Navigating the Built Environment: Architechture and Social Connectedness in the Southern Levant, 330 Bce

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Navigating the Built Environment: Architecture and Social Connectedness in the Southern Levant, 330 BCE - 250 CE

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Authors Winter, Matthew

Publisher The University of Arizona.

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Link to Item http://hdl.handle.net/10150/645776

NAVIGATING THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT: ARCHITECHTURE AND SOCIAL CONNECTEDNESS IN THE SOUTHERN LEVANT, 330 BCE – 250 CE

Matthew A. Winter

______

A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of the

SCHOOL OF ANTHROPOLOGY

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

For the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY In the Graduate College THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

2020

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a dissertation is no easy task, and there are many people who had a profound influence on me. As I sit down to write these acknowledgments, I realize now that even though a dissertation may at times feel like a lonely, and rather frustrating, endeavor, in truth I was never alone. I was surrounded by an academic community that provided me with a stimulating and collegial environment within which I could create and develop — and many times entirely discard — the ideas that would eventually culminate in this dissertation, and by friends and family who offered love and support.

During my graduate education a number of professors, many of whom were outside of my field or specific focus, encouraged and challenged me to think deeply about the discipline of archaeology and anthropology, and to them I owe my gratitude. I proudly carry the academic fingerprints of these individuals. I would especially like to thank both my comprehensive exams committee and my dissertation committee. While not all members crossed over, this dissertation is very much a result of the influences of all of these folks who greatly shaped by academic development. I would like to thank David Killick for his inspiration and tutelage in a side of archaeology that I had very little exposure to before my doctoral journey. I would like to thank

Alison Futrell from the department of History and Beth Nekhai and Ed Wright from the Center for Judaic Studies for their guidance, instruction, insightful feedback and help with securing funding and navigating the landscape of academic conferences. This dissertation is heavily influenced by several fields, including Judaic Studies, History, Anthropology, and Archaeology, and this is especially due to these individuals. Finally, I would like to thank my dissertation committee. To Lars Fogelin, thank you for the guidance in navigating the complicated world of anthropological and archaeological theory in a sensible manner. To David Soren, thank you for

keeping me ever grounded and focused, but also for being an inspiration for my initial fascination with Greco-Roman archaeology while I was an MA student in History. And to Emma

Blake, thank you for your patience, guidance, and thoughtfulness in helping me navigate the complexities of interweaving complex theory and method into my research and for the guidance and willingness in helping me navigate anthropological approaches to Mediterranean archaeology. I am a better student, researcher, and scholar because of you all.

I extend thanks to my digging buddies in Israel and Italy, and especially thank Michael

Eiesnberg of Haifa University for his assistance and guidance while in the field. Likewise, I would like to thank the various folks I have met at academic conferences or at the Albright

Institute, who provided great intellectual stimulation and friendship. Additionally, a network of dear friends and family are important to have. While I will not name them all here — lest I forget someone and be forever ashamed — I would like to thank friends that I made in both the

Department of History and the School of Anthropology, who provided encouragement, support, and friendship during my studies. You know who you are. I would also like to thank my circle of close personal friends, who were always wondering what I was saying and when I would be finished saying it. To my family, and especially my grandmother and father, I am deeply grateful for your patience and your interest in my work. I recall those conversations fondly and hope to continue to enjoy many more yet to come.

Finally, and most importantly of all, I would like to thank the steadfast support of my partner and by far the most beautiful of all my people, Meagan. Your love and embraces gave me more support than you realize. Te amo, mia dolcissima.

DEDICATION

Dedidicated in loving memory of the Winter brothers, Charles Gordan Winter and Robert Alan

Winter. Though you did not live to see this come to fruition, you were always an inspiration for me.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES………………………………………………………………….…………10

LIST OF TABLES……………………………………………………………………………...15

ABSTRACT……………………………………………………………………………………..17

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………..18 Identity in Ancient Mediterranean Studies: A Brief Overview…………………………..21 Building Identity through Networks: Architecture, Identity, and Connectedness……….24 Research Design………………………………………………………………………………...28 Primary Research Questions and Data Utilized………………………………………....28 Methodological and Theoretical Approaches to Connectedness………………………...33 Concept Lattices and Formal Concept Analysis…………………………………………34 Social Network Analysis…………………………………………………………………37 Theoretical Framework………………………………………………………………….40 Scope of the Study: Exclusions and Limitations……………………………………………...41 Summary and Shape of the Dissertation……………………………………………………...45

CHAPTER 2: THE LANGUAGE OF ARCHITECTURE AND CONNECTEDNESS Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………..48 Anthropology and Archaeology Meet Architecture………………………………………….50 Semiotics of Architecture: The Language of Buildings and Spaces…………………………57 A Grammar for the Built Environment: Semiotics and Architecture…………………….62 Materiality: The Link between the Abstract and the Physical………………………………66 Towards a Theory of Semiotics, Architecture, and Networks……………………………….68

CHAPTER 3: THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT OF THE HELLENISTIC AND ROMAN EAST The Architecture of the Greco-Roman East: An Overview………………………………….73 The Blueprint for Hellenistic and Roman Architecture……………………………………...78 Hellenistic Architecture: Philosophy and Design………………………………………..78 Greek and Hellenistic Architecture: Construction Techniques and Styles………………81 Roman Architecture: Philosophy and Design……………………………………………83 Roman Architecture: Construction Techniques and Styles…………………………...…87 Domestic Architecture………………………………………………………………………….89 Hellenistic and Roman Style Houses…………………………………………………….89 Levantine Style Houses…………………………………………………………………..94 Building Forms………………………………………………………………………………99 Civic Buildings……..…………………………………………………………………… 99 Entertainment and Sporting Buildings………………………………………………….107 Baths and Bathing Facilities……………………………………………………………115 Urban Ornamental Architecture………………………………………………………..120 Sacred Architecture…………………………………………………………….……….126

Summary……………………………………………………………………………………….127

CHAPTER 4: SAMARIA Geographic and Historical Overview……………………………………………………..….129 Samaria: Principal Sites and Archaeological Surveys…………………………………...…138 Archaeological Surveys...... 138 Caesarea Maritima...... 140 Samaria (Sebaste)...... 141 Shechem (Flavia Neapolis)……………………………………………………………..142 Antipatris (Afek)……………………………………………………………………...…143 Mt. Gerizim (Hagerizim)………………………………………………………………..144 Ramat Hanadiv…………………………………………………………………………145 Regional Architectural Features in the Region of Samaria………………………………...146 Domestic Architecture………………………………………………………………….146 Urban Design…………………………………………………………….……………..150 Building Forms…………………………………………………………………………151 Building Techniques…………………………………………………………………….157 Architectural Decorations and Philosophy……………………...……………………….157 Formal Concept Analysis (FCA) of Samarian Architecture………………………………..159 Building Techniques…………………………………………………………………….159 Building Forms………………………………………………………………………... 165

CHAPTER 5: IDUMAEA AND JUDAEA Geographic and Historical Overview…………………………….…………………………..172 Judaea: An Historical Overview………………………………………………………..175 Idumaea: An Historical Overview……………………………………………………...180 Regional Surveys………………………………………………………………………………187 Principal Sites in Judaea and Idumaea………………………………………………………188 The Idumaean Fortresses……………………………………………………………….188 Elusa (al-Khalasa)………………………………………………...…………………....189 Beersheba (Beersheva)…………………………………………………………………190 Maresha/Beit Guvrin (Marisa/Eleutheropolis)...... 191 Beth Zur (Beit Tzur/Bethsura)...... 195 Jerusalem...... 197 Ramat Rahel...... 201 Ein Gedi (Tel Gorn)...... 202 Qumran...... 204 Jericho (Tulul Abu el-'Alayiq)………………………………………………………….206 The Judaean Fortresses of the Dead Sea and Jericho Valley………………………….210 Judaean Villages: Horvat Ethri and Khirbet Badd ’Issa……………………………….211 Bethel…………………………………………………………………………………...213 Lydda (Lod/Diospolis)………………………………………………………………….214 Modi’in (Khirbet Umm el-Umdan)……………………………………………………..215 Gezer……………………………………………………………………………………216 Apollonia-Arsuf…………………………………………………………………………217 Jaffa……………………………………………………………………………………..218

Yavneh/Yavneh-Yam (Jamnia/Jamnia Maris)…………………………………………..219 Ashdod/Ashdod-Yam (Azotus/Azotus Paralaios)……………………………………….220 Ashkelon (Ascalon)……………………………………………………………………..221 Regional Architectural Features in the Regions of Judaea and Idumaea…………………224 Domestic Architecture…………………………………………………………………..224 Urban Design………………………………………………………………………...…230 Building Forms…………………………………………………………………………232 Building Techniques…………………………………………………………………….240 Architectural Decorations and Philosophy………………..…………………………….242 Formal Concept Analysis (FCA) of Judaean and Idumaean Architecture…………...…...245 Formal Concept Analysis of Judaean Building Forms………………………………...245 Formal Concept Analysis of Idumaean Building Forms……………………………….249 Summary……………………………………………………………………………………….252

CHAPTER 6: THE NETWORKED BUILT ENVIRONMENT Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………254 Methodology and Construction of the Networks……………………………………………257 Building Techniques in Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea……………………………………263 Hellenistic Period………………………………………………………………………263 Roman Period…………………………………………………………………………..272 Architectural Forms and Décor in Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea……………………….281 Hellenistic Period………………………………………………………………………282 Roman Period…………………………………………………………………………..294 A Macroregional Perspective: Cliques and Factions………………………………………..305 Summary and Discussion……………………………………………………………………..331

CHAPTER 7: ARCHITECTURE, SOCIAL CONNECTEDNESS, AND IDENTITY: A MACROREGIONAL VIEW Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………336 Methodological Insights………………………………………………………………………338 Theoretical Insights…………………………………………………………………………...345 Final Conclusions……………………………………………………………………………...354

APPENDIX A: LIST OF SITES……………………………………………………………...358

APPENDIX B: CLIQUE FACTION SCORES AND DIAGRAMS..………………………363

REFERENCES………………………………………………………………………………...375

Fig. 1.1 Map of the study area. Drawn by author.

LIST OF FIGURES

Fig. 1.1 Map of the study area. Drawn by author………………………...………………………9

Fig. 3.1 Illustration of several types of Greek courtyard-style homes. The examples from Kolophon, Piraeus, and Priene are prostas style homes, with a porch bordering on a courtyard. The examples from Olynthus and Halieis are pastas style homes, with a corridor open to one or both sides on the northern side of a courtyard. The examples from Eritrea and Deios are examples of the peristyle house, with a courtyard bordered on four sides by a colonnade that opens up into other rooms of the house. Source: (Ault 2016: 666)…………………………………………………92

Fig. 3.2 Model of a typical Roman atrium style house. A few select areas of the typical Roman house are indicated: (1) the atrium; (2) the tablinum; (3) the peristyle courtyard; and (4) the alae. Modified from ARTstor.org………………………………..94

Fig. 3.3 Plan of the Patrician’s House, Meiron. Hirschfeld 1995: 52…………………………...96

Fig. 3.4 Plan of two complete residential complexes at Chorazin. Galor 2003: 49……………..97

Fig. 3.5 Stoa and agora of Corinth, dated to the late Roman period. Note that the stoa is essentially a store front and important public buildings, such as the bouleuterion on the southern flank does not abut the agora but is concealed behind the large stoa. ARTStor.org……………………………………………………………………………102

Fig. 3.6 Bouleuterion from Ashkelon. In this case, the bouleuterion is built at the far end of a Roman-period basilica and takes a rounded shape. (Boehm et al. 2016: 293)……103

Fig. 3.7 Plan of the Forum of Pompeii. Note the axial centrality, with the Capitoline Temple as the focal point on the northern end and the basilica at the southern end. The macellum is located adjacent to the Capitoline temple to the east. Source: (Laurence et al. 2011:174)……………………………………………………106

Fig. 3.8 Diagram of a typical Greek theater according to Vitruvius. Modified from (Sear 1990: 250)……………………………………………………………………….111

Fig. 3.9 Diagram of a typical Roman theater according to Vitruvius. Sear 1990: 251………...112

Fig. 3.10 Hippodrome from Jerash, ancient Gerasa. Source: (Ostrasz 1989: 53)……………...113

Fig. 3.11 Distribution of identified amphitheaters in the Eastern Mediterranean. (Dodge 2009: 30)…………………………………………………………………….………114

Fig. 3.12 Plan of Greek tholos-style balaneion, Hellenistic-period Thessaloniki. This type of Greek bathhouse is uncommon, with only a few known sources. Note the individual bathtubs spaced around the inner area. (Adam-Veleni 2013)…………….116

Fig. 3.13 View of the hypocaust in the baths at Beit She’an, Israel. Photo by author…………117

Fig. 3.14 Miqveh from Khibat al-Mukhayyat. (Dolan and Foran 2016: 288)…………………119

Fig. 3.15 Four miqva’ot from Magdala. (Reich and Zapata-Meza 2018: 112)……………..…120

Fig. 3.16 Colonnade at Beit She’an (Scythopolis) in the Galilee. Note the color contrast between the white columns and the dark basalt stones of the road. Photo by author……………………………………………………………………...122

Fig. 3.17 Aphrodisias tetrapylon, reconstruction and image. Note the use of the so-called Syrian gable. From the Aphrodisias Excavation Project……………………………..124

Fig. 3.18 Nymphaeum at Jerash (Gerasa), Jordan. BASOR Archives…………………………..125

Fig. 4.1 Concept Lattice of Samarian Building Technologies………………………………….159 Fig. 4.2 Pier and rubble style wall from Tel Dor. The “pier” is usually ashlars, in this case also headers-stretchers, set apart from one another. The spaces between two piers are then filled with unhewn fieldstones, making up the “rubble” component of the wall. Photo by Zev Radovan, courtesy Ephraim Stern, BAS Archives……………………..161 Fig. 4.3 Reduced Concept Lattice of Samarian Building Technologies……………………….163 Fig. 4.4 Concept lattice of monumental architecture types found in Samarian cities…………167 Fig. 4.5 Reduced formal concept lattice for monumental architecture types in Samaria……...170 Fig. 5.1 Wall of the Hellenistic period temple, built in a "herringbone" style. The lower walls are constructed in the rubble technique. Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2016: 27……………………………………………………………………………………...191 Fig. 5.2 Plan of Maresha, including the Upper City and the various subterranean complexes. Stern 2019……………………………………………………………………………..194 Fig. 5.3 Plan of the amphitheater at Eleutheropolis at Beit Guvrin. Kloner and Hübsch 1996: 89……………………………………………………………………………….195 Fig. 5.4 Plan of Roman-period Ein Gedi. NEAEHL s.v. Ein Gedi...... 203

Fig. 5.5 Site plan of Khirbet Qumran. From Wagemakers and Taylor 2011: 136…………..205 Fig. 5.6 Stepped immersion pools (miqva'ot) that date to the Hasmonean period at the palaces at Jericho. Netzer 1977………………………………………………………..207

Fig. 5.7 The three phases of the synagogue complex at the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho, which included a miqveh in Phase 2 and Phase 3. Hizmi 2008……………...208

Fig. 5.8 Reconstruction of the Herodian palace complex. After Netzer, BAS Library Archives……………………………………………………………………………….209

Fig. 5.9 The structure atop the hill of the southern palace, interpreted as either a bathhouse or a reception hall. The use of opus reticulatum is highly unusual here, as this is a building technique rarely found in the Levant. Netzer 1977…………………………210

Fig. 5.10 Plan of Horvat Ethri. From NEAEHL s.v. Horvat Ethri…………………………….212

Fig. 5.11 Synagogue from the village of Khirbet Badd 'Isa. The evidence for the use of arches comes from the springers found on site. Nearby is a miqveh. From NEAEHL s.v. Qiryat Sefed (Khirbet Badd 'Isa)…………………………………….213

Fig. 5.12 Plan of the Hasmonean synagogue at Modi'in. From NEAEHL s.v. Khirbet Umm el-Umdan……………………………………………………………………..216

Fig. 5.13 Hilkiah's Palace, Khirbet el-Muraq (Zur Natan). BAS Archives……………………229

Fig. 5.14 Bossed or beveled style walls that are typical of Herodian architecture. BAS Archives……………………………………………………………………………...242

Fig. 5.15 Concept lattice for Judaean building forms………………………………………….245

Fig. 5.16 Reduced concept lattice for Judaean building forms………………………………...248

Fig. 5.17 Concept lattice for Idumaean building forms……………………………….……….249

Fig. 5.18 Reduced concept lattice for Idumaean building forms………………………………251

Fig. 5.19 Combined reduced concept lattice of building forms in Judaea and Idumaea………253

Fig. 6.1 2-mode network of Hellenistic building techniques…………………………………...264

Fig. 6.2 2-mode network of building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality…………………………………………………………….266

Fig. 6.3 Macroregional network for building techniques of the Hellenistic period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n = 45……………………………………………...268

Fig. 6.4 Macroregional network using binarized values of Jaccard Index in the Hellenistic period. Blue = Judaea, Red = Samaria, Green = Idumaea……………………………269

Fig. 6.5 Macroregional network of building techniques in the Hellenistic period using binarized Jaccard values for Hellenistic period. Nodes are scaled by degree scores. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamond = Idumaea………………...271

Fig. 6.6 2-mode network of building techniques in the Roman period………………………..272

Fig. 6.7 2-mode network of building techniques in the Roman period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality…………………………………………………………....273

Fig. 6.8 Macroregional network of building techniques in the Roman period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n=59…………………………………………………….276

Fig. 6.9 Macroregional network using binarized values of Jaccard Index in the Roman Period. Blue = Judaea, Red = Samaria, Green = Idumaea……………………………277

Fig. 6.10 Macroregional network of building techniques in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values for Roman period. Nodes are scaled by degree scores. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamond = Idumaea. Two loose cliques are labeled A (rural) and B (urban)…………………………………………………..279

Fig. 6.11 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period……………..281

Fig. 6.12 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality…………………………………...…..……….283

Fig. 6.13 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic Period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n=45………………………………..287

Fig. 6.14 Macroregional network using binarized values of Jaccard Index for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. period. Blue = Judaea, Red = Samaria, Green = Idumaea. Clusters are labeled as A, B, and C……………………………...288

Fig. 6.15 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period using binarized Jaccard values. Nodes are scaled by degree scores. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamond = Idumaea. Three clusters are labeled A, B, and C………………………………………………………………………….291

Fig. 6.16 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Roman period………………..293 Fig. 6.17 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Roman period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality………………………………………………………295

Fig. 6.18 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Roman period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n = 66……………………………………....298

Fig. 6.19 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamond = Idumaea. Four clusters are labeled A, B, C, and D…………………….298

Fig. 6.20 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard value. Nodes are scaled by degree scores. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamond = Idumaea. Four clusters are labeled A, B, C, and D………………………………………………………………………305

Fig. 6.21 K-core network projection for building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership…………………………………………..314

Fig. 6.22 K-core network projection for building techniques in the Roman period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership………………………………………...... 318

Fig. 6.23 K-core network projection for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership. Clusters are labeled A, B, and C………..323

Fig. 6.24 K-core network projection for building forms and décor in the Roman period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership. Clusters are labeled A, B,C, and D……..329

Fig. B.1 Dendrogram of clique participation for building techniques in the Hellenistic period…………………………………………………………………………………371

Fig. B.2 Dendrogram of clique participation for building techniques in the Roman period…………………………………………………………………………………372

Fig. B.3 Dendrogram of clique participation for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period……………………...... ……………………………………………373

Fig. B.4 Dendrogram of clique participation for building forms and décor in the Roman period…………………………………………………………………………………374

LIST OF TABLES

Table 4.1 List of Monumental buildings in the region of Samaria’s principle cities………….151 Table 4.2 Context matrix for Samarian building technologies………………………………...159 Table 4.3 Reduced context matrix for Samarian building technologies……………………….163

Table 5.1 List of building forms and décor at select Judaean sites……………………………..233

Table 5.2 List of building forms and décor at select sites in Idumaea…………………………233

Table 6.1 2-mode centrality scores for Hellenistic building techniques………………………..265

Table 6.2 2-mode cohesion scores for Hellenistic building techniques………………………..266

Table 6.3 2-mode cohesion scores for building techniques in the Roman period……………..269

Table 6.4 Whole network and cohesion scores for building techniques in the Roman Period using binarized Jaccard values……………………………………………...272

Table 6.5 2-mode centrality scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period…...273

Table 6.6 Whole network and cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period using binarized Jaccard values………………………………….277

Table 6.7 2-mode cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period…...282

Table 6.8 2-mode centrality scores for building forms and décor in the Roman period………283

Table 6.9 Whole network and cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values……………………………………………….289

Table 6.10 Comparison of overall network cohesion scores for 2-mode networks in the Hellenistic and Roman periods for both building techniques and building forms and décor…………………………………………………………………….293

Table 6.11 List of factions identified for building forms in the Hellenistic period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit……………………………294

Table 6.12 Faction density table for building techniques in the Hellenistic period…………...299

Table 6.13 List of factions identified for building techniques in the Roman period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit……………………………307

Table 6.14 Faction density table for building techniques in the Roman period……………….311

Table 6.15 Faction density table for building techniques in the Hellenistic period…………312

Table 6.16 List of factions identified for building techniques in the Roman period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit……………………317

Table 6.17 Faction density table for building techniques in the Roman period……………….317

Table 6.18 List of factions identified for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit……………………322

Table 6.19 Faction density table for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period……...322

Table 6.20 List of factions identified for building forms and décor in the Roman period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit……………………326

Table 6.21 Faction density table for building forms and décor in the Roman period…………328

Table 6.22 Comparison of overall network cohesion metrics using binarized Jaccard values in the Hellenistic and Roman periods for both building techniques and building forms and décor……………………………………………………...331

Table B.1 Clique participation scores for building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Cliques are labeled by number across the top. The value is the proportion of clique members to which each node is adjacent………………………………...363

Table B.2 Clique participation scores for building techniques in the Roman period. Cliques are labeled by number across the top. The value is the proportion of clique members to which each node is adjacent……………………………………364

Table B.3 Clique participation scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Cliques are labeled by number across the top. The value is the proportion of clique members to which each node is adjacent……………………367

Table B.4 Clique participation scores for monumental architecture in the Roman period. Cliques are labeled by number across the top. The value is the proportion of clique members to which each node is adjacent…………………………………….368

ABSTRACT

During the Hellenistic and Roman periods three major subregions in the southern Levant emerge: Idumaea, Judaea, and Samaria. Each region was occupied by a different, ostensibly Jewish, ethnic group, each of which were negotiating their identities in an increasingly cosmopolitan and imperial world. Consequently, questions of degrees of Hellenization and Romanization are deeply important in historical and archaeological studies. This study examines how sites within these three subregions were connected to one another in the Hellenistic and Roman periods using building techniques, forms, and décor as the archaeological objects of analysis. This dissertation uses two primary methodological approaches. First, intragroup relations are examined through the application of formal concept analysis. Second, social network analysis is utilized to examine wider macroregional and intergroup connectivity. This is the first application of social network analysis to architectural material from the Greco-Roman Levant and demonstrates the utility of integrating both qualitative and quantitative approaches. The social networks reveal relatively pan-regional conservatism in architectural techniques resulting in high degrees of connection between the three regions in terms of building techniques. When considering building forms and architectural décor, however, the networks decompose into several smaller cliques predicated on different forms of identity. When the social network data are put into dialogue with the semiotics of architecture, this study demonstrates that while there was a regional architectural language, different Jewish communities were “speaking” different architectural dialects, which are proxies for identity. The results from this study demonstrate that although all three regions were occupied by Jewish populations, those that lived in Samaria and Idumaea engaged with Greco-Roman architectural traditions in different ways contra to traditional Judaean proclivities against foreign influences. Furthermore, traditional architectural markers of “Jewishness” in the forms of ritual bathing facilities and synagogues are not as widely distributed across Jewish communities, pointing to internal contestations of what was considered “proper” Jewish practices. These results alter standard interpretations by demonstrating that Jewish communities in the southern Levant in the Hellenistic and Roman periods were not monolithic in how they (re)defined their identities, which were deeply influenced by regional, sociocultural, and ethnic affiliations.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

Introduction

This dissertation focuses on the urban social connectivity amongst the peoples of the southern Levant (Palestine), with specific focus on the regions of Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea, during the Hellenistic (including the Ptolemaic, Seleukid, and Hasmonean Periods) and the

Roman Period (from the Principate to the Dominate). From an historical perspective, external imperial administrations — beginning with the Assyrians and continued under Neo-Babylonians,

Achaemenid, Ptolemaic, Seleukid, and finally Roman suzerainty —generally understood this part of the Levant as a relatively unified geopolitical and sociocultural region. The Assyrians were the first to organize the Levant this way and referred to the regions south of the Phoenicians and west of the Euphrates as “Eber-Nari,” a name and regional identification that was preserved by the successive Neo-Babylonians and Achaemenids, though there was a provincial division between Samaria and Yehud. The Greek Hellenistic kingdoms likewise continued this tradition, with some amendments that shifted over time or by dynasty. Greek kingdoms generally referred to the same territory (but with the notable exclusion of the Aramaean and Syrian regions in the deserts of Syria and Jordan) as either “Syria” or “Koile-Syria.” The territorial extent of the

Hasmonean kingdom at its zenith included nearly the entirety of the southern Levant and is sometimes called Eretz-Israel.1 Lastly, the Romans, though the region was reorganized several times, regarded the region as Palestina or Judaea. Thus, from essentially the 8th century BCE to

1 An older, if imprecise term, that refers to the same general areas in the southern Levant that constituted the territories of the United Monarchies, the independent kingdoms of Israel and Judah, the Hasmoneans, and the Herodians.

the 4th century CE, a period which spans more than 1,000 years, these three regions in the southern Levant were conceptualized by successive empires as belonging to a rather unified geopolitical entity, the demographics of which included many ethnic groups but most especially was constituted by Jewish populations. One of the most important concepts in this study is that of Jewishness. In the same way that Mediterranean scholars have positioned Greekness and

Romanness to be proxies for how peoples engaged with Greek and Roman culture, especially in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, Jewishness refers to the ways in which the ethnocultural groups of the southern Levant engaged in a shared, if differentiated, set of religious beliefs.

There is no concept of “Jewish” that exists at this point, but it is useful to frame discussions about differential articulations of Jewish practice, termed here as “Jewishness,” that is a formative process for what emerges as Judaism and the Jewish people in the Hellenistic and

Roman periods (see, for example, discussions on this by Levine 1998, 2009; Schwartz 2001).

Because these different empires all conceptualized the southern Levant as a unified territory, the regional continuity that persisted through different and subsequent empires implies that the people who occupied the area were understood by imperial administrations to be relatively cohesive in terms of ethno-linguistic, cultural, and religious practices. Otherwise, they likely would have been divided into wholly different administrative regions as was standard practice in imperial administration. Maintaining ethnic continuity is a fairly standard imperial practice that spans time: generally speaking, an empire tries to keep like people together, though there are of course notable exceptions to this practice like those found in Assyrian and Inkan imperial ideology. While it is true that there were semi-independent governorships in the southern Levant

(notably that of Samaria and of Yehud), the larger region was not fractured into smaller official imperial territories. Furthermore, despite the people of the southern Levant sharing to some

degree ethnic and linguistic ties as well as religious and cultural practices — namely those that would develop into Jewish peoples — internal divisions are noted in historical sources, sometimes going as far as not only to identify different people living in the region as different variations, but as different people altogether. This creates a bit of a puzzling situation: if the southern Levant was comprised of culturally cohesive population then we might suggest that regional subdivisions noted in historical sources should have been based on a real experienced or perceived phenomenon. We know there are historical ethnic subdivisions; the question remains if these subdivisions have a signature that extended into the material record.

This study seeks to explore these seemingly contradictory points by examining the degrees to which peoples in the southern Levant were connected to one another in the way that the built environments were manifested in different places. On the one hand, because ancient empires tended to organize the region into one singular geopolitical area, it seems at first blush rather obvious that the various people in the study region were connected to one another; after all, empires do not generally organize their territories to compel groups with significant differences to live together unless there is a specific imperial policy to the contrary (i.e. the Assyrian or

Inkan imperial philosophy). On the other hand, throughout the Hellenistic and Roman periods, a growing number of different “ethnoi” (ethnic or tribal groups) who inhabited these regions appear in ancient sources, indicating that people sharing the region were either self-identifying as different from their neighbors or were different enough from one another that ancient authors spoke of them as different people. By looking at architecture, which is a large immobile expression of group identity, this study seeks to determine precisely to what degree subregions that had different ethnic groups were connected and how we might not just be able to qualify but also quantify these connections.

Identity in Ancient Mediterranean Studies: A Brief Overview

Perhaps two of the most mercurial concepts to study in ancient Mediterranean and Near

Eastern archaeology are identity and ethnicity, particularly in the periods of far-flung empires that spanned the breadth of the Mediterranean and Western Asia which encompassed many ethnic groups. Much ink has been spilled in how ethnicity and identity was understood in the ancient Mediterranean writ large (Cifani et al. 2012; Gruen 2011; Hales and Hodos 2010;

McInerney 2014) or in regional studies, and scholars are now beginning to examine the questions of identity and ethnicity within a cosmopolitan framework (Levan, Payne, and Weiswieler 2016).

Research on identity and ethnicity in the ancient Mediterranean is not a radical concept; in fact, this project fits well within the recent increased attention toward these subjects in Mediterranean archaeology. This project, however, will examine identity in three crucial ways that are different: first, that it will consider the construction of identity in a singularly unified geographic region in which many ethnic groups were present; second, it will examine how the process of identity construction changed (or did not change) diachronically; and third it will use a line of evidence, architecture, which has not considered at length before.

Mediterranean archaeologists have given much attention to Hellenization and Romanization, defined respectively as the “process” by which indigenous peoples “became” or acted more

Greek or Roman respectively. Studies on Hellenization are especially focused on three primary areas: the Hellenization of Rome, Anatolia and of Judaea (Hengel 1980; Goodman 1998; Jouguet and Dobie 1978; Lomas 1995; Wallace-Hadfull 1998). Romanization has likewise received a high degree of attention, especially in the Roman West (MacMullen 2000; Millett 1990; Wood and Queiroga 1992). The bibliography on both Hellenization and Romanization is extensive

indeed, and there is no need to discuss it here because the primary purpose of this project is not to refute or redefine these terms but rather to engage in new ways with them. If a bit laconic, it must suffice to state that there has been and remains an intense interest in concepts of identity in the ancient Mediterranean, from both the perspectives of the colonizing and the colonized.

For as much as these prior studies have been seminal in understanding how ancient peoples navigated new social identities, there is far less effort to quantify the degrees of change. Instead, identity is often treated as a binary — that peoples either became “the other” or how little “the other” influenced local populations. More problematically, objects that are “the other” are taken to be singular markers of identity and hybridization (blending two cultural aspects but keeping the original cultural intent intact) and are often treated as a secondary result, not as a process itself. Creolization (blending two or more cultural aspects and redefining all into an entirely new cultural aspect) is often not considered at all. For example, the presence of a Greek column in a

Jewish synagogue does not indicate a “this” or “that” story. The Greek column does not imply that the congregation was practicing a Hellenizing form of Judaism, just as the synagogue alone does not imply that they were rejecting Greek culture. Instead, it demonstrates that both are equally plausible and we should exercise caution in framing our interpretations in a binary manner. We should be more aware of the degrees of complexity in identity studies, especially in imperial studies in the ancient world.

This is not to say that under recent years the entire idea of Hellenization and Romanization have not come under scrutiny. Indeed, the limitations of concepts such as hybridization, creolization, indigeneity and ethnogenesis have become problematic across the discipline of archaeology in a whole range of chronological and regional foci (Voss 2015). Nevertheless, it would be useless to jettison the themes altogether rather than engage with them in thoughtful and

purposeful ways. Terminology can tacitly lay bare the underpinning of assumptions. By way of proxy, there is an imprecision in terminology in Greek chronologies that could be rectified. In the Orientalizing Period, scholars have argued that Greeks were heavily influenced by the cultural cache of the East but have stressed that it was a process of cognizant choices undertaken by the Greeks in what they would adopt, adapt or reject. In other words, it was a process of negotiating how they saw themselves and how they fit that identity into a larger worldview.

There is a difference then between describing the period as the Orientalizing Period rather than as the Oriental Period; the former implies that it is an ongoing process and emphasizes the choice of the borrowing (Greek) culture from the lender (Near Eastern) culture. To name it the Oriental

Period would suggest that the Greeks became Near Eastern. Similarly, but within a different historical period, the use of the term “Hellenistic” or “Roman” rather than the “Hellenizing” or

“Romanizing” Periods suggest a finality rather than a process; it positions Greekness or

Romanness as dominant, normative, and hegemonic. The reality, however, is that during both periods there was a process of identity formation. While I am under no illusion that I will successfully rename well-entrenched naming conventions such as Orientalizing and Hellenistic

(nor do I intend to), I do maintain the position that we must be aware of implicit differences between a process which is dynamic and one that is static. It is more accurate to call the

Hellenistic Period the Hellenizing Period or the Roman Period the Romanizing Period because this was a time in which different cultures engaged in a larger cosmopolitan world and actively negotiated their identities. It is this process that this project wishes to seek: to explore precisely to what degree groups engaged in articulations of identity through local architecture and to determine if the qualities of networked urban landscapes that can point to communities of shared identities and help understand if these networks changed diachronically.

Building Identity through Networks: Architecture, Identity, and Connectedness

The study will, at its core, examine the construction of group identity. Indeed, as Insoll

(2007) suggests, there can be little doubt that a principle concern of archaeology has always been about identity. Traditionally, the identification of groups (usually ethnic) was achieved by the identification and mapping of material culture, particularly with fossiles directeurs, and it was presumed that the presence of a shared cache of objects between or amongst multiple sites signaled a shared cultural group. With this framework, groups were seen as bounded and homogenous and thus changes to material culture could only be understood as either the diffusion (often imperialistic) or through the physical movement of peoples (Lucy 2005). Current approaches in anthropological archaeology, however, tend to understand identity as processes that function on many scales, thus indicating that the 1:1 marker of ‘object :: singular signaler of identity’ is problematic. Let us imagine a fictional example from our study area: the presence of

Greek or Roman pottery in a home decorated with a menorah. Such a finding would complicate archaeological interpretation. Were the occupants colonists inhabiting an old Jewish home? Were they Jews who happened to like Greek and Roman pottery? Were they religious or cultural converts? Traditional approaches might identify these as Hellenized or Romanized Jews, but the solution can be far more complicated. The overreliance on binary markers can convolute a historical reality, and we must always remember that archaeology is, by definition, a proxy for past behavior.

The modern archaeology of identity “is essentially concerned with the complex process of attempting to recover an insight into the generation of self at a variety of levels: as an individual, within a community and in public and private contexts” (Insoll 2007: 31). The archaeology of identity does not necessitate the exclusion of political and economic processes; indeed, these can

form marks of identity on their own (Insoll 2007). Similarly, identity is not necessarily constrained to ethnicity. Religion, for example, is a powerful marker of identity that can and does transcend ethnicity and socioeconomic status. Thus, it is imperative to stress that the construction of identity is multivalent and is not necessarily bound up only in terms of ethnicity. Identity also extends beyond just practices. The notion that evidence of a particular practice as indicative of a marker for identity is too simplistic, given that “practices are not identities, and while people may adopt practices affiliated to one group, that does not signal their automatic membership of that group” (Casella and Fowler 2005: 7). It is the very process of negotiation manifested in material articulations that archaeologists discern, as singular virginal identities are often absent

(Casella and Fowler 2005). Up until fairly recently, however, archaeologists have been surprisingly reticent to discuss matters of cosmopolitanism and multiculturalism, tending to frame archaeological constructions of identity either as a process of becoming like another (i.e.

Hellenization or Romanization) or in terms of active rejection; additionally, this often sets up a false directionality of top-down influence, as in both of these instances it is the receiving or borrowing group that is examined. Rather than binarize the construction of identity or consign directionality, archaeologists should try to approach identity from a different perspective: to attempt to identify people who make conscious choices to appear and act the same, to explore the different scales at which these practices are maintained and in which they are variable, and finally to understand these processes diachronically (Lucy 2005). Fortunately, these are all features that are identifiable within a social network of affiliation. Finally, Naoíse Mac Sweeny

(2009, 2011) suggests that identity does not necessitate an ethnic composition as is the normative practice in archaeology. Since ethnicity is a process of reputed kinship based on a shared concept of ethnogensis (i.e. a shared creation account and lineage), using only ethnicity as an explanation

for similarity may obfuscate actual processes. Instead, it should first be established that there is an active and cognizant sense of collective identity and only then explore what may be the causal factor(s). In this way, the multiplicity of social factors (including ethnicity) which may act as forces for identity can be considered in the formation of group identity (Mac Sweeney 2009,

2011). It is within this relative framework outlined above in which this study seeks to understand the construction of identity, including but not necessarily limited to ethnicity, in the ancient eastern Mediterranean.

When discussing the Hellenistic and Roman periods in the Near East, it is nearly impossible to disentangle the ideas of “Hellenization” and “Romanization” from any kind of historical or archaeological study on identity. While it is true that the debates on the political and cultural

Hellenization and — to a lesser extent Romanization — of ancient Judaea have for the most part reached a stalemate, the legacy of these debates remains at the forefront for the interpretation of material culture, especially in terms of discussions on identity. For the most part, though, there has not been much of a focus on two particular aspects of identity studies in the region. The first is that there is not, to my knowledge, a study that seeks to understand the social connections between different regional groups in ancient Palestine at both an intragroup and intergroup scale.

There have been many studies on how various ethnic groups or subregions have negotiated identity during the Hellenistic and Roman periods, but such studies are generally more focused on how these groups interacted with who was ruling them rather than how they were connected to other local social groups (Edwards and McCollough 1997; Hengel and Markschies 1989;

Feldman 1986, 1993; Fischer and Tal 2003; Hengel 1980; Berlin 2011; Halpern-Zylberstein

1990; Levine 1998; Martin 2007; Meyers 1976; Nitschke 2007). Consequentially, the resulting studies demonstrate how various groups or regions might have engaged with imperial rulers but

do not explore as much how they also interacted with other local groups or regions that were likewise engaging with the same imperial rulers. Additionally, what studies have been done on identity during the Hellenistic and Roman periods tend to be qualitative rather than quantitative.

The resulting gap in knowledge and method allows for the utilization of social network analysis as a innovative approach to examine questions of social connections in the southern Levant that have not been undertaken to date.

Secondly, architecture has not been used as a metric for studying social connectedness in the southern Levant during this period (or any other period, for that matter). Architecture has long been a key aspect of archaeological discourse and of course has been studied at length in the

Greco-Roman Levant, and there is no need to discuss previous architectural studies here as they are quite extensive and a review is provided elsewhere. In the Levant, however, architecture is generally studied in a more traditionalist approach in which stylistic choices, decor, construction techniques and political signaling are all considered (Braemer 1982a; Peleg-Barkat 2014; Fischer and Tal 2003; Fine et al. 1996; Holum and Lapin 2011; Netzer and Laureys-Chachy 2006;

Betancourt 1977; Peleg-Barkat 2016, 2011; Regev 2011; Richardson 2004a; Segal 1997). What is missing are studies that specifically and explicitly deal with architecture as signalers for group identity at mesoscale levels (i.e. patterns of signaling at the community level embedded within a larger regional entity), as previous studies utilizing architecture often examine the microscale

(i.e. specific signalers within a single building or at the domestic level) or macroscale (i.e. larger regional patterns). Architecture, both vernacular and monumental, has been used as an expression of identity in other regional studies, especially in the archaeology of the Americas, the Aegean, and of Africa (Hall 2012; Knapp 2009; Riggs 2007; Rodning 2015; Schwartz 2016;

Springer and Lepofsky 2011; Swenson 2012; Temple 2013; Voss 2005). However, architecture

as the principle line of evidence for either social connectedness or for identity expression has not been done in the Greco-Roman Levant, which this study endeavors to specifically address. In order to examine connectedness at an intragroup and intergroup level, architectural features are input into a quantifiable method (social network analysis) in order to examine the degrees to which social groups were connected to one another. I suggest that by examining patterns of built environments in various communities over time, it is possible to begin to understand the degrees to which different communal groups reacted both to one another and to their imperial suzerains and how groups negotiated their own identities along political, ethnic or religious lines. This approach, which blends an anthropology of architecture, archaeology, and quantitative methods sheds new light on processes of identity in the built environment in the ancient southern Levant.

Research Design

Primary Research Questions and Data Utilized

This project seeks to remedy a gap in scholarship by analyzing intergroup relationships via social networks to understand how group identities were articulated through successive imperial phases. Most previous scholarship approaches the issue of identity formation as processes which situates the archaeological record as a consequence of change. This study suggests that identity and materiality are entangled within one another, and it is these very processes which shape identity. The primary guiding research questions for this project are twofold. First, how does the use of architecture and the development of local built environments reveal processes of identity formation at an intergroup level through the adoption, adaption or rejection of imperial architectural traditions? Second, when architectural features are inputted into a social network, what does this reveal about networked social cohesion?

In order to answer this underlying research question, there are a few operating assumptions and theories. First, that architecture is a means by which people display and convey their identities, and that these identities are a function of several factors, including but not limited to religion, ethnicity, class and gender. Second, that architecture is an archaeological object that can be studied per se and thus the built environment can be subjected to the same kinds of statistical modeling as other archaeological artifacts. Finally, in using the theoretical framework architectural semiotics, it is possible to animate the built environment in such a way that architecture is a social category for social network analysis; these assumptions will be explored in greater detail below. With those assumptions in place, I intend to answer the research question through the following hypotheses:

a) First, that groups expressed their identity through distinct building practices in

what is understood as a homogenous geopolitical entity. This would be expressed

by evidence of cliques in a social network analysis.

b) Second, that differences in architectural traditions, while a priori may be assumed

to be along ethnic lines, stem from a number of causal factors such as religious,

political or economic affiliations.

c) Third, that the different imperial regimes interacted with their subjects in different

ways, and that these differences are reflected in the architecture of groups.

The null hypothesis in this study is that a social network analysis in fact yields a network that is either entirely disconnected or entirely integrated. Such a result, however, would still convey useful data (implying, for example, extreme social connectedness that transcends group identities, the movement of itinerant craftsmen, the organizing power of the state over urban environments, etc).

Many studies on connectedness utilize smaller pieces of the archaeological assemblage, such as ceramics and highly portable objects, or focus on less material concepts such as networks of ideas. To be sure, there is nothing wrong with using these data, but it is my view that there is something about the permanence of architecture which speaks to a different kind of relationship between communities. Pottery, by its very use economically (as either vessels to trade goods or as ship ballasts), will achieve a widespread distribution on that merit alone. The same is true for coins. Small finds are better situated for identity studies, because they tend to hold specific value to the producer and the consumer and tend to end up in specific depositional contexts such as tombs, implying that they are less transactional, less mobile, and less disposable. But each of these — pottery, coins, and small finds — are often transient objects by nature and thereby can achieve wide distribution patterns. Architecture, on the other hand, is a purposeful and intensive construction which is reflective of social mores and/or local practices and is designed for at least some degree of perpetuity. Architecture, especially that which is monumental, demands higher human capital and social organization than the household level economies of pottery or small finds manufacture.2 Architecture is the built environment; it is the artificial world that humans create in which we live and perform the rituals, activities, and behaviors of daily life. In general, people do not build buildings, no matter their purpose, without purposeful consideration that is locally contextual.

This study focuses on two broad aspects of architecture: architectural form and décor as well as building techniques. Architectural forms includes temples, administrative and jurisprudence buildings, luxury and amenities facilities (such as baths, theaters, roads, aqueducts, and the like),

2 Of course, coin minting is a notable exception because this can only function at the state level. Another exception might be mass-manufactured pottery or glassware, and while this is not necessarily indicative of state control, it is a feature of relatively few ancient societies. The principle point still stands though, as coins as well as mass- manufactured pottery and glassware is still designed by intent to circulate widely.

unique structures (such as Roman triumphal arches), military fortifications, and palaces. I also consider features such as city planning and civic design as well as architectural ornamentation and decor as aspects of monumental architecture. Examples from the study area include well- known sites from the Hellenistic period such as Gerizim, Samaria, Ashkelon, Jerusalem, Ramat

Rahel, Merisha, or Bet Shean, or from sites that were (re)founded during the later Roman periods such as Ashkelon, Caesarea Maritima, Sebaste, and Antipatris. At each of these sites, the evidence will come from site and excavation reports.

The second architectural component of the study focuses the technical aspects of architecture, which are far less studied than forms and decoration, especially as it relates to architectural traditions that are the product of nonprofessional or local labor. This is especially true for vernacular, or domestic, architecture. There is often considerable confusion in discussing what one means by folk and vernacular architecture. Following Noble (2007), I define folk architecture as structures created by individuals who are not professions and which follow conventions usually passed down orally and use techniques or styles which have over time become “correct.” Vernacular, on the other hand, encompasses the definition of folk (but adds formal apprenticeships and craftsmen to oral traditions), but which also uses a type of construction technique, orientation, or material considered to be indicative of a given social group, and more precisely (following linguistics) refers to architectural styles that are unique and ubiquitous to a particular area. This should not be confused with traditional architecture, which may include features of vernacular or folk architecture as an homage but which also may include features which are alien.

I do not intend to study every architectural aspect of every site, however. This is not the intent of this study. Rather, the architectural features of sites are coded for social network

analysis in terms of the two broad categories of “architectural forms and décor” and “building techniques,” but I am drawing out specific features of each. For architectural forms and décor, I am looking at a presence/absence of types of buildings and whether they manifested features that are indicative of widely accepted architectural orders of the Hellenistic and Roman world. In terms of building techniques, I am looking specifically at the manner of architectural construction. In examining the aspects of form, decoration, and construction techniques, enough of a variety is present to construct a social network in order to compare how different social groups constructed (literally) identity at both the proximate and state levels. I would also stress a component of architectural studies that is notably absent: function. In general, I do not consider the function of buildings because to do so would be to require additional lines of evidence that I do not explore here (see, for example, the discussion on architectural semiotics in Chapter Two).

It is necessary to have a broad enough scope both spatially and temporally for this project.

This serves two major purposes. First, a wider geographic range ensures that multiple social groups are covered. By examining an historical region within which are multiple subregions, a diverse mix of social groups are included in the study, specifically including Samaritans,

Idumeans, and Judeans. The influences or intrusions of other ethnic groups, such as Itureans,

Aramaeans, Syrians, Nabataeans, and Phoenicians were also present historically. Incorporating more groups in this study allows for an analysis on how various peoples reacted to imperial processes regarding identity formation as well exploring which groups were similar or dissimilar from one another. Thus, I seek to understand, for example, how Samaritans and Judaeans interacted to Hellenistic and Roman rule as much as the Samaritans and Judaeans were connected with one another. More importantly, as discussed above, it is plausible that various relationships might be constructed based on other social factors besides ethnicity. By using a

wide range of regional group affiliation as a base measurement of social relationships, any deviations from expected interactions (i.e. ethnic groups which historically may have interacted with one another in a particular way) which might be observed for in the data would then be a point of investigation to determine what other factors of social behavior may account for observed patterns. Thus, while “ethnicity” provides a baseline measure for how social groups interacted, it is most assuredly is not the only way to define social groups in this study.

Second, a relatively lengthy chronological period, broken into two major phases (Hellenistic and Roman) allows for measures of change over time in relation to two different imperial hegemons. Such a large length of time might prove to be quite difficult with different archaeological materials such as ceramics or other small finds because of the frequency of stylistic changes or because of their inherent transience or mobility on the landscape.

Architecture, on the other hand, is a more static archaeological artifact, and buildings often require lengthy (sometimes decades) construction times and are usually occupied in some way for quite some time (often centuries) before they pass into disuse. Further, it would not suffice to simply measure one particular period because there may be greater patterns which are only revealed with a wider chronology. This diachronic measure is important to understand matters of incorporation and resistance rather than a singular “snapshot” in time.

Methodological and Theoretical Approaches to Connectedness

Mediterranean studies have frequently considered connectedness (Abulafia 2011; Braudel

1972; Broodbank 1993, 2013; Concannon and Mazurek 2016; Hodos 2009; Horden and Purcell

2000; Morris 2003). As more scholarly attention focuses on connectedness, it is becoming increasingly more evident that older models that treat the Mediterranean as a collection of

isolated communities bounded by ethnic, sociocultural, or religious lines are far less effective.

Older models for connectedness tended to stem from patterns of artifact distribution, which previously were sufficient to explain that groups were connected but fails to demonstrate the degrees of connectedness in a meaningful way. The view of connectedness in both the

Mediterranean and Near East, at least in a conceptual sense, is that connectedness is traditionally understood as a qualitative category; while artifact distributions are obviously real archaeological data, what those distributions implicated were typically analyzed qualitatively. What has been lacking until fairly recently in the Mediterranean and the Near East is a rigorous application of qualitative methods in order to better understand connectedness. This study uses two methodological approaches to analyze architectural data: formal concept analysis (also called

Galois Lattices or concept lattices), which relies on the mathematics of lattice theory and is more algebraic, and social network analysis (SNA), which relies on the mathematics of network theory and is more statistical.

Concept Lattices and Formal Concept Analysis

Formal concept lattices, or Galois Lattices, are a mathematical means to express the relationship between attributes in a given dataset. Philosophically, a concept is simply an expression of an idea of some sort; the extension of the concept includes all objects belonging to a concept and the intention includes all the attributes of the concept (Ganter and Wille 1999;

Wille 2005). In fact, much of formal concept analysis has its roots in the philosophical works of

Charles Peirce (Lukose et al. 1997). The most basic formula of a concept lattice is expressed as

퐾 ∶= (퐺, 푀, 퐼), where K is a formal context, G is a set of attributes, M is a set of objects, and I is a binary relationship between G and M, expressed as 퐼 ⊆ 푀 × 퐺. A formal concept is expressed

mathematically as (퐴1, 퐵1) ≤ (퐴2, 퐵2): ⇔ 퐴1 ⊆ 퐴2(⇔ 퐵1 ⊇ 퐵2), where A is an attribute and B is an object. Implications of attribute and object pairs (A and B) are expressed within the intention and extension of one another, expressed as 퐴 → 퐵 (Wille 2005). Using this formula, a concept lattice will establish a hierarchical relationship between attributes and objects in a formal

(i.e. mathematical) way, if and only if certain conditions are met.

When using these basic mathematical theorems, we may read a concept lattice as a formalized expression of a series of relationships between objects and features. This means that all formal concepts within the lattice are expressed as a small circle; the lines are used to follow paths upward or downward, called superconcepts or subconcepts. Objects are expressed below a formal concept (a circle), and attributes are expressed above. This means that an attribute can only be reached by an upwards path from an object only if that object contains that attribute. The lowest circle of a concept lattice is the null concept (and thus, for simplicity can be understood as nothing) while the uppermost circle includes all concepts, objects, and attributes (and thus, for simplicity can be understood as everything). Thus, a concept lattice expresses the relationships between attributes and objects in a formal mathematical paradigm. An implication suggests that every object which possesses attribute A also possess attribute B (Ganter and Wille 1999).

Concepts in a lattice have specific connotations, outlined by Wille (2005): 1) they are not analytical categories, but cognitive units that express how we conceptualize data; 2) they are subjective theories that are formalized through a mathematical theorem; 3) concepts are usually not linked in a rational way or by formal logic (which makes them useful for understanding new ways to conceptualize data); 4) concepts are limited in range and validity but are very useful to understand underlying and implicit principles about how attributes and objects are related to one another; 5) concepts refer to reality, at least in a formal sense, whether they are realized or not,

and have their own specific qualities and histories. Concept lattices are valuable methods to express the way that we expect relationships between and amongst data to look and the actual expression of that data through its algebraic nature. A concept lattice is essentially a two-mode network, in that it expresses two ideas (attributes and objects), but the node is the conceptualization of the object. Formal concept lattices have been encouraged as supplemental to social network analysis (Freeman 1992; Freeman and White 1993) but has received limited attention in archaeological applications (Merrill and Read 2010).

In this study, I use concept lattices to express intragroup organization at the subregional level. This choice was made to formalize the relationship between objects (sites) and architectural features (attributes) in order to better understand the relationship between sites and architectural features within a given subregion. This is applied to the categories of architectural form and décor as well and to building techniques. I chose concept lattices rather than social networks for subregional analysis because social networks function better when there are more data points; social networks are (if a bit essentialist) graphical representations of statistical significance, and statistical significance can be adversely affected with smaller datasets. Concept lattices, on the other hand, can function with much smaller datasets because they are not reliant on statistical equations. Furthermore, diachronic change is not necessarily a key question at the subregional level, but rather simply the presence or absence of architectural features at sites, so it is not necessary to consider chronology as a factor. Diachronic change is considered at the macrolevel to determine connectedness among different groups within the geographic scope of the study. In this study the concept lattice should be understood as the smallest scale of analysis which conceptualizes intragroup relations, at least as defined by formal geographic boundaries.

Thus, the concept lattice does not answer the questions of identity or of diachronic change within

a subregion but it does provide a metric of analysis of expected relationships against which the social network analysis can better seek to explain the key questions of identity and diachronic change in the entire region.

Social Network Analysis

The second methodological approach used in this dissertation is social network analysis

(SNA). SNA differs from formal concept analysis in that the former relies on graph theory pioneered in the 1960s and 1970s (Wasserman and Faust 1994) while formal concept analysis is based on lattice theory. More formally, the mathematics used in SNA are more statistical than algebraic. This means that SNA can provide a very useful methodological approach to examine the archaeological record. SNA allows for both quantifiable and qualifiable interpretations to exist at the same time because the focus is not inherently on the nodes of a network but rather on the ties that connect them (Brughmans 2010; Mills 2017; Östborn and Gerding 2014). In other words, while the method of SNA is inherently mathematical and formal, because the interpretation is on the edges between nodes there is an inherent degree of subjective analysis that is borne through objective affiliations. While formal concept analysis is especially useful for the smaller intragroup interaction and subregional scale, I have chosen SNA for the macroscale questions of the study because social network analysis is better suited for the larger scales of regional interaction and questions of intergroup interactions (Brughmans et al. 2015) and for detecting cliques (Hoffman et al. 2018).

Archaeologists have long concerned themselves with interregional interactions. This could take the form of studies that conceptualized the ideas of networks without taking the rigorous and specific application of network analysis (Broodbank 1993; Horden and Purcell

2000; Malkin 2011; Rebay-Salisbury et al. 2015). These previous approaches to network studies, while seminal and immensely important, tended to frame research questions rather specifically.

Frequently, these kind of studies on regional interaction have often applied processual or world systems approaches, both of which can fail to address underlying methodological or theoretical problems or position the evidence through a particular perspective. Processual approaches tend to ignore the agency and choice of peoples which shape interactions while world systems approaches focus on intersocial (between various groups) rather than intrasocial (within a social group) interactions, and both maintain problematic core-periphery paradigms (Knappett 2013,

2011). This means that two key factors in connectedness using these two paradigms are often missing: how and why social groups chose to express their own identities or, if these questions were posed, they were framed in an imperial or colonial context.

Social network analysis, by contrast, resolves or mitigates several of the problems inherent in these approaches to interregional and intraregional interactions. This is for several reasons: they do not demand directionality of influences; they neither honor nor require boundaries, real or imagined; they can be both relational and spatial and do not accede to determinism as a causal factor for social change; and finally they are scalar, appropriate for studies as small as the household to as large as states. (Knappet 2013, 2011). In particular,

Knappett (2011) identifies five major advantages which network analyses offer: 1) they inherently explore the relations between things and people by their very structure; 2) they are both physically and socially spatial; 3) they can explore data on multiple scales; 4) they marry things and people, so neither is looked at independent of the other; and 5) they can explore temporal change. Archaeologists have often dealt with “long-distance communication,” which typically is defined as “contact” or “exchange,” implying episodic intersections that have both

beginnings and ends and which had directionality. But this is rarely how interregional interactions took place nor does this capture the potential vibrancy of intrasocial group behavior which can artificially indicate monolithic group identity. Exchange flows should not be characterized as discontinuous events nor as inherently directional, but as a continuous ebb and flow that changes in degrees of intensity, mode and course (Sindbæk 2013). Relationships, both abstract and concrete, are made manifest through things. Thus, objects that both define and are entangled within these relationships cannot be fully understood independent of the connected whole, nor can the whole be understood without the assemblage of objects (Brughmans 2013).

Network analysis strives to quantitatively define such relationships in order to provide a formal conceptualization by which the relationships within can be qualified. Because it is not the nodes that are the units of analysis but rather the edges (the ties between the nodes) it is possible to quantify by means of statistical significance the relationship of the data while at the same time qualify (e.g. interpret) the reasons for connectedness.

The explicit application of social network analysis in archaeology is rapidly gaining attraction and are used to answer a suite of archaeological questions in that integrates both traditionalist qualitative questions and interpretations with quantitative methodological approaches, ranging from identity studies (Blake 2013, 2014; Collar 2013a; Hart and

Engelbrecht 2012; Pailes 2014), spatial distribution of material objects and ceramics (Coward

2010, 2013; Hart 2012; Iacono 2016; Larson 2013; Mills et al. 2015; Östborn and Gerding 2015), spatial analyses and communication networks (Collar 2007, 2013b; Evans et al. 2009; Hill et al.

2015; Swanson 2003), models of mobility and migration (Graham 2006; Knappett 2018; Jenkins

2001; Mills et al. 2016), food distribution networks (Crabtree 2015; Crabtree et al. 2017; Mills

2016), diachronic change (Mills et al. 2013a; Mills et al. 2013b; Munson and Macri 2009),

entanglement theory (Hodder and Mol 2016), and models of collapse or resilience (Borck et al.

2015; Golitko et al. 2012). These are but a fraction of the kinds of network analyses carried out by archaeologists in the Mediterranean, Near East, American Southwest, American Northeast,

Mesoamerica, and Andean mountains. Because of the vibrancy of questions that social network analysis can be used to address, I have chosen to use SNA to answer the larger unifying questions of identity expression at the regional level and how these networks changed over time.

The specific methodology used for matrix construction and social networks in this study are detailed below in later chapters. The methods for social network analysis are fairly well-defined and there is no need to discuss them at length here (but see Bentley and Maschner 2003; Borgatti et al. 2013; Brandes et al. 2005; Breiger 2004; Carrington et al. 2005; Domínguez and Hollstein

2014; Evans 2016; Fulminante 2014; Knoke et al. 2008; McCulloh et al. 2013; Wasserman and

Faust 1994).

Theoretical Framework

In order to properly evaluate a social network, we must have in place a theoretical paradigm within which we can interpret the statistical results. This may take a number of theoretical models, usually stemming from the kinds of questions that are being asked. For example, in a study that examines the rise of ethnic groups in Bronze Age Italy, Blake (2013) demonstrates the union between theory and social network analysis by utilizing the theoretical model of path dependence which is then quantified through social networks. For this study, I focus on the semiotics of architecture as the guiding theoretical paradigm. Using language as markers of identity and modeled via social network analysis has been done in different fields, including linguistics (Hulsen et al. 2002; Lanza and Svendsen 2007; Lippi-Green 1989) and

archaeology (Terrell 2010, 2011). For this study, I posit that we might be able to create an architectural grammar; if we construct the built environment in this way, we might be able to suggest that architectural languages are reflections of identity and that these can be characterized in a social network analysis. This is explained at further length in the subsequent chapter.

Scope of the Study: Exclusions and Limitations

Over the course of this project I chose to narrow the scope of the study area, both to make the project more manageable but also reduce the potential for noisy data by including too wide a geographical focus and too long a chronology. When this project was in its seminal phases, I ambitiously sought to study the Levant in nearly its entirety (including Syria and Phoenicia) and

I wanted to include the Achaemenid period as well as the Hellenistic and Roman periods. This desire stemmed from an observation that beginning with the Assyrian conquest of the Levant, each subsequent empire tended to keep the general organizational framework of imperial administration in place and that the Levant was understood to be a unified geopolitical region with several subregions (as discussed above). This is why I originally aimed to include the wider

Levant within the geographic scope of the study. Additionally, arguably the first real “global” empire (at least in terms of the Mediterranean, Western and Central Asia) was the Achaemenid

Empire, and so it seemed like the logical starting point for the chronological study. However, it became quickly evident that there was a critical problem if we were to include the Achaemenid

Empire: the Persian period simply did not leave behind a rich enough architectural record, at least in Levant, that would allow for a robust enough dataset. While this is not to say there is no research done on Persian architecture (Nylander 1970; Shenkar 2007; Hensel et al. 2012; Canepa

2015, 2018; Ashrafi and Naghizadeh 2016), these studies tend to focus on Persian architecture on the Iranian Plateau or in cross-cultural studies limited to usually Mesopotamia and Anatolia.

Evidence for the Persian Period in the southern Levant, at least in terms of architectural data, is quite scant and limited to just a few places, such as at the notable Persian administrative center at

Tel Kedesh in the Upper Galilee (Sharon and Berlin 2003). Thus, it became clear that the chronological scope needed to narrow, which is why the Iron Age and Persian periods are only discussed tangentially with a sharper focus on the Hellenistic and Roman periods.

Additionally, in order to narrow the geographic scope, I chose to focus on the southern

Levant, an area that was ostensibly occupied by “Jewish” populations. There are a number of other ethnic groups, broadly defined, who occupied the Levant, including Jews, Syrians,

Phoenicians, Cypriots, and the Arab tribes. In removing the obvious ethnic divisions by focusing specifically on the southern Levant, this study more closely examines one specific ethnic group

(Jews) and examines regional variation within a larger population.3 The focus is on the subregions Idumaea, Judaea, Samaria all regions that were occupied by significant Jewish populations. The exclusion of the Galilee and of the Golan is intentional despite both areas having extensive Jewish populations. From a pragmatic perspective, the Galilee and the Golan has received far more attention, both in scholarship and in excavation, than Samaria and especially Idumaea. Secondly, there are historical reasons to specifically examine Samaria,

Judaea, and Idumaea. All three regions, as early as the Neo-Babylonian period, were independently recognized as distinct geopolitical entities, while the Galilee and the Golan were attached to Syria or Phoenicia. Furthermore, the region of Galilee and the archaeological signatures for identity has been thoroughly studied (Aviam 2004; Berlin 2011; Chancey 2002;

Horsley 1996; Jensen 2012; Leibner 2009; Zangenberg et al. 2012). While this study is more

3 Note that I use the terms “Jewish” and “Jews” loosely here. In actuality, there was not a formalization of these terms until much later and people who participated in the worship of Yahweh were in the process of establishing what were “proper” forms of worship and which were not.

concerned with the interaction between local groups, the Galilee would present regional redundancy given that the Galilee is well known both historically and archaeologically to have been settled by some non-Jews in the early Hellenistic period but extensively settled by Jews from Judaea during Hasmonean and especially Roman periods following the two revolts.

