanings, the use of conclavia – literally “room with a key” – as a generic room label in Latin literature suggests that the ability to lock may have been paramount in Roman experience and imagination of domestic space.182 The association between storage and locks underlines the extent to which knowledge and power in the Roman house were embodied: a lock comes with someone to hold the key, often directly on the body in a visceral enactment of power.183 Literary evidence suggests that this keyholder in Roman times was often the matrona – the domina or mistress of the house or perhaps a trusted slave.184 Columella’s description of duties of the wife of a country estate’s overseer or vilicus implies that she was tasked with the management, rather than the execution, of domestic chores.185 In another passage, he trusted a slave with stowing away the house’s precious objects.186 The mothers of both Cicero and Seneca kept their respective houses’ domestic inventories.187 And Roman funerary epitaphs praise the virtues of women as custos or conservatrix, custodians and conservators of the house and its household.188 The above writings, of course, represent a patriarchal vision on the ideal housewife, according to which the power of the matrona was closely dependent on her obedience to her husband.189 But what happened in practice? Was there scope for subversion? And in what knowledge landscape did the matrona hold the keys? A more interesting implication of the foregoing analysis is that knowledge of what was being stored and where was bound to be partial, embodied, and materially negotiated. Unlike the idealized western template, space and storage provided no material reminder about function, and did not steer meaning. Instead, one actually had to remember where one had placed a certain object (or had witnessed an object being placed), in which space, in which cupboard, on which shelf. The more things were made to forget, the more people were forced to remember. And this remembering depended on embodied experience: the personal memory of seeing, placing, or retrieving things in certain places.

A FRAGMENTED KNOWLEDGE LANDSCAPE

It is no coincidence that the house, with its spaces, its furnishings, and its decoration, was foregrounded as mnemonic device by the foremost orators in Rome, including Cicero and Quintilian.190 Both the structure and content of a speech could be evoked by imagining a stroll through one’s house, experiencing the affective qualities of its spaces, and recalling the detail of its furnishings. Movement and memory went hand in hand, both embodied, and became defining of people’s understanding of themselves and the world,191 as exemplified by the equation between space and role in slave titles such as ostiarius or atriensis.192 From the master’s perspective, such titles blended slaves in with other furnishings, but slaves in turn internalized and subverted such definitions in their own narratives of selfhood, as illustrated by epitaphs of freedmen foregrounding occupational titles.193 More empirically accessible is how the compartmentalization and lack of standardization of storage containers made it difficult to impose a managerial, calculation-based strategy. It was impossible to make abstraction of the actual containers, their parts, and their contents in evaluating storage, its capacity, or its use. For example, a cupboard was never just “full.” Instead, its contents had to be characterized in a precise way, both in terms of location (e.g. “in the left corner of the top shelf,” “alongside the nice dishes”), and in terms of its nature (e.g. “the four bowls that we used for last week’s libation,” “the high-quality Falernian wine that was just delivered by our usual trader”). There was no “bird’s eye view,” no “neutral” perspective from which to evaluate what was being stored and where, and no all-encompassing gaze. Add to this the above observation that the constant re-composition of settings and assemblages came with an equally continuous redefinition and tweaking of normative behavior, and we can start painting a picture of the social geography in the Vesuvian houses. In the anthropological tradition of socio-political evolution (Chapter 1), the control of storage and its attendant knowledge are assumed to have been centralized. Even more, storage is generally thought to have actively facilitated centralized management, as in the development of states and empires.194 At Pompeii and Herculaneum, instead, the archaeology of storage suggests a system that at least in part defied a centralized, all-knowing gaze. The knowledge, and thus the power relations, fostered by storage in these contexts were embodied, closely dependent on an individual’s personal experience and memory. Moreover, it was bound to be fragmented: no single household member would have carried all this knowledge at once. While the overall knowledge distribution may well have been uneven – with some household members having greater access to certain spaces – it would never have been total.195 If literary sources tell us anything, it is that no social group – neither slaves nor women – was confined to specific quarters in the atrium house; rather access and inclusion depended on the occasion.196 There was no top-down, omniscient control. The “social

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dimension of time” in Vesuvian houses lay in its structuring of activities and, therefore, of social relations;197 and storage acted as gatekeeping mechanism. Storage not only funneled assemblages of things, but equally of people, composing and re-composing the relations between users of the domestic space. An added sting here is the opportunity which this fragmented knowledge landscape offered for various actors in the Roman house to appropriate stored objects and foodstuffs, or, conversely, to keep property secret. Legal and literary sources recount petty thievery by slaves,198 but the geography of storage suggests that only a small fraction of such cases might have been caught. An analysis of patterns of movement and visibility showed that many storerooms in the Vesuvian houses were hidden from the master’s gaze, and led Sandra Joshel and Lauren Hackworth Petersen to suggest that slaves could have used these spaces to withdraw either themselves or stolen goods from sight.199 Such a potential “choreography of resistance,” however, reveals more about the overall distribution of knowledge and power in the house, and of the attendant social roles, than about any one specific social group such as slaves. After all, other inhabitants could equally have had their tried and tested hiding places beneath staircases or in cellars. In his study of trust in ancient Greece, based on literary sources, Steven Johnstone identifies a similar absence of external standards or contractual relations in a household context. Accounts and inventories were definitely kept, as described in the Greek context as a strategy to keep track of occasionally used goods in Xenophon’s Oeconomicus,200 and for the Roman world by Cicero’s description of his mother’s inventory habit.201 Written accounts alone, however, did not suffice to alter the knowledge landscape of storage in the Vesuvian houses. As Johnstone concludes, in the end “the physical manipulation of the objects [storage containers] themselves constituted the calculations,”202 much as observed in this chapter for the assembling and reassembling of material and social relations. It is all too easy to see small-scale social relations, as in a household, romantically as a primal locus of trust, lost in larger-scale formations such as states, which worked to extend such relations of trust through abstracting devices (e.g. contracts, coins, labels).203 Yet trust and distrust do not correlate simply with scale. For example, in Vesuvian houses, the matrona could ally with her husband, the paterfamilias, as per the ideal of concordia or marital harmony,204 or she could plot to undermine his authority.205 Similarly, some slaves could be trusted to store and guard precious objects,206 while others could trigger a deep distrust. Trust could even be met by distrust in one and the same interaction. What is key, instead, is that the fragmented storage assemblage in Vesuvian houses translated both trust and distrust into a constantly shifting social landscape of insiders and outsiders. Some people knew where something had been placed, by whom, when; some did not. In this knowledge landscape – however small-scale and intimate it

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may have been – one needed to make allies, with both people and things. And this had to be done in the doing; there was not much scope for an abstract way of building relations of trust with people and things. Note how this chapter’s analysis opens up action space and power claims for traditionally underrepresented groups in the Roman house, in particular for women and slaves. But it does so without falling into the trap of equating certain artifact types or activities with particular reified social categories. An analysis of storage leads to an inquiry into different kinds of organization (a nested pattern) and the knowledge pattern these enabled (in this case, embodied knowledge and fragmented control) that proves more fruitful than an attempt to match assemblages, spaces, or activities with the particular social group these are supposed to represent.207 As such, it can accommodate the reality that women could legally own property and in practice be the house owner and “head of household” in Imperial Roman society: the power differentials were real but not universally gendered.208 Thinking with and through assemblages, as this chapter has done, offers a new lens on the troubled topic of identity in archaeology.209 The conceptual acknowledgment that identities are dynamic, changing, and imbricated has been married only with great difficulty, if at all, to the inescapably static labeling of objects. Relational models of personhood are better equipped at dealing with human–thing interactions.210 What assemblages add is an imperative to think in dynamic terms, along trajectories of making and remaking (the French agencement). The results are social geographies of people and things, always in flux, but at different rates of change and redefinition and forming different constellations. I have saved the best-known example of such (re-)assembling for last: the atria of aristocratic houses were framed by imagines or (male)211 ancestor portraits (indexical masks, possibly derived from or representing statuary),212 each one in its own individual cupboard. At special occasions such as festivals, these cupboards were opened,213 thus literally re-assembling the family through its people, its things, and its people-things (the imagines).214 The next chapter will zoom out to the largest scale, where the discourse and mechanics of empire were center-stage: the supply of the city of Rome, through its ports at Ostia and Portus. It will continue the methodology developed in this chapter, and in particular it will put the nested storage pattern in dialogue with alternative dynamics, their trajectories, and the implications for social relations and economic possibilities. As we will see in Chapter 6, however, the (re-)assembled family, only hinted at so far, looms large at that scale. While this chapter focused on the “household” and its “domestic” interactions as defined by their dialectal relation with a specific locale, i.e. the house,215 Chapter 6 will enter the more treacherous terrain of family as a historical mentality.

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W

ith up to one million inhabitants, very few of whom were involved in primary food production, the city of Rome acted as a massive black hole for food supplies.1 Supplying the city posed a key logistical and political challenge to the Roman empire.2 Rising to this challenge was a port system covering not just Italy but the entire Mediterranean,3 in which Ostia and Portus played a lead part, linking Rome to the Mediterranean via the mouth of the river Tiber (Figure 5.1). As the two most important maritime harbors of the city of Rome, Ostia and Portus were economically and symbolically crucial to safeguarding the oxygen supply to the heart of the Roman empire. The variability of climatic and environmental vagaries between different areas within the Mediterranean basin,4 all under the political hold of Rome, would somewhat have diminished the risk of a bad harvest, but it posed new logistical challenges. By the Early Empire, Rome was disproportionately dependent on grain grown in Egypt and, to a lesser extent, Africa, so some form of storage as risk-buffering against a bad year must have been at play. Given the increasing extension of Rome’s supply chain, storage also intervened in the spatial distribution of resources: for instance, stocks of grain were assembled in the storerooms of the various villages in Egypt, and then gathered in Alexandria before being shipped to Rome.5 On a smaller temporal scale, risk returned annually with the dwindling of the seafaring season for winter. Seas were rough and gales harsh approximately from mid-September to late May (or, in mild years, or for daring crews, between mid-November and early 122

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5.1. Ostia and Portus in their regional setting. Germoni et al. 2018, Fig. 2, courtesy of Simon Keay/Martin Millett.

March).6 This was the season of the mare clausum, the closed sea, when the odds for risking cargoes, ships, and lives were rather grim. As a result, stocks of grain were needed to bridge at the very least this annually recurring lag in the replenishment of supplies to the capital.7 Despite the massive scale of investment in shipping, port infrastructure, warehouses, etc., food crises were unavoidable, and could compromise an emperor’s authority.8 Conversely,

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command of full storerooms guaranteed social and economic credit and credibility, for emperors and traders alike. In historical plots, the traditional storyline of large Italian estates exporting agricultural surplus in the Late Republican period (Chapter 2) has as its pendant in the Imperial period an Italy manically importing staple foods, and in particular grain, from the provinces.9 The very need for continuous external supplies to guarantee the food source of the city of Rome did not remain without its impact on the infrastructure of storage: the large storage complexes at Rome’s maritime ports fit into this narrative whereby Italy, and especially Rome, were at pains to safeguard the flow of provincial supplies in order to guarantee their own livelihood. While the picture of stagnant Italian agriculture in the Early Empire has been discredited,10 staples and other goods (marble, spices, etc.) were brought from across the Mediterranean and beyond to Italy and at least in part stored in the warehouses of Ostia and Portus. From there they would be transferred on river barges (naves caudicariae)11 and towed upstream to Rome, which in turn had a network of warehouses along the Tiber and further inland to host goods prior to their sale or consumption.12 Empire surfaced throughout the previous three chapters, but it is nowhere as squarely in the picture as when focusing on storage at Ostia and Portus. This is where the empire of political economy enters the stage: as the apex of political formations, and as the ultimate surplus-wielding power (cf. Chapter 1). Indeed, as Norman Yoffee notes, “the architectural provision of enormous or hugely extravagant storage spaces” sneaks in as an “emblem of many early states.”13 Empires, in turn, do many of the same things that states do, but they do it bigger. In Robert Carneiro’s words, “[e]verything that followed [in the wake of chiefdoms], including the rise of states and empires, was, in a sense, merely quantitative.”14 So too for storage, it seems. Figures for the storage capacity organized in and by the Roman empire are indeed dazzling, especially in their pre-industrial context. The sheer size of the warehouses at Ostia and Portus sparks the imagination (Plate 7). Estimates concern the volume of goods that could be stocked at these ports, a question which depends, amongst other variables, on technicalities such as whether or not warehouses had more than one floor level.15 The precariousness of any attempt at answering such questions continues to be thrown in sharp relief by geophysical research, which suggests the presence of important but as yet unexplored buildings.16 More frequent are hypotheses about the number of people that could have been fed in the grain doles of the Imperial Roman period, and the storage capacity this would have necessitated, based on indications of quantities in written sources.17 But as long as scale is read through a quantitative lens, it conjures evolutionary narratives of big, bigger, biggest (see Chapter 1). With regard to the supply of Rome, this reinforces a narrow scalar division and its concomitant agencies,

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namely between public and private. Indeed, debates on storage at Ostia and Portus revolve around the issue of state-driven supply (redistribution), as an imperially controlled sector of the economy, usually portrayed in opposition to free market trade, and thus touch on the very heart of the structure and performance of the Roman economy.18 “Big” – as in large warehouses, large grain ships, large construction projects – is taken to equal “state,” whereas “small” is often seen as representing “private.”19 Ostia and Portus thus lift the inquiry of this book to its scalar limit, both in terms of the sheer size of storage facilities and the amplitude of geographical connections harbored by them, and with regard to the remit of the historical interpretations drawn from them. But this chapter and the next one seek to avoid preformatting scale according to evolutionary categories such as “empire.” Instead, together they will investigate scale in a qualitative way, as scalability: how, according to which mechanisms, do empires scale up? The question of scalability calls for scrutinizing the reality of large-scale archaeological categories such as “state” and “empire.”20 What are the agencies from which they stem and which they, in turn, operate? This chapter picks up where the previous one left off in terms of chronology – zooming in on the second century ad (i.e. Antonine, not Julio-Claudian, Ostia and Portus) – and methodology. Like the previous chapter, it seeks temporality in the organization of storage facilities more than in the nature of the stored goods themselves: focus will be on the temporal and material choreographies constituted by the (off-)loading of goods, their re-ordering in warehouses, and their flow within and through the harbor complexes. Instead of labeling the actors involved in storing at Ostia and Portus, this chapter traces how material flows were redefined through these ports, and how this spurred distinct economic trajectories: while Portus tended towards undifferentiated bulk goods, the nested organization of goods and storerooms at Ostia is reminiscent of the domestic patterning of storage as discussed in Chapter 4. The temporality of storage – the threat of degrading goods, the adjustment of supply and demand, and the choice of when to move stuff out of storage emerges as a key variable once again. More specifically, a difference transpires between the ad hoc opportunism of merchants involved in the supply of Rome on the one hand and the longer-term storage windows backed by the state and/or by large entrepreneurs on the other hand. FREE TRADE VERSU S THE STATE?

Rome’s (Grain) Supply The share of publicly versus privately driven trade is a bone of contention in the study of Rome’s supply. Yet the ancient evidence refuses to speak

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to categories of “public” and “private.” In view of the amplitude and the structural importance of the supply of Rome, written evidence is relatively scant and consists of scattered mentions in letters, court cases, and memoirs – documents that do not have food supply as their topic. Cicero’s In Verrem discusses taxation and its abuses as part of his case against Verres, a former governor of Sicily, which at the time (in the first century bc) was one of the main sources of grain for Rome. Both the historians Tacitus (e.g. Annales III 54.6–8; XV 18.2) and Suetonius (e.g. Caesar 41.3; Augustus 40.2) briefly refer to aspects of the supply of Rome (annona) and the grain dole (frumentationes) as part of their character sketches of the emperors, as does the first emperor Augustus himself in his Res Gestae (15.4). Josephus hints at the tension between local and imperial authorities’ claims over grain stores (Life of Josephus 70). Lucian’s Navigium (5 6), in turn, discusses an Egyptian grain ship called Isis, headed for Rome, on which the dialogue’s interlocutors sailed for Greece, stressing both its size and its precarity: 180 feet long, 44 feet deep, with a crew “like a small army,” yet steered by one “little old” man.21 Ultimately, ownership of the ship and its cargo becomes a metaphor for a particular vision of affluence. Perhaps the most matter-of-fact account of the practicalities of the food supply is to be found in the apostle Paul’s journey to Rome (Acts 27). Paul ends up sailing to Rome on an Alexandrian grain ship, which, we learn, carried at least some cargo other than grain (which was thrown overboard before the grain when the ship encountered difficulties), as well as 276 people (crew and passengers). The sailors leading the ship were not state officials, but, like any Roman citizen, were obliged to obey the commands of the centurion who escorted Paul. After an eventful journey, the ship was wrecked before the shores of Malta, and after three months, Paul embarked on another Alexandrian ship that had wintered on the island (Acts 28). While entirely expected, seasonality apparently remained difficult to predict. Finally, Seneca’s (Epistulae 77) account of the arrival of the Alexandrian “fleet” (classis) at Puteoli describes how the grain ships were heralded by messenger boats (tabellarias) which had special permission not to lower their topsails upon entering the port. The passage gives a glimpse of the psychological impact of the grain supply, aside from suggesting that by that time (first half first century ad) Alexandrian ships would sail to Italy in group. Ancient sources thus talk about emperors, traders, shippers; they mention prices, taxes, trading seasons; but they do not range these under respectively a “public” or a “private” rubric. Instead, modern perceptions cloud the parameters by which public and private are studied.22 What can be reconstructed from the ancient sources is a series of mechanisms by which grain was channeled to Rome, sometimes overlapping in direction and purpose, at other times operating in conflicting ways. More than anything, the abovementioned sources communicate the psychology of supply, and the fickle

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nature of its reality (in view of storms; wrecked ships; and the relief on arrival). Before broaching archaeology’s contribution to sketching the practicalities of the material flows that constituted the supply of Rome, it is worth rehearsing the general historical framework.23 Already in the third century bc, Rome had started to assure her share of grain through the annexation of Sicily (and Sardinia) as province(s) and the imposition of a tax in kind (tithe), a system inherited from the local tyrant’s administration.24 There is no doubt that the grain doles or frumentationes were part of public attempts to deal with the stresses of population growth and food shortages in the city of Rome,25 yet their apportioning did not consider need or poverty.26 Their history starts with the agricultural reforms by Gaius Gracchus in the late second century bc, which included guaranteed sale of a minimum volume of grain at a set low price to each male citizen living in Rome.27 By the mid-first century bc the guaranteed ration was transformed into free distributions. During the Civil Wars, the grain dole gained in political acuity, as the generals understood the strategic importance of the city’s supply system. But the organizing powers’ interest in and meddling with the grain supplies amounted to much more than organizing the grain doles – and the annona was the department in charge of these various interventions.28 The annona had to provision the army and the imperial administration, and, more generally, assure a steady supply of grain to Rome and a robust surplus to prevent famines29 and unwieldy price increases. Rome’s strategies to manage the multi-headed hydra that was the grain supply developed over time. Measures were mostly ad hoc, though, and even in the Late Republic, when Rome’s population put significant pressure on its subsistence, the grain supply was administered only sporadically, through extraordinary, temporarily appointed officials. In 57 bc, for instance, Pompey was charged with a special five-year command over the grain supply, a duty that involved eradicating piracy and safeguarding transport routes as much as dealing with traders, shippers, and local contact persons.30 Both Caesar and Octavian made attempts to curtail the number of people eligible for the frumentationes, but by then the clock could not be turned back on the institution itself. This chimes with the popular image of an Early Imperial Rome taming the populace with panem et circenses, bread and circuses.31 It was not until Augustan times, in ad 8, that a praefectus annonae was appointed, a permanent magistracy of equestrian rank overseeing the supply of foodstuffs (not just grain) to Rome.32 The observation that the free grain doles did not actually fall under the responsibilities of the praefectus annonae33 illustrates how the concerns of Rome’s organizing powers had become much larger, embracing the full trajectory of grain production, distribution, and consumption. The praefectus annonae resided in Rome and was, in effect,

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a kind of accountant managing the complex bookkeeping of entries and exits in a system that was far from standardized.34 The extent to which the annona was fueled by state-owned grain is debated.35 First, considerable uncertainty surrounds the nature of taxation in the Early Empire: taxation in Egypt, the prime source of grain from Augustus onwards, continued in kind;36 but in Sicily, for example, it is unclear whether the system of tithes was replaced by fixed levies in kind or in cash.37 If the latter, the grain would have entered the market, and the imperial administration would have been forced to (re)purchase it in case it sought to intervene, for instance in order to level out price fluctuations. Second, as the Imperial period progressed, more and more public land came under imperial control – either owned directly by the emperor or by members of the imperial family38 – especially in the two prime supplying areas of grain to Rome, Africa and Egypt. Third, other mechanisms existed, but their on-the-ground logistics are not always easy to decipher. The frumentum mancipale, for example, may refer to taxation in kind on publicly owned land in senatorial provinces; the frumentum imperatum may indicate extra imperial requisitions in times of hardship, but is difficult to distinguish from additional purchases on the market by the officers of the annona.39

Rethinking Control But does it really matter what part of Rome’s grain entered the market, and what part never did? At one level, of course, it does: if we are interested in the administrative minutiae of the grain trade; in the roles of various intermediaries in the provinces and in the ports; or in the legal distribution of liabilities and contracts.40 On another level, however, determining the exact public/private ratio does not make a difference, and, at worst, ends up stalling discussion.41 First, even grain that was hypothetically channeled entirely through public networks and never entered exchange for cash (e.g. grain collected through taxation in kind, and distributed in the free grain doles) was part of the “market,” in that it was never the all-embracing mechanism, and therefore influenced the supply and demand balance that defined the rest of the trade.42 More fundamentally, however, it is possible to argue that debates have been so preoccupied with trying to pigeonhole nuggets of information into anachronistic boxes of “public” and “private” that they have failed to recognize that the indeterminacy itself may well have been a structural feature of the Roman grain trade. Of course, either side of the debate traditionally grants leeway to the opposite position. Those who, like Geoffrey Rickman, argue in favor of a significant share of private, free market trade in the grain supply, acknowledge the state’s gradually increasing hold over its mechanics.43 Others, like Paul Erdkamp, turn the table: “while we cannot deny the involvement of [private]

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trade, in my view the emphasis should lie with the state, not with trade.”44 The same scraps of source material are harnessed for opposite narratives. The anecdote of the emperor Claudius offering special rewards to shippers who would commit to using their large-sized boats to transport grain to Rome for a period of six years45 has been used to argue that Rome did not have a state-run commercial fleet, showing its relative lack of public organization (Rickman),46 but also, conversely, to highlight that the state apparently called on the services only of ship owners, not of private traders (Erdkamp).47 For the purposes of this chapter, this indeterminacy is fundamental. What stands out is the fluidity of roles and the overlapping of actors. Shippers could be contracted by the state, or operate on their own count. Ship owners could at once rent out space in their cargoes and transport cargoes as independent traders.48 Emperors could manage “public” grain from taxation as well as grain from their imperial estates.49 This fluidity remained a characteristic of the grain supply well into the empire, and at all counts during the period under consideration here, despite an overall trend towards increased systemization. The same fluidity applies to construction, ownership, and management of storage facilities at Ostia and Portus.50 Based on patterns of urbanism and building activity (e.g. using brick stamps and technical details), both Michael Heinzelmann and Janet DeLaine concur that imperial involvement in Ostia has been overestimated at the expense of the agency of its thriving citizen community of private entrepreneurs.51 Yet at least three Ostian mensores or grain measurers were probable (descendants of ) freedmen of the “familia Caesaris”.52 Similarly, bricks by the equestrian M. Rutilius Lupo – in his capacity of praefectus annonae the prime public official overseeing supply – in major warehouses at Ostia, including the Piccolo Mercato, testify to the intertwinement of private interests and state organization,53 as does a prosopography of people and roles involved in the grain trade at Ostia.54 Filippo Coarelli previously argued for imperial control of Ostia’s warehouse infrastructure north of the decumanus or main east–west street (i.e. closest to the banks of the Tiber) – and at the very least imperial intervention occurred.55 In addition, the Sulpicii archive shows imperial freedmen lending money for commercial ventures at Puteoli, Rome’s most important harbor before the rise of Ostia and Portus.56 Not only were public and private intertwined, what counts as “public,” and what exactly “state” means in the Early Imperial period beckons deconstruction. Ultimately, it was the emperor who was held responsible for the grain supply of Rome. The Roman historian Tacitus reports how the emperor Tiberius wrote to the senate in ad 22 acknowledging that the duty of feeding Rome fell upon the emperor (the princeps) and was foundational not just to the success but to the very existence of the empire.57 His stepfather Augustus, the first emperor, had already accepted this responsibility by taking on the cura annonae, the management of the annona, and had acted on it by

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creating the role of praefectus annonae.58 Subsequent emperors followed his lead. Both Claudius and Trajan took to heart the task to guarantee the food supply of Rome and Italy, both practically and symbolically.59 The Historia Augusta recounts how, on his death, Septimius Severus left bountiful granaries to the Roman populace, supposedly amounting to seven years’ worth of tribute.60 The actual financing of the annona was murky and the dividing line between senatorial and imperial funds hard to draw,61 but ideologically, control and management of the grain supply lay squarely with the emperor. The emperor was personally responsible for feeding his dependents, the inhabitants of his empire, and first and foremost the citizens of Rome.62 When it came to the supply of Rome, emperor was state, either as an elite private mafia, or in the guise of a benign paterfamilias – depending on how much credit one wishes to grant ideology.63 New coin series, such as the so-called Ceres Augusta type, reinforced imperial propaganda surrounding the grain supply.64 It is notable that those coin types catered in particular to the small change that was likely to circulate across various socio-economic strata, and to reach those most affected and concerned by hiccups in Rome’s supply. Control and ownership are central parameters in storage,65 and it is undeniable that the state, in the form of the imperial administration, had an important role in the organization of Rome’s supplies. But while the opposition to free trade operated by private parties may seem natural to modern observers steeped in the formative principles of a neoclassical market economy, it is anachronistic in a Roman context. Public and private agencies did not stand in an “either/or” relation, where “more state” equals “less market,” and vice versa.66 André Tchernia, instead, coined the term “commerce imbriqué” (“nested commerce”) to denote the relation between state and private interests.67 Aside from its at best patchy historical support, the public/private debate also reduces Rome’s supply to a static tableau. Its central question of who was in control can only ever reveal part of the story. In the previous chapter, for instance, arguably all stored items in the Vesuvian houses were technically under control of the paterfamilias, the head of the household, whose primary role was that of property owner and manager.68 Only an investigation of the dynamics of storage practices – the “how” question – could elicit the more fragmented knowledge landscape masked by this hierarchical control. Existence of the annona is often invoked as an explanatory mechanism in and of itself, for instance as the motivation behind construction of the facilities at Portus. And as we have seen, the administrative, legal, and economic implications of the grain trade are long-standing topics in Roman studies, which by necessity involve storage. But as a socio-material phenomenon, storage remains black-boxed.69 Injecting dynamism and considering storage not as an index of surplus in the abstract but as part of a concrete supply chain requires changing the terms

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of study of control. In its original phrasing, the question of free versus state-driven, or private versus public trade implicitly subscribes to a particular, top-down model of power. In this model, power is a resource that can be possessed in part or in its entirety.70 As a result, the division of power becomes a zero-sum game: the more the state is able to claim, the less remains for private traders, and vice versa. A relational model, instead, describes power not as a substance that springs from a particular source and is held (or not held), but as a diffuse system structuring all relations, norms, and practices.71 Such a rethinking of power transforms the analytical enterprise in line with this chapter’s goals: the question then is no longer who holds power and how much of it – as in the public/private conundrum – but how power is structured and what the consequences for action are.

Ostia and Portus, from Plans to Material Practices Describing the “how” of situated storage assemblages at Ostia and Portus, let alone extrapolating the resulting trajectories of goods, comes with challenges of data availability. Given the importance of the supply of Rome’s population, one would expect to see publicly administered storerooms and warehouses both on Rome’s quays and at Ostia; yet archaeological and epigraphic evidence is scant. Gaius Gracchus’ instituting of the precursor to the free grain doles, selling guaranteed rations at low price, is said to have been accompanied by the establishment of a network of granaries,72 but these remain archaeologically elusive. Warehouses of Late Republican and Early Imperial date lining the quaysides of the river port in Rome were named after, and constructed by, the foremost families of the time (e.g. Horrea Galbana (initially owned by the Sulpicii, and later imperial property under Galba), Horrea Lolliana).73 By the first century ad, most warehouses had become imperial property.74 But this gradual shift in ownership did not entail a necessary alteration of the operation of the warehouses and the organization of storage practices, with space being rented out and sublet on a contractual basis.75 Situated circa 30 kilometers inland, Rome relied on maritime ports to transship supplies drawn from the wider Mediterranean to its own quays on the river Tiber (Figure 5.1). Ostia served as Rome’s first port on the mouth of the Tiber, but was in no way a natural harbor.76 Ostia’s occupation history dates back to the installation of a fort in the course of the fourth century bc,77 while the area of Portus, circa four kilometers to the north, does not show much activity before the Claudian period.78 Before the early first century ad, limited exploitation of the nearby salt pans is plausible, with roads and associated scattered farmsteads.79 Portus, which remained administratively subject to Ostia until the fourth century ad,80 made its big entry into history with the

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5.2. Portus, plan by Rodolfo Lanciani of the Trajanic basin based on excavations up to 1867 and reconstructions (some now proven wrong). After Notizie degli scavi di antichità 1925, Tav. II.

construction of an artificial harbor under the emperor Claudius, followed by development on an even grander scale under Trajan (and in turn amplified and modified in Severan times).81 The creation of this new harbor just north of Ostia was part of a wider scheme of measures taken by these two emperors to amplify and solidify Rome’s supply. Claudius designed a new basin along with accompanying storage facilities on a grand scale.82 The Trajanic interventions in particular extended to warehouse and port constructions throughout the Mediterranean, but retained a particular practical and symbolic focus on Rome’s maritime port. The new hexagonal Trajanic basin at Portus (Figure 5.2) gradually diverted all or most Alexandrian grain ships – quintessential to the grain supply of Rome – to Portus from Puteoli, where they used to moor and transship their cargoes either for sailing in smaller craft north along the coast or for land transport up to Rome.83 In any case, both the number of ships that could be received at Ostia and Portus and the volume of goods that could be stored, increased dramatically. The massive Trajanic investment at Portus triggered a second-century building “boom” at Ostia.84 Such synchronicity suggests a close, complementary relationship between both harbors, which interlocked with a wider, Mediterranean port network.85 Storage infrastructure at Rome’s river harbor (emporium)

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too expanded around the early and middle second century ad.86 Recent excavations in one of the aisles of the Porticus Aemilia, for instance, demonstrated rebuilding in the late first to early second century ad for the creation of warehouse cells, complete with suspensurae or raised floors.87 Around that same time the first warehouses appeared on the Tiber’s right bank (Trastevere).88 The challenge of this chapter is to materialize and render dynamic storage practices at Ostia and Portus based on what is essentially static architectural and planimetric evidence.89 A surge of excavations of Ostian warehouses took place in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, at a time when techniques for environmental reconstruction (geomorphology, archaeobotany, archaeozoology) were not yet on the agenda.90 Associated finds assemblages went largely unrecorded. While geophysical examination of the Ostian suburbium suggests the presence of substantial numbers of unexplored warehouses91 – especially in Regio III near the coastline; along the eastern bank of the Tiber on the Isola Sacra; and on the eastern river bank – these have not been the focus of more recent excavations.92 Much the same goes for Portus, where old plans and some new excavations open up partial windows on structures identified as warehouses, at most revealing their architectural details (e.g. the presence of multiple floors) and their chronology.93 Currently the entire eastern section of Portus, including the hexagonal basin proper, is private property inaccessible for archaeological exploration. Analyses in this chapter rely heavily on a number of recent projects, which have done targeted small-scale excavations and “deep” cleaning in the western and southwestern portions of the port.94 How to go from such static plans to dynamic trajectories?95 Bill Hillier and Julienne Hanson are often credited with emphasizing the practical, not just symbolic, effects of architecture on social life: architecture influences how we move, interact, and ultimately (I add based on recent cognitive archaeology) think.96 In this sense, architecture comes with affordances, just like any other type of material culture. Phenomenology, in turn, diffracts the effect of space on people along different embodied identities.97 What this study adds, in line with the previous chapter, is to consider the resulting possibilities of action not in terms of fixed social identities (for people: male/female; free/slave; adult/ child; for things: private/public), but in terms of the (re-)assembling of people and things, with particular attention to how certain architectural and planimetric affordances shaped the trajectories of stored goods. Traditionally, three ideal Roman warehouse (horrea) plans are distinguished:98 1. courtyard-horrea, with inwards-facing rooms arranged on all four sides of a rectangular courtyard, sometimes bordered by a portico (Figure 5.3); 2. corridor-horrea, the architectural equivalent of courtyard-horrea but compressed,99 so as to leave only a narrow corridor by way of inner central space,

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5.3. Ostia, plan of Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, Horrea I.VIII.2 and Piccolo Mercato. Drawn by Stijn Colon after Scavi di Ostia I and scan by Jan-Theo Bakker.

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table 5.1 Comparison of spatial features and affordances of warehouses at Ostia and Portus Ostia

Portus

courtyard-/corridor-type variable surface size variable cells non-calculable integrated urban fabric personalized control

spine-type less variable surface size (?) modular cells calculable specialized storage complex generalized control

flanked on the two long sides by storerooms (rarely a single room was inserted at the far short end) (Figure 5.4); 3. spine-horrea, where two rows of rooms were installed directly back-to-back, with cells opening outwards.

While warehouses at Ostia (as in the emporium, Rome’s river port) are predominantly of the courtyard-type, in Portus the spine-type prevailed.100 There can be no doubt that these planimetric warehouse types were different, but the nature of this difference is more difficult to grasp. Rather than positing three ideal types 5.4. Ostia, plan of Horrea III.II.6 Drawn by Stijn with separate lineages,101 the question Colon, after Scavi di Ostia I and scan by Jan-Theo Bakker. should be how they affected the dynamics of storage. As pointed out by Simon Keay and Martin Millett, the large internal space of the courtyard type would have fostered “negotiation and trading between individuals,” whereas the spine-type in particular – with less open space – could be associated with more direct control.102 The lure to translate the archaeology of storage to the debates about public and private trade, however, should be resisted.103 As discussed above, not only are “public” and “private” interventions difficult to disentangle at both Ostia and Portus, such a question of ascription stalls inquiry into the material flows of storage and their consequences. The single a priori difference between Ostia and Portus derives from their respective histories: Portus was designed much as a site without history, whereas the urban fabric at Ostia was the product of a more continuous process of modification. What follows translates the available planimetric evidence for warehouses at Ostia and Portus into a range of possible activity patterns – from static to dynamic, sketching a spectrum of differences between storage practices at both ports (Table 5.1).

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Surface Area The size of warehouses is a parameter usually brought to bear on the question of how much stuff was received, stored, traded. This quantitative line of analysis has dominated study of the food supply of Rome; and indeed, both the scale of the metropolis of Rome and that of the flow of goods needed to sustain its population beg historical explanation.104 With its concentration of large, spine-type horrea, Portus seems to speak more straightforwardly to state-driven management of storage and supply, whereas the smallest corridor-warehouses of Ostia in particular appear to tie in with private entrepreneurship.105 But the picture is not quite as clear-cut; not just because surface size is a poor indicator of actual storage volume,106 but because a simple quantitative assessment of aggregate scale misses out on nuances in organization and categorization. Geophysical imaging of the Isola Sacra has revealed the existence of huge courtyard-type horrea along the northern riverbank at Ostia – the sheer size of the buildings is larger than anything previously attested for the port.107 As a result, one-to-one mapping between courtyard- and spine-type warehouses and their respective surface areas does not hold up to scrutiny. What does stand out very clearly is the much larger range of warehouse sizes at Ostia, with a variation of ground floor surface area from anything like 360 m2 (Horrea IV.V.12) to 13,200 m2 (Horrea Antoniniani) or larger (warehouses on southern Isola Sacra). A plot of warehouse surface size at Ostia follows a normal distribution. The very partial evidence for Portus makes a similar exercise fraught, but most warehouses fall within the same size range, with some exceptional peaks (Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano (Figure 5.5) and Grandi Magazzini cosiddetti di Settimio Severo). Whether as a result of conscious design or accidental site development, this pattern suggests a greater diversification of storage practices at Ostia. While staircases unequivocally confirm the presence of a first floor, the latter’s absence is more difficult to deduce, based on secondary parameters such as the thickness and carrying capacity of outer walls.108 On present evidence none of the three large excavated warehouses at Ostia dated to the first century (Grandi Horrea; Horrea di Hortensius; Horrea V.I.2) appear to have had a first floor.109 In contrast, the majority of the large warehouses built or modified in the second century included a first floor (with the exception of the Horrea dell’Artemide), suggesting adoption of an architectural novelty first introduced at Portus, much like the back-to-back arrangement of cells in the Horrea Antoniniani at Ostia. Yet variability of ground floor surface size continued to characterize Ostian warehouses after the second century ad.

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5.5. Portus, plan of Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano. Black: excavated/visible structures; grey: reconstructed. Drawn by Stijn Colon, after plan by EFR/Milena Mimmo.