Galilean material looks Judaean, and this has been well attested archaeologically.4 This means that the areas of the southern Negev, the Decapolis, and Phoenicia are also excluded, primarily on the basis that these were well-known ethnically and culturally distinct regions — belonging to

Nabataean (Arab) culture, Greek, and Phoenician respectively — and this is not the guiding question of this study though they would perhaps be of interest in a larger macroscale study of the entirety of the Levant. The choice to focus on specifically the regions of Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea allows for a closer examination of three facets: a) to see to what degrees these different articulations of “Jewishness” expressed identity through their architecture at the intergroup and intragroup levels; b) how different kinds of Jewish populations negotiated their identities in imperial contexts with a specific interest in the division between Samaritan and

Judaean Jewry and the forced Judaization of the Edomite populations; and c) how expressions of identity through architecture changed over time.

The second limitation I would like to draw attention to is that of the nature of the architectural evidence. First, I would like to be clear that I am not seeking to rework how we understand Hellenistic and Roman architecture, nor do I seek to subvert long-held positions regarding the subject. Instead, I wish to work within a relatively well-accepted body of literature in order to suggest that we can use already discussed material to reexamine old questions or create new ones entirely. That said, the nature of architectural evidence is fairly fragmentary. Of

4 The intense interest in the Galilee, of course, has very much to do with the origins of Jesus and the development of both rabbinic Judaism and the splintering of Christianity, both of which were situated in the Galilee.

course, this is true for all archaeological studies; we are, after all, limited to what we can find and recover. Other material remains, however, such as ceramics, small finds, faunal remains, lithics, etc., are generally far more numerous in the archaeological record. Studies utilizing these data can get sample sizes in the hundreds, if not thousands. This is simply not the case for architectural data. Not only are buildings far less pervasive in the archaeological record, many times what does remain behind is quite fragmentary, is in secondary use, or is in poor preservation and, rather frustratingly, is often glossed over in excavation reports unless what remains is fairly substantial. Due to this, the sample size for this study is necessarily more constricted. In terms of statistical significance, this means that expected distributions are less certain. However, the use of social network analysis is fairly forgiving in terms of sample size because interpretations of networks can be scaled accordingly. Nevertheless, it should be stated that the sample size for this kind of study is necessarily more constrained because of the relative paucity of architectural evidence in comparison to other archaeological data.

Lastly, a final limitation is the kind of architectural data that was sampled and that which was not. First, for this study, all data that I used was drawn from published surveys and site reports, books, and articles to which I had access. What is generally not included is any information in salvage excavations and surveys or in unpublished reports that are held in the archives of the

Israel Antiquities Authority, the Department of Antiquities of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, or the Palestinian Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage. Another important resource that I refer to for site reports with regularity is the New Encyclopedia of Archaeological

Excavations in the Holy Land (edited by Stern 2008), a five-volume compendium of archaeological sites in Israel, Palestine, and parts of Jordan. Many of the entries found in this collection have not been published elsewhere and each entry is usually written by the excavators,

who are often the state archaeologists for the District of Samaria and Judea and the District of the

Negev for the Israel Antiquities Authority. Other material is difficult (in some cases impossible) to access off-site, and in the case of salvage reports often does not have substantial enough information in terms of architectural material to include in this study. Secondly, I did not include industrial architecture, primarily wine and oil presses, in this study. While it was a difficult decision to exclude this material, the principle reason was because to include industrial architecture would unnecessarily introduce many disparate and unconnected nodes into the social network due to the rural nature of many presses and farmsteads. Finally, I did not include architectural features that are only attested in historical sources. This obviously constrains the material to some degree (and in the case of Gaza it completely eliminates the site since nothing architectural survives from Gaza which was undoubtedly an extremely important city based on numerous historical attestations), but without knowing the kind of buildings present, the techniques used and the specific ornamentation then they would negatively influence or otherwise falsely manipulate the dataset if they were entered.

Summary and Shape of the Dissertation

The primary focus on this dissertation is an examination of the degrees of social connectedness between sites in the southern Levant from the Hellenistic to the Roman periods.

The guiding questions are firmly rooted in previous literature that examines, on the one hand, the intersection of Hellenization Romanization and identity in provincial studies, and on the other hand questions of connectedness in Mediterranean archaeology. Though previous studies on specifically the issue of Hellenization and Romanization in the Levant have their own particular issues, rather than suggesting that they have no merit I suggest that we might be able to

reexamine questions presented in antecedent discussions through the new methodological approaches of formal concept lattices and social network analysis. I combine this with a theoretical model centered on the semiotics of architecture as a means to interpret the edges of a social network.

The following chapters will explore the underlying research questions of social connectivity in the southern Levant manifest through architecture, both monumental and vernacular. Chapter Two sets up the guiding theoretical models that I use to guide how I analyze the social networks. In it, I give an overview of the development of architectural semiotics, develop the model of an architectural grammar, and explore the intersection amongst architectural semiotics, materiality, and social networks. Chapter Three gives a short overview of architectural philosophy, urban design, and monumental architecture in the Hellenistic and

Roman periods as well as a survey of domestic architecture that is common in the Greek and

Roman worlds as well as what is found in the Levant during the Hellenistic and Roman periods.

Chapters Four through Six are all formatted in the same way. Each gives an overview of a specific subregion in the southern Levant (Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea), beginning first with an historical overview of the region from Iron IIC/Iron III periods (the terminal Iron Age) up through the Late Roman and Byzantine periods. Each chapter discusses the archaeological evidence of the region, in which I give an overview of regional surveys and enumerate some of the more important sites. I should note that this is not an exhaustive list of all the sites in the network analysis in following sections, but rather an overview of some of the more important sites of the study. The factors that contribute to their importance can be one or a combination of the following: their relative importance in the region, the robustness of the architecture materials that are preserved, their historical importance, or their representational qualities for other sites

(e.g. a well-preserved village that might be typical of the area). Finally, each of these chapters then includes a discussion of intragroup architectural features using formal concept lattices.

Chapter Seven is a macroscale analysis of the southern Levant, compiling all the archaeological material from Chapters Four through Six and situating them within a social network. Finally,

Chapter Eight is a discussion of the results of the study and what both intragroup and intergroup analyses reveal about connectedness in the southern Levant via the built environment.

CHAPTER 2

THE LANGUAGE OF ARCHITECTURE AND CONNECTEDNESS

Introduction

Regional archaeological inquiries are often dominated by the study and distribution of small artifacts such as ceramics, small finds and votives, lithics, coins, or any number of relatively transportable objects. They are, by virtue of their size and function, highly mobile objects, even if that mobility is never actualized. The potential for small artifacts having relatively wide distribution ranges is great and sometimes the furthest reaches of those distributions are only represented by a few objects. Small objects can move through rapid transmission, quite literally passing hand to hand, particularly when robust economic conditions allow for far-flung trade. The mobility of these objects contributes immensely to the transmission of technology and ideas, both of which can have deep cultural implications. Architecture, on the other hand, is generally static on the landscape; the exception to this is, of course, the architecture of nomadic peoples. However, regardless of whether they are static or mobile, buildings and the built environment are purposeful constructions on a manipulated and artificial landscape. Unlike coins or pots, a building, outside of those that are nomadic, cannot be transported, but the idea of a building can be transmitted. Even in cases when separate architectural components are crafted in far-away places, a non-mobile building can only spring up in its final position.1 The built environment thus reflects the social mores of those who design and inhabit the buildings.

1 Of course, this refers to antiquity. In general, ancient buildings were not moved from their original locations, though the Romans did do this quite extensively when they restored or moved earlier Greek temples into new locations. Modern buildings can be moved, and as with the case of Abu Simbel, ancient buildings can be moved and reassembled in different locations using modern technology.

This is not to denigrate the value of small finds assemblages in archaeological discourse, but rather to suggest that there is a fundamental difference in understanding the behaviors centered on those artifacts with high portability and shorter life-uses (generally) and those which are fixed and durable. Nor do I suggest that small artifacts do not convey similar ideals of deep cultural significance; to the contrary, archaeology has long considered small finds to be indicators of ethnic or social identity. The effort in constructing a building and the larger built environment, however, speaks to a level of social penetration that small finds do not. This is because of their inherent permanence, at least in the short-term, in the environments in which people carry out their daily lives. People may possess a small artifact out of happenstance or may have acquired it purposefully; people do not build buildings, no matter their intent, without purposeful consideration of the context, form, function, technique, and decoration of a building both on its own and in relation to those buildings around it.

There are two kinds of environments that humans can inhabit: the natural and the artificial. Either can dictate human behavior; a behavior that might be acceptable in one may not be acceptable in another, or rituals may be contingent on being in one environment or the other.

For example, rituals associated with the wilderness are often specifically concerned with purification and separation and cannot, by definition, be carried out in urban spaces. The built environment is an artificial environment which is constituted by architecture, open or designated spaces within an urban context, and artificial spaces designed to invoke nature like gardens and parks. Collectively, the built environment is the largest expression of human thought. How we move through space, both that of a building and that of the spaces between buildings, conditions how we understand the world around us. Thus, in many ways architecture itself patterns human behavior. We understand where and how behaviors and rituals occur because we understand their

position in space. Thus, the built environment frames, delineates, and sometimes prohibits the social contexts of human behavior at the level of both the individual and the collective. The built environment often deems what behaviors are normal and aberrant, what is sacred and profane, and what is public and private. The kinds of behaviors socially accepted in each of these spheres is precisely determined by those spheres. The result is that the built environment is a cultural expression that is mutable across both time and regions. These behaviors, contexts, and cues create cultural schemata, a kind of blueprint on how a collective group of people define themselves. In other words, because the built environment carries with it a set of cultural signposts, architecture is a means by which humans convey identity — political, religious, economic, ethnic, or otherwise — and frequently becomes a defining feature of a particular group of people. Thus, architecture engenders a sense of belonging not just to a people but also a place perhaps more than any other form of human expression.

Anthropology and Archaeology Meet Architecture

Architecture has often been at the forefront of some of the largest theoretical debates in anthropology, particularly beginning in the second half of the twentieth century (Allen 2014;

Buchli 2013; Ingold 2013). These broad academic discussions, while generally not considering architecture as the raison d'être, did use architecture as a means by which their debates could be constructed and deconstructed. Several scholars have demonstrated how anthropological theorists have used concepts of architecture as central metaphorical components for their process of argumentation (Buchli 2013; Leach 1997; Mallgrave and Goodman 2011). This ranged from

Levi-Strauss' (1963) analogy of the house to understand structuralism, to the phenomenological concepts of the body and space being intimately intertwined (Bourdieu 1977; Foucault 1995;

Giddens 1984) to considerations of deconstructionism as an architectural process (Derrida et al.

1997; Leach 1997; Wigley 1993). The authors who were engaged in these larger academic debates did not consider architecture to be a fundamental component to study on its own, but rather approached architecture to illustrate an underlying theoretical model. Thus, architecture initially was primarily utilized as a metaphor for anthropological and philosophical discourses.

Later anthropological approaches to architecture sought to understand spatial behavior, termed as environment-behavior studies, as put forward by Amos Rapoport (Smith 2011; Rapoport 2001,

2006). Spatial theorists recognized that studies of the built environment merge both the physical and the metaphysical because the built environment merges the person to the material and spatial studies sought to merge both method and theory into a comprehensive approach.

These theoretical dialogues and early applications were seminal toward the recognition of an “anthropology of architecture,” in which architecture can become the primary evidence for understanding human behavior. And yet, even though architecture is so often used literally or metaphorically, there is much left to be desired with an anthropological approach to architecture

(Allen 2014; Ingold 2013). As Ingold (2013) points out, when architecture is used as a means for analysis, “architecture” is understood as “buildings” and are therefore an ethnographic unit that can be analyzed, resulting in an anthropology of architecture rather than with architecture. We are then tasked with determining precisely what defines an “anthropology of architecture” and what we might consider to be the best way to approach architecture as its own line of inquiry.

Putting anthropology and architecture into dialogue with one another endeavors a shift from architectural studies simply focusing on aesthetics and design and anthropological studies from focusing on ethnography and cultural praxis to one that suggests an intersection between the two.

The built environment and its constituent parts of space and architecture are in fact deeply

intertwined together and an intersubjective approach that considers the implications of both method and theory to better understand the interfacing of human behavior to the built environment can edify deep implications about cultural values (Askland et al. 2014). The built environment is artificial; therefore, the built environment is social.

It is often apparent that architecture is tied to a place. San Francisco is symbolized by the

Golden Gate Bridge and New York by the Empire State Building. But if architecture and the built environment is social, it can be much more than simply emblematic of a place. Patsy Hely

(2013), in an analysis of the Sydney Opera House, reminds us that architecture can become so intrinsic to a place and a people that it performs identity. Hely writes, “Do buildings lie? Can they be articulate? Perhaps, rather, they are enabled to perform through the interdependence of buildings and texts; not mute, they are able to narrate a multiplicity of histories and identities.

The overlaying of one civilization on top of another...[has] profound implications for the original inhabitants...” (Hely 2013: 30). It is especially profound that architecture performs identity over time. The ways that one group of people engages with the built environment diachronically suggests that social mores may change; similarly, the way that a people deal with an absence or loss of architecture can become deeply symbolic. Architecture embodies human emotion (Moore

2012) and thus is constructed by and constructs a whole range of human behavior. It is not just presence or absence that dictates performative identity. An anthropological study of architecture must also include an active engagement between the built environment and people over time. If architecture is social, and what is social can be also symbolic, then architecture is socially symbolic and can be analyzed as such (Smith and Bugni 2006).

Thus, an explicitly anthropological approach to architecture is to consider human behavior within the parameters of a purposefully constructed environment to create spaces and

that the processes of human behavior define these spaces before, during, and after they are occupied (Amerlinck 2001). Recent shifts in understanding architecture as both a product of and mechanism for human behavior allows for an “anthropology of architecture.” Understanding the connections between behavior, culture and the resulting built environment is ameliorated if there is an explicit attempt to facilitate interdisciplinary rather than multidisciplinary approaches. The latter is to approach a problem — in this case, a general understanding of the built environment

— from a variety of disciplinary traditions, each with their own theoretical and methodological baggage, by breaking down a general problem into component parts. Rather, an interdisciplinary approach is to leave the problem intact and attempt to understand it from multiple lenses

(Amerlinck 2001). An interdisciplinary approach to the built environment then calls for anthropology, architecture, and behavioral sciences to be in dialogue with one another.

Archaeology, as a discipline that is simultaneously both anthropological and architectural and is furthermore concerned with both synchronic and diachronic time, is particularly well suited to study the built environment.

In many ways, archaeology has always had an intimate relationship with the built environment. Architecture is, of course, the largest component of the archaeological record. The bulk of an archaeological site is often spatially dominated by architecture, even if the total amount of artifacts, such as ceramics, constitute the majority of finds. This assumes that the architectural tradition of a given society utilizes durable building material in the first place; even though this is not always true, the visible footprint of architecture is still the largest feature of a site. Further, though architecture is generally conceived to be durable, it is often not as enduring as other components of material culture, such as ceramics or stone tools, and yet is not as entirely ephemeral as bio-artifacts, such as wood, baskets or cloth. As Buchli (2013) has demonstrated,

architecture has itself proven to be the foil against which various debates have raged in archaeological theory over the past century or so. A traditionalist approach was Marxist and evolutionary, viewing the natural “progression” of architectural complexity to be reflexive of social complexity. This was challenged by New Archaeology and the rise of ethnoarchaeology, which sought to establish universal (or general) principles that framed all interpretations of archaeology, including architecture. The subsequent postprocessual movement insisted that all material culture needed to be locally contextualized and that architectural meanings could be changed (Buchli 2013). In most cases, architecture was used as one line of evidence to prove whatever theoretical debate was at hand, but the archaeology of architecture was itself an underdeveloped concept.

Traditional approaches to architecture in architectural theory, and particularly in archaeology, have generally considered only a few techniques to understanding the built environment — use, aesthetics and expression — and furthermore have been constrained by the time, culture and class of those interpreting buildings (Preziosi 1979). This creates several problems centered on how people used their built environments and the effects of architecture on human behavior. For archaeologists, too often a singular focus of materiality in architecture presents an incomplete picture about the dialogue between a building and people, for a building is more than its component parts. As archaeologists began to engage in architectural theory, or rather to step into the world of anthropological architecture, there have been more recent pushes to promote the archaeology of architecture itself (termed by some as archaeotecture) as a primary component of archaeological investigation that has both serious methodological and theoretical considerations that draw from a number of disciplinary traditions (Ayán Vila et al.

2003). Of course, a principal problem in the study of architecture in archaeological contexts is

that in some ways the separation between contemporary scholars and archaeological remains creates obstacles in interpretation, particularly in prehistoric sites. For archaeologists working in historic periods it is much easier to understand the ontology of those people who constructed their own built environments because of the access to historical documents, despite whatever biases are present. Nevertheless, there are still theoretical and methodological approaches that archaeologists can pursue to understand the built environment itself as an archaeological

“artifact” that can be subjected to primary lines of inquiry. Such an approach treats the built environment not as merely the product of human action but as something which shapes human action.

Approaches that treat the built environment as an archaeological artifact in this way often, if not always, take an approach that draws from a wide variety of disciplinary traditions, but which is also nearly always multidisciplinary. One example is that carried out by Fisher

(2009), who conducted an architectural study of the site of Enkomi in Cyprus by combining a spatial syntax access analysis with a semiotic-informed approach. In so doing, Fisher argues that on one hand it is possible to quantify the influence of architecture in an algorithmic way, but by considering symbols and latent qualitative aspects it is possible to reconstruct how the built environment was both encoded by its builders and decoded by its users (Fisher 2009, 2015).

Another example was carried out by Wilkins (2009), in which Wilkins considered climatic conditions and thermal choices as causal factors for the genesis and persistence of architectural forms in the archaeological record, an approach that borrowed from not only thermodynamics theory, but also from architectural engineering and debates centered on environmental determinism in archaeology and ethnoanthropology. This new approach to understanding the built environment not only from multivalent, and increasingly more explicitly anthropological,

perspectives has generated a number of studies from archaeological perspectives which now consider architecture as a formative component of human behavior (Aldenderfer 1993; Bille and

Sørensen 2016; Manzo 2017; McCormick 2002; Moore 1996; Peuramaki-Brown 2013; Riggs

2007; Rodning 2015; Smith 2000, 2011; Swenson 2012; Van Gijseghem and Vaughn 2008). The emergence of studies focused on the built environment in archaeology as an archaeological artifact worthy to be studied per se continues to push the boundaries of how we define an anthropological perspective of architecture.

Many, if not the majority, of earlier perspectives of architecture in archaeological contexts treated buildings from a functionalist perspective. In other words, it was form above all else that was most meaningful. The variable meanings of architecture become lost in an approach that only views the built environment from a purely functional perspective (Rapoport 1982). If we accept that the human mind is conditioned to understand the world through a system of imposing meaning, fostered through categorization, patterns, and schemata, then the built environment is a physical manifestation of these underlying principles; furthermore, these systems of understanding the world are culturally conditioned and ergo are culturally variable

(Rapoport 1982). Some scholars have gone as far as to suggest that the built environment is a design of the mind and is reflective of the deep-seated persona of the individual (Malathouni

2013; Mímisson 2016). Simultaneously, architecture constitutes and is constituted by both the collective and the individual. In a strange way then — perhaps because architecture is so socially situated — architecture itself then becomes a standard by which other things are compared.

Perhaps it is because its durability on the landscape leaves such visibility for artifacts. Perhaps it is because architecture is the largest expression of human thought.

Often, other cultural artifacts, such as literature or film, use “architecture” as a metaphor to describe a system of regularity and references to the underlying structures which order the work in order to engender meaning, clarity and coherence (Davies 2011). Using “architecture” as a metaphor works well in describing cultural artifacts because there is an implicit understanding that “architecture” is synonymous to “patterned meaning.” Patterned meaning, then, can only be understood if it is able to be encoded by the builders and decoded by the users. In the same way that there is no known human cultural group that does not communicate through language, there is likewise no known society that does not communicate through architectural expression

(Preziosi 1979). The ways in which language gains meaning, through codes, is a fundamental and still useful way to approach how we should read the built environment. If architecture is social, then architecture can be examined through the lens of semiotics.

Semiotics of Architecture: The Language of Buildings and Spaces

Things speak. Yet, they are also inanimate. They must be imbued with meaning, but to do so without taking a full ontological turn, and thereby granting “agency” to things, it is necessary to seek a theoretical framework in which things can be animated. One avenue to such a perspective is to understand the relationship between semiotics and materiality. To then apply this to architecture, it is a simple step to suggest that since buildings are things, and things can be animated via semiotics and materiality, then architecture and the built environment can likewise be animated so that it too “speaks” to those who are both participants and observers.

The semiotic paradigm dictates that it is through things that we may construct our world in a rational way. The signifier :: signified dichotomy, as advocated by Ferdinand de Saussure

(Saussure 2013), formed the basis of modern linguistics. Perhaps the greatest contribution by de

Saussure was to radically reformulate how we understand language as a system that defines separate components not on their similarity but rather on their difference (Preucel 2006).

Saussure viewed the essential components of a semiotic reading as a dichotomy, most clearly illustrated in his distinction between langue and parole. A second major contribution to semiotics came from Charles S. Peirce, who formulated a linguistic triad — and thus functioned as a trichotomy — of sign, object and interpretant. (Preucel 2006). This allows for the duality between sign and object in a Saussurian sense but adds the extra dimension of an interpretant.

This addition allows for a multiplicity of interpretations regarding any given sign. Perhaps more importantly for a Peircian approach, however, is the further breakdown of the relationship between object and sign into categories of Icon, Index and Symbols. An Icon is a sign which is representational (mimetic), such as a photograph or a chart; an Index is a sign which is an indicator for something else, such as the classic Peircian example of the weathervane; and a

Symbol is a sign which is an abstracted concept to reflect a larger conference of general ideas, such as argyle, which inherently has no meaning on its own, as indicative of “Scottishness”

(Preucel 2006). Signs, especially those classified as an Index, do not simply represent society, but actively create and recreate it. A semiotics model derived from Peirce, which facilitates the incorporation of not just language but also social practices (behavior and rituals) and material objects, is more beneficial than that of de Saussure, which focuses primarily on linguistics

(Preucel 2006). In architectural terms, this means that most aspects of the built environment are compound signs, given that they may be literally indexical in how they dictate movement through space, but are more frequently a combination of latent iconic and symbolic signs (Jencks

1980; Broadbent 1980). Eco (1972) penned a particularly erudite example of variable interpretations of an architectural component (he used a column), in which he demonstrates the

extent to which even a single architectural piece can signify a plethora of meanings. It is these core aspects of Peircian semiotics that are particularly appealing to understanding the meaning behind architecture.

Of course, if a purely semiotic approach to understanding architecture was used, then any meaningful study of architecture would fail, since everything could be broken down into ever deeper levels of lexical meaning. If, however, we accept that semiotics is merely a way to understand a larger structure of meaning of the relationship between signs within a shared system, then Rapoport (1982) provides three main aspects of utility to architectural study:

1. Syntactics are the relationship between signs and a system of signs, or put simply, the

structure of a system.

2. Semantics is the relationship of sign and signified, or put simply, how signs engender

meaning.

3. Pragmatics is the relationship between signs and people as a reflection of transcribing

their reading of a sign to a real world, or put simply, how their behavior gives

meaning.

In the case of architecture, a semiotic approach still provides a valid theoretical paradigm to understand what architecture is "saying" to those who are observers of and participants in the built environment (Davies 2011). First, however, we must accept that architecture indeed

“speaks” in the first place. As Eco (1980) points out, architecture appears to be a difficult point of analysis for semiotics because, inherently, architecture does not actively communicate if we consider that its primary purpose is, above all else, functional. But if we accept that architecture is a stimulus, and that a stimulus must elicit a response, then that response is a behavior; if that behavior is then learned, practiced and culturally conditioned, then we can accept that

architecture does indeed communicate and that the analysis of architecture certainly rises above a purely functional aspect (Eco 1980). The built environment, because it conditions behavior from its participants, assuredly communicates, but does so nonverbally (Rapoport 1990, 1982). A central component of practice theory as espoused by Bourdieu (1977) is the concept of habitus, a pattern of beliefs and behaviors that structure daily lives; this phenomenological approach to architecture insists that the body and the built environment are difficult to disentangle (Buchli

2013). These behaviors, by necessitation, must take place at least in part (indeed, most in full) within the parameters of the built environment. That behavior is conditioned is therefore not a surprise. Thus, human behavior and interpretation are both social effects, but that it is the built environment which engenders such social effects in the first place (Rapoport 1982). These fixed signs are both culturally defined and culturally constrained and consequently provide the template necessary for interaction within that cultural language. In other words, they eliminate the problem of cultural misinterpretation; this, in part, is because architecture functions as a mnemonic device, providing a subtle cue that indicates how and why an individual should function within a given space (Rapoport 1982, 1990). In a sociological approach to architecture, this idea is further elaborated, suggesting that architecture and the self are intimately intertwined and that through interactions with architecture the self is in a constant state of defining and redefining (Smith and Bugni 2006).

The precise ways in which architecture functions as a communicative device is by providing both denotative and connotative codes, which provide at least two layers of meaning: primary and secondary (Gandelsonas and Morton 1980). Denotative codes (primary meanings) are described most succinctly as a variation of form follows function. The form must not only allow for the intended function of the architectural aspect, but must denote that function clearly

so that is easily read by any observer and that the appropriate knowledge of how a function works is predicated on a system of established behaviors; a function cannot exist in a vacuum

(Eco 1980; Jencks 1980). A connotative code (secondary meaning) then is an architectural aspect that while denoting a function is simultaneously indicating other messages. Thus, the term function should be defined as both its utilitarian function as well as its symbolic function (Eco

1980). Take, for example, a door to a temple. Its denotative code is that it functions as a door, a means to functionally divide one space from another, or as a means to keep out the weather, etc.; it invites prohibits a person to transit through it in order to move from one space to another. This behavior is indeed learned, but it is a relatively generalizing principle from one culture to another. The connotative code, however, is that the door functions as a liminal barrier between the profane and the sacred, that only certain persons are permitted to traverse such a barrier, and that punishments for violating this behavior are publicly sanctioned; such a knowledge is culturally constrained and may not be read appropriately by persons outside such a cultural context. Thus, appropriately reading codes within buildings is paramount to understanding the practical and symbolic functions of a building or architectural piece. Eco (1980) provides three code categories for architecture:

1. Technical codes, which could be broadly categorized as the architectural sciences. It

is the structural aspects and logics of a given building, composed of the component

parts. In other words, it is the materials necessary for the construction of a building.

2. Syntactic codes, which refer to the spatial layout of a building (i.e. a window does not

have a staircase running through it).

3. Semantic codes, which refers to the denotative and connotative functions of

architecture.

These three codes provide a foundation for deeper levels of analyzing architectural meaning.

A Grammar for the Built Environment: Semiotics and Architecture

This is not to say, however, that semiotics is not without its faults. Saussurian semiotics, or semiology, is essentially structuralism (Hawkes 2003; Saussure 2013). It allows us to understand that the sign :: signified duality is culturally constrained and influenced by local traditions and customs. But semiology is a study of nouns rather than of verbs. It is not a study of dynamism but rather of stasis. Semiology requires that the material world is divorced from a linguistic world. Indeed, the criticism leveled at Saussure was the that his approach relied on and resulted in arbitrariness, difference and materiality; it is the Peircean triad of semiotics that demanded that the object per se is a crucial component (Keane 2003). The preceding discussion of the application of semiotics in architectural discourse merely lays the foundation for a useful application in archaeotecture (to borrow the term supplied by Ayán Vila et al. 2014) to provide formative models for elucidating how we understand the relationship between language and buildings. We can accept that buildings say something. But unless we are to take the full ontological turn and thereby animate buildings themselves as constitutive agents in human cultural practices, we are left at an impasse, for it is impossible to understand their relationship to one another through Saussurian semiology. Complicating this, as Fogelin (2008a, 2008b, 2015) discusses, semiotics is particularly inept at explaining change or variation. Saussurian semiotics explains how things are rather than how things came to be. Like structuralism, it is focused on synchronic rather than diachronic time

Buildings, like nouns, are inherently static. Like a proper grammar, a noun can only be fully contextualized when it is paired with (minimally) a verb. It is the verb which imbues the

noun with dynamism. A small example will suffice. The nouns “bread,” “store,” and “cheese” on their own are independent from one another. Their contextualized meaning to one another, if one exists, is obfuscated and is arbitrary. It is only by adding a verb, such as “buy” or “have,” that it is possible to understand with more precision the relationship of the constituent nouns to one another. Though the nouns in this case are signed, or speaking, to the signified, there is no obvious solution for the relationship of the nouns to one another. Further, the differentiation between the two verbs “buy” and “have,” even without knowing the subject of the sentence, can have immediate implications of the relationship of the noun both to one another and to the subject. The relationship is clearer, but there are still several iterations and combinations of these discrete parts which change the relationship between both the nouns and the verbs. Thus, the verbs provide dynamism amongst the nouns of the sentence and better situate the relationship between nouns, even if those relationships can and are multivalent. In order to complete a rather simplified grammar, however, there need to also be subjects to inform us of who is doing the actions, and adjectives and adverbs, which modify both behaviors of the subjects and the properties of nouns to provide degrees of nuances

If buildings are nouns, then there must be an equivalent for verbs. By combining the theoretical paradigms of practice theory (materiality) and semiotics, it is possible to begin to understand the interplay between the behaviors (or rituals, as some may term it) in the physical world and the relationship between the physical and the metaphysical which is borne in each individual's mind (Fogelin 2015). There is a reflexive and recursive relationship between how people conceive their world, which is culturally specific, and how the world exists. The built environment, as already argued, is an arena for human behavior. The mechanism for changes and differences in the built environment lies in the behaviors and rituals that are carried out in those

environments by persons of different outlooks, however those differences might be engendered

(i.e. different religion, ethnicity, gender, class, etc.). It follows then that this dialectic between semiotics and materiality is how we might understand entirely new conditions such as hybridization (the blending of two or more disparate cultures while keeping original meanings intact) and creolization (the creation of entirely new cultures through the admixture of two or more incongruent cultures). By assessing the built environment through an approach that is grounded in both semiotics and materiality, it is possible to begin to understand not only the cultural milieu of the architecture but also conceptualize reasons for what we might observe as differences between architectural models. In other words, a double-pronged approach allows for a more robust analysis of what the architect/sponsor of an architectural program (because in antiquity we often do not know the names of individual architects), the people who used these architectural spaces, and how differences in the built environment is representational of differences in cultural, ethnic, social, religious, or national identities.

Though the above is a very simple definition of “grammar,” it is one of the most basic ways to derive meaning and to provide clarity between behaviors and concepts. Since it is possible to develop a grammar for linguistics, it is also possible to do so for the built environment. Traditional semiotics, along the lines of Saussure, allows that inanimate objects such as buildings can and do “speak” without necessitating that they are active, animated agents.

The built environment, however, is constituted of manifold buildings. Therefore, some form of dynamism is required to understand the latent relationship between buildings, and there must also be a subject to understand those relationships, just as a language of just nouns is equally incomprehensible. It is possible then to suggest that the “grammar” of the built environment is constituted of four basic components: (1) buildings, to be understood as nouns; (2) behaviors, to

be understood as verbs; (3) subjects, to be understood as communities; and (4) variations of practice, to be understood as adjectives and adverbs. Using this grammar, it is possible then to

“read” the artificial environment in the following ways:

1. The semiotic characteristics of buildings based on what their relationship is to one

another and the sorts of signs and idexicality they might signify (semiology) is useful

to determine the technical aspects of the built environment. In other words, semiology

is useful to understand the form and function of buildings and their significance to

communities of people.

2. The recursive relationship between the behaviors of the people which imbue urban

spaces with meaning and how places (spaces imbued with meaning) then shape the

behavior of the people. This practice theory, which creates habitus, creates a marker

of identity.

3. That a system of identities is useful to create communities of people, and that using

architecture is a viable way to achieve such markers.

I do not intend to take the full ontological term and consign agency to inanimate objects by suggesting that there is an actual architectural grammar. Rather, I use this as a theoretical model to suggest that if we use language as a metaphor for the built environment, and language is a marker to understand social constructions, then it is possible to explore social meaning using a holistic approach that incorporates subjects and objects. Materiality is the bridge between the abstract and the physical as well as the link between method and theory.

Materiality: The Link between the Abstract and the Physical

The material culture turn, which explored the ideas of material objects having cultural significance per se took social and anthropological thought into new and radical directions. The concept of the material object being central to cultural implications has a long history in sociological and anthropological discourse; the concept of materiality (though not spoken in such a term) extends back to structural Marxsim and from practice theorists such as Pierre Bourdieu

(1977) and Anthony Giddens (1984). As anthropological archaeology permeated British archaeology, distinctive perspectives in material culture began to emerge which built on core concepts of structural archaeology, ethnoarchaeology, and the anthropology of consumption

(Hicks 2010). Though the material-culture turn experienced a high point in the 1980s and 1990s, by the turn of the millennium there was significant disillusionment because of the inability to deal with issues of agency, postionality, postcolonialism, and feminist perspectives; further, there was a significant academic rebuttal against taking the full "linguistic turn" in material culture

(Hicks 2010). This ontological turn that was so pervasive in social sciences created widespread disillusionment among social scientists and new approaches were sought to restore the utility of materiality in both anthropological and archaeological studies.

One of the ways that the objects-as-texts paradigm was to turn to Peircean semiotics, which recognized that objects could be non-discursive and not necessarily reduced to a metaphor. Rather, the imposition of Peirce's triadic paradigm allowed for material objects to mediate between subjects (Hicks 2010). In part borne from more recent criticisms that

“materiality” is tossed around haphazardly in social discourse, it is perhaps more useful now not to think about material things as establishing — or even having — personhood or that things are hopelessly entangled in webs and ever-increasing latent meanings, but instead to suggest that

materials are the “effects of events” (Hicks 2010; Ingold 2007). Thus, material objects, and the study of them (e.g. materiality), are useful for exploring meaning as reflected in those objects as signposts for what humans think or how they act. The palimpsest of objects in space and through time that is inherent in an artificial environment then suggests that there is significance in what these objects can say by creating not just built environments but cultural environments as well

(Head 2010; Lounsbury 2010). Buildings do not have personhood or agency. But buildings do occupy spaces and are in dialogue with one another. They occupy space and when those spaces become imbued with cultural significance they then become places.

Materiality links the abstract and the physical. It provides a way to study objects produced by people which reflect a suite of cultural conditions; the material objects then reflect those embedded cultural aspects of material things to then shape and modify culture again. This practice is recursive, and this is precisely on what materiality focuses as a theoretical paradigm.

But because materials are also physical things, they can be quantified and modeled in social network analysis. In one recent study, for example, Basov (2018) created a bimodal network

(also called a multipartite or multimodal network) consisting of two nodes, one of which was individual artists and another node the kinds of physical materials the collected group of artists used in their work. This resulted in not only a network analysis that quantified who worked with whom but also who worked with what. Dual and multimodal networks can work well with archaeological data because it explicitly links things to actors and highlights the complexity of social structures as was expertly demonstrated by Ronald Breiger (1991). It can also, however, result in weaker statements because the algorithms to generate the networks are more fixed.

Multivariate networks can explore even more features of a network analysis by providing multiple variables which then can lead to a weighted network. The primary point here is that

social network analysis allows for Cartesian visualization and mathematical exploration of any number of variables and phenomena, including material things, spatiality and artificial environments. The blending of method and theory, then, is something that should be capitalized on in order to explore new directions of research; indeed, the need to blend method and theory, particularly in confluence between social networks, practice theory, and the built environment, has received attention by scholars (Baur et al. 2014; Breiger 2000). Material things can be quantified, visualized, and made statistically significant; the semiotics of materiality can qualify the social connections and engender meaning between the physical and the social (Keane 2003).

Thus, by using materiality, we can not only link the abstract and the physical but also the methodological and the theoretical.

Towards a Theory of Semiotics, Architecture, and Networks

If we can accept that it is possible to animate the built environment and to provide it a grammar, we may therefore suggest that the built environment provides a language for a particular place situated in time and space, constituted not only by the physical objects within a place (which themselves create “space”), but also by the behaviors of the communities that inhabit those places. It is then possible to further suggest that, like language, the built environment is a marker for identity. This may seem clear; after all, it is not a new or unique idea to argue that both art and architecture reflect the communities that have produced those pieces or who have artificially shaped their environments. Typology and classification, whatever its merits or faults, has long been a useful category to “mark” an object as the product of some culture.

This is not being challenged. What is being suggested, however, is a shift away from a typological analysis to a semiotic one, in which architecture is understood as a complex system

of discourse in which meaning is mutable and contextualized in various systems of signs, icons, and indices. I am seeking to explain both how and why communities understand their own built environments based on an inherited architectural grammar. Thus, we might be able to argue that architecture, both in form and function, can serve as markers of identity not through a typology of similarity or dissimilarity, but rather as a more comprehensive “language.” Like oral or written languages — which can be adopted, adapted or hybridized in order to form new markers of identity based on class, gender, religion, nationality, ethnicity, regionalism, or any number of other subcategories — architecture likewise can be understood as a sophisticated measure for identity based on form, function, technical qualities, and ornamentation.

To imbue meaning into the built environment, it is necessary that the Peircean rather than the Sassurean model is utilized. This is because the Peircean model allows for meaning to be relative to both those observing a system and those acting within it. Peirce's model does not argue strictly for the perspective of language, but rather for a system of knowledge. Furthermore,

Peirce's model allows for a multiplicity of meaning while at the same time suggesting that meaning is in fact located in time and space (Bauer 2002). Thus, it does not deny a reality of meaning. The focus on the triad of “sign, object, and interpretant” situates meaning as a constitutive process between objects (buildings) and interpretants (communities of practice), but how the objects and interpretants relate to one another varies in time and space. This is particularly useful for observing the built environment, which occupies physical space and because of its durability occupies time as well.

If we may assume then that any given site which possesses architecture speaks a certain

“language” because architecture can be read as a grammar, then we may also assume that relationships between sites can be quantified in terms of a social network. If a site has a language

— a marker of identity — then in theory it is connected with other sites that speak the same language. Because a social network analysis is simply a computational way to understand and quantify the relationships between and amongst actors, social networks can then be used to determine the degrees of relationships between sites which possess architecture. Similarly, as components of language can be broken down into constituent parts and used as a measure of identity, so too can components of architecture be deconstructed to determine the kinds of relationships that exist between many sites in a given region.

I do not intend to take a stance on the primacy of subjectivity over objectivity nor of theory over method; all are fruitful in anthropological, architectural, and archaeological applications because the inherent intersection between people and things indicates that there is a niche for all approaches. Instead, I strive to be intersubjective — that is, I choose to incorporate both quantitative method and qualitative explication. The former tells us how data is organized and provides excellent metrics to reveal the underlying nature of archaeological data. The latter allows for us to explore why the archaeological data is reflective of and indicative for human behavior. For example, the integration of method and theory in spatial syntax analysis, a subfield within studies of the built environment, suggests that only by looking at both method and theory together is it possible to see that the laws of physical space and the reciprocity between humans and space compels human behavior; thus, one affects the other (Hillier 2014). This integration of method and theory to understand built space is termed by Hillier (2014) as the “meta- theoretical,” and this is a perspective that I wish to take as well.

For the purposes of this study, formal concept analysis and social network analysis provides a method to better understand the structure of archaeological data regarding architectural phenomena in the southern Levant. But at its core, a network analysis merely

quantifies data to indicate meaningful connections with statistical significance. The edges, or connections, between nodes still need explanation. I suggest that applying a theoretical lens of social semiotics and materiality as a means of interpreting structured data allows for the exploration of two principal themes: (1) what built environments meant to regional communities;

(2) and how groups of people communicated conveyed identities and social connections through the kinds of environments that they created and inhabited. Much of social network analysis, in its most basic forms, is concerned with a binary question of presence or absence. If two sites share a building category, they are tied and if they do not then they are not affiliated with one another.

An example can be borrowed from ceramics. Technological traditions, which are understood to have low visibility, are often subconscious expressions of identity passed down through communities of practice and frequently a product of local knowledge; conversely, stylistic traditions, which have high visibility, are conscious expressions of affiliation (Carr 1995a,

1995b; Clark 2004; Mills 2002a, 2002b; Mobley-Tanaka 2002; Pikirayi 2002). In this study, the same basic premise are borrowed and applied to architecture. First are simple 2-mode networks that simply indicate the diffusion of a set of attributes amongst members of a network. Second are networks based on technological knowledge, defined here as construction techniques; this would represent a network of low visibility and subconscious expression of identity. Third are networks based on building type and stylistic choices used in the architecture, such as decorative motifs, column orders, or types of flooring and wall decorations, to name a few, all of which are markers of high visibility. These different kinds of networks, when assessed together, can elucidate precisely how and to what degrees different sites in the southern Levant were connected in a quantifiable way and with the application the model of an architectural grammar and fully cognizant that the use of “language” as markers of identity have been used in previous

network analyses (see Chapter One), we can then seek how to explain how communities were connected through their architectural “languages.”

CHAPTER 3 THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT OF THE HELLENISTIC AND ROMAN EAST

The Architecture of the Greco-Roman East: An Overview

Architecture in the Near East, particularly in the Southern Levant, is greatly influenced by the architectural traditions from neighboring Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Syria. By the Late Bronze

Age and Early Iron Age, with protracted contact with Aegean cultures in mainland Greece and

Crete, new architectural innovations flowed to and from the Aegean and the Levant. The Levant was devastated by the systemic collapse of Canaanite city-states in the 11th century, but by the

Early Iron Age, from the 10th to 8th centuries BCE, state-level societies in the Levant had recovered, were thriving, and were undergoing an intensification of urbanization. Extensive architectural projects were carried out by the Aramaean kingdoms in the northern Levant and the

Israelite and Judahite kingdoms in the southern Levant. Further to the east, in the interior of the

Levant and Mesopotamia, Assyrian architects were engaged in massive projects, constructing enormous palatial complexes, temples, and large-scale infrastructure projects such as canals, irrigation systems, and dams. Levantine architecture reflected indigenous innovations, as technical or artistic innovations were often markers of one particular ethnic group or another, but it is equally true that there were significant influences in Iron Age Levantine architecture from across the Eastern Mediterranean, Anatolia, and Mesopotamia that melded with local architectural traditions. Modern research that traces this architectural development specific to the southern Levant is scarcer than studies done on Aegean architectural history, but what has been conducted makes it clear that architects and architectural programs in the Levant made extensive use of existing architectural traditions from around the Near East that were then fitted to local traditions (Wright 1985). Aramaean architecture, for example, borrows from Hittite,

Mesopotamian, Assyrian, and Phoenician traditions but eventually emerges as a distinctive form in its own right, which then is influential on Assyrian and Israelite architecture (Novák 2014). In the Southern Levant, one notable example of this dating to the early 9th century BCE is found in the architectural programs of King Omri (884 - 873 BCE) in Samaria, which extensively tapped into the architectural traditions of surrounding regions in order to convey a particular ideology to a multi-ethnic population (Finkelstein 2000).

Levantine architecture, broadly speaking, had significant influence outside of the Near East, especially in Anatolia and the Aegean in the Iron Age following the decline of the Mycenaean and Minoan city-states. In the Geometric and Orientalizing Periods (9th to 7th centuries BCE), architectural innovations increased and radically changed in the Aegean; for example, the shift from apsidal to anta and peripteral style temples signaled a significant deviation and ultimately permanent change in Greek architecture. Much of what later develops into the classically-defined

Greek architectural orders in fact have the origins in the Near East. This is particularly true for the Ionian order, which have antecedent stylizations in the Aeolic and Proto-Aeolic orders found in the Levant, perhaps related to the association of Ishtar and Inanna to vegetal symbolism as a symbol of fertility (Barletta 2001, 2016; Dinsmoor and Anderson 1950; Onians 1988). By the middle of the Iron Age (ca. 6th and 5th centuries BCE), Hellenic architecture had become the seat of architectural innovation; Egypt was notoriously conservative (though this is not to say there were not innovations in Egyptian architecture, as there certainly were) and the Iron Age kingdoms of the Levant had either been conquered, were vassalages of Assyrians or Neo-

Babylonians, or were significantly reduced in size, power, and wealth leading to a general decline of major architectural programs of the same caliber as Levantine states had undertaken in the early Iron Age (11th to 7th centuries BCE). In the Aegean, a rise in competition between city-

states led to increasingly daring and dramatic artistic innovations and experimentation as cities throughout the Greek colonial world struggled with one another to gain and maintain cultural capital. Much of this competition was expressed through architecture, as monumental architecture from the 8th century BCE onward were built in stone and marble and were increasingly more lavish. Conversely, because of the general decline of independent polities in the Levant, architectural programs and innovations in Phoenicia, Israel, Judah, Aramaea, Moab, and Edom stagnated or were significantly reduced. This was further complicated by the

Assyrian, and to a lesser extent the Neo-Babylonian, tendencies to relocate conquered peoples, resulting in a shift to more imperial forms of architecture spreading throughout the Near East as the idea of “indigenous architecture” became increasingly contested amongst peoples who did not inhabit their original homelands.

The next couple of centuries were intensive processes of formulating and reformulating ethnic identities in a world in which peoples and homelands were severed, sometimes permanently. When the Neo-Babylonians were conquered by the Achaemenid Persians, local architectural traditions were recovering to some degree in the southern Levant, though the archaeological signatures for architecture from the Persian period in the Levant is notoriously difficult to discern and is understudied in comparison to the earlier Iron Age and later Greco-

Roman periods. The Levant, by the late Iron Age (4th and 3rd centuries BCE), was situated amongst several cultures with distinct architectural traditions. To the west, the florescence of architecture in the Aegean during the Archaic and Classical periods spread east into Anatolia and west to Italy, where it blended with local traditions. To the east and north, the legacies of Hittite,

Assyrian and Mesopotamian architecture both melded with new Persian traditions to create a distinct Achaemenid style as well as remaining powerful traditions in their own right. Finally, to

the southwest, the architectural legacy of the Egyptians continued to have significant impact on architectural developments in Egypt, North Africa, Arabia, and the Levant.

The Hellenistic and Roman periods brought about significant change in the architectural traditions of the Levant. Alexander’s conquest spread Hellenic influence across the Eastern

Mediterranean in ways that had never been done before. Previously, Greek influences from the

Bronze Age down through the Iron Age trickled into the Levant in a rather ad hoc pattern; under

Alexander and the subsequent Diadokhoi kings, Greek influence flooded into the Eastern

Mediterranean and penetrated deep into central Asia. The arts, in all expressions, were radically changed as new cosmopolitan societies sprung up from the resultant clash of two enormous empires and ethnic identities were contested, renegotiated, and born. In terms of architecture, the increase in urbanization at the behest of Greek sovereigns led to new architectural traditions that were multivalent expressions of identity. The process of urbanization and large-scale construction projects continued, and many times expanded, under Roman control. Both the

Greeks and the Romans introduced new techniques, artistic conventions, and architectural logics that were variously adapted by local peoples throughout the Levant and fused with local traditions. The hybridity of this period has received much attention by modern scholars and there is no need to discuss all the arguments about Hellenization and Romanization in the Near East

(but for general overviews see Andrade 2013; Dietler 2005; Feldman 1986; Fischer and Tal

2003; Grabbe 2002; Grainger 1991; Hengel 1980; Hengel and Markschies 1989; Jouguet and

Dobie 1978; Kouremenos et al. 2011; Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1987; Levine 1998; Martin

2007; Millar 1993; Moyer 2011; Segal 1997, 2013; Versluys 2008; Wright 1985). Though scholarship often treats “Hellenistic” and “Roman” architecture as monolithic typologies, it is rather difficult to speak of a singular form of “Hellenistic” or “Roman” architectural expression

in the Near East as these architectural traditions were expressed different ways in different regions.

Architecture should be understood as engaged within larger cosmopolitan constellations of practice as well as with regional manifestations. The general purpose of this study, as we have discussed above, is to seek out the specific interrelations of groups of peoples and geographic traditions to see to what degree they might have been connected to one another in how they utilized architectural expressions as markers for identity. The purpose of this chapter is to provide a basic guide for the kinds of architectural traditions within the chronological framework of this study that will be studied, from the period of the mid Hellenistic period, when urbanization rapidly accelerated in the southern Levant, to the late Roman period, approximately

250 BCE - 500 CE. I do not seek to discuss every intricate detail of architectural analysis nor to explore the ways that architecture changed through time but rather to highlight basic characteristics of how we might broadly understand “Hellenistic” and “Roman” architecture, and in some cases how these broad generalizations fit into the context of the Greco-Roman periods in the southern Levant. I consciously make the choice to treat both “Greek” and “Roman” architecture as umbrella categories so that it is more effective to identify regional variation.

Thus, this chapter should be understood as rather generalizing and laconic overview rather than comprehensive analysis about Hellenistic and Roman architecture, especially as it pertains to the

Levant.

The Blueprint for Hellenistic and Roman Architecture

Hellenistic Architecture: Philosophy and Design

Hellenistic architecture, in general, has been relatively understudied in comparison to studies done on Hellenistic sculpture or paintings and is often added as an addendum to Classical architecture (Winter 2006). Though the Hellenistic period is typically understood to begin with the conquest of Alexander in the East, what is understood to be the Hellenistic artistic tradition, particularly in terms of architecture, in fact extend back into the early 4th century BCE. Evidence of this, for example, is found at the uncolumned cella of the Temple of Athene Alea at Tegea or in the floor mosaics at Olynthus in Macedonia (Fyfe 1936). By the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE, architecture shifted to a focus on theatricality, particularly with an emphasis of the dialectic relationship between cityscape and landscape, utilization of dramatic vistas for prominent complexes and buildings, monumentality, and architectural innovation on an unprecedented scale. The urban landscape was focused on providing for social needs and relationships in a larger environment that was increasingly more centered on major cosmopolitan cities. Lavish decorations were no longer reserved for elite residences or temples but were extensively used in public buildings that serviced the larger urban community, such as the agora, stoa, gymnasion, and bouleuterion (Coulton 1977; Chamoux 2003). The inclusion of these types of buildings as central to the urban plan, rather than organic responses to urban growth, required more innovation on the part of the architects. Temples continued to follow fairly set canonical plans (at least in the earlier Hellenistic period) while other types of civic structures frequently had to be modified to fit in their local urban contexts; furthermore, architects in the Hellenistic period sought to combine various buildings to form unified complexes with unprecedented scale and complexity, which required a level of urban planning that had not existed in the preceding

centuries in the Greek world (Coulton 1977). Unorthodoxy became normative as Hellenistic architects sought to push experiential architecture in increasingly dramatic ways. Individual buildings might have been unbalanced or disharmonious on their own, but buildings were often not considered on their own without their contexts in larger urban landscapes, further emphasized by stressing the interplay of verticality within buildings juxtaposed to their position horizontally within larger urban complexes. The delicacy and “feminine” characteristics of the

Ionic order was interwoven with the robustness and “masculine” characteristics of the Doric order to convey new social ideals and norms. The Hellenistic polis, constituted by both its physical and metaphysical characteristics (e.g. the built environment in relation to a cosmopolitan civic identity, such as a Palmyran by ethnicity but also associated to specific artistic conventions), was deeply rooted prevailing philosophical thought, particularly that of

Stoicism evidenced by Cleanthes’ Syllogism (Linzey 2003).

Hellenistic architecture, like Hellenistic art, broke down older conventions, emphasized the dynamism between the object and the viewer, and situated the architecture within a larger urban landscape (Senseney 2007, 2011). This could take any number of forms, from the surprise of finding the unexpected within the recesses of a building, the visual interplay between light and shadow, what was recessed and what was prominent, to the various uses of construction materials designed to create visual, acoustic, and tactile experiences as one moved through space.

This fostered a sense of interaction with the architecture itself; if the preceding periods were marked by monumental architecture that was, by design, limited to the elite and to the gods in order to separate that which was extraordinary from the ordinary, then the Hellenistic period was marked by monumental architecture that was, by design, incorporated into increasingly complex and dynamic urban landscapes that created a communal sense of shared space and civic pride.

Polis rivalries were not fought through direct conflict; there was not an arms race, but an artistic race. Cultural capital, above all else, was the currency of Hellenistic civic competition.

The Hellenistic period in the East also gave rise to a significant increase in urbanization, including the expansion of existing cities and the foundation of hundreds of new ones. Though the Achaemenids and Alexander himself claimed authority over a unified empire, in reality the empires of the Persians and Alexander were only loosely bound by an imperial rhetoric. Upon

Alexander’s death rival claimants to his empire articulated their own claims not based on a unifying concept of “Greekness” but rather by ingratiating themselves to specific regions and specific ethnic groups (Boehm 2018). In the two generations of kings following the resolution of the wars of the Diadokhoi, there were more synoecisms of regional urban centers (such as at

Thessaloniki or Thebes), cities founded, military colonies established, and fortresses constructed then arguably any other time in the Hellenistic period, and much of this was predicated on establishing a positive relationship between civic and royal identity in a new shared oikoumene shared by all cities (Boehm 2018). The increase in urbanization, in large part, was a result of the desire for Hellenistic kings to consolidate populations into networked economies by concentration populations and resources into massive urban centers that were supported by yet smaller urban complexes, supported in turn by the chora. One effect of networked cities was the revival of a “league” of cities, called a koinon, which was locally rather than imperially administered. Many of these koina were built around a concept of some sort of affiliation with one another amongst all the cities, often along ethnic, religious, political, or geographic lines, which were long-standing political associations common in the Greek world that continued in the

Hellenistic period (Boehm 2018; Honigman 2007; Mackil 2012). In fact, Hellenistic kings encouraged this sort of organization, as it made for a smoother bureaucracy. One potential

problem, however, was that the expansion and foundation of urban centers would entice people to move into the cities to pursue better economic opportunities and achieve more political autonomy, since cities were often granted their own local charters. This would create new cosmopolitan cities in which identities had to be renegotiated with one another. One solution to this problem was the creation of new civic identities that were ostensibly shared by several ethnic, religious, or political groups. The physical manifestation of this was through urban design. It was through urbanization that new identities were formed, negotiated, and performed, which centered on a civic identity in a shared urban landscape, a phenomenon which developed during several imperial phases in the ancient Near East (Creekmore III and Fisher 2014; During and Stek 2018; Harmanşah 2013). The intense urbanization of the Hellenistic period, however, was unprecedented in the ancient Mediterranean and the Levant, and so it is even more important that the totality of architecture — especially its experiential characteristics expressed in urban design which engendered new shared identities — are particularly notable for this period and for the subsequent Roman period when these identities were renegotiated.

Greek and Hellenistic Architecture: Construction Techniques and Styles

The most common construction materials in Greek architecture were wood, stone, and dried mudbricks; marble was used where it was readily available. The kind of material chosen was often determined by the kinds of local resources, particularly in the Orientalizing and Archaic periods. For the most elaborate buildings, ashlar masonry was often used. Ashlar masonry is characterized by the placement of a lower course of stones laid horizontally (toichobate) with a course of stones directly above placed vertically (orthostates); the courses above could be laid out in courses of equal dimensions (isodomic) or with varied dimension (pseudoisodomic) and it

was a fairly common to see courses laid out with several stones laid perpendicular through the thickness of the wall (headers) between several regularly-laid stones (stretchers), creating a wall with visual interest and structural stability. This construction technique did not rely on the use of mortar. Walls were left either unadorned or were stuccoed (Klein 2016). Though ashlar construction was used before the Hellenistic period, it was not as ubiquitous as it was during the

Hellenistic periods, nor was it limited primarily to temples as it was in the Classical and Archaic periods; the technique became common for all manner of structures. Polygonal masonry is for the most part abandoned in favor for coursed masonry, though rubble construction techniques are still common, sometimes with mortar and other times without (Fyfe 1936). Rubble construction techniques consisted of using only briefly tooled or untooled stones dry-fitted together to create walls, used in both vernacular and monumental architecture. A third construction technique essentially blended both ashlar and rubble masonry, called pier-and-rubble masonry, and is characteristic of the northern parts of ancient Palestine and Phoenicia (Sharon 1987a).

Arches become more widespread during the Hellenistic period as well, as well as arch-like features such as the flat arch or the jack arch. Post and lintel construction, however, is never abandoned and remains at the heart of Greek architectural design. The earliest examples of arches come from the gateways at Kassope and Priene in the 4th century, and barrel vaults appear relatively contemporaneously at the stadia entrances at the Pan-Hellenic sanctuaries of

Nemea and Olympia and in tombs in Macedonia and Thrace (Klein 2016). Vaults and arches, however, were rarely used to explore internal space. Two notable exceptions stand out: the barrel-vaulted hallways at the Didymaion and the architrave at the Stoa of Eumenes in Athens, but in both instances the vaults, which are structural, are hidden behind a veneer of the much more traditional post and lintel design (Fyfe 1936; Klein 2016). In other cases, to span larger

gaps following a post and lintel construction, a flat arch, or jack arch, would sometimes be used, which would provide the structural stability of the arch by distributing the weight across smaller stones and a keystone down the lintels but would maintain the appearance of a typical post and lintel structure. Examples of the jack arch in the Levant, where it perhaps originated, can be found in Palmyra, Jerash, and Samaria.

The body of literature discussing the major architectural orders is vast and there is no need to discuss all the details here, save to mention a few points of deviation in the Hellenistic period.

Decorations and ornamentation become far more elaborate during the Hellenistic period, though the antecedents for Hellenistic architectural décor lie in earlier periods. Both the Doric and Ionic orders of the Classical and Archaic periods were decorated and followed rigid cannons regarding the placement and type of architectural ornamentation. Some of the oldest kinds of moldings are the cavetto with a vegetal pattern, alternating in color. Another common technique is the egg- and-dart pattern, as was the Lesbian leaf pattern found in the cyma reversa. All of these features would have been painted: blue for the regulae, trigylphs, and mutules and red for the metopes and viae (Klein 2016). Columns were rarely fluted in the East, no matter the architectural order to which they belonged, but stucco work was often utilized to add texture to the columns or to provide decoration to a stone base (Fyfe 1936). Finally, both the ceiling and the floor received more decorative treatment, the former in the appearance of coffered ceilings and the latter in terms of mosaic or marble-decorated floors.

Roman Architecture: Philosophy and Design

If much can be said about the changes in construction techniques, design philosophy, and urban planning of Hellenistic architecture, then the converse might be true for Roman,

particularly as it pertains to the Levant, our geographic focus for this study. Precisely what delineates Roman architecture from Hellenistic architecture in the East has been debated for the better part of two centuries, with no real consensus on the matter; from a practical point of view, the Hellenistic East had been firmly entrenched in Roman politics from the 2nd century BCE onward, and if we were to define the cultural transition between Hellenistic kings and the

Romans based purely on the architectural record, we would be hard-pressed to find any such transition at all (Townsend 2016). Vitruvius provides a suite of concepts that he thought should characterize Roman architecture, centered on the three principles of firmitas (strength), utilitas

(function), and venustas (attractiveness). To obtain these three guiding concepts, Vitrivius provides six additional concepts for architectural design: order, design, shapeliness, symmetry, correctness, and allocation (Taylor 2003).

Roman architecture and urban design were deeply intertwined with Hellenistic architectural philosophy, but it would be simplistic to suggest that Roman architecture simply borrowed everything from the Hellenistic tradition. Indeed, Rome had its own local architectural style, which closely paralleled and developed out of Etruscan and local Italic conventions, long before

Rome came into direct contact with the Hellenistic world, but nor is it true that Romans rejected

Hellenistic styles and conventions, either. As Taylor (2003) comments, “moralists like Cicero and Seneca might rail at the built luxuria of the idle rich, but when it comes right down to it, an archaeologist would be hard pressed to distinguish the villas of one breed [Hellenistic and

Roman] from those of another” (Taylor 2003: 22).Vitruvius goes to great lengths to describe the differences between Hellenistic and Roman civic structures, such as public spaces, bathing facilities, and theaters, but makes virtually no reference to the characteristics of Etrusco-Italic temple architecture while dedicating two books to Hellenistic and Greek temples. Surely this was

not an error, as Vitruvius knew that there were marked differences between Italic and Greek temple and urban design, especially since architecture was used by Republican patrons as major pieces of propaganda (Townsend 2016; Davies 2014). Vitruvius would have known that Greek and Italic influences were increasingly mixed by the late Republic; why he remains silent on this matter suggests that either Roman temples and urban design were so well understood that there was not a need to discuss them to a Roman audience or that the matter was inconsequential by this point since “Roman” and “Hellenistic” were so intimately intertwined. Thus, we cannot really speak of a nativist “Roman” architectural tradition without speaking of a Roman tradition being the product of the mingling of local Etrusco-Italic traditions with Greek, and especially

Hellenistic, architectural traditions. Roman temples, for example, were a fusion of Hellenistic style with Etrusco-Italic form. A Roman temple of the late Republic or early Empire might be decorated with classically Greek conventions but would favor frontality, a deep porch, and axial design. This is true for much of Roman architecture, and thus is it difficult to speak of Roman architecture in a distilled manner. In fact, Roman architecture, like Roman culture writ large, engaged in a sort of code-switching between traditionally Greek and Roman characteristics; just as Rome of the late Republic was entangled in Greek culture, so too was the architectural manifestation of such an entanglement (Wallace-Hadrill 2008).