Aside from echoing technical developments at Portus, the use of first floors at Ostia reflected an overall strategy of maximizing the increasingly rare building space.110 As a consequence of the second-century building boom at Ostia, large structures such as horrea increasingly had to vie for space with pre-existing and surrounding buildings, leading to a more conscious negotiation of functional destination.111 Large tufa blocks and traces of division walls in Horrea I.VIII.2, for example, show that the presence of preceding monumental buildings (probably warehouses too) in the central riverside area of Regio I did not constrain the superimposition of three new storehouses (Piccolo Mercato (Plate 8), Horrea I.VIII.2, and Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana

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(Figure 5.3)).112 On the other hand, some large storage complexes originating in the first century ad such as the Horrea di Hortensius preserved their layout throughout the second century.113

Compartmentalization The other recurring question of research on Ostia and Portus – aside from how much stuff was being stored – is what was being stored. The nature of the stored goods proves elusive in the absence of environmental or contextual data from the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century excavations that revealed most known warehouses in Rome’s river ports.114 But storage facilities offer some structural clues. Dolia defossa, collections of large storage jars sunken below ground level, probably held wine or oil, although storage of non-liquid foodstuffs cannot be ruled out.115 Four such concentrations are known at Ostia, all of Hadrianic date: the Caseggiato dei Doli (I.IV.5; 35 dolia; Plate 9), the Magazzino dei Doli (III.XIV.3; 21 dolia), the Magazzino Annonario (V.XI.5; more than 100 dolia), and a final one described during excavations in 1902,116 but not published in detail.117 Suspensurae or raised floors, in turn, tend to be linked to grain storage for aeration, as described in the agricultural treatises of the agronomists.118 A recent in-depth analysis of suspensurae, however, has shown a variety of typologies at work, with real functional differences, which prove that suspensurae cannot easily be equated with a single aim, let alone with storage of a single type of commodity. Suspensurae were used exceedingly rarely in storage facilities in Rome and environs, while standard in military horrea.119 At Ostia, three warehouses are equipped with suspensurae: the Horrea Antoniniani (where they formed part of the original construction dated to the reign of Commodus), the Grandi Horrea (where they date to the Antonine period),120 and Horrea I.VIII.2 or the Piccoli Grandi Horrea (where the suspensurae were a later addition to the Hadrianic building).121 The warehouses on the northern river bank at Ostia too had suspensurae.122 But before the later second century ad, raised horrea floors were either not in use at Ostia, or were constructed in wood, as attested elsewhere in the empire. At Portus, old reports contain scattered mentions of suspensurae in a spine-type warehouse of probable Trajanic date on side III of the hexagonal basin.123 Recent test soundings have confirmed the installation of extensive systems of suspensurae in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, dated at the latest to the mid-second century (and possibly Trajanic),124 and in third- and fifth-century refurbishing of the warehouses on side VI of the Trajanic basin directly adjacent to the Palazzo Imperiale.125 While raised floors with longitudinal supporting walls are most common, lateral walls are also attested, in particular in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus.126 As the air vents in the latter type did not communicate either with

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one another or with the external atmosphere, aeration (necessary for grain preservation and storage) cannot have been their raison d’être. (Note that other elements did promote airflow, such as the general planimetry of cells, and the high, slit-like windows narrowing down towards the inside.) Aside from distributing the weight of storage in bulk, the suspensurae at Ostia and Portus also maintained temperature and especially combatted humidity. Again in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus, the soil had been dug out by at least three meters when constructing the massive foundations, and replaced with an artificial, permeable fill – a mix of sand, pozzolana, chalk, and ceramic fragments.127 Aside from the presence or absence of raised floors, other structural indicators can speak to the range of possible goods stored in warehouses. The kinds of reverse piers flanking the entrance in some of the cells of the Grandi Horrea at Ostia and of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus, for instance, would have avoided spillage of loose goods, such as grain.128 For the same building, thermal analysis has been put to work to indicate the technical possibilities and structural limits of storage.129 Despite the difficulty in identifying the contents of warehouses and their cells, it is clear that storage cells at Ostia were much more variable in size, depth, and other characteristics (e.g. presence and position of windows or light sources) – even within a single warehouse – than was the case at Portus. Salient examples of warehouses with storerooms widely varying in size and layout include the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana (Figure 5.3), the Horrea dell’Artemide, and the Horrea di Hortensius. Such variability echoes clues regarding compartmentalization provided by an inscription found in Rome, concerning a notice of lease of the private horrea owned by a consul, Q. Tineius Sacerdos.130 The inscription lists spaces for hire, probably in decreasing order of size, as: horrea (an ensemble of rooms, or the entire building), apothecae ((wine) storerooms), compendiaria (a sort of safe deposit), armaria (chests), intercolumnia (space between columns), and loca armaris (subdivisions within, or the standing place of, an armarium).131 The exact interpretation of the different terms matters less for this argument than the overall scalar order of the list. But the different scales exhibit qualitative – not just quantitative – differences, as evidenced for example by the connotation of compendiaria as safe deposits, and by the apothecae’s link to wine. As a consequence, one single warehouse building could accommodate qualitatively distinct kinds of things, by ranging them in different registers. Conversely, even the “same” types of goods could be defined differently depending on their place in this nested order: stored for instance in bulk, or in a small separate container, or as part of a chest alongside other valuable goods. It is plausible that these descriptions mostly mapped onto courtyard horrea, the common type in Rome,132 where most epigraphic evidence originates; and therefore,

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that a similar vocabulary would have extended to the internal organization of warehouses at Ostia.133 The nested compartmentalization of warehouses at Ostia chimes with the range of variability in surface sizes of warehouses, noted above. Recognition of the resulting qualitative differences – much as was the case for domestic storage in the Vesuvian atrium houses (Chapter 4) – compromises the analytical monovision imposed on warehouse plans at Ostia. The Horrea Epagathiana and Epaphroditiana, for instance, have long confused scholars, as the only building explicitly labeled “horrea” by an inscription,134 but not conforming to the “ideal” plan of courtyard warehouses (Figure 5.3). As such its storage function had to be qualified: one option put forth was that of “a private warehouse for various, more expensive goods, food, and furnishings, with a character somewhere in between an oriental bazaar and our large department stores with various items,”135 or, in a more recent version, a “sort of ‘safe deposit’ storehouse [. . .] where one might hire storage space for goods,”136 or even “a setting for sale – possibly by auction – to a select clientele.”137 Other scholars saw it as “the seat of a wholesale business,”138 or, similarly, “a business investment by two enterprising freedmen.”139 The preceding analysis transforms the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana from a deviant case into no more than a variation on an Ostian theme of storage practices that articulate and reinforce qualitative (over and above quantitative) differences.140 Conversely, the limited range of variability in the size of different warehouses at Portus is mirrored by more modular subdivisions within each warehouse.141 Structural principles of alignment and repetition afforded less maneuver space to frame goods as qualitatively distinct (e.g. as more or less valuable, as special, as older, etc.). The massive box-like foundations in opus reticulatum of Claudian-Neronian date attested in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano142 not only dictated the regular, sequential ordering of the cells and the goods they contained, but also their enormous average dimension of ca. 6  13.5 m (Figure 5.5).143 Other examples confirm the dazzling size of individual storerooms at Portus: ca. 5.5  18.5 m for the Horrea on side III of the hexagonal basin;144 and ca. 7.5  17.5 m for the subdivided bays of the possible navalia on side VI after its repurposing as a warehouse.145 The sheer size of these storage cells at Portus surpasses anything known at Ostia, where the largest storerooms measure in the range of 4  4.5 m (Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana), 4.5  6.5 m (Horrea I.VIII.2), 4.5  9 m to 4.5  10 m (second phase of the Grandi Horrea) or 4  8.5 m (Horrea dell’Artemide).146 This basic but poignant scalar difference cannot be emphasized enough. Volumetric capacity, when available, is equally striking: cells in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano reach a maximum height of 8.5 m from floor to the top of the barrel vault147 – a dramatic size, even if the height did more for aeration than for capacity.148 The narrow, deep layout of the storerooms and the limited

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5.6. Ostia, mosaic from the Aula dei Mensores, third century ad. Photo courtesy of Klaus Heese, [email protected]

lighting afforded by their back-to-back arrangement would have rendered overview and inspection of goods within the cells difficult. Consequently, storage space at Portus was geared towards the handling of bulk goods, jettisoning qualitative differentiation in favor of fungibility and the resulting possibilities of comparison, measurement, and calculation.

Calculability Registration of goods happened on arrival to ports for tax purposes.149 A thirdcentury ad mosaic in the Aula dei Mensores at Ostia depicts grain measurers at work, equipped with a ticketing system to register cargoes or units of grain (Figure 5.6), and a similar disposition is on show on the Isis Geminiana mosaic dated between the second and early third centuries, which adorned a tomb in the necropolis of via Laurentina (Figure 5.7).150 Ships and their crew are recounted to have waited as long as 15 days at Ostia for receipts of the cargoes they delivered.151 But in addition to such administrative procedures, a more general sense of calculation and overview would have been key to ensuring the viability of storage as a point of turnover: somehow goods coming in from a variety of origins had to be transformed into goods checking out to a different destination. General conditions of calculability differed though between Ostia and Portus.

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5.7. Ostia, Isis Geminiana fresco from the via Laurentina necropolis, second to early third century ad. Musei Vaticani. © Governatorato dello S.C.V. – Direzione dei Musei.

The contents of the individual storerooms at Portus remained vague and undifferentiated, but their sequential ordering and standardization, as modular subdivisions of warehouses, facilitated calculation. A series of external interventions served to enhance this inherent calculability. For example, a number was painted in red on the brick facing of the Severan external wall of a cell of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano (Plate 10).152 The numerals “XIID” measured about 30 cm in height and were inscribed at a legible height of ca. 2 m. Whether it should be read as “cell 488” or as “cell 12 of bay D,” the number merely referred to a reference frame imposed by the setting of the warehouse structure. Because of the modular ordering of the warehouse itself, a number such as the one found on the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano could function not just as a locational record (“my grain is stored in storeroom 12 of wing D”), but also as a quantitative device (“wing D has 12 storerooms of grain”). At Portus, measuring and administration of stored goods could have been carried out in spaces such as the wide longitudinal passages between the back walls of the outwards oriented cells in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano. Examination of circulation patterns based on the plan (Figure 5.5) – with both cells and stairs/ramps opening directly onto the quays, and the “handling space” set back and accessible only via a series of north–south passageways153 – suggests that goods might have been moved into the cells straightaway after unloading on the docks. Speed of discharge seems to have been paramount, aimed at handling as many supplies as possible in the shortest possible period. Upon discharging of goods in the cells, the physical structure

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of the warehouse enabled it to act as a new metric of calculation, transforming cargoes of different origins, nature, and volumes into accountable and comparable units, streamlining manipulation of goods in the set-back handling space before their transferal to other warehouses or to Rome. At Ostia, in contrast, the variability within and between storerooms thwarted comparison and calculation on a larger scale. Courtyard and corridor warehouses share an emphasis on central handling and maneuver space, needed at least in part because the warehouses themselves did not come with an architecturally built-in handle on calculation, as was the case at Portus. In other words, simply ranging goods into Ostian storerooms did not make them comparable or calculable. Instead, much like domestic storage in the Vesuvian atrium houses (Chapter 4), no abstracted “bird’s eye” view was possible at Ostia, and knowledge of what was stored was bound to remain embodied, personalized, and ad hoc, or would have had to be externalized by accounting systems and the like. The “storeroom” as such might have been a locational device, as illustrated by the lease of “room 12” in the Horrea Bassiana in Puteoli retained in the Sulpicii archive,154 but did not always make for a workable unit of measurement – i.e. the volume and type of goods stored in “room 12” were not evident at a glance. Indeed, in another case from the Sulpicii archive, the creditor requests a storeroom’s (room 26 in the horrea Barbatiana) contents to be measured before accepting it as pledge for a loan; presumably the documents then counted as external accounting system, providing an overview and guarantee that the storeroom qua structure could not vouch for.155 Similarly, numbers inscribed on the necks of dolia defossa at Ostia record their volume as the number of amphorae that could have been emptied in them.156 Again, calculation did not refer to the storage structure (the dolia themselves) but to an external framework – in this case the amphora as the physical unit carried by a single porter during the loading and unloading of storage facilities.157 One space often related to measurement and accounting at Ostia is the socalled Horrea dei Mensores, integrated with the Aula and temple of the grain measurers on its southeastern corner. The precise function of the building with idiosyncratic plan remains unresolved,158 but its orientation following the riverfront (instead of the street to its south) suggests that it was designed to handle (and measure) cargoes as they were unloaded, before deposition in the warehouses. At Ostia, then, registration of goods on arrival to the port provided an important external framework of definition, which was not immediately overruled by the modalities of their subsequent storage. At Portus, instead, after initial registration, the standardization, modularity, and sequential organization of storerooms and warehouses itself was capable of imposing a defining framework, effectively reprogramming the goods’ different biographies and making them commensurable. Of course, the gap between design and reality is

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impossible to close for an archaeology based only on planimetry, but a study of the spatial affordances of both ports suggests that storage facilities at Portus were designed to enhance supervisory control, much like the panopticon,159 while the possibility of such control would have been structurally more limited at Ostia. INSIDE AND OU TSIDE

Integration in Urban Fabric So far, this chapter has established a series of differences in the way storage played out at Ostia and Portus: respectively through courtyard warehouses of varied surface sizes whose internal organization created qualitatively different niches, and through spine-type warehouses with huge, modular storerooms enabling undifferentiated bulk storage while facilitating calculation. Once again, these descriptions delineate possibilities for action; they guided, but did not fix, these warehouses’ use. Considering warehouses as patterned activity nodes instead of rigid architectural types entails analyzing their position in the urban fabric. While this book isolates storage as a distinct moment in things’ biographies, its focus on material flows is in accordance with calls for consideration of a wider “commercial landscape” at large cities such as Ostia.160 At Ostia, most warehouses were situated near the river or near the main arteries, in a suitable position for the flows of commerce (Plate 7).161 Their overall distribution, however, was scattered, with some horrea set quite far back from either the riverfront or obvious road links,162 and without a logic of connectivity and communication between them. Such a scattered configuration could have resulted from a longer history of site development, but storage systems through the ages show significant historical variability both when designed ad hoc and when developed organically.163 In any case, considerable local knowledge would have been required to navigate the Ostian storagescape – once more in parallel to the fragmented, embodied knowledge landscape of storage in houses at Pompeii and Herculaneum (Chapter 4). By the Trajanic period a dense urban fabric enveloped warehouses in Ostia. Especially the larger horrea at Ostia tended to have external shops or porticoes, providing an organic link between storage and other urban activities.164 Some storerooms were even converted into shops, as shown by their widened entrances and an adjusted threshold and shutter system, suggesting a certain architectural and conceptual fluidity. The “mercato” (marketplace) III. I. 7, initially designed as a warehouse with two rows of cells facing onto a narrow courtyard, saw one row of cells repurposed as tabernae during the second century.165 Similarly, at least one threshold in Horrea IV.V.2 became a shop entrance accommodating an upright shutter.166 In addition, two areas of dolia

INSIDE AND OUTSIDE

defossa at Ostia (III.XIV.3 and V.XI.5) connected to workshop areas. As DeLaine observed, “storage and retail appear to have existed side by side” at Ostia.167 Tabernae and porticoes themselves could easily combine retail with secondary production and ad hoc, short-term storage.168 As a result, storage at Ostia was but another stage in the trajectory of goods, from selling to reselling and from unloading to loading. Ostia has been described as an aberration of traditional patterns of Roman urbanism, given the relative scarcity of its public buildings, its emphasis on functionality rather than appearance, and its rapid development in the second century ad.169 Portus, however, is even more deviant compared to the traditional “checklist” of Roman urbanism. More a single-purpose installation than a town – at least based on current, limited understanding – its population was probably closely integrated with that of Ostia. Recent research is starting to shed light on where people working at Portus lived, particularly on the site of the later Basilica Portuense170 on the south end of side V of the Trajanic basin, and at Isola Sacra, as well as revealing extensive cemeteries dating from the first century ad.171 The area to the south and southwest of the Trajanic basin too might have had a residential focus, but its remains are poorly known and buried under deep deposits.172 Storage facilities around the Darsena and the Trajanic basin at Portus featured as focal and integrated points of both planning and activity – in contrast to a more scattered distribution at Ostia. The precise nature of this integration is the subject of debate: one hypothesis reconstructs different sides of the hexagonal basin as catering for different stages in the process of registration, storage, and transshipment,173 but types of goods, too, could have been differentiated according to location and storage structure. In any case, infrastructure such as a road running along the quayside surrounding the hexagonal basin, and of course the basin itself, suggests a close connection between the different warehouses and their associated goods and activities.174 Moreover, in contrast to Ostia, warehouses at Portus were not associated with shops or tabernae. The site as a whole lacked retail facilities: stored goods did not enter a trajectory of buying, selling, or secondary production – unless to the extent accommodated within the warehouse structures themselves.175 Again, an important scalar difference (possibly in part mapping onto wholesale versus retail?) seems to separate Ostia and Portus, but once more extrapolating to different agencies – public and private – would mean cutting important corners.176

Access The observation that warehouses were more closely integrated in the urban fabric and its various activity patterns at Ostia does not imply that access

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5.8. Ostia, entrance to Portico degli Archi Trionfali and Horrea dell’Artemide from the main street (decumanus maximus), looking south. Photo by author.

was uninhibited. Quite the contrary: a frenzy of control surrounded warehouse access patterns at Ostia. First, many warehouses were at a higher level than the street, requiring all goods to be carried up a short flight of stairs (Figure 5.8). But most strikingly, few and relatively narrow entrances led into courtyard warehouses: in most cases a primary one at the front; and another, optional, at the back (Figure 5.3). The impact of such a single (even if from two sides) entrance leading onto the courtyard emerges from a simple space syntax analysis: in sharp difference to a spine-type warehouse, it effectively introduces an absolute point of control. The narrowness of the entrances – in combination with the use of stairs – rules out access by cart. Instead, goods would have entered and left the warehouses on the back of porters (saccarii) (Figure 5.7).177 As a consequence, the unit for control would have been much smaller (i.e. the maximum volume and weight carried by a single person, such as a single amphora or a single sack of grain),178 more visible, and easier to control.179 The entrance corridors (both in the courtyard-type (e.g. ca. 1.5 m wide for the Grandi Horrea after their Severan reconstruction),180 and, more rarely, in the corridor-type (e.g. Horrea IV.V.12)) would have enforced a “drop by drop” channeling of goods.181 That explicit control of stored goods at Ostia was more than a by-product of the typology of courtyard horrea (with their external wall) is demonstrated by the fact that dolia defossa too “were in walled courts set at the back of buildings with very limited access, and any associated tabernae

INSIDE AND OUTSIDE

could only be reached through a series of rooms.”182 Architecture was made to enact a pattern of carefully managed accessibility. But controlling stored goods at Ostia was not just about hiding away; it was just as much about parading this act of hiding away – yet another aspect that resonates with domestic storage as seen in the Vesuvian cities (Chapter 4). This paradox is exemplified by the special architectural elaboration (relative to the generally austere building style at Ostia)183 of some of the scarce, narrow entrances to warehouses.184 Brick pilasters flanked the main entrance to the Horrea dell’Artemide and to the small Horrea III.XVII.1. The doorways to the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana (Plate 11) and to the Horrea III.II.6 in turn were in “aedicular” style, with brick (semi-)columns supporting an architrave and pediment, “designed to be seen from a distance by those approaching from the street opposite.”185 By visually drawing in passers-by, these doorways highlighted the control signaled by closed doors or long, narrow entryways. In addition, specialized locking devices, consisting of travertine insets in the brickwork on both sides of the doorway, about 1 to 1.50 m above the thresholds, protected the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, the Horrea Aurighi (III.2.6) of corridor-type, and the Caseggiato del Larario.186 Based on an analysis of brick stamps and building techniques, DeLaine has shown that those three buildings were the work of a single contractor.187 A specific contractor might have been selected because of special expertise in constructing safe-deposit buildings equipped with locking mechanisms.188 But more importantly, the use of locking devices also added another qualitatively distinct niche to the nested template of storage at Ostia, setting apart selected spaces, goods, and audiences. Moreover, the use of locking devices was not generalized within these three buildings. The main entrance on the southwest side of the Horrea Aurighi, opening up to the Via degli Aurighi, had a slot in the brickwork on the inside of the threshold. The secondary doorway flanking the main one to the east and leading in under a staircase accessed from the central corridor of the warehouse had a more substantial slot cut into travertine insets at both sides of the outside threshold that could be secured with a wooden bar.189 While the lock on the main entrance doorway would have closed off most of the building, the secondary doorway could still have provided entrance at least to the storeroom flanking the staircase. In the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana the positioning of similar locking devices was more complex still, enhancing the irregularity of rooms and doorways (Figure 5.3).190 Outside locking devices secured the entrance to the corridor in between the western row of shops and to the stairs leading directly to the first floor. The actual entrance to the courtyard building had travertine insets for both outer and inner bars.191 The use of such locking devices would have made it possible to vary the circulation pattern, adjusting access to the public or the occasion. Control also became more personalized, as

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it was literally in the hands of the person(s) holding the keys, and presupposed an intimate knowledge of the warehouse, its contents, and its access. In sum, control of access to warehouses at Ostia was paraded, made visible and explicit, for instance by emphasizing the scarcity and exclusivity of entrances. Despite being a central concern, control was personalized and exerted in an ad hoc way, in a specific warehouse, for a specific entrance, or in relation to a specific load of goods that was channeled piecemeal through a narrow entrance corridor. The “economy of entrances” encountered at Ostia is easily read, with Rickman, as “what one would expect: the need for small, easily-barred entrances would be of primary importance in a building used for storage purposes.”192 A comparison with Portus, instead, shows that while control was a concern of equal importance, it was enacted very differently. At Portus, centralized, disembodied control was enabled by the generalized standards and calculability anchored in the modular organization of the storage structures themselves, as discussed above.193 Such generalized control paradoxically allowed for a rather open layout of the spine-type warehouses at Portus, with storerooms facing outwards. Early excavations on side III of the hexagonal basin retrieved a warehouse surrounded by a wall.194 The only entrance found, on the southern short end of the warehouse, did not stand in direct communication with any of the storerooms, and testifies to a careful control of access. Moreover, the limited circulation space resulting from this arrangement underscores the lack of provision for activities other than storage on the quayside – i.e. before goods were moved into storage – such as evaluation of goods, sale, auction, etc., in contrast to Ostia’s courtyard warehouses. None of the other known warehouses at Portus has evidence of enclosing walls, however. In its initial Claudian and Trajanic phases, the quayside of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano opened directly onto the entrances of the storerooms and onto the staircases and ramps leading to the upper floor, separated only by a colonnade.195 At least from its Antonine phase, though, passage was reduced to a rather narrow corridor in front of the storage cells opening onto the quay, demonstrating that here too entire cargoes were carried on the backs of individual porters (saccarii). A road probably ran in front of the wall, connecting the different sides of the basin, and supporting the hypothesis of transferal of goods between warehouses at Portus. As a whole, then, the setup of the Trajanic port would have been geared towards receiving large, bulk loads as efficiently as possible, but carefully controlling their further trajectory. Ships would have arrived en masse during the seafaring season, creating strong incentive for the rapid unloading of cargoes. During the other half of the year, however, the main concern at Portus would have been to know the exact nature and amount of stored goods, to

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manage their preservation (e.g. by shoveling up grain), and to assure a steady, continuous supply of goods to Rome without risking the precocious depletion of reserves. Nevertheless, individual storerooms and/or sets of rooms at Portus sometimes had separate locking systems, possibly with a view to leasing as attested in the Sulpicii archive for Puteoli and postulated as the likely scenario for Ostia.196 Cells thus parceled out could operate separately, albeit not quite autonomously. Even if a set of cells was leased and managed for example by a single private entrepreneur, they would be dependent on the arrival and processing of cargoes, on the circulation patterns (e.g. likely system of oneway circulation in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano), on the outlets for transshipment, etc. In addition, direct access to most197 warehouses along the basin was inhibited by a continuous wall running behind the quays, with a 3 m high base that was later raised, and pierced by openings 1.90 m wide.198 The date and extent of the wall – attested at least on sides III and IV and bearing marks of multiple episodes of rebuilding – remain uncertain.199 The recent Portus survey suggests that the current wall represents a Late Antique rebuilding of an earlier wall which “acted to control the flow of goods being unloaded from ships and transferred into warehouses.”200 Regardless of this wall and its exact date, the façades of warehouses on all sides created a closed-off – almost “trapped” – experience for the ships and their goods unloading in the Trajanic basin, heightened by the single entrance to the basin on side V. Lots of attention was devoted to curating the outside appearance of the warehouses and the port as a whole: the façades of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, for example, have a distinct brickwork, different from the mortar-covered brick on the inside of the cells. Moreover, in front of the façades ran a rhythmically ordered colonnade, alternating between white travertine columns set back (Figure 5.9), and columns in grey marble set forth in a play with color and position. The overall effect was to make the entire setup around the Trajanic basin into one giant, inflated “courtyard-type” warehouse: the basin as the courtyard; its mouth as the entrance corridor; the warehouses on its different sides as differentiated warehouse cells. BENDING SPACE AND TI ME

Economic Trajectories Goods stored at Ostia and Portus respectively traveled along different trajectories. The very storage facilities, their structural properties, and their organization articulated how stored goods would be defined, what their future trajectories might look like, and which modalities of trade could be involved.

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table 5.2 Comparison of the economic trajectories of storage at Ostia and Portus

ADMINISTRATION CONTROL GOODS DEFINED BY ARTIFACT BIOGRAPHIES TRADE

Ostia

Portus

External framework Embodied and ad hoc Specificity Diffracted Responsive

Defined by warehouse structure Generalized General categories Reset Predetermined

5.9. Portus, colonnade of white travertine columns in front of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, later filled in with bricks. Photo by author.

The above analyses have started to unravel the shape of these economic trajectories, but it is worth gathering the different observations here (Table 5.2). As was the case for domestic storage in the Vesuvian houses (Chapter 4), the irregular, nested compartments of storerooms at Ostia at once acknowledged and relaxed pre-existing differences between stored goods. Qualitatively distinct kinds of things could be stored alongside one another without being amalgamated into a new unit or whole. At the same time, however, the very fact that such a variety of things could be stored together would have caused a practical and conceptual rapprochement between them – imagine for example a storeroom with some wine amphorae, a couple of oil amphorae, a few sacks of dried fruit, etc.; or, as in the Horrea Galbana in Rome (of courtyard plan), different storerooms containing respectively ivory, lentils, sand, and amphorae.201 Such assemblages of stored goods imply sophisticated skills and knowledge on the part of traders and warehouse operators (horrearii) in order to manage suitable pairings of products, appropriate storage times and other practicalities of storage technology, alongside the vagaries of demand and sale. People’s reputation and standing – crucial for guaranteeing a smooth supply

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chain under these circumstances – would have hinged on a close knowledge of their stocks. Importantly, things’ (re-)definition in storage had repercussions for their future trajectories. The same variability in surface size, irregular subdivisions, carefully channeled access patterns, and idiosyncratic locking mechanisms that enabled storerooms to host things of different nature and origin also acted as a diffracting prism for their future trajectories. Courtyard warehouses and their subdivisions could accommodate things with widely divergent origins and histories, and send those same things out again along an equally wide array of trajectories. At Ostia, storage expanded things’ future potentialities. Storage’s role in shaping trajectories unfolding at different rates and in different directions was facilitated further by some warehouses’ integration with spaces of retail and crafting, which aided the transition of goods from one register of practice to another.202 At Ostia, things and their trajectories were therefore always specific, only temporarily part of larger assemblages, and never fully defined by them. Knowledge was situated, embodied, and fragmented. The potential heterogeneity of stored assemblages, the idiosyncrasy of locking devices, and the irregularity of access patterns required embodied knowledge in order to manage storage – as was the case in domestic contexts at Pompeii and Herculaneum (Chapter 4). As a result, top-down control was thwarted and prone to fragmentation. Such fragmentation would have had the benefit of creating a certain flexibility and a responsiveness to trading opportunities: stored goods at Ostia could be summoned in response to specific, ad hoc needs or demands. In supply chain terms, the opportunity was to respond to emerging niches or “value chain” patterns, more than (or in addition to) guaranteeing stable, predictable structures and flows. Ostian storage patterns were less amenable, however, to filling structural gaps, as their organization did not favor a guaranteed and consistent supply. Moreover, as trade goods, products stored at Ostia were curbed by a variable but real scalar limit, inherent to the structural parameters of their storage facilities. The trading model that emerges for Ostia (mindful of the danger of over-generalization!) is one based on personal relations, which would have been crucial in the process of striking a trade deal in the absence of generalized frameworks, and in the context of stored goods with variable biographies. One can easily imagine the need for the quality and quantity of stored goods to be inspected in person by a potential buyer or his agent, as seen at work in the Sulpicii archive.203 Things’ trajectories were articulated differently at Portus. Entering the Trajanic basin was an inevitable part of goods’ biographies at Portus: it was both logistically necessary for offloading and functionally desirable for its provision of stable docking areas at a remove from the sea tides. Once in the

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basin, ships would have seemed cut off at once from the open sea and from the river Tiber and the hinterland it communicated with (i.e. Rome). Virtual reconstructions204 suggest that sailors anchored in the Trajanic basin would not have been able either to look back to the open waters from which they had ventured, or to fathom the world behind the quays surrounding them. Aside from curtailed visibility, practical barriers prevented ships and their goods from retracing their steps or continuing their paths. This effect of entrapment cut off goods from their previous biographies as well as from their future pathways, and ultimately, from Rome. Meanwhile, the gigantic hexagonal basin physically and conceptually brought together the massive number of ships and their goods unloading at Portus. Such a combination of segregation and amalgamation reset the trajectories of goods traveling through Portus – it set a new “zero point.” As a result of this new zero point enforced by the very layout of the port and its central basin, the specificities of goods’ previous biographies – on board of which ship they had been carried in; what other goods had traveled along with them; etc. – had limited effect beyond the administrative apparatus, and in particular the sign-off of receipts for unloaded ships. It remains unclear just how the offloading and storage of goods was organized at Portus. While certain sets of storerooms could potentially have been managed individually, the above analysis of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano suggested that in a first instance, speed of unloading would have been paramount: its outwards facing cells were geared towards receiving the maximum amount of goods in the shortest possible time. Goods’ new definition was assured by the storerooms and their modular, repetitive, and standardized layout. External schemes of quantification or systemization could have piggybacked on the ordering intrinsic to the storage facilities themselves. As the layout and ordering of storerooms at Portus made quantities of goods calculable, it blurred their qualitative differences for the sake of comparability. This process started when ships sailed into the Trajanic basin, which engulfed them physically and metaphorically. The entrapment of ships in the basin is rendered rhetorically on coins depicting the hexagonal basin (possibly issued even before completion of the harbor): ships are enclosed on all sides by towering, rhythmically ordered buildings (Figure 5.10).205 The basin acted as one giant mouth devouring all kinds of supplies from all over the world. Once in the basin, those myriad different things were all redefined as imperial property and “food for Rome.”206 The deep, dark, internally and externally undifferentiated cells emphasized quantity over quality. Differences in kind between goods ceded place to overview and quantitative assessment. The blurring of qualitative differences resonated with a trade pattern geared towards the large-scale transshipment of bulk goods. But even with such bulk commodities, quality remained a matter of concern. As the accoutrements of

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5.10. Trajanic sestertius commemorating the inauguration of the hexagonal basin at Portus. Photo courtesy of Numismatik Lanz München Auction 106, Lot 381.

storage and trade did not facilitate assessment of quality, external measures were called on to assure qualitative standards. Grain shipments, for example, were accompanied by deigmata, small samples that acted as pars pro toto for the cargo as a whole.207 By testing the sample at the port of destination, it was possible to check whether the main cargo consisted of good quality grain – a necessary strategy to counteract commercial tricks such as “diluting” the grain with sand to increase volume, or mixing recently harvested and old, rotten grain. Deigmata are attested for Egypt, for late Roman Portus, and in late second-century ad Marseille, in the form of a carefully controlled, packaged, and sealed sample of grain.208 The quality of the deigmata, and by extension of the bulk load which they represented, was thus vouched for by people (the administrators underwriting the package, and those opening and assessing its quality) as well as things (package, seal, etc.): a complex external assemblage needed to be soldered together, as quality assurance was not an inherent property of the modalities of trade and storage of such bulk goods. Regardless of the lack of archaeological evidence, a variant on deigmata would have had to be used in earlier periods too in order to enable quality control of goods traveling through Portus. At Portus, it was possible to obtain quick and accurate assessments of how much stuff was stored, enabling the kind of monitoring that is critical to successful supply chain management.209 But once they had entered the storerooms, qualitative differences between goods might well have been limited to generic categories of foodstuffs, such as grain, wine, oil, etc. Prevalence of such general categories caused goods’ subsequent biographies to align, and would have interlocked best with a trade pattern based on a predetermined,

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regular supply and demand such as the structural need for staple foodstuffs at Rome. Economic trajectories could be charted by category – for example, the general trajectory of grain, or of oil. Modern supply chains, too, often divide warehouse inventories in a handful of general product categories, based on shape, size, and speed of turnover.210 In contrast, the organization of storage at Portus was less amenable to developing or targeting niche markets, for example by identifying and marketing “that nice wine that just came in from Narbonne.” While the need for calculability overruled specificity and qualitative differences between things at Portus, the desire to impose and express ownership benefited from this strategy as well. As Nicholas Purcell notes with regard to Rome’s ports, “the spectacle of the aggregates was intended to be exciting.”211At Portus, emperor and empire became one: the port’s assemblage literally and metaphorically branded everything as the emperor’s possession – as signaled by the gigantic statue of Trajan (5.57 m high without base) which greeted ships from across the basin as they entered the hexagon212 – and thus made everything “imperial.” Empire contained things just as much as it did people – be it Roman citizens or conquered barbarians.213 But power derived not only from the ability to claim stuff from all corners of the world and to defy transport challenges – and even nature – to bring it all “back home.” This very same phenomenon also harbored the seeds of weakness, as it avowed Rome’s dependency on fragile networks.214 As such, “domestication” at Portus was necessary to maintain a discourse of autarky – Rome’s “selfsufficiency” now extended to the empire. Paradoxically then, while power hinged on things’ foreignness (as in any prestige goods narrative), its mode of existence at Portus had to disinvest things from their Otherness in order to make itself possible. It needed things to be stable (with their biographies reset to zero and temporarily halted through the entrapment of Portus’ harbor structure), legible (as general categories of goods), and comparable (facilitated by the modular organization of storerooms).215 None of these conditions of possibility existed in the same way at Ostia. Of course, in some warehouses or contexts at Ostia – for example in granaries – general categories no doubt prevailed over the heterogeneous assemblages and specific trajectories described so far for this site. In particular the larger, more rhythmically and regularly ordered warehouses such as the Grandi Horrea or the Horrea Antoniniani probably catered for bulk storage, similar to Portus (although structural differences, and thus a range of affordances, existed for instance in the Grandi Horrea between the central cells in the courtyard and those along the sides).216 This is no surprise, as after all the storage practices implemented at Portus would have been developed first in other harbors, including at its nearest neighbor Ostia, and Ostia of course had a large role to play in, for instance, the grain trade.

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Conversely, goods and practices at Portus were no doubt more heterogeneous than the plans analyzed here suggest. The self-storage facilities littering American highways today, as described in Chapter 1, offer a salutary parallel in this regard. The plan of such compounds would look a lot like those of storerooms at Portus: rhythmically ordered modular cells, often organized back-to-back and opening outwards.217 But each storeroom is leased as a selfstanding unit, for different periods of time, and the planimetric modularity masks a diversity of activities, goods, and people. As mentioned above, locks suggest that at Portus too some (groups of ) cells could be leased out to third parties. This cautionary tale serves to highlight the aims and limits of the analyses presented in this chapter, which reconstruct storage practices based on plans: they do not describe exactly what happened, but trace landscapes of possibilities. For example, while large-scale trade in broadly categorized staples as at Portus was definitely possible at Ostia, it was always part of an overall heterogeneous, fragmented storage landscape. Similarly, while at Portus, too, the large, deep, regular cells might actually have contained a jumble of stuff, their organization favored storage of bulk, undifferentiated goods.

A Scramble for Storage Space Despite their differences, Ostia and Portus shared a seemingly insatiable need for storage space. The construction of entirely new warehouses peaked in the Trajanic period, which points both to the importance of top-down voluntarism and investment, and to a saturation of available space (especially at Ostia). In Severan times in particular a true scramble for storage space hit both ports.218 In the Grandi Horrea at Ostia the intercolumnia or spaces between the columns of the central courtyard – which, we know both from the Tabulae Sulpiciorum219 and from the lease of the warehouse of Q. Tineius Sacerdos in Rome220 (see above), could function as designated locales for storage as well – were closed so as to maximize the available storage space (Plate 12).221 Similarly, in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus, brick walls filled in the portico facing the seafront to the west (Figure 5.9). Also in the Severan period the maneuver space in front of the cells facing west was reduced to a narrow corridor. This ever-increasing need for storage space has not received much explicit comment, and cannot be explained by population dynamics at Rome. Yet it is worth dissecting its operating logic in a bit more detail. In essence, the supply of Rome operated on a “push” model,222 ultimately defined by the seasonality of crop growth and seafaring.223 The supply chain challenge was to adjust a seasonal push to a constant demand, generated by year-round consumption by the circa one million inhabitants of Rome. As Johann Brandt observed,224 and as supported by various calculations,225 an important bottleneck in the supply chain was the transshipment of goods

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from Ostia and Portus to Rome (Figure 5.1).226 The Tiber would be packed with riverboats being towed up to Rome (and back!), each trip lasting between two and three days, plus the same number of days at either end to (un)load. In other words, there was every incentive to transship goods to their consumers in Rome upon their arrival and registration in the maritime ports. Especially with bulk goods, it makes sense to limit the points of turnover in a supply chain. But the bottleneck of the Tiber, combined with the seasonal peak in the arrival of goods into the ports, meant that the only response could be to increase base storage capacity at both ends. The result would have been redundant storage space, i.e. reserved for the same goods both in Ostia or Portus and in Rome.227 Investment in the warehouse structures and their maintenance would thus have represented significant “dead capital.”228 Unless, of course, there was a constant turnover. Put differently, an increase in storage capacity at Ostia and Portus was as much about seasonality and speed of turnover as it was about larger volumes of supplies. The rate of turnover thus emerges as a crucial variable. As illustrated in Chapters 2 and 3, this rate is predicated both on the nature of the stored goods and on the technology of storage. But did it also depend on who stored? Put differently, can we return to the “who” question jettisoned at the start of this chapter, but now anchor it firmly in the material flows of storage at Ostia and Portus? Let us turn to the Tabulae Sulpiciorum or the Murecine tablets, a series of wax tablets dated between ad 26 and 61 and found in a wicker basket in a building outside of Pompeii.229 The tablets relate to financial activity coordinated by three members of a single familia in the setting of Puteoli, one of the main ports along Italy’s Tyrrhenian coast and at the time still receiving the grain shipments from Alexandria (Egypt).230 Three tablets in particular – TPSulp. 51, 52, and 45 – can be put in dialogue as they document the actions of Gaius Novius Eunus, a grain trader.231 In June of the year 37 ad Eunus already had at least 7000 modii of grain – not an insignificant quantity232 – in stock in a specific cell in the Horrea Bassiana, a public warehouse owned by the city of Puteoli.233 But apparently he wanted to purchase more, as he used this grain along with a stock of legumes (stored in 200 sacks in the intercolumnia of the same warehouse) as pledge to receive two loans, first 10,000 sesterces (on June 18 or 28), then another 3000 sesterces (on July 2), both to be paid back on demand. Any degradation of the pledged goods was at Eunus’ risk.234 Here we see storage at work as taking stock: the stocked-up value is transferable to other registers of practice. What is particularly striking about these records in terms of temporality is the fast turnover. Late June and early July would have been early in the grain season, when the first couple of shiploads from Egypt could be expected. It would thus not have been the best time to strike a particularly good deal buying

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grain, but this was counterbalanced by the wide profit margins selling grain, when stocks were depleted and prices ran high. All actions in the contracts seem rather rushed and ad hoc: the fact that Eunus changes his mind and wants an additional loan (in view of an extra opportunity?); the clause that the lender can requisition payback “on demand” rather than on a fixed date.235 News of deals and opportunities seems to travel locally, in fragmented, ad hoc knowledge networks.236 Storage was necessary in the short run, to maximize profit margins, but detrimental in the long run: Eunus would have had to sell his goods as soon as possible in order to be able to pay back his loan “on demand,”237 and in order to avoid losses and degradation of his pledged grain. We do not have Eunus’ original lease contract of cell XII in the Horrea Bassiana, but one would imagine a short-term lease. In the realm of Eunus the grain (and legumes!) dealer, turnover was fast. Who, then, bore the brunt of the “dead” capital invested in warehouse structures and maintenance? The answer has to be those who had significant capital to operationalize and shoulder storage in the long run: first of all, the emperor; and possibly any large-scale traders who could speculate by awaiting higher sale prices at the close of the seafaring season. The risk of losses due to grain spoilt in storage was high, especially with grain that had been shipped from overseas and was moist.238 Instead of differentiating “public” and “private” trade based on which actors were involved, which economic principles might have applied, or whose grain was at stake, it thus makes more sense to separate two temporal spheres of action: a short-term, opportunistic one, responding to the seasonal rhythm of crop growth and transport, and a longer-term one, which would have been spurred in large part by the emperor’s double mission to avoid famines, food shortages, and unrest and to make a profit. Moreover, the grain involved in these different cycles would have been defined differently: deterioration of grain stored longer-term would have made it unfit for sale in the regular transactional cycle,239 but acute shortages could reclassify this degraded grain as “good to eat (for humans).”240 Large losses and high overhead costs make the long-term sphere unproductive when judged on current economic rationality, but instead it operated on a wider cost–benefit analysis of power and patronage,241 feeding off both the excesses allowed in this social system (speculation on large windfalls)242 and the responsibilities it entailed (providing for one’s dependents, as a social risk buffer). Much as Portus’ rebranding of goods from all over the empire as “imperial” manipulated space, so too the ability to make seasonal commodities into ever-available commodities (in the long-term cycle) defied time. It is the ultimate ability to bend time – bought by imperialism and marshaled through massive storage infrastructure – that defined the “state’s” imprint on Roman storage.

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B

etween the risk-averse farmer and the aggrandizing state, the study of storage becomes schizophrenic, as discussed in Chapter 1. This book has adopted a multi-context strategy to cut across these two scales of study that all too often remain separate. Yet it has also unfolded a chronological journey that in some ways mimics this scalar gap: from Republic to Empire, from a world of farmers and families to a state apparatus. The question of how finally to close the gap that separates farmer and empire, if at all, thus acquires not just a methodological, but a historical tinge. Whereas the strategy in the previous chapters has been one of diffraction, to reveal the complexities hidden beneath the surface of well-worn historical actors and paradigms, the present chapter turns to synthesis, guided by what is shared by storage at both extremes of farmer and state: reproduction. Storage is a mechanism of reproduction (see also Chapter 1). It reproduces crops, food, power relations, and human lives. Throughout, this book has shown that reproduction need not equal stasis; instead, it shapes, and is shaped by, historical change. But what is storage’s relation to that other locus of reproduction, the family? Instead of a difference between state intervention and private trade, the analysis in Chapter 5 isolated two temporal cycles: a shorter-term one of making profit while curbing risks, and a longer-term flow that could amount either (or at once) to speculation or to protection. The present chapter builds on this analysis to argue that “public” and “private” actors operated according to a shared template of family business, which

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was elastic enough to accommodate such markedly different types of organizations as materialized, for instance, in the storage facilities of Ostia and Portus. Zooming back out to the conclusions of the previous chapters as well, I propose the notion of a kaleidoscopic empire to denote a model where scale – scalar differences and scalar integration was achieved not in a pyramidal way, by standardizing and homogenizing, but by expanding the tentacles of family business. Rather than a separate sphere floating above everyday practice, or a different register of action entirely, the Roman “state” was wrapped up in, and constituted by, the kaleidoscope, as was any other actor. Only its reach was wider. STORAGE AS FAMILY BUSINESS

Family Business and the Business of Empire Family has lurked in the background so far: the model of the good farmer that Chapter 2 diffracted implied a male head of household; Chapter 3 saw surplus increasingly privatized within smaller social units that are likely to have been family-oriented; Chapter 4 complicated the picture of top-down control within the context of the house; and Chapter 5 used the family archive of the Sulpicii as a window onto large-scale port storage. It is this last piece of evidence that has more to reveal about the link between storage and family, through the case of the grain trader Eunus that was introduced in the previous chapter. The loans Eunus received were credited by Evenus Primianus (through his slave Hesychus), freedman of none other than the emperor Tiberius (Tiberius Caesar Augustus). The emperor’s finances thus proved indispensable in fostering a viable, third-party grain trade.1 In the other known case of a grain dealer (by the name of Iucundus) in the Sulpicii archive (TPSulp. 46, 53, and 79), involving a private creditor, the warehouse that stored the grain pledged as surety (Horrea Barbatiana) was property of Domitia Lepida Barbatiana, aunt of the emperor Nero.2 And in another tablet from the Sulpicii archive (TPSulp 69, dated to May 2, 51 ad), a slave of the emperor Claudius placed 94,000 sesterces in deposit with the Sulpicii, for a little over a month (until June 13).3 David Jones interprets this short-term imperial deposit as “cash held in the port to pay shippers and merchants for incoming cargoes of goods destined for the imperial household,”4 but equally likely is a situation where imperial funds acted, directly or indirectly, as working capital for third-party trade in the port, as in the case of Eunus. Both hypotheses are plausible, but even in the former case “the imperial household” can amount both to a state apparatus and to private economic interests.5 The mechanism facilitating what might seem like conceptual blurring to modern observers was, I argue, the family. The emperor drew on

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family links – slaves and freedmen, perhaps distant relatives such as aunts – to do business.6 Parties other than the imperial family, too, marshaled family links in the pursuit of business opportunities. Indeed, when the grain dealer Eunus requested an additional loan of 3000 sesterces, he could count on the manager of the Bassian warehouse where his pledged grain was stored, Gaius Novius Cypaerus, who transferred the lease of storage cell number 12 to his creditor, Evenus Primianus, for a nominal fee of one sestertius per month.7 As such, Cypaerus assured the creditor access to the surety should he not be paid back. But from the witnesses’ signatures on the transfer of lease, we learn that Cypaerus was the former master of Eunus, the grain dealer. In other words, Cypaerus helped his freedman Eunus secure an additional loan and do business. Extant contracts explain that physical transaction of the key to a storage space had to take place within the actual warehouse in order to sanction the transfer of a leasing agreement.8 This stipulation underscores the defining nature of ad hoc relations between people, place, and things through which the indexical – the physical transferal of the key – became symbolic.9 We remain in the dark, of course, about any returns to Cypaerus, and whether these were social and/ or financial.10 Family business is steeped in ambiguity – at least from a modern perspective. In their account of the Roman grain trade, David Kessler and Peter Temin have already mooted that “social structure and business structure closely parallel one another.”11 The economic role of patronage,12 friendships,13 and less frequently, family, has tended to be read through a substantivist and primitivist lens, as testifying both to the qualitative difference between ancient and modern economies, and to the limited scale of the former’s performance. From a legal perspective, for instance, Aaron Kirschenbaum recognized the Roman family as “a significant source of non-contractual agents,” but also as an inhibiting factor for the development of formal legal mechanisms of agency and representation.14 As Kessler and Temin claim instead, such an “economy of friends” (borrowing Koenraad Verboven’s phrasing) was not “a substitute for a more formal market, but in fact they are complements.”15 The social ties within and between social classes, spun through friendships and patronage respectively, operated as an informal mechanism to mitigate the effects of information asymmetries and imperfect knowledge, alongside other, more formal strategies such as contracts and law.16 The family took pride of place as such an informal mechanism facilitating economic action in the Roman world, including both production and trade.17 Slaves too were folded into the web of family business: the concept of peculium alleviated the risk of slaves’ disloyalty by giving a slave-owner the opportunity to put a slave in charge of managing a business and sharing in the profits, which they could put to their own purposes, including buying their freedom.18

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The notion of the family as an information-channeling and risk-reducing institute is not unique to the Roman case. For example, David Stea describes a Mexican parallel: The familia is extended beyond grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, in many parts of Latin America, through first, the system of compadrazgo, the incorporation into the familia of another set of god parents at each of many ceremonies, and second, the incorporation of cuates (literally twins), or best friends. The resulting enormous conglomerate is an ‘insurance umbrella’.19

Maintaining the family-assemblage is the ultimate form of social storage (see Chapter 1),20 or what Richard Saller described as “the welfare net of mutual obligation,” composed of the household, including its slaves, freedmen, and – I add – its things.21 The Latin term familia included goods and slaves,22 and was always more formulaic than the experienced family.23 But in the Early Empire, the patrilineal, agnate lineage of familia, which emphasized descent and family name (nomen) as status markers, played catch-up with the socio-political reality, when new senators were not always able to draw on illustrious ancestors. Open to cognate family members as well, the concept of domus was better adjusted to highlighting the new role of marriage and wealth as mechanisms of “buying into” status.24 At once physical house and social household, domus actively played with the ambiguity between the sources and the products of wealth and status.25 In the Early Empire, when domus gained currency as the referent for house-cum-family, burial – possibly the ultimate nexus between storage and family – folded back on the physical structure of the house, as the public funerary procession became an imperial prerogative.26 Instead of literally and metaphorically “distributing” the family assemblage through the urban fabric, domus as house and domus as household increasingly converged. Similarly, the paterfamilias, the head of the family, was first and foremost estate owner or home owner.27 Moreover, amidst a demographic reality in which any anyone’s living relatives were few and randomly distributed across different kinds of family relations (agnate, cognate, first-order, second-order, etc.), “fine distinctions of kinship were commonly elided by Romans, whose identity was based above all on the symbols and hierarchical social relations of the domus.”28 Domus was at once sacrosanct in its antiquity and powerful in its malleability, with family lineages crafted both retrospectively and proactively,29 beyond the lived reality of the nuclear family.30 As an assemblage of people and things, family had a propensity for growth, which created distinct commercial possibilities.31 While additional members could be recruited, older constituents never really escaped the grasp of the family-assemblage. After death, for instance, family members leveraged their

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power as ancestors.32 And upon manumission, former slaves remained socially tied to their master, as signaled by the formulaic naming conventions of freedmen (libertus/a of . . .), and formulized in law, which stipulated that freedmen were due regular services to their former masters.33 The particular predicament of freedmen – free and personally liable,34 yet dependent35 – made them ideal business agents.36 Regarding Rome’s supply in the Republic, Boudewijn Sirks comments: “How structures were set up we can only guess, but it was probably done by family businesses, succession ensuring the continuity of the business and thereby continuity of Rome’s supply.”37 It was this issue of continuity – the uncertainty of having to renegotiate contracts between emperor and private parties, and among private parties – which, according to Sirks, pushed the emperor Claudius towards the installation of a collegia naviculariorum, an association of shippers, with lifetime members rather than short-term (five-year) contracts.38 But as the Sulpicii archive demonstrates, business never ceased to be family business. To sum up, both the emperor and other parties availed themselves of the social relations of family in the pursuit of profit.39 The emperor adopted and stretched a uniquely elastic template of family business that was already at work in other registers of society. But the emperor not only used the imperial family as a structure for business, as did other parties: the imperial family was at once arbiter and interested party. In other words, if business operated on the template of family, so did state. As discussed in Chapter 5, the emperor cast himself as paterfamilias through his command of the grain trade. The responsibility for the supply of Rome fell to the emperor as pater patriae, who, just like other heads of household, was first and foremost a property manager. The emperor’s (e)state extended, at least in a rhetorical sense, and increasingly also in a literal sense, up to the farthest reaches of the empire. Much as the good farmer (sensu Cato, Varro, and others – see Chapter 2), the emperor was responsible for generating and administering surplus from his empire, and for caring for his dependents. Elio Lo Cascio has already remarked on the ambivalent role of the Roman emperor, who “defined the rules of the game” but “was also, in a sense, a player.”40 On the one hand, the imperial family could act as “just another player” on the economic scene, much like the “long-standing local families of substance, [. . .] collegia and freedmen”41 hypothesized by Janet DeLaine as owners of the Ostian warehouses. On the other hand, as noted by Lin Foxhall, the Roman social web had an extraordinary “capacity [. . .] to transform and expand the institution of the household (e.g. the imperial household) to operate (and thus to produce) on a much larger organizational scale.”42 The boundary between imperial and other families was forever present – both in status and in scale – but not always enforced. The familia Caesaris was

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more than the emperor’s retinue of slaves and freedmen;43 it was not just the largest household among others, but also, in a fractal sense, the household comprising all other households, managing the estate engulfing all other estates – the empire.

Palace Distributed Both as a state’s relief mechanism and as part of a commercial supply chain, storage thus activated a model of family business. Infrastructurally, too, storage resonated with family, and vice versa. The architecture of the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana at Ostia, named after its two freedmen owners in an inscription above its main entrance,44 was of “almost domestic nature” (Figure 5.3).45 Both the building’s decorative details – façade, niches, and court decorated with mosaics – and its architectural features tap into a Roman repertoire of domestic architecture.46 For instance, the large, protruding space on the axis of the entrance corridor is reminiscent of the tablinum of Roman atrium houses.47 Similar elements drawing on a “domestic” architectural vocabulary, such as a niche and a central well, are present in the Caseggiato del Larario, a commercial building rethinking the storage-and-shops model at Ostia.48 Rather than an aberration, the analysis above in Chapter 5 has recast the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana as one end of a wide spectrum of storage facilities and practices at Ostia. The ethos of the domus that the expressive cues in its material setting conjure up might thus extend to Ostian storage practices at large. Moreover, a practical, site-specific link existed between the spheres of living and storing at Ostia. As space was increasingly at a premium from the Claudian period onwards – a process reaching its zenith during the second-century building boom49 – apartment blocks gradually replaced other house types,50 and came to characterize Ostia’s cityscape up until the present day.51 Apartment sizes varied wildly at Ostia, from individual rooms52 to large suites across multiple floors,53 but most apartments clustered in the center of town and ranged between 130 and 210 m2.54 Ostia’s property and rental market55 catered for a population unique to this port city: merchants, construction workers,56 administrative officials, fortune-seekers, investors57 – many of them in search of temporary or seasonal accommodation.58 The careful finishing of many apartments suggests that these were not the people portrayed by Juvenal and Martial, moving house with nothing more than a table, a bed, and a cartful of paraphernalia.59 Occupants must have needed space to store their belongings and their trade goods. Small under-stair spaces in these apartments would no doubt have contained objects in regular use.60 In the absence of artifact assemblages or features and

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fixtures, the function of small, closed rooms remains unclear;61 the lack of built-in niches and recesses suggests an even greater flexibility than observed for the atrium houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum (Chapter 4).62 Some fundamental supplies, in particular water, would have been stored communally, by neighborhood (when habitations had access to the pipe system), or by block or insula.63 But on the whole, apartments did not have much maneuver space to store things without impinging on circulation. It is tempting, therefore, to posit a functional and semantic fluidity between dwelling and storing, as apartment inhabitants were looking for overflow space and the lessees of warehouse cells were in search of a roof over their heads.64 Finally, a broader comparative inquiry into large-scale storage and redistribution highlights a peculiarity of the Roman empire: the “palaces” or residences of its emperors did not wield the same kind of massive storerooms as their historical predecessors and peers.65 More than three decades ago, Mireille Corbier noted that “the imperial palace does not feature as reserve for foodstuffs that the princeps would distribute daily to his household and that he would put at the service of the people in case of difficulty.”66 But the historical peculiarity of this observation has never, to my knowledge, been fully drawn out. Some of the most contested “palaces” in world history are found on Crete, originating in the Middle Minoan period (ca. first half of the second millennium bc). Their function as seat of a ruler (a “priest-king”) was implicit in their labeling as “palaces” by Arthur Evans, but more recently, emphasis has shifted to their role as regional cultic focal points.67 In any case, the Minoan palace sat at the apex of the settlement hierarchy, and had ample storage facilities,68 including the so-called kouloures, interpreted as grain silos.69 Colin Renfrew explicitly linked Minoan palaces to the administering and redistribution of surpluses resulting from an increasingly productive and specialized agriculture.70 The logic of storage went hand in hand with an administrative obsession with accounting for the flow of goods through the storerooms, moments of registration eternalized in the form of lists on accidentally fired clay tablets. Near Eastern palaces such as Mari (in modern Syria) have variously served as typological, architectural, and functional models in accounts of the Minoan palaces, but figured more certainly as the residences of a ruler.71 They too are characterized by the presence of massive storerooms,72 once more paired with extensive administration and auditing of agricultural production via clay tablets.73 The Hittite capital of Hattuša similarly commanded several massive, rectangular, underground silo complexes for cereal storage.74 In his typological study of Roman warehouses, Geoffrey Rickman refers to architectural parallels at Pergamon and even to granaries at Harappa.75 And yet at Pergamon and Harappa, these were part of the actual palaces, but not so in Rome.

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The Roman emperors sited their residences on the Palatine Hill in Rome (the etymological roots of “palace”),76 in proximity to the traditional heart of the city and in direct dialogue with the houses of the earlier political leaders, thus recycling a Republican notion of family as legitimation of their claim to power.77 As such, the residences of the emperors in the first couple of centuries ad were known as domus – domus Augusti, domus Tiberiana, etc.78 Perhaps because of its adamantly frugal associations, Augustus’ is the only possible imperial residence with spaces tentatively identified as storerooms: a series of rear rooms, lacking both decoration and paving79 – but the position of the Casa di Augusto has long been the subject of debate.80 It is no surprise that Augustus, emerging from the socio-political battleground of the Late Republic (Chapter 2), would have seen storage and the provisioning of surplus as part and parcel of his embracing of austerity, on the model of the good paterfamilias, and that the house would have been the apposite locus for it. However, even if these rooms’ identification is correct – which is highly debated81 – neither in quality nor quantity did this catering for surplus exceed the bounds of storage in the “average” elite house.82 Augustus’ successors were less timid about using their position at the top of the food chain (quite literally) to display the empire’s riches in the design and decoration of their palaces. The most iconic Roman palaces are lavish showrooms of power, luxury, and wealth, from Nero’s Domus Aurea (effectively a mastodon of a villa urbana in the center, rather than at the periphery, of town) to Domitian’s palace on the Palatine.83 Emperors kept and displayed valuables in their residences: literary references describe treasuries of coin, exotic spices, and rare vintages of wine.84 None of these palaces, however, yielded dedicated storage facilities for foodstuffs that claimed to cater for needs beyond the residences’ internal functioning. The absence of storerooms in the palaces of the Roman emperors needs to be related to the imperial focus on storage facilities elsewhere, and especially at Portus, which appears as the storage facility of an extended imperial palace.85 Corbier, in view of the absence of storerooms in the opulent residences of the Roman emperors, notes that the imperial Roman administration fueled the annona “à distance,”86 but neglects how imperial control collapsed this very notion of distance. The Roman emperors’ action ground was a “cultural economy of distance,”87 but of a peculiar kind. The furthest corners of the empire had (literally) become imperial domains, and the reach of the imperial palace was such that its storerooms could be positioned in Portus instead of Rome. The extraordinary metaphorical and logistical reach of the Roman imperial palace was enabled by the very time-space compression enacted through storage, which at once extended the Roman emperor’s domus as estate-cum-people to the empire as a whole, and crystallized it to the machinations of storage in Rome’s ports.88

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A KALEIDOSCOPIC EMPIRE

Scalar Disorientation How could Roman storage practices scale up to meet the demands of the preindustrial metropolis that was the city of Rome?89 Massive storage facilities at Ostia and Portus accommodated external supplies. It is all too tempting to see these as “what one would expect,” as standard accoutrements of an early world empire, and as materializations of a state apparatus. But early modern parallels demonstrate that states and cities often operated a complex supply system without any specialized and centralized storage facilities at all, instead having recourse to leases, claims, and temporary conversions of existing buildings.90 Moreover, in chiefdoms and early states beyond ancient Rome, the provisioning of large storerooms in palaces served both to centralize and to personalize power.91 It is now clear that the Roman empire did not fully replace such a model with decentralized and impersonal (read: modern) state mechanisms. Instead, the foundational mechanism of family business was at work between registers of large- and small-scale trade, and of risk-buffering and profitmaking. But in contrast to the leaders of other palatial societies, the Roman emperor’s power was both highly personalized and widely extended, in part because of the very mechanism of the expandable family assemblage. Reduced to its scalar minimum, the imperial family resided on the Palatine, but stretched to its scalar limits, the family web as house/household could envelop the entire empire,92 and the emperor could employ its risk-reducing and informationchanneling properties to ease the structural reliability of supply all the way from Egypt to Rome. Roman emperors were sufficiently confident to site storage facilities at the ports of Rome, and indeed of the empire, rather than under the roof of their personal residence, and yet this physical distance was enabled by the very mechanism of personalizing trade and supply, as patresfamilias. Small and large scales need not have operated on qualitatively distinct parameters; the imperial family was not constituted of different stuff and relations than any other family. What does this tell us about how empires scale up? Creating scalability – i.e. expanding while maintaining connection between all constituent parts – was central to the work of empire. For an empire to function, its different social, economic, and political registers need to interact, across scales.93 To reduce the work of translation between such registers,94 empires, the largest and most diverse political conglomerates, had to use what Anna Tsing calls strategies of “inventory” – a “barcode” strategy.95 Inventories essentialize goods and people by filtering out all contextual idiosyncrasies. Such strategies include well-known phenomena in the development of states and empires, such as systems of writing and accounting, and in material terms, they resonate with

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standardization,96 as set to work for instance in the organization of storage at Portus (Chapter 5). Standardization facilitates the mobilization of inventories, by creating conditions of comparability and calculability.97 It allows each scale to control the lower one, through mechanisms of condensation that channel information and reduce complexity. Standardization surfaced in the other analyses in this book as well, and in all cases it facilitated a state-like power – centralized, yet reaching beyond its locus of enactment. In Chapter 2, grain’s physical properties, including its rapid degradation and its limited propensity for qualitative differentiation, reinforced a traditional model of the good farmer, dominating over, and caring for, his dependents, in a vertical hierarchy. The same properties of above-ground grain storage in granaries strengthened a top-down model of state surveillance and control (including taxation) across dominated territories, with standardization crucial in enabling the different parts of the network to connect and to be held accountable (Chapter 3). In Chapter 4, the top-down gaze of the paterfamilias (and of the matrona) was very much concerned with storage, and this gaze found its pendant in the imperial standardization of Rome’s storage and supply chain in Chapter 5. Standardization thus becomes propagated as empire forms (and vice versa), but in this book’s inquiry, it never became hegemonic. Indeed, standardized inventories, and the purified commodity trail which they engineer, are not the only way for assemblages to scale up. This chapter’s analysis of storage as family business reveals another model, that I term a kaleidoscopic empire. In a kaleidoscopic model of scale, there is no reduction of complexity on different levels or in different settings; and, as a result, different scales cannot easily be subsumed one under the other. A pervasive logic – one might call it a modus operandi – seeps through all settings and instantiations; in this case, a logic of storage as family business. The elastic Roman notion of family and family business was ideally suited to expansion, as discussed above: the family-assemblage could be stretched, but remained recognizable in its operating logic, just as a kaleidoscope creates a regular, but potentially endless, pattern. At the same time, a kaleidoscopic model of scale differs from heterarchy in that there is a scalar link between its constituent components.98 Scale no longer resides in a pyramidal set of levels, but describes the reach of the kaleidoscope. The emperor’s family was but one in a collection of juxtaposed households concerned to safeguard and expand their patrimonies. But at the same time, its reach was wider, its network more complex. The fractal organization of a kaleidoscope created a sort of scalar disorientation: as the building blocks and patterning were the same for imperial and other families, it was not easy for participants in any particular interaction to fathom the full extent of the kaleidoscope in question. Hierarchy always loomed large, but at the same time remained elusive and was never easily legible. The scalar disorientation that is

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characteristic of a kaleidoscope describes the dual role of the emperor – and therefore of empire – as both author of institutions and acting through those institutions. All Roman citizens were at once part of the emperor’s familia and in competition with it. Vertical integration, as in a firm where different stages in a production or supply chain are internalized, is a pressing question in economic history.99 Supposedly, it occurs in immature industries, where information is not yet sufficiently spread, and transaction costs are too high to warrant acquiring labor and products via market mechanisms.100 In lieu of a formalized firm, the family could provide an alternative template for vertical integration.101 Informal relations of trust and obligation between for instance a master and his freedman, or between freedmen from a single family, could absorb many of the costs of transacting with a third party. But the state usually enters such models, if at all, as an eerie external sphere: the benevolent state provides a playing field by defining norms and rules such as property rights,102 while its evil twin, the predatory state, feeds on its subjects through war and taxation.103 While the Roman state did provide a legal framework,104 it never existed as a level governing the world from above. The Roman state, as an expanded form of the family, was always about people and things more than about an abstracted apparatus with impersonal roles. It did not define the shape or elements of the kaleidoscope, instead it was caught in the kaleidoscope. The kaleidoscopic model for Roman storage thus reframes both hierarchy (sociopolitical) and vertical integration (economic): these were not about which actor could rise above others, reducing and controlling them through standardization, but about whose family-assemblage could expand the most, in space and through time.

(Re-)producing the Storage Kaleidoscope A kaleidoscopic model thus folds together, but never quite merges or subsumes, different scales, their actors, and their concepts. But how do the discussions of the other chapters fit this model of kaleidoscopic empire? How did this kaleidoscope form and reproduce? Any point of origin is artificial, and so are the different enactments of the “good farmer” at the beginning of this story of storage (Chapter 2). But they did place us historically at the brink of the Principate, with an Italy that was no longer waging only its military and political force, but also weighing its economic power through export of foodstuffs. While the “good farmers” reconstructed in Chapter 2 were radically different historical actors, they all shared this feature: they were all, willingly or not, imperial agents. Their choices and actions, whether to subscribe to the known risk of safeguarding grain, or to explore the novel opportunities of cultivating vegetables and flowers for a growing urban

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population in Rome, and whether to speculate on niche markets for prized wines, or to export cheap wine in bulk to the provinces, all contributed to weaving the web of empire. “Local” and “global” no longer carried any a priori valency, if ever they had; even the most locally anchored farmer had to make a choice about whether to engage with new horizons, and even the most intrepid opportunity-seeker dealt with wine crops firmly rooted in Italian soil, so to speak. But if the farmers were always already agents of empire, so too were the crops they cultivated, stored, and sold. Imperial agents need not consciously do the work of empire.105 The vegetables cultivated in the suburbium with the help of massive cisterns, and sold in Rome, were every bit as imperial an agent as were the wine amphoras sailing from Cosa to southern Gaul. Within this imperial web, “local” and “global” had to be carefully crafted, by people and, importantly, also by things: for example, techniques of wine production and storage, along with wine’s propensity for fermentation and qualitative change, fostered the creation of “global” brands such as “Falernian,” parading their “local” conditions in label as well as in properties. Grain, instead, was rarely either global or local; what mattered was whether it was dry, edible, and available. The different crops, and (in the case of this book) their different storage rhythms, started to shape the texture of what would become the Roman empire – the action range, but also the experience, the expectations, and the sensorium. What was also already clear from Chapter 2 is that this historical texture was, from the start (or at least from the artificial vantage point chosen in this book), gritty, patchy, variegated. Each crop negotiated its own rhythm, its own trajectory, and its own action range. Grain and vegetables did not like sailing; wine had to be processed and contained. And yet all of these possibilities and constraints could be honored by a single model of the good farmer fostering reproduction, of crops and families alike. “Family business” – the reproduction of farm and family – in other words, had never been anything other than the business of empire, and vice versa. If opportunistic businessmen and their wine, and conservative landowners and their grain, all were imperial agents, then what makes an imperial agent? Is it, perhaps, the fact that they were Italian? That they took the active part in imperial encounters? Again, this is too quick a shortcut, as Chapter 3 showed, whose storyline overlapped chronologically with Chapter 2. By whatever label we choose to pin them down – “local,” “indigenous,” “native” – other communities were part and parcel of the kaleidoscope and of its reproduction. And just like the diversity of crops and storage strategies in Chapter 2, this diversity of communities caused ripples and fissures. But the tension within this burgeoning web of empire did not necessarily form along the lines of native versus Italian, of colonized versus colonist. Increasingly, individual estates, and, presumably the (extended) households they hosted, became the locus of action. In particular, Chapter 3 traced the interaction between the choices and fate of

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individuals (and individual households) – such as whether or not to relocate, expand storage facilities, buy additional land, etc. – and the formation and reproduction of structural patterns. Past practices had to be reckoned with, consciously or not. They sedimented not just as symbols, but also as a practical memory, activated by infrastructure (e.g. silos) and bodies alike. Meanwhile, Italian practices such as wine fermentation in subterranean dolia were picked up, possibly in part through their resonance with local storage practices, and brought to new levels, for instance in larger wine storerooms pushing the possibility for qualitative differentiation. Yet the result was not a stark difference between old and new ways of doing things; instead the relational affordances of people, knowledge, crops, markets, etc. crystallized into (at least) two different rhythms – an open-ended future and a defined future – each broaching a distinct commercial, cultural, and political horizon. The kaleidoscope started to (re-)form an internal logic which, again, would have some real but negotiable path dependency to it. Moreover, already in Chapter 3, it became clear that a notion of “state” as a separate level hovering above the “rest” could not be maintained: state actors needed to solder alliances, with people (e.g. warehouse managers; urban officials in charge of tax collection) as well as things (e.g. the rhythm of preservation and degradation of grain stored above ground) in order to create the right conditions for compatibility and coordination. The state did not exist outside of the thick of the kaleidoscope.106 While Chapter 3 nodded towards the increasing importance of the estateand household-scale, the higher resolution of the Vesuvian evidence in Chapter 4 brought forward the complexities of this scale as well. More specifically, it broadcasted the “now you see it now you don’t” hierarchy discussed earlier in this chapter with regard to the emperor and the imperial household, but in the defined setting of the elite house. Through an in-depth examination of the practicalities of storage in the house, Chapter 4 reconstructed what Chapter 3 could only hint at: even as a key locus of action and ideology, the “household” hides more complex power structures than the model of patria potestas gives away. Already at the level of the house, the kaleidoscope’s tentacles were inescapable; and already in this context, vertical power relations were real but sometimes hidden, contested, or obfuscated. As a result, a more subtle and varied action space opened up for underrepresented groups, between passive compliance and open resistance – as for the “underrepresented” groups in Chapter 3. Surprisingly, the same blueprint (nested organization, qualitative differentiation, fragmented knowledge landscape) structured storage in the warehouses of Ostia (Chapter 5), illustrating how the kaleidoscope can flatten scale, as it were, operating according to the same logic in different settings, expanding or shrinking its reach. Conversely, a kaleidoscope can also mobilize the same elements in a radically different structural pattern. Like Chapters 2 and 3, Chapter 5 showed two different storage logics at work, both organized

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around notions of family business: the nested logic of the Ostian warehouses, and the rhythmic ordering of storage at Portus. Each spurred different effects in time and space. The latter arguably had the widest geographical reach – importing Egyptian grain to Rome en masse – it paradoxically also held little scope for the glitter of the “global”: it domesticated stored goods by imposing a new zero point. The former, instead, kept its built-in propensity for qualitative differentiation, much like the wine storage practices discussed in Chapters 2 and 3. Much of what the previous paragraphs sketched resonates with globalization, a framework that has the potential to move Roman studies away from bounded provinces, core–periphery models, and static cultural packages.107 The recent popularity of globalization in Roman studies – as theory and, more frequently, as metaphor – rides on the wave of connectivity and relationality, but also carries the baggage of contemporary globalization.108 The latter runs in large part through strategies of inventory: barcodes, passports, airports, currency, and other standardizing devices. While standards and standardization played a huge part in making the Roman empire hang together,109 they are not, as discussed above, the whole story of storage. If not standards, then what makes the case studies in this book hang together? In a kaleidoscopic, rather than a pyramidal model of scale, different scales and registers are connected by few, fickle points of translation in the assemblage. Such points of translation can be considered boundary objects, defined by Susan Leigh Star and James Griesemer in the field of Science and Technology Studies as follows: Boundary objects [in a broad sense, including e.g. concepts] are objects which are both plastic enough to adapt to local needs and the constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites. They are weakly structured in common use, and become strongly structured in individual-site use.110

As key issues which “originate in, and continue to inhabit, different worlds,”111 boundary objects, in Star and Griesemer’s coining of the term, can help scientific work proceed across heterogeneous communities and their different agendas without requiring consensus. Storage was a matter of concern for everyone in a pre-industrial world such as the Roman empire, for farmer and state alike. But the riddle of connecting those scales is not solved by building up a scalar pyramid, with each level deploying strategies of inventory to control the previous one. Instead, this book has tried to show how certain boundary objects were shared across contexts, settings, and actors, and acted as hinges in the tangle of a kaleidoscopic web. Such boundary objects can veer from object to concept. The notion of the good farmer and its close affiliate the paterfamilias are conceptual in nature, but had to be realized again and again in practice, whether by

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the farmer or the emperor keeping a full granary. Other boundary objects are more obviously material in nature, but quickly translate into practical and conceptual consequences. Grain was center-stage in Chapters 2, 4, and 5, linked both by the staple’s affordances (little internal differentiation; limited preservation), by storage technique (above-ground storage with air circulation), and by historical conditions. Italian grain discussed in Chapter 2 might, to some extent, have made its way to Rome (and in any case to other Italian cities), as might some of the cereal produce of the northwest Mediterranean (Chapter 3); upon reaching Rome, those supplies would have suddenly paled in comparison to the large imports from Egypt and northern Africa (Chapter 5). The very basic material echoes between these chapters also reverberated conceptually: what followed was a propensity for centralization, for traditional models of the caring, fostering farmer and father, and for rather risk-averse economic choices. Wine storage’s play with qualities very much depended on supply and demand: an Italian estate owner’s decision to focus on selected vintages rather than bulk production of cheaper wine (Chapter 2) affected, and was likely to be informed by, choices made in wine production in southern Gaul (Chapter 3). The stored products are perhaps the most obvious boundary objects in this narrative, but also important are, for instance, shipping routes. The same routes would have been used by an independent trader trying his luck and by a grain ship leased by the state (Chapter 5), by an amphora arriving in a Pompeian household (Chapter 4) and by an amphora bought by an Ostian wholesale trader (Chapter 5). With each iteration, and each materialization, that same route (as boundary object) would be redefined, given different meaning, and serving different purposes. But it would also remain a point of connection between different worlds of storage. Such boundary objects were key in various parties’ enactment of storage and thus elided any a priori distinction between private and public agencies, action, and products. They provided enough of a middle ground to hold together different worlds, but resisted permanent subjugation of one of such worlds to another as in a pyramidal model. They held together the kaleidoscope of the Roman empire – supple and elastic – which differs from the usual solution ascribed to empire’s challenge of scalability, namely inventory, the top-down imposition or the bottom-up generation of imperial standards. Scalability, then, comes in different forms. ACCUMULATION AND ITS LIMITS

In sum, farmer and state are joined by a concern for reproduction, which finds one of its expressions in storage. The Roman world put a particular spin on this through storage’s structuring as family business across contexts, forming an interlocking web navigated by both farmer and state, rather than a

ACCUMULATION AND ITS LIMITS

pyramidal state-structure in which each level operated according to distinct principles. Taking a step back from this particular Roman manifestation, storage’s more general role as a reproductive mechanism seems to be universal. But is it? The Roman world stands out by its scale: its territorial scale, its demographic scale, but also the sheer scale and diversity of its stuff.112 More stuff fueled the desire to have, hold, and store.113 In other words, the Roman empire’s scalar leap did not do away with the fundamental uncertainty of reproduction to which storage responds. It did, however, introduce new fissures, questions, and opportunities – as this book explored – slowly eroding the taken-for-grantedness of stuff’s equation with power and wealth. Storage’s accumulative response to the challenges of reproduction has remained more or less intact throughout history, until very recently. Exceptions such as ascetic monks aside,114 the privileged (western) world has lately been moving away from a model in which reproduction – the security and wealth of having for future living and creating – manifests itself solely materially. The accumulation of storage and storerooms used to speak to wealth; whereas we generally conceive of poverty as a lack of stuff. But today the material signatures of wealth and poverty are shifting. The poor often live in the midst of stuff, the detritus of our consumer society, and often this stuff tends to defy our categorizations – it literally overflows yards, shopping carts, plastic bags. On the other end of the spectrum, the rich are passing around Marie Kondo’s precepts, embracing Scandinavian or Japanese minimalism, parading slim bodies and taut styles. Their reproductive power increasingly lies elsewhere, in the virtual accumulation of bank accounts and stocks, less in the opulence of (visible) material accumulation. Trust in one-click access shifts the burden of stocking up elsewhere, to suppliers and to those cut off from, or unable to put their faith in, the supply networks. Less is more, but only for the privileged. Escaping the grip of stuff, and of storage, is a luxury most people throughout history could not, and many people today still cannot, afford.