This mixture, as Townsend (2016) comments, problematizes the direction of influence, forcing us to ask if Roman architecture became Hellenized or if Hellenistic architecture became

Romanized. This question, however, should not be so binary. Rather, we should consider that characteristics of both Roman and Greek architecture were increasingly entangled, not only with one another but also with Persian, Egyptian, African, Anatolian, and Levantine architectural traditions due to an increasingly cosmopolitan Mediterranean world. Furthermore, for the Roman

world, which was unified under a single state — as opposed to the multiplicity of polities in the

Hellenistic East — architectural traditions were locally situated. A very different architectural program was carried out in the Roman West than in the Roman East, which did not resemble each other much until well into the Imperial period, if really at all. The Roman East was already urbanized due to massive urbanization in the Hellenistic period. The practice of creating new urban areas in the West, which looked different than cities in the East, by means of the establishment of civitas cities, followed a similar pattern under the Romans as the intensification of urbanization under the Hellenistic kings had in the East. In the East, Roman patrons would often build in both Roman and Hellenistic techniques and décor. An example of this can be found in the contemporaneous construction of two temples in the same province by Augustus, one at Ancyra and another at Pisidian Antioch; the former, however, is a classically Hellenistic temple while the latter is a classically Italo-Roman temple (Townsend 2016). This suggests that

Romans, at least in the East, were rather clever in when they used “Roman” design and when they continued “Hellenistic” design — if both of those styles can be disentangled in the first place.

Thus, Roman construction followed preceding Hellenistic styles, not just in terms of style and form but also in architectural philosophy (Wallace-Hadrill 2008; Senseney 2011). This is not to say that there were no innovations during the Roman periods, but rather that in the East

Romans often followed extant traditions. Roman architects eagerly adapted Hellenistic conventions, and if public Hellenistic architecture was marked by a baroque gaudiness then so too was public Roman architecture by the 2nd century BCE. Where Romans did diverge was in their value of pragmatism, order, and utility. Civic structures were to be first and foremost functional, soundly built and well-engineered before being beautiful. An example of this is the

aqueduct, which rarely, if ever, was built to be “beautiful.” The same is true for the Roman city, which followed strict orthogonal plans and facilitated an ease of movement from one public space to another and which clearly delineated neighborhoods and districts. Temples, in the

Roman East, often followed one of two plans: either they were undoubtedly Hellenistic and often replete with Eastern artistic and architectural elements or were distinctly of the Italic style of temple often used in temples dedicated to the Imperial Cult or Rome directly. In rare cases in the

East, another common Roman construction, the triumphal arch, also appears, though to a much lesser extent as is common in the West. If there is one striking difference between Roman and

Hellenistic architecture in the Eastern Mediterranean, in general, it centered on two noteworthy features: first, the widespread use of the arch and all its derivative variations; and second, the use of new construction techniques.

Roman Architecture: Construction Techniques and Styles

One of the most notable ways to distinguish the difference between Hellenistic and Roman architecture is in the construction techniques utilized. While Greek had long been masters of post and lintel construction and dry-fitted ashlar masonry (though it should be noted that both techniques were used in the East as well long before the Hellenistic period), Romans were the ones to truly master mortared masonry and perfected mortar by taking it to its fullest extent: the creation of true concrete. Nevertheless, the Romans also perfected Greek ashlar masonry, demonstrating such mastery in the technique and material that Romans built and even reconstructed or restored Hellenistic buildings, such as the transfer and restoration of earlier

Greek temples in Athens, Thessaloniki, Patrae, Ilium, Ephesus, and Praeneste (Townsend 2016).

Romans had adopted the use of ashlar construction techniques, called opus quadratum, as early

as the sixth century BCE and continued to use it well into the Hellenistic/Republican periods and up through the Imperial period (Lancaster and Ulrich 2014). By the second century, a new technique of mixing small stones and pebbles bound into a mortar proved to be cheap, durable, easily manipulated, and structurally sound; this form of construction was called opus caementicium, or simply, concrete.

Concrete, while durable, was not particularly attractive to look at, so Roman architects began to develop several facings made of stone or bricks to cover a concrete base. Major types of facings were opus incertum (irregularly shaped stones not laid in courses), opus reticulatum

(diamond-shaped brickwork), opus latericium (wide, thin bricks laid in regular courses), opus mixtum (a mixture of one of incertum, reticulatum, or latericium), and opus vattatum mixtum (a mixture of bricks and tuff stones laid in regular courses) (Lancaster and Ulrich 2014). Though these techniques were common in the West, in the East they were far less common. This was, in part, because the local traditions of stonework were never abandoned in the Roman East. Though the utilization of concrete, particularly hydraulic concrete, spread to the East, local stonework techniques continued relatively unchanged.

The fullest extension of Roman concrete was in its use to solve architectural problems with spanning large spaces. Post and lintel construction techniques, as used in Hellenistic architecture, was fairly limited in spanning distances, a problem even more accentuated when the project required the lintels to be stone, since these added massive weight and strain on the buildings. The maximum distance that could be spanned before the triangular truss was invented was about 10-

11 meters. To meet the challenge of spanning the entire space of a Hellenistic building, a series of prop-and-lintel systems had to be used, whereby large spaces were divided into smaller spaces that used rows of props supported by interior columns and walls. This prohibited the building

from having large, open, spanned spaces. The use of the Roman arch, and especially the concrete arch or vault, eliminated this problem and allowed for far broader spaces to be spanned, especially when in combination with a wooden truss roof. In shorter spans, the arch could offer the same look as a lintel by using the flat arch (also called the jack arch) and did not require the use of monolithic stone lintels or heavy wooden beams. The combination of arches stacked one behind the other led to the creation of the vault, and when vaults were used in oppositional forces or when they were ribbed, the load of the building could be directed to certain points, which were often reinforced through piers, thick walls, or buttresses (Lancaster and Ulrich 2014). Thus, the signal calling card of Roman architecture became the widespread proliferation of the arch and its two derivative forms, the vault and the dome. These three architectural features were most often used in buildings that were common to Roman civic space, such as the basilica and baths that were common additions to Eastern cities, but vaults do appear in other infrastructure or in support systems for large projects (such as major temples), and architraves become widespread as alternatives to the traditional Greek stoa. If we are to identify a specifically

“Roman” characteristic to the architectural techniques of the Roman Near East, we might look for two signals: 1) the use of Roman brickwork and stonework, especially concerning the use of concrete and; 2) the use of arches, vaults, and domes.

Domestic Architecture

Hellenistic and Roman Style Houses

Domestic space in antiquity is often difficult to comprehensively categorize because a number of factors, including natural, socioeconomic and sociocultural, can all have a bearing on what a house looks like in any given time or place; of these sociocultural factors are more

important, consisting of a suite of features including architectural design, fixed features such as decorations, and movable features such as pottery, small finds, and furniture. One problem in the study of domestic architecture, particularly in the Classical periods, are the terminologies associated with certain rooms, such as the andron or triclinium, which can and do imply a certain set of behaviors (Trümper 2011, 2005). It is beyond the purpose of this study to examine how these terms function in the Classical world or the Levant, but it should be noted that when such terms are used, I am using them for commonly understood descriptive terms without necessarily implying that any behaviors may or may not have taken place in them unless otherwise noted.

Courtyard-style homes, defined here as either a single unit home with a courtyard or a series of smaller domestic buildings that surround a central courtyard, dominate typical pan-

Mediterranean domestic architecture and have a long history. In Greece, the presence of courtyard houses are already apparent by the Early to Middle Helladic periods, in Sicily by the

Early and Middle Bronze Age, and in the Bronze Age in the Levant (Ben-Shlomo 2012; Doonan

2002; Wiersma 2014). By the Iron Age, the courtyard-style home was more commonplace than single-axis oriented homes and, contingent on economic status, becomes the more dominant style of house (Ault 2016). This remains true outside of the Aegean, as the courtyard-style home is commonplace in Anatolia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and the Arabian Peninsula, indicating the form was fairly ubiquitous throughout the Eastern Mediterranean. Thus, the courtyard style house, even with its derivations (such as pastas, prostas, peristyle, or atrium style houses) are hardly unique enough qualifiers to identify a house as belonging to any cultural group, at least in as the only piece of evidence in isolation.

In the Greek tradition, courtyard houses are subdivided into two categories. The first, called a pastas style house, is denoted by the presence of a corridor near a courtyard. The second, called a

prostas style house, has a porch with columns near a courtyard. In the Roman tradition, an atrium style house adds the addition of alae (small wings) to a peristyle that surrounds a central interior courtyard (Graham 1966). Nevertheless, there is so much variation among these styles that these terms are almost useless when applied to the broader Mediterranean and derivations only gain more profound significance when house plans are contextualized within a single region or within a certain chronological framework. Single courtyard houses generally dominate

Mediterranean house plans, but by the Hellenistic period wealthier homes might have two or more courtyards as well; this is largely a socioeconomic factor more than indicative of any kind of major cultural shift, however, as the kinds of rooms remained similar in both single and multiple courtyard style homes (Trümper 2011). The courtyard, for a Greek house, was the nexus of activity in the home; it was the central and defining feature of the home, providing access to the rest of the rooms, was the location of the sources for water, and was often the place of conducting the business of the household. By the Hellenistic period, the paradeisos was also introduced with contact from the Persian style homes in the Eastern Mediterranean (Tsakirgis

2016). This Persian form of house, which also included a courtyard, was in turn influenced by earlier Assyrian and Mesopotamian features in courtyard-style homes.

A typical house in the Greek world is often subdivided into categorical rooms, such as the andron (men’s room) and the gynaikon (women’s room). The former is easy to identify, with raised floors against the walls upon which couches would have been placed for entertaining during a drinking party, or symposion, which of course carried the connotations of a suite of behaviors that took place within the confines of the room. Harder to identify, if possible at all, is the gynaikon; indeed, many scholars now suggest that such a room never existed and was a literary ideal not borne out by any hard archaeological evidence (Tsakirgis 2016). Other rooms,

such as hearths, workspaces, private chambers, bathrooms and latrines, and porches are easily identifiable, and though they might often follow a basic layout, there is no steadfast rule of the organization of interior space.

Within the larger urban landscape in the Greek world, houses generally were laid out so that walls were shared, resulting in a grid of homes that did not have yards (Tsakirgis 2016) but which might share an open-air space. The Hippodamian orthogonal plan is evident three

centuries before the Milesian architect lived and domestic spaces that are occupied by shared clusters of homes following urban grids are evident in the 8th century in Greek colonies in Italy and Sicily; even in cities where there was no orthogonal plan, houses generally shared clusters within the city. Very little changes in terms of architectural form from the Classical to the

Hellenistic periods in the Greek world, save for a shift towards increasing ostentatiousness

(Tsakirgis 2016). Only in wealthier homes would there be private, easily discernable courtyard of the pastas or prostas type.

Roman houses, by and large, were similar to Greek style houses, but the atrium style house was simply a modified form of the peristyle house fitted to fit the needs of Roman sociocultural practices (Graham 1966). As in the case of Greek style houses, the general characteristics of the

Roman atrium house can usually only be applied loosely, as there was no singularly uniform template for the house. In general, a Roman style house would open into an unroofed atrium, at the far end of which was the tablinum. This, like the Greek andron, served the purpose of the daily business for the male Fig.urehead of the household. The rear or side of the house was usually where a peristyle courtyard was located, nearby which was usually located the triclinium, the main dining room. Outside of a few select buildings, there was not much in the way of predefined space, much in the same manner as a Greek house. Houses, or larger villas, could include several additional features, such as bathhouses, libraries, multiple courtyards, gardens, and nymphaea, for example.

Levantine Style Houses

The Golan and the Galilee are the two areas that have been most heavily studied in terms of domestic architecture, so we are in part limited by a regional bias for the area of ancient Palestine and Judaea. Further, I should note that I do not consider a few particular styles of houses, such as apartments or elaborate modified cave systems (such as those found in Arbel) that were used as permanent domestic spaces, in part because the are understudied, underrepresented, or not indicative of urban life in the southern Levant. As previously noted, the courtyard is again a common feature of houses in the Levant and was the principle area of activity in domestic space not unlike Greek and Roman houses, with some houses having two or more courtyards or with many adjacent houses sharing an open courtyard (Botha 1998; Galor 2003; Guijarro 1997;

Hirschfeld 1995). Some differences exist between various courtyard style homes, and there have been various efforts to classify house types in the Levant. Canaan (1933) typified houses based on wall thickness, while Dalman (1942, as cited in Botha 1998) did so on the roofing and support

system (flat, pillared, arched, vaulted). Later approaches use the courtyard as the defining feature. In one study carried out by Gutman et al. (1981), there were differentiation based upon houses which had courtyards that opened on the street with an entrance to the house, houses with entrances on the street that opened immediately into a courtyard, and houses with an internal courtyard. In a more simplified version, Hirschfeld (1995) suggests that there were only two forms of houses found in the southern Levant: the “simple” house, which was generally a one- roomed structure (or sometimes with two “wings”) that opened into a private or shared workspace and a “courtyard” style house, which could take a number of forms. Galor (2003) modifies this basic arrangement by suggesting that the presence or absence of a courtyard has less to do with the choices of the inhabitants as much as the general topography of a given site; houses built on sites located on steep slopes like Gamla and Meiron were less likely to use courtyards due to spatial and technical constraints, while other areas where courtyards are more common was due to the availability of topographic space to construct courtyard houses.

There were, as in Greek and Roman houses, a few characteristics of houses found in ancient

Palestine that were often regular features of domestic space, attributed in archaeological examples as well as biblical and rabbinical texts. There was likely a parapet which surrounded the roof, which is generally not gabled or tiled but instead is flat, a feature indicative of a long- standing tradition in the region. Balconies, usually on the inside of a courtyard, are also often found in more elaborate homes. Windows that looked outside of the house were relegated to the upper floors and most houses in northern Palestine, save for those found at Sepphoris, used so- called window walls (interior walls punctuated with large windows that looked in on other interior rooms) on the lower floors (Botha 1998; Galor 2003). Decorations could include frescoes, but generally most houses were either undecorated or the walls were simply plastered.

In more elaborate homes mosaics could be present, a number of which are quite spectacular and have received much attention elsewhere. Construction techniques are also quite varied up through the Byzantine period, though from the Hellenistic period stone was far more commonly used than in the Iron Age (Galor 2003; Hirschfeld 1995). Finally, in general, houses were built using post and lintel techniques rather than using arches and vaults, even well into the Roman period, though this is generally true for Greek and Roman houses as well.

Fig. 3.3 Plan of the Patrician’s House, Meiron. Hirschfeld 1995: 52.

Fig. 3.4 Plan of two complete residential complexes at Chorazin. Galor 2003: 49.

It would be remiss to fail to mention the difference between types of housing, which can often have a sharp impact on the form and plan of domestic space. In the Levant, there are relatively few large elite villas, and those that do exist are usually considered to be royal palaces, such as the villas at Iraq el-Amir, Banias, Jericho, and Herodium. There are also few large industrial villas that are more commonly found in the Western Roman world, though one well- excavated exception is found at Ramat Hanadiv near Caesarea (Hirschfeld and Birger-Calderon

1991; Hirschfeld 2000a). Conversely, there are a number of farmsteads found in Samaria and

Judaea, in particular, many of which are of the fortified farmstead type; a common feature is a farmstead with a large tower (Dar and Applebaum 1986; Hirschfeld 1998). These are modest structures, however, and should not be considered an “elite” villa.

Other forms of vernacular architecture were prevalent in Palestine in the Greco-Roman periods. Caves were extensively used in Judaea, many of which were elaborately carved and modified to be used as permanent domestic spaces not unlike what is found at Cappadocia, but

these spaces are not considered here. There is clearly a difference between rural and urban style homes, and there is also a third category of domestic space which is neither a rural nor an urban home: the monastery, which is classified somewhere between an isolated rural homestead and a larger urban space (Richardson 2004b). The monastery becomes an emergent kind of domestic structure in the Levant in the late Hellenistic and early Roman period during a period of radical sectarian changes amongst Jewish groups, and the monastery becomes increasingly common especially among early Christian communities. Archaeological examples such as Qumran and at

St. Martyrius date to late Hellenistic and early Roman periods respectively and are more numerous by the later Roman and early Byzantine periods. Monasteries present a unique archaeological conundrum. On the one hand, the archaeological materials found can indicate a fraternal-like monastic order so long as there are historical texts to contextualize them, such as the site of Qumran, an Essene monastic community. On the other hand, however, the exact same materials, when examined in their wider archaeological framework, can also be used to describe a large industrial villa that was common in the Hellenistic and Roman periods (Botha 1998;

Hirschfeld 1992). In other words, without proper secondary evidence, it is rather difficult to identify monasteries as distinctly different, at least in architectural form, from a large, industrial villa. Because of the prevalence of monastic communities in the southern Levant within the chronological framework of this study it is essential to note this distinct phenomenon. For the purposes of this study, however, especially because of their problematic nature of straddling somewhere between an urban and rural domestic context, known monasteries are not included in the dataset, discussed at length, nor are not included in either the category of domestic or urban architectural design.

Building Forms

Civic Buildings

Civic buildings comprise the structures that were common to the Greco-Roman city and which are generally secular in nature. The prevalence of religious activity in a city, or the changing nature of civic structures and public spaces like plazas does not necessarily mean that they were never religious in terms of use or decor— most structures in the ancient world were in fact decorated with religious iconography and many served secondary or tertiary functions beyond their primary one. For example, it is expected that interior decorations in a Roman bathhouse would include frescoes and statuary dedicated to the gods in the same way a temple would, but the primary function of the Roman bathhouse was not a place of worship. Here we should define civic structures as large, monumental architecture that was not demarcated or separated by any sort of sacred threshold (temenos) and the primary function of which was to serve the political, social, or economic needs of a city.

Civic buildings, despite being classified as a primary component of the civic structure, were not necessarily paid by the city in which they were constructed; in many cases, buildings that could be classified as civic structures were paid for in whole or in large part by private patrons who may or may not have worked in some direct capacity in civic administration. This is quite different than our modern world, in which civic structures like schools, parks, entertainment venues and sports complexes, and public works are paid for by the city or some other municipal administrator. Some buildings in ancient cities were built this way, generally built by and for the polis or civitas, but in many cases public structures were financed by important political figures, generals, and wealthy plutocrats who often adhered to a sense of philanthropic duty to construct public works (Wescoat and Ousterhout 2012). Sponsorship by Hellenistic and Roman dynasts,

despite technically being classified as “private” funding from the coffers of the king or emperor, should be broadly understood as state-sponsored architecture. Individual rulers are often recognized as having a distinct architectural or artistic style, but this study does not consider such traditions to be understood as a category of analysis; rather, I am more concerned with the presence or absence of architectural features specific to a site regardless of who any single patron might have been. For example, the architectural programs of Augustus, while typologically classified as “Augustan,” should still be understood as a “Roman” program. This is because for

Roman Republican or Imperial officials, they were Rome by legal definition. The same holds true for Eastern kings. While the program of a king such as Herod or Antiochus IV may be understood as “Herodian” or “Antiochan” programs, these individuals represented the state. This is quite different than a wealthy benefactor who sponsored a public building in Palmyra,

Jerusalem, Antioch, or Rome who was not of royal lineage; in this case, the architecture serves as personal aggrandizement, elite status-signaling, or any other number of analytical categories.

While it is important to note the differences between state and private sponsorship, for the purposes of this study this distinction is not important, as we are examining the architectural traditions of a region more than we are commenting about any agenda by an individual(s).

The polis of the Hellenistic period was predicated on the urban designs that fluoresced in the earlier Classical period. A typical Greek city was laid out on a grid network, generally with one or a few main boulevards bisected by several smaller streets. This kind of orthogonal plan, often called a Hippodamian-style city, in fact predates the architect and is found in the Greek world, the Levant, Italy, and Africa, and is not a unique feature of a Greek city.5 The features within this

5 Orthogonal planning is hardly unique to the Greek world, since planned urban centers with an orthogonal grid are found in Mesopotamia, India, China, Africa, and the Americas since the origins of urbanism. While orthogonal planning might suggest a higher level of social complexity, it is hardly indicative of a feature of “Greekness,” despite even current references to city-planning as a Greek phenomenon (especially among Etruscan scholarship).

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gridded network, however, do suggest that a certain suite of buildings had to be present for a city to achieve proper status as a Greek polis. The principle civic buildings — those that contribute to economic, political, or educational functions —- that were characteristic of a Hellenistic city were the agora, the bouleuterion, and the stoa.

The agora was a central feature of a Hellenistic city, but much of what we know of the agora is predefined by an intense focus on the Classical agora rather than on the later phases. The agora was traditionally a central open space, which functioned as the marketplace of the city, but by the Hellenistic period, the agora was primarily defined by its relationship to other important civic and cultural buildings, such as the bouleuterion, fountains, theaters, and the like and did not function as a marketplace (Dickenson 2017; Sielhorst 2015). The Hellenistic agora, which was generally more planned into city integration than the earlier agorai of the Classical period that grew more organically, were bounded by roads and public buildings, usually and particularly stoai, and frequently had grand entrances. They are, in a sense, more of an urban creation of space and place, which tended to frequently honor the benefactors of the city and the accomplishments of the imperial ruler (Sielhorst 2015). They were the architectural negative, a backdrop for larger public buildings. By the late Hellenistic period, cities that were large enough would often separate the commercial and political nodes of the city by constructing an agora dedicated to commerce and one dedicated to politics, and perhaps indicative of the rising influence of Rome, the political agora would often have some sort of speaker’s platform, such as a bema or rostra (Dickenson 2017). Finally, in continuation with the general trend of monumentalization in urban spaces, the agora of Hellenistic period was one marked by increasingly grand public monuments.

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Among public buildings, perhaps no other building had a larger impact on the Hellenistic cityscape than that of the stoa, alternatively called the portico (Fyfe 1936). Though stoai had been constructed before the Hellenistic period, their construction was often limited within urban environments and would not have been considered a necessity for a proper city. During the

Hellenistic period, the stoa became essential to the city, not just in the central marketplace, but also around temple complexes and public buildings as well as in extramural and intramural sanctuaries and parks and natural preserves, particularly in its use to frame space. Stoai could take any number of forms, including single long corridors, L-shaped, or U-shaped (Coulton

1977). Stoai were multi-functional spaces that could be used as markets, political meeting places, or facilities that housed works of art that often served to aggrandize a private patron or push a state narrative. In a Hellenistic city, stoai were important dividers of space and were important buildings used to create dramatic vistas characteristic of Hellenistic cities. By the later

Hellenistic and into the Roman periods, the stoa had replaced the agora as the central marketplace and were often used to mask public buildings (Sielhorst 2015).

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The bouleuterion was a building that developed out of the Classical period, designed to house the ruling legislative body of a polis. There is no single standard form for the bouleuterion; the building could be rectilinear with a central speaking platform, such as that found at Priene, or with a circular cavea, such as the one found at Iasos, two particularly well- preserved examples. In general, the bouleuterion often followed an architectural form very similar to a theater or an odeon. For the purposes of this study, I do not make any differentiation between structures labeled as bouleuterion, ekklesia, or curia; by and large, these terms are interchangeable in the East to refer to legislative bodies, and the buildings these bodies convened in, if there was a dedicated space for such a thing, I shall refer to as a bouleuterion.

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Fig. 3.6 Bouleuterion from Ashkelon. In this case, the bouleuterion is built at the far end of a Roman-period basilica and takes a rounded shape. (Boehm et al. 2016: 293)

In the Greco-Roman East, the Roman influence on civic buildings is subtle but is present. It is neither appropriate nor correct to characterize all Eastern cities as only having Hellenistic features with no Roman aspects but it is equally incorrect to suggest that the architectural programs during the Roman period created cities in novo in the way that Romans urbanized the

West — though this sometimes did happen in the southern Levant, as in the case of the

(re)foundation of Caesarea Maritima during the Herodian period.6 Rome inherited an urbanized

East, and in general the architectural programs of the East continued in a Hellenistic fashion.

Indeed, as previously discussed, it can be argued that Roman architecture was in fact itself simply a continuation of Hellenistic traditions. The Mediterranean had already become increasingly cosmopolitan and as it came under Roman dominion this cosmopolitanism was spread even further. Thus, one can speak of the architectural philosophies of the East penetrating the Western Roman provinces; likewise, Eastern cities did take on a couple of notably Roman buildings. Three civic buildings which are characteristic of Roman influence are notable: the forum, the basilica, and the macellum (marketplace).

Much has been written already on the Roman forum and this discussion will not be reviewed here in detail. Rather, I wish to highlight the core characteristics of the Roman imperial forum, as our chronological framework puts Rome in direct control of the southern Levant by the early imperial period in the first century CE, with indirect control extending back into the late first

6 Of course, the site of Caesarea Maritima, though primarily built in the Roman period, was founded on the earlier site of Straton’s Tower.

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century BCE under the administration of client kings. The Roman forum, much like the Greek agora, was the heart of a Roman city and defined space and place in the Roman city (Segal

1997). The Roman forum shared the same sense of civic space that the Greek agora did, and it is not implausible that the Roman forum was greatly influenced by protracted contact with the

Greek cities of Magna Graeca, which pushed it from a simple open space to one that bounded by specific types of buildings which collectively served as the administrative and political heart of the city (Martin 1972). It was here that political, legal, civic, and religious power was made manifest through a suite of buildings which bounded a defined space; thus, not only is a forum defined by the kinds of buildings it has or its place within a city, but it is also defined by the kinds of behaviors carried out within its boundaries. The differentiation between what is recognized as Western fora and Eastern agorai is blurry; indeed, most studies on Roman fora focus on examples from the West rather than from the East. The Roman forum focused on axiality, symmetry, and frontality more than anything else and often appear as a tripartite architectural suite composed of a forum, basilica, and podium temple that come to define

Western cities. Thus, the Roman forum shared some features with the Greek agora, such as buildings relating to administration or jurisprudence, but typically added the central element of religion. A Roman forum was generally axially centered on a podium temple, often dedicated to the Roman imperial cult or some other facet of romanitas. For the purposes of this study, this tripartite combination will be the parameter for whether an open plaza with civic buildings can be classified as a forum.

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The basilica, along with temples, was the other major building in the Roman forum and was a distinct marker of Roman architecture. The basilica is rather peculiar; the name suggests a connection to Greek kingship (from the Greek basileos, king) and the form is rather ornate for a building that, in its general purposes, served commercial and legal functions before the

Christianization of the Roman world adopted the form for sacred spaces (and possibly for Jewish sacred space as well). Conversely, the real space for political power was in the curia, which generally remained rather austere. Katherine Welch (2003) suggests that the basilica was originally designed to house diplomatic meetings with Hellenistic kings, thus solving the

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problems of both the name and the rather grandiose architecture. In general design, the Roman basilica was longer than it was wide and divided into a nave which was flanked by two aisles, with one or more apses at one end that housed judges’ seats when the structure was used as a courtroom. The Roman basilica is a easily identified, and though the form may have seminal forms in the East it is a distinctly Roman building that spread to all corners of the Roman world.

This building, above all others, is a building that marks a true Roman presence.

Entertainment and Sporting Buildings

Entertainment and sporting facilities spread rapidly in the East during the Hellenistic period.

Especially popular were equine games, including chariot races and horse races, but athletic games also gained widespread notoriety. Most of the games in the East were local affairs, held in honor of a person or god, but if an athlete was sufficiently talented enough, they could move on to larger venues in the larger Panhellenic world (Pleket 2013). Athletic events, especially non- equestrian ones, were significant components to civic self-identity and were markers of specifically a Greek urban identity; in Ptolemaic Egypt, for example, legal status was determined by enrollment in a gymnasion. We also know of games, and the debate over games, in the

Hasmonean period from various mentions in the Books of the Maccabees. Cities that created games would often seek the recognition of fellow cities by way of sending out theoroi or by seeking the benefaction of Hellenistic and Roman rulers (Pleket 2013). To have a gymnasion alone is not enough to determine whether a city was fully acculturated into the Greek koine, but it was certainly a major component of a Greek civic identity in the Hellenistic world, especially in terms of the education that would happen within the rooms of the gymnasion (Evans 2008).

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Other forms of entertainment also came with Macedonian conquest and continued or were expanded during Roman rule. Of these, the most important was the spread of Greek performative arts, such as music, theater, and poetry. Presumably, these performative arts were mixed with local traditions, but very little is known about such antecedent practices from the Persian periods, so it is difficult to ascertain to which degree a performance of a Greek play performed in Athens would be modified to fit an Eastern audience that had its own performative arts traditions. The

Hellenistic period saw the continuation and proliferation of theater, especially drama, that developed in earlier periods but the Hellenistic period is generally marked by a shift to comedy and an overall increase in theatricality and performative acts, especially in terms of rhetoric, statesmanship and displays of elite or royal power (Chaniotis 1997; Lape 2004; Evans 2008).

Performances became increasingly important and the theater, in terms of the physical structure, became a central place for cultural and political capital. It is no surprise then that theaters are widespread in the Hellenistic East and this phenomenon remains unchanged in the Roman period.

Finally, we come to the issue of blood sports, popularized by the Romans. Very little evidence suggests that Greek cities in the East built amphitheaters as was so common in the West

(see below), but the epigraphic and historic evidence suggests that gladiatorial combat, hunting games, and public executions were relatively common in the Eastern provinces and were often conducted in hippodromes or other structures, perhaps some of which were temporary as was the case in early gladiatorial contests in Italy. Earlier scholarship made a sharp divide between

“sport” and “spectacle;” the former was civilized and Greek, while the latter was uncouth and

Roman. More recent views, however, suggest that this dichotomy was non-existent to ancient peoples. Greek cities of the East happily engaged in Roman spectacle, as it allowed active

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participation in the muna (games) rather than the passive observation of athletic events, and that

Roman spectacles (e.g. blood sports) were put on “by Greeks, for Greeks, in a Greek ceremonial context” (Carter 2013: 621). This, in fact, fits in rather well with the development of theatricality for politicians in the centuries leading to Roman rule, so it should be no surprise that blood sports would have been as popular in the East as were equestrian and athletic games, theater, musical performances, and poetic recitations. There are a few buildings that are specifically associated with these forms of entertainment.

The gymnasion is a building that at once takes on the role of both educational and athletic facility, and it is therefore a central feature of any Greco-Roman city. The gymnasion appears in both Greek and Roman cities, though it has a slightly different use in the Greek world than in the

Roman world. In the Greek East, the gymnasion was often a necessary component for any city to be granted a polis charter and citizenship was generally tied up in enrollment and membership in a gymnasion — called the ephebe — and the gymnasion was the central institution for the

“Hellenization” of an area (Bringmann 2004; Gehrke 2004; Groß-Albenhausen 2004). Although the structure developed out of Greek athletics — reflected in its basic form of a series of stoai enclosing a central space called a palestra where exercise took place — the gymnasion also served the function of a school, where rhetoric, philosophy, poetry, arithmetic, music, and other subjects rooted in a Greek tradition were taught. It became the place where students learned the

Greek way of life; in the Roman world, Greek tutors were often employed, and in the East Greek education was often integrated into local traditions and existing educational systems. One notable exception to this, at least as the historical sources present it, was in the southern Levant for Jewish communities, where the Greek educational system was a direct challenge to the developing proto-rabbinical educational system and contradicted Jewish religious proclivities. In

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other places with significant Jewish communities, however, such as in Alexandria, Jews were freely participating in the gymnasion on their own volition. The gymnasion, along with the theater, are perhaps the two buildings that were most widely adopted by Romans from Greeks in both general form and function. Given their central importance in defining and education of the citizen body, the structure was an important feature for urban development in the East and is often characterized as essential for a Greek polis (Decker and Thuillier 2004).

The theater, and its smaller diminutive but distinctly different form the odeon, were the most visible of all cultural buildings in a Greco-Roman city and are easily identifiable in the archaeological record due to its specific forms. Theaters broadly break down into two major types, both attested in Vitruvius: the Greek and the Roman variation. In the former, the theater is usually built into a hillside to take advantage of the natural topography to create inclined and curvilinear rows of seats. These seats surrounded an open space, the orchestra, creating a semicircle that just extends past the radius. A stage, called a skene, sat centered on the orchestra, flanked on either side by passageways leading out of the theater. A Roman-style theater, in general, had the same basic components, but does alter the plan slightly. The Romans, ever concerned with symmetry and axiality, extend the stage (called the scaene) with structures on either side that were generally punctuated by vaulted passageways. In so doing, they close off the building to make it a true semicircular structure, and the seats do not extend past the radius of the orchestra, which is now much smaller. Another feature that is characteristic of Roman theaters is the use of a vaulted system to build raised seating, much as in the sort found in amphitheaters, though Romans would use natural hillsides to their advantage (Izenour 1992).7 Most theaters

7 For example, the surviving theater at Bet She’an is a Roman theater built into a natural hillside. The addition of a vaulted second level and the extension of the skene easily identifies it as a Roman structure rather than a Greek one.

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were oriented so that the cavea faced south, probably to take advantage of the afternoon light and warmth during all seasons of the year (Monaco et al. 2017). The odeion, a building designed for musical and poetical recitations, was simply a smaller variant of the theater that was roofed to improve the acoustical properties of the space. In general, the odeion looks much like the theater, but it is about one quarter of the size, and its orientation was less of a concern because it did not need to account for sunlight (Sear 2006).

Fig. 3.8 Diagram of a typical Greek theater according to Vitruvius. Modified from (Sear 1990: 250)

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Fig. 3.9 Diagram of a typical Roman theater according to Vitruvius. Sear 1990: 251.

Stadia were generally the largest of all buildings in a Greco-Roman city. In the East, the stadium was used primarily for athletic games, but could also serve as a location for blood sports.

In general, a stadium was built into a hill, and there is very little difference between the basic architecture of the stadium and a hippodrome excepting the larger size of a hippodrome due to the larger racetrack. Both structures were squared on one side, where the athletes, horses, or chariots would be placed for the start of the race, and the other end was usually apsidal. One notable difference between the stadium and the hippodrome is that the Greek stadium, besides being much smaller, did not have a central spine or turn posts, as the athletes did not perform multiple laps on the track. The Roman circus is virtually indistinguishable from a Greek hippodrome save for the size and the use of the spina, and for the purposes of this study the terms are interchangeable.

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Fig. 3.10 Hippodrome from Jerash, ancient Gerasa. Source: (Ostrasz 1989: 53).

One sharp divide between the Roman East and the Roman West is the relative absence of buildings purposely built for blood sports in the Greek East. If the theater as an architectural form was rather ubiquitous in the East, the amphitheater was conversely almost absent. In all the

Eastern Mediterranean, only about twenty amphitheaters have been identified, and only one — at

Eleutheropolis in Israel (though another has been excavated in Serdica, Bulgaria) — has been fully excavated (Dodge 2009). Of the approximately twenty purposely built amphitheaters, eight are found in the southern Levant (Judaea and Samaria), though of these eight five are attested only in literary form (the three archaeological examples are found in Caesarea, Eleutheropolis, and Scythopolis/Beit She’an). This is an unusually high density for such a small geographic area

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compared to the rest of the entire Eastern Mediterranean, indicating that the amphitheater might have had special importance to this region.8

Fig. 3.11 Distribution of identified amphitheaters in the Eastern Mediterranean. (Dodge 2009: 30).

The architecture for an amphitheater is relatively simple: it is a complete structure in the round, usually circular or elliptical in shape, with a cavea like the theater that went all the way around a central area where the games took place. Because these are distinctly Roman structures, they were constructed with vaults and arches as the principle feature. Though blood sports did

8 The map only shows seven, but there is an amphitheater found at Bet She’an (Scythopolis), located in modern Israel. I have included this amphitheater as well.

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take place in other venues in the East, the density of purposefully built amphitheaters in the southern Levant warrants that this structure is utilized as a distinct architectural category.

Baths and Bathing Facilities

The bathing tradition in Greece was generally quite simple, with bathing divided into a hot bath and a cold bath. In both cases, the bathing was generally done either standing up near basins or, less commonly, by full immersion. Dedicated public facilities to bathing are relatively rare in the Greek world; despite the preponderance of references to bathing in literature, history, and artistic expressions (such as decorations on ceramics) the actual archaeological evidence for

Greek bathing facilities is relatively quite small. Most architectural examples of Greek baths, called balaneia, are round tholos-style structures with hip-baths and basins inside. Bathing becomes intimately tied with the gymnasion by the later Classical and into the Hellenistic periods; it is likely that several rooms in the gymnasion were set aside specifically for bathing facilities and sweat rooms (Wassenhoven 2012). Wasserhoven (2012: 75) suggests “levels of spatiality” that suggests that baths in the Greek world at their most public manifestations were found in baths (defined as the presence of wash basins) in public assembly buildings, the palestra of the gymnasion, palaces and sanctuaries, and in the rare instances of a public balaneion and swimming pools.

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Fig. 3.12 Plan of Greek tholos-style balaneion, Hellenistic-period Thessaloniki. This type of Greek bathhouse is uncommon, with only a few known examples. Note the individual bathtubs spaced around the inner area. (Adam-Veleni 2013)

The Roman tradition of bathing, on the other hand, is markedly different than the Greek tradition. In both the Greek and Roman traditions, bathing was a social phenomenon and was often associated with athletics, but in the Roman tradition bathing reached grand new heights in terms of technical innovation and architectural grandeur. The study of Roman baths is beyond the scope of this study and will not be examined in detail here, but a few general comments should be stated. First, just as the Greek city was characterized by the presence of a gymnasion

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then a Roman city could be characterized by the presence of the thermae, or large public bathhouses. Second, the social function of the bath and its incorporation into daily life is a well- known phenomenon and so the Roman bathhouse, and participation thereof, becomes a key marker of identity. Finally, the Roman tradition of bathing, and the basic design of the Roman thermae, spread throughout the entirety of the Roman world. Of course, there were variations, but a Roman bathhouse is immediately identifiable in the urban landscape.

Fig. 3.13 View of the hypocaust in the baths at Beit She’an, Israel. Photo by author.

Lastly, in the southern Levant, a distinctly separate bathing tradition developed in Jewish communities (Craffert 2000; Dolan and Foran 2016; Hoss 2005). The concept of full-water immersion in a stepped pool, called a miqveh (or alternatively a mikveh), developed in late

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Second Temple Judaism during the Hasmonean period. Miqva’ot appear in the southern Levant sometime in the first century CE and are characterized by a pool fed by natural moving waters

(springs, lakes, rainfall, rivers, etc.) that is generally 3 cubits deep with steps at one end. The association with Jewish ritual bathing appears in later rabbinic literature and no archaeological or textual evidence for the presence of miqva’ot exists before the late Hasmonean period, meaning that the tradition is one that is born and fluoresces in the Hellenistic and Roman periods.

Generally, the presence of a miqveh is often treated by archaeologists as a key signature for a

Jewish identity (Reich and Zapata-Meza 2018); this, however, is problematic given this is a top- down approach by reading later rabbinical texts into an archaeological phenomenon that predates said texts. Instead it is more fruitful to turn to a bottom-up approach, which is to put them into dialogue with the rest of the urban landscape; in other words, the mere presence of a stepped pool — which is not necessarily a uniquely Jewish phenomenon, I would add — should not on its own be enough to define a site as Jewish.9 Nevertheless, it is not the intent here to argue whether the miqveh is in fact a marker of Jewishness; rather, I am highlighting an architectural phenomenon that is well-documented with dozens of examples in the southern Levant. The miqveh, because of its identifiable features that demarcate it from Roman thermae or a Greek balaneion, will be treated as a distinct urban feature in this study.

9 We will return to precisely this issue in the conclusion.

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Fig. 3.14 Miqveh from Khibat al-Mukhayyat. (Dolan and Foran 2016: 288).

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Fig. 3.15 Four miqva’ot from Magdala. (Reich and Zapata-Meza 2018: 112).

Urban Ornamental Architecture

Ornamental architecture includes architecture which in general did not serve a specific function but often signaled the prosperity and grandiosity of a Greco-Roman city. Civic design in the Hellenistic and Roman periods mandated not only close attention to the functional aspects of the cityscape but also was concerned with the aesthetics of a city to engender not only a function of a Place but the creation of a Space. The former is the physical location within an urban context in all its constituent parts, while the latter is the creation of a sense of identity or narrative through the purposeful placement of architectural elements. Ornamental architecture fulfilled this role. This kind of architecture is prominent in the cityscape, but it fulfills no major function other than aggrandizement; in this way, it is different than the previous forms of

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architecture which, while they may have been lavishly decorated buildings they nevertheless still served specific functions and were purpose-built for those functions, even if other activities took place within their confines. Apart from gateways, most ornamental architecture was not purpose- built. This is not to say, however, that ornamental architecture was superfluous to the civic experience; indeed, quite the opposite is true as ornamental architecture was often the site of important social functions. A close approximation might be a plaza in front of an important public building, such as a library, in a modern city, whereby the plaza does not on its own fulfill a specific role but is rather an extension of public space in which specific activities take place.

Here I wish to highlight a few notable types of ornamental architecture that were common to

Greco-Roman cities in the Near East: the use of the colonnades, monumental gateways, tetrapylons, triumphal arches, and public waterworks.

Colonnaded streets are a common feature of Greco-Roman cities of the Eastern

Mediterranean, with some of the finest examples of this sort of architecture in the Mediterranean found in Israel and particularly in Syria and Jordan. Segal (1997) rightly identifies colonnaded streets as monumental architecture, built to convey a sense of power, authority, and place in an urban context. Colonnaded streets are always found on broad central avenues and demarcate the central road(s) of the city; consequently, they are usually located on what is termed the decamanus or the cardo. The origins of the colonnade are unclear; some consider the origins rooted in a functional need to provide shade for vendors along the street, others that the influence comes form the pharaonic influence of columned boulevards that denoted the via sacra (sacred road), and yet others consider them to be an evolution from the stoa (Segal 1997). Most colonnades date to the late Hellenistic and Roman periods. The colonnade served both an economic and decorative function. Most colonnades had shops built along the length of the road,

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but since the structures were unroofed, they were decorative in that they added additional dimensions to the cityscape (Segal 1997). Not only was the colonnaded avenue usually longer and wider than other roads, but the columns would add height through the use of the column, weight by means of the entablature that would run across the columns, texture through the use of fabrics to provide shade to shops below and stuccoed columns against stone roads, and color from not only the fabrics over the shops but also from a color contrast of the columns, as is the case at Beit She’an, where the colonnade was decorated with tall white columns that stood in stark contrast against black basalt roads.

Fig. 3.16 Colonnade at Beit She’an (Scythopolis) in the Galilee. Note the color contrast between the white columns and the dark basalt stones of the road. Photo by author.

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Monumental gateways are common features of a city; at first, they are functional defensive structures, but by the Roman period gates become ornamental with a common design of three arches, making them very similar in design — if not in function — of a Roman triumphal arch.

City gates generally come in three forms: a fortified single entry, an unfortified single entry, or an unfortified triple entry (Segal 1997). Gates would also be located within the city, where a slightly different kind of terminology is used. When a decorated gate is used within the city to demarcate a space, such as the sacred boundary of the temple (temenos) or an agora, the general term is the propylon; it should be noted that the same term is used to demarcate sacred space in extramural structures as well, such as rural sanctuaries. Gate-like structures also exist in two other major forms: the triumphal or decorative arch and the tetrapylon. The former are distinctive Roman structures which were often used to demonstrate state power and codify state narratives. In the East, the decorative arch often took a distinct form, blending the traditional

Roman triumphal arch with the Syrian gable, as found in Aphrodisias in Syria. The tetrapylon was exclusively used within the confines of a city. The general characteristics of the tetrapylon was either four decorated piers which formed a structure or four small decorated structures in close proximity, were colonnaded, and found at major crossroads or in plazas. In either form, the structure could be roofed or unroofed (Segal 1997).

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Fig. 3.17 Aphrodisias tetrapylon, reconstruction and image. Note the use of the so-called Syrian gable. From the Aphrodisias Excavation Project.

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Nymphaea are decorative water fountains that were often placed in central locations in the city, often along major roads such as the decamanus or cardo; in Greece and Asia Minor, nymphaea were often added to aggrandize extant sanctuaries in the Roman period (Longfellow

2012). In the Levant, nymphaea appear in great numbers in the early Roman period, around the

2nd century BCE (Segal 1997). The nymphaeum likely developed out of cultic sites that were dedicated to nymphs, in which water was a common component. Nymphaea were not intended to supply the water of the city; that was a function of cisterns, aqueducts, and wells. Rather, the nymphaeum was a decorative architectural component that blended Hellenistic tastes for theatricality and Roman engineering. Most nymphaea followed a similar plan: a two-storied front that looked often like the scaenae frons (the stage in a Roman theater) with niches for statues, a half dome and an entablature often with the Syrian arch (Segal 1997).

Fig. 3.18 Nymphaeum at Jerash (Gerasa), Jordan. BASOR Archives.

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Pools were especially common in the southern Levant, and much has been written about them which will not be discussed at length here (but see for example Netzer 1977; Bedal 2004;

Elitzur 2008; Miller 2010; Regev 2012; Gleason 2014, Gurevich 2017). In the southern Levant, especially in regions in which lived significant Jewish populations, it can often be difficult to determine whether pools were decorative features, swimming pools, or were sites of ritualized activity in the form of miqva’ot; indeed, the identification of the use of pools is a common source of debate. Nevertheless, whether a pool was merely decorative or functional, pools were a feature of urban life in the southern Levant and thus should be considered a viable category to include in this study.

Sacred Architecture

Finally, a few brief words should be said about religious architecture in the southern Levant.

Here I will not discuss in-depth the character of Hellenistic and Roman temples in the East, nor of churches and synagogues, as the literature on the topic of sacred architecture is well- established and is not needed here (Chrétien-Happe 2004; Crowfoot 1941; Duval 1994; Fine

1996; Hachlili 1997, 1989; Halpern-Zylberstein 1990; Hoppe 1994; Irvine 1981; Lehmann 1954;

Milson 2007; Ovadiah and Turnheim 2011; Segal 2013; Tsafrir 1993; Winter 2006). Rather, I wish to make it clear that in any instances of the presence of sacred architecture at a site, I will use the identification provided by the original excavators or, if there is disagreement in identification, then I will categorize the structure based on what the consensus suggests. In terms of the design and character of temples, synagogues, and churches, I will note generalizing characteristics such as the type of architectural decor, construction techniques, and architectural orders. While it would be useful, and even enlightening, to explore such characteristics in greater

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detail, the noise that such an endeavor would introduce to this dataset, which takes a macro approach to the urban environment, would prove damaging and would prove to be beyond the scope of this study. I intend only to use sacred architecture as one of but several categories in the urban landscape and treated no differently than any other building.

Summary

This chapter has explored, in brief, the characteristics of Greek and Roman architecture — in terms of construction techniques and architectural philosophy — as well the key types of buildings that constituted a city in the Greco-Roman East. The intention of this chapter was not to discuss in detail the characteristics of Hellenistic and Roman architecture, nor to discuss in detail any one single type of building or specific details of variability in the architectural decoration. In many cases, there already exists a wide body of literature that discusses these subjects. The intent of this study is not to contribute to those studies. Rather, this study seeks to amalgamate existing data for the architecture of the Levant, in terms of form and decoration, to visualize networks of communities and to quantitatively assess degrees of connection amongst the urban landscapes of the southern Levant.

The buildings discussed here, both monumental and vernacular, should all be understood as categories of analysis. The identification of the various buildings of the urban landscape, as well as generalizing categories of architectural décor and features, are the two main features that are examined in the subsequent chapters. There are three major components of the built environment that this study seeks to examine: 1) the presence or absence of these various buildings that typify a “Greek” or a “Roman” city in the urban landscapes of the southern Levant and how these might have changed diachronically; 2) the construction techniques used in architectural programs

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and; 3) basic categories for architectural decoration. Many of these buildings are understood by archaeologists to be markers of identity (especially in the case of religious architecture in the southern Levant due to the prevalence of “distinct” Jewish and Christian communities), and so their presence or absence from any given site might suggest something about the identity of the people at that site. In general, there is a natural overlap between the presence/absence component of buildings in an urban environment and spatial syntax analysis. How space was used within an urban environment, and whether that was reproduced throughout a region, would be evidenced by a social network analysis. This study does not move in the direction of spatial syntax analysis, but it does focus on presence or absence of buildings or and particular architectural features or technical qualities at a site as important categories for a more robust network study.

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CHAPTER 4 SAMARIA

Geographic and Historical Overview

Samaria, today located in the West Bank of Palestine and Israel, was noted as a major cultural and political region in historical sources, both biblical and Greco-Roman. It is most known in the Israelite tradition for being the seat of the northern Kingdom of Israel in the Iron

Age (IAIIB – IAIIC, ca. 925 – 586 BCE) before Israel was destroyed by the Assyrians in 721

BCE. It is likewise known in the Christian tradition for being the home to the Samaritans, who by this point had diverged into a distinct people from the adjacent Jewish populations. The exact boundaries of Samaria are difficult to ascertain, as it varied from one historical period to another

(Petrozzi 1981). In general, the ancient province of Samaria in the Hellenistic and Roman period is bounded to the north by Galilee, to the west by the Mediterranean Sea, to the east by Paraea and the Transjordan, and to the south by Judaea. It measures approximately 67 kilometers from west to east from the Mediterranean to the Jordan River, and approximately 55 kilometers from north to south. The region is characterized by coastal access to the Mediterranean and a wide littoral plain called the Plain of Sharon, mountainous hill country in the center, the Jordan River

Valley to the east. Samaria is traditionally divided from Galilee by the Jezreel Valley and Carmel ridge to the north and from Judaea to the south by Mt. Hazor, one of the higher mountains in the region, ascending more than 1,000 meters above sea level.

The main cities in the Iron Age were Samaria, capital of the Kingdom of Israel, and

Shechem, an important religious and political center for the Israelites in the Iron Age. Because

Samaria was the central geopolitical and religiopolitical seat of the northern Israelites, it was a rival city to the geopolitical and religiopolitical seat of the southern Judahites, which centered on

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Jerusalem. Following the destruction of the Kingdom of Israel, Samaria was a semi-autonomous province under the control of Neo-Babylonian, Achaemenid and Hellenistic kingdoms of the

Ptolemies and the Seleukids. In the Roman period, Samaria was administered together with neighboring regions as the province of Judaea, then of Syria-Palestina. Despite the revolving hegemons and ever-shifting provincial borders of different imperial administrations, the ancient region of Samaria nearly parallels the modern province of Samaria in the West Bank.

In the Iron Age, the region of Samaria was the nexus of the northern Kingdom of Israel.

Jeroboam (r. 930 – 910 BCE) established the first Israelite capital at Shechem and for a brief period the capital was at Tirzah following at the end of Jeroboam’s reign and in the immediate struggle for the throne following his death. Omri (r. 885 – 874 BCE) founded the city of Samaria as the capital of Israel in the early ninth century BCE in the region of the same name. The impressive remains of Israelite Samaria still are visible under the later occupational phases of the

Hellenistic and Roman periods, and the city’s grandiose scale, elaborate architecture, and fantastic artistic features are a testament to the wealth and power of the Kingdom of Israel as arguably the dominant power in the region despite the power of the rival cities of neighboring

Phoenicians and Arameans. Nevertheless, despite the power, wealth, and prestige Israel achieved, she eventually fell to the ascendant Assyrians. The Kingdom of Israel was destroyed in

722 BCE by the campaigns of the Assyrian king Shalmaneser V, and in 720 BCE the city of

Samaria was finally destroyed by his successor Sargon II. Following this initial period of destruction by the Assyrians, there was a significant decline in population as deportations removed and remitted Israelite populations throughout the Assyrian Empire according to relatively standard Assyrian practice. Much of the population, however, remained in the region

(Knoppers 2006), indicating that the region was not entirely decimated by the Assyrian conquest.

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Furthermore, there was an intentional resettlement of the region under Shalmaneser V; Josephus states that people from Cuthah were resettled in Samaria, where they co-mingled with the local

Israelite (Yahwistic) population (Ant.9.288-291). Under the Assyrian regime, Samaria was allocated to the massive province of Eber-Nari (“Beyond the Euphrates”), a region which encompassed all the territory west of the Euphrates and south of Anatolia. The situation was unchanged under the Neo-Babylonians. Only one real archaeological horizon, Iron Age III

(IAIII, or sometimes referred to as IAIIC) is evident in Samaria until the fourth century BCE

(Knoppers 2006) and numerous studies of the region have indicated that there was continual occupation, and in many areas an increase in population based on the density of sites, during the

Neo-Babylonian period and through the Achaemenid period (Dar and Applebaum 1986;

Finkelstein 2011; Zertal 1988; Zertal and Bar 2004). By the time of the Achaemenid conquest, an established population was living in the region of Samaria, likely an admixture of local indigenous Yahwists and foreigners from various parts of the Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian empires.10 This population was quite affluent and wielded greater political and economic power than their southern neighbors in Yehud, and were likely, along with the Phoenician city-states, among the most powerful and prosperous regions under the Neo-Babylonians and Achaemenids

The Achaemenids, for the most part, kept the general provincial divisions of the Neo-

Babylonians intact; thus, Samaria continued to be a part of the Assyrian province of Eber-Nari along with Phoenicia, Aram, and Yehud; in many cases these regions were semi-autonomous territories and had separate governors or were allowed to keep royal institutions intact so long as homage was paid to the imperial power. Samaria prospered in the Achaemenid period, and may

10 Because it is difficult to determine the difference in ethnic character between what would become “Samaritan” and “Jewish” in this early period, I refer to indigenous peoples of this area as Yahwists, who were of either Israelite or Judahite descent and who worshipped the shared god Yahweh.

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have been one of the most important cities in the southern Levant during the Achaemenids (Stern

2001). It is in this period that a temple at Mt. Gerizim is built as a sacred rival to Jerusalem

(Dušek 2011; Magen 2007; Stern and Magen 2002). In the Iron Age the people of Samaria should probably not be understood yet as a distinctly different group from their Judaean brethren to the south (Knoppers 2013, 2006). It is in this period that the ethnonym “Samaritans” enters the historical record. Though Josephus is frustratingly imprecise in his language (i.e. whether he speaks of the “Samaritans” as a distinct ethnic group or simply as “people from Samaria” is unclear), what is clear is that in all descriptions the “Samaritans” are presented in opposition to the “Jews” during his relevant passages discussing the Persian period (Ant. 11. 114-119; see also

Kartveit 2011). The concept of “Samaritan” as used by Josephus is also one that at times sees a clear demarcation between “Samaritan” and “Jewish” while at other times grouping both communities together without distinction (Lim 2013). Of course, some of this might be an act of historicizing on the part of Josephus, who was writing at a time when there existed a well-known division between Jews and Samaritans, but there is certainly evidence of a strained and yet tenuous relationship between Jews and Samaritans. In general, however, Josephus is hardly kind to the Samaritans in his historical presentation, even if in the Persian period the division between the two groups had not entirely crystallized. Relatively little is known about the Persian period in

Samaria, but it seems that the Samaritans and their Achaemenid hegemons enjoyed a relatively peaceful relationship; Samaritans were allowed to build a temple, attain certain rights and privileges, and to mint their own coins.

During the campaigns of Alexander, the Samaritans threw their support initially behind the Persians, viewing the region of Samaria and its principle cities of Samaria and Shechem suffered a relatively sharp population decline in the early Hellenistic period (Finkelstein 2011;

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Zertal and Bar 2004), in no small part due to a rebellion which led to the destruction of Samaria.

The city of Samaria was established as a Hellenistic military colony by Alexander, which created a divide between Greek city of Samaria and Judaic city of Shechem (Petrozzi 1981). Samaria, along with Jaffa, Gerizim, and Jerusalem, is counted among the cities that were destroyed by

Ptolemy I in 331 BCE (Lett. of Aris. 13; Ant. 15), and then destroyed again in 296 BCE by

Demetrios. Based on the lack of any direct evidence from the Zenon Archive regarding the economic importance of Samaria, the region — along with Judaea — was considered a backwater province in the Ptolemaic state (Dušek 2011), and the Samaritans had lost much of their political autonomy. By the end of Ptolemaic control of the region, most Samaritans lived in

Gerizim rather than Shechem or Samaria. Following the Seleukid victory over the Ptolemies in

198 BCE at Panion, Samaria shifted from Ptolemaic to Seleukid rule. Samaria actively aided

Antiochus III in his campaigns against the Ptolemies, and they, along with Jews in Jerusalem, were awarded a number of concessions, including permission to expand their respective temples, and Samaria continued on as a fairly autonomous region under Seleukid control. Here it is difficult to tell if the Seleukids understood the difference between the Samaritans and the Jews.

During this period, the extant temple on Mt. Gerizim constructed by Sanballat in the late fifth century is expanded and an additional temple dedicated to Serapis and Isis was constructed

(Crowfoot 1942; Magness 2001). Following the infamous decree of Antiochus IV in 167 BCE to outlaw or severely restrict Jewish religious practices in Judaea, the temple on Mt. Gerizim was rededicated to Zeus Xenios and the Samaritans did not participate in the Jewish revolt against the

Seleukids, choosing instead to remain under the direct control of the Seleukids and without seeking for any of their cities to be granted a polis charter. In regards to temples and, in general, toward Hellenization, the Seleukids appear to be far more engaged in a practice of active

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Hellenization than were the Ptolemies, at least according to the historical record (Petrozzi 1981), though the archaeological record does not seem to indicate that Hellenization penetrated deeply into Samaritan society. Following the success of the Maccabean revolt, the Hasmonean kingdom was established in Judaea, though they were initially focused on conquering surrounding territory. Eventually, the Hasmoneans focused their attention to destroy what they considered an apostate people and launched a campaign against Samaria. Shechem, Samaria, and Gerizim were destroyed by John Hyrcanus, perhaps in several phases, between 128 and 107 BCE. Shechem, and Gerizim were attacked for its opposition to the Judaic establishment in Jerusalem and perceived religious apostasy, while Samaria might have been targeted for its acceptance of

Hellenic culture (Petrozzi 1981).

It is during the second half of the Hellenistic period that the differences between the Jews becomes increasingly exasperated and it is more apparent that both Jews and Samaritans saw one another as a people distinct from one another. The schisms between the Judaic populations in

Judaea and in Samaria are centered primarily on two key aspects: firstly, the division of the people along political and tribal lines which formed the Kingdom of Israel; secondly, a religious schism. The principal division, at least from a religious perspective, centered on two features.

The first was the site of Yahweh’s holy mountain; for the Judaean Jews, that sacred mountain was Mt. Zion, and therefore Jerusalem was the only accepted place of worship; for the

Samaritans, it was Mt. Gerizim, where there had long stood a rival sanctuary to that in Jerusalem.

The second religious division centered on differences in the Pentateuch and, more generally, on differences in oral laws. Simply put, the Samaritans were the returnees of the exiled Israelites who kept the Yahwistic cult intact as they had previously worshipped, while the practices of others in Judaea were seen as impure, the result of returnees from exiled Judahites and Israelites

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who brought back new religious practices from Babylon (Knoppers 2013; Nodet 2011).

Inscriptions found at Delos underscore this difference: Samaritans saw themselves as the true

Israelites and as the temple on Mt. Gerizim as the true temple to Yahweh (Pummer 2015). The

Samaritan temple at Mt. Gerizim, based on the discovery of unique Punic-Israelite proto-aeolic capitals, can be dated at its first phase to the Persian period, though some sort of cultic shrine had already existed on the mountain, or at least nearby in Shechem, for some time (Stern and Magen

2002). The Samaritan temple built on Mt. Gerizim (not in Shechem) was built by Sanballat and, according to Josephus, was a copy of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem. These religious differences were principal reasons for the hostility between the two groups. Despite the vitriol between

Samaritans and Jews, it was nevertheless not entirely discernable to the Romans or to Herod that the Samaritans and the Jews should be considered different people; indeed, both Herod and the

Romans treated the Jews and the Samaritans as the same people.

The fate of the Samaritans, as a communal group, during the remainder of the Hellenistic period following their subjugation at the hands of the Hasmonean king John Hyrcanus I is ambiguous. For the most part, Samaritans disappear from the historical accounts and the archaeology indicates that the cities of Samaria and Shechem were likely unoccupied until the

Herodian and Roman reconstruction (Pummer 2015). From regional surveys of the Shechem vale, which would have included much of the southern area of Samaria, the relative continuity and frequency of pottery suggests that following the Hasmonean campaigns in 128 BCE and 107

BCE occupation at small sites continued on unabated (Campbell and Summers 1991). Though the main cities of Shechem and Samaria were undoubtedly destroyed in the late Hellenistic period, the region of Samaria was far from unoccupied; many of the sites surveyed showed not

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only continuation of occupation from the Hellenistic period, but a florescence of new sites between the Hellenistic and Roman periods (Campbell and Summers 1991).

There is little in the way of reliable historical evidence for the Samaritans or for Samaria directly during the Roman and Byzantine periods, at least regarding the nuances of their relationship to the Romans. Following the Samaritan defeat at the hands of the Hasmoneans, the

Samaritans disappear from historical sources until the first century. Josephus provides some context of the relationship between Jews and Samaritans, which were generally antagonistic and increasingly hostile in the early Roman period (c.f. Josephus Ant. 18.29-31; Ant. 20.118-136; BJ

2.232-246; John 4.3-26; Luke 9.52-53), but of direct relationship between the Roman governors and Samaritan priestly leadership it is unclear, not least because of Josephus’ own biases against the Samaritans. The region of Samaria became the seat of the Roman presence in the southern

Levant, with the foundation of Caesarea Maritima as the provincial capital of what was called province of Judaea, which included the territory south of Syria-Phoenicia and west of Arabia.

Thus, the region of Samaria included four major Roman cities, Caesarea Maritima, Antipatris

(Afek), Flavia Neapolis, and Samaria-Sebaste. Despite the fact that Samaria was deeply integrated into the Roman provincial system, the Samaritans, at least on the basis of historical texts, seemed to have maintained a distinct identity.

The Samaritans were a politically active group during the Jewish Revolt against Rome from 66 – 70 CE, fueled particularly because of their increasing sense of a distinct identity centered on the sanctuary at Mt. Gerizim along with the town that had sprung up and around the city of Samaria-Sebaste. Though the Samaritans were seen as outsiders to the Jewish community at large, the punitive measures taken by the Romans during and after the Jewish revolts seems to have equally targeted both Samaritan and Jewish groups. Following the Samaritan and Jewish

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defeat at the hands of the Romans, the regions of Samaria and Judaea were combined together and became an imperial province under the direct control of the emperor (Magen 2009; Magen et al. 2008). The degree to which the Samaritans participated in the bar-Kokhba revolts in 132 –

135 CE is indeterminate and remains debated in the scholarship (Pummer 2015). It does appear that the Samaritans were subjected to the same kinds of punishments, especially regarding circumcision, handed out by Hadrian that the Jews faced following the defeat of bar-Kokhba, indicating that perhaps from the Roman perspective the Samaritans were considered “Jews” among the population in the combined province writ large. Yet, when the law was revoked by

Antoninus Pius, the same revocation was not extended to the Samaritans as it was to the Jews.

Why this is the case is not clear, and certainly does not shed much insight on whether the

Romans understood the Samaritans as Jews or as a different group of people. If the Romans did view the Samaritans as a separate group of people from the “Jews” precisely what defined this division — ethnic, religious, geographic, or some combination — remains unclear.