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S

torage is of all times. My grandparents stored, my parents too, and so do I. And so, all the way back to times immemorial. It is no surprise then to find people in the Roman world preoccupied with storage as well. Storage is a fundamentally human practice. Even some animals store! But storage is no mere adaptive mechanism; it is attuned to historical change, and it shapes historical actors and possibilities. In other words, storage is a human constant but also always “of its time.” It is historically structured and historically structuring. This book has offered a historical account of storage in the Roman world. Storage was implicated in the historical changes that shook Late Republican Central Italy (Chapter 2). Indeed, it offered a key platform to negotiate elite morality – what was possible and acceptable within an archaic template of the “good farmer” – at a time of new and expanded social and economic horizons. The different temporalities of grain, wine, and water storage allowed elite landowners to inhabit a spectrum from conservative patron to opportunistic profit-seeker. Chapter 3 discussed how storage, by intervening in the temporalities of staples and of people’s engagement with them, was used as a powerful tool of imperial control. Specifically, a nexus of taxation and grain storage through aeration made provincial control and extraction legible and controllable, thereby altering the temporal structure of people’s lives and futures. Such control, however, had its limits: in southern Gaul and northeast Iberia, wine storage in dolia was both the cornerstone of a lucrative market operation and 174

EPILOGUE

a way of recycling and repurposing pre-existing temporalities, based on an open-ended future. Chapter 4 changed scale, focusing on storage in the houses of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and tactics, conceptualizing the dynamic life of assemblages rather than processes of physical change. It detected a nested storage pattern, and discussed how, as a result, the knowledge landscape in the atrium houses under study would have been fragmented. However patriarchal the model of the good farmer may have been, its cracks showed in a domestic setting. Chapter 5, in scaling up to the level of the massive storage facilities which equipped Rome’s ports of Ostia and Portus, broached the question of control. While a structural analysis of the storage facilities at Ostia and Portus revealed important differences, these cannot easily be broken down according to a distinction between public and private agencies in the supply of the city of Rome. Instead, a spectrum of short- and long-term storage existed, with distinct human–thing relations and distinct opportunities. Storage articulated the Roman empire as a kaleidoscope anchored in a notion of family business, a supple and expandable template in which the emperor could be either “state” or “competitor,” and in which scalar disorientation complicated both political state-formation and economic vertical integration, as discussed in Chapter 6. Specific opportunities arise both from what this book does and from what it does not do. In particular, this study, by design, focused on storage as a point of redefinition across different contexts. This choice restricted the extent to which networks could be traced outwards from storage. For example, it would be highly significant to adopt this book’s perspective in order to follow grain through production in Egypt, local storage, accounting, transport to Alexandria, shipping, arrival in Ostia or Portus, etc. The analyses in this book gave hints of “worlds beyond” storage when and where possible and relevant – signaling for instance the use of deigmata or sealed samples to translate information about quality as shiploads of grain were transferred across long distance – but much remains to be explored and to be woven into wider human–thing trajectories. In pursuing such an exercise, special attention should be given to structural nodes, and in particular, for the Roman world, to the role of cities. Indeed, while many actors appear on stage in this book to help close the scalar gap between farmer and state – think of families, shippers, etc. – the city (even if addressed for instance as seat of taxation, or in the form of the extreme consumer city of Rome) and its role both as locus of storage and as a switch in webs of connectivity deserve further elaboration.1 More specifically, this book’s analyses project a mixing of different storage temporalities, inhabiting public as well as private warehouses, in modest cities, similar to the situation in Ostia, Portus, and ultimately, Rome. But such a projection needs empirical verification. Collectively, the case studies also make interventions that exceed their thematic bounds. This epilogue pauses to map out these interventions and

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the roads ahead which they signal: respectively materializing Roman socioeconomics, softening the empiricism of the material turn, and rethinking Rome’s position in histories of empire. THE STUFF OF SOCIO-ECONOMICS

What are the socio-economics that feature so prominently in the title of this book? Why the awkward compound word? Hasn’t the principle of economies’ social embeddedness been driven home once and for all by the substantivism of Karl Polanyi, as developed by Moses Finley for the ancient economy?2 Polanyi did indeed argue that economic action is folded into, and structured by, social relations, but with one important exception: the modern world, in which the rise of the formal discipline of economics has disembedded the economy from society.3 More recent research, however, shows that even in modern economies based on market relations, social sensibilities, relations, and considerations are never completely filtered out of transactions.4 But for this book, socio-economics represents an epistemological more than an ontological stance. The hyphen issues a warning not to bracket off spheres of action, and not to apportion them to specialized fields of historical inquiry according to a disciplinary division of labor that segregates researchers, topics, and methods. Storage as a topic is ideally suited to resist such epistemological cordoning off, and to overcome “disciplinary grooves.”5 In effect, storage is not only social and economic, but also cultural, psychological, and moral. (Unfortunately, the resulting compound term proves too unwieldy to gain currency.) How to put this into practice? The principle that economic action is embedded in social relations serves as epistemological starting point. But social relations cannot exist without things, and are thus always materially mediated.6 As a practice concerned first and foremost with things – both in their most prosaic form as stuff subject to circulation and physical transformation and in their framing as value, property, or credit – storage can uniquely foreground the material mediation of socio-economics. Consideration of things, however, is crudely lacking in studies on the Roman economy, which tend to simply assume “stuff” as both the goal and medium of economic action. The problem of the lack of things goes beyond the schism between primitivist and modernist readings of the ancient economy,7 and, as such, its recognition holds the key to moving past this stale debate. Finley vocally and notoriously ignored archaeology, and thus material evidence, in his study of the ancient economy.8 He saw productivity and economic performance in the ancient world as forfeited in favor of the pursuit of status, an attitude he derived from elite literature such as Cicero’s ideological disdain for petty trade and money lending.9 Paradoxically, by positing the realm of the moral-cum-social as something at a remove from practice

THE STUFF OF SOCIO-ECONOMICS

(“socio-psychological”),10 Finley put neoclassical market behavior, and its universal rational actor, on a pedestal. Indeed, this becomes the ideal, the null hypothesis, curbed to greater or lesser extent by social strictures. As a consequence, Finley’s readers will not learn about sowing techniques or crop choices, about contract closure or navigation, about carrying an amphora or producing pots, or, indeed, about things in any shape or form. Finley’s primitivism no longer stands, but his opponents have yet to recognize that production, distribution, and consumption are essentially material relations, and that their study benefits from thinking seriously about the things they involve, in all their complexity, and not just reduced to numbers. Indeed, while archaeological evidence, and by deduction things, have been rehabilitated in the study of economic history, they feature almost exclusively as quantitative data points. Perhaps this is the price that archaeology had to pay for undermining primitivism: ever more pots, shipwrecks, watermills, and mines show a busy economy full of stuff.11 But this stuff is cast merely as the debris of history.12 In turn, New Institutional Economics, which has gained headway as a framework for the study of the ancient economy, promising as it does to marry the insight that economic action is embedded in (social) institutions with an open-ended inquiry into economic performance,13 has been applied most successfully in formal fields such as law,14 but less so in relation to practical and materially mediated matters such as technology.15 In sum, current debates leave things as quantitative chimeras in the study of economic performance or as noise to be filtered out in the abstractions of economic structure. The former version, a strictly quantitative approach to material culture, is counterproductive on its own terms, in that it a priori reduces the questions it can ask to the stale primitivist/modernist mold: more or less stuff?16 As to the latter issue, even if the work of Douglass North, the founding father of New Institutional Economics, increasingly attempts to account for “belief systems” and “culture,”17 much of what Finley ranged under the umbrella of “mentalities” is currently missing in work on the Roman economy.18 We are left with a tremendous opportunity to materialize Roman socio-economics. This book’s general contribution to the study of Roman socio-economics is to show that we can get at mentalités through archaeology, or rather, that mentality and practice are two sides of the same coin, that of relations between humans and things. A “thingly” socio-economics is also a qualitative socioeconomics. It attends to the “how” of socio-economic practice. We cannot study “how” without studying people and things, human action and its material mediation. Shipping grain to Rome involved shippers, ships, cargo space, quays, porters, scales, wooden planks, winds, customs officers, etc. Managing storage in the house called on eyes, ears, curtains, locks, stairs, amphorae, etc. It is worth zooming in on these specifics in order to build a more grounded understanding of Roman socio-economics, and in order to

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construct more robust categories for its study.19 Things and their material practices are more than mere background noise; as this book has shown, they inform us about ways of acting and thinking alike: about wine fermenting in a large dolium and its farmer anxiously awaiting favorable prices; or about things flowing through the house and inhabitants exploiting a fragmented knowledge landscape and its dark corners. In addition, a qualitative approach is wellequipped to deal with the kind of legacy data that underwrite the case studies in this book, data which have often been published within different epistemological frameworks, and are incompatible and non-standardized. While archaeological evidence tends to be brought to bear on the ancient economy as the movement and quantities of predefined categories – e.g. all amphorae, or all wine amphorae; building materials, or marble, etc. – we would do well to also adopt an alternative analytical perspective, starting from fields of practice such as storage. The general approach developed in this study could be fruitfully extrapolated to themes with a similar potential to overcome disciplinary grooves and materialize Roman socio-economics. One of these is recycling, now increasingly recognized as a standard factor in reconstructions of ancient economic performance,20 but, like storage, also at once social, cultural, psychological, etc., and always materially mediated. STORAGE BETWEEN ACTUALITY AND POTENTIALITY

Aside from refreshing the study of Roman socio-economics – as qualitative socio-economics anchored in mediations between people and things – the topic of storage contributes to the material turn (much as it also borrows from it). In its refusal to study objects hermeneutically like texts, the material turn, in its different guises, has moved the “thingness” of objects into the limelight.21 Human–thing relations are “more than representational,” they are not exhausted by the meaning humans read into them.22 The concept of affordances23 acknowledges the interweaving of representational and “more than representational” dynamics: affordances are the possibilities for action that emerge in the interaction between humans and things. They are thus relational and situated, and hinge on mutual interpretation. For example, clay affords potting, but the resulting ceramic shapes depend on the knowledge tradition, on the tools available, on the skills of the potter, on the clay’s physical properties, on the firing technique, etc. Not all clays afford potting in the same way; and clay does not afford potting always and everywhere (e.g. by someone without potting experience; or according to gendered divisions; etc.). At the heart of the notion of affordances lies a potentiality that springs from a hyperconcrete actuality. But such potentiality has seen little exploration so far. The material turn has largely privileged direct, causal relations between actors – be they humans,

STORAGE BETWEEN ACTUALITY AND POTENTIALITY

objects, or ideas – which can cluster in network-like bundles of emergent causation.24 In order to avoid importing irrelevant or anachronistic meanings and pasting them onto our reading of human–thing relations, Bruno Latour sees every thing as fully defined by its articulation in any particular situation or assemblage.25 There is no “reserve.” For example, a ceramic pot is defined as something made of particular clays in production; or as something stackable in transport; etc. The advantage of such a “flat ontology” as method is that it avoids reducing variability to types or other a priori categories; instead it puts the onus on the analyst to trace the connections that made different instantiations of the “same” thing hang together (i.e. that did the work of stabilizing types).26 The drawback, however, is that such a position is unduly presentist and empiricist.27 In other words: everything is pure actuality; no space is left for potentiality.28 This is a problem for storage, which is acute in its actuality yet evocative in its potentiality. Storage is at once about the irreducibly material here-and-now of stuff rotting, fermenting, or shifting, and about the then-and-there that could be in this stuff’s – and its people’s – future, as well as about the hopes and fears that this potential evokes. In response to the brute empiricism in the current material turn, Severin Fowles draws attention to the importance of absence in human–thing relations.29 Absence does not just belong to the (supposedly) immaterial world of meaning, emotion, affect, etc. but also, according to Fowles, has an object-like capacity. Put differently: absence can trigger direct, mechanical, object-like causal reactions. For example, when arriving at one’s door, feeling for one’s keys in a pocket, yet suddenly realizing that said keys are not where they were assumed to be, the absent keys are every bit as object-like in their effect as if they were present (and possibly more, if measured in a Latourian way by the disturbance they cause).30 Absent keys cause the door to remain unopened, plans to be cancelled, and hearts to skip a beat. In that sense, storage’s potentiality could be considered a form of absence: what is yet to become of fermented wine fuels ambitious plans; the grain that was stored but has been eaten through before the next harvest (by people or insects!) is a loss with knock-on effects, both on people’s physiology and on their spirits. As Fowles argues, absence (or potentiality) is object-like and, I add, historically structured, and should be studied on the same terms as presence (or actuality). Once potentiality is cast in the same mold as actuality, degrees of translation between the two can be charted, and the latitude of variation registered. This is important in historical terms, as it qualifies whether storage was a true bottleneck – a point of stress – or whether it was simply a point at which decisions were made and things were rerouted.31 In other words, what might be risk for one actor, in one context, might be risk relief for another. For example, as Chapter 5 argued, storage cells full of grain in the major ports of Rome would

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have represented a significant risk for the grain trader Eunus, who operated in the short term and for whom every single rotten grain threatened his business, whereas the same storage cell of grain acted as a risk-reducing mechanism for the emperor, whose storage logic was a long-term one and who counted on a reserve – albeit of lower quality – to ward off famines and crises (and to speculate on a windfall profit). The same grain (as a boundary object, with Chapter 6) could harbor different potentialities. Similarly, the fragmented knowledge landscape that characterized storage in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Chapter 4) showed how things and actions with different temporalities could intersect: heterogeneous, nested storage assemblages could recombine things that circulated with high (e.g. olive oil supplies; statuettes of household gods) and low (e.g. imagines or ancestor masks; certain tools) turnover. What is more, they could redefine and transpose things from the short- to long-term cycles, or vice versa (e.g. a ritual object with a slower rate of use could become a utilitarian object needed on a daily basis).32 THE SHAPE OF EMPI RE

Where does this book sit within broader narratives of history and evolution, and of states and state-making, in the Mediterranean and beyond? Zooming outwards to big histories and their grand causal movers may come as a surprise after a study that has written history from case studies.33 Indeed, this book does not seek to masquerade as an exhaustive macro-economic treatment of storage in the Roman empire. It shares with some recent theorists the conviction that “[c]omparison in social evolutionary theory must be located within contextually appropriate histories”34 and that “big histories are always best told through insistent, if humble, details,”35 since “[t]he evolutionary process did not work in abstraction; it only worked through the reproduction of actually existing (i.e. historically specific) material conditions.”36 This book thus celebrates its own nature as an assemblage, as a collection of case studies, never quite “complete,” yet more than the sum of its parts. It is a site-specific big history. What, then, emerges that is more than the sum of parts? Site-specific histories, with categories that emerge from analysis rather than preceding it, can help orient grand histories, which are constrained to pick the axes of their analyses at the outset. Indeed, this book has mobilized such sitespecific histories to shuffle the categories of historical analysis that inform them, but also transcend them: commercialism versus morality (Chapter 2); Roman versus native (Chapter 3); or public versus private (Chapter 5). The aim is not to force the resulting topologies – whether the different kinds of economic agents described in Chapter 2, or the temporal structure of resource management as documented in Chapters 3 and 5 – onto new grand histories, but to urge for a more adventurous exploration of the key fault lines of the ancient world.

THE SHAPE OF EMPIRE

Other than by categories of analysis, the sites in this site-specific history are also linked through the historical threads of people, things, and ideas on the move,37 and thus speak to the current interest in connectivity as shaping preindustrial socio-economies. This book’s argument is largely sympathetic to the burgeoning interest in globalization theory as a way to dethrone territorial readings of (the Roman) empire (see Chapter 6).38 But it also believes the field is better served by tackling dense empirical portfolios than by starting with a prioris. For example, as it is not defined by reference to any specific class of things, the topic of storage can bridge the gap between studies ascribing a causal economic role either to the movement of basic commodities (leading to questions of landholding and the social organization of agriculture) or to the flow of higher-end luxury goods (and thus to elite capital).39 Connectivity cannot just be charted in degree or intensity (more or less connected), but also in constellation or shape. It is in its reading of the overall pattern of connections that this study differs from Chris Wickham’s magisterial survey of the Early Middle Ages, which posits the Roman world as a tributary state, in contrast to Medieval feudalism, theorizing a much-rehearsed (Marxist) transition in the history of the west from contractual, indirect, and collective to personalized, individual, and direct relations between people.40 Brent Shaw has argued against this narrative of transition, subverting the empirical evidence that Wickham himself mobilizes: since many areas, such as North Africa, continued to thrive despite the breakdown of a state-driven system of taxation, taxation can hardly have been the main cause behind prospering socioeconomics. Moreover, as Shaw signals, data on pollution (from ice cores), shipping (from shipwrecks),41 and other proxy-evidence converges in pointing to a Late Republican peak of economic growth.42 In other words: growth started before the formalization of empire and its state-making practices such as taxation,43 and faltered during its mature stage of institutional development. We need to look for another, or at least for more, causal driver(s) than tributary taxation and its disappearance. This book’s message is different, however. In some ways, its narrative is a more nuanced – diffracted – version of the traditional storyline that sees production move from Italy in the Late Republic to the provinces in the Early Empire, as taxation spurred production in newly annexed territories and as a growing Roman metropolis came to rely on large-scale imports. But more fundamentally, it traces variations in the relations between people and things that do not straightforwardly add up to a “tributary” mode, pitched as different from a “feudal” mode.44 As Chapter 6 argued, the Roman empire scaled up not as a pyramid, but as a kaleidoscope, built on a template of family business that could be stretched or contracted according to the demands made on it by the things and people it channeled.45 In the Roman empire, the state was always a personal more than a contractual relation.46 As a multiplication of

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competing interests in a more or less horizontal playing field (at the top level), the model of family business spurred economic productivity in the later Republic. Scaled up like a kaleidoscope but not substantially altered, however, the same model paralyzed growth, by both facilitating transactions and undercutting them. The state-making of the Early Empire, with its legal, political, and fiscal institutions, could suppress transaction costs by setting the rules of the game,47 but it could just as well lead such costs to spike by becoming a player in its own game, generating a paralyzing scalar disorientation. This is not to say that the state-making mechanisms were without consequence, but that they operated within a landscape that never conformed to a state-like topology (with pyramidal scale) in the first place. The challenge now is to not be content with unpacking categories such as tributary/feudal into a perpetual thickening and dissipating of relations and flows, but to find a new vocabulary to describe the particular constellation of the Roman empire – the shape of empire.48 The challenge is to revisit Rome’s exceptionalism through historicity. As such, the “kaleidoscope” advanced here is not just a generic template for relationality,49 but a first step towards characterizing the historical ecology50 of imperial Roman human–thing relations, somewhere in between heterarchy and a pyramidal model of state. But what would state-like relations between people and things look like anyway? James Scott has recently provided a comparative answer to this question.51 Of particular relevance is what he calls the “domus complex”: early states relied on concentrations of people and certain kinds of domesticates (a limited range dominated by grain). A household assemblage – including house, fields, cultivating and procreating people, domesticated herds, rodents and parasites, etc. – was a precondition for the development and exertion of state power.52 For Scott, “farmer,” therefore, is first and foremost a political category, implying a state subject:53 farmers could well exist outside of the ambit of early states, but early states could not exist without the farmer–land– grain assemblage. That the domus complex resonates with this book’s emphasis on the storage–family nexus need not surprise in view of the Roman empire’s often-asserted membership of a category of agrarian, patrimonial empires.54 Indeed, already in Chapter 2, the “domus complex” – in the version of the bonus agricola – loomed large when considering villa storage practices; and Chapter 6 saw it co-opted by an imperial family-apparatus. More than any presumed “universal kernel” of state societies, however, the domus complex refers to a particular set of state-like relations between people and things: relations that were, as in Wickham’s tributary model, contractual, indirect, collective, and I add (with Scott), open to surveillance. The granaries of Chapters 2 and 3 articulated an all-or-nothing relation, both between people and between people and their stores. A provincial Gaul

THE SHAPE OF EMPIRE

either did or did not pay tax; a farmer either did or did not have enough grain to provide for his dependents. This is not to say that such relations were transparent, or that tax evasion, hoarding of grain, or distrust of the state did not exist. What archaeology can indicate – similar to Scott – is that the system of above-ground grain storage worked hard to bypass questions of trust and social bonds: it created a complex of human–human and human–thing relations anchored in visibility, accountability, regular turnover, and a determined rhythm. A similar set of conditions and effects characterized the spine-type warehouses at Portus (Chapter 5), where calculability emerged from the very articulation of storage itself – the repetitive ordering of the cells, the homogenizing effect on their contents, their large, roughly similar sizes. Trust could be offloaded to the material practice of storage, making the state–subject relation into the transactional ideal posited by North: farmer-citizens pay taxes; in return the state provides and enforces services such as law and safety. The analyses presented here, however, also show important cracks in this comparative model. In particular, the farmer was not just the toiling, graingrowing checker piece on the board of the state, condemned to a life of drudgery or to fleeing the grasp of the state (“voting with their feet”).55 While it may well be true that “surplus does not exist until the embryonic state creates it,”56 once entered into a state system, farmers could reroute, exploit, and redefine surplus. They could reduce their emphasis on that state-making crop, grain, as for example seen in the open-ended temporalities of wine storage in dolia (Chapters 2 and 3). Or they could manipulate the techniques of storage, as in grain storage in underground silos (Chapter 3). In the cases of Pompeian atrium houses (Chapter 4), Ostian warehouses (Chapter 5), or southern Gaulish wine maturing in dolia (Chapter 3), the material apparatus of storage did nothing to facilitate, and probably even impeded, transparency and legibility. What could not be guaranteed by the practice of storage itself had to be sought either in direct, ad hoc relations with people (e.g. a master had to trust his wife, or a slave, based for example on previous experience), or with things (hence the abundance of locking mechanisms found both in Ostian warehouses and in Vesuvian houses). The fragmented knowledge landscape of storage inside the household and inside the large trading hub of Ostia escaped the gaze of the state, and of its lower-order copycat, the paterfamilias (Chapters 4 6). The farmer-citizen had more cards to play than opting out of empire altogether.

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185

186

table a 1 Central Italy, general purpose storerooms (excluding unequivocally domestic storage)

rooms with pillars and/or double entrance

Dimensions per unit (m)

Number

Place

Name

Description

Date

L41

Blera

Selvasecca

long rectangular room with 6 (?) pillars

28  6

L60

Colonnacce

long rectangular room with 3 pillars (I)

L130

Castel di Guido Licenza

2nd c bc or earlier 2nd/1st c bc

Prato La Corte

Ostia

Dragoncello

opus reticulatum 2nd–1st c bc

30  15

L151 L192

Sperlonga

Villa Prato

Suburbium

Cinquina

2nd half 2nd c bc 1st c ad

17  11

L213

C8 C13

Stabiae Boscoreale

TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79

4.3  8.4 12  4

C14

Boscoreale

Carmiono Pisanella (Villa delle Argentarie) Giuliana

large rectangular granary (?) with 3  8 pillars (A); storerooms storage area with 2  4 pillars, beaten earth floor (C); double entrance unidentified possible storeroom, rectangular, 2  5 pillars; double access residential room with mosaic floor transformed into pillared storage area with sunken dolia corner room; double access barn (V), hay and fodder found; double access

TAQ ad 79

4.5  6

C16

Boscoreale Boscoreale

1st half 1st c bc or later 2nd–1st c bc

10  8.6

C26 C28

Boscoreale

stazione ferroviaria

C39

Boscoreale

Villa Regina

horreum (S), identified by inscription; double access pillared storeroom (partially excavated, one pillar preserved) (24) ; multiple access haybarn (12); barn used for timber stocking (13) “horreum” (7) with amphorae and restoration materials; stable/storeroom with pillars (13) barn (VIII), giving access to threshing floor

Grotte Franchini Civita-Giuliana

TAQ ad 79 Augustan, later enlarged before ad 79

22  9

7  6.5

min. 28  7

10 .5  3.7 (12); 9  14 (13) 58

generic rectangular rooms

C42

Terzigno

Boccia al Mauro, Villa 1 Via dei Sepolcri

C44

Gragnano

L16

Artena

L31

Blera

Pian della Civita Conserva

L173

L206

Quarto Cappello del Prete Suburbium

Quarto Cappello del Prete Castel Giubileo

L239

Suburbium

S. Basilio

T21

Gorgona

C1

Gorgona Island Stabiae

C2 C5

Stabiae Stabiae

Oliaro Casa di Miri

C7

Stabiae

Sassole

C25

Boscoreale

Civita-Giuliana

C43

Terzigno

Boccia al Mauro, Villa 2

Casa di Miri

rectangular room with double entrance, to cella vinaria and to threshing floor liminal storeroom with 2 naves divided by 3 central pillars 2nd phase: internal partitions deleted to create larger rooms for storage 2 rectangular storerooms (A, B), cistern (?) stable or storage area (B)

3 large rectangular store rooms with dolia (A) 2 rooms without flooring (D, E) interpreted as storerooms large room with vaulted ceiling identified as horreum “horreum” (7, 8, and 9) “horreum” (4) “horreum” (5), shovel, rake, clay and bronze vessels; possibly (9) and (20) too “horreum,” two communicating rooms (14 and 15) storerooms (7, 8, 9), containing 3 large dolia (7) and tools rectangular room leading onto threshing floor, no access to/from villa body

TAQ ad 79

4.5/4.7  5.7

opus incertum

6.40  7.30

1st–2nd c ad 1st c ad (possibly earlier) 2nd–1st c bc

A: 3.5  5; B: 2.5  5

Late Republic

14  6 per room (irregular) D: 6  3; E: 6  2.5

1st c bc Late Republic/ Early Empire TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79

14  6

1.7  5.4 (7); 3.6  5.4 (9); 2.3  5.4 (8) 8.6  11.2 5.7–6.4  2.9 (5) 3.8  3.4 (14); 3.5  3.4 (15) 3  2 (9); 3.5  2 (8) 4.3  4.3 (continued)

187

188

table a 1 (continued)

freestanding granaries

rooms around courtyard

Number

Place

Name

Description

Date

Dimensions per unit (m)

C45

Ponticelli

rectangular room leading onto threshing floor, limited access to/from villa body

TAQ ad 79

45

L102

30  10

Site 10

freestanding barn; long rectangular stable or storeroom storage room for grain, hay barn

Late Empire

L372

Fiano Romano Via Gabina

Villa of C. Olius Ampliatus Baciletti

T3

Ansedonia

Settefinestre

freestanding granary

U23 C41

S. Giustino Francolise

Colle Plinio San Rocco

L3

Albano

Ercolano

L104

Villa “della Standa” Volusii Saturnini Villa Giannutri

U20

Fiano Romano Fiano Romano Giannutri Island Spello

courtyard with granary (C) stable or loft with single row of roughly built pillars (47); rectangular room with double entrance (48) cellae on E side peristyle; two stories opening onto atrium/peristyle storerooms for tools or stables (?) around paved courtyard courtyard with rooms (“ergastula” for slaves?) courtyard with modular rooms (E)

C31

Boscotrecase

C34

Gragnano

Rota (Ti. Claudius Eutychus) Carità

L106 T19

Orticello

E portico of peristyle subdivided into several storage rooms for foodstuffs (?) storerooms arranged around courtyard, “ergastulum” (shackles found in 1) rooms around courtyard (C), “ergastulum”? (shackles found in (D))

late 3rd–early 4th c ad late 1st c bc

2 bc–15 ad 30 bc

28  22 (whole building)/20  12 (central space) 8  10 14.5  3.7 (47); 16  4 (48)

1st c bc

46

40–30 bc

5  3 (irregular)

late 1st c bc

53

Late Republic– 2nd c ad TPQ mid 1st c ad TAQ ad 79

1.5  2.6

TAQ ad 79

3.7  3

rooms in substructures

harbor complexes

L43

Boville

Centroni Villa

substructure with possible storerooms

L64

Castelporziano

Tor Paterno

L179

S. Marinella

Grottacce

L114

Formia

Villa Rubino

L168

Pontine Islands Ansedonia

Ventotene, Polveriera La Tagliata

two parallel corridors with various rooms, fine decoration cisterns later subdivided into possible storerooms; one containing counter with rectangular hollow rectangular court surrounded by long rooms (storehouses/tabernae) in harbor rectangular store rooms in harbor (C)

T4

buildings labeled as “grain storerooms” (C) in harbor

Late Republic/ Early Empire 160 ad

55

1st c bc

11  4 10  4

mid 2nd c ad

189

190

table a 2 Central Italy, cisterns separate from the main villa building

freestanding

Number

Place

Name

Description

Date

Volume (m3)

L49

Capena

Giardino

1st c ad

108; 500

L60

Castel di Guido

Colonnacce

1st c ad

180

L111

Formia

Torre Gianola

Late Republic

506; 740

L147

Nemi

S. Maria

Late Republic

912

L152 L173

Dragoncello Quarto Cappello del Prete Palazzo Castel Giubileo

2nd c ad 1st c bc

120 990.99

L186 L206

Ostia Quarto Cappello del Prete S. Palomba Suburbium

several cisterns on S of terrace (B), and cistern (C) freestanding cistern pillared (C) large cistern (B) divided by four rows of pillars; cistern on terrace (E) freestanding pillared cistern (D) freestanding cistern (E) freestanding cistern pillared, with 5 naves

1st c bc Late Republic

546

L226 L230 L236 L288 T24

Suburbium Suburbium Suburbium Tivoli Livorno

Maxentius’ villa Prima Porta Quintilii Villa Guidonia S. Vincenzino

1st c ad 2nd c ad 2nd c ad 1st c ad 1st c bc

542.66 867

T31 U22 C40 C41

Monte Argentario Spoleto Francolise Francolise

Porto S. Stefano Villa Redenta Posto San Rocco

freestanding cistern (D) freestanding cistern connected to villa by channel (D) freestanding cistern (A) freestanding cistern (F) several cisterns freestanding (F) large vat/cistern faced with cocciopesto (E) large underground cistern (A) with tunnels and water filtering cistern (C), freestanding cistern (B), other cistern not on plan three-nave cistern, with aqueduct three-nave and two-nave cistern

1st c bc–1st c ad Augustan ca. 30 bc ca. 30 bc

193.62 160

min. 377 458 (W); 115 (E)

substructure or terrace

unidentified

L43

Boville

Centroni Villa

cisterns in substructures (A)

L77 L86

Circeo Circeo

Grotta della Sibilla Torre Moresca

L90 L334

Circeo Tusculum

L362

Velletri

Villetta Monte Porzio Catone S. Cesareo

U1

Alviano Scalo

Popigliano

L207 L228

Suburbium Suburbium

Cecchignola Ospedaletto Annunziata

vaulted cistern (A) part of substructures two rectangular cisterns on terraces (A) and (B) two cisterns in middle of terrace (B) two cisterns, one shown in plan (A) near terrace three-nave pillared cistern in substructures terrace a well/cistern (B) with channel leading to atrium cistern (B) cistern (B)

Late Republic/ Early Empire TAQ mid 1st c bc TAQ mid 1st c bc

94.5

late 1st c bc 2nd–1st c bc

104

1st c bc

416

140.4 202.96

mid 1st c bc 2nd c ad 2nd–3rd c ad

98 65.8

191

192

table a 3 Central Italy, wine or oil storerooms with ceramic jars or dolia

Number

Place

Name

Description

Date

Dimensions room (m)

L11

Anguillara Sabazia Fiano Romano Ischia di Castro Ostia

Mura di S. Stefano

2nd c ad

15  15

Volusii Saturnini Villa

rectangular room with fragments sunken dolia storage area with dolia defossa

50 bc

La Selvicciola

storage room with dolia

Augustan

Dragoncello

2nd–1st c bc

Procoio Nuovo

L186

Procoio Nuovo S. Palomba

possible torcularium with channels and dolia in vicinity two sunken dolia

1st c bc

L195 L197

Suburbium Suburbium

Auditorium Borgata Ottavia

L202 L205

Suburbium Suburbium

Casale Ghella Castel Giubileo

L213

Suburbium

Cinquina

L218

Suburbium

Fosso Lombardo

L219

Suburbium

L222

Suburbium

Fossa Santa Maura, Tor Vergata Grotte di Cervara

storage areas with dolia; scattered positioning dolia based on plan storerooms provided with dolia probable cella vinaria with pits dug into the tufa bank room with dolia defossa (B) cella vinaria where pits for dolia were dug into the floor (B) transformation of room into pillared storeroom with sunken dolia room with an apse where two dolia were found (A) room with no flooring and large circular holes dug into pozzolana bank storage space (C) as cella olearia?

L227

Suburbium

Muracciola

apsidal room with 2  6 dolia on both sides of a circular vat (C)

1st c ad?

L106 L120 L151 L172

Palazzo

2nd c ad

Number of dolia recorded

2 33

5

5th c bc Early Empire 4

late 1st c bc

7  15

1st c ad

min. 28  7

7

1st c bc– 2nd c ad? 2nd c bc– 2nd c ad 2nd–1st c bc

min. 1.2  0.4

2

86

3

2.5  (min. 7–13) 9  16

12

L231

Suburbium

L243

Suburbium

L253

Suburbium

Prima Porta, Cimitero Flaminio Tor Carbone, “Domus Marmeniae” Via Casalotti

L257

Suburbium

Via Ripa Mammea

L258

Suburbium

Via Togliatti

room with cavities for dolia dug into tufa floor (B); doliarium (5th/6th c ad)

2nd c bc–1st c ad late 1st c bc; 5th/6th c ad

L260

Suburbium

large dolia sunk into the terrain

Late Republic

L288

Tivoli

Via Vigne Nuove, Val Melaina Guidonia

1st c ad

L350

Tusculum

“Villa dei Furi”

L375

Viterbo

Asinello

T3

Ansedonia

Settefinestre

probable cella vinaria/olearia with beaten earth floor? two rooms, each with min. 1 sunken dolium one of 4 polygonal rooms equipped with large dolia cella vinaria in substructure

U11

Pennavecchia

U17

Penna in Taverina Perugia

U18

Pietralunga

Colle Preiano

cella vinaria with 9 sunken dolia placed in two parallel rows room without flooring with traces of a sunken dolium bottom parts of sunken dolia

U23

S. Giustino

Colle Plinio

C2 C5

Stabiae Stabiae

Oliaro Casa di Miri

Valcaprara

deposit with various sunken dolia

Late Empire

two storerooms with dolia (C)

2nd c ad

a horrea containing 8 large dolia in situ; probable adjacent one containing 1 dolium room with dolia

2nd c ad

193

long rectangular room with dolia (B) cella olearia (2) cella olearia (27)/barnyard, beaten earth floor

10  14 (and outside) (no scale)

11 10 8+1

8  11 (1st c bc); 2  4 (5th– 6th c ad)

15–18 (1st c bc); 4 (5th–6th c ad)

5  2.5

1st c bc–1st c ad mid 1st c bc

9.5  3.5

15 (?)

late 1st c bc

4  44

Augustan

6.5  (min. 7)

58 + more (hypothesized) 9

2

Imperial

1

TAQ 3rd–4th c ad 2 bc–15 ad

4  40

TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79

5.9  5.6 36.2  12.3 (continued)

194

table a 3 (continued)

Number

Place

Name

Description

Date

Dimensions room (m)

C7

Stabiae

Sassole

TAQ ad 79

7.9  4.1

C9

Stabiae

Belvedere

TAQ ad 79

19  13.7

7

C10

Stabiae

i Medici

TAQ ad 79

C13

Boscoreale

TAQ ad 79

3.9  6 (3); 3.9  2.1 (4) 15  13

81 (+4); 5 in portico

C14

Boscoreale

Pisanella (Villa delle Argentarie) Giuliana

cella vinaria (16), next to torcularium (17), bronze and ceramic “wine vessels” found cella vinaria (2), dolia sunk in ground, open air courtyard cella vinaria in 2 parts: (3) with large dolia; (4) with smaller vessels cella vinaria, external wall with slits

TAQ ad 79

10  9

4

C19

Scafati

Spinelli

cella vinaria, separated from courtyard by low brick wall, external wall with slits cella vinaria, partly excavated

TAQ ad 79

C25

Boscoreale

Civita-Giuliana

TAQ ad 79

6 (not fully excavated) 5

C28 C29

Boscoreale Boscoreale

C32 C33 C34 C35 C39

Scafati Gragnano Gragnano Scafati Boscoreale

stazione ferroviaria Pisanella (N. Popidius Florus) S. Abbondio Messigno Carità Spinelli Villa Regina

C42

Terzigno

courtyard, beaten earth floor, canopy, dolia and vessels (13); cella vinaria unexcavated opening onto courtyard cella vinaria, separated from courtyard by low brick wall, external wall with slits vast cella vinaria with dolia cella vinaria, 35 dolia 11 dolia in courtyard inside peristylium; 12 dolia recorded 18 dolia defossa; separated from courtyard by low, truncated wall 42 dolia in situ in parallel rows

4.8  (unexcavated) 9  6; unexcavated

C43

Terzigno

C45

Ponticelli

room in southern corner of villa body, southern angle cut off cella vinaria; separate from cella oliaria and press

Boccia al Mauro, Villa 1 Boccia al Mauro, Villa 2 Villa of C. Olius Ampliatus

Number of dolia recorded

TAQ ad 79 1st c bc

2.5  7 7  10

7

TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 TAQ ad 79 Augustan

15  (min. 6) 13  (min. 13) 11  (min. 8) 8.47  6.60

35 11 min. 12 18

TAQ ad 79

11  12

42

TAQ ad 79

10  11

TAQ ad 79

8  19

31

195

13

Small storage= transport containers

Storage and transport vessels

Water collection= disposal

Storage fixtures

houses

12

entries

11

houses

10

entries

8 9

houses

Main garden area

7

entries

4 5 6

houses

3

Main entranceway Room leading directly off front entranceway Front hall, usually with central opening and pool (“atrium”) Small closed room off side of front hall Open-fronted area off side of front hall Large/medium room off corner of front hall Open-sided room opposite main entrance or leading to garden (“tablinum”) Long, narrow internal corridor Main garden, colonnaded garden and ambulatories, or terrace (“peristylium”) Large/medium closed room off garden/terrace but with no view Large/medium open-fronted room off garden/terrace with view Small closed room off garden/terrace or lower floor Small open-fronted area off garden/ terrace or lower floor

entries

1 2

houses

Front hall area

0

entries

Description

houses

Room type

entries

Storage furniture

Storage furniture or structural fitting

table a 4 Storage implements by room type in a sample of 30 Pompeian atrium houses. Key to room types in atrium houses after Allison 2004: 64, Table 5a

3

2

14

2

0

0

0

0

6

2

0

0

3 2

3 1

11 4

6 2

1 3

1 3

1 0

1 0

7 4

4 3

0 1

0 1

162

15

37

11

4

4

49

30

61

16

7

5

35 9 9

8 2 6

17 3 14

7 3 8

58 7 19

20 3 8

2 1 1

1 1 1

33 20 16

13 5 7

7 1 2

6 1 1

43

10

26

10

0

0

1

1

14

7

14

4

6 76

4 9

15 51

4 12

12 8

9 7

4 20

2 18

14 67

5 18

0 7

0 5

2

2

13

7

4

2

0

0

5

2

1

1

13

6

34

10

10

8

0

0

20

5

4

3

14

5

11

7

31

15

2

2

18

8

1

1

6

2

0

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

2

1

(continued)

Small storage= transport containers

houses

entries

houses

entries

houses

Storage and transport vessels

Water collection= disposal entries

Storage fixtures

Storage furniture or structural fitting

houses

21 22

entries

20

houses

17 18 19

entries

15 16

Room with cooking hearth or associated room (kitchen area) Latrine as separate room Other room outside main front-hall/ garden complex Stairway Secondary internal garden or court Secondary entrance or entrance courtyard Room at front of house open to street (shop) (“taberna”) Bath area Upper floor rooms and material in upper-level deposits

houses

Storage furniture 14

Description

entries

Room type

Other areas

196

table a 4 (continued)

4

3

8

5

15

10

15

11

38

16

0

0

2 44

1 4

0 7

0 4

0 12

0 6

2 6

2 4

0 40

0 9

0 6

0 1

0 0 2

0 0 2

1 3 3

1 1 2

1 2 0

1 1 0

1 11 3

1 6 3

4 16 7

3 5 3

0 0 0

0 0 0

0

0

1

1

4

3

2

1

13

4

0

0

0 24

0 10

2 80

2 21

5 1

3 1

1 2

1 2

2 109

2 20

0 17

0 6

NOTES

CHAPTER 1 1 2 3

4 5

6 7 8 9 10

11

12

13

www.selfstorage.org. As in Steven Soderbergh’s 2000 film Traffic. http://cornellsun.com/2018/03/16/fbi-andithaca-police-find-gun-and-bomb-like-devicein-cornell-students-apartment/. Tacitus, Annales 15.18. Hastorf and Foxhall 2017 on surplus as a “state of mind.” Of particular note is Annales’ histoire des mentalités, especially in its third and fourth generations (e.g. Georges Duby), see Knapp 1992: 7–8; Burguière 1979: 1351; Forster 1978: 73, footnote 61 for a critique that sees the focus on mentalities and “total history” as neglecting economic history. E.g. Earle 1997. E.g. Forbes 1989; 2017; Halstead 2014. Forbes 1989: 96 97. Scott 1976 as locus classicus. See below for further discussion. E.g. papers in Arce and Goffaux 2011; Ferdière 2015; Pellegrino 2017; Salido Domínguez 2017b; papers in Trément 2017 and Martin 2019 and work by the AGER consortium. E.g. Entrepôts et trafics annonaires en Méditerranée. Antiquité – Temps modernes (Virlouvet 2003; Boetto et al. 2016); Entrepôts et lieux de stockage dans le monde gréco-romain antique (Boetto et al. 2010); Entrepôts et circuits de distribution en Méditerranée antique (Bukowiecki et al. 2018; Chankowski 2018; Virlouvet 2018). Carrato 2017a; Cheung’s recent dissertation on dolia and their use life (2018). Bevan 2014; 2018 for a longue durée history of Mediterranean containerization, and Robb 2018 for containers as relational technologies. With exceptions, especially in ethnographic accounts on farming, e.g. Halstead 2014;

14 15

16 17 18

19 20

21 22 23

24

Forbes 2017; but also e.g. Balbo et al. 2015; Kuijt 2009 and 2015. Critique in Kuijt 2011: 150. E.g. Christakis 2008, linking the volume of storage facilities to subsistence potential in Protopalatial and Neopalatial Crete; Garcia and Isoardi 2010, deducing Marseille’s mobilizing potential from a comparison of demography and estimated storage capacity. E.g. Smyth 1989; as indeed in the aforementioned study by Christakis 2008. Earle and D’Altroy 1982: 269. E.g. Foxhall and Forbes 1982; Forbes and Foxhall 1995; Gallant 1991: 62–67 and 96. For a more recent example of such a quantitative approach, see Paulette 2015 and 2016: 99–103. E.g. Groot et al. 2009 for non-villa farming in Germania inferior. See contributions in Martin 2019 for debate on calculations of the contents of granaries in Gaul. Such debate concerns both the methods of calculation and the practice of calculation as such. E.g. Aldrete and Mattingly 1999; Brandt 2005; Rickman 1980a. All of these questions can be found combined in Zevi 2001: 113–15. See Chapter 5. Cf. Bowker and Star 1999: 181; Beck 1999: 3. Purcell 1995b for a contextual account of risk in Roman society. Van der Veen 2003 argues that luxury goods tend to be distinguished by quantity in societies without marked social stratification, but by quality in societies with an institutionalized form of social ranking. E.g. Stewart 2013: “Whatever an individual's place on the economic spectrum, space and equipment for storage were essential; for subsistence-level agriculturalists and for states, for tenant-worked religious estates and for those engaged in transhumance.”

197

198 25

26

27

28 29

30 31

32 33 34

35 36

37 38

39

NOTES TO PAGES 6–9

E.g. Dickmann (2011: 54) situates the storage of goods with “processes at the house’s margin, rather than its centre,” a claim that resonates both spatially and metaphorically. Allison 1995: 149, 156, 168; 1997: 328; Berry 1997a; 1997b: 185 for critique of Allison’s conclusions; Varone 1995. E.g. the treasure in the Casa del Menandro, found in a subterranean room and including a coin minted in ad 78, at most half a year before the final eruption, see Maiuri 1933: 245–383. Hendon 2000. Margomenou (2008: 194–95) defines storage similarly broadly as “the set of processes, techniques, and strategies by which individuals, families or whole societies manage to set aside and preserve both material things (e.g. foodstuffs, seeds for planting, water, and craft products such as textiles, tools, or ceramics) and non material resources (knowledge, experience, information) for short-term or long-term future use.” This differs from many definitions restricting storage to foodstuffs, e.g. Smyth 1989: 90. Stopp 2002: 306. See also Ingold 1983; O’Shea 1981. And with sedentism, e.g. Testart 1982; 1988; Flannery (1972: 28) who singles out storage as the defining characteristic of early agricultural villages. De Saulieu and Testart 2015; Hayden 1995. Morgan 2012 for summary; Thompson and Moore 2015. E.g. Stopp 2002 for a case study on Arctic communities; Ingold 1983; Morgan 2012 on the use of caches. Contra Testart 1982; 1988; De Saulieu and Testart 2015 associating storage with sedentism, also among hunter-gatherers. Testart 1988: 172. Such variability is even more marked in environments with acute seasonal abundance and scarcity, such as the Arctic, see Frink 2007: 353. Chayanov 1966; Scott 1976; 1985; Shanin 1988. Garnsey 1988 on famine and structural limitations of food supply in the ancient world; Gallant 1991 on choices and constraints at the household level. Forbes 1989; Gallant 1991, Chapter 3; Garnsey 1988: 48–55; Garnsey, Gallant, and Rathbone 1984; Halstead 2014: 157 63; Halstead and O’Shea 1989; Scott 1976: 5, 24.

40 Halstead and O’Shea 1982; Jongman and Dekker 1989: 117. 41 Christakis 1999: 7 8 (up to two years); Forbes 1989 (up to two years); 2017: 18; Gallant 1991: 94 (one to 1.5 years); Halstead 2014: 162 (one to two years). 42 Horden and Purcell 2000; S. W. Manning 2018. 43 Sen 1981: 46 on variable entitlement. 44 Halstead 1982; 1989: 73–74; O’Shea 1981. 45 Scott 1976. 46 This does not imply egalitarian distribution. 47 Saller 1982; Veyne 1976. 48 Garnsey and Morris 1989: 103–104 on classical Greece; Hastorf and Foxhall 2017; Jongman and Dekker 1989: 117–18 on Imperial Rome. Note that patronage and euergetism never aimed to combat poverty as do modern aid programs. 49 Gallant 1991: 186; Horden and Purcell 2000: 273. 50 Sahlins 1972: 1. 51 Sahlins 1972: 101 48; for critique, see Forbes 2017: 11 12. 52 Cahill 2002: 233. But see Christakis 2008: 114. 53 Cahill 2002: 281–87. One issue of Cahill’s study is that by positing the household as the lowest common denominator, it becomes a faceless entity. See also Chapter 4. 54 Horden and Purcell 2000. 55 Polanyi 1957: 253 56. See also Maucourant 1996. 56 Nakassis, Parkinson, and Galaty 2011 for a history of the concept. 57 Service 1975: 294–99; Yoffee 2005: 13–14; Rothman 2016. 58 Near East: Finley 1999: 28 on the “templestate” model; Liverani 2005 for a review of different economic models; Paulette 2015: 18; Renger 2005. Aegean: Renfrew 1972: 291 97 (on storage and redistribution); 480–82 (on redistribution); Branigan 1988; Halstead 1988. Gilman 1981 and recently Nakassis, Parkinson, and Galaty 2011 for critique. 59 Fried 1967, contra the consensus model propagated by Service; Yoffee 2005: 14–15; Johnson and Earle 2000: 304–305; Morehart and De Lucia 2015: 12, 16 for a more general opposition between “eco-rational” approaches (classical economic) and “political economy” (Marxist). 60 Viola 2006. 61 Earle 1997: 207.

NOTES TO PAGES 9–13

62

63

64

65 66 67

68

69 70 71 72

73 74

75

76

77

E.g. Christakis 2011 on Neopalatial Crete; Halstead 1999 on the Mycenean world; Wesson 1999 on Mississippian centers; D’Altroy and Earle (Earle and D’Altroy 1982: 278 and 285; D’Altroy and Earle 1985: 193; Johnson and Earle 2000: 324–25) on the Late Horizon Mantaro valley in highland Peru. Chankowski 2018 on fluidity between the registers of staples and money in the Greek world. The model here is Weberian, as developed by Mann 1986. See Wolf 1990 for general discussion of power in anthropology. Forbes (2017: 21) stresses that control over means of production (e.g. landownership) is often more important than storage capacity. Yoffee 2005: 34–36 for an overview. Hendon 2000. Hodder (2012; 2018) would explain this through entanglement, or the ever-expanding web of dependencies between humans and things, in which storage can be said to play a key role (Hodder 2018: 8). Cf. Kopytoff 1986: 75: “in times of war shortage, all sorts of normally consumable goods begin to serve as a store of wealth and, instead of being consumed, circulate endlessly in the market.” In the Murecine Tablets or Tabulae Sulpiciorum, Camodeca 1999; 2003. Kohler and Higgins 2016. Cf. Shryock and Smail 2018: 3 on containers. Cf. Yoffee 2005: 38; Hastorf and Foxhall 2017 on storage and surplus as “states of mind,” a context-specific response to the question “how much is enough.” Hastorf and Foxhall 2017: 27. The “normal surplus.” Cf. Halstead 1989; Kuijt 2015. On needs and wants, see Chapter 2. Wolf 1966 distinguishes between a range of peasant “funds” (which could be glossed as types of surplus): a “replacement fund,” a “ceremonial fund,” and a “fund of rent.” Demarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996 on “strategic objects”; D’Altroy and Earle 1985 on staple and wealth finance; Khatchadourian 2016: 32 on commodities and empire. Halperin 1994: 167; Hendon 2000: 45. I diverge here from Morehart and De Lucia 2015 and Bogaard 2017, who try to redeem the notion of surplus within a framework that is otherwise akin to the one adopted in this book.

199 78 Cf. Kopytoff 1986 on commoditization versus singularization. 79 Paulette 2015: 30, after Appadurai 1981. 80 Cf. Khatchadourian 2016. 81 D. Miller 2010; Olsen 2010; Olsen et al. 2012. 82 Boivin 2008; Hodder 2012; Van Oyen 2016a; Van Oyen and Pitts 2017. 83 Clark 2008; in archaeology Malafouris 2013. 84 Brück 2005 and Johnson 2012 for overviews of phenomenology in archaeology. 85 Otter 2010: 38 47 for an enlightening review. Van Oyen 2017a on the problematic relation between matter and form. 86 Ingold 2007. 87 In anthropology, see Richardson and Weszkalnys 2014; in political and economic history, see Mitchell 2009; in geography and STS, see Braun and Whatmore 2010. 88 Cf. Morton 2013 on ecology; Jackson 2012 on the (non-)decay of plastic. 89 Bennett 2010. In archaeology, see Crellin 2017. 90 Abrahamsson et al. 2015 (also with an excellent note on why our fascination with “agency” should be translated into “modes of doing”); Barad 2003. 91 Braun and Whatmore 2010: xxix. 92 E.g. Bauer and Kosiba 2016; Hodder 2012; Johansen and Bauer 2018; Khatchadourian 2016: 54; Smith 2015. 93 Earle 1997: 203. 94 Morehart 2014. Not considered in this study are the practicalities and the temporality of storage of different maize types. 95 Bogaard et al. 2009. 96 Cf. Robb 2004; Urem-Kotsou 2017: 73. 97 Halstead 2007; Nitsch et al. 2017. Cf. F. McCormick 2008 on a change of emphasis from cattle to cereals in the economy of medieval Ireland. 98 Adam 2004 for different aspects of time; Lucas 2005 on archaeology and time. Shryock and Smail 2018: 3 4 on containers as time machines; Kuijt 2015 on storage as extending the shelf-life of food. 99 Trigger 2006: 121 29. 100 Critique in Van Oyen 2017a. Even Benjamin (1935: 34) distinguishes between “enduring edifices” (i.e. matter) and “passing fashions” (i.e. form); see Brown 2010: 63. 101 Braudel 1958. In archaeology, see Bailey 2007; Bintliff 1991; Knapp 1992: 6. 102 Critique in Harris 2017.

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103 The Anthropocene (Waters et al. 2016), the first geological era defined by human agency, demonstrates that short-term individual actions can have consequences even on geological time-scales. 104 Robb and Pauketat 2013. 105 Excavation is key in surpassing the limited (often quantitative) viewpoint of surface survey (Witcher 2006). Roman Britain has spawned the most developed tradition of rural archaeology (Smith et al. 2016). For Roman Gaul, see AGER conferences (e.g. Trément 2017). At the vanguard for Roman Italy is the Roman Peasant Project (Bowes et al. in prep.; Ghisleni et al. 2011; Vaccaro et al. 2013). 106 For an extended analysis developing such a trajectory, see Van Oyen 2016a. 107 W. H. Manning 1975; Rickman 1971: 213 70; Salido Domínguez 2009b; 2011a. 108 See recently papers in König, Oikonomopoulou, and Woolf 2013; Vandorpe 2009. 109 With a similar narrative of value increase and degeneration/degradation as the staples discussed in Chapters 2 and 3, e.g. in Plutarch’s Life of Cato the Elder XXI.7, on buying young slaves, and teaching them (i.e. increasing their human capital) before selling. 110 See Coin Hoards of the Roman Empire Project, http://chre.ashmus.ox.ac.uk. 111 Cf. “storage on the hoof”; potentially as significant as land to Roman mentalités, see Purcell 2003: 352; Corbier 1989. For the importance of the animal economy among small farmers of Roman Italy, see Bowes et al. 2017 and in prep. 112 E.g. at Karanis, see Gates-Foster 2014; Geraci 2008; Husselman 1952.

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Sahagún 1953–1982, 10:1, cited in Hendon 2000: 46. Cato, De Agri Cultura pr. 2. Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 473 78. Xenophon, Oeconomicus II.10. Horden and Purcell 2000; S. W. Manning 2018. Forbes 2017; Gallant 1991; Halstead and O’Shea 1989; Halstead 2014 cautions against positing such immemorial invariables. Purcell 1995b on chance and the windfall.

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The search for wealth, profit, and productivity was real both among small farmers and elite estate owners, contra Finley 1999 and his legacy. See Swain 2013: 146–225 for this attitude in a wide range of relevant ancient authors. Bodel 2012. On the archaeology of needs and luxury, see van der Veen 2003. Needs and wants do not split according to a nature/culture divide. See Latour 1993 for general critique. Erdkamp 2005: 239. Thanks to Kim Bowes for pointing this out. Cato, De Agri Cultura II.7. In a substantivist definition: Pearson 1957 (relative surplus); Dalton 1960 and 1963 (experienced surplus), contra M. Harris 1959; further discussion by Morehart and De Lucia 2015: 19; Hastorf and Foxhall 2017: 27. Recent work acknowledges that surplus is relative, but also stresses the importance of comparing it to an absolute surplus threshold (including not just basic consumption, but also e.g. seed corn and costs of labor, see Forbes 2017: 12 13) in order to chart its cultural definition, see Bogaard 2017: 2; Halstead 1989; Halstead and O’Shea 1989: 6; Morehart 2014. Arthur, Gowland, and Redfern 2016; Robb and Harris 2013. This is not to say that historical conditions did not matter, e.g. Van Oyen 2019 on notions of “rural time.” D’Arms 1981: 159; Hopkins 1978: 1 8. Ferrary 1988. Jiménez 2016 on the shift to a territorial notion of power and empire in the Early Empire. The locus classicus for the elite struggles is Syme 1986; see also Dench 2005: 179–85; 2010: 272–73; Habinek 1998: 34–68 for literature’s response. Kay 2014. Laubenheimer 2013; Purcell 1985; Tchernia 1983; 1986; Dietler 2010. See Chapter 3. Laubenheimer 2013; Tchernia 1986; Woolf 1992. E.g. Rossiter 1978. Terrenato 2001. The so-called slave mode of production. Carandini 1985a; 1989 and Giardina and Schiavone 1981. See Jongman 2003; Launaro 2011; Morley 2001; Terrenato 2012; Witcher 2009: 470–72; 2016: 475–78. Toynbee 1965; Brunt 1988 (associated with the “low count” of the Italian population);

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Hopkins 1978; Rathbone 1981; de Ligt 2012 (low count) and Launaro 2011 (middle count) on demography. Carandini 1985a and 1985b. Launaro 2011. Foxhall 1990; Erdkamp 1999. Rosenstein 2004: 156–58. Roselaar 2010. Morley 1996. See the pioneering Roman Peasant Project: Bowes et al. 2017 and in prep.; Ghisleni et al. 2011; Vaccaro et al. 2013. Survey archaeology increasingly helps describe such regional differences, see Attema 2017; Morley 2001. Appadurai 1996: 77. Livy, Ab Urbe Condita III.26 29. Columella, De Re Rustica I pr. 13. Varro, Res Rusticarum II pr. 2. Habinek 1998: 34–68; Reay 2012; contra e.g. White 1970: 18. Edwards 1993: 137–72. W. V. Harris 1979: 89. Cicero, De Officiis I.42, 151; Finley 1999: 42 for appropriation of this passage in his status-driven model of the ancient economy; but D’Arms 1981: 21 25. Tacitus, Annales 15.18. Swain 2013. Translation by Swain 2013: 9. D’Arms 1970; Marzano 2007: 201 ff.; Percival 1976: 34–50. Marzano 2007: 82–101; Pollard 2016: 339–41; Wallace-Hadrill 2008: 196–208; Van Oyen 2015a: 109–10. D’Arms 1981: 11 16; Morley 2004: 33 50. For further discussion of debates on the Roman economy, see Chapter 6. Finley 1999. Brunt 1988: 241; Hopkins 1978: 6; Kehoe 1994: 47 on landownership as the prime investment in the Digest. Most recently in the form of New Institutional Economics, see Morris, Saller, and Scheidel 2007. On innovations: Greene 2000 and Wilson 2002, contra Finley 1965; Flohr 2016. For a more nuanced view, see D’Arms 1981. For archaeobotany in the Vesuvian area, see Borgongino 2006 (esp. catalogue) and Ciarallo 2004 (esp. list of finds). Marzano 2007 (review in Rathbone 2009a); De Franceschini 2005; Carrington 1931. For

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cisterns in the area of Rome, see Thomas and Wilson 1994, after the Forma Italiae series. Carrington’s (1931) numbers 1 36 derive from Rostovtzeff 1957: 552 53. See also De Simone 2007; De’ Spagnolis Conticello 1993 94; Grimaldi 2007. De Caro 1994. Blanckenhagen, Cotton, and Ward-Perkins 1965; Cotton 1979; Cotton and Métraux 1985; Gros 2001: 277–79. Cicirelli 1993; Pellegrino 2017: 457 59. Bonifacio 2009. Cascella and Vecchio 2014. See Chapter 4. See Van Oyen 2015a. Lauter 1998; Terrenato 2001 and 2011; Torelli 2011. Carandini, D’Alessio and Di Giuseppe 2006: 86–87. This comprises Pellegrino’s (2017: 461) Type 1 and 2. Sgubini Moretti 1998. See Thomas and Wilson 1994 for a range of possible water supply strategies in rural farms and villas around Rome. Valenti 2003: 94. de Franceschini 2005: 306–307 and 310. de Franceschini 2005: 308–11. On multi-purpose use of the granarium, see Pellegrino 2017: 459 60. Pasqui 1897; Pellegrino 2017: 444. Carandini 1985b: 194; Ricci 1985: 308. Carandini 1985b: 193. Carandini 1985b: 193. Carandini 1985b: 194. This is not to deny the sophistication and efficiency of such knowledge, see Halstead 2014: 157 63; Forbes and Foxhall 1995. All of these strategies had practical reasons too, to which we will return below. Vitruvius, De Architectura VI 6, 5. Carandini 1985b: 190. Cf. the lack of joint walls in between large, adjacent horrea at Ostia (Rickman 1971: 78). Carandini 1985b: 193. Following the agronomists’ counsel. Because of their position relative to the main entrance, rooms A133, A152, and A154 were tentatively linked to this purpose, see Carandini 1985b: 193 and 203 (plan). de Franceschini 2005: 306–308; Sear 2004 for Pompeian town houses. Valenti 2003: 94–95; Wilson 2008: 735.

202 87

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Lafon 2018: 104; 2001: 385 (catalogue LT 98). Cf. Villa di Marina di San Nicola (Ladispoli, Campania), see Lafon 1990. Lafon 2018 raises the question of export and/ or import. Hendon 2000: 45. Carandini 1985b: 195. Valenti 2003: 95. De Franceschini 2005: 308–11; Thomas and Wilson 1994: 150; Van Oyen 2017a on the gradual standardization and implementation of Roman concrete. Wilson 2008. If multi-naved cisterns have separate outlets, they can cater for different rhythms of accumulating and dispensing stocks; see Wilson 2001: 88 for urban cisterns in North Africa. Cotton 1979: 27. de Franceschini 2005: 308. Carandini 1985a: 152–66; 171–81 (interpreting the rooms as storerooms); 1989 (interpreting the rooms as slave quarters); Marzano 2007: 140–47 (interpreting the rooms as inns); Schumacher 2001: 99. See also de Franceschini 2005: 281–83; Sgubini Moretti 1998; Virlouvet 2006: 37 38. Pellegrino 2017: 454; Della Corte 1923: 275 80. Della Corte 1922: 459 78 and 1923: 275 80. Witcher 2009 and 2016. Purcell 1995a: 174. Mogetta 2015. Van Oyen 2015a. Purcell 1995a on the celebration of (villa) production. Smith 2004; see Chapter 1 for further references. Horden and Purcell 2000: 175–78 and passim; Gallant 1991. Finley 1999: 46 and 34. E.g. Verbeek 2011; Empson 2011: 96 97. Only in ideal storage conditions, mature, desiccated grain stored for a while, with a higher weight per volume, is worth more than “fresh” grain, see Geraci and Marin 2016: 93. Time pressure applies to the harvesting of cereals as well, see Shaw 2013: 24. Gast, Sigaut, and Beutler 1979–85; Muir 1994; Sigaut 1988. Monteix 2008; Rickman 1971; Sigaut 1988; Spurr 1986: 79–82. Salido Domínguez 2011a: 63 65. Spurr 1986: 79.

112 Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.57.1 mentions sprinkling the grain with amurca (an unfiltered olive oil extract), chalk, or other powders and sprays. See also Pliny, Naturalis Historia 38.301. 113 For comparative data on storage losses, see Forbes 2017: 12. 114 Columella, De Re Rustica 2.20.6. Varro (Rerum Rusticarum I.57.1) for much longer preservation times for cereals stored in underground pits elsewhere (see Chapter 3). 115 Historia Augusta, Septimius Severus 8.5 and 23.2. 116 Rickman 1980b: 234. 117 See Chapter 5. 118 Erdkamp 2005: 155 56; Geraci and Marin 2016; Forbes 1989: 93 94; Forbes and Foxhall 1995: 76; Halstead 2014: 162. 119 Sacks were less efficient for that purpose. 120 Carandini 1985b: 194. Cf. Pellegrino 2017: 460 61. 121 Halstead 2014: 163 64. 122 Spurr 1986: 10–17 for an overview of the different types of grain cultivated in Roman Italy, based on literary and archaeological evidence. See also Chapter 3. 123 Preparation, too, could add to or detract from the status of particular food items such as bread, see Garnsey 1999: 121 22. 124 And in its imagination of that history (“comestible historiography”), see Purcell 2003: 332 36. 125 Spurr 1986: 75. Far was also used in rituals, see Garnsey 1999: 121. 126 Spurr 1986: 94–102; Garnsey 1999: 120. 127 Garnsey 1988: 49–53 and 1999: 119–20 on the division in status between wheat and barley. 128 Garnsey 1999: 36–41 on famine foods. Moreover, different types of grain had slightly different growth cycles, allowing for further spreading of risk. See also Pliny, Historia Naturalis 18.86–92. 129 Except between soft and hard bread wheat (triticum aestivum and triticum durum), the former needing more moist conditions than occurring in the Mediterranean. See Garnsey 1999: 120. 130 A system of quality control through sealed samples or deigmata existed for shipped cargoes of grain, but aimed at preventing fraud through e.g. mixing of grain with sand, not at assessing the quality of the grain as such, see Rickman 1980a: 265; 1980b: 122; also Chapter 5. Note that cereals can be harvested and

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131 132 133 134 135 136 137

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consumed before they are fully ripened, see Halstead 2014: 73 75. Tacitus, Annales 15.18.2. Geraci and Marin 2016: 93. Veyne 1979. On the importance of networks to villas, see Marzano 2015. Hendon 2000: 47–49. For further dissection of the knowledge landscapes of storage, see Chapter 4. Foxhall and Forbes 1982 for ancient and ethnographic evidence and calculations of caloric intake; see also Garnsey 1983. Scheidel 1994. Jongman 1988: 97 154 on the supply of Pompeii. See Chapter 5 on the overseas grain supplies. Erdkamp 2005: 158–62. Spurr 1986; Scheidel 1994; contra Vitelli 1980: 56: “In Italy grain was becoming an element of self-sufficiency, not of surplus.” Pellegrino 2017: 467 68 calculates the potential surplus of cereal storage facilities of villas in the Vesuvian area. For calculations of the storage capacity of granaries in the northwestern provinces, see Groot et al. 2009 and contributions in Martin 2019. Rickman 1980b: 158 on such speculators or dardanarii, and the Digest’s legal measures to curtail their activities. See also Garnsey 1988: 19, 23, 76–78; González and Crawford 1986: 193 on hoarding as speculation in the Lex Irnitana. Erdkamp 2005: 158–62. Erdkamp 2005: 156 58; Halstead 2014. But note Wilson 2001: 90 91 on different qualities of water in urban supply in North Africa, respectively for industrial/agricultural purposes and for drinking. Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.11.2 on covered cisterns for use by the farm personnel and open reservoirs (lacus) for cattle. Horden and Purcell 2000; S. W. Manning 2018. Cotton 1979: 17. Cotton 1979: 27. On cisterns used in conjunction with aqueducts, see Thomas and Wilson 1994: 147. Cotton and Métraux 1985: 15 and 20. Cotton and Métraux 1985: 38–40. Bruun 1997: 154. Frontinus, De Aquis Urbis Romae, 97. Aqueducts could of course also run dry. A similar logic of “constant access” can be

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discerned behind Varro’s (Rerum Rusticarum I.11.2) claim that access to a spring or running stream is to be preferred over cisterns. Of course, the feed of aqueducts themselves often relied on water storage in cisterns. See also Chapter 4 for water stores in a domestic context. But small cisterns also continue in use (as do less visible underground cisterns), see Thomas and Wilson 1994: 155, Table 3. Wilson 2008. On garden irrigation: Thomas and Wilson 1994: 158–60. White 1970: 153–54. On gardens: Purcell 1987. For vegetables in the Roman historical imagination, see Purcell 2003: 338 39. Carandini 1988; Morley 1996: 83–90; Potter 1979: 128–29. Note that the delimitation of the study area in Marzano 2007 and de Franceschini 2005 favors sites nearby Rome. Including pastiones villaticae (Morley 1996; Witcher 2016: 466). A 2:1 ratio was optimal for air circulation in storerooms, see Chapter 5. The admittedly amorphous category of “dry goods” in this study does not include fodder (hay, straw) and other crops susceptible to infestation (cf. White 1970: 427–28). On storage of fruits in antiquity, see Russel 2003. See Chapter 5. Basso 2003: 538–45 lists additional examples. On the Volusii Saturnini villa: Carandini 1985a: 152–66, 171–81; 1989; Marzano 2007: 140–47; Schumacher 2001: 99; de Franceschini 2005: 281–83; Sgubini Moretti 1998. Marzano 2007: 125 ff. Brun 2004a and 2004b; Rossiter 1981. Pasqui 1897: 482. Cato, De Agri Cultura 13.2. A relief from Ince-Blundell Hall, England shows the act of transferring wine from dolia into amphorae before sale; see Rostovtzeff 1957, Plate XXVI.2. E.g. Carrato 2017a: 198; De Caro 1994: 67–69. Wine fermentation needed a temperature arc between 20 and 30C, which helps explain smaller sizes of dolia in warmer climates (e.g. Italy) and larger sizes in more temperate environments (e.g. southern Gaul, see Chapter 3); see Carrato 2017a: 129. Dolia defossa also facilitated circulation; see Carrato 2017b: 459. On sealing: Carrato 2017a: 204 207.

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171 Rossiter 1981: 346–53. 172 Cato, De Agri Cultura 25; Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.54.3; Tchernia 1986: 19 21. 173 Peña Cervantes 2010: 34. 174 Peña Cervantes 2010: 164–65. 175 Heslin 2011: 164. The inclusion of wine amphorae as additional cargo on such dolia ships (Rice 2016: 176–80), aside from maximizing space (Carre and Roman 2008) could suggest transport and commercialization of wine of different qualities and prices (cf. Gianfrotta 1998: 107; but see Sciallano and Marlier 2008: 151). 176 Pasqui 1897: 482. 177 Peña Cervantes 2010: 32–33; Tchernia 1986: 28 36; Tchernia and Brun 1999. 178 Myers 2001: 6. 179 E.g. Pliny, Naturalis Historia XIV, 6; Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.2.6; Gallimore 2017 on Cretan wine. Of course the vines, not discussed here, are crucial as well, and represent a long-term, high-risk, and very visible investment. Traditionally vines installed on the slopes yield less wine but of higher quality than those in the plains (De Simone 2016: 36 37). 180 CIL iv.1679; Mac Mahon 2005: 81. 181 Tchernia 1986: 30. 182 Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae I 26c 27b. 183 Carandini 1985b: 106–109. 184 Forbes and Foxhall 1995: 77. 185 Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.22.4. Similar notions are found in Cato, De Agri Cultura 3.2 and Columella, Res Rustica 1.6.9. 186 Pliny, Historia Naturalis 18.319. Conversely, in medieval and Renaissance France newly pressed wines fetched higher prices, for lack of adequate storage facilities (see Tchernia 1986: 31). 187 Carandini 1985a: 165; Peña Cervantes 2010: 33. 188 Carandini 1985a: 165–66; cf. Rathbone 1981: 12. 189 Brun 2004b: 41–42. 190 Carandini 1985a: 166. 191 Contra Purcell 1988: 196; Rathbone 1981: 12. But see Purcell 1985: 8. In view of the above comments on storage as a facultative stage in the production process of wine, an alternative, untestable hypothesis is that part of the wine pressed on one of the three presses at Settefinestre never went through the lacus vinario and was never stored in the cella vinaria, but was packaged and traded directly upon pressing.