In the third century CE, the great Samaritan rabbi Baba Rabba becomes active sometime in the Severan period, possibly either under the reign of Alexander or Caracalla. His reinvigoration of the Samaritan population, by opening synagogues and reaffirming Samaritan beliefs, led initially to a period of prosperity for the Samaritans but also paved the way for increasing hostility between Samaritans and Christians. This ultimately led to the Samaritans, together with the Jews, being subjected to a number of laws targeting them following

Constantine (Pummer 2015). Perhaps most interesting is that the laws make a clear distinction between Samaritans and Jewish populations. The Samaritans were nevertheless permitted to worship in their own separate precinct on Gerizim, which they did so in the fourth century CE.

However, to curtail religious fervor of the Samaritans and expand the influence of Christianity,

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Zenon (r. 476 – 491 CE) constructed a massive church dedicated to Mary Theotokos. Due to increased pressure under a Christianizing Roman regime, in the fifth and sixth centuries there were numerous uprisings in Samaria, particularly in 484 CE, 529 CE and 556 CE. By the middle of the sixth century, the power of the Samaritans had waned significantly and, either because of a number of Samaritans had converted to Christianity or because there was not enough resources or will to mount more rebellions, the Samaritans were relegated to a minor faction in the region and their population was nearly decimated (Pummer 2015; Magen et al. 2008). For the remainder of the Byzantine period, until the Islamic conquest, Samaritans are relegated to the back pages of history.

Samaria: Principal Sites and Archaeological Surveys

Archaeological Surveys

Though it is very difficult to gather substantial data regarding architecture based on regional surveys, in a few select sites enough architectural fragments remain that we make remark on the type of architectural traditions used in the region. One of the problems with dealing with archaeological surveys is imprecision of dates of occupation; rather, pottery sherds can tell us useful information about the length of occupation and the highest density of sherds can suggest the greatest point of occupation. It is necessary to state that in examining survey data, I used the highest density of pottery to suggest a chronological occupation of the site, and with it the assumption that (unless otherwise noted by the surveyors) the most substantial architectural materials correlate in date to the highest density of pottery. Finally, I would note that here I did not include every single site that had any kind of architectural feature, but rather those that could be fairly securely dated and with enough architectural remains on the site to be

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able to contribute to the overall study, and which were documented sufficiently in the archaeological reports.11 Consequently, there are undoubtedly sites beyond the scope of this study that are not covered, many of which do have architectural remains.

Several surveys have been carried out in the region of Samaria and its immediate environs, covering the ancient region of Samaria and into the Judean highlands (Campbell and

Summers 1991; Finkelstein et al. 1997; Zertal 1988; Zertal and Bar 2004). Much of the survey data comes from the central and eastern regions of Samaria. Zertal and Bar (2004) note that there seems to be a sharp decline of rural habitation sites in the Hellenistic period in central and eastern Samaria; there are only 66 sites found with Hellenistic pottery, less than half than those found with Persian period pottery. Conversely, the Plain of Sharon in the west was densely populated in the Hellenistic period, at least on the basis of pottery density identified at several sites (Roller 1982). This is perhaps because of the punishment doled to the Samaritans following their support of the Persians and their unsuccessful revolt against Alexander, which led to either widespread displacement or concentration in the cities of Samaria, Shechem and Gerizim during the Hellenistic period. Occupation of the Hellenistic sites that were identified continues through the early and late Roman periods. One of the most notable features of the Samaritan hinterland is the construction of field towers, some 1,200 which have been identified, found usually in the context of farmsteads, oil and wine production (Dar and Applebaum 1986). This regional phenomenon lasts through the early Roman period but ceases in the second century CE. The earliest phases of these towers date to the Persian period, suggesting that the Hellenistic and

Early Roman towers continued a local tradition of fortified agrarian settlements in the region of

11 For example, several sites may be recorded as having walls up to a certain height, or with well-preserved buildings, but without any photodocumentation or more detailed discussion. This is likely attributed to the nature of survey archaeology; the focus of a survey is to identify as many sites as possible through primarily pottery density counts. Thus, in general not much is often said of architectural material.

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Samaria that extends back into the Persian and perhaps IAII periods. Roman-style extra-urban villas in Palestine are relatively less common than in other parts of the Mediterranean but are found along the littoral plains in Roman Syria. In the hills of Samaria, only three possible sites around Shechem and six in the entire hinterland appear to date to the Roman period and have architectural features associated with Roman villae rusticae or villae urbanae. Only two such sites, Khirbet Basatin and Deir Sam’am, can perhaps be labeled as Roman villas based on extant architectural remains. The only real architectural fragments that would possibly lead to such a conclusion are the presence of colonnades at both sites and remnants of mosaic floors at the latter

(Dar and Applebaum 1986). In surveys of the Manasseh Hills, a region which is included in the region of Samaria, Zertel (2004) noted that much of the settlement occupation declines from the

Iron Age period and does not recover until the Byzantine period. This is perhaps due to the general decline of economic prosperity and relative disinterest by various imperial hegemons in the Hellenistic and early Roman periods, which was not reversed until the period of positive relations between the Samaritan populations and Roman emperors; it is also likewise due to the fact that populations in Samaria moved westward during the late Hellenistic and Roman periods with the construction of major cities such as Caesarea and Antipatris, making the Sharon Plain a more economically attractive and viable prospect.

Caesarea Maritima

Caesarea was founded by Herod in 30 BCE near the Hellenistic town of Strato’s Tower with all the grandeur and intention of becoming the leading city in the southern Levant, which it quickly achieved and remained the capital of both Judaea and Syria-Palaestina for nearly six centuries (Levine and Netzer 1986). It is, unquestionably, the crowning achievement of

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Herodian architecture in the entire region and was a beacon for romanitas, or Roman culture, in the region. It is, unquestionably, a Roman city, with all of the accoutrements that would have been present in a newly founded city in the Roman East. Yet at the same time, Caesarea was a multicultural city; it was a haven for Jews and Samaritan communities who fled to the city following the two rebellions against Rome in 66 – 70 CE and 132 – 135 CE, and by the third century was home to a reputable rabbinic school from Galilean Jews under the direction of Rabbi

Abbahu. Further, with the spread of Christianity in the East, Caesarea became a leading Christian city and one of the most influential Christian intellectual centers in Christendom. Finally, the city was home to a substantial Samaritan population and was the crux of all three Samaritan revolts in the late Roman period (Levine and Netzer 1986). If Jerusalem was the nexus of Jewish religion and culture at least up until the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE — a claim that can be highly contested indeed — then Caesarea was the nexus of Roman culture and romanitas in the entire southern Levant up through the Byzantine period. Though it was not a large city, its impact on the region was enormous.

Samaria (Sebaste)

Samaria was founded as the capital of the Kingdom of Israel during the reign of Omri sometime in the late 9th century BCE in Iron Age I. Despite it being the seat of a major political power in the Levant in the Iron Age, it never grew to be a particularly large or populous city, in part due to the geographic constraints of the hill on which it was built and in part due to the lack of a nearby water supply that could sustain a large population (Crowfoot 1942). Much of the architectural activity during the Israelite period were focused on the construction of military fortifications and casemate walls (Kenyon 1942) as well as a “palace,” which was ascribed to

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have three periods of construction, dating to Omri, Ahab and Jeroboam II (Reisner et al. 1924).

Not much is known about the ensuring Neo-Babylonian or Achaemenid periods; the first major changes found at the site date to the early Hellenistic period in the second century BCE (Kenyon

1942), and evidence of the so-called “Pre-Herodian Town” indicates that there was a large population of affluent individuals living in Samaria in the latter phases of the Hellenistic period.

Samaria was destroyed by John Hyrcanus in 108 BCE; subsequently, most of the population of

Samaria dissipated from the city, though they likely stayed in the region, settling instead at places like Gerizim and Shechem, two important sites for the local population. The most significant changes to the city came during the early Roman period; first, Samaria was restored by the Roman governor Gabinius, and second when Herod refounded the city as Sebaste, in honor of Augustus, around 39 BCE (Kenyon 1933, 1942). Significant reconstruction occurred during the Severan period. Samaria continued to remain occupied up through the Byzantine period, though its sister city Flavia Neapolis was larger and more powerful, and rapidly became a

Christian town and was sacred to St. John (Lewin 2005)

Shechem (Flavia Neapolis)

From the Hellenistic through the Roman periods, there were three related but separate

Samaritan sites of occupation in the larger vicinity of biblical Shechem. These three sites — Mt.

Gerizim, Ma‘abarta, and Tel Balatah — constituted the largest concentration of the Samaritan populations. Though Flavia Neapolis should, by many measures, be understood as a Roman city in the broadest sense, it is also a city of the Samaritans; we must consider that the city is reflective of both Roman and Samaritan populations (Magen 2009). The historical record sheds little insight into where precisely the Samaritan populations lived. The destruction of Shechem

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and its environs by John Hyrcanus I and Alexander Jannaeus in 112 – 111 BCE led to the abandonment of Mt. Gerizim and Tel Balatah, but Josephus is silent about the fate of Ma‘abarta in the nearly two centuries that ensued (Magen 2009). Regional surveys of Samaria suggest that the region at large was not abandoned (Dar and Applebaum 1986), but it remains unclear whether Samaritan populations dissipated to other regions or indeed the degree to which the

Samaritan population was diminished. Whether Samaritans, like Idumaeans, became integrated into larger Jewish populations remains unclear (Kasher 1988; Magen 2009). When the Romans ousted the Hasmoneans in 63 BCE, Pompeius and Gabinius restored a number of Hellenistic cities that were destroyed or otherwise subjugated under Hasmonean rule (BJ 1.155-158, 165-

166), but since Samaritans were seen by Romans as a Jewish sect, the city of Shechem was not included. This is in contrast with Shechem’s sister city of Samaria, which is counted among those restored by Gabinius. For the most part, the region of Shechem seems to have been mostly unoccupied in the early Roman period, when Shechem was refounded as Flavia Neapolis following Vespasian’s victory over rebelling populations in 70 CE. Flavia Neapolis was founded during the reign of Domitian, evidenced by numismatics, in 83 CE (Magen 2009). Whether

Flavia Neapolis had a significant Samaritan population or if it was a city of Roman veterans is debated, though Magen (2009) contends that it was a Greco-Roman city up until the Byzantine period when it began to transition to a Christian town.

Antipatris (Afek)

Antipatris, another city founded by Herod probably sometime around 10/09 BCE, was established at the southernmost border between the regions of Samaria to the north and Judaea to the south as a main link between Caesarea and her port to the west and the religious and cultural

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capital of Judaea in Jerusalem to the east. It was constructed on an earlier prominent biblical site, the city of Afek, the earliest phases of which date to the early Bronze Age (Kochavi 1977, 1981).

During the Hellenistic period, it was relatively small, taking the name Pegae, and was a border town along the frontier of Judaea and Samaria. A fortress was constructed at the site in the late

Hellenistic period, perhaps dated to the reign of Alexander Jannaeus (r. 103 – 76 BCE), suggesting that the city was in an important military position between the two regions and, just as it had been in the Bronze Age, was a vital link between Jerusalem and the Sharon Plain, which provided a connection between the Mediterranean and Jerusalem. Its (re)foundation by Herod ensured that there was a halfway point between the provincial capital at Caesarea Maritima and the cultural nexus of Jerusalem. Kochavi (1981) suggests that by the late Roman period

Antipatris had a mixed population of Jews, Samaritans, and pagans.12 The site was destroyed in

419 CE by an earthquake, and though it was rebuilt later in the Byzantine period it never reached the same status as it had as a Roman city (Kochavi 1981).

Mt. Gerizim (Hagerizim)

Mt. Gerizim, written in the Samaritan dialect as Hagerizim, was the site of the sacred precinct of the Samaritan temple which first appears as a well-built temple dating to the fifth century BCE during the Persian period, but fluoresces into a city by the Hellenistic period

(Magen et al. 2004, 2008). Following the destruction and subsequent conversion of Samaria into a Greek colony city, Gerizim became the de facto capital of the Samaritans, despite strict prohibitions placed against it by the Ptolemies following a failed revolt which denied the

12 Kochavi suggests that Antipatris should be considered a part of Judaea because it was a town of Jewish character according to him. This belief is based on the story told in the Midrash in which the prophet Elijah takes the body of Rabbi Akiva to Antipatris following his execution by the Romans in 135 CE following the Second Jewish Revolt. This, however, is hardly evidence for a border shift.

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Samaritans any semblance of sovereignty (Magen et al. 2004). One of the prohibitions against the city was the disallowance of city walls, leading to a city plan that has “walls” of tightly compacted houses whose outer walls form the city defenses, pierced with gates to allow entrance into the city. The sanctuary eventually grew to an unwalled city of thousands, though the sanctuary complex itself was heavily fortified. The temple complex itself was constructed in two main phases, one dating to the Persian period in the fifth century BCE and the second to the

Hellenistic period in the second century BCE. Extensive damage was done to the city following the Hasmonean campaigns against the region of Samaria in the late second century BCE, when it was abandoned until the fourth century CE save for a small portion of the temple precinct itself

(Magen et al. 2004). In the fourth century, a large Byzantine church replaced earlier temples, and was surrounded by walls, towers and a few Roman structures, most notably a fortress which did not disturb the Samaritan precinct, which included latrines and a small bathhouse located inside the fortress (Magen et al. 2004, 2008).

Ramat Hanadiv

Ramat Hanadiv is a site that lies just north of Caesarea, located at the southernmost spur of Mt. Carmel near a spring named Ein Tzur. The main area is composed of two smaller sites,

Horvat ‘Eleq and Horvat ‘Aqav. It was a border town, roughly positioned where the borders of

Samaria (the region to the south and southwest), Galilee (the region to the northeast), and

Phoenicia (the region to the northwest) all convened. The ancient name of the site is not known; the only sites mentioned by ancient sources in the Hellenistic period are Strato’s Tower,

Krokodelionpolis, and Ptolemais, all of which have been identified elsewhere. The site flourished in the early Hellenistic period, but declines in the first century BCE, correlating to the

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campaigns of the Hasmoneans which destroyed the most important sites in northernmost area of the Plain of Sharon and caused an economic decline of the region; this Hasmonean conquest, as was the case elsewhere in Judaea, resulted in a process of forced Judaizing in the region

(Hirschfeld 2000a). A significant series of structures were built in the Herodian period, though the site was still not a town or a city, but rather was an isolated outpost. The most important of these structures was a tetrapyrgion baris, a walled palace with four major towers, gateways, smaller towers, and a large internal donjon (Hirschfeld 2000a). Near the spring of Ein Tzur was an elaborate aqueduct complex that was comprised of a pool, covered aqueduct, and a remarkably well-preserved bathhouse. At the nearby location of Horvat ‘Aqav, a fortified farmstead was discovered, dated to the early Roman period. The most unusual feature about the farmstead was the presence of a miqveh, or ritual bathing pool that is indicative of a Jewish presence. Both Horvat ‘Eleq and Horvat ‘Aqav were abandoned in the second century BCE and were not reoccupied until the Byzantine period and there was continual occupation through the

Umayyad conquest (Hirschfeld 2000Hirschfeld and Birger-Calderon 1991).

Regional Architectural Features in the Region of Samaria

Domestic Architecture

House plans in nearly all areas of Samaria, including the rural areas, followed a similar plan.

Most houses in the cities of Shechem, Samaria, and Gerizim are classified as a courtyard house, characterized by a private or semi-private entrance off of the main road, a vestibule or receiving room, and a large interior courtyard. Most urban homes in the city are constructed of either ashlars of various qualities, or of dressed and tooled stones covered with plaster or, in the case of wealthier homes, frescoes. In some of the villages in the area, walls were constructed of headers

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and stretchers, but most domestic and industrial structures were built using the rubble wall technique or of ashlars not laid in a header-stretcher pattern. Very little survives in the way of internal decoration, making it difficult to ascertain precisely what kind of themes, motifs, or patterns would have adorned domestic structures, if any at all. The floors were generally either of rammed earth or were paved with irregularly shaped flagstone pavers set into a mortar. Mosaics and decorated marble floors, even in the wealthier domiciles, are generally not present, though one spectacular exception was found from an early Roman period house at Flavia Neapolis. The roofs of the houses are flat and there is no evidence of the gabled and tiled roofs more common in the Greek and Roman styles. The houses, at least in urban contexts, are generally of an internal courtyard-style house, entered through a vestibule. Often this vestibule was L-shaped, in order to separate the street from the entrance of the courtyard and thus create a more private home. Columns in antis appear in Samaria-Sebaste and Flavia Neapolis, but they are not present at Gerizim. Internal peristyle colonnades are also only found in Samaria-Sebaste, Antipatris, and

Caesarea and even then only infrequently. Thus, the style of home found at all three major cities of the Samaritan highlands at Flavia Neapolis, Sebaste, and Gerizim were of types more common to Levantine courtyard houses and should not be viewed as traditional Greco-Roman styles

(Braemer 1982; Métraux 1999; Richardson 2004).

One of the characteristic features of houses in Samaria, at least in the urban centers, is the presence of private bathing facilities, even into the Roman period when bathhouses might have been present in the city. Bathing facilities of this type are not unheard of in the Greek world, as examples are found at Priene, Delos and Pergamon and were perhaps imported by Samaritan communities coming from the Greek islands (Magen et al. 2008). These bathing facilities, however, do not appear to be miqva’ot of the types found elsewhere in Israel, and it is unclear if

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domestic bathing was in some way connected to ritual purity laws for the Samaritans. Another feature common in Samaritan homes was corbelling, in which large stones jutted out from the walls, which would then be spanned with wood beams and covered with plaster to create second story floors; this technique is very unusual, as generally second-story floors would have beams that cut into holes in the wall (Magen et al. 2008). In most places, both urban and rural, houses were aligned on a north-south axis, though some farmsteads and one urban structure at Gerizim were oriented on an east-west axis.

Many of the homes in Samaria were also characterized by internal workspaces, either to produce bread or for presses of wine or oil. In nearly all the houses found at Samaria-Sebaste, there are antae present in the interior courtyards or in the vestibules, while no such feature is found at Shechem or Gerizim. In all sites in Samaria, the only order that appears in a domestic context is the Doric order, and in one case at Gerizim there remains a lintel with metopes, also indicative of the Doric order. The structural support for homes in Samaria was generally post and lintel. Few vaults or arches are found even into the Roman period. One such “arch” was found in

Gerizim by leaning two large lintels against one another to form a relieving triangle above the doorway; at Khirbet Kefr Beita, Khirbet Tana et-Tahta, and Beit el-Khirbeh, all dating to the

Roman period, arches are present. The homes that would most likely be defined as Greco-Roman were found at Flavia Neapolis, Antipatris, and Caesarea. Though much of the structure was not excavated, a house with an extremely fine multicolored mosaic, consisting of vegetal, animalistic and anthropomorphic designs was found in Flavia Neapolis. Because we cannot determine the rest of the layout of the house, it is impossible to determine that this house was a true “Roman” style house of the early Roman period. At Caesarea, houses were found with elaborate geometric and animalistic mosaics, but likewise not enough of the footprint of the house itself survives to

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indicate if the floorplan was entirely Roman or if it was a hybrid style home. Finally, the so- called “House of the Patrician” in Antipatris seems to have elements of a Roman style house, with a peristyle room and geometric pattern; however, no room was identified as a triclinium, atrium, or tablinum, indicating that at best this Roman style house only incorporated some

Greco-Roman elements.

The fieldhouses and farmsteads found during the regional studies carried out by

Finkelstein (2011) and Dar and Applebaum (1986) suggest that there is a unique kind of house that is common in the hinterlands of the cities of Samaria and Shechem, in particular, and of

Gerizim if it can be said to have controlled a hinterland at all. The style of house that dominates the region is a fortified courtyard-style home, which is characterized by an inward-looking courtyard house, sometimes surrounded by a rough wall of fieldstones, that has a large tower either built into the house itself or in its immediate vicinity. The dates from rural homesteads are difficult to determine because of long occupational periods based on the pottery, but the style of house dates to as early as IAII at Qoren Liqarna, Ridan, and Nahal Beit Arif, to as late as the late

Roman and early Byzantine period at Khirbet Basatin and Khirbet Deir Sam-an. Notably, there is no indication that the prototypical Israelite four-room house of the Iron Age persists into the

Hellenistic and Roman period. The construction technique for these homes was variable, ranging from well-fitted ashlars, rubble, and dressed or tooled stones. All utilized post and lintel structural support systems, though a few also contained columns or pillars, and generally had floors of either rammed earth, though one dating to the late Roman period did have a partially and poorly preserved mosaic floor.

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Urban Design

At Gerizim, the city grew organically, and there is no evidence of an orthogonal or

Hippodamian town plan (Magen et al. 2008). There is some semblance of organization in the earliest phases, in the most rudimentary sense of organizing shared domestic spaces that might loosely be termed as insulae that faced a street, but there was not an attempt to establish a well- planned city with a suite of architectural features normally associated with a Hellenistic or

Roman urban plan. Though there is very little work to date on city-planning in the Near East before the Hellenistic or Roman periods (see, however, Arav 1989; Hoerman 1984; Lampl 1968;

Novák 2014). The organic plan of Gerizim seems to follow in the manner of other cities in the

Levant in the Iron Age and Persian period. Many cities in the Levant are not organized with a plan consisting of a set of coaxial streets, organized public spaces, dedicated neighborhoods or zones, and civic public buildings. The plan of this sort is a classic Hippodamian or orthogonal plan common to Hellenistic and Italic cities. This is not to say that Near Eastern cities are unordered or unorganized, but rather they tend to reflect a more organic organization in terms of streets and often there are similarities in the kinds of buildings (in terms of form and function), spatial syntax, and construction techniques shared by a number of cities (Creekmore III and

Fisher 2014). This sort of Near Eastern city plan, with defined social and urban spaces but not set in an orthogonal grid plan, characterizes Gerizim.

Gerizim differed from its sister cities of in the region of Samaria — Caesarea Maritima,

Flavia Neapolis, Sebaste, and Antipatris — all of which followed a clear Hippodamian urban plan. Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis, and Antipatris all were laid out an orthogonal plan, complete with well-defined decemanus maximus and cardines; though only the latter is identified at Antipatris, it can be assumed that as a Herodian town in the Roman style it too had a

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decemanus maximus. All these cities had colonnaded boulevards, a typical feature of Eastern cities. At Caesarea, Sebaste, and Flavia Neapolis, the streets were well-paved and made of squared pavers set at right angles to one another, while the streets at Antipatris were well-paved but with the squared stones set at an oblique angle. The main orientation of the decemanus was east-west in Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis, and Antipatris and was a north-south orientation in

Caesarea. In Gerizim, the only roads discovered were paved roughly with a pebble-lime mixture or with rammed earth, but these were roads only associated with local neighborhoods, so it is difficult to tell if larger avenues would have been paved with well-hewn stones. It is difficult to determine the quality or orientation of the main roads at Gerizim. The staircase to the precinct is oriented east-west, and it is unclear whether the main roads would have led directly to the staircase, thus running east-west, or whether they ran perpendicular to the staircase, thus oriented north-south.

Building Forms

Building Classification Samaria Shechem Gerizim Caesarea- Afek (Sebaste) (Flavia Maritima (Antipatris) Neapolis) Fortress X X X X Gatehouses X X X X Temples X X X X N/A Bathhouses X X N/A Miqva’ot X Basilica X X N/A Forum X X X Colonnaded Roads X X X X Stadium/Hippodrome X X X Monumental Walls X X X Amphitheater X X Odeon X Theater X X X Nymphaeum X X Tetrapylon X

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Aqueduct X X X Mausolea X X Synagogue X X X Church X X Mithraeum X

Table 4.1. List of building forms in the region of Samaria’s principle cities.

The types of buildings discovered to date in the region of Samaria suggest that there was an acute difference between the cities of Samaria-Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis, Antirpatris and

Caesarea Maritima and that of Gerizim. Though this study does not consider the Iron Age period closely, it should be noted that both Shechem and Samaria at the terminal Iron Age shared many similarities, though Samaria was certainly the more lavish of the two sites given that it was the capital of the Northern Kingdom of Israel (Campbell 2002; Campbell and Summers 1991;

Magen 2009; Reisner, Fisher, and Lyon 1924; Wright 1959). Though the cities of Samaria-

Sebaste and Flavia Neapolis suffered several periods of destruction and decline, by the height of the Roman period following the Second Jewish Revolt both Samaria-Sebaste and Flavia

Neapolis had been reestablished as Roman towns, likely settled by Roman military veterans.

Both cities had fully incorporated a suite of buildings generally understood to be associated with a fully integrated city in the Roman Near East. Caesarea and Antipatris, on the other hand, were founded by Herod. It is no great secret that Herod tried to emulate Roman towns and was an innovative and bold architect (Netzer and Laureys-Chachy 2006) and it is therefore not a surprise that both Caesarea and Antipatris would have had the accoutrements common to a Greco-Roman city, especially in Caesarea.

In terms of fortifications, only Samaria-Sebaste, Antipatris and Gerizim seem to have been fortified extensively in the Hellenistic and Roman period. Caesarea was likely heavily fortified, as it was the provincial seat, but the walls identified to date belong to the Byzantine

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period; earlier evidence for fortifications is paltry (Hohlfelder 1988; Holum, Raban, and Patrich

1999; Holum, Stabler, and Reinhardt 2008; Levine and Netzer 1986; Oleson, Raban, and

Hohlfelder 1989; Vann 1992). Samaria had pre-existing fortifications from the Hellenistic and early Roman periods but following its destruction it is unclear to what degree the fortifications were utilized. Antipatris had fortifications that dated to the Hellenistic period, but it is unclear if the site was fortified strongly during the Roman period. Gerizim was “fortified” in a sense; though it was prohibited from having walls following the city’s failed coup against the

Ptolemies, heavy fortifications were constructed at the sacred precinct. The temple complexes at all three sites, however, were fortified, which in general follows a pattern of fortified temple complexes that were common in the Levant. Given that the Samaritan temple at Gerizim does not survive, we must rely on Josephus’ testimony that the temple was modeled, at least in broad terms, after the temple in Jerusalem. If this is the case, then the temple at Gerizim is most certainly a fortified temple of the bit hilani type, a tripartite temple plan common in the Levant defined by a porch (often with columns in antis), an antechamber, and a sacred holy of holies in the furthest reaches of the temple (Mierse 2012). These temples were often surrounded by a fortified wall, a feature not uncommon in the Levant but relatively unusual in Greece and Rome

(Mierse 2012; Segal 2013). Of the two complexes at Ramat Hanadiv, Horvat ‘Eleq is classified as having a monumental fortification. The identification of this site as a fortified palace indicates that whomever built and inhabited the complex was wealthy and powerful, perhaps even belonging to the same networks as Herod, as Hirschfeld (2000) notes the similarities in some of the architectural features of this site and those found at other Herodian palaces at Jericho and

Masada.

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The different temples found in the cities of Samaria-Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis and

Gerizim were dedicated variously to Augustus, Zeus, Isis, Kore, and Yahweh (Campbell 2002;

Magen 2009; Magness 2001; Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania 2008; Segal 2013). The temples in

Samaria-Sabaste were dedicated to Greco-Roman deities, while the temple on Gerizim was dedicated to the Yahwistic cult of the Samaritans. Despite these differences in deities to whom the temples were dedicated, the temples at all three sites were fortified in a manner more in line with temple architecture of the Levant than that of Greco-Roman traditions. A kalybe for the imperial cult was not identified at any of the sites. At Flavia Neapolis, a synagogue was discovered to Tel er-Ras, the site of the Roman temple dedicated to Zeus, that dated to the late imperial period, likely to the time when there was a resurgent Samaritan presence. At Gerizim a late Roman church with an octagonal floorplan was built on top of the Samaritan precinct, likely as an attempt to stamp out the Samaritan presence following a series of revolts by the Samaritan population (Magen 2009; Magen et al. 2004, 2008)

Regarding civic and urban buildings generally associated with “proper” cities of the

Levant in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, the presence or absence of such structures at each of the three principle cities is variegated. At Samaria-Sebaste, a basilica, a forum, a colonnaded decamanus maximus and cardo main streets, aqueducts, and gatehouses were all present. No bouleuterion was identified. No architectural forms that could be classified as “ornamentation” in their broadest sense, such as stoas, plazas, tetrapylons, or monumental arches, were also likewise found, excepting in the case of Antipatris where one was tentatively identified only on the basis of four column bases discovered at the intersection between the cardo and the forum

(Kochavi 1981). Both a stadium and a theater were present at the site, indicating that the city participated in games, athletic events, and cultural entertainment common in the Greek and

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Roman world. Likewise, the city of Flavia Neapolis should also be understood as a Greco-

Roman city; it too has evidence of colonnaded avenues, though no correlating basilica, forum, or bouleuterion was identified. Remarkably well preserved at Flavia Neapolis, however, was the theater, hippodrome, and amphitheater. The latter is especially unusual, given that very few amphitheaters have been identified in the Roman East (Golvin 1988; Segal 1995, 2009). This is perhaps because of the significant Roman veteran colony established at the city (Magen 2009), which would have had an appetite for Roman games that was not as common elsewhere in the

Levant. Gerizim, in contrast to the influence of the Hellenistic and Roman presence at Samaria-

Sebaste and Flavia Neapolis, virtually none of the buildings normally associated with a Greco-

Roman civic influence are found.

Bathhouses were found at Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste and Gerizim; in the case of the latter, it was found within the confines of the Roman fortress built on the site much later and is definitively not of the original plan of the city, and thus is not included as a monumental building given that it was not a free-standing purposefully built structure. The bathhouse at Caesarea is by far the finest of those found in the region of Samaria and one of the finest in the southern Levant, rivaled perhaps only by the bathhouses of Scythopolis. No freestanding bathhouse complex was discovered at either Flavia Neapolis, Antipatris, or Gerizim. Whether this is simply because the structure has not been discovered or whether it was not present is unclear, though it would be rather surprising if it is indeed absent at Flavia Neapolis given its status as a Roman military veteran colony or at Antipatris given that it was a Herodian-period city with typical Roman attributes. At Samaria-Sebaste, miqva’ot, ritual bathing pools submerged into the ground, were identified, but were not identified at any of the other sites or in regional surveys. As has been noted already, bathing or purification facilities seem to have been in the confines of the home

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rather than communal areas at Gerizim, but the lack of miqva’ot is rather striking given that they have been identified at Samaria-Sebaste. A finely constructed aqueduct was discovered in Flavia

Neapolis, with a rather unique jack arch, not found at either Samaria or Gerizim. A nymphaeum was not identified in Samaria or Gerizim but was in Flavia-Neapolis.

Building Techniques

In the region of Samaria, limestone was ubiquitous as a construction material. The techniques for building are variable, though the most common form found in the area utilized either undressed fieldstones or roughly shaped fieldstones roughly fitted together and bound by mortar in what we might term as “rubble” style architecture. The second most common form found is ashlars of varying degrees of fineness placed in courses; if the courses alternated between long and short stones, then this is further distinguished as header and stretcher technique. Least common, even in cities, are finely hewn stones, sometimes beveled or bossed

(characteristic of high-quality Herodian architecture), fitted together tightly with or without mortar.

The construction techniques found at Gerizim are very unique in the entirety of the

Levant, in part due to the unworkable nature of the local stone; the result is that well-hewn but undressed stones are used, resulting in large gaps between stones that is filled with mortar to smooth out the surface and is plastered over three times. This construction technique is not only used in the temple precinct, but in the city for many of the domestic structures. Any ashlars or stones used for architectural ornamentation were quarried elsewhere and imported to the site.

Because of the uniqueness of the construction techniques, the excavators propose that the

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traditions came from the Greek islands and from Egypt, brought to Mt. Gerizim by Samaritan peoples living in those areas (Magen et al. 2004, 2008)..

Architectural Decorations and Philosophy

All three architectural orders — Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian — are present in Samaritan cities. In Samaria-Sebaste, all three orders appear, though the two most common are Doric and

Corinthian. Architectural decorations found at the temples included decorated cornices and friezes, with both geometric and vegetal patterns found. No animalistic or anthropomorphic decorations were found that could be conclusively connected to the temples. The Doric order was only found at the stadium in Samaria-Sebaste, while the city’s colonnade was in the Ionic order. Not enough survives to suggest that there was an architectural frieze that adorned the top of the colonnade. Most of the styles of architectural decoration included stars, rosettes, vegetal and geometric patterns, and crenellations from the Temple of Kore.

At Gerizim, the evidence for architectural decoration of either the homes or of the sacred precinct is sparse. The first phase of the temple constructed in the Persian period, had two splendidly preserved proto-aeolic capitals, though they differed in terms of construction and precise decoration from other known examples in the Levant (Magen 2007; Stern and Magen

2002). This is an architectural form that is undoubtedly connected to the Levant, primarily in

Palestine, Judaea, and Phoenicia. In the Hellenistic reconstruction, the decoration seems to have been Doric order, based on the presence of triglyphs and undecorated metopes. The later church was designed in the Corinthian order. The only forms of decorative patterns found at Gerizim were strictly vegetal, though the church did have a cross design in its premises.

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Much of the architectural philosophy — the overall design, plan, presence of buildings, and decorations — from the principal sites indicates that a high degree of cultural influence from

Hellenistic and Roman presence penetrated the region of Samaria. At none of the sites, however, is there any evidence for animalistic or anthropomorphic designs found in any of the monumental buildings, either as features of the building or as architectural sculptures such as a temple antefix. This absence of the human form in architectural decoration is more correlated to an indigenous tradition than to a Hellenistic or Roman one. It should be noted, however, that at

Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste, and Flavia Neapolis there were free-standing sculptures done in the

Hellenistic and Roman styles of the human form discovered, and at both Caesarea and Flavia

Neapolis there are intricate mosaics which are decorated both anthropomorphic and zoological designs. In addition, spectacularly decorated altars with a clear Greco-Roman style were discovered in association with the temple complexes at Caesarea and Flavia Neapolis. The presence of both Samaritan and Greek languages at Samaria-Sebaste and Flavia Neapolis suggests that there was a significant number of people who spoke the local Samaritan dialect; at

Gerizim, the overwhelming epigraphic evidence suggests that Samaritan was spoken there, though there is some presence of Greek. Thus, the general characterization of the major cities in the region seems to indicate an interesting admixture of Greek, Roman and indigenous cultures.

How this might be translated to social connectedness among other sites in the region will be explored later.

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Formal Concept Analysis (FCA) of Samarian Architecture

Building Techniques

Header- Rubble Beveled Dressed- Brick Ashlar Pier and Rubble Stretcher Tooled Samaria-Sebaste X X X X Flavia Neapolis X X X Gerizim X X X Caesarea X X Ramat Hanadiv X X X X X X Antipatris X

Table 4.2 Context matrix for Samarian building technologies.

Fig. 4.1 Concept Lattice of Samarian Building Technologies

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The FCA for building technologies (Fig. 4.1) exposes the underlying structure of the dataset; immediately, a few things are noticeable that deserve explanation. This dataset reveals that there are eight formal concepts identified, indicated by nodes. The top node of the context is marked as

“Ashlar,” indicating that all objects are contained within its extent. This means that the use of ashlars, or finely shaped stones, was a widespread building technique used in Samaria across all periods. The bottom node, which is empty, serves as a null node, in which there are no attributes

(building technologies) or objects (sites) within its intent; thus, all objects and attributes are within its extent. The full context reveals that two sites at the bottom, Ramat Hanadiv and

Gezirim, are the most unique sites, but that two splits are immediately apparent in the structure of the data. They are situated at the bottom of the concept lattice because they each contain an attribute that is unique to that site. In the case of Ramat Hanadiv, two attributes are unique to it; bricks, a common building material and well-utilized building technique in the Roman world is only found at this site, as well as pier-and-rubble technology (Fig. 4.2), which is generally associated with Phoenician architecture and is found in Phoenician cities in the Levant; Carthage, a Punic colony, also has excellent examples of this type of construction technique. Similarly, the presence of dressed-tooled stones used for building the walls at Gerizim are not found elsewhere in the major cities of the region, indicating that this technology is unique to Gerizim alone.

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Fig. 4.2 Pier and rubble style wall from Tel Dor. The “pier” is usually ashlars, in this case also headers-stretchers, set apart from one another. The spaces between two piers are then filled with unhewn fieldstones, making up the “rubble” component of the wall. Photo by Zev Radovan, courtesy Ephraim Stern, BAS Archives.

Perhaps most surprising about the formal context of the data is that Antipatris is not connected to either the nearby cities of Samaria-Sebaste and Flavia Neapolis, but rather is within the intent of Gerizim. This suggests that, at least for building technologies, Antipatris was more similar to Gerizim than to other Roman cities, which is rather surprising considering that

Antipatris is a Roman town built by Herod, who was also responsible for the construction of

Samaria-Sebaste and Caesarea Maritima. This is perhaps due to itinerant craftsmen, especially the highly skilled stoneworkers who were responsible for the “beveled” style indicative of

Herodian architecture, were not employed at the site. Furthermore, it is rather surprising that

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Antipatris would not fall under the extent of Caesarea, as does Samaria-Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis, and Ramat Hanadiv, given that Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste, and Antipatris were all major

Herodian projects in the early Roman period. One would expect that all three would share building technologies, but this does not seem to be the case.

As expected, Caesarea occupies a high-ranking position in the lattice, with three other objects (sites) within its extent: Flavia Neapolis, Samaria-Sebaste, and Ramat Hanadiv. This is hardly surprising, given that as the provincial capital. Similarly, Antipatris occupies a high rank in the lattice, also with three other sites within its extent: Samaria-Sebaste, Gerizim, and Ramat

Hanadiv. Two clusters emerge from this lattice. One, that of Caesarea, has within it only other sites that had construction during the early and late Roman periods. The other, that of Antipatris, includes two sites of the Roman period — Antipatris and Ramat Hanadiv — but also includes sites that had significant indigenous population during the Hellenistic and Roman periods. This rather surprising, given that Caesarea was noted for having a significant Samaritan population.

Thus, there seems to be a divergence in the structure here that is unexpected. Caesarea is more similar to other Roman sites, but Antipatris is the only Roman-period town that seems to have utilized similar construction techniques found at pre-Roman sites. This suggests that the relationship between Antipatris, Samaria-Sebaste and Gerizim were in some ways more intimate with one another than they were with other sites in the region. Flavia Neapolis, which is geographically right in the middle of these three cities, does not seem to have been part of this relationship. Finally, the structure of the data suggests that Samaria-Sebaste was the city that served as the bridge between the local population and the Roman hegemons, as it is within the

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extent of both Antipatris and Caesarea but is also within the intent of attributes associated with

Gerizim.

Fig. 4.3 Reduced Concept Lattice of Samarian Building Technologies

Header-Stretcher Rubble Beveled Dressed-Tooled Brick Samaria-Sebaste X X X Flavia Neapolis X X Gerizim X X Caesarea X Ramat Hanadiv X X X X

Table 4.3 Reduced context matrix for Samarian building technologies.

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If the context is reduced — that is, nodes with two or more edges that connect with a node below it in the lattice are removed because the concept can be obtained elsewhere in the lattice structure — then the nonessential objects are removed and the lattice is simplified. For this dataset, one object, Antipatris, and two attributes, pier and rubble and ashlar, are removed from the context matrix. This means that the overall data structure still maintains its original integrity but redundancy is eliminated so that the resulting lattice is simpler and underlying patterns are more evident. In this case, ashlar is removed because it is a non-essential marker as all sites have ashlar construction. Again, this is hardly surprising, given that ashlar construction is something widely used in the Levant before the Hellenistic and Roman periods, and it is entirely likely that ashlar construction techniques in fact went west rather than east (Sharon

1987a). Ashlar construction technique is therefore ubiquitous in the region and does not reveal anything about the relationship between the sites. Pier and rubble is arbitrarily removed as it is only found in association with one object, Ramat Hanadiv, as is brick. Since both attributes are only associated with one object, then one being removed still results in the same formal concept, strictly speaking, and therefore the resulting concept lattice remains unchanged. In a reduced context lattice, the general patterns observed above remain true. Strictly speaking — in terms of formal conceptualization — since the only observable construction technique present at

Antipatris is also found at all other sites, Antipatris is not deemed important.

Taken together, the information provided by a formal concept of the data highlights two key things. Firstly, with the removal of Antipatris, the difference between Gerizim and the other sites of Samaria-Sebaste, Flavia Neapolis, Caesarea, and Ramat Hanadiv are even more visible, indicating that in terms of construction techniques there was quite a different process going on at

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Gerizim than at other sites. Secondly, rubble has in its extent Samaria-Sebaste, Gerizim, and

Ramat Hanadiv. Of these, the only two objects which were cities, Gerizim and Samaria-Sebaste, are both traditional cities of the Samaritans (Ramat Hanadiv, in contrast, is not a city sensu stricto, but rather a monumental fortified palace). Flavia Neapolis and Caesarea are not traditional Samaritan cities in the Hellenistic and Roman periods; though Flavia Neapolis was founded on the Iron Age city of Shechem, much of the Samaritan population of Shechem was dispersed to the nearby sites of Gerizim and Tel Balatah. Flavia Neapolis must have had at least some portion of the population that continued speaking in the local Samaritan dialect, based on the inscriptions, but even during the Hellenistic period and especially into the Roman period

Shechem-Flavia Neapolis clearly had a different architectural paradigm than its sister city of

Gerizim. Similarly, the city of Caesarea had large Samaritan populations, according to historical sources, but the architecture of Caesarea and Flavia Neapolis are more common with one another than with other cities with Samaritan populations. Based on the structure of the data, we should then expect a relationship between Samaria-Sebaste and Gerizim to be statistically significant in a network analysis. This idea will be explored later.

Building Forms

The formal concept lattice presented in Fig. 4.4 is derived from Tab. 4.1 presented above.

The top node includes in its extent all five major cities, and the bottom node is the null in which no cities or features exist. Because this formal concept does not differentiate across time, this lattice is strictly determined by presence or absence of any kind of monumental structure at any time from the Hellenistic through late Roman periods. The matrix to generate this formal context only marks presence or absence of a building at a given site. Furthermore, it is essential to

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remember that this is only based on the data available, whether that was reliably reported or whether the feature reported was articulated enough in the report, and thus the dataset may not reflect the reality of the actual built environment of these cities as they existed in antiquity.

Preservation (or perhaps more accurately excavation) bias, however, is a fundamental issue in archaeology and inherently limits data available for archaeological explication. For example, it is entirely likely that Antipatris had a temple of some sort, but because no such specific evidence exists, Antipatris is not included within the extent (e.g. it is not a formally recognized object) of

“Temples.” Thus, what we can learn from the formal concept lattice are observations about the structure of the data based on the available evidence. A few comments are particularly useful to better understand the built environment in the region of Samaria based on the presence or absence of particular types of buildings found at the various Samarian sites.

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Fig. 4.4 Concept lattice of building forms found in Samarian cities.

First, Gerizim once again is notable for its distinction from other cities in the region.

Caesarea is the only other city within the same extent as Gerizim, and this is not unexpected because as the provincial capital of the Roman province, it is expected that Caesarea would have the most attributes of any of the cities. In the intent of Gerizim, the only features are fortresses, gatehouses, and temples. All of these features are present and expected at Caesarea. Still, there is a caveat regarding these features at Gerizim in that the presence of these three features is the product of a massive fortified temple complex on the acropolis of Gerizim rather than having free-standing fortresses and protective gateways that are observable at all other cities other than

Flavia Neapolis. The presence of churches at both Gerizim and Caesarea also links both cities,

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but this is a much later feature as both date to the late Roman period; in the case of Gerizim, the church was built in a period of active Christianization of the region rather than because Gerizim and Caesarea shared a Christian population. From the lattice provided by the FCA, it appears that

Gerizim and Caesarea closely linked; however, by accounting for these variables, it is clear that despite the fact that Gerizim and Caesarea share some similarities, Gerizim is rather unique in terms of the types of buildings found at the city and correlates nicely with the above observations that Gerizim seems rather distinct from other Samarian cities.

The structure indicates that there is a strong correlation between the features associated with Greco-Roman cities. The attributes of “synagogue, aqueduct, theater, monumental walls, and stadium/hippodrome” include in its extent “mausolea, nymphaeum, amphitheater, bathhouse, and basilica” and both of these subsets of attributes are within the extent of the attributes

“temples and colonnaded roads.” Collectively, this includes all attributes of a Greco-Roman city with the exception of a forum. The identification of a forum at a site, however, is rather subjective, as many excavators will call any open square along a major road a forum rather than a plaza, agora, or marcellum. Nevertheless, to keep the integrity of the original excavators’ reports intact, the terminology in the excavation reports has been preserved. Within the intent of the attributes “basilica, bathhouse” lie all architectural features save for “mausolea, nymphaeum, amphitheater, and mithraeum” and the objects in its extent are Caesarea and Samaria. While a mithraeum was identified at Caesarea, the key features that both Caesarea and Flavia Neapolis share is the nymphaeum and most importantly the amphitheater. The latter is especially indicative of a strong Roman presence that is not found elsewhere in Samaria and between the two sites represents two of the only thirteen amphitheaters in the entire Eastern Mediterranean

(Golvin 1988). Within the extent of the concept “synagogue, aqueduct, theater, monumental

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walls, and stadium/hippodrome” are the three cities of Flavia Neapolis, Caesarea, and Samaria-

Sebaste. Noticeably absent from this is the city of Antipatris, indicating that either by circumstance of preservation or excavation bias there is not enough to formally associate the

Herodian city of Antipatris to the other Herodian cities of Samaria-Sebaste and Caesarea.

At first glance, it is rather unusual that the attribute “synagogue” appears in the same cluster of attributes, but this should not be surprising; after all, many cities in Greece and Rome also had synagogues for their Jewish populations, but it does not indicate that the city should be classified as “Jewish” on the basis that one particular kind of building is present, even if it is indicative of at least the identity of a subset of the larger population. Rather, the formal lattice simply suggests that Flavia Neapolis, Caesarea, and Samaria-Sebaste all had Samaritan populations. The absence of Gerizim from this formal association is likely explained by the fact that the Samaritan temple was located there, and thus there was no need for a synagogue; further, after the destruction of the Samaritan temple, the only known Late Roman or Byzantine period synagogues — the latter period beyond the scope of this study — are found either in these three cities or in rural/village synagogues at Tsur Natan, Tel Qasile, and Sha’alvim (Macuch 1985;

Reich 1994; Magen and Levin 2008).13 Perhaps more importantly, though the attribute

“miqva’ot” is within the extent of the attribute concept of “synagogue,” they do not share a formal concept together and only one object, Samaria, has both a miqva’ot and a synagogue, both architectural features which are understood to be a marker of Jewish identity.14

13 Though these sites have been excavated, very little information is available on their construction techniques and style. Most of the sources that deal with these sites are concerned with mosaic floors. Another unexcavated but tentatively identified Samaritan synagogue has been reported at Fahma, a small village. A Samaritan-type synagogue has been identified at Bet She’an (Scythopolis).

14 A miqveh was identified at Ramat Hanadiv, but it was located within a private residence and was not a public one.

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Fig. 4.5 Reduced formal concept lattice for building forms in Samaria.

Fortress Temples Miqva’ot Colonnaded Amphitheater Odeon Church Roads Samaria X X X X Flavia Neapolis X X X Gerizim X X Caesarea X X X X X Antipatris X X X

Tab. 4.4 Reduced concept matrix for building forms in Samaria.

When the concept matrix for building typologies is reduced for the region of Samaria — which includes the intentional elimination of the church as a feature at Gerizim to control for

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time — the first observation immediately apparent is that the attributes most commonly associated with Greco-Roman cities are mitigated, save for particularly unique structures like the odeon or amphitheater, a building type associated with Greco-Roman cities for the former and

Roman cities for the latter. Both Antipatris and Gerizim share Samaria and Caesarea within their extents, but they are not directly linked to one another, suggesting that while both Antipatris and

Gerizim share features found in both Samaria and Caesarea they do not share those same features with one another. Notably, Flavia Neapolis has shifted away from all other cities in the region, as the only city within its extent is Caesarea. Here again it is not surprising that Caesarea would be part of the extent of all the sites, given its status as provincial capital. What is noticeable, however, is that the three cities of Gerizim, Samaria, and Caesarea are, at least based on a formal mathematical principle, connected and that these are precisely the cities with high native

Samaritan populations.

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CHAPTER 5

IDUMAEA AND JUDAEA

Geographic and Historical Overview

The regions of Idumaea and Judaea (alternatively spelled as Idumea and Judea) are treated together in this chapter as two distinct areas within a shared region. We will distinguish, when possible, the separate character of the two regions, but the choice to join them is because modern scholarship tends to treat the areas of Idumaea and Judaea twin sister regions, especially by the late Hellenistic and Roman periods. If differences between the two areas are noted, such differences are generally in terms of ethnic composition of the people rather than a sharply defined geographical delineation. This is different than the region of Samaria, for example, which is at times sometimes considered a subset of Jewish ethnicity/religious practice but also had a very well-defined border that separated Samaria and Samaritans from other regions in the southern Levant. For example, while groups inhabiting both Judaea and Samaria practiced some form of Judaism(s) that was developing by the Hellenistic period, the division between the two regions was quite absolute and historical. Samaria, as noted elsewhere, was a separate political entity from the region of Yehud (Judaea) in the Babylonian and Persian periods, and this division persisted into later periods. The same does not hold true for Idumaea and Judaea; hence, the two areas are treated together as this is often how they were understood in their historical context.

Judaea lies to the south of the region of Samaria, demarcated from the latter by Mt.

Hazor, and is bordered on the west by the Mediterranean Sea and on the east by the Dead Sea and a small stretch of the Jordan River. The region largely includes the mountainous terrain of the Judaean highlands in southern Palestine. The tallest peak, Mt. Hebron, reaches just over

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1,000 meters above sea level while the Dead Sea descends to nearly 400 meters below sea level in the east. The fertile zones in the region lie to the west, on the littoral plain; a path eastward is marked by a steady ascension to the highlands (which were forested in antiquity) before sharply descending into the Jordan River Valley and the Dead Sea, culminating in deserts in the easternmost regions and the south. The rolling hills between the Judaean highlands to the east and the Mediterranean Sea to the west are commonly referred to as the Shephelah. This region is very fertile and was in the Bronze and Iron Ages a decidedly important area in the southern

Levant, indicated by a number of north-south thoroughfares that linked Egypt to the northern

Levant and protected by major fortified sites such as Lachish, Megiddo, and Gezer. Idumaea is a subdivision of the region of Judaea, though it remained a distinct enough region in its own right in terms of ethnic composition if not in outright political separation at some points in time. The geography of Idumaea mirrors that of Judaea, bordered on the west by the Mediterranean, the central hills that give way to mountainous terrain, to the east by the Dead Sea, and to the south by the Negev Desert and the region of Arabia Petraea. The principle cities of the two regions are quite numerous, at least as they are attested in historical accounts. In Judaea, the seat of the region was located in Jerusalem. The major cities attested in historical sources along the northern border of Samaria included, from west to east, Jaffa, Arimathea, Bethel, Shiloh, Ephraim, and

Jericho. Other major sites in the interior of Judaea (many provided by Josephus) included Jifna,

Arcabatta, Thamna, Lydda, Emmaus, and Bethlehem. Numerous smaller towns and rural settlements are attested. As this region is of critical importance to the Jewish people, it has received much attention in both historical and modern literature, which is why we have such a rich record, both historical and archaeological, of the settlement of the region. The major town that divided the regions of Judaea to the north and Idumaea to the south was Beth-Zur. Other

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major cities in the central part of the region included Hebron, Meresha, Adorah, Gerar, and

Lachish. The southern border was framed by (from west to east) Orda, Beersheba, and Malatha.

It should also be noted that the towns of both Judaea and Idumaea periodically alternated between regions. For example, the town of Hebron was sometimes a part of Judaea and at others a part of Idumaea. For the purposes of this chapter, the regions sites are assigned to relates primarily to the ethnic composition of the towns as is generally provided in historical sources.

For example, if a town was primarily constituted of Idumaeans (Edomites) then in this chapter it is classified as a Idumaean town, irrespective if whether it was at some time or another under the jurisdiction of Judaea.

Finally, a few words should be said about the coastal cities. The cities of Yavne (Jamnia),

Ashdod (Azotus), Ashkelon, and Gaza were not technically a part of the region of either Judaea or Idumaea in the Hellenistic period. These littoral cities, which were very prosperous in the

Persian and Hellenistic periods, were independent city-states with a limited hinterland under their control until they were folded into the Roman provinces following the Roman conquest and reorganizations of the Levant. The inhabitants of these cities were distinct ethnically, religiously, and linguistically from the indigenous peoples of Judaea or Idumaea. The coastal cities of

Ashdod, Ashkelon, and Gaza and the inland cities of Gath and Ekron were the five cities of the

Philistine Pentapolis. The latter two, Gath and Ekron, were destroyed by the Iron Age II period and were either not occupied at all or were very scarcely inhabited in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Thus, while I recognize that there are political, ethnic, and religious differences of these coastal cities in particular and that these cities were not part of the regions of Judaea or Idumaea in a legal sense (at least not in the Hellenistic period), they will be discussed here in this chapter

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on Judaea and Idumaea because in all cases the cities were constituted by at least a large percentage of Judaean or Idumaean populations.

Judaea: An Historical Overview

The area of Judaea roughly encompasses the same territory as the Kingdom of Judah in the late Iron Age. Tiglath-Peleser III conquered the Levant between 740 - 730 BCE, subjugating the Syrian kingdoms and Phoenicia and installing puppet kings in the Kingdom of Israel and extracting tribute from the petty kingdoms in the southern Levant. His successor, Shalmenser V, led the final conquest of the Northern Kingdom of Israel (Samaria) in721/720 BCE; by this point, the entirety of the Levant, called Eber-Nari by the Assyrians, was under Assyrian control, excepting the kingdoms in the Cisjordan and Transjordan — Moab, Ammon, Edom, and Judah

— which were allowed to maintain independence though strictly as tributary states to the

Assyrians. Control of the Levant passed briefly to the Egyptians at the end of the seventh century before the Egyptians were in turn conquered by the resurgent Neo-Babylonians. Following the

Babylonian conquest under Nebuchadnezzar, Judaea was placed in the larger satrapy of Eber

Nari (“across the Euphrates”) that had its origins during Assyrian hegemony in the 8th century

BCE. The satrapy was subdivided into several smaller regions, including Philistia, Yehud,

Megiddo, Samaria, Damascus, Phoenicia, and Cyprus (Carter 1999; Lipschits and Oeming

2006). The Babylonian and subsequent Persian periods simply adopted the extant Assyrian imperial model and thus the area of Judaea, along with virtually the whole of the Levant except for the semi-autonomous Phoenician cities, were administered as a single imperial province

(Stern 2001). Thus, when Cyrus II conquered the Babylonian Empire and the Persians controlled

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the Levant, very little reorganization was done to the imperial satrapies. Yehud, as well as her northern neighbor Samaria, were permitted to exist as semi-autonomous regions.

One of the critical issues in any reconstruction of the terminal Iron Age, Babylonian, and

Persian periods in Judaea is simply the lack of data, and thus it is especially difficult to reconstruct with a high precision of certainty the demographics, boundaries, and major sites in

Judaea during these phases. The majority of sites with remains dating to the Persian period are known through salvage excavations or by means of survey and only a fraction of them have been excavated. Some of the most important cities and sites during this period were Jerusalem,

Mizpah (Tell en-Nasbeh), Ramat Rahel, Bethel, Lachish, Gezer, Jericho, En-Gedi, Arad, and

Beer-sheeva (though this later belonged to the area of Idumaea), as well as a few fortification sites at Beth-Zur, Khirbet es-Zawiyye, and Khirbet el-Qatt. A fair amount of discussion within the last couple decades has centered on the degree to which the region was depopulated during the Babylonian Exile and repopulated during the Persian Restoration, which is not discussed at length here; suffice it to say that during this period, the province of Yehud was certainly a backwater province on the Persian Empire and considered politically unimportant and economically poor. Yet, despite this relative poverty (at least as far as imperial administration was concerned), the region has yielded a number of stamp impressions and luxury goods from

Egypt, Greece, Phoenicia, Babylon and Persia, as well as the minting of the so-called “Yehud coins” (Carter 1999). Still, despite this evidence, very little archaeological material, particularly architectural, endures from this region.

Alexander's conquest of the Achaemenid Empire folded the semi-autonomous province of Yehud into his larger empire; upon his death, the struggles between the Diadochoi saw the historical satrapy of Eber Nari switch hands several times before ultimately falling under

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Ptolemaic control from 301 - 198 BCE and under Seleukid control from 198 - 167 BCE. The scholarship on this period is rich and, of course, is dominated by the ideas of Hellenism and

Hellenization, but this is not the focus of this study. Indeed, dozens of studies have already examined the matter of Hellenistic influences in the Levant — particularly Israel — which focus on radical cultural and religious changes that the Jewish community underwent. If the preceding

Persian period laid the seeds for the formulation of what was Jewish, it was in the Hellenistic period that this formulation of “proper Jewishness” was contested, negotiated, fractured, renegotiated, forcibly compelled and finally splintered into multiple forms of Judaisms (for good surveys see (Bickerman 1988; Collins 2005; Gruen 2011, 1998; Levine 1998; Tcherikover

1999). The Hellenistic period certainly had a major impact on the southern Levant, as did the spread of Hellenism throughout southern Europe, North Africa and Western Asia. During the

Hellenistic and preceding Persian periods, the worship of Yahweh began its radical transformation into something that is recognizably “Jewish” through its encounters with both

Eastern thought by way of the Babylonians and Persians and Western thought by way of the

Macedonians. This metamorphosis was not limited to just theological thought either, as a rich cosmopolitan society developed that saw wide-ranging impacts in other cultural phenomena, such as in art, architecture, and material culture.15

15 One of the principle issues in scholarly debate is the legal status and ethnic definition of those who practiced Judaism (as it existed then), and because it is of utmost concern in this study, a few words should be said about it here. The crux of the matter lies in terminology: were the Jewish people an ethnos or a polis (referencing those living in Jerusalem and Judaea, at least)? Eckhardt (2014) points out that concept of ethnos and polis in fact has no real utilitarian or legal difference. The idea of something that distinguished an ethnos from a polis in antiquity comes from a treatise by Aristotle and in modern scholarship the difference is further imbued with concepts of Orientalism that often positions the rural “ethnic” community against the urban “imperializing” community. Tal (2012) explores this concept further and suggests that despite a number of scholarly claims of cities being (re)founded as Hellenistic poleis, following the model of Tcherikover (1999, 1964) in particular, which focuses heavily on the numismatic and epigraphic evidence, the allowance of minting privileges or the presence of inscriptions do not merit enough evidence to suggest that cities were undertaking a switch to Greek social conventions. Rather, Tal argues that cities were afforded a number of legal and economic concessions but the character of the cities remained indigenous,

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Though the Hellenistic period derives its name from Greek conquest, it was during the

Hellenistic period that an independent Jewish kingdom was established that ultimately came to dominate much of the southern Levant. The Maccabean Revolt (167 - 160 BCE) overthrew

Seleukid suzerainty and established the Hasmonean dynasty, centered on Jerusalem and Judaea.

The Hasmoneans ruled as semi-autonomous client kings under the control of the Seleukids until

110 BCE, when they established full autonomy from the Seleukid Empire, which was rapidly contracting, and ruling nearly the entirety of the southern Levant until the Roman intervention in

63 BCE. This period, typically called the Hasmonean or Maccabean Period, is marked by the re- emergence of an independent, ethnically and religiously Jewish community.16 The degree to which the Hasmoneans themselves Hellenized has also received much scholarly attention and remains unresolved. Some scholars view the Hasmoneans as Hellenistic dynasts and distinguished themselves no differently than other Hellenistic kings did, while others see the

Hasmoneans as harbingers for a ethnically pure Jewish nationalism made manifest through a theocratic kingdom, and yet others see the Hasmoneans as simply Jewish priest-kings who subtly

(or not no subtly) styled themselves as Hellenistic monarchs and effectively straddled both the

Jewish and Hellenic worlds (Levine 1997; Mendels 1997; Rajak 2001b; Regev 2018).

By the end of the Hasmonean period, which extended direct Judaean control over much of the southern Levant, internal problems were brewing, and were dealt with in Pompey's

Settlement of the East in 64 - 63 BCE and led to the establishment of Roman client-kings who acted on behalf of Rome. For Judaea in particular, the Roman intervention eventually led to the

based on the type of architecture present at a number of Hellenistic poleis in Palestine. This, of course, is the central question in this study.

16 To be clear, at this point in time, there was no singular concept of “Jewishness” as there were many competing forms of Judaism during this period, leading to a number of messianic movements in the area. For ease of simplicity, however, I refer to the Hasmoneans as “Jewish,” even if it only represented one kind of Judaism and centered on a Judaean ethnic identity.

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ousting of the Hasmonean kings in Judaea, and never again would a (Judaean) Jewish king sit on a throne in Eretz-Israel. Two Hasmonean brothers, Hyrcanus II and Aristobolus I, both claimed the throne and fought a civil war between themselves, in which Hyrcanus was defeated.

Antipater, a Idumaean and founder of the Herodian dynasty, convinced a subjugated Hyrcanus to ally himself with the Nabataeans under the rule of Aretas III and attack his brother Aristobolus in

Jerusalem. Pompey, the Roman general who was coming off of his great conquest of Syria, sent

Marcus Aemilius Scaurus to Judaea to intervene in the fraternal conflict; Scaurus ultimately sided with Aristobolus and commanded the Nabataean army to stand down in Jerusalem and retreat. When Pompey arrived in 63 BCE, he met with representatives from Aristobolus,

Hyrcanus, and an unnamed third party of Jewish delegates who wanted the entire Hasmonean dynasty to end. Pompey, unlike Scaurus, supported Hyrcanus, likely because he saw his as weak and therefore a better puppet for Rome as a High Priest and the region passed to indirect Roman control. Antigonus II, son of Aristobolus, led a rebellion against Rome and was hailed as king by the Parthians in 40 BCE until his defeat in 37 BCE; upon his defeat, the Romans placed Herod the Idumaean, son of Antipater, on the throne, who ruled from 37 - 4 BCE and was succeeded by his son Herod Archelaus from 4 - 6 CE.

Following the deposition of Herod Archelaus in 6 CE the regions of Samaria, Judaea, and

Idumaea were formed into the Roman province of Judaea, administered from Caesarea Maritima until 41 CE. From 41 - 44 CE the province of Judaea was ruled by Agrippa I before converting back to Roman rule in 44 CE. The Idumaeans were active participants in the Jewish rebellion against Rome in 66 CE (Applebaum 2009); this participation on the side of Jewish rebels indicates the degree to which Idumaean and Judaean identities had become intertwined in many ways, at least as far as religion was concerned. Under Roman rule, Idumaea was always attached

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to Judaea; the naming and renaming of the region is detailed above in the section on Judaea. In

193 CE, the northern areas of Syria-Palestina broke off and the southern historical regions were reverted back to the Roman province of Judaea. Finally, in 390 CE, under Diocletian, the Roman province of Judaea was divided into thirds. Idumaea, along with Samaria, Judaea, and Paraea, were formed into the province of Palestina Prima.

Idumaea: An Historical Overview

The Idumaeans (a Hellenized spelling of Edomites) have a complex ethnogenesis and relationship to their northern neighbors in Judaea. The general consensus is that the Edomites are a Semitic-speaking people who arrive in the Transjordan, settling to the southeast of the Dead

Sea sometime in the 14th century BCE and occupied a region well-defined by geographic features -- and later fortresses along their border -- which helped preserve their ethnic identity.

This was not unusual amongst the Transjordanian kingdoms, as other ethnic groups such as the

Moabites, Ammonites, and Amorites also maintained their distinctive ethnic character throughout the Bronze and Iron Ages (Kasher 1988). References to a land called Edom located to the east of the Jordan River appear as early as the late 13th century BCE in Egyptian sources, where they are referred to as the Shasu (a nomadic Bedouin-like tribal group) and in the Hebrew

Bible (Bienkowski 1992; Levy 2009). While there is no evidence for any sort of settlement in the

Bronze Age, by Iron Age I (1200 - 1000 BCE) there were semi-permanent settlements in the region of Edom and by the 8th century BCE a large, likely royal, city was established at Busayra, which is called Bozrah in the Hebrew Bible. There is some debate about the nature and origins of the polity of Edom in this period ( Bienkowski 2007; Bienkowski and van der Steen 2001; Porter

2004; Routledge 2004) (Bienkowski 2007; Bienkowski and van der Steen 2001; Porter 2004;

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Routledge 2004), but it is clear that by the late Iron Age II Edom was at least a tribal kingdom, and likely a full state, akin to the surrounding kingdoms of both the Transjordan (Ammon and

Moab) and the Cisjordan (Judah). Edom, along with Ammon and Moab, were independent tributaries to the Assyrians and Neo-Babylonians; it remains unclear if Edom was directly administered by the Neo-Babylonians.

During the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods, there does not seem to be any indication that Edom/Idumaea was a separate political entity from the province of Yehud (Judaea). Edom, in the Transjordan, was likely incorporated into the province “Beyond the River” (Eber-Nari), a region which includes all the territories to the west of the Euphrates. The name, and the province, of “Eber-Nari” originated in the Assyrian Empire, and both the provincial name and the area to which it referenced was continued by the Babylonians and Persians alike. Under both the

Babylonians and Persians, however, separate political entities such as Yehud, Samaria,

Ashkelon, Ashdod, Gaza, and the Phoenician cities were permitted to mint their own coins and develop their own stamp impressions; however, no such corollary can be found for Idumaea

(Kloner and Stern 2007; Levin 2015). By the sixth and seventh centuries BCE, with the collapse of the Kingdom of Judah as the last major independent state in the Southern Levant, the encroachment of the desert Arab tribes from the south, especially the Nabataeans, pushed

Edomite populations into the southern part of Judaea. Stern (2004) refers to this as the

“Babylonian Gap,” a period in which the devastation wrought by the repeated destructions of the

Assyrians and Babylonians resulted in a desolated land that allowed for Edomite populations to occupy what had formerly been under the control of the Kingdom of Judah; this assessment is upheld by Lipschits (2003). Thus, a process of relocation that began in the late periods of

Assyrian domination over the southern Levant had been completed by the Persian period,

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fracturing the region of Judaea into a northern area comprised of Jewish populations and a new southern region of Edomites, which came to be known as Idumaea. Archaeological evidence, in the form of ostraca from Horvat ‘Uza, indicates that the Edomites captured Judahite territory just before the Neo-Babylonians subjugated both the Kingdom of Judah and the Kingdom of Edom; it seems clear that what was left of the Edomites continued in southeastern Yehud (Judaea), where they preserved the Edomite language, customs, and cult (Levin 2015).

The migration of Edomite peoples happened simultaneous to the co-mingling of Edomite and Arab (specifically Nabataean) populations in the Transjordan so that by the end of the

Persian period a new population group of mixed Edomite and Nabataean peoples -- with the former located more in the northern areas and a more Arab presence in the southern areas and into the Negev Desert -- occupied the southernmost areas of the province of Judaea (called

Yehud in the Persian period) south of the town of Beth-Zur, even if there was not yet a formal reorganization of political boundaries of Idumaea and Judaea (Kasher 1988). The area south of

Beth-Zur, where Judaean populations lived, was ethnically distinct from its local populations, but what we can recognize as “Idumaea” (even if no such region technically existed in the

Babylonian and Persian periods) was under the administration of the Arab Qederites (Kedarites) who ruled over the Negev and Sinai rather than the Judaean populations to the north. Idumaea was likely segregated from Judah between 586 and 445 BCE, most likely during the campaigns of Cambyses in 525 BCE, who awarded the southern region of Yehud, excluding the coastal cities, to the Qederites for their aid in his excursion to Egypt (Levin 2015). Alexander's conquest and siege of Gaza effectively eliminated the presence of the Qederites and during the wars of the

Diadochoi the area was made into a formal eparchia, taking the name Idumaea from its principal inhabitants (Levin 2015). Thus, by the end of the 4th century BCE, the region of Idumaea was

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understood to not only be ethnically and geographically separate from Judaea, but was also sometimes administered as a limited political entity depending on which Hellenistic kingdom controlled the region.

By the Hellenistic period, Idumaea had developed into a distinct region but was still often treated by ancient authors in conjunction with other local regions such as Judaea, Nabataea, or

Syria. Diodoros Sicilus, Strabo, Ptolemy the Historian, and Pliny the Elder all discuss the region of Idumaea as a distinct, if somewhat confounding, area in the Levant. Diodoros is the earliest source to identify Idumaea as a geographically, if not politically, separate region by the 4th century (Levin 2015; Marciak 2018). Strabo's Geographica 16.2, for example, suggests that

Syria is divided into Ceolo-Syria, Syria, and Phoenicia, amongst which existed four distinct ethne: Judaeans, Idumaeans, Gazeans, and Azotians. In a closer examination of the region,

Strabo (16.2.34-46) determines that Idumaeans are one and the same with Nabataeans, but following their conversion to Judaism were joined as a united but distinct group with Judaeans

(indeed, he asserts that the same holds true for Itureans in the Galilee). It is fairly clear that while

Edomites and Arabs both spoke a Semitic language, the two languages were distinct from one another and thus the two groups are in fact not the same (Kasher 1988; Marciak 2018, 2017).

The difficulty that ancient authors had in distinguishing between Edomites and Arabs was likely predicated on the extensive blending between the Arab Nabataeans and the non-Arab but Semitic

Edomites that took place over several centuries. This was only further complicated by the general adoption of Aramaic by both groups; nevertheless, Strabo does make it clear that the

Idumaeans were distinct in their ethnicity from their neighboring groups. Strabo describes the population with a very unusual word, anamemichthai (ἀναμεμῖχθαι, thoroughly mixed together), indicating that the various ethnic groups in the region exhibited high levels of admixture while

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each remaining distinct enough to be understood as separate from one another. Evidence of this ethnic admixture comes from ostraca from Idumaea, which preserve the names of some 1,300 individuals of Arab, Aramaean, Babylonian, Idumaean, Iranian, Judahite, and Phoenician names

(Kloner and Stern 2007). Other authors, such as Ptolemy the Historian, considered the

Idumaeans a part of the Syrians and Phoenicians rather than an Arab tribe due to the extensive reestablishment of Phoenician influence in the littoral cities during the Persian period. Evidence of this, in part, is borne out through cities that were under Sidonian jurisdiction such as Maresha and Ashkelon, the Hellenistic capital of Idumaea and major economic center, respectively

(Marciak 2018). Both Ptolemy the Historian and Strabo see Idumaeans as a distinct group before and after their conversion to Judaism, though both see the process as different. Strabo suggests the Idumaeans converted willfully, while Ptolemy posits that Idumaeans were forcefully

Judaicized. The latter account has more historical veracity as it matches the forced conversion narrative given by Jospehus (Ant. 13.257). Archaeological evidence for arguments of both Strabo and Ptolemy the Historian exist, and perhaps the middle ground (e.g. forceful conversion in cities and assimilation in the rural areas) is equally valid (Marciak 2018).

The information about the Idumaeans proper during the early Hellenistic period is scarce, especially as Nabataea asserted increasingly dominant control on the Transjordan, as well as the

Sinai and Negev. What scanty evidence does exist, both historical and archaeological, points to a discernible group that was different from both the Arab Nabataeans and the Jewish Judaeans.

Applebaum (2009) argues convincingly that it is very clear that throughout Josephus' work, he understood the Idumaeans to be a distinct group from that of the Judaeans, using the word ethnos to describe the Idumaeans in the same way that he uses the word to demarcate Romans, Arabs,

Philistines, and Germans. By the time of the Hasmonean revolt led by Judas Maccabeus,

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however, there seems to be a significant number of rural Idumaean peoples who were already converting to Judaism (Kasher 1988). Despite their conversion to Judaism and their proximity to

Judaea, Idumaeans were not considered Judaeans. For example, Idumaean units were distinctly identified in the armies of the Judaean Hasmonean kings John and Simon (Josephus War 4.566;

5.248). Whatever the means of conversion -- whether Idumaeans were forced to undergo circumcision and practice Judaism as Josephus and Ptolemy the Historian suggest or whether this was a more willful choice, as Strabo suggests -- is not debated here. What is clear, however, is that the Idumaeans, while religiously Jewish, were not ethnically Jewish, and were never understood to be so. During the reign of John Hyrcanus I (135 - 104 BCE) Idumaea was conquered and incorporated into the Hasmonean state.

The Roman intervention during the settlements made by Pompey in 63 BCE reorganized the general political landscape of the entire Levant. In the former Hasmonean kingdom, Idumaea and Judaea, along with Samaria and Peraea (the area to the east and northeast of the Dead Sea in the Transjordan), were formed into one province called "Judaea." Nevertheless, Idumaea seems to have been at least nominally recognized as a subregion of the larger province of Judaea, which was now under the control of the Romans through client rulers. Kasher (1988) credits this to the basic notion that the foreign Roman general Pompey would have simply lumped everything that he understood to be nominally Jewish together into one province. Thus, the Roman reorganization was based on religious practice, at least when it came to Jewish populations, irrespective of their ethnic differences from one another. What is fairly clear, and is unresolved by both ancient authors and modern scholars alike, is the precise differentiation between

Idumaea and Judaea (Marciak 2018). The first Roman-period author to mention Idumaea is Pliny the Elder in his Historia Naturalis (5.66-70; 5.213). Pliny describes Idumaea as a distinct region

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within the confines of Palestine (the Roman name for the Levant, especially the southern

Levant), excepting a small strip of coastal cities which were independent; the southern border is

Arabia, the land of the Nabataeans. In Claudius Ptolemy's Geographica Idumaea is likewise labeled as a separate area within the larger region of Palestine (also called Judaea), and gives five major cities within Idumaea: Berzama (Horvat Beer Shema/Khirbet el-Far), Kararorsa (Khirbet

Khureisa), Gemmaruris (Khirbet Jemrura), Elusa (Haluza al-Khalasa), and Mapsis (Khirbet

Mamshit/Qurnub). Thus, Idumaea seems to have at least maintained the air of distinctiveness if not the political reality of separation from Judaea in the Roman period.

The particular relationship between Idumaeans and Judaeans is especially highlighted in the early Roman period by the rise of the Herodians, a well-known Idumaean familial dynasty of the early Roman period appointed as client kings over all of Palestine by Rome. The problem of ethnic “Jewishness,” the crux of so much confusion among ancient authors, arises here again due to the mixed heritage of Herod, who was born to a Idumaean father and a Nabataean mother, making him ethnically Edomite and Arab but religiously — at least nominally — Jewish (and how “pure” of a Jew he was is dependent on how the Deuteronomistic Law is interpreted.17 The historical sources call Herod a “half-Jew” and a “foreign king.” He could be considered a “half-

Jew” for two reasons: either because his Nabataean mother limited his Jewish purity or because all Idumaeans were never considered full Jews in the first place. He was likely referred to as a

“foreign king” because he frequently acted “Roman” and was a puppet of Rome, having been established as a client king and who varied his support from Antonius in Alexandria to Augustus

17 The issue centers on how many generations must pass for a convert to be considered a part of the “The children begotten to them [Egyptians and Edomites] shall enter the congregation of the Lord in their third generation” (Duet. 23.9). Since Herod was the third generation from Idumean conversion, he would likely be considered ethnically and religiously Jewish. His mother’s Arab origin, however, might negate this, especially since it is unknown if she converted to Judaism when she married Herod’s father.

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when Antonius and Cleopatra were defeated. However we might understand Herod’s (and by extension his family’s) complicated ethnic and religious background, it is assuredly due to the rise of the Herodian dynasty that the security and prosperity of the Idumaean people are secured.

During the Herodian period, Idumaea acted as a frontier territory between the Nabataean- controlled Negev Desert to the south and Judaea to the north; there is clear evidence of a system of fortlets built by Herod, sometimes called the Herodian limes, to secure this region and demarcate it from Nabataean territory (Gihon 1967). Any references to Idumaea as a distinct region essentially disappear from the historical record, following the Jewish revolts and thus, by the 2nd century CE, Idumaea only appears in historical sources in reference to historical events.

In terms of Roman imperial administration, Idumaea was always understood as a part of Judaea.

Regional Surveys

Surveys that have been carried out in Judaea and Idumaea tend to be focused primarily on cataloging Bronze and Iron Ages, with less attention on the subsequent Hellenistic and Roman periods (Dagan 1996; Finkelstein 1993; Kokhavi et al. 1972). This, of course, is expected due to the heightened attention on the biblical periods, especially regarding the tribal period and the

Kingdom of Judah. In Judaea, far more attention by way of archaeological survey has been given to the destruction in the Neo-Babylonian period and subsequent occupation in the Persian period, especially in seeking to answer questions regarding the degree of desolation or occupation and in determining demographics before the Jewish return from Exile in the Persian Period (Faust 2003,

2012; Lipschits 2003; Lipschits and Tal 2007). While important for seeking to answer the questions of depopulation versus continuity — which is not the focus here — these surveys generally do not provide much material in the way of architectural features excepting in a few

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farmsteads; instead, the majority of the evidence lies in pottery distributions, though Hirschfeld

(2006) notes the presence of a well-preserved shipyard at Khirbet Mazin and Qasr et-Turabeh near the Dead Sea.

Principal Sites in Judaea and Idumaea

The Idumaean Fortresses

The most well-excavated of the Idumaean fortresses is Tel Aroer, a caravansary in the

Negev desert, sits right at the intersection of the borders of Judaea, Idumaea, and Nabataea. At the end of the Iron Age it appears to have been occupied by all three different ethnic groups from the surrounding regions: Judahites, Edomites, and Arabians (Thareani et al. 2011). The site flourished following the Assyrian conquest of the Levant by Tiglath Pileser III (r. 745 – 727

BCE), in part due to its location on the southern edge of the Beersheba Valley, which connected the coastal routes and the Mediterranean to the southern deserts of Arabia. The surrounding area around Tel Aroer seems to have grown rapidly following Assyrian control and included not only

Tel Aroer, but also Tel 'Ira, Tel Malhata, and Beer es-Seba’, as well as five major fortification sites at Horvat Radum, Horvat 'Uza, Tel Arad, Horvat 'Anim, and Horvat Tov (Thareani 2007).

The site was destroyed at the end of the eighth century BCE, likely during Sennacherib's campaign in 701 BCE, and then one again at the terminal Iron Age. Precisely who was responsible for the second destruction at Tel Aroer is debated; some suggest that it was the

Babylonians who were responsible (Bartlett 1989), while others argue that it was some kind of conflagration caused by local Edomite populations who took advantage of local political instability, Assyrian contraction and general Egyptian disinterest to overthrow any local Judahite

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and Arab groups (Thareani et al. 2011). Tel Aroer was not reoccupied until the late Hellenistic period but there is sparse archaeological material for this occupation, documented only through pottery and several coins, so it remains unclear the degree to which the site might have had permanent occupation. Beginning in the Roman period, however, Tel Aroer experiences a major population boom, which led to more permanent occupation on the site with substantial architectural remains. It is likely that that the fortifications at the site were constructed under the reigns of either Herod or Herod Agrippa I as a means to protect Judaea from Nabataean excursions (Thareani et al. 2011). Most of small finds, including pottery, ostraca with Aramaic inscriptions, and numismatics point toward a principally Judaean character rather than to a

Nabataean one, though as a border site there is unsurprisingly a high degree of Nabataean cultural influences. Tel Aroer was destroyed by the Romans during the First Jewish Revolt, reoccupied likely by Jewish populations between the First and Second Jewish Revolts, and finally abandoned following economic stagnation in the Beersheba Valley after the Second

Jewish Revolt (Thareani et al. 2011).

Arad, which also belongs to the string of Idumaean defensive sites, was a fortified site that protects the region between the Dead Sea and the Arabian deserts, was important from the

Bronze Age through the Roman period. The site is especially famous for the sanctuary within the citadel that dates to the Israelite period; the two stones inside the sacred precinct dedicated to

Yahweh and Asherah indicate that the population was quite different in their religious convictions than the hard-line monotheism pushed by the priests in Jerusalem. Within this Iron

Age citadel, a Hellenistic tower was constructed. The site continued as a fortress through the

Hellenistic and Roman periods (Halpern-Zylberstein 1990).

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Elusa (al-Khalasa)

Elusa, located in the central part of the Negev, was enumerated among the towns of

Idumaea by Ptolemy. The site is located on an important incense route that connected the

Nabataean capital of Petra to a Mediterranean coastal outlet port at Gaza. The city of Elusa maintains a strange position within the geographic focus of this study; while it was a Idumaean city, it eventually fell under the control of the Nabataeans during their encroachment of

Idumaean territory. For this reason, I have included the city as Idumaean at least in the

Hellenistic period, but that the city was Nabataean by the time of the Roman period. The city is notoriously difficult to excavate due to shifting sands in the Negev, but to date a well-built

Byzantine church has been revealed as well as a theater made of well-hewn ashlars constructed in the Roman period oriented on an orthogonal grid (Arubas and Goldfus 2008; Negev 1976).

Beersheba (Beersheva)

Beersheba, identified as Tel es-Sheba near the modern town of Beersheba, lies as the junction of the Beersheba and Hebron valleys in southern Idumaea. Beersheba was the capital of the Negev region in the biblical period and continued this role during the Persian period. During the Roman occupation of Judaea, Beersheba was the principal administrative center on the limes

Palestina. It is likely then that Beersheba was an important city in this region in the Hellenistic period as well (Arav 1989). Beersheba, because of its location on the border between Judaea to the north and Idumaea to the south, was of mixed ethnicity, evidenced by the ostraca that was found there (Arav 1989).

Beersheba has two notable features, one each from the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In the Hellenistic period, a temple was found, built in a herringbone pattern that has been

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discovered at other Iron Age sites such as Nahal Tut and En Hofez (Herzog and Singer-Avitz

2016). The second notable feature from Beersheba is a Roman-period fortress, which formed part of the southern border of the Roman limes system along with forts from Arad, Tel Ira and

Tel Judeideh (Chancey and Porter 2001). The forts have evidence of Roman-period cisterns and bath complexes, though they were badly damaged (Aharoni 1974).

Fig. 5.1 Wall of the Hellenistic period temple, built in a "herringbone" style. The lower walls are constructed in the rubble technique. Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2016: 27.

Maresha/Beit Guvrin (Marisa/Eleutheropolis)

A UNESCO World Heritage site, Maresha (known today as Beth Guvrin or Beit Jibrin), which is located in the southwestern part of the Shephelah, was an important site in the

Hellenistic and Roman periods. It lay just 5 km to the east of Lachish, a strategically important city in the Bronze and Iron Ages that controlled access between the Levant and Egypt; so important was the city that during the Persian period Lachish was the seat of the Persian governor over the province of Yehud. With the decline of Lachish in the 4th century, the city of

Maresha was settled by Edomites and rose to prominence and flourished during the Hellenistic

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and Roman periods, having been settled by Sidonian refugees from Phoenicia and Greek colonists in the Hellenistic period. Maresha was conquered by the Hasmonean John Hyrcanus I in 113 BCE and was subsequently abandoned for a time. The city was briefly rebuilt by the

Roman governor Gabinius and quickly abandoned during the Parthian invasion and remained relatively uninhabited during the two Jewish rebellions. When Rome finally reasserted control over the region, Maresha was resettled and renamed Eleutheropolis, though it was not settled for long in the Roman period; by the mid 4th century CE, Eusebius of Caesarea only gives a brief mention the site in his Onomasticon.

Maresha was a centrally connected hub with roads to the interior of Idumaea to the city of

Hebron, to the coastal cities of Gaza, Ashkelon, and Jaffa, and to Judaea to the city of Jerusalem

(Arav 1989).The site is widely known for its subterranean complexes, including spectacularly painted tombs which blend Sidonian, Alexandrian, and Greek influences, a nearly pristine columbarium, and a extensive examples of cave homes and an intricate system of waterworks

(Kloner 2003; Stern 2019). A number of studies have examined the artifact assemblage from

Maresha, including ceramics and lamps, Hellenistic terracotta Fig.urines, ostraca and inscribed bowls (Eshel et al. 2007; Erlich 2009; Erlich and Kloner 2008; Stern and Alpert 2014) and to the

Sidonian tombs (Peters et al. 1905; Oren and Rappaport 1984), while less attention has been given to the architectural features sensu stricto. Maresha is one of the few extensively Hellenistic cities excavated in the southern Levant. Early excavations carried out at the turn of the 20th century revealed a well-planned Hippodamian city with approximately 12 insulae, a fortified wall, and a Nabataean-style temple dedicated to Kos-Apollo (Arav 1989a; Bliss et al. 1902). A number of domestic houses have been excavated in full or in part, generally constructed of well- hewn ashlars, sometimes mortared (Arav 1989). Finally, when the Romans occupied the region

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and kept a significant military presence during and following the 2nd Jewish Revolt (bar-

Kokhbah Revolt), a Roman amphitheater — one of only two purposefully-built amphitheaters in the southern Levant — was constructed of well-hewn ashlars, barrel vaults and underground rooms. The amphitheater could seat about 3,500 spectators (in particular, if not exclusively, for the Roman garrison stationed here to protect the Arabian limes) and was in use until it was destroyed by an earthquake in 363 CE (Kloner 1988). The walls were covered with plaster, some of which revealed painting but with no discernible pattern, as well as a decorated cornice that adorned the circumference of the structure (Kloner and Hübsch 1996). Additionally, small finds inside included a number of lamps, but also Roman altars, with Greek inscriptions, that point to some sort of religious rites that were conducted on the site, probably in connection with the games held in the amphitheater (Kloner and Hübsch 1996).

The ample evidence from the city suggests that during the Hellenistic city the local

Edomite (Idumaean) population, as well as the Sidonian inhabitants from Phoenicia, embraced

Hellenization to a high degree. The evidence for this is quite plain; highly stylized tombs that blend Greek, Phoenician, and Alexandrian motifs, inscriptions in Greek, and the presence of herms all point to at least some penetration of Greek culture. During the conquest of John

Hyrcanus and the forced conversion of the Idumaean population to Judaism, it appears that the city was abandoned, its inhabitants preferring to move rather than convert (Oren and Rappaport

1984). It is not disputed that Maresha was an important Hellenistic city in the southern Levant; its specific regional connectedness in terms of architectural technique, design, and philosophy is of great interest in this study.

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Fig. 5.2 Plan of Maresha, including the Upper City and the various subterranean complexes. Stern 2019.

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Fig. 5.3 Plan of the amphitheater at Eleutheropolis at Beit Guvrin. Kloner and Hübsch 1996: 89.

Beth Zur (Beit Tzur/Bethsura)

Beth Zur, identified with Khirbet et-Tubeiqah, was settled first in the Bronze Age on a natural hill and lies right on the boundary of Idumaea and Judaea between Jerusalem to the north and Hebron to the south. It commanded strategic importance because of its control over the

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southernly roads as well as those which connected Idumaea to the Shephelah. Its importance as a citadel is evident during the Hasmonean wars with the Seleukids, as the citadel switched hands several times; a Seleukid garrison was stationed there in 175 BCE which fell to Judas

Maccabeus' rebellion in 165 BCE. Two years later the site was recaptured by Seleukid forces before falling again to the Hasmoneans in the 140s BCE, whereupon it was established as a southern boundary to protect Judaea from their Idumaean neighbors.

Beth Zur's primary feature is a citadel and walls that were built during the Hellenistic period; the earliest phases probably date to the Persian period, and successive phases of the citadel date to different times in the Hellenistic period (Arav 1989a; Sellers et al. 1968;

Watzinger 1935). There is significant debate on the dating and types of structures found at the site, for several reasons: the total depth of the entire site does not exceed 1 meter, within which is no less than four distinct phases of occupation; the Hellenistic structures have deep foundations that disturb lower strata; and the walls were extensively plundered in later phases (Arav 1989a;

Sellers et al. 1933). Other structures on the site do not provide any clear purpose. Sellers (1968) indicates that there is a city plaza and an inn and insulae at the site. Arav (1989) suggests that a bathhouse found at the site was similar to the miqveh at Gezer and that we should expect something similar at Beth Zur. Arav (1989) also suggests that Building 29, which was interpreted by Sellers (1968) as an inn is in fact a Yahwistic temple similar to the one found at Lachish.

While there is general consensus that the later phases of the citadel date to the Hellenistic period, scholars have pointed out that the site is highly "oriental," lacking completely anything that is typically classed as Greek architectural decor nor are the construction techniques Greek (Arav

1989b; Watzinger 1935).

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Jerusalem

Jerusalem was the capital of the province of Yehud in the Persian period, the seat of the

Hasmonean and Herodian kings, and the province of Judaea/Palestina in the Roman period. This is primarily because of its historical and religious importance, having been the capital of the

United Monarchy and the Kingdom of Judah as well as the site of the largest Yahwistic temple in

Eretz-Israel.18 Jerusalem is neither in a particularly central location, nor is it economically or strategically important; it is only connected by east-west roads that connect Jerusalem to the Via

Maris and to Jericho and the Transjordan, and north-south routes which connect Jerusalem to

Samaria to the north and Hebron to the south (Arav 1989). The urban appearance of Jerusalem presents a peculiar problem for analysis of the architecture of the city in the Hellenistic and

Roman periods. While there is plenty of literary evidence of the urban planning of Jerusalem and its supposed Hellenization, there is very little archaeological evidence, especially of the early

Hellenistic period. This is in part due to a Herodian building program which destroyed the

Hellenistic period material, which was in turn destroyed during the Roman siege before

Jerusalem was rebuilt in the Roman period. Additionally, the city of Jerusalem has remained continually occupied, making it more complicated to excavate the city. One particularly unique piece of archaeological material that we have available regarding the architecture of Jerusalem is the Madaba Map, a mosaic from a Byzantine period church on which is indicated cities and roads in the region. This mosaic, while especially useful for the identification of particular cities and towns, also shows some basic architectural features of cities.19

18 Note, however, that the temple in Jerusalem was not the only temple in Eretz-Israel. We know of many other Yahwistic temples.

19 We must also be aware of the historical biases of the texts that do discuss the architecture of the city of Jerusalem, especially anything that comes from the authors of the Maccabees, who are eager to portray Jerusalemite priests as Hellenizing. Josephus is more reliable as a historical source. I must stress here that I will only present the

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Jerusalem was surrounded by a system of huge walls that were fortified with massive towers. These walls were constructed with bossed ashlars built in the header-stretcher style (Bliss and Dickie 1898; Galor and Bloedhorn 2013; Tushingham et al. 1985). The exact circuit of the wall and what parts of Jerusalem were enclosed is still the subject of great debate. Also of great debate is the location of and archaeological evidence for the Akra, the citadel of the city, and the gymnasion of the city that is attested in the literature. There is no archaeological evidence for the gymnasion, which according to the historical sources (2 Macc. 4.9; 1 Macc. 1.13-15), was established by Jason during the reign of Antiochus IV.20 The Akra, on the other hand, was tentatively identified by ben-Dov (1985) and Arav (1989) suggests it looks remarkably similar to the citadel complex found at Beth Zur if this is indeed the site of the Akra. A second fortified complex overlooking the Temple Mount, called the Baris, was built later in the Hasmonean period. This structure was remodeled by Herod and turned into the Antonine Fortress, which was razed by Titus in the siege of Jerusalem in 70 CE. Finally, Arav (1989) suggests that Jerusalem was likely built in a Hippodamian plan during the Hellenistic period.

Of course, the most important architectural structure in Jerusalem was the Temple Mount built by Herod, a massive sprawling complex measuring 144,000 square meters. The Temple

Mount was arguably one of the most impressive architectural endeavors in the entirety of the southern Levant and was, by far, the largest temple complex in the region. Much has already been written on the Temple and because it is not the focus of this study I will not dwell on the

archaeological material; if there is a historical account of a structure that exists in Jerusalem, but there is no evidence of its presence archaeologically, I do not include it in the dataset.

20 Here we should be especially careful in reading the historical sources. The reign of Antiochus IV was one fraught with Seleukid-Greek tensions and it was Antiochus IV’s religious decree that compelled the Maccabean revolt and the establishment of the Hasmonaean Dynasty. Thus, it seems remarkably convenient for the authors of 1 Maccabees and 2 Maccabees to suggest there was a gymnasion, which was considered to be the highest form of Hellenization by Palestinian (not Alexandrian) Jews.

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specific details of the Temple. Rather, I wish to emphasize the specific architectural features of the Temple. The Herodian Temple complex was constructed of bossed ashlars and used a system of vaults underneath the Temple, commonly called Solomon's Stables, to support the immense weight of the upper structure. A monumental staircase was on the southern edge which abutted a colonnaded road; this staircase was accessed by arched entrances and led up to the upper platform. The entirety of the complex was surrounded by stoas, the most magnificent on the southern section of the platform often called the Royal Stoa. The Royal Stoa was in fact a basilica, built in the Corinthian order but with a mixture of architectural decorative elements that clearly blended eastern, western and local motifs (Peleg-Barkat 2017). No single building in plan remains from the Temple itself; only fragmentary pieces remain of the structures that once crowned the Mount that allow partial reconstructions (in conjunction with detailed historical accounts), but the evidence adjacent and underneath the Temple Mount, as well as the Western

Wall, is extant.

Numerous houses were excavated that date to the late Hasmonean and Herodian periods, discovered in excavations conducted by Avigad in the Jewish Quarter (Avigad 1976, 1991).

Most of these structures consist of a typically eastern style home. Two notable houses were found that were quite different. The first was the Peristyle House, so named because of the peristyle courtyard with stuccoed columns. The flooring was decorated with opus sectile. The second notable home was the Palatial Mansion, the largest and best-preserved house in the

Jewish Quarter. The house was built with ashlar masonry and decorated with plastered walls.

Many of the homes have miqva'ot pools. While the homes, for the most part, are eastern in style

(excepting the Peristyle House), there is a significant amount of western-style decoration,

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including painted plaster, stucco, and mosaic floors, though it should be noted that no decoration contained any kind of Fig.ural or animalistic styles (Galor and Bloedhorn 2013).

Following the Roman destruction of Jerusalem in the Jewish Revolt in 70 CE, Josephus notes that Jerusalem remained in ruins. Hadrian re-founded the city as Aelia Capitolina between

129 - 131 CE, which was likely the catalyst for the bar-Kokhba Revolt from 132 - 135 CE. When this second rebellion was put down, reconstruction of Jerusalem began in earnest. Here again we are faced with the same problem of the Hellenistic period; a number of temples and sites are attested in the literature but archaeological evidence has uncovered very little, if any, evidence. If we take the entire body of literature evidence, then Jerusalem could aptly be described as an impressive Roman city in the East, with the permanent garrison of the Tenth Legion within its walls. The historical sources state that within the city was a tripartite temple dedicated to the

Roman triad, a theater, a propylon, public bathhouses, a tetranymphon, and a dodekapylon. Of these structures, however, nothing has been found. The general layout of the Old City is thought to follow the roads of the Roman city, with a series of main arteries and side streets punctuated by plazas, but very little of the Roman-period urban plan remains. Only a small portion of the

Roman decemanus has been found near the Temple Mount, which generally follows David Street to the Jaffa Gate. An oval plaza, with two colonnaded streets branching off and a triple-arched gateway, are the most extensive archaeological ruins from the Roman period (Galor and

Bloedhorn 2013; Weksler-Bdolah 2020). Other architectural finds from the Roman period include a small bathhouse used by the Tenth Legion and the so-called "theater-like" structure, an unfinished building that measures a mere 6 meters across the orchestra (Mazar 2011; Uziel et al.

2019).

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Ramat Rahel

Located just outside the modern sprawl of Jerusalem, Ramat Rahel is one of the most extensively excavated and well-preserved sites that sheds insight into the archaeology of

Palestine from the Late Iron II through the Byzantine periods. The earlier phases reveal a large palatial administrative structure that dates to the Persian period. Of particular importance for architecture during this phase are the fantastically preserved proto-aeloic column capitals and balustrade. Architectural evidence dating to the Hellenistic period is unfortunately not as robust, primarily due to extensive construction that occurred in the later Roman and Byzantine periods.

One wall is likely dated to the Hellenistic period(Aharoni 1956, 1962, 1964; Lipschits et al.

2011), but other structures reveal ashlar construction techniques that date to the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods, though the function of the building is not determined (Lipschits et al.

2011). A large columbarium of the Hellenistic period was also revealed. Ramat Rahel, like other villages that surrounded Jerusalem, ceased to exist following the Jewish revolts, but reoccupation began in the later Roman periods. Aharoni (1962, 1964) identified a Roman bathhouse fabricated with bricks stamped with marks of the Tenth Legion (which was responsible for much of the local construction materials in the immediate vicinities around Jerusalem following their permanent presence following the Jewish revolts) and argued that Ramat Rahel was a location for a Roman garrison; later excavations carried out under the direction of Oded Lipschits revealed that the Roman peristyle house and small bathhouse, along with a number of industrial glass and ceramic wasters, means that Ramat Rahel was probably converted into a villa rustica

(Lipschits et al. 2011). Ramat Rahel continued to undergo construction well up though the

Byzantine and early Isalmic Umayyad and Abbasid phases before the site was abandoned and not resettled until a modern kibbutz was built on the hill.

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Ein Gedi (Tel Gorn)

Ein Gedi is an isolated oasis on the shores of the Dead Sea. The site is quite difficult to get to, protected from the west by the high cliffs of the Judaean hills and the Sea on the eastern side, and accessible only by a road which runs along the shore of the Dead Sea. The settlement at

Ein Gedi, located on a small hill called Tel Gorn (or sometimes Tel Goren), was a flourishing

Jewish village during the Hellenistic period and was strategically important enough that fortifications to ensure the route along the Dead Sea, the oasis, and royal estates were protected.

The site was first excavated in the early 1960s and yielded five distinct strata; the earliest dated to the late Judahite period and the earliest to the Roman period (Mazar et al. 1966). Most of the remains date to Stratum III (early Hellenistic period), consisting of fortifications on both the western and eastern end of the tel. These fortifications were built of very coarsely worked stone.

It is likely that the fortifications were part of series of forts built in the Ptolemaic period that stretched from Gaza in the west to the Dead Sea. Similar style fortifications, but with slightly wider walls, date to the later Hasmonean period.

Ein Gedi was destroyed by the Romans during the Jewish rebellions, but the site was later reoccupied. Renewed excavations of the site were carried out between 1996 and 2002, focusing on the Roman and Byzantine phases of the site (Hirschfeld 2008). The Early Roman phase revealed a small village constructed of rubble walls and a well-preserved plastered miqveh.

Following the destruction of the site at the hands of both the Sicarii rebels and the Romans, the site was reoccupied and achieved a high level of prosperity in the later Roman period. The village consisted of tightly packed houses, shops, and magazines, and included a bathhouse that was used by the Roman unit stationed in the village. This bathhouse was rudely constructed, with little evidence of ornamentation (in fact, the only ornamentation came in the form of column

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capital in reuse from a nearby (now lost) Herodian structure (Hirschfeld 2008). The domestic structures generally consist of modest houses of one or a few single rooms. Larger domestic spaces in the village consist of courtyard-style homes with upper stories, constructed in the rubble technique. The excavators argue that the village was also the location of an Essene hermitage that would connect it to the Qumran community to the north (Hirschfeld 2000b)

(Hirschfeld 2000) though this position is contested (Amit and Magness 2000). Late Roman material was found scattered around the tel as well as a splendid synagogue of the Byzantine period, decorated with a mosaic floor consisting of animalistic and geometric patterns (Werlin

2015), but this material is outside the chronological framework in this study.

Fig. 5.4 Plan of Roman-period Ein Gedi. NEAEHL s.v. Ein Gedi.

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Qumran

Qumran (Khirbet Qumran), world-famous for its discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, lies at the northwestern side of the Dead Sea. The site was jointly excavated in the 1950s by the

Jordan Department of Antiquities, the Palestine Archaeological Museum, and L'Ècole Biblique et Archéologique Française de Jérusalem. The site has been variously described as a monastic center for the Essenes, a fortress, a fortress turned into a villa, and a fortress turned into a manufacturing center. Two principle phases of occupation have been identified. Phase I, subdivided into Phase Ia and Ib, dates to the Hellenistic Period, and Phase II dates to the Roman period. The precise purpose of the site is not of importance here, but rather the architectural features. The site is dominated by two separate buildings, one with a massive fortified tower and the other with a series of stepped pools and intricate waterworks. The construction technique used is rubble, without any ashlars or header-stretcher. No evidence of any kind of architectural decor is found on the site, save for two plastered blocks in Room L.86, the purpose of which is indeterminate. The stepped pools are likely to be miqva'ot rather than simple cisterns, given that miqva'ot generally appear in this kind of form elsewhere in Judaea and especially just to the north at Jericho. Similar architectural features were found at Ein Feshka, located 3 km away from Qumran, and at Ein el-Ghuweir 15 km away from Qumrun (Arav 1989).

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Fig. 5.5 Site plan of Khirbet Qumran. From Wagemakers and Taylor 2011: 136.

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Jericho (Tulul Abu el-'Alayiq)

A site of deep antiquity reaching back to the early Neolithic, Jericho was an important site in the Hellenistic and especially Herodian periods. Jericho was not a city at this time, but a lush oasis that was home to a number of palatial complexes and fortlets which sat at the junction between several different regions: Judaea to the south, Samaria to the west, Paraea to the east and the Galilee to the north. Jericho had a road that led to the north to Scythopolis and the Galilee, to the south following the shore of the Dead Sea that passed through Ein Gedi and Masada to

Nabataea as well as to Jerusalem, east to Philadelphia in the Transjordan, and to Samaria to the west (Arav 1989). Jericho was thus an important central location in the southern Levant, connected to several major cities. Much has been written on Jericho, especially concerning the

Herodian architecture (Kelso and Baramki 1955; Kenyon et al. 1960; Netzer 1977; Netzer and

Laureys-Chachy 2006), so we will not dwell in great detail here.

Excavations at Jericho were conducted in the 1950s under the joint direction of Kelso and

Baramki, who exposed a Hasmonean palace that lay underneath Herodian structures, and by

Pritchard, who claimed to have discovered a gymnasion and some public spaces; these were later determined by Netzer to be palaces that dated to the Herodian period (Arav 1989). The earlier

Hasmonean palaces were built of mud-brick on a rubble foundation and surrounded a large swimming pool, with plastered floors and colored plaster on the walls. An additional hall to the south of the pool was constructed in the Doric order. Nearby were several stepped immersion miqva'ot. Later excavations carried out between 1998 - 2000 revealed an open-air triclinium.21 A

21 Though this is how it is identified by excavators, it is not particularly convincing; open-air triclinia are not really a building type and the identification seems based on a structure that seems like three covered colonnades that have benches on three sides with no real other identifiable features.

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lavish house was converted into a synagogue in the late Hellenistic period with a triclinium added in the latter phases (Hizmi 2008).

Fig. 5.6 Stepped immersion pools (miqva'ot) that date to the Hasmonean period at the palaces at Jericho. Netzer 1977.

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Fig. 5.7 The three phases of the synagogue complex at the Hasmonean palaces in Jericho, which included a miqveh in Phase 2 and Phase 3. Hizmi 2008.

The palaces that were built by Herod in the early Roman period were even more elaborate than the Hasmonean winter palaces. The Herodian complex spanned both sides of the

Wadi Qelt. On the northern side of the wadi was constructed a palatial complex that hugged the walls of the wadi. Two different architectural orders were used; to the west was a stoa of the

Ionic order, while the palace on the east utilized the Corinthian order. An arched bridge spanned the wadi, and on the southern side was located the sunken garden with a pool and decorative architectural niches, as well as a structure atop a man-made mound that has been interpreted as

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either a reception hall or a bath complex. The Herodian-period palace is especially notable for the use of distinctly Roman features: the use of aqueducts and bridges built with arches, architectural niches within the buildings, and most notably the use of opus reticulatum in the southern building on the hill, a style of construction common in Italy but highly unusual in the

Levant (Netzer 1977; Netzer and Laureys-Cachy 2006).

Fig. 5.8 Reconstruction of the Herodian palace complex. After Netzer, BAS Library Archives.

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The Judaean Fortresses of the Dead Sea and Jericho Valley

A number of Judaean fortresses and fortlets were built in the highlands of Judaea during the Hasmonean (late Hellenistic) and Herodian periods along the Dead Sea and the Jericho

Valley. These were likely built during the Hasmonean period to secure themselves against the threat of the Seleukid monarchies and during the Herodian period as both a show of power and to protect against the the threats of the encroachment of the Nabataeans. The major fortresses in the

Judaean highlands are located at Alexandrium (Qarn Sartabeh), Herodium (Khirbet Mird),

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Macherus (Makhwar), Masada (Horvat Mazada), and the four forts located around Jericho

(Dagon, Kypros, Threx, and Tauros), two of which have been identified at Tel el-Aqaba and

Jebel Qarantal. The archaeology of these fortresses presents a bit of a problem, in that in many instances the fortresses were reoccupied and renovated in the Herodian period. For example, there is not much in the way of Hasmonean architectural remains from virtually all of the fortresses (save for very fragmentary material or at the fortress of Macherus), but there are significant late Roman period remains, especially at well-known sites such as Masada and

Herodium (Arav 1989). The literature is extensive on the extensive construction projects undertaken at these latter two sites during the period of Herod and there is no need to repeat them in detail here (Chancey and Porter 2001; Foerster 1981; Netzer 1981; Netzer and Laureys-

Chachy 2006; Peleg-Barkat 2014; Richardson 1996; Weiss 2014a, 2014b; Yadin et al. 1989).

Both Herodium and Masada are considered exemplars of Herodian affections for classical, and especially Roman, traditions. The fortress of Masada is noted for its lavish hillside palaces, bathhouse, synagogue and miqva'ot, while the site of Herodium (and perhaps the burial site of

Herod) is noted for its synagogue, miqveh, lavish bath and hilltop palace complex, and a small theater.

Judaean Villages: Horvat Ethri and Khirbet Badd 'Isa

Horvat Ethri was a village located in the Shephelah located between Jerusalem and Bet

Guvrin. The site is significant not because of its size (which was relatively small) but because it is representative of what is usually assumed by scholars to be a typical Jewish village in the region, is well-excavated and possesses strata from the Hellenistic to the Late Roman period. The site has a number of miqva'ot present that were constructed in the late Hellenistic period, perhaps

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as a result of the Judaization of Idumaea during the Hasmonean period. During the Roman period, the houses were built in a planned village with hewn blocks and underground chambers typical of other sites in the Judaean hills. Evidence of the village's participation in the two revolts against Rome comes in the form of a massive conflagration, in which human bones are mixed with the ashes, hinting at the fate of the villagers. Another large administrative building was built in the Roman period, with a room notably oriented towards Jerusalem, a feature of some basilica-type buildings after the destruction of the Temple, which suggests it was likely a synagogue. Notably, no Roman bath complex was discovered (Zissu and Ganor 2008). This village is quite similar to another Judaean village, Khirbet Badd 'Isa, that was excavated with occupational phases from the Hellenistic to Roman periods. Both villages have synagogues, ritual miqva'ot, and have notable uses of the arch in their architectural plan.

Fig. 5.10 Plan of Horvat Ethri. From NEAEHL s.v. Horvat Ethri.

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Bethel

Bethel was an important religious and political center in the Iron Age, noted especially for the presence of a large temple complex that was a direct rival to that in Jerusalem and functioned as a principle cultic center for the Kingdom of Israel. Bethel was nearly completely destroyed during the Babylonian conquests, but the site was quickly, if relatively sparsely, reoccupied by the Hellenistic period, first being fortified by Bacchides (Roll 1996) before it grew in status and size through the Hellenistic, Hasmonean, and Roman periods (Kelso et al. 1968).

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Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz (2009) suggest that Bethel was not continuously occupied from the

Bronze Age through the Byzantine periods, but rather that occupation was sporadic and differed in density. Though there is no complete site plan to date, there are some fragmentary architectural features present that allow us to see the technical construction of the walls. Roman material is scarce, though the site is mentioned as having been captured by Vespasian (Wars

4.1.9) and the later authors Eusebius and Jerome also mention the city undergoing renovations in the Byzantine period.

Lydda (Lod/Diospolis)

Lydda, the Greek spelling for an ancient town named Lod that appears early in Egyptian sources, was a town that straddled two different regions and contained multiple communities.

Lydda is located on the Via Maris and had a direct connection to the sea by way of a road that ran to Jamnia (Jabneh), and the town was connected (sometimes rather circuitously) to a number of other towns in Palestine, including Joppa, Jerusalem, Emmaus, Antipatris, and Neapolis

(Schwartz 1991). The town was initially a buffer between the Samaritan cities to the north and the city of Ashdod and Judaea to the south. Indeed, in the Persian period, it is unclear if Lod was a city that belonged to the province of Yehud (Judaea) or Samaria. Textual evidence is unclear and since most divisions were predicated on ethnic or demographic lines, it is impossible to determine if Lod was Samaritan or Judaean. Another interpretation is that Lod was actually a city that was independent and functioned in a similar way as Joppa or other Sidonian cities did in the

Persian and Hellenistic periods (Schwartz 1991). Another important issue is the location of the small town Modi'in, located in the hinterlands of Lod. The village is especially important because this was the ancestral home of Judas Maccabeus, the founder of the Jewish Hasmonean

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dynasty. Thus, we are still left with the question of the ethnic and religious nature of Lod in the

Hellenistic period, with possibilities including Greek, Sidonian, Samaritan, and Judaean identities. Irrespective of the group identity at Lod in the Persian and early Hellenistic period, by the time of the Hasmonean kings Lod was definitively transferred to the control of Judaea, so I classify it here as a Judaean territory. The city was destroyed and rebuilt in both Jewish revolts before being re-founded as the Roman colonia Lucia Septimia Severia Diospolis (Schwartz

1991). Only a few architectural fragments survive from the Hellenistic period. During the Roman period, the city did not have walls. Though not much remains in the way of architectural features, the city is especially noted for the recovery of a Nilotic-style mosaic that dates to the late Roman period. The animalistic Fig.ures on this style of mosaic are in general quite unusual for this region, especially of one with a significant Jewish population.

Modi’in (Khirbet Umm el-Umdan)

The site of Khirbet Umm el-Umdan is identified with Modi'in the ancestral home of the

Hasmonean kings. The site is fairly small, measuring only about 6 hectares, but its importance is huge in terms of the political significance of the late Hellenistic period in the southern Levant, given that the Hasmoneans were the only successful leaders to successfully break away from the control of Hellenistic dynasts and establish an independent kingdom in the Levant. The

Hellenistic period architecture is marked by a public building identified as a synagogue (built on top of an earlier public building that dated to the early Seleukid period) which is built in the rubble technique. Later renovations moved the bema to the east in accordance with the fall of the

Temple in Jerusalem and the tradition of praying to the east. It is unclear if the synagogue is similar to local ones found at Khirbet Badd 'Isa or if they are more reminiscent of the kind that

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develop at Herodium or Gamla (Onn and Weksler-Bdolah 2008). A second synagogue dating to the early Roman (Herodian) period was built nearby.

Fig. 5.12 Plan of the Hasmonean synagogue at Modi'in. From NEAEHL s.v. Khirbet Umm el-Umdan.

Gezer

Gezer is located right where the Judaean hills descend down into the coastal strip and the

Shephelah. It is a site of deep antiquity and was a major fortified Canaanite city in the Bronze

Age and an important center for the Kingdom of Judah, given its strategic location and role in controlling the traffic that moved north and south between Egypt and the Levant along the littoral highways. Gezer, while never being small, was at its peak during the Bronze and Iron

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Ages and declined significantly in size and reputation during the Hellenistic and especially

Roman periods (Arav 1989).

During the Hellenistic period, the city was an important military stronghold for both the

Greek rulers and the subsequent Hasmonean kings. Textual evidence suggests that both the

Greeks and the Hasmoneans fortified the site and the Hasmoneans supposedly built a large palace complex; evidence for this fortified palace was initially thought to be found based on monumental walls and an graffito in Greek damning the Hasmonean rulers (reading something akin to "to blazes to Simeon's palace!") but later excavations revealed that the walls in fact belonged to a 10th century BCE gate that was reoccupied in the Hellenistic period (Arav 1989a;

Seger 1976; Seger et al. 2013). There is also archaeological evidence of miqva'ot at the site, which are marked in McAlister's initial reports as cisterns but due to their stepped nature, low volume capacity, architectural similarity to other miqva'ot found at sites like Tulul Abu el-

'Alayiq, the specific orientation, and the secondary phases of construction that postdate earlier houses, Reich (1981) argues that the miqva'ot were constructed after the Hasmoneans captured the city from the Greeks and thus the site is clearly identified as Jewish.

Apollonia-Arsuf

Apollonia-Arsuf was located on the coast approximately halfway between Caesarea to the north and Jaffa to the south. The city was initially under the domain of the Sidonians in the

Persian period and was the site to a cultic center of Apollo-Arshaf, a hybridized god whose origins are in Cyprus, suggesting that the earliest settlers were Cypriots (Arav 1989). The site has very few architectural remains that date to the Hellenistic period, but is rather famous for the peristyle villa maritima that dates to the early Roman period (Galor et al. 2009; Roll and Tal

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2008). The villa is made with fine kurkar ashlars set in cement. In terms of architectural decor, the villa was quite plain: the floors were rammed earth rather than mosaics, there are plastered niches which appear to be in niches interpreted as a lararium, and though there are column bases on a stylobate in the peristyle courtyard the architectural order is indeterminate. Though the villa is rather plain, it is to date the earliest Roman villa among the coastal cities and the earliest known in Judaea (Roll and Tal 2008).

Jaffa

Jaffa, an ancient city that has remains that date to the Bronze Age, was an important trading port in the Persian and Hellenistic period because until the construction of the harbor at

Caesarea Maritima Jaffa was the only natural anchorage in the southern Levant; due to this, Jaffa was essentially the port of Jerusalem despite its distance from the city. Under the Achaemenids, the site was gifted to the kings of Sidon, along with the city of Dor to the north. We should recall here the Sidonian presence also noted in Maresha, indicating that there was an extensive

Phoenician presence in the southern Levant during the Hellenistic period. The presence of Jews is attested in historical sources, though they are referred to as foreigners within the city (2 Macc.

2.14). The city suffered a decline in status following the Hasmonean conquest of the coastal cities and was predominantly Jewish during the Roman period; evidence of a destruction layer and conflagration dating to 70 CE aligns to the Roman conquest of the region. The city declined in importance in the Roman period before experiencing an intensive boom in the Byzantine and

Umayyad periods (Burke et al. 2018; Peilstöcker 2007).

Archaeological excavations at Jaffa are relatively limited because of the continual occupation of the site and its prominent location in Tel Aviv-Yafo. Excavations carried out in in

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the 1960s and then again in 2009 revealed several phases of occupation, from the Roman period to the Iron Age. The archaeological material from Jaffa is relatively scarce and is dominated by numismatics and ceramics. While the excavations were not extensive enough to reveal much of the town plan and monumental architecture, the excavators argue that because Jaffa's sister city of Dor was well-known to have a Hippodamian plan it is likely that Jaffa had one as well (Burke et al. 2018). A characteristic feature of the Hellenistic buildings in Jaffa was the use of well- hewn ashlars in an unidentified monumental building that was likely the structure to which an inscription bearing the name Ptolemy Philopater IV belongs (Burke et al. 2018; Kaplan 1963,

1972). The Roman phase is typified by the reuse of Hellenistic ashlars, though the presence of a vault also indicates the presence of typical Roman construction techniques (Burke et al. 2018).

Other than the vault and secondary reuse of the Hellenistic ashlars, the only other real evidence of the Roman period comes in the form of tombs.

Yavneh/Yavneh-Yam (Jamnia/Jamnia Maris)

Yavneh (and its port Yavneh-Yam) is a city that has history that extends well back into the Iron Age II, located along the littoral strip about 25 km south of Jaffa. While it was not part of the Philistine Pentapolis, it was under the control of the Philistines until it was conquered by

Uzziah and fell under Judahite control. Not much is known about the site during the Persian period, but by the Hellenistic period the city was in the territory of Idumaea, with connections to

Sidon as was true for the other coastal cities, and was a strategic stronghold for the Seleukids against Judaean rebels (Kletter and Ziffer 2008). When the city was conquered by the

Hasmoneans, it is mentioned as a predominantly Jewish city with a significant Samaritan population that was still present by as late as the Byzantine period. The city was densely

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populated in the Roman period and served as a provincial seat of both political and religious power, having converted to Christianity by the late Roman and early Byzantine period.

Despite the easy accessibility to the tel, the site has not been extensively excavated to date, so we are limited in our knowledge of building typologies. Small finds and ceramics indicate a robust trade with Greece, indicated by the presence of red and black Fig.ure pottery.22

One of the more notable features of Yavneh-Yam is the construction style, which utilized pier- and-rubble techniques that are associated with typical Phoenician styles. Other structures that date to the Roman period include a horrea with a mosaic and a mausoleum with mosaics and free-standing sculptures, both of which have their closest affinities to similar structures or sculptures found at Caesarea. Indications of earlier structures that date to the Roman period are found by way of the secondary use of ashlars in Byzantine structures, so we have an idea of the construction style but not of the building function (Fischer and Taxel 2007).

Ashdod/Ashdod-Yam (Azotus/Azotus Paralaios)

The city of Ashdod, one of the five cities of the so-called Philistine Pentapolis, lay in the middle of the Shephelah just inland of the sea. A modern village bearing the ancient name,

Isdud, lies on the tel and so it has been difficult to ascertain the proximate size of the ancient city; the upper acropolis of the city is at least 8 hectares and the lower city at least 28 hectares

(Arav 1989). The city is well-known in the historical sources; this is the site of the famous account of the destruction of the Temple of Dagon at the hands of the Hasmonean king Jonathan.

Other accounts mention Ashdod as well, such as the Zenon Papyri. Occupational phases range

22 Though it is beyond the scope of this study, Yavenh has also yielded a fantastic cache of sacred paraphernalia, including incense and altar stands, that date to the Iron Age and provide significant evidence about the kind of ritual practices that occurred in the biblical period.

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from the Iron Age to the Crusader period. The port, known as Ashdod Yam, lay just a few kilometers away from the central city, and Tel Mor served as an alternate port, though the finds that date to the Hellenistic and Roman periods are sparse, save for an industrial complex that specialized in the manufacture of purple dye (Arav 1989).

While the city's most impressive features predate (an Assyrian palace) and postdate

(Byzantine churches and an Islamic period fortress), there are still architectural features from our study period. The Hellenistic phase of the city destroyed much of the earlier Persian period material and the city was established on a Hippodamian plan. Tentatively, an agora was identified in the middle of the city (Dothan et al. 1971). The excavators noted a rather unusual building technique used in the city, which consisted of a foundation of one and one-half length of bricks laid on an "English bone" pattern. The majority of construction utilized ashlar techniques

(Dothan 1971, Oren 1992). In the Roman period, the town was administered by the Romans following Pompey's conquest before it was gifted to Herod. The town underwent significant expansion under the Roman governor Gabinus, who was also responsible for the reconstruction of Bet Guvrim and the settling of Eleutheropolis. The town, which was inhibited by predominantly Jewish residents, grew in prosperity until the Jewish revolt and was subsequently conquered by Vespasian.

Ashkelon (Ascalon)

Ashkelon was another of the Philistine Pentapolis cities and was perhaps the most important of the five cities; indeed, Eusebius refers to “Ascalon” as one of the most prominent cities in Palestine (at least in the Roman and Byzantine period). It is situated directly on the coast and was as important as the more northern coastal cities of Jaffa and Caesarea. Ashkelon

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has a history that extends to the Bronze Age, but suffered as did many city cities during the

Assyria and Babylonian destructions. The city was refounded in the Persian period under the auspices of Phoenician hegemons, and flourished in Hellenistic and Roman periods. Josephus describes the city as having a bathhouse, palace, Herodian-style stoas, temples dedicated to

Apollo, Atargatis-Derketo, and Isis (Josephus Wars 1.21, 2.423). Arav (1989) also suggests that a gymnasion also existed in the city; this is plausible, since the city was granted a polis charted in

108 BCE (Avi-Yonah 1976), but there is no discernible building that fits this claim. Like

Jerusalem, Ashkelon appears on the Madaba Map; the frescoed image shows a walled city on the coast, bisected by the Via Maris, with a stoa and a church with stairway leading toward the sea.

The site was extensively looted in the early Mandate period for the construction of 'Asqalan al-

Jadida, Akko, Jaffa, and Gaza, so much of the material from the upper strata does not survive in situ and what does remain in unsealed contexts often has damage from handsaws (Boehm et al.

2016).

In terms of archaeological evidence of these purported structures, however, we are more limited in what we can say. Material from the Hellenistic period is more paltry than that of the later Roman period remains. A Hellenistic wall built in the header-stretcher technique and with pedestals for what appears to be a colonnade was found underneath the Roman period structures

The particular technique of a course of headers followed by a course of stretchers is typical of

Phoenician masonry of the Hellenistic period (Boehm et al. 2016; Sharon 1987). A portico, which was previously assumed to be of a Herodian date was constructed during the Hellenistic period (Arav 1989, Boehm 2016). This colonnaded road connected two monumental buildings in the city; at the one end was a well-built structure of ashlars that was likely an administrative building and the other end was a theater (Boehm 2016).

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The remains from the Roman period are much more substantial. There are two distinct phases of construction at the site, one dated to the early Roman or Herodian period (before 65

CE) and a later phase of renovations to the site dating to the Severan period. The most notable remains at the site are a monumental basilica with an attached apsidal building, constructed in the Early Roman period. There is considerable debate about how the structure should be reconstructed; the original excavators thought the site was an open-air basilica and modeled closely on examples found in Leptis Magna, while other reconstructions suggest that it was a typical roofed basilica with an apsidal room of the central nave. There is also some debate about the purpose of the apsidal room. While earlier scholarship referred to the chamber as a "curia,” the Severan renovations changed the room into a more odeion-style structure (Boehm 2016).

There is really no conclusive evidence to suggest one purpose for the other; given that generally an odeion is a stand-alone structure and a basilica is a typical Roman structure for jurisprudence and civic administration, the interpretation of the apsidal chamber as a bouleuterion is more convincing to me. The construction of the basilica complex dismantled the earlier Hellenistic administrative complex underneath it and reoriented the city's central axis east-west towards a new street that went to the Jerusalem Gate. The basilica-bouleuterion complex is one of the earliest in the entirety of the Levant and matched only by that found at Samaria-Sebaste, though there are a number of odeion structures found throughout nearby areas, particularly in Decapolis cities. The architectural decoration at Ashkelon was of especially high quality, consisting of

Attic-Ionic and Corinthian architectural features as well as Fig.ural sculpture (Boehm 2016).

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Regional Architectural Features in the Regions of Judaea and Idumaea

Domestic Architecture

The vernacular architecture in Judaea generally ranges from simple Levantine-style houses (one or a few small rooms, flat roofed, rammed-earth flooring, with perhaps plastered walls) to palatial Greco-Roman style mansions built by the Hasmoneans in the late Hellenistic period and by Herod in the early Roman period. Two other forms of domestic architecture are also evident in Judaea: the monastic-type house that is found at places like Khirbet Qumran and the development of the so-called Judaean hiding systems that develop in the Roman period, especially before and during the two revolts. The question of the monastic-style house is hotly debated (see above discussion on Qumran) and it is admittedly very difficult to classify this type of structure a priori on the basis of fragmented architectural remains. Monastic architecture, especially of the Christian variety, most certainly develops in the region during the late Roman period and especially the Byzantine period, but these types of monastic structures are easier to identify in the archaeological record because of there close association to a nearby church. The same cannot be said about sites like Qumran, which do not appear to have traditionally “Jewish” structures like a synagogue but they do have traditionally “Jewish” structures like miqva'ot.

Thus, for the purposes of domestic architecture here we cannot speak with any assurance about the exact form and function of Qumran in terms of its design as village designed for ascetic

Jewish monastic sects or if it was an industrial Roman villa. In terms of the second type of

“domestic” architecture — the Judaean hiding places — this is not a uniquely Judaean phenomenon despite the name. Judaean (here referring rather broadly to the ethnoi of “Jewish people”) or Jewish hiding places develop during the oppositional periods to Roman rule and are rather widespread throughout Judaea and Galilee, like those found at the Arbel heights; while

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present in Idumaea and Samaria, it should be noted that there are far fewer examples (Galor

2003). These hiding places likely develop out of a longer tradition of both using underground cellars as storage and underground loculus-style tombs.