192 I borrow this vocabulary from Appadurai 1996: 84. 193 Veblen 1899. 194 Marzano 2007: 92. See also Reay 2012 on how Cato extols shiny tools, as if they were prestige goods. 195 D’Arms 1981. 196 E.g. Wallace-Hadrill 2008 on dress and language. 197 Other variables, not considered here, differ between regions, such as micro-ecology, connectivity, and carrying capacity. See e.g. De Simone 2016 on the area of Vesuvius. 198 Cf. Appadurai 1996: 74 on consumption of respectively perfume and meat in early modern France. 199 But see Van Oyen 2017a. 200 Cf. Van Oyen 2016a. 201 Appadurai 1986; D. Miller 2000. 202 Kopytoff 1986; in archaeology, Gosden and Marshall 1999. 203 Appadurai 1986; N. Thomas 1991; Weiner 1992. In archaeology, e.g. Gosden 2004. 204 Cf. Bauer and Kosiba 2016; Johansen and Bauer 2018. 205 Pollard 2016: 339–41. 206 Barrett 2014. 207 Bourdieu 1990: 115. 208 Yoffee 2005: 39. Cf. Khatchadourian 2016: 28 on the (ab)uses of the vocabulary of “strategy.”

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Wallace-Hadrill 2008; Woolf 1994. Only later did conquest in the western provinces inspire a discourse on Romanness as humanitas. Richardson 1986; Keay 1988: 47. Dietler 2010: 200–202; Tchernia 1983; 1986: 74 94; 2000. E.g. “La présence d’Italiens dans le développement de la viticulture hispanique, comme dans le commerce du vin, a été un facteur déterminant” (Étienne and Mayet 2000: 236). The question of Italian presence is even more tenacious for the Late Republican farms and villas, see Jàrrega Domínguez 2000: 272 73; Olesti 1997: 83; Revilla 2008: 101 102; and in Languedoc and Provence, Mauné 2000. Olesti 2005 for a toponymical approach. Marzano 2015. Tremoleda 2005.

NOTES TO PAGES 59–65

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Onomastics trace the Usuleni to Italy, but this is not corroborated by independent epigraphic evidence from Italy. Christol and PlanaMallart 1997: 82 83; Christol and Fédière 1999: 83. Christol and Plana-Mallart 1997. Christol and Fédière 1999. Mauné 2010: 370; Carrato 2017a: 168. Millett 1990 for Britain; Woolf 1998 for Gaul. Christol and Fédière 1999: 91. Note the increasing evidence of Iberian script on amphora and dolia stamps (first half of the first century bc), see Olesti 2017: 454. Leveau 2007: 654. See also Fiches 2013: 272 73. E.g. Marzano 2015; Boissinot 2001: 63. Ghisleni 2018 challenges the assumption that continuity and change are ontologically distinct processes. For a summary, see Van Oyen 2017b; Versluys 2014. The literature is ample, see Millett 1990; Woolf 1998; Hingley 2005. Haverfield 1915. Critique in Hingley 2000. Bénabou 1976. Collingwood 1923. Webster 2001. Mattingly 2004. Connerton 2006 on the archaeology of (collective) memory; Witmore 2014. Woolf 1996. E.g. Rubertone 2008; Van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Williams 2006. But see Hamilakis 2013 for a shift of focus to the sensual experience of such interventions. Alcock 2002: 52–53. Gros and Torelli 1988; Nevett and Perkins 2000. Janon 1991: 751; Gros 1991; Monteil 1999. Tsing 2015: 21: “Even when disguised through other terms, such as ‘agency,’ ‘consciousness,’ and ‘intention,’ we learn over and over that humans are different from the rest of the living world because we look forward.” For the field of “Futures Studies,” see Adam and Groves 2007. For the use of divination as a means of grappling with the future in the ancient world, see Beerden 2014. Feeney 2007; Hannah 2005: 98–130. For the role of the calendar and timing devices in nineteenth-century European colonialism, see Nanni 2011. Adam 1994 on different definitions of time. For the ancient world, see Riggsby 2009 on

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the water clock and (resistance to) the rationalization of imperial time and its politics. Zerubavel 1982. Thompson 1967. Gosden 2004: 35. Gardner 2012: 35, original emphasis; cf. Sydoriak Allen 2009: 156. Pitts 2018. Jiménez 2017. Lane and Maxfield 1997; Shanks and Tilley 1987: 38; Testart 1988: 173. The dispersed nature of Iron Age settlement, in addition to the oppida, is now attested archaeologically. See Jàrrega Domínguez 2000: 273 75. Garcia and Isoardi 2010 compare cereal production and storage capacities with demographic developments of Marseille to argue for the latter’s mobilization of surplus in the fifth century bc. From the third century bc, in contrast, the population of local oppida seems to increase. Dietler 1997; 2009; 2010; Garcia 2004; Py 1993. Sanmartí 2015 emphasizes local evolutionary dynamics spurred by population growth; see also López, Valenzuela-Lamas, and Sanmartí 2011. Diodorus V 26.3; Dietler 2010: 216. Garcia 2004: 124. Rovira and Alonso 2017: 92. Arnaud 2005; Pomey 1997: 26; Reddé and Golvin 2005. Salido Domínguez 2009a: 103. The main variables would have been the species of crop and the latitudinal range – the latter is negligible for the regions under study here. Salido Domínguez 2017b: 45 46. Garcia 1987: 67–93; 1997; Asensio, Francès, and Pons 2002. For the variety of shapes (original and modified), see Olive and Ugolini 2017: 331. See Balbo et al. 2015 for micro-archaeology of pit storage in other contexts. As for all storage techniques, hulled grain is more resistant to storage than naked grain, but the latter does not truly take over until the mid to late Roman period (pers. comm. Martin Jones), beyond the scope of this chapter. See also Buxó and Piqué 2008: 223. Lopéz Parolo 1981: 252. Contra evolutionist assumptions that see the Second Iron Age as a turning point and as the origin of state-like societies. See Poupet and Harfouche 2000: 227 for critique.

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51 Olive and Ugolini 2017 date most silos at Ensérune to the second and first centuries bc, and identify them as water stores/cisterns, following Gallet de Santerre 1980: 155. While both a wider chronological range and functional diversity are likely, their hypothesis of cisterns serving artisanal activity on the Terrasse Est remains entirely conjectural. Domínguez (1986) unsuccessfully proposed storage of flax in silos (flax was mentioned as produced and worked at Emporion in Strabo, Geographica III.4.9). 52 Asensio, Francès, and Pons 2002; Gallet de Santerre 1980; Gracia Alonso 2009: 11 15; Martin 1979; Pons 2002; Pons et al. 2000: 157 58. 53 Although this depends on the reconstructed use life of silos. Asensio et al. (2006: 694) assume that each pit was in operation for a generation or 25 years, but this remains hypothetical. 54 Olive and Ugolini 2017: 326; Gallet de Santerre 1980. 55 Garcia 1987: 94–97; Gracia Alonso 1995; Sanmarti-Grego 1992: 35. 56 González Vázquez in press, 2019. 57 Varro, Rerum rusticarum I.63; Columella, De re rustica I.6.15. Matterne 2001: 150; Sigaut 1988: 10–12; Reynolds 1974; 1979 for experimental research; Seeher 2000: 268. In general 15C and a humidity between 15 and 18 percent are ideal conditions. On the use of silos in later periods, especially in Early Modern southern Italy, see Geraci and Marin 2016: 116 ff. González-Vázquez (in prep.) traces the historical entanglement of notions of the practical affordances of silos with French colonialism, and with interpretations of Roman colonialism. 58 But the risk of losses, which increased exponentially with time, was still significant; see Kuijt 2015: 324 25 for comparative studies. 59 Varro, Rerum Rusticarum I.57.1 reports 50 and 100 years respectively for wheat (triticum) and millet (milium) stored in underground silos in Spain, Cappadocia, and Thrace; ethnography suggests periods of 2–3 years for grain stored in sealed but periodically reopened underground pits in northern Greece (Halstead 2014: 159). 60 The speed of degradation of the grain upon opening of the silo would depend primarily on the humidity in the surroundings (Anna Maria Mercuri, pers. comm.). It makes sense

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to open a silo only rarely, and use up its entire contents at once, but ethnographic examples show a more varied reality; see PeñaChocarro et al. 2015: 383. Given the inaccessibility of such information for the material under study here, this chapter reasons from general affordances, all the while acknowledging that reality would have been more messy. Beer production remains archaeologically invisible at the Iron Age settlements of the northwest Mediterranean – see Laubenheimer, Ouzoulias, and Van Ossel 2003; on the possible use of dolia for the fermentation of barley in beer production, see Carrrato 2017a: 73. But e.g. Asensio et al. 2006; López Reyes 2009. Many relevant sites were excavated before the development of archaeobotany, e.g. Ensérune was excavated largely in the first half of the twentieth century. See Garcia 1987: 79 88 and Olive and Ugolini 2017 for a history of research. Buxó 2008: 151 52; Buxó and Pique 2008: 177 93; Buxó et al. 1997. López, Valenzuela-Lamas, and Sanmartí 2011: 79. Bouby 2014: 169 73. Alonso, Buxó, and Rovira 2008: 195. Rovira and Alonso 2017 for a cross-site analysis. Bouby 2014: 174 75. López, Valenzuela-Lamas, and Sanmartí 2011: 81. Thanks to Martin Jones for pointing this out. See also Spurr 1986. Other storage containers in unbaked clay or organic materials also played an important role; see Carrato 2017a: 68 70. On the general flexibility of storage practices and choice of container, see Halstead 2014: 180. On ethnographic examples of organic containers for storage (including cereal storage), see Peña-Chocarro et al. 2015. Carrato 2013: 1174; 2017a: 42, 59 64, 78 81. Garcia 1987: 48 63; Carrato 2017a: 54 56; contra Olive and Ugolini (2017: 339) who see dolia as introduced at Ensérune in the late second century bc (and label earlier examples as urns). Catalonia instead used large wheel-turned urns. Barrandon 2011: 267; Carrato 2013; 2017a: 80. Garcia 1987: 59; Carrato 2013: 65 70; Casas, Nolla, and Soler 2013. Carrato 2017a: 70 73.

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Bouby 2014: 178 84; Bouby, Boissinot, and Marinval 2011; Bouby and Marinval 2001; Brun 1993: 310 13; 2001: 72; Buxó 2005: 115; 2008: 148. Alonso, Buxó, and Rovira 2008: 196; Py and Buxó 2001; McGovern et al. 2013 for evidence of wine-making in fifth-century bc Lattara. Wine was produced in Valencia (Alicante, Alt de Benimaquía) from the sixth century bc onwards. Clavel 1970: 312. Carrato 2017a: 66. Garcia 2004; Keay 1990: 122; but see Favory, Ouriachi, and Nuninger 2011: 168 71. On house architecture in the later Iron Age, see Belarte 2014: 511, 514. Noting again, however, that storage in silos was comparatively cheap in time, capital, and labor. This is not to deny the existence of local elites (Gracia Alonso 2009: 41), but to argue that their power base remained fluid and unstable. Belarte 2014: 514. Cf. Gracia Alonso 2009: 59 62 on the complexity of the Iron Age economy. Le Roux 1995; Richardson 1986. Burch 1996. Also Gracia Alonso 2009: 42 43; Salido Domínguez 2009a: 105; Livy, Ab Urbe Condita XXXIV.9.12. González Vázquez (in press, 2019) in contrast, argues that silos, especially away from settlements, might have been used to hide cereal stocks from the Roman conqueror. Balil 1964: 221; Keay 1990; but Revilla 1992– 94: 159. Barrandon 2011: 85–87, 259–60. Clavel 1970: 307; Favory, Ouriachi, and Nuninger 2011: 162. On the problem of centuriation, cadastres, and colonial allotment, see Favory 1997; Leveau 2010: 139; Mauné 2000: 245 49; Olesti 2005 for a toponymical approach. Italian immigration is attested via e.g. amphora stamps (see above), but was piecemeal before the Augustan period (Le Roux 2004: 53; Mauné 2000). Ñaco del Hoyo and Principal (2012: 172) argue for a combination of a defensive and a logistical presence of Roman forces in Late Republican Catalonia. Garcia 2004. Contra Olive and Ugolini 2017 who see the silos at Ensérune (and, by extension, in southern Gaul) as a different historical phenomenon from similar structures in Catalonia. Balil 1964: 219; Miret, Sanmartí, and Santacana 1987; but Busquets, Moreno, and Revilla 2013;

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Revilla 1992–94; 2008 who stress the presence of settlement in the plains during the Iron Age. For Languedoc and Provence: Brun et al. 1985; Favory, Ouriachi, and Nuninger 2011: 160 61; Mauné 2000: 241 44 notes more intense rural settlement west than east of the Hérault, and links this to Italian colonization. Barrandon 2011: 259–60; Olesti 2017. Mauné 2000: 244; Nolla 2006: 45. Serra 1960: 256. Balil 1964: 222; Brun, Congès, and Pasqualini 1994; Clavel 1970: 302; Gorges 1979: 24–25 and 2008: 28; Nolla, Palahí, and Vivo 2010: 83–84; Olesti 1996–97: 426; 1997; Serra 1960. Two theories exist on villa development in Catalonia: one positing Republican villas (associated with an influx of Italians), the other reading the Republican rural sites as local developments of Iberian settlement, with the villa originating in the Augustan period (Olesti 1997). See Jàrrega Domínguez 2000: 272 73. Nolla 2008: 85 86; Revilla 2008: 101 102. For a similar debate regarding southern Gaul, see Mauné 2000. Gorges 2008: 28; Jàrrega Domínguez 2000: 276 78; Olesti 1997: 82. Can Pons (Arbúcies, La Selva, Catalonia) is a textbook example. Brun, Congès, and Pasqualini 1994: 113, 137; Congès and Lecacheur 1994: 282, 286; Martín, Rodà de Llanza, and Velasco 2007; Revilla 2008: 105; Tremoleda et al. 1995; Vindry 1981: 72. Dolia drastically increased in size and capacity at the start of the first century ad in southern Gaul, see Carrato 2017a: 53 54. Peña Cervantes 2010: 161; Py and Buxó 2001. McGovern et al. 2013 for earlier (fifth-century bc) evidence at Lattara. Miró 1988; Étienne and Mayet 2000: 110 25. Étienne and Mayet 2000: 125 31; Laubenheimer 1985; Olesti 1996–97; Revilla 1999: 39; Tchernia 1971: 78–80; 1986: 135 40. Cayn et al. 2017; Jung et al. 2013. For archaeobotany, see Alonso, Buxó, and Rovira 2008 (who identify an increase in horticultural variety from the Augustan period onwards at Lattes); Figueiral et al. 2010; 2015 (territory of Béziers). Dion 2010: 117 18. Actual vineyards with vine trenches are increasingly reported and excavated in southern Gaul, see Boissinot 2001; Jung et al. 2013; Mauné 2003: 320 23. In Catalonia olive groves expanded to the detriment of cereal fields, see Burjachs et al. 2005; Buxó

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2005: 108. In Mediterranean France, olive cultivation clustered in Provence, less so in Languedoc and Hérault; see Leveau 2003. Brun and Congès 1981. Brun 1986: 190 92. Lugand and Pellecuer 1994: 250 51 and Fig. 5. Casas 1989: 105 106; Casas and Soler 2003; Tremoleda et al. 1995: 278. Further examples in the northeast Iberian Peninsula: Asensio, Francès, and Pons 2002: 135; Balil 1964: 219; Giró 1959; Gracia Alonso 2009: 15 17; Nolla, Palahí, and Vivo 2010: 81; Olesti 1996–97: 428–29; Salido Domínguez 2011b: 131 32; 2017a: 363 64. Jàrrega Domínguez 2000: 278; Olesti 1997: 81, Fig. 2; Revilla 2008: 104. Barrandon 2011: 267; Olesti 1997: 84 85. Note the underlying evolutionary narrative here (see also below). Salido Domínguez 2009a: 108. In the Roman period silos were even adopted in areas where the technique had not been used in the Iron Age, e.g. two rectangular silos in Iruña (Trespuentes, Alava) in the upper Ebro Valley (Dupré 1991: 211; Fariña 1996). Gracia Alonso 2009: 10; Salido Domínguez 2009a: 105 106. Gorges 1979: 200; Lopéz Parolo 1981: 247. Peña Cervantes 2010: 163 and Annex BAR 32, 406 407. Guitart 1970: 116 23. Antequera and Ferrer 2001 2003. Antequera and Ferrer 2002. See also González Vázquez in press, 2019. Ribas 1956; Noticiario Arqueologíco Hispánico 3 4 (1954 55): 307 308. Ribas 1956: 91. Cf. Olive and Ugolini 2017 for Ensérune. Cayn et al. 2017: 215 17. Tremoleda et al. 1995: 297. Such a combination of silos and (oil) pressing can be detected earlier, e.g. at the late fifthcentury bc site of Saus in the territory of Emporion (Casas 2010). As do most Iron Age practices across Gaul, see Pitts 2018. Cf. Gardner 2012: 160. See also Empson 2011: 23 24; cf. Assmann 2006 on intersections between individual and collective memory. Practical memory remembers “how,” not “what” or “why.” As a result, it mobilizes objects in a non-representational way.

127 Assmann 1995: 130. 128 Iron Age pits can measure up to 3–4 m in diameter, although most have a diameter of ca. 1.50 m. Mateo González-Vázquez, pers. comm. 129 E.g. Tönnies 2001: 218. 130 Bevan 2014 for a longer Mediterranean history of containerization and maritime connections. 131 This ambiguity is likely to have continued to some extent in the Roman period, see Salido Domínguez 2009a: 109. 132 Barberà and Pascual 1979–80: 232–36; Clavel 1970: 312; Olesti 1996–97: 431. 133 Nolla, Palahí, and Vivo 2010: 88–91 for examples of modest (“family-based”) cellae vinariae in Catalonia. 134 Guitart 1970: 136; Prevosti 1981: 189–96. 135 Brun 1993: 325; 2001; Buffat and Pellecuer 2001: 96–99; Lugand and Pellecuer 1994: 253; Pellecuer 1995: 188–89; Peña Cervantes 2010: 16, 368. 136 E.g. Gorges 1979: 214. 137 Jung et al. 2013: 161; Pomarèdes et al. 2008. 138 Peña Cervantes 2010: 162 and Annex BAR41, 428 30. 139 Pomarèdes et al. 2008. 140 Peña Cervantes 2010: 161 and Annex GER 13, 563 64. L’Olivet d’en Pujol is the subject of debates on the nature and ownership of early farms and villas in Catalonia, see above. 141 Tremoleda et al. 1995: 278 83. 142 Gorges 1979: 214 and Peña Cervantes 2010: 164 and Annex BAR29, 398 99. 143 Peña Cervantes 2010: 163–64 and Annex BAR37, 417–18. 144 Peña Cervantes 2010: 164 and Annex BAR11, 368. 145 Peña Cervantes 2010: 164 and Annex BAR33, 408–11; Revilla 2008: 112. 146 Diez-Coronel 1970: 780; Peña Cervantes 2010: 165–66 and Annex LER1, 614 15. 147 Carrato 2017b: 469. 148 Brun 1993: 325. For what follows, see also the table in Carrato 2017b: 461 63. 149 Mauné 2010: 370. 150 Mauné 2003: 317 19. 151 Ginouvez 1995: 170 71. 152 Carrato 2017b: 469 70. 153 Mauné 2003: 324 26; 2010: 368. 154 Mauné 2003: 326. 155 Brun 1986: 192; Brun and Congès 1981. 156 Lemaire and Ramona 2017: 701.

NOTES TO PAGES 77–84

157 Lugand and Pellecuer 1994: 253; Lavagne, Proudhomme, and Rouquette 1976. 158 Congès and Lecacheur 1994. 159 Congès and Lecacheur 1994: 283, Fig. 3 and 285, Fig. 5. 160 Ginouvez 1995: 171. 161 Carrato 2017a: 194 98; 2017b: 464 on positioning of wine storerooms in relation to other buildings. 162 E.g. Carandini 1985a: 106–109 (Settefinestre); Pasqui 1897 (Boscoreale). 163 Marzano 2013a: 90. 164 Marzano 2013b: 113. 165 Fragmented landownership was also a riskreducing strategy. 166 Carrato 2017b: 209–11. E.g. presence of cereals as well as grapes in dolia in storeroom at Els Tolegassos: Casas 1989: 98, 177–78; Salido Domínguez 2008: 698; 2009a: 109; Tremoleda et al. 1995: 281. 167 Garcia 1987: 60; 1992; Carrato 2017a: 52 53. 168 Adroher, Pons, and Ruiz de Arbulo 1993 for hypotheses on the ritual framing of cereal storage and exchange at Mas Castellar. 169 See Chapter 2. 170 Pellecuer 1995: 191. In addition, individual dolia in Gallia Narbonensis show an exponential increase in capacity at the start of the first century ad, see Carrato 2017a: 52 53. 171 Tchernia 1995: 386. The same qualitative spectrum of wines and vintages from Narbonensis and Tarraconensis is echoed in literary sources; see Étienne and Mayet 2000: 102 108. 172 Clavel 1970: 319; CIL XV, 4542. Also Buffat and Pellecuer 2001: 109 10. 173 Bouby et al. 2010; Figueiral et al. 2010: 143; 2015: 226 27. 174 Figueiral et al. 2015: 229. 175 Cato, De Agricultura III.2; Garnsey 1988: 76–77, 182; Horden and Purcell 2000: 267. 176 Leveau 1988. See palynological studies: Alonso, Buxó, and Rovira 2008; Figueiral et al. 2010; 2015. In Catalonia, villas in the immediate surroundings of Emporion remain dedicated to grain more than wine (Nolla 2008: 87). 177 Ferdière 1985: 368–73; 1988: 73 74; 2015; Fouillet, Morillon, and Poux 2017 on granaries with raised floors. 178 Gracia Alonso 2009: 22 32; Salido Domínguez 2008; 2009a: 110; 2017b. 179 Salido Domínguez 2011b: 133. 180 Gracia Alonso 2009: 25 31.

209 181 Zarzalejos, Fernández, and Salido Domínguez 2016; Salido Domínguez 2017a and 2017b. 182 Ferdière 2015; Martin 2019. 183 Cayn et al. 2017: 217 19, 221. 184 Pellegrino, Mauné, and Mathieu 2017; Salido Domínguez 2017a: 380 82. 185 Cayn et al. 2017: 219 21. Tentative granaries identified based on deductive reasoning rather than on empirical data at villa of Vareilles at Pailhan (Hérault, Languedoc), see Mauné and Paillet 2003: 312 14. In general, Romanperiod macro-botanical cereal finds are rarely studied and reported on Mediterranean sites, see Pellegrino, Mauné, and Mathieu 2017: 185; Ferdière 1985: 360–61, Fig. 5. 186 E.g. Barbegal mill near Arles: Leveau 1996. Examples of hydraulic mills on estates in Brun, Borréani, and Guendon 1998; Brun et al. 2017; Lemaire and Ramona 2017: 703 708; Mauné and Paillet 2003. 187 Brun 2006: 113, 120; Brun, Borréani, and Guendon 1998. 188 Recent study has indicated that they might be contemporaneous: Salido Domínguez 2009a: 111; and recent excavations throw into question Schulten’s chronology, which was based solely on literary accounts (Alicia Jiménez, pers. comm.). López Parolo 1981: 250; Salido Domínguez 2009b; 2011b: 136 38; Schulten 1927: 207–209, 1929: 177–78. On the Late Republican military history of the northeast Iberian Peninsula, see Ñaco del Hoyo and Principal 2012. Elevated granaries had been used already in the Iron Age in areas further south than Catalonia (Gracia Alonso 1995). 189 Salido Domínguez 2011a: 145. 190 Salido Domínguez 2013: 135. 191 Salido Domínguez 2013: 137 38; 2016: 190 and 459 60. 192 Dupré 1991: 216; López Parolo 1981: 249. 193 See Chapter 5. 194 CIL II, 2991; Beltrán 1985: 36; Erice 2011: 156 57; Salido Domínguez 2011a: 194–95. On warehouse employees, see Dubouloz 2008; France 2008; Tran 2008. 195 Anderson 2012: 142–43. 196 Anderson 2012: 141–42; Rickman 1971 for the architecture of grain storage. 197 Adjadj, Lauxerois, and Helly 2013: 458–63; Helly 2013: 138; Helly-Le Bot 1991: 352. 198 See Chapter 5. 199 Poux and Borlenghi 2013: 86–125; Poux et al. 2017.

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200 Rickman 1971: 215–50; Salido Domínguez 2011a. 201 Poux and Borlenghi 2013 suggest a religious focus; Poux et al. 2017 for a role in wider supply networks (esp. military supply of the northern limes) (see also Reddé 2011); Ferdière (2015: 30, no. 134) hypothesizes a large villa site. 202 Reynolds 1974: 123 for experimental corroboration. 203 González Vázquez in press, 2019; Halstead 2014: 161. Wesson 1999 discusses a similar shift from subterranean storage facilities to “public” granaries in the context of southeastern North American societies in the first half of the second millennium ad, but does not relate this to differences in preservation and temporality (as I do below). 204 Cf. Salido Domínguez 2009a: 112; 2013: 133. 205 Cf. P. Miller 2008 on accountability. 206 Ando 2006: 187–88; Corbier 1991a; Lo Cascio 2000b: 205–19; Neesen 1980; Brunt 1981; Scheidel 2015. 207 Duncan-Jones 1990: 187–94. 208 Hopkins 1980; Salido Domínguez 2011a: 22 26. 209 Cf. Zarzalejos, Fernández, and Salido Domínguez 2016: 467. 210 A. H. M. Jones 1974: 165; on Republican publicani, see Badian 1972. 211 Some scholars suggest implementation of a regular share (one-twentieth) of the grain harvest in addition to payment of a stipendium in coin from the second quarter of the second century bc onwards (Richardson 1986: 57 58, 122 23; Keay 1990); others see an ad hoc “war economy” continue until the late second century bc (Ñaco del Hoyo 2005). Stipendia are raised based on a tax or census list; see Günther 2016. On Roman fiscal categories, see France 2007. 212 Livy, Ab Urbe Condita XLIII.2. 213 Not until the late second century bc according to Ñaco del Hoyo 2005; but from the mid second century bc according to Keay 1990: 128, who labels these farms “Roman,” but see the debate about indigenous development versus Italian immigrants above for sites like Olivet d’en Pujol. The notion that taxation spurs production derives from Hopkins 1980. 214 Salido Domínguez 2016: 188. 215 France 2009. See Chapter 5.

216 Scheidel 2015: 240, while allowing for significant margins of predation by the local municipal elites in charge of collection. 217 Brunt 1981: 164. 218 For the eighteenth century, see Geraci and Marin 2016: 124 25. 219 Dubouloz 2008 for Italy; France 2008. 220 See Chapter 5. 221 See Virlouvet 2018 and Chapter 5 for further fleshing out of this public/private paradox. 222 Christol 1987; Rey-Coquais 1993; Tran 2016: 260–61; Virlouvet 2004. 223 CIL XIV, 4549, 32. 224 Gayraud 1981. 225 Poux et al. 2017. 226 Leveau 1996; Wilson 2002: 11 14. 227 Bellamy and Hitchner 1996 argue for operation by a number of private estates in the Baux Valley, contra Leveau 1996 who believes in municipal orchestration by the city of Arles. 228 Liou and Morel 1977. 229 Detection of cereals through residue analysis is in an even earlier stage of its infancy in the Western Mediterranean; see Garnier 2017: 110. For Catalonia, see Buxó 2005: 108 on the scarcity and poor dating of palaeobotanical data. 230 Bouby 2014: 172 73. Chapter 2 on different types of wheat; Chapter 5 on the annona. 231 Martin Jones, pers. comm. 232 Alonso, Buxó, and Rovira 2008: 195. 233 Rovira and Alonso 2017: 92. 234 Alonso 2005: 346 50; Buxó 2005: 112 13. Note that on the whole, though, the botanical spectrum expands in the Roman period, e.g. including new species in horticulture and arboriculture. 235 Its decrease had been gradual throughout the Second Iron Age, see Bouby 2014: 173. 236 Horden and Purcell 2000 on the notion of micro-regions in the Mediterranean. 237 It would also have shortened the window for harvesting, necessitating a larger and/or temporary workforce; see Halstead 2014: 120–21. 238 Duncan-Jones 1990: 193–94. 239 Carre 2011 on the logistics of grain storage and supply; also Poux et al. 2017. 240 Cf. critique in Ghisleni 2018. 241 Ando 2006: 183. Johnston (2017) for an account based on epigraphy that places more emphasis on local continuities in the memory practices of Roman Gaul and Iberia. 242 Buxó 2008.

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243 Carrato 2013: 1173 74. 244 For critique, see Adam 1994; Fabian 1983; Gell 1992. Goody 2007: 186 87 critiques Braudel’s distinction between changing societies (west), predisposed towards capitalism, and static societies (east), bound to tradition. 245 On coinage: Howgego 2013; on cooking and dining habits: Dietler 2010; on tableware: Woolf 1998: 185 93. 246 Cf. Olsen et al. 2012: 137. 247 Cf. Johansen and Bauer 2018.

CHAPTER 4 D’Arms 1970. Caveat in Wallace-Hadrill 2015. Often in direct contrast to “the Greek house plan” as defined on the basis of the iconic site of Olynthos. Gros 2001: 41; McKay 1975. 3 De Kind 1998; Wallace-Hadrill 1997: 219. 4 E.g. Perring 2002 for houses in Roman Britain. 5 Allison 1993: 6; Anguissola 2010; Berry 1997b; Clarke 1991: 2; Cooper 2007; George 1997a: 300; Dardenay and Rosso 2013; Grahame 1997; 2000; Leach 1997; Milnor 2005: 104–15, 131; Thébert 1987; Tuori 2015; Wallace-Hadrill 1988; 1994: 8–14, 44–47; Zaccaria Ruggio 2005; Zanker 1998. Johnson 1990: 253 for critique of naturalizing values in the study of ancient houses; Hendon 2006: 176–77 for household studies more generally; Rapoport 1995 for a deconstruction of the concept of “home.” 6 Ingold 2000. 7 Dickmann 2011; 60 61; Speksnijder 2015. 8 Cf. Hodder’s 2012 notion of dependencies. 9 Latour 1993. 10 P. Allison in particular has advocated for contextual archaeology of Roman domestic spaces. See Allison 1992; 1993; 1995; 1997; 2001 (for critiques); 2004. Nevett 1997 for a more positive account of the use of literary sources. The same issues with labeling and function arise in the study of other structures, e.g. S. J. R. Ellis 2004b on bars; and in other historical contexts, e.g. Spence 2015. 11 Allison 1993; 2004; Berry 1997b: 194; Ghedini 2003: 116 17; Laurence 1994: 122– 32; 1997: 11. Cf. elsewhere, e.g. in ancient Greece, Ault 2005; Nevett 1999. 1 2

211 12 Cf. in a provincial Roman context, Zabehlicky-Scheffenegger 2008: 220. See also Green 2015; Riva 1999; Salza Prina Ricotti 1982 on kitchens and their fixtures and Nissin 2015 on sleeping areas at Herculaneum. Baird 2014: 164 cautions against anachronistic use of “kitchen” in the context of Dura-Europos. 13 Coarelli 1989. 14 Leach 1997: 62–67. 15 Ingold 1993; 2000: 198–201 for temporality and taskscapes; Rapoport 1990: 13–15 for the temporal logic of activity settings; Munro and Madigan 1999: 113 for a comparative example of “time zoning” in addition to “space zoning” in contemporary houses. 16 Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 47. Joshel and Hackworth Petersen 2014: 62 67 on slave tactics that depend on timing. 17 Nevett 2010: 114; 1997: 289. Foxhall 1994 suggests that different temporalities tend to be associated respectively with female and male lives and activities; cf. Sydoriak Allen 2009 for a cross-cultural comparandum. 18 For an example of house biographies traced through structural modifications, see Baird 2014: 275 ff. Foxhall 2000 argues against the neglect of the short-term in social archaeology; Sydoriak Allen 2009; Dickmann 2011; Nevett 2010: 115. The different temporal scales may to some extent map onto gender roles. Nevett 2015 arguably presents the most sophisticated temporal analysis of (Greek) domestic activities so far, based on Ingold’s (2000: 198–201) notion of taskscapes. 19 Laurence 1994: 127–32; also Cooper 2007: 11. 20 Although Roman women, too, could own property and houses. 21 Allison 1997: 323; Huntley 2010 on children; Nevett 1997: 287–88; Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 162. Cf. Foxhall 2013: 27 29, 123 25; Saller 1984. 22 Bender 1967; Wilk and Rathje 1982; Yanagisako 1979. 23 Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 162. Cf. Dickmann 2011: 56; S. P. Ellis 2000; Saller 1984; Harlow and Laurence 2002: 24–30. 24 Dickmann 2015: 221. 25 N. Anderson 2004: 112. 26 Allison 1997: 323; 2015; George 1997a; Nevett 1997: 287–88; Milnor 2005: 139. Cooper 2007 for a more nuanced analysis based on literary sources.

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Hendon 2006 for a concise summary; Hendon 1996; Lawrence 1999; Robin 2003; Tringham 1991. On second wave feminism, see Conkey and Spector 1984; Walker 1983. E.g. Allison 1997: 116 on “household series” – the successive inhabitants of houses across generations that is the highest resolution that we can see archaeologically, after M. E. Smith; Berg 2010. E.g. Clarke (1991: 157, 159) problematically identifies a “woman’s room” and a children’s bedroom on the basis of respectively the supposedly “feminine subject matter” and the “moral lessons” of the decoration; critiqued by Allison 2001: 193; Dickmann 2011: 58 59. George 1997b and Joshel and Hackworth Peterson 2014: 25 34 on the difficulty of identifying a slave presence. Gilchrist 1999: 109. Conkey 1993; Meskell 2007. Butler 1990 is the seminal study of gender as performance. Third wave feminism in archaeology and history has traditionally focused on the body and sexuality, e.g. Montserrat 2000; Conde Feitosa 2013 (based on graffiti in Pompeii). For the limits in Roman archaeology, see comments on Allison 2006b, esp. Sørensen 2006; also Nevett 2008: 156. Hendon 2000. Hendon 2000: 47. Berg 2016. www.stoa.org/projects/ph/home, accompanying Allison 2004. Allison 2004: 29. Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 67 69. As signaled by the author herself. See Nevett 2010: 112 on Classical Greek Olynthos. Hillier and Hanson 1984; Rapoport 1990. For Pompeian houses, see M. Anderson 2005. Wallace-Hadrill 1988. The Latin term cella might suggest otherwise (Dickmann 2011: 54), but, aside from the general problem with starting from Latin vocabulary, this specific term is rather flexible in use. For a study of domestic (but sometimes commercial) storage spaces in houses at Delos, see Zarmakoupi 2018. After penus or “‘household stores’ of food and drink at the disposal of the head (paterfamilias) to be consumed by the standard household unit” (Saller 2011: 118).

45 Allison 2015: 114; www.stoa.org/projects/ph/ home. 46 Kastenmeier 2007 for few examples of “cellars” (35), “storerooms” (44–52), and even “garages” accessible for carts (39). 47 Monteix 2008: 130–31. 48 Cova 2013; 2015. 49 Basso 2003. Subterranean storerooms would have advantages of thermal stability. 50 Berg 2015: 183; 2016. 51 See also Allison 1997; 2004; Nevett 2010: 103. 52 Note that room type 22 covers all upper level rooms and includes material from highly disturbed contexts. 53 Varone 1995. Moreover, many inhabitants probably managed to escape, taking valued possessions with them, see Berry 2007: 293. 54 See debate between Allison 1995: 149, 156, 168; 1997: 328 and Berry 1997a; 1997b: 185. 55 Allison 1992: 52; 1993: 4; 1997: 334; Croom 2007: 157–58; Dickmann 1999: 108–13. 56 E.g. Simelius 2015 on activities in peristyles. 57 Hendon 2000: 45. 58 Note that wooden furniture is only visible in the database via proxies of metal fittings or bone hinges. All fully preserved wooden items from Herculaneum (Mols 1999), however, contained such elements. 59 Allison 1993: 4 6 (Table 2). 60 Elia 1934: 292; Maiuri 1929: 420–25. 61 Allison 1992: 60–61. 62 Cf. Dickmann 2011: 60 61 on atria. A similar case could be made for the 14 instances of keys and door fittings retrieved in the entranceways (room type 0) to only two houses (Casa del Menandro and Casa di Giuseppe II), but these could relate to entrance doors rather than storage furniture. 63 These could be part of the same house as the rooms on the ground floor or of a separate apartment installed on the first floor. 64 Allison 1997: 136. 65 Allison 2004: 46–48; Cova 2013. Fixtures could also be intended for e.g. beds or other furniture. 66 Riggsby 1997. 67 Cf. Allison 2004: 72–76, 96–98. Sometimes changes over time are at play, and decorated rooms could later be adapted for storage, e.g. room 21 in Casa del Menandro (Allison, pers. comm.). 68 Berg 2016; see above. 69 See also Dickmann 1999: 301 304.