One thing that is immediately different is that houses in Judaea do not have the same kind of fortified farmstead house that is so prevalent in Samaria, despite the proximal closeness between the two regions. Faust (2018) notes that the phenomenon of fortified agricultural estates that fluoresce during the Persian period (and perhaps surprisingly, given the population demographics of the region during this period) is a phenomenon that does not extend into the

Hellenistic and Roman periods. This is about the only kind of similarly between the regions of

Samaria and Judaea in terms of fortified agricultural complexes, but the ones found in Judaea are much larger (often on the order of 500 m2 or larger) and should be considered as imperial agricultural estates that were gifted to friends and confidants of the Achaemenid royal family in a sparsely populated but economically viable and fertile land (Faust 2018). Nevertheless, the continued occupation of these sites often does not continue into later periods or occupation is relative sparse, and so we cannot contend that fortified farmsteads were not generally a phenomenon of Judaea as they were to the north in Samaria.

Courtyard houses are still featured quite commonly, though this is a common feature of

Mediterranean and Mesopotamian domestic spaces (see above for further discussion) and we would be careful to classify all courtyard-style houses as indicative of Greek and Roman presence. What would define a house as Greco-Roman would be the presence of peristyle architecture, mosaics (pebbled floors and flagstone pavers were actually still an indigenous domestic feature), internal decoration of Hellenistic and Roman design, and the use of one of the

Greek orders of columns. There are some examples of these styles of homes especially in the

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vicinity of Jerusalem and Ramat Rahel and at Apollonia-Arsuf. The internal decoration does not survive at the example from Apollonia-Arsuf, but the Greco-Roman style houses in Jerusalem reveal that the walls of some of the peristyle houses were decorated with painted plaster, sometimes the Doric or Corinthian orders were used, and the floors were decorated with either mosaics or opus sectile styles. While Hasmoneans tended to favor the Doric order for their palaces, which likely included painted plaster walls, the Herodian palaces at Herodium and

Masada were far more "Roman" in their appearance, making widespread use of the Ionic and

Corinthian orders, painted and plastered walls done in the Pompeiian styles, and ornately decorated cornices (Peleg-Barkat 2014, 2016). In terms of the actual layout of the house, the presence of the triclinium presents an interesting foil against which we can scrutinize the integration of Greco-Roman culture and local Jewish practices. Typically, the triclinium (or its

Greek rough equivalent the andron) would indicate a particular set of ritualized behaviors that would occur within the house, including symposia, which in general were antithetical to Jewish cultural norms. Thus, triclinia were contested spaces in terms of cultural acculturation, and even within these spaces it should be noted that triclinia in Israel almost never show animalistic or anthropomorphic Fig.ural decorations on the mosaics or walls in keeping with local Jewish conventions (Keddie 2020). This kind of aniconic imagery is the similar to what was observed in

Samaria as well. Finally, we should note that peristyle houses, with or without triclinia, are an elite phenomenon, and the most typical examples that are pointed to as evidence of Hellenization or Romanization, such as those mentioned at Masada, Jericho and the surrounding fortresses, and

Herodium were constructed by the Hasmoneans or by Herod.

The vernacular construction techniques tend to overwhelmingly utilize the rubble style, which consists of fieldstones that are either entirely unworked or only loosely tooled, even in the

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larger houses throughout Judaea. Sometimes there might be more finely worked stone, or even ashlars, used in the doorways or corners of the houses to provide more structural support, but this is not ubiquitous throughout Judaea. The peristyle homes that have been identified that date to the Hellenistic period usually used ashlars set in the header-stretcher pattern, a pattern that continued on in the Roman period. The introduction of bricks and concrete as major construction techniques is not very widespread; no houses are built entirely of brick and the Roman villa maritima found at Apollonia-Arsuf is really the only example of a house being built with concrete, although there is the notable exception of the use of opus reticulatum at the Herodian palace in Jericho.

Vernacular architecture in Idumaea was nearly indistinguishable from the vernacular architecture found in Judaea. The smaller domestic units tend to be small structures of one to a few rooms and constructed in the rubble technique, not at all dissimilar to those found in other

Judaean contexts. Idumaean domestic architecture is far less grand than that found in Judaea; even in lavish or well-off cities, such as Maresha or Ashkelon, the houses were quite simple and plain. Only one palatial-type building, called Hilkiah's Palace, has been discovered in Idumaea that approaches the same level of grandeur as those found in Judaea, found at Khirbet el-Muraq

(Zur Natan). This site is located 12 km west of Hebron, in the southern Judaean hills in the area that straddles between Judaea and Idumaea. While the house has the accoutrements of a standard

Greco-Roman style house, including what has been identified as a triclinium, an atrium, and a small private bathhouse, very little survives in terms of architectural decor. The columns around the peristyle are typified as Attic-style bases, meaning that the architectural order here was Ionic, and specifically the Roman variation of the Ionic order. There is also the presence of Nabataean- style capitals in primary use, which means that the architectural decor consisted of some kind of

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fusion between Roman Ionic and local, indigenous (and perhaps southernly) Nabataean styles.

The construction techniques employ a mixture of ashlar and rubble styles, and there is evidence by way of springers that there were vaults utilized (especially in the area of the bathhouse).

Taken together, our one regional-specific lavish house clearly seems to be a fusion of Roman and local indigenous styles. The architectural form of the house is typical of an atrium-style home that would be familiar in Italy, complete with peristyle courtyard, atrium, and dining and bathing rooms done in the Roman fashion. In terms of architectural decor, however, the house exhibits a display of Roman styles (by way of the Attic column bases) and local Nabataean influences. In terms of technical construction, the house is actually quite similar to the kind found at the

Romano-Nabataean port at Aqaba (Aila) on the Red Sea in the southern Negev (Retzleff 2003).

In these houses, which are some of the best examples of Nabataean domestic architecture, the construction techniques tend to use ashlar masonry, few or no windows, rammed earth floors, spiral staircases, and limited interior decoration. This is rather fitting for this Idumaean structure, given that we would expect Idumaean architecture to be some kind of curious combination of

Judaean, Greco-Roman, and Nabataean (given their historical integration into all three cultures) and this is precisely what is evidenced at Khirbet el-Muraq.

In terms of urban domestic architecture, the villages and cities of Idumaea to date have not been as widely excavated as urban or village contexts in Judaea or Samaria. The largest urban centers, which are the coastal cities such as Ashdod and Ashkelon, did not focus on domestic architecture as a feature of investigation, or the evidence was destroyed during later occupation phases. At Maresha, however, a fair amount of the domestic architecture that dates to the Hellenistic and Roman period remains, and so we may comment on the type of architecture found here. The houses at Maresha were generally small housing units of one to a few rooms,

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constructed in the rubble technique, with plastered walls, rammed earth floors, unwindowed, and flat roofs, which might have been utilized as workspaces.23 Some were oriented around small courtyards, but these were not of the peristyle sort that is found in more elite contexts, nor did they usually look like the sort found in Samaria, which (at least at sites like Samaria Sebaste and

Flavia Neapolis) often would have columns in antis or other signs of internal decoration. As in

Judaea, another form of domestic space that is well documented at Maresha was the use of an underground network of chambers and tunnels, in which are found not only tombs and other funerary architecture (including the famous and beautifully preserved Sidonian tombs) but also small loculi tombs, domestic and storage spaces, columbaria, and industrial facilities.

Fig. 5.13 Hilkiah's Palace, Khirbet el-Muraq (Zur Natan). BAS Archives.

23 Some of the domestic architecture at Maresha survives well enough that accurate reconstructions have been made of the domestic spaces.

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Urban Design

Similar to what was observed in Samaria, most of the urban centers in Judaea tend to follow a relatively well-established urban plan that was common to Near Eastern cities in the

Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid period (Arav 1989; Hoerman 1984; Lampl 1968; Novák

2014). Because of the Babylonian destruction, it is fathomable to envision that larger cities were oriented on a more complex grid network, and the archaeological evidence from late Iron II sites such as Lachish or Megiddo would point us to that conclusion; unfortunately, at other sites the evidence is nearly absent because of this very destruction. As Judaea became slowly reoccupied, most of the urban plans were semi-organized; villages and cities are not characterized by a true orthogonal plan but rather an organization of urban space that clearly outlines a division between domestic, industrial, sacred, and political spaces but does so in a more organic manner. Houses tended to be densely packed together rather than broken into regular insulae like those found in a

Hippodamian plan; thus, most of the urban centers in Judaea are more akin in urban design as other Levantine villages and towns that were relatively unmolested by Hellenistic dynasts. New towns, at least ex novo, were not founded in Judaea by Hellenistic kings, though some cities were refounded or renamed (and, according to historical sources granted polis charters). By the

Hellenistic period, however, urban planning becomes significantly more complex as cities begin to shift to a more rigid Hippodamian plan; this is most evident at the Judaean coastal cities (or those that are relatively close) such as Jaffa, Apollonia-Arsuf, and Lydda. Due to the Hasmonean wars with the Seleukids and subsequent conquest of the region as well as the two rebellions against Rome, however, very little evidence of any sophisticated urban development is absent in the early and middle Hellenistic period, excepting sites that were specifically planned to be complex centers used by the Hasmoneans and Herodians. Though we know of a number of

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architectural projects that were borne out by the Hasmoneans and Herod in Jerusalem, the evidence was destroyed by the Romans. In the Roman period, however, we are able to assess with more accuracy the degree of city planning. When Jerusalem was refounded as a Roman city, it was laid out on an orthogonal plan, complete with a colonnaded cardo that is still evident in the Jewish quarter of the Old City.

In Idumaea, the urban design is virtually indistinguishable from that found in Judaea, with the notable exception of the coastal cities. Far more evidence survives from sites such as

Ashkelon and Maresha, which point to a clear orthogonal plan and a Hippodamian orientation, with designated central spaces for sacred and economic activities, and colonnaded roads that run in cardinal directions and terminate at major civic structures like theaters or open plazas. The cities in Idumaea tended to be incorporated as polis cities under the administration of Sidon, and in many of these cities the Phoenician presence from at least the Persian period is plainly obvious

(Berlin 1997; Noonan 2011). We might therefore extrapolate that these cities with polis charters in Palestine had the accoutrements of Greek civic life (i.e. a boule and an ephebe for the enrollment, education, and administration of the municipal citizenry) and therefore the appropriate buildings that would accommodate these institutions, but only in Ashkelon do we have evidence of any kind of civic plan that would follow a typical polis of the Eastern

Mediterranean that includes these features. Both Maresha and Ashkelon were refounded as major

Roman cities following the Romans defeating the Jewish rebels and permanently occupying the region. The urban design in these cities reflects a typical city of the Roman East, including (at least in the vicinity of Maresha) a Roman amphitheater, which are generally quite uncommon in the Eastern Mediterranean. Idumaean villages, on the other hand, tend to be organized in the same manner as those found in Judaea.

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Building Forms

Building forms — especially pertaining to monumental architecture and particularly in the region of Judaea — are perhaps the most studied in scholarly approaches to the architecture of ancient Palestine.24 Sites like Herodium, Masada, Jericho, and Jerusalem have received more attention than nearly every other site in all of ancient Palestine save perhaps for Samaria-Sebaste and Caesarea. Despite the rich archaeological record and the innumerable studies that have sprung from this material we must be aware of selection bias by modern archaeologists and preservation biases of ancient sites that might have very well had certain forms of monumental architecture that leave no trace in the archaeological record. We must also remember the history of the region; this was, perhaps above all else, the region that received the brunt of the Roman retaliation during the two rebellions and so much of what might have existed might have quite literally been pulled down by the Romans stone by stone. For this section, it is best to look at a selection of sites here. While I am aware that this introduces some representational bias into the analysis, the sites selected are those that are best preserved and best documented in archaeological reports and can provide a comprehensive enough view of the types of buildings that are present in Judaea. By necessitation, that also means that there are a number of structures that are attested in historical sources but are not present in this discussion; because this study specifically focuses on archaeological examples of building typologies and their characteristic construction techniques and architectural décor, only those structures which have attested archaeological examples are discussed. For example, while historical accounts mention the

24 Judaea in this context means the small region of known as Judaea, as has been used throughout this study rather than the entire region of ancient Palestine that is often also referred to “Judaea” which would include the regions of Judaea, Idumaea, Samaria, Paraea, Galilee, the Golan and parts of Nabataea).

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presence of a theater in Jerusalem, because there is no surviving evidence of such a structure it is not marked in the table below.

Building Jerusalem Jericho Ramat Rahel Gezer Herodium Masada Classification Fortress X X X X X X Gatehouses X X X X X X Temples X Bathhouses X X X X X X Miqva’ot X X X X X X Basilica X Forum X Colonnaded Roads X X Stadium/Hippodrome Monumental Walls X X X X X X Amphitheater Odeon X Theater X X Nymphaeum Stoa X Tetrapylon Aqueduct X X X X Mausolea X X Synagogue X X X X Church X Columbarium X Peristyle X X X X X Palaces X X X X X

Table 5.1 List of building forms at select Judaean sites.

Building Maresha Ashkelon Beth Zur Yavne Beersheva Classification Fortress X X X X X Gatehouses X X X X X Temples X X X Bathhouses X X X X X Miqva’ot X X X X Basilica X X Forum X X

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Colonnaded Roads X X Stadium/Hippodrome Monumental Walls X X X X Amphitheater X Odeon Theater X Nymphaeum Tetrapylon Aqueduct Mausolea X Synagogue Church Columbarium X Peristyle X X Palaces Horrea X X

Table 5.2 List of building forms and décor at select sites in Idumaea

Fortifications are evident at every major site in Judaea (although the city of Lydda was unfortified) and Idumaea. While the walls of Jerusalem were destroyed during the siege, there has been significant research into the walls of Jerusalem in the periods immediately after the

Jewish return up through the Hasmonean period (Avi-Yonah 1968; Finkelstein 2008; Magness

1991; Wightman 1993). Jerusalem was heavily fortified during the Persian period, beginning with the governorship of Nehemiah, and fortifications were continually added up through the

Hellenistic and early Roman period. The Hasmoneans were responsible for the construction of the Akra and Herod for its further development into the Antonine fortress (Galor and Bloedhorn

2013). The other major urban site in Judaea is Gezer, which was also heavily fortified. The sites of Jericho, Masada, and Herodium were in fact established as major fortifications that ranged north and south along the Jordan River Valley and the Dead Sea. This system of fortifications began in earnest under the Hasmoneans (though some fortresses existed in the region during the

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Seleukid control) and continued under Herod. A regional pattern is fairly evident: the eastern borders of Judaea were heavily fortified by the late Hellenistic period, likely to both establish a strong system of local control that sprung up from the Hasmonean conquest as well as to prevent the encroachment of the Seleukids from the East. In the early Roman period, this eastern border remained heavily fortified to prevent incursions from the Nabataeans in the Transjordan. The

Shephelah and coastal regions were far less fortified, as was the border between Samaria and

Judaea, which is rather surprising given the historical animus between the two regions. Idumaea was likewise heavily fortified. The southern fringes of the Judaean hills and the edge of the

Negev desert had long been a contested space; a system of fortifications was established by the

Canaanites and the Kingdom of Judah, Persians, Babylonians, Greeks and Romans continued this tradition of a heavily fortified desert frontier. Indeed, many of the “towns” in Idumaea would more technically be classified as forts or citadels around which a local urban system sprang up.

In terms of civic architecture in Judaea, we are unfortunately lacking any substantial amount of material to suggest that Judaean cities moved toward what we might identify as essential civic structures in the rest of the Eastern Mediterranean. Only Jerusalem has any real evidence of civic structures that are attested archaeologically. The status of Jerusalem as a polis city in the Hellenistic period is still debated (Levine 1997; Tcherikover 1964). It is notable, however, that even in the Hellenistic period we have no evidence of typical (indeed, essential) structures that would indicate Jerusalem was a polis, such as a bouleuterion and a gymnasion.

When Jerusalem was refounded as a Roman city following its destruction in the Roman period, it is only then that typical civic architecture, such as a basilica and a forum, are present. Gezer was too small of a city to have any kind of civic architecture present, and the other sites were not

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cities but rather lavish palaces and fortifications. In the Roman period, most of the sites in Judaea have evidence of aqueducts and bathhouses.

In Idumaea, on the other hand, at least one city, Ashkelon, shows a high degree of integration into the Hellenistic and Roman civic system. Though there is some debate about the purpose of the odeon-like structure that is built at Ashkelon (Boehm et al. 2016), the fact that it was attached to a basilica seems to be a clear indication of the civic purpose of the structure rather than a strictly entertainment one. Other oedion structures have been discovered in the southern Levant such as those found at Gerasa, Hippos-Sussita, and Scythopolis, but none are attached to a basilica as is found at Ashkelon but rather function as free-standing buildings. The basilica-bouleuterion complex in Ashkelon is quite unique and shows as high degree of civic integration into both the Hellenistic polis system — which in principle remained untouched by the Romans because of their traditional approach to leave local systems intact, especially in the

Eastern Mediterranean — and the Roman civitas by way of the integration of a basilica and forum complex. No similar structures, however, have been found at other Idumaean sites such as

Beth-Zur or Beersheva. This perhaps points to the uniqueness of the coastal cities to integrate within a larger cosmopolitan world that was less common for inland Idumaean cities.

The lack of entertainment facilities that would spread Greek and Roman culture is clearly evident in Judaea. The only archaeological attestations of theaters in Judaea are found at

Herodium and Jericho, both dating to the early Roman period as a part of the construction projects undertaken by Herod. Despite three centuries of Greek occupation, no theaters were constructed in Judaea during the Hellenistic period. Jerusalem may have had a theater; the structure is mentioned in by Josephus (Ant. 15.8.1), but there is no evidence of a Greek-style theater found in Jerusalem. There is, however, a well-constructed “theater-like” building found

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near Robinson’s Arch near the Temple Mount, but this structure does not show any evidence of being completed and utilized and even if it had been it is far too small to have been a theater, as the orchestra measures only six meters across. It has been suggested that the theater in Jerusalem might have been a more semi-temporary structure made of wood, similar to the kind of temporary theaters and amphitheaters that were constructed for ad hoc festivities in Italy (Patrich

2002); even if this was the case, the fact that it was temporary speaks to the lack of cultural penetration into the local populace that would have warranted a more permanent structure. The fact that theaters were not built in earnest until Herod, and they were relatively small ones at that, suggests that local participation in Greek theater was quite limited. This is contra to Weiss

(2014b) and Segal (1995), who argue that the appearance of theaters throughout Palestine indicates a high degree of local acceptance. I do not actually disagree with their assessment at a macro level; there are numerous theaters throughout ancient Palestine, especially in the

Decapolis, Idumaea, and Samaria. However, in Judaea (strictly defined as the small region in this study) the proliferation of theaters is in fact not well documented. Because the average distance that people would travel in a day is approximately 25 km or so, it is highly unlikely that Judaean populations would have walked long distances to attend theatrical productions in other locations far from their home villages and cities. One would suspect that if the local demand was abundant, so too would theaters be abundant. Other entertainment or athletic facilities are absent in Judaea as well. A hippodrome or stadium to date has not been found in Jerusalem or at any of the Herodian or Hasmonean palaces, and there is no evidence of an sort of amphitheaters for the purpose of blood sports being built in Judaea, nor are there any known examples of a gymnasion anywhere in Judaea.

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Idumaea, on the other hand, is quite different in terms of the integration of Greco-Roman theatrics and spectacle. Very few purpose-built amphitheaters were constructed in the Roman

East, but one is found at Eleutheropolis (Beit Guvrin) just outside of Maresha. While it is entirely likely that blood sports would have also been conducted in hippodromes or stadia, we know of only two surviving examples of these structures, both located in Samaria, while no stadium or hippodrome has been found to date in Judaea or Idumaea.25 The appearance of an amphitheater, the only one in Palestine except for one found in Beit She’an, suggests a high degree of Roman cultural penetration into at least one major Idumaean city. How widely attended these games were, however, is entirely open to speculation. The amphitheater could seat several thousand, but considering the density of Roman troops on the southern frontier of Palestine it might be possible that the amphitheater was specifically built by and for the Roman soldiers and that the local populace was disinterested in attending the games. Theaters, on the other hand, are more common and larger in Idumaea than in Judaea, with fine examples from Elusa and Ashkelon.

While we should not determine that every city in region had a theater, the noticeable difference between theaters and amphitheaters constructed in Idumaea is the size and their presence in large cities, which is not the case in Jerusalem.

Neither Judaea nor Idumaea do not have much evidence of monumental architectural ornamentation. Here I am referring specifically to the kinds of structures that would be found in large cities in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Greco-Roman period, like those found in nearby cities like the Decapolis and further north in Samaria. No nymphaea, tetrapyla, or triumphal arches were constructed in any of the cities or Hasmonean or Herodian palaces. In terms of grand

25 The famous Second Temple Model in Jerusalem does show a hippodrome in reconstruction, and there is historical attestation for a hippodrome in Josephus. Most scholars agree that the site where the model places the hippodrome was not the actual location of the structure and that if it was in Jerusalem it was much further to the south. To date, however, no actual archaeological evidence of a hippodrome or stadium has been found in Jerusalem.

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ornamentation, we are limited to the material found on the Temple Mount, which was surrounded by stoai on the perimeter (Peleg-Barkat 2017). Palaces, on the other hand, are prevalent in Judaean sites, including the Hasmonean and Herodian palaces in Jerusalem and

Jericho, as well as the Herodian palatial complexes constructed at Herodium and Masada. The only other form of monumental ornamentation that is common in Idumaean and Judaean cities is the widespread use of colonnaded streets and peristyle type structures, which are found at

Maresha, Ashkelon, Elusa, Jerusalem, Jericho and Herodium.

There are numerous examples of sacred architecture in Judaea and to a lesser degree in

Idumaea. Of course there is the Herodian Temple, which has been explored at great length in numerous sources elsewhere (as well as above) and does not need further analysis here. In terms of other temples, perhaps the most notable is the one found at Beth-Zur, which is constructed in a very particular herringbone pattern. To whom the temple was dedicated is unclear. Likewise, there is the so-called “solar shrine” found in a Persian-Hellenistic context at Lachish, but this identification is tenuous and not universally accepted (Arav 1989a; Aharoni 1968). We have numismatic evidence for the types of cults and temples of the coastal cities, several of which are dedicated to popular gods Apollo and a local Near Eastern cult of Tyche (whose presence is also known in Decapolis cities), but only at Maresha do we have the archaeological evidence of the temple during the Hellenistic period (Rodan 2019). It is during this period that two major structures that are commonly associated with a “Jewish” population develop: the miqveh and the synagogue. Miqveh (pl. miqva’ot), the stepped immersion pools that are central to Jewish purification rites, emerge for the first time during the Hellenistic and especially the Hasmonean periods and continue to be a structural phenomenon until the Roman period. Contemporaneously, the synagogue develops, first out of a long-hall style room that is found in the Hellenistic East

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and then, following protracted Roman contact, following a modified and small-scale basilical plan (Fine 1996; Hachlili 1989). Both structures, when identified, have been frequently — and sometimes exclusively — used to ascertain whether a site was “Jewish” or not. At nearly all sites in Judaea there are miqva’ot present, and many sites also have a synagogue as well. The proliferation of synagogues is especially common in places with significant Jewish populations: synagogues are not just found in Judaea, but also are quite common in the Galilee and Golan, which were settled by Judaean Jews during and after the rebellions (Zangenberg et al. 2007;

Aviam 2004; Zangenberg et al. 2012). It should be noted, however, that the earliest synagogue is perhaps the one found Qasrin (Gamla), the village where Josephus led his resistance against the

Romans, which means that despite the florescence of the synagogue in Judaea the building type may actually have its roots in Golan or Galilee (Maʿoz and Killebrew 1988). While there are a number of churches found in Judaea, most of them date to the Byzantine period, excepting

Jerusalem, where late Roman churches appear by the time of the Dominate emperors due to the conversion of Constantine and the missions of his mother Helen. Before the Byzantine period, when churches and monasteries became more prevalent, Judaea remained Jewish. In Idumaea, on the other hand, miqva’ot are quite unusual. Early synagogues are not found in Idumaea, but by the very late Roman period synagogues become more common, including some of the most spectacular found in Palestine. By the Byzantine period, the impact of Christianization was heavy and a number of churches and monestaries are constructed.

Building Techniques

Buildings in both Judaea and Idumaea were primarily constructed with nearby material, which was nearly always limestone in the inland highlands and kurkar stones (compressed

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sandstones made from material from the littoral sand dunes) along the coast. The more finely wrought structures would use ashlar cut limestone blocks usually laid out on a header-stretcher pattern, and a characteristic trait of Herodian architecture is a bossed or beveled ashlars that are laid out in a header-stretcher pattern. The coastal cities of Judaea, such as Apollonia-Arsuf and

Jaffa, have high precision ashlars that are unmatched by anything other than Herodian-style architecture; there is perhaps evidence of pier-and-rubble construction techniques at the coastal sites, which would accord well with the Phoenician presence in those cities. The same style does not appear in any inland cities. By the Roman period, two new forms of building techniques are also present: the use of Roman cement and Roman brickwork. Both, however, are unusual cases and both point to isolated instances of individuals (the unknown owner of the Roman villa maritima at Apollonia and Herod at Herodium) and so we cannot say that the use of Roman construction techniques that were common in the Roman West, such as bricks and cement, ever became common in Palestine. The most common form of construction in Judaea was the rubble technique, which consisted of laying unworked or only briefly touched fieldstones into a wall shape, though it should be noted that in many instances ashlars would be used for structural support at doorways. Idumaean construction techniques mirrored those of Judaea, excepting in the use of

Roman concrete and bricks. The coastal city of Ashkelon also have good evidence for the use of pier-and-rubble construction techniques that typified a Phoenician fingerprint (Oren 1992). The only other highly unusual building technique was the “herringbone” pattern found at Beth-Zur, in which field stones that were either unworked or only roughly touched up were laid in alternating obliquely angled courses, resulting in a rough “herringbone” pattern.

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Fig. 5.14 Bossed or beveled style walls that are typical of Herodian architecture. BAS Archives.

Architectural Decorations and Philosophy

All three major architectural orders are found in both Judaea and Idumaea, and there is no difference in terms of complexity or frequency; in Idumaea, Nabataean styles are also evident.

Both Idumaea and Judaea have sites with architectural décor of the highest quality, indicating a system of skilled craftsmen who were capable of producing some of the finest work in the

Roman East (and indeed, as manifold studies have demonstrated, Herod and his sons were some of the most ingenious architectural innovators in the Eastern Mediterranean). Typical architectural ornamentation is fairly widespread, including decorated friezes (an especially common one is the one with Doric triglyphs separated by a rosette in the metope), decorated cornices and architraves, especially those that use the egg-and-dart pattern, and architectural sculpture that especially focused on rosettes, crenellations, stars, and geometric and vegetal

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patterns. As was true in Samaria, architectural ornamentation in general tended to be aniconic and absent of animalistic and anthropomorphic themes in the Hellenistic and Roman periods; there are exceptions to this, however, in Idumaea, where full sculpture in the round is found at sites like Maresha and Ashkelon (the latter of which also yielded the foot of a colossal statue that probably was located in the basilica). As in Samaria, Galilee, and the Decapolis, stucco would often be used to provide visual complexity to the architectural décor, especially because the use of marble was quite limited except for the most splendid constructions like the Herodian Temple.

Mosaics became increasingly common in the Roman period, though most mosaics tended to be relatively simple in terms of decoration, preferring geometric and vegetal motifs. This changes by the late Roman and Byzantine period, when zoological and even anthropomorphic motifs become more widespread in both Jewish and Christian contexts — a notable and exceptionally rare example is found at the synagogue at Huqoq, for example (Magness et al.

2018) and there are several mosaics decorated with a complex set of astrological signs and calendrical motifs, representations of Helios, lions, sacrificial animals, and the paraphernalia of

Jewish ritualistic practice. Other floors from Jerusalem were decorated in the opus sectile style.

Very little survives from wall paintings, but plastered walls are found in both Judaea and

Idumaea, though generally limited to either simple color schemes or a characteristic Hellenistic technique that imitated masonry; only the Roman period Herodian complexes show anything akin to Roman wall paintings, the best example of which comes from Masada with wall paintings done in the Pompeiian style. Maresha, on the other hand, is well known for its exceptional wall paintings, done in a style that melds Alexandrian and Nilotic motifs to

Phoenician motifs, resulting in a remarkable (and well-studied) representation of hybridized art that is so commonly characteristic of the Hellenistic East.

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When examining the overall architectural décor, design philosophy, and urban design, it is fairly safe to say that two trends emerge in both Idumaea and Judaea. On the one hand, much of the architectural ornamentation is reserved and muted, but this is primarily limited to the contexts of smaller cities. In some ways, this is not surprising, as we might expect that more

“rural” communities would not be as integrated into the entire system of the newest architectural trends. When this is compared to Samaria, however, the Idumaean and Judaean rural communities seem to shirk even the simplest forms of architectural decoration, excepting in cases of synagogues — and even these were usually fairly simple in this period. On the other hand, sites like Elusa, Ashkelon, and Ashdod in Idumaea or Jerusalem were not terribly dissimilar from other Eastern cities of comparable size. The real difference is in Herodian architecture, which not only embraced the technical aspects of Hellenistic and Roman architectural principles, but also the Hellenistic design philosophy that emphasized theatricality, the use of sweeping vistas and the very manipulation of the land to fit a desired outcome. In this way, Herodian architecture is singularly unique in the entirety of ancient Palestine. Perhaps this is the reason why Herodian architecture is so well studied.

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Formal Concept Analysis (FCA) of Judaean and Idumaean Architecture

Fig. 5.15 Concept lattice for Judaean building forms

Formal Concept Analysis of Judaean Building Forms

A full FCA of Judaean monumental or public architecture from a sample of Judaean sites reveals that the data sorts itself into ten formal concepts, each represented by a node. Any node by itself, as a reminder, does not indicate any particular relationship, but rather an arbitrary concept. The bottom node is composed only of a set of attributes that none of the objects within the dataset express. Thus, we can argue that provisionally the building forms of a tetrapylon,

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nymphaeum, amphitheater, and stadium/hippodrome are not essential for identifying the architectural program of sites within Judaea as no sites in Judaea possess these structures. This, of course, is provisional based on the fragmentary nature of the archaeological data and my choice to exclude any potential that Jerusalem might have had a hippodrome or a stadium despite historical attestations of these structures because of the lack of any archaeological evidence. The top node is occupied by the object Gezer with the attributes Walls, Miqva’ot, Bathhouses,

Gatehouse and Fortress, implying that all sites within Judaea possess these features, and simultaneously implying that Gezer is the most unlike of the other sites in Judaea. These features, in addition to the node with the attributes of Peristyle and Palace, account for 83% of all architectural forms in Judaean provinces; if we add to this synagogues and aqueducts, 67% of all sites in Judaea have all these features. This reveals our first major implication: that approximately two-thirds of sites are defined by the presence of a synagogue, miqva’ot, or both and that they tend to be fortified and defensible. Conversely, the architecture reflected at Ramat

Rahel, Jerusalem, and Herodium include only one object in their extent (themselves) and thus the attributes that define these sites are rather specific to each of them.

Three paths are clearly apparent in the lattice. The furthest to the left includes only two objects in its path, Gezer and Ramat Rahel, each at diametric ends of the spectrum. This suggests that while Gezer is a fine example of universal features of Judaea, Ramat Rahel is actually an exemplary site in the region. Because this is a mathematically formal statement, we should then be careful when implying that anything found at Ramat Rahel is representative of the architecture of the region as a whole. Jerusalem occupies a second path that is rather central, which is not surprising given that Jerusalem is the regional capital of Judaea. Nevertheless, when we follow the upwards paths from Jerusalem, the only other objects are Masada and Gezer. This

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formal association is rather surprising, as it suggests that Jerusalem, at least in terms of formal associations based on the available archaeological data, is not particularly associated with the two sites of Herodium and Jericho or of Ramat Rahel. One obvious issue relates to occupational phases; while Masada was occupied in the Hellenistic period, it is really in the Roman period that the site achieves any real prominence. The lack of any kind of formal association between

Jericho and Jerusalem, however, is rather surprising, given that both Jericho and Jerusalem were sites of major architectural projects by both the Hasmoneans in the Hellenistic period and the

Herodians in the Roman period. We might be able to explain this in another way, however.

Jericho was the site of the leisure palaces of the Hasmoneans and the Herodians, away from the political and religious influences found in Jerusalem, and thus we might suggest that in Jericho both the Hasmoneans and the Herodians felt more freedom to pursue any kind of “Hellenizing” architecture. Of course, the single piece of architecture that causes this divide is the theater; if a theater was ever discovered in Jerusalem, this association would not hold value and would be discredited. Both Herodium and Jericho are most associated with Masada; again, this is not surprising, given that all three sites were centers of major projects carried out by Herod.

If the concept is reduced in order to remove redundancies in the data or to simplify expressions, the concept lattice is only reduced from ten nodes to nine, but the basic structure of the matrix remains unchanged. Ramat Rahel and Jerusalem still occupy separate paths, but now

Herodium takes a more central position. One major difference is that Masada is completely removed as an object; this is because any of the features found at Masada are also found within the extension of Jericho, meaning the duplication in the data contributes nothing to the formal structure of the data. Furthermore, it is more apparent to see what attributes precisely separate the objects from one another. Jerusalem maintains its singular importance because of the

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presence of the only Temple in Judaea; this is hardly surprising, given that during this time

“Judaism” was slowly coalescing into a unified concept, and one of the features was the development of the singular Temple model. Herodium and Jericho are separated by the presence of the theater.

Fig. 5.16 Reduced concept lattice for Judaean building forms

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Formal Concept Analysis of Idumaean Building Forms

Fig. 5.17 Concept lattice for Idumaean building forms

The concept lattice for Idumaean sites results in eight formalized concepts. Similar to what we observed in Judaea, the top node contains attributes which are universal in all Idumaean sites: bathhouses and fortifications. In many ways, this is not surprising, given that even in the

Iron Age the southernmost borders between Judah and the Negev were fortified, a trend which continued into the Hellenistic and especially the Roman periods, when the Roman limes

Palestina were established. Consequently, bathhouses would not be especially surprising, given the Roman presence in the region. Conversely, the bottommost node contains nine separate

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attributes which are not observed at any Idumaean site during our study period; the most surprising of these is the synagogue. While synagogues (and churches) were built by the very late Roman period and into the Byzantine period, the architectural form is not observed in

Idumaea, despite the forced conversion of the local population to Judaism during the Hellenistic period. Despite the lack of synagogues, miqva’ot are still a widely observed phenomenon in

Idumaea as in Judaea, though not as nearly widespread. Temples, on the other hand, are found at three of five Idumaean sites, indicating that there was a sharp divide in the worship of pagan deities in the Hellenistic and Roman periods that persisted in Idumaea that does not have a

Judaean equivalent.

The data structure also reveals a that there is no tie between Maresha and Ashkelon, despite both sites occupying the same position (in terms of percentages of objects within their extent, at least) within the lattice. Despite no direct tie between Maresha and Ashkelon, this does not suggest that there is no association between the two sites, only that we cannot express any formal association based on an if and only if statement. The key difference here, of course, is the presence of the amphitheater in Maresha and the lack of one in Ashkelon and, conversely, the presence of a Greek theater in Ashkelon with no correlating building found in Maresha. This could be attributed to a real difference between the two sites — that the citizens of each city had no appetite for the type of entertainment present at the other site — or due to preservation bias.

While Beth-Zur has both Ashkelon and Maresha within its extent, the two sites are not directly linked together, at least in any way that has a formal affiliation based on observed architectural features. The fact that Yavne and Ashkelon are on the same path, however, does suggest some kind of formal affiliation; it is most likely that this is the case because both are coastal cities and have specific architecture that supports maritime trade.

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Fig. 5.18 Reduced concept lattice for Idumaean building forms.

When the concept lattice for Idumaean architectural forms is reduced, the same basic structure is preserved. There are still eight nodes present within the overall structure and the path dependencies remain unchanged. The cities of Ashkelon and Maresha still maintain their position at the bottom of the lattice, indicating that they are the most unique of the sites, though we might notice that the attribute “forum” should define both sites, indicating that both sites had a strong Roman presence, though no correlating Roman buildings, such as a basilica, have been identified at Maresha. This is rather unusual, because the forum complex at Maresha is denoted

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by a temple and by axial symmetry, which are common for the Roman ideal for forum construction. What this precisely means in terms of Roman civic engagement, however, remains unresolved.

Summary

This chapter examined the geographical and historical contexts of the regions of Idumaea and Judaea; while these regions are understood as separate geopolitical entities, because of the capriciousness of how borders changed in antiquity, especially during the Roman period, the two regions are collectively treated as one, with the additional inclusion of the coastal cities that were initially autonomous and then fell under the direct suzerainty of the Hasmoneans and the Romans respectively. We examined in greater detail some of the more notable sites in the region. This was not an exhaustive catalogue of all the sites, but rather an overview to give a sense of the regional character of the architecture in a number of contexts, from fortified towns, villages, palaces, and urban cities. Finally, the we briefly explored a visualization of how we might logically order our assumptions about the types of structures found in both Judaea and Idumaea.

The combined FCA (5.20) points to the following conclusions. First, while the miqva’ot is found in wide distribution, synagogues are not; what this might suggest in terms of free association to

Jewish ritual belief and forced Judaization might resolve this anomaly. Second, we can comment about the ubiquity of Greco-Roman style entertainment; theaters are found in both sites, but we should be careful in suggesting anything about how popular Greco-Roman style entertainment was in the region. There is no evidence for any sort of municipal athletics, unlike what is observed in Samaria. Third, archaeologists should be especially careful in extrapolating out general concepts of “Hellenization” and “Romanization” in Palestine, especially when the only

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notable examples are those found in association with the building programs of either Hasmonean dynasts or of Herod. Formal concept analysis is useful for examining underlying structures, but it is, by definition, a set of algebraic associations that do not provide relational associations based on statistical parameters; we must save that instead for the social network analysis. This is not to say that an FCA does not have utility; indeed, it provides a set of expected measures in data structure and removes potential biases in how we understand the structure of data — the prime function of a formal concept lattice. A prime example of this is the removal of the site of Masada entirely from the dataset. Masada is a site that has been studied many times over, yet we can make the same structural claims without ever even considering this site. Formal concept analysis is not particularly good at exploring robust datasets, but it is useful to examine smaller regional associations.

Fig. 5.19 Combined reduced concept lattice of building forms in Judaea and Idumaea.

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CHAPTER 6

THE NETWORKED BUILT ENVIRONMENT

Introduction We have spent the last several chapters exploring theoretical approaches to architecture and the type of architecture found in our three main study areas, as well as some exploratory analysis of intragroup relations between sites. Having outlined the basic methodological and theoretical approaches to social network analysis, in this chapter I synthesize the data and explore the regional characteristics of architecture. Here I look at building techniques, defined as technical expressions in architecture resulting in latent signaling, and building form, which includes architectural décor, resulting in expressed signaling. Latent signaling is defined here as subconscious articulations of identity, and expressed signaling is defined as conscious articulations of identity. Since we can accept that the historical reality of the southern Levant included a number of variations of “Jewishness,” we are thus essentially dealing with “dialects” of Jewish expressions, and thus we are assessing collective network cohesion and what this might tell us about acceptance or rejection of Hellenization and Romanization. The collective assessment of the architectural features of Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea presented here is unique; most studies of architecture in ancient Palestine — which are numerous, to be sure — tend to selectively focus on either specific sites with a fine assemblage of material (i.e. the great

Herodian building projects like Masada, Herodium, or Caesarea) or sites with great historical and/or theological significance like Qumran or Jerusalem. These approaches tend to isolate architectural features to a few selected studies rather than examining architecture in a broader sense. Here I must stress that I am not arguing against the quality of work that has come before.

Rather, I am seeking to build upon this scholarship and integrate a more holistic approach that

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treats architecture as archaeological artifacts that can be examined from a macro perspective, which has not been as well studied in the Greco-Roman Levant.

A few words should be said about the limitations of this approach. Firstly, our dataset is relatively small, consisting of just over 80 sites dispersed around the region and a total of approximately a dozen variables for technical aspects of architecture and about thrice as many for expressed forms — that is, building form and décor — of architecture for each site. This smaller dataset is due to a number of factors. First is that architecture, by definition, totals a much smaller percentage of archaeological finds than arguably any other archaeological material.

Dozens of artifacts or hundreds of sherds might be found in a single building, but the building itself, when taken as a whole, is still only one archaeological feature which often persists in primary or secondary use for a number of occupational phases. Second, and rather frustratingly, architectural features are often only tangentially discussed in site reports or excavation results unless the architecture happens to be particularly remarkable; this is especially true for survey and salvage reports. The result of this is a number of site reports that only briefly mention architectural features and provide only cursory information, while conversely the appendices on ceramics and small finds can be hundreds of pages long. Of course, survey archaeology is not concerned with detailed accounts of architectural features but more generally with density deposits of ceramics and other smaller finds and so we should not expect detailed architectural reports, but the result is that we have more constrained availability of data. While a number of site reports frequently comment on the presence of architectural features, often times these accounts were too limited in their explanations to extract any kind of data other than a rendering of a site plan with no supporting information; furthermore, many times these reports did not have associated photographs published with the reports, especially in older reports. In such cases,

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without any detailed knowledge of the architectural features, the site has to be disregarded. Thus, while this study is a holistic and macroscale approach, I must stress that it is not comprehensive and exhaustive because there are dozens of other sites that have archaeological evidence of occupation in our study period and region but no firm details specifically on architectural features.

Secondly, a study that examines many aspects of architecture can result in a staggering variety of variables, because each architectural feature, from construction design to architectural décor can be broken down into increasingly granular sub-categories. Should this happen, it would introduce an undesirable amount of noise into a dataset if we were to account for every single observable and potential permutation. For this reason I have selected for a few architectural features that can be representative of implicit and explicit signals, such as construction techniques, basic building forms, and the presence or absence of categorical architectural decoration forms. This also allows me to assess architectural features on a relatively straightforward binary of presence/absence, which is more applicable for a social network

(excepting in weighted networks that might use continuous data, but this is not the focus here). I am aware that this of course admits a selection bias into the dataset, but to try to account for all architectural features would have proven to be a herculean task.

Thirdly, we should be aware of the fact that the architecture is inherently not quotidian or mobile; architecture is not something that can transit through networks of exchange (although the ideas of architecture are able to do so, which is, in a roundabout way, what this study examines) in the way that other archaeological objects can. While we should be aware of this limitation, in my estimation this does not hinder our assessment. We are examining network cohesion, articulations of identity, and the relationship between indigenous and imperial forces; thus,

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something that is fixed in the local environment that is continually occupied and which takes great effort to construct is precisely the kind of material that we might choose to explore the idea of communal network affiliations — or a lack of them. Networks are, by definition, artificial and statistical representations that we hope approximate a historical reality. In the same way that a formal concept analysis does not inherently reflect a “true” social reality but rather expresses underlying structures of data that point to particular associations between objects and attributes, a social network analysis creates an approximation of the relationship between nodes — in this case sites — based on the presence or absence of a number of relational attributes.

This chapter will first outline the methodological approaches to constructing the networks, including providing my justifications for choosing particular methods and applications. This is because the network is only a visual representation of the data that a researcher chooses to utilize; any conclusions drawn from a network analysis come from the exploration of the ties between sites and those ties are defined by a very particular set of data.

This chapter will then present the network results, which will examine two major varieties of networks: construction techniques and building form and décor of the combined architectural evidence from all three study areas. Finally, this chapter will explore a variety of interpretations that have resulted from the exploration of these networks.

Methodology and Construction of the Networks

The networks are constructed as follows. The SNA aspect of this study takes a top-down macroscale view of the architectural data from all three study regions. Two major network types are constructed: the first set deals with technical aspects of construction and the second with building form and architectural décor. Each of these two categories utilizes two types of

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networks. Firstly, I utilize a bipartite network to examine overall cohesion and the relationship between architectural data and sites. Secondly, I examine site relations to one another using the

Jaccard Similarity Index. Each type of network has two “time slices” associated to the

Hellenistic and to the Roman periods broadly understood.26 The data available comes from well- studied and reliable site reports, excavation results, or other books, chapters, or articles that specifically examine architectural features.

Each node in the network consists of a site at which architectural features are found.

There is obviously a distinction between any number of different kinds of sites, such as farmsteads, villages, fortified citadels, fortified palaces, and cities to name a few, and the architectural forms associated at each site will be variegated (though technical aspects are not as widely variable). Because I am looking at a wider trend, however, and fully expect at least some kind of clustering effect to fall along an urban-rural divide, there is no obvious reason why the different functions of the sites need to be articulated in the dataset and so all sites, irrespective of their function or size, are treated the same. Thus, each node in the network is a site no matter the function of the site, and each node thus has the potential to have the same statistical weighting potential as any other site. Measurements such as betweenness or centrality that a social network analysis can provide would normalize these factors anyway; thus, while I make note of the site function elsewhere (see Appendix A) these are not treated as important independent variables for the calculation of the social network.27

26 As noted elsewhere, the Hellenistic period begins with the period of direct Greek rule and terminates at the end of the Hasmonean period, while the Roman period begins with the semi-autonomous Roman client kings of the Herodian dynasty and ends at the soft transition in Roman imperial politics from the Principate to the Dominate.

27 Of course, I do recognize the importance of site function, which obviously would suggest different things about the kinds of people occupying those sites, the behaviors and rituals conducted within, and the socio-economic factors that would dictate the presence or absence of (especially) monumental or public architecture. However, this was not central to the kinds of questions I was asking in this study, and so there is no obvious reason to distinguish between site function.

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The most straightforward, and most common, data that are utilized in social network analysis results in a unipartite (or one-node) network, in which co-occurrence between two objects results in a tie between them. To construct such a network, an adjacency matrix is utilized; an asymmetric matrix (i.e. directed or weighted) means that each actor is scored individually (whether this is a binary or continuous value does not matter) and results in eigenvalues that are complex when visualized in a bipartite graph, while a symmetric matrix is unweighted and binary, so if there is any kind of tie between the two actors, regardless of reciprocation, a tie is drawn. Because my data is relational and categorical, however, my datasets were coded initially as affiliation matrices, in which sites are the rows and architectural attributes are the columns, and the data input is binary: “1” is entered into a cell if a site has that attribute present, and “0” is entered if the specified attribute is absent at a given site. Such a dataset would yield the second major network type, a bipartite (or two-mode) network, in which there are

“actors” and “events.”28 In this kind of approach, the sites are not linked to one another, but rather to the attributes that are found at each site. This sort of network measures a very different set of social relations that is focused on the presence or absence of a number of attributes or variables. This would be particularly useful, for example, to study the distribution of a variety of artifacts among sites. A bipartite network, however, is not best fitted to describe the relationship between nodes within a network but rather the influence of a particular set of attributes within a larger distribution in the network.

Because my central questions were more intrinsically focused on the interrelations between sites rather than on sites having certain features, I chose to use a unipartite network. To

28 This is not indicative necessarily of a historical condition in which actors participate in a specific event. The terms “actors” and “events” are just simply a standard terminology in social network analysis to discuss one set of variables and their relationship or association to another set of variables. In this case, “actors” would be sites, and “events” would be architectural variables.

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accomplish this, I needed to convert an affiliation matrix into an adjacency matrix so that I could examine the relationships between sites. There are a number of ways that this can be done. The most straightforward approach to this is simple matrix multiplication, expressed mathematically as:

푎 푏 푒 푓 푎푒 + 푏푔 푎푓 + 푏ℎ 퐴퐵 = [ ] [ ] = [ ] 푐 푑 푔 ℎ 푐푒 + 푑푔 푐푓 + 푑ℎ

In this particular case, a simple matrix multiplication is sufficient to yield a single matrix output because my values are 1s and 0s. The output adjacency matrix would be composed of values higher than 1s and 0s, however, because a matrix multiplication results in a summation of all values. This would be fine for constructing a weighted network, but I am not considering weighted approaches in this study because we have neither the archaeological refinement nor the historical information to determine the directionality of influence. Furthermore, matrix multiplication would work for comparing the same data variables between two time periods, but

I am interested on the relationship between objects within a time period based on its attributes.

Because of this, I needed to determine a continuous value that measures the similarity between sites based on the presence or absence of a fixed set of attributes, which is why an approach that utilized matrix multiplication was disregarded.

Archaeology necessarily is constituted by materials that are not reflective of the whole record and frequently deals with sparse and fragmentary data. This is certainly true (as outlined above) for my dataset. This means that using a similarity index allows for a more robust measure to assess how similar two sites are to one another. There are a number of statistical measures available to calculate similarity indices between site assemblages (Athenstädt et al. 2018; Mills,

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Clark, et al. 2013; Mills, Roberts Jr, et al. 2013). While the precise definitions for similarity metrics (and its counterpart dissimilarity) are contingent on the kinds of questions being asked and the sort of available data, a satisfactory, if rather basic, definition states that similarity is a numerical value that, based on statistical calculations, represents the relationship between two objects or attributes (Athenstädt et al. 2018). There are a number of specific similarity indices that have been developed in different fields, resulting in a dizzying number of ways to measure similarity; some of the most common are the Brainerd-Robinison Index, Cosine Similarity,

Jaccard Coefficient, Euclidean Distance, Pearson Correlation, Matching, 1 out of k measurements, Covariance, Cross-Product, Cohen’s Kappa, and Yule’s Q. The positive benefit is that there are any number of ways to measure similarity within a matrix, but of course the downside is that each of these measures has a best fit for the kinds of data it is assessing (i.e. whether data are continues or binary or whether data are appropriately comparable to one another) or whether datasets have sparse or dense vectors. Frequently, the same dataset, when using two different similarity scores, will result in output tables with different values. Because my data is relatively sparse, containing a fair amount of “0” entries that represent absence, the

Cosine Similarity or the Jaccard Coefficient are the best approaches. In short, the Cosine

Similarity measures the angle between two vectors when plotted out in Euclidian space. If the angle between the two dots is 0° the value is “1,” the more acute the angle is the closer the value is to “1,” if it is perpendicular the value is “0” and if it is obtuse the value is “-1”. Cosine similarity is expressed mathematically as:

∑ 푥 푦 (푥, 푦) = 푖 푖 푖 2 2 √∑푖 푥푖 √∑푖 푦푖

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Cosine Similarity is especially useful at measuring the overall similarity between two specific objects but does not necessarily work better when examining datasets as a whole. Another commonly used similarity measure is the Jaccard Coefficient (or Jaccard Index), which measure the size of intersections within a set divided by the total values within a set. The Jaccard

Coefficient is expressed mathematically as:

|푆푥 ∩ 푆푦| (푥, 푦) = |푆푥 ∪ 푆푦 |

The Jaccard Coefficient is particularly useful for archaeological material, which in general tends to be sparse, because it ignores null values rather than calculating against them (Athenstädt et al.

2018). Furthermore, Cosine Similarity measures the length of the entire vector, meaning that repeated values matter, whereas the Jaccard Coefficient does not measure each specific instance, but rather the occurrence or absence of an attribute to an object.29 It is for this reason that I have chosen to use the Jaccard Index of Similarity in order to calculate a similarity score between sites based on the presence or absence of attributes. The calculation produces a measure that results in a continuous numeral that scores between 0 and 1, with 1 being 100% similar to another site and

0 being 0% similar to another site. This allowed me to recode an affiliation matrix into an adjacency matrix in which the column and row labels are site names and the value in the cell represents the relationship between any two sites. I arbitrarily chose a threshold of 66% as a cutoff; thus, if the Jaccard similarity index measured a similarity score of 0.66 or higher, the

29 To make an analogy, consider the following. Two papers are submitted for a plagiarism score (indeed, cosine similarity for plagiarism is one of the common implementations for the measure). A cosine similarity would count each repeated instance of words in one paper measured against another to come up with a final score. The more kinds of words that are repeated, and how often each one is repeated, contribute to this score. A Jaccard measurement would count all words in each document, then find the common words and sum them before dividing that sum against the total number of possible iterations. Thus, while both measures calculate similarity, the scores are often quite different, sometimes as high as one or more standard deviations.

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value was entered as a “1” in an adjacency matrix and anything lower than this threshold was marked as a 0.30 Thus, if the Jaccard Coefficient value between two sites was ≥ 0.667, then a “1” was entered; all other cells were entered as a “0.” Finally, all possible variables for the

Hellenistic and Roman periods are used interchangeably (i.e. Roman concrete is technically a potential variable in the Hellenistic period, despite having no sites affiliated with it because the chronologies do not match). This is done to keep the matrices utilized in UCINET as simple and equal across all types of networks. The matrices resulting from these methods above were then inputted into UCINET, one of the more common software packages that allows for robust social network analysis. The results and discussion are presented below.

Building Techniques in Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea

Hellenistic Period

Of the entire dataset across both the Hellenistic and Roman periods in Palestine, just over half (56%, n = 44) have definitive proof of features that were constructed during the Hellenistic period. A structure was only considered “built” in the Hellenistic period if there was conclusive evidence of a construction phase, such as ceramics or numismatics in architectural features such as walls, foundation trenches, and in or under floors of a phase. Consequently, if a structure was observed as having material in depositional contexts in the Hellenistic period, such as a cache of coins or pottery, that structure was discounted because while it is possible to say the site was occupied during the Hellenistic period it is not possible to say the site was constructed during the

Hellenistic period. Twelve attribute types were used, and if these are found at a site and that

30 This is, admittedly, a relatively arbitrary cutoff metric. There is no specific rationale for lowering the value to say 50%, other than a threshold of 66% seems high enough to count for real difference but low enough to not artificially sever connections based on lower attribute counts.

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building was built during the Hellenistic period, the data was recorded on a presence/absence binary.

Fig. 6.1 2-mode network of Hellenistic building techniques. Nodes are not scaled.

A 2-mode network showing these features is presented above in Fig. 6.1.31 It is clear that in the

Hellenistic period, the preferred method of construction was to use the rubble technique, which has a degree value of 0.705, and the most common structural support was to use the post-and- lintel system with a degree value of 0.977. The second most common form is the use of ashlars with a degree score of 0.614; only 0.364 of structures that utilized ashlars set them into the header-stretcher alignment that was so characteristic of Hellenistic style architecture. Pier-and- rubble forms were likewise fairly constrained, and it has already been observed elsewhere that

31 Unless otherwise stated, all networks presented in this chapter utilize a projection that results in equal node repulsion and equal edge length bias. This is well-suited to observe clustering effects, if present.

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this was indicative of a Phoenician presence along the coastal cities, which were found in

Samaria, Judaea and Idumaea. Finally, the least common, and therefore perhaps the singularly most interesting, was the use of the “herringbone” technique, which is observed in Idumaea.

Opus reticulatum and the use of concrete are obviously not utilized in the Hellenistic period, as they are Roman. Fig. 6.2 shows the scaled values of the technical aspects of architecture in the

Hellenistic period. The two mode cohesion scores (see Tab. 6.1 and 6.2) provide more detail into the construction of the 2-mode network for vernacular construction techniques in the Hellenistic period. The overall density for the network is 29%, which is not an especially unified network but neither is it completely fragmented. The average distance score is fairly small as well, suggesting that any known architectural form was within two degrees of knowledge. The high transitivity score indicates that there is strong homophily within the network.

Architectural Form Degree 2-Local Closeness Measure Arches 0.205 0.074 0 Ashlar 0.614 0.205 0 Beveled 0.068 0.032 0 Brick 0.045 0.019 0 Dressed 0.318 0.114 6.94 Header-Stretcher 0.364 0.142 22 Herringbone 0.023 0.009 26.40 Opus Reticulatum 0 0 0 Pier-and-Rubble 0.114 0.049 528 Post-Lintel 0.977 0.282 10 Rubble 0.705 0.208 188.57

Table 6.1 2-mode centrality scores for Hellenistic building techniques.

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Fig. 6.2 2-mode network of building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality.

Density Average Radius Diameter Fragmentation Transitivity Normal Distance Distribution 0.290 2.106 2 4 0.071 0.681 0.847

Table 6.2 2-mode cohesion scores for Hellenistic building techniques.

Taken together, we can make a few general observations. The relative cohesion and indicators for network homophily suggest that in terms of building techniques as technical construction skills were fairly uniform across all three regions. Fig. 6.2, which in which the 2- mode network is scaled by degree centrality (i.e. general overall importance in the dataset) demonstrates that by far and away the most common forms of architectural construction from a technical standpoint consisted of the utilization of post-and-lintel for the support structures; the widespread use of the arch is not observed in the Hellenistic period, nor is expected in this period. The most common form for wall construction was the rubble construction technique, in

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which unworked fieldstones were placed without mortar and usually without clear courses with smaller pebbles filling the cracks. These two forms are by far and away the most common construction technique found in the region. Both forms are a continuation of long-standing construction techniques in the entirety of the southern Levant before the arrival of various imperial regimes, including Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Greek, and Roman. This style of construction, of course, is the most basic form, and it is hardly unique to this region, finding widespread global distribution. To pile rocks together to make a wall is not difficult, but it does it point to a lack of the kind of organizational forces that are necessary in more complex projects, meaning that local administration is decentralized. Labor was provided by local individuals using local techniques in rural contexts. The use of ashlars does become fairly widespread during the

Hellenistic period, but it is notable that even at sites that had royal Hasmonean sponsorship traditional architectural forms were used to form non-traditional buildings. For example, while the Hasmoneans might have built pleasure palaces at sites like Jericho that utilized Hellenistic aspects, those same aspects were just a veneer; the underlying techniques are no different than those found in a small little village that completely lacks monumental architecture. This points to a regional intransience regarding the preservation and implementation of Hasmonean building projects, despite the Hasmoneans so often being given the moniker of Hellenizers. To be sure,

Hasmonean kings used Greek construction techniques, but they had the economic and labor capital necessary to make all their projects look properly “Greek” and yet they chose to engage with a labor force that employed traditional knowledge. We might also point to the relative reluctance to change architectural construction techniques within the overall network. Given the relatively low geodesic measurements between any two sites, it is reasonable to suggest that new architectural forms at least had the capacity to rapidly spread through the network or that

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itinerant craftsmen would have had a relatively easy time moving between construction projects; we do not see any evidence of this, however, which points here again to a choice made by the sites within the network to be traditional in their vernacular architecture.

Fig. 6.3 Macroregional network for building techniques of the Hellenistic period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n = 45.

We are more concerned, however, with the connections between sites and to what degree they are similar or dissimilar to one another. The results of the single-mode network using the true values of the Jaccard Coefficient are displayed in Fig. 6.3. The total number of ties at 1,868 resulting in a density score of 0.631. A very dense network indicates that nearly all nodes are connected to one another; in this case, of all possible ties between the nodes of the network we see that 63% of them are fulfilled. Because this network uses a true Jaccard value, this means that there is no arbitrary cutoff between any sites; in this case, nearly every single site within the

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study area shares at least one form of vernacular architecture to another site, resulting in a high permutation of ties within the network. The overall density in the network essentially nullifies any kind of ability to general relational information, since the overall network. The most useful application for this kind of network is purely an exercise in the visualization of the network and why it is necessary to score affiliations based on overall similarity rather than total connections.

Fig. 6.4 Macroregional network using binarized values of Jaccard Index in the Hellenistic period. Blue = Judaea, Red = Samaria, Green = Idumaea.

Density Average Geodesic Average Triad Weighted Small Degree Distance Eigenvector Transitivity Clustering World Coefficient Index 0.264 11.636 2.562 0.109 0.455 0.714 2.092

Table 6.3 Whole network and cohesion scores for building techniques in the Hellenistic period using binarized Jaccard values.

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When the attribute values for the Jaccard Coefficients are turned into a binary value, the network changes quite significantly. Here, when we apply the cutoff for similarity to be ≥ 0.667, meaning that two sites are only positively linked if they share approximately two-thirds of features to one another, the network changes quite a bit. Firstly, and most evidently, the network decreases in density to 0.264, a substantial drop from the 0.631 observed in the network that utilized the true Jaccard values. Despite this decrease in overall network cohesion, this density score still points to a fairly cohesive network. In this case, over 25% of all potential sites within the network during the Hellenistic period were still approximately 66% similar to one another, suggesting that the conservatism observed above persists into the Hellenistic period. The geodesic measurements are quite small, suggesting that the network has the capacity to transmit information fairly easily, and no single site within the network is an isolate. Most network interaction are considered as dyads and triads, meaning that in general any actor within a network interacts with its closest neighbors. Another immediately observed effect is the creation of cliques (see Fig. 6.5 for site labels). The right side of the network is dominated by smaller, rural settlements in which we would obviously expect more similar affiliations to one another, while the left side reveals a cluster of primarily larger or more centralized sites. This, as mentioned above, is in many ways expected, since it is relatively unsurprising to find a rural/urban division. The distribution between the three regions is fairly similar whether the sites are in the “rural” clique or the “urban” one, suggesting that larger sites distributed among all three regions are all engaging in a different kind of architectural tradition. This is not to say, however, that all the sites within the clique are connected to one another; the 2-mode network presented above, for example, reveals that coastal cities all utilize a construction technique (pier- and-rubble) that is not found in inland sites. The geodesic values between all sites, however, are

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quite small, the weighted clustering coefficient is high, and an overall low value for the small world index mean that this network is densely grouped. Because of this, we would expect that if a new form of building technique was available and considered “better” by local populations they would adopt to these forms, or they would at least have the knowledge of alternate forms due to the ability for knowledge to spread within the network, especially regarding itinerant craftsmen. For this network, however, we see that this is not the case. Building techniques remain, for the most part, fairly traditional.

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Roman Period

Fig. 6.6 2-mode network of building techniques in the Roman period.

Architectural Degree 2-Local Closeness Form Measure Arches 0.373 0.160 486 Ashlar 0.695 0.239 0 Beveled 0.153 0.072 - Brick 0.153 0.072 - Dressed 0.220 0.097 - Header-Stretcher 0.356 0.150 0 Herringbone 0 0 1.281 Opus Reticulatum 0.017 0.008 2.003 Pier-and-Rubble 0.017 0.013 0 Post-Lintel 1 0.298 31.154 Rubble 0.542 0.157 0

Table 6.4 2-mode centrality scores for building techniques in the Roman period.

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Fig. 6.7 2-mode network of building techniques in the Roman period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality. \

Density Average Radius Diameter Fragmentation Transitivity Normal Distance Distribution 0.298 2.100 2 4 0.028 0.633 0.840

Table 6.5 2-mode cohesion scores for building techniques in the Roman period.

When we turn to the Roman period, the situation changes only slightly. The same methods that were used during the construction of the 2-mode data for the Hellenistic period are used in the Roman period. Thus, we are considering all architecture that was conclusively built during the Roman period; this means that a number of architectural features that are present in the Roman period that were built in the Hellenistic period are not considered here, even though

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they are obviously a part of the urban landscape of Roman-period sites. Furthermore, if a

Hellenistic site was rebuilt or modified in the Roman period, then that site would be counted in the Roman period; there were a number of Hellenistic sites that were destroyed and rebuilt in the

Roman period.

The unscaled 2-mode network is presented in Fig. 6.6. The general pattern for cohesion scores is relatively similar to those in the Hellenistic period. The density of the network remains approximately 30%, the and there are few changes in terms of overall geodesic distances, fragmentation scores, transitivity and overall distribution of attributes. For the most part, this suggests that there is continuity in building techniques between the Hellenistic and the Roman periods at a macroscale level. Other distributions are revealed in the network as well.

Immediately apparent is the discontinuation of the herringbone building technique, which was already quite constrained in the Hellenistic period and found only at a few sites. The disappearance of this particular technique coincides with the rise of more widespread use of traditionally “Roman” forms of construction, including the use of bricks, particularly when laid in an opus reticulatum pattern, and the use of concrete (opus caementicum). Notably, however, these two common Roman forms of construction are limited to just three sites: concrete appears in the coastal cities of Apollonia-Arsuf and Caesarea, and opus reticulatum is limited to just one location at Jericho, and both Caesarea and Jericho were sites of intense Herodian construction during the early Roman period. The use of Roman structural support systems such as the use of arches, vaults, and domes, on the other hand, finds a wider distribution in the region. Whether this was an aesthetic choice on the part of builders or whether this was an economic choice is indeterminate, but what is clear is that despite the use of post-and-lintel construction techniques the use of the arch, in particular, does suggest that there was a broader engagement in this new

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kind of architectural form. The materials to make arches, however, remain traditionally and locally situated, and in some instances there is evidence of a new hybridized form of vernacular architecture that develops using new forms but traditional techniques, like the rather unusual find of a jack arch in Samaria but built with monolithic lintels. When we examine the 2-node network with nodes scaled by degree scores, it is clear that traditional forms such as rubble and post-and- lintel dominate, but the overall degree values are much lower than those observed in the

Hellenistic period. This suggests that while traditional forms persisted, there was less reticence in the utilization of Roman forms. There is, however, one major caveat to this assessment: the historical destruction of Palestine by the Romans, which is well-documented both historically and archaeologically, and the permanent presence of Roman forces in the region, might tilt the scales toward more “Roman” forms because many of these projects would have been built by

Romans (or they would have overseen these projects) and Roman soldiers were well-trained builders of empire. Even if they were not built by Romans, the fact that the landscape endured great destruction might point to a broader engagement in more contemporary forms of architecture. While the historical conditions might allow for this, it is not unique to the Roman period; the region of Palestine endured widespread destruction under the Hasmonean dynasts, but reconstruction in the Hellenistic period did not tend to favor more or less the Hellenistic forms of construction but rather adhered to more conservative forms. Thus, there is still something significant about the level of engagement with Roman construction techniques. It seems to me the most logical explanation is that the labor force in the Roman period would have more frequently included Roman soldiers on permanent station in the region, though this would not be a reliable explanation for building techniques or non-Roman buildings like synagogues.

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Fig. 6.8 Macroregional network of building techniques in the Roman period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n=59.

When we look at the true values for the Jaccard similarity coefficients (Fig. 6.8) for building techiques in the Roman period, the resulting network is quite similar to what was observed in the Hellenistic period. The network remains quite dense but is substantially less than the Hellenistic period, with an overall density index of 0.458, or approximately 46%. As pointed out above this is because nearly all nodes in the network share some point of similarity to other nodes within the network to at least some degree. Here again the exercise is best suited to demonstrating the presence or absence of vernacular architectural forms rather than any measure of similarity, which would otherwise prove to be prohibitive in how we might detect clustering effects.

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Fig. 6.9 Macroregional network using binarized values of Jaccard Index for building techniques in the Roman period. Blue = Judaea, Red = Samaria, Green = Idumaea.

Density Average Geodesic Average Triad Weighted Small Degree Distance Eigenvector Transitivity Clustering World Coefficient Index 0.236 13.695 2.500 0.091 0.460 0.719 2.236

Table 6.6 Whole network and cohesion scores for building techniques in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values.

When the Jaccard scores are binarized using the ≥ 0.667 threshold, the network projection is altered quite a bit. When we examine a few metrics that gauge whole network cohesion and similarity, the scores are not radically different from the Hellenistic period. Overall density decreases from 0.264 to 0.236, approximately a 3% decrease. The average degree shifts

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from 11.636 to 13.695, the average geodesic differences, eigenvalues, and overall transitivity remain alike. This suggests that while there are a few more variables that account for the overall distribution of values within the network (which then affect degree scores just slightly), in general the network metrics are hardly dissimilar from those of the Hellenistic period. This suggests that whatever the local conditions were for the persistence of building techniques that existed in the Hellenistic period remained unchanged, at least in terms of statistical significance, into the Roman period. Just as was observed above when the same Jaccard binarization was applied to the Hellenistic period, the most apparent difference is the division of the overall network into loose cliques, which are sorted for the most part along an urban/rural split. Again, this is expected, as nearly every archaeologist would expect and recognize a difference in architectural forms in urban and rural contexts. The isolation of a dyad outside the network, consisting of a city and rural site from two separate regions (Yavne and Horvat Zikhrin, respectively) is a curious phenomenon, especially since the two sites do not occupy nearly the same level in terms of site hierarchy. The pattern of clique division more broadly understood, however, persists in the same way that was observed in the Hellenistic period, meaning that at no point between the Hellenistic and Roman periods did one particular urban center rise to an especially dominant position within the network on the basis of construction techniques. Finally, just as was observed in the Hellenistic period, each clique has representative members from each of the three study areas, suggesting that overall cohesion in Palestine transcended both time and regional affiliation, both historical (i.e. the recognized provinces of Samaria and Judaea) or artificial (i.e. the constructed boundaries of Idumaea based on cultural, historical and archaeological proxies).

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B a r c h it e c t u r e A i a n r t c h h e it Fig. 6.10 H Macroregional network of building techniques in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values for Roman period. Nodese are scaled by degree e scores. Square = Judaea, Triangle = Samaria, Diamondc = Idumaea. Two loose ll cliques are labeled A (rural) and B (urban). t e u n r is When the nodes are resized according to their overall degreee score, it becomes quite ti i apparent that onec clique, that of the bottom right corner, exerts more influence in terms of n p t building traditionse than the clique to the top left, which includes most o the major cities in the h ri e southern Levant.o Notably, the site of Caesarea Maritima, the capital of the province of Judaea H d e during the Roman. period, exerts very little influence on traditional building techniques that were ll p employed in the region, and the other major “Roman” cultural centere at Shechem-Flavia e n ri is o ti d 279 c . p B e l ri

Neapolis has a similar degree score. Rather surprisingly, Jericho does not cluster as close to other

Herodian projects such as Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste, or Herodium. Jerusalem, another site of major Herodian architectural projects, is located between both Jericho and these other Herodian projects. This pattern suggests that there is an inherent conservatism expressed in terms of traditional techniques that are not found in his other building projects.

Two major sites emerge as what is termed as “brokers” in social networks: Elusa and

Maresha, both located in Idumaea. Brokers, also called bridges, are important nodes in a social network. Social network analysts have long recognized that while nodes with lots of connections within their own clique or cluster might have high-value positions within that clique, they tend to be less important than nodes that have perhaps fewer but more diverse ties to other clusters because the former tend to disseminate homogenous information or relations while the latter are more likely to introduce heterogenous information or relations (Hart et al. 2017; Peeples and

Haas 2013). As such, brokers are considered to have high social capital because of their ability to influence the ways that information moves through networks (Breiger 2004). These two sites exhibit more “social capital” than their neighbors because of their links to both the rural clique and the urban clique. Antithetical to brokerage, these two sites would also be classic cut-points, whereby if these sites were excluded by some external condition from participation within the network, the overall cohesiveness of the network would be more susceptible to fragmentation or even collapse. If we examine the position of Maresha in terms of brokerage in the Hellenistic period (Fig. 6.5) we see that there is a seminal positioning developing but that the site still has a fairly low degree score. This seems to have changed by the Roman period and this is entirely likely due to the permanent Roman occupation of the limes Palestina, which resulted in a major

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Roman presence in the southern fringes of Idumaea, suggesting that Idumaea was more a nexus for Roman influence than other regions.

Architectural Forms and Décor in Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea

Hellenistic Period

Fig. 6.11 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

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Architectural Form Degree 2-Local Closeness (Building Type or Decorative Order) Fortress 0.3333333 0.0628352 - Gatehouse 0.3111111 0.0643678 - Temples 0.1555556 0.0383142 0 Walls 0.3555556 0.0712644 14.093023 Bathhouses 0 0 21.263159 Miqveh 0.2 0.0275862 5.4349775 Basilica 0 0 1.135895 Forum 0.0222222 0.0045977 0 Stoa 0.0444444 0.0130268 2.3262956 Colonnaded Roads 0.0444444 0.0130268 0 Stadium/Hippodrome 0 0 303 Amphitheater 0 0 12.12 Odeon 0 0 16.833334 Theater 0.0222222 0.0076628 0 Nymphaeum 0 0 0 Tetrapylon 0 0 0 Peristyle 0.1333333 0.0321839 3.8113208 Palaces 0.0666667 0.0168582 0 Fortified Farmstead 0.2 0.0168582 0 Domestic 0.9555556 0.1126437 0 Columbarium 0.0888889 0.0084291 7.0877194 Aqueduct 0 0 1.7565217 Mausolea 0.1111111 0.0199234 0 Synagogue 0.0222222 0.0015326 1.1191136 Church 0 0 0 Doric 0.1555556 0.0398467 101 Ionic 0.0666667 0.0222222 0 Corinthian 0 0 0 Nabataean 0.0222222 0.0068966 0

Table 6.7 2-mode centrality scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

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Density Average Radius Diameter Fragmentation Transitivity Normal Distance Distribution 0.114 2.433 3 5 0.254 0.569 0.835

Table 6.8 2-mode cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

Fig. 6.12 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality.

The network results for building forms and décor are presented above (Fig. 6.1 and Fig.

6.12, Table 6.7 and Table 6.8). As previously mentioned, for the sake of streamlining data and keeping relatively “neat” categories, I have included in a general category of “building forms and décor” both building types and architectural orders or decoration. This is a cognizant choice here, because I am not looking to examine, for example, the different “flavors” of architectural décor of the Doric order but rather larger questions of regional engagement in architectural orders that

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were introduced during Greco-Roman imperial administrations. Likewise, building forms are represented on a presence/absence binary because I am seeking larger regional patterns rather than specific variations within architectural forms. For example, I am far less concerned with whether a site had a theater in the Ionic order or in the Corinthian order, but whether a site had a theater at all. Both building form and architectural décor are high-signaling lines of evidence and so they are treated here within the same generalizing category. Of course, the variability within architectural decoration (decorative patterns with mosaics, for example, are highly multivariate) are valuable lines of evidence to consider on their own, but this is not the overall intent of this study, in which I am taking an explicitly generalizing but holistic approach.

The overall 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period yields a density score of 0.114 and an overall transitivity score of 0.569. When we compare this to the

2-mode network for building techniques in the Hellenistic period (see Table 6.5), the disparity between the two is quite striking. While the overall network increases in diameter and radius, making it a more sprawling network (which is likely accounted by the fact that there are more variables), the geodesic distances are not terribly dissimilar (2.1 for building techniques and 2.4 for building forms and décor), meaning that the potentiality for the transmission of ideas throughout the network remains relatively similar. This observation is buttressed by the total transitivity score, which only decreases slightly from 0.63 for building techniques to 0.57 for building forms and décor, indicating that there is still a high degree of homophily and there is no clear clustering effect. While the network does become a bit more difficult for ideas to move from node to node, there is not a single isolate nor is any site more that three nodes away from another. If, for example, three sites were in contact with one another and one of those three had a particular architectural form, the other two would certainly have the ability to adopt that same

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idea. Given that most ancient sites would not be especially isolated, we would then expect a widespread diffusion of architectural forms and decorative techniques to spread quickly throughout a network. There are notable exceptions to this concept of site isolation. In the

Hellenistic period, we can witness the first historical and archaeological evidence of monastic communities developing in places like Qumran.32 Nevertheless, despite this social isolation, these sites still remain active within the larger network. Given that the overall geodesic distances and transitivity evince overall potentiality for the transmission of ideas throughout the network, the density and fragmentation scores point to a downturn in overall network cohesion when we compare building techniques and building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. The overall density decreases from 0.298 to 0.114; this means that the overall density between the two forms of architectural expression decreases by 61.745%. The total fragmentation, which measures the proportion of network pairs that cannot reach one another, increases from 0.028 for building techniques to 0.254, an increase of 807.14%. These two scores in particular indicate that the network is far more fragile when we look at building techniques versus building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. When we assess this with the overall potential for new ideas to transmit new ideas through the network, the data would suggest that while all sites had knowledge of new architectural forms and decorative techniques, far fewer sites engaged with those new ideas.

Notably, we can observe a number of architectural forms that were not connected to any sites, which remain as attribute isolates in the upper left corner of Fig. 6.12. Some of these are

Roman architectural forms (i.e. bathhouses, basilicas, and amphitheaters) and so we should not expect any connections in the Hellenistic period, but a number are architectural forms that are found elsewhere in the Hellenistic world but are not present in the southern Levant, despite the

32 It should be noted, however, that Qumran is not universally recognized as a monastic community. The purpose of the facilities at Qumran are still debated.

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fact that there were a number of sites with substantial enough populations to warrant the construction of these buildings. Three particular architectural forms are immediately noteworthy: sporting facilities, civic buildings, and civic ornamentation. No sites in the Hellenistic period in

Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea have any direct archaeological evidence of any of these architectural features.33 It is difficult to imagine that knowledge of these architectural forms was not present in the southern Levant, given that these architectural features are present in Decapolis cities. Rather, this points to a distinct disengagement with Hellenistic civic ideals; these cities did not widely participate in Greek athletics or Greek civic administration nor was there any widespread effort to make cities or large villages more “Greek” looking. Indeed, the Decapolis cities were often established by Greek dynasts specifically to be bastions of Greekness in ways that were obviously not echoed in most of the existing cities. There was, however, some engagement with Greek entertainment in the form of theaters, as there is evidence of a

Hellenistic period theater at Ashkelon, located in Idumaea. This fits fairly well with the historical accounts of the recalcitrance of Idumeans to fully integrate to Judaism, despite the forced conversion they endured during the Hasmonean period, as they chose instead to engage with

Greek rather than Judaic cultural calques.

Taken together, it is clear that there is a distinct difference between network cohesion at a macroregional level in terms of building techniques versus building forms and décor. The sites remain the same, but the kinds of buildings that are found at each suggest that there is not a distinctly unifying aspect in terms of architectural expression. Where there is engagement in new architectural fashions, they tend to be limited to large urban centers and necropoleis. An urban- rural division is not surprising, but the lack of overall civic engagement in terms of architectural

33 Keep in mind, however, that we have some historical evidence, by way of Josephus and the authors of the Maccabees, that some of these structures might have existed in Jerusalem.

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expression points to broad conservatism. The most important architectural features here are militaristic in nature. This lines up well with overall historical trend in the region during the

Hellenistic period; the early Hellenistic period is marked by a series of conflicts between the

Ptolemies and Seleukids while the latter Hellenistic period was marked by a century of

Hasmonean conquest. Engagement in a broader effort to beautify their cities or participate in

Greek cultural traditions (such as Panhellenic games) does not seem to have been a guiding principle during this period for most sites, save for a few select projects by the Hasmoneans at sites like Jericho. This is antithetical to the larger Hellenistic world, in which civic competition was firmly rooted in competitions of architectural grandeur as cities competed for social capital.

Indeed, this kind of competition happened in the nearby Decapolis cities, which were founded by

Greek rulers, but the local impetus from existing cities integrate within this system of Hellenistic civic competition seems to indicate that Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea were engaged in a wholly different set of ideals.

Fig. 6.13 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n=45.

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The network using true Jaccard values is presented in Fig. 6.13. In general, the same overall decrease in network cohesion is noticeable when using true Jaccard similarity coefficient values. If we compare the true Jaccard similarity values for building techniques in the Hellenistic period, the overall density of the network is 0.631; for building forms and décor of the same period, the overall network density drops to 0.330, a decrease of 47.7%. It is helpful to remember here that when using the true Jaccard similarity coefficient, a tie is drawn as long as there is a value present that is higher than 0. The fact that the overall network cohesion drops by nearly half indicates that there are a number of sites that scored a 0 in terms of a similarity index, which fits with the overall weakening of network cohesion that is observed above in the 2-mode networks. While 0.333 would still be considered a fairly dense network, the overall change is remarkable and is consistent with the observation that there is a decline in the cohesiveness of the networks in the same period when examining two different facets of architectural programs.

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Density Average Geodesic Average Triad Weighted Small Degree Distance Eigenvector Transitivity Clustering World Coefficient Index 0.112 4.933 1.915 0.067 0.768 0.909 10.680

Table 6.9 Whole network and cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period using binarized Jaccard values.

The network using the binarized values of the Jaccard coefficients, applying the same ≥

0.666 criterion as above in our examination of the building techniques, is presented in Fig. 6.14 and whole network measures are presented in Table 6.9. The network projection is quite different than when the true Jaccard similarity values are used. By using a specific ratio of similarity (here

66% of a site needs to be similar to each other in order to be connected, the result is a clear division of the network into smaller clusters. In comparison to the building techniques using the same binarized Jaccard data, we can observe noticeable changes in several metrics of network cohesion. The overall density and average degree decrease substantially, while the transitivity, clustering coefficient and small world indices increase rather substantially. The result is immediately apparent in the network projection, in which several unconnected cliques exist along with a number of large urban sites which are classified as isolates. The overall geodesic differences are slightly smaller than that which was observed in terms of building techniques, suggesting that we might still have a fairly reasonable expectation that information can transmit easily throughout the network. The small world index increases as well, indicating that the small-

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worldness of the network using building forms and décor than the network using building techniques.

The relatively low geodesic distance but high clustering coefficient and small worldness is a classic paradoxical phenomenon in which the networks, despite their relative potential for connection (i.e. the classic six degrees phenomenon), tend to cluster into cliques (Watts 1999;

Watts and Strogatz 1998). This phenomenon was mitigated due to the widespread use of specific building techniques in the Hellenistic period, but when we examine building forms and décor the effect is far more pronounced, resulting in a network projection that has a number of connected cliques that remain isolated from one another. Regional affiliations factor heavily into this network projection. One such cluster, Clique B, consists entirely of Samarian sites, due to a regional preference for the construction of fortified farmsteads, typified by a large courtyard industrial villa with a tall tower at one corner. This type of structure is not observed in Judaea

(except at Shoham) nor is it observed in Idumaea. Another cluster, marked as C, has within it sites from all three regions, but it cannot be formally identified as a true clique in network terms because not all of the sites connect with one another. Notably, nearly all of the Idumean sites are clustered here with the exception of the two biggest cities in Idumaea, Maresha and Ashkelon.

Another curious phenomenon is that Clique B is also where the three largest Samarian cities —

Antipatris, Shechem-Flavia Neapolis, and Samaria-Sebaste — are located. Clique C consists of the remaining Judaean and Samarian sites, which are rather curiously tied to the coastal Idumean city of Yavne; this might be evidence of a previously unnoticed relationship between city and hinterland that has not been explored by archaeologists or historians. Finally, there are isolates: one is a dyad of Samarian necropoleis, another is a triad of Samarian and Judaean villages, and the rest are true isolates, connected neither to one another nor to any clique within the network.

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Perhaps most interesting about these isolates is that each would be considered, at least in terms of historical significance, to be sites noted to be of utmost importance. These isolates are often major urban sites (Jerusalem, Maresha, and Ashkelon), were sites of strategic, administrative, and economic importance (Jericho and Ramat Rahel), or were centers of religious movements or importance (Khirbet Umm el-Umdan and Gerizim).

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When the binarized Jaccard network is scaled according to degree scores (Fig. 6.15), two particular aspects are immediately discernable. The first is that all the major cities, as well as strategically and religious important sites, have quite low degree scores, meaning that they in general do not influence the overall network in a significant way. This is rather surprising, especially because archaeologists often expect to observe site hierarchization, in which large urban centers would have a number of smaller sites contained within their immediate hinterland and each large urban center would be connected to one another. This expected pattern is not observed in this network however; in terms of their local influence on the network, these important sites are decidedly unimportant in terms of degree centrality. Instead, the sites with the highest degree scores tend to be rural villages and fortified complexes, which underscores the above observation that the Hellenistic period was not particularly marked by a high degree of urbanization and civic engagement with the larger Hellenistic world but rather was marked by the construction of large decentralized villages, centers of monastic isolation, and intensive fortification. The monumental projects carried out by the Hasmonean dynasts, which are often pointed to as evidence of intensive Hellenization, do not actually have an effect in terms of architectural expression that permeates throughout the whole network, suggesting that whatever

Hellenization in terms of building forms and décor that happened during this period was limited to Hasmonean projects. During the Hellenistic period, regional affiliations are becoming more sharply defined. The emergence of Clique B, constituted entirely of Samarian sites, demonstrates that Samaria is becoming more distinct from other regions in terms of high-signaling architectural forms. Idumaea, which in the Hellenistic period was the site of both an ethnogenesis and a process of forced religious conversion, has sites that cluster more closely with Judaean

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than Samarian sites, suggesting that there suggesting that there was a real social connection between Judaea and Idumaea.

Roman Period

Fig. 6.16 2-mode network of building forms and décor forms in the Roman period.

Density Average Radius Diameter Fragmentation Transitivity Normal Distance Distribution 0.165 2.396 3 5 0 0.530 0.649

Table 6.10 2-mode cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

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Architectural Form Degree 2-Local Closeness (Building Type or Decorative Order Fortress 0.3636364 0.1150568 0 Gatehouse 0.3181818 0.1070076 0 Temples 0.1363636 0.061553 0 Walls 0.3484848 0.1136364 - Bathhouses 0.2727273 0.0875947 - Miqveh 0.3333333 0.0691288 0 Basilica 0.0909091 0.0497159 7.9640512 Forum 0.1060606 0.0511364 0.7557868 Stoa 0.0606061 0.0284091 512 Colonnaded Roads 0.1666667 0.0823864 0.6465981 Stadium/Hippodrome 0.030303 0.0203598 2.1303816 Amphitheater 0.0454545 0.0260417 0 Odeon 0.0454545 0.0269886 0.6953552 Theater 0.1060606 0.0520833 326.8085 Nymphaeum 0.030303 0.0203598 512 Tetrapylon 0.0151515 0.0056818 94.814812 Peristyle 0.2272727 0.0956439 204.8 Palaces 0.1515152 0.0596591 236.30769 Fortified Farmstead 0.1363636 0.0118371 161.6842 Domestic 0.969697 0.1605114 12.346086 Horreum 0.030303 0.0142045 438.85715 Hiding Structures 0.0606061 0.0080492 141.47368 Columbarium 0.0454545 0.0066288 12.752179 Aqueduct 0.1363636 0.0700758 42.333485 Mausolea 0.1060606 0.0374053 0.3546642 Synagogue 0.1363636 0.0568182 0.475499 Church 0.0606061 0.0331439 0 Mithraeum 0.0151515 0.0113636 5.253078 Doric 0.2121212 0.0620265 3.5391705 Ionic 0.2878788 0.0989583 256 Corinthian 0.1969697 0.0828599 480 Nabataean 0.0151515 0.0023674 2.2921951

Table 6.11 2-mode centrality scores for building forms and décor in the Roman period

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Fig. 6.17 2-mode network of building forms and décor in the Roman period. Nodes are scaled by degree centrality.

The 2-mode networks for building forms and décor in the Roman period are presented above (Fig. 6.16 and 6.17 and Tables 6.10 and 6.11). The overall density in the Roman period between building techniques and building forms and décor decreases from 0.298 to 0.165, a decrease of 45%, with a correlating but slight increase in geodesic distances from 2.1 for building techniques to 2.396 for building forms and décor. The overall radius and diameter between the two architectural forms increases by one step, and overall transitivity decreases from

0.633 for building techniques to 0.530 for monumental architecture. The normal distribution decreases fairly substantially as well. Taken together, these data indicate that when we examine

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building forms and décor in the Roman period, there is a fairly significant decrease in the overall cohesion of the network, indicating that high-signaling forms of architectural expressions are more significant for overall cohesion than building techniques.

One pattern that is immediately noticeable when we look at the overall network projection between the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In the former, there is a clustering effect within the network between sites (red nodes) and features (blue nodes); most of the urban centers are pulled to one side of the projection, and the highest scaled sites are (in order) Jerusalem,

Ashkelon, Maresha, and Samaria-Sebaste. This same pattern is observed in the Roman period, with urban centers clustering to the right side of the projection and rural to the left. However, in the Roman period, the most dominant urban centers are located not in Judaea and Idumaea, but in Samaria, as Caesarea and Shechem-Flavia Neapolis, with Jerusalem, Samaria, Herodium, and

Jericho occupying the next level, and Idumaean sites Maresha and Ashkelon occupying the third level. The presence of Jerusalem, Herodium and Jericho are all attributable to the Herodian period construction projects, and it is not surprising that there is no other dominant Judaean urban center due to the massive scale of destruction that Palestine endured at the hands of the

Romans in the two revolts. The chronology is not refined enough to divide the Roman period into separate periods, but if we remove Jerusalem, Jericho, and Herodium as “Herodian outliers” it is fairly clear that Samarian and Idumaean sites have higher degree scores than other Judaean sites in terms of high-signaling architecture in the Roman period.

Finally, one more trend highlights the difference in building forms and décor between the

Hellenistic and the Roman period. In the Hellenistic period, there were a number of architectural isolates; admittedly, some of this was due to specific architectural forms, like bathhouses, being associated to the Roman period. However, in the Roman period, there are no architectural

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isolates. Architectural civic ornamentation, in particular, are more common in the Roman period than in the Hellenistic period, even if they were limited to relatively few sites. This again can be attributed to the specific building programs of Herod, who actively sought to integrate Palestine into the wider Greco-Roman cultural milieu, looking first to Egypt based on his patronage of

Antony and Cleopatra, then to Rome as he shifted his allegiance to Augustus. However, we still lack archaeological evidence for one particular architectural form that is not present in any of our study areas: the gymnasion and associated athletic facilities that are so common in other

Hellenistic and Roman urban centers. Finally, there are some architectural structures that are unique to the Roman period that develop during this period, including elaborate hiding structures that were cut into soft kurkar and limestone substrata during the two Jewish revolts against the

Romans. Rather unsurprisingly, the columbaria and hiding structures cluster relatively close to one another in Euclidian space in this network projection (see Footnote 6), which suggest there is a statistically significant association between hiding sites and means of communication that

Jewish rebels used during the two revolts; further analysis, such as a chi-squared test or principal components analysis could test for this unexpected, but rather interesting, result.

As before, when we examine the network using the true Jaccard values (Fig. 6.18), the resulting network projection is very dense with an overall density of 0.965 resulting from 4,138 ties between 66 sites. One particularly useful parameter is the relatively short distance between nodes (1.035) which demonstrates that each site is at least in contact with one other site.

Nevertheless, while presenting the true Jaccard values is useful for visualizing the overall macroregional cohesion of the networks, the true measure for similarity and to search for a higher degree of clustering effects is to apply the ≥ 0.666 metric that was utilized above.

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Fig. 6.18 Macroregional network of building forms and décor in the Roman period using true values of the Jaccard Index. n = 66.

C D

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Density Average Geodesic Average Triad Weighted Small Degree Distance Eigenvector Transitivity Clustering World Coefficient Index 0.069 4.515 1.812 0.050 0.708 0.879 20.233

Table 6.12 Whole network and cohesion scores for building forms and décor in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values.

The resulting network projection for when we apply the ≥ 0.666 metric to the Jaccard values is presented in Fig. 6.19. The overall network density is very low, at approximately 7%.

In general, the average degree and geodesic distance are both not that dissimilar to the monumental architecture of the Hellenistic period, nor are the transitivity and clustering coefficient scores. The small world index, however, doubles. This suggests that the potential for information to travel through the network is not dissimilar between the Hellenistic and Roman periods. The fact that the overall density is halved with a concomitant doubling of the small- world index means that there is a sharp increase in the clustering of attribute affiliations. These attributes would suggest that high-signaling architectural forms do indeed play a role in the way that sites cluster. However, we cannot label each of these clusters as a true clique in the network sense, because in each case not every single site is connected to another.

Cluster A is constituted primarily of Samarian sites, with three Judaean sites added. Jaffa is included here, but this is entirely likely to preservation bias rather than any actual affiliation to the other sites within this cluster; Jaffa has only had exploratory probes due to the continual occupation, which have revealed a fair amount of information in terms of construction

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techniques but has not revealed essentially anything in terms of building form and function.

Thus, Jaffa might “look” similar to other sites included in Cluster A, the remainder of which are rural villages and farmsteads. The other two Judaean sites, Khirbet Beit Bassa and Horvat

Burgin, are both sites located in Judaea which do not have a miqveh or a synagogue; all of the other Samarian sites are likewise sites that do not have an associated synagogue or miqveh.

Cluster A is also not identified by anything that could be associated with Greco-Roman architectural décor. These sites do not have evidence of any of the architectural orders, mosaic floors, painted and plastered walls, stuccoed decorations, or architectural ornamentation such as the use of geometric and vegetal patterns, rosettes, stars, or animalistic or anthropomorphic patterns.34 The lack of this kind of architectural decoration might, at first blush, lead us to assume that these sites were actively rejecting Greco-Roman conventions on the basis of their Jewish character, but the lack of any kind of architecture that would point to a specifically Jewish affiliation precludes such an interpretation. Rather, it is better to suggest that Cluster A represents a predominantly Samarian rural character: a lack of Greco-Roman architectural style, but also a lack of any “Jewish” architectural characteristics, despite the fact that Samarians (or perhaps more accurately within this context, Samaritans) are actively practicing a form of

Judaism.

Cluster B is subdivided into two separate nodes, each linked to one another via a broker site. The upper node is constituted of Samarian sites, which are identified by the same architectural feature, the fortified farmstead, that emerges in the Hellenistic period and which signals a Samarian feature. The three Samarian sites to the furthest right of the cluster — Hirbet

34 Though it is entirely likely that a large city like Jaffa, which has evidence of extremely high quality construction (see the vernacular sections), would have at least some of these architectural decorations, we cannot, based on the strict parameters of direct archaeological evidence, exclude the site from this cluster.

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Deir Sam-an, Khirbet Kefr Beita, and Kafr Samir — also have Doric architectural elements present. The latter of these three, Kafr Samir, also has a miqveh, which is rather surprising given the site is located near Caesarea and thus geographically quite far from other Judaean sites. On the opposite side of the cluster, constituted of primarily Judaean sites and one Idumean site

(Khirbet ed-Dawwara), and each site is characterized by the presence of a miqveh and no Greco-

Roman architectural ornamentation. Two sites, Khirbet Badd ’Isa and Khirbet Umm el-Ummdan, also have synagogues, which are a fairly uncommon architectural feature in rural villages during the Roman period.35 Three very important sites (Ein Gedi, Hebron, and Gezer) are commonly recognized as definitively Jewish sites by both ancient historical sources and modern scholars alike. Cluster B thus seems to be constituted of two distinct high-signaling architectural forms that further subcategorize into a Samarian group and a Judaean group. This is a rather unexpected, and somewhat paradoxical, phenomenon; it was expected that high-signaling architecture would create distinct markers for identity that were regionally affiliated. If, however, we examine two sites, Nahal Haggit and Kafr Samir, we can identify these as both brokers and classic cut points. If Nagal Haggit did not have a fortified farmstead, it is otherwise a classically

Judaean site, and if Kafr Samir did not have a miqveh it would be characterized as a Samarian site similar to the others. Should these sites be removed, Cluster B would in fact collapse into two smaller clusters. Finally, it should be noted that only one Idumean site actually has evidence of a miqveh. This is notable because of the forced Judaization that Idumaea endured at the hands of the Hasmoneans. This seems to indicate that despite the efforts of the Hasmoneans to

35 The real boom in construction for synagogues, especially in rural settings, begins in earnest in the late Roman period and into the Byzantine period. Notably, however, Khirbet Umm el-Ummdan is identified as Modi’in, the home of the Maccabees, the Jewish zealots who revolted against the Seluekids and established the Hasmonean dynasty, and the location of one of the earliest synagogues in Palestine, the earliest phase of which dates to the Hellenistic period.

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proselytize and convert the Idumean populations, either at the point of a sword or in a more benign manner, the local populations did not internalize a traditionally “Jewish” architectural feature into their urban landscapes.

Cluster C, like Cluster A, is a formalized clique in the network sense, because each site is connected to every other site within the cluster. This cluster is constituted entirely of Judaean and

Idumaean sites, and each one of these sites are classified either as fortresses or citadel villages.

Thus, Cluster C is defined by fortifications. It is notable that Cluster C has no Samarian sites; during the Roman period, clearly the effort to secure Palestine was focused on Idumaea and

Judaea. This fits well with the historical circumstances. Idumaea was the site of the southernmost limes Palestina, a string of fortifications that demarcated Roman territory from that of Nabataea and Arab tribes, although this was a permeable border that allowed for economic activity to transit between Rome and Nabataea along a major spice route. The fact that there are a number of fortifications along the fringes of the Negev desert has historical precedence as well, as many of the Idumean sites are Edomite or Judahite sites that were constructed and variably occupied between the late Iron Age to the late Roman period. In Judaea, on the other hand, extensive fortifications were built in the Roman period due to increased military presence in response to two successive revolts. Even after the bar-Kokhba revolt was defeated in 135 CE and the heart of

Judaism shifted northward to the Galilee, Rome continued to maintain a strong presence in the region.36 It is not surprising then that this would result in a distinct cluster that appears in the network projection. The lack of any Samarian sites does suggest that a different interaction between Samarian populations and Roman hegemons. Samarians, though they did have limited

36 The famous Legio X Fretensis, for example, were responsible for the construction of a number of projects in Palestine. Several archaeological examples of construction materials that bear the legion’s insignia have been found in and around the environs of Jerusalem.

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participation in the Jewish revolts, clearly did not have the same kind of administrative practices that Romans implemented in Idumaea and Judaea.

Cluster D is a cluster of sites that is characterized by high levels of Greco-Roman influence. Ramat Rahel, a lavish palace located just outside Jerusalem, is only connected to the rest of the cluster by a single tie; the other sites — Jerusalem, Masada, Jericho, and Herodium — are all notable Herodian projects. All sites are located in Judaea. This clustering effect is not due to a rural-urban division, because Masada, Jericho, and Herodium were not densely populated urban centers in Judaea. This cluster might be therefore typified as Judaean sites which exhibit a high level of status signaling in the form of lavish Greco-Roman style palace complexes or, in the case of Jerusalem, the only urban center that had Greco-Roman features. However, excepting

Ramat Rahel, all of these are the product of the building projects of one man and do not seem to indicate a systematic penetration of Greco-Roman architectural forms that permeate throughout the rest of Judaea between the Hellenistic and early Roman periods. Herodian projects do not indicate a wider regional phenomenon; rather, they reflect the vision of one man, albeit a visionary and prolific builder, who left an indelible impression on moderns but clearly did not sway contemporary populations to adopting Greco-Roman conventions on a wide scale.

The remainder of the sites within the network fall into dyads, loosely affiliated snake-like groupings, or are network isolates. One dyad connects Samaria and Caesarea, two major urban centers in Samaria. Another dyad, connecting Diospolis and Khirbet Meiyita, is characterized by sites with domestic architecture with Ionic features. A third dyad between Hirbet Karqush and

Tel Balatah, are two Samarian necropoleis; this dyad isolate was observed in the Hellenistic period as well. The final collection of sites is constituted by major urban centers in Idumaea and

Samaria (Ashkelon and Maresha for Idumaea and Antipatris and Samaria for Samaria), but rather

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surprisingly they do not connect to one another. This is likely due to preservation and excavation biases. Each of these sites have various levels of Greco-Roman cultural influence in either architectural form or building function. All three regions have sites that are network isolates, and there is no strong correlation between why they are isolates. Several sites, including Ramat

Hanadiv, Micharus, Khirbet el-Beuyudat, Khirbet Makhneh el-Foqa, and Khirbet el-Muraq, are all fortified palaces, most of which have some evidence of Greco-Roman architectural decoration; the Judaean sites of Micharus and Khirbet el-Beuyudat also have miqveh. Other sites, such as Apollonia-Arsuf, Yavne, and Elusa are all major urban centers but have not had extensive enough excavations conducted at each site, similar to Jaffa. The fact that Gerizim, a major urban center in Samaria, does not correlate to any other Samarian site is significant; there is limited evidence of Greco-Roman architectural features there, as well as a bathhouse and an early church, but there is no miqveh or synagogue present. The remaining sites are all rural in nature, but which have evidence of mixed features, such as Shoham, which has both a Roman- style bathhouse and a Judaean-style miqveh. Collectively, we might characterize some of these isolates as true isolates in the sense that they do not exhibit a cohesive set of attributes in a statistically significant enough manner to cluster with other sites within their region, but also a gap in the available data as a result of the nature of archaeological preservation and excavation.

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D C

A Macroregional Perspective: Cliques and Factions

The above network analyses have explored the intergroup relations among Idumaeans,

Judaeans, and Samarians as they were articulated through their architectural expressions. The networks reveal not only specific information about how local communities interacted within one another (or, in many cases, did not), they also reveal information about the implicit relations between external cultural forces: Greek dynasts, the Hasmoneans, and the Romans. When we compare the 2-mode network for building techniques in the Hellenistic and Roman periods to building forms and décor in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, several trends emerge that shed

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insight on how local populations engaged in architectural traditions at in technical and high- signaling perspectives. First, the general cohesiveness measures for building techniques in the

Hellenistic and Roman periods are virtually identical. This suggests that the basic underlying structures in the way that different imperial administrations, including the local Hasmonean one, did not fundamentally alter the way that sites were organized in terms of their regional affiliations. Of course, we must provide that the data here is inherently immobile, so we cannot expect the material to move, but we might have expected a shift in regional alliances. That this does not happen means that the region was as unified (or disunified, depending on one’s perspective) under Greek, Jewish, or Roman rulers. Network cohesion did not change in this regard, nor did the ability for information to traverse through the network. Sites did not isolate, by design or by happenstance, any more between different imperial regimes. For monumental architecture, however, the story is a bit different. Network density actually increases, and the normalized distribution decreases. The ability for information to potentially move through the network, however, remains relatively similar in the Hellenistic and Roman period.

In the Hellenistic period, the overall network density between when comparing building techniques to building forms and décor decreased by 61%. In the Roman period, the overall network density between building techniques and building forms and décor decreases by 45%.

The fact that the density scores for building techniques in the Hellenistic and Roman periods are rather static points to a conservatism that is preserved in local architectural traditions. To be sure, new architectural forms are made available in the Hellenistic and Roman periods; ashlar architecture is indicative of Greek influences in the Hellenistic period, and Roman construction techniques introduce the use of brick and concrete. In neither period, however, did imperial forms of architecture supplant local, relatively simple, forms of architecture. When examining

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building forms and décor, the overall density is slightly higher; in the Roman period, there is a bit more cohesiveness in terms of the overall network structures. However, this should be taken with a caveat, since several major sites were all build by Herod and his sons. The more cohesiveness in the network is reflective of this concerted effort by the Herodians to integrate

Palestine into a wider Greco-Roman cosmopolitan urban landscape. Given these measures, I would suggest that this was successful, but that other sites that were built during the Roman period cluster around regional markers for affiliation.

Period Overall Geodesic Transitivity Normal (Architectural Variable) Density Distance Distribution Hellenistic 0.290 2.106 0.681 0.847 (Building Technique) Hellenistic 0.114 2.433 0.569 0.834 (Building Form and Décor) Roman 0.298 2.100 0.633 0.840 (Building Technique) Roman 0.165 2.396 0.530 0.649 (Building Form and Décor)

Table 6.13 Comparison of overall network cohesion scores for 2-mode networks in the Hellenistic and Roman periods for both building techniques and building forms and décor.

Much of network analysis is macroperspective in nature and looks at overall solidarity among all actors within a system. This type of cohesion is the type that was assessed above.

However, the overall cohesion is also conditional on underlying smaller networks between subsets of actors; these clustered groups that persist within any given network that might otherwise be undetected often proves to be one of the most informative things social network analysis can reveal precisely because of the ease that they are often invisible in larger datasets. In network terms, such groups are called cliques. Cliques can reveal a lot of information about the

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structure of networks. Membership within cliques can be often contingent on a particular defining attribute, which allows for tests of many different kinds of variables to the same set of actors. How different actors are subdivided into cliques can elucidate behavioral patterns or serve as a predictive model; if actors within a network belong to multiple cliques, we might for instance predict less conflict, whereas a disjointed network might point to more potential for conflict unless there were mitigating social conditions in place (i.e. brokers). In general, there are two approaches to network approaches. Top-down approaches will examine overall network structure and identify subgroups, isolate cleavage points within the social matrix, and highlight brokerage. Top-down approaches work especially well for binary, undirected data because it inherently loosens the density of the network and makes cliques more readily apparent. For example, in all the instances above I provided network projections that utilized both directed, continuous true Jaccard values and undirected, binarized Jaccard values; in all instances using the true Jaccard values the networks proved to be far denser and thus ineffective at identifying cliques. Bottom-up approaches instead focus on individual actors or dyads and how membership is extended to other actors within a network, which allows for predictions about how the larger networks emerge from a collection of smaller networks. A bottom-up approach works well with both asymmetric and symmetric (i.e. directed and undirected) data (Carolan 2014; Carrington et al. 2005; Hanneman and Riddle 2005; Wasserman and Faust 1994).

Wasserman and Faust (1994) argue that a number of parameters must be met for a subgroup within a network to classified as formal cliques. These metrics are: 1) the mutuality of ties; 2) close proximity between nodes; 3) the frequency of ties between the various nodes within the subgroup; and 4) the frequency of ties between nodes within a subgroup and nodes that are not included in a subgroup. In no way, however, must we accept that all these metrics are met,

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because many times a strict application of these four metrics is pragmatically unlikely (c.f. Blake

2014) and would preclude a number of clusters from being able to be formally classified as cliques; thus, a number of different kinds of tests have been developed for social network analysis that can allow for a certain degree of flexibility in clique detection. For example, the strict application of the first metric is appropriate for n-cliques, which insists every member is tied to each other member within the clique; to relax the restrictiveness of the data, we might apply instead n-clans, which allows for multiple clique membership based on a relatively restricted variable. Even more loosely applied at k-plexes and k-cores, in which sites are grouped based on having a minimum number of ties (k) to other members of a group. If k=2, for example, then to be included in a k-plex or k-group an actor must be tied to all but two other actors within the subgroup. For the data presented here, we will look at both bottom-up and top-down approaches. All analyses will use the binarized Jaccard values, meaning that the matrices are undirected and binary.

Let us first examine building forms in the Hellenistic period. I experimented with several different values for clique detection. Because cliques are constructed from dyad pairs outward, the minimum size of a clique (i.e. the minimum number of actors within a subgroup) is directly relational to how many cliques are detected. For example, when the minimum size was set at three, 24 cliques were observed; at four the total cliques were 16, and at five the total cliques were eight. I thus determined that the minimum number that fit the data best was five, which resulted in eight cliques (for participation scores, see Appendix C, Table C.1). The smallest of these cliques, Clique 4, was dominated by coastal cities, which suggests that in terms of building forms, there really is a discernable Phoenician fingerprint, as these sites all utilized the pier-and- rubble technique that characterizes Phoenician architecture. Cliques 5 and 6 and also interesting,

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because they are constituted of the primarily the same actors (Caesarea, Gerizim, Khirbet el-

Urmeh, and Samaria), but distinguished by the addition of Maresha (Idumaea) in Clique 5 and

Shoham (Judaea) in Clique 6; given that the other sites in the cliques are Samarian, this suggests that both Maresha and Shoham were both important liaison sites between Idumaea and Samaria in the former and Judaea and Samaria in the latter. Most of the urban centers tended to cluster together in cliques, while the rural centers likewise tended to cluster together; this is expected.

As for attribute affiliation in relation to regional identity, there is no clear distinction save for the use of the Phoenician-style architecture in the coastal cities. A number of sites, however, had no affiliation at all to any cliques, indicating they were true isolates (see Table C.1).

If we examine the dataset in terms of factions then different patterns are detectable. I first ran as many faction functions as necessary to find a final goodness of fit that exceeded 90%; though I ran the faction analyses multiple times, I discovered that there was not enough statistical significance between setting factions at a higher value than eight and thus eight became the minimum number to achieve statistical significance.37 The results of the factions are presented below in Table 6.14; a “1” signals membership to that faction, and a “0” signals absence from that faction. In particular, several regional trends rather surprisingly clustered together; Faction 1 included the Judaean sites of Ramat Rahel, Jericho, Jerusalem, and Gezer; Faction 2 the coastal cities of Ashkelon, Yavne and Ashdod; and Faction 5 is a regionally diverse grouping that included major sites such as Samaria, Maresha, Gerizim, and Caesarea. Two sites, Beersheva and

Shechem, were each their own faction. Table 6.12 shows the density scores for each faction;

Faction 5 is the most dense, followed by Factions 1 and 3, which are nearly identical in density.

Faction 5 is very diverse, but Factions 1 and 3 are sites that are regionally affiliated.

37 There was no value that achieved a goodness of fit that exceeded 95%, so I cannot use an alpha value of anything less than 0.9.

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Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Alexandrium 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Antipatris 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Ashdod 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Ashkelon 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Beersheva 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Beth-Zur 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Bethel 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Caesarea/Straton's 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Tower Gerizim 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Gezer 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hebron 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbat Hamad 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Hirbet Basatin 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Karqush 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Najar 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Burgin 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Horvat Ethri 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Horvat Mazad 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Migdal 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Uza 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Jaffa 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Jebel Nimra 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Jericho 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Jerusalem 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Kafr Samir 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Khirbet Beit Sila 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Khirbet Umm el- 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Umdan Khirbet el-Urmeh 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Maresha 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Micharus 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Nahal Beit Arif 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Qasr Kuah 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Qasr e-Lejah 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0

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Qumran 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Ramat Hanadiv 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Ramat Rahel 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Samaria-Sebaste 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Shechem-Flavia 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Neapolis Shoham 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Tel Mahata 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Yavne 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0

Number of factions Initial proportion correct: Final proportion correct: 8 0.6755 0.9154

Table 6.14 List of factions identified for building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit.

Faction 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

1 0.833 0.167 0.068 0 0.292 0.250 0.125 0

2 0.167 1 0.182 0 0 0 0 0

3 0.068 0.182 0.836 0 0.091 0 0.068 0.136

4 0 0 0 - 0.333 1 0 0

5 0.292 0 0.091 0.333 0.933 0 0 0

6 0.250 0 0 1 0 - 0.250 0

7 0.125 0 0.068 0 0 0.250 1 0.250

8 0 0 0.136 0 0 0 0.250 1

Table 6.15 Faction density table for building techniques in the Hellenistic period.

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The network projection that emphasizes k-cores using binarized Jaccard values is presented below in Fig. 6.21. Three sites are the sole representative of their k-group: Ashdod,

Maresha, and Horvat Burgin. Ashdod only has ties to two other coastal cities, Yavne and

Ashkelon, reiterating the tendency for the coastal cities to be fairly distinctive in terms of building techniques, but interestingly maintaining a separation from other coastal sites in

Samaria. Notably, Jaffa also pulls closer to this cluster, despite being in a separate k-core, attributed probably because of excavation and preservation bias at Jaffa. Another isolated site is

Horvat Burgin, which separated in this case from other rural sites mostly by the presence of ashlars and arches and is otherwise a fairly unremarkable rural village. The final singular site is

Maresha, and this occupies a place of great importance in the network. As was discussed earlier,

Maresha is clearly a broker, or bridge, in this network, with direct ties to three other k-core clusters and relatively short geodesic distances to other subgroups. Maresha, which is located in

Idumaea and was a multicultural and multiethnic city, was clearly a site of great importance in the Hellenistic period, especially as a liaison between Samaria and Judaea. Qumran and Horvat

Ethri, which are in Judaea and Idumaea respectively, are similar to Horvat Burgin in the sense that they are fairly unremarkable villages (the historical and theological significance of Qumran notwithstanding) but utilized arches in their construction techniques; likewise, the three sites of

Horvat Mazad, Hebron, and Horvat Migdal, the first two of which are in Judaea and the latter in

Samaria, are all separated by their use of both ashlars and rubble construction techniques. In all these instances of small k-core clusters, however, there is still a rural-urban split. However, if all five of these sites are removed (and we use historical information to suggest that Hebron,

Qumran, and Horvat Ethri were the most important of these sites), the network would decompose

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into two separate dense networks, suggesting that these sites maintain a high degree of importance for the overall cohesion of this network; if, for example, Hebron and Horvat Ethri were seized by an invading force, it would effectively isolate the rest of Judaea from both

Idumaea and Samaria, which has no geographic logic given that both sites are to the south- southeast of Jerusalem. This might suggest that sites in the northern part of Judaea (and thus closer to Samaria) might be more fluid in regional affiliation, which would then itself suggest relative continuity between Samarian and Judaean sites. Idumaean sites, on the other hand, are more regionally isolated. The k-core analysis reveals that Maresha is an important broker for the network and Hebron and Horvat Ethri, in particular, are potential sites of network cleavage.

Fig. 6.21 K-core network projection for building techniques in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership.

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Because we have seen above that there is not much of a change between the Hellenistic and Roman periods for vernacular architecture in terms of overall network cohesion and density,

I did not alter the minimum number for clique requirements when we look at the network for the

Roman period; the only fundamental change here is that the two datasets are dissimilar because there are more identifiable Roman sites in the archaeological record. Using the same metrics as for the Hellenistic period, in the Roman period there are 16 identifiable cliques (see Appendix C,

Table C.2). The largest of these cliques are Cliques 1, 3, and 12, composed nearly entirely of

Samarian and Judaean rural villages, with a few citadel villages and fortresses also present.

Clique 4 is constituted entirely of larger urban centers, excepting Khirbet el-Muraq, which has a palace; Clique 5 is the same as Clique 4 with the addition of Samaria-Sebaste. Clique 6 might be classified as important secondary sites within different regional networks, consisting of less important urban centers like Antipatris, Beersheva, Gerizim, and Jaffa. The remaining cliques are a mixture of sites from various regions, with no obvious solution in terms of architectural expression, site function, or regional affiliation. This is probably attributable to the overall density of the structure, which as was mentioned above, makes clique detection more difficult.

Factions, on the other hand, more detectable. Applying the same standards as I did for the

Hellenistic period, I found that only six factions were needed to achieve the same statistical significance. Faction 2 is by far and away the largest, consisting of primarily rural villages and farmsteads, followed closely by Faction 4, which also consisted of villages. Faction 1 included sites from both Samaria and Judaea, but no Idumean ones and is primarily constituted of major sites like Ramat Rahel, Ramat Hanadiv, Shechem, Caesarea, and Jericho; all are sites where

Roman brick was used. The other factions are a curious mix of sites and regional affiliation, but

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Faction 6 in particular is constituted by large urban centers such as Ashkelon, Jaffa, Jerusalem,

Elusa, and Antipatris, though this too is regionally mixed.

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 Alexandrium 0 0 0 1 0 0 Antipatris 0 0 0 0 0 1 Apollonia-Arsuf 0 0 1 0 0 0 Ashkelon 0 0 0 0 0 1 Beersheva 0 0 0 0 1 0 Beit el-Khireb 0 0 0 1 0 0 Caesarea-Maritima 1 0 0 0 0 0 Ein Gedi 0 1 0 0 0 0 Elusa 0 0 0 0 0 1 Gerizim 0 0 0 0 1 0 Gezer 0 1 0 0 0 0 Hebron 0 1 0 0 0 0 Herodium 0 0 0 0 1 0 Hirbat Hamad 0 1 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Basatin 0 1 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0 0 0 1 0 0 Hirbet Karqush 0 0 0 1 0 0 Hirbet Najar 0 0 0 1 0 0 Horvat Burgin 0 0 1 0 0 0 Horvat Ethri 0 0 0 1 0 0 Horvat Mazad 0 0 0 1 0 0 Horvat Migdal 0 1 0 0 0 0 Horvat Uza 0 1 0 0 0 0 Horvat Zikhrin 0 0 1 0 0 0 Jaffa 0 0 0 0 0 1 Jebel Nimra 0 1 0 0 0 0 Jericho 1 0 0 0 0 0 Jerusalem 0 0 0 0 0 1 Kafr Samir 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0 0 1 0 0 0 Khirbet Beit Bassa 0 0 0 0 1 0 Khirbet Beit Sila 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Betar 0 0 0 1 0 0 Khirbet ed-Dawwara 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Beuyudat 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Muraq 0 0 0 0 0 1 Khirbet Meiyita 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Shurrab 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Tana et-Tahta 0 1 0 0 0 0

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Khirbet Umm al-Asafir 0 0 0 1 0 0 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 0 1 0 0 0 0 Lydda 0 0 0 0 1 0 Maresha 0 0 0 0 0 1 Micharus 0 1 0 0 0 0 Nablus 0 0 0 1 0 0 Nahal Haggit 0 1 0 0 0 0 Petura 0 1 0 0 0 0 Qasr e-Lejah 0 0 0 1 0 0 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0 0 0 1 0 0 Qasr Kuah 0 0 0 1 0 0 Ramat Hanadiv 1 0 0 0 0 0 Ramat Rahel 1 0 0 0 0 0 Samaria-Sebaste 0 0 0 0 1 0 Shechem-Flavia 1 0 0 0 0 0 Neapolis Shoham 0 1 0 0 0 0 Tel Aroer 0 0 1 0 0 0 Tel el-Arba'in 0 1 0 0 0 0 Tel Mahata 0 1 0 0 0 0 Yavne 0 0 1 0 0 0

Number of factions Initial proportion correct: Final proportion correct: 6 0.8387 0.9112

Table 6.16 List of factions identified for building techniques in the Roman period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit.

Faction 1 2 3 4 5 6

1 0.600 0 0.028 0.090 0.111 0.119 2 0 0.929 0 0.092 0.127 0 3 0.028 0 0.400 0.141 0 0.143 4 0.090 0.092 0.141 0.731 0 0.110 5 0.111 0.127 0 0 1 0.381 6 0.119 0 0.143 0.110 0.381 1

Table 6.17 Faction density table for building techniques in the Roman period.

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Fig. 6.22 K-core network projection for building techniques in the Roman period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership.

The network projection for the k-cores groups for building techniques in the Roman period using binarized Jaccard values is presented above in Fig. 6.22. Immediately apparent is that the overall network, as we observed when examining the binarized Jaccard values above, makes it quite clear that this is a much more cohesive network. Ten different k-groups are detected. In order to decompose the entire network into two separate networks, the k-group indicated by the green nodes would need to be removed; this k-group is constituted of both

Judaean and Samarian sites, indicating that Idumaea has no role in maintaining the integrity of the macroregional network. This is quite different than the Hellenistic period, when the Idumean site Maresha held special significance in the preservation of the network as an important broker.

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Indeed, Idumean sites are scatted across a number of different k-cores, suggesting that Idumaea is interacting with both its local neighbors and imperial hegemon in fundamentally different ways. There is also a noticeable difference in terms of rural and urban site divisions; all major urban sites tend to cluster to the top and top left of the projection, while the other secondary sites are positioned between these sites and the rural villages and farmsteads. This seems to point to a site hierarchization that was not present in the Hellenistic period, suggesting that there is a different kind of administrative practice carried out in the Roman period that was not present in the Hellenistic. This too would fit with above observations about the characteristics of the

Roman network in terms of density and the ability for information to traverse across the network, but it also points to a more robust network in terms of a significantly higher threshold for cutpoints in the network that was not true for the Hellenistic period.

Let us now turn to building forms and décor. As before, I experimented with the number of cliques in an effort to achieve the highest goodness of fit with the lowest number of cliques.

For building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period, I set the same number for minimum clique membership (five) as I did for building techniques, which resulted in five cliques for building forms and décor compared to eight for building techniques (for clique participation scores, see Appendix C, Table C.3). The smallest of these cliques is Clique 2, constituted of the minimum of five sites (Ashdod, Micharus, Beersheva, Horvat Uza, and Tel Mahata). The latter three of these sites are Idumean, and the first two are Judaean. These same three Idumaean sites are in Clique 1, which adds in Alexandrium, Antipatris, and Shechem-Flavia Neapolis, three additional sites that are characterized by their fortifications but also have additional features present (either in terms of architectural decoration or other kinds of building forms). Clique 5 is constituted entirely of Samarian sites that are defined by the presence of a fortified farmstead,

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and Clique 4 is a collection of sites from all regions. As noted before, maintaining a high number of minimum members for cliques results in many sites not being associated with any cliques in any degree (see Table C.3), and the most notable of these sites are large urban centers or areas of high strategic importance; sites like Ashkelon, Gerizim, Gezer, Hebron, Horvat Ethri, Jericho,

Jerusalem, Maresha, Qumran, and Ramat Rahel do not fall into any clique. I experimented with the minimum clique number, dropping it down to three, which resulted in two additional cliques but did not included any of the above sites. This suggests that in the Hellenistic period, building forms or trends in terms of architectural décor were primarily limited to large urban centers and special sites, such as Jericho. Other sites, most notably Qumran, are notable for their distinct lack of anything, suggesting that there is a sort of architectural asceticism that is actively practiced in the region.

When we reframe the dataset to examine factions, it is immediately apparent that faction detection is much more easily defined through building forms and décor than building techniques. I experimented with the total faction value, seeking to find the best balance between final goodness of fit and minimum number of factions. If that value was set at a higher number, such as 12, the final goodness of fit approached 0.99, but also resulted in a number of “factions” that were just a singular site. I ultimately determined that a goodness of fit that was ≥ 0.95 with the smallest number of factions resulted in the detection of eight factions (Table 6.15). Faction 1 is made up of sites that have miqveh, as is Faction 5, with the only difference between the two factions is the additional presence of fortifications and walls at the sites in Faction 1. Faction 2 is constituted of sites from all three regions which have no defining characteristics beyond the presence of domestic architecture (here again we encounter the problem of preservation bias).

Faction 3, which includes Jerusalem, Hirbet Karqush, Jericho, and Tel Balatah, appear to cluster

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on the lines of the presence of mausolea, though no mausoleum is found in Jericho; why it clusters with this faction instead appears to be on its affiliation in other characteristics with

Jerusalem, such as the presence of palaces and Greek architectural orders. Faction 4 is entirely made up of Samarian sites, most of which have fortified farmsteads. Faction 6 includes most of the large cities and fortresses. Faction 7 includes those sites which have columbaria, and Faction

8 those which have temples. As is the case with most network analyses, this is not a way to classify sites, but rather to visualize the data in a way that makes distinctions more apparent; for example, the architectural projects at Ramat Rahel are frequently discussed by modern scholarship in relation to other palace complexes, but a faction analysis reveals that it also has connections to other more rural villages. Similarly, while Maresha and Ashkelon might be considered together as Idumean sites, the presence of Gerizim indicates that there is an additional level of analysis that could be had; in this instance, the presence of temples at all three of these sites indicates a religious discontinuity among other sites in the region in a time of religious turmoil and forced conversion.

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Alexandrium 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Antipatris 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Ashdod 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Ashkelon 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Beersheva 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Beth-Zur 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Bethel 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Gerezim 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Gezer 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hebron 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbat Hamad 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Hirbet Karqush 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Najar 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Horvat Burgin 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Horvat Ethri 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Mazad 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Migdal 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Uza 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1

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Horvat Zikhrin 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Jaffa 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Jericho 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Jerusalem 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Kafr Samir 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Beit Sila 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Khirbet el-Qasr 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Urmeh 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Maresha 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Micharus 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Nahal Beit Arif 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Nahal Haggit 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Qasr e-Lejah 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Qasr Kuah 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Qumran 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Ramat Rahel 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Ridan 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Samaria-Sebaste 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Shoham 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Tel Balatah 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Tel Mahata 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Um Rihan 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Yavne 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0

Number of factions Initial proportion correct: Final proportion correct: 8 0.8303 0.9737

Table 6.18 List of factions identified for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit.

Faction 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1 0.333 0 0 0 0.063 0.111 0 0 2 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 0 0 0.167 0 0 0 0 0 4 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 5 0.063 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 6 0.111 0 0 0 0 0.833 0 0 7 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.500 0

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8 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

Table 6.19 Faction density table for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

Fig. 6.23 K-core network projection for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership. Clusters are labeled A, B, and C.

The projection for the k-core membership using the binarized Jaccard values is presented above in Fig. 6.23, which results in nine identifiable k-cores. Two clusters, A and C, are quite well-connected, simultaneously being defined as a clique in network terms and their own k-core.

Cluster A is constituted entirely of Samarian and Judaean sites, as is true for Cluster C excepting the one Idumaean site of Yavne. Cluster B, however, is more interesting. It has members from all

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three regions and within this single cluster there are five separate k-cores. Because network projections rely on Euclidean distances, the division of k-cores also allows us to see that the isolate triad Khirbet Beit Sila, Horvat Burgin, and Horvat Zikhrin, despite being quite separated in Euclidian space are also within the same k-core as Gezer and Beth Zur in Cluster C; thus, while the defining characteristic for the triad is the presence of a columbarium and both Gezer and Beth-Zur have miqveh, in all other aspects these five sites are more similar to one another than they are dissimilar. Shoham is likewise separated by other members within its k-core, which are all identified by the presence of a miqveh, despite the fact that it pulls much closer to the other heavily fortified sites. Finally, both Samaria-Sebaste and Ashdod are the singular representatives of their k-core, indicating that there is a different set of processes in operation in these two sites that separates them from other regional members. Finally, there are a number of isolated sites, which make up their own k-core, which mostly includes sites that have exceptionally notable features; thus, Khirbet Umm el-Umdan, which has one of the earliest synagogues in Israel that dates to the late Hellenistic period, appears within this k-core, but so does Jericho, which was a site for palaces built with Greco-Roman features by the Hasmoneans and Gerizim, which is not in a k-core with other Samarian urban centers. The k-core projection thus informs the binarized Jaccard network in a way that is different than presented above; though there are a number of sites that are not connected to one another, points to an overall trend of regional affiliation defined by architectural forms (as in the case of the green k-core, which excludes Samarian sites), but that this is not crystallized in the Hellenistic period. Lastly, the site of Gezer proves to be a broker for this network, connecting other Judaean sites with miqveh with fortified sites in Judaea and Idumaea. Notably, it has a further geodesic distance from Samarian cities, meaning that though Gezer remains a large urban center, it is not

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interacting directly with relatively nearby (in terms of geographic distance and Euclidian network distance) with either Samarian cities or to other major Judaean cities like Jerusalem.