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But see Jones and Robinson 2004: 123–24 for atria without impluvia. Compare to the development of cisterns on agricultural estates, see Chapter 2. Sear 2004: 165 66; Jones and Robinson 2004: 116 19 for addition of water display to the House of the Vestals in the first half of the first century ad (and its subsequent modifications after the earthquake of ad 62 made municipal water supply unreliable, see Jones and Robinson 2004: 119–21). Cf. Wilson 2001: 93 94 for North African cities. Dickmann 2015: 221. Drinking water was collected or tapped from running water in public fountains. Juvenal, Satire 3, 226 27. Allison 1993: 4; 2004: 69. Allison 2004: 86. Allison 1995: 158; Cova 2015: 77–82 on built-in cupboards in modified alae; De Carolis 2007: 134, 143. In contrast to other types of furniture, see e.g. Dickmann 1999: 287. Cf. Allison 2004: 65 71, 161 69; Dickmann 2011: 60 61. Allison (1993: 4) notes that some of the houses with large concentrations of storage vessels might have had a commercial orientation. A similar role could be proposed for subterranean levels and cellars; see Basso 2003. Allison 2004: 108. Salza Prina Ricotti 1982. Allison, pers. comm. Berry 2016. See below. Maiuri 1933: 219 20; Ling 1997: 280 and 357 58, Figs. 35 36; Stefani 2003: 85; Allison 2006a: 88 104 (finds catalogue), 314 17, and Plates 28 40. Maiuri 1933: 246. Varone 1995 on earthquakes; for the debate on ad hoc storage at Pompeii and Herculaneum, see Allison 1995: 149, 156, 168; 1997: 328; Berry 1997a; 1997b: 185. Mols 1999. Mols 1999: 57 and 207 17. Mols 1999: 59 and 188 200. Mols 1999: 63. E.g. the only preserved example from Herculaneum (Mols 1999: 217 and Figs. 167 171). E.g. an example from Pompeii (Mols 1999: Fig. 28). Allison 2004: 47. Mac Mahon 2005: 82; Monteix 2008: 130–31.

213 95 E.g. Mols 1999: 200 and Figs. 148–153; Mac Mahon 2005: 82. 96 Mols 1999: 205–207, Figs. 154–155. 97 Example from Herculaneum, Casa del Bicentenario (V.15): Maiuri 1958: 237, Fig. 186 (who erroneously identified a separate shelf support above the cupboard as a Christian cross); Mols 1999: 213–14, Figs. 162–163. 98 Example from Herculaneum, Casa a Graticcio (III.13–15): Maiuri 1958: 417; Mols 1999: 208–10, Figs. 157–158. 99 Example from Herculaneum, first floor above shop V.17: Maiuri 1958: 238–39; Mols 1999: 210–12, Figs. 159–160. 100 Allison 2006a: 88–104 (finds catalogue), 314–17, Plates 28–40; Ling 1997: 280, 357–58, Figs. 35–36; Stefani 2003: 85. 101 De Carolis 2007: 142, Fig. 107; Guzzo and Fergola 2000: 29; Mols 1999: 63. 102 Example from Herculaneum, Casa del Sacello di Legno (V.31): Maiuri 1958: 253–54; Mols 1999: 60, 192–97, Figs. 139–145; Wendel 1946. 103 Mols 1999: 193. 104 Mols 1999: 60, followed by Croom 2007: 133. 105 Cf. a cupboard mounted by a temple-like pediment on a wall painting in the Casa dei Vettii in Pompeii. The painted cupboard contained a Venus figurine on its top shelf, and flasks and bottles on the other three shelves; see Croom 2007: 128 29. Allison (pers. comm.) signals a comparandum in the atrium of the Casa dei Quadretti Teatrali. 106 This observation echoes Berg’s (2015; 2016) finding that Pompeian houses had a principal deposit room, in which all kinds of valuable items circulating in the house would be locked up together. Yet it also diffracts this model, scattering things’ trajectories temporally across multiple “halting” points, and spatially across different rooms and containers. 107 Kastenmeier 2007: 45. Example of wooden frame in the tablinum of the Casa del Menandro (I.10.4) in Pompeii. 108 De Carolis 2007: 134, Fig. 98. 109 E.g. Kastenmeier 2007: 44, 51, and passim. 110 Sometimes glossed as protection against theft, see Dwyer 1991: 28. 111 Storage’s simultaneous hiding and suggesting created a heterotopia, a separate space, as per Newell 2018b. 112 Kalinowski 2017. On boundaries in Roman houses, see Lauritsen 2013. 113 Berry 2016; Ling 1997: 264.

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114 De Carolis 2007: 28–30. Even if texts indicate that doors were assumed to be open: Berry 2016: 127, 130 31. 115 Dickmann 1999: 229–40; Grahame 1997: 159; van Nes 2011. 116 Jones and Robinson 2004: 117. 117 Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 109, Fig. 5.9. 118 Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 119, Fig. 6.1. 119 Ling 1997: 264; Stefani 2003: 44. 120 De Carolis 2007: 28 29, Fig. 15. 121 E.g. ala of Casa del Bicentenario (Herculaneum, V.15–16): Maiuri 1958: 229, Fig. 179; Wallace-Hadrill 2015: 178 79 on the screen that gave the Casa del Tramezzo di Legno at Herculaneum its name. 122 Monteix 2008: 132 on botanical macroremains. 123 Allison 2004: 3–6, 125 on the issue of whether storage containers themselves were being stored; Laurence 1994: 1; Wallace-Hadrill 1990: 150. 124 E.g. Maiuri 1958: 402 and 434; S. J. R. Ellis 2004a: 47–48. 125 Stefani 2006: 163 and 169; on recycling of amphorae, see Peña 2007. Allison (pers. comm.) signals the presence of hazelnuts in an amphora in the Casa del Sacello Iliaco. 126 E.g. examples from Herculaneum: Mols 1999: 130–32, 134–37. 127 The respective assemblages of the cupboard and chest could not be separated in this case. 128 Berry 2007: 297. 129 Berry 2007: 298. Another wooden cupboard was found in the peristyle, containing “a bronze lamp, a bell, an iron razor, and two bronze objects described as zoccoli di piede di cavallo.” Berry interprets the latter as actual horseshoes, but one would expect iron rather than bronze if this were the case. A third cupboard was retrieved in the shop in front of the house. 130 Mols 1999: 131, 135; Allison 2004: 127; Croom 2007: 127. 131 Allison and Sear 2002: 87. 132 Allison 2006a: 314–15. 133 Maiuri 1946: 375; Mols 1999: 135. 134 Andreau 1974; Maiuri 1946. 135 Maiuri 1946; De Kind 1990 on one of the legal cases. 136 Harris 1989 argued for low rates of literacy (overall below 15%) in the Roman world. Nuanced by Corbier 1991c (stressing the need to consider not just rates, but practices, of

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literacy), and Bowman 1991 and Hopkins 1991 (who both argue that despite such low rates of literacy, the Roman empire as a society depended on engagement with literate systems, even for the non- or semi-literates). Andreau 1974: 304 305. In contrast to the Sulpicii archive, see Chapter 5. Summarized in Andreau 1974: 28. Andreau 1974: 26. Mols 1999: 138. Ibid. Maiuri 1929: 420–23. Kastenmeier 2007: 49–50. Reconstructions in relation to the human body by De Carolis 2007: 244–45, Tav. XXVI–XXVII. Cova 2013. Example from Herculaneum, first floor of Casa d’Argo (insula II): Maiuri 1958: 361, 371; Mols 1999: 134. Also Allison 1993: 4; Croom 2007: 140; Dickmann 1999: 112–13. In other contexts, too, the automatic association of “chest or box fittings” and “valuables” has been questioned, for instance by a Vindolanda tablet listing simple crockery as stored in boxes, e.g. Allason-Jones 2001: 115. This contradicts merely functional readings of the many finds of locks as a concern with protection, e.g. Dwyer 1991: 28. Cf. Empson 2011: 117 19 for a comparative example from the Mongolian steppe. Elia 1934: 292 94. Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 179. Conkey 2006 and Swift 2017: 7 for synthetic overviews of debates on artifact function. This is a problem both in processual (e.g. activity-area analyses: Pfälzner 2015: 33) and post-processual models. See Allison 1999 for a critique of the labeling of artifacts from Pompeian excavations, both based on Latin sources and on modern analogy. S. J. R. Ellis 2016 for a similar problem with coins, corrected with the help of stratigraphy. See Cahill 2002: 71 and Nevett 2008: 155 for similar arguments. E.g. D. Miller 1985. A recent, innovative, relational take on this notion of context can be found in Mol 2017. Swift 2017: 9, drawing on Preston’s (2013) philosophical study, distinguishes between proper function and system function. Appadurai 1986 and Kopytoff 1986 on biographical redefinitions.

NOTES TO PAGES 112–118

154 Schiffer 1987. 155 Hendon 2000: 47. 156 Kastenmeier 2007: 52 for Pompeii; Rapoport 1990: 13 on activity settings. 157 Most recently Hodder 2012, who borrows the term from N. Thomas 1991. 158 Gibson 1979; Ingold 2000; Knappett and Malafouris 2008; Norman 2002; Robb 2010. 159 Van Oyen 2016a. 160 Gosden 2005. 161 With the important caveat that first floors could have been separate dwellings. 162 Monteix 2008: 132. 163 Mols 1999: 193. 164 Although there is some evidence suggesting that storage assemblages tend to be “relatively” heterogeneous cross-culturally (as compared to trash areas). See Kent 1999. 165 Taking the lead from recent assemblage theory, I see assemblages as dynamic organisms, in a constant process of being made, unmade, and remade, but performing differently as a whole than broken down into any of their constituent parts (this is closer to a Deleuzian notion of assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari 2004 [1980]; O. J. T. Harris 2017; Fowler 2017) than to DeLanda (2006)). The French agencement is more effective than its English translation in conveying this sense of constant becoming, remaking, and the attendant redefinition. Also important for storage is that the notion of assemblage recognizes both the discreteness and the relativity of each one of its constituting elements. The assemblage has an agency of its own and redefines its components, but each component retains something of its identity as well. Interpretively, assemblage releases the pressure of correlating artifacts to specific activities or social groups. It exchanges a disciplinary obsession with representation for an interest in how things and people are assembled, and what kinds of possibilities for action result. Relation and process replace identity and essence. 166 The number of cups and vessels stored in examples of (cupboard-)aediculae argues against Croom’s (2007: 132) assumption that all items stored in shrines would have been (only) used in offerings. 167 Riggsby 1997: 51. 168 Hodder 2016: 80. 169 Hodder 2016: 92. 170 Cf. Law and Singleton 2005: 340.

215 171 Cf. Beaudry 2015. New Archaeology has a long-standing tradition of studying garbage disposal patterns, e.g. Hayden and Cannon 1983. On discarding and identity, see M. L. Smith 2011. 172 Dicus 2014; S. J. R. Ellis 2016; Peña 2007: 282. See also Arnold 2015 for a social study of waste in Elephantine (Egypt) and the creation over time of categories of “life” and “work.” 173 On storage in houses in contemporary North Carolina, see Newell 2018a, who, however, seems to associate “the affective productivity of semiotic incoherence” (2018a: 12) – a material and affective messiness of “paradoxical and non-sensical combinations of things normally kept apart and in binary tension” (2018a: 4) – with storage in general. My argument similarly draws attention to storage’s (re-)assembling, but aims to qualify this historically and contextually. 174 Nevett 2010: 18, 97–98 on specialized rooms in modern western houses. 175 This is an example where the biographical activity of storage did not lead to disentanglement. 176 This is what Hendon (2000), after Giddens, calls “collective knowledge.” 177 De Carolis 2007: 28–40; Laurence 1994: 122–32; 1997: 11; Maiuri 1958: 229, Fig. 179; Wallace-Hadrill 1994: 109–17. 178 In addition to fixed cues channeling movement, such as relative door heights (Joshel and Hackworth Petersen 2014: 42) and decorations. 179 Croom 2007: 124; De Carolis 2007: 132; Kastenmeier 2007: 45 on closable niches; Mols 1999: 58; Richter 1966: 114–15. 180 Cf. Nevett 2010: 111. Also Croom 2007: 138; Dickmann 1999: 113 on (treasure) chests or arcae; Kastenmeier 2007: 44. 181 As in an example in room B in the Casa del Menandro at Pompeii (Allison 2006a: 315). 182 Leach 1997; cf. study of internal doors by Lauritsen 2013: 103 108. 183 The closest association between keys and the body was in so-called “key rings.” Examples in Birley 1997; W. H. Manning 1985; Swift 2017: 113–23. Cf. arguments made about prehistoric seals, see Knappett 2012. 184 This association between storage and women seems to be a broader cross-cultural phenomenon, see e.g. Frink 2007 (but note the issues with assuming a binary gender division).

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185 Berg 2015: 186 (also the source of the following references); Saller 2011: 121. 186 Columella, De re rustica 12.2.4. 187 Cicero, Fam. 16.26.2; Seneca, Dial. 17.2. 188 Pearce 1974: 25–27. 189 Even if legally, wives did not fall under their husbands’ power (patria potestas), see Saller 2011: 119. 190 Bergmann 1994: 225; Cicero, De oratore 2.86.351–54; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 11.2.17–22. 191 Heersmink (2018) speaks of an “autotopography”; Noble 2004. 192 Joshel 2013: 110. 193 Joshel 2013: 120. 194 Yoffee 2005: 37–38. 195 Cf. Wallace-Hadrill 1996: 107. 196 Cooper 2007: 14. 197 Dickmann 2011: 65. 198 Digest 9.4.38; 10.4.16; 13.6.20; 40.7.40; 47.2.57/5; 48.19.11.1; Horace, Satires 2.7.74; 109 10. 199 Joshel and Hackworth Petersen 2014: 73 75; also Joshel (2013: 101) for slaves’ “alternative geography and choreography.” 200 Xenophon, Oeconomicus 7.10; Johnstone 2011: 75. Cf. Riggsby 2019 for the Roman world. 201 Cicero, Fam. 16.26.2; Berg 2015: 1030; 2016: 186–87. 202 Johnstone 2011: 71. 203 Cf. somewhat in Foxhall 2007: 51–52. 204 George 2005: 44. 205 Cf. Johnstone 2011: 77 78; Crook 1990: 165 (on Cicero and Terentia). 206 Columella, De re rustica 12.2.4; Berg 2015: 1029. 207 As when “food storage” is seen as “the wife’s responsibility” (Wallace-Hadrill 1996: 107); or “work spaces” are associated with the presence of slaves (George 1997b for critique). 208 Saller 1999: 196–97; Crook 1990. 209 The literature is ample, see Díaz-Andreu and Lucy 2005; Meskell and Preucel 2004. For issues with the notion of identity, see Brubaker and Cooper 2000; Jenkins 2004; Pitts 2007. 210 Fowler 2004; 2016; Brück 2004. In Roman archaeology, Graham 2009. On domestic contexts, see Noble 2004. 211 Flower 2002. 212 Giuliani 2008 and Rüpke 2006: 273 75 on the link with statuary.

213 Flower 1996: 208. 214 Empson 2011: 119 27 for a comparative example of ancestor photos in Mongolia. Already Mauss 2002 [1950]: 63 picked up on the Roman family as including res (things) and not just people. 215 Hendon 2004: 272.

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Lo Cascio 2000c; Scheidel 2007: 78. Tchernia and Viviers (2000: 779 80) estimate Rome’s annual cereal demand between 40 and 60 million modii (1 modius = ca. 6.55 kg or ca. 8.62 liters). For other calculations, see Brandt 2005: 28 ff. Erdkamp 2013; Rickman 1980a; 1980b; 2002; Virlouvet 2000a. Keay 2010; 2012; Camodeca 1994 for Puteoli. Erdkamp 2005: 143, 176; Horden and Purcell 2000: 152. For an example of how this affected grain supply across regions, see Garnsey, Gallant, and Rathbone 1984. De Romanis 2007: 199; Geraci 2008. Arnaud 2005; Pomey 1997: 26; Rougé 1966: 32–33. Tchernia 2003: 54; Virlouvet 1985: 98–100. Garnsey 1988; Mattingly and Aldrete 2000: 143; Virlouvet 1985. Andreau 1994a; Bang 2008: 74 76. It is debatable to what extent the import of grain was necessitated not just by population increase but also by increasing specialization of Italian estates in lucrative cash-crops (wine, oil) for export. Monte Testaccio, the artificial mound composed of discarded oil amphorae from Spain, is indicative of another staple supply line (Rodríguez-Almeida 1984). Purcell 2005 makes the point that imports and exports were both regarded (and taxed) as part of the general Mediterranean patterns of connectivity and mobility, anchored in an ideal of selfsufficiency. Kron 2008; Launaro 2011; Morley 2001; Patterson 1987; Witcher 2016. Boetto 2010; Boetto et al. 2016: 220 23. 200 warehouses are known through epigraphical or archaeological evidence in the city of Rome, of which 82% along the river banks: Mimmo 2017: 65; Castagnoli 1980. Yoffee 2005: 36. Carneiro 1981: 38, cited in Pauketat 2007: 17.

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15 Boetto et al. 2016: 213 20 (calculations by N. Monteix). For recent debates on calculation of the capacity of granaries, see contributions to Martin 2019. 16 E.g. Heinzelmann 2002: 112. 17 Aldrete and Mattingly 1999; Brandt 2005; Garnsey 1983; 1994; Lo Cascio 2000c; Rickman 1980b; Tchernia 2000; Tchernia and Viviers 2000; Virlouvet 1995b; 2000a. 18 Polanyi 1957 on redistribution and exchange. It is no surprise that Temin (2013), perhaps the greatest supporter of the importance of free and integrated markets in the Roman world, devotes two chapters respectively to wheat prices and the grain trade; or that Erdkamp (2005), who has written on other matters of the state such as warfare, emphasizes the role of the state in his study on the Roman grain trade. For further discussion of debates surrounding the ancient economy, see Chapter 7. 19 E.g. Mar 2002: 125; Pavolini 1986: 97. 20 Cf. O. J. T. Harris 2017. 21 Casson 1950 for reconstruction of the ship’s journey and its size. 22 See e.g. Virlouvet 2018: 44, contra Virlouvet and Yıldırım 2003: 38. 23 Frederiksen 1980–81 and Virlouvet 2000a provide good overviews of Rome’s supply from Republic to Empire. 24 Erdkamp 2005: 211; Rickman 1980b: 37–42, 104; on its collection by the publicani, see Badian 1972: 79. On the third century bc granaries on the agora of Morgantina, see Walthall 2015. 25 Virlouvet 1995a on the logistics of the frumentationes in Rome; Lo Cascio 2000c on population dynamics. 26 Foxhall and Forbes 1982: 64–65 for calculations supporting the view that the frumentationes catered for the partial caloric needs of more than a single adult male (i.e. also his dependents). 27 The Lex Sempronia frumentaria: Erdkamp 2000; 2005: 240–41; 2013: 264; Garnsey 1988: 195 and 209–12; Garnsey and Rathbone 1985; Rickman 1980b: 48–49 and 158–61; Sirks 1991: 12; Virlouvet 2003: 64. 28 Virlouvet 2000a: 104. Etymologically, annona refers to the annual return from cultivation of the land (Sirks 1991: 10). 29 On famines: Garnsey 1988; Virlouvet 1985. 30 Herz 1988: 46–54; Rickman 1980b: 55; Frederiksen 1980–81: 16 17.

217 31 The phrase is originally from Juvenal, Satire 10.77–81. See Veyne 1976 as locus classicus. Also Rickman 1980b: 156–97. 32 Pavis d’Escurac 1976 on the administrative duties of the praefectus annonae; Bruun 2002: 164; Rickman 1980b: 73 and 218–25; Sirks 1991: 13–15. 33 Herz 1988: 70–81; Virlouvet 2003: 62–63, 66; Pavis d’Escurac 1976: 33–39 on the relation between the praefectus annonae and the praefectus frumenti dandi, responsible for the grain doles. 34 Although some degree of oversight on grain transactions in Rome itself is implied by a variety of ad hoc measures that require e.g. allocation of subsidies per transaction, see Erdkamp 2005: 250–51. 35 Erdkamp 2013: 271–72; Garnsey 1983: 120; Virlouvet 2003: 69; Temin 2013. Lo Cascio 2007 for a general overview of the economic role of the state in the Early Empire. 36 Erdkamp 2005: 230–37. 37 Erdkamp 2005: 219; contra Rickman 1980b: 64; Lo Cascio 1993; Nicolet 1994; Virlouvet 2003: 68. 38 Kehoe 2013: 41 on taxation on imperial land; Garnsey 1983: 120; Lo Cascio 2007: 645; Pavis d’Escurac 1976: 182–83; Rickman 1980b: 116–17 for the peculiar situation in Egypt. 39 Pavis d’Escurac 1976: 183–86. Erdkamp 2005: 248–49 doubts that extra grain had to be purchased by the authorities, given the large share already under their control. 40 This is not to say that the question cannot be made to have wider explanatory resonance. Durliat 1990, for instance, ascribes the “fall” of the city in the Mediterranean to the faltering political powers, unable to maintain the supplies needed to maintain city life. 41 Cf. Jongman 2000: 274. 42 And grain from taxation likely exceeded state “needs,” and was probably resold to traders, see Virlouvet 2000a: 119. 43 Rickman 1980a; 1980b. Cf. Casson 1980; Herz 1988; Höbenreich 1997; Kessler and Temin 2007: 316; Lo Cascio 2000a; 2000b; Sirks 1991; Temin 2013. 44 Erdkamp 2005: 240–57; 2013: 272; cf. Kehoe 2013. 45 Gaius, Institutiones 1.32c; Suetonius, Claudius 18.2; Sirks 1991: 40–42. 46 Rickman 1980b: 72; cf. Garnsey 1983: 123–28. 47 Erdkamp 2005: 245–47; 2013: 272.

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Sirks 1991: 24–36 on contracts involving shippers and their legal and practical implications. Millar 1977: 175–89 collects existing evidence regarding the imperial estates. And elsewhere, see Virlouvet 2018: 46 49; Corritore, Marin, and Virlouvet 2016. DeLaine 2002: 75; Heinzelmann and Martin 2000: 283 (on uncoordinated changes in level in Regio V); Heinzelmann 2002: 108. Tran 2008: 303. See also Dubouloz 2008: 277, 284 and passim; Weaver 1972 on the familia Caesaris as the emperor’s slaves and freedmen. DeLaine 2002: 67–70, 91–92; Keay 2010: 13; D’Arms 1981: 161. It is unclear whether the bricks’ origins point to supply, construction, or ownership. What is clear, however, is that these same bricks were not restricted to warehouses (e.g. also Capitolium), that the warehouses retained the courtyard plan typical of Ostia, and that bricks in e.g. the Piccolo Mercato were from different suppliers. Cébeillac-Gervasoni 1994. Coarelli 1994. But see Boetto et al. 2016: 186 87. Andreau 1994b; 1999: 74; Camodeca 1999. See below. Tacitus, Annales III 54.6–8; Rickman 1980b: 2, also 62, 77. Augustus, Res Gestae 5. Trajan established a scheme of agricultural loans, the interests of which supplied alimenta or provisions for (poor) children in Italian cities. The scope, nature, and rationale of this program have been much debated. Woolf 1990 on the moral implications of food-giving and patronage; Lo Cascio 2000d: 290 counters that the practical aspects threaten to be neglected by a focus on morality. Historia Augusta, Septimius Severus 8.5 and 23.2. See Erdkamp 2005: 224 and 241; Garnsey 1983, note 6. The “seven years” is probably a stylistic overstatement, as the losses of spoilt grain would have been enormous, see Chapters 1 and 2. Rickman 1980b: 213–17; Scheidel 2015. Bruun 2002: 184 finds a similar fluidity in the water management at Ostia, gleaned through stamps on fistulae. Syme 1986: 451 on this “spirit of government”; Erdkamp 2005: 258 for the grain supply. Lavan 2016 argues that ecumenical language was used only rarely by emperors, and mostly as a response to a discursive

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tradition in the Greek-speaking East; but “father” and “family” are flexible tropes in this regard, which can leave desired ambiguity as to who is included/excluded. A similar ideology runs through (European) history; see Corritore, Marin, and Virlouvet 2016: 161. On the limits of the power of the father or patria potestas, see Saller 1986. Rickman 1980b: 260–65. Johnson and Earle (2000: 329) see the “element of control” as “[b]asic to both state finance and stratification.” Rothman (2016: 20–21 (original emphasis)) concurs: “[a]t the core of issues of storage is control of raw materials and produced goods and how they will be distributed and consumed.” Virlouvet 2018: 44. Tchernia 2011: 155. Saller 1999: 186. Exceptions stem from the French projects at Ostia and Portus, e.g. Boetto et al. 2016. Mann 1986 as locus classicus. Foucault 1975 as locus classicus. In archaeology, see e.g. J. Thomas 2002. Davies 2017: 179; Rickman 1980b: 138–39; Virlouvet 2003: 64. See Aguilera Martín 2002 for an archaeological survey of the area of Rome’s emporium; Mimmo 2017 for warehouses in Rome. Corbier 1987a: 415–16; Erdkamp 2005; 2013: 274–75; Herz 1988: 116; Rickman 1980a: 270. On the leasing of warehouse space, see Dubouloz 2008; France 2008: 485 89. Tchernia 2003: 47–52 on the structural possibilities and constraints of the Tiber environment; Zevi 2001: 106 12 on Rome’s port problem in myth and history. Brandt 2002; Martin 1996; Meiggs 1973: 18 (for an earliest date in the late fourth century bc); Tchernia and Viviers 2000: 769; Zevi 1996. Zevi 2002a for speculations regarding a more ancient history. Germoni et al. 2011; 2018. Keay and Millett 2005: 297; Keay and Paroli 2011: 10; Morelli, Olcese, and Zevi 2004. Keay, Millett, and Strutt 2008: 101. Keay and Millett 2005; Brandt 2005: 26–27; Rickman 1996. The Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano are the Trajanic execution of a Claudian design (Évelyne Bukowiecki, pers. comm.). Meiggs 1973: 59–60; Zevi 2000: 510–11. Keay 2010 places this diversion in the context

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of a more general expansion of trade links between Ostia/Portus and the Mediterranean, cf. Heinzelmann 2010. Millett, Keay, and Strutt 2004: 231; Lo Cascio 1993: 53. However, this diversion did not lead to the demise of Puteoli, although it probably shifted emphasis for the Puteolian elite to landownership: see D’Arms 1974; Frederiksen 1980–81; Tchernia and Viviers 2000: 781. Zevi 2000 for building and development at Ostia in the Antonine period. Keay and Boetto 2010. Sebastiani and Serlorenzi 2011: 93. Burgers, Kok-Merlino, and Sebastiani 2015: 206. The Late Republican function of the Porticus Aemilia (shipshed or warehouse) remains unclear. Also Tuck 2000 for a hypothetical new identification of the Porticus Aemilia as a Sullan warehouse. Mimmo 2017. Rickman 1971; more recently also DeLaine 2002; 2005; Heinzelmann 2002; Mar 2002. On the insufficiency of planimetric evidence for the study of warehouses, see Virlouvet 2011: 8 11. For comprehensive plans, see the resourceful website Ostia Antica, www .ostia-antica.org/indexes.htm (accessed January 18, 2019). Paroli 2005. Heinzelmann 2002: 112; Martin et al. 2002: 269. Further unpublished research by the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom and the American Academy at Rome. Such as the Ostia Marina project of the University of Bologna, or the DAI-AAR project (Heinzelmann and Martin 2002; Martin and Heinzelmann 2000; Martin 2008). Keay and Millett 2005: 300; Lugli and Filibeck 1935: 101–106; Paroli and Ricci 2011; Testaguzza 1970: 185–98. French projects on Grandi Horrea at Ostia and the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus (Boetto et al. 2010; Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010); British project at Portus (Keay 2012; Keay and Paroli 2011). Archaeology has a long tradition of reading spatial practices: from structuralist symbolic analyses over practice theory and its notion of space as a part of habitus, to the phenomenology of experiencing and dwelling in space. See Ashmore 2002. Hillier and Hanson 1984: ix; Malafouris 2013 on cognitive archaeology.

219 97 Brück 2005; in Roman archaeology e.g. Revell 2007. 98 Rickman 1971. In the provinces, horrea were of various plans: e.g. Patrich 1996 for warehouses at Caesarea Maritima; Papi and Martorella 2007 for granaries in Numidia; contributions to Arce and Goffaux 2011 for horrea in Spain. 99 At Ostia, corridor-horrea consistently measure less than 500 m2, while the courtyard-type covers the range above 1000 m2. 100 Rome, emporium: Rickman 1971: 87–122; Mimmo 2017. Ostia: Horrea Antoniniani: Rickman 1971: 41 43; Bukowiecki et al. 2018: 236; warehouses north of Tiber: Germoni et al. 2018. (Buildings 4 and 5 revealed in the survey do not conform to the courtyard warehouse plan, but neither to the spinetype, and might serve a different function altogether. Germoni et al. 2011: 253–54 sites 41–46; Zevi 1972: 406–407 (buca 2).) Portus: Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano: Boetto et al. 2010; Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010, contra Keay and Millett 2005: 302–303, Table 9.1; navalia or shipsheds on side VI of the hexagonal basin, later converted into storerooms: Keay et al. 2012: 489, Fig. 4A for an earlier reconstruction by Lanciani. 101 Rickman 1971: 148 ff. Virlouvet 2011 offers a useful critique of planimetric typology of warehouses. Complementing her call for replacing this with a strictly functional classification, this research advocates a more dynamic, practice-based link between plan and possibilities for storage (cf. the problem with mapping artifact and room types onto functions discussed in Chapter 4). 102 Keay and Millett 2005: 310. Although set back from the opening of the storage cells, the handling space in the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano in Portus is very large indeed. 103 Keay and Millett (2005: 310) for instance argue for the “dominance of state-controlled transport at Portus, in contrast with smallerscale private entrepreneurial activity at Ostia.” Also Keay 2012: 47. 104 Aldrete and Mattingly 1999; Brandt 2005; Garnsey 1983; 1994; Lo Cascio 2000c; Rickman 1980a; Tchernia and Viviers 2000; Virlouvet 1995b. 105 But e.g. Mar (2002: 125) reads imperial intervention off the sheer size of the Grandi Horrea at Ostia.

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106 Although considerations of air circulation probably influenced room heights just as much as the actual volume of stored goods (Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010). The latest volumetric calculations are nuanced and consider organization, see N. Monteix in Boetto et al. 2016: 213 20. 107 Germoni et al. 2018; Zevi 1972: 406–407; Germoni et al. 2011: 236 and 253–54 (sites 41 46); Keay and Paroli 2011: 12. Zevi’s (1972: 410, Fig. 6) plan of the fragmentary remains of a second-century warehouse is not unlike the layout of the Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano at Portus, with a large, longitudinal handling space in between the backs of rows of cells. Individual cell dimensions (ca. 4  8 m), however, are much inferior to those recorded for Portus. Suspensurae and embedded amphorae in the pavements indicate grain storage (Zevi 1972: 411). 108 E.g. Hermansen 1981: 230. See Storey 2003 for the tenuousness of linking thickness of walls to building height (with regard to apartment blocks in Rome). 109 Boetto et al. 2016: 192; Rickman 1971: 66. 110 Rickman 1971: 69, 78, and passim; Vitelli 1980: 59. Meiggs 1973: 280 for a similar logic with regard to plan rather than size. 111 Chronological index at www.ostia-antica .org/map/chronind.htm. DeLaine 2002; Heinzelmann 2002. 112 Rickman 1971: 26 and 30. Orientation seems to have been unaltered. 113 Rickman 1971: 64–69. 114 Lugli and Filibeck 1935: 101–106; Paroli 2005; Paroli and Ricci 2011; Testaguzza 1970: 185–98. Stratified ceramic data have largely come from excavations that did not target warehouse structures (e.g. Palazzo Imperiale and Basilica Portuense at Portus; Terme del Nuotatore at Ostia) (Anselmino 1977; Di Giuseppe 2011; Maiorano and Paroli 2013; Zampini 2011). 115 Chapters 2 and 3. Monteix 2008: 128–29 on dolia in Pompeii. 116 Carcopino 1909: 359. 117 Rickman 1971: 73–76; Meiggs 1973: 274–75; Paroli 1996 for a magazzino doliare dismantled in the later Roman period. 118 Rickman 1971: 293–97. But often also inferred on the sole basis of warehouse size and assumed involvement in the annona, e.g. Zevi 2002b: 217.

119 On military horrea, see Salido Domínguez 2011a. 120 Boetto et al. 2016: 193. 121 Most recently Bukowiecki et al. 2018: 232 38. Rickman 1971: 294; cf. DeLaine 2005: 40. Meiggs 1973: 280 claimed evidence for suspensurae in the Horrea di Hortensius too, but this attribution has proven misguided (Rickman 1971: 69). Moreover, Meiggs identified the Horrea dei Mensores as a granary based on the emblem of a modius and measuring rod above the entrance, but this building’s simple storage function is now contested. 122 Zevi 1972: 411. 123 E.g. Calza 1925: 59 (side III of the Trajanic basin); Bukowiecki et al. 2018: 243 45. Keay (2012: 47) cautions that “commodities stored [. . .] could have changed from one year to the next.” 124 Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010. 125 Keay et al. 2012: 500. The use of suspensurae at Ostia may therefore be yet another innovation introduced via Portus. 126 Bukowiecki et al. 2018 for a typology. 127 Bukowiecki et al. 2018: 265. 128 Pagliaro et al. 2015: 561 62; Boetto et al. 2016: 210 11. 129 Pagliaro et al. 2015. 130 CIL VI 33860 = ILS 5913. See Holleran 2012: 84. 131 Interpretations based on Rickman 1971: 197 and Holleran 2012: 84. 132 See horrea in Rome’s emporium (e.g. the Horrea Lolliana) as depicted on the Severan marble plan (Forma Urbis Romae): Aguilera Martín 2002: 100, Fig. 20. 133 A notice of lease of a horreum or storeroom in the Horrea Bassiana in Puteoli was found in a villa just outside of the Porta Stabiae at Pompeii. Several wax tablets (known as the “Murecine tablets” or the “Sulpicii archive”) describe contracts of lease of the storeroom, and of credit and deposits of Alexandrian grain and sacks of vegetables. Camodeca 1999 for a full edition of the tablets; also Andreau 1994b; 1999: 71–79; Casson 1980: 26–29 and 33; Lo Cascio 1993: 57; Rickman 1980b: 236–38. 134 CIL XIV Suppl. 4709. 135 Becatti 1940: 48 (“un magazzino privato per merci diverse e più costose, viveri e suppellettili, con un carattere di mezzo tra un bazar orientale e nostri grandi case-magazzini di articoli vari”).

NOTES TO PAGES 140–145

136 Rickman 1971: 37 38. This was probably true of most warehouses though. 137 DeLaine 2005: 44. 138 Schaal 1957: 64 (“die Niederlage eines Großhandelsgeschäfts”). 139 Meiggs 1973: 277. 140 Similarly, in Rome the Horrea Galbana stored a wide variety of items. Certain horrea in Rome such as the Horrea Piperataria were named after the commodities they sold, but these were never bulk staples but rather niches defined by qualitative variation. See Holleran 2012: 72 74. 141 Compare to Inca state storage as described by Earle and D’Altroy 1982: 274. 142 Boetto et al. 2010; Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010. 143 Optimal airflow occurs when warehouse cells are twice as long as wide (Évelyne Bukowiecki, pers. comm.). 144 Calza 1925: 61, Fig. 4. 145 Keay et al. 2012: 509, Fig. 34. 146 Based on plans in Rickman 1971. 147 Pagliaro et al. 2015: 561. 148 Goods were probably not stocked higher than ca. 1.80 m (Boetto et al. 2016: 213). 149 Customs tax documents have been retrieved at the port of Marseille, written on wax tablets dated to the third century ad (France and Hesnard 1995). The Lex Portorii Asiae, preserved in a first-century ad inscription in Ephesus, lists customs dues and registration of all imports and exports by land and sea, and specifies a building (40  40 feet) as seat of local collectors, see Cottier 2008. On the quadragesima Galliarum, a border tax for Gaul, see France 2001. On the structural role of port taxes in the Mediterranean, see Purcell 2005. 150 Martelli 2013: 105. 151 Sirks 1991: 43, 156; Kessler and Temin 2007: 325. 152 Bukowiecki and Boetto 2010, Fig. 19. 153 Boetto et al. 2010. 154 TPSulp. 52 and 45, see Camodeca 1999: 138 41; 121 24; Virlouvet 2000b: 132 33. 155 TPSulp. 46 and 53, see Camodeca 1999: 124 26; 141 43; Virlouvet 2000b: 133. 156 Carcopino 1909: 359 and 362–63; Rickman 1971: 73–76. 157 Cf. relief from Ostia, in Augenti 2016: 74, Fig. 13. 158 Rickman 1971: 70. See also Mar 2002: 149. 159 Foucault 1975.

221 160 DeLaine 2005. On tabernae in Rome, see Holleran 2012: 99–158 (Chapter 3); on multifunctionality of warehouses in general, see Virlouvet 2011: 12 14, and in Rome, see Mimmo 2017. 161 Vitelli 1980: 62. 162 E.g. Heinzelmann 2002: 113. On the roads and movement at Ostia, see Stöger 2011a, Chapter 7 and 2011b. On the Grandi Horrea, see Boetto et al. 2016: 185 86. 163 Corritore, Marin, and Virlouvet 2016 discuss many early modern examples. 164 E.g. Grandi Horrea, Boetto et al. 2016. 165 DeLaine 2005: 40. 166 www.ostia-antica.org/regio4/5/5-12.htm. 167 DeLaine 2005: 40. 168 S. J. R. Ellis 2018; Mac Mahon 2005; Monteix 2010. 169 Heinzelmann 2002; Laurence, Esmonde Cleary, and Sears 2011 for an approximation of a normative pattern of urbanism. 170 The buildings pre-dating the basilica include warehouses and in particular a square-shaped structure with mosaics (edificio 2: Maiorano and Paroli 2013: 23) which the excavators think of commercial or administrative function (Maiorano and Paroli 2013: 366), but which could include domestic functions. See also Keay and Millett 2005: 312. 171 Germoni et al. 2018; Baldassare, Bragantini, and Morselli 1996; Calza 1940. 172 Keay, Millett, and Strutt 2008: 103. 173 Keay and Millett 2005: 310 and 308–309. 174 Calza 1925: 57. 175 For marble “an active workshop” has been postulated, “not simply a storage yard” (Fant 1992: 116), but these marble yards were located on the southern side of the Fossa Traiana, outside of the main complex at Portus (Germoni et al. 2011). Moreover, transport costs for marble warranted finishing products before transshipment. Recent research suggests that transversal suspensurae at Portus might be related to spaces of production or transformation of the stored goods (Bukowiecki et al. 2018: 242). 176 E.g. Keay’s (2012: 47) deduction that “[t]his stands as a complete contrast with Ostia, which arguably imported primarily to feed its own population, rather than to supply Rome” seems to overplay its hand, neglecting, for one, the extraordinarily high ratio of warehouses to domestic space at Ostia.

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177 Cf. Aldrete and Mattingly 1999: 180. Martelli 2013 for a study of clay figurines of saccarii from Ostia. 178 Grain storage in sacks is unlikely, as it is difficult to dry and to aerate, and wasteful of storage space. See Geraci and Marin 2016: 88. 179 Cf. headloading in West Africa, Osborn 2018. 180 Rickman 1971: 52 and 79; Boetto et al. 2016: 186. 181 Cf. in the Horrea Galbana in Rome; see the controversy over the planimetry and its closed nature in Virlouvet 2006. 182 DeLaine 2005: 42. 183 Heinzelmann 2002. 184 Gros 2001: 128–29; Packer 1971: 35; even if his general conclusion (41 42) is that architectural and decorative details did not vary by building type, but by taste and availability of resources. 185 DeLaine 2005: 42. This is significant even if the architectural similarity between the Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana and Horrea III.II.6 was the signature of a same contractor or designer (DeLaine 2002: 44–48). 186 Calza 1923: 184; DeLaine 2002: 45 and 2005: 35; Meiggs 1973: 274; Rickman 1971: 32–34. 187 DeLaine 2002: 44–48. 188 Although apartment blocks have also been attributed to the same contractor (see below). 189 Rickman 1971: 55–56; DeLaine 2002: 45. 190 Becatti 1940; Rickman 1971: 30–38. 191 The southern entrance to the courtyard building was closed off at a later stage (Rickman 1971: 37). 192 Rickman 1971: 79. 193 Keay 2012: 47. 194 Calza 1925: 58–59. 195 At a later stage, however, multiple brick fillings progressively closed off at least the northern façade (Boetto et al. 2010: 309). 196 On leasing of warehouse cells, see Dubouloz 2008; France 2008. 197 The internal wall could not be attested along sides I and II (Keay et al. 2005: 293). 198 Calza 1925: 56–58; Lugli and Filibeck 1935: 68–69; Meiggs 1973: 163; Keay 2012: 47. 199 Calza 1925: 57; Meiggs 1973: 163. 200 Keay et al. 2005: 293; 284–85. 201 Lanciani 1890: 250. 202 Heinzelmann 2002: 113–14. This is not to say that there was no spatial segregation of the urban fabric of Ostia, see e.g. Stöger 2011a,

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Chapters 5 and 6 for a functional assessment and space syntax analysis of Insula IV.II. TPSulp. 46 and 53, see Camodeca 1999: 124 26; 141 43; Virlouvet 2000b: 133. Visualization by the Portus Project in collaboration with the BBC (Rome’s Lost Empire), www.portusproject.org/technology/2012/12/ reconstructing-portus/ (accessed November 29, 2018). See sestertius commemorating the inauguration of the Trajanic basin: RIC II, no. 471 (ad 103–111). Keay and Millett 2005: 309, Fig. 9.4; Mannucci and Verduchi 1992: 16, Fig. 12. To allude to the title of Sirks 1991. On the longer history of the deigma or sample as a facilitator of trade in ancient Greece, see Bresson 2016: 309–13. Rickman 1980a: 265; 1980b: 122; Liou and Morel 1977; Mayerson 2002; Johnstone 2011: 58. And so-called “channel coordination.” Compare with Amazon warehouses. Purcell 1996: 277. Keay et al. 2005: 283; Millet, Keay, and Strutt 2004: 226. Lanciani 1868: 165–66. Approaching Portus from Rome would have been equally impressive, see Keay, Millett, and Strutt 2008: 102–103. Cf. Khatchadourian 2016 for different modalities of things’ relationship to empire. Tchernia and Viviers 2000: 783 detect a change in discourse over time in ancient authors’ portrayal of Rome’s supply network, from a fear of loss of autarky to a celebration of the reach of empire. Cf. Latour 1999: 99 101 for a similar argument on museums. Boetto et al. 2016. Note that the Grandi Horrea may have in part provided grain for the Ostian population, as they were located directly west of a mill-bakery complex (Bakker 1999: 120 26; Virlouvet 2018: 56 57). Arguably one key difference is that selfstorage facilities include maneuver space, i.e. to park while (un)loading. And resonates with efforts to increase both the amplitude and the speed of turnover of Rome’s grain supply, including the construction of warehouses in e.g. Africa. See De Romanis 2007. Camodeca 1999. CIL VI 33860 = ILS 5913.

NOTES TO PAGES 155–160

221 Boetto et al. 2016: 196. 222 Note that a similar model has been proposed for long-distance trade in other commodities, such as terra sigillata pottery, by Marsh 1981. 223 Erdkamp 2005: 151–61 for seasonality of the grain trade in general. 224 Brandt 2005: 44. 225 E.g. Tchernia 2000; Boetto et al. 2016: 220 21. 226 For a similar case for Puteoli, see Virlouvet 2018: 145. 227 On warehouses’ role of transit in the supply chain and why their capacity could be inferior to the total volume flowing through them, see De Romanis 2007: 193 96. 228 For early modern Italian cities, the maintenance costs of public granaries are estimated at 5% of the stock’s value. See Corritore, Marin, and Virlouvet 2016: 161. 229 Camodeca 1999 for context and a critical edition of the tablets. D. Jones 2006 for a more popular introduction. Also Casson 1980. 230 Whether to call these bankers (coactores argentarii) or moneylenders (faeneratores) is a debated question; see Andreau 1994b; 1999, Chapter 6; Camodeca 1999; 2003: 74. 231 See also Virlouvet 2000b. Another similar case of a loan with a pledge of grain stored in a particular warehouse cell, whose lease is transferred to the creditor, concerns TPSulp. 46, 53, and 79, pertaining to a grain dealer by the name of Iucundus. 232 A little under 50 tonnes of grain (Rathbone 2009b: 301). 233 Note that a single navis caudicaria between Ostia/Portus and Rome could ship ca. 10,000 modii or 70 tonnes of grain (Boetto et al. 2016: 220). 234 Note that while the quantity is a concern in another case (TPSulp. 46 and 53), quality of the pledged grain is never mentioned or checked. At Pompeii, 1 modius of grain (= 8.62 liters) cost between 3 and 7.5 sesterces (e.g. CIL IV 4811 on triticum), see Rathbone 2009b: 304. 235 The grain dealer Iucundus, instead, lends money in March, to be paid back by midMay, all before arrival of the Egyptian grain in Puteoli (TPSulp. 46, 53, and 79): a short-term loan, at a time of year when grain prices were at their highest. 236 As sketched by Peter Bang (2008; esp. 190 201) for the Roman economy more generally.

223 237 From TPSulp. 67 (August 29, 38 ad) and 68 (September 15, 39 ad), however, we learn that Eunus still owed Hesychus more than 1000 sesterces (respectively 1130 and 1250 sesterces). See Broekaert 2017: 396. 238 Geraci and Marin 2016. For comparative reports of spoilage rates, see Kuijt 2015: 324 25. 239 Forbes 2017: 18. 240 Garnsey 1999: 36–41 on famine foods. 241 Compare Foxhall 2007: 49 on wealthy landowners in classical Greece, who “appear to have thought on a different, longer-term time scale than we are used to in terms of the practicalities of organizing and running their productive and economic wealth-generating activities.” 242 The fact that speculation by hoarding was explicitly denounced in the Lex Irnitana (ch. 75) illustrates that it was widely practiced; see González and Crawford 1986: 193. On windfalls as a structural feature of the Roman economy, see Purcell 1995b: 21.

CH APTER 6 This holds true regardless of whether Eunus’ Egyptian grain circulated entirely through market trade, or whether it had been tax grain put on the market by the state. 2 Camodeca 2003: 81 82; Virlouvet 2000b: 137. 3 Camodeca 1999: 167 68; 2003: 87. 4 Jones 2006: 65. 5 The loans in the Sulpicii archive do not mention the interest rate (see Camodeca 2003: 84 86), which could have been more variable than the standard 5–6%. 6 Cf. imperial slaves attested as warehouse functionaries in the provinces, especially as financial collectors (dispensatores horrei), see France 2008: 502 505. 7 TPSulp. 45. 8 Dubouloz 2008: 285. 9 Knappett 2011: 100–102, 166–67. 10 Note that the Sulpicii archive itself is named after its three protagonists, C. Sulpicius Faustus (himself a freedman), his freedman C. Sulpicius Cinnamus, and C. Sulpicius Onirus, possibly Faustus’ brother. Camodeca 1999 and 2003: 72 and 75. 11 Kessler and Temin 2007: 317. 1

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Under the Principate, the patron was usually the (absentee) landlord (Garnsey and Woolf 1989: 164), hence a similar property link prevailed as that which defined the paterfamilias as estate owner (Saller 1999). Verboven 2002. Kirschenbaum 1987: 3. Kessler and Temin 2007: 328. Broekaert 2016. On the role of family networks in Roman craft, see Poblome 2016: 392. Frier and Kehoe 2007: 131 32; Scheidel 2012: 100. Stea 1995: 187. Halstead 1982; see Chapter 1. Saller 1997: 32. Corbier 1991b: 129; Ulpian, Digest 50.16.195.1. Dixon 1992: 2–3; Treggiari 2005. Changes also visible in inheritance practices; see Gardner 1998. From a long-term perspective on the family in European history, Goody (2000: 18) questions whether “there had been a period marked by the complete dominance of the agnatic gens.” Flower (2002: 160) notes how “[d]uring the Principate, Julio-Claudian women continued to provide essential links between generations for a ruling family that signally failed to provide male heirs in a direct succession from father to son,” but argues that this continued a longer, Republican practice. Corbier 1987b: 1280–81 distinguishes the strategies of inheritance and sale between the ancestral domus, to be maintained and passed on “as is,” and other properties, which could be sold, bought, or gifted more freely. Bodel 1999. Saller 1999. E.g. Pliny, Epistulae 9.15. Saller 1997: 10. Corbier 2013: 146; Dondin-Payre 1990: 66–72. Dixon 1992: 3 9 for a summary of the debate on the nuclear family. Cf. D’Arms 1981: 169. Evoked through the imagines or ancestor masks; see Flower 1996 and Chapter 4. Ulpian, Digest 12.6.26.12; 50.16.195.1–4. Broekaert 2016: 231; 2017: 390 91. The extent to which freedmen acted independently or in function of their former masters’ business interests is often unclear, and probably needs to be approached as a spectrum rather than an either/or question. Broekaert (2016: 246; cf. Mouritsen 2011: 228–34) critiques the parameters used by

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Garnsey (1981) and D’Arms (1981, Chapter 6) – wealth and responsibility – to identify freedmen not acting in function of a patron. D’Arms 1981: 44 45, 103–104; Dixon 1992: 2; Swain 2013: 156. Sirks 2007: 176. Sirks 2007: 176. This flips Finley’s (1999) notion that the pursuit of profit was curbed by the social structures in which it was anchored. Lo Cascio 2007: 631. DeLaine 2002: 75. Foxhall 2007: 39. Contra how the term has become canonized in scholarship: Weaver 1972; Pavis d’Escurac 1987. CIL XIV Suppl. 4709. DeLaine 2005: 43–44. Note how the connotations of “domesticity” in the Roman context differ from modern ones (see Chapter 4). Becatti 1940: 39. DeLaine (2005: 44) suggests “a setting for sale – possibly by auction – to a select clientele.” Calza 1923: 184, Tav. V Fig. 2 and Tav. VI Fig. 3 for a “lararium” niche. Note that these similarities could well be due to a single contractor being involved (DeLaine 2002: 44 ff.; cf. above). Meiggs 1973: 236, 251. Gros 2001: 122–23; Meiggs 1973: 252 53; Packer 1971. E.g. Domus di Giove Fulminatore (IV.IV.3) (Lorenzatti 1998: 94), Domus della Fortuna Annonaria (V.II.8) (Boersma 1985: 156). DeLaine 1995 for the history of one insula. Hermansen 1970; 1981: 17 53; WallaceHadrill 2000: 199. E.g. later subdivisions of apartments (Hermansen 1970; Pirson 1997: 169) to “hotel”-type structures such as the Case delle Volte Dipinte (III.V.1) (Felletti Maj 1960; Kleberg 1957: 45; but see Packer 1971: 11–12 and 103 (Plan 20 and 21) who argues for its original construction as three separate apartments). DeLaine 1999. Gering 1999: 111; 2001: 202. On inns at Pompeii, see Packer 1978. DeLaine 1996: 181 on the scale and nature of construction work at Ostia. Augenti 2016 for a recent anthology of epigraphic evidence relating to the different kinds of inhabitants of Ostia. Packer 1971: 67 71

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for various calculations of population levels and density at Ostia. Cf. DeLaine 2004: 170. Salomies (2002: 159) hypothesizes on onomastic grounds that even “some of the Ostian magistrates, although no doubt having a residence of sorts in Ostia, may have had their main residence, or at least the residence where their staff was concentrated, not in Ostia but somewhere else.” Calza 1916: 153–54. E.g. notes in legal sources on under-stair storage, Hermansen 1970: 342–43. Gering 1999: 106. Note that many functional fixtures were obliterated through a combination of poor preservation and restoration; see Riva 1999. E.g. common cistern in the central court of the Caseggiato di Diana (I.III.3–4). This may be a pattern typical of port cities, cf. Zarmakoupi 2018: 195 for Delos. Smyth 2016 links the relative lack of storage facilities in Maya palaces (limited to the storage of valuables: Vidal-Lorenzo, Vázquez-deÁgredos-Pascual, and Muñoz-Cosme 2016) to a looser, less centralized political economy. Corbier 1987a: 415 (“le palais impérial ne fait pas figure de réserve où seraient stockés des produits alimentaires que le prince distribuerait quotidiennement à ses familiers et dont il ferait bénéficier le peuple en cas de difficulté”). Cherry 1986; Schoep 2010. Evans 1935: 630 48. Christakis 2011; Privitera 2014; Strasser 1997 contests identification as granaries. Renfrew 1972. Critique in Christakis 2008, see also Chapter 1. Sasson 1998 on Zimri-Lim, last resident of the palace of Mari. Paulette 2016: 90–91 on storage areas in the older Early Dynastic palaces of Mesopotamia and Paulette 2016: 94 on the socalled palace of Naram-Sim at Tell Brak in the Akkadian period, which was probably more a “fortified storehouse” than a residence. Durand 1987: 62–64 (based on texts) and Parrot 1958: 280–305 (based on archaeology) on storage at Mari. Finley (1999: 28–29) famously distinguished between the centralized Near Eastern palace-economies and the Greco-Roman world of private ownership and trade (see also Morris and Manning 2005: 12–13). Van Koppen 2001.

225 74 Seeher 2000; Diffey, Neef, and Bogaard 2017 on the botanical analysis of the silos’ content (with macro-remains preserved by fire). 75 Rickman 1971: 252–57. 76 Millar 1977: 20 traces the shift in meaning of palatium from toponym to qualifier of imperial residence in Early Imperial authors; Frézouls 1987: 446; Gros 2001: 231. 77 Hales 2000; 2003; Saller 1984. 78 Gros 2001: 233: “la terminologie [. . .] n’a jamais quitté le registre rassurant de la domus.” 79 McKay 1975: 72, rooms labeled (a) on plan. Also Gros 2001: 233–41; Wallace-Hadrill 2000: 189–92. 80 Coarelli 2012: 347 95; Wiseman 2013. 81 The archaeology of the Palatine is complex; see recently Coarelli 2012 and Wiseman 2013. 82 See Chapter 4. 83 While not equipped with ample storage facilities, Nero’s Domus Aurea represented a microcosm of the world at large, with vineyards and live animals (Suetonius, Nero 31, 2), which, in some ways, can be seen as the ultimate claim to storage. On the Domus Aurea: Ball 2003; Perrin 1987. Meyboom and Moormann 2013 reject Ball’s (2003) chronology, which was based on architectural analysis. On Domitian’s palace: Zanker 2002. 84 Millar 1977: 144–45. 85 Note that whether or not the so-called Palazzo Imperiale at Portus (Keay, Earl, and Felici 2011; Spurza 1999a; 1999b) ever functioned as residence for the emperor and/or high-ranked administrators, what can be gleaned of the structure itself does not include storage facilities (of course it is closely integrated in the storage matrix surrounding the Trajanic basin). See Spurza 2002: 130–32. 86 Corbier 1987a: 415. 87 Appadurai 1996: 71. 88 See Chapter 5, “Bending Space and Time.” 89 On scale in archaeology, see Knapp 1992 (Annales); Bailey 2007 (time perspectivism); O. J. T. Harris 2017 and Jervis 2017 (assemblage theory); Robb and Pauketat 2013. 90 Corritore, Marin, and Virlouvet 2016: 142 ff. 91 See Chapter 1. 92 Contra the Greek case where the reach of landownership (and thus of households) was limited by polis boundaries, see Foxhall 2007: 38 40 (who stresses that recognizing households as structuring the ancient (Greek)

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economy need not lead to a primitivist/ Finleyian reading). Fowles 2018 on how scale, differentiation, and integration became criteria of complexity and state-making. A variant of the economic problem of information asymmetries, for which see Akerlof 1970. Tsing 2015: 38, 127. Cf. Scott 2017. Wengrow 2014; Yoffee 2005. Van Oyen 2016: 91. Crumley 1995. Coase 1937 for the foundational essay on “the nature of the firm.” Silver 2009. Broekaert 2012, who argues that vertical integration was more widespread in the Roman empire than Silver seems to suggest. Hawkins 2012 on the role of contracting within closed networks, such as collegiae. North 1981; 1990. Bang 2008; but 2015: 549 approaches my analysis: “Far away from the court, this public-private distinction would not have been easy to make. There, the estate would often have been the most obvious representative of state power, yet also not easily controlled by the monarchical government.” Broekaert 2017; Frier and Kehoe 2007. Khatchadourian 2016 for a dissection of the work of different types of (material) imperial agents. Most of the “stuff” in this book would count as “affiliates” in Khatchadourian’s (2016: 74 75) scheme. This echoes recent work on “the role of cosmopolitan practices, theories, and discourses in the making of the hierarchical networks through which empires functioned” (Lavan, Payne, and Weisweiler 2016: 12). While storage could be cast as one such practice that at once unites and differentiates, the kaleidoscopic model expounded here corrects the premise of empire’s “hierarchical networks.” Pitts and Versluys 2015; Hingley 2005; Hitchner 2008; Sweetman 2007; Witcher 2000; 2017. But Naerebout 2006 7. Even for modern globalization no coherent “globalization theory” exists; different approaches and definitions can be found in Appadurai 1996; Bauman 1998; Harvey 1989; Nederveen Pieterse 2004; Robertson 2003.

109 E.g. Morley 2015. Van Oyen 2016a on the making of terra sigillata pottery as a standardized category. 110 Star and Griesemer 1989: 393. 111 Star and Griesemer 1989: 392. 112 Van Oyen and Pitts 2017. 113 Cf. Trentmann 2016 on the period after the fifteenth century ad. 114 Fowles (2018) makes the case that an evolutionary focus on “complexity” has blinded archaeology to the fact that simplicity, too, has been a social achievement throughout history, often in the form of counter-culture.

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Especially given the prominence traditionally accorded to the city in accounts of the Western Roman empire, see e.g. Woolf 1998: 106 41; Laurence, Esmonde Cleary, and Sears 2011; and of its end, see Wickham 1984: 14 15. On the city as a switch in networks, see Van Oyen 2015c. Polanyi 1957; Finley 1999. Polanyi 1944. Granovetter 1985: 482; D. Miller 2000. Stahl 2010: 171. Latour 1991. Morley 2004: 33–50; Morris 1999. Finley 1965. Finley 1999: 41–43, 50–60; Cicero, De Officiis I 42.150–51. Finley 1999: 46; Van Oyen 2015a: 99 for critique. Bowman and Wilson 2009 for a programmatic statement; Wilson 2009 for methodological issues. Critique in Van Oyen and Pitts 2017. On NIE: North 1981; 1990; 2005; Williamson 2000. For NIE and the ancient economy, see Scheidel, Morris, and Saller 2007; Morris and Manning 2005; positive review by Bang 2009; critique by Boldizzoni 2011. E.g. Frier and Kehoe 2007. E.g. Schneider 2007, with a rather static description of material evidence such as the Barbegal water mills or the Grand Four for terra sigillata firing at La Graufesenque. Note: this is not to say that e.g. the institutional practices of law are not materially mediated. This is arguably the only version of the debate in which archaeology’s contribution has been

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35 36 37 38

truly recognized so far, from Rostovtzeff to the current trend of quantification. North’s recent work even pays lip service to recent work on distributed cognition, acknowledging that human consciousness emerges through interaction with, not through distant observation of, the world: see North 2005: 23, 33 35. Cf. Swain 2013: 179. Cf. Van Oyen 2017c on the categories of agents and commodities. See recent Oxford Roman Economy Project conference (Oxford, September 2017) organized by Chloe Duckworth and Andrew Wilson, see Duckworth et al. forthcoming; Alexander and Reno 2012. E.g. Olsen 2010. Van Oyen and Pitts 2017. Gibson 1979; Knappett 2005. For a mobilization of the idea of emergent causation in long-term history, see Robb 2013; Hodder 2012. Latour 1991; 1999; see debate with Harman and his new materialism, Latour, Harman, and Erdélyi 2011. See Van Oyen 2015b; 2016a. Fowles 2010. Other strands in the material turn (e.g. Harman 2002; Morton 2013), and in particular assemblage theory (DeLanda 2006; Fowler 2017; Hamilakis 2017) concede more to the potentiality of human–thing relations, at least in theory. Fowles 2010. Fowles 2010: 25, in dialogue with Latour 2000. I thank T. D’Altroy for this comment. Cf. Bloch and Parry 1989. As such, this book espouses a tradition of writing in Science and Technology Studies; cf. Mol 2002. Yoffee 2005: 194. On the broader question of context, evidence, and authorship, see the debate between Sahlins and Obeyesekere on the death of Captain Cook (Borofsky 1997). Recent reflections on the comparative method in Gagné 2018. Tsing 2015: 111. Barrett 2014: 69. Cf. Versluys 2014. Pitts and Versluys 2015. For globalization and archaeology, see Hodos 2017.

227 39 E.g. in the Early Middle Ages: basic commodities (Wickham 2005, esp. Chapter 11) versus luxury or prestige goods (M. McCormick 2001). 40 Wickham 1984; 2005; Hodges 2012: 11. Wickham arguably discusses the Late Roman state, not its Early Imperial predecessor as does this book, but it is implied that the taxbased “ancient mode of production” continued throughout. Goody 2007: 180 critiques the Eurocentrism underlying such teleology; Fowles 2018 for a counter-history of complexity and simplicity. But see Bang 2015 for a more nuanced reading of Roman taxation. 41 See Wilson 2009 for the complexities of the data. 42 De Callataÿ 2005; Scheidel 2009. 43 And was probably spurred in large part by the predation that came with territorial and demographic expansion, cf. Bang 2015. 44 See Bayly 2004 on the transition from eighteenth-century agrarian empires (still modeled, in my terminology, as “family business”) to nineteenth-century nation states. 45 Once more I want to emphasize that this does not imply that an ethos of family is primitivist, i.e. separate from an “economic” logic of gain (as in e.g. P. Millett 1991 for classical Athens; debunked for the Roman world in Andreau 1999: 140–44). Rather, the structure of human–thing relations subverted the conditions created by efforts to reduce transaction costs (e.g. standardization). 46 One need only mention the practice of new provincial Roman citizens to take on the name of the ruling emperor. 47 As per North 1981; 1990. 48 Cf. Van Oyen 2016b. 49 As per Horden and Purcell 2000. 50 Cf. Woolf 2017. 51 Scott 2017. 52 Scott 2017: 85. 53 Scott 2017: 235, who uses the term “peasant” instead of farmer. 54 Woolf 2016. It is beyond the scope of this book to discuss the anthropological tradition of “house societies.” 55 Note that such “voting with their feet” is not all that easily done when the ties of the domus complex (and especially landownership) bind a farmer to place. 56 Scott 2017: 151.

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INDEX

abundance, 8 access, 105–6, 116, 145–49 aedicula, 102, 105, 113 Agde, 64 alae, 97 Alexandria, 122, 156 Alexandrian grain ship, 126, 132 amphora, 51, 101 and export, 21 as unit, 143 as warehouse floor, 84 contents of, 81, 86, 103, 107 production of, 59, 68–70, 75 annona, 86, 126–28 cura annonae, 129–30 praefectus annonae, 127, 129 aqueduct, 46 archaeobotany, 40, 65–66, 70, 82, 87 archive. See Sulpicii archive Iucundus, 108 L. Caecilius Iucundus, 108 L. Venidius Ennychus, 110 Arles, 59, 83, 86 army. See military atrium, 99, 101 atrium house, 92–93, 96, 98 Auditorium site, 26 Augustus, 59, 81, 83, 126, 129, 165 Barcelona, 59 beer, 66 Béziers, 81 Bryson Arabus, 23 Burriac, Cabrera de Mar, 74 Caesar, Julius, 21, 58, 60, 127 Caesaraugusta (Zaragoza), 83, 86 calculability, 141–43, See also quantification defiance of, 102–5, 143–44 calendar, 61 Can Bartomeu, Cabrera de Mar, 71 Can Bonvilar, Terrassa, 72 Can Feu, 72 Carità, Gragnano, 35, 49 cash crop, 21–22, 74

Cato, 19–20, 50 centralization, 167, See also redistribution and grain storage, 40, 42, 56, 83–84, 172 and state formation, 3–4, 166 defiance of, 44, 118 for redistribution, 8–9 Centroni, Boville, 35, 48 chest, 99, 103, 107–9 chiefdom, 3, 9, 38 Cicero, 117–19, 126, 176 Cincinnatus, 22 cistern, 27, 32, 35, 43–47, 100 city, 83–87, 175 Civil Wars, 59, 83, 127 Claudius, 129–30, 132, 159, 162 Colle Plinio, San Giustino, 37, 51–52 Colonnacce, Castel di Guido, 32 Columella, 22, 40, 65, 117 commodity, 11, 55–56, 152, 167 conquest, 20–21, 58, 60 conspicuous production, 38–39, 54 cupboard, 99, 104, 107–9, 116 deigmata, 153 delayed return, 6–7 dolium, 50, 66–67, 74, 79–80, 143 contents of, 67, 107 dolia defossa, 50, 138, 145–46 dolia ships, 51 domus, 161, 165 ‘domus complex’, 182 Ebro Valley, 76, 83 El Bosquet, 71 El Morè, Sant Pol de Mar, 76, 82 Els Cortals, 71 Els Tolegassos, Viladamat, 71, 75 Emporion, 63, 67, 71 Ensérune, Nissan, 65 Ercolano, Albano, 35, 49 evolution, 4, 124 evolutionary thought, 73 socio-political, 3–4, 9, 13, 118, 125 time, 13

281

282

INDEX

familia, 93–94, 156, 160–63 familia Caesaris, 129, 159, 162, 166 famine, 7, 123, 127, 157 Finley, Moses I., 24, 176–77, See also substantivism formalism, 25 Fréjus, 83 Frontinus, 46, See also aqueduct frugalitas, 20, 23 frumentationes. See grain dole garbage, 115 Gasquinoy, 82 gender, 93–95, 117, 120 Giardino, Capena, 46 globalization, 171, 181 Gracchus, Gaius, 127, 131 grain, 82, 172 properties of, 40–41, 80 types of, 41, 66, 87–88 grain dole, 124, 126–28, 131 Grottacce, San Marinella, 35, 48 harvest of grapes, 50 timing of, 43, 65–66, 88 yield of, 3, 52, 66, 80, 87 Herculaneum Casa del Bicentenario, 106–8 Casa del Gran Portale, 106 Casa del Priapo, 107 Casa del Salone Nero, 110 Casa dell’Alcova, 97 Casa dell’Apollo Citarede, 97 heterarchy, 167, 182 hierarchy, 38, 67, 167 hoarding, 2, 9 at Pompeii, 6, 102, 107 of grain, 43 of wine, 53 horrearius, 83, 86, 150 horticulture, 35, 46–47 Hostal Nou, Balaguer, 76 hunter-gatherers, 4, 6–8 imagines, 120 imperialism, 53, 60–61, 90, 157 impluvium, 100 Juvenal, 100, 163 La Burguera, Salou, 82 La Domergue, Sauvian, 76, 78 La Grande Chaberte, La Garde, 77 La Moleta del Remei, Alcanar, 82 La Salut, Sabadell, 75 Lattes, 66, 87 Le Grand Loou, La Roquebrussanne, 70, 76 Le Molard, Donzère, 76

lease of storeroom, 143, 155, 157, 160 of warehouse, 139, 155 Les Prés-Bas, Loupian, 70, 77, 80, 82 Livy, 67, 85 loan, 9, 143, 156–57, 159–60 locking, 102, 106, 109, 117, 147–49, 160 Lodève, 75 luxuria. See luxury luxury, 20, 22–23, 165, See also sumptuary laws Marseille, 63, 67, 83, 87, 153 Martial, 163 Mas Castellar de Pontós, 65 Mas de Boudan, 82 Mas Manolo, Caldes de Montbui, 75 materiality, 55–56, 90–93, 110–14, 149–55, 172–73 approaches to, 11–12, 133, 178–80 of time, 61 memory, 60–61, 72–74, 89, 117–18 mensores, 129, See also Ostia, Horrea dei Mensores mentalities, 3, 10, 13–14, 91, 120, 177 military, 21, 59, 67, 86 service, 22 storage, 71, 83, 138 milling, 41 hydraulic mills, 82 Barbegal, 86 modernism, 25, 177, See also formalism Monte Testaccio, 81 Montjuïc, Barcelona, 65 moral economy, 7 morality, 2, 19–20, 22–25, 37–39 Narbonne, 59, 86 naves caudicariae, 124 Nero, 3, 23, 41, 159, 165 New Institutional Economics (NIE), 177 Nîmes, 61 North, Douglass, 177, 183 Numantia, 83 Octavian, 127, See also Augustus Olivet d’en Pujol, Viladamat, 75 oppidum, 63, 65, 68 opus caementicium, 35, 38 Ostia Caseggiato dei Doli, 138 Caseggiato del Larario, 147, 163 excavation history, 133 Grandi Horrea, 136, 138–40, 146, 154–55 Horrea Antoniniani, 136, 138, 154 Horrea Aurighi, 147 Horrea dei Mensores, 143 Horrea dell’Artemide, 136, 139–40, 147 Horrea di Hortensius, 136, 138–39

283

INDEX

Horrea Epagathiana et Epaphroditiana, 138–40, 147, 163 Horrea I.VIII.2, 137–38, 140 Horrea III.II.6, 147 Horrea IV.V.12, 136, 144, 146 Horrea V.I.2, 136 insulae, 163–64 Magazzino Annonario, 138 Magazzino dei Doli, 138 occupation history, 131, 144 Piazzale delle Corporazioni, 86 Piccolo Mercato, 129, 137 ownership, 9, 42–43, 71, 73, 81, 84, 91, 116, 130, 154 landownership, 78–79 of warehouses, 86, 129, 131, 162–63 palace, 164–65 Panossas, 84, 86 Pardigon, Cavalaire, 77–78 paterfamilias, 119, 130, 161, 171 emperor as, 130, 162, 165–66 patronage, 7, 157, 160 Paul, apostle, 126 personhood, 56, 120 Polanyi, Karl, 176 Pompeii Casa dei Quadretti Teatrali, 99, 109 Casa dei Vettii, 99 Casa del Bell’Impluvio, 107 Casa del Criptoportico, 97 Casa del Fabbro, 99, 110 Casa del Labirinto, 97 Casa del Menandro, 94, 102, 104, 106, 108 Casa del Sacello Iliaco, 107 Casa della Caccia Antica, 108 Casa delle Vestali, 106 Pompey, 21, 127 Portus Darsena, 145 excavation history, 133 Grandi Magazzini cosiddetti di Settimio Severo, 136 Magazzini cosiddetti di Traiano, 136, 138–40, 142, 148–49, 155 navalia, 140 occupation history, 131–32, 145 Posto, Francolise, 35, 44–45 potentiality, 178–79 power, 10, 21, 23, 67, 84, 157, 166, 173 display of, 39, 42, 117, 165 models of, 130–31, 167, 182 relations of, 8, 91, 94, 118–20, 170 sources of, 9, 154, 165 primitivism, 160, 176–77, See also substantivism property. See ownership Puteoli, 126, 129, 132, 143, 156 quantification, 16, 152 critique of, 4–6, 25, 124–25, 136, 177 Quarto Cappello del Prete, 26–27, 35

rainfall variability in, 7, 20, 44 recycling, 178 redistribution, 8–9, 64, 125 and palaces, 164 conflict model, 9 consensus model, 8 risk, 2, 10, 39, 43, 46, 80, 123–24, 156–57, 179–80 perception of, 81 risk-buffering, 3–5, 7–8, 10, 20, 65, 73, 85, 157, 161, 172 Romanization debate, 60, 171 Rome Horrea Galbana, 131, 150 Horrea Lolliana, 131 Porticus Aemilia, 133 Rota, Boscotrecase, 35 saccarii, 146, 148 Saint-Bézard, Aspiran, 59, 76 San Martín de la Mata, Mataró, 72 San Rocco, Francolise, 45, 47 Sant Cugat, Mataró, 72 seasonality, 6–7, 20, 43, 66, 155–57 of seafaring, 65, 122, 126, 148 Sentromà, Tiana, 72, 74, 79 Septimius Severus, 40, 130 Settefinestre, 22, 79 granary, 28, 32, 34, 41 wine storeroom, 51–52 settlement pattern, 22, 70–71, 164 silo, 72, 79–80 properties of, 65–66, 73 silo field, 65, 67, 71, 84 slave, 118–19 as economic agent, 159–60 as trade product, 65 in household, 94, 117 slave mode of production, 21–22, 35 slave quarters, 35–36, 49 social storage, 7, 13, 161 Social War, 21 speculation, 43, 77, 157, See also hoarding standardization, 116, 140–41, 166–67, 171 lack of, 102–4, 118, 139–40 state, 3–4, 157 and redistribution, 124–25 models of, 8–9, 119, 162, 166–68, 170, 183 supply of Rome, 128–30, See also annona, supply chain status, 34 display of, 46, 98 in economic theory, 24, 176, See also substantivism sources of, 161 substantivism, 24, 39, 160, 176 suburbium, Rome, 22, 47 Sulpicii archive, 129, 143, 151, 159–60

284

INDEX

sumptuary laws, 23 supply chain, 8, 151, 154 of Rome, 122, 129, 156, 166 surplus critique of, 10–11 definition of, 20, 183 individualization of, 73 suspensurae, 133, 138–39 tabernae, 144–45 Tarraco, 83 taxation, 10, 84–86, 126–28, 141, 181 temporality, 13–14, 55, 108–10, 115, 180 and grain trade, 156–57 and imperialism, 60–62, 89–90 and multifunctionality, 93 threshing, 41, See also grain threshing floor, 27 Tiber, 152 bottleneck, 155–56 throwing grain into, 3, 23, 41 Tiber Valley, 46–47 warehouses along, 124, 129, 131, 133 Tiberius, 129, 159 Torrebonica, 72 Trajan, 130, 132 transhumance, 65 treasure, 9, 165 trust, 119–20, 168, 182–83

value, 9–10, 51–52, 156 regimes of, 56, 63 value chain, 151 Vareilles, Paulhan, 76 Varro, 22, 52, 65 Ventotene, Pontine Islands, 33, 48 Veral de Vallmora, Teià, 75 Veranes, 82 vertical integration, 168 Vicarie, Rians, 76 Vienne, 83–84, 86 Viladecans, 75 Villa “della Standa,” Fiano Romano, 35, 49 Villa delle Argentarie, Boscoreale, 28, 50–51 Villa Regina, Boscoreale, 32 Villa Rubino, Formia, 27, 33, 48 visibility, 34, 42, 71, 84, 105–7, 109, 117 Vitruvius, 32, 93, 95 Volusii Saturnini villa, Fiano Romano, 27, 35, 49 water. See cistern, impluvium properties of, 44 wealth, 9, 23, 173, See also sumptuary laws and conquest, 21 display of, 98, 109, 165 windfall, 20, 157 wine, 172 production process, 50–51, 80 types of, 51–52, 81 Xenophon, 19, 119