For the Roman period, I had to modify the clique values slightly because I found that five resulted in too few cliques. I experimented with a few different minimum number values and determined that four was the best fit for the data without creating far too many “cliques” that would simply be triads, dyads, or singular nodes (see Appendix C, Table C.4). This resulted in nine identifiable cliques, but as before a number of sites are not associated, even by adjacency, to any clique, so it does not include every member in the network. Nevertheless, some interesting patterns emerged. Cliques 1 – 3 are characterized by sites that have a miqveh, with each clique being further subdivided on other architectural features at the site; the co-occurrence of a Roman style bathhouse, for example, is notable throughout these cliques, which suggests that these are sites that are actively interested in maintaining ritualized purity based on the social connotations of bathing that develops in the late Hellenistic and Roman period (Hoss 2005; Small 1987). The majority of members within these cliques are Judaean. Clique 4 is characterized by fortresses and citadel villages. Clique 5 is the largest of the cliques and is constituted of Samarian sites which are characterized by the fortified farmstead. Clique 6 includes sites that are major Herodian projects, such as Herodium, Jericho, Jerusalem, and Masada. Cliques 7 – 9 mirrors Cliques 1-3, such that there is some variation between different cliques but they are primarily identified by their lack of a miqveh. The majority of the members in these cliques are Samarian.

The faction information for building forms and décor is presented below in Table 6.17.

As I did above for the Hellenistic period, I identified the minimum number of factions possible while achieving a goodness of fit that is ≥ 0.95, which resulted in 10 identifiable factions. Some of the factions mirrored the cliques that they pulled into above, but perhaps most notable is the

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inclusion of exempted sites in terms of clique detection. Factions 1 and 2 are almost entirely

Samarian sites, excepting Diospolis and Khirbet el-Muraq. Faction 3 includes sites that have miqveh as their defining feature. Faction 4 includes sites with high levels of Greco-Roman architectural forms. Faction 5 is primarily the Samarian cities of Caesarea, Gerezim, and

Shechem-Flavia Neapolis. Faction 6 is almost entirely made up of Samarian sites, while Factions

7 – 9 are a mixture of sites that have a number of defining characteristics. Finally Faction 10 is characterized by fortresses and citadel towns. While the factions are not intended to be actual historical reflections of relationships, they show goodness of fit based on attribute affiliation and the data point to factional divisions that develop in the Hellenistic period and continue to the

Roman period that demonstrate regional affiliation based architectural forms, which is more apparent when applied to monumental architecture than to vernacular architecture.

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Alexandrium 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Antipatris 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Apollonia-Arsuf 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Ashkelon 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Beersheva 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Beit el-Khirbeh 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Caesarea 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Diospolis 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Ein Gedi 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Elusa 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Gerezim 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Gezer 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hebron 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Herodium 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Basatin 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Hamad 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Hamariyyeh 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Hirbet Karqush 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Hirbet Najar 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Horvat Burgin 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Horvat Ethri 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0

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Horvat Hermashit 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Horvat Mazad 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Horvat Migdal 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Horvat Uza 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Horvat Zikhrin 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Jaffa 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Jebel Nimra 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Jericho 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Jerusalem 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Kafr Samir 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Beit Bassa 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Beit Sila 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Betar 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Khirbet ed-Dawwara 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Arba'in 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Beuyudat 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Lozeh 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Muraq 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet el-Qasr 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Kefr Beita 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Makhneh el-Foqa 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Khirbet Meiyita 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Shurrab 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Tana et-Tahta 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Umm al-Asfir 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Maresha 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Masada 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Micharus 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Nablus 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 Nahal Haggit 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Petura 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Qasr e-Lejah 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Qasr Kuah 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Ramat Hanadiv 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Ramat Rahel 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 Samaria 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 Shoham 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 Tel Aroer 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Tel Belatah 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 Tel Mahata 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Yavne 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0

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Number of factions Initial proportion correct: Final proportion correct: 10 0.8494 0.9660

Table 6.20 List of factions identified for building forms and décor in the Roman period. Hamming measures used to determine goodness of fit.

FACTION 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 1 0.200 0.025 0.050 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 0.025 0.893 0.031 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 0.050 0.031 0.607 0 0 0 0.100 0 0 0 4 0 0 0 0.467 0 0 0 0 0 0 5 0 0 0 0 0.100 0 0 0 0 0 6 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 7 0 0 0.100 0 0 0 0.100 0 0 0 8 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.100 0 0 9 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.300 0 10 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1

Table 6.21 Faction density table for building forms and décor in the Roman period.

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C D

Fig. 6.24 K-core network projection for building forms and décor in the Roman period. Nodes are colored by k-core membership. Clusters are labeled A, B, C, and D.

Finally, the network projection emphasizing k-cores and using the binarized Jaccard values for building forms and décor in the Roman period is presented in Figure 6.24. There are eight identifiable k-cores, and as was observed above for the Hellenistic period, membership in a k-core does not necessarily mean membership to a clique or a faction. Cluster A is constituted of both Judaean and Samarian sites, but without the presence of a miqveh. Jaffa, as was noted above, is likely an outlier due to the lack of good archaeological data from the site. Cluster B has members from all three regions, but only one representative from Idumaea, suggesting that the site of Khirbet ed-Dawwara is also an outlier for Idumaea. Hebron appears again to be a potential

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broker based on its connections to three other k-cores and thus Hebron is a site of potential cleavage for network cohesion. Cluster B has contained within it four k-cores, a full half of all potential k-cores. Most of the sites, safe for the light green grouping, have miqveh, and in the case of Khirbet Badd ’Isa and Khirbet Umm el-Umdan, a synagogue. However, Cluster D nearly entirely shares membership with other members of Cluster B (as the dark green k-core indicates the presence of miqveh and/or a synagogue), and yet does not pull to the same cluster. The primary difference is the latent signaling of the two clusters; the sites in Cluster B also have hiding structures and columbaria, both architectural signatures of resistance. The sites in Cluster

D have a two-way signaling effect: on the one hand, there are classic symbols of “Jewishness” present in the form of miqveh and synagogues, while on the other hand they also have high degrees of Greco-Roman influence. These sites, in terms of Euclidian projection, thus cluster closer to other high-signaling urban centers. Cluster C, which is evenly distributed between

Judaean and Idumaean sites, is characterized by fortresses. Furthermore, there is one additional k-core, signified in blue, that is nearly entirely made up of cities, and nearly all of them are

Samarian or Idumaean, with the exception of Diospolis in Judaea (though, perhaps not insignificantly, it is on the border between Judaea and Idumaea) and Ramat Rahel. Though these sites do not cluster together enough to make a clique, or even a loose network, the k-core analysis reveals a deeper underlying affiliation with one another. Finally, the isolates reveal interesting phenomenon. Most of the isolates are sites where there is a poor archaeological record, and while we might suppose (or even “know” based on historical sources) what architectural features are present we cannot ascertain this with any real veracity archaeologically.

However, the fact that Gerizim, a major city in Samaria, is not clustered with any other Samarian city is notable because it suggests that something quite different, at least in terms of broader

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architectural engagement, was happening in Gerizim that was not happening elsewhere in

Samaria, which likely reflects a real social and historical condition.

Summary and Discussion

Period Overall Average Geodesic Transitivity Clustering Small (Architectural Form) Density Degree Distance Coefficient World Index Hellenistic 0.264 11.636 2.562 0.455 0.714 2.092 (Building Technique) Hellenistic 0.236 13.695 2.500 0.460 0.719 2.236 (Building forms and Décor) Roman 0.112 4.933 1.915 0.768 0.909 10.680 (Building Technique) Roman 0.069 4.515 1.812 0.708 0.879 20.233 (Building Form and Décor)

Table 6.22 Comparison of overall network cohesion metrics using binarized Jaccard values in the Hellenistic and Roman periods for both building techniques and building forms and décor.

This chapter explored the use of building techniques and building forms and décor as a

means to assess regional cohesion and regional affiliation. Here we are looking at the technical

expression of architectural forms, which we might classify as “vernacular” because it is locally

encoded and locally reproduced knowledge. Architectural innovations during the Hellenistic and

Roman periods are generally not a product of autochthonous and independent invention, but

rather as the product of imperial regimes that introduced novel architectural techniques and

philosophies. The relatively dense cohesion of the networks for building techniques demonstrate

that for the most part ancient Palestine did not engage in a widespread adaptation of Hellenistic

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architectural conventions. In very rural farmsteads we should not expect to find much in the way of imperial engagement, but this only proves to be true for Judaea and Idumaea; in Samaria, however, even in rural farmsteads and villages there is some integration of new architectural building conventions. On the coast, where there was a significant Phoenician presence or those cities which were under direct Phoenician administration during the Persian and Hellenistic periods, a form of architectural construction technique specific to Phoenicians — pier-and-rubble

— is present.38 In all other areas, however, the networks reveal that there is an overall tendency for all sites to use local architectural forms. This pattern, for the most part, persists into the

Roman period; while there are more diverse forms that are observable in the Roman period, the general pattern of using local traditions continues. At issue here is whether it is possible to detect the degree of engagement between local communities and imperial hegemons, both foreign and domestic. The networks clearly demonstrate that communities were not disconnected.

Information was easily traversable across the site, and yet the lack of any real engagement suggests that local communities were maximally actively resisting new architectural innovations or minimally passively disengaged. This is likely due to an overall lack of centralized administration on the part of Hellenistic dynasts, both Greek and Jewish.

Some cliques are evident in the Hellenistic period, primarily along urban and rural divisions. Factions, on the other hand, are much more difficult to ascertain. First, we should remember that factions are not necessarily a way to elucidate real relations between actors within a network, but rather which are most likely to be related to one another based on a set of fixed attributes. Thus, sometimes factions can shed insight on real groupings, and other times might align actors not based on a real connection but on one that should exist. The fact that goodness of

38 As an aside, this form of architectural construction is found elsewhere in Phoenician colonies like Carthage.

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fit was never really possible to be ≥ 0.92 indicates that there is not a particularly high degree of factionalization, which suggests widespread distribution of attributes — in this case, architectural techniques — between actors within the network. While the factions do not trend toward strong regional affiliation, the fact that they demonstrate more interaction between Idumaea and

Samaria points to a different kind of engagement with these two regions with imperial dynasts.

Indeed, one of the most important sites for regional network cohesion that emerges in the

Hellenistic period is Maresha. In the Roman period, there are even more cliques present, but notably important secondary cities tend to cluster together; these sites (for the most part) existed in the preceding Hellenistic period but did not tend to cluster together as identifiable cliques.

Furthermore, these secondary sites tend to span all three regions. This indicates that there is a much higher degree of centralization in the Roman period, where these secondary sites take on an elevated importance within the network. Further, no singular cutpoints are detected in the

Roman period when we look at the evidence from building techniques; rather, an entire k-core would need to be removed in order for the network to disintegrate into two separate networks, again hinting at an overall increase in network incorporation during the Roman period. In general, the degree scores from the 2-mode network indicate that common Roman architectural forms, like arches, are more widespread during the Roman period (as expected), but in general the traditional building techniques, using rubble-style walls in rural villages and domestic architecture and ashlars for more monumental projects, are not supplanted. The fact, however, that the underlying metrics for the Roman period are not all that dissimilar from the Hellenistic period suggest that there is still some kind of rejection of imperial architectural forms, and given the fact that there is more centralized power in the Roman period this would align more to active resistance than passive disengagement. Given that it is in the Roman period that there are two

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major revolts, it is possible that there is a fingerprint for resistance that is detectable in the building forms (c.f Fogelin 2003; Liebmann et al. 2005; Preucel 2002), despite the relative ease by which local populations could have adopted new architectural traditions.

When we examine building forms and décor, by contrast, the networks for both the

Hellenistic and Roman periods are quite different than what is observed for building techniques.

Building form and décor considers all the architectural phenomena that extend beyond technical construction and which are often for public use and are under official patronage, and thus I consider them high signaling; this is not a reference to size but to importance of a building, and even the smallest rudely constructed building can be deeply important for local identity and behavior. One striking feature, but one that was expected, is the disintegration of the overall macroregional cohesion of the network. While the network was not particularly dense for building techniques, measuring approximately 25% for both the Hellenistic and Roman periods, for building form and décor the density plummets to 11% in the Hellenistic period and just 7% for the Roman period. This drop in overall density is accompanied by a large increase in transitivity scores in both periods, indicating that while information is actually much easier to traverse the network under imperial regimes, how local populations engage with new imperial architectural forms decreased. The small-world indices for building techniques were ≈ 2 for both periods; for building form and décor, the small-word index increases by a factor of five to ≈10 in the Hellenistic period and by a factor of ten to ≈20 in the Roman period. Clearly, then, building form and décor, or high signaling architectural forms, were important factors in decomposing the networks.

Clique detection and factionalization, on the other hand, are much more pronounced when considering building form and décor to building techniques. Cliques tended to fall along

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defining architectural features that signified membership, and this was reiterated by the factions.

The networks reveal that while there is not a strong regionalization aspect that is evident for building techniques — meaning that sites in general do not look all that dissimilar in terms of architectural construction — there is a much stronger evidence for regionalization when we examine building form and décor, which results in different regions clustering together in both real network cliques and in idealized factions. Indeed, the goodness of fit for factions when looking at building form and décor is much higher than that for building techniques, indicating that these high signaling aspects are strong predictors of not only regional affiliation but of local identity. However, we should not rely on these factors alone, because network projections for k- core membership also suggest that there are membership affiliations that sometimes are not clustered nearby in Euclidian space or are sometimes not even within the same local clusters.

This would suggest that a different kind of social phenomenon is thus transcending what are otherwise strong predictors for regional affiliation and social identity.

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CHAPTER 7 ARCHITECTURE, SOCIAL CONNECTEDNESS, AND IDENTITY: A MACROREGIONAL VIEW

Introduction The preceding chapters sought first to explore the theoretical paradigms within which this study could be contextualized. Further, the above chapters explored how social network analyses could be utilized to allow the data to be quantified in order to answer an inherently qualitative question: to gauge to what degree local populations manifested regional affiliation or social identity through their architecture. In this last chapter, I will review the material presented above in order to assess what we have learned through both methodological approaches and theoretical insights. The material presented above included data from approximately 80 sites from three regions in ancient Palestine (from north to south): Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea. As discussed in the introduction, I am not considering two especially large areas of the southern Levant that were also variously considered part of Palestine: Galilee and the cities of the Decapolis in the

Transjordan. The former is not included in large part because of the robust regionally specific studies that exist, due in no small part to the preponderance of archaeological projects in the area as well as the deep historical and theological interest the region maintains as both the cradle of

Christianity and of rabbinical Judaism. The Decapolis is not included because these ten cities were explicitly founded as “Greek” cities, settled by “Greek” colonists, and usually established ex novo by Hellenistic dynasts with the explicit intent to impart Greekness in the Levant — an act which, in these cities and their immediate hinterlands, was largely successful. But the

Decapolis, while certainly not disengaged from the larger geopolitical landscape, was never intended to be integrated with local populations and we should not understand these cities as

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such, even if two of them (Scythopolis or Beit She’an and Hippos-Sussita, both in the Galilee) were conquered by the local Hasmonean kings. Thus, while the importance of these regions cannot be understated, this study instead focuses on these other regions of Palestine and seeks to integrate our understanding of what was happening elsewhere in Palestine in order to put the rest of the southern Levant into dialogue with the Galilee and Decapolis. Finally, I should comment that, as many studies do, the material here in some ways confirms existing scholarship, in other ways reframes it, and it in yet other ways open up entirely new avenues of exploration.

Archaeologists are increasingly more attentive to new methodological approaches that can reframe old data or address well-informed theories. Furthermore, as archaeologists are increasingly more cognizant in examining archaeological material at larger scales than ever before, computational models have stepped in to provide methodological insights that allow for foci on broader behavior patterns. If rigorous and “hard” methods are the skeletons of archaeological analysis, then the more abstract and “squishy” theories are the muscles that articulate the bones and give them the means to tell a story. Studies of identity, social relations, imperial interactions, core-periphery models, and the like have long histories in archaeological explication for the Greco-Roman period in the southern Levant and have been particularly interested in the processes of Hellenization and Romanization (and, to a much lesser extent,

Judaization), but few studies have been done that actually contextualize archaeological material beyond a theoretical level. By using strict computational approaches, this study seeks to quantify the material record first by way of computational modeling and then seeking to qualify it through a theoretical lens.

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Methodological Insights

Both of the methods used in this study are abstractions of historical data. In terms of formal concept analysis, they cannot reveal real interactions, but rather create a kind of latticed map that shows a series of interactions based on a strict formalized mathematical expression.

They are, by definition, algebraic. Thus, they are proxies for the potentiality for relationships, but do not necessarily represent real historical relations. The choice to use formal concept analysis in this study was not one borne without reason; this method was specifically selected to assess the relationship between a few select sites within a particular historical region. In part, this is because using a handful of sites will not be fruitful in network analysis, but also to demonstrate the utility of first conceptualizing how we would expect actors to engage with one another and whether these relationships persist in a larger macroregional perspective or if these relationships are altered. Using this kind of approach allows for an assessment of intragroup relations. One of the immediate observations here is that even within a region, specific variations are detectable.

For example, in Samaria, Gerizim pulls out as quite unrelated to the other sites, not just in terms of architectural technical characteristics, but also in terms of the kinds of architecture found in the site. Caesarea, Samaria Sebaste, Antipatris, and Shechem-Flavia Neapolis engaged far more in Greco-Roman traditions, and arguably the most “Greco-Roman” cities of all of Palestine were located in Samaria, centered in particular on the sites of Caesarea, Samaria Sebaste and

Shechem-Flavia Neapolis. Gerizim, a traditionally holy site for the Kingdom of Israel and eventually the Samaritans, does not engage within this framework. It remains distinct from other

Samarian sites. Generally, scholarly discussions of Samaria have tended to discuss Gerizim within the same kind of framework as other Samarian sites, but the FCA demonstrates that the underlying data structure points to a very different kind of process going on. Gerizim is a site of

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intragroup contention, notable for precisely how different it actually is from the other sites.

Similar intragroup dissimilarities are detectable in the FCA analyses for Judaea and Idumaea.

Both regions demonstrate that principle sites such as Ramat Rahel, Jericho, and Jerusalem for

Judaea and Ashkelon and Maresha for Idumaea lie at the bottom of the projection, meaning that they are quite unique. Using these sites then to extrapolate larger regional patterns would likely skew archaeological interpretation. Instead, we should use the FCA to detect intercommunal relations as a basic pretense for then how we might understand wider regional patterns. The FCA highlights important local sites, so we might be able to understand how these sites interact at a larger scale. FCA is not a means to an end in and of itself, but rather a means to explore underlying structures before the application of other methodological approaches.

The formal concept analyses are able to shed insight on intragroup relations, but such an exploration was merely cursory in order to establish how we might think about intraregional interaction. The larger focus of this study in terms of methodology was the application of social network analysis in order to detect patterns of interregional interaction. As with formal concept analyses, however, we cannot go as far as suggesting that relations that are detected in social network analysis create a direct correlation to the actual behaviors of social groups in the past.

Blake (2014: 242-243) writes that networks are best understood as proxies because they are

“indirect approximations of past patterns of interactions, and not the actual circuits of interactions themselves” and because of the inherent incompleteness of the archaeological record this is further complicated to the point that social networks based on material culture are “proxies of proxies.” We should also remember that the social groups, in this case based on regional affiliation, are also not formalized groups that were understood in the past; as was discussed above, the concept of ethnoi was more fluid in antiquity, and while ancient authors do make

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mention of different ethnoi in the region — including Samaritans, Judaeans, and Idumaeans — what those terms actually signified historically is more nebulous. The choice to use social network analysis as the primary methodological tool in this study was to seek these approximations for social relations through an approach that could quantify relationships and thus not prioritize specific sites that results in a biased assessment of regional interaction. Social network analyses have often used different material culture to assess regional interaction, such as ceramics and small finds. In this study, I demonstrate that architecture can be as valuable of a tool for social network analysis. This is of particular interest because while architecture has been studied at length in the region, most previous architectural studies tend to focus on selected sites and from them suggest broader behavioral patterns without putting them into dialogue with other regional sites. Social networks remedy this. This, of course, is to say nothing of the vernacular approaches to architecture, which can equally indicate communities of practice.

Finally, the networks cannot be understood to represent the actual process of identity formation per se; in other words, the networks do not reveal the historical conditions that lead to actual formalized groups but rather indicate the relationships among actors of already extant historical groups. In the present study, this is because the historical conditions for naming these groups already existed; not only do we have regional names, but we know which populations occupied these regions — setting aside, of course, the strict definition of them as ‘ethnic’ groups based on the Greek usage of ethnoi. In fact, the networks here strive to visualize the persistence of these ethnic groups. The regional affiliations, on their other hand, are to an extent the product of modern scholarship; while Samaria and Yehud (Judah or Judaea) did exist as historical governorships beginning in the Assyrian period and through the Persian period, the strict division of regional boundaries was far less apparent in the Hellenistic, Hasmonean, and Roman periods.

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The networks demonstrate that architecture is indeed an archaeological object that can be quantified in a network analysis. This sort of methodological approach builds upon previous studies in the region for architecture in a meaningful way, but also expands on this material by bringing up questions of regional affiliation, factionalization, clique membership, and the transmission of knowledge through a network. While these terms are specific to network studies, what they in fact demonstrate are ways that we might be able to construct markers of identity.

The networks utilized examined two different forms of architecture, building techniques and building forms and décor, as two different categories of urban design and architectural history and knowledge. The decision to treat these as two different elements was intentional: it effectively separates architectural expression into low and high signaling aspects. The results prove to be of interest to any who study the intersection between architecture and group identity.

When we examine low signaling building forms, which emphasize technical elements of architectural design and construction, the overall macroregional perspective, for the most part, is one of multi-regional similarity. The dominant forms of building techniques remain virtually unchanged through the Hellenistic and Roman period, and in either period does the ability for new forms of knowledge to disperse through the network change. The utilization of new imperial forms of architecture remain, for the most part, entrenched along an urban-rural divide, if they were utilized at all. The regionalism that is manifested in building techniques demonstrates that when this particular aspect of architecture is utilized, we cannot truly speak to a Hellenization or a Romanization of local architectural traditions. Local peoples simply did not adopt to new architectural forms. Even in examples of Greco-Roman style buildings, such as early synagogues that utilize a Roman basilica as a basic template or in Greco-Roman style villas or palaces, some of them constructed by Jewish kings, local architectural traditions persisted. This would perhaps

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point to a system of learned architectural traditions that proved to be quite durable over time. In a period in which historians and archaeologists have frequently suggested that a high degree of

Hellenization or Romanization was occurring, the endurance of local traditions demonstrates that this is not verifiable. Indeed, this might point to a broader trend of communities of practice, in which some urban centers demonstrate an affinity for Greek or Phoenician techniques, but the vast majority of sites are simply not engaged with new technical architectural innovations at an imperial scale. Furthermore, the urban-rural division in construction techniques are important signalers for how people moved through their urban landscape. If we might suggest that communities of practice develop around specific architectural forms, then we also might posit that people who were outside of a specific community of practice would be more likely to engage with other communities of practice of similar kind, thus preserving and encoding specific knowledge.

The networks for building form and décor, on the other hand, reveal a different story.

Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, the networks that examine building form and décor highlight two critically important aspects, which can result in rather large biases: 1) scholars, both archaeologists and historians, cannot examine singular architectural features on their own without taking into consideration their interaction within the larger urban environment; and 2) that the tendency of scholars to only select sites of great importance as (usually) evidence for and

(sometimes) evidence against Hellenization and Romanization fails to capture the realities of regional interaction. Secondly, regionalism, factionalization, and the solidification of identifiable aspects of clique membership increased from the Hellenistic to the Roman period. In part, this is expected, as we should not be surprised that high signaling aspects of architecture are both more identifiable in the archaeological record and more diverse in their variability. What is more

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interesting, however, is that this higher degree of separation is not truly manifested until the

Roman period, and that it had a regional fingerprint. In the Hellenistic period, there does not appear to be as much of an effect for regionalization between Samarian, Judaean, and Idumaean sites, and by the Hasmonean period these regional markers are increasingly loosened as they all fell under the control of Judaean kings and endured a process of forced conversion (especially in

Idumaea). Thus, the identities for local communities become more homogenous during this period. In the Roman period, however, a radical change happens. In part, this is due to the monumental (in the literal sense) projects carried out by Herod, but his projects alone should not be indicators of Hellenization or Romanization as they often are. Indeed, they form their own community, wherein we might detect a Herodian signature but does not transmit to the urban landscapes of other sites. Caesarea, Samaria-Sebaste, and Antipatris, for example, all sites of major Herodian (or of his son) projects, in fact do not cluster with other Herodian sites, but with other Samarian sites. If it was not a Herodian signature, was it a Samarian one? What of

Idumaea, which endured a violent forced conversion process, and yet does not, for the most part, cluster with other “Jewish” sites? What then is the impetus for these effects? If we historically contextualize the phenomena noted in the networks, we can draw conclusions borne from the social networks.

I argue that it was a regional identity that persisted and was manifest through high signaling architectural forms; the presence of a miqveh in many Judaean sites but in very few

Samarian or Idumaean sites — and in both regions a form of Judaism was practiced — suggests that a very different kind of social and behavioral practice is occurring at a regional scale. This is more detectable in a bottom-up approach. If, however, we look at a top-down approach, the relative lack of real markers of “Greekness” or “Romanness” in architectural form in most of the

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cities suggests that Greek and Roman cultural calques by and large failed to seep into local customs, and this is especially true in Judaea. In Judaea, theaters are about the only real markers of a Greco-Roman cultural presence, and even these were limited in number, indicating that the cultural reach of Greek and Roman theater was fairly limited and, for the most part, enjoyed only by elites. When coupled with the lack of civic engagement in the Hellenistic fashion, Greek athletics and Roman sports, what emerges is hardly the picture of a Hellenizing population. In

Samaria and Idumaea, however, there are a number of structures that emphasized an embrace of

Greco-Roman culture: theaters, stadia, hippodromes, and even amphitheaters by the time of the

Roman period are present in these regions. Clearly, Idumaean and Samarian populations did not engage with Hellenization and Romanization in the same way as in Judaea. The avenues for the spread of Greco-Roman culture in fact bisected Palestine into two kinds of Jewish groups: those who engaged willingly with new imperial cultures in Samaria and Idumaea and thus more akin to

Jewish populations in Egypt, Rome, and Syria, and those whose recalcitrance in shifting to an imperial or cosmopolitan engagement proved to be causal factors in major forms of resistance against imperial hegemons, first in the Hellenistic period under the Hasmoneans and then again against the Romans in the form of two revolts.

The methods provided here provide the skeleton. The intended purpose of the methods presented here is to demonstrate the utility of using computational methods to reassess old data.

This study did not lay trowel to the soil, at least directly.39 There is value aplenty in already excavated sites and well-documented artifacts when new methods are applied to them. Formal concept analyses allow for the projection of data as it ought to look, and deviations from those

39 Though it was by working at Hippos-Sussita, a Greek pagan then Christian city on the east side of the Sea of Galilee and seeing the Jewish city of Tiberias directly across the lake that got me thinking about these questions in the first place.

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projections are viable avenues of exploration. They inherently remove the bias of the archaeologist because they operate at a formal level. Social network analyses are a powerful and robust set of methods that can examine the same material in a statistically relevant relational manner that reveal behavioral patterns between actors within a network — however those actors are constituted. The advantage here is to remove the potential bias that occurs from a narrow perspective to one that actually examines broader variations and, in this case, can assess questions of regional diversity. Still, these methods, as is true for virtually any form of computational analysis, only provide the quantitative component for archaeological exposition.

In the case of network analysis in particular, the edges that connect two actors must still be explained. To that end, we turn to theoretical insights to flesh out the methodological bones.

Theoretical Insights

This study specifically focused on a holistic approach: it combines archaeological and historical lines of evidence; it examines both technical and expressive forms of architecture; it examines both rural and urban built environments; and it looks at macroscale perspective of regional interaction. By doing so, the intention is to remove the inherent biases that may result from the selection of particular sites as representative of entire regions and suggestive of that region’s identity. The theoretical perspectives that we can use in this study draw variably — and sometimes heavily — from a wide range of lenses: identity formation in the archaeological record; anthropological approaches to the built environment; social, archaeological, and architectural semiotics; materiality; theories of communities of practice; and enculturation.

Together, these theoretical approaches to archaeological discourse framed the way that we might interpret the results found in the methodological approaches.

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The first, and for this study, most important aspect to consider is that architecture is a viable means to construct social identity. Anthropologists and architects have long recognized the importance of the built environment on social identity, in particular on how the built environment ensconces cultural praxis both passively and actively (Giddens 1984; Grinceri

2016; Hely 2013; Hillier 2014; Ingold 2013; Leach 1997; Malathouni 2013; Mímisson 2016;

Rapoport 1976, 1982). This has not escaped the purview of archaeologists either (Bille and

Sørensen 2016; McGuire and Schiffer 1983; Pearson and Richards 2003; Robertson 2006;

Yoffee 2007). The relationship between communities and their built environments is understood to be recursive, meaning that the built environment is an active constituent in the formation of identities. These identities are performative and, quite literally, are a means by which group social structures are born, encoded, learned, and transmitted (Bourdieu 1977). Power hierarchies are also manifest in the built environment, not just in the ways in which it showcases and maintains real social power, but also in the ways in which power is resisted or accepted

(Lefebvre 1991; Stanek 2011). Studies that focus on these aspects of social identity, especially as expressed through architecture, are sorely lacking for the Greco-Roman period in ancient

Palestine. What might be said if we apply this theoretical perspective to the social identities of groups in ancient Palestine?

The networks revealed that when we examine technical aspects of architecture, the results point to regionalism and a more conservative position on the adaptation of new architectural innovations. The technical components of architectural design are rarely explored in architectural studies, but the ways in which people construct buildings can reveal a tacit ethnography of locally embedded knowledge (Ara and Rashid 2016). In regional studies in other parts of the world, especially from scholars working in Africa, construction techniques and vernacular

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architecture has been shown to be a powerful, if almost expressly latent, expression of identity and useful for the facilitation of local articulations of identity (al-Solaiman 2016; Hall 2012;

Ivkovska 2016; Lyons 2007; Schwartz 2016). Only one study, to my knowledge, has examined the intersection of building techniques and identity expression in the Greco-Roman southern

Levant; this study looked at Decapolis sites and identified Christian communities influenced by

Hellenistic and Nabataean traditions (Viviani and Teresa 2002). We can take this same approach to the sites found in Samaria, Judaea, and Idumaea. Construction techniques, when viewed as an important element of architectural design in its own right, can reveal much about the ways that individual communities encode and preserve traditional pathways for knowledge. In the case of ancient Palestine in the Hellenistic period, three major architectural “traditions” are discernable: a Phoenician one found in coastal cities that transects all three of the study regions; an urban

“Greek” one that utilizes Greek architectural techniques such as ashlars and the use of columns; and the local rubble-wall construction that has a historical continuity into the late Iron Age, which is by far the most dominant form. In many places that had imperial sponsorship in the

Hellenistic period, most of the projects utilized traditional construction techniques. Thus, a

Hasmonean fortress or palace might have Greco-Roman elements, but at its core it was constructed in a local fashion. In the Roman period, only a few new forms are introduced in very limited localities, including the use of hydraulic concrete, bricks, and the most widespread one, arches. By and large, the building techniques of the Hellenistic and Roman period remained unchanged. Whether this resulted from the use of local craftsmen who continued using traditional techniques that were learned on a local level or a cognizant rejection of new innovations is unclear but clearly local patterns persisted. In the Hellenistic period, one unresolved question is the centralization of power for both Greek and Hasmonean kings; how

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Hellenistic dynasts used local labor would shed further insight into the intentionality behind the use of local techniques. In the Roman period, the emergence of secondary sites suggests that the lack of engagement with Roman techniques was intentional. The conventions of architectural construction through time thus allows for a critical examination of how local communities negotiated the transitions under different imperial regimes. These choices are encoded in how they construct buildings, which proves to be as important a variable as what they construct. The broader regionalism that extends through all three regions suggests that this knowledge is well entrenched, deeply encoded in communities of practice, and is fairly resistant to outside influences, no matter if those sites are Samarian, Judaean, or Idumaean. This pushes beyond mere conservatism, especially in the Roman periods. Because we know that knowledge moved fluidly through the networks, and that most sites were not isolated away from one another, the rejection of new imperial construction techniques is a marker for latent identity.

In terms of building forms and décor, however, the story is different. Of course, most architectural studies focus on building forms and décor because they are the most visible and, frankly, the most interesting component of the architectural record, not just in terms of scale but also in impression. Monumental architecture, in particular, usually serves three major purposes: they are either monuments to historical events or to wealthy patrons who wish to beautify the city or reinforce a political, often imperial, agenda ( Canepa 2018; Manzo 2017; Nielsen 2014;

Peleg-Barkat 2014; Porter 2004; Toteva 2007; Waelkens 1989); they are used for the production of social place-making (Izzet 2001; Fisher 2009; Swenson 2012); or they are used for the creation of sacred space (Canepa 2013, 2015; Domenig 2014; Frood and Raja 2014; Kilde 2008;

Wescoat and Ousterhout 2012). Building forms and décor, especially in terms of monumental and public architecture, thus serves as high signaling markers for identity and community

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participation, because they encode how space is formed and used, whether space is sacred or profane, and they display wealth and power and thus define and reinforce power structures. The production of social and religious spaces, defined through architecture, can either reinforce existing social practice or they can push to cultural change. For the present study, the question of identity concerns the degree of Hellenization and Romanization but also the detection of communities of practice that are the product of regional difference. The former has been studied frequently, and by and large, most scholars are in agreement that Hellenization was slow to begin in the southern Levant, but once it did the process resulted in a dynamic, if steady, change that brought the spread of a new kind of urbanism and influence of Greek and Roman stylistic conventions (Harrison 1994; Hengel and Markschies 1989b; Fischer and Tal 2003; Levine 1998;

Meyers 1992; Rajak 2001a). How much Hellenistic culture was adopted by local Jewish communities remains debated and for the most part unresolved; most of the literature on this question points to some degree of change but often without qualification or quantification. Few studies, however, focus on the concept of regional variation within Jewish communties, excepting for a several important case studies that focus on the Galilee and Golan regions

(Aviam 2004; Berlin 2011; Chancey 2002; Leibner 2009; Horsley 1996; Sawicki 2000;

Zangenberg et al. 2012). Given that building forms and décor can constitute the production and performance of identity, can we detect the signatures for regional affiliation and communities of practice through an examination of both building form and architectural décor? The networks I identified using building forms and décor as a variable reveal that there were in fact different regional processes in how local communities articulated their identity through building forms and décor, which is antithetical to the kind of regionalism observed with building techniques.

The building techniques of architecture highlight a low signaling, latent expression of identity;

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the building forms and décor, on the other hand, point to a high signaling conspicuous expression of identity. Given this kind of effect, we might then speak of enculturation and consumption

(Dietler 2010). The phenomenon of adapting high-signaling markers for identity has long been recognized in archaeology, but specifically the choices by local populations about what they accept as proper and to what degree that acceptance penetrates social structures speaks to a pattern of active consumption. In this case, the choice of local populations to engage with specific aspects of Hellenistic and Roman building forms and décor points to an active pattern of participation through specific means of cultural consumption.

In the Hellenistic period, the seminal roots for regional affiliation are born. When we historically contextualize the region in the Hellenistic period, for the most part the early Greek dynasts are fairly disinterested in instituting any large-scale processes for urban reform, instead preferring to establish cities ex novo that were intended to be bastions of Greek influence. By the time the Seleukids gain control of the region, though, Samaria and Idumaea are more open to

Greek cultural practices. Theaters and Hellenistic cultural conventions were more widespread in

Samaria than in Idumaea. Idumaea itself was undergoing a cosmopolitan ethnogenesis that blended the cultural influences of residual Iron Age Edomite customs melding with Nabataean,

Phoenician, and Judaean traditions. For Samaria, the relative openness to foreign influence has an historical precedence (at least if we are to believe the Deuteronomistic and Priestly sources for biblical history), because the northern Kingdom of Israel — centered on Samaria — was always more open to external cultural influence. Of course, whether the demography of people living in the region of Samaria is at all related to Iron Age Israelites is another matter entirely, but the recalcitrance for people living in Judaea mirrors the historical division between northern and southern Jewish populations. Paradoxically, however, in all three regions, there is very little

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evidence of a full-scale integration into a broader Hellenistic culture. Greek athletics, in particular, are notably absent. Given that the gymnasion was the institution to officially establish and count an ephebe and establish a city as a polis, we might wonder how integrated these sites were into the larger Hellenistic cultural milieu. Architectural decoration in the way that we observe with civic competition at sites in Asia Minor, the Northern Levant, Egypt, and Sicily are also conspicuously absent, and while there is engagement with Greek theaters in Samaria and

Idumaea, in Judaea the theater is notably limited. Was this the result of a successful Hasmonean campaign to institute a specific kind of Judaism centered on Jerusalem, the High Priesthood and

Temple, and the direct imposition of ritualized purity laws that followed the Deuteronomistic tradition?40 Though Samaria and Idumaea were more open to Hellenistic influence, the

Hasmonean imperial period was indeed successful in limiting the spread of Hellenization. Here lies the greatest irony: the two sites that the Hasmoneans had the most direct architectural influence — Jerusalem and Jericho — are network isolates along with the religious cult center for

Samaria at Gerizim and the two largest Idumaean cities of Ashkelon and Maresha.

The pattern shifts in the Roman period, and regional affiliation becomes even more pronounced. The first noticeable trend is that in the Roman period there is much more architectural diversity. The beautification of civic places, in the Hellenistic manner (adopted and spread by the Romans) become more common and more ranging. This is not just in terms of large urban centers either; even more rural places now might have Greco-Roman architectural decoration, especially in the use of fine flooring using opus sectile and mosaics and wider use of the Ionic and Corinthian orders. There is still a strong regional preference for the kind of art

40 This is akin to the One God, One Temple, One City model that Seth Schwartz (2001) demonstrates was a prominent aspect of the Hasmonean imperial agenda.

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used, however: in Judaea, architectural decoration trends to simple geometric and vegetal patterns, while in Idumaea and Samaria there is more acceptance for animalistic and anthropomorphic forms.41 It is not insignificant, in my estimation, that Roman blood sports also find a home in Samaria and Idumaea, but not in Judaea — though some of this is likely attributable to the permanent presence of Roman soldiers and their need for entertainment. There is also a real historical facet here of the region of Judaea being destroyed not once but twice by the Romans, which might have removed any evidence of larger cultural interaction; still, even in the ruins of these sites, there is not much of an archaeological signature for Judaean integration in Greco-Roman culture, an unsurprising fact given that Judaea was the heart of Jewish resistance against Rome. It is in the Roman period though that another interesting phenomenon emerges: the marked increase of regional affiliation, which no longer centers on a certain level of engagement with Greco-Roman culture, but rather the articulation of Jewishness in the forms of miqva’ot and synagogues. Scholars have long recognized the importance of the miqveh as a marker for Jewishness. Samaritans and Jews have a long and complicated history, but both were a kind of Jewish community despite whatever doctrinal or dogmatic differences separated the two (Hjelm 2000, 2004; Kartveit 2009; Knoppers 2013; Pummer 2015). Indeed Nodet (2011) argues that Samaritans are the descendants of the Israelites and not a downgraded Jewish group as Hellenistic Jewish historians like the authors of the Maccabees and Josephus might indicate.

Idumaeans too are Jewish, albeit at the point of a sword. It is therefore significant, in my estimation, that the phenomenon of ritual bathing by using the miqveh does not generally appear in Idumean and Samarian sites, given that ostensibly all three regions are Jewish. The miqveh is

41 This is true in the Galilee as well, where some of the most spectacular Greco-Roman mosaics have been found at sites like Huqoq, Beth Alpha near Beit She’an, and Sepphoris, though these kind of elaborate mosaics tend to date fairly late in the Roman period, after half a millennium of cultural contact with Hellenistic and Roman culture.

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thus not a marker of Jewishness, but of a specific kind of Jewish practice that is, by and large, found only in Judaea and the Galilee (a region which was the site of refuge for many Judaeans).

Thus, the presence of a miqveh is as important for Jewish identity as the absence of one, and the presence or absence of a miqveh on its own is not enough to determine if a site was Jewish or not. As important as the miqveh becomes in this region, it is also not surprising that one of the very few Roman institutions that is widely adopted in Judaea is the use of the Roman bath house

(Dolan and Foran 2016; Hoss 2005; Regev 2010; Vörös 2016). Small (1987) argues convincingly that the ways that local populations constructed these buildings tended to use local techniques and when examined in terms of spatial analysis they reflected two different

Palestinian bathing traditions, neither of which were akin to Italic or Roman traditions. Thus, while baths themselves are fairly widespread the way they were used were quite locally fitted, a fitting lesson to remind us that form  function  cultural practice is a slippery assumption.

Both Samaria and Idumaea, by and large, reject Hasmonean forms of Judaism and maintain their own distinct form of Judaism. Neither is defined by the use of traditionally

“Jewish” architectural forms and are far more actively engaged with Romanization, yet both are

Jewish groups. The historic religious division between Israel and Judah thus seems to persist even into the Roman period and the Judaean version of Judaism fails to completely penetrate

Idumaea; indeed, in the latter there is an active rejection of Judaean Judaism and its insistence on ritualized purity. The penetration of Hellenism and Romanism into the southern Levant is thus bifurcated, with two paths of cultural influence that bound Judaea: one to the north in Samaria and another to the south in Idumaea. In terms of imperial propaganda and elite patronage, the

Hasmonean and Herodian kings were certainly engaged with a larger pattern of imperial representation, but for the most but this was unreciprocated by Greek and Roman hegemons,

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excepting in Samaria and Idumaea. Finally, for as much as Hellenization has received scholarly attention, it is in fact Romanization that proves to be the more interesting process of imperial and larger cosmopolitan engagement.

Final Conclusions

This study uses the combination of method and theory to build on existing scholarship, especially that which has considered architectural expression, in order to reframe a decades long quest to answer questions of Hellenization and Romanization, indigeneity, articulations of social and (especially) religious identities. In sum, we are seeking to determine to what degree local populations adopt, adapt, or reject imperial traditions. This study, while it does not resolve the matter, contributes yet another chapter to this discussion and is the first to apply archaeological data to social networks. As is true for so much scholarship, it opens more questions than it resolves, but this study demonstrates how a continued dialogue with anthropological theory and innovative methods can do much to contribute to long-standing debates. In Chapter Two I introduced the theoretical framework of the intersection between architectural semiotics, materiality, and practice theory. In terms of architectural semiotics, I suggest that, without taking the full ontological turn in terms of animating the built environment, the semiotics of architecture allows for a “reading” of how communities engage with their built environments. Architecture is not just a product of human construction, but it is indexical and symbolic; that is, the built environment transcends beyond just the functional use of buildings. The production of space, and how communities engage with it, is a critical marker for identity. (Blake 2007). Behavior is structured by social space and in turn encodes architectural form. In particular, the work of Eco

(1980) demonstrates that there are three kind of architectural “codes”: technical, syntactic and

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semantic, the latter of which is further characterized by both denotative (form and function) and connotative (cultural and symbolic meaning) codes. The best approach to bridge the divide between the abstractness of semiotics and the physical data of the archaeological record (sensu

Keane 2003) is to utilize materiality and practice, which is the recursive dialectic between people and things. Materiality, in its simplest definition, is simply the ways that material culture influence social realities (Ingold 2007; Fogelin 2015; Meskell 2005; Van Dyke 2015; Versluys

2014). Materiality shifts the focus away from the objects per se to the ways that meaning is constituted as mediated by them. The built environment represents a scale of social interaction that is unparalleled in other archaeological data because of its scale, immobility on the landscape, and its duration through time and space. Kärrholm (2014) argues that an interobjective approach to the intersection between materiality and architectural theory can help understand how the built environment can bridge heterogeneity while concomitantly highlighting the persistence of identity. A central issue here centers specifically on enculturation. Equally evident is the importance of the collective memory manifest through the built environment of communities in the southern Levant and the relationship to group membership — in this case, expressed through the variable of regionalism. In archaeology, enculturation is often used to study low signaling affiliations, but high visibility affiliations prove to be just as useful in how groups of people signal membership.

Taken together, I argue that there is an architectural grammar that is detectable in the archaeological data and is quantified through social networks. Of course, we must accept that the linguistic metaphor has limitations. I am not suggesting that we can construct the entire complexities of architectural expression in the same way that languages prove to have deep complexities. But if architectural semiotics suggests that architecture does in fact speak, then the

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next logical step would be to see in what ways we can explore the intersection between architecture and linguistics.

We may read two elements of an “architectural grammar,” understood as a base “system” of language colored by regional dialects. The underlying system is built on building techniques

— the lingua vulgaris aedificatoria. This is the language of common architecture, understood and utilized at a macroregional level. It provides the grammatical structure and the syntax for an architectural language, quite literally forming the building blocks for architectural expression. In terms of architectural semiotics, this is the “technical” code identified by Eco (1980). If we were to expand this study, we should expect to find other regional forms of vernacular architecture, which we might classify into a separate architectural linguistic system. The other element of an

“architectural grammar” is typified by building form and function (which are not directly correlated) and architectural decoration — the lingua cosmopolitana aeditictoria. This is the language of cosmopolitan expression and is especially useful to understand the cosmopolitan world of the Hellenistic and Roman periods. This language is particularly noted for regional dialects. In terms of architectural semiotics, these are syntactic and semantic codes identified by

Eco (1980). They frame how we understand not only the spatial aspects of architectural design

(which this study did not consider) but more importantly the connotative and denotative codes for architectural design that is situated within a specific community.

Just as linguists have long noted that dialects are markers for cultural practices, we can apply this as a metaphor for architectural markers of identity. Clearly these dialects were not understood by outsiders, given the problem that ancient historians — excepting Josephus, who was an insider— seemed to have in detailing exactly which group constituted the ethnic group of

Ioudaioi (“Jews”). The divisions between groups of people in ancient Palestine were understood

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by Greco-Roman historians to be predicated on physical boundaries, but what happened when those physical boundaries were dissolved? Did regional variation still exist amongst all Jewish groups? Undoubtedly, the answer is yes: regional articulations for specific Jewish identities did exist in the area, evidenced by their architectural grammar, which spoke to their difference in religious practice and their participation in a larger Greco-Roman cultural system.

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APPENDIX A: LIST OF SITES

ID SITE NAME ALTERNATE REGION SITE REFERENCES NAMES CLASSIFICATION 1 Alexandrium Qarn Sartabeh Judaea Fortress; Palace Tsafrir 1982; Arav 1989 2 Antipatris Afek Samaria City Kochavi 1977 3 Apollonia-Arsuf Judaea City Galor et al. 2009; Roll and Tal 2008 4 Ashdod Azotus Judaea City Dothan and 1967; Dothan et al. 1971; Dothan 1973 5 Ashkelon Idumaea City Boehm 2016; Garstang 1924 6 Beersheva Idumaea Citadel Town Aharoni 1973; Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2016 7 Beit el-Khirbeh Samaria Village Campbell 1991 8 Bethel Judaea Village Kelso 1956; Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz 2009 9 Beth-Zur Ramat el- Idumaea Citadel Town Sellers 1933; Sellers et al. Khalil 1968 10 Caesarea-Maritima Straton's Samaria City Avner 1987; Hollom et Tower al.2008, 1999; Levine and Netzer 1986; Oleson et al. 1989; Vann 1992 11 Ein Gedi Tel Gorn Judaea Town Hirschfeld 2000, 2008; Amit and Magness 2000; Werlin 2015; NEAEHL s.v. En Gedi 12 Elusa al-Khalasa Idumaea City Negev 1973 13 Gerizim Samaria City Magen 2008

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14 Gezer Judaea City Arav 1989; McAlister 1912; Seger 2013; Reich 1981, 1988 15 Hebron Tel Rumeida Judaea Town Farhi and ben-Shlomo 2016 16 Herodium Khirbet Mird Judaea Fortress; Palace Netzer 1981; Netzer and Laureys-Chachy 2006; Peleg-Barkat 2014; Weiss 2014 17 Hirbat Hamad Samaria Village Dar and Applebaum 1986 18 Hirbat Najar Samaria Village Dar and Applebaum 1986 19 Hirbet Basatin Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 20 Hirbet Deir Sam-an Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 21 Hirbet Hamariyyeh Samaria Village Dar and Applebaum 1986 22 Hirbet Karqush Samaria Village/Necropolis Dar and Applebaum 1986 23 Hirbet Najar Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 24 Horvat Burgin Judaea Village Zissu et al. 2013 25 Horvat Ethri Caphethra Idumaea Town NEAEHL s.v. Ethri, Horvat 26 Horvat Hermashit Judaea Town NEAEHL s.v. Hermashit, Horvat 27 Horvat Mazad Judaea Fortress Fischer 2012; NEAEHL s.v. Horvat Mazad 28 Horvat Migdal Samaria Village NEAEHL s.v. Migdal, Horvat; Neidinger et al. 1990, 1994 29 Horvat Uza Beit-Arieh) Idumaea Fortress Beit Areih and Cresson 1991; NEAEHL s.v. Uza, Horvat 30 Horvat Zikhrin Samaria Village NEAEHL, s.v. Zikhrin, Horvat 31 Jaffa Judaea City Burke 2018; Stern 2011; Kaplan 1963, 1972 32 Jebel Nimra Judaea Village NEAEHL s.v. Jebel Nimra

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33 Jericho Tulul Abu al- Judaea Fortress; Palace Kenyon et al. 1960; Kelso 'Alayiq and Baramki 1955; Netzer 1977; Netzer and Laureys- Chachy 2006 34 Jerusalem Judaea City Arav 1989; Avigard 1976; Galor and Bloedhorn 2013; Mazar 2011; Uziel et al. 2019; Weksler-Bdolah 2020 35 Kafr Samir Porphyreon of Samaria Village NEAEHL s.v. Kafr Samir the South (?), Castra (?) 36 Khirbet Badd 'Isa Qiryat Sefed Judaea Village NEAEHL s.v. Qiryat Sefed 37 Khirbet Beit Bassa Judaea Village Abu Aemer 2018 38 Khirbet Beit Sila Shiloh (?), Judaea Village NEAEHL, s.v. Beit Sila, Shilo (?) Khirbet; Finkelstein 1997 39 Khirbet Betar Judaea Fortress NEAEHL s.v. Betar 40 Khirbet ed-Dawwara Idumaea Village NEAEHL s.v. Dawwara, Khirbet ed-(South) 41 Khirbet el-Arba’in Samaria Farmstead Finkelstein et a. 1997 42 Khirbet el-Beuyudat Archelais Judaea Fortress; Palace NEAEHL s.v. Beiyudat, Khirbet el- 43 Khirbet el-Burj Samaria Village Finkelstein et al. 1997 44 Khirbet el-Hafna Samaria Village Finkelstein et al. 1997 45 Khirbet el-Lozeh Samaria Village Campbell 1991 46 Khirbet el-Muraq Zur Natan Judaea Village; Estate Damati 1982; NEAEHL s.v. Khirbet el-Muraq 47 Khirbet el-Qasr Samaria Village Campbell 1991 48 Khirbet el-Urmeh Samaria Village Campbell 1991 49 Khirbet Karf Lut Samaria Village Finkelstein et al. 1997 50 Khirbet Kefr Beita Samaria Village Campbell 1991 51 Khirbet Kureikur Samaria Village Finkelstein et al. 1997 52 Khirbet Makhneh el-Foqa Samaria Village Campbell 1991

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53 Khirbet Meiyita Samaria Village Finkelstein et al. 1997 54 Khirbet Shurrab Samaria Village Campbell 1991 55 Khirbet Tana el-Foqa Samaria Village Campbell 1991 56 Khirbet Tana et-Tahta Samaria Village Campbell 1991 57 Khirbet Umm el-Aṣafir Judaea Village NEAEHL s.v. Umm el- Aṣafir, Khirbet 58 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan Modi'in Judaea Village NEAEHL s.v. Umm el- Umdan 59 Lydda Diospolis; Lod Judaea City Schwartz 1991; 60 Maresha Eleutheropolis; Idumaea City Arav 1989; Kloner and Beit Guvrin; Hubsch 1996 Beit Jubrin 61 Masada Judaea Fortress; Palace Yedin 1989; Netzer and Laureys-Chachy 2006 62* Micharus* Judaea* Fortress Arav 1989; Vörös 2017 63 Nablus Samaria Village Campbell 1991 64 Nahal Beit Arif Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 198 65 Nahal Haggit Judaea Village; Farmstead NEAEHL s.v. Nahal Haggit 66 Petura Judaea Unknown NEAEHL s.v. Petura 67 Qasr e-Lejah Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 68 Qasr Hamariyyeh Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 69 Qasr Kuah Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 70 Qoren Liqarna Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 71 Qumran Judaea Village; Fortress (?); Hirschfeld 2000, 2008; Industrial Villa (?); Magness 2002; Mazar et Monastery (?) al. 1966; van der Ploeg 1958 72 Ramat Hanadiv Samaria Fortified Palace; Hirschfeld 2000 Estate 73 Ramat Rahel Judaea Fortified Palace; Aharoni 1956, 1962, 1964; Estate Lipschits et al. 2011 74 Ridan Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 75 Samaria-Sebaste Samaria City Crowfoot 1942

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76 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis Samaria City Magen 2009; Campbell et al. 2002 77 Shoham Judaea Citadel Town NEAEHL s.v. Shoham 78 Tel Aroer Idumaea Fortress Thareani et al. 2011 79 Tel Balatah Samaria Village/Necropolis Dar and Applebaum 1986 80 Tel Mahata Idumaea Fortress Beit Areih and Freud 2014 81 Tell el-Arba'in Samaria Village Campbell 1991 82 Um Rihan Samaria Farmstead Dar and Applebaum 1986 83 Yavne (Yavne-Yam) Jamnia Idumaea City Fischer and Taxel 2013; NEAEHL s.v. Yavneh, Yavneh-Yam

* This site is technically located in Paraea in the Transjordan. It is classified here as part of Judaea because it was intentionally built across the Jordan River but is very much a part of the Jericho fortification complexes.

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APPENDIX B: CLIQUE FACTION SCORES AND DIAGRAMS

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Alexandrium 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Antipatris 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ashdod 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ashkelon 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 0.00 Beersheva 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beth-Zur 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Bethel 0.00 0.00 0.22 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Caesarea-Maritima/Straton's Tower 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Gerizim 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Gezer 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.60 0.40 0.00 0.00 Hebron 0.50 1.00 0.78 0.00 0.20 0.00 0.63 1.00 Hirbat Hamad 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Basatin 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.20 0.00 1.00 0.63 Hirbet Karqush 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 Hirbet Najar 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 Horvat Burgin 0.00 0.30 0.22 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Horvat Ethri 0.50 0.70 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Mazad 0.50 1.00 0.78 0.00 0.20 0.00 0.63 1.00 Horvat Migdal 0.50 1.00 0.78 0.00 0.20 0.00 0.63 1.00 Horvat Uza 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Jaffa 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.20 0.00 1.00 0.63 Jebel Nimra 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Jericho 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.20 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jerusalem 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.60 0.60 0.00 0.00

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Kafr Samir 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Beit Sila 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Urmeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Maresha 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 1.00 0.80 0.38 0.38 Micharus 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.20 0.00 1.00 0.63 Nahal Beit Arif 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 Qasr Kuah 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 Qasr e-Lejah 0.00 0.30 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 Qumran 0.50 0.70 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ramat Hanadiv 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 Ramat Rahel 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.38 0.00 Samaria-Sebaste 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.40 0.00 0.00 Shoham 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.80 1.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Mahata 1.00 0.70 0.78 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Yavne 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.38 0.00

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 Alexandrium 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.14 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.44 0.67 1.00 0.80 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 0.00 Antipatris 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.67 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Apollonia-Arsuf 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.14 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.00

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Ashkelon 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.71 0.43 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beersheva 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.43 0.71 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beit el-Khireb 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.71 0.83 0.83 Caesarea-Maritima 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ein Gedi 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Elusa 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.71 0.33 0.44 1.00 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.00 Gerizim 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.43 0.71 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.00 0.00 0.00 Gezer 0.72 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hebron 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Herodium 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.71 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbat Hamad 0.72 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Basatin 0.72 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.71 0.83 0.83 Hirbet Karqush 0.28 0.71 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.67 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Hirbet Najar 0.28 0.71 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.67 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Horvat Burgin 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.56 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.83 0.83 Horvat Ethri 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.71 0.83 0.83 Horvat Mazad 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.56 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.71 1.00 0.83 Horvat Migdal 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.81 0.40 0.71 0.83 0.83 Horvat Uza 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Zikhrin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jaffa 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.67 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jebel Nimra 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jericho 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.20 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jerusalem 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.71 0.43 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Kafr Samir 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.56 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.83 0.83 Khirbet Beit Bassa 0.28 1.00 0.50 0.00 0.29 0.57 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.19 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Beit Sila 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Betar 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.14 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.44 0.67 1.00 0.80 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 0.00 Khirbet ed-Dawwara 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.81 0.40 0.71 0.83 0.83

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Khirbet el-Beuyudat 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.43 0.29 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.33 0.20 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Muraq 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.67 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Meiyita 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Shurrab 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Tana et-Tahta 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.81 0.40 0.71 0.83 0.83 Khirbet Umm al-Asafir 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.20 0.00 0.00 0.71 0.83 1.00 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.81 0.40 0.71 0.83 0.83 Lydda 0.28 1.00 0.50 0.00 0.29 0.57 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.19 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Maresha 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 0.71 0.33 0.44 1.00 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.00 Micharus 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.33 0.56 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.81 0.40 0.71 0.83 0.83 Nablus 0.00 0.00 0.50 0.29 0.29 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.71 0.83 0.83 Nahal Haggit 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Petura 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Qasr e-Lejah 0.28 0.71 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.67 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0.28 0.71 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.67 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Qasr Kuah 0.28 0.71 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.67 0.67 0.80 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Ramat Hanadiv 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.29 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ramat Rahel 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.44 0.67 0.67 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 Samaria-Sebaste 0.00 0.29 0.00 0.71 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.40 0.00 0.00 0.00 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.29 0.33 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Shoham 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Aroer 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.14 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.29 0.17 0.00 Tel el-Arba'in 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Mahata 1.00 0.71 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.60 0.00 0.00 0.00 Yavne 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00

366

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 Alexandrium 1.00 0.80 1.00 0.00 0.00 Antipatris 1.00 0.80 1.00 0.00 0.00 Ashdod 0.57 1.00 0.50 0.00 0.00 Ashkelon 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beersheva 1.00 1.00 0.83 0.00 0.00 Beth-Zur 0.14 0.20 0.00 0.00 0.00 Bethel 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Gerezim 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Gezer 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hebron 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbat Hamad 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Hirbet Karqush 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Najar 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Horvat Burgin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Ethri 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Mazad 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Horvat Migdal 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Horvat Uza 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Zikhrin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jaffa 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Jericho 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jerusalem 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Kafr Samir 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Khirbet Beit Sila 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Qasr 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Urmeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00

367

Maresha 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Micharus 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Nahal Beit Arif 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Nahal Haggit 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Qasr e-Lejah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Qasr Hamariyyeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Qasr Kuah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Qumran 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ramat Rahel 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ridan 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Samaria-Sebaste 0.71 0.60 1.00 0.00 0.00 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 1.00 0.80 0.83 0.00 0.00 Shoham 0.43 0.60 0.50 0.00 0.00 Tel Balatah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Mahata 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 Um Rihan 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 Yavne 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00

Site Name 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Alexandrium 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Antipatris 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Apollonia-Arsuf 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ashkelon 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beersheva 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Beit el-Khirbeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00

368

Caesarea 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Diospolis 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ein Gedi 1.00 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Elusa 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Gerezim 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Gezer 1.00 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hebron 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 Herodium 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Basatin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.83 0.83 Hirbet Deir Sam-an 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.83 1.00 0.83 Hirbet Hamad 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Hirbet Hamariyyeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Hirbet Karqush 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Hirbet Najar 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Horvat Burgin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Ethri 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Hermashit 0.40 1.00 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Mazad 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Migdal 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Uza 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Horvat Zikhrin 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jaffa 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jebel Nimra 1.00 1.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 Jericho 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Jerusalem 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Kafr Samir 0.40 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Badd 'Isa 0.40 0.50 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Beit Bassa 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Beit Sila 0.40 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Betar 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet ed-Dawwara 0.40 1.00 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00

369

Khirbet el-Arba'in 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Beuyudat 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Lozeh 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Muraq 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet el-Qasr 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Kefr Beita 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.17 0.00 Khirbet Makhneh el-Foqa 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Meiyita 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Shurrab 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Tana et-Tahta 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Umm al-Asfir 1.00 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Khirbet Umm el-Umdan 0.40 0.50 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Maresha 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Masada 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Micharus 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Nablus 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Nahal Haggit 0.40 0.50 0.50 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.83 0.83 1.00 Petura 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Qasr e-Lejah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Qasr Kuah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 1.00 1.00 Ramat Hanadiv 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Ramat Rahel 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.25 0.00 0.00 0.00 Samaria 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Shechem-Flavia Neapolis 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Shoham 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Aroer 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Belatah 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Tel Mahata 0.00 0.00 0.00 1.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Yavne 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 0.00 Table B.4 Clique participation scores for building forms and décor in the Roman period. Cliques are labeled by number across the top. The value is the proportion of clique members to which each node is adjacent.

370

Fig. B.1 Dendrogram of clique participation for building techniques in the Hellenistic period.

371

Fig. B.2 Dendrogram of clique participation for building techniques in the Roman period.

372

Fig. B.3 Dendrogram of clique participation for building forms and décor in the Hellenistic period.

373

Fig. B.4 Dendrogram of clique participation for building forms and décor in the Roman period.

374

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